Identity
Fuji likes the dizzying whirl of lights and the raucous laughter that accompanies all the clubs he goes to. It's the chaos and confusion, the harsh beat that thumps in his ears, something in the sheer wanton abandon that people throw themselves into that draws him into the dim, hazy places the way the unwary moth is drawn into the fire. Only if anyone bothers to look twice, Fuji is far from unwary, with lips that perpetually curve in a smile and crinkled eyes that flash a dangerous blue every time he opens them.
It's nothing more than a game of observation to him, where he sits by the bar, drinking whatever he is served without so much as a glance while letting his eyes roam across the dancing groups of people, letting the drunken atmosphere roll over him in waves. He tilts his head slightly at the smiles and coy looks women give him, slightly amused at the way the distaff find themselves drawn towards him. Once every while, it's not only the women, but Fuji doesn't care. Always it's the low seductive tones, fluttered eyelashes that are most probably fake, red, carefully applied rouge that's already smeared with alcohol; it fades into a dull monotony, and that's why Fuji never visits the same club twice.
The men try to buy him drinks sometimes, and he usually lets them, if only to get the weird, sadistic satisfaction of being able to reject them later. The look of fury and indignation on their faces makes him laugh, and he wonders what they see in themselves that makes them think they're irresistible. He never asks what they see in him; the strange, smiling man who sits quietly alone, running a finger across the rim of his glass. He knows who and what he is, and he knows exactly what it is that attracts them. It's that air of callousness and indifference that makes them flock to him like brash young teenagers rising to a challenge, that and the smile that makes people think he's the kind that can be easily bought over with a glass of wine.
Sometimes he simply lets go, like a spring compressed under high pressure suddenly releasing itself, and he finds himself backing someone onto the wall, the air thick and heavy around them as they sway to rhythm, his partner's moans resounding in his ears as their fingers hastily divest each other of their clothing. Fuji never does more than necessary; it is always fast, a rough, thrusting of hips and release, an act of lust and nothing beyond that. At times like this he notices a little more about the person with him—the way his neck itches irritably when women's hair trails across his neck, or the way their eyelashes brush against his cheeks, or even their unreasonable need to clutch his shoulders in an almost painful grip. With men, sometimes he is the one who ends up backed against a wall, silent yet demanding, and always the one setting the pace. He hates it when people demand more than what he wants, hates it when they ask for something other than convenient sex, but from experience, he can already tell who fits in with his requirements and who does not. But sometimes, he comes across those who want more than a quick fuck, and they annoy him in ways he can not describe. Sometimes he realizes it before the sex, and he always leaves them in some dark back street, not caring even if he finds out only after he is hopelessly aroused. It is a simple act of working himself to release after that, in the solitude of his own bedroom, stroking himself with fast, sure movements till he tumbles back against the sheets, utterly disgusted at his own genius for failing him.
Today it's a dim, quiet club for patrons of higher class with absurd prices for the same wine and whisky you can find in a lowly smoky club. The tiny golden bell tinkles softly as he pushes open the door, and as he sits himself by the bar, a man rattles off the names of various cocktails and wine in an almost bored voice. Feeling tired of this old routine, Fuji answers 'anything', knowing very well this will end him up with the most outrageously charged drink the club can offer, but he is feeling restless today. His eyes travel across the customers, absently noting the inviting looks some gave and dismissing them almost immediately. He never chooses those who beckons or pushes themselves forward, whether from pride or a quirk he doesn't know, though he suspects it is most likely the latter. Sometimes he doesn't even know what he wants, but he likes it that way, this endless game of keeping up with his own whims, because it makes life so much more interesting. He never actually initiates anything beyond a conversation to those few who do catch his eye either, anything further had always been on a pure, almost animalistic instinct alone. He wants it to be so, completely random, so as to keep himself continuously guessing who his partner will be.
This time it's a single man in the far corner, not exactly what he goes for usually--the quiet, serious type who almost always promises to be boring, but then Fuji always welcomes a change, and there is something about this man that stirs his curiosity. Perhaps it is because the man somehow manages to be almost self-effacing in keeping to himself while exuding an aura of confidence, a person with contradictory natures who is almost as out of place in this club as Fuji with his ever-present smile is.
The man doesn't even glance up when Fuji sits next to him, although the slight shift in the man's stance as the couch sinks beneath Fuji's weight announces his knowledge of Fuji's presence. It also reveals his almost but not quite displeasure of having company, and in his gestures, the way his fingers tightens ever so slightly around his glass as he lowers his head, Fuji can see the polite silent request for him to leave. Fuji finds it all remarkably fascinating; he isn't used to being ignored, much less refused. Already his previous doubts of ending up with someone without wit beyond the normal dull established routines of life are dispelled.
It's all so refreshing that Fuji chuckles at the sheer exhilaration of it. This time, the man does look up, faint surprise and curiosity in his deep brown eyes, and also something resembling annoyance. Fuji smiles sweetly at him, and even without thinking, he knows that particular trick will not work on this one, who is so unlike anybody else he has ever met. A quick raise of an eyebrow and the man turns back to his glass, staring into the deep red wine without uttering a word, his glasses glinting under the soft golden light of the overhanging antique lamps. Not for long, as he whips his head back when Fuji plucks off those glasses, pretending to be scrutinising the golden rims and clear lenses and completely oblivious to the rising irritation and annoyance crackling in the air.
"Well?" the man finally asks, his tone almost one of…resignation, as if he encounters people who invades his private space and takes his glasses away without a word every other day. This time it is Fuji who raises an eyebrow, although it is due to amusement rather than irritation.
"Nothing," Fuji replies, still smiling, folding the glasses carefully and placing them on the table, all the while feeling the man's intense gaze on his hands, as if the man wants to take away the glasses from him yet not wanting to risk contact.
"You don't have an infectious disease, do you?" he asks sweetly, chuckling as the man blinks in bewilderment, almost savouring this momentary vulnerability of the other. He knows he has the man on guard now as the man shifts ever so slightly away from him, naked eyes that seem lost without the cover of the glasses narrowing almost imperceptibly away as he studies Fuji. A hand half reaches out for the glasses on the table before withdrawing itself hurriedly, and brown eyebrows knits themselves in a frown, not at Fuji, Fuji notes with interest, but at their owner for displaying that single moment of weakness. The man gazes back defiantly, and Fuji meets that gaze calmly.
Fuji idly wonders what the other thinks of him; this peculiar, smiling stranger who invites himself over and takes away his glasses. The man eyes him warily, and answers, "No…" slowly, carefully, and somehow manages to turn a simple word into a thousand questions. This time Fuji does laugh out loud; this person manages to surprise even him.
"Because I don't," Fuji states evenly. Brown eyes cloud over with confusion, and Fuji opens his own for a split second, before leaning over and forcefully presses his lips to the man's, not caring if he looks like some desperate teenager with raging hormones or if half of the club's attention is on the two men kissing at the table in the corner. For a while, he knows only the bittersweet taste of wine in the man's mouth, that and the random image of the forgotten glasses on the table.
He finally pulls away and looks up, fingers lazily toying with the few errant brown strands that fell across the man's eyes.
"Well?" The man looks away, but Fuji smiles, knowing that he has won this round.
It doesn't take much after that, not long before Fuji find himself in the same situation as so many nights before, backed against the wall, sucking on the man's tongue even as he pulls away the other's belt. The man's skin feels different, molten fire concealed under a thin veneer of ice, the layer of sweat that covered the skin slick and warm for a few seconds before it cools on his fingers.
He closes his eyes in relief when it happens, rough enough to hurt and intense enough to make him shiver slightly, the man's forehead feeling strangely familiar against his own, brown eyes that unintentionally comforts bearing into his with a strong determination.
Only a while, and it's all over, and they find themselves dressing with their backs turned against each other, not a word exchanged between them. Fuji starts to leave when someone suddenly catches his arm. He turns to find himself staring into those oddly familiar brown eyes, and as the man opens his mouth, Fuji suddenly finds himself wishing that the man won't ask his name, because Fuji doesn't want to dislike him like he does to the many that has asked before. He briefly wonders why he cares, but that thought vanishes as fast as it came.
"Tezuka," the man says hesitantly, "Tezuka…Kunimitsu."
Fuji stares at him for a while before throwing back his head in the sudden laughing fit that catches him. It's hardly, if ever, that the same person manages to surprise him twice. He turns to leave, not looking back, even though he can feel the man's…Tezuka's eyes following him until he turns round the corner.
The next night, he finds himself walking through the same door, hearing the same bell tinkling softly as he pushes the door open. He leaves his usual place by the bar for one night, and sits at that table by the corner, forefinger tracing the rim of his glass, tongue coated with that bittersweet taste of wine.
The night after the next, he finds himself somewhere else, and he still doesn't know why his life is always lacking something.