Warning: Explicitness ahead.

Setting: Doumeki's one-bedroom flat, immediately after Yashiro's return from Taiwan

Cast: Yashiro (perfect hair, clean-cut shoulders, glossy vest, left hand in his pocket, standing in the small, very average flat) and Doumeki (very conscious about the rust-speckled towel railing around the corner)

Topic of conversation: Food

Doumeki opened pantry doors, drawers, the fridge and freezer. Fare that would have disappointed even a college student.

'Nothing?'

'Nothing.'

'Can't be nothing, come on. Just list everything you have.'

Pulse thudding, Doumeki watched him out of the corner of his eye. He seemed utterly at ease, walking slowly around the coffee table, taking in the room, scrutinising the single photo of Doumeki with his sister he'd only recently propped up.

'Uh… bread, salt, cumin, gherkins -'

A snort of laughter. 'Gherkins?'

'Jam, raisin bran cereal, canned beetroot. And a grapefruit.'

'Sounds like we're having jam sandwiches and cereal. You have milk, right?'

'No.'

'Oh. Dry cereal then. Grapefruit and gherkins for dessert.'

'Boss, there's a restaurant nearby.'

'I said I want to eat here.'

'We could order in.'

'We could,' he admitted. Doumeki breathed easier. 'As long as we invite the delivery guy to join us in the bedroom.'

'...I'll make the sandwiches.'

'Great.'

Doumeki took out the loaf of bread. His ears rang with the word 'us'.

Yashiro, enjoying himself immensely, sat on the couch and flicked through the paperback that had been on the coffee table, a page marked with a dog-ear. Doumeki read novels. Well, at least one novel. Who knew?

As soon as he'd stepped through the door, Yashiro felt oddly relaxed, almost as though he'd been there before. Which made it all the more entertaining to watch the reverse effect taking place in his host. He eyed Doumeki's uneasy form, which seemed too large and cumbersome for the kitchen. It had been a similar situation last time, Yashiro recalled. One minute, Doumeki was in the kitchen making lunch, the next Yashiro was facedown on the bed with Doumeki's cock angrily sawing in and out of him.

Mmm. Settle down.

'I might take a bath first.'

Doumeki turned. 'I'll draw you one.'

In the bathroom, waiting for the tub to fill, Doumeki waged a silent war on the rusty towel railing. After scrubbing failed, he grabbed three towels from the cupboard and covered the metal bar completely. Then he folded another towel on the toilet seat for Yashiro, hoping the railing's secret would never be exposed. He was aware he was probably well on the way to losing his mind.

Yashiro, meanwhile, wandered into the bedroom. Much like the living room. Simple, sparsely decorated, warm. He opened the blinds. Twelfth storey view of the neighbourhood, partially obscured by the building next door. Sunlight filtered weakly through clouds.

He squinted. There was something familiar about the nearby park. The tree line and benches. The church. Even the homeless man crouched at its entrance. The nearby bus station. Was that…? He spun the scene around in his mind, trying to find a familiar angle, gather his bearings. If it was… then the house would be… He followed the mental line he traced.

There. Partially (thankfully) obscured by a rise in the land and surrounding houses. His old neighbourhood.

His bodyguard lived a stone's throw away from his childhood home. Of course he did, the insensitive moron.

The depth of his vision increased. Like state-of-the-art military tech, his eyes selected an area, focused, selected a smaller area, focused again. He saw through earth and concrete and time. Someone sitting on the windowsill, facing away. A kid in a school uniform. Sobbing uncontrollably through clenched teeth. Tears flowing like someone had swung an axe into a water pipe. He couldn't stop crying and Yashiro couldn't look away.

'Bath's ready, Boss.'

Doumeki waited at the door, one of his sleeves rolled to the elbow. Yashiro stood still for another moment before pulling away from the window, his face suddenly in shadow. Doumeki blinked. The change was immediate and striking.

Yashiro breezed past him, unbuttoning his vest one-handed.

'Do you need me to…?'

'I'm fine.'

The bathroom door slammed closed.

Doumeki didn't have time to worry about what he could have done wrong. While he had the chance, he fixed up the apartment as best as he could. He straightened cushions, wiped countertops, swept floors, even changed his bedspread with a self-conscious flush.

Then he went to the kitchen and stared hopelessly at the slices of bread half-smeared with jam. He couldn't serve that to Boss. He grabbed his keys and took a whole seven steps out the front door before remembering that the last time he'd left the boss alone, the boss had been shot three times. He went back inside.

The water calmed him. He also liked the coconut-like smell of the soap. Doumeki read novels. And used scented soap. Who knew? Perhaps he even did both at the same time. Yashiro's laugh echoed in the small space.

Splashing water onto his face, he chided himself for getting pulled so easily into angst. He'd never before let himself turn into a battling-with-old-demons cliché. Sure, life had sucked back then, back when he was too young and weak to do anything about it. But didn't all of that make him who he was now? And didn't he like who he was now? The kid in the uniform, crying over something Kageyama had said to him in passing, that was just a character from a dog-eared paperback he'd read a long time ago.

He let his right hand sink pointlessly to the bottom of the tub.

Doumeki was torn between cutting the crusts off and leaving them on when he heard Boss leave the bathroom and call for him. He wiped his hands on the side of his pants.

Yashiro was standing at the bedroom window again, damp from the bath and completely naked but for his sling. He didn't seem angry anymore, Doumeki observed with relief. Then he observed everything else and his face coloured.

'I didn't know you read Murakami,' Yashiro said, sounding vaguely amused. 'Actually, I was surprised you know how to read at all. But Murakami was even more unexpected.'

Doumeki flashed to his copy of Wild Sheep Chase on the coffee table.

'He's okay, I guess.'

'You seem too… unimaginative. To put up with Murakami's crap.'

Doumeki stared at the lithe, slender muscles of his back and legs. They reminded him of a large, sleek cat of some kind. His pulse picked up. Boss said something, he told himself furiously. Now it's your turn.

'He…' He tried thinking about the book. 'I like that none of his characters ever seem to know what's going on. Even at the end.'

Yashiro turned to him. Their eyes met for a while. Then Yashiro smiled slowly.

'Have you ever read in the bathtub?'

'Uh… no. I don't think so.'

Yashiro chuckled. He tossed the towel on the floor and walked towards him.

'By the way,' he said as he drew near. 'You should replace your towel railing in the bathroom.'

Doumeki wanted to kiss him again, even more than he wanted to touch his hair, but somehow he couldn't co-ordinate himself well enough. Still, he was far from unhappy. Boss was spread-eagled beneath him and he had three fingers in him again, probing and stretching. He watched Yashiro's expressions for a while, revelled in the sharp sighs, before bending low to take his cock into his mouth. Boss' fingers in his hair.

He swapped his hand and mouth. Yashiro moaned and pushed Doumeki's head closer with his hand, forcing his tongue in deeper.

Doumeki was nearing his limit. But he persevered. From the outset, he had lashed several reigns and bits and bridles and blinkers on himself. This was not going to be a repeat of last time. He was going to do it right. No blood, no tears, no wounded arms getting tortured. He massaged Yashiro's hole with generous amounts of spit, taking his time. Still, it didn't seem like enough.

Yashiro seemed to have the same thought.

'Get the lube,' he said breathlessly.

Doumeki raised his head. 'I don't have any.'

Yashiro looked at him incredulously before realising.

'Oh. Right. Lube's not high on the grocery list if you're impotent, I guess.'

Doumeki didn't reply.

'Do you have Vaseline?'

'No.'

'Some kind of lotion?'

'No.'

'Olive oil?'

Silence.

'Go get it.'

Doumeki wordlessly left the bed. Back in the kitchen, beside jam sandwiches that were getting stale in the open air, he found a half-empty bottle of olive oil and stared at it philosophically. He reflected that he was standing in his kitchen holding his olive oil and he would walk back to his bedroom to fuck his boss on his bed.

Bertolli's Extra Virgin, the label said. Very funny.

When Doumeki returned, Yashiro was supremely annoyed with himself for managing to feel, of all things, nervous. It must be Doumeki's stupid face, he decided. That face that revealed nothing. How can he be so damn expressionless?

As he slipped his oiled fingers deep into Yashiro, Doumeki watched him closely. The head turned to the side, the eyes that kept watching from the corners, the gasping mouth. What was that look exactly? Reluctant? Unsure? Could he go so far as shy?

'Fuck me already, you idiot.'

Okay, not as far as shy.

But that look was still there. Uncertainty mixed with eagerness. Despite his boss' prolific sexual past, it excited Doumeki to see that he could still wear a face like that. Then he felt a jolt. Could it be that Boss was only like that... with him?

He put aside that dangerous thought and pushed his cock in.

His size alone knocked the breath from Yashiro's body. He shivered.

Careful, Doumeki reminded himself as the heat and tightness claimed him immediately. He started thrusting with short, powerful jabs at first. He lifted Yashiro's hips off the bed and held him there while he fucked into him. Yashiro watched through eyes clouded by lust.

Hold it back. Go up to eighty percent. No, sixty percent. No more. You're not your father.

Unaware of this train of thought, Yashiro's initial ecstasy was fast waning.

With all that lube and preparation, with Doumeki's careful adjustment of speed, it didn't take long for him to get used to Doumeki's size. There was no room for pain.

And in place of pain came irritation. And a bad memory trying to surface.

Doumeki lowered Yashiro's hips to the bed, crawled forwards and kissed him.

The memory surfaced. The guy from over a decade ago. The guy Hirata had assigned to take care of him back when he first started. The guy, Yashiro realised suddenly, who had a scar in almost the exact place that Doumeki had his. The guy who'd wanted Yashiro to look at him and kiss him during sex. The loving caresses. The nausea. Yashiro felt a surge of it again.

'Stop.'

After a few more thrusts, Doumeki froze.

'This is bullshit.'

Doumeki felt his words like a cold, bitter wind.

'What is?'

'You treating me like I'm your junior high girlfriend again. Do you really think I'll be able to come from that?'

Doumeki's cock was still buried deep inside his ass, Yashiro's legs hooked over his shoulders.

'I...'

Yashiro searched his face. Where's that other Doumeki?

'No point playing innocent. I've seen what you can do.' His eyes were piercing. Demanding. 'Do it again.'

Doumeki lifted up a bit. Then he looked away.

A much larger wave of disgust washed over Yashiro.

'Get off.'

Doumeki pulled out completely and sat back on the bed.

Yashiro lay there, angrier and more sexually frustrated than he'd been in years. He really should have stolen that hotel phone.

Hotel phone.

Idea.

He glanced at Doumeki. The posterchild of shame and defeat. Brows knit, eyes downcast.

Where's that other Doumeki? How can we make him come out and play again?

'I lied about not having fucked anyone in Taipei.'

Again, it wasn't really an expression that gave him away. This time it was an undefinable freezing of features. The reaction sparked something in Yashiro that had been missing over the past few minutes.

'Did you really think I'd hold out for a week? I know you're an idiot, but come on. Even you should have seen through that. There were three in total. At separate times at first, then all at once. None of them were as big as you, but I'm not exactly known for being picky.'

He wished he was near his cigarettes. Instead he crossed his legs and lifted up onto his elbow.

'I wasn't entirely lying about the phone sex. It just wasn't my idea. One of the guys thought of it. He just picked it up and fucked me with it out of nowhere. The man was a true artist.' He sighed dramatically. 'It was a great trip, really. I downplayed it a tiny bit.'

And now for the coup de grace. 'In fact, I'm pretty sure one of them lives nearby. Close enough anyway. What do you say to hosting a little Taipei reunion at your place?'

Doumeki hadn't met his eyes the whole time. He memorised the light zigzag pattern of quilt. Clenched jaw and clenched fists were the only things that gave him away.

Yashiro sighed. Really? How much further do I need to go?

'Bring me my phone.'

Doumeki finally looked up. There was a brief impasse. Then he got up slowly. Yashiro noticed with malevolent satisfaction that his cock had completely deflated. It was like seeing an old friend.

After handing him his phone, Doumeki retreated a few steps.

Yashiro dialled and waited, staring out the window. Doumeki heard the click of the line being picked up. A man's voice answering.

'Toruda!' Yashiro said warmly. 'How are you? It's Yashiro… I know, it's only been twenty-four hours since our little rendezvous in the men's room, but what can I say? I miss you already.'

Doumeki knew he should leave but he was rooted to the spot. He tuned in and out of the conversation, heard the feedback of the voice on the other end, loathing it passionately. His mouth tasted like vinegar.

Rust. Never in his life had his inadequacies been revealed so cruelly. He longed for the glory days of his impotence.

Yashiro glanced at him only once, coldly, to ask him what his address was. Doumeki recited it like a robot. He felt something building like a flood coursing into the bottom of a tower and surging its way up. His fists shook.

'Bring toys, there's nothing fun in this dump,' he heard at one stage. Yashiro, who was still hard, started jerking himself off indolently. 'Dildos, beads, the works. Rope too.'

In the background of Yashiro's brilliant plan, he hit upon an even more brilliant name drop. He doubted his frazzled audience would notice how thinly he was stretching the bounds of plausibility.

'Oh, is Nakazawa there? Excellent.'

His instinct was spot on. Doumeki heard a snap. A leathery sort of snap.

'No, he's definitely welcome, the more the merr –'

He felt a strange mix of relief and excitement when he felt Doumeki's hand close over his wrist like a vice. The phone clattered to the floor and Yashiro was pushed face down on the bed.

Nanahara had been doing a terrible job trying to apply antiseptic to his wounded shoulder when the phone rang. He cursed everyone from his mother to God when he saw it was the boss calling. There was no way he could ignore it. (He'd already gotten an earful for not answering when Boss was involved in the recent shoot-out. It didn't seem to matter that it was because he was at the hospital with a needle going in and out of his shoulder at the time.)

So, with blood and antiseptic smearing all over the phone and its buttons, Nanahara had picked up.

'Hey, Boss.'

'Toruda!' the boss had called merrily. 'How are you? It's Yashiro.'

'What? Who's Toruda? You've called Nahahara.'

'I know, it's only been twenty-four hours since our little rendezvous in the men's room –'

'Men's room?'

'- but what can I say? I miss you already.'

'What the fuck are you talking about?'

And so on and so forth. He tried over and over to make Yashiro understand he'd gotten the wrong number but the man seemed intent on pursuing his bizarre one-sided conversation. Nanahara's shoulder was stinging like crazy. He soon lost all patience.

'THIS ISN'T TORUDA! AND I DON'T KNOW WHO THE HELL NAKAZAWA IS EITHER!'

Then it sounded like Yashiro dropped the phone.

'Boss?'

A few seconds later, Nahahara heard him gasping and crying out. He was at a loss. Should he call for help? Had that been an elaborate code to get Yashiro out of trouble?

'Fuck, yes. Ugh! Harder!'

His mind switched gears again and he flushed. Right. Okay.

New dilemma. Was he supposed to keep listening? Was that part of the game?

He pulled the phone away, stared at it, felt a guilty tingling and set it back to his ear.

More moans and cries. Pleas. Desperate and fraught. It sounded like he was really getting it hard.

Nanahara was in a bind. If he hung up, he would miss the show. If he jerked off, he might get in trouble. His peeking fines had already piled up, in the boss' own words. Did this count as peeking?

He settled for halfway. In case this was still some kind of a code or a game where Boss had called him deliberately, he felt it was his duty to listen in. He told his cock to behave and kept the phone to his ear. Sweat broke out in places.

Eventually, the moaning gave way to: 'My arm. Twist it again.'

Jesus H. Christ. That was one messed up fucker Yashiro had found.

Yashiro screamed.

Then Nanahara heard another voice. And recognised it.

And hung up.

After a few seconds of silence, he wiped his forehead, tried to reconcile what he'd just heard with his old vision of Doumeki Chikara and went back to nursing his wound.