A/N: And here it is at last. It feels like a rushed job, even though I spent a crazy amount of time on it. Looking back I should've introduced Akashi Snr earlier, but it's too late and I had to make do. Anyway, there's a ton of feels and such in this last chapter, so much so that I'm not sure how I feel about it. I've never been great with angst, but I tried. Enjoy.

Shūzō knows who's at the door by the quiet, yet persistent tapping, but can't imagine why they're here. It's late afternoon, but he's in his sweatpants and a faded, well worn t-shirt from his younger days. There hasn't been a need to dress up lately, not until this ridiculous suspension has been lifted.

He isn't entirely sure why he's been suspended—the letter he received went around in circles, dotted with phrases such as insider trading and unauthorised copying of company files. The offending party is, apparently, Haizaki (who has since disappeared off the face of the planet). But as the culprit's supervisor, he has been called into question. It's a real stretch, to be honest, and it stinks of conspiracy. Shūzō is beginning to think Kasamatsu's off handed remarks weren't merely another display of his boss's cynical nature. Maybe he'd really pissed someone off.

He opens the door to find a fairly stressed looking Seijūrō standing on his doorstep. After greeting with a quiet 'hey', he steps aside to let his boyfriend in. He hasn't told the other about his current predicament, primarily because he's been racking his brain for a Plan B, in case the charges stick and he finds himself unemployed. And unemployable—no company would touch him if he was actually found guilty of such things.

Shūzō stands in the living space, a hand running through his hair as he watches Seijūrō move to take a seat. Only the redhead doesn't. He's acting weird, Shūzō thinks distantly.

"So," he says after an extended silence, a self-deprecating smile working its way onto his face. "I got fired." It would sound like a joke were it not for the gruffness in his voice. Seijūrō flinches slightly, a barely noticeable movement, and Shūzō's not sure what to make of it. He clears his throat before saying, "not fired. Not yet. Just suspended, but I guess it's just as bad.

Seijūrō inhales, an audible, steeling thing. "I know," the redhead says quietly. "I know, and I'm sorry."

"What do you have to be sorry about?" It feels as though the room us spinning, or crumbling apart. He moves past his boyfriend to take a seat on the couch. Even though he's asked, he doesn't think he wants to hear the answer. It's an irrational, baseless fear sparked only by Seijūrō's unusually—unnaturally—passive demeanour.

"It's my fault this happened," Seijūrō replies slowly, evenly, with a great deal of care. "Father ordered it."

Seijūrō delves into a short, yet concise explanation of the situation. It's a cold, detached, very clinical narration. Very Akashi. But Shūzō catches the small glimpses of guilt and other emotions as the other speaks—Seijūrō's inability to look him in the eyes for extended periods of time, the redhead's need to pace as he speaks, the look Shūzō gets when all's been said.

At first, he doesn't know what to do but sit back. Then he sighs whilst sitting forward, elbows resting on knees, a million unfinished thoughts running through his brain. He opens his mouth. Once. Twice. Then he looks up.

"You knew?" he says, more emotion than he cared to allow in his tone.

"I did, in a way," the other responds, voice distant, eyes downcast just a little. Shūzō is struck, then, by the fact that yes, this kid is mature, and smart, and really good at a lot of things he wasn't remotely aware of when he was that age, but Seijūrō's still a kid. Of sorts.

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

The redhead looks up, the look on his face unreadable and closed off. "I should have told you."

Shūzō levels him with a look that says you think? There's a number of things he wants to say, but his mind—or heart—picks to ask why. As though it will change anything. As though a good enough answer can cover the wound and make it okay.

It takes a while for Seijūrō to say anything, and Shūzō's about to speak up when the redhead says (quite strongly, and with a misplaced air of defiance), "I was afraid you would write me off as... inconvenient,"—like the last guy goes unsaid, but it's heard clearly—"I was afraid of losing this. And you. Though..." Seijūrō shrugs, leaving a world of things unsaid—he always does that, the little shit.

Shūzō scrubs his face, thinking very hard about the logical thing to do here: give up on this thing they have, get his job back, pretend it never happened. That's logic. That's what he should do.

"I came to apologise, "Seijūrō declares suddenly, turning to collect his bag. To leave. "Because you don't deserve this, Nijimura-san."

God, you're such an idiot, he admonishes himself, even as he stands, walks over to Seijūrō and flicks him on the forehead. "Damn brat," he grumbles a little too fondly, ruining his attempt at sounding menacing. "Don't go."

Of all the stupid things you've ever done, he tells himself, this is by far the worst.

Closing the gap between them, he embraces the redhead. It's a painfully awkward hug because Seijūrō's all rigid and Shūzō's not entirely over the fact that he was kinda lied to, but he muscles through until Seijūrō leans into him slightly and sighs almost imperceptibly—he feels the other's breaths against his skin, through the fabric of his t-shirt.

"We'll work something out," he hears himself say, though no such hope exists. "So don't go."

So Seijūrō stays.

"It's a pretty shitty situation," Tatsuya declares after an overly dramatic pause. Shūzō has just told him about the messy state of his life: his joblessness, his boyfriend's father's involvement in his employment issues, his indecision regarding his boyfriend.

"They're in Tatsuya's apartment, which is an exact replica of his own (considering that his friend lives three floor above his own apartment), but far more stylish. Because it's Tatsuya. Shūzō had made it a point to raid his friend's stash of beverages, seeing as he doesn't have anything better to do with his time. Except think about his messed up life, and his very real desire to not let go of his red-haired lover.

It's a terrible, terrible mess.

"You haven't told your mom?" Tatsuya says after taking a generous swig of his beer.

"Are you insane?"

"From the sounds of it, you're the one whose insane."

He's right, of course, Shūzō reluctantly concludes. His friend is always right about the dumbest things at the worst of times. He can't afford to hold onto this relationship. His mom would never say it, but he knows she kind of needs the money he sends home on a regular basis. Ever since his father passed away, things had been hard. Sure, there had been a policy or two, and his mother had landed a pretty nice job, but with a kid at university, and another one on their way to university, it was a stretch.

If he got fired...

"Look," Tatsuya interrupts his train of thought, staring at him with that how-dare-you-make-me-worry-about-you look on his face. "I'm glad you've found love or whatever, but is this a good idea?"

"It's a terrible idea," he replies with more certainty than he is comfortable with—he isn't accustomed to this 'lead with your heart' thing. "But, you know, the heart wants."

"I'd have never guessed you're such a romantic," Tatsuya teases, lips curled up slightly into a barely-there smile. The kind of smile that had first captivated him. Now, as he looks at his friend, all he can think is that Sei's (true) smile is even better. God, I'm so pathetic. As though hearing his thoughts, Tatsuya leans forward and tells him, "unfortunately, you can't eat romance. Neither can your family."

Silence follows as he mulls over that.

"What are you gonna do Shūzō?"

Kuroko is the last person he expects to find waiting for him outside his apartment building, all plain looking and bland. Seijūrō finds his ordinariness fascinating, like a very rare breed of flower. He pauses for a moment before walking up to his friend.

"I hope you don't mind," Kuroko says before he can say anything. "I needed to see you about something rather pressing."

Seijūrō stares at him, wondering what on earth could be so important. In their group of friends, his closest companion is Midorima. Murasakibara depended on him, or made it seem that way, which isn't a terrible thing, but it isn't really companionship. Kuroko was closest to Aomine, even though Kise tried his damnedest to be included in that intimate friendship. "Very well," he says after a thoughtful silence, scrutinising Kuroko's face for hints as to what this visit could be about, which proves to be a fruitless venture.

They don't speak until they're inside his apartment, when Seijūrō offers his guest tea—Kuroko is only one in their bunch of friends that appreciates good tea the way he does. After bustling about, they settle on the couches, a pot of tea between them.

"So," he says after savouring his first sip. "What can I help you with."

"Actually," Kuroko replies delicately, as though testing the waters. "I was hoping that I would be helping you." He raises an eyebrow in question, but his friend gives no reaction. He can guess what this is about now, but he isn't sure he wants to talk about it. "You've been distant lately Akashi-kun," Kuroko continues. "Well, more distant than usual. Midorima-kun has said not to get involved, and we've deliberately kept Kise-kun and Aomine-kun out of this because they lack subtlety. But we're all concerned."

Ah, friends. What would life be without them? Easier, he thinks. Definitely easier. But also... lonelier. He sips his tea steadily, mulling the idea around in his head, while Kuroko watches and waits patiently, seeming to have all the time in the world. He sighs softly, a sign of his resignation, and his friend reads the atmosphere liked a well loved book.

"What's wrong, Akashi-kun?"

"Apparently," he says, slow and deliberate, as though walking through a minefield, "I fell in love. And it's the single most terrible thing I could've done."

After a brief and impersonal recital of his predicament, Seijūrō lets out a long breath and the burden, though still quite present, feels lighter. If only just.

"I had suspected it was love," Kuroko teases—or at least seems to. "You were smiling far too much, for terribly stupid reasons."

"If I wanted your opinion on that, I would ask for it."

Kuroko only smiles, placing his teacup on the table between them. "So what will you do?"

"That's a very good question," he replies, mirroring his friend's action. He sits back and stares ahead unseeingly. This is quite the predicament, with so much at stake for both him and Shūzō.

"You know what I think you should do?"

"What?" his voice makes him sound far more interested than he wants to appear to be.

"Decide what you want," Kuroko says in even and unemotional tones—it's almost cold. "And concoct a plan to get it. That's what you do. What you've always done. I remember you saying it was an Akashi prerogative; to win at all costs. Even against family."

Indeed he had said that, in his wilder high school days, when all that had mattered was achieving absoluteness. He had been toying with an idea over the past few days—having nothing better to do since swearing off Shūzō until there was a solution (it had been a trying time)—but it was risky and dangerous. It also relied heavily on his father's perception of him, which, at this time, he couldn't gauge.

"So... basically," he says, sounding amused and revived, feeling utterly reckless. "You're telling me I should fight, and win."

"Not telling, reminding. It's nothing new, right?"

"Right."

"While I've grown fond of this new, in love Akashi-kun," Kuroko says teasingly (perhaps), "I do miss your fighting spirit. You lack bite when you morose."

An eyebrow shoots up at that, because really, his friends were prone to exaggerations.

He visits his father the following evening without being summoned and without a well though-out plan. Just hope and conviction.

He declines the butler's offer to notify his father of his arrival, better to catch the old man unawares. He knocks at the door of his father's study, because fight or no fight, they are not barbarians and politeness had been carved into his being since he was old enough to walk. When his father makes some non-committal sound of acknowledgement, he walks in and takes a great deal of pleasure in the momentary flicker of surprise that crosses his father's face at his entrance.

"Father," he greets, shutting the door behind him quietly. He walks closer to his father's large desk.

"Seijūrō," the elder Akashi says, gesturing for Seijūrō to take a seat on one of the high-backed chairs on the other side of his desk. He does, but only because he wants to be seated for what he's about to do.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" asks Masaomi. "It's been quite some time since you visited home without being summoned."

"I've come to negotiate," Seijūrō says, making sure to keep his voice even and sure, despite him second guessing his actions.

"Oh?" his father responds with the air of an adult amused with a child's attempt at adulthood. "And what is your bargaining chip, son?" A self-satisfied grin has spread across Masaomi's face, insincere and taunting in a way.

Seijūrō hesitates for longer than he wants, thinking over what he's about to do. "Secrets," he finally answers. He watches as his father's smile fades marginally and makes sure that he remains as stoic as possible. The Akashi family can hardly be described as close, but threats to the family's image and position are always taken seriously. And they're always disposed off swiftly and cleanly—which is why it's dominated as absolutely and for as long as it has. By threatening to expose the Akashis' secrets (which are many, illegal, and ugly in equal measure), he is effectively removing himself from them, leaving his father without an heir. Yes, Masaomi could name one of his nephews as his successor, but he was a proud man who wanted nothing more than absolute power to remain with his line of descendants. Which made sense, considering what he'd had to do in order to get it.

Seijūrō understood and relied on the fact that, in effect, his father wanted him (and only him) to take over. He'd been born for it, groomed for it, and threatening to remove himself from the family was his best bargaining chip. His only sway. Would he actually go through with it if his father called his bluff? Heavens alone knew.

"You would threaten your family the sake of one man?" The smile is still there on his father's face, but it's taken on a dangerous edge. It's the smile he uses when negotiating deals with lesser corporate entities, ones he deems to be unworthy of his time.

"The same has been done for much less in this family's history," he replies, imitating his father's icy cold tone. All this, he's been learning since he was a boy; it's second nature at this stage. A side of him his friends don't fully know. A side he'll never willing reveal to Shūzō. "And this is about more than this situation. It's about you and me, and the way things will be going forward."

"And you're being serious?"

"I would never bluff about family affairs." Not exactly true, but the truth is inconvenient at this point.

The silence is heavy and deafening. Seijūrō wonders if one the servants are standing outside the door, listening in on this sophisticated showdown. Perhaps it would be spread throughout the house until it reached the ears of members of the extended family, who were always looking for a foot in the door to the power seat. A potential feud was brewing in this conversation, and the deal that may or may not be struck by the time he left the house.

Masaomi leans back and glares at his son, all traces of his earlier amusement have vanished. He says, "what you do propose?"

Seijūrō lays out his requests: firstly, Shūzō's reinstatement and a withdrawal of all charges against him. He also demands the right to chose his partners—male or female—now, and if ever what he has now doesn't survive. It may not sound like much, but in a family like theirs, it was like asking for the moon.

"In exchange," Seijūrō says before his father can speak, "I will provide you with an heir, ensure your mad scramble for power was not in vain. And, of course, perform all other duties expected of your son."

"You would marry, and keep the lad as your lover?"

"Heavens, no. There are ways to have children without the need for marriage. Or even sex." These ways were, of course, unheard of among the elite of Japan, but we had to move with the times, didn't we? "It will be... tricky getting it done, but high society is nothing if not discreet."

Masaomi watches him, and he withstands the man's scrutiny with bated breath, and a little hope. It's reckless, what he's doing. Then again, it was reckless chasing after something with Shūzō after the what had happened with his last boyfriend. They could both lose everything.

The silence stretches for so long he's convinced it has been hours. He can hear footsteps in the hallway outside—servants moving around, none daring to enter this space, not even to offer refreshments. Seijūrō thinks he could do with a drink of water.

"Very well then, Seijūrō," Masaomi finally says with an unreadable expression on his face. "We have a deal, though I would like to get all the details down in writing. Insurance, you understand."

He tips his head forward in something of a nod, not entirely certain about his father's response. Or his agreement.

"Try not to look so surprised when you've won," Masaomi says, leaning forward to move papers around his desk as a distraction. "It's unbecoming. Makes it seem as though you're unaccustomed to victory."

"Thank you, father." He's not sure what he's thankful for, but he knows he means it.

His father waves it off dismissively before saying, "come by tomorrow evening, I'll have a lawyer present so we can formalise this agreement. After that, I'll have the Nijimura boy reinstated."

He nods and stands to leave, and utters a quiet goodbye, never looking back at his father, but he can feel the man's eyes on him. Things have changed between them, he just knows they have. And he doesn't know how to feel about it. He'll have to examine that after everything has settled. Perhaps Shūzō could shed some light on the matter one day, when he tells the other about his father—the man who taught him everything he knows, and sculpted most of the person he is today. It may be a while still before he can speak about his father to anyone. About the man who taught him what it is to hate, and what it is to love.

Long after Seijūrō had left, Masaomi is still in his study, though work is the last thing on his mind. He's staring at a framed candid photograph of his late wife and a young, chubby-cheeked Seijūrō in the garden. It had been taken by one of the servants on a Summer's evening, after an afternoon of frolicking about doing nothing constructive. His wife had decided to have a picnic with their son, removing the boy from a violin lesson on a whim so he could 'enjoy childhood a little'. She was smiling into the camera, while Seijūrō smiled at her. The boy had adored her, still did. Always would. It was one of the few things they had in common.

He's so much like her, Masaomi had concluded a long time ago, despite his best efforts to mould the boy into what the Akashi family would need in an heir. He'd had many heated arguments with Shiori over the way he raised their son—she often disapproved of his methods, he told her that that was it meant to be born into this family. The rich don't have money problems, they get everything else.

Today, however, Seijūrō had shown him that yes, a little of him had been built into the boy. His son's earlier foolhardiness was nothing short of dangerous—Masaomi hadn't determined whether his son had been serious about his threats. And it reminded him of what he'd done to his own father many years ago, when the old man had had to chose an heir between him and his older brother.

Pushing that memory aside, he picks up the picture with tentative hands and whispers "you were right" to the image of the people he loved most in the world. Once, when Seijūrō was older than captured in the photo, he'd had an argument with his son about his choice of sport at middle school, he'd told her that the boy was too much like her to be any good in business.

Surprisingly, she hadn't taken offence, only turned and pressed the full length of her body against his and laughed, low and breathy. "There's a lot more of you in him than you think," she'd whispered against his neck, like a secret. "He'll show it to you one day."

Indeed he had.

"Before my mother died," Seijūrō says to the ceiling as Shūzō idly combs his fingers through red, red locks that smell much nicer than any man's hair should. "She made me make two promises: To take care of father, and to be happy. Those promises have always been in conflict, the first taking priority more often than not. It feels... strange to be happy. Like I've let her down in some way."

Too much damn angst, Shūzō thinks while absently placing a kiss in Seijūrō's hair. It's strange to be here, in the redhead's apartment after the entire ordeal. He'd had a bit of a panic when Kasamatsu had called him to tell him that he'd been re-instated and that he should report to work first thing the next morning. The first thought that had run through his head was does that mean we've broken up?

A few days later, Seijūrō had appeared on his doorstep with takeaways and a modern fairytale of extraordinary bravery and foolishness. Apparently, Shūzō had surmised, in this tale, he had been the damsel in distress and the redhead had kinda saved his ass without him knowing. He still wasn't sure how to feel about that, but he's grateful to have a job and for things to be mostly back to normal.

Except for this deal that looms over Seijūrō's head—heirs and duties, and other elite family shit that he'd never understand. Over the past few days, he'd come to appreciate his simple upbringing and normal, run-of-the-mill family. There were just some things that money could never make up for.

"I don't think you've let her down," he hears himself say, fingers pausing in their ministrations to his boyfriend's head. "She wouldn't have made you promise to be happy if she didn't want you to be. She understood better than anybody that there would come a time when you'd have to go against your dad in an ugly way. Maybe she just wanted you to come away with something more than just money."

"Perhaps," is the response, spoken so softly and with so much doubt that he wanted to shake his boyfriend and tell him 'you deserve to be happy you damn brat'.

Instead he chuckles and says, "that was pretty reckless, though."

Seijūrō laughs too and nods—or at least it feels like it, Shūzō can't tell in the dark. The lay still, the only sound in the room is their breathing, the only warmth is the other's body heat.

Suddenly Seijūrō shifts and gets up to straddles him, looming over him like... some really hot guy he can't believe he's dating—a terrible simile, but fuck that, it's true. Shūzō doesn't believe in soul mates, even if he did Seijūrō would not be his, but he knows this is more than mere attraction, it's grown and evolved. It's even been threatened and tested, and it still lives.

"You make me reckless, Shūzō," Seijūrō says, quiet and earnest, spoken like it's the greatest of his secrets. It's the closest Shūzō will get to a declaration of love at this stage in their relationship, and that's okay. More than okay. He smiles without thinking about it, reaching out to pull the other in for a kiss, brief and terribly self-indulgent.

"Yeah," he says, trying to sound exasperated, but but it doesn't work. "I love you too."

Seijūrō kisses him then, stealing his breath, stirring his desire. Tongues meet, hands explore, bodies move to a chaotic sort of rhythm. It's too much, and it's not enough. It's everything.

It isn't exactly a happy-ever-after, but it's pretty great ending to a series of bad decisions on both their parts.

And that's all I wrote. The showdown between Akashi & his dad ended up sounding complete lame, but I'm too worn to redo it—I'm sorry. Thanks for reading, and an extra thank you to everyone who left review. Highly appreciated. I've been out of the writing game for a while, so it's nice to have people think it's decent. But enough with the feels, fluff is more my thing, to be honest. So lets see what comes up next.