#izukuro

Izuki can’t simply turn off his powers. He’d like to, but that’s just not how they work–he’ll be waiting to cross the street and he’ll see a thief pick someone else’s pocket and no matter how much he wants to stay he can’t–if he notices something, he must correct it. And so many of his relationships have ended before they really had a chance to start.

Not this one, though. Because Kuroko, somehow, has the ability to grab his focus and hold it, as inescapable as a black hole and he’s already past the event horizon and fuck. The buildings around him could all blow up and the person standing next to him could be the one detonating them and Izuki wouldn’t be able to see it.

Tetsuya sighs and looks in the mirror; he’s got to be ready in ten minutes but they’ll go by fast like a customer’s first drink down their throat before they saunter up—in some cases, his inconspicuousness serves him well but in others it just lets drunkards bump into him and pull him in for a lap dance and fumble with their wallets until they underpay and don’t even buy him a drink. Not that he expects star treatment from all of his clients, but still. Sometimes he’d rather be someone like Shun, someone who can see all that coming before it arrives and duck out of the way, or to have enough stamina to shimmy up and dance around the pole without getting dizzy and just do that instead of dancing on some middle-aged man’s lap when he has a boner.

And as if he’d sensed Tetsuya thinking about him (which, even considering it’s Shun and he’s perceptive as hell, is theoretically impossible) he sees Shun approach him in the mirror. He squeezes Tetsuya’s ass and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“You ready for this?”

“I suppose.”

“Don’t stay here too long,” says Shun. “It might be…a clothes call for your shift time.”

Tetsuya doesn’t even bother looking at Shun; that pun had been weaker than usual (not that his are anywhere near strong or clever; they’re usually about as tepid as a glass of water sitting on the bar for an hour and a half).

“Leave the puns here, please; we don’t want you scaring away the clients.”

Tetsuya crosses the room; Shun trails him.

“Aww, Tetsuya, that makes me—”

Tetsuya shuts the dressing room door on him and prances out. A woman about a head taller than him squeals, but her eyes are directed somewhere else. Tetsuya sighs, assuming his regular pose—and then a different woman smacks into him.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t—oh, hey, there.”

“Hello,” says Tetsuya, politely making eye contact.

The woman giggles. “Are you available?”

“Yes,” says Tetsuya. “How may I help?”

She giggles again. Tetsuya can deal with giggles, even when they turn into deeper laughs—this type of customer usually pays decently and doesn’t ask for too much or even too long of a dance or a striptease. Although that can be a bad thing, leaving him unoccupied and in search of another customer too soon, and too many of this kind can just add up. What he needs is someone who wants a private show—but the type of clients who seek him out or ask for his services are rarely the type who want that. It’s more Shun’s alley, showy and provocative and teasing, even if it’s only erotic if his terrible puns and attempts at wit (even on the job) are ignored. Although that might be someone’s turn-on; Tetsuya’s seen a lot of weird shit.

“Tetsuya!”

Shun himself is making his way through the crowd, weaving expertly between clients and deflecting their approving looks with waves of his hand. He’s not wearing much at this point, tiny dark leather shorts that stand out against the brightness of his skin in the glow of the strobe lights and leave very little to the imagination. He catches Tetsuya’s hand in his and winks flirtatiously; someone tosses a bill at him and he catches it.

“Are you available?” he says, and then leans close to Tetsuya’s ear (Tetsuya can feel his warm breath and almost imagine—if he were prone to imagining that sort of thing—the outline of Shun’s lips). “There’s a rich guy in the back room. He told me to bring a friend.”

Tetsuya nods his assent—he wouldn’t exactly call the nature of his and Shun’s relationship “friendship” but he also won’t bother arguing the details when a prime job is in the line.

“What’s my role?” Tetsuya asks as Shun pulls him along.

“Lap dance. Since you’re still dressed, strip tease for him, too. I’ll be on the pole.”

The door shuts behind them and Tetsuya’s eyes adjust to the low light; Shun drops his hand and saunters over to the pole. Tetsuya follows, and he strikes a pose—the sudden movement catches the attention of the young man in the chair. He smirks at Tetsuya, and Tetsuya meets his gaze.

“Show me what you have.”

His voice is raspy; Tetsuya complies. His moves aren’t showy; he’s not given to pirouettes or fancy ways to throw his clothing across the room the way Shun is, but the direct method seems best for this customer. He leans forward as Tetsuya drops his shirt, his undershirt, his belt, and his pants. The man’s grin turns wolfish as he gazes at Tetsuya’s lacy blue briefs, and then he beckons.

“Good boy,” he says, tucking a stack of bills into Tetsuya’s waistband.

Tetsuya settles on his lap, and then Shun begins to shimmy up the pole. The man absently strokes Tetsuya’s bare back, feasting his eyes on the show Shun is giving. Tetsuya manages to twist himself to see—and even he, who’s seen Shun, who’s felt Shun, who knows Shun so well, hadn’t known that Shun could be quite that flexible. He can see the strain on Shun’s ram as he holds himself up at the top, legs squeezing but outstretched and toes pointed. He throws his other arm back; Tetsuya can see all the lines and contours of him glowing in the pale, murky light. He swallows—he’s feeling this in a place he shouldn’t, at least not right now. But the client’s feeling it, too; that much is obvious. His touching of Tetsuya becomes much more erratic; Tetsuya tries to catch Shun’s eye. Shun shimmies down the pole, wriggling his ass while he does—Tetsuya frowns. This is his job; he does do this for other people, but right now he just wants Shun all to himself.

Shun crosses the distance to the chair and joins Tetsuya on his lap.

“Good, good,” says the client, reaching into his pocket (the bulge in his pants is obvious now, and his hands are shaking). He pulls out his wallet, thumbing through bills and placing them inside both of their waistbands before he pats both of their asses and pushes them off his lap.

“You boys couldn’t help me with…?”

“It’s against contract,” says Tetsuya.

“Ah, well, worth a try,” says the customer, and he walks out of the door.

Tetsuya turns to follow, but Shun grabs his wrist. “By the looks of things, I bet you can’t…bare to leave.”

Tetsuya looks down—yeah, he’s half-hard, but it can easily be ascribed to the folds in his briefs (unless, of course, the person doing the ascribing has eyes both as good in this light and as perverted as Shun’s). He reaches over and plucks a few bills from Shun’s waistband, and Shun starts.

“That was for your terrible pun.”

“If I…blow your mind can I have it back?”

“I have bad circulation,” says Kuroko.

Whether or not that’s a passive-aggressive declaration of a want to borrow Izuki’s scarf Izuki doesn’t know, but he’s more than willing to grab the strip of red wool from around his own neck and wrap it around Kuroko’s.

Kuroko glances up at him; without seeing his mouth or his chin he looks even less expressive than usual.

“Thank you, Izuki-kun, but that doesn’t help my hands much.”

“But you look so hands-ome!”

“Izuki-kun, please.”