Chapter Text
There aren’t many reasons why Osamu should be at the strip club on a Monday afternoon. The sun is still out and the neon light on the front that reads Dollhouse in curly lettering is still shut off. Osamu’s eyes linger on the sign, at the dancer spinning around a pole in place of the first letter L, meant to glow pink. By the looks of it, the place is just as sleazy as its name suggests, though Osamu’s not in any place to be picky.
He’s come to drop off his resume, the old fashioned way with a printed copy in his two hands. It’s a last ditch effort, after Osamu tried a couple diners and another bar in the area with no luck. The security guard in the front lets him in, once he pleads his case, telling him to make it quick. The dancers are about to start rehearsals.
The chairs are still legs up on the tables and there’s no music on the speakers. The only two people in the room are standing by the bar on the left, one behind the bar, and one in front, leaning on the table top.
And as if the quiet, clean, brightly lit nightclub isn’t unsettling enough, his task of begging for a job doesn’t get any easier when Osamu finds himself face to face with some of the prettiest boys he’s ever seen.
He watches the taller one read the name at the top of his CV, then look up at him inquisitively.
“Hi, Osamu. I’m Keiji.”
He stretches his hand out and Osamu shakes it.
Osamu’s doing his best to keep his cool, but that face. If Osamu saw him on the street he would turn his head to look twice. Probably a third time too.
“This is Kita-san,” Keiji adds.
He’s still holding Osamu’s hand as he nods over to the bartender. He’s got pearly silver hair with the tips dip dyed jet black. He’s wearing mermaid blue eyeshadow and over the top artsy eyeliner, silver glitter in the corner of his eyes.
“Nice to meet you,” he says politely.
“A pleasure,” Kita-san replies, looking disinterested.
“Do you have any experience working at a bar or club? Or in security?”
“I’m a full time fighter and I can learn fast.” At this Keiji looks back up at him, shamelessly doing him a once over.
“MMA or…?”
“I’m a boxer,” Osamu answers. “I’m just looking to make a bit of extra cash on the weekends. I can do anything you guys need me to.”
His day job takes up most of the hours Osamu can lend to a regular job with regular hours. So he has to adapt.
“Mmhmm.”
He looks back down at the resume and Osamu can’t help but think he’s only pretending to read it.
“So… are you the boss around here?”
“I’m on stage,” Keiji answers. He gestures vaguely to his outfit with the piece of paper. Sparkly spandex shorts, a Kali Uchis graphic tee cropped with scissors, and bare blistered feet in rubber Adidas slides. It must be his practice outfit. “Is it not obvious?”
Osamu feels his face heat. “Oh, I didn’t want to assume anything.”
“Dressed like a hooker and he didn’t want to assume anything,” he repeats mockingly, turning to his friend with a look that says, can you believe the nerve?
“Being polite won’t get you much around here. You’ll only end up hurting a girl’s feelings,” Keiji says coyly. He smiles with his tongue between his teeth, first at the bartender, then at Osamu.
Osamu swallows nervously, unable to tell if he’s being threatened or flirted with. It doesn’t seem like Keiji takes him very seriously.
The bartender reaches to swipe Osamu’s resume from Keiji’s hands.
“How soon can you start?”
Osamu’s voice comes out gruff, affected. “I’m available this weekend. Or whenever you guys need the extra hands.”
“You’ll hear back from us,” Keiji promises him.
___
To his surprise, the next time he sees Keiji isn’t at the club, but when he shows up for training at the gym the next day.
Osamu’s new gym is a couple blocks away from the club. It’s a mixed martial arts studio, technically, but Osamu’s there to box. The gym sits in a seedy area, amidst graffiti and knife crime reports, alleyways that reek of piss. But there’s a couple of gems, with good people who have been around for a long time, and it’s become a tight-knit community. Everybody knows everybody, at the barbershop and the mechanic that mods cars for street races on the block. The boxing gym is another one of these gems.
He’s the last one on his team to arrive, with Aran and Atsumu already having made the move ahead of him a few weeks ago.
He's settling into a familiar training routine with Aran, when Keiji shows up in the afternoon. There’s a big man with him carrying his bag, who opens the door to let him through and sticks close behind him.
“A f*cking guard dog?” Osamu says, eyes following them around the room. “What the f*ck is this?”
“Who, Bokuto? He’s like an older brother to him.”
His gloves connect with the pads in the series Aran calls out to him.
“You’re my older brother and you do not carry my sh*t around. Or stare at my ass like that.”
Aran swipes with the pad and Osamu barely manages to duck in time.
“Don’t run your mouth if you can’t keep it together.” Aran steps back, cutting their conversation short as the timer goes off.
“Speak to the boss about getting you some proper gloves before your fight. Those ones are a mess,” Aran says.
“Which boss is that?”
“Keiji should be able to help you.”
Osamu has to bite down a groan.
It isn’t that Osamu can’t handle the princess attitude. He would be lying if he said it didn’t turn him on at least a little bit.
But Keiji must know how spoiled he looks, parading around the studio like he owns the place.
He approaches Osamu between rounds at the speed ball, judging eyes raking over him.
“You know last time daddy picked talent off the street it lost him a lot of money,” he says.
Osamu uses his teeth to rip the velcro on his gloves apart.
“Yeah well this isn’t a f*cking joke to me. I’m not doing this for fun.”
“Right,” Keiji scoffs sarcastically, and Osamu feels disdain knot in his chest. “You’re tough. You’re not dancing, you’re fighting. This is how you survive.”
“What would you know about that?”
“Me?” He lets out a kind of forced, disappointed laugh. “You think I’m in this just for fun?”
Osamu looks up from his gloves, meeting his scrutinizing eyes with a glare of his own.
Keiji composes himself with a sudden quickness, face straightening into unreadable lines.
“Look I came over to tell you that you got the bouncer gig. We expect you Friday at 8.”
Osamu finds a seat next to Hajime, who’s re-wrapping his hands. They’re meant to spar next. Good thing too, because Keiji’s put Osamu in a f*cking mood.
“What the f*ck is his deal?”
“Who?”
Osamu nods in Keiji’s direction. “The princess.”
Hajime smirks at Osamu’s nickname.
The two of them get along well. Osamu knows he’ll probably learn a thing or two, sticking around close to him. Last year he went undefeated.
“I think his dad originally wanted him to fight for the club. He stopped supporting him completely when he quit. Said he wanted to do other things.”
“He would rather dance?”
Hajime shrugs. “Probably not at the club. But bills have to get paid somehow.”
Osamu only allows himself a second to take this information in, feeling unnerved.
“Why is he around here so much then?”
“Why are you so curious?” Hajime asks, his face twisting up. “Ask him yourself if you wanna know that bad.”
“I’m just— trying to get to know my surroundings,” Osamu says, failing to play it cool.
“I don’t expect they play nice in that business. It can’t hurt to learn how to defend yourself.”
“Osamu!” He turns his head at the sound of his name. Aran beckons him to the ring. “Two minutes. Then you two are up next.”
___
It doesn’t take Osamu longer than a couple weekends at the club to figure out that earning trust around here doesn’t look much different from the way it does at the boxing gym. Respect the vets who have been here longer than you. Lower your gaze and don’t take it personal, the flirty giggles and empty catcalls. It goes the same with trash talk in the ring.
He overhears Keiji speaking about him one night, sat on the steps outside the back with one of the other dancers. The one that looks like him, only taller and with curlier hair. Kiyoomi. Osamu’s still learning everybody’s names, but these two are a package duo.
He can smell the weed they’re smoking before he catches a glimpse of them, pausing in the hallway to eavesdrop. He leans against the wall of the corridor and holds his breath.
“He won’t last till the end of the month,” Keiji decides. “He’s too polite.”
Kiyoomi plucks the blunt from Keiji’s fingers, pinched between two manicured fingernails. “You realize that’s exactly what everyone was saying about you on your first day.”
“I wasn’t this bad,” Akaashi retorts.
“You were worse, Keiji. Tooru used to call you a prude. And she said you danced like a virgin.”
Keiji laughs, all soft and sweet from the warm buzz sinking into his bloodstream. Out of everything, this feels like the one thing too intimate for Osamu to hear.
“Don’t you remember?” Kiyoomi asks.
Keiji groans at the memory. “That audition was so f*cked.”
Osamu turns his head away from them, letting their voices fade out.
Usually the arrival of new staff outside of the ones working poles don’t demand this much attention or gossip. As much as Osamu will deny it, Kita tells him it’s because he’s good looking, respectful, and kind to them, unlike most of the men they see around this place. Osamu’s careful not to let it go to his head.
He spends a lot of time with Kita, because they have him doing extra tasks to help with the bar too, handling liquor and produce deliveries, or taking out the trash. Rookie duties.
Tonight, he’s lugging a crate of empty liquor bottles he’s bringing out of the bar to the back for recycling.
“Are you sure you can handle all that at once?” Kita asks.
“Oh, he can handle it,” Tooru answers for him, watching Osamu heave the load into his arms with a soft grunt. The sequins on her skirt reflect in a pattern against the wall behind her. “Both hands, baby. Just like that,” she teases, the innuendo making Osamu blush.
As often as he hears it, he isn’t immune to their empty flirting yet.
“Let me show you where we want them.”
He follows the click-clack of her heels and her swishing feathery ponytail down the hallway from the bar towards the back door.
Over the crate in his arms obstructing his vision, he almost runs into Keiji when he emerges from the dressing room.
“Oh—”
“My bad,” he grunts softly.
“Oh. Keiji,” Tooru brightens immediately. “You’ve met Samu already, right?”
“Yes,” Keiji says, looking at Osamu. He backs himself up to lean against the wall, hands behind his back. “Miya-san and I know each other.”
“We’re at the same boxing gym,” Osamu supplies.
Tooru turns her head. “So you’re daddy’s latest project?
Osamu thinks it’s a little uncanny that they all know who Tooru is referring to.
“I’ve actually never met him, he hasn’t come by the gym or anything.”
Tooru scoffs at this. “He doesn’t show up for his own son, don’t expect him to make an exception for you.”
Osamu looks at Keiji expectantly. One look at his blank expression and everything falls into place.
How could he have been so stupid?
“Oikawa-san, we received the replacement bulbs for the vanity light that went out.”
“Samu can look into changing them after we finish this,” Tooru says, gesturing to the bottles. “That good with you?”
“Of course.”
Tooru nods her head towards the door, snapping her fingers as she starts to strut forward. “Let’s keep it moving then.”
___
“Ay, take it in! Take it to his body.”
Aran’s coaching him from the mat, clapping his hands together. His footsteps feel light shuffling on the canvas.
“Keep it tight!”
Osamu lunges up close and tucks his elbows in to hit his partner with close range jabs, rapid fire strikes to the chin and chest. He hisses out an exhale with each punch.
“That’s it. Keep him there.”
He’s fighting to push him off but Osamu deals damage too quickly. He can hear it, when a particularly nasty punch to the gut drains all the air from his partner’s lungs.
“And time!” Aran claps his hands together in place of a bell.
Osamu can feel the soreness in his back already sinking into his muscles, and he rolls his shoulders to shake it out. His tank top is soaked.
“Let’s take a breather, yeah? Good work.”
Osamu ducks under the cables and jumps to the floor, scooping up his towel.
Osamu goes over to the sparsely stocked weight training section of the gym to get some water and spots Keiji adjusting his weights at the Smith machine.
He hasn’t gotten a chance to speak to him yet, to apologize about their rocky start. Osamu’s always been the type of person to address conflict as soon as he feels a shift in energy.
Keiji is dressed in little basketball shorts and a tank top. He’s not wearing makeup but his lips are pink and glossy.
Osamu figures he won’t get a better opportunity.
“Can I help you?”
He hopes Keiji can sense he’s just looking for an in to talk to him.
Keiji assesses him for a moment. Then, he steps away from the bar to make room for Osamu.
“Yeah, okay. Please. 65 on each side,” he requests.
Osamu steps in to handle it.
“I saw you in the ring just now,” Keiji says evenly. “You looked good.”
“Thanks. I’m trying to get a good momentum going. Fight is in a couple weeks.”
“Mmhmm.”
Osamu turns to face him. “Will you be there?”
“There’s always a rowdy crowd the first night for a new fighter. Your whole team will be there.”
“And you?” Osamu asks, pushing for a direct answer.
Keiji studies him, perhaps caught off guard by the sudden switch up in Osamu’s attitude, looking for a sign in his demeanor that he’s being insincere.
When he doesn’t find it, he replies, “Well yeah. I have to represent my dad.”
“Look, I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for assuming about that.”
Keiji’s shoulders loosen. “It’s alright. Everyone does.”
“Yeah but that doesn’t mean it’s cool. It was sh*tty of me to jump to conclusions, and I really don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot. We’re training together and we’re coworkers too…”
Keiji shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. You make it up to me by getting us a win.”
He’s surprisingly quick to forgive him, Osamu thinks. Lucky, because he wasn’t expecting it.
“And you’ll be there?”
“I’ll be there,” Keiji promises. “Dressed up nice and everything.”
Osamu holds his gaze until Keiji looks away first, reeling from the intensity.
Osamu swears he sees something more coy flash across his face.
“Thank you for this,” Keiji says, referring to the weights.
“Any time.”
___
The energy on fight night is electric.
Osamu talks a lot of sh*t at the weigh in, almost enough to start a premature slug out, but he comes out of the tunnel calm, locked in.
This fight was arranged to get him on his feet, with some middle of the pack opponent with six years on him. It’s supposed to be an easy win, but he isn’t going to rush it.
They pass the first couple rounds exchanging quick blows to get a feel for range. He tries a shot to the jaw and it’s dodged narrowly, but he spots that opening early on.
The rubbery taste of the guard in his mouth is familiar, and with his blood running hot like this he can feel the sweat dripping down his back, the skin over his flexed shoulders glistening. He’s in his element in the ring. All the nerves and tension of the last few weeks dissipate instantly.
A few of his opponent’s feints connect, and they connect hard. He dodges out of a corner, loosens his body to shake it off. The sweat in his eyes stings and has his vision blurry.
He hears Atsumu shouting at him to keep his hands up.
Nothing pisses him off like Atsumu telling him what to do in the ring. The upside is that connecting with his anger tends to do good things for him.
He finishes the round seething, pushed into his seat in the corner. His nostrils flare with each breath. There’s blood staining the gold embroidery on his white shorts that he hopes isn’t his.
Aran has to shout to be heard over the crowd. He’s on about pacing and intensity. Osamu wants to focus, except Keiji’s there in the Inarizaki box. He’s seated next to Kiyoomi, fanning himself with a pamphlet. He whispers something to Kiyoomi, smirking.
Osamu wipes his face with the towel.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” His eyes don’t even budge. Keiji crosses his legs and the way his thighs shift against each other in his mini skirt, he knows the skin between them must be dewy with sweat.
He’s snapped out of it. Literally, because Aran slaps his palm to Osamu’s face to jerk his head around. “I said, what the f*ck are you looking at?”
Osamu spits his mouth guard into the bucket lifted to his chin. His lip is split and bloody. Someone stuffs a tube in his mouth to rinse him out.
“Is your head in this?”
He nods. Ice hits his shoulders and it’s so cold on his body that it stings. He feels the pulsing muscles in his back tense, then loosen. The familiar smell of petroleum jelly mixes with iron.
“Huh?”
“Yes sir.”
“I want you focused,” Aran tells him, pushing the guard back into his mouth. “This should’ve been over two rounds ago.”
It goes down quickly after that. The new intensity catches his opponent off guard. He follows up each attempt at a feint with a hit that lands hard. Left hook into his gut that sends him stumbling back, dazed and short of breath. He strikes him again, the same punch, and one more time, twisting his hips to put his weight into it.
When his defensive stance crumbles, Osamu doesn’t miss the chance. The punch he lands on his jaw connects hard enough Osamu sees it jerk out of place. The sound of leather on elastic wet skin is a sharp crack.
He hits the mat on his side with a thud that fights through a roaring crowd, and he doesn’t get back up.
Osamu makes sure he’s looking at Keiji when the ref is raising his fist into the air, sucking the blood off the front of his pink teeth.
There won’t be any real partying, because Osamu’s working his way into a regular fight schedule, which means his dieting is strict.
But a single cheat meal will slide.
It’s Aran’s treat. They’re queued in line for cheeseburgers at a drive through, with Aran dangling his hand out the window. Atsumu is making a ruckus in the back, recounting Osamu’s steps in the last round as Suna goes through the photos taken by the media team representative.
Through the rear view mirror, Osamu spots Atsumu grabbing the phone. “Who are those two, by the owner? Is that Keiji?”
Suna’s smirk is irritatingly audible in his voice. “Why don’t you ask Samu? They came for him.”
“Nah, cut the bullsh*t right now,” Aran interjects. “The boss’ kid is off limits.”
“What’s this, Samu? You like the dancer?” Suna makes an oooh noise from the backseat, while Atsumu exhales through his lips. “I can’t blame you, can I? He looks sexy in the gym, but on a pole…”
“Shut the f*ck up!”
Suna and Atsumu erupt into cackles. If Osamu hadn’t just finished his match, he’d lean back there to smash his brother’s face in.
“Aran, why don’t you drive us to the club instead? My brother’s just made some money we can spend.”
“You f*cking dickhe*d— don’t touch my money!” Osamu threatens.
“Samu, do you even know what to do with all that? I mean about satisfying him sexually.” Atsumu gestures as he speaks, grinning crookedly. “A boy like that won’t stick around if you can’t perform.”
“Leave me alone, man, f*ck! That’s disgusting...”
Aran continues his lecture, the two of them up front used to tuning out the two in the back since their high school days.
“Samu, listen to me. That’s the fastest way to get your ass kicked to the curb.”
Atsumu leans himself in between them from the backseat, throwing an arm around Osamu’s headrest. He dodges a swat Osamu tries to deal to his face.
“How would he even find out? He doesn’t know jacksh*t about what’s happening in that gym.”
“Trust me when I tell you this is the one thing he doesn’t play about.”
“How exactly do you know?” Suna asks.
“Why do you think Bokuto doesn’t fight for him anymore?”
Osamu kisses his teeth. “Because he’s light f*cking work. C’mon now.”
“Just keep your hands off of him,” Aran warns.
“Keiji isn’t gonna want nothing to do with you anyway.” Atsumu shoves his shoulder from the back. “This man knows nothing about styling– look at your face,” Atsumu all but shouts, gesturing to Osamu’s cuts and bruises.
“The f*ck do you know about styling, dumbass? With your f*ck ass ugly perm.” Osamu kisses his teeth again, slouching in his seat. “I’ve got natural beauty, you know, I don’t need none of that.”
“Yeah natural beauty, that’s why the boy you like won’t touch you with a ten foot pole—”
Aran has to pull him back, when he lunges for Atsumu in the backseat.
___
The dressing room is always a mess the few hours before the show. Each of them have different orders for how they like to go about their routine hair, makeup, outfit. It’s loud and it’s messy.
It smells like weed, hairspray, and synthetic hair burning on hot ceramic, but Osamu recognizes Keiji’s perfume in the thick of all that anyway.
Keiji has the latest Victoria Monet album on and he’s smoking a blunt while he bakes his face, humming along to the falsettos in his seat.
“Ken-chan, can I borrow your eyebrow pencil?” Tooru asks. She’s got swatches on the back of her hand she looks at with a scrutinizing frown. Kenma looks focused in the mirror himself, curling the ends of his ponytail. “Kiyoomi’s is too dark and mine f*cking broke yesterday…”
“You wanna try this pommade thing instead? I think it might suit you. You’ll need a brush though.”
Makki is posing against one of the walls in his new outfit while Kiyoomi takes pictures.
“Blue to match the bills,” he all but sighs, tilting his shoulders glamorously. He’s in full drag today, showing off his nails on his overly bronzed tit*.
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Nobody in this f*cking joint is throwing hundreds.”
“Maybe not for you.”
“f*ck, does anybody have a tweezer?”
“Here, babe.”
“You’re not seriously wearing that,” Tooru raises a half filled brow at Makki’s outfit. “Where’s the cash even gonna go?”
“In my f*cking thong, Tooru. Duh.”
Osamu calls out to announce his arrival, “Knock, knock.”
His big frame fills the tight doorway as he slowly pushes his way inside.
Osamu comes bearing gifts. The dressing room is a temple and it’s only right he comes with tribute. “Pregame’s here, ” he says.
He’s referring to junk food in paper bags stained dark by oil on fries they’re meant to snack on before the show starts. But there’s tequila in their co*kes too.
Kenma is first in line to take his with a grabby click-clack of his manicured fingers, telling Osamu, “Thank you, daddy.”
Osamu blushes, but the onslaught doesn’t stop, next from Tooru.
“Pervert, you f*cking love making this delivery, don’t you?”
“You wish he was looking at you.”
As if on cue, Keiji prances over to him. He’s wearing sweats and a tank top. His makeup is half done and his hair is setting in pin-up curls.
Osamu always feels underdressed next to them, in his black t-shirt and pants, white sneakers.
“Which one is mine?” Keiji asks.
“What’s special in his?”
“Love note on a napkin,” Keiji replies, snatching up his bag and leaving Osamu to deal with the consequences.
“Spicy fries,” Osamu corrects when Tooru gasps theatrically. Even Kiyoomi fully turns his head away from the mirror, nosy as ever.
It hasn’t been difficult for everyone to pick up on the shift between him and Keiji, ever since Osamu’s match. Their relationship hasn’t exactly been professional since the beginning, if Osamu levels with himself. Before it was harder to tell if Keiji was flirting with him or simply trying to make him sweat, but there isn’t much room for interpretation anymore. He's perfectly capable of doing both.
Oikawa continues her story about a dancer she knew who met her man at a bachelor party she was working. Not the groom but his best man.
“Anyone who paid me half a grand to suck my dick is not marriage material,” Kenma says distastefully.
“Obviously not by her standards.”
There’s a debate on whether strippers should aspire for marriage, if it’s really in any of their futures. To which Makki says yes, why not? He wants a husband and a mortgage for a house big enough to fit six kids. Nobody laughs at him, and nobody thinks he isn’t serious. Osamu thinks it’s telling.
“Well, I don’t need none of that anyway. I’ve got my work husband.” Tooru says, looping her arm through Osamu’s.
“Of course you do,” Osamu replies, and she beams at him.
“Congratulations, Miya,” Kiyoomi chips in. “I heard you won big last night.”
Kenma squints at him. “You don’t look very roughed up.”
Osamu scratches the back of his head, feeling sheepish. “Nah, nothing too bad.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
Kenma isn’t having it. “Bitch, please. Even I’m more bruised up than that after a show.”
“It’s because that new choreo you’re doing is brutal. How does the song go again?”
Tooru starts to sing what she remembers and Makki groans, clutching their forehead.
In the chaos while everyone’s distracted, begging Tooru to stop, Keiji gets close to him and reaches carefully to brush his fingers against Osamu’s jaw.
“You don’t have anybody who can patch this up for you?”
“No, not really,” Osamu replies, studying the glint in his eyes. “Are you offering?”
Keiji hums, brushing the collar of his black t-shirt. “I could take good care of you.”
Of course, their little moment doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Tooru, watch out, the other woman’s a stripper.”
“Ay baby, you’ve got a type!”
Osamu is posted outside most of the night, checking cards with a partner. This is how he spends most nights, once the show starts. It’s mindless enough work to scan IDs. His head usually stays on the drills he ran earlier in the practice ring. But once in a while, when it gets quiet, he’ll duck inside to do a couple turns of the room.
The corridor to the main hall is lit in green-ish yellow, the walls are framed with graffiti and displaced partygoers. Seedy looking men selling candies Osamu pretends he doesn’t see, a few of the newer dancers huddled close, speaking to each other intensely, a couple who snuck out to kiss each other against the wall in private. Osamu keeps walking.
Somebody asks Osamu for a lighter and he shakes them off. From over his shoulder, he hears a catcall and realizes it’s directed at him. There’s an argument brewing between a few youngsters Osamu should probably step in to break up. But the music gets louder as he gets closer, and his anticipation for what awaits him inside wins over.
When the doors open, the thumping bass becomes so loud he can feel it in his rib cage. There’s something otherworldly about the club in full swing: the flashing blue lights, smoke machines in the corners, the reflective stage gleaming. Osamu feels like he’s in a sci-fi film. And then, of course, there are the girls. One in particular.
Tonight Keiji’s skirt is nothing but draping gold chains adorned with rhinestones sitting low on his hips. There’s a matching bralette piece held together by a choker of pearls that jingles and catches the light when he shakes his shoulders.
Osamu doesn’t let himself watch. He tells himself that’s a line he won’t cross. But he gets glimpses as he makes his rounds. Keiji bent over, hands on the ground, knees bent to shake ass as wrinkled bills rain down over him. Of the skirt falling off his hips, dropped to the floor as he mounts a panting client like a motorbike. Now he’s in a stranger’s lap with hands too low on his hips, arched as he rides and bounces and flicks out his tongue. He’ll take shots poured from a bottle into his mouth by another pair of hands, arms not leaving the shoulders of the man he’s working.
Osamu will make eyes with him as he’s tucking dollar bills into the straps of his thong, blown out eyes daring Osamu to keep watching as he leads one of them to a private room, swinging his hips as he walks.
Osamu knows he gets the biggest room, all the way in the back. He only has to switch places with the bouncer inside to be posted up outside his door, letting his imagination run wild, listening for any reason to throw the door open and stop it. As badly as Osamu wants to go after him, he reels himself in.
Osamu isn’t going to last much longer like this. It’s a game of tug of war, and Osamu’s losing.
