Chapter Text
The first thing you do when you get Virus and Trip in your apartment this time is slam down a bottle of lube, hard, on your coffee table and stare at Trip pointedly.
“This,” you spit, “is lube. You use it to open someone up if you’re gonna put your dick in them. Especially,” you turn to Virus, “if you’re gonna put two dicks in them.”
Trip’s grin splits his face apart and he lumbers forward to pick up the bottle and study it. You’re surprised he can read. In any case, he actually can’t read it, and you know that because it’s in German, but he stares at it anyway. Your lips curl into a morbidly amused frown. Is he pretending to read?
“Very well, we’ll use it,” Virus says suddenly. He removes his glasses and pulls his tie out of his jacket to clean them off. You’re surprised to find he can manage to look even more unsettling than he normally does. Without his glasses he has dark circles under his eyes and they’re wider than you realized. They focus on you and you’d shiver if you could actually feel the pang of bitter anxiety run down your spine. “Rather, Trip will use it.”
“Whatever,” you grumble, grabbing the knot of your tie and pulling it loose. Virus starts to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“I’m feeling very tired tonight, as a matter of fact,” he says. Trip’s eyes finally stray from the bottle and he stares at Virus from under his eyelashes. “I may just watch. If that’s alright.”
Your hands slow down but they don’t stop. You consider it, though you realize you don’t really have a choice. When you look at Trip his heavy eyes are already glaring at you. You can’t really pick up on any discernible power dynamic between these two, but you’ve always gotten the impression that Virus means more to Trip than the other way around and he’s probably annoyed that Virus doesn’t want to join in. Maybe he waits for fucks like this for his chance to have sex with Virus. You can’t tell for sure. You don’t really care.
“Fine,” you say, ripping your tie through the collar of your shirt and dropping it to the ground.
“Eh, also… do you have any wine, by chance?”
Trip straightens up at his words. The only wine you have is Moscato – it’s sweet – but something tells you Virus isn’t a Moscato kind of guy. You shrug.
“I – guess,” you say, and you trudge into your kitchen and fish the bottle of wine out from your wine rack by the refrigerator. As you grab a wine glass from the cabinet you realize how bizarre this is. You’re getting Virus a glass of wine for him to drink while Trip fucks you and you’ve consented to this. You haven’t just consented. You want this. Badly.
You turn to the living room and catch another glimpse of Trip’s vapid stare. His thumbs are hooked into his pockets and he’s watching Virus as he takes a seat on your couch. You thought you didn’t care about them, but for some reason you wish you could ask him how he feels about Virus. It’s as if he’s his bodyguard or protector of some kind and if they weren’t yakuza, you’d wonder what their purpose in life was. You shake your head and stop thinking about it. You walk back into the living room slowly and they both look at you. Trip is unflinching. Virus smiles slightly.
“Ah, thank you, Noiz-san,” he says, reaching out and you put the bottle and glass in his delicate hands. Then you stand there like a dumbass, like a tree rooted to the ground, and you and Trip both watch him pop the cork out and pour himself a glass. He takes a sip and nods at you.
“Go ahead,” he says. You think he’s talking to you at first, but then Trip’s hands are on you and you’re slammed to the coffee table and you’re aware that his words were, in fact, directed to Trip. You grunt as you land palms— and cheek—first against the hard white wood of your sleek coffee table. You always liked this table. It’s stylish. You’ve never seen it this close before.
Your pants are down before you can do much else and Trip fingers the hem of your thigh highs from behind. You’re both on your knees.
“Cute,” he mutters. His voice is louder than you expect it and you realize his lips are much closer to your ears than you thought. You manage to pull yourself up a bit and your toes are digging into the carpet and your head can crane up just enough to see Virus watching from the couch. You look away immediately and feel Trip rip the socks off. It forces you forward enough to ram the edge of the table into your gut and you groan.
“A bit gentler,” Virus says from above you and you let your head fall down. “Unless Noiz-san wants it rougher?”
“I don’t care,” you mumble. All you really want is for them to wreck you. They can do that without beating the hell out of you, but you don’t really care about that either way. It’s not like you’d be able to tell.
“You don’t care?” Virus repeats back to you and this is it. It’s coming. You don’t know why they indulge you. You don’t know why they took an interest in you. It’s been two weeks since they fucked you in your bedroom and you thought you’d never see them again but here they are. They found you in the alleyway – you were hanging around Dry Juice territory because you like to fuck with Koujaku and he’s always with that Mizuki guy – and they didn’t have to say a word. Trip smiled at you and Virus nodded his head in the direction of your place and you followed. You followed them to your own apartment. This was fucked up from the start.
“Just fuck me,” you say finally and Trip’s hands are big and hot and gruff against your chest as he reaches around you and pulls you backwards. He rips the buttons off your shirt and yanks it off your arms. It’s so sudden and vicious that it takes your breath away. He reaches for the hem of your undershirt and removes it too as Virus clicks his teeth.
“Noiz-san, why is it that you like to have us over?”
Fuck. You don’t have an answer for that. At least, not one that you want to give. You don’t want to tell them that you can’t connect with anyone because you’re starting to think the same is true of them and anything that relates you to them is too terrifying. You don’t want to tell them that you hate yourself and you just want to make sure you’re correct; you want the validation that you’re unlovable and you want the certainty that your parents had the right idea all along. You don’t want to tell them that when it comes down to it, honestly you’re scared. You’re just scared.
“To fuck me,” you breathe as Trip’s fingers dance along the elastic of your neon green briefs and when you give them that answer he takes it as the go ahead to wrench them down to your knees and you bring your arms back far enough to dig your palms into the edge of the table, and jut your elbows backward enough to use as weapons if you have to. Trip’s hand flashes in front of you as he grabs the bottle of lube from your side and pulls it back. You hear him uncap it and you don’t mean to snarl but you do. Virus sighs and pours himself another glass of wine. Did he already drink a whole glass?
“Why do you choose us?” he asks and you’re bracing for Trip’s finger but it doesn’t come.
“You’re the only ones depraved enough to fuck a kid,” you growl. You hope that will antagonize Trip enough to put his finger in you but he remains still.
“Well,” Virus says and you can hear the laughter in his voice. “You’re nineteen. You’re more than capable of making your own decisions. So I’ll ask you again. Why do you choose us?”
You don’t want to answer. You do want to answer, but you want them to pull it out of you. You want them to reduce you to nothing. You’re getting hard just thinking about it.
“I like getting tag teamed by two ugly guys,” you huff with amusement. You finally feel Trip’s fingers but they’re not inside you; they’re in your hair and they pull your head back sharply and you yelp, not because it hurts but because it’s so sudden. Virus laughs as you feel Trip’s breath against your neck and you’re surprised he thought you were serious. It’s not like either Virus or Trip is particularly your type, but they’re not unattractive. Then it occurs to you that if Trip is trying to look like Virus, he might be reacting more in defense of Virus than himself. He is dyeing his hair; you figured that out last time. How sweet. How fucking bizarre and sweet.
“I feel as though you are still lying,” Virus says. His voice is airy, as if he’s joking around with a close friend. It’s nerve-wracking. “I think I know why you come to us.”
Your head is still wrenched back and you’re gripping the sides of the coffee table so tight your knuckles turn white. You grit your teeth at him.
“Fucking enlighten me,” you say. You meet Virus’s gaze and he narrows his eyes as he locks them on you.
“Because we’re the only ones who will have sex with you.”
“Wrong,” you spit. “Lots of people like fucking me.”
It’s true, too. You’ve never had any shortage of people who you barely have to speak to before you can get them back to your place or vice versa. But they’re usually pretty decent people, even if they’re into some kinky shit and aren’t particularly interested in seeing you again. Virus and Trip are the only ones who are fucked up enough to do this to you. They’re the only ones as fucked up as you.
“And we like – ha – fucking you,” Virus says, chuckling before he swears, as if he’s a fucking toddler. “But I get the feeling – that we’re the only ones who will fuck you the way you want someone to.”
You don’t say anything. Trip eventually shoves your head forward again, this time slamming it against the table and holding it there.
“Noiz-san,” Virus says carefully, his voice much darker now in the stale air. “Did you like what we did last time?”
You still can’t answer. Did you like calling them “Daddy?” No, of course not. That was the fucking point.
“Do you want to do that again?” Trip’s low voice grumbles from behind you and you shut your eyes so tight you see stars. You grimace as he shakes your head back and forth, prompting you to answer.
“No,” you breathe finally. Virus sighs.
“Well,” he says, leaning forward and taking the wine bottle again. Seriously? A third glass already? “In that case, we won’t. We wouldn’t want to do anything that you don’t want us to.”
And that’s it. That’s how they get you. They’re going to make you admit it. They’re going to make you say out loud what you want them to do, and that’s just as humiliating as what you want them to do to you.
“Go ahead,” Virus says and you know that’s not good. You know that’s a signal but you can’t react before Trip’s finger is inside you and at least it’s well coated in lube this time. It enters you far too quickly, but you’re somewhat grateful that you can at least sort of feel it. You grunt and Trip laughs. He works it around inside of you but never pulls it out. You try to make your body relax so it can adjust to it because you’re sure Trip is not going to go slow.
“Noiz-san,” Virus calls. “Are you – absolutely sure you don’t want to do what we did before? No pressure, of course.”
This fucking dick is giving you a second chance, blanketed in false promises of an anxiety-free environment, but you all know that’s not true. You’re feeling very stressed to either tell them what you want or risk them just fucking you like everyone else does and then leaving. And probably never coming back again. You take a deep breath and Trip teases your hole with another finger just before you say it:
“No, Daddy.”
“Ah,” Virus fusses and you grunt when Trip sticks all three fingers in at once. You try to pull away from the pressure but it’s pointless. Trip’s fingers follow you. “I thought you might feel that way. Why didn’t you tell the truth to begin with, Noiz-san?”
You hate the way he says your name, as if it’s some proper, God-given fucking name and not just your Rhyme nickname or any other fucking thing that wasn’t the name handed down to you from your father. You wanted nothing more than to rid yourself of the name of your father; you didn’t even care what people called you, names were just noises. Call you whatever, you said. Names are just noises. You’re just noise. You’re just Noiz.
“I don’t know, Daddy,” you say immediately and it feels so fucking wrong and perverted and perfect. You swear you can feel your chest lighten with the words.
“You were embarrassed, weren’t you?” Virus coos as if you were a young child. “That’s okay. That’s why we’re here.”
Apparently Virus wants an answer because when you stay quiet, he repeats himself.
“Were you embarrassed?”
“Yes, Daddy,” you mumble, pressing your face into your hands to stifle your words. Trip’s fingers are gone suddenly and they’re back in your head, pulling your head up and forcing you up.
“Look at him when you answer him,” he says quietly, as if he doesn’t actually care, he’s just giving you basic instructions. When you don’t repeat yourself, he pushes your head forward and pulls it back gruffly.
“Yes, Daddy,” you say, and you don’t even know which one you’re talking to anymore, but then Trip’s grip is gone and you fall forward again, using your forearms to brace yourself against the table. You can hear Trip’s belt buckle and it’s so loud you swear it’s deafening and all you can do is stare into the wood of the table. You’ve never felt this way before and you’re not even exactly sure how you feel. You feel awful. But you love it.
“Noiz-san,” Virus’s voice calls quietly from your side and you’re startled. He’s crouching down next to you and his eyes are so close and so scrutinizing that you’re actually scared; actually scared, not just nervous or unsure, you’re suddenly so terrified that you start to breathe quicker and there may be tears in your eyes. You look up at him, painfully aware of the ragged air you’re exhaling in spurts and maybe this isn’t completely broken – maybe you aren’t a complete mess, yet – but this is the closest you’ve ever gotten. Trip grabs your hips and you feel him position his cock at your entrance but you can only stare at Virus.
“Yes, Daddy?” you almost sob.
“There’s no need to be embarrassed with us,” he says, and his words are chilling. He’s comforting you but somehow he manages to make it sound like more of a threat than anything. “We’ll do whatever you want.”
You nod slowly at him, wondering exactly what he means. Is he saying you can ask them for anything? You can ask them to tie you up and fuck you until you’ve come six times? You can ask them to tie you up and tease you until they leave you there, naked and still wanting? You can ask them to beat the shit out of you?
Can you ask them to love you? Can you ask them to be nice to you? Can you ask them to at least say nice things, even if they don’t mean them? Things you’ve never been told before?
You’re still nodding, still staring into Virus’s soulless eyes when Trip rams into you and your eyes wrench shut and you turn your head away, falling forward and groaning at the pressure. There’s still some lube inside you but he obviously didn’t use any on his dick and you can tell. What is with people on the island not understanding how lubrication works?
“Give him a moment,” Virus says and his voice is quiet and almost angry. It’s his ‘giving Trip instructions’ voice and you recognize it well at this point. Trip hums from the back of his throat and you bet he’s staring doe-eyed at Virus but you can’t open your eyes to check. For some reason, imagining what they’re doing right now makes it easier for your body to relax and when your shoulders droop a little, Virus says, “Go ahead,” and Trip pulls out slowly. You inhale just as slow and when he rams back in, you gasp. That’s not going to be hard enough, though.
“Fast,” you grunt. Trip’s fingers tighten. You open your eyes in time to see Virus nod at him and Trip shifts on his knees a bit and then he pulls out again and shoves forward. He starts a quick pace of rough, deep thrusts and he’s so fucking brutish, he’s so big and clumsy and it’s exactly what you need to feel anything. You hate that Trip of all people is turning out to be your ideal sex partner, so you choose instead to focus on every time he brushes your prostate with the tip of his dick. It actually feels good after a while, and even if this is only a tenth of what normal people feel, you don’t have any comparison, so you relish it while you can.
You lift your head up and open your mouth, letting out whatever little noises escape your mouth. It’s mostly air caught in the back your throat that Trip pushes out every time he shoves in and this is the first time you’ve ever felt like you were actually in one of the despicable pornos you watch. Virus pours another glass of wine as he watches. He doesn’t seem to be getting any sexual pleasure from it, he’s simply an audience but you don’t feel particularly pressured to put on a show. He brings the wine glass to his lips and you wonder how many that’s been for him. He seems to be drinking quickly and you’re surprised there’s even any left.
“Good?” Trip asks suddenly and you’re taken off guard. You weren’t expecting him to check in on you.
“Um,” you stutter, “can you – deeper?”
He doesn’t respond verbally but he seems to take it to heart and he starts pounding against your prostate more, angling his dick higher and the sound of his skin slapping against your ass is so loud and lewd and you love it more and more with each passing second.
“Are you going to come, Noiz-san?” Virus asks and you nod vigorously, a high-pitched, “Uh-huh,” escaping your lips. You don’t care how desperate you sound, this is rough and fast and deep and one of the best fucks you’ve ever had.
“Uh-huh,” Trip grunts mockingly between labored breaths. “Uh-huh, what?”
“Please remember the protocol, Noiz-san,” Virus adds. At first you’re confused but then you remember. Of course.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Are you close?”
“Yes, Daddy,” you whimper, and you think that’s going to be the end of it, but then Virus is just inches from your face and you shout slightly when he speaks.
“Does this make you happy, Noiz-san?” he asks quietly, his eyes boring holes into you. For a second you forget you’re being fucked. “Do you like this? Being told what to do? Does it make you happy?”
You can’t answer other than to whine uncontrollably and your eyebrows furrow as you frown. You hold eye contact with him as you’re thrust forward immeasurably.
“Do you wish more people would simply tell you what to do? Do you feel overwhelmed? Do you know what to do? Or do you need someone to tell you?”
You press your ass backwards into Trip subconsciously and suddenly he wraps his hand around your dick and digs his nails in under the head. You cry out, into Virus’s face, and try not to let out any other sounds (you fail, of course; you can’t stop whimpering).
“We’re more than willing to help you,” Virus continues, reaching out and holding your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t pull or grab like Trip; in fact, he starts to stroke your face softly with his thumb. “We’ll be happy to tell you what to do.”
Trip drags his nails down your dick and that paired with a sudden, harsh thrust against your prostate is what pushes you over the edge and you shut your eyes, cry out louder than ever, and bury your head in your arms. Trip keeps his nails buried in your dick and his own cock buried in your ass as you come against the side of the table, practically humping it as you push against it and back against Trip’s cock through your orgasm. It’s a good one: though you know it’s probably dull comparatively, it starts in your ass and shoots toward your dick, then you feel little sparks around your pelvis. You wonder if you were normal if it would travel all the way to your toes and your fingers and your head, if you’d ever experience the toe-curling orgasm everyone else talks about. But this is fine. You wouldn’t know otherwise anyway.
When the feeling dissipates, you’re left to sweat and drool and whimper against the table, your head still buried in your arm as Trip finishes up himself. His thrusts change; they’re shallow and blunt now, and he comes inside you a few minutes later with a shuddering growl. You don’t know where Virus is. You don’t have the guts to check, but when Trip pulls out you realize you’re going to have to emerge sometime.
When you finally look up and lean backwards, Trip is tucking himself back in his pants and zipping himself up when you look behind you and you don’t know where Virus is. You need to catch your breath so you sit awkwardly at your table, legs bent at the knee and come dripping everywhere. It’s between the back of your thighs and your calves, all over your dick and stomach and you don’t even think you want to clean up. You just want to stew in your own disgusting filth all night.
Virus suddenly emerges from the kitchen and gives you a smile so quaint and frightening that an outsider would think he’d just had a pleasant dinner at your house (unless, of course, they saw you naked and come-covered on your own living room floor).
“I put your wine back,” he says, tucking his arms behind his back. “I do apologize, I drank a fair amount, but we’ll pay you back.”
You shake your head, bewildered, at the frank conversation and shrug at him.
“It’s – fine. Okay. Whatever,” you say. Then Trip is behind you again, his lips at your ear and a smile in his voice.
“We’ll pay you back when we see you again,” he says and Virus closes his eyes slowly. He’s annoyed.
“Yes,” he says, opening them and walking toward you. “That was, in fact, my implication.” He takes small strides to the front door and he beckons Trip to him but turns to you again before he leaves. He doesn’t say anything right away so you throw your hands up at him.
“What?”
“You’re a very interesting individual, Noiz-san,” he says. Trip looks at him suddenly and then starts to glare at you. At least, you think Trip is glaring. You still can’t tell with him but that must have struck a nerve.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “So are you guys. If by ‘interesting’ you mean ‘fucked up and weird.’”
“That’s not what I mean,” Virus smiles. “We’ll see you.”
They’re gone before you can say anything else and after a few seconds of heavy breathing, everything catches up to you. The fear, that very genuine fear of Virus’s eyes when they studied you; the word “Daddy,” and how you feel so much lighter when that shameful term leaves your lips; how quickly and how accurately Virus pinned you for what you were: a scared little kid who doesn’t know what to do. A scared little kid with no mommy or daddy or anyone. You have fucking no one, because you don’t know how to ask anyone to connect with you. You don’t know how to relate to anyone and you don’t want to start crying so you stand up, wobble a little bit as you gain your balance – your legs are weak from holding yourself up and straining your muscles.
You decide instead of sitting here, alone, like usual, you should drink. And Virus drank all your wine, so you need to go out. You can’t connect with anyone, but maybe a crowded bar will overload your senses enough to make you forget what just happened, and Black Needle is the perfect bar on Friday nights for a few drinks and maybe a punch or two from Koujaku. That sounds great right now. You could really go for a punch in the face.
You’re still trying to convince yourself that those blond assholes haven’t broken you, not yet, by the time you’re nursing your third drink at Black Needle. They haven’t gotten you to break down into nothingness just yet. Unfortunately, Koujaku is nowhere to be seen, which is disappointing because it’s somewhat crowded and you were hoping to pick a fight. You love throwing playground insults – not that you’d know what a playground is like – and seeing Koujaku react like a child. You love the knit in his brow when he turns furious. It’s cute. You love how big he becomes. It’s like he grows three times his size when he gets angry and you imagine his big arms around you, pinning you to the wall or holding you down on the bed or cuddling you from behind protectively, whatever. It’s all fine.
Mizuki is around but he hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s always been somewhat indifferent to you. You know he hates Rhymers but after Rhyme’s dissolution following Toue’s demise, he seems to be a lot tamer about the Rhyme versus Rib debate. You’ve never really cared one way or the other about the superiority of the teams. All you know is that Rhyme allowed for pain and that was enough for you.
Sometimes Mizuki comes behind the bar and makes a few drinks but there’s someone else serving customers. You can see the back room that serves as the actual tattoo parlor still has a light on. If memory serves you correctly, Mizuki usually shuts the curtain and turns the light off by the time the bar picks up on weekends. You lean back and scan the room. There’s still no sign of Koujaku. And now there’s no sign of Mizuki. You down the rest of your drink and stand up. You want to find him.
Maybe if you poke around enough you can find something still buried deep inside him. Maybe he still cares a lot more about Rhyme than he lets on. It would be easy enough to rile him up by simply mentioning Scrap, or maybe even just Aoba; definitely mentioning Aoba’s grandmother would get him going.
But you really don’t want to remind him of those things and you can’t really figure out why. You don’t know Mizuki. You don’t owe him anything. He doesn’t owe you anything, for that matter, but there’s something about him that makes you feel like you need to apologize to him. Maybe it’s outright pity, you’re not sure. He went through Hell when Aoba fucked up his Scrap and he went through Hell in the hospital afterward, too. He was in a coma, that much you know for sure, and you’ve always heard that comas are like being alive and being present, but not really being able to feel anything. You laugh out loud and stop your train of thought right there. You really don’t need to get your hopes up right now. You’re a little vulnerable after Virus and Trip (that’s an understatement, you’re sure), and you could probably convince yourself that Mizuki could possibly relate to you. You’re being a big enough dumbass right now for that, at least.
You approach the curtain that’s haphazardly pulled halfway across the entrance to the tattoo parlor and before you can give it a second thought, you push it away and there’s Mizuki, sitting in a tattoo chair, his back to you. He has something in his hands but you can’t see what. He turns around, startled, when the rings of the curtain clatter against the metal pole they hang on and you’re expecting him to frown or yell or roll his eyes but he doesn’t do any of that. His eyes look red – not like he was crying, but like he was close. And then he smiles.
“Noiz?”
You pause but eventually nod your head.
“Hey.”
“Can – can I help you?”
You’re a little surprised he isn’t immediately giving you shit but then it occurs to you that this is the first time you’ve ever spoken to him without Koujaku around. Maybe Koujaku brings out the worst in him. The thought makes you smirk. You wouldn’t doubt it. Koujaku brings out the worst in everyone.
You shrug at him. You came here to try to start a fight but he just looks too vulnerable right now. You’re not sure why you give a shit, though.
“Well – is everything okay?”
You’re a little drunk so you’re wondering if you heard him right. Did he just ask you if you were okay? Did you just give a shit about you at all? It was a formality, right? Exchanging pleasantries, you think the term is.
“I’m fine,” you sneer. “Just wanted to know why you were sitting in here like a loser all by yourself.”
Mizuki laughs lightly, as if he’s amused by your insult. He’s not supposed to be amused. He’s supposed to be angry. He’s supposed to stand up and stalk toward you and throw an insult your way too and then you’re supposed to respond with something way too personal and then he shoves you against the wall and punches you. Usually people either punch you or fuck you. You assume Mizuki would punch you. You’d take either from him.
“I can’t really leave my own bar,” he shrugs, and he turns back to whatever’s in his hand. Is it a picture? “But sometimes it gets a little rowdy out there for me, you know?”
You do know. There’s too much stimulation here. That’s why you came.
When he turns back to you, you nod. He puts down the object in his hand on the table next to the chair. It is a picture. It’s a framed tattoo design but it just looks like scribbles to you.
“It’s loud,” you mumble. It’s the best you can come up with at the moment but he smiles at you.
“You can sit in here too if you need a minute,” he says. “I won’t bother you.”
He gestures to one of the other tattoo stations and you figure you should take him up on it if he’s offering. But you’re still a little confused.
“Really?” you ask as you head to the chair. “You don’t have any smartass thing to say about Rhyme? Or my age? Or my accent?”
Mizuki laughs nervously as you fling yourself into the chair and sprawl out against it. It’s like a dentists’ chair. It’s comfortable. You weren’t expecting that.
“Seems petty, you know?”
“Doesn’t seem so petty to you when Koujaku’s around.”
Now Mizuki raises an eyebrow and gives you a little smirk.
“Well, you’re terrible to Koujaku,” he says, and he looks you straight in the eye when he says it. He’s not afraid of you. “You have to stick up for your friends, you know?”
“I don’t know that, no,” you say. “I don’t have any friends.” His smile suddenly furrows into a frown and he looks away.
“Well, I’m sorry about that,” he mumbles.
“Why?” you ask. “It’s not your fault.”
He shrugs and gives a heavy sigh. Then you realize his eyes aren’t red because he was going to cry. He’s drunk.
“I know it’s not my fault. Doesn’t mean feeling alone doesn’t suck.”
“I don’t feel alone,” you correct. “I am alone. I don’t feel anything.”
“Well,” he says again as he stands up. He’s already given up on you. That’s hilarious. “Whatever the case is, I’m sorry you feel shitty. You can sit back here as long as you need to.”
“Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?”
“No,” Mizuki frowns. “Why would I?”
“You don’t think I just came to fuck with you or Koujaku or something?”
He looks around the room, obviously a little confused.
“Well, I didn’t think that until you said it...”
“What did you think I came here to do?”
“I don’t know,” he says, walking toward the curtain. “Drink? Hang out? What else should I have thought?”
His immediate answer wasn’t a sarcastic, “To get on my nerves,” or an innuendo like, “Find someone just as slutty as yourself?” His initial thought was that you were here, at a bar, on a Friday night, to drink. And to “hang out.” With people. To, you know, connect. His initial thought was that you were normal.
Your heart drops through to your stomach when you realize that and Mizuki’s pulling back the curtain to leave when he looks back at you and takes a deep breath.
“I guess it makes sense though,” he shrugs, “that you just wanted to fuck with Koujaku. But he’s not here tonight. So if you want to just come hang out, I’ll be out there. I’ll make you a drink.”
And then he leaves. He goes back out to his bar, to his friends and his Rib team and his alcohol and he’s the most normal person in the world at that moment and the fact that he thought you were normal too is –
You get up and hurry out of the bar. You don’t stop to look around and you hope Mizuki doesn’t see you rush away. Who does he think he is, treating you like you’re just some guy? Like you’re just someone who deserves anything like a friend? Like you’re just a regular person, who would come to a bar on a Friday night and would be given a free drink by the bar owner. Well, to be fair, that’s happened before, but he expected a blowjob in return. That’s probably what Mizuki’s game was, too, you realize. Too bad for him, you’re not going to give in to that. If you don’t take the drink, you’re not indebted to his dick.
You wish you had Virus or Trip’s numbers. It’s only been a couple hours since you saw them, but you wish you could call them up and do a round two. They just want to fuck with you. They give you the shame and self-loathing you want and in return you give them the plaything they obviously desire. That’s a good relationship. That’s the one you’re going to pursue. Not because you want it to develop into anything real, but because you definitely don’t want it to die. What’s Mizuki going to give you? A free drink and a pat on the back? Who even is Mizuki? He’s just your placeholder for Koujaku anyway, and you hope he comes back soon. He wouldn’t pull this, “You’re a normal guy, come have a drink,” bullshit on you. Fuck Mizuki and fuck tonight.
You go home and you down the rest of the Moscato and then you drop the bottle on the floor. It doesn’t shatter like you think it will. Even the wine bottle can keep its shit together better than you.