Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s the sound of something shattering that wakes Sae up. A sharp crack, followed by muffled swearing. For a moment, he debates whether to care. It’s Sunday, his one day off, and he’d planned to sleep in, not deal with…whatever that is.  

A second crash follows.  

Sighing, he rolls out of bed, grabs the nearest hoodie, and heads downstairs. His house was as bland as he left it, every surface polished to perfection, but the faint trail of broken glass leads him straight to the source of the commotion. He was only going to be in Japan for a few months to renew his passport, maybe stop by and greet his parents if they even wanted anything to do with him, and catch the pathetic comedy show of the next U20 Japan match against whatever run of the mill team they used to build their confidence again. 

His house is definitely immaculate now, and for that, he can thank his manager’s insistence on hiring him a housekeeper for relief. Or maid. Or whatever. He didn’t bother reading the contract when he signed; all he cared about was getting someone to deal with the endless dusting and laundry. A professional. Quiet, efficient. Invisible. 

Instead, he got this.  

Isagi Yoichi is crouched in the kitchen, frantically trying to sweep up the shards with a handheld broom. He’s wearing the maid uniform that Sae didn’t ask for but for some reason his own management insisted was part of the package; tiny black dress, white apron, frilly headband. It’s ridiculous. The dress is a little too tight across his chest and a little too short at the hem. The headband is askew, and his hair sticks out in messy tufts that make him look like he’s been electrocuted.  

He doesn’t notice Sae until he clears his throat. “Are you planning to break every glass I own?” he asks, crossing his arms.  

Isagi startles so violently that the broom clatters to the floor. “Oh! Uh, sorry! I didn’t mean to—I’ll pay for it, I swear!”  

Sae’s eyes narrow, watching as Isagi scrambles to pick up the pieces with his bare hands. “Stop. You’re going to cut yourself.”  

Isagi freezes, glancing up at him, wide-eyed. “Oh. Right.” He picks up the broom again, muttering to himself as he sweeps the mess into a dustpan.  

This is the fourth day of Sae’s new housekeeper, and he still doesn’t know why the agency sent someone like this. He finally admits to his manager that he was feeling a bit pent up and requested a service, silently hoping that some cleaning done for him would ease the burden of weekend chores and allow him to have a less packed schedule, but all Isagi brought him was more chaos on his first day. Isagi is too young, too clumsy, and far too nervous. He fumbles almost everything, plates, towels, conversations, and looks perpetually on edge, like he’s waiting for Sae to explode at him.  

“Relax,” he says, leaning against the counter. “I’m not going to fire you for breaking a glass.” Or two. But still, it’s not like he can't afford it. Isagi wasn’t even that clumsy, he was actually rather good at the list of chores he was assigned, and Sae was paying him practically three times what he suspected most housekeepers made, so he must be well rated.

“Oh. Cool. Thanks.” Isagi exhales shakily, wiping his hands on his apron.

He valiantly looks away from Isagi’s legs straining against white lace thigh highs. “Just try not to break another one.”

“Got it! Sorry, Master,” Isagi bows, too sorry for such a silly mistake. Master, that title again. Sae’s stomach clenches, but he pushes it down. Sae was used to childish mistakes and messes—Rin always broke his toys, wobbled down staircases and belly flopped from playground sets like he was immune to pain. He’d patched up enough scrapes and cuts of his little brother to not flinch at these kinds of things.  

Sae turns to leave, but Isagi’s voice stops him. “Wait!”  

He glances back, frowning. “What?”  

Isagi’s cheeks flush pink, and he scratches the back of his neck. “I mean…uh, are you, like…happy with my work so far?”  

Sae stares at him. “What kind of question is that?”  

“I dunno. I just thought, maybe, you’d, uh, have some feedback?” Isagi says, looking up at him through his lashes. "Look, this is my first job, alright? I’ll be better."  

Sae narrows his eyes. “Feedback?”  

Isagi shifts uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. “Forget it, never mind. I’ll just.. keep cleaning.”  

Weird. Definitely weird. But Sae doesn’t have the energy to question it further. “Just don’t break anything else,” he says again, turning back toward the stairs.  

“Sure thing!”  

The rest of the day is mercifully quiet. Sae spends most of it on the couch, half-watching a match on TV while scrolling through his phone. He’s vaguely aware of Isagi bustling around the house—vacuuming, wiping down counters, folding laundry—but he doesn’t pay much attention. At least, not until Isagi appears in the living room doorway, looking hesitant.  

"I’m done with the cleaning," he says.  

Sae looks up. Isagi’s clutching his bag, fingers fidgeting with the strap. His cheeks are pink, and he looks anywhere but at Sae.  

"So…" Isagi clears his throat. "Should we…you know…"  

Sae frowns. "Should we what?"  

"You know," Isagi says again, voice dropping to a mutter. "Do the thing."  

Sae sets his phone down, staring at him. "What thing?"  

Isagi shifts uncomfortably. His gaze darts to the couch, then to Sae’s lap, before quickly darting away again. "Uh… whatever you…hired me for?"  

There’s a beat of silence. Then another.  

Sae sits up straighter, his expression sharpening. "I hired you to clean. Just keep doing that and you don’t have to worry about anything else."  

Isagi freezes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Oh.."  

They stare at each other, the silence growing heavier by the second. “You’re strange.”

“I’m strange—“ Isagi starts, almost like he’s about to get frustrated, and then he suddenly clams up, like he’s actually remembering that he’s supposed to treat the person hiring and paying him with respect. “Sir, if you really don’t want any special services, then I’m.. I really don’t know what else to do.”

“That’s fine,” he says, crossing his arms, “go home early.”

Isagi blinks at him, the words hanging in the air between them.  

“Go home early?” he repeats, like he’s not sure he heard Sae correctly.  

Sae nods, his expression calm but firm. “Yeah. If you don’t have anything else to do, then there’s no point in sticking around, is there?”  

Isagi grips the edge of his apron, twisting the fabric in his hands. “But… that’s not what I’m supposed to—”  

“Isagi.” There’s no anger in his voice, no impatience, but he leaves no room for argument. “Go home early,” he repeats. “You’ve done enough for today. I’m not going to call your boss or anything like that.”

Isagi nods stiffly, mumbling a quick, “Yes, sir,” before retreating to the guest room to grab his things. 

Sae stays on the couch, listening to the sound of Isagi moving around the house one last time to put away the last of his supplies.  

He’s not sure why he let Isagi off the hook. The boy is good at his job, even if he’s a little clumsy. And it’s not like Sae minds having him around.  

But there’s something about Isagi—something in the way he looks at Sae, like he’s expecting something Sae isn’t offering, that’s starting to grate on him. It almost looks like fear, but laced with frustration? 

It’s not just strange. It’s distracting.  

Sae picks up his phone, scrolling aimlessly through his messages. But his mind keeps wandering back to the look on Isagi’s face when he told him to go home. The confusion, the hesitation. The way he seemed so reluctant to leave, even though Sae was giving him an out.  

None of this is normal.
____

Isagi exhales shakily once Sae is gone. “What’s with him?” he mutters under his breath, packing away his cleaning supplies in the closet space the man had provided him. He swallows hard, his thoughts racing. He should be relieved, grateful even. Most clients, or so he’s heard, wouldn’t dream of letting him leave before his contracted hours were up. But there’s something about Sae’s tone—about the way he’s looking at him—that makes it impossible to relax.  

He glances toward the ceiling, half-expecting to see a hidden peephole. Sae must be watching him somehow. How else could he explain the way Sae keeps appearing at the most random moments, perfectly calm, perfectly collected, like some detached voyeur?  

It’s unnerving.   

And kind of hot.  

Isagi groans, covering his face with his hands. This is bad. So, so bad.  

Itoshi Sae. World-class midfielder. Soccer genius. One of Isagi’s many idols since he was ten and Sae was twelve and already making waves as the youngest striker in Japan. That Itoshi Sae is standing in the same room as him, wearing sweats and looking like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.  

And he hasn’t even tried to touch him yet.  

Isagi frowns, glancing down at his uniform. The agency specifically told him to be “prepared for anything.” He even brought a spare change of clothes and stuffed condoms in his purse. Yet the entire day in, Sae hasn’t made a single move.  

Maybe he’s the type who likes to take his time. Or maybe he’s into something weird, like an actual cleaning kink.  

Isagi sighs, grabbing his things and heading to the living room to leave early as instructed. He pauses in the hallway, his bag slung over one shoulder.  

He could leave. He should leave.  

But as he stands there, staring at the door, he can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. What is he even doing here?

He’d taken this job for the money. That was it. He knew what the job entailed, or thought he did, and he told himself he’d be fine as long as he stayed professional. He would just… sell his body, leave, and have enough money for both his soccer program and his mom after just a handful of jobs. He had accepted (sort of) that his virginity was a small cost, but apparently the humiliation of stooping this low since getting laid off of his pitiful cashier job wasn’t enough, and now his first client didn’t even want to have sex him. He was probably already going to get fired, even despite what Sae said. 

But being here, around Sae, is throwing him off in ways he didn’t expect, now he just feels like he’s failing.  

Is this normal? Does he actually not want… anything else?

Isagi glances back toward the living room. He can’t see Sae from here, but he knows the older man is still sitting there, probably scrolling through his phone like none of this matters at all. Why the hell else did he hire an escort service if he didn’t want to be escorted or blown off or whatever the hell his supervisor had told him he’d have to do when he lied on his resume and said he definitely knew what an erotic v was. 

Isagi bites his lip, his mind racing. Then, before he can stop himself, he turns on his heel and walks back into the living room.  

Sae looks up as Isagi steps into the room, his expression unreadable. “What?” Sae asks, his tone flat.  

“I…” he hesitates, clutching the strap of his bag. “I don’t think I understand.”  

“Understand what?”  

“This,” Isagi says, gesturing vaguely between them. “I don’t understand what you want from me. If it’s just cleaning, then why did you…” He trails off, his face burning.

Sae blinks once with those stupidly long lashes, setting his phone down. “Why did I what?”  

“Why did you hire me?” Isagi blurts out, his voice rising slightly. “You could have hired a regular cleaner. You didn’t need to go through an agency like—like this.”  

Sae stares at him, the weight of his gaze making Isagi feel small and exposed.  

“I hired someone to help take care of my house,” Sae says, his voice low but firm. “That’s it. If you’re expecting something else, that’s your problem.”  

Isagi’s breath catches. The bluntness of Sae’s words hits him like a slap, but there’s no malice behind them. They stare at each other, the silence stretching out until it feels suffocating. Finally, Sae sighs, leaning back against the couch. “If this job isn’t what you expected, then quit. I’m not forcing you to stay.”  

Isagi’s fists clench at his sides. “I’m not quitting,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“Good,” Sae says, picking up his phone again. “Then stop overthinking and just do your job, and I promise you’ll have no problem keeping it.”  

Isagi nods stiffly, his heart pounding as he turns and walks toward the door.
____

The next few days at his home are… interesting, to say the least. By the time Sae comes back downstairs, the living room is spotless. Isagi is sitting on the couch, folding towels with precise, practiced movements. His headband is gone, and his hair is even messier than before, dark strands falling into his eyes.  

“Did you eat?” he asks, startling him.  

“Uh…what?” Isagi blinks up at him, his hands still holding a towel mid-fold.  

“Food,” he says, frowning. “Have you eaten?”  

“Oh. No. Not yet.”  

Sae sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “There’s pasta in the fridge. Heat it up before you leave. Or just help yourself to whatever you see in there.”  

Isagi stares at him for a long moment. “You…want me to eat here?”  

“It’s my house. I can say what I want.”  

Isagi hesitates. He looks at Sae like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle, his brow furrowed and lips slightly parted. “Are you…like, testing me or something?”  

“What?”  

“I mean…” Isagi’s cheeks flush pink. “You haven’t…uh…” He gestures vaguely between them. “Done anything. So I thought maybe—”  

Sae narrows his eyes. “Done what?”  

“Nothing! Never mind! I’ll eat the pasta!” Isagi practically bolts for the kitchen, leaving Sae standing there, utterly bewildered.  

He’s definitely firing the agency after this. He would.. if Isagi weren’t actually efficient at his job. He kind of likes the company too. Isagi is also, admittedly, easy on the eyes, compared to whatever old lady they could’ve sent who usually run these kinds of cleaning businesses.

Sae watches Isagi flee into the kitchen, muttering under his breath about pasta like it’s some sacred mission. Something is definitely off with him—more than usual, that is.  

He sighs, collapsing onto the couch. It’s been a long week, and all he wants is to decompress. Between games, interviews, and the constant pressure of staying at the top of his form, the last thing he needs is to figure out why his housekeeper acts like he’s on trial every time they speak.  

He grabs the remote and flips on the TV, but his mind keeps drifting back to Isagi. That weird hesitation. The flushed cheeks. The vague, stammering non-answers. Sae frowns, replaying the conversation in his head.  

It almost sounded like…  

No. That’s ridiculous.
____

In the kitchen, Isagi leans against the counter, trying to calm his racing heart.  

What the hell was that? 

He’d almost said it. Almost blurted out, Why haven’t you made a move yet?  

The thought makes him groan, burying his face in his hands. Sae probably thinks he’s insane now. But can anyone blame him? This entire situation is insane.  

He opens the fridge, finding the neatly labeled container of pasta Sae mentioned. It’s homemade, perfectly portioned, and still looks fresh despite sitting in the fridge for at least a day. Of course, Sae would have good taste even in leftovers.  

As he pops it into the microwave, Isagi glances around the kitchen. It’s spotless, like the rest of the house. Not a single dish in the sink, not a crumb on the counters (courtesy of himself). It’s the kind of place you’d see in a magazine—elegant, expensive, and cold.  

Just like Sae.  

Isagi shakes his head, trying to banish the thought. He shouldn’t be thinking about his client like this. But it’s hard not to when the man is…well, him.

One of the best midfielders in the world. The player who dominated the pitch with his precision, his vision, his sheer, overwhelming presence. Isagi had spent hours watching his games, analyzing his plays, dreaming about what it would be like to stand on the same field as him. To receive a pass from him. But no, Sae hasn’t even made a pass at him, hasn’t tried to grope him or slide a hand up his skirt or ask him to get on his knees like the supposed pervert he was with hiring a boy to come clean around in a miniskirt and all. 

And now he’s here. In Sae’s house. Wearing a stupid maid uniform and trying not to break anything else.  

The microwave beeps, snapping him out of his thoughts. He grabs the container and a fork, then hesitates. Should he eat at the counter? Or…  

His gaze drifts toward the living room. Sae is still there, lounging on the couch, his attention fixed on the TV.  

Isagi bites his lip. Screw it.  

The couch dips slightly as Isagi sits on the far end, the pasta balanced on his lap. Sae glances at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re eating here?”  

“You told me to heat it up,” Isagi says, twirling a forkful of spaghetti. “You didn’t say where to eat it.”  

Sae huffs softly, turning back to the TV. “Fair enough.”  

For a while, they sit in silence. The only sounds are the faint hum of the TV and the occasional clink of Isagi’s fork against the container. It’s oddly…comfortable.  

Or it would be, if Isagi could stop overthinking.  

He sneaks a glance at Sae, who’s sitting with one leg propped up, his posture relaxed but still somehow regal. The dim light from the TV casts shadows across his face, highlighting his sharp jawline and the subtle curve of his lips.  

God, he’s hot. He’d seen the man in Calvin Klein commercials many, many times, but nothing was quite like sitting next to that face up close. He swears Sae’s bottom lashes cast actual shadows on his high cheekbones. Isagi never could’ve imagined his hair would be this red in person, game footage just didn’t do him justice. 

Isagi quickly looks away, shoving another bite of pasta into his mouth to distract himself.  

“You’re quiet tonight,” Sae says suddenly, his voice low and calm.  

Isagi nearly chokes. He coughs, waving a hand as he swallows. “What do you mean?”  

“You’re always muttering to yourself or making weird comments,” Sae says, not looking away from the screen. “It’s… strangely quiet.”  

“I-I’m just trying not to annoy you,” Isagi stammers, his face heating up.  

Sae finally turns to look at him, his teal eyes sharp and assessing. “You’re not annoying.”  

Isagi blinks. “I’m…not?”  

“No.” Sae’s gaze lingers for a moment before he looks back at the TV. “Just strange.”  

“Thanks,” Isagi mutters, though he can’t help the small smile tugging at his lips.  

They lapse into silence again, and this time, it feels a little less awkward.  

After Isagi has finished cleaning up and Sae has retreated to his room, Isagi collapses onto the guest bed he’s been using during his shifts. He had to leave in a half hour, so he might as well rest a little before his obnoxiously long bike ride. 

He stares up at the ceiling, his mind racing.  

This isn’t how he imagined things would go. He thought Sae would be like the other clients he was told he’d probably encounter—direct, maybe a little pushy, but ultimately predictable. Instead, Sae is…reserved. Quiet. Impossible to read.  

Maybe he’s just shy, Isagi thinks. Then he immediately snorts. Itoshi Sae, shy? Yeah, right.  

Still, the thought lingers. Maybe Sae is waiting for the right moment. Maybe he’s testing the waters, seeing how far Isagi will go. Or maybe…  

Isagi’s cheeks flush as another thought creeps in.  

Maybe he’s into seeing Isagi squirm. 

The idea makes his stomach twist with equal parts embarrassment and intrigue. He glances around the room, half-expecting to see Sae with a sadistic smile on his face.

Nothing.  

He flops back onto the bed with a groan, dragging a pillow over his face. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”  

Whatever Sae’s deal is, Isagi is determined to figure it out. One way or another.

He waves Sae goodbye and shrugs on his coat, biking back home and changing in the public restrooms down the street before greeting his mom at the door.
____

Morning comes far too quickly for Isagi. The sun streams through the blinds, pulling him from a restless sleep filled with dreams of teal eyes watching him from unseen corners. He groans, burying his face in the pillow, but his alarm, set specifically so he doesn’t oversleep for the job, insists otherwise.  

Rolling out of bed, he throws on his uniform, adjusting the frilly headband with a resigned sigh. He thought he’d be used to this by now, but every time he catches his reflection, he feels ridiculous. At least his mom is still asleep, so she doesn’t see him when he leaves. He’d hate to have to explain that. 

And the pay is good. Way too good to pass up. Isagi needed good money and fast, or else his dreams would slip through his fingers.

When nobody answers the door, he lets himself in with the key Sae had told him was under the mat for cases like this. 

He steps into the hallway, the stillness of the house greeting him like a warning. Sae is probably still asleep, which means he has some time to himself before he inevitably embarrasses himself again.  

Or so he thinks.  

The sound of a door opening behind him makes him jump. He whirls around, nearly losing his balance, and comes face to face with Sae.

Correction; Sae in a tank top and sweatpants, his hair slightly messy and his expression unreadable. Also more like face to chest, considering Sae’s substantial height on him.

“Good morning,” Sae says flatly, like he doesn’t notice, or care, that Isagi is staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.  

“M-Morning!” Isagi stammers, stepping aside to let Sae pass.  

Sae doesn’t say anything else, heading straight for the kitchen. Isagi watches him go, his mind spinning.  

It’s unfair, really. How is anyone supposed to function around someone like that? He’s just walking around, looking perfect, like it’s nothing. Like he isn’t literally one of the greatest midfielders in the world.  

Shaking his head, Isagi forces himself to focus. He grabs the cleaning supplies and starts with the living room, wiping down surfaces and fluffing pillows with robotic efficiency. But his thoughts keep wandering.  

Why hasn’t Sae done anything yet? It’s been over a week. Isagi has been waiting, trying to figure out what Sae’s deal is, but the man hasn’t so much as flirted with him. He’s polite, distant, and infuriatingly calm.  

And then there’s the weird way he acts sometimes—like this morning, when he looked right through Isagi, as if he didn’t see him standing there in a dress that barely covers his thighs.  

Isagi scowls, scrubbing the coffee table a little too hard.  
____

Sae sits at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of black coffee that Isagi made for him and scrolling through his phone. He glances up occasionally, catching glimpses of Isagi flitting around the living room like an overly energetic ghost. He looks like he’s taking out too much frustration on Sae’s marble countertop. The boy is strange, no doubt about it. But there’s something oddly endearing about him, too.  

Sae takes another sip of coffee, his thoughts drifting. He’s been wondering why the agency sent someone so… inexperienced in professionalism. Isagi is clearly out of his depth, but he’s trying. And despite his clumsiness, he’s managed to keep the house in good shape.  

Still, there’s something about him that doesn’t add up.  

Sae frowns, setting his phone down. He watches as Isagi crouches to pick up a stray sock from under the couch, his movements quick and efficient. Sae sighs, visions of white lace and stockings behind his eyes.
____

By mid-afternoon, Isagi has worked himself into a paranoid frenzy.  

Every time Sae glances his way, he feels a shiver run down his spine. He decides to test his theory.  

While dusting the bookshelves, he stretches a little too far, his uniform riding up just enough to be noticeable. “Alright, Sae,” he mumbles to himself. “If you’re watching, I hope you’re enjoying the show.”  

He knows it’s ridiculous. If Sae was watching him, surely he would have said something by now. Or done something. But the thought refuses to leave his mind. He glances over his shoulder, expecting to catch Sae staring at him from somewhere. But Sae isn’t even in the room.  

Isagi deflates, his cheeks burning. He’s about to give up when Sae’s voice startles him.  

“Need help?”  

Isagi yelps, nearly dropping the feather duster. He spins around to find Sae leaning casually against the doorway, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a water bottle. He looks like he just finished working out.

“Help? No! I’m fine!” Isagi says breathlessly, clutching the duster like a lifeline.  

Sae raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Looked like you were about to fall off the ladder.”  

“I wasn’t! I mean—I’m fine! Really!”  

Sae stares at him for a moment, then shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He turns to leave, pausing briefly. “Dinner’s on me tonight. Pick something you like.”  

Isagi blinks. “Wait, what?”  

“You’ve been working hard,” Sae says simply, not looking back. “You deserve a decent meal.”  

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving Isagi standing there, completely dumbfounded.  

As they sit across from each other at the dining table, Isagi can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something.  

Sae is as calm and composed as ever, eating his food with the same precision he brings to the pitch. Meanwhile, Isagi is hyper aware of every movement, every glance, every word. It’s driving him crazy.  

“So,” Sae says, breaking the silence. “What made you decide to work for this agency?”  

Isagi nearly chokes on his drink. “What?”  

“The agency,” Sae repeats, his gaze steady. “Why’d you pick it?”  

“Oh. Uh… money, I guess?” Isagi says weakly, scrambling for a believable answer. “I needed a job, and they were hiring, so…”  

Sae hums thoughtfully, his expression unreadable.  

Isagi fidgets with his fork, trying not to panic. Does Sae know? Is he testing him?  

Isagi can’t focus on his food. Maybe this whole thing is some elaborate game, and Sae is just waiting for him to crack.  

Across the table, Sae seems perfectly content, finishing his meal with the same precision he’s famous for on the pitch. It’s almost insulting how composed he is, like this isn’t driving him mad the way it’s driving Isagi mad.  

“You’re quiet again,” Sae remarks, setting his fork down.  

Isagi flinches. “I’m just tired! Long day, you know?”  

Sae gives him a look that’s impossible to read. “You’ve been working hard.”  

“Uh, yeah. Thanks?”  

“I mean it,” Sae says, leaning back in his chair. His teal eyes lock onto Isagi’s, pinning him in place. “I don’t usually let anyone into my home. But you’re doing a good job.”  

Isagi blinks, completely thrown off. “I am?”  

Sae nods. “Better than I expected, honestly.”  

The compliment feels like a slap in the face. Isagi doesn’t know whether to feel flattered or offended. Better than expected? What does that even mean?  

“Thank you,” he says, looking down at his plate.  

Sae doesn’t respond. He just watches Isagi for a moment longer before rising from his seat and carrying his plate to the sink.  

“You can leave when you feel like it,” Sae says over his shoulder as he leaves the room.  

Isagi stares after him, his thoughts a tangled mess.  

Later that night, Isagi lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Something about Sae’s behavior is bothering him. The way he complimented him earlier—was that genuine? Or was it part of the act? Was Isagi supposed to play into it somehow?

Isagi groans, burying his face in the pillow. Maybe he’s overthinking this. Maybe Sae really is just an aloof, overly polite weirdo who doesn’t know how to interact with people. Or maybe…  

He sits up suddenly, a new thought striking him.  

What if Sae isn’t interested at all?

The idea is both a relief and a disappointment. If Sae isn’t interested, then that explains why he hasn’t made a move. But it also means Isagi has been stressing out for no reason—and worse, that he’s stuck in this awkward limbo indefinitely. But then wouldn’t say just.. hire someone more his type? 

No way. Isagi shakes his head. He’s interested. He has to be. He hired an escort for sex for crying out loud.

If that’s true, then what is he waiting for?  
____

Sae stands in the hallway outside the library, listening to the muffled sound of Isagi muttering to himself.  

He’s not sure what to make of his so called housekeeper. The boy is clearly trying his best, but there’s something…off about him.  

It’s not just the clumsiness or the strange way he reacts whenever Sae talks to him. It’s the way he looks at Sae sometimes, like he’s expecting something.  

Sae leans against the wall, crossing his arms.  

He doesn’t know what Isagi’s deal is, but he’s starting to think it’s more complicated than it seems.  

The next morning, Sae finds Isagi in the living room, dusting the bookshelves with a level of concentration that seems unnecessary.  

“You’re starting early,” Sae says, making Isagi jump.  

“Gotta stay ahead of the game,” Isagi says, flashing a nervous smile.  

Sae raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t question him any more. It was too early anyways, and he needed a coffee before he could deal with this. 

Isagi laughs awkwardly, returning to his dusting. Sae watches him for a moment before turning away, but he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something Isagi isn’t telling him. And for some reason, he finds himself wanting to figure out what it is. 

He leans against the kitchen counter, sipping his coffee (which Isagi makes pretty well) as he scrolls through his phone. Or, at least, that’s what he’s pretending to do. His gaze keeps drifting toward the living room, where Isagi is bent over the coffee table, furiously scrubbing at a non-existent stain.  

The uniform doesn’t help.  

It’s standard issue, or so the agency claimed—tight enough to emphasize Isagi’s small frame, with a skirt that flares out just enough to draw attention to his legs. Or, more accurately, his ass.  

Sae clicks his tongue, annoyed at himself.  

He’s not blind. He noticed the moment Isagi showed up at his door in that ridiculous outfit. The way the fabric hugged his hips, the faint flush on his cheeks as he introduced himself. Sae had written it off at first, dismissing it as a strange uniform choice from an agency he didn’t vet properly.  

But now it’s starting to get to him.  

The boy is oblivious—or so he seems. He flits around the house like a whirlwind, focused on his tasks but somehow managing to make every movement look… suggestive. Sae isn’t sure if it’s intentional or if Isagi is just naturally like that, but it’s distracting.  

Too distracting.  

He takes another sip of coffee, his gaze fixed on the way Isagi’s skirt lifts ever so slightly as he shifts positions.  

Sae catches himself, scowling. This is ridiculous. He’s a professional footballer, one of the best in the world. He doesn’t have time to be thinking about some clumsy housekeeper’s body.  

But no matter how much he tells himself to focus, his thoughts keep drifting back to Isagi.  

The curve of his hips. The way the uniform clings to him in all the right places. The way his cheeks flush when Sae so much as looks at him for too long.  

Sae groans, running a hand through his hair. This is getting out of hand.  
____

Isagi feels the weight of Sae’s gaze. 

He doesn’t dare look up, keeping his attention on the coffee table. But he can feel it—the subtle, burning sensation of being watched.  

He’s definitely into this, Isagi thinks, his heart racing.  

He swallows hard, trying to focus on the task at hand. But his mind is already spiraling, imagining all the possibilities. Maybe Sae is waiting for the right moment to make a move. Maybe he’s trying to gauge Isagi’s interest. Or maybe he’s enjoying the show.  

The thought sends a shiver down Isagi’s spine. He glances over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Sae standing in the kitchen, his phone in one hand and his coffee in the other.  

Their eyes meet for a split second, and Isagi quickly looks away, his face burning. He can't focus like this, and he quickly puts his things down and hurries to the bathroom. Even the toilet seat looks expensive, and he doesn’t dare sit down. 

He presses his back against the bathroom door, taking a deep breath as he tries to calm his nerves. The cool porcelain of the sink feels grounding under his fingertips, but his mind is anything but steady.  

He didn’t think it would be like this.  

When he first signed up for this job, he had told himself it was temporary. Just a means to an end. The agency had been upfront about what the position might entail—what the clients might expect. And though the thought had made him queasy, the money was too good to pass up.  

He hadn’t had a choice.  

Soccer had always been his dream, but dreams didn’t pay the bills. Training programs abroad cost more than he could ever save working part-time at convenience stores or running deliveries. And staying in Japan, waiting for a miracle scouting opportunity, was out of the question. He wasn’t Itoshi Sae. He didn’t have that kind of luck—or talent.  

When the agency offered him his first client, he hesitated. The profile they sent him was vague: a wealthy young professional, private and low-maintenance, even if he was high profile. A perfect introduction for someone like Isagi, they said.  

He hadn’t expected Itoshi Sae.

The moment he saw Sae’s face standing in the doorway, looking as detached and perfect as ever, something inside him had almost cracked. This wasn’t just some rich guy with a messy house. This was Sae. That made everything harder.  

Isagi leans over the sink, splashing cold water on his face. His reflection stares back at him, wide eyed and pale, with a faint trace of desperation behind his forced composure.  

He thought he could do this. He thought it wouldn’t matter. When he agreed to the job, he told himself it was just business. Be professional, be polite, get fucked, get the money, and leave. He wasn’t naive—he knew what could happen, what clients might want. And he thought he could handle it.  

But this...  

This was different.  

Sae hadn’t so much as touched him. He hadn’t even hinted at anything physical. And while that should have been a relief, it only made things more complicated.  

Because the longer Isagi stayed in Sae’s house, the harder it became to keep his distance.  

Isagi clenches his fists, frustrated at himself. Sae pays well, better than anyone probably would for a simple cleaning gig, and hasn’t made any demands beyond the job description. In that sense, Isagi knows he’s lucky.  

But that doesn’t make the situation any easier. He thought he could compartmentalize. Treat it like a transaction. But Sae makes that impossible. It’s the little things—the way Sae looks at him, the occasional comment that feels heavier than it needs to, the way he seems so utterly indifferent and yet...not.  

And then there’s the fact that it’s him. Still and aways Sae.  

A part of Isagi hates how much that matters to him. How much it throws him off, knowing that his first client isn’t just some random stranger but someone he’s admired for years.  

He’s starting to realize that admiration and proximity don’t mix well.  

The doorbell rings, snapping Isagi out of his thoughts.  

“Delivery,” Sae calls from the living room.  

Isagi takes a deep breath, composing himself before stepping out of the bathroom.  

When he enters the room, Sae is already at the door, signing for a package. He glances over his shoulder as Isagi approaches, his teal eyes as sharp and unreadable as ever.  

“Do you always take that long in the bathroom?” Sae asks, his tone dry but not unkind.  

Isagi flushes, avoiding his gaze. “I was just washing up.”  

Sae stares for a moment, handing him the package. “Right. Anyway, this is yours.”  

“Mine?” Isagi blinks, taking the box.  

“Cleaning supplies,” Sae says simply. “Figured you’d prefer having the good stuff. So you don’t have to scrub so hard like you were earlier.”  

Isagi stares at the box, his throat tightening. It’s such a small gesture, but one that Sae doesn’t realize means a lot to him. “Thanks,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper.  

Sae raises a brow, turning away. “Don’t mention it.”  

Isagi hesitates in the doorway when it’s time to leave, but something nags at him, pulling him back toward Sae. He’s still not sure where he stands with this whole situation, but the thought of leaving like this, uncertain, unresolved, doesn’t sit right with him. 

He turns back toward the living room, the tension in his chest heavy as he steps forward again. “Sae…”  

Sae looks up from his phone, and he looks tired. “Yes?” Sae asks, his tone casual, but there’s a flicker of something else in his gaze.  

“I just… I wanted to ask you something,” Isagi says, his hands fumbling with the strap of his bag. He’s suddenly nervous again, and he can feel his cheeks heating up. “About the costume…”  

Sae’s eyebrow quirks, clearly not expecting that. “The what?”  

“The costume,” he repeats, his voice quieter now. “If you want, I could get another one… something you might like more?”  

He winces internally as the words leave his mouth. The idea of him wearing something different, something that might be more to Sae’s liking, feels… wrong. But he’s here, asking anyway.  

Sae stares at him for a moment, and then, a slow frown spreads across his face. “Costume?” Sae asks, almost confused. “You think this is a costume?”  

Isagi’s mouth goes dry. He didn’t expect that reaction. Was Sae some kind of maid fanatic who was suddenly offended by Isagi calling the uniform a costume? I mean, that’s exactly what it was! His company was a special escort service, and dress up role play was just one of the many things they offered. “I mean, if it’s not—” 

“No,” Sae interrupts. “This is fine.”  

Isagi blinks, confused. “Fine?”  

“Yeah,” Sae says, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You’re dressed fine. No need for anything else.”  

There’s something in the way Sae’s looking at him that makes Isagi’s stomach flip. It’s not quite approval, but it’s not disapproval either. It’s almost… appreciative.  

Isagi can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.  

He shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh. I just thought…”  

“You thought wrong,” Sae cuts in, his gaze never leaving Isagi. His eyes linger a little too long on Isagi’s body, and for a brief, uncomfortable moment, it feels like Sae is actually seeing his uniform for what it is since Isagi came here. Sex appeal.  

Isagi swallows hard, not sure how to respond. “Just keep doing what you’re doing,” Sae says, his tone softening, though there’s still a hint of  sharpness beneath it. “I’m fine with it.”  

Isagi can’t help the way his heart races. He wants to run, to escape the overwhelming uncertainty of this, but he also doesn’t want to leave without getting some kind of clarity.  

He glances down at his uniform, suddenly self-conscious. It’s a little too tight around the waist, and the skirt’s hem feels too short when he moves. But Sae doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’s almost… indifferent to it.  

Isagi shifts from foot to foot, unsure what to say next.  

“I’ll, uh… I’ll just head out then,” Isagi mutters, avoiding Sae’s eyes. “Thanks for letting me know.”  

“Wait,” Sae says, his voice unusually quiet.  

Isagi stops, turning back toward him.  

Sae looks at him for a moment, like he’s weighing his words. “Do you not like the uniform?”  

“No..” Isagi’s heart skips a beat, his pulse quickening. “I thought you didn’t like it.”  

“No,” Sae replies, his expression neutral. “I just thought you were uncomfortable with it, to be asking to change. But if you want to, I’m fine with that too.”  

There’s a silence that stretches between them. Isagi opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He’s not sure what he wants anymore, but he knows he can’t keep dancing around this awkwardness.  

He clears his throat, nodding stiffly. “Okay.”  

And this time, when he steps out the door, it’s with a little more certainty in his heart than before. 

That evening, as Isagi lies in bed, he finds himself staring at the ceiling again (as he’s been doing a lot lately), his thoughts a tangled mess.  

He’d thought he could keep things simple. Be impersonal. But the longer he stays in Sae’s house, the more nervous he gets—and not just because of the job.  

It’s because Sae isn’t who he expected. And he’s not sure what that means for him.
____

Isagi arrives at Sae’s house ten minutes early. He smooths down the skirt of his uniform—shorter than usual, though whether that’s because of an unfortunate laundry accident or an intentional choice, he refuses to examine too closely. He’s not desperate. Definitely not. But he can’t ignore the nagging sense that he’s on thin ice, that Sae’s patience with him is already wearing dangerously thin. It’s been four weeks, and still no sign that Sae is a hot blooded male.

And if Sae wasn’t going to take advantage of what was on offer, then Isagi would have to do something about it.  

He read the interview last night. Some old magazine article where Sae, fresh off his debut with Real Madrid, had been asked a series of shallow, personality-revealing questions. What would you do with one hundred million yen? I’m not interested in such a small amount of money. Ideal first date? Don’t care. Fetish? 

Ass. I believe an athlete's skill can be determined by looking at it.

That was it. No elaboration, no shame. Just a simple, straightforward declaration that had sent Isagi into a spiral because what the hell was he supposed to do with that information?  

Unfortunately, after an embarrassing amount of time spent staring at himself in the mirror, he’d come to the only logical conclusion; he had to use it.  

It wasn’t that he wanted Sae to touch him. Or wanted to be bent over the kitchen counter. Or wanted to be thrown down onto the very expensive-looking couch and manhandled within an inch of his life.

No, none of that. He just wanted to keep his job. That was all.  

Which is why, when Sae opens the door, barely looking up from the paper in his hand, Isagi turns around immediately, shoving his ass out like he’s trying to take up a profession far older than cleaning services. He silently sends an apology to his mom. If only she could see him now. She still thought he was working at a cafe around the corner in this rich district and that all the extra was because rich people tip really well, Ma, don’t worry.

"Morning, sir," he says, voice just a little too high-pitched, like he’s never seduced anyone in his life (which he hasn’t).

There’s a long, awful silence.  

Isagi resists the urge to turn back around. He’s pretty sure he’s supposed to stay in the pose, but he has no idea what to do with his hands. Do they go on his hips? Behind his head? Should he arch more? He ends up resting them on his lower back, trying to channel the kind of confidence he absolutely does not have. 

Sae finally speaks. "...What are you doing?"  

Isagi panics. "Stretching!"  

"Stretching," Sae repeats, his tone flat.  

"Yeah! You know, gotta stay limber. Cleaning is hard work." He wiggles his hips for good measure.  

Another silence. "You’re an idiot," Sae says, stepping past him without another glance. "Come inside before the neighbors think I’ve hired a lunatic."  

Isagi straightens so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. Heat floods his face as he scurries inside, acutely aware of how spectacularly that had failed. That was fine. That was just a test run. There was still plenty of time to recover.  

The next attempt comes when Isagi starts sweeping. He angles himself just right so that every time he bends down, his ass is directly in Sae’s line of sight. He even peeks over his shoulder once or twice to see if Sae’s looking. He isn’t.  

Instead, Sae is completely ignoring him, sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee, scrolling through his phone like there isn’t a desperate kink maid shamelessly presenting himself mere feet away. 

Isagi grits his teeth and bends down even lower, sweeping in slow, deliberate strokes, practically sticking his butt in the air. It’s actually kind of cold in here from the updraft of the air conditioning.   

Nothing.  

Fine. Fine.

Time for the nuclear option.  

The third and final attempt happens when Isagi brings Sae his laundry. He lingers in the doorway, biting his lip, pretending to hesitate. When Sae glances up, he finally drops the act and strides into the room, placing the neatly folded clothes on the bed then, with zero hesitation, he throws himself across it  

Sae doesn’t react. Isagi stretches out, looking up at Sae. Still nothing.  

"Sae," he calls, dragging a hand down the sheets. "I think I—"  

He’s cut off by a single, firm knee pressing into the bed between his legs, the shift of the mattress as Sae leans over him.  

"Isagi," Sae says, his voice eerily calm.  

Isagi swallows, face flush. "Yeah?"  

Sae leans down, his breath warm against Isagi’s ear. "Are you tired?” he murmurs.

Isagi's breath catches in his throat. His heart is hammering, and not in the way he thought it would be when he came up with this stupid plan.  

He swallows, trying to keep his composure. "Uh—" He shifts slightly, the sheets soft beneath him, Sae’s presence looming overhead. Were these silk? Maybe satin? Maybe he should look away from those teal eyes before his mind really did stop working. "Yeah. Cleaning’s hard work, you know."  

Sae’s gaze flickers down to him, unreadable. His knee presses into the mattress just a little more, bracketing Isagi in place. "So that’s why you’re sprawled across my bed like a brat who thinks he can slack off."  

Isagi’s entire body stiffens. "That’s not—I mean, I was just—"  

Sae exhales sharply through his nose. He pulls back as quickly as he had closed the distance, standing upright once more. "You’re bad at lying."  

Isagi scrambles to sit up, his face burning, and he fusses with his now wrinkled skirt. "I was tired," he insists, though even he doesn’t believe it.  

Sae doesn’t even dignify him with a response. He simply gestures toward the door. "Out."  

Isagi scowls but slides off the bed, smoothing out the sheets where he’d wrinkled them. He’s already halfway to the door when Sae calls after him.  

"And Isagi?"  

He turns, hopeful for just a second.  

"If you’re going to be lazy, at least do it somewhere that isn’t my bedroom."  

The door shuts in his face.  

Isagi groans, dragging a hand down his face. What the hell is wrong with him?

Not only had his plan completely failed, but now Sae probably thought he was just a weirdo with no concept of personal boundaries. Still, at least he wasn’t fired. 

Small victories.

Isagi trudges back to his tiny guest room, flopping onto his own much less luxurious bed. He stares at the ceiling, mortified.  

He had done research. He had studied. He had read that damn interview, and what had Isagi done? Thrown himself on the bed like a desperate fool and gotten kicked out. 

He groans into his pillow. Maybe he should give up. Maybe Sae wanted to fire him and was just waiting for an excuse. Maybe—  

A thought strikes him, sharp and painful. Sae hadn’t looked. Not once. Even when he had practically presented himself, Sae had just… ignored him. Hadn’t even given him a once-over. Does that mean he’s ugly?

No. No way. He knows he looks a little plain, but they wouldn’t have hired him for someone as exclusive as Itoshi Sae if the man hadn’t requested his type specifically. He doesn’t need experience to be sure of that. So then—what the hell is Sae’s problem?

The frustration boils inside him. He needs to rethink his strategy. Clearly, subtlety isn't working. Neither is throwing himself at Sae without warning. That means there’s only one option left—make Sae come to him.  

If Sae wants to pretend he doesn’t care, then fine. Isagi will just make sure he has no choice but to notice.  

He rolls onto his side, smirking. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow, you’re mine, Itoshi Sae.

The next morning, Isagi has a plan.  

A stupid plan, maybe, but desperation calls for drastic measures.  

Step one: Get Sae’s attention.  

Step two: Keep it.  

Step three: Make Sae want him before he can fire him.  

The execution? Simple.  

He spends extra time picking out his uniform—well, as much as he can when it’s just a simple maid’s outfit. He just ruffles it up a bit more, smooths down his hair nicer than he usually has it since it never seems to want to admit defeat to his comb. His supervisor even got him a special order of lace thigh highs. He kind of likes wearing them, in all honesty. Clothes meant for guys, especially athletes like himself, were never so soft and delicate on his sensitive skin. He laughs to himself, remembering how his mom used to have to wrestle him to get him to put his clothes back on if so much as a tag brushes against his neck. 

He examines himself in the mirror, shifting his weight from side to side, testing different angles.  

“Alright,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

The opportunity comes when Sae’s sitting at the dining table, watching a live match on his phone with his usual bored expression. Isagi approaches, holding a silver tray with a glass of water. Casual. Collected. Totally normal.  

“Morning, Sae,” he says, voice smooth, dropping the glass in front of him with a quiet clink.  

Sae barely glances up. “Morning.”  

Okay. Fine. Time for step two.  

Instead of walking away, Isagi pretends to notice something on the floor—an imaginary speck of dust, an invisible stain. Then, with slow deliberation, he bends over. It’s a calculated move. He knows exactly how the fabric of his skirt will slide up, how the angle will highlight everything Sae supposedly likes.  

He waits.  

Waits.  

And then—“Did you drop something?”  

He startles upright, spinning to see Sae staring at him, but not where he wants him to be looking.

His eyes are on Isagi’s face, his expression blank, but vaguely unimpressed. Was he trying to be a gentlemen? 

Shit.  

“No, I just-,” Isagi stammers, grasping for an excuse. “Thought I saw a, uh, never mind.”  

Sae hums, unbothered, going back to his messaging. “Okay… could you bring me my suit later? I have an event.”  

Isagi stares at him, utterly defeated. “Yeah,” he mutters.  

As he shuffles off, he wants to scream. Sae really isn’t looking at him. Not even once. Which means he’s going to have to step it up.

The second attempt is more refined. If bending over didn’t work, he needs a different angle.  

This time, when he brings Sae his coffee, he "accidentally" spills a bit on his hand.  

"Ah—shit," Isagi hisses, shaking his fingers. He bites his lip for effect, brows furrowed in what he hopes is an enticing display of vulnerability. "It’s hot."  

Sae, sitting on the couch, watching TV, doesn’t even blink at first. Then, he actually looks up, sees the redness blooming across Isagi’s fingers, and sighs.  

"Idiot," Sae mutters, setting down his coffee and standing up.  

Isagi blinks as Sae takes him by the wrist, tugging him toward the kitchen with that same confidence he has on the field so effortlessly, like he already knows exactly what to do and how to do it. "Wait, wait, you don’t have to—"  

Sae ignores him, guiding his hand under the cold water. "Keep it there," Sae instructs, his own fingers still wrapped around Isagi’s wrist.  

Isagi watches him, startled. He hadn’t expected this. Sae is always so detached, so unreadable, and yet now, standing this close, he’s oddly careful in the way he holds Isagi’s hand in place.  

"You’re clumsy," Sae murmurs, almost to himself.  

Isagi swallows. His pulse jumps. “It happens."  

Sae’s thumb brushes over his wrist before he lets go. "Be more careful," he says, turning to grab something from the cabinet. A moment later, he presses an ice pack against Isagi’s hand. "Here. Hold it."  

Isagi takes it, staring. "Thanks," he mumbles. He continues to hold the ice pack against his hand, trying to ease the burn, but his mind is racing with the unexpected warmth. It's... disorienting. 

Sae watches him for a moment before speaking, his voice a little quieter than usual. "My little brother used to get hurt all the time,” Sae says, not looking directly at Isagi, but his tone carries a trace of something softer. "I didn't mind, though. He always had at least ten different types of bandaids on him."

Isagi glances up, surprised by the shift. "Your brother?"

"Yeah," Sae replies quickly, his eyes flicking away like he’s trying to downplay it. "He was always getting into trouble, scrapes, burns, the usual. I was the one who dealt with it."

Isagi stays quiet, sensing there’s more Sae could say but doesn’t. Instead, he just nods, there’s something about the way Sae speaks—like it’s a memory he doesn’t like to linger on. “You took care of him?”

Sae finally looks at Isagi, his expression neutral again, but there’s a flicker of something there, almost imperceptible. "Someone had to. Just the way it was."

Isagi is quiet for a moment, processing the image of Sae, usually so composed and untouchable, caring for someone. "Are you two close?" Isagi murmurs, not really asking but more to himself. Sae doesn’t say anything else, whatever memory that was starting to curve his lips suddenly turning bitter. 

Isagi hesitates, trying to find the right words, but before he can say anything more, Sae reaches over, gently removing the ice pack from his hand. "You should be fine," Sae says, his usual demeanor back in place. "Just... be more careful next time."

Isagi watches him for a moment, his mind swirling with questions. "Thanks, Sae," Isagi says, his voice a little softer than usual.

Sae doesn’t reply directly, just gives him a short nod before walking away. The moment is over as quickly as it came, leaving Isagi to wonder just how much Sae keeps hidden behind those guarded eyes.

His stupid burn already healed, he starts to think up what else he can do. He had made a decision; tonight, he was going full-throttle. If the seductive cleaning routine didn’t work, then what would? So, he’s been waiting for Sae to be in the right mood—after all, a little cleaning never hurt anyone. 

He stands in the living room with a feather duster in his hand, staring down the shelves like they were the only thing that mattered. He is going to make this work. He has to. 

With an exaggerated sweep of the duster, Isagi begins working on the shelf closest to Sae, his movements drawn out and deliberate. He flicks his wrist, making sure the motion was slow enough to catch Sae’s attention. 

Sae, sitting on the couch, looks up for a moment. "You really take cleaning seriously, huh?"

Isagi grins, taking a step closer to him. "I mean, you know what they say, a clean house is a happy house." Actually, that’s just what his mom would say when they did their spring cleaning. Isagi really loved to help her when it was just the two of them, especially when she’d let him toss the water bucket onto the pavement, or when they’d race on all fours with the towels as they shined the floors. He shakes the memory off, his fingers still twirling the feather duster. "Sometimes you have to... really get in there, you know?"

Sae blinks, looking confused for a second before shrugging. "Yeah. It's gotta be done." He returns to his phone, clearly uninterested.

Isagi stifles a sigh. Okay, not exactly the reaction he was hoping for… 

He is definitely not getting through to him, but he isn’t giving up yet. He straightens up again, holding the duster tight. “I could—" He hesitates, eyes flicking between Sae and the duster. "I could really dust off this place, if you want.”

Sae glances up. "I don’t doubt your skills, Isagi." He looked back down at his phone. 

Isagi’s face flushed. Okay, fine. Let’s bring it home.

With newfound desperation, Isagi walks over to the couch and leans down in front of Sae, making sure his movements were just a little too slow as he put the duster on the coffee table. "You know, when things get really dirty, it’s best to just... rub it out." He bit his lip, his eyes wide with what he thought was sultry confidence. "You know, really give it a good polish..."

"You really like cleaning, don’t you?" Sae interrupts, taking a sip from his drink. "Is this some kind of passion project?” 

Isagi wants to die. He was flailing. Desperately trying to recover, he picks up the mop, thinking maybe a change in approach would work. “I just... I just want to make everything look nice for you, you know?” His voice cracks, and he adds quickly, “I mean, the house. The house.” He groaned internally. 

Sae nods, looking thoughtful. "I see. Well, I appreciate it." 

Isagi pauses, still holding the mop, utterly defeated. “So you’re not, like, dirty or anything? Don’t need me to clean you with me ton—”

Sae’s phone cuts him off, and he takes one look at the caller ID before rolling his eyes and silencing it, “what were you saying?”

Isagi sighs deeply, dramatically slumping down onto the couch next to Sae. "Never mind."

Isagi has resigned himself to his fate; Sae was never going to pick up on his advances. Maybe subtlety wasn’t his strong suit, or maybe Sae was just that oblivious—either way, Isagi has a job to do. And tonight, that job was making sure Sae didn’t show up to his sponsor event looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and threatened someone with a stare.  

Armed with a freshly pressed suit, Isagi knocks on Sae’s bedroom door before stepping inside. "Brought your suit, like you asked." He holds it up like a prize, nodding toward the bed where he planned to lay it out. "Wouldn’t want you to show up looking too effortless."  

Sae, sitting on the edge of the bed in a half-buttoned dress shirt, glances up. "It's just a sponsor event. I don’t need to try that hard."  

Isagi clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "That's exactly why you do need to try. They’re paying you, right? You at least gotta pretend to care."  

Sae hums in vague agreement, watching as Isagi fusses over the suit like a professional stylist. He drapes the jacket over a chair, smoothing out the fabric with careful hands.  

After a moment, Sae asks, "You care a lot about this kind of stuff?"  

Isagi scoffs, adjusting the cuffs of the dress shirt Sae would be wearing. "Not really. I just heard you decline every invite you ever get, so this one must be nice enough for you to accept."  

Sae lets out a short, amused exhale. "No, I mean… professionalism. Looking good for the job."  

Isagi hesitates, blinking. That isn’t exactly where he thought this conversation was going.  

He shrugs. "I guess. But it’s not really about that." He traces his fingers over the fabric, feeling the weight of it. He couldn’t afford a suit this nice in a million years. "It's about soccer, right? This is part of the whole thing, being a pro, having sponsors, doing these events. It’s all part of the game."  

Sae watches him carefully now, his usual impassivity shifting just slightly. "You like soccer?"  

Isagi huffs a laugh, finally looking up. "Of course I do. It’s everything to me." His hands still on the suit, and for once, he wasn’t thinking about ways to mess with Sae or worm his way under his skin. He was just… being honest. His supervisor and the other workers at his job always told him to keep his personal feelings out of it, but he couldn’t help it. This was his life, he couldn’t sit and pretend it wasn’t. "I’ve been obsessed with it since I was a kid. I know I’m not playing at the level you are, but I still think about it every day. I read about it, watch it, analyze everything." He smiles, small but genuine. "It’s kinda pathetic, huh?"  

Sae’s gaze doesn’t waver. "Not really." He leans back on his hands. "That’s how it was for me and Rin when we were kids. We ate, slept, and breathed soccer."  

Isagi looks at him, curious but cautious. Sae didn’t talk about his past much, and especially not about his brother.  

Sae exhales, his expression unreadable. "I used to dress Rin up for his events, too." His lips quirk slightly, as if the memory was both fond and distant. "He was bad at tying ties."  

Isagi blinks, caught off guard by the unexpected tidbit. "You’re saying I remind you of your little brother?" he asks, scandalized. "That’s so messed up."  

Sae scoffs, shaking his head. "No, I’m saying you’re annoying like he was."  

"Wow," Isagi deadpans. "You’re so generous, Sae."  

Sae doesn’t reply immediately, but his half smile (half not a smile) lingers as he reaches for the dress shirt Isagi had prepared for him. "Help me with the tie, then."  

Isagi hesitates, but only for a second before stepping closer. As he works, looping the fabric carefully around Sae’s collar, he tries to ignore how close they were. How he can feel Sae’s breath ghosting over his hands.  

"You're terrible at this," Sae mutters after a few seconds, watching Isagi fumble with the knot.  

"I’m concentrating," Isagi hisses, heat crawling up his neck. 

Sae lets him struggle for a moment longer before his hands come up, brushing against Isagi’s as he adjusts the tie himself.  

Isagi freezes, ears burning. Great, he thought. Now I’m the one being seduced.

Sae’s fingers brush against his, effortlessly taking over the knot like it’s second nature. The air between them shifts, subtle, but noticeable. Sae is too close, too focused, and Isagi can’t tell if he’s just imagining the warmth of his breath against his cheek.  

He swallows, trying to regain his composure. “You could’ve let me finish,” he mumbles, though his voice lacks real bite.  

Sae huffs a quiet laugh. “You were taking too long.” He tugs the knot into place, his hands lingering for just a second longer than necessary before stepping back. “Better?”  

Isagi clears his throat, resisting the urge to loosen the tie just to spite him. “Yeah.” He busies himself adjusting Sae’s suit jacket instead, smoothing out the fabric over his shoulders. It’s an excuse to keep his hands moving, to distract himself from whatever the hell just happened. Maybe also to feel his muscles a bit. A lot.

Sae watches him with an unreadable expression, but then he says, “you’re a hard worker.”  

“Well, yeah,” Isagi mutters, focused on a nonexistent crease in the lapel. “Everything you do, you need to put all of yourself into it. It’s part of soccer, right?”  

Sae hums in acknowledgment. He doesn’t say anything right away, just watches as Isagi fusses over him like a perfectionist maid on a mission. Then, without a flinch, he adds, “You’re really committed to serving me, huh?”  

Isagi’s hands freeze mid-adjustment. His brain switches off for half a second before he recovers. Was… was that flirting?  

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, straightening up. “I live to serve, master.” He even throws in a dramatic little bow for effect.

Sae just rolls his eyes. “Lukewarm.”  

But Isagi swears he sees the corner of his mouth twitch, like he’s holding back a real smile. And for some stupid reason, that makes his chest feel a little too warm.

Sae glances at his watch, then back at Isagi. “You should come with me.”  

Isagi blinks. “What?”  

“To the event. It’s just a bunch of corporate people and sponsors.” 

For a second, Isagi is actually caught off guard. He figured Sae was just tolerating him, not inviting him places. He opens his mouth, then hesitates, glancing down at himself—his maid costume, and he thinks of his closet; usual plain clothes, sneakers a little scuffed from running errands all day.  

“Can’t,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t have a suit.”  

Sae looks him over, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s just noticing. “…You don’t own one?”  

Isagi shrugs. “Not exactly rolling in cash, man. And I doubt ‘service industry’ fits the dress code.”  

Sae exhales through his nose, like he’s debating whether or not to be annoyed. “If it’s a money thing, just—”  

“Nope,” Isagi cuts in immediately. “Not letting you pay for me. That’s weird.”  

Sae tilts his head, scrutinizing him. “You literally work for me.”  

“I know, it’s just..” Isagi mumbles back, crossing his arms. Then, after a beat, his eyes light up with an idea. “Oh, but technically, if you called my company and requested me for that service, I could be arranged as your escort for an event next time.”  

Sae gives him a blank stare. “You’re telling me I have to formally book you just to take you somewhere?”  

“Rules are rules,” he says, tapping his temple. “I’m a professional.”  

Sae shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before grabbing his wallet. “Fine. But don’t complain next time when I make you go.”  

Isagi watches him, lips curving slightly.

They step into the elevator, the soft hum of it descending filling the silence between them. Sae stands with his hands in his pockets, gazing at his own reflection in the doors, while Isagi shifts his weight from foot to foot, still riding the high of his little victory.  

It’s only when the floors tick down and the reality of the conversation settles in that something clicks in Isagi’s brain.  

Wait.

Sae invited him. To a fancy event. With him.  

And he—he said no.

Isagi stiffens, his grip tightening around the strap of his bag. His own reflection in the doors stares back at him, just as dumbstruck as he feels. Did Sae just.. was that him asking me out?

The thought crashes into him like a freight train, and he nearly chokes on air. He rejected him.  

Sae side eyes him. “You good?”  

“Fine!” he blurts, voice a little too high. He clears his throat, trying to play it cool. “Just thinking about something.”  

Sae doesn’t push, just shakes his head like he’s used to Isagi’s weird behavior by now. When the elevator dings open, they step out together, Sae heading toward the parking lot and Isagi toward the bike rack.  

Sae pauses, watching as Isagi unlocks his bike. “You bike home?”  

Isagi nods, glancing up. “Yeah?”  

Sae looks unimpressed. “Every night?”  

Isagi shrugs. “It’s not bad.”  

Sae doesn’t reply immediately. His eyes flick to the sky, dark now, the city lights casting a glow over the pavement, then back to Isagi’s bike.  

“Get in,” Sae says, gesturing to his car.  

Isagi blinks, eyes flitting from Sae’s face to his stupidly expensive car. “Huh?”  

“I’ll drive you home,” Sae adds, tone flat.  

Isagi hesitates, half tempted to say no again out of sheer stupidity, but then he sees the way Sae is looking at him. Like he’s just now realizing how far Isagi goes every night, the ridiculous distance he bikes just to show up and clean his overpriced apartment. For a second, it almost looks like concern.  

“…Okay,” he says finally, locking his bike back up.  

He slides into the passenger seat, still trying to figure out how the hell tonight turned into this. The car smells like new car even though it’s probably not, and the seats are heated. Sae lets him type his address into the literal flat screen on the center of the dash, squinting his eyes at the arrival time as if Isagi’s long commute offends him personally. 

The drive is quiet, save for the occasional flick of Sae’s turn signal. Isagi keeps his hands in his lap, fidgeting slightly. He still can’t shake the feeling that he might’ve just fumbled the biggest bag of his life back in that elevator.  

Sae, for his part, doesn’t say much. Just drives, focused, occasionally glancing at the GPS like he’s calculating something in his head. After about twenty minutes, they pull up to Isagi’s place.  

Sae frowns.  

Isagi sighs, already bracing himself. Sae doesn’t say anything at first, just keeps looking at the building like he’s trying to figure out how it hasn’t been condemned yet. The paint’s peeling, the lobby light flickers like it’s trying to communicate with ghosts, and the lobby’s door handle probably hasn’t been changed since the ‘90s.  

Isagi clears his throat. “No one’s breaking in to steal our cup ramen, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  

Sae’s lips twitch slightly, but the frown stays. “You bike this far every night to clean my place, and this is where you live?”  

Isagi shrugs. “It’s cheap.”  

Sae doesn’t reply right away. He just sits there, one hand draped over the wheel, eyes still scanning the building like it’s personally offended him. Then, finally, he exhales through his nose and unlocks the doors.  

“Don’t get stabbed,” Sae mutters.  

Isagi grins as he grabs his bag. “Aww, you do care.”  

“Get out.”  

Isagi chuckles, stepping out of the car. Before he closes the door, he leans down, smirking. “See you tomorrow, Sir.”  

He’s not even on the pathway when Sae calls out, “Isagi.”

Isagi blinks, one foot still on the curb. He turns back toward the car, confused. But Sae just looks at him, expression unreadable, fingers tapping idly against the steering wheel. “Let me drive you home from now on,” Sae says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  

Isagi stares. “What, like... every night?”  

Sae’s brow twitches. “Yes. That’s what ‘from now on’ means.”  

Oh. Isagi shifts on his feet, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that this is probably the nicest thing Sae has ever offered him. Hell, maybe the nicest thing anyone’s offered him in a while.  

“Uh—” He scratches his cheek. “I mean, you pay me to bike all the way there and back, you know. Kind of feels like a scam if I just start hitching a ride with you.”  

Sae doesn’t dignify that with a response, just tilts his head slightly. 

And Isagi knows, in that instant, that Sae isn’t really offering—he’s telling him.  

His ears feel warm. He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. If it makes you feel better.”  

Sae hums, apparently satisfied. “Good.” He nods toward the building. “Go.”  

Isagi nods, bowing like an idiot, because he’s not really sure what else he’s supposed to do and his heart is fluttering a little too dangerously.

Sae rolls his eyes, already shifting the car into reverse. Isagi watches him drive off, then turns toward his building, shaking his head.  

He exhales, shaking his head to himself as he trudges up the stairs. He’s barely even two weeks into the job and he can’t even keep his feelings out of it.
____

The next few weeks pass in a frustrating, soul-crushing blur of domestic servitude.  

Isagi accepts—begrudgingly, bitterly, not mournfully, no of course not—that the condoms in his purse will simply never see the light of day. He doesn’t know what’s worse; the fact that he still carries them around like some hopeless optimist as if Sae is just going to one day go oh yeah, aren’t I supposed to stick it in you, or the fact that he had to Google whether condoms expire and learned that, yes, they do, and at this rate, he’ll probably have to replace them. Who knew? Apparently not him. His sexual drought is now actively costing him money. 

But it’s fine. It’s fine.  

He’s not here to sleep with Sae. He’s here to be his maid. That’s what Sae wants.  

His incredibly well-paid maid.  

His incredibly well-paid maid who is now getting chauffeured home every night, because Sae insisted—which, in Sae-speak, means he stared at Isagi until he felt so judged that he physically couldn’t say no.  

So, that’s his life now.  

He cleans. He does laundry. He makes food (which Sae only sometimes eats, but whatever, his loss). He makes coffee (which Sae always drinks, which is honestly the biggest compliment Isagi’s ever received). He brings Sae towels when he showers, because somehow this fully grown man always forgets to grab one. Sae’s not really good at much outside of football and blunt insults, so Isagi picks up the slack in what skills he lacks. 

And yet, despite the sheer amount of domestic tasks he performs, not once does Sae ever take the bait when Isagi attempts to inject a little seduction into the routine.  

Not even when he leans against the counter while cleaning, tilting his head and saying, “I just love polishing wood.”  

Not even when he very deliberately bends over while scrubbing the floor and sighs, “Ugh, my knees always hurt after this.”  

Nothing.  

Nothing but an occasional unimpressed glance or a muttered “Then use a mop.”

At this point, he’s starting to think Sae might genuinely not realize he’s supposed to be an escort.  

The final straw comes when he tries a direct approach.  

One night, as Sae drops him off, Isagi hovers before getting out, then clears his throat. “Hey, uh, just so you know…” He fidgets with the strap of his bag, mustering up all his courage. “If you ever, y’know. Want anything else. My company offers, um. Other services.”  

Sae stares at him. “Other services.”  

Isagi nods, face burning. “Yeah. Other services.”  

A long, excruciating silence before, finally, Sae nods back. “Alright. Do they do lawn care?”  

Isagi slams the car door shut so hard the whole vehicle shakes.

The problem is not because Sae is any different, no, Sae’s still the same emotionally stunted brick wall, but because Isagi is trying very hard to process the absolute humiliation of being mistaken for a goddamn landscaper.  

Does he look like a guy who mows lawns? No. He barely even knows how to keep a houseplant alive. His mom was the one with the green thumb. 

The worst part is, Sae wasn’t even joking. He was dead serious, sitting there with his hands on the wheel, probably imagining Isagi out there in the summer sun, pushing a lawnmower around his pristine balcony yard.  

At this point, Isagi is running out of options.  

Weeks of subtle seduction? Failed.  

Weeks of innuendos? Failed.  

Weeks of increasingly desperate suggestive cleaning techniques? Super failed.

And now, Sae thinks he’s in the landscaping business. He needs a new strategy.   

Unfortunately, his new strategy turns out to be just suffering through it, because no matter what, Isagi still has a job to do.  

So, the days go on as usual. He folds Sae’s laundry (do you ever wear anything that isn’t designer?), he scrubs his floors (the only thing getting on his knees for this man is a Swiffer), and he prepares his meals (the bastard will eat three bites and then say he’s full, and Isagi will just have to live with that).  

He’s washing the dishes when he tries again.  

“So,” he says, keeping it casual. “Any plans for the weekend?”  

Sae, sitting at the counter, reading he ingredient label on those gross fermented drinks he likes, doesn’t even look up. “Game on Saturday. Might go out after.”  

Isagi wipes a plate dry. “Oh, yeah? Where?”  

Sae shrugs. “Some bar.”  

Something sparks in Isagi’s brain. A bar. He can work with that. Bars mean drinks. Drinks lower inhibitions.  

“Sounds fun,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “You know… if you ever wanted company…”  

Sae finally looks up, blinking at him.  

And for a split second, just one second, Isagi thinks he’s finally done it—he’s finally cracked the unshakable, unflappable Itoshi, that maybe, Sae will take the hint.

Then Sae nods. “Yeah. I’ll call the agency.”  

Isagi drops the plate.

The plate clatters against the sink, and Isagi stares at it for a long second, water still running.  

Sae just goes back to inspecting the calories like he didn’t just absolutely eviscerate Isagi’s soul with one sentence.  

"The agency?" Isagi echoes, gripping the edge of the sink. "You’ll call the agency?"  

Sae hums. "Yeah. If you want to go out, I have to book you through them, right? That’s what you told me.”

Book him? Oh, right. Because in Sae’s mind, Isagi is nothing more than a on-call maid he hired from a sex work company. A service provider. A guy whose entire job revolves around dusting his shelves and folding his socks and possibly giving a few handjobs whenever Sae actually pleases to get one.

Not, you know, a potential date.

But he had only meant he needed to call the agency to get Isagi to escort him to fancy events, because then they’d provide him the proper suit or outfit or whatever the hell it was Sae wanted him to wear that he couldn’t afford by himself. Not some stupid bar.

Isagi inhales sharply, turns off the sink, and dries his hands like a man defeated. "Yes.. sorry. You do have to book me through the agency."  

Sae nods, completely unbothered. "Alright. I’ll check if you’re available next weekend."  

Isagi, once again, is faced with the ever growing realization that the condoms in his purse will never see their intended use.  

The following weeks are just more of the same.  

Sae drives him home. Sae picks him up. Sae watches him clean in the most nonchalant, disinterested way possible while Isagi throws out increasingly desperate innuendos that Sae either doesn’t notice or outright ignores.  

Even when Sae starts doing little things, like buying extra food so Isagi can eat with him, or pulling the car up to the curb before Isagi even asks, Isagi can’t let himself get hopeful.  

Because Sae still doesn’t want him.  

And somehow, that hurts more than if he had just outright rejected him and rented someone with a bit more experience or who was more his type. Maybe Sae liked blondes with plastic surgery or natural models or movie stars, all of whom would throw themselves to his feet just to be his girlfriend. 

It reaches a point where Isagi has to accept a fundamental truth; Sae is impenetrable, and Isagi is about to retire his game permanently.  

"Isagi."  

He turns, barely glancing up from scrubbing the kitchen counter angrily. "Yeah?"  

Sae is standing by the fridge, eyeing him. "That night I mentioned? I booked you for it next weekend."  

Isagi blinks. Lowers the sponge. "Huh?"  

Sae looks up. "I called the agency. They said I could book you for external services."  

…External services.

Isagi swallows hard. "Uh. What exactly did you book me for?"  

Sae tilts his head, like it should be obvious. "To come with me."  

"Oh,” Isagi says, because he has no idea what else to say. "Cool. Yeah, cool. Uh—wait. They approved it?"  

Sae nods. "Yeah. I told them I needed you for companionship."  

Isagi’s hand twitches.  

Sae, as straight-faced as ever, just looks back at the array in the fridge. "I didn’t know you did that kind of thing."  

Isagi's heart skips a beat, and he bites the inside of his cheek to stop from groaning. He fights the urge to start laughing hysterically at how utterly messed up this situation has become.  

"Yeah, well, I’m really good at it," Isagi manages to say, his voice strained. He’s not even sure if he's still referring to the maid thing at this point.  

Sae doesn’t even look up. “I’m sure you are.”  

There’s a tension hanging in the air, like one of those moments when you know the universe is daring you to completely lose it. Isagi scratches his cheek, wondering if maybe Sae’s actually playing dumb. 

But nope. Sae just keeps searching for his kombucha in the fridge, all casual and unaware.  

“Is the bar going to be kind of,” Isagi hesitates, he tries to sound casual, but it comes out more like he’s never been more confused in his life, “like, fancy?"  

Sae glances up, blinking as if the thought hadn't crossed his mind. “Yeah. You don’t have to dress up, but the agency said they can still provide it for you. Since you said you’d need them for that.”  

Oh. So Isagi really had dug his own grave by saying that during his first few shifts. He knows he’s barely holding it together. He’s starting to get the feeling that Sae might just be messing with him now, but honestly? Isagi’s so far gone at this point that he’s almost willing to take anything Sae gives him.
____

Isagi finds some peace in ironing Sae’s suit.  

It’s not his job—well, technically, it is, considering he’s still being paid for being here, and apparently, in Sae’s mind, that extends to laundry services rather than prostitution, but it’s not the kind of thing he expected when he signed up for this gig.  

He presses the iron over the crisp fabric, careful not to leave any creases. The whole time, he’s hyper aware of Sae sitting on the couch a few feet away, watching some games on the TV like he doesn’t have a personal sex maid standing there steaming his expensive suit for a high profile sponsor event. What a life. 

“You’re quiet today,” Sae comments absentmindedly.  

Isagi huffs, adjusting the sleeve of the suit. “I’m working.”

“Right,” Sae says, dry, amused. “Diligent as ever.”  

Isagi rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t bite back. Instead, his mind drifts to something that’s been nagging at him for weeks now. He’s never had this kind of access to a professional player before. Being in the same room as one of the best midfielders in the world, just existing in his orbit, is still surreal to him.  

And so, without really thinking about it, he asks, “Do you have any soccer tips?”  

Sae glances up, surprised. It’s the first time in a while that Isagi sees an actual reaction from him, like he wasn’t expecting something so genuine. “What?”  

Isagi straightens up, suddenly self-conscious. “Do you have any advice? On how to play better?”  

Sae tilts his head, as if considering whether this is a joke. “You want me to give you free lessons now?”  

“I mean, I am ironing your suit,” Isagi points out, gesturing with the iron. “You could humor me… please?”  

Sae exhales, setting his phone down. “You want to know how to see the game better?”  

Isagi nods eagerly, trying to play it cool.  

Sae leans back against the couch, thoughtful. “Alright. Finish that up first.”  

Isagi blinks. “Wait, really?”  

Sae nods. “Yeah. Also, don’t burn the suit.”  

Isagi yips, looking down at the place he’d been leaving the iron on for much too long without realizing and checking that there are no marks on it, but there’s an excited buzz in his chest now. He speeds through the last of the ironing (properly, because Sae would judge him for messing it up), and then moves to the couch.  

Sae pulls up a past match on TV, one of his own games, and gestures for Isagi to sit and watch. “Why me?”

Isagi shifts on the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s not sure why he asked. Maybe he’s just craving something, anything, from Sae that doesn’t feel so out of his range. "I mean, you’re one of the best midfielders I’ve ever seen," Isagi admits, his voice quieter now. "And I could really use any advice. You know, on how to read the game better. See patterns, anticipate the next move..." He trails off, feeling stupid as soon as the words leave his mouth.  

To his surprise, Sae doesn’t laugh or brush him off. Instead, he leans back into the couch, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "You want to learn how to think like a midfielder?"  

Isagi nods eagerly, relieved that Sae is taking him seriously. “Well.. striker actually, but you’ll never get anywhere if you don’t know how to see the field.”

"Alright then," Sae says with a small nod, as if he's already decided on something. “I’m not just going to talk you through it. You’re going to watch and pick up on things.” He presses play, the game unfolding in front of them.  

“Don’t just follow the ball,” Sae says, his voice shifting into something more analytical, sharper. “Watch the spacing. The way the midfield shifts. The way we pull defenders out of position.”  

Isagi is already nodding, his eyes fixed on the screen.  

The intensity of the game on the screen pulls Isagi in immediately, his eyes trained on every movement, every pass, every shift in formation. Sae, sitting beside him, watches him as much as the game, quietly observing Isagi’s reactions.  

They watch in silence for a while, only the sounds of the game filling the space between them. Isagi doesn’t even notice how intensely he’s focused on the match until he hears Sae’s voice again.  

“Not bad,” Sae says, his tone surprisingly approving as Isagi tells him what he saw. “You’re picking up on the formations pretty well. You see how the midfielders shift to make space for the wingers, right?”  

Isagi nods quickly, a spark of excitement in his eyes. "Yeah, I see it. The way they draw them out of position, create that extra lane to get the ball in. And the way the striker adjusts to follow up the pass…” He trails off, then glances at Sae, almost apologetically. "Sorry, I know I’m probably talking too much."  

Sae looks over at him, his face betraying nothing. “No, I’m impressed.” 

Isagi can’t help the slight grin that spreads across his face. It feels good to have Sae acknowledge his insight, to hear someone he respects say that he has potential.  

They continue watching, with Isagi offering his observations now and then, his analysis becoming sharper and more instinctual. He’s not just memorizing tactics he’s read about in books or seen in videos. He’s thinking like a player, anticipating the next move before it happens, analyzing everything in real time.  

By the time the game ends, Isagi feels a strange sense of accomplishment. He didn’t think just watching would teach him so much, but he’s already thinking about ways to apply the strategies they’ve discussed to his own game. That is.. if he ever got to play in another. 

They go through two full matches before Sae finally asks the question that’s been bothering him.  

“If you can read the game this well,” Sae says, not looking away from the screen, “why aren’t you playing?”  

Isagi stiffens. His fingers, which had been curled over his knee, tighten slightly.  

“I tried,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter than before. “I tried my whole life. Every day. I gave everything to it.” He swallows. “And then high school happened, and—”  

He stops there. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but it’s enough.  

Sae’s eyes darken. His jaw tightens.  

He’s seen it before—countless players with real talent, real drive, crushed under Japan’s outdated, stifling system. A country that doesn’t know how to nurture real players. That doesn’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t fit their rigid mold.  

It’s why he left.  

“That’s bullshit,” Sae says, his voice sharper than usual. His grip tightens around the remote. “They wasted you.”  

Isagi laughs, but it’s humorless. “I mean, it’s not like I was some prodigy. I just.. let myself be another cog. It’s a team sport or don’t hog the ball, all of that stuff.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” Sae snaps. “You have vision. You see the game better than half the players I know. They should have developed that. Not thrown you away.”  

Isagi doesn’t know what to say. It’s strange, hearing someone, Sae, of all people, get mad on his behalf.  

But before he can respond, Sae exhales sharply and leans back against the couch. “And now you’re doing this instead?”  

“Gotta pay my end of the rent somehow,” Isagi mutters.  

Sae’s head tilts slightly. “Your end?”  

Isagi nods. “Yeah.”  

For a moment, Sae is quiet. Then, slowly, realization dawns. “You live with someone.”  

Isagi doesn’t reply immediately. He just shrugs, noncommittal.  

Sae watches him, sharp eyes flicking over his expression, searching for something. “Well I hope they’re contributing.”

His mom… she tries. She’s always tried to work hard for him and give him the money he needed to fund his after school program and the new balls and cleats and gym bags and uniforms, but she wasn’t well. He didn’t want her working, even if that work just included scanning things at the local konbini. He was worried about her, always, but she always told him to put himself first, that that’s what a mother is supposed to do. He smiles to himself, equal parts melancholy and proud, and Sae must see it in his face, because he drops the line of questioning to say, “let’s watch another.” 

One more game in it’s already late, those games are quite long when they get to a professional world stage level, and he listens to the sound of Sae’s voice. But before he can say anything more, his eyelids grow heavy, the exhaustion from the long day catching up with him. His body relaxes into the couch, the warmth of the room, and the soothing cadence of Sae’s voice as he talked about the match lulling him into a drowsy stupor.
____

Sae glances over at Isagi, who’s now slumped on the couch, his head tilting slightly to the side. For a moment, Sae just watches him. It’s a strange thing, watching someone so clearly absorbed in something, so passionate—and then suddenly vulnerable.

Sae stands slowly, moving quietly to the closet. He grabs a soft blanket, folding it neatly before draping it over Isagi’s still form.  

For a moment, he just stands there, watching Isagi’s relaxed face. The boy’s eyes are closed, his breathing steady, completely unaware of the shift in the atmosphere between them. There’s something about the sight of him, curled up on the couch, so trusting, so unaware, that has a strange effect on Sae.  

He blinks, shaking his head, but he doesn’t pull the blanket back. Instead, he quietly makes his way to the kitchen to grab another drink, leaving Isagi to rest in his own little world of sleep.  

But as Sae sips his drink, his thoughts wander back to the match, to the way Isagi’s sharp eyes never missed a detail. Maybe there’s more to him than he thought. Maybe he could make something of himself after all. Japan could make a striker worthy of his passes.

Sae lets out a breath, his gaze flicking back toward the couch. He can’t help the slight pull of curiosity that he feels, wondering what else Isagi’s capable of, what else is hidden beneath that quiet, earnest demeanor.  

And with that thought lingering in the air, Sae settles back into the couch, letting the night stretch on, his eyes flicking back to Isagi every now and then, watching as the boy sleeps peacefully under the warmth of the blanket. 

He just leans into the cushions, staring at the paused screen, fingers idly tapping against his knee.  

Isagi lives with someone.  

The thought settles uncomfortably in his head, an odd weight pressing against his chest. Your end of the rent. A shared space. A shared life.  

So, Isagi has someone waiting for him at home. Someone who notices when he’s late. Someone he comes back to after long nights here.  

Sae’s never really thought about Isagi’s life outside this apartment. It’s like he exists in some weird vacuum—always showing up at his place, cleaning, cooking, lingering too long, saying things that make Sae pause, dragging him in with those round, blue eyes. But now, there’s a reminder that when he leaves, he’s going somewhere. To someone.  

It shouldn’t matter, yet for some reason, it irritates him.  

Maybe it’s because Isagi doesn’t act like someone who has a lover waiting at home. He stays late, falls asleep on Sae’s couch, gets excited over soccer like a dumb kid who still thinks the world is his for the taking.  

But what does Sae know? Maybe Isagi’s lover doesn’t care that he stays out this late. Maybe they’re used to it. Maybe they understand that he’s like this—earnest and stupid and passionate about things that don’t serve him anymore.  

Maybe they love him for it.  

Sae clicks his tongue, annoyed with himself.  

It’s none of his business.  

And yet, when Isagi stretches beside him, mumbling something softly in his sleep, features smooth and relaxed with a pleasant dream, Sae finds himself irritated all over again.

Sae doesn’t know much of anything outside of soccer. It’s not something he’s ever been ashamed of, not when it’s gotten him this far, not when it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.  

But he knows people—he knows how they move, how they think, how to predict their next step before they even realize they’re taking it. And yet, sitting here, watching Isagi sleep soundly on his couch, Sae realizes that he doesn’t know anything about him beyond the surface.  

He knows Isagi’s smart, at least when it comes to soccer. He knows he’s good at taking care of things—his place, his laundry, Sae himself, in ways that Sae hasn’t even asked for. He can sense an egotist from a mile away, and Isagi’s got that too, but in a simmering, just beneath the surface kind of way. Like someone with an itch they’ll never be able to scratch. But he doesn’t know who Isagi really is outside of those things, outside of the odd, quiet, mostly transactional relationship they share. And that bothers him more than it should.  

It’s worse because—Isagi is pretty.  

It’s a thought Sae would never say out loud, but it lingers in the back of his mind, unshakable. In sleep, with the soft glow of the television flickering against his skin, Isagi’s face is smooth, free of tension. His lashes are ridiculously long, fanning out over his cheeks, and his lips—fuck, his lips—are parted just slightly, soft and full, the kind of lips that would make anyone stop and stare.  

Sae doesn’t want to stare. But he does.  

He tells himself it’s because Isagi looks different like this. It’s the first time he’s seen him completely still, not moving, not talking, not making some dumb innuendo about cleaning. Just— there, existing in a way that makes something tighten in Sae’s chest. It’s unsettling.  

And maybe that’s why the idea of Isagi having a lover gnaws at him, deep in his chest like a sore spot from rolling his ankle, except behind his ribs. Whoever it is, he thinks, they’re an idiot for letting him stay out this late. For letting him waste his time cleaning up after someone like Sae, instead of chasing after his own potential.  

For not holding onto him more tightly.  

Sae scowls, forcing his gaze away. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about this. It’s none of his business. It doesn’t matter.

But as Isagi shifts slightly, exhaling a quiet sigh, his features soft in sleep, Sae’s stomach twists with something unfamiliar.  

He doesn’t like it. He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. This is getting ridiculous.  

It’s one thing to be mildly annoyed that Isagi lives with someone who might just be a stupid roommate and not his boyfriend or girlfriend, another to find himself getting pent up over the way he moves around his apartment like he belongs there, like it’s normal for him to be flitting between rooms in that damn outfit, bending over to scrub at some invisible stain on the floor, skirt riding up so high that Sae has to physically restrain himself from looking.  

He’s a soccer genius. A disciplined professional. A man who’s supposed to have full control over himself at all times. But there are only so many cold showers he can take before his instincts, the ones that drive him to win, to dominate, to take what he wants and take pleasure from it, start clawing at the edges of his self control.  

And fuck, Isagi isn’t helping.  

Sae has spent his whole life honing his instincts on the field, reading plays before they happen, positioning himself for the perfect pass, the perfect strike. But those instincts extend to other things too, and right now, every single one of them is screaming at him to do something about the way Isagi exists so carelessly in his space. He was still a driven animal at the end of the day like every other human being, and basal needs like food, shelter, sex are all things he has, even if he thinks he were above it all.

He probably just needs to get laid. Yeah. That’s it.  

After the game at the end of the week—where he’s taking Isagi along so the boy can have a little fanboy moment over the other players (but not too much, or Sae will get irritated for reasons he refuses to examine)—he’ll find some supermodel to take home at the bar. Some bored, married woman looking for a thrill, someone with black hair and twinkling blue eyes and the soft hint of baby fat on her cheeks, someone who looks nothing like—  

Sae stops that thought in its tracks, jaw tightening.  

Okay, maybe just someone with a nice ass. That should be enough to snap him out of whatever spell Isagi’s unknowingly cast over him.  

Because this? This weird, parasocial responsibility he’s developing over who he sleeps with, what they look like? That’s dangerous. That’s bordering on something he doesn’t want to name.  

And he doesn’t do emotions well, or at least that’s what he’s been told; in women slamming doors, and Rin’s tearful face and his parents’ dissatisfaction with him for never correcting his brother’s behavior, and in the single minded drive he always had to succeed that forced him to push any kind of feeling deep down, until they were shut off completely.

So, this is fine. A temporary problem with an easy solution.

One way or another, he’s going to exorcise Isagi Yoichi from his system.

Sae exhales slowly, forcing himself to relax against the couch. The room is quiet except for the soft sound of Isagi’s breathing. He’s still curled up under the blanket Sae had given him, his face slack with sleep, lips parted slightly. His dark hair falls messily over his forehead, some strands sticking to his skin, and before he can stop himself, Sae reaches out, brushing them aside with his fingers. The strands are soft. Softer than they should be.  

He hates that he notices that. Hates the way his chest tightens at it.  

His hand lingers for a second too long before he pulls away, rubbing his fingers together as if to rid himself of the sensation. It doesn’t work. The feeling lingers, crawling under his skin, sticking in his head like an intrusive thought.  

Sae sighs, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling.  

This is stupid. He’s never been like this over anyone before. Never let anyone get close enough for this kind of thing to happen. And yet, here he is, sitting on his own couch, losing sleep over some boy who doesn’t even realize what he’s doing to him.  

He closes his eyes, willing himself to shut down the thoughts, the feelings, the want.

Eventually, sleep takes him too, though not as easily as it does for Isagi.
____

Isagi stirs slowly, the soft weight of a blanket pulling him back into consciousness. The faint warmth of the couch still lingers around him, but it’s different now—comforting, familiar. He blinks his eyes open, disoriented for a moment, before he realizes he’s not alone.  

Sae’s sitting beside him, eyes closed, his head tipped back against the couch, his body relaxed in sleep. The way Sae's posture is casual, unguarded, makes Isagi feel almost guilty for having fallen asleep. He can't remember when he drifted off, but the lingering sense of Sae’s presence beside him doesn’t feel as strange as it should.  

His hand brushes the blanket that’s tucked snugly around him. Sae covered him? 

Isagi freezes, his heart skipping a beat at the realization. It’s just a blanket, after all. But it feels like something more, like Sae had intentionally made sure he was comfortable, even though Isagi is just a maid—just someone hired.  

He shifts on the couch, trying not to wake Sae, but the noise is enough to stir him. Sae’s eyes flicker open for a second, meeting Isagi’s gaze. There’s a moment of awkward silence, before Sae’s lips curve into that lazy, half smile he so rarely showed.  

“You’re up early,” Sae says with a raspy voice, clearly still in the haze of sleep.  

Isagi feels heat rise in his cheeks, but he quickly stands up, pulling the blanket off himself and folding it neatly. He can’t afford to stay any longer, not when the stream of his thoughts is becoming too much to handle. Shit, he should’ve been home already, he has no idea what his mom is going to say.  

“Yeah, I should get going…” he mutters, glancing toward the door. He tries to ignore the strange twinge in his chest.

Sae doesn’t respond immediately, just watches him as he grabs his bag and heads for the door.  

“You’re leaving already?” Sae asks, the question simple but tinged with something Isagi can’t quite place.  

“Yeah,” he replies quickly, his voice tight. “Thanks again, for everything. I’ll… I’ll see you on Sunday.”  

Sae just watches him as he leaves, not saying anything more. It’s odd, the way things have unfolded since last night—awkward, yet strangely comfortable at the same time.  

When Isagi finally returns to the agency, he’s still in the maid uniform, though it’s now rumpled and slightly disheveled from the long evening and the fact that he’d slept in it till morning. His hair is a bit out of place, his cheeks still flushed with the strange mixture of guilt and from rushing here.  

He makes his way through the lobby, hoping no one notices him, but of course, Hiori spots him immediately. Hiori was some kind of hired sadist, like the kind you see in the movies or on the street in Tokyo on Halloween before your mom covers your eyes. Leather, whips, handcuffs and all. The man has his own successful programming career and a side gig in streaming, so Isagi’s pretty sure he’s just doing this for fun. 

“Well, well, look who finally decided to roll in,” Hiori calls out, his voice dripping with amusement. He looks Isagi up and down, a teasing smirk curling on his lips. “Tough night? Or did you lose track of time with the job?”  

Isagi’s heart sinks. He knows Hiori’s been watching him more closely than he’d like to admit, but this, this teasing, feels like a thousand eyes on him all at once. He can feel his face going red, and he scrambles to try to look more composed.  

“I wasn’t—” he starts, but Hiori cuts him off, holding up a hand.  

“Relax, Isagi. I’m just messing with you,” Hiori laughs. “You sure you don’t need a break after that ‘long night’?”  

Isagi flusters, trying to brush it off. “It wasn’t like that…” He’s not sure why he feels the need to explain himself. It wasn’t like he did anything wrong, they were all hired here to have sex with their customers, but there’s this nagging feeling in his chest that won’t go away.  

Hiori just stares, clearly amused by the discomfort. “Uh huh. Sure. Well, anyway, you’re back now. Go take a breather, yeah? I’ll take care of the paperwork for today.”  

“Really? Thanks, Hiori,” Isagi says, smiling. He turns toward the back rooms, trying to escape into the quiet, but the guilt and the strange sense of warmth from the night before lingers, hanging in the air like a thick fog he can’t shake. 

Isagi slips out of the agency as quickly as he can, ducking past lingering coworkers and curious glances. His heart pounds in his chest—not from fear, not from shame, but from something he doesn’t want to name.  

It was just a job. Just another night.

He swallows hard as he steps onto the train with his bike, finding a quiet corner to sit in. The rumble of the tracks beneath him does little to settle his nerves. His fingers twitch in his lap, restless. He shouldn’t feel like this. Shouldn’t feel like something was left behind in that apartment, on that couch, under that stupid blanket.  

The city blurs past him, and before he knows it, he’s at his stop. The morning air is crisp as he walks the familiar path home, the tension in his shoulders tightening the closer he gets.  

By the time Isagi reaches his block, he’s already pulling out a spare set of clothes from his bag. He learned a long time ago how to prepare for coming home at night—not like this, but he can just pretend he stayed out too late and had to come home looking like he spent the night studying at a friend’s place instead of where he really was.  

He ducks into a nearby public restroom, peeling off the wrinkled maid outfit with quick, practiced movements. His fingers tremble slightly as he buttons up a simple hoodie over a t-shirt, tugging on a fresh pair of jeans. It’s muscle memory by now—swap out the evidence, hide any trace of where he’s been.  

The mirror catches his reflection as he runs a hand through his hair, trying to tame the mess. His face is flushed, lips still a little swollen from sleep, and his eyes are sunken. Sae never looked this much of a mess.

He exhales sharply, shaking the thought away.  

By the time he steps out of the restroom, he looks normal—just another kid coming home after staying out too late. Nothing suspicious. Nothing his mom would question.  

The walk home is quiet, the morning air crisp as he navigates familiar streets. By the time he reaches the apartment door, he hesitates. He shouldn’t. He lives here. But still, his hand lingers on the handle for a second too long before he finally pushes it open.  

The place is quiet, the air still heavy with the scent of late-night tea and his mom’s perfume. The place is quiet, the scent of tea and warm spices hanging in the air. His mom is sitting at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a cup, eyes flicking up the second she hears the door.  

“You’re late,” she says softly. “Was everything okay?”

Isagi lowers his head slightly, slipping off his shoes. “Yeah… sorry. I—fell asleep at Tada’s place.”  

He and Tada haven’t spoken since he was in his second year.

She doesn’t immediately respond, just watches him with that sharp gaze that always makes him feel like she sees too much.  

“Did you eat?” she asks finally.  

The question almost makes him choke.  

“Yeah,” he says. “We ordered takeout.”  

She exhales, nodding slightly before taking another sip of her tea. There’s no suspicion in her voice, no accusation. Just understanding.  

Isagi hates it.  

Hates that she trusts him.  

Hates that he has to lie.  

“I’m gonna shower,” he mutters.  

She doesn’t stop him. Just watches as he disappears down the hall, closing the bathroom door behind him.  

Isagi leans against it for a moment, exhaling slowly before turning on the water.  

As the steam fills the small space, he closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool tile.  

He should be thinking about work. About his mom. About keeping them both afloat.  

But instead, all he can think about is the weight of a blanket tucked over him in the middle of the night, and the ghost of fingers brushing against his forehead like something fragile.  

And the worst part?  

He doesn’t know if he hates it.

Isagi lies on his bed with clean, damp hair, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts of Sae. It’s been hours since he left Sae’s house, but the feelings from last night are still eating away at him, making it impossible to focus.  

He flips over, burying his face in his pillow like a teen girl, willing himself to sleep or forget—anything to stop the endless loop of questions running through his head. But the thoughts only keep coming, piling on top of each other. It’s too much.  

With a sigh, he sits up and grabs his phone, staring at the screen for a moment. He knows he should go to work, he knows he has responsibilities, but he can’t bring himself to go back to the agency. Not like this, not when his mind is still tangled in last night’s events.  

He taps Sae’s contact, his thumb hovering over the screen for a few seconds before pressing call. The phone rings, each ring feeling longer than the last.  

“Hello?” Sae’s voice comes through, relaxed for someone who slept sitting up.  

Isagi clears his throat, trying to sound casual despite the knot of nerves in his stomach. “Hey, Sae. I was wondering if it’d be okay to take the day off tomorrow.”  

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Isagi’s heart races, his thoughts already spiraling, but Sae’s calm voice interrupts his worry.  

“Of course,” Sae says. “I told you already, if you need it, tell me. Is there a problem?” 

Isagi blinks in surprise. He was expecting some sort of teasing remark, or maybe even a question about what’s going on, but Sae’s tone is completely genuine. It almost makes the guilt in his chest worse.  

“Thanks,” Isagi says quietly, his voice small. He wants to explain himself, to tell Sae that he’s not just taking the day off because of the job. But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods to himself, even though Sae can’t see it. “Also, no, I’ll be okay. Just... needed some time to myself.”  

There’s a soft hum from Sae, though it doesn’t sound mocking, more understanding. “If anything comes up, you know where to find me. Get some rest.”  

“Yeah, I will,” Isagi replies, his voice more steady now as he hangs up the phone, staring at the ceiling again and trying to push everything aside. 

Isagi sighs again, wondering what it is about Sae that keeps pulling him back in, like gravity pulling him closer even when he tries to distance himself. Isagi leans back against the headboard, his phone still in his hand. He could have been doing something more productive today, but every time he tries to think of something else, his mind circles back to Sae. But at the same time, he knew he couldn’t go on overthinking it. He had his own life to get back to, his own goals. He had to focus on his training, on his future. This job was supposed to be a means to an end, nothing more.  

Isagi closes his eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the internal conflict that’s making him feel like he’s standing at a crossroads, unsure of which way to go.  

But then, without thinking, he grabs his jacket and heads out the door. He’s not sure what he’s doing—maybe just walking will help clear his head. Or maybe he’s looking for something else.  

By the time he reaches the park, Isagi’s mind is still tangled. His feet carry him mechanically, his thoughts racing a mile a minute, but somehow, the movement calms him. The fresh air, the emptiness of the park, it feels like the first moment of peace he’s had all week, and he finally gets to play soccer.  

The familiar weight of a ball at his feet steadies him. Isagi moves without thinking, slipping into the rhythm of dribbles, passes, and shots against an imaginary opponent. Each touch of the ball sends a vibration up his leg, grounding him in something real—something that isn’t tangled in Sae’s presence, in his own unease, in the quiet guilt that gnaws at his chest.  

For a while, he just plays.  

It’s muscle memory, the kind of movement that lets his mind empty, lets him exist only in the present. He doesn’t have to think about last night, about the way Sae’s warmth had lingered longer than it should have, about how he’d woken up feeling something he couldn’t describe and definitely shouldn’t have to.  

By the time he slows down, the sun is higher in the sky, and his body is slick with sweat. He exhales, pressing his hands against his knees, catching his breath. It helps. Not enough to erase everything, but enough to feel like he can function again.  

His phone buzzes in his pocket. When he checks it, it’s a message from his mom.  

Are you coming home for lunch? I made your favorite.

Isagi hesitates for a moment before typing out a quick reply. I’ll be there soon.

When he steps into the apartment, the smell of food hits him immediately. Warm, familiar, the kind of scent that reminds him of childhood, of safety, of things he doesn’t want to take for granted. His mom is at the stove, her back to him as she hums a soft tune. She doesn’t turn when she speaks. “You’re sweaty,” she notes. “Did you go play soccer?”  

Isagi rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just for a bit.”  

She glances over her shoulder, eyes sharp but kind. “Good. You always feel better after you play.”  

Isagi doesn’t respond, but he knows she’s right.  

They eat together in comfortable silence. His mom asks about his job, about whether he’s been eating well. He gives her half truths and reassurances, and she doesn’t press him too hard. She never does. At one point, she pauses, watching him closely. “You seem tired lately.”  

Isagi’s grip tightens around his chopsticks for a second before he forces himself to relax. He swallows, offering a small smile. “Just been busy at the cafe… and with practice and everything.”

His mom hums softly, not quite convinced, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she reaches out, brushing a hand over his hair like she used to when he was little. “If you ever need to talk, you know I’m here.”  

Isagi lowers his gaze, something heavy settling in his chest. He doesn’t deserve her kindness. But still, he nods. “Yeah. I know.”  

For the rest of the meal, he focuses on the food, on the warmth of home, on the steady support of his mom across from him. 

For now, that’s enough.