Chapter Text
The sun had just begun to dip below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the conference room. The large wooden table stretched across the room, polished to a sheen, reflecting the soft light as two families gathered at opposite ends. The air had been thick with tension.
Faifa had sat at the head of one side of the table, his hands folded in front of him. He was putting on a front, calm and composed. His smile had been wide and agreeable. He was a handsome man, the sort who knew he could make anyone feel at ease with just a smile.
Faifa’s eyes, soft and warm, had been locked on Wine, who had sat across from him. The man had been everything Faifa was not: calculating and distant. His expression had been unreadable. The only thing that had betrayed him was the slight tension in his shoulders and the small furrow in his brow. Faifa had always had a knack for picking up such small signs. He read people like this, understanding if they needed a listening ear, a word of advice, a partner in crime, or a scapegoat to vent to.
Wine had needed comfort now, and validation. This once, Faifa had needed his smile to work as a better advocate for him, because at that moment, he could only offer comfort through smiles across the table.
“Gentlemen,” Faifa’s father had said, his voice gruff but firm. “The merger between our companies is crucial. But to finalise it, there needs to be a greater commitment.” He had glanced at the two of them, then cleared his throat. “A commitment of family.”
Faifa had felt his heart sink—just a little, but enough to echo in his chest. He had known exactly where this was going. The familiar script had already unfolded in his mind, and the weight of it had settled over his shoulders like an old coat he never quite got to take off.
His eyes had flicked to Wine, who had remained still. Unbothered, at least on the outside. Faifa hadn’t worried about himself—he had been concerned about Wine.
In his family, everyone had a role. Newton had been the pacifier, always the voice of calm. Yotha, the reckless free spirit, unafraid and unapologetic. Their father had been the strategic brain behind the business—brilliant, and emotionally distant. And with their mother conveniently absent, Faifa had long since figured out what that left him to be—everything else.
He had been the glue. The steady hand. The fixer. The one who stepped in, stepped up, stepped aside—whatever the moment called for. No one ever asked him to. They hadn’t had to. Somewhere along the way, it had just become understood.
If someone had been needed at the business to cover for a mistake, Faifa would have been there. If Yotha had gotten into another drunken fight, Faifa had already been halfway out the door to pick him up. If tempers had flared and the house had cracked at the seams, it had been Faifa who found the right words, the right timing, the right silence.
He had done it all, and he had done it well—not for praise, not even for recognition, but because it had to be done. And if he hadn’t done it, who would?
Responsibility hadn’t felt like a choice. It had felt like a calling—quiet, constant, and impossible to ignore. And even then, as things began to unravel again, he had already known what he had to do. But this time, his responsibility was also tying down Wine, an unsuspecting man.
Faifa’s father had continued, “An arranged marriage between you two would solidify the union. Both of our companies would be unstoppable, and your families would be tied together forever.”
Faifa’s chest had tightened, but he had nodded along. Out of his three sons, his father had chosen the most dependable one to be put forward for a strategic marriage. This had been business, after all. Marriage, though, had always been an emotionally unfamiliar concept for him. His own parents had doomed their life together on love and failed. He couldn’t imagine having to marry anyone, at least not for love.
But this had been business, pure business.
Faifa’s eyes had strayed to Wine, who had given no reaction. He had simply looked at his uncle, imperceptibly seeking his opinion. Wine’s uncle had nodded. Of course, this strategic marriage had been more beneficial for them.
What would life have been like married?
Faifa had hoped it would not be too bad.
***********
The grand hall had been filled with guests from both families, all seated in neatly arranged rows, their hushed conversations barely audible over the soft music playing in the background. The air had smelled of expensive flowers, and everything from the polished marble floors to the lavish chandeliers had screamed opulence. It had been startling how easily money and influence smoothed the way. In just over a month, both families had secured the grand venue and orchestrated every tiny detail, their connections opening doors that usually took months of waiting.
When two big business houses married off their heirs, there ought to have been a lot of grand extravaganza, not for the married couple, but for the onlookers. Marriage celebrations had been a means of assuring the shareholders and the competitors that everything was going well—that the future of the firm was bright.
Faifa’s father and Wine’s uncle had followed the idea to the T, making sure everyone and their families were invited. So many faces in the crowd, unfamiliar, yet sporting broad, congratulatory smiles, hundreds of cameras, all for the sham they had already signed and registered for before.
Faifa and Wine’s marriage had already been sent for registration, along with the prenup agreement they had signed in the presence of their lawyers.
When so much money had been involved, there couldn’t have been any chances for error.
This ceremony had just been for show, yet Faifa had stood at the altar, his hands trembling ever so slightly. Newton had stood behind him, his best man. Yotha had been there too, standing in the back with a frown on his face—he had argued tooth and nail for Faifa’s freedom from this marriage, and had agreed only when Faifa had reassured him that he was doing it out of his own free will. Yotha had been there for him, but he hadn’t been happy.
Faifa’s heart had been pounding in his chest. He hadn’t been nervous about the ceremony itself, but about the man standing across from him. Wine.
Wine had stood perfectly still, his posture as straight as a rod, his sharp features unmoving, even as the officiant began speaking.
Faifa had glanced at his father, who had been watching the proceedings with an approving look. His mother had stood beside him, her lips curved into a polite smile, but her eyes had been hard. She had flown in just that morning to make a public appearance for the wedding. She hadn’t liked this arrangement, claiming that Wine’s family was not on par with theirs. Despite being an absent parent, she had always made time to give her insights, but family had been family, and business had been business. Her opinion had held little ground against a done deal.
Faifa had turned his gaze back to Wine. The man hadn’t looked happy—nor had he looked sad. He had looked like he had simply been going through the motions, a faceless player in a game he didn’t care about. There had been no trace of warmth in his eyes, just indifference, as if this had all been part of his daily life, something that just needed to be done.
Faifa’s lips had parted slightly, the question rising to his mind before he could stop it: Will we be indifferent strangers?
He hadn’t had many expectations, but he had hoped to be at least amicable with the man he was marrying. Love had been out of the question, but friendship—that had been a common ground they could meet on.
The officiant’s voice had broken through his thoughts. "Do you, Faifa, take Wine to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"
Faifa hadn’t hesitated. “I do.”
Wine’s eyes had briefly flickered to Faifa, and for just a moment, there had been something there—a flicker of emotion that he had quickly masked. Then the officiant had turned to him.
"And do you, Wine, take Faifa to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"
Wine’s gaze hadn’t wavered from the officiant, his expression stoic. “I do,” he had said, his voice as levelled as always.
The exchange had been brief, almost mechanical. The ring had been placed on each of their fingers.
“You may now kiss your spouse.” The words had echoed softly in the grand hall, swallowed almost immediately by silence. Guests had leaned forward, expectant. The music had held its breath.
Faifa had turned first, slow and deliberate. His movements had been graceful, rehearsed—like everything else that day. His heart, however, had betrayed him with its uneven rhythm.
Wine had looked back at him. Still. Steady. A marble statue in tailored silk.
Faifa had lifted his hand. Calmly, precisely. He had let it rest against the corner of Wine’s mouth, fingers brushing his cheek. Not cupping his face, not pulling him closer—just there. His thumb had edged just beneath Wine’s lower lip, not touching it, only hovering. A separator. A veil made of skin.
Then he had leaned in.
Close. Breath-warm close.
Their noses had almost touched. Faifa’s lashes had dipped, brushing against Wine’s cheeks. The heat of Wine’s breath had hit his cheekbone. The shape of his lips had been felt rather than seen.
And just like that, the illusion had been complete.
From the crowd’s view, it had looked like a kiss. Timed. Gentle. Acceptable. Something to be applauded.
But Faifa’s thumb had remained in place, a quiet shield between lips that didn’t meet.
Wine hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. His breath had hitched once, barely. That had been all.
Faifa had lingered a moment longer—enough to feel the weight of Wine’s stillness, the refusal to recoil. And then he had drawn back, hand falling away as if it had never been there.
The guests had clapped.
And the two men had walked down the aisle, not hand-in-hand, but close enough to feel the space between them. Faifa’s heart had raced, not from joy, but from the strange, heavy weight pressing against his chest. This hadn’t been love. It hadn’t even been affection. It had been a business arrangement.
But as they had stood together at the exit, ready to greet the guests and begin the reception, Faifa’s hand had brushed against Wine’s. The contact had been fleeting—accidental, even—but it had lingered in the air like something heavier than it should have.
Wine hadn’t flinched, but he hadn’t leaned in either. His hand had remained still, cool, indistinct. A wall, not a bridge. For a moment, Faifa had waited, expecting something—anything. A twitch, a shift, a glance. But all he had gotten had been silence.
He hadn’t been surprised.
Faifa had never believed in love—not in the way people wrote about it or built their lives around it. Marriage, for him, had never been meant to be about emotion. It had been a duty. Strategy. Playing the part assigned to him.
And he had played it well.
This union hadn’t been about affection and tender feelings. It had been about structure. Stability. Two families, two empires, one neatly signed contract.
Still, that brief moment—their hands almost touching as they had stood side by side—had lingered longer than it should have. There had been no movement, no reaction, just the quiet weight of proximity neither of them had acknowledged.
Wine had remained as he always had been—calm, unreadable, focused on something ahead. Faifa hadn’t expected anything different. He had known better by then than to search for meaning where none had been offered.
He had noticed the space between them, noted how close their hands had been, then looked away. It hadn’t been worth thinking about. There had been nothing in it. Just a pause in the day, a moment that meant nothing. He had adjusted his sleeve, stood a little straighter, and moved on. They both had.
So, snubbing off his expectations, Faifa had smiled for the cameras, taken his place beside his new husband, and stepped into the role he had been born to perform.
********************
Wine had sat still, composed, deliberate. His posture had spoken of upbringing, of training, of expectation. He hadn’t shifted in his seat since the meeting started, or returned the gaze he could feel pressing gently across the table. He had learned long ago how to outlast a stare.
Still, Faifa’s attention had been difficult to ignore.
There had been no malice in it. Not even scrutiny. Just… presence and smiles. This kind of attention asked to be noticed without ever speaking. Wine had kept his eyes on the table’s polished grain, feeling the meeting room closing in on him slowly. But Faifa’s gaze had sat there, constant, like a weight set carefully in the centre of the room.
They hadn’t spoken yet—not directly. Formal greetings had been exchanged between the heads of both families, names recited with the gravity of legacy. Wine had already known Faifa’s, of course. He had read the reports. Heard the anecdotes.
But documents hadn’t mentioned the way the man had looked at people, like he was trying to learn something they weren’t saying. That hadn’t been the charm everyone had crooned over—it had been attentiveness. Measured, maybe a little too open for this kind of room.
He had remembered seeing him once, months ago, across the floor of a formal reception. Faifa had been laughing then, one hand resting lightly on someone’s arm as he spoke. Nothing remarkable in that.
Now, here they had sat, opposite ends of a carefully set table, bound by conglomerate politics and paperwork.
Wine had allowed himself one glance.
Faifa’s expression hadn’t shifted when their eyes had met. He had just met his gaze, quiet, curious.
Wine had looked away again, not out of discomfort—but because he hadn’t been sure what to make of that steadiness yet.