Chapter Text
“He’s a menace, that boyfriend of yours,” Tsukitachi huffed. He looked harried, uncharacteristically irritated, as he handed over a banker’s box full of books, magazines, and what looked suspiciously like a thick, leather-bound journal. “Jesus Christ, you’d think someone pissed in his Cheerios.”
Hirato invited his colleague into his cell as if into his home, gesturing elegantly after the door was unlocked. “He didn’t let you call him ‘Aki,’ I take it?” He motioned the redhead towards the hard, narrow cot that served as both sofa and bed.
“Far from it. I went to the DA’s Office this morning to offer my services – the place is chaos, by the way. Before I could even shake his hand, he was yelling, ‘No, no, no, I will not have anyone from Bizante and Associates contaminating my case!’ Contaminating, he said. Like I’m some disease or something.”
“That sounds like Akari,” the brunet chuckled. He settled the box on the concrete floor before taking a seat next to his companion. “He’ll want no questions of collusion or impropriety when he charges the Mayor’s Office. With a case this important, he won’t take risks.”
“I was only trying to help, not dictate the investigation.”
“Good luck getting him to accept any help.”
Tsukitachi’s golden gaze roved over him in concern, as though ensuring that Hirato had truly and willingly thrown away a glittering career for such a rude, imperious jackass. “That can’t be easy, yeah? He’s gorgeous for sure, but his attitude is shit. You know he threw a pencil at me and said I was useless for letting you get yourself into this mess?” A scoff. “Like you ever listen to me.”
“I’ll be sure to clear your good name so you can continue in your mission to be his best friend.”
“I’m having second thoughts, I think.”
Hirato leaned back, resting his head against the cold, unforgiving brick of his cell wall. He stretched out his legs and folded his hands in his lap, considering his friend’s account with closed eyes and a smile. To be sure, to Tsukitachi and others – well, okay, everyone else – his beloved DA was one of the most difficult personalities admitted to the Illinois Bar. Even when they acknowledged the man’s work ethic and admired his relentless pursuit of justice, they bristled when describing his personality. The brunet could hardly blame them. No one really knew Akari, did they? They only knew Assistant District Attorney Dezart, the city’s tireless defender of justice. And if anyone managed to get underneath the public persona, they certainly never succeeded in learning the man’s vulnerabilities or discovering his hidden sweetness. Hirato would eviscerate anyone who did. Given all this, his companion’s frustrations were understandable. “He’s different when you’re not interrupting his work,” the brunet said, deciding against the more accurate He’s different with me. What was his, he vowed never to share, not even with intimates. Let them think what they would, that Akari was either an arrogant curmudgeon or some faultless saint.
“I was ordered to play delivery boy, though,” Tsukitachi said. He too leaned against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Hirato, like exhausted soldiers propping one another up in the trenches. “Said you’d get bored the longer you’re stuck in here, so he made lunch and gathered some reading and asked me to bring everything over.”
The brunet’s smile lengthened into a knowing smirk. Of course he did.
“You okay?” Tsukitachi asked, hesitant, almost like he didn’t want to know what untold horrors his friend had experienced in the Cook County Jail. “You could stay with me and Iva.”
“I’m fine. Despite the luxury I’m accustomed to and that I prefer, I don’t chafe under less-than-ideal circumstances. It’s why Ryoushi and Akari could insist I stay, apart from their concerns about my safety, or perceived lack thereof,” he assured. “Anyway, Jiki is personally overseeing me and allows far more privileges than I ought to be afforded.” A sigh. “I do miss my bed, though.”
“I bet.” His friend fixed him with a devilish leer. “Bet you miss having the pretty prosecutor in your bed just as much.”
Hirato changed the subject. In fact, not being able to fall asleep to his lover’s steady heartbeat was, without a doubt, the worst part of being arrested. He didn’t need to be reminded of the loss. “How are you and Iva faring?”
“Well, your boyfriend won’t let us help with the case, but we’re being deposed. Neither of us knows as much as any of the senior partners, but we agreed to give evidence corroborating your accusations—”
“—You shouldn’t do that,” the brunet cut in. He’d rather they stay under the radar and insulate themselves from becoming collateral damage in the hurricane about to ensue. Between Bizante and the Mayor’s Office on the one hand, and he and Akari on the other, outsiders like Tsukitachi or Iva were bound to be crushed underfoot. Hirato’s lungs contracted at the image of his best friends being harmed by his latest ploy. “Think of—”
“She’s pregnant,” Tsukitachi said. He spoke softly, but his words effected an immediate end to any stammered protests. “Just found out a few days ago.”
Despite his own predicament, the brunet could only beam at the receipt of such news. Here was his best friend, finally finding the stability that had eluded them both for so long. How long had Tsukitachi chased after Iva, after a domestic idyll with the teal-eyed goddess? How long had he secretly carried his torch, without Hirato or anyone else knowing the true depth of his love? How long had the couple waited to settle down together, weathering the storm of Azana’s trial and now preparing for an even greater one? Somewhere in the midst of such turmoil, they discovered a means to make a home. That fact left a glow in his chest, a feeling too akin to hope to be anything but. “You’re going to make some noble declaration about cleaning up the city before bringing new life into it, aren’t you?”
“Nope,” the redhead said, lovestruck grin still plastered to his face. He stood up and stretched, hands brushing the low ceiling. As he headed toward the door, he continued, “I just don’t like Bizante. He’s fucked up, and I only got it after I signed my contract. I hope he’s in so deep with Mayor Palnedo that Aki puts him away for life.” Tsukitachi sent a wave over his shoulder before slipping out, his long strides echoing down the corridor.
Hirato kept grinning long after the footsteps faded away. He and Akari would be godfathers soon, and if that didn’t present reason enough to avoid incarceration, nothing would.
Eventually, however, boredom swelled and his buoyant mood evaporated. He thanked an absent paramour for marking him well enough to provide for his entertainment. The blond’s gift was hauled onto the cot. Hirato rifled through the box to take stock. Akari had indeed cooked lunch – a stew of some sort, no doubt more appetizing than jail fare. Leave it to his fastidious lover to send not only Tupperware, but cutlery wrapped in a dinner napkin as well as a number of salt and pepper packets. Laughing to himself, he placed the food aside and examined the rest of the contents. A few volumes of fiction, titles he’d had adored and read over and over again when they shared a life. Various home and style magazines also lay inside, the contents devastating if he imagined that he might never see the outside world again. (He didn’t.) But what had caught his attention since Tsukitachi first put the lot in his arms was a black leather notebook, clearly very old and well worn. The edges were rounded and soft after years of use, and scratches gleamed in the cover. Nevertheless, it had been cared for; that much was obvious.
Hirato opened it across his lap and plucked out the folded note pressed against the first page.
Dear Hirato, it began, Akari’s loping cursive instantly recognizable.
I’m certain you will make trouble if you are not sufficiently diverted. To that end, I’ve arranged for some reading material. Your awful preference for bleak Japanese literature notwithstanding, I hope the items here offer some comfort to you.
As for this journal, I should explain. Our break-up, such as it was, inspired so many sentiments that I had trouble containing them. I spent months not knowing what I felt, even. I started writing letters to you not long after we parted. I’d hoped, back then, to articulate and catalogue every emotion so that I might make more sense of myself. Eventually, this impetus to dissect and understand became habit, and so I continued to write to you, never imagining my missives would find their intended recipient, all these years later.
The following pages are misleading, in some sense. The man you encounter therein – I am no longer that man. He will seem to you wretched and consumed by his feelings of betrayal. He will claim to hate you. He will run from you. He will seek to burn away the very memory of you.
But he will love you.
I have always loved you. Despite what we’ve become, how callously we treated one another, I have always loved you. Perhaps this is why we could be so cruel; one would not seek to destroy something that holds no significance, in the end. Apathy is the opposite of love, not hate.
And so here we are, and I am writing to tell you once more, and ever again, that I love you. In my many years of pursuing righteousness, this is the most profound truth I have ever discovered.
Yours,
Akari
PS: Please inform your interfering fool of a colleague I’ve no need of his “assistance.” Should he appear at the DA’s Office again, I’ll have Jiki place him in the cell next to yours.
How unexpected, Hirato thought, moved his dear DA would condescend to lay bare the innermost workings of his mind. And yet, he was well aware that what awaited him was not limited to effusive declarations of love. There would be heartache and blame, and he’d learn about the devastation he’d wrought when he pushed Akari away. He therefore opted to begin his journey with what he hoped would be the more amiable of the communiques, reading final one first. This wasn’t cowardice on his part, he reasoned. He simply wished to reaffirm the end so that the brutal beginning would not loom too large. They’d reconciled, after all. There was no need to dwell in misery forever.
Hirato,
This is the last letter.
Tonight, I had opportunity to bed another, to forge a different life. His name is Kirei. We met not long after I moved out of your penthouse. He is impossibly charming and beautiful. Extraordinarily brilliant and generous, too – a trauma surgeon who spends his weekends working at a charity clinic on the Southside.
You would like him, I think, in different circumstances.
And yet, in spite of all that he is, he is not you. He cannot be you.
Once upon a time, I might have fallen in love Kirei or a man very like him. Perhaps, before the night we spent in one another’s arms, I might have forgotten how the mere glance of your fingertips ignites like wildfire, how the taste of you both slakes my thirst and precipitates it in equal measure. Now, however, there is no forgetting and there is certainly no comparison.
You are seared so deep in me that I breathe you. How, then, can anyone challenge your claim?
Deny it though I might, but I love you. I love how you feel when you’re moving inside me, the seams of my very self flying apart at your lightest touch. I love having you underneath me, your heartbeat racing to my rhythm. I love your wit and your wiles, your peerless intellect and your easy grace. I love the way you own any room you enter and how you leave everyone whispering in your wake. I love when you’re frustrated, sharper than usual but ever as breathtaking. I even love the way your eyes resemble cold, hard amethysts when you’re furious.
More than anything else, Hirato, I love that heart of yours – the one you hide so well. You say it has been in my safekeeping for some time, so I must know it better even than you. As such, allow me to confirm, once and for all, that you are a remarkably good man. You are the very best of men, in fact. That you ever doubted this on my account is my life’s greatest failure.
I do not know what awaits you and I. But I know this: I want you tonight. So, as I set aside my pen, I am taking up my phone. It’s time I reached for you too.
Yours,
Akari
In retrospect, beginning with this particular missive had been a terrible idea. Now, all Hirato wished to do was pin Akari to the wall of his cell and satisfy those raging desires the man had successfully concealed with an overabundance of vituperation and spleen. Well, that or subject the blond to a rigorous interrogation about the precise contours of his relationship with this Kirei. How far did it progress before Akari realized the doctor was nothing but a cheap usurper? And where did this thieving bastard work that he had managed to run into the DA during the busiest trial in the city’s recent history? What was happening to the medical profession if trauma surgeons had excessive free time to flirt?
“So glad I don’t have to destroy him,” Hirato said. He reclined on his back and held up the journal to block the glare from the solitary lightbulb in the ceiling fixture. The makeshift bed squeaked, metal complaining under his weight, but he paid it no mind.
Now mentally prepared to withstand whatever barbarity he might encounter, he flipped to the beginning and read the first letter. Surprisingly, weeks had elapsed after their break-up before the other man took up his pen. The brunet learned why fairly quickly. The thought of you is poison. A passing mention of your name is sufficient to unmoor my rationality and steal my breath, Akari had admitted. I hate that you’ve done this to me, that I loved you enough to allow it. Because I cannot escape you, I learned to loathe you.
Hirato inhaled, the grief lancing through him clean and sharp. “Never again,” he promised to an absent paramour.
And so it went. Hours passed, and in those hours, the defense attorney had done nothing but read, his heart caught somewhere between his throat and his mouth. Despite the anguish recounted in the sort of exquisite detail only Chicago’s most assiduous litigator could deliver, he did not feel sad. The blond was right. Belying each and every entry was one irrefutable fact: No matter how he raged, or cursed, or swore he reviled his ex-lover with the intensity of an inferno, what was manifest was that Akari could not forget him.
And after a while, it was clear the DA did not want to forget him. “And yet, it wasn’t all bad,” Hirato murmured, reading off the page and blinking away the emotion. No, it wasn’t, he averred. Not even when we were at our worst. I think I’d rather go to war with you than make love to anyone else.
“I should have known you’d prefer that heartsick tripe to any real literature,” Akari called, crystalline eyes narrowed at the figure sprawled out in a corner of the room. His smile was fond.
“You shouldn’t underestimate your writing prowess, counselor. You’ve a real gift for smut.”
The guard rattled the keys, unnecessarily loud, ostensibly trying to drown out the more scandalous parts of the conversation taking place. He let an adorably flustered DA enter and scuttled away, beady eyes darting between the two men as he made his egress. Hirato was tempted to read aloud to see how the retreating man would react, but he was certain his prude of a bedmate would demand the return of his letters then, and he didn’t want to relinquish them yet. Not when he’d happened upon such stellar blackmail material.
Akari sat down and barely had time to let go of his briefcase before the defense attorney pounced, dropping the journal and pinning the blond underneath him in a swift, soundless motion. He pulled them close for a deep, aching kiss. There was a moment of hesitation – the DA remembering where they were, probably. But then, the other man arched into him, looping his arms around Hirato’s neck and entangling their legs. They took their time, basking in one another’s affections, now that they could be tendered freely. There would be no more morning-after regrets or denials of feeling, the brunet knew. It was as though he’d found home at long last – here in a cramped jail cell, miles away from the life he thought he wanted.
Agile fingers slid under the prosecutor’s trenchcoat and along his side. Slowly, Hirato untucked his shirt and splayed his hand against the small of Akari’s back - not to incite, but to keep them together. He gorged himself on satiny skin, so delicious and inviting. “If you hadn’t trapped me here, these clothes would be at my feet, you know.”
Akari let out an indulgent laugh. He guided the defense attorney to rest against his chest, head pillowed over his heart. The DA closed his eyes and hummed in pleasure, savoring the warmth radiating between them. “Those letters seem to have affected you rather strongly,” he said. One hand carded through Hirato’s hair. “Should I worry?”
“No. I’m just taken aback at how convincing an actor you are. I long believed you hated me and would never forgive me.”
“For a spell, I believed I hated you as well.”
The brunet catalogued the signs of exhaustion that hung heavy on his lover. Akari’s irises were glassy, dulled. His hair slightly disheveled, his necktie unraveling. The man labored slightly over his inhales, like he hadn’t caught his breath all day. Hirato pressed a kiss to his cheek before nosing along his ear and whispering, “When did you recognize that what you felt wasn’t hate?”
Long fingers stilled in sable strands. And Akari faltered, once for failing to arrive at an answer, and once again for realizing he’d never asked himself the same question. “I honestly can’t say,” he ultimately replied. “But that’s the problem with illusion; it’s difficult to tell where it begins or ends.”
“Oh, then is this an illusion too? Maybe you truly hate me and only think you love me.”
A thin, blond brow arched as the prosecutor leveled his lover with a look of pure impishness. “Oh, I definitely hate you. Have you any idea how much work you’ve created for me by turning Ikami’s courtroom into some maudlin legal drama?”
Hirato groaned. Akari was uncommonly good at spoiling the mood sometimes. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Yes, you should learn how the entire DA’s Office is scrambling to put out the fires you started. Maybe it’ll inculcate in you some modicum of remorse,” the blond began. He then related the most recent goings-on. Akari had persuaded Ikami to drop pending charges against the brunet, but the price was high. In exchange for not having to account for aiding and abetting the Mayor’s Office’s litany of criminal activity, Hirato would be expected to provide assistance to the prosecution team. He’d have to permit unfettered access to his emails, case files, and notes. It was tantamount to renouncing much of his privacy. Moreover, he’d been tasked with organizing this material and flagging that which would be most useful in building a case against Palnedo.
“So, you’re using me as your personal paralegal?” Hirato asked, curling around his beloved and burying into his shoulder. “No doubt you’ve fantasized about keeping me under your thumb for a long time. Congratulations are in order.” The words were harsh, but his tenor was playful, teasing. Nothing Akari couldn’t handle.
“If only you could be tamed,” the prosecutor deadpanned. “I’ve brought your laptop and phone; they’re in my briefcase. Starting tomorrow, this will be your new office.”
“How did you get permission?” Because it was patent that Akari hadn’t returned his communication devices in order to exploit free labor or pantomime any fantasies of making him a subordinate. No, the other man had done so because he knew how useless the brunet felt while locked away. He’d found a way to involve him out of concern for his frame of mind. It was a most telling overture.
A startled gasp escaped the DA’s lips – Akari reacting to the glide of tongue against his pulse point. “I told Ikami he could charge me if you exchanged privileged information with either the Mayor’s Office or Bizante and Associates.”
Hirato shook his head. “Idiot.” He most assuredly had no intentions of betraying his lover’s confidence, but the same could not be said for anyone else the man saw fit to vouch for in this manner.
“Perhaps,” Akari agreed. (And wasn’t that something?) “But I trust you.”
There was much to discuss, so many loose ends. In particular, Hirato wanted to learn of Bizante and if the DA’s Office planned on charging him. Bizante’s arrest would allay everyone’s concerns for his safety and he could be released. But instead of asking after the myriad issues and multiple cases in play, he only took Akari’s earlobe in his teeth and sucked, careful not to make his attentions too fierce, too provoking. Fucking the other man in one of Cook County Jail’s cells would be a revelation, but what he craved was something of a milder nature. He soothed an overtired prosecutor with tame kisses and delicate touches. Some things never changed – like so many years ago, he demolished the man’s defenses with no effort whatsoever, coaxing him into instant surrender and stemming any talk of work.
Akari purred and shifted, Hirato’s ministrations encouraging him, likewise, to converse through the lazy drag of his fingertips along the brunet’s collarbone or the ghosting of silken lips under his jaw. “I suppose I can debrief you later,” he breathed into the hollow of his throat.
Later never arrived, as it turned out. Spent beyond reckoning, the overworked Assistant DA fell asleep after mere minutes of detaching himself from work and its related stress. Hirato noticed as his inhales deepened, his chest rising and falling in a tell-tale cadence. The fingers of his right hand were still tangled in untidy raven hair, his knee still wedged between the defense attorney’s own.
“We really need to talk about your sense of timing,” the brunet murmured, extricating himself with paramount caution. “And your standards for bedding, if you can sleep on this.”
Silvery lashes fluttered for a moment, sensing the movement, and then settled once more. Unconsciously, the prosecutor stirred, seeking warmth maybe, or trying to escape the light. Hirato obliged by throwing his suit jacket over the dozing man. He couldn’t help snickering when his bedmate burrowed deeper into his scent, leaving nothing but a tuft of strawberry blond hair sticking out of the dark fabric.
You’re the most ridiculous man I know, the defense lawyer chided. And then he remembered how his lover had written about sleeping less soundly after they’d parted ways. Maybe the other man’s show of vulnerability wasn’t indicative of an alarming gullibility, but of an unshakeable conviction. Or you’re the most inadvertently romantic man I know, he emended.
That said, being ridiculous or romantic did not inure Akari from his pique. And so, while the oblivious prosecutor slept, he surreptitiously retrieved the man’s cell phone after a brief search of his trenchcoat pockets. Hirato cast a wary glance over his beautiful paramour, ensuring that he was yet asleep. Before he could reason himself out of it, he swept through the contacts and found what he was looking for – the number for one Dr. Kirei Karasuna, Head of Surgery at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. He felt only the slightest twinge of guilt before deleting the number and returning the phone to its rightful place.
That done, Hirato closed his eyes. With Akari by his side, he too might conceivably dream.
Morning arrived, but Akari didn’t register it. If anything, he was dead to the world. Even the sounds of Cook County Jail rousing from its slumber hadn’t woken him. It was charming, Hirato thought, to reacquaint himself with these tendencies. The blond fitted against him rarely slept a full night, but when he did, several nights claimed him simultaneously. It would take some industry to raise him, and truth be told, the defense attorney didn’t want to dispel their private Arcadia just yet. Once the Assistant DA recognized that he’d fallen asleep in a jail cell, in the arms of his professional enemy, during one of the most daunting caseloads of his career, he’d be in an unholy temper. This meant he’d be mean.
It was like the defense attorney told Iva those many months ago; he much preferred a sleeping paramour.
Ryoushi, however, seemed to have no respect for his preferences. Chicago’s infamous District Attorney arrived with due gravity in his every stride. The metal bars chimed as he rapped against them, demanding attention. “He’s here?” he asked, nodding at the sprawl of limbs sheltered under the brunet’s suit jacket. “I should have known.”
Hirato padded quietly across the cell to stand before his former mentor. He placed a finger to his lips, petitioning for quiet. “He only sleeps when he’s overextended. Let him rest.”
“I would, but he’s going to be the one fussing later.” Miraculously, though, Ryoushi did lower his voice.
Hirato shrugged. He’d been up for nearly two hours, sifting through his work emails and copying all pertinent material to a master file. He’d done the same for scores of his cases, both closed and pending, being especially mindful to index the most pertinent information according to any possible crimes Ryoushi or Akari might bring against Palnedo, Azana, and other members of the Mayor’s Office. He further collated evidence against Bizante and the firm’s senior associates. True, during the trial, his employer had not been expressly implicated in any crime, but he had made some very serious accusations that required proof. Whether or not the DA’s Office would charge any of his partners, he didn’t know, but he suspected his anxious lover would demand to ensure his safety by declawing his supervisor – or ex-supervisor, as was more precise. Akari was very thorough, and allowing Bizante unhindered roam in the city was practically begging for the mafia to fill the lacunae left by a corrupted City Hall.
All these findings were explained to Hirato’s former mentor in a hushed whisper. The man listened keenly, asking for clarification or soliciting advice as he pieced together various possible cases in his mind. Typically, Akari was touted as the city’s preeminent legal genius, and it was a title much deserved, but it was Ryoushi who’d taught him. Who’d taught them both. If Bizante or even Palnedo envisioned themselves at advantage because they wouldn’t be fighting the better-renowned blond in court, then they were going to receive a lesson in annihilation from one of the finest trial lawyers in the country. “Are you going to take lead?” Hirato inquired in curiosity.
“There are too many cases for me to handle alone. Akari will be prosecuting members of Bizante and Associates for obstructing justice, aiding and abetting, and whatever else he deems fit. He’s being uncharacteristically vengeful, so he’ll probably prosecute decades-old parking violations at this rate.” Ryoushi paused, a gleam of malice in his eyes. Apparently, the blond was not the only one feeling vindictive. “Yogi and Gareki are on point for discovery; they’re working with the trustworthy few in Chicago PD to strengthen our cases.”
Hirato suppressed a proud smile. Gareki was finding his footing, finally figuring out who he was when he wasn’t younger brother to him. “Sounds like you’ll be very busy for the next few years.”
“Don’t look so smug. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” It was a joke, but it landed forcefully, causing an involuntary wince.
“I know, I know,” the defense attorney said with a resigned flourish. “Akari already let me have it, so spare me, would you?”
Ryoushi considered their third number, still asleep, still far away from the vagaries of the city court system. A wry expression came over his features, the corners of his mouth turning up in faint amusement. “He’s indebted to you,” he said, uncannily intuiting that his erstwhile mentee needed this reassurance. “We all are. I don’t know if he told you, but we’ve spent years searching for solid evidence against Palnedo. Without you, we wouldn’t have a case, even though things are so hectic right now.”
Hirato recalled Akari saying something similar when they’d shared the penthouse. Back then, he guessed it was scarcely more than the Assistant DA’s standard distrust of Chicago politicians. He pretended otherwise, but he was burdened by causing unnecessary work for his beloved. According to his interlocutor, said work hadn’t been so unnecessary. Another of his regrets disintegrated, leaving him further convinced that he’d made the right choice. Surely now his rigid, inflexible bedmate would concede the same? Akari couldn’t keep punishing him for throwing the Azana case, could he?
He was startled from his reverie by Ryoushi shuffling through his briefcase. The elder slid a crisp, white envelope between the bars. He informed in an earnest tone, “I dropped by on my way to work to check your mail. It was largely bills and magazines. Except this.”
Hirato was positive this wasn’t another of his beloved’s amorous communiques. Not when the address of the Illinois State Bar Association was emblazoned across the thick paper like a brand. He could apprehend the contents without opening it, but he unsealed it regardless, if simply to confirm his suspicions. “That was fast,” he said after scanning the first two lines. “I’ve been disbarred.”
“You made CNN. The Illinois Bar was under pressure to act swiftly and unequivocally.” The elder’s gaze softened to something too closely approximating pity for his advisee to endure. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I liked being a lawyer. I was good at it.” Of the precipitous costs he assumed he’d have to pay, this was the most brutal. Things would end thusly, he’d always known. Given he’d implicated his own client and failed to disclose his intentions in the courtroom, being disbarred was the minimum penalty. He ought to be sued for malpractice, but if Ryoushi was charging Azana, then his erstwhile client would likely be too preoccupied to bring suit. Something in the nether regions of his conscience told him that his former mentor and his recently-reclaimed lover had planned it like so, that they’d expedited prosecution of the Mayor’s Office so Azana wouldn’t have time to come for Hirato.
The realization made him swallow down the lump in his throat. Akari fighting for him was a foregone conclusion. Contrary to the other man’s disagreeable nature, and his propensity to come off cruel and unfeeling, the fractious blond was, at his core, a sentimental dolt who’d unhesitatingly throw himself in harm’s way for anyone he loved. This they both shared, so he was unsurprised by his paramour’s actions. That Ryoushi would join the fray, even after the intervening years, even after Hirato had disappointed him so savagely… that made him reconsider how abhorred he was by those at the other end of the courtroom. Hadn’t Yogi defected to his side and agreed to his every whim to the potential detriment of his budding career? Gareki as well, in spite of his acerbity? Hadn’t his estranged brother availed himself of his many skills to build the case against Azana? Hirato was accustomed to going it alone for so, so long that he’d neglected his allies. Tokitatsu was right; I’m the only one who thinks I’m the villain.
“Thank you, sensei,” he said, voice thick. He reverted to his old endearment in hopes of conveying the depth of his gratitude. “For everything.”
Ryoushi reached forth and cupped his shoulder with a fatherly air. A hardened resolve undergirded his expression when he spoke. “No protégé of mine is going to prison for prioritizing his ethics above the law. I’ll be damned before I let that happen.” Then, more pointedly: “I never stopped thinking of you as mine, Hirato.”
He had been about to reply, to confess how much he’d missed Ryoushi, how important the man’s mentorship was to his professional and personal development, when they were interrupted by the rustle of fabric in their periphery. Two sets of eyes turned to Akari, who was now blinking himself awake with a series of barely-coherent, mumbled complaints about his stiff shoulder. He rubbed at the offending joint, mouth contorting in displeasure when it did nothing to ameliorate the pain. Hirato was suddenly reminded of the whirring spiral of color on his office computer, the graphic that signified it was struggling to load. He hid a snicker behind his hand. “Good morning,” he said, mirth spilling forth.
The Assistant DA had barely lumbered to his feet when he gathered the wherewithal to check the time. He looked at his watch, hissed in shock, and then looked at it again. The next words out of his mouth were both utterly predictable and downright adorable (if only momentarily): “Damn you, Hirato! I believe I imparted to you how untenable my schedule is at present!” But then his jaw snapped shut, something occurring and derailing his tirade. “Why didn’t Jiki come to collect me?”
“He did, uncommonly late last night. You were so far gone we decided against disturbing you.”
Akari was ready to fly into a seismic rage – an attenuated seismic rage, not as thundering as usual – but a seismic rage nevertheless. “How many times must I repeat myself? Not all of us are feckless layabouts whose cases are built exclusively on the contents of their wardrobes.”
“I’m flattered you pay such rapt attention to my sartorial choices,” the defense attorney quipped. “Even so, you needed the rest.” He took in the state of the disgruntled blond – clothes wrinkled and in disarray, hair a tousled mass of spun silver, eyes bleary and skin a gorgeous shade of blush. This, he delighted. I get to wake to this for the rest of my life. “Ryoushi’s here to pick you up for work,” he lied. A sleep-hungover Akari was incredibly cute, yes, but he was also a right bastard when running late. Best send him off before he got too combative and consequently un-cute. “I’m organizing the files on my hard drive; I’ll email you when today’s set are prepared.” That should assuage some of his beloved’s worry.
“Come on,” the elder of their trio said through subdued laughter. He motioned the guard to unlock the cell.
Akari shuffled out, but not before shooting a venomous glare at the brunet. Hirato, for his part, smoothly stowed the Bar Association’s letter in his back pocket. He’d break the news some other time. There was too much to contend with currently. It could wait, and frankly, he needed to assess his options and perhaps have a chat with Tokitatsu. His brother would have a wealth of advice, once he finished mocking, naturally. Regardless, if the Azana case had been marginally instructive for anything (it definitely hadn’t been just), then his lesson was that he’d never been alone, although he’d been solitary. “Have a good day, dear,” he simpered at his lover with a wink.
“Go to hell,” came the acerbic reply.
Ryoushi rolled his eyes, as if to chastise for their immaturity. “I’ll take you home to shower and change, Akari. Can’t have my star attorney looking like he spent the night in a series of compromising positions… at the hands of defense counsel, no less.”
As the blond sputtered, Hirato reaffirmed that he missed his mentor terribly.
I’m going to miss this, Hirato lamented, gathering up his coffee table books and dropping them into a cardboard box. The soothing grey of Lake Michigan bled into the horizon and he let his gaze linger on that calming expanse. He’d bought this penthouse because it afforded two phenomenal vistas: one of the city’s golden grid laid out under a velvety sky; and the other of the lake, as boundless and impressive as a fathoms-deep ocean. He felt so free watching the world from aloft. In the last few years, countless hours had passed before his many windows in a state of mesmerized awe. And so, he felt he could be forgiven if packing was taking longer than it should, interrupted from time to time by his infatuation with the view. These were his last days with his first love (with apologies to the searing genius who shared his bed).
Astonishingly, Gareki had offered to help him box his possessions, likely on account of the younger’s pity (which the elder did not require). So had Yogi. And Tsukitachi, Iva, and his workaholic blond. He’d declined everyone, opting to spend his fleeting time here alone.
His paramour was unaware that he’d been disbarred, though he was confident a lawyer of Akari’s caliber had already guessed as much and was displaying an abnormal amount of tact by not inquiring after it. Disbarred or no, he’d be unlikely to command the salary he’d been earning at Bizante and Associates, not now that he’d been blacklisted from the majority of the high-powered firms in the city. This, too, had been anticipated. While his former place of business was the most accomplished cadre of legal fixers employed by the corrupt city government and the mafia, there was hardly an elite firm in Chicago who did not handle these requests. His ethics, or at least the popular perception of them, had guaranteed his talents would never again be used, not in any way that exhilarated him.
The thrill had been why he wanted the job in the first place. Ethics aside, part of the excitement of working for Bizante and Associates was the challenge – the intellectual dexterity and boldness required to “deceive, inveigle, and obfuscate” in impossibly difficult cases, as Akari would doubtless term it. Guilt or innocence made not one whit of difference to Hirato, not really. The justice system asserted that his clients were presumed innocent until proven otherwise, and it was his job to ensure there was no proof of their culpability. In the end, it was his own philosophy, and not the austerity of his beloved, that exemplified the highest, most sacred ideals of American courts. Of the two of them, he was the one who began with the principle that everyone was entitled to the best defense. Imagine that.
“Too bad for any would-be clients. They’re going to have to settle for Ko, that maladroit pretender,” he said, mostly in attempt to rally himself to complete his task. His realtor wished to list the penthouse within the week and he’d barely begun packing. He could stay, live off his savings until he determined his course, but in his mind, there was no point in delaying the inevitable. His future was no longer held within these walls.
Bizante had been taken into custody several days ago, to be held without bail. The firm reeled long enough to install his dimwitted progeny as the next CEO. Given that every competent senior associate had been charged and subsequently arrested (except Hirato), Bizante and Associates would never recover or attain its former glory. But the city’s darker elements would move inexorably forward in its absence, their needs met by others now that Chicago’s finest criminal lawyers were occupied by criminal cases of their own.
It’s just as well; I should hate to be replaced. A soft knock sounded from the door, jarring him from his thoughts. Hirato bristled. He’d made it clear that he wished to be left to his own devices. There had been endless queries concerning his wellbeing when he was released from Cook County Jail after three weeks in a cell, and even his penchant for pretend sociality had limits. He needed to breathe, to mourn. Apparently, I was not clear enough, he thought cruelly, opening the door and greeting his unwelcome guest with a dangerous leer.
“May I come in?” Akari asked, a naked plea in his voice. “Feel free to say ‘no’ if you’d prefer your solitude. I’ll not be offended.”
The former defense attorney relented without the meagerest resistance. “Of course. In a way, this is your home too.” He stepped aside to allow entry, his melancholy somewhat ebbed by the fact that the other man appeared better rested than he had in days. Maybe it had finally penetrated that supposedly incomparable mind that even he couldn’t finish everything in one day.
“I never paid rent.”
Hirato chuckled in spite of himself. “Nor would you want to, I promise.” He canted his head and regarded Akari with a wary expression, waiting for him to ask about everything he wished to avoid – his new accommodations (there were none), his future plans (up in the air), his professional aspirations (dissolved to ash). He didn’t have answers, none that he was particularly sanguine about, anyhow.
But he was pleasantly surprised when Akari sought something else altogether. “Would you like to go out for dinner and drinks?” he asked, a spark of gold alighting his pale, pale irises.
Momentarily spellbound, the brunet herded close and slanted their lips together in a sweet, brief kiss. His ill humor dissipated, at least for now. Ah, this was worth it, though, wasn’t it? “Are you asking me out on a date, counselor?”
“I believe so, yes.” It was confirmed with a nervous smile, like the blond was all too cognizant that he’d never officially asked Hirato out on a date, not even during their law school days. Consumed by his studies, he’d needed to be enticed towards frivolity. But obviously things had changed, and now here the most overworked man in the city was, soliciting some time together with a reserved, “I know you’re busy, but might I tempt you?”
“When are you not tempting me?”
The DA was grateful to his beloved for tonight’s temporary reprieve. The both of them needed some time away – away from the fallout of the series of arrests now splashed across the 6:00 news, away from their respective responsibilities, away from their own ruminations, even. While he was prepared to give Hirato as much range as required to grieve his previous life, he also wished to communicate how deeply he loved the other man and how ardently he’d work to be worthy of such fearless love. You’ve given me everything, without hesitation or a hint of regret. So, let me show you that you’re my everything. Mostly, he wanted the former defense attorney to remember that he wasn’t coming back to nothing. There was a home waiting for him. It was not the one he’d fantasized about as an enterprising young law student, to be sure, but it was his, and would remain his as long as he wanted.
Akari was not a patient man, but could wait as long as Hirato needed. In the meantime, however, even trial lawyers needed to eat.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” the brunet said, whistling in appreciation. They’d descended into the garage of his apartment building to find the DA’s idling car – a model that was, for all purposes, far sexier than any civil servant had a right to drive. A vintage Alfa-Romeo Giulietta in enviably pristine condition, its candy red paint gleaming under the bright, white lights. It was one of his most valued possessions, and while he eschewed ostentation, he’d always been proud of this car. It truly was a thing of engineering beauty and one of the few luxuries he enjoyed.
“A gift from my grandfather,” he explained, playing the gentleman and opening his date’s door. “I’d never spend the money on a car since I take the L most days. But we’re going to be covering some distance tonight and this is faster.”
“What year?” the brunet asked after folding himself into the passenger seat. He slid a palm over the dash, lilac eyes riveted to the fine workmanship.
Akari pulled onto Lake Shore, careful of oncoming vehicles. He rather hated driving in the city, but sometimes the convenience outweighed the probability of traffic-related death. “1957.”
“Oh, you have got to let me drive.”
“Not a chance,” the prosecutor replied. Yet he beamed, glad to resume their banter and to distract his brooding companion, even for a few hours. “I’ve seen how you drive. I’m floored that tawdry Benz of yours is still in one piece, all things considered.”
The former defense attorney huffed. “It’s not tawdry. It’s not my fault that your grandfather’s gift is the only thing accounting for your taste.”
“You’re not doing yourself any favors.”
“Where are we going?” Hirato asked, mildly put out at having lost their little argument. It had been like this since they reconciled. They’d fallen into their old patterns without noticing: the brunet’s provocations met with Akari’s indignant irritation; frisky sniping over dinner; the give-and-take, the irresistible tension that stayed taut between them. No one else had ever challenged him like the devastating rake sitting beside him. No one made him want with such feverish abandon or clouded his reason with but a few mischievous words. As cliched as it sounded, they were made for one another. He knew that now.
“The Med,” Akari said. “I’m hoping it’ll be nostalgic.”
His beloved’s resultant grin was like a panacea for his many problems, he thought as he drove to their favorite Southside haunt. Remarkable, it was, that as soon as they’d rekindled their relationship, his neighborhood no longer carried the sting of loss. If anything, memories of who he and Hirato used to be made him feel younger, more carefree than he’d been in years. Nowadays, he strolled around Hyde Park in a giddy haze. Things were different, certainly, but neither had become unrecognizable with time’s passage. They were still the same enamored idiots they’d always been. It was a comforting thought.
Dinner was a muted affair, the two conversing amiably over their meals, subjects never venturing too far afield of the cordial. The rough wooden booths of the bustling restaurant could hardly be called romantic, but Akari didn’t choose the place for its ambiance. He chose it because it had been theirs, once upon a time, inasmuch as it had belonged to the hundreds of UChicago students who’d carved their names into the booths or the paneled walls. The Med was a Southside institution, and they were Southsiders, no matter where they ended up. To bring Hirato here was tantamount to declaring that their history was as important to him as any future.
“Akari, what good will it do to keep me in the dark?” the brunet asked while licking the back of his coffee spoon in a manner far too solicitous to be accidental.
“Fine,” the prosecutor replied, resigning himself. After denying the request multiple times, he agreed to debrief his companion on the latest happenings at the DA’s Office. He provided updates on cases pending against the Mayor’s Office and Bizante and Associates and thanked Hirato for his invaluable contribution. He related how Ikami agreed to re-try Azana for attempted murder and how Yogi had argued convincingly against allowing the Deputy Mayor to be released on bail. The catalogue of wrongdoing emerging from investigations into City Hall was convincing enough to keep a record number of the mayor’s associates in holding cells. City Council had scrambled to put a temporary government in place, but beyond that, the majority of Chicago’s denizens remained unaffected by Azana or Akari, or the aftershocks of their high-stakes war.
“If he ever sees light of day again,” Hirato trailed off, infuriated. Even now, he displayed a chilling ferocity whenever the would-be murderer was mentioned.
Being privy to the more malicious side of his bedmate tended to make Akari a bit winded. He tongued back his concerns, instead responding by tucking a strand of inky hair behind his beloved’s ear. “He won’t. Not this time.”
Hirato relented, though it was unlikely he was mollified. But he leaned forward to steal a kiss anyway. “Thanks for indulging my questions. I promise I won’t spoil the mood any further. Where are we going for drinks?”
“That’s a surprise.”
Most people assumed that Assistant District Attorney Akari Dezart was a puritanical workaholic who’d never indulge in anything remotely resembling fun. This was an accurate assessment, for the most part. But the assiduous prosecutor did have favorite bars and restaurants. How could he not, when presented with a veritable carousel of options calibrated to so many singular tastes? After all, it wasn’t that he was opposed to the occasional break; it was that he had very discerning preferences. Ones he’d not deign to share with others, not usually. He tended to guard his privacy; anyone who regularly made the local news would.
Night had fallen as they approached their destination, and with it, the biting cold. Akari parked his car in his designated spot and tossed a conspiratorial smirk to his date. “This is my secret hideout,” he said. “I’ve never brought anyone here.” He opened his door and walked to the other side, drawing his coat tighter against the buffeting winds that rifled his hair and stung his eyes. He was eager to get inside.
After stepping out of the passenger seat, Hirato reached for him. He slipped his gloved hands around the prosecutor’s waist and pulled their bodies flush. It was a lone embrace, scarcely salacious enough to be considered flirting, and yet the contact was enough to send a blazing heat through his skin. Akari flushed. Suddenly, the weight of his coat was too oppressive and his shirt collar too snug against his throat. His beloved must have sensed his arousal, because the teasing jerk made no move to stop. He nipped at the corner of the blond’s jaw and murmured a husky, “Does that make me special, counselor?”
“Insofar as I’m trying to take you home, yes.” He was having trouble articulating himself, words issued between quiet pants.
Hirato growled low in his ear, causing him to shiver for reasons unrelated to the weather. “Seduce me, then. I won’t go home with just anyone, you know.”
The incorrigible lecher in his arms had the market cornered on seduction, Akari was well aware. Furthermore, the game of enticement between the two of them had concluded long ago and he’d lost. Spectacularly. Despite this, he did not intend to abandon tonight’s attempt. Romance never came easily to him, but his desire for Hirato was as elemental to his existence as the flow of his own blood, presently roaring in his ears like a hurricane. “Come on,” he said, making way before their evening ended against the hood of his car.
The Violet Hour was one of Chicago’s most exclusive lounges, its membership determined by invitation only. Tucked away in the old industrial district, it boasted an unassuming entryway. In fact, there was no entry, with the exception of a single lightbulb strung from the building’s side. The door matched the wall, invisible, its only tell a pair of silver hinges gleaming in the moonlight. It looked like any other edifice, really. The one sign that it wasn’t an abandoned meat-packing warehouse was the mural painted on the brick wall. Up-and-coming local artists were commissioned and the scene changed every week. Tonight, it seemed a graffitied Keith Haring, bold line art and primary colors striking against an otherwise dull street.
Akari knocked and flashed his membership card to the bouncer. The handsome redhead greeted him with a friendly “Good evening, ADA Dezart. Welcome back.” He responded in kind and had their coats checked before ushering his companion into the foyer.
“Are you a closet lush?” Hirato turned around to ask, brows wide in mock scandal. In the dusk of the hallway, his eyes retained an almost electric luster.
Crowding into his lover’s space, he nibbled at his earlobe. “No, but wouldn’t you like to know what’s in my closet?” he dared, grinning in victory as the brunet nearly choked on the unexpected coquettishness. He strode past with a newfound confidence. Maybe he could be seductive.
They entered the main room. If his acquaintances registered any disbelief that Akari visited a bar, they wouldn’t have remained skeptical once seeing it. It was an elegant, understated venue, the walls painted a dusty slate blue and accented with white molding and fixtures. Cloud-colored drapes hung from the high ceiling, cordoning off the more secluded areas from prying eyes. Placed throughout were dark oak tables, spaced far enough to encourage intimate conversation. The whole room was bathed in a golden light coming from the chandeliers and tabletop candles. Yes, The Violet Hour was quiet and stylish in a classical sense, and it suited the introverted DA perfectly.
Akari passed the mahogany bar stretched along one side, making a beeline towards the cloistered tables in the back. He waved to the bartender, who nodded in acknowledgement while mixing a drink with effortless grace. After a cursory scan of the room, he found a fitting perch. “Here,” he said, pulling aside a satin curtain and attaching it to the wall. Hidden there was a tiny booth consisting of a square table and a single candle. “This will give us some privacy.”
Hirato laughed in an indulgent, fond manner. “You would be a member at The Violet Hour,” he said. He settled into his side of the booth and reclined against the supple black leather. “The décor befits you.”
“They make the best craft cocktails,” the blond informed. He was happy he managed to impress a man who’d visited the finest establishments in Chicago. To do so was no mean feat, and that he’d done it simply by revealing facets of his life that he usually kept hidden meant more than he could convey. “Admittedly, I also like their rules.”
“Rules?”
Akari nodded. He counted them off, one by one. “No phones. No reservations. No Grey Goose or Cosmopolitans, and under pain of excommunication, no Jager-Bombs. Strict dress code. Insistence on a standard of decorum and etiquette.”
“This place is so you,” the brunet said with another chuckle. “Entitled and rigorous in the extreme.”
The city’s best-known prosecutor hummed, acceding to the charge. There was no point in denying his rigidity, and he wouldn’t dissemble with this man, not anymore. Instead, he idly perused the menu, though he had no real need. More often than not, he’d ask his server to bring him the bartender’s choice cocktail. The master of the bar had never disappointed him, and he doubted tonight would be different. But he allowed his date to consider the fare while looking out at the mostly-empty room. One additional thing he found especially appealing about this lounge was that it was never overcrowded, thereby giving him an escape from the whirlwind of his life, a place to slow down and be. No one asked him about work here. No one cared.
He’d almost closed his eyes in pure bliss when he was startled by a furious screech overhead. Their server arrived, and upon one look at his companion, the newcomer bore down on them like a hawk diving for prey. “Fuck me,” the man said, grey eyes flashing with such intensity that Akari flinched.
“Pardon?” he prompted, hardly believing what he’d heard. He’d predicted media fallout, most certainly, but both he and his date were being touted as heroes in the press: Defender of Justice, Akari Dezart and the deeply principled senior partner who’d thrown away a life of glittering opulence to expose city-wide corruption in the Mayor’s Office. If anything, he’d been receiving thanks from the nameless, faceless masses. This aggression, therefore, was disconcerting.
“Hirato,” the server spat, something bitter and wounded in the way he enunciated the syllables of the defense attorney’s name. “You have some nerve.”
The blond glanced at his nametag: ‘Xander,’ it read, though it was preposterous this should be his real name. He assessed the newcomer with the severity he generally reserved for opposing counsel. Platinum blond hair and crystalline eyes. His angular features were sculpted not unlike a runway model and his long, lithe frame seemed designed to elicit imaginings of the lascivious variety. Stunning, he thought. Absolutely stunning. The pieces fell neatly into place, and he realized that their interloper was not a disgruntled citizen. Oh no, this Xander was close to Hirato. An ungodly wrath flooded his veins, successfully tamping down every iota of the heat his beloved had ignited outside the bar. Jealousy was an ugly emotion, one antithetical to his logical rigor, but to be accosted by a former flame here, in his sanctuary? Unacceptable.
Chicago’s resident philanderer put on his most winning smile, though it was noticeably strained. Hirato held his hands up in a placating gesture that neither his lover nor his erstwhile conquest found appeasing. “Xander, was it?”
“Let’s not play games,” the jilted blond said. “You remember my name; you called it enough times.” He followed up with a biting, “So, how’ve you been?”
“Yes, Hirato, how have you been?” Akari intoned icily after he regained his wits. He seethed at the imp across from him and dismissed their third member with a terse, “Can we have some water, please? I’m parched.”
Silence reigned for a long while, and the DA took pause to wonder whether he ought to throttle the other man inside and risk being ejected from his favorite bar, or wait until he could leave him to freeze to death on the street. He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes, wordlessly soliciting a response that wouldn’t drive him to bloody murder.
“I’d say it’s not what it looks like—” But before the defense attorney could finish, Xander returned.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t throw this in your face,” he hissed, bony fingers curled around a glass of water. Ice cubes clinked as he trembled on account of his hellish, unquenchable ire.
Hirato sighed and shook his head. “I hoped we might be civil, but I was mistaken on that score.” Temporarily ignoring his accuser, he reached across the table to take Akari’s hand, most likely to keep the enraged prosecutor from fleeing. There was a rare sincerity in his words when addressed Xander. “I was dreadfully rude to you, and for that I apologize.”
“You left me in your bed and told me never to call you again. That’s beyond ‘rude,’ isn’t it?”
Akari saw it then. The heartache he couldn’t contain, the feelings of betrayal that spilled over and into the line of his spine and his shaking hands. These things were a walking testament to the agony of losing Hirato. It was a feeling the Assistant DA understood, his constant companion for over four years. He felt himself soften, an aching sympathy taking hold where his anger once reigned. Jealousy was not the appropriate emotion towards Xander; compassion was. And perhaps reassurance: Hirato had given this up, had traded this undeniably alluring creature for him. Ashamed for acting without thought, he bracketed his own insecurities and focused on defusing the situation.
Nevertheless, there was something he couldn’t ignore – the callousness with which the other blond had been treated. Sexual conquest or not, no one deserved to be considered expendable, as though they could be discarded at whim. That was something else he understood all too well. He made to pull his hand out of his date’s grasp so as not to exacerbate Xander’s hurt. It was one thing to lose someone, but quite another to see them with others.
Ah, I should apologize for Kirei. I didn’t mean to throw him in Hirato’s face, but it must have been painful, despite the possessive fool acting like it was some kind of game.
Oblivious that the prosecutor was lost inside his own world, Hirato tightened his hold. Akari registered the pressure and returned to himself in time to catch hardened amethysts snap to their server. The defense attorney’s demeanor had shifted. The change was imperceptible to anyone else, but its result was not. Where before their corner of the bar was awash in chaos and confrontation, now there was a heavy hush. “I’m willing to own that I was inconsiderate,” the brunet explained, cadence clipped and precise. He enunciated each word like he was talking to an uncomprehending child. This was the courtroom virtuoso at his most effective, Akari knew. Interfering was dangerous, so he allowed his companion to carry on. “I thought I’d lost something precious immediately after our liaison. You had the misfortune of being my companion on the worst night of my life and I am sorry, for what it’s worth. But as it stands, you are currently imposing a date that’s been half a decade in the making, and like you, I have no patience for discourtesy.”
Akari’s breath caught. His beloved had been having that effect on him throughout the night, and long before tonight as well – years, if he kept count. Half a decade. The final tendrils of his irritation melted away, leaving in their wake a profound yearning he planned on satiating very, very soon. He lifted their joined hands to brush his lips against Hirato’s knuckles. He could empathize with Xander, yes, and even wish to spare him any further heartache. But his first priority was and would always be the irredeemable lout who shared his bed. They had sworn to fight for one another, to stand together against the whole city if necessary. And this? Well, this was Chicago’s most respectable prosecutor, standing by his better half, even through the man’s sheer stupidity.
Xander blanched, defeated. “I thought you were single when we met,” he lobbied, reaching for something to pin on his one-night stand, something to blame him for. (And boy, didn’t Akari understand that impulse too?) “You said—”
“—I said I was unattached,” Hirato cut him off. “And unavailable – a fact I made plain, you’ll recall.” By now, he’d abandoned his menacing affect, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone brooking no argument. He shrugged. “It’s a point of pride that I’ve never had to lie or manipulate to keep my bed warm. I wouldn’t have started lying with you.” This time, his gaze never left Akari, a heated stare promising unprecedented carnality once they were alone. I’m going to wreck you, it said. And I’m going to demand you wreck me. How the man could be so confoundingly sexy when admitting he’d slept with another was a question the DA chose not to investigate. Much of Hirato would remain shrouded in mystery, probably to the benefit of their fledgling relationship. He wasn’t entirely sure he wished to learn about other Xanders, frankly.
“We should go,” the DA said, finding his voice after clearing his throat a few times. He turned to their server with the same light, pleasant smile his lover so often wore. “Apologies that we’ve troubled you and not ordered anything. But I promise we’ll return on a more convenient occasion.” Whatever else he had planned for their outing was summarily canceled. He was powerless now that his hunger had been stoked into a howling, ravenous abyss. Underneath the table, he pushed his thighs together, but this did nothing to stem the burgeoning fire between his legs. Any more of this, and he was bound to pin his bedmate to their table and thoroughly debauch him. Hell, he might not even mind an audience, not if it would deter would-be usurpers. Hirato was his, to claim and to be claimed by.
Incognizant of his companion’s desperation, his beloved scoffed. The small overture indicated that he’d heard the threat Akari issued, even if Xander missed it. “And you say I’m scary,” he muttered.
“Behave.”
Plum-hued irises danced in provocation. “Make me.”
Times like these tempted the prosecutor to petition City Council to make teasing an actionable offence. “Don’t make me arrest you,” he barked in impatience. “I have handcuffs in the trunk.”
With unadulterated mischief written across his handsome features, Hirato smirked like a devil in a convent. It was frightening, how seamlessly he could transition to beguiling lover from menacing interrogator. Frightening and erotic. Those velvet lips curved in a most enticing way as he said, “I’d rather you take me home.”
Fuck, Akari thought, totally out of his depth. And here I thought I had any chance at seducing him.
But his irresistible incubus was not done staking ownership. Slowly, he raised his gaze to their server, who’d been watching the two in a paradoxical mix of hatred and longing. “Before I go, allow me to make amends,” Hirato said amiably, every ounce of his previous standoffishness gone.
“H-How?”
“I’d like to know too,” Akari interjected. “What could possibly compensate?” What could compare to you?
The brunet continued speaking to Xander with what could only be described as triumphant glee. He pointed in his date’s direction. “This is Assitant District Attorney Dezart. Supposedly he’s Chicago’s savior, some heavenly redeemer come down to—”
“—Hirato.” A warning.
Unconcerned, the other man continued, “Whatever. The point is that he’s well-connected. One of his recent acquaintances is a brilliant trauma surgeon who is exactly your type.”
Akari redoubled his efforts to take his scheming bastard of a lover home after that.
Liner Notes:
The Violet Hour is a real place, and much of it is described accurately here, but I've taken some liberties, namely with the location and that one must be invited to patronize the place. Its décor may have changed since I last visited too.
I've said it before, but The Medici on 53rd is the best restaurant in the city. I'll fight people on this.
You should Google Akari's car (1957 Aston Martin Giulietta); it really is a thing of beauty.
I tried to make Chicago a character in this story. In fact, I call this story my love letter to Chicago. I don’t know that I succeeded, but I hope you’ve been inspired to either visit Chicago or think about how we fall in love with spaces as much as people sometimes.
AN: Still a few things to conclude, obviously, but that'll get done in an epilogue. If you noticed that there are issues in their relationship that haven't truly been resolved, then you're right. Relationships are imperfect, and neither Hirato nor Akari is naïve enough to believe theirs won't still have rough spots, even after all this. If you are disappointed that Hirato is really sad about having to relinquish his life as he knows it, remember that he worked his ass off to build that life, and that his anxieties about the future have nothing to do with how much he values Akari. He made his choice several chapters ago, but it's possible to make a choice knowing that it won't solve all your problems. He's allowed to mourn. (Bonus points if you can guess what his first love is, though.)
Full disclosure: There are some things that will remain unresolved by design. You'll notice those in the epilogue. Life is messy and love is messier and while this is fiction, I did want to give it some semblance of reality, so I kept parts of the narrative messy. (And some parts of the narrative are messy because I can be a garbage writer at times.) Thanks for your indulgence.