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Hamura barely remembers the argument made by the radio host that one summer afternoon more than fifteen years ago. He was sweating his ball off in the Matsugane office, counting the protection money the boys had rounded up the day prior. He had made it halfway through when the heat started to become unbearable.
Turning the volume higher on the shitty radio that had been bumped more than thrice off the desk, he stepped to the window, lighting himself a cigarette.
He had prohibited anyone from entering his office unless it was urgent since the heat made him even more pissed off than usual, so he was alone, trying to enjoy the light breeze that sometimes came through.
The radio hosts were going on some tangent about the percentage of divorces increasing through the last five years. He usually didn’t listen to this station, someone before him must have put it on– He had simply turned it on before droning it out completely as he started counting.
“...This questionnaire reports that more than thirty percent of divorced couples had met in their twenties and ended up marrying out of pressure from parents or because ‘It felt natural to do so’, even if they already lost interest in their partner. Can you believe that?!”
“That is crazy. I guess once you approach your late thirties, finding another partner is more work than marrying the one you already have.”
That sounded like bullshit. Hamura shook his head, exhaling warm smoke in the even warmer air. Finding a girl in your forty wasn’t that hard, the people who took the survey just sounded lazy.
“Do you think it’s out of laziness? People between work and other things might not want to break up and find someone else because it takes too much effort. ”
“I see what you mean;”
Hamura couldn’t.
“Why bother getting out of what is known and you’re comfortable with in exchange for something brand new? Even if that spark between the couple is gone, a sense of routine and normalcy might push people to stay together. Is that it?”
“Has to be. Isn’t it sad, though? Marrying someone you don’t love? I guess that’s why the numbers of cheating cases and divorces have also increased…”
Between drags of smoke, Hamura swore that would never be him. He enjoyed going out at night and having fun, not caring if he woke up in someone else’s bed and had no shame in heading to a soapland.
Sticking loyally to a woman was a big buzzkill. How many times had he deleted a chick’s phone number that was getting too sticky for his taste?
The idea of marriage was even worse. He had the family, money, booze and girls whenever he wanted. Why throw away the fantastic life he was slowly building for himself, climbing the ranks, raking in dirty money thanks to his connection to Kuroiwa, for the boring, monotone, married life?
Playing house all lovey-dovey just wasn’t his style. He took the last drag of his cigarette before throwing the stub out the window. Sticking consistently with a chick for more than a few nights just wasn’t his style. For years? He’d rather die instead of loyally coming back home to one gal.
After lighting a cigarette into the chilly Kamurocho night, leaning on the balcony’s railing of an apartment that wasn’t his even if he entered it almost once a week, he realised he might have done exactly what that radio host had said all those years ago.
He was turning fifty this year. And while his relationship… if it could even be called that, wasn’t about loyalty, playing house or coming back each night at seven sharp, he realised, not sure how to feel about it, had been going on and off (more on than off) for years.
The bathroom door clicked shut.
“Don’t think too much, Hamura-san. You won’t come to a good conclusion anyhow.”
“Fuck off.”
There was amusement in the voice’s jab. There was bite in Hamura’s words, he didn’t mean it. Or well, he did. It was all biting and scratching between them.
The man climbed on the bed behind Hamura, giggling. That giggle had always been so fucking creepy. Kuroiwa had always been fucking creepy.
And yet here he was, fucking Kuroiwa for almost twenty years now.
Or Kuroiwa was fucking him. It didn’t matter; They both knew very well Kuroiwa had the upper hand even when he was getting railed.
Because that’s all their relationship ever was outside of their business meetings: Sex, booty calls, hook-ups, quick fucks.
It felt wrong to call… whatever they had a ‘relationship’ either. Sometimes they wouldn’t see each other for months, only getting together to discuss a new client and or a hit. And then there were times were Kuroiwa showed up to his location without a warning, shoved him in a bathroom stall, dropped to his knees and sucked Hamura until he was hard before demanding to get fucked against the dirty wall just to disappear after.
Eighteen years ago, this fucked with Hamura’s brain. He felt used, like a personal toy. Not to mention he barely felt like he was topping with all the demands and threats Kuroiwa threw at him, but eighteen years ago Hamura was afraid of saying no to Kuroiwa’s commands because he couldn’t read the psycho. Afraid because Kuroiwa’s threats weren’t empty: He might have been a dirty cop but he was still a cop.
Glancing over his shoulder, he found said cop poorly covered by the sheets, staring at the ceiling.
It made much more sense to be afraid of him now that he was a cold-blooded hitman who abused his power as a cop. But after eighteen years Hamura liked to think he knew Kuroiwa.
Maybe he didn’t, but hey, he was still alive, right?
What he did know, was that the man was never satisfied, always demanding stronger and harder and faster.
He couldn’t help the grin: God, Kuroiwa was such a cock whore. You’d expect a high-ranking cop to have pride and demand respect, preferring to get beaten over getting on their knees, especially in front of a yakuza.
Not Kuroiwa, deceivingly enough. You’d especially expect that attitude from him but no. The man loved getting stretched and filled, and if it hurt a little it was even better. Kuroiwa was always the one getting bent over something or bouncing on Hamura’s lap. But if he thought he was in control for just one second…
This was the thing with him: Kuroiwa was always acting, always putting on a show of being righteous and devoted to the law…
Or seductive and submissive in front of Hamura, because he knew that was what he liked.
But if Hamura ever tried to do something he didn’t like or deny him, all acts and masks dropped instantly, revealing the true Kuroiwa.
“If you slow down again I’ll skin you.”
“I will cut your hands off if you try to fuck my mouth. And mind your hips too”
“Try to put a hickey on my neck and I’ll take out your teeth. One by– Ah- one.”
They weren’t empty threats. Even if the man was almost there and his voice a pitch higher, he still meant them, Hamura knew that well.
But that was exactly why he fought back, why he went out of his way to fish for those threats: Because he knew Kuroiwa well, and he knew he liked it when he didn’t behave, when he pushed back.
After all, it had always been a fight for control between them. One that Kuroiwa would always win.
But Hamura wasn’t the young man he used to be when they started this, so he needed breaks. Usually long enough for a drink and a cigarette before Kuroiwa’s patience ran out and sat on his lap, grinding down and putting on a show to get Hamura hard again.
A rock must have fallen on his head or something because he had a revelation:
Kuroiwa, needy as he was and around ten years younger than him, had commented on Hamura’s stamina getting lower with time, teasing him with it and using it as a way to spur Hamura on, but he never mentioned out loud the breaks he had started to take between orgasms.
Hell, now that he thought about it, Kuroiwa never tried to push Hamura into another round before at least giving him three or four minutes. And knowing how insatiable the man was, it made no sense.
It made no sense that Kuroiwa was still coming to him ; An old yakuza fuck, after all these years. Sure, he wasn’t as bitchy as a girl but…
Whatever, I’ll ask. Worse thing that can happen is I get the silent treatment or a smart comment.
“Oi, Kuroiwa.” He turned his head.
“Yes, Hamura-san?”
Almost twenty years and he still called him like that . Even in bed.
“Okay: I’ve stopped questioning why you come to me to get your dick wet instead of bending whatever girl you have at the police station a long time ago.”
Kuroiwa grinned, getting up from the bed and fishing around the floor for a shirt (Hamura’s shirt, not buttoned, showing off his well-sculpted body) and his boxers before walking towards him.
“But this got me thinking: You got your image of ‘protogé’ with all that perfect record and…” He got cold feet, turning back to the railing to avoid the amused gaze from Kuroiwa. Feeling stupid, he managed to finish the question.
“Composed mannerisms, so why don’t you talk up some bitch to get ya’ to cook and clean and all that shit.”
The dirty cop let out what sounded like a genuine laugh, it startled Hamura, even after all this time.
He thinks Kuroiwa noticed this.
“While you do make a good point for once, you should also realise why it would never work.” Hamura started to throw ideas in his head before the man leaned on the railing next to him, snatching his cigarette out of his mouth “Hey! Get your own, jackass!” and took a drag, staring at the city lights.
“A relationship would get in the way of my job– both jobs. People require affection and attention.” He rolled his eyes. “Not to mention having to justify absences and nightly outings… I would be accused of cheating in the first month of dating.”
Another drag.
Right, Kuroiwa was meticulous when it came to his alibies and crime scene set-ups. Having someone question where he was all the time would be a pain in the ass.
“And if I married I couldn’t come to you to, as you eloquently put it, ‘get my dick wet’.”
“What an honour.” He snatched the cigarette back and took a long breath in.
“As it should be.”
This made Hamura let out a “Haw?”, scutinising the other man.
“It should be an honour. I don’t go to any random person for this.”
Kuroiwa looked serious and Hamura couldn’t hold in a sharp laugh. “So what, I’m your favourite slut? Is that what this is?”
Before Kuroiwa could reply, his ringtone interrupted him somewhere from the discarded pile of clothes on the floor. The officer threw a truly murderous glance towards the noise before letting out an annoyed “Perhaps…” and going off to search for the phone.
His stomach churned at the thought of being favourite anything of Kuroiwas. The man was a murderer and any sane person would stay far away from him.
Not Hamura, who apparently got a kick from Kuroiwa’s fake-ass personality and weird kinks; His weird ‘You are going to fuck me but if you do something I don’t like I’ll gauge your eyes out’ way of commanding and his eerie laugh…
…At some point, in these eighteen years, Hamura was starting to think of as kinda cute.
“Detective Kuroiwa speaking.”
He turned to lean back on the railing to look at the man taking the call. All lean muscles and a perfectly straight stance (unlike him) as he talked cordially despite his earlier annoyance.
Hamura’s brain helpfully reminded him that Kuroiwa was still wearing his shirt: Slightly too big and quite provocative. Especially when Kuroiwa turned to the side and placed a hand on his hip, just above where the red mark of a hand revealed how hard Hamura had been gripping him earlier.
Something possessive and proud bubbled in his stomach as he stared at the sight, even if deep down, he knew Kuroiwa had moved like that on purpose. Probably trying to get Hamura worked up for round two.
While the cop had answered his question, it still didn’t explain why Kuroiwa still came back to him when they lived in a red light district. Surely there were younger men out there better than him…
…Unless he was into older men, which would partially explain the honorific usage in bed and the moans he sometimes heard (rarely, because if Kuroiwa was loud, it was for show) when calling him ‘rookie’ or with cutesy nicknames… Like ‘Mitsuru-chan’.
There was another explanation but… Hamura mentally shook his head.
Kuroiwa wasn’t the type to act for love. Wasn’t capable of love. Hamura was, but he recognised an impossible situation when he saw one. Kuroiwa wasn’t sticking to him because of love. It had to be a logical reason…
“...Why bother getting out of what is known and you’re comfortable with in exchange for something brand new? Even if that spark between the couple is gone, a sense of routine and normalcy might push people to stay together…”
“It should be an honour. I don’t go to any random person for this.”
“So what, I’m your favourite slut? Is that what this is?”
“Perhaps…”
Was… Was that it? Was Kuroiwa too comfortable with Hamura to seek out someone new?
That still felt too cute and emotional for him but it made heaps more sense.
“Hamura-san.” Kuroiwa had gotten off the phone. “Try to be available for the upcoming week.”
Hamura tilted his head with a confused face, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”
Kuroiwa placed down his phone and walked up to him, slow and unhurried.
“The police got word of a dispute between two Tojo families and there’s a chance they’ll want info… or a hit.”
Hamura felt like a prey being stalked. By a venomous snake… A very handsome, venomous snake.
Kuroiwa took his cigarette (again) and took one last drag before squishing the stub in the glass ashtray, on the low table beside them. Hamura took a deep breath, unclenching his jaw. “Fuking hell Kuroiwa, can’t you light your own damn cigarette?!”
His reply was a huff. One cold hand started to trace the ink peeking on Hamura’s shoulders, he shivered, just like any other time Kuroiwa gave attention to his tattoo.
“I didn’t feel like smoking a whole one.”
Mostly because the gesture felt soft. Almost reverent.
Which made it creepy coming from him.
“So what, now you’re going to stare at my ink?” He was getting irritated.
“No. Kiss me.” Kuroiwa, on the other hand, seemed calm as always.
Hamura let out a short bark of laughter. “You’re telling me you went on your little peacock parade of putting on my shirt and showing off that hand mark just for a kiss?”
He knew him; There had to be something more.
“My initial idea was for you to fuck me numb but a kiss sounded far more romantic. Don’t you think, Hamura-san?” A predatorial smile blossomed on his lips.
It didn’t stay on long as that evaporated any ounce of self-control Hamura had and clashed their mouths together. Kuroiwa wasn’t surprised. Of course the fucker knew what he was doing, poking the sleeping dog, intending to get bitten.
And bit he did. He bit Kuroiwa’s lower lip, shoving his tongue inside his mouth and clinked their teeth. Hamura had his cigarette break, it was time for round two.
Not wasting any more time, in the middle of the harsh make out, he backed Kuroiwa inside until he fell on the bed.
“Aren’t we eager. Did you perhaps like the idea of me being romantic?” The fucker teased him, smirking in that ‘know-it-all’ way that pissed him off, so he wiped it off with a rough kiss.
Yes. Hamura had felt high at the idea of Kuroiwa loving and caring for him. At the idea that Kuroiwa came back to him every time because he liked him. Because thinking about a cold, heartless beast becoming soft and making that one exception for him made him feel powerful.
The idea of Kuroiwa sticking with him, after all these years, because of love instead of laziness made his chest lighter and his gut stir with want.
It wasn’t like that, he knew well. But it made the revelation that he, Hamura Kyohei, had indeed indulged the cop for all these years because of something akin to love, a little easier to swallow down.
His hair was gripped hard, Kuroiwa’s laboured breath was fanning over his face. “I said stop thinking, Hamura-san.”
Ah, he had noticed.
”You’re more useful brainless, after all, that’s what you are when you fuck me: Brainless, working with primal instinct and thinking with your dick.” His eyes were one black void. Cold and this time filled with lust.
“Yeah, that always makes you boneless. And you are better like that: A whore screaming for more.”
It was nice to pretend there were actual human feelings between apart from hatred and violence. Hamura wasn’t so sure but fucking Kuroiwa felt better than dicking down a girl, and that was good enough for him.
If Kuroiwa didn’t turn around, face down and ass up that night, if he stayed facing Hamura and allowed him to see that cold beast slowly lose its mind, Hamura didn’t mention it.
That was an intimate position, one lovers preferred. And Hamura wasn’t opposed to it.