Beautiful
The dancer steps his way across the stage, eyeliner rolling down his face with sweat, shorts that are far too short clinging to his body and some kind of fishnet substituting for a shirt.
He throws back his hair, wildly, dramatically. Green eyes glint in the dank seediness of the bar. The audience--his audience--love that, and they cheer for him as he kicks up one of his bare legs, offering a provocative view.
Many of the men are just from the dredges of the local gay scene, but there are also women and businessmen who've been trying to hide their homosexuality from their families for years and have since succeeded. They love him. Most call him 'Neko', and few know his real name.
The club eventually closes, and the dancer, suddenly exhausted and feeling as though his legs are jelly, holds onto the pole on the stage so as not collapse. They overwork him, and don't pay him enough, and he knows it. But this is what happens, he tells himself, when you drop out of college and need cash. This. You belong here now.
He eventually catches his breath, stumbling to the bar.
Honda is behind it, as he is most nights.
"Hey, Ryuuji," the young man smiles lazily, cigarette between his teeth. "You looked great up there."
He smirks. "Sure hope I did. I'm tired as hell."
Honda looks at him with a hidden adoration in his eyes. Honda's twenty seven as opposed to Ryuuji's twenty one. He'd started out as a soldier in the local force, but was discharged after being shot in the leg by some guy--not even a routine operation, just him after hours, trying to be a hero. That's what he says, and never anything more. (Plus, there was some kind of scandal with a male medic that Honda, on nights when they're drunk and his eyes are most bitter, says had something to do with it.)
Honda smiles a little wider, because Ryuuji makes him happy and he knows it. Does he care? Sometimes. Sometimes Ryuuji likes being a part of somebody's life, and sometimes he just selfishly relishes his freedom.
He doesn't care about happiness much anymore, because now there are things in his life that create happiness for him. Like sex and heroin.
He doesn't really know if he likes the way his life has gone, the way that he's pretty sure he'll die soon enough, shot or something before he's thirty. That's life, he's decided. Honda says he's given up hope and that he shouldn't because he's "so damn young". He thinks that giving up hope has nothing to do with that...Life has sucked so far, and it'll suck until he dies.
He pulls away from his thoughts (he tries not to think too much anymore about the fucking mess everything is).
He feels giddy, and lets out a husky laugh as he grabs Honda's arm, nearly purring. "Come with me."
Honda comes with him willingly, to the back of the club, and he initiates the kiss because he always does that, loves feeling dominant and in control.
The younger man lets him because he likes the way the older man's rough hands rub against his dirty black hair (which usually isn't dirty in the beginning of the work day, but by the end it is, and he hates that, wishes he could keep it silky all day, so he could be prettier).
Ryuuji presses a warm kiss on Honda's cheek-bone. He's built lithely, and the other man feels almost like a wall that he can lean against.
He catches a glimpse of the clock, and knows he has to leave soon...for his other job, that weird little thing that is roaming the streets looking for pleasure without pleasure.
He runs his hand down his companions stiff spike and down his bare back.
Their kisses are intense, and Honda does always dominate--Ryuuji gives him this because he knows who is really controlling everything.
He knows many things, and this is why his eyes are mirrors, reflecting only what others want to see, which is desire. It's only real sometimes--times like now. He thinks that this warmth that he feels when he kisses so hungrily is something approaching love. But it will never be love, because he will never let it be love, this is what he vows when he lies in his soiled cot in his dirty little apartment at night, alone.
He knows it is love for Honda, and that he will be able to have the pleasure and warmth he so desires with this man if he ever tires of him.
He knows how he looks now, wearing clothes that are almost not there, slick with sweat, too thin, filthy hair only made duller by the moonlight that pours in through the window of the back room, eyeliner smeared across his face. He looks like a slut.
But as he looks into Honda's pretty brown eyes, that are suddenly alive with an emotion he can place but does not want to, as he gasps harshly for air, he sees somebody who thinks he is beautiful, and though he needs to go, for a split second, he just holds on tighter.