I thought it was a dream, and maybe it was my heart that stopped a bit when it wasn’t. I don’t know if you really want me to touch you, or if it’s a trick , but your legs are more beautiful to my touch than in my fantasies, could I really explore every inch the way I want? Are you asking me to kiss you? I’m not thinking really, your stomach is soft, inches above is your bandaged scar, I want to know your wounds. Your body moves with your breath, I can feel your fingers through the fabric of my shirt, I can’t concentrate with the sighs of your breath above, and your cock erect below me. You are soft and hard and warm and wet, and I can taste you on my tongue, I am filled with the scent of you, I want to know what you need, your hips rock, and your cock slides deeper inside my mouth, and I don’t need to breathe, my heart thudding so loudly it must be audible to you, my hands on the insides of your thighs so warm and smooth, I am thinking of the hidden part of you, and my pants feel tight, please don’t notice, I’m begging please don’t notice, that part of you, I want to be inside, I am imagining these fingers of mine to be as how I would penetrate you, if you would squeeze around my cock like the way you’re squeezing on my fingers now, melting and hot inside, the way you move, as if you want to take me deeper inside, urging me to touch your very core. The sound of your cries are familiar to me already, but now I’m the one connecting with you and the heat and feel of your writhing body, I am desperate to make you cum, grip me tighter, my shoulders and my fingers as I thrust into you, if you’d call my name I’d die happy boss, and the shudder as your hot thick semen fill my mouth, and I’m shivering as your run your fingers into my hair. Was it good enough? I thought you were going to call my name, but it’s ‘don’t..’ that you say, are you still not satisfied? You’re slippery inside, and if I could I want to be here holding you, kissing you all over, forever, going nowhere with you.
4 am is filled with the unnerving quiet of a world that shouldn’t be awake, I am an intruder in this nocturnal space. There’s a vague light from the window, but mostly the glow of the lamp that had been kept on. I don’t know why I am awake, until the pain grips me again, a reminder that the drugs have worn off. There’s a glass tumbler of water and two pills in a packet waiting for me, I take them with the water and realise how thirsty I’d been.
He is sitting on the grey sofa by the exit, head lolled slightly to his right side, eyes shut. I slip off the bed and walk over to him, silent on bare feet. He doesn’t wake, even when I’m right up close to him. The last time must have been in my apartment, again, I can’t resist reaching out to touch him, a slight scrape of stubble on his cheeks.
My mind wanders, of course, to that time he’d so audaciously set about pleasuring me with his mouth, his tongue. My fingers are on his lips, dry but soft, I am tempted to push my fingers inside, let him slick me wet. Just the thought is causing my cock to react. What would he do? I wondered. I slip off the hospital pants underneath my robes - cool air prickling the hairs of my legs - and I straddle his lap.
He finally begins to stir, rubbing his eyes with his bandaged hand.
"Boss?" he says, sounding sleepy and confused.
I take his hand and put it on my thigh.
For a brief moment he strokes me without thinking, and then he freezes, his eyes looking up at me in alarm.
"Have you learned anything since last time?"
A red blush creeps up his face, it’s fucking adorable.
I grip his shoulder and push myself to a kneeling position, robe undone so he can see all of me.
"How do you want to touch me?" I ask.
"Boss I…" he swallows and lowers his gaze, from my position I can see the crease of his brows and his lashes
I pull him to me, his face against my stomach, an obvious invitation. He starts kissing me, tentatively at first, even his hand on the back of my thigh is light, as if I am too fragile to the touch, but slowly he warms up, his kisses travels across my stomach and his hand brushes the full length of my thigh, down to the crook behind my knee, and then up to cup my buttock, and then both hands, rough and large, are groping me. The first flick of his tongue elicits a groan, I want more and he gives it, his tongue drawing patterns on my skin. He hasn’t even touch me there yet, and I can already feel it getting hard and wet, my hips rock in anticipation, pushed towards him, brush up against his shirt.
He pauses to look up at me, a question mark, a request for permission. I cover his eyes with my hand, and press against him further, and he understands. I stretch and he dips, and his mouth is wrapped all around my cock.
He’s clumsy and sloppy, not much better than last time, but the warm wet feel of his mouth working me, gets my heart beating faster. My hands grips his broad shoulders as I thrust into him, controlling my tempo as my body becomes more sensitised, his back looks so broad from this angle, I watch the movements of his shoulder blades. I thought I’d be satisfied with being sucked off, but then I feel him spreading my buttocks apart, and as I catch my breath he slips a finger inside.
I jolt and his teeth scrapes against my erection - it’s pleasure and agony, I desperate hunger gnawing inside..
"Deeper," I gasp, and he obliges, taking in more of my length with his mouth as he plunges his finger deeper inside my twitching hole, a few more quick rough thrusts and I was done, spurting hot and fast inside his mouth, my whole body uncontrollable in it’s orgasmic spasms, my cock slips out as he swallows my cum and gasps. Sweat drops on his forehead.
He begins to pull his fingers out, I clench around him.
"Don’t," I say before I meant to.
He looks at me confused.
"It’s been so long, I’m still…"
Still? I’m not sure what I want to say so I stop.
I run my hands over his damp hair, he kisses my stomach again, all light and feathery, and he adds another finger inside, moving languidly, stretching me and filling me until I come a second time and collapse, no strength left in my legs
He carries me back to the bed, and wipes my dick clean with a tissue, he even tries to put my pants back on, until I tell him not to bother.
He disappears for a while, presumably to the bathroom. When he comes back, he hovers over me. For a split second, I thought he would ask to climb into bed with me, but instead he moves back to the sofa seat. For a split second I think wished he had.
I guess I’m not too old to be foolish. I pull the cover up, the ache dulled with tiredness, and the drugs pulling me back into an empty sleep.
Voice is chain-smoker gruff, glint of gold around the neck, silver in his hair. This sharp-suited old man, ruler of those who cower in his wake. Yashiro fantasised about briefly about the hard and toned torso was beneath the expensive Italian fabric.
"You ordered me," he said, maintain his nonchalant pose on the couch, no bowing or scraping.
The man moved out of his line of sight, there was a rustle and the clinking of something heavy against glass, and Yashiro guessed correctly that it was whisky being poured into a tumbler. When Misumi appeared again, the tumbler was already near empty, but the dark bottle of Scotch was in the other hand, and golden liquid flowed again.
"Who did you fuck this time?" Misumi asked, eyeing the bruise on Yashiro’s left cheek.
"Who remembers?" Yashiro said, half truthfully, the faces had merged after a while under the have of the whatever drugs they’d given him, he’d hardly even felt it until afterwards, along with the usual wash of aches and pains. The only memory in sharp focus was Hinata’s angry eyes before he’d thrown that hard punch down onto his face.
”You’re like fucking catnip to the men,” Misumi said, shaking his head as if not understanding, slipping his jacket off and loosening his tie.
"Thank you," Yashiro said with a smile.
"It wasn’t a compliment."
The whisky bottle was thunked down onto the coffee table, and Misumi’s hand was on his face before Yashiro could even react. Misumi pulled him up off the couch. It hurt where the finger dug into the bruise; Yashiro shivered in delight.
"Just what’s so good about you?" Misumi said, eyes and voice equally cold. Yashiro could almost taste the alcohol from his breath.
"It could be my pretty face, or how tight my asshole is, or how wet I get every time it hurts." Yashiro listed off on his fingers.
Misumi shoved him back onto the couch, whisky sloshed out of the tumbler onto Yashiro’s jeans, a dark stain slowly blooming on high on his thigh.
"What a waste," Yashiro said, pressing two fingers against the stain and then licking the taste off the tips of his slender fingers.
MIsumi caught the hand by the wrist. Yashiro looked up and their eyes locked for a moment that halted and stretched. Misumi’s pupil’s narrowed before dilating full like a cat’s. Yashiro recognised it immediately and felt his own flesh heating up, tingling in anticipation - Misumi was down, pressing his mouth against the stain on the denim, sucking the liquid, every exhaled breath leaving Yashiro’s thigh feeling wet and warm, the tumbler abandoned to the thick shag pile on the floor.
This was the first time Misumi had reacted, was it the alcohol? the bruise? Not that Yashiro cared, he’d been dreaming of the loveless eyes and how hard Misumi would fuck him. He reached down to unbutton his fly, his cock already straining for release, he could feel the tip getting wet when Misumi bit down and elicited a moan from him. His laid out on his back and the jeans and boxers were pulled off in quick successive jerks - Misumi’s large hands were rough on the underside of his thighs, stroking upwards towards the crook of his knees and then spreading him open wide, and wider. Yashiro was fully erect. Misumi growled, a look of disdain on his face as he eyed the undeniable fact of Yashiro’s sexual arousal. Yashiro’s hand reached down to stroke himself, he was half lost already and arching his back. Misumi grabbed his hand again, this time by the fingers and crushing them together, he pushed that hand back over Yashiro’s head, his body now full weight pinning Yashiro down, a knee pressed up hard against the base of his cock and grinding against it viciously.
"You think you can get off that easily?"
Yashiro struggled to answer, all his attention drawn by the pooling sensation at his groin.
"I’m , hah, about to -"
The slap across his face jarred his words, almost causing him to bite his own tongue.
"No you don’t," Misumi commanded. He reached for the bottle on the coffee table and gulped it straight down, then he leaned forward again, his mouth against Yashiro’s mouth, and the boy almost choked on the liquid, the taste burning his tongue and the back of his throat, he coughed and spluttered, the drink dribbling down his face and neck, soaking into the back of his t-shirt that Misumi was soon pulling up over his head, ruffling his hair. Now he was naked, his body so pale every bruise and red mark stood out ferociously, Misumi gripped his bony hips tight and Yashiro cried out when Misumi’s cock pressed up against his ass, that hot hard wet thing probing its way until it found the hole and relentlessly pushed its way inside, deeper and harder until there was no more breath left to hold and Yashiro could only gasp and writhe and cry at the exquisite pain, and he started rocking his hips, fingers digging into Misumi”s shoulder and back as he got fucked senseless, he spurted almost without even realising until it splattered against his own chest, only pulled back to consciousness by the roar of a cry that Misumi gave when he came deep inside Yashiro, filling him up with cum, and the waves of pleasures jolted his body, slow to subside.
He felt scraped and raw, his throat, his everything, breathing erratic, and strangely his sensations strayed to the buttons of Misumi’s rumpled shirt pressing into his naked chest, one brushing against his nipple. He hooked a finger on the knot of the silk tie, fleetingly thinking of how it was a shame it had not been used.
Misumi’s face was flushed, he tried not to look at it. Misumi’s cock was slowly pulling out of him, not as hard now, yet still riling up every nerve as it moved.
All he could hear was the sound of their breathing and the creak of the leather sofa underneath, Yashiro hated these awkward, almost intimate moments.
"What’s your answer, is it my pretty face?" Yashiro asked as Misumi stared at him, he even batted his eyelashes.
"You fucking punk brat," Misumi said, pushing himself off the boy.
Yashiro noticed that Misumi’s hair down there, was also shot through with silver, glistening and matted down with sweat and semen, and mused again about how different the shape and size of cocks could be. Misumi was pretty high grade meat, if he was asked to make a comparison.
Looking down on himself, he noticed the circular bite mark on his thigh, and felt oddly pleased by it.
Misumi noticed too, and reached out brushing his fingers against it, almost unthinkingly, his eyebrows wrinkling up, his expression dark. Then he abruptly pulled away.
"I’m taking a shower," he announced. He pulled his trousers back up, and left without saying more.
Yashiro flopped back onto the couch. As he turned his eyes fell on the bottle of whisky still standing on the coffee table.
"Huh," he said, and swiped at it impulsively.
The bottle was knocked to one side, and the remnants of the whisky drained off the edge of the coffee table onto the floor.
A/N: more x-rated stuff
"You've been holding back on me," Yashiro said, brushing strands of hair out of his eyes, the initial shock had faded and he'd regained his composure. He leaned forward and lifted up the shirt. "My my, that's a very big secret to be keeping all to yourself," he commented.
Doumeki remained silent, the rise and fall of his chest was visible.
Previously in Daylight: 09
He gave Doumeki's tie a sharp tug, causing the man to jerk his head up to face Yashiro's glittering eyes. "If only you could fuck me, and I could just get it over with."
"You said you never sleep with a subordinate."
"So I did," Yashiro said, hooking his finger in the loop, and pulling the tie loose. "But I'm so fucking pent up right now. Who's fault is that? Well maybe Misumi's he's warned everyone off. Did he warn you off too?"
He took Doumeki's right hand and started licking his fingers, putting them in his mouth and sucking them. He pulled them out again and they glistened with saliva.
( Read more...Collapse )
According to Hazumi, the narcs have been watching the Nishimon gang for over six months, looking out for a turf war fuelled by the appearance of a new drug. The new drug was a hit, but liable to cause users to become delirious. Only a month ago Ryouji had dealt with a case of a drugged up sex worker who'd apparently leapt out of a hotel window, the toxicology report had indicated there were traces of this new drug in her system. What Ryouji did not know until today was it was that Yuuki's sexy mistress had a connection with Fujimoto who was the one behind the drug, and it's appearance had caused turmoil within the gang, with Yuuki being opposed to the drug, believing it would draw too much attention to Nishimon, and he hadn't been wrong. It was very likely that Yuuki's killing was an insider job, and it was very likely that Fujimoto was the one behind it.
Ryouji had known that Fujimoto was a bit of a bastard, even by Yakuza standards, but he was still shocked by this new revelation. Hazumi had steeped his fingers and watched his reaction at this point, Ryouji had barely kept his cool.
"Thanks for the information, Mr currently named Hazumi, would you like me to go and arrest Fujimoto?"
Hazumi smiled, and Ryouji felt a bit pissed off because the guy really was good looking. "Ryouji-san I know a bit about you, your name cropped up a few times in the reports, due to your connection with Yuuki Hiroya, the boy from the kidnap case you helped to solve."
"You investigated me?"
"Not me personally," Hazumi said, "you should understand that it is unusual for a cop to have such a close relationship with the yakuza."
"Yes of course I understand, tell me how well does the Wakagashira of the Shinwa group treating you? Is it true he has a harem of foreign beauties hidden way somewhere in a Tokyo apartment?"
Hazumi gave a wry smile, "I get your point, it is a bit strange coming from me."
"Can you just get to the point of why I'm here?"
Hazumi straightened up in his seat.
"Fine let's get to the point. Yuuki has a safe deposit with a Swiss bank. Two months ago he sneaked out of a ritzy party in disguise and went into the bank. We believe he put something into his personal safe deposit, something so important that he even hid the fact from those close to him. From what we know, he kept the key with him at all times, but the key was not on him when he died. We did speculate whether someone had picked it off from him after the assassination, but our taps indicate that everyone is desperate in search of it. You following so far? Please don't look so offended."
"Well excuse my natural face and do carry on. What is this thing that is so important?"
Hazumi smiled, "I cannot divulge that, but we believe you're the key to retrieving the item."
"Yes, we believe that Yuuki gave the key to his son."
Ryouji rubbed his stubbled chin with his free hand. His job now was to persuade Hiroya to hand over the key, that is if there was a key. But what would happen to the kid after that? Presumably this top-secret document would help to help the Narcotics department bring down the gang, but if the Yakuza knew that Hiroya played a part in the downfall, his life would be in danger. Not that it wasn't now.
"Fuck." he said out loud, unbuttoning the top of his shirt, at that point his phone rang. He stubbed out the cigarette and checked caller ID.
It was either Mimi or the chief pretending to be Mimi. He answered it.
"Ryouji!" It was Mimi, sounding desperate.
"What is it?"
"I just arrived at your house. There's no one there."
This time Doumeki is 17, all gangly limbed and stoic of face.
They’re in school and golden afternoon sunlight washes into the classroom. It is almost time to go home. Watanuki watches Doumeki pack away his things, and realises that he moves unseen and unheard.
This is a dream of a memory.
Where was his past self in the dream? Thinking back, Watanuki realises that he never knew what Doumeki got up to after classes, he had always been too busy rushing to the shop to buy eggs and cheap meat in the timed sales, or completing impossible errands. Watanuki waits by the doorway, as students with vague faces brush past, hearing murmurs of conversations that he couldn’t quite make out, only Doumeki is in sharp focus.
Watanuki follows behind Doumeki, and almost bumps into Doumeki when the boy suddenly stops in the hallway. Doumeki is staring into what would have been Watanuki’s homeroom. They move again, and Watanuki notices the wooden bow in Doumeki’s hand.
The dojo should be full of people, but there’s only Doumeki, with a bow and a quiver of arrows, arrows that he steadfastly fires off at a circular target.
Watanuki watches from up close by Doumeki’s shoulder, trying to follow his line of sight. He muses about flicking the boy’s forehead. He settles on blowing into Doumeki’s ear. A frown flickers across the stoic face. The arrow finds its mark nevertheless.
Watanuki watches him undress and change back into his normal clothes, in a changing room that smell of male sweat. He guesses that it was strong memory for Doumeki.
They’re walking home now. Doumeki stops in a park. Watanuki recognises it, the one with the lady ghost. Watanuki feels sad when he remembers.
Doumeki chooses to sit on a swing. How out of character, Watanuki thinks, and sits on the swing next to him. Carefully, Doumeki unwraps a knotted bundle, revealing white buns in the shape of bunnies.
Watanuki remembers them, he’d made dozens for Mokona’s self-professed birthday, and had treated Himawari to them the day after. And of course Doumeki had taken some without asking. Watanuki gets up and stands in front of the gently swinging boy.
Doumeki picks one up gently, and looks at it, contemplating something that Watanuki didn’t know, and he smiles.
Watanuki’s breath is taken away in that moment. He’d forgotten this, He doesn’t know how he could have, but he had. A tremor builds up in his heart. A torrent.
He stands in front of the boy, and there are things he wants to say.
"Doumeki" he tries out, "Doumeki" the words are strange. he repeats it a few times until he warms to it.
Doumeki doesn’t hear, he’s chewing his food thoughtfully, eyes on the sunset maybe.
And Watanuki feels like confessing it, out loud at once, out loud for once, during this dream of a memory.
"You know," he says, and his thoughts are trying to string things together, tripping over his tongue.
"I don’t even know when I fell for you, but I did, I really did. Doumeki."
His chest aches, because it’s all so sad, isn’t it, this regret you can’t get rid of. “I think I fell for you so hard, I didn’t know I was falling. That’s stupid right?”
He reaches out a hand, and surprisingly Doumeki does the same, but just as it seems like their fingers would meet, Doumeki catches a falling leaf, and their hands pass through each other. He couldn’t even cry out as his flowing tears dissolved the dream.
"Walk with me," Doumeki says, blunt as ever. But the hand that he extends is gentle and warm.
The geta clack on the path that leads through a dense grove. Watanuki feels the slight strain of the incline on the back of his calves, and then they reach the red gates of the temple.
"Here?" Watanuki says, stopping at the gate, a boundary to a different place.
"Here," Doumeki says, and when Watanuki still hesitates. "I can carry you over if you like. Princess hold?"
Watanuki scowls and strides over, still holding Doumeki’s hand.
The old temple is empty, the candlelight is mellow and warm, the scent of sandalwood permeates.
Watanuki didn’t think that Doumeki would take him to his bedroom.
It is very neat and tidy, books lined up on shelves, scrolls tied up neatly. A beautiful inkstone set on display. Watanuki moves over to it, the carved fox deities seem to dance in the shimmering dark inkstone.
"You’ve been writing?"
Watanuki casts his eyes over some of the titles, Japanese folklore of course, then his eyes stops on a celadon green volume, the spine so thin there were no words on it. His fingers reached out for it. Doumeki grasped his wrist before he could touch it.
"You wrote it?"
Doumeki said nothing.
"I never knew you were published."
"You never asked."
"I can’t read it?" Doumeki’s grip still holding him back.
Doumeki’s look is inscrutable.
"Would you read it to the end?" he says, finally releasing him.
Watanuki withdraws his hand.
"Maybe another time." He walks away from the desk.
"Why did you bring me here?"
"Because you’ve never been here before. So just once."
"Once what?" Watanuki asks, getting confused, an anxious tone creeps into his voice, he wished he’d brought his pipe along. His fingers play with the edges of his kimono sleeves.
Doumeki sits on the end of his bed, and motions for Watanuki to join him there.
Curious, Watanuki joins him. “What is it?”
"I just wanted to see you on my bed."
As the words sink in, a blush involuntarily blooms on Watanuki’s ears. He should be old enough to keep his cool by now, he thinks his voice comes out steady.
"This. Isn’t that cheating?"
"Well you know you’re m-" Watanuki breaks off, confused, and to hide his confusion he gets up and paces.
"Ah." Doumeki says. "That’s different."
"It’s okay. I thought this was my dream."
This makes Watanuki cross.
"So you think this is mine?"
A wisp of a smile appears, “No, of course it must be mine. Can I tell you a bit more?”
"I-if you’re thinking of anything perv-" he breaks off again.
Doumeki raises a questioning eyebrow. “Perv?”
"Nothing." Watanuki snaps.
"You’re the weird one!"
"Maybe I am, for being in love with someone so weird."
"Ha! Ah - whuh?!" Watanuki was flailing now, the mask of composure slips fully.
Doumeki surrounds him with his arms, wraps him up, so that he feels safe yet defenseless, stlll, but with the ground pulling away from him. Falling.
"I thought about this a lot. I wondered what it would be like."
Suddenly the world tips, swept off his feet, and onto the the bed, with a whoomph. The blood floods his head, rushing around his ears and muffling the world.
He turns, and ends up facing Doumeki, and when he’s about to protest, he sees sadness in the pool of Doumeki’s dark eyes.
"If it’s too much to dream of waking up with you. Is it okay dream until you wake up?"
"Isn’t that too cryptic?"
"You’re right." Doumeki says, his hand gentle cupping the side of Watanuki’s face, as he leans in for a kiss.
Watanuki opens his eyes, and lifts himself up slowly. The windows were closed, but he knew out on the tree, the sakura blossoms had long since fallen.
The rain began some time during the middle of the night and seeped into my dreams. Haruka san is waiting for me on the porch where we often meet, the smell of tobacco infuses with the rain. In the dream, rain catches light from somewhere so it falls translucent with a hint of mother of pearl. The night sky is deep deep blue and I cannot see any clouds.
My bare feet graze the grass, dark lavender and green, and I’m wavering, dreaming of being sleepy in my dream, I slowly become aware that I’m swaying to a tune that Haruka san is humming in his pleasant low voice.
"What is that tune?" I ask.
"A lullaby from a long time ago," he says with a smile.
When I woke up, I forgot the words, I think it was something about fairies collecting raindrops. The bedsheets are warm, and my clothes smell faintly of sweet tobacco leaves.
Doumeki is hovering by the doorway.
"How long have you been here?" I ask, stretching my arms, silk slipping off my shoulders.
"Not long," he says, looking away.
His hair glistens, it must still be raining outside, though I hear no noise.
I notice there is a slight sheen to his skin. I get up and gotto the closet, picking a soft cream coloured towel from a stack.
'Here I say,' offering it to him.
He takes my proffered hand with the towel and pulls it towards him, wiping his face and neck, and then it’s me on tiptoes, ruffling his hair, the rain bringing out his scent. I touch his neck.
'You feel cold,' I say, dipping fingers underneath his collar, feeling for the bump of his spine, when he does the same to me, I shiver, and my shoulder move up involuntarily.
"I am cold," he says, his breath brushing my ear, my body tingling again.
"The bed is still warm," I say.
I love it when he lifts me up and I wrap my legs around his waist, and he carries me to the bed. He lays me down carefully, but his hands are quick with everything else.
Later, when we’re naked among rumpled bedsheets, the rain outside intensifies so we pull the covers around us, our legs sliding along each other. I hum a tune lazily as I ruffle his hair and he kisses my fingertips, and my knuckles in turn.
"Thanks Tora, whew you're a lifesaver," Shibuya said. "I have no idea where I dropped mine."
"No problem," Tora said, thinking to himself that Shibuya was the actual life saver here. The arrival of Shibuya had thrown Hiroya, and Tora had used that to his advantage.
Tora sat down on the armchair adjacent to where his two guests sat.
"So... the pottery club?" even after hearing it from the horse's mouth, Tora couldn't quite believe that Shibuya had any interest in pottery.
"I quit ages ago."
"How come I never heard about it?"
Shibuya shrugged, stuffing the notes into his bag. "Nothing much to talk about really, I'm not much of club person as you know, it didn't suit me."
Well that much Tora did know, the mystery was how he ended up in a club in the first place.
"That's not true!" Hiroya interjected, and then as if shocked by his own voice, he shrunk back down again to staring at his mug. "I mean, Shibuya sempai's pottery was really good, even sensei said so..." His voice trailed off.
Tora looked at Shibuya, and raised his eyebrows. "You're a man of hidden talent."
Shibuya smirked, "maybe..."
"So ah, Hiroya-kun," Tora said, feeling embarrassed, "what kind of things do you make in the pottery club?"
Shibuya answered for him, "the normal ceramic bowls and things, Matsumoto sensei is obsessed with running glazes, he'd go on and on about them, doesn't he Hiroya?"
"I guess so..." Hiroya said.
"Ahh Tora, I think I left something in your room last time I was here, can we go get it?"
Tora frowned, Shibuya has never been to- he looked up to see Shibuya winking at him, and stood up immediately.
"Ah yeah, that thing, it's in my room, yes let's go get that thing from last time," he blabbered.
As soon as they got into his room, Shibuya hooked an arm around his neck, pulled him to one side, and whispered in a low voice.
"Hey, what's Hiroya doing in your apartment, I didn't know that you knew him."
"I don't!" Tora said, trying to keep his voice low too.
"Huh?" Shibuya said, looking confused.
"He knows my Ryou-- I mean he knows my uncle."
Shibuya mulled this over. "Your uncle's a cop isn't he?"
"I get it now."
Shibuya rolled his eyes, "haven't you been watching the news?"
"Yeah what about the news?"
"That yakuza guy that got shot, it was Hiroya's dad."
"Keep it down! I thought everyone knew about his dad, he's kinda famous in school."
Come to think of it, there had been some rumours about some kid with a scary background, but he must have tuned it out, he didn't pay attention to those kinds of things.
"I didn't know..." Hiroya's dad was the one in the news.. no wonder he was acting the way he did, but still.. how did this relate to Ryouji?
A sudden knock on the door made Tora and Shibuya jump, and then Hiroya was standing peeking out of the side of the door.
"I'm sorry I really should be getting back home after all."
Now it was Shibuya's turn to jump forward, and take hold of Hiroya's arm.
"Are you sure? Isn't it better to stay here for now?"
"Uncle will be back soon," Tora added.
Hiroya's eyes flitted back and forth between the two, it was obvious that he was feeling the pressure, but he seemed obstinate on this point.
"Alexander!" he suddenly said, "I can't leave Alexander alone. That woman won't treat him right."
"Alexander?" Shibuya repeated.
A foreigner? Tora thought to himself.
"He's slept with me since I was little, he'll be lonely without me," Hiroya said, flustered.
Tora's face started blushing bright red, "oh I .."
Hiroya saw his face, and blushed himself and explained quickly, "he's my dog."
Shibuya looked at Tora, and burst out laughing. "Tora you were thinking perverted things weren't you?"
"Was not!" Tora blustered.
"I need to get Alexander." Hiroya said, his mouth set into a line of grim determination, even though his eyes were shining, and almost on the brink of tears.
Tora felt the situation slipping away from him, when Shibuya straightened up, and readjusted his glasses.
"Well why don't we go fetch him, and come back?" Shibuya suggested.