A/N: Another quick chapter for you all! Hehe – I really loved all your reviews for the last chapter, and I promise, as soon as I have the time, I'll reply to all of them! Read and review this chapter too, please!

- NOTE: yes, I did rewrite this chapter just now. Well, not rewrite, but just add and edit a little; I wrote this in an extreme rush because I had somewhere to go, but wanted to put the chapter up first, and the quality suffered terribly from that. I'm so sorry my readers - for those of you who had already read and reviewed, please do so again!

Disclaimer: I do not own PoT.

Had someone told her two months ago that she'd be dating Atobe Keigo – or even pretending to date him – she'd have laughed. In fact, if someone had told her that they'd be on the terms in which he regularly summoned her to his lunch table, in which she had the privy of messaging him whenever she wished, she'd have doubled over with laughter. After all, he was Atobe Keigo; the almighty emperor of Hyotei, the king, the crowned leader upon his golden throne.

But now, Nanao knew otherwise.

In some ways, Keigo was an even bigger fantasy than the rumors and the masses made him out to be; when one truly came to know him, one came to see that someone like Atobe Keigo simply could not exist.

Nanao was used to rich kids – she walked along the halls of Hyotei, after all, and many would even classify her as one of their ranks: born from generations of money, in a comfortable manor, with a hefty trust fund that would enable her to live comfortably for the remainder of her life. Atobe, though, was far wealthier than she could have even imagined, than the limousines and rose petals and glossy leather shoes could have ever hinted at. The other day, Nanao had spilled a dollop of jam on her blouse; upon coming to the conclusion that no napkins were to be found nearby, Atobe produced a banknote for her to use-

-a 10,000 yen bill (1).

Nanao had gaped with horrified eyes as he'd carelessly patted it over the stain, clucking at the red smear, as though nothing else were out of the ordinary. "What are you doing?" she'd finally gasped, only to be met with a dull stare and an arched brow.

He told her that he didn't carry any smaller bills, as though that was a sufficient justification.

His personality, too, was something else, in and of itself. Sure, students school-wide referred to him as the emperor, the king, the leader of Hyotei's masses – but never before had Nanao seen someone like Atobe, who felt no shame or embarrassment at all in referring to himself as the very title. He carelessly dropped titles, impressed his standing among others, and shamelessly announced himself wherever he went.

Just last week, he'd made it a point to stand upon the entrance to the cafeteria, poised, still, hand raised above his head- Snap! Nanao wasn't even sure how everyone in the noisy cafeteria had heard that singular snap, but in a moment, everyone had shut their mouths and turned adoring eyes to Atobe's figure. "Ore-sama is here, na," he'd declared, in that low, sickeningly confident tone of his, and everyone had burst into applause.

From behind him, the various regulars snorted and rolled their eyes and sighed, as though it were an overrun scene. Nanao only stared, slack-jawed, until: "Nanao, close your jaw. You look like a trout."

But despite all these curious, half-horrifying things, Nanao also came to find that Atobe was far more human, and normal, than he'd ever want the rest of the world to find out.

Despite his dramatic flair and love for theatrics (as well as the penchant to announce his arrival wherever he went), Atobe wasn't impervious to social propriety; he did, in fact, know that he was out of the norm, and that certain things could not be done without expecting a wave of rumors, speculations and tribulations. He knew that his actions had repercussions from society – but he was so secure, so very aware of just how popular he was, that he also knew that he'd be able to commit murder, and be lauded for his prowess from his adoring fans.

He grew tired, as everyone else did. In the tennis courts, he was king, he was god – he did as he pleased, fluttering jacket upon his shoulder and the unchallenged obedience from the club members. He seemed to be almost invincible to Nanao, when he stood atop the bleachers, eclipsing the very sun from where she sat: that's what she'd used to think, and most likely, what most of the masses did, too.

But he'd come to seek momentary reprieve from the harsh workload the life always seemed to have for Atobe, that day, when he'd come to take a nap in the council room. Nanao, after all, was always the quiet kind of companion that one didn't have to worry about, who didn't bother their peers when they wanted silence.

And in that respect, Nanao had come to learn that Atobe wasn't quite all that delusional, either, or as self-absorbed. Ah, but that wasn't to say that he wasn't those traits entirely – certainly, he was likely a hundred times more delusional and self-absorbed than healthy or recommended for the average teenager. He simply wasn't as bad as what she'd thought. And Nanao had initially thought he belonged in a straight jacket in a mental ward.

(She still did, sometimes).

He wasn't always blindly loving of the adoration he received from his fans, and like Nanao, had long since come to learn that they idolized his image, his kingly persona – the idea of the person named Atobe Keigo, not the person himself. And it seemed to her that he had long since come to terms with it; what else could he do?

He was undeniably selfish ninety nine percent of the time, but in that small percentage margin, he was far more selfless than Nanao had ever seen anyone to be, and his selfishness had never gotten in the way of his unending care for those he called his friends. He was a ridiculously rich boy, to be sure – but he'd never thought of himself as better or anyone else as worse because of his financial status, and he did, Nanao acquiesced, certainly work hard enough for the hefty allowance his father gave.

And most of all, he was real. He wasn't the flawless emperor of Hyotei – he was simply Keigo, the boy who liked to hold glasses of wine as he talked simply for the feel of the glass against his palm, who always, always attempted to impress his father around every turn. He was Keigo.

Nanao liked Keigo more than she liked the Emperor of Hyotei.

Atobe had come to grow fond of the girl. Of course, he'd die and mutilate his own tongue before ever admitting it to that smug, grinning Yuushi, but he had – she was refreshingly honest (even if sometimes it would have done her well to simply shut up), and she wasn't like a lot of the other mindless sticks that called themselves girls. Nanao, for some strange reason, didn't feel the need to participate in the social customs that teenagers their ages usually did: she didn't flutter her lashes and pretend to be any weaker than she actually was, and she certainly didn't try to act dumb, or silly, or cute, around the regulars.

As for the dumb part, she seemed to be a natural whenever it came to Greek class, so any additional acts of being stupid would have been overkill.

She was a bit of an old soul, he had to admit - she preferred to spend lazy afternoons bathed in sunlight, drinking tea, than going out for movies or parties like a lot of others their age enjoyed, and more often than not, she found museums and showcases fascinating. It wasn't so much maturity, really, as much as having skipped the hormonal, thrill-crazed teenager phase that their peers were currently involved in.

Nanao also didn't occupy herself with asking unnecessary questions. She didn't feel the need to fill every stretch of silence with words, and she was the kind of person who knew how to contentedly enjoy a reprieve from conversation - the kind of person one could read a book alongside for hours, and not feel awkward about doing so at all. Certainly, she had her moments: when she was persistent (god, was she persistent) about finding out an answer to something one didn't really want to divulge, with those damnably curious eyes of hers. But for the most part, she didn't pester one for answers about things that one didn't want to talk about.

She wasn't socially obtuse, really - she was simply impervious to the power plays and the airs and the social games that people so often found themselves partaking in.

And despite her sheer talent in sucking at Greek, Atobe found her company something to be of a relief, now. There weren't very many people he could freely interact with, given that ninety percent of the people he knew, or knew him, were more 'zombie fan' than 'person.' For a long while, he'd only been really able to socialize with the tennis regulars as school friends – but now, he had Nanao, and he supposed he'd have to make do with what he had.

Kidding.

Sort of.

If one asked Oshitari his thoughts on Atobe Keigo and Suzuki Nanao's relationship, he'd simply respond with an easy smile and the adjustment of his glasses. It made sense, he'd say – because the people they were as individuals lent themselves to a unique sort of dynamic, that could, lightly, be called 'getting along.'

Nanao, Oshitari found, was ridiculously obedient, for reasons unknown; she wasn't exactly meek, or weak, or anything. It was simply as though her initial instinct was to obey, and given Atobe's penchant to reign as king, it seemed to double in his presence.

Atobe was, well, Atobe, who had, for his tenth birthday, had a bona fide crown designed, made and shipped from Italy, built of real gold and embedded with glittering diamonds and rubies. If that wasn't an early indicator of which personality disorder he'd have later on, Oshitari wasn't quite sure what was.

It was fun, for a while, to watch the two interact – before it started to grow weird.

"Nanao. Fetch me my sword."

In the past few weeks, Nanao's seamless obedience and Atobe's second personality as the king of the land of delusions seemed to have, in some weird, twisted manner, taken the two back a few centuries. When paired with Nanao, Atobe's delusions of imperial rule had escalated several, several unhealthy levels, until they'd come to a full stop in the land of 'mentally unbalanced.'

Atobe sometimes slipped into a vocabulary usage that was befitting of the medieval times of Europe, and Nanao simply obeyed, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

The girl returned presently, with a racket bag in her hands, which she passed over to Atobe.

Ah, right. 'Sword' meant 'racket.'

Oshitari found Nanao's ability to understand what Atobe meant when he was using his god-forsaken, century-confused language even stranger than Atobe's usage of said language.

In any case: yes, Oshitari found that a frank and honest presence like Nanao's could help Atobe, and he was glad that his friend had such a companion available. No, he did not think that this relationship was entirely beneficial to either party, given the medieval state of things at the present time. Yes, he liked spending time with either of them. No, he did not like spending time with the both of them at the same time. For the same reasons stated above.

He was a tensai who had a penchant for unique things – but this medieval thing was just a little step too far into the land of weird for his tastes to handle.

Nanao wasn't quite sure what it all meant – well, she was pretty sure she did, but she didn't like it. She didn't want to like someone like Oshitari; there were so, so very many complications with that alone, given her current status as 'Keigo's fake girlfriend,' and the other fact that Oshitari Yuushi was a weird person.

He was terribly obsessed with those fluffy romance novels he always had in one hand, and often, his delusions regarding their plotlines and characters bordered on manic. He had a quietly sadistic streak Nanao had come to learn, wherein sometimes, he simply would watch as one teammate or another flailed around, when he could clearly give them the solution. And worst of all, he was the best friend and right hand man of that Atobe, and Oshitari indulged Keigo in his kingly delusions almost all the time, simply for his own humor.

The dynamics between Oshitari and Keigo were something unlike anything Nanao had seen before. And, well, the individuals themselves were unlike anything she'd seen before, either, so.

Still, though – Oshitari-kun was actually awfully thoughtful sometimes, and he had been the one to ensure that she was settling in well, that she wasn't too disturbed by the sudden fake relationship at first. Atobe often bailed on their plans – most likely, as Nanao had been able to figure out now, due to his father – and Oshitari almost always stopped by on those times to keep her company. He was vastly different from Atobe in that he was flawlessly a gentleman at all times: charming, courteous, and thoughtful.

He approached, now, and Nanao could see him walking towards them from the glass doors to the library. She sat beside Atobe today on the couch, close enough that their shoulders and arms leaned against one another. She wasn't quite sure since when they'd become that way, but often, it felt more comfortable to lean against one another, to rest an arm on the other's shoulder, simply because it was a nature of habit. Nanao didn't mind, not really; she had a Greek textbook in her lap, and Atobe peered over her shoulder every once in a while to point out her answer was wrong.

Oshitari entered the library presently. Nanao glanced up from her book, and could feel her heart give a little jump upon seeing the usual smile he wore, and the little nod of greeting he sent her way. She jumped a little, then, jostling Atobe from beside her, and she hurried to give a little wave with her own hand. "Oh- um- hi, Oshitari-kun."

Atobe gave her a wide-eyed, furrowed-brows look, as though she were mental.

Oshitari only smiled pleasantly on, though he, too, arched a brow slightly.

He took his seat across from the two, and opened his romance novel almost immediately. Nanao settled back in her chair, though for the remainder of the day, she couldn't help but to peer over at Oshitari every once in a while – and every time she did, she couldn't help the odd little twist in her stomach, the little flop of her heart.

Of all the people to like, she just had to fall for-

"Keigo, darling, would you fetch me a cup of tea?"

"How offensive, Yuushi. Ore-sama does not run around for the bidding of commoners. Nanao. Fetch Yuushi a cup of tea."

With a sigh, Nanao got up from her seat to pad down to the nearest kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

"Studying."

Nanao hardly spared the boy a glance.

Atobe gazed at her through bored, lidded eyes. He was carelessly, effortlessly sprawled across his sofa, displaying a sort of elegant air that shouldn't have accompanied such a position. He leaned his head against a propped hand, and with his other, tapped a pen idly against the upholstery. Atobe himself had long since finished studying for the quarter-final exams that started tomorrow (Hyotei had a penchant for 'upholding excellence' through adding quarter-final exams in addition to midterms and finals).

Nanao, however, looked a girl possessed, in his opinion. Atobe understood the desire to succeed, certainly, but Nanao always seemed to take it to levels that even he did not grasp. "Nanao. You have already guaranteed yourself an A on most of your exams with all this drab studying – need you study more?"

Nanao raised her head from the book, then, in her position cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table. She passed Atobe a dry expression, a brow arched. "I actually need to study – unlike you." She really did envy his uncanny penchant for memorization. "I don't want just an A, I want top scores. I won't be able to make it into the top ten if I don't study more."

With that, she resumed her studies.

Atobe rolled his eyes. "You're being preposterous and uncharacteristically ambitious."

Nanao ignored him smoothly, and jotted another note down onto her paper from the textbook.

"Why do you want to get the ranking, anyway?"

Nanao had never particularly struck him as the prideful type, who wouldn't be satisfied with a high grade on its own.

"No, not really," she replied, eyes glued onto the book.

"Then why?"

Nanao paused.

"I- I don't know," she sounded distinctly uncomfortable. "Just because."

Atobe reached forward, and prodded her cheek lightly with the pen, brows furrowed. "That is not a sufficient explanation, commoner."

Nanao grumbled under her breath. "I don't know, I just-"

She let out a deep breath of exasperation. "I just want to impress my dad, okay?"

Atobe blinked momentarily, surprised. By the time he opened his lips to say something, Nanao had already resumed studying.

Nanao did not like Atobe's father. Or, well, she simply didn't like the relationship he shared with Keigo, was all. Nanao had come to learn of the quirks of Keigo's personality quite well in the past few weeks, including his tendency to ignore social norms, simply because he could. He did not care about what others thought regarding his actions (nevermind that most people thought he was a gift sent to the mortals from god most times), and he always, always acted in a terribly selfish way, disregarding others' clashing opinions.

With his father, though, things were different. Everything was different.

His father expected the world of Keigo.

Of course, the Atobe legacy wasn't something to be taken lightly - politics, massive corporations, hotel chains, restaurants, businesses of every size and variety, spread across ten countries and hundreds of cities. It was, quite arguably, an empire of its own, with its own laws and language and social nuances and balance. And Keigo was the successor to it all: a multi-billion, and as she once heard from Oshitari, projected to be trillion, dollar company. (2)

So she understood, really, the stringent standards his father set for Keigo, and why he did so. In fact, Nanao was often a tad bit envious, to be told the truth; her own father, after all, expected nothing of her at all, and when she did do something well, he laughed and patted her head - as if his small puppy had just learned to retrieve a tennis ball.

But the standards of the Atobes were in a different league of their own.

'Strict standards' should have been along the lines of straight A's, keeping up with homework, staying out of trouble, cleaning one's room - that was the norm for high school students, after all.

Keigo, however, answered to a different set of lofty expectations.

He compiled quarterly financial reports for the company, despite the fact that he had yet to even take business or economics college courses; he did, of course, have private tutors that taught him already the ins and outs of businesses, but still. He drew up employee reports from local branches to review and assess the business's performance; he oversaw inventory of several branches throughout Tokyo for several different businesses; he routinely, and actively, participated in shareholders' meetings from the moment he entered his second year of high school.

Once, Nanao even caught him toying with hedge fund numbers - in a simulation, of course, without touching the actual numbers.

All this, among a legion of other things that Nanao didn't even know about, she was sure. In fact, she didn't even understand a good portion of what he did tell her about; she simply nodded, and smiled, as if she did.

But she didn't, not really.

It wasn't reasonable, of his father to expect these things from Keigo, and to grow irritated if Keigo didn't produce absolutely stellar work.

And what was worse was that Keigo thought of these things as normal.

Keigo, the boy who had never lifted a finger in an attempt to impress a single person, had never stopped bending over backwards and in loops in order to attempt to receive a noncommittal 'Good work' from his father. To the rest of the world, the kind of person that Keigo was, naturally, effortlessly, was enough to leave them in gaping awe, to have an entire body of teenage students clapping at his every move.

But it wasn't enough, it seemed, for his father.

Nanao wanted to tell him to snap out of it - that his father wasn't worth all of this, that it was borderline manic, how hard Keigo had to work, and how desperately he craved his father's approval.

It wasn't...healthy.

Oshitari-kun seemed to have learned of it a long while ago, and according to him, it was best simply just to stay quiet. It was one of the very, very few 'topics-not-to-be-discussed.'

Pah.

Atobe stared levelly at the girl sitting across the table; unlike usual, however, he didn't quite have the smirk across his lips, nor was he drawling at Nanao to go 'fetch' something. Instead, he sat quietly, chin propped by his hand, cobalt blue eyes observing her.

It was usually Atobe who was in the bad mood, between the two.

But today – today, Nanao was in a terrible, foul mood, presumably from the fact that she had scored twelfth place school-wide, and had failed to enter the top ten. In Atobe's opinion, it was ridiculous to be so put off over twelfth place; he, of course, always held himself to be the best of the best – but given Nanao's personality, it was highly unusual for her to be so disgruntled.

"Twelfth place is still remarkable, you know," he murmured, then, taking a careful glance at Nanao.

Nanao's hand stilled, wrapped around a pen which she'd been using to take more notes. More studying.

"Yeah, I guess," she replied, voice muted, and, Atobe noted, with a hint of bitterness.

"But you're upset."

Nanao raised her head to stare at Atobe. "No I'm not," she muttered, and returned her attention to the textbook once more.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes."

Nanao gave an exasperated, half-irritated sigh, before: "Yes, I am. Okay? I am, so just let me study in peace-"

"What's wrong with twelfth place?"

"Because it's twelfth place!" Nanao finally looked at him once more, pen and textbook forgotten on the table before her. Her eyes looked suspiciously watery – much to Atobe's horror – and she had a deep frown set upon normally-straight lips, an uncharacteristic expression for such a mild-mannered girl. It was, quite possibly, the first time he'd seen her upset at all.

"What's bad about being twelfth? You understand, Nanao, that there are approximately three hundred and sixty seniors in our grade-"

"It doesn't matter," she cried, frown deepening. "Because he's not impressed with 'twelfth,' and he's hardly ever impressed by tenth, and I just-"

Atobe arched a brow. "Will you get in trouble for your ranking?"

Nanao seemed to lose all her energy, then, as she slumped back in her seat. No, she would not get in trouble – after all, how could she fail the standards that never existed? For Keigo, it was likely that his father expected first, demanded it, asked him of it. Nanao could only wish she were that lucky.

Her father didn't expect anything of her – he never had, really, and she'd always simply been 'little Nana,' who, in her family's eyes, was most successful marrying a partner that could be a beneficial addition to the Suzuki corporation. Her older brother was a brilliant business major with numerous accolades under his belt already in his third year at one of the most prestigious academies in Japan, and her older sister had always, always been 'stunningly beautiful' and academically gifted.

But Nanao had always just been Nanao.

And for once, she'd have wished her father to clap her on the back the way he did her brother or sister, and say 'I'm impressed.'

"No," she murmured, quietly, and turned her attention back to the book.

Atobe took the hint and questioned her no further.

Atobe, despite his own, ah, cough, issues, with his own father, never quite recognized them as 'issues.' When it came to Nanao's, though, he was quick to realize that the girl had more than a few problems when it came to her own father.

He wasn't quite sure what it was, to be honest. He wasn't the type to ask questions, and she wasn't the type to bleed her feelings out to him as though he were a diary; most times, he relished in this sort of relationship, really, where one didn't feel the urge to question the other about every single detail of their existence.

But for whatever reason, she seemed to hold an obsession with 'impressing' her father.

He hadn't listened much whenever the Suzukis were brought up, but to his understanding, the head of the Suzuki corporation was a notorious 'family man.' Business leaders who sought a connection to their company often used the tactic of asking about his family, about his daughter, his son, in order to strike up a conversation. He was the kind of man, Atobe had heard, who adored his three children more than anything.

So he didn't very well understand this compulsion she had to impress him, especially when it didn't even seem as though her father expected much of her anyway, to begin with.

She studied every single day in order to maintain the stellar ranking she had - she wasn't a genius, like Yuushi, or brilliant, like he himself was. Atobe wasn't being cruel, or insulting. Simply honest. She wasn't the naturally kind of gifted mind that could easily retain large amounts of information; Nanao was decently smart, he'd acquiesce, and what she lacked in natural ability, she made up in hard work and competence.

Ah, that was the word.

She was frighteningly competent.

She was the sort of person who, if told to master a certain task by the end of the day, regardless of what it was, she would have it perfectly learned and memorized and repeated in several hours. Nanao didn't exactly have a natural aptitude at any one thing in particular, but she had a level of determination and study skills and drive to make sure that she could do anything that was asked of her.

Well, except Greek.

In any case: she worked so hard to the point where it even unnerved Atobe, who valued things such as hard work and practice and persistence. He never really understood why, until the first time he really observed her around the time of exams - the way she was hellbent on keeping her spot within the top ten scores, the way she sometimes slipped and talked about impressing her father with her scores.

It was kind of...eerie. It was strange, and it wasn't healthy.

Atobe supposed he'd best talk to the girl about it, lest she have a mental breakdown sometime soon.

It wouldn't do for the girlfriend of Atobe Keigo to get branded a nutjob.

Oshitari should have known better than to allow Suzuki to enter the library and, consequently, Atobe's radius of disturbance, that day. It had been a while since the last time Atobe senior had called Keigo into his study, to tell him all the great and hefty expectations he had for him for the future. Talks like those always put Keigo deep on edge, unsettled with nerves frayed far more than he'd ever let Oshitari know.

Keigo, after all, had a near compulsive obsession with satisfying his father's expectations – expectations which, in Oshitari's opinion, were nearly insane.

His father expected the world of Keigo – of the sole heir to the vast Atobe empire in the years to come. He did not seem to understand, or even care, that Keigo, despite his stunning, lofty accomplishments, was only eighteen – that he was not the brutal, experienced business tycoon that his father was, nor even yet a man, really.

No, Oshitari should not have let Suzuki into the library today. He should have intercepted her before she reached the doors, told her that Keigo was sick, and sent her running back home. Because at least then, this wouldn't have happened-

"Keigo, I think this is ridiculous. Your father is half crazy," Nanao huffed.

Oshitari's lips pressed into a thin line. Ding. Wrong thing to say.

"Please refrain from insulting my father."

Oshitari heard the frigid chill in his voice.

Nanao, unfortunately, did not.

"It's true. He can't expect all these things of you – things you can't possibly even do-"

Ding. Wrong again.

"I think I most certainly know my capabilities far better than you do, and yes, I can do them-"

"No, you can't! You haven't even entered college yet and he's asking you to manage company stocks and-"

Ding. Wrong. So wrong.

"Do not underestimate me."

"I'm not underestimating you, I just- why are you so obsessed with what your dad expects of you, anyway? It's not healthy."

Ding. So wrong, it was beginning to hurt. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Oshitari felt his gut telling him to stop this – but he could only watch, in the same way one is rendered unable to do anything but watch in a sort of sick fascination at a train wreck.

"…what?"

"This whole compulsion to follow each and every one of your father's insane orders is crazy. He's crazy, and you're being crazy by going along with it all. Be a little rational, here-"

"You want to talk to me about being rational about our parents?"

There was a dangerous edge to Atobe's voice, that really, Oshitari should have caught sooner than-

"It's psychotic, the things he expects you to do-"

"You're the one with some sick obsession to impress her father," Atobe murmured in a low, dangerous tone.

"-what? No, I don't- No I don't." Nanao's voice, too, Oshitari noted, had taken a turn for the dangerous.

"Yes, you do. It's sick, and it's twisted, and it's sad, the way you try to do everything you possibly can to impress a man who just won't be impressed by you."

"You're the one who has a fake girlfriend so you can please your father!"

"And who's the one who agreed to be someone's fake girlfriend, so that she could maintain a little grade to please her father?"

"You can't possibly be using that against me-"

"At least my father holds expectations for me."

Nanao seemed to freeze, then, and all prior glints of anger vanished at once from her gaze. Instead, her lips snapped shut; an increasingly uncomfortable expression overcame her. "…Fine," she ground out, lips pressing themselves into a thin, thin line.

"You can find yourself a new little girl to play servant to your craziness."

And she was gone, leaving the library doors swinging behind her.

Atobe fumed silently, angrily, on the sofa. In fact, Oshitari didn't think he'd ever seen Keigo quite so angry - not even when that Echizen brat of Seigaku had shaved his hair for losing a match. His precious, precious hair.

And this was why he'd kept silent about the very same opinions he held about Keigo and his father for years, now.

Oshitari wondered if it was pertinent for him to speak up, now.

A quick glance at the fury in Keigo's eyes told him it'd be best to stay quiet.

(1) A 10,000 Yen bill is approximately equivalent to a $100 dollar bill.

(2) Yes, I know Japan operates on yen, not dollars - but I wasn't quite sure on how to carry across the same meaning in terms of yen, so... Please forgive me. OTL