Chapter Text
Las Vegas, Nevada.
A paradise in hell, truly.
Nothing should technically survive here; 120 degrees in the summer, 25 in the winter. Yet, the city lives on, bustling, living, ever so busy, a twenty-four-hour life.
At least, on the strip, it is. The strip; a four mile stretch of hotels filled with gambling and sin. The civilians in the suburbs grumble about their days, the true highlight of their year being IKEA’s grand opening in May.
But for those who work the nightlife- for those who commute into casinos and hotels for a living – this is their life, a life of cigar smoke, roulette wheels, and slurred tourists who think they can beat the house.
Tsukishima is over it, honestly, but he’s been through dealer school, and he’s not about to give up now.
There's an especially obnoxious couple at his table; a guy who’s had pretty good luck, so far. He’s growing more and more confident – slowly betting more and more chips every turn.
Tsukishima shows his two cards, one face down, and one up, hands clean, nothing up his sleeve. It’s an eight. The man grins and bets double- the sly bastard.
Tsukishima looks up through half lidded eyes, and flips his card. An ace, it seems.
Blackjack is a pretty easy game; don’t bust over twenty-one, and don’t be lower than the house.
“Fuck!” The guy grits, and throws down his cards.
Seventeen.
Tsukishima says nothing, only waiting with a knowing half-hearted smile as the man shoves over all his chips.
Fools. The house always wins.
Now, the house doesn’t cheat, of course – but gambling is what it is. There’s a reason it’s illegal pretty much everywhere else; it’s addicting.
Just as you grow confident – just as you think wow, I’m lucky tonight, maybe I’ll win big – that’s when you lose. Those posterchilds, the men and women on billboards shouting I won 1 mil! – nothing but a gag.
Tsukishima knows this, of course, hands tucked neatly behind his back, scowling as the couple leaves without a tip for his hour. He sighs, his suit growing hot under the lights, quite ready to leave, already. There’s an ache in his back, and the music from the bar around the corner pounds louder than the slot machines. It smells like smoke, and alcohol, and everything sinful.
He watches a parade of young girls, sopping in swimsuits, make their way through the casino, back from the wavepool. They look none older than sixteen; but still they attract drunken eyes, and slurred words from men hanging off the slot machines.
Tsukishima frowns.
He’s is barely fifteen minutes away from the end of his shift when Tsukishima sees him for the first time.
Who is he exactly?
Well, Tsukishima isn’t quite sure. He does know, however, that this guy is probably the most attractive person to approach his table all night.
Pressed suit, dark, messy hair, playboy philanthropist aura; his eyes, especially, are attractive. They’re swirly and dark, and Tsukishima meets them for one single moment, before he can’t look any longer.
Goddamn, he’s a work of art; Tsukishima is confident enough to say that, if given the opportunity, he’d ride that into the next century.
Ah, but, Tsukishima knows his type – the rich, egoistical moneywasters that gamble half their wealth away and barely bat an eyelash. They’re usually out for a quick fuck- which, given, Tsukishima isn’t always against, but his shift ends in now… uh, ten? Minutes? So, he’s not exactly in the mood to meet this guy’s sex eyes.
He nods a hello to the man, and prepares to deal him in. A kind-looking lady approaches the table as well, hanging off the arm of another man. Tsukishima deals them in too.
“Are all bets in?” He calls, looking between the guests. He makes the mistake of looking to that man- dark, tall, and handsome. He’s a tad shorter than Tsukishima, he can tell, but he holds himself confidently, shoulders squared, mouth pulled into a resting smirk.
“I’m drawing.” The lady says, and pulls another card. After a moment she lets out a grunt, and flips her cards- she busted immediately. Her lover stays, as does the man with the dark hair.
Tsukishima blinks back down to his cards, and flips it; lucky, it’s a twenty.
“Ahh, damn.” The other guest flips his card; eighteen. However, the mystery man smiles, and flips his card; a queen, and a ten.
“A draw.” Tsukishima states. The man smiles, and hands over his cards, waiting to be dealt in again. Tsukishima, for whatever reason, in all his years of dealing, hasn’t felt this nervous. It’s not like he has anything riding on this game – but, there’s something about the extensive heat of his eyes that makes Tsukishima’s palms sweat.
He deals in again. They place bets.
Tsukishima has a 4. The man grins and doubles his bet – not a good sign for the house. Tsukishima flips his card, and he ends at a 15.
“Ahh.” The man smiles, and shows his cards; a nice 17.
“Congratulations.” Tsukishima nods. He opens his mouth to say something more, but he can already see his coworker approaching to relieve him. “Ah,” He blinks, and turns to the quests, “It was lovely playing with you, but my shift is over. My coworker Yachi will take care of you.”
“Good evening!” She smiles.
The man, dark suit, dark eyes, dark hair- he stares after him with a soft, seemingly knowing smile. It sets Tsukishima on edge a little. It’s best to just go home.
He turns to leave, but a hand catches his wrist.
“Wait.” That man smiles, body relaxed, like water. “Thank you for hosting. Let me shake your hand.”
Tsukishima pauses, the word why? on his tongue, but the man merely let’s go of his wrist, and holds out his hand. Tsukishima blinks at it, nearly scowls, but does shake his hand.
“Have a good evening, sir.”
Tsukishima pulls back his hand, but startles at the feeling of fingers pressing into his palm. He looks to his hand- there’s a card placed neatly between his fingers. The man tips his head and smiles, just as gentlemanly as ever, and says a goodbye, before twisting on his heel, back to the blackjack table.
Tsukishima stares at the business card.
It’s black, with simple white writing.
Kuroo Tetsurou.
That whole, whatever that was- yesterday was strange, but Tsukishima brushes it off like lint. Boy, that is not the weirdest thing he’s seen. There was totally this one lady that upchucked on the blackjack table- and another instance where this guy tried following Tsukishima home –
Security is his friend, at this point.
Kuroo.
Tsukishima feels like he might know that name – but it’s not like he cares all too much. He’s dealt to Usher and Rihanna before; some young bigshot is just another name. He might’ve been a good fuck, maybe, but the last guest he slept with wasn’t all too great, so, he’s cutting himself off for a while.
However, that man comes back.
Tsukishima is a few hours in; he’s only dealt with one angry customer- no, the house does not cheat – but so far, it hasn’t been unpleasant.
But that man shows up at his table; Kuroo.
“Good evening.” He smiles, taking a seat, setting his beer against the edge.
“Hello…” Tsukishima begins slowly, eyes turning down to his deck. “Welcome back.”
“Ah, I couldn’t help it.” Kuroo smiles, “I’m a good gambler.”
“Is that right?” Tsukishima deals him in.
“Yeah.” He smiles, “I took a chance that you worked today.”
Oh.
Stalker. Tsukishima thinks, but eyes him playfully. The man only grins, and takes his cards.
They play for a solid hour; Kuroo wins, then loses, then wins again- his luck isn’t too bad. He knows when to fold; knows when to bet more, and less, and does the math fairly well than the other bumbly drunk tourists that fumble in.
Guests come and go, but Kuroo stays- he keeps his eye, making small conversation.
Fuck, he’s really hot, and needs to leave before Tsukishima’s tongue loosens.
“So I assume blackjack is your favorite, then.” Tsukishima says, as a couple leaves, and Kuroo stays.
“Mmm, it didn’t use to be.” Kuroo looks up and grins- Tsukishima isn’t sure if the feeling in his stomach is gas, or something pathetically mushy.
Kuroo does, eventually, leave, taking his player card with him, as well as his glass. Ah, but he does extend his hand, and smile, “I never caught your name.”
Tsukishima eyes his hand; his fingers are long, and slender, all warm skin leading up to his forearms, where his suit jacket is folded up at the valley of his elbow.
He decides to shake his hand, “Tsukishima Kei.”
“It was lovely playing with you.” Kuroo coos, and then turns on his heel, and saunters away.
Tsukishima’s apartment isn’t much, but it’s home.
His bed is warm, too warm, maybe, for this hellish summer, so he sprawls over the worn couch half-naked and sighs.
Pure, unadulterated curiosity draws him to lean over the edge of the couch and pick out the card in the back pocket of his crumbled up work pants. The card is a little dented, but the name still reads Kuroo Tetsurou.
There’s no number, no occupation, no email; nothing.
What kind of egoistical bastard prints just his name on a business card?
Tsukishima thumbs it over once, and then twice. He runs his finger across the edge of the card and sighs.
He shouldn’t pry like this, but he can’t help it. He pulls out his laptop, settling it on a pillow atop his thighs, and googles the name.
The first thing that pops up is an array of articles.
“Tetsurou Kuroo opens children’s hospital!”
“Millionaire set to appear at New York Fashion Week.”
“Click here: Kuroo Tetsurou at the red carpet Oscars.”
Tsukishima raises an eyebrow, and thumbs through them all. He clicks on google images – and yep, that is Kuroo, alright. They’re all of him cutting a red ribbon, or smiling with random people at some event.
Tsukishima prods more.
He skims his Wikipedia page- the fucker has his own Wikipedia page- he learns enough to know that Kuroo is roughly loaded enough to buy out Tsukishima’s existence entirely.
When he comes back three days in a row, Tsukishima can’t help it.
It’s two a.m., and Kuroo has been here for two hours. Tsukishima isn’t sure if his wallet is eternal, or what, but Tsukishima can’t hold his tongue any longer.
When he’s sure that they’re out of earshot, Tsukishima leans against the table and scowls, rather than dealing Kuroo in again.
“Hm.” Kuroo blinks, “Something wrong, Kei?”
“What are you after?” Tsukishima props his hand on his hip, “You’ve been here three days in a row.”
“Is that bad?” Kuroo flirts.
“Yes, because you’ve only come to my table.”
“Is that bad?” He repeats, again.
Tsukishima sighs, but does smile, “Look, if you weren’t so fucking hot, I would’ve called security two days ago. What do you want?”
Kuroo’s eyes flicker over- maybe humor, and surprise, but he grins attractively, “Ah, I’ve been found out, have I?”
“Should I call security, then?”
“No, no.” Kuroo laughs. He draws his finger against the edge of the table, and looks up through his eyelashes, “As you know, the fights are this weekend.”
“Yeah.” Tsukishima crosses his arms. He certainly knows- fight weekends are hell.
“Well, I need something pretty to take with me to the match.” Kuroo purrs, “And you certainly are pretty.”
Tsukishima’s brain short circuits for a moment, before he retorts, “Like I don’t know that?”
Kuroo grins, and leans his head in his hand, “I’ll pay for your seat. I’ll even send a limo for you.”
“What benefit is there of taking me to a match?” Tsukishima crosses his arms, “There isn’t anything for you to gain.”
“I just need a date, is all.” He coos.
“You’re assuming I like wrestling?” Tsukishima raises an eyebrow, “What makes you think I like to watch some sweaty, musclehead morons punch each other in the face for two hours?”
There’s something that glimmers in Kuroo’s eyes again; doubt, this time, maybe. “You don’t?”
But Tsukishima smirks, “Well, of course I fucking do, but that’s beside the point.”
Kuroo blinks, before he laughs, back straightening, dimples popping up from his smile. “I like the tongue on you.”
Tsukishima leans against the table, and stares at him through hooded eyes. He really should say no- he’s not sure if this guy is anything but trouble, but…
Kuroo could take literally anyone to this match. He has a fucking Wikipedia page, for fucks sake- and he’s here, coming by Tsukishima’s table, batting his eyelashes like a school girl.
Ahh, fuck it- both figuratively, and literally.
“I work tomorrow.” Tsukishima eventually says.
“Give me one phone call to your boss.” Kuroo smirks.
And that’s that.
That night, Tsukishima has half the mind to be nervous. He’s been on lots, and lots of shitty dates, so it’s not that he has high hopes but-
He’s scared that it might not be shitty.
Tsukishima isn’t all too much of a chance taker. He likes his bubble, and his comfort zone, and disdains spontaneity. However, there’s something appealing about a night in paradise; a date with a hot businessman.
It’s just one night.
It’s not like Tsukishima will see him again after this.
He dresses in a grey pick stitched suit. It’s tight fitting – Tsukishima’s only tailored suit. His legs are so damn long, he can’t wear anything just off the rack of Men’s Warehouse, or he’ll look like a kid in his dad’s closet.
Tsukishima waits at the corner of the restaurant by his house.
He sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Kuroo where he lived, but- a part of him thinks Kuroo could find out, if he wanted.
The limo shows up; Tsukishima prepares to open the door-
Kuroo steps out.
“Good evening.” He smiles, standing up, tall in his black suit.
Holy motherfucking Teresa he looks fine as all hell. He’s in a relaxed jacket, and a red button up satin shirt. The black tie is the same shade as his suit, and his hair.
“Hey.” Tsukishima blinks, “Thought you were just sending a limo.”
“I wasn’t about to make you ride alone.” Kuroo smiles, and steps in behind him. He shuts the door, and Tsukishima slides into the farthest seat. The limo is lit up in calm mood lighting, music playing, but not too loud.
“Thanks for agreeing to come with me.” Kuroo smiles, settling into the chair, “I would’ve been fucked to show up alone.”
“I have a feeling you wouldn’t.” Tsukishima looks around the limo is it begins to move.
“Ah, but I can hear it now.” Kuroo raises his hands, “Millionaire Dateless at Vegas Match.”
“Yeah, I googled your name.” Tsukishima crosses his legs, “The media sure does love to suck your dick.”
Kuroo stares at him, for one moment- long enough for Tsukishima to think fuck, why can’t I control my goddamn mouth for five seconds-
But Kuroo only laughs, hearty, and a little silly for his stature. He giggles, “You’re completely right.”
“Hm.” Tsukishima tries to look indifferent, but knows his amusement is written all over his face anyways. “Why is this match such a big deal?”
“Ah, well, you see.” Kuroo leans over to the small bar to pour two drinks, “I’ve recently signed on to sponsor a friend.”
“A friend?”
“Bokuto Koutarou.” Kuroo hands him his glass, “A good buddy from high school. He’s gotten into lightweight- I told him I’d support him.”
“How surprisingly human of you.” Tsukishima is hesitant to sip his drink, but does anyways. It’s not bad.
“Hey.” Kuroo laughs, “I don’t know what google might’ve told you, but I’m not a huge dickwad.”
“I guess we’ll see.” Tsukishima flirts- flirts because he can’t help it. Kuroo looks really, really good in that suit, and a part of Tsukishima wants to open his mouth and say every filthy word known to mankind just to see what he’ll do. Instead he jokes, glancing around the limo, “So, are you old or new money?”
“A little both, haha. Dad’s loaded, but told me I had to work for it.”
“Hm, next you’ll tell me your dad gave you a small loan of a million dollars.”
“Topical.” Kuroo laughs, “But no. I worked for him for a while, learning the trade of stock holding, negotiating- I learned how to get what I wanted from people. You know, bat an eyelash, be a little forceful.”
“Hm, I’ve been bamboozled, then.” Tsukishima retorts, and smiles when Kuroo snorts out a laugh.
“I’m sorry.” He grins, in honesty, “I really, really wanted to take you out. You’re absolutely stunning.”
Tsukishima tries stupidly hard not to flush, but he does anyways. He’s heard better compliments from a fortune cookie, but Kuroo looks so goddamn earnest that it hurts.
“You could’ve walked two feet down the hallway and you would’ve been at that strip bar. Why didn’t you court a girl, or something?”
“Because I didn’t want to.” Kuroo coos, “I wanted you. I had a very distinct feeling that you’d look fantastic in a pressed suit, and I was right.”
Tsukishima eyes him behind his glasses as he sips, and makes a noncommittal gesture of, “You too.”
The stadium is packed to the brim. They get a special security escort to the reserved seats near the front; the hollering fans in the back are dressed in shorts and t-shirts, but the people near the front are all in elegant gowns and ties.
Ah, well, that’s Vegas for you.
The room is full of life, hooting and hollering. Tsukishima isn’t all that into wrestling, but he is gayer than Adam Lambert in a David’s Bridal, so, it’s bound to be a good time anyways.
Kuroo is a solid mixture of both professional, and gentlemanly. He lets Tsukishima take his seat first before his own, settling in, a resting smile on his face. It sets Tsukishima on edge a little, because surely this guy doesn’t smile all the time.
Tsukishima knows he has resting bitch face – it comes in handy, more times than not.
“Which one is your friend?” Tsukishima asks against the noise.
“Oh, you’ll know him when you see him.” Kuroo grins, “He’s got the worst hair.”
Tsukishima isn’t quite sure what that means – but then the second opponent comes out, raw muscle and firm lines, wild multicolored hair atop his head – and Tsukishima knows.
“Wow.” Tsukishima says, resting his head in one hand, “You weren’t kidding about the hair.”
Kuroo laughs, “I’m not one to talk, though.”
Tsukishima glances at him out of the corner of his eye. It’s true, Kuroo’s hair is wily, but he pulls it off, unbelievingly so.
“Hm.” Tsukishima looks back, “He’s relatively attractive.”
“Man, he got all the action back in high school.” Kuroo grins, “I had to beat the girls off with a stick.”
“I don’t blame them.” Tsukishima coos, and feels a little smug at the look he receives.
“Hey, no fair.” Kuroo nudges him softly, and says in a joking tone, “You’re my date. I can’t let Bo steal another one.”
He feigns innocence, “Hm? What was that?”
Kuroo only smirks, and settles back into his chair, “Nothing. I sure am good at gambling, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“I took the off chance that you were gayer than hell, and I was right.”
“Ha.” Tsukishima snorts, “That’s not anything impressive. It’s practically written on my forehead.”
“You could pass as straight.”
“Like I’d want to.”
Kuroo lets out another laugh, barely paying attention when the match begins. Tsukishima’s eyes leave, turning to the ring, desperately trying to ignore that he’s actually having fun.
The guy he’s going against, Iwaizumi, Tsukishima thinks his name was, is just as strong and broad as Bokuto.
They deck it out, all heavy swings and rough punches. The crowd rumbles, and shouts – and by the second round, Tsukishima is like, way into it.
“Fuck.” Tsukishima calls, when Bokuto gets smacked to the ground, “Get up!”
“Bo!” Kuroo shouts shamelessly, despite the eyes watching him, “Get up! Get up!”
Bokuto wipes the blood off his nose, and stands, blocking a punch, and swinging again. Tsukishima cheers- fucking cheers – when he gets a good jab in.
The energy in the room is insane. The biggest stick in the mud would have fun here, Tsukishima thinks, because he certainly has a big stick up his ass. He knows it’s there – he’s well aware.
Still, Tsukishima can’t believe he’s having fun. In all honesty, it’s cool to see Kuroo, some rich kid with a big name, hooting and hollering. He’s…less plastic than expected.
Tsukishima may, or may not be fucked.
He half expects an invite back to some hotel room – actually, Tsukishima isn’t sure what he expects.
But uh, he doesn’t anticipate Kuroo politely taking him home, and walking him up to his door.
No sly moves? No ass grabs? No wandering hands?
Who does this guy think he is, being so damn polite?
Tsukishima talks to cover the loud beating in his chest, “Don’t be a creep, now that you know where I live.”
Kuroo laughs, “No, no, I promise.”
Tsukishima digs the tip of his shoe into the doormat, and plays with the keys in his pockets, “Um…”
“Thanks again for coming with me.” Kuroo says, as gentlemanly as ever.
“Yeah…it was….” Tsukishima shrugs, “…okay, I guess.” He looks down through his eyelashes, and knows Kuroo sees the joking nature in his eyes.
Kuroo only smiles, and hooks his thumbs in his finely tailored pockets, “Just okay, huh?”
“Alright, maybe.”
“Well, I thought it was awesome.” Kuroo coos, “And Bo won, so, a pretty A1 night for me.”
Tsukishima bites down a smirk, and looks down to his shoes, before forcing himself to relax. The words form in his throat – do you want to come in?-
But Kuroo shifts his weight and says, “Well, I’d really like to go out with you again, if that’s alright with you.”
“Me?” Tsukishima blurts, “Again?”
“Yeah!” He grins, “Is that cool?”
“Er…how long are you in town for?”
“Two more weeks.” He smiles, “Starting tomorrow.”
He shouldn’t. He really, really, shouldn’t bother with someone that’ll only be in town for two weeks.
Still, Tsukishima shrugs, “Fine, then. I get off at six tomorrow.”
“Wonderful.” Kuroo smiles, “Text me, and I’ll come by and grab you.”
“W-wait.” Tsukishima huffs, “I don’t have your number.”
“Yes you do.” Kuroo saunters away, waving as he descends down his driveway, “It’s on my card.”
“Your….Kuroo. All that’s on that card is your fucking name.”
“Did you try going for a swim?” Kuroo winks, tips his head, and folds into the limo.
He drives away.
This fucker. This piece of shit. What the hell is this National Treasure- ass bullshit?
Tsukishima runs the business card under the water of the kitchen sink, and watches the card flush from black, to white. As it turns, more words appear- numbers, even.
His phone number.
555-313-6823
“Unbelievable.” Tsukishima says aloud, tipping the card up. “Un-fucking believable.”
His cat meows from the next room, and Tsukishima huffs, “I know, Socrates. I know.”
The first text he sends is
I literally cannot believe you.
He doesn’t have to wait long for a response:
“dress business casual tmrw <3”
Bloody hell.