Chapter Text
Higuruma had not thought about sex in a year.
This was not a point of pride. It was simply a fact. He worked. He slept poorly. He worked again. The equation of his life was simple, efficient, and devoid of variables like desire or loneliness.
"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Kusakabe, his close friend, asked, sprawled across the leather chair in Higuruma's office, as if he owned it. "You look like a ghost wearing a suit."
"Thank you for your concern," Higuruma said, not looking up from his document.
"I'm serious. When's the last time you, well, you know, got laid?"
The pen paused. Higuruma's face remained perfectly neutral.
"That's what I thought." Kusakabe stood, grabbing Higuruma's coat from the rack. "We're going out. Tonight. You're paying. I will call Shiu—"
"I have a deposition at seven tomorrow."
"Then you'll have a very relaxing evening and sleep like a baby. Come on."
This was how Higuruma found himself, three hours later, sitting in a dimly lit booth with a drink he hadn't touched, watching bodies move under coloured lights.
"Relax. You don't have to do anything. Just look. Appreciate. Remember you're a mammal."
Higuruma said nothing. The music was too loud. The air smelled like perfume, sweat, and something sweeter. He was distinctly, acutely uncomfortable.
Then he saw him.
And Higuruma forgot to breathe.
The man was tall, all lean muscle and long limbs that moved as though through water, through honey, through some denser medium than air. He was pale. Not the pallor of illness or exhaustion, but pale like cream left to settle, like marble warmed by the sun, like the underside of a petal. His skin seemed almost luminous under the coloured lights, smooth and soft and utterly, desperately touchable. Higuruma's fingers twitched against his glass.
He let his gaze roam—and God.
God.
The man's body was a study in deliberate construction, sculpted by hours of devotion; his parents should be thanked daily. His shoulders were broad, his chest full and defined, pectorals that curved with perfect masculine grace. And they were large. Substantial. The kind of chest that belonged in classical statuary, that demanded to be mapped by reverent hands. The kind of chest that, Higuruma thought with sudden, startling clarity, would fit perfectly against his palms. His pink nipples stood in sharp, lovely contrast to the pale expanse of his chest, two small betrayals of vulnerability on a body otherwise composed and formidable. They caught the light with each subtle movement, and Higuruma thought, with the distant part of his brain not currently consumed by want, that they looked like they would taste of salt and warmth.
Higuruma tried not to look like a desperate man who wanted to get laid, so he focused on the man's face.
Yes, his face. Not on his waist—small, almost impossibly narrow, a perfect cradle for hands that wanted to hold. Not on the curve of his spine where it dipped into the small of his back. Not on his ass, perky and round and hugged by fabric that seemed specifically designed to make men like Higuruma reconsider every life choice that had led them to this moment.
He did not look. He absolutely did not look.
He looked at the face instead.
And, alas...
Magnetic wouldn't do this man justice.
Magnetic was for pretty faces and pleasant smiles, for charming bartenders and charismatic coworkers. Magnetic was too small, too common, too easily earned.
This man was far, far beyond such a word.
Sharp cheekbones, soft lips, and gentle eyes. A line of black ink bisected the bridge of his nose like a river on a map. Like a seam. Like a god had taken a single brushstroke and declared this one finished, perfect, complete. His hair was caught in two neat pigtails, dark as oil, dark as the space between stars. But some strands had escaped, falling loose across his forehead, softening the severity of his features. They swayed with each step, a deliberate counterpoint to the fluid roll of his hips.
"You're staring," Kusakabe teased as he leaned in.
Higuruma's jaw was loose. His mouth was open. He closed it.
"That," he heard himself say. "Who is that?"
He had meant to sound casual. He had meant to sound merely curious. Instead, his voice came out rough, scraped clean of pretense.
Kusakabe raised an eyebrow but mercifully said nothing. He gestured to the bartender, who leaned in at his signal.
"New guy," the bartender said, wiping a glass with slow, methodical movements. "Started three weeks ago. Name's Choso."
Choso. The name settled into Higuruma's chest. What a unique name.
"He's got a face like a ukiyo-e print," Kusakabe murmured, watching Choso move through his set. He took a slow sip of his drink, not even bothering to hide his grin. "And I know you've got it bad for someone like him."
Higuruma said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on the stage.
"Let me guess, your type?"
Still nothing. Higuruma's jaw was set, his expression carefully neutral.
Kusakabe snorted. "On second thought, do I even need to ask? Your jaw hit the floor so hard I'm surprised it didn't crack the tile." He mimed the motion, letting his mouth fall open in exaggerated shock. "Right there. First second you saw him. I watched it happen. Your brain just—" He made a buzzing sound, circling his finger beside his temple. "Completely offline. Blue screen of death. Nothing but static and that man's face."
Higuruma's left eye twitched.
"I've never seen a man lose consciousness while remaining standing before. Impressive, really. You should thank me. This is what friends are for. We drag you to strip clubs so you can experience genuine neurological events."
"He's performing," Higuruma said tightly.
"And you're watching like he's the final argument in a case you've been working on for years. It's almost romantic."
"You were drooling," Shiu added.
"I was not."
"Small amount. Barely noticeable. But definitely present." Shiu tilted his glass in a toast. "Welcome back to the land of the living, my friend. You've been dead so long I forgot you could do that."
Higuruma said nothing. Only scoffed and rolled his eyes. Minutes passed. The music shifted. Choso moved through his set with that fluid, unhurried grace, and Higuruma very carefully did not track his every movement with the focus of a hawk surveying its prey.
Perhaps Kusakabe and Shiu had finally dropped it. Perhaps the teasing had run its course. Perhaps—
"All right," Kusakabe said. "I concede."
"You're not fooling anyone." He nodded toward Higuruma's lap, toward the small visible tension in his thighs, the way he'd been sitting unnaturally still since Choso appeared. "You came in here looking like you haven't been touched in years. Like you need to fuck someone so badly it's practically dripping out of your pores. The question is whether you still remember how."
Higuruma looked at him sharply.
"What?" Kusakabe shrugged. "I have eyes. He looks fuckable, and please, I know you think the same." A pause. His gaze flicked to the stage, to Choso's pale skin and the dark ink bisecting his face, the full chest barely contained by thin fabric. "Look at him. Those thighs alone could squeeze a man senseless. And his mouth—fuck. You know what that would feel like wrapped around—"
"Kusakabe."
"What? I'm just observing." He shrugged, utterly unrepentant. "But here's the thing. If you're not going to do anything about it, if you're just going to sit here with your jaw on the floor and your dick hard and your hands in your lap like a fucking monk, then I will."
Higuruma's gaze snapped to him.
"I'll take him home tonight." Kusakabe held his eyes, calm and deliberate. "And Shiu will join me because I know he has a thing for men with big tits and black hair. We'll take our time. Figure out exactly what sounds that pretty mouth makes when someone's fucking him properly." He smiled, slow and sharp. "It's been a while since we had a threesome. We'd enjoy it. And Choso—" He glanced toward the stage, appreciative. "Choso looks like he'd enjoy being enjoyed."
Higuruma looked back at the stage.
Choso had reached the end of his set. He stood at the center of the stage, breathing evenly, his hair catching the light. The tattoo caught the light. Everything about him caught the light.
He bowed his head once, a gesture of quiet finality, and turned to leave.
"Do it," Shiu said.
"Do what?"
"You know what."
"Lap dances." Kusakabe was already raising his hand, catching the attention of a nearby hostess. "And you're sitting right here. In a booth. In public." He grinned, sharp and merciless. "Consider it exposure therapy."
"This is not—"
But Kusakabe was already leaning toward the hostess, murmuring something that made her nod and smile. Higuruma caught his own name, an amount of money that made him wince, and the word "Choso."
"You both are terrible friends," he said.
"I'm an excellent friend." Kusakabe settled back into his seat. "I'm helping you remember you're a human being with human needs. You're welcome."
Higuruma opened his mouth to respond, to do something that wasn't sitting here like a supplicant waiting for an audience with a god, but when he looked up, Choso was walking toward him.
"This seat?" His voice was low, measured. He indicated the space beside Higuruma with a tilt of his chin.
"Yes," Kusakabe said, before Higuruma could speak. "He's all yours."
Choso's gaze shifted to Higuruma. He was even more beautiful up close. It should have been impossible.
"May I?" Choso asked.
Higuruma nodded. His throat had closed.
Choso’s body followed some internal rhythm. The roll of his hips was slow, deliberate, unhurried. His spine curved and straightened in a continuous wave. His hair brushed Higuruma's cheek, silk-smooth, smelling of sandalwood and clean sweat. Higuruma could see the faint sheen on Choso's throat. The pulse beating there, steady and unhurried. The way his lashes lowered slightly when he moved through a particular rotation of his hips. He was so close. Higuruma could count his eyelashes.
And he was so beautiful that Higuruma could barely think.
The arousal came fast and ruthless, a physical shock. He was hard within thirty seconds, his hands frozen awkwardly at his sides because he didn't know where it was acceptable to touch, if he was allowed to touch at all. The weight of Choso on his lap was unbearable and insufficient simultaneously.
Choso glanced down at him—finally, finally meeting his eyes. His hips continued their slow, relentless rhythm—rolling, circling, grinding with unhurried precision. His hands found Higuruma's shoulders for balance. His fingers pressed lightly through the wool of the suit jacket. His touch was warm, firm, utterly impersonal. His weight pressed down, settled deeper, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric between them. His thighs tightened against Higuruma's hips, gripping, holding, and when he shifted just so, just right, the hard line of his body rolled directly against the aching, desperate hardness straining beneath Higuruma's trousers.
And Higuruma realized, with dawning horror, that Choso could feel exactly how hard he was.
It had been almost a year.
Eight months exactly since anyone had touched him with anything approaching intimacy. Eight months of cold sheets and empty apartments and the efficient, mechanical release of his own hand in the shower, hurried and joyless. Eight months of pretending he did not have a body, did not have needs, did not ache for the weight of another person against his own.
And now Choso was on his lap, moving like water, his pink nipples visible through sheer fabric and his stoic face divided by ink and his creamy skin glowing under the colored lights. It was a visceral sensation, a physical clench deep in his groin. His entire body tightened, arched toward that casual, devastating touch. A sound escaped his throat—not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, something humiliating and honest and raw. It didn’t help when Choso's hips rolled forward. The pressure shifted. Higuruma's dick jumped.
Oh, fuck.
Kusakabe's wolf whistles cut through the music. Shiu's low chuckle rumbled somewhere in the background. Their teasing, their commentary, their fucking presence—all of it dissolved into static, white noise behind the roaring in Higuruma's ears.
Because who in their right mind would care about anything else?
His walking wet dream was on his lap. Warm and solid and so fucking beautiful it hurt. Choso's fingers slid from Higuruma's shoulder to the curve of his neck, resting lightly at the junction of throat and collarbone. His thumb brushed once, twice, across the pulse hammering there. His face did not change. His expression remained perfectly neutral, perfectly professional. And those hips worked him like an instrument. His chest was right there. Almost bare skin, pale and smooth, the dusky pink of his nipples at perfect eye level. Higuruma could lean forward two inches and taste him. Could drag his tongue across that salt-warm skin, could take that soft pink bud between his lips and suck until Choso made a sound that wasn't composed or professional. He wanted to touch. He wanted to taste. He wanted to bury himself inside this beautiful, impassive man and feel him finally, finally react.
He didn't. He couldn't. His hands remained fisted at his sides, knuckles white, nails biting into his palms.
But God, he wanted to.
Choso rolled his hips again—slower this time, deeper, a full-bodied undulation that dragged his entire length across Higuruma's straining cock. The friction was obscene. The pressure was exquisite. Higuruma's breath caught, fractured, escaped as something close to a groan.
Choso heard it. His lashes lowered, just slightly. His hips kept moving.
Behind them, Kusakabe was saying something. Shiu laughed. The world continued turning.
Higuruma didn't notice any of it. All he knew was the fact that he was going to come in his pants like a teenager. He was going to come in his expensive tailored trousers, in a public booth, with a beautiful stranger on his lap and his friends watching from across the table. He was going to come, and it was going to be humiliating, and he was not sure he could stop it.
"You're supposed to breathe," Choso murmured. His voice was low, barely audible over the music. Higuruma breathed, and the song ended. Choso rose smoothly, his weight lifting from Higuruma's lap. His hand withdrew from Higuruma's neck. The warmth of his body receded, leaving cold air in its wake.
He adjusted his hair, the pigtails settling against his shoulders. His expression remained perfectly composed, perfectly neutral. His pink nipples were still visible through the sheer mesh. His creamy skin still glowed under the lights. His tattoo still bisected his beautiful, stoic face.
"Thank you," he said quietly, and turned to leave.
"Wait."
Higuruma's voice came out rough, scraped raw. His hand was already moving, reaching for his wallet, pulling out bills without counting them. He thrust them toward Choso. Too much, absurdly too much, three times the cost of the dance.
"For—for your time."
Choso looked at the money. Then at Higuruma's face. His gaze was unreadable, those dark eyes moving slowly across Higuruma's flushed cheeks, his parted lips, the betraying tent in his trousers.
He took the bills.
"Thank you," he said. His voice was soft, neutral, revealing nothing.
He disappeared into the crowd. The pigtails swayed once, twice, and then he was gone.
Kusakabe was staring at him with something between awe and hilarity.
"Your face."
Higuruma didn't respond. He was watching the door through which Choso had disappeared.
"You're a goner," Shiu added. "A complete, utter, absolute goner."
"Yes," Higuruma said.
"Wait. You're not denying it?"
"No."
A pause. Kusakabe's expression shifted from glee to something more sober.
"He's really that beautiful, huh?"
Higuruma thought of ink on skin, dark as a river, dark as a seam. He thought of depthless eyes and the weight of a stranger's body against his.
"Yes," he said. "He really is."
Higuruma finished his drink in one long swallow. The liquor burned, but not as much as the arousal still throbbing between his legs.
"Another?" Kusakabe asked.
"No." Higuruma set down the glass. His hand was not quite steady. "I need to—I want to—"
He looked toward the door through which Choso had vanished. The crowd had swallowed him completely.
"Ask him," Shiu suggested. "For an escort. Tonight."
Higuruma was already rising from his seat. His legs felt unsteady. His heart was pounding. He did not examine his intentions, did not weigh the consequences. He simply moved.
He found Choso near the back corridor, adjusting his hair in a small mirror. Their eyes met in the reflection.
"Choso."
Choso turned. His expression was patient, expectant. Professional.
"Was the dance unsatisfactory?"
"No." Higuruma's voice was too rough, too urgent. He forced himself to slow down, to breathe. "No, it was—you were—"
He stopped. Started again.
"Do you accept escort services? For the night."
Choso was very still. His face did not change, but wariness flickered in his eyes.
"I don't," he said. "I've never accepted that kind of service."
The words were gentle but final. A door closing.
Higuruma absorbed them. The arousal was still there, throbbing insistently, but beneath it something else rose—disappointment, yes, but also respect. Understanding.
"I see," he said. "I apologize. I shouldn't have asked."
"It's all right. You're not the first to ask."
"I'm sure I'm not." Higuruma paused. "Will you be here again? Next week?"
Something shifted in Choso's expression. Surprise, perhaps. He had expected Higuruma to leave, to retreat in embarrassment. Instead, Higuruma was still standing here, still looking at him, still asking.
"Yes," Choso said slowly. "I work Fridays and Saturdays."
"Friday, then." Higuruma inclined his head. "I'll come back."
He turned to leave. His erection had not fully subsided, but he could walk. He could function. He could go home to his empty apartment and his cold sheets and pretend he had not just experienced the most devastating 15 minutes of his adult life. He walked back through the club. His heart was still pounding. His body was still aching. His mind was already counting the days until Friday.
Kusakabe and Shiu were waiting by the exit.
"Well?"
"He doesn't do escort."
Kusakabe winced. "Sorry, man."
"It's fine." Higuruma reached for the door. "I'll come back on Friday."
Kusakabe blinked. "You're serious."
"Yes." Higuruma stepped out into the cool night air. "He didn't say I couldn't watch."
Behind him, Shiu let out a low whistle.
"You've got it bad," he said. "Real bad."
Higuruma didn't answer. He was already thinking about ink on pale skin, about pigtails swaying, about a stoic face and pink nipples and the weight of a stranger's body against his.
Friday, he thought. Three days