A/N: I've had this for awhile, so you know what? Here. Have it.

The teen has been wandering up and down the street for the last fifteen minutes, peering closely at the women lined up under the streetlight or leaning against the grimy brick of the pay-by-the-hour hotels. They watch him with a sort of dismissiveness: he doesn't look like the type they usually cater to. He's far too clean, far too pure.

There's an oddly squared duffle bag thrown over one shoulder as he walks, and his hands twitch towards his jeans pocket whenever a man passes him. At least he's cautious; most aren't.

Finally, he comes to a stop, eyes on a small woman probably ten years his senior. Her eyes are heavy with makeup and something chemical, and what she probably thought was a sultry smile was more of a grimace.

"Hey there, baby boy," she murmurs, and her voice, at least, is beautiful, low and husky. "Can I help you tonight?"

The boy blinks at her, then smiles.

"I think you can," he says with a decisive nod, putting out a hand. "What's your name?"

She takes his hand gently, soft fingers contrasting her long, plastic nails.

"Anything you want it to be, baby," she purrs, and he nods absently.

"As you like. I'm Ichigo." He leads her like a gentleman by the hand across the street towards the Pink Lotus hotel, one of the nicer hotels on the street. "You can call me that. It's fine."

She doesn't answer, silent when he holds the door open for her and checks them into a room.

She waits until he shuts the door and sets down his bag to speak.

"How long do you want me?"

"The whole night, if possible," he answers. He seems pleased she's asked. "I have more than enough on me, I think."

She snorts.

"The whole night's expensive for a punk like you," she tells him. "No matter what you think."

"Is it? Two hundred and five thousand isn't enough?"

She freezes. That's three times what she'd make in a normal night, way more than a kid like this should have.

The decision is easy, and she steps up close, her breast brushing his chest as her hands find the back of his neck.

"If you're lying, so help me God, I'll claw out your eyes," she murmurs, amused by the way his eyes widen when she kisses him with all she's got, one hand going to cup him through his jeans.

Soft.

She pulls back, confused.

"Ah, thanks," Ichigo says, lips quirking slightly as he catches his breath. "But, ah... That's not why I picked you up for tonight."

"Excuse me?"

Ichigo steps back.

"I'm a painter," he explains. "And I was looking for a model. You fit the bill best."

"I- you're fucking serious?" Her mouth purses. "Why don't you just ask someone you know, then? Why bother paying for a hooker?"

"Because people I don't know are more interesting," he says with a shrug. "Besides, my portraits are sort of... Well, I like painting provocative scenes. Things I shouldn't be asking my classmates to model for." He tilts his head to one side. "Will you do it?"

No. That's her first answer. But... But it's over two hundred thousand yen. That's good money. Really good money. She might even be able to keep some of it for herself.

"Fine," she says finally. "How do you want me?"

Ichigo flashes her a warm grin. "Panties and heels, on the bed. Do you mind if I smoke?"

"As long as I can, too."

"Excellent."

It's nearly four in the morning. Ichigo's twitching his brush across a canvas as she goes through his third pack of Marlboros.

"So, why aren't you taking advantage of this?" She asks from where she's splayed across mustard yellow streets, her black hair mussed as though she'd been sleeping even though one of her heeled feet is hooked on the edge of the open window.

Ichigo glances up.

"What do you mean?" He inquires, taking a drag from his own cigarette before looking back at the canvas.

She shrugs and settles quickly back into place so he doesn't notice the shift.

"You can't be older than what, nineteen? Teens like to fuck, baby. I should know."

"Oh. Yeah." His peers over the edge of the canvas again, careful not to shake the collapsible easel he'd brought with him. His tongue pokes out as he eyes the curve of her wrist, and he ducks behind the canvas again.

"I'm not really into it," he admits after a moment. "I mean, I used to jack off occasionally, but... I never was really interested in the whole sex thing."

He's very blunt, more honest than anyone she's ever met, which is amusing and sort of sweet. After eight hours in his company, save for the fifteen minutes when he went out to pick up hamburgers for the pair of them, she can't help but start liking him, especially when he's smearing yellow or peach paint across his face and into his hair.

"You don't like sex?" She sounds confused. Even she likes sex, sometimes. "Haven't you ever had it?"

"Nope." He pops the 'p'. "I suppose it must be nice, but I'm not really into the idea. It seems sort of messy... I just can't imagine people that way and find it attractive."

"Have you tried?"

"I... Fantasizing? Yeah, I guess."

"No, I mean sex. Have you tried to have it?"

"Um..." He flushes pink when he looks at her over the edge of the canvas. "Yeah. Once."

"And?"

He stays silent, and suddenly, she gets it.

"You- you couldn't get it up?"

"I- I really loved her, I did. But... When faced with the specific situation, I guess... I don't have a problem or anything, but yeah. It didn't work out." Oh, he's the color of a beet under all that orange hair. It's stupidly adorable. She wants to ruffle his hair like he's ten.

She decides to spare him that humiliation, though, and continues her original line of questioning.

"So, if I gave you a blow job, would you get off?"

He pauses in his painting and straightens completely for the first time since their midnight snack three hours ago.

"I suppose I could," he says thoughtfully, wincing as he pulls at stiff muscles. "I mean, getting hard is a natural reaction, and so's the whole..." He waves a hand awkwardly. "You know. So I could. I just don't really... Feel the need to. You know?"

"No, not really. But if you're okay with it, I guess it's not a problem."

The conversation dwindles, and at seven forty-three, the painting is finished.

"Thanks for posing for me, ma'am." Ichigo never did give her a name, even as he passes her a plastic bag heavy with sheafs of bills.

She smiles at him.

"Call me Kyoko," she tells him. "Will I see you around, baby?"

He grins. "There are plenty of girls on this street, Kyoko-san. I'd like to paint all of them, if they let me."

"With how well you pay, they definitely will." She pauses, then reaches out to catch him around the back of the neck and pull him closer.

The kiss is dirtier than the first one, and certainly hotter, but when her hand snakes down to check, she finds him unchanged.

She pulls back with a sigh.

"Just had to try," she tells his questioning look. "If you ever get curious, though, you can call me. Or any of the other girls, for that matter."

He chuckles.

"Thanks for the offer, but I doubt I'll need to," he says. "Have a nice day, Kyoko-san."

"Yeah. You too, Ichigo-san." She disappears out the door, and he's alone in the hotel room.

He glances back at the canvas, which he didn't show his model. It's beautiful, even if she's not, really, and it's his first... His first professional piece. His first piece worth looking at, as far as he's concerned.

"First Evening Out," he says quietly to himself, looking over the painting carefully. "I think that's what I'll call you."

The painting doesn't answer, of course, but he smiles as if it did, lifting a brush and dipping it in black. He signs his name with a flourish in the bottom left-hand corner, and the he lies down for a nap.

After all, it's not like anyone needs him right now.