Mizuki’s been in a good mood lately.
It’s weird. Considering the circumstances, he should be nothing but miserable, but recently, whenever Kitaro comes home, Mizuki has a big, stupid grin on his face, and it’s not like he’s happy to see Kitaro, ‘cause it’s gone the moment he takes one look at him, like the mere sight of him has the power to ruin Mizuki’s whole day. He’s not that ugly. Plus, it’s not like he cares, but it’s obvious that Mizuki’s hiding something from him. Why else would he be in such good spirits? As far as Kitaro knows, all Mizuki does is laze around at home all day while Kitaro’s out working to support the two of them. It’s an easy gig for him, and all Kitaro asks for is a decent sex life, which Mizuki can’t even manage some nights, whether it’s him sobbing the whole time or just laying there like a corpse.
Kitaro remains clueless until, one day, when he manages to get off work earlier than usual, thanks to one of his client’s no-showing (shame the guy managed to get killed before Kitaro could sell him a plan), he hears Mizuki talking to… someone through the apartment door. He almost doesn’t recognize Mizuki’s voice because he sounds so… free. Happy. He listens harder, ear pressed against old wood, but he doesn’t make out the sound of another voice. Maybe the old man’s finally lost his mind and started talking to himself. Kitaro wouldn’t be surprised if Mizuki hallucinated someone else to talk to to fill the void of Kitaro’s absence during the day.
Still, Kitaro’s nosy, and he’s quick to force open the door, wanting to catch Mizuki in the act, just to make fun of him. When the door swings open, Kitaro is greeted with Mizuki in the middle of the kitchenette, talking into a cell phone. He stares daggers into Mizuki’s back, sharp enough to kill, and Mizuki must feel it carve under his skin, because he turns around, eyes wide in fear.
Kitaro isn’t gentle with the door. He slams it shut behind him, and it makes Mizuki jump where he stands, fingers tightening around the cell phone’s width.
“Excuse me,” Mizuki says, hurriedly, pressing the cell phone closer to his ear, not that Kitaro could hear the other party in the first place. “My roommate just came home. We’ll talk soon– Yes, of course.” And he chuckles, light and airy, like a teenage girl. For a moment, he must forget Kitaro is there, because that dreamy, gentle smile is back. “Mhm. Goodbye.” It’s gone the second he hangs up, the suffocating tension weighing down on him. He shuffles his feet, lowering the cell phone and clutching it close to his chest, as if Kitaro will take it from him.
Kitaro feigns disinterest, just to keep Mizuki on his toes. “Is dinner ready?”
“Y-yes,” Mizuki stutters, voice wavering. “I’ll heat it up for you.”
They eat in silence, they clean up in silence, and they sleep in silence or, at least, Mizuki does, trapped in Kitaro’s arms and face tucked into Kitaro’s shoulder. Mizuki protested sleeping in the same futon at first, but Kitaro didn’t want to adjust the thermostat. It costs too much to keep the heat on. There was nothing else behind it; they were just like animals, huddling for warmth to survive, even though both their bodies ran cold.
With their legs intertwined, Kitaro stays awake all night, thinking of just what to do about Mizuki’s new friend.
He should at least assess the situation before he does something rash. It could be a misunderstanding, just maybe, but Kitaro has a bad feeling about it all.
“Who were you talking to?” Kitaro asks a few nights later, a heavy helping of rice in his cheeks.
“Hm?” Mizuki doesn’t even look up from his plate.
“Don’t play dumb with me.” Kitaro curls his lip, then clicks his tongue. “On your cell phone the other day.”
“Oh–” Mizuki says, wiping away the mess on Kitaro’s lips with a napkin. “Ah, it’s… a former superior of mine. He was concerned when I stopped showing up to work. He sent me a message on my old pocket bell, asking to talk.”
Huh? And Mizuki didn’t tell him? That seemed like a huge deal. Why wouldn’t he mention something like that the moment it happened? It annoyed him how Mizuki, somehow, had a life that Kitaro wasn’t aware of. Not to mention Mizuki didn’t answer when Kitaro sent messages to him during work. Mizuki wanted more “notice” or whatever when they fucked, but suddenly it’s too much when he sends “SEX TNIHT?” during his shift.
“So you ended up buying something like that to keep talking to him? Don’t those cost a lot? The phone we already have works just fine, too,” Kitaro jabs, trying to make Mizuki feel guilty. “No wonder we’ve been struggling with the bills. We can’t afford to have expensive tastes–”
“No, no,” Mizuki interrupts, looking bashful, for some reason. “It was a gift.”
What the fuck?
“What the fuck?” Kitaro says out loud.
“Language,” Mizuki chides him with a wag of his finger, eyebrows furrowed. The bastard still has to gall to act like his father. “I had to return the pocket bell, of course, it’s company property.” Then who the fuck was Kitaro still messaging? “He still wanted to keep in touch, so he bought me it, even though I said it wasn’t necessary…” Mizuki fondly stares into nothing as he explains himself, reminiscing on it like a blushing schoolgirl, and it makes Kitaro’s blood boil.
The temptation to break Mizuki’s cell phone and nose in the same breath grows by the second, but Kitaro, with all the patience in his body, resists. It didn’t have to be a big deal. It sounded like a guy who just wanted to flaunt his money, though it’d be better if it was on something that was actually useful.
“Isn’t that nice.” Kitaro forces a smile, and it’s so unconvincing that it makes Mizuki shrink in his seat. “Hope you thanked the guy, at least.”
Mizuki fidgets in his seat, as if what Kitaro said was somehow scandalous. What did he have to be shy over?
“Ah, yes.” Mizuki clears his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. His eyes don’t meet Kitaro’s, and a faint blush rests on his pale cheeks. “I did.”
The guilt and embarrassment is plain as day. It confirms everything that Kitaro already suspected. Just a boss, huh. Right.
Kitaro shouldn’t care. What Mizuki does with his own time shouldn’t matter, but envisioning Mizuki “thanking” another man makes his vision red. He clenches his fist so tightly that it snaps his chopsticks in half. He tosses them aside, and even though they don’t land anywhere near Mizuki, the man flinches anyway.
Mizuki just couldn’t help himself, could he? It wasn’t enough that Kitaro was working day after day to keep them afloat. He just had to get someone else involved. For money? Attention? Was Kitaro’s not enough? Just like a selfish whore.
“Goodnight,” Kitaro spits, stomping to the bedroom. He’s so angry that his skin itches, like there’s a swarm of bugs crawling along his tendons. He runs his trembling hands through his hair, taking deep breaths, because his chest hurts like a bitch.
How dare he. Kitaro has to take his anger out on something, because how dare he– his hands scramble for anything in their bedroom. His fingers curl around a clock, and he throws it against the wall, launched so hard and fast it leaves a dent. Just something else he’d have to pay for, no thanks to Mizuki. The trinkets and novels on the bookshelf are next to go; books ripped in half, torn pages scattered all over the floor.
By the time Kitaro’s done, the room is a mess. Kitaro can’t stand looking at the result of his tantrum, and he takes shelter under the blanket of the futon.
He sniffles. Sniffles again and again until tears and snot drip down his face.
It isn’t fair. Kitaro’s done so much for the both of them. What was next? Would Mizuki leave him? The guy obviously had a stupid amount of money, nothing close to Kitaro’s salary. Was the sex better, too? He couldn’t imagine that– Kitaro’s dick was huge, and he was kind enough to get Mizuki to cum, most of the time. Kitaro knew he wasn’t exactly a looker, but since when did Mizuki care about finding a lover? He had a son.
Mizuki wasn’t supposed to have anyone else but him.
Kitaro wakes in the dead of night, something something amiss. The first thing he notices is that Mizuki isn’t in the futon next to him. Kitaro can’t exactly say he was surprised with how angry he was, and he couldn’t promise he wouldn’t have hit Mizuki if he tried to comfort him… but he felt like a little boy again, small and scared and vulnerable. He wanted nothing more than Mizuki’s arms wrapped around him, patting his back, promising everything would be ok. Mizuki wasn’t his father, nor a lover. He was something that Kitaro simply couldn’t put a word to, but Kitaro wanted him to stay, all the same.
He wipes his snot-dried nose before pushing himself out of bed to check on where Mizuki would likely be– the couch.
“Mizukiiii…” he calls, voice cracking as he approaches the old, moth-eaten sofa. The shape of Mizuki is hidden by a hoard of blankets; the man doesn’t even stir at Kitaro’s voice. Just the sight of him would make Kitaro feel better, but, well, an apologetic blowjob wouldn’t hurt, either. He reaches a hand out to touch where he imagines Mizuki’s shoulder would be, but… it’s much softer than usual. He presses harder, and the lump easily dips with the weight of his palm.
He rips the blankets off, and Mizuki isn’t underneath, just a collection of well-placed pillows to give the illusion of a body.
He ran off, like a teenager. He should have expected something like this. Kitaro cackles so loud the neighbors will probably file another complaint.
Kitaro is going to kill him.
Kitaro wished he had put a spiritual mark on him, but the crows are helpful enough to track Mizuki down. The depths of a park not too far away from their apartment. Kitaro’s not stupid; he knows what men like Mizuki do there.
By the time Kitaro gets there, Mizuki’s already cozied up with another man, a strong arm curled around his waist, pulling him close until their hips touched. The moonlight illuminates the hard line of Mizuki’s cheeks. They’re having a hushed conversation, and while Kitaro can’t hear it, he can tell Mizuki’s having a good time, because he’s never looked so happy in front of Kitaro before. Kitaro hadn’t noticed Mizuki’s dimples before, nor the way his eyes fully close whenever he laughs.
It’s gross. So gross that Kitaro has to put a stop to it before he throws up in the bushes.
Four crows caw in the tree above the “couple”, and they scatter once they sense Kitaro approaching. Mizuki notices Kitaro before the other man does, and he tenses up, immediately putting a respectable distance between them, but it’s too late, Kitaro already saw everything, the sight burnt into his mind. The other man takes a moment before he realizes Kitaro is there, and Kitaro half-squints, half-glares once he’s close enough to get a good look. He’s young, probably in his late 20s at most. Tall, but not nearly as willowy as Kitaro. Expensive looking glasses perched on his nose, and a well tailored suit, too. It dawns on Kitaro how their hair is parted the same way, but while Kitaro’s is at the mercy of whatever his pillow makes of it, the other man’s hair is shiny with not a strand out of place, well manicured, just like a fag would.
“Kitaro! What a surprise.” Mizuki laughs uncomfortably. He gestures to the other man, shifting into forced politeness, just like a businessman. Kitaro can see a sheen of spit on his lips. “This is–”
“I don’t care,” Kitaro grunts as he grabs Mizuki’s wrist, much to his protest. “It’s late, and I don’t want you doing anything stupid, Dad.”
“Dad?” The man is obviously taken aback, but it’s not enough to deter him, since he reaches out to grab Mizuki’s other wrist, like they’re playing a grown-up version of tug-of-war. Mizuki doesn’t know which side to choose, so he just stands there in the middle of them, sleeves caught in the claws of two men. “I didn’t know Mizuki-kun was a father.”
He’s speaking to Mizuki, not to him, but Kitaro answers anyway, tugging harder on Mizuki’s arm. He’ll rip the fucking shirt right off of him if he has to. Mizuki-kun. Please, who did this prick think that he was? “Haha. Doesn’t surprise me. My dad is a private guy. Like I said, it’s late. We should go.”
“There’s no need to be hasty,” the man says, calm and collected, but Kitaro can sense a hint of eager urgency. “Rest assured, your father is safe with me. We were just going to a nomikai. We want Mizuki-kun’s input on a few things. He was a hard worker. It’s a shame he had to leave on such short notice.”
“A nomikai, huh?” Kitaro tilts his head. “At this hour?”
The man doesn’t have an immediate response to that, and Kitaro lets a dark smile crawl onto his face.
“Murakami-san,” Mizuki finally speaks, quiet and meek, as if he’s been waiting for his turn. “It’s… always good to see you, but my– my son is right. It is late, and I’m starting to feel under the weather.” Mizuki looks up to Kitaro, fearfully seeking approval.
Mizuki certainly looks sickly, sweaty and pale. Kitaro pulls hard enough to finally get Mizuki out of Murakami-san’s grasp. Mizuki limply leans on his shoulder, and Kitaro’s hand lowers to Mizuki’s waist, fingers drumming along the band of his pants, mimicking how Kitaro found them. Far too intimate for a son and his father.
“...Right,” Murakami mutters, suspicious, but there’s nothing else he can do. Kitaro’s already won. “Well. I’ll see you again, then, Mizuki-kun.”
“Yes.” Mizuki nods, letting a sliver of hope show on his face. “Another time.”
“Goodnight.” Murakami offers his hand out to Mizuki, one last attempt at socially acceptable affection.
“G–” Mizuki starts, reaching to take his hand, fingers just a space away from meeting Murakami’s.
“Goodnight,” Kitaro finishes. He lets go of Mizuki’s waist to claim Mizuki’s outreached hand into his own. Kitaro turns his back to the other man, and he makes Mizuki do the same.
Kitaro doesn’t let go of Mizuki’s hand.
“Kitaro, I’m sorry,” Mizuki mumbles, instinctively, once they’re out of earshot.
“For what?” Kitaro laughs, the cold air making his breath visible. He remembers when he used to pretend to breathe fire as a kid, and how Mizuki bought him a new pair of striped gloves for each winter. “What did you do wrong, Mizuki?” Kitaro wants to hear him say it, confess every little mistake of his.
Mizuki doesn’t answer. The list of sins must be too long.
Kitaro lets Mizuki off of his little incident for two weeks. He even allows him to carry on with the phone calls, not batting an eye when Mizuki answered his cell phone right in front of him. They talked every day, and while Mizuki often excused himself to take the calls, Kitaro could hear the faint sound of his laughter and gross flirting from the other room. Mizuki never did that with him. They barely even spoke at home. Just another reason for why Kitaro had to do something about it.
It was almost cute how Mizuki allowed himself to believe that he somehow escaped the consequences.
One morning, on a day that Kitaro requested off, he gives Mizuki a single command while he smokes on the couch, feet on the coffee table. He idly jostles his left foot as he stares up at the ceiling, and his white tank-top is a cloudy gray from chain smoking since seven in the morning.
“Call him.”
“What?” Mizuki laughs. Mizuki is so invested in scrubbing the countertops that he doesn’t detect the seriousness in Kitaro’s voice. His chuckles trickle out and die once he realizes Kitaro isn’t joking. “Now? I-I couldn’t. He’s at work.”
How considerate, but Kitaro didn’t give a fuck. “I said,” Kitaro blows a ring of smoke. He lets hot ashes fall onto the floor from his half-burnt cigarette, even though Mizuki just swept. “Call him, Mizuki.”
“Um.” Mizuki hesitates, but he eventually nods, knowing Kitaro is too stubborn and petty to be convinced otherwise. “Okay.”
Mizuki does as he’s told, hesitantly picking up the cell phone from the other side of the kitchen and flipping it open after he abandons his sponge and dries his hands. He takes his time dialing Murakami’s number, stalling, and Kitaro clicks his tongue at how Mizuki’s obviously memorized it. To no one’s surprise, Murakami does answer, and Mizuki turns around for a faux sense of privacy.
“Good morning,” Mizuki starts. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just…” He pauses, leaning his elbows onto the countertop and shuffling the cell phone into his other hand. “I wanted to hear your voice.” Mizuki sways a little, and he sounds so lovestruck that Kitaro nearly burns himself.
Is Mizuki trying to provoke him? Well, it fucking worked. Kitaro was going to wait a little longer before making his move, but Mizuki just had to rile him up. He moves onto his feet and stubs his cigarette out on the wall before tossing it into the trash. He stops once he’s standing right behind Mizuki, and Mizuki must be too captivated by Murakami’s voice to notice how close he is.
“Is that so?” Mizuki continues, though Kitaro doesn’t care to wonder about what they might be talking about. Kitaro can’t see Mizuki’s face like this, but he can imagine what it looked like, all shy smiles and hearts in his eyes. “You don’t need to tell me twice–”
Kitaro leans down, pressing his chest into Mizuki’s back, and it’s only then that Mizuki stops running his mouth, a fearful gasp passing through his lips, instead. Kitaro’s hands wander to the front of Mizuki’s shirt, picking off the buttons one by one.
“A-ah, no, it’s…” Mizuki turns his head ever so slightly, a rare look of defiance in his eyes. “A dog. My dog. Haha. He’s so needy.” Mizuki tries to elbow Kitaro off of him, but Kitaro doesn’t budge.
“I’m sorry for calling you while you’re busy.” Mizuki hurries, getting more desperate to shove Kitaro off. “I’ll–”
“Stay on the line with him,” Kitaro hisses into Mizuki’s ear, and he pinches Mizuki’s nipple tightly between his knuckle and his thumb. “Or I’ll break your legs.”
“...I’ll– um.” Mizuki’s sweating now, because he knows the threat is real. Mizuki had to wear a cast on his arm for a few weeks the one time he gave Kitaro a black eye. He bites his lip to keep his moans at bay. “I’ll stay on as long as you’ll have me.”
“Good.” Kitaro presses an open-mouthed kiss against the back of Mizuki’s neck. Mizuki shivers, in disgust or anticipation, Kitaro can’t say.
Playing with a guy’s nipples doesn’t really do it for him, but Mizuki is weak to it, back arching each time Kitaro pulls them taut. Mizuki somehow manages to carry on like Kitaro isn’t even there, just with a few hushed moans in between the gaps of the conversation. It’s annoying. He abandons Mizuki’s chest to shuffle his pants down his legs. Mizuki hadn’t cared enough to put his underwear back on from their last fuck, the slut. He brings his palm down hard on Mizuki’s ass, and he chuckles at how Mizuki yelps into the receiver.
“No– no, just. The dog again.” Mizuki explains, gripping onto the cell phone so tightly that Kitaro can see the shape of his veins. “He bites, sometimes. Yes. He’s–” And Mizuki looks Kitaro right in the eye as he says it. “He’s a stray. No one else wanted him. It’s a miracle he’s made it this far–”
It stings, a little. Mizuki knows just what to say to hurt him; it must come from being a “father.” Finding every little crack in Kitaro’s small, wounded heart. Kitaro wonders if Mizuki has a masochistic streak in him, because what does he expect when he spouts shit like that?
Kitaro flips Mizuki around by the shoulders and slams him against the kitchen countertop, knocking over towels and spices in the way. Mizuki yells and drops the cell phone in the fall, and Kitaro snatches it before Mizuki can take it back.
Kitaro places the cell phone on his shoulder and tilts his head to pinch it right against his ear. He moves Mizuki’s limbs around as the man sobs, like Mizuki is a ball-jointed doll at his mercy. Mizuki’s legs end up draped over Kitaro’s shoulder, and Kitaro lets Mizuki’s arms free because he thinks it’s adorable how Mizuki tries to punch and claw and shove at his chest to get him to stop. “Hey. You there?”
“Hello? Who is this?” Murakami asks, more angry than concerned. He must’ve heard some of the scuffle.
“The dog,” Kitaro answers, smugly.
“Kitaro, stop!” Mizuki shouts. “Stop it, please!”
So now he wants to beg. It’s too late for that.
The lube was in their room, and Kitaro wasn’t about to let Mizuki go just for him to run off. Kitaro’s load from a couple hours ago will do the trick, though. Mizuki didn’t deserve anything else. Kitaro whistles as he pulls down his sweatpants and boxers in one go, the tip pressing eagerly against Mizuki’s slightly slick hole.
“What– what are you doing to him?” Oh, yeah. Kitaro had almost forgotten about him. He was too busy listening to Mizuki cry.
Kitaro groans as he forces himself inside; he can never get tired of how tight Mizuki is. Sure, a woman would be nicer, but this was the only thing Mizuki was good for. He hopes that Murakami can hear Mizuki moan underneath him. “Mm. Fucking him.”
Murakami lets out a horrified gasp, sputtering until he can only land on the words, “B-but you’re–”
“His son? Yeah, I know.” Kitaro laughs. They’re not blood-related, but Murakami doesn’t have to know that part. “But he likes it. Loves it. Don’t you, Mizuki?”
Kitaro takes the cell phone back into his hand, and he moves it to Mizuki’s own ear. Mizuki bites his lip again, but Kitaro roughly grabs his face with his free hand, silently mouthing the words ‘say it.’
Tears fall down Mizuki’s face like rain, and he wails into the cell phone, arms circling around Kitaro’s neck. “I– I love it. I love him. I love my son– ah!”
Kitaro is satisfied with that, ignoring the strange, warm feeling in his chest at the confession, and he brings the cell phone back to his ear. “He just can’t help being greedy about men, haha, so don’t feel too bad. Hm? Hello? Helloooo?”
There’s silence on the other end, and Kitaro doesn’t have the patience to keep holding the clunky device onto his ear; it’ll give him a neck cramp. He shrugs and snaps the upper half down. “Must’ve hung up.” He places the cell phone by Mizuki’s head, though Mizuki is too far gone to notice. He gets like this most of the time they fuck, staring into nothing and robotically following Kitaro’s lead. That was fine with him, he thinks Mizuki’s learned his lesson. “Just us now, Mizuki.”
Kitaro litters sickeningly sweet kisses along Mizuki’s neck as he takes what’s rightfully his.
“Hey, Mizuki,” Kitaro asks, his head resting against Mizuki’s lap. He’s starting to gain weight again. Kitaro didn’t like when his legs were all bony; they were terrible pillows then. Kitaro had to bend his legs to fit on the couch like this, but that was the price he’d pay for Mizuki’s fingers in his hair. “What happened to that cell phone of yours?”
“Oh.” Mizuki doesn’t stop idly petting Kitaro, nor does he tear his eyes away from the TV. It’s some stupid drama that neither of them care about, but it gives them something to do after Kitaro’s finished from work that isn’t eating dinner or fucking. “It’s… in the kitchen. Next to the fridge. Murakami-san stopped paying for the phone service, so…” It didn’t need to be said that they can’t afford to pick up the bill.
“Sooo.” Kitaro pauses and stares up at Mizuki’s face to watch his expression. “You mind if I pawn it off? Bet I can find some guy who’s got the money for it, hehe.”
Mizuki lets out a single, dry laugh, and the momentary smile from it doesn’t reach his eyes. Blank stare, straight mouth, sunken cheeks. “It’s fine.” Mizuki plucks Kitaro’s cigarette from his lips, takes it for himself. He inhales, exhales, then puts it back where it was. “Since when did you care about my permission?”
“I don’t.” Kitaro smiles, genuine. “I just like it when you give me the right answer.”
Mizuki keeps stroking his hair. Kitaro buries his face into Mizuki’s soft stomach, right where Kitaro left a spiritual mark on him. He inhales, and Mizuki smells like a smoke-dusted corpse, a body left out in a burnt down building. Who else could find home in that but Kitaro?