Although Shin's morning routine had been the same for months, it still felt strange not to be on his way to practice before his brain had even woken. Once he got into the swing of things, showering, shaving, dressing, it was easier to remember what his new role was, but there was always that same confusion at the start of the day, when he found himself facing down a closet full of silks rather than jerseys, putting scent on his wrists rather than athletic tape, that he almost wondered where he was and whose bizarre life he'd walked into.

Shin had never been a morning person.

When he'd finished his preparations, he reported to his handler, and was led to a guest room to await his first so-called guest. The handler was new, to him at least, but he didn't speak back, only nodded in response to the instructions he was given. He thought he saw a flash of a condescending smirk as the handler left, but it was brief enough that he could pretend he had only imagined it.

It wasn't long anyway, before Hiruma arrived. Closing the door behind him and shrugging off his jacket, then his shirt, Hiruma draped himself bonelessly across the bed and began typing something on his phone. "You don't look surprised," he said absently. "Expecting me?

"I'm not bound." Shin stood up, as if to demonstrate that he could, and went to the table, where he had already laid out the massage oils that he knew Hiruma favored. He thought he heard Hiruma stop tapping, but concentrated on his task, pouring out a generous helping from the first bottle, rubbing it between his palms to warm it up, as the sharp citrus scent of it filled the room. "Mandarin okay?"

"What, every other customer of yours wants you trussed up? Like a fucking turkey?" said Hiruma.

"That's the appeal, I think." A big, strong athlete, helpless, at their disposal.

Shin turned to find Hiruma giving him a flat look, followed by a finger-twirling motion. From experience, he knew what that meant. Just a few months ago, he would have sighed, but lately it was becoming second nature to check these responses. Most "customers", as Hiruma put it, didn't appreciate it.

Wiping his hands clean on a towel, he stripped down to his underwear, and patiently turned so Hiruma could see what damage had been done to him since their last encounter.

He tried to take stock in his own mind, but he couldn't remember anything too drastic. One or two new scars, perhaps, and some fresher wounds that he hadn't yet counted out, for whether they'd heal on their own. But Hiruma still looked annoyed. "You need to take care of that body, if you're going to be competition ready. You're no use to me crippled."

Shin thought crippled was putting it harshly, but Hiruma had already returned to his phone. Shin put his clothes back on, repeated the steps with the oil, and got the massage started before Hiruma could make him wipe it off again. Leaning over the bed, he began with Hiruma's neck and shoulders, which were full of tension, as usual, and took a steady, methodical fight, as usual, to force into relaxation.

"This would probably be more effective if you had your arms at your sides," Shin commented.

Hiruma didn't reply, unless purposely typing faster was a response.

On to Hiruma's upper back, which always required the most digging in. Shin put his elbows into it, and was rewarded for his efforts: Hiruma didn't respond audibly to the massage in any way, no comments, no groans, but Shin could feel through his hands the knots gradually and reluctantly ebbing away. He could also feel that Hiruma had lost some of his muscle definition here, which meant he had lost some of the power in his throws. A shame.

"You haven't been keeping up your training," Shin commented. "You need to take care of that body, to be competition ready."

"Do all your customers let you sass them like this?" came the response.

As far as Hiruma went, the remark was all but biteless, but Shin still found his hands stuttering in their task. He was nearly sure Hiruma wouldn't retaliate, wouldn't file a complaint, but if he did, the consequences were unthinkable.

But he wouldn't.

But if he did.

Shin forced himself to break free before the thoughts chased themselves into an endless loop. It was normal Hiruma snark, hardly the worst he'd gotten. Even so, he hoped the pause would go unnoticed. To cover it, Shin got up for more oil, and when he came back, he felt steady again.

He worked in silence until he had finished the lower back, and found himself tracing the two layers of waistband with his thumb: jeans, and the boxers half peeking from beneath them. It would almost be easier if Hiruma would use him, like all the others. Sometimes he thought it would be less invasive than their conversations, than this illusion that he was the one in control here: fully clothed, standing, while Hiruma lay beneath him, back vulnerable and exposed. Most likely it was some patented Hiruma trick for getting him to open up. The only reason he hadn't tried to force the issue yet was that he wasn't sure even sex would stop Hiruma talking.

As if on cue, Hiruma said, "I found a runner for you," a little too casually.

Shin's hands didn't falter this time. "Oh?"

"A deal's a fucking deal, isn't it? I find a light-speed runner that can beat you, you start training again."

Shin tried not to think what it would be like, to go back to the team, to spend his days on the field again, instead of inside these painted rooms.

"Or was it never about the runner," said Hiruma, soft and deadly. "It was about him all along, wasn't it?"

"No," Shin said, and found his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Show me the runner, then."

"How am I going to show you the runner here, in this whorehouse?" Hiruma pushed himself up onto his elbows, and Shin obediently stopped what he was doing. "You tell your owner you want to start playing again. Part-time, if you want. One match a month. He'll have to put you in practice again. I'll bring the runner, you'll see him with your own fucking eyes. A light-speed shrimp that can beat your time. Or are you just going to rot in here and let him run right past you?"

"I can't just..." Shin trailed off, the excuses he'd half-formulated sounding feeble even to him.

Hiruma got off the bed, picked up his shirt, and pulled it on. Apparently vulnerable time was over.

"Your time isn't up yet." By now, Shin had a preternatural sense of how long it would be to the end of the hour.

"If it's not about Sakuraba, then you'll do it," said Hiruma firmly, taking out his wallet.

"It's not about Sakuraba," said Shin, and felt a little convinced. "I'll do it."