Relationship: Ukai Keishin x F!Reader
Content Tags: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, (little bit) Idiots to Lovers, Adolescent promises that chase them through adulthood, References to Kikujiro, Drinking Together, Takeda is referred to as Sensei, Hatsuhinode, Tanabata Matsuri, Drunken Confessions, First Kisses, (background OC relationship)
Summary: Throughout your friendship with Keishin, you always felt inextricably drawn, orbiting each other like twin stars, your inevitable collision drawing ever closer.
Word Count: 7.5k
A/N: For the very beautiful @mirkaaaluv as a part of @sodaneko's Summer Fic Exchange! 🧡 In true Ix fashion, I had to get it in right at the end, so thank you for waiting for me. I hope you have fun reading it!~ Special thank yous to @owoasis and @megapteraurelia for encouraging me during the moments I wanted to pull my hair out and for making me write the kiss🧡🧡
I.
The summer of your seventeenth year, you first meet him. You’re but a victim of circumstances outside your control (your best friend dragging you forward, her arm in yours, her smile always having been a weak point of yours).
Hirano, in all her overwhelming exuberance, pulls you to a volleyball game in Sendai because she fancies one of the spikers on the team—an ace, she calls him, not that it means anything to you—all muscled and impressive in ways that teenaged athletes can be. She rattles off facts that go in one ear and out the other, vernacular she learned the other day, all in hopes of impressing the guy whose name you had only heard this week.
Instead, your attention falls to the player being subbed in, offering a solid and sure serve before moving into position. He sets up the next attack seamlessly, movements practiced and familiar. Maybe it’s how seriously he takes being put in, or maybe it’s the way he helps win Karasuno another couple points, but even as the opposition wins a point back and he’s called off the court, you can’t look away.
Ukai Keishin, the informational booklet reads, a boy in your year, class 2-1, according to Hirano. She pouts at the division of your attention, your fixation on someone other than her ace player. A slight on her tastes, you suppose, but you assuage her concerns by asking whether she really wants you to crush on him, too. She laughs, the sound light like the chime of a bell before agreeing that, no, it’s better if you don’t like the same boy. The game finishes and she whisks you away to the entrance hall, all for the opportunity to speak with the team before they depart for the bus.
You spot him right away, though it takes him a minute longer to notice you in kind. He speaks with a coach who shares his eyes, his attention glossing over you before coming back, comical in the way he looks around as if he couldn’t believe it was him you were looking at. His teammates notice, guffawing and pushing him, making you laugh at the antics of boys whose lives center around their hobby.
“Uh, hi.”
“Hey, there.” Your smile comes easy, already half-formed by your laughter. “I enjoyed watching you play.”
He scratches the back of his neck, eyes shifting to the side, the slightest downturn to the corners of his lips. “You sure it was me you saw out there?”
As if there are any other players with close-cropped hair and a quasi-delinquent aura to them. “Yeah. You came in and did your job.” And did it well, in your opinion, though you don’t know enough about volleyball for that to mean anything.
“Sure, sure. Don’t see why it’s all that impressive,” he scoffs, though you catch the distinct darkening of his cheeks. There’s a chip on his shoulder, a bit of frustration present, and you wonder whether he wishes he could play more.
Before you can answer, the coach calls them, waving them toward the front. You take the hint, an impending goodbye heralding the end to your quick introduction. He glances over his shoulder before appraising you again, mouth parting like he has more to say.
“Maybe I can find the words later,” you tell him, a quiet promise folded into your words. His lips quirk, not quite a smirk, and you take it as an understanding of what goes unsaid.
It’s easy. He makes it easy—integrating yourself into his life like you’ve always belonged. Little jokes here and there, failed attempts at tutoring that turn into hangouts more often than not, attending volleyball games regardless of whether he plays. It feels like the start of something, the gentle pull of something you cannot see and cannot quantify, not that you pay it much mind.
II.
During the summer of your eighteenth year, Ukai comes by your house for the first time for a study session.
The offer was genuine, his complaints about his grades reaching critical mass the closer he got to the training camps that his grades would preclude him from—apparently the disadvantages of having a grandfather for a coach outnumber the benefits—but Hirano turned it into an elaborate plot of sorts. Still set in her quest for love, you half-expect the call that comes when Ukai arrives. Abandoning him in the genkan, you answer the phone, hearing her hurried apologies interrupted by a fit of giggles, explaining her decision to attend the cinema with Ishikawa instead, away from watchful parents. Ukai overhears, snorting if only because it’s only been a handful of months since she cornered him in the hall, demanding he introduce her to the transfer student in his class. Ishikawa makes her laugh in ways her volleyball player didn’t, satisfying you enough not to make a stink.
That doesn’t stop you and Ukai from placing bets on how long it’ll take before they actually get together.
The television plays in the background, still on from when you were waiting, its chatter constant and distracting. Despite your best efforts, studying gets waylaid, your carefully highlighted and organized notes holding his attention for eleven minutes and not a second more. He shows off his exceptional prowess in distracting you, talking about the few games he plays in before joking about his grandfather, until eventually you both are flipping through the channels, looking for something interesting to watch. Kikujiro is only a couple minutes in and you both argue about the finer details of the plot, the movie apparently a guilty pleasure for you both from when you guys were in middle school.
Hunger wins out in only a matter of minutes, Ukai following you to raid your kitchen while the movie plays in the background, ignoring your continued and futile attempts to get him to return to the books.
At some point, you both grow quiet, comfortable in the silent company of the other as you sometimes do. Kikujiro and Masao sit on the side of the road, with no money and no car, and there’s something about the way Kikujiro encourages Masao to put a tack in the road that tickles you. It builds in your chest as you watch him place it in the street, hoping a car would run it over so they could get it to stop and manipulate the driver into helping them out. The first car passes and they adjust its placement, and the second car hits it, the speakers on the television offering a clean pop! of the tire and you and Ukai split into a fit of laughter at the sight of Kikujiro and Masao sprinting in the opposite direction of the car running off the road. Tears gather in your eyes and part of you thinks it’s less about the movie and more about the company, the way your smile always comes easy when he’s around.
It carries on, Hisaishi’s music providing a lovely score as everything else fades into the background, your and Ukai’s conversation roving over hypotheticals:
What lengths would you go to find a long lost relative? (Probably not as far as Masao, but wouldn’t that be nice?). What kind of relative would make you go on that kind of trek? (Ukai argued that a sibling would motivate him, spoken like an only child who never fought over who gets to take a shower first). Where would you go if you had unlimited funds? (Hokkaido, Kyushu, Kansai, Kanto, Chubu, to keep it simple). What would you want to see? (This question easily turned into a series of mini-arguments over what would make for better experiences).
One thing that arises is a mutual agreement that Miyagi feels too intimate and familiar, not ideal for a proper adventure. It comes before a promise couched in a joke, lighthearted and silly, something that feels almost like an impossible dream—at some point in the future, the two of you will explore more of Japan beyond the tiny corner of it that’s claimed your lives so far.
III.
The first time you have the means to make any sort of headway into your promise is the summer that you’re twenty.
Ukai always shrugged it off when you reminded him of it, telling you it was a joke, even though he always smiled and agreed that it’d be nice to have a proper vacation.
So, between university classes and family obligations, you worked, taking any and all kinds of odd jobs to save up money for a trip. Hirano told you that you were being silly, but Ishikawa agreed that it’d be a fun idea, a road trip across Japan. While the other two brushed you off, you and Ishikawa plotted and planned, working against the naysaying of your other two friends.
Everything was careful and meticulous, the costs detailed as you reigned in your fantasies and focused on what would be feasible. Starting as something monumental, grand, an ideal of a freedom adulthood responsibilities would soon make difficult, you molded it into something tangible, entirely within reach. Hirano and Ukai both scoffed at your idea of traveling to Yamanashi, though Ishikawa wore them down all the same, coming to trust the joint idea to hike the Yoshida Trail of Mt. Fuji. (They ultimately agreed when you and Ishikawa told them you’d cover travel and lodging costs along with doing all the heavy lifting as far as preparations went).
You stand at the edge of the trail on the mountain’s side, the cool of Fujisan’s shadow ebbing away with the rise of the sun that paints the sky. Deep blues belonging to the night melt away for the yellows and oranges of the day until it all turns blinding. There’s still a chill that has settled in your bones, sticking to you as though steeling you against the sweltering heat that will come with the summer day—a promise that the sun will come and kiss your skin again.
Hirano and Ishikawa are ahead on the trail, their voices carrying in the silence of nature, and you turn to Ukai in time for it to rattle against your ribs. A revelation you’re a little scared to have, something you’ve been standing on the cusp of the entirety of your friendship.
In the warmth of the morning sun, with gentle shadows of the eyelashes on his cheeks, your heart thuds, halting and startling, making you buzz.
“This isn’t something you can see in Sendai.” You’re not sure whether your words carry beyond the immediate space before you, voice light and sounding foreign, nerves eating away at you in a way they hadn’t before.
With the quirking of his lips, you smile, involuntary, and he answers, “Eh. A sunrise is a sunrise. We didn’t need to come all the way out here for this.”
His eyes flick to you, landing on the smile that was turning into a playful scowl. It encourages an answering smile, a continuation of your give and take, the natural development of your relationship. Pushing at his shoulder, you scrunch up your face before sticking your tongue out, making him laugh, causing your own.
“Don’t be an ass. You know it’s different here.”
Beneath the vastness of the open sky, a day of adventure ahead of you, and the promise of good company beside you, you believe there’s no way Sendai could compare.
Ukai clicks his tongue in pure obstinance, his smile communicating more of his reluctance to admit you’re right than anything. “Yeah, sure. Maybe I’ll drag you along for hatsuhinode and you’ll see that it’s all the same.”
Another promise, but you don’t mind.
As the climb continues, your muscles begin to ache, your once wonderful idea coming to bite you in the ass. Hirano similarly struggled—of you four, she was the one least physically prepared for the excursion—and your decision to slow down giving her a facsimile of grace.
She rests beside you and without so much as a glance says, “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”
“What do you mean?”
“You like him. Like, really, truly like him. It’s kinda embarrassing.”
Your snort gets muffled with the sound of you rifling through the bag, searching for canteens. “You’re one to talk, pining after Ishikawa all these years.”
She laughs, the sound sounding like the breeze itself, and takes the water you offer. The sunlight plays in her stray hairs, giving her a glowing halo. “Are you saying you need me to set an example?”
“Hah! As if.” Like you, she carries this perfect idea of a confession, a lingering sense of idealistic romance pushed by her crush.
And, as if to prove you wrong, she spends the remainder of the hike by his side, only to confess upon reaching the summit, practiced and polished and definitely out of breath, leaving you in the dust. They leave you and Ukai together for the remainder of the trip, Hirano looking smug whenever you catch sight of her.
It’s not until you’re both soaking in the onsen at the day’s end that she reveals she had always intended to confess, but had hoped to goad you into action beforehand to give her a boost of courage. When you all gather for supper, it stays in your periphery, the constant exciting thrumming of your heart. There’s something in the way Ukai looks at you, a question that goes unasked, and for once you find yourself afraid to seek an answer.
If you’re wrong, if these feelings belong to you and you alone, what good does it do you to speak them aloud other than to potentially ostracize one of your best friends?
IV.
You’re twenty-six when Ukai returns to Karasuno.
In the months leading up to summer, Ukai would head to the izakaya tired and weary, complaining about the contemporary Japanese lit teacher who had taken over his old club. Each time, you smile and nod, staying silent in the face of his constant reassurances that he would not, under any circumstance, return to coach the new team.
(You knew from the moment you met him that he loved the sport too much to ever give it up.
He proved this time and again, dragging along Shimada and Takinoue into the neighborhood association despite their constant bellyaching in high school. Volleyball remained in his heart, almost as though part of his blood, and so, to you, there wasn’t any reality in which he didn’t return.)
The text comes a half-hour before and you’re about halfway done making gyoza when you call for him to let himself in. He lumbers forward, the weight of their loss weighing on his shoulders, the first display of such following the game. In his left hand is a pack of beer, and in his right, an unopened pack of cigarettes. Before you can chastise him, remind him he can’t smoke here, you see him—a haggard edge to him, tender in its nature. It’ll be gone before too long, simply needing someplace to rest before disappearing.
You swallow your words, instead stealing his pack before he can sit down.
The crackling of the food fills the space, the aroma growing stronger in your kitchen—pork and garlic chives making your mouth water. After a bit, Ukai approaches, grabbing the magnetized bottle opener from your fridge. There’s the refreshing crack of the first bottle, then the second, your hand already open and waiting for him to give you your drink.
Behind you, he leans against the counter, eyes unfocused when you look over your shoulder. After a beat, he says, “They were so close.”
“I know.” You remember the late night phone calls, the strategizing he would do, using you as a soundboard even though you could offer little feedback in turn. You remember his excitement, his surprise at their quick growth. But even you know that it would’ve been one hell of an achievement for them to make it all the way in their first tournament together, as unpolished as they were from inconsistent training over the years. Even still, it’s present in his voice, a similar desire to grow with them, to pass along his love for the sport in what little ways he can. “It was good of you to take them to Osuwari after the match. Sensei told me it was your idea.”
“Well, yeah. I can’t let those volleyball nerds miss out on a valuable Karasuno tradition. Besides, someone has to teach them about proper diets for athletes!”
It makes you want to laugh. It’s been years, but you can still hear the reluctance with which he listened to his grandfather’s dietary recommendations if only because it was his grandfather. But if anyone would know better, it’d be Ukai.
“Oh, you almost sounded like a coach for a second,” you tease, taking a swig from your bottle, relishing the smooth citrus notes.
“Shut up, will you? If I’m going to do it, might as well do it right.”
“So you’re deciding to stick around? As Coach, I mean.”
Again, his eyes unfocus, and you wonder whether he’s replaying all his coy reluctance over the months, his insistence that if he did return, it’d only be for Nekoma, it’d only be for the qualifiers. Never accepting the permanence of the position. When his eyes find yours again, a similar resolve as when he made his promise on the side of Mt. Fuji. You’ve known the confirmation that swirls on his tongue, waiting to be spoken into the world.
“Yeah.” Sure, full of inevitability.
The gyoza finishes and he pops open a second beer, his cheeks turning red as you plop the food down in front of him. Instead of joining him, you appraise him, finding no signs of that weight he came in with, only the steady assurance of the choice he’s finally come to accept. It makes you smile, gentle, entirely for yourself.
“You’ll come to all the games, right? Cheer ‘em on?”
Sure, but it’s not quite them you’ll be supporting. Looking up, you find that smirk, a little lopsided and self-satisfied, and you warm, even without the benefit of your food. “When have I ever missed a game of yours, Ukai?”
V.
Ishikawa and Hirano are due to marry in Osaka the summer you’re twenty-eight.
The invitation came, followed by a call from Hirano, apologizing, telling you Osaka was Ishikawa’s idea and that she couldn’t say no. She struggled to believe you when you said it was fine, the perfect excuse to take a week off in August to explore a city you’ve always wanted to visit. Then Ukai called, asking if you could believe them, inviting him to a wedding set so far away. And then you reminded him that the Tokyo training camp would have finished two weeks before, that they would not be involved in any other training camps, that Karasuno summer break would be in full swing, and that it had been three years since he had last taken an honest vacation.
All the tiny day trips you took across Tohoku on stray weekends here and there all came to a halt following his return to Karasuno, not that you could complain. Coaching made him happy, made him smile in ways you hadn’t even realized you were missing. Even still, it doesn’t take much more convincing for him to agree to a week long road trip to Kansai.
It starts with you trying to cram your luggage into his tiny kei car, bothering him about the little yellow warning light on his dashboard that could symbolize any number of things, only for him to brush you off. Two hours into a ten hour drive to Osaka, the rear driver-side tire becomes flat, the car puttering pathetically as he pulls off to the side of the road. The Japanese Auto Federation contact is already pulled up on your phone before he can turn the car off.
“Don’t say it.”
“Say what?” Your thumb hovers over the call button and you decidedly keep your attention glued to your device. (It takes everything in your willpower not to laugh, to ignore the way he slumps forward in the driver seat in your peripheral). “Something the matter, Ukai?”
“I’ll say! We’re still eight hours away from Osaka and we’ve got a busted tire! Why the hell aren’t you freaking out more?”
Truth is, you’re simply glad to fulfill another aspect of your promise, to spend time with him away from the obligations of work and bills. But the part of you that loves to tease him keeps you from expressing any of this, instead calling for help and receiving an ETA of an hour.
The two of you got out of the car, enjoying the warmth of the day while you waited. Minutes ticked by, Ukai feeling too guilty to make for good conversation. (While you pointed out the warning light on the dash earlier, it really could mean anything from a gas cap not being tight enough to low tire pressure. Checking all possible reasons for its presence would’ve taken more time than this hour waiting).
Around the fifty-minute mark, you turn to him, the memory of your first promise lingering in your mind. You trace his profile with your eyes, the line of his nose, the gentle creases from his frequent smiles and shared laughter. “You think someone did us dirty like in Kikujiro?”
“What, you mean like someone put a tack in the road to try and hitchhike?” He knows you’re joking—he has to—but that doesn’t stop him from turning his head in the way you came.
“Yeah. What if it just… stuck so perfectly in the tire that we didn’t know it for a while?”
“I think you watch too many movies. We’re on the expressway. We’d be going too fast for that anyway.” But he smiles that smile while he lights up his cigarette, joining you as you lean against the little yellow car that’s taken you on many adventures before.
Clicking your tongue at him, you gesture for his smoke, a silent request he rarely obliged. “Sure, but you’ve seen it, too. Hell, you knew exactly what I was talking about without having to specify which scene.”
To your surprise, he hands it over, fingers brushing against yours, a fleeting touch that brands you as quickly as a cigarette’s kiss might.
“Got me there.”
Pulling out his phone, he checks the time, the hour almost up. As you take a drag, acrid smoke curling around your fingers, his mouth turns into half a scowl.
“Should we try hitchhiking to get into town and fix it ourselves?” Ukai offers you his pocket ashtray, holding it for you as you tap the cig, letting it gather in the pouch.
“Yeah? How do you propose we get people to stop? They’re going too fast.”
“We could, I dunno… use a tack?” It comes on the edge of your laugh, a tiny chuckle that grows in volume, becomes full-bodied, impossible for him to not join in. He steals back his cigarette as you lean on him for support, fingers digging into his arm.
“We could kill someone like that,” he says between laughs. “Or do you want us to get our cardio in for the day, running away from the scene of the crime?”
“Maybe. It’s been a while since we got up to some shit.”
You stick your tongue out, a playful gesture you’ve done a thousand times before. His smile is slow to fade, eyes glued to the shape of your mouth. The seconds tick down and your heart begins to thunder against your ribs and for a second you wonder whether this is it—
Only for a car to slow and pull in behind you, the JAF offering professionalism and a spare tire.
The following day, you arrive at the wedding without issue. You and Ukai stay close, small laughs and warm conversations keeping you both safe from wandering eyes. In the face of your friends’ love, outpouring and borderline overt, it’s the first time you feel almost painfully single. But then Ukai will crack a joke and nudge your shoulder and that moment by the car replays in your mind and you think maybe you aren’t as alone as you feel.
VI.
In the months following the road trip to Kansai, everything has shifted five centimeters to the left. It’s impossible to describe, difficult to pinpoint, but everything is heightened, your skin buzzing in ways it wasn’t before. The following hatsuhinode trip is no exception to this.
Keishin kept his promise following your trip to Mt. Fuji, dragging your ass out of bed before the asscrack of that first dawn, letting your barrage of complaints and half-hearted insults slide off his back as easily as rain sluicing off his umbrella. Each year, he’d take you to the Taihakusan Forest, this one spot in the foothills perfect for peeking through the trees to look out over southern Sendai and Natori, out to the ocean.
(Each year, he’d drag you through one trail or another, always joking about attempting the climb to Mt. Taihaku despite the frigid conditions. Each year, he’d find himself out of breath a couple hours in, ignoring your laughs as he’d pull out a cigarette when you two reached the car.)
This year, however, he takes you to the ocean. Nagome, specifically, the Yasaka Shrine at the end of the road. He’s quiet in ways he usually isn’t, though exhaustion doesn’t eat at him like it does you. It’s been years since he started tending the land, acclimated to early hours that regularly make you blanch. The drive is mostly silent, sleep clinging to your mind and body like the sticky cobwebs in your garden.
The waves crash against the concrete as you step out, the mist of the sea landing on the skin of your cheeks, this chill almost comforting as opposed to what you’d find at home. Keishin comes to stand at your side, the cold keeping you two close enough that your arms brush against one another. And when the sun rises, its reflection broken upon the surface of the Pacific, you put to thought your wish for the year, something that’s been building in your heart for far longer than this past year.
“So? Ready to admit that the sunrise atop Fujisan is something special?” Another tradition of sorts, the first question you always ask once the sun is fully visible in the morning sky.
He snorts, the sound low and familiar. “Not even a little bit.”
The sky turns the vibrant orange of daidai, the waves following if only for a moment, blues overwhelmed with the brilliance of the sun. Yeah, you could admit this sunrise is something special, too.
“Got a wish for the New Year?” you ask, unable to take your eyes off the ebbing and flowing of the sea, the crashing of the waves against the islets scattered off the coast.
“Yeah, but I can’t tell you.”
The lift of your lips is involuntary, as it so often is with him. “Why not?”
You feel the warmth of his attention as he turns to face you, but you keep your attention ahead, your own wish engraving itself upon your fourth and fifth ribs.
“You gonna tell me yours if I tell you mine?” Your smile turns into a grin, answer tucked inside, visible if not audible. Keishin laughs, the sound almost enough to warm your face. “See? You won’t even tell me!”
“Yeah, cause I want it to come true.”
Keishin’s laugh chimes again, his hand coming up, nudging your shoulder before turning around. “And you think I don’t?”
It grows cold as he walks away, soft steps tapping against the concrete path.
“C’mon. I brought breakfast from Sakanoshita.”
“How generous of you.”
You’re slow to leave, still enchanted by the dance between the sun and the sea, turning after a minute more. He waits for you at the base of the stairs of the artificial bank, expectant but not impatient. The briny scent hangs heavy in the air as you come closer, and you wonder whether this is the year you find the courage to change anything.
VII.
You’re twenty-nine by the time August 8th rolls around, Sendai abuzz with the last of Tanabata Matsuri.
Keishin pulls you along as you still say your goodbyes to Takinoue and Shimada in the izakaya, laughing as he does. The moment you stop pulling against him, he releases you, trusting you to manage yourself while his hand jams itself in his pocket, reaching for his last cigarette. You sway a little, your world still spinning, still blurred at the edges, the taste of sake still sitting on your tongue.
Tanzaku can be found in abundance everywhere, wishes written on colored slips of paper in hopes they’ll come true. It makes you smile, makes you hope, eight months having passed, seemingly no closer to mustering the courage to speak. But if all these people can hope and wish and pray then surely one of your wishes will come true—perhaps yours will, too.
A breeze blows through, hindered and halted by the city infrastructure, weak by the time it reaches you, though the tanzaku bob in greeting nonetheless. Petrichor filters through the air, hinting at an impending storm, punctuating the wafting scents of food—mapo yakisoba and ghoshiki somen and karinto and more—interrupting the way hunger hangs in the air, encouraging people to eat their fill. As you turn your nose to the air, lifting your chin in hopes of catching the promise of rain, you nearly run into something, saved by a familiar hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling you closer.
Keishin shakes his head, gentle and disbelieving, making you feel giddy. The sound of his sigh gets lost in the crowd and you wait for it, the eventual release of your arm to scratch the back of his neck as his eyes shift to the side, tongue coming out to wet his bottom lip before he’ll inevitably smile—because he will. His smiles always come easy when you’re around. You know this because they’ve been affecting you since he first directed it your way after a joke back in high school.
And he does. Smile. Reluctant, full of exasperation maybe, but you know that despite his outward composure, he’s just as buzzed as you. He can play the babysitter all he wants—he looks good doing it, coaching those kids from your old high school—but the truth of the matter is, he’s been waiting for a chance to properly drink, away from coaches and away from Sensei. The two of you weave through the crowd, everyone moving to watch the evening events. Keishin counts on their attention being elsewhere so the smoking areas will be mostly empty.
Sure enough, the closest one is barren, everyone hurrying home or toward the performances. Your mind swims, heart picking up at the solitude, a silly reaction, you think, considering how often you two have done this. This isn’t anything new, tonight isn’t anything special, and yet your heart patters, pathetically so, and you open your mouth, hoping to find some kind of distraction.
Anything.
(It’s a shame, then, that you get hung up on something that’s bothered you since Ishikawa’s wedding, lingering in the back of your mind in the quiet moments when you and Keishin are together.)
“Hey, Keishin,” you ask before you can help yourself.
He glances up, cigarette between his lips as he pulls out his lighter. “Oh, I never like that tone.”
“What tone? I have a tone?”
The lighter clicks a couple of times before lighting, its fluid running low. That first drag is a relief, the muscles in his face relaxing as he closes his eyes, the smoke escaping on his exhale. When he opens them again, they find you immediately, a little playful even as he frowns. “Yeah, you have a tone. You always use it when you’re about to poke me for answers.”
“Poke? I don’t poke.”
“You poke.” Said with a deadpan that makes you rethink the other times you’ve had questions for him.
(You’re coming up empty).
“I don’t think I do.”
“Of course you don’t think you do. You’re not the one getting poked!” Keishin points at you with his two fingers, his cigarette secured between them, the cherry red tip glowing.
Do you really poke? He makes it sound unpleasant. Do you make him feel unpleasant?
In the corner of your eye, he shifts his weight from one leg to the next, taking another drag, his smoke hovering in the air before dissipating. “Fine. Ask your question.”
Turning to him, you tease your bottom lip, turning the question over in your mind, still unsure of how to phrase it. It’s rather personal, you think. Enough that you haven’t asked. (Everyone else has asked, but you’ve always given him grace. It could be that you didn’t want to know the answer, afraid of what you might find out).
“What? What is it?”
You open your mouth only to close it, realizing that you are, in fact, about to poke. “I think… I’m about to poke.”
His smile is instantaneous, incredulous. “See? You poke!”
“You’re being a little silly, don’t you think?” The words tumble in your mouth, knowing that if you’re going to ask, it’s gotta be now. With a deep inhale, you find the courage, digging deep inside you and pulling it forward. (It almost feels like you’re finding the courage to do something else). “Why are you still single?”
Keishin’s smile evaporates, face going slack, slight worry stitching his brows together. “What?”
“Yeah. I’ve been wondering for a while.”
“Does it matter?” The answer comes quick, one of his rare deflections. Usually he’s honest, earnest. It always sticks out like a sore thumb when he’s not.
“I dunno. I’ve just been curious.”
“Why are you curious?”
It’s burned in the back of your mind, watching the younger Hirano sister make eyes at Keishin at the wedding and every time you’ve seen them interact since. Your mother certainly wants to know, having asked several times over the years why you don’t just marry the ‘Ukai boy,’ eventually counting among the many older women trying to set him up. You’ve never asked and it bothers you that you don’t know. Perhaps this is why you’ve kept your affections to yourself.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just… Takinoue still goes out to those singles meet-ups. Shimada’s been in a relationship for a while now. We were there for Ishikawa’s—”
“Are you going somewhere with this?”
“So touchy.” As he brings the cigarette up to his lips, you step forward, plucking it from his hand, your fingers lingering against his. Maintaining eye contact, you pull back, bringing it to your lips instead. The nicotine calms your nerves. “I’m just… curious. I know the women in the neighborhood all want to set you up with their daughters and granddaughters. They ask me about it all the time.”
Usually this would be the point where he steals his smoke back, but he watches as your lips shape around his cigarette, the intensity of his stare making your skin buzz, a faint electricity humming. Instead, he offers you his ashtray, nearly dropping it before it makes it into your hand.
“They shouldn’t do that.”
“Yeah, well, they say you usually don’t stay on the phone long enough for them to ask anymore.”
(Not that you can blame him).
“Because it always turns into an attempt at match-making.”
Part of you wants to laugh, but you continue, not wanting to let him get away with not answering. “Even my mom got on me about it. She tried using me to set you up with Kominato’s daughter.” Among others, but Kominato’s the only one who actually gets on with Keishin.
He steps forward, brows coming together completely, trying to piece it together. “Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know! You ask like I have an inkling as to what she’s thinking half the time.” It’s a lie. You know why she’s pressing, and you’re a little pissed that her plan is… kind of working right now. “She’s always gone on about how you’re such a great catch. I guess she finally got tired of you being single.”
Something shifts behind his eyes, making him lean in. When you take a step back, taking another drag from his cig, he doesn’t follow.
“Well? You didn’t give me any phone numbers.”
Your laughter bubbles up, making you choke on the smoke. “Do you want me to try for her? Here I thought I was doing you a favor.”
His laughter follows, realizing what he implied. (It makes you wonder what exactly was the purpose of his asking). “Please, no.”
“But you haven’t answered my question.”
“You turn people down, too.”
Is it really such a secret that he can’t tell you? That he’s going to turn this around on you?
“I’ve dated.” Keishin’s met a couple of them. He’s listened to you complain about your dates, most happening during your days at Tohoku, but, unlike him, you’ve dated. Unless he’s kept his dates secret from you.
“It’s been two years.”
The certainty of his words makes your breath catch in your throat. “I… didn’t realize you kept such close tabs on me.”
If you didn’t know better, you’d say he’s blushing, but it’s dark and the light isn’t the best here, so you’re content to attribute it to something else. His exhale comes a little uneasily and he looks away. “Ishikawa’s been insistent on keeping me up to date on your… dating life, apparently.”
“That’s news to me.” Though not surprising. Ishikawa was always a gossip.
“It’s not like it matters.”
The truth creeps up on you, slow as it crawls its way to your heart. Your mother. Ishikawa. Keishin being… nervous. It sits in the back of your throat. You know it, and yet you’re still afraid to give it form.
Discomfort begins to grow, wrapping itself around your chest, and you do what you’ve always done. With a light laugh, a little dismissive, you ask, “Do you need help? More one-on-one?”
It works, enough to make him laugh, to get him to release the tension in his shoulders. You smile as you finish his cigarette, tucking it inside the red and white pouch, his laugh doing nothing for your overexcited heart. “What the hell?”
“I mean, the younger Hirano makes eyes at you every time she sees you.”
Keishin steps forward, his smile still present as he takes the ashtray. “Does she now?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
His hands lift in surrender, the little pouch tucked under the fourth and little fingers of his right hand, though there’s something gleaming in his eyes that makes you pout. “I haven’t!”
“Please. The amount of times she’s stopped by Sakanoshita since the wedding—”
“Cause you’re keeping tabs?”
Heat flashes behind your cheeks, sitting high on your face before tendrilling down your neck and across your chest. It gets hard to breathe, a weight pressing on your lungs and logically you know it’s the sake, but that doesn’t stop you from getting a little irritated. “So?”
(Yeah, it’s definitely the alcohol. You’re usually not this petulant.)
“So?” he shoots back, the heat of his stare starting to burn.
(At least he’s just as drunk as you.)
“If not the younger Hirano, then—”
“You wanna know why I’m still single?!” This is the closest Keishin’s ever gotten to raising his voice at you, taking yet another step forward, cementing you in place. You wouldn’t even have to lift your hand all the way to touch him.
“Please! It’s what I’ve been asking this whole time.”
“Because of you!”
Time ceases, your heart pauses, your lungs no longer holding air. And then a flame sparks behind your heart, the rapid incineration of kindling you hadn’t realized was there. A memory shakes loose, the frustrated words of your best friend at her wedding, stealing Keishin’s seat after he got up to grab more beer.
I can’t stand this. Watching you two is like watching twin stars, trapped in each other’s orbits. Everyone knows you’ll come together eventually, so why not now?
As he stares at you in similar surprise, not quite believing his outburst, all you can think about is your response to her at the time.
If we’re twin stars and it really is inevitable, you should know that you can’t rush it.
After twelve years… Is this it?
Everything rushes you, overwhelming—the rapidfire beating of your heart, the shallowness of your breaths, the itching of your palms.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Wait—”
His hands raise again, gesturing at you like he’s torn between holding you and shaking you. (You’re not entirely sure which). “You’re so infuriating sometimes!”
“Keishin—” You reach for him, needing something to steady you as everything begins to shift.
“What?”
“What do you mean because of me? You can’t—”
Your hand comes to land on the crook of his elbow, drawing his attention for half a second. “Is it so unbelievable?”
“You haven’t dated anyone since shortly after we left Karasuno.” That would mean that he’s been holding onto this for ten years.
“Yeah. Honestly, I’ve probably been stuck on you since we first met. And what about you?”
“What about me?” Your fingers tighten around his arm as if he’ll somehow ground you when you otherwise feel as though the rug’s been pulled out from beneath your feet.
“Why are you still single? You dated, but haven’t taken anyone seriously since your first year in university.”
“Why do you think?”
“Why date at all if you weren’t going to try?”
Is that the crux of his logic? That it wasn’t worth trying if it wasn’t you?
“Because…” Fuck it. “I was trying to get over you. Thought it’d be better than losing you if I was the only one… feeling this way.”
“Seriously?” He ducks his head, lingering frustrations disappearing.
“Why’d you think?”
Keishin’s laugh begins to unravel the knot that had been forming behind your ribs, making you feel incredibly silly for how this all transpired. But the weight you had been carrying lifts and it feels easy to breathe—easier than it has been in months. “I don’t know. I just thought you had shit taste in dates.”
“Wow, thanks.”
And everything’s back in place, except better. Everything that had shifted five centimeters to the left comes back and it feels like you two are still who you’ve always been. When you pull away, you feel steady. Secure.
“Can you blame me?”
“Yeah, I can blame you. Why didn’t you say anything, you dummy?”
No wonder everyone felt exasperated watching you both dance around what must have been incredibly obvious.
When he steps closer, when your heart hiccups in your chest, it feels like everything you’ve ever wanted is in reach.
“I think you just answered your own question.” There’s tenderness in the way he watches you, unguarded, and part of you wonders whether it’s always been there but you’ve been too blinded to see it.
“What, that you’re a dummy?” You step closer, too, feeling like you two really are twin stars.
“Yeah, I’m a dummy.” He leans in, eyes searching yours before dropping to your lips. There’s an intensity to him, a familiar sort of passion that you always thought you could drown in. “So? What’d’ya say?”
Scoffing, you turn away, playful in your faux disapproval of his segue. “About what?”
“You’re going to make this painful for me, aren’t you?” His hand comes to your jaw, pulling your face back to him and warmth blossoms across your face again.
“Have I ever made anything easy for you?”
“Yeah, actually. It’s too easy to like you.” Fingers shift against your skin, his touch tender as it moves to the back of your neck. With his thumb, he smooths over your jaw, delicate in a way that makes your knees weak. You lick your lips and he tracks the movement, mirroring your smile.
“Oh, now you’re a flirt.”
His chuckle fans against your lips and it feels like your heart is in your throat. “Will you shut up?”
You shift, your lips coming to barely brush against his as you speak, the touch feather light, just a tease. “Will you make me?”
When he finally presses his lips to yours, it feels like an inevitability, soft and sure and familiar like home. He smiles into the kiss, his free hand coming to rest on your waist as he pulls you a little closer, like the space between your bodies is entirely too much. Your hands wrap around his neck, and for a moment you swear you hear the distant fireworks in Nishi park, a second imagined showing to commemorate the end of Tanabata, the reunion of celestial lovers.
You and Keishin aren’t anything of the sort, but perhaps there’s something magical to your inevitable collision as twin stars during the celebration of the Star Festival.
shiba with a companion who doesn't have sorcery but an ability inherent to their bloodline, not unlike char or hakuri's ice girl.
they can see moments throughout the day, guaranteed happenings, usually twenty or thirty seconds, sometimes a minute. usually inconsequential. usually random. more sure and more concise than princess soga, whose premonitions are possibilities and likely outcomes rather than a sure reading of time, limted to one or two people and only ever as far as a day.
he grows used to them, their accommodations for him. making sure he leaves with an umbrella or a certain snack, maybe with some extra cash or a "lucky" item. small things. little spoken hints without revealing themselves to be just that in the moments they are uttered. beyond always returning to them, he never verbally acknowledges what's been done.
and then there's a larger instance of foresight for the day.
instead of a minute, it's five.
they see their death, but they also see shiba able to save everyone else through the application of malediction through tokyo. so they say nothing.
shiba doesn't know until he returns to an empty apartment, the only thing out of place being a note left on the table.
(Previous)
Relationship: Sakura Haruka x Florist!Reader
Content Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Grief, Insecurity, Affirmation of friendship, Food as a love language, (kinda?) Napping together, Casual (+ Platonic) affection, Mentions of drinking together
Summary: About twenty minutes before everyone was supposed to meet you at your house for lunch, Sakura texted saying he wouldn't be able to come. The moment Nirei told you it was because he had a loss in the family, you knew you wanted to be there for him.
Word Count: 4.5k
A/N: This was a little tricky for me because I, being a canon-compliant bitch to the end, don't know the actual relationship between the people in Sakura's memories from ch. 172. Florist also doesn't know and it doesn't matter because Sakura's relationship with his grief would be complicated regardless and he likely wouldn't want to talk too much about it. As someone still dealing with grief (even years later) this was a little cathartic for me, and I hope it's that way for you, too. This chapter is sponsored by my wonderful ability to fuck up the omurice flip ✌
Very grateful to be able to tag @owoasis and @kweenkatsuki-fics 💜💜
Additionally, I think Sakura would still try to maintain his fighting skills for security (in addition to other skills he's picked up since joining Furin), so I gave him multiple, alternating jobs: day security/waiting with Roppo-Ichiza/Keisei Street and night security in the pub district.
Nerves eat at you as you raise your fist, tendrils of anxiety unfurling from your heart, twisting and clawing its way down your limbs as you rap against the door labeled 201, finding no response from the doorbell. There’s been this weight in your chest since you first received his text, twenty minutes before you were all supposed to meet at your house for lunch. You’d planned to check on him after entertaining the other two, but…
The door opens and Sakura greets you with wide eyes, brows pinched together in some mix of confusion and worry while his mouth opens, inhale shaky, dressed similarly to when he helped with the weddings. Did you interrupt him on his way out? Suo and Nirei both reassured you he’d be home today.
“Hey.” It doesn’t even sound like your voice, detached and foreign as you reassess whether you made the right move coming here. Was it too presumptuous? “Did you just come from the service?”
His brow furrows, leveling out the uneasy arches, and he shakes his head. “No. What’re you doin’ here?” Despite his expression, his voice lacks the bite you’ve come to expect from that question.
He sounds lost, not unlike how you feel.
Truth is, as soon as Nirei blurted out Sakura’s reason for canceling, you wanted to come. Them encouraging the impulse was all the okay you needed before you rescheduled lunch altogether. (They both assured you it was more than okay, but you still feel bad).
“I… don’t know.” His eyes drop to your hands, expression unchanging though you know he’s curious. “Ah, I brought… food. And sake, but mostly food. I can… I can leave it with you if you have somewhere to go or if you don’t want me—”
“No. And I’m not… I’m stayin’ here.” As he remains stock still in the doorway, unable to look up from your hands, you don’t know whether he wants you to stay or leave the food with him. He comes to a moment later, startling as his eyes jump to yours, looking more wet than before as he steps aside. “Uh… C’mon in.”
It’s not until you’re moving past him that he shuffles back in the small space, pressing him against the wall to make room for you like he can’t quite believe you’re in his apartment. Nudging the door shut with your elbow, you feel his attention on you, and you slip off your shoes, remembering the way nothing felt real after your grandfather died. Is it similar for him?
To the left is a kitchenette with its counters empty, save for the remnants of instant ramen packaging and empty water bottles. It reminds you of your first college dorm a little, but the simplicity suits him. Setting down the bags, you begin tidying, maneuvering through his space with ease.
Footsteps approach, and looking over your shoulder shows him nearing, hands halfway up in a partial attempt to get your attention. “You don’t have to—” His voice is distant and the lack of blush tells you more than you think he knows.
“No, but I want to.”
It freezes him where he stands and the way he looks at you—it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him and thought he looked small. He looks… vulnerable. If you two were better friends, you’d probably hug him right now, but you aren’t. You don’t know what kind of comfort he needs, what you could offer to help. So you focus on the tangible.
“Have you eaten?” To your right, you spot his chabudai through the open door, though there’s no sign of the ramen belonging to the empty packaging. When you receive no answer from him, you turn.
“Had some ramen earlier.”
“When was ‘earlier?’”
Suddenly unable to meet your eyes, he looks away. How much of his languor is grief and how much of it is not taking care of physical needs? It doesn’t matter. His silence tells you it’s been longer than it should’ve been.
“Well then. I think you’ll be happy with the spread.”
“Wait, what about lunch?” There’s a hint of urgency to his question, almost as if he’s remembering what you had planned for the day.
Turning back to the bags, you start unloading them, letting him see the different containers. He comes next to you and you glance over, watching as whatever protestations he had evaporate. “I brought it. Suo and Nirei both agreed to reschedule when we could all eat together. Go sit down. I’ll bring it over.”
He obliges, eyes lingering on the food before turning around. It must’ve been longer than he’s used to since he ate. As you open his cabinets in search of plates, you come across your vase, cleaned and tucked away on the shelf above. Smiling to yourself, you set everything up, a light fluttering behind your ribs (whether because of his interest in your food or the care he gave your gift, you aren’t sure). Even still, you hesitate in setting a space for you, something he invariably notices. Anxiety eats at you again, wondering whether you’re imposing, whether he’s comfortable sharing this grief with you.
“What’re you doing?”
“Sakura… I—” When you meet his stare, you’re surprised by its intensity. “I haven’t imposed on you at all, have I?” The question feels wrong as it comes out.
“The hell are you talkin’ about?”
“Would you like me to stay?” you try again, phrasing it differently.
His gaze softens before it seems like he’s seeing through you. After a beat, his eyes fall to the table and he says, “If you want. Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he remains unable to look at you. His stomach rumbles audibly and he ducks his head, that familiar bit of embarrassment poking through. Still, he doesn’t move to enjoy the food laid out before him and you read between the lines. Even with his propensity toward obliging requests, he wouldn’t have let you in if he truly felt you were unwelcome. He wouldn’t be sitting here, not eating, if he didn’t want you to join him.
When you start making your space beside him, he relaxes, shoulders no longer hunched, posture turning casual. Lowering yourself and tucking your legs beneath you, you grab your chopsticks, waiting for him to look at you.
“I’ll stay.”
The tips of his ears turn pink, but he doesn’t look away, allowing you to see the gratitude that pools in his eyes.
“Let’s eat.”
Satisfied you’re not going anywhere, he dives in, wasting no time in trying the dish closest to him. It isn’t until he gives an appreciative hum that you join him.
“So this is what you finally decided to make, huh?” he asks between bites, eyes flickering from the food to you. He seems more grounded now, closer to the Sakura you’ve come to know.
“Hm?”
“It’s… It’s good.”
The compliment sets off a wave of fluttering in your gut before you remember earlier in the week.
When you asked Nirei if he had a meal preference, he promised you he’d be happy with whatever you offered them. The same question to Suo resulted in his usual evasiveness until he told you he’d enjoy whatever Sakura requested. And Sakura gave you reluctance before supplying you with the same noncommittal answer as Nirei. He stopped answering your messages when you threatened to ask Kotoha, instead showing up to walk you home from work at the end of the day, wanting to talk in person. Omurice, he admitted, one of the dishes you’d have to practice before sharing with someone else, but his excitement at your promise to learn guaranteed that you’d serve omurice the next time you’d have them over.
All of that feels so long ago, even though it was only Monday.
“Yeah, I think I wanted to show off a bit after everything,” you say, chuckling to yourself.
Swallowing, he takes a moment to look at the spread before looking at you again. “You can make all this but you can’t make omurice?”
When you laugh, you catch the corner of his lips quirking. “I think you underestimate that flip.” He doesn’t need to know how many times you’ve had failed omurice for dinner over the last week.
“Where’d ya even learn how to do all this?”
“My great uncle has a restaurant in the next city. After my grandfather died, he came around to help and ended up teaching me and my brother a bit.”
“A bit?” he asks, raising a brow as he looks at the now half empty dishes.
“A bit. I mean, it’s not restaurant quality in the least.”
Shrugging, he grabs his water, twisting off the lid. “I think it tastes great.” He takes a swig from his water and you take a moment to appreciate his praise, feeling more than seeing when he grows somber once more. “The others. They didn’t… They were okay with putting lunch off?”
When you had opened the door earlier, concern weighed down the atmosphere for everyone. It was enough that even Suo’s mask was slipping. The moment you asked after Sakura, it came spilling from Nirei’s lips, and as soon as you expressed interest in seeing him, the address was already being sent to your phone.
“More than okay. I’m a little surprised they didn’t join me.”
His eyes shift to the right, not wanting to meet yours, and his shoulders lift slightly. “They… came ‘round yesterday.” As you nod, his shoulders lower on a sigh, relaxing when he reaches for more food. Before he plops it on his waiting tongue, he hesitates. “Did… Did they tell you to come?”
There’s something undecipherable in his question, a quiver you never thought you’d hear from him. “Not quite. I… I wanted to and Nirei encouraged me. He’s the one who gave me your address.”
As much as you want to check his reaction, you’re struck by the memory of when you and your brother tried taming the neighborhood cat. Each time you tried to pet it and called out to it, it’d run. It wasn’t until you stopped looking that it approached, nudging your hand on its own terms. So you keep your attention on what remains of the food, catching only a slight nod in your periphery before he begins chewing.
You want to ask him about it—how he’s doing, whether there’s anything you can do to ease his burden—but you get the sense that you’re doing it. He seems livelier than twenty minutes ago, seems better with some honest food in him. Perhaps all he needs is some semblance of normalcy.
“Did you know they got me an orange tree?”
Freezing beside you, his mouth falls open before processing your question. “Oh. They actually went through with that?”
“Did you all talk about it?” You figured the tree was Suo’s idea given its meaning (especially compared to other fruit trees and their potential blossoms), so it surprises you to know that Sakura was in on it, too.
When your eyes meet his, he looks away, though you notice a brief shimmer of gold, almost as though assessing whether you’re actually looking at him. “You were sayin’ that you didn’t have much time and you wanted to do more with your garden. Maybe a fruit tree or somethin’ and I thought you might… I dunno.”
“So it was you?” You’ve mentioned the garden to the group in passing, but you’ve only brought up the desire for a fruit tree with Sakura.
“It wasn’t,” he denies, leaning forward, the tiniest bit of pink appearing on his face. “Suo’s the one who said an orange tree would be best! If you wanna blame someone—”
“I don’t want to blame anyone,” you laugh, watching as he slumps forward. (If that’s the case, you’re glad Suo didn’t recommend a cherry tree). “I wanted to thank you. I look forward to planting it.”
Tilting his head, black hair falls over his white, and he peeks up at you through a tired, stormy blue eye, observing you as you get up to clear the table. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The silence that falls isn’t as oppressive, as suffocating as when you first arrived. No longer does he look like he’s caught in the limbo of his grief. As you clean off the table, he comes forward, leaning on it with exhaustion you’ve only seen a handful of times. Resting his head in the palm of his hand, he watches as you clean the dishes and you’re glad he’s rooted in place. For him to not offer (not that you’d allow him to), he must be truly exhausted. Before joining him again, you open your second bag, revealing the plants of the day.
Setting the potted bamboo on the windowsill, you bring the chrysanthemum and China aster to the table. Sakura straightens when you do, eyeing the flowers with brief recognition. Typically a funeral flower, you only brought one, more in respect to his grief than anything. And the aster? More a promise to him, even if he doesn’t know its meaning.
When you sit, you keep your legs to the side, bringing you closer to Sakura than intended, though he doesn’t seem to mind, still focused on the flowers.
“How’ve you been sleeping?”
“W-What?” He turns to look at you, brows knitting together in confusion before he realizes your proximity.
“Have you been sleeping okay?” Leaning in slightly, you notice the circles beneath his eyes and the subtle red that you doubt is indicative of tears shed (though you can’t be certain).
“I-I’ve been fine! Don’t worry about it.”
“But I am worried about it. When my grandfather died, I… Sleep was hard to come by.”
He sniffs, looking away, though he shifts his position, getting more comfortable. “It’s been fine. M-Maybe I’ve been waking up more.”
“Yeah, that’s common.” When he shifts his weight to his left arm, he’s close enough that you can feel the heat from his body. “I could bring chamomile tea if that would help.” With how quickly he turns at the suggestion of you leaving (even if tucked inside the idea of returning), you feel the truth of his isolation right now. When you don’t move, don’t do anything but watch with patience, he calms, though that vulnerability is still present. “Do you want to try to take a nap?”
“What, together?!” He leans away from you, red shooting up from his neck, covering his entire face.
“Together. Not. Sometimes having someone next to you can help sleep.”
“I-It’s too bright out to sleep,” he says a little too quickly.
“You say that like we can’t close the curtains.”
If possible, his flush deepens, deep crimson, a shade you’ve never seen from him before. He sputters and pushes himself away until his knee knocks against the table. “Th-That’d—! P-P-People might get the wrong idea—!”
Raising both palms in surrender, you lean back, trying your damnedest not to laugh. “Do many people peep through your windows? It might be time to look into moving.” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “We don’t have to. I only wanted to suggest it as an option.”
Bringing his knee up, he drapes his arm over it, using it to bury his face until only his eyes are peeking over his elbow. Never looking away from you, it feels like he’s waiting to hear your next suggestion. He doesn’t want you to leave, but he’s horrified at the prospect of napping together or even laying beside you. Perhaps…
“Are you familiar with quiet wakefulness?”
“Huh? What’s that?” he mumbles, tracking the way you tilt your head until it’s almost resting on your right shoulder.
“Usually it’s done by simply laying down with our eyes closed with the intent to rest. It’s been found to help with stress and mood. I mean, it’s not as good as sleep, but it still helps keep us sharp, you know? Better than nothing and all.”
“Oh.”
“Do you want to try that instead?”
Looking down, his right lashes contrast against his pale cheeks. “Dunno. I’ve… I haven’t really taken a nap since I was a kid. Don’t remember how.”
There’s a flash of gold as you sigh, his eyes trained on you once more as you anticipate similar pushback for your next suggestion. “Do you want… You can rest your head on my shoulder if that might help? It’s fine if you don’t want to. I just… I want you to feel comfortable.”
This is how you’ve been useful in the past. When your maternal grandmother died, when your best friend’s father died, when your paternal grandfather died. You brought food, made sure they were drinking water, and you helped them sleep. It’s how you know how to be useful, but it only works if they’re receptive to it. Food and water is enough.
His golden eye turns vibrant again as pink dominates his face once more, but his gaze never wavers. You hear him swallow before speaking, voice cracking when he does. “Are you sure?”
With the barest of nods, you relax again, getting comfortable before growing still. Slowly, with exceeding care, he loosens up, incrementally coming closer until he goes stiff, suddenly unable to meet your gaze.
“Could— D-D’you think… you could close your eyes?” Again, his voice is small, and you find it impossible to deny him.
“Of course.” You oblige, listening to the rustling of his clothes as he makes his way over. The air around you changes, tense, nervous, and you hear shaky, shallow breaths before feeling the heat of them on your shoulder. His hesitation is palpable, the distance between you two electric, but enough to know that he waits, afraid to come closer.
“We don’t have to do this—”
“Just— Sh-Shut up, will you?” The words come out like a plea, breathy and strained. A weight comes to rest on your shoulder, though it’s significantly lighter than you expected. “N-Now what?”
“Close your eyes and try resting.”
His exhale is shaky, uncertain, but you don’t want to ask or reassure again (you’re starting to worry that it’s only making his anxiety worse). Focusing inward, you notice the rapid beating of your heart for the first time. Regulating your breathing, you attempt to slow it, to ease your own nerves, feeling subtle movement next to you. Peeking open an eye, Sakura’s picking at his nails.
“That’s not very restful, is it?”
“Shit, sorry,” he mutters, breath heating up your shoulder as he ceases.
Chuckling, you barely turn to the right, his hair tickling your cheek, the warmth of his skin heating yours. “You don’t need to apologize.”
He grunts in response, the sound growing in comfort.
Again, you try centering yourself, letting yourself simply exist in the moment—the press of Sakura against your shoulder; the weight of his breaths against your back; the steady beating of your own heart; the feel of your hands held together, sitting in your lap. It works for another couple minutes before he sighs, the end of it weighed by mild exasperation.
“It’s not working.”
“Sakura,” you laugh, feeling him freeze behind you, “you haven’t really tried. Are you comfortable as you are?”
A beat, and then— “No.”
“Get comfortable.”
A sound rises in his chest, a grumble of sorts as his head rises, and you expect that he’ll pull away, too flustered to keep trying (the fact that he was willing to try at all makes you happier than he needs to know). Instead, he finally relaxes, closing whatever distance remained, fully pressing into your side. His arm comes to rest behind you, against you, and he places his head back where it was.
“N-Now what?” It’s gruff, probably a defense from the heat that radiates from him.
“Focus on the sound of my breathing.”
“Sounds easy ‘nuff.”
And for the third time, you relax, content with the trust he’s exhibiting. More than content. You don’t know who it is that he lost, but it’s obvious his relationship with grief is complicated. Him trusting you with this… perhaps you’re closer friends than you had originally thought.
It’s not much longer that he slumps against you, that his breaths turn shallow with sleep, that you’ve succeeded in your goal. The minutes carry on and you’re unable to focus on much beyond the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back. He shifts in his sleep, turning his head until he’s no longer stable on your shoulder, and in your attempt to put him back, you end up turning. Still drowsy, he remains pliable, allowing you to shift you both until he’s curled on his side with his head in your lap.
His breathing changes, deeper, indicative of wakefulness, so you stroke his hair, trying to lull him asleep once more. After a minute or two, his breathing returns to that same state as before, though you don’t stop. Honestly, you lose track of time as you two stay like this, and it’s only the buzzing of your phone in your jacket pocket some time later that distracts you.
It’s the group chat—Nirei asking if Sakura wants him to bring over dinner—and it’s the first time you realize Sakura’s phone is nowhere to be heard. Checking the time before you put your phone away, you see it’s been a little over an hour and a half since you arrived.
Sakura’s head turns in your lap and, given the way his breathing’s changed again, you realize he’s awake. As much as you’d like to brush the hair from his face, you’re worried it’d be akin to looking at the stray cat as it nudged your hand. You two sit in comfortable silence, your hand resting on his head while he remains in whatever state of rest he’s found himself in for a few minutes more.
“Why’d you bring sake?” he asks, voice groggy, moving only so far as to tighten his fists where they sit by your knees. It’s more curiosity than anything, like he’s trying to understand your thought process (you’d like to know yourself).
“I… don’t know. That’s just what we did when my grandfather died, and what we did when my friend’s father died. Came over with food and sake and… I dunno.”
“I don’t… drink.” He almost sounds bashful about that fact, and when you glance down, he’s pointedly avoiding your stare.
“Oh. Well, how was I supposed to know?” The sound of your laugh pulls at the corner of his lips.
“Sorry,” he says without force.
“If you don’t want it, I can take it back. It’s not a big deal.”
Without thinking, your fingers start stroking his hair again, gentle as they brush it. His fists clench, then release, and he holds his breath when you pause, seemingly releasing it when you tentatively start again.
“I… could have a drink with you.”
“You don’t have to, not if you don’t drink.”
His blush appears, turning the tips of his ears pink then splotching across his cheeks. “It’s not— I mean… I-I’ve never had a drink. It’s not like I have a reason n-not to.”
Surprise freezes you, your hand lifting from his hair, and he half-turns with a light glare that disappears when he meets your eyes.
“Really?” It comes out much more shocked than you mean it, and it’s enough that he pushes himself from your lap, a little dizzy as he does so quickly. “Even though you work in the pub district?”
His brows furrow in indignation. “I don’t just work for the pub district!”
“My apologies,” you say, your hands coming to cover your mouth (and to hide your involuntary smile). “Where else do you work?” This blush is unexpected, especially after his little outburst. It deepens when you tilt your head and lean in, silently requesting his attention. “Sakura?”
“I… I work with Roppo-Ichiza, too.” His eyes flick away from yours as soon as he finishes speaking.
“What’s that?”
It’s his turn to be surprised, head jerking back as his eyes narrow slightly. “They’re… It’s… Keisei Street. I’m there during the day, mostly.”
“Oh.” Keisei… Street? Oh. “Really?” How fascinating that he’s never had a drink despite working in both the pub district and the red-light district!
“Wh-What, ‘really?!’”
“Nothing.”
Turning away with your dismissal, you’re surprised when Sakura leans forward, just a bit. “No, if you have somethin’ to say, say it!”
“I guess it makes sense. You see all these people misbehaving because of alcohol, you’d probably be less likely to want to try it, right?”
He stumbles backward when you lean forward. “Uh, s-sure.”
“I’m curious: how’d you end up working for either?” When his attention turns downcast, you reign in your excitement. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
He looks up at you, softer than you’ve seen from him, the hint of a chuckle escaping on his exhale. “Maybe later.”
“Yeah?” Returning his smile in kind, you wish you could see it more often.
He tracks the curve of your lips before red tints his cheeks. “Y-Yeah.”
“So, would you like to share a drink with me now, or later?”
“Would you be safe walking home if you had a drink here?” he asks, looking at the window.
Given his line of work, you’re not surprised he worries about that (especially given how you two met).
“What, you don’t trust me?” you tease with a smile. If you had some water and waited a bit, you’d be fine.
“It ain’t about that! I mean, I’d walk you home and shit if you wanted…” His sentence trails, the offer similar to the one he made Monday night. You’d be similarly worried about him making it home safe, considering his alcohol tolerance is unknown.
“How about this,” you start, leaning forward again. Taking him in, you appreciate the returned color to his skin, the energy he has now compared to earlier.
“What?”
“You come by my place and we drink there. Can be whenever.”
The sliver of defensiveness that he held onto slips, and you’re met with someone borderline eager to try something new. “I-I guess that’d work.”
Between the two of you (and between his two jobs), he would know when your schedules would align. Since it’s also a new experience for him, he’d be allowed to choose the terms by which it happens. Whatever other hesitations he has for drinking (a teasing Suo comes to mind), this would be a safe option. You’ve come up with worse ideas.
“What about…” His voice pulls you from his reverie, though he’s still working on whatever he’d like to propose. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”
“Tomorrow?” So soon? At his hesitant query, you smile. “For you, I can make it work.”
His expression falls and he shakes his head. “You don’t gotta go out of your way or nothing! Not if it doesn’t already work.”
“I think you misunderstood me. For you, it’s not going out of my way. We can drink sake together tomorrow.”
Flower Glossary:
Orange Tree: Generosity
Orange Blossom: Purity, Your purity equals your loveliness
[text ID: tweet by Heather Christle replying to Danez Smith that reads, “Once a first grader asked me how long a poem had to be and when I said it could be just one word he wrote a poem that was just his best friend’s phone number. 💖]
tw dubcon, noncon, drug use, mentions of murder, torture, minor character death, implied infidelity, human trafficking, blood, general yandere themes, smut, nsfw
“You know we’re not actually in a relationship, right?”
Oikawa grins, “The big, sparkly diamond ring I’ve got in my back pocket begs to differ.”
You fix him with an unimpressed look, which only serves to make his grin widen. He really can’t help himself when you get all worked up like this.
“I’m serious, Oikawa. Ring or no ring. Contract or no contract, I think it’s better for the both of us to just act like–”
“Act like this isn’t happening?”
“That’s not– you’re being difficult,” you huff. “I just meant that we don’t need to pretend to be all… coupley in the meantime. You’re free to see and do whatever you want, and… and so am I.”
It’s not a question exactly, there’s something distinctly uncertain in your tone. Are you seeking his permission or trying to reaffirm to yourself that you still have some semblance of freedom – romantic or otherwise – until the moment you walk down the aisle to bind yourself to him?
Neither thought sits particularly well with him, though before Oikawa can open his mouth to deliver a retort, you’re cutting him off. “And I’m not wearing the ring.”
“No? But I haven’t even shown it to you yet. I picked it out myself, and you know I have excellent taste.”
Your scowl deepens. “Would it kill you to take this seriously?”
“Like you are?” he parries. “You understand that you’re essentially giving me a free pass to fuck whoever I want while we’re engaged.”
He doesn’t miss the flicker of distaste that you try (and fail miserably) to hide. You’ve always been like that; wearing your emotions on your face, bare as the light of day. And while that’s an admirable trait in somebody else – one he admittedly finds more endearing than he should as far as you’re concerned – it won’t do you any favours in this world of his. The world you were born into, loathe as you seem to be to accept your part in it.
Admittedly, it does make it so very entertaining whenever he decides to push those delightful buttons of yours.
You take a deep breath, steeling yourself perhaps, and lift your gaze to meet his.
“I don’t know why you even agreed to marry me, and honestly I don’t care. I'm doing this for my family, but if this whole thing falls apart before I ever make it down the aisle, I’ll sleep just fine. So by all means, fuck whoever you want, whenever you want, I promise you I won’t stop you – so long as you hold up your end of the bargain.”
Though you never raise your voice, there’s a fire that burns in your eyes, unwavering. Unflinching. And far from being put off by it, Oikawa’s thrilled.
“Fine,” he purrs, “but you’ll be wearing the ring.”
—
You’d asked for a year, and graciously, he’d agreed.
Oikawa’s waited a long, long time for this, another twelve months will hardly make a difference. Besides, there’s nothing stopping him from stealing you away every now and then; there’s meetings with the wedding planner, picking out a venue, organising caterers, going over the guest lists – all responsibilities he could technically pass off to someone else, but why deny himself the pleasure of your sparkling company when he has the chance?
And of course, there’s special occasions that people would traditionally want to celebrate with their soon to be spouses. Days like today; his 30th birthday.
He doesn’t bother informing you of this, because then he’d miss out on seeing your bright, sunny grin when you open the door, and how it falters when you realise that it’s him.
“Oh, Oikawa…”
Though it’s an admittedly poor effort, he’ll give you credit for trying to pretend that it’s not blatant disappointment leaching from your tone as you grip the edge of the door, your gaze darting over his shoulder quickly.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
Ah. His eyes drift downwards, taking in the short, summery dress, the light sweep of makeup across your pretty face. Spies the ‘fuck me’ heels sitting by the door, ready for you to slip on before you leave.
Date night, then. And on his birthday no less.
“Did you have plans?” he asks, plastering an innocent smile across his face. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
The answer is obviously yes, even if it weren’t clear from your outfit, he can see it written all over your expression.
Your fingers tighten a fraction on the door, “I assumed– I thought tonight you’d be out with your… friends.” Friends, bodyguards, lieutenants, brothers. His family, soon to be yours. “To celebrate, I mean. Today’s your birthday, right?”
Oikawa’s touched that you remember. Then again, perhaps he shouldn’t be – ever since he was a teenager, your father had essentially enforced your presence (yours and your brother’s) at any of their events, birthday celebrations no exception.
Another glance risked over his shoulder.
He shrugs easily, “We will be, later. For now I want you all to myself.”
You open your mouth, only to abruptly snap it shut, suddenly hesitant. Not without cause, he supposes. One thing to insist that your engagement with him doesn’t construe a proper relationship, another to openly admit you’re seeing somebody else while it’s his ring that glitters on your finger.
His smile widens. “Unless you have somewhere else to be?”
“… Not at all.”
Good girl.
He takes you to his favourite restaurant in the city. Wraps an arm low around your back and lets his thumb rub slowly – posessively – at your hip when the staff bow deeply and address him by name, ushering you both to a private room, his usual, out the back.
You’re quiet through dinner, picking at the food on your plate.
Normally it’d irritate him, push him to poke and prod until you came alive and played with him, however tonight he finds it oddly satisfying. Delightful, if only because he knows he’s the cause of your discomfort.
Did you manage to message your jilted lover before he swept you away for the night, or does the poor bastard think you’ve stood him up, he wonders.
“You know,” he begins, idly gazing down at his glass as he swirls the last dregs of whiskey, “I’ve been thinking that we need to amend our contract.”
You glance up sharply, and he only barely resists snickering. “What?”
“I think we should add a fidelity clause.” He pauses, lets the words sink in as he drains his glass in a single mouthful, “You seemed convinced I’d be fucking other people after we married, well, now you don’t have to worry.”
You blink. “But… I told you I didn’t care–”
“This way, if you catch me being unfaithful, both our marriage and the contract become null and void, and you can go on your merry way.”
Setting the now empty glass back on the table, Oikawa rests an arm on the back of his chair. For all your naivety, you’ve never been stupid. He can tell from the sudden tight, apprehensiveness in your features that you understand the subtle threat, yet it never hurts to hammer the point home, “Of course, that goes both ways, sweetheart.”
“Of course,” you echo back, your voice unsteady, and knock back the last of your wine.
Oikawa grins, “Another round?”
—
“Her brother’s outside,” Matsukawa informs him. “Demanding to see you.”
The night before his wedding, Oikawa stands at the sink of his bathroom, a damp face cloth in hand, wiping at the blood splattered along his face and neck. He’s already shed his shirt, dumped it on the floor – it’s likely beyond salvaging, the blood already in the process of drying. Another casualty to this lifestyle, though considering how much of a colossal fuck up this night’s already been, he can’t find it within himself to give a shit about one measely shirt.
Mattsun meets his gaze in the mirror, “Want me to get rid of him?” he asks.
Oikawa exhales, dropping the towel into the sink. His tattoos, the vibrant bursts of colour inked between swirling blacks and greys, stand stark against the pale skin of his torso, rising and falling with each measured breath. There’s a temptation for him to tell Mattsun to simply get rid of him. An even bigger temptation to march out there himself and soothe the monster raging beneath his skin with more blood.
Instead, he holds out a hand, to which Hanamaki quickly passes him a clean shirt to shrug on.
“No. Let him in.”
In truth, he’d been somewhat expecting a visit tonight, sending your brother to grovel for last minute clemency, though? Oikawa’s almost disappointed, he expected more from you.
Your glowering brother isn’t nearly as pretty to look at.
A few minutes later, dressed and clean, Oikawa makes his way into his study, ignoring the man already seated while he settles himself into the leather backed chair behind his desk. His right hand, Iwaizumi, lingers by the door, arms folded across his chest, scowling silently at their guest.
“Oikawa,” he grits out, his head inclining just a fraction – all the respect he can seem to muster for the man marrying his sister. His soon to be Oyabun, considering that after tomorrow, all that he was poised to inherit becomes Oikawa’s.
His answering smirk is practically vulpine. “Come to play white knight? Leaving it a bit late, don’t you think?”
“She doesn’t know I’m here,” he spits, eyes narrowing. “Tell me what I need to do to end this.”
“And what makes you think I’d be interested in that?”
And Oikawa has to give him credit; he doesn’t waste a beat, “Because you’re a greedy little fuck who enjoys manipulating people. Stop playing games and tell me what it is you want in exchange for breaking this engagement, and I’ll go.”
He laughs, lazily drumming his fingers along the edge of the ornate, wooden desk. “Always a charmer, Eita. I’m curious, though, are you here begging for her sake, or your own? Because you know as well as I do what’ll happen to you and your father if this wedding doesn’t go ahead.” There’s nothing kind in his expression as his lips curl upwards, “Is the price worth it?”
“God, you’re an asshole.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Eita’s eyes narrow. “You know she hates this, right? Wants absolutely nothing to do with any of it. She had to beg our father for months just to be allowed to attend a normal school, and flat out refused to have any part in the business, to even be in the same room when it was being discussed – which was fine because he had me to do all that.”
“The prodigal son,” Oikawa mocks, earning himself a sneer in response.
“She wanted out, and we were so close to convincing him when he had to go fuck everything up. And because he’d spent years making bad decision after bad decision, running our family into the ground and then decided to screw over the wrong syndicate, he comes crawling to you, begging for help.”
“Such gratitude, as always.”
Eita scoffs, “Am I supposed to be grateful? It wasn’t enough to take over our territory and operations, was it? You had to take her too, and because she for some fucking reason loves the old bastard, she’s going along with it. I don’t give a shit about losing any of it, but she’s not gonna throw her life away for his sake, or mine. So I’ll ask you again, Oikawa; what do you want in exchange for letting her out of this?”
Interesting. Nothing he didn’t technically already know, or at least suspect, nevertheless… interesting. And with glittering eyes he leans in close. Smirks.
“As tempting an offer as that may be, I have everything I want.”
—
As the head of one of the largest Yakuza syndicates in the country, a small wedding was never an option. Hundreds of guests pour into the estate, all with the sole purpose of witnessing the two of you tying the knot in a beautiful, lavish ceremony. And it is a beautiful, lavish ceremony. Champagne towers and endless floral garlands falling between the glittering chandeliers, a string quartet plays as the wedding procession begins.
Your dress was technically the only thing he hadn’t had a hand in. He’d wondered earlier, staring at his reflection as he fixed the cuffs of his tuxedo jacket, what kind of wedding gown you’d chosen for yourself. After all, despite you agreeing to this marriage, you’d made no secret of your ambivalence towards the entire day, only giving input when Oikawa prodded.
There was always a possibility you’d choose something plain and dull, simply because you didn’t care enough to pick otherwise. As you walk down the aisle on your father’s arm, however, he realises he needn't have worried.
You’re perfect.
Heart-stoppingly beautiful in ivory lace and tulle, and though Iwa leans over, claps him on the shoulder and says something in his ear, Oikawa can’t hear a word of it. Can’t focus on anything – anyone – but you.
And your eyes are shining for all the wrong reasons, and yet he can’t bring himself to care when the elder Semi places your trembling hand in his. A perfect fit.
From there, the rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. Vows are spoken, yours somewhat apprehensively, and rings exchanged, and when the time comes to kiss his lovely bride, Oikawa obliges, his arm snakes around your waist and pulls you flush against him, dipping you to a flurry of raucous cheers and clapping.
You stand dutifully at his side as the hoard of well wishers come to congratulate him – the both of you, technically – and pay their respects, saying little beyond the expected pleasantries. All the while his thumb strokes along the back of the hand you have placed in his.
Cocktails. Dinner. Toasts. The cutting of the cake. Tossing your bouquet. Necessary traditions expected of you both, Oikawa suffers patiently through each of them until finally, it comes time for the two of you to leave.
The moment he has you alone, in the backseat of the wedding car, the last frayed tether of his self control snaps, and he’s on you.
Leaning across the seat, one hand cups the back of your neck, anchoring you in place as his parted lips crash greedily against your own, the other pulls at your skirt, blindly seeking the what awaits him beneath.
Oikawa can taste the notes of champagne on your lips, the sweet tartness of the chocolate dipped strawberries he watched you swipe from the dessert table before you left. Will your cunt taste as sweet, he wonders, his tongue sliding into your mouth in search of more.
“Tooru,” you gasp when he eventually draws back, a thin strand of spit connecting your mouths as you struggle to catch your breath. “Wait, just–”
“No,” he growls, tightening his grip and dragging you back in.
The force of it, his kiss, the weight of him bearing down on you has you sliding awkwardly back in the seat ‘til you’re almost horizontal. Despite that, you make no further attempts to dissuade him, letting him kiss you senseless.
Letting him ruck up your skirt and run his fingers along the seat of your lace panties.
Maybe because you know it’s pointless to fight when Oikawa’s made it clear has no interest in stopping or slowing down, maybe because you knocked back one too many glasses of champagne at the reception, or because you’re getting swept up along with it too – he doesn’t care for the reasons.
He’s been waiting all day to finally have you, and for years before that, and now that you’re irrevocably his, Oikawa fully intends on taking – and enjoying – what he’s owed.
The drive is fifteen minutes from the reception to the hotel, and by the time the driver pulls to a stop out front, Oikawa’s sliding those same panties off your smooth legs, pocketing them with a wicked grin. “Ready, sweetheart?” he purrs.
A little dazed, a little drunk, you only manage an unsteady nod, taking your husband’s proffered hand to step from the car and hastily adjust your dress, smoothing out any wrinkles. A waste of time, in his opinion, considering what he has planned for you, still, sort of cute, in its own way.
The clerk behind the counter is friendly enough, smiling politely and congratulating the two of you as he passes across the keys to the honeymoon suite. The second the doors to the elevator slide closed, Oikawa’s on you again, shoving you back against the mirrored wall, latching onto your neck, sucking and nibbling on the delicate flesh and palming at your tits as you throw your head back and heave a breathy sigh.
Your wedding dress, beautiful as it is, doesn’t make it much further than the front door, Oikawa’s fingers scrabbling to rip open the fastenings at the back, buttons scattering across the floor as it yields to him. And he’s enough of a gentleman to help you out of the wreckage of your dress, though he makes no effort to hide the way he stares hungrily, eyes darkening as you’re bared completely before him.
The curve of your breast, nipples peaking from arousal, those lovely, soft thighs he’s been waiting to dig his fingers into, the pretty little pussy you shyly try to hide from him, glistening from his earlier attention–
His cock twitches in anticipation.
Fuck.
“No bra?” he teases, as if his voice hasn’t dropped an octave at the sight of you. “And here I was looking forward to unwrapping my pretty bride on our wedding night.”
He watches your brow furrow as the soft dig works its way through your tipsy haze, and before you can let yourself get upset by it, Oikawa grabs you again. Kisses your lips fleetingly and grings, tugging you towards the bed covered in rose petals, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket and tossing it aside as he does so.
“Lie down for me,” he commands, working on the buttons of his shirt, his bow tie already lost somewhere in the fray. “On your back.”
Obediently you settle on the mattress, propped up on your elbows as he sheds that too. Through glazed eyes you stare at him. At his bared chest–
No, he realises belatedly. You’re staring at his tattoos, your eyes trailing from his forearm to his bicep, rounding his shoulder and down his pectoral, following the snarling red dragon that curls up his right arm, the oni and the twin snakes baring their fangs on the left.
This is the first time you’ve seen them, yes, but they shouldn’t come as a surprise. Both your brother and father have their own, it’s the mark of the Yakuza, and yet you seem entranced by his, staring at them with something akin to wonder.
“See something you like?” he asks, chuckling when you pointedly ignore him.
His ego stroked, he settles down on his knees at the foot of the bed. Holding you by your hips, Oikawa hauls you forward, ignoring your startled squeak, and nudges your thighs further apart. Licks his lips and lifts his lust darkened eyes to meet your own.
He watches you inhale, a flutter of trepidation teasing at the edges of your expression.
All you can seem to manage is a shaky, “Please.”
And he doesn’t know if you’re asking him to stop, or slow down or if it’s a plea for him to hurry up and get on with it. Again, it hardly matters – he has no intention of letting up tonight.
Leaning in, his nose skims along your inner thigh before he comes face to face with your pussy. Warm and glistening, clit nice and puffy, he’s waited long enough to taste you.
His mouth descends, tongue dragging along your pussy with broad strokes that have you gasping, jerking in his hold. It’s not the sweetness of your lips, still, there’s something heavenly about the taste of your cunt, the soft, feminine musk that envelops him. He moans against your sex, the vibrations drawing another whimpering breath as your hips arc up, gently rolling against his face in search of more friction.
Fuck that’s hot.
Oikawa teases at your clit, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth, sucking gently, letting the very tip of his tongue flick at it, before returning to lap at your folds.
“T-Tooru–”
A moan slips from you, your hips bucking as his tongue delves deeper, pushing between your slick folds, sucking and slurping, waggling his tongue back and forth to drive you to the point of madness. Your hands fist at the white sheets, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to try and stifle all of your pretty noises while he eats you out, tits heaving with every stuttered breath.
Now that just won’t do.
Adjusting his grip, Oikawa breaks away and instead brings his fingers to your cunt, teasing at your lower lips, before finally sliding two fingers inside of you with a smirk.
And your pussy’s so wet, so fucking needy, clinging to the digits as they slowly stretch your tight little hole out. It’s not enough. He knows it’s not enough, sees the frustration pinching at your face every time you chase his fingers when they withdraw. He can’t resist holding out just a little while longer, though.
Call it male pride, the twisted satisfaction that coils deep in his guts at the sight of you desperate and fighting against yourself to beg him for what you truly want– and he hasn’t even started fucking you yet.
“You wanna cum, don’t you baby?” he croons softly, “Just tell me what my pretty little wife needs.”
It takes a minute or two of that slow, agonising pace, but as you writhe and whine and jerk against his hold, finally your pride gives way. “Please!” you pant. “Please Tooru, more. I-I need more. I need your cock!”
He chuckles darkly, curling his fingers inside of you to rub at your g-spot as he leans down and resumes sucking at your neglected clit.
Whatever his wife wants.
—
Oikawa takes a slow drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing cherry red in the dark, and exhales into the cool night air.
“Whose?” he asks.
Iwa shrugs, “Dunno yet. Mattsun reckons one of the Osaka assholes trying to cut into our territory. So far they aren’t talking.”
Oikawa’s attention shifts for a moment. Sure enough, the last two gang members have been dragged off to have a chat with Makki and Matsukawa. The latter of the two currently straddling one of them, beating him into the ground, Makki tightly gripping the other’s face forcing him to watch.
There’s nothing but cold certainty in his voice when he simply says, “They will.”
He drops the cigarette to the ground and grinds the smoldering embers beneath the heel of his shoe. Without another word he strides into the warehouse – a makeshift den.
The bodies haven’t been touched yet, lying where they fell in pools of congealing blood, scattered bullet casings littering the ground around them. Oikawa pays them no mind. Instead he glances at the pallets strewn across the warehouse floor, brick upon brick of drugs, cocaine, meth, bundled baggies of non-descript little pills. More than he can count, at any rate.
And there’s cases of weapons too. Nothing flash or fancy, but guns are guns, and Oikawa’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Iwa’s silent beside him, gazing around the room with a shrewd look in his eye, likely trying to calculate the street value of it all.
Ever the businessman.
Oikawa smirks.
Drugs will sell no matter what they’re cut with. It’s impossible to tell the quality by sight alone – retrieving his switchblade from his jacket pocket, he slices one of the bricks open, dips a finger in and swipes it along his gums.
It takes only a second for that familiar rush of euphoria to wash over him, a pleasant shiver rolling down his spine. He grins. “It’s good. Pure.” A glance to Iwa, watching at his side, “How much?”
“Gotta be more than 300 pounds here.”
And fuck if he doesn’t like the sound of that. Oikawa whistles, unable to hide the smug satisfaction on his face.
“There’s girls too,” Yahaba, one of his men, says, stalking in from the back. “Mad Dog’s with ‘em.”
Five of them, he counts when he follows his lieutenant, huddled up out by the rear entrance, cringing away from the scowling blond who looks as if he’d love nothing more than to tear them apart, one after the other.
Part of the shipment, or merely entertainment, he wonders.
He steps closer, grabs one of the girl’s faces and forces it upwards, tilting it this way and that, studying her like a prize mare at auction. Clear eyes. Clean hair. No sign of bruising under the thickly applied – now smudged – makeup. Girls fresh off the proverbial boat tended to be drugged to high heaven to keep them compliant.
Even their clothes, the scraps they still have on at least, point towards a more established lifestyle.
Escorts, no doubt, brought along by the men for some entertainment while they guarded their stash before transport.
Shoving her away, Oikawa exhales, bringing his hand to his chin as he ponders the options.
Nobody will miss the girls if he orders Kyoutani and Yahaba to kill them. Either they’re owned by the same people who shipped in the drugs and the weapons, in which case their deaths’ll be chalked up to being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or they have a pimp, who beyond the loss of income, won’t give a shit.
No one kicks up a fuss over a few dead whores.
And even if they did, Oikawa owns the working girls in this city, this is his fucking turf. They should know better than to send their girls out here.
Yahaba and Kyoutani are both watching him carefully, awaiting the order. They wouldn’t so much as blink if he told them to cut the girls down right where they stood.
If he were feeling particularly generous, he could let them go, run on back home to whatever brothel they crawled out of. Unfortunately for them, he’s all too aware that the only things girls like them are quicker to open than their legs are their mouths, and that just won’t do.
At the end of the day, though, a whore’s a whore; they’ll make money one way or another. Even the ugly ones.
“Take them back to Hirama’s, she’ll find work for them. Who knows, Mad Dog,” he says, throwing his enforcer a wry grin and a wink, “If you’re lucky, she might even let you fuck one of them first.”
The blond scowls, even under the flickering lights he can’t hide the pink flush that stains his cheeks.
Iwa raises an eyebrow, snickering at Kyoutani’s expense, “You think so? I thought she was still pissed at him for breaking the last one.”
“Mad Dog just likes to play rough, that’s all,” he smirks. “Hirama knows that, and besides, she owes me a favour.”
The girls are already out of his mind as he turns to leave, carrying on his conversation with Iwa. Tonight’s endeavours have been surprisingly fruitful – enough that he can’t justify being pissed off at getting called away in the middle of fucking his wife.
That doesn’t mean he isn’t itching to return.
He’s almost at the warehouse door when a clamour breaks out behind him. Yahaba curses, a few of the girls shout, and there’s a gasped “Wait!” called out.
Oikawa whirls to find one of the escorts, a slight blonde with painted red lips and wide doe eyes, ducking out from under Kyoutani’s outstretched arm.
She ignores the snarl from Kyoutani, the pistol Iwaizumi instinctively whips out, focused wholly on him as she grabs at his arm and clings to it, presses her lithe, scantily clad body close, “Wait,” she says, tears glimmering in her eyes even as she tries for a convincing sultry look, “Don’t send me away, I– we could–”
He doesn’t wait to hear what the two of them could do, backhanding her hard enough that she sprawls to the ground with a ugly cry.
“Whores don’t get to touch,” he sneers, spitting on her curled up figure for good measure.
Good mood all but evaporated, he meets Kyoutani’s eye as the blond snaps forward to grab her by the arm and roughly haul her back to her feet.
“If they decide to be difficult, get rid of them.”
—
She made us. She’s pissed.
Oikawa glances up at the approaching sound of your heels clicking against the marble floor. Quick. Agitated. Kunimi wasn’t wrong, it seems.
Mere seconds later, the door to his study is thrown open, and in you stalk; a storm of beautiful fury. “You’re having me followed?!”
Smoothly, he pockets his phone and rises to his feet. “Ah, there you are, sweetheart. I was wondering when you’d be getting back.” He takes a long, lingering look at your outfit; the red knit, halter dress that clings so beautifully to the curves of your body. “Gone for hours at a time, dressed like that… What’s a husband to do?”
The grin on his face is nothing short of a challenge.
“So you think I’m cheating on you, is that it?” you spit, crossing your arms over your chest. “You really think so little of me?”
He comes out from behind his desk and mimics your posture, arms folded as he leans back against the varnished surface and meets your narrowed gaze. “Do I need to remind you, baby, of what’d happen if you were?”
And if he weren’t staring at you so intently, if he didn’t know your expressions and body language inside and out, perhaps he might’ve missed that tiny flicker of fear in your eyes.
Not a confirmation exactly, yet enough for him to know he’s not entirely off the mark, and oh how that makes him burn.
“You’d… divorce me and take away my family’s protection,” you mutter, your tone more petulant now than angry.
Oikawa nods, “On paper, yes.”
“On pa– what do you mean on paper?”
His lips curl into a cruel smile, “That was our deal, wasn’t it? Either one of us cheats, and our contract becomes void.”
Your eyebrows furrow, “That’s what I just–”
“That’s all. The contract becomes void on paper. It means that if I decide I want to get rid of your father myself, no one’ll stop me. No one would fucking dare.” He pushes off the desk and closes in on you – a tiger stalking its prey. “And that brother of yours. Your shining white knight. What do you think I’ll do to him?”
His voice is soft, sweet almost. A loving caress, if not for the terrible words he speaks. But he wants you afraid, wants you terrified. Two fingers gently tilt your chin upwards, and he basks in the way you flinch from him, the alarm you seem so desperate to tamp down bleeding all over your lovely face.
“And me?” you whisper. Would you kill me too, he reads in your eyes.
“You really think so little of me?” he parrots back, sickly satisfied when your stricken expression stutters. “You’re my wife; I love you, you know that. Why would I go to all the trouble of making you mine just to throw you away so heartlessly?”
He sees the flicker of confusion in your eyes, and the moment your lips part he’s kissing you, tamping down any protest. Devouring, though, would probably be a better word. Kissing to bruise, to hurt. To claim. Teeth harshly nipping at your bottom lip, Oikawa moans when he tastes the coppery tang of blood on his tongue.
It’s not enough, though.
You make the mistake of trying to wriggle out of his hold, whining pathetically into the kiss, and the last meagre tether on his composure snaps. The desk is only feet away, but he doesn’t have the patience to drag you over to it when the wall is right fucking there.
Breaking away, he grabs your sides and roughly spins you around, slamming you back against the door hard enough for a pained gasp to leave your lips.
“Tooru– Tooru, wait, please!”
No. He’s never been cruel to you – not how men can truly be cruel – tonight, though, he can’t be bothered caring about the tears spilling from your lashes or the panicked shriek you give when he hikes up the skirt of your dress and yanks your panties aside.
“I haven’t– I wouldn’t–” you keep babbling – he pays it no mind as he hurriedly frees his cock from his pants and lines himself up.
“You’re mine,” he hisses, sheathing himself inside of you with one hard, brutal thrust. “My pretty wife.”
Your cries are louder now, agonised and wailing, Oikawa’s long past the point of caring, though. His staff know better than to pry, and his men won’t intercede on matters between their Oyabun and his wife, no matter how loud you get.
This is between you and him.
“You think I don’t know about the texts you hide?” Another thrust. “The calls, late at night? Your disappearing act last week?” His hips clap against your backside, his pace vicious and unrelenting.
The dryness of your cunt makes it an unpleasant start, yet it hardly takes long before your syrupy slick begins to coat his length, easing his passage no matter how violently he pounds into you.
And despite your whimpers and hitched pleas, how you struggle fruitlessly against him, the plush, velvety walls of your heat cling to his cock, sucking him deeper with each fevered stroke. He pushes himself closer to you, buries his face in your hair and breathes deep, relishing how you shake and tremble as he stuffs you full, your poor little pussy moulding to the shape of his dick.
As if he can imprint himself permanently inside of you if he just fucks you well enough.
The door shakes against its stop every time he slams you against it, and that, plus your sweet sobs and the panting breaths you share, is almost enough to drown out the slick, gushing sound coming from your pussy and the rapid paps of his balls hitting your top of your thighs.
Almost, but not quite.
He’ll never tire of fucking you, not when your cunt’s so warm and you feel this good squeezing and fluttering around him. Oikawa’d rather die than ever give this up, and with a fist tangled in your hair, he yanks your head back to whisper as much in your ear. Drags his hungry mouth over your neck, nipping and sucking at the soft, supple flesh for good measure.
You shudder around him, and he groans in pleasure. His wife. His.
“I haven’t… fucked him,” you gasp out, mewling as his cock hits a sweet spot, deep inside of you. “It’s not like that.”
His expression darkens, a scowl twisting at his lips at the mention of your would-be lover. “End it,” he snarls, “or I’ll kill him myself.”
—
Less than two weeks later, Oikawa's being driven to an important meeting when Iwaizumi’s phone suddenly blares to life.
He pays it no mind, content to let his oldest friend handle whatever issue has sprung up while he busies himself with retrieving his cigarette case from the breast pocket of his jacket. Flicking the silver lid open, Oikawa slips one out and mindlessly offers the case to Iwa – who ignores it entirely – as he pats his other pockets in search of his lighter.
“When?”
He knows that flat tone all too well, and glances up sharply to find Iwa staring ahead, his jaw set, face grim. Whoever’s on the other end of the line speaks for a moment more, the volume too low for him to discern what they’re saying. Whatever it is seemingly does little to set Iwa at ease.
“Fuck… Alright, get back to the house. Tell Makki and whoever else is there not to let her out of their sight ‘til we get back.”
“What is it?”
Iwa sighs, pocketing his phone and pressing the button to lower the partition between them and the driver, “There was a drive-by downtown fifteen minutes ago. Semi Takuma’s dead.”
—
For a man who once helmed one of Tokyo’s most formidable syndicates, your father’s funeral draws a pitifully small turnout.
Oikawa could blame the weather, the dreary grey sky and the rain clouds that show no sign of letting up for keeping mourners away. The truth of the matter, however, is simply that by the end of his life, Semi Takuma’s friends were few and far between. He recognises all bar a few of the faces in the crowd, most of them from his own family, there not to pay respect to the dead – the elder Semi inspired little of that – but in support of you, the beloved wife of their Oyabun.
Clinging to his side under the awning, your face wet with fresh tears and eyes puffy and rimmed red from the countless that had come before. Perhaps the only true mourner in attendance. Not even your brother, standing stone faced at the temple doors, greeting those who’ve bothered to turn up, seems to be able to muster much grief for the man he called a father.
Briefly, it occurred to him that you might’ve been the one behind the hit. A cold hearted, calculating move to be sure, still, even you must recognise what you’d stand to gain in removing a bargaining chip from the board.
Could you do it? Kill the man who raised you? Who loved you, and sold you like cattle to save his own skin despite it? You’re not like Oikawa, you’re not even like your brother; you’ve never had the heart for their kind of corruption. He’d never peg you as a killer, even via proxy, but… maybe he’d pushed you too far that night in his study.
Desperate people do desperate things.
And yet Oikawa hadn’t come home that day to crocodile tears or smirking pride, only pain and heartbreak and clenched fists beating at his chest as you sobbed yourself hoarse and broke against him.
‘You promised! You promised you’d protect him!’
He’d taken the blows, held you tight until the tears subsided. Kissed you so tenderly as your fingers curled into his shirt and you buried your face above his beating heart.
It’d be a lie to say that he cares one way or another about your father’s death beyond the implication of trouble brewing, but this – your sweet dependency, how desperate you’ve become for any semblance of comfort in his arms (however temporarily) – Oikawa wouldn’t trade this for the world.
He sighs heavily, dropping a kiss to the crown of your head. “Baby, we gotta go in. It’s almost time.”
Finally, you lift your face, lips parting to say something, only to fall silent instead, your expression morphing into one of shock as you spy something over his shoulder.
Oikawa turns sharply, following your gaze. Sure enough, standing under an umbrella near the old, wooden pillars by the temple gates is a dark haired man dressed in a black suit. Familiar, though when he racks his brain to try and place from where, he comes up with a blank. That in itself is enough to unsettle him.
And while there’s nothing threatening in his stance, no obvious bump or crease in the line of his suit to suggest a concealed weapon, he knows better than to assume this stranger isn’t carrying, much less that he isn’t a possible threat.
Oikawa hasn’t gotten to where he is today by ignoring his gut.
“Tooru,” your voice is quiet. Hoarse. And though you clutch at his larger hand, tugging at it with insistence, he doesn’t budge. “Let’s go inside. Please, Tooru, I can’t– I can’t do this without you.”
Your father was not a well loved man, and they’ve yet to find any solid leads as to who’s responsible for the hit against him. If the man by the gate had so much as a hand in it–
He makes a snap decision. “Stay with Iwa,” he orders, prying his hand from your grip with what little gentleness he can muster. “If he tells you to do something, you do it.” Even as he spits the words, hears the sharp hitch in your breath as your fingers scrabble to keep their grip on him, his attention remains firmly fixed on the dark haired figure.
Yet the stranger makes no move to enter the temple grounds, seemingly content standing in the rain under the cover of his umbrella, staring right back at Oikawa.
… No. Not at him, he realises after a beat. He’s staring at you.
“Tooru, don’t!” you cry.
Two words.
With a painful slowness, he turns back to look at you. Narrowed eyes sweeping across your face, studying it with a frightening intensity. You’ve never been able to hide your feelings from him; he can read you like a book, knows you like the back of his hand.
Your expression is twisted. Agonised, but not with the raw, aching grief you’ve succumbed to over the past few days.
It’s fear that shines in those beautiful eyes of yours.
Panic.
Two words, a tightening grip, and Oikawa understands.
“Please,” you beg, clutching at him desperately. “We’ll go inside and just forget all about this, okay? I told him not to come, I swear! I-I told him–”
You’re starting to hyperventilate, short, squeaking breaths shaking your frame. Like a bunny, cornered and frightened, cowering from the jaws of the big, bad wolf.
He grins. Takes both of your trembling hands in his, lifts them to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the back of each. Kisses the glittering diamond atop your ring finger last of all. “Baby,” he purrs, silk over a razor’s edge, “Do what I tell you. Stay with Iwaizumi.”
His second is already there. Has been since the moment he clocked the interloper, maybe even before Oikawa did. Without a word he takes you from Oikawa, sweeps you back with a strong arm curled around your waist and holds you there, struggling pitifully against him. Mere feet away your brother watches on, jaw set, hands clenched into fists by his side, glaring at the both of them as you beg and cry softly in Iwa’s arms.
Oikawa doesn’t even bother acknowledging his presence. Eita can glower and sneer all he likes, they both know he won’t interject. Not with this. Not against them.
Not even for you.
Pulling his umbrella from the stand, Oikawa opens it with a flourish, spares you one last grin, and steps out into the lashing rain.
“Relax, baby. He and I are just gonna have a friendly chat, that’s all!”
The sound of your sweet begging follows him until distance and the rain drown them out.
Closer now, he gets a better look at the man who fancies himself in love with you (and he’d have to be to risk coming here, knowing who your husband is).
His face is pretty enough, he supposes, fine, delicate features with eyes a piercing, gunmetal blue. His hair’s short, dark – messy and windswept – and yet the rest of his appearance; the well tailored suit, polished black oxfords, even the watch that pokes out from under his sleeve; they give the impression of someone put together. Methodical, even.
He can’t be much older than Oikawa, if he’s older at all, and he stands a few inches shorter, his build perhaps a fraction slighter. And if the man has tattoos – if he’s from another syndicate – they’re covered as his are, hidden beneath his clothes.
Unlike Oikawa, though, he isn’t smiling.
“You know who I am.”
It’s not a question, he doesn’t phrase it as such, however the dark haired stranger nods anyway; a short, sharp jerk of his chin. “Oikawa Tooru. I know plenty,” he replies bluntly.
“Good,” he says. “Now, I have a funeral to get to, a grieving wife to comfort, so I’ll make this quick. Showing your face here today was a ballsy move, I’ll give you that, it was also incredibly stupid. See, the thing is; I love my wife. More than some little shit like you could possibly begin to understand, but I’d sooner chain her to our bed and break every bone in her fucking body than let her touch another man, much less leave with one.
“If I were you, I’d tuck tail and run. Find some other city, some other man’s wife to pant after, because if you don’t…” he trails off, finally dropping his charming smile, “I’m gonna take my time killing you, and I’ll make her sit through every last second.”
The stranger says nothing, expression carefully blank, save for the slight narrowing of his eyes. They shift, sliding past Oikawa to gaze at the temple – or more accurately, at you, watching the interaction unfold from the safety of Iwa’s grasp.
After a moment, he looks back at Oikawa. “My condolences,” he says, and without another word, walks away.
—
Weeks ago, you’d stormed into his office, claws out and itching for a fight after finding out he was having you followed.
When he brings you back in the days following the funeral and tells you that you’re not allowed to leave the comfort of the sprawling estate without him by your side, you simply stare at the rug by his feet and in a tight, controlled voice, ask why.
Sighing, as if your refusal to meet his gaze physically wounds him, Oikawa takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently – lovingly – and leads you across the room to sit. Or, more accurately, he sits, and you somewhat reluctantly allow yourself to be tugged down onto his lap. “We still don’t know who killed your father, it’s not safe for you to be out there without me,” he murmurs, his palm grazing along your thigh in a false show of comfort.
Not a lie per se.
“Can you blame me for being overly cautious, baby?” he asks, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of you – jasmine and vanilla, the faintest hint of citrus – has his blood stirring, sends a pang of heady want straight to his cock. God, he’d fucking lick it off of your skin if he could. “I can’t bear the thought of you getting hurt,” his fingers creep up under your skirt, his lips littering the curve of your throat with soft little kisses, “I like knowing my beautiful, lovely wife is safe and sound at home, right where I left her.”
…Until one day, you aren’t.
Divorce papers, signed in your name lay atop the mahogany desk in his study. Your wedding and engagement rings carefully placed next to your signature; impossible for him to miss.
Not a spur of the moment scramble for freedom, then.
The estate is eerily quiet. Not the calm before the storm. The blood on the gravel of his driveway, a stolen wife, Makki riddled with bullets – the storm’s already begun. Ripped its way through his home and family. This, this is the eye of it.
“How?” his voice is ice.
Kindaichi scowls, glaring at nothing in particular. He knows as well as Oikawa does; keeping an eye on you today was his responsibility, and in the wake of your disappearance–
“Bedroom window,” he admits with a frustrated huff. “She said she was tired and wanted to lie down for a bit. What was I supposed to do, follow her in there?”
Oikawa’s eyes flash, and Kindaichi’s jaw snaps shut. “And Makki?” he presses.
“Makki wasn’t supposed to be here. I dunno know why he showed up when he did. I guess he saw her running and tried to stop her and–” he breaks off abruptly, suddenly interested in looking anywhere except at the steaming Oyabun.
“… And?” Oikawa hisses, dropping the papers and rounding on his subordinate. “And what?”
“It was him. The guy Iwa says you’re looking for, the one you ran into at the funeral. Her–” he stumbles over the word, and changes tactics. “… He shot him. Came outta fucking nowhere.”
Fury rises up, choking at him as his blood roars, and for a moment, he can’t speak. Of course you hadn’t been the one to shoot Makki. You, who’d never so much as held a gun. You, who abhorred the more violent aspects of his life. You, who ran off with a fucking–
“Get out.”
He waits until the door shuts before fishing his phone from his pocket. Scours through his contacts until he finds the one he’s looking for.
It rings once. Twice. Three ti–
“Oikawa,” Eita greets, and there’s something in that tone, beyond the irritating arrogance and barely concealed disdain he usually holds for his brother in law that has him narrowing his eyes. He sounds almost… pleased.
“… You knew,” he surmises after a beat. “You fucking knew?!”
Eita snorts.
“Are you honestly surprised, Oikawa? Not so easy to keep your wife in line when your leverage gets gunned down in broad daylight, is it?”
Oikawa’s grip on his phone tightens, and he draws a sharp breath in through clenched teeth. “You think I won’t come after you?” he seethes.
“You’re more than welcome to try, asshole. I watched you hold me and him over her head for too fucking long, watched you hurt her, try and break her. I’ve been waiting for this a long, long time.”
“Tell me where she is, Eita.”
Silence greets him, and when he pulls the phone from his ear, the call’s been disconnected. He swears viciously, tossing it aside. Planting both of his hands against his desk, Oikawa hunches over and breathes raggedly, waiting for the white haze of pulsing anger to abate.
You left him. You left him. You left him. You left him. You left him.
The rings you left behind stare mockingly back at him, and he makes his decision. Snatching them both up, he shoves them in his pocket and rounds the desk, yanking open the right hand drawer to grab the pistol he keeps stashed away in there.
With a cold focus, he slips out the magazine, checks the rounds and jams it back into position, cocking the slide to load it before tucking it in the back of his waistband.
He told you once what he’d do if you ever laid a finger on another man, the lengths he’d go to to keep you his. Told your trigger happy lover, too.
What happens next; well, you can’t say he didn’t warn you.
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