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Shouyou stares blankly at the contract before him spread like a death warrant, each clause a noose tightening incrementally around the future he thought he might have had.
He takes a deep inhale, inadvertently taking in the scent of lemon verbena wafting in the air of the opulent conference room, all polished mahogany and floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the Tokyo skyline like a particularly ostentatious painting. He sits in a chair too large for him, surrounded by lawyers who keep using words like ‘strategic alliance’ and ‘brand consolidation’ and ‘merger benefits’, as though his entire existence is being reduced to a line item in a quarterly earnings report.
Which, he supposes, it is.
Across the mahogany table, Kageyama Tobio has not looked at him once. Not since Shouyou entered the room forty-five minutes ago with his father’s legal team flanking him like sentinels. No—Kageyama’s attention remains fixed on the documents before him, a fountain pen that probably costs more than most people’s monthly wage poised between his long, elegant fingers, signing where his own lawyers indicate him to with barely concealed disinterest and has done this a thousand times before.
Acquiring. Consolidating. Consuming.
Shouyou’s own fingers twitch against the armrests. He wants to reach across the table and snatch that fucking pen, wants to hurl it through the pristine glass and watch the city breathe back in, wants to do anything other than sit here like a good little acquisition and sign his name next to this virtual stranger’s, who is to become his husband.
Husband. The word feels absurd in his mouth, like he’s being forced-fed pig slop.
"Hinata-sama?" One of his father’s lawyers—Minato, he thinks, or maybe Sato? They all blur together in their identical suits—nudges the contract toward him. "Your signature is required on pages twelve, fifteen, and the final addendum."
Shouyou takes the pen offered to him. It’s heavy, unnecessarily so, as if the weight of what he’s about to do has been physically transmuted into gold-plated metal.
The thought of his sister swims to the forefront of his mind, the way her expression had crumpled like paper in rain when he told her of this…transaction. Natsu had cried—his little sister, who’s always been infallible and indomitable even at twelve years old, who didn’t so much as shed a single tear when getting her shots, had cried. Wailed, in fact, her sobs still haunting Shouyou’s nightmares.
He, however, hadn’t cried. He’d been too busy feeling like the floor had dropped out from beneath his feet, leaving him suspended in a freefall that has yet to end.
Hinata Pharmaceuticals, the once formidable name in sports nutrition, is failing. Has been failing for years, if Shouyou’s being honest with himself, bleeding money through wounds his father’s pride refused to let him stitch. And the Kageyama Corporation—a behemoth of tech and real estate holdings that spans continents—offered a lifeline.
The price? Hinata Shouyou, the only son, twenty-four years old, with a degree in sports management he’ll never use and a personality his father always said was ‘too much, too loud, too bright for boardrooms.’ His hand in marriage to the Kageyama Corporation heir apparent. A merger of blood as well as business.
"Hinata-sama?" The lawyer again shoves the contract closer, impatient now.
Shouyou finally looks up. For the first time since he sat down, Kageyama meets his eyes.
It’s like being struck by lightning he’s actually more surprised he’s not being jolted out of his seat right now. Shouyou has seen photographs, of course—has spent the last three weeks poring over every article, every interview, every carefully curated image of the man who will own him. None of them prepared him for the reality of Kageyama Tobio’s gaze: dark and assessing, its intensity condensed into the color of deep ocean trenches where light fears to venture. He looks at Shouyou as if he’s evaluating and determining his worth, posture undeterred in his navy blue Italian suit molded to his very impressive physique.
Somehow, this jerk being insanely handsome makes this whole thing so much worse.
Shouyou’s chin lifts. He refuses to flinch. He refuses to be less in this moment, even if they’re trying to make him small enough to fit in a filing cabinet.
"Just making sure I’m not signing away a kidney," he says, and his voice comes out bright, almost cheerful, the way it always does when he’s terrified. And he’s fucking terrified. "Or my firstborn. Though I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?"
A muscle in Kageyama’s sharp jaw ticks. The lawyers shift uncomfortably, papers rustling like nervous birds.
"Make sure you take note of clause twenty-seven on page twelve," Kageyama says, and his voice is exactly as Shouyou expected: controlled, devoid of inflection. "Your obligations regarding public appearances and media representation."
"Ah. The 'look pretty and shut up' clause."
"Hinata-sama, please—" one of his father’s lawyers hisses.
"It’s fine." Kageyama’s gaze doesn’t waver. "Hinata-san is simply... acclimating. As is his right."
The words are generous. The delivery, however, is not. There’s something almost robotic in Kageyama’s patience, as if he’s programmed to tolerate Shouyou’s outbursts until they can be properly debugged. It’s almost funny. Almost.
Maybe he can use that to fuel his rage even more, to direct his hatred to this conveniently, attractively placed target in front of him.
He tries to summon the emotion, to let it fill the hollow space where his autonomy is slowly being murdered. But hatred requires energy, and right now all he has is the desperate, manic urge to survive this, to get through the next hour, the next day, the next however-many-years of this godsforsaken life without shattering into pieces too small to reassemble.
Finally, he urges his hand to sign. The pen scratches across paper like a wound opening, again and again, his name in kanji that suddenly looks foreign to him, like it belongs to someone else.
Hinata Shouyou, the contract reads.
Party of the second part.
Spouse.
Asset.
When he finishes, he drops the pen. It clatters against the table, loud as a gunshot in the suffocating silence.
"Welcome to the family," Kageyama says, and for the first time there’s something almost like humor in his voice, dry and dark as unsweetened coffee. "I’ll have your things moved to the penthouse before the wedding. Security protocols require that you reside in the primary residence immediately following the ceremony."
"How romantic," Shouyou manages. "Should I expect a white horse and a glass slipper, or is that extra?"
Kageyama’s lips thin. Not quite a smile. Not quite a frown. "I’ll send the specifications for your wardrobe requirements. The wedding is in three weeks. Black suit. You’ll need to be fitted."
Shouyou reins in the urge to roll his eyes. "And if I prefer something fun, like, I don’t know, purple, maybe? Or will that clash with my hair?"
Another tick on that cut, clean-shaven jaw. "Black. I’ll have my assistant contact you regarding the schedule."
He stands, and Shouyou is abruptly reminded of how large Kageyama actually is—not just tall, though he is very much that, towering over everyone with the kind of height that should make him gangly but somehow manifests as imposing instead. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. A living, breathing Adonis draped in a vicuña wool three-piece suit. He looks like what he is: a man who has never wanted for anything, who has never had to wonder if the ground beneath his feet might suddenly give way.
"Three weeks," Shouyou repeats. "Barely enough time to plan a funeral."
"That’s what we’re having," Kageyama says, and there’s something almost gentle in it, a softness that disappears so quickly Shouyou thinks he imagined it. "A funeral. For who we were. Try to remember that, Hinata-san. It will make the transition easier."
He’s gone before Shouyou can formulate a response, swept out of the room by his own phalanx of lawyers and assistants, leaving Shouyou alone with the scent of cedar and lemon verbana and the crushing weight of a future he never chose.
⚭
Rigid as a brick wall, Shouyou stands at the end of the aisle—because of course it’s a church wedding, of course Kageyama’s family is old money with older traditions, of course they’re being married in the same cathedral where generations of Kageyama heirs have taken their vows—and tries not to vomit on his shoes polished to a mirror shine that reflects the hundreds of faces turned toward him.
Strangers, he thinks. All of them strangers, and they’re watching me like I’m the main attraction at a fucking zoo.
His father is beside him, arm linked through his, but there’s no comfort in the gesture. This is your fault, he wants to scream, to rage, to make a scene just to spoil this pretentious setup and everything it represents. You did this to me. You sold me to save your pride, you asshole.
Swallowing those acrid words, he plasters on a smile instead, the bright, cheerful smile that has gotten him through every tragedy in his life, and takes the first step forward.
The aisle feels unending. Rose petals scatter beneath his feet, white and red, as if he’s walking down a road paved with blood and bones while the organ plays something classical and somber, a march that feels more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding.
He focuses on breathing, on putting one foot in front of the other, on not looking at the man waiting for him at the altar.
He fails tremendously at the last part.
Kageyama is devastating in black. The tuxedo fits him like it was sewn onto his body, every line sharp enough to cut, and his hair is styled back from his face in a way that reveals the stark beauty of his bone structure. He looks like a king. Like a god. Like someone who has never doubted his right to stand here and like claiming another human being as property is the most mundane part of his Tuesday itinerary.
Amber eyes meet sapphire ones.
Kageyama’s expression remains as impassive as ever, but something in the air whispers differently, a current that makes the hair on Shouyou’s arms stand up.
‘I see you,’ that look seems to say, loud and scathing in Shouyou’s mind. ‘I see you and I’m not impressed.’
Well, we’ll see about that, jerk-face.
Not breaking eye contact, he saunters down the aisle, hips swaying just slightly, enough to make the tailored suit shift across his body in ways that aren’t entirely appropriate for church. He sees the way Kageyama’s gaze drops, just for a fraction of a second, to the line of his waist, and feels a vicious surge of satisfaction.
You might own me on paper, Shouyou seethes mentally, defiance curdling in his blood, but you don’t own this. You’ll never own this.
The ceremony passes in a blur of vows that makes him want to dry heave. He says "I do" because he has to, because there are cameras everywhere and his father’s company is already beginning its recovery since the merger, because he’s trapped in this gilded cage and the only way out is through.
When Kageyama slides the ring onto his finger—a platinum band heavy with studded diamonds that feel like shackles—Shouyou’s hand remains surprisingly steady.
He doesn’t even flinch when the priest announces them ‘husband and husband,’ not even when Kageyama leans in to press their lips together, which lasts exactly as long as propriety demands, cool and dry and utterly devoid of passion.
The crowd applauds. The cameras flash. And Shouyou smiles, smiles, smiles until his face aches with it.
"You didn’t wear them," Kageyama murmurs against his ear as they turn to face their adoring public. Not angry. Curious, almost. "The suit I had custom-made for you.”
"I don’t take orders well," Shouyou whispers back, still smiling for the cameras, straightening his plum-colored Armani suit. Not really the kind of purple he would have liked, but it’s as far as he’s going to get without incurring the full wrath of his father. He was livid, though, which was as satisfying as one-upping his husband on their wedding day. "It will serve you well to figure it out early.”
Kageyama’s hand tightens on his waist, thumb pressing into the hollow of his hip in a way that sends a jolt of something electric up Shouyou’s spine. "We’ll see," he says, and there’s a promise in it that makes Shouyou’s breath catch.
"Is that a threat or a promise, Kageyama-sama?"
"Both," Kageyama replies smoothly, guiding him toward the reception line. "Try to keep up, Kageyama-sama. I’d hate for you to stumble on your first day."
"Oh, I never stumble," Shouyou says brightly, leaning into Kageyama’s side with false affection that somehow feels real. For the cameras. "I leap. Sometimes I fall. But I always get back up. I always win."
Kageyama’s lips twitch. "That," he says quietly, "I’m inclined to believe."
⚭
The reception is torture, but Shouyou makes it a game. You know, for shits and giggles.
Every time some vulture in silk and pearls comments on what a "good match" they are, Shouyou squeezes Kageyama’s hand so hard he can hear his joints sound with a satisfying ‘crack!’ and says something outrageous like, "Yes, we’re hoping for six children and a golden retriever named Stock Portfolio."
When a politician asks about Kageyama’s five-year plan, Shouyou interjects with, "He’s planning to learn how to smile by year three. I’m optimistic."
Kageyama’s grip on his waist becomes vice-like, but when Shouyou glances up, there’s amusement warring with exasperation in those azure eyes.
"You’re insufferable," Kageyama mutters between clenched teeth, trying to look amicable for the cameras, but it just makes him look like he’s having an aneurysm.
"You’re stuck with me," Shouyou whispers back. "Might as well laugh."
"I don’t laugh."
"Wow, revelation of the century,” Shouyou fires back, lifting his champagne flute in recognition when a tech mogul passes by.
He’s drinking too much, he knows, and he also knows all too well, how he becomes when he gets lost in the haze of alcohol.
He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny. He dances with his father and his sister—Natsu, beautiful and tear-streaked and trying so hard to be brave for him—and feels like he’s watching himself from outside his body, a puppet performing for an audience that has already decided how his story ends.
By the time they’re finally released from the nightmarish clutches of social obligations, Shouyou’s head is spinning from too much champagne (which is divine, to be honest) and his cheeks hurt from smiling. Kageyama remains at his elbow like a shadow, solid and warm and smelling of lemon verbena and something darker, something that makes Shouyou’s stomach clench with an emotion he refuses to name.
"The limo is waiting," Kageyama says, and his hand is on Shouyou’s lower back, guiding him toward the exit with a proprietary ease that makes Shouyou want to both lean into it and shove it away. Must be the champer’s inebriating effect. Yeah, definitely that. "Unless you’d prefer to stay and continue... socializing."
The utter disdain in his voice makes it clear what he thinks of Shouyou’s socializing. Instinctively, he bristles, but he’s too tired to fight, too drunk and too sad and too overwhelmed by the sheer surreality of his life now.
"Take me the hell away from here," he slurs, and hates how small he sounds. How utterly vulnerable.
Kageyama’s expression softens, just barely, a crack in the armor that’s gone before Shouyou can be certain it was ever there. "Yes," he says, and there’s something almost gentle in it. "Let’s go home."
Home. Wherever that is.
In the limousine, silence settles between them like dust motes. With bleary eyes, Shouyou watches the city lights blur past, feeling the alcohol humming in his veins, feeling the weight of the ring on his finger like an anchor, a shackle with the end of it leading to the ring finger of the man sitting in front of him.
"So," he says, because he can’t stand the quiet anymore. "What’s the rule on wedding night consummation? Is that in the contract, or is it more of a gentleman’s agreement?"
Kageyama chokes on his own breath. "What?"
"I’m just asking," Shouyou says with a shrug, turning to face him with a grin that’s all teeth. "For planning purposes. Do I need to clear my schedule? Block out two to three minutes for—"
"Two to three minutes?" Kageyama interrupts, and there’s actual outrage in his voice, offended pride that makes Shouyou want to cackle. "Are you implying—"
"I’m implying that I know nothing about your stamina, husband. You could be a thirty-second wonder for all I know. You do everything else very efficiently."
Kageyama stares at him, mouth slightly open, and then—miracle of miracles—he laughs. It’s startled, rough, as if he’s not quite sure how to make the sound, but it transforms his entire face into something young and open and devastatingly handsome.
"You’re a dumbass," he says, but there’s no heat in it.
"And you’re stuck with this dumbass," Shouyou reminds him, leaning his head back against the seat. "Might as well tell me now. Are we talking a marathon or a sprint? I need to hydrate accordingly."
Kageyama’s laughter fades as if it was never there, his face rearranging back into its usual, unimpressed scowl. "We’re talking about separate bedrooms," he says. Then his frown deepens. "I don’t know how to approach the... physical part. Not without..."
"Without what?"
"Without ruining it," Kageyama admits quietly. "Without treating you like another acquisition. Like something to possess." He turns to look out the window, and Shouyou sees his reflection there—troubled, uncertain. "I’d rather wait. Until it means something. You’re under no obligation to fulfill this part of the marriage.”
Shouyou stares at him, the retort dying on his tongue, instead spilling out words that land too soft, too vulnerable. "That’s more than anyone else has given me."
Wow, the champagne is really doing its rounds, isn’t it?
Kageyama doesn’t respond, just continues staring out the window, letting silence blanket them once more.
But this time, it’s not as suffocating and Shouyou finally lets out an exhale he’s been subconsciously holding since the morning of his wedding.
It’s barely a relief. But it helps, somehow.
⚭
The penthouse is exactly as soulless as Shouyou expected.
He stands in the center of what is apparently to be his home now—their home, though the thought sends a spike of panic through his chest—and tries to find something, anything, that resembles even a smidge of a personality.
The walls are gray. The carpet is gray. The couch, which is obscene in its grandeur, is fitted in the color of wet concrete, which is the prettiest way he can describe—yep, you guessed it—gray.
Everything is clean lines and obnoxious minimalism, the kind of aesthetic that costs millions to achieve and screams ‘I’m filthy rich and whimsy is beneath me.’
"Kageyama-sama?" A woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a severe bun stands in the doorway. Yamamura-san, the housekeeper. It takes a full three seconds for Shouyou to realize he’s addressing him. Right, he’s a Kageyama now, apparently. "Your luggage has been delivered in the east wing. Shall I begin unpacking?"
"I can unpack myself," Shouyou says, too sharply, then softens when she flinches. "Sorry. I just... I need to do something with my hands. You understand."
She nods, but her expression is pitying, and Shouyou hates it. He hates that he’s already become someone to be pitied, like he’s a bird trapped in a cage of polished steel and gleaming glass.
His "wing" consists of a bedroom larger than most people’s apartment (he knows, he’s been in one before), an en-suite bathroom with a tub that could fit three people, and a walk-in closet that is currently empty except for the garment bags that arrived this morning according to Yamamura-san.
Shouyou stares at them in anticipating horror. They hang like bodies in a morgue, black and expensive and utterly silent.
With trembling hands, he reaches for the zipper of the first bag.
The metallic whisper of the zipper feels almost obscene in the ringing silence. Shouyou pulls the edges apart and feels his face burn like a furnace.
To describe them as clothes would be…generous.
The first piece is midnight blue, silk so fine it flows like water through his fingers. Delicate straps. Sheer panels that would reveal more than they conceal. Lace that would barely cover anything at all, cut in patterns that make Shouyou question the thought process of whoever designed this…garment.
He unzips the second bag. Baby pink this time, with garters and stockings and something that looks like it requires an engineering degree to fasten. The third is burgundy, deep and rich as old wine, and when Shouyou touches the near transparent material, he feels a shiver run up his arm that has nothing to do with the temperature.
There’s a card. Typed, because of course Kageyama wouldn’t lower himself to handwriting, because that would imply intimacy, and intimacy is clearly not part of this arrangement.
For when it means something. —K.T.
Shouyou reads it three times. He reads it until the words blur and reform into something else entirely: I own this moment. I bought you. You’ll wear what I choose.
Kageyama can wrap his words in pretty sentiments, but one thing is clear: Shouyou is nothing more than a bartering piece. A transaction. The faster he understands and accepts that, the less he’ll be beguiled by meaningless words intent on humiliating him even more.
He shoves the bags into the back of the closet with a force more than necessary and slams the door so hard the mirror rattles. Then he marches to the bed and buries himself under the gray sheets that smell like citrus, like the end of everything he thought he was.
He lies there and stares at the ceiling and imagines Kageyama’s infuriating beautiful face, that stoic mask he wears like armor, and thinks about cracking it. Literary and figuratively. He bets it’ll feel good, breaking his perfect nose and perfect high cheekbones and perfect full, pink lips. About finding the man beneath and making him feel something, anything, even if it’s only rage.
I’m not a company you can rebrand, he thinks, clutching the sheets until his knuckles ache. I’m not something you can dress up and display. I’m a person. I’m a fucking person.
He falls asleep like that, still wearing his dress shirt and pants, and dreams of drowning in silk.
⚭
He wakes the next morning to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone moving around his room.
Shouyou sits up with a gasp, momentarily disoriented by the foreign bed sheets and curtains, his thoughts jumping immediately to ‘oh my god, I’ve been kidnapped,’ before the murky edges of his coherence merge together, coalescing into midnight blue eyes and sensuous lips curled into a now-familiar scowl.
Being kidnapped sounds better than reality right now.
Kageyama, his husband, is standing at the foot of the bed holding a tray. He’s already dressed in another of his pristine suits, his after-shower shave invading Shouyou’s senses that feels too-fucking-much so early in the morning.
"You snore," Kageyama says, as if this is a normal greeting. "Like a chainsaw. I could hear you from three rooms away."
"I do not," Shouyou protests automatically, though that commentary might be true, if Natsu’s constant teasing about his ‘noisy sleep habits’ are anything to go by. God, he already misses her.
"You do. And you drool." Kageyama sets the tray on the nightstand. "Coffee. Black. I assumed you wouldn’t want to talk to me enough to request preferences."
"What’s with you and black? And assuming makes you an ass," Shouyou mutters, but he reaches for the cup. Their fingers brush, and Kageyama pulls back like he’s been burned.
"Also," Kageyama continues, ignoring the comment, "you sleep with your mouth open. It’s unsettling.”
"Well, you probably sleep like you’re posing for a funeral portrait," Shouyou shoots back, emboldened by caffeine. It tastes heavenly, and he suppresses the urge to moan as he takes another sip, letting the toasty warmth do its magic. "All rigid and proper. Do you ever relax, or is that against company policy?"
Something flickers in Kageyama’s expression—amusement, maybe, or annoyance, it’s hard to tell.
"I relax," he says. "When there’s something worth relaxing for."
"And there’s nothing worth relaxing for in this entire penthouse? Not even the view? Not even..." Shouyou gestures vaguely at himself. "...this?"
Almost unbiddenly, Kageyama’s gaze drops to where Shouyou’s hand points, where his shirt has ridden up, revealing a sliver of his stomach exposed. He’s probably not as bulky as Kageyama, but his own physique is nothing to scoff at either.
This, being proven by the way Kageyama’s gaze lingers, the intensity of it almost searing through Shouyou’s skin, before snapping back to his face.
"You’re deliberately provocative," Kageyama grumbles, almost accusing.
A grin quirks up the side of Shouyou’s mouth. "It’s one of my very impressive skills," he agrees cheerfully. "That and being able to touch my toes. Want to see?"
"No."
"Too bad."
Shouyou unfolds himself from the bed, stretches dramatically, and bends at the waist, palms flat on the floor. He holds the position for a count of three, then straightens, grinning at Kageyama’s expression—which is doing something complicated between scandalized and intrigued.
"See? Skills."
"You’re ridiculous," Kageyama says, but his voice has gone rough.
"And yet, you seem amused," Shouyou points out. "At my ass, specifically. Which is fine, by the way. We’re married. You’re allowed to look. You’re even allowed to touch, if you ask nicely."
Kageyama’s face goes through several emotions at once—too fast that Shouyou can’t even recognize them, before finally settling on stern offense, the lines between his brows deepening. "I wasn’t staring at your... at your..."
"Ass?" Shouyou supplies helpfully. "Butt? Gluteus maximus? Posterior? Tush?"
"Get dressed," Kageyama snaps, turning toward the door. "We have a schedule with the Minamatas. Breakfast will be in twenty minutes. Don’t be late."
"Or what? You’ll spank me?"
Kageyama walks into the doorframe.
That dissolves Shouyou into laughter, clutching his stomach as Kageyama stumbles into the hallway without looking back. "I’ll take that as a maybe!" he calls after him.
From the hallway, he hears something that sounds suspiciously like a groan, and then footsteps retreating quickly.
Shouyou grins into his coffee. This, he thinks, might actually be fun.
⚭
Being married isn’t bad; it’s fucking worse.
They orbit each other like opposing magnets, repelling at every turn, except when forced together for public appearances or shared meals with the Kageyama family elders.
Kageyama is every bit the stickler for rules that Shouyou assumes him to be, bound by routines that seem carved in stone. He wakes at five exactly, his alarm a shrill interruption to the predawn darkness, and spends an hour in the home gym before showering. Then eats breakfast at seven, consumed while reading financial reports on his tablet.
By the time Shouyou drags himself out of bed at a reasonable, perfectly human time—because he is not going to rearrange his entire life to accommodate Kageyama's masochistic schedule—his husband is already dressed in suits that cost as much as cars, disappearing into the black Royce that takes him to the Kageyama Tower downtown before eight, then returns at eight in the evening, probably spending the intervening twelve hours buying off a country or whatever.
Shouyou, by contrast, throws himself into his own routine with manic energy. He wakes at whatever o’clock, depending on how late he stays up watching cooking shows or reading or simply staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself this is his life now. He explores the penthouse like it’s a museum, touching everything, leaving fingerprints on the pristine surfaces, opening drawers and cabinets that are clearly meant to remain closed.
He works, of course, he is still, after all, an executive director of his family’s company, but he mostly does so in the comfort of his bedroom, setting up meetings decked out in an Italian suit and silk pajama bottoms. Business at the top, party at the bottom, as the kids say these days.
And ohhh boy, does he intend to party.
"You smell like me," Kageyama observes at breakfast, not looking up from his tablet.
"I ran out of shampoo," Shouyou lies cheerfully. He "accidentally" uses Kageyama’s fancy shampoo that morning. So unmindful of him. "And yours said 'for volume and shine.' I felt like I needed both. These luscious curls are high maintenance you know."
"It’s $200 a bottle."
"Then I used approximately $15 worth. I’ll pay you back in sexual favors."
Kageyama’s tablet clatters to the table. "Excuse me?"
"I’m joking," Shouyou says, rolling his eyes. "Unless...?"
"Finish your eggs, dumbass," Kageyama orders, face flushed, and flees the kitchen.
By the second week, Shouyou rearranges the living room furniture, much to Yamamura-san’s horror.
"You moved the couch," Kageyama says when he returns from work earlier than usual, standing in the doorway like he’s afraid to enter his own home.
"It was facing the wrong way. Feng shui and all that," Shouyou explains from his new position on said couch, legs draped over the arm. "You couldn’t see the sunset. Now you can."
"The couch faces the wall."
"It faces the window. Which faces the sunset."
"It was facing the wall because I don’t watch sunsets," Kageyama says through gritted teeth. "I need to work.”
"And now you can work and watch the sunset. You’re welcome."
Kageyama stares at him for a long moment, and Shouyou braces for an argument, for the cold fury he’s sure is coming.
Instead, Kageyama sits on the couch. He pulls out his laptop. And as the sun begins to set, painting the room in gold and rose, Shouyou watches him watch it—just for a second, just a glance, before returning to his work.
The couch remains facing the window the next morning.
⚭
The digital display on his nightstand reads 4:47 AM. A perfect time to murder someone.
He’s having the most wondrous dream when his sleep is unceremoniously interrupted by the echo of an alarm from three doors down with absolutely no regard or respect for other people in this godsforsaken house.
He lies there for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, as he listens to the shower run, the closet open and close, the distant click of a door unlocking, all while thinking about all the violent ways he’s going to kill his husband—ranging from dismemberment to mutilating a certain appendage—when his savage thoughts are disrupted by the way Kageyama looked as he watched the sunset yesterday.
Sharp edges softened by the rose-gold light. An almost-smile momentarily replacing the permanent scowl. His broad shoulders relaxing, just barely, against the cushions.
A vision of a man. A very beautiful man.
The image circles around Shouyou’s mind until his skin feels too tight and his blood feels too hot and he has to move or combust.
He pulls on sleep pants and ventures out, slippered feet carrying him past the kitchen, past the living room with its reoriented couch, toward the east wing where he knows Kageyama disappears every morning at five.
The floor-to-ceiling windows reflects the dusk blue coloring of pre-dawn filtering through the Tokyo skyline. And as Shouyou stands in the doorway, he wonders if he’s still dreaming—because surely, surely, his subconscious has conjured this particular vision to torment him.
His husband—his stupid, rigid, schedule-obsessed shirtless husband—is bent over a weight bench, back muscles rippling like waves under skin slick with sweat, dark hair plastered to his nape. He’s doing rows, some obscene amount of weight attached to the bar that he’s pulling with controlled precision, and every time his shoulder blades contract, Shouyou feels it in his gut, low and hot and treacherous.
Of course. Shouyou almost laughs, staring at the digital clock on the wall, as if it’s the poor thing’s fault. Of course Kageyama is here at five fucking AM, lifting enough iron to build a small bridge, while he’s supposed to be asleep like a normal person.
He should have stayed in bed, watched some puppy videos, or read, or counted sheep to lull him back to sleep. But no, he just had to get up and let his curiosity take the wheel, and now he’s paying for it with the currency of his sanity.
Kageyama makes a sound—a low, guttural exhalation as he finishes the set—and drops the weight with a metallic clang that echoes off the glass. He stands, rolling his shoulders, and Shouyou watches, ogles more like, the play of muscle across his spine, the way sweat traces the valley of his spine down to where his gym shorts hang indecently low, revealing the twin dimples above his ass.
Against better judgment and against what little remains of Shouyou’s self-preservation, saliva fills his mouth at the sight.
Goddamn it.
And the worst part? It’s that Kageyama is completely unaware, completely oblivious to the fact the good little acquisition he bartered is actually not tucked away in a separate bedroom like he’s supposed to, and instead standing here like some kind of creepy pervert.
The thought makes something vicious curl in Shouyou’s stomach—he wants to break that silence, wants to announce his presence with a sharp comment about Kageyama’s form or his sweat or the way his shorts are barely containing what Shouyou knows, knows, is substantial based on the way the fabric strains.
But it’s either shame or fear that holds him back, probably both, as he stays frozen in the doorway, a voyeur in his own home, watching as his husband moves to the pull-up bar.
He lifts it with such finesse that it makes something churn in Shouyou’s gut, a weird mix of awe and indignation. Kageyama’s arms flex, biceps bulging, veins tracing paths under skin, and with each ascent, his abdominal muscles contract into sharp, defined ridges that make Shouyou’s knees weak, his restraint even weaker as he imagines tracing every hard bulge and deep crevice with his tongue.
And his hands—those large, elegant hands that sign contracts worth millions and pour coffee with enviable elegance—Shouyou’s mind spirals at the thought of them grabbing him. Holding him down. Pinning his wrists against the mattress while that strength, that terrifying, beautiful strength, is directed entirely at him.
He’s hard. He’s so suddenly, achingly hard in his sleep pants, the fabric tenting obscenely as if mocking him. He bites his lip hard enough to taste iron, trying to will it away, but the image is already burned behind his eyelids: Kageyama’s weight pressing him into the mattress, those broad shoulders blocking out the light, that usually controlled face unraveling as he uses Shouyou’s body with the same efficiency he applies to everything else, those arms trembling not from iron but from holding Shouyou open, from fucking him so hard, sweat dripping from Kageyama’s chin onto his chest, his stomach, marking Shouyou with the evidence of his exertion.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He should leave. He should turn around and go back to his room and take a cold shower and pretend he never saw this, never felt this traitorous arousal for the man who bought him like a commodity. But his feet won’t move, and his eyes won’t look away, and his hand—his treacherous, stupid hand—is drifting down to palm himself through the thin cotton of his pants.
Meanwhile, his utterly unaware husband is apparently done with the bar and moves to the free weights. He picks up dumbbells that look like they could crush a skull and begins shoulder presses, his entire upper body a rugged symphony conducted by sheer power.
The muscles in his neck stand out in sharp relief, tendons pulling with each upward thrust, and Shouyou clamps his teeth down his lower lip as he imagines biting that throat, feeling the vibration of Kageyama’s groan against his teeth.
He’s stroking himself shamelessly and frantically now, unable to stop, his hand moving in tight, angry circles through the fabric. He hates this. He hates how much he wants this. He hates that Kageyama can reduce him to this—a mess of need and resentment, jerking off in a doorway while his husband works out, completely ignorant of the sin happening just three meters away.
He’d break me, Shouyou moans in his mind, pressing his palm harder against his cock, grinding upward. He’d fuck me like he does everything else—thorough, relentless, until I’m nothing but a mess for him to clean up.
The anger mixes with arousal, a potent cocktail that makes his vision distort on the edges, makes his sinning hand move more desperately. His breath hitches, too loud, and he freezes—but Kageyama is in his own world, headphones in, lost in the rhythm of his workout. He sets the weights down and moves to the bench press, lying back on the leather, his chest heaving, sweat-slick skin on full display. He grips the bar, those long fingers wrapping around the metal, and Shouyou imagines them wrapping around his throat, his waist, his cock.
God, that fucking strength. And he uses it all for the company, for the next business deal, for the fucking stock price. None of it for Shouyou. None of it directed at him when he wants it so badly, pride be damned.
He’s leaking now, the front of his sleep pants damp with precum, and he shoves his hand inside, groaning softly as his fingers wrap around his length, hissing at how hot he feels, pulsing, so hard it hurts. With rough, angry pulls, he strokes himself with a rhythm that matches that of Kageyama’s bench presses.
Up and down, power and control, the bar bending slightly under the weight Kageyama pushes with such devastating ease.
You bastard, Shouyou seethes quietly, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading the wetness. You absolute bastard. Why do you have to be so fucking beautiful? Why do you have to make me want you when you’re everything I should hate?
There must be some awareness left in Shouyou’s lust-filled haze of a brain, as he vaguely registers Kageyama racking the weight with a grunt, sitting up, his chest heaving. He wipes his face with a towel, and for a moment, his head turns toward the door—toward Shouyou—and Shouyou’s heart stops. But Kageyama’s gaze passes over him, unseeing, and prepares to begin his cool down.
Shouyou takes the opportunity to flee, his cock throbbing, his face burning, his entire body vibrating with denied release. He stumbles back to his room, straight to the en-suite bathroom, slamming the door and locking it with a trembling hand.
He doesn’t even make it to the shower. He braces himself against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror—wild eyes, flushed cheeks, lips bitten red—and shoves his pants down.
His cock springs free, flushed dark and leaking, and he wraps his hand around it with a sob that’s half frustration, half desperate need. He’s so close already, wound tight from watching, from the forbidden thrill of it.
With strokes that would’ve given him friction burn if it wasn’t for the obscene, embarrassing amount of precum dripping out of him, he strokes himself hard and fast, his forehead dropping against the cool mirror, his breath fogging the glass, with nothing fueling him but the depraved thoughts of his stupid husband and his stupid gorgeous body and his ridiculously stupid strength—all that coiled, disciplined power finally, finally directed at him. Breaking him open, ruining him, using that relentless focus to wreck him completely.
Fuck me. His hands are but a blur as he beats his throbbing meat, his hips snapping forward into his fist. Fuck me like you mean it. Like I’m the only thing worth your attention. Like you want to destroy me.
And within that haze of vile thoughts, something answers—a deep voice, rough, yet just as broken as Shouyou’s own, whispering: Mine. You’re mine.
His orgasm hits him like a fucking freight train, sudden and violent, tearing through him with a force that makes his knees buckle. He bites his own arm to muffle his cry, his cock pulsing in his hand, spilling thick ropes of cum over his fingers and the sink and his trembling thighs. It goes on forever, wave after wave of pleasure that’s edged with something like pain, something like rage.
When it’s over, he’s shaking, his forehead still pressed against the mirror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looks down at the mess he’s made—at the evidence of his complete and utter defeat—and wants to cry.
Instead, he cleans himself up with trembling hands, wiping away the evidence with a washcloth, scrubbing his skin until it’s red. He pulls on fresh clothes and stares at himself in the mirror until the flush fades and the wildness in his eyes dims to something manageable.
He stays in his room until the sounds of Kageyama's departure echo through the penthouse before he ventures out, determined to pretend that he is currently losing the very game he started to play.
⚭
Shouyou avoids Kageyama for three days. Not consciously, not with intent—or at least that’s what he tries to convince himself.
He takes his breakfast in his room while he works, times his movements so they orbit each other with greater precision than before. He tells himself it's because he's busy, because he's simply acclimating, because he's establishing his own routine.
But his stubborn body has other ideas. Every time he hears the shower run at five AM, every time he catches the scent of cedar and lemon verbena in a hallway, he sees broad shoulders and sweat-slick skin and the flex of hands around iron bars, and he has to close his eyes against the memory of his own hand moving in desperate, angry strokes.
So he decides to redirect his attention. He’s been living in the obscenely massive penthouse for almost two weeks now and he barely explored its endless rooms. And so he does, if only to keep his body and brain occupied.
He stays the hell away from the gym room, though.
When Shouyou has exhausted every corner of the penthouse he dares to explore, has already rearranged the bookshelves in his room, already memorized the view from every window, that he finds it.
He’s leaning against a wall in the living room while reaching for a book on the shelf and the whole section shifts with a pneumatic hiss, and the startled scream halfway through his throat dies down at the revelation of his serendipitous discovery.
A small library with walls lined with old books, leather-bound and worn with use, nothing like the decorative spines that fill the rest of the apartment. There’s a desk, and a chair that looks like it’s been sat in for years, and a window seat piled with cushions in colors that actually exist in the rainbow, not just shades of gray.
Shouyou almost cries in delight.
He spends the entire afternoon there, curled in the window seat with a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo that’s clearly been read a hundred times, the pages soft and annotated in a handwriting he doesn’t recognize.
When Kageyama finds him, hours later, Shouyou expects anger—expects to be chastised for trespassing, for touching things that aren’t his.
Instead, Kageyama stops in the doorway and goes very still. His expression shifts through emotions Shouyou can’t read, before settling on something that looks almost like... relief?
"You found it.”
"I’m sorry," Shouyou says, scrambling up, the book clutched to his chest. "I didn’t mean to—I was just exploring, and the wall moved, and I—"
"Don’t apologize," Kageyama says as he crosses the room and stops before Shouyou, just short of touching distance, his gaze fixed on the book in Shouyou’s hands. "That was my father’s favorite. He read it to me when I was young. Before..." He trails off, shakes his head. "Before."
A long, ragged exhale escapes out of Kageyama’s lips and Shouyou’s gaze lingers on them a second more than necessary. More than what is acceptable. But he can’t seem to peel his gaze away, at this man who always seems so impenetrable, so undaunted, yet now standing before Shouyou like he’s one gust away from toppling over.
"Before what?" Shouyou asks softly.
Kageyama’s jaw tightens. "Before he taught me that sentiment is weakness. That attachment is a liability. That the only thing that matters is the company, the stock price, the next acquisition." He reaches out, takes the book from Shouyou’s hands with careful fingers, and sets it back on the shelf. "I keep this room hidden because it’s..." He pauses, searching for words. "It’s mine. The only thing that is. Everything else belongs to the corporation. To the family. To the image."
"And me?" Shouyou asks, and he hadn’t meant to, but the question falls from his lips like a stone plopping into still water. "Do I belong to that image too?"
Kageyama turns to look at him, and there’s something fierce in his expression, something desperate and hungry. "I don’t know," he admits. "I don’t know what you are. But…” He stops, swallows hard. "Maybe I want you to be part of what I consider real.”
Something snags in Shouyou’s throat—his breath, maybe, or his fucking heart, beating too loudly and too hard in his chest as if it’s borne wings, threatening to unlodge itself from the confines of his chest.
But his legs are steady and sure when he moves to stand right in front of Kageyama, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to see the flecks of lighter blue in his dark eyes, like galaxies painted in the night sky.
"It can be," he says, and his voice is barely above a whisper. "If you want it to be. If you let it."
Kageyama’s hand rises, hovering in the air between them like he’s afraid to touch. Shouyou makes the decision for him as he closes the distance, pressing his palm against Kageyama’s chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath the expensive cotton of his shirt. An oscillating, thunderous rhythm that matches his own.
"Touch me," Shouyou breathes. "Please. Just... touch me."
Kageyama makes a sound like a wounded animal, and then his hands are on Shouyou’s waist, pulling him close, and his forehead drops to rest against Shouyou’s, and they’re breathing each other’s air, sharing the space between them like it’s the only thing keeping them both alive.
"I don't know how to be married to you," Kageyama admits, and the roughness in his voice betrays how much it costs him to say it. "I don't know how to pretend that I don't hate that they forced this on us. On you." His fingers are trembling where they grip Shouyou’s hips, his voice wavering along with them. "I don’t know how to want something without it being a transaction. Without calculating the risks and benefits—”
"Then don’t," Shouyou cuts him off, and tilts his head up, and kisses him.
For a mouth that frowns so much, Kageyama’s lips are ridiculously soft, an observation Shouyou failed to observe when they shared their first kiss on their wedding day. Softer than anything Shouyou expected from this man who seems carved from marble and hard ambition. Warmth effuses with the softness, and Kageyama’s lips move against Shouyou’s with a hesitation that tastes of reluctance—or perhaps…just of fear.
But when Shouyou makes a small sound in the back of his throat, when he presses closer, lips moving more ardently, Kageyama responds like a dam breaking—his hands sliding up to cup Shouyou’s face, his mouth opening, his whole body leaning into the contact like he’s starving for it his whole damn life.
They kiss until Shouyou’s lips feel swollen, until he’s breathless and dizzy and clinging to Kageyama’s shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Keeping him whole.
When they finally pull apart, Kageyama’s eyes are blown wide, dark pupils overwhelming the rings of blue, his usually disciplined composure in ruins and it’s making Shouyou feel powerful, feel wanted in a way that has nothing to do with contracts or mergers.
"This is a risky decision," Kageyama says, but he’s smiling, actually smiling, small and tentative and real. "I’m going to ruin us both."
"Good," Shouyou breathes, and kisses him again.
⚭
The tension builds like a storm gathering on the horizon.
No kisses follow that first one. Yet. They fall back to their individual routines as if the…thing that happened in the library was nothing more than some weird fantasy Shouyou’s mind conjured from being so fucking pent-up. Kageyama is still aloof, still rigid about schedules and propriety, still capable of reducing Shouyou to homicidal rage with a single dismissive comment.
But he cannot dismiss the very obvious fact that there’s this current running beneath their interactions—an electric awareness that makes every glance linger, every accidental brush of fingers deliberate.
They still take their meals in silence, but now Kageyama makes sure there is orange juice for breakfast, even though he only drinks coffee. And Shouyou makes sure to have the morning paper ready at Kageyama's place at the table, even though he himself reads everything on his tablet.
It is a truce, negotiated in touches and small kindnesses, and it is fragile, precious, something Shouyou finds himself fiercely protective of.
Kageyama cops himself up into his office, into his schedules and his protocols, and Shouyou lets him because he understands—because he’s seen the fear in Kageyama’s eyes, the terror of wanting something he might break. And Shouyou feels that same paralyzing fear sink their claws in him, too, and he’s not as composed as Kageyama to trust himself not succumb to it, to break this thing that is so very fragile in the first place.
They’re not ignoring it—at least that’s what Shouyou tells himself—they’re just…allowing themselves to process this sudden shift in their already-weird-enough setup. Kind of hard to ignore, actually, not when they brush against each other in hallways and both freeze, caught in the magnetic pull of almost. Not when they share meals and spend more time looking at each other than at their food, cataloging, memorizing, learning the language of glances. Not when they fall to their usual charade of banter, a constant push and pull that keeps them both sane.
"You’re wearing that to the charity gala?" Kageyama asks one night, eyeing Shouyou’s choice of bright orange dress shirt with something between horror and fascination.
"It’s called personality, Tobio,” Shouyou drawls. He’s not really sure when exactly he started calling Kageyama by his first name, though he does it mainly to tease his husband. The slight dusting of pink whenever Shouyou does is a fun little bonus, though. “You should try it sometime. Maybe a nice chartreuse?"
"I don’t do colors."
"You’re literally wearing a charcoal suit. Charcoal is a color."
"It’s a shade, dumbass.”
"It’s a color with commitment issues, just like you."
A muscle feathers in Kageyama’s jaw. "And orange is the color of... what? Traffic cones? Warning signs?"
"Optimism," Shouyou corrects, adjusting his collar. "Energy. Joy. Things you clearly need more of in your life."
"I have plenty of energy," Kageyama says, and his gaze drops to Shouyou mouth, just for a second, but it makes something shwoop and gwaah in Shouyou’s gut just the same, making him squirm in his dress pants. "I just channel it differently."
"Into being a stick in the mud?"
"Into being a functioning, productive adult."
"Whatever," Shouyou sing-songs as he loops his arms around Kageyama’s, tugging him close, relishing in the way Kageyama stiffens, face flushing an even prettier shade of pink, but makes no move to chastise or pry Shouyou’s hold as they leave the penthouse for the charity gala.
They are basically inseparable during the party, and not solely because they have to don the mask of a happily married couple in a sea of vipers all poised to exploit any chink in that mask and sink their venomous fangs in. Shouyou has this startling realization that he genuinely enjoys being in Kageyama’s company, as he finds amusement watching those pink, pouty lips wobble lightly as he stifles a laugh when Shouyou gives a very bawdy comment about some politician’s new arm-candy or when he returns a scathing remark from a pompous CEO.
But as much fun as it is attending these brainless, shallow events with Kageyama, Shouyou finds the things he discovers in the privacy of the penthouse are far, far more interesting, things that don’t appear in any file.
Kageyama hums when he thinks he’s alone, tuneless and soft, although his repertoire only consists of Bach and Tchaikovsky, in true Kageyama fashion. He’s also surprisingly sentimental, as evidenced by the photo of his mother in his wallet, hidden behind his credit cards, and looks at it sometimes when he thinks Shouyou isn’t watching. And how he cleans up after himself despite Yamamura-san practically having to shoo him away with a mutter of letting her do her job.
That he’s competitive about the most ridiculous things—who can fold laundry faster, who can name more prefecture capitals, who can make the other laugh harder—and that his pouts when he loses are theatrical and genuine and utterly disarming.
It’s as if Shouyou has found the secret entrance beyond Kageyama’s walls, much like he found that library.
"Did you just—" Shouyou gasps, delight twining around his body, making him actually vibrate. They were both reaching for the remote when they collided, Shouyou’s hand brushing against the back of Kageyama’s knees, and Kageyama jerked away with a startled laugh that transformed his entire face into something young and open and beautiful. It was gone the very next second but Shouyou noticed. Oh, he noticed.
"Are you ticklish?"
"No, dumbass," Kageyama grumbles, face red as a firetruck, moving away.
"Oh my god, you are! You’re ticklish! The great Kageyama Tobio, master of the universe, is ticklish behind the knees!"
"If you tell anyone—"
"I’m going to use this information for evil," Shouyou promises, eyes shining. "I’m going to exploit this weakness."
"You wouldn’t dare."
"Try me."
They fall into a rhythm that is almost domestic, almost comfortable. They eat breakfast together now, Kageyama cooking while Shouyou chatters about his plans for the day—meeting with clients, dropping by his favorite bakery, maybe visiting his sister.
Dinner is mostly a much tamer affair, with Shouyou regaling his husband with stories of his adventures, his near-misses with getting lost on the subway (he finds taking public transportation to be quite refreshing. Plus, it’s good for the environment), his accidental discovery of obscure, often family-run shops with menus that tastes infinitely better than some obnoxious high-end restaurant.
It’s a rhythm Shouyou is slowly, steadily relaxing into, allowing himself to surrender to its tempo, to let himself be swayed by its ebb and flow, to get swept by the current of the tempest skirting the edges of their awareness, coiling tighter each day.
It’s in the way Kageyama’s gaze lingers on Shouyou’s mouth when he’s talking. It’s in the way Shouyou finds excuses to touch—brushing lint from Kageyama’s shoulder, fixing his tie, leaning into him when they watch movies on the couch that’s somehow become their routine even though they have a theater room.
It’s in Shouyou’s silent mortification as he unearths the garment bags he found in his closet that first day—the ones with the…suggestive apparels—running his hands all over the delicate fabric and lace, at the decadence of their sultriness, at the image searing to his brain at the thought of him in these outfits, if it will be the final push to topple down the last of Kageyama’s fortress, if it will be the disruption to the rhythm they’ve found amicable comfort with.
If that will make everything worse…or better.
His hands tremble when he brushes past the zipper pulls, mind pulling up the memory of how Kageyama's eyes had tracked him once, briefly, across the kitchen—how hunger had flickered there, then shuttered, replaced by the same cool assessment he gives quarterly projections.
Probably rates my ass on a ten-point scale, Shouyou thinks, then immediately wants to know what score he got. Seven? Eight if I wear those tight jeans?
He closes the closet door. The click of the latch sounds like something unlocking.
⚭
He finds the ramen shop by accident, or perhaps by divine intervention—pulled down an alley in Shibuya that narrows until his shoulders brush both walls. A red noren curtain, faded at the edges, smells of pork bone and smoke. Inside, an elderly woman with flour-dusted knuckles presses an extra slice of chashu into his bowl without being asked.
The meat dissolves on his tongue. The broth carries the depth of decades—of bones simmered until they surrender their marrow, of patience Shouyou has never learned.
Damn, he thinks, eyes watering from the steam or possibly from spiritual awakening. Now, this—this is the shit.
Immediately, his mind drifts to his husband, how he often eats with a utensil in one hand, phone in the other. As if he’s eating mainly for sustenance, and never for pleasure. For comfort. Shouyou has seen him treat a hundred-thousand-yen steak with the same enthusiasm usually reserved for updating spreadsheet formulas.
If he can get his eternally grumpy husband to taste this—Shouyou decides, slurping noodles with a moan that’s downright salacious—Kageyama might actually emote. Like, with his face. On purpose.
He finishes his bowl to the last drop, then seriously contemplates licking it. The ceramic retains heat against his palms long after the liquid is gone, much like the resolve already finalizing his decision.
⚭
The Kageyama Corporation headquarters soars into the Tokyo skyline like a blade, imposing in all the glory of its reflective glass and sharp angles. Shouyou has been here a few times before—although he can only distinctly remember the day he signed that life-altering contract; every other instance before that is a smear of gray and steel.
But today he carries the warmth of the ramen shop in his belly. Today he is carrying an offering.
The pretty receptionist recognizes him, but the subtle tightening around her eyes as her perfect red lips curve into a practiced smile makes Shouyou wince.
“Hinata-sama,” she greets. "A pleasure to see you. I suppose you are here to see Kageyama-sama?”
“Yeah. Can you ring me in?”
Her smile widens, but none of it reaches her eyes. “I’m afraid Kageyama-sama is in a meeting at the moment."
"That's fine." Shouyou settles into a leather couch that swallows him. "I'll wait."
He positions himself where the elevator banks are visible. Where Kageyama will have no choice but to see him and perhaps, perhaps, the surprise will crack something open.
The lobby empties and fills with suits and briefcases as the lunch hour approaches. Shouyou checks his phone—twelve-thirty, then one, then one-fifteen.
Okay, that’s fucking it.
He’s about to text when movement catches his eye across the street.
There’s a cafe there, the kind of place that probably charges six hundred yen for a single-origin pour-over. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, visible from his vantage point like a stage set, sits Kageyama in his immaculate suit, posture unbent and attention fixed on something Shouyou cannot see.
Then Kageyama’s companion leans in and the lingering warmth courtesy of the ramen broth drains from Shouyou’s system as if snuffed out by an unforgiving winter wind.
The woman’s ebony hair falls over her shoulders in perfect waves, a lethal contrast with her bright red lips that curls exquisitely as she laughs. Perfectly manicured hands curl around Kageyama’s arm, pressing close. Too close. With a subtle, yet nauseatingly elegant shift in posture, her body angles until her chest brushes his sleeve, and Kageyama—
Kageyama smiles.
Not the tight, controlled smile he wears for cameras. Not the grimace he makes when Shouyou tells terrible jokes. This is something genuine, something soft, opening like a door Shouyou did not know existed.
Kageyama doesn’t move away from the woman’s touch. On the contrary, he leans into it.
The world tilts, upends itself, fucking rotates out of its fucking axis.
Shouyou stands so fast the chair scrapes against marble, loud as a dying scream. His hands shake so hard he cannot feel his fingertips, vision darkening at the edges, tunneling to that tableau across the street, to the woman’s red nails against Kageyama’s dark sleeve, the way they’re angled toward each other like parentheses enclosing a secret.
‘I don’t know how to want something without it being a transaction. Without calculating the risks and benefits.’
What was the calculation here? What was the risk-benefit analysis of letting a beautiful woman press her breasts against your arm while your husband waits in the lobby like a fool?
The rage comes then, hot and humiliating, flooding his mouth with the taste of acrid shame.
Kageyama has been playing him. Of course he has. The vulnerability was a performance, the library simply a fucking set piece, and Shouyou has been the mark in a con he didn’t realize he was participating in.
He grabs his phone, thumb moving without conscious thought, scrolling through contacts he hasn’t touched in months, names that belong to a life before this gilded cage.
"Shouyou-kun?" The voice is surprised, yet warm and familiar and it makes Shouyou’s throat tighten. "Haven’t heard from ya since—well. Since ya became a married man."
"I need to see you," Shouyou says, and his voice sounds strange, distant, like it’s coming from someone else’s mouth. "Are you free?"
A pause. Then: "Yeah. Yeah, I’m free. Same place?"
“Okay.”
He hates how small he sounds. He hates how pathetic he feels.
The weight of his phone in his pocket as he leaves the building feels like a stone he is sinking with.
⚭
Moonlight.
The bar’s name has always struck him as corny, but right now, the darkness with just the barest sliver of illumination inside is the company he seeks right now, its own particular gravity, and Shouyou lets himself fall into it.
Atsumu is already there when Shouyou arrives, occupying the counter space like he owns it, long legs stretched out, blond hair catching the low light. He looks good—he always does, to be honest, still carrying that easy confidence that had drawn Shouyou to him in the first place.
"There’s my little sun,” Atsumu greets, lips tilting into his signature lopsided grin, but his umber eyes trace the tremor in Shouyou's hands as he slides into the booth. "You look like hell, Shouyou-kun."
"I feel like hell. I feel like I've been through a washing machine. On spin cycle. Twice." Shouyou signals for the bartender. "Macallan 18. Neat, on a rock. And keep them coming."
Atsumu raises a brow. "That bad?"
"Worse. I think I have emotions stuck in my teeth."
Atsumu leans forward, and something in his posture softens into genuine concern. Before the demands of the Miya, Inc. and the Hinata Pharmaceutical's declining fortunes pulled them apart. Not love—Shouyou knows that now—but something comfortable. Safe. Honest. A place where the stakes were visible and low, where Shouyou won’t have to guess where he stands, where he won’t have to question the reality of it.
"Tell me."
So Shouyou does. Not everything, not the fragile hope he’d been nurturing like a flame—but enough. The marriage, the contract, the way he’s been bought and sold. The woman in the cafe.
"He's playin’ ya," Atsumu says, and his jaw tightens with a protectiveness that makes Shouyou's chest twinge with equal parts gratitude and shame. "Bastard. I always knew the Kageyamas were sharks."
"I signed the contract," Shouyou says, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I literally signed myself up for this. I can’t blame him for taking what was offered."
"Ya can blame him for makin’ ya think it meant somethin.’"
The choked laugh that scrapes out of Shouyou tastes like he just swallowed a handful of rusty nails. "Can I? The contract says nothing about fidelity. Nothing about exclusivity. We’re a business merger, Atsumu. That’s all. I’m an asset on a spreadsheet."
"Bullshit." Atsumu reaches across the table, covering Shouyou’s hand with his own. His palm is warm, familiar. "Yer not a fucking asset. Yer the brightest person I know. Ya deserve someone who sees that."
They drink. Old rhythms reassert themselves—shared jokes, remembered stories. Atsumu makes him laugh—actually laugh, not the performance he’s perfected for cameras and strangers—and with each glass of whiskey, the pain in Shouyou’s chest dulls to a manageable throb.
He should probably put a pause on the drinks, the tell-tale signs of inebriation already clouding up his brain. But the alcohol has burned away the careful scaffolding he has built around himself, leaving something reckless and alive and hurting.
"Remember Osaka?" Atsumu is close now, his breath warm against Shouyou's ear. "The hotel with the view?"
"I remember." That getaway had been good. The sex even better. Uncomplicated. Uncumbered by stakes. No fear of being found insufficient.
Atsumu’s hand slides up his arm, thumb tracing the inside of his elbow, that sensitive skin that responds before the brain can intervene. "We could make new memories," he murmurs. "If ya want. No strings. Just... comfort. Ya look like ya need it, Shouyou-kun."
Shouyou’s bleary gaze finds Atsumu’s and despite his alcohol-addled brain, he sees the offer for what it is. Atsumu has always been able to read him, has always known when to push and when to pull back. There’s no malice in the proposition, just genuine concern and lingering affection, a hand on the proverbial cage, ready to open it.
Back into a self Shouyou used to recognize.
And god, he wants to say yes. Wants to lose himself in something simple, in something that doesn't feel like his heart is being slowly extracted violently through his ribs. Wants to prove that Kageyama isn’t the only one who can play games, who can seek comfort elsewhere.
I can do this, he reasons with the logical, morally upright part of himself scratching at the edges of his conscience. I can be petty. I can be petty and vindictive and also maybe get a good fuck out of it.
His response is already halfway out of his mouth—
"Shouyou."
The voice cuts through the bar noise like cold water on an exposed nerve.
Shouyou freezes, whiskey turning to ice in his stomach. He turns, his muscles creaking at how stiff he moves.
There stands Kageyama like a storm incarnate, calm on the exterior, but Shouyou knows the swirl of fury beneath that layer of indifference. He hates that he does.
"Well," Atsumu says, leaning back, his hand still resting on Shouyou's arm, unbothered. "Speak of the devil."
Kageyama's gaze drops to that hand, and something dangerous flashes in his eyes—lightning before the thunder. He crosses the room in strides that eat the distance, the crowd parting as if cleaved by the blade of those sharp, sharp eyes, until he’s standing over Shouyou like a thundercloud.
"Get up," Kageyama grunts, glaring at Shouyou, pointedly ignoring Atsumu. "We're leaving."
"Excuse me?" The words come out sharp, defensive, fueled by alcohol and humiliation. It is not a good combination. "I don't take orders from you.”
"Shouyou—"
"Don't." He stands, swaying, pleased to find a flicker of concern in those frigid, piercing eyes. "Don't say my name like you have the right. Not when I saw you.”
The scowl on Kageyama's face deepens. "Saw me what?"
"The cafe! The woman! Don't play stupid, Tobio, you're terrible at it." Shouyou’s voice rises, drawing attention from nearby tables, but he doesn’t care. The alcohol has burned away his filter, leaving only the raw, jagged edges of his hurt. "You were all over her. She was practically in your lap. And you were smiling. You never smile at me like that."
He says the last bit before he can stop himself, the words spilling out as if it is being forcibly squeezed out by this stupid, stupid hurt overwhelming any other thought of self-preservation.
"She's a client—"
"A client? That's your excuse? She was pressing her tits against your arm! And you let her!"
"She's a very important client," Kageyama says, and his voice is that dangerous calm, the stillness before a breaking. "Her company controls the distribution networks we need for Southeast Asia. I was securing a deal."
"Bullshit."
"I don't lie, Shouyou. You know that." Kageyama's hands clench at his sides. "I've never lied to you. Not about... anything."
"Then why didn’t you tell me you were meeting her? Why did I have to find out by waiting in your lobby like some pathetic housewife while you played footsie with some beautiful executive?"
"Because I didn't think I needed to report my every movement to you," Kageyama snaps, and there is the crack, the fury leaking through the seams. "Because I thought we had developed something that didn't require surveillance and suspicion. Clearly, I was wrong."
"Clearly!" The laugh that comes out of Shouyou cuts through his throat like shards of broken glass. "You know what? Fine. You want to fuck your clients? Go ahead. The contract doesn't say you can't. It doesn't say anything about exclusivity, about fidelity, about anything other than public appearances and brand consolidation. We should have negotiated that, shouldn't we? Side pieces. Open marriage. Whatever the fuck you want to call it."
Kageyama goes very still. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying we can remain married on paper. For the companies. For the merger." Shouyou’s voice quivers, but he forces the words out, each one like taking a goddamn bullet straight to the chest. "But we don't have to pretend anymore. You do your thing. I'll do mine. No more... whatever we were doing."
Silence stretches between them, taut, ready to snap and flick away whatever remains of the relationship he had built with Kageyama and the vulnerabilities that came with it. The hope.
Kageyama's face is pale, his jaw working like he is grinding his teeth to dust.
"Do whatever you want," he says finally, and his voice is terrifyingly flat. "You've clearly already decided what the truth is. I won't waste my breath convincing you otherwise."
Shouyou watches until the darkness swallows Kageyama whole as he walks away.
He left. He really just…left.
"Shouyou-kun," Atsumu says softly. "Ya okay?"
Shouyou slumps back into his seat. The adrenaline singing in his veins is fully consumed now, and what is left for him to feel is…nothing.
"No," he admits. He slides his empty glass across the counter, nodding at the bartender. "Give me another round. And for everyone in this fucking bar."
⚭
They stay until last call, until the bar empties of everyone except the regulars and the cleaning staff. Atsumu is gentle, careful, never pushing but always offering. When they stumble out into the night air, Shouyou's head spinning with whiskey and misery, Atsumu's arm is steady around his waist.
"My place is close," Atsumu murmurs against his hair. "You don't have to go back there tonight. You don't have to go back ever, if you don't want to."
Shouyou nods before he can second-guess himself.
They make it to Atsumu's apartment, and it’s exactly like Shouyou remembers it. That green couch with the yellow throw pillows, a leather jacket strewn over an arm rest, clashing horrendously with the red Moroccan rug. The breakfast nook with the vase that always holds fresh lilies because it’s Atsumu’s mother’s favorite flower. The random odds and ends on every corner—a couple of books, weights, mugs. It’s a space that looks and feels lived in. So unlike the sleek, lifeless gray of Kageyama’s penthouse.
A place where Shouyou was starting to consider his home.
"Sit," Atsumu says, guiding him to the leather couch with a hand at the small of his back. "I’ll get ya water. And maybe coffee? Yer drunk, Shouyou-kun."
"I’m fine," Shouyou lies, but he sinks into the cushions anyway, letting his head fall back against the headrest. The room spins slightly, whiskey still thick in his bloodstream, grief heavier.
Atsumu returns with two glasses—water for Shouyou, something amber and neat for himself. He settles beside him, close but not touching, and they sit in silence for a moment, the muffled hum of the city traffic below loud in the quiet.
"Ya want to talk about it?" Atsumu asks finally, his voice casual, but Shouyou can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tighten around his glass.
"What’s there to talk about?" Shouyou laughs, bitter and hollow. "I married a man who bought me like a company asset. I thought he was... I thought we were..." He waves his hand, unable to finish, the words sticking in his throat like barbed wire.
"Yer falling for him," Atsumu supplies quietly. It isn’t a question.
"I was an idiot."
"Ya were hopeful." Atsumu shifts, turning to face him fully, his knee brushing against Shouyou’s thigh. "That’s not the same thing. That’s never the same thing, Shouyou-kun."
Shouyou’s eyes slid towards the man beside him. Atsumu’s hair is longer than it was when they were together, falling into his eyes in a way that used to make Shouyou reach out to push it back. His mouth is the same, curved in that perpetual half-smile that once felt like safety. Like comfort. Like something easy and warm.
It doesn’t feel like that now. Now it feels like a memory of a feeling, like a photograph of a sunset. Pretty, but suspended in the past.
"Do you ever think about us?" Shouyou asks, the question slipping out before he can catch it, alcohol-loosened and desperate. "About what we were?"
Atsumu is quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. "Sometimes," he admits. "When board meetings go late and I’m alone in my apartment and I remember how ya used to hum when ya cooked. How ya’d burn toast and blame the toaster."
Shouyou laughs, surprising himself, the sound wet and broken. "I was terrible in the kitchen."
"Ya were terrible at a lot of things," Atsumu agrees, smiling now, real and fond. "But ya were always so alive, Shouyou. So bright. That’s what I remember most. Being near ya felt like standing next to a fire."
"And now?"
For a fleeting second, Atsumu’s gaze drops to Shouyou’s mouth, then back to his eyes. "Now ya look like someone dimmed yer light. Like ya were put in a box, filing ya away."
"I was," Shouyou whispers, and the admission hurts, digs into his chest with sharp fingers. "He’s so good at boxes. At compartments. I thought I was different. I thought..."
He trails off, shaking his head, and Atsumu reaches out, his hand covering Shouyou’s where it rests on the couch between them. His palm is warm, familiar, the touch grounding in a way that makes Shouyou’s eyes burn with sudden, stupid tears.
"I hate seeing ya like this," Atsumu says, words rough with anger. "Ya were never meant to be small, Shouyou. Never meant to be caged. That’s why we didn’t work, remember? I tried to hold ya and ya burned my hands. But at least I tried."
"You tried," Shouyou repeats, and he leans into the touch, into the warmth, into the memory of being known.
It’s easier than thinking about Kageyama. Easier than facing the truth that he’s starting to fall for a man who possibly only sees a transaction.
In slow caress, Atsumu’s hand slides up his arm, almost hesitant, a courtesy he’s extending and giving Shouyou time to pull away. But he doesn’t. He lets the touch happen, lets Atsumu’s fingers trace the line of his jaw, the column of his throat, tilting his chin up.
"Beautiful," Atsumu murmurs, and there’s genuine ache in his voice, real longing. "Ya always were. Even when yer broken, especially when yer broken. It makes me want to fix ya. Put ya back together."
"I don’t need fixing," Shouyou says, but his voice is barely a whisper, and he’s not pulling away, not when Atsumu leans closer, when his breath ghosts over Shouyou’s lips, smelling of whiskey and nostalgia.
"Let me try," Atsumu breathes. "Let me make ya forget him. Just for tonight. Just—"
His mouth descends, gentle, questioning, and Shouyou lets him.
It’s warm. Skilled. Familiar. Atsumu knows exactly how to angle his head, exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly when to sweep his tongue against Shouyou’s lower lip to make him open. It’s good. Objectively, undeniably good. And tastes like revenge, like empowerment, like taking back something he lost.
It tastes like fucking betrayal.
"Stop," Shouyou whispers, pulling back.
Atsumu freezes, concern flooding his features, his hand still cupping Shouyou’s jaw. "What is it?"
"I can’t." The words tear out of him, ragged and humiliating, his throat tight with the effort of holding back tears. "I’m sorry. I thought I could, but I can’t. It’s not—you’re not—"
"I get it," Atsumu says softly. Not angry. Just sad, resigned, his hand falling away. "Yer in love with him."
"I’m married to him," Shouyou says, which isn’t an answer, but is the only answer he’s willing to divulge, the truth of it settling into his bones with terrible, clarifying weight.
Atsumu steps back, putting space between them, his expression gentle but firm. "Go home, Shouyou-kun. Whatever’s happening there, ya need to face it. Running away won’t fix it. Sleeping with me won’t fix it." He pauses, then adds, quieter, "And I deserve better than being used as a weapon against yer own heart. And so do ya."
Shouyou nods, throat too tight for words, the shame and the clarity and the desperate, terrified hope all warring in his chest. He grabs his coat and flees, the door clicking shut behind him like a period at the end of a sentence he was too cowardly to finish.
⚭
Darkness engulfs the penthouse when he enters, save for the city lights filtering through the windows. Shouyou kicks off his shoes, wincing at the silence, and makes his way toward the east wing, careful not to make a sound.
He stops.
There is a shape on the couch. A figure, slumped, holding something that catches the light.
Kageyama.
He is still in his suit, though the jacket is discarded, the sleeves rolled up. There is a bottle of scotch on the coffee table—already half-empty—and a glass in his hand that he is not drinking from, just staring into it as if it contains answers.
"Welcome home," Kageyama says, and his voice is rough, slurred. He’s drunk. Shouyou has never seen him drunk.
"I—"
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
The question is casual, conversational, and it sends ice down Shouyou's spine.
"Did you get what you needed?" Kageyama continues, looking up now, and his eyes are glassy and red-rimmed. Devastated. "Was he a better company? At least he can probably smile without calculating the ROI first, right?"
"That's not—"
Kageyama stands, swaying slightly, and his composure is shattered, completely gone, leaving something raw and bleeding underneath. "Don't lie to me. Not tonight. I've spent twenty-six years learning how to spot lies, Hinata. I can see them in your eyes."
Shouyou winces at how Kageyama spats his name, like a crude poison. "I didn't sleep with him," he says, the words exploding out of him. "I wanted to. I almost did. But I couldn't."
"How noble."
"Fuck you," Shouyou snarls, stepping forward. "You don't get to be angry. You were with her. You let her touch you—"
"She touched my arm! I moved away as soon as I could without offending a woman who controls sixty percent of our distribution network!" Kageyama's voice cracks, and he grips the back of the couch like it is the only thing holding him up. "I was thinking of you. The whole time. Thinking how much you'd hate the formality of it, how you'd probably make some joke about the tiny sandwiches. I was going to bring you there tomorrow. Introduce you properly. Show you off."
Shouyou stares at him, breathless.
"You want to know why my company agreed to save yours?" Kageyama continues, and there is something broken in his voice now. "It wasn't charity. It wasn't a favor. Your father came to us because he had no choice—the Hinata Pharmaceuticals was six months from insolvency, and the only asset you had left that was worth anything was the patent on that sports recovery compound your R&D division developed three years ago."
Shouyou blinks. The patent, a breakthrough in muscle regeneration, something their scientists had been excited about before the financial troubles buried everything else.
"Kageyama Corporation has been trying to break into sports medicine for five years," Kageyama says, his voice steadier now, mechanical, like he is reciting a report. "That compound was the key. But your father—your brilliant, prideful father—had tied the intellectual property rights to the family line in the original founding charter. The patent can't be sold. It can't be licensed. It can only be inherited... or transferred through marriage to the heir."
The pieces click into place with terrible, crystalline clarity.
"So you needed me," Shouyou whispers. "Not just the company. Me. Specifically."
"I needed the patent," Kageyama corrects, but his voice wavers. "The marriage was the only legal mechanism to acquire full control without triggering the anti-hostile-takeover clauses that would have frozen the intellectual property in litigation for years. My father wanted to let you burn, acquire the assets in bankruptcy for pennies. But I pushed for the merger. For the marriage. Because it was cleaner. Faster. More efficient."
Shouyou feels like the floor has dropped out from under him, swallowing him in the depths of ugly, ugly truth. "You married me for a patent."
"I married you because I had to," Kageyama says, and he chuckles, the sound more like a death rattle. "Because I'm the heir, and the company needed that technology, and I was expected to make sacrifices for the greater good. Just like you were. Just like we both were."
He reaches for the bottle of scotch, pours another glass with unsteady hands.
"I resented you at first.” The admission slips out of him like a whisper, gaze fixed into the amber liquid. "Because you represented everything I'd given up. My freedom to choose. To marry for love, or companionship, or anything other than market strategy. You were loud and messy and you moved my furniture and you used my shampoo—my very expensive shampoo, by the way, you used half the bottle in one week—and every time you smiled at me, I saw the bars of the cage I'd walked into."
Shouyou’s chest constricts, his breath coming short.
Kageyama shakes his head, but the movement seems to cost him. He continues, quieter now. "But you—you’re suddenly everywhere, filling up all the empty spaces I'd spent my life maintaining. And I started to believe..." He stops, tilts his head once more as if he’s physically attempting to dislodge a thought. "I started to believe that maybe the cage wasn't so bad. Not if you were in it with me.”
He looks up, and his eyes are glinting in the dark, predatory. Cold. That frigid fortress that Shouyou thought was dismantling is now restored, higher and sturdier than ever, with no intent of letting anyone break past ever again.
"But now I see that I was wrong," he rasps, barely above a whisper. "You don't trust me. You never did. And I can't—I won't spend my life trying to prove something to someone who's already decided I'm a villain in his story."
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and Shouyou watches him scroll, the glare from the phone’s light highlighting his eerily calm face.
"I'll have my assistant draft the divorce papers in the morning," Kageyama says, not looking at him. "Don't worry about the business. The merger structure is designed to survive divorce—the patent rights transfer permanently upon marriage, regardless of dissolution. Your family's company is safe. You're free."
"Kageyama—"
"Go to bed, Hinata. I don’t care whose. Do whatever the hell you want."
He turns and walks toward his wing of the penthouse, leaving Shouyou alone in the dark with the ghost of everything they almost had, and the terrible, suffocating weight of a truth he never asked for.
⚭
The morning arrives gray and pitiless, the somber light of dawn filtering through the curtains like the universe’s way of mocking Shouyou and his horrendous life choices.
He spends nearly an hour doing nothing but lay motionless and stare up at the ceiling, his head feeling as if there's heavy construction work ongoing in there with how much it pounds.
Eventually, he hauls himself out of bed, takes a cold shower both as relief and as punishment as he ruminates about the absolute mess that is the events of last night.
Divorce. Kageyama suggested they get divorced, with the assurance that the merger between their families remain intact. His jailer handed him the key to the literal and figurative cage, with little to no repercussion.
Shouyou just wishes he believes there really isn’t.
It’s quiet when he emerges from his suite, except for the distant hum of Yamamura-san vacuuming somewhere. He pads towards the kitchen, intent on drowning himself in caffeine.
His gaze lands on a card on the kitchen island. Frowning, he lifts the paper of heavy cream cardstock, Kageyama’s aesthetic bleeding even into his destruction.
Takahiro Mori, Family Law, it reads followed by a phone number in embossed black ink. Below it, in Kageyama’s precise handwriting: 9:00 AM. He’s expecting your call.
The throb in Shouyou’s head intensifies, vision spinning at the obscenity of efficiency, at the devastating consideration.
He runs his thumb over the embossed letters and thinks of Kageyama sitting here in the dark, drafting this little death notice while the scotch wore off, while the truth settled into his bones like sediment.
You’re free.
It’s what Shouyou has craved since this ridiculous fiasco began, since he signed away his life to be tethered to a man he believed to see him as nothing but a data point, simply a line in his bullet checklist.
But freedom, Shouyou realizes, does not taste sweet. It tastes like fucking shit, feels like drowning in an ocean with no shore.
He has spent his entire life reacting. Reacting to his father’s failures, to the contract, to the wedding, to the hurt. He has never once chosen. He has never reached across the table and taken what he wanted with both hands, consequences be damned.
Shouyou walks back to his suit and heads straight to the closet.
The garment bags hang where he shoved them. He pulls them out with trembling hands and lays them on the bed with delicateness he’s yet to bestow anything else. He finds the card still pinned to the first bag, Kageyama’s initials stark and severe.
For when it means something. - K.T.
It means something now. It means everything.
The silk of the midnight blue number is liquid against his skin, cool and devastating, sliding over his shoulders like a baptism, the straps delicate and demanding, carving lines into his flesh that he makes him want Kageyama to trace with his tongue. The sheer panels reveal more than they conceal—his flushed nipples, the wispy trail of hair below his navel, the hardening shape of his cock straining against lace. The back is open, held together by nothing but a few strategic ribbons.
He looks in the mirror and barely recognizes himself. Not an asset. Not an acquisition. A man choosing his own destruction in order to attain salvation.
Sprinting his way to the laundry area, he grabs one of Kageyama’s linen shirt from the hamper and pulls it over the ensemble, leaving it unbuttoned, a frame for the art beneath. Instantly, Kageyama’s scent envelopes him—lemon verbena and traces of sweat, of that distinct aroma that just screams Kageyama. It choruses with the shout his heart is following the rhythm to.
Then he goes to find his husband.
⚭
It does not take long for Shouyou to locate him. There’s only really one room he considered.
The library is breathtaking at the verge of full sunrise, the window seat holding sunlight like a cupped hand. Kageyama is there, sitting in the worn chair, a book in his hand. He’s still in yesterday’s suit, wrecked, disheveled, the collar open and revealing a generous expanse of his broad chest.
When he looks up and sees Shouyou in the doorway, the book falls.
It hits the floor with a sound like a lightning strike, but neither of them flinches. Kageyama’s azure gaze travels—slow, devastating—from Shouyou’s face down to the exposed silk, the sheer panels, the way the midnight blue cuts across his hips like a claim. His mouth opens unceremoniously, his knuckles pale where they grip the arms of the chair.
"It’s my turn to talk," Shouyou says, and his voice is miraculously steady, even as he traverses a tightrope walk over an abyss. "You were right. I decided you were a villain because it was easier than admitting I was terrified that you actually wanted me. That I’d have to be brave enough to want you back."
He crosses the room, the silk shifting against his thighs with every step like a whispered promise. He stops before the window seat and takes Kageyama’s hands. They’re cold. He presses them to his waist, beneath the open shirt, letting him feel the heat of skin radiating through the delicate fabric.
"You said this was a cage," Shouyou continues, and his voice cracks, but he doesn’t stop. "But I think... I think maybe it could be a home. If we both choose to live in it. If we turn the lock from the inside."
Kageyama makes a sound like something breaking, a wounded animal caught in a trap of its own making. His fingers spasm against Shouyou’s hips, digging in, pulling him closer until he’s standing between Kageyama’s spread knees.
"I don’t know how to do this," Kageyama whispers, voice raspy, his forehead dropping to rest against Shouyou’s stomach, his breath hot through the silk. "I’ve only ever known how to take, to acquire, to—"
"Then let me give," Shouyou cuts him off, and guides Kageyama’s hands to the straps of the midnight blue piece, letting him feel the architecture of the offering. "It’s already yours. I’m already yours. Not because of a contract. Because I say so. Because I chose this. Because I chose you."
The sound of Kageyama’s control shattering is a goddamn symphony in Shouyou’s ears.
It’s the sound of fabric rustling as Kageyama surges up from the chair, the sound of a breathy groan as his mouth crashes against Shouyou’s, a testament of starvation and desperation, of a man who has been denied sustenance for decades.
It’s the sound of unadulterated hunger as Kageyama’s hands explore—tearing at the shirt off of Shouyou, calloused fingers immediately set to mapping the silk wrapped against his skin, learning the topography of Shouyou’s body through the sheer barrier. He’s trembling, actually trembling, his composure in ruins around them like shattered glass.
"Tell me to stop," Kageyama gasps against his jaw, his teeth grazing the tendon there, sucking marks into Shouyou’s throat. "Tell me if I’m hurting you. Tell me if this is too much, if I’m treating you like—"
"You’re not," Shouyou breathes, arching into the touch, his cock throbbing against the lace, desperate for friction. "You won’t. I want you, Kageyama. I want you to fuck me until I can’t remember my own name, until the only word I know is yours."
A ragged, guttural sound escapes from Kageyama, and then he’s lifting Shouyou, his legs wrapping around his husband’s waist instinctively, clinging as they stumble toward the window seat, a tangle of limbs and desperate breath. Kageyama lays him down among the cushions with a gentleness that makes Shouyou’s throat tighten, and stands over him, looking at him like he’s witnessing something holy and profane.
Azure eyes never leaving amber ones, Kageyama begins to undress slowly, methodically, even now unable to fully abandon his precision, but his hands shake as he unbuttons his shirt. Shouyou watches, propped up on his elbows, the silk sliding against his skin, teasing his own nipples into aching peaks as every inch of Kageyama’s beautiful body is being unveiled right before his eyes.
When Kageyama is naked—broad shoulders, hard, sculpted abdomen framed by narrow waist, the thick, heavy weight of his hefty cock curving up against his stomach—Shouyou feels his mouth fill with the need to taste, to take, to be filled.
"Fuck. Look at you," Kageyama whispers, kneeling on the window seat, his hands hovering over Shouyou’s body like he’s afraid to touch, afraid to bruise. He reaches out with one trembling hand and traces the strap over Shouyou’s collarbone, following it down to where the sheer panel stretches over his nipple, the peak visible through the delicate mesh. "You’re wearing it. You’re actually wearing it."
"For you," Shouyou says, arching into the touch. "Because you mean something to me."
Those sharp blue eyes shutter close for a second, his throat bobbing as Kageyama swallows. When he opens them, his gaze is animalistic. A predator that hungers for its prey.
Shouyou is more than willing to be devoured.
With a reverent touch, Kageyama’s hand drifts lower, over the bumps and ridges of Shouyou’s abs, following the line of the silk to where Shouyou’s cock strains against the lace, hard and desperate, a wet spot forming where he’s leaking. Kageyama pauses, pressing the wet lace against Shouyou’s slit, his thumb tracing the shape of him through the fabric, learning the outline, teasing.
"Please," Shouyou whimpers, his hips bucking involuntarily, seeking more pressure.
But Kageyama has other plans. He kneels on the window seat, his face level with Shouyou’s hips, and leans in. "Stay still," Kageyama orders, his voice rough as gravel. "Let me taste you.”
Shouyou feels the hot gust of his breath through the lace a second before Kageyama opens his mouth and Shouyou watches, breathless, as Kageyama sucks his cock through the lace.
"Oh fuck," Shouyou sobs, his spine arching off the cushions, his hands flying to Kageyama’s hair. "Tobio, please, that’s—please—"
His consciousness shatters and rebuilds, broken and mended by the devastating sensation of hot, wet heat filtered through delicate fabric, the roughness of Kageyama’s tongue dragging against the lace, pressing the material against his sensitive flesh, the visual of Kageyama’s dark head bobbing as he mouths him with religious attention. Slick, warm tongue presses against the lace, tracing the vein on the underside, finding the slit and circling it, tasting Shouyou through the barrier.
The lace grows wet, translucent, clinging to Shouyou’s skin like a second layer of arousal. Kageyama pulls back slightly, using his teeth to tug the lace aside, and then dives back down, taking more of him into his mouth, the fabric bunching and sliding between his lips and Shouyou’s cock.
"T-Too much," Shouyou gasps, his toes curling, his fingers tight in Kageyama’s hair. "Tobio, please, I need you inside, I c-can’t—"
Kageyama pulls off with a filthy, wet sound—the lace sticking to his lower lip before releasing—and looks up at Shouyou with blown pupils, his mouth shiny. "You taste fucking sinful," he murmurs. "So pretty in lace. I want to tear it off you piece by piece."
"Then do it," Shouyou challenges, his voice wrecked, mind floating in the enticing currents of pleasure.
That’s all the encouragement Kageyama needs as his hands find the straps at Shouyou’s hips, pulling, stretching the delicate silk until it bites into his skin, leaving marks. He thumbs the sheer panels, pinching Shouyou’s nipples through the fabric, rolling them until Shouyou is writhing, until the silk is pulled askew, twisted and disheveled.
Then Kageyama hooks his fingers in the lace covering Shouyou’s cock and pulls, tearing it slightly, exposing the flushed, leaking head to the air.
Shouyou keens at the sound, at the violence of it, the claim. Kageyama takes him into his mouth again, bare this time, and the heat and wet suction make Shouyou’s vision explode with colors he has no name for. But just as he’s approaching the edge, Kageyama pulls back with a filthy pop.
"Turn over," he orders, his voice guttural. "I want to see this pretty thing from behind while I take you."
His entire body vibrating, Shouyou obeys, rolling onto his stomach, the silk bunching around his waist. The window seat is wide enough that he can kneel, his cheek pressed against the cushions, his ass in the air. The midnight blue piece is designed for this—the back is mostly open, held together by criss-crossing ribbons that frame the cleft of his ass, the lace panel barely covering his hole, already wet and fluttering with need.
Pure, mind-numbing lust obliterates any shame he might have felt. No, he feels empowered, so fucking sexy, as he takes in the sight of Kageyama roaming all over his lace-clad body with dark, greedy eyes as if Shouyou is a rarity Kageyama simply must have his hands on.
And so he does, those rough, large hands palming over the sensitive globes of Shouyou’s ass, his thumbs hooking in the ribbons and pulling, stretching the silk tight across Shouyou’s hips, making the front pull tight against his cock. Then he leans in and mouths him through the lace from behind, his tongue hot and wet against Shouyou’s hole, the fabric providing just enough barrier to make the sensation teasing, torturous.
"Please," Shouyou begs, his voice muffled against the cushions, his hands fisting in the fabric, pulling, tearing, just as his consciousness is being frayed at the seams at the utterly delicious feel of Kageyama’s talented tongue in his aching entrance. "Please, please, I need you Tobio, I need—"
Kageyama pulls back, his hands immediately finding the ribbons, tugging them loose, letting the silk fall open as if unwrapping Shouyou.
"Fucking hell," he breathes, spreading Shouyou’s cheeks with rough hands, exposing him completely. "Look at you. Open for me. Ready for me."
Hooking his fingers in the torn lace at Shouyou’s hips, he pulls it tight so it cuts into his skin and the sting is just kindling to this raging inferno overtaking his entire body.
The first finger slides in, slick and burning, and Shouyou cries out, pushing back against the intrusion.
"So tight," Kageyama murmurs, working his finger deeper, twisting it, knowing just where to prod with eerie accuracy. "So perfect. You’re going to take me so well, aren’t you? Going to let me ruin this pretty thing you wore for me?"
"Yes," Shouyou sobs, pushing back, needing more. "Ruin it. Ruin me."
Kageyama adds a second finger, then a third, stretching Shouyou open with slow, devastating precision even as his other hand continues to play with the lingerie—tugging on the ribbons, snapping the straps against Shouyou’s skin, leaving little red marks that will bruise into perfect evidence. The lace slides against Shouyou’s cock with every movement, the friction maddening, the lace wet with precum and spit.
"More," Shouyou begs. "Please, Tobio, I need your cock, fuck me, please—"
“The way you beg for me is so good, Shouyou,” Kageyama breathes by Shouyou’s ear, and his name on those sensuous lips undo something in him, that final restraint that imprisons his self-preservation. It shatters completely, leaving him wholly, irrevocably unraveled by the man above him, around him, and the sheer need of Kageyama to be inside him reaches the extreme.
So he begs, pleads, fucking prays. “Then fuck me already, husband.”
Something that sounds like a growl rumbles out of Kageyama as he finally pulls his fingers out, leaving Shouyou empty, aching, and desperate. But not for long, as Kageyama positions himself, the head of his cock thick and hot and insistent against Shouyou’s entrance, smearing precum all over his sensitive rim.
Oh-so-very slowly, he pushes in, and the burn is immediate and searing, and as he sinks deeper, gripping the silk straps at Shouyou’s shoulders, pulling them tight, using them as leverage to bury himself further.
Shouyou cries out, his head falling back, his nails raking down the window seat cushions as Kageyama pushes inside, inch by devastating inch. Eternity might have passed until Kageyama bottoms out—he’s so fucking huge, holy shit—ramming the rest of him to the hilt in one smooth thrust.
“Okay?” Kageyama asks, voice husky, ragged, and Shouyou feels him trace around the flesh where they’re connected, sending electrifying tickles down his taint and balls. “Shouyou, fuck, you feel…you feel so good.”
Shouyou would have thrown back the same sentiment if his brain isn’t totally submerged in euphoric pleasure right now, letting his body answer for him as he pushes back, a silent urge to move.
Seems like Kageyama takes the hint as he begins to move, slow, devastating rolls of his hips that make Shouyou see stars, his hands finding the already fraying straps of the lingerie. He grips them like reins, using them to pull Shouyou back onto his cock, the lace tearing further with the force of Kageyama’s thrusts, pulled out of shape, transformed from something pristine into something filthy and perfect and theirs.
"Look at you," Kageyama gasps, thrusting deep, his hips snapping against Shouyou’s ass. "Look how pretty you are, taking my cock in this silk. You’re ruining it, Shouyou. You’re getting it all wet, all messy. Look how it clings to you."
"Yes," Shouyou sobs, pushing back to meet every thrust, the silk sliding against his oversensitive nipples, the torn lace rubbing against his cock with every movement. "Yes, please, ruin me, break me, I’m yours—"
Kageyama flips him suddenly, manhandling him like he weighs nothing, and Shouyou finds himself on his back again, the ruined lingerie twisted around his torso, the midnight blue now stained dark with sweat and precum and god knows what else. Kageyama enters him again in one smooth thrust, and he sinks so much deeper this way, and Shouyou’s legs wrap around Kageyama’s waist on instinct.
One of the ribbons snaps under the strain, a sharp sound that makes Shouyou cry out, and Kageyama growls, tearing at another, the silk ripping like paper under his desperation. He’s destroying the garment, claiming it as thoroughly as he’s claiming the body beneath. Gripping the torn lace tight, he pounds into Shouyou, using the fabric to pull Shouyou onto his cock, meeting every thrust, driving into Shouyou with a rhythm that starts desperate and becomes devotional.
"Mine," Kageyama gasps out, the words torn from his chest like a confession, like a wound, his thumb rubbing circles against the torn lace at Shouyou’s hip. "You’re mine, you’ve always been mine—"
The declaration is the final trigger that annihilates Shouyou, exploding like a star being born anew, the pieces of himself scattering into blissful abyss. He’s screaming, maybe, as he fully shatters, painting their hot, writhing bodies with the warmth of his release, his hole clamping down on Kageyama’s cock in rhythmic pulses that draw out Kageyama’s own orgasm.
With wild jerking of his hips and a nuzzle at Shouyou’s neck, he floods Shouyou with heat, thick and endless. He keeps thrusting through it, milking himself inside Shouyou’s body, until they’re both oversensitive, trembling, wrecked.
They collapse together in a single mass of tangled limbs and sweat and ruined silk, the midnight blue lingerie tatters around Shouyou’s waist—ribbons snapped, lace torn, stained with evidence of their collision. Kageyama doesn’t pull out immediately; he stays inside, softening but still present, his weight a comforting blanket that Shouyou never wants to lose.
"I’m sorry," Shouyou whispers into Kageyama’s hair, his fingers tracing patterns on his sweaty back. "For not trusting you. For assuming the worst."
"Me, too," Kageyama replies, his voice muffled against Shouyou’s collarbone, his hand finding the torn strap of the midnight blue piece, fingering it with something like reverence. "For making you feel like a transaction. For not telling you about the patent sooner. For being too cowardly to tell you that I was falling in love with you from the moment you bent over and touched your toes just to spite me."
Shouyou laughs, hoarse and overwhelmed. "You remember that?"
"Of course I do," Kageyama says, lifting his head to look at Shouyou with eyes that are no longer ocean trenches but open skies. He touches the ruined silk again, tracing the tear he made with his fingers. "A shame about this, though."
"Well, you brought me two more," Shouyou grins toothily, even as his body ignites with renewed heat, cock already stirring between his legs at the prospect, the promise it implies. The future he’s giddily looking forward to.
"Good," Kageyama says, and there’s a fierce satisfaction in his voice. "I want to ruin all of them. I want to fuck you in silk and lace until there’s nothing left but you."
The fully risen sun streaks the room golden, and Shouyou closes his eyes in utter contentment, savoring the warmth of Kageyama against him, how they slot into each other’s edges so perfectly. Like this is where they’re supposed to be.
He must have drifted off, because the next second he comes back into awareness, Kageyama is carrying him to the master bedroom, a room neither of them has ever ventured before.
It’s about damn time they break in their marital bed.
Well, they’re definitely about to literally break it, as Kageyama absolutely ruins his ass from behind, Shouyou nearly tearing the headboard off by how hard Kageyama is fucking him while he wears the baby pink lingerie. His moans are suspended between pleasure and pain, as the garters dig into his thighs, the stockings already ripped and torn in places. Kageyama’s fingers find the clasps and unhook them slowly as he thrusts, playing with the suspenders, snapping them against Shouyou’s skin until he’s marked with red lines.
By round three, Shouyou is all wrapped in burgundy, Kageyama taking him slow and sweet, worshipping every inch of him with his mouth before sliding home again, fingering the lace trim while he moves, tearing it slightly, marking it with cum, until Shouyou is boneless, fucked out, marked in every way possible, every piece of lingerie destroyed and sanctified in celebration of their rebirth.
⚭
In the rosy light of dawn, Shouyou wakes to find Kageyama propped up on one elbow, watching him with an expression that manages to be both intense and shy, navy blue eyes glimmering like a vast ocean Shouyou can’t wait to explore more of.
"That's creepy," Shouyou mumbles, voice rough with sleep and last night's screaming, but giddiness braids in the spaces between. "Staring at people while they sleep."
"I'm observing," Kageyama corrects, though his ears are pink. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." Kageyama's hand comes up, traces the line of Shouyou's jaw with startling gentleness that threatens to liquefy his heart. "Observation is done with appreciation. Reverence, even."
Shouyou's breath catches at the unguarded admission. "Kageyama—"
"I love you," Kageyama says, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if he has been holding them in for too long and they finally breached the dam. "I know that's—that we haven't discussed feelings, and our contract doesn't require them, and I know you don't—but I need you to know. I have loved you through every argument and every cold war and every night I spent wanting you from across this bed. I love you, and I don't expect you to say it back, but I couldn't go another day without telling you."
The silence that follows is different from the ones that came before—charged not with hostility but with possibility, with the weight of confession that changes everything.
Shouyou reaches up, takes Kageyama's hand, and presses a kiss to his palm. "I love you too, you emotionally constipated, schedule-obsessed, insufferably handsome bastard. I think I loved you when we were fighting because it was the only way I could feel something from you. And I know I loved you when you started leaving orange juice on the table, even though you think it's a waste of refrigerator space."
Kageyama's eyes go wide, then suspiciously bright. "Really?"
"Really." Shouyou grins, all sunshine and mischief. "Now will you shut up and kiss me already? Some of us have filthy lingerie to dispose of and shower schedules to disrupt."
Kageyama laughs and complies with enthusiasm.
They are late to their morning meetings. Neither of them cares.
⚭
One Year Later
The garden is in full bloom when Shouyou steps out onto the terrace, a cup of coffee in his hand and a smile on his face that he can’t seem to erase. It’s become a permanent fixture, this happiness, settled into his bones like sunlight.
“Kageyama-sama?" Yamamura-san calls from the kitchen. "The caterers are asking about the cake placement."
"Tell them to ask Tobio," Shouyou calls back. "It’s his party. I’m just the eye candy."
"Still a pretty little liar, my husband," comes a voice from behind him, and then strong arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back against a familiar, broad chest. "You planned this entire thing. I just signed the checks."
"And looked very handsome doing it," Shouyou agrees, leaning into the embrace. "How was the call with Singapore?"
"Successful," Kageyama says, pressing a kiss to Shouyou’s temple. "The merger is approved. And I told my father I’m taking next month off. Completely off. No emails, no calls, no emergencies."
Shouyou turns in his arms, eyes wide. "You’re joking."
"I’m not."
"You? Kageyama Tobio? Taking a vacation?"
"It’s called taking a honeymoon, dumbass," Kageyama says, and there’s a hint of pink in his cheeks that makes Shouyou want to coo. How adorable is his husband? "We never had one. I thought... maybe Brazil? Or Italy? Somewhere with colors. You like colors."
Shouyou giggles at the ridiculousness of it. His husband is suggesting vacations based on chromatic value. "You’re learning," he breathes, and kisses him, coffee cup forgotten on the railing.
"Slowly," Kageyama admits when they pull apart, then dropping another decadent kiss that makes Shouyou’s heart melt into a helpless puddle. "But I’m a fast learner when the subject is worth studying."
"Smooth," Shouyou laughs. "When did you get so smooth?"
"About the same time I learned to laugh at your terrible jokes," Kageyama says, and his smile is easy now, unguarded, the kind of smile that Shouyou knows is only for him. "Or maybe when I learned that orange actually isn’t the worst color. It’s growing on me."
"Is that so?"
"Mm.” Then he leans closer, his warm breath fanning Shouyou’s cheeks, waking up every nerve beneath his skin. “Though I still prefer you in black."
Shouyou feels his face heat as his mind fills with memories of last night; another expensive lingerie ruined into oblivion by the rigor of their activities.
But two can play at this game as he arches back, purposely perching his ass on his husband’s groin, lips quirking up at the immediate reaction he feels beneath those dark grey slacks. “I bought spares, you know. I could model them for you later. After the party."
"Now who’s being smooth?"
"I learned from the best."
They stand together on the terrace, watching the caterers set up for the party—their first anniversary celebration, a small affair with friends and family, the kind of gathering that once would have sent Kageyama into a stress spiral. Now he just holds Shouyou tighter and points out where the lanterns should go, and Shouyou corrects him, and they argue good-naturedly, as they always do.
"Hey," Shouyou says softly, when the sun begins to set and the garden lights flicker on. "Remember when you told me this was a funeral? For who we were?"
Kageyama’s arms tighten. "I remember."
"We were wrong," Shouyou says, turning to face him, cupping his face in his hands. "It wasn’t a funeral. It was a birth. We were born that day. We just didn’t know it yet."
Navy blue eyes find him, those dark gaze that once held only assessment, now holding only love. "I like that," he says.
Under the lanterns, under the stars, under the sky that stretches endless and full of possibility above them, Kageyama kisses him.
From inside the house, someone calls their names. The party is starting. There are guests to greet, champagne to pour, a cake to cut. But for just a moment longer, they stay where they are, wrapped in each other, two souls who found each other in the unlikeliest of places and decided, against all odds, to stay.
"I love you," Kageyama whispers against Shouyou’s lips.
"I love you more," Shouyou whispers back.
"Impossible."
"Competitive," Shouyou corrects, grinning. "I told you. I always win."
And in this, as in everything, they both do.