Setting: Yashiro's office, a few days since Nanahara was found.
Our guys: Yashiro, Doumeki, Nahahara in bandages.
New guys: A few boys from Matsubara group.
Topic of conversation: Hirata, recently revealed as everyone's love-to-hate villain of the day.
Yashiro sat on his leather couch, enlightening the interim leader of the Matsubara group (since Ryuuzaki was still technically their prisoner and therefore unavailable) about the situation. (The situation: Current hostilities involving an angry, jealous, possibly sexually repressed Hirata trying to kill Yashiro to ensure his own promotion. Yashiro's plan was to give the Matsubara group enough information to gain a tentative ally but not enough to make them equals.)
The leader, Ota, was a relatively fresh face. In his early thirties, lean-faced, with that fit swimmer's build that gave him the look of an upside-down triangle, he sat opposite and his eyes did all the right things. That is, they inadvertently flit from Yashiro's face to his cock to his legs every few seconds. At one stage, the faintest pink touched his cheeks just below his eyes. Yashiro was flattered. If there was ever a more obvious newbie who wanted his turn at the executive toilet…
Ota put up a good front in front of his men. He said no to almost everything because he couldn't see what was in it for Matsubara. Yashiro took the hints gracefully like he was picking up golden pennies. With a gentle word, he sent everyone from the room except Ota and Doumeki.
Feeling both relieved and more out of his depth without the presence of his men, Ota shot a nervous glance at the stolid, silent bodyguard standing some ways behind Yashiro and wondered why he'd been allowed to stay.
'I'm assuming,' said Yashiro, smiling as he lit up a cigarette. 'That you're waiting for something to sweeten the deal?'
Oh, how adorable, he thought, dragging luxuriously. I didn't know grown men could blush like that.
He turned very slightly in his seat under the pretext of crossing his legs so the firm, hulking outline of his bodyguard-cum-plaything was in his field of vision.
'We could talk more openly tomorrow at the Dolphin, if that's to your taste. You know the hotel?'
There. It was slight but perceptible. A clenching of the jaw, a tightening of the fist, a nerve popping somewhere, maybe. Yashiro couldn't be sure if he was projecting or imagining, but something had changed in Doumeki. A thrill ran through him, one that was both familiar and not.
'I – the – yes, I know it,' Ota blubbered.
'Good. See you there tomorrow. Shall we say noon? It'll be like having dessert just before lunch.'
Oh! Oh, did Doumeki's eyes just narrow? No? I don't know. Let's just say they did.
Ota stared at the coffee table before him, ears flaming. He tried to put up one last fight.
'It won't – that is, I'm not saying for sure that we'll agree to anything, even if…'
'Of course, of course,' Yashiro said airily. 'We're just talking. Negotiating.' He fixed Ota with a look that had sent better men to their knees. Or rather, made better men force him to his knees. 'But, you know, negotiating can be fun.'
Ota's ears were still flaming when he left. He refused to make eye contact with any of his men.
Time Number 5, Doumeki thought when he awoke the next morning, feeling like he hadn't slept at all. Time Number 5. Just get through it.
Yashiro gazed out the window as the Lexus cut through the light midday traffic, if traffic in Tokyo could ever be considered light. It was a bright, cloudless, sunlight-dappled day. Absolutely chipper weather. Perfect for sightseeing. Or bird-watching. Or window shopping. Or… but Yashiro ran out of clever observation-related activities.
Doumeki hadn't glanced at him once through the rear-view mirror, something which proved almost as conspicuous as his usual habit of staring far too long and too hard.
The stately building of the Dolphin came swimming into view. Yashiro stared, concentrating, and made Doumeki circle it twice before directing him to a very specific parking space across the street. Doumeki was too busy trying to get a firm reign on his emotions to notice any oddness. These unreigned emotions conjured an image of some old Western he'd seen as a kid where the horses were running and braying and had flared nostrils. Was that the movie where in real life the horses were all driven over a cliff to real-life deaths just for the sake of the movie? Could people really be so cruel? They were just horses. They were just doing as they were told, trusting their masters, unaware of –
'…meki! Idiot!'
'Wha- yes. Sorry, Boss.'
'Where the hell were you just then?'
'Nowhere. Sorry.'
'I said you're coming with me to make sure everything's on the level in there. Sometimes it's the blubbering sweet ones you have to watch out for.'
'Yes, Boss.'
It was the longest walk-through-the-lobby-and-up-to-the-third-floor of Doumeki's life. Boss smelled damn good in the elevator. Musk and expensive cologne.
Yashiro had only dragged Doumeki there to rub Ota in his silent, chiselled face. And yet, his instincts had been a bit more on par than he intended. Ota was waiting for them in the suite but he wasn't alone.
Matsubara guy #2: Taller even than Doumeki, strikingly good looking, longish hair partially obscuring an eye, oozing money and power. Beside him, Ota stood looking sheepish and nervous and shrunken by comparison.
'Nakazawa,' the handsome fellow introduced himself, even offering his left hand to Yashiro after a brief glance at his sling-encased right arm. He didn't give the bodyguard a passing glance. 'Shadow king of Mastubara,' he added modestly. 'Interim, of course.'
'Of course.'
Yashiro, despite himself, felt a jolt of excitement in the man's presence. It was rare for him to be in danger of being outdone as the most beautiful/charming/ineffably dashing person in the room.
Doumeki hated the man more than he'd hated any one human being in his life, barring his father.
'Forgive my unexpected presence,' Nakazawa went on smoothly. 'But when I heard about impending negotiations, I simply had to insist that my two cents be factored in. At the same time, if possible. Ota,' and here he inclined his head backwards to indicate his uncomfortable colleague, 'eventually came round to the idea, though he continues to be worried about your reaction.'
Say no, Doumeki thought desperately.
'By all means,' said Yashiro.
'See, Ota? I told you he'd be open to the idea.' Nakazawa didn't seem to take any perceptible steps forward but suddenly he had Yashiro's chin in his hand. 'I've heard he's open to anything.'
No one, least of all Doumeki, could have predicted Doumeki's fist flying through the air, nor the solid, defined sound it made when it hit Nakazawa's jaw.
After Nakazawa's grunt and short stumble backwards, there was a stunned pause.
Really? said the same voice in Doumeki's head that had droned on about dead horses. Over this sleazeball and twenty seconds of his sleazeball words? You've seen Boss get ploughed like a cheap whore and never lifted a goddamn finger!
Yashiro was speechless for a few moments.
Doumeki's fist stung and his mind was a blank. He heard Yashiro's placating apologies like they were coming through faulty speakers. He felt, rather than heard, his master summoning him out of the room into the hallway. For a brief few seconds as he robotically followed, he allowed himself to be elated. He'd prevented Time Number 5!
And then reality came back in a rush of sound when Yashiro stopped in front of the elevators and stared at him with an expression like ice. Doumeki felt the blood drain from his face.
'Boss, I -'
The backhand was like a whiplash. Stronger than Doumeki could have believed, in fact. He almost fell against the elevator buttons. It was no accident that Yashiro had aimed for the knife cut on his cheek. He straightened with effort, trying to understand why he felt the hurt someplace else. It was the first time Boss had ever raised a hand to him.
Yashiro's gaze was sedate but dangerous. He took a few seconds to enjoy the sight of Doumeki trying to straighten and remain small at the same time.
The plan had either backfired or blossomed into something unexpected and wonderful. Yashiro wasn't sure which. Either way, he was slightly more upset than he cared to admit.
'Wait by the car,' he said coldly. 'Don't move a muscle from there until I'm done. Is that clear?'
'Yes, Boss.'
'Get out of my sight.'
If the walk through the lobby and ride up in the elevator had seemed long, waiting by the car in the merry, perfect spring weather dragged on for years. He leaned against the hood and considered his shoes. There was still a slight tingling in his cheek and fist.
Bored of his shoes, he glanced up, wondering what time it was but too nervous to look at his watch in case it told him only two and a half minutes had elapsed.
Given everything that had happened, he was actually almost pleased with himself. Between thinking about dead horses, Yashiro's deadpan expression by the elevator, the satisfying sound of his fist cracking that smug bastard's jaw, dead horses, the red-streaked pain of Yashiro's hand hitting his knife wound, dead horses, scuffed shoes, and a number of other unrelated things, he had successfully managed to prevent himself from imagining what was taking place on the third floor.
The third floor.
Like a magnet was drawing his eyes against his will, he ran them along the row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Drawn curtains, mostly. Some open. And suddenly…
He looked away, heart pounding.
Do not, the voice said slowly and clearly. Do not look back up there again. Do you hear me?
But of course he looked. And then he couldn't look away.
They shared a sum total of zero words in the car until they reached Yashiro's neighbourhood. Doumeki had allowed himself only a brief recon as Yashiro fell with a sigh into the backseat (bruises and bite marks on his neck, evidence of rope burn, a small cut beneath his ear, but otherwise safe and sound) before pulling away.
Yashiro finally spoke when they were near his apartment.
'One more embarrassing display like that and you're finished here.'
His voice held the same glossy threat that Doumeki had heard in the hotel. He wasn't joking.
'Understood.' And after a slight pause, 'I'm sorry, Boss.'
No response.
Doumeki glanced down at his own knuckles. He frowned, wondering why they were so white and taut. Skin condition. Jaundice, or something. Wouldn't that just be great, on top of everything else? Maybe it was malnutrition. When was the last time he'd eaten a dark green vegetable?
That was when he thought to relax his grip on the wheel. The blood slowly returned to his hands.
As he pulled up outside Yashiro's building, he worked up a sliver of courage.
'Are you hungry, Boss? I could make you something.'
'No.'
Leave me alone, in other words. Doumeki felt dumbbells in his chest.
Before he got out, Yashiro seemed to be toying with something in his mind. His familiar, feline smirk had returned. Doumeki would have been relieved if he hadn't felt his skin prickle.
'I'll make my own lunch,' said Yashiro finally, opening the door. 'And you should go get something to eat too. I'm sure you worked up a huge appetite during the show.'
Show?
The smile Yashiro flashed before he left seemed to have been permanently grafted to the rear-view mirror.
He saw me looking. Of course he did. Fuck, you're an idiot. A complete, utter, award-winning…
But then it came to Doumeki slowly, in pieces. The precise parking. The order to stay by the car and not move.
He'd been positioned. Strategically manoeuvred. Like a chess piece. The knight who'd been moved just so it could watch the queen get banged by the other side's king and bishop or whatever the fuck. He felt blood pound in his ears.
Without thinking, he got out of the car.
Yashiro, who was still at the front door fumbling one-handed (of course) for his keys, turned in mild surprise.
In Doumeki's mind, his boss was still on all fours on the carpet by the floor-to-ceiling window, Nakazawa gritting his teeth and pulling his hair and pounding him roughly while Yashiro's tear-streaked face was plugged by a flustered and sweating Ota. His steady stream of moans was punctured by each tug of the rope connecting his neck and bound hands. He gasped, allowing Ota's dripping cock to slip from his mouth, when Nakazawa bent over to bite his neck hard.
Naturally, from across the road, Doumeki hadn't been able to observe details like gritted teeth and sweat and punctured moans but his mind had graciously filled in the blanks for him.
Eyes livid, Doumeki reached him, pushed him backwards, held him against the front door and took his jaw roughly in his hand, even banging his head back a little on the door. He watched Yashiro's eyes flash and narrow. His mind raced through all possibilities: fuck him, kiss him, hit him, strangle him, cry into his shoulder. He was ruled by a feeling quite similar to the time Yashiro lied about what he'd told his sister. And he was doing something quite similar in response, he realised. How unoriginal.
He didn't even know why he was so angry. Hadn't he long since accepted his role as his boss' plaything? Hadn't he almost welcomed it at first?
Meanwhile, Yashiro's cock had sprung to attention immediately and painfully. Like Doumeki, he was thinking back to a previous episode. But unlike last time, Yashiro felt vulnerable in a completely different, dangerous way. His waking thoughts and even dreams lately, especially since their encounter in the backseat of the Lexus, had been a one-track reel. And here was the star of it all, holding him against a door, hand gripping his face and wearing that unbelievable expression. He smelled damn good. Sweat and cheap cologne.
'Careful, now,' Yashiro managed to say, relieved that his voice sounded measured.
The steady voice cut through all the layers. You're finished here. Doumeki's worst nightmare. The only thing he couldn't fathom.
He let go and stepped back, amazed that he was able to feel more humiliated than he had before. Were there even more unplundered depths to reach? He was breathing heavily and stared at Yashiro's arm in the sling, unable to look him in the eye.
'Go home.'
Relief, at first. He wasn't fired.
Then, after the front door opened and closed, coldness. No not quite. Emptiness? Something.
Something. Nothing.
He turned and slumped against the door. Aware that by doing so he was conforming to a bit part in a daytime soap, he slid to the ground and held his head between his knees, trying to get his pulse to return to normal.
A summary of the various lengths he had experienced that day: Lobby and elevator ride: a long time. Waiting by the car: years. Sitting there like a stained, crumpled, discarded fast food bag: fucking forever.
Or thirty seconds.
The door yanked opened and he fell backwards onto a foot.
'On second thought,' Yashiro said from above him in a light, careless drawl. 'I just remembered if I can't even masturbate properly with one hand I sure as hell won't be able to cook. In fact, I don't think I ever cooked a day in my life.'
Doumeki scrambled to his feet.