Title of Our Sex Tape

Drink it up, iwa-chan~

Straightening up the collar of his freshly ironed shirt, Hajime Iwaizumi takes one last look at himself before he's headed out clubbing with Hanamaki and Matsukawa. Seldom one to go out, his stressful week at the office caused a change of heart, as well as the persistent begging of his possibly too  immature friends. He could do with "unwinding" they said. Nevertheless, he wasn't one to back down now, and so sprayed his last spritz of cologne, hastily grabbed his apartment keys, and rushed to the cab waiting outside.

One look at the club they've arrived at, and Hajime's inner monologue is turmoil. He's 25, a businessman, and yet here he is, in god-knows-what-prefecture, surrounded by god-knows-how-many clubs. There's streets lined with eager people much, much younger than he and his entourage, and he almost feels out of place. Almost. And his pristine, mature self is interrupted by his hands being dragged into the club.

The lights cascade a series of colours, purples, blues, and pinks. The music is loud, almost too loud, turn it down, I'm hard of hearing as it is. In fact, it's deafening. Matsukawa guides the trio to a booth, already eagerly opening the bottles that lay calmly in the bucket of ice set upon a table. A single sparkler is dancing in the bucket, until it fizzles out. Servers wearing, can I say, far too little, are definitely over-compensating for their lack of clothes with happy-go-lucky attitudes, attempting to get the boys pissed as well as themselves. Iwaizumi can't count the amount of shots he's done alongside the servers, who are consistent in egging them on to continue because "the night is still young." Cliche.  He eventually shakes off the feeling of being out of place, and embraces the warm, fuzzy feeling building in the pit of his stomach as the alcohol does its work.

He's not sure now how long it's been. 1, 2 hours? 30 minutes? One blurred look at his phone tells him it's been 2. It's only 1am?

"Haji~," Hanamaki's voice slurs. A reminder of why he doesn't go out because his friends are all, very unfortunately, the worst at tolerating the booze.

"Yo...you stay. Here. And we're going- where are we going?"

"Toilet." is a single word reply from Matsukawa's lips.

"Mm yeah. You stay here~"

Hajime just hums in agreement, stretching out his legs and closing his eyes as his being focuses on the intense bass of the nightclub music. It wasn't half bad, to say the least, but it's definitely not what he would have preferred after a gruelling five days at the office, constantly shovelling out paperwork and plastering all-too-fake smiles for the sister company employees that come in for the occasional meeting when something big is planned. He'd much rather sit down watching Godzilla for the 97th time. But he won't be the one to admit that. It's not that he lives a recluse life, it's just that watching all these people get off in front of him who smell way  too strongly of sweat isn't exactly the biggest turn on.

However, it's not long before his thoughts are interrupted, and he's brought back to the present by the sound of someone harshly dumping themselves on the sofa in the booth. He opens his eyes to find a slim built male unbuttoning his aztec shirt to reveal the top of his pecs, fanning himself lightly. After a few seconds, the stranger turns to Iwaizumi, revealing his chocolate brown eyes under thick, dark lashes. He simply smiles a toothy grin, and ruffles his brown kinks in his hair before shuffling closer.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see this booth was taken," he begins, his hot breath reaching Hajime's ears, "But what's a pretty boy like you doing sitting alone? You're not a perv are you...like, those guys who go to the club and just sits and watches over everyone?"

Hajime laughs.

"And if I was?"

The male makes eye contact with Iwaizumi, a slightly startled looking painting his face.