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It’s a muffled buzz from his phone that finally pops Sanemi’s studious bubble.

Sanemi cranes his neck, wincing at the uncomfortable twinge it brings forth. He wraps a palm around his nape and massages, nails scraping in the hair there. It hardly does the trick, would probably feel better at the hand of another. But Sanemi prides himself on his self-sustainment—taking care of himself is nothing new, has grown to prefer it even. 

His phone buzzes again so he tears his gaze from the mountain of work piled on the table in front of him. He lets his pencil fall from his fingers and he scatters stacks of paper around, shoves a book to the side.

He’s been at this all day, nose deep in his books at the campus library, cramming for an upcoming Biology exam on Monday; his last score was a B-, if he scores any lower this time around, he may be in trouble. 

Finally, he finds his phone, burrowed deep underneath a textbook that has been propped open for the last two hours. He sighs through his nose, squinting his tired eyes at the blurry texts staring back at him.

Two separate texts from Tengen:

yooo

wanna hang?

Exhaustion hangs heavy on him, bathing him in it—washing him anew in a continuous pattern of an ugly grittiness. Really, he should keep at his studies, then go back to his dorm and rest. It’s desperately needed.

He weighs his options—plow forward in his studies, be the promising student he strives to be, or agree to hang out with Tengen, which almost always guarantees a night of heavy drinking and responsibilities unscrewed as loose as their tongues. He should stick with the former, should keep his mind clear and his choices smart. But when it’s Friday night and he’s got an incoming crick in his neck from the half-day his head has been down-sloped, the latter becomes more and more enticing.

He gives a quick scan of his surroundings, head whipping in a rapid double take at the lack of said surroundings.

Speaking of being at this all day, the library has cleared out in the time he’s occupied the table in the furthest corner. Every table in the middle is void of fellow students, every aisle of books vacant. 

He briefly thinks he hears a hushed whisper somewhere in the distance but when he peers down an aisle, he sees no one. 

Shrugging to himself, he settles on a compromise.

Give me like 30 minutes and I’ll meet u wherever. Gotta knock out a few more practice questions for an upcoming exam.

Tengen responds with a simple thumbs up emoji, dually letting him know he’d be stopping by the Hashira dance studio to pick up Makio, Suma, and Hinatsuru. Sanemi hardly refrains from rolling his eyes. Great, that would make him tonight’s fifth wheel. Even so, he remains undeterred, adamant on an evening of leisure. 

True to his word, he’s zipping his backpack closed half an hour later, satisfied with the number of practice questions he successfully answered correctly. By that point, he’s owed a night of splurging—a little gift to himself for a job well done. 

On his way out, he gives a stiff albeit courteous nod to the young girl sitting at the front desk. She doesn’t acknowledge him, eyes drawn to the computer she sits in front of. When he passes her, he glances at the computer screen, faltering over a step when he sees she’s staring at a powered off screen, jet-black and empty. 

“The fuck?” he chuckles to himself, shaking his head when he whizzes through the door, jogging down the cream-colored stone stairs.

Beelining straight for his beat up, hand-me-down car in the middle of the library’s parking lot, he retrieves his phone from his pocket and thumbs to his Favorites contacts, locating Tengen’s name easily underneath a hill of family members. 

He taps on his friend’s name, sliding into his vehicle at the same time. He thrums his fingers on the top of the steering wheel, then frowns at the abrupt cut-off in the middle of a dull ring. Lowering his phone to his line of sight, a curse barrels out at the sight of a dead battery symbol blinking back at him. 

Fuck.

He didn’t bring a charger with him. 

He tosses his phone aside, dull thump when it bounces on the worn leather of the passenger seat. 

Dance studio. That had been where Tengen was heading. And if he isn’t still there, surely someone would have a charger Sanemi could borrow for at least five minutes—just enough for his phone to power on and he’d be able to regroup with Tengen.

As he pulls out of the parking lot, he tries to keep his growing agitation at bay by turning on the radio. A song can at least serve as an adequate distraction, keep his mind airy with thoughts of what’s to come in just a short while.

But when he dials the volume knob up, he’s met with a blaring white noise, as if the station lost signal. He flicks through a few more stations, hoping to catch a song he recognizes—but his annoyance grows increasingly stronger when every station produces the exact same static-fuzzed noise. 

He tries one more station before he slaps his hand down on the power button to turn it off.

“Damn it,” he snaps, banging a fist on the steering wheel in his fit of frustration. 

He sulks pitifully for several minutes as he drives, nothing but a dreary silence and his own thoughts to assist him. 

The streets are as lonely as he feels, unusually scarce for a Friday evening. The city roads feel particularly clear of neighboring cars, hardly another vehicle in sight. It’s an unnerving feeling, driving alone without a companion, even if that companion is just in the form of another driver. 

He begins blinking roughly, swears his eyes are playing tricks on him—roads stretch further than normal, traffic lights flicker and waver unnaturally. Shadows creeping along the backseat cause him to swerve more than once when his mind conjures up something that’s not really there. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when the studio’s parking lot finally appears. He parks in a spot towards the back and smacks his hands over his cheeks a few times, trying to slap some sense into himself. He must be even more drained than he thought—reaching a point of delirium that betrays his normally sound mind. He uses the heels of his hands to rub circles into his eyes, willing himself to wake the fuck up. 

He releases a sharp exhale, soldiers up to finish through with his task: Score a charger, text Tengen and set his evening plans into motion. He steps out of his car and hurries through the lot—he’s already running late enough.

He briefly catches his reflection in the glass entrance; he looks like a guy who's been depriving himself of sleep to sustain his grade point average; deep, sunken eyes, tousled hair, tense posture as he goes to open the door.

Doesn’t matter. He’s got an entire evening ahead of him without worry of his deteriorating sanity. 

The small lobby is empty, front desk void of a receptionist. Luckily, Sanemi personally knows a few dancers at the studio, even shares a few gen-ed classes with some of them. He hopes to catch a familiar face but with the eerie silence he’s met with, he’s beginning to feel they may have already headed out for the day.

He peers down the narrow hallway to the side of the front desk, scanning for any sign of Tengen—or anyone. The hall is dim, uncomfortably so. The only source of light comes from the very end of the hall, an outline of white spilling from the rehearsal room. It doesn’t bring him ease; there’s no sound that gives life to the room—which only adds to his sprouting distress. It’s disturbing, standing alone in a dark studio without a method of communication. 

The silence becomes too heavy, like there are stones in his pockets dragging his feet with each dreaded step on the vinyl flooring. Personal framed photos line the walls; most consisting of group photos from various competitions and performances. It’s intimate, almost familial. At least, it would be if not for the way the eyes of every dancer in the frames seem to follow his every move, watching him. And in the low lighting, the smiles on their faces don’t look friendly, they’ve morphed into menacing, threatening, even frightening if he really stares at them.

“Fuckin Tengen,” he huffs to himself, heart pounding a mile a minute. He’s tense with anticipation, running his fingertips along the wall for some sort of assurance as he continues stepping towards the end of the hall.

He almost turns to high-tail it out of there, almost makes the split decision to drive back to campus and contact Tengen from his dorm. All he knows is that the silence is all-consuming and he can’t stand it anymore. Studying the floor, he only needs to take three more steps to reach his destination. Just three more. 

He takes one step.

Two more to go.

He stumbles over another step, catching himself on the wall. Sweat clings to him like a wooled coat.

One more to go.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to see but he braces himself just in case. Maybe it’s the culmination of events that led him to this very moment; borderline fearful, defenses up. Empty library, non-working radio stations, dead phone, mind playing tricks on him, unoccupied studio. He licks over his dehydrated lips, a quick swipe over his mouth. He inhales through his nose, puffing out his chest in the same motion.

He takes the last step and turns the corner just as—

A weight drops down against wood in a sudden thud.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sanemi shouts, hand shooting up to grip his chest, flinching so hard his heart aches. He gasps for air, all while feeling like a complete idiot for ever fearing—the sight he’s met with is anything but fear-inducing.

Ice-glazed, unwelcoming eyes slide over to meet his own gaze. Blue eyes belonging to one of the last people Sanemi was hoping to run into. 

Tomioka Giyuu lifts an unimpressed brow, just the slightest arch that gives his stone-cold face the barest hint of emotion, as fleeting as it is. 

He must’ve just finished a run, or a bar, or whatever the fuck these dancers call it—arms still poised above his head in the shape of an oval. He drops them down by his side, palms smacking against the stretchy nylon of the opaque black tights he’s donned in. He curls a hand around a hip, then, regarding Sanemi with enough scorn to scare the average person away. 

However, despite his momentary lapse of rationality, Sanemi doesn’t scare so easily.

“Shinazugawa,” Giyuu states in that same flat-line tone he always seemed to save for him and him alone. Sanemi is almost certain that there isn’t another individual who has earned this amount of detestation from Giyuu. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He knows Giyuu, alright. They’ve attended the same university since they were first years. They got off on the wrong foot from the very beginning, Sanemi taking issue with Giyuu’s arrogant nature, Giyuu taking issue with Sanemi’s crass attitude. Petty arguments and pointless bickering ensued for well over a year—often enough that they could rarely stand to be in the same room for more than five minutes before one of them was scoffing, setting forth yet another squabble.

Shit really hit the fan when Giyuu came pounding on Sanemi’s dormitory door late one evening, snapping at him about some minuscule remark he had made earlier that day—lecturing him when they both knew it could have waited until the sun was up again.

Making unexpected house calls now just to talk to me? You that desperate for me, Tomioka? Sanemi quipped with a twisted laugh, eyeing Giyuu up and down.

The memory following is still murky, head still snowglobe-shaken with cloudy waters—possibly an intentional choice. All he remembers is that one second, Giyuu was glaring at him with enough disdain to kill a person, and the next, their hands were ripping at clothes and their tongues were down each other’s throat, Sanemi kicking the door closed behind them before dragging Giyuu to his bed.

To this day, that night holds up as the best sex he’s had in his twenty-one years of life. He lost track of how many times Giyuu came, even forgetting how many times he himself came. Hours upon hours spent giving into an unspoken sexual tension between them that had been culminating for months, finally sliced open with one round of raps on his door late at night.

They parted ways the following morning with stiff pleasantries and a mutual this doesn’t happen again. 

They upheld the declaration; didn’t sleep together again, didn’t even talk about it. It became an unspoken thing between them, skeleton in their closet. That didn’t stop Sanemi from thinking about it—shuttered polaroids behind his eyes; the constellation of plum-purple marks bitten and stamped into Giyuu’s body, the flush that gloved his skin in a pink hue as he writhed against Sanemi, the moans and wails erupting as he babbled and begged, the pinch between his brows when Sanemi angled just right.

Like a quill to parchment, he steadily bled into the sacred papyrus of Sanemi’s mind, creating his very own written declaration. 

However, their relationship shifted after that. On opposite ends of a swinging pendulum, they didn’t become friends, but they didn’t bicker anymore either. In Sanemi’s opinion, it was even worse, pendulum gashing deep—they didn’t know how to interact with each other at all anymore, weathering to countless painfully awkward encounters that left them mumbling under their breaths and darting off just to escape the post one-night stand burning discomfort.

It eventually boiled to a total whiteboard erasure of talking, not a glance spared. They incinerated into strangers—and that’s when bitter resentment swelled in Sanemi’s throat like an acidic, toxic fluid. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s some kind of jilted lover, but he wouldn’t say he appreciated Giyuu’s newly developed treatment towards him either—patronizing superiority, like Sanemi is a wad of gum on the bottom of his shoe. 

Two can play that game.

He sneers, deadbolt locked on the pesky feelings hidden beneath his mimed contempt, a solo game of charades. 

“Tomioka.”

Giyuu gives him a once-over, like a tailor determining a fitting. It must’ve not been very profitable—downtilted furrow in his brows.

Just to be certain he doesn’t look like a complete idiot, he glances down at his own attire—olive-green v-neck clung to his torso, a pair of black joggers and a recent purchase of eggshell sneakers. It’s not his best outfit but it’s far from a fashion disgrace. 

By the time his eyes flick back up, Giyuu has already turned his back on him, kneeling down to rummage through his navy-blue backpack propped against the end of the wall-length mirror. “What do you want?” he states boredly, pulling his cell-phone out to bury his face in.

Sanemi seethes. “Nothing,” he snaps pointedly. He digs his hands in his pockets just so Giyuu doesn’t catch the way his muscles twitch. His mouth casts open, then springs shut again when he comes up without a catch, finally settling on a sighed, “Look, is Tengen around?”

“Left almost fifteen minutes ago,” Giyuu answers in that infamous frozen over tone, infuriating to Sanemi. Eyes still deep in his phone, his next mutter almost goes unheard, if not for the arid land silence of the studio— “You’re with him every second of every day, why don’t you know where he is?”

Sanemi wants to laugh at the extremities of that statement, a hyperbole that Giyuu probably means with his heart. True, Tengen might be his best friend and possibly only close friend he’s made during his time in college but it’s not like they’re inseparable. Besides, Tengen loves his alone time with his girlfriends, something Sanemi is more than happy to respect. 

A clipped chuckle spits from his lips, anyway. He lifts a hand to scratch the back of his head as he humbles Giyuu. “What, it kills you to see me with a friend? Can’t handle my attention focused elsewhere?”

Fuck. He doesn’t know why he did that—why he took it there. Giyuu has ignored him for the better part of a year now, why would he care? He can already hear the mocking laugh, the dry snort—Giyuu having the time of his life knocking Sanemi down a peg or two. Even if there is any truth to his jab, Giyuu’s pride would never let himself take a hit. Or, maybe Sanemi just has wishful thoughts.

Instead, he’s thrown entirely when a flash of surprise waves over Giyuu’s eyes. His brows pull upwards, his frown lessening for a split second. There’s something unreadable in his gaze now, lost in thoughts that have pushed Sanemi miles away from unlocking the ability to decipher. He’s quick, though—schooling his features again like a gift wrapping itself.

“No.” he eventually refutes, eyes buried in his phone again. He’s not totally convincing, but what does Sanemi really know about the guy? 

Sanemi studies him, the way his thumb scrolls in morphing increments of speed—like he’s scavenger hunting for anything that will demand his attention, settling on something for only a few short seconds, just to do it all over again. More of a nervous habit than genuine interest by all appearances.

He should have just gone back to his dorm to charge his phone, text Tengen from his kingdom of privacy. He could have already been on his way to a bar crawl, or a club, or whatever dingy yet charming place Tengen found. He wouldn’t be here, crossing paths with Giyuu in a place that makes it far too difficult for them to run and hide in the blink of an eye. 

But he dug his own grave by coming here so now he has to lie in it. Crossing his arms, he plays it straight with Giyuu, candid in his explanation.

“My phone is dead. Do you have a charger I can borrow? Just until I can send a text off to Tengen and then I’ll be out of your hair,” he rushes out at the end, as if he’s obligated to assure Giyuu he won’t overstay his welcome. 

Giyuu’s brief silence to his inquiry is sticky, gummed with a prickling sensation that sweats Sanemi out like he’s suffering from panicked withdrawals. 

Finally, Giyuu gives a single nod and squats to the floor, curling in on himself as he fishes through his backpack; this time pulling out a thin, white iPhone charger. Sanemi relishes the sight, plucking his phone out while Giyuu plugs the charger into a socket just beyond his backpack. 

Without budging his eyes from the wall, Giyuu blindly holds a hand out, palm up. 

Sanemi places the phone in his palm without bite, grateful they’re at least behaving cordially. Giyuu plugs it in with ease and sets it on his backpack before rising to full height again. He confuses Sanemi, then, when he holds his own phone out in his direction.

“What?” he says dumbly.

“You can use my phone to text Tengen while you wait for yours to charge,” he offers, dangling his phone closer to Sanemi’s crossed arms. 

That’s….oddly nice. So uncharacteristically nice that Sanemi can’t help but toss an entire canister of gasoline to the extended hand.

“Ah, so you have Tengen’s number?” he remarks with just enough snark to get Giyuu’s attention. Enough heat, apparently, that Giyuu is sloping his head to his shoulder, a coy look playing in his eyes when he responds.

“What, it kill you to see me with Tengen’s number in my phone?” he ridicules, a clownish parody at Sanemi’s expense.

Sanemi should have seen that coming. He palms at Giyuu’s phone, yanking it from his hand with more aggression than he should. Especially when his eyes catch on the upwards curve of Giyuu’s pink lips, a vicious smirk out for blood. 

“Just give me the damn phone,” he gripes. 

Now it’s him who’s diving head first into Giyuu’s phone, looking anywhere but those blue eyes—the longer he watches Giyuu, the more he considers what every waver in his expression means, what the cadence in his voice detects. 

Giyuu’s phone activity is…unexpectedly mundane. He didn’t do any altering before handing it off to Sanemi, just gave it to him exactly as is—didn’t try hiding away any risky apps, didn’t try swiping off a suggestive photo. Almost everyone in their general age bracket has something they’d rather keep concealed, only trusting a select few with the life on their device. Apparently, everyone but Giyuu.

Sanemi stifles a chortle at the display—a home page with the basics; weather, music, photos, news, internet amongst the collection. He’s got hardly any apps of personal indulgence—Sanemi knows Giyuu isn’t a frequenter of online spaces but Jesus, the guy doesn’t engage in anything social. No social media apps, just a few silly games most likely opened during spells of boredom.

Whatever. 

Sanemi opens the message app, eyes snagging on present text threads, recognizing every name that he can see—Shinobu, Kyojuro, Sabito, mutual classmates of theirs. He opens a new text thread with Tengen, types up a quick summary of the series of events leading up to his current predicament, then sends.

He should give Giyuu his phone back now.

But he flicks his eyes up, an idea funneling in his mind when he sees Giyuu staring at himself in the mirror, re-tying his hair in a high pony that accentuates the clean-slate of his long nape, paying no mind to Sanemi.

Sanemi wants to see anything that’ll give him a glimpse into Giyuu’s life—just a glance at the real personality packaged underneath the depths of that cold facade. He’s not a creep and he’s not an asshole—he won’t go through Giyuu’s photos or his messages.

Music, though? Maybe just a peek into Giyuu’s listening history can supply him with a little insight on him. Does he listen to mellow tunes that match his impassive tendencies? Does he listen to sad break up songs and ballads? Maybe he listens to classical music, the type Sanemi imagines he dances to here at the studio.

He taps on Giyuu’s music app and finds a song paused halfway through. He recognizes the artist’s name right away, brows creasing his forehead when they jump in surprise. Giyuu listens to him? A modern R&B artist with over a dozen radio hits?

Sanemi knows a good amount of songs from this artist’s repertoire but not all, including the song currently paused on Giyuu’s phone. Curiosity latches onto him with a strengthened tenacity; he presses play on the song.

A heavy beat fills the air, accompanied by washed out synths and a floating guitar layered on top. Hair positioned in a way he likes, Giyuu boomerangs his attention to the sudden interruption. He doesn’t appear bothered, doesn’t even seem ruffled by the fact that Sanemi is toying with his phone, playing music from it like he owns the device. 

Sanemi raises an amused brow after perking his ears to one of the lyrics in the song: something about money raining and clothes coming off. “This the kind of music you like, huh? Gotta say you’ve surprised me.”

Giyuu blinks. “It’s catchy.”

“It’s raunchy,” Sanemi snorts, entertained by those frowning eyes, like Giyuu is personally offended by the comment. “Sounds like a strip tease. You giving lap dances to this song?”

Giyuu storms over to him and rips his phone from Sanemi’s grip. Sanemi lets him, satisfied enough in egging Giyuu on, goading a response from that detached front he puts up. The song is good, great even—but Sanemi is eager to watch Giyuu flail when put on the spot. 

Giyuu pauses the song and spits out, “And if I was? You have a problem with that?”

Sanemi ignores that flare in his chest, that irrational talon trying to crack and tear through his outer shell, trying to force an admission that maybe the thought of Giyuu in someone else’s lap sends him hurdling into a crimson-red lapse of rage. He’s disappointed in himself for feeling that way, can’t stand the acid on his tongue at the picture playing in his mind. He’s sure it means he’s got some unresolved issues he needs to work through but it’s not the time to delve.

As always, Sanemi covers up his own faults by painting someone else in a bad light instead. He laughs again, mixing in a jagged edge just to sound that much meaner. “You? Giving a lap dance? Yeah, I’m sure that’s real sexy with your pristine ballet toe points or whatever the fuck they’re called.”

“I do contemporary dance, idiot.” Giyuu huffs, a wisp of his bang fluffing out of place from the expelled air. “And I know I’d be good.”

“Good at what?”

“Lap dances,” Giyuu states very simply, like the answer is as easy as one of his twirls. 

Sanemi throws his head back when he laughs, a rumbling avalanche in his chest. Lost in his own world of amusement, he doesn’t notice the way Giyuu flies across the room, grabbing a foldable metal chair from the back before rooting it to the caramel wooden floor—right in the middle. The sound of metal scraping on wood cuts his laughter short, eyes dragging to the display:

A fuming Giyuu, hands on the back of the chair,  glaring at Sanemi with a vengeful wrath— “Don’t believe me? Take a seat.”

Sanemi doesn’t understand, can’t quite make out the intention in Giyuu’s request, the objective. But then the pieces of the puzzle begin forming a coordinated alliance: chair, take a seat, lap dance—

“You’re gonna give me a lap dance?” Sanemi’s mouth runs off from him, finger pointing at the chair like he’s going to receive an answer from an inanimate object.

Giyuu taps the chair twice and off his quiet mhm, Sanemi reiterates— “You, Tomioka Giyuu, are gonna give me a lap dance? You serious?”

Giyuu tilts that head of his again, feux-innocence, dark hair sliding over an eye—much too damn pretty for Sanemi to sprinkle together any kind of coherent thought.

“Unless you’re too scared, of course.”

That challenge in Giyuu’s eye—it kindles a flame in Sanemi’s chest. Whether that flame is from his incessant need to never stray from a challenge or an instinctive physical response to that electrifying dare in sapphire eyes—Sanemi would rather smear the correct answer away, paint over it again with a clean brush.

Wanting to retain the upper hand, he grins—swaggers to the chair like it’s his throne. He turns his back to Giyuu and sits, ignoring the air cloud of breath fanned across his hair when Giyuu chuckles to himself through his nose.

Sanemi spreads his legs obnoxiously, then gestures with his arms— “Go right ahead, be my fuckin guest.”

That’s the final assertion Giyuu needs. Sanemi watches him in the wide-length mirror spanning the entire wall in front of them. The room is empty, save for a huddle of metal chairs in the far corner and Giyuu’s bundle of personal items against the mirror. 

Giyuu strolls over to his backpack, a boastful spring in his step that wasn’t there just a minute ago. Sanemi watches as he digs and pulls out a small, handheld bluetooth speaker. He switches it on and places it on the glossy surface of the floor before his thumb pitters on his phone. 

That same atmospheric guitar from moments before envelopes the studio, this time from the beginning of the song—louder now that it’s resounding through the entire room and not just through a halfhearted iPhone speaker. 

Giyuu prances to the heavy wooden door Sanemi came in and uses a slippered foot to drag the doorstop in. He twirls on his heel, burning gaze on Sanemi as the door shuts behind him. Sanemi follows his every movement, watching a pale hand reach to flick off the overhead hospital-white lights, and just as fast as they’re swallowed by pitch blackness, a line of LED lights bordering the top of the mirror shutter on. 

Trails of colors tunnel in: purples, blues, pinks. A concord of hues and tones that harmonize beautifully, toning Giyuu in a mesmerizing glow, shadows dancing across his face every time he moves a muscle. 

“What is this, a fuckin concert?” Sanemi tries to provoke. 

It’s a lost cause, his voice drowned in the blend of seductive instruments playing over the speaker. He’s glad it went unheard, nothing more than a humiliating croak—throat pruning at the sight of Giyuu pulling his updo loose, hair falling the same way it did that night over a year ago. Sanemi can still remember the way it felt between his fingers, silky strands puddled like crystal water in his palm.

Giyuu saunters to the front of the studio, and, in one fluid motion, removes the oversized mocha stitch sweater he was wearing. He chucks it without care, landing somewhere off near his backpack. Underneath, he wears a simple black cami tucked into his tights, a typical outfit for a dance rehearsal. That doesn’t stop the rush of energy coursing through Sanemi’s gut at the new reveal of skin; toned, smooth arms out like a buffet for his eyes. 

Giyuu faces the mirror, galaxy-purple lighting rippling through his hair and down the valley of his back. He lifts his arms and props them up on the mirror, fingers webbed for purchase. Just as the first note of singing thrums through, Giyuu begins swaying side to side, a slow move to match the relaxed tempo of the beat. 

He is collected with his movements, a slight circle in his hips as he sways—just enough tease in the dance to entice Sanemi, keep him anticipating more. Giyuu stays like this for a minute, watching himself in the mirror as he moves for Sanemi. 

He peeks over his shoulder to gauge Sanemi’s state of mind—he must like what he sees, a twinkle playing in his eye like a sparkler on a warm summer evening. He presses his back flat against the mirror, arms up on either side of his head. Eyes locked on Sanemi, he slowly lowers himself to the floor, continuing to move his hips side to side as he goes. He’s sexy—alluring and captivating, dragging Sanemi in under a trance like he’s cast a spell on him. 

Squatting on the floor, Giyuu gracefully slides onto his hands and knees. And on all fours, he crawls towards Sanemi like a hungry lion stalking its oblivious prey, lips parted as his dark eyes stare up at him through his choppy fringe.

Sanemi’s legs instinctively draw closed a fraction, small jolts sparking through his veins without even being touched yet. In the mirror, he gets an eyeful of Giyuu’s ass, pointed up in the air while he crawls with an arched back. The tights leave very little to the imagination, cupping his shapely ass perfectly, perky with a lasting impression.

The chorus of the song picks up, clear tenor voice reflective, electric beat ricocheting off the walls, soaring through Sanemi’s ears. Giyuu places a hand on the small sliver of metal between Sanemi’s legs—clean nails only centimeters from his dick. Sanemi’s hands curl in on themselves, but he still needs to at least try to remain unfazed by Giyuu’s antics, so he relaxes his palms on his thighs.

Giyuu rises up on his haunches, knees digging into the floor when he drives his palms up Sanemi’s stomach and chest, pinky fingers glancing over his pecs. A low grunt escapes his throat, and unfortunately, Giyuu is close enough to hear it, giving a menacing giggle of his own in response. 

Giyuu stands purposefully, taking his sweet time as he cocks a hip and runs his hands down his cheeks, purposely hooking a thumb in the inner corner of his bottom lip to pull his mouth into a bratty pout. He keeps going, angling his fingers south when they graze down his own chest, down the flat expanse of stomach, over his narrow waist, coming to a stop at the uppermost juncture of his thighs. Sanemi rakes his eyes over the full trail Giyuu mapped on his body, his breathing slowing with heavier exertion. 

Fuck, he looks good. Sanemi has always known he’s attractive, drop dead gorgeous even. But now, the sight of him feeling himself up, mouth open like he gets off to the feeling of being watched—it works wonders. His heart pumps against his chest, a low thrum that seems to accompany the music coasting through the room.

Giyuu turns away and continues dancing, rocking his hips in a slow circle, hitting every beat of the suggestive music. Sanemi’s vision is blocked by Giyuu, can’t see either of their reflection, but that doesn’t matter when he’s got a devastatingly sexy ass moving and swaying in front of him. 

Giyuu scrapes his fingers through his hair, bunching it in his fingers just to let it all drop again when he throws his head back to clutch at his neck instead. He is truly feeling the music, dancing within it like he’s been captured by it—an addicting sight.

Finally, he slides back and he sits directly in Sanemi’s lap. He nestles into the center of Sanemi’s chest, his back warm and his hair soft when his head lolls against Sanemi’s shoulder. He moves his hips again, a cruel side to side, ass pushing at the vertical seam between the legs of Sanemi’s joggers, the thickened material kneading against Sanemi’s dick through his thin boxers.

Sanemi hisses, hands jumping out on impulse to grab onto Giyuu’s waist. But the second his greedy fingers finally get to touch nylon, Giyuu is swatting his hands away. 

“Hands to yourself,” Giyuu purrs in his ear, lips brushing against the skin just under his earlobe. 

Sanemi patchworks his lips shut, training his eyes forward in a debilitating effort to stay strong. In the mirror, Giyuu is sprawled on his back against Sanemi, lounging on him like he’s his own personal bed. Giyuu scrapes his nails through Sanemi’s hair, fluffing and pulling it, mussing it even further than its usual state.

Sanemi lets him, has zero interest in pressing the brakes on this front row ticket show. Just as he begins getting nice and comfortable with Giyuu’s weight against him, he’s left in a bubble of disappointment when Giyuu stands again, one hand never deserting Sanemi’s chest when he slowly circles the chair around to the back. 

Now behind Sanemi, two pale hands grip the sides of his face, gliding along the scars branching his cheeks. When one of Giyuu’s fingers nips his bottom lip, Sanemi has to fight the climbing urge to let his lips fall open, grant that finger access.

But Giyuu doesn’t linger in one place too long, hands roaming down the bare plane of Sanemi’s chest, the place uncovered by his low v-neck. Giyuu hunches over Sanemi as his hands lower, their cheeks bumping, pink lips skimming against his jawline. 

Sanemi gulps at their reflection—his hands tightening into fists in his lap, Giyuu’s long hair curtaining his entire face as he bends over the back of the chair. 

Then in two long strides, Giyuu is in front of him, and, without warning, settles himself in his lap again, elegant legs straddling Sanemi’s meaty thighs. 

Thank God he chose to wear loose-fitting joggers that day, because the way his cock twitches in response to Giyuu plopping down on him would have been impossible to miss in fitted jeans. But in these pants, he’s got a little wiggle room—not much, but enough to play it off with a little inconspicuous re-adjusting. 

Giyuu doesn’t hold back anymore, pulling out all the stops as he grinds his hips to the sultry tones of the song, rocking and dragging relentlessly. 

He’s good—way fucking better than Sanemi would have ever imagined. That palled shroud he’s always burrowing himself deep inside has evaporated, replaced by a fucking minx—testing and tempting Sanemi at an alarmingly fast rate. 

Nails digging into his palms, Sanemi can’t take his eyes off Giyuu’s gorgeous face. The hints of pink and purple tinting the tips of his disheveled hair as he tosses his head every which way, an ethereal being from a faraway galaxy. The bass of the song is impenetrable, inundating Sanemi, a high tide that sweeps him away under layers of ambient synths and dreamy guitar plucks. An immersive rush of an experience that Sanemi would sit through as long as it takes, as long as he’s got that intoxicating weight in his lap. 

When Giyuu plants his hands on the back of the chair, bracketing Sanemi’s shoulders, rolling his hips harder than he has yet, Sanemi is gone. A crude fuck slips through his lips and he doesn’t even bother masking it, not when Giyuu slips three fingers under his shirt and ghosts them just up his abs, core muscles flinching under soft pads exploring.

Oh, now he’s just not playing fair. 

Giyuu slopes his head down, fluttering his lashes when he stares at Sanemi head-on. Sanemi has pride, but even he can admit when he’s pathetically whipped, Giyuu collecting him in his back pocket with one look. Giyuu bites down on his bottom lip, making a show of dragging it out a beat later, plump and glistening. He’s upping his game, using every weapon he can to mastermind this dance. 

And Sanemi hates how well it’s working. His cock steadily fills out against his thigh, every roll of Giyuu’s hips nudging on the head. He’s immensely turned on, overwhelmed by how much Giyuu there is surrounding him. He wants to put his hands on him so bad. Maybe on the most menacing weapon of Giyuu, his swaying hips, gripping the flesh until it’s gone taut in his palms. Or maybe he wants to place them on the swell of his ass, pulling him in for an even filthier roll. Maybe he wants to buck his hips and meet him halfway, clothed cock locked in a sweet reunion with clothed pussy. 

He grits his teeth, jaw set when Giyuu grips the chair with only one hand and arches, chest mashed against Sanemi’s when he bends backwards, far enough that his head suspends upside down and he can see himself in the mirror behind him. 

God, Sanemi remembers his flexibility from that night—legs bending and stretching as easily as molding clay. That reminder is back now, his back bridging in a defined bow. Giyuu’s free hand shoots down and grabs one of Sanemi’s, guiding it up until he places it over his heart. Giyuu’s palm is warm over the back of his hand, determined and assertive. Sanemi tests Giyuu’s no touching rule, inching his hand on his own accord, just to see if Giyuu will allow him. When Giyuu doesn’t make a move to deter him, Sanemi drags his hand down the valley of his chest, eyes hungrily soaking in every detail, committing it all to memory. As his hand continues to probe and inspect Giyuu’s torso, his free hand comes up to clutch a slender neck.

He wraps his fingers around Giyuu’s throat, a husky chuckle bolting out when it bobs against his hand, a thick swallow that pleases him. 

He’s losing his mind fast, hurling towards an embarrassing ending. If he comes in his pants just from this lap dance alone, he’ll never live it down. Giyuu will dangle it over his head as long as they’re in each other’s lives, a constant reminder that yes, he did manage to get Sanemi off with a sexy dance alone.

So, just when Sanemi is about to wave the white flag, call it quits on this fiasco so that he can leave and finish himself off in his car, Giyuu throws yet another curve ball—he moans. It’s not very loud, Sanemi may have missed it entirely if not for the way that wanton sound vibrated through his throat, jolting against the pillow of Sanemi’s palm. 

Shit. 

Giyuu is just as into this as Sanemi is.

Like a wild animal breaking free from enclosure, Sanemi is off. He uses a hand to squeeze the centered front of Giyuu’s cami and yank him forward. Giyuu is nothing but pliant, thrown forward with enough momentum to bump into Sanemi clumsily. 

Sanemi doesn’t care, opening his hands wide to grip Giyuu’s ass in both of his palms and pull him. Giyuu moans again, rocking forward with a vigor that brings forth an animalistic growl from Sanemi’s throat. Giyuu grins in delight, leaning forward while traveling his palms up Sanemi’s chest. He nips at Sanemi’s ear before purring, “Looks like I was right, after all.”

He giggles, grinding down again just to dig Sanemi that much further into a mound of sand even when it already swallows him up to his neck.  

Sanemi clicks his tongue—Giyuu is right, he’s long since proven himself. Sanemi can admit defeat, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enact a little petty revenge within the same diameter. And that clean neck is his victim.

He races forward, attaching his lips to Giyuu’s throat to lick and nibble. Giyuu flinches, a broken yelp stumbling out of him, hips stuttering in Sanemi’s lap. Sanemi laughs only for a beat before he returns to the task at hand: utterly destroying Giyuu’s neck. He doesn’t go slow, doesn’t tease or taunt—he opens wide, lapping at salty skin before hinging his teeth together to pinch the spit-slicked skin. Giyuu doesn’t put up a fight, doesn’t plant an obstacle—gives Sanemi open access, head tossing back as he breathes out a needy Sanemi. 

Sanemi attacks every inch he can reach with his mouth, sure to be brutal enough that he leaves marks, a token. Giyuu can put in as much effort as he wants to cover up the marks Sanemi’s leaving, but unless he’s wearing a turtleneck sweater for the next week, there will be a physical marker of this experience, on display for the whole world to see. Giyuu must not be considering the consequences he’ll face as a result of Sanemi’s little stunt, too far gone in his pleasure, eyes fluttering shut as he pants in and out. 

“S’nemi,” Giyuu mumbles. “I need you to—to,” he stammers, tripping up over his words when Sanemi still doesn’t detach from his neck. 

“What?” Sanemi grunts before his lips continue tattooing open-mouthed kisses underneath Giyuu’s ear. 

“I-“

Sanemi pulls away, eyes dragging down Giyuu’s form, catching on the grape marks marring snow skin. His own personal arts and craft project, streaks of purple and red on a clean canvas. 

“Fuck, you look good, Giyuu. Wish you could see what I see.” He traces lazy circles over Giyuu’s ass. “Good enough to eat.”

Giyuu kisses him, messy and nasty, and Sanemi welcomes it like Giyuu is his first breath of life. He works his mouth fast, opening it wide so that he can lap at Giyuu’s soft lips—aggressive enough that he feels he really could devour him, not letting a crumb go to waste. He catches the saliva drooling at the corner of Giyuu’s mouth with his tongue, filthy in the way he’s making a mess of his face. 

When Giyuu departs for a needed gasp of air, Sanemi is back at his jaw, biting and nibbling in his vain effort of marking claim. 

Giyuu whines, a high-pitched squeak at the edge of it. He rakes his fingers through Sanemi’s hair and yanks. But Sanemi is nothing if not stubborn, so he stays put, even though it means he’s sailing towards an orgasm even faster than before. He groans against Giyuu’s neck, wet smacks echoing loud between them when the current song ends and the only sounds in the studio are debauched noises made between the two of them on the creaking chair.

“Sanemi,” Giyuu hisses through gritted teeth. “Move.” 

Sanemi detaches from bruised skin with a wet pop, crazed grin cutting across his face when he taunts, “Oh, now you need me? What happened to you being in charge?”

“Sanemi,” Giyuu groans, blush dusting his cheeks with a rosey tinge. “I need you to move.”

Sanemi hums, pretends to think it over—even though he’s already known the answer from the second it was requested. “Well, since you’re so sweet about it.”

Then, just as a new song begins by the same artist, a song Sanemi finally recognizes, he widens his hands on Giyuu’s ass and grinds up. He rocks hard enough that Giyuu bounces off his lap, landing with a small oof. “Ah,” Giyuu moans. “Yes. Just like that.”

Sanemi listens intently, repeating the same movement over and over. It’s not long before they’re rutting against each other desperately, still fully clothed. With anyone else, Sanemi wouldn’t be into this; how hot can dry humping really be? But with Giyuu, it feels incredible—even with clothing shielding their bare skin, Giyuu grinding and bouncing on him is heaven.

Then Giyuu whimpers and loops his arms around Sanemi’s neck, dropping his forehead to his shoulder. He pants into Sanemi’s pulse point, nibbling on the skin in uneven patterns. With Giyuu’s face out of view, Sanemi now has a full picture reflecting across from him in the mirror. He curses at the sight—Giyuu in his lap, rocking his hips down in a fervor that meets Sanemi’s own bucks. He flexes his hands against Giyuu’s ass, revels in the way they look gripping the flesh. He nearly comes alone from the way Giyuu looks bouncing off of his lap—how if his tights were removed, it would look like he’s riding his cock for real.

Sanemi rolls his hips up expertly, dragging Giyuu down with his grip to pound against his dampening pussy harder. Giyuu’s wail is muffled into his neck, jumbling out some whispered form of do that again, don’t stop, that feels so good. The chair is creaking louder than before, a rickety sound over the music, and Sanemi finds it fucking hot. He keeps his eyes on their reflection, but pivots an inch so Giyuu can hear him perfectly clear when he rasps, “You don’t know how bad I’ve wanted to do this again.”

He slows his hips, giving Giyuu hard, long rolls that leave him whining in his throat. 

“God, I thought of that night over and over,” he continues, eyes burning with desire when he sees the way Giyuu’s hips stutter at the admission. “Wanted you every night. Still fuckin do.” 

It’s as if there’s some kind of witchcraft in that studio; a blend of the music, dim lighting, and mirror. An evil concoction that makes Sanemi’s tongue dangerously loose, revealing way too much on that metal chair—like a steel trap that pins him, unforgivingly exposing him to the hunting predator in his lap. 

Or, maybe—and the most likely truth—Giyuu is that evil concoction; so beautiful and addicting that Sanemi ends up spilling the can of worms without caution. And he hates that at that moment, he doesn’t care, even likes that he’s laying it all out there. Maybe when the music stops and they’re standing under a blaring white light again, Sanemi will be hit with a humiliating clarity and he’ll regret everything he’s said. But right now, he doesn’t care if his mouth high-speeds all of his secrets—might as well while he has the chance. “You did a fuckin number on me. Can’t believe I let you slip through my fingers.”

His eyesight is becoming fuzzy, their mirrored halves blurring and distorting. And for a fleeting moment, under the foggy colored bulbs, Sanemi is illusioned into seeing the two of them amongst twinkling downtown lights in the belly of the city, vulnerable and bare at the midnight hour.

Their reflection dissolves when Giyuu is crowding in front of him again, pale hands clutching his cheeks. “I can’t believe I let you slip through mine either,” he gasps before he’s crashing his lips against Sanemi’s. 

They both come undone now, dry humping like their lives depend on it. Somehow, Sanemi feels just as good as he did that night he was inside Giyuu—even if they’re on the opposite end now, fully clothed on a chair instead of stripped naked in a bed. He still feels himself surfing towards a mind-blowing orgasm, dick leaking in his pants. Giyuu must not be faring much better, tights soaked where they press against his pussy. 

Giyuu moans into his mouth, loud and desperate. Sanemi swallows it down, gnawing on Giyuu’s bottom lip hard enough to bruise. He threads a hand through Giyuu’s hair, so that he can angle the kiss deeper—as much as he can with Giyuu bouncing and grinding in his lap. 

He pulls back to groan against Giyuu’s lips. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

Giyuu gasps against his mouth, hands coming to grasp onto Sanemi’s shirt, rucking it in fists and yanking. “Me too, fuck.”

Sanemi drags his cock along the seam of Giyuu’s tights twice more before he’s coming. And even though the pleasure wracking through him is just shy of impossibly good, spurting hard in his pants, he still keeps his eyes wide open to watch Giyuu come. 

Giyuu looks stunning, bangs glued to his forehead, cast in rich colors from above. He tries to keep his eyes open, tries to laser them on Sanemi, but his gaze isn’t sharp, eyes misty and shadowed. His mouth drops in a silent scream, eyes pinched shut when he comes. His nails dig into Sanemi’s chest, scratching blood-red lines into the skin. They move lazily against each other for the next thirty seconds or so, riding out their climax, sighing into each other’s mouths.

“So, you can give a pretty good lap dance,” Sanemi mumbles in between slow kisses shared with Giyuu.

Giyuu presses one last kiss to his lips before he’s shifting awkwardly in Sanemi’s lap. Sanemi offers a helpful hand to steady him when Giyuu rises off his lap, grimacing when he glances down at his ruined tights.

Giyuu weaves his fingers through Sanemi’s and hauls him up off the chair. “Pretty good,” he scoffs. “You loved it.”

“I did.”

An hour later, after cleaning themselves up the best they could, Sanemi strolls towards the exit, but he stops short when Giyuu lingers behind in the lobby.

“Kocho will give me a ride back to campus,” Giyuu explains, averting Sanemi’s questioning eyes, dusted blush creeping along pale cheeks. For a man who just performed the sexiest lap dance at the drop of a hat, without a shred of timidity, Giyuu sure is bashful in the aftermath.

Sanemi holds the door open for Giyuu. He gestures to the parking lot with the hand dangling his car keys. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride. I’m headed back to campus, anyway.”

“What about your plans with Tengen?” Giyuu asks, following Sanemi out anyway. He pulls a set of his own keys from his backpack, spinning on his heel to lock up the studio for the evening. 

“I think I’ve had my fun for the night,” Sanemi snorts, brushing his bangs from his eyes. 

There is a rare humility in his words, the kind that only slips out when he’s let his iron-guard down, fortification crumbling. Because it’s true, after the unexpected turn of events his evening has taken, he can’t really imagine it getting much better than this. He doesn’t see drinking with Tengen living up to this high-in-the-clouds feeling Giyuu has left him in—like the guitar plucks from the music have picked him up and cradled him to float alongside them.

Giyuu smiles. “Okay.”

The drive back to campus is comfortable. Sanemi rants to Giyuu about the upcoming Biology exam he’s been cramming for. Giyuu vents to Sanemi about the stress he’s under for the upcoming dance competition. It’s nice to talk like this, they never have before. Sanemi finds that they’re not so different, sinking under the weight and pressure of life in different ways, driven to live up to the high expectations they’ve set on themselves. It’s comforting, knowing someone else gets it. He’s surprised at how fast he finds himself leaning into that feeling, riding the wave of companionship with Giyuu.

When they return to campus, walking along the stone path that directs them to the dormitory halls, all Sanemi can think of is seeing Giyuu again. He wants to initiate it, wants to make sure that this time, they don’t fuck up their chance at something real. He wants to lay it all out like he did in the studio—grasping at straws for one more spark of conversation, he prattles, “Oh, your charger.”

He pulls Giyuu’s coiled iPhone charger from his pocket. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

Giyuu eyes the charger and hums. He doesn’t take it—instead, a small smile pulls at his lips. He presses a quick peck to Sanemi’s cheek before he comments. “You can give it back to me on Monday.”

Sanemi cocks a brow, basking in the pleasant tingling where Giyuu’s lips pressed. “Monday?” 

Twilight befalls the landscape, sky buffed with a glossy arch of speckled blues and pinks and purples—and if Sanemi really stares at Giyuu under that horizon, he can almost see the same rare pearl splotched by artificial lighting of those very shades a mere hour ago. 

Giyuu leaves him behind, headed on his own path. Sanemi watches him go, still marveling at the portrait of plum markings daubing Giyuu’s skin—visible even from a distance. 

Without turning around, Giyuu beats Sanemi to the punch. “When you take me out after your exam.”

Sanemi chuckles, tapping the charger against the pads of his fingers. “Someone’s eager, huh?” he quips, teasing in the rise of his voice. He’s already envisioning all the places he’d like to take Giyuu. “I’ll text you.”

“Looking forward to it,” is Giyuu’s final response, faint now that he’s a diminishing figure on that long stretch of pavement.

Sanemi cradles the charger with care when he makes his way back to his dorm that evening. Afterthoughts providing him with a warm buzz that he normally only finds in the bitter acidity of beer on his tongue.

He missed out on a night with Tengen—but he couldn’t be less bothered. He’s got a pretty boy to bring on his arm next time.

And a new song to add to his playlist.