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He’s bored.
He’s so bored that picking at his nails and re-coding the team website for the twentieth time that week aren’t even moderately distracting enough. He’s hit a wall. There’s no productivity, no drive, and absolutely no desire to move an inch from the futon he’s sprawled out upon. A neglected half-eaten pizza sits mournfully on the table across from him whose only company is a bottle of soda (flat, it’s likely flat).
He’s so bored that he’s leaning his head off the edge, staring upside down at his Coil’s screen, fingering through the most recent texts. Meeting tomorrow, Game the next day, Spam, Spam, Offer for Free Delivery, Spam…
“Tch.”
He’s so bored that even being bored is getting dull. And he’s used to being alone.
He stops at a text a few days back - yo boss so like this is the number we were talking about earlier. dunno if you’re into that shit or whatever but the babes were into some kinky shit. give it a try - it’s free for the first hour or whatever. but trust me you only need an hour.
Following the text was a second with contact information that simply read ’ ‘
He doesn’t even batt a lash or stifle a chortle. There’s just apathy.
There’s nothing else to do so he settles on calling it. Just to alleviate his boredom and nagging curiosity as to why these sort of hotlines are so popular in Japan.
It rings. Once, twice, thrice.
“Hey.”
The voice on the other end is most definitely male and Noiz can’t help but release a breathy chuckle, “I thought this was for girls.”
“Girls— Wow, what a pervert,” the person on the other line drawls, and that person is most definitely male, but there’s no hint of offense, “Sorry, but this line is one-hundred percent guys.”
“Lucky me,” Noiz responds, blandly, uninterested, and remains hanging upside-down off his futon.
“You gonna hang up or give it a real hard try?”
“I don’t have anything else better to do,” Noiz says and he closes his eyes.
“Wow,” the guy on the other line says and there’s a deliberate pause before the mood changes and the guy’s tone deepens, “So, how big is your dick? I’d love to suck it off until you were screaming to come.”
“That’s pretty forward,” Noiz murmurs.
“—It’s a sex-line, you idiot,” the other man says quickly but then corrects himself, “Fuck yeah it’s forward. You sound hot. Of course I’d be all up on you.”
“I mean, if the point of these calls is to cause physical stimulation when there aren’t visuals or touch to assist in the process, it seems more logical to take things slow,” Noiz drawls and for such a lengthy response he doesn’t seem like he’s gained any ounce of interest in continuing.
“What, you an expert?” the voice says, breaking character again. “If you aren’t into it, hang up. I have other customers to tend to who actually want to beat off to my voice.”
Noiz snickers. “You think they’re really doing it to your voice?”
“What else?” the voice says, exasperated and then snarls, “I don’t give a shit what they’re picturing or who they’re thinking about. This is my job and if you don’t want me to talk dirty to you, hang up.”
“Why don’t you?”
There’s a pause, a long pause, and Noiz cracks open an eye, staring at his ceiling. One of the bulbs is out in his light. He’ll have to fix that.
“We’re not allowed to,” the voice finally grumbles, defeated, and Noiz pictures the guy on the other end bristling like a cat.
“Guess you’re stuck with me for an hour or until I hang up,” Noiz says and there’s finally, finally some semblance of intrigue.
“Fucking fantastic,” the guy says and Noiz can picture him pressing the heel of his palm to his temples. Or something like that.
“What did you eat for dinner?”
“Wha— The fuck do you care? What kind of foreplay or kink is that?”
Noiz’s smirk grows and he lamely begins tracing shapes haphazardly in the air. “It’s not one.”
“So why are you interested?”
“It’s ticking you off, isn’t it?” Noiz supplies, and then he starts to laugh because he hears the most frustrated noise ever coming from the operator on the other line. This, he realizes, was a great idea for unconventional reasons. “Guess that’s a yes.”
“Okay, fucker, what’s your name and maybe I’ll tell you all about how I deep-throated my phallic dinner.”
“You’re trying too hard,” Noiz deadpans but then goes on to add, “My name isn’t important.”
“And neither is my dinner. Ding ding, you’re a fucking genius. Congratulations.”
Noiz is moderately impressed with the battle of wits going on but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he swings his body to the side so he can sit upright on the futon. That’s around the time he reaches for a slice of cold pizza and begins nibbling on it, never once letting the Coil leave his side.
“Are you— you’re eating. You’re supposed to be jacking off and you’re eating.”
“It’s pizza.”
“I don’t care what it is.” The guy sighs, maybe snarls. “Is there anything I can do to either get you to shut the hell up and hang up or to just play along and get off?”
Noiz contemplates it. He mulls it over, chewing, and wonders if such a bratty operator could be the impetus he needed to get himself off. It’s been a long while, especially with the added tolerance he’s built up for his own nails. He hadn’t really thought about stimuli before but it’s a logical solution to his problem - no pun intended.
“Sure.”
“…Wow okay, that was easy. Finally,” the man says, sounding exhausted but then perks up quickly enough. “So, what’re you wearing?”
“T-shirt. Jeans.” Noiz shrugs, setting down the rest of his pizza and sits back.
“Well guess what, maybe I’ll just sit in your lap and try and take that shirt off.”
“If you want.”
“Yeah, I do. You sound hot. I want to see just how hot you are. I bet you have abs.”
“I guess.”
“Well, I bet it would feel better if my mouth was on them and your nipples, right? So I’ll do that. And shove my hands down your pants because you’re probably huge as fuck and I’m really horny. You’ll take care of me, right?”
There’s something about the way the man edgily says it. The way that it’s forced and fake but somehow there’s a kernel of truth to it all.
“I’m listening.”
“This usually isn’t just a one-way street. C’mon, say something dirty. Make me whine.”
“I want you to hurt me.”
“Hurt… Okay, cool, yeah. Whips? Spanking? Strangling? I can do it all. I’ll shove you down and I’ll fuck the hell out of you, if you want. Or you can ride me, if you want that, too. My cock’s already getting really hard for you—”
“Already? That didn’t take long,” Noiz mumbles but he’s absently fumbling with the button to his jeans, undoing it with ease followed closely by the zipper. His hand is cold on his neglected dick and it’s a bit of a shame that it isn’t even half-hard yet.
“I mean, I’m in your lap and biting at your ears and neck. How the fuck am I not hard as hell?”
Noiz rubs his thumb along the tip of his own dick, trying to feel it, feel anything. It isn’t really working. He’s about ready to jam his nail into the slit when there’s a knock at his front door.
What makes it worse is that he hears his team members and they sound pretty urgent, pretty insistent, and they know better than to disturb him at his apartment unless it’s very important. And while he’s usually one for nonchalance and the idea of his teammates catching him with his pants down around his ankles doesn’t necessarily frighten him, he feels oddly - protective - of the conversation.
It feels private, meant for just two people, and in a rush Noiz mumbles, “Gotta go,” and hangs up and pulls his pants up in a mad rush.
He barely hears the man on the other line breathe out, “Wait—”
Noiz is kept up all night by what could have possibly followed.
It wasn’t that this was the only place to get a decent coffee around the island, it was just that, as a matter of principle, this was his place. For the past year and a half, he would come here after every single Rhyme match and stuff his face with the same heart-attack inducing coffee with tons of sugary add-ins. And now, now that snotty blonde German brat from last week had decided, on what seemed to be too fanciful of a whim, to start doing the same exact thing. One would speculate that if someone was going out of their way to tread on your toes, they would at least spare a word. Or two. But no. This imbecile had given him the cold shoulder the entire week and whenever he would look his way and their eyes would meet for a brief second, the damn brat would lift a brow, blink twice, and then resume drinking and playing with his Coil. Frankly, it was irksome.
But what unceremoniously became the cherry on top was the fact that today, of all days, today, Sly Blue’s birthday, the beanie-wearing dick had decided to hole up, with a burger from down the road, and a copy of Catcher in the Rye. Despicable.
“Hey. Hey, brat.”
Sly’s already halfway across the coffeeshop, straw wrapper crumbled beyond all recognition, as he calls out to the stranger. As expected, the stranger doesn’t even look up. Rather, he flips the page of the godforsaken book and continues on his merry way.
“I said hey.”
Still there is no response. It’s around that time Sly has had enough and slides into the chair directly across from beanie-kid.
“You’re here. Every. Single. Day,” Sly begins, eyes deadly and venomous.
“And?” Noiz doesn’t look up.
“And you weren’t coming here until you played me last week. So quit fucking stalking me and get a life. We aren’t going to have a rematch and I’m not going to suck your dick, so get lost.”
Noiz finally looks up and it’s with cold and calculated green eyes that stare straight through Sly as if he’s not even there. “No.”
“Brat, I said—”
“You didn’t seem the type to be in a place like this,” Noiz murmurs, looking back down to the book. He frowns at it, looking slightly disgusted, but continues nonetheless, “You don’t seem…”
“What? Hipster enough?” Sly huffs and he leans back in his chair, hair spilling over the back. “Newsflash, I like coffee. Not everyone who drinks coffee is a hipster.”
“Apparently.”
Sly rolls his eyes and that’s around the time his gaze settles back on the book in Noiz’s hold. “Holden.”
Noiz looks up. “What.”
“Holden. In the book.”
“What about him?”
“He’s a twat.”
There’s a beat, a pause, and the edges of Noiz’s stoic expression threaten to change for a split second. There’s something lively in his eyes, something a bit alive, and then it’s gone as Noiz closes the book, marking the page with his thumb, before redirecting his attention to Sly.
“It’s a classic.”
“A classic that sucks balls. Sorry, I don’t like pretenious babies complaining.”
“Kettle calling the pot black,” Noiz deadpans.
There’s a sense of deja vu to all of this but Sly just shakes his head. He looks like he’s going to get violent, to slam his fist or drink down, to spill Noiz’s, but he doesn’t. He just glares. So Noiz takes the invite.
“I don’t like the book.”
It’s one of the few times Sly has ever heard that. He lifts a brow, curiously, and tries to play off his heightened interest as indifference. “Yeah? So?”
Noiz shrugs and he’s standing, collecting his jacket and bag and coffee. Sly watches him, checking the urge to tell him to sit his ass back down and continue bashing it with him. It’s better this way - connecting with people is stupid and dangerous and this bratty blonde is not someone Sly thinks he could ever tolerate. So it’s better that he scare him off from his coffeeshop. Good riddance.
Sly watches him leave - watches that rather magnficient ass walk away - and the sense of familiarity crashes into him again and he’s reminded of that snarky idiot from last week on the hotline. He knows it’s against protocol, knows that he could get fired, but fuck is he horny and the brat was the only person in weeks to even manage a twitch out of his cock, and they hadn’t really even said much.
So Sly does what any respectable teenager that works part-time at a sexilne: he takes a dickpic in the bathroom of the coffeeshop and sends it to the number that had called the hotline.
Noiz doesn’t get the picture on his Coil until he’s already back at his place.
And he isn’t sure who it’s from because there’s no name attached and the hotline had been a giant number that redirected callers to individual operators.
He’s about ready to mark it as spam and delete it, but… but there’s a caption.
wanna mess around, pizza-guy?
It’s enough to remind him of last week. At least he has a mental image now.
you’re in public
and?
wasn’t just the first hour free?
this isn’t on the clock you moron. i’m horny and your voice is hot
sorry not interested
oh come on.
not interested.
That’s around the time that Noiz’s Coil dings with another picture-message. This time, it’s someone from the chest-down, half-naked, dick hard and exposed, shirt unbuttoned but not off entirely. And it’s hot. It’s really hot because he can still hear that powerful voice in his head and he stares at the picture for a bit too long.
come on pizza-boy.
maybe later.
Noiz doesn’t call him for a week.
“But really. That scene in the elevator. What the fuck was the author thinking? Was he on drugs? I bet he was on drugs.”
Sly is sitting at a table near the window at the coffeeshop, sipping on his strawberry mocha, eating a scone. Noiz is across from him, looking moderately bored, but there’s a tiny spark in his eyes that, to the wise, screams differently.
It’s been about a week since their last run-in about Catcher in the Rye and, expectedly, Noiz has been showing up and getting his coffee every single day, as if the altercation had meant nothing. Because it hadn’t.
At first Sly had been pissed, but the enticing idea of bitching to someone, no strings attached, was too much to pass up on. And besides, it wasn’t like Noiz was necessarily intolerable. He let Sly bitch and he kept him on his toes. That, and he was amazingly good at Rhyme and not too bad on the guys. It was nice to get away from reality and be around someone who didn’t care enough to not insult you.
“I don’t get why people pay to have sex,” Noiz deadpans, looking bored again.
Sly pauses, lifts a brow, and visibly stiffens. It’s not like that’s his living or anything, but it’s close enough and he feels oddly vulnerable, offended. And yet… “Yeah, well, sometimes you don’t just have a choice. It’s shitty but whatever. It’s the people that take advantage of it that are the scumbags. So yeah, why pay?”
Noiz clicks his tongue, mulling it over. He and the operator hadn’t exactly been having sex, and they hadn’t exactly been paying in anything but mutual satisfaction, but… “Whatever.”
“Bunny boy,” Sly begins, leaning just a bit across the table, golden eyes dangerous, “Would you ever pay someone to fuck you?”
“No.”
“No? You think you have enough game on your own?” Sly seems utterly amused.
“No,” Noiz corrects, still disinterested. “I’m just not interested.”
“Wow,” Sly says, settling back, arms crossing. “You really do have the libido of a stick.”
Noiz doesn’t testify that that is entirely wrong and ever since he and the operator had been exchanging texts and phone-calls, he had resdiscovered whatever sexual drive he had once had before his lack of sensation got the best of him. It’s freeing and exciting and — not something he should be sharing with Sly Blue. Not at a coffee shop.
But there’s something familiar about all of this…
“Hey. Buy me another coffee.”
“Why?” Noiz looks put-off.
“Because you aren’t going to fuck me, so I want a consolation prize.”
Noiz isn’t sure if Sly is being serious, but something deep inside his gut lights on fire and he has this urge, this urge he only gets with the operator nowadays and during Rhyme. This urge that he wants to feel alive and if it’s by fucking the hell out of Sly Blue, so be it. But he doesn’t act on it. He digs his nails deep into his palm and blinks deliberately at the now chuckling man seated across from him.
It was a joke.
But it’s enough of an image to store in his mind for later when he hastily calls the operator the second he gets back to his apartment.
He doesn’t think of Sly bent over his bed, his dick buried deep inside him as he whines and begs and moans and takes him all the way in. And he doesn’t think about Sly biting him or Sly bitching about something insignificant. He most certainly doesn’t think about fooling around with Sly in the bathroom of the coffeeshop they only ever seem to meet up at.
Instead, he thinks of finding strands of blue on his pillow days after Sly’s gone, and a faint scent of the sea.
“Noiz,” Sly says one day - and it’s been a month or so since they actually crossed the threshold from somewhat bitter (like coffee) rivals to half-friends who sit with one another nearly everyday for a couple of hours. Sly is getting ready to leave, as he usually does around dinner time. Usually it’s an insult and a wave before he goes but today it’s Noiz’s name and Noiz finds it difficult to count how many times Sly has bothered to say it.
“What?”
“Give me your number. I’m planning on going to a buddy’s tonight for a drink and you should make your ass available to come with.”
Noiz wrinkles his nose. “I don’t drink.”
“And I don’t like dick,” Sly says and maybe it’s a joke but he shrugs his shoulders and holds his Coil out to Noiz. “Put it in.”
The words make Noiz shiver and he doesn’t think about all the lewd thoughts and daydreams he’s been having about Sly during his sporadic calls with the operator when they’re both feeling positively horny.
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll hit you. Come on.”
“Maybe.”
“You suck.”
“Maybe.”
“Oi, brat…”
Noiz concedes, puts in his information, and then rolls his eyes just to fit the mood. “I’ll drink soda.”
“Sure you will.”
Sly cracks him a big grin - and maybe it’s actually a smile - and he turns on his heel to head out of the shop. “See you tonight, nerd!”
Noiz knows if he’s going to survive tonight as Sly’s friend, as not wanting to reach out and touch his hair and make things weird with the only friend he’s ever had, he needs some release. He needs a disgusting amount of dirty talk. He needs the operator to tell him he’s been bad, that he needs to be hurt, that he’ll hurt him, that he’s a bad boy and that the operator will give him everything he wants. He needs to hear that he’s not a monster and that he’s hot. He needs the confirmation he’s human and that he wants human needs.
It’s a bit shameful, though, and Noiz isn’t exactly ever happy when he succumbs to this needs. It’s a paradox, since it’s always a desire to feel more human and alive, but at the same time, something as base as this…
He sends a rather explicit text and it’s the first time he’s ever initiated: i need you so bad right now. call and get me there as fast as you fucking can.
There’s no response after a minute. Or five. Or ten. Which is weird because the operator is almost always, always quick to respond. Especially when it’s something like this.
So Noiz sends a second text: … please. don’t make me beg. i want to fuck you.
Well, not really fuck but it was a mutual understanding that the talk would extend beyond what was physically possible on the phone.
Still no response.
So Noiz tries to call the operator and be more direct. It rings a few times and then the phone-call is interrupted by a text from a random number - it must be Sly.
meet at dry juice. now. drinks.
So Noiz, with what feels like the beginning of a raging boner, puts on his big boy pants and heads down to the place he’s seen a few times on his walks home.
Sly is already there, seated at the bar. The bartender - this guy he assumes is the Mizuki from the Dry Juice the bar is named for - is nowhere in sight. It’s just a tiny, empty bar attached to a tattoo parlor and pretty Sly Blue is sitting there.
Noiz had always wanted to feel human but not quite like this.
“Yo,” Noiz says, voice just a bit heavier, deeper than usual because he’s trying not to let it show that he’s never been this turned on before just from standing in such close proximity to someone. He takes a seat on the stool next to Sly, just to make it worse.
Sly ignores him, leaning his cheek against his palm. He’s idly flipping through his coil.
“Oi, Sly…” Noiz begins again, nose wrinkling, brows furrowing, and just mildly annoyed. What’s with—
His Coil buzzes with a text. Noiz frowns, and usually he wouldn’t be rude and check if he was with his ‘friend’, but right now Sly is being rude so whatever. So he checks.
It’s from Sly. Or… the operator. Or? It sounds like Sly but it’s from the Operator’s number—
if you’ve known all this time i will shove your head through this bar mirror and make sure your life is a living hell if you tell anyone. if you’ve been playing me like a fool i will make sure your best option is to leave this island for good. we clear, bunny boy?
From the operator —
Oh.
So that’s why —
He didn’t answer.
Because Noiz had put in his number and —
So when he texted him…
Oh.
“I texted you from Mizuki’s Coil so you wouldn’t be a pansy-shit and not show up,” Sly drawls, finally looking up when he’s satisfied that Noiz has read the text enough times. His eyes are empty, devoid of emotion, and a bit scary. Like a storm and Noiz just stares. Uncertain.
“So who told you to fuck around with me, huh? Was it one of those guys from Morphine?”
“You think someone put me up to this?”
“No shit. No one just starts a fling with a sex-line operator and then conveniently meets them at a coffeeshop.”
“You spoke to me that first time.”
“Because you were there. After we fought. You were there because I was.”
“No. I’ve always gone there.”
“Bull.”
“You’re the one,” Noiz begins but he’s interrupted by Sly’s hand slamming over his mouth. He’s effectively shut up and he blinks, torn between upset and raging confusion.
“I should have known when I saw your dick pierced. Only you would have that kinda affinity for piercings. Shit,” Sly mumbles, looking away harshly. And maybe he’s realizing that if someone had put Noiz up to this, he wouldn’t have used his real pictures for that very reason.
“Tch… you didn’t see all of them.”
There’s a second where Noiz assumes he’s going to be hit, but all that comes is a bright red tint on Sly Blue’s cheeks. Noiz considers it a victory and he watches in growing amusement - and relief - as Sly flusters and clears his throat.
“Oi…”
“What? Where’s that confidence?” Noiz says, slowly, having lifted his hand up to gingerly remove Sly’s from his mouth so he could speak. “All bark?”
“Fuck you,” Sly growls, and he bristles just like Noiz pictured he would.
Noiz chuckles - actually laughs, a real laugh - and he shakes his head. “Yeah? Wasn’t I asking earlier?”
“Noiz—!” Sly says, almost hollers, and slams his drink down. But he doesn’t throw a punch. Instead, he grabs his friend’s wrist rather tightly and leans in dangerously close to whisper - to breathe hotly - on his left ear.
“We’re going to my place. Right now. Because I’m turned on as fuck and you’re right here and I wanna know if you really can do all those things you kept boasting about on the phone. That isn’t a problem, right?”
Right?
Noise’s blood boils and he checks the urge to moan. He doesn’t check the urge, however, to slide his hand down between them and cup Sly’s crotch for a brief, hot second. “ ‘kay. Don’t disappoint me, Aoba.”
“I told you not to call me that…!” Sly’s haughtiness falters and he looks flustered again and it’s just how Noiz had hoped Sly would be.
“C’mon, I’ve been meaning to show you the place anyway,” Noiz murmurs and he’s up and off the stool, Sly Blue in tow.
Not even Holden Caulfield had anything on them.