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They say that the lady of the night only blooms once a year. A pretty little thing, all feeble petals and a spellbinding aroma above the sharpest of thorns. She wilts at dawn, and her fragrance fades out with the first glimpses of daybreak, and the pale sheen of her flower is nothing but a ghost of a distant past.
Thorns adorn Mikey's heart, but it never blooms. It's charcoal and ashes, cold and veiny and too slow to beat. Blood supplies adrenaline to his body, but only the blood that he spills. He feels the most alive when his knuckles shatter noses, bust lips and tear skins apart; when he pulls at the limbs and the joints shift with a loud, sublime cracking sound; when he cuts off the eyelids, slides his fingers in the sockets, and pulls out slimy, still functioning eyeballs. He relishes in screams, in pleading, in grunts of pain and promises of bad karma, and he hits, and kicks, and cuts, and shoots, and guts, and skins, and burns, and drowns–
And wakes up. And nothing but disgust resides in his flesh; the monster is silent, and the Mikey is wailing in the rusty confines of his bones. He would vomit before, when his mind was still unused to such honesty, but he doesn't anymore.
He is still a nocturnal being, but he's never hated the night with such vehemence.
When Mikey was young, the night was a fun time, all about prohibited hours for the youth to break free from the tight shackles of convention. Mikey and his friends would race on their bikes, annoy the neighbourhood with unrestrained shouts, pick fights with occasional drunkards, and thrive in their adolescence, unbothered by anything and anyone. The morning after, they would seek even more brawls in their sleep-deprived state, but the high of inevitable victory was the best reward for their efforts.
Now, Mikey has forsaken daily hours completely. He sleeps his days away like a cold, and only at night does he ever leave his cave, a luxurious emptiness in the centre of Tokyo. He rides and fights, but it's not the same; the rush of euphoria is brutal and animalistic, and he doesn't expect to wake up in the morning. Sometimes, he hopes he won't wake up at all. Sometimes, he attends meetings, shallow and about money, money, money, or talks to the people that speak in a language he doesn't understand, or eats – but very rarely, merely not to collapse in the middle of being there. Or just being, in general.
Mikey wilts, but never blooms. He hurts and hates, derides and mocks, punishes and kills – but he never loves. He doesn't dream of eternal love and doesn't bother himself with temporary love either, because it seems like a worthless, gruelling affair. He avoids pleasure like a plague, and he doesn't know if he fears to taint or get tainted.
There was a girl once, somewhere in the past. Toman had just recently risen; she must have been related to one of their partners in crime. Not ugly, not pretty, a normal person with a normal face, but when Mikey looked her in the eye, he thought he saw something painfully familiar.
They talked.
They talked some more and decided to give it a try, but it didn't lead to anything, not even a single kiss. They never held hands or embraced; they just talked and talked and talked, and it seemed like they were soulmates preassigned by destiny. It was about the strolls under the full moon, the inside jokes nobody else could get, and the sweet promises of a forever.
Until there was none.
That night didn't seem any different from any other: it had the dark, and the stroll, and the moon. Mikey was talking about his episodes, the times when a dark impulsivity overrode anything but bloodlust, when the girl suddenly tried to grab his hand.
He recoiled on instinct.
"Run away with me," she whispered, frantic. "I hate it all – this blood, and this violence, and this life."
Ridiculous, he thought. Was she drunk? He continued walking, uncaring of how he sounded as he told her, "I don't hate them at all."
When he looked at her again, she seemed half there and half translucent. A sombre smile glowed on her lips.
"You… you don't want to heal at all, do you?"
She spun on her heels, airy like a glimmer, and walked away with the first rays of dawn. Mikey stood there like an ancient tree, rooted to the desolate riverbank, and found that he couldn't remember her name or her smell or her voice. Or maybe he never knew what they were like in the first place.
He found that he didn't care at all. He found that he never wanted to hold hands, or to embrace, or to kiss, or to run away together. He found that he couldn't even remember what he ranted about.
He thought they were together for months, but maybe it was just a single night.
✦ • ✦ • ✦
Every year, on the 3rd of August, Mikey locks himself up in his room. It's not the only tragic date to remember, but it was the starting point for anything and everything in his current life. The day he lost his voice of reason and his best friend.
In the daytime, he sleeps. In the nighttime, he stares at the city beneath his feet, an ant colony that he can squash with a single move of his hand. He stares and imagines how it would feel to ride through the streets on his bike again, young and unbothered, naïve and happy.
Sometimes, he takes his old bike and travels the city, but his journeys always end in a dark alley where he ends another person's life. And it's not about bikes or freedoms anymore: it's all about shattering noses, busting lips, and ripping off skins.
✦ • ✦ • ✦
Somewhere amidst the disaster, he learned that he had a brother. Izana joined him years ago, but it still feels sometimes like he is talking to a stranger.
Izana is nothing like him. Mikey has long lost all the ambition, while Izana strives for more, always for more. He always wants something and always gets it, no matter the price, and when Mikey asks him about the secret technique, he shrugs without much interest.
"Just be greedy. You can have anything you want."
And Mikey wishes he knew what he wanted, but he doesn't. Cannot. Izana suggests they start testing new things out to explore the unknown world of desire. He says so as he pours himself a glass of whiskey.
The first thing Mikey tries out is alcohol, and he spends the night vomiting his heart out in the bathroom. He hates it, but Izana insists it's normal. If anything, Izana seems delighted at something Mikey doesn't quite understand. Mikey hates it, but he listens to Izana, because he can't really listen to himself. Secretly, he is afraid of another night where he wakes up on the streets with someone's blood on his clothes.
✦ • ✦ • ✦
The second source of pleasure that Izana told him to try out is sex. Mikey is twenty-one when he visits one of the clubs owned by his current second-in-command – and successor, given how much authority in the gang he's acquired. Kisaki persuades him that his club is the highest quality, and they choose it to hold a meeting with a potential weapon dealer. For the first half of the night, at least.
The agreement is reached in minutes. The dealer departs to another table with a woman glued to each side, and Kisaki takes it as his cue to bring what he was asked. Mikey waits, sipping on wine without tasting it. Mist shrouds his vision, turning the disgustingly varicoloured lights into blurry blobs. The haze mutates into a semi-transparent veil, one that surrounds the moon where the clouds are especially flimsy.
Mikey feels like sleeping, which is odd. He's slept through the day already.
He won't complain if he is about to wilt for good.
Shadows of different shapes wink at him, and some wave to attract his attention. One approaches his table and leans over it, protruding and rocking its chest. It wants him to react, Mikey guesses. He smells a sickeningly sweet string of perfume, so strong and abundant that his eyes sting. An ancient tree, he remains rooted in place. He doesn't look and doesn't see, and the shadow goes away.
Mikey waits.
Kisaki returns to his table. Mikey nods in acknowledgement and shifts his eyes to a person lingering behind his vice's back.
"The best one we have," Kisaki advertises, gesturing for the person to come closer. It's a young man in green clothes, maybe around Mikey's age, with a slim body and delicate, sickly skin. Black curls weave a pretty pattern around his expressionless face, where two orbs of the brightest blue meet Mikey's.
Mikey sees something painfully familiar in his eyes, but he doesn't dwell on it further. There will be no moon, no strolls and no non-existent shared feelings. They are here for one-off pleasure, and Mikey is here to learn.
It's a familiar feeling, still. Maybe this is why Mikey thanks Kisaki and motions for the prostitute to come closer instead of refusing everything, storming out of the establishment, and losing to the emptiness like he thought he'd do.
The man softly descends on the sofa, producing no sound as he breaches Mikey's personal space. Mikey catches a whiff of a fragrance – elusive and rich, floral. It's sweet and juicy, with a certain musky undertone, but the lightness makes it more sensual than irksome, and Mikey can't help but feel nostalgic. The man smells like a jasmine bouquet that Mikey's friend gave to his sister somewhere in the past.
Mikey offers him the wine, and the man drinks in small, measured sips.
"What's your name?"
"Takemichi."
"I see. Takemitchy, then."
Takemitchy's brows shoot up, but he manages to keep his face neutral.
"Sure. Call me whatever you want."
He speaks as though he is used to nicknames, and Mikey wonders if his moniker means anything to him. Maybe not, he shouldn't care – and he doesn't, even though it's been eternity since he last nicknamed someone like that.
They drink in silence, enveloped by the fluorescent daze. Laser beams struggle to break through the silvery smoke curtain, and their corner stands isolated from others, a quiet island stranded among sinking ships.
Mikey is getting tipsy.
He watches Takemitchy's skin adopt a pleasant glow and his blurred features morph into something ethereal. The illuminations are bright in the stiff, stagnant club, but Takemitchy looks like a fairy in the moonlight.
If Mikey was doubtful before, he now thinks that he wants pleasure, after all. He hooks one arm around Takemitchy's shoulders and brings him closer. The man offers no resistance and leans into his touch. Mikey nuzzles his curly hair, scents his expensive shampoo, and revels in the floral aroma that seems to belong to him naturally. His hand wanders down Takemitchy's chest, and he pricks a finger on something sharp, most likely a metal button. The pain doesn't sober him up even for a bit. If anything, he feels even more intoxicated.
He stands up and signals that he is ready. Takemitchy takes him by the hand and guides him through dark halls and dim staircases until they reach the highest floor, nothing but a corridor littered with the doors to private rooms. They enter one, Mikey doesn't bother counting which, and Takemitchy walks him to the bed, but not before the door is properly locked.
Takemitchy's fingers are quick and deft as he unbuttons Mikey's black shirt.
"I've never slept with anyone before," Mikey says and doesn't know why he does that, the alcohol must be doing his bidding.
Takemitchy hums, "Okay."
Mikey doesn't know why his reaction surprises him so much. It shouldn't. Mikey isn't one for love or acceptance, he seeks a body – and they will never meet again after this night. It should be about sweltering heat, and generous touches, and the room's dim luminescence where he won't even care to distinguish the other's face.
Mikey is lax when Takemitchy unbuckles his pants and slides them down with his boxers. It's no shocker, really. He didn't feel a single tinge of want when the sultriest of shadows passed by, flashing him the hungriest of smiles. Maybe it is meaningless, after all. Maybe he should just end what he will regret immediately.
Takemitchy's fingers are cold. He rubs his thighs gently, almost as though asking for permission, and Mikey's no is hindered by a heavy lump in his throat. Trying to shake it away, he moves in a way that looks like nodding. Takemitchy rubs his skin again, and Mikey's head bobs as well, as if on reflex.
Takemitchy's digits carefully feel up the curve of Mikey's member, tracing along its length. His touch is feathery, teasing, and his breathing is hot when compared to the frost of his fingertips; when he thumbs across the slit at the top, he smears what appears to be precum all over.
Mikey finds himself watching Takemitchy's every move, to learn, he tells himself. To know what he wants and what he likes, to explore the world of his desire – to know what to demand and what to punish for if he can't get it in the future ahead.
Takemitchy collects a few droplets on his thumbs and uses them to swipe across the tip and down. More dribbles of fluid come out, and Takemitchy continues with the cycle until he deems it enough. He manoeuvres himself to his knees, and only then does Mikey realise how hard he has grown.
A seizing sensation shoots through Mikey's body when Takemitchy carefully wraps his hand around the shaft. He begins giving it slow pumps that make Mikey buck his hips up with the feeling he despises no less than emptiness – impatience. Mikey groans, wordlessly demanding to give him more, and Takemitchy obliges, but his hand never loses its fleecy touch. His skin is smooth, like velvet.
A shallow lick on the tip makes Mikey expel a loud moan. He doesn't want or expect it, yet his voice betrays him, followed by a horrifying feeling of losing control. Thrill canoes down his veins, descending on the bottom of his gut in thick, chilling flakes of fear.
Hot pleasure melts these flakes when Takemitchy licks him from top to bottom and back, leaving wet traces on his skin. Mikey's breath shudders as he grows more and more light-headed. The alcohol in his system is reduced to nothing, overpowered by the electrifying sensation wherever Takemitchy blesses him with his touch.
His hands fly down to grab Takemitchy's hair as the only means to ground himself when his cock enters the other's mouth. Takemitchy is practised at this, tending to him with a dexterous tongue that swirls around and along Mikey's length, teeth skilfully tucked away. At times, he sucks until his cheeks hollow, or swipes his tongue over the sensitive tip that doesn't fail to leave Mikey breathless. Takemitchy takes him deeply, too, so much that Mikey registers connecting to his throat, and he huffs in discomfort, but not once does he gag or stop moving.
Mikey's body doesn't listen to him, but the monster is silent, and he wants more of it. He wants it faster, and Takemitchy relents when he feels a demanding tug at his hair. Mikey comes with a loud, sharp moan, and sits blinded by the white over his eyes, attached to one spot by something other than the cage of the moonlight.
When he catches his breath, he finds Takemitchy standing up and wiping his mouth with a tissue. He spews into it and throws it into the trash can, then gazes up at Mikey again. His face is flushed and stricken with tears, and Mikey tenses, every nerve transforming into a sparkling wire. It's odd, because he doesn't feel an ounce of alcohol left in his system, but he is drunk in a way he's never been before.
"Should we continue?" Takemitchy asks in a hoarse voice, and Mikey's breath hitches. He nods again, and this time he means it, and maybe he meant it from the start, but he doesn't know or remember.
He just wants. He wants to continue, and he wants Takemitchy.
Takemitchy sinks into the bed, weightless and graceful, like a butterfly. He discards his silky green shirt, and it flails behind him like a pair of wings before fusing with the darkness of the floor. His pink nipples stand out on the marble skin, and Mikey's hand perks up before he stops himself. He touches one, and Takemitchy inhales through his nose. The nipple is small and not very solid, but it soon hardens as Mikey plays with and flickers at it.
"Do you want to lead?" Takemitchy asks in a small voice that betrays restraint, and Mikey feels oddly proud that he made him sound like that. "If not, I can ride you."
He is asking if Mikey wants to take control, Mikey realises. He recalls the feeling of suspension, the numbing loss of every sense as he was swayed by the waves of pleasure, and he feels – afraid. He isn't used to this feeling, and he doesn't know if he could be. The monster hasn't come out yet, but Mikey can't tell why, and he doesn't want to risk it.
"Yeah, I want that," he says.
Takemitchy nods and lies down, facing him. He is bare and at Mikey's mercy, and when Mikey places a palm on Takemitchy's bony chest, he feels his quivering breaths. Takemitchy's pulse is quickening, but it can't compare to the greyhound race under Mikey's ribs.
The faint glow on Takemitchy's skin resembles a moonpath that keeps Mikey mesmerised, counting uneven edges.
"You can touch me," Takemitchy whispers, misinterpreting his moment of hesitance. Mikey wants to huff, to remark that he is no need of advice, but he follows the suggestion obediently. He traces his fingers on Takemitchy's skin, locating every curve, every bone of his body. He teases his nipples, and Takemitchy inhales sharply again.
Intrigued, Mikey goes lower. He attempts to replicate Takemitchy's movements, thumbing his thighs, then touching his pliant member. It doesn't react to his ministrations, but he tries more and more, and he doesn't grow frustrated or annoyed. Unnaturally curious and not at all impatient, he watches it rise and stiffen, and Takemitchy's shaky breaths lead his blood south.
The monster keeps silent, and so does the night.
And Mikey wants.
"Wait…" Takemitchy stops him when he positions himself above him. "The bedside table… the first drawer…"
Don't you dare tell me what to do, Mikey is inclined to say. He would have said it to anyone else. I take what I want, he would have said because Izana taught him so. An alien spell guides Mikey's hand to the bedside table. He opens the drawer and finds a bottle of lube and a pack of condoms.
"Put it on, then pour the lube on it." He knows that much, he doesn't need it – he says nothing, he does as told.
Once again, he is hovering above Takemitchy's frail form. He thinks of where to grab, what to hold, and decides against it. Takemitchy's limbs are nothing but pearl-coloured twigs, and he might break them if he isn't careful. He knows how fragile a human body can be.
Even without his clothes, Takemitchy still emanates that sweet scent.
Mikey pushes at the entrance. It gives way easier than he thought, and it shouldn't make him frustrated, but it does. He slips inside in one motion and stills, something hungry and bulbous pulsing in his lower stomach. Takemitchy's walls are just as soft and warm as his mouth, and Mikey remains unmoving, paralysed even. A cold hand touches his face, and he opens his eyes that were apparently squeezed shut.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes," he rasps, and no alcohol has ever made him sound so wrecked. It's all he says, and Takemitchy studies his face for a few moments before moving his hand away. Mikey pines for the chilly touch right after.
Reluctantly, he begins moving. He rolls his hips, getting accustomed to the feeling, then attempts a few shallow thrusts that only allow the greedy itch to grow. He pulls his hips back and snaps them into Takemitchy, earning a high-pitched cry.
It's white. Takemitchy's skin is white, and his vision is blurred into white, and for a second, when Takemitchy's teary eyes open, he sees two light blue, almost white, moons looking upon him – upon Mikey who used to covet the moon as it shone down, illuminating the stroll, and the jaunts, and the bike rides.
Mikey feels like soaring and reaching the sky he used to long for. The soft sheets and Takemitchy's weak touches stroke his skin, both silvery, filmy, and Mikey's eyes don't leave the blue moons for a second as he slams his hips against his fleshy buttocks, picking up new speed. He watches Takemitchy's face contort with pleasure, his every muscle move to support his gaping mouth, his eyes screw shut, and his eyebrows frown.
He moves, and he moves, and he moves, and he wants. For the first time in ages, he chases after something other than sleep, other than abyss or the past he can only mourn. He reaches his second climax and unloads way more than the first time around; his hands grip at Takemitchy's legs so hard it'll undoubtedly bruise.
Mikey is panting when he opens his eyes.
Takemitchy hasn't finished. He is trembling like a sprout in the wind, whimpering in the darkness.
"P-Please…"
Mikey doesn't respond, hungrily observing the tears that slide down Takemitchy's cheeks, too bewitching a sight for something so simple. He wants to torture, to wait, to make him beg even more. He wants.
But he doesn't.
Expelling a noseful, he reaches down and pumps Takemitchy's cock. His movements are clumsy, nothing like the delicacy that was given to him, but it seems to be enough for Takemitchy. He accepts Mikey's touch eagerly, arching to chase his hand. It doesn't take long for him to climax and to coat Mikey's fingers with his come. It's white, just like his skin, and it stains the sheet that Mikey uses to wipe it away.
He descends on Takemitchy and inhales – and his scent is still there, strong and potent like a blooming flower. Mikey inhales, inhales, inhales, clinging closer to his skin, unbothered by the sweat on their bodies, and he finds himself leaving a kiss on the crook of the other's neck. Takemitchy is small in his arms, pale complexion almost translucent in the moonlight.
"I'm Mikey," he murmurs without really knowing why.
"Okay," Takemitchy murmurs in response. It's a brief and disinterested whisper, and Mikey doesn't know why he cares.
Maybe he shouldn't care. He should want and take, and he does – chasing the dream and the feeble moonpath, he embraces the thin body and falls asleep to the delicate, pleasant scent. Secretly, he is afraid to wake up on the streets with someone's blood on his clothes, but this night, he sleeps soundlessly, and no nightmare comes out to haunt him.
He wakes up shortly after dawn, and Takemitchy isn't there.
✦ • ✦ • ✦
Izana's expression goes from indifference to glee to confusion as Mikey shares his story. His face freezes somewhere between joyous and doubtful, as though he hasn't decided on his feelings yet, and he's never been more unfamiliar. He isn't like a stranger, he looks at Mikey like he is one, and the flakes of fear return to Mikey's stomach, bleaching his intestines soulless white.
Mikey finishes his recollection, wondering why the bed felt especially cold as he woke up, and Izana finally picks his emotion. He breaks down laughing.
"It's a whore, dear brother," he wheezes, wiping away imaginary tears. "He isn't one for love, his job is to pleasure people."
These words ring like something painfully familiar to Mikey, and something uglily hopeful rears its head in his core. One look at his eyes, and Izana laughs harder.
"Let me rephrase it. His job is to let people fuck him for money. Not so romantic now, is it?"
It isn't, indeed. Mikey doesn't know how to answer. He pours himself a glass of the same wine Izana is drinking, but the taste is abhorrent on his tongue, so he puts the glass away.
Izana snickers.
"Don't fall in love just because he made you feel good. He slept with tons of people, so there is no way he would feel the same about you. It's just a shallow crush, dear brother. First crushes are stupid like that."
Izana refills his own glass, cherishing the taste steadily.
Mikey mulls his words over.
A crush, Izana's said. But it's not his case, surely. It doesn't click for him. It's not the right word. It's not deep enough to describe the real feeling.
Takemitchy isn't one for love, but neither is Mikey. Mikey doesn't know why Izana speaks as though they live in completely different worlds. Their world is rotten to the core, and if Takemitchy doesn't mind it as it is, isn't it for the better? Mikey is no fool to hope for the strolls, and the walks, and the honest ranting, but the moon graced him with her presence. He didn't hate the darkness of that night.
Izana praises the wine and asks why Mikey isn't drinking.
"Did you sleep with him?" Mikey asks in lieu of a response.
Izana's expression goes from glee to confusion, and then from something indecipherable to indifference. He shrugs, nonchalant and condescending.
"Yes."
He says it with ease and forgets about the topic as if they never talked about it. Mikey doesn't listen to what he has to say next, because for some unforeseen reason, against his self-control and the lack of any source of irritation – he is angry.
He stomps out of the room before Izana even finishes his speech.
This night, he wakes up in a dark alley with someone's blood on his clothes.
✦ • ✦ • ✦
When Takemitchy enters the room, the first thing Mikey notices is that he is wearing green again tonight. It's a lighter hue than before, almost grey in the dim illumination, and it clings to his body like old skin, adding a healthy, peachy tone to his complexion. No button on his shirt seems to be made of metal, so maybe Mikey won't prick a finger this time.
Takemitchy's eyes lock onto him, take his appearance in, and express no surprise. He greets him like an old, but hardly familiar acquaintance, all phatic brevity and little weight to his words. He slips out of his garments before Mikey even gets to touch them, not granting him a chance to test his luck. Like before, Takemitchy's delicate caresses tend to Mikey's body as if Mikey deserves to be cared for, and like before, Mikey takes what he is given as if it were a genuine gift, even though it's a fair trade that he paid for beforehand.
Like before, Takemichy's scent is delicate and sweet. The wild note only makes it more alluring, and Mikey wonders how it comes about and why it blends with the lighter notes so well.
Unlike before, he watches Takemitchy's expressions from the moment they undress to the moment they cuddle in bed, finding that the expression of tranquillity – not a forced one, but a lull that manifests as he sleeps – suits him the most. Against his will, Mikey falls asleep and doesn't wake up until dawn, alone in a double-size bed. He finds his clothes neatly folded on the bedside table, and he only remembers carelessly throwing them on the floor.
✦ • ✦ • ✦
Izana says he should continue exploring the world of desirable, and hands him a small bottle with round pills, but Mikey throws it in the trash can without even opening. He doesn't spend most of his time with Izana anymore, and his brother doesn't seem to smile as often as he used to.
Mikey attends fewer and fewer meetings, at times forgetting about them completely. Kisaki never reminds him, and Mikey knows that some of the gang members have begun addressing Kisaki as their boss, not him.
He finds that he doesn't care.
After their fourth night together, he asks if Takemitchy can give him his shirt, and the other obliges, albeit understandably puzzled. He chuckles in amusement when Mikey snuggles to it, letting the flowery scent soothe him to sleep. He's ceased trying to stay awake and prevent Takemitchy from leaving, so he drifts away to an escapist dream, knowing that once it ends, he will be alone.
Frankly, he doesn't know why he wanted to stop Takemitchy. He doesn't know what he would do if the other stayed.
✦ • ✦ • ✦
Sometimes they drink and talk before having sex, and Takemitchy is a very bubbly person. He chats away, airy and goofy – childish, even, and sometimes he brings up such simple yet unexpected topics that it truly seems like a wonder that he's survived in their world.
However, Takemitchy is no fool. Everything about his demeanour speaks that he is catching onto something as they meet for the tenth time, and Mikey knows because he keeps counting. Takemitchy smiles at him like a service worker, an expression so practised and heartless that Mikey wants to wipe it away. He is wearing purple today, a chic jumpsuit without much personality to it.
"You seem to enjoy my company," Takemitchy sings, and he never sang like that, and Mikey wants the silly chatter or the breathy moans back – he wants the Takemitchy he knows, not the Takemitchy that stands before him.
He hates the fact that it's most likely the Takemitchy that survived in their world of blood and violence. He almost hates the world of blood and violence itself, but it's the only world he knows, hence the almost. There is no running away for him.
"It's a pleasure to know that you find my service worth your money. You have my deepest gratitude," Takemitchy bows at a carefully measured angle, which means Mikey isn't the first one to see it.
He hates to know that, without any almost to hide his anger.
"It's just your job," Mikey shrugs, nonchalant and maybe even condescending. "Why would it be a pleasure?"
"The competition here is high, you know," Takemitchy chuckles – the first glimpse of a sincere emotion. "It truly makes me glad that you value my work above others'."
"I never hired others," Mikey says. This time, he almost knows why he reveals something so personal. He wants to say it, but he can't find the reason yet. His mouth speaks before him, and he misses the monster because the monster is at least consistent with what it wants.
Takemitchy appears genuinely stunned, causing Mikey to wonder if it was so unobvious, but his answer remains his signature brief okay.
The purple jumpsuit has an unpleasant synthetic smell, but once it's out of the way, Mikey gladly consumes the faint fragrance of flowers. Takemitchy murmurs something, baring his neck for Mikey to kiss and to worship, and a bizarre surge of adrenaline travels through Mikey's veins.
He doesn't crave blood, but his heart still flits in the confines of his chest as if the monster is about to awaken.
"Wait," Mikey says, drawing back from Takemitchy's glowing form. Takemitchy nods and gives him space as Mikey repositions them on the bed, reclining on the pillows and gently pulling him closer. Takemitchy straddles him, a question in his cerulean eyes, and Mikey secures his palms on his thin waist in confirmation.
Slowly, Takemitchy sinks down, a pale halo encircling his tender body. The urge to flip them over and hunt down every sparkle of pleasure, be it rough, or hasty, or mind-numbing, is relentlessly frying Mikey's nerves, but like many, many times before, he doesn't do what he wants. He lets Takemitchy establish his own pace, a slow and sensual rhythm, so unlike the previous times when they shared the stillness of night hours.
Mikey lies unmoving, fighting against the desire to buck his hips to meet the other's bouncing body, and watches as Takemitchy's pale form ascends and descends on his cock, letting his rear connect with Mikey's bottom. The light reflects on his hair, making it gleam like silk, ignites his pale skin until it luminesces, and envelops his lithe body in petals of a feeble glow. His eyes are closed, eyelashes fluttering, and a small wrinkle sits between his brows. Shaky sighs escape his slightly agape mouth. He looks divine, a sight so mesmeric that Mikey forgets about the itch to move against his flow. Takemitchy's limbs quiver, more fragile than the most tender of leaves in the wind.
He notices that Mikey is staring, and his teary eyes blink wide open – their gazes interlock, and he offers a shy, apologetic smile. At that moment, an angel in human form looks at Mikey, riding him like they were lovers, and he pledges a silent oath to get access to those precious wings.
Takemitchy seems to mistake his awed state for displeasure, because he discards the delicacy and begins forcefully slamming his hips down, grunting as his thighs tense up uncomfortably. Mikey feels his walls tighten around him every time he rises, as if trying to squeeze his climax out of him. It snaps him back to reality, to his very real and very corporeal pleasure, and Mikey moans, not bothering to hide his voice. Takemitchy takes it as a good sign, jouncing on him with the same cadence, until Mikey lets the last bits of his control loose and comes. When he opens his eyes, Takemitchy is panting above him, obviously suffering from the lack of release. He tends to do that, always letting Mikey come first, but now he seems to be in actual pain, trembling from the intense workout. All just to please him.
He is amazing, Mikey realises; he is so goddamn amazing that Mikey wants to fuck him stupid. After he hurriedly disposes of the annoyingly full condom, he flips them over so that Takemitchy is pinned to the bed, doesn't listen to his words of protest, and starts doing just that, the line of thought trodden with want, and want only. Takemitchy's eyes flicker wide, but he quickly surrenders to ecstasy and clings to Mikey in desperation. As Mikey is repeatedly hitting the same spot, one he knows makes Takemitchy see a new star every time, he can only mewl "Mikey, Mikey, Mikey" like it's the only word he knows. Unlike his usual bearing, all calculated movements and no sincere gleam in his eyes, he comes undone without a single restraint, tongue lolling out of his mouth.
He is the most beautiful like this, Mikey thinks.
That dawn, they wake up in the same bed at the same time. Mikey watches him dress up, putting back all the petals, and the leaves, and the thorns, and though he finds himself displeased, he can't help but smirk in satisfaction. He's already seen that flower shed his defense.
He might have realised that he dislikes many things about Izana, but his brother was right about something in the end. It really is okay to be greedy sometimes.
Takemitchy sends him a demure smile as he discovers that Mikey isn't asleep. He seems to limp as he heads to the door, and the flakes in Mikey's stomach taste like anything but fear and hatred. They feel too fuzzy for him to explain, and too warm to believe that he deserves them.
"I can't be healed, you know," Mikey suddenly says because he wants to.
Takemitchy halts and looks at him incredulously.
"Are you– do you have an STD?"
"No. It's in my head."
"Ah. I see."
And he sounds like he doesn't care, and for the first time Mikey is glad someone doesn't care about him.
✦ • ✦ • ✦
When they meet in October, Takemitchy comes in a white turtleneck, the colour prettily accentuating the bright blue of his eyes. His arms move with additional grace, and when his cheeks turn pink from champagne, he looks like he's just come home from a walk in the blizzard, flushed and covered in snow.
Apparently, Takemitchy is hooked on a re-run of some old-school TV-show that everyone but him, Mikey included, finds too awkward and cheesy to watch seriously. Before he proceeds to babble about what he likes about it, Takemitchy places a conspiratorial palm to his mouth and whispers that Mikey will be the only one to know about that.
It's not the first time Mikey hears these words. Takemitchy said the same thing when he confessed what beverages he hates, or what music he listens to, or what kinds of people he can't stand no matter what they do. He has a habit of biting his lip when he is lying about something, and he's never done that whenever he is about to share a secret, so Mikey believes him.
Mikey, too, reveals small things about himself. Takemitchy never bites his lips as he listens, but he doesn't appear too engrossed in his stories either.
If Izana knew about it, he wouldn't even laugh – he would get outright furious for sharing personal information. Too bad Izana doesn't even summon him to talk about business matters anymore, though now Mikey wouldn't come even if he did. Still, without his company, Mikey's penthouse has lost the last remainders of human life. Mikey only comes there to sleep nowadays, and it's become so silent that at times he feels like he's gone deaf.
There is one thing Mikey has wanted to tell Takemitchy for a while already, and he hesitates before opening his mouth.
"Can't you just quit?" he asks, trying not to sound too hopeful.
Takemitchy laughs awkwardly, "Sorry, have I been talking for too long? I'll shut up now."
"Not that. Your job."
Takemitchy pauses, slightly rocking the glass and watching the champagne follow the angle of his hand.
"No, I can't," he responds, pensive. "Not before I save enough money to afford my own place."
Mikey huffs.
"Save money? Takemitchy, you're the elite of this hellhole. You earn a fortune every day. If it really is about money, you would have left long ago."
Takemitchy sighs. Like a breeze above a moonlit river, a reel spins in Mikey's mind, and many, many things suddenly gain sense and reason, previously unbeknownst to him. It dawns on Mikey in the same manner as the moon shines a mocking beam on the dark riverbank in the middle of a lonely stroll – steady at first, then sudden, but unmistakably heart-pounding.
Mikey feels like laughing.
"You… you don't want to heal at all, do you?"
Takemitchy stills, then squints at him. Mikey smirks in response.
"You know nothing about me," Takemitchy says, no mirth left in his voice, and the glass of champagne is harshly put back on the table. "I can't leave because I have a reason to stay."
"And what reason is it? Is someone forcing you to stay? Tell me the name, and I will get rid of them for you."
Takemitchy gulps nervously, "No. It's about money, that's it."
"Take my money. I'll give you more if you need."
"I don't take what I don't earn. And I don't borrow what I can't return."
Mikey laughs, genuinely. Takemitchy is serious, clearly not in the mood for an argument, but his attempts to come up with a good enough denial are no better than Mikey's attempts to somehow excuse new dead bodies at his feet.
It's been more than a month since he last murdered someone. His last kill had blue eyes, but not bright enough to compete with Takemitchy's. The moon was all but a pale crescent that night.
"You speak like you don't actually mind this life," Mikey says, unable, sadly, to suppress a victorious smile – Takemitchy is too easy to read and too difficult to hide from.
Or maybe he wants to think he is.
"Do you enjoy selling yourself, then?"
Takemitchy pales. The moon quivers.
"What do you even know..?" he whispers. Mikey has to strain his ears to hear. "I hate it. I've been doing this my whole life. I don't fucking remember the last time I didn't have to wake up and go pretty myself up because someone was itching in their pants. I don't have shit, and I either sell myself or get kicked around or worse. And you are asking if I enjoy it. I hate it. I hate it! I hate this dumb life!"
His face contorts as he yells, the smooth skin wrinkles, and the melodious voice roughens, morphing into a spiteful growl. The fairylike disguise comes off, revealing a broken, bleeding animal, and Takemitchy seems feral as he looks at Mikey as though they were enemies, no doubt too stricken by the pent-up anger that must have been accumulating for years. Apparently, Takemitchy is no stranger to the feeling of hatred.
Hate is always ugly, but Mikey still thinks that Takemitchy is beautiful. He means it just like he means everything that he says next.
"Live with me."
He takes Takemitchy's hand in his. It tries to escape his grasp, but Mikey holds him firmly, leaving no room for doubt.
Holding Takemitchy feels like trying to catch a thread of silk, but Mikey will not let go even if he has to grab it so hard that his nails pierce his own flesh. If he has to tear his own skin apart like he always does to the people he doesn't remember, so be it. Takemitchy already owns his body, his skin, and his blood. Displaying his ownership openly won't make a difference.
"Quit this job and stay with me," he tries again. "I'll give you everything you want."
Takemitchy attempts to pull his hand away one last time – and then looks Mikey in the eye, defensive. Mikey meets his gaze, the dark abyss, the flakes inside, and the excitedly beating heart in the open for him to witness and to judge. Maybe he isn't one for love, but he at least wants to be seen. To be found.
And Takemitchy looks at him like he sees him. He doesn't say anything about the monster or the pattern of vulnerability engraved in Mikey's gut.
"You are a criminal," he utters dryly.
Mikey nods.
"Yes. I'm at the top. No one will hurt you if you join me."
A cynical huff breaks out from Takemitchy's mouth.
"Everyone at the top falls eventually. You'll fall, too, and I'll have to fall with you."
He has a point, because, truly, Mikey knows the edge is drawing near. One day, someone will push him over that edge, and he'll be free falling, ready to crush on the ground of the ant colony that he once had the authority to squash.
There is a logical response, but Mikey is blinded by want, and so the logic goes down first.
When he fails to find an answer that would satisfy them both, he kisses him. Takemitchy doesn't push him away.
He might have imagined it, but a flicker of doubt flashes in those ethereal eyes.
✦ • ✦ • ✦
Moving to the luxurious penthouse didn't kindle a single emotion within Mikey, but watching Takemitchy step inside, a single duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, will be the moment to remember until his last breath. Takemitchy eyes his new surroundings with wonder, and it's not the riches that fascinate him; surely, he's seen larger places. He explores the plain furniture, the naked walls, and the half empty fridge, and finishes his little tour around the penthouse with a sour face of someone who's seen something incredibly dull.
The next morning, the fridge is brimming with groceries Mikey has no idea how to cook. Takemitchy says that he used to prepare meals for himself, but it's been a long time since he last held cooking utensils. His first attempt to make them breakfast ends on a rather pitiful note, but even the burned food tastes much better than anything Mikey's eaten lately.
A week later, plants appear in the penthouse, and it gets much easier to breathe. The green gives the white walls a simple, pleasantly minimalistic look and makes Mikey think of the days when Takemitchy would meet him in green. He's disposed of every green outfit he owned, claiming he hates them because they remind him of his work. Mikey still keeps the shirt that Takemitchy gifted him, and he hides it deep inside his closet to preserve the last bit of magic he is allowed to have.
Takemitchy owns a lot of white clothes, each softer and baggier than the last. White suits him, nicely frames his pale skin, and beautifully contrasts with his dark hair, but it makes him look even more ethereal than he used to. Sometimes, when Mikey's sight loses focus, Takemitchy's silhouette transforms into a blurry frame of silver, floating in the air and about to vanish the second Mikey blinks once more.
With the simple routine they establish, Mikey's sleep schedule is rearranged once again. He only sleeps at night now and actually functions in the daytime, reverting to the fashion from the distant past. He skips dawns completely, but whenever he leaves the bedroom, Takemitchy is still there, all white and transparent, but present. Maybe Mikey is still dreaming, and the moon is still high up in the sky, crafting a bridge for Takemitchy to cross eventually. Takemitchy cooks, all covered in powder, or spins on his heels, dancing to a silly tune, or laughs at his favourite TV-show, ringing like the bells hung around a shrine that Mikey used to visit. Mikey greedily collects every sound of his voice, every look on his face, and every anecdote about his past, and locks them deep in his closet, next to the shirt that still carries the floral scent.
They've been together for months, but maybe it's still a dream of a single night – the night when they met and the moon smiled at the foolish man that coveted the impossible. Mikey might still be sleeping in that bed, alone, with the ghost of a lover than has never been one, and even if their story is nothing but a delusion he dreamt of, Mikey will always cherish it like a real memory. Even the moments when Takemitchy reminds him of what will inevitably come.
"When it seems like your empire is about to fall, I'll leave," he says, and he bites at his lip, and Mikey only nods silently. He accepts many things nowadays, and he doesn't feel bad about it. Letting Takemitchy decide feels better than taking, taking, and taking without thinking about his conscience. Mikey wants, but he is no monster, so he gives it all away. The odd glow in Takemitchy's eyes almost makes his words seem like a lie – like a defence put around one's heart, like a vow to live for yourself when you've never learned how. Still, Mikey knows better than to hope. He knows he can't be healed and is sailing a sinking ship where only the captain remains with the embers. He knows he isn't one for love, for compassion.
Still, every time they pleasure each other, he finds no deceit in Takemitchy's murmurs and moans. His hands are cold, but his eyes are warm, glowing so gently in the fluorescence of the moonlight, and every morning Mikey has to string himself back in order, reminding himself of those sacred words.
Once Mikey falls, Takemitchy leaves. And Mikey agrees, accepts, acquiesces. He knows it will happen one day. He is no longer king in his kingdom.
They say that the lady of the night only blooms once a year. A frail little thing, all soft petals and a bewitching aroma above a web of bleeding thorns. She wilts at dawn and leaves nothing but a ghost of the sweetest delusions in her wake, and Mikey counts the days until the end, starting with that day at the end of August.
After all, it was the day he fell in love.