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Ichikawa Mitsuo had a problem, and it was Ichikawa Mitsuo. All right, that wasn't entirely accurate. Ichikawa Mitsuo had several problems. But Ichikawa Mitsuo was several of those several, and so Mitsuo felt it was valid to generalize.
Mitsuo didn't want him to be a problem. That stuck-up weirdo, Ichikawa Mitsuo, Ichikawa like the first river somewhere, Mitsuo with that last o like a man, like a husband, and that was a fucked-up thing to think, a piece of shit like that being somebody's husband. It made Mitsuo (the real Ichikawa Mitsuo, him himself, the one with the last o like the center of something) want to punch something bloody when he thought about that too hard. Not that that made Mitsuo-o-like-a-man special. Mitsuo-o-like-the-middle wanted to punch things most days.
As he left that day, he saw Ichikawa sitting on a low stone wall by the entrance to the school. He didn't look like he was waiting for Mitsuo, but he didn't look not like he was waiting for Mitsuo. Sometimes Ichikawa didn't look like anything. He just sort of existed. He was so fucking annoying. That was why Mitsuo kept fucking all his girlfriends. "The fuck are you doing?" Mitsuo asked, walking up to Ichikawa.
Ichikawa didn't look surprised. He didn't look bothered. He didn't look like he had been waiting or not waiting for anything. He didn't look like anything. Motherfucker. Piece of shit. Mitsuo wanted to break his nose. "Nothing," Ichikawa said.
"Just sitting here like a faggot?" Mitsuo folded his arms across his chest.
Ichikawa didn't take the bait. He didn't really respond or not respond. He just sort of shrugged, a hitch of his shoulders that said he wasn't going to fight the allegations.
There were things that Mitsuo didn't take to well, and one of them was being ignored. Reports sent to his home, kept on file in the main office, all of them featured prominently the word attention. Mitsuo did things for attention. "Sick place to be a faggot. Nobody around here to suck off but crusty old teachers. You into that? Slobbering on those tiny old man dicks?"
"No," said Ichikawa, as though this had been a normal inquiry, like Mitsuo had asked him if he'd had ramen for lunch. Like any of this was normal at all.
Mitsuo knew it wasn't normal. That was the problem. He knew people thought it was fucked-up, and people thought he couldn't stop himself, and that was because he couldn't stop himself, which probably meant it was fucked-up too. It was like he was on a roller coaster, strapped into a car on the rails, and it didn't matter if he did or didn't want to escalate. He was going to. Those reports on file also mentioned the word self-control, always in the negative. Fuck that. He could have self-control. He was going to have it right now, just to prove to all those fucks that he could.
"I want to fuck," Mitsuo said with a sigh. He stretched his arms above his head, leaning back in a way that he knew lifted his shirt and exposed his belly. He pretended like he didn't notice Ichikawa looking. "Why don't you get a new girlfriend so I can fuck her?"
Every time Ichikawa expressed interest in a girl, Mitsuo made it his life's mission to get her in bed. His success rate was pretty good. Some of them were even virgins before he got in there. It didn't matter. They weren't after. A couple of them weren't up for that, of course. A few had negotiated down to blowjobs, and one real snobby prude had closed her eyes and given him a handjob so reluctant, Mitsuo probably wouldn't have gotten off at all if he hadn't been thinking about how hard he was cucking Ichikawa. At best he was turning them off Ichikawa entirely. At worst he was making sure Ichikawa got nothing better than sloppy seconds.
"Stop it," Ichikawa said, but it was clear his heart was barely in it. How many of those girls had Ichikawa fucked after Mitsuo had gotten his way with them? It wasn't like Mitsuo cared. Fucking whatever. It was Ichikawa's faggot business, not his. Sticking his dick where Mitsuo's had been. Whatever got him off. It didn't matter.
Mitsuo rolled his eyes. Why was he hanging around the school a single minute longer than he had to? "Come on," Mitsuo said, tossing his bag over his shoulder and starting to walk off. "Let's go."
Ichikawa didn't budge. "No."
All those same reports, the ones that padded out his file, every single page of them warned that Ichikawa Mitsuo -- him, the real one -- did not respond well to being told no. In an instant, he was back in front of Ichikawa, right up in Ichikawa's personal space. "What was that, faggot?" Mitsuo growled, inches from Ichikawa's lips. "Say that again."
"No," Ichikawa repeated. He looked too calm, too cool. It was a hot fucking day out, the hottest so far of the year. Mitsuo had nearly soaked through his uniform shirt, and this bitch wasn't even sweating. Dry as a bone. Little bitch. Fucking faggot. Bitch faggot with no manners. Look what he was making Mitsuo do. Mitsuo was trying to prove his self-control, and here was Ichikawa, fucking it all up for him. It wasn't Mitsuo's fault. Ichikawa was making him do it.
"Say that again," Mitsuo commanded, his voice low, before adding, "doggy."
That did it. Mitsuo didn't know how he knew, but he knew that had worked. Nothing changed about Ichikawa's face or demeanor. He kept his gaze locked on Mitsuo's. It was just that the next time he opened his mouth, it was to give a quiet little woof.
Mitsuo couldn't stop the grin that blossomed across his face. So what if he looked like the bitch right now? Big fucking deal. No one was around to see. "That's right, you're a doggy, aren't you?" Mitsuo teased, stepping away like this had all been a perfectly normal exchange between two peers, like boys outside the high school did this every day. Which, fuck, maybe they did. Mitsuo wasn't paying attention to that shit. He turned his back and started walking away. "Come on, little doggy."
There was a pause, but only a second later, he heard the sound of footsteps a few paces behind him. Fuck, he was so hard right now. His heart was hammering in his chest. He felt like a god. A god with a hard cock, just aching to be used. Now all he needed was a hole.
They walked together for like an hour, Ichikawa following behind him like his fucked-up shadow. Mitsuo couldn't even see him, could just hear the sound of those footsteps, walking when Mitsuo walked, stopping when Mitsuo stopped. Mitsuo almost wanted to keep it up this weird game of pursuit as long as he could, to see which one of them collapsed first. But that seemed like dumb shit, so eventually Mitsuo went into a convenience store. Ichikawa dutifully set to following him, but Mitsuo turned and poked him in the chest. "No dogs allowed," Mitsuo said, tapping a decal on the glass that said the same thing.
Ichikawa took a step back. He leaned against the side of the building, outside. He didn't say anything, and he didn't leave.
The convenience store was sweltering inside. The man behind the counter, fanning himself, explained that their air conditioning unit had given up the ghost that morning. On a day like today, the refrigeration units weren't enough to keep up. If they couldn't fix it soon, all the cold goods would go bad. So everything frozen was half price.
Mitsuo bought a pack of cigarettes and a popsicle. He walked back outside and kept the cigarettes, but thrust the popsicle in Ichikawa's face. Ichikawa looked from it to Mitsuo and back again. "What's this?" Ichikawa asked even as he took it.
"The fuck's it look like?" Mitsuo snorted. "Suck it."
Ichikawa pulled away the wrapping. The ice was bright red and already starting to melt, dripping from the end of the stick to the pavement below. Ichikawa considered the treat for a minute before opening his mouth. He locked eyes with Mitsuo again, as though to make absolutely sure that Mitsuo was seeing this shit. Then he stuck out his tongue and gave the popsicle a long lick from stick to tip.
Mitsuo fucking near came in his pants. Only the heat and his general crabbiness about it saved him, and that was a close call. He made a choked noise in the back of his throat as he watched Ichikawa part his lips and slide the whole popsicle inside is mouth. Fuck, he could feel his facial expression change. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to bring everything back in order. He laughed, like this was all a fucking joke. "You suck dick like that for real?" Mitsuo asked, hating the way he could hear the frayed tension in his voice. He sounded like a rubber band pulled too tight.
Never breaking eye contact, Ichikawa shrugged.
Mitsuo saw red, not just the color of the popsicle and now Ichikawa's lips and tongue, but pure rage. He grinned wider, clenching his teeth so hard he could practically hear them start to shatter. "Yeah?" Mitsuo sounded so cool right now. He sounded like a guy who didn't give a shit. "Whose dick have you sucked?"
Ichikawa did not answer, bobbing the popsicle in and out of his mouth instead. He looked away at last, leaning back against the wall under the shade of the storefront awning. His fingers were red and sticky. It looked like blood. No, blood didn't look like that. It looked like the way blood did in video games, bright and obscene and comical, so that no one could ever mistake it for the real thing. It was okay for kids to think about blood as long as they weren't thinking about the real thing.
Inside the pockets of his uniform trousers, Mitsuo's hands clenched into fists. He barely managed to let go of the cigarette pack in time to keep from crushing it. "Tell me." It was a command. Sit. Stay. Roll over. Play dead. Tell me whose cock got in your mouth before mine.
Not that Mitsuo wanted a faggot like that to suck his cock, even if that faggot had the perfect cocksucking mouth. Mitsuo wasn't a faggot. He fucked girls. He fucked a lot of girls. A lot of them sucked his cock. The only people he wanted to suck his cock were girls. Except Ichikawa Mitsuo, the one who was a problem, and that was why he was a problem, that he kept making Ichikawa Mitsuo, the real one, want things he shouldn't.
When Ichikawa didn't answer for long enough that it was clear he wasn't going to answer, Mitsuo hit him. It wasn't Mitsuo's fault that he did. It wasn't even a conscious reaction. His fist just flew out and cracked not even that hard against the side of Mitsuo's face, right near the corner of his mouth. What was that they called it in boxing? A love tap? The near-empty popsicle stick went clattering to the sidewalk, a mess of melting red ice and spit and there it was, some actual blood mixed in.
The convenience store owner was outside in seconds, fan in hand, yelling at them about how he was having such a shitty day already, and if they were going to fight, they needed to do it somewhere that wasn't in front of his store, or he was going to call the police. Before Mitsuo could say anything, Ichikawa stepped forward and gave his polite, disarming smile. "It's all right," he said, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth clean. "I was asking for it."
They walked together down side streets and alleys, between apartment buildings and businesses, until fewer and fewer people surrounded them with every corner they turned. Mitsuo's cock was so hard that it was uncomfortable to walk, with the way his underwear and pants rubbed against his erection. He wanted it to go away, but it just got worse every time he thought about Ichikawa's messy mouth. His messy, cocksucking mouth. Mitsuo stopped in the shade of a building and lit up a cigarette. He didn't offer Ichikawa one. "You haven't sucked anyone's cock," Mitsuo said. There, he was going to call Ichikawa's bluff.
Ichikawa looked from the cigarette to Mitsuo. His lips were still stained red. "Is that a question?"
Mitsuo clenched his teeth hard enough that he crushed the cigarette filter without meaning to. "You haven't," Mitsuo said again.
"Okay," Ichikawa said, not confirming so much as accepting the answer.
"You haven't." Mitsuo took a long drag on the cigarette and held it in his lungs until they started to burn. He didn't cough it all out, though. He let it out evenly through tight lips. The fuck did they mean, no self-control? Look at that self-control. He was practically a zen fucking master. In fact, he'd like to see a zen master up against Ichikawa. He bet they'd fold way before Mitsuo did.
The little side street they'd stopped in wasn't particularly hidden or out of the way. It was late afternoon by then, though, and the oppressive warmth meant that no one was outside who didn't have to be. Besides, of course, the two of them, but that didn't count. Workers done with their jobs had already headed home after a long day. Street vendors had long since rolled their carts to somewhere with better foot traffic. All their classmates were at cram school or at their jobs or doing something else productive with their lives, probably, on their ways to being productive members of society.
That was probably what Ichikawa was going to end up as: a productive member of society. He was so good. He didn't have a file in the school offices as long as he was tall. His household didn't get daily phone calls warning them about their son's poor behavior. His grades were great, so far as Mitsuo paid any attention to shit like that. He'd graduate and go to college, and get a normal job, and find some nice girl who he'd knock up, and while he had her in bed, naked and spread out and humping her, thrusting his cock in and out of her polite little pussy, the one the real Ichikawa Mitsuo had never even gotten so much as a sniff of, he wouldn't even think for a second about--
"Suck my cock," Mitsuo said. "Right now. On your knees."
Ichikawa didn't look surprised by the request, but neither did he move to respond to it. "No."
Mitsuo felt like his whole body was on fire. Sweat was pouring down his back and chest now, soaking his shirt. "Suck it," he said through clenched teeth, biting down so hard that the whole cigarette threatened to split in two. He wasn't even smoking it anymore, not really. He was barely tasting it.
Ichikawa didn't even have to say it. It was written all over his entire body, the simple refusal. How dare he refuse? He wasn't supposed to refuse. This bitch, this faggot, this dog was never meant to say no.
Mitsuo's fist was moving again, again on its own. This time he didn't go for the face. He went straight for Ichikawa's gut, right in the center of his stomach. Ichikawa exhaled hard and bent forward, clutching his arms across his middle. Middle like the middle in the name of the real Ichikawa Mitsuo, the one who was standing by him now, shaking with fury. "You want me to fucking make you?" Mitsuo shouted, realizing the answer even as he said it. Yes, Ichikawa was going to make him do it. It wasn't Mitsuo's fault. It was Ichikawa's, through and through. Mitsuo wouldn't have had thoughts like this on his own. Faggot thoughts like that didn't just appear in his head. They had to be put there. If he'd never caught Ichikawa naked and helpless in the gym like that, Mitsuo would never have ended up like this, with all these sick faggot thoughts in his head. He had to get them out. There was only one way to get them out.
Looking up at Mitsuo from his half-bent position, Ichikawa ran his tongue across the still-bloody corner of his mouth. The little love tap hadn't quite closed up yet, it seemed. "No," Ichikawa said with a heavy exhale.
This time it was Mitsuo's foot. It swung up as he dug the point of his school shoe right into Ichikawa's side. The rush of it was incredible, the sheer bliss of release. It felt like jerking off after waiting a week, letting it all knot up inside him and then just letting go. He kicked again, but he hadn't gotten his balance back right after the first one, and so it mostly just knocked Ichikawa's hip awkwardly. It still felt fucking great.
Ichikawa made a choked sound as he staggered back, catching himself against the side of the building. He moaned, and the sound was pain, but it also wasn't pain. Fuck, was this what he sounded like when he fucked? When he got in there right after Mitsuo did? Was that the sound Ichikawa made when he shoved his cock into a pussy that was still slick and warm with Mitsuo's jizz? Did he like it better knowing that Mitsuo's spunk was sliding his cock along? Did that make Ichikawa hard? Did it make him come? Did it make him fucking come?
Mitsuo reached for Ichikawa's hair and grabbed as much as he could of it, shoving Mitsuo's face forward into Ichikawa's clothed crotch. Ichikawa's bloody, dye-stained mouth met the front of Mitsuo's dark pants, open and eager as he tongued Mitsuo's erection through the layers of clothing. Mitsuo bit his own lower lip until he could taste blood. This was definitely what gods felt like, looking down as their worshippers sucked them off. Maybe it was usually more metaphorical than this. Whatever.
"Bitch," Mitsuo growled, because he couldn't think of anything better to say. "Bitch. Faggot. Dog. Slut. Cocksucker. Cunt. Fucker. Motherfucker." He was just searching now for any hurtful word he could think of, trying to continue the damage his fists and feet had done. "Faggot. Dog. Doggy. Fucking bitch."
The fly of Mitsuo's pants was only open for a second before Ichikawa's mouth was on Mitsuo's cock, and it wasn't like he'd been with the popsicle, a fucking tease. Ichikawa just swallowed. He took all of Mitsuo straight into his mouth, until his nose was jammed up against Mitsuo's belly. He was like a choking man gasping for air, only that air was Mitsuo's cock, and Ichikawa was only going to keep choking if he didn't get as much of it as possible into his mouth immediately. Look at that. He was so much of a faggot that he was going to die if he didn't get to suck Mitsuo's cock.
Mitsuo open-handed smacked Ichikawa's face, enough that Mitsuo's cock popped out of his mouth. Without missing a beat, Ichikawa swallowed it right back up, like a magic trick, making it disappear between his lips. This time he bobbed his head a few times, sucking like the cock-hungry whore he was. A car drove up to the intersection at the far end of the street, stopped like it might turn down the alley, but then drove on a moment later. Ichikawa didn't even pause. He was so much of a faggot that he was doing this in public. He didn't care if anyone saw. Hell, from the way his hand was down his own pants, jerking himself off, he maybe even wanted them to see. Forget the parts of Mitsuo's file that said what he did. This bitch was the one who wanted attention.
"Gonna make you suck me off in front of class," Mitsuo grumbled, barely aware that he was talking. Maybe he wasn't even talking. Maybe he was just thinking so loud that Ichikawa could hear him. It didn't matter. Ichikawa was his dog. He'd do whatever Mitsuo said. If Mitsuo told him to suck him off at his desk, Ichikawa would do it. Fuck, if Mitsuo told him to suck him off at the teacher's desk, he'd do it. He'd do it and he'd get off on it, wouldn't he?
Bobbing his head, Ichikawa nodded. Of course he'd do it. Anything Mitsuo said, he'd do it. And if he didn't, well, then Mitsuo could smack him around a little first. Fuck, it'd just make Ichikawa harder, the fucking freak. Faggot freak who got off on getting the shit kicked out of him. Cocksucking little bitch. Mitsuo was going to shove his cock down Ichikawa's fucking throat, choke him, make him gag, make him--
Mitsuo nearly fell over with relief as he came hard in Ichikawa's mouth. He knew he shouted out, maybe loud enough that people in nearby buildings could hear and stick their heads out of their windows and see him right there in the middle of the street, in his school uniform, getting incredible head from a faggot classmate. So fucking what. He couldn't think about anything except how it good to shoot his load down Ichikawa's hungry throat as Ichikawa swallowed again and again, closed his lips and sucked like he was getting the last drops out of a juice box, that's how much of a fucking cock-thirsty faggot he was.
And then it was over, except it wasn't, because an instant later, Ichikawa was on his feet and kissing him. His jizz-covered tongue was deep in Mitsuo's mouth, making Mitsuo taste himself. Mitsuo tried to push him away, tried to bite Ichikawa and make him fucking let go, but Ichikawa wasn't having any of it. Still furiously jerking himself off, he kissed Mitsuo with the same desperation he'd sucked him with, mean and hungry. He was so fucking hungry. It was like there was a big void inside of him, and the only way to fill it was to swallow Mitsuo. Then it wouldn't matter which Ichikawa Mitsuo was Ichikawa Mitsuo anymore. If it ever had in the first place.
Mitsuo could feel when Ichikawa came. He cried out just like Mitsuo had, but this time all the sound was caught inside Mitsuo's mouth. He pressed up against Mitsuo's body, and Mitsuo found himself with his hands around Ichikawa's chest, holding him up. The late afternoon wrapped around them like a blanket, hiding them from the rest of the world. Nobody had noticed them. It was like they didn't fucking matter at all.
"It's fucking hot out," Mitsuo said when he finally pushed Ichikawa away. Ichikawa's face was flushed and sweaty, his mouth now a new, third kind of red. They were both still breathing hard, like they'd just gotten out of gym class. If only gym class were like this. He might actually participate.
Hastily, Mitsuo shoved his cock back into his pants and zipped up. Ichikawa moved a little slower as he did the same. Mitsuo must have gotten him good in the side. Well, the faggot deserved it. Served him right. Like he'd told the shopkeeper, he'd been asking for it. Mitsuo could see a telltale stain on the front of Ichikawa's uniform pants, not too obvious, but not nothing either. He'd have to go home like that. Would anyone who saw him assume that was the reason? Would everyone?
"Hey," Mitsuo said, looking at the cut on Ichikawa's lip because he couldn't quite look him in the eye.
"Yeah?" Ichikawa raised an eyebrow.
Mitsuo got out the pack of cigarettes, willing his hands to stop shaking. It wasn't working. Maybe Ichikawa wouldn't notice. Probably he wouldn't notice. See? Nothing to be worried about. Mitsuo took out two. He put one in his mouth and lit it, then handed the other to Ichikawa, along with the lighter.
Ichikawa took the cigarette, but not the lighter. Instead, he leaned in close, so close, until the tips of their cigarettes touched. Ichikawa drew in a deep breath, and the end of his flared to life. One cherry to another. "Thank you," he said, smoke escaping with the words.
"Whatever," Mitsuo said, leaning back against the wall of the building where he'd just had the best blowjob of his life. Maybe the best blowjob in the history of human existence, even. He didn't know how they measured things like that. He ran his fingers back through his sweat-soaked hair. "Fuck you."
"Yeah?" Ichikawa asked, interest audible in his voice, and fuck, Mitsuo was immediately half-hard again, so fast it actually hurt. If Ichikawa's mouth felt like that, what must his hole feel like? How would Ichikawa want Mitsuo to pound his faggot ass? On all fours behind him, probably, mounting him like the bitch he was. The thought of it was making him light-headed. How was he getting hard again? There had to be nothing left in his balls. Ichikawa had swallowed him dry.
"Yeah," Mitsuo answered after a second. Yeah, Mitsuo would fuck him. He was glad the heat was there as cover for the sweat that was pouring down his body at the thought. Fuck, what he wouldn't give to be balls-deep in Ichikawa right now. Just turn him around, spit on his own dick, shove it up Ichikawa's ass rough and raw. A freak like him, he'd probably like it better that way. Mitsuo exhaled into the air. A freak was right. He'd had girls before that were freaks, but they had nothing on what a freak Ichikawa was. No way a girl would ever have given him head like that on a public street, no matter how deserted, much less provoked him into roughing her up first. Ichikawa hadn't even just let Mitsuo do it that way. He'd wanted it.
Worse, he'd made Mitsuo want it. That was the worst fucking thing about it, that Ichikawa was making Mitsuo want all these fucking faggot freak things too. It wasn't his fault that he was like this. It was Ichikawa's. He wanted to go in to his stupid fucking school records and write the name Ichikawa Mitsuo -- no, not him, the other one -- next to all the places someone wondered why he was like this. They wouldn't have to wonder any longer. Problem solved.
As he finished his cigarette, Ichikawa nodded and stepped away from the wall where he'd been leaning. He looked at Mitsuo for a moment, really looked, like there was something in particular he was looking for, and maybe if he stared long enough, he'd see it. A sad little look passed over Ichikawa's face, one that Mitsuo refused to interpret, or he'd have to admit he knew it from seeing it in the mirror. In the end, though, Ichikawa said nothing as he turned and walked away. He didn't look back, nor did he walk with a pace that said Mitsuo should follow him. Of all the things that might have come next, this was the one that was going to happen. He was going home now. Mitsuo should do the same.
Mitsuo should indeed have done the same. But he stayed there for three more cigarettes after it, smoking until his stomach felt rotten and his nerves were frayed near to bursting. Maybe next time he should tell Ichikawa to swallow him, not just a little, but all the way. Maybe he'd be better at filling a hole than he was at being a person. He certainly couldn't be any worse at it.
Ichikawa Mitsuo, the real one, or at least the realest one still around, leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt quiet.