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Unwanted desire

The Mask and the Master of Malice

The morning at Tomobiki High School began with the usual atmospheric disturbances that accompanied the arrival of a celebrity. A sleek, midnight-black sedan, polished to a mirror finish that made the surrounding bicycles look like rusted scrap metal, glided to a halt in front of the school gates. The driver, a man in a suit so sharp it could draw blood, stepped out to open the door for a boy who looked like he had been sculpted from moonlight and expensive skincare products.

Kyoko stepped onto the pavement, his expression a masterpiece of polite indifference. To the screaming crowd of girls gathered at the gate, he was the nation’s sweetheart, the teen idol whose face adorned every beauty magazine in Japan. To his director, however, he was a hollow vessel—a boy who had spent so much of his life acting that his real personality had withered away, leaving only a series of perfectly calibrated masks.

"One friend," Kyoko muttered to himself, his voice a smooth, melodic baritone that made three nearby freshmen faint simultaneously. "Make one male friend, prove I have 'authentic human connections,' and I can go back to the studio. Simple."

He adjusted his school bag, his eyes scanning the chaotic courtyard. He needed someone unremarkable. Someone so low on the social totem pole that there would be no competition for his attention. He needed a "stupid male friend" to act as his ticket back to his comfortable, scripted life.

His gaze settled on a boy with messy brown hair who was currently trying to climb a lamp post to get a better look at a girl in a short skirt on the second-floor balcony.

"Perfect," Kyoko whispered, a small, artificial smile touching his lips. "The bottom of the barrel."

Inside Class 2-4, the arrival of Kyoko had caused a localized riot. The girls were in a state of hyperventilation, and the boys—led by a particularly incensed Shūtarō Mendō—were forming a defensive perimeter around their territory.

"I will not have it!" Mendō shouted, slamming his desk so hard the inkwell rattled. "First Moroboshi pollutes the air with his lechery, and now we have a professional pretty-boy invading our hallowed halls! This is a Mendō-level crisis!"

"Oh, shut up, Mendō," Ataru grumbled, picking his ear. "You’re just mad because his hair is shinier than yours. Besides, he’s an actor. He probably doesn't even know how to talk to real people."

The door slid open, and a hush fell over the room. Kyoko walked in, his presence radiating a quiet, magnetic grace. He ignored the gasps of the girls and the glares of the boys, walking straight toward the back of the room. He stopped in front of Ataru’s desk.

"You," Kyoko said, tilting his head with a practiced, inquisitive charm. "You have a very... vibrant energy. My name is Kyoko. I believe we should be companions."

Ataru blinked, looking up at the handsome face. "Companions? You mean like... friends? Do you have money? Do you have sisters?"

Kyoko didn't flinch at the crassness. In fact, he found it refreshing. It was a variable his scripts never accounted for. "I have resources, yes. And I find your lack of social grace to be quite... grounding. Shall we eat lunch together?"

"Free food?" Ataru’s eyes turned into yen signs. "You’re my new best friend! I’m Ataru Moroboshi, the number one Japanese boy! Let’s go hit the cafeteria!"

From two rows away, Mendō’s grip on his fountain pen snapped. The plastic shattered, spraying blue ink across his pristine white sleeve. He watched as Kyoko leaned in close to Ataru, his hand resting lightly on Ataru’s shoulder in a gesture that was far too intimate for a first meeting.

"Moroboshi!" Mendō roared, standing up. "You cannot simply befriend a stranger! Especially one who clearly has ulterior motives!"

Kyoko turned his head, his eyes meeting Mendō’s. In that single glance, the actor’s mask didn't slip, but it sharpened. He saw the ink-stained sleeve, the trembling lip, and the way Mendō’s eyes darted between Ataru and Kyoko’s hand.

*Jealousy,* Kyoko thought, his internal director nodding in approval. *High-stakes, aristocratic jealousy. This just became much more interesting than a simple friendship task.*

"Is there a problem, Shūtarō?" Kyoko asked, using Mendō’s first name with a familiarity that felt like a slap. "I didn't realize Moroboshi-kun was your personal property."

"He is my rival!" Mendō shrieked, his face turning a vibrant shade of crimson. "He is a peasant, but he is *my* peasant to loathe! I will not have some… some television personality distracting him from our eternal conflict!"

"Rivalry is just a form of obsession, isn't it?" Kyoko said smoothly. He turned back to Ataru and began to adjust the collar of Ataru’s school jacket, his fingers lingering near Ataru’s neck. "Don't worry, Ataru-kun. I’ll protect you from the loud man."

Ataru, oblivious to the psychological warfare being waged over his head, just grinned. "Yeah, Mendō’s always like this. He’s got a lot of repressed energy. Don't mind him, Kyoko-chan! Let’s go see if the lady at the bread counter has those cream puffs left!"

As the two of them walked out of the classroom, Kyoko leaned in and whispered something into Ataru’s ear that made the boy let out a bark of laughter. Kyoko glanced back over his shoulder, locking eyes with Mendō one last time. He gave the aristocrat a slow, deliberate wink—a silent declaration of war.

Mendō stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs. It wasn't just anger. It was a cold, hollow dread. He had spent weeks struggling with his own twisted, subconscious attraction to Ataru, and now, a professional manipulator had stepped in to exploit the very crack in his armor.

"Black Glasses!" Mendō screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. "I want a full dossier on this 'Kyoko'! I want his filming schedule, his blood type, and the name of his elementary school teacher! Move! Move!"

The lunch hour was a theatrical performance of the highest order. Kyoko had managed to secure a private table in the courtyard, where he sat remarkably close to Ataru. He was feeding Ataru pieces of high-grade wagyu beef from a lacquered bento box, his eyes never leaving Ataru’s face.

"You eat with such... honesty, Ataru-kun," Kyoko said, his voice a low hum. He reached out and wiped a smudge of sauce from the corner of Ataru’s mouth with his thumb. "It’s a quality I’ve never encountered before. I find myself quite... captivated."

Ataru swallowed a large piece of beef, his eyes bulging. "This is great! You’re way better than Mendō. He usually just tries to stab me when we eat. You’re like a really handsome mom!"

"I’d like to be more than that," Kyoko murmured, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched.

From behind a nearby cherry blossom tree, Mendō was watching through a pair of high-powered binoculars. His hands were shaking so much the image was jumping.

"He’s touching him," Mendō whispered, his breath hitching. "He’s touching his face. That is a violation of the Tomobiki High School code of conduct! That is a biological hazard!"

"Young Master," a Black Glasses guard whispered from the bushes. "Should we deploy the tear gas? Or perhaps the tactical net?"

"No!" Mendō hissed. "If we interfere now, Moroboshi will think I’m being overprotective! I must remain aloof! I must remain the superior choice!"

"Choice for what, sir?"

"SILENCE!"

Kyoko, aware of the audience in the bushes, decided to escalate the scene. He draped an arm around Ataru’s shoulders, pulling the boy into his side. "Ataru-kun, I have a photoshoot this evening. I’d like you to come with me. I think your... ruggedness would be a perfect contrast to my aesthetic."

"A photoshoot? Will there be models?" Ataru’s tongue practically hit the floor. "Beautiful, swimsuit-wearing models?"

"Dozens," Kyoko lied with the ease of a man who had won three Best Actor awards. "And they’re all very lonely."

"I’M IN!" Ataru shouted, throwing his arms around Kyoko in a crushing hug. "You’re the best friend a guy ever had!"

Kyoko buried his face in Ataru’s neck, inhaling the scent of cheap detergent and pure, unadulterated chaos. For a moment, the mask felt heavy. He had started this as a game, a way to satisfy a director’s whim. But as Ataru’s heart beat against his chest, Kyoko felt a strange, unscripted flutter in his own. Ataru was a mess—a loud, lecherous, idiotic mess—but he was *real*. He was the first thing Kyoko had ever touched that didn't feel like a prop.

He looked over Ataru’s shoulder and saw Mendō step out from behind the tree. The aristocrat looked like he was about to have a stroke. His katana was half-drawn, and his eyes were wide with a mix of fury and something that looked suspiciously like heartbreak.

Kyoko tightened his grip on Ataru, a genuine, cold smirk crossing his face. *Oh, Shūtarō,* he thought. *You’re far too late. You’ve been hiding behind your pride for so long that you didn't notice someone else was ready to take the prize.*

"Mendō!" Ataru called out, waving a hand. "Kyoko’s taking me to see models! You want to come? Oh, wait, I forgot—you’re too busy being a 'gentleman' to enjoy life!"

Mendō’s sword slid the rest of the way out of its sheath with a lethal *shing*. "Moroboshi... I will not allow you to be led astray by this... this merchant of illusions! Kyoko, step away from him! This is your final warning!"

Kyoko stood up, keeping his arm firmly around Ataru’s waist. He looked at the gleaming steel of Mendō’s blade and didn't blink. He had faced down more intimidating things in front of a camera.

"You’re making a scene, Shūtarō," Kyoko said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Is this how a Mendō behaves? Threatening a fellow student because he’s found someone who actually appreciates him?"

"I appreciate his... his role in my life!" Mendō yelled, his voice echoing across the courtyard. "He is the grit in my oyster! The thorn in my side! He belongs in the orbit of the Mendō Zaibatsu, not on some tawdry television set!"

"He belongs wherever he wants to be," Kyoko countered. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Ataru’s temple. "And right now, he wants to be with me. Isn't that right, Ataru-kun?"

Ataru, caught between the promise of models and the sight of a very angry man with a sword, did what he always did: he chose the path of least resistance. "Yeah! Mendō, go home and polish your octopus! Kyoko and I are going places!"

Mendō’s knees buckled. The sight of the kiss—the casual, public intimacy of it—hit him harder than any of Lum’s lightning bolts. It was a confirmation of his own failure. He had dreamed of Ataru in a collar, he had jerked off to photos of Ataru in the shower, and yet he couldn't even bring himself to say a kind word to the boy in daylight.

"I... I will not permit this," Mendō whispered, his sword point dropping to the grass.

"You can't stop it," Kyoko said, his voice cold. He leaned in close to Mendō, so close that only the aristocrat could hear him. "I can see right through you, Shūtarō. I’ve played characters like you. You’re a man who wants to be a master, but you’re too afraid to even be a friend. You’re pathetic."

Kyoko turned on his heel, pulling Ataru along with him. "Come, Ataru-kun. The car is waiting."

Mendō stood alone in the center of the courtyard, the fallen cherry blossoms swirling around his feet. His Black Glasses squad emerged from the bushes, looking at him with pity.

"Young Master?" the lead guard asked softly. "Should we... should we follow them?"

Mendō didn't answer. He looked at the spot where Kyoko had kissed Ataru’s head. He felt a slow, poisonous rage beginning to boil in his blood—not the comedic rage of their usual bickering, but something deeper. Something Mendō.

"No," Mendō said, his voice flat and dangerous. "Don't follow them. I want the warehouse prepared. And I want the golden collar from the vault."

"Sir?"

"If he wants a friend who is touchy," Mendō said, his eyes narrowing until they were slits of dark fire, "I will show him what it means to be truly *held*. If Kyoko wants to play a role, I will give him a tragedy."

The aristocrat sheathed his sword with a sharp, final click. He turned and walked toward his limousine, his back straight, his head held high. The mask of the gentleman was back, but behind it, the master was finally taking control.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the Mendō estate was a hive of activity. Shūtarō sat in his study, staring at a monitor that showed a live feed of the photography studio where Ataru was currently surrounded by women in bikinis.

He watched as Kyoko stood behind Ataru, his hands resting on Ataru’s hips, whispering into his ear. He watched as Ataru laughed, looking happier than he ever had in Mendō’s presence.

"Enjoy your evening, Moroboshi," Mendō whispered to the screen. "Because tomorrow, the script changes. And I am the one with the final edit."

In the studio, Kyoko felt a sudden chill. He looked around, his eyes scanning the dark corners of the room. For the first time in his life, he felt like he was being watched by someone who didn't care about his face. Someone who was looking at his soul.

"Is something wrong, Kyoko-chan?" Ataru asked, distracted by a particularly tall blonde.

Kyoko forced a smile, the mask clicking back into place. "Nothing, Ataru-kun. Just a bit of stage fright. It’s a new feeling for me."

He pulled Ataru closer, but for some reason, the victory didn't feel as sweet as it had an hour ago. The game had moved beyond the classroom. It had moved into the dark, cramped, and terrifying world of Shūtarō Mendō’s heart. And as Kyoko looked at the boy in his arms, he realized that the "stupid male friend" he had targeted was actually the center of a storm that was about to swallow them both whole.

The war between the Actor and the Aristocrat had begun. And the only prize worth winning was currently trying to ask a swimsuit model for her phone number, blissfully unaware that he was about to become the lead actor in a very private, very golden drama.