Chapter Text
Ema settled into her chair and put her drink down. She'd gulped half of it on the short trip from the bar to their table. "Ooh, good timing! The next act's their number one ranked guy. I've heard of him."
"How? How have you heard of a male stripper in a gay bar? Yes, it is. I'm not stupid. We’re in the middle of Shinjuku Ni-chome, for goodness sake!" Miki took a furtive slurp at something bright blue she'd ordered because she liked the name. Deep Blue Sea Martini… Tomo and she planned to honeymoon in Hawaii and this looked tropical. Her throat went numb, but in a pleasant way. The men at the next table grinned at her and she flipped back her hair and took a second sip.
"Drinks with the girls after work a month or so back. His name came up."
"I don't see how! Tomo wouldn't like this." Miki glanced around. "Why are we the only women? Are you sure we should be here?"
"It's full of hot men, really yummy cocktails, and you're not married yet, so Tomo can't say a word. And there's a table of women over there, see?"
"Ema, they're drag queens. We're intruding. This is rude of us."
"Then why did they let us in?"
"They were being polite and didn't want to embarrass us?"
"Well, Tomo can't complain. We're not going to get hit on, are we? No one here is interested in us."
"I just won't tell him," Miki decided. "I'll say book club ran late and I stopped over at your place."
"Great idea. Let's order another drink. You'll need it. He's called the Phantom…"
"Why?" Miki felt a buzz of excitement. She loved Tomo, of course, but this was her chance to have someone to compare him to, with the full expectation that Tomo would be superior in every way, naturally.
"You'll see…"
A man appeared in front of them with two cocktails, jewel bright layers of alternating green and pink. They looked lethal. "Beautiful ladies are always welcome here, and these drinks are on the house, compliments of our manager, Romio. He asked me to mention that, welcome though you are, after the Phantom, the performances might not be what you're looking for…ah…that is…" He paused, rubbing the back of his neck and biting his lip as if lost for words.
"We'll leave after this next act," Miki said, kicking Ema's ankle when she protested. "Thank you for the drinks."
She got a dazzling, relieved smile but she had to tilt her head back to get it. The guy was really tall. Was he in heels? She took a peek as he walked away. No. Boots.
The club was dimly lit and the stage took up a lot of space. The tiny tables were crammed in close and the floor was sticky, but when a single spotlight turned on, illuminating the silver pole rising from the polished wood, Miki caught her breath.
The random music stopped dead and a new melody threaded through the expectant silence. Haunting. Operatic. The spotlight swung away and when it returned the pole was no longer empty.
A cloaked figure stood leaning on it, head bowed, wearing a dramatic swoop of a hat. His face… Miki shivered. A glimmer of white covered it. The Phantom's half-mask…
The music changed, a subtle beat turning to something heavier, insistent, a slow heartbeat, and a rising tension.
The hat was removed by a gloved hand, spun across the stage, revealing silky black hair, framing that expressionless face.
A hand swept the cloak up to shield the face, then let it fall, revealing a waistcoat, black with silver designs swirling over it, sparkling, dazzling, a crisp white shirt under it and black pants.
The Phantom moved, a graceful, swaying dance with an invisible partner, spinning across the stage, barely seeming to touch the floor. He turned, his back to the audience—and the music turned to a dirty grind, a bone-melting shudder of lust.
Miki swallowed. Hard.
The figure turned, cloak flicked back over his shoulders…and the waistcoat tore free, taking the shirt with it, exposing a bare chest and—
"Oh my God, are those diamond, uh…on his…"
"Ssh!" Miki hissed, as if anyone could hear Ema over the roar of approval from the crowd.
They were, though. Nipple clamps, bright sparks of beautiful pain…
The mask didn't hide the Phantom's mouth. He smiled, a wicked grin, and did something with his hips that didn't suggest sex, but screamed it. Emphatically.
More moving, more slick, sensuous thrusts and twists, then the pants came off, thrown, disappearing into the shadows, gone.
The Phantom wore thigh high boots in black leather and a plain black pair of briefs. Very brief. They displayed his package but discreetly. Miki groaned with the audience as the Phantom let the cloak cover him, shaking his finger reprovingly.
Spinning on the pole, the cloak falling, draping, framing a perfect body, not muscular, but toned, slender. Miki had thought all male strippers were hulks and hunks, but the Phantom was a moonbeam, a silver spiral of light and dark, and that pole was getting a lot of love…
The room was hot. She was dizzy, half enchanted, half ashamed, as if she were stealing something that wasn't hers, never had been hers. The cloak slid off and now she saw the fragile wings of shoulder blades, the smooth, sleek lines of the Phantom's back, the narrow waist and hips, the luscious ass, the black briefs cut away, not quite a thong, but sexier. Hidden skin…secret places…
The figure writhed and twisted, arched and spun, arms and legs moving in ways that told a story.
I'm here. Don't you want me? I know you do…Catch me first. Run!
He'd slip through a hunter's grasp, quiver and submit to a lover's touch…
Miki clasped her hands. The Phantom was looking at her, eyes a sapphire glitter. At her.
A sharp crack sounded, and the pole broke free of the top anchor, at the precise moment the Phantom was holding onto it with one hand, foot braced against it, his free arm and leg flung out, so he formed an X-shape, hanging in the air, arching under the invisible partner he'd danced to, danced with, danced for throughout his routine.
Miki screamed as the figure slipped and fell, landing hard, the pole jutting out at a dangerous angle.
The music cut off.
"Fuck. My fucking ankle. Fuck."
Miki downed her drink as the crowd erupted in shock and excitement, her eyes stinging with loss and growing guilt, as if she'd been unfaithful, when she would never—
Ema nudged her, dropping money on the table to cover their bill. "We should go."
Miki nodded. The lights were on now, the stage crowded with staff ministering to the Phantom—no, a man, just a man, and the club looked seedy, but that wasn't why they were leaving.
The spell was broken.
She wanted Tomo to hold her. He was real.
***
"Taki, sweetheart, you shouldn't have come in today! You need to rest." Romio fluttered his hands. "Sit! Sit!" He swept a stack of forms off a dusty chair, glanced around, saw no space clear, and shrugged, dropping them onto the floor.
"Sasaki-san will kill you when he comes to do the accounts," Takato said. He was limping and using an ebony cane. It was a prop cane but it worked. "Of course, that's only if I leave you alive and that's not likely."
"Now, now…no need to be like that."
"I could have died!"
"Exaggeration. Wild exaggeration!"
Takato poked Romio in the chest with his cane. "Let's take a little walk to the stage. I want to see what happened."
After he'd fallen, pain had ripped through him from a dozen sources, the worst his wrenched ankle and staying conscious had been a struggle. He'd been bundled into the back of a car by the bartender and taken to the hospital, carried inside (very dramatic) and then taken back to his tiny apartment.
Takato had been too out of it on painkillers to talk much, but he'd mumbled a thank you and fallen asleep. He'd woken to find the place gleaming, food prepared and ready to eat in the fridge, and the cane propped by his bed.
He wanted explanations for all of that, but they could wait. First, he wanted to see the damn pole.
At nine in the morning, Club Romio was quiet as the grave. It opened at six in the evening, but there was rarely anyone pounding on the door to get in. Takato usually worked out new routines from eleven to two, then took a break to eat and nap. Today, pain and irritability had driven him out of bed far too early.
The cleaning staff (one old lady with an ancient vacuum cleaner and a duster) had come and gone and the tables were damp but free of sticky rings. Behind the bar, Takato's knight in shining armor was restocking the shelves and washing glasses. Takato spared him a glance, but most of his attention was on the stage.
He had been humiliated. The number one dancer and his act had ended, not in applause and whistles, but that ignominious tumble and his shocking lack of professionalism. He felt hot and cold thinking about it.
"The screws were loose," Romio said quietly. "Not all the way out, but…"
"Loosened? Over time or did someone help them?"
Romio hunched one shoulder. He looked older, the wrinkles showing. His trademark blue hair needed touching up at the roots and his blue pin-striped suit was creased and grubby. "The screws aren't talking and neither is anyone else. Someone's coming by later to repair it."
"So I've got an enemy, hmm?" Takato tapped his cane against the floor, thoughts busy. The list wasn't that long. It held three names.
Chihiro. Ayagi. Ayagi Chihiro.
Asshole.
"An enemy, or your maintenance is shit, like everything else in this club."
"Now, wait a minute!"
"My ankle is proof of that! That pole should've been checked. Every night! Not just when you know an inspection's due."
"And tell me when I have time? You could have done it yourself."
"Me? Me? I'm an artiste not a mechanic!" Takato's ankle was fucking killing him. He hobbled to the bar and took a seat on a stool. The bartender silently mixed him a drink, non-alcoholic, a bright fizz of juice and club soda, tart and refreshing.
"You," Takato said, turning his back on Romio. "You took me home."
"Yes." Soft voice, lowered eyes.
"And did a lot more than that." Takato had woken naked, apart from his briefs.
"I did my best to make you comfortable."
"Hmm." Takato clicked his fingers. "Eyes on me. What's your name? You're new, aren't you?"
"He's been here six months," Romio called over. "Don't you pay attention to anything but your reflection?"
"My name's Azumaya Junta."
Green eyes, all that light hair, tall, definitely good-looking, but the kid didn't know how to dress. He wore a long-sleeved T-shirt in faded blue, clean but way too big, and jeans that clung in all the wrong places and bagged where they should be tight.
"Well, thank you, Azumaya-kun. I owe you."
Something happened then. Takato felt his skin tingle, prickle. Azumaya's eyes lit up, and he caught his breath. "Owe me?"
"Uh, sure. A favor? Don't go making too much of it."
"No, Saijou-san!"
Eager as a puppy. Cute. Takato was more of a cat person though.
Romio joined them. "We're going to need to move some dancers around to fill your spot."
Takato knew what that meant and he wasn't having it. Any of it. "Ayagi gets my place and I'm never setting foot on that stage again. Ever."
"Taki! He's number two. With you gone, he moves up."
"Bring in someone new! No one wants to see his tired cowboy act anyway. Boring. Predictable. And his legs are too skinny for chaps."
Takato knew at twenty-eight he was edging close to being too old for this crap. He had plans for his next stage in life, and he was sure as hell going out at the top of his game, but now? No. No one pushed him out. He'd recover, do another six months or so and then retire on his own terms.
"I can't get someone in at this short notice. It's Monday tomorrow. It’ll be quiet and we can manage with someone doing a double turn for a few days but by Friday, I need that spot filled."
Azumaya cleared his throat. "I know someone who could take over for me at the bar."
Romio frowned. "You want to leave?"
Takato smiled, intrigued by the kid's nerve. "I think he's offering to solve a problem, not create one."
"You?" Romio eyed Azumaya. "You can dance? Strip?"
Azumaya nodded, head bobbing fast. "I've watched every performance Saijou-san's done. I couldn't come close to him, that's not possible, but I could maybe help out at the start of the night, when you just need a body up there."
"Hmm."
Takato finished his drink. "Show us."
"Now?"
"Why not?"
"It's my club," Romio said with a sniff. "Azumaya-kun, get up there and show us."
"I just said that!"
"Well, now the boss has said it!"
While they were squabbling, Azumaya had come around to their side of the bar. "Should I—I'm not really wearing the right clothes."
"That's true whether you're on the stage or off it," Takato said bluntly. "Undress. If you're out of shape, it's not worth turning on the music and with the pole broken, your options are limited to floor work. So strip."
"Yes, Saijou-san."
Romio opened his mouth to assert his rights again, but Takato stopped him. "I'll be the one training him."
"True."
"And getting a bonus on top of my wages."
"Wages?"
"Or do I fill out a claim for workplace injuries?"
"Fine, fine."
Azumaya stepped back, kicked off a pair of boots Takato wouldn't have worn to wade through mud in, and took a deep breath.
He didn't try to make a show of it. He undressed as if he was alone in his room, but slowed down his movements. It was casual, but intimate. Takato watched him with a purely professional eye at first, assessing potential competition automatically.
T-shirt; off over the head. Azumaya took the time to turn it right side out, shake it, fold it, then drape it over a chair. Takato took in broad shoulders, a six-pack, a flat stomach and powerful arms, then blinked as he caught a whiff of Azumaya's scent. Clean but an earthy clean, darkly sensual, complex and—wait, what? Why was he drooling over whatever fabric softener the guy used?
The appalling, please burn and dispose of jeans were next. Azumaya wore black briefs, identical to the ones Takato preferred. He narrowed his eyes. Clearly they shared a brand but not a size. He was a medium. Junta was XL. As he stared at the outline of a cock that even soft was impressive, it thickened, hardened. The head popped out of the waistband of the briefs, an impudent, sassy thrust.
Azumaya made a small, desperate sound and clasped his hands in front of him. "I'm sorry! You were looking at me and I couldn't help myself."
Romio and Takato exchanged glances.
"On the stage," Takato commanded, already moving to the sound deck. As he passed Azumaya, he clapped his shoulder, finding the skin warm and smooth against his palm. "Trust me. You're going to be a star."
Assuming Azumaya didn't freeze on stage. Or get too…excited. Ignoring a stifled moan, he turned on the music.
Hmm…Azumaya had probably been in diapers when this one came out, but why not see what he could do with a classic?
Besides; gotta be larger than life? Hell, yes, Azumaya qualified in one department at least.
Takato got himself another drink, this time with a shot of vodka, and settled back to listen to Bonnie Tyler wail about needing a hero as Azumaya showed off his moves.
Not the worst way to spend a morning.
But Azumaya was stiff, awkward and shy. He'd got his work cut out for him being a mentor to this newbie, that was for sure.
"Potential, but…" Romio said softly.
Takato nodded absently. "I'll loosen him up, then sharpen him up."
"Well, don't you get to have all the fun?" Romio pursed his lips. "Not here, though. If Ayagi-kun sees him and throws a hissy fit, I'm down two dancers."
"I'll take him to Yurie's. She'll give me a private room to rehearse in."
"More expense! And he'll need a costume too."
"Worth it." Takato downed his drink, turned off the music mid-chorus and snapped his fingers. "You! Dress, call your friend to take over behind the bar, then come with me. It's the start of a week of hell, but you asked for it."
"Go with you?" Azumaya was one big, happy smile. "Yes, Saijou-san!"
Enthusiasm was so exhausting. Takato grinned. He'd have the kid begging for mercy soon enough.