Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thirteen years in private schools.
A degree in economics from Osaka.
A master’s in marketing from Kyoto.
Now CEO of one of Japan’s leading oil companies.

“Oguro-san, are you all right?”

Company meetings are usually held in offices. He can’t stop thinking about that. Ice rinks and skating—decidedly not on the agenda.

“Oze-san, please be patient with me.”
He offers Takigi Oze a faint smile—his direct subordinate and, conveniently, the only one kind enough to notice his obvious reluctance to step onto the ice.

“Ah... of course, Oguro-san.”
Takigi has no idea how to handle him, and Oguro knows it. That, in fact, is why he chose him. In an environment like theirs, Takigi’s awkwardness is as conspicuous as Oguro’s own underfed frame.

The rink is enormous, that much is clear. Not many people are here to witness him fall. He would have preferred no one at all, but that hope died the moment courtesy forced him into a pair of skates. Honda had grinned—wickedly—when Oguro appeared at the edge of the rink, determined not to show his discomfort. Judging by Oze’s expression, he’s failing spectacularly.

“Can’t skate, Oguro-san?”

He’d love nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off Honda’s square face.

“I’m afraid I never had time to learn properly, Honda-san.”

“Don’t worry, Oguro-san. It’s easier than it looks.”
Takigi means well, Oguro knows that, but good intentions don’t ease the knot of anxiety twisting in his stomach. More than anything, he wants to avoid looking like an idiot in front of Gureo Haijima.

He tries for a smile again—and, once again, fails.
“I’m sure it is.”

“Come on, Oguro!” Haijima calls, already gliding across the ice beside that bastard Honda.

Oguro draws a deep breath and steps off solid ground onto the smooth, treacherous surface.
In theory, he can still walk—lifting his feet carefully, heavy as ballast. What he doesn’t know is whether pretending he’s on firm ground makes him look even more ridiculous. Probably.

He should at least try to take a few proper steps.
He hates to admit it, but Oze’s presence at his side comforts him more than it should.

“Finally!” Haijima exclaims as they inch toward him.

Honda’s smirk never wavers. Oguro’s sure of it. Bile rises in his throat.

“I must beg your patience, Mr. Director,” he says evenly. “I’m not exactly the athletic type—not quite on Honda-san’s level.”

The tone is acid, unmistakable. Fortunately, Gureo doesn’t seem to mind. His face remains fixed in that stale, managerial smile.

"Shall we move?"

“Of course,” Oze answers quickly. The right response—refusing would be unwise. Oguro knows that too.

He follows behind them, trudging clumsily, determined not to make a bigger fool of himself than strictly necessary.

Chapter Text

A scarecrow in a tie.

“Kurono, you said that out loud.”
Pup doesn’t even look at him, just shakes her head.

A scarecrow with a tie, two-mile-long legs, and an invisible ass beneath those tailored trousers.

"Kurono!"

He doesn’t answer. Cute, though — in that hollow, insomniac way of someone who hasn’t slept more than six hours in years.

“Who are you staring at?”

Pup broadcasts her thoughts as loudly as he does. It’s one of their finer similarities — neither of them knows how to keep quiet, not even telepathically. She follows his gaze and lands on the clumsiest man on the ice. A walking disaster in black.

She snorts through her nose. “Doesn’t seem like your type.”

Kurono nods — half in agreement, half just to avoid an argument. But does he even have a type? Pup seems convinced he does, convinced enough for both of them.
Still, he can’t stop watching the man — stiff as a wire, face pale under the rink lights, taking each uncertain step like it costs him a piece of pride. Every motion says: someone made me do this.

“Five hundred yen says he’s down in five minutes,” Benimaru calls from behind them, voice dripping with amusement as he sprawls across the ice like he was born there.

“Six hundred says it takes three,” Joker adds, his tone smooth, lazy, but his grin razor-sharp.

Lately, they’ve been orbiting each other like bad planets. It’s not easy for Kurono — he can count the people he tolerates on one hand. If it were up to him, Joker wouldn’t even make the list. And yet here they are. He’s even starting to miss Sagamiya’s silent company — and that’s saying something.

“A thousand,” Kurono says.

Benimaru arches a brow. “A thousand what?”
He knows exactly what, but he plays dumb, eyes bright and red like a cat’s.

“A thousand yen says he doesn’t fall.”

Benimaru makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “That’d take a miracle.”

Kurono agrees. Technically. But losing to these two? Not an option.

“If you don’t wanna lose,” Pup mutters, dragging a skate idly across the ice, “you could just shut up.”

He agrees with that too.

“Or,” she adds with a smirk, “you could catch him. Right now.”

When he looks at her, she winks — exaggerated, cartoonish. The kind of wink that gets under his skin.

He doesn’t have to turn around to feel Joker’s one purple eye drilling into him.

“I could,” Kurono says.

“But that would be cheating,” Joker replies, voice lilting, like he’s savoring the thought.

Kurono tucks his gloved hands into his jacket pockets, lets a slow, thin sneer tug at his mouth. He finally turns to face them — Benimaru’s blood-red eyes, Joker’s half-lidded violet one.

“And who the fuck cares?”

His voice cuts clean through the rink’s noise — through the scrape of blades, the laughter, the music overhead.

Pup snickers quietly beside him. “Now that’s the Kurono I know.”

For a second, the man in black wobbles again — and Kurono wonders if he should make good on his bet. Maybe he will. Maybe not.

Either way, he’s already decided he’s not letting him fall.

Chapter Text

“Has the budget been divided yet, Haijima-san?”

He can do this. The ice under his feet is still as unpredictable as any boardroom negotiation, but it no longer carries the same oppressive aura it did at first. Step by step, question by question, answer by answer, it begins to feel almost like walking instead of skating. Takigi stays close, a steady presence at his side, and he’s quietly grateful for it. The tentative confidence he feels is enough to keep him upright — for now. Falling is out of the question. Or so he hopes. Control, it seems, depends very little on him.

He feels it before it happens. One second he’s gliding with something that resembles confidence, Takigi trailing like a small satellite. The next, his feet betray him. He’s sliding forward, face heading straight for the ice.

Where the hell is Takigi when you need him? His eyes squeeze shut, muscles tensed, bracing for impact.

It never comes. Two strong arms catch him, steadying his glide without breaking it. He’s guided toward the rink’s edge, careful not to open his eyes until something solid supports him — something more than these unfamiliar, relentless arms.

“You skate like shit.”

The assessment is accurate, brutally so, but he’s not about to let the stranger’s words get under his skin.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Oguro replies after a pause. He sizes up the man before him. Nearly six feet tall, snake-like face, yellow eyes that glint like sharp stones. He could choose to ignore him, to dismiss the insult. But he doesn’t.

“It’s a fact.” The man’s lips curl into a smile, grotesque and sly. Oguro doesn’t flinch. He keeps his gut reactions locked down. The grin is the ugliest thing he’s ever seen, and he suspects even the man knows it.

What does the crocodile do? he thinks, resisting the urge to wince.

“I didn’t deny it,” he says, the conversation taking a sharp, uncomfortable turn. For once, he’s not sure who’s more toxic in this exchange — himself, or the man before him.

“You argue like crap, too.”

His labor law professor used to say the same thing.

“I don’t have to argue at all.” Falling might have been preferable to this verbal sparring. “Especially with someone whose name I don’t even know.”

“Kurono.”

He’s not surprised. The name means black, fitting.

The sneer fades. The lips retreat to cover jagged teeth any dentist would have recoiled from. Oguro feels an odd sense of relief at the shift, even as his eyes linger for a moment longer than they should.

“Better?”

“No.”

“I should’ve let you fall,” the man says, a hint of regret in his tone, as if Oguro’s failure had genuinely crossed his mind. And he understands that feeling, too. Perhaps it would have been simpler to have his pride bruised than… this.

“Something we agree on.”

“Oguro-san!” Oze’s voice cuts through the tension, bright and precise. Kurono finally tears his amber gaze away from Oguro’s black eyes to face the new, unsettling presence.

“Oguro-san, is everything okay?”

“More or less. I was falling, but I was caught in time.”

“Oh, good!” Oze seems almost incredulous. “Thanks for your help, Kurono-san!” Oguro notices that he knows his name.

“Nothing,” Kurono replies, expression flat, unreadable. Oguro is drawn to it, trapped like a rabbit frozen before a car’s headlights.

“At least someone’s grateful.”

“Someone?”

“Certainly not you.”

Oze watches their silent clash as if it were a minor skirmish, patient, expecting it to end quickly.

“Let’s go back to Haijima-san, Takigi. I’m done here.”

They walk away, with Oze orbiting them like a satellite and Oguro leading the way.

Moving away from that reptile doesn’t do enough to dissipate the electricity that’s built up in his body. He’s already realized that he’ll be taking it home with him, where it'll be discharged on the floor with a hand job so powerful it makes his legs shake.

Then, as he lies on his sweat-soaked mattress, the window wide open to let in some of Tokyo's unbridled heat, he won’t know if it’s the end or the beginning of something new.

He'll only know that he wants more.