Disclaimer: Do. Not. Own.

Warnings: Yaoi. And slightly crack, I'm going to say.

A/N: Because I was reading Worst and when it got to Chapter 75, pages 39 and 40, I was like, IT'S RIGHT THERE. I DON'T EVEN HAVE TO DO ANYTHING.

And then I wallowed in the insanity that is WorstXES21 yaoi.

Does anyone else think that Muroto Zenmei is pretty much Kongo Agon without the football?

Summary: Hanaki Guriko is a player.

Three blocks from his front door, on his way back from his seven o'clock jog, Sena turned a corner and found a pervert.

He didn't know it was a pervert, not right away. If he had, Sena reflected later on, he would have turned right back around and put his legs to good use. His mother had always told him to stay away from shifty-looking men, and Mamo-nee had spent one interminable afternoon during eighth grade lecturing Sena on all the different types of perverts to be avoided. There'd been a chart, and a test—which, a year later, turned out to be in fact totally useless in practical application.

The first thing Sena saw was a metal ball necklace. It was resting against a collarbone and upper pectorals that would not have looked out of place on an NFL linebacker.

Then he looked up, and found a pair of sunglasses looking back.

The man—no, boy, despite the beard—was tall. Much taller than Sena, perhaps even taller than Musashi. His hair was curled into a loose afro and the fuzz on his chin was in the shape of a shallow goatee, though his upper lip was bare. The top several buttons of a striped, collared shirt were left undone to show the undershirt beneath, and loose black pants were held up by a low-slung belt. He was leaning back against the wall, one hand holding a cell phone in front of him and the other hanging by the thumb from his belt, the nearest streetlight throwing his face into profile, and everything about him seemed to say Whatthefuckdoyouwant?

He looked like the juvenile delinquent Jyuumonji had always wanted to be. If Jyuumonji wanted to be an extra in a Showa era gangster film.

"Yo," said the boy, and went back to his phone.

Sena's first reaction had been hiiiiii. But he managed to swallow that panicked gasp, especially as this particular delinquent seemed more intent on texting than hurting him or shaking him down for his spending money, which was a relief because Sena didn't have any money in his track suit anyway. So instead of expiring of terror, Sena took a quick, nervous step back, squeaked something like "Su-sumimasen," and made to go wide, giving the boy all the space he could while still in the same street.

He got nearly ten steps away and was beginning to remember how to breathe while thinking how unusual it was to see someone like that in his usually very safe neighborhood when the hand caught his shoulder.

"Sooo," said the boy. A—strangely heavy—arm settled over Sena's shoulders, and the boy was grinning down at him. The phone was nowhere to be seen. "What's a cute kohai like you doing around here?"

Sena—looked around, to see who he was talking to.

"Ahaha, so modest! Look, I'm not sure where this is and I'm trying to get back into the Suzuran area. Suzuran? Why don't you show me to a terminal and I'll treat you to something?"

OK, at least he was friendly. Sena had no problem giving directions. He'd practically made an art form out of helping out-of-towner obaasans find their way.

"Oh—um—thank you, but that's not—it's not necessary, I can just give you directions—"

So awkward. Sena blushed to hear himself stammering so much and glanced longingly down the street. Three more blocks, just three, and he could have been home...

"Ah," said the boy. He leaned down, his hand slipping from Sena's shoulder to his upper arm to hold him in place, and said, in a lowered voice, almost directly into Sena's ear, "Kawaii."

Uh.

"Uh—you—I'm sorry, it's just that—that you're really close, and—if you c-could just let—let me go, I'll—"

"What?" The boy's mouth turned down at the corners. "So cold! Why is such a cute kohai being so cold to Guriko?"

Sena blinked, briefly forgetting to be afraid. "Guriko?" Seriously?

"Yeees!" The boy—Guriko—squeezed his shoulder, taking the opportunity to pull him close enough that Sena was now sort of pressed against Guriko's side. "But you can call me Guri Guri."

Sena was trying to figure out what was going on. Guriko-san was being—awfully familiar. And very...very physical, wasn't he, with his...his hand on...

On...

"What did you say your name was?"

"Sena," said Sena, without thinking, and then wanted to kick himself.

"That's real cute, Sena-chan." The boy's hand went from Sena's upper arm to Sena's—

"I'm a boy!"

There was no way he'd just blurted that out. Yet his mouth was open, and Sena realized that the frightened, high-pitched voice that had just come out of it was his.

The boy's arm went stiff. Sena tried to pull himself away and it was as if he were pushing at a steel girder. His stomach sank as he realized he was helpless.

And they'd come so close to the Christmas Bowl, too.

"I'm so sorry, Guriko-san," he cried, still pushing at the arm. Sena was practically in tears, and he was not going to look at Guriko. "I'm—I'm sorry I'm a boy! I should have said—something! P-please don't be offended, I—"

Guriko's arm was not moving. Sena was seeing his life flash before his eyes. He couldn't believe he was about to be killed by a boy who dressed like a Japanese Rico and went around telling people to call him Guri Guri. "G-Guriko-san—"

Sena's feet left the ground. He had a second for a gasp before he was being shoved up against a wall, legs dangling and eyes wide.

Guriko was holding him against the bricks, his hands pinning Sena's arms to his sides.

They were really big hands.

The sunglasses were right in front of him, sliding low on Guriko's nose. The boy was looking at him over the rim of his shades, and Sena looked into Guriko's eyes for the first time.

Flat, narrowed eyes, like the edges of a knife. Cold and emotionless, without mercy. Black in the yellow light, the eyes of a beast.

Sena couldn't help it. His own eyes began to tear up, more from sheer stress than anything.

"G-Guriko-san," he whimpered, and then closed his eyes, waiting for the pain.

And got a face full of some cologned, cottony surface.

"Kawaii," a voice sighed over his head.

Sena was—his face was in Guriko-san's chest. Guriko-san's arms were wrapped around him, holding him up, and his feet were still off the ground.

"Mmmmf," he said intelligently, into Guriko-san's shirt.

A pause. Then, "You sure you're not a girl?" asked Guriko.

Sena nodded as best he could.

"How old are you?"

"Fimfdeen," he said into Guriko's shirt.

"Huh." For a minute or two, Guriko just stood there, apparently thinking, while Sena struggled to breathe against Guriko's chest. Then, "OK," and Sena was sucking in oxygen as he staggered back against the wall.

He had exactly two gasps to get his bearings before Guriko grabbed his hand and began dragging him off.

"G-Guriko-san?"

"We're goin'," said Guriko. He seemed relaxed. "Where's the terminal?"

"To the left," said Sena automatically, then, "Where?"

"My place."

And, more importantly, "Why?"

"I left my rubbers there."

Sena's mind went blank.

"Sena Sena, would you rather be Girlfriend #9 or Boyfriend #1?"

For the rest of his life, Sena wouldn't know exactly how he managed to break Guriko's grip on his hand. All he knew was that he'd been being dragged toward the terminal in one moment and running toward home the next, speeding like a bullet train through the streets, his mind a total blank, while from behind, Guriko cheerfully called after him, "OK, Sena Sena, I'll see you later!"

Guriko, decided Sena, huddled in a shaking heap just inside the door while his mother repeatedly asked him what was wrong, was a pervert.

He prayed he would never see Guriko again.