Archive of Our Own ^beta

"So what, then, are you depressed?"

Kenshi wished he still had eyes to roll. "No, just—" he sighed, unsure how to explain. His head was swarming with thoughts of the Yakuza, of how sudden the change in his day-to-day had been with the loss of his eyesight, of how intriguing and nerve-wracking it was bonding with Sento, of the fact he had traveled outside of his realm just earlier in the year — it was so much. Surely a man who had faced all of that could continue to accomplish the mundane? But his days were long and conflicting and he felt unsure of something. He had done the unimaginable, so what could be left to make him so bemused?

"Nevermind." 

Kung Lao's hand on his shoulder was a small comfort. Even in the midst of the boisterous atmosphere of Madam Bo's, his presence was strong at Kenshi's side. "My friend, I'm no expert, but it sounds like—"

"I'm not sad," Kenshi interjected, "just... distracted."

It was the truth. Kenshi's inability to work with a clear mind was becoming an active threat against himself. The art of deception was of high importance when it came to interacting with the Yakuza, and being unable to focus could easily put him and his clan at risk. 

Kung Lao hummed thoughtfully, and his hand slowly departed from Kenshi's shoulder. Kenshi reached for the cup of tea in front of him, careful with the glass China. Even eating had become its own beast: he often found he was too fretful to enjoy his meals, no matter how appetizing they smelled. Even Madam Bo's tea felt hard to swallow. 

"You're sure it's nothing more?" Kung Lao asked.

Kenshi shook his head, "I'm sure." 

After a moment of rustling next to him, Kenshi heard Kung Lao place something on the table. It sounded like a glass. "This might help you."

Kenshi stilled and felt his brows furrow. He carefully returned his teacup back to its place and leaned in, reaching for what Kung Lao had placed on the table. His palm met with what felt like a small bottle, swishing with cold liquid. It was reminiscent of those miniature bottles of whisky.

"Seriously? Alcohol?"

"No! It's — well... It's a potion."

Kenshi's face dropped, annoyed. He set the bottle down and grabbed the edge of the table, beginning to stand. "I don't know why I even try talking to you—"

Kung Lao grabbed his shoulder again, much tighter this time, and pushed Kenshi back into his seat. Kenshi grunted at the force and began raising a hand to retaliate, but Kung Lao smacked it away as though he were a child. 

"I'm not messing with you, Kenshi."

"I try to open myself up to you and this is your response. Pardon me for being offended."

Kung Lao scoffed, "If you would let me explain, you would see that I am being a good friend and not an ass, unlike someone."

Kenshi sighed, defeated. "Fine. Go on." He sunk into his place at the table as Kung Lao's grin radiated enough even Kenshi could detect it. 

"A year or so ago, I was having a hard time, much like you. I was distracted and felt like something was weighing me down, but I couldn't figure out what it was for the life of me. Well, there was a trader that came through the village every couple of months, and I had heard from someone that he practiced magic. I was desperate enough I ended up telling him about my issue."

Kenshi did not like where this was going.

Kung Lao continued, "He gave me this. He called it the cure for the Báichī."

"Doesn't that mean idiot?"

"Precisely, and that was his point. When you take it, it forces you to focus on the single thing holding you back, or, as he said, "what makes you an idiot"."

Kenshi frowned, not comforted by any of Kung Lao's explanation. "This worked?"

"In days' time," Kung Lao confirmed, confident. 

Tentatively, Kenshi reached back out for the bottle. "I'm not sure about this," he mumbled, listening to the swish of the liquid. It was shockingly cold. "If it cured you, why do you still carry it?"

"For situations like these!" Kung Lao explained heartily, "Many of us have this issue. What can I say, I support the tradesman's hustle. Besides, would I lie to you, Takahashi?"

Kenshi hoped that the face he was currently making communicated directly to Kung Lao what he thought. Based on the offended scoff he heard, it did.

Still, his heart twisted in his chest. The distraction he had been facing truly was a problem he was growing impatient with. It might be worth a try. "Would Raiden approve of this?"

Kung Lao laughed loudly, "Absolutely not. That's how you know it works."

Kenshi sighed again. He wasn't sure that Kung Lao's "potion" was going to do more than upset his stomach for a few hours, but he was also out of ideas after a year of struggling with his uncertainty. Besides, on the off-chance something bad happened, he would have Kung Lao to blame. 

He mulled over it for another minute before shrugging. "Fine. Do I just drink it as it is?"

"Like water. And try not to smell it."

Kenshi grimaced at that, but continued in his effort to unscrew the cap of the bottle. It hissed as the seal broke and suddenly became colder, enough that Kenshi's fingertips hurt at the change. He took a deep breath and brought the bottle to his lips before he could change his mind. 

It was just as cold as it hit his tongue, its flavor bittersweet as it overtook his senses. Kenshi coughed once he had drained it, scowling as it burned his throat, much like moonshine. 

"Ugh, what the hell, Kung Lao? You're sure that wasn't just alcohol?"

Kung Lao laughed amusedly, "It's not, I promise."

Kenshi reached for his cup of tea to chase down the taste of the liquid, withholding the urge to punch Kung Lao as he patted Kenshi on the back. 

"If this kills me, I'll be sure everyone knows who did it."

"Trust me, Takahashi, not taking it would have killed you more."

A cool wave ran through Kenshi at the words, as though the liquid had reached his veins and was agreeing with Kung Lao. Kenshi shifted uncomfortably at the feeling but did his best to ignore it. 

A small, desperate part of himself hoped that this would work. 

Johnny was nervous. He hated being nervous; it wasn't something an A-Lister was supposed to be. 

Two weeks ago, he had been in a meeting with his script editor when his phone started vibrating in his pocket, indicating two missed calls. Johnny lived by an, "if it's important, they'll leave a voicemail," basis, so when he didn't get any additional vibrations after either of the calls, he didn't rush to check his phone after he had left the office. 

When he had eventually checked his phone, he was struck by the sight of Cristina's contact on his screen. He hadn't heard a single word from her since the day she had left him — not even in court, considering Johnny had been too busy in an entirely different realm to make an appearance except via his lawyer. It actually worried him, more so than anything else.

So, reasonably concerned, he had called her back. 

"John?" 

"Hey, uh. I saw you called. Everything alright?"

It was silent for a moment before Cristina spoke again. "Do you want to have dinner sometime?" 

Johnny could feel his expression contorting in confusion. "Uh. Sure?" 

"Great. I'll send you a time and place." And then she hung up. 

Johnny had had his fair share of lovers who "realized their mistake" at the last minute. But this was... different. It had been almost a year. 

Perplexed, Johnny still saved the date that Cristina texted him less than ten minutes later. That was how, two weeks later, he found himself being led by an upscale restaurant hostess through a maze of tables, eventually reaching a booth in the back. 

Cristina looked good — her hair was done up nice, her dress fit her well. Even then, though, Johnny couldn't shake the feeling he had as he sat across from her. And it wasn't that shy, old romantic kind of nervousness — more so a please-don't-claim-that-I-didn't-pay-alimony kind. 

"Hey," he greeted, settling into his seat. She smiled at him, but it didn't meet her eyes. Johnny tried not to cringe. 

By the time their server had gotten them drinks, still, barely a word had been uttered. Even Johnny, who had a penchant for not knowing when to shut the hell up, wasn't speaking. He worried if he said one wrong thing it might turn into a discussion about how he missed a signature in their divorce documents and now he owed her his house and the rights to his movie. 

Eventually, Cristina spoke up. "I heard you got a movie deal," she said over her glass of wine. 

Okay. Johnny could work with that. "Yeah! It's gonna be a big blockbuster sorta thing. They really think it's gonna put me back on the map, y'know?" He grinned as he spoke, but Cristina's expression gave away nothing and her gaze was incredibly off-putting. Unfortunately for her, now that Johnny had started, he couldn't stop. "It's about this insane experience I had with some guys I ran into. Or, I guess, ran into me — Kenshi especially, I mean, he broke in and everything. I kicked his ass though, so it all worked out in the end. Well. Bi-Han did break my favorite statue. And then he went all dark side on everybody—"

"John."

Johnny stopped, mouth open and hand frozen halfway in in the air where it had been flapping around as he spoke. He bit his lip and sunk back into his seat. 

"Right. Uh. How have you been?"

"Good," she answered, "I've actually reintegrated myself back into my father's business."

"Ah," Johnny chuckled, "doing coffee runs for the big guys again." When Cristina failed to look amused at this he quickly averted his eyes again.

"No. I'm actually one of the junior financial managers now." 

Johnny nodded, "Oh, wow. That's great! I remember you used to talk about doing that, way back in the day." 

That comment seemed to lighten her up. 

From there, the conversation began to flow much more easily. Johnny's nervousness steadily declined from the forefront of his mind, and he managed to enjoy his meal and even Cristina's company. 

They split the bill when they finished, and Johnny offered to walk Cristina out to her car. It was raining when they came outside, so Johnny removed his suit-jacket and held it over both of their heads as they walked to the parking lot, careful to avoid puddles and other passersby. 

"This is mine," Cristina said as they reached a dark blue Honda Civic. 

"I know," Johnny replied. It was the same car she had drove when they had been together. 

For whatever reason, his response gave her pause. She stared at him a long moment, and Johnny evaded the eye contact in favor of watching the cars drive by. 

"We should do this again," was all she said, before grabbing her doorhandle and turning back around. 

"Uh. Okay," Johnny said, watching her settle down into her seat and drive away. 

He remained in his spot for a moment or two well after she had left, staring out at the sea of tailgates and mud puddles, feeling bewildered. 

What the hell?

Kenshi was going to kill Kung Lao. 

It had been two weeks since he had drank the Báichī. Initially, he had brushed off the entire interaction almost as soon as it was over. Then, the following morning, he flew back to Japan. Two days passed before the effects began. 

He had woken up on Monday much hungrier than he had been in a while. It was reasonable, he figured, considering his eating habits had been poor lately. His body must have been trying to get him back on the right track. So he prepared himself breakfast and ate a portion larger than he usually would. 

But then his stomach continued to growl. And he still felt hungry. But he shrugged it off and made himself more. But then he finished. And his stomach growled again. And he was still hungry. 

Kenshi became so absorbed in trying to feed himself that by the time he checked the clock, he only had ten minutes left to make it to his meeting. 

He had barely made it in time to face his superiors, and somehow, was still graced with the honor of being invited to a dinner that night with one of the higherups in the Yakuza. Intending fully to take advantage of the opportunity, Kenshi was incredibly disappointed when he got there and every word spoken was drowned out by the hunger raging through his body. He couldn't recall how much he ate, but it was enough that his superior scolded him afterward for raising the bill. It was an embarrassment to his reputation. 

And it didn't stop there, either. Over the course of the week he had devoured so much of the food in his house that he had to go shopping three times. On the third trip, he called Kung Lao twice, but there was no answer.

It was when he started cramping during his practice with Sento that he decided he couldn't continue on the binge-eating. He was becoming distraught with feeling disgustingly full and terribly ravenous at the same time.

So he started to eat normally again. It was fairly easy, considering the overeating hadn't solved his hunger anyway. With his focus away from how much he could eat, he managed to pay a bit more attention to his work again — at least until he was struck by a wave of starvation and lost his train of thought. 

Kung Lao had said the Báichī would make him focus on the single thing distracting him — not become the single thing distracting him.  

Kung Lao finally called him back on Wednesday. 

"Kenshi, how are you? Have you found your problem yet?"

Kenshi did not contain his anger. "You are my problem, you asshole! Ever since I took that damn Báichī, I've eaten enough to feed my entire clan!"

Kung Lao burst into laughter, so loud that Kenshi had to pull the phone away from his ear. The sound of Kung Lao's joy only infuriated him more. 

"Kung Lao!" He yelled.

The other man stifled his laughter, but the amusement was still very clear in his voice, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm not making fun of you. I'm just remembering when I faced the same. It's terrible, isn't it?"

"Yes! Why the hell would you give it to me?!"

Kung Lao tried and failed to hide more laughter. "Kenshi, it's working. You just haven't found what is making you an idiot."

Kenshi growled in frustration, "The Báichī is making me an idiot. If I thought I couldn't accomplish anything before, I certainly can't now. The fate of my clan is in my hands and I can't even talk to my superiors without thinking about takoyaki for two seconds."

Kung Lao snorted. Kenshi sunk into his furniture defeatedly. Surely he would die at the Yakuza's hand, not for nobly defending his family, but for daydreaming about sushi and raising restaurant bills. 

"Have you tried anything else? Clearly, you've been eating, so that's not the issue. You're still dealing with the Yakuza. Sento is still opening up to you, yes?"

"Yes," Kenshi sighed. He could feel the blade's presence from across the living room. 

"Then you aren't looking in the right places. The Báichī makes you hungry for your problem — that's how it works. When it was me, I had grown so hungry one night that I ran out of the village, trying to hunt down that tradesman so I could beat him over the head for cursing me. I ran so far, however, that eventually, I realized I had no clue where I was. Rather than immediately try to find my way home, I decided to explore. And I felt the hunger wane. It was when I fully realized that I had been holding myself back from leaving the village that it left me completely."

Kenshi mulled over Kung Lao's words. His blindness had altered his life entirely, but he was learning to live with it — and Sento worked as a crutch for this. Having Sento alone was a step-up for him, and he was slowly but surely learning the blade. And as for the Yakuza, that was a long-term project that would take careful dedication and care to unravel. It wasn't something to be done overnight — none of his challenges were. 

"But I don't have anything holding me back," he sighed.

"Are you sure?"

He frowned at that, because evidently he wasn't sure. Otherwise, none of this would be happening. 

"Try something you haven't thought of yet; go somewhere you haven't been in a while. Trust me, Kenshi."

For the last four weeks, Johnny and Cristina continued meeting up for dinner. Each meeting was at the same time, at the same place, with the same awkward beginning, and with no disclosed purpose. Johnny continued to evade the question of why Cristina had made the call in the first place. 

It was a strange ritual they were performing each week, but Johnny would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying it. The thing was, though, that it wasn't anything to do with Cristina herself and more so her company. Because, though he wouldn't admit it — Johnny was lonely. 

Sure, he hadn't spent that long with Liu Kang and the Gang, but it was enough he got used to being surrounded by people who challenged him. Hell, even Bi-Han had been some fun when he wasn't too busy imitating Vin Diesel. Johnny didn't know how to put it into words but it was there — Kung Lao kicking him awake each morning, the games Raiden would make out of their chores, Liu Kang's propensity to slip in even a small joke every once and while, Smoke's inability to be anything but kind, how Kenshi would tell Johnny how unfunny he was even as he hid a smile—

Man. Kenshi. 

Johnny knew that Kenshi would never admit it, but the two had grown close during their time together; hell, they had practically trained hip-to-hip. Despite Kenshi's initial bad attitude, he still made time to show Johnny moves he didn't know when they sparred, still slipped in a joke so quiet only Johnny would catch it, and still offered his advice even when he was busy shaking his head in annoyance. The sacrifice he had made for Johnny had only cemented Johnny's appreciation for the man — Kenshi had leaned on him for support in his suffering, and it was a responsibility that Johnny still felt honored to have received. Giving Sento away had been a great middle finger to his wallet, but — he would've done it again. Maybe even earlier if it meant Kenshi could've defended himself against Mileena. 

Even after everything, Johnny had made the effort to still see his friend. He had flown Kenshi out to California twice and himself out to Japan once in the last couple months — although, the purpose of these visits was mostly for script review and the signing of legal documents considering the use of names and whatnot in the movie. But they had made the best between the legal shit. 

Johnny had taken Kenshi all across Hollywood and L.A., wined and dined him at his favorite spots, even cooked him dinner a couple times, and managed to twist a couple arms to sneak Kenshi into a set or two. Kenshi had returned the favor during Johnny's visit to Japan, introducing him to a variety of cuisine he hadn't ever heard of, taking him hiking in the mountainous countryside, smoking Japanese cigars, and exploring the city. It was probably some of the most fun Johnny'd had in the last couple years. 

But Kenshi had responsibilities — toggling a crime syndicate in one hand and the fate of your family in the other was no simple task. And Johnny had busied himself, too, with his movie growing nearer and nearer to production each day. 

And so, even though, deep down, Johnny was wishing his time was being spent with someone else, he welcomed Cristina's presence. They had known each other for so long, it wasn't too difficult to get back into the swing of things. 

As they left their latest dinner, they continued the routine of Johnny walking Cristina to her car. They had left the restaurant laughing over an old story, Cristina's hand on Johnny's arm as she struggled to keep herself upright. 

"Oh, gosh. I can't believe you remember that," she giggled. 

"How could I forget? Your dad reminded me every time we visited," he chuckled.

As they approached her car, she left his side and opened the door, smiling a "thanks" when Johnny handed her the box of leftovers he had been carrying for her. 

"Same time next week?" he asked as she set the box in her passenger seat. It was a fair question to ask, considering they had been doing this for almost a month. Which is why her reply came as a surprise. 

"No," she said, and Johnny was sure the confusion was clear on his face. 

He hadn't even processed her response before she turned around and put a hand on his chest and leaned in. 

It was a brief kiss, short enough that he had barely closed his eyes by the time she pulled away. He blinked in shock. 

"Your place next time. Friday." And then she ducked into her car and drove away. 

Hardly knowing what had just happened, Johnny stood, baffled, and watched her tailgate disappear around the corner. The only thing that broke his daze was a ping from his phone. 

He reached into his pocket, and his brows raised in surprise. 

Johnny's confusion about the last five minutes melted away instantly, a grin overtaking his face. Kenshi. He typed back immediately.

Johnny stared in surprise at the text. Usually their plans were made weeks in advance. Kenshi must have known he was thinking this, because he texted again. 

No, he knew instantly. He hardly reflected on the question before he typed a response.

Johnny snorted.

Somewhere within himself, Kenshi thought it should have been obvious to go to California. Considering how routine his day-to-day was, it would make sense that something out of his regular would be the source of his problem. 

That and the thought of reuniting with Johnny pleased him more than it probably should have. Though, it had been nearly three months since the two men had even been in the same room, so Kenshi tried to not get too hung up on his elation. 

He liked Johnny, as much as it pained him to admit. Johnny was sarcastic and obnoxious and irritatingly full of himself, but — he was also considerate and annoyingly funny and a surprisingly talented chef. And Kenshi knew that beneath the cocky exterior he was good-hearted. He had proved it to him more times than he could count, more so after their mission with Liu Kang. To Kenshi, their time training and fighting together paled in comparison to their time sharing tradition and culture with one another. He had hardly realized how much he missed it all until Kung Lao told him to seek beyond his habits. 

It had felt a bit intrusive to ask Johnny to accommodate his last-minute decision to visit, but thankfully, the man seemed more than eager to do so. He had already texted Kenshi multiple times over the course of the week with ideas for activities, as well as asking if there was anything Kenshi might want him to try his hand at making for dinner. (Unfortunately for Johnny, Kenshi had been feeling rather cheeky and replied to the latter with beef consommé. According to his phone's text-to-speech, he had received three "angry-face emojis" in response.)

So, after only two days of waiting (and a lot of "sorry, I can't" to meetings, which wasn't hard to do considering how much of a fool of himself he had made), Kenshi hopped on a dreadful ten-hour flight and arrived in Los Angeles at approximately 4 AM. Upon connecting to the airport's Wi-Fi, he was immediately hit with a slew of notifications that he had to stop and listen to his phone read out. 

"New message: Johnny Asshole Cage: I'll be there to pick you up. Don't worry about Uber. Sent at 2:16."

"New message: Johnny Asshole Cage: I got here way too early, didn't I? Awkward-face emoji. Sent at 2:51."

"New message: Johnny Asshole Cage: The only thing open is a churro bar. I think I'll live. Sent at 3:09."

"New message: Johnny Asshole Cage: Holy fuck. They're so stale. This must be what hell is like. Sent at 3:29."

"New message: Johnny Asshole Cage: Crying-face emoji. Crying-face emoji. Crying face emoji. Sent at 3:29."

"New message: Johnny Asshole Cage: It's too early for this. Don't make me sick Syzoth on the plane. Sent at 3:48."

"New message: Johnny Asshole Cage: I just realized that he's never seen a plane before. How fucked up is that? Sent at 3:53."

Kenshi exhaled a short laugh before finding the call button. It rang about four times before Johnny answered, sounding horribly tired, "Yup, yeah, I'm awake. Where are you?"

It was odd — at the sound of his voice, like a slap to the face, a cold chill erupted through Kenshi's body — much like when he had first taken the Báichī. It was so startling that he almost dropped his phone and ripped Sento from his suitcase. The only thing that managed to snap him out of it was Johnny's blabbering. 

"—helloooo? Kendoll? Don't bet on me not falling asleep in an airport, because I just did and can totally keep going."

"Uh," Kenshi said usefully, "I'm at gate seven."

"Fantastic," Johnny replied, yawning between syllables. "I'll be there in a second." 

He hung up, and Kenshi slowly pulled his phone away from his ear, gripping it as though it had offended him. He felt... strange; as though seconds away from an attack. 

Okay, he thought, whatever it is, it's here. 

He tried to think. Kenshi had spent plenty of time in the States well before the events following Liu Kang's recruitment, so there was plenty opportunity for forgotten loose-ends and obligations to reappear. But the problem was, was that he couldn't think of any — not one thing came to mind: no old jobs, no old friendships, no old bad blood — he had no clue what it might be. 

"Kenshi! There you are, right by the big 'Gate Seven' sign and all." 

Johnny's presence struck him just as much as the sound of his voice had over the phone, practically tenfold now. Kenshi had barely processed it before he felt Johnny get right into his personal space. 

"You're gettin' a hug, good luck trying to get away," Johnny declared cheerfully, wrapping his arms tightly around Kenshi's body and squeezing. It wasn't at all an out-of-the-ordinary thing for Johnny to do when they reunited, but with the influx of weird feelings, Kenshi felt as though he were being rolled through a compressor. His skin was practically on fire well after Johnny, who was now talking and talking and talking like he always did, pulled away, but Kenshi couldn't hear a word over the blood roaring in his ears.

Maybe it's Johnny? He hesitantly asked himself. But... what with him?

"Are you alright?" 

It was the tone of Johnny's voice that caught his attention, far more than the words themselves. It was so concerned, but hesitant. Like he was nervous to ask that kind of question. The idea of Johnny Cage being nervous instantly told Kenshi that he needed to pull himself together.

"Jetlagged," Kenshi said, which wasn't entirely false, "and hungry. Do you want to get churros?"

Johnny shoved him at his shoulder, "Haha, very funny. If you are hungry, though, there's a twenty-four hour diner right down the road from here that I keep forgetting to take you to. What do you say?"

Kenshi's stomach growled, but he didn't know if it was out of genuine hunger or if the Báichī was rearing its head again. "Sure," he said. If the small laugh and rustling of clothes meant anything, he was sure Johnny had fist-pumped.

After stuffing his face and asking Kenshi about anything and everything that had happened since they had last seen each other, Johnny drove them back to his home. He had gotten a new place since his return, as (despite the fact he really didn't want to admit it) Cristina had been right about the fact that he really couldn't afford to live in the old one anymore. 

While much smaller than his old mansion, the new place was still plenty luxurious in its three bedrooms, three-and-a-half bathrooms, kitchen and bar, gym room, wine cellar, and home theater. He'd had his designers turn two of the bedrooms into guestrooms, exactly for occasions like these, when Kenshi came over. He'd even put up the old plaque for Sento up in one of them. So maybe he actually had one spare room and a room for Kenshi. While that might have been overestimating how much Kenshi would be visiting, it was perfect for the times he did. 

They arrived at the house close to six, with Johnny swerving into his driveway and urging Kenshi inside as quickly as he could as to sooner reintroduce himself to his couch and pass the hell out. 

He made a beeline for the right side of the sofa as soon as they were inside, crashing against the plush cushions and groaning in relief. He'd only had three hours of sleep, having made the mistake of going to bed late and waking up too early to retrieve his friend from the airport. He considered it a noble sacrifice to make rather than leaving Kenshi to the creepy Uber drivers of L.A.'s wee hours of the morning, though. 

Johnny had already situated himself in the corner before noticing that Kenshi was... just sort of standing by the front door, suitcase still gripped in his hand and expression unreadable.

"I know it's been a while, but I didn't make any new rules while you were gone. You can sit down," Johnny poked. At his words, Kenshi stiffened and set his suitcase next to the oversized shoe rack and joined Johnny on the couch. His motions were awkward and rigid, but not in the well-he-is-blind way, instead more like a does-he-need-his-back-popped? way. 

"You sure you're alright?" Johnny asked, remembering how weird Kenshi had been since he'd found him at the airport. 

"Yes," Kenshi answered, but suspiciously quick. He must have felt Johnny's eyebrow raise because he continued talking. "I have been... under a lot of stress lately. I came here hoping to relax, but I still feel distracted."

That made sense. "We could always watch Dragon Fist 2," he said. "That's one of my better ones."

"Not The Flesh Pit?" 

Johnny grimaced and Kenshi chuckled. 

"Absolutely not and I'm offended you remembered that one. What about Ninja Mime?"

Kenshi sighed, but he was smiling. "Is this necessary? You're just going to pause it every five seconds and explain something to me." 

"That's the best part!" Johnny guffawed, "you listen to me being awesome on TV and then you get to hear me talk about being awesome on TV." 

Kenshi shrugged, "This is the least relaxing thing I can think of, but I don't know what I expected coming to Johnny Cage's house." 

"Remember that next time you choose this over some cucumbers and a face mask," Johnny said as he reached for the remote, navigating through the streaming services to find his movie. Kenshi finally looked like he was beginning to settle down on the couch, now leaning back into it and crossing his arms. 

Johnny threw on the movie, feeling a mixed sense of pride and embarrassment as he watched, noticing — like always — the things that were great about the movie (himself) and the things that production wouldn't let him change (adding a fight scene between Ninja Mime and a parody of the Joker). Just as Kenshi foretold, Johnny did in fact pause the movie regularly to elaborate on things such as the lack of epic battles between Ninja Mime and a particular DC villain. 

Kenshi listened to it all with a progressively painful fondness that was starting to become a lot more noticeable with the Báichī running through his system. It didn't help that, somehow, over the course of the movie, Johnny had made his way closer and closer to him on the couch, settling right at his side. This would've been tolerable, even in Kenshi's state, if Johnny hadn't stopped making comments in favor of aptly falling asleep with his body leaning into Kenshi. The weight and warmth of him pressed so close was fraying Kenshi's already-worn nerves. Worse, he was now seriously worried that Johnny was, in fact, the source of the Báichī's effects. 

On the other side of the world, just as he was leaving Madam Bo's with Raiden, Kung Lao would excuse himself to take an incoming call. 

"Kenshi, hey! Any—"

"How did you know you found it? The thing that was making you crazy?" Kenshi interrupted, sounding hurried. 

Kung Lao couldn't help but snort at his friend's attitude. "Well, just like I said — I started exploring around, and—"

"I know that," Kenshi huffed, "but what did you feel?"

"Well. It all just sort of... went away."

"Went away," Kenshi repeated, tone flat. 

Kung Lao sighed, sure he knew what Kenshi was getting at. "It's not the same for everybody," he explained, "one of the other users told me that for them it got worse before finally fading."

"Worse," Kenshi said in that same way.

"I'm assuming you found it?" Kung Lao asked.

Kenshi went silent. He was quiet for so long Kung Lao started to ask if he was still there just as he spoke up again.

"I... think so. But I'm not sure what it means."

Kung Lao frowned. It wasn't that confusing once you found the source — not that he had thought so, anyways. "Well, have you done anything about it?"

"What do you mean?" 

Kung Lao wished he was there to smack Kenshi. "If your house was on fire, would you watch it burn or put it out?"

"Oh."

"Got it now?"

Kenshi was quiet again and Kung Lao swayed in place impatiently. Raiden raised a brow at him from where he was waiting a couple feet away. 

"What if the house doesn't know it's on fire and gets mad at you for putting it out?" Kenshi asked. 

Kung Lao's brow furrowed. "That doesn't even make sense."

He listened as Kenshi's groan of frustration came through the speaker. Kung Lao sighed again. 

"Kenshi, I don't know what's going on, but let me tell you this: figure it out. Because if you don't, the Báichī will do it for you. And you've been facing it for weeks now. Don't embarrass yourself by doing something stupid before it's too late."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this earlier?" Kenshi hissed.

"Because I knew you wouldn't have taken it then! No sane person would!" 

"Damn it, Kung Lao!"

Raiden waved at him then, pointing to the darkening night sky. Let's go, he mouthed. 

"I believe in you," Kung Lao told him, promptly hanging up before his friend could curse him out. 

"Who was that?" Raiden asked once Kung Lao returned to his side, the two beginning their trek home. 

"Kenshi," Kung Lao answered. "He's been having some troubles," he elaborated when Raiden gave him a confused look. 

"I see," Raiden replied. They walked in silence for a beat or two before he continued, "You didn't give him that trickster's "potion", did you?"

Kung Lao scoffed, "Pfft. No."

Raiden shook his head. "You shouldn't meddle in others' affairs, Kung Lao." 

"Please," Kung Lao grunted, "I couldn't keep listening to him talk about Johnny. It was sickening."

Johnny would wake up at eleven, yawning and stretching his way off of the couch. He'd look around for his guest, notice the suitcase missing from its spot by the shoe rack, and make his way upstairs to the room Kenshi always stayed in. 

Sure enough, he found him there, sitting on the bed with his legs crossed and Sento displayed in front of him. "Johnny," he nodded. 

"Mornin', big guy," Johnny greeted, "ready to start the day?" 

Kenshi smiled and Johnny felt himself wake up more at the sight. "You've made reservations somewhere?" 

"Lunch at Etta and wine-tasting at Barnsdalls," Johnny grinned, "sound like a plan?" 

"Who would I be to say no to that."

Johnny drove them in his black convertible, enjoying the feeling of wind and sun in his hair. Kenshi had told him before how he liked it, too — he certainly looked the part, sitting reclined in his seat with his arm propped on the door and jaw in his hand. Johnny felt a peculiar twist in his stomach and looked away.

He handed off the keys to a valet once they had arrived, Kenshi's hand settling at his shoulder as they made their way inside. The weight of it reminded Johnny of their time in Outworld, and a swell of pride reformed in his chest at the memory of Kenshi's trust in him. He couldn't help the smile on his face — the hostess at the front seemed to appreciate it, at least. 

"Reservation for Cage?" she asked. Johnny reveled in the recognition but held a finger up to his lips in a shh. She nodded at him and they followed her as she led them to a table in the back. 

They sat across from one another, Johnny quickly grabbing one of the menus laid out and reading aloud some of the first things he saw.

"Shrimp, wagyu meatballs, steak frites — ooh, roasted oysters, those sound good."

"What about drinks?" Kenshi asked. 

Johnny flipped the menu. "They have yuzu sours."

"Something I don't have to wait on them to refill," Kenshi reiterated. Johnny snorted. 

"I could get a bottle of champagne," he suggested, "so we don't out-wine ourselves before the tasting." 

"Sure," Kenshi agreed. 

It was once they had their food and a bottle of Jean Diot between them, and well after Johnny had talked far too much about the process of his movie, that he finally turned the focus to Kenshi: "So, what about you?" 

Kenshi, fork mere inches away from his face, practically froze. "What about me?" he asked slowly.

"You know," Johnny chuckled, "Yakuza? Telekinesis? Something-or-other? You said you've been stressed."

Johnny devoured another bite of his branzino while Kenshi set his fork down and busied himself draining his glass. Once he was done, he immediately picked up the bottle to refill it, to which Johnny assisted by pushing the rim of the glass to the mouth of the bottle. 

"Well," Kenshi said, then took a long drink. Johnny stared at him over his forkful of food. "They've been keeping me on my toes," Kenshi finally finished, and then took another long drink of champagne. 

"Anything big come up yet?" Johnny asked, genuinely curious. He always liked hearing Kenshi's stories of how he spent yet another day super-awesomely deceiving the Japanese crime syndicate. 

"Uh," Kenshi hesitated, then reached for the bottle again, his glass emptied. Johnny stopped eating to help him once again. "No," Kenshi answered once it was full. 

"Oh," Johnny replied, surprised. He would've assumed something huge must have been happening if it was enough for Kenshi to be acting so strange. Then again, if it were really that big, he probably wouldn't have left Japan. 

At the same time, however — Kenshi was emptying his third glass of Jean Diot just in the last five minutes. 

"Is it something else?" Johnny questioned, eyeing the half-eaten bowl of food in front of Kenshi.

Kenshi shook his head quickly. Then he reached for the bottle again and Johnny grabbed it before he could. 

Voice lowered, Johnny spoke, "Ken." 

Kenshi grimaced. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" 

"Fine," Kenshi replied, voice tight. 

Johnny backed off at his tone, instead refilling Kenshi's glass for him and returning to his food. 

Kenshi had never been so... weird around him. He would never say it aloud, but it was kind of freaking him out — he hadn't seen the man in so long and now it seemed like he was uncomfortable around Johnny. He was adapting to the loneliness, but he didn't think he could handle rejection on top of it. Especially from Kenshi. 

He frowned at the thought. 

As if sensing his spiral, Kenshi sighed and spoke up.

"I'm sorry," he said, "it's good to be here. Don't let me bring down the mood." 

Johnny lightened up at that, looking up to see that Kenshi had leaned in attentively, brows knitted like he was nervous. Johnny reached across the table to pat the tattooed hand resting on it. 

"Don't worry about it, Kendoll."

Kenshi smiled, but the concerned furrow in his brow remained. 

Kung Lao was right. Kenshi was going to do something stupid. 

All day he felt like he was seconds from erupting. In the morning, with Sento so close, he had seen the outline of Johnny's tired smile and it felt like he had been shot. Then, at lunch, without Sento nearby, he needed guidance and Johnny was so warm under his hand and so eager to read the menu and so ridiculously concerned in such a non-Johnny Cage-like way that it took the force of a lion for Kenshi to not explode then and there. He had been furiously ignoring the clawing in his brain telling him to man up and face the truth about the effects of the Báichī when, during the wine tasting, Kenshi had just barely missed his mouth and spilled wine on himself — and Johnny had run off to find paper towels, and in his absence, a very old and very nosy woman had turned to Kenshi and said, "You're lucky to have such a good husband. Mine would've told me to get over it."

Kenshi had experienced torture before — he'd quite literally had his eyes stabbed out of his head. Somehow, this was bordering worse-than.

They returned to Johnny's house after a walk through the Venice canals, close to five o'clock, early enough for Johnny to begin the arduous process of preparing beef consommé (which Kenshi quickly tried to explain he had only been joking about having, resulting in  Johnny whining that he had to make it because Kenshi had been joking.)

Kenshi had gone upstairs for an hour to meditate, with his frustration only curling deeper through him as his focus was broken multiple times by thoughts of Johnny and the icy-cold hunger raging through him. 

He had to make a decision — if he was going to do something stupid, he had to do it before the Báichī did. 

And so, reluctantly, and after many prayers to his ancestors, Kenshi put Sento back in its scabbard and walked downstairs, hands feeling for the walls as he found the kitchen. It was easy, at least, thanks to the smell of food. 

Johnny was listening to pop music and singing along, his tone pitchy and uneven, and Kenshi felt horribly enamored by the sound. He stood there for a long moment and wondered what he was even supposed to say. 

"I wanna feel the— oh shit, Kenshi!" 

He heard Johnny startle and realized he had definitely been standing there for far too long.

"Don't be weird, or next time I'll assume you're breaking in again," Johnny joked. 

"I was admiring your singing," Kenshi said, the statement weirdly truthful, but unusual enough to come off as humorous. 

Johnny laughed, "Yeah, yeah. You actually showed up at a great time — can you grate this cheese? I'm making truffles, too, but this shit on the stove has to simmer a certain way or it's all going to crap."

Kenshi obliged, moving around the kitchen with familiarity — he had assisted Johnny plenty of times before. Johnny helped him find where he had the cheese and the grater, and he began the monotonous process, but gradually slowed down to a halt as his heart pounded harder and harder in his chest. 

"Johnny," he said, feeling his blood pressure spike instantly.

"Yeah?" 

Kenshi turned away from the kitchen island, facing his body toward the stove where Johnny was messing with the pot of beef stock. He opened his mouth, a misshapen and unsure confession of his situation perilously working its way to the light of day — when Johnny's phone started ringing. Kenshi's mouth shut quickly. 

"Sorry," Johnny sighed, "probably my PR agent about some— oh shit."

Kenshi listened as Johnny stepped out of the kitchen, his heartrate declining but his stomach dropping. He gripped the side of the counter and let out an exasperated breath. 

In the other room, Johnny's mind was going a thousand miles a minute trying to think of excuses as he stared at Cristina's contact. He was so thrilled to be with Kenshi, he had completely forgotten she wanted to come over. 

He didn't come up with anything worthwhile and instead opted to answer and work off the top of his head. 

"Hey!" he answered, laughing nervously. 

"You didn't tell me that you moved," she said instead of hello. 

"Oh, yeah," he chuckled, "it was so long ago I forgot, too." 

"Huh," she said, quiet for a moment before continuing. "What's your new address, then?"

Johnny started to say something like, "Well, something came up, actually" and "My buddy from out of town is here," but what came out was: "Uh, remember where Tony used to live?" 

"Oh, yeah. Are you in his old place?" 

He cringed. What the hell am I doing? "No, the one across from it. One-hundred-and-two."

"Alright. I'll be there in ten." And she hung up.

Johnny stared at the "Call Ended" screen for a second before shuffling back into the kitchen. 

Kenshi was somewhat hunched over the counter, grating the cheese like it was made out of iron. Johnny tried not to focus on how weird that was and instead coughed uncomfortably. 

"So, uh, we have a guest."

Kenshi stopped and turned, brows furrowed. "Oh. Does your agent have something?" 

"No, uh," Johnny gritted his teeth and then groaned loudly in frustration. "It's my ex-wife, Cris." 

Kenshi stiffened. Johnny struggled to find the words to explain.

"We've been sort of like, going out again — not, not dating," he quickly clarified, but then wondered why he felt the need to do so. He ignored the thought and continued, "She told me last week she wanted to come over and I just totally spaced it. So."

Kenshi was still for another second. "Ah," he said eventually, before turning back around, grating the cheese like it had offended him. 

An uneasy feeling settled over Johnny. "I'm sorry, I know it's usually guy-time," he babbled, feeling guilty, "I just don't want her to pull any, "I need more alimony" or anything, y'know?" He joked, laughing uncomfortably. Kenshi didn't react. 

"It's fine," he said instead. Johnny winced.

"Oookay," Johnny sighed, returning to the stove to get a handle on the consommé. 

Guilt crept up Johnny's neck in a cold wave. He hated the way it felt like having ice-water poured over his head — more than that, he hated how much Kenshi's disapproval effected him. With Cris, the nervousness came out of frustration more than anything, but... he wasn't even sure what it was with Kenshi; the man could make or break Johnny's mood with a simple inflection of his voice. It was aggravating, much for the same reason Cristina's influence was — Johnny was an A-Lister. He was supposed to be in control of his emotions. That was like the whole idea of acting — yet there he was, stirring broth into some fancy dish because Kenshi had asked for it, his skin hot because Kenshi was upset with him, his heart pounding because Kenshi—

Because Kenshi—

Because... Kenshi — he... Uh... 

Johnny suddenly felt like he was sweating. Surely, he assumed, because the steam from the pot in front of him was hitting his face, right?

Kenshi what?! His brain panicked. What about him? He glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the way Kenshi's dress shirt tightened over his back as he reached around the counter and how his forearm flexed when he grabbed something, and—

Johnny felt his face scrunch, hand stilling where it held a wooden spoon over the pot. 

I don't like... want him, do I?

Johnny was no stranger to exploring his sexuality, but doing so with his best friend wasn't exactly on the table... or, was it? 

He hadn't even been with a dude romantically before. He had totally banged one, yeah, but he never... loved one. 

Not that he was in love with Kenshi. 

Wait, am I?

When was the last time Johnny had been in love? Right — Cristina. But even then, the whole flowery-shy-crush stage of it all had been years ago. Did he even remember what it felt like? Was this what it had felt like?

Johnny squinted, watching Kenshi's tattooed fingers grip and squeeze and— yep, that's blood in my dick. 

Fuck. 

He turned back to the pot in front of him, startling when he saw it was starting to boil way more than it was supposed to. He quickly adjusted the heat and stirred it, his hands suddenly feeling very sweaty and uncoordinated. He remembered very immediately how: there was feeling a certain way about someone, and then knowing you felt a certain way about them — and that the instant that you did know you felt a certain way about them, you became annoyingly aware of everything that you did. And now — with Kenshi standing right behind him, grating cheese, upset about their bro night getting crashed, and Johnny realizing how totally into him he was — he was rapidly becoming aware of how he was cooking dinner for Kenshi and it had to be perfect. Or else. 

He gripped the spoon in his hand. Or else what?!

Johnny jumped as Kenshi placed a bowlful of shredded cheese next to him. 

"I finished," he said plainly, "is there anything else I can help with?"

Johnny's newly-fried brain wasn't sure if the best case was to send him as far away as possible or to keep him as close as he could. 

This is worse than The Flesh Pit, he thought miserably. And that movie was awful. 

"Red," he said stupidly, staring at Kenshi's blindfold. Johnny cringed as he watched Kenshi's brow furrow.

"...What?"

"Ha. Gotcha." 

Kenshi continued furrowing. Johnny felt the spoon scraping the bottom of his $900 stainless steel Le Creuset pot as he struggled to function like a normal, super-talented, world-and-realm-wide-famous actor/fighter. 

The little version of himself in his head began frantically kicking the lever to the cobweb-covered gears in his brain, desperate for something to make sense of his idiotic "red" comment. Luckily for him, the chef-oriented part of his brain got a whiff of the consommé and took over.

"Like the wine," he laughed, like it was obvious, despite the fact that he was making about as much sense as a Quentin Tarantino timeline.  "There's some Dolcetto in the cellar. It has a flamingo cork."

"Alright," Kenshi said, still seeming a bit confused, but leaving nonetheless. When the sound of his footsteps weren't in range anymore, Johnny threw his hands up in despair and groaned. 

This is so fucked! I can't be in love with Kenshi! 

Thinking it so plainly alone made him want to tear his hair out. He wondered why this was so complicated in the first place — he had always been smooth with people, even the guys he had slept with. Why was this any different? Even Cristina, despite having made him feel a little nervous during their flirting stage, hadn't freaked him out like this. 

Maybe it was how much he had to lose if he lost Kenshi. 

Again, Johnny tried not to pull his hair out at that thought. 

Becoming a divorcé was decidedly the worst thing to happen to him. Suddenly, he cared about things like how there was no one waiting for him when he came home; how the Instagram likes and Rotten Tomato audience scores just didn't feel like as much of a fist-bump as they used to. He had gotten over Cristina over the course of his training and Outworld skirmishing, but it didn't change the sudden punch to the face when he had come back to an empty mansion. 

It got easier when he got a new, Cristina's-memory-less place for himself, but it was still lonely. When Kenshi came over, it had been so refreshing to wake up and have a reason to make a full pot of coffee; to cook a large portion for more than just leftovers; to have someone to parade around California's too-expensive restaurants and overcrowded beaches; to watch his movies with and explain the little things to — even Cristina hadn't let him do that when they were together. But Kenshi always listened and shook his head, and he remembered which movies sucked and which ones were Johnny's favorites, and made suggestions even Johnny hadn't thought of. He made Johnny laugh in a way Cristina never had, and what the fuck was Johnny doing going out to dinner with her?! He couldn't believe he had let himself get so mixed up with his feelings that he was hanging out with his ex-wife to make up for how much he missed Kenshi. 

And now she was crashing the only time they got to spend together. And it was his fault. 

One might think Johnny Cage, a super-talented, world-and-realm-wide-famous actor/fighter, would know how to manage his emotions, considering doing so was his livelihood. Clearly, there was a reason he was switching to directing. 

He jumped for the millionth time that night as a knock sounded from the front door. 

Damn it. Cris. 

He made sure the consommé wouldn't keel over on him before taking a deep breath and making his way to the entry, opening the door. 

Cristina was dolled up just like she had been on their definitely-not-dates, and Johnny was hit with the realization that they were definitely-totally-dates and that he might need to get his head checked by a doctor. She was not going to be pleased when she realized that there was a third party in his house and that the dinner he had prepared was entirely not in preparation for her visit but the aforementioned third party's. 

"Cris, hey! Like the new Casa de Johnny?" He said instead of, "Please leave, this night is for me and the man I might be in love with."

She hummed speculatively and stepped inside, peering into the living room. Johnny watched helplessly as she walked deeper into his house, taking in the details of his decor choices and furniture layouts. Her judgement meant nothing next to her frustratingly tangible presence. 

From down the hall, he heard the creak of the basement stairs. "Johnny, you have too many bird-shaped corks," Kenshi called, and Johnny felt his soul beg for release as Cristina's head spun toward the sound. 

"Is this right?" Kenshi asked as he came closer, holding a bottle of Beaujolais with a silver goose cork. 

"Yep, spot on. Cris, this is Kenshi," Johnny said, eager to end his own suffering as soon as possible. "He's one of the guys—"

"You met in China. You told me," she interjected, sounding unimpressed. 

At the sound of her voice, Kenshi grew rigid. "Cristina," he said, his tone sounding much like that taut, serious way it had the first couple of times he had talked to Johnny. Johnny wasn't so dense he didn't recall the meaning of it, clear as day: I don't like you. "It's good to meet you." 

Johnny's suffering was decidedly not going to end anytime soon. 

Cristina was staring daggers at him. "I didn't know you were planning on inviting anyone else."

"Well, uh," Johnny grinned, despite the fact that he felt like he had just been asked his professional opinion of the newest Sharknado movie, "every once and a while, Kenshi gets the opportunity to fly in from Japan, and this weekend happened to line up with one of those opportunities."

Cristina glanced between Johnny and Kenshi, and for a brief moment, a chill of anxiety flushed through Johnny as he wondered if she could somehow tell exactly the realization he had just made, and if she could, if she planned on sharing it with the class. 

He wondered then if telling Kenshi was even an option. Johnny had never been a very good secret-keeper to begin with — there was a reason he was forced to sign NDAs for the bigger movies he did. 

Feeling inconsolable for the situation he had stupidly put himself in, Johnny offered the room his flashiest grin and made an excuse about the food burning before taking the Beaujolais from Kenshi and fleeing. 

Johnny liked to believe himself a very smart — and if not smart, at least very pretty — man. Unfortunately, all he had right now was his looks. 

Idiot.

Despite the tension between the three of them being so thick that Sento could break under its weight, for some reason, Johnny's ex-wife stayed. Kenshi wished, not for the first time, that he still had eyes, so he could stare her down — perhaps then it would be more obvious to her how unwelcome she was. 

Kenshi was a sensible person. He knew it was not his place to dictate who Johnny did and did not spend time with; who he did or did not date. But he had spent the last two weeks agonizing over what thing was causing him such foolishness, the last twelve hours agonizing over the fact that it was the most annoying person on the planet, the last seven four hours realizing that the most annoying person on the planet was aggravatingly charming, and the last hour coming to terms with the fact that he was, apparently, not good at sharing. 

Kenshi tried very hard to not hover — it was difficult, considering something in the Báichī was becoming increasingly aggressive, telling him to stay close, as though if he left for too long, Johnny would disappear. So he glued himself to the living room couch and listened as Cristina and Johnny spoke to each other in the kitchen, their voices echoing off of the walls and her heels clicking far too loudly on the hardwood. 

She made Johnny laugh — not that Kenshi should care. He could hear the slight sound of her long nails scratching on Johnny's designer shirt — not that he should care. He could feel the way her presence filled the kitchen alongside Johnny's — not that he should care. 

Kenshi would never have cared so much for any of these details, even if he had noticed earlier on the Johnny-shaped soft spot forming in his chest. But the Báichī was furious about all of these facts. Kung Lao had not been lying: it made Kenshi want to do incredibly stupid things. 

Somehow he held his tongue. Even sat across from her at the dining table, wine glass in his hand, he succeeded in his efforts to not crush the glass when she opened her mouth. 

"We made a new deal with that company I told you about," she said as she savored the food that Johnny had not made for her. 

"That's great!" Johnny told her. His disposition was so cheerful. Kenshi wished he could appreciate it. 

There were such unnecessary things rising in his throat at every turn: a chance to show how well he knew Johnny, how close they were, how much trust the two had in one another — the Báichī was fierce. Kenshi retained his posture by slivers. 

He couldn't even say for sure if this feeling inside of him was love. But he knew for certain it was longing — this desire to go noticed and cared for, to notice and to care for. Maybe that was love. Maybe it was the idiocy. Were they not the same?

Kenshi grit his teeth throughout the dinner, stilted and awkward, unhappy to answer the few questions Cristina had for him, and unsure how to feed into Johnny's ceaseless desire to fill the room with conversation. He hardly enjoyed the meal Johnny had worked so hard to prepare him. 

When they finished eating, Kenshi insisted on cleaning up, mostly to resign himself to the kitchen where he could muffle the sounds of their conversation with running water. Johnny was Johnny, however — too proud to allow such a thing. For some reason, this surprised his ex-wife. The Báichī burned at the chance to say did he not do this for you? He does for me. 

She lingered in the kitchen where they packed away leftovers and filled the sink with dirty dishes. Her and Johnny talked and talked and Kenshi tried to not break his friend's plates. 

It was a small blessing that one of her friends decided to call her at that time. She excused herself to the back porch, relief filling Kenshi as her voice disappeared behind the sliding glass door. 

Where Johnny was washing plates, Kenshi was drying them. They were silent in Cristina's absence, but only briefly. 

"Sorry," Johnny mumbled. 

Kenshi felt like a cat stretching toward the hand of its owner. It was shameful. "For what?" he asked, knowing fully where Johnny's remorse lay. 

"I—" he struggled, which surprised Kenshi. Johnny became still where they were shoulder-to-shoulder. "To be honest, Cris kinda drives me nuts." 

Kenshi snorted. He felt Johnny relax next to him as he laughed himself. 

"I mean, I completely forgot she was coming for dinner. I was just happy to see you," Johnny continued, his tone still light and playful. 

Perhaps, normally, Kenshi would have laughed again and forgiven him quickly. But his nerves were shot and those words were striking him in places he had long forgotten about. 

"Really," Johnny continued, in his now-that-I've-opened-my-mouth-I-can't-stop fashion, "it's crazy, if you had been here, I don't think I would've bothered. It's just awkward when we talk and really, I just don't want to get my ass ripped out from under me, 'cause like, what if she's got something I don't know about? She totally just came out of nowhere, too, wantin' to go out like we used to as if she didn't divorce me a year ago. Isn't that fishy? I mean, she kissed me last week for no reason. But I wasn't into it. It was weird, I dunno. I think I was just hangin' out with her because I couldn't hang out with you. I know that sounds lame, but—"

Kenshi was struck by three realizations:

1) Johnny was certainly not enjoying his time with his ex-wife. 

2) Johnny was only spending time with his ex-wife because he missed Kenshi.

3) Kung Lao was a horrible friend. 

The third might have seemed incongruent, but it surely was not — because the Báichī had decided those words were enough for it to jumpstart itself. 

Kenshi's veins turned icy and his movements were certainly not his own. He felt as his limbs moved for him, dropping the plate he had been drying into the sink, twisting toward Johnny, curling his fingers into designer clothing, and absorbing the nonsense-prattling Johnny had been doing into his own mouth. 

That unbearable hunger raged through him as he practically devoured the other man's lips, his ears hardly catching the sound of a surprised grunt and gasp over the sound of his own heart racing. Johnny's mouth was soft and firm against his own, his chest aligned with Kenshi's where Kenshi was shoving him into the kitchen island, the arch of his nose pressed painfully into Kenshi's, and— Kenshi startled at the feeling of dishwater-wet hands grasping weakly at his sides, soaking through his shirt. 

The feeling was enough for him to rip himself away.

Johnny's breath fanned hot and quick against his face, Kenshi's hands feeling suddenly empty at the loss of their grip on Johnny's collar. He swallowed hard at the lingering taste on his tongue. 

All that icy pain and ravenous hunger was suddenly gone. In its place was deep, wounded longing, no longer disguised as lechery. 

Shame struck him so abruptly. He had certainly done something stupid. He wondered if the Báichī was ever to blame. 

Kenshi could feel himself flustering. He quickly excused himself, hurrying out of the room, feeling completely foolish. Johnny called his name, but he had already submitted himself to cowardice. 

Standing there, watching as Kenshi practically disappeared, feeling entirely dazed, Johnny reached out for the counter for something solid to stabilize himself. 

Cristina decided then was the time to make a reappearance, walking back into the kitchen and doing a double-take at Johnny. 

"Your nose is bleeding," she said, sounding as confused as Johnny felt. 

Johnny reached up and brushed his hand over his sore nose, watching his fingers come back bloody. He licked his lips then, wondering if Kenshi had left his mark there, as well. 

Cristina had the decency to sound concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Uh," he hesitated, "Kenshi..." Kissed me. Hard. 

"Oh," she said, "I'm sorry." 

His brows furrowed in bemusement. "What?" 

She looked back at him with a similar expression. "He hit you?" she clarified, but it sounded more like a question. 

That was certainly one way to put it. "Yeah," he said, looking back at his bloody fingers. He glanced at the direction Kenshi had disappeared to, feeling desperate to follow. 

All that fretting over for the last two hours and Kenshi had made a move before he could. Johnny knew there was a reason he liked the man so much. 

"Do you want me to get a first aid kit?" Cristina asked.

"Actually," Johnny sighed, "I think it's for the best if you go."

She stared at him for a long moment. "Okay," she replied eventually, "do you want to reschedule?"

Frustration crept up on him as he walked over to the sink, cleaning up the blood that was starting to drip over his mouth. "No, Cris, just—" he huffed, the oddity of the situation striking him all over again, "what is all this? The dates, the-the kiss, coming to my house — why?"

For once, she seemed as nervous as he had felt for the last couple of weeks. The only thing she was able to make eye contact with now were her feet, her posture going stiff. 

Johnny noticed the plate in the other side of the sink, the one that Kenshi had been drying before he dropped it. It hadn't broken entirely, but it had a crack in it now. 

"We were together for so long," she spoke, "and at first, it was a very — a very rash, stupid decision: calling you and asking for dinner," she explained, bringing a hand up to her eyes. Johnny tried not to wince as he saw her eyes glazing over. "I knew it was a bad idea, but I just did it and—" she sniffed and seemed torn between smiling and frowning, "you were so different. You were still you, but... you were sweeter." 

Johnny gripped the side of the sink uncomfortably as she continued, "And it made me miss you. So, I asked you to dinner again. And each time, it felt like how we were back when we first got married. It was exciting and, well, I think I just got caught up in it." She laughed a little, but it sounded awkward, "I don't know what I expected. I think maybe I was hoping we would sleep together tonight and it'd feel just like old times, too."

Johnny grimaced, struggling to look at her. "I didn't change for you."

Cristina held her hand over her mouth and took a deep breath. "I know," she whispered. 

"What we had was good, and the dates were fun," he admitted, "but I don't really want that anymore."

She nodded but she was visibly crying now. "I loved you," she said. 

Johnny flinched at the words. A year ago he would've delighted at them. 

"You should go," he repeated, not looking at her. 

He heard her sniffle a few times before grabbing her purse off of the counter, her heels echoing as she walked down the entry way, door creaking as she opened and shut it. Johnny scrubbed his face with his palms as he listened to her car pull out of the driveway. 

Kenshi had not been in love in a very, very long time. It was a liability considering his affiliation with the Yakuza, and anything he had nearing a relationship had only come in the form of one-night stands and hookups. It was safer for them and himself that way.

It made sense why a man who had hardly loved couldn't recognize the signs within himself when he did. He felt sheepish wondering just how long he had felt this way and if it had been at all obvious to others. 

Maybe Johnny had felt safe to fall for because he was so far removed from Kenshi's life back in Japan. Maybe he was just annoying and obnoxious and charming and attentive. Maybe Kenshi was not so immune to love as he thought he was. 

Johnny had to be possibly the most inconvenient person to want — he was a superstar, for crying out loud; he lived in the lights. It was the last thing Kenshi needed when he was trying to escape a life of crime. 

But superstars knew the ins and outs of hiding, too.  Johnny had never dealt with any paparazzi when they were together. Had he always taken the precaution of keeping himself hidden when he was with Kenshi?  

Kenshi's head spun. He was recalling the other reason he had strayed from love: it was torment. 

From outside his room, a sound distracted Kenshi. He reached for Sento, the sword laying just next to him on the bed. With the blade in his hand his vision restored, though cloudy and thinly outlined. 

He peeked out of the window, relaxing as he saw it was only Johnny's ex-wife walking out of the house. A part of him was relieved to see her go, but then it piqued his curiosity — especially when his ears caught a muffled sob. She was wiping her eyes with her hands as she got into her car, pulling the door shut hard and driving away. 

He wondered what had happened. Then, a wave of guilt flooded him: maybe she had seen him kiss Johnny. While he knew Johnny didn't want to be with her, could there be a chance she would use the knowledge as blackmail? Had she taken a picture? 

Kenshi thumped his head on the window pane with frustration. 

It was then that Johnny knocked on his door. 

Damn it. 

Kenshi peeled himself off of the wall and set Sento back on the bed, thoroughly displeased by the anxiety in his stomach. It was a terrible thought to know that where the Báichī had ended, his pining would not. 

"Johnny," he nodded in greeting once he opened the door. The foggy details of his face were almost unbearable — especially the blood stained around his nose. 

"Cris left," Johnny told him. 

Kenshi felt a knot forming in his stomach. He swallowed hard. "Oh. I'm sorry."

Johnny's brow twitched. "I told her to."

Surprise washed over him. His heart must have heard Johnny, because it was beginning to beat faster. 

Johnny was staring at him, waiting for a response. Kenshi felt his skin growing hot. He wasn't sure what to say.

"Do you want me to go?" he ended up asking. 

Johnny huffed rather indignantly in reply, "Don't be stupid, Kendoll." And then he took Kenshi's face in his hands and kissed him. 

Kenshi couldn't help the groan of shock that rose from his throat. Johnny's attention was full of fervor; his stubble scratching against Kenshi's, his grip firm, his lips parted welcomingly — the realization of him wanting this weakened Kenshi's knees. 

Kenshi responded instantly, desperate to show the man just how hungry he had been. 

Kenshi pushed him back, knocking the door shut as he pinned Johnny against it. Johnny grunted from the force, the door rattling on its hinges as their bodies pressed closer to each other. Kenshi could feel the blood pumping in his veins as Johnny's warmth overwhelmed him, one of the hands on his jaw sliding through his hair and pulling hard enough to evoke a moan. 

Kenshi's own hands sought exultation, weaving their way along Johnny's upper body and delighting in the firm muscle beneath his palms. Johnny was responsive to it all, twitching and shifting to meet where Kenshi's hands drifted, as though deprived. Kenshi couldn't imagine how such a man hadn't had his needs met long ago. 

So lost in their closeness, Kenshi hadn't felt Johnny's hands begin their own wandering — the squeeze of a hand on his pectoral drew out a surprised laugh, and Kenshi felt dizzy at the feel of Johnny grinning against his lips. Johnny quickly drew him back in as he began tugging Kenshi's shirt out from where it was tucked in his pants. Once free, his hands eagerly glided over the bare skin, and Kenshi was reduced to gripping onto Johnny's own shirt as he moaned at the touch. 

Kenshi had gotten his fixes when he needed them — but the sex had always been brisk and dreadfully unromantic. No one had touched him like they wanted him. 

"Johnny," he breathed, and the sound of his own name must have lit a fire, because Johnny was moaning back and his hands almost immediately flew to Kenshi's belt. 

Kenshi, while certainly appreciating the enthusiasm, desperately wanted this to last as long as possible. He retaliated by sliding a hand down to Johnny's thigh, pulling him closer, and rolling their hips together. Johnny's fingers lost their traction as both men shuddered from the force of the friction, now very aware of their shared arousals pushing together. 

"Fuck," Johnny gasped, surging forward to kiss Kenshi again. Kenshi responded in like, the two of them sharing another chorus of pleasure when Johnny ground into Kenshi, the door shaking noisily in its frame.

Johnny's hands didn't lose sight of their mission, but shifted focus, now working to unbutton Kenshi's shirt. When he had finally gotten through all of the buttons, he immediately used his new knowledge of Kenshi's weakness against him and scraped his fingernails over Kenshi's tattooed chest. 

Kenshi choked and his hips stuttered, his grip on Johnny's thigh tightening. Johnny used the opportunity to push them away from the door before they broke it, intending to guide Kenshi toward the bed. However, Kenshi had other ideas. 

Perhaps it should not have been a surprise that they made love much like they sparred.

Kenshi swept his foot under Johnny's ankle and knocked him off balance, using the shock of his attack to twist them around and let Johnny hit the bed before Kenshi could. 

"You bastard!" Johnny guffawed, astonished. Kenshi laughed and joined him on the bed, climbing on top of Johnny and kissing him hard. Johnny leaned up into it and pushed Kenshi's shirt off of his shoulders, throwing the damn thing to the floor and grasping at the muscular form hovering over him. Kenshi flushed under the attention, panting into Johnny's mouth as the man pawed and prodded at him. As he reached out to do the same, he was very suddenly aware of the fact that Johnny had not lost his own top yet. 

Determined to fix this, Kenshi reeled Johnny up by his shirt collar, his knees bracketing Johnny's hips. He tried not to lose focus as Johnny began trailing his lips away from Kenshi's mouth, fingers slipping where they were trying to undo the buttons of Johnny's own shirt. An open-mouthed kiss to his neck had him faltering, however, and Johnny used the chance to roll them over. 

Kenshi huffed as Johnny straddled him, Sento's power blessing him with the sight of Johnny undoing his own shirt and tossing it. Kenshi's hands reached out unabashedly, soaking in the feel of Johnny's skin.  Johnny was preening at the attention, flushed red and breathing hard as he stretched into Kenshi's palms. Kenshi bit his lip and dragged his thumbnail over Johnny's nipple, relishing in the startled cry Johnny let out. 

Kenshi couldn't help but sit back up, the desire to attach his lips to Johnny's skin abruptly afflicting him. Johnny didn't seem to mind, even running his fingers through Kenshi's hair again and tugging like a reward. Johnny's hips twitched forward at the scrape of Kenshi's teeth on his skin, and Kenshi finally decided to present his own reward. 

Johnny hissed at the pressure of Kenshi's warm hand cupping him through his pants, cursing loudly as it squeezed. He thrusted into Kenshi's hand and pulled harder at Kenshi's hair as the pleasure shot up his spine. Feeling much needier than he had a moment ago, Johnny reached for his own belt and struggled with shaky hands to undo it. 

Kenshi taunted him with another grope, his tongue swiping over Johnny's nipple  and eliciting more outbursts from the actor. 

"Fucking— ah, you-you—" Johnny growled, forgetting his belt to knot his fingers in Kenshi's hair and tug him away. He shoved Kenshi back against the bed and ground his hips down, both of them responding noisily. 

Johnny's payback was short-lived, as Kenshi curled his calves over Johnny's and rolled them over. Johnny grunted as he was spun again, staring up dizzily at Kenshi's cocky grin. While it was certainly a great look on him, Johnny simply wouldn't stand for it, so he reached down and gave Kenshi a taste of his own medicine. 

Kenshi gasped at the hand covering his clothed cock, Johnny applying pressure in all the right places as he kneaded his palm against Kenshi. He gripped the bedsheets next to Johnny's head and moaned weakly, his forehead falling against Johnny's chest. 

"Yeah," Johnny grunted, his voice rough with arousal but smug in that cocksure way of his, "distracting, ain't it?" 

He sounded much like he had the times he had overthrown Kenshi in their sparring. It was as equally infuriating as it was attractive. 

Two could play that game. 

Johnny reveled in the feeling of Kenshi trembling over him as he arched his back to further push his hard-on into Johnny's hand, excitement sparking through him as Kenshi panted against his skin and reconnected their lips. He continued palming Kenshi through his pants, feeling his own cock ache at the sounds Kenshi was making into his mouth. 

Finally, finally, finally — Kenshi propped himself up on one arm and started undoing Johnny's belt. Johnny's free hand rushed to be an assist, raising his hips up as Kenshi tugged his belt out of his pant-loops. With his belt gone, Johnny moved with just as much thrill to help Kenshi unzip his pants, arching his hips once again to ease the process of Kenshi pulling them down. His briefs went with them, the material all bunched around his thighs. Johnny intended to say something about taking them completely off, as they were very nice and shouldn't be wrinkled, but then Kenshi touched his cock and the words were lost to a groan. 

Kenshi grazed his calloused thumb over the tip of Johnny's cock before taking the base into his fist and stroking, Johnny lost to the overwhelming feeling and sight of his best friend arched over him and tugging his dick. 

"Do you have lube?" Kenshi asked, his voice gravelly. 

Johnny tried not to laugh hysterically as the hand on his cock tightened, "Me? Have lube? You're asking me if I keep— fuck, nightstand, it's in the nightstand!"

Johnny panted as Kenshi crawled over him, craning his head to watch him dig through the nightstand's drawer. Despite it only taking seconds, Johnny felt like it was an eternity before Kenshi was back on top of him. 

"Johnny," Kenshi said, and though his name sounded fantastic coming like that out of the man's mouth, Johnny's balls were seconds away from becoming the new face of Gargamel's Most Wanted posters. 

"What," he panted, staring at Kenshi impatiently. 

"Have you been with a man before?"

Johnny scoffed, "I've been everywhere; on top, on bottom, you name it. Now please touch my dick before I fucking expl—"

Johnny yelped as Kenshi flipped him onto his stomach. He twisted around to fight back, but Kenshi wrangled him back down, just like he would when they trained. Johnny cursed as Kenshi manhandled him, pinning his wrists together behind his back. Johnny could feel himself flustering at the loss of having upper-hand, and squirmed in Kenshi's hold, but stopped when he realized Kenshi was tugging his pants down further and—

"Oh, fuuuck."

Kenshi grinned as Johnny's body instantly reacted to the wet fingers circling his hole. 

"You're fucked up," Johnny laughed breathily into the mattress, his back arching nonetheless as Kenshi massaged him. 

"You are impatient," Kenshi told him, probing his index finger in. Johnny grunted. "And annoying. And obnoxious. And a pain in my ass."

Johnny gasped as Kenshi's finger slipped deeper into him, "I think it's the other way around."

Kenshi couldn't contain a snort. Even when he was desperate, Johnny was still so utterly himself. Kenshi was starving for him. 

"I have wanted you for months," he admitted, curling his finger and listening to Johnny whine. 

"Fuck. I thought I was annoying?" 

"You are," Kenshi hissed, "it's—it's cute."

"You think I'm cute," Johnny choked out, tone mocking. It was lost to another curse as Kenshi fucked his finger into him. 

"To be, ah, honest," Johnny continued, wincing at the feeling of Kenshi stretching him open, "I think I'm super fucking!"

"Super fucking?" Kenshi jeered, pressing his fingertip against Johnny's prostate. Johnny squirmed against his grip and groaned into the sheets. 

"Super fucking gay for you," he choked out, whining as Kenshi pressed another finger into him. 

Kenshi felt his heart flutter in his chest. Johnny might not have been one for words, despite his fondness for never shutting up, but what he had said breached Kenshi all the same. Johnny wanted him. 

Kenshi released Johnny's wrists in favor of leaning over him and kissing him. Johnny moaned into his mouth and used his newly freed hands to reorient his body, one hand cupping Kenshi's jaw like he had earlier. 

They tugged Johnny's pants off completely, the man kicking his shoes and socks off as well. He finally got Kenshi out of his own damn pants and the two of them got settled, with Johnny flat on his back and Kenshi between his thighs. 

Johnny's mind felt hazy as they kissed, still twisting and arching to meet the press of Kenshi's fingers into him. He had one hand gripping Kenshi's inked shoulder and the other wrapped around his cock, stroking him to the same pace Kenshi was fingering him. The two were panting and moaning and cursing, filling the room with their sound. There was a part of Johnny that thought he could stay in this kind of purgatory where he never came but was lavished by Kenshi's presence. Then there was another part of him that felt Kenshi pressing on his prostate again and felt like he would die soon if he wasn't fucked to orgasm. 

Ultimately, the latter won out, because Kenshi was three fingers deep and Johnny swore he could feel that man holding back from exploding into the actor's fist. 

"Ken," he groaned, "are you really telepathic?"

Kenshi's movements slowed down as he processed the question. "Uh. Yes."

"Have you read my mind before?" 

"If I had, don't you think we would have done this sooner?" Kenshi deadpanned.

Johnny huffed, "I'm giving you permission now."

Kenshi's brow furrowed in confusion, but Johnny could tell he was starting to focus. Johnny felt a sensation prod at his brain. 

Fuck me already! he yelled. 

Kenshi retracted and burst into laughter. The sound was wonderful. 

"Alright," he chuckled, and Johnny grinned as Kenshi tugged him closer. 

Kenshi draped himself over Johnny and kissed him again, his breath stuttering as he felt Kenshi's hips dip down and his cock pressing against Johnny's entrance. 

He gripped Kenshi's shoulder and cried out as he felt him sink in, Kenshi groaning in return as he was engulfed by Johnny's warmth. 

"Fuck," Kenshi wheezed, the word punching out of him. Johnny hissed as he bottomed out. 

The two of them breathed hard, Kenshi using every ounce of restraint within himself to wait until Johnny's bone-crushing grip loosened before doing any more.

Eventually, the actor's labored breathing slowed, and he asked Kenshi if he was trying to put him to sleep. Kenshi responded with a shallow thrust and Johnny whined. 

"Johnny," Kenshi panted, setting a slow pace to start. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he moved, a mix of arousal and adoration. He could see the outline of Johnny beneath him, his face red and brows knitted. 

It was the sound of Kenshi saying his name that had Johnny opening his eyes and unashamedly admiring the way his muscular, tattooed form was blanketed over him. Johnny looked between them and groaned at the sight of Kenshi thrusting in and out of him, hand holding Johnny's thigh in a vice grip as he fucked him. 

His attention was redirected to a breathy whimper, and he realized delightfully that it was Kenshi saying his name again. 

Kenshi's skin was painted a lovely crimson, his eyebrows were pressed together, and his jaw was open. Another sound drifted out of him. 

Johnny could feel his elation grow. Oh, he thought, you're noisy. 

It was the most fantastic thing to have ever happened to him — Kenshi had never been much of a talker. For him to hold his mouth open and whine in Johnny's face was like handing a gambling addict a winning lottery ticket. 

Johnny hooked a leg over Kenshi's hip and drew him deeper into him, biting his lip to muffle his own moan in favor of listening to Kenshi's loud, shaky one. 

Yes, yes, yes, he thought, you sound perfect. 

Johnny curled his leg tighter around Kenshi and arched his hips up, once again muffling himself to listen to Kenshi's satisfied cry. 

Johnny knew he was loud himself — he had formed the habit during sex in his twenties mostly to listen to himself. His old self would be disappointed to know someone outranked him. 

"You're doing that on purpose," Kenshi grit out, and Johnny hadn't even noticed the feeling of Kenshi prodding at his head. 

Johnny grinned at him, "You sound great."

Kenshi's skin turned hot at the attention. He stopped his movements and sat up, pulling Johnny along with him. He pushed him further up the bed and pressed his back against the oversized headboard, Johnny now held up only by Kenshi's hands on his thighs, halfway in Kenshi's lap. Johnny was still scrambling to adjust to the position when Kenshi planted a foot on the bed. 

"So do you. Let me listen." 

He pulled Johnny further onto his cock as he thrusted into him hard, savoring the broken moan the man let out. 

Kenshi groaned in return, unrelenting this time as he pushed and pulled Johnny onto him, listening to Johnny properly fall apart.

"Fuck, K-Kenshi—" Johnny was hopelessly trying to keep himself up, his knees too weak and his hands too sweaty. He ended up holding onto the headboard with one hand and Kenshi with the other, too blissed out to feel the pain of his knuckles being mashed between the headboard and the wall.

Both men were drowning the room in their sounds, the two of them loud enough that Johnny briefly wondered if he would get a sound complaint considering they were close to a window, and then promptly forgetting the entire thought when Kenshi hit his prostate again. 

"Fffuck! That-that-that, yep, Kenshi—"

Kenshi was losing himself to the sound of Johnny's whimpers, moaning desperately into Johnny's chest and trying very hard to not finish in the next five seconds. 

Johnny was becoming more and more aware of his cock and how badly it needed to be touched, so he quickly resolved to fix the problem, shoving a hand between himself and Kenshi and whining immediately at how sensitive it was with Kenshi fucking his prostate. 

"Fuck— fuck—"

"Johnny—"

"—Agh, fucking, fuck—"

Kenshi tried not to laugh at Johnny's diminishing vocabulary, which was relatively easy considering he could feel himself nearing the edge. 

"I'm close," he warned, "Johnny—"

"I fucking hear you!" Johnny cried, furiously pumping his cock, "don't you dare fucking stop or I swear I'll kill you!"

His voice was cracking as he ordered Kenshi. It made perfect sense to him that Johnny would be bossy even as he was on the verge of sobbing into his orgasm. 

Kenshi obeyed nonetheless, fully letting go as he fucked Johnny into the headboard, feeling his stomach tighten as he drove into him with less and less coordination, gripping Johnny's hips hard and gasping as he came. 

Johnny threw his head back and cried, eyes squeezed shut as Kenshi pounded into him as he came all over his fist. He could hardly hear Kenshi's own shaky breathing as he released into Johnny, still whimpering and thrusting. 

They practically crumbled back onto the bed, Johnny unable to hold himself up anymore and Kenshi sinking down. They collapsed into each other as they lay down, heaving and sweating. 

Kenshi felt something nudge him and turned his head. There was an outline of Johnny's fist weakly being held up. 

He smacked it. "I am not fist-bumping you after sex."

Johnny pouted, "C'mon, man." 

"No."

Eventually, with regained strength, they would clean up and Johnny would drag Kenshi to his own bedroom, claiming the bed was comfier. Kenshi had felt a bit strange walking through the hallways naked, but Johnny was a very convincing person. 

He had been right, at least, about the bed thing — Kenshi supposed there had to be five layers of memory foam on the damn thing, the way they sunk into it. 

It was painfully domestic, slipping undressed into bed with Johnny and curling his body into him. He could hear his heart beat and his blood flowing and his lungs moving. More than that, he could feel the vibration of Johnny's voice in his chest as he talked and talked, something that apparently worsened after an orgasm. 

Kenshi couldn't even pretend to hate it. It was the most at peace he had felt all year. 

Weeks later, back at Madam Bo's, Kenshi would be joined by Kung Lao and Raiden for breakfast. 

The three of them would catch up over tea and rice porridge, with Raiden elaborating on his absence for the last time Kenshi had been there — apparently he had lost a pretty hefty bet against Kung Lao, and had to do some extra chores. 

Kenshi had applauded him for his dedication to their wager before asking conversationally what it had been for. 

Oddly enough, there was a pregnant pause before Kung Lao cheerfully explained:

"Well, Raiden didn't think I could convince anyone on Earth "with a brain" to take the Báichī potion. I told him I absolutely could. Imagine his surprise when he found out you had taken it! I texted him when he was halfway here." 

Kenshi felt himself stiffen. Kung Lao was chuckling in the memory of his victory, while Raiden had the decency to sit in quiet shame. 

"Forgive me, Kenshi," Raiden spoke remorsefully, "I had no clue you would become the target of Kung Lao's antics."

Kenshi sighed and shook his head, sipping his tea. "I've no hard feelings," he admitted. 

"I'm happy to hear that," Raiden nodded. Beside Kenshi, Kung Lao used the opportunity to rub in his victory. 

"Hear that, Raiden? It works. Look at how relaxed this man is now. You should have seen him a month ago."

Raiden rolled his eyes and Kenshi shook his head again. 

They shifted topics from there, with Kung Lao eventually stepping away to use the bathroom. In his absence, Raiden leaned forward and lowered his voice, as though wanting to go unheard. 

"Does it actually work?" he asked softly. Kenshi tried not to laugh at his efforts to go undetected by Kung Lao, despite the man being in another room. 

He briefly debated with himself whether or not urging Raiden to go through the same steam roller he had gone through was a good idea. 

A small, Johnny-esque voice in his head told him that he should. 

"Yes," he confessed. 

Raiden hummed thoughtfully. "You're telling the truth?"

Kenshi leaned in, meeting Raiden right in the center of the table. "My friend, I don't think there is any other timeline where I have sex with Johnny Cage."

Raiden coughed loudly, flustering as he backed away. Kenshi returned to eating his food in front of him, feeling somewhat embarrassed by the comment he had made; it was the sort of thing Johnny would say. How strange to be afflicted by a lover.

The thought of him made Kenshi hide a smile behind his bite of food, however, so perhaps it wasn't all that bad. 

Kung Lao returned shortly after, asking if he missed anything after taking in the sight of Raiden sitting stiffly in his seat. 

"No," he replied quickly, glancing at Kenshi, who was currently enjoying mouthfuls of porridge in a poor attempt to hide his lovesick expression. It was the sort of thing Raiden had never expected to see from him. 

He decided then that Kung Lao's potion must be a placebo — because if Kenshi were in love with Johnny, then he must have always had the capacity to be an idiot. All he needed was the influence of love.