Ogata's no poet, and he knows this—just a dirty old man, really, astigmatic and weirdly obsessed with luxury (fame perhaps to a lesser extent). He likes his car, scarlet and really fucking fast, his fish, colorful and calming, his apartment, his neatly pressed suits, winning, and he supposes there's a certain poetry in that. The order of a life, so to speak. The act of living.

His bed contains: one (1) Touya Akira, son-of-Touya-Meijin-who-would-have-his-balls-if-he-knew-anything-of-this, black hair and pale skin, a strange combination of polite and petulant, sucks cock like a fucking dream; one (1) Shindou Hikaru, brash and obnoxious, sweetest ass in the Kanto region, unnerving moments of understanding, some kind of deep sadness that Akira traces in his face with skinny fingers and pink lips. Sometimes. They have their secrets, just as Ogata has his own, though perhaps not from each other.

They move together like that, trading kisses over his shoulders, hands smoothing down his chest almost absently, moving him to their rhythm as Akira straddles his knees to push Hikaru down on his cock. Akira meets his eyes and smiles, sly, mischievous, and Hikaru groans, twisting his head back for a kiss. One that tastes like sex, Akira, nothing in particular. Ogata explained it this way when he asked Ashiwara to move out: nothing, actually, just needed the space for his rapidly expanding ego. Hikaru had laughed, startled and bright. Ashiwara didn't mind; he'd been looking to move in with a girlfriend for some time.