'The only real difference in value between a diamond and fool's gold is the market'
Thief! Kageyma Merchant! (by that I mean Crime Lord) Oikawa
⌖TW WARNINGS!!!⌖: slight dub-con, allusion to recreational activities, morally ambigious themes, you have been warned! also grammar mistakes
The market's repitoire ranges from unsavory to clinical delicacies suited to. . .distinct palattes. They call it the Antrum, a natural amalgamation of shit goods, shit people, and even shittier merchants. There's always the off chance a little trinket is actually a cursed object, always the high likeness the gold you're buying isn't even gold. There are always the thieves, always the pretty liars looking for quick cash, the knuckle breakers whose sole purpose in life was to dole out profanities in the streets, picking fights and dying without a legacy to their name, doped up with some new narco shit the big guys are pumping out into the market. Nothing but willing subjects to the greater evil. And that shit flows in, flows in like the sewer waters from the Golden Line, where the excreata of the famed, fortuned and blessed, coagulate here. In the trenches. In the Antrum. Kageyama applauds anyone who's willing to go down and dirty inside the trenches.
Kageyama's not willing to bet his fucking ass for a job in the Trench. They have their own politics there. But, the aristrocats, those blue collared freaks with white cheekbones and layers and layers of frilled collars. Those damn syncopaths? They crave the delight the Antrum gives. Gives them a sense of purpose, no matter how a falsification it might be. After all, if you're just prim and proper with a life doled out for you by the same boring parents, what the fuck is life for? They crave it. They fucking love it. Dressing up as heathens. Blowing their money on merchandise; drugs and tonics; tinctures and pills. Anything they could afford. Anything they could lose. And they could lose much. Money. Power. Themselves. But the thing is, they're part of the select few, and prim and proper copies of them will always find a way to put them back together again.
Kageyama's never one to associate with the crowd in the Antrum. He's always maintained a secrecy, of within and without. Stick to what you know, what you're familiar with; never associate with the Trench. That's the cardinal rule here, the way of life. For people like Kageyama who grew up at the border's edge, neither of two worlds, the convience it gives is sacred and something to be protected. Because once the Trench has got you, there's no going back out. He might've grown poor. He might've caused trouble too many times. He might've gotten in petty fights and got caught trying to steal one too many times, but he's never stepped into the Trench. No. Never. Not in a million fucking years.
But money's got to be tight, right? And it's not like he's feeding only himself. There are. . .others like him. Others like him who don't have the chance he has now, but they could have. They could be. If given the appropriate nutrition, appropriate attention, they could probably crawl up the blood stained ladders and make a decent living. If only Kageyama could provide, if only he could convince himself that sneaking into the parlor of the Trench was worth the risk and everything he has lived for.
It's easy? It should be easy. Just steal a few documents, find out what you can, and he can have his weight's worth in gold.
That should be enough, right? To allow them passage. Allow the others to be what they could without having to rely on the grunt work- on a profession that doesn't even gaurantee the food in your belly, what moreso your life.
The Trench, as people call it, is the inner sanctum, the pinnacle of the Antrum's control. It doesn't look like much, the name isn't much either, the conotation always a subversion of some ruling power. But the Trench wasn't named by the people who run it, it just sort of came to be. Like how any life starts, given breath by a whisper only to slowly become a storm. How they rose to power is unclear, but ever since Kageyama was old enough to think for himself they were the name spoken here.
The parlor wasn't much, just as its name suggseted, it was a shack, a flatiron of stacked signanges, aging wood, and steel rusted pipes and metallic sheets. It was such a conundrum to look at, at how mishapen the angles were, it looked to be a haphazardly constructed pub. It was in a sense. There was always music inside, loud noises of partying, bright flourescent lights peaking through the crevices of what the wood and the metal could not cover.
Kageyama has been here for four days, crouched into one of the nearby buildings, hidden from the eyes of passerbys. Pressed into a hidden corner constructed out of poor ignorance for space and architecture, it made hiding in the Antrum so much easier when the houses were built for convinience instead of somethign that would last. Build on top of one another then continue on, even if the foundation are ruined, even if there's the risk the building on top of you might collapse, you keep on building.
It's given him great vantages where he could camp for the night, huddled in a patched up blanket and his trusty hood, observing the street below him.
Fours days of a stakeout and he's almost memorized the sequence of events. It's almost neurotic, how the function of the Trench adheres to schedule.
First, a blonde man enters with his entourage, flirts a bit with the bouncer in front before he's dragged by one of his associates inside. Then comes a silvered hair man doing the same, though polite with his bearings, he exchanges a few words before entering. Then, there's a stoic one who barely smiles and just strides through the doors without a galnce. There are others coming and going in the same fashion, entering with suitcases and leaving without them. There were a few variances. For example, the newly mint heir of the Maur Clan, taken to the pub as his first dip in the festering waters of what true society holds, guided by his father a Duke into the establishment with such jolly- dare he say- condescending guile- while the son whose prospects seem to lie better with books and poetry stomachs the inevitable.
Kageyama has yet to see a veritable presence to associate the establishment with. All the comings and goings to the place were just the surface level tangibles of its secrecy. To know what he's looking for, he needs to remiss his doubts and venture further inside.
Kageyama is a thief, not a spy.
It takes another few days of scouting the perimeter through roofs and discreet corners, and he's mapped out the entrances, of which were three, and the exits, which were four. Then another secret entrance, which marks that four. He doesn't expect to notice it. After all in the darkness, which occupies the Trench perpetually due to the decrepit buildings, he had not meant for himself to ponder why such a strcuture resembling a mishapen chimney was emitting light and sometimes smoke. So he tests the orifice only to find out it was a poorly constructed ventilation system, large enough to fit him but narrow enough that if he were to think of escape this would be the last route he could think of. Without further ado, Kageyama scaled the buidling and ventured through the vent, with some twists and turns he was able to fit himself through. Crying at the amount of grime that held his clothes and the dust that punctured his eyes. By the time an exit made itself known, he was near tears.
Silently, disengaging the wood, he steps down with light feet, the room is an abandoned one, doesn't seem to be of use, it seems to have been forgotten really. There's the soft glow of purple and pink coming from ways away, and the sound of laughing voices carried softly with the thrumming noise of excitement. Perfect.
This spot was secluded enough that no one would know to look for him here. With a flourish, he unslings his equipment, strips down his clothes into what he's seen those who search for pleasure dress themselves as. In a skimpy glittery navy blue dress, reaching past his thighs, with the back dangerously open, strung together by strings of gold, a long wig, and glittery rouge.
Think of them, Kageyama prays as he readies himself.
He had gone to a friend to commiserate himself before his expected going, prattling on how his next mission was to meet some esteemed guest and steal from him. To which his friend said, if you're going to a club might as well go in this.
And it makes sense, really. To disguise himself as a girl, gives protection in case his face gets plastered everywhere when he endages the scion of the Underworld.
He steps away from his hiding spot, counting his breaths in time with his steps until the world opens up to him.
The inside is much more spacious than he assumed and perhaps ran deeper than he imagined. There were no windows, just lights bouncing off everything in blues and pinks and purples. The skin of every person here was unseen. He can't see any of the nobility, so perhaps he had ventured much further than he expected. Bracing himsefl to move, he shoulders his way throug bodies and sly touches until he sets himself on the bar.
He puts on a darling smile. Immediately, a bartender is at his attention. A man with touseled hair and a cute smile even. He chats Kageyama up none the wiser. Kageyama extracts what he needs, loses a few coins in the process.
As he expected, he's in the deeper part of the Trench, where only the locals have access to. There's smoke fogging up the lights, which Kageyama knows is a drug of some kind if the wooziness he feels isn't some sort of indication. He's barely taken a sip of the alcohol he ordered, so it wouldn't make sense for him to be drunk since he isn't a lightweight either.
After some time, the colors all blur together, and he's talking to people, but he's not really there. Not really present. He's laughing. The glass he once held is long gone. He knows what he needs to know. That the rich fuckers are two floors up in a space they call the Dumpster. Here, here was the spectacle. Here was where the actual magic happened. The things those pure shit want to be a part of but can't.
Kageyama somehow pries himself from their attention, slightly stumbling, slightly dazed, content to waltz back where he came. To leave. To exit as quickly as possible until-
He doesn't know where it comes from. One moment he's locking eyes with a stranger behind beaded curtains, his whole body splayed over an orance couch, legs spread, one arm slung over the back of the couch, cradling a conconction of some brown liquid, swirling the glass even through the noise Kageyama hears the ice rolling around the rim, how it tumbles against each other in a circle. Then, his eyes are back to the man. Brown hair and dead eyes. He's dressed in a suit, it fits to his figure. Hugs his arms and thighs just right, the moment he stands upright, the clothe ripples, matching his movement.
It doesn't take him long to stride over where Kageyama's left standing.
It takes a bit too long for Kageyama's to associate that face with anything. But he certainly knows who he is. He has seen him only a total of two times, and both were from the safe retreat of a crowd, hidden away. Now, his attention seems entirely focused on him.
Oikawa Tooru is walking directly towards him.
The fucking king of this underbelly, Oikawa Tooru, is directly in front of him.
"I would think someone as eye-catching as you would have caught you sooner." The passiveness in which he admits his affection entails a pattern of passion, practiced words of a detailed scheme. He dares Kageyama closer, stepping forward, grabbing hold of his waist in a dire grip, pressing their abdomens together.
"I'm-" Kageyama swallows the staleness of his throat- "new here."
"Work?" He leans down, nose barely touching his cheek, perhaps in a much more intimate place if only Kageyama had the courage to look him in the eye. But as they are now, pressed bodies amongst their own, his confidence fails him, makes of him a blushing mess, a poor attraction of sex and seduction even as the motley colored lights flash his skin in a sheen quite reminiscent of the shifting resplendence of gemstones.
"Who brought you here?" Oikawa dares to ask as he leans forward. Kageyama's reaction was to lean back until his back arched and there was no space to protect him any longer.
"Brave of you." again, it's said with much indifference, he has no mind to pretend his interests lies elsewhere. "Very few would find themselves as you have."
"No," he says, moving Kageyama into a rhythm, flowing against the bodies with such understanding he's brought to the edge of a seat, pressed into the beaded curtains of a booth, Oikawa at his back, his knees digging into the sofa. "Do you know of this place? What happens here?"
His hands settle on the back of the sofa, nails catching on the faux leather, peeling off the skin like it was an orange. The beads sticking to his cheek hurt, but Oikawa relents pressure so that the sudden force that drove him forward in the first place is nothing but a steady weight against his back.
"I'm here to have fun," Kageyama snaps back, turning around at the same time Oikawa drags him down into the sofa, sitting against him and pulling him unbearably close. He's half sat into his lap, legs bent at an awkward angle until he pries himself off only for Oikawa to drag him down again. This time one arm around his waist while the other grabbed his chin.
"You know what happens to darlings like you here?"
Kageyama meets a group of drunken men, eyeing him from between the beaded curtains. Oikawa's grip on his chin forceful, digging into the flesh it hurt to even move against him. So Kageyama lets him direct his eyes to another group with the same devilish smirk on their repugnant faces.
"You become the plaything," he whispers into his ears.
Oikawa looks down upon him, impassive face not once feigning any emotion. "I thought you would be dumb."
"When did you figure it out?"
"When I felt the knives between your legs. I knew you were too good to be true. No one would come here looking like you."
"Dressed like a daydream." He says, shifting his hold from Kageyama's cheek to both of his wrists, forcing down his trembling hands into his lap, as Oikawa hooks his chin over his shoulder.
"Let's make a deal," he says. "You tell me whose you're employer and then we'll work things out from there."
"No. There's no guarantee of my life here."
Even as they talk, Oikawa's eyes aren't on him, they're tracking something in the crowd, every so slightly Oikawa shifts, the weight of his chin pressing in to the bony prominence of Kageyama's shoulder, other times the entirety of his chin fits against his neck.
Oikawa hums, and Kageyama feels it rumble against his skin. "You said you wanted work, right? I can put you to work."
"As you're plaything? No, thanks."
"You're looking for something," he says instead, pressing a kiss to the exposed skin of Kageyama's neck. "Something. . ." he elongates the syllable. "Something that could end me," he punctuates with another kiss. "Something only those of clean clothe could possible think to know." Another kiss, this time closer to his ear. "Right?" Oikawa dares a nip to the flesh of his earlobe. It's wet. It's hot. The brief presence of his tongue. Kageyama didn't even realise how close they were until this moment. How something stirs deep inside his gut until the outside is nothing but a murmuration.
"I have what you want. So here's the deal." Suddenly, his voice turns firm. "You pretend you stole those documents and return it to your employer. I'll pay you better then wwhoever payed you. It's a gauranteed propositio, no? A man of my calibre never goes back on his words."
"That is not how the streets talk of you."
Oikawa's face is seldom seen in the scene of the Antrum, he's more of a myth. A mystery everyone dares not to solve. And with his dimished but surely presence, others have mmythicized him out of proportion. Always the cruel, vindictive person he is, bodies paint his doorstep.
"They do not do business with me. You should better to trist rumors."
"Rumors have basis too." Kageyama meets the eyes of the bouncer out front. Immediately, he's darting in their direction.
"Think about it, will you." Oikawa lets him go. Kageyama hasn't noticed how cold his palms were until Oikawa's touch left his own. "Or rather, let's discuss this in the privacy of my office. Let us show this employer of yours how much worth the gold is here." He says with a slight smile on his lips and with the same dead eyes.
