Chapter Two: Lust

Kamui leaned tiredly against the cold tinted window of the automobile. He was seated at the corner of the seat, his head titled back, hair splayed against the headrest, the Gatsby nearly falling off. He shifted uncomfortably, the gun hidden in the inside side of his breeches clanging hard and icy on the skin of his leg. He didn't even know how to use a gun—all he knew how to do was pull the trigger, regardless of aim. It was just there as a precaution, as Fai had told him so many times, before tucking it in whenever they went out.

It was Fai who was the real marksmen. Like Ashura, Seishiro, and Subaru, Fai had been raised in a country where you learned how to hunt as soon as you were weaned from your mother's milk. If you didn't hunt, you didn't eat; and for the males, if you couldn't shoot true, you might at least learn to shoot yourself.

Not Kamui. Kamui was all foreign and exotic in only appearance—in all honesty, he'd been born and bred in this country. And just because of that, and because of what he'd been through, he could literally do nothing—save for his intelligence. That was the only thing that he took refuge in, otherwise he might as well be some street whore. Intelligence, Kamui and the others always had had. But education was something that they all grappled and grabbed and snatched as hard as they could much later on.

He closed his eyes and let himself relax into the bumps and ridges as the vehicle raced towards Kazeshi—they couldn't be even a second late. The trucks were behind this first automobile, and after the last truck—there were three in total—there were two more automobiles, side-by-side. Fai sat beside Kamui in this one, while Ashura was in the driver's seat. Doumeki and Yukito drove the last two automobiles; they had numerous underlings loaded in the three trucks, along with the alcohol—an amount large enough to keep a speakeasy going for over four months, at the least.

Kamui felt Fai's eyes brush across his cheek. "We're almost there."

"I know the way," Kamui replied irritably. "You've never—"

"You've never looked so anxious," Fai smiled infuriatingly. He twirled his fedora on one finger. "I might even go as far as to say that you look quite nervous for tonight. You have a gun. You should relax."

Kamui turned away, his eyebrows creasing. "I'm not nervous. And having a gun doesn't make you feel any safer—it shouldn't, anyhow. Especially when you don't know how to work the damn thing."

Fai merely raised his eyes, and faced Kamui, sighing with a different sort of smile. "I've already asked you too many times to count—I could teach you, you know. But you always refuse. Perhaps if you took me up on the offer one of these days—or maybe even Ashura, or better yet Subaru—then you wouldn't have anything more to fear now, would you?"

"I don't want to learn," Kamui touched the place at his calf where the gun was hidden. He cast his eyes straight and closed them. "I don't need to."

Fai blinked and rested his head in the nook between the headrest and the window, just as Kamui had previously done. He smiled up at the roof of the automobile and lightly fingered the thick white piece of cloth around his throat. In just a moment's notice, he'd be raising it up to cover his face—as he'd done so many times before.

"You aren't shifting on your feet—that's good."

"Why would I do that?"

"A lot of new ones do that. It helps them stay sane for the time being."

"I have no intention of going insane. It would be a waste of my superior intellect."

A pause.

"I was kidding, sir."

"I see. But you have humor. That's good, too. It keeps others sane for the time being. And it might keep you alive a bit longer."

"Which is even better."

"In some situations, certainly."

Fuuma glanced at his boss—his new boss. Seishiro smiled right back. It was hard to decide who was stranger, Seishiro or Subaru. At the moment, Fuuma thought it was a quite close draw, but according to most of the ones in this mob, it was Subaru who was stranger. Seishiro had his eccentricities, but who didn't? Whereas Subaru apparently was just…strange. He kept too silent. Which, apparently, wasn't a good thing.

Although, Fuuma also highly suspected that the rest of the men were simply suspicious about the fact that Subaru was so close to Seishiro, and possibly envious that Subaru might be getting more than the fair share of dough. But all suspicions and envying and shadiness had been pushed aside when the others had seemed to realize that Fuuma was new. Because every single one of them—except for Subaru, of course—when they'd first entered Seishiro's group, each of them had gotten a "welcome" at the first trade with Kyoringo's mob.

If Fuuma had gotten the facts straight, Shirokamen would be coming tonight to transport the newest batch of alcohol they'd acquired, in exchange for the speakeasy money Seishiro had made from the last six months. And unless Fuuma was a daft fool and the other men were liars, then Shirokamen would have a whore awaiting for Fuuma tonight.

But this was what confused Fuuma: when he'd repeated back to the men what they'd said, and used the word "whore", all the subordinates had lashed out at him with almost a chivalrous anger. They refused the term whore. This one wasn't a whore, they all said. This boy was an angel.

So they'd said.

Moreover, Fuuma wasn't quite sure he would like a male whore. He'd only ever had sex with women. And he'd never used a whore before in his life. The others had outraged at that, too, but he had his reasons for this one—and he wasn't moving an inch. But using this whore wasn't a choice—it was an obligation. It was mandatory. And if Fuuma didn't join Seishiro's group, there would be no point in anything that'd happened last year.

At the moment, Fuuma was standing beside Seishiro, in the lobby of their headquarters—a building of apartments that Seishiro had bought more than a decade ago—with Subaru at Seishiro's other side. Subaru was stroking the barrel of his gun rather intensely. Fuuma's own gun was lodged firmly at the interior of his suit, ready to shoot whenever needed.

The doors just before where they stood were guarded by two of the lower subordinates—a few steps down from Fuuma's position—and they would open them as soon as Kyoringo's group parked at the sidewalk. It was nearing midnight, which meant that the streetlights should already be shining down on a sleeping city. Except, of course, for the crapshooters. And just as Seishiro had also informed them, a few underlings were ordered to take Shizuka Doumeki from Kyoringo and tour him around the city to find a floating game.

Fuuma had never had much taste for gambling, but even he knew—without any word of mouth—that Shizuka Doumeki was born to gamble. The man was known to the police as the Kiunjin. Even the authorities recognized him as someone who not only wouldn't lose, but he couldn't lose. It was impossible. Whatever deities were up there just loved Shizuka Doumeki a little too much.

Seishiro's eyes slid toward him. "You should relax. You are the last person that should be all tensed up. Tonight is a night you'll definitely enjoy."

"Sir, I have already—"

"I have had at least ten new subordinates that have been more than reluctant to participate in my more than generous welcome gift," Seishiro's eyes glinted as he smiled brighter than ever at Fuuma. "But ever single one of those subordinates had enjoyed the night so much that I do believe they'll never forget it. Even though you shouldn't believe everything the others say, you can trust them on this one. You do not have to like men—because he is not just a young man."

Fuuma would've argued far more and far deeper, but Subaru was beginning to look at him and that in itself was never a good sign. Subaru's eyes never laid on anything for more than a maximum of five seconds other than his gun and Seishiro. "They're here," Seishiro said pleasantly, after watching the contact between Subaru and Fuuma.

Fuuma tightened his hand into a fist in his pocket and turned his gaze ahead. The first man through the door was Yukito, whom Fuuma had first met half a year ago when he'd first been invited to joining the Kazeshi group. Yukito smiled and nodded silently in Seishiro's direction, bowing his head slightly as he took a stand beside Subaru.

The next four men filed in just as silently from out in the darkness to the dim, orange glow of lamps within the building.

Fuuma had seen Ashura Ou and Shizuka Doumeki before, many times. Theirs were the iconic faces of Kyoringo. Insignificant suburban aphids knew their faces. They were posted all over the newspapers and on ever Wanted poster in sight. Young and handsome and deadly and with so much potential, but of all things, they had to choose to be mobsters. Those insignificant suburban aphids that all wanted these men for their daughters were the ones who said it was such a waste.

The leader of the Kyoringo group, Shirokamen, walked in slightly behind Ou and Doumeki. He was a slender figure with his white, silk mask stretched from the collar of his suit all around his head—masking not only his face, but his hair, as well. And in great contrast with the obvious affluence displayed in his clothes, the fedora perched at an angle upon his head was completely fourth-rate. As though it'd gone through generation after generation of wearing. It had class, undoubtedly, silver stripes and black cloth, but it was old and that contained even more doubtlessness.

The only part of this man, for even his hands were gloved white, that Fuuma could see—that anyone could see—were his eyes. And as far as Fuuma knew, those eyes were all that needed to be seen.

They were round. They were beautiful. They spoke. And they were the clearest, palest, most brilliant blue that had ever reflected life on this earth. Or so was Fuuma's opinion, at least.

And no, it didn't hurt a bit that they were framed by spindly, dark lashes and pale, milky eyelids.

"Good evening." No accent. And that voice. It matched the eyes, Fuuma thought. Amazingly. The blue eyes flickered toward his golden ones. Even with the mask, Fuuma knew from those eyes and the tone of voice that Shirokamen was smirking at him in great amusement.

"'Evening," he replied, smiling back with as much surety as he could muster.

Shirokamen's eyes sparked and his head turned, gesturing the last young man forward. Fuuma set his gaze on the face of the dark-haired young man—no, really, he was still a boy—and felt his eyebrows rise. To say he was beautiful would be fitting and appropriate and right, because he was. But to say that that was all he was would be a great shame, because it was the sort of beauty that looked perfectly fine and brilliant in photographs, but it had to be seen through live eyes to truly be able to empathize just what this boy was.

"This is Kamui," the Shirokamen said. "He'll be with you for tonight."

Kamui looked up to Fuuma. He was dressed oddly—in newsboy attire for some reason. The lashes that framed his eyes were so dark and thick that Fuuma could almost count every single one as they curled up against his pale eyelids. And then there was the matter of Kamui's eyes themselves—were they gray or blue? Fuuma watched slowly as Kamui stepped closer—one, two, three—and slipped his thin hand, childish hands, into Fuuma's contrastingly larger ones, and pulled him gently toward the elevators.

Seishiro watched the doors close after them, and turning back to the Shirokamen, he put his arm around Subaru's waist and smiled. "So," his eyes flickered to Doumeki, who was already tipping his hat and disappearing with two other men and a handful of dice, "now that we are all settled, how about we have a drink? I have got a lovely place in mind." He raised his eyebrows at Shirokamen.

The blue eyes simply smiled.

Fai was used to speaking through his mask, and conveying his expressions through just his eyes—and if the person he was speaking with didn't catch on, then that was all the better for him, wasn't it? If he didn't feel like speaking against the hot cloth, then Ashura would speak for him. Ashura followed him wherever they went, and they knew that they wouldn't be the first not to trust Seishiro wholeheartedly, as wise men never did.

He was also used to what Seishiro called "affection" and what other people would deem fit as a first hand public offense against personal space. Of course he was used to it. With what he'd done for a living, it would be shocking if he weren't. And knowing Subaru made the entire job that much easier—that much simpler and cleaner. Subaru trusted them, and even if they couldn't trust Seishiro, they definitely trusted Subaru.

At the empty bar, Ashura was seated on Fai's one side, and Seishiro at Fai's other, with Subaru guarding the front door. The bartender had placed their drinks on the counter, and already, she had disappeared. Fai removed his fedora, placing it beside his drink, and pulled off his mask—shaking out his hair and letting the air fall through. "Mm," Seishiro hummed appreciatively. "How old are you again?"

"Old enough," Fai smiled complacently. "Now." He watched Seishiro take out a cigarette, placing it in his mouth casually as he lit it. Seishiro raised his eyebrow knowingly, and putting the box of cigarettes into his pocket, switched them out with a bright red box of cinnamon sticks—the sort one would grate into cake batters. He proffered it to his guest. "Thank you," Fai murmured, his long fingers wrapping over the tip and pulling it out slowly.

In turn, Seishiro watched as Fai placed it between his lips and slid the spice to the side. It was a mutual understanding that Seishiro would never offer Fai a cigarette—always having a box of cinnamon sticks at hand—and in turn, Fai allowed Seishiro to keep the knowledge of the reason why Fai preferred the oddity of cinnamon sticks in place of cigarettes while remaining alive and relatively unharmed. "I have three truckloads in waiting," Fai continued quietly, his tongue silently lapping at the rough texture of the cinnamon stick. "How much do you want?"

"All of it," Seishiro smiled. "We had a productive season—what with sights being set on Shirokamen, the underworld population seems to have taken great morale in that sort of thing. You have made us lucky, as always."

Fai used his cinnamon stick to stir his drink. "You flatter me." He turned to Ashura and raised his eyebrows. Ashura lowered his eyes in acknowledgment and retrieved a ring of keys from within his suit, sliding them down the bar counter towards Seishiro. "The keys to the safes," Fai said, coming back round to face his colleague.

Seishiro made his hand out to accept the ring of keys, but swerved, his fingers intertwining with Fai's. He upped an eyebrow. "It is lucky they are gloved. Personally, I think you're getting rusty. All my teaching is going to waste—and I worked so hard on—"

It was simultaneous and it was just slow enough for Fai's eyes to catch the shadowed blurs. When Ashura's gun touched Seishiro's head, Subaru's gun touched Fai's.

"You first," Subaru said stoically.

Ashura didn't move. He just smiled. "Are you not supposed to be guarding the doors? What happens if Mr. Policeman walks in on this little scene here, hm?"

Silence.

Then, Seishiro laughed. "Let go of Fai, Subaru, and come here." He glanced up at Ashura and smiled. "That way, you can let go of me." Subaru took his gun from Fai's scalp at the same time Ashura released Seishiro, walking back to his boss. Subaru went to stand beside where Seishiro sat; the mob leader snaked around his underling's waist.

And through all of this, Fai's expression never twitched. It was the same frighteningly sunny smile. He merely looked up at Ashura when the subordinate came back to stand with him. "Want to go now?" he asked beatifically.

Fai clasped his hand within Ashura's and shook his head. "Kamui still has to do his part, remember? And besides, we all know how Kamui loves to take his time." He glanced back at Seishiro. "Isn't that right?"

Once Kamui heard the young man close and lock the door, he looked around the room. While it was apparent that rather than choosing a spare, already-made room, this new subordinate had chosen to bring Kamui into his own bedroom, the others had always done differently—at times even taking him to the showiest hotel within the city.

Three guns were slung against the wall, directly over the headboard of the bed. The bed itself stood at the center of the room, surrounded by mismatched chairs and books and metal cases—most of which Kamui highly suspected were containers of more weapons still. Although the room was large enough, the air carried an almost stifling scene of sweet alcohol; it wasn't necessarily unpleasant, but it was more than unnerving.

Kamui kicked off his newsboy boots and sat on the bed, watching the man deal himself a glass of the prohibited liquid and down it in one go. "Don't men normally get extra inebriated before sex if their partner is too plain for them to stand?" Kamui inquired casually, resting his cheek in one hand.

He turned and grinned. "And what? You think you are so good-looking?"

"Maybe." Kamui leaned back on the bed. "What do you like?"

"What are my options?" The man turned the lights down, slipped off his shoes and stood between Kamui's legs.

"Anything as long as it's within the boundaries of reason and safety." Kamui smiled and tilted his head to one side, looking up at the young man's face. "So how about you take a seat? Then we can get started. Unless…?"

The man shook his head and shrugged, grinning back every dare Kamui's expression threw at him. "No. Fine." Rather than sitting down beside the boy, he placed one hand at the back of Kamui's neck, and his other hand moved to loosen his own tie.

Down they both went.

Kamui had done this before. Kamui had done this more times than he could remember. He'd done this more times than he really wanted to remember. And that was the point. The more times he did this, the more he wouldn't remember the faces and names, and thus, the more he wouldn't care. As the man's fingers traced lines on his skin, Kamui finally felt at home. It was shameful and disgusting and abhorring, but here—in bed—was really the only place he felt he was of any use. That he was wanted. It was what he did, and he did it well. More than well. Brilliantly. Exceptionally.

And as the man's lips and tongue gentled down against the insides of his thighs, Kamui just put another black cloth over his mind. He knew that all the men Fai assigned him to during these biannual visits didn't think any of him. He'd even seen two or three of them married to some expectedly gorgeous, city flapper a few weeks or months after.

Certainly, it was the night none of them could or would forget, but it was just that, in reality. A night. One night. Few of them ever pursued him for anything more, and the ones who did always gave up or tired of the chase soon after—a week at best. Maybe if Kamui didn't refuse all of them so harshly, things could be different. But Kamui would never accept—if he did, when they left, he'd be the one remaining and looking pathetic. And he'd die before he'd have that happen.

Kamui grasped the man's tie and brought their lips together again. That was enough depressing contemplation and self-pity for tonight. Tonight wasn't supposed to be about him. It was about this young man, right here. It was about all the hard-work Kamui knew he had to have done in order to get into Seishiro's group. Seishiro was as sly and slick and cautious as any gangster about town, and with twice the experience Fai had. Whoever this young man was—the young man that was kissing Kamui and touching Kamui and undressing Kamui as though they only had hours left to live—he deserved this night, and like all the others, Kamui wouldn't let him forget it.

The man's lust seemed to escalate on a slope—higher and higher until they were at the border of the peak, grabbing Kamui and groping Kamui and putting his hands and fingers on every part and in every part of Kamui he could find and reach. He was leaving Kamui nothing short of breathless and lusty and hot and somewhat exasperated. The exasperation, however, was clear in the back of the prostitute's mind. It was a dormant thought—how this young man, first looking at Kamui in the lobby as though he were a punishment rather than a gift, and now surely leaving marks on Kamui that would have his clients for the next week wondering if he had some S&M fetish.

"Wait…" This man was heavy—he was covering Kamui's body with his own, pinning him to the bed with all his weight. Kamui could only gasp the sentence, his voice tinged with an embarrassing desperation. "W-wait…could you"—

On my…don't!

"—for just—"

Gasp because his tongue is there.

"—a second…?"

"No." And when the man looked up, of all the nerve Kamui could ever imagine a cheeky, new subordinate could possess, this man beat it all, because when he looked up, he was grinning from ear to ear, licking the wet Kamui didn't dare think about it from his lips and wagging his eyebrows at Kamui—Kamui, flushed, hot, and aching from head to toe for something to go in before he burst into smithereens.

Tongue? Touch me.

The man covered Kamui's lips before he could utter any words of further indignation. Kamui was reaching and reaching and reaching his hands around the man's shoulders, but the man kept moving—searching and worshipping and moving and dancing his hands and fingers all over Kamui's body. And the room just continued to get hotter and hotter and hotter until it was barely possible to breathe and all the way until—

"No—I'm serious, please, you have got to wait—!"

Stop? Gasp.

Kamui's head fell back, and his eyes went wide—the silence ringing in his ears.

My God. Big.

He heard the man laugh softly, so softly and so kindly and so gently, into his ear as he pulled out and dove back in and out again and in again and out and in out and in out in out in out in like a steady rhythm even though Kamui was far far far too far gone to think about anything as complicated as that he just knew that it was out in out in out in out in and it hurt but every time always hurt a bit at first but this was a new hurt because it hurt more than it felt good and that was just strange but now it was good just as much as it hurt and they were the same amount and oh this was scary and it hurt but it was so good and—

Oh. Wow.

The man inhaled sharply at the same time Kamui saw a flash of white and felt a flash of that perfect cross between pain and pleasure, and the man pulled carefully out—careful more and careful still to catch Kamui and gentle him into an untwisted position on the bed.

Kind? No. Too kind. Please don't.

Kamui felt the man's fingers lightly skim the strands of hair close to his ear. "Wow," the man whispered, a chuckle at the base of his throat. "No kidding, huh?" Kamui rolled his head around with the infinitesimal amount of energy he had left to meet eyes with the man like he hadn't done all night. Beautiful golden, syrupy eyes.

Please don't. Please do. Please don't. Which?

"I have not told you my name, now that I think about it." The man smiled. "Have I?"

Kamui inhaled and exhaled a shaky breath—shaky because this man could do the deed like no other man could and because it was so amazing that it was frightening more frightening than amazing and because his mind could no longer form comprehensible thought because it was just scary how this man was how he acted how he touched Kamui as though he cared and how he was talking because most of the others never even touched Kamui after the sex was done let alone give their names and it was just—

Beg you. Don't. Just don't. Wait. No. Do. Don't. No, do. Which?

"Name's Fuuma Monou. Don't yell at me, but I'm just making sure. You are Kamui, right?"

A/N: Well, that was a long one. And just making sure that you've all got this down: the Subaru in here is the X version. I mean, the older version, in other words. Like in the Secrets series, it's the TRC version, clearly. But not in there. I need Subaru to be one of the older ones, so thus, we've got hot, grown up, sexy X!Subaru. Y'know, rather than beautiful, adorable, TRC!Subar-uke. And since this is a long chapter, I hope you'll feast upon it while I go and try to trudge through the murky swamp that is Compelled.