Song Series; Music - Ikuta x Yamashita
The first time Ryo takes him out, it’s to a club.
“I’m off to get some fun, Tomo-chan,” he yells over the throb and beat of the dance music. “Don’t get too lonely without me!” And before Yamashita can protest Ryo has slithered into the crowd, hips rolling and twisting against the sea of moving bodies.
He sighs, leans back against the bar and tugs out a rumpled cigarette packet. The atrocious music is starting to make his head hurt and the smell of sweat, sex, alcohol and about a billion brands of colognes is getting to him. He’d leave if he could, but he figures that it’d probably hurt Ryo’s feelings (though he’d probably be too drunk in the morning to remember) and he doesn’t really know where to go anyway, so he pulls out a cigarette and asks the bartender for a light.
It annoys him a little more when the bartender’s lighter doesn’t work (“Out of fluid, maybe,” he drawls and saunters away to look for matches) and he’s just about ready to sidle off the barstool and get the hell out of the damned club when he hears a click and a small flame hovers near the tip of his cigarette. He hums appreciatively and leans forward, waits till the white paper glows orange and the taste of tobacco filters into his lungs before he turns to express his thanks. And stops.
The lighter just used to light his cigarette is enclosed by long, slender fingers which connect back to a pale, silky arm, leading back further to a man, all smoky eyes and full lips and smooth, smooth skin, so beautiful in the neon lights that Yamashita’s brain sort of stutters and stops working for a while. He watches the tousled hair fall into his eyes and the hand holding the lighter retract and those soft lips quirk into a smile, then move as though the man is saying something but he doesn’t quite catch it so all he says is “Huh?”
Then he kicks himself internally. Smooth, Yamashita. Real suave.
The other man doesn’t seem to mind though, leans forward so that Yamashita can catch the musky scent of pine and sandalwood, close enough so that he can get a better view down the tight, white button-down he’s wearing (slightly ripped at all the right places, which kind of makes Yamashita want to rip the whole thing off him instead), get a better view of his long, long legs trapped in those (impossibly tight) torn jeans that cling to him in the most strategic locations.
Yamashita kind of forgets to breathe for a second.
“I said,” the man whispers, voice like melting chocolate and all sorts of good - “The name’s Toma.” Yamashita suppresses a shiver.
“Yamashita,” he manages, but only barely. “Yamashita Tomohisa.”
Toma smiles again, slow and languid, reaches out to pluck Yamashita’s cigarette from his lips and brings it to his own.
“Yamashita,” he pronounces carefully, licking his lips, and Yamashita wonders how he’d sound like saying that under different, dirtier circumstances. His eyes glint in the darkness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He’s about to reply, “The pleasure is all mine,” with just the right intonations and eyebrow-cocking to get his point about the pleasure across, but that’s when they’re interrupted by a pretty young thing, early twenties at most, all big-eyed and baby-faced with illegally short shorts and tight tank top, wrapping his long slender arms around Toma’s shoulders and pulling him close.
“Toma-chan,” he sing-songs, and Yamashita knows he probably shouldn’t feel too jealous that Toma leans back into him a little. “We’re on next so don’t be late to the stage!”
“Be right there, Tegonyan,” Toma purrs, slides off the barstool and out of the boy’s arms, turns him around and sends him off with a slight tap to his behind. He turns to Yamashita, eyes dark, entices him with a wink and a “Come watch me perform, Yamashita-kun.” before he saunters off, and Yamashita can’t help but notice what a fine ass he has.
Later, Yamashita has to use every fiber of his being to restrain himself from clambering onstage and pouncing straight onto Toma when he sees the latter working at his shirt buttons with elaborate, teasing slowness, inching the fabric off those smooth, pale shoulders, swaying those hips to the beat just so and Yamashita thinks he can’t really take it anymore when Toma sashays over to his side of the stage, sits down close to him and wraps those impossibly long legs around him to drag him even closer, rips a gasp out of his throat when he tugs a piece of paper from his jeans and slips it down the front of his pants and suddenly the contact is gone, Toma is back centre-stage and shrugging that white shirt off him, tantalizing the entire hoard of patrons by letting it flutter to his feet.
When he turns around to smirk and mouth “Call me”, Yamashita doesn’t have to pull the piece of paper out to know that it’s a number, Toma’s number, and while he watches Toma’s back and the neon lights melting across his shoulder blades, he thinks that Ryo is officially the most awesome friend on earth.