Champagne and Comfort

The afternoon sun beat down on the Miya estate, glinting off the infinity pool in that way that made you want to stare forever. Big ceramic pots with palm trees lined the edge, fronds swaying lazy in the breeze. There was a small table next to the lounge chair with a bottle of Dom Pérignon sweating in a crystal ice bucket, and one glass that caught the light like a jewel.

Atsumu Miya stretched out on the cushioned lounger in his charcoal gray bikini with gold chain accents. Oversized Gucci sunglasses, one hand draped over the armrest, the other lifting the champagne flute to his lips. Bubbles tickled his nose. He smiled, letting out this little contented sound.

This was the life. No early alarms. No double shifts at the izakaya. No counting coins for rent. Just sun and silence and the full weight of being completely spoiled.

He took another sip and let his head fall back. Osamu had insisted he take the day off from his part-time gig at the boutique—not that Atsumu really needed the money anymore, but old habits. So here he was, lounging like a pampered cat while Osamu did restaurant inspections somewhere across town.

His gaze drifted toward the mansion. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the sky, sleek modern interior—white marble, black leather, gold fixtures. His brother built this empire from nothing. From a tiny onigiri shop in Hyogo to high-end restaurants across four prefectures. And Atsumu? Just the twin who got to float in champagne and designer swimwear.

A snatch of conversation came from behind the hedge separating the pool from the service yard.

“…look at him. Laying there like he owns the place.”

“He doesn’t? Thought he was the owner’s brother.”

“Brother? Please. That’s a gold digger. A whore, more like. You think he earned any of this? He’s just living off Osamu-san’s money. Probably spreads his legs for anyone who buys him a nice bag.”

A low, ugly laugh.

Atsumu’s hand froze mid-sip. The glass trembled. He didn’t turn his head. Kept his face neutral, but the smile was gone behind his sunglasses.

He set the glass down carefully, like it might shatter. Fingers numb.

The voices kept going. “I heard he used to work at some cheap club before Osamu-san struck it big. You know the type. All that flashy attitude, underneath it’s just a desperate little—”

Atsumu stood up. The lounge chair scraped against the stone. He didn’t look toward the hedge. Walked inside, footsteps steady, measured. One foot in front of the other. Don’t run. Don’t give them that.

But the words stuck. Under his skin like splinters, but that’s a cliché, so let’s say they just sat there, ugly and hot in his chest.

He left the champagne behind. Half full. Bubbles still rising.

The mansion’s interior was cool, AC a shock on his sun-warmed skin. Through the living room, past the grand piano nobody played, past abstract art, past the staircase curving like a ribbon. Vision blurry.

Gold digger. Whore. Desperate.

His chest tightened. He pressed a hand to his sternum. Breathe. It’s fine. Osamu loves you. You know that. You know why he spoils you.

But did he? Really?

Mind dragged him back. Nights he wanted to forget. The cramped apartment with three other people before this gilded cage. The host club with dim lighting and greedy hands. Double shifts at the convenience store that left his feet bleeding inside his shoes. The months Osamu was drowning—restaurant failing, investors pulling out, their mother sick, hospital bills piling like snow.

Atsumu was twenty-two. Osamu was twenty-two. Same age, same blood, same dream—but only one got culinary school. Only one got to chase the onigiri dream. The other one did whatever it took.

He remembered coming home to their tiny apartment, reeking of cheap cologne and someone else’s sweat, finding Osamu crying over debt spreadsheets. Atsumu sat down, pulled out a wad of cash—tips, commissions, the “extras” that paid triple—and slid it across the table.

“What’s this?” Osamu asked, eyes red.

“Rent. Now stop crying, you big baby. We’re gonna make it.”

Osamu stared at the money like it was a ghost. “Where did you—”

“Doesn’t matter. Just take it.”

Osamu took it. Next month, Atsumu gave him more. And more. For two years, Atsumu bled himself dry—his body, his dignity, his nights—so Osamu could keep the lights on. Until the day the restaurant turned profit. Until the day Osamu paid off the last debt and looked at him with something like awe.

“I’m gonna pay you back,” Osamu promised. “Every cent. And more.”

Atsumu laughed. “You better. I want a pool.”

Osamu kept his promise. Built the pool. Bought the mansion. Bought Atsumu everything—designer clothes, first-class flights, a car, a wardrobe, a life that looked like a magazine spread. But the memory of those two years was a scar Atsumu never showed anyone. Not even Suna.

And now some random worker in a hedge called him a whore.

His legs gave out. He sank onto the bottom step of the staircase, hand flying to his mouth. A sob escaped—raw, choked, ugly. He bit his knuckle to smother the next one. Tears spilled over his cheekbones, hitting the white marble.

He didn’t hear the soft footsteps.

“Atsumu?”

He flinched. Suna Rintarou stood at the entrance to the living room, a cup of tea in his hand, head tilted. Dressed casually—loose linen shirt, shorts, dark hair slightly damp from a shower. He’d been reading in the study, probably.

Atsumu tried to wave him off. “Nothin’. I’m fine.”

But his voice cracked, and Suna’s eyes narrowed. He set his tea down on the console table, crossed the room in quick strides. Crouched in front of Atsumu, gaze level, expression unreadable but soft at the edges.

“Liar. What happened?”

Atsumu shook his head, but the tears kept falling. Pressed his palms to his eyes. “Just—some stupid worker in the garden. They said—they called me a—”

He couldn’t say the word. It burned.

Suna’s jaw tightened. “A what?”

“A gold digger. A whore.” Bitter laugh, wet and broken. “Said I don’t deserve any of this. That I just spread my legs for—”

“Stop.” Quiet but firm. He took Atsumu’s hands, pulled them away from his face. “Look at me.”

Atsumu did. Suna’s eyes were like dark glass, steady.

“You know that’s not true. Right?”

“I know Osamu says it’s not true, but—”

“Forget Osamu. Do you know it’s not true?”

Atsumu’s lip trembled. “I… I gave him everything. I sold everything. I—I did things I can’t take back, Rin. And now I’m sitting in his pool drinking his champagne and I feel like a fraud. Like I’m just—decorative. Like if he ever figured out what I actually did for that money, he’d throw me out.”

Suna’s grip tightened. “He knows.”

“What?”

“Osamu knows. He’s not stupid. He put the pieces together years ago.” Suna’s voice softened. “He’s never said it out loud, but he knows. That’s why he spoils you, Atsumu. Not because you’re a burden. Because you saved him. You saved everything.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. He stared, searching for a lie, found only truth.

“He’s never said—”

“Because he doesn’t know how. He’s terrible with words, you know that. But he shows you. Every day. The pool, the clothes, the house—it’s not just him being rich. It’s him saying thank you. Over and over.”

Atsumu covered his face again. This time the sobs came freely—ugly, raw, the kind he’d held in for years. Suna pulled him into a hug, one hand rubbing his back.

“You’re not a gold digger,” Suna murmured into his hair. “You’re the reason he’s a gold mine. Never forget that.”

They sat like that for a long moment. Mansion silent except for Atsumu’s shaking breaths. Suna held him steady.

Then the front door opened.

Osamu Miya stepped inside, keys jangling, a takeout bag in one hand. Still in work clothes—black slacks, white chef’s jacket unbuttoned at the collar, hair slightly mussed. Looked tired but satisfied, until his eyes landed on the scene at the stairs.

He froze. The bag hit the floor.

“What the hell happened?”

Suna looked up, expression grim. He gave a small shake of his head, then rose, tugging Atsumu gently upright. “I’ll tell you. But first, he needs you.”

Osamu was already crossing the room. Stopped in front of Atsumu, took one look at his twin’s blotchy face, and pulled him into a fierce embrace. Atsumu crumpled against his chest, fists clutching the chef’s jacket.

“I got you,” Osamu said, low and rough. “Whatever it is, I got you.”

Suna slipped away, giving them space. He picked up the fallen takeout bag and disappeared toward the kitchen, but not before catching Osamu’s eye and mouthing, The pool workers.

Osamu’s jaw tightened. But he didn’t move. Just held Atsumu until the trembling stopped.

Then, gently, he guided him down the hallway to his bedroom. The master suite was enormous—king bed, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden, a walk-in closet bigger than their old apartment. Osamu sat Atsumu on the edge of the bed and crouched in front of him.

“Talk to me.”

Atsumu shook his head. “It’s stupid. I’m being stupid.”

“You’re crying on my stairs. That ain’t stupid. Tell me.”

So Atsumu did. Words spilled out in a broken rush—the overheard comment, the host club, the convenience store, the nights he traded his body for cash. Every ugly detail he’d hidden behind designer sunglasses and champagne flutes.

Osamu listened. His face didn’t change. But his hands, resting on Atsumu’s knees, trembled.

When Atsumu finished, his voice was a whisper. “I’m sorry. You gave me all this and I still feel like I don’t deserve it.”

Osamu was quiet for a long moment. Then he tilted Atsumu’s chin up, forced eye contact.

“Listen to me. Every single cent you gave me. I remember. Every time you came home at three in the morning with that look in your eyes. I remember. I knew where the money came from. I just didn’t have the guts to ask, because I was too ashamed that my twin brother had to do that for me.” His voice cracked. “So I made a promise. I was gonna build something so big, so damn successful, that you’d never have to do that again. You’d never have to sell a single piece of yourself. Ever.”

Atsumu’s eyes widened. “You… you knew?”

“I knew.” Osamu’s thumb brushed away a tear. “And I’d give you the whole damn world to make up for it. So don’t you ever call yourself a gold digger, you spoiled brat. You earned every thread on that bikini. Every bubble in that champagne. And if anyone says otherwise, they’re out.”

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. “You’re gonna fire him?”

“Already decided.” Osamu stood, expression hardening. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

“Samu—”

But Osamu was already out the door, steps heavy and purposeful.

He strode through the mansion, past Suna who gave him a silent nod, and out to the pool. The worker—middle-aged guy in a maintenance uniform—was trimming the hedge, still talking to his partner. They both straightened when they saw Osamu.

“Afternoon, Miya-san. Everything okay?”

Osamu didn’t stop until he was three feet away. Eyes cold steel.

“You said something to my brother.”

The worker paled. “I—I didn’t—”

“I heard it on the security cameras. You called him a gold digger. A whore.” Osamu’s voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight. “Get your things. You’re fired.”

“But—Miya-san—I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant. Atsumu is family. He’s the reason you have a job. He’s the reason any of us have a job. And you disrespect him in his own home?” Osamu took a step forward. “Leave. Now. And don’t come back.”

The worker’s mouth opened and closed. His partner grabbed his arm and pulled him away, muttering apologies. Osamu didn’t watch them go. Turned and walked back inside, heart pounding.

When he reached the bedroom, Atsumu was sitting on the bed, hugging a pillow. Suna perched on the armchair nearby, scrolling through his phone.

Osamu stopped at the door. “He’s gone.”

Atsumu looked up. Eyes still red, but something fragile and hopeful there. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did.” Osamu crossed the room and sat beside him, pulled him into a side hug. “Now. I brought takeout from that new place in Shinjuku. And I’m thinking we order at least three more meals and watch the dumbest movies we can find.”

Atsumu sniffled. “Define dumb.”

“That one where the shark fights a tornado.”

“We watched that last week.”

“Then we’ll watch it again. And you can make fun of it the whole time.”

A weak smile tugged at Atsumu’s lips. “Okay. But I want unagi. And that spicy ramen from the place in Akihabara. And mochi. The good kind.”

“Done.”

“And I’m wearing your new Prada tracksuit.”

Osamu snorted. “It’s in my closet. You know where it is.”

Atsumu leaned into him, letting his head rest on his brother’s shoulder. “Thanks, Samu.”

“Don’t thank me. Just… stay. That’s all I want.”

They sat for a moment, silence comfortable and warm. Then Atsumu pushed himself up. “Okay. Let’s get fat. Rin! You’re joining us!”

Suna raised an eyebrow from the armchair. “I was already planning to. I ordered the mochi.”

The rest of the afternoon blurred into delivery bags, greasy containers, bad movies. Atsumu emerged from the bedroom in Osamu’s designer tracksuit, sleeves rolled up three times, looking like a scolded puppy given a bone. He claimed the spot on Osamu’s lap while the first movie played, and Osamu didn’t complain once—even when his legs fell asleep.

Suna lounged on the adjacent sofa, occasionally throwing popcorn at Atsumu’s head when he got too loud. But he was smiling. They all were.

By the time the third movie rolled—something about a possessed doll in a swimming pool—Atsumu had stopped crying. Full, warm, surrounded by the two people who mattered most.

He thought about the worker’s words again. They still stung, but they’d lost their power. Because Osamu knew. Osamu had always known. And he hadn’t run. He’d built a kingdom and handed Atsumu the keys.

Atsumu twisted around to look at his brother. “Hey.”

“Mm?”

“I’m gonna buy a yacht with your credit card next week.”

Osamu’s lips twitched. “Do it. I’ll have it delivered.”

“And a helicopter.”

“Helipad’s already zoned.”

Suna tossed another piece of popcorn. “You two are ridiculous.”

Atsumu caught it in his mouth and grinned. “Yeah. But we’re rich ridiculous now.”

The laughter that followed was loud, messy, real. And for the first time in a long time, Atsumu believed every single moment of it was his to keep.