Yamada sighs, feeling himself slipping from sleep and he wants to stay in it. He's so tired his head feels thick.
He feels uncomfortable, and shifts a little. He can't remember the dream he had, only that it was pretty hot. He cuddles deeper into the covers, annoyed when something holds them down on his right. Whatever.
He's running through an abandoned parking house, his steps echoing loudly against the dirty concrete walls. He's running but he's not scared. This is fun.
He hears another set of steps behind him, and it makes him smile. They can't catch up with him, unless he wants them to.
He turns a corner, into a smaller section of the house leading out towards a mall, and he slows to a stop. This is secluded enough. His breath is heaving and he feels his cheeks blush a bit, but he still smiles as he turns around to meet his pursuer.
The steps get closer, heavier than his own, and Yamada just tilts his head and waits.
The man that rounds the corner has poorly bleached hair and tattoos winding down his arms in a pretty pattern, and he's wearing a sweaty T-shirt with a shirt tied around his waist.
His eyes widen comically as he finds Yamada standing there smiling at him.
“Hi.” Yamada says, smiling cutely because the man is actually kind of cute.
“... What-?” The man starts, but Yamada shifts slowly, deliberately, setting a hand on his hip and the man falls silent as his eyes trail down his body.
“I like having men chase after me.” Yamada tells him, eyeing his strong arms and lithe waist.
The man's look of confusion is funny, and it makes Yamada laugh, slowly stepping forward.
Yamada frowns as he senses daylight seep in through his closed eyelids, and he rolls over, away from the window, tugging uselessly at the locked down covers to make them follow him. His arms feels scratchy against the sheets but he really couldn't care less right now. He wants to keep sleeping.
The man's strong arms was no use to him tied up above his head in bed, but he didn't seem to mind. His hips were strong too, thrusting up into Yamada so hard he saw stars, and it was fucking hot. His tattoos spread onto his chest, meeting in a symmetrical swirl at his sternum, and Yamada wanted to ruin it. A blossoming bruise on one side made it look less perfectly symmetrical.
The man was a mess, groaning and sweating and helplessly flexing his arms and Yamada could only smile at it. All these men were the same. Easily persuaded.
Yamada finally realizes he can't keep sleeping, reluctantly finding himself conscious enough to notice his arms feel weird, a little dry almost, and his ass and abs are sore and he groans. He feels hungover too, his head killing him and he doesn't want to move all day. Slowly, he blinks his eyes open to see a glass of water and an aspirin on the bedside table along with a handwritten note propped up against the glass. It's Chinen's writing and it makes his life a little easier. But the content of it is weird.
Good morning babe!
I had to run off to work, didn't want to wake you.
I fixed things, but please don't do it again. You know how upset it makes me.
And a quickly drawn heart at the bottom of the note.
Yamada frowns, wondering what the hell that means. He shifts again, and then freezes as he finds his own arm in his field of vision. It's covered in red brown flakes dried onto it, like he's sprinkled in maroon glitter that sticks to the hairs on his arms.
Suddenly, he recalls the dream, that probably wasn't as much of a dream as he thought, and the weight holding down the covers becomes very apparent.
Yamada's heartrate picks up, his breathing going shallow, but he knows he has to turn and look. Slowly, he rolls over in bed, eyes still closed, and in a way, he's relieved he doesn't sense any warmth. But that makes it more scary. The sheets feel papery underneath him on the right side, like they dried into a piece of cardboard.
He draws a long, deep breath, smelling something tangy and really off putting, before he very carefully opens his eyes. And jerks back, eyes wide open and his vision threatening to give out from lack of blood pressure.
He's looking straight into a pair of unseeing eyes, no glaze in them as they seem to start to dry up, blood spattered all over the face of the man Yamada saw in his dream, propped up to look straight at him, no body attached to it.
The right side of the bed is covered in red and brown, half dried blood, sprayed onto the walls and the nightstand like a sprinkler went off. But the body is nowhere to be seen, and Yamada crawls backwards out of bed, backing up against the wall to stare at the head seeming to watch him from the bed. He feels an urgent need to throw up and rushes to the bathroom to get it over with. He leans against the bathroom door as he's starting to feel his stomach settle, and as he gets a look at the shower, he almost passes out.
There's an arm peeking out of the shower cabin, fingertips white and tattoos running down the wrist in a familiar, intricate pattern.
Yamada suddenly gets a sick urge to laugh, wondering whether he's going to have to walk around the apartment looking for body parts.
Happy cleaning indeed.