Chapter Text
Dostoevsky is not even bothering to disguise his staring and Chuuya almost wants to punch him for it.
He’s used to it of course, it doesn’t entirely make him uncomfortable anymore. He’s learned to make it work in his favor, playing up being the clueless tiny redhead eye candy who doesn’t understand Japanese or English or French—whatever language they use to say derogatory and filthy remarks about him, it doesn’t matter really. They all think he’s just there to sweeten any deal the mafia is proposing.
A table cracking in half the moment he puts up his heels on it makes a powerful statement, always.
But this Dostoevsky knows who he is, and greeted him by his surname in proper, formal Japanese. Has treated Chuuya with respect apt for his position, yes, but there really is no excuse to those eyes just being very blatant and bold in their roaming over Chuuya’s body.
They’re sitting facing each other at opposite ends of the ten-seater table, and Dostoevsky hasn’t really contributed to the ongoing contract negotiations. His two assistants are doing the talking for him while he sits in his sharply pressed deep blue suit, fingers curled under his chin with an elbow balanced on the armrest and just—gazing at Chuuya. A stare so heavy it almost wants to make him scratch out his skin.
What the hell, seriously.
“I’m beginning to think you don’t have any care at all for this deal, Fyodor Mikhailovich. Your attention is elsewhere.”
“Not elsewhere, Nakahara-san. On you.”
Seriously, what the hell. Is this his cue to throw this pen straight into that eye?
“Excuse me?” One wrong word and Chuuya is ready to walk out of this room. They can easily get their rifles somewhere else. Well not easily, but. Somewhere else. There’s always another source out there.
Dostoevsky sighs and crosses his legs.
“There is nothing left to discuss. Those things—” his hand sweeps forward in an uncaring motion, “are just unnecessary details. You want this deal—so do we. My assistants, they are capable of this. Your men, also capable. You and I, we are not needed here.”
Chuuya has always prided himself in being hands-on with all the deals that he’s tasked to deliver, and this one is no different. But if Dostoevsky leaves, there’s going to be an imbalance on the table.
“So, let me propose this, Nakahara-san.” Dostoevsky slides out his phone and makes a few taps. “I have a dinner reservation for two at Mutekiro, but no one to accompany me. Would you do me the honor?”
The other four people at the table remain silent, but one of Chuuya’s assistants widens her eyes at him, because the Russian just name-dropped one of his favourite French-Japanese fusion restaurants in the city.
“That’s presumptuous of you.”
“If I remember correctly, this meeting was scheduled to last for three hours more. Which means you have no other place to be, other than here. Now you can choose to stay of course, and have the steaks at this lovely place. Or you can join me for some foie gras. It is your choice, really.”
Chuuya has always, always wanted to punch that particular brand of smile out of assuming assholes.
“After you,” Chuuya says with the sweetest smile he can muster as he stands and gestures towards the door. Dostoevsky smiles back in amusement and without acknowledging anyone else, he stands up and holds the door open while waiting. Chuuya squeezes the shoulders of his assistants on his way out.
At least this time, he’ll get a free fancy dinner prior to hitting that face.