Chapter Text
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroko no Basket nor do I profit from writing this fanfiction. Please be aware that the story contains spoilers for Kuroko no Basket. Additionally, there are quotes from the manga, anime, wiki, and other sources included.
Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds
Chapter I
Akashi Masaomi was born into the Akashi family, a dynasty of billionaires whose wealth stemmed from their vast real-estate empire. The family had once been humble rice merchants who happened to own several modest buildings in Tokyo. Everything changed when Masaomi’s grandfather, Akashi Takichi, retired from his post as a professor of economics and turned his attention to managing the family’s small property portfolio.
It was Takichi who founded Akashi Trust, the company that would, over the decades, grow into one of the most powerful property conglomerates in Japan.
Masaomi was the third generation—raised from the moment he could remember to inherit everything. His education was meticulously planned: prestigious schools in Japan, Tokyo University, and eventually a master’s degree in the United Kingdom. Every school holiday, while other boys were out playing or enjoying their youth, Masaomi was placed in one department or another of the family company, learning each cog in the machine he was destined to run.
Both his grandfather and father had married through arrangement. In his grandfather’s era it was not merely common—it was the expected path for any respectable family. His father, too, had followed tradition, taking as his wife a woman descended from former court nobility.
Naturally, everyone assumed Masaomi would do the same.
But things turned out rather differently.
It happened during a summer weekend in Karuizawa, one of the rare occasions when Masaomi was allowed a brief escape from his carefully structured schedule. He had been invited by one of the Akashi family’s long-time friends, and he expected nothing more than polite conversation and business talk disguised as leisure.
Then he saw her.
He had been walking past the tennis courts when she caught his eye—Shiori. She was beautiful in a quiet, breath-stealing way, smiling softly beneath the brilliant blue sky. She wore a simple white summer dress, and the cool mountain breeze made her long hair sway like a ribbon. Even years later, he knew he would never forget that sight, nor the gentle smile that seemed to illuminate the entire afternoon.
His host must have noticed the way Masaomi paused, because he chuckled knowingly and said, “Ah, you’ve spotted Shiori-san. Come, I’ll introduce you.”
Masaomi blinked, taken aback at the man’s perceptiveness, but followed him nonetheless. The afternoon sun hung warmly above Karuizawa, casting gentle shadows across the tennis courts where several young guests enjoyed a leisurely match. A soft breeze carried the scent of pine from the nearby woods.
Shiori turned as they approached. “Good afternoon,” she greeted them, her voice light and warm, as though she were welcoming old friends rather than strangers.
“Shiori-san, this is Akashi Masaomi,” their host said. “I believe you’re both around the same age.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Masaomi said, bowing slightly—just enough to be polite, though he suspected it came across as excessively formal.
“Miura Shiori,” she replied, giving a small, charming smile. Her eyes—bright, steady, and touched with gentle amusement—rested on him with surprising ease. “You look very serious for a summer holiday, Akashi-san.”
He felt himself relax, almost against his will. Something about her tone, perhaps the playful lilt, swept away the stiffness from his shoulders. “I’m not very used to holidays,” he admitted. “My schedule tends to be… structured.”
“Well then,” she said with a teasing grin, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, “you’ll have to learn. It is summer, after all.”
Her lightness was disarming. Masaomi found himself thinking—quite unexpectedly—that he wouldn’t mind learning, if she were the one teaching him.
They met again later—several times, in fact. Partly by coincidence, partly because their host was pleased by the newfound connection, and partly, Masaomi suspected, because Shiori herself didn’t seem opposed to their paths crossing.
He learned she was the daughter of a wealthy family, her father a director at a major bank. But beyond the formalities, he discovered more subtle things: that she enjoyed piano but played only when no one was listening; that she preferred early mornings to late evenings; that she often paused to admire little things—flowers on a path, sunlight filtering through leaves, the shape of clouds drifting overhead.
She was well educated, poised, and gentle without being fragile. A girl of good upbringing—refined without conceit. In the eyes of the Akashi elders, she was the perfect candidate for a future daughter-in-law.
But for Masaomi, she was simply Shiori: the girl who smiled like summer sunshine, who spoke to him without fear or calculation, who made him—someone raised to carry an empire—feel, for once, like an ordinary young man.
They began seeing each other quietly at first. Lunches in discreet cafés where no one looked twice, slow walks through landscaped gardens where Shiori would point out flowers he’d never bothered to notice before, occasional concerts where they sat shoulder-to-shoulder in easy, comfortable silence. And somewhere within those soft, unhurried moments, they drifted into love. Marriage followed as naturally as breathing, as though every step had been gently placed before them long before either of them realised.
Not long afterwards, their son was born.
Seijuurou.
Shiori had been the one to choose the name. When Masaomi first held their child—so small, warm, impossibly fragile—he felt something inside him shift, as though the foundations of his carefully built world had quietly rearranged themselves. The baby had Shiori’s delicate features, her calm expression, her soft colouring.
Masaomi drew his son closer, his breath catching almost imperceptibly.
“He looks just like you,” he whispered to his wife.
Shiori smiled, exhausted yet radiant, her cheeks still flushed from the strain of childbirth. “Do you think so? I can see you in him as well… just a little.”
But Masaomi only shook his head, slow and certain, his gaze fixed on the newborn’s tiny, peaceful face.
“So much like you,” he murmured. “Our son.”
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Despite their first meeting on a tennis court, Shiori’s favourite sport was actually basketball—a fact that surprised Masaomi at first. She enjoyed its rhythm and speed, the way a match could shift in an instant. It was the sport she would later teach to Seijuurou, placing a small orange ball into his tiny hands long before he understood the rules.
As Seijuurou grew, it became unmistakably clear that he was an extraordinarily gifted child. Whatever his teachers placed before him—numbers, letters, music, foreign languages—he absorbed with astonishing ease. He mastered simple piano melodies within weeks, learned to read far earlier than expected, and moved with an instinctive grace that made physical activity seem almost effortless.
Before long, Shiori noticed the schedule designed for their son expanding—subtly at first, then rapidly. New tutors, new lessons, new expectations, each building upon the last. It didn’t take long before she confronted her husband.
“Don’t you think it’s too much for a six-year-old?” she asked one evening. Her voice remained gentle, but her gaze was unwavering. Shiori was never one to shout, but she had always known how to stand her ground.
Masaomi, fatigued from work, set aside the documents he had brought home. “Seijuurou is the only child of the Akashi family,” he replied. “He will be responsible for the family business in the future. His education must begin as soon as possible.”
He spoke from experience. As the scion of a prominent family, he had seen far too many heirs—brilliant on paper, hopeless in practice—squander everything their ancestors had built. People often said, the first generation builds, the third destroys, and Masaomi had witnessed the truth of it many times: entitlement, lack of discipline, poor financial judgement, feuding relatives… the so-called third-generation curse that haunted families across the world. The Akashis had always fought against it. His own grandfather had been an academic before entering business, and that scholarly discipline still shaped their family ethos. Education, diligence, refinement—these were the pillars that kept the Akashi name standing.
Shiori’s frown deepened, though she clearly understood his reasoning. “But he still needs to play,” she insisted softly. “He’s brilliant, yes, but he’s still just a boy. He needs friends, fresh air, moments that aren’t planned down to the minute.”
Her words struck him more deeply than he expected. For a moment, Masaomi saw her expression from years ago—standing under the Karuizawa sun, smiling easily, free of burden. And he wondered, briefly, if he was pushing their son too quickly towards adulthood.
So, reluctantly, he relented. He reduced Seijuurou’s workload—just slightly, just enough to appease Shiori. He adjusted the schedule to give their son time for sport, allowing Shiori to teach him basketball on the Akashi estate’s private court.
One day, he had just returned from a long meeting—one of those endless board-room discussions about projections, investments, acquisitions. His mind was still tangled in numbers and charts.
He paused when he heard the faint, rhythmic sound of a basketball bouncing.
Thump… thump… thump.
He followed the sound with his eyes and saw them on the private court behind the house. Shiori’s white dress fluttered gently in the breeze as she dribbled effortlessly, laughing as she weaved around her son. Seijuurou—small, serious, determined Seijuurou—chased after her with single-minded focus, cheeks flushed, hair sticking slightly to his forehead.
Masaomi stayed where he was, partly concealed by a pillar. He hadn’t meant to hide, but something about the scene felt… fragile. He didn’t want to intrude.
Shiori picked up the ball and held it above her head. “Ready?” she called.
Seijuurou nodded, feet set, eyes sharp.
“All right then—catch!”
She tossed the ball gently. Seijuurou caught it with both hands, stumbling back a step but holding it firmly. His mother clapped delightedly.
“Well done!”
Masaomi felt an unexpected warmth stir in his chest. Shiori always looked happiest like this—moving, laughing, sunlight in her hair, no weight pressing down on her shoulders. And Seijuurou… he looked like a child, not an heir, not a successor-in-training, not the future head of Akashi Trust. Just a six-year-old boy trying his best to impress his mother.
Shiori dribbled again, slower this time so Seijuurou could watch. “Your turn,” she said, nudging the ball back toward him. “Relax your wrists. Don’t hit the ball—guide it.”
Seijuurou frowned in concentration and tried. The ball bounced unevenly, wobbling, but he didn’t give up. Shiori crouched beside him, adjusting his stance with gentle hands.
“There you go,” she murmured.
From the veranda, Masaomi felt something twist inside him—pride, affection, and a faint ache he couldn’t name. He had wanted to be the one to guide his son. But when he tried, everything turned into lessons and expectations. With Shiori, it was joy. Warmth. Freedom.
The ball bounced again, stronger this time.
Shiori’s delighted cheer rang out. “You did it!”
Seijuurou’s face lit up—not with arrogance, not with seriousness, but with genuine, childlike happiness. He looked up at his mother, almost seeking her approval.
“Again?” he asked breathlessly.
Shiori laughed. “Yes, again!”
The ball bounced—thump… thump… thump—steady and growing in confidence.
Masaomi turned away. He descended the veranda steps silently, the golden light fading behind him. For a moment, he paused at the corner of the house, looking over his shoulder at the silhouettes of his wife and son framed by the late afternoon sun.
Shiori’s hair floated in the breeze as she lifted her boy into a playful spin. Their laughter rang through the courtyard like a melody he no longer knew how to join.
And perhaps—he thought with a sudden, unfamiliar heaviness—it was better this way. Better to let them keep this moment. With a final, unreadable look, Masaomi slipped back inside the house, leaving the mother and son entirely unaware he had ever been there.
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Time passed, and Masaomi buried himself in his work at Akashi Trust. The days blurred together—long meetings, endless paperwork, negotiations that stretched late into the evening—but he found a strange comfort in it all. Each evening, he would return home, greeted by the gentle presence of his wife and his talented son.
He thought everything was going well.
But life can change in an instant.
When Seijuurou was eleven, Shiori fell gravely ill. Even the most renowned doctors, those revered in their field, could offer no cure. Her strength, once vibrant and unyielding, slowly waned. And yet, on the morning she passed, she had moved with a peculiar energy, almost as if she were determined to greet her final day with a semblance of vitality. Masaomi felt a cold certainty in his chest—he knew. Her time had come.
She reached for his hand. Masaomi took it, cradling it gently with both of his, as though the warmth of his palms could anchor her here, tether her to the world. She smiled at him—softly, tenderly—just as she had the very first time they met all those years ago. For a fleeting heartbeat, her face seemed to blur into that memory: her smile serene beneath the brilliant blue sky, the cool mountain breeze lifting her long hair and making it dance like a ribbon caught in the wind, and the quiet certainty that even then he had felt—that she would become the centre of his world.
She was beautiful in a calm, breath-stealing way, and for a moment, Masaomi allowed himself to remember that day in full: the sunlight catching her hair, the laugh that had lit up his world, the simplicity of her presence that had made life feel complete. Now, lying frail and weak, she still held that same gentle power over him, as if to remind him that some things—true love, memories, devotion—could never be taken away.
“I’ve been very happy… all these years,” she murmured, her voice fragile yet imbued with a quiet, unwavering certainty. Masaomi felt the familiar lump rise in his throat, the words catching like stones, heavy and unmovable.
“I’ve written letters for Seijuurou,” she continued, gesturing weakly toward the nightstand where a neat stack of papers lay, each carefully numbered. “I want you to give them to him on his birthday each year.”
Masaomi stepped closer, his usually sharp gaze softening as he reached out to the stack. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. The letters continued all the way to twenty-five—each one a future she would never see, each one a fragment of her love preserved on paper.
Her breathing hitched before she added, in a voice barely more than a breath, “And one… for the day he marries.”
He looked up sharply. Her eyes were fixed on his, wide and earnest, as though she were trying to imprint herself on his memory, to leave a part of her soul behind.
“I won’t be there to see that day,” she murmured softly, and the words struck him harder than any blow he had ever felt. He tightened his grip on her hand, willing her to stay, though he knew it was useless.
“Shiori…” he breathed, his voice trembling. It was a single name, yet it carried the weight of a lifetime of love, devotion, and impending loss.
“Promise me one thing,” she whispered, her voice frail but firm. “Promise me you will let Seijuurou choose his own bride. Let him follow his heart.”
He swallowed, unable to speak for a moment. The Akashi household was steeped in expectations, and they both knew it. But he could deny her nothing—not now, not ever.
“I promise,” he said at last, his voice low, choked, and trembling. The words felt impossibly small, like a whisper against a storm, yet he meant them with every fibre of his being.
A soft sigh left her lips. “Take care of our son.”
Her hand, moments ago warm in his, slipped gently from his grasp as her strength finally gave way. Her eyelids fluttered shut, lashes resting lightly on pale cheeks. A peaceful stillness settled over her—too peaceful.
Masaomi froze.
“Shiori…?” he whispered, as though saying her name once more might bring her back.
But the room remained still.
Masaomi remained there, holding nothing, feeling everything. The quiet pressed in around him—an oppressive, devastating silence. The sunlight spilling through the curtains, once gentle and warm, now felt cold against his skin. He thought of Seijuurou, of the letters waiting to be delivered over the years, and of the promises he had just made. He thought of all the birthdays she would miss, all the milestones, all the moments that now he would have to carry alone.
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The funeral was held with solemn dignity, the kind that filled the air with quiet reverence and muted sorrow. Masaomi stood at the entrance, greeting guests with a composed expression, though every handshake, every murmured word of condolence felt like a knife twisting in his chest. He nodded politely, smiled faintly, but inside, grief gnawed at him relentlessly.
Not far away, his in-laws stood together, a picture of restrained sorrow. Shiori’s mother clutched a handkerchief to her eyes, her delicate frame trembling as quiet sobs escaped through its folds. Beside her, Shiori’s father bore a stern, grave expression, his lips pressed into a hard line, as if words of comfort were useless against the finality of death. Next to them, Shiori’s younger brother, his wife, and their twin children stood quietly, their faces etched with shock and mourning.
He let his gaze drift past the gathering, and there, still and small against the backdrop of mourning, stood Seijuurou.
The boy had positioned himself before his mother’s portrait, silent and unblinking, staring at the image as though trying to memorise every detail of her face. He had been standing there for some time already, shoulders squared yet stiff with tension, a quiet dignity settling over him far beyond his eleven years. Masaomi’s heart tightened at the sight—his son, caught between childhood and the sudden weight of loss, trying to grasp a world that had changed in an instant.
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After Shiori passed away, Masaomi threw himself entirely into his work. Staying busy was the only way to quiet the echo of her absence, to keep his mind from dwelling on the emptiness that had settled in their home. The family business thrived under his relentless attention, expanding into new ventures, securing its place at the top of the corporate world. Yet, every evening, when he returned, the house felt unnervingly quiet. Most nights, it was already dark, well past dinner, often after the child had gone to bed. The laughter and warmth he once took for granted had been replaced by silence, the kind that presses in on a person until it feels almost tangible.
“How is Seijuurou?” Masaomi asked one evening, speaking to Tanaka, the old steward who had been with the Akashi household for decades.
“Young Master is already asleep, sir,” Tanaka replied.
“And his lessons?” Masaomi asked, his tone clipped.
“After school, Young Master had his English lesson, followed by piano, and calligraphy today,” Tanaka replied, pausing slightly. “He performs admirably. The teachers all praise him, sir.”
Masaomi nodded once, curtly. “Add Mandarin lessons from now on.”
Tanaka’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise, but he bowed respectfully. “Yes, sir.”
The weeks and months passed in much the same way. Masaomi rarely interacted with Seijuurou. On weekdays, his son left early for school, and by the time Masaomi returned, Seijuurou was often already asleep. On the rare evenings they shared dinner, their conversations were brief, precise, almost ritualistic.
“How are your grades at school?” Masaomi would ask, glancing at Seijuurou across the long dining table.
“First rank in the entire sixth grade,” Seijuurou replied calmly, expression unreadable.
“As expected,” Masaomi said, giving the faintest nod. “Maintain that.”
“Yes, Father,” Seijuurou replied, the tone polite, controlled, but lacking warmth.
The rest of the dinner passed in silence. The food was exquisite, as always, prepared by the chef, yet it lacked the quiet comfort and love that Shiori had infused into every meal. Masaomi found his thoughts drifting to her—the soft rustle of her hair as she moved through the dining room, her gentle smile, the way she had laughed at things only she found amusing. Her absence lingered in every corner of the house, every tick of the clock, every empty chair at the table.
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Time moved relentlessly forward, indifferent to the promises made in brightly sunlit room and the letters waiting quietly in their drawer.
When Seijuurou graduated from primary school, he stood before his father with the same composed posture he had worn since childhood. Masaomi, reviewing documents in his study, paused as his son spoke.
“I’ve decided on my next school,” Seijuurou said.
Masaomi looked up, one eyebrow lifting in mild curiosity. “Teikou?”
“Yes, Father.”
He studied the boy carefully. Teikou Middle School was renowned throughout Japan—its academic reputation impeccable, its facilities exceptional. But anyone with even a passing interest in youth sports knew it for its basketball club. A powerhouse. A place where only the most gifted thrived.
Masaomi searched his son’s face for any hint of uncertainty, but Seijuurou remained unreadable, his expression calm and steadfast. That familiar mask—so composed it sometimes made him look older than he was.
“Very well,” Masaomi said at last, setting down his papers. “I assume you intend to continue playing basketball?”
“Yes.” The answer was immediate, assured, as though he had known it long before anyone else had thought to ask.
Their exchanges were still brief, clipped—precise conversations between two people who had long since learnt to speak in measured tones.
“Then I expect nothing but the best,” Masaomi replied. It came out firmer than he intended. Basketball had been Shiori’s passion; for that reason alone, he could never forbid Seijuurou from pursuing it. Yet the pressure in his voice slipped through before he could stop it.
Seijuurou didn’t flinch. He simply inclined his head, meeting his father’s gaze with quiet determination. “I understand, Father.”
Masaomi held his stare for a moment longer, seeing—perhaps imagining—the faintest echo of Shiori’s spirit in his son’s eyes.
And so, with a silent agreement between them, Seijuurou’s path shifted toward Teikou—toward the court, the club, and the fate neither of them could yet see coming.
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Seijuurou entered Teikou Middle School and, true to his nature, excelled from the very first day. He claimed the top rank in every subject, achieving perfect marks with a precision and focus that felt almost unreal in a twelve-year-old—an effortless brilliance that set him apart from his peers before he had even spoken a word.
By his second year, he had risen to captain of the basketball team, a position he carried with a quiet authority that demanded respect. Under his leadership, Teikou swept through tournaments with astonishing ease, ultimately claiming victory at the Nationals. Their overwhelming skill, their flawless teamwork, and their almost frightening dominance on court earned them a name whispered across the country with awe and disbelief: the Generation of Miracles.
A few days after the team returned from the tournament, Masaomi called Seijuurou into his study. Papers were neatly arranged across the desk, though it was clear he hadn’t been reading them; he looked up the moment his son stepped inside.
“I heard Teikou performed well at the Nationals,” Masaomi said, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. “How did it end?”
Seijuurou stood with perfect posture, hands loosely at his sides. “We won, Father.”
There was no boast in his voice—just simple fact, delivered with his usual calm.
Masaomi regarded him for a long moment. “Congratulations,” he said at last. “You’ve upheld the school’s reputation… and ours.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Their eyes met briefly—one cool and composed, the other searching for something he could no longer name. Then Seijuurou bowed politely and left the room with the same quiet confidence he carried onto the court.
Masaomi felt a quiet, swelling pride for Seijuurou. His son seemed perfect in every measurable way: academically brilliant, athletically gifted, artistically talented, unfailingly polite, and disciplined to a degree that bordered on unnatural. Seijuurou was, in every sense, the ideal heir of the Akashi family—the envy of peers, the standard against which rivals measured themselves, and the embodiment of everything Masaomi had once hoped to pass on.
And yet… the distance between them grew with each passing day. Their conversations remained precise, formal, and devoid of warmth. Shared moments were few, measured, fleeting—like fragments of time that existed only to uphold appearances rather than to foster connection. Masaomi could not remember the last time they had spoken about anything beyond school or lessons. The house, once filled with life and quiet joy, now echoed with silence.
It was during Seijuurou’s third year at Teikou that Masaomi first noticed something unsettling. One afternoon, he paused while observing his son from across the room, and the boy’s presence struck him as… different. Seijuurou’s usual calm composure remained, but there was a hardness now, a coldness in his expression that had never been there before. The familiar warmth of his gaze was gone, replaced by a quiet, impenetrable intensity, as if a new version of Seijuurou had emerged overnight.
At first, Masaomi dismissed it, telling himself he was overthinking. Perhaps it was just a phase—a momentary mood, a reaction to stress or pressure. But as days turned into weeks, the change persisted. Seijuurou had not merely passed through a phase; he had grown into this new version of himself, one that was more distant, more unyielding, yet equally precise in everything he did. His brilliance persisted in every arena: at school, where he maintained perfect grades; on the basketball court, where he led his team with unshakable skill and quiet authority; in every interaction, where he remained disciplined, polished, and polite, almost impossibly talented.
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Seijuurou graduated from Teikou and chose to enrol in Rakuzan in Kyoto. It posed no issue for Masaomi—Rakuzan was an elite institution, excelling in both academics and sports, making it a fitting choice for his son. The family also maintained a villa in Kyoto, built by Masaomi’s grandfather, the largest private residence in the city—a place where Seijuurou could stay comfortably if needed.
“You want to stay in the student dorm?” Masaomi asked.
“Yes. It will be better to stay with the other students,” Seijuurou replied simply.
Masaomi was reminded of an earlier time when the driver had reported that Seijuurou had refused to be picked up or dropped off at Teikou. Instead, he had chosen to take the bus, quietly blending in with the other students. It was likely his way of avoiding attention, of making sure no one knew he was from the Akashi family. Masaomi understood—it made perfect sense.
He remembered feeling the same way as a boy. When his grandfather had become the richest man in the world through his real estate empire, people had flocked to him, eager to curry favour. Some were drawn by curiosity, some by ambition, but Masaomi had never been able to tell who truly wished to be his friend and who simply wanted to bask in the wealth and influence of the Akashi name. The experience had left its mark, and now he saw that Seijuurou was treading a similar path—cautious, self-contained, careful not to reveal more than necessary to the world around him.
“And have other students from Teikou gone to Rakuzan as well?” Masaomi asked.
“Tetsuya goes there too,” Seijuurou replied after a brief pause. He now referred to people simply by their first names.
It was the first time Masaomi had heard of this “Tetsuya.” He knew that Seijuurou’s closest friend at Teikou had been Midorima Shintarou, yet this new name was unfamiliar. Seijuurou offered no further explanation, and Masaomi did not press the matter. Perhaps Tetsuya was simply another of his son’s companions, someone Seijuurou deemed worth mentioning but not worth elaborating on.
Masaomi tapped his fingers against the desk. “The villa is available if necessary. You should know that.”
“I am aware,” Seijuurou said, voice measured, almost clipped.
So Seijuurou went to Rakuzan, and the house felt even emptier than before. Already quieter since Shiori’s passing, it now seemed hollow, as though his son’s absence had left a physical void.The absence of his son’s presence—his quiet footsteps, the rustle of his belongings, the occasional clatter from basketball practice—was suddenly palpable.
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During the longer school holidays, Masaomi would insist that Seijuurou return to Tokyo to begin interning at the family company. His son was no longer a child; he was a high school student now, and it was time for him to immerse himself in the family business, to learn its inner workings, and to prepare for the responsibilities he would one day inherit. Masaomi saw it as both duty and opportunity—a way to ensure that Seijuurou would not only excel academically and athletically but also grasp the complexities of the empire that bore their name.
Seijuurou did not disappoint him. His son adapted as naturally as a fish to water, absorbing every lesson, every nuance, every expectation with an ease that both impressed and quietly unsettled Masaomi. He was an exceptionally quick learner, alert and precise, processing information almost instinctively.
Masaomi even took Seijuurou on a business trip to the United States. As part of Akashi Trust’s ongoing strategy to diversify its portfolio, the company had been expanding internationally, acquiring properties across several countries. This particular trip was intended to oversee their newest acquisition—the twelfth real estate investment in the US.
By this point, the group’s American holdings were already substantial: three office buildings in Boston, two in the Washington DC area, and several others scattered throughout New York. Masaomi wanted Seijuurou to see the scale of the business firsthand, to understand not only the numbers and logistics but also the intricacies of managing such a vast international operation.
During the trip, Seijuurou met with business partners, observed meetings closely, and asked thoughtful, precise questions that demonstrated a clarity of mind far beyond his years.
At one point, during a discussion about their newest acquisition—a towering skyscraper in Manhattan—Masaomi leaned slightly closer and asked, “Seijuurou, what do you think about our financing plan?”
Seijuurou’s eyes flicked briefly to the documents before him, scanning the numbers with practiced ease. “We have a strong financial base,” he replied evenly. “Even for an investment of six hundred and eighty million dollars, we could fund it entirely ourselves without involving external investors. Execution could be immediate.”
Masaomi noddedd. “And what about the Washington DC buildings?”
“They are stable, but the tenant contracts are nearing renewal. We should prepare options for negotiation,” Seijuurou replied calmly, almost mechanically, yet his assessment was precise.
Later, Masaomi handed him a notebook. “I want you to write a detailed report on this trip. Include numbers, observations, and recommendations.”
Seijuurou accepted it without a word, opening the notebook and immediately beginning to jot down notes as the meeting continued. By the following morning, as Masaomi reviewed the document over breakfast, the report was already complete—neatly organised, thorough, and professional, every point clearly laid out.
Masaomi allowed himself a small, rare smile. “You’ve done well, Seijuurou.”
“Thank you, Father,” Seijuurou replied quietly, his tone polite, precise, and measured, betraying none of the boyish warmth Masaomi remembered from his younger years.
They spent five working days abroad, returning on the sixth. When they arrived home, Masaomi noticed Seijuurou holding a large paper bag. A quick glance revealed it was filled with boxes from various brands, carefully packed. Seijuurou didn't say anything. He had learned to keep his personal indulgences quiet, just as he kept his thoughts and emotions guarded.
These days, their conversations were limited to school or lessons in the family business. Beyond that, they rarely spoke. Masaomi admitted to himself that he had been a distant father, perhaps too distant for a teenage son. Yet Seijuurou lacked nothing. Born into the Akashi family, he had every advantage anyone could wish for. When Shiori passed away, she had left a substantial inheritance for him, fully accessible once he reached the age of eighteen.
And Seijuurou was mature—remarkably so. He handled every responsibility Masaomi assigned him with calm efficiency. There was no hesitation, no mistake. Yet, for all his brilliance, for all his composure and capability, Masaomi could not shake the truth that weighed on him: this was no longer the same Seijuurou he had known as a child.
So, he felt a quiet relief wash over him when, one day, that cold, distant version of Seijuurou seemed to vanish, replaced once more by the boy he had always known—the familiar, warm, and spirited Seijuurou.
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Seijuurou graduated from high school and enrolled at the University of Tokyo, studying finance. He chose to live independently, purchasing an apartment in Bunkyo Ward, within walking distance of the main Hongo campus. Some of his friends from Teikou joined him there. They played basketball together again, winning championships and reliving a small part of their shared youth.
After four years, Seijuurou graduated, and Masaomi attended the ceremony. For the first time, he met some of his son’s friends, including Tetsuya. Polite and unassuming, Tetsuya had such a low presence that Masaomi barely noticed him at first.
As planned, Seijuurou continued his studies abroad, enrolling at Harvard Business School to pursue an MBA. He spent two years there, excelling as he always did. Upon completion, it had been expected that he would return to Japan to begin work at Akashi Trust, following the path laid out before him. Instead, he chose to remain in the United States, taking the helm of his own company.
Masaomi was not surprised—he had always known his son to be fiercely independent. By the time Seijuurou reached the legal age, he had founded his own enterprise, funded with the inheritance left by Shiori. Using it strategically, he invested in a number of promising startups, both in Japan and abroad
However, over the past months, Masaomi had begun to notice subtle shifts in how some people in his social circle regarded him. There were fleeting glances exchanged, small smiles that didn’t reach the eyes, and the occasional pause in conversation when he approached. It was as if they were sharing secrets behind his back, secrets he was not privy to. At first, he tried to dismiss it, telling himself that he was imagining things, or that people simply enjoyed whispering when the topic was someone as prominent as Seijuurou.
Yet the unease persisted, gnawing at him quietly until he could no longer ignore it. Finally, he decided to confront one of these acquaintances, someone he considered trustworthy enough to speak plainly.
“You know my son studied at Harvard, just like Seijuurou,” the man began cautiously, his voice tinged with hesitation. He shifted uncomfortably, as if each word might provoke anger or disapproval.
“Yes,” Masaomi replied, his tone clipped but steady. Beneath it, however, a faint edge of irritation began to surface.
The man swallowed and glanced around, as though seeking reassurance that no one else could overhear. “Well… their former classmate—an American girl—confessed to him,” he said finally, choosing his words with painstaking care.
Masaomi blinked, unperturbed at first. Seijuurou had always been exceptionally good-looking—someone who effortlessly drew attention wherever he went. Girls had admired him at ceremonies, parties, and even casual gatherings. This revelation, in itself, was not alarming. “And?” he prompted, raising an eyebrow, curiosity flickering behind his composed exterior.
“She… he refused,” the man said hesitantly, as if the words themselves were difficult to utter. “And… he said he’s already in a relationship.”
Masaomi had never seen any signs that Seijuurou had been romantically involved with anyone. His life had always revolved around university, basketball, and the careful management of his own business affairs. There had been no hints, no glances exchanged, no whispers of secret meetings. Nothing.
“With… Tetsuya,” the man added finally, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “The girl confided in a friend, and it spread from there.”
The name hit Masaomi like a sudden gust of wind. Tetsuya. That quiet, unassuming boy from Teikou, who had followed Seijuurou to Rakuzan, then to university, and now, apparently, to the States. The friend he had barely noticed, whose presence had been so subtle that Masaomi often forgot he was even there. And yet, somehow, Tetsuya had become central to his son’s life in ways Masaomi had never suspected.
All this time, Seijuurou had displayed a level of maturity far beyond his years. Masaomi had trusted him implicitly to manage his own life; as long as his son maintained his exceptional performance in academics and basketball, a measure of freedom had always seemed reasonable. Compared to the children of other old-money families, Seijuurou had been practically flawless—polished, disciplined, talented, and unfailingly polite. He had been the perfect heir in every visible way.
And yet, now, Masaomi faced a truth he had never anticipated, a secret that shook the careful assumptions he had made about his son.
He had hired a private investigator to confirm the rumours he had heard. What emerged was both precise and astonishing: Kuroko Tetsuya—the quiet, almost invisible boy from Teikou—had not only been Seijuurou’s teammate but also his vice-captain at Rakuzan. They had studied together at Tokyo University, and now lived together in the United States.
Over the years, Seijuurou had spent holidays with him, both in Japan and abroad, maintaining their relationship with meticulous discretion. Even the apartment Seijuurou had purchased—ostensibly his own—was registered in Tetsuya’s name. The summer house in Karuizawa, inherited by Seijuurou from Shiori, had also been placed under Tetsuya’s name.
Seijuurou had concealed all of this with meticulous care. Masaomi realized it was not deceit but strategy; his son had known exactly how much freedom he was allowed as the heir of the Akashi family. In every other respect, he had fulfilled his obligations flawlessly. But in this, Seijuurou had chosen his own course, carefully navigating life on his own terms while preserving his outward perfection.
The following day, proof of Seijuurou’s brilliance made headlines. One of the startups in which he had invested was preparing for an initial public offering on Nasdaq, with an estimated market capitalisation of 105 billion dollars. Seijuurou’s personal stake alone was worth more than three billion. Overnight, those hushed whispers and sideways glances transformed into admiration and praise. The very same people who had once regarded him with veiled suspicion now openly lauded his foresight, calling him a prodigious investor with an uncanny ability to spot opportunity.
As if to reinforce his independence, Masaomi also learned of another bold move: Seijuurou had quietly purchased several plots of land, demolished the aging structures, and consolidated them into a single, expansive estate. He had then commissioned a world-renowned architect to design a home that would be both modern and emblematic of his vision. Construction was already underway, and at the current pace, it was expected to take about a year to complete.
Masaomi had wanted to confront him, to demand answers, but Seijuurou had come to him instead.
They sat across from each other in Masaomi’s office on the top floor of Akashi Tower, the headquarters of Akashi Trust. The panoramic glass walls offered a breathtaking view of the Tokyo skyline, the city lights glittering like scattered jewels, with the iconic red Tokyo Tower glowing prominently against the night. The office felt impossibly vast, yet tense, the silence between them heavier than any conversation could be.
“You’ve been planning this all along,” Masaomi said, his voice striving for calm but betraying the tension coiling in his chest. Seijuurou had kept his relationship hidden for years, only to announce it suddenly and ensure the news reached Masaomi. It could not be a coincidence.
Seijuurou leaned back in his chair, composed, measured, as if the storm of his father’s emotion were merely background noise. “A strategic move only works when you plan ahead without the other party realising it,” he said quietly, each word deliberate.
“You could have anyone,” Masaomi shot back sharply, his pride and disbelief flaring. “Countless women—wealthy, beautiful, educated—any one of them would have been perfect for you.”
Seijuurou’s gaze met his father’s, calm and unwavering. “I’m not interested,” he said simply, his tone carrying neither defiance nor fear—only certainty.
“This isn’t normal!” Masaomi’s voice rose, a mixture of frustration and incredulity.
“I have dissociative identity disorder,” Seijuurou said evenly. “That is hardly normal.”
For once, Masaomi had no retort. He had long convinced himself that Seijuurou’s earlier coldness—the distance, the clipped conversations—was merely a phase. As long as his son excelled in every endeavour, he had told himself, everything was fine. But now he realised how deeply he had deceived himself. Dissociative identity disorder. Even he could guess the root: the relentless pressure to be the best, to live up to the Akashi name, had carved this hidden layer into his son’s psyche.
Seijuurou continued again. “We’ve been together for over ten years-”
“Ten years?” Masaomi cut him off sharply, his tone brittle, disbelief flashing across his features.
“Yes,” Seijuurou evenly, unflinching, as though stating a simple fact.
“That means since high school?” Masaomi’s voice tightened, a mixture of shock and incredulity. “Is that why you chose to stay in the dorm at Rakuzan?”
Seijuurou inclined his head slightly, calm and measured, his eyes unwavering. “Yes. And… I think it’s about time. I’m going to marry Tetsuya.”
Masaomi’s eyes widened, his hand gripping the edge of the desk as if bracing against the weight of the revelation. For a moment, words failed him. The enormity of the statement hung between them, heavier than any boardroom decision he had ever faced. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally, in a low, measured voice, said, “You are serious.”
“I am,” Seijuurou replied without hesitation, his gaze steady and unshakable. “It is Tetsuya who has stayed and supported me all these years.”
“Anyone who dated you would stay with you as long as they could!” Masaomi retorted sharply, his chest tightening, a vein twitching at his temple. His son was the only heir of the Akashi family—of course anyone would cling to him, eager to share in the prestige, the power, the wealth that accompanied the name. His voice rose, a mixture of pride and incredulity.
Masaomi’s jaw tightened. The instinct to assert authority, to correct what he saw as impossible, surged like a storm beneath his calm exterior. “I disagree,” he said finally, his words firm, though a subtle tremor betrayed the conflict roiling inside him.
Seijuurou’s posture remained impeccable, his expression composed, the faintest shadow of exasperation at his father’s predictability flickering across his features. “I am informing you,” he said, calm and unwavering. “I am not asking for your permission. There was a time when I needed it—but that time has long passed.”
Masaomi leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose, eyes narrowing as he studied his son. Every muscle in his body screamed to intervene, to assert the expectations of the Akashi name, yet he could not ignore the absolute certainty in Seijuurou’s gaze. His son was immovable, unyielding—the very embodiment of his own strategic precision and discipline.
For a long moment, they sat in silence, the room heavy with unspoken words. Father and son, yet in many ways strangers—bound by blood but divided by years of distance, rigid discipline, and moments never shared. The chasm between them, shaped quietly over time, seemed impossibly wide, a gulf neither had bridged, yet neither could ignore.
“You are still young, Father. It’s not too late to marry again and have a son,” Seijuurou added, his voice calm, almost clinical, yet carrying the weight of finality. Each word was precise, deliberate, as if testing the boundaries of what his father could accept.
Masaomi’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face twitching with a mixture of anger, disbelief, and something unfamiliar—an uneasy, gnawing fear. The audacity of Seijuurou’s suggestion, as though he could love another besides Shiori, struck at the core of him. “You’re threatening me,” he muttered under his breath, low and taut. It wasn’t merely a challenge; it was a declaration. Seijuurou was stating, with quiet certainty, that disagreement would not sway him, that he was prepared to step entirely beyond the orbit of the Akashi family if necessary.
“Take it as you will,” Seijuurou replied evenly, his composure unshakable.
Masaomi ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly as if to steady the storm of thoughts raging in his mind. “Have you considered the repercussions? What people will say?” he asked, striving for reason, though the words sounded hollow even to himself against the quiet certainty radiating from his son.
Seijuurou’s gaze remained fixed, unblinking, unyielding. “Father,” he said, his tone measured, almost dismissive, “as long as I am powerful enough, no one will dare oppose me.”
Masaomi felt a grudging truth settle in. It was undeniable—wealth, influence, and sheer competence rendered public opinion irrelevant. Never mind Tetsuya; as long as Seijuurou wielded power, it would not matter if he married an alien or a tree. The world would either bow silently or, at the very least, tread carefully.
Seijuurou’s gaze remained steady, calm and unwavering.
Masaomi looked at his son, and the realization struck him with full force: this was no longer a child sitting before him. Years had passed, and before him was a man—calm, measured, and utterly in control of his own life. Masaomi closed his eyes, feeling the weight of decades pressing down upon him. Time had passed, mercilessly, indifferent to wishes or regrets.
If only Shiori were still here, he thought, she would know what to do. But no—he had no doubt that she would support Seijuurou, just as she had trusted her son’s judgment from the very beginning. Take care of our son, she had whispered to him in her last moment, a gentle plea that had lingered in his heart ever since.
Masaomi had failed Shiori once; he could not fail Seijuurou. He understood, with stark clarity, that if he tried to oppose his son, he risked losing him completely. He had promised Shiori that Seijuurou could choose his own bride, yet even in his wildest imagination, he had never anticipated the choice Seijuurou had made.
The room seemed to grow quieter, the shadows longer, as Masaomi exhaled slowly. Pride, fear, and resignation wove together into a complex knot within him. He could see Seijuurou’s certainty, the unwavering calm in his gaze, and he understood—finally—that his role was no longer to command, but to witness.
“Your mother left a letter for you… for the day you marry,” Masaomi said quietly, his voice steady yet tinged with the weight of years and unspoken regret.
Seijuurou’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual composed expression.
“I will give it to you,” Masaomi continued, the words deliberate and measured, carrying the gravity of a father finally acknowledging and accepting his son’s decisions. In that moment, the distance between them seemed to shrink ever so slightly, bridged by trust, understanding, and the enduring presence of Shiori’s love.
Seijuurou nodded, recognising that his father had accepted his choice, however grudgingly.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The city lights of Tokyo stretched beneath them like a sea of stars, indifferent to the private storms, triumphs, and reconciliations unfolding above. Masaomi felt a swell of emotions—pride, relief, and a quiet sorrow for all that he had lost, and for all that Shiori would never witness.
He thought back to the little boy who had once refused the family driver’s ride, insisting on taking the bus alone. That same boy had grown into a man of remarkable intellect, skill, and independence—a man who had quietly built a life on his own terms, unwavering, focused, and true to himself. His son had become everything he had ever hoped for—and more—on his own terms.
Author's Note:
Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for reading — please do leave a review; any thoughts about the story are most welcome.