Chapter Text
“For you, sir.” The bartender slides over a burnished amber cocktail in a sugar-rimmed coupe glass. A whorl of orange peel curves fashionably over one edge.
Satomi puts down the phone—he’d been looking at the same LINE conversation, still silent after 4 months—and wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t order anything,” he replies, straining to be heard over the pounding bass and scream-moans of the band playing in the back. He wonders if this is the bartender’s way of telling him to either order or move.
Satomi had retreated to the back of the venue soon after entering. The loud throb of music, the acrid smell of sweat mixed with stale alcohol and cheap perfume, and the relentless jostling of people moving past him from all sides—it was too much. He’d waved off Mana and Maruyama, who were weaving their way to the front. Then he’d drawn back to the protection of the stool at the far end of bar, safely wedged by wall and counter on two sides.
He hesitates, not sure if explaining he was nineteen would get him kicked out of his safe zone. Maybe he should just accept the drink, nurse it until his friends were ready to leave. But he really hadn’t ordered it. He starts to slide it back, but the bartender shakes his head and points down the bar.
A tall man in his mid-20s stands several seats down, waving sheepishly. He tips the tulip glass in his hand at Satomi in a gesture of “cheers” and makes his way over.
Something about his approach—shoulders relaxed, gaze steady—sends a trickle of recognition down Satomi’s brain. It’s registers somewhere in his subconscious, but not in a way he can name. The sharp, attractive set of his features makes his stomach tighten. A prickly, warm sensation begins to spread across his chest.
The man slides into the space between Satomi and the next patron, setting his beer on the counter next to Satomi’s unsolicited cocktail. He’s well-proportioned, dressed in form-fitting black jeans and a white t-shirt with an abstract pattern. A pair of overlapping silver chains end in pendants at Satomi’s eye level: the peace symbol and a hummingbird. Satomi tilts his neck up slightly to look at his face. Boxed in on three sides, he can see very little past him.
“Hey,” the stranger rubs his neck and grins down Satomi. “I’m Hirano Takeru.”
“I’m underage,” Satomi blurts out, flustered by the heat and rising nausea in his belly.
A faint red tint appears on Hirano’s cheeks. It’s a good look on him. “Ahhh, sorry,” he says, rubbing his forehead in embarrassment. “I thought it would look cool to try to send you a drink. But it was just weird and pushy, right? Look, I swear I’m not a creep. Actually, we have some friends in common? Takahashi and Sato from your department? They’re my kouhai. They were saying that you didn’t seem to be having a good time, so I thought you might want some company.”
Satomi processes the fact that the tall, dark, and handsome stranger who sent him a drink at the bar is actually his sempai’s sempai, sent over to babysit. He reaches out for his glass and takes a drink. It’s bitter but surprisingly tasty, the bite of alcohol softened by the sweetness of the sugar. He takes a longer sip, then licks and nibbles at the sugar rim to smooth the taste.
“Oka Satomi, right?” Hirano continues, carrying both sides of the conversation. Satomi thinks he should be mortified, but he’s halfway through his drink and the queasy, anxious pangs are melting away into a languid ease. Something about Hirano’s eyes makes his heart shiver in a good way. He likes feeling their gaze on him.
“Satomi is fine, Hirano-sempai,” he responds, feeling out the other man’s name.
“Then call me Takeru,” the man replies with an easy grin. Despite the initial awkwardness, he exudes a natural charisma that sets Satomi’s teeth on edge at the same time that he’s taken in by it.
Takeru has been naturally shifting every time the customer in the seat behind him brushes or elbows against him. He’s now fitted between Satomi’s legs, one arm leaning against the bar. Satomi has been holding onto his drink to avoid reaching over Takeru’s forearm every time he needs to pick it up or set it down—the glass is nearly empty now. Satomi wishes he had thought to angle his legs to one side or the other before Takeru had shifted so close—it’s too late to do it now without making things awkward.
“How’s the first year Intro to Law course? Sugimoto-sensei still spend most of the class on tangents that no one can follow?” Takeru asks.
“Yeah. I just read the textbook during class now,” Satomi replies, finally grasping on to the thread of their exchange. “Are you a graduate student, Takeru-sempai?”
“Yeah, I’m finishing my second year of law school,” Takeru says, with a groan. “Third year is hell trying to cram for the bar exam. I guess this is my last attempt to still enjoy life.”
Satomi nods and finishes his drink. It seems like a waste to leave the sugar behind, so he swipes it with a forefinger and licks it off. There’s something familiar about Takeru’s jawline, the set of his eyebrows, even the tilt of his voice. He can’t quite place it. But it makes his chest tighten at the same time it makes him want to reach out.
“You like the sugar rim? I can get you another,” Takeru says, eyes warm with mirth.
Satomi considers. The cocktail was good. But. He wrinkles his nose. “Maybe a little less burny this time,” he requests, setting his glass down next to Takeru’s hand.
Takeru laughs and waves the bartender over. “Can he get a lemon drop? On the sweeter side, please.”
This time, the bartender hands him a pale-yellow drink in a martini glass, a shave of lemon peel artfully arranged to a side and a sugar rim, as promised. It’s slightly tart, but mostly sweet and refreshing. Satomi takes an appreciative sip.
He feels floaty and content. The warmth of the alcohol in his chest and belly, and Takeru’s steady, appreciative gaze slowly unwind the ball of nerves within him, leaving him feeling uncharacteristically calm and disinhibited.
They chat about school, compare mutual acquaintances. Satomi discovers that Takeru is from Osaka like him (a surprise; his dialect is almost completely standard). Takeru shifts even closer as they talk. If Satomi leaned forward a little, his nose would graze Takeru’s chest.
“Satomi-kun, do you wanna head out for a bit?” Takeru leans his face towards Satomi’s ear to be heard. “It seems like neither of us is enjoying the music and it’s kind of hard to talk in here.”
Satomi flushes and nods. He checks his phone—it’s 12:46. “I missed the last train, so I have to figure somewhere to go anyway,” he sighs wearily.
Takeru looks at him, weighing. “I actually live pretty near here. If you want to come over?”
Satomi looks up and feels seared by Takeru’s gaze. His body language is still relaxed, non-threatening, but his eyes are fixed on Satomi’s, unwavering.
Satomi’s heart speeds up. A frisson of anticipation tingles up his spine. At the same time, a tinge of bile rises up his throat. This is how to look at me. This is how to tell me what you want. Not spin me around for your amusement and abandon me when you get bored.
He swallows down the bitter thoughts. Nods and grasps Takeru’s wrist with his hand.
“Let’s go, sempai.”
Takeru’s place is clean and compact. A wide bookshelf shares a wall with a two-person dining table, on the opposite side of the narrow room from the range and kitchen counter. It holds a varied collection of paperbacks, magazines, and manga, as well as a row of thick law textbooks. The collection ranges from literary to pop-culture. Satomi spies Breasts and Eggs and The Structure of World History next to Chainsaw Man and The Dispossessed. On the top are a couple of family photos—Takeru with his parents, holding a diploma, Takeru on the sofa with a younger boy and girl. The frames are interspersed with a small collection of succulents.
Past a sliding door is a small space with a two-seater couch, coffee table, and a neatly made bed. Takeru gestures for Satomi to sit and disappears back into the kitchen. He returns with two glasses of water and an assortment of senbei arranged on a plate.
“Sorry, I don’t have much to eat at home right now. If you’re hungry I can make some ramen,” Takeru offers as he sits down next to Satomi.
Satomi shakes his head. The simple, human feel of Takeru’s place has started to bring him down to earth. He fiddles with his hands, wonders if the sensual, building tension he felt in the bar was just a trick of the ambiance and alcohol.
Takeru lays a hand on top of Satomi’s. “Satomi-kun, it’s pretty late. If you want to go to bed now, we can. I’ll take the couch,” he offers, considerately.
That’s not what Satomi wants. He closes his eyes and leans his body against Takeru’s. “Let’s stay up a little longer,” he says, not making eye contact. He cringes inside. Prays that Takeru plays along, so he doesn’t have to change his name and move to another country in humiliation.
Takeru puts an arm across Satomi’s shoulders, pulling him in tighter. “This is nice,” he says. Then a beat later. “Wanna cuddle in bed?”
Satomi does. But now that he’s here, he wants to grasp the opportunity. He’s not sure if he will ever have the courage or self-confidence to do this again.
He snakes his arms around Takeru’s waist. “Is it okay if we do more?” he asks.
“Um, yeah. Definitely.” Takeru gives him a happy, lopsided grin. His obvious excitement sends a powerful thrill through Satomi.
Takeru sheds his jeans and socks and gets in bed, folding down the sheets in invitation. Satomi follows, folding his jeans on the coffee table, setting his glasses on top. They lie on their sides under the covers, facing each other. Takeru traces his fingers up and down Satomi’s arm, feather-light.
“You’re really pretty,” Takeru tells him. “Um, I mean it in a good way. You’re attractive.”
Satomi finds he doesn’t mind being called pretty. Maybe likes it.
“You are, too,” Satomi says. “Um, you know. Very.”
“Yeah?” Takeru says, low. Eyes sparkling with humor. Then darkening with desire. “Good to know.” He holds Satomi’s face steady with one hand and goes in for a kiss.
It’s soft but sure. Takeru tastes like beer and smells like cedarwood and musk. Warmth pools deep in Satomi’s gut. Takeru’s other hand slides into Satomi’s shirt, rubbing across his belly. Gooseflesh rises on Satomi’s skin as Takeru’s hand explores his stomach, his chest. He feels his erection harden.
Satomi likes how big Takeru’s hands feel on him. Knows he’ll like it when they grasp his chin to angle it the way he likes. When they pull him closer with a force stronger than his own.
He doesn’t want to think too hard about why he knows he’ll like this. The obvious comparison ever-present in his memory.
Takeru’s propped on one elbow now, leaning over Satomi, tongue in his mouth. He moves down to Satomi’s neck—biting, sucking. Satomi moans and writhes under him. One of his hands grips Takeru’s bicep, nails digging in to anchor himself, while the other squeezes the pillow behind his head.
Takeru brings a hand down over his erection. Satomi gasps, presses up against it.
“Can I take this off?” Takeru asks, fingers hooked on the waistband of Satomi’s underwear.
Satomi nods vehemently, fingers clashing with Takeru’s as they both try to get him undressed. Takeru huffs a laugh, and their eyes meet in a moment of wry humor. Then Takeru slips off Satomi’s underwear, smooth and quick. He leans over him to reach the nightstand and pulls a bottle from the drawer. Pours a little on his hands, rubs them together to warm them, then grasps Satomi’s erection. Starts to glide his hand up and down.
Satomi moans, the sound wrenched out of him, raw and uncontrollable. Both hands are clutching the pillow now. Takeru fondles his balls as he continues to jerk Satomi off, harder and faster.
“You’re gorgeous,” Takeru breathes in his ear. “Yeah, keep doing that. God, you’re sexy.”
Satomi bucks his hips, desperate for friction, chasing his building release. He’s keening now, little whines interspersed with Ohs and Ahs and Please. A distant part of his brain categorizes this as embarrassing behavior, but in the moment, he doesn’t care. Just wants to keep being touched.
He comes with a groan, punched out and broken.
Shivers course through his body as Takeru takes a tissue and cleans him up. He tries to still his body but can’t—he trembles with the post-adrenaline shakes.
Takeru lies on top of him, arms going around him in a full-body hug. He nuzzles Satomi’s neck and cheek. He’s heavy. Satomi can barely move. It takes effort to expand his chest to breathe.
He likes it. A lot.
He pushes down the sour thought—of a slightly larger body on top of him, shoulders set a bit broader, frame a little more muscular.
Takeru’s erection is pressing against him. Satomi wriggles to give himself more space, then feels his way down to the bulge in Takeru’s boxers.
“Takeru-sempai, I want to touch you, too,” Satomi tells him. He’s a little shocked by his own boldness.
“Okay,” Takeru kisses him. Sits up, pulls off his shirt and slides down his boxers. He’s smiling at Satomi. “I’d really like that.”
Satomi hesitates, not sure where to start. Takeru sits back against the headboard, half-reclined on the pillows. He pulls Satomi to straddle him.
Satomi reaches for the lube, squeezes a little out. Puts a hand on Takeru’s dick, slicking it up and down. When that earns a hum of appreciation, he adds a second hand. The motion is at least familiar. He listens to Takeru groan, mutter yes and ah fuck and like that. He adjusts his grip and rhythm, trying to make him feel good.
Takeru’s pressing down on the mattress with one hand, trying to give himself leverage to move his hips. His other hand squeezes Satomi’s ass, hard.
It’s enough to get Satomi half-hard again. He sternly stops himself from recalling fantasies of someone else handling him roughly. He focuses on the handsome, sexy, thoughtful man in front of him who’s about to come under his hands. Keeps his eyes wide open as he watches him climax with a moan, to keep the image of someone else from appearing under his eyelids.
Satomi wakes with a painfully full bladder, a fuzzy mouth, and eyes so dry it’s hard to blink. His phone tells him it’s 9:32 am, and that he’s missed multiple texts and several calls from his friends.
He eases Takeru’s hand loose from his t-shirt, gathers his clothing, and goes to the bathroom. He rinses out his mouth, washes his face in the sink, gets dressed.
He pads silently out to the entryway. Hesitates for a moment, looking back at Takeru, who’s still sleeping soundly. His stomach churns. He looks around for paper and something to write with. For several long moments, it seems like there isn’t any in the apartment, and Satomi starts to worry Takeru will wake up and see Satomi hunting through his place instead. Finally, he finds what he’s looking for—notebooks and pens—under the coffee table in the bedroom. Now a little frantic, he quietly tears out a page of paper, folds it in half and writes: I had to go, sempai. Thank you for letting me stay over. -Satomi. He leaves the message on the table.
He puts on his shoes and slips out.
On the train home, he replies to Mana and Maruyama’s worried messages with reassurances that he got home safe. Then he scrolls down his LINE conversations to the one with Kyouji. It’s slowly making its way lower and lower down the list, now inactive for four months.
Satomi starts to type in a message, then erases it. Types and erases. The words are boiling in him.
Bitter. So, are you really dead this time?
Spiteful. Guess what? I slept with someone. A man. I liked it.
Angry. What am I to you, you piece of shit.
Clingy. When are you coming back to Kamata?
Lonely and desperate. It’s so unfair you make me think of you when I’m coming by someone else’s hands.
Too honest. I miss you.
He doesn’t send any of it, obviously. He puts his phone away and closes his eyes. Pretends to sleep until he reaches his station.