“Sexier, just as sexy, or less sexy?” Katsu asked as he walked out of the closet.
“Sexier,” Ichirou said, and Katsu shot him a flat look, not that he noticed.
Of course he didn’t notice. Ichirou was laying on his back, tapping away on his goddamn phone while Katsu was over here with a legitimate concern.
“You didn’t even look,” he said. Ichirou sighed and let his head hang off the side of the bed. He regarded Katsu—albeit up-side-down—before lightly shaking his head.
“Just as sexy. The navy you had on earlier was sexier,” Ichirou responded. Katsu regarded himself again in the mirror. Damn, the bastard was right.
“I agree, but I’m still s–”
“Sexy either way. Yes, Katsu, I know,” Ichirou said, not unkindly. Katsu snorted before heading back to the walk-in closet to change. After grabbing his and Ichirou’s suit jackets off the chair, he went back into the bedroom.
“What game are you playing?” Katsu asked as he passed Ichirou on his way to the desk.
Ichirou didn’t respond. Katsu knew it was a silent ‘how do you know I’m playing a game?’ and shot a smile over his shoulder.
“You never conduct business lying down. Why you think standing is necessary is beyond me,” Katsu said. “But as long as you deal with the angry children’s parents and who’s sitting where at lunchtime, I’ll support you to the ends of the Earth, honey.”
A small smile played on Ichirou’s features. He couldn’t outwardly reference Katsu’s… analogy for the crime families, but Katsu knew he appreciated it. This was the most emotion the man ever wore and it was only around Katsu.
He had a feeling that the circle would eventually grow to include Nathaniel, but that was far down the line. Dependent, of course, on Katsu’s ability to keep the kid alive. The odds weren’t with him, clearly, though Katsu rarely liked when they were.
I mean, come on. It was hard to be this sexy and mysterious without a few battle scars. Perfect odds didn’t give you that.
“You also only text with one hand, Ichirou,” he said. Always have one hand open. For a gun, hand-to-hand combat, intimidation, it didn’t matter. Hence why he and Ichirou were particularly skilled at texting with one hand.
And that finger dexterity had more than one benefit.
Speaking of fingers, Katsu ran his along the underside of Ichirou’s desk, feeling for the button (oh, dirty). He clicked it and the wall of windows went temporarily transparent. One-sided, of course, but then they could see the stadium in all it’s fucking glory (dirty again, Katsu was on a roll).
The stands were mostly cleared out by then, and Katsu’s watch said it was almost an hour after the game. And they were Nathaniel-less. Huh. Caution, Katsu’s mind said.
Though Nathaniel might not have every hamster running upstairs, he had the mafia-related ones, at the very least. Nathaniel knew he was supposed to go to the East Tower after the game. Katsu had sent him a reminder, though he doubted the kid needed it considering he was raised by the yakuza. And the yakuza rarely invested in being ‘subtle.’
Katsu’s job was to assess every possibility, every outcome. Since he was sixteen, Katsu trained these instincts for Ichirou and Ichirou only. It was his job, and he was damn good at it. He also knew, from his time before the mafia, when he should ‘jump’ to a conclusion.
Possibility one: Nathaniel was stuck in post-game interviews. Unlikely. Nathaniel was rarely put in front of a camera by principle—something about an attitude problem, apparently.
Possibility two: Tetsuji. Also unlikely. Tetsuji was a man of few words, and Nathaniel was a man of no words when he tried to censor himself.
Possibility three: he forgot. Almost negligible. From what he gathered, Nathaniel had the clearest mind during an exy game, or after.
Possibility four: something was wrong.
Katsu, Ichirou, and now Nathaniel, didn’t have the luxury in life to thoroughly consider every possibility before acting. Sometimes he had to choose, with his current knowledge, which option he’d regret the least. The line between his training and his instincts had blurred a long time ago, and he trusted it.
As the windows faded to black, Katsu felt the faintest anxiety pass over him like a breeze. With absolute certainty, Katsu knew something was wrong, and Nathaniel wasn’t in control.
Nathaniel wasn’t in control, and he was in the Nest.
He was in the Nest, and he was in trouble.
He was in trouble, and he was hurt.
He was hurt, because Katsu knew the kid would have to be bleeding from a vital organ with several cracked ribs before he willingly gave up control. Katsu hadn’t personally known Nathaniel long, but he could tell Nathaniel was a caged animal.
This was how Katsu’s mind worked.
It was fucked up, yes, but Katsu liked it.
Rolling his shoulders, Katsu shrugged on his suit jacket and fastened the cuff links. He turned around to find Ichirou already watching him. He likely knew the second Katsu’s mood shifted and had been watching him ever since.
Katsu didn’t care. He and Ichirou had been together for too long and had made it out alive of too many situations to not have a sixth sense for each other. How Ichirou clocked his moods that quickly, Katsu didn’t know. After all, being first born wasn’t the only reason Ichirou was the Moriyama heir.
“Nathaniel,” Ichirou guessed, though it probably sounded factual to anyone other than Katsu.
Katsu looked him dead in the eye and said, “Yes.”
Nodding, Ichirou grabbed his jacket before he and Katsu were in sync heading towards the bedroom door.
Katsu didn’t open the door for him, nor did Ichirou slam it against the wall when he did it himself. He didn’t need to.
The man exudes power.
It rippled off his breath and spread through the hallway like a current. No one was immune. It suddenly felt like everyone’s heart only continued beating because he allowed it.
Smiling internally, Katsu gladly fell into step behind him. Ichirou never needed to question whether Katsu was there, half a step behind him and one step to the right.
Only once they were in the elevator did Ichirou turn to look at him.
“How bad?” Ichirou asked.
“Variable,” Katsu responded.
“On?”
“How quickly Nathaniel was overpowered.”
“By whom?” Ichirou asked.
“Riko, likely. Tetsuji, possibly.”
“My uncle isn’t that stupid.”
“No,” Katsu agreed, “he’s not. And for a similar reason we know Nathaniel is alive.”
“Unfortunately,” Ichirou said, firm but quiet, before turning to face the elevator doors.
They had a weird form of communication. A lot was said in a few words, and he and Ichirou were both in a constant stream of conversation. Katsu always answered bluntly and without hesitation. If he answered ‘variable,’ it wasn’t to be opaque, and Ichirou knew this. It was because Katsu genuinely wasn’t sure what state Nathaniel was in.
There were few people in the Nest stupid enough to make an attempt on Nathaniel’s life, but chances were he was in a situation where he’d be better off dead. He and Ichirou were both, silently, very aware of this.
Taking a deep breath, Ichirou turned to face him again, “Katsu–”
“I know,” Katsu said, tossing him a glance. Ichirou stared at him for a few more seconds before nodding and facing forward again. Katsu never knew what Ichirou was looking for in him, but he almost always found it. “Trust me.”
“Always.”
Katsu wouldn’t go so far to say Ichirou cared about Nathaniel. Regardless of how far along in their relationship they were, Nathaniel was Ichirou’s, and to some extent, Ichirou was Nathaniel’s.
A threat to Nathaniel was a threat to Ichirou. Which was, essentially, a threat to his empire. That alone was enough to start a war, and this was solely on the basis that Ichirou owned Nathaniel. Ichirou might not care about Nathaniel, but he was protective. He had to be. If Nathaniel was significantly hurt, it was a reflection of Ichirou’s security. Again, war.
And we called anyone on the opposing side of a war with Ichirou the ‘losing side.’
Never once, however, had the Moriyama heir been in a relationship. Not even taking Ichirou’s own issues into account—which he rarely did in his position anyways—it was a logistical nightmare.
But now he was.
With Nathaniel.
And that man was being threatened.
A war was the least of their worries.
Katsu, for better or for worse, found himself caring about Nathaniel. The fucker must’ve cursed him with some satanic ritual that probably involved a coconut bra in the dead of night. It was the only explanation. It was the only reason Katsu felt purely male, primal rage gathering on a distant shore.
For some godforsaken reason, Katsu was ready to tear the Nest apart, brick by fucking brick, to get to him. He wasn’t naive enough to want to ‘save’ Nathaniel. The kid was already thoroughly traumatized, not to mention the idea of saving someone made Katsu physically ill.
Regardless, he wanted to protect him, and some part of Katsu was furious that he’d given Nathaniel a false sense of security. He doubted Nathaniel himself believed he was protected, but that wasn’t the point. That wasn’t the reason Katsu felt more peaceful at this moment than he had in weeks.
Was he proud that this type of situation made him feel calm? No. Did he want to change? Again, no.
The elevator doors opened and the click of his and Ichirou’s shoes on the ground brought him back to the present.
“Where?” Ichirou asked as they stalked down the hallway leading into the Nest. The security guards posted at the stairs exiting the Nest bowed their heads as they passed. Katsu didn’t spare them a glance.
“Red Hall or locker room,” Katsu said. Ichirou nodded as they moved through Black Hall. There were various Raven in their rooms, and some in various states of undress, as well, and Katsu idly wondered if the doors were required to be open in the Black Hall. It didn’t matter. The residents of the few empty rooms they passed, however, were probably involved in the situation he and Ichirou were on their way to… rectify.
“You take the Hall. I’ll take the locker room,” Ichirou said. Katsu threw him an incredulous look over at him as they neared the end of Black Hall.
“Split up,” he said, voice flat. Katsu knew better than to question Ichirou, but he needed some way to communicate his concerns about the idea.
“Katsu.”
“Yes, sir,” Katsu said, immediately hanging a left towards Red Hall. He didn’t like the idea of dividing and conquering. Not fear for Ichirou—the man was more than capable of handling himself—but the possibility that he pulled the short straw, and Nathaniel was in the locker room. Objectively, Katsu knew there wasn’t anything he could do about that. Objectively, he understood the advantages of splitting up.
But he didn’t fucking like it.
Katsu quickened his pace. If there wasn’t security around, he’d be running down the hall like he was Road Runner trying to avoid getting an anvil to the head. His shoulders relaxed once his eyes locked on the entrance to Red Hall.
As he got closer, Katsu waited for the chill that graced his skin when he was near danger. He waited for warning to start flashing in his mind. He waited for that overwhelming need to find Ichirou and make sure he was alive. He waited.
Katsu hadn’t even set foot in Red Hall before he knew something was wrong. Not ‘wrong’ as in violence, but ‘wrong’ as in lack of violence. He took one cursory glance down Red Hall before he spun on his heel and took off sprinting towards the locker room. Fuck security.
He saw the end of Black Hall where he and Ichirou had been standing, and grabbed the corner to haul himself around it. His shoes echoed off the black floors as he ran. The seconds ticked by, seeming to stretch and multiply, warping time until the back of Ichirou’s suit jacket finally came into view. The man was standing in the open doorway that led to the locker room, one door propped open, one firmly closed.
Ichirou was standing still, his head slightly cocked to the side. Katu’s eyes zeroed in on Ichirou’s left hand, hidden from any onlookers by the one closed swinging door. It was clenched in a tight fist. His knuckles were stark white. This had Katsu slowing to a walk a few steps before the locker room—partially so he didn’t bulldoze over Ichirou, and partially because he knew Ichirou was angry.
Ichirou prided himself on control. If Ichirou was angry, the only way out of the situation involved blood, but Ichirou’s reputation wasn’t built solely on blood. Wesninski’s reputation was, and we all knew how well that was going.
Ichirou valued composure. He was calculated, cold, a tad convoluted. And Ichirou only trusted Katsu as much as he did because Katsu understood this. Katsu knew he couldn’t just go in swinging. He knew, fundamentally, what losing control cost you. If the situation was this dire, Ichirou couldn’t act quickly. He could only act efficiently.
After all, the Moriyama heir had all the time in the world, and more power than most people could ever imagine. Everyone knew this. There was as much damage occurring now, while Ichirou simply witnessed whatever it was, as there would’ve been had Katsu shouldered past the man into the unknown situation.
Katsu marched the last three steps to Ichirou, who silently moved one step to the left. Katsu’s eyes raked down Ichirou’s appearance to make sure he was intact and relatively unscathed before he flicked his gaze to the scene in front of him.
Katsu felt his entire body flinch back.
Katsu has watched people get tortured without a lick of guilt on multiple occasions. He even used to participate in the clean-up process, which was a pain, but mindless work. Ichirou rarely dabbled in torture, but there was always a rhyme or reason behind it when he did. People like Nathan Wesninski and Lola Malcom disgusted him, sure, but never enough to force a visible reaction out of Katsu.
Not like the sight in front of him did.
Later that night, when he and Nathaniel were safely in Ichirou’s East Tower bedroom, he’d finally understand his near-miss with a black-out rage episode. There was a reason it took Katsu years to distance himself from his emotions, and there was a reason why he had to.
His last episode was three years ago and it had to do with Ichirou. Not a threat to his life, because that was a daily if not hourly occurrence, but a truly fucked up situation where Katsu couldn’t live with himself until he got Ichirou out. He could count, on one hand, the number of people in his life capable of triggering a black-out. And apparently, Nathaniel was now on that list. Katsu had assumed as much when he first figured out Nathaniel was in trouble, but he had more important things to deal with than his own twisted psyche.
And when Katsu’s gaze fell on Nathaniel—gagging over the side of the bench as tears mixed with saliva mixed with Riko’s cum dripped from his mouth—it took every goddamn shred of control Katsu had to not grab Riko and relish in the crunch his neck would make as it snapped.
He knew Ichirou’s answer before he asked, “May I?”
He just needed Ichirou to give him the green light: “Yes.”
And there it was.
As much as Katsu loved his shirt, he didn’t think blood would ruin it. On the contrary, depending on the situation, some people might find it even sexier. So all in all, Katsu thought as his vision started to tunnel out, this was for the greater good.
—
Nathaniel had always enjoyed watching Riko get cut off at the knees. The master lost his temper, occasionally, and Nathaniel felt no small satisfaction watching it blow back on Riko. The fucker dug his grave, and he had to lie in it like everyone else. Nathaniel knew this side of himself absolutely came from his father, but he didn’t care enough to do anything about it.
Yet when Katsu stepped forward, Nathaniel’s eyes fell to the ground. It was a battle of wills to not squeeze them shut. Riko was still standing above him, shorts around his thighs, and Nathaniel couldn’t find it in himself to drag his gaze off the black tiles.
He didn’t want to see him. He needed the feeling of his thighs clenching around him to be gone. He needed his fucking taste out of his mouth. He needed to get out of the Nest. He needed to get him out of him.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t make himself look when Katsu’s arm wrapped around Riko’s neck. There was a grunt and a crash, and Nathaniel saw Riko crumble against the lockers in his periphery.
Nathaniel let his shoulders and head fall back on the bench, eyes trained on the tinted overhead lights as air left his lungs and never returned. The ligaments in his wrists stretched as he subconsciously wrenched on the ties holding his arms in place.
Katsu then appeared above him. It took Nathaniel’s eyes a few attempts to focus on his face with any amount of recognition. He couldn’t read the look on Katsu’s face, and as something like despair flickered behind Katsu’s eyes, Nathaniel figured he was better off not knowing.
Nathaniel looked away and opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Katsu interrupted him.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “It’s too soon.”
It’s too soon.
Too soon to speak.
It’s too soon.
Too soon to use his throat.
It’s too soon.
Too soon to deal with this.
It’s too soon.
Too soon to hear the voice that had thanked Riko for doing this to him.
It’s. Too. Soon.
On second thought, Nathaniel didn’t feel like speaking.
Katsu snapped his fingers, dragging Nathaniel out of his mind. The man then pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and knelt next to Nathaniel’s head. He made quick work of the ropes.
The closer Katsu got to him, the closer Nathaniel was to sobbing.
Nathaniel sat up the second the ropes slipped free. His vision went black around the edges. For once, being consumed by the darkness didn’t seem all that scary, but Katsu didn’t let him drift far.
He felt the familiar cold metal of a locker biting into his shoulder.
Nathaniel didn’t remember standing up.
It wasn’t important.
Nothing was.
Not even exy, junkie? Andrew’s voice flooded his head. Nathaniel mentally rescinded his previous statement, but not entirely because of exy.
“Nathaniel,” Katsu said, and Nathaniel turned to look at him. Katsu then grabbed the back of his neck before practically dragging Nathaniel to the bathroom stalls. He pushed two fingers roughly down Nathaniel’s throat and shoved him to his knees in front of the toilet. By the time Nathaniel’s brain registered what was happening, the only thing he had left in his stomach to throw up was bile.
Nothing about that was gentle, but Nathaniel didn’t care. He didn’t mind feeling the slices on the back of his throat from Katsu’s nails. Katsu likely knew the window of time between eating something and being able to throw it back up was pretty tight. Nathaniel would’ve let him do it ten times over. He doubted his body would’ve allowed himself to push his own fingers that far back in his mouth.
“Thank you,” he whispered as he rested his forehead against the seat of the toilet. Maybe Katsu heard him, maybe he didn’t. Either way, Nathaniel meant it.
“Hey,” Katsu said, firm and quiet. A plastic bag collided with the side of his face when he turned. Nathaniel scowled, knowing Katsu’s aim was far too good for that to be anything but intentional. On the ground between his knees laid a pack of Trolli gummy worms.
Nathaniel glanced at him, unsurprised to find his own hands already ripping open the package. It was then his brain recognized another person in the room. His movements slowed as he looked up at Ichirou, but Ichirou wasn’t looking at him.
Nathaniel didn’t know what look the Moriyama heir was wearing, though he was sure Katsu did. The two were staring at each other. Nathaniel had a distinct feeling their unspoken conversation wasn’t just about him, but also the gummy worms. Their gazes were glued on each other and neither moved an inch.
He didn’t know what passed between them, but whatever it was had him feeling comfortable enough to continue opening the package when they broke apart.
Nathaniel popped a gummy worm into his mouth as he stood up. He was still in the bathroom stall, the exit blocked by both Katsu and Ichirou. It was a shit situation if he wanted to run, but Nathaniel slowly realized that the crippling need to get out wasn’t there. He didn’t want to leave and venture back into the Nest by himself.
Was that pathetic? Maybe. Nathaniel, though, thought he had some ground to stand on. He didn’t have Jean anymore, and the next person he trusted here was an emotionally stunted yakuza bodyguard that was way too obsessed with his own looks.
He trusted Katsu. Ichirou owned him. And Nathaniel, for once in his life, was so sick of trying to do this on his own. He’d always had temporary security—his mother on the run, Andrew in juvie, Kevin and Jean in the fucking Nest—and he lost them all. But Katsu and Ichirou? Nathaniel doubted they were going anywhere for a very, very long time.
He’d paid enough, and he deserved their twisted security.
He paid enough.
So Nathaniel didn’t know if it was confidence or stupidity that had him now looking Ichirou in the eyes. Gazing at the man didn’t spark any emotions in Nathaniel, good or bad, and he supposed that was a good thing. After all, Ichirou owning him was the only reason he could’ve saved Nathaniel like he had tonight.
“Thank you,” Nathaniel repeated quietly. Regardless of what Andrew would say, Nathaniel did have at least one or two survival instincts, and all the cards he held were because of the man in front of him.
“Do not thank me,” Ichirou said, his voice smooth and calm. “Whether or not I choose to recognize that filth as my next of kin is negligible. It was my blood that did this to you.”
Nathaniel didn’t know what to say to that. Never once had he seen a powerful person in the mafia circuit take responsibility for something that wasn’t directly theirs. Nathaniel looked at Katsu, who gave him a flat look that said, do you believe me now, dipshit?
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Nathaniel met Ichirou’s gaze again. Had Nathaniel not been this exhausted, he might’ve been able to read something in the man’s eyes.
“Am I right to assume,” Ichirou continued, “this is the first time my brother enacted this particular form of torture?”
Burning rage laced up Nathaniel’s body. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but it was a lost cause, because anger was rolling off of him in waves. He was smart enough to know it wasn’t directed towards Ichirou and he prayed the Moriyama heir knew that. Ichirou also knew Nathan, so he was aware Nathaniel was fighting a losing biological battle.
Images and memories started flipping through Nathaniel’s mind. Some part of him snapped tonight, and Nathaniel doubted it would ever mend.
Despite all the times he fought, screamed, begged, or thanked Riko for what he did, Riko still managed to get inside him and rip out any remaining scraps of shame or embarrassment he had left.
Nathaniel never liked his face, his looks, his voice, but he never thanked Baustin or Taylor like he thanked Riko. He’d heard his own voice thank Riko for beating him, thank Riko for sparing Jean, thank Riko for cutting into him. He’d thanked Riko for forcing Baustin on him, he’d thanked Riko as Taylor pulled his pants down. Thanking Riko was so familiar.
But he’d never thanked Baustin.
He’d never thanked Taylor.
And tonight, the man he thanked had shoved his dick in Nathaniel’s mouth as he laid there tied and fucking helpless. The man he thanked–
It was never enough, was it?
Nathaniel didn’t look away from Ichirou. Let Ichirou see the destruction his brother left behind. Let Ichirou see that Nathaniel wasn’t fragile.
Let Ichirou see that Nathaniel wouldn’t break easily.
That thought had his anger receding. Since he’d met Ichirou, he’d been slowly learning that he didn’t know the Moriyama heir at all. Every day, Nathaniel was less and less sure that Ichirou’s goal was to break him. That he wanted to break him. That he intended on breaking him at all.
It’s a shame people can’t recognize something beautiful. And why they would damage it is beyond me.
“Kind of,” Nathaniel said. With Ichirou, any lie was a wrong answer, and neither ‘yes’ nor ‘no’ held enough truth for Nathaniel to say it confidently.
“Meaning,” Ichirou said. Nathaniel flicked his gaze to Katsu, not sure where to go from here. Katsu gave him a small nod, which told Nathaniel absolutely nothing.
Nathaniel hadn’t forgotten his blinding, purely primal panic the first time he’d met Ichirou, and he was certain Ichirou hadn’t either. He didn’t seem like a man to miss details. Given Ichirou knew that, he wasn’t looking for a broad answer—he wanted something specific from Nathaniel.
God, meeting new mafia members was always fucking exhausting.
Nathaniel was far too tired to craft the perfect answer, so he went with blunt, thoughtless honesty.
“Yes, this is the first time Riko fucked my mouth.”
Nathaniel’s eyes snapped to Katsu when the man’s breathing shuttered. Ichirou hummed before adjusting his weight just enough to have his arm brush Katsu’s, and as quickly as it started, Katsu’s breath returned to normal. Had Nathaniel not been paying attention, he would’ve missed the whole thing.
“But,” Ichirou prompted.
“Not the first time he had someone fuck me.”
Nathaniel tried to keep the bitterness out of his tone, but he didn’t have the patience nor mental capacity to do much.
He wasn’t upset with Ichirou for asking. It wasn’t his fault. Nathaniel’s life wasn’t supposed to be on Ichirou’s radar until graduation, and even then, solely related to compensation.
He was aware of this, and he needed Ichirou to know that.
“I do not mean to be–” Ichirou held up a hand, effectively silencing him.
“Pack your belongings, Nathaniel,” Ichirou said, turning to stalk towards the door. He didn’t spare Riko’s body a single glance, and part of Nathaniel almost wished he were awake to witness it.
He didn’t understand why Ichirou said that. He didn’t know how to ask for clarity, and his window of opportunity was rapidly closing. ‘Why’ seemed rude and simply saying ‘Ichirou’ seemed unnatural.
“Sir?” Nathaniel asked.
Ichirou paused, taking a few seconds before turning around.
“The East Tower has three bedrooms. The elevator is password and security protected. The court is still at your disposal. I am only here on game nights,” Ichirou said. Nathaniel’s brain was running, too busy trying to absorb information for him to understand it. “Think logically, Nathaniel. There is no reason for you to live in the Nest.”
Nathaniel felt his eyes widen.
Think logically, Nathaniel.
Ichirou was offering him a way out. Nathaniel could say he’d rather stay in the Nest with Riko and Tetsuji and Baustin, but why would he? Nathaniel already spent a considerable chunk of time in the East Tower with Katsu in Ichirou’s bedroom. He had no idea there were two other bedrooms. He wondered why they never spent time in Katsu’s bedroom, but maybe Nathaniel had only been allowed in Ichirou’s.
Think logically, Nathaniel.
And he was. Emotionally, he should be scared. Even logically, he should be afraid. But all he could think about was what it might feel like to sleep without wondering if Baustin or Taylor were going to sneak into his room. All he could think about was what it might be like to not wake up with his hands already cuffed.
All he could think about was getting away from the monsters he knew.
Ichirou was one person. One monster. A monster with enough power to decimate the eastern seaboard and a few international territories, but still one monster.
A monster that was born into this life. A monster that became a person with power. A person with power only a few years older than Nathaniel. A person with power that just wanted Nathaniel’s loyalty, who, in return, would keep him out of Tetsuji and his psycho nephew’s hands, Nathan and Lola’s hands, even Kengo’s hands.
Think logically, Nathaniel.
Ichirou figured out what very few leaders before him had: the loyalty of the fed is worth more than the desperation of the hungry.
Ichirou wasn’t needed by his followers, and Nathaniel was starting to understand why.
He was worshiped. Feared.
What a lethal combination.
“Nathaniel,” Katsu said quietly, pulling Nathaniel from his thoughts. He realized Ichirou was still looking at him, expecting a response. He knew he had to pick his words carefully, and ‘thank you’ clearly wasn’t earning him any points tonight.
Nathaniel doubted he’d ever get this many free passes from Ichirou again.
“Yes,” Nathaniel said. Ichirou raised an eyebrow in response. “I want to be closer to you.”
This ‘yes’ meant more than Nathaniel could properly put into words right now, and he hoped Ichirou understood it.
Yes, I’ll live in your space.
Yes, I’ll be with you.
Yes, I’ll treat this relationship as though it’s mine, yours, ours.
Yes, eventually, I’ll forget what it would’ve felt like to be with you willingly.
Nathaniel knew this wasn’t freedom, but for a caged animal who forgot what it looked like, this sure tasted like it.
Ichirou was looking at him like it cost him nothing to peel away Nathaniel’s layers and lay bare any truth he wasn’t telling.
There was only one truth Nathaniel hid away—Andrew.
He wasn’t ready for either illusion to shatter. He wanted what Ichirou was offering, and he wanted a life with Andrew that didn’t involve this. One was right in front of him, and the other was impossible.
Eventually, Ichirou’s intense focus faded, and a slow smirk drew across his face, lethal and approving.
“Katsu,” Ichirou said as he walked out.
“Sir,” Katsu responded.
—
Jean Moreau could not find enough words in the English nor French languages to accurately describe Los Angeles.
Jeremy Knox called the minute they landed, insisting he pick them up at the airport. Jean gave Kevin a slight shake of his head. Kevin did not push the subject. He knew without asking that Jean wanted to meet Knox in his territory, at USC or the Gold Court.
Jean already had to suffer through meeting a new captain—at the very least it needed to be in a place Jean understood.
In return, Knox had Kevin put him on speaker to ensure he actually had Jean, and Kevin had not made him up as an excuse to visit. Jean snorted. It was a valid concern. Kevin loved the Trojans because “their kindness matters.” Which he said, on multiple occasions, because the only thing Kevin loved more than Jeremy Knox and his team was hearing himself talk. Jean did not understand how Kevin managed to hold onto the inane philosophy after spending his entire life in the Nest.
The conversation was short. Knox asked for Jean’s initial opinion of Los Angeles, to which he responded with ‘unfamiliar,’ because it was the kindest word he could come up with. Kevin rolled his eyes and fielded the rest of the conversation as Wymack got their rental car.
Kevin silently handed over dark, reflective sunglasses before they exited the airport. When Jean just stared at him, Kevin waited until he put them on and simply said, “Trust me,” then left it at that. Jean would have rolled his eyes at the theatrics had he not been nearly blinded as they walked out. He gave Kevin a small nod of thanks.
As it turns out, Jean Moreau does not have eyes biologically capable of taking in the amount of light that was Los Angeles. Jean leaned in and said to Kevin, “Whoever designed this wretched city was an idiot.” Of course, Kevin knew exactly what he was talking about and responded with, “Why they picked white sidewalks is beyond me.”
Jean tended to agree.
Once they got in the car—Wymack driving, Jean in the passenger seat, Kevin and Andrew in the back—Kevin launched into a verbal resuscitation of the city’s history. He watched the scenery as Kevin droned on. Wymack occasionally piped in with a few choice words about Los Angeles drivers. It was comfortable, and a touch too familiar, because Jean’s mind drifted back over the events that led him here.
The whole process to get Jean across the country would have been eventful had he not been Jean Moreau. Contrary to most press articles, Jean did not hate flying. For Kevin, Jean, and Nathaniel, flying meant public-approved-Riko, which led to two or three days of blissful hotel nights where Riko could not hurt him anywhere visible. Riko rarely bothered because he saw it as a waste of time.
Most reporters saw his generally gloomy exterior in airports and concluded that Jean Moreau simply hated flying. Fans fabricated various reasons without a shred of truth. Some of the theories were mildly entertaining when Nathaniel had read them to him.
The flight itself was uneventful. He could tell that the goalie was not enjoying his time, though he knocked out soon enough after take-off that Jean doubted he would remember much once they landed. Wymack was the same person as always.
Kevin, however, was The Kevin Day in the airport, and he knew how to play the part. Jean could admit that Kevin was an extremely attractive person—thank God his fan base did not know his loathsome personality—and he looked so enraptured by his history book that most of his fans left him unbothered. Kevin was also a chronic anti-social unless the situation involved vodka.
The train of thought led him to Nathaniel, but Jean could not think of his partner. He could not handle it.
At some point during the lengthy trip, Jean mentally decided to stop referring to him as Neil.
The conversation Kevin relayed to him after their private phone call had not come from Neil. Those words came from someone Jean thought had died eight years ago when he first arrived at the Nest. In fact, they sounded so natural with the slight British lilt of Nathaniel Wesninski as they rebounded in Jean’s head.
They replayed like a broken record while Wymack drove them to the airport, as Jean walked through security, as he directed questions from reporters until Kevin could take over. Jean could not reconcile his partner with the Nathaniel that Kevin had told him about. Nathaniel’s words were the only reason Jean was on his way to USC right now.
Some part of Jean knows I’m better off without him, Kevin. I think he knew all along.
Jean did not want to hear it. He and Nathaniel were partners. Not brothers, not lovers, but some fucked up mix of both. And the Nathaniel Jean had known, bloody and bruised and broken, was someone who had looked Riko in the face and said he would be dead before he hit the ground if he touched Jean.
I don’t know how he got out, but I don’t want him back. I’m sick of it, Kev. I’m sick of not fighting because it’ll blow back on Jean and getting beaten or assaulted anyways.
Jean did not understand. He knew every part of Nathaniel, as Nathaniel did him. There was no hiding from each other in the Nest. They learned early on that ‘privacy’ was a facade and being alone was not an option. They never had a chance of escaping each other. That was how the system worked.
I know it’s not his fault, and I love him, but I like it better this way.
Jean could not believe Kevin when he told him. This was not Nathaniel. Something was wrong. Someone had a gun pointed to his head and he was backed in a corner and Jean needed to go to him. He needed to go back.
Jean argued and argued until Kevin revealed the last thing Nathaniel had said to him. It drained all the denial and rage out of him as if it had never been there. Jean knew, without a doubt in his mind, that his former partner had said it to Kevin.
Jean knows I don’t like being alone, but I never said I don’t like being by myself.
It sounded like a truth Nathaniel held that Neil never wanted to say.
These thoughts only abated after Jean landed in LAX, and once again as he got his first glimpse of USC’s campus.
The building was very cathedral, and very southern west coast. As Wymack made his way through campus streets, Jean quickly realized the USC was opposite to the Nest in every visible way. Beyond a very anticlimactic statue of a Trojan horse, nothing on the campus was colored black.
Jean was never given the chance to appreciate architecture, and in the car with a few Foxes, he did not need to hide any of his interests. He did not only get to look at these buildings, he would be allowed in them, he assumed. He was convinced there were more outdoor areas than there were indoor.
Until he saw the Gold Court—comparable size to the Nest, and colored an obnoxious maroon and yellow—Jean could not find a single similarity to Edgar Allen. There was only one person to blame for this, and he was already watching Jean when he turned around in his seat.
Jean gave Kevin a flat look that he hoped conveyed everything he was thinking. When Kevin only smiled in response, Jean felt the expression slip off his face. Kevin gave genuine smiles so rarely that Jean had forgotten what they looked like on his face. Part of Jean was glad only he and a few others got to see it.
The world did not deserve this side of Kevin.
As much as Jean hated his obsession with training and hated who he was in the Nest and hated what happened with his relationship with Nathaniel and hated him for getting Jean out… he could never truly hate Kevin. He did not deserve it.
“You’ll get used to the colors,” Kevin said. Jean sighed.
“No, I will not,” he said.
“Question,” Wymack said as he pulled into a parking spot. “How long do you think he’s been waiting there?”
Jean looked through the windshield and saw none other than Jeremy Knox, the Golden Boy, sitting against the outside gate with his nose in a book. His blond hair fell slightly over his forehead and he had one muscled leg bent up to his chest.
Knox closed the book when he saw them and waved. He stood up, stretched his arms over his head until his shirt revealed a very toned stomach, and started making his way over to the car. As he walked, Jean noticed–
“Is he wearing flip flops?” Jean asked. Andrew snorted in the backseat.
“Welcome to SoCal. The entire state is a fucking mental case,” Andrew muttered before getting out of the car and walking in the opposite direction. Jean watched him pull out a pack of cigarettes before turning his attention back to Knox.
“Do you trust him?” Jean asked.
“Yes,” Kevin said. “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“He looks like an overgrown twelfth grader,” Jean mumbled in French while undoing his seat belt.
“That’s half the charm,” Kevin responded in French, already halfway out of the car.
‘Charm’ was not exactly the word Jean would use. ‘Infuriatingly gorgeous’ and ‘unfairly hot in flip flops’ seem more on par with what he was thinking. Jean took a breath, wrapped his crooked fingers around the door handle, and stepped into the sun.