Notes: Many thanks to Mistressrenet for the beta.

Schuldig stumbled out the back door of the club. Music and smoke-sweet air followed him like a hand on his back, pushing him along.

He wanted to like Tokyo. The neon, the crowds, the constant obnoxious pop music. It should be perfect.

Most cities thrummed in the back of his mind, rustle of leaves, curl of waves wrapping around themselves, knocked senseless against stone. Cities were easy. Too many voices for any single one to stand out.

His first day here, Tokyo had rolled his mind under like a riptide. After a week, he could just about handle the daytime streets. He'd really thought the club would be okay.

It was the difference in language, maybe. Most European languages were basically the same, but the minds here held different thought patterns, alien ones, woven by a language it had taken Schuldig nearly a whole half an hour to understand. And there were so, so many of them.

He leaned against the brick and breathed in wet air. It tasted like rain and car exhaust, rotting garbage and failure.

He didn't like Tokyo. Tokyo sucked. He'd get used to it--he had to; they were stuck here--but right now he wanted the quiet of familiar minds and his own bed. He'd only gone out in the first place in the hope of getting laid. Maybe Farfarello would be up for it.

He picked his way around soggy garbage toward the mouth of the alley. Rain collected in beads on his new coat and dampened his hair, sliding cold fingers down the back of his neck.

Wait. That wasn't the rain.

The more the rain picked up, the more Yohji thought he should go back inside, and the more he completely failed to move. One fat drop of rain landed on the tip of his cigarette and nearly put it out. He sucked hard at it for a few seconds and then stopped. He couldn't bring himself to work that hard at anything tonight. He let it drop from lax fingers and watched it tumble to the ground.

The white paper grew wet and dark, and Yohji stared at it, transfixed. Possibly that last drink had been one too many.

One too many drinks would explain how he'd gotten out here, and he had no other real explanation. He remembered the bar, the dance floor, and then the men's room, but apparently the walk to the back door and down the alley had left no impression.

The blackouts weren't good. He knew that. Getting himself to care was something else. Little slices of lost time...lost life. His life wasn't so fantastic that the loss bothered him. It was easier to pretend he'd died with Asuka. Manx had told him her organization had even arranged for a gravestone.

He shook his head, feeling his hair catch against the brick wall, dislodging his eyes from the cigarette butt now disintegrating in a puddle.

A creak of metal made him turn just in time to see a tall, slim girl step out of the club, walking away from him. Her coat was cinched in at her waist, and her hips swayed as she walked. Long, red-orange hair fell over her shoulders, parted in the middle to bare her neck.

He couldn't help it. He caught up to her in a few quick steps. Her skin looked so smooth, and it didn't seem right to leave it vulnerable like that.

His fingers brushed the nape of her neck, and it was startlingly warm.

Schuldig turned, shocked that he hadn't felt this man's presence, automatically gearing up for a strike that would crush his windpipe or twist his shoulder out of its socket. It would be easy. It was harder not to.

But the man was only touching his neck, and his mind was blank and sad. Schuldig looked him up and down. He was pretty, too. As tall as Schuldig, blond, faded green eyes that were slowly brightening with awareness.

Oh, shit, the man was thinking. He's a guy?

Well, that was easy enough to deal with. A simple twist of perception, and the man saw what he wanted to see; a tall girl, face as hard as Schuldig's own, surprising lack of cartoonishly large breasts. Interesting.

Schuldig planted a hand against his chest and shoved, sending him reeling back against the wall. The loss of contact to his neck made him shiver.

He grabbed the man's shoulder, mesh shirt slipping in his hand, and pulled, flipping him around to face the wall.

"Bend over, cowboy," and he heard his voice as the man heard it, only a little higher, every bit as harsh.

The man looked back at him, hands braced on the wall, hips canted back, all but asking for it. What was he expecting from his fantasy girl, a goddamn strap-on? Maybe he was. He looked hungry.

Teeth digging into his soft bottom lip, wet hair clinging to the angle of his cheekbone, eyes fixed on Schuldig's face. Mind strangely quiet, laced with longing.

Schuldig didn't know what the man wanted from this, but he knew what he was getting.

Yohji nearly moaned at the first touch of hands at the front of his pants, unbuttoning his fly. His cock was hard, despite the booze, with only the promise of touch. If that was, in fact, what he was being promised, bent over like this, unquestioning as she pulled his pants down to his knees.

The wet air settled over his skin and made him shiver. A bite to the side of his neck made him gasp. Sharp teeth, rough voice.

"Don't move until I say you can. Got it?"

He nodded once, glancing back, catching the gleam of a streetlight in hard, blue eyes. Hard as the chest pressing against his back, the thighs against his own, the length now sliding between his cheeks... He blinked and opened his mouth to say something--but it was only her fingers pressing into him, slicked and hot, and if she wanted it this way, it wasn't like he'd never done it before.

Wasn't even like he didn't like it. His head hung heavy between his shoulders, looking down at the dirty pavement, and her fingers curved just right, so right, and he moaned, low and breathless.

The sound bounced off the brick and flung itself back in his face. He forced himself further onto her fingers, hips twisting, uncaring how he looked, how he sounded. Cold sweat or rain made his shirt cling to his back.

Her fingers were long and thicker than seemed possible, blunt, hot, solid, and there was a flicker of thought itching at him, telling him something he didn't want to hear. Fingers, his mind told him firmly, and he let it go. Of course. What else would she be using?

He panted and moaned, ever louder as she struck deeper, filled him until he almost felt warm again. He wondered what she was getting from this, but the thought slipped away almost before it formed.

Schuldig pressed his forehead on the man's back for a second as he fucked him, tugging his shirt up, dragging nails down his side to hear his soft cry. There was no resistance in him. No pressure on Schuldig's consciousness beyond the muted hum of the city around them. The man's mind felt almost asleep, or somehow wounded. Unnaturally empty.

Bad for him, maybe, but a relief for Schuldig, who pressed in and in and in, and wrapped the man's mind around his own. There was nothing for him but this slow fuck, slippery and wet, the man's choked noises of pleasure the only sounds he cared about.

"Oh, God," the man whispered, fingers digging into brick. "Oh, God...oh..."

Fuck me harder, his mind said. Schuldig did, reaching around for his cock, pleased at how well it filled his hand, pleased at its heat and the way it grew and pulsed when he slid his fist over it.

The man pressed his face against his own arm, and his whole body shook as he came. Schuldig had no hope of control then, with the taste of his pleasure washing over him. He shoved the man up against the wall and dragged nails hard down his chest and slammed into with a strength designed to hurt. Fucked him still harder when the man only panted and pressed back against him.

His own climax was a surprise, sudden and sharp. He jerked the man upright against his chest and bit into his neck. His teeth closed over the man's hot pulse almost too hard. He'd never killed anyone that way, though he imagined Farfarello had. He wondered what it would feel like, that spurt of blood, hot as semen, metal taste against his tongue. Not tonight, he decided. It would make a mess, and he liked this jacket.

He pulled out and straightened up. He wiped his cock on the tail of the man's shirt and stuffed himself back into too-tight jeans again.

He disentangled his mind and felt the man start.

Schuldig grinned and turned him around, pushed him hard so his head bounced off the wall. Stripped away the illusion and waited for him to realize what he'd allowed to happen. It didn't take long. It was there in his eyes, more confusion than horror, more betrayal than anything else.

He stared, and Schuldig let him stare, let his own mouth twist to show smug satisfaction.

Prepared for violence, only waiting for an excuse to leave his body laid out on the pavement, Schuldig blinked when the man laughed. It was a short, bitter sound, and the resignation that came with it was almost a physical thing, hanging in the air between them.

The man shook two cigarettes out of a crumpled packet, lit both, and pulled one from between his lips, offering it up as easily as he had offered himself up. Schuldig took it without thinking, tasting the faint dampness that lingered on the filter.

He turned away abruptly, no longer as sure as he wanted to be in this situation. Not that it mattered. He'd never see the guy again. Still, as he walked away, his mind reached back and snagged a souvenir.

A name: Yohji Kudoh.

Yohji smoked and looked up at where the stars should be. The clouds were brown in the amber glare of the streetlights. The rain had stopped.

His memories of the last few minutes were hazy. What he could remember, he was trying not to think about. He felt unaccountably sober, and, for the first time since he'd agreed to join Weiss, that didn't seem like a bad thing. Well, no surprise there. Something like that could put a man off drinking for life.

He remembered a hard mouth, flat chest pressed against his own back, height and strength and...and... Her voice had been low for a girl, but still too high for a guy.

But the memory of her voice was slipping, displaced by the heat and pulse of something inside him, something that really couldn't have been fingers. His ass was sore. There was a stickiness as he shifted and stood straighter that he refused to even acknowledge.

Home, he thought. Shower. Less booze tomorrow night. Maybe he'd even go on the wagon for a while. He put his concentration into walking normally.

Back at his car, he slumped into the driver's seat and closed his eyes. He was still too drunk to drive. That hadn't stopped him last night or the night before, but he felt more unsteady tonight and less uncaring. He could sleep it off for a few hours and still be back by dawn.