Archive of Our Own ^beta

Higuruma had not thought about sex in a year.

This was not a point of pride. It was simply a fact. He worked. He slept poorly. He worked again. The equation of his life was simple, efficient, and devoid of variables like desire or loneliness.

"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Kusakabe, his close friend, asked, sprawled across the leather chair in Higuruma's office, as if he owned it. "You look like a ghost wearing a suit."

"Thank you for your concern," Higuruma said, not looking up from his document.

"I'm serious. When's the last time you, well, you know, got laid?"

The pen paused. Higuruma's face remained perfectly neutral.

"That's what I thought." Kusakabe stood, grabbing Higuruma's coat from the rack. "We're going out. Tonight. You're paying. I will call Shiu—"

"I have a deposition at seven tomorrow."

"Then you'll have a very relaxing evening and sleep like a baby. Come on."

This was how Higuruma found himself, three hours later, sitting in a dimly lit booth with a drink he hadn't touched, watching bodies move under coloured lights.

"Relax. You don't have to do anything. Just look. Appreciate. Remember you're a mammal."

Higuruma said nothing. The music was too loud. The air smelled like perfume, sweat, and something sweeter. He was distinctly, acutely uncomfortable.

Then he saw him.

And Higuruma forgot to breathe.

The man was tall, all lean muscle and long limbs that moved as though through water, through honey, through some denser medium than air. He was pale. Not the pallor of illness or exhaustion, but pale like cream left to settle, like marble warmed by the sun, like the underside of a petal. His skin seemed almost luminous under the coloured lights, smooth and soft and utterly, desperately touchable. Higuruma's fingers twitched against his glass.

He let his gaze roam—and God.

God.

The man's body was a study in deliberate construction, sculpted by hours of devotion; his parents should be thanked daily. His shoulders were broad, his chest full and defined, pectorals that curved with perfect masculine grace. And they were large. Substantial. The kind of chest that belonged in classical statuary, that demanded to be mapped by reverent hands. The kind of chest that, Higuruma thought with sudden, startling clarity, would fit perfectly against his palms. His pink nipples stood in sharp, lovely contrast to the pale expanse of his chest, two small betrayals of vulnerability on a body otherwise composed and formidable. They caught the light with each subtle movement, and Higuruma thought, with the distant part of his brain not currently consumed by want, that they looked like they would taste of salt and warmth.

Higuruma tried not to look like a desperate man who wanted to get laid, so he focused on the man's face.

Yes, his face. Not on his waist—small, almost impossibly narrow, a perfect cradle for hands that wanted to hold. Not on the curve of his spine where it dipped into the small of his back. Not on his ass, perky and round and hugged by fabric that seemed specifically designed to make men like Higuruma reconsider every life choice that had led them to this moment.

He did not look. He absolutely did not look.

He looked at the face instead.

And, alas...

Magnetic wouldn't do this man justice.

Magnetic was for pretty faces and pleasant smiles, for charming bartenders and charismatic coworkers. Magnetic was too small, too common, too easily earned.

This man was far, far beyond such a word.

Sharp cheekbones, soft lips, and gentle eyes. A line of black ink bisected the bridge of his nose like a river on a map. Like a seam. Like a god had taken a single brushstroke and declared this one finished, perfect, complete. His hair was caught in two neat pigtails, dark as oil, dark as the space between stars. But some strands had escaped, falling loose across his forehead, softening the severity of his features. They swayed with each step, a deliberate counterpoint to the fluid roll of his hips.  

"You're staring," Kusakabe teased as he leaned in.

Higuruma's jaw was loose. His mouth was open. He closed it.

"That," he heard himself say. "Who is that?"

He had meant to sound casual. He had meant to sound merely curious. Instead, his voice came out rough, scraped clean of pretense.

Kusakabe raised an eyebrow but mercifully said nothing. He gestured to the bartender, who leaned in at his signal.

"New guy," the bartender said, wiping a glass with slow, methodical movements. "Started three weeks ago. Name's Choso."

Choso. The name settled into Higuruma's chest. What a unique name.

"He's got a face like a ukiyo-e print," Kusakabe murmured, watching Choso move through his set. He took a slow sip of his drink, not even bothering to hide his grin. "And I know you've got it bad for someone like him."

Higuruma said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on the stage.

"Let me guess, your type?"

Still nothing. Higuruma's jaw was set, his expression carefully neutral.

Kusakabe snorted. "On second thought, do I even need to ask? Your jaw hit the floor so hard I'm surprised it didn't crack the tile." He mimed the motion, letting his mouth fall open in exaggerated shock. "Right there. First second you saw him. I watched it happen. Your brain just—" He made a buzzing sound, circling his finger beside his temple. "Completely offline. Blue screen of death. Nothing but static and that man's face."

Higuruma's left eye twitched.

"I've never seen a man lose consciousness while remaining standing before. Impressive, really. You should thank me. This is what friends are for. We drag you to strip clubs so you can experience genuine neurological events."

"He's performing," Higuruma said tightly.

"And you're watching like he's the final argument in a case you've been working on for years. It's almost romantic."

"You were drooling," Shiu added.

"I was not."

"Small amount. Barely noticeable. But definitely present." Shiu tilted his glass in a toast. "Welcome back to the land of the living, my friend. You've been dead so long I forgot you could do that."

Higuruma said nothing. Only scoffed and rolled his eyes. Minutes passed. The music shifted. Choso moved through his set with that fluid, unhurried grace, and Higuruma very carefully did not track his every movement with the focus of a hawk surveying its prey.

Perhaps Kusakabe and Shiu had finally dropped it. Perhaps the teasing had run its course. Perhaps—

"All right," Kusakabe said. "I concede."

"You're not fooling anyone." He nodded toward Higuruma's lap, toward the small visible tension in his thighs, the way he'd been sitting unnaturally still since Choso appeared. "You came in here looking like you haven't been touched in years. Like you need to fuck someone so badly it's practically dripping out of your pores. The question is whether you still remember how."

Higuruma looked at him sharply.

"What?" Kusakabe shrugged. "I have eyes. He looks fuckable, and please, I know you think the same."  A pause. His gaze flicked to the stage, to Choso's pale skin and the dark ink bisecting his face, the full chest barely contained by thin fabric. "Look at him. Those thighs alone could squeeze a man senseless. And his mouth—fuck. You know what that would feel like wrapped around—"

"Kusakabe."

"What? I'm just observing." He shrugged, utterly unrepentant. "But here's the thing. If you're not going to do anything about it, if you're just going to sit here with your jaw on the floor and your dick hard and your hands in your lap like a fucking monk, then I will."

Higuruma's gaze snapped to him.

"I'll take him home tonight." Kusakabe held his eyes, calm and deliberate. "And Shiu will join me because I know he has a thing for men with big tits and black hair. We'll take our time. Figure out exactly what sounds that pretty mouth makes when someone's fucking him properly." He smiled, slow and sharp. "It's been a while since we had a threesome. We'd enjoy it. And Choso—" He glanced toward the stage, appreciative. "Choso looks like he'd enjoy being enjoyed."

Higuruma looked back at the stage.

Choso had reached the end of his set. He stood at the center of the stage, breathing evenly, his hair catching the light. The tattoo caught the light. Everything about him caught the light.

He bowed his head once, a gesture of quiet finality, and turned to leave.

"Do it," Shiu said.

"Do what?"

"You know what."

"Lap dances." Kusakabe was already raising his hand, catching the attention of a nearby hostess. "And you're sitting right here. In a booth. In public." He grinned, sharp and merciless. "Consider it exposure therapy."

"This is not—"

But Kusakabe was already leaning toward the hostess, murmuring something that made her nod and smile. Higuruma caught his own name, an amount of money that made him wince, and the word "Choso."

"You both are terrible friends," he said.

"I'm an excellent friend." Kusakabe settled back into his seat. "I'm helping you remember you're a human being with human needs. You're welcome."

Higuruma opened his mouth to respond, to do something that wasn't sitting here like a supplicant waiting for an audience with a god, but when he looked up, Choso was walking toward him.

"This seat?" His voice was low, measured. He indicated the space beside Higuruma with a tilt of his chin.

"Yes," Kusakabe said, before Higuruma could speak. "He's all yours."

Choso's gaze shifted to Higuruma. He was even more beautiful up close. It should have been impossible.

"May I?" Choso asked.

Higuruma nodded. His throat had closed.

Choso’s body followed some internal rhythm. The roll of his hips was slow, deliberate, unhurried. His spine curved and straightened in a continuous wave. His hair brushed Higuruma's cheek, silk-smooth, smelling of sandalwood and clean sweat. Higuruma could see the faint sheen on Choso's throat. The pulse beating there, steady and unhurried. The way his lashes lowered slightly when he moved through a particular rotation of his hips. He was so close. Higuruma could count his eyelashes.

And he was so beautiful that Higuruma could barely think.

The arousal came fast and ruthless, a physical shock. He was hard within thirty seconds, his hands frozen awkwardly at his sides because he didn't know where it was acceptable to touch, if he was allowed to touch at all. The weight of Choso on his lap was unbearable and insufficient simultaneously.

Choso glanced down at him—finally, finally meeting his eyes. His hips continued their slow, relentless rhythm—rolling, circling, grinding with unhurried precision. His hands found Higuruma's shoulders for balance. His fingers pressed lightly through the wool of the suit jacket. His touch was warm, firm, utterly impersonal. His weight pressed down, settled deeper, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric between them. His thighs tightened against Higuruma's hips, gripping, holding, and when he shifted just so, just right, the hard line of his body rolled directly against the aching, desperate hardness straining beneath Higuruma's trousers.

And Higuruma realized, with dawning horror, that Choso could feel exactly how hard he was.

It had been almost a year.

Eight months exactly since anyone had touched him with anything approaching intimacy. Eight months of cold sheets and empty apartments and the efficient, mechanical release of his own hand in the shower, hurried and joyless. Eight months of pretending he did not have a body, did not have needs, did not ache for the weight of another person against his own.

And now Choso was on his lap, moving like water, his pink nipples visible through sheer fabric and his stoic face divided by ink and his creamy skin glowing under the colored lights. It was a visceral sensation, a physical clench deep in his groin. His entire body tightened, arched toward that casual, devastating touch. A sound escaped his throat—not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, something humiliating and honest and raw. It didn’t help when Choso's hips rolled forward. The pressure shifted. Higuruma's dick jumped.

Oh, fuck.

Kusakabe's wolf whistles cut through the music. Shiu's low chuckle rumbled somewhere in the background. Their teasing, their commentary, their fucking presence—all of it dissolved into static, white noise behind the roaring in Higuruma's ears.

Because who in their right mind would care about anything else?

His walking wet dream was on his lap. Warm and solid and so fucking beautiful it hurt. Choso's fingers slid from Higuruma's shoulder to the curve of his neck, resting lightly at the junction of throat and collarbone. His thumb brushed once, twice, across the pulse hammering there. His face did not change. His expression remained perfectly neutral, perfectly professional. And those hips worked him like an instrument. His chest was right there. Almost bare skin, pale and smooth, the dusky pink of his nipples at perfect eye level. Higuruma could lean forward two inches and taste him. Could drag his tongue across that salt-warm skin, could take that soft pink bud between his lips and suck until Choso made a sound that wasn't composed or professional. He wanted to touch. He wanted to taste. He wanted to bury himself inside this beautiful, impassive man and feel him finally, finally react.

He didn't. He couldn't. His hands remained fisted at his sides, knuckles white, nails biting into his palms.

But God, he wanted to.

Choso rolled his hips again—slower this time, deeper, a full-bodied undulation that dragged his entire length across Higuruma's straining cock. The friction was obscene. The pressure was exquisite. Higuruma's breath caught, fractured, escaped as something close to a groan.

Choso heard it. His lashes lowered, just slightly. His hips kept moving.

Behind them, Kusakabe was saying something. Shiu laughed. The world continued turning.

Higuruma didn't notice any of it. All he knew was the fact that he was going to come in his pants like a teenager. He was going to come in his expensive tailored trousers, in a public booth, with a beautiful stranger on his lap and his friends watching from across the table. He was going to come, and it was going to be humiliating, and he was not sure he could stop it.

"You're supposed to breathe," Choso murmured. His voice was low, barely audible over the music. Higuruma breathed, and the song ended. Choso rose smoothly, his weight lifting from Higuruma's lap. His hand withdrew from Higuruma's neck. The warmth of his body receded, leaving cold air in its wake.

He adjusted his hair, the pigtails settling against his shoulders. His expression remained perfectly composed, perfectly neutral. His pink nipples were still visible through the sheer mesh. His creamy skin still glowed under the lights. His tattoo still bisected his beautiful, stoic face.

"Thank you," he said quietly, and turned to leave.

"Wait."

Higuruma's voice came out rough, scraped raw. His hand was already moving, reaching for his wallet, pulling out bills without counting them. He thrust them toward Choso. Too much, absurdly too much, three times the cost of the dance.

"For—for your time."

Choso looked at the money. Then at Higuruma's face. His gaze was unreadable, those dark eyes moving slowly across Higuruma's flushed cheeks, his parted lips, the betraying tent in his trousers.

He took the bills.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was soft, neutral, revealing nothing.

He disappeared into the crowd. The pigtails swayed once, twice, and then he was gone.

Kusakabe was staring at him with something between awe and hilarity.

"Your face."

Higuruma didn't respond. He was watching the door through which Choso had disappeared.

"You're a goner," Shiu added. "A complete, utter, absolute goner."

"Yes," Higuruma said.

"Wait. You're not denying it?"

"No."

A pause. Kusakabe's expression shifted from glee to something more sober.

"He's really that beautiful, huh?"

Higuruma thought of ink on skin, dark as a river, dark as a seam. He thought of depthless eyes and the weight of a stranger's body against his.

"Yes," he said. "He really is."

Higuruma finished his drink in one long swallow. The liquor burned, but not as much as the arousal still throbbing between his legs.

"Another?" Kusakabe asked.

"No." Higuruma set down the glass. His hand was not quite steady. "I need to—I want to—"

He looked toward the door through which Choso had vanished. The crowd had swallowed him completely.

"Ask him," Shiu suggested. "For an escort. Tonight."

Higuruma was already rising from his seat. His legs felt unsteady. His heart was pounding. He did not examine his intentions, did not weigh the consequences. He simply moved.

He found Choso near the back corridor, adjusting his hair in a small mirror. Their eyes met in the reflection.

"Choso."

Choso turned. His expression was patient, expectant. Professional.

"Was the dance unsatisfactory?"

"No." Higuruma's voice was too rough, too urgent. He forced himself to slow down, to breathe. "No, it was—you were—"

He stopped. Started again.

"Do you accept escort services? For the night."

Choso was very still. His face did not change, but wariness flickered in his eyes.

"I don't," he said. "I've never accepted that kind of service."

The words were gentle but final. A door closing.

Higuruma absorbed them. The arousal was still there, throbbing insistently, but beneath it something else rose—disappointment, yes, but also respect. Understanding.

"I see," he said. "I apologize. I shouldn't have asked."

"It's all right. You're not the first to ask."

"I'm sure I'm not." Higuruma paused. "Will you be here again? Next week?"

Something shifted in Choso's expression. Surprise, perhaps. He had expected Higuruma to leave, to retreat in embarrassment. Instead, Higuruma was still standing here, still looking at him, still asking.

"Yes," Choso said slowly. "I work Fridays and Saturdays."

"Friday, then." Higuruma inclined his head. "I'll come back."

He turned to leave. His erection had not fully subsided, but he could walk. He could function. He could go home to his empty apartment and his cold sheets and pretend he had not just experienced the most devastating 15 minutes of his adult life. He walked back through the club. His heart was still pounding. His body was still aching. His mind was already counting the days until Friday.

Kusakabe and Shiu were waiting by the exit.

"Well?"

"He doesn't do escort."

Kusakabe winced. "Sorry, man."

"It's fine." Higuruma reached for the door. "I'll come back on Friday."

Kusakabe blinked. "You're serious."

"Yes." Higuruma stepped out into the cool night air. "He didn't say I couldn't watch."

Behind him, Shiu let out a low whistle.

"You've got it bad," he said. "Real bad."

Higuruma didn't answer. He was already thinking about ink on pale skin, about pigtails swaying, about a stoic face and pink nipples and the weight of a stranger's body against his.

Friday, he thought. Three days

He went back four days later.

Alone this time. Kusakabe had offered to join for “moral support,” he’d called it, grinning like the menace he was, but Higuruma had declined.

The club felt different without Kusakabe and Shiu’s commentary. Darker. Quieter, though the music was the same volume. Higuruma took his usual booth, the same one from before, because he was a creature of habit and because some part of him superstitiously believed Choso would look for him there, and ordered a drink he wouldn’t touch.

Twenty minutes later, Choso appeared, emerging from the back in a flash of pale skin and dark hair. His eyes found Higuruma immediately. He crossed to the booth. Stopped. Looked down at Higuruma with that unreadable expression.

“You came back.”

“Yes.”

A pause. The music thrummed between them.

“Lap dance?” Choso asked.

Higuruma’s throat tightened. “Yes. Please.”

Choso nodded once and disappeared again. When he returned, he was wearing something different—looser pants, a sheerer shirt, an outfit designed for proximity rather than performance. He settled onto Higuruma’s lap with the same fluid grace, the same impossible lightness, and began to move.

Higuruma never closed his eyes. This was the only way they could interact. Choso didn’t do escort services, didn’t do private rooms, didn’t do drinks, didn’t do conversation beyond the barest exchange. His lap dances were fifteen minutes maximum, strictly no touching, strictly watch-only. Higuruma had learned this from the bartender on his way in, had filed it away as information to be respected.

It was pathetic, probably. A middle-aged lawyer paying for the privilege of sitting still while a beautiful man moved against him. But what else could he do? How else could he be close to Choso, even for a moment?

They didn’t talk. Choso didn’t talk much, and Higuruma wasn’t exactly a conversationalist. The club was too loud for words, too dark for anything but this wordless exchange of presence. So Higuruma asked for lap dances. Again and again. Week after week.

He told himself it was enough. At least he could remember this. At least he could close his eyes later, alone in his too-quiet apartment, and replay the roll of Choso’s hips, the brush of his hair, the way his breath caught sometimes when Higuruma’s hands twitched involuntarily at his sides.

At least he had jerking material.

The thought made him feel dirty. Not because of the act itself—he was a grown man, he had needs, he’d been neglecting them for years—but because of who he was thinking about. Choso, who didn’t do escort services. Choso, who had boundaries Higuruma was careful not to cross. Choso, who had no idea that every night, Higuruma went home and touched himself to the memory of those fifteen minutes.

He felt guilty about it. Deeply, genuinely guilty. But he also kept coming back. He paid. He tipped. He left amounts that made Choso’s eyebrows rise slightly, made him pause with the bills in his hand, and look at Higuruma with something that might have been confusion or might have been wonder.

“It’s too much,” Choso said once, after the third week.

“It’s what you’re worth,” Higuruma replied, and immediately wanted to swallow the words.

Choso looked at him for a long moment. The tattoo caught the light. His eyes were very dark.

“I’m a stripper,” he said quietly. “I dance for fifteen minutes. That’s all.”

Higuruma nodded. “I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I can.” Higuruma met his gaze, held it. Because I want to.

Choso was silent. The music pulsed around them, oblivious to them.

“I don’t understand you,” he said finally.

“You don’t have to.” Higuruma reached for his untouched drink, just to have something to do with his hands. “Just... keep letting me come back. That’s enough.”

Choso’s expression flickered. Something shifted behind his eyes, something Higuruma couldn’t name.

“Same time next week?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Choso nodded and walked away. The pigtails swayed. The tattoo was the last thing to disappear into the crowd.

Hours later, Higuruma was alone in his apartment. He didn't even make it to the bedroom. He dropped his briefcase by the door, loosened his tie with shaking fingers, and collapsed onto the couch like a man starved. And it was all because of him.

He closed his eyes and remembered.

The weight of Choso on his lap. The press of his thighs bracketing Higuruma's hips, the warmth of his ass settled just inches from where Higuruma was already hardening. God, the way he'd felt. The way he'd moved.

Higuruma's hand went to his belt. Fumbled. Swore under his breath until he gave his shalf a hard squeeze.

In his mind, Choso was still there. Still moving.

Those hips. Slow, deliberate, unhurried, rolling forward until his pelvis brushed against Higuruma's stomach, pulling back until there was barely any contact at all. Higuruma's cock sprang free, already leaking, embarrassingly desperate. He wrapped his hand around himself and bit back a groan.

He thought about the way Choso's hair had brushed his cheek. The strands that had escaped those perfect pigtails fell soft against his skin. The smell of him. Warm. Alive. So close, Higuruma could have turned his head and pressed his mouth to that pale throat. He thought about leaning in. Dragging his lips along the line of Choso's jaw. Feeling the flutter of his pulse, the hitch in his breath. Would Choso stop him? Would those dark eyes go wide with surprise, or would they darken further with something else?

Higuruma's hand moved faster.

He thought about the tattoo. The perfect, soft mouth. The way his lip had curved when he said, "I don't understand you." The way it looked wet, slightly parted, like an invitation. What would that mouth feel like? What would it taste like?

In his imagination, Choso leaned down. Pressed his lip to Higuruma's neck. Trailed kisses along his throat while those hips kept moving, kept grinding, kept driving him insane. His pigtails would brush against Higuruma's collarbone. His hands would slide from Higuruma's shoulders to his chest, nails dragging lightly through fabric.

"Please," Higuruma whispered to the empty room. His hand was slick with pre-come now, stroking faster, tighter. "Please, please—"

He thought about Choso's chest. That impossible chest, full and defined, those pink nipples he'd tried so hard not to stare at. In his mind, Choso's shirt was gone. He was bare, pale skin gleaming under the club lights, and Higuruma's hands were finally, finally allowed to touch.

He would map him. Learn him. Palms smoothing over those perfect pectorals, thumbs finding those dusky pink nipples, circling until Choso shivered. Until his breath caught. Until he looked at Higuruma with those depthless eyes and begged.

Would he beg? Choso, who was so composed, so controlled—would he fall apart under Higuruma's hands? Would his hips stutter, lose their rhythm, start fucking forward instead of dancing? Would he moan?

Higuruma's hips bucked into his fist. He was close. So close.

He thought about Choso beneath him. No longer in his lap but on his bed, stretched out across sheets, Choso had washed and folded himself. His pigtails had come undone, dark hair fanning across the pillow. His chest was bare, nipples peaked and slick from Higuruma's mouth. Higuruma settled between his thighs, fingers buried deep in Choso's cherry-pink hole—a tight heat that gripped him like a lifeline. His cock lay heavy against his stomach, leaking onto his pale skin.

He would take that cock in his mouth. The image slammed into him and nearly undid him right there. Choso, head thrown back, those dark eyes squeezed shut, hips twitching as Higuruma swallowed him down. The taste of him. The sounds he would make. The way his hands would tangle in Higuruma's hair.

"Hiromi, please," Choso would whisper. "Please, I need—I need—"

The thought alone was enough to make his cock throb, heavy and aching against his thigh. He imagined slamming inside in one brutal, unforgiving thrust, burying himself to the hilt in that tight, perfect heat, watching Choso’s body bow up off the bed with the force of it. But no. That wasn’t right. Choso deserved better. Deserved to be taken properly.

He’d push in slowly. Torturously slow. Let Choso feel every ridge and throb of his cock as he stretched him open inch by agonizing inch, feeling that tight ring of muscle flutter and clench around him, desperate to pull him deeper. He’d watch every flicker of expression on that beautiful face, the way his full lips would part on a silent gasp, the way his brows would pinch together before smoothing out into dazed pleasure. Choso’s hands would fly to his shoulders, nails digging in, not to push him away, but to anchor himself as he was slowly, deliberately, being filled.

He’d stop when he was seated fully, his balls pressed flush against Choso’s skin, and just… wait. Let him feel the sheer size of him, the fullness. He wouldn’t move, no matter how much Choso’s body clenched and trembled around him, no matter how those dark eyes flew open, glassy and pleading. He’d wait until Choso’s hips rolled involuntarily, until a breathy, desperate “please” fell from those swollen lips. Then he’d move.

He’d fuck him slow and deep at first, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, setting a rhythm that was perfect and devastating. He’d watch that mouth fall open, a string of silent cries and broken moans spilling out. He’d watch those dark eyes roll back until only the whites showed, and that pale, ethereal skin flush a beautiful, burning pink all the way down his chest.

Higuruma would make Choso come apart completely. Would feel that slick, velvety heat start to spasm and clench around his cock, would see the tears of overstimulation clinging to his lashes, would hear him cry out—a sharp, wrecked sound—as he shattered, painting his own stomach with his release. And that would be it. The feeling of Choso tightening around him, pulsing and fluttering, would pull him right over the edge. He’d bury himself as deep as he could go, hips stuttering, and spill inside him with a groan torn from the very depths of his chest, hot and thick and primal, claiming him from the inside out.

Higuruma came.

Hard. Violently. Strips of come hit his own stomach, his chest, his still-tight fist. He kept stroking through it, riding out the waves. Choso's name caught in his throat like a prayer he wasn't allowed to speak.

When it was over, he lay there in the dark, sticky and breathless and utterly, miserably alone.

His hand was still wet. His chest was still heaving. His apartment was still empty.

And Choso was still out there, somewhere, probably sleeping or probably not thinking about Higuruma at all. Definitely not imagining him the way Higuruma imagined Choso.

He cleaned up mechanically. Tossed his shirt in the hamper. Went to the bathroom and washed his hands like he could wash away the evidence of what he'd done.

In the mirror, his reflection looked haunted. Tired. Pathetic.

But underneath the guilt, underneath the shame, one thought remained:

Next Friday. Fifteen more minutes.

He would survive until then.

He went back to the club again.

Then again, the week after.

Then again, the weeks after that.

It became a rhythm, Friday evenings, after his last deposition, before the weekend paperwork. He would shed his tie in the car, loosen his collar, and walk into the dim heat of the club.

He always asked for Choso. He always tipped generously, absurdly, Kusakabe said, wincing at the bills Higuruma left on the table without seeming to notice. Enough to cover a month of groceries for most people. Enough to make the other dancers glance his way with speculative interest. Enough that Higuruma stopped calculating and started simply reaching for his wallet.

For these reasons, Choso began to acknowledge him. A nod when he entered. A pause by his table between sets, long enough to exchange a few words.

In the ninth week, he brought snacks.

The expensive kind. He’d noticed Choso didn’t eat much between sets, didn’t seem to take breaks at all, really, and some part of him wondered if he was hungry.

He left them on the table. Said nothing. Choso noticed, of course. His gaze flickered to the snack, then to Higuruma’s face, then away.

After the lap dance, he paused. Picked them up. Looked at the label.

“These are expensive.”

Higuruma shrugged. “They’re healthy.”

A long look. Then Choso softly said, “Thank you,” and went to the back.

In the tenth week, Higuruma bought him a watch.

It happened because he noticed. He always noticed now. The way Choso's eyes kept drifting to the clock on the wall—during sets, between customers, even in the middle of a lap dance. He was always counting time. Like he needed to know exactly where every minute went.

Higuruma mentioned it to the bartender one night, casually making conversation. The bartender laughed, not unkindly. "Yeah, that guy works three jobs. Maybe four? He's always rushing somewhere. Got them all scheduled down to the minute, I think."

Three jobs. Maybe four.

Higuruma didn't say anything to that. Just nodded. Finished his drink.

The next day, he went to a shop he'd walked past a hundred times. The kind with velvet displays and sales associates who spoke in low, respectful tones. He picked something classic but very Choso. Understated. The kind of watch that didn't scream expensive but whispered it.

He brought it on Friday. Choso was in the back when he arrived, so Higuruma waited at his usual table, the small velvet box sitting in front of him like an offering. When Choso emerged, already mid-shift, already moving, he stopped when he saw it. His head tilted slightly. Questioning.

Higuruma pushed it toward him. "For you."

Choso approached slowly, as the box might bite. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands. Opened it. The watch caught the dim light—clean face, leather strap, nothing flashy. But Choso's eyes widened, just a fraction. Just enough for Higuruma to catch it.

"This is..." He looked up. "This is expensive."

"You keep looking at the clock," Higuruma said, shrugging. "Figured you might want your own."

Choso stared at him. Then back at the watch. His brow furrowed slightly. "I can't accept this."

"You can."

"No." He closed the box and pushed it back across the table. Polite. Firm. "I don't... I don't need this. I don't know much about brands, but I know this costs more than—" He stopped himself. Swallowed. "Thank you. But no."

Higuruma didn't take the box back.

"Then sell it."

Choso blinked. "...What?"

"I don't care what you do with it." Higuruma leaned back in his chair, reaching for his drink. "Keep it. Sell it. Trade it for something else. Throw it in the river. It's yours now. Do whatever you want."

Choso just looked at him. That long, searching look he did, like he was trying to read something written too small to see.

"Why?"

The question hung in the air between them.

Higuruma took a slow sip of his whiskey. Considered the question. Realized he didn't have a good answer. Or maybe he had too many.

"You looked like you needed it," he said finally. Which wasn't really an answer at all.

Choso's fingers curled around the box. He didn't open it again. Didn't say thank you. But he didn't push it back, either.

After a long moment, he slipped it into his bag behind the counter. Paused. Met Higuruma's eyes.

"You're strange," he said quietly.

Then he turned and walked toward a customer who'd just sat down near the stage, leaving Higuruma alone with his drink and the faintest curve of a smile he couldn't quite suppress.

In the eleventh week, the bartenders and the guards greeted him by name.

The twelfth, most of the dancers, smiled at him knowingly.

The thirteenth, Toji appeared at his booth.

Higuruma arrived at his usual hour, took his usual booth, and ordered his usual drink. But when Choso finished his first set and crossed toward him, toward him, always toward him now, a small ritual that made Higuruma's chest ache, a man followed.

He was handsome, tall, broader than Choso, with dark hair and a scar at the corner of his mouth that suggested he had lived a life substantially less sheltered than Higuruma's. Exactly Shiu’s type. He moved with the lazy confidence of someone who owned the room, which, Higuruma realized with a start, he probably did.

"Mr. Higuruma." Choso's voice was more formal, less relaxed. "This is Toji. He owns the club."

Toji extended a hand. His grip was firm, assessing. "The lawyer. I've heard about you."

Higuruma's stomach tightened. "All good things, I hope."

"All interesting things." Toji's smile was sharp, not entirely friendly. "Mind if I sit?"

He sat before Higuruma could answer.

Choso remained standing, his expression unreadable. Toji gestured vaguely in his direction.

"Our boys here tell me you've been very generous. Very consistent, so I got curious." Toji leaned back, spreading his arms along the back of the booth. "Had to see for myself what kind of man keeps coming back week after week, dropping rent money on lap dances he doesn't even touch."

"Toji." Choso's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"What? I'm being friendly." Toji's smile didn't waver. "Just making conversation. Asking questions. Like: what exactly are you getting out of this, counselor?"

Higuruma met his gaze. "I enjoy the atmosphere."

Toji laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of him. "The atmosphere. Right. Sure." He shook his head, still grinning. "Listen, I've been in this business a long time. I know the difference between a man who likes the lights and a man who's got it bad for one of my dancers."

Higuruma's face heated. He did not look at Choso.

"Don't worry." Toji clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm not here to run you off. Quite the opposite." He stood, looking down at Higuruma with that sharp, assessing gaze. "And oh, Choso." He didn't look back. "Give him a lap dance. On the house. Man's earned it."

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd and the pulsing lights.

Choso stood very still. Higuruma sat very still. The drink sweated between his fingers.

"You don't have to," Higuruma said. "He was—that was inappropriate. I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

Higuruma looked up. Choso's expression was difficult to read—not angry, not embarrassed, simply… considering.

"He's my boss," Choso said. "Not my keeper. I decide what I do." A pause. "And I've always given you a lap dance."

He moved to settle onto Higuruma's lap, the way he always did, and then the music changed.

A slow, acoustic love song drifted through the speakers. Soft guitars. A woman's voice, breathy and tender, singing about staying the night, about waking up together, about wanting someone in a way that had nothing to do with bodies and everything to do with hearts.

Choso froze halfway into Higuruma's lap. His head whipped toward the DJ booth, eyes narrowing. The tattoo across his face seemed to sharpen with his glare, the line through his lip pulling taut.

Higuruma followed his gaze. Toji stood behind the booth, arms crossed, grinning like a big bad wolf. When he caught Choso's glare, his grin widened. He raised a hand and gave a slow, deliberate thumbs-up.

Choso's jaw tightened. He started to rise, marching over there, to do something that involved his hands and Toji's throat, if the set of his shoulders was any indication.

Toji laughed. A loud, genuine laugh that carried even over the music. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the back, utterly unbothered.

Choso stared after him for a long moment. Then his shoulders dropped. His mouth did something Higuruma had never seen before—a small downturn, a press of his lips, a crease between his brows.

He was pouting.

Choso was pouting.

Higuruma's heart did something complicated in his chest. It was such a small expression, such a human expression, on a face that usually held so little. The pout softened his sharp features, made him look younger, made him look—

Cute.

The word surfaced before Higuruma could stop it. Choso was cute. Choso, with his face tattoo and his dangerous beauty and his body that made men lose their minds, was pouting like a child denied a treat, and it was the most endearing thing Higuruma had ever seen.

His heart skipped. He didn't know why he felt so much for this man. He barely knew him. They'd exchanged maybe a hundred words total, most of them over music too loud to hear properly. Choso was a stripper. Higuruma was a client. That was all.

Maybe it was because he hadn't been touched in a year. Maybe it was the loneliness, the years of neglect, the way his body had forgotten what warmth felt like until Choso sat in his lap and reminded him. Maybe he was just touch-starved, and his heart was confusing proximity with connection.

That made sense. That was logical. That was the kind of explanation Higuruma could present in court, could defend against cross-examination, and could believe.

Choso turned back to him. The pout was gone, replaced by embarrassment. He settled onto Higuruma's lap. The love song continued. Slow. Tender. Completely wrong for a lap dance, and somehow completely right.

Choso began to move. It was different this time. Not the practiced, professional rhythm from before. Slower. Closer. His hips rolled in time with the music, with the breathy vocals, with the ache in Higuruma's chest that he refused to name. His hands found Higuruma's shoulders, then drifted—one to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair; the other to his jaw, thumb brushing along his cheekbone.

Higuruma stopped breathing. Choso's face was close. So close. The tattoo was right there. His eyes were dark and deep and fixed on Higuruma's like nothing else in the world existed. The woman sang about staying until morning. Choso's hips rolled. Higuruma's hands, which had always stayed carefully at his sides, lifted. They hovered in the air between them, trembling with the effort of restraint.

Choso looked down at them. Then back at Higuruma's face.

"You can touch," he murmured. "If you want."

Higuruma's voice was gone. Choso's lips curved. That almost-smile. "My waist," he said quietly. "You're always looking at it. You can hold it. Just for now."

Higuruma's hands found Choso's waist.

It was as small as it looked. As warm. The skin was bare beneath his palms, smooth and soft and alive. His thumbs pressed slightly, involuntarily, into the hollow of Choso's hips.

Choso's breath caught. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Like that," he whispered. "Yes."

The song continued. The hips continued. Higuruma's hands held on like lifelines.

When the music ended, Choso didn't move immediately. He stayed there, in Higuruma's lap, their faces close, his waist warm under Higuruma's palms. The silence stretched, filled with something neither of them named.

Then Choso sat up. He removed Higuruma's hands from his waist and set them back at his sides.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "About Toji. He's an asshole."

Higuruma found his voice. "It's okay."

"He is a good boss, though." Choso's gaze drifted toward the back, where Toji had disappeared. "When he wants to be. He gave me this job when no one else would. He doesn't push and ask for things I won't give." A pause. "He just does stupid shit like this."

"It was a nice song."

Choso looked back at him. Something flickered in his eyes.

"It was," he agreed softly.

He stood. His hand brushed Higuruma's cheek, just for a moment, a touch that wasn't part of any transaction.

"Same time next week?"

Higuruma nodded.

Choso walked away. The pigtails swayed. The tattoo was the last thing to disappear.

Higuruma sat alone, his hands still warm from the feel of Choso's waist, and wondered if being touch-starved was supposed to feel like this.

Like falling.

This week had been brutal. Higuruma hated almost all of his co-workers, except Shui.

Three depositions, a motion that required rewriting twice, and a client who changed his story more often than Higuruma changed his tie. By Wednesday evening, Higuruma's brain felt like static and his body like a corpse propped upright by caffeine and obligation.

His phone buzzed on his desk. Kusakabe's name flashed across the screen.

"You need to get drunk," Kusakabe said, by way of greeting.

"I don't need to get drunk."

"You do. I definitely do. I met with that impossible case I told you about." A heavy sigh. "I'm this close to disabusing myself just to escape. I swear, if I could meet my younger self, I'd hit him hard and tell him not to become a detective. You get paid so little and risk your life every day. God, why didn’t you stop me and tell me to become a lawyer like you and Shiu?"

"To answer your question, I don’t think I care about your well-being. Also, disengage yourself quietly. I have briefs to review."

"Yaga's coming too. His students gave him a headache that requires industrial-strength alcohol. Something about a training exercise gone wrong and a stolen principal's wig."

Higuruma pinched the bridge of his nose. "I said I don't need to get drunk."

"Then come for the food. When do you ever say no to good food?"

He couldn't argue with that.

"Fine. I'll pick up Shiu—he's still here, buried in discovery—and meet you. Send me the location."

The izakaya was in a part of town Higuruma rarely visited—narrow streets strung with warm lanterns, the smell of grilled meat and sake drifting from open doorways like an invitation. Kusakabe led the way, ducking under a noren curtain and holding it for Higuruma to follow.

Inside, it was small and crowded and exactly the kind of place Yaga loved. A long counter faced an open kitchen, where a man with pink hair, full-sleeve tattoos, and shoulders like a truck scowled at the grill as if it had personally offended him. He scowled at the customers seated around the counter, too, barking orders and slamming down plates, but they seemed unfazed—regulars, probably, long since desensitized to his particular brand of service. Tables filled the remaining space, packed with salarymen loosening their ties, students hunched over shared platters, and couples stealing bites from each other's plates.

Yaga already had a table in the corner. He raised a hand in acknowledgment, his expression as unreadable as ever behind his sunglasses, a tall glass of something amber already in front of him.

Higuruma started toward him—and stopped.

Because behind the counter was Choso.

He wore a plain black T-shirt, the fabric thin and soft from what looked like countless washes, clinging to every line of his torso as if it had been painted on. The curve of his chest, the taper of his small waist, the swell of his biceps when he lifted a tray loaded with beer and edamame. All of it visible, all of it devastating. Dark jeans hugged his long legs, worn slightly at the knees. A simple black apron was tied around his hips. His hair was in its signature pigtails, swaying with each step as he wove between tables.

He was so beautiful even in the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen, even with sweat gleaming faintly at his temples from the heat of the grill. It was so not fair.

Their eyes met across the room.

Choso's tray tilted slightly. He caught it, steadied it, but not before a single beer sloshed over the rim and dripped onto the floor. Higuruma's heart suddenly beat loudly in his own ears. Kusakabe followed his gaze. His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. "Well, well, well."

Shiu, still shrugging off his coat, glanced over. "Oh. That's—"

"Don't," Higuruma warned.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

From the table, Yaga raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"

Before anyone could answer, a voice cut through the din like a cleaver.

"How long are they gonna stand there blocking the way? Just sit the fuck down."

The pink-haired man behind the counter was glaring at them, his spatula in hand, his face twisting with what might have been irritation or might have been his resting expression.

"Sukuna," Choso said, his voice carrying that quiet warning tone Higuruma recognized from the club. "Don't be rude to customers."

"Then tell them not to fucking freeze and block the way, asshole."

Choso ignored him completely. He set the tray down at a nearby table with a murmured apology to the customers, then crossed the room to where Higuruma stood frozen in the doorway.

"I'm sorry about my uncle." His voice was low, controlled. "He has the anger management skills of a three-year-old."

"I can hear you, brat."

"Good." Choso didn't even glance back. His attention was entirely on Higuruma now. "Mr. Higuruma." A pause, just slightly too long. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I didn't expect to be here." Higuruma's voice came out rougher than intended, caught somewhere between surprise and something warmer he didn't want to name. "My friends dragged me."

Choso's gaze shifted to Kusakabe, then Shiu, then to Yaga in the corner. He nodded once at each of them—polite, professional, utterly composed. A server acknowledging customers, nothing more.

But when his eyes returned to Higuruma, unbidden, an image rose in Higuruma's mind: Choso in his lap last Friday, the love song playing low and sweet through the club's speakers, his waist warm and solid under Higuruma's palms. The way his breath had caught when Higuruma's hands had tightened. The way he'd whispered "like that, yes," close enough that Higuruma felt it against his ear.

The memory was so vivid, so warm, so entirely his. Higuruma felt his mouth curve into a small smile. Barely there. He couldn't help it.

Choso's eyes widened slightly. Just slightly. Just enough for Higuruma to catch it.

"You're smiling," Choso said quietly.

"Am I?"

"Yes." A pause. Choso's head tilted, just a degree. "You don't usually smile."

Higuruma's smile widened, just a fraction. "Maybe I have reasons."

Then Kusakabe cleared his throat. "Not to interrupt whatever this is," he said cheerfully, "but I'm hungry, your uncle is giving us the look, and I'm pretty sure that's smoke coming from his grill that he's not actually cooking anything on."

Sukuna, behind the counter, was indeed giving a look. It was not a patient look. His arms were crossed over his massive chest (did big boobs run in their genetics), spatula still in hand, expression suggesting he was calculating exactly how long until he could legally throw them out.

Choso straightened. "I'll bring you menus." Then he turned and walked away. The apron strings tied at his lower back drew attention to the narrowness of his waist, the subtle curve of—

Higuruma looked away. Firmly.

Kusakabe grabbed his arm and steered him toward the booth with the enthusiasm of a man who'd just been handed the best gossip of the year. "You need to get laid, I swear."

"He's got it bad," Shiu agreed, sliding into the booth across from Yaga.

"I don't have anything."

"You were smiling. It was creepy. You never smile."

Yaga looked between them, one eyebrow slowly rising above the rim of his sunglasses. "What did I miss?"

Kusakabe leaned forward, his grin widening into something absolutely insufferable.

"So." He lowered his voice conspiratorially, glancing toward the kitchen where Choso had disappeared. "Remember how I told you our Hiromi-kun's been going to that club? The one in Shinjuku?"

Yaga's other eyebrow slowly joined the first, his expression shifting from curious to deeply amused behind his sunglasses.

"Apparently, he's been going for more than just the whiskey." He jabbed a thumb toward Higuruma. "Met his walking wet dream, aka the waiter he was just making heart eyes at. And now he goes there every weekend. Every. Weekend. Sits in the same seat, pays for the same services, and does absolutely nothing about it."

"I do not make heart eyes," Higuruma said flatly.

"You absolutely make heart eyes. It's painful to watch. You look at him like he personally invented gravity."

Shiu snorted into his sake.

Kusakabe pressed on, warming to his theme. "If that man worked more than weekends, I'm telling you, our esteemed colleague here would be there every single night. He'd set up a permanent residence. Get mail delivered. 'Oh, sorry, can't make court tomorrow, I have a very important lap dance scheduled.'"

"That's not how any of this works."

"It's exactly how this works, and you know it."

"So you're telling me he's been regularly visiting a strip club, developed feelings for one of the dancers, and instead of doing anything about it, he just... keeps getting lap dances?"

"Exactly," Kusakabe confirmed. "Like a normal person."

"There's nothing normal about that."

"Tell that to him." Kusakabe waved at Higuruma.

Higuruma's jaw tightened. "I’m not—"

"You’re not what? You bought him a watch because you noticed he kept checking the time. That's nothing. That's the opposite of nothing."

Shiu, unexpectedly, added, "You also bring him snacks. Healthy ones. You researched that."

"They were just—" Higuruma opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Kusakabe pounced. "See? He can't deny it. He's caught. He's down bad. He's a lost cause."

"I'm not a lost cause."

"You're absolutely a lost cause." Kusakabe turned back to Yaga, gesturing at Higuruma. "Anyway, that's the situation. Our friend here fell for a stripper."

"He's not just a stripper—" Higuruma started.

"Yeah, yeah, he works here too, he has a family, we know." Kusakabe waved him off. "But listen to this part, for weeks, this man has been insisting he's not falling in love. 'I'm just horny,' he said. 'It's physical,' he said. 'I go there for the whiskey and the ambiance,' he said."

"I did say those things."

Yaga considered this. Took a long sip of his sake. Set the cup down carefully.

"So when's the wedding?"

Higuruma choked.

Kusakabe howled with laughter. Shiu's mouth twitched. Even Yaga looked vaguely pleased with himself.

"You're all terrible people," Higuruma managed.

"We're your friends," Kusakabe corrected, raising his cup. "Same thing."

"I hate you," Higuruma said flatly.

"You love me. I'm about to order for the table and include all the embarrassing things on the menu."

A moment later, someone approached their private booth. Higuruma looked up, expecting Choso.

Instead, a teenager stood there.

He had bright pink hair, messy and unstyled, falling into his eyes no matter how many times he pushed it back. Two small scars marked his face—one between his brows, one at the corner of his lips—but they did nothing to diminish the warmth of his smile. It was wide and genuine and absolutely infectious, the kind of smile that made strangers want to smile back without thinking.

"Sorry for the wait! Are you ready to order?" he announced brightly. Incandescently bright, like a small sun had wandered into the restaurant and decided to bus tables. He introduced himself as Yuji, speaking rapid-fire as he pulled out his order pad. Had they tried the grilled squid yet? (They hadn't, they should, it was the best in the neighborhood.) Did they want more sake? (Kusakabe did, enthusiastically.) Were they from around here? (Vague gestures from all three, none of them willing to admit they'd traveled nearly an hour to get here.)

Shiu, who rarely acknowledged anyone's existence with more than a grunt, found himself almost smiling. "Does this place only hire good-looking people?"

Yuji laughed, bright and unselfconscious, not a trace of self-awareness about the compliment. "Nah, just my family. My grandpa owns the place, but he's been sick lately. Our youngest brother, too—he's been in and out of the hospital for a while." He said it casually, like it was just a fact of life, nothing to dwell on. "So my uncle had to step up and take over. But he's been helping here since he was a teenager, so it's nothing new for him."

"Sorry to hear that, kid," Yaga offered, his deep voice surprisingly gentle.

Yuji waved it off with another grin. "It's okay! I don't do much anyway. I'm just helping out when I can. It's my oldest brother who really works hard. He and my uncle are the ones paying for everything."

"Yuji." A low voice cut through the chatter like a blade. "Stop bothering the customers."

Choso appeared behind his brother, tray tucked under one arm. His expression was carefully neutral—the same composed mask he wore at the club—but something in his eyes softened when they landed on Yuji.

"I'm not bothering them!" Yuji protested, turning to face him. "I'm being friendly. There's a difference."

"You're being loud."

"I'm being charming." Yuji's grin widened. "There's also a difference."

Choso's lips twitched. He reached out and ruffled Yuji's hair with unmistakable affection, his long fingers gentle despite their size. A few regulars at the counter noticed and called out teasing comments—"Aw, Choso's doting on his little brother again," "When does he not?"—and Sukuna's voice rumbled from the kitchen, "That's why the brat never grows up. You coddle him too much."

Choso ignored them all.

"Anyway," Yuji said, gesturing at Choso with his order pad, "that's my oldest brother. The one we were talking about."

Choso's face did something complicated. "What did you talk about?"

"Just that you're a good big brother," Kusakabe offered smoothly, reaching for his sake.

For a moment, Choso went very still. Then, impossibly, a faint flush crept across his cheeks; barely visible in the dim light, but Higuruma saw it. Cute, he thought, and immediately looked away.

Choso told Yuji to check on the other tables and took over taking their order instead. Yuji disappeared into the crowd, still chattering at someone else as he went, his bright energy trailing behind him like exhaust from a speeding vehicle.

Choso stood there for a moment, watching him go. When he turned back to the table, his expression was carefully composed again, but his ears were still slightly pink.

"My brother," he said quietly, as if that explained everything. "He's—"

"Lovely," Higuruma said. "He's lovely."

"He is," Choso agreed softly. His voice dropped even lower, meant only for Higuruma. "I'll bring your food soon."

He walked away before anyone could respond.

Kusakabe waited until he was out of earshot, then leaned across the table with a knowing look. Higuruma ignored him.

Through the crowd, he watched Choso move between tables. He watched him pause at the counter, exchange a quiet word with Sukuna, and receive a small nod in return. He watched him check on a tall, well-built man with black hair and striking violet eyes, thin eyebrows marked by two small stud piercings. The man was charming an elderly couple into ordering another round of sake, his smile easy and warm. When he spotted Choso, his expression shifted into something fond, and he reached out to touch his arm. Higuruma caught the murmured "Thanks, big brother," before they both moved on.

Big brother. Again. Just how many brothers did Choso have?

Higuruma's chest ached. Seeing that soft, lovely expression on Choso's face, the way it transformed him from the composed, untouchable figure at the club into someone real. Someone with family. Someone who worried and worked and loved.

When Choso returned with their sake and food, he lingered for just a moment longer than necessary. His gaze found Higuruma's across the table.

"The pickles are good?" he asked quietly.

Higuruma blinked. He hadn't even touched them. "Yes," he lied. "Thank you."

Choso nodded. His eyes lingered for one breath, two. Then he was gone again, swallowed by the warm chaos of the restaurant.

Kusakabe refilled Higuruma's cup without being asked. "You've got it bad."

"I know."

Yaga, unexpectedly, spoke. He'd been quiet most of the night, watching everything with those flat, knowing eyes behind his sunglasses. Now he set down his chopsticks and leaned back.

"He's a good kid," Yaga said. "His grandfather's sick. His youngest brother, too. From what I gathered, he works multiple jobs to cover the hospital bills. At least two, maybe more." He paused, letting that sink in. "The family works hard to help him, too. The uncle runs the restaurant, the other brother works here, and the kid busses tables after school. They're all pulling together. "That's a good family."

Yaga's gaze settled on Higuruma—heavy, assessing, the same look he probably gave students who thought they could sneak past him. "Kid seems sincere. Works hard. Takes care of his own." He picked up his chopsticks again, but didn't eat. Just pointed them at Higuruma for emphasis. "If you're going to date someone, date someone like that. I like the kid already. And I've only known him for twenty minutes.”

"Don't you think it'll create a bad image for Higuruma?" Shiu asked, swirling the sake in his cup. "No offense to the guy, but he's a stripper. And Higuruma's got his reputation to protect. High-profile defense attorney, media attention, colleagues who'd love to see him stumble..." He trailed off, letting the implication hang.

The table went quiet.

Higuruma's hand tightened on his cup. When he spoke, his voice was flat. Absolutely flat. The kind of flat that made Kusakabe's eyebrows shoot up and Yaga pause mid-bite.

"Stop calling him 'a stripper.' He has a name. Use it."

Shiu blinked. "I was just—"

"It's disrespectful." Higuruma cut him off. "To all the work he does. All of it. Not just the part that pays the bills. And it's disrespectful to reduce a person to their job title. Especially when that job is the reason his grandfather is getting treatment, his little brother has a roof over his head, and his family isn't on the street... And to answer your question. No. I don't care."

Shiu's eyebrows lifted. "You don't care if your reputation—"

"I built my career. My name. My reputation. By myself. With my own hands and my own choices. If people know that the man I care about dances for a living is bad enough to make them question my competence, then I was never good enough to begin with. And I'd rather know that now."

Shiu stared at him. Kusakabe's mouth was slightly open. Even Yaga looked vaguely impressed, which for Yaga was the equivalent of a standing ovation.

"Damn," Kusakabe finally said. "That was... actually kind of beautiful?"

"Shut up."

"No, I mean it. That was almost poetic. You've got it bad."

Higuruma's eye twitched. "I just stated facts."

"You just gave a whole speech about the dignity of labor and how you don't care about professional consequences because you like a boy. That's not facts. That's feelings. That’s also very gay, too."

"Kid's got spine," Yaga said, reaching for more food. "I like him."

"Choso," Higuruma corrected. "His name is Choso."

Yaga's lips twitched. "I know."

Shiu raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Choso. I'll use his name." A pause. "But for the record, I wasn't trying to be disrespectful. I just... wondered. About the optics."

"I know." Higuruma's voice softened, just slightly. "But wonder about something else. Like whether he's eaten today. Or if his brothers are okay." He looked toward the kitchen curtain again. "That's what matters."

Kusakabe sighed dramatically. "We've lost him, gentlemen. Completely and utterly lost."

“Yeah,” Shiu agreed. “It's kind of pathetic, actually."

"Shut up."

Kusakabe leaned in, grin wide and merciless. "So. When are you asking him out? Properly? Not in a club where he's getting paid to touch you?"

Higuruma's jaw tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Why don’t you ask him for tea sometime. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere, he doesn't have to work."

It was such practical, straightforward advice that Higuruma didn't know what to do with it.

He looked toward the kitchen again. Choso was wiping down the counter now, his movements unhurried, his profile illuminated by the warm light. He looked tired. He looked beautiful. He looked like someone Higuruma wanted to know.

"Maybe I will," he said quietly.

Kusakabe's eyebrows shot up. Shiu did too, which was impressive given how little he usually moved his face.

"Wait, seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Well, shit." Kusakabe raised his cup again. "To Higuruma, who's finally doing something about it."

"That's not a toast."

"It's absolutely a toast. Drink."

Higuruma drank.

On Friday night, Higuruma arrived at the club. It was busy. Weekend crowd. Louder music, thicker air, more bodies pressing together. Higuruma took his usual booth, ordered his usual drink, and waited for Choso to appear.

He didn’t.

He was about to ask the bartender when he saw him.

Choso emerged from the back hallway, already in his stage outfit, his face composed in that familiar, unreadable mask. He took two steps onto the floor. Then three.

Then he stopped.

His hand went to the wall, bracing. His head dropped. His shoulders curved inward. Higuruma was on his feet before he knew he’d moved. He crossed the floor without seeing it, without hearing the music, or the crowd, or the warning shouts from a bouncer. All he saw was Choso.

“Choso.”

He didn’t react. Didn’t seem to hear.

Higuruma reached him, stopped just short of touching. “Choso. It’s me. It’s Higuruma.”

Slowly, painfully slowly, Choso’s eyes opened. They found Higuruma’s face. Something flickered in them—recognition, confusion, and then, devastatingly, relief.

“I’m sorry,” Choso whispered. His voice was wrecked. “I just... I need a minute. I just need—”

His legs buckled.

Higuruma caught him. Lowered them both to the floor, Choso cradled against his chest, trembling like a leaf in the wind. The manager appeared. A blond-haired man with a lot of piercings and no patience.

“What the hell is this? Choso, get up. You’re on in five. Customers are waiting.”

Choso flinched. Tried to move. Failed.

“I said, get up.” The manager’s voice sharpened. “I don’t care if you’re tired. We have a schedule—”

“No.”

The word came from Higuruma. Quiet. Final.

The manager blinked. “What?”

Higuruma looked up at him, and something in his expression made the manager take a half-step back. Years of courtrooms, of opposing counsel, of judges who needed convincing, all of it was in his eyes.

“Find someone else,” Higuruma said evenly. “Or refund them. I don’t care which. But Choso isn’t moving until he’s ready.”

The manager’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“And if you have a problem with that,” Higuruma continued, “you can take it up with my lawyer. Who is me. I bill at eight hundred an hour. Shall we discuss this somewhere private?”

The manager was still sputtering when a familiar voice cut through.

“What’s going on here?”

Toji. Of course. He emerged from the crowd and took in the scene. Choso on the floor, Higuruma holding him, the manager flapping uselessly, and sighed.

“Naoya. Go handle the bar. I’ll deal with this.”

The manager fled.

Toji crouched down, bringing himself to Choso’s level. His sharp eyes softened, just slightly.

“You look like shit, kid.”

Choso’s laugh was a broken thing. “Thanks.”

“How long since you slept?”

A pause. “I don’t remember.”

“Food?”

“I had pickles. Earlier.”

Toji’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Higuruma, something unreadable passing between them. Then he reached out and, surprisingly gently, ruffled Choso’s hair.

“You’re taking a week off.”

Choso’s head snapped up. “I can’t—”

“You can. You will.” Toji’s voice allowed no argument. “You still get paid. Don’t argue with me about it.”

“But—”

“Choso.” Toji’s hand landed on his shoulder, squeezed once. “You’re no good to anyone dead. Go home. Sleep. Eat something that isn’t pickles.” He stood, looking down at them both. “I’ll handle the club. Don’t come back until next Saturday. That’s an order.”

He walked away before Choso could respond.

Silence settled between them. The music played on, muffled and distant. Choso was still trembling, still too light in Higuruma’s arms.

“Can I take you home?” Higuruma asked quietly.

Choso was quiet for a long moment. His face was hidden, pressed against Higuruma’s shoulder.

“I don’t—” He stopped. Started again. “I don’t want to go home.”

Higuruma waited.

“If I go home like this,” Choso whispered, “they’ll worry. Eso will fuss. Kechizu will try to get out of bed. Sukuna will—” His voice cracked. “He’ll close the restaurant. For days. Just to sit with me. And I can’t—I can’t be the reason—”

He broke.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just a single, shattered sob that seemed to come from somewhere deep and long-buried. Then another. Then he was crying—ugly, helpless, like a child who’d held it together too long and finally couldn’t anymore.

Higuruma held him. Said nothing. Just let him fall apart.

“It’s not fair,” Choso gasped between sobs. “I just wanted—I just needed—they’re all counting on me and I can’t even—”

“You can.” Higuruma’s voice was soft, steady. “You are. Every day. That’s why you’re here.”

Choso shook his head violently.

“Look at me.” Higuruma waited until those dark, wet eyes found his. “You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to break. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed.”

Choso’s face crumpled. He buried it in Higuruma’s chest and cried until he had nothing left.

Eventually, he let Higuruma drive him home.

The address he gave was in a neighborhood Higuruma knew. Modest houses, narrow streets, the kind of place where families stretched every yen to its limit. They parked in front of a small house, old but well-maintained, with a light glowing in the window and the sound of voices drifting through the walls.

Through the window, Higuruma could see movement. Children. Several of them. A flash of pink hair—Yuji, laughing at something. An older man with the same pink hair, broad-shouldered and scowling, gesturing with a spoon. At least three other faces he didn’t recognize, all young, all part of this crowded, noisy, living house.

Now he understood.

Not just one sick brother and his grandpa. Not just a few siblings. A house full of them. A family that size required money, food, clothes, and space, all of which added up. The restaurant was popular, yes, and probably earned well. But popular restaurants didn’t pay for extended hospital stays. Popular restaurants didn’t cover the kind of treatment Choso needed.

Somebody had to do extra. Somebody had to work until they couldn’t.

Somebody was Choso.

The front door burst open before they could knock.

Sukuna stood there. His eyes swept over Choso, taking in the exhaustion, the pallor, the way he leaned slightly against Higuruma’s car.

Then his gaze landed on Higuruma, and the scowl deepened.

“You.” His voice was low, dangerous. “From the restaurant.”

Choso straightened slightly. “Sukuna. He helped me.”

“Helped you how?”

“I collapsed at work. He brought me home.”

Something flickered across Sukuna’s face—concern, quickly buried under anger. “You collapsed. Again.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Don’t.” Sukuna’s voice was sharp. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t anything. I’ve told you a hundred times. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Choso’s jaw tightened. “You’re busy. The restaurant, the boys. You have enough.”

“I have enough to notice when my nephew is killing himself.” Sukuna stepped forward, and for a moment, Higuruma tensed. But he only gripped Choso’s shoulder, his expression shifting from anger to something heavier. “We talked about this. We’ve talked about this a dozen times. You don’t listen. Brat.”

Choso looked away. “Someone has to pay the bills.”

“The restaurant pays the bills.”

“The hospital bills don’t care about the restaurant.” Choso’s voice was quiet but firm. “Kechizu’s treatment isn’t covered. You know that. The insurance runs out next month. Someone has to—”

“I know.” Sukuna’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Fuck hell, I know. But it doesn’t have to be you every time.”

They stood there, locked in some old argument, some familiar battle neither would win. Behind them, the house hummed with life: children laughing, a television playing, someone calling for dinner.

Then a new voice cut through.

“Choso!”

Yuji appeared in the doorway, his bright face splitting into a grin when he saw them.

“Mr. Lawyer! You came home with him!” He bounded forward, completely unbothered by the tension. “Did you drive him? That’s so nice! Are you staying for dinner? We have too much food, Eso always makes too much, it’s a problem—”

“Yuji.” Sukuna’s voice was flat. “Inside.”

“But—”

“Inside.”

Yuji pouted but obeyed, throwing a cheerful wave over his shoulder. “Nice seeing you! Come back sometime! We’re friendly, I promise!”

The door closed behind him.

Sukuna turned back to Higuruma. His gaze was assessing, wary—the look of a man who'd learned the hard way not to trust strangers with his family. His arms were crossed over his massive chest, sleeves pushed up to reveal the ink crawling up his forearms, every line of his body radiating barely-restrained tension.

"You brought him home." The words came out grudgingly, like pulling teeth. "Doesn't mean I know you."

"I understand."

"How do you know Choso?"

Higuruma hesitated. The truth—the club, the lap dances, the weeks of watching—felt too complicated, too intimate to share in a dark driveway with an exhausted man and his clearly suspicious uncle. Too easy to misunderstand.

"We have mutual friends," he said carefully. "I've seen him around."

Sukuna's eyes narrowed further. His jaw tightened. He clearly didn't believe that. The air between them thickened.

Before he could press, Choso spoke.

"We met at the club." His voice was quiet but steady. "The one I work at. He's been kind to me." A pause. "That's all you need to know."

Sukuna looked at his nephew for a long moment. Something passed between them. But when his gaze shifted back to Higuruma, there was nothing soft in it.

"Kind," Sukuna repeated the word as if it tasted wrong. He took a step forward, close enough that Higuruma could see the individual lines of the tattoo curling up his neck. "Let me tell you something about 'kind,' lawyer."

Higuruma didn't step back. Didn't flinch. That seemed to irritate Sukuna more.

"I've seen men like you." Sukuna's voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Nice suits. Nice smiles. Nice words. Think we're stupid because we work with our hands. Think my nephew's just some—" He cut himself off, jaw working. When he spoke again, each word landed like a punch. "I bet you think you can just toy with him. Have your fun. Throw money at him until you get bored, then fuck off to your nice life and leave him."

"Sukuna." Choso's voice cut through, quiet but firm.

Sukuna ignored him. He stepped closer, forcing Higuruma to look up to meet his eyes. "Let me make something clear. I don't care how much you pay him. I don't care how many expensive gifts you buy. You will not get to fuck my cousin and then disappear. You will not treat him like some—like some cheap—" He stopped, breathing hard.

Higuruma held his gaze. "I didn't—"

"You didn't want to?" Sukuna scoffed, the sound harsh and disbelieving. "Don't lie to me. I see how you look at him. Like he's something precious. Like you can't believe he's real." His lip curled. "I also know what men like you think underneath that. You look at him and see a poor little thing. A stripper. A cheap—" He bit the word off, but it hung in the air anyway. "You think because he dances for money, he'd be easy. Grateful for any attention you throw his way."

"Sukuna, stop." Choso's voice was louder now. Warning.

"No." Sukuna wheeled on him, and for the first time, Higuruma saw something raw beneath the anger—fear. Genuine, protective fear. "Just because he paid you a lot doesn't mean he cares about you. Rich people are fucked up. They've got something wrong in their brains, every single one of them. They think they can buy anything. Anyone." His voice cracked, just slightly. "I'm not watching you get hurt. I'm not."

The silence that followed was heavy. Choso moved slowly, carefully. He reached out and placed a hand on Sukuna's arm. The gesture was so gentle, so familiar, that something in Sukuna's rigid posture actually loosened.

"Sukuna." Choso's voice was soft now. Private. Just for them. "I know you're trying to protect me. I know."

Sukuna's jaw worked. He didn't look away from Higuruma, but he didn't shake off Choso's hand either.

"But I need you to listen." Choso waited until Sukuna's eyes flickered to him. "I trust him."

Three words. Simple. Quiet. Absolute.

Sukuna stared at his nephew. The silence stretched.

"You don't trust anyone," Sukuna finally said, his voice rough.

"I know." Choso's hand tightened on his arm. "I trust him."

Something shifted in Sukuna's expression. The suspicion didn't disappear—it would never fully disappear, Higuruma suspected—but it banked. Became something more watchful than actively hostile.

He turned back to Higuruma. Studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment.

"Choso trusts you." He said it like he was testing the words, seeing if they fit. "That means something. To me." A pause. "But if you ever—"

"I won't." Higuruma's voice was quiet, but absolute. "I'm not here to hurt him."

Sukuna's eyes searched his face. Looking for the lie. Whatever he found, he didn't share it.

He grunted. Stepped back. Crossed his arms again.

"Get inside, brat." The words were aimed at Choso, rough but softer now. "You look like shit. Noranso's been worried sick."

Choso nodded. He glanced at Higuruma, something warm and tired and grateful in his eyes, then let Sukuna steer him toward the door.

Sukuna paused at the threshold. Didn't turn around. “You. Thanks for bringing him. Now go home.”

It wasn’t warm. But it also wasn’t a threat, and Higuruma recognized that for the concession it was.

He nodded. “I’ll go.”

He turned toward his car, then stopped. Looked back at Choso.

“Can I—” He hesitated. “Would it be all right if I checked on you tomorrow? Just to make sure you’re okay?”

Sukuna’s scowl returned. “Absolutely not—”

“Yes.”

Choso’s voice was soft but clear. He met Higuruma’s eyes, and in the dim light of the streetlamp, something passed between them.

“Tomorrow,” Choso said. “Come tomorrow.”

Sukuna made a sound of pure frustration. “Choso—”

“It’s fine.” Choso didn’t look away from Higuruma. “He’s fine.”

Sukuna muttered something under his breath that sounded like “fine, my ass,” but he didn’t argue further. He just grabbed Choso’s arm and steered him toward the door.

“Inside. Now. Both of us.” He shot one last look at Higuruma—not friendly, but not hostile either. “Tomorrow. Don’t make me regret this.”

The door closed.

Higuruma stood in the quiet street, heart full, and walked toward his car.

He was halfway to the driver’s door when he heard it—the soft creak of the house door opening, footsteps on the path, so he turned. Choso stood there, backlit by the warm glow from inside. He looked exhausted still, wrecked still. He crossed the distance in three quick steps.

Thank you,” he whispered. “For tonight. For—” He gestured vaguely, helplessly. “For everything.”

Higuruma couldn’t speak. His heart was too full, his throat too tight.

Choso’s smile flickered, softened. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Higuruma managed.

Choso nodded. He stepped back, still smiling, and disappeared into the house.

The door closed.

Higuruma stood in the street, one hand raised to his face, and wondered how he was supposed to drive home when he couldn’t feel his legs.

Shit, Kusakabe is right, I have got it bad.

The next morning, Higuruma woke before his alarm.

This was not unusual; he was a man of routine, of discipline, of habits carved by years of early depositions and last-minute briefs. What was unusual was the reason.

Not work. Not a case. Not some urgent email demanding his attention at an ungodly hour.

Choso.

He lay in the dark for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, and let himself feel it. The warmth. The anticipation. The quiet, terrifying hope that had taken up residence in his chest sometime between the collapse and the weight of choso when he collapsed on his chest.

It had kept him awake half the night.

He showered. Dressed. Stood in his kitchen, looking at his collection of expensive, unused appliances, and realized he had no idea what to bring to a house full of children and a man recovering from exhaustion.

In the end, he bought fruit. And pastries. And juice. And more fruit, because fruit seemed safe, and because the image of Choso’s brothers (how many were there?) sitting around a table eating something healthy made something in his chest ache.

The drive to the house was shorter than he remembered. Or maybe he just drove faster. Either way, he was pulling up to the curb before nine, the morning sun warm on his windshield, his heart beating a rhythm he refused to name.

He knocked. The door opened almost immediately, revealing not Choso but the bright pink hair and wider grin of the teenager from the restaurant.

“Mr. Lawyer!” Yuji beamed. “You came! Choso said you might, but I wasn’t sure because adults are always saying they’ll do things and then not doing them. But you actually came. That’s so cool. Come in, come in—”

He was already pulling Higuruma inside, chattering endlessly about nothing, his energy a force of nature that swept everything before it.

The house was small but warm. Lived-in. Photos on the walls, shoes by the door, the faint smell of something cooking. Through an archway, Higuruma could see a modest living room with worn but comfortable furniture, toys scattered in one corner, and a television playing something cheerful at low volume.

“Choso’s still sleeping,” Yuji announced, steering Higuruma toward the kitchen. “Sukuna’s sleeping too. He works nights, so don’t wake him unless you want to die. I’m on breakfast duty. You want breakfast? I’m making rice. I’m very good at rice. It’s hard to mess up rice, actually, so even if I wasn’t good at it, it would probably be fine—”

“Yuji.” A new voice, amused and familiar. “Let him breathe.”

Higuruma turned. Eso stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a towel, his pale lashes catching the light. “Sorry about him,” Eso said, jerking his chin at Yuji. “He gets excited about guests. We don’t have many.”

“It’s fine.” Higuruma held up the bags he’d brought. “I brought… things. For Choso and the kids, I thought—”

Yuji’s face lit up. “You brought food? That’s so nice! Here, let me—” He took the bags, peering inside. “Oh, wow, this is a lot. Eso, look, pastries.”

Eso abandoned whatever he’d been doing to investigate. Within seconds, they were both exclaiming over the contents, and Higuruma found himself standing in a stranger’s kitchen, watching two brothers argue over who got the first croissant. Then they agreed to leave the best for Choso.

“So he has been crashed since last night?” Higuruma asked, trying to sound casual.

Yuji nodded, his expression softening. “He needed it. He doesn’t sleep enough. Ever, really. Uncle’s been trying to get him to rest for years, but…” He shrugged, a gesture that said more than words.

“He works too hard,” Eso added. “We keep telling him we can manage, but he won’t listen.”

“He’s a good brother. But he works too hard. He never stops working. Always takes care of us, but never himself. I wish he’d take care of himself for once.”

Eso smiled gently, reaching over to ruffle Yuji’s hair. “You know we can take care of him now, right?” His voice was warm, patient. “We’re not kids anymore. Maybe we should make something light for him, so he can eat those pastries or fruit Mr. Higuruma bought later without us having to nag him about it.” He pulled out his phone to check the time. “I need to head to university soon, though. We’re almost out of green onions, and we need more ginger. Can you run to the store?”

Yuji nodded, already reaching for his jacket. “Yeah, I can go.”

Eso grabbed his bag, pausing at the door. “Don’t let him talk you into cooking if he wakes up. He’s supposed to rest.”

“I know, I know.”

The door clicked shut behind Eso.

Yuji stood there for a moment, alone in the quiet kitchen. Then he turned to Higuruma, holding up a crumpled list covered in messy handwriting.

“We need to go to the store,” he said. “More ingredients for lunch. Choso’s going to want to cook when he wakes up, even though he’s sick, because he’s stubborn like that.” A small, fond smile tugged at his lips. “Want to come?”

Higuruma hesitated. “Shouldn’t someone stay with—”

“Sukuna’s here, even still dead to the world, but Choso is safe with him.” Yuji grinned. “Come on. It’ll be fun. I’ll tell you embarrassing stories about Choso.”

And how could he refuse?

The store was a short walk away, a small supermarket that clearly served the neighborhood. Yuji pushed the cart, ticking items off his list as they moved through the aisles.

“So,” Yuji said, not looking at him, “how did you meet Choso?”

Higuruma’s stomach tightened. He’d known this question would come eventually. “At a club,” he said. “Where he works.”

Yuji nodded, still not looking at him, focused on the list in his hands. "I bet he looks so cool. You know, a lot of people try to hit on him when he works at the restaurant—customers, regulars, even some of the delivery guys." A small, proud smile. "I bet he was ten times hotter when he was working as a bartender there."

A bartender?

Higuruma went very still.

But Sukuna knew? Or did Choso not tell Yuji and others? That’s why he didn’t know. Choso had kept that from him—from all of them, probably. Protected them from the truth of what he did to keep this family afloat.

Higuruma’s throat tightened.

“Something like that,” he said quietly.

“He doesn’t talk about work much,” Yuji replied. “Any of his jobs. I think he doesn’t want us to worry. Which makes us worry more, obviously. But we don’t say anything because—” He shrugged. “He’s the oldest. He’s been taking care of us since forever. It’s hard to make him stop.”

Higuruma said nothing. What could he say? So he kept quiet and watched Yuji move through the store with purpose, grabbing exactly what was on the list: green onions, ginger, nothing more. His basket was sparse, utilitarian. Rice at home, probably. Protein? Not so much.
This can’t be enough.

Without hesitation, Higuruma started adding things. Chicken. Eggs. A bag of more fruits. Snacks for kids. Some decent bread. Yuji blinked at each addition, clearly about to protest, but Higuruma just kept walking, dropping items like it was nothing.

By the time they reached the register, the basket was actually full. Yuji opened his mouth. "Mr. Higuruma, we don't need—"

"I know." Higuruma handed his card to the cashier. "But you'll use it."

Yuji stared at the bags. At Higuruma. Back at the bags.

"...Choso's going to notice."

"Good."

Yuji laughed and didn't argue again.

They finished the shopping in comfortable silence, Yuji’s chatter filling the spaces where conversation might have been. By the time they returned to the house, they were arms full of bags. Higuruma had learned about Yuji’s school, his friends, and his secret ambition to become a teacher. He’d also learned that Choso, according to Yuji, was “the best brother in the world,” and “way too stubborn for his own good,” and “secretly really soft, even though he tries to hide it.”All of it made Higuruma’s heart ache more.

By the time they walked in, the house had a different smell.

Cooking. Real cooking; savory and rich, the kind of smell that meant someone who knew what they were doing was in the kitchen.

Higuruma followed the scent and found Sukuna at the stove. The man moved with surprising grace for someone his size, stirring a pot with one hand while chopping vegetables with the other. He was wearing sleep pants and a thin shirt that did nothing to hide the muscles beneath, his pink hair rumpled from sleep, his expression as forbidding as ever.

He glanced up as Higuruma entered. His eyes narrowed.

“The fuck why are you here?”

“Your nephew invited me.”

Sukuna grunted. He returned to his cooking, apparently not satisfied with this answer.

Behind Higuruma, Yuji deposited the bags on the counter and immediately began unpacking. “Sukuna made congee,” he announced. “For Choso. It’s his sick food. He always makes it when someone’s not feeling well.”

“It’s rice water,” Sukuna said flatly. “Not magic.”

“It’s magic when you make it.” Yuji was already ladling some into a bowl. “I’m taking this to Choso. He needs to eat.”

He disappeared down the hallway before anyone could respond.

Sukuna continued cooking. Higuruma stood awkwardly by the counter, unsure of his role, his place, anything.

“You look like you have something to say,” Sukuna said without turning around. “Just fucking say. Or, you know what? Fuck off. You’re not welcome here.”

Higuruma blinked. Then, carefully: “Does anyone else in this house know? About the club? About what Choso actually does there?”

Sukuna’s hand stilled on the knife. For a long moment, he didn’t move.

“No,” he said finally. “Just me.”

He resumed chopping, his movements sharp and precise.

“He didn’t want them to know. Said it would worry them. Said they’d look at him differently.” Sukuna’s jaw tightened. “Stupid, if you ask me. They’d love him no matter what. But he’s stubborn.”

Higuruma nodded slowly. “He wanted to protect them.”

“He always wants to protect them.” Sukuna set down the knife and turned to face him. “That’s the problem. He protects everyone but himself. Works himself to nothing. Collapses in public.” His eyes were hard. “And then strange men bring him home and show up the next day with fruit.”

“I’m not—”

“He heard it.” Sukuna's gaze was assessing, sharp, watching for Higuruma's reaction. “That conversation you had with your friends at the izakaya. He forgot to ask you about something, came back, and heard the whole fucking thing.”

Higuruma went still.

“Told me last night. Thanks fuck for that. Means I didn't have to beat the living shit out of you.” A beat. Sukuna's expression did something complicated—like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say. “Kid was sick as a dog, and it still got in his head, because then he spent twenty goddamn minutes lecturing me. Me. His fucking handsome uncle? Telling me to be nice to you. Like I'm some fucking kindergarten teacher. 'Don't scare him, Sukuna.' 'He's been kind to me, Sukuna.' 'Try to be civil, Sukuna.'” He spat out each impression as if it personally offended him. “I'm the one who raised him, for fuck's sake. And now I'm getting parenting tips from my sick nephew about some random asshole lawyer. And then he looked at me like—” Another abrupt stop. His jaw tightened. He stared at a point somewhere past Higuruma's left shoulder.

“The fuck does it matter?” Gruff. Dismissive. Definitely a lie.

Higuruma’s heart was pounding. “Like what?”

Sukuna studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, his mouth curved into something that might have been amusement.

“Like you’re the first person in years who’s actually seen him.”

Before Higuruma could respond, voices erupted from the hallway.

“—should be in bed!”

“I’m fine, Yuji—”

“You are not fine! You collapsed! Sukuna, tell him—”

Choso appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning heavily on Yuji’s arm. He was pale, with dark circles under his eyes, wearing loose clothes that hung on his frame. He looked terrible, but he also looked good, yeah, I’m so gay for him, sue me.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Sukuna asked as his scowl deepened.

“Guest,” Choso replied. “Didn’t want to be rude.”

“You’re sick. He’ll survive without you.”

Choso was about to say somthing

Yuji guided Choso to the table, settling him into a chair. Higuruma found himself sitting across from him before he’d consciously decided to move.

“Hi,” Choso said softly.

“Hi.” Higuruma’s voice came out rough. “You should be resting.”

“I rested. I’m rested.”

“You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

“You’re swaying.”

Choso’s lips twitched. “You’re very observant.”

“I’m a lawyer. It’s my job.”

"Like hell a lawyer needs that kind of observation.” Sukuna cut between them, slamming a bowl of congee onto the table hard enough that it sloshed. “You just like staring at my emo nephew. Now, eat. All of it. No arguments." Then the finger swung toward Higuruma. "And you. Stop with the heart eyes. Makes me wanna puke." The what—?

Choso looked at the bowl, then at his uncle. “This is a lot.”

“It’s rice and water. Eat.”

Choso picked up the spoon. His hand trembled slightly. Higuruma watched him eat, watched the way each spoonful seemed to cost him something, watched the way Sukuna stood guard over the process like a dragon protecting its hoard. Yuji had disappeared somewhere.

“This is good,” Choso murmured, halfway through the bowl.

“Of course it’s good.” Sukuna turned back to the stove. “I made it.”

Choso’s lips curved. That almost-smile. “Thank you, old man.”

Sukuna grunted. But his shoulders relaxed slightly.

After Choso finished eating, under Sukuna’s watchful eye and pointed commentary, Yuji reappeared with an album.

“Look what I found!” He plopped it onto the table, sending dust motes spinning in the sunlight. “Baby pictures. Choso hates these.”

Choso’s eyes widened. “Yuji, no—”

But Yuji was already opening it, revealing pages of photographs carefully preserved in plastic sleeves. “Look, here he is at five. Look at that face. Look at those cheeks.”

Higuruma leaned in despite himself.

The photo showed a small boy with dark hair and serious eyes. Has he always had dark circles since he was born? His expression was exactly the same as adult Choso’s: composed, watchful, slightly intimidating on such a small face.

“He never smiled,” Yuji said happily. “Even as a kid. Just glared at the camera as it owed him money.”

“I was not glaring.”

“You were absolutely glaring. Look at this one—”

More photos followed. Choso at various ages, always with that same serious expression. Choso holding babies—first Eso, then Yuji, then a succession of smaller children, each new sibling appearing in the photos like an expanding constellation.

“Who are all these children?” Higuruma asked, not meaning to say it aloud.

“Our brothers.” Yuji flipped a page. “There are nine of us total. Well, ten if you count Choso. He’s the oldest. Then there’s me and Eso and Noranso and Sho-so and—” He waved a hand. “A lot. We’re a lot.”

Ten siblings. Choso was the oldest of ten.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Choso said quietly. “They help. Yuji and Eso are old enough now. Sukuna’s here. We manage.”

“You manage,” Higuruma said. “You do almost all the managing.”

Choso’s lips pressed together. He didn’t deny it.

By late afternoon, the house had undergone a transformation.

School was out, which apparently meant that a flood of children appeared from nowhere—pouring through the door with backpacks and homework and endless, endless energy. They ranged in age from about seven to thirteen, all with variations of dark hair, but all shared the same bright eyes and quick smiles, which Higuruma was beginning to recognize as a family trait.

Noranso. Sho-so. Tanso. Sanso. Kotsuso. Shoso.

Higuruma repeated the names in his head, trying to memorize them, knowing he would fail. They blurred together in a cascade of dark hair, noise, and motion, filling the small house to bursting.

And through it all moved Choso.

He was still pale. Still clearly unwell. But he moved among his brothers with a quiet attentiveness that made Higuruma’s chest ache. A hand on a shoulder here, a soft word there, a gentle correction when someone got too loud. He listened to their stories—endless, overlapping stories about teachers and friends and something that happened at recess—with the same focused attention he gave everything.

When Shoso, the youngest, ran to him with a scraped knee, Choso cleaned it without fuss, his touch gentle, his voice soft. When Kotsuso needed help with homework, Choso sat beside him at the table and explained the problem in quiet, patient terms. When Tanso and Sanso started squabbling over a toy, Choso separated them with a look that somehow conveyed both disappointment and love.

He was beautiful.

Higuruma had known this from the first moment. Had catalogued every line of him, every curve, every devastating detail. But this—this was different. This wasn’t the beauty of stage lights and tattooed ink and hips that moved like water. This was something softer. Something deeper.

Choso, sick and exhausted, was taking care of his brothers as if it were as natural as breathing. Choso, smiling softly at something Sho-so said, his whole face transforming with the warmth of it. Choso, patient, gentle, and good.

Higuruma was a goner.

He’d known it before, of course. Had accepted it somewhere between the first lap dance. But sitting here, in this crowded little house, watching Choso be exactly who he was when no one was paying, it settled something in him. Made it real.

I fall for this man.

The thought arrived quietly, without fanfare. Just a simple fact, settling into his chest as it had always belonged there.

He loved Choso.

God help him.

“Mr. Man in Black.”

Higuruma blinked. Sho-so stood in front of him, head tilted, eyes curious.

“What do you do?” the boy asked. “For work, I mean. Choso said you have a job.”

“I’m a lawyer.”

Sho-so’s eyes went wide. “Like on TV? Do you yell at people?”

“I try not to yell. It’s not effective.”

“But do you win? Sukuna says winning is important.”

Higuruma glanced at Choso, who was watching the exchange with something soft in his eyes. “Sometimes I win. Sometimes I don’t. But I always try my best.”

Sho-so considered this. Then, solemnly: “That’s what Choso says too. About everything.”

Before Higuruma could respond, more children had gathered. They surrounded him with the fearless curiosity of kids who’d never learned to be afraid of sharp-faced strangers.

“Do you put people in jail?”

“Have you met any murderers?”

“Is it true you make lots of money?”

“Can you make Choso rest more? He never rests.”

The last question came from one of the older ones—Noranso, maybe, or Tanso. It was asked simply, without expectation, but it hit Higuruma like a blow.

Choso, overhearing, straightened. “That’s enough questions. Leave him alone.”

“But Choso—”

“He’s a guest. Guests need space.” Choso’s voice was firm but gentle. “Go play. Dinner soon.”

They scattered, grumbling but obedient. Within minutes, the living room was once again a chaos of noise and motion.

Choso sank onto the couch beside Higuruma, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “They’re… a lot.”

“They’re wonderful.” Higuruma meant it. “You’re wonderful with them.”

Choso looked at him, surprise flickering in his dark eyes. “I just… take care of them. That’s all.”

“It’s not all.” Higuruma held his gaze. “It’s everything.”

Something passed between them. Somewhere in the house, a door creaked. The youngest brothers had finally worn themselves out. Sukuna had retreated to wherever Sukuna went when he'd had enough of people, and for the first time all day, they were alone.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was full—overflowing with everything neither of them had said, everything that had been building for weeks in dim club rooms and crowded restaurants and quiet kitchen conversations. It hung between them like something alive, something breathing.

Choso's eyes were dark and deep and slightly glassy from the fever, but focused entirely on Higuruma. Unblinking. Like he was memorizing him.

Higuruma's heart was going to break out of his chest. He wanted to close the distance between them, wanted to find out if Choso's lips were as soft as they looked, wanted to taste the wordless thing that had been growing between them since the first night Higuruma had walked into that club and seen someone who looked like he'd been carved from moonlight and sorrow.

But he couldn't move. Not because he didn't want to. Because he wanted it too much.

What if he'd misread everything? What if this was just Choso being kind, being grateful, being too sick to maintain his usual walls? What if Higuruma leaned in and Choso flinched away, and this fragile, precious thing they'd built shattered into pieces he'd never be able to put back together?

His hand lifted. Slowly. Giving Choso every chance to turn away, to shift back, to send some signal that this wasn't welcome.

But Choso didn't move.

Higuruma's fingers brushed against his temple, feather-light, then traced back to tuck a strand of dark hair behind his ear. Choso's hair was soft—softer than it had any right to be. His skin was warm from the fever, but he leaned into the touch anyway, just slightly. Just enough.

"Choso," Higuruma murmured.

His name. That was all. But it came out like a prayer, like the most important word Higuruma had ever spoken.

Choso's cheeks darkened. A flush that had nothing to do with illness was spreading across his cheekbones, dusting the tips of his ears. He didn't look away. Didn't hide. Just watched Higuruma with those dark, endless eyes, waiting, trusting, wanting—

Was that wanting? Higuruma couldn't tell. He'd spent his entire career reading people, and this one man remained a mystery that made him ache.

Their faces were closer now. When had that happened? Higuruma didn't remember leaning in, but somehow the distance between them had shrunk to inches. He could feel the warmth radiating from Choso's skin. Could count his eyelashes. Could see the exact moment Choso's gaze dropped to his lips, then flickered back up.

Permission. That was permission, wasn't it?

But still Higuruma hesitated. Still, he hovered there, close enough to kiss, close enough to ruin everything.

Then Sho-so appeared between them, completely oblivious. “Choso! Kotsuso says I can’t have a turn with the toy, but I had it first—”

And the moment broke. But it lingered. All through dinner, through the chaos of feeding ten children, through Sukuna’s grumbled complaints and Yuji’s cheerful chatter and Eso’s endless questions. It lingered when Higuruma helped clear plates, when he found himself pressed into service drying dishes, when he sat on the crowded couch with a child on either side and Choso’s warmth at his shoulder.

It lingered when Shoso fell asleep against his arm, small and trusting, and Choso looked at them both with something that made Higuruma’s heart stop.

It lingered when the door finally closed behind him, hours later, and he stood in the cool night air with the taste of Choso’s cooking still on his lips, and the memory of his smile burned into his brain.

A week passed.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Higuruma visited when he could. Not every day, he had work, cases that demanded his attention, clients who needed him—but often. More often than was strictly reasonable for a man with no actual connection to this household. Sometimes he brought food, bags full of things he’d noticed were running low during his last visit. Sometimes he brought nothing but himself, just sat in the chaos of that crowded house and watched Choso move through his life like gravity’s favorite thing.

Sometimes he helped with homework—he was good at math, it turned out, patient in a way that surprised even himself. Sometimes he read stories to the younger ones, doing voices that made them giggle until they couldn’t breathe. Sometimes he just existed in a space that felt, impossibly, like home in a way his own apartment never had.

Choso watched him. They orbited each other those days, close but never touching, full of words neither could say. A brush of shoulders in the kitchen. A held glance across the dinner table. The way Choso’s breath caught when Higuruma laughed at something Yuji said, low and warm and real.

Nothing happened.

Everything happened.

It was unbearable. He'd thought that week was the best of his life...

But nothing could compare to what tonight brought.

Higuruma had worked a sixteen-hour day—back-to-back meetings, a deposition that ran long, a client who couldn’t stop changing his story. By the time he left the office, his brain felt like static and his body like a puppet with cut strings. He should have gone home. Should have collapsed into bed and slept for twelve hours.

Instead, he got in his car and drove to Choso’s house.

He hadn’t seen him in two days. That was the longest stretch recently, since the almost-kiss, since everything had shifted into something unnamed and aching. Two days of nothing but the memory of Choso’s smile burned into his brain. Two days of checking his phone like a teenager, hoping for a text that couldn’t come because—

Because he’d never asked for Choso’s number.

Why hadn’t I asked for Choso’s number?

The realization hit him somewhere between Shibuya and the turnoff to Choso’s neighborhood. He was an idiot. A complete and utter idiot. He’d spent weeks orbiting this man, buying him gifts, defending him to friends, almost kissing him—and he’d never once thought to ask for his phone number? What was wrong with me?

The house was quiet when he arrived. Dark, mostly, except for a single light in the living room. It was 2pm—too early for the younger ones to be asleep, usually, but Higuruma had learned that “usually” didn’t apply in a house with this many children. They slept when they were tired, ate when they were hungry, and chaos was the only constant.

He knocked. Yuji opened the door, bright even in the dim afternoon light. “Mr. Higuruma!” His voice dropped to a whisper, stagey and exaggerated. “Shh, the kids are sleeping. Finally. They were monsters today.”

“Sorry. I should have called—” Higuruma stopped. He didn’t have anyone’s number. “I was in the area.”

It was a lie. They both knew it was a lie. Yuji’s grin said he knew it was a lie.

“Choso’s in the living room. He’s been moping.” Yuji stage-whispered this like it was a state secret. “He won’t admit it, but he gets weird when you don’t visit for a while.”

Higuruma’s heart did something complicated.

“I’m heading to the restaurant,” Yuji continued, grabbing his jacket. “Sukuna and Eso need help. Can you stay? Make sure Choso eats something? He forgets when he’s”—he made a vague gesture—“brooding.”

“Of course.”

Yuji beamed at him. “You’re the best, Mr. Higuruma.” And then he was gone, the door closing behind him, leaving Higuruma alone in the entryway with his pounding heart and the knowledge that he was about to be alone with Choso for the first time in days.

He spotted Choso on the couch. Curled into the corner, blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes half-closed and glassy with what Higuruma immediately recognized as fever. His dark hair was loose tonight, falling across his forehead in soft waves, and he looked so achingly vulnerable that Higuruma had to pause in the doorway just to breathe.

“You’re here.” Choso’s voice was rough, sleep-soft. He didn’t open his eyes all the way, but his lips curved—just slightly, just enough. “Thought you forgot about us.”

“Never.” The word came out too fierce. Higuruma softened it, crossing to sit on the far end of the couch. “Work was brutal. I came as soon as I could.”

Choso hummed, noncommittal. “You’re tired.”

“So are you.”

They ate the soup Higuruma found in the fridge, sharing a single bowl because neither wanted to get up for another. Choso’s fingers brushed Higuruma’s when he passed the spoon. Neither mentioned it.

The fever made Choso lose, unguarded. He laughed more easily, leaned closer without thinking, let his head rest against the back of the couch with his face turned toward Higuruma like a flower toward the sun. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes too bright, and he was the most beautiful thing Higuruma had ever seen.

“You’re staring,” Choso murmured at one point, eyes still closed.

“Yes.”

Choso’s lips twitched. “Rude.”

“I know.”