Work Text:
It was only meant to be a temporary gig for Aran; until he got back on his feet after the knee injury. Don’t need to have impeccable knees to strongman a couple of knuckleheads out of the club on the weekends. As a bouncer at one of Tokyo’s few legal pro-faerie glamour strip clubs, the more intense patrons tend to come out of the woodwork. Between the entitled and the just plain psychotic, some nights really keep Aran on his toes.
And none more than the nights that The Kitten performs.
The petite fae’s mastery of his glamour comes with the addition of his half hybrid blood. The cat ears and tail that sway, swish and sweep across the stage were more physical than the usual fae performance. Unfortunately, this means that the more hardcore hybrid fetishizers really liked to push their luck. The collar The Kitten wears–a different one every night, some rumored to even be gifts from special donors–encourages a feral sense of dominance in some of The Kitten’s usual crowd.
Thus, whenever The Kitten performs, the club owner orders the bouncers to post along the lip of the stage for extra protection. For Aran, this means a flirtatious flick of a tricolored tail to Aran’s stoically set lips, or a lacy set of panties tucked into a breast pocket and a kitten lick to his cheekbone. It drives certain crowds wild with enough jealousy to double or triple their generous donations into The Kitten’s paws by the end of the night.
“Sorry I keep using you like that, Aran,” the little dancer always comes up to apologize afterwards. Bundled up in an oversized set of sweats and genuinely looking anxious as he waits for Aran’s response. As if Aran doesn’t roll his eyes and sigh for dramatic effect every time.
As if he doesn’t respond with a kind, “I told ya not to worry, Kenma-kun.” Every time.
Because secretly, Aran loves it. Loves that it’s only ever Aran who Kenma fake flirts with during the middle of his performances. Loves the way that Kenma’s soft fur feels against his skin, and the slight coarseness to the rasp of the kitten hybrid’s tongue down the side of his neck. It’s Aran’s secret that he must keep as close to his poor, sappy bleeding heart as possible.
Because dancers are off-limits.
So he tells himself that it’s just simple sexual attraction heightened by a dry spell.
This is only a temporary job, anyway. He’ll be back on two fully healed recuperated knees and back on the volleyball court a thousand miles away in no time.
•••
The first time that Kenma used the unlucky new bouncer as a prop during one of his dances, it had been on a classic Suga-initiated dare–and a rite of passage for the fresh muscle. Iwaizumi and Daichi got “lovingly” harassed at least once a week by Suga or Tooru; they barely batted an eye at this point.
Aran continues to get flustered every time, though. Kenma can tell by the way his sensitive nose picks up the spike in arousal in the bouncer’s scent whenever he dips in close during a song; usually followed by a consistently flushed face and the inability to look Kenma in the eye. In the heat of the moment, the adrenaline rush that the slightest of power that Kenma holds over the mountain of a man–even if it only lasts a few brief moments–will have Kenma riding high for the rest of the night.
…Until it comes crashing down in a bout of post-performance clarity, and he drags himself to apologize every time does it. And like the absolute gentleman that he is, Aran brushes it off with a kindhearted amusement. He continues to let Kenma get away with it, so Kenma continues to do it.
Kenma continues until he has the taste of Aran’s skin memorized, until drawing the image of the bouncer’s handsome smile to the forefront of his mind is second nature. He continues until he’s looking forward to the perfect moment in the night that will take the man by surprise and provide maximum mortification.
However, Kenma doesn’t realize the danger in the game he’s playing until it’s already game over.
“Gonna give Aran-kun a personal show as a going away gift?
Kenma freezes. Like absolute-zero takes over his bloodstream and his pulse completely halts.
“...what?” he whispers. The genuine confusion spreading into genuine panic on his face wipes the smile off of Tooru’s.
“ Shit, you didn’t know–”
No. Kenma didn’t know that tonight is Aran’s last night at the club.
This is all that tumbles around in Kenma’s head as he steps out onto stage and while he goes through the motions of his dance. He doesn’t even get one last chance to tease the bouncer because Aran spends his entire “last shift” at a back booth with a group of men Kenma doesn’t recognize. With Aran’s back to him the entire night, not a single glance passes between the two.
Kenma finishes his performance to the typical fanfare, but his mind and heart are elsewhere. He feels so stupid, and can't shake the feelings of naivety. It’s only when there’s no one there waiting for him to provide a coy, charming, affectionate smile that the tears finally burn their way to the surface.
Shit, Kenma realizes too little, too late, I’m in love with him.
But the night makes sense now. Of course, they had always come from two vastly different worlds. A quick google search can make that very clear.
A star athlete destined for greatness faces a small stumble on his journey to the top. The top as in the Olympics. The fucking Olympics. And his little hiccup? Spent at a nondescript lowkey job in security until he can return to the national stage. Because of course he should be ashamed of associating with such a controversial place of work.
“Wow…You almost convinced me that you actually hate him that time…” Tooru rolls his eyes before getting chopped in the kidney by Suga.
“Stop it, he’s still in mourning…”
Kenma pretends to let resentment fester as he follows the Japan national team’s road to the Olympics. He didn’t even know what a wing spiker does on a volleyball team–and now look at him. “Bitterly” learning the game so he can properly “hate” on all of the team’s poor choices. And he definitely, definitely, does not smile when a certain #18 lands four service aces in a row. (Kenma also definitely does not blush whenever the same #18 looks directly into the camera during post game interviews.)
The most important thing to note, however, is that Kenma absolutely doesn’t tear up and sniffly grossly when Suga and Tooru present him with stadium tickets to the Olympic men’s volleyball championships.
Suga joked about Kenma’s mourning period, but maybe he was onto something. Because as Kenma watches Ojiro Aran, #18, move with strength and grace like he gets to right now? In person? Oh, Kenma has never wholly accepted a pain like the one he currently feels rip through his chest.
This is where Aran truly belongs, like a shark to the Atlantic Ocean. And if Kenma had been the one to get in the way of achieving any of this? Then he would never be able to live with himself. So he will accept the pain and smile through it. Smile gratefully to be able to witness the greatness that is Ojiro Aran soaring through the air under galaxy like stadium lights.
No one, least of all Kenma, is surprised by Japan cinching gold.
However, Kenma most of all, is surprised by the knock at his hotel door the very next day by none other than a gold medal clad Olympian.
“Aran?”
Aran smiles – soft, a little shy, a little embarrassed – and oh, when did Kenma learn all of those small expressions?
“Hey,” Aran murmurs, removing the medal from around his neck and slipping it over Kenma’s cute bed-head. The sleep-softened faerie blinks up at him, still in awe. Wordlessly, he ushers the Olympian inside.
Then Aran does what he should’ve done months ago: he kisses Kenma. Firm, but gentle. He grins at the flustered flick of calico print ears and sparkling gold irises–hopefully from tears of joy this time around. Aran can’t help it. He kisses Kenma again, and again, and – alright – once more.
He runs his fingers through silky hair, traces along velvety fur, brushes against warm skin. Then he taps the metal hanging from a pretty exposed throat.
“Had to make sure it’d match your eyes, Kitten.”