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Japan’s sakoku (closed country) edicts, active between 1633 and 1853, aimed to limit foreign influence. They imposed strict trade regulations, outlawed Catholicism, and forbade Japanese people from leaving Japan’s shores. Anyone who managed to leave would be executed upon return.
London, 1806
Kageyama didn’t believe his sponsor when he said another Japanese gentleman had arrived in London.
Kageyama’s own story was strange enough. He’d been a cabin boy, shipwrecked on an island after a storm, no sign of his companions anywhere, and his sponsor—an English gentleman—had found him after three strange, terrifying days. The rest of Kageyama’s life had been less terrifying, but just as strange, as his sponsor Mr. Thompson raised him. Apparently that was God’s will, and apparently Kageyama was clearly related to ancient Japanese nobility. This was a surprise to Kageyama, but he accepted it readily enough.
The presence of another Japanese gentleman in London in his twenty-fourth year was harder to accept. The odds against anyone from Japan being in London—whether gentleman or scoundrel—were astronomical. And yet there Hinata Shouyou was the next day in Mrs. Telsham’s drawing room, excellently turned out, shaking his hand and offering to partner with him in whist. It was like the sun stepping out of the sky to ask the time of day, and was there anywhere to hang his coat of flame?
Kageyama was gobsmacked. So gobsmacked that he lost the first three games of whist they played, against opponents he normally trounced with a half-decent partner. The fourth game was when he realised several things. One: that Hinata was terrible at whist. He forgot trump, dealt to himself first when he was the dealer, and talked a distracting amount so Kageyama could barely remember what had been played. Two: that Hinata’s cravat was crooked, and he wanted to fix it. And three: that for the first time in a very long time, he was more interested in a person than a game of cards.
He left the table in a daze, and Hinata followed.
“Maybe we should try our luck at billiards,” Hinata offered. He looked up at Kageyama, flushed, and Kageyama’s first impression was cemented: he really was that small. With no point of reference for the average height of Japanese people—Kageyama had been a child when he shipwrecked—he had to wonder whether he himself was an outlier.
“You’re right,” Hinata said, interpreting Kageyama’s confused silence as a no. “No more games. How about a walk instead? I promise not to forget my own feet.”
Kageyama nodded, and let Hinata lead the way to the gardens, where they could talk in relative privacy. The sheltered grove outside Mrs. Telsham’s home was chilly, but that was to be expected with more than a month to go until Easter. They walked slowly around the square.
“Should I call you Mr. Kageyama, or Kageyama-san?” Hinata asked, smiling up at him. His neck was hidden by the dim lantern light and Kageyama’s greater vantage, but Kageyama still sensed the presence of that crooked cravat.
“Whichever,” Kageyama said. He didn’t want to talk about titles; he wanted to ask how Hinata could possibly exist. He would be the first to know if the Sakoku Edicts were recalled, so how could Hinata have been permitted to leave the shores of their shared country of origin? How could he still claim to have contacts in Japan? For that was the tale: he had travelled the continent in search of trading opportunities, and had ended up—of course—in London.
“Kageyama then, since we’re of an age. And you can call me—”
“Why is your English so good?” Kageyama asked. It had taken him intensive study to learn English, not helped by Mr. Thompson’s insistence that he retain his Japanese.
“Ah,” Hinata said. He looked flustered. “Would you prefer Japanese?” He switched to their shared language—presumably. The words sounded wrong, some of the vowels weirdly pitched and drawn out, but Kageyama hadn’t heard his mother tongue in anyone else’s mouth in over a decade. He squinted to understand the words, guessing at last that Hinata had said he was pleased to meet him, and wasn’t it a nice night?
“It’s cold,” Kageyama replied. It was the first Japanese he’d spoken to anyone but Mr. Thompson. “I think we might be from different places. Your Japanese sounds strange to me.”
The sparse glow of a lantern caught the glimmer of Hinata’s lips as he wetted them. “Ah,” Hinata said again. Then, in that same strange Japanese: “That’s hunger.”
That’s hunger? Kageyama was confused, and Hinata had stopped looking quite as pleased to be strolling next to him. He was getting twitchy. Cold, Kageyama thought.
“Would you like to go back inside?” he asked, words clipped and perfect as he could make them, because that was how he remembered his own language, whatever Hinata sounded like.
“Hai,” Hinata said. That was all: just yes. And it didn’t even sound right.
“We have to call it off,” Shouyou said, throwing himself into the chair opposite Kei in the smoky tavern where Kei was staying. It was sticky everywhere, smelled like bad ale, and had a scuffed floor covered by tatty rush mats, but no gentlefolk would ever enter here, and that was all Kei and Shouyou cared about. No one would see Mr. Shouyou Hinata, distinguished gentleman, with his sleeves rolled up and drinking from a dirty glass.
Kei's jaw hardened. "So meeting him was a bad idea. I told you so."
"Everyone said he'd lived here all his life! How was I supposed to know his Japanese would still be good?"
"You spoke to him in Japanese? Shouyou!"
Shouyou put his face in his hands. He was an idiot. Meeting Kageyama wasn't the problem—it would look strange for his character to avoid him outright—but he should have given some excuse to keep the conversation English-only. The cobbled-together language he'd grown up speaking with the community of exiles he hailed from wouldn’t fool anyone with a good grasp of Japanese. And how was he meant to understand what Kageyama said to him? It was lucky body language made up a good percentage of all conversations.
“So what do we do now?” Shouyou asked. “We could set up the scam in Bath instead—some nonsense about Japanese and hot springs? Claim an illness, and—”
“No.” Kei’s tone was final. “We’ve put too much time and effort into this already. Just avoid him. His only interest is in cards. If he interferes, we can change tactics. Find dirt on him or his sponsor, tell him we’ll distribute it if they get in our way.”
Shouyou slumped. “I’m not sure there will be dirt. He seemed really… upright.” For a moment he allowed himself to remember Kageyama’s image: the elegant hands holding the cards, the permanent glare, the thoroughly starched collar. It was all bearable if Shouyou could just forget those piercing eyes; if he remembered those too hard he felt a shiver.
Not just of fear, though fear was a good part of it. Maybe later tonight, when he got back to his rooms, he’d imagine what would happen if Kageyama caught him.
Another shiver passed through him.
Kei was glaring out in front of himself. “Then it’s the sponsor intending to profit off the scam. What ancient Japanese nobility is this Kageyama related to? The imperial family? It’s obviously false. Even if it was true it wouldn’t mean anything.”
“So I’m just meant to leave the room if he shows up?”
“He won’t show up. Think how hard we had to work to meet him this time; we could go months without you two being in the same place at the same time. It’ll be fine.”
Shouyou let out a long breath, trying to believe that. He was the sociable, charming one of their pair—not the smart one. If Kei said it would be fine, then it would be fine.
“It’s a shame he’s a threat,” Shouyou said. “I liked the look of him.”
“Shouyou.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll stay away.”
“You better.”
Shouyou Hinata was avoiding him. And, to add insult to injury, while Hinata was bad at whist and possibly worse at Japanese, he was very good at disappearing. Kageyama would show up at a venue because he knew Hinata would be there, and Hinata would spot him, give him a half-smile, and fade into a crowd. Or into a carriage, or across a bridge, or into a conversation with several people to whom Kageyama hadn’t been introduced and couldn’t barge in on. It was vexing. It didn’t seem purposeful from his manner, but surely if a coin landed heads each time, it meant the coin was weighted.
That meant Hinata was avoiding him on purpose.
This caused a half-burning, half-melting feeling in Kageyama’s chest. There was a reason he’d started paying more attention to social occasions, and it walked on two legs and wore its cravat untidily.
Kageyama wouldn’t bear it any longer. He could be patient at the card table, and was seldom bored, but he found he had no stomach for further delay. He remembered the flush of Hinata’s cheeks, and the odd Japanese he spoke, and everything inside him demanded answers. He didn’t know where the fixation had come from. Perhaps it was only natural to long for contact with a fellow countryman after a long exile—but Kageyama wouldn’t deny the feeling.
The next time he was at a function alongside Hinata, he pretended to leave early. It was still too cold for sleuthing, but Kageyama straightened his spine and waited outside. He was rewarded an hour later when Hinata stepped into a hackney. Kageyama ran to his own modest equipage—beautifully maintained—and bade the driver to follow the coach ahead.
Kageyama was following him.
Shouyou hadn’t been sure for the first two streets, despite heavy suspicion, but the ongoing chase defied coincidence. Kageyama’s carriage far outstripped the hackney in abilities, so Shouyou couldn’t win in speed, but perhaps he didn’t have to. Shouyou knocked on the roof.
“Change of plans,” he told the driver, and gave his address instead of the street near Kei’s tavern. “Too tired for an outing.”
“Very good, sir.”
The hackney rumbled over cobblestones, the sounds of the town in no way muffled by the wooden construction. Shouyou’s stomach lurched on every corner; learning to ride a horse had been fun, but sitting in carriages just made him claustrophobic and nauseous. His temperature rose as he imagined the confrontation ahead.
Finally they reached Mrs. Black’s house, where Shouyou had rented one of the rooms. It was an acceptable place for a frugal gentleman staying on his own, and part of his cover.
He paid the driver and stepped out onto the street.
Kageyama, hot on his heels, launched from his own carriage.
“Kageyama,” Shouyou said, affecting cheer. “Did you come to visit? I must admit, I’d been hoping for a chance to talk to you—”
Kageyama drew up short in the midst of storming up to him. Shouyou half expected to be pinned up against the wall of Mrs. Black’s establishment by those large, capable hands.
When Kageyama didn’t move, and just stared, Shouyou took a quick breath. Control—the swindler must always have control, and be pleasant, and convince the mark everything was their idea. He smiled. “Did you come for a visit? I can ask Mrs. Black for the use of her drawing room, if you want to come in…?”
Kageyama stared harder, which hadn’t seemed possible until he did it—and then, wordless, he nodded. The dark flush on his cheeks suggested anger, and Shouyou wondered if Kageyama was too well-bred to explode and threaten him on a public street. Kei was right; if someone was running a scam, it was Kageyama’s handler, not Kageyama himself.
Shouyou led the way in, and found Mrs. Black waiting up for him by candlelight despite his insistence. She was pleased as punch to have a lofty personage like Kageyama to entertain, and offered both the drawing room and some light refreshments. It always hurt Shouyou to see people scurry like that just to serve some aristos who’d never think well of them regardless of how many good candles they offered or how many little sandwiches they arranged.
The drawing room was a little threadbare. The carpet was an unfortunate dark green, and the sheepy scent of tallow candles clung to everything. Still, it was well-maintained—a place of comfort if not style.
Finally, with a small tea service laid out between them and two candles to light it all, Kageyama spoke more than just the mumbles of assent he’d given Mrs. Black while she was present.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, voice deep and dark. Shouyou blinked.
Well, all right. That was straightforward, but not the accusation he’d expected. Maybe not all was lost; he adjusted his tactics. “I have.”
“Why?”
The fire was just embers, but the room was cozy, and for a moment the flickering candlelight softened Kageyama’s features until he looked boyish instead of stuffed with his own importance. There was a lurch in Shouyou’s stomach, like he was still in that bumpy carriage. He really liked Kageyama’s face, especially when it was completely focused on him.
“I was embarrassed,” he said, ignoring the stirring in his belly. “The dialect I speak surprised you the other day. And I realised I’ve forgotten words, too, with all the other languages I’ve been learning in my travels. When I heard how fluent you were, I was ashamed.” Then, greatly daring, he added: “How did you maintain your language so well? I thought you were the only Japanese person for miles.”
“I am,” Kageyama said. He was frowning, but that was better than glaring. “I taught Mr. Thompson on the journey after he found me, and we speak it together regularly.”
Shouyou made his eyes round with feigned wonder, turning on the flattery as he asked Kageyama for more details: was it hard? How did it work without a common language? What was it like alone on an island? Can he remember anything from his homeland?
To his somewhat incredulous surprise, Kageyama answered everything, though the details were lacking. It was clear from his manner that he had nothing to hide—and, what was more, he didn’t think Shouyou did either. Shouyou was on track for a beautiful recovery—until there was an impatient knock on the door, one Shouyou recognised as Kei’s.
Shit! Kei had come to check on him. Before he’d had a chance to decide on a tactic, Mrs. Black was opening the door and showing Kei through to the drawing room.
“What a busy night!” she exclaimed as Shouyou and Kageyama stood to observe the visitor. “More tea, I think?”
Shouyou summoned a smile and agreed; Kageyama didn’t respond at all. He was staring at Kei now, though it was different from the stare he tended to direct at Shouyou. Shouyou was glad Kei always dressed in his aristo gear to visit him here; if he’d come in a vest and trousers with patched knees there would be no hope of coming up with something to explain his presence that wasn’t ‘we’re swindlers running an investment scam’.
“It’s a bit late to come calling,” Shouyou said, out of breath with the quick thinking he was having to do. “Did I forget a meeting?”
“Yes,” Kei said, glaring convincingly. His eyes moved to Kageyama, who was still regarding him suspiciously.
“Oh,” Shouyou said. He coughed. “Where are my manners? Mr. Kageyama, this is my business partner, Mr. Tsukishima.”
“Pleasure,” Kei ground out as he shook Kageyama’s hand. The returned handshake was only barely polite.
“You’re in trade?” Kageyama’s tone was close to horror. His eyes snapped back to Shouyou. “And there are two of you?”
“As you see,” Kei said. “And yes, though only as a hobby.”
“Maybe I can explain another time?” Shouyou jumped in to ask. “Assuming you’ve forgiven me for my atrocious showing the other day?”
Kageyama looked startled, sensing the dismissal. “I—yes, of course. You can call on me at your convenience.”
Shouyou bowed. “Thank you.”
“You will call?” Kageyama said. He looked very serious, very starched.
Shouyou nodded. “Very soon, I promise. I apologise for the…” He motioned at the unusual situation, and Kageyama inclined his head sharply—then he donned his coat and left, like a stormcloud vacating the building. Shouyou walked back into the drawing room with a sigh.
“You almost ruined everything,” he told Kei.
Kei folded his arms. “What was he doing here?”
“He followed me. But—listen. He’s clueless. If anything he’s a mark, not a competitor.”
The look Kei sent at the door was foreboding. “He could still ruin everything.”
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”
Kageyama had barely believed Hinata when he said he’d call on him. He’d acted so strange—but Hinata called upon him the very next day, towards the start of the afternoon.
“Send him in,” Kageyama told the footman, checking his cuffs to make sure they were laying right. He was ensconced in the drawing room, reading a book about a master of cards. Light from the east-facing windows had begun to wane as the morning moved into afternoon, but it was comfortable and warm in the room, and the space was perfectly acceptable for entertaining a guest or two. The nervousness he felt at the prospect of seeing Hinata again was completely unnecessary.
Then Hinata appeared in the doorway, and it didn’t matter how unnecessary Kageyama’s nerves were; they persisted.
“Hinata,” Kageyama said, standing and beginning to walk over—then reconsidering. What did he mean to do? Shake his hand cordially, like a friend? They were not close; he barely knew the man who’d taken over his thoughts the past month. He bowed slightly instead, and Hinata bowed back—before stepping forward and doing exactly what Kageyama had decided against.
“Kageyama,” he said. His grip was warm, his gaze warmer. The firm clasp of his hand felt like full-body contact. “Aren’t we countrymen? I already consider you a friend.”
“I… yes.” Kageyama unfroze himself enough to grip back. “Yes, of course. Can I offer you anything?”
He stepped back, and gestured for Hinata to take a seat. Hinata didn’t; he strode around the room looking at absolutely everything, commenting on the space, the books, the construction of the desk. Not even the wallpaper was spared.
Kageyama found himself relaxing. He liked the bluebird-decorated wallpaper, and the fine furniture, and the large windows. It felt like being in the countryside despite the house’s London location. He was pleased when Hinata noted the same.
“And Mr. Thompson?” Hinata asked. “Does he spend a lot of time in here?” He gestured at the desk.
“He spends most of his time in his study,” Kageyama said.
“Is it as well-appointed as this room?” Hinata clasped his hands behind his back as he looked down at the garden. Kageyama looked at those hands, grateful Hinata’s attention was elsewhere. They were small, compared to his—but the palm had been fairly rough for a gentleman’s. Did Hinata like fencing? His short stature would put him at a slight disadvantage, but he seemed to glow with a vital energy that might rack up wins nonetheless.
What had he asked? Right, the study. Kageyama cleared his throat. “I don’t think so. It’s darker, and the windows are north-facing.”
Hinata looked up. “North-facing? How odd.”
“I suppose it’s good for the art he collects.”
“Art?” Hinata asked brightly. “Could I see? Or will he mind the intrusion?”
“He’s not here just now,” Kageyama said. He felt breathless. “Maybe next time you call, you can arrange for it beforehand.”
“You can’t show me?”
Kageyama shook his head. “I don’t have the key.”
Normally Hinata was quick to respond. A lift to his mouth, a glint in his eyes, the busy movement of his hands—but he stilled for just a moment, long enough for Kageyama to spot it. The cheerful expression he donned afterward seemed false given the momentary stillness.
“That’s a shame,” he said. Kageyama wanted to ask him what thought had crossed his mind, but Hinata soon began to talk about a variation of whist he’d seen played the previous week, that he thought Kageyama might be interested in. Kageyama forgot what had been so strange about Hinata’s reaction—at least for a while. At least while he was watching Hinata’s expressive mouth move, and hearing the alterations in his pleasant voice, and admiring the liveliness of his gestures. At least for that long.
In the light of day it was clear Kageyama was attracted to him, though Shouyou thought he probably wasn’t aware of it himself. If Kageyama had been the sort to frequent London’s molly houses, Kei’s research would have revealed it. Instead, Shouyou watched those vivid blue eyes watch him, and groaned inwardly at the need to move out of their sight.
He would like to move closer instead, and see them widen with alarm—and then, after some pleasant convincing, go heavy-lidded with lust.
He shook himself. That locked study Kageyama had mentioned wouldn’t search itself for clues; Shouyou began to shift uncomfortably, and eventually pretended to have a stomach cramp.
Kageyama didn’t try to show him to the water closet when he excused himself; barring servants, Shouyou had free rein of the house.
Everything in the hall was luxurious—the wooden walls, the lush carpeting, the large framed paintings depicting hunts and ancestors. Pleasant smells of leather and flowers and polish pervaded the air.
Shouyou tiptoed up the carpeted stairs. The study’s heavy door was indeed locked, and the landing was clearly visible from several entry points. A cursory glance at the keyhole showed complex construction. It wasn’t beyond Shouyou’s talents, but it would take time he wasn’t sure he had—time during which a servant or Kageyama might spot him picking the lock.
He tried the door next to the study and found it unlocked. It led to an unused bedroom, done up in pleasant teal but with an air of disuse and no fire to warm it—perfect. No one would look for Shouyou here. He slipped inside and went immediately to the window, peering for a ledge he could use to enter the study from outside.
He spied a route soon enough, but it wouldn’t be easy. He removed his jacket and waistcoat so they wouldn’t get dirty climbing the outside of the house, and then, after a moment, untied his cravat. He’d rather look disheveled later than choke while he climbed.
It took him five harrowing minutes to enter the study via the outside of the building. The smell inside the study was of wealth: paper, and leather, and beeswax. No smoky tallow candles for Mr. Thompson while he spent time here, at the center of his domain. Shouyou fell upon the documents in the man’s desk with cheerful abandon. After weeks of currying favour, it was good to snoop properly again.
“Bad man, bad man,” Shouyou whisper-sang to himself. “Where oh where is your bad man plan?”
Mr. Thompson’s deep involvement in the East India Trading Company was despicable, but not illegal. No good for blackmail. What else? A list of expenditures told Shouyou that Kageyama was expensive to keep. The neat sums caused an unwilling twist in Shouyou’s stomach. How long had Mr. Thompson been betting on his ward’s future usefulness? And how long was he satisfied to continue betting on it, with no return on investment?
Shouyou shook off his misgivings and continued looking, but everything he found just made him more concerned for Kageyama. Recent correspondence from various people showed Mr. Thompson was struggling financially.
“Hinata?” Kageyama called from downstairs.
Shit! How long had Shouyou been up here? He jerked back from the latest pile of documents. He had maybe enough to ruin Mr. Thompson—but only maybe. He rolled a piece of paper into a scroll and tucked it in his waistband, then righted everything.
“Hinata?” Kageyama called again.
Shouyou raced to the window. With speed he hadn’t dared on the outbound journey, he retraced his steps. Throwing himself back into the bedroom wasn’t quiet, and he was closing the window behind him when Kageyama opened the door, looking extremely confused—and then scandalised.
“Kageyama,” Shouyou said. He leaned on the wall and smiled, remembering Kageyama’s eyes on him earlier. He could still swing this.
“What are you doing?” Kageyama asked. There was vivid colour in his cheeks, and he didn’t look away from the open neck of Shouyou’s shirt for more than a second at a time as he glanced around in seeming panic. Eventually he turned his head. “Cover yourself!”
“I wanted to retie my cravat,” Shouyou said.
Kageyama glanced just once at Shouyou in his state of undress. He collected Shouyou’s discarded cravat from the low table by the mirror, visibly agitated—but not disbelieving. “I’ll show you how to do it properly.”
Kageyama’s approach, cravat in hand, was more than a little terrifying. He was so tall, and so discomfited, and he looked like he might want to choke Shouyou with the damn thing. And then, if he didn’t want to choke Shouyou, those elegant hands on Shouyou’s sensitive neck might still murder him. Shouyou flinched away, half embarrassed and half turned on.
“Stop, stop, I can do it myself!” he said—but Kageyama grabbed him with ungentlemanly roughness.
Ah. If Shouyou swooned, would Kageyama notice? Shouyou quieted like a rabbit in a trap, heart pounding.
“Just hold still,” Kageyama rumbled. He glared at Shouyou’s neck, holding his high collar closed, and every brush of his fingertips was fire on Shouyou’s skin, even through starched fabric. Shouyou watched Kageyama’s determined, flushed face.
“Hey,” Shouyou said. All pretense, all thoughts of the heist he meant to pull off, fell away. “Are you safe?”
Kageyama’s hands didn’t stop moving. “Safe?”
It was clear he had no idea what Shouyou was talking about. That made sense for someone who’d seen another man half-undressed in a guest bedroom and accepted the excuse that he’d wanted to retie his cravat. The total lack of self-preservation should have been a turn-off—but Kageyama’s large hands moving so nimbly on Shouyou’s collar made up for a lot. As did that stupid, serious face.
“You have no idea, do you?” Shouyou asked, reaching up to cover Kageyama’s hands with his. Kageyama froze, glancing between Shouyou’s eyes and his mouth. It was that look of desire again—completely unselfconscious, and more than a little hopeless.
Shouyou couldn’t resist. He steadied himself on the fine fabric of Kageyama’s lapel... and touched his mouth to Kageyama’s.
He tried to be gentle, but after an endless moment Kageyama’s hands on his neck moved to cradle his face, pulling him harder onto his tiptoes, and then all self-control went out the window. Shouyou kissed him like he’d kiss a peer, with the real part of himself that didn’t do trickery. It could have gone on forever if he’d had his way.
The wobble of a vase after Kageyama bumped him up onto the table and pressed between his legs brought them slowly to their senses. Shouyou was breathing hard, backed into fancy furniture and in danger of overturning an elaborate flower arrangement. No part of him wanted to stop—but he felt the paper tucked into his waistband crinkle and knew he had a decision to make.
“Kageyama,” he said, and bore Kageyama’s accusatory stare. What? Kageyama had kissed back, hard. Shouyou refused to apologise. He stared back. “Japan is a pipe dream. They’ll never open their borders. Come away with me when I go.”
Kageyama blinked several times fast. “What?”
“There’s plenty of the world to see, and we’ll have the—the funds.” Shouyou was beginning to sound nervous. Well—he was nervous. Kei was going to kill him for this, if Kageyama didn’t turn him in first. “What do you say?”
Kageyama was overwhelmed. A moment ago he’d been kissing Hinata Shouyou, which was overwhelming enough on its own—was it normal for men to kiss other men, let alone to want to?—but now that same Hinata Shouyou was insisting he wasn’t a gentleman, that Kageyama probably wasn’t a gentleman, and that Kageyama was in danger from his own sponsor.
Kageyama wanted to go back to the kissing. They were still inches apart, his hands on either side of Hinata’s waist from lifting him, and Hinata’s eyes were bright and earnest.
“Me and Kei will figure it all out, and we’ll all leave together,” Hinata said.
“Kei and I,” Kageyama corrected; Hinata waved it off.
A long silence fell, during which Kageyama attempted to process a million things at once. “You want to run away with me?” he asked finally.
Hinata nodded.
“I…”
“Don’t answer me now, if it’s too much. Think about it.”
Kageyama really, really wanted to go back to the kissing. Hinata was so close, and even if kissing other men wasn’t quite the usual, his body was very certain of its rightness. He felt his cheeks heat. “I’ll have to think about it.”
His life was… nice, here. This all was too much to process—but Hinata’s proximity was even better than nice. Maybe even better than a good round of cards.
“Could you learn to be better at whist, do you think?” Kageyama asked, imagining their journey together. Their games would include that tall gentleman, he supposed—but they’d need a fourth.
Hinata stared, then let out a strange laugh. “I’m sure I could,” he said.
Kageyama nodded. “Good.”
“Is that a yes, then?” Hinata asked. He looked good with a flush across his cheeks and on the edge of laughter. And the sight of him in shirtsleeves—well. It was improper, but highly engaging. Kageyama was beginning to want this trip, if only for the chance to follow this strange man around.
“I still need to think about it,” Kageyama said, because it was all a bit much.
He’d need several more kisses, and several more of Hinata’s bright laughs, to convince him beyond a doubt.