Chapter Text
The fireball faded mid-air, dying as fast as it had come to life, and marking the end of the night.
Atsumu disentangled himself from the patron whose lap he’d been sitting on. The man whined, but let him go. Atsumu peered back at him over his shoulder.
“You know where to find me if you want more of this, dear,” he said with a wink, raising his voice so he could be heard above the rumbling of the audience.
He turned away from the man and jogged up to join the rest of the dancers on the stage.
Tendou, master of ceremonies for tonight and their resident fire-eater, ended the show with one last fireball as the musicians finished their piece.
Atsumu panted as he climbed the stairs two at a time, his body burning with the exertion of his routine. Tonight had been an intense one. The corset’s inner lining clung to his skin, slick with sweat. The damp feathers of his black boa stuck uncomfortably to his nape. He couldn’t wait to ditch it, to ditch it all, and slip into more comfortable clothes.
But he smiled under the bright spotlight, giving the audience what they wanted. Him. His best.
The merry crowd cheered and clapped. Boots stomped on the ground, creating a low rumble. A part of him basked in the attention, the other wished he could bring himself to fully enjoy it.
Tendou did his part as the master of ceremonies and closed the show, thanking the audience, throwing kisses left and right and bidding them farewell.
“Don’t forget to come tomorrow for another spectacular show!” he boomed. “Le Jardin Japonais will always be at your disposal if you find yourselves in need of some fun.”
Atsumu bowed for them with the rest of the performers, bending at the waist. A drop of sweat ran down his temple to his nose and fell onto the dark slats of the stage. He held the position on trembling knees until the lights of the stage went off.
Slowly, the audience vacated the amphitheater. A few stragglers craned their necks to steal one last look at the dancers.
Atsumu headed towards the stairs at the back of the stage, paying no attention to the audience. His shift had ended for the day. The spotlight above him turned off, casting him in darkness. He was no longer on the other end of those hungry gazes. He no longer had to perform for anyone.
“You should train harder,” Oikawa said, catching up to him. The little bells around his ankles jingled with every step he took. “You wouldn’t want me stealing your spot as the star.”
Atsumu snorted. Oikawa was just as sweaty and out of breath as he was. “You know I’m always up for a challenge. You’re more than welcome to try, my dear Tooru.”
“Pass.” Oikawa sniffed. “I’m a star in my own right. I don’t need people to tell me how talented and handsome I am.”
“You sure make an effort to catch their attention, though,” Atsumu muttered.
“What was that?”
Atsumu turned, giving him a razor-thin smile. “I said I hope you have a nice view of my juicy ass since you will always be behind me.”
Oikawa huffed, rolling his eyes. “You do look tired, though,” he said in a gentler tone. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
No, he wasn’t. The end of the month was fast approaching, which meant he’d have to make numbers and get ready for the monthly meeting with the collector. “Yeah,” he said instead. “Probably just overexerted earlier while practicing the new routine.”
Oikawa let out a long breath. “Tendou’s lost his mind with the new choreography.”
Atsumu hummed in agreement. “You know how he is. He likes a good show. The more visual, the better.”
“Maybe we could talk to Ushiwaka,” Oikawa mused, “Tendou will listen to him.”
“Sure, you do that.”
Oikawa shivered. “No way. You come with me.”
“Why do you dislike him so?” Atsumu chuckled. Oikawa might seem a self-confident bastard at times, but he was surprisingly nice in his own way once you got to meet him. Even though their rivalry was there from the start, with time, Atsumu had grown to be fond of him.
“I don’t dislike him,” Oikawa said. “He’s just so… serious.”
Atsumu snorted. “He’s a businessman. Efficient, intimidating… He won’t stop until getting what he wants.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard,” Oikawa mumbled.
Atsumu couldn’t help but laugh. Le Jardin Japonais was managed by four people. Kuroo Tetsuro, the owner, Kozume Kenma, the accountant, Tendou, the master of ceremonies, choreographer and cook, and Ushijima Wakatoshi, the investor and the larger shareholder.
The club had belonged to a wealthy Frenchman before Kuroo bought it a few years ago. With the help of Ushijima, he remodeled it and made it the most famous cabaret club in Paris. A club owned by Japanese people who employed only Japanese staff. It was new, it was different, it was an instant success.
Ushijima had an eye for business, and also for talent. One could say the club owed its success to him. He’d invested in Kuroo’s idea first, and he’d also hired most of the performers, being especially persistent with Oikawa.
Not Atsumu, though. He already came with the club Kuroo bought.
“See you tomorrow, Tooru,” Atsumu said.
“Don’t let a car run you over,” Oikawa chirped. “It’d be a shame if I had to cover for you and steal the show.”
“Yes. I’m sure you’d be veeery sad if that were to happen,” Atsumu scoffed.
“I’d visit you often and bring treats with me,” Oikawa said. He opened the door to the changing room he shared with Akaashi and Sugawara and disappeared into the wall. “Aren’t I nice?”
Atsumu shook his head and headed for his private dressing room.
The halls were dim despite the bright chandeliers, walls covered with burgundy silk curtains to give the illusion of a never-ending stage. There were doors hidden behind the curtains that led to the several changing rooms the dancers shared and a lounge where they could rest between and after their shows.
Only those who worked at Le Jardin Japonais knew of those doors, in case any of the patrons followed a dancer behind the stage. Respect for the performers was scarce in the red-light district, and it wasn’t uncommon for drunk patrons to barge into dressing rooms and take a look at the half-naked performers with the excuse of looking for the bathroom.
Kuroo did his best to protect those in his employment. Le Jardin Japonais was a haven for Japanese immigrants who arrived in Paris looking for the life a flourishing city like Paris promised. Freedom, beauty, truth and love. That was the bohemian dogma, and many came to the red-light district lured by those empty promises in search of success. Paris was the city of art, the city of light.
But there could be no light without shadows, and that, Atsumu knew well. Not everyone could easily find a job overnight. Not everyone looked the same. Not everyone who arrived knew the language. Not everyone had the same resources. And in a city as big as this one, there were people at every corner who took advantage of that.
That, Atsumu knew better than anyone.
He turned right. All the doors were kept a secret except for the one at the very end of that corridor, a golden door with intricate carvings. It was the door of Atsumu’s private dressing room, located inside the windmill. That door was common knowledge among those who came to the dancing halls looking for entertainment. A door anyone could have access to, for a fair price.
He twisted the handle and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it, and let out a long sigh. He tilted his head back, looking at the high ceiling. His personal tower.
He turned on the lights.
The room was stocked with luxurious items, a dark green velvet divan, a mahogany vanity, gold-rimmed chairs upholstered with white leather around a coffee table, trinkets and gifts from affluent and destitute patrons alike… It was so different from his apartment, with its threadbare curtains, an ugly dining table, a single bed and little else.
There was also a bed here, a large one hidden behind a screen, despite the fact that Atsumu never slept there.
He was the only artist who had a dressing room of his own. People might think it was because of his status as the star of the show. Atsumu was one of the most renowned entertainers in Paris, if not the most famous.
Of course he was, he’d been in the business for seven years now. He began to actively participate in the Parisian nightlife at age seventeen, two years or so after he arrived with his twin brother in the city. He was always part of the entertainment industry, but he became a burlesque performer at eighteen. Before that, he offered a different kind of entertainment, one that he still offered today, if only to a more select clientele.
That was the real reason behind his private dressing room. Kuroo wasn’t a pimp. Le Jardin Japonais was not that kind of establishment. Not anymore. Not since Kuroo bought and remodeled the place three years ago. But Atsumu had been working here long before that.
He’d reached an agreement with Kuroo, convincing him that letting him take private clients would be good for business. That men and women alike would pay a hefty sum to be allowed inside the part of Le Jardin Japonais only a few people were privy to. People would fight each other to be allowed inside Atsumu’s private room, led hand in hand by the Sparkling Diamond himself.
He created the illusion of being unattainable on the stage, while offering anyone the chance to spend a night with him at the same time. That was, if they could afford it. Atsumu was no longer just another prostitute walking the streets for a few coins. He was the Sparkling Diamond, a famous courtesan, and he wouldn’t accept any less than what he deserved.
He kept all the benefits for himself. He’d offered to give Kuroo part of his earnings, but he’d vehemently refused. Atsumu had secretly let out a relieved breath, glad Kuroo was so understanding of Atsumu’s situation. He was the only one who knew the whole truth.
Atsumu tore his eyes away from the bed and began to undress. He removed his corset easily, unlacing the front. The tight pants and thighs followed, falling with the corset in a messy pile at Atsumu’s feet. He didn’t bother to pick them up and dump them into the laundry basket at the corner of the room.
He felt icky. His sweat was drying on his skin, but he still shivered when the cool night air hit his overheated body, rising goosebumps along his arms. He crossed the room and sat at his vanity, reaching for some makeup remover. The stool screeched under him as he dragged it forward so he could get a better look at himself in the mirror.
The glamor that everyone saw on the stage was a mere illusion created to draw and entertain the audience. Once the sequence dress was removed and the lights went off, all that remained was flaky makeup. The powder covering his face looked cakey after so many hours.
Everything about him looked better from afar.
His eyeliner had smudged at some point, and the gold dust he’d used to highlight his cheekbones was nearly gone, but his red lipstick was as flawless as always. He rubbed the soaked cotton pad across his face, removing the makeup easily over half of his face. Half Sparkling Diamond, half Miya Atsumu. Where did one finish and where did the other begin?
His dark circles only showed under his right eye. The left part of his face still wore his makeup, concealing the imperfections. But no amount of powder and blush could conceal his sunken eyes, their lack of luster.
Atsumu’s lips peeled back in a smile. It looked forced, more a grimace than a smile. His lips relaxed, falling back into a straight line.
He finished removing his makeup, rubbing furiously at his face until everything came off and his skin looked red. Then he took a quick shower and changed into a pair of loose pants and a simple white shirt.
Through the large window, beyond the rotating blades of the windmill, he could see the block of apartments where his artist friends lived, right in front of Le Jardin Japonais.
The windmill was one of the very few things Kuroo had left intact after buying the club and turning it into what it was today.
Most of the lights of the building were on. Like every Friday, the bohemian artists were probably partying at Hinata’s place. Atsumu and a bunch of others from Le Jardin Japonais’s staff usually joined them and drank until they passed out. Hinata always let him crash on his couch.
But Atsumu wasn’t in the mood today. He should hurry and leave, lest Akaashi came looking for him to ask if he wanted to join the fun.
He left Le Jardin Japonais, bidding farewell to Kita and Aran, their doormen, and headed for his apartment, right behind the club.
The glamorous outfit was substituted with a plain white shirt and faded gray pants. With his companions gone, Atsumu was a study in loneliness as he left the venue.
It was late at night and early in the morning. Atsumu was more used to seeing the sun come up than it fully shining in the sky. The dwellers of the night like him slept during the day, waking up in the afternoon to get ready for the night.
Exhaustion was calling to him. He dragged himself up the stairs to his apartment on the second floor.
He changed into his pajamas, and just like he had done every night for the last seven years, he searched for the handwritten note he kept on the top drawer of his nightstand. He read it for the nth time. The ink had faded with the passage of time and the brush of Atsumu’s fingers, and some of the words were barely legible anymore. It didn’t matter. Atsumu had memorized every stroke long ago.
He released a deep sigh.
“Samu… will I ever see you again?”
“When I grow up, I’m going to be a pirate!” the snotty kid said, jumping in his seat.
Kiyoomi closed his eyes and counted to ten. He’d spent the last week in a boat, and now he was trapped in a train, sharing a compartment with a family of three. He was tired and irritable. If not for his amazing self-control, he would have probably yelled at the kid by now. His patience, however, was starting to wear thin.
He would have paid double and gotten a private compartment, but since his family had cut him off, he was trying to not squander his savings.
The kid swung his father’s cane in a wide arc, as if it were a sword. Kiyoomi had to dodge to avoid getting hit. He glared at the kid, a vein throbbing in his temple.
The father chastised his son, and the mother apologized to Kiyoomi. Yet, the kid didn’t leave him alone.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, sir?” the annoying child asked. “Pirates are cool, aren't they? I bet you also want to be a pirate. But I’ll be a better pirate than you!” he cackled obnoxiously.
Kiyoomi ignored him. He fished his pocket watch from his breast pocket and checked the time. 17:30. He still had half an hour before he reached Paris, if he didn’t throw himself out the window before that.
“So?” the kid pressed. He sat by his side on the leather bench and leaned into his personal space. Kiyoomi would have kept ignoring him, if not for the fact that the kid was relentless. “A pirate, right?”
“I’m a writer,” Kiyoomi finally snapped. “I would never be a pirate.”
The kid scrunched up his nose. “Why not?”
“Pirates are too filthy,” Kiyoomi answered. “They spend prolonged periods of time out in the sea, so they rarely shower.” He couldn’t believe he was having such an absurd conversation. He couldn’t believe he was having a conversation with a kid at all.
The kid hummed. “And what do you write?”
“Essays.”
“What’s an essay?”
Kiyoomi took a deep breath, held it, then released it. He changed his answer. “Poetry,” he said. “I write poetry.” Which wasn’t quite true, but would be soon enough.
He very much preferred essays and novels over poetry, especially the kind of poetry that was trending now. The poetry that was about people, about overexaggerated feelings that clouded your judgment and made you a stupid who made stupid decisions. Kiyoomi hated both.
He could see the beauty of a raging sea, of the circle of life that trees went through every year, but people… Kiyoomi had never seen the beauty in them, especially not in the people he’d grown surrounded by. And he wasn’t in the mood to explain that to a random child.
“Oh,” the boy nodded. “Poetry about what?”
“About things”
“What things?”
Kiyoomi adjusted the cuffs of his shirt under his coat. “Hey, kid, do you want to play a game?”
The child sat straighter, but he was still too close to Kiyoomi’s liking. “I love games!”
“Good. This one’s called the game of silence.”
The kid frowned. “That doesn’t sound fun. How do you play it?”
“The one who keeps quiet the longest wins.”
“I like winning!” he smiled. He was missing one of his front teeth. “What do I win?”
“If you want to know, you have to play,” Kiyoomi told him.
“Okay!” the kid nodded excitedly. “Okay, let’s play. Three, two, one, Go!”
The compartment fell thankfully silent at last. The mother gave a small chuckle. Her son turned to her, putting his finger against his lips in a silent gesture. She covered her mouth. When the kid’s gaze fell from her, she mouthed an apology to Kiyoomi again.
Kiyoomi gazed out the window.
A while later, the train arrived in the suburbs of Paris.
Despite what people said about Paris being a lovely and colorful city, Kiyoomi found it to be quite gray. Smoke rose in lazy rivulets, smearing the sky with streaks of gray. It was nothing like the dark clouds that hovered over the outskirts, where the factories were located, but it was certainly different from the blue sky he’d grown up under in Japan.
Still, Kiyoomi welcomed the change. He’d left Tokyo and his family behind in search of a different life, a life far away from high society, one that belonged to him and only him.
The train came to a stop. Kiyoomi rose to his feet and retrieved his suitcase.
“I won, didn’t I?” the kid jumped next to him. He pulled at the corner of his coat to get Kiyoomi’s attention. “What did I win?”
Kiyoomi reached inside his pocket and gave him a piece of candy that had been there for longer than it probably should have. Still, the kid smiled brightly and proudly showed his prize to his parents.
Kiyoomi took the chance to slip out of the compartment. He got down from the carriage, searching the busy station until he found a mop of brown hair.
“Kiyoomi!” Komori said before engulfing him in a hug that choked the air out of Kiyoomi. While his cousin wasn’t especially bulky, he was stronger than he seemed. “It’s so good to see you. How have you been?”
Kiyoomi disentangled himself from him. “Good. How about you?”
“Wonderful! I trust the trip wasn’t too hard on you. Here, let me help you with your luggage.” Komori grabbed the handle of the suitcase before Kiyoomi could argue.
They took a cab to Montmartre, and Komori chatted all the way to their block of apartments. Talking about how wonderful Paris was and how nice his life was here. “I swear there’s always something new to do, some new place to discover, someone new to meet.”
Kiyoomi was glad things were good for Komori. He’d left for Paris five years ago, chasing his career as an artist against his family’s wishes, much like Kiyoomi was doing now.
Kiyoomi was the heir to a steel manufacturing company, or had been, before relinquishing his position as the future head of the family. He’d kept in touch with his cousin after he’d left for France, exchanging letters with him every once in a while. It was Komori who suggested coming here to Paris with him. It had only taken Kiyoomi a couple of weeks to pack and get some boat tickets after a nasty fight with his parents.
Some might say Kiyoomi had given up his inheritance. He knew he had gained his freedom.
“Here it is,” Komori said once they got out of the cab.
In front of them rose a five stories high building with a dark green facade. Le Bateau-Lavoir was written in yellow cursive above the main door. His apartment, Komori informed him, was the one at the very top.
“You have the best view of Montmartre,” Komori said. “Let’s go!”
Kiyoomi looked up at the many stairs that curved above him and suppressed a groan. They took flight after flight of stairs, carrying Kiyoomi’s suitcase between the two of them. By the time they made it to the top, they were both out of breath and sweating.
“Do the honors,” Komori said, handing him a brass key with a light-blue ribbon.
Kiyoomi fit the key into the lock and twisted it. The door opened with a light creak. The apartment was quite simple: one bedroom with a double bed, a desk and an adjoined bathroom, a kitchen and a small living room. The couch, although ugly with a blue and purple floral motive, seemed new and comfortable enough.
Kiyoomi could tell the building was relatively new. The marble floors were polished, the wooden furniture was well taken care of. The walls looked freshly painted, and the air smelled clean and fresh. Still, Kiyoomi would do a thorough cleanse later.
“So?” Komori asked from the doorway. “What do you think?”
Kiyoomi crossed the living room and opened the balcony doors. He had a nice view of the district from this high up, that he had to admit to his cousin. Even the dome of Le Sacre Coeur was visible from here.
The block of apartments was right in front of the red-light district, with its infamous dance halls and gambling dens. But the one that caught Kiyoomi’s attention the most was the one located right in front of him. With its red facade and moving windmill, Le Jardin Japonais towered above the other clubs, drawing everyone’s eyes.
That was Kiyoomi’s new workplace, the most famous club in Montmartre. Well, sort of. His employer, Kuroo Tetsuro, was the owner of the club.
“It will do,” Kiyoomi said.
“Great! I live on the third floor, want to come down for a snack?” Komori Suggested. “You didn’t have anything to eat on the train, did you?”
Kiyoomi shook his head.
“Guessed as much,” Komori chuckled. “I stocked up your pantry before coming to get you, so you should have enough food for a few days. There’s a marketplace not far from here that opens every morning. However, I recommend going there on Mondays. The fruit is always better then.”
That was Komori, as thoughtful as always.
“Thank you.”
“No problem!” Komori said brightly. “Anyways, come, let me show you my place.”
Kiyoomi locked the door again, and followed his cousin down the stairs.
“This is where Hinata lives,” Komori said, pointing at the door to his right when they reached the fourth floor. “That one is Bokuto’s apartment. They’re one of the many artists that live here, but the only ones from Japan besides us,” he explained. “They’re nice guys, musicians, very lively. You’ll meet them later since they’ll be joining us tonight for our little soirée.”
“You’re throwing a party?” Kiyoomi asked. No one had told him anything about a party.
“Nope. We’re going to Le Jardin Japonais.” Komori leaped down the last couple of steps and reached the landing. He retrieved a key similar to Kiyoomi’s and opened the door of his apartment. “I thought you could familiarize yourself with the place tonight, and get to know the guys. You’re meeting Kuroo tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Kiyoomi nodded. Kuroo and he had exchanged some letters after Komori recommended him to discuss the terms of his contract and his arrival. They had agreed to meet at noon tomorrow in his office, mostly for a formal introduction. Kiyoomi preferred it that way. It would be incredibly unprofessional to meet his new boss at a party.
“Make yourself at home, I’ll go make some sandwiches and tea.” Komori disappeared into his kitchen.
The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting the space in a golden hue. Komori’s apartment wasn’t as empty as Kiyoomi’s. There were pictures of his family framed on the table, and the walls were covered in his illustrations. Kiyoomi moved closer so he could take a better look at them.
He’d always liked Komori’s art style. The clean lines and subtle colors were pleasing to look at. His style had changed slightly, evolved. Even though the influence of the western world was clear, his paintings still retained a Japanese soul.
It wasn’t quite the ukiyo-e style, and it wasn’t impressionism either. Komori had taken a little bit of home, a little bit of Paris, and mixed it to create a style that was entirely his own.
Kiyoomi examined the paintings one by one. There was a wide range of scenes that his cousin had captured, from the colorful watercolors that depicted a scene in a dancing hall, to the portrait of a young lady sitting by herself in a café in shades of light brown and dark green.
Among them, the figure of the same man appeared in several of his works: blond, with eyes the color of freshly collected honey. He was by himself in one of the prints, reclined over a green divan with a book in his hands. In another, he sat on a swing suspended in the air of a club, wearing an extravagant costume adorned with feathers and heavy-looking jewels. He also appeared at the front of what looked like one of the covers Komori had done for the club’s newspaper with other three men behind him, all holding the same pose.
“They’re known as Les Rois de Joie,” Komori said behind him. He was balancing a tray full of ham and tomato sandwiches in one hand, and a teapot in the other. Kiyoomi went to lend him a hand. “Those four are the main performers of Le Jardin Japonais. Akaashi Keiji, Oikawa Tooru, Sugawara Koushi and Miya Atsumu,” he listed, handing Kiyoomi the tray. “You’ll meet them tonight too.”
Kiyoomi couldn’t help but ask. “Why does the blond guy appear in so many of your works?”
Komori sat at the dining table and reached for one of the sandwiches “Atsumu?” “Well, he is the star of Le Jardin Japonais. He’s pretty famous around here, if not the most famous performer in Paris. They call him The Sparkling Diamond.”
Kiyoomi poured each of them a cup of tea. “So Le Jardin Japonais pays you to paint him to promote the club?”
Komori chuckled. “Yes and no. Some of those illustrations were commissioned, but I also draw Atsumu for my own enjoyment. He always offers when I need a model, and I have to say, I like painting him. He’s one of those people everyone is drawn to. Handsome, easygoing, easy to talk to.”
“You’re a terrible judge of character, Motoya,” Kiyoomi said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “You think everyone’s nice.”
“He is!” Komori protested. “I’m sure you’ll like him immediately.”
That was easy for Komori to say. Of the two of them, he’d always been the one who could make friends anywhere and almost instantly. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, preferred his own company.
“Why do I have to meet them?” Kiyoomi asked. “I might work for Kuroo, but it’s not like I will be working at the club.”
Komori rolled his eyes. “It’s called making friends, Kiyoomi. Le Jardin Japonais is a small community of japanese artists in Paris. Don’t you think making their acquaintance will be easier than meeting people elsewhere?”
Kiyoomi shrugged. “I’ve never been particularly good at making friends either way.”
“At least with them you won’t have the problem of the language barrier,” Komori said.
“My French is near perfect,” Kiyoomi countered. He’d taken up language learning from a young age: French, English and Chinese. He didn’t enjoy it, not really, but it was another skill his parents deemed worth having, along with equestrianism and calligraphy.
“That’s where the business is,” his father used to say. “Countries at the center of the world. Master their language, and you’ll make a name for yourself there”.
Kiyoomi was pretty sure signing a piece of poetry published in the weekly magazine of a dance club probably wasn’t what his father meant by that. Alas, if only he cared.
People in Paris would eventually know his name either way.
“Still,” Komori insisted. “It won’t do you any harm to know someone else besides me here.”
Kiyoomi frowned. “What happened to ‘soaking up the culture of a new place’? You said in your letters I had to broaden my horizons.”
“Kiyoomi, you spend most of your time cooped up in your room reading and writing,” Komori said with a sympathetic smile. “You could broaden your horizons just by going out of your house.”
“I just crossed the world, isn’t that enough?”
“Congratulations! You took the first step.” Komori clapped. “Now, for the second, meet new people.”
Kiyoomi sighed. He could have argued, but he knew this was a fight he couldn’t win. He would prefer to take the night, maybe the whole week, to settle and perhaps to explore the city, if only to visit the marketplace Komori had mentioned before, but he knew his cousin would drag him out tonight if he had to.
He offered to do the dishes once they finished their afternoon snack. Komori was propped against the counter by his side, giving him a run-down of the club.
“No matter what Oikawa says, never order the Green Fairy cocktail.” Komori grimaced. “It is poison. Poison, I’m telling you.”
“Why would you drink something without knowing what it is?” Kiyoomi clicked his tongue. “You’re too trusting.”
“Because Oikawa is very charming,” Komori let out a defeated sigh. “He’s also an evil dancer who likes to get people drunk. Something happened with Bokuto once, and Oikawa still holds him over him.”
“Was it that bad?”
“It’s probably just an embarrassing story. Everyone wants to know, but Oikawa promised to keep it a secret as long as Bokuto plays the violin for him at his request.”
Kiyoomi snorted. “As I said, you’re a terrible judge of character.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Komoriiiii, are you there?” A deep voice called.
“Speaking of the devil.” Komori lowered himself from the counter and went to get the door. Another set of knocks shook the door before he could reach it.
“Coming!”
Kiyoomi finished washing the last dish and wiped the sink with a cleaning cloth. He dried his hands on the kitchen rag and hung it on the door handle. Then, he went to the living room, where Komori was talking to two strangers.
“Kiyoomi, come here.” Komori turned to him and stepped aside, revealing a mop of orange hair with a bright smile. “This is Hinata,” he said.
Hinata bowed lightly. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Sakusa. Komori talks about you all the time.”
“Not all the time. I was just excited that Kiyoomi was coming,” Komori mumbled. “Anyways, and this is-”
The other man talked before Komori could introduce him. “I’m Bokuto Kotaro. Nice to meet you!” With a long stride, Bokuto stood in front of Kiyoomi, smothering him in a bear hug.
“Likewise,” Kiyoomi croaked. He wasn’t a fan of physical contact, but he couldn’t have pushed Bokuto aside even if he’d tried. The guy was ridiculously fit for a musician.
“So you’re the new writer, right?” Hinata inquired.
Bokuto let go of him, and Kiyoomi took a deep breath before answering. “I am.”
“We’re very excited to have you on board!” Bokuto said. Kiyoomi could tell why Komori had described them as ‘lively’. Bokuto was a ball of energy, one that would surely drain Kiyoomi’s social battery quickly, and while Hinata’s excitement was a little more measured, it was definitely there too.
“Thank you,” Kiyoomi said. He only hoped he would survive the night.
Komori interrupted briefly. “Gentlemen, it’s almost eight thirty, we should get going.”
“That’s right!” Bokuto snapped his fingers. He turned to Kiyoomi. “The show starts at nine, but it’s better to get there a little bit earlier before the kitchen gets swamped with orders.”
On their way to Le Jardin Japonais, Bokuto and Hinata flanked him, bombarding him with questions and offering excited comments in return.
“I’m also from Tokyo!” Bokuto practically yelled. “My grandparents used to live in the countryside, but my parents moved to the city after my sister was born. I have two sisters, by the way, and I’m the youngest one…”
This had been planned. Kiyoomi was sure of that. He twisted to look at his cousin.
A devilish grin curved Komori’s lips for a moment. There, and gone the next second. Kiyoomi still saw it, though. He narrowed his eyes at him in accusation, but Komori’s expression was angelic.
Kiyoomi knew he had no escape now. This was his new group of friends and he had no say in the matter. By the time they reached the entrance of the club, five minutes later, Kiyoomi knew more about these two than he knew about himself.
The short corridor leading to the main entrance was covered in lush greenery. On both sides of the black iron door stood a man.
“Good evening, Aran,” Hinata greeted one of them. “Kita,” he nodded at the other.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Aran said. “Enjoy your night.”
“We will!” Bokuto chirped.
Komori’s arm wrapped around Kiyoomi’s, guiding him inside. “Let’s go.”
And together, they ventured into Le Jardin Japonais.