12: Kitsune

I highly recommend reading this ep while hearing Pornstar of Nessa Barrett.

March 22, 2020

Tokyo, Japan — 2:00 a.m.

The scent of liquor masked the stench of sweaty bodies swaying to the pounding music. Every note reverberated in the stomach, shaking the insides and pulling everyone into the rhythm. No one cared how nauseated they felt — exhaustion was a foreign concept. The more they drank, the less they thought about trivial discomforts. Pressed against one another, brushing against strangers without a hint of personal space, the crowd moved as one. From the corner of the eye, you might catch two people attempting to kiss, ending up drooling on each other's faces — desperate, sloppy, with no guarantee they'd remember in the morning. Further off, someone retched in the corner, while others pissed into bottles. Nothing was off-limits. No one complained. If you were there, it was to get intoxicated and forget. Shame had no place in that room.

Junseo couldn't fathom why a man like Vasiliy would be there.

No — he understood perfectly well, but he chose to feign ignorance, if only to keep his hatred at bay.

The man wasn't in the sweaty mass of bodies. He sat instead on a large leather sofa facing a small stage where a pole dancer swayed lazily. He wasn't drunk — not yet. The same glass of whiskey had been in his hand since he'd arrived, used mostly to wet the tip of his cigar. A second dancer lay draped over his chest, desperately seeking his attention and receiving only an occasional smoke-filled kiss in return — a gesture that left her even more frustrated. Despite not having danced, sweat clung to him. His grey shirt was nearly entirely unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing the shimmering yakuza tattoos across his chest, glistening with perspiration. A silver crucifix hung from a rosary around his neck. Sometimes, he let his head fall back and spread his legs as if inviting the couch to swallow him whole. But he never stopped watching.

It infuriated Junseo.

Perhaps he'd expected to see Vasiliy at his most horrifying nature — something to justify what he'd been doing all along. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't decipher Vasiliy. He was unpredictable, capable of everything and nothing at once. What infuriated him most was the man's control — as if he went through the motions purely out of habit. Never truly drunk, but just enough to sleep with someone without a care. Never provoking, yet holding everyone's attention. He returned glances, gestures, smiles — calculated, deliberate.

Junseo was sick of watching him.

He wanted to see the man undone — reckless, human. Like in their school days, when Vasiliy did whatever he pleased, however he pleased.

He'd been watching Vasiliy since early in the night. It wasn't the first time he'd followed him to parties, but it was the first time he'd seen him in a place so small. All night, he'd sat at the bar, ordering cocktail after cocktail to pass the time. The liquor had begun warming his cheeks, but he wasn't fully drunk — not yet.

His skin itched with anxiety.

He'd been thinking too much — about something he'd never once considered. Approaching Vasiliy.

It was a terrible idea. He knew that.

But as long as Vasiliy carried on like a machine, it was his best option.

A kitsune mask hung on the wall behind the bar. With enough money, it could be his. The mask wouldn't cover his entire face, only up to his nose — just enough to avoid recognition. The dim light would do the rest. He only needed a bottle of whiskey — even the cheap kind — and better clothes. He hadn't dressed to be noticed. He hadn't even considered this would happen.

A few bills convinced the bartender to part with both the whiskey and the mask.

Junseo shed his sweater, unbuttoned his pants just a little — enough to look somewhat seductive. Honestly, he wasn't even sure if Vasiliy was into men. But he'd spent all his money and patience. There was no turning back.

A burning sip of whiskey settled in his stomach, and he made his way to the sofa. His body burned — maybe from the alcohol, maybe from nerves. Maybe from madness.

But he was there. Close enough to touch.

Vasiliy glanced up, confused, cigar still between his fingers. He didn't object. Didn't speak. Didn't even ask.

The scent of tobacco curled from his lips.

The dancer on his chest whined when Junseo spilled whiskey across Vasiliy, but neither man paid her any mind. Vasiliy smirked — an invitation, a taunt that made Junseo's blood boil. He set the bottle on the floor and sank to his knees. His fingers undid the remaining buttons of the shirt, then loosened Vasiliy's belt.

"You seemed bored," Junseo murmured — in English, just to throw him off.

Those were his last words before his tongue chased the whiskey pooling in the grooves of Vasiliy's abs. Hard. Defined. The liquor stung his tongue, but he licked every drop clean. Another pour spilled down Vasiliy's stomach.

"Wouldn't want to waste it."

Vasiliy's accented voice was low, almost charming — until his hand clamped around Junseo's nape, forcing him to continue.

Junseo didn't complain.

He caught every drop, nipping and tugging at the skin, trying to provoke him. But Vasiliy only answered with shuddering breaths.

Before he could pour again, Junseo slipped free — swiping the bottle from Vasiliy's hand and straddling his lap. He tipped the whiskey into his own mouth, then leaned down to share the liquor between their parted lips. Strong hands gripped his waist, pulling him closer. Sweat-slicked bodies. Whiskey-flushed skin. The obscene sound of tongues clashing — one shared drink between them.

Their bodies reacted — inevitable, irrelevant.

"Are you that desperate?"

Vasiliy's voice was rougher now — warmer.

Their lips broke apart, connected by thin strands of spit that snapped as soon as they formed. Junseo's mind blurred at how unbearably human Vasiliy looked, so messy and desperate for another kiss. He traced his tongue across his lower lip, hands cupping his jaw.

"Don't flatter yourself, pretty boy. You're the one hard from a kiss."

A drunken, genuine laugh escaped him.

Vasiliy said nothing — just seized him by the neck again, trying to silence him.

"This... is in the way."

Fingers brushed the kitsune mask.

Like a splash of cold water, that small gesture snapped Junseo back to reality.

He shoved Vasiliy's hand away, panic clawing up his throat. He didn't speak — didn't want to. He stumbled to his feet, heart pounding, and bolted before Vasiliy could react. Even drunk, he found the exit without trouble — running until he collapsed in a dark alleyway. The mask suffocated him. He ripped it off and threw it away.

He'd fucked up. Badly.

Vasiliy leaned back into the sofa, covering his face with both hands. His pants strained painfully, but he had no desire for anything more.

The shadows settled heavy on his face — brows furrowed in irritation.

"блять (blyat)."