PLAYING DANGEROUS / WORK IN PROGRESS.

Kiryu really, really fucking hates Ichiban. Is it possible to love someone so much you hate them?

Maybe, possibly not.
Point is, he really hates Ichiban.
He can't not hate him, god, Ichiban's got that pure-soft-heart look in his eyes, looks at him with virgin-church-girl shyness and a curt modest smile and pretty pearls for teeth that Kiryu wants to punch out.

His laughter is warm, warm and hearty, blinding like the light of a scorching sun, an anointment in rays, he's got boy-scout naivete and street-punk for an attitude, Ichiban's diabetic-sweet and Kiryu swears he's gonna die because of him before cancer evicts him from his body.
It's hard to believe Ichiban's 40, really—Ichiban acts like he's in his late 20s, or early 30s at best. He doesn't look 40 too, even if he's got some wrinkles

He's so full of life, he's optimistic and he talks in exclamation, every letter's a capital. Rugged old man his ass, Ichiban's like a girl to him. No, scratch that—In Kiryu's heart, he's a girl.

I mean, come on, look at him. He's such a diva, he puts his hands on his hips, his brow furrows and his alcohol-stained lips jut into a pout.

It doesn't help that he even says whatever, okay, fine, I guess with an eye roll and a huff—really, the only thing missing is bleached-blonde hair and pink nails.

His speech, god, yeah, his speech. He pals around with literally everyone, makes up nicknames for them (except for Kiryu, apparently) and speaks informally like he's known them since birth.
But despite his learned punk-talk and sarcasm littered over words, brazen foolishness, he's honest down to a T. Ichiban's so fucking pure, he's so willing to help everyone, anyone, if Kiryu was being forreal. Shoot him in the heart and he'd still be concerned about you. He reminds Kiryu of Nishiki.

No, not really. Nishiki was more of a swan.
And Ichiban isn't one.
Kiryu could describe him, it would be as a dog.

A loyal dog that sits and stays and rolls over at his master's order, a loyal dog that fetches bones and frisbees and struts around with a collar on his neck. Hell, he even looks like a dog.

And by that, Kiryu means the fact that he was raised in a soapland shows on his face, he's got dumb-doe brown eyes that Kiryu swears widens when Ichiban's upset, his lips curl into the cutest frown ever and his brows make the saddest most fuckable crease ever.
Kiryu wants to shake his head, hear him whine and squirm and have his little puppybrain scramble in confusion.

Ichiban can be angry and it's the most adorable thing ever, Kiryu doesn't know how people get scared of him.
When he's disgusted or annoyed or happy, he speaks it loudly, verbally and physically. His expressions are so.. animated.
It makes Kiryu wonder how he'll react when he's hurt.

Ichiban's explosive, his expressions spill everywhere like confetti and it's ear-gratingly loud in the most sensually pleasing way ever. Naturally, Kiryu wants to see how Ichiban would react like if he knew how fucking horrible Kiryu is.

Would he be angry? Would he be disgusted? Would he be afraid? Would he be ashamed? Would he try to deny Kiryu's sickness and assume he's just drunk? Would he be addled with denial?

There's a thousand Would he's and What ifs in his head that it's mind boggling. Ichiban, I-chi-ban, a perfect three vowelled name that sounds like a perfect haiku on his name. I-chi-ban, in those boring bum hawaiian patterned clothes while he grins at Kiryu with a sunkissed face and seeming like he belongs here.

Maybe he does.
Japan is quiet and Ichiban sticks out like a sore thumb there, too loud and too big for the small and petite, too much for its modesty.
But in Hawaii he blends in.
Ichiban is the sunflower that thrives in the tropical sun.

His slightly tanned skin belongs just right in the beach with crashing waves instead of standing out popstar-like between the many pales.
He is deafening in his love and gracious--He feels like home and it's dangerous, it's a dangerous thing for Kiryu to yearn.

Because Kiryu's mean.
He's mean in the way that a guy would burn out cigarettes on a girl's thigh and force her to lick the ashes and kiss him with it.

Kiryu's mean, too polite to be street-mean and too rough to be polite-society-mean, Kiryu's degenerate-mean.

He wants to slam Ichiban's head on the floor when he fucks him bloody while Ichiban sobs and cries and thrashes, he wants to break his palm-tree-plank joints, he wants to see Ichiban cry and hiccup with a nosebleed and bruise on his cheek when the flat of Kiryu's leather shoe presses against his face and leaves ruddy marks on his puppyface.

Kiryu is mean in the sense that he's a disgusting, sad bitter man who's repressed so much shit for years and kept it locked tight in his smoke-covered lungs and margarita-riddled kidneys.

Kiryu is mean in the sense that he is a degenerate freak who can hardly help himself now that he's only got half a year at his belt because God decided to screw him over.

Kiryu is mean in the sense that he's spent his life muddled ruddy by the crime world and what's he got to show for it? Nothing, nothing but this strange voice in his head that Ichiban's the only slice of heaven

Ichiban's body is braille for 'have sex with me in a way that changes people's perspective of you', from cherry-pop lips down to macho-tits and doggy-style hips.

---

"Y'know, 'chiban," The words come out half-assed, vowels slurred and alcohol heard in the syllables. It was hardly audible or coherent.
Of course, naturally, Ichiban perks up like pavlov's dog, are his ears just well-attuned to Kiryu's voice or does he just hear everything? Who knows?
"'s cute. The way you think I don't see how you look at me." Kiryu's eyes trail down the shimmer of alcohol in his shotglass, held between his index finger and thumb, follows the way his drink's sweat trickles down to the mahogany of the bar counter.

Ichiban's eyebrows raise, he's got that clueless-puppy look on his face like a discount sticker and Kiryu eats it up everytime. He lets out a light-hearted laugh because that's how it is with Ichiban, he's all rainbows and sunshines.

"What do you mean, Kiryu-san?"

"I mean, it can't not be on purpose, right? Y'go strutting around lookin' like that sometimes in alleys late at night, only in shortcuts where the meanest baddest men are."

Ichiban snorts, rolling his eyes and oh yes that's that rebellious teen attitude again. "What're you talking about? You sure you can handle your alcohol 'just fine'? I know you're a tough guy and all, but maybe it comes with age--"

"Shucks, come on, drop the act."

"What act?"

Kiryu sighs, head tilting slowly to Ichiban.

"There's only one reason you'd want to idolize a dirty, dirty, rotten old man like me, yeah?"

---

Ichiban in bed looks like the sweetest girl ever who spells candy with an I, c-a-n-d-i, candi.
He's shy, closes in on himself, hand fidgets to maybe curl around a strand of his hair but he doesnt--he doesn't, he lets it rest against his chest as he stumbles over his words and he stutters, looking away to the right, maybe in shame, maybe in something else--it highlights his neck.
Half naked with his short-covered bronze thighs rubbing against each other, doe knees highlighted by the dim light as they touch.

"I haven't, um, done this with anyone else, by the way."

It almost sounds like a lie when Kiryu frames Ichiban's hips with his thighs. It's everything that's the opposite of chaste, it's so vulgar when he whispers it out like Kiryu's his dirty little secret, it's fawn-fragile, kidnap-victim afraid and in awe like a stockholm-lover. It's hard to believe Ichiban hasn't been broken in by a bigger, meaner man--he's so reckless!--he gets in fights with anyone. How could they ever resist grabbing his face, seeing all that topaz face-fat spill between their fingers and hold him down and--

Raised in a soap-land with prostitutes, did Daddy sell him out too?
Maybe.
Cost of living is hard, having another mouth to feed is hard, and chores can't possibly be the only thing that Ichiban helped out with.

It could explain everything, from the way he wears pangs of despair like flowers in his hair, down to those ankles that Kiryu swears would look better with fingerprints, preferably his.

"So, um, if you're expecting that I'm like, really good or whatever, please don't, cause I'm not. But uh, I'll—I'll try my best." So fucking cute, Kiryu almost laughs on top of him when he unbuttons.

Virgin Ichiban, at the age of late-forty-something, it's unbelievable, he's just as cute as chicks in porno—he's got those fuck-me eyes and breathes pretty. Hear that? He breathes pretty, his lungs and every organ inside of his body is built to make a wife.

"Try your best my ass, what are you? Twelve or something?"

"I mean, y'know, I could be. For you."

There's a hefty silence that spans between them all galactic like, panic registers in Ichiban as he sputters to open his mouth and profusely apologize at how stupid and rapidfire he blurts things out and say something like—Oh my god I'm so sorry did I turn you off? I totally did oh my god I am so sorry I know you're like old and all and it's getting harder to get it up—but Kiryu just laughs before he can say all that.

He laughs.

"God, you're such a sicko. Who would've thought? Do your friends know how much of a pervert their oh-so-great Kasuga Ichiban is?"

Kiryu's rambling again, maybe it's the alcohol, maybe he's just insane. Who can blame him? He's pretty fucking tipsy and he's got the hottest chick staring at him like he's an angel of some sorts.

"No, 'course they don't. I think it's better that way, I like to see it as you saving yourself for me. Little freak."

Ichiban whines, he fucking whines as one of his sun-tanned hands come to paw at Kiryu, shut up and fuck me already being heard in his knuckles. Kiryu snorts at the attempt--it's endearing, no, really!

"Attaboy, you're so fuckin' cock-hungry. I know your poor cunt's gone 40-something years without it, but you gotta learn to wait."

Ichiban huffs, hands falling to his sides in an almost feather-light way as he rolls his eyes. "I don't--I don't have that, Kiryu-san. You know I'm a guy right? Gosh, I'm starting to think you're really too drunk for this--"

SLAP!

Ichiban gasps and it's the cutest fucking thing ever actually. (does he have dementia? he's listed a million things that're cute about Ichiban) pink-hurt sounding, almost as dramatic as actresses and as horribly pornographic as a hooker. He looks up at Kiryu; in puppy-dog confusion in his small frown, hand against his hardly-red cheek. (Shit, maybe Kiryu's the dog here, he think's hes gone feral, rabies or something--cause he really wants to fuck up into Ichiban till his insides are mush.)

"Ah, ah, ah, ah, manners, sweetheart." Kiryu tuts, middle-school teacher-like, violent hand domestic when it holds Ichiban's face again. His belt unbuckles, pretty clink sounding throughout the entire room, leather coming loose like his slacks, pooling at his knees. "Let's start this again, m? I know, I know, we left off at a rough start, Ichi-chan." Ichi-chan, fucking ichi-chan.

"I'm a very, very horrible man," His boxers are pulled down, and there's a tiny, tiny