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Naozaki San lived the most ordinary, peaceful life. In the mornings, he would wake up without hurrying, take a shower, and then put an omelet in the air fryer. The sound of the coffee machine and the rich aroma filling his nostrils would finally bring him to his senses. After a cup of coffee, he would wake his husband, and together they would go to the central park, taking along their lazy Australian dog.
While his husband exercised and ran, San would scroll through Instagram and have a call with his assistant, discussing the patients' appointments. They would put together the schedule for the day, stop by a coffee shop on their way home, and then head to work together.
It had always been this way, but not today. Because today, he was woken not by an alarm clock, but by the most hated sound in the world—the ringtone he had specifically set for Moriyama's contact.
Today, there were no elaborate omelets or pancakes, no morning coffee or familiar rituals. Just enough time to brush his teeth and tame his unruly hair.
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— You do understand perfectly well that if I submit your application now, it can't be undone. Especially in our state, considering the new constitutional laws, divorces are finalized immediately, — he said in the calmest voice possible, pretending to write while pressing the keys at random.
After jumping out of bed and hastily kissing his husband, he was already brushing his teeth in the car. On the way, while stopped at a red light, he texted Demian, begging him for a strong Americano.
When a call came from Nathaniel Wesninski Moriyama's number, he more or less understood what this devastating summons was about.
Arriving at the five-story building at eight in the morning, he noticed cars without license plates parked in front of the business center. A raven-black convertible and the eternal classic—a Rolls-Royce.
Seeing him slow down near the parking lot, Mr. Moriyama's chief assistant, Demian, ran toward the car with a cup from a well-known coffee chain. They hadn't seen each other for about a month, and during that time, the man had managed to grow his hair to his shoulders and start wearing it in a bun.
— You asked for it strong, but I added two sugar cubes. It's great for waking you up, — he said, handing over the cup.
At that moment, the doorman came out of the parking lot and took San's car keys.
— You're not smiling, and that's already a bad sign. Rate the situation on a scale of one to ten, — he asked Demian, taking a sip of coffee.
— Ten multiplied by ten. He shot every target in the yard, then threw his collection of figurines off the balcony and sent all the mansion's employees home. The yard has turned into complete chaos because all his belongings are lying around out there. The boss has been wearing the same suit since yesterday, — he whispered the last words conspiratorially, nodding with an intelligent expression.
— Jesus.
— Please, don't let them break up. They won't survive without each other. And only God, if He exists, and my boss can handle Nathaniel. I believe in the. Godspeed, — Demian said, opening the building's door.
He was left watching him go with puppy-dog eyes. Brrr, it felt like leaving a puppy at home.
Three and a half years ago, Ichirou Moriyama—the successful businessman, heartbreaker, and heir to the Moriyama family, one of the three dons ruling the East Coast of the United States—created a public sensation by marrying the most scandalous, most famous, and yet incredibly talented professional exy athlete in the United States, twenty-five-year-old Nathaniel Wesninski.
Twenty-eight-year-old Ichirou Moriyama became the first person from the upper echelons of society to openly declare his personal life and, even more so, his sexual orientation. In a world where alphas and omegas existed alongside ordinary men and women, no one expected someone of such status to choose a male omega—especially the country's most hated athlete.
At first, he was spotted at exy matches, but everyone assumed he was keeping an eye on his brother, planning to buy the team, or looking to invest in the future of the sport. Later, it became clear that Ichirou Moriyama was chasing after Nathaniel Wesninski, whose statistics were high both in sports and in being an asshole.
Ichirou earned his attention and consent after six months. After their third date, during which they wrecked an entire mansion with their own thirst, Nathaniel moved in with him. Three months later, Ichirou proposed, and by the end of the year, they were married.
Nathaniel did not abandon his athletic career. On the contrary, he became even more sought-after and famous. He continued waking up at five in the morning to train, leaving for other states and countries for weeks at a time, participating in matches, and giving provocative interviews. Ichirou, meanwhile, worked ten hours a day, waited for his husband wherever in the world he happened to be, made his dreams come true, and appeared before the public in his usual cold, meticulously composed manner.
And yet, the two of them remained surprisingly ordinary. Paparazzi had caught them more than once wearing sportswear, wandering through nighttime supermarkets without security, training at ordinary courts, relaxing together on the beaches of Honolulu, and eating cheap shaved ice. Nathaniel himself admitted that he didn't want unnecessary people in their lives. Servants, security, assistants—they weren't for them. They knew how to speak, knew how to defend themselves, and, most importantly, loved each other. Everything else was manageable.
But in three years of marriage, today's meeting became their thirteenth.
Naozaki San was their family psychologist—or, as Demian joked, their psychotherapist-psychologist. He worked with marital crises and counseled couples, while also holding notarial status that gave him the right to dissolve marriages under the law, or at the very least submit his clients' applications to the appropriate authorities if he chose not to exercise that right himself.
Every meeting began with the words, "We're getting divorced, or I'm shooting him," and ended with a passionate kiss. Sometimes they left in silence; sometimes San left them alone in his office and didn't return until the cleaning crew had scrubbed everything from corner to ceiling. Every time after a session, San received a box of dark chocolate and a bottle of good wine.
— The last word is yours, — he said, looking at the two men sitting before him with completely blank expressions.
Nathaniel was wearing a red hoodie, short basketball shorts that looked more like running shorts, and sunglasses. His slightly curly honey-colored hair shone in the sunlight streaming through the blinds. He himself slowly sipped matcha through a straw.
Ichirou was his complete opposite. Perfectly tailored dress pants, a snow-white shirt emphasizing his sculpted physique and neat biceps, and a heavy watch with an unmistakable excess of zeros on its face completed the look perfectly. He didn't look at all like a man who hadn't changed clothes in twenty-four hours. Rather, he looked like someone who had just finished shooting an Armani commercial.
— There's nothing left to lose, — Nathaniel replied with a shrug.
Ichirou slowly massaged his forehead, as if trying to calm himself down that way.
— Nathaniel.
— I'm not going to put up with your antics. One minute you're leaving for Japan for a month, then you don't have time for family dinners, then you miss my games, and worst of all, you forgot our anniversary. I'm married to myself. Do we even know each other? — he asked, lowering his sunglasses slightly and raising an eyebrow.
— I didn't forget our anniversary. I just congratulated you later because of the time difference. I sent you ten bouquets of those damn blue roses, a hundred and one in each, and you sat there plucking the buds off and sending them back to me. I've already explained everything else. I thought you understood me, — Moriyama replied, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair.
Nathaniel snorted, put his sunglasses back on, and brushed away the strand of hair that had fallen onto his forehead, a strand San envied with all his heart.
— You didn't come to Friday dinner at my mother's.
— Knowing Mary, I think she ordered everything from a restaurant, and we eat restaurant food practically every day.
— Exactly! When was the last time you and I had a proper conversation or simply spent time together? You hurt me with your indifference!
— Nathaniel, I'm the one hurting you? You, by the way, threw my collectible figurines off the third floor this morning. I think that's a perfectly valid reason for divorce.
— Oh, is that how it is?! That's your reason? Mine doesn't even come close? You don't make time for me, you cheat on me, and the reason for divorce is figurines?! — Nathaniel jumped to his feet.
Even San flinched at his tone. He had never seen him like this before. A genuine fury.
— When did I ever cheat on you?! Ever since I met you, I can't even get it up for anyone else. For those damn six months of suffering and rejection, I couldn't look at anyone else, and I still can't. What cheating are you talking about, for God's sake?! I work all the time! — Moriyama raised his voice.
— That disgusting floral perfume, like dichlorvos, a glass in your office with traces of red lipstick, and sex in the office that your employees whisper about! I'm barely holding myself back from punching you right now.
— Jesus, Nathaniel! Do you think I conduct business with ghosts and exclusively with men?! I have female business partners. And the sex in the office—that was you. They're talking about us. About those times when you burst in in broad daylight like lightning, and we don't give a damn what the public thinks, — Moriyama sighed heavily under Nathaniel's searing stare.
— You've stopped respecting me. You've stopped putting us first. We wanted to plan for children, but what's the point if we can barely find time for each other? So they can grow up just like we did, with perpetually busy and cold parents? Even our cat and dog can feel my stress and whine every time I eat dinner alone. Hell, even your brother asked if I'd seen your new cool haircut, and I hadn't. I didn't know what my husband looked like. Turns out, you got a haircut before flying to Hong Kong.
— I'm working for you. For us. Nathaniel, I told you, just let the season end. Right now, before summer, I need to close these contracts. I'll be free in the summer, and we… — Ichirou began.
— So, as usual, you're not to be disturbed in spring? Wow, then let's make a deal. From May to August, I'll be busy training for the league, and from October to February, I'll be preparing for the Olympics. Give my schedule to your assistant and have her put together a joint one for us. Looks like we really do need a simp…
This time, San interrupted Nathaniel before he could say something he would later regret.
— I think the two of you still have a lot ahead of you, and you need a…
— No need! — they both shouted at the same time.
Moriyama suddenly noticed the bruise and barely visible scar on Nathaniel's leg muscle, peeking out from beneath his black basketball shorts.
— Where did you get that? — he frowned, examining his husband carefully.
— It's your fault, asshole, — Nathaniel muttered, refusing to show his sulking expression.
He brought his hand to his lips and gently blew on the half-healed wound on his palm. Moriyama looked at his husband in alarm, exactly like San.
— When I wrecked our bedroom with a stick and your figurines, I hit that antique nightstand you snagged at an auction in Sweden. And I injured my hand when I was shooting. We ran out of targets, so I had to use bottles, and a shard cut my palm.
Both Ichirou and San breathed a sigh of relief.
— You should have taken a baseball bat or one of those useless security guards. Why did I even hire them and pay their salaries if all they do is stand by the gates? You're an athlete, you know how easy it is to get injured. Why take the risk? Did you at least treat them? Be careful, my love, please, — he looked at his husband from beneath his lashes and gently blew on the wound, holding his palm with particular tenderness.
— So I had to hurt myself to get your attention? San, do you know when I last saw him? Last night. My husband came home after a two-week business trip that I only found out about after he had already left.
— I left you a note in the refrigerator, and you attached your new nutrition schedule right over it and never saw my message.
— Should I send a carrier pigeon next? Are you getting old, Moriyama?!
— Moriyama-Wesninski, darling. I just forget things. I think about you twenty-four hours a day. You're constantly in my head, so much that sometimes I can't tell the difference between my internal dialogues and reality. You've intimidated me so much with your detachment that I still worry about saying something to you that I haven't rehearsed first, — Moriyama said, running his palm over his face again.
Nathaniel quieted down a little, looking at his husband. San smirked inwardly. Ichirou Moriyama, nightmare of the economy, major don, and gangster, rehearses every word before speaking to his husband.
— I need a husband. A caring, loving one. I want to spend my youth in love!
— You're not even thirty yet.
— I opened my soul, my secrets, my heart to you! I swore I'd find you even in the afterlife, and you…
— For God's sake, Nathaniel, you burned my Cadillac! — Moriyama roared, remembering how he had recently mourned his metallic companion.
— You shouldn't have let just anyone drive it right after the repairs, — his husband hissed. — We planned to have a picnic and drive it together after the repairs!
— For God's sake… — Moriyama stared at him, completely exhausted. — I told you I was coming to pick you up. Aiko is a family friend; I was just giving her a ride, Nathaniel, — Ichirou emphasized every syllable of his name, raising his voice.
— Do you love me or not? — Nathaniel finally deflated, realizing he might have gone too far.
— Yes, — Moriyama answered firmly, without the slightest hesitation.
And even if Nathaniel doubted everything in the distant future, San had no doubt about those words.
— I love you more and hate you just a little, — Nathaniel muttered, fiddling with the edge of his hoodie and lowering his gaze like a guilty schoolboy.
— I love you more than anything in the world, and I hate you too, but only because I love someone like you and can't give him the whole world, — Ichirou said calmly and confidently, clicking his tongue.
— I'm going to take a pill. My head hurts terribly, — San coughed lightly before another argument about the volume of their voices could begin between the two maniacs.
He closed the door behind him, took an electronic cigarette from Demian, and walked with him toward the staircase. San had quit smoking after getting married, and after treatment for addiction, he replaced cigarettes with candy. However, every time he had sessions with Nathaniel and Moriyama, he invariably released clouds of fruity-flavored vapor alongside Ichirou's assistant and joked that one day it would lead to serious health problems for him, and he would demand compensation from Nathaniel.
As always, San returned to the office twenty minutes later. He said nothing about how Moriyama was adjusting his shirt or how Nathaniel was combing his hair. He simply nodded to both of them and escorted the couple to the door. After waiting for the cleaning service, he sent a message to his husband and headed to the nearest café himself for a greasy breakfast. A little stress, a little overeating, but at least the catastrophe had been resolved.