For the most part, Yashiro's sadistic streak is only a means to a masochistic end. Push a man far enough, and eventually he retaliates. It always hurts the best with the ones who think they have something to prove, the ones predisposed to snapping.

But somehow, Yashiro has a sincere, unadulterated compulsion to see Kage suffer. Not out of hate, or vindictiveness, or pure spite; it's like the most hardcore moe, or maybe the opposite of it, same as wanting to nibble a baby's knees or squeeze a kitten. Yashiro is so attached he just wants to fucking crush him.

Yet he doesn't. And not hurting Kage is what hurts Yashiro the most. It's like his favorite joke: A masochist says to a sadist, "I want you to hit me as hard as you can." And the sadist says, "No." Only he doesn't find it very funny. It's less like a joke than the tragic reality of his life.

Instead, like many days, today Yashiro had settled for dragging another one of his goons to Kage's place for a tune-up. It's a self-indulgent habit, but Yashiro has always been most interested in helping himself, and the good doctor still lets him get away with it. He probably could get his people treated for free, at least on occasion, if he begged enough. But really he would rather pay up. Begging would be the easy way out, and Yashiro has always liked things hard.

The thug must've been worse off than he'd thought, because Kage didn't want to release him right away. "May want to keep him overnight," he'd said. "I'll let you know." What he had meant was, I'll call you when I decide what to do, but Yashiro chose to hear Please feel free to return and pester me later.

So here he is again in the late afternoon, the big lug in tow, stalking the vacant clinic rooms and filling them with smoke. There are saucepan sounds in the kitchen, but when he swings into the doorway there are only signs of Kuga, who positively jumps into the ceiling. "Yashiro-san," he says, clutching his chest. "Scared the shit out of me."

"Where's the man of the house?"

Kuga frowns as he grabs a wad of steel wool. Yashiro really does like him with Kage, and that's part of the fucking problem, to be perfectly honest. "On a little siesta."

"Oh?" So vulnerable!

"Fell asleep reading. I guess actually working this morning really wore him out. Ancient piece of shit."

"Easy, young man. I still own you."

"Like hell."

Yashiro extinguishes his cigarette in a nearby shot glass. "Why don't you kids go outside and play, the adults will have a word."

"Boss?"

"That means stay put, Doumeki. I just want to go poke him a little, that's all."

He ducks into the hallway, but before he's out of earshot he hears Kuga say, sardonic, "What's he mean by poke, exactly."

Yashiro rolls his eyes. If only it were that simple.

When he comes around to the doorway of the tatami-floored bedroom, sure enough, there he is stretched out on his side, glasses still on and a book closed around his thumb. He's not facing the door, so Yashiro announces himself with a whisper. "That's a piss-poor guard dog I've given you."

Kage stirs, which Yashiro takes as a signal to begin unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt. It must be an audible affair; with a drowsy groan Kage says, "Yashiro, no," as if he's scolding a puppy.

He refrains from letting out a playful yip but otherwise pays no heed, slamming the shōji shut so hard they bounce back open a bit. He hops under the duvet, becoming the big spoon as he snuggles in behind and breathes deep, hair tickling his nose. "You smell really nice today."

Which is a lie because the man smells nice every fucking day of his life. It's just that today Yashiro's face is at ground zero. Kage doesn't wear cologne; there was a (thankfully) short phase in high school, but even then he had a certain maturity so it wasn't overdone. There was just the unfortunate effect of covering his natural scent. It has tamed as they have aged—"walking sex" has become simply "indecently virile"—but its relative subtlety now makes it all the more irresistible. This close, Yashiro may come off with a contact high. There's a twitch down below. Close enough.

He hears a tongue click. "Yeah?" Sarcasm. Cute. They do say pets resemble their owners. "Now I'm just gonna have to wash you off of me."

"If only you didn't mean that figuratively. Remember when we were kids?" Kage says nothing because of course he remembers, of course he knows what he's talking about. "Why don't we do that anymore?"

"I've since found people less fucked up than you."

"Aren't you high and mighty. You can't be like you are, and then go calling the kettle black."

"On the sliding scale of fucked up, Yashiro? I'm a little tarnished. You're charred."

"Maybe you're charred, and I'm so polished all you see is black."

"The fuck are you on about."

"For fuck's sake, Kage, you wear sandals."

"That's what you mean by polished?"

"Have a little self-respect. I'd be halfway down your throat if you shaved every now and then." Another lie of the partial-truth variety. "How do you keep it at a five-day shadow, anyway? Damn vagabond. And what's with the lab coat, I know you don't usually nap in the coat."

"Do you mind, I haven't slept all week."

"If that were true you'd be dead." Stone-cold silence. "Come on. I'd be halfway down your dick."

"That's not an incentive."

"Come on. I got you something."

"Don't want it."

"Gimme your hand." Nothing, so Yashiro picks his hand from the book's maw and arranges it between them.

"Agh—that doesn't bend that way—" and he stops. Yashiro has guided his fingers to the tiny, fat ridges like thorns on his abdomen. The tingling that rises up from Kage's feet is palpable in his skin. "Is that . . . from sutures?"

"I had them send their newest noob. She was scared shitless which made it turn out even better, I think."

"And . . . your back?"

"Went clean through, so yeah. All the sites were pretty agitated as they healed, made it kind of tough to sleep." Kage is now shifting to face him, to visually observe the scarring, and Yashiro's stomach drops out. He allows no indication of it in his voice. "Pretty much closed up now, of course, but still some tenderness. You know how impatient I am."

I haven't seen this face in years—this silent wonderment, this stoic worship of flaws. Yashiro has been loathe to admit it even to himself, but deep down this is exactly what he's been thinking about ever since he was shot. Rather any time his blood is spilled. Because never does he feel so helplessly adored. He knows it's just the scars, but Yashiro has always been one with his scars. To love them is to love him. Right?

"Yashiro?"

He looks up to see Kage's usual angryface colored with concern; only then does he feel the tears trailing down. "Why not me?" He almost clamps his hand over his mouth, but it's already out. Why not me?

"Huh?"

Yashiro dabs his cuffs against his eyes, and Kage just looks at him because he's not the one who has spent two decades asking this question.

"I did this to you," Yashiro says. He plucks the glasses from Kage's face, puts them on.

"What do you mean?"

"I did this—I stole your contacts. From your desk." Kage shrugs, confused, but doesn't ask. Yashiro folds the glasses and sets them aside. "I liked that you always wore glasses, after that. I loved it."

"Yashiro. . . ."

He puts a hand on Kage's neck, and he starts but doesn't shy away, nor does he soften. It's more forward than he has ever been with him, and still Yashiro feels so timid. Yet he hears himself say, "I'm sorry."

Then he plants his palms in Kage's hair, grips him hard so his hands don't tremble, and kisses him, unfolding every moment of restrained passion that he has ever stuffed down. He tastes him, a different blend of cigarettes than his own, and even though the response is lukewarm the fact that this is Kageyama under my tongue gives Yashiro chest pains and an erection so unbearable that it feels bad. He breaks away and holds Kage too close to see, chin buried in his shoulder. "I've always had feelings for you." Why, how, are these things coming out of my mouth. He feels numb, like he's licked a battery, so he suspects there is some kind of charm on Kage's lips that's making him just say things.

"That . . . doesn't surprise me to hear that."

He squeezes harder, cheek squashed against jaw, and wonders if Kage's aggressive stubble is leaving thin white scratches on his skin. "You're such an asshole."

"I think I knew, back then. You're so different now, I didn't think it was still. . . ." He shakes his head.

"All the times . . . all I wanted was to touch you back." If it weren't for that goddamn white coat Yashiro's hands might be under his clothes, so it's maybe for the best that the coat is there after all, and it's scented like smoke and musk and it makes Yashiro's blood hurt and he's so fucking sad that he shoves Kage back. "Goddamn it, Kageyama. Tell me how you feel."

His skin flushes but his face remains unreadable. It probably means he feels nothing; it's just that broaching the subject is inconvenient. How can I assume he thinks this, and then feel the way I do?

"Kage. Do you love me?"

Now his stern expression—head tilted up and off to one side, eyes narrow as he looks down on him—this expression makes Yashiro ache. So the answer surprises him: "Yeah. I do."

The ache is somewhere in his diaphragm, somewhere that might kill him, so sharp it's like a broken rib poking through and nothing about it feels good. He asks, "How much?" Because that's just like Kage, to grudgingly love even people that he hates.

"I don't know."

Yashiro circles his arms around Kage's waist, expelling the last of his own breath. "It's okay." His hands travel up, arms shift around his shoulders, fingertips skate among tiny inky locks of hair. "This is fine."

"Yashiro—"

"I've been living it for years. Keeping on like this isn't what's going to kill me."

Kage seems annoyed at this nonchalance; his sigh is damp against Yashiro's neck.

The busted rib makes it so hard to breathe.

/ / / / /

The good-natured tone of their murmuring is reassuring, but then it goes quiet. After a few minutes of stalwart resistance, it becomes clear that Kuga is just as interested in spying as Doumeki is. The two of them creep toward the bedroom; Doumeki follows, assuming Kuga knows the best path for avoiding the creakiest floorboards.

The murmuring turns into words just as Yashiro says, "JAMA? Really? No wonder you passed out."

"Fuck off," says Kageyama-sensei. Kuga snorts quietly. He has made the crack in the shōji a little smaller, so he's not quite as obvious when he peeks in. His face doesn't change, but he observes for too long, a stripe of orange sunlight burning across his eye.

"What is it?" Doumeki whispers. Kuga holds a finger to his lips, which doesn't make Doumeki happy so he gently shoulders him aside. Within, the two men are seated on a futon; Kageyama-sensei is stiff as a board, brows knit, and fully clothed; Yashiro's shirt is open, and he is clinging to his friend like a child who knows full well that he is being irritating, thus feeding his desire to irritate. They just seem so close—and yet Doumeki can sense that something has happened. He feels a head nudge in just below his chin.

"Scars," Kuga whispers.

"Hm?"

He shakes his head, lips press together to hide a frown. "He really is beautiful. Oyaji, I mean."

Doumeki shrugs. He doesn't see it, but then Doumeki doesn't want to touch his hair.

"You gotta understand," Kuga says, "he's so. . . ." He makes a small growl and stands, folds in half with fists pressed to his hips. Just as Doumeki notices the pink in Yashiro's eyes, he is grabbed by the collar and urged back into the kitchen, where Kuga sits down against the wall instead of at the table. So Doumeki sits beside him. Kuga sniffs, like he's pleased with the camaraderie but wants to play it cool.

But then his shoulders sag, and he's rubbing his face. "He's such a grump that to be pitied by him is like . . . it's validating." Doumeki had almost forgotten that Kuga knows—that in this moment they share a like jealousy. "You know? It's like being noticed for the first time in your life, for who you are instead of what you've seen. You're not just some shithead, or a bundle of shitty experiences. He wants to know what those experiences did to you, because you're a person. And he knows that you're imperfect, but that's exactly what he respects about you. He thinks it's beautiful." Doumeki glances over because this—no, Kuga is crying. His head is between his knees, hands linked behind his neck, ears red, so he must be crying. "And then he knows your dirty secrets and you feel so naked around him, but he doesn't try to change you because he just doesn't care, he just cares about you and you feel naked but you're safe, and he's just there, and you feel . . . truly . . . cherished. You gotta. . . ."

This is the difference between us.

"You gotta understand. . . ."

How many times has Doumeki been told not to put Yashiro on a pedestal? He always thought it was modesty, or his latent lack of self-worth. Has it been simple realism all along? Is he just so little a romantic that idealism isn't flattering? Is it insulting? Doumeki had always thought of Kageyama-sensei as a little cold—but maybe he just doesn't know his warmth. Kuga makes it sound transcendent.

That—must be what Yashiro feels.

He is still hiding so Doumeki pats his back, makes a vague motion with his good hand, and Kuga launches into his chest. He's quiet another moment before a quick breath sucks into him and he's openly weeping. For a good ten minutes he just weeps there, like when you're a kid and anything can make you cry like this, vocalized in desperate, animal wails and gasps and coughs and Doumeki's hand smoothes across his back to say, I know how you feel.

He has made a strange ally today.

"You don't need to worry," Doumeki says.

"How the fuck do you mean?"

"Nothing has changed."

"Fucking—look at that." He gestures beyond the kitchen, eyes red and shining, and he's been crying so hard that strands of spit form in his mouth when he speaks. "How has nothing changed?"

"Because the boss still doesn't love himself."

Kuga doesn't understand, and Doumeki doesn't offer. If he did, his own selfishness would become reality. He will only be able to maintain impotence so much longer; for awhile it was enough to punish himself in this way just to stay near. Now—as long as Yashiro thinks himself unworthy of love, Doumeki can't lose to the only person Yashiro has ever loved.

So for now, Doumeki won't let him know he's worthy.

Maybe it's cruel. But it's only for now. And Doumeki is pretty sure he can live with that.

He is sitting outside the front door when Yashiro emerges, masked once more, an unlit cigarette between his lips. He lifts his chin in greeting, and Doumeki can't produce a lighter fast enough.

"Take it easy, champ." Yashiro slaps his shoulder and sits down beside him.

"Sorry."

"Wouldn't want to scorch those pretty wrappings."

". . . No, Boss."

"How long you gonna wear them? Surely that thing's mostly healed by now." He was crying earlier, he's certain of it—how can he look so normal right now, tease with the same old half-smirk and bedroom eyes?

"Do you want me to stop wrapping it?"

"I don't give a shit, I'm just asking."

"Well . . . I don't know."

"Whatever." He sucks on the filter, and feathers of smoke rise from a sigh. Doumeki notices that in the setting sun, hairs like golden threads alight among the soft ashen blond of his head. "He's keeping the dumbass for the night, so let's hit the road."

"We're coming back tomorrow?"

"Yeah, got a problem with that?"

How can he be so strong? "No, sir."

"Good. Then let's blow this pop shack."

"It's usually popsicle stand, I think."

"Did I stutter?"

Doumeki wants to say that it's okay to hurt, that pain doesn't render someone imperfect, that it's not something that needs to be overlooked. That scars aren't flaws, but marks of history, and they make him a fuller person. He wants to tell Yashiro that this is why he is perfect.

But he just stands, squinting against the sun, and turns to offer up his right hand. "Let's go, Boss."