Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1372876.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Tennis_no_Oujisama_|_Prince_of_Tennis
  Relationship:
      Sanada_Genichirou/Yukimura_Seiichi, Yagyuu_Hiroshi/Niou_Masaharu, Atobe
      Keigo/Tezuka_Kunimitsu, Atobe_Keigo/Echizen_Ryouma, Kawamura_Takashi/Fuji
      Shuusuke, Mizuki_Hajime/Fuji_Yuuta, Kikumaru_Eiji/Ooishi_Shuuichirou,
      Kirihara_Akaya/Yanagi_Renji, Tooyama_Kintarou/Echizen_Ryouma, Zaizen
      Hikaru/Kaidou_Kaoru
  Series:
      Part 1 of Pillars_and_Pinnacles
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-26 Chapters: 35/35 Words: 289658
****** The Mountain ******
by daphnerunning, Galiko
Summary
     AU in which Rikkai wins the Kantou Tournament instead of Seigaku.
     That's where it starts--with Echizen Ryouma struggling to come to
     terms with his loss against one stressed, harried Sanada Genichirou.
     Sanada has a still-recovering captain/boyfriend to deal with, and
     Yukimura, as per usual, is a less than willing invalid. Rikkai still
     attempts to flourish, but Yukimura finds it easier said than done to
     return to his former glory. Ryouma, meanwhile, finds tutelage in one
     Atobe Keigo, but faces his own demons in the form of doubt, something
     he's never felt before.
     Tezuka, however, always doubts, and regrets his decisions regarding
     leaving for his recovery, but to become captain in the first place.
     End game pairings include Yukimura/Sanada, Atobe/Tezuka, Yagyuu/Niou,
     Kintarou/Ryouma, and a few others. Mentions of one-sided Yuuta--
     >Fuji, Fuji-->Tezuka, Fuji/Ryouma, and others.
***** Sanada, Yukimura, & Rikkai *****
Waking up means a great number of irritations and frustrations and enough pain
to fell a small army, and Yukimura makes a valiant effort to resist for as long
as possible. 
 
At least there isn't any beeping. That's gone, and it means that he has a much
better chance of getting sleep. Or maybe that's the medication, or the fact
that everything feels odd and groggy and disconnected from all sides of
everything… 
 
It's inevitable, though, because one can only sleep for so long. He's found
that out very well over the past few months, and it's all the more apparent
when his back throbs like someone took a dozen knives to it (they probably
did).
 
Moving his head is a step that he decides to take, and Yukimura ends up with
his face in something warm and soft that definitely isn't a hospital pillow. It
smells like soap and clean, masculine sweat and the texture somehow registers
immediately as that's a jersey, probably Sanada's, yes that's a good thing to
wake up to.
 
His fingers twitch, and there's something oddly cold and hard already pressed
into his palm. Lifting whatever it is is a step that seems a little beyond him
at the moment, but, hm. It would be pretty good to be able to pick things up
properly again, sooner rather than later. 
 
Movement wakes Sanada immediately, as hair-trigger as he’s been for the last
six hours. He blinks bleary eyes, all too aware that he’d held out for longer
than he’d intended, hoping he hadn’t woken Yukimura. The nurses had assured him
that everything had gone well, but being assured of it and seeing Yukimura open
clear brown eyes again are two different things.
 
He clears his throat gently, sitting up and trying not to harrass. “He might be
groggy,” the nurses had told him fondly. Always fondly, because everyone loves
Yukimura. 
 
Everyone.
 
Sanada starts to say, “We won,” but it gets lost in his mouth, and he says
instead, “Welcome back, Seiichi.”
 
"Nn." That's definitely coherent enough of a response. At least, it is at
first, until cracking his eyes open into dim light makes everything some into
clearer focus. Yukimura blinks a little more, thinks about sitting up, banishes
the idea when he draws a single breath, and curls his fingers tighter around
the thing in his hand. 
 
"…You weren't there before the surgery." It's less accusing, more petulant.
When his vision focuses and he can actually, really see Sanada's face,
everything sort of makes him want to melt back into the bed. Sitting up isn't
necessary, Sanada's right there, anyway. "Slowpoke." 
 
The guilt racks Sanada at that. He’d promised. Just now, he can’t think of
anything he could have done worse than let Yukimura down like that. He bows, a
formal, humble motion. “What I have done is unforgivable,” he murmurs. “Akaya
and Renji will also be punished for playing drawn-out matches they didn’t even
win.”
 
"Was a joke. A bad one. No bowing." Yukimura's eyes lid, and he finally summons
the strength to drag the thing-in-his-hand up. His thumb slides over the cold
metal, over the familiar engravings--Kantou Regional, First Place--and
something unclenches in his chest. Ah, but to replace that, an odd lump in his
throat that makes it kind of difficult not to blindly reach out and grab for
the edge of Sanada's sleeve. "You won." 
 
“You can’t be that surprised,” Sanada mutters, flashing back to a little of
that terror he’d felt when Echizen had stood up again...and again...before
finally missing that last ball. “Tezuka wasn’t even playing. And I promised I’d
bring it to you.”
 
"You were late," Yukimura accusingly mutters, hugging his medal to his chest
one handed. God, it hurts to move, but he grits his teeth and slowly maneuvers
himself onto his side…mostly. He feels about as graceful as a freight train,
but it isn't as if Sanada gives a damn. "I got worried. I want your jersey as a
blanket, I'm cold." 
 
“Careful, careful,” Sanada cautions. He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, trying to
get the blankets properly over Yukimura, draping his jersey over him as well,
unable to resist nuzzling into his hair for the briefest of moments. “Apart
from...well, I know surgery in those places will always be rough, but do you
feel any different?” His eyes go to Yukimura’s hands, looking for that telltale
quiver he’s gotten depressingly used to over the last several months.
 
"I," Yukimura announces, still clutching at his medal like it's a lifeline, "am
enjoying my morphine. But I could enjoy it more and I am pretty sure I can feel
places I forgot were places. That's good. I think." He half-reaches up, making
another grab for Sanada, but it mostly ends up in a sort of misplaced pawing at
the front of his chest. "I want to know about the matches." 
 
Sanada shifts forward, trying to help Yukimura get what he wants, vaguely
nonplussed when it seems like what he wants is to paw a little. Well, it’s not
hurting anyone, and there’s lots of morphine currently occurring, so there’s no
harm done. He leans forward, gently stroking through Yukimura’s hair, a luxury
he’s decided to allow himself. “Marui and Jackal won their match six games to
one. Niou and Yagyuu won, of course, but they dropped four games. Renji lost
embarrassingly, and Akaya lost brutally.” He exhales hard, and admits, “I
barely won. It was too close. That boy Tezuka found is a terror on the court.”
 
Sanada is close enough for him to curl his fingers into his shirt now, and
that's exactly what Yukimura does, pleased that he can grip quite tightly, no
matter how much effort it takes. On top of that, Sanada's hand feels good in
his hair, and he lets his eyes flutter half-shut. "You still won." Eight months
ago, he wouldn't have said that. He would have scolded Sanada up and down for
dropping a single game, would've made Akaya run laps until he was sick,
suspended Yanagi, maybe, and given Niou and Yagyuu a talk that would have
lasted at least an hour while going over the recordings of their match… 
 
…but--"Asked you to win, and you did," Yukimura murmurs, exhaling a slow,
measured breath. "Even when I wasn't there." 
 
“We’re still the champions,” Sanada exhales, and slumps a little over the bed.
He’s not exactly in the best of health, after that game, but it seems churlish
to complain about scrapes and bruises and strains when Yukimura is...well.
 
“Sixteen years running. Still the reigning kings, as promised. Now you just get
well, and we’ll take the Nationals for the third year running.”
 
He reaches out a hand, squeezing Yukimura’s. “Just like our dream.”
 
Yukimura grabs back tighter still, and in one solid tug--or that's what he
thinks it is, but it's really not, it's kind of a wobbly yank at best and whoo,
the world is spinning oddly with that much effort being exerted--he tugs Sanada
half onto the bed. "I would like to be joined by the vice captain of Rikkai's
reigning kings properly," he giddily says, very certain this is all logical,
"because you are warm and perfect and I'm really happy."
 
Is there anything Sanada can say to that? He doesn’t think so, and gives up on
even trying in favor of sliding onto the cramped little hospital bed, strong
arms encircling the slender form. “You,” he murmurs, very pleased as he tucks
his chin over Yukimura’s shoulder, “are not hooked up to anything.” Neither of
them have to say the obvious--that it’s been months since that was true.
 
Squeezed into a tiny bed with his back throbbing and his medal--their medal--
sandwiched between them, Yukimura is pretty sure that he actually died during
his surgery and went to paradise instead. He stuffs his face into Sanada's
neck, breathing in deep. "Mmnn. I'm not beeping. I hate beeping. Will you stay
with me until they yell at us?"
 
Sanada hates getting yelled at by authority figures, but not as much as he’s
hated hearing machines “BEEP” about Yukimura’s constant lack of health for
eight months. He nods, tightening his arms, being mindful of anything that
might have happened during the surgery. “I doubt we’ll get to that. The rest of
the team will want to come in and let you know or apologize, depending.”
 
"Too noisy right now." He blames it all on Sanada for being warm and
comfortable to lie against. He's usually very sociable, but Sanada is better
than morphine at the moment, and that's not something he wants interrupted any
time soon. "And," Yukimura dimly adds, yawning into Sanada's shoulder, "you're
my favorite, anyway. Genichirou, I'm pretty sure I have toes again." 
 
“I’m pretty sure,” Sanada murmurs, something almost like a smile at the corner
of his lips, “you’re going to have a tennis racquet in your hand by the end of
the day. Don’t be mad at me if I try to slow you down a little. I can see your
stitches from here, and they look…like you wouldn’t want them put in again.”
 
"I could have a tennis racquet right now. I could," Yukimura mutters sleepily.
"But don't talk about my stitches, I'm going to have a scar and it's gross."
 
“It’s a mark of honor.” Sanada can’t think of anything more impressive or
beautiful than the way Yukimura’s back will look when he’s whole and well
again. “If you promise not to overexert yourself, I’ll take you to a game
tomorrow morning.”
 
He's awake now. Mostly, at any rate, or as much as the drugs will let him when
he groggily lifts his head. "Define overexert." 
 
“Doing anything the nurses tell you not to. I want you to be the healthiest
Yukimura you’ve ever been for the Nationals in three weeks.”
 
"I'm going to be the best tennis player," is his grumpy rebuttal to that, and
Yukimura flops his head back down. "Right. I've got this. Even if you just took
me to watch practice, that'd be…mm. Yes, really good." 
 
“Don’t be stupid. You’re going to every practice. I don’t mind carrying you
myself. You’re our captain.” Sanada nuzzles slightly into thick dark hair,
breathing in hospital chemicals and wishing he could remember what Yukimura
smelled like before. “You’ve always been our captain.”
 
"Gonna walk. Don't carry me, that's weird. I told you, I'm pretty sure I've got
toes," Yukimura insists, sliding his hands up against Sanada's chest to gently
curl his fingers against him. "You were a good captain while I was gone,
though," he quietly adds. "I knew you'd take care of everything. You did. Thank
you, Genichirou." 
 
“I had my doubts.” It’s a quiet confession, and one that Sanada isn’t thrilled
to make. “It’s not the same, without you. Everything is…” Less fun. More
serious. More like work. Bleaker. More hopeless. Awful. “We’ll be glad to have
you back.”
 
"Be happier sounding." That's accompanied by a half-hearted smack to Sanada's
chest, but mostly Yukimura concentrates on nuzzling at his neck. "You won. We
won. Nationals will be the same. Also, rude: you didn't even kiss me when we
won. That's tradition ruined. You're a tradition-ruiner." He could have more
morphine.
 
Sanada doesn’t bother making some very pointed excuses. Instead, he leans over
and brushes a soft kiss to Yukimura’s lips, feeling that familiar prickling
glee building in his body at the feeling. “We,” he says softly, brushing a hand
through loose hairs around Yukimura’s face, “are having the after-match
celebration in a few days. We all decided to wait for you.”
 
He might not need more morphine. Sanada is good. His mouth feels good, his
hands feel good, and if not for the stabbing, throbbing pain in his back,
Yukimura is pretty sure that he would be feeling great. Even with that pain,
though, he kind of half-melts, flopping limply into Sanada's chest, squishing
that medal between them and stealing another kiss in return, a smile on his own
lips. "It can be at my house, like it was last year. Marui can use our kitchen.
I just want to sit around with you guys all day."
 
“He’s been planning his menu ever since we found out about the surgery. I’m
pretty sure everyone has some ideas about making you feel like...well. The
kings we are.”
 
Is it arrogance if it’s true? Sanada has never thought so.
 
"I want to eat everything," Yukimura mutters, nuzzling his face into Sanada's
shoulder. "And caffeine. I can drink caffeinated things again. I'm gonna."
 
“You’re going to drink things that will make you well,” Sanada says firmly.
“Tea has caffeine, I think. That can be enough.” Mentally, he makes a note to
hide every can of Red Bull Yukimura gets his hand on--and frisk Niou before he
enters any room.
 
"Want real caffeine," is the cross rebuttal. "And tea doesn't have protein.
Pretty sure I remember Red Bull having protein. I need it if I'm going to
recover really fast. I'm gonna play singles one in the finals, I've already
decided." 
 
“I,” Sanada says seriously, “will cook you all of the protein you want. And no
one would expect anyone else to play singles one. It would be absurd. You’re
our number one, and always were.”
 
There's a short pause before Yukimura very seriously says: "If you are going to
cook me things, I will sit and watch and only then will I not drink Red Bull."
One hand smacks weakly against Sanada's chest. "You're very manly in the
kitchen. I remember." 
 
Sanada turns red, and buries his face in Yukimura’s shoulder. “I’ll cook you
whatever you want,” he mutters. “I remember what you like. Marui is better at
it, but when he isn’t around, I don’t mind.” Especially since Yukimura eats
almost exclusively things that are easy to prepare.
 
"Between the two of you, I'll be spoiled. As I should be." His fingers knead a
little into Sanada's chest. "I could have more morphine. They took my button
away again, didn't they. They're rude. I want to go home with you." 
 
“I’ll take you home soon. In the meantime…”
 
Sanada strokes gently through Yukimura’s hair, savoring the fact that he can.
“Your homework is finished, and there’s no beeping. Weren’t you saying it
stopped you from sleeping? They told me I can bring you home tomorrow, but I’ll
see if I can persuade them for tonight. If you’re off the morphine, they must
think you’re close to ready.”
 
"You have no idea how ready I am." Except Sanada does, more than anyone, and
having someone that actually does know makes it not quite as awful, or as
terrifying. It's almost over, just another day at the most, that's it is what
Yukimura keeps telling himself, but the allure of getting out of here tonight… 
 
Yukimura exhales slowly, shutting his eyes and letting his head flop into
Sanada's hand. "I won't even argue about anything if I can go home sooner, I
promise. I just want to sleep in my own bed." With you.
 
Sanada sighs, and pulls out his ID card. “If you promise to behave, I’ll talk
to the Director. He knows my grandfather.”
 
As Yukimura well knows, though neither of them use this kind of thing often.
It’s less than honorable, but Yukimura has been in here for far too long.
 
Yukimura lifts his head and gives Sanada what he hopes is among the most
pathetic of stares ever. "I said I'd promise to be good. I won't even whine
about being in a wheelchair." Unless they can't hear me.
 
Sanada favors him with a slow, penetrating look. “It isn’t the nurses you have
to convince. It’s me. If I don’t think you’re taking care of yourself, I’m
going to take you to somewhere there’s no tennis and no Red Bull.”
 
Yukimura's eyes narrow. "But I want to play tennis. If I agree to no Red Bull,
there has to be tennis." He's been denied energy drinks for this long and can
definitely endure that a bit longer, but tennis isn't negotiable. 
 
“That’s only if you don’t behave yourself. I told you, we’re going to a tennis
game in the morning.” Babysitting Yukimura to make sure he doesn’t overexert
himself isn’t going to be fun, but it is going to be rewarding….he hopes.
Either way, it’s nothing he’d relinquish to anyone else in the world, and is
only grateful that Yukimura still trusts him enough for this.
 
Yukimura flops his head back down with a huff of breath. Pouting at Sanada is,
as usual, ineffective when it comes to his health. How annoying. "Don't talk to
me like I'm a kid. I'm going to behave. I'm not dumb, I just want to play
again. I'll be able to play again faster if I get home faster, too." 
 
“Don’t talk to me like you’ve never ignored your health for tennis before,”
Sanada warns. “We want our Captain back, and I want you back healthy. Not just
for Nationals, forever. None of us want to go through the last eight months
again, least of all you.”
 
All Sanada gets in response at first is something close to a growling mumble.
"If you get me out of here tonight," Yukimura eventually, huffily says, "I
promise I'll just go straight to bed. And I won't drink Red Bull or ask Niou to
get any for me later. See, I'm already being good." 
 
Sanada very carefully does not point out that Yukimura breaks his promises left
and right without compunction. Instead, he gives a gentle kiss to Yukimura’s
temple, then slips out of the bed. “I’ll be right back. I’ll see if they’ll
release you into my care for the night, at least.”
 
At least there will be an attempt, and he can live with that. Yukimura
carefully curls himself up around his medal, and scoots over a bit into the
sheets warmed by Sanada's body just seconds ago. "Hey." He reaches out one
hand, pawing lightly at Sanada's sleeve. "Even if they won't--thank you. I
really, reallyam grateful, Genichirou. For everything."
 
That makes everything worthwhile. It always does, and Sanada has to try not to
simply sink down to the floor. There’s an amount of tension he hadn’t known
he’d been building up, but this...Yukimura healthier than he’s been in a year,
Yukimura soft-spoken and grateful instead of angry, Yukimura healed—
 
It’s worth anything.
 
He swallows around the lump in his throat, and nods. “It is my honor.”
 
The Director is startled to see that the grandson of such a dear friend is in
his office, and really, this is Japan. Nothing else is required. Twenty minutes
later, Yukimura is in a wheelchair (“Hospital policy, got to do it to keep the
lawyers away, of course, Sanada-san,”), and Sanada is carefully wheeling him to
the train station. “Keep that jersey on tight,” he warns, glaring around them
under the brim of his hat. “Unscrupulous people might try to hurt you if I
leave you alone for a moment.”
 
"So don't leave me alone," Yukimura hums, tugging Sanada's jersey tighter
around himself nonetheless. Air that smells like the city, like food and people
and things that aren't chemicals and gross, gross medicine is enough to make
him forget his promises already and leap out of his wheelchair at a run. Then
again, if leaning back still hurts as much as it does, then getting up and
really moving doesn't sound terribly good right now, either. Even though Sanada
thinks him completely reckless, he's not entirely insane about being up and
about. Usually. Well, maybe lately he has been, but...
 
Yukimura fights back a yawn instead, and tilts his head back to look up at
Sanada. "What game are we going to go see tomorrow? Are the third place matches
for the Kantou still going on?"
 
“That’s the one. Fudomine versus Rokkaku. You can see the man who made Akaya
drop his first game play.” Sanada spares a brief, fond look down at Yukimura,
then becomes hypervigilent again as soon as he wheels them into the train
station. “I’m taking you to my house first. I didn’t think you’d want the team
to see you like this, so we’ll get rid of the wheelchair there and take a
taxi.”
 
Ahh, that's a weight off of his shoulders that he hadn't even really thought
about until Sanada brought it up. Yukimura sags a little. "That's good. Thank
you, Sanada. I'm sorry for all the trouble." 
 
“It’s no trouble.” The words are familiar after eight months, and maybe
someday, Yukimura will believe him. To forestall any further communication
about the perceived burden, he adds, “Then we can have practice the next day.”
 
"I'm being spoiled. Good, though, it's been way too long since I've been able
to watch matches in person. Speaking of which, Akaya and Yanagi should start
running laps now and continue until Nationals, and then maybe I won't be as
annoyed with them." 
 
“They got distracted.” Sanada’s glare intensifies as he looks at nothing in
particular, thinking about those awful matches. “Both of them were
embarrassing. I don’t think either of them should be allowed to play singles if
we face Seigaku again in Nationals.”
 
"I agree when it comes to Yanagi…Akaya, though, needs the experience.
Otherwise, he won't be confident enough next year. Also," Yukimura dryly
remarks, sparing a glance back to Sanada, "if he was trying to rush, then
undoubtedly he got sloppy, and that does remind me of someone else I know."
 
Sanada grimaces. “It was less the rush, more the...he was too overconfident. He
beat Tachibana, and he thought he wouldn’t have trouble with Seigaku’s prodigy.
He’s still not good at reading people, couldn’t tell he was being played with.”
 
"Mm. Fuji Shuusuke would be the worst kind of player for him to go up
against…but he should know better by now, in theory. I'll have a talk with him
later, I hope you haven't scolded him too much."
 
“I would have,” Sanada freely admits, “but I didn’t have time. I came right to
the hospital after my match.” And I would have stayed by your bedside for a
year, if it meant you waking up to that medal in your hand.
 
"Ah, well, that's good. It just means I can scold him in my own way." Yukimura
leans back carefully, casting a smile up to him. "Waking up to you was the best
thing, anyway." 
 
Sanada almost misses his stop, lost in looking at Yukimura. “I had to make sure
you would. Nothing...nothing else mattered.” They’re getting an odd look from
an elderly woman sitting by the train window. Sanada ignores her.
 
"Nothing? Not even getting me that medal? You were pretty gung-ho about that,
if I recall correctly," Yukimura lightly teases, his hands still holding tight
to the medal in question. "If I had woken up to anyone else, though…mm, it
wouldn't have been as good." He pauses, shrugging a little as he glances down
into his lap. "You're the whole reason I could go through with the surgery in
the first place, so if you hadn't been there…"
 
Sanada squeezes Yukimura’s shoulder, then drops his hand only to roll them out
of the train. “I said I’d be there. I said I’d win. You can stop doubting me
any time.”
 
"I'm not doubting you at all. I never did. Is it coming off like that?"
Worriedly, Yukimura twists a little to look back at him, regrets it with a
grimace, and sags back again with a light, frustrated sigh. "I'm just…hmm. Kind
of amazed? I knew you'd come through for me, and you did, but…I think I'm
mostly wondering what I did to get so lucky. Having a surgery seems to pale in
comparison. I don't think you're human, Genichirou."
 
“I’d be less tired if I weren’t human,” Sanada says frankly, but pats
Yukimura’s shoulder gently. “You just talk a lot about what would have happened
if I’d failed. I don’t like even thinking about failing. Especially not when
I’d be letting you down.”
 
"I'll stop talking about it. It just doesn't all seem that real yet, you know?"
What does seem real, however, is the fact that he knows where they are,
recognizes the bits and pieces of the city that has changed over the months
he's been in the hospital, and ah, that's weird. Really weird. "You're going to
sleep in my bed tonight," Yukimura insists again after a short pause. "A really
long, good sleep. I have sleeping pills, you can even have one if you want, and
then we'll both feel better and be ready to go tomorrow."
 
It isn’t far to Sanada’s house from the station, and before long, they’re
rolling up the stone walkway. “You know I don’t like taking pills of any kind.
You won’t need them, soon. The pain will be gone.” If he’s sure, and he’s
careful, and he takes better care of Yukimura than anyone ever has, it might
become true.
 
"I'll have you know I've developed quite a pain tolerance over the past few
months," Yukimura sniffs, and unconsciously starts hugging his medal again
while he says it. "The sleeping pills are more for the fact that apparently I
like to sleepwalk now. I hope that'll stop. Maybe I was unconsciously trying to
escape from the hospital." He eyes Sanada's house a bit warily. "Is your mother
home and going to try and baby me? That's always a little…"
 
“She’s at the summer home up in Hokkaido,” Sanada assures him, giving up on the
wheelchair when the walkway gets too bumpy. Carefully, he eases Yukimura out of
the wheelchair and into his arms, getting the door open with one hand. “It
should be just us and my brother’s family, but they’re in the other wing.”
 
Yukimura doesn't like the way he basically dangles in Sanada's hold, because
his legs feel odd--less like they don't want to listen to a thing he says, and
more like they just aren't strong enough to hold up his weight. He growls
underneath his breath, but it's an excuse to cling to Sanada's neck all the
same. There are far worse fates, that's for sure. "I remember when you didn't
realize he knocked up a fourteen year old." 
 
“It’s not like my parents told me,” Sanada grumbles, peering around corners to
make sure he doesn’t run into Sasuke--or worse, his brother. “You know how
hushed-up they kept the whole thing. My brother didn’t even know he was getting
married until the day it happened.”
 
"I'm honored to be aware of the great Sanada family cover-ups. I remember when
that finally came out--what was it that convinced him to go to the priest? 'Put
on your suit, your grandmother's dying'?" Yukimura teases. "Don't worry, you'll
never have to trick me like that. We've already had a child out of wedlock
besides."
 
“I thought you’d have disowned him after he lost his match.” It’s been a while
since Sanada has been fazed by Yukimura casually referring to Kirihara that
way.
 
"Mmnn, no. Not yet. He's been acting out since I've been in the hospital, so he
can have one more chance before I decide to stay back a year and captain the
tennis team again." He's only half-joking.  
 
“I didn’t do most of your homework for a year so you could stay behind,” Sanada
mutters, setting Yukimura in a chair as he calls for a cab. “We have another
school to rule for three years.”
 
Yukimura beams up at him. "Or we could just rule the world. Isn't Tezuka trying
to go pro soon? We could do it together and beat him in every tournament." The
Tezuka lure usually works pretty well. 
 
Sanada’s face falls, and he scowls, voice dropping to a growl. “Tezuka…”
 
"Ah. You're doing that thing again." Yukimura carefully stretches out one leg,
and is pleased that he can at least poke Sanada with his toes accurately.
"Don't worry, I'll make sure you get to play him in the Nationals."
 
Sanada blinks. “But…” He looks at Yukimura, trying not to think his reasons too
loudly, and shakes his head. “He’s not a part of this any longer. He’s in
Germany, remember? He left his team to govern themselves.”
 
Yukimura's eyebrows raise. "You seriously think he won't come back? The fact
that Seigaku lost in the Kantou just means he'll want to come back even more so
he can play and win--or, well, try to."
 
Sanada shrugs. “If I thought he had that kind of honor, maybe. Besides, if he
did, someone else would be playing him. I’ve got to deal with that rookie.”
 
"After you dropped so many games to him? No way, he's mine," Yukimura sniffs,
draping himself a bit sideways in the chair in an attempt to get comfortable.
"Assuming we even get to singles one, and assuming Tezuka lets him play again
after losing to you. I'm already planning the Nationals out, we have a lineup
that helps us breeze right through to the finals without any trouble."
 
Sanada tries not to have misgivings, and at least succeeds in not vocalizing
them. “He’s a tough opponent,” he finally says. “You’ll want to be ready. I’m
assuming you want the tapes.”
 
Yukimura glowers at him. "I'm going to be ready. I've got three weeks, I'll
never be more ready. And of course I want the tapes, I'm going to pick
everyone's matches apart and it's going to be the most fun I've had in
months." 
 
Sanada’s hand hovers on the phone. “Now, or at the party? I can cancel the
car.”
 
A dismissive wave of Yukimura's hand follows that. "Neither. It's time to
celebrate right now, isn't it? I think it would be a bit much for everyone to
have to suffer through that tonight." He hesitates, then asks with a sigh
that's somewhat wry and put out with himself: "If it's not too much trouble,
can I ask for one more favor?"
 
“Anything.” There isn’t a second of hesitation, and after a moment, Sanada
starts moving to the hall closet. “Something else to wear?”'
 
Sanada can still read his mind, thank god. "One of your sweaters. You know, the
ones that are so big on me that you can fit two of me in them? I just want to
be comfortable," Yukimura sighs, huddling up into Sanada's jersey a bit more
for emphasis. His mother can side-eye ugly knitting all she wants, but being
draped in everything that's Sanada's sounds really good tonight. 
 
Sanada’s hand is already on one of his sweaters, a heavy brown woolen garment
with cables up and down the front and sleeves. “I don’t think my trousers will
fit you, but we have yukata or...hmm, Sasuke had a growth spurt, you could wear
his shorts.”
 
Yukimura shudders. "Pass. I amnot beyond wearing this sweater over a yukata, so
gimme." He will be comfortable and slathered in Sanada's things, so help him.
 
Sanada is careful verging on doting as he wraps Yukimura snugly in one of his
own yukata, then rolls the sweater down over his head. It drowns him, looking
far larger than the last time Yukimura had done this. “I think I put on some
width, sorry.”
 
"…Understatement," Yukimura murmurs, snuggling himself down into the sweater
nonetheless as he peers up at Sanada. With all those drugs wearing off, it's a
lot easier to look at Sanada and see that he really has grown in eight months,
and…well, it's not like he hasn't grown, but getting taller and being thinner
doesn't translate the same way. So much for being intimidating. "It's good,
though. You look good." He lifts one sleeved arm, amused at how a generous
portion of the sweater just flops over his hand. "And your sweaters still do
this, so I'm calling it all a success." 
 
A casual moment is enough to suppress the possibility of a bloody nose, and
Sanada keeps his hand there for a long moment before carrying Yukimura out to
the car. The ride is a quick one, made faster by the way Yukimura is actually
warm under his arm, not cool like his body always got in the hospital. Without
being asked, he rolls the window down slightly, letting in all the air of the
outside, letting it spill over them. “This is it. I...have an idea, if you
don’t want to go in with me carrying you.” Or fall.
 
If it were just his family he was coming home to, Yukimura wonders if he would
even care--but it's his team, and they've seen enough of him collapsing,
stumbling, of being entirely unable to walk. He carefully stretches out a leg,
frowns as he wriggles his toes, and wishes that it didn't feel so disgusting to
feel the deteriorationrunning up and down his legs. While it was never a
logical train of thought, something about going through with that surgery made
him think this would be much easier, much faster, a fix that would happen
within just a few days… 
 
Eight months of being chained to a hospital aren't going to disappear that
easily, apparently. Yukimura sighs and shrugs, his smile wry as he looks up at
Sanada. "All right, tell me. I think I'm a little too tired not to make a fool
of myself otherwise."
 
And that is how Yukimura enters his home perched magnificently on a high-backed
chair, balanced on Sanada’s shoulder like a sedan chair (or a throne). It’s a
lot of work, but Sanada welcomes the strain when he sees Yukimura’s face light
up--and sees the faces of their team, all clustering around to raise him up
higher together. It isn’t long before a chant of “Always Glorious, Always
Victorious, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku!” starts up. It never is.
 
That is also how Yukimura comes to regard Sanada as about twenty times more
perfect than he already did. Well, that, and every hour prior to this one
moment as well, but--
 
It's kind of hard not to want to cling to the man that is literally treating
him like a god.
 
Akaya is the first to zoom up near him once he's set down. "Buchou!! You look
like you're doing so much better, is that one of Fukubuchou's sweaters? It's
really ugly--"
 
Jackal whacks him on the back of the head, and then it's apparently Yagyuu's
turn to greet him. Awkwardly. "Bonjour, Yukimura-kun!" Oh, god, apparently
that's a thing he's going to say now. "I'm so glad to see you're doing well! We
weren't sure if you'd be up to having the party tonight." 
 
"It would've been weird to have it later," Akaya complains, still rubbing at
his head. "And Buchou's fine, just look at him." 
 
"I didn't want to make any of you wait for a chance to celebrate our victory,"
Yukimura agrees, though he looks pointedly at Akaya--and through him, to Yanagi
lingering a few paces away. That only lasts a second, though--just long enough
to make Akaya cringe, anticipating swift and immediate punishment--but Yukimura
smiles instead, and it's worth it, because Akaya looks like he wants to cry. "I
couldn't be more proud of all of you."
 
"Yukimura-buchou!!"
 
Sanada isn't the only one that grew, and that's readily apparent when Akaya
grabs him up in a hug that's far too tight for stitches and staples. "Ow ow ow
ow--" When did Akaya get as tall as him, anyway?
 
Sanada’s hand doesn’t quite come down as hard as it could, but he does snatch
Akaya up by the back of his collar, wrenching him away before he can do harm.
“If you put him back in the hospital,” he growls, “you will have the bed next
to his. Hug him gently, he just got cut open.”
 
Niou tries to be cool, but it’s not easy when Yukimura is home again, so he
just kind of awkwardly thunks his forehead against Yukimura’s hand the next
time he reaches out. Yeah, that’ll do. “Welcome back, boss.”
 
“I told you to call him Captain!”
 
“Nah, he likes it.”
 
"I like it," Yukimura reassures Sanada in a conversation that's happened at
least a hundred times by now. 
 
"That was gentle! I swear it was! I'm really sorry Yukimura-buchou, I wasn't
trying to hurt you--"
 
In between giving a forcibly bowing Akaya's head a pat, Yukimura reaches out to
grab Niou's rat tail--or attempt to, old time's sake and all that. "You and Mr.
Bonjour dropped too many games. Never again, right?" 
 
"Mr. Bonjour? Ah, yes, that does have a good ring to it--if you ever need
anyone to help you practice your French, Yukimura-kun, I'm always available--" 
 
"Do something," Yukimura deadpans to Niou, shoving him away. Dear god, this
feels like home, he's not going to start crying over his teammates being stupid
and weird and not walking on eggshells around him for the first time in months,
that's not going to happen.
 
“Yo, Yagyuu, Yukimura says he’s really into Ancient Etruscan these days, I bet
he’d be thrilled if you’d learn to say stuff in that.”
 
“BUCHOU!” Marui skids out of the kitchen, leaping nimbly over Akaya's
perpetually bowing form to present a plate of small samples. “Try the fish and
the veggies before you taste the breads and cakes, or you won’t want to eat
them. Jackal, go stir my pot before it boils over, please!”
 
"Ancient Etruscan, Ancient Etruscan, Yukimura-kun has such interesting taste,"
Yagyuu mutters, wandering off to the side to contemplate this while Jackal
offers Marui a salute and disappears off into the kitchen. 
 
"You have no idea how excited I am about real food again, Marui," Yukimura
breathes, lurching forward and immediately snatching up a piece of fish with
the proffered chopsticks. His hand doesn't even shake, and that's almost
exciting as how the fish in question practically melts in his mouth. "You," he
says after chewing and swallowing and reaching back to try the vegetables next,
"are a genius. When I'm a famous pro tennis player, I'm taking you everywhere
with me to cook for me." 
 
"Seiichi, you shouldn't eat too fast."
 
"Don't tell me how fast I should eat, Mr. I-Lost-To-My-Ex," Yukimura mumbles
around his next mouthful. Yanagi looks artfully away. 
 
“Ex-doubles partner,” Sanada says quickly, forestalling Akaya’s obvious
question. “Go get the Captain his favorite chair.”
 
“Okay, I know I’m a genius,” Marui says rationally, “but which ones do you like
the most? I can make all of them, if you want, but I want you to eat everything
and have room for dessert.”
 
"Missing out on your dessert would be the worst…ahh, this one for sure, I'm
going to eat the remnants right now," Yukimura decisively says, snagging the
last piece of the grilled fish. "You can surprise me with everything else, it's
all really good." 
 
"I've got the comfy chair!" 
 
"Our offspring is a god, too," Yukimura sighs in relief, slumping to the side
and making a grab for Sanada's hand. "Help me up, I'm drowning in sweater." And
that's the excuse he's going to stick to.
 
Marui disappears quickly into the kitchen, leaving the plate behind in Jackal’s
care. There are some things Jackal doesn’t mind having fobbed off on him, and
eating Marui’s kitchen experiments is one of them.
 
“It’s an awful lot of sweater,” Sanada agrees, and pretends not to hear Akaya’s
mutterings about the sweater’s lack of aesthetic appeal. It’s not like he wears
it to look good, it just happens to be warm...and it makes Yukimura look
awfully sweet. He settles Yukimura into the chair, pulling one up next to him,
on hand for whatever Yukimura might need.
 
“Yo, boss, I have a selection of movies and games we could watch, and games we
can play. Trick is, you can’t see the titles before you choose, and you only
get three questions.”
 
“Niou,” Sanada rumbles warningly.
 
Yukimura hopes his eyes don't roll into the back of his head too obviously.
Being home in this big, squishy chair and wrapped up in Sanada's clothes with
his medal still around his neck underneath a huge sweater is about as perfect
of a homecoming evening as he could have ever imagined. "I could play a
fighting game where I crush all of you."
 
"Buchou, that's not fair! You always win--well, when Marui-senpai isn't
playing--"
 
"Exactly," Yukimura smugly says. "He's busy cooking. My plan is perfect." 
 
Akaya looks pathetic enough that Yukimura reconsiders. He probably shouldn't,
considering Akaya's loss, but... "Or just a movie is fine."
 
"Yes! Niou-senpai, I know you've got Spiderman in there--"
 
Yukimura lets his head loll to the side so he can better look at Sanada. "I'm a
horrible mother," he wistfully says.
 
Niou looks down at the cases, all carefully blank and black, and shrugs. “I
won’t say there isn’t Spiderman,” he eventually allows. “But at least one of
them might be a horror movie or game that’s guaranteed to cause death in the
youngest person in any room that watches it. Oh, shit, that’s you, isn’t it,
Kirihara?”
 
“Niou,” Sanada says again, more tired this time than anything. After all, Niou
and Yagyuu had dropped games, too. 
 
“Five more minutes!” Marui calls from the kitchen. “Don’t start any fighting
games without me! Or Spiderman, I know Niou brought Spiderman!”
 
Sanada mutters something under his breath that sounds an awful lot likewhy
would anyone want to watch a movie about a spider.
 
"I've always wondered about why Japanese teenagers prefer Spiderman to so many
other American superheroes," Yagyuu muses aloud, pushing his glasses up. "I had
a theory that it was color scheme based, but then there's Superman and--"
 
"If you can't say there isn't Spiderman, then there must be Spiderman!" Akaya
insists, even though he scoots away from Niou's collection of cases, eyeing
them warily. "Buchou, you're not gonna let him put on a horror movie that'll
kill me, right?"
 
Yukimura shrugs a little. "I don't know. You did lose your match."
 
"It was just that one time! It's never going to happen again, I promise!" 
 
"Hmmm." 
 
"If you put on that horror movie, then I'll leave and it's Yukimura-buchou
that's gonna die instead!" Akaya attempts with an accusing stare at Niou. "You
can't let that happen." 
 
“Yo, Sanada-fukubuchou,” Niou muses, “what’s the penalty for threatening
Yukimura with death if he doesn’t get his way?”
 
Sanada stands.
 
Akaya turns as white as a sheet. "I--I wasn't threatening him! I was just
saying--if I left, that's what would happen! I don't want Buchou to die, I'd
never threaten him, please don't hit me, Sanada-fukubuchouuuu--"
 
Yukimura reaches out to lightly tap Jackal's arm. "Just put on Spiderman and
put him out of his misery." 
 
Somehow, after a few false starts (what that second DVD was, Sanada never wants
to find out), they manage to get Spiderman on the TV. According to the ones who
keep up with this kind of thing and Akaya’s delighted face, this is the new
Spiderman movie, which seems to intimate to Sanada that there is more than one
movie about this boy that reminds him of Yagyuu with superpowers.
 
Weird superpowers.
 
“You started it without me!” Marui wails from the kitchen, trotting out a
minute later with two plates of food. “One for Buchou, one for me, everyone
else can go get one from the kitchen but do not touch the dessert, Akaya!”
 
"Pause it, pause it, I want Marui-senpai's food!" Akaya whines, bolting up from
his spot on the floor to run to the kitchen. Jackal promptly steals a piece of
meat off of Marui's plate before getting up to get his own.
 
"No pausing, consider it speed and accuracy training," Yukimura disinterestedly
replies, taking his plate from Marui with a smile. "Thank you, Marui." 
 
Yagyuu hesitantly leans over to tap at Niou's shoulder. "Do you want to just
eat off of my plate, or shall I get you your own?" 
 
As an answer, Niou butts his head against Yagyuu’s hand. Yagyuu is Good. Yagyuu
understands the tendency towards piracy that come with his Islander ways.
 
Marui, for his part, steals a piece of meat back from Jackal’s plate as soon as
he returns, and stares in some kind of awe at the way Sanada piles his plate.
“Sanada-fukubuchou, I—”
 
“Thank you for cooking, Marui,” Sanada says firmly, and stuffs about three
servings worth of meat into his mouth, suddenly extremely conscious of the fact
that he hasn’t eaten for a long time. Even his endurance has limits.
 
Jackal pokes Marui with the end of his chopsticks. "Oi, Bunta. Staring's
rude." 
 
"Yanagi-senpai, I just want one piece of cake--"
 
Akaya is evicted from the kitchen shortly after, shuffling back in with a scowl
on his face as he flops down with his food. Yanagi follows moments later,
serenely folding himself up next to Akaya and slapping his hand when he
immediately tries to snitch a bit more food from his plate. 
 
"Your desserts have remained untouched, Marui-kun," Yagyuu informs him upon
returning to Niou's side a moment later, setting a plate between them…and
promptly making a liar of himself by deftly passing a cupcake into Niou's
clutches when Marui's attention is turned to the screen. 
 
Niou, fortunately, is a magician, and quite skilled in the act of making
cupcakes disappear. Yagyuu is Good, so it’s only about half an hour into
Awkward Teenager With Wet Dream Powers that Niou winds up halfway,
uncomfortably, in Yagyuu’s lap. It’s bony and he’s heavy, and he’s sort of
daring Yagyuu to try and evict him when one of his hands is tracing little
patterns on the back of Yagyuu’s neck.
 
Sanada stares at the screen, frowning. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he
mutters, setting aside his hat for the time being, swallowing a large chunk of
meat in between bites of vegetables. “Those are martial arts moves, it isn’t
like he took the time to study the katas. You don’t just get that kind of
knowledge from being bitten by a spider!”
 
“Buchou, make him stop, he’s making it weird and Spiderman is awesome.”
 
"It's called suspension of disbelief, Sanada," Yukimura patiently says,
reaching over to give Sanada's arm a light pat that sort of lingers and ends up
being a slow stroking motion instead. "Just go with it. American superheroes
are always like this." 
 
"Niou-kun," is Yagyuu's low little hiss as he attempts to adjust Niou into a
better position in his lap, at the very least, but oh, this is so awkward--
 
"I would get those kinds of powers from being bitten by a spider," Akaya
mutters, staring intently at the screen in-between stuffing his face. "But I
would use them for tennis." 
 
Marui pokes Jackal’s arm. “I would totally watch a movie about Akaya the tennis
superhero. We should make it happen.”
 
“Knock it off,” Niou mutters, squashing Yagyuu a little more firmly. What an
asshole, he can at least accept a compliment when it sits in his lap. 
 
Sanada, personally, starts to say more about Peter Parker and physics, but is
emphatically distracted by Yukimura’s hand. He swallows hard, turning to the
side and giving Yukimura a look that he’s tried very hard not to favor him with
often, while he was in the hospital.
 
(Then again, he’s actually free of that pesky heart monitor now…)
 
Akaya swallows so hard around a piece of meat that he nearly chokes.
"Seriously? Buchou, can we make the next play we put on about me as a tennis
superhero? That'd be awesome!"
 
"Uh huh," Yukimura says distractedly, slowly kneading his fingers into Sanada's
bicep. It isn't like he hasn't touched Sanada in eight months, but only now is
it exceedingly obvious exactly how much training Sanada's obviously been
doing… 
 
"Really?! Sweet!"
 
Yagyuu makes a sort of weak, half-mumbled protest before resigning himself to
having a lap full of Niou. At least no one else seems to notice, and he could
be more unhappy about it.
 
Marui shifts closer to the screen, focusing more on the action than on what’s
going on around him--a sense that has managed to preserve his deliberate
ignorance about a lot of things over the years. Niou appears to be in Yagyuu’s
lap and feeding him food with his fingers for some reason (he’s going to assume
there’s a reason), and Yukimura is sort of petting Sanada (there’s probably a
reason), but Gwen Stacey is in danger. “Oi, Akaya, maybe you should be Gwen
Stacey in the musical. I’d be a way better Spiderman, I’m more acrobatic.”
 
Sanada leans over to Yukimura’s ear, murmuring, “Let me know when you’re tired,
and I’ll send them away. For whatever reason.”
 
If it were a matter of being tired, they would have all been gone a long time
ago. As it is, Yukimura just smiles, tipping his head over to gently knock it
against Sanada's. "For right now, I'm fine. Besides," he adds lowly, "you're
staying the night, remember?" 
 
Akaya's mouth drops open. "No way! I'm not gonna be a girl, I'm gonna be
Spiderman. I can be just as acrobatic as you, Marui-senpai!"
 
"Dunno about that one," Jackal dryly mutters around another mouthful of
vegetables. 
 
Yagyuu is still periodically, frantically hissing. "Niou-kun--Niou-kun, you
don't need to feed me like that--"
 
“I know I don’t have to,” Niou grumbles, and abandons his attempts to be cute
by starting to toss green peas down Yagyuu’s shirt instead. If he doesn’t want
to be that couple, they’ll be this couple.
 
“Go on, Akaya,” Marui challenges, leaning back on his elbows and pretending he
doesn’t see Sanada going bright red as Yukimura whispers in his ear, “let’s see
your web-slinging moves.”
 
“Outside!” Sanada breaks from his reverie to thunder that one word, looking
around at the family photos, the expensive furniture, and imagining Akaya
trying to be acrobatic in here.
 
"Sit down, Akaya," Yanagi firmly says the moment Akaya starts to climb to his
feet, and Akaya flops back down with a huff.
 
"I want dessert. And seconds. Both," he mutters grumpily, and turns briefly
back to Sanada and Yukimura. "Hey, Buchou, if you're not gonna finish that,
I'll take it. Fukubuchou, why's your face so red--"
 
"Here, Akaya," Yukimura interrupts, leaning up a bit to shove his half-finished
plate in Akaya's direction to make him stop pestering. 
 
"Niou-kun! Niou-kun, why does it have to be down my shirt, this is designer--" 
 
"Wow," Jackal somehow manages underneath his breath without choking.
 
“Buchou,” Marui complains, “I made plenty, you don’t have to give him yours, I
know how to cook for a party that includes Niou!”
 
“Puri.”
 
“Everyone be quiet and watch the movie!” Sanada snarls. “This is supposed to be
welcoming Yukimura back to the team, not pestering him about irrelevant
things!”
 
"It's fine, Sanada--I'm just saving room for dessert, anyway," Yukimura quickly
reassures him, reaching back over to start petting his arm again. 
 
Yagyuu makes a valiant attempt not to whimper about his shirt again. 
 
Niou leans over, and whispers, “Don’t worry, you’re not going to walk out of
here wearing that shirt,” and leans back to watch Yagyuu’s face change.
 
Sanada, on the verge of getting up to refill Yukimura’s plate, actually stops,
gentled at the touch. He settles back into his chair, glowering at improbable
physics and comebacks that probably make more sense in English. “As long as you
aren’t feeling sick.”
 
"I'm really fine," Yukimura quietly reassures him, curling his fingers around
Sanada's arm and leaving them to linger there. Okay, well, eating real food
after months and months isn't the easiest thing in the world, but he's stopping
before he does start to feel too sick. The last thing he wants to do is throw
up Marui's cooking and ruin what is a very, very good day.
 
Yagyuu manages another, unintelligible squawk, and then growls, shoving his
glasses up and half-hiding his reddening face behind one hand. "You aren't
going to take it off here," he hisses underneath his breath.
 
Niou leans in closer, ignoring the artificial barrier, and mutters, “Come to
the bathroom with me. My shirt doesn’t have peas in it.” His logic is fucking
flawless.
 
“Guys, shhh, this is the best part!” Marui insists, watching Peter Parker save
a train. “Wow, New York has bad trains, I bet in Tokyo it wouldn’t even fall
off the tracks!”
 
Yagyuu is too busy staring at Niou in order to debate about trains. "But then
you're not going to have a shirt, and everyone will know." 
 
Niou rolls his eyes. “I’m going to be wearing your shirt, dumbass. I’ve got
wigs.” Duh.
 
"Oh." Yagyuu hesitates, thinking, wondering if that's really something they
should be doing at Yukimura's house. "But they'll still know--"
 
"See, that! That right there! I could do that on stage, that's why I need to be
Spiderman!" Akaya crows, biting his last piece of fish in half with gusto.
"Marui-senpai, you can't jump like that, that's my job!"
 
“Who says I can’t jump like that?” Marui asks, affronted. “Jackal, Buchou, tell
him I can jump like that! I can so jump like that!”
 
Niou just winks at Yagyuu, and stands up, stretching, before sauntering towards
the bathroom. Yagyuu will follow. He’s addicted to it, the sad bastard.
 
Sanada frowns at the screen. No one is watching, which he finds kind of sad.
 
Yagyuu looks around nervously, as if expecting someone to try and stop him. It
doesn't happen, and that's when he makes his daring escape. 
 
"You can so jump like that," Jackal automatically says, though there isn't
exactly a lot of passion there. 
 
"Uh huh," Yukimura agrees, his head flopping to the side to rest on Sanada's
shoulder. 
 
"I've got this," Akaya breathes. "Buchou, when are you going to start writing
the screenplay? I'm going to be a star."
 
"Akaya, if you don't drop it, I'm going to make you my footrest." 
 
Sanada tries, as he has in the past, to wrap his mind around wanting to watch a
movie and then talking all the way through. It’s a skill that his teammates
seem to have, and it baffles him at every turn.
 
Instead of running out for a jumping competition, Marui disappears to the
kitchen for a minute, shoving a few cupcakes at Yukimura before taking a whole
mount for himself. “Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters to no one in
particular. “I made lots.”
 
Jackal promptly steals one from Marui's collection. "You made them, eat as many
as you want." 
 
Yukimura nudges the most chocolate slathered of the bunch in Sanada's direction
before unwrapping one for himself. "It's not like watching historical movies,
Sanada," he lowly teases. "You don't need complete silence." This is, however,
why the team never goes to a movie theatre together ever.
 
Akaya is gone one moment, back the next, and surrounded by enough cupcakes to
look like a sea monster that hit a dessert buffet. He seems proud of this.
 
Sanada wonders briefly if the team has forgotten the “five laps for every
cupcake for anyone who isn’t Marui” rule, and decides they probably have. Then
again, Yukimura looks rather pleased, and Sanada can’t help but like that. For
once, he lets it go, arm moving to rest against Yukimura’s after the chocolate
cupcake finds its way into his mouth. It is a celebration, after all. “Just
don’t see how anyone can understand what’s going on,” he mutters. “I don’t even
know who all these foreigners are supposed to be, they all look the same.”
 
Niou--or Yagyuu--or Niou?--staggers out of the bathroom, followed by, uh, the
other. Both of them look oddly pleased with themselves. Sanada doesn’t like
that.
 
Yanagi also seems somewhat irritated by their return, though it seems to be
more related to the fact he can't immediately tell who is who, and thus yanks
out a notebook to start scribbling notes. Unconcerned, Niou--or Yagyuu--flops
down again bonelessly, and doesn't seem inclined to get up any time soon. 
 
"The only ones that really matter are Spiderman and his useless girlfriend,"
Yukimura dismisses, picking at another cupcake's wrapper. "And, you know, Akaya
looks happy even though he's eating forty cupcakes." He is somewhat concerned
about the impending sugar rush. Damn, maybe this was a mistake. 
 
“We could always have an impromptu practice match after this,” Sanada suggests.
“You could supervise. Akaya and Renji could play until someone starts
bleeding.” That could sound like a worse idea. The memory of losing those two
sets--slowly--is enough to make the chocolate turn in his stomach. 
 
Someone in Niou’s uniform--though they can’t be sure that they’ve switched,
sometimes they pull a double-bluff just to fuck with everyone--starts edging
towards the blankly labeled DVDs. “Yo, after Spiderman, I still have that
horror movie—”
 
“Pass!” Marui says firmly, and starts stealing Akaya’s cupcakes after
demolishing his own. After all, he made them, and Jackal said it was fine.
 
"Marui-senpai!! Those are mine, don't steal them!" Akaya turns frantically
towards maybe-Niou afterwards. "You can't put on a horror movie, Niou-senpai!
You said it would kill me!"
 
"Tomorrow," Yukimura says, stretching out one leg to poke at the side of
Akaya's head, which doesn't seem to faze him in the least. "While I appreciate
your desire for punishment, Sanada, I think it will be much more potent
tomorrow when they all least expect it." He offers the other man a sweet smile.
"That applies to you as well, of course."
 
“Of course.” Sanada had never thought that he would be allowed to get by
without punishment, not after dropping five games. He wouldn’t have wanted to. 
 
Marui turns bright eyes on Akaya. “If you give me your cupcakes,” he says
seriously, “I’ll make sure you don’t get killed by a horror movie. I have my
ways.” He’s drooling a little. Damn, he’s good at baking.
 
Akaya hesitates, obviously weighing the pros and cons between death and
cupcakes. Dying sucks and all that, but he has cupcakes, and they're really
good--"Buchou, he's trying to…uh…exploit me. Yeah, that's the word. Marui-
senpai's exploiting me!"
 
"Good." 
 
"Buchouuuu!" 
 
Maybe-Yagyuu reaches over and politely snags a cupcake off of Akaya's plate.
"For science, Kirihara-kun."
 
"Same here," Jackal agrees, stealing two and handing one to Marui.
 
"Exploitation, exploitation!"
 
"It's never good when Akaya learns a new word, is it?" Yukimura sighs.
 
“Sasuke was the same when he was four or five,” Sanada mutters under his
breath. “That’s not even what that word means, Akaya!”
 
“Puri.” Five more cupcakes disappear, somehow, in the flick of a rattail. 
 
With no more cupcakes left to steal, Marui sighs heavily, then retreats quickly
to the kitchen to pull the second batch onto a platter. It won’t do to have
Kirihara crying the whole rest of the movie, even if he does deserve it for
losing on Yukimura’s surgery day.
 
"Marui-senpai, you're the best!" 
 
"I would've gotten out of the hospital faster if I had Marui's cooking the
whole time," Yukimura grumbles underneath his breath, stealing another cupcake
from the platter when Marui walks past. Maybe that isn't true, but it certainly
feels like it is right now. 
 
It's near the tail-end of the movie that the front door swings open, and
Yukimura jolts awake from being half-asleep on Sanada's shoulder. "Hello,
everyone!" Yukimura Seiki greets, dropping her bags at the door in order to
dart over to her son. "Sanada-kun, you're a lifesaver--there were so many
things I had to do to get ready for Seiichi coming home, and I had to drop
Kaede off at her friend's house and go to the pharmacists', if it weren't for
you--"
 
"Mom, stop petting my hair in front of everyone," Yukimura mutters, twisting
partially to the side in his chair. 
 
"Sorry, sorry, I'm just so proud of you--you already have more color in your
face, are you feeling okay? I have your pain medication and everything else--"
 
"Mom--" 
 
"Right, right, sorry! If you boys need anything, just let me know! Sanada-kun,
when you have a moment, I'm going to show you his medication schedule, all
right?"
 
Immediately, Akaya opens his mouth to say something, and Yukimura's foot grinds
into the side of his head a bit more. "If anyone comments, the answer is laps."
Jackal shuts his mouth in turn.
 
Akaya edges away. "I was just going to say your mom is always really pretty--"
 
"That's 100 laps."
 
"Buchou!!"
 
"We can make this into a game of learning exponents if you keep going."
 
Sanada stands. He’s usually very good at distracting Yukimura’s mother’s
attention, an ability he’s usually careful not to overuse. He gives her the
kind of bow that always makes her clasp her hands, and says seriously, “Please
give me his charts and his pills, Yukimura-san. No harm will come to him while
he is with me.”
 
From behind him, he can hear Niou fake-swoon. “So manly.”
 
"Niou," Yukimura lowly warns.
 
Seiki exhales a sigh that is rather tremulous. "I can always count on you,
Sanada-kun. My son is so lucky to have you--"
 
Yukimura wonders if he can bury himself in Sanada's sweater. It's one thing to
know it, it's something else to hear his mother go on about it. 
 
"Come with me, I'll show you everything; you're the only one he listens to with
this kind of thing, anyway." 
 
At least they’re all embarrassed. Well, except for Niou. He’s never
embarrassed. Red-faced, Sanada follows Yukimura’s mother out of the room.
 
As soon as they’re gone, Niou swoons across Yagyuu’s lap--at least, someone in
Niou’s clothes swoons across the lap of someone in Yagyuu’s clothes. “Sanada-
san,” he breathes, batting long lashes, “you’re so manly. Such big sweaters!
Ah, let me touch your muscles!”
 
"I'm getting out of this chair to kill you," Yukimura flatly threatens,
starting to claw his way upright.
 
"Buchou, let me hit him for you," Jackal hastily intervenes, knowing Sanada
will kill them all if they let Yukimura up and about. 
 
"Because laps! The answer is laps! Niou, choose how many, and if it's too low,
Sanada will remedy that. Yagyuu, you, too, you're a unit." 
 
"…The sweaters are a little bit much, Yukimura-kun--"
 
"I don't want to hear your opinions on Sanada's sweaters when I know they're
perfect!"
 
Niou dodges Jackal’s fist swiftly, mostly by climbing up and around Yagyuu’s
beanpole form. “At least you don’t have to worry about his family not
approving,” he says with a grin, bobbing and weaving. “Your mother knows he’ll
be a great housewife. How many itty bitty Kiriharas are you going to put in
him?”
 
Marui clamps his hands firmly over Akaya’s ears. “Children don’t need to hear
that kind of gross thing, Niou!”
 
Yukimura fumes, grabbing a cupcake wrapper and throwing it at Niou's head. It
misses, sadly, but there are still more wrappers. "If there's a chance that our
children will turn out like you, then there won't be any more of them at all!" 
 
"Yukimura-kun, that's a bit harsh--" Yagyuu desperately attempts, straightening
his glasses after Niou's brief attempts to cling to his head. 
 
"It isn't harsh! Pick your lap numbers immediately or I'll do it for you and
you won't like it." 
 
"What's gross? What is Niou-senpai even talking about?" Akaya complains,
attempting to wriggle away from Marui's clutches. 
 
“Fifty laps around Sanada’sbroad shoulders,” Niou suggests, scrambling up
Yagyuu’s back in some kind of absurd game of chicken. “I’m thinking I kept
bringing you the wrong care package when you were in the hospital, huh?”
 
“He’s being stupid,” Marui informs Akaya. “It’s about math.” That usually works
for a little while.
 
"Oooh. I hate math. Gross."
 
"50 isn't enough! 200. 200 is the number! Both you and Yagyuu can go run 200
laps, right now, around Kanagawa!"
 
"Seiichi, use your indoor voice or you're going to get shrill," his mother
calls from the kitchen.
 
"Don't undermine my authority, Mom! Both of you, go, run!"
 
"Niou-kun, this is your fault," Yagyuu grunts as he sways backwards underneath
Niou's weight. 
 
“Yeah, definitely, around Kanagawa,” Niou agrees, leaping off of Yagyuu’s back
and draping an arm around him instead. “We’re gonna go do them at the arcade.
Akaya, wanna come?”
 
Marui perks up. “Arcade?” Spiderman is over, and no one is giving him more
cupcakes, and Yukimura’s house has got parents in it now.
 
"Heck yeah I wanna come! I'll beat you both at Street Fighter!" Akaya declares,
clawing his way over to both of them in an instant. "And Marui-senpai, too, if
he's coming!"
 
"If you two don't do your laps, I'll know about it," Yukimura grumpily warns,
slumping back into his chair once more. "I'll definitely know." 
 
"I'll monitor them, Seiichi, if you'd like me to," Yanagi says as he climbs to
his feet. 
 
"It's almost better if Sanada just slaps them tomorrow," Yukimura complains,
sighing. "Go on, all of you, I know you want out." If Niou makes a comment
about leaving him alone with his sweaters and manly boyfriend…
 
Niou hangs back for just a moment, letting Yagyuu shepherd out the others. He
twitches his hand, and a little wrapped box appears in Yukimura’s lap. “Welcome
back, boss,” he says, a little grin on his face. “Relax, we’ve got Nationals in
the bag.”
 
Then he’s gone, somehow without the door quite opening.
 
While most people wouldn't find Niou reassuring in the least, Yukimura supposes
he's just weird enough to be not-most-people. He flops back, picking at the
wrapping on the box and opening it. 
 
A small stack of photos mostly consisting of Seigaku's team members looking
forlorn about their losses falls out into his hand, and then there's one of
Sanada (hurriedly, Yukimura can tell from that unusually sloppy bow) accepting
the first place trophy. His lips twitch into a smile, and he sets the
photographs back into the box, making a mental note to have them framed later. 
 
Maybe just 50 laps is okay…and they can wait until tomorrow. 
 
"Genichirou, you don't have to listen to my mother ramble on all night,"
Yukimura calls towards the kitchen, heaving himself up into a proper sitting
position and wondering about the possibility of walking. Maybe not tonight,
what with the way he hurts. First thing in the morning, though, that's going to
happen. For every day of being sedentary, it takes two days to recover that
strength--he's heard it a dozen times from every nurse and doctor in the
hospital, and he doesn't have any time to waste. 
 
Something about the tone of Yukimura’s voice connotes I’m about to get up and I
should not, and Sanada hurries back into the room, equipped with boxes and
papers and bottles. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you alone for that long,” he
says, and extends his arm. “If you want to lean on me, I bet you could walk to
your room, now that everyone else is gone.” He doesn’t care if Yukimura is a
little wobbly, but knows he wouldn’t want to be seen that way by the rest of
the team.
 
Yukimura nods, reaching out to grab hold of Sanada's arm. "Tomorrow morning,
we're going to go running," he firmly declares, even when he has to grit his
teeth to haul himself up onto his feet. It's less the fact that he can't stand,
more the fact that moving makes the incision in his back hurt that much more,
even when he was sure that he was used to it. He sways, but just once, stopping
himself from wobbling out of sheer will. "Then we can watch the matches. I have
three weeks, I can't waste a single day." 
 
“Time spent recovering isn’t wasted,” Sanada reminds him firmly, quelling the
urge to simply pick Yukimura up. He has to remember that not just Yukimura’s
body has suffered injuries, but his pride as well. “That’s how you’ll be at the
top of your game, not by pushing yourself too hard and hurting yourself. Start
by training your arms tomorrow,” he suggests. “Ride on my back while I run.
That’ll be good strength training for me, too.”
 
"As the entire team felt the need to remind me," Yukimura mutters, "youare
already at the top of your game when it comes to strength." He's pretty into
that, though, and could spend more time with his hands on Sanada's
muscles…which is pretty easy when he's clinging to Sanada's arm on the way to
his bedroom. At least he's not on the floor (yet) and there are few things he
can think of as being more satisfying. "The more I do on my own and with you,
the less annoying my rehab at the hospital is going to be. They already told me
I'll probably have to go three times a week over the next few months depending
on my progress, isn't that great." 
 
“The fact that there are so many people who care about you and want you to get
well is great,” Sanada says, and takes the stairs slowly, letting Yukimura set
the pace, making himself available in every way. “But you’re never going to be
going that long. You’ll surprise them all again. You always do.” The strength
of the conviction in that statement is almost palpable. There are no doubts.
There never have been.
 
"If I never have to see the inside of a hospital again, it'll be too soon."
Half-way up the stairs, and this is starting to be the opposite of fun. Maybe
running in the morning is a bad idea. Yukimura exhales a slow breath through
his nose, digs his nails into Sanada's arm, and sets himself to the task of
those last few steps. "I just don't want to be sidelined for Nationals. Even if
I'm in singles one and we never get to my match…I want to know that I will be
just as ready as all of you." 
 
Sanada weighs the possibility of making Yukimura mad against the possibility of
letting Yukimura open those stitches up, and decides to let him do the last few
steps. At the top, though, his patience runs out, and he simply scoops Yukimura
up, sweater and all, in the crook of one arm. The journey to the bedroom is
much shorter after that, and he gently sets him down on the bed, explaining in
a way that he hopes doesn’t sound condescending, “I just couldn’t wait to see
you relax in here.” And if I’d have asked, you’d have refused.
 
That's almost certainly a cover-up, but Yukimura lets it slide because it's his
bedroom, his bedfor the first time in months, and it's just Sanada, anyway. If
it were anyone else, he'd want to kick out their teeth, but… 
 
"…I need to get fatter so you can't pick me up that easily," he murmurs all the
same, sighing as he slowly worms his way up into the center of the bed. "Now
give me my drug cocktail so I can forget about it and just curl up with you for
the rest of the night." 
 
Sanada pulls out a small bottle of water, loosens the cap with the ease of long
practice (Yukimura isn’t the only one who’s gotten used to the hospital), and
passes it over along with five pills shaken out of little boxes and bottles.
“None of these should mess with your mind too badly, but I’m still supposed to
keep an eye on you,” he warns. “It’s mostly just for the infection and the
pain. Turn over, I have to clean it up and replace the bandage. I have pain
cream if you want that instead of the yellow pill.”
 
Yukimura makes a face at him, and promptly tosses back the pills with a single
swig of water. It's annoying how good he's gotten at that. "I could have both,"
he grumbles, slowly rolling over and flopping onto his stomach. "Please don't
poke at it too much, I've just gotten used to the way it feels when it throbs a
lot." 
 
“Seiichi. Please trust me not to poke at your stitches.”
 
Sanada’s fingers are gentle and precise when he pulls back the bandage, and
he’s rather proud of how well and how accurately he manages to softly swab on
the painkilling cream and the anti-inflammatory cream before the anti-
bacterial. If Yukimura is getting good at swallowing pills, Sanada’s getting
plenty good at this. It doesn’t take long to put on a new bandage, and he tapes
it gently into place. “There. Feel better?”
 
"A little." Sanada would probably like hearing that he should pursue a career
in the medical profession, but Yukimura doesn't want to encourage him to do
anything but tennis. Yukimura exhales a long breath, shifts and rolls and
slowly wriggles onto his side again. "Please get into bed with me now and
cuddle me." 
 
That’s an order Sanada can follow, but he pauses first to open his bag, pulling
out his yukata and toothbrush. “Give me two minutes,” he says, and disappears
into the bathroom.
 
"You're so lame," Yukimura complains in a whine after him, huffing as he flops
his head down onto a pillow. "I smell like hospital and maybe cupcakes, but
mostly hospital--ugh, you are helping me take the longest bath ever tomorrow." 
 
As Yukimura probably has guessed already, two minutes turns into a bit more,
and when Sanada emerges from the bathroom, he’s clean from head to toe, the
bathroom fogged up after his shower. He’s dressed simply in a yukata, his hair
still damp, but thoroughly toweled, and he climbs carefully into bed behind
Yukimura. “Sorry to make you wait.” He contemplates saying the next thing
aloud, and for once, decides to do it. “I’ve just been thinking about this for
a long time, and I didn’t want to be gross for it.”
 
"…You're forgiven," Yukimura mumbles, slowly wriggling his way back to lean
into Sanada's chest. To be fair, though…Sanada smells just as good after a long
tennis match to him as he does now when he's clean and soapy. After tennis, he
still smells clean, but then there's sweat and tennis courts and he'd be a liar
if he said that wasn't a turn-on. Whoops. "It's a good thing you're perfect." 
 
Sanada hooks his chin over Yukimura’s shoulder. “Not perfect. That brat took
more games off of me than anyone but Tezuka.” He sighs, replaying the match in
his head--not that he’s stopped doing that since it had ended. “He’s going to
be magnificent someday.”
 
"I wasn't talking about tennis. I'm the one that's perfect in tennis." He's
allowed his egomania for at least five seconds, god damn it all. "But in
everything else, it's you." Yukimura tips his head back, his cheek rubbing
against Sanada's with the motion. "For what it's worth, though…I don't think
it's a big deal that you dropped games. Not this time. Nothing was normal about
the Kantou this year."
 
“At least I won.” Sanada allows himself a brief smile. “And beat Tezuka’s
little protege. That’ll teach him to skip off to Germany in the middle of the
school year. What could he have been thinking?”
 
"Okay, you know what?" Yukimura rolls, twisting himself around with some
considerable effort in order to face Sanada. "No more tennis tonight. You're
doing that thing you do, so it's for the best."
 
Sanada’s face falls, and he nods, a little sheepishly. “Sorry. We should be
celebrating your triumphant return. I just…” He doesn’t need to finish that.
Yukimura knows what he ‘just.’ 
 
But more important than that is the way Yukimura is in his arms, warm and home
for the first time in months. Sanada leans down, resting his forehead against
Yukimura’s. “I’m glad you’re home.”
 
Yukimura lurches up, stealing a kiss without a single semblance of warning.
It's usually better to do it that way, because if he acts like he's going to
kiss Sanada, then Sanada ends up nervous, and that's just no good. "I'm really
glad to be home," he murmurs, kissing Sanada again while he's at it. "Thank you
for getting me home early. And for dealing with my mother. And everything
else."
 
Something about being blindsided makes it a lot easier for Sanada to accept the
switch from “talking” to “kissing,” which he’s decided is a very good thing.
Once they’re doing it, he doesn’t mind; it’s just the lead-up that always makes
him anxious. Since that’s gone, he bends now, brushing another soft kiss to
Yukimura’s lips. “I told you. You don’t have to thank me. It’s my honor to do
whatever I can for you.” He might have slipped into somewhat more formal
language there.
 
Okay, so maybe Niou's teasing was spot on. It's a problem when Sanada gets all
formal like that, especially when he's curled up around him in bed and Yukimura
is very aware of all of those warm, solid muscles he's cuddled up against. Damn
it. "…I think," he slowly murmurs, nuzzling his face into Sanada's neck, "that
I have missed when you talk to me like you're a samurai more than anything."
 
Sanada flushes slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. “I just…” He shrugs, a
little helplessly. “You’re someone I respect more than anyone. After what
you’ve defeated, it would be wrong not to show you that respect.” God, he
probably sounds like a worse nerd than Yagyuu.
 
"Considering there isn't a more honorable man than Sanada Genichirou…I'mthe one
honored by that respect," Yukimura says with a soft laugh, and he leans up to
press another kiss to the corner of Sanada's mouth. "I asked a lot of you.
Plus, I'm an awful patient, and I'm just going to keep being awful. You've done
everything I asked and more, and you led our team to victory." Yukimura curls
his fingers into Sanada's yukata, gently tugging on the fabric. "There isn't
anyone else I would ever trust with that responsibility…so you have my respect
just as much as you have my gratitude." If he wants to play at speaking
formally tonight, then they might as well both do it.
 
Something about their method of speech tonight feels like a contract being
sealed, and Sanada wants that more than anything. It’s not easy to keep himself
from adding an honorific that most people would consider highly unnecessary,
but he manages...barely. He reaches out, gripping Yukimura’s hand. “One more.
Then our rule will be complete. Your respect honors me, and I want only to be
worthy of it, my lord.” 
 
Whoops, he didn’t manage to squash that honorific after all. Hopefully,
Yukimura won’t make too much fun of him.
 
Sanada's hand tight around his makes him melt. Ah, maybe he's just too easy,
but then again, being easy for someone like Sanada isn't bad at all. "Between
the two of us," Yukimura quietly agrees, curling his fingers around Sanada's,
"it will happen. I have nothing but faith in you, Genichirou, and you are
already more than worthy." 
 
 
***** Atobe & Ryouma *****
“Good evening, Ku~ni~mi~tsuu,” Atobe half-drawls, one eyebrow raised as his leg
twitches slowly back and forth. The phone is pressed gently against his ear,
but his eyes are all on the large-screen TV, watching the last few moments of
the last game over and over again in real time, then in slow motion. 
 
The arc of the ball, too fast to see on regular play. The lunge, faster than
anyone could have imagined, but not quite fast enough. The slow exhale that he
can almost feel from both of the players when they hear the score called. The
way they both straighten up slowly, both of them trembling and shaken.
 
“I didn’t think anyone would have been able to call you yet,” he says, amused.
“I know you have your phone off during nighttime there, and...well, it isn’t as
if your old teammates have this number, is it?”
 
They don’t. He knows they don’t.
 
The problem with Atobe is that he has the tendency to reveal all with just his
tone of voice, no matter how subtle he thinks he's being. 
 
That's the case here, and it certainly isn't the phone call that Tezuka
Kunimitsu wants right now. 
 
"It's barely three in the morning." Not that it matters. He's up, has been up,
has been thinking about the Kantou and the fact that he isn't there, and
hearing his phone ring (his other phone, the one Atobe shoved into his hand and
sweetly insisted he take) made him more awake than anything else combined.
"Which," Tezuka adds moodily, making a valiant effort not to pace, "you never
seem to care about. Tell me what you want or I'm hanging up."
 
Except that it's less about what Atobe wants, and more about what he knows, or
he wouldn't have called right now.
 
“What I want? Ah, you wound me. I was just calling with news. I doubt that
staunchly masculine vice-captain of yours will have the guts to call you
yet...if he ever works it up. Maybe he’ll just hope you’ve forgotten about
Seigaku.”
 
Atobe pauses, because he can hear behind the tiredness in Tezuka’s voice.
Quietly, he adds, “They put up a good fight. It was 2-3.”
 
"Tell me the scores." It's a response that comes without hesitation, no matter
the tension in Tezuka's voice. He's probably gripping the phone a bit too
tightly now--which he stops, belatedly, because his arm throbs and there's the
sudden inclination to rip it off (not for the first time). It would have been
much better to hear this from Oishi, but 'having the guts to call' is something
that is probably a thing yet in the making. 
 
It was Rikkai, Tezuka firmly reminds himself at the same time as his mind flips
through scenarios. Of course they won. Of course. Without being there to
support his team--it's disgusting to think of it that way, but even minus their
captain, Rikkai has always been better, and that's been the reason for the pit
in his stomach over the past few weeks.
 
Atobe sighs. It’s no fun to torment Tezuka. If he’s honest with himself, that
isn’t even why he’d called. “Marui and Jackal, the doubles pair--they beat the
Kaidou/Momoshiro pair 6-1,” he says, with his own wince. That can’t be fun to
hear. If Hyoutei had played Rikkai, he doubts it would have been much
different. “Your Golden pair did better, they only lost 6-4 against...well,
they’re the best doubles pair in middle school tennis. Your data man beat
theirs, so that’s cheering, and your Fuji, that beat my Jirou? He took their
odd little devil protege to 5-7.”
 
He worries at his lip, then stops himself, aghast that he’d almost given
himself a chapped lip. “Then...your super rookie went up against the Emperor.
He made a good show for himself, went to 5-7.”
 
And that's the part that Tezuka reallydidn't want to hear. 
 
Honestly, the others are almost tolerable when compared to that. All desire to
pace gone, Tezuka simply drops back down onto the foot of his bed, briefly
shoving his glasses up to rub the back of his hand over his eyes. "Of all the
people Echizen had to lose to--did you speak to him? How is he? Please tell me
Sanada wasn't overly pedantic to him." He should be hearing this from Oishi,
not Atobe, but Atobe is the one with ears everywhere and is terribly nosy
himself, besides. 
 
This is why Tezuka has to hear it from him, not from Oishi. Oishi would be all
fretting, because Oishi doesn’t understand Echizen. Atobe doubts he understands
Sanada either, not the way he and Tezuka do. “He wasn’t,” he says quietly. “He
was far more focused on Yukimura--his surgery was today, the rest of his team
was already gone. Echizen is all right, I think. His pride was hurt,
but...well. No one can be on top forever. Not even a King, I’ve found.
Certainly not a prince. Kunimitsu…” He hesitates, then pushes on. “I think it
would have been the same, if you were here. Losses in doubles, wins in two
singles. With the form Sanada was in today, I doubt you or I would have beaten
him. He had something to fight for.”
 
Echizen with hurt pride sounds about as far from all right as Tezuka can
imagine, but he bites that back, and tries not to sigh heavily enough to cause
static. It's pointless to start talking about how he had something to fight for
in their match, too, and what good did that do for him? Negativity has never
been very becoming to him, anyway. "…You can give him this number later, if you
want," he finally settles upon. "I doubt he'll call, but knowing that he can
might help." 
 
"Keigo-bocchan," a servant calls from the door of his bedroom, knocking
briefly. "You have a guest; he doesn't seem to be from Hyoutei, would you like
us to send him away?" 
 
Atobe considers. If the servant had specified that his guest is “Not from
Hyoutei,” he doubts the person is an adult. “Send him in,” he calls, and adds
on the phone, “I’ll tell him. Hell, maybe I’ll even offer him a practice match
or something. It’s the least I can do, in your absence. Excuse me, Kunimitsu, I
appear to have an unusual guest, from the sound of things.”
 
"Call me later if anything changes--and if you do play a practice match with
him, Keigo," Tezuka flatly warns, "be careful with him." 
 
The call barely ends before the guest in question actually ducks underneath the
servant's arm, waltzing (more like stalking) into Atobe's bedroom with a frown.
"For as big as this place is, it's surprisingly hard to find," Ryouma 'greets.'
For the edge of snippiness to his voice, he still looks tired, more than a bit
wan, and in general, like he still just rolled right off the tennis court and
into Atobe's bedroom. "Were you talking to Captain Tezuka?" 
 
Ah, enough people know that they’re friendly enough to speak that they assume
he’s talking to Tezuka. Atobe likes that. “I was,” he confirms, shutting the
phone slowly and sliding it onto the table. “He says you’re to call him if you
want. I can give you a phone with his number programmed in, if you so desire.”
 
He’s mildly annoyed that he hadn’t had time to arrange himself into a proper
pose before Ryouma’s entrance, but that can’t be helped. “Are you…” Whoops, two
words in and already he’s not fond of this “consolation” thing.
 
Ryouma scowls at him. What's there to do regarding Atobe but give him a few
death glares, anyway, especially if he's been relaying to Tezuka already that
he's lost? The idea of that makes him feel sick to his stomach, and he scowls
harder still, letting his bag flop down to the floor before he throws himself
down into the nearest chair. "You didn't have to tell him yet." Oishi would
have, but maybe Oishi would have sugarcoated it. Maybe Oishi would have made it
sound better. Maybe. Ryouma's not entirely certain what someone like Atobe
would say about him, not after he became the reason Hyoutei lost.
 
…Yet he's still here, because his captain isn't here, and who else is there to
even talk to when Tezuka isn't here but the guy that beat him? 
 
“I told him how close it was, if that helps,” Atobe says mildly (instead of as
generous as it should properly sound, but Ryouma’s an ungrateful little shit,
so gratitude is certainly out the window. “I thought you had him, by the way.
For quite a while. Perhaps I just don’t want to accept that there might be
someone else who could beat me like you did.”
 
That hurts his pride to admit, and Atobe isn’t even sure why he’s doing it. It
probably won’t make Ryouma feel better. Ryouma’s a little snot that can’t
accept condolences or allowances, and that’s one of the things Atobe likes
about him.
 
"I've never seen anyone play like that." 
 
There's that sick feeling again, coupled with the sharp, gripping fear that
he's just not good enough, which isn't something he's ever felt. Ryouma shoves
back a shiver, drags a knee up to his chest, and plops his chin down onto it,
frowning. "The match you had with Captain Tezuka--that was the closest I've
seen to it," he admits after another moment. "But the way Sanada played…" It
makes his loss a dozen times more real to actually voice it, and Ryouma
swallows hard around the lump in his throat. "It felt like every time I took a
step forward--he just shoved me back ten more. He wasn't going to let me win.
With everyone else I've ever played…it always felt like there was at least a
chance."
 
This is a complete reversal from anything Atobe’s ever seen from Ryouma. It
makes him feel an odd surge of pity, which he quickly tamps down. That won’t
help anyone, least of all Ryouma, and the boy would probably be annoyed with
him for feeling it. 
 
“Sanada,” he says carefully, choosing his words, “is the palest shadow of his
absent captain. But he’s still the second highest-ranked player in Japan’s
middle schools, and has been since they were first-years.” He frowns, steepling
his fingers. “I’ve never seen him play like he did today. I thought you two
were going to be standing on scorched earth. I don’t know if anyone else in
Japan could have taken him to a seventh game point. And now that you’ve felt
his lightning...be honest. You want to feel it again, just a little.” He knows.
He wants to feel that cocky arrogance of Ryouma’s, shoving him back, an
impenetrable wall of fire slowly advancing, meeting his ice, making him pull
out every trick in the book, bringing him to the point of actually trying. 
 
In some ways, it’s even better than facing Tezuka, not that he’d ever admit it.
 
"The only way I want to feel it again is if I can beat him," Ryouma mutters,
slowly kneading one hand's fingers into the arm of the chair that's probably
stupidly, ridiculously expensive. "I did everything, and it still wasn't
enough. I thought--I was sure I was better than that." The thought of meeting
that againat the Nationals makes his stomach twist anew, and the idea that
apparently there's someone better still makes him want to--briefly, just for a
moment--throw his racquet out the window. "I want to win. If I have to play him
again, I don't want it to be a matter of whose last point it ends up being." 
 
“You want to crush him.”
 
Atobe understands that, maybe too well. He frowns, sliding a little closer, and
props his elbows on his knees, getting level with Ryouma. “This isn’t your
first time losing, Echizen. I could see that in you with my Insight. There’s
such a hatred of losing in you that you’ve lost to someone else, and often. How
much better did that make you, I wonder?”
 
Ryouma lifts his head just enough to glare at Atobe from underneath the brim of
his hat. "I don't lose official matches," he petulantly says. "And I don't lose
in front of audiences." Least of all in front of my father. That's the worst,
really. It's why he's here and not at home, because going home and having to
listen to anything involving that match and what he could have done
differently, or how he's still good, just work hard to get even better, would
all just add insult to injury. "Have you played him before? Did you beat him?" 
 
“I never have,” Atobe admits. “Perhaps most would say I’m lucky, that Hyoutei
has never drawn Rikkai. I don’t think there’s any honor in remaining undefeated
if there’s someone stronger out there, though. Better that I played you and
lost than if I’d never drawn you, you see. But his play style isn’t flawless.
I’d like to test out my insight on him. Look, here,” he mutters, fumbling with
the remote until he gets the DVD queued up to where he wants it. “You can see
here, in the ninth game--ah, don’t mind me, I don’t suppose you want to talk
about it yet. It was just...a very good match to watch.”
 
Rather sulkily, Ryouma rolls to the side, tucking himself up into a tighter
ball with his back mostly facing the screen. He probably should look at it, but
that's the last thing he wants to do. "Don't wanna look at it. Was Captain
Tezuka mad?" 
 
Ah, it would be rather amusing to tell Ryouma that yes, Tezuka was furious,
he’s on the plane back from Germany right now. That would teach the little
upstart.
 
...but he’s curled into a ball, and Atobe finds himself somewhat unprepared to
handle that particular eventuality. He sighs, and flicks off the TV. “He’s not
mad. He just wanted to make sure Sanada didn’t try to give you a lecture. The
two of them have some history, did you know?”
 
Somehow, that makes him feel even worse. "No," Ryouma moodily replies, and
knocks his head lightly against the back of the chair. "Didn't know. What kind
of history? No one tells me this stuff." To be fair, usually he doesn't care,
but…
 
“Darling Tezuka Kunimitsu,” Atobe drawls, kicking back in his chair just the
right amount so he doesn’t fall over, “showed up after Sanada and his beloved
Captain dominated a juniors tournament, a couple years ago. He wasn’t even
participating, but he walked onto the court and demanded a game. Ah, I wish he
still showed his impulsive side. It was so nice to see it, back then.”
 
Ryouma lifts his head at that, staring over at Atobe. "Captain did that? Did he
win?" Of course he must have won. There's only been one time that he knows of
Tezuka losing, after all. 
 
“Of course he won. Ah, that was before his elbow gave out on him, of course,
but…” Atobe smiles fondly, remembering that firm little frown he’d thought was
so charming, even at the age of twelve. “He was so stubborn back then. That was
when I knew I had to play him, even if it didn’t happen for a while.”
 
"Somehow, you're being kind of gross, Atobe-senpai. You almost sound like
Fuji."
 
Affronted, Atobe gives Ryouma a sneer. “I’m going to give you the benefit of
the doubt and assume Sanada knocked the grace and dignity temporarily out of
you. No one likes a sore loser. If Tezuka can stand up and shake my hand after,
someone who styles himself a Prince should do no less.”
 
Ryouma's glare quickly returns. "Your match with Tezuka was different. Besides,
I don't shake hands with anyone even if I win, so what's the point of doing it
if I lose?" 
 
Atobe raises one eyebrow. “Why indeed, if you don’t care whether anyone thinks
well of you?” That’s somewhat incomprehensible to him, but he’s never claimed
not to care what others think of him. There’s no honor in telling blatant lies,
after all. “How long before you start asking me for a match?” It’s why Ryouma
has come over, obviously. It isn’t as if they’re friends, not yet.
 
The glare turns somewhat suspicious. "I thought about it," he grumpily admits.
"But then you said you've never played Sanada, so now I'm not sure. You
probably don't know how to beat him either. Maybe I should just call Captain
Tezuka up, you're useless." 
 
“But I beat Tezuka,” Atobe reminds him, “and Tezuka beat Sanada. No one knows
Tezuka’s style better than me. And just because I haven’t played Sanada doesn’t
mean I don’t know how to beat him.”
 
"…Do you think I could have won if I took him into a tiebreak?" Ryouma finally
hedges after a moment's consideration, flipping the idea over and over again in
his head. That ends up making him feel sicker by the moment, though, so it's
probably better if he doesn't dwell on that aspect of what-could-have-been.
Ugh.
 
Atobe hesitates, and chooses his words carefully. “I think his weaknesses
become more apparent, the longer he plays,” he says, eyes flickering to the
dark TV, mind flickering to what he’d recently watched. “He gets sloppier the
longer he fights, but his power doesn’t drop, so no one looks for increased
weakness. He’s very...hmm, how to say it without sounding common...he’s an
honorable man and an honorable tennis player. That isn’t without its merit or
its flaws.”
 
"So what you're saying is that you're sure you could beat him with the way you
play." Ryouma uncurls slightly, frowning thoughtfully. "Come to think of it,
the most frustrating thing about playing him was how he never deviated from his
style…but I still couldn't break through all of it. I felt like I should have
been able to." 
 
“You’re used to stressing out your opponents,” Atobe says instantly. “That’s
one of my tricks, too. I recognized it in you immediately, whether you know
you’re doing it or not. It’s what makes Ku--Tezuka so hard to play against,
until the end. There are certain men, like him, that it’s impossible to win
against in six games. You can either pull out a miracle, the way Sanada’s
Captain does, or you can change the rules.” Atobe shrugs. “Why six games? Why
not a hundred? If you can keep going, you can force anyone onto ground that’s
yours for the advantage. No one is used to playing games that last so long,
except the people who practice it. It’s not in even their styles.”
 
Ryouma's eyebrows raise. "Captain Tezuka says you play like that to
overcompensate for what you're lacking in, though."
 
Atobe glares at him. “Then ask Captain Tezuka to teach you his tricks. Enjoy
never moving your right foot and collapsing grabbing your shoulder every game.”
 
"At least I don't act like my hand is eating my face, weirdo monkey king."
Ryouma drapes himself sideways over the side of the chair. "Seriously, though,
play me. I dunno when Tezuka's going to come back." 
 
Never, if he’s smart. Atobe has seen Tezuka’s other “rivals,” small men who’ve
seen Tezuka from a distance and decided that his lack of expression meant he’d
be fun to push around. None of them ever got close enough to be a real rival,
not the way he is, and he knows it. “Grab your racquet, boy. Choose clay court,
hard court, or grass court.”
 
Ryouma perks up, just a little, and rolls slowly out of the chair. "Clay," he
settles upon, fishing out his racquet. His fingers still try and shake when he
grabs it, so he holds it tighter. "Points take longer there, and if you're
trying to show off as the King of Stamina, then you'll shine, won't you?" 
 
“I always shine,” Atobe says with a slight huff, grabbing his racquet from
where it’s leaning against the wall. “Ah, but have you eaten since your game?
It’ll be no fun if you’re not on form. You have the choice of whether to have
my cooks make you something spectacular, or grab a quick snack from the pantry
on the way to the courts.” Either way, I’m not playing you while you’re
shaking. Tezuka would kill me.
 
"I had like, three Pontas. I'm fine." Ryouma scowls over at him, holding his
racquet tighter. "My hand's just tired, I'll get over it. Also, I bet
everything in your house is weird and European." It's definitely not because
I'm thinking about not being able to hit Sanada Genichirou's Rai, no matter how
hard I tried. 
 
“Nonsense, I won’t hear of it.” But because he doesn’t feel like bullying the
little shit, he simply snags a couple packages of granola and candy on his way
out to the courts, proffering them. “I’d have thought that an American would be
more receptive to something out of the Japanese ordinary. Or do I still have
lots more to work on?”
 
Ryouma eyes said snacks as if they're poison for a moment before tugging a
granola bar out of his hand. "Japanese food is better. Europeans have weird
taste, Americans aren't much better. You're really weird and European, how is
our captain friends with you?" 
 
“Japanese food is either boring or bizarre. There’s nothing in between plain
white rice and still-writhing squid, ugh. And as for Kunimitsu, you’ll have to
ask him yourself. I’m rather certain I’m adorable, and he agrees at least a
little bit.” Atobe munches on one of the snacks, eyeing the nutritional
information with a wince. Ah, well, if he works it out in tennis, it won’t be
so bad.
 
"The squid is cool when it still writhes, though," Ryouma absently mutters,
munching on his granola bar and tossing the wrapper back to Atobe without a
second glance. "And Captain doesn't think anyone is adorable except my cat."
 
Note to self, discover cat’s secrets.
 
Atobe leans away from the wrapper, snatching it from the air and leaving it on
a counter somewhere. That’s probably at least close to a trash can, if he
remembers where one is...which he likely doesn’t. “Then he must have another
reason for wanting to keep me around. Mysterious, no? Turn left here, then out
the French doors.”
 
"Not mysterious. You play okay tennis," Ryouma snidely shoots over his
shoulder, following the directions and stepping through the doors with his
racquet underneath his arm. Atobe's house is actually more akin to a maze than
anything, which is less impressive, more ridiculous. But--"He's probably just
using you for your tennis courts."
 
Atobe smiles thinly. Best to let him keep thinking that, probably, even if it
isn’t true. He’s not entirely sure what Tezuka would think if he told the
little brat about the moments they’d experienced together, nuzzled up, mouths
hot and reaching, hands grasping, and even if it’s only been a few moments,
there’s no one else in Japan who even has his new number. “Judge the courts for
yourself. Clay is on the left. Do you want the ball machines, or shall we just
play against each other?”
 
Ryouma trots away disinterestedly, idly scuffing his toe against the court as
he rounds the other side of the net. "Not fair that you get clay courts. They
don't have these here usually," he accusingly mutters before yanking his hat
down more and making his way to the other side of the court. "Let's just go
against one another, I want a real match."
 
“I’m surprised you don’t get to play on them so often,” Atobe muses, stretching
out his shoulders a bit before he settles onto the baseline. “I’d have thought
that...well. You aren’t exactly the least privileged in Seigaku when it comes
to such things, eh, Echizen?” He grabs a ball, rears back, and lets fly with a
serve that’s fairly different from the Tannhauser Serve. This one has a bit
more...fire.
 
Ryouma isn't going to blame the fact that he just played a match barely a few
hours ago on how sluggishly he responds, but it certainly has some part in it. 
 
It's hard not to compare that kind of serve to the kinds of returns that ending
up whipping by him with more speed than he could have imagined, and for a
moment, it makes him freeze, his fingers white-knuckled around his racquet, and
the bounce of the ball not something he can focus on when it's barely even
there to begin with. By the time he exhales, the ball is gone, and there's no
time to react to it--just like it had been during his match. 
 
With a growl, he grabs another ball and throws it in Atobe's direction. "Again.
That wasn't the serve you used against Captain Tezuka." 
 
Atobe raises one eyebrow, relaxing back onto his heels, knees slightly bent. “I
didn’t think you were here to play me. I didn’t have a chance to copy many of
his techniques, but I think I have this one down. I can’t do it any slower,
though, so you’ll have to speed up. Here.” 
 
He serves again, his body conforming to the image in his mind, that hard,
muscular body contorting into the same shape that his own does now, timing the
rise and fall of his chest, hand firm yet delicate on the grip of his racquet--
like a sword, not a racquet.
 
It's impossible to see anything but Sanada now, and for another instant, Ryouma
feels his muscles freeze, his fingers hold too-tight to the racquet all over
again, and it's belatedly that he dives when he can finally make his legs
unlock and his body move.
 
The ball hits the top of his racquet--really not a good sound, he feels like a
five year old trying to play again--and his swing is less than graceful, but at
least it's a hit. At least, that's what he thinks before it barely even hits
the net. 
 
"Not good enough yet," Ryouma mutters underneath his breath, yanking on the
brim of his hat in irritation before just tossing it aside. "One more time."
Now he's just annoyed with himself. He should be able to hit that. Why won't
his body just listen to him?
 
Atobe’s head tilts, and he looks at Ryouma, curious. “Why can’t you hit it?” he
asks, trotting closer to the net. “I’m just emulating his technique, but it
looks simple enough. Can you hit it back at me? I’m sure between us, we could
figure it out.”
 
"I don't know, okay?" Ryouma doesn't care that it comes out pouty and
irritated, because that's all he feels right now. "Just--every time you hit it,
it…it reminds me of the match, and I just freeze." He scowls, glancing aside.
"It's really dumb."
 
Yips.
 
Atobe knows the look of it, has seen it before, and hadn’t expected to see it
in Ryouma--though he supposes it makes sense. Playing Sanada Genichirou is
nothing to take lightly. “Don’t think about the match,” he advises. He grabs a
ball, tossing it in the air and catching it a few times, brow furrowed in
thought. “Maybe...don’t focus on hitting it back as if it’s a game. I’ll just
keep serving, and if you miss one, just hit the next one.”
 
Kunimitsu, you owe me at least a decent makeout.
 
It all sounds like he's just a kid learning tennis for the first time, and that
makes him grind his teeth. "Fine," Ryouma mutters. "Though I'd like to see you
forget about playing a match with Sanada." 
 
“Forget about it? I’ve been trying to get a match with him. I always get
thwarted, somehow. Poor draws.”
 
Never mind that he’s been itching to beat him since he found out about him, and
especially since...well. If Atobe can beat Tezuka, and Tezuka can beat Ryouma
and Sanada, and Sanada can beat Ryouma…
 
It does beg the question, doesn’t it? 
 
He hits the balls, one after the other, for a steady few minutes before his arm
starts to throb.
 
If he just thinks about how it's Atobe…no, that doesn't really work, either. It
would have worked before today, because even if Atobe beat Tezuka--well, it was
weird. It was a dumb situation and it shouldn't've happened, as far as Ryouma's
concerned.
 
Now, he's not so sure.
 
Eventually, there's at least a rhythm to it that he can follow. He's no less
jittery, no less nervous, but at least it's something. "This sucks," he
mutters, whacking one ball back over the net, though he has to frown at how it
skims the top of it. That's not how you should return a serve, not at all.
"Sanada Genichirou can go jump off a cliff." 
 
Atobe takes a brief break, stretching out his shoulder. It feels weirdly hot to
the touch, and he grimaces. “The question,” he says, clipped and annoyed,
though not with Ryouma, “is how the hell he keeps doing it without his arm
falling off. The only other person I’ve heard of using tactics like
that….well.”
 
"He's not human," Ryouma irritably grumps, scrubbing sweat out of his eyes. "If
he was, I would've beat him. I'm good at beating people." He's not even joking.
He's at least 75% sure that Sanada Genichirou is a robot. It would explain a
lot. 
 
“Just be glad you weren’t playing his captain,” Atobe advises, grimacing as he
pulls back for another stupid, painful serve. “From what I’ve heard and seen,
he’s far worse. Still, Tezuka knocked the stuffing out of Sanada years ago, it
can’t be impossible. You just have to get under his skin, I assume.” 
 
It almost always works for him, no matter who he’s playing, no matter how
unshakable. He’s good at getting under people’s skin; if he can do it to
Tezuka, he can do it to anyone, he’s confident.
 
The idea that someone is actually worse than Sanada kind of makes him twitch.
He's in the hospital, that's not going to be an issue at Nationals, Ryouma
tells himself, and he throws himself to the next serve, gritting his teeth as
he hits it over with enough force to actually be called a hit. 
 
Except that it goes out, just like his final, losing shot did. 
 
"Damn it--forget those serves, just play me however." Maybe if he just plays
someone else, this won't be so bad. Maybe. In theory. 
 
Atobe shrugs. It’s not like he knows how to fight the yips. Someone with his
amounts of well-earned confidence could never truly discover those secrets.
“Very well. Be prepared to be awed by my prowess!”
 
He can count on one hand the amount of people he’s played where he’d expected
his first Tannhauser Serve to be returned, and Ryouma is one of them.
 
That he can hit. It's not Sanada's technique, and that makes it doable. Sorry,
Atobe-senpai, Ryouma wryly apologizes for that particular train of thought, but
it's not like he can help it if it's true, especially when he applies his
captain's own theory of getting as far back as possible to return that serve
when it finally raises up from the ground, just a bit. "You're not Sanada, but
that's really good," Ryouma calls out, feeling a bit of tension slither out of
his limbs the moment he hits that serve back. Yeah. That's a lot better.
 
This feels a little less like he’s beating up a sad housecat and a lot more
like he’s playing a little shit that deserves to have the stuffing knocked out
of him--which Atobe loves. 
 
He lunges for that return, slamming it back as hard as possible, incorporating
just a little of that fire in the hopes that Ryouma won’t notice. He’s not sure
exactly why he wants so badly to get Ryouma out of this slump, except for the
vague feeling that Tezuka would be pleased.
 
Or maybe he likes the boy on his own merits. Just a little bit.
 
He might be tired from chasing after a million and one of Sanada's serves, but
this Ryouma can still chase after. He dives for it, using his own momentum to
hit it over harder with a growl of effort, and his arm twinges with the impact
of it. 
 
Yes. Yes, he can do this much, he can, there's no reason he can't.
 
This isn’t exactly what Atobe had planned to do on his day off, but at least
it’s obnoxiously good exercise. He stretches his legs, lunging hard after the
ball, and managing to return it to the bare minimum of “inside the line,” with
all the power of his backhand. “Not bad,” he calls, his blood pumping, that
cool confidence stealing through him. “Show me what Seigaku can do!”
 
"Thought you would have already claimed to see the best from us!" Ryouma
snidely shoots back, lunging backwards and taking away the strength of that
shot with a deft lob. Atobe's shots hurt with the power that's behind them, but
at least he can see them and read them and not feel like he's entirely backed
into a corner by everything that he does. That's not a feeling he ever wants to
feel again.
 
Atobe’s eyes light up when he sees that lob, and he leaps into the air,
twisting around before sending it smashing back. Ah, he hadn’t actually meant
to return it that hard, but there’s something about playing this boy in
particular that makes him want to give it everything he has, without holding
back. “Then show me what I haven’t seen--show me what Tezuka likes so much
about you!”
 
That's a good question, really, when Ryouma is sure Tezuka must be disappointed
in him for losing, for trying to pass the torch to him while he's off
recovering--
 
It's not like he's ever tried to be good before. Not until going to Seigaku,
because just stepping onto the court had been good enough, but now… 
 
That ball has one hell of a bounce, and it makes Ryouma dart back to catch up
to it. It's fast, deep in the court, and it takes digging his heels in with a
two-handed backhand to send it screaming back to the baseline. His chest heaves
with the effort from that, and damn it, maybe if he'd played like this against
Sanada, it would have been different. 
 
This is the Ryouma Atobe had wanted to play, back when he hadn’t been sure if
Tezuka would pull through with their match or not--not the apathetic yawning
boy that had fallen under Sanada Genichirou’s swing. He springs lightly between
his feet, eyes zeroing in on Ryouma’s weak spots. “Here,” he calls, and sends a
ball screaming at one. “On your left!”
 
"If that's supposed to be a weak spot, Atobe-senpai, you're wrong!" Switching
to his right hand at the last minute makes it an easy backhand instead, making
it an obnoxious cord ball that he'd certainly dislike having to run up and
catch. Why didn't I do this with Sanada? Maybe it's not a healthy question to
keep asking himself but next time, he's going to play like this. Like this, and
better. 
 
“Haha!” This is exhilarating, and Atobe dives for the ball, managing to whack
it lightly over the net--though he does bruise up his knee, which is just
absurd. Instead of speaking, he gets up as quickly as he can, making for the
baseline. It’s always easier to run forward than backward, and with Ryouma’s
agility, he can’t be too careful. Sanada must have thrown him so far off his
game, to beat him.
 
Ryouma is starting to understand why Atobe was so hard for Tezuka to play,
though. 
 
"Don't start laughing yet," he breathes all the same, grinning as he pops back
up to the net and hits the ball before it can bounce. Keeping Atobe off of the
baseline seems like a good decision, and his instincts are usually right. It's
just hard to win a single point off of this guy without a rally that lasts
forever. Good thing he's already been sweaty once today, so whatever.
 
This is what he needs, and Ryouma has never been more sure of that. 
 
 
***** Fuji & Taka *****
The days after the Kantou are…different, to say the least. 
 
The team is silent and brooding for the most part. Even Eiji isn't pestering
him to go out and do things, and that's mostly in part to Oishi crying alone in
his bedroom (at least, that's Fuji's guess). There haven't been any phone calls
from Tezuka, but when are there ever? That's a little vexing, but there isn't a
single person on the team that really wants to face a disappointed Tezuka
anyway, so Fuji supposes he can understand that…
 
And meanwhile--Fuji isn't the most excited about seeing the doctor, but having
his sight returned and making sure that there's no permanent damage is probably
important. More important is the fact that even Yuuta seems concerned about
him, and doesn't run out of the house over vacation to avoid his presence at
every turn. Yuuta doesn't exactly dote on him like Fuji had hoped, though. Oh,
well. There's another care package delivered that morning, and while he had his
hopes up for five seconds that it was Yuuta sending it in disguise, his
brother's adamant hissing and snarling about that being anything but true ruins
that chance. 
 
The note is too weird even for Yuuta, though. From your boyfriend? Hmmm. When
did he acquire one of those, exactly? Fuji is fairly certain he would have
remembered that.
 
Finally, his sister lets him out of the house--yes, I can see, yes, I'm fine,
yes, feeling dizzy is actually a little normal for me--and Fuji makes a beeline
to Eiji's determined to get to the bottom of this. 
 
"Eiji. Do you know of anyone that would say they're my boyfriend?" 
 
Maybe they're from Tezuka. No, never mind, that's too forward for him. Tezuka
is so gracefully subtle that it's charming.
 
The days after the Kantou haven’t exactly been fun. Mostly, Eiji’s been
tinkering around with his room so that he can play videogames while he’s
running on his treadmill, which he’s pretty sure is a huge success and a
brilliant invention all in one. 
 
But Oishi isn’t any fun when he comes over, and won’t play any games with him,
and doesn’t even want to practice tennis. Mostly, Oishi wants to cry about how
he’s let Tezuka down, and it was probably his own fault for being conceited
when he’d shaken Sanada’s hand, and no matter how Eiji assures him it was super
manly and cool, Oishi doesn’t seem convinced.
 
He nearly bounces in glee when Fuji shows up, because at least Fuji won’t be
sad. He’s not sure Fuji would really know how. “Fuji! Come in, I have melonpan,
like a lot of it. I think Mom thought I was going to die without a lot of
melonpan or something, so she got me like twenty.” He shoves one into Fuji’s
hand, and drags him inside. 
 
“What’d you say about your boyfriend? Did he get you a nice present or
something?”
 
Fuji accepts the melonpan without batting an eye, and barely has the time to
toe off his shoes before Eiji has him fully in the house. "Well, yes. But I'm
actually a little confused." Eiji isn't, which bothers him. What is he missing?
"This is…the third? No, fourth time that this person has sent me something, and
I actually have no idea who it is." His head tilts. "You don't think it's
Tezuka, do you? It seemed a little…boldfor him. But, you know, one can
dream…it's usually better to imagine one's stalkers as those that you would
prefer them to be…"
 
Eiji blinks, hopping over a few toys his siblings had left on the ground,
tugging Fuji into his room. “Why would it be Tezuka-buchou? I think a person is
only your boyfriend after they ask you out and you say yes, right?”
 
"Mm. But I don't remember anyone asking me out. Did I miss it?" Fuji drops
himself down onto the end of Eiji's bed. "I'm usually fairly observant of such
things, but it's been somewhat hectic around Seigaku lately." 
 
Eiji laughs, and pokes Fuji’s head. “Did that tennis devil knock it out of you?
The Akiyama 3rd match? Remember?”
 
Fuji blinks at him, his brow furrowing. "If I remembered, would I be asking?"
Now it's starting to be less confusing, more irritating. Maybe this is some
elaborate joke the team is playing on him. That's…new.
 
Eiji’s head cocks, and he shakes it. “It’s fine, I have it on video!” He throws
himself into his computer chair and pulls up the file from the game, blacking
out the currently-running video, his recent loss alongside Oishi. It isn’t long
before that doubles game comes up, the scoreboard showing a victorious 6-
0 victory for Doubles 2. 
 
“Fujiko-chan,” Kawamura Takashi crows in delight, and uses the hand not holding
a racquet to dip Fuji deeply. “Okay, okay, my heart is BURNING! Let me be your
boyfriend!”
 
Onscreen, Fuji’s eyes sparkle. “Of course, Taka-san!”
 
Eiji hits pause. “How do you forget something like that?”
 
Fuji's head tilts nearly entirely to the side. "But he's holding his racquet.
He's always like that when he's holding his racquet." That's why I keep handing
it to him.
 
Eiji shrugs. “Oishi and me and him went to the arcade last week, and he was
asking us what kind of present he should get you for your fifth-week
anniversary. He was talking Japanese and not breaking stuff, so I don’t think
he was holding a racquet then.”
 
Fuji tilts his head back and frowns. Damn. He supposes he should feel bad, but
then again…when doesn't he flirt a bit with Taka, anyway? At least this should
be an easy fix, and it isn't like he's upset by this particular news…hmmm. 
 
"I wonder if he knows I'm a guy," he idly muses aloud, and then glances over at
Eiji. "I've never had a boyfriend. Is it difficult?" 
 
Eiji shrugs. “I guess not, since you’ve been doing it without knowing it for
like a month.” He doesn’t mention himself and Oishi. If that were difficult,
they wouldn’t do it anymore, obviously.
 
"And he didn't seem upset? Well--I guess he's not if he's sending me gifts.
This morning, it was freshly prepared sushi delivered right to our doorstep,
all of my favorites. With that in mind," Fuji hums, "I probably should have
known. Oh well, hindsight is 20/20 and I've been blind for a few days."
 
“Yeah, that’s the spirit!” Probably!
 
“So, you wanna hang out? Oishi’s coming over in a few minutes to re-watch the
Kantou tapes again, his family says he can’t do it at their house anymore.”
 
"Is he still crying? I'm sorry, Eiji, but I'm not sure I can deal with Oishi if
he's still crying." 
 
Eiji bites his lip, weighing the possibility of Oishi being crying against
Fuji’s common reaction to a crying Oishi. “Yeah, you’d better go. Tell Taka-san
I said hi.”
 
"I'll tell him." It's safer this way. Oishi crying incites rage in him that is
actually rather uncommon, and it has a lot to do with the fact that he clutches
his cellphone and begs for Tezuka to pick up while he's doing it. Imagine that.
Fuji flashes Eiji a quick smile as he climbs to his feet. "Thanks for the
melonpan. If you get tired of rewatching the Kantou, give me a call and maybe
we can practice. For what it's worth, I don't think the two of you played a bad
match." 
 
“It would have been a better match if we’d won,” Eiji says, flopping down onto
a beanbag chair, then immediately standing when the doorbell rings. “Uhh, maybe
go out the window? He’s definitely crying, I can tell from the doorbell.”
 
The window it is. Fuji circles back around once Oishi is inside and his tears
are muffled by Eiji's hair (somewhat) in order to grab his shoes. 
 
Right. So. What does one do with a boyfriend, exactly? He's always had ideas,
but none of them seem very…boyfriendy, and those are ideas for being with other
people, not Taka. Yes, he's already over at Taka's house often enough, and he
certainly practices with him enough, and lets him test out his newest sushi
creations on him, but…oh well. Fuji supposes that for a lot of people, that's a
good start. He frowns down at his phone, contemplative. 
 
To: Taka-san
Subject: Thank you for this morning <3
You're going to start spoiling me, though. Want me to come by for lunch? 
 
Seriously, how do people do this. For the first time in awhile, Fuji Shuusuke
wonders if he has met his match. He should have asked Eiji for more advice on
dating normal people.
 
To: Fujiko-chan
 
Subject: HELLO!!
HI HI HI WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A GREAT DAY!!! WE WILL MAKE GREAT DATE FOR LUNCH
YEAH BABY!!!! 
 
 
To: Fuji
Subject: Lunch today?
Lunch would be wonderful, if you aren’t too busy. I’ve been practicing all day
(just stopped) so it might be a little late, if that’s all right with you?
 
Never mind. Neither of them are very normal. Fuji is suddenly and acutely aware
that he's quite pleased with that. 
 
To: Taka-san
Subject: Yes, please
Take your time. Your restaurant as usual? I can get my racquet if you want to
practice more afterwards. 
 
Maybe he'll become as weird about bragging about his boyfriend-apparent's dual
personality as Eiji is about Oishi and his obsession with 'party hats.'  Hmmm.
Yes, he could do that. 
 
To: Fuji
Subject: I’ll do my best
Is 13:30 okay? If you’re sick of sushi after this morning that’s fine, I have
some cash saved after working over the weekend. We could go for ramen or
okonomiyaki. I don’t want your stomach to start to hurt or anything.
 
Oh, no, he's cute. Fuji chews on his lip and wonders when that happened. 
 
To: Taka-san
Subject: This is what I meant by spoiling me
I'm never sick of your sushi, but it depends on how hungry you are. Let's
decide when we meet up, okay? See you then. 
 
"Shuusuke, you look a little dazed. Are you all right?" 
 
"Uh huh," Fuji breathes, throwing his phone into his tennis bag and hauling it
over his shoulder the moment he arrives home. "I'm great, Neesan." 
 
He is so ready for this. So ready. 
 
Taka is a little nervous when Fuji shows up to the restaurant. He’s always a
little nervous, ever since Inui had taken him aside after the Akiyama 3rd match
and shown him the tapes. But Fuji looks so sweet today, with that little smile
and his eyes all healed up, and Taka can feel his palms start to sweat as he
walks out of the restaurant. “Hi, Fuji. Did you decide what you wanted to eat?
I have my hachimaki ready if you want sushi.”
 
Ah, yes. He is definitely ready for this. He's pulled this off for over a month
without realizing it, apparently, and that means he's good to go. 
 
…Except it's kind of weird realizing it now, and it's sort of like the first
time he ever played Tezuka in a real match, or…well, it feels like Fuji guesses
it would feel like if he were ever actually pressured in a match. Fuji shoves
that thought aside to beam up at him. This isn't about tennis. It's about Taka
being very cute and tall and muscles, yes. "You've been working so hard lately,
Taka-san. You could let me treat you to lunch for a change, you know." 
 
Taka’s face turns a bit scandalized, then embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Fuji, am I
not taking you to nice enough places? I know I don’t make all that much money
yet, but I could borrow some from my dad…” He’s messing it up, he knows he’s
messing it up.
 
"Ahh, no, it's not that at all, Taka-san!" Ah, shit, Taka definitely thinks
he's a girl. All right, then. He'll be a girl. Fuji supposes he usually is,
anyway. Still smiling, he reaches out, resting his hand on Taka's arm to give
it a gentle squeeze. "You've been spoiling me so much, I just wanted to return
the favor a little…mm, but, you know, if you're up for it, I'm always into you
trying out new kinds of sushi on me. The doctors said I'm completely fine and
healthy, so anything goes!" 
 
Taka’s face bursts into a brilliant smile, and he puts an arm around Fuji,
leading him inside the restaurant. “I really value your opinion on my sushi,
thank you! Ah, I hope I can make something delicious for you today, so please
let me get you a seat.” 
 
He leads Fuji to the open seat at the bar, earning both Fuji and himself a wink
from his father, who he’s pretty sure has been wondering for a while why
there’s a girl on the tennis team. He washes his hands carefully, then sets out
his tools, tying the hachimaki around his head before he starts slicing. “You
want something spicy today? I have a new idea I think you’ll like, but of
course, you’re the judge.”
 
Fuji plops down happily, satisfied that he's avoided potential disaster.
Hopefully, the actually-I'm-not-a-girl-thing will not be an issue later on.
Hopefully. Maybe he'll just stick a racquet in Taka's hand for that
conversation. Sounds good. "You always make the best spicy things! Everyone
else always pulls punches, but not you. I bet even my little brother would like
it from you, and he's so picky." 
 
Taka flushes at the praise. Even if Fuji tends to like his sushi all the time,
it still feels good to hear, because he actually has reasons for liking it,
instead of just saying it’s good or bad. “Okay, I’ll do my best. Here, I…” He
ducks his head a little, and explains, “I hope you don’t mind, but I named this
one the Tsubame Gaeshi.” He sets the roll in front of Fuji, rocking back and
forth a little on the balls of his feet with nerves.
 
Oh, no, he's really cute. 
 
Fuji wonders if he's really been overlooking this for the past month. He
wonders if he should feel bad about it, or wonder about his own ability to keep
a boyfriend while apparently on auto-pilot. More importantly, there's sushi,
and breaking open his chopsticks to take the first bite is always exciting when
it's something that Taka's made. 
 
He's probably weird when it comes to spicy things, but so sue him, Taka does do
it right, and his eyes roll into the back of his head a little bit when he
swallows. "That," he cheerfully says, "is exactly what I needed. Taka-san, I
think you're the one that's a genius." He has a boyfriend that cooks for him.
Shit.
 
Taka’s smile intensifies, and there’s a hint of relief in it as well. “You
don’t mind the name, I hope--it was just meant to be a tribute, because, well,
you inspire me with your tennis.”
 
Kawamura Senior nudges his son’s arm. “Oi, Takashi, we’re getting busy in here.
Are you sure your special friend wouldn’t like to enjoy sushi upstairs in our
home? Less noisy, I promise!”
 
Taka’s eyebrows draw together. “Is--is it okay?”
 
"It's more than okay," Fuji reassures him, offering Taka's father a quick smile
as well. Right, well, if they're all going to play the game of 'Fuji's a girl,
right?', then that's fine, he supposes. "We could use a chance to really relax,
anyway, right, Taka-san?" Can I get away with kissing you, I wonder. 
 
Taka quickly prepares another roll, and brings it with him, leading Fuji behind
the counter and up to their apartment. “I’m coming in,” he calls to no one, and
toes off his shoes. “Sorry, Mom and Chihiro are visiting my grandparents for
the weekend.”
 
He grabs a couple of pillows from a closet, and sets up around a low table in
the main room before pausing. “Uh, or we could go in my room, if you prefer? I
know it can be kind of noisy from the restaurant.” Fuji’s never been in his
apartment before, and he might be sweating a little.
 
Fuji idly reaches over with his chopsticks to steal another piece of the roll
right off of the tray Taka is carrying. There's a sushi roll named after one of
his tennis techniques, and it's good. He is going to eat it, and be very happy
about it. Also, it makes his eyes water. That's amazing. "I don't think I've
ever seen your room, Taka-san. I wouldn't want to impose, but…" 
 
“It’s no trouble at all!” He’s probably a little too eager to say that, but
it’s really no trouble, and at least he knows it’s clean. “I’m sorry for the
mess,” he says anyway, because what if he’d missed something? He opens the
door, bowing Fuji through it, and pulls out a cushion on the floor. 
 
Photos of Seigaku and action movie posters decorate one wall, along with
photographs of top restaurants, sushi plates ripped out of magazines and
meticulously trimmed. The rest of the walls are bare, but more photographs of
friends and family rest on every surface, desk and shelves alike, crammed
between cookbooks. His tennis bag sits in the corner, under a framed picture of
himself and Fuji after their doubles win, both beaming. “Please, make yourself
comfortable, I’m going to find a table.”
 
This just keeps being more of an experience, doesn't it? Fuji drops himself
down as he glances around, tilting his head slightly in thought. "You know,
Taka-san, I have a few more pictures of us when we've won matches. I'll print
off some copies for you." It's quite pleasant to consider their doubles record,
actually. Fuji eats another piece of his roll thoughtfully. "I hope we get to
play together at the Nationals…at this rate, we'll be in doubles one. Oishi is
still crying." 
 
“I hope Oishi will feel better soon,” Taka says, somewhat worried. He sets out
a low folding table, setting the sushi on it, and immediately retreats again,
returning a moment later with a pot of tea and two cups. “But I’d love more
photos of us, too!” He rarely gets any, even though they do, as Fuji knows,
tend to pretty much win their matches, as long as his wrist doesn’t get broken
or anything. “You always look so nice in pictures.”
 
"Oishi will be fine; he's at Eiji's now, crying away his frustrations," Fuji
lightly dismisses, slowly considering his next selection. The end piece, or the
middle…hmm. "It's a shame you couldn't play at the Kantou. I like to think that
whole day was unusual, though. Do you know how odd it is to be blind? I don't
recommend it." 
 
“I think you held up amazingly well,” Taka assures him, pouring tea for both of
them. “I think I’d be terrified. The worst thing that ever happened to me in a
match was that time I hurt my wrist. Oh, if you want more sushi, I can run
downstairs and make you some. Dad won’t mind, he likes you.”
 
It was scarier to think of losing, but as if that would happen against someone
like Kirihara. Fuji just smiles rather than voicing that, and decides on the
end piece first. "You can make me more later, it's awfully busy down there. I'm
glad to hear he likes me, though; mmnn, truthfully--" Because it's now or never
to bring this kind of thing up, and it's better to do it early on than to get
used to this and be happy. "--I'm surprised about that." 
 
Taka’s expression morphs into something like a grimace. “Uh...don’t be mad,” he
cautions, and adds, “or at least, I just--I hope you’re not mad, but I’m
not...entirely sure he knows that you’re not, um, a, uh….” He can’t say it
aloud. “I mean, I didn’t tell him you were or anything, I just told him I was
dating someone from the tennis team, and he asked me if it was you, and...I
said yes, but he’s, he’s so not mad that I have to wonder, you know? If he
thinks…you know.”
 
Oh, dear. Fuji's eyebrows arch lightly, and he eats his final piece of sushi
wordlessly. "Don't be mad," he returns, a hint of teasing in his voice, "but I
wasn't sure if even you knew. Whenever you have a racquet in your hand, you're
a little…mm, aggressive, and pronouns and names get a little switched around.
I'm fine with it, before you get worried," he brightly adds. "Lots of people
think I'm a girl. Just, you know. I'm not. But your father doesn't have to be
any wiser about it if you don't want him to be."
 
Taka gently lays a hand on top of Fuji’s on the table, and says very seriously,
“I’ve shared a locker room with you for three years, Fuji. I-I’m not top in our
class or anything, but I’m pretty sure I’d have figured it out by now.”
 
"Oh, that's good, then. It was going to get awkward otherwise," Fuji cheerfully
says, wriggling his hand underneath Taka's in the next instant to lace their
fingers together. Ah, yes, that's nice. "I just wanted to make sure. Honestly,
I would have never thought you'd be interested in me because of it, but I'm
glad to be wrong." 
 
Taka flushes. “To be honest? I didn’t...well. I was interested,” he assures
Fuji, squeezing his hand, “but it didn’t occur to me until after that game that
you might be too, until Inui dragged me into his office and showed me the video
of the match. He, uh, said I had a responsibility, and his eyes were doing the
glinting thing, and there was Inui Juice nearby, and…” He shrugs. “But I took a
chance and his advice and you didn’t seem mad, so I’m really happy!”
 
Inui is going to need to suffer. Taka is just too innocent and sweet to be
bullied into such things. Though, in this circumstance…mm, maybe minimal
suffering. It did make them end up here, after all. "I could never be mad with
you, first of all--but I will admit, I was a little surprised! In a good way,
of course. You just say an awful lot of things when you're in game mode, and I
had always taken them with a grain of salt before…" Fuji muses, shrugging
lightly. "Oh well. It all worked out. I've never been asked out in such a manly
way before, it was very exciting." 
 
Taka’s smile is bright, and he leans eagerly forward, clasping one of Fuji’s
hands in both of his larger ones. “As long as it all worked out,” he says
earnestly, “then it’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, you haven’t been upset this
last five weeks, right? I’ll get you a better present next week, I promise.”
Maybe flowers. Wait, no, Fuji likes the plants that hurt people. He can find
those.
 
"Taka-san, your presents are already wonderful. Like I said, you're spoiling
me, and it's very sweet." It's best to omit the fact that he didn't know who
they were from, and didn't realize that they were dating. Yes, definitely for
the best. Fuji thinks for a moment, figures what the hell, it's apparently been
five weeks, and leans up without a moment's hesitation, pressing a soft kiss to
Taka's lips. It's a little odd to keep things simple and chaste, but it's
also…is refreshing the word? He'll call it that. "Thank you for taking care of
me." 
 
Taka’s smile is sweet, and not terribly surprised or alarmed. He kisses Fuji
again, gently, before settling back onto his cushion. “It’s really, really my
pleasure. I’m honored to have you here, you know. I know you must have a lot to
do with the team, they all rely on you so much.”
 
Do they? It's probably bad that he's thinking a lot less about tennis and a lot
more about how soft Taka's lips are. Well, shit. He hasn't thought that much
about someone's lips in awhile. The last time was when Tezuka was getting on a
plane and running off to Germany. "Ahh…well, with Tezuka gone, it's all been a
little disorganized. Oishi is still crying on Eiji's shoulder, Echizen hasn't
been answering calls, and everyone else is working hard on their own side of
things." Fuji shrugs, leaning back onto one hand. "I wonder if Tezuka is going
to come back in time to draw the matches for Nationals. I wonder if he even
wants to play." 
 
This hadn’t exactly been what Taka had thought they’d talk about when they were
finally alone in his room, but he loves talking about tennis, too. “If he does,
I’m sure we’ll be in a better position for Nationals. It’s comforting to have
him around, isn’t it? I mean, I know I thought it was comforting, though you
didn’t need the guidance I always did.”
 
Oh, this conversation probably should stop. It's his fault that it's being
talked about--Tezuka is just an easy subject to fall into--but…nope, it's no
good. "You're undermining yourself too much, Taka-san," Fuji says with a shake
of his head, and scoots closer, wondering how easy it would be to end up in
Taka's lap at some point soon. Maybe Taka will just grab him. That seems like
it would be pretty nice. "You're the best power player I've ever seen." 
 
“Fuji,” Taka murmurs, though his eyes light up, “you’re embarrassing me. I
guess I was worried about if you’d want someone who’s just a power player or
just learning to be a sushi chef as your boyfriend, but…” He ducks his head,
and almost mumbles, “I’m glad I’ve been making you happy, I think.” He’s
trying, at least. No one can say he isn’t trying, even if he’s not sure what
the right answers are.
 
"Taka-san, no one has made me as happy as you have." That could be more untrue.
Actually, hm. It's a little difficult thinking of anyone that makes him
(really) smile and laugh as much as Taka does, and there are very few people he
genuinely feels a desire to be around and enjoy the company of. There are
people that Fuji wishes could make him feel that way, but when they don't even
spare him a second glance, it sort of ruins the idea…
 
No, that is not going to be a thought process right now. Better is the chance
to scoot closer still, and end up with a hand on Taka's chest as he peers up at
him. "Would it embarrass you too much if I asked how long until your dad comes
to check on us? Because I think kissing you a lot sounds a lot better than
going out and practicing tennis." 
 
Is there a polite way to say,I’ve been hoping you’d say something like that for
a while?
 
Taka isn’t sure, so instead he just grabs Fuji by the arms and tugs him onto
his lap. Everything feels better with Fuji’s arms in his grasp, more confident
and sure and powerful, and it’s with a little of that hunger that he kisses the
other boy, ferocious and determined. “Not for a few hours,” he murmurs, “and
even then, not in here. He never comes in.”
 
Fuji was right. It's really good when Taka tugs him around, and it actually
makes him vividly remember that match where he was dipped and asked out and
ooh, that makes him shiver. He could be tugged around like this more often.
"Sounds good to me," Fuji breathes, slinging his arms around Taka's shoulders--
broad, broad shoulders that he's pretty fond of if he's being honest--and
lurching up to kiss him back a lot more insistently than he had before. 
 
Damn, but he wishes he had realized all about this a few weeks ago.
 
Taka had been on the verge of assuring Fuji that it’s okay, they don’t have to
kiss, but the way Fuji is kissing him back is really kind of...awesome.
 
“You know,” he murmurs against Fuji’s (really, really soft) lips between
kisses, one hand coming up to thread through silky hair, “I bet...mm, you know
how when it’s a boy and a girl, she always wants to go slower, but he wants
to…”
 
Go faster, he tries to say, but he can’t even really think all that well when
Fuji is kissing him like that, hard and sweet and deep all at once. Besides,
everything he knows about boys and girls comes from Jin and Yuuki, so at least
half of it is probably not worth mentioning.
 
"Uh huh." Taka's hands are big and strong and ah, whoops, he might be a little
too grabby when it comes to wrapping his fingers up into Taka's shirt and
hauling him closer. Fuji thinks he does a very elegant, artful job of flopping
backwards, especially when it comes to leaning up on one elbow and dragging
Taka down and catching his lower lip with his teeth. "There is nothing you
could do to scare me," Fuji breathes, "or make me want to slow down." That
should get the point across quite nicely. 
 
Oh.
 
Oh.
 
It makes sense, of course, and with what Jin had said…
 
Does that mean we both want to go faster?
 
His hands are shaking, but his heartbeat is steady, and Taka decides it’s safer
if he sticks to kissing Fuji over and over, letting himself be pulled down,
pulling away every few moments to look down at the other boy, at his lovely
flushed face, laughing eyes, kiss-swollen lips, and know that he’s the reason
for the flush, the laughter, the kisses. “Fuji,” he breathes, urgent and
nervous all at once, trying to brace his weight on his hands and elbows so he
doesn’t crush the smaller boy.
 
Yes, good. If he hasn't scared Taka off yet, that's a good sign. He's pretty
interested in the way Taka kisses him and the way he looks at him, and that
makes Fuji drag his fingers back over Taka's scalp, getting his fingers into
his hair to better pull him down. "You can tell me to slow down if you want,
though," Fuji laughs, lurching up to snag another kiss. "Mmn, but…you feel
really good, Taka-san. I don't want to." Snaking a hand down his spine is kind
of proof of that. He is going to end up touching those muscles all the time
now, oops.
 
“You look pretty when I kiss you.” The words are husky, urgent, and a little
anxious. Taka’s been shaving in the morning for almost a year, but this is the
closest he’s come to feeling like a man. He hears a little whoosh of air, and
raises up onto his arms, apologetic. “Uh, if you want to sit up--I mean, sit
with me...I wouldn’t be crushing you, I mean. You could, uh, sit on my lap, or
next to me, or…”Or whatever you want, as long as I don’t hurt you.He gulps, and
says it aloud. “Or whatever you want.”
 
You're not going to hurt me is on the tip of Fuji's tongue, but like hell if he
feels like arguing. Far better is giving Taka's chest a little nudge as he
starts to sit up as well, fully intent on crawling back into his lap. Guys like
it when he's in their lap. Can't blame them, he supposes, because even Eiji can
pick him up and toss him around. "I like that you think I'm pretty, Taka-san.
And you," Fuji begins, low and eager, "look really handsome when you're kissing
me."
 
Taka tries to thank him, but then Fuji’s in his lap, and saying things in that
eager little voice, andin his lap, and then…
 
Jin can never find out about this. 
 
Mortified, Taka wonders if he can pretend it hadn’t happened. His kisses
falter, his face burns, and he tries to arrange Fuki slightly off of him,
hoping he won’t notice the sudden, embarrassing wet spot.
 
Ahh, well, that's a thing that happens. For all that Taka falters, Fuji
doesn't, and rather than let himself be shoved away, he makes a firmer grab for
other boy again, catching his mouth in a quick, breathless kiss. "It doesn't
matter," he quietly insists. "We can keep going, if you want. I--whatever you
want." Whoo, calm down. Don't scare him off all at once. Don't tell him that
you think it's really, really hot and that you'd clean him up given the
chance. 
 
“I’m so sorry,” Taka groans, but Fuji is at least still kissing him, and maybe
doesn’t hate him yet, even if…
 
“I--if I don’t put them in the wash, they’ll stain,” he says apologetically,
and gives Fuji a slightly harder kiss, just to let him know that it’s not his
fault. “J-just give me two minutes, I’ll find a fresh pair and we can keep
kissing, if you want.” Please don’t leave.
 
Okay, now is the time to admit a little more. He's getting the hang of this
keeping it all in checkthing, sort of. "Yeah," Fuji breathlessly agrees,
flopping backwards after he's kissed like that to let Taka get up if he wants.
"It's…I actually think it's really hot, you know. And flattering. And it's not
like you have to put anything else on." Maybe too far with that last part, but,
well, if it's just going to happen again…
 
Taka had thought he couldn’t get any more taken aback today. He’d been wrong. 
 
“I-if…” 
 
There’s what’s proper, and there’s what’s right, and there’s what he wants to
do very much, with someone that very much wants to do it, when none of his
family is home.
 
Taka swallows, and thinks briefly of Yuuki, but neither he or Fuji are girls,
and no one is going to get their life ruined, and it’s not like this is some
prudish country like America, after all. He nods slowly without really standing
up, his pulse pounding in his chest, and kisses Fuji again, resting a hand on
Fuji’s slender waist, then dipping it down to trace along his waistband.
 
Saying what he wants usually gets him pretty far, but this was more than he
expected. 
 
Fuji can't be at fault for what his hands do this time, not when Taka's are
being just as bold. He curls his fingers into Taka's pants when he lurches up,
eagerly wriggling his way into the other boy's lap with absolutely no concern
for mess or stickiness or the fact that he's still hard and not afraid to let
Taka feel it. "If you touch it," Fuji breathes into Taka's ear, catching the
lobe of it, hot and wet and slick when he tugs, "I won't take long, either." 
 
Those words are enough to make Taka whimper against Fuji’s hair, and far be it
from him to be the kind of boyfriend that denies anything. He thrusts his hand
down under that waistband, and his fingers close around the hard, slick length
of Fuji…
 
And everything changes.
 
“Okay, okay, BABY!!! Fujiko-chan, sweet baby girl! I’m BURNING!!”
 
He sees things mainly in colors when he’s like this, everything alight and
ablaze, and all he can see is Fuji as a vision of loveliness in his arms, and
feel Fuji pliant and willing against him...and maybe that’s all he needs.
 
He’s back on top of Fuji in an instant, other hand no longer gentle, grabbing
Fuji’s hair and yanking it back so he can leave insistent bite after bite on
that pale neck, crushing Fuji to the ground and squeezing his waist tight as he
pumps his hand hard and rough, grinding his own suddenly hard cock against the
inside of Fuji’s thigh.
 
Well, shit, this is definitely what he's into. 
 
His breath leaves him in a rush, bringing him to groan and lurch up and drag
insistent, needy hands down Taka's back. His neck is going to look like a
disaster zone, but that's really, really good, because his cock is hard enough
in Taka's hand that he can't breathe, and the way those calloused fingers feel
around him make his eyes roll into the back of his head. "Just--ahh, fuck--
" Not the prettiest thing to roll off of his tongue, but it's accurate when he
just can't help but whimper and rut upwards, twisting to better feel the way
Taka's cock grinds hot and heavy against him. 
 
Proof of how wound up he is (was) comes in the way that it only takes a few
bites and shoves and grabs for him to come all over Taka's hand, his breath a
shuddering, ragged gasp when his hips keep slowly, mindlessly rolling up into
the other boy's grasp. Fuck. Fuck, when was the last time he came that hard?
This needs to happen all the time. 
 
As soon as Fuji’s softening cock slips out of his hand, Taka blinks, looking
slowly around. “I...Fuji…”
 
There’s no use saying he hadn’t wanted it or anything, but he hadn’t expected
everything to go quite so, uh, colorful. Still, Fuji is twitching and panting
in his arms, and he’s pretty much thrilled with that development, kissing the
other boy again, running tender fingers over the forming bruises on his neck.
“Sorry about those, I know what to do if you want to wait a second for me to
put a knife in the freezer. Are you okay?”
 
"I," Fuji breathes, a little dazed as his head lolls back, "am fantastic. Don't
you dare get up, I'm keeping you." Thank god Taka knows how to grab things
other than racquets. 
 
Taka huffs out a breath, sitting back on his rump and pulling Fuji into his
lap, boneless as he is. It’s not hard to lift him; Fuji is light, and rather
limp. “Uh, if you want that to...not happen, in the future, I can always, um,
not grab you like that. There’s other stuff we can—”
 
Fuji's hands are immediately on Taka's face, making him look at him. "That was
amazing and you can do that every time you see me for all I care," he declares
before dragging him in for another kiss. "Have I ever told you I love it when
you call me Fujiko-chan? Or your baby girl? Or your spicy love muffin? Or
anything else you can think of, really, it's all good and I'm so up for it."
Eiji is going to pick on him later if he hears about this. Oh well!
 
“You never told me that,” Taka breathes. He smoothes back Fuji’s hair, kissing
it softly on the part, just above his forehead, before pulling back to look at
him. His face is gentle, almost not comprehending. “How did I get so lucky? I’m
just a regular guy, and you’re...” So much more.
 
"No, you're a really perfect guy," Fuji sighs out, flopping forward to hook his
chin over Taka's shoulder. "Do you believe in fate, Taka-san? Because I could
start." Oh, boy, he gets dumb after good orgasms. 
 
“Of course I do.” Taka nuzzles into Fuji’s hair, really enjoying the smell.
“There’s an old woman who comes in the restaurant every few days who reads
fortunes, and tells you about love. She told me about you.”
 
"Mmn? Really?" Fuji slides a hand absently down the back of Taka's neck, slowly
petting. "Hopefully she only had good things to say." Either way, he's pretty
sure he can get into that, too.
 
“She said I’d fall in love with someone very beautiful and very special,” Taka
says softly, even though he’d thought it was terribly optimistic at the time,
“and she said I already knew that person. That was the day before our doubles
match. It’s not too, uh, flowery, is it? I know it isn’t very Japanese.”
 
"…Maybe it isn't very Japanese, but I like it that way." He didn't sign up for
this…but ending up here feels like a very, very good thing right now. Fuji
exhales a long, content sigh and smiles as he presses a kiss to the side of
Taka's neck. "I don't deserve you." 
 
“I think you do.” That, as far as Taka is concerned, is that. After a moment,
he shifts uncomfortably. “Um, but I should wash these pants. I can wash yours,
too, if you want to wait for them to dry--or I could lend you a pair.”
 
"Ah--I think I've got another pair stashed in my tennis bag, actually." Fuji
slowly flops backwards, rolling away. "Go throw yours in the wash, then we can
relax for the afternoon, okay?" 
 
It’s less than five minutes when Taka returns, now in soft white cotton shorts
and nothing else. “There was some on my shirt,” he says, a little sheepishly.
“Did you...maybe want to read a book together, or...we have TV in the main
room, but I didn’t think you’d want to go out there. As far as games, I only
have a handheld.”
 
"Mmn, let's just curl up with a book or something. You look like you'd make a
very good pillow right now." Fuji, changed into an extra pair of shorts,
lurches up to make a grab for Taka's hand and immediately pull him down.
"Unless you actually want to go out, but…I'm pretty happy just spending the
afternoon with you here, Taka-san." 
 
Odd, but he is, and Fuji supposes he shouldn't question it. If this is fate,
he's okay with it (for once). 
 
***** Atobe & Ryouma, Atobe & Tezuka *****
Ryouma wonders when this started becoming a thing that he did. 
 
Well, no, he knows when it started. It's just the fact that it's become a thing
for several consecutive days that's quite odd, because he's pretty sure he
would have never willingly sought out Atobe's company before. Summer break at
least makes it easier, and it's not like Atobe ever turns him away from his
doorstep… 
 
Today, it's a little different. Even with one of the indoor courts, Ryouma
finds himself soaked with sweat, and he huffs, draping himself over the net to
glower in Atobe's direction. "You're not hitting them as hard today. Getting
weak in your old age?"
 
Or maybe he's getting better at handling rallies that go on forever, and start
with serves like Sanada's. That's a nice thought. 
 
Atobe’s smile is a little worn-out, but it’s a genuine smile nonetheless. “I’m
hitting them just as hard,” he says, nodding to the speedometer mounted on the
wall. “I checked. You’re just returning them better.” He reaches across the
net, ruffling Ryouma’s sweaty hair with one large hand. “You’ll be able to face
him at Nationals, with reflexes like that.”
 
Ryouma scowls, but it isn't as if he bats Atobe's hand away. If anything, he
kind of shoves his head up into the touch, liking the chance to be petted.
"Still not good enough," he mutters, frowning as he flops against the net a bit
more. "How long do you think I can keep something like this up, though? I just
wasn't able to keep going long enough last time."
 
“Last time, he threw you,” Atobe reminds him. “Last time, you weren’t ready.”
Damn, but Ryouma is butting into his hand like that cat he always talks about.
It’s enough to make his fingers curl slightly, giving part of his scalp a
gentle scratch.
 
“You’ve got that mental focus. Just don’t let him spook you this time, and you
won’t have to worry about how long you can go. Worry about whether they’ll be
able to drag that great lump off the tennis court when you’re done with him.”
 
"I'll just leave him there to rot," Ryouma mumbles, rocking onto his toes a bit
to lean into Atobe's hand. Huh. That feels nice. Momo's petted him like that
before, but usually he turns into a joke later. Except there was that one time
where it was less a joke, more of something impromptu and fun and exciting, but
talking about that now doesn't really happen. 
 
Atobe's fingers kind of skim down the back of his neck for a minute, and that
makes him twitch all over. "You can keep doing that." 
 
Atobe raises an eyebrow. This...well. It’s not exactly something he hadn’t
considered before, not by any means. Ryouma is just so twitchy and rude and
standoffish that Atobe can’t not want to touch him...a bit like Tezuka, really.
 
Unlike with Tezuka, he doesn’t immediately shove the other boy against a wall
and lift him. Ryouma doesn’t seem to be in that sort of mood, and he’s being
rather cute, besides. Atobe obliges him, running his fingers through black hair
that’s somehow more Japanese than his own despite both of them having lived
abroad, and trails his fingers down the back of Ryouma’s neck, then forward
along his jawline before retreating back into his hair. “I never asked,” he
says, in English this time, “but is this more comfortable for you?”
 
He's just going to set his racquet down. Gently. Er, sort of. Ryouma kind of
fumbles with it, letting it drop from his hand as lightly as he can manage when
his knees threaten to buckle. "…Doesn't matter to me," he manages in English as
well, though he might be slightly into the fact that Atobe sounds nothing like
an American, and when was the last time he heard good English in Japan,
anyway… 
 
Right, that net needs to be not there, not when he lurches forward and grabs
hold of the front of Atobe's waistband and considers climbing him. "We don't
have to keep playing tennis right now." 
 
Ah.
 
It was a man with an accent much like his own, if he remembers correctly, who
once said, ‘I can resist everything except temptation,’ and Atobe, to be
honest, never even tries.
 
It’s easy to lift Ryouma by the waist, dragging him over the net instead of
bothering to walk five feet to the side (which would not be very interesting or
sexy). The boy is all wiry slender muscles, and is apparently determined as
hell to get at his prick. 
 
It’s not like Atobe minds.
 
“Go on,” he murmurs, flicking open his belt and shoving Ryouma’s hand down his
waistband. “You’ve been thinking about it all day, haven’t you?” His own hands
are firm on Ryouma’s waist, and at any given moment, the boy’s toes aren’t
quite touching the ground.
 
Ryouma is at least a million times okay with how fast this escalated. It's not
like it was that time with Momo, where it took effort to even meet his eyes
before, during, and afterwards. Atobe gets it, and Ryouma supposes that makes
sense. Maybe it's just a Japanese thing that makes this kind of thing weird and
awkward. 
 
They're missing out, but whatever.
 
He likes the way Atobe can lift him, likes even more the way his hand is shoved
down, and he's quick to let it wriggle inside of fabric and grab at Atobe's
cock. Ryouma's breath leaves him in a rush when he feels it harden in his
grasp, and he shoves his face into the side of Atobe's neck, biting a little to
keep back the breathy noise he wants to make. "Don't flatter yourself," he
mutters. "I just want what I want."
 
Atobe has to admit, Ryouma is kind of a relief. He’s been one anyway, the past
several days, with how easy it is to just play him and not have to worry about
how he’s going to react later, how he’s going to deal with the boy losing, or
anything stupid like that. 
 
This is better.
 
If Ryouma is going to leave incriminating marks (he’ll make up a supermodel
later), Atobe can do it, too. He’s not much of a biter, but his hands dig in
firmly, yanking Ryouma closer to him as he shoves his own shorts down and kicks
them off. “There,” he says, a grin back on his face. “If you want what you
want, then take what you want, Little Prince.”
 
Ryouma does, not hesitating for a second. His fingers curl around Atobe's cock,
breath hitching at the heavy feel of it in his hand, the way that he can just
wriggle up closer with the way Atobe is holding him tight. He shoves at his own
shorts with his other hand, hissing at the way fabric catches and tugs, but
it's still easy enough for them both to be out, for his cock to be rubbing hot
and hard and slick into Atobe's thigh, and that makes him want to bite again. 
 
He does, but it's less skin this time, more the collar of Atobe's shirt that he
catches in his teeth and yanks on. "Always wanted to do this on a tennis
court," he admits, cheeks flushed. "Guess you already have before."
 
“Just this? Countless times.” Five times.
 
Atobe’s smile sharpens as Ryouma’s fingers curl around him, inexpertly but
eagerly stroking, and he slides his cock hard up against Ryouma’s, even if he
has to lift the boy up to do so. “More? Just twice.” He bends his lips to
Ryouma’s ear, breath hot and intent over the edge of it. “Is this enough to
satisfy you?”
 
Atobe's voice sounds nice rumbling past his ear, and Ryouma groans, shaking his
head, his fingers squeezing tight around Atobe's cock. It's a lot bigger than
his, almost hard for him to easily grab, and that makes his toes curl the more
he thinks about it. "Want more," he insists, and he's glad that Atobe's got his
hands on him, because there's a good chance his knees would be buckling
otherwise. "So long as it feels good." Because this definitely does. 
 
“And how do you like it?” Atobe nearly growls, rethinking his earlier position
on Ryouma not wanting to be thrown into walls and suddenly becoming annoyed
that they’re rather far from a wall. Instead, he shoves the boy to the court,
right on the center line. “There’s no chance it won’t be good, whatever you
want me to do to you.” He’ll stop being confident when he has an unsatisfied
lover, which of course will never come to pass.
 
"Just--" Ryouma's head spins a little, his breath heavy and eager, and he
shoves himself up onto his elbows, grabbing for Atobe's cock again. "Let me
taste it." Where that particular thought comes from, Ryouma doesn't know, but--
considering how it makes him squirm, he's not of the mind to protest his own
mind. 
 
Atobe fancies himself as rather good in bed, a position borne out by just about
everyone he’s taken to it--and part of that that he’s so proud of is the fact
that he’s good at knowing what his lovers are looking for.
 
So he doesn’t roll onto his back and let Ryouma work. That would embarrass the
boy, and not really give him what he wants. He doesn’t want to taste cock; he
wants to be stuffed full of it.
 
Atobe knows the type.
 
So he shoves Ryouma down onto his back, and crawls up to kneel over him,
fingers carding through that sleek dark hair again. “Open your mouth,” Atobe
murmurs, rubbing the head over Ryouma’s lips, “and I’ll give you all you can
take.”
 
Ryouma shudders hard, his eyes fluttering the moment that Atobe has a hand in
his hair and that cock against his lips, and--well, it's probably better that
Atobe can't see that he comes right then and there. 
 
Not that he reallycares, because it actually makes it a little easier just to
let his mouth fall open, his tongue sliding out for a preliminary taste. It
makes him grimace, but when he's shivering and curling his hands into the hard
clay and smelling little but musk and sweat, it's still good. Really good,
actually. He supposes he should be angrier that Atobe gets him so well, but
he's just not. 
 
It’s impossible to miss the wince on Ryouma’s face at the taste, but that makes
it even better. Atobe can see the pleasure there as well, the heady rush of
being dominated, and he supposes he’s always known Ryouma would be this way.
“You don’t have to like the taste,” he breathes, sliding into the boy’s mouth,
hips twitching forward as he stuffs Ryouma’s mouth full. 
 
“It makes it better if you don’t, doesn’t it?” he continues, hearing sloppy,
messy noises. “You know how much this is getting me off--you can feel it.
Doesn’t it feel good, to get used like this?” If Ryouma weren’t making those
faces, he’d stop. Probably.
 
Any other time, and he'd want Atobe to shut up. Right now, though… 
 
It's easy to just let Atobe hold his head still and make him take his cock. It
makes his jaw hurt, because it's thick and heavy and way more than he's used to
having in his mouth. Atobe probably knows it, the bastard, but that doesn't
seem to stop him, and that makes Ryouma shudder anew, his fingers curling into
fists at his sides. The way that he drips over his tongue makes him gag a
little, but a few heavy, fast swallows puts an end to that, and he actually
can't help but drag his tongue up to taste even more. 
 
Atobe has to wonder (in a dim, vague way that’s separate from getting his cock
sucked) whether Ryouma has ever done this before. If he has, it’s a good bet
that he hasn’t done it like this, from the startled, overwhelmed amount of
arousal on his face. 
 
“Good,” he grunts, hands tightening in that silky hair, yanking Ryouma down
harder. “That’s--perfect, just like that, open up for me…”
 
He reaches back with one hand, not wanting to finish fast alone and not sure
how much longer he can hold out. When he feels the rapidly cooling mess on
Ryouma’s belly, a surge of something like triumph goes through him, and he lets
go.
 
“It’s too much,” he groans, spilling on Ryouma’s tongue, pulling out to cover
his lips, his cheeks, not wanting the boy to choke. That visual is almost
enough to drag out another orgasm, and he pumps himself slowly, enjoying the
last shocks as his hips slowly come to a still.
 
It's definitely too much as far as Ryouma is concerned, and he coughs, twisting
partially to the side in order to spit out the mess that coats his tongue. It's
a lot different than when it just drips there--this is thicker and heavier and
makes him inclined never to put his mouth near a dick again, no matter that it
still simultaneously makes him shudder and flush hot when it's all over his
face. Maybe he's the one that's gross with that in mind. 
 
"Does it…is it always like that?" He's not really sure if he's referring to the
taste or how much of a whirlwind the whole thing was. Either way, Ryouma flops
backwards, panting up towards the ceiling and finding himself quite sure that
he'd do that again, given another five minutes--if it weren't for the quiet
shutting of the door that he barely manages to hear over the thud of his pulse.
Ugh, if someone was watching them, that's just weird. Atobe's house generally
is, but that takes the cake.
 
“It is if you want it to be.” Atobe straightens up, tossing his hair out of his
eyes. “There are so many different ways to do everything. If you want to--ah.”
 
The flutter of panic he feels is entirely unnecessary, probably. Then again,
he’s never seen Tezuka Kunimitsu look quite so angry.
 
Well, it’s too late to hide what they’ve been doing, and that kind of thing
doesn’t really appeal to Atobe in any case. He merely shrugs, settling back
onto his knees above Ryouma’s belly. “Someone’s back early. Nice flight?”
 
Ryouma blinks, sits up, and then turns a shade of red that probably isn't
human. If it were anyone else walking in on them, it would be different. But
it's Tezuka, and that's just…not good. Maybe, maybe if he doesn't acknowledge
that it's his captain, this can just kind of disappear--
 
"It could have been better." Tezuka sounds anything but pleased, and that's
saying something, because usually he sounds irritated with the world at best.
Ryouma's pulse starts thudding too-fast again, and he gives Atobe a shove to
start wriggling away from him. "Atobe. A word in private?"
 
“It does seem unavoidable,” Atobe agrees, standing up and grabbing a towel from
where it’s draped over the net, tossing it to Ryouma before he puts his shorts
back on. “You know where the kitchen is if you want a drink,” he calls to
Ryouma over his shoulder, “and the door if you want to leave. Not how I usually
end these things, for the record.”
 
Then he shrugs, and nods his head at Tezuka, leading him into a side lounge
with showers. “Displeased in me, Kunimitsu? You thought I was saving myself for
you?”
 
It takes a great deal of self-control not to simply punch Atobe in the face.
Instead, Tezuka draws a slow breath, yanks the door shut, and shoves the other
boy back against it in one, fluid motion with a hand on his shoulder. "You said
you were helping him the last time that we spoke," he lowly, flatly accuses,
the advantage of his height making it easy to glare down at him. "What part of
having sex with him is helping him? He's a child." 
 
Atobe isn’t entirely fond of being towered over, though he doesn’t mind the
whole anger thing. He rather likes the way it makes Tezuka’s eyes light up,
though...ah, he’s really less than fond of this height difference right now. It
makes him want to stand on a sofa. “He’s not a child, Kunimitsu,” he says,
folding his arms across his chest and refusing to back up. Give someone an inch
in an argument, and you’ve lost. “I was younger than him when I started, and
with someone older. Besides, I am helping him, we were just taking a quick
break.”
 
"He's a child." The response is firm and unyielding, and even though Tezuka
pulls his hand away in the next moment, his glare doesn't lessen in the least.
"When I said that it was acceptable for you to…do whatever with other people, I
thought you would at least have the sense not to do it with him." 
 
“What part of sense is that?” Atobe counters. The impulse to draw himself up to
his full possible height is strong, but he resists. Tall people are better at
that, and his own best weapon is a confident slouch. “You left him in charge,
didn’t you? All that pillar stuff that’s in his head? Obviously you see him as
competent. And Kunimitsu, I doubt a child would have stuck his hand down my
pants after I patted his head.”
 
"You are missing the point." 
 
It should be obvious. Very obvious, and for that reason, Tezuka can't quite
understand why Atobe doesn't see what's so wrong about it. He exhales a
frustrated sigh, shoving away from him. "I'm going to go speak with him. Get
out of my way." 
 
“I,” Atobe points out, annoyed, “was not in your way. You are in my home. If
it’s going to annoy you so much that another mouth was on my cock, you should
have just told me.” That probably comes out a little more pleading than he’d
intended--but then, Tezuka doesn’t seem to be in a punching mood anymore, which
is a large improvement. “I’d have waited for you. I told you.”
 
"It isn't about that." It isn't. Not at all. Tezuka's teeth try to set
themselves into a slow grind, but he resists. "Regardless of what you might
think, Echizen is still a child. The last thing he needs is another distraction
like this to preoccupy him, and besides that, he's…" It should be obvious. It
should. "I'm responsible for much of what he does, and I was hoping that you
would attempt to be something of a caretaker to him as well." 
 
“What,” Atobe says, a hint of challenge in his voice for the first time, “do
you define as a child? Is it just someone who’s in your personal care? It can’t
be based on age--he’s barely two years younger than we are, be fair. It isn’t
as if others on your team weren’t playing around at that age.” Frustrated, he
reaches out, laying a hand on Tezuka’s arm. “I didn’t hurt him. I wouldn’t.”
 
"…He's the closest thing I've had to a brother, and trusts me like no one else
does." Tezuka twitches a little underneath the touch of Atobe's hand, but
doesn't shove it away. "Does that not sound like a situation waiting to be a
disaster the moment he finds out about us? And he will, if you keep doing
things like this." 
 
Atobe considers for a moment, then nods. “I can see that,” he allows. “He’s far
from stupid. But it isn’t as if he’s professing love for me, he just wanted a
quick blow on a tennis court.” Not sure if that’s going to make it better or
worse, really. “We’re hardly even friends, I’m just trying to help him get over
his yips.”
 
"I really don't understand how you can be so casual with your indiscretions,"
Tezuka mutters, leaning away with his arms folded over his chest. "Nor do I see
how having sex on a tennis court has anything to do with getting rid of his
yips. Don't answer that if you do have a reason, I don't want to know." 
 
“That was separate,” Atobe explains hastily. “Though I do think it signifies
some good progress, if I do say so myself. Don’t hit me. As for the tennis
court…” Atobe takes a step forward, touching Tezuka with just the tip of a
finger. “You say that like you’ve never enjoyed it there. How sure are you that
you aren’t jealous of being in his place? It’s been a long time, eh?”
 
"If you suggest that I'm jealous of being in Echizen's place again, I am going
to hit you." Tezuka exhales a long breath, frowning at him. "If you insist on
continuing this sort of…thing,I would at least prefer not being knowledgeable
about it." 
 
“I never said I was insisting on continuing.” Atobe’s face contorts into
something like offended dignity. “I said that I didn’t know it bothered you,
Kunimitsu. Hell, even if you and I were just friends, I wouldn’t sleep with him
if it bothered you so much.” He bites his lip, a bad habit he hates. “I
honestly didn’t know.”
 
Ugh. Tezuka glances away, now finding himself more annoyed at his own reaction
than Atobe (especially when he does that lip-biting thing that is obnoxiously
cute). He hadn't placed a ground rule against Atobe doing anything with Ryouma,
and while it would be lovely for Atobe to be able to read his mind, this
probably crosses the line of feasibility. "…It's fine," Tezuka finally, wearily
says. "I apologize for snapping at you, but walking in on that was not my ideal
way of returning to see you." 
 
“You were going to surprise me,” Atobe says unhappily. “It’s such a sweet and
unusual gesture from you, and it was ruined. I think that’s what I hate most of
all.” He steps forward, leaning up to tug on a strand of Tezuka’s hair. “And
I’ve been missing you.”
 
And now Atobe is going to start doing that clinging, touching thing that Tezuka
isn't entirely used to…but oddly finds himself having missed as well. He sighs,
shifting his weight back. "I just had the chance to book an earlier flight,
that's all. I'll be heading to Kyushu in a few days, so I thought you would
appreciate being able to see me first." 
 
“I do appreciate it,” Atobe says earnestly, and decides to push his luck. What
the hell, it’s not like Tezuka is pushing him away, and he doesn’t look quite
so violent behind the glasses just now. 
 
He steps forward, looping his finger into Tezuka’s chest pocket, tugging
gently. “I can think of lots of things for us to do in a few days. But…” 
 
Because Tezuka seems to like him more when he’s nice, for some reason, he
doesn’t go in for a kiss. Reluctantly, he says, “You’d better go talk to Ryouma
first. He probably thinks you’re mad at him. He already did, for the way he
lost at the Kantou.”
 
"Assuming he hasn't already run off," Tezuka mutters, exhaling the breath that
he's been holding since Atobe stepped closer. Right. First things first, making
sure Ryouma is all right and not convinced that he hates him, then he can come
back to this. "You'll have me for a few days," he repeats, more for himself
than Atobe this time. "And because I know you already have ideas, I will go
along with at least one of them." 
 
Atobe’s eyes glint. “I,” he informs Tezuka seriously, “very much want to pin
you to that wall and whisper all of them into your ear while holding your
wrists above your head. But it would be ignoble of me to send you off to find
your protege with an erection, so go quickly before I change my mind.” Damn,
he’s basically a candidate for sainthood.
 
Tezuka opens his mouth, shuts it again, glares, and promptly brushes past Atobe
as quickly as he can manage. It will be much safer to get away from him for at
least a little while and have other conversations. Otherwise, there's just
nothing to be done (and damn Atobe for knowing that). 
 
The fortunate(?) thing is that Ryouma is still around. Annoyed, embarrassed,
rather sulky, but still around. More fortunate is the fact that he doesn't ask
too many questions about why Tezuka is over at Atobe's house, but there is
something of a side-eye when he heads off out the door, and Tezuka doesn't
follow. 
 
…Still. It's good to know that Ryouma is okay, knows that he isn't angry about
this or the loss at the Kantou, and with a promise to talk to him about tennis
later, Ryouma seems pretty content to forget that this afternoon ever
happened. 
 
Thank god. 
 
Tezuka ducks his way back into the room with a sigh. As per usual, second
thoughts about being here tend to emerge, but he's the one that insisted on an
earlier flight home, so he's dug his own grave this time. 
 
Tezuka’s back hits the wall, his arms gripped by strong hands the second he
comes in the door. It’s a little dangerous to surprise Tezuka--an almost-broken
nose had been his prize, once--but it can be rewarding, too. Tezuka needs to be
knocked off his game, craves it on some level, and damned if Atobe doesn’t want
to give it to him.
 
“This is what you want,” he murmurs, confident that he’s right, knowing that
surety gets Tezuka off just as surely as the strong hands holding him in place.
He mouthes hot and wet up Tezuka’s neck (without biting; he doesn’t want Tezuka
to be a spectacle), and lurches forward until they’re pressed body-to-body.
“Tell me what else you want.”
 
There's always something of a jolt that goes through him whenever Atobe does
something like this. It's even more apparent now, when he's tired and stressed
and has a million things on his mind--all of which seem to sort of flutter away
without a second's consideration the moment his back slams into the wall.
Tezuka swallows hard, feels his fingers curl back into the wall behind him, and
ah, there goes his mind shutting right off.
 
"I--" His voice breaks at the edges, unsteady and unsure. "Keigo…just--you, I
don't care what else." He's never been good at saying what he wants, not like
Atobe is, and he's definitely  not good at it right now when he feels like his
legs are going to melt out from underneath him. 
 
Atobe can almost see the stress leave Tezuka’s face, and he can feel the
tension leave his body. No one, no one ever needs to know how Tezuka gets when
he’s properly bossed around. Atobe knows way too many young men with weird
animosity towards Tezuka that would love to take advantage of that.
 
At least he doesn’t count himself among them. Making Tezuka make those faces is
probably the best sexual pleasure he’s ever had, and nothing is going to
jeopardize that. “Good,” he murmurs, and leans up to place one soft kiss on
Tezuka’s cheek before reaching a hand back to grab his ass, harder than can be
comfortable. “Do I need to fuck you on a soft bed, or should I take you on the
floor because that’s more convenient for me?” he asks, knowing what Tezuka will
choose.
 
It's a level above embarrassing how hard his cock is just with that question.
Tezuka shudders, sinking back into the wall, into the grab of Atobe's hand,
mindlessly reaching out to grab a handful of the front of Atobe's shirt as some
form of stability. "Floor," he barely manages to rasp out, trying very hard not
to think about it too much before it happens, lest he get off on that alone. He
should be more annoyed about this, with Atobe, but that's impossible when all
he can think about is how Atobe makes his mind shut up and his body give in
when he needs it the most. 
 
Atobe grabs roughly, strong arms lowering Tezuka to the floor. Tezuka would
probably be just as happy to be shoved, but Atobe wants to take care of him, no
matter how that’s not what Tezuka gets off on. 
 
Once he’s on his back, all bets are off. Atobe knows that, and yanks off
Tezuka’s slacks, leaving him bare from the waist down. He doesn’t touch the
hard, straining cock between Tezuka’s thighs. He doubts he’ll need to, and
Tezuka prefers it when he doesn’t in any case, the loon. 
 
“Just let me take care of everything, Kunimitsu,” he murmurs, pulling himself
out from the stretchy waistband, not bothering to kick his shorts off again.
Tezuka prefers it when he’s wearing some clothes, even if it’s just athletic
practice clothing. “That’s what you like, isn’t it? If I just…” He runs his
hands up Tezuka’s thighs, parting them easily. “...use you to get off? Any part
of you I want, I think.”
 
When he's with Atobe, Tezuka is fairly certain that he's a little closer to
death. 
 
His breath leaves him in a rush once he's on the floor, a hand coming up to his
own mouth to clamp down on a breathy, shuddering groan that would be all-too
incriminating. As if the rest of his body isn't tell-tale when he just sags
underneath Atobe's hands, his legs spreading wide. It's a blessing that only
Atobe can make him like this, that only Atobe hits all of those buttons
perfectly. His cock is hard enough that it drips onto his stomach, and just the
thought of Atobe rubbing off on him--any part of him that he wanted--makes
Tezuka's breath hiccup and his eyes squeeze tightly shut behind his glasses. 
 
"Just--don't make me wait." He swallows hard, tries to remember how to breathe
normally. "Please." 
 
Ah.
 
Atobe represses a breathy laugh and the assertion that you’ll be the death of
me, Kunimitsu, because that’s not what either of them want right now. That will
come later, when they’re sated and curled up together and themselves again.
 
For now, he just presses Tezuka’s legs uncomfortably wide, sliding up between
them to rub his cock briefly against the skin of a pale thigh. “So smooth. Ah,
I’ll make you wait if I want, you look delicious when you’re just waiting for
me to make use of you. My own private, shameless toy.”
 
He wills it to be true. Tezuka is so repressed so much of the time, it would do
him good to let go of all that, at least when they’re together. He’d taken
advantage of Tezuka’s momentary absence in talking to Ryouma, and he has
everything he needs with him, starting with a packet of lube that he drips
messily over Tezuka’s balls, letting it slide back down the cleft of his ass.
“I could fuck you,” he breathes, and pulls out something else he’d located. “Or
I could just shove a toy in you and come back in an hour to see if you’ve
melted.”
 
Tezuka twitches with the thought, and there's that urge just to slide a hand
down and grab his own cock to get rid of some of that tension. It disappears in
the next instant when he melts at the thought of being left alone for an hour,
something shoved up inside of him nice and deep and making him turn into a
complete mess as he writhes on the floor--
 
He swallows visibly, his cock twitching, the muscles in his thighs tensing and
bunching and shivering from the effort it takes not to just lose himself. He's
very, very sure that the moment Atobe puts anything inside of him, he's going
to be done. "I…I just…I want to come on your cock." The words catch in his
throat, leaving him to lick at dry lips. "Please." 
 
Atobe nods slowly, pretending to think, and sets the toy down. “It would be
better,” he muses, “if you’re already full when I shove it inside you. Then you
could feel it slowly leaking out of you for all that time.”
 
It isn’t a question. Tezuka’s questions aren’t important right now, and he’d
just moan anyway, because the head of Atobe’s cock is rubbing over his hole.
“You’re going to be so good for me and take it,” Atobe murmurs, fully confident
that it’s true. He’s slick and dripping himself, and adds more lube just to
make sure, because he doesn’t plan to show Tezuka much mercy. It wouldn’t be
welcomed. 
 
If he were going to really make this Tezuka’s greatest night on earth, he’d
pull away a bit more, tease him, make him come at least once and bring him to
the brink of begging again, but he’s just not capable. Not now, not when it’s
been so damned long since he’s had the other boy writhing on his cock. 
 
He’s not gentle when he shoves in, but from the way Tezuka clenches down around
him, gentleness isn’t welcomed any more than mercy would be.
 
If there was anything left of his coherent thoughts, it's gone by the time
Atobe's cock is inside him.
 
Tezuka's mouth falls open, his breath little more than hitching, ragged gasps
as his thighs clamp about Atobe's waist, trembling when he's stuffed so full
that his eyes roll back. Briefly, his fingers scrabble at the floor before he's
reaching and grabbing for Atobe instead, trying not to scratch, but that's
easier said than done when he just wants more, wants Atobe to grab him and hold
him down and pull him onto his cock and leave him as little more than a mess. 
 
His own cock aches between them, twitching with the slightest roll of Atobe's
hips, and Tezuka groans, wriggling down, chest heaving with the effort it takes
to try and shove himself harder onto Atobe's cock to feel even morewhen he's
already so sure that it's far, far too much. 
 
Calm down, Keigo, Atobe thinks frantically, trying not to just come inside
Tezuka then and there. It’s easier said than done, but Atobe is a master of his
body, and he can do what he sets out to do. 
 
Usually.
 
“You’re doing a good job, squirming around on my cock,” he breathes, leaning
down to get a taste of Tezuka’s neck before raising up above him. Tezuka loves
that, he knows--feeling pinned, held down, dominated. “But you can’t get it as
hard as I can give it to you.”
 
He slams in deep, until he physically can’t bury himself any farther, and then
again in a series of quick, brutal thrusts. He alternates, sometimes fucking
Tezuka hard and fast and deep, sometimes holding himself inside and just
letting Tezuka writhe. “Can you come like this? Of course you can. That’s all
you’re good for, isn’t it?”
 
Tezuka's voice is little more than a broken, whining keen, his legs falling
open when Atobe shoves himself in so deep that he's sure he can't take it for
more than a second. It doesn't help. It just makes it feel like Atobe's even
deeper inside of him, and in a way, that's better, because he can't get away--
he just has to take it. 
 
There's probably something wrong with enjoying this so much, but when Atobe is
fucking him, holding him down and telling him how good of a job he's doing,
Tezuka can't think of anything that's better. He can barely think of breathing
when Atobe tells him that's all you're good for, and the twinge of his back
arching, the way his muscles tremble and bunch up whenever Atobe hits him just
right inside--god, it's not even that. It's just knowing that Atobe's going to
take care of him and get him off and make him love it--that's what makes him
come faster than anything, without even a single touch to his cock when he's
trembling and full and lost. 
 
There’s little that’s better for Atobe’s ego than making Tezuka come without a
touch. He holds still for a long moment, then picks up the pace again, helping
him ride out the last shocks of his orgasm with a few hard thrusts. They don’t
have to be particularly well-placed. Tezuka manages to get off no matter where
he thrusts, as long as it’s hard.
 
“Just like that,” he murmurs, running his hands up and down Tezuka’s body while
he’s over-stimulated, coaxing the last trembling, twitching moans out of the
prone form beneath him. “Just like that, show me how well-behaved you are, show
me you’re worth my cock inside you. Good hole.”
 
Ah, he’s going to lose it, but he has to wait until Tezuka’s ready--and that
doesn’t happen when he’s just come.
 
"C…can't…" Right after he comes, it's too much. Atobe's hands are too much, his
cock is too much, and everything is amplified at least a dozen times, leaving
him shuddering and aching and with tears welling up in his eyes that he tries
so, so hard to keep back. 
 
It's impossible, though, when Atobe keeps fucking him. His cock is still hard
and leaking inside of him, and Tezuka can feel it, maybe even more than he
could before. He groans, letting himself slump down, boneless and shivering,
letting Atobe pull him where he wants without a single protest. That's the best
part of it, really--the fact that even if he did protest, he knows Atobe
wouldn't stop. 
 
This is the Tezuka Atobe is looking for, the one who has fully surrendered
himself, the one who just lets himself be pulled around and fucked into
oblivion, because it gives him something he craves.
 
As soon as Atobe sees the tears, he knows he’s gone far enough, and he can lose
himself without risking Tezuka’s pleasure. He’s brutal when he slams in,
hearing the rough slap of his hips against narrow ones, watching Tezuka’s legs
tremble from being spread so wide for so long, seeing his softening cock
quivering, his face contorted in almost pathetic release.
 
“Look,” he grunts, so close he can see sparks exploding behind his eyes, “at
what you made me do.”
 
That’s all he has time for before he loses himself, coming deep inside Tezuka,
filling him hot and wet and messy, and the thought is so appealing that he lets
himself slip out faster than usual, fumbling with clumsy fingers as his breath
stutters, and he finds a thick plug and slides it easily inside the other boy,
only a tiny drop leaking out before he does. 
 
Then he collapses slowly to the floor with a groan. “God, Kunimitsu. You’ll be
the end of me.”
 
Tezuka only manages a weak, pathetic groan as he rolls partially to the side,
burying his face into the ground as his chest heaves with his next ragged
breath. If he hadn't just come, he's so, so sure that he would have come again,
just at the idea of being full of Atobe's come, with that plug in him and
stretching him wide and keeping it all in. 
 
He takes a long breath--holds it--and sags to the floor as he maybe sort of
kind of comes close to relaxing. "Just leave me here to die," he eventually
huffs out. 
 
“I’m leaving you here,” Atobe says fondly, reaching over to hook Tezuka’s
glasses on one finger, tugging them from his face. “But you have to live so I
can watch you wiggling around like a good toy for me. You want me to think
you’re useful, don’t you?”
 
Tezuka makes a half-hearted grab for his glasses, only to give up a few seconds
later with another, breathless noise that's not very much of a complaint. "Is
this really what you've been thinking about while I've been gone?" Maybe that's
why he's been waking up with night sweats and…other problems. 
 
Atobe leans over, resting a hand on Tezuka’s abdomen and gently pushing down,
curious if he can feel the thick rubber inside. Hmm, no, but it’s a nice
thought, and it probably feels uncomfortable, given how full the other boy is.
“Among many, many other things,” he assures Tezuka. “So many things.”
 
Tezuka thinks that he does a valiant job of not whimpering, but squirming is
something else entirely. He grabs at Atobe's wrist, fairly certain that he
should be urging  him to stop, but mostly, his fingers just kind of cling to
him. It's hard not to lose his train of thought when he still feels
uncomfortably slick and full inside, with every wriggle reminding him that
Atobe's really not through with him yet. "Don't leave me alone like this." 
 
Atobe sighs, obliging Tezuka--for the moment--by trailing his hand down, slowly
nudging the plug forward and back with just the tip of it, knowing the
sensation is magnified a hundredfold when it’s inside the other boy. “Ah, but
Kunimitsu...if I don’t leave, I’ll be tempted to keep playing with you...and
I’m not sure how much more you can take.”
 
Tezuka's face finds its way into Atobe's shoulder, burying itself there when he
shudders and arches back in spite of himself. He'd complain on a dozen
different levels if his cock wasn't telling him other things, even though he's
still sore and twitching and overstimulated. "Don't care," he mumbles instead,
huffing out a breath into Atobe's neck. "Just don't leave." 
 
That’s kind of like permission. It’s also a very good reason not to leave
Tezuka alone, not that he would anyway. Tezuka is so vulnerable when he’s like
this that Atobe’s not sure what he wouldn’t do, and he wouldn’t even trust his
own butler with the other boy in this state.
 
Slowly, he strokes down Tezuka’s hair and back, petting him firmly before
reaching around to his chest, rubbing his palms over Tezuka’s nipples. They’re
not usually all that sensitive, but sometimes, when his body is on fire…
 
“What do you want me to do with you, Kunimitsu? If you say ‘whatever you want,’
I’m going to spank you.”
 
Tezuka is actually kind of annoyed with himself when the idea makes him bite
back another noise. He's more annoyed with the way that his nipples are now
making him twitch, because that's distracting, and frustrating when he's so
sensitive still, and he mostly just wants to rub his cock against something
until he comes again and gets it over with. 
 
"I just--I don't know." He swallows hard, shutting his eyes. How is he really
supposed to say it's only really good when your cock is in me without sounding
completely pathetic? The fact that just thinking it makes his cock harder is
bad enough. 
 
Atobe rolls his eyes. He should have known better than to expect any kind of
coherent thought from Tezuka when he’s like this. Maybe he just really wants
that excuse to spank him, though it isn’t like he needs one.
 
“You can suck me off until I feel like pulling that thing out of you,” he says,
sounding as if he’s doing Tezuka a great favor. “But I do have some homework to
do, so make sure you aren’t too distracting.”
 
He’d gotten an admission out of Tezuka late one night, and hadn’t had the
chance to make it happen yet--but this is as close to perfect as it’s ever
going to get.
 
The problem is just hearing that sort of makes him want to come all over
himself, and so Tezuka just has to breathe deep for a moment, nodding when he
thinks he can, his body already twisting to better make a grab for Atobe and
his cock. "Whatever you want," he manages to say, his touch hesitant when it
brushes against Atobe's hip. "Just--let me, please." I'll be good, the last
time I sucked you off you liked it a lot, if I'm good you'll like it again.
 
Atobe’s not sure he can get all the way to pretending to be writing, but he can
probably pretend to read a book with some accuracy. 
 
Well, he’s at least mildly confident that he can hold a book. For a minute or
so, anyway. “I suppose,” he allows, and hauls himself up into an armchair,
spreading his legs to let Tezuka kneel between them. He’s soft, which means
he’s probably got at least five or ten minutes before he comes again like the
hormonal teenager he is. He picks up a book, hoping it looks sufficiently
homework-y, knowing Tezuka won’t care, and reminds himself to pay the other boy
little to no attention.
 
Well, a hand stroking gently through his hair can’t hurt too much.
 
Tezuka, were he still of sound mind, would question his decision to be so eager
about crawling up between Atobe's legs, nuzzling up the inside of one soft yet
toned thigh before he mouths at the other boy's cock. There's something about
being on his knees and sucking him off like this that makes him shudder all the
way down to his toes, because even if Atobe is petting him, there's no real
attention being paid there. 
 
There's also the fact that with that plug inside of him, every squirm on his
knees is a reminder that he's still full, and that periodically steals the
breath from his lungs when his cock twiches and his mind goes blank. 
 
If he's good at anything, it's at making Atobe hard again. He's learned that
it's not about being forward or too grabby, because Atobe, no matter how strong
and sure he always is with him, much prefers a more delicate touch. A swipe of
his tongue, his hands kneading at Atobe's thighs, the drag of his lips over
just the head of Atobe's cock--that's a start, and one that makes Tezuka shiver
the moment he can feel Atobe starting to harden against his tongue. 
 
Tezuka is way too good at this, and Atobe has to remind himself not to give any
praise, encouragement, or even much notice. Instead, he idly pats that sweat-
damp hair, giving the occasional sigh, mostly flipping pages one-handed at
random intervals. 
 
It only takes a turn of four pages before he’s entirely hard, and it’s much
better before that, anyway. He loves feeling himself harden on Tezuka’s tongue,
feeling it swell and fill his mouth, feeling him wiggle on that thick plug
inside him. 
 
The desire to do something is strong at first, but gradually, Atobe starts to
get into the game. There’s something so sinful about having Tezuka simply work
at pleasuring him, while he does nothing but sit and read. He even manages to
read a bit of the book, trying to focus for a moment on that instead of on the
soft wet heat lapping up and down the length of his cock, focusing on the head-
-ah, and that’s getting more and more difficult the harder he gets.
 
His jaw aches, and Tezuka loves it. 
 
He loves the fact that his own cock is hard again, harder still when he shifts
and wriggles and feels the way that plug presses up deeper inside of him.
Whenever he can feel the jump and twitch of Atobe's cock against his tongue,
that makes it even better, because he knows he's doing a good job even if Atobe
isn't saying anything. It takes more work still once Atobe is really hard,
because he's thick enough to make his lips and jaw hurt even when he's just in
his mouth half-way, and Tezuka has to periodically pull back to catch a real
breath, no matter how he wishes he could take all of him much, much more
easily. 
 
That’s quite enough.
 
Atobe tosses the book aside, both of his hands threading in Tezuka’s hair now,
urging him down farther, gently, gently. “I had planned to get more done,” he
informs the other boy in what he hopes is a firm tone, “but you’re just too
distracting. I’m not sure what kind of use I have for a hole that can barely
follow directions.” 
 
He reaches down, twisting the plug. “Maybe I should just take this out and
watch you leak.”
 
Tezuka just groans. The sound is muffled, sloppy with the slide of Atobe's cock
against his tongue, that makes it all the better. He can't think, can't really
draw a full breath, and maybe he's a little too eager to follow the pull of
Atobe's hands because he nearly makes himself gag when Atobe's cock slides too
far down his throat, too fast. 
 
Please, please, please is the mindless mantra that he can't quite erase. It's
definitely not going anywhere when Atobe's fingers twist at that plug, and all
he can think of is the mess that's left inside of him, the fact that he's going
to ache for hours after this, and god, he's thankful for that. 
 
Atobe tugs on the base, pulling it until the flared base stretches that little
hole, until he can see the discomfort in Tezuka’s eyes, and pushes it back in.
“Not yet. I was going to finish inside you a second time, but I don’t think I
want my cock in something so messy.”
 
He tightens his hands in Tezuka’s hair, letting his cock fall free with a slick
‘pop,’ and he lurches forward to rub the head against Tezuka’s cheek, leaving a
hot wet trail of saliva and precum. “I’ll just use this part of you to get off
instead. I know you won’t mind.” Shit, he’s not going to last long, not when he
can see Tezuka’s long lashes without his glasses, fluttering and getting sticky
with his fluids.
 
Tezuka is fairly certain that he's the basest of whores, and there's absolutely
nothing better. 
 
He lurches forward, mindlessly nuzzling Atobe's cock, letting it smear across
his cheek and lips. It's impossible not to try and lick up some of the mess
that drips over his lips, and he hopes that's allowed, that it's fine, because
his cock is so hard that he's fairly certain he's going to die if he can't keep
tasting Atobe. "Anything," he pants out, bowing his head into Atobe's grasp to
let him tug his face where he wants it, "is fine, so long as you want it--"
 
Atobe is pretty much the worst at staying in character, and he’s sure it’s
fine. “Ah, Kunimitsu,” he groans, and that’s all he can do before losing
himself, spilling what he’s sure is too much across the other boy’s face,
coating him in thick white stripes as his hips finally still, the head of his
cock dragging through the mess on Tezuka’s face as his breath comes in rough,
ragged gasps. He’s trembling, worn out by the force of so much pleasure in such
a force of time--but there’s a reason his stamina is what it is, and if Tezuka
needs him to, he’ll be here, and he’ll be ready.
 
Tezuka closes his eyes, rocking back from his knees slightly as his lips part,
tongue swiping over his shaking lips. The taste makes him shudder, makes his
cock twitch and drip onto the floor, and he has to reach out to grab onto one
of Atobe's knees to steady himself and keep himself from just curling up on the
floor. "C…can I…" It's hard to speak when it feels like he aches all over, and
all he can do is bow his head, breath ragged, the slick, dripping mess over his
face and hair a constant reminder of how he's been used. 
 
Atobe gives him an indulgent smile, now that he’s got some vague control of his
mind and face back. He can finish Tezuka off properly before collapsing, and he
will, because he’s good at this and it’s important to him. 
 
He leans back in his chair, arms folded, the perfect picture--especially from
Tezuka’s kneeling position--of power and authority. Carefully, he wriggles one
foot between Tezuka’s legs, and presses the instep down against his cock. “Show
me how good you can be. Let me see you come all over yourself.”
 
It really only takes one glance up at Atobe, one press of his foot, and Tezuka
is done. 
 
His hips twitch upward, a useless, mindless rutting when he's already coming,
clinging to one of Atobe's knees and burying his face against his thigh when he
groans and shudders and spills messily, gratefully all over himself and the
floor. The way his body twitches and clenches and trembles brings him to be
reminded of that plug with every little squirm, and Tezuka is sure that for a
moment he almost blacks out, his breath just not coming into his lungs no
matter how hard he tries. 
 
One vague, incoherent whimper later, he just melts entirely, laying his head
against Atobe's knee, panting, shivering, and very content to be boneless and
lost.
 
Atobe pets Tezuka firmly, giving him something to cling onto, some way back
into himself. It takes a while before he’s really done, sometimes, but he’s
fairly sure that the other boy has hit his max. “Good, so good,” he murmurs,
over and over. “Ah, Kunimitsu, there’s no one better than you, you’re always so
good for me.”
 
He counts Tezuka’s breaths, waiting for them to slow, to calm, and keeps
touching him gently, his hair and shoulders, keeping away from anything too
sensitive. “God, you always make me so happy.”
 
It takes awhile from him to come down from his high, but Tezuka eventually
starts actually feeling the air come back into his lungs again, and stops
hearing anything but the thud of his pulse and the drip of his own sweat. He
shivers, shifting, briefly nudging his head up into Atobe's hands before he
shakily, carefully straightens up from where he sags against Atobe's knee. 
 
"That…" Tezuka feels himself twitch all over again, and forgoes speaking for
another moment when he reaches up to wipe his face with trembling fingers.
"Bath," he finally settles upon, flopping back down to lean against Atobe's leg
again. "Maybe." If I can ever think about moving. 
 
Atobe is extremely glad that while he might weigh more than Tezuka, it’s
primarily (exclusively, he wishes) in muscle. It’s not too hard to get him up
onto his feet, or to get an arm beneath his knees, lifting him. “You can handle
the doors,” he grunts, deciding that the granola bar from earlier is definitely
worked out of his calorie count for the day by now. “I’ll take care of
everything else, just let me coddle you a bit.” At some point, he should
probably pull out that plug. Probably.
 
"Don't drop me," Tezuka dimly mutters, but otherwise, utters not a single
complaint. If anything, he's that much more content to be wrapped up in Atobe's
arms like this, especially with the idea of being coddled sounding better and
better by the moment. Thisis what he came back to Japan early for (that, and
being able to wipe off his messy face right onto Atobe's shirt).
 
***** Rikkai *****
The door slams, and Sanada stops to apologize as a matter of habit before
hurrying over to Yukimura. The club room is empty, but Yukimura has the keys,
even on summer vacation. There are some perks to being the club president,
captain, and coach all at once. 
 
“We need to have a team meeting,” Sanada announces. Yukimura is the only one
there, as he’d known he would be. Since he’d gotten out of the hospital, he’s
done rather more following of Yukimura than he’d anticipated, which had
resulted in him finding his captain facedown on the ground during an ill-
advised “morning run” more than once.
 
The door slamming makes him jump, and subsequently, a string snap when he jerks
on the crank too hard. Yukimura growls, eyes slitted when he looks up
underneath his lashes. All right. It's Sanada. He's forgiven because he's
Sanada. Another string slides into place after that, and Yukimura carefully
keeps pressure on the crank this time. He'd much prefer to do this in the
privacy of his own bedroom, but he's not allowed to string his racquets at home
now, not after a particularly loud argument with his mother about his need for
stillness and, preferably, complete silence. So much for getting that now,
though. Shhh, it's fine. I've neglected you for eight months, but I've got you,
I'm going to make youperfect again--"Uh huh. About?" 
 
“We have to talk to them. It has to be--no, it couldn’t be.” His mother’s words
run around in his head again, and even his normally thunderous expression is a
little excessive at the moment. “My mother was meeting with one of the school
deans as part of her community involvement. Apparently, some girl from our
school isn’t returning after summer break. She got pregnant.”
 
That string goes in just fine, and Yukimura exhales the breath that he's been
holding. "And what does this have to do with the tennis team, exactly? Most of
us are otherwise preoccupied, or incapable of talking to girls. Or they're
Akaya."
 
“The culprit—” What other word is there, really? “--was a member of the tennis
team.” 
 
Sanada delivers this news with as much gravity as he’s ever delivered a line in
a play. Probably more, considering that Yukimura isn’t likely to give him a
standing ovation.
 
Yukimura pauses, the pair of wire cutters in his hand now brandished rather
like one would a knife. "They're ruining our flawless reputation." 
 
“And ruining a girl’s life.” At least Sanada thinks that’s a solid second
place. He doubts it places in the top ten for Yukimura. “Who the hell could it-
-Niou. It has to be Niou.” Which is not at all influenced by his personal
opinion of Niou.
 
Yukimura's expression twists into a scowl, and he goes about finishing his
racquet off with a shake of his head. "If it's Niou, then I'm going to make him
run laps in the heat until he's sick. If it's him--ugh, I can't even suspend
him because if I do, then we're down our best doubles team. But then I look
like I'm condoning it--" That's another growl. "Call them. All of them. Use my
phone so they're scared. I want them in an hour earlier than we previously
planned."
 
“I already told them to get here as soon as humanly possible,” Sanada growls.
“Renji at least should be arriving any minute, but it can’t be him.” He pauses,
and frowns. “Can it? I’m starting to wonder. He’s very secretive about that
kind of thing.”
 
"Wasn't he having some sort of weird thing with his ex? Ugh, I hate talking
about this sort of thing," Yukimura mutters, cutting off the last string and
tugging his racquet off the rack to dig his fingers into the strings. Yes,
good. "I can't imagine Marui or Jackal doing something like this…or Yagyuu.
Maybe it's someone who isn't a regular? But then that's just difficult to deal
with…"
 
“They said it was a regular,” Sanada reports gloomily. “I don’t like gossip
either, but my mother had a fit because she thought it was me, somehow. Trauma
after my brother, I suppose. They said it happened after one of our District
games.”
 
Yukimura has to sit down. It has nothing to do with the way his back aches for
once. "This was because I wasn't here to keep everyone in line. Maybe if I had
been here, we wouldn't have to deal with something like this." Then again, if
it's Niou, he would have done it anyway.
 
Sanada bows deeply, fully and thoroughly ashamed. “You’re right. This never
happened when you were here. It’s my fault. I was just so focused on the win, I
didn’t see what must have been right in front of me.” The back of his head
still hurts from where his mother had smacked him, before he could explain very
fervently that it wasn’t him.
 
A dismissive sigh and wave follows that. "It's not your fault. It's not like
Niou parades his girlfriends around openly, he just sort of…does what he does
with them." Yukimura grimaces. "I hate to say it, but I'm actually glad it's
happening during vacation rather than in the middle of classes. Maybe it will
end up being forgotten faster that way." 
 
“Excuse the intrusion,” a quiet voice says from the doorway, and Yanagi bows
and takes off his shoes before entering, slipping into a pair of his indoor
shoes from the cubby and taking a seat. “Ah. There’s a great deal of tension.”
 
"Oh, good, another mind to pick," Yukimura sighs out in relief, rocking
slightly to the side as his fingers drum into the strings of his racquet.
"Yanagi, have you heard about this? One of our regulars got a girl pregnant.
Please tell me that it wasn't you." 
 
Yanagi’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Highly unusual. Japan has the lowest teen
birth rate in the entire industrialized world, just point four percent of girls
ages 15-19 will give birth, as opposed to 6.4 percent in America, for example.
No, Seiichi, it wasn’t me.” 
 
Sanada mutters something about women’s feet not smelling right, and Yanagi
gracefully ignores it.
 
"Well, good. With the amount of time that you spend around Akaya, it really
wouldn't be good for him to have that kind of bad influence." Yukimura pauses,
his gaze jerking over to Sanada, wide-eyed. "You don't think it could be Akaya,
do you? I mean--I always thought he'd be impossible around girls, but
sometimes, that's hard to tell--"
 
"Cheers," Jackal greets in between dragging a still-eating Marui into the
clubhouse after him. "Sorry--we were eating lunch, didn't expect to have to
come in so early." 
 
Yukimura's gaze is sharp when it sets upon both of them, and Jackal shudders a
little. "You both also need to be accounted for. No one is innocent."
 
“I’m innocent!” Sanada protests.
 
Marui flops onto the bench, polishing off a last onigiri. “Innocent? In what,
Buchou? Oi, Jackal, you can’t drag me while I’m eating, I’ll get sick or
something.”
 
“Our Captain is attempting to get to the bottom of a tennis club pregnancy
scandal,” Yanagi explains. “Apparently, we are all suspect.”
 
“Don’t blame Jackal!” Marui says immediately. “Just because he’s kinda…”
 
"What?" Jackal immediately demands. "What am I?"
 
Yukimura frowns. "Marui, you received almost as many chocolates as I did last
year. Is there something you aren't telling us about your secret
relationship?" 
 
Marui goes pale in the face of Yukimura’s sudden fury. “S-s-secret
relationship?” he squeaks, eyes going wide. “Girls just like giving me
chocolate, they won’t go out with me or anything. I wish.”
 
“Seiichi, if you’d like to know the percentages of who is likely to be the
culprit, I can provide them.”
 
Yukimura folds his arms over his chest. "Go on." 
 
"Well, it wasn't me! Bunta, what were you gonna say that I 'kinda' was?!"
 
The door slams open, and in tumbles Kirihara, tennis bag slung over one
shoulder haphazardly. "Cheers! Sorry, am I late? I heard from Sanada-fukubuchou
that we were meeting earlier, but I was eating and I didn't want to leave
anything behind--um, why does everyone look so weird?" 
 
Yukimura offers him a sweet smile. "Akaya, do you have a girlfriend?" 
 
Kirihara's eyes double in size. "Uh. No! No, why--geez, that's weird, I
definitely don't have a girlfriend." He darts over to his locker and shoves his
face into it the second after he claws it open. 
 
“Whoa, Akaya has a girlfriend?” Niou asks, emerging from the shadows somehow a
moment before Yagyuu. “Sweet, how big are her tits?”
 
“Chance of it being Akaya is point zero one percent,” Yanagi says, with a
definitive tone to his voice. “As it is for myself as well, that point zero one
being attributed to instances of unknown semen theft and storage.”
 
Sanada gags in the corner.
 
"I said I don't have a girlfriend, Niou-senpai!" Kirihara hisses, his voice
edging on shrill. 
 
"Indoor voice, Kirihara-kun," Yagyuu politely requests. 
 
"Keep going, Yanagi," Yukimura hums, delicately, carefully climbing to his
feet. "I'd like to know the chances that everyone stands of causing this
situation before I make my decision on how to deal with this. Also, Akaya,
we're going to have a discussion about your girlfriend later."
 
"I don't have a girlfriend," Kirihara whispers, wide-eyed. 
 
“Chances of yourself being the father is actually higher than myself or Akaya,
Seiichi, due to your hospitalization and the chances of your semen being
collected without your knowledge rising to—”
 
“It’s not him,” Sanada snarls, looking more scandalized than angry.
 
“0.001,” Yanagi finishes smoothly. “Genichirou, yours fits the standard margin
of error of 0.01. The more likely candidates, assuming that a female has in
fact become impregnated by a tennis club regular, falls to Jackal at 8.23
percent, Hiroshi at 12.98 percent, Bunta at 31.34 percent, and Masaharu at
47.39 percent.”
 
“Yes,” Marui hisses, pulling out a stick of gum. “Higher than Jackal!”
 
"Why am I ranked so low?" Jackal grumbles underneath his breath. 
 
Kirihara, relieved that the conversation about his supposed girlfriend has come
to an end, flops down onto a bench, head banging lightly into the wall behind
him.
 
Yukimura's stare immediately zeroes in on Niou. Yagyuu, frowning, edges off to
the side slightly. "I have my suspicions," he diplomatically begins, "but I'd
personally like to hear from you as to whether or not you think they're…well-
placed." You knocked her up, we all know it. 
 
Niou slouches back onto the bench, one eyebrow raised. “Care to tell me what
we’re talking about before the Inquisition starts? I thought we were talking
about Akaya’s girlfriend’s big tits. How am I responsible for—”
 
“Someone on this team got a girl pregnant,” Sanada growls. Instead of looking
at Niou, his gaze swivels to Yagyuu. “And you probably know who.”
 
"There are no big tits involved!" Kirihara wails.
 
Yagyuu opens his mouth, shuts it, and promptly shoves his glasses higher up his
nose. 
 
Yukimura's eyes narrow. "While I personally don't care about what you--or you
two, it seems like--do in your spare time, this is the kind of thing that can
immediately give the tennis team a bad name. Is that really something you want
to be responsible for?" 
 
Niou rolls his eyes, sighs, and shifts in front of Yagyuu to protect him. “It’s
not gonna reflect on the tennis club, Boss. Let it go.”
 
Sanada’s hand flies back, but Niou ducks. Fortunately, so does Marui, in just
the nick of time. 
 
“Oi, call him off, I said it wouldn’t reflect on the tennis club and that’s all
you care about!”
 
"Tell me how it has been dealt with and won't reflect on the tennis club,"
Yukimura insists, making absolutely no attempts to stop Sanada's assault. "Then
I'll consider making sure you aren't slapped." 
 
“She went away, she went away!” Somehow, Niou ends up on top of the lockers in
a mad scramble. Sanada hits hard. “Not in a dead way, she’s just going to sit
on an island for a while, I swear!”
 
"Keep going. You're not done. Is there proof of this?" 
 
“Like my dad wanted me to leave a paper trail,” Niou scoffs. “Blame Yagyuu, he
was supposed to find a doctor that wouldn’t talk!”
 
"Niou-kun!" Yagyuu hisses. "I thought you were joking!"
 
"So your father handled this," Yukimura flatly concludes. "If that's the case,
then are you just going to keep letting this happen, or is this going to be the
one and only time?" 
 
“One and only time, one and only time! I learned my damn lesson, I—ow, call him
the hell off!”
 
"Sanada, you can go hit Yagyuu, too."
 
"Me? But--"
 
"You were a part of this."
 
Yagyuu flinches, and hurriedly takes his glasses off in preparation. 
 
"And when that's done, 150 laps. No, you can't turn it into a relay like last
time." Yukimura heaves a sigh. "Honestly, Niou. Condoms are cheap." 
 
"It broke," Yagyuu helpfully supplies. 
 
Yukimura scowls. "Buy better ones next time." 
 
“97 percent accuracy, boss. Ask data man.”
 
“That is true, and only applies with correct condom usage,” Yanagi agrees
neutrally. “According to my data, given my estimation of how many times our
Doubles One team has used condoms, we—”
 
“Sometimes it’s dudes, though.”
 
“Even factoring that in, it’s still surprising this hasn’t happened before.
Congratulations, Masaharu, you’re a testament to the fact that the Japanese
have not completely stopped reproducing.”
 
"Both of you, just run!" Yukimura snaps, jabbing a finger in the direction of
the door. "And if anyone speaks of this again, I'm suspending you from the
team, regardless of Nationals!" 
 
"Is he serious about that?" Yagyuu whispers to Niou, hurriedly edging towards
the door.
 
Niou scowls, hanging back. “But I didn’t do anything that’s going to affect the
tennis team! It’s all getting taken care of nice and easy, this is the
responsible thing to do, right?”
 
It’s probably close, at least.
 
He plans to argue more, but then Sanada is coming towards him, and suddenly,
laps don’t seem like the worst idea.
 
"Sanada, shut the door after them," Yukimura huffs, plopping himself back down.
Yes, this is a good plan. Making Niou run in the worst heat of the day will
certain make him much easier to deal with later on. "Now, Akaya--"
 
"What?" Kirihara nervously manages, scooting back closer to the wall. "I didn't
have anything to do with anything that Niou-senpai and Yagyuu-senpai did! My
sister would kill me--"
 
"Yes, yes, that's all well and good," Yukimura hums, leaning forward to rest
his elbows onto his knees. "But you should still tell us about your
girlfriend."
 
There's silence for a moment as Kirihara opens his mouth, shuts it again, and
looks around anxiously. "I said I didn't have a girlfriend."
 
"You're a liar. I'm not sure Rikkai's captain for next year should be a liar."
Yukimura neglects to mention how much of a liar he is. Facts are irrelevant,
anyway.
 
“It’s probably some innocent flirtation the girl isn’t even aware of,” Yanagi
says dismissively. 
 
“Flirtation?” Sanada asks, eyebrows snapping together. “No one should have time
for such a thing! Who is she, Akaya?”
 
“I don’t even have a girlfriend, and I’m cute,” Marui mutters rebelliously, and
pokes Kirihara in the temple. “Spill, seaweed-head.”
 
"Quit it, Marui-senpai! I definitely don't have a girlfriend, you guys!!"
 
"You act like you're five most of the time, how'd you end up with a
girlfriend?" Jackal mutters, giving Kirihara's shoulder a prod. 
 
"I don't have one, I'm telling you!" Kirihara whimpers, his eyes plaintively
going to Yanagi. "Yanagi-senpai, tell them! I definitely don't have a
girlfriend!"
 
Yukimura's gaze swivels to Yanagi immediately. "You are withholding
information."
 
Kirihara's mouth falls open. "No! No, Buchou, he's not, I swear! He's just--"
 
"Ya~na~gi," Yukimura hums, scooting closer to him on the bench. "You know that
we all like to keep a close eye on Akaya. If you know something we don't, it
would be good to share, don't you think?" 
 
"He doesn't know anything!! Except that I definitely don't have a girlfriend!"
His voice is starting to crack now. Great.
 
Yanagi’s smile thins slightly. This is not how he’d planned to spend his
morning, and Sanada already looks slightly vengeful. “I don’t particularly feel
inclined to gossip with you, Seiichi. Akaya’s business is his own, as is yours.
And yours as well, Marui, Jackal, unless you’d like the data on you two shared
around?”
 
“I would not like that,” Marui says decisively. “I, uh, would like some swing
practice.”
 
"And so we're going to get on that," Jackal firmly, yet hurriedly says,
grabbing Marui by the arm to haul him right the fuck out of there. Yanagi can
be just as scary as Yukimura and Sanada, so help him. 
 
"This isn't gossip," Yukimura insists. "This is about Akaya, who is very much
my responsibility." He frowns, looking over at Sanada. "You don't think this is
an overstep on my part, do you, Sanada?" 
 
"I think it is!" Kirihara whines.
 
"Shh, Akaya."
 
“This is gossip,” Yanagi counters, calmly standing to face Yukimura, “unless
you have any kind of evidence that points to him being mistreated or unhappy in
any way from this theoretical girlfriend you assume he has.”
 
Sanada’s eyes are on Kirihara instead of his old friend, and watches the shift
of his eyes carefully, and every flicker of expression. “Akaya,” he says, not
yelling this time, almost concerned. “Is there something I need to know?”
Yukimura’s right. The boy is their responsibility.
 
Kirihara nervously looks away from Sanada, to Yanagi, and then back again. "N-
no, Sanada-fukubuchou. Seriously, there's nothing! I told you, I don't have a
girlfriend. And even if I did," he firmly says, "she'd be good, really good." 
 
Yukimura's frown deepens. "…So," he casually begins instead, "do you have a
boyfriend?"
 
"W..what's with all the questions? This isn't fair! Yanagi-senpai, let's just
go practice." Trying to sidestep Sanada is a very interesting process, to say
the least, but he wants out.
 
Sanada solves the problem of the escaping tennis prodigy by simply standing in
front of the door. He’s about as broad as the door, which works out nicely.
“Akaya. Tell me who you’re dating.”
 
“This is an absurd interrogation tactic. Frankly, Genichirou, Seiichi, I’m
surprised at you and disappointed in you.”
 
Sanada’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t want to think it, but with the way Kirihara
keeps looking at him… “Is it you?”
 
Shit.
 
Kirihara turns as white as a sheet. "Why would it be Yanagi-senpai? It's--it's
definitely not him, we'd never do anything like that, I already told you--"
 
Yukimura's smile isn't very nice anymore. "How long?"
 
Kirihara jumps out of his skin, turning around to hesitantly look at his
captain. "Huh?" 
 
Yukimura's head tilts to the side. "How long have you two been together?"
 
"I just said it's not like that, Yanagi-senpai, tell them--"
 
Yukimura's teeth set themselves into a grind. "Yangai-senpai needs to think
long and hard before he tries to lie to my face again." 
 
“I haven’t lied at all, Seiichi. I merely told you what I am going to repeat:
that it is none of your business.” His eyes open slightly, just dark slits.
“Unless you think all behavior of your teammates is required to go through you
first. I don’t have to tell you what I had for breakfast this morning either.”
 
His expression barely changes when Sanada picks him up by his collar and slams
him against the wall. Ah, how tiresome. “If you hurt him, I will—”
 
"Sanada-fukubuchou, leave him alone!" Kirihara grabs at Sanada's arm, a little
too slow to try and shove him away, but trying to get between Sanada and Yanagi
all the same. "He's--" His cheeks flush, but he draws himself up to his full
height all the same. "He's never hurt me, and he's right--it's none of your
business what either of us do!"
 
"Sanada, let him go." 
 
It sets Yukimura's teeth on edge to say it, especially when he's fairly certain
that he wants to be the one clawing out Yanagi's eyes from his skull. Something
about this just doesn't feel right, and for Kirihara to sit there and defend
Yanagi makes him even more anxious. "Deal with Akaya outside; I'm going to talk
to Yanagi." 
 
It’s with a last glare that Sanada switches his grip from Yanagi to Kirihara,
hauling the younger boy outside. If he were any less than certain that Yukimura
would be far harder on Yanagi than he himself, he’d have stayed.
 
Yanagi’s eyes are back to bare slits, and he straightens his collar after
Sanada’s assault. “While I thank you for your assistance, I doubt it was
intended for my good health or safety. I don’t require a lecture, Seiichi.”
 
"You're not getting a lecture. You're getting a warning." Yukimura climbs to
his feet, his arms folded over his chest. "I am entirely sure that Akaya still
believes in Santa Claus," he slowly, quietly points out, "so I'm not sure what
you think you're accomplishing by being in a relationship with him. But I
promise you--the moment that he ever seems hurt, or sad, or scared because of
something you've done, the idea of Genichirou breaking your neck will be the
least of your concerns. Do you understand me?" 
 
Yanagi doesn’t blink. He rarely does. His voice is its usual soft, even tone as
he responds, “You’re right. If he were hurt, sad, or scared because of
something I’ve done, neither you nor Genichirou would be my biggest concerns.
Do we understand each other?” He doesn’t make any mention of the fact that he’s
been quite well-mannered about the fact that his own best friend is dating this
sadist. That doesn’t seem prudent.
 
Yukimura feels a muscle in his jaw twitch. "Don't consider this my acceptance
of the situation at all," he flatly replies, very much wishing he could whip
around on his heel like he used to when he was irritated. Instead, he carefully
turns away to pick up his own racquet. "Just get out there and practice. You
have a lot to work on considering your last loss." There's really no point in
telling Yanagi how much he's going to have an eye on both of them, because dear
god, how couldn't he when Akaya still seems like such a child? 
 
Outside, Sanada tries not to be threatening, or terribly violent. It’s not
Akaya’s fault, he reminds himself. “How did he get you to go along with it?” he
asks, disapproval and suspicion lacing every word.
 
Kirihara stares up at him, wide-eyed and terrified. Shit, shit, shit. Why did
this have to happen? He was pretty sure he was so good at keeping this a
secret, but now, he's really not sure. "He didn't make me go along with
anything! I…it's not like I didn't want to do it!" Usually, he wants to hide
when Sanada yells at him…but not like this. It's just embarrassing, and he's
pretty sure that everyone can hear them, even if Sanada's mostly keeping his
voice down now. 
 
“What did he say?” Sanada presses. “He’s much older than you, and more...hmm.”
He’s not sure if ‘experienced’ is the right word, and really, all he can muster
is ‘mature,’ and that seems cruel somehow, even if Akaya is...Akaya.
 
Kirihara frowns, his brow furrowing as he attempts to mentally calculate. That
doesn't go over well, but--"I'm pretty sure that he's only as much older than
me as you are than Yukimura-buchou, and you two are really good friends," he
insists. "Yanagi-senpai and I just were hanging out a lot, and it just…we
just…ugh, I don't get it, neither of us are homo or anything like that, why is
this such a big deal?" 
 
Really good friends.
 
The memory of Yukimura’s kisses comes back to him, and Sanada feels a slight
twinge of guilt. It isn’t as if they’ve been exactly forthcoming, after all.
Maybe if they had, this wouldn’t have happened...somehow.
 
Sanada sighs, and grasps the boy’s shoulder. “Just tell me if he does anything
strange. Or if it gets too, uh, homo for you and you don’t want to hurt his
feelings. Or if he tries to wash your feet.”
 
Kirihara blinks up at him. "…Why should I tell you if he washes my feet? He
already does that all the time," he mutters, ducking out from underneath
Sanada's hand. "It's nice. Maybe if you guys didn't make me run so many laps,
he wouldn't have to spend so much time massaging them."
 
Sanada grimaces, and sends him off for swing practice with Marui and Jackal. He
waits until Yanagi leaves as well, wrestling down the urge to simply whack him
with a racquet, and retreats inside to Yukimura’s side. “This is my fault. I
was so focused on the team winning that I didn’t even see it.” Not to mention
that he’s terrible at noticing this kind of thing anyway.
 
Yukimura heaves a long, tired sigh, and promptly drops his head down against
Sanada's shoulder. "No, this is my fault. If I hadn't been in the hospital, I
would have been able to see this, and at least monitor it more closely." He
bites his lip. "If nothing else…at least it doesn't sound too awful. Not yet. I
never know with Akaya, but I feel like if Yanagi were doing something too
weird, he would be at least a little shaken. That doesn't mean I like it at
all, but…"
 
“Renji washes his feet,” Sanada says gloomily. “He doesn’t think it’s ‘too
homo.’ I wish I had a drink.”
 
Yukimura lifts his head, staring up at him. "He's seriously doing the feet
thing? I wish I was dead."
 
“Did you expect him not to? He does it with us.” Sanada rubs his forehead and
sighs. “I want to say I wish I knew what they were doing, so I could better
know if Akaya was in danger...but I really, really don’t want to know what
they’re doing. Renji is just…”
 
"Bizarre? A snake in the grass that's stealing our child?" Yukimura fumes,
pulling away. "This is all making my back hurt. I wonder if I can enlist Niou
into spying on them. Ugh, but not after what just happened--he's going to sulk
for days. Maybe…damn it, why don't we have more friends." 
 
Sanada waves a hand. “Niou’ll do it. He’d walk through fire for you after the
hospital. We all would.” If anyone doesn’t, Sanada will certainly be glad to
shove him through fire, that’s for sure. “Are you sure you want to know? It’s
Renji. In bed. With...ah, I can’t even say it.” The idea of Akaya in any sort
of sexual situation is more than enough to turn his stomach. Miserably, he
suggests, “Maybe they’re just holding hands, kissing. Like we do.”
 
"Well, you said Akaya didn't think it was 'too homo'…" Yukimura just as
miserably says, plopping down onto a bench when he's pretty sure that he's
going to start pacing--and that just doesn't work very well right now. Then, he
pauses, thinking, and comes to a very odd conclusion. "Genichirou, are we
legitimately the only ones on the regulars that haven't had sex? Assuming…"
Assuming Akaya actually has. The thought makes him want to gag. 
 
Sanada’s eyes widen, and he feels his stomach churn again. “I...no. Could we?
No, that’s...I mean, obviously Niou has, and Yagyuu, and if...but what about
Marui and Jackal? They complain about not being able to get girls all the
time!” No, he’s the second-oldest, that would be horrible. And embarrassing.
And would make him weep just a little for the future of Japan or something. And
would make him furious, since he’s probably the one in the most responsible,
loving relationship, and...how dare they?
 
"Genichirou," Yukimura solemnly says, "I think we need to conduct more
research. Go get Niou, tell him he can stop running laps if he shares his
knowledge. I bet he knows about Yanagi and Akaya's…indiscretions." It still
makes him shudder, though. 
 
It’s the work of about two minutes to find Niou running in place beneath a
shady tree, and drag him off among his protests of “No, wait, it’s just as
tiring as running laps but a lot less sunburn, no, no, not my hair—”
 
He shifts nervously from foot to foot once he’s inside the room again, though
he does relax slightly at the lack of heat. “What, you want her name and email
and cup size or something now?”
 
Yukimura waves a dismissive hand. "Forget about that. If you sit down and
gossip with me about sex for a moment--and pretend that it never happened
later--then you don't have to keep running laps at all." God, he doesn't like
this. He wants to throw up the more that he thinks about certain things.
 
Niou hesitates. “I can’t talk about sex while Sanada’s here. Too weird. Ruins
the just-us-girls thing. You understand.”
 
Sanada growls a little under his breath, but it’s not exactly something he’s
opposed to. “Someone has to go make sure everyone is on task.” He stalks out,
throwing a dirty glare behind him to Niou, the wannabe-Casanova.
 
"Thank you, Sanada," Yukimura calls after him before sagging back, sighing long
and hard. "Seriously, though," he mutters, throwing Niou a bottle of water.
"Who's fucking on this team and who isn't, because I've been gone too long and
Sanada is about as observant as a blind man." At least he doesn't have to
justify any of this with a I swear I have a reason for wanting to know this
that isn't weird, because it's Niou that he's talking to. 
 
“That,” Niou says very seriously, “is ableist. And untrue, because I’m pretty
sure any blind man could take Sanada in a contest of who-on-this-team-is-
fucking.”
 
But as Yukimura knows, he likes gossip, and this is enough to keep him going
strong for a while--and gets him out of laps. “I’m boning at least a few people
at any given time. Mostly Yagyuu. We do a girl together sometimes, but not
separately. Kinda gay, I know. Marui and Jackal...mostly they do each other and
talk about how much they wanna do girls. Lame. Yanagi and Kirihara have been
dating and shit for like, three months? Oh, and you and Sanada aren’t getting
any. I think that about sums it up. I get laid the most.”
 
Yukimura lets out a rather pathetic, strangled noise from the back of his
throat. Damn it, he was right. He thinks. Maybe. Mostly. "Further clarification
is needed," he somehow manages, trying not to slink down into a ball. No, he
will not be defeated by this. He will not. "By dating, do you mean that they
are also having sex, because please tell me you agree that it's creepy and
weird and--ugh--if they are." 
 
Niou gives him a look that’s more pitying than anything. “Boss…” He thinks
back, remembering what he’d seen in the locker rooms a month ago after
practice, when everyone was supposed to be gone. “If they were fucking a month
ago, they’re probably still fucking. But I don’t think Yanagi does anything
like, put a saddle on him and ride him around or anything. Nothing too weird.”
Except the feet thing, but it’s Yanagi. That pretty much goes without saying by
this point.
 
"I wish I was dead," Yukimura mutters, burying his face in one hand. "But if I
die now, then I die a virgin, and that's just pathetic." 
 
“Yo,” Niou offers, and shrugs. “If Sanada won’t put out, you can always hang
out with me and Yagyuu tonight. I got more condoms.”
 
"Ah…thank you, but it's really not a matter of Sanada not putting out." It's
the fact that he's been a invalid for eight months. Gross. "Well, at least now
I know," Yukimura sadly sighs. "Yukimura Seiichi, virgin against all the odds.
This will be remedied." 
 
“Pretty weird,” Niou agrees, “given that your boytoy is pretty much an HSK
symbol of Japanese virility, huh? But a damn virtuous maiden if I ever saw one,
too. Hey, do you think he’d have big tits if he was a girl?”
 
"Huge tits. Bigger tits than you would have. Perfect curves, really," Yukimura
says without skipping a beat, drawing a distinctly hourglass shape in the air.
"I would be all over that." 
 
“She sounds so fucking hot.” Niou kicks back, slouching against a locker. The
longer he keeps this conversation going, the more time he doesn’t have to spend
in the sun. “Mine would be pretty big, though. Look at my sister. Whose would
be better, Yagyuu or Marui?”
 
"Hmmm. Yagyuu's kind of a noodle. Marui's already sort of nice to hug…so I
think his would be better. We are not discussing Yanagi's today." 
 
“Is he in the doghouse for taking Kirihara’s innocence?” Niou asks wisely. “If
it helps, they keep it really quiet. I just walked in on them once, or even I
wouldn’t have known, I think. Wanna know what they do?”
 
"…I am glad to hear that they keep it very quiet," Yukimura begrudgingly says,
though he cringes all the same. "If I don't hear it, I'm just going to
wonder…but, ugh. Hearing it. Please at least tell me that it's nothing weird." 
 
Niou snorts. “Like I’d let anything too weird happen to the kid while you were
in the hospital and not do anything about it. Hell, I’d probably have told you
about it even so if Kirihara was bottoming.”
 
It is extremely reassuring to be reminded that Niou has had his back--and
Kirihara's--for the past few months, but--"Wait. Akaya isn't…" He actually
can't even say it. Yukimura makes a concentrated effort not to gag. "You know
what? No. I can't hear anymore of this. It's too weird." 
 
Niou makes a face. “I wasn’t gonna go into measurements. Just thought you might
want to know that it wasn’t that kind of thing, that Yanagi isn’t just finding
the youngest dude and bending him over. Hey, if you wanna hear about stuff
that’s more fun, me and Yagyuu got trashed a few nights ago when we went to go
visit my parents. I have stories.”
 
"Pass on all counts," Yukimura sighs, shaking his head as he drags himself up
to his feet and makes a grab for his racquet. "Thanks for the insider accounts,
but I think it's time for us to actually get to work. You can tell me how much
you're corrupting Yagyuu later." He needs to die underneath the sun a little
bit to wipe out all of the weird nausea floating around, courtesy of Yanagi and
Kirihara. 
 
 
***** Yanagi & Kirihara *****
“Akaya.”
 
Yanagi’s voice is neutral and easygoing as always, and he does rather like the
way Kirihara always pauses when he talks. “May I have a word after practice?” 
 
At least he doesn’t look too upset, just a little unhappy and confused. Yanagi
doesn’t blame him; they’ve done a very good job at keeping quiet over the last
few months, and it’s really a shame that he’d underestimated Yukimura’s
intuitiveness. He’ll have to account for that in his percentages from now on.
 
Hitting a tennis ball hard and often doesn't really get rid of his nervous
energy like it usually does. It's a shame, because it makes him shift and
twitch even when Yanagi is talking, which he's normally pretty good about not
doing. 
 
Kirihara also gotten pretty good about not just blurting out things, but in
this case, when he's pretty sure that Sanada is still watching him from across
the courts, he can't help it. "Are you mad at me?" 
 
He hates not knowing. He knows he messed up--somehow--though he's not quite
sure how badly. This is just weird. 
 
Not his favorite question to hear, but at least Kirihara doesn’t seem inclined
to be angry with him for spilling the beans. “Not at all. I was rather hoping
that we could make tonight a special evening, in fact. Do you want to go by the
arcade?” That should put him in a better mood.
 
"…I can't help but feel like Buchou's gonna make me stay and run laps until I
puke," Kirihara moodily replies, his gaze warily flickering over to the
clubhouse when Yukimura and Niou emerge. "But if he doesn't, yeah. That'd be
good." He shifts awkwardly and glances to the side. "I'm really sorry for
saying anything, Yanagi-senpai. I didn't think they'd figure it out so
easily." 
 
“There was a 78.22 chance that it would come to light within a month of
Seiichi’s discharge from the hospital,” Yanagi assures him. “He wasn’t going to
be as oblivious as Genichirou, not forever. We should probably maintain at
least 89 percent of our discretion, however, in my personal opinion.”
 
Kirihara gives into the urge to whack the ball in his hand as hard and fast as
he can across the court, glowering after it. "Sanada-fukubuchou hates me, more
than he already does because I lost--uggghh, I screwed up so bad, no wonder
they kept after me about this," he stresses. "Can we like--how possible is it
to make us be at least 110%, um, secretive? Because I think that's a thing we
could do if we tried enough." 
 
Yanagi shakes his head slightly. “If he hasn’t slapped us yet, he likely won’t.
Besides, perhaps now that the captain has returned, the Law of No Loss will be
repealed. It was only intended to ensure our victory at the Kantou tournament
without his presence, in any case. However, if you wish to be even more
secretive than previous, we can. It would require that we stop going on dates,
of course.” Something he is curiously reluctant to do, if he’s being honest.
 
That brings Kirihara to a generous pause, and he frowns, scuffing his toe
irritably against the court. "I don't want to stop going on dates," he says,
hesitantly glancing over to Yanagi. "I just…I don't want them to be mad at you.
Buchou had that look on his face like he was going to step on your head like he
did with me that one time, and Sanada-fukubuchou…I don't want him to hit you."
Truth be told, he doesn't really get why they were so mad. It's weird, and it
sort of makes his head hurt. 
 
“Your concern is touching,” Yanagi admits, and is a little surprised at how
rather flattered he is, “but unnecessary. He didn’t hit me. It’s all right if
it’s because I lost a game against Sadaharu, but I think he knows it would be
hypocritical and morally incorrect of him to hit me for the time I spend with
you.” He doesn’t reach out and touch Kirihara, because he’s far more in control
of his hormones than the rest of the teenagers buzzing around, somehow.
 
But he wants to.
 
Kirihara's head cocks to the side at the last bit. "Hypocritical? Oh, because
he and Yukimura-buchou are such close friends? I don't really think it's the
same, though," he mutters, frustrated. "They're just being so weird about it.
No one else is being weird."
 
He can’t shield the boy forever. Unlike Sanada and Yukimura, Yanagi believes
it’s more about acclimating him to the wider world, rather than keeping him
from it. “That,” he says gently, “is because everyone else is having sex, too.
Those two are jealous.”
 
"Really?" Kirihara nearly drops his racquet when he whips around to stare at
Yanagi. "No way. I--" 
 
It actually clicks in his head, then, and his face flushes red as he quickly
looks to the side. Yanagi has to be messing with him. There's no way that his
captain and vice-captain are--that. And if they are, they're jealous? Of him?
It's both a terrifying and sort of, well, exhilarating feeling all at once.
Yanagi probably doesn't need to know that, though. 
 
"…But Yukimura-buchou is really popular with girls." Like I wish I was. "So
there's no way that he and Sanada-fukubuchou are…" Saying it makes it that much
more real that he's had sex with a guy, but, well, still. It's not like he's
gay. He's just…yeah. Whatever, he likes Yanagi.
 
Yanagi relents, slightly. Kirihara idolizes both Yukimura and Sanada, and they
were only trying to protect him, after all. He can understand that impulse,
even has it himself in spades. “All I’m saying is that they wish they were
having sex, Akaya. I never said that they wanted to be doing it with each
other.” Never said they didn’t, either.
 
"Oh. That makes more sense." Kirihara relaxes somewhat and heaves out a long
sigh of relief. "That would've been weird. You don't think they're mad at me,
though, do you? I mean, they seemed to be going after you a lot, but with
Sanada-fukubuchou, it's really hard to tell." And he was really weird about the
foot washing thing, besides.
 
“They’re tense,” Yanagi answers, after a moment. He nudges Kirihara’s shoulder,
looking down to his racquet. “Practice with me while we’re talking. They will
be angry if you don’t keep yourself busy during practice. Don’t forget how
stressed they’ve both been while Seiichi was in the hospital. I know they
haven’t had time for you recently, but that should change soon.”
 
"It's not about that," Kirihara mumbles, but he fishes a ball out of his pocket
all the same. "I know they've been really stressed lately. I just…ugh. I can't
believe I lost, and then this comes up…feels like I'm just being even more
trouble to them. Buchou hasn't even acted like he's that mad at me about
losing, either, which is weird, and I feel like he's gonna kill me in my sleep
or something. If I win my next match, d'you think they'll stop being weird?" 
 
“You’ll win your next match.” The last thing Kirihara needs right now is
another assault on his confidence, not when he’d played so well and gotten so
far, even against the famed genius. “They’ll always be harder on you than
anyone else, because you’re next year’s Captain. It won’t be easy to be Number
One in Japan, you know.” Probably he should be alarmed by how fond his own
voice comes out. Fortunately, no one can tell except Sadaharu, and he’s far
from close.
 
Kirihara exhales a sigh of relief. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. None of you three have
ever made that part easy, but that's good. Thanks, Yanagi-senpai. You're always
good at making me feel better." He'd hug him, but he's pretty sure he feels at
least someone watching him, and that makes him jittery. Maybe they'll all
forget about this in like, a day or something. Hopefully. "Let's just hit until
they yell at me for something else, yeah? You're the best one for me to
practice with, especially if I end up having to play that freaky 'genius'
again." 
 
“As I’m the only counter-puncher on the team, you’re correct.” Not that he’s
surprised. Kirihara might lack certain scholarly proficiency, but his tennis
knowledge and intuition has always been exemplary.
 
“Do you have homework tonight, Akaya? We can go by the arcade and then to my
home, if you’d like.” Not that it has anything to do with his father working
extremely long hours, or the fact that Kirihara’s family are thrilled with
constantly barging into his room at all hours of the day and night.
 
"I don't have to have homework." It's not like it's due for another couple of
weeks, anyway. He can keep putting it off, that's fine. "Buchou says I can
neglect my schoolwork for tennis if I want--well, okay, he was a little loopy
when he said that, but I'm still taking it at face value. I bet that applies to
going to your house, too."
 
Yanagi draws back his arm, letting fly a ball with a rather odd path, the kind
Kirihara isn’t quite so good at tracing quickly. He moves so quickly, it makes
him too quick to judge where a ball is going--the worst kind of person for him
to play, in other words. Ah, so much for a casual invitation. “Very well. We
can go to my house another evening, if you prefer.” That should make his intent
more clear, if anything does.
 
"Eh? No! Damn it--" He was sure that ball was going to land elsewhere, and he
stumbles in the process of changing directions, stretching out his arm to hit
it a second before it's out of his reach. So much for hitting a smash, bleh. "I
definitely wanna come over! My sister's home and she's going to be weird if we
try to hang out there, she's theworst." 
 
Yanagi gives him a brief, quiet nod. “Then I suppose we’ll do it at my house.
The homework.” This is what he’s signed up for, he knows. Oh, well. There are
worse character traits than needing to be led to answers on clandestine
questions. 
 
He sends the ball back in the same wobbly path. If the boy learns to trace it,
he’ll have a far better chance against counter-punchers in the future.
 
"But I don't have any--" Oh. Oh. Okay. Right. This is one of those subtlety
things. Kirihara prides himself on figuring that out--though, dammit, chasing
after balls like this is never his favorite activity. 
 
The second one is easier, at least, because his body reacts the same way as
last time. "Got it," he mutters underneath his breath, catching it harder with
the sweet spot of his racquet, and sending it swiftly over the net. It's a lot
easier to focus on tennis when he's sure there isn't any homework waiting for
him afterwards. 
 
Kirihara learns quickly, which is important, because he knows almost nothing.
Yanagi still feels some pride in the speed he picks things up. He continues
hitting odd, loopy balls over at the boy, making him adjust faster and faster
every time. 
 
There are balls Kirihara hits that he can’t return. There are more that he
doesn’t want to return. He still takes the greater number of points--and could
have taken more, had he wanted to. 
 
“Enough!” Sanada calls, eyes on the two of them. Ah, how troublesome. “Practice
tomorrow morning at the same time. Don’t slack off, or I’ll know about it!”
 
“Akaya,” Yanagi says quietly, “would you prefer to shower and change here, or
at my house?” Not that it matters too much either way, but Akaya might think it
does, and it’s interesting to see his reactions.
 
The question takes a moment to click, and Kirihara feels his skin flush hot
before he can keep back the reaction. Maybe he's just thinking about it weird,
but… "We can do it back at your house," he mumbles. "Before the homework."
Shit, shit. Hopefully he's not too obvious. 
 
“Very well.” Sometimes, he waits a moment before picking up his bag, just to
see if Kirihara will be chivalrous and do it for him. Ah, not this time either,
apparently. Perhaps someday, though doubtless the suggestion would be met with
a blank stare.
 
The house is empty when they reach it, after twenty minutes of walking (and
being treated to a very spirited rendition of a movie Akaya had seen over the
weekend--something with lasers, that he’s gracious enough to do the sound
effects for). It’s usually empty. His elder sister has Orchestral practice and
friends, his father works until the morning most days and sleeps on a futon in
his office, and his mother...well, he’s not entirely sure, but he rarely sees
her. 
 
It’s the work of a moment to get a basin and washcloth ready, before Kirihara
is truly inside. “Take off your shoes,” he says, settling into seiza.
 
"Sanada-fukubuchou acted like this was weird for some reason," Kirihara
mutters, flopping down without protest as he tugs his shoes and socks off off.
It's actually a relief to be away from the team, which is something that he
normally doesn't feel. What a dumb, weird day. Maybe it's the medication,
whatever that means. Niou's said something about that before. "I don't get it.
Are they really that jealous that they're gonna be jerks about everything?
Because I'm gonna say something if they keep it up." 
 
“As long as we’re discreet--that means quiet and secretive--about it, they’ll
have no call to say anything,” Yanagi assures him, moving precise hands to
swipe the washcloth over Kirihara’s feet. They’re so long and gawky, part of
the coltishness of his body that Yanagi finds so charming--hands too big, feet
too big, the rest of his body hurriedly catching up. “Genichirou is just
nervous about his own body. That’s very common in virgins.” If Sanada and
Yukimura are going to upset Kirihara, Yanagi is going to get a little of his
own back.
 
"I can't believe that I had sex before Sanada-fukubuchou--or Yukimura-buchou,"
Kirihara says, somewhat in awe of himself because of it. Sanada definitely has
to be jealous of that part, and this part, if he's guessing correctly. Yanagi's
hands always feel really nice, and it's actually usually enough to put him to
sleep. Not right now though, definitely not right now. He fights back a yawn
and idly wriggles his toes. "Dunno why he'd be so weird about his body, though.
I wish I had muscles like that…"
 
“I like your muscles.”
 
Yanagi gives him a little smile, flicking one of those toes with the tips of
his fingers before setting his feet gently on the ground. “There, all clean.
Feel better?” At least Kirihara always does seem to enjoy their little
sessions, even if they nearly put him to sleep sometimes.
 
Yanagi has a way of complimenting him that makes his heart thud oddly, and it's
already going too fast (or so the doctors try and tell him--he thinks it's just
fine). Kirihara nods, shifting to pull his legs underneath himself when he
leans closer. "One of these days, I'm gonna be taller than you," he decides,
very resolute. "Not too much longer, either. Then maybe more muscles." 
 
“I’d like looking up at you,” Yanagi muses, leaning in and letting his eyes
close. Kirihara usually at least knows that cue. “It’s like when I’m kneeling
in front of you and we kiss, but all the time.” If he misses the head tilt,
he’ll probably at least get it from that comment.
 
That idea is nice. On top of that, Kirihara's very pleased for himself for
following along with this, because he definitely gets that Yanagi wants to
kiss, and while he hasn't always been the quickest about picking up on that,
he's definitely got it right now. 
 
"…You do look really nice when you're looking up at me, Yanagi-senpai,"
Kirihara murmurs, and right, he's got this, just enough of a head tilt not to
end up bumping their noses so their lips can brush--
 
And then there's a knock at the door. 
 
Kirihara growls, jerking back, more disappointed than angry. "Do you think it's
your sister coming home early?" he asks, trying not to sound like he's pouting
too much, but it's hard not to. 
 
“Hiromi rarely knocks on our own front door,” Yanagi says with a mild frown,
brushing a hand against Kirihara’s hair before standing. “Wait just a moment,
please.”
 
He opens the door, blinking slightly up, for once, at the guest. “Sadaharu.
This is a surprise.”
 
Inui shifts, pushing his glasses up with one finger. "Renji. Is now a good
time? I thought you might appreciate a chance to review our match together."
 
"Who is it, Yanagi-senpai?" Kirihara grouses, climbing to his feet and padding
up behind him, only to end up scowling as he flops his head against Yanagi's
shoulder. "Hey, isn't that the Seigaku guy you lost to? Gross."
 
Inui bites his tongue. If he had known Yanagi was babysitting…well, to be fair,
he was pretty certain he had Yanagi's schedule down. Kirihara always seems to
be an outlier. "…Or if you have company, perhaps not." 
 
Yanagi smirks in a way that Kirihara probably can’t see. Inui will. “It appears
your data about my schedule is off, Sadaharu.” It does feel good to one-up him
a bit, after that loss. It’s also possible that he isn’t taking it quite as
well as he had hoped.
 
He sort of wants to reach out--Inui’s gotten so broad over the last few years,
and it’s quite impressive--but he refrains, mostly because Kirihara is sort of
flopping on him. “My data may also be incorrect. I had thought there was a
71.43 percent chance you would wait for me to contact you first...unless this
isn’t actually about the match.”
 
"Considering there was a 62 percent chance that you wouldn't contact me, I
figured I would abandon my data for once, and simply show up on your doorstep."
Inui leans forward a bit, a smirk of his own in place. "It served me well
enough during the match, so I thought it might serve me well here." Yes, that
was so smooth. 
 
…though Kirihara's growling doesn't do much for the mood. Inui ignores that. 
 
“You never abandoned your data, Sadaharu. That was a clever ruse.” Yanagi’s
eyebrow twitches, and he reaches out a single finger, poking Inui in the chest
very lightly. “Perhaps too clever, if you’ve managed to outwit yourself, though
I admit that’s easier than outwitting me.”
 
"…Do you always have to point out things like that?" Inui grumbles, shoulders
sagging slightly. "If you don't want to watch the tapes, we don't have to."
Pawn your babysitting off onto someone else."I would mostly enjoy a chance to
talk, if I'm going to be 100 percent honest." 
 
Pitiful. How did I lose to him? 
 
Because Inui isn’t pitiful, and he’d forgotten that. He’d gotten so very
overconfident, and he’d paid the foolish, shameful price. Still…
 
“100 percent, Sadaharu?” His finger taps against Inui’s temple. “That you just
want to talk to me? I think your data is flawed.”
 
"Maybe it's another deliberate ruse, Renji," Inui archly replies, and he leans
in closer, tilting his head just enough to let Yanagi's fingers skim through
his hair. "Then again, I did say I'd mostly want a chance to talk, which allows
for a certain…margin of error." 
 
He probably should have predicted it from the amount of low, intense growling
that kept coming from Rikkai's second year, but Inui didn't exactly expect him
to lunge around Yanagi and deliver a punch right into his face. The blow is
more than enough to send him staggering back, and when his glasses fly off
courtesy of it, there's a swift crunch to follow when Kirihara's heel (more
predictably) grinds down into them, snapping them in half. 
 
"Don't touch Yanagi-senpai again," Kirihara snaps, grabbing Yanagi by the back
of his jersey to pull him away from the door and back into the house. "Let's
go." 
 
It would probably be in bad form to add Whee as he’s whisked back, though
Yanagi does feel rather lightheaded from the way he’s sort of vertical, then
horizontal again. He’ll buy Inui a new pair of glasses later, not that he can’t
afford his own, and right now he rather feels it’s more important to be with
Kirihara. 
 
He turns to look at the younger boy, about to say something about how his
concept of advanced math is increasing if he was able to pick up on their
flirting, but stops. Kirihara looks furious. “Akaya, that was rather violent of
you.”
 
"Good."
 
It's probably also violent to slam the door shut and shove Yanagi back against
it, but he's not exactly feeling the need to be nice. Not when Yanagi was
reaching out to actually touch Inui, and Inui was leaning in so close to him,
and it was creepy and gross and--Kirihara growls, drawing himself up to his
full height, his hands digging into Yanagi's arms. "The same thing happened at
the Kantou. What is it with him?! I hate it when you touch people like that,
and you let other people touch you like that. It's just supposed to be me!" 
 
If he were patient, he'd let Yanagi have a second to actually explain himself--
but he's not. He's never been, and that's why he just grabs the front of his
jersey and yanks him down, crushing their lips together on his next ragged,
unsteady breath. 
 
Whee again. 
 
Yanagi finds that he rather likes this part of Kirihara--unusual, since he’s
mostly focused on training that red-faced anger out of the boy, but this...this
could be rather nice.
 
He likes being forcefully kissed, apparently, and no one else ever really has.
With that in mind, he doesn’t struggle, but bends willingly to the assault on
his mouth, sliding a little bit in Kirihara’s arms. “Noted,” he tries to say,
but Kirihara is unrelenting, and Yanagi doesn’t exactly hate that.
 
It's better when Yanagi doesn't argue with him about it. Still, though, he's
mad, and he has every right to be. He's pretty sure Yanagi would smack him if
he tried to flirt with girls (he never does), so--
 
Another growl, and Kirihara shoves himself closer. Yanagi's mouth is warm and
pliant against his own, and that makes his breath catch, any insecurities
flipping their way out the window when he lightly bites at Yanagi's lower lip
before drawing back. "You're my boyfriend," he mutters, petulant as much as he
is annoyed, and he yanks on the zipper of Yanagi's jersey, undoing it enough to
shove his face into the other boy's neck and bite. He loves the way that Yanagi
is always a little cool to the touch, and here, especially, his skin is perfect
and soft and smooth before he messes it up like this. 
 
It’s probably a little silly how much Yanagi is enjoying this. He yields
eagerly, baring his neck in a graceful lean, hands coming up to fist in
Kirihara’s shirt for at least a grab at stability. Someday he won’t need to,
but right now he’s not entirely sure that Kirihara won’t get distracted and
drop him. 
 
“I’m definitely your boyfriend,” he agrees, and a soft gasp comes from his lips
when Kirihara bites. He shivers down to his toes, pupils dilating, fingers
curling. “You can take what you want, Akaya.”
 
That just makes him want to bite again. 
 
Kirihara's hands aren't exactly gentle when they grab and fumble at Yanagi's
waist, digging into lean sides and probably leaving bruises. It's not like he
can really think, though, when he's got his mouth on Yanagi's skin and he's
being told that it's fine, that he can do whatever, and his next bite is
longer, drawn out with a suck that makes him rut forward, grinding
thoughtlessly against Yanagi's hip. The realization of how hard he is is
actually sort of secondary, and it hits him like a truck, bringing the breath
to rush out of his lungs and a groan to catch in his throat. "Yanagi-senpai,"
he mutters, mouthing a wet, mindless kiss to the bruise that he knows is
forming just over Yanagi's pulse. "Want you in the bedroom." 
 
Yanagi is actually a little lightheaded, and he nods quickly, chest moving
rapidly as he unfastens himself from Kirihara’s chest (lightheaded from being
crushed against a boy’s chest, how atypical of him) just to grab his hand,
tugging him quickly towards his bedroom. 
 
In the past, he’s very much enjoyed making Kirihara wait patiently while he
stripped off his clothing, always folding it precisely and enjoying very much
the sensation of eyes on him as he did. It’s rather like telling a dog to stay
with a treat two feet in front of him, letting him know how well he’ll be
rewarded for his obedience.
 
There’s no time for that today, and Yanagi’s not sure Kirihara would even
listen, or that Yanagi would even want him to. His clothes hit the ground in
sloppy piles one after the other, and soon he’s moving trembling fingers to the
fastening of the other boy’s clothes as well. “Do you remember what you need to
do?” he asks breathlessly, almost yanking down the elastic waistband of
Kirihara’s tennis shorts along with his briefs. “Or do you need me to walk you
through it again?”
 
Kirihara nods rapidly, and he lurches forward, really unable to keep his hands
off of Yanagi's waist and hips and everything else that's right in front of
him, really. "I've got this, I paid attention," he insists, though it's really
hard to think about that when he just wants to be just as naked as Yanagi and
shoving him down and rubbing against him. That happens just a few moments later
with Yanagi's back hitting the futon and Kirihara on him in seconds, his mouth
hot against the other boy's neck, his fingers dragging down lean sides as he
wriggles up between Yanagi's thighs. 
 
He always expects this to be weird, somehow. It never is, not even when he
feels Yanagi's cock just as hard as his own against his belly, and Kirihara
muffles a groan into his neck, leaving as many bites as he can, just to make
sure anyone that looks will know not to touch. 
 
Yanagi doesn’t really expect himself to be as excited as he is, no matter how
many times they do this.
 
It’s probably strange to most people, but he’s far more accustomed to getting
excited when he’s massaging someone’s feet, when he has someone tied and bound
and eager, or when he’s standing over someone on their knees, cutting them down
to the bone with a few sharp words.
 
He’s not used to being excited about this.
 
Akaya is fire, burning red above him, hot and messy and clumsy and so charming
Yanagi can’t help but accommodate him. He drapes himself back on the bed, long
legs coming up to wrap around Kirihara’s waist, pulling him close to feel him
hard, dripping, aching between them, thick and heavy and very much a man no
matter how coltish his legs still are. 
 
His neck burns, and he presses into that touch, fingers coming up to rake
through slippery hair, nails dragging along his scalp as his head tilts back.
“You’re going to make a spectacle of me,” he murmurs, far from complaining.
 
"Good," Kirihara rasps, biting down again, sucking harder when he feels the
rake of Yanagi's nails. It makes him arch his back, grind down harder, the
aching throb of his cock making it almost impossible to think. He's gotten good
about being able to think when they do this. He's gotten patient, and careful,
but none of that seems to apply right now.
 
It just makes him harder to know that Yanagi seems to like it just as much. 
 
"Where's--never mind, I've got it, I remember," Kirihara mumbles, forcing
himself to pull away, just long enough to grab and paw at a nearby side table's
drawer. His mind might be cloudy, but he doesn't fumble too much with the
bottle of lube, even when his fingers are slick in the next moment. Right, this
part he has to be careful about, no matter how he just wants to put his cock in
already. 
 
He's probably weird for liking the way that Yanagi shivers and twitches at the
first touch of his fingers--weirder still, for liking the way it feels to
wriggle that first finger inside, everything slick and hot and tight around it.
It twists hot, eager knots in his belly, and Kirihara lurches up, mouthing a
wet kiss to Yanagi's throat, his other hand curling around Yanagi's hip. "Like
that, right?" he breathes, thinking back, remembering the way that Yanagi likes
being fingered, and twists his wrist just enough to wriggle a second finger in.
His cock leaks where it rubs against the inside of one pale thigh, god, it's
hard not to just put it in already.
 
“J-just like that.” 
 
Yanagi’s voice comes out choked and breathy, in something trembling and
uncertain--not how he usually sounds, or how he likes to sound with Kirihara,
but there appears to be no way around it just now, which he supposes is fine. 
 
He wants to praise more, to tell him, You remembered, you’re doing very well,
that way you’re curving your fingers is an appropriate angle for pleasure, but
he can’t even focus for that much. 
 
Then again, he supposes that the point of most training is to get to the point
where the trainee doesn’t need it. Just now, Yanagi has no trouble in thinking
that Kirihara is past the point where he needs guidance, especially when those
fingers curl inside him, making him slick, making him writhe. 
 
He takes stock of himself, tries to remember whether the hard thick length of
Kirihara’s cock will fit, and his mind shorts out a bit when he thinks about
that too hard. “It’s enough,” he gasps out, long-fingered hands reaching to
wrap around the slick length of the other boy’s cock. “You can get in now,
I’m…” Dying for it.
 
Yanagi's fingers wrap around his cock, and that makes Kirihara's mind short out
for a moment. He bites his lip hard, shudders as his back bows, and fuck, it
takes effort not to just rut forward into that smooth, pretty hand. It's even
worse when he looks down and can actually see how eager Yanagi is, too, with
that normally composed face flushed and a little lost. 
 
It'd be pretty easy just to come right then and there.
 
It's also a challenge not to just keep fingering him, not when Kirihara can
feel how Yanagi twitches around him and wriggles like he loves it. Somehow, he
summons the strength of mind to pull his hand away, but that's easy compared to
everything else. "Do you…" He has to swallow hard just to try and ask it, even
when he's already fumbling for the bottle of lube again. "I wanna do it without
a condom." Normally, he'd never ask that, but--"I want you to really feel it,"
he heatedly continues, lurching up to press a hard kiss to Yanagi's mouth, his
breath hotter and more eager the more he thinks about it. "Want you to remember
it. Let me, please, please--"
 
The noise Yanagi lets out is more akin to a whimper than anything else.
 
He’s at least flexible--that’s a point in his favor, when he can reach down and
grab his own legs, bringing them up over his head spread wide, inviting, and a
little bit desperate. 
 
“Go ahead,” he murmurs, even though he knows it’s a stupid, bad idea, and can
name at least five strains of bacteria they could be transmitting, not to
mention the anal tearing, the possibility of—
 
Fuck it.
 
His eyes are glazed when they open, staring up at Kirihara’s eager face enough
to do him in. “Make me remember it. Mark me up as yours.” 
 
Whee.
 
He hadn't expected Yanagi to agree, let alone be into it. Shit, shit it takes
effort not to just come all over his own hand when he grabs his cock, and
Kirihara bites at the inside of his own cheek, squeezes at the base of his cock
to bring back some semblance of coherency to his mind. 
 
Easier said than done, when his boyfriend's spread out and wanting in front of
him. 
 
He lurches forward, steadies himself with a hand dragging up the back of a pale
thigh, his other hand guiding his cock to rub against Yanagi's slick hole. It's
a lot different without a condom, kind of mind-numbingly good to feel the drag
of skin against skin like that, and the first press is hotter and slicker than
he'd imagined, making his mouth fall open and his fingers grab too-tight at any
part of Yanagi's body that he can reach. 
 
It always takes a bit of effort to get in. Yanagi's taller than him, but he's
so lean, and Kirihara is pretty sure that his cock is too much to be entirely
comfortable. His breath catches in his chest when just the head pops in. He
just has to grab Yanagi's ass in his hands after that, dragging him forward as
he sinks in, trying not to go too fast, but--"God," Kirihara pants out,
lurching up, pressing a kiss to the inside of one knee, hands bruisingly tight
when he finally gives in and just pulls Yanagi down the last few inches onto
his cock. "Yanagi-senpai, you're perfect." 
 
Yanagi can’t quite get his eyes to uncross, which he hopes Kirihara takes as a
compliment and not that he’s pulling some sort of funny face. Kirihara grabs
him, pulls him around, and with every single motion, he feels a little more
like he’s simply going to die in the best way possible.
 
He wriggles down as best as he can at first, only to have his breath stolen at
the first rough press of Kirihara inside of him, making the breath seize in his
lungs. His own cock goes soft, flagging at the sudden stretch of Kirihara
inside him, of his ass working to accommodate that thick length, and he’s sure
that the little urgent grunting noises he’s letting out are hardly graceful,
but he can’t quite stop.
 
He wouldn’t dream of asking Kirihara to stop.
 
He can feel his insides cramping, let alone his thighs; his own hips are
narrow, and Kirihara is muscled and solid between them, forcing them wide. It’s
sinfully hot and slick without the condom, something he’s rarely experienced
and never from this end of things, and he can’t help but whine. His nails rake
through Kirihara’s hair as he yanks the younger boy closer, down on top of him.
“You’re taking such good care of me, Akaya,” he pants, one hand dropping down
to claw at the futon, leaving little holes in the cover.
 
For a moment, Kirihara is pretty sure he can't breathe. He just pants out
what's left of the air in his lungs, lets Yanagi yank him down, his own hands
cupping and grabbing at Yanagi's ass to pull him up and into the mindless grind
of his hips that he just can't stopwhen he's in so deep that it makes his own
body ache. 
 
"F-fuck--Yanagi-senpai, you're just--" It's slick enough that it makes his eyes
roll back when he draws back, and when he tries to look down and see where
they're connected--
 
That first, mindless rush of an orgasm takes him by surprise, leaves him
gasping and with his hips shoving in harder still. His hands are pawing at
Yanagi's hips, pulling him down, wanting those soft, lean thighs wrapped around
him when he comes, and he's so, so glad that he never really goes soft the
first time he comes. It's more of a twitchy, trembling jolt than anything--
usually. This time, it's more intense, and Kirihara is still shivering when he
lurches up to press a messy kiss underneath Yanagi's chin. "Nothing feels
better than you--I'm gonna take such good care of you--"
 
This is what Seiichi and Genichirou don’t understand. If anyone is at anyone’s
mercy, Yanagi rather doubts Kirihara is coming off the worse on this one.
 
The first time Kirihara comes inside of him, all he can do is shudder. He melts
down to the futon, mindlessly canting his hips down, trying to take all there
is of Kirihara and thoroughly convinced that it’s too much. He can feel the
slick, hot spill of the other boy inside him, and it makes him writhe, his cock
starting to return to full hardness after that initial first brutal stretch. 
 
Kirihara can be singleminded sometimes. Usually, Yanagi would grab his hand,
shove it to his own cock, and remind him that he’s not the only boy that needs
to get off here tonight.
 
Today, he just hangs on for the ride and goes wherever that thick, insistent
cock inside him wants to go. “Akaya,” he breathes, and grabs at those
shoulders, broader and more muscled than his, still slender compared to what
they’ll one day be. “You’re so…” No, he’ll sound like an AV star, that’s
shameful, but…
 
Kirihara hits him just right again, and Yanagi whimpers. “Too much,” he gets
out, and grabs at the other boy, lest he try to pull out. “G-good.”
 
Normally, hearing that it's too much would make him stop, hesitate, worry, no
matter how being this hard still kind of makes his mind click off and focus on
nothing but sex. Right now, though--he's pretty sure the thought of stopping
never even occurred to him. 
 
Especially not with Yanagi grabbing at him like that. 
 
His mind is still fuzzy even when he leans back, just a bit, just enough to
wrap his hands around Yanagi's waist and pull him down when his hips shove up
until their skin slaps together. Kirihara's mouth goes dry when he hears how
slick it all is, when he can feel the trickle of his own come leaking out
whenever he pulls back even an inch. That's what he wants. He wants Yanagi full
of him, reminded whenever that idiot from Seigaku tries to flirt with him that
Kirihara is the one that just fucked him. 
 
"Dunno how you take all of it," he manages to rasp out, and right, right, he's
definitely going to make sure Yanagi gets off as much as he is like this. One
hand paws up, palming over Yanagi's cock, right when his hips slap forward
again, relentless. "But you look so good when I'm in you, Yanagi-senpai."
 
Yanagi forgets math.
 
His eyes roll back into his head, and his legs tremble as they squeeze around
Kirihara’s hips, giving up on pulling him in for more, just focused on how
everything right now is perfect, and if he can keep that going for a while,
he’s going to get to a place he’s not sure he ever has before.
 
Inui can fuck off, because he’s never made Yanagi feel like this. 
 
He would have said something about it, but there’s no way he can speak. There’s
no way he can breathe, not with Kirihara touching him like that, fucking him
deep, slamming into him over and over again and saying the most oddly sweet,
urgent things in his ear. 
 
“Can feel you,” he groans out, his back arching as he writhes, shoving himself
down onto Kirihara’s cock over and over again, even as his hands fall back to
the bed in utter surrender. “Ahh, feel you in--in my throat—”
 
Kirihara is a lot bigger than Yanagi would have given him credit for, before
they’d started meeting like this.
 
Kirihara's own voice breaks on a strangled, whimpering groan. 
 
He sags down, bracing his weight onto an elbow when all he can do is fuck up
into that slick, tight heat. The way that Yanagi's hips move with him is
obscene, that sticky-messy-slickness making it hard for him to even breathe,
let alone think, and the feel of Yanagi's cock hard and dripping in his hand is
nearly enough in and of itself. 
 
He'd like to give Yanagi a few more compliments, about how he looks perfect and
feels perfect and there's nothing that feels like this and it's just really,
really good. That's lost when all he can do is grab and pull at Yanagi and bury
his face into the side of his neck as he ruts forward, panting helplessly,
biting into the crook of his shoulder and marking him up even more. Mine, mine,
mine. 
 
Yanagi is expecting fireworks of some kind, but they don’t come. Everything
involving Kirihara takes him by surprise, and this is no exception.
 
He feels his body seize up, clenching down impossibly hard on Kirihara’s cock
as it shoves deep inside him, and then sort of…
 
Falls.
 
That tension all gets released in a slow-rushing wave, made all the larger for
its lack of speed. The first shock washes over him, dragging a shudder of
pleasure and a sticky flood from his cock, and it hasn’t abated by the time the
second, and the third, and the fourth crest over him, leaving him feeling
battered, elated, dizzy.
 
He’s not really sure he’ll ever stop coming. He’s very sure he doesn’t want to.
It feels as if his head has become detached from his body, a slow, dislocated
thing that doesn’t seem to matter when his body clenches, rolls, when all he
can think of is wrapping his arms and legs around the too-hot too-sweaty body
between them and holding him close, when that hand on his cock is so inaccurate
and so perfect, like the rest of the boy he’s falling for so hard.
 
“Keep going,” he slurs, beyond the point of comprehension. “Make me feel it
next week.”
 
A nod is something that Kirihara thinks he manages, not that it matters. Yanagi
isn't paying attention, and Kirihara isn't paying that much attention to
anything either, other than the way that Yanagi feels around his cock when he
spasms and shivers and trembles and all Kirihara can think about is I did that,
I'm the reason he came so hard.
 
Yanagi is limp and boneless in his arms when Kirihara grabs and pulls at him,
drags him up into his lap when he rocks back onto his knees, and fuck, it's
easy just to let gravity do the work here, with his cock pressed so deep inside
that he's pretty sure the way that feels is going to kill him. 
 
"You feel so, so good, Yanagi-senpai." He's not even sure if it comes out
right, considering he's mostly got his mouth on Yanagi's neck, mostly spending
his time stroking down his back and grabbing his ass, needy and insistent
especially when everything is so, so slick. Every time he thrusts up like this,
he can drag Yanagi down, and when he's so pliant, every thrust makes Kirihara's
eyes roll into the back of his head. "Dunno--nnh--how much longer--" 
 
That jinxes it, really, but Kirihara doesn't care. The second time he comes
inside, he's sure that it's got to be too much, but he loves the way it feels
when Yanagi is this slick and dripping around his cock. Every shudder makes his
muscles twitch and shiver, makes him shove his hips into Yanagi harder one last
time, and that's the last of his strength long gone, leaving him to flop
forward with a groan, squishing Yanagi underneath his weight.
 
It’s for the best that Kirihara is so flopped out, crushing him down to the
futon. That gives Yanagi at least some small semblance of a chance to get his
breath back eventually, even though he’s fairly sure he’d like to stay in this
floaty, dream-like state forever.
 
As soon as he comes down from the high, he’ll have to face the fact that he’s
going to ache everywhere. Kirihara is terribly enthusiastic, and he’s going to
be bitten, bruised, and raw for several days to come. 
 
That isn’t to say that he wouldn’t do it again in a heartbeat, of course.
 
One hand weakly flops up until it lands in seaweed-textured hair, stroking
gently through. “That was...spectacular,” he breathes. “Akaya, you…”
 
Have come a long way.
 
Have learned more than I expected.
 
Dicked me into next week.
 
“You’re good.”
 
"You're good," Kirihara mumbles as he headbutts his face into Yanagi's
shoulder. He's still feeling a little loopy himself, but hearing that Yanagi
thinks he did a good job makes him start to come back down to earth (complete
with a smug surge of pride). "Really good. Might wanna throw you against things
more often. Can I?" It had pretty good results, after all. 
 
Yanagi is already (foolishly) nodding before he starts speaking, giving
Kirihara the rules he always needs. “As long as I don’t specifically ask you
not to, or we’re in public, or you know that I’ve been recently injured,” he
decides. “And that you check the wall or other surface for structural integrity
first, I don’t want to be thrown through a paper wall or over something that’s
likely to topple. But apart from that…” 
 
Whee.
 
***** Rikkai, Yanagi & Kirihara, Sanada & Yukimura *****
The next morning, however, is considerably less whee. It takes him three tries
to get out of bed, and even then he falls a little bit, not quite managing to
catch himself on anything before he hits the futon on the way down.
 
Ah. Miscalculation.
 
His legs aren’t just wobbly. It feels as though he’s pulled every single muscle
in them, not to mention the way his entire frame feels rather battered, as if
he’d taken a sailing trip. 
 
On a tsunami.
 
Strapped to the rigging.
 
He staggers to the bathroom, eyebrows raising in mild horror at the hickeys
littering his neck. Oh, well, at least he has his jersey to wear, zipped all
the way up to...ah, it appears they extend even above that. This could be
better.
 
Morning practice is clearly something thought up by the devil (Yukimura
Seiichi) himself. Yanagi isn’t terribly optimistic about his fate as he limps
slowly towards school, pausing to collect a probably-oversleeping Kirihara by
ringing the doorbell.
 
"Just a moment!" 
 
There's the sound of general calamity before the door swings open, Kirihara
Mika in the process of taming her own head of thick, curly hair back into a
hair tie. "Good morning, Yanagi-kun!" she hums, trotting backwards away from
the door. "Aka-chan still hasn't dragged himself out of bed, did you want to
come inside and do it? He never listens to me like he does you, and I've got to
get to work in about--ahhh, 10 minutes."
 
There is definitely something to be said about looking trustworthy. Yanagi
nods, toeing off his shoes neatly next to the rest of the family shoes as he
enters. “Thank you so much for the compliment, I’ll ensure that he doesn’t miss
practice.”
 
That’s enough to make her squeal slightly, and he heads up the stairs, socked
feet padding softly on hard wood before he reaches Kirihara’s door. Knocking
won’t work, never does, so he simply enters, crossing to the raised bedframe
(Kirihara and Jackal and Yukimura all, how foreign) and sitting—
 
No, not sitting. Sitting is no good, he finds.
 
He stands by the bedside instead, reaching out a hand to card through tousled
hair. “Akaya, it’s morning. There’s tennis.”
 
Kirihara grumbles, stirring slightly. Mostly, it's to flop a little closer to
the side of the bed, dangling an arm and a leg off the side. All of his
blankets are mostly a heap on the floor already, courtesy of his sister's
attempts to wake him up to no avail. "Too early for tennis," he mumbles,
flopping out a hand in Yanagi's direction. "No more Red Bull, Buchou. Stoooop."
 
Yanagi’s eyes narrow. The first, nicest attempt has failed. “Akaya, I’m having
trouble sitting down, so this is going to be a quick process. Do you want
Genichirou to punish you for being late? You know how he feels about
punctuality.”
 
The mention of Sanada's name makes Kirihara jolt and sit up, no matter how his
expression is still a little sluggish. "Huh? Right. Right, I'm up," he groans,
scrubbing a hand over his face. He blinks sleepily over at Yanagi as he slings
his legs over the side of the bed. "Why're you having trouble sitting down?"
 
Yanagi considers for a moment, then decides on honesty. “Because pleasure has a
price. As much as I like being thrown into things, which is new to me as of
yesterday, I am apparently less good about dealing with the aftermath. It’s
unfair, as you would say.”
 
"…Oh." That's…hmm. Kirihara hesitates, suddenly much more awake, before he
reaches out a hand to tentatively touch one of the bruises that he can see,
very clearly, peeking out above the collar of Yanagi's jersey. "I'm really
sorry, Yanagi-senpai." Maybe he should get on the ground and bow or something?
That might make his apology a little bit better. "If you want, I can make
excuses for you at practice today so you can stay home? It's okay if Sanada-
fukubuchou hits me, I don't care."
 
This reaction, of course, is why it’s all worth it.
 
Yanagi smiles, and gently bends to brush a kiss against Kirihara’s temple,
nuzzling into his hair. “It’s fine. As they say, I’ve made my own bed and am
lying in it. Come on, let’s not compound our obviousness by being late as
well.”
 
No matter how much Kirihara’s finger brushing across one of those bruises makes
him want to throw practice and bruises to the wind and do the whole thing
again. Or perhaps not, if his inner thigh muscle is really as pulled as he
thinks it is.
 
"Okay!" That's actually a relief, because he really doesn't want to get hit--
not this early in the morning, anyway. "We can work on precision or something--
yeah, you can just stand at one part of the court and I'll try to hit all the
balls right back to you so you don't have to really move--" Kirihara is very
sure he has a great plan, and so he hurries to get dressed, not even bothering
with trying to comb his hair out. It's not like it ever makes a difference,
anyway. "Oh," Kirihara adds, swinging his tennis bag onto his shoulder. "Gimme
your bag, too. If you're that, um, sore, it can't be fun to carry it, because
it has books and stuff and mine doesn't." It's the least he can do, considering
this is…well, it's not all his fault, because that guy was way too close to
Yanagi, but still. 
 
Worth it a hundred times over.
 
Yanagi lets out a little sigh, somewhat more maidenly than he’d intended and
not unhappy with the result. “What a gentleman you are today, Akaya. I’m going
to need you to very gently throw me over something else later.” 
 
He leaves the room with that, gliding down the stairs (with a lot of help from
holding the bannister to keep his legs from wobbling) and leading the way to
practice. 
 
This part won’t be any fun.
 
Kirihara might still be a little flushed from that particular commentary by the
time they make it to practice. At least they aren't late, though, and he can
stuff his face into his locker for a moment to get his wits about him. At
least, until everyone else starts commenting on things.
 
"Ah, Yanagi-kun--are you all right? You're looking a bit pale this morning." 
 
Yagyuu, of all people. What a traitor, Kirihara miserably thinks. It's enough
commentary to immediately make Yukimura's keen gaze swivel in their direction,
and shit, shit he looks like he's on the warpath already, if not a little tired
and flushed from the heat that's already permeating the courts. 
 
Maybe if he doesn't say anything, this will just…go away.
 
Now that he’s here, Yanagi is fairly certain that he should have stayed at
home. At least at home he wouldn’t already feel sore and chafed just from the
walk over. His thighs are trembling, but as he’d learned earlier, sitting down
is rather out of the question. 
 
“Just fine, Niou-kun,” he says calmly to Yagyuu, taking a stab in the dark.
Yagyuu is usually too much of the Gentleman he claims to be to make mention of
something like another man’s personal health in public.
 
“Akaya!” Sanada calls, and jerks his head. “Help these first-years with their
footwork. Anyone who can keep up with Kirihara only runs five laps instead of
ten!”
 
"Uh--yes, Sanada-fukubuchou! I'm on it!" Kirihara sends Yanagi a quick,
apologetic glance before he darts off at full speed. 
 
"Yo, I'm over here, Yanagi," 'Niou' snidely points out from where he's perched
on a bench. "You sure you're okay?" 
 
"You can always practice me with if you're feeling just fine, Yanagi," Yukimura
sweetly puts in, no matter how sharp his gaze still is. 
 
This is going to be no fun at all. Yanagi sighs, pulling out his racquet from
the bag Kirihara was so chivalrously carrying, trying not to let his breath
catch at the stretch. “There was a 91 percent chance you would say that,
Seiichi.” And a 3 percent chance that he’ll get out of this without additional
damage caused by Yukimura’s latent hostility towards his and Kirihara’s
relationship.
 
Yukimura frowns, cocking his head to the side. "Did you get hit by a truck or
something?" he dryly asks, shedding his jersey onto the bench as he climbs to
his feet. Normally, he'd keep it on at least as a posture check during
practice, but the heat is already too much first thing in the morning. Even
more normally--he might be concerned about Yanagi, but considering he lost
sleep thinking about him and Kirihara last night…
 
"Nice neck, by the way," 'Niou' idly says as he hops to his feet, passing by
Yanagi with a grin. Yukimura shudders from head to toe. 
 
“An unforeseen complication,” Yanagi says mildly, body already internally
complaining as he walks onto the court. Kindly, he refrains from elaborating--
and will continue to refrain, for Yukimura’s sake, as long as Yukimura refrains
from saying anything hurtful or upsetting to Kirihara. “Perhaps it is my fated
punishment from losing my match so shamefully. If so, I accept it, though
chances of karma existing in the real world…” He sighs. It’s not easy to
calculate karma. He’s tried.
 
Yukimura is pretty sure that he just doesn't want to hear anything else. 
 
"You can serve." Or can you? Yukimura wryly asks himself, inwardly grimacing.
Well, isn't this a match-up. He doesn't honestly want to know what happened to
Yanagi, but he has to wonder how high-paced this match is going to be between
the two of them. Ugh, his tennis kingdom for caffeine in large amounts. 
 
"Too slow! Didn't you hear Sanada-fukubuchou? 15 laps for anyone underneath the
minimum time!" 
 
Sometimes, Yukimura remembers that Kirhara is such a good child, but then he
looks back to Yanagi and sort of wants to retch. 
 
Chance that Yukimura is feeling under the weather from his surgery today:
75.39%.
 
Yanagi wavers before serving, holding the racquet in as uncertain a grip as he
ever has. “Seiichi,” he says calmly, eyes flickering over the Captain’s body,
“I’d like to see a doctor’s note saying that it’s all right for you to chase
after balls. If you want to kick me off the team for that, that’s fine.”
 
Yukimura stares at him for a long moment from across the court. "Excuse me?" 
 
"Niou, watch this," 'Niou' hisses, jabbing 'Yagyuu' in the side with his
elbow. 
 
It's a miracle his voice doesn't start to raise, but Yukimura's not into being
shrill this morning. Not yet. "I know fully well what I'm capable of, Yanagi,
and I'm not sure why you feel the need to make such a ridiculous request. Now
serve, and we'll see who chases what." 
 
‘Yagyuu’ lets out a low whistle, keeping straight-backed in his chair even as
Niou slinks down low. 
 
Yanagi kisses his life blissfully goodbye. It was worth a shot, he supposes.
 
The first serve he sends is pathetic, by any standards. The only saving grace
is that it’s robbed of its usual power and unpredictably wobbly, due far more
to to his own weakness and, well, wobbliness than it is to any calculation. The
ball barely tips the net, and falls over woozily.
 
Yukimura doesn't bother. Rather, he just jabs a finger out to the track. "Laps.
And you know what," he cheerfully says, "I'm going to run them with you. Seems
like a great way to set proper times, doesn't it? Oh, and to assuage any worry
about whether or not I'm capable of chasing after your balls." 
 
Yanagi sighs. Oh, well. Worth a shot. The chances that he’ll fall down while
running the first lap at Yukimura’s pace are not encouraging, but he forces his
muscles to move anyway…
 
...only to stumble and fall before he even makes it off of the court. “The
chance of me completing these laps is 0.62 percent,” he says firmly against the
ground without moving. “The .62 is the unlikely, yet possible chance that some
stranger who is not afraid of you volunteers to carry me.”
 
“Is that the yips?” ‘Yagyuu’ asks uncertainly. “It’s not usually like that.”
 
"Don't think so," 'Niou' mutters, slouching down further. "Yukimura didn't even
hit a ball."
 
"You're trash," Yukimura dully informs him, prodding Yanagi with his foot.
"Where's your sense of pride? Is this some bizarre downward spiral that I need
to be aware of?" 
 
“I abandoned pride in a dumpster when it was born,” Yanagi says lightly, half-
smushed against the ground. “And you don’t need to be worried. I’ll be quite as
spry as usual once I regain full function of my body.” 
 
His eyes flicker over to Kirihara running emphatic drills, trying to outdo all
the younger boys, and he sighs. “Until a truck hits me again.”
 
"You're trash," Yukimura sighs out again, giving Yanagi one more prod with his
foot before crouching down. "And you're really gross, and I'm pretty annoyed
with you right now. If I help you back to the clubhouse, will you stop
embarrassing me and also never come to practice like this again? If you say
'no', then I'm also never going shopping with you again, plus I'm going to
leave you here until you get up and run." 
 
Yanagi struggles slowly to his feet with a groan, looping a gangly arm around
Yukimura’s thin shoulders. They’re too thin, but he capitulates anyway. “You
like it when I take you shopping. No one else buys you socks. And yes, I
promise at least that much.” 
 
It’s hardly like it was planned, and he really doesn’t enjoy feeling this way
half as much as he had enjoyed getting this way.
 
"Sanada would buy me socks if he'd go shopping," Yukimura sniffs, sighing as he
loops an arm around Yanagi's waist and carefully hauls him to his feet. It's
more about being careful on his own end than anything, really, because this is
more weight than he's dragged in awhile…but it's fine. Strength training.
That's what he's going to call this. "I'm starting to think," he adds in a low,
grumpy deadpan, "that you and Akaya deserve one another." 
 
“I certainly hope so. We appear to be stuck with each other.” Yanagi could
probably sound more concerned about that. 
 
He tries to walk, and eventually manages to get spindly legs under himself,
managing to support his own weight. At least there isn’t too much of it, and
after a minute, he straightens upright. “Your chances of being able to support
my weight so soon after your surgery were under 14 percent,” he says, trying
not to complain about how much his arm hurts in this position. He doesn’t even
remember using his arm, but it’s as worn out as the rest of him. “You’ve defied
the odds considerably once again, Buchou.”
 
"You're more tall than you are heavy," Yukimura huffs, trying not to think
about the stretching, twitching pain in his lower back, or the fact that his
own legs wobble a little. He's got this. Hearing it from Yanagi does make it a
bit better, though…but, still not perfect, so: "Talk to me when I can carry
Sanada around." 
 
Dragging Yanagi back to the clubhouse might not be the most pleasant of things,
but he manages a fairly graceful job of it, even when Yanagi is essentially a
limp noodle. "Your options include lying or sitting; pick your poison." He
sways. "Quickly." 
 
Yanagi pitches forward, draping himself down over the locker room bench. Yes,
lying on his stomach is probably the best thing in the world at the moment.
“Mm, Genichirou only weighs a single kilogram more than I do. It used to be
five, but he’s lost weight while you were in the hospital. Thank you for the
help, by the way.”
 
He doesn't want to hear about how Sanada's stressed himself thin while he
wasn't around. It sort of makes him feel sick to his stomach. Even still,
Yukimura drops himself down onto the tail end of the bench, not afraid of
languishing in the relative cool of the clubhouse when no one else is around.
"It's fine. Just…" He sighs, bending forward slightly, wishing he could put his
head between his knees without making his back hurt, but this will do in the
meantime. "I'm sorry for being rude to you yesterday about Akaya, but I'm not
sorry about being concerned. Maybe we should just agree to not talk about it?
It looks like you're being…um, punished enough already."
 
“While I hardly see my current state as a punishment,” Yanagi says wearily, “I
appreciate the sentiment, and the offer. There was always a significant chance
that neither you nor Genichirou would approve. That was why I thought it
prudent to keep our relationship quiet.” He pauses, then adds, “I would request
that either of you speak to him, however. He’s certain that you hate him for
this, as well as for losing his match in the Kantou.”
 
"I'm going to talk to him. About both things, of course; I just haven't had the
time." His mother calls him Typhoon Seiichi, which is not the least accurate of
names that he could be given as of late. Yukimura wrinkles his nose all the
same, and reaches a hand over to poke the top of Yanagi's head. "Your taste is
awful, though. That guy from Seigaku, and now…I can't even say it. He's
basically my kid, it's so weird, Renji. So weird." 
 
Yanagi shrugs. “I’ve never been the biggest enthusiast of activities that were
considered normal, so perhaps I’m hardly the one to judge. I doubt it would be
any comfort to you to think that every person who has been in a relationship
has been someone’s child, but that fact is true. Also, the age difference
between us is highly comparable to the difference between you and Genichirou. I
do hope this isn’t gross by your standards, but you recognize his abilities as
a captain for next year. You must know that he’s not a child all the way
through. Parts of his psychology are more mature than you give him credit for.”
It’s very tactful, he thinks, that he doesn’t add that parts of Kirihara’s
anatomy are equally mature.
 
"I know he's not a child all the way through, but…" It's just the way Kirihara
says things sometimes ("When are you coming home from the hospital? Today?
Tomorrow?") and the way that he throws himself into things without hesitation
or any real thought (he's seen the tapes of the whole Kantou now, and
Kirihara's firm declarations that he'll finish the match before his surgery
sort of hurts)…honestly, it gives him a headache thinking about Kirihara doing
that in any sort of a relationship. 
 
"I guess," Yukimura mutters eventually, "it's better if he's with you than
anyone else that could take advantage of him without me immediately knowing.
The hickeys are gross, though. Hide your shame, Renji; you're worse than Niou
now." 
 
“Those were a surprise,” Yanagi freely admits. “I’m afraid he was a little
enraged last night. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that he doesn’t exactly do
things halfway.” 
 
That’s an understatement, of course. He sort of raises up on his forearms, and
fixes Yukimura with a slitted-eye look. “I care about him just as much as you
do, you know. That’s why you put him in my charge. Do you think I would
hesitate an instant to sacrifice my own well-being for his?”
 
"It's not even that I think you're going to hurt him," Yukimura tries, trying
not to make too much of a face when it comes to thinking about…nope, nope,
can't do it, not going to do it. "It's that…oh, come on, you have to get it
somewhat. You're so much smarter than him, Renji, and so much more mature."
 
It’s true, for what that’s worth. “I never denied it,” Yanagi says softly. “I
just also believe that there is something to be gained from a relationship
where both partners bring something unique to the table. There are things about
him that I greatly admire, and doubtless the reverse is true. So it goes with
our flaws. Surely you and Genichirou are the same. You’re far more
intellectually flexible and curious than he is, and he could physically
overpower you quite easily. Does that not also make for a power imbalance?” At
least they’re having a real conversation now, and Yukimura is looking at him
like a human instead of a particularly disgusting bug.
 
"It sounds a little disgusting when you put it like that," Yukimura crossly
informs him, though there's no real ire in his tone. "With me and Gen, I mean.
How did you make us sound gross while you and Akaya sound so well-rounded? I'll
kick you off the tennis team, I swear."
 
The corners of Yanagi’s eyes crinkle; a smile, to anyone who knows, like
Yukimura certainly does by now. “I’m simply pointing out that there is no such
thing as a true dynamic of equality. If there were, you’d simply be better off
alone, since your partner would be nothing but a copy of you. You don’t need to
quote me, I’m hardly a relationship theorist. I only mention all of this
because my own choices and, I believe, morality were called into question on
multiple occasions.”
 
"I saidI was sorry," Yukimura huffs, flopping backwards to lean against the
wall. "It's a visceral reaction, visceral. If you two are happy, fine, but--
ugh, you're just going to have to deal with me thinking it's a little odd. I
always expected him to run off with some cute girl that I could scare into
being very sweet to him. You aren't scared of things, you're a monster."
 
“One of three,” Yanagi agrees easily. “And someday, he’ll be worse than all of
us.”
 
"God, I hope so. It would be good if his nickname was something really
terrifying. I've thought about this in great length, but considering his
aversion to horror movies, I'm not sure anything that I've come up with would
sit well with him."
 
Yanagi hesitates, but hesitating is like bread and butter to Yukimura, and
Yanagi knows he’ll sense it before too long. “He’s got a nickname. They came up
with it during the Fudomine game. The Assassin.” He wonders idly if Yukimura
will throw a fit about not being able to nickname the boy himself, the way
mothers do when they can’t cut their child’s hair for the first time.
 
"Oh." Yukimura tilts his head back, contemplative. "That's pretty good. Classy,
at least." It's a little sad, though, that he missed the moment of that name's
conception. He sighs, his shoulders heaving in a shrug. "I'll just have to
congratulate him on that, too, I suppose. It's a good name to lead the team
with next year, if not a little…hmm. Ominous."
 
“My only issue with it is that I find it’s a bit close to that captain from
Higa, the one that goes by Hit Man. Assassin is classier, of course, but I must
wonder if something should be done about the similarity. Perhaps the matter
will resolve itself once their captain goes to high school, of course.”
 
Yanagi turns his head, still flopping. “Incidentally, I do recommend that
whenever you and Genichirou do come to a point in your relationship that you
feel certain urges, you mediate them if you have tennis practice the next day.
Or kill yourself prior, which would be kinder and more efficient.”
 
"We're going to have to instate a rule, Renji. It's called 'please don't talk
about your sex life with Akaya in any regard, especially when you're already a
walking billboard for it.'" 
 
“Given that this team includes Niou Masaharu, I rather think this is some kind
of a double standard. Rebuttal?”
 
"You're an asshole. Can you at least not go too far into detail? He's the team
baby for everyone else. I know mercy isn't a word in your vocabulary, but
consider adding it."
 
“My dictionary is not so limited. Mercy, noun, plural mercies, Old French in
origin. Definition: something other people have in moments of weakness. I have
been discreet, Seiichi. I didn’t expect last night to happen. Would you rather
I’d skipped practice?”
 
"No. Yes. Maybe. But yes, mostly, because you just had to make that doctor's
note jab. I'm still mad at you for that. I'll make you get a doctor's note next
time, you ass." Yukimura scowls. "You are useless like this, though, so I'm
just going to leave you to wallow." 
 
Yanagi shrugs. “It was my one and only chance to attempt to remain upright. If
school had been in session today, I’d gladly have forfeited what bits of pride
I do have for a chance to sit in the nurse’s office. For the record, however, I
assume you’re exceeding your doctor’s orders in general.”
 
"You know nothing. Neither does Genichirou. I can carry you, it's not my fault
that you exceed five kilograms." 
 
“What’s the point?” Yanagi doesn’t mean for it to come out so thoughtful, but
he supposes that’s inevitable. “Why do you want to push yourself so hard you
may injure yourself and undo all that difficult and painful rehabilitation? We
proved that we can win without you, though of course we prefer to have you with
us.”
 
"The way you phrase things is annoying sometimes," Yukimura sighs out, eyes
lidded as he leans his elbows onto his knees. "If anything, I don't feel like
I'm pushing myself hard enough. I'm hiding from the sun while I'm talking to
you, after all. And while I'm sure that the team is strong enough to win
without me…that doesn't mean I don't want to be a part of it. I led the team to
victory for the past two years. I swore I'd do it for three. Breaking that
promise because of this seems pathetic." 
 
Yanagi closes his eyes. “What you don’t seem to understand,” he says quietly,
serious for once, not that anyone else catches when he’s not being serious, “is
that you are leading the team. You were leading it from the hospital. You were
leading it while you were in surgery, Seiichi. You’re our inspiration.” It
would be cheesy to say to anyone else, but this is someone for whom loyalty is
everything--and for whom that loyalty is deserved.
 
"It's not enough." Yukimura's smile is strained when he spares Yanagi a quick,
sideways glance. "It means a lot to me to hear you say that, Renji, but…ahh,
I'm selfish, you know? I've been sidelined so long, and I've been so sure that
I'd--" His voice cracks, and he hates it. Weird, weird because this never
really happens around Sanada, because Sanada rarely outright calls him out on
everything, but Yanagi always does, and that throws him off, even if it's just
a little bit at a time. "I was so sure I wouldn't be able to play again. I was
sure of that for a long time. So even if we take everything at Nationals in
straight sets, I want to know that if I'm listed in singles one that I can
still win if I need to play."
 
Yanagi nods slowly. “You haven’t ever been the least demanding person with
yourself. None of the regulars ever have, but you in particular.” He sits up
slightly, fingers steepling. “And you saw the tapes. You know how good Seigaku
is, and that we’ll probably be up against them again in the finals.” And as
everyone knows, they might have Tezuka this time.
 
"I'm setting a good example, I think." Yukimura rakes a hand back through his
hair tiredly. "Seigaku is well-rounded, and had their captain been there, would
have probably performed even better. That's why I have to be there this time."
He hesitates, chews at his lower lip. "I'm not going to pay attention to you,
but I want you to be honest, anyway." Yanagi always is, for better or for
worse. "If I continue to train like I have been…what are my chances of winning
if I end up against someone like Tezuka, or that kid--Echizen, wasn't it?" 
 
Yanagi’s frown is more concerned than angry, but he shakes his head. “Your
percentages are always off, Seiichi. Your data has a habit of getting away from
me. But if I had to estimate…”
 
He thinks hard, little gears whirring away in his mind. “Against Echizen before
he played Sanada, your chances of winning at the Nationals would be 34.82
percent. Against Echizen now, who knows? He could have the yips, or be startled
into aggressive training. Against Tezuka uninjured, your chances are 45.21
percent. Against Tezuka as he was after his match with Hyoutei’s Atobe, 97.09
percent. But...you’re an outlier, as I’ve said before.”
 
"If you need something, yell. I'll send a first year."
 
Yukimura remembers when Yanagi used to throw out numbers always in the 90s, and
how he could actually laugh at the idea of there being a 2.whatever percent
chance of someone beating him. 
 
34.82 percent.
 
The thought of paling so far in comparison to his former self makes Yukimura
have goosebumps, with every nerve set anxiously on fire as he climbs to his
feet. He doesn't have time to sit here and talk. "If you're feeling this bad
tomorrow, too, don't come to practice. If you do anyway, I'm going to drag you
around by a rope when I run."
 
He doesn't bother waiting for a response--it's far more important to be out, to
be doing something, and Yukimura lets the clubhouse door slam shut behind him
when he trots back to the courts at a jog. 
 
It's just muscle deterioration. That's it. It's not like the movements aren't
there, or that they can't happen. It's just--
 
34.82 percent. 
 
Damn, why can't they just rip those staples out of his back already? 
 
"Listen up, everyone!" 
 
Yes, good. One bright and clear call, and everyone lifts their heads. There's
relief from that, at least, and Yukimura ignores the sheen of sweat already
plastering his jersey to his skin. Yukimura stands up straighter still. It
could all be worse. He could still be in the hospital. Now that he's out, he
can do anything. "Originally, it was proposed that the ranking matches not be
held, but I'm revising that. Please continue your training with the idea that
you'll have the usual summer ranking to look forward to in a week and a half!" 
 
There isn't a first year brave enough to groan out complaints, but Yukimura can
see--with satisfaction--the trepidation on their faces already. Yes. "That's
all. Continue your hard work!" 
 
"Sweet," Kirihara breathes before immediately whirling on the first years
again. "You heard the captain! If any of you want a chance, you'll need to work
at least fifteen times as hard!"
 
"How sure is Sanada that Yukimura-buchou didn't get ahold of a Red Bull?"
Jackal mutters, watching Yukimura stretch once before darting off briskly on a
run.
 
Sanada runs laps later than anyone, but that’s nothing new. He waits until
Yukimura is finished, which rarely happens before he’s finished with his own
laps. As soon as it’s been several minutes since he’s heard balls hitting the
fence, he slows, jogging inside to flop down onto one of the benches near
Yukimura. He can see the sweat from here, the trembling muscles, and the
paleness of his face. “You want to shower here, or at home?”
 
It’s not a question of whether or not Sanada will go to his house. Sanada’s
family already knows that there’s no way he’ll be anywhere else. Whatever has
possessed Yukimura to decide on the ranking matches, they’ll need to talk about
it.
 
Yukimura briefly glances over to Sanada before yanking off his headband and
shaking his sweaty bangs away from his face. "Home." It takes a bit of effort
to walk over, flop down next to the other boy, and not simply put his head
between his legs. Damn it, but it's hot, and while he's normally pretty
unaffected by that sort of thing… "Unless you want to wrap me in plastic wrap
again. Staples out next week, thank god--or, you could rip them out for me
right now. I'd probably move better."
 
“Only for a few minutes, until the pain sent you back to your knees,” Sanada
reprimands as gently as he can. He looks around the court, frowning, then nods
as he stands. “Your house isn’t far.” That’s his excuse for shouldering both
tennis bags over one shoulder, and crouching slightly to give Yukimura a place
on his back. If he says it aloud, Yukimura’s more likely to protest. This way,
they can preserve his dignity.
 
"Sanada--" It's hard not to frown. It's harder still to refuse, even though he
wants to, with those damned numbers echoing in his head again. Yukimura
hesitates a moment longer before heaving a sigh and flopping forward off of the
bench and onto Sanada's back. If he's cute about it, then maybe no one will
even bat an eye. "You make a good chariot," he huffs, slinging his arms around
Sanada's shoulders. "And you smell good when you're sweaty." 
 
“You’re as gross as ever,” Sanada mutters, hefting the lighter boy up onto his
back. It’s not a long walk, but his legs are still burning from the exertion by
the time they make it to Yukimura’s house. He doesn’t even ask permission
first, just starts the bathwater as soon as they get inside. It’s been long
enough, and he knows the routines well enough to test the temperature of the
water to make it exactly how Yukimura needs it--not as hot as he likes it, but
as hot as the medical ailments will allow. “It’ll be ready in three minutes,”
he calls, stripping out of his practice clothes, down to his fundoshi.
 
"Uh huh." Yukimura might be craning his neck to get a better look at Sanada.
Whoops. If nothing else, it takes his mind off of everything else, especially
when he still feels stupidly wobbly enough that undressing is a chore. Maybe,
if he teases Sanada enough, there won't be any conversations about his
executive decisions for the ranking matches. "You could turn around to let me
look a bit more while we wait, that'd be a great view."
 
Sanada’s cheeks heat up, and he turns to the side, tossing his hat down on top
of the rest of his clothes. “Idiot. You’ve seen me without any clothes plenty
of times.” Not that he ever finds Yukimura less attractive than the last time,
but the point is a valid one, maybe.
 
"It's the aesthetic. You make an art of wearing that fundoshi, you know,"
Yukimura compliments, tipping his head to the side. "Also, I just like looking
at you." 
 
“It’s not an art if it’s sweaty and needs a wash,” Sanada mutters. “Then it’s
just laundry.” He strips it off, shutting off the tap and trying not to let his
face stay red. “Do you want me to put you in the bath?” There’s probably no
tactful way to ask if he needs to be carried.
 
Really lewd laundry. 
 
Yukimura forgoes that particular tease in favor of hauling himself to his feet,
briefly grabbing the wall to steady himself. At least Sanada isn't going to
rush to his side whenever he does that, not like everyone else. "I'm fine," he
insists all the same, though his next grab is at Sanada's shoulder once he's
got a foot in the water. "I do, however, think I will run less tomorrow." 
 
Sanada doesn’t grab, knowing how much Yukimura hates it. Instead, he just
provides his arms for leverage, making himself available as a support, should
Yukimura choose to lean on him. “You don’t need to push yourself so hard,” he
says quietly, finally lowering himself into the bath. “There’s a future after
Nationals, and you’ll want to be ready for it.”
 
Sagging back--no matter how he grimaces, the water decisively stingy in some
odd places--Yukimura just huffs, shutting his eyes. "I'm not pushing myself
hard enough, you mean. That's why I changed my mind about the ranking
tournament; it's a tradition we need to keep." 
 
“I definitely didn’t mean that,” Sanada mutters. He sinks down, water level
rising as he manages to get most of his body under the waterline. “What is that
supposed to prove? Your doctors said you weren’t supposed to do anything
stressful for three weeks, and I know you aren’t going to slack off in the
ranking tournament. If you hurt yourself and rip open your stitches, we won’t
have you at Nationals.”
 
"Rikkai's captain has been veritably benched for eight months. Longer,really."
Yukimura slinks down a bit more, frowning as the water bumps up underneath his
chin. "The team needs to see in the ranking tournament that I'm still capable
of leading them. So you're right, I'm not going to slack off. I want to play,
Genichirou. I need to, if I'm going to get better." He hesitates, folding up
one leg to plop his chin down onto. "I asked Renji about what he thought my
chances were, you know."
 
“It doesn’t matter.” Sanada doesn’t want to hear a low number. He doesn’t want
to hear that he has to punch Renji, because he’s been giving Yukimura
statistics that he just doesn’t need to know. “We’re not even going to get to
Singles 1. I’ve seen their play now, and everything they have to throw. We’ll
crush them in the first three matches, and you can just be proud that you’ve
led such a strong team that you didn’t even need to play.”
 
"I know that. I know my match probably won't ever come. I know that everyone
else is at the top of their game. I know you've kept them there while I was
gone." Something in his chest tightens, and Yukimura swallows hard. "Is it
really that bad of me to want to be just as ready as all of you, though? I want
to play at 100 percent, not 34.82."
 
Sanada’s fist clenches. “That number is bullshit,” he says frankly. “He’s
always given you a number in the 90s, hasn’t he? And you’ve never lost. You’ve
played more than a hundred games. He’s just guessing, Seiichi. He’s not a
machine, and if he were all that smart, he’d have won his own damn game.”
 
Yukimura just looks at him tiredly. "I watched the tapes; his match is just
indicative of his continuously poor taste. Renji's accounting for the fact that
I've been in a bed for eight months, and I don't think he's wrong. It's
embarrassing to even practice my backhand in front of a ball machine; do you
think that's something in the 90s?"
 
“I think,” Sanada says quietly, reaching over to take Yukimura’s hand, “that
anyone who underestimates you, even you, is in for a rude awakening. I’ve never
been wrong by assuming that you’ll triumph.” You have to. For all of us, but
mostly for yourself. 
 
"…Then let me play in the ranking matches like I normally would." Yukimura
exhales a shaky breath, methodically lacing their fingers together to give
Sanada's hand a slow squeeze. "There's no better test than playing against the
best in Japan. I'm not," he adds, somewhat petulantly, "going to hurt myself." 
 
“You say let me as if there’s any chance that I could or would stop you.”
Sanada squeezes back, and lifts their hands, bowing his forehead to press it
against Yukimura’s fingers. “I will follow you until the end. Nothing about
that has ever changed.” Even if I know you’re wrong.
 
"But I would not put it past you to tie me to a bed if you thought it would do
some good for me to stay there," Yukimura mumbles. He bites his lip before he
tugs Sanada's hand back, bringing it up to brush a kiss over his knuckles. "I'm
not joking when I say I don't know what I'd do without you."
 
“It doesn’t matter.” Maybe he’s saying that too often. Sanada doesn’t care.
“You don’t have to think about it. You’ll never be without me, as long as you
can tolerate me.” He hopes he isn’t being too embarrassing, but Yukimura
doesn’t seem to mind too much so far, which does Sanada’s heart a lot of good.
“I would tie you to a bed if I thought you’d tolerate it, though.”
 
"I wouldn't," Yukimura cheerfully confirms. "I would chew my way out, like some
kind of awful animal. Mm, but can we get out and talk about better things?" He
can only vegetate for so long, or he feels like he needs to start running laps.
"Thoughts on letting Akaya pick a few line-ups for Nationals, for example. I
feel like he could use the experience." 
 
“Wash your hair,” Sanada instructs, passing over the shampoo from his side of
the tub. This would never work at his own home, with the deep but quite narrow
tubs. At Yukimura’s, however, it’s far more economical than wasting the water
by bathing separately.
 
Yeah, economical. That’s why Sanada likes sharing with him.
 
His hand drifts down, absently (consciously) caressing one smooth thigh. “I
think he could use the experience. Even more than that, I don’t think there’s
too much he can do that would put us at a disadvantage. Our lineup is never
secret, anyway.”
 
Yukimura fidgets, but does as he's told--though he definitely reaches down to
give Sanada's hand a poke underneath the water. "Keep doing that, and face
consequences," he 'warns', pushing a strand of lathered-up hair out of his
face. "So long as he doesn't try to make me play doubles with him, I agree;
there's not much he could do to mess anything up. It certainly will give him an
ego boost…hmm. Well, whatever, for better or for worse, he's cute with that ego
of his." 
 
Sanada snatches his hand back. “Sorry,” he mumbles. Yukimura is probably still
sore all over, and he’d taken liberties? Disgraceful. He’s a disgrace. “Just
make sure he knows that we’re winning because we’re the best ones on the court,
not because of his lineup. It wouldn’t do to have him be too arrogant about
next year.”
 
Of course he should have remembered that Sanada can't pick out a joke. "Get
back here," Yukimura huffs, grabbing at Sanada's wrist and pulling his hand
right back to his thigh. Yes, better. He wallows down into the water a bit
more, tilting his head back to rinse out his hair. "He's going to be arrogant
no matter what, but don't worry, I'll give him some advice beforehand. The
right lineup is just one piece to the puzzle, after all." 
 
Before, it was easy, and a little daring. Now, Sanada feels uncomfortable about
his hand’s placement. It feels too much like taking advantage, with Yukimura
right out of the hospital and needing him besides. 
 
He clears his throat, trying to clear his head when he’s pretty sure he’s
staring at his own hand on Yukimura’s thigh. “He’s...he’s a good kid. He’ll
help you lead us to victory, and carry on your legacy. That’s all anyone can
expect from anyone.”
 
"Mmhm. Also, Genichirou--" 
x
Yukimura leans his head to the side, bumping his cheek against Sanada's
shoulder. He's also not exactly subtle about letting his own fingers tiptoe up
one of Sanada's thighs, thumbing over hard, lean muscle. "I would have been all
over you the night I came home from my surgery if I had been able to stay
awake, so you can stop looking like you think I'm going to snap in two because
you're petting me a little. It's nice, you know? For things to feel good
again." 
 
Sanada swallows hard, and nods once. He doesn’t move his hand much, but he does
relax a little, letting out a breath and nuzzling a little down into Yukimura’s
hair. “Sorry. I didn’t want to...you know. I just want it to be right, between
us. We have time now.” A muscle twitches in his jaw, and he confesses, “I was
angry at you. For deciding only that day to do the surgery. I thought, if we’re
separated forever, and we never get to...but of course, you knew better.”
 
"Don't apologize. I was just teasing you." Yukimura lids his eyes, letting his
weight shift more comfortably into Sanada's side. His fingers slide down closer
to Sanada's knee, gently squeezing. "You can still be angry at me for that, if
you want--but I wasn't going to die. I had a list, and still do, and staying
with you is one of the main bullet points." 
 
“You didn’t die. Why should I be angry about something that didn’t happen?” 
 
Sanada’s fingers splay, and the memory of that time, of standing alone as his
team had hastened to Yukimura’s bedside, of the twisting, aching feeling in his
gut is so strong he closes his eyes for a moment. “I think,” he says carefully,
hearing the slight quaver in his own voice, “that if you hadn’t made it, I
would have been a very good monk.”
 
"Gross," Yukimura protests, and lurches up, slinging his arm around Sanada's
neck to promptly haul him down for a kiss--firm, insistent, and all the better
to mask the sudden, nervous flutter of dread in his own stomach. "How do we
keep coming back to this?" he quietly mutters, and he kisses Sanada again for
good measure. "Do you know how much I missed you? I don't want to think about
when we were apart, or how we could have been apart even more when you're right
here."
 
Because it dominated all of my thoughts for the better part of a year. Because
I still wake up in a cold sweat every morning checking my messages to find out
if they’ve called to tell me you died in the night. Because the thought of my
life without you was enough to make me decide to take vows.
 
“I don’t know.” Sanada hesitates, his hands coming up to Yukimura’s waist.
Somewhat shy, he mutters, “I thought it would be nice to have your back to my
front, but in the bath that seems inappropriate.” When we’re naked, that is.
 
Not giving Sanada an opportunity to actually protest the idea, Yukimura
wriggles his way over, settling himself contently between the other man's
thighs. He settles back, leaning his head back against the other boy's shoulder
with a pleased sigh. Sanada is awfully comfortable. "You said it yourself--
we've seen each other naked plenty of times, and sat like this even more. If
you're just holding me, there's nothing inappropriate about it." Niou would
tell him that he's resigned himself to being a virgin forever. Oh well, a
comfortable Sanada-pillow is a fair trade.
 
“Sorry,” Sanada murmurs, and hooks his chin over Yukimura’s shoulder, letting
his arms come to slide around Yukimura’s waist, holding him close. Whether
there’s something inappropriate about it or not, he can’t deny that he loves
the feel of Yukimura like this against him, leaning, cuddling. He’d thought it
would be different now from when they were younger...but it isn’t, not really.
He’d been stupidly in love with Yukimura then, too. “Do you remember what we
used to talk about?” he asks, voice soft in the other boy’s ear. “About what
our house was going to be like?” They couldn’t have been more than six when
they started designing it. There’d never been a question that they’d be living
in it together.
 
"Mmm. I want to draw it again later. First thing I'll put in my sketchbook
after coming home." Yukimura's eyes lid as he snuggles back, Sanada's warmth
negating the fact that the water is starting to cool. Every bed might make his
back ache lately, but Sanada is at least a dozen times more comfortable and
relaxing. "Do you still want it to be on a mountain?" he quietly asks, absently
trailing his fingers over the back of one of Sanada's hands. "If I'm busy
playing tournaments, having somewhere quiet like that to come back to would be
nice." He'd protested that when they were younger, wanting an apartment in
every huge city…but Yukimura is fairly certain he's turning into an old man
like Sanada, and mountains sound very good.
 
“We can have the house on the mountain, and an apartment in London or
wherever.” When he was younger, the idea of Yukimura having a place in a city
without him had only sounded like one thing: Yukimura leaving him alone. Now,
he’s starting to think he’s not quite the homebody he’d previously suspected of
himself. “If I close my eyes and try, I can still walk through it, just like we
planned.” His hand splays out on Yukimura’s abdomen, gently stroking, feeling
the play of muscles under that smooth skin, even after so long of atrophy. “The
living room, your art room, my salle….what was on the other side of the
kitchen, again?”
 
Ahh, that feels nice. Yukimura gives in and shuts his eyes completely, his face
turning to bury into the side of Sanada's neck. Breathing in deep reminds him a
dozen times over of all things clean and masculine and Sanada, and the last
little bit of tension wriggling its way around in his body filters away. "We
kept changing it…there definitely was a dedicated room just for all of your
swords at one point. Oh, and our bedroom was going to be beautiful. I still
fully intend to paint on every square inch of wall--Heian yamato-e style, don't
worry, nothing Renoir there."  
 
“I wasn’t worried.” Even Renoir would be fine as long as it’s Yukimura painting
it. The water is still cooling, but it feels kind of nice after the heat of the
day, and with Yukimura’s body cradled in his arms. At least he can keep him
warm. “And you wanted central heating. Ah, I remember, we wanted to have a
second story so we could look out at the koi pond and the shishi-odoshi while
we were still in bed.” He hadn’t even fought about the Western-style bed.
Yukimura’s is shockingly comfortable, and he can always do his meditation on
the floor to make up for the indulgence unbefitting of an ascetic.
 
"Mmhmm--huge garden, too. Remember, I did all a lot of research about what
grows best in mountain climates."  Yukimura sighs, nuzzling his face underneath
Sanada's chin. "Sometimes…running away and just living on a mountain sounds a
lot better than any other plans I have." 
 
Sanada considers for a moment letting Yukimura know exactly what he has planned
for after Nationals, but discards that idea. It’ll be better as a surprise. He
personally hates surprises, but Yukimura is different, and the thought of
seeing his eyes light up in delight...that’s worth sitting on the information
for a while. “I think about it every day,” he admits instead. “I remember we
had a wall between the gardens and the tennis courts, so that none of the balls
would crush the flowers.”
 
"We're going to need a very specific mountain," Yukimura says, mentally combing
the layout over again. "Courts with any sort of slope are awful. Oh, and
weren't we going to have a guest house, too? The whole team can stay
there…Niou's not allowed to start fires, though, I'll make him leave. Actually,
most of the time, I'll make them all leave. Our mountain, no trespassing."  
 
“It needs gates. We didn’t think of that before. Grave oversight.” Sanada’s
thinking of it now, big wrought-iron gates that not even Niou can climb.
Scratch that, Niou can climb anything. Electric gates, that’s the key. “Maybe a
moat.”
 
"Ahh, I really need to draw all of this out, can you imagine the look on a
contractor's face when we make him build such a masterpiece?"
 
“We’ll probably need a few different contractors. Most of them can’t handle a
job this large. And special professionals to do the tennis courts, of course.”
Sanada pauses, then adds, “And a small cabin away from all the rest. I’ll build
that one myself.”
 
"All right, Japanese-symbol-of-virility-kun. Don't mind me while I watch and
enjoy the sight of you being very manly." 
 
“You’re making it weird. You always make it weird.”
 
"Are you going to build it while just wearing your fundoshi? Because you
could."
 
Sanada sighs. “Probably. As long as we have that stream nearby.” He frowns,
thinking. “We should start looking for a mountain soon. This isn’t going to be
easy to find in Japan, you know.”
 
Yukimura tries to ignore various mental images that would have him drooling.
Overactive imaginations are rarely helpful, damn it all. "We'll manage. Maybe
we'll just need to buy Mount Fuji or something, clear out all the tourism." 
 
Sanada snorts. “If you want to go swimming in all that snow, be my guest. We
should look farther South, that’s where the good mountain weather is.” It’s
probably disturbing how much thought he’s put into this.
 
"We're going to have central heating, it's fine either way! Also," Yukimura
cheerfully adds, lifting a hand to run one finger up the side of Sanada's neck,
"you with goosebumps because of the cold is always cute." 
 
Sanada shivers at that, and reaches down to pull the plug before he starts to
embarrass himself. Ah, even shifting like that means it’s too late, and he
sighs out a breath, resting his forehead against the back of Yukimura’s head.
“Sorry,” he mutters, though trying to shift his hips away at this point would
just be more obvious, so he doesn’t. “Don’t think worse of me.”
 
"…Said as if I haven't been just as bad off since you started talking about
building us a cabin," Yukimura wryly says, and he twists slightly, turning to
press a kiss to Sanada's cheek. "You don't have to apologize." I'm just glad I
can still turn you on when I'm pale and skinny and usually falling over.
 
Sanada nuzzles into the side of his face, giving Yukimura a gentle squeeze.
“Just making sure that you don’t think I’m trying anything. It’s going to be
right, between us, when it happens.” There’s no question that it will. There’s
never really been a question, since they’d found out what sex was.
 
"Genichirou, I love you, but you never just try things," Yukimura teases,
gently butting his head back against Sanada's. "All or nothing, I know how you
are." 
 
Sanada nods slightly, relaxing as the water drains away. “At least you know
that.” He stands, lifting Yukimura easily, and turns him around to give him a
soft kiss. “And I love you, too.” Ah, that’s quite formal, but Yukimura never
seems to mind.
 
The way Sanada says that is always enough to make him melt a little. "At any
point," Yukimura sighs, leaning his head forward to press a kiss to Sanada's
shoulder, "you can stop being so perfect." But don't. Please."I love you." 
 
***** Yagyuu & Niou *****
It doesn’t take much to get Yagyuu involved in just about anything. Getting him
involved in something like a weekly ritual is a lot easier. Niou doesn’t even
have to blink lazily and invite him with double entendres--in fact, he doesn’t
invite Yagyuu at all. It’s Thursday, and that means Yagyuu will show up. He
hasn’t missed one. The first time had been spontaneous, but when Yagyuu had
asked if it was weekly, Niou had confirmed. Yagyuu’s never missed one since.
 
Niou leaves the front door unlocked (usually), and waits in the bathroom, all
of the bottles and tubes laid out. They’d never set a time, but the first time
had been around 5pm, and at 5:01, he hears the door open, shut, and lock. “It’s
not your stuff that’s gonna get stolen, Yaaagyuu,” he calls, legs splayed on
either side of the closed toilet.
 
"Then don't leave the door unlocked," Yagyuu exasperatedly calls back, leaving
his bag outside of the bathroom and stepping inside. He sighs at Niou, dangling
a plastic bag in front of him. "I brought gloves. Last time, you didn't have
them, and I was picking bleached skin off of my fingers for weeks. Never again,
no matter how you say it builds character." 
 
“Builds callouses,” Niou corrects cheerfully. “It’ll make people think you’re
the strong, hard-working type. I already mixed up the first thing, and cracked
the window.” Once, they had forgotten to crack the window.
 
Just once.
 
“Did you have trouble getting out of dinner with your folks?”
 
"I told them I was helping you with your summer homework." It works,
considering Niou's usual midnight calls asking casually about the material from
class that day so he can ace the test on the next. Yagyuu rips open a package
of gloves, and side-eyes Niou's hair with a frown. "You have more showing than
usual. You haven't been testing growth supplements again, have you? I told you
that's not safe."
 
“Nah, I was trying out a new theory about scalp massage. Guess it was real.
Huh.” Niou closes his eyes and tilts his head back towards Yagyuu. “I got you a
new brush. You always complain about the old one being kinda crusty.” Niou
likes it like that, but for Yagyuu, he’ll make the exception. “Take off your
clothes or they’ll get bleachy.” Yeah, that’s why.
 
Yagyuu frowns at him, pushing up his glasses. "I'm not taking them off. The
last time you insisted on that, I ended up with bleach in some very odd places,
and I am notgoing to experience that again. It burns." He does, however, roll
up his sleeves before pulling on his gloves and grabbing for the mixture of
bleach and developer. It's actually a bit odd to see Niou's roots at all, but,
well--it's also nice to get to see them, because Niou certainly doesn't let
anyone else get a glimpse at his natural hair color. Yagyuu gives the top of
Niou's head an idle, absent scritch before he reaches for the brush and coating
it in the mixture. "Always white…you should be more creative sometime, Niou-
kun. Pink seems popular in Harajuku." 
 
“If I start dying it crazy colors,” Niou points out, “there’ll be no more
question about whether or not this is my natural hair color. It’s important to
keep them guessing. Besides, we can always be creative somewhere else. Gotta
bleach that out today too, it’s been three weeks since the last time and it’s
starting to grow in.” No one but Yagyuu gets to do this with him, for good
reason.
 
An exasperated look is all Yagyuu gives him. "You can bleach that yourself.
That part was weird last time." The first time he did any of this, he was sure
there would be much more to it--and truthfully, it did seem like quite a lot.
Now, however, there's something of an art when it comes to bleaching Niou's
hair and coating every single black root that has decided to sneak in and
attempt to ruin his deception. "Your eyelashes give it away, though, if people
think to look at them," Yagyuu idly points out, starting with the roots at the
top of Niou's head, and methodically flipping up his hair to get underneath it
all. "I don't suggest dyeing those, though…" 
 
“Nah, people just think I wear mascara.” Niou flutters his eyelashes up at
Yagyuu. “Sometimes I do, just to throw them off. They make white mascara too,
you know? You think they’re long enough to look like falsies?”
 
Yagyuu peers down at him, flushes, nods, and returns to his task. "They're
longer than most girls'," he mutters. "It's weird, Niou-kun. Tip your head
forward and stop batting them at me, I need to get the back of your head."
 
Niou tips his head forward obediently. If Yagyuu’s hands didn’t feel so good in
his hair, he might be tempted to grab him, or twist out of his reach or
something. Then again, that’s why he lets Yagyuu do this instead of anyone
else. “You keep fighting it, but you’re gonna do my pubes. Otherwise you
complain later that it’s uneven and you don’t like looking at it.”
 
Yagyuu twitches a bit. He does remember the last time he refused, and it ended
up being…very uneven. Having a fit of OCD in the middle of sex is never good.
"Or maybe," he crossly replies, jabbing the brush lightly against Niou's scalp
as he works, "you could leave them alone, and take a break from letting others
see them for awhile. If it's just me, it doesn't matter." A pause, and Yagyuu
realizes how awkwardly…clingy? Jealous? whatever, he's not sure, but it's
certainly embarrassing, especially when he didn't really mean it like that-
- "Just--because after that fiasco with that girl, it might be better to, well,
limit yourself for awhile, and--" The grave is getting deeper.
 
Niou opens his eyes, long-lashed blue staring up at Yagyuu’s bespectacled face.
Quietly, he says, “If you want me to yourself for a while, just say so.” Fussy
bitch, I’d do it if you’d just say it. “Or is that too homo for you?” If he
doesn’t drive Yagyuu away on purpose, just that tiny bit of distance, he might
even say yes.
 
"You don't have to phrase it like that." God, Yagyuu hates that word. It makes
him nervous, and his gaze immediately flickers away, focusing perhaps too
intently on his task. "I'm just trying to make sure that you don't get in
trouble again--or, well, that you don't get in trouble, period." 
 
“Sure, it’s fine. If I’m going to be good like that, you’re going to have to
make it up to me.” Niou butts his head back against Yagyuu’s hands, feeling the
gloved fingers slip through his hair. It’s intimate, somehow, in a way that
even the sex they have doesn’t always accomplish. “You know I’m pretty
insatiable.”
 
Ah. Hmm. Weird, how Niou even just nuzzling against his hand like that makes
every nerve twitch in his body very pleasantly. At least he dropped the homo
thing. "You're the worst, more like," Yagyuu murmurs, working in the last bit
of bleach before sliding his hands away. "There. Let that sit." 
 
Niou stretches out, grunting a little at his muscles working out the kinks from
sitting still for even that short amount of time. He’s usually twitching
somewhat, but he doesn’t do it when Yagyuu’s touching him, for some reason.
“Don’t see why it’s the worst to want to have a lot of sex. You do. You’re just
all shy and Japanese about it.”
 
"I'm not shy. Girls are shy," Yagyuu protests, shoving up his glasses again
after peeling off his gloves and frowning down at Niou. "I'm just practical.
Trying to do it in the student council room minutes before a meeting isn't a
good way to start off the school year, for example." 
 
“Wasn’t an insult.” Niou kicks his feet a little, slouching back against the
toilet tank. “Hey, what do you think about Yukimura? Not in that weird flowery
way of yours, like...back from the hospital and everything.” Not that he’s
worried. That would be dumb.
 
Yagyuu hesitates before dropping himself down to sit on the edge of the tub.
Might as well sit; Niou's hair bleaching takes awhile to finish up, and he sort
of likes watching it gradually change from black to yellow before it's properly
toned to that silvery white. "Yukimura-kun seems to be adjusting well," he
diplomatically answers. "But I honestly hope that I don't end up in his ranking
bracquet." 
 
“Who cares if you do?” Niou asks practically. “He always rigs it so there’s
only two regulars in any one bracquet. You’re not going to lose to anyone but
another regular, so who cares who you wind up against? I hope it’s me. Might be
nice to have the yips for once. Sounds peaceful.” And I’ll know if he can still
do it.
 
"…That's not the part I'm worried about," Yagyuu hesitantly tries. Ah, he
doesn't like talking about this. It's just Niou, at least, and that makes it
better, but with any other member of the team--especially Sanada or Yanagi, or
Marui or…never mind, it's literally anyone else that gets extremely defensive--
it's no good. "Yukimura-kun should still be in physical therapy, not out there
playing with us." He exhales heavily. "I know for a fact his doctors wouldn't
have cleared anything like this. I don't want to be in his block because…well.
Having a chance at winning against him…just feels wrong." There. He's said it.
 
Niou sighs out a breath, looking up at Yagyuu. “Don’t be a dumbass. You’re not
going to beat him.” He lifts a leg, resting it on Yagyuu’s lap. “Me either. How
hard can the yips be to fake for guys like us?”
 
Yagyuu's brow furrows. "Niou-kun," he warily begins, resting a hand atop his
shin, "I don't think that's a very good idea. It might be easy to fake, but if
something goes wrong and he finds out…"
 
“I just don’t wanna be the reason he thinks he can’t play in Nationals.” Niou
nudges socked toes against Yagyuu’s belly. “I wish you’d known him longer
before he went into the hospital. Shit, he was so fucking proud, but he was
always happy, you know? Like…” Like there was nothing he couldn’t do. 
 
"I knew of him for awhile before I joined the team," Yagyuu quietly points out,
and he idly slides his hand down, pulling at one of Niou's toes through his
socks. "I just don't think faking that you've got the yips will make him feel
any better. If you think we can do it and not be found out, that's fine,
but…what if it's someone that isn't us? Maybe if you could rig the bracquets
even more or something…" 
 
“He’ll beat anyone else. Did you see him at training today?” It’s hard not to
sort of purr, but Niou likes it, way too much, when Yagyuu tugs on his toes
like that. Weird, maybe, but Yagyuu’s a little weird, and it feels good. “I’m
just saying, the yips is a smart way to get out of it. Sanada would murder us
if we beat him, and Yukimura would do it himself if he caught someone faking,
you know? Safest to just claim yips, it’s not like they can test it.”
 
Yagyuu pulls on another toe. It's more stress relief now than anything, oddly
enough. "If you're sure," he hedges, now more than ever sure that he doesn't
want to be in Yukimura's bracquet. It's just not going to end well, he can feel
it in the pit of his stomach. "I just…hmm. Maybe we should just rig it so that
it's Sanada-kun in the bracquet with him, and then he can keep dealing with
it." 
 
Niou grins. “Yagyuu Hiroshi, you’re positively delinquent if you think I’m
going to rig the matches. I like it.” He leans forward, tiptoing his fingers up
one of Yagyuu’s thighs. “If you’re worried about getting bleached, I won’t give
you a blowjob, but the offer’s on the table.”
 
Yagyuu opens his mouth, shuts it again, and briefly, pointedly looks away,
shoving his glasses up. It's definitely a problem that he gets turned on being
called delinquent, isn't it? His parents raised him to be better than this.
They're still quite certain he is better than this, but… "I," he valiantly
attempts to say without his voice being sort of breathy around the edges, "am
not adverse to being bleached." 
 
He's really no better than Niou. It's probably best to resign himself to that
fact at some point.
 
Niou grins, and doesn’t bother to hide it. His knees are on the floor in a few
seconds, and he’s already pawing at the front of Yagyuu’s slacks, because
Yagyuu is a good boy who changes out of his school uniform as soon as school is
over. “Take your shirt off if you don’t want it ruined,” he advises, letting
his fingers tease the other boy through the smooth fabric of his slacks first.
“I mean, my head might go all the way down, and then you’d get bleach spots.”
 
"Ah," Yagyuu manages in agreement, trying very hard not to think about Niou's
head going all the way down when his fingers should be fumbling less with
buttons and be a lot more capable with this sort of thing. "Right." 
 
He also makes a valiant attempt at not tipping backwards into the tub. He
manages, barely, when he shrugs his shirt off, and gives into the urge to wrap
a hand up into Niou's hair, no matter that the bleach is still in there and he
can feel the heat of it as it oxidizes against his own fingers. It's pretty
weird to be turned on by that, isn't it? Yes. It definitely is. 
 
Yagyuu is stupidly cute when he’s really turned on. It’s a problem that Niou
thinks that, because Yagyuu is turned on a lot of the time. He finally lets his
fingers pry open the fasteners, and open those perfect pleated pants, letting
the thick stiffening cock out. It’s not quite hard yet, but Niou wraps his
mouth around the head, faintly tasting soap, chlorine, and the odd tang of male
skin that he finds so fucking intriguing. “Damn,” he mutters, wriggling the
flat of his tongue down the underside of Yagyuu’s cock before pulling off.
“What do I have to say to get you all the way there?”
 
Yagyuu's eyes flutter, and his next, huffing exhale of breath actually fogs up
his glasses a little. "Not much," he admits, his fingers tightening a little in
Niou's hair, tryingnot to pull just yet, but it's hard when Niou's tongue is
hot and wet against him and already driving him insane. "You could--ah--" He
should be more embarrassed about this part. Probably. Yagyuu is, in a way, but
it doesn't really last, so does it even count? "Tell me how much you like it,
when it's so big that you can barely even…" He trails off, because talking
about it himself actually makes it difficult to think, and his toes curl in his
own socks before he slides a foot across the bathroom floor up to Niou's thigh,
absently kneading. 
 
The obnoxious thing about blowing Yagyuu is that he loves having a mouth on his
dick, but he also loves fucking dirty talk. That’s fine, but Niou does struggle
a bit to make sure he’s paying equal attention. He bobs down a few times, about
halfway, before pulling off for a minute, stroking firmly, slowly from base to
tip with one hand, resting his mouth near the head. “It’s so thick my jaw
hurts,” he says with a grunt, leaning into the press of Yagyuu’s foot. “Look
what it did to me, Yaaaaaaagyuu. I’m all sticky.” He tilts his head up, eyes
half-lidded, showing off the sticky-slick part of his lips and chin where he’s
practically dripping precome.
 
"Shit," Yagyuu mutters, strangling a whimper into the back of his throat.
Niou's way too good at this, and it never really feels like he has a chance to
catch up to processing all of it when his dick's hard enough that it hurts and
his mind feels like it's sort of swirling and--"Get your mouth back on it," he
manages to rasp, even as he's unable to resist dragging his fingers through the
sticky mess on Niou's chin. He can't help thumbing that full lower lip either,
especially when it's already a little bruised, but eventually Yagyuu just has
to shudder, dragging his hand way to curl it back up into Niou's hair and
sliding his foot up higher, pressing it between Niou's legs. "Is it so big you
can't fit it all in?" 
 
Niou’s eyes cross at that a bit, and he nods once, breathing, “Yeah. Can’t get
all of your big dick in my mouth, shit—” before diving back down, letting
himself be noisy, making sure he’s sloppy and loud as he sucks on the head and
the shaft. His hips rut forward, his cock straining against his shorts, and the
moan that comes out when the thick head of Yagyuu’s cock hits his throat isn’t
feigned, and neither is the way he gags.
 
It's usually best not to try and figure out how this sort of situation happens,
because it's too good to be true and Yagyuu's pretty sure if he keeps thinking
about it, it's going to stop.
 
It's best to just go with it. 
 
Yagyuu wraps both of his hands up in Niou's hair, tugging him down harder with
a breathy, needy grunt of effort. He can feel the resistance, the way that Niou
struggles for just a second, but then there's the way his throat just spasms
around him when Niou gags and damn it, there's really nothing better. "Looks
like you're taking it well enough now," he groans, shifting his weight forward
enough to grind his foot down against Niou's cock, his own twitching when he
can feel how hard Niou is and how just as turned on he is. He rocks back,
yanking Niou's head back as well just enough to hear him gasp for breath, to
hear the slick pop of his cock sliding free, and Yagyuu would be a horrible
liar if he said he didn't love the way Niou looked with a cock rubbing against
his face. "I could probably come like this, but you like it better when you can
really taste it, don't you?" 
 
The tears that spring to Niou’s eyes are a reflex, something that happens every
time he gags that hard. He knows his face is flushed and splotchy now, and he
pants for breath, warm puffs of air along the head of Yagyuu’s cock. Yagyuu’s
hands are strong, calloused as they yank him around, and that just makes his
cock harder. His words are slurred when he talks, by virtue of the dick pressed
up against his cheeks, distorting his speech and making him feel like a cheap
whore as his cock throbs. “Need it in my mouth,” he groans, turning his head as
much as he can, struggling slightly against those hands as he tries to get his
mouth on the head. “Nn...I wanna come while I’m tasting your big fucking
cock...shit, I won’t be able to swallow it all, there’s always too much.” That
ought to do it.
 
There's really no such thing as self-control when he's with Niou, and Yagyuu
ought to know that by now. 
 
Except that Niou always knows how to push his buttons and throw him off guard
and make him like this and that's just not fair. He probably could be kinder
about stuffing his cock back into Niou's mouth, no matter how he knows, judging
by the way Niou's cock throbs against his foot, that Niou likes it when he's
that rough. He could also be kinder about yanking his head down, but the way it
feels when his cock slides down over that slick, hot tongue is sinful and makes
Yagyuu groan and buck his hips forward, bumping against the back of Niou's
throat. 
 
And that really does it, because Niou gags and drools and Yagyuu was already on
a hair-trigger that he didn't even know he had. "There," he gasps out, his
fingers tight in Niou's hair, holding him firmly in place when he comes,
spilling hot and slick with every pulse that just makes his eyes roll into the
back of his head. "You better--ah, fuck--swallow it all, or I'll just make you
lick it off the floor--"
 
Well, that’s just no kind of fair.
 
Niou gags hard when the first shot hits the back of his throat, and no matter
how hard he tries to swallow it, some of Yagyuu’s come dribbles down his chin,
leaking out around the thick cock stuffed in his mouth. It’s hard to care when
he’s lurching forward, coming in hot wet spurts against the firm pressure of
Yagyuu’s foot. 
 
The taste of him is thick and strong, and Niou knows he’s a sick fuck for
liking the way it’s slimy and weird in his mouth. There are some guys who taste
slightly sweet and feel watery, but Yagyuu’s not one of them, and Niou always
gets off on that for some reason. 
 
He grinds up one more time, then lets Yagyuu’s softening cock slip from between
his lips, looking up with a challenging, satisfied look in his eyes. “You gonna
make me lick it up?” he breathes, voice hoarse as he holds Yagyuu’s eyes,
daring him to refuse.
 
Yagyuu exhales a strangled groan before just giving into the urge to shove
Niou's head down to the floor. "Just do it," he breathes, his cock giving a
weak, desperate twitch because ah, damn it, it's impossible not to find this
hot even when it was just something he said in the heat of the moment and Niou
doesn't really have to do it. "Like a good boy." 
 
Welp, I’m hard again.
 
Yagyuu isn’t usually this domineering, and Niou’s thighs tremble at the force
of it. He tilts his head to the side, making sure Yagyuu can see it when his
long tongue snakes out, dragging over the floor to lick up the mess he’d
spilled. It takes a few licks before he swallows, straightening up and letting
Yagyuu see the glazed look of pleasure on his face. “It’s hard to be a good boy
when I’m thinking about how good your big dick is going to feel in me.” He
doesn’t say,Your come is gross and that gets me off, not this time, but he kind
of wants to.
 
"…Wash out your hair first," Yagyuu somehow manages to say, because of course,
the only sliver of clarity that's still in his mind is the fact he doesn't want
Niou's hair to fall out courtesy of prolonged bleaching. If it did, what would
he have to throw him around with? No, wait, better plan--"We could fuck in the
shower." The longer he's around Niou, the more likely he is to pick up his
horrible language and speech patterns. It's fine now, awkward when he goes home
later. 
 
(He doesn't go home later. It's fine.)
***** The Captain's Drawing, Atobe & Ryouma *****
Of course, Hyoutei is there first. 
 
Tezuka is actually rather glad. There's much less of a chance of Atobe making
an entrance and greeting him outright. This way, it's just Atobe sitting and
attempting to look stylish while his legs are very obviously cramping up. 
 
"Do you have to go back to Kyushu after this?" Oishi frets underneath his
breath. "The team really does miss you, and…"
 
And after seeing all these other captains here, you don't feel confident
leading. Tezuka doesn't say it, but he doesn't need to. A glance at Oishi makes
it clear as day, and Tezuka bites back a sigh. 
 
Oishi continues to fret: "My family can get you the same medical care here, you
know."
 
Tezuka almostsays yes. Almost. "Another week recovering on my own will be good,
I think. It's nothing against you." 
 
Don't make eye contact with Atobe. Don't do it.
 
A sigh from Oishi denotes a subject change more clearly than anything as they
take their seats. "Why is Hyoutei even here, anyway?" he quietly asks. "I
didn't think they qualified."
 
"They didn't," Tezuka deadpans. "Atobe bought the stadium."
 
"What?" 
 
“Of course, it would be a disgrace if the true kings didn’t get the opportunity
to play in the Nationals, ahn?”
 
Atobe had entered, as always, with both an entourage and a cheer. There’s not
much to be done about it, of course. Now that he’s sitting and waiting, he can
at least look good doing so. He casts a look around the room, and favors Tezuka
with a small nod--an acknowledgement, but no more. It wouldn’t do to let him be
flustered when he’s being so tall and captainy. “It was so rude of you to get
here before us, Shitenhouji-kun.”
 
“Shiraishi,” a blond young man corrects, not unkindly. He smiles to see Tezuka,
but pales at who shows up in the door behind him. 
 
Sanada flanks his Captain, walking behind and to the right in the spot he’s
earned. He’d considered just coming himself, but Yukimura had wanted to make a
statement, and Sanada does like the way eyes widen when they stalk in.
Undefeated reigning kings, the drawing is just a preliminary to their victory.
 
Tezuka exhales an aggravated noise, pointedly glancing away. Oishi,
subsequently, struggles not to hide behind him.
 
"Hello, everyone!" 
 
It should be a crime for someone like Yukimura Seiichi to be so cheerful. 
 
But it's a thing anyway, and Yukimura beams in Atobe's direction first. "Oh,
Atobe-kun--you're actually here! It would have been something of a shame for
you not to make Nationals, I suppose."
 
“It would indeed have been a shame. Fortunately, the stars have aligned to make
certain the best teams have gathered.”
 
“You’re awfully arrogant for someone who had to buy his way into the
tournament,” Sanada scoffs. 
 
Atobe’s smile never falters. If anything, it widens. “Ah, Rikkai’s Number Two.
Yukimura, I’m glad to see you back on your feet. I do hope you’ve been saving
your strength. I want you to be at full power when I defeat you.”
 
Yukimura's smile is still just as bright. "That certainly sounds like a match.
It would be good if you didn't lose before you even got to play against us; you
know, if the Kantou was any indication of your line-up this year…"
 
"So you are convalescent, then," Tezuka dryly puts in. Oishi starts sweating.
 
Shiraishi nods, somewhat nervously, at Sanada and Yukimura. “Yukimura-kun, I
look forward to having a good match if we’re fortunate enough to meet this
year. Shitenhouji will show a great deal of spirit.”
 
“I’m sure we’ll all be laughing at you,” Atobe agrees generously.
 
Yukimura artfully chooses to ignore Tezuka. Any reaction, and Sanada will
probably (most definitely) punch him. "I can only hope we'll actually get to
see you play this time, Shiraishi-kun! Maybe we should agree to see one another
in Singles 3…" 
 
The door flies open again, producing one sweat-soaked, rumple-haired Kite
Eishirou, complete with glasses askew and teeth gritted in a slow, hissing
seethe. 
 
"Ah," Yukimura says, blinking. "Okinawa's finest has arrived." 
 
There’s a somewhat instinctive reaction to step in front of Yukimura, but
Sanada refrains...somehow. He probably shouldn’t try and defend him from Kite,
not when Kite hasn’t done anything yet, nickname (and past behavior) or no.
 
“Ah!” A small shaved head bounces into view, eyes wide above a red uniform. “No
one said there’d be a pretty girl here!”
 
There’s a collective intake of breath. Even Atobe says nothing, staring between
Rokakku’s captain and Yukimura.
 
Yukimura keeps the instinctive urge to strangle Aoi down to a slight twitch of
an eye. "Ah, well," he brightly says, "the leggings werea choice." 
 
"Yukimura-kun," Kite says, raking a hand back through his hair as he steps
further into the room. A piece of seaweed sort of drags in behind him. "It's
very good to know you'll be at Nationals this year. Between you and Tezuka--"
 
Tezuka turns away, walks away, and sits down, his back to the group. 
 
"--it will certainly be an interesting road to victory--"
 
Yukimura glances aside. "I wonder about that…"
 
"And if not this year," Kite continues, "then next year, Okinawa's finest will
emerge--"
 
"I wasn't aware Higa's underclassmen were anything to speak of…" Yukimura
muses.
 
"They aren't," Tezuka idly tosses back. 
 
Not to be deterred, Aoi edges closer, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out over
his forehead as he tries to look ever so manly. “I didn’t see Rikkai’s cute
manager before,” he tries, oblivious to the terror on everyone else’s face. 
 
Sanada looks around, startled. “Manager? What manager?” He’s fairly certain
that he’d know if Rikkai had found a manager.
 
Atobe can only hope that his insight pose manages to muffle his laughter, or at
least reduce it to a manageable level. Crassness has no place in a Captain, but
it is difficult to keep a straight face.
 
Yukimura's head tilts to the side with the slightest little twitch, though his
smile doesn't falter. "If by manager, you mean 'club president'…" 
 
"Is no one going to say anything?" Oishi worriedly whispers. Tezuka looks away,
though he does flick a crumpled piece of trash in Atobe's direction, letting it
bounce off of the hand that apparently wants to eat his face.
 
"Aoi-kun--you would do well to research your potential opponents more
thoroughly," Kite gravely says, pushing his glasses up. There's sort of a
collective nervous laugh to follow.
 
Yukimura graciously offers Aoi a bow of his head. "Even I wasn't a captain in
my first year, Aoi-kun." 
 
The collective sucking in of breath becomes a collective exhalation of relief
as all the blood drains from Aoi’s face. The smile turns fearfully nervous, and
he bobs a bow several times in quick succession. “Ahh, I’m so sorry! Please
forgive me, I just really want to see cute girls and I didn’t recognize you
from Rikkai’s team!”
 
Atobe has himself under control--until he catches a glance of Sanada’s face,
still entirely clueless. Shit, shit, bursting out laughing is rude, why won’t
someone do it first so I can merely join in?
 
"The leggings were a choice," Kite echoes underneath his breath. 
 
Yukimura just laughs, bowing in return. "It's fine! I've been absent and Sanada
has been taking care of the team for me. I look forward to playing your team at
the Nationals. Ahh, Sanada, doesn't he remind you a little bit of Akaya? But,
you know, slightly less…"
 
"Homicidal," Tachibana deadpans, having slipped in amongst the 'cute girl'
chaos.
 
"No, no, that's not the word. Mmnn, at least we all seem to have strong
successors for next year." Yukimura beams. "Although Rikkai's will be the
strongest." 
 
"Wrong," Tezuka idly chimes in. Oishi strangles a long-suffering sigh.
 
Yukimura's head tips disinterestedly. "Eh? But Sanada did beat your rookie…"
 
Shiraishi coughs discreetly, stepping forward with a smile and the air of a man
about to make a fantastic announcement. “I hate to inform you all, but the
rookie of the century did not compete in the Kantou tournament. Our rookie is
undefeated, by anyone, student or adult.”
 
Sanada snorts. “I stopped being impressed with prodigy rookies.”
 
“Nonsense, next year’s games will be decided not by one rookie,” Atobe
interrupts, “no matter if he’s as strong and hard-working as Tezuka’s. Next
year’s winner, as this year, will come from the strongest team. Of course, the
winner will be—”
 
“Rikkai,” Sanada interrupts.
 
“Rokakku!”
 
“Shitenhouji.”
 
“No, Hyoutei! Na, Kaba--where is Kabaji?”
 
"If not this year, then the next! Higa will cease to be the Dark Horse and will
be the reigning champions--"
 
"That's enough, too much of a speech," Yukimura cheerfully chimes in. 
 
"Fudoumine is the real Dark Horse."
 
"Seigaku," Tezuka gravely puts in, "will be the new reigning kings."
 
Yukimura wanders away to take a seat with the best view.
 
It’s unclear how long the chairman has been attempting to cough discreetly in
the doorway, but from the looks of things, it hasn’t been a short amount of
time when he finally gets everyone’s attention. “First draw, Hyoutei!”
 
“As befitting the true number one,” Atobe says confidently, giving himself a
long moment to stand up dramatically. At least that way it’s harder to tell
that his leg has fallen asleep. “You may all compete to see who will be the
unlucky team to be first knocked out of the tournament by my glorious self’s
team.”
 
"BYE," the chairman announces of the draw. 
 
"Now who's the one with too much of a speech?" Kite hisses underneath his
breath. Yukimura pointedly looks up at the ceiling. 
 
"Next, Seigaku!"
 
Tezuka doesn't look at Atobe upon passing him to the front of the room. If he
does, there's a pretty good chance he's going to want to trip him.
 
"BYE!"
 
A shame in a way, that. There's the simple fact that Rikkai is still the
elephant in the room, and having their name still in that damned hat is not
exactly the most pleasant of things to realize. 
 
“Next, Rokakku!”
 
“Rikkai Dai Fuzoku!”
 
Aoi’s already pale face goes ashen, and he throws in a few more bows and
muttered apologies for good measure. “I’m looking forward to an exciting game
against the reigning kings! I’ll make sure my team is in top shape to make it a
good game!”
 
“Doubtful,” Sanada says, more matter-of-fact than anything.
 
Yukimura reaches over to pat Sanada's arm. "Shhhh." Less seaweed. That's the
word he was looking for. Like Akaya, but significantly less seaweed.
 
The rest of the drawings are uneventful after that, with most (all) of the
other captains relieved at the lack of Rikkai Dai Fuzoku being in the pool of
choices. That being said--
 
"Look, Atobe-kun," Yukimura hums as the bracquets are further assigned. "It
seems there's a chance we'll meet up in the quarterfinals. You know, assuming
you don't lose to BYE Gakuen." 
 
Atobe’s smile is as frosty as befits an Emperor of Ice. “As long as you don’t
lose to the first-year captain. I assume that as their manager, you’ll be
cheering Rikkai on?”
 
“Next, Shitenhouji!”
 
“Ah, Higa-chu!”
 
“A showdown in the South,” Shiraishi muses, giving Kite a slight nod. “I look
forward to it.”
 
Kite pushes his glasses up. "It will be an interesting match for sure,
Shiraishi-kun."
 
Yukimura's smile is sickly-sweet. "Considering I don't need to playin order for
us to win, that would be a good assumption, Atobe-kun."
 
"How do you ever come to these things alone?" Oishi whispers to Tezuka, wide-
eyed. 
 
Tezuka just heaves a long-suffering sigh. It's a good question, and one that he
doesn't really ever fancy answering. 
 
~
 
It's the middle of the night, and Tokyo has more public tennis courts than
Kanagawa. That's a fact, and it's a real struggle that Yukimura has dealt with
for a good portion of his short life. 
 
There's also the simple and basic fact that Tokyo swims with shrines amidst the
city streets. If he needed more of an excuse, then he has one with that alone,
but tennis is good enough. Tennis always a good enough excuse, even when
doctors refuse to rip his staples out yet and that leaves his back sore and
twinging with every swing. Staples can't come out yet. Not enough healing. Take
it easy, Yukimura-kun, you have to let yourself heal.
 
Ahh, what is it going to take to get everyone to understand there's not enough
time for that?
 
Yukimura's blood thrums on the court, and the magatama bounces against his
chest underneath his shirt when he chases after a ball that the wall returns.
An opponent would be better, but at least walls don't get yips. He's into that
part, really, and he's already dripping in sweat from the humid heat of summer,
no matter if it's dark except for the street lights.
 
"That wall's not giving you a lot of competition," a kid says out of nowhere,
downing the rest of his grape soda and tossing it in the trash. Whenever he
showed up, Yukimura doesn't know (or care). He's little, and his dark hair is
mostly in his eyes that are still gleaming. "Wanna go?"
 
It's not like he can turn down a match--ever--except from that one guy in
Okinawa. So Yukimura smiles, turning around to toss him a ball. "Sure." Maybe
this one is like his sister, and doesn't get the yips.
 
Wishful thinking, and all that. 
 
~
 
The guy doesn't look that good.
 
Ryouma likes to think that he's got an edge on knowing the difference between
tennis players that are good and bad. This one looks like he could be good.
There's a streamlined grace to his movements, a flow from shoulder to elbow to
hand, but he lacks the necessary bend to his back to put power behind his
serve, and the squareness to his shoulders slumps from time to time, speaking
of tension and stiffness. 
 
So he can't be that good. 
 
Still, there's not really anyone else around this late, except for a bunch of
doubles players that are asshats. Ryouma's not interested. He wants to play
singles, and this guy, for all the leanness and delicacy to his frame, hits a
ball like he means it. 
 
"Wanna go?"
 
Ryouma gets a smile for his trouble. "Sure."
 
All he can really hope for is something of a match. Atobe put him up to this,
anyway.
 
~
 
At least when Ryouma wakes up, it's cool.
 
Also, it's really comfortable. His own bed isn't this comfortable, even though
he's complained a dozen times and his dad finally got him a new mattress. This
is a step above, and even though he feels a dozen times less overheated than
earlier, he can't help but bury his way down into the sheets, sighing into a
very squishy, comfortable pillow. 
 
Wait.
 
Ryouma sits up, blinking dizzily as he contemplates his surroundings further.
Big, squishy bed. Very European. Way too elaborate to the point of tacky--
 
There's little to do but groan. He feels like he's been hit by a truck, and
aches from head to toe, and so Ryouma just stuffs his face down into a pillow
once more. He doesn't remember much of his evening. Tennis. There was supposed
to be tennis. Atobe had dragged him out, telling him to play with his right
hand only. Yeah. It should have been easy. The first guys were easy, but….
 
But then there was that other guy. 
 
Did I win?
 
He definitely played a match. He doesn't remember the outcome, but he's pretty
sure he'd like to.
 
“Awake already, are we?” 
 
Atobe has a cup of tea in one hand, expertly brewed, because Ryouma at least
knows that Japan is not the be-all, end-all when it comes to tea variety. That,
among other things, is something they’ve bonded over. 
 
The boy looks so small, curled up in his enormous bed, shaken and pale from his
run-in with Rikkai’s captain. He sits on the side of the bed, setting the tea
onto the nightstand. “When I told you to go out and play with your right hand,
I didn’t mean to the death, Ryouma.”
 
Ryouma lifts his head just enough to send Atobe a rather dark glare from over
the edge of his pillow. "Wasn't to the death," he points out petulantly,
huddling a bit more into the sheets. This bed is comfortable, though. "I'm not
dead." Did I win, you obviously know if I won or not because I'm here.
 
“You looked quite dead, when I showed up,” Atobe says pointedly. “I made you
tea and everything.” His old nanny would be so proud. Ah, Kunimitsu had said to
tell the boy who he’d been playing, but...Atobe can’t quite decide. Knowing it
was Yukimura, Rikkai’s Captain, might make Ryouma even more panicky when it
comes to Nationals, and that’s the last thing the boy needs. Best to let it be,
for the time being. Tezuka is hardly Ryouma’s guardian, not with the way he
keeps fucking off to Kyuushuu and Germany. “Just tell me you didn’t switch to
your left hand.”
 
"I didn't." Ryouma eyeballs the steaming cup of tea for a moment longer before
slowly snaking out a hand to grab it. "And I wasn't dead. I was…" He hesitates,
thinking of how to describe it, but honestly, his memory is still a little
fuzzy. "Did I win?"
 
“You will next time,” Atobe says, and in that moment, he’s entirely convinced
it’s true. “At least, I think you lost. That’s what your opponent said, before
he left. What a rude person, to leave you unconscious on the tennis court. If I
hadn’t seen that you were well, I’d have called the police.” He’d called the
commissioner’s grandson, anyway.
 
Ryouma's hand shakes a little before he can stop it, and he frowns at the
teacup again, letting the steam billow over his face before he slowly sets it
back down without taking a sip. He couldn't have lost. He doesn't lose. 
 
Except to Sanada.
 
Just that one time, though.
 
To Tezuka-buchou.
 
Right, well…that's to be expected, isn't it?
 
Fuji-sempai had been winning that one match, and then there's his father--
 
"…Every shot." It's back in startlingly clarity now, and Ryouma half-curls up
around a pillow, hugging it to his chest. "Every shot I hit--he always returned
it. He didn't look thatgood, is my right hand that bad?" The question comes out
far more desperate than he wants, and he hates it. Doubt isn't something that
he's very acquainted with, at least not with tennis. 
 
For a moment, Atobe thinks it might be better to tell him exactly who he’d been
playing--but wouldn’t that be worse, in the long run? Wouldn’t that make him
even more terrified of the Nationals matches, and Yukimura Seiichi? Hell, if
Yukimura is already back to that much of his old fighting shape after a week
out of the hospital, Atobe’s faintly trembling himself at the idea of it. 
 
Best not to sacrifice his momentary comfort for his eventual win. 
 
“You’re expecting too much of yourself,” he says instead, sinking down onto the
bed, propping up his head on one hand. “Remember, you’re supposed to be
building endurance and the element of surprise. You probably had the misfortune
to run into some off-duty tennis pro. Who else would be wandering around Tokyo
with a racquet at that time of night, hmm?” He reaches over, giving Ryouma’s
hair a gentle tug. “You took a point off of me with your right hand, remember?”
 
Ryouma sinks into the mattress again with a huff. "He looked younger than you,"
he quietly complains, pouting in the direction of Atobe's hand, but not exactly
pulling away from it. "And you're easy to get points off of, once I figure out
patterns and stuff because you're an idiot. This was different." 
 
Atobe flicks Ryouma’s head, but not too hard. “Watch it, little prince. Maybe
he just has a good skin care routine.” That I should totally ask him about,
because he’snotthat much younger than me. “You were a tennis pro. Is it so hard
to believe there could be another around the same age? Anyway, that match is
over now. Why is it so frightening to have your balls returned?”
 
Tempted as he is to try and bite Atobe's hand, Ryouma resists, and slowly
wriggles closer to the edge of the bed again and to that tea cup. He should try
and drink it, at any rate. It doesn't smell like green tea, which is a plus.
"It's the way he did it," he mutters, wrapping both hands around the cup and
kind of hugging it to his chest. "Like he's already there and thinking about
how to hit it back before it even hits my racquet. Dunno, didn't like it. It
made my head fuzzy after awhile--like it didn't matter where I hit it, he'd get
to it." 
 
That would be the infamous yips he’s heard so much about, doubtless. “That
sounds obnoxious,” Atobe says frankly, and because Ryouma looks like he could
use a cuddle, wraps an arm around him. He’s chilled, which is lucky, because
Atobe is usually excessively warm. “This is why I’m teaching you not to rely on
those tricky, flashy shots. You’ll always find someone who can return them. The
only true way to always win is by learning to outlast anyone until you can find
their weaknesses.”
 
Atobe is a furnace. This is good, very good, and Ryouma huddles back against
him, sipping slowly at his tea. "Wasn't even doing a lot of flashy shots," he
grumpily replies. "I tried those, but he just hit them back. Didn't like it."
He hesitates, then tilts his head back, frowning up at Atobe. "I'm tryingto
learn to play like that, Atobe-sempai," Ryouma quietly insists, "but can I
really learn it fast enough before Nationals?"
 
“Of course.” There isn’t a moment of hesitation in Atobe’s voice. Even a moment
could be deadly to Ryouma’s confidence, as shaken as the boy is from his
usually-ubiquitous confidence. “If you want to doubt yourself, fine. I’ll be
confident for you until you remember how excellent you are.” He leans down, and
nuzzles Ryouma’s nose briefly with his own. “We all still have lots more to
work on, no?”
 
"You're gross," is the mutter that follows, and Ryouma wriggles away just long
enough to put his tea cup down after another drink (long enough to make that
annoying flush fade from his face somewhat). "I know I'm good. I just…mmph." He
rolls, stuffs his face into Atobe's chest--because he's warm and solid and
always kinda smells good. "Don't wanna lose again." Don't want to let my
captain down again, either. 
 
“Then don’t. It sounds simple because it is.” Atobe shrugs, and lets his arms
curl around Ryouma, gently petting his hair. “You can’t control how good your
future opponents will be. You just have to make sure that you’ve done
everything you can possibly do, and you won’t have to be worried about facing
them. And that’s enough advice from me for the day, before you start getting
sick of it.”
 
"Yeah, you're already dumb." Ryouma burrows, grabbing at Atobe's back to
wriggle up even closer to him. "Just don't like losing to some random guy on
the street," he crossly says, and sets his teeth to Atobe's shoulder to vent
some of his frustration. Gnawing is good, yes. "Play me later."
 
“Fine, fine,” Atobe says, and hisses slightly at the brush of Ryouma’s teeth.
They’re oddly sharp, and his fingernails prick into Ryouma’s scalp in answer.
“If you keep doing that, you’re going to drool on my shirt. Unless you want me
to take it off first.” They are in his bed, and he did behave in a very
gentlemanly fashion by carrying Ryouma home, after all.
 
Ryouma pauses, and his eyes flick upward, contemplative. "Maybe," he slowly
says, and then: "Yeah." That sounds good, and like a pretty good way of taking
his mind off of tennis--not something he usually wants, but right now, it's
what he needs. 
 
Being a gentleman has its rewards, fortunately. 
 
Atobe moves slightly to take off his shirt, laying back onto soft pillows and
arching a single eyebrow. So far, their few trysts have mainly been composed of
Atobe grabbing Ryouma and taking what a Prince owes to a King, and he’s rather
interested to see what Ryouma will do with his body, when given carte blanche.
“As you wish.”
 
Ryouma crawls after him, climbing into his lap in short order and splaying his
hands over Atobe's chest with a thoughtful frown. "Every other time's been on a
tennis court," he idly notes. "Is this what happens when you kidnap me
instead?" 
 
Atobe reaches up, cupping the boy’s face in one large hand for a quick kiss,
then lets his hands drop to lace behind his head. “I’d have gone with ‘rescue’
over ‘kidnap,’ but I don’t mind being a dashing pirate. Do you want to be my
distressed damsel, then? I’d thought you’d want a more active role for once,
but perhaps you enjoy the passive…”
 
At that, Ryouma lurches forward to bite him again, getting a solid one in on
the side of his neck. Thing is, he knows how much being bitten there pisses
Atobe off, and that's part of the fun. "Not distressed and not a damsel," he
mutters as he reaches down to unabashedly grab at Atobe's cock through his
pants. "Just gimme." 
 
Atobe starts to give the brat a swat for the bite (it’s tacky, ugh), but
forgets about his intentions when Ryouma grabs him like he’s the last sweet in
the candy shop. He curses under his breath, and reaches down to unfasten his
trousers, pulling out his cock and wrapping a hand around it, slowly coaxing
himself to hardness. Ryouma’s never seen him less than fully erect before; he’s
always been so hard and ready before their little meetups that it’s been
straining before they’d even touched. “If you want it,” he says, arching an
eyebrow, “you should get it ready.” Serve him right to have to do some of the
work instead of just being a pliant hole for a change, no matter how they both
enjoy it the other way as well.
 
Ryouma hesitates, then sulks a little, even as he starts begrudgingly slinking
off of Atobe's thighs. "Didn't want to do it like that," he huffs. "But all
right, I guess. We're in your bed, I thought it'd be different." 
 
“It is different,” Atobe assures him. “You’re on top this time. With an ego
like yours, I’d think you’d find that delightful.” For some reason, Ryouma’s
whining barely bothers him. It’s rather cute, after all. “I didn’t say you had
to use your mouth. I don’t mind your hands. Or your thighs.”
 
"But…" Ryouma's brow furrows, thinking even as he reaches out a hand rather
thoughtlessly just to be able to touch Atobe's cock, because he likes the way
it feels in his grasp, heavy and hot. "I want it in me. Like how you and
Tezuka-buchou do it." It's funny that his captain thinks they're hiding it. "Or
is that just something you do with him?" 
 
Atobe lets out a groan, and gets up onto his elbows, enjoying the sight of
Ryouma’s agile fingers touching him gently. “I do it with whoever I want,” he
murmurs, rubbing his hips up slightly against Ryouma’s hand. “But if I’m going
to put it inside you, it has to be completely hard first, or it won’t go.
Besides, you don’t want it like I give it to him. You’d be too sore later.”
Whoops, he only realizes afterwards how much of a challenge that sounds like.
Maybe Ryouma will let it go.
 
Ryouma's eyes narrow. "I could have it like that. I'd like it." His fingers
squeeze, and it's kind of fascinating to feel Atobe get hard in his hand like
this, especially when he can feel every pulse and jump. It makes his own cock
harder, and he shifts, straddling one of Atobe's legs. "Just want it in me," he
repeats, voice hitching a little this time when his thumb slides up, rubbing
over the tip. It's starting to get slick, and he almostleans down to taste--but
nope, not if he doesn't have to, don't wanna. 
 
Atobe’s gaze is calculating, or as calculating as he can be when his cock is
this hard. After another speculative look, he nods slightly, reaching up to tug
Ryouma’s shirt up over his head, tracing one fingertip down that slender neck,
down his chest, down his belly, to pluck at the waistband of his shorts. “You
should know,” he murmurs, and his voice comes out rough, “that he likes it when
I hold him down and fuck him until he’s begging me to stop. We don’t have to go
that far, if you don’t want. Have you put your fingers in before, or do you
want me to do it for you?” Every sentence is as pointed as he can make it,
goading, teasing, encouraging while still making himself twitch hard with every
word and the images they conjure up of Ryouma stuffed full and whimpering.
 
It should be weird that the thought of all that kind of makes his mouth go dry.
Ryouma struggles to think of a reply for a moment, so he just shakes his head,
squirming forward to get even closer. "I haven't done that before--wanted
someone else to do it," he mutters, flopping a little bit to hook his chin over
Atobe's shoulder and then breathe in deep and shuddery. He really likes the way
he can feel Atobe twitch in his hand the more they talk about this. "You seemed
like you'd be good at it, so…"
 
Atobe’s breath hitches, and he nods, a hand flung to the side, grabbing at the
nightstand. “I can’t promise you’ll like it,” he warns. “Not everyone does. But
if you’re going to like something in you, I promise you’ll like this.” 
 
He hadn’t intended to be so grabby or so insistent, but this is making him so
much harder than their usual trysts, where they’d never gone beyond rubbing
against each other, beyond a hurried, urgent blowjob. This is different, and
god, Ryouma’s so tight when he slides a slick finger down the cleft of the
boy’s ass, teasing around his hole before nudging a fraction of an inch inside,
eyes locked on the boy’s face to see his reaction. “You’ve imagined me doing
this?”
 
That really doesn't feel at all like he'd imagined, and Ryouma squirms,
abandoning Atobe's cock to grab at his shoulders and cling. He's not going to
start complaining yet. It doesn't hurt, it's just weird, he's got this. "Y-
yeah, because everything else felt good."
 
Atobe briefly misses the touch to his cock, but seeing Ryouma looking
unsettled, uncomfortable...well, he’d be lying to say that he hates it, which
is probably awful of him. “If you don’t like it, we can always do that again,”
he promises, and slides in a finger, easy and slick after the first initial
probe. Ryouma’s as tight as anyone he’s ever felt, but there’s little he can do
to push against just that much, and it’s easy to get it all the way in,
stroking gently in and out. “Imagine how it’ll feel when it’s my whole cock,”
he breathes, blue eyes flicking up to meet Ryouma’s. “If you can even take it.”
 
The way Atobe says that, at least, takes away how weird it all feels. Ryouma's
pulse jumps and he swallows hard, strangling a whine when his body
involuntarily clenches around just that one finger and makes it feel much, much
bigger. "I…I can do it," he groans, sagging a little, only to whine and claw at
Atobe's shoulders when that finger slides out, even just slightly. "No, put it
back, it's better when it's just in me." 
 
“So demanding.” Atobe isn’t really complaining. He obliges Ryouma for a few
moments, stroking and curling and twisting gently, but one finger isn’t going
to do much for Ryouma except get him ready for more. Atobe pulls it out
slightly, and pushes in a second, sighing a little at the stretch of it. It’s
so easy to imagine his cock going in there, stuffing that little hole full to
bursting, especially from the noises Ryouma’s already making. “Too much yet?
You know how much bigger my cock is.”
 
"Just put it in already--" He's definitely whining now, because it's weird and
only not-as-weird when both those fingers are shoved all the way in and even
then it still just makes him all squirmy and uncomfortable but almost good.
Ryouma shoves his face into Atobe's neck, biting again, stifling another
frustrated, aggravated whimper when his thighs tremble from the effort it takes
not to wriggle away. He didn't sign up for this part, it better not be like
this every time.
 
The brat knows he doesn’t like marks left on his skin, but glories in doing it
anyway. Ah, well, it’s a small price to pay for feeling the boy squirming
around on his lap, wriggling on his fingers and begging for more, his pale face
flushed, his thighs already tense and trembling. “You asked for this,” he
warns, which isn’t exactly the way he likes to start fucking someone, but
Ryouma sort of begs for it. 
 
His cock is slick, and Ryouma’s slick, and he doesn’t even give the boy a
moment to tense up between pulling out his fingers and sliding the head in,
going so swiftly that Ryouma won’t have a chance to feel empty--or to tense up
when he feels that first, brutal stretch. “Still--ahh--want it all?” Atobe
grunts, the first few inches of his cock buried inside the boy, eyes locked on
Ryouma’s face, wanting to see the moment the boy truly stops being an innocent.
It might be something Atobe enjoys more than he should.
 
Ryouma is pretty sure he's going to die.
 
It's way too much, too thick, too hard inside of him, and he just sort of moans
helplessly, clinging to Atobe's shoulders, nails clawing into his back when his
fingers curl, white-knuckled. 
 
But if it was all the way in--maybe--
 
A broken, desperate whine drags from his throat, and Ryouma bites again, needy,
insistent, his back arched and muscles strung so tightly in his thighs that he
can't wriggle down himself even if he willed it. "All of it," he manages to
gasp out, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, his breath unsteady.
"A…Atobe-sempai, just put it all in already--"
 
Atobe can say a lot of things about Echizen Ryouma--but not that he doesn’t
know what he wants.
 
Or that he’s not good at getting it, Christ, Atobe can feel his pulse pounding
in his very skin at that mock-innocent little honorific. His fingers tighten to
bruising on Ryouma’s hips, and he nods briefly, frantically before giving up on
niceness. He yanks the boy down hard, jerking his hips up with the same motion,
lurching up to give Ryouma’s mouth a bruising kiss, taking advantage of every
part of him with one carnal movement. His voice is rough and husky when he
breathes, “Still want to play games, boy?”
 
Ryouma feels everything just sort of…melt.
 
When Atobe is all the way inside of him--finally, finally--everything just sort
of…relaxes. It's in, it's all the way in, there's nothing else that he has to
fit inside of his body like that, and Ryouma groans against Atobe's mouth,
helplessly kissing him back, biting at his lower lip before he lets his head
loll against Atobe's shoulder. His cock twitches and drips between them, and
while he's pretty sure he's so, so close to just coming already, that's really
secondary to the way it feels to be stuffed full of Atobe's cock, hard and
thick and making him twitch and shiver even when he limply drapes himself
against Atobe's chest. "Like that," he just sort of slurs, head-butting Atobe's
shoulder. "All the time."
 
Well, that answers the question of whether Ryouma will enjoy bottoming or not.
Atobe hadn’t been too concerned, but there’s always a chance. He hates it,
after all. 
 
Now that Ryouma is (adorably) limp, Atobe has a chance to get his breath back.
Every move from then on is easier, slow and good and at his own pace. “Shh,” he
murmurs into Ryouma’s hair, wrapping strong arms around the boy. “Just relax.
I’ll take care of you.” 
 
Ryouma honestly isn’t that much heavier than the weights he lifts three times a
week, and it’s a hell of a lot more enjoyable to lift the boy gently, just to
fuck up into him, than it is to do biceps curls in his private gym. Besides,
hearing the noises Ryouma makes when he’s entirely inside, skin slapping gently
against skin, makes this one of the best, lewdest things he’s ever done. “Just
like that,” he murmurs. “Feel good inside? Too much?”
 
Probably, there are better responses than half-moans, half-whines, but there's
not much to be done about that when it feels so good when Atobe is entirely
inside of him. It aches when he even pulls out a little, and Ryouma shudders,
clinging to Atobe's shoulders as best as he can, trying to wriggle back and
take more, but… "J-just…perfect," he huffs out, his voice breaking on a little
whimper. He's so full that he's pretty sure he can taste Atobe, pretty sure
that he couldn't move off of his cock if he tried, and that's nice. "Atobe-
sempaiii…" It's a breathy, needy moan against Atobe's ear, which Ryouma would
probably bite if he could think that far ahead. "Next time, too--just f-fill me
up like this, it's good--"
 
Atobe is pretty sure he’s won some kind of jackpot here. Wildly, he wonders
whether this is some kind of reward for putting up with Ryouma’s practices, his
moods, his attitude, his demands--but no. No, this is just lucky as hell.
 
Lucky is that this whining, whimpering, squirming boy is wiggling on his cock,
breathing in his ear, moaning with every thrust of his cock deep inside that
exquisite tight heat. “There’s a good boy,” Atobe whispers, not even sure when
he’d switched to English. Whatever, Ryouma understands it just fine. “Just like
that--that’s the face I like to see when you’re nice and full. Mm, just enjoy.”
He certainly is. His cock is harder than he can ever remember it being, jumping
and swelling with every stroke inside the boy.
 
Ryouma has no idea what it is about Atobe purring in his ear in English that
makes him tense up and squirm, but god, if it isn't good. His breath catches
hard in his chest, a ragged, hitching mess as his hands curl against Atobe's
back. Atobe's cock feels even bigger when he's tense and shivering, and it was
already almost too much, already enough to make him feel like he's way too
full, but--
 
In a way, this is even better.
 
It really doesn't take more than that single, twitching burst of tension for
him to come. It almost hurts coming that hard, because it's way more full-
bodied than Ryouma ever remembers it being. It starts from inside, where
Atobe's cock presses against something that makes him ache, and Ryouma sobs
against Atobe's shoulder, dripping slick and messy between them as he spills,
pretty sure that he's going to die any moment now and he'd be really okay with
it. 
 
“There we go,” Atobe murmurs, his voice catching now, hips twitching up hard
with every little spasm that shudders through Ryouma’s body. Feeling the boy
come so hard it sounds like his heart is breaking is enough to drive him to the
edge, but he can’t let it end yet. He breathes in deep, burying his face in
Ryouma’s hair, trying to get his breathing to regulate already so he doesn’t
just spill.
 
“Nnh, just hold on,” he breathes. Surely, Ryouma had expected that he has at
least some of that famous stamina in every part of himself. “Tell me if you
need to stop, or--ah--I won’t.” He might not anyway, to be honest. He might not
be able to.
 
The sound that leaves Ryouma's throat is a pathetic whimper at best, but it has
nothing to do with the threat of Atobe not stopping. It's the fact that his
cock tries to get hard again just because of those words, because the idea of
Atobe just not stopping is way better than anything Ryouma could come up with
on his own. 
 
"D…don't stop." If he was melted before, he's infinitely boneless now, held up
only courtesy of Atobe's hands and that cock deep inside of him. Ryouma's face
presses its way into Atobe's neck, and he tries to wriggle down, to encourage
him, but at most, it's sort of a weak, needy squirm that he can't quite
coordinate. "Need it--"
 
Ryouma is going to kill him. He’d always thought it would happen on a tennis
court, but this is just as good, maybe better. 
 
Atobe moves, lurching up onto his knees, and lifts Ryouma off him just long
enough to turn him facedown, hiking the boy’s hips up in the air. “There we
go,” he murmurs, sliding in deep and smooth, loving the way Ryouma’s hole looks
when it clenches, the boy obviously desperate and hungry for him. “Now you can
just relax. I’ll give you everything you need.”
 
If it were Kunimitsu, he’d be doing this a bit differently--but it’s not. It’s
Ryouma, and he isn’t sure exactly what the boy is going to like or hate. This,
at least, will let Ryouma melt down onto the bed without slowing down his pace.
 
Oh. This is good, too.
 
In a way, it's even better. It's even less effort, more of Atobe's cock inside
of him harder, and Ryouma likes that a lot. He sags down into the mattress, his
face shoved into a pillow, his fingers sort of kneading into the sheets when
Atobe slides in long and deep. It makes his back arch and his mouth just fall
open, the desperate twitch of his cock making his knees shake and body clench
tighter still around every inch of Atobe's cock. 
 
If he comes again, Atobe's going to make fun of him. Good. 
 
Like this, it’s easier, less stress. Atobe can go at his own pace, smooth and
steady with every roll of his hips into the boy, his hands holding Ryouma’s ass
in the air. “You’re so good at taking this much,” he murmurs, giving the boy
plenty of praise, lots of petting, to go with the nonstop thrust of a thick
cock inside of him. It’s hard to believe it’s his first time, though Atobe is
completely certain it is.
 
Finally, even his own stamina starts to go ragged around the edges. He speeds
up, until his hips are slapping harsh against Ryouma’s ass every time, leaving
it red and undoubtedly aching from the abuse already. “Tell me now,” Atobe
groans, lurching forward so he covers Ryouma’s body completely, “if you don’t
want it inside you here.” He definitely deserves recognition for being generous
as all hell.
 
"Don't you dare take it out--" Ryouma's pretty proud that he makes that sound
as coherent as he does, but it's mostly because he's pretty sure he can't
function without Atobe's cock inside him as deep as this. It makes his mind
shut off, makes his cock hard when he's very sure it shouldn't already be hard
again, makes him ache and shiver to the core--and it's so, so good. Ryouma
claws his way into clinging to a pillow, the noises that escape his throat
breaking with every thrust now, high and breathy and desperate. "I need it." 
 
“Should have known you’d be fucking demanding.” Atobe grunts with every harsh
thrust, bending over and placing a hot, wet, biting kiss to the back of
Ryouma’s neck. He can feel that telltale tenseness in the boy again, and thank
god, at least maybe if he makes him come twice, Ryouma will think about
relaxing enough to let him come free. He’s so tight that it’s almost painful,
which just makes it better, makes his cock harder, makes him fuck the boy even
more.
 
He snakes a hand around, and at least they’ve done this part enough that he
knows what Ryouma likes, just how to tug and twist and pull on his cock to get
the boy there fast. He’s not usually concerned with speed--sometimes it takes
literally hours to get Kunimitsu off--but this is Ryouma’s first time. It’s
going to be good. “Got any left in there for me?” he breathes, rubbing his
thumb over the slit of Ryouma’s cock as he rolls his hips in hard.
 
It's that touch and that voice and the way that Atobe seems to know just how to
shove his dick in him that makes Ryouma just sort of moan a response. He sags
into that hand, desperately wondering if he really can come again, if he's too
sore and wound too tight to make it happen--
 
But that's kind of a useless thought process when his body seizes up in a long,
drawn-out shudder, when he suddenly can't feel anything but Atobe's mouth on
the back of his neck, biting him and holding him down like he's some animal
being fucked, when all his mind wants to focus on is the fact that Atobe's cock
is still inside of him and that's really, really good.
 
Ryouma loses himself with another whimper, and he's not even sure if he comes
so much as he's just turned to a puddle, limp and shivering in Atobe's grasp.
 
…which is about how he stays, and that's good. Sleep is good after this
particular day, and he wants to keep that way for some time. 
 
***** Sanada & Yukimura, Yagyuu & Niou *****
Yukimura feels good.
 
He has every right to feel good. Finding out that his opponent from the night
prior was Echizen Ryouma makes him giddy in ways that it probably shouldn't…but
it just does. He's better. He defeated the kid handily. He's better.
 
He's back to the way he used to be.When is he going to have a novel written
about his miracle recovery? 
 
At least, that's how it feels the morning of the ranking matches, and he dives
into his block with gusto. 
 
Sure, he's still stiff and sore in odd places. Sure, his movements still need
work, but that's to be expected. It's all still there, though, and each and
every match breezes past until he ends up facing the last one of the day.
 
Niou's fun to play--well, to a point. Yukimura does like when Niou ends up in
his ranking block, because Niou at least has fun on his own end of things. It
doesn't last, though, because the yips seem to be inevitable. Niou lasts longer
than most, which is good, but… 
 
Ah, well. 
 
Yukimura's next service game is over in an instant. 5-0 now, which feels good.
It's Niou's service, which…mm, it's always sort of questionable when the yips
come into play and that coordination is just gone.
 
"Double fault! 0-15!"
 
Yukimura exhales a long sigh.
 
"Fault!"
 
The net sways again.
 
"Double fault! 0-30!" 
 
And then a car backfires. 
 
Yukimura almost doesn't see it, but it's all in the way that Niou bolts,
jumping out of his skin from the sound. He shouldn't have been able to hear
that. He shouldn't have even been able to react anywhere close to that. 
 
Did Niou actually get over the yips?
 
No, that's not it.
 
He never had them to begin with.
 
There's a sick twist in the pit of Yukimura's stomach when that realization
slams into him. There's a roar in his ears to boot, and it makes him nauseated
enough that he's pretty sure his breakfast is going to come up in about five
seconds. He whirls away, ignoring any and all shouts in Niou's direction
(probably Sanada) and anything tossed in his direction (maybe Yanagi, maybe
Niou trying to explain himself) because he doesn't want to hear it.
 
It isn't as if it will make a lick of difference, anyway. 
 
Everything rushes back in a wave of doubt. What if Echizen Ryouma had been
faking the yips last night just to trick him? It might have all been a tactic
to hide his true ability. What if he's just not ready? What if he won't be
anywhere close to ready in time for any match, let alone against Hyoutei or
Seigaku? 
 
The clubhouse door slams behind him, his racquet on the ground, and his hand
throbs when it collides with the nearest locker. 
 
I'm just not going to be good enough. 
 
“Seiichi.”
 
He needs time, Yanagi has said. He’ll get better on his own, his doctors had
said. He just needs space, his parents had said.
 
Sanada has given him time, and space, and waited, but all he can see is the way
Yukimura is going to stress himself right back into the hospital. It’s one
thing when it's just a matter of himself, but this is getting out of hand.
 
He’d thought he could bring the light back to those soft brown eyes. He’d
thought that by winning the Kantou, by keeping Rikkai undefeated, he could give
Yukimura enough hope to get through. He’s been wrong the whole time, and now he
sees it. Yukimura doesn’t need time. He doesn’t need space. He doesn’t need to
get over it. He doesn’t need to win Nationals.
 
He needs what comes after.
 
Sanada closes the door behind himself, leaning back against it as he eyes
Yukimura, watching his trembling back, knowing how much pain he’s in. “You know
there will be life after next week, come what may.”
 
"You don't get it at all!" 
 
Yukimura hates the way his voice cracks. He hates even more the way that he
sags forward into the lockers, letting his forehead press into the cold metal
as his chest heaves. Sanada doesn't get it. Yukimura was sure at one point that
he did, but if he's saying things like that, then there's no way. "You don't
get it," he repeats on a waver. "If I can't win--if I can't play at all, then
what's the point of everything I did before?!"
 
“You’re going to win.” Sanada turns him around, gathers Yukimura in his arms--
if anyone has had enough of cold, impersonal metal, it’s Yukimura--and holds
him close to his broad chest, with no room for protests. “You’re our unbeatable
miracle. You didn’t let eight months in a hospital stop you from believing
that--don’t let Niou Masaharu do it!” A very real amount of scorn creeps into
his voice for Niou Masaharu at that. “But you’d be stupid to pretend that you
haven’t been dealt a challenge by the gods you believe in!” He reaches out to
touch the magatama at Yukimura’s neck, gently brushing over the curve of the
cool stone.
 
Yukimura is often a slave to his impulses, but that's rarely the case when it
comes to just wanting to dissolve. 
 
That being said, he's usually not tired, angry, sweaty, hurting and so upset
that he can't even see straight when that impulse is presented to him. He's
usually not squished up against Sanada's chest, but he is right now, and the
first little waver of resolution presents itself in his lower lip stupidly,
pathetically trembling. "But it's…it's different because it's Niou." That
sounds even more pathetic, but it's too late now. Yukimura feels himself start
to wilt. "Why would Niou lie to my face like that? Why couldn't he just play
me? If he thinks I can't win, who else feels that way? Last night--" He's done
now, that's it. "I played Echizen Ryouma, and it was easy. He almost beat you,
so it shouldn't have been easy, he had to just be lying to me and that means
that I'm not going to come close to winning."
 
Sanada could cheerfully murder Niou. It sounds like a good plan. Instead…
 
“Play me.” It won’t solve every problem, and this is not the time to get into
why Yukimura was wandering around Tokyo at night playing random prodigies, but
it might do something. “Let anyone in the world say I’d ever let you win. If I
beat you, you’ll know how far you still have to go. And then, once you’ve
beaten me, I’ll tell you about what’s going to happen after Nationals.”
 
The dent in his ego still stings, and makes the first thought on his mind but I
don't want to lose to you instead of of course I'll win, that's not a contest.
That hurts more than his head or stomach right then, and Yukimura shudders, not
quite ready to unfasten himself from Sanada's chest. "You're already done with
your ranking block. It's not going to count for anything." Now he's been
reduced to making excuses. That's so great.
 
Sanada’s hand flies back for a moment, and he very seriously considers slapping
his captain again. “Don’t tell me it wouldn’t mean anything.” Instead of
hitting him, he moves to brush the backs of his fingers across one cheek. It’s
not a very graceful movement, but he’s not really sure what he’s doing, or if
anything will work. “It isn’t as if we don’t learn something every time we
play. I remember how much you used to like playing unofficial matches, even
more than the others.” His grip tightens, and his voice gets a little softer,
as soft as a man like himself can really make it. “You’re the only person who
thinks you have to never lose. No one else thinks that.”
 
Then why did Niou lie to me like that is on the tip of his tongue again, but
Yukimura swallows it down, glancing down to his shoes with a slow, shaky breath
before his head tips forward against Sanada's touch. "I just want to come back
and be the way I was before. I don't…" His voice cracks, and he sniffs--
belligerently, mind, because he's not crying, he's not. "I don't know what else
to do to get there. I'm the captain, I'm supposed to know." 
 
“No other captain has it figured out! Why should you?” Sanada demands. “Tezuka
lost to Atobe. Atobe lost the Kantou. No one else is even worth mentioning,
they’re so far beneath you and I.” He pulls away this time, gently wiping
Yukimura’s face on his sleeve. “Kintsugi. The mended parts are the strongest,
and the most beautiful. That doesn’t mean they were never broken, and never
needed repair.”
 
"…I'm supposed to be--" Better than them. Better than anyone. The number one in
all of Japan. That's why I'm supposed to have it all figured out.
 
It doesn't quite come out, not when his next sniff turns to a hiccup and well,
that's the dam breaking. 
 
Yukimura doesn't let Sanada pull away. He grabs onto him with all his might and
yanks him back and stuffs his face right into one broad shoulder when his own
heave and sag. "S-sorry," he whispers, trying even now not to just wail and sob
like a baby, even when his face is soaking wet and he wants to just curl up on
the floor and maybe shut himself up in a locker. "Sorry--just--five seconds--
th--then we can go play." 
 
It's not like he knows what else to do, anyway. 
 
“There’s no time limit.” Words are coming to him far easier than usual. Sanada
isn’t entirely sure why; maybe it’s because usually, Yukimura is the strong
one. Yukimura is the brave one. Yukimura is the one who’s not afraid of
anything, not of surgery or death or losing, and without that…
 
Someone has to.
 
“Do you want to know what is going to happen after Nationals?” he rumbles,
stroking Yukimura’s hair gently with one hand, using the other arm to secure
the boy to his chest.
 
Yukimura's breath hiccups again, and he nods his head into the crook of
Sanada's neck. This is embarrassing, this is stupid, but he can't quite bring
himself to reel it all in right now, not when Sanada is holding onto him strong
and secure. It's okay if Sanada sees him like this. Only Sanada. "Mmn. Wanna
know."
 
“I was keeping it a surprise.” That doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters more
than making Yukimura feel better right now. Maybe the anticipation will help
pull him out of this...funk. “I bought you something. Well, made. I bought
parts of it.”
 
"You bought something?" The sheer ridiculousness of that alone makes Yukimura
lift his head, sniffing and red-eyed. Ah, shit. He's going to start blinking
his contacts out. He pulls back a bit, trying not to rub at his eyes.
"Don't…don't lie. You n-never even take me out for ramen, you cheapskate." 
 
“I told you,” Sanada grumbles. “I was saving it. For this.” He doesn’t exactly
let Yukimura go, but he shuffles slightly, getting into his locker for the
blueprints. “I’ve been saving for this since we were seven. It’s….it’s pretty
much done, now.” He hopes Yukimura gets it. It’s stupid, and trite, but if
anyone gets it, it’ll be Yukimura.
 
Yukimura sniffles again. It takes a minute for him to look, because his
vision's blurry and his head's pounding and this is why he never cries, aside
from the fact that his body seems to have some sort of built-in defense against
the mere idea. 
 
But then he looks, and he's pretty sure he's just going to start crying again. 
 
"Don't lie about this, you can't b-be serious--" Except it's Sanada, and Sanada
doesn't know how to not be serious about things like this, and Yukimura feels
his lower lip trembling even when he bites it. "You built our house?" 
 
Sanada’s face flushes. “It’s too presumptuous, I know,” he mumbles, feeling
once again like an old man who’d been mistakenly put in the wrong, awkward
body. It’s too big a gesture; even if he knows how he feels, there’s no room in
Yukimura’s heart for him like there is for tennis, he knows that. “You--I don’t
expect us to live there or anything,” he stammers, unable to meet Yukimura’s
eyes. “I know you have so many things you want to do. I just...it’s there. If
you want it. At all, even for...even for a day.”
 
"Genichirou--"
 
Apparently, sobbing and clinging to Sanada's neck is a new, stupid, dumb thing
that he's going to do. Apparently, this whole thing pokes at a nerve that
Yukimura didn't know about, but it's not bad, it's just--
 
Overwhelming. 
 
Life after tennis? What even is that? It makes his breath catching his chest
and apparently, he's just going to keep sobbing. Gross, gross, he's really
gross and this is really less than cute, but--
 
"You're too good," is the pathetic, sniffling mumble into Sanada's neck when
Yukimura shoves his face there. "It's good, it's really good, thank you--"
 
That gratitude, that genuine affection, is what does Sanada in, and gives him
confidence all at once. “You’re coming there. After Nationals, no matter what
the final score is. You’re staying there for two weeks, and you,” he says
sternly, cupping Yukimura’s face in his two large hands, “are going to let me
get you better. Fresh food, no Red Bull, rest, relaxation, good clean mountain
air. No objections.” Unless you hate it, please don’t hate me.
 
Yukimura just nods, teary-eyed and kind of wilting. Really gross. But Sanada is
about as far from gross as any man can be, and that just makes him want to put
himself into Sanada's apparently very capable hands. "You didn't let me see you
build it," he sadly says, sniffling again. "I wanted to watch you build it.
Shirtless. In a fundoshi." 
 
“You’re making it really weird,” Sanada mutters, feeling his cheeks heat up.
Then he hesitates. “But if it’ll help you feel better, I’ll catch you fish in
the stream up there. I’ll wear whatever you want.”
 
"Will you catch them with your bare hands?" Yukimura hopefully asks, blinking
away the wetness from his lashes. "Or with a spear? Both are good." 
 
“I can do both, of course.” What a silly question. “Want me to teach you? It’s
not hard to learn, you just have to be patient. Mm, but you’re not allowed to
get that much sun this time.”
 
Yukimura shakes his head, and flops back into Sanada's chest with a weary
little shudder. "Just wanna watch you do it. When you do it…ugh, you're so
manly. Your muscles and everything…" 
 
“And you’re going to watch, then eat the food I cook you. I’m not as good as
your mother’s cook,” Sanada admits, “but I also won’t feed you anything with
preservatives or additives or coloring.” His fingers card gently through
Yukimura’s hair, lips brushing the top of his head. “I’d keep you up there for
a year if I could, just healing. There’s nothing more important to me than you
being well, permanently.”
 
"I just want to feel better again." Yukimura hates the shake in his voice, but
he means it, more than anything he's said in a long, long time. He sags a bit,
tension dissolving from his shoulders the more he leans into Sanada's hold. "I
guess there's no hope for a tennis court up there, huh?" 
 
“No.” About that, he’s firm. “I’ll wear a fundoshi all day if that’ll keep your
mind off of tennis for a couple weeks. Just…” His arms squeeze, and he can feel
Yukimura’s heartbeat through his own chest. As it should be. “No matter what
happens in the matches, our cabin isn’t going anywhere.”
 
His mind off of tennis. Right. Well, if anything can do it, Sanada in a
fundoshi can. Yukimura just settles for nodding, burrowing, attempting to sort
of meld himself with Sanada. "Okay." He exhales, long and slow. "Okay.
Just…just keep telling me that. I'm sorry for being such a burden with all of
this--and for making it so difficult, but…" 
 
“You have never been a burden.” 
 
That’s not exactly true, but he can’t say that. He can’t say the truth--it’s a
burden, and he likes it that way. He likes being the one chosen to carry it. It
makes him feel strong, competent, needed. 
 
“Two weeks. Just get through this next week, and then it will just be two weeks
of the sun and the river and our house.” They’d planned it meticulously when
they were children. Even Yukimura doesn’t know how far he’s gone with it.
 
Yukimura nods. He can do that. The promise of Sanada and their house makes it
possible, at any rate. He butts his face once more against Sanada's shoulder,
attempting to scrub off the grossness of tears and sweat before drawing back.
"Give me a minute, and we can go back out," he mumbles. "I don't want anyone to
know I was crying. It's really not cool." 
 
Ah, admitting this is embarrassing, but…
 
Sanada roots in his locker once more, pulling out a small bottle. “Allergy
eyedrops,” he admits. “It takes the redness right out. Give it about twenty
seconds.”
 
"Weakling," is the still-wet giggle to follow, but Yukimura takes the bottle
all the same. "That explains your aversion to weed-pulling." 
 
“I do not have allergies,” Sanada says, dismayed, before realizing he probably
should have let Yukimura keep thinking that. “I just...sometimes a man needs to
get rid of redness, is all,” he finishes in a mumble, folding his arms over his
chest.
 
"…Crybaby," comes Yukimura's corrected insult as he tips his head back, a drop
put into each eye in quick succession. "When you cry, it's manly, though." 
 
“Shut up.” Sanada snatches the drops back, grabbing them from Yukimura and
stashing them carefully in his locker, as far out of Niou’s plain sight as
possible. “There. You look back to normal already,” he says, knowing how much
those words mean.
 
Yukimura sucks in a slow breath and nods, straightening his stance. "Okay.
Good." He hesitates, glancing back to Sanada. "I'm not wrong to be upset with
Niou, am I? That stunt he pulled…"
 
“When I catch him, there will be a reckoning,” Sanada answers immediately,
cracking the knuckles of his slapping hand.
 
"Yeah, good." Yukimura reaches over to give one of Sanada's biceps a squeeze--
it gives him strength, yes it does--before scooping up his racquet and striding
out. He's got this. Definitely got this. "What are you all just standing around
for?!"
 
The flurry of activity on the court is nothing less than panicked. Yanagi,
fortunately, still has Akaya firmly in hand, and is teaching him a new backhand
slice that is pretty much the only thing that will keep the boy’s mind off of
murdering Niou. “Welcome back, Captain. Are you satisfied with the results of
the ranking tournament?”
 
Before Yukimura can even open his mouth, Kirihara just has to blurt out: "Niou-
sempai made you cry, Yukimura-buchou--are you okay? I can go after him and--um,
what's it called, yeah, defend your honor, I've got this--"
 
Everyone freezes anew. One of Yukimura's eyebrows twitches up. "You're seeing
things, Akaya. I didn't cry."
 
"But--"
 
"I said I didn't cry! Sanada! Tell Akaya as much, then meet me on the court!"
 
Sanada informs Akaya very succinctly--with a backhand to the face--that
Yukimura does not, in fact, cry. Ever. “I accept your challenge,” he says,
bowing to Yukimura as he switches his grip on his racquet. “And I—come here,
you bastard, I’m going to—” 
 
He makes a grab for Niou, but misses, and a flash of silver rattail is all he
sees again before Niou completely disappears. “Fine!” he bellows. “Court!”
 
Kirihara has never been more confused (that's a lie, because he's usually about
as confused as this, if not slightly more), and Yukimura at least feels
somewhat better after being able to burn off a generous amount of steam against
Sanada. 
 
"I have no idea where he's gone," Yagyuu desperately insists afterwards,
holding his hands up in surrender. There's been a generous amount of yanking on
his hair, all to make sure that he's not Niou. "I'm sorry that Niou-kun made
you cry, Yukimura-kun, but--"
 
"He didn't make me cry!" Yukimura shrilly insists from across the locker room.
 
"Right, yes, of course--at any rate, while I understand what he was doing
was…less than honorable, he was just attempting to make you feel better--"
 
"He better show up for practice tomorrow so I can kill him," Yukimura mutters,
slamming his locker shut.
 
~
 
Yagyuu’s window is easy as hell to climb in. That’s for the best, given that
Niou is a hell of a lot more likely to go in that way than by attempting to
deal with Yagyuu’s parents. He slithers in now, and doesn’t even pause to give
Yagyuu a chance to say hello before he starts pacing, scratching absently at
the back of his head. “Hey. Uh, hey. I, uh...yeah, hey, I fucked up. I fucked
up, wow, I fucked up so bad.”
 
Sometimes, there are times that Niou shows up, and Yagyuu has to wonder if he's
somehow gotten ahold of a large amount of narcotics. 
 
"Okay," Yagyuu attempts to greet, slowly turning in his chair to look Niou
over. He doesn't look like he's in terrible shape, but… "What did you do?" 
 
“Something bad.” Niou shies away from even the idea of specifics, attempting to
get down and then standing up again immediately. Too much nervous energy, not
enough release, not enough anything to distract him. He laughs weakly, and
mutters, “Fucked up. I...yeah, shit, I’m gonna fucking die, you want anything?
I’ll give you the key to my place, you can take whatever you want.”
 
"…Is this a yakuza thing?" Yagyuu warily hedges as he tries to reach out and
snag Niou's wrist. He misses, so he sighs and climbs to his feet, following
after Niou's pacing. "Or is this just your sister sending you weird threats
again? How actually dead are we talking here, Niou-kun?" 
 
Niou hardly notices that he’s developed a tail, though he does start
unintentionally zig-zagging across the floor just a bit, just out of habit. His
mind is still full of his own fucking audacity, and of all the ways this is
going to end with him in a hundred pieces. “I, shit, I fucked up, Yukimura’s
going to murder me. I…” He grimaces, and turns swiftly, slumping back against
the wall. “You were right, I should have kept it in my pants.”
 
For a moment, Yagyuu doesn't even really know how to respond to that.
 
He settles for staring, attempting to piece together what little information he
has--which admittedly, really isn't all that much. "Niou-kun," he slowly
attempts, reaching out to grab the other boy's shoulder before he can start
zigzagging again, "what did you do? Who did you do? Did you--and Yukimura-kun--
I thought you two were fighting right now." 
 
Niou laughs weakly, raking a hand back through his hair. There’s a slight
impulse to fight free of that hold, but Yagyuu’s good at holding him in a way
that makes him okay with it, and he slumps a little more. “Nah, nah, I wouldn’t
do that. I went to his house--to apologize to him, I swear. I just--he wasn’t
there, and she was wearing that expensive French lingerie, and…” He shrugs, as
if to indicate that there are few men who can control themselves in the
presence of expensive French lingerie.
 
Yagyuu stares a little longer before it clicks. "Oh. Oh." He has both hands on
Niou's shoulders now, both to keep him in place and give him a little shake.
"Niou-kun, you didn't--you didn't have sex with his mother, did you? She's--you
know she's married." It's hard not to be wide-eyed about this. "Yukimura-kun is
going to murder you." 
 
Niou’s eyes are a little wild, and he reaches up to grab Yagyuu’s wrists. “Hey,
you wanna go somewhere? Skip town? We can go anywhere. I gotta be honest, I
have money stashed like you wouldn’t believe. Let me get you something to
remember me by.”
 
"We can't just skip town," Yagyuu hisses, digging his fingers into Niou's
shoulders. "You have to face this! Apologize! Get down with your head pressed
to the floor, maybe then he'll forgive you for…well, for everything, you're the
worst, Niou-kun!" He pauses for a moment, bites his lip, and then sort of
awkwardly looks to the side. "Was it good?"
 
Niou whimpers a little bit, flashing back to the moments before, and sags
against the wall. “I’m never going to touch a woman like that again, shit, all
creamy thighs and perfume I should have to pay to smell and her lips—” He
breaks off, strangled and half-hysterical. “She wanted a threesome with you.”
 
Now that he thinks about it, Yagyuu can kind of smell that perfume all over
Niou. Shit, shit, shit. "She…she did? I was pretty sure she was always into
Kirihara-kun. You know, in that…odd, very attractive mother way…" Yukimura's
mother really shouldn't be allowed to be that attractive. Or look like him. A
lot. 
 
Niou clutches at Yagyuu’s shirt, hauling him close, his eyes wide. “Man, she’s
insatiable. I’m pretty sure she’s into the whole team, and Christ, the noises--
she’s--she’s so noisy, I can’t get it out of my head!” There’s a despairing
wail somewhere in his voice, and he sighs a little, half-dreamy. “Her tits
though, they’re like….you know how it would be if the Captain had tits? They’re
literally just like that.”
 
Yagyuu whimpers as he sort of flops into Niou's chest, sagging into him and
crushing him against the wall in the process. "I…a threesome would be such a
bad idea," he weakly attempts to protest. It sounds like a great idea, though.
Because--well. Yukimura got his looks from somewhere, and it's sort of a
running joke that they've never met his father (except Sanada, who seems too
horrified to speak of it), so it has to be from his pretty, nice-smelling,
pale-skinned mother. "Niou-kun, we can't both die. We…we have Nationals in
like, a week and a half." 
 
Niou burrows into Yagyuu’s chest. At least for a couple minutes, he doesn’t
have to look at anyone judging him. “On a scale of one to the morgue,” he says,
muffled into the other boy’s skin, “what are my chances of making it out of
this without the Captain finding out?”
 
It's a good opportunity to pet Niou's hair without him being weird about it for
a few minutes, so Yagyuu goes for it. "Body bag after faking your death?" he
wearily supplies. "Niou-kun, you probably should just tell him. The next time
we're all over at his house, you know his mother's just…well, she never keeps
her mouth shut about things, I have no doubts she'd make some comment that
would get him thinking." 
 
“I dunno if talking about this is a good thing, man.” Niou makes a face, and
butts his head against Yagyuu’s hand. Yeah. The petting can continue. He kind
of needs it, just now. “I mean...this is like, the mother of all bad ideas.
There aren’t even words for how bad I fucked up. Aw, fuck it, I’ll tell him
tomorrow morning. Dying is one thing, but I just can’t live like this.”
 
"You're a little too strung out about it," Yagyuu agrees, heaving a sigh as he
starts kneading both hands into Niou's hair. It's for the best, really. "This
is two strikes, you know. I thought you had better impulse control than this,
Niou-kun, especially in light of the other fiasco." There has been enough
glaring whenever anyone attempts to bring it up that he's actually a little
afraid to talk about it. 
 
“I was freaking out, okay?” Niou pulls away from the touch, even more anxious
than before now. “And she was so nice, and it was his smile, you know? I mean,
fuck, you try saying ‘no’ to that smile, you know how he is! And it just
happened, and now even you’re yelling at me, shit, I’m just gonna hop a train.”
 
"I'm not yelling at you! Come--come back here, no, not out the window, Niou-
kun--" Yagyuu hisses, hauling him back and to the bed this time with a firm
yank and then shove. "Sit.You're not going anywhere. If you're that nervous
about it, just--" He starts chewing on his lip again, thinking of logistics and
deciding that they've done much, much worse before. "Just stay the night here.
You don't need to hop a train. I'll go with you when you talk to him about it,
okay?" Damn it all, but he does know the problem with their captain's smiling
face.
 
Yagyuu isn’t the most exciting guy Niou knows. He’s not the fastest, or the
coolest, or the hottest, or the strongest.
 
He is, by far, the most comforting. He’s a stodgy, boring port in a storm, and
Niou’s way too good at finding those storms. He reaches out now, grabbing
Yagyuu’s arm and pulling him down to the bed so he can burrow under the other
boy’s shirt. “I’ll stay here tonight,” he says, muffled slightly. “Hey, is
there any really freaky shit you want to do that we haven’t done? If he’s as
mad as I assume, we might never get the chance again.”
 
"I--" Thinking about it, they've already done a great deal of 'freaky shit.'
With that in mind, Yagyuu just sort of sighs, tugs the sheets up and over them,
and pulls his shirt over Niou's head a bit more thoroughly. He's just going to
be there, apparently. He starts petting Niou's back instead. "I can't think of
anything. Please just remember that he does need us at Nationals. He can't
possibly kill us both yet." 
 
“Don’t put it past him,” Niou says gloomily. “Well…” There is the fact that in
his life, he’s seen Yukimura being far more passionate about tennis than about
his family. He slumps, turning to rub his face against Yagyuu’s skin. It’s all
Yagyuu’s fault, even if he won’t say it. “You should’ve come with me. I told
you you should’ve.”
 
"And then we both would have slept with her," Yagyuu incredulously returns,
shifting a little when Niou just keeps burrowing.  "Once you start something,
it's very difficult to make you stop finishing it. Ah, Niou-kun, why do you
always have to make a nest underneath my shirt." 
 
Niou huffs, and latches to Yagyuu’s midsection more firmly. “If you’d just grab
me every once in a while, I wouldn’t grab you all the time.” That’s probably
the closest he’ll come to admitting it’s annoying, that he wouldn’t fuck around
all the time if Yagyuu was a little more interested, a little more obvious
about it.
 
"Grabbing you just seems rude," Yagyuu mumbles, frowning up at the ceiling.
Somehow, this always ends up coming up in some way, and it's really not a
conversation he enjoys having, but--"I'm…sorry that I'm not as forward about
that as you are. If you don't die, I'll make sure to…um, grab you more." 
 
Niou snorts. “If. He only needs one of us. Other can be a spare. Or a
sacrificial goat or something.” He turns his head, and mouths over a nipple.
“Don’t strain yourself or anything, I can keep doing the grabbing.” It’s better
to have to work for Yagyuu than to be with anyone else. Yagyuu gets him. It’s
fucking terrifying, and Niou likes it.
 
It's probably not very manly to squeak, but it happens whenever Niou does
things like that. "Weird, too weird, don't do that," Yagyuu manages in a
whisper, tugging on the back of Niou's shirt to try and urge him away from his
damned nipples. "I'm not going to let him kill you or…or sacrifice you, or
whatever. I don't want to play doubles with anyone else. And I will grab you
more."
 
Niou lays his head against Yagyuu’s chest when he starts squirming, just
listening to his heart thudding slowly, hearing the rumble of that surprisingly
deep voice. “Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes and trying to pin Yagyuu down
with his bulk to stop his squirming. “You’ll keep me safe, right?” It’s a
stupid question. In an actual fight, Yagyuu is about as much use as six cooked
noodles tied together. It’s stupid as hell that somehow, Yagyuu still makes him
feel sort of safe.
 
"I'll hide you underneath my bed if I have to." Niou is heavy, especially when
he's on Yagyuu like this, but…well, he could hate it more. He could also hate
the fact that Niou apparently wants to be taken care of more, because it's a
rare occurrence--and damn it if it doesn't make him feel capable of something.
"Or take you back home to your island. No one can get you there." Yagyuu
hesitates, and gives Niou's shirt another tug. "…Come up here." I could kiss
you or something. 
 
Niou’s response time is a hell of a lot faster than it usually is for anything
like a command, and he wriggles his way up at that tug, letting Yagyuu direct
him. Yagyuu is surprisingly nice and cool to the touch most of the time, even
in summer, and maybe that’s always been a sign. His thighs splay, knees bracing
on either side of Yagyuu’s narrow hips, because honestly, their bodies just
seem to work that way. “Maybe I’ll let you take me somewhere for a change,” he
says, nuzzling against the other boy’s cheek.
 
"You're the one that always knows the good places, though," Yagyuu points out,
wrapping a hand up into Niou's hair and lightly tugging. It's always--for lack
of a better word--crunchy, courtesy of bleach and gel and who knows what else.
He likes it, oddly enough. "I'd just bore you," he adds underneath his breath,
tugging again to ease Niou up into a kiss, a scrape of his teeth catching
against that full lower lip. 
 
“You don’t, though.” Niou’s voice is softer than usual--he’s shaken, and it
shows in his voice, in his movements, though probably only Yagyuu would pick up
on it. He leans into the kiss, letting Yagyuu move his head, shivering slightly
at that drag of teeth. “Even when you do boring stuff,” he mutters against the
other boy’s mouth, “I’m not bored.”
 
"I don't understand why you aren't," Yagyuu confesses underneath his breath as
his hands tighten into Niou's hair, just enough to hold him still when he
kisses him again, a little faster, a little harder. He really doesn't know what
to do when Niou's the one that's shaken up and stressed, but this seems better
than nothing. He hopes it is, at least. He sucks in a quick breath, shoves a
little, enough to roll them and get Niou on his back so that Yagyuu's the one
with a better angle for kissing him like he means it. "But I'm not," he quietly
insists between kisses, sliding up between Niou's thighs, "going to let
something happen to you."
 
This is probably the best thing ever. Expensive French lingerie be damned,
Niou’s pretty sure he’d rather be pinned under his stupid boring boyfriend and
being slowly, thoroughly kissed than be anywhere else right now. He makes a few
little noises that he hopes Yagyuu takes as the encouragement they are, and
tries not to squish the other boy with his arms and legs wrapped tight around
him. If you were like this all the time, I’d never fuck anyone else, he’ll
never say. “Yeah,” he breathes instead, leaning up for more kisses, back
arching as he’s touched. “Sounds good.”
 
He must be doing something right, then.
 
Niou's a problem, because he always feels ridiculously, sinfully goodwhen
Yagyuu is pretty sure that guys aren't supposed to feel like that. It's kind of
impossible not to snake a hand down and knead his fingers into one lean,
muscular thigh, and it's even more impossible not to kiss Niou harder, savoring
the way his lips are so stupidly soft and full. It's the weirdest contrast,
honestly, and it makes his dick harder than anything else. "You never make this
fair, you know," Yagyuu groans, breath catching when he gives up and just has
to grind down against the other boy. 
 
“Wasn’t even doing anything yet,” Niou says, amused, and lets his head tip
back, exposing his neck and raking his hands up Yagyuu’s back gently, through
his shirt at least. “Why should anything be fair? Take what you want, that’s
gonna be good for everyone.” At least it’s making him forget how fucked he is.
That’s something, and Yagyuu being all protective and manly is kinda doing it
for him more than he’d expected.
 
"You never even have to do anything! That's the part that isn't fair," Yagyuu
indignantly hisses, trying not to arch and squirm like a damned girl when
Niou's fingers scrape down his back. At least there aren't as many nails
digging into him--though it's not like he ever really minds that much….fuck it,
he lies, he likes it a lot, he likes just about everything that's Niou
especially when he's on his bed and kind of sprawled out and he just sort of
has to put his mouth on that neck of his and kiss and suck. "She didn't cover
you in hickeys at all," Yagyuu mutters, sort of amused in spite of himself.
Wasted opportunity. 
 
“She wasn’t into that,” Niou groans, legs splaying to let his feet plant on the
bed, giving him enough leverage to rub up against Yagyuu’s hips with every
breath he sucks in. “Just told me to lie down and rode me, I think I was pretty
much a pricey dildo.” Not that he was complaining, especially not when Yagyuu’s
mouth is so good and so warm despite the cool of his skin. Already he’s
thinking about the best ways to hide the marks if he needs to switch into
someone else, but every scrape of teeth drives that from his mind. “You’re the
one I wanna feel the next day.” Whoops, that’s probably way too clingy for
Yagyuu. He can deal with it for tonight, unless Yagyuu gets weird about it.
 
Shit, that shouldn't make him even harder. 
 
Yagyuu swallows hard, bites down into the crook of Niou's neck and shoulder to
try and get his head on straight again, but it doesn't really work when his
hands are working against him and grabbing at Niou's  hips to yank him up
against him, all so that they can grind harder into one another. "Everywhere?"
he hoarsely manages, sure that he's holding tightly enough to Niou that he's
going to bruise. "Do you want to feel me everywhere?" 
 
Niou’s cock twitches hard, and he lets out a strangled, stupid noise in his
throat. Damn Yagyuu for being able to get under his skin so easily, anyway.
“Everywhere,” he agrees, eyes rolling back into his head when he pretty much
rips off Yagyuu’s shirt, then slides one hand down the back of Yagyuu’s pants,
inside his shorts, grabbing his ass firmly. “You know how Yanagi was limping
and falling down and it was really pathetic? I wanna feel like that.”
 
"Yeah, okay." Niou's hands on me, Niou grabbing at me, Niou making noises like
he's going to die if I'm not in him--yep, that's definitely his mind shorting
right the hell out, and Yagyuu thinks it's better that way. He really hates the
idea of having to pull away at all, but it's necessary to yank at Niou's pants
and get them off.  "Lube's in the nightstand," he mutters, mouthing another
hot, wet kiss to the side of Niou's neck before his mouth drags up and his
teeth are on the lobe of one ear, biting, tugging. "Get it fast or I'm not
gonna be able to wait." Even if he doesn't really mean that, Yagyuu would be a
liar if he didn't admit just saying it made his cock ache. 
 
Shit, he has to hurry. Niou’s achingly hard now, cock straining in the air now
that Yagyuu’s stripped him, and he grabs the lube with one precise strike of
his hand, agile fingers wrapping around it and squeezing a huge dollop into his
hand. Yagyuu’s big, though Niou’s been waging a petty small-scale war against
him and refusing to let him know as much. His ego is fine, and he doesn’t need
that kind of boost. 
 
Niou does, however, need a lot of lube, and it’s been too long (like a fucking
week, god) since they’ve done this. He dumps the whole slick handful over the
head of Yagyuu’s cock, letting it trickle slowly down the shaft, and gets
another pump onto his fingers before sliding them down. “You wanna do it?” he
asks, breathless even at the first brush of his own fingertips. “Or you wanna
watch me?” Sometimes Yagyuu just wants to slam it into him, and while he does
like the stretch of it, he’s just really too tight to make anything about that
fun for him.
 
It's hard to keep down a stupid, strangled noise just looking at Niou when he's
thinking about it. Because it takes too much effort to make words for the
moment, Yagyuu just settles on nodding, on snaking a hand down to grab his own
cock and squeeze hard to try and sort out what's left of his sanity. "You do
it," he rasps, rocking back onto his knees slightly to better watch. "You know
I like watching you get ready for me." 
 
Shit, how does Niou always make him say the worst things? The problem is that
Yagyuu won't even feel embarrassed about it later, when he's so sure that he
should be. 
 
Fuck, Niou had thought it would be easier if it were himself doing it, but
having Yagyuu watching and letting him know that he’s watching is even better.
His cock is leaking, dripping freely by the time he thrusts a couple fingers
inside himself, grunting out a curse under his breath as he tugs, spreads,
strokes, and stretches himself. Yagyuu’s thick as hell, and Niou can’t look
away from where his stodgy doubles partner has an elegant hand wrapped around
his own cock. 
 
That sight is almost enough to distract him from the stretch of it, but not
quite. He’s going fast, because Yagyuu looks so fucking ready that Niou’s
clenching in anticipation of it. “You wanna use a condom?” he breathes, because
sometimes Yagyuu is a fucking pervert. “You can dump it on my face after.” He
should probably feel shame ever. Probably. Nah.
 
Yagyuu has really never reached for a condom faster in his life. 
 
It's not the easiest to put it on when his hands are shaky and he's so hard
that everything hurts, but it's worth it from the look on Niou's face and that
stupid, perverse idea that has him fucking twitching. He leans over to grab
more lube, always more lube, damn it, and then grabs at Niou's wrist, pushing
his hand away. "You're ready enough," he insists, surging up to kiss Niou
again, sloppier this time, kind of half-missing his mouth in his eagerness. His
cock rubs against that slick hole, and he swears he's going to die. "You can
take it, you know you can." 
 
Ah, shit, shit.
 
Niou can take it--kind of. He claps a hand over his own mouth, bucking
helplessly and groaning like his life is over when Yagyuu slides into him. The
problem isn’t necessarily the size, because fuck, he likes the size a hell of a
lot more than he wants to admit.
 
The problem is that he gets so tight that his legs tense, his back arches, and
he squeezes and clenches down without meaning to, strangling the life out of
Yagyuu’s cock every time he slides in without a good half hour of prep.
 
Whatever, if Yagyuu wants to be impatient he can deal with it. He feels thick
and hard and hot and great inside Niou, and every little movement makes him
writhe on it, arching and gasping and trying to take it. “Fuuuuck,” he moans,
involuntary tears streaming from his eyes as he bucks down for more. He lunges
for Yagyuu’s mouth, kissing him inaccurately, intensely. “F-f-f…”
 
He can’t.
 
The breath's gone from his lungs, and that's probably a good thing when Yagyuu
is so sure that he'd be making more than enough noises to make his parents come
check on them. 
 
As it is, he just can't even breathe.
 
This is always the worst (best) part--getting it in all the way. It takes time,
and effort, and he probably should be gentler, but that doesn't ever seem to
help and it's always just better once he's in all the way. He grabs up Niou by
the hips, his own hands shaking, heat twisting in his belly and his pulse
pounding when he just shoves, sliding in those last few inches until that's all
of it, until their skin slaps together and he can't even strangle down a groan
anymore. 
 
"It's in, all the way in--" Yagyuu's hands drag up, squeezing around Niou's
waist when he lurches forward, kissing him hard, trying to keep himself sane
when Niou's so tight around him that it makes everything ache. "You feel so
good--perfect--"
 
Niou gives up a little, sagging boneless, twitching, limp back to the bed.
Yagyuu fills him up the way he doesn’t let anyone else, and he’s so fucking
into it it’s scary. It fills him up, the hunger for more, and he tries to slam
down on that thick cock for more, but can barely move enough to twitch his
fingers. 
 
Usually, sex feels like fucking. With Yagyuu, it’s impossible to shake the idea
thatthere’s someone inside me, and Niou reaches up to snatch the glasses off of
the other boy’s face, hurling them uncaring to the side as his hands drag up
Yagyuu’s back, clawing and urging. He can feel his cock trembling, liquid
dripping steadily down the underside as he bites Yagyuu’s lip, tasting blood.
“You’re in me,” he grunts, affirming, grateful.
 
Yagyuu is pretty into the idea that he's going to be as scratched and bitten up
as Niou, no matter if he's going to regret it later.
 
He doesn't regret it right now, not when he can feel every twitch and shudder
and spasm of Niou around him. Yagyuu has to grab and tug at him, unable to help
himself when he rolls his hips, fucks into Niou deep, that mind-numbing,
throbbing ache broken up only by the sharpness of Niou's teeth and nails.
"You're so hard," he mutters, kind of amazed that Niou can stay that hard when
he's being fucked like this, when it obviously takes effort for Niou to take
him. But shit, he can feel Niou's cock whenever he presses close, and Yagyuu
can't help but reach for it when he shoves in again, loving the way Niou's cock
drips messily over his fingers, all slick and sticky.
 
“Feels so fucking good.” Niou’s voice is strangled and unsteady, and his thighs
shake when Yagyuu shoves in hard. He shoves at his hair, getting it out of his
face as his head tips back, breathing only when Yagyuu’s sliding out of him.
Every thrust makes his eyes cross at how damn good it feels, at how much it
steals his breath and makes him melt. Yagyuu’s hand is good, but so fucking
secondary to that hard cock filling him to bursting.
 
“W-when you’re in me,” he whimpers, hands sliding down to fist in the sheets,
unable to do much of anything else. “It’s all I can--think about, your big
goddamn dick in me—”
 
He breaks out into a senseless moan, biting his lip so he doesn’t just come,
wanting it not that way, not just yet. The longer he can stay painfully hard,
the more earth-shattering it will be when he finally lets go.
 
Yagyuu should probably tell Niou to shut up, but the noises are just way, way
too good. 
 
Also, he's not going to be good at shutting up, either.
 
"You look--" Yagyuu makes the mistake of looking at him, when Niou's all
splayed out over his bed and wriggling and shuddering and looking like he's
going to die if he doesn't have more dick in him. He has to fucking oblige, of
course, and chokes down a deep groan when he shoves in hard, planting his knees
in to make sure that he can get in there as deep as Niou wants. "You look like
you need it," he pants out, lunging up to bite at Niou's shoulder, marking him
where only he's going to know to look. "I like--love being able to make you
come--just from fucking you like this--" 
 
“More,” Niou agrees, though he’s not entirely sure what the question is.
Something about cock. Yeah, he wants more of that. Everything is kind of fuzzy
and shiny and great and god he’s stuffed full. He seizes onto some thread of
conversation, and lets his head loll away from the bite, encouraging Yagyuu to
do it more. “Need your fucking cock, need more of it, fuck me until I can’t
even—”
 
He can’t even talk, not sure what he was going to say when he’s so full he
can’t stop his eyes from watering with every thrust. That’s what he wants,
wants to feel pitiful and broken tomorrow, wants Yagyuu to just have
everything, shit, everything he wants. “M-make me cry,” he rasps, even if it’s
a done deal and all he can feel is the way he’s twitching and clenching on
Yagyuu’s cock, so hard he’s going to burst, god, so close.
 
Yeah, okay. Yagyuu can do that. 
 
So sue him, but he loves it when Niou just tells him down to the smallest
details what he wants out of sex. He loves being able to just lurch forward and
grab Niou and shove him down and fuck him, to bite him when he's stuffing him
so full of cock that his own breath is ripped from his lungs at the way that
Niou arches up and squeezes around him and shudders from head to toe. 
 
The only time he has to pause is when he's sure that he's so close that he's
going to die, because his cock is throbbing and aching and he wishes, briefly,
that he wasn't wearing that condom so he could feel Niou getting even slicker
inside because of how he's dripping in him. Yagyuu exhales a ragged breath,
grunting when he lurches up to grab at the headboard of his bed for leverage,
folding Niou up even further when he shoves in deep. 
 
Well, that’ll do it.
 
Niou’s breath seizes in his chest, and his legs strain, his neck strains, his
back arches, and he’s so, so done.
 
Like this, Yagyuu can get even deeper in him, and he takes every fucking
advantage of it. With every deep slam inside him, Niou lets out a hoarse whine,
squeezing his eyes shut, hands trembling too hard to even scratch anymore. 
 
He likes sex in a lot of ways. Sometimes he likes to be petted and pampered and
stroked, sometimes he likes to grind up slow and easy and filthy, and sometimes
he likes to be shoved down to the bed and fucked like a goddamn captive. It’s
with a sound more like a whimper, a sob than anything that he finally lets
himself come, shooting so far he can feel it hit his chin and cheek, his balls
drawn up high between his legs as he ruts down shamelessly, wordlessly
demanding even more. “Go,” he pleads hoarsely, even though Yagyuu’s already
using him with no regard for his comfort, which is half of the reason he’s
coming so hard with every brutal thrust.
 
The worst thing is trying to hold out when Niou's coming, and Yagyuu can never
look away to try and control himself. 
 
Instead, he's always caught up in the way that Niou twists and squirms and
tightens up like he's completely lost. It's a little better because his vision
is fuzzy minus glasses, but it's still so fucking distracting. He strangles a
mindless groan, his thrusts uncaring, erratic when he fucks up into Niou now,
hands grabbing at those thighs to shove Niou's legs back to better just use
him. 
 
It doesn't take long after that, at least. 
 
Niou usually makes him come hard, but this is enough to make his back arch and
bow, enough to make him gasp for air as he shakes with every aching throb from
his cock. Yagyuu is pretty sure he's leaving bruises and claw marks alike down
Niou's thighs, and he couldn't be prouder of that fact. "You're--ugh, fuck,"
Yagyuu incoherently mumbles, shuddering as he pulls out, grabbing at that
stupid condom before he can just sag down into the bed and forget about it.
"You're already filthy," he manages to hoarsely whisper as he lurches up to
shakily grab at Niou's chin, upending the condom onto his face as a slick,
dripping mess. 
 
This is the kind of filth that Niou revels in. It’s fine when he can suck
Yagyuu off or fuck him until they both come, but sometimes they go a
little...farther. There’s something a little darker in Niou, he’s always known,
and seeing it echoed in Yagyuu always makes him feel a little less like it’s a
shadow, a little more like it’s a soft dark blanket.
 
Whatever, it’s hard to make sense of his thoughts when he’s this wrecked.
 
Niou lets his lips part, letting the mess drip over his face and into his
mouth, blinking up through sticky eyelashes to look at Yagyuu. “Tell me,” he
croaks, a shudder going all the way through his body, “what you’re thinking
about right now.”
 
"That you're mine."
 
He should probably be more embarrassed that those words come out as easily as
they do, but he's all shaky and twitchy and ready to collapse and the more he
looks at Niou's face covered in his come, the more Yagyuu is sure he said the
right thing. He groans, and just slowly melts down onto Niou's chest. "You
look…way too good." 
 
Niou should not be so oddly touched at that statement. As it is, embarrassing
as it is, he can even feel himself blushing. Fucking Christ, that’s
embarrassing. Worse, even worse, is the way his arms come up around Yagyuu,
gently stroking his hair and shoulders. “Yeah. Yours. You’re too good for me to
be anyone else’s.”
 
Yagyuu settles for a sort of pathetic, gurgling noise that he knows is dumb. He
also knows it's dumb to like the way that Niou smells after sex, but to be
fair, he's usually just dumb around Niou and it's good. He grabs at one of the
sheets, yanking it up and over them even though they're sticky and sweaty and
just gross. "Shower in the morning. Don't move, you're good." 
 
“You’re good,” Niou mumbles rebelliously, and promptly falls asleep.
 
***** Yukimura & Niou, Yagyuu & Niou *****
As per usual, Yukimura arrives earlier for practice than anyone else. Unlocking
the clubhouse yields nothing unusual, and other than the continued aches and
pains that seem to make up his life on a daily basis now, there's nothing to
complain about. Except--
 
What is all of that on the court?
 
Yukimura squints through the cage for a minute before slowly opening the gate
and walking onto the courts themselves. Plants. Potted plants. Lots and lots of
them, all oddly arranged across the tennis courts. His head tilts to the side.
This seems ridiculous enough that it might be an act associated with Atobe
Keigo. Maybe. He's not terribly sure who else it would be. 
 
A note flutters down from...somewhere, though there’s nothing above. Written on
it in simple type is the sentence, “Try looking from the roof.”
 
"What in the world," Yukimura mutters underneath his breath, staring at the
note in question before looking up and around to find where it came from.
 
Well, it's worth a try. The school isn't locked up, and while he isn't terribly
thrilled by this adventure (plants on his tennis courts? really? there's a time
and a place!), he can't deny that it's sort of amusing, too…
 
A few flights of stairs later, and Yukimura finds himself on the nearest
rooftop overlooking the courts. He trots over to the edge, leaning down…and
blinks. 
 
I'm sorry.
 
Who the hell took the time to write that out with potted plants? He leans over
the railing, really trying to reconcile the fact that this happened…and how it
happened. And why. Is he even reading it correctly? It's sort of unmistakable,
but still. 
 
A familiar voice coughs discreetly, because kneeling like this with his head
against the ground is difficult and uncomfortable, and he’s not going to do it
for that long. “I know you hate cut flowers,” Niou says to the ground, forehead
pressed to the stone of the roof, hands at his sides.
 
Yukimura turns, stares, and…well, what's there to do but sigh?
 
Damn it all, but he still wants to be really, really angry. He feels like it's
his right, but… "Did you do all of that yourself?" he wearily asks, turning
around and leaning his back against the railing instead. 
 
Niou raises up slightly, just enough to pillow his chin on his arms, still
resting his forearms on the ground. “Wouldn’t have meant anything if I had
someone else do it.” Yukimura could give him a little credit for sensitivity,
jeez.
 
"I'm not sure how much that statement means coming from someone who just lied
to my face on the court," Yukimura darkly points out, folding his arms over his
chest. 
 
Niou sits up onto his heels, then leans back, legs contorting oddly to
accommodate his height. “Hey. Boss. You know I didn’t mean to make you upset.
I--shit, I was just—” He rubs a hand back through his hair, frustrated, making
the crunchy spikes stand on end. “You’re so stressed, and you stopped laughing
at my jokes. I thought...ugh, it was stupid anyway, Yagyuu told me it was. I
was already getting them for real when that car backfired anyway.”
 
"Then why didn't you just…" Yukimura trails off, just as frustrated, and shoves
off of the railing to walk closer. "I like being able to play against someone
that doesn't get the yips! I would have liked it if you had taken games from
me--anything would have been better than you lying to me like that." Reflex
makes him want to reach out and grab Niou's hair and crunch it in his hand a
little bit, but he stops himself, withdrawing his hand with a firm set of his
jaw. "I was trying to see how much I'd really recovered, but you just made me
feel like I hadn't at all. You're really dumb sometimes, Niou." 
 
“Yeah,” Niou admits freely. “And I’m sorry.” 
 
He looks up, something less cagey than usual in his eyes, and then swallows
hard. “It’s...don’t take this the wrong way, I know it’s been hard as hell for
you, but...it’s been hard for the people that love you, the last year.
It’s...hard.”
 
Niou doesn’t like it when things are too hard. There are some people that like
to seek out challenges. Niou vaguely likes winning, but not enough to make a
big deal over. Seeing a vibrant, lively young man that he cares a whole lot
about slowly dying in the hospital was too much of a challenge, thanks, and he
doesn’t want any more right now. 
 
He looks down, unable to meet Yukimura’s eyes when he says the next part. “I
see you running around the court,” he says quietly, “proving that you’re all
better. And you’re in pain, a lot of it, and the harder you try, the more you
win, and the happier you get, and the more you’re hurting yourself. I did a
stupid, shitty thing, boss. But you didn’t look like you were gonna rip the
staples out of your spine when you thought I had the yips.”
 
Yukimura wants to file at least a dozen complaints with everything that Niou's
said, but it's pretty hard to when Niou won't even look at him. 
 
With one long, heaving exhale, Yukimura slowly flops down, folding himself up
on the concrete in front of Niou. "You were in my hospital room even more than
Sanada. You cut class to keep me company. I figured you probably didn't think
much of that because you'd cut class either way, but…I was still really
grateful for that, you know?" 
 
He reaches out again, this time giving into the urge to tug at a strand of
Niou's hair. "You know how much I like you, right? And how much we get one
another? Sometimes, I felt like you just…got it, even more than Sanada did.
That's why I was so upset when you pulled this stunt. I'm not going to
apologize for pushing myself like I do, but I just thought…you'd get it better.
I don't care if I have to rip out a few staples in order to win. I hear that
you were just…trying to take care of me, and make me feel better, but I've got
to go out and play right now, even if it means I'm hurting a little. Maybe
that's selfish, but I need to be selfish right now. Okay?"  
 
“Yeah. Okay.” Niou looks up, a wry smile twisting his face asymmetrically. “If
it helps, you were in top fucking form yesterday. Seigaku doesn’t stand a damn
chance. Not against you. I was just...I dunno, riding the wave, I guess. I
wanted it to go faster. Got impatient. Liked seeing you smile.” And not that it
will say much more than he already has, but he inclines his head again,
muttering, “And I’m sorry.”
 
"I'm going to make Sanada draw 'patience' all over your face," Yukimura very
seriously threatens, digging his hand a little into Niou's hair. Crunchy as
usual, just how he likes it. "You're going to have to make it up to me somehow.
I had just played a match against Echizen Ryouma--do you know how hard it is
not to think that he was just faking it, too?" 
 
“That brat?” Niou snorts, actually allowing Yukimura to pet him without ducking
away, butting his head against that hand. Yagyuu thinks it’s weird when he does
that, but Yagyuu listens to foreign language tapes in his spare time, so
whatever. “He wasn’t faking it. He fucking hates losing. How bad did you kick
his ass?” There’s no question in his mind or in his voice that Yukimura had
won.
 
Petting Niou is all kinds of therapeutic now that he's less angry. Yukimura
settles down more, heaving a sigh as he slowly kneads against the other boy's
scalp. "Well, we didn't get to finish because he had the yips. I was definitely
winning handily, but…you're sure that he wouldn't fake it?" I didn't get a
chance to bring this back up with Sanada for his opinion because I didn't want
him to scold me for being in Tokyo in the middle of the night is something that
really should be understood from the whole of this conversation. 
 
“He threw a fit when Sanada beat him,” Niou slurs, eyes half-lidded with the
sensation of Yukimura’s fingernails on his scalp. “Didn’t shake his hand,
hissing and spitting like a fucking cat. Ran off to lick his wounds, man, he’s
a pissy little thing. He thinks he’s so damn cool.”
 
"He certainly thought he was really cool," Yukimura mutters, rolling his eyes.
Something unclenches in his chest at that knowledge, though, and he sags
forward, butting his head up against Niou's. "Okay. I'm not mad at you anymore.
The flowers looked good, too." 
 
A weight lifts from Niou’s chest, and he nuzzles happily against Yukimura’s
head. “Took forever,” he admits. “I kept having to look up the kanji, who uses
kanji to write ‘I’m sorry?’ Fucking loser asshole Yagyuu told me it would look
better in kanji than hiragana.”
 
"You could've written it in hiragana. I wouldn't've minded." Yukimura flops his
head forward to hook it over Niou's shoulder. "You have to help me get all of
them off the court, though. And then plant them at home. They belong in my
garden." 
 
“I,” Niou says very seriously, twining his fingers with Yukimura’s, “will do
all of that once it is dark. Not in the sun. God, no.”
 
"But we have to practice today, and I don't want the plants to get hurt sitting
on the court," Yukimura protests. He frowns, wheels turning in his head, and
reluctantly, very reluctantly, he says: "Maybe because of the ranking
tournament, I should give everyone a break today, go out for lunch instead.
Yakiniku or ramen or something…"
 
That causes an unaccustomed ache in Niou’s chest, and he sighs, flopping down
on his back to look up at the sky. “God, I remember those days. Like after
finals last year, shit. I’ve never seen three men eat what Marui put away that
day, man. Heh, remember Akaya dropping the sauce, and Sanada actually just
laughed instead of yelling?”
 
Those days seem pretty long ago now, even if it was barely a year.
 
When was the last time that Sanada had laughed? 
 
"Yakiniku it is." Yukimura hauls himself to his feet, ignoring almost every
fiber in his body that screams nope, getting up is effort, just lie down and
start sunning like a cat on the roof with Niou. The other fibers scream but
Nationals are a week away,but ah, if he doesn't commit now…ugh, Sanada has
eyedrops because he cries. "But don't tell anyone when they show up for
practice. Everyone still needs to think that I'm in raging overlord mode. I
especially like the way that Akaya scuttles."
 
“Puri.” 
 
That’s as good as a confirmation, to anyone who knows him as well as Yukimura
does.
 
"But you," Yukimura firmly continues, jabbing a finger in Niou's direction,
"are still going to be doing so much gardening later. Get up and come on, I'm
going to tell you about flowers before anyone else gets here." 
 
“I already know about flowers, that one’s pink and that one’s white and aren’t
they all shemales?”
 
"Oh my god, Niou, rude. You can't talk to them like that. They're just
children." 
 
“What? I didn’t say I wanted to bone them or anything! That would be all weird,
and I’m pretty sure it’d leave a rash.”
 
Yukimura grabs him by the wrist, firmly dragging him to the stairs. "You're the
worst. Even joking about it is gross, and I'm going to get mad at you again.
You have to be nice to them--sweet, even--" He leans in, eyes glinting, grip
tightening so that Niou can't get away. "You know, like how you are with
Yaaagyuu." 
 
Niou twists, skipping sideways down the stairs, getting one foot on the
bannister, but Yukimura’s hand is strong. “You should be nicer to him,” he
grunts, making use of his double-jointed shoulder to turn into odd contortions.
“He’s way less creepy about you than he used to be, honest.” And way more mine.
 
"Well, I haven't gotten any poems in my locker lately, but I have a feeling
that has more to do with the fact I've been away for eight months," Yukimura
snidely retorts. He makes a face at Niou's contorting--gross, really weird--
before giving up and letting him go. "You're really into him. Did you confess
and everything?" 
 
Niou makes a face, gagging a little. “Gross.” Not a ‘no.’ Especially when he’s
got so many marks from last night all over him, and Yagyuu had been so good, so
sweet and enthusiastic--
 
Yukimura's eyebrows raise. "You did, didn't you. Oooor, is it just about how
good the sex is?" He doesn't like to particularly think about how Yagyuu isn't
a virgin and he still is, but, well.
 
“You’re mine,” Yagyuu says in his memory of last night, and the flush on Niou’s
cheeks is fucking embarrassing. “It’s really fucking good,” he admits, but the
worst part is… 
 
He slams his back into a wall, sliding slowly down with a groan. “It’s not even
about the sex,” he admits miserably.
 
Yukimura stops and stares back at him. "I was joking. Wait, you're serious? Are
you blushing? You are! Ma~sa~ko," he openly teases, darting back and kneeling
in front of Niou to squish his cheeks, "you're like an innocent little maiden
and everything, what kind of horrible poetry does he write you?" 
 
Niou hisses a little, drawing his knees up under his chin. “Ugh, it’s fucking
gross,” he growls. He hasn’t even had his best friend to talk to about it,
because, well, Yukimura’s problems have always been worse. “I’m not an innocent
little maiden, you wanna hear about the freaky shit he did last night?”
 
"Yes." Perhaps a little too much, because knowing that other people have
functioning sex drives and supposedly a lot of fun bodes well for the near
future. Yukimura scoots closer, beaming. "Because until you prove otherwise,
I'm assuming you're an innocent little maiden that likes it when Yaaagyuu takes
care of you and pampers you like a girl." 
 
Niou glares daggers, then leans forward and says, without a hint of a blush,
“He shoved my feet up behind my head and fucked me deep, then pulled off the
condom and dumped it on my face.”
 
Well. That's…not enough to make him blush or anything. "You're lying. Yagyuu's
way too much of a prude. He freaks out when you lean on him in public." 
 
Niou grins, and reaches for his phone. “He’s different in private.” He thumbs
through a few galleries, then lands on one marked “School - Exam Notes,”
flipping through to one of himself flashing a lazy peace sign, chest covered in
love bites, face covered in cum, Yagyuu’s elegant fingers and cock just barely
visible. “I have evidence if you want to see it.”
 
"Gimme." Yukimura snatches the phone away, not really believing it until he
actually looks and--oh. Oh.He swallows hard, shoving the phone back into Niou's
grasp. "Point taken. But you just said it's not about the sex, so don't try to
hide behind…really good reference pictures for some seriously lewd poses just
because you know that's distracting." 
 
Niou flips the phone away, relaxing back against the wall. “Big talk from a guy
who can’t even get his prude boyfriend to second base,” he mutters. At least
Yukimura knows how he deflects (well and often) when he doesn’t want to talk
about feelings.
 
Yukimura scowls back at him, but allows said deflection for now. Maybe he's
been dying for a chance to talk about guys with someone else that's good at
talking about guys--which is basically Niou, and only Niou. Yanagi makes it
weird (weirder now, because of the Akaya thing). "It's not a matter of not
being able to get him there! If I wanted to, I could get him there just fine.
And third base. Things like that, even," he adds, jabbing a finger in the
direction of Niou's phone. 
 
“Uh huh.” Niou leans forward, folding his hands, resting his chin on them. “You
know, the problem with waiting for something special, boss, is that you miss
out on all the times between then and now. I’d have thought...well, you know,
you of all people should know that you can’t always wait forever for the right
thing to come along. Never know about how long life will be, right?”
 
"Now you're making it weird," Yukimura bemoans, leaning back onto one hand. "Do
you think I haven't thought of all of that? Look, it's…ugh, one, and don't
repeat this, I'll kill you, do you know how badly all those medications mess
things up? I used to think about it all the time and now I'm lucky if I can
make a joke about his stupid fundoshi once a week. And two, it's…he…it needs to
be special now." He glances away, face flushing a little. "He built us a cabin.
On a mountain. We're going after Nationals." 
 
“Gross.” Niou can’t help but grin anyway, though it turns a little
flabbergasted. “When the hell did he have the time? Between all the practices
and making us run and getting his perfect grades, when the hell did he…”
 
"I don't know! Ahhh, I want to just…" Yukimura whimpers, burying his face into
one hand. "This is why he was always so awful about buying me things. He was
saving up to do this instead. I'm trash, I'm the worst, I had no idea." 
 
“He did it for you,” Niou points out. “He’d have been upset if you did notice,
dumbass. Are you gonna be okay up there in the thin air?”
 
Yukimura reaches over and half-heartedly punches Niou's shoulder. "I'm not
going to die that easily! I want him to throw me over his shoulder and drag me
up the mountain like a wild man kidnapping his bride. Is that too weird?" 
 
“Not for anyone who’s known you for a while,” Niou assures him. “Then it’s just
kind of par for the course. I’d have thought you wanted to be his perfect
Samurai bride, though.”
 
"Mm, same difference. He says he's going to catch me fish wearing nothing but a
fundoshi. Can you imagine?" Yukimura sighs out, eyes glazing. "I just really
want it to be special, you know? Especially…" He hesitates, then flops back a
little bit, glancing upward. "When I was still in the hospital--and it was a
really bad day--he told me that if I wanted to go ahead and do it, we could.
But I knew he was just doing that because he thought I was going to die, and if
that isn't enough to kill a hard-on, I don't know what is. I really wish I
could be as cool and casual about it like you are." 
 
“I dunno, the thought of my imminent death gets me hard sometimes,” Niou says,
completely serious. “If anything, I’d have thought it was those heart monitors
and stuff that killed your boner.” His words are casual, but his hand reaches
out to curl around Yukimura’s, squeezing firmly. “I’m not judging, just
surprised. I always figured Sanada was the sentimental one, but fuck, doing it
in a gurney wouldn’t have been any good at all.”
 
"The heart monitors were kind of fun, but the death thing wasn't," Yukimura
grouses, even as he squeezes Niou's hand back in a way that might be slightly
clingy. "I don't know how I got so sentimental. He's rubbing off on me. Well, I
wish he was. Maybe in a couple of weeks. Anyway, I've spilled my guts now, it's
your turn to be embarrassing. Are you two going to get married on your island
or something?" 
 
“I hate you,” Niou says, without any real feeling behind it. It’s easier when
he doesn’t have to look at Yukimura’s face, and he sighs. “I dunno. I want to.
I mean, not that, but I want to be...the two of us, you know? Like you guys
are. But I can’t do that to him, so I don’t ask, and then I get mad because I’m
not getting what I didn’t ask for.”
 
"…What do you mean, you can't 'do that to him'?" Yukimura echoes, his brow
furrowing in confusion. "You're not doing anything to him. You make it sound
like you're murdering him or something, that's weird." 
 
This is a stressful conversation. Niou reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a
couple crumpled cigarettes, stuffing one in his mouth and lighting it with a
match. “Maybe I’m too good a dude,” he mutters, though he’s sure he isn’t.
“Shit, you know how he is. He’s so serious about so many things, he
wouldn’t...I’m not sure he could pull off the lie. His dad’s a doctor, he’s the
older kid, he can’t just be a homo.”
 
Yukimura settles for a brief, polite cough, his only protest about the
cigarettes this time around. "Okay, but he clearly is. He had a crush on me
before he even joined the tennis team. He's dating you." He pauses. "Right?
Like, you asked him out and everything and you're actually dating?" 
 
Niou ignores that. He takes a long drag, blowing it out in the opposite
direction from Yukimura, and stares at the sky. “He can fake it. He’s good at
that. If he doesn’t have something else to keep him to that, he can fake it for
long enough. He wants to be a doctor, man. He wants to work with kids. In
Japan. You can’t do that if everyone knows you’re...unmarried. I’m just looking
out for him.”
 
Yukimura reaches over and smacks the side of his head. "He's not gonna do that
for awhile, though! We're not even in high school yet. Why can't you whisk him
off to your island and be weird and really, really homo with him all you want?
He's obviously really into you. He follows you around like a puppy, and always
wants to do stuff with you, no matter how strange it is."
 
It sounds easy. Niou’s pretty sure it isn’t. But Yukimura doesn’t know how
rewarding it is to see Yagyuu loosen up, to see the posture of his shoulders
change, to see the glasses come off and the contacts go in, to see the stuffy
student council president lose his cool and forget that he’s not supposed to
misbehave. 
 
Niou’s never had to work for anyone before. It’s weird that he likes it now.
 
He stabs the cigarette out on the roof, grinding it slowly down until the spark
dies completely. “I know he wants to. I did take him home, and it was great.
Fuck, Sanada’s parents are cool, but would you want to be the reason they
kicked him out if they weren’t? Even if you’ve got money, he’d still, I mean,
he’d miss his folks, right? But that’s different, because everyone knows you’re
worth losing a family for.” Probably a little too raw and honest, but it’s been
a year since Niou’s had his sounding board.
 
Yukimura's face falls, and he reaches out, tugging at Niou's rat tail. "Don't
be dumb. You're not going to be the reason anything like that happens, first of
all. You told me before that his parents like you, right? They probably like
that you help him loosen up and act more human. That's because," he firmly adds
before Niou can argue, "you're really great. If Yagyuu's acting nervous about
this like you are, it's because he's worried about the same stuff, and doesn't
want to lose someone so awesome. Basically, you're both being dumb." 
 
Niou flops to the side and buries his face in Yukimura’s shoulder. “Yeah,
you’re never allowed to leave again,” he mutters. “I’ll just set up in the bed
next to you if you do.”
 
Yukimura wraps his arms firmly around the other boy, hauling him closer.
"That'd be okay. I could stand to have some company." He sighs, and gives
Niou's back a light rub. "You definitely never asked him out, did you." 
 
“Nope.” Niou finds it oddly comforting to have Yukimura’s slender arms around
him. Inverse proportion to actual safety, maybe. “I mean, we go out, and we
fuck nasty, and we hang out all the time, but I never asked him on a date, and
he never asked me on one, and I know that’s what you’re talking about.”
 
"You should. If you really ask him out, then he's really your boyfriend. I
mean, I guess you could wait around for him to ask you out, but he's kind of
repressed…" Yukimura tilts his head back, thinking. "Mm. You should just go for
it. Isn't it better to know what he really thinks than to just wait around and
agonize? Plus, I'm really, really sure that he'd be into it. You know he sits
around and constantly wonders how he got someone as smart and hot and funny as
you in bed." 
 
Niou swallows hard. His eyes burn a little, and he swallows hard on that, too.
He buries his face in Yukimura’s side, and mutters almost unintelligibly,
“Thanks, boss.” Don’t leave again.
 
It’s easy to forget what having Yukimura back had meant to the team. They’d all
felt like they’d been lonely, sure, but...how long has it been since tennis was
honestly fun, the way it had been before? “I wouldn’t have joined the team,”
Niou says abruptly. “If it was like this last year. Everyone all angry and
stressed all the time, it’s not my thing.”
 
"I wouldn't have blamed you," Yukimura admits, rubbing a hand slowly through
Niou's hair. "That's not my thing, either. I know I've been really high strung
lately, and I'm sorry about that. It'll be okay, though, right? We're gonna win
Nationals again. You and Yagyuu will be the number one doubles pair again--
look, after you get that win, that's when you should ask him out. I did that
with Sanada, it worked really well!" 
 
Niou shrugs. “If he’s gonna say yes, he’s gonna say yes no matter when I ask
him. I don’t need to wait for it to be special. Besides, we might lose, and
then I’d have to wait for something better to come along and happen. Wasted
time.”
 
"Well, fine. Don't make it dramatic. It's just more fun when it's like that, I
think." Yukimura scritches a hand against Niou's scalp. "But you're not allowed
to avoid it for too much longer, then. Do you need to practice on me? Or is
that too weird?" 
 
Niou rotates his neck a bit, thoroughly enjoying the scritching. “Mm, it’s not
like I don’t know how to do it. I just didn’t want to ruin his whole life. If
I’m gonna ruin his whole life, I can at least figure it out.”
 
"Uh huh. Then I want to hear all about it later." Yukimura scritches for a bit
longer before pulling his hand away and giving Niou's back a thump. "Okay, up
with you, though. I bet everyone's here, and I want to scare them before
telling them that yakiniku is the plan instead." He pauses, and doesn't pull
away just yet. "So long as everything else is good. I mean, I'm not going
anywhere either way, so if something isn't good later, you can tell me then,
too." 
 
Niou wavers for a moment...but everything is good right now. Shit happens
later, or maybe it won’t. For now, everything is good, and Yukimura feels like
his old self. “I’m sure everything will suck at some point. All the more reason
to terrify the children and stuff our faces with meat.”
 
Relief is as clear as day on Yukimura's face, and he nods, hauling himself to
his feet. "Yeah, good. And later, gardening!" 
 
At least he's kind enough not to insist on daytime gardening. Niou should never
claim that he isn't merciful. 
 
~
 
Yukimura is never so merciful. 
 
Yakiniku, barely a week before Nationals when they could be practicing instead?
Unheard of. But after scaring the entire team of regulars into thinking
practice would go on for an extra two hours, Yukimura announced that 'practice'
would instead continue at the best yakiniku restaurant in all of Kanagawa. 
 
The entire team looks ready to collapse from relief, truth be told.
 
"It's my treat!" Yukimura insists, looking so very, very like his old self,
even if he moves more stiffly. He has his hair swept back in two places, his
bangs pinned back and the rest of his hair in what almost serves as a ponytail
in the ridiculous heat of summer, and he's beaming as he settles down at his
table, flanked by Sanada and Yanagi as per usual. "Don't hold back in ordering
whatever you want!"
 
Jackal looks concerned that Marui is going to take that very seriously. Niou
also looks a little too excited, and Yagyuu is pretty sure that there's going
to be a showdown between Sanada and Kirihara in the near future. 
 
"Yanagi-sempai, I want to sit at your table!"
 
"This is the grown-up table," Yukimura scolds, smacking Kirihara's knee when he
tries to plop down. "Go sit with Niou and Yagyuu."
 
"But--"
 
"Go! Renji, if I get squid, you have to help me eat it." 
 
"When did we get babysitting duty?" Yagyuu wearily asks, but it's too late,
Kirihara is there, and sulkily glowering. Ah, yes. It's so clear now:
babysitting duty established the moment that Mommy wanted lunch with Daddy and
Strange Aunt. "Is this his way of punishing you still, Niou-kun?" 
 
"Why would I be a punishment?" Kirihara demands. "My mom says I'm a gift!"
 
Niou’s eyes widen at that, and he leans back slightly, asking Yagyuu in a
whisper that’s obviously (to anyone but Kirihara) meant to be heard, “She
actually told him? I thought she and the Captain agreed that we were going to
wait until after Nationals to let him know about that!” 
 
He doesn’t need to ask Yagyuu to go along with him. Yagyuu always does. Fuck,
maybe Yukimura is right. Maybe he does need to ask the big loser on a date.
 
Yagyuu has no idea what Niou has planned, but it's probablygoing to funny.
Maybe. It's just Kirihara, after all… "Perhaps she got tired of waiting," he
conspiratorially whispers back, and Kirihara's eyes get narrower by the second.
 
"What are you two talking about? What about my mom?!" 
 
Ah, yes. This is going to be good. 
 
Niou bites his lip, the look of discomfort easy to pull off. He gives Yagyuu a
grimace, and shakes his head. “Sorry, kid. They made us swear not to tell. Man,
sorry, I thought your mom had brought it up, we can’t be the ones to spill the
beans. Shit, I’d have thought for sure that someone else—” A quick look to the
‘grown-up table’ shows who he means by that— “would have told you by now.
They’ve got to be waiting until the time is right.”
 
Kirihara looks rapidly between the so-called 'grown-up table', and then back to
Niou. "You brought it up now, Niou-sempai," he hisses, smacking a hand down
onto the table. "You have to tell me! That's the rule! Yanagi-sempai says I
shouldn't let people lead me on and you're definitely leading me on by not
finishing topics that you bring up--"
 
"Perhaps it would be best to just tell him, Niou-kun," Yagyuu solemnly says,
pushing up his glasses. "He does have a right to know." 
 
The sigh Niou lets out is familiar to Yagyuu--and to anyone who’s been caught
in one of his pranks before, except Kirihara, who somehow manages to stay
oblivious every single time. He looks around, ostensibly to make sure no one is
listening, and leans forward. “Listen, I’m only telling you because Yaaaaagyuu
over here thinks it’s the right thing to do, so you can’t tell anyone, okay?
Swear to me.”
 
"I swear!" Kirihara whispers, leaning forward with his eyes wide. "Sometimes, I
think you guys are the only ones who take me seriously, you know? Even Yanagi-
sempai is always hiding stuff from me, this proves it!"
 
Yagyuu barely manages to strangle a snort of laughter. Sometimes, it's just a
little too much when it's Kirihara, the one that they fool again and again and
again. 
 
Niou almost feels bad. Almost. It’s just too easy, which is incidentally what
Yukimura always says in reprimanding him, that it can’t possibly be so much fun
to torment Kirihara when it’s so easy. He’s wrong, though. That really doesn’t
impact his enjoyment at all. “All right.” He leans forward even farther, and
announces in a dramatic whisper, “You are a gift. Your mother is giving you to
the Tennis club, to Yukimura specifically, after Nationals.”
 
Yagyuu thinks that he's going to stop breathing in his attempts to not laugh
and keep a straight face. 
 
Kirihara stares long and hard before slowly slumping back into his chair. "But-
-I thought that was just a thing she was saying--like, you know, mom's do and
stuff--"
 
"Think about how Yukimura-kun always says you're from his tennis uterus,"
Yagyuu somehow calmly puts in. "That's because he's your mother now."
 
"What?! No way!"
 
"It's true," Yagyuu continues without batting an eye. "He's your mother now.
How do you think you got into Rikkai?" 
 
"My dad went there as a kid!"
 
"Your grades are still too bad for that to help, I'm afraid. It's because the
tennis club funded it--because you're Yukimura's." 
 
Kirihara just sort of whimpers. "Niou-sempai--is all of that true?!"
 
“I wasn’t going to tell you all that,” Niou says with a sigh, giving Yagyuu a
look that says very clearly that now Kirihara Knows Too Much. “Look, it’s not
like you’re never going to see your mom again, or anything,” he says,
consolingly, patting Kirihara’s hand. “You’ll still be able to see her every
other weekend for a couple hours! As long as you win at Nationals, of course.
Maybe you’ll play Fuji again!”
 
Kirihara's eyes start watering.
 
"Niou-kun! You shouldn't have told him that part," Yagyuu hisses, smacking his
arm lightly. "Now you've told him too much." 
 
"D-does this mean Sanada-fukubuchou is…is my dad now?"
 
“Hey, it could be worse,” Niou says, rubbing his arm and shrugging, reaching
across to tug a lock of dark silky hair. “Besides, Yukimura’s going to let you
be Captain next year, as long as you’re a good child for him. Don’t be mean to
your new parents. It’s not like they can have a child on their own, you know?
Too many man-parts.”
 
Kirihara sniffles.
 
"It'll be fine, Kirihara-kun," Yagyuu reassures him. "Just remember, don't tell
them about this. We weren't supposed to have said a word, after all--"
 
"Yanagi-sempaaiiii! P-please let me sit with you!"
 
"Ah, there he goes," Yagyuu mildly comments, watching as Kirihara launches
himself back over to the 'grown-up table' and clings to one of Yanagi's legs.
"You don't suppose he'll really say anything, do you?" 
 
Niou starts snort-giggling, sliding back in his chair and waggling his eyebrows
at Yagyuu. “Puri.” 
 
He looks over at the other table, at where Yanagi is attempting to soothe his
charge and doubtless saying the wrong things about hush now don’t worry we’ll
always take care of you, and laughs a little more. He reaches out, hooking a
finger in Yagyuu’s collar and urging him forward. “Gimme a piece of meat. Feed
it to me.”
 
"Niou-kun," Yagyuu attempts, slightly exasperated even as he reaches for his
chopsticks. "I am very sure that you can feed yourself. And you don't like the
way I cook it most of the time." 
 
Niou sticks out his tongue, then grabs the tongs, flipping a smallish hunk of
meat onto the grill before saucing the other side long before it makes sense to
do so. “Wasn’t about not being able to feed myself. I wanted you to do
something sexy for me.” It’s a bit bluntly honest, for him, but Yukimura
usually gives good advice. Maybe this at least will start a conversation.
 
"Inpublic?" is Yagyuu's reflexively hushed whisper. He ducks his head, leaning
away with a reflexive upward push of his glasses. "I don't see what's so sexy
about feeding you meat. Meat that you always put too much sauce on, I might
add…"
 
Yeah, Niou thinks sourly at Yukimura, who even now is loudly declaring that of
course Kirihara is the son that came from his tennis uterus (to general wailing
from Kirihara). He’s practically gagging to fucking date me. He flips the meat
(too late), and grabs another with his tongs, ripping a piece of it off with
his teeth. “You’d like it if I did something sexy for you, I bet. I got a maid
outfit.”
 
Yagyuu drops the piece of meat that he was about to set onto the grill. "You
what?" This is a much better conversation. Niou is always much better at being
sexy than he is, and that's a fact. "That…um…what are you going to do with
that, exactly." 
 
Niou chews, and leans back, putting his feet up under the table. “Maybe clean
some stuff.” His heart is thudding way too fast for just talking to Yagyuu, for
fuck’s sake. This is such a dumb thing to be nervous about. “Maybe just walk
around in garters and a short skirt for my boyfriend.” It takes every ounce of
determination he has to keep from showing any anxiety at that sentence.
 
"Oh." Yagyuu swallows hard. He's better about the next piece of meat, and it
actually makes it to the grill. "That…ah. Would be nice. You don't have to
clean anything, though. Just…walk around." He clears his throat a little. "You
always are a lot better at being sexy. You have better ideas. Much better."
 
Niou breathes. It takes slightly more effort than usual, but it’s a hell of a
lot more rewarding, too. 
 
Then he loses control and turns, leaning up to whisper low and filthy in
Yagyuu’s ear, “I’m gonna make you lose control in a second. You get to snap my
garters and distract me from work...Hiroshi-bocchan.” He might follow that up
with a quick dart out of his tongue against the lobe of Yagyuu’s ear.
 
Yagyuu isn't sure about the sound that escapes his throat. It's probably some
weird whimper-gasp-squeak, and it definitely makes him start to slide and
slouch down into his seat, practically melting underneath the table. "You….you
can't call me that in public," he manages, somehow, though his dick is really
disagreeing. Call me that all the time, more like.
 
“Sure I can.” Niou adjusts himself discreetly, then stands up from the pillow
seat. He leans down and whispers, “Single-stall bathroom. Follow in two
minutes,” then loudly makes an excuse about going to order more pitchers of
cola before slipping into the bathroom. What the hell, he lights the incense in
there as well. Might as well make it romantic.
 
Two minutes. Two minutes. Two minutes.
 
Yagyuu makes it until a minute forty five until he's up and heading straight to
the bathroom.
 
"You, too, Yagyuu?" is Yukimura's brief tease before he's sighing and swatting
at Kirihara. "Stop crying already. Sanada, make him stop crying! Rikkai's next
captain can't be a crybaby!"
 
Yagyuu's face flushes hot, and he darts inside. 
 
Incense. Okay. That's a choice. He breathes in deep, trying to calm himself.
Hiroshi-bocchan kind of comes floating back, though, and that ruins any and all
ideas of calm. 
 
Yagyuu barely makes it through the door before Niou shoves him back against it,
flipping the lock shut as he leans up to suck Yagyuu’s earlobe into his mouth.
His leg comes up between Yagyuu’s, grinding there, and he groans, “I could
barely wait for you, I already started jacking off. You might have to punish
me, Hiroshi-bocchan. I’ve been a naughty maid.” It’ll be better with the
costume. Whatever.
 
Shit, shit, shit.
 
The thing is that he's usually got enough endurance to piss Niou off. He's not
fast about coming, and that's usually way more of a curse than a gift. 
 
Something about that damned maid thing and Hiroshi-bocchan, though--
 
Yagyuu just groans, sags back against the wall as his hands reach out and sink
into the curve of Niou's ass, grabbing hard and yanking him close. That's about
all it takes, that and one needy, desperate grind against Niou's thigh, because
he's hard as a rock and who knew that was going to push such a good button.
"Sorry," he gasps out, his eyes rolling back into the back of his head, wishing
dimly that he'd at least had the brains to take his dick out because now he's
going to be a mess, but fuck it, who cares. "S-sorry--shit, Niou-kun, who said
you could be so…so…" Hot when you say my name like that.
 
Inwardly, Niou groans, because he’s either going to have to forego sex
completely (and he loves bathroom sex), or this is going to take forever.
Yagyuu is usually about as far from a hair trigger as a man can get, but
apparently he’s found a button.
 
Eh, he’s horny and there’s not much going on out there. He can indulge Yagyuu
for a minute, especially after he’d barely blinked at the whole ‘boyfriend’
thing.
 
He slips down to his knees, undoing the buttons of those crisp trousers, and
turns some of the fabric inside out. “You’ve made a mess,” he breathes, and
drags his tongue over it, tasting the salty-sour-musk that is Yagyuu and
feeling his dick throb. “I wouldn’t be much of a maid if I didn’t clean that
up, would I?” He runs the flat of his tongue over Yagyuu’s softening cock,
feeling the soft skin brushing over his lips, driving him crazy.
 
Yagyuu is pretty sure that his knees are about to give out. He shudders,
sinking back against the wall, clinging to it with one hand as his other hand
desperately clings to Niou's hair, digging in close to his scalp. Even when he
just came, his cock seems pretty intent on getting hard again--ugh, too soon,
too fast, fuck, he's dizzy. "God," he groans, kneading his fingers down the
back of Niou's neck. "You'd…you'd make a really good maid, Niou-kun--"
 
Probably not, Niou thinks in good humor, but having Yagyuu grabbing and hungry
for him is way better than whatever maids do all day, probably. He makes a show
of mouthing over the cloth until he’s sucked off everything he can, then
letting his tongue flick delicately over the head of Yagyuu’s cock. “Pace
yourself, Hiroshi-bocchan. You can use me as long as you need to.” His voice is
sultry, breathy, and not especially feminine. Yagyuu’s gay enough that this’ll
work better than any real female impersonation anyway.
 
It's not particularly manly to whimper like he is, but damn it all, Niou's
tongue is good. It's enough to make his eyes cross, and for him to clutch even
tighter to Niou's hair, and ah--shit, he's probably going to pass out for real.
"Want to fuck you in here," he manages to rasp all the same. "However…however
you want. No punishment, just--you're good, really good--"
 
Niou swallows his cock down for that, all the way to the root, just to prove
that he can, before drawing off slowly with a pop, leaving the head slick and
shiny as a trail of saliva dangles from his lip, connected to Yagyuu’s cock. He
stands slowly, arching and rubbing against Yagyuu like a cat in heat, hands
grabby at the front of his shirt. “I fucking want you in me,” he rasps
urgently. He hops up on the closed toilet seat, drawing his knees up to his
chest, spreading his legs to show off just how hard and dripping his own cock
is. His eyes are dark, chest heaving as he breathes, “Show me how lucky I am
that my boyfriend has such a big dick, hmm?” He might be using the word on
purpose. It might be getting him off.
 
Boyfriend. Second time that word has come out of Niou's mouth in the span of
half an hour. There's a reason for that, probably, but Yagyuu can't think of it
at the moment. He can barely think beyond the way his cock throbs, and he has
to take himself in hand, smearing his fingers along the slick mess of Niou's
saliva that's been left behind, which would make it a lot easier to just jerk
off to the way Niou's waiting for him. 
 
"Lube?" is all Yagyuu can think to ask for, especially when he's already
moving, dragging a hand up the back of one thigh, digging his fingers in. It
actually always surprises him how good Niou feels, and once he starts touching
him, he just can't get enough of it. 
 
“Already in.” Niou raises his legs, walking his feet up Yagyuu’s chest to his
shoulders, spreading his legs wider. “In the not-really-two-minutes you kept me
waiting. I got bored, thought you might want to just do it.”
 
In all honesty, he hadn’t prepped himself so much as “squirted the tube up his
own ass,” but it’s essentially the same thing. Maybe. He’s slick, that’s for
sure. “Just shove it in. Might want to cover my mouth right at first.” He
reaches up, tugging Yagyuu down on top of him, needing all of a sudden to touch
his skin.
 
What is there to say to that but "Yeah, okay" in a sort of rushed, breathy,
stupidly eager way, especially when Niou is grabbing at him like that. He just
has to kiss Niou, especially when he's right there and his dick is that hard
and that seems like a really good idea because Niou's mouth is always so, so
much softer than he expects it to be. "Don't want any interruptions," Yagyuu
breathlessly agrees, mouthing a wet, messy kiss over his lips before he covers
it with his hand, knowing Niou's going to be noisy the moment he puts his cock
in him--and he almost is, too, considering how hot and slick and tight Niou
still is, just with that first, initial push.
 
Niou squeezes his eyes shut, and they burn. He’s always tight, and it’s always
too much, but this is kind of ridiculous. He’s grateful for the hand over his
own mouth, and scream-sobs into it for a moment, before he can get control of
himself. God, it’s still good, even if it’s so tight that he trembles, unable
to do anything at this angle except take it, letting Yagyuu’s cock pop inside
and stuff him full. He blinks away a couple tears, sucking in ragged breaths
through his nose before his head tips back in pleasure more intense, more
complete than most he’s ever felt.
 
It feels so much better when he’s not ready. It hurts, and his ass is going to
ache all of tomorrow, but Niou wouldn’t trade this for the world. The
prickling, searing pain melds with the shock of pleasure that comes with each
thrust, and it only takes half a dozen brutal slams of Yagyuu’s hips before
Niou’s coming all over his own shirt, staring up at Yagyuu like that dumb
bespectacled face is the only thing he ever wants to see.
 
"God, you really were ready, weren't you," Yagyuu groans into his neck, his own
breath hot and staggering and making his glasses fog up whenever he exhales.
Niou's way too tight, tight enough to make his eyes sort of blur at the edges,
but it's good, especially when he's in so deep that their skin slaps together
and he can feel the way that Niou aches underneath him, all the way down to his
toes. 
 
Niou's not as noisy now, which is good and bad in its own way. Yagyuu does take
the opportunity to wrap a hand up in his hair, to yank his head back and bite
at his throat, thoughtlessly marking him up, not really thinking about  how
they're going to have to go back out there pretty soon and everyone's going to
see.
 
Good for them, they can be jealous.
 
Yagyuu sees stars when he comes, gasping into Niou's neck, clinging to his
sides and hips and his glasses are now somewhere on the floor, definitely
knocked off somewhere in the process of everything. Niou is so slick inside
that his mind considers melting. He shouldn't be allowed to feel that good. 
 
Niou tries not to cling too much, with severely limited success. His fingers
clutch at Yagyuu’s shirt behind his neck, and he buries his face in the other
boy’s chest, smelling clean crisp linen and just a bit of sweat. His legs
tremble, and he actually has to use his legs to get them down, stiff and sore
as they are. “Fuck,” he grunts, surprised to hear how wet his voice is. “Ugh,
god, you’re the best fuck, you know that?” Maybe someday he’ll move again.
 
"Learned from the best," Yagyuu huffs out, giving up on pulling away just yet
when Niou is literally fastened to him. He pats a hand out blindly around the
floor to no avail, only to eventually find his glasses hanging from some of
Niou's hair. All right then. "Are you going to need to sneak out the back after
this, or…"
 
“I will if you want me to.” That’s a big concession coming from Niou, and hell,
now that he feels great, it’s as good a time as any to do as Yukimura had
instructed him. “Hey. I want to date you.”
 
Date. Date him. Ah. The multiple drops of 'boyfriend' must have been leading up
to this. Yagyuu exhales slowly and lifts his head, frowning down at Niou. "But
you could date anyone. No one wants to date me." 
 
“Yeah, well, I want to date you.” Niou swallows. This is so dumb and real, not
like anything he can fake his way out of. He hates that. But then he looks up
at Yagyuu’s stupid face, and mutters, “We can keep it a secret, obviously. I
know you don’t want your family finding out. You’re gonna be a doctor and
everything.”
 
"But…no one ever wants to date me." That sounds pretty pathetic, but it's true.
Yagyuu looks aside, shoves his glasses up, swallows hard--and yeah, it still
keeps echoing in his head all the same. Niou wants to date him. It doesn't
really process. "I don't…I'm boring. Why would you want to date me?"
 
This is getting awkward, Niou thinks. He thinks it’s awkward. Maybe it’s cute.
Maybe it’s both. “I want to date you,” he repeats, as if he’s talking to a very
slow child (that for some reason he wants to date). “I mean, I thought we
already were. But I guess we’re not? Because you seem really surprised. Come
on, it’ll be fun, we already hang out and fuck and everything.”
 
"…Looking back, I guess I thought we already were, too? I mean, because we had
sex and everything, but…" Yagyuu hesitates, and looks down at Niou rather
nervously. "Are you sure I didn't hit your head against the toilet or anything?
I didn't think you were someone that wanted to make it…official." 
 
Niou scowls up at him. “I wanted to make this cute,” he informs Yagyuu, “or at
least not really super awkward. I’m just gonna stake my claim if you’re gonna
be weird about it. I’m gonna pee on you.” He definitely does not have issues
with talking seriously about serious things.
 
"Please don't," Yagyuu hurriedly says, pulling back in the next instant. "You
know how I am about bodily functions, Niou-kun, especially your territorial
ones. I'll date you, just--none of that." It's actually weird how that makes
his chest tighten up. Anxiety? Pleasure? Not sure, maybe both. 
 
Niou tries his best to look surly and not pleased, but doesn’t manage it too
well. Instead, he lurches up and kisses Yagyuu, more softly than usual, and
allows himself a little smile. “Deal. I didn’t want to do it by threatening
you, you know. You left me no choice.” This is probably Not how Yukimura wanted
him to do it.
 
Yagyuu nods, albeit a little shakily as that all actually processes. He rocks
backwards, exhaling a long breath that he hopes is calming. "…We can keep it
secret like you said, though? If my parents found out…they're not like your
parents, Niou-kun." He hesitates before adding one more thing: "Are you still
going to sleep with other people?"
 
Niou looks away, hopping off the toilet to grab his pants and wriggle back into
them. “Nah. Everyone else is boring after you.” He catches sight of himself in
the mirror, and raises an eyebrow. “Whoo, you got aggressive. Here, switch
clothes with me, you always have your collar buttoned up. It’ll look weird if I
have mine that way otherwise.”
 
It's hard not to feel a surge of satisfaction at hearing that. Everyone else is
boring? That's new, but good, and the idea that Niou wants to be with him above
everyone else…well, okay then. Yagyuu has no idea how he managed this, but it's
good. "You bruise really easily, I can't help it," he says, even as he
unbuttons his shirt and passes it over. 
 
Niou takes the shirt. He looks down at it, then looks up at Yagyuu, and sighs.
“Everything else, too. Even the slow ones are gonna notice this way.” He strips
off his pants, then rolls his socks up, pulling a wig out of each pocket and
handing one over.
 
"Kirihara-kun is too busy crying," Yagyuu points out, but wriggles out of his
own pants all the same. It's sort of habit by now, so whatever. His glasses
come off, handed over to Niou once the clothing exchange is complete. "It's
still odd how they never notice this. We reallydon't look anything alike. Did
you completely make up with Yukimura-kun, by the way?" The further away from
the boyfriend topic, the better. His heart just won't stop thudding out of his
chest over it.
 
“Sort of. Yeah. Kind of. Completely.” Niou puts on the glasses, and his eyes go
immediately out of focus, giving him a slight headache he finds rather nice.
“We made up about the yips thing. I didn’t mention the other thing. In my
defense, he might not ever find out.”
 
"He's going to be angrier than before if he ever does," Yagyuu wearily points
out, settling his wig into place and pulling out a few pins from it that were
used the last time they did this. How Niou functions with all this hair in his
face is beyond him. Right, and socks down. How annoying. "Tell him at some
point, or you'll be a weird, sulky mess again in the future. I need your mole,
where's the eyeliner?" 
 
“He couldn’t be angrier than if I told him everything at the same time,” Niou
points out. “At least this way, I can space it out. Besides, he might not find
out.” He leans over, reaching into a pocket to pull out the emergency stub of
eyeliner, dotting it onto Yagyuu’s chin. “Besides, he’s getting back to more of
his old self. I didn’t want to fuck that up just so I don’t have to be worried
about him being mad at me. Yakiniku’s fun, right?”
 
"Fun, and unusual for him at this time of year," Yagyuu admits, glancing over
into the mirror. He looks the part now, good. "So long as you're okay with it.
I like when you're both happy around one another." 
 
“I’m rather fond of it as well.” The voice takes over first, and Niou
straightens up, shoulders back. How no one notices when they’ve got a height
difference, and more importantly, a shoulder difference, is kind of a mystery.
Whatever, they’re just that good. “Ah. Niou-kun,” he says, a bit sternly,
“you’re a bit untidy.” He yanks on the shirt, pulling it just the right amount
out of the waistband.
 
Seriously, how does no one notice this? Whatever, Yagyuu is pretty into it.
"Yeah, well. Whose fault is that, Yaaagyuu?" He gives the other boy's popped
collar a flick with one finger before turning towards the door, already sliding
into that familiar slouch. "Make sure you feed me this time, or I'm gonna
starve. Yanagi said something about me and not enough calories." 
 
Niou adjusts his collar, sniffing a little. “I somehow doubt he factors in how
much you eat when you sneak in through my window at night and clean out the
entire refrigerator in your extreme rudeness.” Ever the gentleman, he unlocks
and opens the door, bowing slightly and holding it open for the other boy.
“Nevertheless, I suppose I can indulge you, as long as you don’t insist on
over-saucing the meat.”
 
"Puri." Yagyuu lingers a brief moment, then leans over as Niou bows to blow
across the curve of his ear. "One hell of a gentleman you are today, Boyfriend-
san." 
 
Yes, that's a lot easier to do as Niou. He's got this.
 
***** The Flashback Chapter: Atobe & Tezuka *****
Two Years Ago
 
Clap.
 
Clap.
 
Clap.
 
The slow sound pervades the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere
all at once. 
 
Slowly, a boy walks out from the bleachers, unseen until now, hidden in the
shadows and confident that he has never belonged there. His clothes are loose
and breathable, of the finest quality, seeming to say,I could be doing
something athletic any time I wanted, I just choose to be the most discerning
spectator around.
 
At least, that’s what he’d paid for them to say. 
 
“Not bad,” the boy says to the lone figure on the court, as soon as his dark-
haired opponent runs off to the bathrooms, presumably to let out the tears he’s
poorly concealing. “For a spectator. Maybe someday you’ll even be good enough
to play me.”
 
The flat stare that Tezuka fixes upon the other boy is bored at best. Well,
it's not unexpected that he'd bring about a few spectators, but he had tried to
wait until most everyone was gone. 
 
Except Sanada and Yukimura, of course. 
 
He had expected a bit more. Maybe if Sanada hadn't run off crying, he would
have gotten to play Yukimura as well, but…as it is, the other boy had dashed
off after his friend, begging for him to calm down. 
 
He turns away, pushing his glasses up as he bends down to pick up a ball left
on the court, and deftly serves it back into his own tennis bag. "You were a
spectator, too. I didn't see you in the tournament, so you must've been afraid
to play." 
 
“Or, like you, I’m just not from Kanagawa.” It’s rare he finds his own
arrogance matched. Atobe feels his fingers twitching, wishing for his racquet
and a few balls, because he has a feeling that playing this boy would be fun.
“Either you were scoping out the competition, or like me, you just want to know
who would be the most fun to beat. Why did you choose Sanada, and not
Yukimura?” 
 
He’d only heard of the two of them today, but Atobe never forgets a face or a
name. He strolls closer, then stops, dismayed, when it becomes clear that
getting closer will just emphasize how much taller the other boy is.
 
"Because it's better to work one's way up from the bottom." Tezuka glances back
at him once before kneeling down to put his racquet away. It's not worth
offering to play him. It's hot, and he's already tired, and if he attracts more
spectators like this guy, that's just going to be annoying. "Anyway, did you
want something?" 
 
“Work one’s way up from the bottom,” Atobe muses, rolling the words over on his
tongue. “Hmm, I’ve never been contented with the easy fight, myself, but for
some people I suppose that’s all they can achieve.” He pulls out a business
card--his father’s idea, everyone in Japan apparently uses one--and flicks it
at the other boy in a way that would probably give his father heart
palpitations. “If you ever want to try working from the top down, let me know.”
 
Tezuka's eyebrows slowly raise. A 12 year old with a business card. All right.
Then again, even he's heard of the Atobe Directorate (it's hard to ignore the
giant stadium that's being built in the middle of Tokyo, after all) and if this
is Atobe Keigo, then… 
 
"Our captain missed your team at the prefectural tournament this year," Tezuka
mildly says, pocketing the business card against his better judgement. "I'm not
sure if that qualifies you as the 'top', but thank you for the offer." 
 
“We were closed for restructuring.” Atobe flashes a brilliant smile. “If you’re
really the ace they say you are, Tezuka Kunimitsu, you show a startling lack of
curiosity.” He shoulders his own bag, looking around at the empty stadium. “Not
as big as Wimbledon, but it will do, if you want to play a point. Otherwise,
I’m sure we’ll meet soon on the Tokyo circuit. If you make it to finals, that
is.”
 
You've seen Wimbledon? is the question that he automatically wants to ask, but
no, that's giving Atobe not only too much credit, but too much attention.
"Pass." Tezuka shoulders his bag--hmm, he really is a head taller, that's new--
and steps past him. "There's no real competition in Tokyo, so making it to the
finals there probably won't do much for your ego."
 
Atobe’s face falls slightly, settling into the usual mask of bored displeasure.
“How disappointing you are. I’d heard of you.” The rumors that he was someone
who truly loved tennis, someone that would do anything to play, were obviously
false. This boy is nothing more than one of the aimless idiots he’d played a
thousand times in England, interested in titles and statistics and nothing
else. “It truly is too much to hope for to find someone like that in Japan, I
see.” He doesn’t turn to watch Tezuka go. Strange, that just a minute earlier
he’d felt excited that they were finally meeting at last.
 
~
 
If it had been because Tezuka had lost, that would be one thing. Atobe is
expecting Tezuka to lose, either to someone else or to himself. But this...not
turning up at all? This is unexpected. Perhaps he should have let it go, as
Kabaji’s silence indicates, but the fact of the matter is that Atobe rarely
lets anything go. He just waits for the moment to be right to bring it up
again, no matter what the topic is.
 
A bit of preliminary research (“Oshitari, find out why he didn’t play and do
not return to Hyoutei without an answer!”) indicates that some medical reason
is the issue. Well. If something medical is the reason, at least that can be
fixed.
 
But Tezuka doesn’t show up to the next youth tournament either, and that’s no
good. It’s no good enough that Atobe himself graces the tacky halls of Seigaku
with his glorious presence, allowing Tezuka’s teammates to gaze upon his glory
when he sets foot onto the court. “Oi, you,” he says, nodding his head at the
freshman with the least tacky hairstyle. “Where is Tezuka?”
 
Usually, when someone strange shows up, it's not the end of the world. When
someone strange shows up and asks for Tezuka, however… 
 
Oishi regrets ever encouraging Tezuka and telling him to go out and play people
from other schools, because ever since then, things like this have happened,
and coupled with all of the other animosity that apparently surrounds Tezuka,
it's just not good. 
 
Now harassing Eiji is someone he hasn't seen before, and considering most
mentions of Tezuka make any and all upperclassmen involvement into a maelstrom-
-"Excuse me," he attempts as he walks over, "these courts are for members only.
If you need to speak with Tezuka, you can leave a note for him--"
 
"He's in the clubhouse," weird transfer student Fuji Shuusuke dreamily puts in.
"But he's not going to want to talk to you."
 
"Fuji!"
 
"Hmm? Well, he's not." 
 
Clubhouse is a location instead of suspicion and strangeness, so Atobe seizes
on that. “Thank you most graciously,” he says to the breathy dizzy boy who had
supplied it. “And where might the clubhouse be?” He resists the urge to tip the
boy for his time. That hadn’t gone over well the last time, and he’d been
strictly informed that such things were Just Not Done in Japan.
 
"I'm sorry, but you really need to leave--" Oishi desperately attempts.
 
"I can show you," Fuji uncaringly says. "But again, he's not going to want to
talk to you. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. And I'm mad at him right now." 
 
“That’s...fine,” Atobe says, an eyebrow raised. “I only need a moment of his
time.” This, he thinks, is more strangeness than is appropriate for Japan. Even
Japan has its weird outliers, and this seems to be a prime example.
 
Fuji drifts slowly off the court, waving a hand for Atobe to follow. "Just over
here," he breezily says. "He's picked up a habit of restringing racquets
whenever he's a bit stressed. He's probably doing it now." 
 
He doesn't bother to knock on the door, which subsequently results in a glare
from one Tezuka Kunimitsu. He might not be restringing a racquet, but he's
certainly huddled up over a book with about as much intensity. "Tezuka, you
have a visitor--"
 
"No."
 
"But you do," Fuji says, logically. "He's right here."
 
"I said no." 
 
Fuji shrugs and sidles out of the doorway. "I told you he wasn't going to want
to talk to you." 
 
“Don’t worry,” Atobe assures the odd little fellow, summarily urging him out of
the clubhouse. “I won’t be a minute. Tezuka Kunimitsu, I missed you yesterday.”
Shit, is that the right conjugation of “miss?” Not quite the one he’d intended,
a bit more curt and less effortlessly pining than he’d intended, but the
sentence will have to do without flair for the time being. Japanese is hard.
 
"I'll be here, Tezuka--" Fuji says before the door is shut in his face.
 
Tezuka looks up and over his book for a moment before his gaze slides right
back down to it. "Did you. Was yesterday something important?" 
 
“The second Tokyo Youth Tournament finals since we last spoke.” Atobe leans
back against the lockers, surveying the room. “You weren’t even in the
audience, waiting to humiliate at the bottom and work your way up.”
 
"Ah. That." Tezuka shrugs, drawing a knee up to set his book against. "I forgot
about it. Am I to assume you won, judging by the fact you're here?" 
 
“I always win.” Atobe says it as a matter of simple fact--which it is.
“Whatever medical reason you have shouldn’t be a reason not to compete. How
much will the treatment cost? I’ll write you a check.”
 
A statement like that out of nowhere brings Tezuka some pause, and he finally
lowers his book, frowning. "I'm not really following. I don't want your
money." 
 
“I’m not giving it to you,” Atobe says, slowly and carefully. “I’m giving it to
the physician of your choosing. I’d heard you were the best, and I only want to
play the best. If an injury is preventing that, I want the injury to go away.
Is that simple enough for you to understand?”
 
"I'm not playing tennis anymore." Tezuka shuts his book completely. "The only
reason I'm here is because the captain hasn't processed my resignation from the
club yet. Is that easy enough for you to understand?" 
 
That changes things. “Yes,” Atobe murmurs, drawing out the last syllable. “Then
I suppose this will be the last time you disappoint me. Farewell.”
 
He turns to go to the door, then stops with his hand on it, turning around with
a more honest expression than ever on his face, even if it is a frown. “I know
you can feel it, like I can. Don’t try to pretend you don’t. There’s a
greatness in you.” Too aggressive for Japan, and this boy looks more
traditional than anyone, but Atobe doesn’t care. If he really isn’t playing
tennis anymore, this will be the last time they ever see each other.
 
Probably he should keep his mouth shut, but something about Atobe--ugh. If the
boy doesn't irritate him, he makes his hair stand on end, and the insinuation
that he's a disappointment to this egomaniac makes Tezuka want to throw his
book at him. "I'm quitting because no one cares if I'm good at it. Everyone
only cares if they can win, and if I make that impossible for them, then they'd
rather ruin my chances instead. Do you really think you're so different?" 
 
So there is something underneath the cool, dry indifference. That’s good, even
if it’s probably too little, too late. Atobe ignores the little voice in his
head that tells him it isn’t. He just stares, enjoying the fact that they’re
facing each other and Tezuka is sitting down (not nearly as tall that way,
good). “You’re playing the wrong people. Maybe you should come to Hyoutei.
Merit is the only thing I reward. Maybe you still have a little of that left.”
 
"You really think I care about being rewarded by you, don't you." Tezuka pushes
his glasses up, exasperated in spite of himself. "I'm not coming to Hyoutei. I
never played tennis for merit. This injury was a way to finally see exactly how
much this sport isn't for me."
 
Tezuka is kind of an infuriating person. Atobe’s jaw clenches, as do his fists,
annoyed that he feels so invested when he really shouldn’t. “You’re going to
let them push you out?” he demands. “Just because they’re older doesn’t mean
they’re better--ugh, bloody Japanese attitudes. If you’re letting someone push
you away from something you love, you’re the one giving the reward--to them!”
 
He crosses his arms, turning to look at the lockers, walking his fingers across
until he finds the one with Tezuka’s complicated kanji. “Then again, if you’re
just quitting because it hurts and you hate it, there’s no loss to tennis. Many
people can’t keep going when they find out it’s actually a difficult sport.”
 
"Seigaku doesn't allow first years to compete, but I don't care about that."
Tezuka really, truly hates that he feels the need to even respond to anything
that Atobe is saying, let alone explain the situation. Then again, there's
something to be said about being regarded as a pathetic quitter when he's
fairly certain he has a good reason to be doing this. "I was fine waiting,
because I still had tournaments outside of school. When I wasasked to play
against the upperclassmen here, I only used my right arm--and still won. They
found out I was left-handed, and that's how I ended up injured. Why should I
continue bothering with a sport that's just full of people that would hurt
other people for the chance to win?" 
 
Tezuka firmly sets his jaw, and climbs to his feet, walking to the door--only
to remember that Fuji is right outside of it, and thus rethinks his method of
escape. Damn it. "Stop assuming that I'm running away just because my arm
hurts. I really don't care about that, and you don't even know me, besides." 
 
Japanese is so purposely vague, and Atobe hates that sometimes--like he hates
the phrase I ended up injured, when the specificity of another language would
have helped him assign blame where he’s pretty sure it’s due. “They’re no real
tennis players if they’re resorting to methods like that to win anything,” he
says quietly, with as much conviction as he ever shows. “You’ll leave the
tennis team in their hands? You—”
 
He puts an arm out in front of Tezuka, effectively blocking his escape. “There
were upperclassmen like that at Hyoutei,” he says, blue eyes blazing at the
memory. “They had their rules, and their petty cruelties. Their team isn’t
playing this year. Mine is. If your injury is holding you back, take my money.
If it isn’t, what is?”
 
"I don't need your money." Fuji might be better than this. Maybe. Possibly.
Tezuka doesn't know anymore, but he's starting to contemplate windows, because
he doesn't like being blocked in like this. "People like that are always going
to exist, even if my arm heals. There's nothing I can do about that." 
 
“Ahn, true.” Atobe withdraws his arm. If Tezuka wants to run away from this
too, he’s welcome to do so. “And in other sports. And in your classes. And as
your professors, and your business seniors. What else will you let them take
from you?” Maybe the reason he’s not as disgusted as he could be is that he can
see how much it hurts Tezuka, to try and leave tennis behind.
 
"Why do you care?" Tezuka finally has to ask, frustrated. He can at least relax
now that his path to the door isn't obstructed, even knowing that leaving is
just going to be even more obnoxious. Atobe isn't the first one to throw a fit
about all of this. Oishi was crying over it, but that seems mild compared to
Fuji's tantrum when the transfer student had actually won their unsanctioned
match. "If this is about wanting competition, go to Kanagawa." 
 
“Been there. The sea breeze was nice. The people, not as much.” Atobe
hesitates, then looks around to make sure they aren’t being overheard. If he
were a lesser human, one of those prone to such things as embarrassment, this
might be one of those things. “I nearly let people like that drive me away from
tennis, a long time ago.” He turns his face upwards, remembering, and lets out
a long sigh. “It’s probably better to be hated for being good at something than
for being strange. That’s what I decided, anyway. What do you want to be hated
for?”
 
"For being a hikikomori," Tezuka deadpans. He's not entirely joking. He glances
aside, exhaling a slow, calming breath. "I'm sorry you came out here for this.
But I don't want your money, and I have no desire to undermine our current
captain and his authority like you did at Hyoutei. There will be other good
players for you to go against; focus on those." 
 
Atobe waves a hand, dismissive. “Don’t apologize to me. My time is not so
fragile a thing that it can be wasted.” It is a disappointment, as usual. Every
time he sees Tezuka Kunimitsu, he’s disappointed. Then again, that’s been true
of almost anyone he’s ever played. “If you ever want to see real tennis being
played, come to one of the tournaments. Or come to Hyoutei. My doors are open
to you, even if you never walk through them.”
 
And perhaps that will be that. Certainly, he’s not going to take time out of
his day to argue with a brick wall any longer, and Tezuka shows no signs of
wanting to know him. If he’s serious about leaving tennis, Atobe thinks,
turning for the door, there’ll be no reason for their paths ever to cross
again.
 
~
 
While Tezuka doesn't expect Hyoutei to pull off a miracle in the Kantou finals,
it would have been interesting. 
 
As it turns out, though, Yukimura has an agenda. Watching that agenda against
Hyoutei is both awe-inspiring and terrifying, especially when doubles two is a
decisive 6-0 (Sanada playing doubles? who knew), doubles one a lazy, slow 6-1
(Rikkai's oddball pair enjoys dropping a game, just for the hell of it,
apparently), and shockingly, singles three is Yukimura himself, crushing
Hyoutei's so-called genius serve and volley player without dropping a single
point. 
 
Tezuka does have to wonder how Atobe is taking it.
 
It turns out that Hyoutei has left to leave, mostly due to their fan club
causing mob-like conditions around the courts. Walking over to the team's
benching area is an interesting sight, especially when Akutagawa is a huddled,
half-asleep (???) little ball in Atobe's lap. That's…interesting.
 
"You didn't even get to play," Tezuka greets, pushing up his glasses. "It would
have been interesting to see." 
 
Not much can make Atobe’s head snap up when he’s quite this determined to be
morose. Tezuka Kunimitsu’s voice, however, does that just fine. “Tezuka,” he
says, a delighted half-smile stretching his lips. His fingers card gently
through Jirou’s hair, never ceasing their slow motion. “I told Yukimura to meet
me in Singles One. Maybe he’s as afraid to face me as you are.” The warmth in
his voice belies the sting of the words. Maybe. “I thought you weren’t
interested in tennis any longer.”
 
"Yukimura," Tezuka deadpans, "wanted to take his team out to eat before it got
too late. May I sit?" 
 
Jirou sort of whimper-gurgles in his sleep--yes, he's definitely just sleeping
now--and tucks himself up into Atobe's jersey all the more. He looks far more
pleased about this arrangement than he probably should, Tezuka thinks. 
 
“Please do.” God. Yukimura Seiichi. He’s almost impossible for Atobe to hate or
fear, so he doesn’t. When it all comes down to it, he’s just another middle-
schooler who likes playing tennis, and is good at it. Atobe has seen natural
talent enough to have stopped being jealous about it by now. “Seigaku wasn’t on
the roster. To be honest, I only checked briefly. From what I saw, you were the
only one interesting enough to play, and now…” Ah, he’s reached that stage
where Jirou is uncomfortably toasty in his lap. Ah, well, small price to pay.
 
"We didn't make it to the Kantou, obviously." Tezuka sets himself down, giving
Jirou another odd glance before deciding to just ignore him. "You have your
ticket to Nationals. That's the part that matters." 
 
“You,” Atobe says deliberately, “just said we.”
 
Tezuka gives him an irritated glance. "Yes. I did." 
 
“As I believe the Royal We is something used only in English-speaking
countries,” Atobe says, switching to English for that brief phrase, “I can only
assume that you’re playing tennis again.”
 
Atobe is infuriating, and this is why Tezuka has been avoiding him for a solid
eight months. "I'm surprised you didn't know, considering you're the so-called
King of Gossip among us." 
 
“This may come as a shock to you,” Atobe says, stretching out a bit (and
repositioning Jirou slightly now that he’s sleeping instead of shaking), “but
I’m quite willing to let those who quit in a huff drop off my radar. I didn’t
want to merely be disappointed again.”
 
Jirou proceeds to start dangling off of Atobe's lap. Tezuka stares at him for a
moment longer, until he starts snoring, and that just makes Tezuka want to
smother him with a pillow. "I didn't quit in a huff. I took time off because of
an injury." 
 
Atobe reaches a finger down, and taps underneath Jirou’s chin, closing his
mouth. “I seem to remember something about there are always going to be people
like that around so I’d just as well not play ever again, or something like
that.” He smiles, and claps Tezuka’s right shoulder in a firm grip. “I’m glad
you didn’t let them get the better of you. You belong on the tennis court.”
 
Tezuka twitches at the touch. It's a typical reaction to become as stiff as a
board when someone touches him, and now is no different--perhaps even more so,
because he rather does hate having his words tossed back into his face. "You've
seen me play once. You certainly are fast to judge who belongs where." 
 
“So play me.” The words come easily, swiftly, when he’s been thinking about it
for so long. “I didn’t get to play today, and neither did you. We were both
robbed of our chance to compete against each other in the finals, and
tournament season is over soon. There’s an open court, and I even have my
racquet this time.”
 
Tezuka arches an eyebrow. "Your team just lost. Shouldn't you be comforting
them instead of playing against me, Atobe-buchou?" 
 
“A loser who takes comfort that easily will never become a winner,” Atobe says
dismissively. “I’ve been wanting to kick those third-years off the regulars for
a month. This just gives me a reason. And I think I’ve quite comforted our
Singles Three player, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” He gives Tezuka a wry grin.
“Unless you don’t want to play?”
 
"I don't have a racquet. I didn't come here to play today." Jirou slowly drips
off of Atobe's lap, his arms dangling towards the ground. Tezuka tries not to
stare. "If Hyoutei wanted a friendly practice match with Seigaku in the future,
though…you are talking to their vice-captain right now, so it could possibly be
arranged."
 
Atobe’s face simply lights up in honest delight. “Are you really? That’s
fantastic! Wait just a moment, he’s sliding.” Rather than haul Jirou up, Atobe
snaps at Kabaji, who emerges from the background and scoops Jirou into his
arms. “Take him to my car, make him comfortable,” he instructs, and turns back
to Tezuka. “When can we set it up?”
 
Shockingly, this is actually something of a relief. Seeing Atobe look at him
with something other than disappointment is new, and…good. Somehow. Even though
Atobe is weird, and apparently has hulking manservants lingering in the
shadows. "I'll have to talk to our captain, but it will probably do Hyoutei
some good to have it before Nationals." 
 
“As long as you don’t avoid me like someone,” Atobe says with a laugh. “I fully
expect to see you in Singles One, hmm? I can’t tell you how much I’m looking
forward to it.” More than he’d expected, honestly.
 
"I'm assuming you don't play anything but Singles One," Tezuka dryly retorts,
"so I'll see what I can do." What does he do now? Bow and leave and just shy of
beg Yamato-buchou to make this all happen? Fantastic. Tezuka sucks in a slow
breath as he climbs to his feet, and offers Atobe his hand instead. "Good luck
in the National tournament." 
 
Tezuka is clearly expecting a handshake, and Atobe gives him one. Then, he
doubtless ruins it by bowing over that hand, brushing his lips against the
knuckles just slightly. “I eagerly anticipate our next meeting,” he says,
meeting Tezuka’s eyes without a hint of embarrassment.
 
There’s just something interesting about Tezuka Kunimitsu.
 
Atobe Keigo is a problem, and this proves it.
 
Reflex makes Tezuka yank his hand back, especially when his face heats up
hotter than Tezuka can ever remember. He probably could have been more elegant
about that--it's just because Atobe is European, that's definitely why Atobe
did that--but he'd be lying if the whole thing didn't take him off guard.
"Until then," he manages to say without stammering, and whirls on his heel to
make a quick exit.
 
Maybe Atobe will lose horribly at their practice match. He deserves it, for
acting like that. 
 
~
 
Atobe has rarely been so frustrated.
 
The third-year they sent against him--their captain, apparently--loses
horribly, and Atobe can’t even be terribly pleased. He hardly waits until the
match is over before striding up to Tezuka, ignoring the two that always seem
to flank him, the dreamy one and the tacky haircut one. “Were you really that
afraid to lose?” he demands, face flushed with indignation and not with the
exercise, meager as it was. “I hope you’re satisfied that you can beat the
third-best on Hyoutei. If I played your best, Seigaku should be terrified for
next year.” 
 
I thought you of all people were better than this, he doesn’t say, but it’s
plain as text on his face.
 
"Oh, he's mad," Fuji says, listing a little to one side. 
 
Oishi frowns. "Atobe-san--I'm really not sure where all of this is coming from,
but this isn't the first time you've harassed Tezuka--"
 
"It's fine."
 
Oishi just gapes at him. "What part of this is fine? We invited them here for a
practice match, and now their captain is insulting you--"
 
"It's fine," Tezuka quietly repeats, and glances back to Atobe, attempting to
not look down his nose at the other boy who hasn't quite caught up in height
yet. "Atobe, let's talk about this in the clubhouse instead." 
 
"That wasn't his best!" one over-eager Inui Sadaharu shouts over to them,
obviously having overheard the conversation. "According to my data, that was
only a portion of Tezuka's ability, something akin to 20%, no, 17%--"
 
Tezuka just starts walking. 
 
Atobe follows. It’s the only way he’ll get any answers, any solution to the
disappointment and disgust that he’d thought were past them now. It’s odd, it’s
weird, that he’s so riled up over this now that he finds out Tezuka is just
like the rest of them after all. He shuts the door behind them, adjusting his
hair before crossing his arms. “Tell me there’s a reason,” he says quietly,
hoping it’s true even if he doesn’t say that much.
 
"Blame it on me," Yamato says, shrugging. "Tell them you're our secret weapon,
and we don't want to show them everything. It doesn't matter to me what you
tell them, but you aren't playing Singles One with your arm still like that." 
 
"I'm still recovering."
 
While it gives him a migraine to figure out the reasons behind it, Tezuka finds
it somewhat aggravating to lie to Atobe. That's especially the case now, when
he had invited Atobe here and had expected to be able to play singles one
against him. "I wanted to play singles one--and I had promised to only play
with my right arm, but I probably would have played with my left anyway," he
admits, folding his arms loosely across his chest. "And my captain figured that
out." 
 
Oh.
 
Atobe lets out a long, slow breath. It startles him, to realize how angry he’d
been when he’d thought Tezuka was purposely avoiding him. Now, he relaxes, the
relief on his face a visible thing. “Oh. Then I apologize for being cross with
you. You move so well, I had no idea.” He moves closer, extending a hand to
touch Tezuka’s shoulder, running it down to his elbow, not quite sure where the
pain is. “The offer is still open, by the way. At any time. Should you wish a
doctor of a higher caliber than they offer in Japan, I can make arrangements.”
 
Try as he might not to jerk and flinch at the touch, it's sort of inevitable.
Tezuka thinks his avoidance of human contact gotten worse since Fuji has
started sliding up behind him and breathing on his neck at odd times. "It's
fine. You couldn't have known." He shifts back slightly all the same. "I've
told you before, I don't need your money. It's healing. I just…" A shrug
follows that, awkwardly. "It's easier said than done not to practice with it
still. I know it's my fault that I haven't recovered completely yet." 
 
“It isn’t entirely about money,” Atobe says, pulling back when he sees the
flinch. There’s no need for that, honestly. “My family has more than that, we
have connections. There’s a clinic in Germany, for example, that only sees six
patients a year. My father is friends with the man who determines admittance.
That sort of thing.” A smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t doubt that were I in
your shoes, I’d be just as incorrigible. Make sure you’re fully recovered by
the next time we meet on the court. I won’t be disappointed again, Tezuka
Kunimitsu.”
 
"…I'm not sure that I owe you anything, you know," Tezuka says, somewhat
incredulous. Even still, he can't be annoyed at this point. In a way, he's just
as frustrated as Atobe. "I appreciate your offer, but when you follow it up by
saying that you're tired of being disappointed, I'm really inclined to never
play you just to drive you insane. You'll have to deal with Nationals in a few
weeks, focus on that instead." 
 
Atobe releases a sigh of the long-suffering. “I hope your pride is worth your
arm, Seigaku’s Ace. Until we meet again.”
 
There’s just a hint of an idea to ask Tezuka--what? Out for coffee? They’re
thirteen, not twenty. Over for a sleepover? They’re thirteen, not eight.
Frustrated, this time with only himself to blame, Atobe leaves Tezuka behind,
determined to whip all the losers into shape before Nationals.
 
~
 
On October 7, a lavishly-decorated package shows up at Tezuka’s front door,
delivered by a courier. The package itself is full of tennis balls instead of
packing peanuts, and safeguards a small envelope concealing two all-inclusive
tickets to a mountaineering resort in New Zealand, as well as a small note.
 
My dear Tezuka Kunimitsu,
 
Forgive my magnificent, magnanimous supposition. I recently read in Tennis
Monthly that your birthday was only three days apart from my own, and that you
enjoy climbing mountains. Don’t take anyone too stressful with you. I’m going
to recommend against the one who’s always breathing on your neck, but there’s
no accounting for taste.
 
In glorious generosity,
 
~Atobe Keigo
 
Of course, Tezuka's mother is thrilled. 
 
"It's so good to see you making friends, Kunimitsu!"
 
"...I have friends."
 
"Friends other than your tennis team's members."
 
Tezuka doesn't have the heart to tell her that this is just another tennis
player, and that he still performs rather poorly during basic social
interactions. 
 
The real question is what he's supposed to do with these tickets. When is he
going to find time to go and do something like this? Over the summer sounds
nice, but with any luck, he'll be a professional tennis player by next summer… 
 
His arm starts aching, as if to mock that thought. 
 
The other question is why did Atobe bother with this. For some reason, Atobe's
card from nearly two years ago is stashed away in his nightstand, and Tezuka
begrudgingly fishes it out, hoping that number still works. 
 
Atobe never answers the phone on the first ring. If he’d seen Caller ID, he’d
have broken that rule. Atobe opens the phone, relaxing back into an
extraordinarily overstuffed armchair. “Tezuka Kunimitsu! And happy birthday to
you.”
 
"Don't you mean 'Dearest' Tezuka Kunimitsu?" Tezuka dryly retorts, not sure if
he's glad the number works or if he's disappointed. "Why, Atobe." 
 
Atobe’s chuckle drops his voice to something low and throaty. “I can call you
my dearest if that pleases you.”
 
That was not the reaction Tezuka was expecting. It brings a generous amount of
pause to his end of things, especially when he has to sit down and attempt to
piece together whyhis face is so hot when Atobe isn't even in the room.
"…Refrain. You didn't answer my question." 
 
“I thought I answered that rather explicitly in my little note. It’s a birthday
gift!”
 
"Yes, and thank you, but why." Is he missing some social cue here? Perhaps he's
already turned into a hikikomori. 
 
No. Not yet. Tezuka is fairly certain that Atobe is reaching here, but for
what. 
 
It’s Atobe that pauses this time, running over the dialogue up until this
point. “You’ll have to help me out and flesh out the question here. I’ve been
back in Japan for years now; birthday gifts are still customary, are they not?
If you don’t like the location, I can change the tickets.”
 
"That's not it." In fact, it's perfect.Tezuka bites back a sigh and stares up
at the ceiling for strength. "I'm just confused as to why you would send me a
birthday gift. You barely even know me."
 
“As far as I’m concerned,” Atobe drawls, “the only excuse for not giving
someone you like a birthday gift is ignorance of that person’s birthday.
Honestly, if it pleases you, what’s the harm?”
 
"I can't help but feel like you're trying to buy a tennis match off of me or
something similar." 
 
The pause this time is significant. When he speaks, Atobe’s voice is
considerably lower, and softer. “I know a great many men who can be bought. The
fact that you aren’t one of them is a major reason why I enjoy the idea of
giving you some time away from it all.”
 
A better explanation, to be sure.
 
"…All right." Tezuka slowly relaxes, shutting his eyes briefly. "It will be
awhile before I can use them. They aren't going to expire, are they?" He's
fairly certain the answer is 'no.' God forbid if anything could ever 'expire'
if it came from the Atobe Directorate. 
 
“I’ll refrain from being offended at the remark,” Atobe says, sounding
considerably more amused this time. “Consider that a second gift.” He pauses,
then adds, “Though if you ever do want to play, I have clay, hard, and grass
courts.”
 
"Are these the same courts you were claiming were for the exclusive use of
Hyoutei's tennis club?" 
 
“For them? Please. They aren’t going anywhere near my clay courts. These are
for my personal use only. And of course, my honored guest.”
 
Tezuka's eyes glaze a bit. "Real clay courts. Just like in the French open."
 
“Had them imported. They’re the only clay courts in Japan.” Atobe tries not to
feel quite so delighted at the wistful note in Tezuka’s voice. “I’ll leave your
name with the gatekeeper. You can come over and play on them any time you like,
day or night.”
 
It sounds like a good idea. A very good one, because where else is he going to
ever play on a clay court? Nowhere else in Japan, apparently. But… "I'll let
you know." Tezuka grimaces. "Somehow, I was elected student council president.
It eats up more time than you might believe." 
 
That's one good excuse, with the other having quite a bit to do with the fact
his arm just feels off. Atobe doesn't need to know that, though.
 
“Ahn? Wouldn’t I? I’ve been school president since I came to Hyoutei.” Atobe
sighs, and reaches for a lavender-filled calming mask, draping it over his
eyes. “Just come grab me someday when you’re free. I adore surprises,
especially from...well. From someone I like as much as you.”
 
"Good bye, Atobe." 
 
How he attracts people like this, Tezuka will never understand. 
 
…This one could be worse, though.
 
~
 
"He's just trying to spy on us and find out about your skills," Oishi frets in
his ear after Tezuka mentions the invitation. It could be true. The problem
with that theory is the assumption that Atobe is somehow scared of his skills,
and that his ego would allow him any sort of insecurity, and thus the urge to
spy on others to figure out their secrets. 
 
That's why, ultimately, the urge to play on a clay court overwhelms all. 
 
Atobe wasn't kidding about the gatekeeper knowing his name. Tezuka isn't sure
what he expected about that, but…well, he never really knows what to expect
regarding Atobe at all. His mansion is sprawling, which is ridiculous in Tokyo,
of all places. It's no small wonder he has that many tennis courts lurking
within.
 
Red clay, even, just like the French open. Tezuka wonders if he's dead and this
is his version of heaven. Probably not, though, considering the moment he sets
his tennis bag down, some enormous excuse of a dog bounds in and is on him.
Dogs aren't supposed to have this much hair, either. What even. 
 
“Beat, no! Heel! Curses, you magnificent mutt, listen to your master!”
 
It takes a lot more arm strength and a lot less command-following to get the
dog off of Tezuka, and Atobe winds up rolling around with the afghan for a few
minutes before he truly has everything under control. Beat has finally realized
who he is, and is sitting, tail thumping the ground as he ignores Atobe’s
lecture on propriety.
 
“Go with Georgette,” Atobe says firmly, pointing towards the door where a maid
is almost in tears. “She was almost done with your grooming. Never fear, my
dear Georgette,” he calls, sending the dog over with a slap on the rump. “I’m
tripling your salary this month, there’s a good girl.”
 
Finally, he straightens up, grinning apologetically at Tezuka. “He’s a
discerning judge of character,” he assures the other boy heartily. “My
apologies, he just wants to be friends with everything and everyone.”
 
Being clay-stained is fine because it's courtesy of a clay court. Tezuka still
wonders about how that dog can survive with so much fur as he pats a hand
briefly around for his glasses and wipes them off on his shirt as he climbs to
his feet. "It's fine. I would have expected a dog of yours to be…more well-
trained, though."
 
Atobe beams. “I confess, I just don’t have the heart to discipline him when he
just...well, he just loves so whole-heartedly. Here, give me your things.” He
takes everything that isn’t necessary, shuttling it to the outer edge of the
court. “What do you like to do to warm up? We can play an actual match if you
want, or just rally for a bit.” He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, just a
little. He’d never thought it would be so exciting to have Tezuka here.
 
'Bouncy' isn't one of the things Tezuka ever imagined Atobe to be, but
apparently, he was wrong. "…We can just rally." His eyebrows raise. "Have your
other practice partners left you alone for too long, or is Hyoutei's defeat at
Nationals still haunting you? Placing yourself in anything but singles one
might give you a better chance, you know." 
 
“If you continue acting suspicious and sour towards every nice thing that
people do for you,” Atobe warns, jogging over to the other side of the court,
“it won’t be long until they stop doing it. Go ahead and serve, whenever you’re
ready. Oh, and there’s a machine, if you want to try it later.”
 
"I was merely attempting to give you good advice." Balls bounce differently on
clay, and he does like that. Right hand for now, Tezuka thinks, and tries to
suppress the odd flutter of excitement that comes when he tosses the ball up
and sends it flying over. Serving to Atobe, finally. How long has this been
coming, exactly? 
 
Immediately, Atobe knows.
 
This is what I’ve been waiting for.
 
More familiar with the way balls bounce on clay than Tezuka is, Atobe lunges,
an easy forehand return. Not too much power, not yet. This isn’t about showing
off every skill he has. This is about giving Tezuka something fantastic.
 
(Privately, Atobe wonders when he started thinking so much about how to make
Tezuka happy. Even more privately, he wonders how much success he’s been
having.)
 
Higher bounce, but slower. Read enough books on it, and he knows the theory,
but seeing it in action is different. Atobe does like hitting deep to the
baseline and that suits Tezuka just fine, because if it's up to him, he'll
never leave it. An easy, probing shot is Tezuka's return, giving him a chance
to watch the way the ball moves once more. "There are only synthetic and hard
courts here in Tokyo," Tezuka wistfully says. "Everyone is missing out." 
 
“If you like this, we can try grass next time. You’ll hate it.” Atobe sees the
opportunity for a drop shot, but pops it back to the baseline instead,
reminding himself that this isn’t a real game. “You’ll have to practice before
you go pro, though. That’ll get you ready for Wimbledon.”
 
Tezuka gives him a pointed stare as he taps the ball back over, taking the
chance for a drop shot out of sheer habit alone. "Are you stalking me, or just
guessing about career paths?"
 
Atobe leaps forward, executing a graceful backhand that taps the shot over
before it hits the ground. The high bounce is a lot to get used to, he knows,
and doesn’t want to end the rally with one of Tezuka’s famous drop shots just
yet. “You knew they used clay courts at the French Open,” he points out,
jogging back to get ready for the next serve. “Between that and your skills, of
course you’re thinking about the circuit. I can’t wait to play you at
Wimbledon!”
 
Atobe has been stalking him. Or at the very least, reading up on him. Oh well,
know your enemy and all of that.
 
Tezuka shrugs, scooping up another ball. "We'll see. I didn't imagine you
wanting to go pro--not for lack of skill, but the obligations of your family
name and all of that." Truthfully, rallies are silly things, and now that he
can calculate the course of the ball a bit better, his next serve is harder and
faster, even with only the use of his right hand at his disposal. 
 
That serve is dangerous. Atobe isn’t expecting it, and it nearly knocks the
racket out of his hand, going wide. He quirks an eyebrow, then pulls another
ball out of his pocket as the first one bounces gleefully away. “I have until
I’m 20,” he admits. “Or until my father stops being in sound mind and body.
Being a former champion athlete is a strong bargaining chip, or so I’ve managed
to convince him.” He hesitates for a moment, then goes into a full Tannhauser
Serve. Tezuka deserves the best.
 
The amount of control required for a serve like that on a clay court is nothing
short of outstanding, and Tezuka feels his breath catch up in his chest.
Returning it is something he falls short of, but now, having read the course
and speed of it--"Again," he firmly says, instinct making him switch to his
left hand. "That's a good number of years to enjoy the circuit, at least. You
might get bored otherwise." 
 
Atobe looks askance at Tezuka’s hand switch, then shrugs. He’s not Tezuka’s
doctor. One serve can’t hurt him too much, and it’s been forever since he was
injured. “I’m never bored,” he says flippantly, and god, when he’s around
Tezuka, it’s true. “Get ready!”
 
He’s looser now, and the serve is true, slamming into hard clay.
 
It's much easier to go after that serve with his left hand. 
 
It requires a longer reach, which he's much more confident with when he's
actually left-handed on the court. There's also a lot of weight behind it, and
Tezuka half-expects something in his arm to crack again, but there's nothing
when the bottom of his racquet catches the ball and scoops it up into a lob.
Well, that's not a perfect return, but it's a return all the same. "If you
actually put yourself in a slot other than singles one," he dryly brings up
again, "that serve might actually do you some good." 
 
“Singles One isn’t about getting to play every time,” Atobe calls, twisting
into a smash on that lob. It isn’t like he doesn’t get to play good opponents
often, of course--but Tezuka Kunimitsu is something special. “It gives them
peace of mind, to know that no matter what...we’ll carry every tiebreak. I’m
their structural support, you could say.”
 
"I know why you put yourself there, other than your overwhelming ego." Taking
the power away from Atobe's serves and smashes is more difficult than he'd
imagined it being, and that's…interesting. Refreshing, more like. Reflex makes
him want to run to the net and hit a drop shot and end it all, but…no. He waits
instead, lingering at the baseline, sliding back on one foot to take the brunt
of that smash with his backhand. "I was just mentioning it because after your
defeat against Rikkai in the Kantou, I would have thought you changed your
strategy somewhat." 
 
Atobe snorts at that. “Wait until you play Rikkai Dai Fuzoku,” he advises,
sending an elegant slice across that barely clears the net. “Just between us?
It wouldn’t have made a difference. I’d have won, but it would have been one
game to three. I don’t have anyone else that can stand up to them this year.”
He hasn’t said it aloud before now, knowing how much it’ll hurt his team, but
honestly.
 
"You think you would have beat Yukimura?" Admittedly, he thinks he could have,
too, before his injury, but saying it out loud is like inviting a half dozen
plagues. Tezuka doesn't lunge for the ball--he takes one long-legged step
forward, hitting Atobe another lob. "I would have enjoyed watching that
match." 
 
“I would have enjoyed playing it.” These lobs are like little presents, and he
returns them in the form of what he thinks Tezuka will like most--smashes,
right to the baseline. Odd how they all seem to go just to the right or left of
where he intends. This must be the famous Tezuka Zone, of course. “I’ll play
him one day. The winner will be me!”
 
Play me first is what nearly slips out, and stays on the tip of Tezuka's tongue
until he reminds himself that they're already playing, even if it isn't a
"real" match. Real enough, though, because the strength behind Atobe's hits are
always real, and he really does like that. "At least you only have him to worry
about," Tezuka mildly remarks instead, and his next shot is a slice, sharp and
fast over the net. "You could beat Sanada in your sleep." 
 
“Doubtless I will one day,” Atobe says in what he hopes is an enigmatic tone of
voice. Then, he sees an opening, and his eyes light up as he takes it. “Now, be
awed by my prowess!” He whirls in the air, and smashes the ball, faster than
any shot he’s sent over so far.
 
Something should be done about that ego, but…whatever. 
 
Now isn't exactly the time, not when Tezuka has to move further than he'd like
for that shot, and well, there goes the zone. Even more annoying is the way his
hesitation makes his racquet fly from his hand, and he straightens up with a
sigh, shrugging it off. Smarter to not hit it, really, when his arm still feels
off. "Nice one," he compliments instead, bending down to pick up his racquet,
right-handed again in spite of the fun of really being able to play as he'd
like.
 
Atobe notices.
 
Since it’s only a practice game, he feels no compunction in rolling his
shoulder, calling, “Ready for a quick break? We have ranking matches tomorrow,
and I’ve been instructed by our coach not to practice too hard beforehand.”
 
Tezuka hesitates, but nods all the same. He feels no real desire to assert that
he's better by pushing onward, especially when he's fairly certain that in his
current condition, he's not. Atobe isn't Sanada, after all (thank god). "A
break would be appreciated." I'm sure you've been dying to show off other
things to me, anyway.
 
Atobe leads Tezuka to the Exercise Lounge, handing him a microfiber towel.
“Sauna? Shower?” He presses a discreet button, and a servant is on hand with
homemade energy drinks (carbonated honey-lemon water with crushed salt),
muffins of varying fiber content, and fresh fruits unobtainable anywhere else
in Japan at this time of year.
 
All right. There are perks to being…acquaintances (???) with Atobe Keigo.
 
"No use for either, if we're going to keep playing later." Tezuka warily
selects a muffin, turning it around in his hand. "And here I thought you were
exaggerating about your facilities here."
 
“One of the perks to being as I am, my dear Kunimitsu,” Atobe says, plucking a
drink from the tray, “is that I never need to exaggerate.” He pauses, then
adds, “Please forgive the rudeness of using your name. I still forget sometimes
that I’m not overseas.” 
 
It’s a lie. He never “forgets” with anyone else. He just likes the way
Kunimitsu sounds on his tongue.
 
Jarring, to be certain, but not…bad. It's more the fact that no one calls him
that outside of his own family than anything else. Tezuka shrugs, taking a
drink for himself as well. "I don't mind. I would ask, though, that you forgo
it in public. I'm not interested in anyone questioning your familiarity with
me." 
 
A little thrill goes through Atobe at that. Oh, dear. Maybe it wasn’t just that
he likes the sound of the name. “Don’t worry,” he reassures the other boy,
fingers brushing against his as he clinks their glasses together. “I’ll keep
our familiarity quite secret.” 
 
He’s not used to being uncertain about things. He doesn’t like it, and ah,
well, there’s no use in prolonging it. He’s waited two years to stop feeling
hot under the collar when Tezuka is around, and since that hasn’t happened, he
might as well do something about it. “Do you speak English, perchance?”
 
"Decently, but not entirely fluently," Tezuka admits, pointedly glancing away
when their hands just happen to touch. This habit of blushing when he's around
Atobe needs to stop. "I think I've been dividing my time between it and German
too much." 
 
In fluent German, Atobe says, “No, German is no good for this sort of thing.
Too abrupt, too...coarse.” 
 
He steps backward once, just enough to convey a lack of desire to step inside
boundary lines. He switches to English, hoping for some comprehension, and
says, “To be perfectly honest, I fancy you. I can say it in Japanese if you’d
prefer, but I prefer the English words if possible.” They’re less demanding
than please go out with me, less blunt and vague thanlike! 
 
Oh.
 
Yes, he knows enough English for this.
 
With this, though, unlike every other awkward conversation or situation he's
ever had with Atobe, Tezuka isn't flustered as much as he is stuck feeling like
a deer in the headlights. He quickly looks away to avoid staring back and
looking somewhat terrified. Now he can sympathize with Oishi, he supposes.
Girls have always been too scared to confess to him (why would they, anyway?),
but this, in a way, is a dozen times worse. 
 
It's rude not to reply in some fashion, though. While Tezuka has never given
himself a pat on the back for his perfect manners, this seems sort
of…necessary. But--"…I have no idea what you want me to say," he finally
manages, hoping he doesn't sound as nervous as he feels. He's sure at this
point that he's to blame for this, at least partially. He's the one that's
gotten flustered whenever Atobe acted so…European around him. "This isn't
England, you know. You can't just…" 
 
Delicacy, then. If he wants to even salvage the budding friendly rivalry
they’ve started building, delicacy is the all-important key. “I don’t expect
anything from you,” he says, back in Japanese. “Please don’t feel that a polite
refusal would damage or injure me in any way, Kunimitsu. If this were England,
I’d have just pinned you to the wall and stuck my tongue down your throat...but
as you say, this is Japan.” He gives a small, genuine smile, and an inclination
of his head that’s as much of a bow as even his coach ever gets from him. “My
affection has no time limit. If you later decide you’d like me to pursue you--
or the other way around, whichever you’d like--you have only to make me
aware.” 
 
Yes, that feels much better. He sets his drink down on the empty tray,
stretching up to make sure he hasn’t gone stiff. “Alternatively, if you’d care
to run screaming from the foreign pervert, I can have Alexander show you the
door. No hard feelings.”
 
Apparently, he's just not going to stop being wide-eyed any time soon,
especially when Atobe is only now starting to make him blush. "…You really
didn't have to tell me what you'd do if this were England," Tezuka mutters,
pushing his glasses up anxiously. Still, Atobe hasn't done those things, and
that settles him…somewhat. "I'd like to think that you have more class than any
foreign pervert does." Why me is still on the tip of his tongue, somewhat
desperate and very confused. Really, he'd thought himself incredibly
unpleasant. That's sort of the point of being a budding hikikomori. 
 
“Any other foreign pervert,” Atobe corrects gently, with a smile he hopes is
only harmlessly rakish. “There, now. Sorry to burden you, but I do feel much
better than I did keeping it from you.” He opens the door back to the courts,
trying to look entirely carefree (and not quite able to stop his fingers from
trembling just slightly, damn it all). “If you aren’t too horrified, we could
play another match.”
 
"No one has ever confessed to me before."
 
Tezuka isn't sure why he feels the need to admit that. Atobe is giving him a
way out, and it's clear as day. Still--the fact that Atobe is trying to make
this all go away gives Tezuka a bit of hope that Atobe is just as worried about
having admitted this as Tezuka is having heard it. He swallows around the lump
in his throat and shifts uneasily. "But I know I'm supposed to give you an
answer, even if it's…weird." 
 
“It’s only weird if you let it be weird,” Atobe volunteers. “Look, Kunimitsu--
Tezuka, I honestly don’t care a whit about what you’re ‘supposed to’ do.
Doubtless you get enough of that from the rest of your life.” He’s a repressed
Japanese boy if ever Atobe’s seen one--and he’s seen Ootori. “Please do nothing
for the sake of my feelings. As you said, my ego can take any blow.” His eyes
do seem to be locked onto Tezuka’s, though, and he’s not quite able to look
away. Tezuka is...magnetic.
 
"No, it's weird. You're weird." A childish accusation, especially coming from
his own tongue, but Tezuka can't help it. "I barely even know you, and I came
over to your house. I never do that. I stay at home and read, or I go and play
tennis by myself. What could you possibly like about me, anyway? You do know
there are rumors about you sleeping with Osakan housewives, right?" 
 
“That’s quite a slew of accusations, I think.” Atobe slowly lets the door slide
shut, discomfitted. This isn’t exactly the way he’d hoped it would go, but he’d
been prepared for the eventuality. “If you feel I dragged you over here, well,
I’m not sorry for it. I wanted to play you, and I’m glad I did.” 
 
He ticks that off on his finger, and adds, “As for the Osakan housewife thing,
yes, I have heard that rumor, and I know who started it as well. He’s the
asshole you played in Singles Three when we played that practice match.”
 
Another finger ticked off. “As for what I like about you…” His brow furrows,
and there’s a brief flash of longing in his eyes before he looks away. “Your
composure. Your determination. The...the love you have, the passion, and even
more than that, the fight-back. The fact that you aren’t quite what anyone
thinks you are, and not because you try and look any specific way, just because
there’s so much to you that it makes you unknowable.” 
 
He cuts himself off with as close to a self-deprecating laugh as Atobe is ever
likely to forget. “I’ll stop before I embarrass myself further, thank you.”
 
"No." 
 
Stress about this whole thing must make him bolder in a way, because Tezuka
reaches out to grab hold of Atobe's wrist before he can help himself. For some
reason, he feels like Atobe's just going to leave if this conversation keeps
going, and it's his house, so he has the right, but still. "You're
not…embarrassing yourself." Another swallow, and this one is harder to deal
with when he looks at Atobe. As per usual, it's nigh impossible to lie to this
idiot's face. Atobe would see through it, anyway. At least, that's what Tezuka
has always assumed (and sort of liked). "You didn't drag me here. You invited
me, and I came. I didn't think…" He trails off, brow furrowing as he lets his
fingers slip away, loosening their hold. "I think…I like you, too." 
 
Atobe exhales a huge breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and the tension
he’d been hiding melts from his shoulders as his face lights up. Tezuka is
telling the truth. He usually does, and Atobe adores that, when most people he
knows are two-faced (or mentally incapable of lying). He grabs Tezuka’s hand
before the other boy can drop it, and uses it to pull him close, then stops.
His cheeks are flushed, eyes wide as he looks up (dammit, Tezuka is still
taller). “You...ah, you must be—”So bloody virginal, and when was the last time
he was with someone like that?
 
Screw it, he’d already said what he’d do if they were in England. If Tezuka
wasn’t scared off by that, he won’t be by a simple kiss, Atobe’s hands coming
up to cup his cheeks and draw him down.
 
The reflex is to bolt, and so when Tezuka restrains himself from that, he hopes
Atobe doesn't notice him trembling. He has a dozen reasons to be nervous about
this, he thinks. One, he's never been kissed. Two, it's another boy, and
theoretically, that shouldn't be happening. Three, it's Atobe Keigo, and while
Tezuka has never allowed himself to be intimidated by rumors or status or
anything like that…it's still Atobe Keigo, and his reputation precedes him in
things like this. 
 
Plus, Atobe's lips are far softer than Tezuka expected them to be, and the
height difference actually does make Atobe kind of easy to kiss, shockingly
enough…
 
"Sorry--" He feels the need to apologize all the same, because when is he less
than an expert at anything that he does, according to the general populous.
Tezuka draws back after that initial brush, swallowing hard. "I've never…done
this with anyone." 
 
“I’m honored.” Atobe’s voice is hardly above a murmur, but the look in his eyes
is sincere, gentle, as he brushes his fingertips down Tezuka’s cheek, reveling
in just being able to touch him that much. “And I can sort of tell,” he admits,
and decides to trust his instincts. “You don’t have to be the genius at
everything, you know.” 
 
His hand trails down to Tezuka’s chest, suddenly fisting in the fabric and
yanking him close enough to be effortlessly kissed. “Just enjoy.” 
 
His mouth is more sure, more demanding this time. Atobe wants, wants him badly,
and just being able to kiss Tezuka, firm and gentle at the same time, sates a
need in him he didn’t know he had.
 
It's less a matter of being flustered or embarrassed now, more a matter of how
his knees start buckling when Atobe suddenly grabs him like that. 
 
That's new. Very new, surprisingly good, enough to just kind of make Tezuka
agree in the form of going somewhat limp and letting Atobe yank him as he
pleases. Kissing him like this is good. Definitely better than he could have
imagined (though he hasn't imagined much, he'll admit), especially when Atobe's
mouth is warm and insistent and really not giving him a chance to pull away.
Tezuka swallows down a noise or five, and settles for grabbing at Atobe's arms
to steady himself. 
 
Sometimes, Atobe wishes he were amoral.
 
Tezuka is grabbing at him, and the barest touch of Insight (or being able to
read people) tells Atobe that if he wanted, he could have Tezuka on every
surface in the Manor right now. The thought is beyond tempting--the thought of
Tezuka spread out and flushing, arching, clutching at him and gasping his name
beyond a distraction--and it takes genuine effort for Atobe to regretfully pull
away.
 
He’s breathing harder than he’d anticipated, and lays his forehead against
Tezuka’s. “We should do something else for now,” he says, a little hoarse. “Or
you can go home for now and come back later.” His smile is a little shaky as he
draws in a long breath. “I don’t want anything to get in the way of me treating
you the way you deserve, and you’re far too tempting for me.”
 
"…Uh huh," is all Tezuka sluggishly manages for a moment, his eyes shut behind
his glasses as he tries to properly catch his breath. Locking his knees like
this isn't a good idea, but it's really the only thing keeping him on his feet
right now, outside of clinging to Atobe like he's some wilting flower. "I
think…maybe home." He needs to lie down and not move for a few hours at least. 
 
Atobe nods. “It’s for the best. Charles will take you home.” 
 
He pauses before leaving Tezuka to the tender mercies of the chauffeur, and
gives him another quick kiss, just for good measure. “I’ll call. Or you can
call me, any time.” My beloved rival.
 
Tezuka vows that he is not going to fall over. Vows. "I hate phones," he
mutters, but otherwise, doesn't argue. 
 
He has to get himself together before he turns back up at his house, lest his
grandfather send the entire police force after the Atobe Directorate's heir for
making him act like a sloppy drunk. 
 
~
 
There’s a soft knock at the door, the kind only Tezuka Ayana gives before
entering. Usually, it’s a brisk soft knock and then an entrance, but this time,
she waits patiently on the other side of the door. “Kunimitsu? Are you awake?”
Even for a Saturday, 8am is usually late enough that her son is up and doing
some sort of homework.
 
Homework isn't the focus at the moment, though that's normally a balm to his
nerves. Today, Tezuka can't even focus on a single book, and that's just
stressful. "Yes--did you need something, Kaasan?" he calls back, leaning back
in his desk chair. Maybe he should just go out. Tennis. Right. If he drowns
himself in tennis, that's…better.
 
Ayana enters, relieved, and lays a hand on her son’s hair. “Come with me, I
want to show you something,” she calls, leading him down the hall to the
washing machine.
 
"What--"
 
Ah.
 
No. 
 
They really don't need to have this conversation. Not now, not ever.
 
Tezuka starts firmly backtracking. "I have a lot of homework I should be
working on." 
 
A hand shoots out, firm and swift and trained by the same self-defense expert
that has trained Tezuka, and drags him down the hallway. “I was just
wondering,” she says gently, despite the fact that she’s moving him bodily down
the hall when he’s a good foot and a half taller than she, “whether you might
want to start doing your own laundry in the morning. I’ll show you how to work
the machine.”
 
"Kaasan--" It's his last weak, somewhat terrified reply before he gives up,
slumping tiredly and letting her haul him along. It's only fair, he supposes.
It's embarrassing, but why should his mother have to deal with something that's
definitely his fault? No, Tezuka firmly decides, it isn't his fault. It's
Atobe's. Atobe is responsible for the repeated need to wash his sheets every
morning for the past week and a half. Even avoiding his phone calls apparently
was not helping. "I…yes. That…would be good…"
 
“See, you just put the sheets--or underwear, or whatever--in here,” she says
firmly, determined to make it as not-awkward as possible, “and push power, then
the size of the load, and start. It’s done in 35 minutes, isn’t that great? You
used to help me hang up the laundry, and you can certainly reach the drying
racks better than I can, so you know how to do that just fine. Do you need me
to show you again?”
 
"No, I've got it. Photographic memory." 
 
Tezuka takes that opportunity to escape, and lock his bedroom door. It's a good
thing that he's not of the mind to fashion a noose out of his bedsheets today
(they're already in the washing machine), especially when his phone has five
missed calls. Fine, then.
 
To: Atobe Keigo
Subject: This is your fault.
See subject. 
 
It should be no surprise, then, when the phone rings after about 3.5 seconds.
 
Tezuka glares at it before actually flipping it open this time. "I hate phones.
I did warn you."
 
“When I said that I would call you if you didn’t call me,” Atobe drawls, “I had
rather assumed you knew I wanted you to pick up, my dear Kunimitsu.”
 
“Kunimitsu?” his mother’s voice carries through the doorway. “Honey, if you
want to talk about growing-up problems…”                                       
                               
 
"I would genuinely rather die, Kaasan," Tezuka miserably tosses towards the
door before scowling back into the phone. "I had nothing to say. I never have
anything to say on the phone."
 
“Okay, well, if you change your mind...I have had experience around adult male
parts before, you know!”
 
“If you’d prefer not to speak on the phone, I can send a car,” Atobe offers.
He’s definitely not awaiting a reply with baited breath, hoping that Tezuka
hasn’t changed his mind so definitively that there’s nothing he can say.
 
"I'm going to die a boring carpenter, Kaasan, so it's all very unnecessary.
Please remember this." God, if only that were true, especially when Atobe wants
to send a car to pick him up. Tezuka groans and tries not to suffocate himself
with a pillow. "Fine. Just…do that." 
 
“He’s on the way.” Atobe hovers for a moment, then refrains from adding that
he’s excited to see the other boy. Those are things he says when people call
himback.
 
He hangs up, flopping back onto his bed uselessly. Then, hardly a minute later,
he opens the door to his bedroom. “Georgette, make something ridiculously
traditional Japanese for lunch, something appalling and seafood-like. Harold,
give Beat a bath, keep him downstairs until further notice. Alexander, when
Charles comes back with his guest, have him shown directly to my bedroom, do
not allow any of Father’s friends to see him when you pass by the conference
hall, take him by the servant’s quarters if you have to. And someone fluff my
pillows with lavender oils!”
 
Perhaps four minutes later, Ayana knocks again. “Boring carpenter-san, there’s
a man in a tuxedo here for you.”
 
He's going to have to tell Atobe to start making these kinds of things…more
subtle. 
 
"Just don't tell Ojiisan that I'm being kidnapped," Tezuka mutters, dragging
his tennis bag along when he escapes. He can just imagine that--his grandfather
cornering Atobe, interrogating him like he's a murderer--
 
This is why he is most certainly not dateable material in any way, shape, or
form. 
 
The ride, at least, is short enough that he doesn't have to spend too much time
agonizing about what to say or do when he sees Atobe again. Even still, it's
strange to show back up and be welcomed at Atobe's mansion--though there isn't
a dog that climbs him like a tree this time. Oddly disappointing, that, but
there is a very angry cat that seems to like skulking in corners. 
 
This time, he's guided directly to Atobe's bedroom…which is far more of a small
house than an actual bedroom. "Next time," he tiredly says, setting his bag
down, "can the car in question be more…subdued? The look on my mother's face
was a little…" 
 
Atobe winces. “My apologies, I’ll try to be more discreet. The only other car
in the area was a limousine--I confess, I don’t always think of the hovering
mother factor.” Having never had one myself, rings silently. 
 
He offers a smile, gesturing around himself. “Welcome to my room. Don’t take it
as a forward nature, my father has a business meeting downstairs and I wanted
to preserve your modesty.”
 
"She's rarely hovering, it's just…lately." He's not going to bring this up,
even if it's Atobe's fault. Instead, Tezuka just sighs. "Whatever. It's fine.
We can agree now that contact via phone is not going to work." 
 
“Apparently not. Would you prefer smoke signals, or shall I just start sending
carrier pigeons?” Atobe feels he’s being entirely reasonable after being
solidly blown off and ignored for more than a week. After all, phone contact
would require Tezuka to make a modicum of effort, something that is clearly too
much to ask.
 
"Carrier pigeons would certainly be original. If we were closer to the ocean,
perhaps messages in a bottle." 
 
Atobe sits on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his
knees, back bowed. “You don’t have to make excuses to me, you know. I told you,
I expect nothing from you. I’m interested in nothing less than 100 percent
interest and consent. If I frightened you…”
 
"You didn't." Tezuka gingerly takes a seat in a chair that is far too squishy.
Or perhaps it's squishy and soft enough, who knows, but it's really unnatural.
"…Mostly, I was embarrassed. At the way I reacted." He glances down, analyzing
carpet. "Everything afterwards didn't help, either. Combine that with the fact
that I genuinely don't like conversing in the first place, especially on the
phone--whatever. I'll just send a text next time so you know that I'm alive." 
 
“Alive,” Atobe prompts, “is good. Still interested is better. You could have
simply shown up at my house if you wanted to speak in person.” He scratches at
the back of his neck. “You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. I’ll
take all the blame for being a pervert if it makes you feel better. Believe me,
the thoughts I’ve been having…”
 
"Just showing up seems a bit too forward," Tezuka mutters, glancing aside
again. "And if I wasn't still interested, I would have told you to leave me
alone. Besides, I'm fairly certain you've turned me into a worse pervert, so it
is what it is at this point." 
 
And there go Atobe’s hormones.
 
He stands, eyes dark and intent, and makes his way to Tezuka’s seat on the
chair, bracing an arm on the back of the chair behind him. “Ahn?” he asks,
leaning down until they’re nearly touching. He can feel the heat of Tezuka from
so close, but waits, waits to touch. “Tell me about how I’ve turned you into
such a pervert with just one kiss.”
 
Somehow, just with that, his face is hot and his skin practically tingling.
This is worse than how he wakes up every single morning. "That was more than
one kiss," he attempts practically. "And it isn't like I remember the dreams.
Or that they make sense." One too many trashy novels, that's for sure. He needs
to stop reading literally everything.
 
Thinking about Tezuka having dreams like that about him—
 
Yeah, that’ll do.
 
Atobe’s knees hit the seat on either side of Tezuka’s hips, and his hands come
to rest on surprisingly broad shoulders, gripping him firmly. He leans down,
brushing their lips just barely together, more to breathe the breath of him
than anything, and murmurs, “I’ll give you something much better than dreams,
my dear Kunimitsu.”
 
Tezuka just…kind of sags.
 
It's all kinds of a relief to be able to melt like that. If anything, it seems
like that's the kind of reaction Atobe wants, and that's good, because Tezuka
isn't sure he could manage anything else. The sound that escapes from his
throat is a strangled groan, and reflex brings his hands up, sliding down the
curve of Atobe's spine before slipping lower and unrepentantly curling over the
curve of his ass to drag him closer. It's a lot easier to touch this time, and
even if he doesn't remember his dreams entirely, they've certainly given him a
lot of fodder. 
 
Yes, good.
 
Best foot forward, as it were, and Atobe knows quite well that he has a
fantastic ass.
 
By virtue of excellent positioning, Atobe finds himself straddling Tezuka, the
warmth of his body seeping into his own, and he’s nowhere near as shy or
hesitant about this kiss (though if memory serves, he’d hardly been that
before). He nips at Tezuka’s bottom lip, tugging on it with his teeth as he
leans back, settling his hips firmly into Tezuka’s lap. “God, you’re nothing
but bones,” he says, amused against Tezuka’s lips.
 
"Sorry," is the shaky exhale to follow. Tezuka's eyes flutter, his head lolling
back against the chair cushions when he finally manages to breathe again--
though not very deeply, and not very well. It's impossible when he has a lap
full of Atobe, apparently, because his mind clicks off and--….it's not like
he's ever looked before, but Atobe's ass fits very nicely in his hands. "You're
like a furnace," he mutters in return accusation, because it's true. Atobe is
far warmer than Tezuka ever would have imagined him being. 
 
Atobe almost protests, but it isn’t as if you’re nothing but bones is a
compliment, so he supposes it’s fair. Tezuka could at least have said he was a
sexy furnace or something, but he’s willing to give a pass as long as the other
boy’s hands are so nice.
 
Gently, he reminds himself, and slowly. It won’t do to scare Tezuka away now,
not when he’s so new and Atobe wants him so badly. It’s almost a surprise, to
find how true that is. Every kiss is a little deeper, a little longer, until he
pulls away to see Tezuka’s lips bruised and shiny and swollen red. The sight
makes him groan, and he rocks his hips slowly, rubbing down against Tezuka.
“Stop me any time,” he says, eyes burning. “Or I probably won’t stop, fair
warning.”
 
Even if Atobe is shorter than him, Tezuka is very certain that he's heavier,
and that's good. The weight of Atobe in his lap is enough to make him strangle
down another noise (or ten) and he has to shiver and try not to squirm when
their hips press together like that. He should probably be more embarrassed
about how hard he is from this alone, but Atobe certainly doesn't seem to be,
so who cares. "I don't want you to stop," he rasps, lurching up for another
kiss--not entirely accurate, but it gets the point across of don't stop kissing
me, either. 
 
The feeling of Tezuka pressing firm and hot up against his hips is good, good
enough to make him dizzy and drunk on it. Atobe kisses like he’s hungry, hands
coming up to tangle in Tezuka’s hair as he rocks down. “Good,” he groans
between kisses, slurred and urgent. “Don’t think I can.”
 
He probably could, if Tezuka looked freaked out or terrified. With Tezuka
pliant and hard under him, it’s pretty much impossible. Willpower is all well
and good, but only when it prevents him from doing something bad. Sometimes
temptation leads him into something excellent, and Atobe can’t think of
anything better than succumbing.
 
The way Atobe kisses him is better than anything.
 
Tezuka can't help but whimper. Every ragged exhale of breath makes his glasses
fog up, and he finally gives up on them, reaching up a hand to shakily push
them up and out of the way. It makes kissing easier, especially when his vision
is blurring anyway, and it gives him an excuse to grab at the front of Atobe's
shirt and haul him closer when he sinks back down into the chair.  
 
Time to show Tezuka that this chair is more of a chaise lounge.
 
Atobe pulls the lever on the side, and the back of the chair reclines, giving
him ample room to climb on top of Tezuka, stretching out to press their bodies
together, the full length of him dragging against Tezuka’s taller frame. You
don’t kiss like a virgin is on the tip of his tongue, but far more interesting
is everything else going on with his tongue--namely, that it’s dragging against
Tezuka’s lips, tasting and flicking, drinking in every moan he gets.
 
Briefly, Tezuka has to wonder if this counts as being dipped, a la trashy
romance novel number five that he read three days ago. 
 
Probably. That's fine, though, because it's surprisingly good, though he should
be more embarrassed about the way he likes to squirm underneath Atobe's weight
and the things that his mouth is doing. As it is, he's not, and he gingerly,
shakily wraps a hand up into Atobe's hair instead, swallowing down another,
broken noise when his legs shift and a thigh  draws up between Atobe's legs.
Just as hard as he is, Tezuka's mind processes, and that makes his breath catch
up into his chest. 
 
God. Tezuka is his. 
 
Atobe feels it, the heady rush of knowledge that he could do just about
anything to Tezuka right now. That’s shorted out a bit by how hard he is, and
how much he needs. “I know,” he groans, rubbing down against Tezuka with every
breath, “you haven’t done this before, so just…”
 
He has to pause to kiss Tezuka deeply again, because nothing else in the world
feels quite as good. When he comes up for air, he continues, “Just be as honest
with me as you can. Teach me what you like, when I do it to you.”
 
Verbally agreeing takes effort that Tezuka can't quite muster right then, not
when he can lurch up and let his cock grind slowly against Atobe's hip.
"Doesn't matter," he finally manages to piece together, clutching a little at
Atobe's back, his breaths ragged against his mouth when he tries to kiss back
and not just whine when his cock throbs. "Just--please--" Admitting that
everything feels good, I don't care what you dois probably more perverted than
anything, but begging can't be much better--but it makes him ache, and that's
good. 
 
Tezuka is gone.
 
Atobe knows that look of complete surrender, but he’s never seen it this early.
The power he holds--has been given--is enough to go to his head, and he lurches
down, grinding hard against the other boy, pulling away just long enough to
fumble with the fastenings of Tezuka’s pants, deftly undoing them and shoving
them down. 
 
His hand is sure and firm when he wraps it around the length of him, hot and
hard and heavy in his grasp, and he slides his hand down in a smooth pull,
rubbing his thumb over the head. “You want to get messy?” he murmurs, and leans
down to kiss him again, stealing his breath and his words, wanting to feel the
tremble that will go through Tezuka when he comes. Time to learn what kind of
stamina he has, the Captain of Seigaku that Atobe’s been fantasizing about for
so long. (Time to see which fantasy of many is true.)
 
Tezuka doesn't expect that to feel so good.
 
His own hand has been one thing, and only something he's irritably dealt with
in the past couple of weeks, truth be told. Maybe that makes him less than
normal for a teenage boy, but he's never cared. Atobe's hand is something else,
though--surprisingly smooth, warm, and he alreadyseems to know the exact right
way to stroke and pull. It makes him arch right off the chair, clutching at
Atobe's back, a broken, ragged noise lost against Atobe's mouth. He should
definitely be more embarrassed about the way his legs spread and heels dig in
to have more leverage to just grind up against that touch, but… 
 
If Atobe was going to make fun of him for any of this, he would have already. 
 
A little more is something Tezuka wants to beg for, but apparently, that's
unnecessary when Atobe's fingers slide tight and insistent around him. He
lurches up with a breathless groan, clinging to Atobe's shirt when he comes,
the almost-taunt of Atobe's words ringing in his ears. Yes, make me a mess,
please,please. 
 
“God, Kunimitsu, you beautiful thing,” Atobe groans, drinking in every sound
that comes through Tezuka’s lips, every catch of his breath, every lurching
spasm of his muscles. The jerking twitches of his cock are so arousing Atobe
feels himself throb with every spurt, the wet heat seeming so much more secret,
so much more lewd than it ever has with anyone else. 
 
Really, Atobe can’t be blamed if he’s already addicted after just one hit.
 
He grinds up, teeth closing over the lobe of Tezuka’s ear, and nips sharply at
it before saying in a husky whisper, “I’m going to make you do that again and
again, until--fuck, until you just give up.” His cock aches, and he grinds the
heel of his palm firmly down against it. Not now. Busy. Soon.
 
Tezuka's eyes roll back as he groans weakly, jerking up against Atobe's touch
helplessly. His cock aches with the idea of it, and it's definitely too much to
think of being hard again so soon, but damned if it isn't trying against every
desperate protest he can think of. 
 
Atobe's still so hard against him that those protests start to die away in his
mind, and the way his voice rumbles in his ear…Tezuka swallows around a
whimper, his skin flushing hot as he just settles for melting down into the
cushions anew. "But…" He's not the biggest fan of how his own voice sounds,
weak around the edges and very, very shaky. One hand reaches out, pawing a
little at Atobe's hip. "What about you?" 
 
Atobe’s touches turn gentle--well, gentler--as soon as Tezuka starts coming
down from that high, stroking and caressing, nuzzling into his neck. “Not about
give and take,” he breathes, though he doesn’t exactly move Tezuka’s hand away.
“I’m not just trying to come as fast as I can, Kunimitsu. You’re something…”
 
He fumbles for words for a moment, and raises up on one arm to look down into
Tezuka’s face. His expression softens, and he brushes fingertips over sharp
cheekbones. “You’re something to be cherished.”
 
You're making this weird Tezuka wants to tell him, but that requires a whole
lot of effort and…ugh, he sort of likes hearing it. That makes him fairly
weird, too, he supposes. He turns his head aside instead, butting his face into
the palm of Atobe's hand. "Never even thought about this kind of thing before,"
he admits. "Not before you." 
 
Well, Atobe can hardly be blamed for the way that goes straight to his ego,
he’s pretty sure. Compliments like that from men like this are few and far
between, and he basks in it for a moment. “Maybe no one else was worthy to be
here with you.” He smiles, and kisses Tezuka softly, a gentle brush of his
lips. “The thought of you with someone who doesn’t appreciate you is a highly
unappetizing thought, you know. I find myself quite unfond of it.”
 
"Don't like anyone else," Tezuka mutters, lurching up to kiss Atobe back. "So
that's not going to happen." 
 
This feels official. It’s usually not far from the moment that Atobe excuses
himself for very important matters, only to send the rare text message whenever
he’s in town and wants to have a quick romp. 
 
But…
 
It’s been two years, and he’s still considerably less than bored.
 
He leans down and kisses Tezuka again, then starts unbuttoning his shirt. “No,
it never will. Let me see you, Kunimitsu. I want to taste your skin.”
 
Taking his clothes off around another boy shouldn't make his skin heat up like
this. 
 
Tezuka exhales a huff of breath, lifting a still-shaky hand to start working at
his own shirt's buttons. Only now is he aware that he's something of a sweaty,
sticky mess, and that probably shouldn't make his cock twitch like it does, but
whatever. He's already starting to get used to the fact that Atobe pushes a
dozen buttons that he never knew he had. 
 
Atobe leans back, watching appreciatively as every inch of skin is revealed.
“It’s different from the locker room, isn’t it?” he asks, following every
movement. True to his word, he leans down, swiping his tongue across Tezuka’s
collarbone, dragging his fingers down that toned (too-thin) torso. “Ah, you
don’t have any hair at all.”
 
"Neither do you." Atobe's fingers make him shift and squirm, even as he shrugs
his way out of his shirt. "No one watches me like this in the locker room,"
Tezuka mutters, pointedly forgetting about Fuji Shuusuke. 
 
“I have more than you do,” Atobe admits. That’s not his Japanese heritage. He
strips off his own shirt, and brings one of Tezuka’s hands to his abdomen,
letting him feel the soft down trail leading to his waistband. “See?”
 
That's another thing that shouldn't turn him on as much as it does. Probably.
Tezuka's breath hiccups, and his fingers slowly curl, hooking into Atobe's
waistband before he can help himself. "And here I was pretty sure you dyed your
hair. Are you sure you have any Japanese in you?" 
 
Atobe lets himself be tugged forward, flicking the top button open with a lazy
movement of one hand. “Half. The rest is vastly more hirsute, as you can see.
You’re welcome to decide for yourself whether the color is natural or not.
You’re not far from a hint.”
 
Tezuka huffs at him, somewhat unsure about proceeding now that he's the one
tugging Atobe forward…but he's not going to hesitate now, of all times. His
fingers curl and tug, easing Atobe's pants  down over his hips, and--all right,
any dye-job has been close enough to his natural hair color. That's less
interesting than the way his fingers twitch with the urge to touch Atobe's
cock, definitely bigger and especially thicker than his own. 
 
Atobe is usually quite good at suppressing any urge to spend himself quickly.
Just now, he bites his lip, hands coming up to Tezuka’s shoulders to steady
himself, determined not to break that habit just because Tezuka has the nicest
fingers he’s ever felt, though they are a bit chilly. The look of rapt
fascination on Tezuka’s face is enough to make him twitch, a firm reminder that
he, at least, hasn’t spent himself yet. “Taste it,” he urges, fingers tugging
at Tezuka’s hair. “Just once, you can stop if you don’t like it. I want to feel
your mouth.”
 
The problem is that Tezuka can't help but lick his lips, and just the idea of
it makes his own cock almost entirely hard again. 
 
He's not going to say that, though. Admitting he's a complete pervert is
different than just acting like one, Tezuka figures. He instead settles for a
short nod of agreement, his fingers curling around Atobe's hips, shakily,
hesitantly tugging him up a bit more before his lips brush over the very tip of
Atobe's cock, his tongue flicking out shortly afterwards. 
 
Salty and slick and bitter and heavy on his tongue--none of those things should
make him choke on a groan, or make him part his lips for more. This is Atobe's
fault. Tezuka has long settled upon that fact. 
 
Well, the plan had been to check and ensure that Tezuka is all right, that he’s
having a good time and not hating life. Unfortunately, the fact that Tezuka is
moaning like a whore at his first taste of dick pretty much shorts out Atobe’s
ability to do anything of the kind.
 
His hands tangle in soft brown hair, and he lurches forward, rubbing the head
over Tezuka’s tongue, trying to breathe when he’s so lightheaded from just the
sight of it. “Look how good you are at this already,” he murmurs, hoping
belatedly that Tezuka doesn’t mind dirty talk. It’s kind of a habit at this
point. “God, if you could see the way you look with your lips all stretched out
around my cock…”
 
It's fine, because this clarifies that Atobe is a dozen times more perverted
than he is. It makes it a lot easier to just relax and give in to the idea that
he really does like this, even though his jaw hurts just taking the head of
Atobe's cock into his mouth. It drips down his tongue, and Tezuka swallows
raggedly around the taste, his eyes fluttering shut as his face flushes hot.
Stupid, ridiculous, really, that the praise makes him that much more eager,
but… 
 
He'd be a liar to say he didn't like it, and his hands clutching at Atobe's
hips, his tongue dragging over the head of his cock to taste more does little
to hide that fact. 
 
Atobe is fairly certain that nothing is better than this. 
 
His cock is as hard as he can ever remember it being, fingers grabbing and
tugging at Tezuka’s hair, sliding in inch by inch, never too far, shallow
little thrusts that feel good but let him hold back. “You’re doing such a good
job, you feel so good,” he breathes, brushing the hair out of Tezuka’s face so
he can see him that much better, take in that flushed face, the saliva and
precome dripping down his chin, the glazed look in his eyes. 
 
Fuck, I’ve got to take care of him. I doubt he’ll take care of himself.
 
Before Tezuka has a chance to get sick of it, Atobe pulls out, sitting back on
his knees. “Don’t wear yourself out too fast,” he warns, wrapping a hand around
himself, slow strokes keeping him in the moment without taking him too far.
“You want to be able to move your jaw tomorrow.”
 
"I don't care."
 
In the back of his mind, Tezuka dimly realizes that's probably a stupid thing
not to care about, but he misses the way his lips feel stretched around Atobe's
cock, the way his jaw does already ache, the bitter, masculine taste on his
tongue. He reaches out, his hand needy when it curls over Atobe's, tugging,
just a little. "Please." His face is hot enough that he thinks he might die
from that alone, just because he's asking for something so lewd. "I don't…I
don't mind." 
 
Atobe’s voice locks up for a minute, and he lets out a strangled groan, leaning
forward to grab Tezuka’s face and kiss him hard before pulling away and shoving
the other boy’s face down. “Now you’ve got to,” he rasps, shoving his cock back
into Tezuka’s mouth as it pulses and twitches. “Because hearing you beg like
that is going to make me come in your mouth a lot faster than I want to.” God,
he’s close.
 
He'd be the worst liar to say that didn't make his own cock harder still. 
 
Fortunately, he doesn't have to say anything. His mouth is full of Atobe's
cock, much fuller than before, because Atobe isn't as careful this time and
god, but Tezuka does like that against all good judgement. He's glad that his
groans are muffled when Atobe shoves in too deep, too fast, and he can't help
but gag, though before that gets too bad, he swallows hard, his eyes rolling
back when that just makes him taste Atobe even more. 
 
Atobe is quite certain that he’s never had his cock sucked more
enthusiastically than by Tezuka Kunimitsu, and that’s the last straw. He gasps
out a curse in some language (not sure which), back bowed so he’s bent over
Tezuka’s head, trying not to thrust in too frantically and failing, cock
bumping against the back of Tezuka’s throat and making him gag, and those
noises just make him come harder.
 
There’s a lot--it’s been a while, and he’s never been called less than virile.
Atobe barely retails the presence of mind to slump backwards instead of
forwards, collapsing back onto his hands and leaving Tezuka coughing and
dripping.
 
He’ll apologize once he stops being quite so spent.
 
If Atobe wanted to make a mess of him, it's now, more so than ever. 
 
It's not even just the fact that he's coughing no matter how he tries to
thoughtlessly swallow, missing a good portion of it and lifting a shaky hand to
weakly wipe his mouth afterwards (still bitter and salty, but he doesn't care).
It's also the fact that somewhere in the middle of everything, he definitely
came again himself, and Tezuka isn't sure if he should feel embarrassed about
it or just blissfully pass out because he's never felt more lightheaded in his
entire life. 
 
He decides to just give up instead, flopping back bonelessly, shuddering and
shutting his eyes as his chest heaves. 
 
Atobe’s lashes flutter open, and he sees the way Tezuka convulses a bit before
laying back down. Just the thought of that, that Tezuka came from sucking him
off, makes him groan weakly as his cock attempts to twitch back to life. Give
me a second, he thinks at it, knowing it won’t be nearly as long as usual. “My
dear Kunimitsu,” he says, slurring just a little, “you are…exquisite.”
 
Tezuka just focuses on breathing normally. "Is sex always like that?" he dimly
manages. If it is, he's not sure he's going to survive for very long. 
 
Atobe’s heart gives a little flutter. Dangerous, that. “No,” he says
truthfully. “Not even with me. You’re something special, mon p’tit chou.”
 
Atobe usually just makes his head hurt, but right now, he feels more relaxed
than he has in a long, long time. I doubt it's me, but thank you is on the tip
of his tongue, but Tezuka foregoes that in lieu of just grabbing at Atobe to
curl up against him. That's a better response, he thinks. 
 
That’s it, really. Atobe swallows hard, and takes Tezuka into his arms. Well…I
could have fallen for a lot worse, in the end.
 
～
 
Atobe isn’t exactly angry.
 
At least, he’s not exactly angry at Tezuka. In his situation, he’d have done
the exact same thing, probably.
 
That doesn’t mean he feels good about it, or about the part he himself had
played. That’s why he sends the car, and why he waits, trying not to pace,
until Tezuka shows up in the (slightly less conspicuous) car. 
 
Every grimace he sees makes him feel guilty, and that more than anything is
what makes him angry. Why did you make me injure you? Why did you make me see
you hurt like that?
 
But he knows the answers, and it’s only a helpless, upset feeling instead of a
true anger. It really was a fantastic game, and he’ll probably never have
another like it.
 
Nor, unfortunately, will Tezuka. 
 
“Did you at least get what you wanted?” he asks, voice slightly unsteady.
 
Escaping Oishi after the match had been something akin to performing an
exorcism. Escaping his parents after he had arrived home was something else
entirely, and his grandfather a level above that. Tezuka supposes he feels
guilty, in a way, for leaving at the first opportunity (that car is there,
anyway, and he has no choice when it's there). They're worried about him,
setting appointments with doctors and therapists already, and there's a fear in
the pit of his belly that sings of what if this is it, what if you'll never be
able to play again because of this.
 
But he brought it on himself, so he has no one else to blame. 
 
In a way, that's better.
 
There's a heat wrap plastered to his shoulder now, at least, and that takes
away the throbbing ache somewhat. What makes it twinge anew, however, isn't the
way that he moves his arm in his sling, but the way that Atobe looks at him.
Tezuka swallows, contemplates shrugging, then thinks the better of it. Atobe
deserves more than a shrug, anyway, even if he could accomplish it without sort
of falling over again.
 
"If you mean a real match with you, then yes." 
 
“I thought you were magnificent.” It’s hard to explain away the reverence, the
furious pride in his voice, and Atobe doesn’t even try. “That game...meant more
to me than going to the finals, Kunimitsu.”
 
"Coming from you, that means quite a lot." Tezuka hesitates before inclining
his head. "Thank you, for really playing." He's under no illusions. He's so
very, very sure that anyone other than Atobe (except perhaps Sanada) would have
backed down the moment they realized he was still injured. That wasn't what he
wanted, not at all. 
 
Atobe gives him a brief smile. “I’m not sure you should be thanking me for it,
but I couldn’t have done anything less. Not for you.” Not once he’d seen how
far Tezuka was willing to go. “Tell me you’re going now.”
 
"My parents want me to go to Kyushu." Tezuka glances up, holding Atobe's gaze.
"But you said something about Germany before. I'm asking your opinion, Keigo.
Do you think my chances of returning for Nationals would be better if I went
there?" 
 
Atobe’s chest aches, and not from the match. His shoulders and back and legs
ache from the match, but it’s by far a different pain. “I do.” He swallows
hard, then looks away. “And if I’m recommending that you go so far I won’t see
you for weeks, you know it’s in your best interests.”
 
"…I'll answer phone calls." All right, that's not entirely true. "Well--I'll
try to." Tezuka sighs, listing a little to one side. "You're not going to cry
alone in your bathtub if I leave, are you?" That's happened in a few books he's
read, he's sure of it.
 
The look of affront on Atobe’s face is complete. “You can think about that
comment when you’re stranded with nothing but men named Hans who eat fatty
sausages and sauerkraut for every meal,” he says loftily. “If you don’t answer
your phone, I’ll take the jet over to see you some weekend.”
 
"I'll try to answer it," Tezuka repeats dryly, still not entirely convinced by
Atobe's offended attitude about the crying thing. He'll probably still cry.
"Can you text me all of the information later? I don't think convincing my
parents to let me go will be that difficult, but my grandfather is something
else entirely." 
 
“I’ll have it to you tonight.” Atobe’s smile wavers, and he moves closer,
reaching out a hand to pluck at a strand of Tezuka’s hair. “You will be
careful? It’s going to be something of a culture shock for you, even if you
speak some German.”
 
"I'm not going there to be a tourist. I'm just going there to recover." A sigh,
and Tezuka leans forward, hooking his chin over Atobe's shoulder. "I'll be
fine." He has to say it, or Atobe will never be quiet about it, he knows. 
 
Atobe closes his eyes, breathing in that clean crisp smell of athlete and dusty
books with a hint of clear mountain spring that is Tezuka. After their match,
it’s quite a bit heavier on the “athlete” than usual, but that’s all fine.
“Good. Just come back better.” His words are slightly muffled into Tezuka’s
shoulder, and he’s probably hugging him slightly too tightly.
 
Tezuka's head turns, his face partially burying into Atobe's hair--an ashier
blond this week, which was brought about with some proclamation about it being
a victorious shade. Well, he wasn't wrong. "It wasn't your fault," he quietly
says, because he's fairly certain Atobe needs to hear that, too. 
 
That shouldn’t be the thing that makes his eyes burn, but it is. Atobe buries
his face in Tezuka’s shoulder, taking in a deep breath before he nods.
“Stubborn ass. Don’t make me hurt you again, I don’t enjoy it.”
 
His good arm comes around Atobe's waist, squeezing back tightly. "It was
already mostly like this. It wasn't your fault." That probably doesn't make it
any better, but, well, there was an attempt. "With any luck, the next time we
play, it'll be completely healed." 
 
Atobe shakes his head, sighing as he pulls back to give Tezuka a swift kiss.
“Knowing you, you’ll play me no matter what, if you think it’s in the best
interests of your team. I can’t even blame you. I’d probably do the same damn
thing.” He snorts. “Martyrs, both of us.”
 
"The difference is that you've thick bones," Tezuka deadpans, pulling back to
push up his glasses. "I've seen them in your baby pictures."
 
Atobe lets out a noise something like that of a hissing cat. “I thought you
were going to pretend you’d never seen those,” he mutters. “I should teach you
a lesson in manners. I would, if I thought you were well enough to handle it.”
 
"When I come home," Tezuka says placatingly. "In the meantime, you should hide
those baby books from your mother more thoroughly. You don't know what other
kinds of guests she might show them to."
 
Atobe makes a noise of long suffering. “Yes, yes. You’d better not find
yourself in the arms of some German, Kunimitsu.” He flops down onto the
loveseat, looking rather put-out. “You’ll come home with worse taste in beer
than your grandfather has.”
 
"I doubt either will happen. I seem to prefer those of some undocumented
Mediterranean descent, apparently." Tezuka sighs at him before walking over,
leaning down, and pressing a kiss to the top of Atobe's head. "I'm going to
head home before everyone starts to think I've committed suicide by jumping in
front of a train. Thank you again, Keigo." 
 
“I’ll miss you.” 
 
He doesn’t meet Tezuka’s eyes, and is more than a little embarrassed to say it.
Then he looks up, hesitant to ask, but wanting to know the answer. “Do you want
me to wait for you? I won’t be upset either way.”
 
Tezuka gives him an exasperated look as he straightens. "You'll be bored out of
your mind, and I don't want to be eaten alive when I come back. Do what you
want; just don't tell me about it." 
 
There’s not nearly as much relief as he’d been expecting to feel. Instead,
there’s just a sad lonely little feeling that hurts when he pokes it, like a
toothache. Hell, he’ll probably just mess around with Jirou to keep in
practice, if anything. “Be safe, Kunimitsu. I’m going to harass you on the
phone.”
 
"I can't wait," is Tezuka's less than enthusiastic response. 
 
(If nothing else, Germany is an escape from his team--which, he tiredly
realizes, he really, really does need.)
 
***** The Flashback Chapter: Sanada & Yukimura, Yanagi & Kirihara *****
Two Years Ago
 
Her name is Karasumi Mikoto, and she’s in his class. She’s sweet, as far as
that goes, though it doesn’t do much for him when she offers him chocolate and
a little love note under a tree.
 
It’s not his first confession, which is baffling to Sanada every time it
happens. It had taken him quite a while to understand that yes, those were
confessions, and yes, it is rude not to respond to them. This time, he’s
prepared.
 
“I’m sorry, Karasumi-san,” he says, with a grave bow. “I’m already seeing
someone, but I appreciate the gesture.”
 
She doesn’t cry, which is one of the biggest reliefs he’s ever had, and simply
excuses herself. Sanada sits down under the tree, pulling out his calligraphy
set and setting to work.
 
It's not like Yukimurastalks that confession tree or anything. It's just that
Niou recommended he watch out for it today, because apparently there's a girl
in Sanada's class that likes him. 
 
Hmmm. 
 
The theory holds up, but the excuse doesn't quite…make sense. Yukimura refrains
from growling about it just yet, but he doesn't refrain from popping out from
behind the tree and taking a seat on one of Sanada's shoulders. "Seeing
someone, huh?" It's always upsetting when Sanada takes his hat off for school
dress code purposes. Otherwise, he'd steal it right now. "That's new,
Genichirou." 
 
He's not jealous. He's not. 
 
Sanada scowls down at his paper, where the third stroke suspiciously darts off
to the side. “You’re messing up my calligraphy, Seiichi. Why did you come to
talk about nonsense things?”
 
Yukimura settles more of his weight onto Sanada, because now he's feeling
spiteful. "Because now I'm curious. Who is it? Karasumi was cute, is your
girlfriend even cuter?" 
 
Sanada shifts, not that Yukimura weighs all that much, but it’s plenty to rest
on just one shoulder. “Don’t be stupid. You know I don’t have a girlfriend.”
 
It's the shock of that forward admission that makes Yukimura slowly slide off
of Sanada's shoulder and to the ground with a thump. "Boyfriend, then?" Even
having known Sanada for eight years, he'd neverexpected Sanada to admit it so
forwardly. He frowns, that irritating twinge of jealousy even worse now.
"Who?" 
 
Sanada packs up his calligraphy set, annoyed. He carefully caps the bottle,
fits it into its compartment, and rolls up the paper before shutting the wooden
case with a snap. “Are you mad at me or something?”
 
Yukimura scowls at him. This is ruining a good number of his plans--more, if he
really sits and thinks about it, which he is certainly doing right now. "I
think I'm allowed to be. Does Renji know?"
 
Sanada fidgets a bit, uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “W-well, I
couldn’t really keep it from him,” he admits. “He doesn’t care, though! I mean,
about the whole boy-boy thing, he understands. I don’t think he’ll say
anything.”
 
"That's not the point! How could you tell him when you didn't tell me?"
Yukimura huffs, folding his arms over his chest. "Who else knows?"
 
Sanada stops, and blinks. His head tilts slowly to the side, and he asks, “Why
should I tell you about it? I didn’t think I had to.”
 
Yukimura gapes,his face the very picture of offense taken. "I thought you were
my best friend! You're supposed to tell me everything, Genichirou! I tell you
everything, even when you get really weird and annoying about my eating
habits!" 
 
Sanada sits down, confused enough that he’s not quite sure he can handle this
conversation anymore. “Seiichi, I only thought I had to--I mean--but that
doesn’t make any sense! Why should I have to tell you that you’re my
boyfriend?” Yukimura is weird sometimes, but this is truly baffling.
 
Wait.
 
Wait.
 
Yukimura stares at him long and hard before slowly, unsteadily turning to grab
Sanada's shoulders. "This doesn't make sense," he attempts to piece together,
grabbing tighter. "I was supposed to ask you out. When did this happen, how did
I miss it? Since when?!"
 
Sanada puts his hands on Yukimura’s waist, steadying him a bit, as he seems
rather shaky. “Since about a month ago?” he hazards, even more confused now.
“When you asked me to the shrine with you, and I gave you the kanji for
hatsukoi, and we shared takoyaki? That was our first date, wasn’t it?” He’d
thought it was a pretty nice one, even if it was awfully romantic.
 
A weird, gurgling whine strangles in his throat and Yukimura settles for bodily
shaking Sanada. He doesn't move much, which is frustrating. "I was supposed to
ask you out after we won Nationals! I had a plan! I always do, you know, and…"
He huffs, pathetically flopping forward. "But yeah, that sounds like a first
date to me." Hatsukoi. Yeah, he should've gotten that one. Well, shit. 
 
“Did I do it wrong?” Sanada’s stomach turns over. “Dammit, I thought I did
everything right. What do you want to do? I can stop saying we’re dating until
we win Nationals, I’m sorry if I messed it up…” Please don’t dump me, he thinks
wildly, lowering Yukimura down to the ground just in case he starts falling
when he flails.
 
It's not like he was planning this very carefully and perfectly to insure that
it all worked out exactly right or anything, because he's pretty sure that
Sanada is the only boy he's ever looked twice at (no, Niou's muscles and pretty
face don't count, nor does Roger Federer's outstanding tennis capability, or
the fact that Yanagi embodies all that is Japanese elegance, and his foreign
art teacher that looks like something out of a Watteau painting definitely
doesn't count either). No, normally, it's girls, he likes girls, and that's why
this was going to be a big deal, because he was going to ask Japanese-symbol-
of-virility Sanada Genichirou out. 
 
Well, whatever.
 
Missing that opportunity is weird, but…it's not like he didn't keep that kanji
along with every other kanji Sanada has ever done for him, so… "No, no, no, you
didn't mess it up, we're supposed to be dating, it's fine." Yukimura huffs,
raking his hair out of his face. "I should have figured it out. This is my
mistake, as loathe as I am to admit it--uggghhh, but you can't tell anyone
about this, otherwise everyone will laugh." 
 
Sanada fumbles for Yukimura’s hands, clutching them in his own, and squeezes
them tightly. “I wouldn’t do that,” he assures Yukimura, and not just because
he simply doesn’t like anyone else but Renji. “Sorry, I thought you already did
ask me out, and I said yes. Obviously,” he adds, cheeks flushing a little the
way they had when they’d climbed all the way up to that shrine, and he’d shyly
handed over his offering.
 
"Genichirou--" Ahhh, he's a failure. Yukimura Seiichi doesn't like being the
one that messes up, and he doesn't like knowing that he's missed something as
important as this for the past month. Try as he might not to pout about it,
it's sort of inevitable. "Whatever! I'm doing it again now! Sort of." That'll
fix this. He grabs back at Sanada's hands, squeezing tightly and drawing
himself up to his full height (which is not nearly tall enough). "I like you a
lot, so you have to keep dating me." 
 
“Y-yes!” It’s a formal acceptance, and that does feel more official than it had
before. Sanada feels that it’s important to be dating officially. “Um, how
often do we have to ask each other to keep dating? Is it every month?” He’ll
have to mark it on his calendar to make sure.
 
"No, it's official now. We don't have to keep asking, that'd be stressful."
Yukimura sighs, loosening his grip slightly. "This was just a special case,
because there was a misunderstanding. Entirely my fault," he quickly adds
before Sanada can start panicking again, "but all the same. Don't mention this
to Renji." 
 
Sanada lets out a breath of relief. Fortunately, Yukimura knows all about this
kind of thing, so he doesn’t have to stress too hard. “No problem. I can’t
believe I forgot to make it official. But now it’s okay.” He looks around,
making sure that no one is watching or even nearby, and darts forward to press
a quick peck on Yukimura’s cheek. That’s extremely official, he’s sure.
 
Yeah, he'll go with the official part being Sanada's fault.
 
That one little kiss makes Yukimura beam, and--assuming the coast is clear--he
lurches up on tiptoe, pressing a kiss to Sanada's cheek in turn. "All right
now, come on. We have to go beat a few upperclassmen at tennis, I have a target
locked on a few of them for today."
 
~
 
One Year Ago
 
Kirihara Akaya has a very, very big problem.
 
All right, technically, it doesn't have to be a big problem. That's what he
keeps telling himself, even when he huddles underneath his kotatsu and tries
not to think of those times when he was at Yana--er, his tutor's house and
underneath that kotatsu and Y--his tutor just kind of kept methodically
massaging his toes into his thigh. Or all those times when his tutor kept
leaning over his shoulder from behind and breathing on his neck and it should
be a natural reaction for his body to--uh--react…that way…
 
He can't spend his winter holidays like this.
 
New Year's Eve rolls around, and it's weird. Everyone on the team says that
last year, Yukimura all dragged them out to a shrine. This year, no one really
knows what to do, but apparently, Marui has something planned for New Year's,
just like he had things planned for Christmas. Either way, practice hasn't been
called off--yeah, even during the holidays, because Sanada-fukubuchou is a
slave driver.
 
At least that's a chance to maybe ask someone who has experience with this kind
of thing.
 
"Um. Marui-sempai?" Kirihara lingers a bit, trying not to be too weird about
catching the back of Marui's jersey and tugging before he can leave to join the
rest of practice. "Can I ask you something? It's important." 
 
“Oi, Jackal! I’ll catch up with you at the fountain,” Marui calls, waving
Jackal away before spinning around, popping his bubble. He ruffles Kirihara’s
hair, raising an eyebrow. “I’d ask if you need homework help, but you wouldn’t
think that’s ‘important,’ right?” Plus, just about anyone else would be better
to ask for homework help, if he’s being honest about himself.
 
Kirihara warily watches Jackal's exit, making sure he's gone before he stares
plaintively up at Marui. "It's not about homework. It's--look, you, um, girls
like you, right? So you've probably had this problem! With girls. Just girls.
See, it's about my tutor. She's--well, she's a girl, and she's pretty, and the
thing is, sometimes, she's really close to me and it makes things awkward,
because--you know." Hand gestures below the belt help. "And it's not like I
want that to happen but it does and that's normal, right? And it's not like I
can just make it stop, and she's my tutor and I see her at school all the time,
too, and we're on the same tennis team together so it's sort of impossible
because she's always around and what am I supposed to do?" 
 
Marui opens his mouth, about to say something, and then the rest of Kirihara’s
little impromptu speech catches up.
 
Girls? On the tennis team? Our tennis team? ….how?
 
And then the tutor part clicks, and it makes sense.
 
“Ohhhhh,” Marui says, relieved to have figured it out. He taps the side of his
nose knowingly. “Gotcha. Girls.” 
 
Yeah, well, who hasn’t had problems with big muscley “girls” with dicks and no
tits sometimes? Tennis is a gay-ass sport, so whatever. “Yeah, I get those
issues. Totally normal. Does she, uh have the same issue?”
 
The look on Kirihara's face is pure relief and nothing else. "I knew you'd get
it, Marui-sempai. See, that's the problem--I don't know if Y--she has the same
problem! I mean, sometimes I think so, but other times, I dunno. Like there was
this time when her foot was like, right on my thigh underneath a kotatsu and it
got pretty high up there but then that was it, nothing else, and I don't know
if I should make the move first or if that'd be weird. See," he says, leaning
in closer, as if this part is the really big secret, "I'm younger. How do you
deal with older girls?" 
 
“Older girls,” Marui muses, marveling at the fact that Kirihara doesn’t
necessarily get the fact that he gets it, and that it’s really fucking obvious.
Oh, well, he’s kind of a baby. He should probably be trying to stop this, or at
least warning someone, but...eh, it’s not like Yanagi’s going to hurt him.
“Older girls are cool, though. She’s probably, like, done it before.” Yanagi
has 100% done it before. Marui’s seen...things. Never ever open Yanagi’s
computer or notebook, that’s one thing that he knows for sure. Whether that was
a cruel joke or what, he knows not to do that again. 
 
“Plus, if she’s your tutor and stuff, that’s pretty sexy, right?” Marui blows a
bubble, thinking. “Just ask if he--uh, she wants to tutor you in other stuff
too.”
 
The idea that Ya--his tutor has done it before makes Kirihara nervous. What if
he's out of his league? No, that can't be. He's seen sex in manga and stuff
before. He even walked in on his sister and her boyfriend once. He's got this. 
 
Assuming he wants to at all. Yeah. He doesn't have to. Just--he could. Because
it's his tutor and stuff and like Marui said, that's sexy.
 
"Do you really think that would work?" It sounds like it would work. It sounds
really cool, like the lines Sanada always used to test out on Yukimura.
 
Marui shrugs. “You could at least probably get a good blowjob out of it,” he
suggests. “Blowjobs are awesome.” Or so he hears.
 
Kirihara is slightly bug-eyed now. "Really?" He should probably be more
concerned about how…uh…good that idea sounds. He's not thinking about Yana--his
tutor doing that. He swallows nervously, glancing around as if to make doubly,
triply sure no one is around. "That…umm, Marui-sempai--" He's practically
whispering now. "If--uh, for some reason, she turned out to be a guy, that
wouldn't make me homo, would it?"
 
Marui thinks he does a good job of making his eyes widen. “No way,” he says,
with complete confidence. “Like, that’s only if you’re a foreigner. Japanese
guys can do it with each other all the time, duh. Didn’t you cover Nobunaga and
Takeda in Classics?”
 
Relief nearly makes Kirihara collapse. "Oh, good. I mean, just checking and all
that, because you never know! Niou-sempai says things get weird like that
sometimes, and I know I'm not supposed to listen to him, but I can't help it
sometimes."
 
Marui claps his shoulder. “Sometimes, hot older girls are dudes,” he says
wisely. “Just go with it. You want ramen? Or do you have tutoring today?”
 
"I always want ramen," Kirihara wistfully says, "but I, um, should go to
tutoring today. If I don't, I think I'll get yelled at. We should all do ramen
tomorrow, for New Year's. No one else made plans for all of us, did they?" 
 
Marui smacks Kirihara upside his head. “Don’t be dumb, we’re all going to see
Buchou in the hospital tomorrow. After that we can go out to the shrine, and
then ramen or whatever. I’ll check with Sanada.”
 
"No one told me!" Kirihara whines, rubbing at the side of his head. "When's he
going to be out of the hospital already? I hate going there, it smells like old
people."
 
“When he’s better.” It can’t come soon enough, but Marui sees how despairing,
how downtrodden Yukimura looks a lot of the time lately. He sees the way the
muscles in his captain’s arms and shoulders are wasting down to the bone, and
the way the light is a little dimmer in his eyes every time.
 
Well, they’ll have to get it back somehow. 
 
“I’m baking a cake for him. You should give him something good for New Year’s.
Ask your tutor for help,” Marui advises, and gives him a wave when he goes
trotting after Jackal.
 
"But--Marui-sempai!" That doesn't feel like nearly enough advice, but Kirihara
sighs, scooping up his racquet all the same. Maybe his tutor will have good
advice about this. Yeah. Yanagi-sempai and Yukimura-buchou have been friends
for a really long time.
 
And that's not a homo conversation to have at all, either.
 
"Yanagi-sempai! Yanagi-sempai, practice with me!" he demands, darting over.
"Can we get ramen afterwards? And maybe you can, um, tutor me on things." They
definitely didn't have something scheduled for today, but maybe, if he shows--
what's the word…yeah! initiative…that'll be good.
 
Yanagi gives the younger boy a little smile and a bow of his head as he reaches
for his racquet. “That would be delightful, Akaya. Do you want to go to the
ramen place by my house again?” Thinking quickly--yes, his house will be empty.
It’s for the best, given how much Akaya tends to yell when he’s getting
tutored, and how much that yelling gives his father a headache.
 
"Yeah! And listen, I have questions to ask you. When you're tutoring me and
stuff, not now. Some of it," Kirihara says conspiratorially, "doesn't have to
do with tutoring. Not really." 
 
Yanagi raises an eyebrow. “Well, then. We’ll have to make sure we have enough
time. Let’s try a 12-point tiebreak, what do you think?”
 
"Okay, but I'm going to win this time!"
 
He doesn't win this time.
 
Spectacularly, he loses, and sulks his way through showering when practice is
all said and done. Kirihara wonders how much credit he'll get for not taking a
single point. "Yanagi-sempai," he grouses as he towels his hair dry once he's
half-dressed, "can you promise to not tell Yukimura-buchou about how I still
can't take points from you guys? And also, what should I get him for New
Year's? Marui-sempai says it has to be good, but I dunno what's good." 
 
“I have a wall hanging at my house he’ll like,” Yanagi volunteers. “Of a French
garden, I think he’d like that just fine.” He’d purchased it for this exact
reason, actually. “And of course I won’t tell him. That will just be a pleasant
surprise for him when he gets out of the hospital.”
 
"Really? That doesn't sound as good as Marui-sempai's cake, but okay." That's
one problem solved, at least. He tugs on his shirt, buttoning it up
thoughtfully. "You know, we don't have to do ramen. I know the ramen place
gives you hives sometimes. Mostly, I just wanted to hang out with you this
afternoon." Yeah, that's really smooth. 
 
Yanagi’s head tilts to the side. “How thoughtful. If you’d prefer, I have soba
and some of those sesame cakes you like so much at my house already, if you’d
like to go directly there.”
 
Kirihara's eyes light up as they leave. "Can we eat under the kotatsu? Yours is
sooo warm, and your sister never comes in to bother us like at my house!"
 
“My sister is at our grandparents’ home this week,” Yanagi says. “My parents
are with her. It’s just me until after New Year’s.” The time spent listening to
music without headphones has been most relaxing.
 
"Ahhh, lucky! But I'll keep you company, Yanagi-sempai, don't worry. I promise
I'll try hard at English, too, but not too hard. It's New Year's eve and all
that, so you know. Save the biggest efforts for next year!"
 
“Very good, Akaya. Put your best foot forward on the first day of the New Year.
That will help set a good precedent.” He steers Kirihara onto the road, keeping
something of a grip on his elbow in case he decides to dart into traffic. There
are reasons for the safeguards.
 
"Yeah! Maybe on New Year's, I can get a point off of you and Sanada-
fukubuchou." Kirihara casts his gaze upward dreamily. "Then I'll really be able
to be number one here at Rikkai. I bet I could take over the club when
Yukimura-buchou is away and everything."
 
“It is certainly possible that you could take a point,” Yanagi allows
generously. “How much homework do you still have for winter break,
coincidentally?”
 
"…Some," is the eventual, pathetically sad admittance. "But, listen--I'm going
to get it done! I swear. It's just--there's tennis, and I like tennis a lot
more than homework, so it's a struggle."
 
“Of course.” Yanagi gives him a little smile, tugging him down the proper
street. “Besides, that’s why you have me, isn’t it? I’ll let you know when it’s
time to worry. Between us, we’ll have everything done in more than enough
time.”
 
Kirihara swerves slightly, letting Yanagi pull him along. "This is why I like
you a lot more than everyone else, Yanagi-sempai. No one else helps me like you
do, and--well, okay, Marui-sempai gave me some good advice today, but he could
have given me more." 
 
That probably shouldn’t make Yanagi slightly affronted. He’s definitely spent
too much time around Kirihara at this point, and hears himself say, a little
bit twitchy, “Any advice you need, you know you can ask me. Am I
unknowledgeable? Ah, was it perhaps about a video game?”
 
"Eh? No! It…um." Shit, has he blown his cover? He should have just said it was
about a video game. "I just wanted to ask Marui-sempai because I always ask
you," he attempts to explain away. "I didn't want to keep bothering you about
everything." 
 
“...but you still have questions.” That much is obvious from the nerves. Yanagi
takes out his key as they approach his house, and lets Kirihara in first.
“Would you like to ask me while I wash your feet?”
 
Oh, no. He'd forgotten about this part. Normally, it's fine, but when he's
thinking about things--and he's been thinking about things a lot lately--
sometimes, it's kind of…distracting. Kirihara swallows, toeing off his shoes.
"Um, I dunno. I can just ask Marui-sempai later, I don't wanna bother you or
anything, it might be too weird."
 
“Akaya, I can recite the digestive functions of two hundred thirty-six sea
creatures. Nothing you say could be too weird.” He fetches the basin, dipping
the cloth into the water (that sits on a warmer for just these sorts of
occasions), and kneels in front of the couch, taking one of Kirihara’s feet
into his hands and beginning to wash it.
 
"…Why do you know how to do that, though?" Kirihara manages, flopping back a
little bit and staring pointedly up at the ceiling, swallowing hard. He's not
gonna look at Yanagi on his knees. That's just going to make this all weird,
especially after what Marui said. "It's…um. The other day--uh, other few days,
really, when you were tutoring me--" Nope, nope, he can't do it, even if Marui
says it isn't homo. "It's really stupid, forget about it!"
 
Yanagi washes quietly for a moment, dipping the warm cloth between each pair of
long, gangly toes. “Akaya, do you know what state-dependent learning is?”
 
Is this a tutoring question? It probably is. Kirihara starts to sweat
nervously. "Um…no?" 
 
Yanagi nods, as if to say, Yes, I expected this. “State-dependent learning
refers to the phenomenon that accompanies certain properties in the state of
learning, that when replicated in optimal conditions, produces a more favorable
result. In other words,” he says as Kirihara’s eyes start to glaze, “it’s
important to study how you felt when you were learning. If we can make you feel
like that when you’re tested, you’ll remember better. Tell me about what
happened during tutoring.”
 
O…kay. Right. He's got this.
 
"Sometimes, you say a lot of things, Yanagi-sempai," Kirihara mumbles, sagging
back and wiggling his toes a little. "But okay. If you really want to know--I…"
He swallows nervously. "I just--sometimes, when you're really close to me--like
when you're leaning over me when you're tutoring me and stuff--or that time
when we were both under the kotatsu and your foot was kind of there and stuff…I
dunno. I tried talking to Marui-sempai about it, but I don't think he really
got that I was talking about…about someone that was a guy." 
 
Yanagi, about to switch to the other foot, pauses as trailed-off sentences and
incomplete clauses align in his mind to make some semblance of sense. Ah. Oh.
“Akaya, if you would prefer that I keep my distance from you during our
sessions, that’s fine. I would hate for you to feel threatened.”
 
"No!" It's definitely a problem that he blushes so much at that. Shit, he
shouldn't have said that so fast. "I mean--only if you want to--I…I didn't say
it was a bad thing, I don't feel threatened, I just…I didn't…" Kirihara
scrunches himself into a ball as much as he can, considering Yanagi has his
feet. "I just wanted to make sure it was normal, you know? 'Cause I like girls,
I think they're really cute, but Yanagi-sempai isn't a girl though you're still
really…"
 
“Ah, I understand.” Yanagi picks up the next foot, washing gently. “I’m glad
you said something, Akaya. I was attempting to maintain a modicum of distance
for the sake of propriety. If you’d prefer to get closer, either in an ersatz
relationship or simply for the sake of learning, I’d be both flattered and
amenable.” 
 
Then, to clarify, he lays a hand on Kirihara’s leg. “You can touch me, if you
want.”
 
The look of confusion fades from Kirihara's face immediately. "R…really? Okay,
but here's the thing, Marui-sempai said it wasn't a homo thing even if you were
a guy. Is that for real? Because…because I don't want to do anything that's
going to keep either of us from getting a girlfriend later, you know? Even
though the last girl that you dated was that gothic lolita one and she was a
little…"
 
“Megu-san was quite elegant, and I won’t hear a word against her,” Yanagi says
calmly. “But quite honestly, Akaya, you aren’t a homosexual unless you don’t
like girls at all. You like girls, don’t you? As long as you do, you’re not
homosexual.” The acts are, but facts won’t comfort Kirihara so much as, well,
obfuscations.
 
That's another wave of relief to crash over him. "Oh, I like girls a lot. You
know, sometimes I think if you were a girl, Yanagi-sempai, you'd be a great
housewife." Kirihara pauses, and then flushes a deep red. "I said that out
loud, didn't I."
 
“No offense taken,” Yanagi assures him. “I take it as quite the compliment, not
to mention the fact that I happen to agree with that assessment.” He finishes
washing the second foot, then asks, “Was there something in particular you
wanted to try with me? It could be practice for girls, or we could simply agree
to enjoy each others’ company.”
 
Kirihara wonders if this is what it feels like to be hit by a truck. He flops
back, breathing in deep, pretty sure all of his worries have been tossed away
for the time being. That's good. He thought for sure he was going to end up
weird for the rest of his life. "I…I dunno, really." He pokes at one of
Yanagi's knees with his toes. "Marui-sempai said that you'd probably done it
already. Because you're older."
 
Yanagi sits back on his heels, a small smile on his face. “Bunta is undoubtedly
correct. Whatever you’re thinking of, it’s very likely that I have, indeed,
done it. Anything in mind?”
 
Kirihara can't help but lean forward, now less embarrassed, more intensely
curious. "Marui-sempai said that older gi…uh, people, probably give more
blowjobs. Is that for real?"
 
“I can’t speak for all older gi-people,” Yanagi says, amused and thinking quite
seriously about what to do to Marui next week. “And I don’t know how many he’s
comparing it to. But if you’re wondering whether I’m willing to give you a
blowjob, the answer is yes.” He blinks up at Kirihara through his lashes, and
leans forward slightly, long fingers coming to rest on Kirihara’s knees. “If
you want me to.”
 
‘Hell yeah, I want you to!’ is what you will say.
 
These are the images that have been nothing short of haunting him for the past
few weeks, made worse by longer tutoring sessions and…and…ugh, Kirihara doesn't
know, but it's still kind of weirdly good. 
 
He swallows hard, nodding before he can really get the words out of his mouth.
"I really want you to," he admits. His hands are somewhat shaky, but he's got
to be cool about this, so he steadies himself with a deep breath before he
reaches out to gently touch Yanagi's hair. "But…but not if you want to do
something else, or whatever--it was just one idea." For all he knows, Yanagi
might have even better ideas. He usually has a few stashed away.
 
“What if,” Yanagi says delicately, walking his fingers up Kirihara’s thighs, “I
told you we didn’t have to do this just once? After all, I’m your tutor. If you
want to learn things, I won’t be the one to turn you away.” He’s also sort of
(a lot) thinking about how Kirihara will taste, and what noises he’ll make, and
how hot and heavy it will feel on his tongue. Don’t be a predator, Renji, he
tells himself firmly, and stills his wandering hands.
 
"Oh." That escapes far more breathlessly than before, definitely more eagerly.
Marui was right--that whole tutor thing is really…really sexy. Kirihara's
fingers curl a little in Yanagi's hair--he can't help it, it's just so soft--
but he doesn't pull or anything, that's weird, even though he shifts at the
thought. "That sounds really good. You've always been a really good teacher,
so…"
 
“Thank you, Akaya. Part of learning,” Yanagi says, scooting forward slightly,
enjoying the way Kirihara plays with his hair, “is in being honest. If you hear
about something you want to try from Marui, ask me. I won’t be weirded out, and
I promise I’ll say no if I don’t want to try it. I don’t recommend you ask Niou
for advice here, however.”
 
"Uh huh." Kirihara's eyes glaze somewhat--he can't help but really like the way
Yanagi looks down there--as he keeps petting the other boy's hair. "Don't wanna
ask Niou-sempai about things like this. He always says weird things…and I
actually think," he adds, sounding somewhat offended, "that Marui-sempai isn't
as smart about this kind of thing as he lets on. You're the one that seems to
know everything, so I'll just take your advice from now on." 
 
It’s hard not to be gratified. Kirihara taking anyone’s advice is reason for
delight, and Yanagi revels in it. “Very well, then. You have to promise to let
me know if you start getting nervous, all right?” Just then, it’s hard to
resist the urge to climb Kirihara and rock on his lap, but first things first--
something nonthreatening and purely pleasurable, and Yanagi licks his lips,
eyes tracking down at the thought.
 
The way Yanagi's eyes are on him makes Kirihara shiver and shift, his cock
twitching as heat slides quickly south. "Why would I be nervous?" he mumbles,
threading his fingers through Yanagi's hair, along his scalp and down the back
of his neck. "It's just you, Yanagi-sempai." All questions answered, there's
really nothing for him to feel nervous about. If anyone's going to make sure
things work out perfectly, it's Yanagi. 
 
Another good response. Kirihara is full of them this afternoon. Yanagi takes
that as a cue to reach forward, carefully unbuttoning and unzipping Kirihara’s
trousers, slender fingers delving carefully into his briefs to pull him out.
 
Ah, it’s quite a bit like he’d idly imagined, inasmuch as he’s thought about
every one of his teammates at one point or another. He leans forward, swiping
the tip of his tongue over the head, letting out a pleased little noise at the
taste.
 
Marui was right about one thing: Yanagi's definitely done this before.
 
Who else would be so confident about it? Also, that feels really, really good,
especially when he's not completely hard yet--though that doesn't last long,
not with the noises that Yanagi's making. Kirihara inhales a sharp breath,
biting his lower lip as he watches, sort of in rapt fascination at how pretty
Yanagi's hand looks around him and how is he not even blushing over something
so lewd--
 
Ah, he's lightheaded, though. Kirihara shudders and flops back and kind of
clings to Yanagi's hair, hoping that's not getting in the way too much, but he
needs some kind of safety handle right now or he's going to die, pretty sure.
 
Kirihara is being very good, Yanagi thinks with pleasure. He deserves a
reward. 
 
He leans forward, taking the head into his mouth, slowly fitting his lips
around the thick length and starting to rock downward with every thrust, tongue
swirling around the head. His hand moves out of the way when his lips touch it,
both of them coming to rest on Kirihara’s upper thighs. He can’t quite suppress
the hungry little noises he lets out, groans and gasps around the thick cock in
his mouth, and his own cock throbs between his thighs.
 
The safety handle doesn't matter, Kirihara knows he's going to die either way
now.
 
The noises that Yanagi's making are both the best and the worst, and his cock
throbs and drips against Yanagi's slick, hot tongue. He whimpers, his fingers
tightening in Yanagi's hair before he can really help himself, and Kirihara
gives into the urge to tug as he arches upward, liking far too much the wet
noises that follow, the way that he can feel Yanagi swallow around his cock.
 
Which is, go figure, the first way that he feels himself come. 
 
He doesn't really spilllike that, though there's a lot more dripping as he
twitches and shudders, his cock still hard after the fact all the same.
Sometimes that just happens, and it's really good like that, because
everything's always way more sensitive after the fact and Kirihara was pretty
sure Yanagi's mouth couldn't feel any better but now it does. "Sorry," he gasps
out, his head rolling back a little. "S-sorry, Yanagi-sempai, you're just--just
really good--"
 
Now that is interesting. “No refractory period,” he murmurs, after swallowing
and swiping his tongue over the slit in the head. “Mm, how impressive.”
Kirihara is still hard, and the small spill on his tongue was less than the
impressive amount he’d expected--but that explains it, he supposes. 
 
Yanagi sits back on his heels, one hand wrapped gently around Kirihara’s
length, slowly milking him with every stroke. “How do you like it?” he asks,
all nonjudgmental curiosity and a bit of arousal. “After you’ve come the first
time, is it very sensitive? Or does it still ache here?” His other hand comes
up to cup the younger boy’s balls, still heavy and hot and full in his hand.
 
Kirihara nearly arches off the couch, shuddering long and hard with every
stroke. That's just not fair, especially when the wires cross in his brain and
he can't quite reply other than to whine. Hopefully, that gets the point across
of I like everything you're doing that's good really good yes yes
yes."Ahhh…b…bothhh…Yanagi-sempai, I'm going to die--" His head lolls back,
breath exhaling hot and heavy towards the ceiling, and he can feel his cock
already dripping over Yanagi's hand, twitching in the delicate grasp of his
fingers. "Please don't stop." 
 
“My apologies,” Yanagi says, eyebrows raising as he leans forward again, and
murmurs against his cock, “I mistakenly thought you were finished.” How
delightful.
 
His mouth slides down over Kirihara’s cock again, farther this time, hungrier,
until he takes most of the length into his mouth and throat. It’s not the best
position from which to do this, but he makes it work. He’s quite bendy, or so
he’s been told time and time again. He leaves one hand where it is, stroking
and cupping Kirihara’s balls, and brings the other one to slide up his abdomen
and his chest.
 
Yep, he's definitely going to die. 
 
There really can't be anything better than how hot and wet Yanagi's mouth is.
It makes Kirihara whimper and squirm and cling to Yanagi's hair anew, trying
not to tug but that's so, so easier said than done. Every little touch makes
his brain feel like it's sizzling, and his skin twitches and shivers under the
brush of Yanagi's fingers. 
 
The best thing, though, is looking down and seeing the way Yanagi's lips are
wrapped around his cock. 
 
Usually, if he's come once, he's good to go for awhile afterwards. Apparently,
that doesn't apply when someone's mouth is involved, because just there's
nothing lewder than the way Yanagi's lips look sticky and slick with saliva and
Kirihara's own mess and--
 
This time, he spills hard, gasping, arching up and seeing nothing but white for
every long, hard spasm that slides through him. Kirihara is pretty sure that
he's never come as hard as this in his life--but calculating that probably
requires math and his answer to that right now is never again, just let me die
happy.
 
Now that is more like what Yanagi had expected. He starts to be pleased with
his own data, but before he can even begin to comprehend something like that,
there’s the small matter of his mouth being full to overflowing. He swallows
all he can, thick and musky and salty-sour-bitter all at once, and swallowing
just makes it more of a mess when Kirihara jerks up and slams down his throat.
 
Well, maybe he doesn’t have to be entirely elegant, just this once.
 
Yanagi is only too aware that he must look a complete mess when he pulls off,
coughing delicately and wiping at his mouth and chin with long fingers. His
blood pulses, hot and eager, and the taste of Kirihara still on his tongue is
filthy and good. 
 
He nuzzles at the inside of one thigh, inhaling deeply at the vigorous
maleness, and his eyes are mere slits when he finally leans back. “Did you
enjoy your first lesson?” he asks, voice a little more ragged, less precise
than usual.
 
Kirihara thinks he nods. Better than that, though, is sloppily, mindlessly
grabbing at Yanagi and trying to pull him up. It works, mostly, at least when
he leans down at the same time. It's enough to get their mouths together, messy
and inaccurate but good, and the fact that he can taste himself on Yanagi's
tongue makes Kirihara groan and shudder anew. 
 
"Yanagi-sempai…really isn't fair," Kirihara breathes, his own eyes lidded and
dark, skin flushed hot and his heart still pounding in his chest. If he really
did die right now, that would be okay. Feeling like this makes up for not being
Rikkai's number one just yet.
 
Yanagi is in a quite uncomfortable position, half-draped across Kirihara’s lap,
half-kneeling, and sets about fixing it. He sits himself firmly across
Kirihara’s legs, looping his arms around the younger boy’s neck. Yes, much
better, much less awkward. “You don’t seem to be protesting. If you didn’t like
it, I can always refrain in the future,” he says mildly, knowing full well what
the answer will be.
 
"Noooo," Kirihara groans, grabbing at Yanagi, hauling him closer as he stuffs
his face into the side of his neck. "If you never do it again, I'll definitely
die then, and that's not good at all." He huffs, nuzzling into the crook of
Yanagi's shoulder, squirming a little when he feels how hard Yanagi still is.
"Do you--um--I guess I could do the same for you, but I'm not going to be
anywhere near as good at it--"
 
Yanagi hisses out a breath, hips twitching up no matter how he tells himself
he’s better than this, he has more control than this. Apparently, judging from
the fact that his cock is harder than he’s ever remembered it being (who knew
Kirihara of all people would affect him so strongly? Something to think about),
he doesn’t. “If you want,” he murmurs, head tipping back to give Kirihara more
access to his neck. “Or just use your hand. Or if you want to watch me do it,
that’s fine as well. Then you can learn what I like before trying it yourself.”
 
"The last one." Shows how much he knows--that idea didn't even occur to him, so
of course Kirihara would have no idea that the very thought would leave his
mouth dry and his fingers gripping Yanagi's hips tighter. "I just…I really like
watching you, Yanagi-sempai." 
 
The surge of affection is unexpected, and Yanagi’s face tinges slightly pink
with it. How emotional.
 
He doesn’t bother moving; there are few better positions to do this from than
right where he is, and that makes it easy. He leaves one arm around Kirihara’s
neck, and uses his right hand to undo his own trousers, undoing them gracefully
and pulling out the slender length. Slowly, he teases his fingers under the
head, encircling it in a taut ring of his thumb and forefinger, slowly
squeezing his way down before dragging up again, eliciting a thick drop of
liquid from the head. He rubs that around with a fingertip, dipping it briefly
into the slit before trailing the slick mess down the underside. “I hope,” he
breathes, eyes locked on Kirihara’s, “you’re paying attention, Akaya.”
 
"Y-yeah." It's so much more precise than the way he does this himself, and that
makes it impossible to look away. Kirihara sags back into the cushions, lips
parted as he watches, his fingers sort of absently kneading where they curl
against Yanagi's hips. "What d'you think about when you do it, usually? Lately,
I…" He swallows hard. "I kept thinking…about stuff like this. With you." 
 
“That,” Yanagi says, tracing a fingertip over the frenulum, “is a complex
question.” He shifts his hips slightly, giving himself more room, and slowly
rubs the head onto the palm of his hand in three tight circles, letting it come
away slick and dripping before gripping himself, running his hand down the
length, fingernails ghosting over his balls before he starts tugging gently on
the base, fingers darting up to encircle his foreskin, sliding a fingertip
underneath it before it completely retracts. Yes, now he’s fully hard.
“Sometimes I think about the way the spectrum of light fits together, or the
most exquisite snowfalls. Sometimes I think about the heat of a person’s lips,
or the way you’d feel inside me.” He wishes now that he had his other hand free
to tease himself, but this will do, for now. “Sometimes I think about being
chained to the wall and having someone tickle my feet with a feather, or
kissing a sleeping person’s neck.” His head tips back, and he groans softly.
“Tonight, I’ll think about the way you taste.”
 
That's a lot of things to think about, but the last part makes sense, and it
makes his own cock twitch anew and makes him shudder. Kirihara's hands tighten
as they slide lower, bolder now that he knows he's on Yanagi's mind right now
(twice, actually, if he remembers everything correctly from the stuff Yanagi
said). Yanagi's ass feels good in his hands, and he squeezes as he lurches up,
mouthing a wet kiss to the side of his neck. "I know I'm gonna be thinking
about you a lot more," he breathlessly admits. "The faces you're making right
now--t-the way…the way you looked when your mouth was on me--"
 
“The fact that you’re so appreciative,” Yanagi murmurs, and then breaks off his
own train of thought, turning to kiss Kirihara hard, sucking and nibbling on
his lips. After a long, breathless moment, he tries to remember what he was
going to say. “Ah, it makes me want to give you lessons like this every day.”
 
His mind shorts out a bit, and he loves that. The numbers get quieter, and the
blood in his veins gets louder. He finally wraps all of his fingers around his
cock, each slow stroke combined with a half-twist just under the head and a
squeeze at the base. “Right now,” he moans, eyes fully shutting as he lays his
head on Kirihara’s shoulder, “I’m thinking about how nice you’d feel thrusting
up between my thighs, Akaya.”
 
That makes Kirihara whimper, grabbing harder, yanking Yanagi closer. He should
be watching, he knows that, but just one glance down at the way Yanagi's hand
is working himself makes his own mind glaze over and he really can't think
beyond the way the pale column of Yanagi's neck is right there and just asking
to have his mouth on it. He buries his face into it, his own breath ragged when
he kisses that skin just like he was kissed--harder, with a scrape of his
teeth. "Whatever you want, Yanagi-sempai," he rasps. "If you teach me, I'll
make it really good for you, I promise--"
 
Yanagi’s breath comes heavy as he strokes, eyes glazing over as he wriggles in
Kirihara’s lap, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair as some meager form of
support. “Next time,” he says, his thighs starting to tremble. “Mmm, you need
to be--nice and hard for that, and--ah, to be honest…” 
 
He’s panting now, close as he can be, and he admits, “If you keep biting my
neck, it’ll just--be a moment—”
 
Kirihara really doesn't need any more encouragement to do that. He likes way
too much the way that Yanagi's voice breaks and stutters, the way that he
shivers in his grasp, and when Kirihara finds another spot to bite and suck on,
those shivers turn to outright shudders and jerks. Yanagi's skin is so soft,
and Kirihara can't help but love the way it feels to mark it up. "Whatever you
want," Kirihara mindlessly, breathlessly repeats, teeth catching at the lobe of
Yanagi's ear, his hands probably too-tight but Yanagi's so wiggly and he likes
that a lot. 
 
Yanagi is fairly adept at knowing his own body, and about this, he’s absolutely
correct. The graze of Kirihara’s teeth against his skin is too much, and his
voice catches on whatever he’d been about to say next. Mindless, his hips
thrust up into his hand, wrist starting to ache as he works himself faster than
ever.
 
Well, that’s new.
 
Usually when he spills it’s a thin dribble, long in duration but low on
“fireworks.” This time, he loses track of where the first spurt hits, and the
second is somewhere on his own shoulder as he groans, sagging sideways onto
Kirihara, jerking and twitching and trembling with every move of that perfect
mouth against his neck.
 
He starts to say something, but manages just to gasp a little, ragged and
whimpering. That’s just as good, probably.
 
"You come a lot, Yanagi-sempai," Kirihara breathes, marveling at the mess on
his own shirt, on Yanagi's, too, even as he hauls the older boy closer to him
and nuzzles his face down into his shoulder. "And the faces you made…" He's
never seen Yanagi look so spent and lost, and it's something that he really
wants to see again, especially coupled with those noises that he keeps
breathing into Kirihara's ear.
 
Yanagi manages a breathless wheeze, clinging to Kirihara with shaking hands.
It’s possible that he hadn’t been quite prepared for how utterly Kirihara had
taken him to the next level, or what that had done to his consciousness.
“Akaya,” he says, trying to put thoughts into words, “if you don’t want to keep
holding me, please set me down somewhere soft.”
 
"Huh? What, no, I'm gonna keep holding you," Kirihara petulantly mutters,
clinging tighter for good measure, his arms wrapping tightly around Yanagi's
waist. "You're okay, though, right? My brain was pretty weird and fuzzy before,
too, maybe yours is doing that now." 
 
“Mm, I’m fine. My orgasms are rarely that intense. I usually only attain that
state during a prostate orgasm.” Yanagi slumps down onto Kirihara’s chest,
quite glad for the moment that Kirihara has ignored all of his healthy eating
advice, providing a quite adequate pillow. “I can show you how to give me one
of those as well, if you’re interested.”
 
"I have no idea what you're talking about, but okay," Kirihara happily agrees,
squishing Yanagi into his chest. He slowly flops to the side, making better use
of the couch. "If I can make you feel like that all the time, that'd be good.
Wow, your skin bruises really easily."
 
There’s plenty of time to pick up the job of a sexual education teacher later,
Yanagi reasons. “Indeed I do. There’s a reason I prefer to avoid both conflicts
and swiftly-moving tennis balls, as you can see.” When Kirihara moves, he falls
gracelessly with him, bent at a somewhat remarkable angle. “If you could adjust
my legs, I’d be very grateful.”
 
"Oh, right." Kirihara squirms a little to reach over Yanagi and sort of…haul
his legs up into the right position. Much better. Now he can properly snuggle
his way against Yanagi's chest, which is nothing new, but a lot less stressful
now. "You're kinda melty, Yanagi-sempai. Can I borrow a shirt before I go home
later?" 
 
“Of course you can borrow a shirt. I think I have some of Genichirou’s over
here that you’ll fit into.” His own are, of course, far too narrow. His hand
comes up, gently stroking through Kirihara’s hair. “Did you have fun and learn
something?”
 
Kirhara burrows a little. Yanagi is long, and usually not that warm, but right
now, he's toasty, and that's really nice. "Mmmhm. You're always a good teacher.
Not always that fun, but today was."
 
“I’m very glad to hear that.” Yanagi smiles, nuzzling into Kirihara’s hair.
“I’ll save those lessons for when you’re finished with your homework. That may
give you some incentive when it comes to English.”
 
Kirihara makes a face, but hides it into Yanagi's neck. "Fine," he grumps. "But
I think I deserve it before homework sometimes. Once in a while, at least." 
 
Yanagi gives the top of his forehead a quick kiss, surprising himself with the
sentimentality of the gesture. “When you’re very charming,” he assures the
younger boy. “Or if you take a point from me in tennis.” That should be nicely
motivating.
 
"Both," Kirihara mutters resolutely. "I'm gonna do both."
 
Right now, though, he's going to be warm and snuggly. Yeah. And that's
definitely not homo. 
 
***** Back to The Present! Fuji & Yuuta, Fuji & Yuuta *****
There’s a reason Yuuta doesn’t come home very often.
 
That reason is sitting across from him, happily eating udon. Even the movements
of his brother’s chopsticks are absurdly precise, gripping each noodle in turn,
letting not a single drop spill between the bowl and his lips. How?
 
The reason is also sitting next to him, reeking of expensive perfume, nudging
him every time he’s too quiet for his mother’s question, calling him ridiculous
little nicknames, making him feel like he’s five years old again.
 
The reason is also serving him more, admonishing him for not growing taller
yet, even though he’s already taller than his big brother, what else can his
mother want? 
 
It’s also sitting at the head of the table, home for once, sweeping in just
long enough to tell Yuuta that his grades could be better and it would be much
less embarrassing to have two sons playing tennis if they were both champions. 
 
Basically, Yuuta hates his family, he hates his life, and he can’t wait to get
back to St. Rudolph’s dorms. He’s barely listening when his brother says
something about some guy on his team. “Isn’t it weird to call him -san when
you’re in the same year?” he grumbles, slurping another noodle as his sister
elbows him.
 
"Mm, no. Taka-san is Taka-san," Fuji says with a little smile. "He even calls
me Fujiko-chan sometimes, and I don't think that's strange at all."
 
"That's so cute, Shuusuke," Yumiko sighs out, leaning her chin into one hand.
"I wish one of my boyfriends would be as nice to me…"
 
"Don't worry, Neesan. You'll find someone as good as Taka-san someday." 
 
"When I was your age," Fuji Yoshiko dreamily puts in, "I didn't have any of the
boys. You should just be happy to have lots of them, even if none of them are
any good!" 
 
“In what way is that cute?” Yuuta demands, pointing his chopsticks at his
brother, ignoring how rude it is. “He calls you a girl! Isn’t that really
obnoxious?”
 
“He looks like a girl,” Fuji Kensuke points out. “Maybe this Kawamura boy is
just a little slow.”
 
Fuji shrugs uncaringly. "Taka-san knows very well that I'm a boy. There's
nothing wrong with being pampered like a lady."
 
"It's true!" Yumiko insists. "If you're a woman, you get a lot of presents."
 
"He does send me a lot of presents."
 
"Then he's a really good boyfriend! Ahhh, I'm so jealous, Shuusuke! Aren't you
jealous, Yuuta? Being swept off your feet like that, wouldn't that be nice?"
 
"I was swept off my feet once," Yoshiko sighs.
 
“That bastard never tried it again after I got through with him,” Kensuke
growls, and abruptly picks a mushroom off of Yoshiko’s plate, popping it in his
mouth. 
 
Yuuta looks to his sister, to his parents, to his brother, and then up to the
ceiling. “Does anyone find it weird that Neesan is talking about a boyfriend?”
 
"No," is the unanimous response, except for Yoshiko, who merely sighs happily
in the direction of her husband. One can assume that she doesn't think it's
weird either, though.
 
"Shuusuke's so pretty, it's logical that he'd get a good boyfriend," Yumiko
says without batting an eye.
 
"And he is my boyfriend," Fuji says with another little shrug. He twirls a
single noodle around his chopsticks. "It would be a lie to say that he isn't,
after all…"
 
“But—” Yuuta looks around the table again, but to no avail. He settles back to
his meal, grumbling and uneasy. It’s literally impossible to tell when his
family is serious (never), and when they’re just mocking him for their own
amusement. He’s pretty sure this is one of the latter occasions.
 
Pretty sure.
 
Nevertheless, he waits until after the dinner, then hangs around until long
past the time he would normally have left, until his father is talking on the
phone in English and his mother has gone vaguely “out” for the night. Then,
sucking up his courage and his disgust, he knocks on his brother’s door,
finding a blank spot of the wall devoid of colorful childish drawings and
report cards and large foam English letters spelling “S - H - U - U - S - U - K
- E”
 
The door opens, and Fuji is left blinking in surprise behind it, his head
tilting slightly to the side. "Yuuta--you're still here?" It takes about a
second for that to process before Fuji is smiling and reaching out, catching
Yuuta by the wrist to drag him into his room. "Are you going to stay for the
night? You can tell me everything that's been happening at school, we never get
to talk anymore. Oh, and maybe in the morning, we can go practice together!"
 
“This was a horrible idea,” Yuuta mumbles, and briefly considers making a break
for the door. Then, he sighs, and slumps down on the bed. “I just wanna make
sure you’re okay,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You kept saying
that guy was your boyfriend.”
 
Fuji blinks again, but releases Yuuta's wrist in favor of plopping right down
next to him. "That's because he is." He pauses, thinking. "Admittedly, it took
me about five weeks to figure it out. Apparently he asked me out during a 
doubles match, and I missed it."
 
“Okay,” Yuuta says, as if he can accept that such a weird situation exists,
“but are you like, dating dating? Or do you just say you are? Is it one of
those elementary school things where you say you’re secret dating but you just
hold hands and walk around the playground or something?”
 
Fuji tilts his head back, thinking. "Well," he slowly says, "this is the first
time I've dated. But I think it's dating dating. We go places together, he
cooks me sushi, and we give each other presents--oh, and we have sex, so
there's that, but I don't think that's exclusive to dating." He glances back to
Yuuta, beaming. "The important thing here is that you're actually concerned
about me. It's really cute, Yuuta."
 
Yuuta hasn’t been a normal color since his brother had said sex, and now he’s
fairly certain he’s turning purple. “Uh.” It comes out a squeak, and he clears
his throat and tries again, not looking at his brother’s face. “If he’s hurting
you, just tell me, and I’ll do something about it.”
 
"…So cute…" Fuji's gone, eyes glazing a little as he can't help but reach out
to gently squish Yuuta's cheeks between his hands. "Yuuta, you're so cute.
Taka-san would never hurt me, but you're so cute…"
 
“Get off me! I’m sorry I asked!” Yuuta slaps at his brother’s hands, scowling.
“Gross, you’re so gross! How the hell do you--I mean, not every time, but--
you’ll tell me if he does, right?”
 
"Ahhh, I'm sorry, you're just so cute…" Fuji's hand wavers in the air a moment
longer before he drops it limply back to his own knee. "Mm, I'll tell you, but
it's not going to happen," he cheerfully says, leaning back slightly. "Taka-
san's a really good guy. Why are you so worried about him? Is it the burning
thing? He just does that, he's really different when he's not playing tennis." 
 
“It’s a little bit the burning thing,” Yuuta admits. “But--I mean, he’s--
I mean, he’s doing it to you, right? I just…”
 
Yeah, he’s going to die of embarrassment, but he’d be a really bad brother if
he didn’t try. “He’s doing it the right way, right? And it doesn’t hurt?”
 
Fuji gets it from the moment that Yuuta brings it up. That being said, he
effects a look of dumb innocence for a moment longer, just because he enjoys
freaking his brother out…just a little. "Oooh, that's what you're worried
about. Mm, he puts it in me, and it's good." Being blunt does make Yuuta turn
some interesting colors, and he does like that. "But you know, I also put it in
him, and that's good, too. No complaints either way, so you have nothing to
worry about, Yuu-tan." 
 
“I told you not to call me that!” Yuuta huffs out a breath, standing up and
scrubbing a hand through his hair until it stands on end. “Whatever, that’s all
I wanted to know, you weirdo.” He makes for the door, trying to avoid the low-
quality pictures of Tezuka Kunimitsu plastered all over the walls and the back
of the door.
 
"It's not like you to ask without another reason," Fuji calls after him,
leaning back onto his hands. "As much as I love you, Yuuta, you're not very
protective of me and you usually don't want to know about who I'm sleeping
with." 
 
“You don’t usually talk about it at dinner,” Yuuta mutters, but doesn’t open
the door just yet, standing facing the door, face turning redder than it really
should by virtue of the conversation. He could say it now, have it out in the
open and know that at least someone wouldn’t mind...but…
 
He swallows hard. “How did you tell mom and dad?”
 
Fuji shrugs before he flops slowly backwards, ending up flat on his back. "I
just did. You know Mom has this weird view of romance, and sometimes thinks I'm
a girl, and Dad never cares, anyway. I brought Taka-san over and we ate dinner
here and no one seemed to care." His eyebrows raise, his suspicions mounting.
"Why do you want to know?" 
 
Yuuta’s teeth grind together. “Yeah, that’s just like you,” he mutters. “It’s
fine for you, because I’m the one everyone expects to get married and have
babies and a normal life, right? You can go off and be your weird genius self?”
 
Ah, here we go. It's not an evening with Yuuta without this coming up. Fuji's
surprised that it's taken so long. "You don't have to do that. I'd get married,
if you didn't want to." He rolls slowly onto his side. "And have babies and
everything. I like girls, too, you know."
 
Yuuta turns then, and stares at his older brother as if he’d said he enjoys
drinking seawater by the gallon. “Are you fucking crazy?” he demands. “If you
can like girls, why don’t you just date girls? It’s so much easier! God, if—”
 
He stops that sentence before it can go too far.
 
And there's the point of this whole conversation, apparently.
 
Fuji props himself up onto an elbow. "I think," he slowly says, "that it's only
difficult to like boys if you make it difficult to like boys. You don't have to
announce that you're dating girls if you don't want to, so it's also just as
okay to keep your dates with boys secret--I mean, assuming you're keeping your
dates with boys secret."
 
Yuuta kind of wants to die--but dammit, he had come here with a purpose, and if
anyone’s going to understand, it’s definitely his weird brother, right?
 
He wriggles his toes in the carpet, opens his mouth, but can’t quite make the
words come out. It would be such a relief to say the words, but the
consequences… “I just don’t get it,” he mumbles instead. “If--if there was a
guy who was only attracted to guys, that’s...I mean, that’s hard, you know? I
bet. But you can do both, so why would you be with a guy when it’s so much
harder? Like, you can’t get married or live anywhere but Ni-chome, you know?
Everyone would stare at you all the time.”
 
"Everyone stares at me all the time, anyway," Fuji points out, but he sighs,
sitting up again to pat at a spot on his bed. "Yuuta, the reason I'm dating
Taka-san isn't because he's a boy. It's because I really like him. He's a good
person." Way better than I am. "It's okay to not like girls, though. You don't
have to live in Ni-chome, even if you only like guys." 
 
“I went there.” Yuuta still can’t exactly look at his brother, but he slumps
down on the bed nonetheless. “Don’t tell Dad. I just wanted to see…” How they
live.
 
“It was really weird. All the guys in dresses, calling each other onee,
it’s...really weird. Gross. You and Taka-san aren’t like that, though, right?”
There’s more hope and more desperation in that sentence than concern for his
brother can really account for.
 
Fuji gives him a wry glance. "Taka-san has never even been to Ni-chome, and I
can't imagine he'd ever want to go. Just because you like other boys doesn't
mean that you ever have to go there." He sighs, fighting against the urge to
start petting Yuuta's hair. It soothes him, but it usually just pisses Yuuta
off. A shame, that. "You don't ever have to tell anyone that you like boys, you
know. I'm not going to tell anyone that you do. It's up to you." 
 
“I do.” The word comes out in a whisper, and Yuuta sighs, closing his eyes.
He’d expected it to feel weird, but instead he feels better, more relaxed, even
if he’s pretty sure he wasn’t fooling anyone but himself before. “Thanks,
Aniki. Everywhere...even online, it’s all about that kind of man, you know? Not
someone who’s normal, but just...different.”
 
"Mm. I know. It's pretty silly, isn't it?" Fuji lists to the side slightly.
"I'll tell you a secret, though. You know my best friend, Eiji?" 
 
“Yeah. The one that doesn’t have a lot of stamina? Captain and Kaneda ran him
around the court a lot.”
 
"He's gotten better. The point is--Eiji and his doubles partner, Oishi?" Fuji
gives his arm a nudge. "They're together. And you see how normal they are,
right? Like, suffocatingly normal." 
 
Some of the stress tension eases out of Yuuta’s face, finally. His shoulders
sag down, even though he gives his brother a little punch in the shoulder. “You
shouldn’t go around telling other people’s secrets.”
 
"But it made you feel better," Fuji hums, swaying to the side with the punch.
"That's the part I care about. I don't like it when you're upset, Yuuta. Now,
tell me who you have a crush on."
 
“No one! God!”
 
"Yuuuutaaaa," is the sing-song to follow, complete with Fuji pawing at his
shoulder. "You have to tell me. I want to make sure that they're worthy of
you!" No one is worthy of Yuuta.
 
“This is why I don’t tell you anything! Ugh, stop it, get off me, I don’t have
a crush on anyone, he’s already—”
 
Fuck.
 
Immediately, Fuji's gaze sharpens. "Are you already dating someone?" Less
pawing now, more slowly kneading. "Who?"
 
Yuuta squirms away, accidentally backing himself into the corner where his
brother’s bed touches two walls, curling his legs up in front of himself. “Stop
grabbing me,” he grunts, eyes scanning the room for any chance of escape. His
brother, unfortunately, is absurdly fast when he wants to be, and his eyes are
daggers right now. “He’s--I mean, who says I’m dating anyone?”
 
"Yu-u-ta," Fuji hums, promptly setting himself on his knees in front of his
brother, his hands on both walls to box him in and prevent his escape. "You're
a horrible liar. It's a family trait, you see. You should just tell me who
you're dating, then I'll feel better."
 
“That doesn’t make any sense! You and Neesan are great liars!”
 
"Yes," Fuji patiently says, "but you're not. You got that from Mom."
 
Yuuta attempts to struggle for a moment, but gives the hell up. His brother is
a weirdo, and now that he’s let this much slip, he’s never going to be able to
keep the rest of it quiet. His brother does things. He sighs, then brings up
his hands, trying to fend his brother off somewhat. “You know him,” he mutters.
“It’s my--it’s St. Rudolph’s manager, the one you played.” 
 
This is not going to be fun.
 
A cold chill goes down Fuji's spine, and ends up settling in his stomach with
enough dreadful force that he wonders if he's going to vomit. 
 
He sags back, removing his hands from the wall. "Mizuki?" Just this once, he'll
remember the piece of trash's name. Fuji takes a deep breath, and tries to stop
seeing red. "No. Yuuta, you can't date him." 
 
“You said it didn’t matter and I could date anyone I wanted!” No, that sounds
too little-brother. That’s not nearly strong enough, not to throw his brother
off the track. “I mean, I’m already dating him. You can’t tell me I can’t.”
 
"Mizuki is different." Why can Yuuta never see this? Even after that match--
Fuji swallows hard, reaching out to grab Yuuta's shoulders. "He's just using
you," he tries, holding Yuuta's gaze. "Yuuta, don't you remember how he
wouldn't talk to you after you lost to Echizen? Don't you remember that he
taught you a technique that was just going to hurt you, and didn't care that it
was hurting you?" 
 
Yuuta looks up into his brother’s eyes, firming his jaw as much as he can. “He
knew I’d do anything to beat you,” he says, trying to shrug off his brother’s
hands. “Ugh, this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you, you suck!”
 
"I don't want him to hurt you again." The idea that Yuuta is sleeping with
Mizuki--and oh, he definitely is, Fuji can tell, why else would Yuuta know
anything about how sex with guys works--makes him sick to his stomach. His
hands tighten. "Yuuta, please. Literally anyone else would be better than him,
he's human garbage and I need you to realize that." 
 
Perhaps that came off a little too rudely, but--ugh, whatever. Maybe he needs
to be more blunt about this for Yuuta to understand.
 
That crosses a line.
 
Yuuta smacks away his brother’s hand, moving rudely past him, not caring if his
brother gets knocked to the floor when he moves. “This is why I don’t tell you
things. You didn’t even ask anything about him, you just think you know him
from one tennis match! You’re not exactly nice when you play tennis yourself,
Aniki! I heard that when you played Rikkai, your opponent had to be carried off
the court, so just--just drop it!”
 
Yeah, he definitely shouldn’t have said anything.
 
It's a rare day that Fuji wishes he understood how to deal with people, but
right now, he really wishes that he knew how to, if only for the sake of
getting through to his little brother. 
 
Fuji sucks in a deep breath, righting himself on the bed. "How do you think I
know Mizuki so well, Yuuta?" he quietly asks, folding his legs up underneath
himself. "He's just like me, so all it took was one tennis match to figure that
out. That's how I know he'd be nothing but bad for you, and that's why I wish
you'd stay away from him."
 
“That doesn’t even make sense!” Yuuta wants to tear his hair out. Yeah, that’s
about par for the course at his family’s house. He should have known better
than to come home. “You just said the only thing you wanted was for me to be
happy, so why can’t you think he’d be the same way?”
 
"Do I ever make you happy, Yuuta? Even when I try really, really hard?"
 
“This is dumb,” Yuuta mutters, and yanks open the door. At least at the dorms,
he doesn’t have to deal with people pretending they’re on his side.
 
Fuji exhales a breath and lurches up to his feet, making it to the door only in
a few strides before smacking a hand onto it and slamming it shut again.
"Mizuki is garbage," he repeats, his eyes blazing up at his brother. "And I
know that because it takes one to know one.He's only going to use you. He's
never going to really care about you. You're such a good person, Yuuta, you
can't be with someone like him."
 
“Aniki,” Yuuta says very seriously, glaring down at his brother, “you’re being
so, so weird. Mizuki-san isn’t garbage, he’s a middle-schooler like us. You’re
the one telling me what I can and can’t do! You’re just--ugh, I don’t even know
what you’re doing! And it’s weird that you keep talking like you and him are
the same, this is why Mizuki-san says you’re a brocon!” Shuusuke is standing
pretty close to him, after all. Yuuta can feel the heat from his body.
 
Fuji's going to kill someone, and that someone wears horrible flower-print
shirts. He already has a hefty list of reasons why to kill Mizuki, but that--"I
am not a brocon," he flatly retorts, but he scoots back a little bit just to
make his point. "I'm trying to protect you. You know, like you were with me and
Taka-san? Except this is real, and--he doesn't hurt you, does he?" Panic
suddenly wells up in his chest, and Fuji's close to Yuuta yet again. "If he
hurts you, he's not doing it right."
 
“Oh my god, it doesn’t--I know there’s a right and wrong way,” Yuuta hisses,
trying to keep his voice down. “Aniki, he’s really careful not to hurt me,
okay? This is embarrassing, just kill me or something—”
 
Fuji grabs at his brother's arms, clutching tightly. "If you know there's a
wrong way, then he must have done it that way before. If he ever does that
again, or doesn't listen to you when you tell him to stop--do you two have a
safe word? You could use one."
 
“Okay, first of all, I have no idea what that is,” Yuuta states flatly. “But if
it’s a way to get someone to stop what they’re doing, I want one right now, and
I want to use it on you! God, he got better at it, no one’s good their first
time.”
 
The images cascade through his mind before he can stop them. Yuuta--and Mizuki,
too, both virgins, having sex for the first time--
 
Fuji wishes for death. And a cactus. 
 
He strangles a whimper, and drops his hands. "Yuuta, please. You can't date
him." 
 
“I already am. So there’s nothing you can do about it.” Yuuta makes a break for
it, wrenching open the door and darting out. If there’s one good thing about
his brother, it’s that he has relatively nothing in the way of physical
strength, entirely dependent on loony tricks and speed.
 
He’s got to get back to the dorms and warn Mizuki.
 
~
 
Fuji doesn't think there are really any Catholics at St. Rudolph. 
 
This is something that he's judged by the fact that in the thirty minutes he's
been on the grounds, he's been confessed to by no less than seven girls and one
man. Mmm. Repressed and desperate, maybe, but they aren't Catholic. 
 
This is why this school is a bad place for Yuuta, strike one. The repression,
not the Catholicism. 
 
Strike two is the fact that Mizuki is here, though he's not easy to find. Fuji
decides the best method is, honestly, just to wait by the tennis courts. This
attracts some attention as well, but he cares very little for Yuuta's teammates
whispering about him and the fact that he plops himself down on a bench outside
of the tennis cages with an English-language version of And Then There Were
None. 
 
It would be good if there were no Mizuki, too, but this world isn't perfect, so
conversations have to happen to make that happen.
 
Mizuki Hajime, at least, has some small amount of time to prepare himself for
the long-awaited, most auspicious arrival of one Fuji Shuusuke. He’d heard, of
course, that Yuuta’s elder brother was on the courts. One of the sub-regulars
had run up to him, breathlessly informing him that yes, it’s finally
happened,and he’d waited only to make certain his hair and uniform were
properly in place before striding out to meet the elusive genius.
 
“Well, well, well,” he says, gently twirling his forelock with a smile he’s
sure looks quite calculating. “The slippery Fuji Shuusuke, who willingly enters
my domain.”
 
"Slippery?" Fuji serenely echoes, taking the time to bookmark his spot before
he actually looks up from his book. "I'm not the one that bathes in a pot of
slime every morning. By the way, what was your name again? I want to make sure
I've found the right garbage receptacle."
 
The smile on Mizuki’s face turns ugly in a second. “What are you doing here?”
he snaps, tossing his bookbag onto the bench, standing in front of Fuji. “Did
you lose your little brother and need help looking for him?”
 
It is nice to see how quickly and easily he can affect Mizuki. Fuji's smile
never fades. "No. I know very well where my little brother is as of late, and I
don't want him there." 
 
“Then it’s a good thing he always listens to his beloved older brother, isn’t--
oh, wait,” Mizuki says, voice dripping in false concern. “That’s right, he
never wants to see you again and throws out all your advice!” Heh. That’ll show
him.
 
"Mm. Which is why he came to me freaked out about the concept of being with
another boy just a few nights ago, obviously," Fuji archly replies, gracefully
climbing to his feet and really liking that he at least has a few centimeters
on Mizuki. "I can't imagine why he was so troubled. Perhaps it's the fact that
his boyfriend-apparent is the sludge born of demon cesspools."
 
Fuji is taller than he is, damn. Oh, well. Mizuki steps back, lessening the
obviousness there. “Or perhaps,” he counters with a false smile, “it’s because
he so hates spending time with his older brother that he dreads everything
about that house. He certainly hasn’t expressed any displeasure.” He leans in
closer, this time for dramatic effect. “Would you like to tell me the things he
has expressed to me, Shuusuke-kun?”
 
Fuji remembers, then, amidst the flash of red that appears before his eyes,
that he has razor blades in his wallet. 
 
He refrains, though he's fairly certain he'd be justified about using them on
Mizuki. "I want," he slowly begins, very carefully, as if Mizuki is a
particularly stupid child, "you to stay away from him. I was hoping that you
would learn from the fact I publicly humiliated you once, but if necessary,
I'll do it again to keep you away from him." 
 
Mizuki’s eyes flash, and he knows they’re darker than they probably should be.
“I was dating him before because it amused me,” he says softly, taking a
further short step forward. “Now, I’m going to do whatever I want to him, just
because I hate you. Shall we see who comes out on top, then?”
 
He should have brought a damned recorder and kept it in his pocket. Then he
would've been able to make Yuuta understand. 
 
If you hurt him again, the depths of which I will make you suffer will be
exponential to the number of tears that I count coming down his face. I'm not
very good at counting that sort of thing, so my guess is that the number will
be very high and you will wish you were dead.
 
Fuji doesn't say that, though. It's too wordy, not awful enough. "Considering I
always am on top," he breezily says instead, "I think the answer to that is
already quite clear. We'll see how amusing it is when your paisley prints start
making him want to vomit." 
 
“Shows how much you know,” Mizuki says, triumphant. “My paisley prints are
extremely tasteful! In fact, I think I’ll have him on one of my paisley chairs
tonight. I’d invite you to watch--I do think he’d like that--but I don’t like
you, so fuck off.”
 
Fuji punched a guy, once. It was also because of Yuuta, go figure, but it
wasn't very effective, and he doubts it would be very effective here, but oh,
is he tempted. "He's not stupid, you know. He will figure out that you're
trash, and I'm wondering where the fun in that's going to be for you." 
 
“Hmm, I don’t think he will,” Mizuki muses. He taps his chin, resting his elbow
on his other hand, and turns slowly, giving Fuji the side-eye. “After all, he
still hasn’t realized you’re no better, and he’s had years for that.”
 
"The difference is," Fuji quietly, levelly says, "I'm much better at hiding it
than you. Your paisley prints are tacky, you're awful at tennis, and it's only
a matter of time before this is all something in the past. Keep that in mind,
because I will."
 
“We will see.” Mizuki hopes that’s enigmatic enough, because after a while,
dealing with Fuji Shuusuke always starts to give him hives. “If you have
nothing further to say, I must be going. Otherwise, I’ll be late for our
private tutoring session, and we can’t have that.”
 
Fuji is going to put those razor blades in Mizuki's lunch. 
 
"Have some class, and at least don't do him on the paisley chair," Fuji
mutters, grabbing his bag and turning to go. He has to do something about this.
Anything, really, or he's not going to be able to play at Nationals because
he's so distracted. 
 
~
 
His family always acts so normal when Taka-san is over.
 
Fuji wouldn't care either way, to be honest, but he does like it, just a little
bit. His mother sort of mellows out around him, spacey, but still manageable,
and his sister doesn't flirt so much as she does coo. Even his father seems to
find Taka-san acceptable, and his father usually doesn't care about what kind
of boy or girl his children bring home.
 
All of this is something that Fuji files away as proof that 'Taka-san is way
too good for you.' 
 
That being said, he does like having his boyfriend over for dinner. His mother
is a good cook when she's sane, and she's usually sane enough when Taka-san is
around. "Apparently," Fuji cheerfully tells Taka, methodically going through
his summer English homework for him at the kitchen table, because Taka-san
usually insists on helping his mother cook, and oh, that's charming, "Yuuta's
supposed to be coming home for dinner tonight. It's been awhile since you've
had a chance to see him." 
 
It feels like way too long since he's seen him, even if it's just been a couple
of days. He's twitchy, and there's a very good reason for that, Fuji thinks. 
 
It takes more than a little strong-arming, but Yuuta does eventually make it
through the front door, followed closely by Mizuki. His brother doesn’t look
terribly on-edge yet, which means his mother had actually listened to him when
he’d begged her not to tell Shuusuke about the guest he was bringing.
 
Or she’d forgotten, which seems equally likely.
 
“Sorry we’re late,” he mutters, toeing off his shoes and pointedly not meeting
his brother’s eyes. “Mom, Dad, Sis, this is my manager—”
 
“Mizuki Hajime,” Mizuki cuts in smoothly, with a bow that isn’t quite deep
enough to be very polite. “It’s a pleasure, Fuji Family.” His eyes, by
contrast, flick directly to Shuusuke (though they do linger just a bit on
Yumiko).
 
Fuji's pen digs down into the paper, slowly, methodically stabbing. What did he
do to deserve this? Well, the universe doesn't need to answer that, but still.
Why. "Does anyone smell anything? I think you forgot to take the garbage out,
Yuuta." 
 
"I don't smell anything, Shuu-chan," his mother dreamily says, drifting away
from the stove. "I forgot about your friend, Yuuta. He seems good, though!"
 
Yuuta’s jaw grinds. “Hello, Taka-san,” he says, purposely addressing his
brother’s boyfriend instead of his brother. At this rate, he won’t talk to
Shuusuke all night, if he keeps acting like this. “I hope your arm is feeling
okay.”
 
“Fine, thank you for asking.” Kawamura Takahashi’s face is kind, but worried,
gaze never straying from his boyfriend’s face for long.
 
“Forgive the intrusion, but something smells delightful,” Mizuki says, stepping
forward as his eyes light up at the sight of Yoshiko. “Would you like any help
in the kitchen?”
 
Don't you dare try to take overmyboyfriend's status as helper Fuji angrily
thinks, glaring hard enough at Mizuki's back that he hopes the idea sears into
the trashbag's very soul. 
 
"I have so many helpers today…" Yoshiko catches Mizuki deftly by the arm, and
drifts with him in tow to the cabinets. "You can help me set the table." 
 
"Make sure to sanitize everything afterwards, Mom." 
 
"Is that a thing that's done now?" Yoshiko idly wonders. 
 
Yumiko flicks the side of her eldest brother's head. "You're so cranky today,
Shuusuke." 
 
Fuji twitches.
 
“Aniki, can I show you something for a second?” Yuuta says, breaking his mental
promise to avoid the hell out of his brother and snatching the older boy by the
collar, dragging him off to his room as Mizuki starts inspecting the
silverware.
 
While he does like being dragged off places by Yuuta, now doesn't seem to be
the time to enjoy it. "I can show you something, too, Yuuta," Fuji breezily
replies, letting himself be tugged along. "It's called, not having Mizuki as
your boyfriend." 
 
Yuuta slams the door shut, then grabs his brother by the shoulder, slamming him
up against the wall. “You’re such an asshole!” He barely refrains from
screaming, and his voice gets dangerously quiet. “All you’re doing is making me
want to hang out with his family instead! At least no one acts like you!” And
after meeting Mizuki’s family, that’s really saying something.
 
"I went and spoke to him the other day, did he tell you?" His head is spinning
a little bit, but that's nothing new. Fuji blinks slowly up at his brother,
drawing in a deep, calm breath. "He said that he was only dating you because it
was amusing, and because I told him to leave you alone, he was just going to
hurt you more."
 
“First of all,” Yuuta growls, “you hate him so much I wouldn’t put it past you
to say that just to make me break up with him. And second of all, knowing what
you probably said to him, I wouldn’t put it past him to say something like that
just to piss you off! There’s a reason I told him he’s not allowed to talk to
you tonight!”
 
"I knew I should have brought a recorder," Fuji mumbles, slumping back against
the wall with a sigh. "I'm not lying, Yuuta. He's not with you because he likes
you, he's just trying to make me angry."
 
There’s an element of real hurt on Yuuta’s face for a moment, and he pulls
away, stalking over to the other side of the room before he can start throwing
punches. “Right. Because the one person that’s ever asked me out definitely
only gives a shit about you. Like everyone else does. No one could possibly be
interested in the genius’s little brother, right?”
 
"That's not what I meant." Fuji pushes himself off of the wall, trailing slowly
after Yuuta. "It's just how Mizuki is, Yuuta. He's trash. There are so many
boys out there that would love to date you, and they'll actually be nice to you
and things." 
 
“No, there are a lot of boys that want to date you. You’re confusing it again.”
Yuuta snorts, folding his arms. “I shouldn’t even be surprised at this point. I
finally get something I want, and you shit all over it. I knew I shouldn’t have
told you anything. You say you want me to be happy, but all you ever do is make
me hate myself!”
 
Is he confusing it? No, that can't be right. There are a lot of boys that would
date him…but they'd also date Yuuta, too, he's sure of that. Fuji bites his
lip, reaching out to touch Yuuta's arm. "I'm not trying to ruin anything. I
just don't want you to be with someone that's going to hurt you. Why won't you
believe me? Mizuki's proven that he doesn't care about your well-being before."
 
“And you do?” Yuuta demands, actually shoving his brother hard, pushing him
away. “I was happy. The only thing I was worried about was telling you, because
I knew you’d be a judgmental self-centered bitch about it, and I was right!”
 
This is probably karma. That exists in this universe, or so others have told
him. The one time that he's genuinely trying not to be a judgmental self-
centered bitch, Yuuta just won't listen to him at all. Fuji stumbles back,
catching himself before he hits the wall again too hard. "…All right." It feels
like he's swallowing around a handful of nails, but he has no idea what else to
do. "I just want you to be happy, Yuuta. I'll skip dinner so you can enjoy it
with him, if you want." 
 
Yuuta exhales deeply, feeling at least some of the clenching knots in his
stomach release. “Thank you, Aniki.” He hesitates, then walks closer to his
brother, clapping him on the shoulder in some kind of apology. “You don’t have
to skip it, just don’t--I mean, I’m not saying you have to like him or even be
nice, just don’t provoke him, okay? I don’t want to have to play peacemaker all
the time.”
 
I can'tnotprovoke him. I'm going to kill him. 
 
That being said, he can't just leave Taka to his family's--and Mizuki's--
devices. "…I'll just pretend I'm a mute," Fuji says, his smile forced as he
slides away from the wall. 
 
Yuuta rolls his eyes. “Fine, if you want to be a drama queen asshole about it.
Fine.” It’s something, at least, even if he’s pretty sure he’s going to
strangle his brother before dinner is through.
 
Yuuta has no idea how much effort this is taking, but that's fine. That's for
the best.
 
It takes every bit of effort to stop himself from asking his mother did you
sanitize the plates.It takes even more effort not to ask Taka if Mizuki
contributed to the cooking at all, and if he should avoid anything because of
it. Fuji isn't even sure if it's a consolation that Yumiko seems to have
cornered Mizuki at the dinner table somewhat, chattering away about her recent
acting roles, because Mizuki seems to enjoy it when most house guests would run
away screaming.
 
"You know, producers make pretty good boyfriend. That's how I got my most
recent role! It's a drama about a poor girl that falls in love with this rich
boy but she finds out later on that he's her half-brother and oh, it's just a
mess." Yumiko sighs dramatically. "But I do love those kinds of plots. They're
so romantic, forbidden love and all of that." 
 
“More like really gross,” Yuuta mutters, sliding into a seat.
 
Mizuki just waves a hand at that. Somehow, he’s acquired a silver-polishing
cloth, and is wiping down all the fixtures, starting with the candlesticks. “I
think that sounds utterly fascinating, Yumiko-san. Certainly it would be a
fitting part for a woman of your caliber.” The word takes on new meaning in his
mouth, and Yuuta glares at him.
 
Taka, sensing the need for a distraction, pops a piece of fish in Fuji’s mouth.
“Need more seasoning?”
 
"You're so cute, Mizuki-kun!" Yumiko gushes, just like she always does at the
slightest hint of a compliment towards her acting ability. Fuji has seen her
work. It's not very good, but it does't matter, because she's pretty and has
big boobs in Japan, and that counts for a lot. "Ahh, your sisters must love
you, you're such a sweet boy."
 
Fuji wants to die. Even Taka's cooking can't taste good under these
circumstances. "It's fine," he mutters all the same, every hair raised up on
the back of his neck. 
 
Taka casts a worried look at Fuji, watching his eyes following Mizuki around
the room. 
 
“Ah, I don’t see too much of them these days,” Mizuki admits. “I rarely leave
the dorm rooms when there’s so much to do with the tennis team. This night is a
rare treat for me, and I’m ever so grateful you wanted to have me over.”
 
“It’s just dinner, you’re being weird,” Yuuta mutters, still stormy from his
confrontation with his brother.
 
Maybe, Fuji thinks, if he glares at Mizuki enough, he'll develop telekinetic
powers and be able to send a chopstick through his eye. 
 
"Yuuta, be nice! He's being so gracious, not like anyone else you've ever
brought over!" Yumiko huffs, and reaches out to pet Mizuki's hair whenever he
drifts close enough. "Look at this color, it's so vibrant."
 
A muscle in Fuji's jaw ticks. "To match the paisley, obviously." Shit, shit.
He's supposed to be a mute. God dammit, though, keeping his mouth shut about
Mizuki is impossible.
 
“Oh no, Shuusuke-kun,” Mizuki says without looking over at him, “I don’t have
anything paisley to match my hair...yet. Yuuta, would you like to help me look
for some new furnishings for our dorm room once you get to high school?” He
beams at Yumiko. “We’re planning on rooming together.”
 
“Mizuki-san,” Yuuta hisses, casting a worried look at his brother.
 
"Oh, that's so cute,"Yumiko dreamily sighs.
 
"Does that mean you've picked out your high school already, Yuuta?" Yoshiko
idly asks. "And here I thought you were going to drop out and become a hobo. I
did that once…" 
 
Fuji calmly scoops up the remainder of Taka's homework that he has to edit and
starts making a break out of the kitchen. He can't do this, apparently--not
when his pulse is pounding in his ears and he keeps looking for a weapon to
make use of. "You know, I'm not feeling too well. There must be some kind of
mold in here that's giving me a headache--you know, it might be the remnants of
that purple hair dye, Mizuki. I hear sometimes there are spores."
 
Before anyone can respond and get truly upset, Taka hands the spoon to Yoshiko
and puts an arm around Fuji, steering him out of the kitchen and into his
bedroom. “Fuji,” he says, low and urgent, “are you all right? You’re not acting
like yourself.”
 
Fuji has never been terribly inclined to bursting into tears (sitting down on
tennis courts and crying about Te--…nnis notwithstanding, because that's not
bursting, that's slowly trickling), but he nearly does right then, if only from
sheer frustration and the fact that Taka-san's arm is around him, warm and
strong and stable. He'd like to just tell Taka that it's fine, that there's
nothing to worry about, go back and eat dinner, but--
 
"I hate him." Fuji leans back onto the door, shutting it behind them as he
swallows hard around the lump in his throat. Nails again. "No one else sees it,
but Mizuki--he's just--he's garbage, and he's just going to hurt Yuuta and he
won't listen to me."  
 
“I’m listening.” Because it usually helps, Taka sits on the bed and pulls Fuji
into his lap, one hand on his knee, one arm securely around his waist.
“I’m...I’m not much good at helping people with their problems,” he confesses,
“but if you want to tell me about it, I’ll listen.”
 
The pile of homework hits the floor, and Fuji immediately becomes a ball
against Taka's chest. He's warm, and solid, and listening. Usually, it's better
when people don't listen, but in this case… "You remember how Mizuki was
hurting Yuuta before, right? That's why I was worried; I knew that Mizuki
didn't really care about him, and was just using him. I proved it when I went
to talk to Mizuki a few days ago." 
 
It's shocking how just remembering that conversation turns his stomach, and
Fuji burrows, butting his head against Taka's shoulder. He's supposed to have a
stronger constitution than this, but if it's Yuuta, apparently that flies out
the window. "Mizuki said that he was just dating Yuuta because he thought it
was amusing, but now he's going to do whatever he wants to him, just because he
hates me." 
 
Taka swallows. “He sounds like an honestly terrible human being,” he says
frankly. “I can understand why you wouldn’t want him around your little
brother. Is there…” He racks his brain, trying to think up some kind of
solution. Dammit, Akutsu is better at this kind of thing. He always sees right
to the heart of a problem. “Is there anything Mizuki wants more than Yuuta? I
mean, could you bribe him away somehow?”
 
"…Maybe," Fuji miserably replies, "but you're not going to like hearing the way
that would work. And Yuuta isn't going to like it, either. And I think it would
just make it worse in the end." Because Mizuki would drop Yuuta if he joined
St. Rudolph's team, or probably even if he slept with him a few times. He
sighs, letting his head loll back so that he can stare up at the ceiling. "I
really want to kill him," he admits, forgoing the censor that he usually puts
on around Taka, just this once. "I wish Yuuta would see how horrible he is, but
right now, he's just obsessed with being with someone that at least pretends
that they prefer him to me." 
 
Taka doesn’t even pause at the admission, just rubbing gently against Fuji’s
back in comforting circles. If he weren’t so useless he could do something, he
could help somehow, or what’s the good of being a boyfriend? “I think that’s
pretty natural,” he admits. “I mean, if someone hurt you, or if I thought
someone was going to, I’d definitely feel the same way. Plus, I mean, he’s your
little brother. It feels like your responsibility to protect him, right?”
 
"Mm, but…I don't think he likes it when I try to protect him." Fuji shrugs,
offering Taka a wry smile. "Do you know that he was worried about me, just the
other day? He threatened to beat you up if you hurt me. As if that would ever
happen." He flops his head back down against the other boy's chest. "Ahh, I'm a
really bad big brother, I think. I always try to help him, but it just ends up
making things worse." 
 
Taka is going to help, if it’s the last thing he does. “I bet,” he says slowly,
“that when he was worried, you said you were fine and he accepted that. And
when you were worried, he probably said he was fine too, right? I mean, I know
you know better, and he’s definitely not fine, but that’s probably how it looks
to him.”
 
"The thing about Yuuta is that…well, he's just really naive." Fuji frowns, idly
picking at a button on Taka's shirt. "He doesn't see the same stuff that we do.
I just wish I could make him see how awful Mizuki really is--and barring that,
I'd just like to make Mizuki leave him alone, somehow. Until that happens,
though…it's so distracting, I don't even know how I'm going to play at
Nationals while thinking about this mess." He sighs, shrugging again. "Sorry to
bother you with this, Taka-san. I'll figure it out, though, so don't keep
making that worried face." 
 
“You’re not bothering me. I mean,” Taka amends quickly, not wanting Fuji to
think he’s a liar, “I’m bothered, but it’s not like it’s your fault. I’m
worried because you’re worried, you know? I’m worried about you, and you’re
just…” He frets a little, worrying at his lip. “I want you to be happy. I don’t
want you to fake it, though. If you want to hide out in here, I’ll bring you
your food, we can have a picnic.”
 
This is further proof that he doesn't deserve Taka, and that he's just as bad
as Mizuki for milking this whole thing along. At least he isn't hurting Taka,
though, and Fuji likes to think that's what sets him apart…at least, somewhat. 
 
"You make me happy, Taka-san." Fuji butts his face into Taka's neck. "We could
have a picnic, you're right. I don't want you exposed to Mizuki if I'm not
there." 
 
“I’m really not afraid of him,” Taka says bluntly. “He’s kind of girly and
weird, isn’t he? I mean, in a bad way.” He settles Fuji down on the bed, and
stands. “I’ll make your excuses. I’ll just say I thought it would be romantic,
so no one will be upset. Your family seems to like me plenty, even if...well,
even if I’m a man.”
 
There's a very large amount of satisfaction in the fact that Taka thinks Mizuki
is gross, too. Yes, he has chosen wisely. "They like you a lot, because you're
perfect." Fuji beams up at him. "Thank you, Taka-san. You always know how to
make me feel better." 
 
“If I didn’t,” Taka says wryly, “I wouldn’t be a very good boyfriend. I’ll make
it better, I promise.”
 
He closes the door behind him, and very carefully doesn’t meet Mizuki’s eyes
when he picks up a couple plates and stuffs them full of food. 
 
He’ll be seeing Mizuki again before too long, anyway. A good man does what he
has to to protect the ones he loves, and Taka very much wants to be a man like
that.
 
***** Fuji & Taka *****
It’s a week after the dinner when Yuuta seeks his brother out again.
 
This time, he doesn’t come home, but goes straight to Seigaku after practice.
Most of them have left already, but there’s a few left, including his brother.
Yuuta ignores the others (Eiji and Oishi) and goes straight for his brother,
grabbing him by the collar. His eyes are red, voice hoarse as he snaps, “We
need to talk. Now.”
 
It's a rare day when Yuuta appears at Seigaku, and, as currently demonstrated,
it's never for good reasons nowadays. 
 
"Okay," Fuji manages, dangling a few centimeters off the ground. Hmm. Yuuta has
gotten very, very strong since he started going to St. Rudolph. "We can go to
the clubhouse, if you want?" 
 
"Fuji, is everything all right?" Oishi worriedly calls over, and Fuji just
flaps one hand weakly in response. If something isn't all right, that's nothing
new.
 
It doesn’t take long to get to the clubhouse, not with the way Yuuta is moving,
and he slams the door shut so hard the rafters shake. Yuuta lets go, shoving
his brother onto the bench, and stands a meter away, staring at the wall. “I
hope you’re happy. Mizuki broke up with me.”
 
Huh. Well. That's news. Fuji's head tilts completely sideways, and he wonders
if he's dreaming. "I didn't know," he honestly says, though he wishes he had.
He would have been celebrating already. As it is, he's still suspicious, and
Yuuta looks upset, so…celebrations must wait. 
 
Yuuta kicks the lockers, and the way they reverberate is satisfying enough to
be worth the pain in his toe. “Yeah?” he challenges, finally looking up at his
brother with bloodshot eyes. “You didn’t send your boyfriend to beat the crap
out of him? I like him, dammit!”
 
There's an odd, pleased flutter in his chest at that. If this is lining up in
his mind the way that he thinks it happened--ahh, no, he shouldn't be so happy.
At least, he shouldn't be so happy when Yuuta is looking. Thank god he's good
at looking perpetually confused instead. "Yuuta, I swear--I had no idea." Come
to think of it, Taka had missed practice today…hmmm. Fuji rocks back onto his
feet, stepping closer to his brother. "You know I don't like Mizuki, but I
didn't tell Taka-san to go after him or anything." God, that's hot.
 
“Whatever. You got what you wanted.” Yuuta laughs bitterly, rubbing his nose on
his sleeve. Dammit, he’d thought he was done crying, this is so stupid and
girly and lame. “Like you always do.” 
 
There’s really not much more to say, and he’s not interested in hearing more
pleas of innocence from his brother, so he storms out.
 
Well, Yuuta's not wrong. He definitely did get what he wanted, assuming this
all is true. 
 
Admittedly, Fuji doesn't like it when Yuuta's upset, but…that will pass. Mizuki
broke up with him, which is the important thing here. Already, it feels as if
there's a weight that's lifted off of his shoulders, but he waits and checks to
make sure Yuuta is a considerable distance away before he all but floats out of
the clubhouse, trying not to preen or skip too much.
 
"Um," Oishi attempts.
 
"It's all fine," Fuji cheerfully says, and fishes out his phone from his tennis
bag.
 
To: Taka-san
Subject: (  ♥  ω  ♥  ) ~♪
You skipped practice! Are you at home? 
 
To: Fuji
Subject: Re: (  ♥  ω  ♥  ) ~♪
Body: I’m at home. I need to clean up a lot so maybe we should wait until
tomorrow. Are you OK?
 
To: Taka-san
Subject: Re: (  ♥  ω  ♥  ) ~♪
I can help you clean up. I just really missed you today.
 
Fuji hopes, maybe, that said cleaning up involves scratches or something bloody
that needs bandaging. He could do that. 
 
Taka hesitates before replying, looking down at his hands. Wait, gloves!
 
Yes, that will do.
 
To: Fuji
Subject: Re: (  ♥  ω  ♥  ) ~♪
I can’t come over, but you can come over here if you want. I miss you too.
 
To: Taka-san
Subject: Re: (  ♥  ω  ♥  ) ~♪
On my way!
 
"Lunch plans on hold, Eiji," Fuji hums, tucking his phone away. "I have a
mission." 
 
He's glad that no one asks about it. No one usually does, but it's good that
they don't this time. 
 
He's surprised (and sort of gleefully wondering if his fantasies are coming
true) to find that Taka isn't behind the counter at the restaurant. Instead,
he's apparently upstairs, and Fuji happily takes the offer to trot up them and
find him. 
 
"Ta~ka~sannn," he sing-songs, slowly skipping over to his boyfriend's room and
giving the door a knock. "I'm here to heeelp~"
 
The room is, unfortunately, spotless. Taka realizes this about three seconds
after the outside door closes, and he frantically remembers that he’d said it
was messy. To keep Fuji from looking closer, he desperately grabs a drawer of
clothes and yanks it free of the dresser (whoops, too much power) and dumps the
contents all over the floor. 
 
Unfortunately, it’s still in his hand when Fuji walks in. “Uh...hi.”
 
"Hi." Fuji's head tilts, and he sets his tennis bag down right inside of the
door. "Are you reorganizing? Because I'm pretty good at that." He pauses, and
his eyes land immediately on Taka's oddly gloved hands. His fantasies are
coming true, if he's guessing right. "Taka-san," he hums, laying a hand upon
the other boy's chest. "I have a theory that you're trying to hide something
from me. Is that why you skipped practice?"
 
Taka’s face burns. He hadn’t expected Fuji to be quite so perceptive, and that
makes him feel like an utter tool for trying to lie. “I’m sorry,” he mutters,
ducking his head in shame. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to lie, you’re
way too smart, I should have known you’d figure it out so easily. I just...I
just didn’t want you involved.” 
 
He sighs, and tugs the gloves off his hands, revealing bloody skinned knuckles
under the knitted fabric (that was probably an obvious fashion choice in July).
 
Fantasies achieved. 
 
Fuji's breath catches in his throat, and he reaches out, reverently taking one
of Taka's hands. So big, so strong, so…so obviously bloody because they beat
that disgusting piece of garbage into a pulp. "So it's true," he breathes, eyes
wide as he looks up at his boyfriend. "You did beat Mizuki up."
 
“I had help,” Taka admits, though he hovers uncertainly, not sure whether
Fuji’s impressed or horrified. “I mean...you’re not mad? I didn’t mean to go
behind your back, but you were just so upset, and, I mean, even five minutes
with that guy makes you want to hurt him, you know? I just thought someone
should tell him to stay away from your family. Please don’t be too mad--I mean,
I understand if you are…”
 
"No one has ever done something like that for me before." He might be shaking a
little. Fuji isn't sure if it's because he's overwhelmed or aroused. Perhaps
both. "T…Taka-san…you're so manly!" he finally manages, clinging to Taka's
hands a moment longer before just leaping up, his arms thrown tightly around
the other boy's neck. "No one could ever be as perfect as you are, ahhh, god,
pick me up and dip me alreadyyyy--"
 
There isn’t much picking up that needs to go on, not when Fuji is already in
his arms--but lifting Fuji usually makes his mind go as pleasantly fuzzy as
picking up a racquet does, so Taka obliges him, letting out a bit of
unintelligible exuberance as he picks the smaller boy up, dipping him close to
the ground, then tosses him in the air, twirls him, and catches him again. “All
right, all right, baBY! My Fujiko-chan--super delicious crazy panda!”
 
This is further proof that Taka is perfect--not that he needs any more proof
because he beat up Mizuki.
 
Fuji flops back into Taka's arms, pleasantly dizzy from being tossed and dipped
and whee, that's fun. "Definitely your Fujiko-chan," he sighs happily, clinging
to Taka's neck tightly and liking how he dangles a little off the ground. "I'm
your prize of war, this is what you get for defeating that disgusting waste
receptacle!"
 
“That impudent worm! He was easy to defeat, because his body is soft and
squishy and made of weak bones!”
 
"Yeah, yeah, good, tell me more about how weak he was." Fuji might be getting
off on it. Yeah, okay, he definitely is, especially when he can wriggle in
Taka's arms and start gnawing on his neck a little. 
 
“Weak like pudding!” Taka laughs, loud and booming, and tosses Fuji up against
the wall, catching and pinning him there. “Bones like the stems of flowers!”
Fuji is good to kiss, and he’s a man that deserves that kind of reward.
 
It's the clinical sadism that makes him cheerfully enjoy the idea of Mizuki
being torn to shreds, Fuji knows. But Mizuki deserved it, that's the part that
everyone seems to forget, because he's garbage and…ahhh, god, what was he
thinking about again?
 
Fuji sighs into Taka's mouth before hungrily arching off the wall to cling to
him with all four limbs. Mizuki really must have broken like a twig if Taka
even hit him once. His boyfriend is nothing but muscle, heavy and bulky and
yes, yes, yes, that's so good.
 
Any lingering demons or regrets are banished as soon as Fuji kisses him back
like that, and Taka loses all sense of time, all sense of propriety when Fuji
is so pliant, so excitinglyinto it. “That’s my sweet fiery vixen!” he crows,
and with a yank, tears his own shirt open in a frenzy.
 
"Damn right I'm your vixen," Fuji eagerly breathes, and whoops, his nails might
be scratching at those muscles a little too eagerly. Mm, no, never mind. Taka
looks good all ragged like this, complete with some blood. He kisses back hard,
biting at Taka's lower lip. "If you get on the bed, your vixen'll ride you like
the sexy warhorse that you are."
 
Taka can’t help but throw Fuji down on the futon first, then pick him up and
kind of flop down on it himself. He’s not sure; everything’s all very intense
when they’re like this, but somehow he manages to get onto his back, pulling
Fuji on top of him. “Just like this,” he breathes, eyes alight as he rips off
Fuji’s shirt, pawing at him through his pants. “Your stallion is waiting, my
spicy jockey mushroom!”
 
"I really love it when you call me that," Fuji groans, feeling somewhat like he
has whiplash after being tossed around like that, but it's good, he loves it.
He wriggles down, sighing when he feels how hard Taka is--doesn't take much,
admittedly, not when he's in burning mode and all of that, but it's still
really good. Lube, right, where did they put it last time…Fuji's eyes land on a
side table's drawer (probably there) as he casually pops the top button of his
pants and shimmies out of them. "Lube, my valiant steed," he hums, because Taka
can reach it easier than him, anyway. "And then, I'm gonna ride you so well
that you wish you could beat up that piece of garbage every day." 
 
Taka grabs behind him for the lube, easily within reach of his long arms, and
tosses it to Fuji. Fuji’s a lot more precise with that kind of thing, anyway,
and knows how much he needs. “I will slay dragons for you, my fairest princess
french toast maid! No sack of yogurt can stand next to our love! I’m burning
for you, I’m on FIRE!”
 
"You're so perfect, Taka-san," Fuji affectionately sighs. "So, so perfect, my
slayer of trashlords." 
 
Perfect enough that he needs that cock in him. Yeah. Taka's pants unbutton and
are yanked down easily enough, and Fuji does always like the strain in his own
thighs when it comes to straddling Taka's hips. Taka's not just taller than
him, he's much, much broader, and that's one of the best things ever, really. 
 
If he wasn't in such a hurry…mnnn, no, even being slow and lazy, Fuji doesn't
like the whole fingering himself thing. It works just as well to slather Taka's
cock in lube until he's dripping, his fingers eagerly wrapping around it to
squeeze and stroke. "You're gonna be all the way inside me, my sexy stallion,"
Fuji breathes, arching up to let Taka's cock slide up the cleft of his ass,
hard and heavy and slick. Yeah, good, enough waiting, enough teasing,
especially when he's got a talent for taking dick (or so he's been told) and
even that first, initial stretch isn't bad at all, what with how slick Taka's
cock is. 
 
Fuji holds his breath, his pulse thrumming in his ears when he wriggles down, a
broken, eager whine leaving his throat once he's finally down all the way, his
thighs trembling and his hands clawing a little into Taka's chest. He's ruined
for other men. Taka fits perfectly inside of him, and Fuji's very to eager to
grind down, slow and filthy and needy, loving the way it feels when he's
stretched wide and full. 
 
Taka can never think of much when he’s inside Fuji. If anything, all he thinks
is compressed into a single, desperate word: “More.”
 
Nothing feels like Fuji around him. Nothing feels like that slick squeeze, that
tight heat, and more importantly, like Fuji’s breath in his ear, Fuji’s face
suffused with pleasure, Fuji’s hands scrabbling and raking at his chest. 
 
God, Fuji’s perfect. 
 
“Tie my hands up,” Taka manages, barely. His hips roll up, and he shouldn’t
like so much how Fuji is obviously working to take him in, even if it looks
like he loves it. “Or this’ll--ahh--be over too fast, and I want to watch
you.” 
 
Surprisingly, there’s some element of clarity when they’re like this. Taka is
ready, so ready for everything Fuji’s offering, and unlike when he’s burning,
he feels like he could stay this way forever.
 
If Fuji ever told Taka what buttons that mere idea pushed, there's a pretty
good chance he'd be dumped on the spot. 
 
The way his own cock throbs at the thought and the way his body shivers and
tightens up should be a pretty good indicator, though.
 
His belt's on the floor just a few inches away, he thinks--yep, there it is,
and it's good enough to secure around Taka's wrists and keep him from getting
right back into burning mode. Burning mode is fun and all, but fuck, he does
want a chance to actually enjoy this. "You feel so good, Taka-san," Fuji
breathes, lurching up, his mouth eager to steal wet, insistent kisses as he
wriggles down. "Feel how--ahh--deep you are in me?" His nails dig into Taka's
shoulders when he arches down, mouth falling open at that deep, aching stretch
of that thick cock. It's so good that his knees wobble, and while Fuji will
never say he's picky, he definitely has preferences. They just--mm, definitely
include his big, manly boyfriend being tied up while he rides him cross-eyed. 
 
Taka’s eyes roll back into his head at the first long, slow stretch of Fuji
around him, now in startling, gorgeous definition. Everything is so intense
like this, and all he can do is lay back and enjoy, shivers raking through him
with every slick slide, his cock throbbing every time Fuji wriggles.
 
“You’re taking me in so deep,” he whispers, lurching up as much as he can for a
kiss, letting himself be shoved down again the next instant. An almost shy
smile steals across his face, wiped out in the next instant by a surge of
pleasure as Fuji squeezes. “G-god, you have no idea how much I’ve thought about
this.” His voice comes out in a groan, and his head lolls back, exposing his
neck. There’s nothing better than Fuji, and he’ll fight anyone who says
anything else.
 
There is no way he could ever do better than this. That's the problem down to
the core, and Fuji shoves that thought aside for now in favor of lunging in for
a hard kiss, then a bite to the strong length of Taka's neck, because he's
awful, and loves seeing it marked up.
 
"I bet I do know." Who cares if he gets dumped, he's going to get dumped in
style, with Taka's cock buried in him and his own aching with every slick,
sticky grind. Taka's the only man he's ever really stayed hard with like this,
and it's actually mind-numbing to have something so deep inside of him when
he's so fucking turned on. Fuji lets his own head tip back for a moment, sweaty
hair sticking to his face. He pants hot and heavy up to the ceiling when he
lurches back, taking Taka in until their skin slaps together and he has to gulp
for a full breath because he's pretty sure he can feel the other boy's cock in
his throat. "Next time," he gasps out, letting his knees dig into the futon
when he rocks up, whimpering with that long slide, "I'll tie you up from the
start--do whatever I want with you--and you'll let me, because you're such a
good boy, Taka, being my toy like this--"
 
Taka’s pretty sure that it isn’t exactly manly to be turned on by something
like that--but the hell if he cares, not when Fuji feels so good, looks so
perfect, and is riding him like something out of any man’s wildest dreams. He
groans, hips rolling up to slap against Fuji’s with every thrust, panting as he
writhes under Fuji. “G-good,” he manages, and “Please—”
 
And then he’s lost, arms trembling with the effort of straining against the
belt, the muscles in his legs flexing as he rocks up hard, filling Fuji over
and over again as he spends himself, spilling deep inside Fuji with every
thrust.
 
Through it all, he can’t help but watch. Fuji’s something to behold any time,
but now, sweat-dampened and shivering, he’s something out of anyone’s wildest
dreams. Taka is breathless, more from the sight of Fuji than anything else, as
he feels himself jerk a few last times, eyes locked on the loveliest face he’s
ever seen.
 
Normally, guys getting off in him really doesn't do anything for him, but Taka-
-
 
Taka breaks every single rule Fuji has ever had. That's pretty clear from the
way he shudders when he feels Taka come, spilling inside of him, hot and messy
and that sort of makes Fuji melt. He gasps and claws at the other boy's chest,
desperately, frantically grinding down, using Taka's cock before it gets too
soft and yeah, good, that's more than enough when he's been ready to come for
awhile now. 
 
Fuji leans back when he finally loses himself, bracing a hand on one of Taka's
knees, shivering with every pulse of his cock as he drips over Taka's stomach
and his own thighs. Breathing is something that he's forgotten how to do, but
that's for the best. He likes that light-headed feeling on most days. "Taka-
san," he rasps, slowly slumping forward, every muscle sort of…twitching.
"You're so good, so perfect, really, really manly and good--" His fingers pick
at the belt to loosen it--necessary, before he gets too nuzzle-y and limp
afterwards to be of any use. 
 
It takes a while for Taka to remember how to breathe. 
 
Eventually, he remembers, and takes in a few slow, deep breaths, finally
wriggling stiff hands free of the belt to wrap around Fuji. “Sorry,” he
whispers, nuzzling his face into Fuji’s hair. “I forgot the condom, I wasn’t
even thinking.”
 
"Nnn, s'fine," Fuji slurs, flopping his arms over Taka's shoulders as he gives
up and flops down completely onto his chest. "I forgot, too. It's good, though.
I like the way you feel inside me." 
 
Taka smoothes his hands down Fuji’s back, gently stroking, feeling the way
their breath syncs with each other as they lay there. “You’re amazing,” he says
softly. “Thank you for not thinking it was weird.”
 
Fuji thinks he makes a sound very like a purr. He's not sure, because his mind
is all kinds of fuzzy. Taka's hands feel so, so good. "I'm weird. You're not
weird. You're great." 
 
Taka is pretty sure that beating up a guy then asking to be tied up is probably
considered weird, not to mention whatever he’s said when he’s burning. “You’re
so sweet for thinking that,” he murmurs, and tilts Fuji’s head up for a long,
slow kiss. “I hope I give you enough reasons to keep me around for a little
while longer. I can make you some sushi, if you want.” It’s almost painful, how
much he always wants Fuji to stay, and how easy it is to imagine him leaving.
 
Oh, god, they're both so pathetic. That thought dimly occurs to Fuji when he's
being kissed, but all he really wants to focus on is the fact that he's really
trained Taka to be a good kisser, and his chest is so warm and comfy. "I always
want to keep you around, Taka-san," he murmurs, slowly wriggling up to kiss him
again. "And I'll always eat your sushi. You don't have to, though; I'll stay as
long as you want me to even without it, and you should be resting after the
whole Mizuki thing, besides." 
 
“That honestly didn’t take too much effort,” Taka confesses, “and like I said,
I did have help.”
 
Fuji wishes there were pictures of Mizuki's broken body. He would have taken
pictures, if he had been there. "Mmnn, I forgot about that. Who did you
enlist?"
 
“I...kind of called Akutsu,” Taka admits. “I, well, I wasn’t sure if there’d be
security, or honestly, how to do something like that. He knew all about it.
Really, it’s him you should be grateful to, he’s the one that knew how to do
everything. Uh, it’s okay if you don’t thank him the same way, though,” he adds
hurriedly.
 
Fuji has mixed feelings about Akutsu. On one hand, he really dislikes the
asshat because he treats Taka like he's trash, and Taka is about as far from
trash as anyone could ever be. On the other hand… "Mm, don't worry. I'm not
going to thank him like this. I think a cactus as a gift will be a good idea."
Fuji leans up to kiss Taka once more before he slowly flops to the side. "I'm
glad he helped you. I'm glad Yuuta's going to be safe now. I mean, he's mad at
me right now, but…that's nothing new, really, and it's fine so long as he's
safe." 
 
Taka sighs out a breath, and curls up around Fuji, turning him over to start
spooning. “It’s the middle of the afternoon,” he murmurs, nuzzling into Fuji’s
hair and neck. “We should probably get up and be productive...mm, but I don’t
want to let you go.”
 
"We were productive already," Fuji blissfully reminds him, wriggling back
happily into Taka's chest. Ahh, today is a perfect day. Nothing could be
better. He reaches for Taka's hand, careful of his skinned knuckles as he
cradles it to his chest. Taka has good fingers. It's a shame that they had to
get bloodied like that, but Fuji thinks it's a sign of honor. He knows he's not
wrong. "I have the best boyfriend," he resolutely mumbles. 
 
To: Aniki
Subject: jsyk
He’s pressing charges against your boyfriend. I hope it was worth Nationals.
 
That wakes Fuji out of a particularly pleasant catnap.
 
He tries not to groan too loudly at his phone, which is easier said than done.
Slowly, carefully, he dislodges himself from Taka, sitting up with a slow
stretch. 
 
To: Yuuta
Subject: re: jsyk
So you two are still talking enough for him to throw a lot of crap around, I
see. 
 
Hopefully, it's a lot of crap. With Mizuki, one never really knows. 
 
To: Aniki
Subject: you’re such an asshole
I heard from the Captain, but thanks for reminding me that you cost me the only
relationship I’ve ever had.
 
You're thirteen, get over it is the sleepily exasperated message that Fuji
nearly sends. Delete, delete, delete. Now it's mostly a matter of deciding to
try and take the fall for this…or wait to see what really happens.
 
Or, there's another option. He might have stolen the number out of Yuuta's
phone, just in case:
 
To: Human Garbage
Subject: We need to talk.
I was recently informed that your face was smashed in. We should discuss terms
and conditions of this.
 
To: Fuji (the probably male one)
Subject: Re: We need to talk
You’re welcome to come see me. I’m not feeling up to travel, and the paperwork
for filing a court order is ever so tedious.
 
For fuck's sake.
 
Even if Mizuki has broken up with his little brother, he still sets Fuji's
teeth on edge. He sucks in a slow, calming breath before bothering to text
back.
 
To: Human Garbage
Subject: Re: We need to talk
Your dorm at St. Rudolph's, then? Should I bring you a care package, delicate-
wilting-flower-san?
 
To: Fuji (the probably male one)
Subject: Re: We need to talk
Throw in some of your mother’s tableware and we can talk. I’ll expect you
within the hour.
 
There are some people that should just be shot and killed. Mizuki Hajime is one
of them.
 
Fuji sighs and shuts his phone before turning around and leaning down to press
a kiss to Taka's temple. "Looks like I've got to run home," he whispers. "Sorry
I can't spend the whole day, Taka-san." 
 
Taka lets out a sigh of disappointment, reaches his fingers through Fuji’s
hair, and lets them fall. “Take care. Call me if you need anything. I’ll miss
you.” He always misses Fuji, sometimes even when they’re together.
 
"Mm. We'll catch up later." Fuji grabs Taka's hand before it can fall, and
presses a kiss carefully to his fingers. Maybe, at least, he can stop this from
turning into a bad day.
 
He shows up at St. Rudolph, tableware in tow. There have been stranger
requests, that's for sure. Mizuki's room number is easily discovered courtesy
of the posted rosters, and Fuji awaits outside of it, rapping on the door with
his knuckles just twice. 
 
The door opens after a moment, revealing an extremely bruised and no-longer-
bloody Mizuki Hajime. Two split lips are just the start of it; a black eye, a
darkening patch on a cheekbone, bruises on his neck, a sling for one arm, and a
jaw that looks painful to move are just the visible marks. He moves gingerly,
and his breath is labored when he does, opening the door then limping back to
the bed, leaning back on at least a dozen hypoallergenic pillows. “Come to
gloat, Shuusuke-kun? I can’t even say I’d blame you. We both know I’d do the
same in your position.”
 
Fuji would be a liar to say that he isn't gloating, because oh, dear, did Taka
and Akutsu do a number on the piece of a shit. It might be turning him on,
actually. Hmm. He drifts into the room, nudging the door shut behind himself
before gingerly taking a seat in something that isn't…paisley. "You could be
closer to death's door," he observes, eyes lidded. "But the important part is
that you aren't dating Yuuta anymore. Thanks for that." 
 
“There is no part of you that is welcome,” Mizuki says, stretching out a leg
with a slight whimper. “As much as I would usually enjoy looking at your face
while I have the upper hand, I can’t see too well right now, so let’s make this
quick. What do you want?”
 
No pain tolerance. That's good to know for the future. "I want you to keep my
boyfriend out of this." Fuji leans forward, bracing his elbows onto his knees.
"What do I have to do to keep you from filing charges against him?"
 
Mizuki raises an eyebrow just a fraction of a centimeter, then gives up when it
hurts his face too much. Damn, his usual arsenal of sneers is beggared by this
indignity. “Why so protective, Shuusuke-kun? He knew what he was doing. He
wanted me to know exactly who he was, even refused a mask from his infinitely
more intelligent friend. I certainly hope he doesn’t mind paying what will
certainly be a hefty fee, and definitely being marked as a felon.”
 
"You're not hearing me, Mizuki." Fuji is going to reach over there and break
his neck if he doesn't stop calling him Shuusuke-kun. "Name your price. This is
your one and opportunity to have anything you want from me. You should be
gloating now, I think."
 
Mizuki glares up at him, then closes his eyes. This would be a lot more fun if
he weren’t in so much pain. The dislocated shoulder was bad enough, but the
cracked ribs are no fun at all. “Lose.”
 
Fuji's eyebrows arch high. "Lose? Fine." He doesn't care, not if it's for Taka-
san. "To whom?" 
 
“To Yuuta. I’ll call Tezuka and set up a practice match; it will do you good
before Nationals, obviously.” Mizuki pauses to breathe for a minute, giving his
ribs a bit of rest. “Play Singles Three. I’ll make sure you go against him. If
you aren’t convincing, the deal is off.”
 
"Fine." That sounds almost too easy, but then again…Yuuta isn't stupid. He'll
have to practice to be convincing at losing. Fuji climbs to his feet. "Until
then, no pressing charges, and I'll make sure nothing else happens to you, no
matter how it looks like you'd be happier to be put out of your misery."
 
“And leave the tableware. Your mother, at least, has excellent taste.” Mizuki
relaxes back onto the pillows, exhaling deeply. He isn’t really supposed to
have visitors over, but this...yes, this was important.
 
"Do you want a cigarette?" Fuji dryly retorts, dropping the tableware onto a
nearby table on his way out. "It takes the edge off." 
 
“Disgusting. I should have known that someone of such filth would…” Mizuki
trails off, and flaps his uninjured hand. “Fuck off, I don’t have the energy
for banter.”
 
"Neither do I," Fuji breezily retorts, spinning a way that shows off his vast
array of hickeys before trotting over to the door. "We'll be in touch, Mizuki."
 
Crisis avoided--at least, for the moment.
 
~
 
Taka doesn't need to know about any of this.
 
Fuji is going to make sure that he never hears a word of it. Now, that proves
more troublesome when Tezuka obviously hears from Mizuki, then transfers the
call to Oishi. 
 
Fuji wants to punch Oishi in the face, mostly.
 
"I don't know," Oishi stresses the next day at his house. "I just don't think a
practice match is worth it, if there's the chance for anyone to get hurt--"
 
"No. We need it. Confidence building after our loss." Fuji smacks a hand down
onto the bed. "Here, I'll help you iron out the order. Doubles 2, Momoshiro-
Kaidou. Doubles 1, Oishi-Kikumaru--"
 
"I was thinking of letting Eiji try singles once, though--"
 
"Singles 3, myself," Fuji continues as if Oishi hadn't said a word.
 
"But--"
 
"Singles 2, Inui. Singles 1, Echizen. Done! See how easy and fun that would be?
It's just St. Rudolph."
 
"I don't know…" Oishi hems, chewing on his lower lip as he stares down at his
phone. 
 
Fuji tries not to scowl. He tries not to reach over and smack Eiji's boyfriend
across the goddamn face. If Tezuka calls back, he's taking that phone, and
assuming vice-captainly duties. If it's for the sake of Taka-san, then he
needsto. "Eiji. Tell him a practice match would be a good idea."
 
Eiji worries at his bottom lip, frowning. “I don’t know,” he says, drawing out
the word and trying to let it play over in his head. “I mean, I doubt anyone
will get hurt--ah, but I do really want to beat that Captain of theirs, Oishi!
It was my fault we lost to them, and I want to show them what’s what!” Probably
not Fuji’s motivation, but close enough.
 
Fuji nods firmly. "See? Let Eiji show off. He deserves it after working so
hard."
 
Oishi exhales a long, stressed noise. "I don't know. If someone does get hurt…"
 
"It's St. Rudolph," Fuji repeats, an edge to his voice now. "What could they
possibly do." 
 
"Tezuka would know what to do," Oishi mutters underneath his breath, fretting
anew, and Fuji directs a smile that's far too bright in the direction of Eiji.
 
"Convince him. Please." 
 
That little smile sets Eiji’s teeth on edge. “Go outside for a minute, Fuji,”
he says, hopping onto the bed next to Oishi. “Go play with Oishi’s little
sister, okay? I know you like to do her hair.”
 
Fuji shoots him a surprisingly dark look before sliding off of the bed and
slinking out of the room. 
 
Oishi's gaze follows him warily until the door shuts, and he sighs, sagging
down onto the bed. "I'm sorry I'm being so indecisive about this," he
immediately says. "But after what happened at the Kantou--I can't help but
think that I'm really not the one best equipped to make these decisions." 
 
Eiji ignores that, pointing instead at the door. “He’s being so weird,” he says
immediately. “You’re probably indecisive because you know something weird is
going on. You’re an awesome captain--you just don’t see that you’re making
decisions based on instinct or whatever, Oishi! Trust your gut!” He pokes
Oishi’s stomach at the same time he mentions it.
 
"…Fuji is being awfully weird today," Oishi admits, sighing as he bats Eiji's
hand away. "Weirder than usual. I'm not an awesome captain, though, so don't
tell me that. It's just--I don't feel right about this match happening. I don't
know why Fuji's pushing for it so much, and that makes me nervous." 
 
“So say no.” Eiji shrugs, and pokes Oishi’s shoulder, then his forehead for
good measure. “Or tell him he has to be honest. I’ll tell him if you want, but
I’m not in charge, so he definitely won’t listen. I mean, you wouldn’t let me
do something just because I said pretty pretty please, if I didn’t tell you a
good reason why you should, right?”
 
"He's not going to tell me anything and you know that." Oishi bites his lip,
thinking. "Find out what all of this is about," he settles upon after a brief
pause. "If he has some weird thing going on, then it's probably best to avoid
it. If it's just something with Yuuta, though…then I guess it'll be okay to let
it happen. There've been a lot of things going on with Yuuta lately, as far as
I could tell, and Fuji did want to play singles three."
 
“It’s probably about Yuuta,” Eiji admits. “He’s been really weird about it for
a while. Every time I mention him, he breaks whatever he’s holding and starts
talking about having stuff in his wallet for human trash cans, so that might
have something to do with it. I’ll be right back!”
 
He darts out, muscling in briefly to shoo Oishi’s little sister out and
promising her a tea party later. “Yo, Oishi wants me to find out what’s up.
It’s about Yuu-chan, right?”
 
Fuji lowers the comb, staring up at Eiji with a tilt of his head. "Yes. Sure. I
want to play him again so he stops being upset about it." It's not entirely a
lie.
 
“Uh huh.” Eiji sits on one of the tiny chairs, rocking a little. “So play him.
There’s a billion tennis courts, grab him and go play.”
 
"If it were that simple, I would have done it awhile ago." Fuji's smile is
strained. "Eiji. You know he has a weird thing about me and tennis. Can't you
just tell Oishi that it's about that, and just let me get it over with during
an official practice match?" 
 
“But I have a weird feeling about it,” Eiji says bluntly, “and Oishi does too.
You’re being secrety, and that means something bad is gonna happen. You always
do this, if you just told us what was up, we could help you!”
 
"The only thing that's going to help right now is if you let me have that
match." Fuji exhales the breath he's been holding. "Eiji, please." When do
Ieverask you two for anything? 
 
Eiji chews on his lip, flopping down onto the ground, kicking his feet in the
air. “I dunno...it’s still pretty weird. You’re usually so happy to play with
him, and now you’re just mad and stressed, you know?”
 
"…If I tell you what it is, will you promise not to tell Oishi until after he
agrees?" Fuji finally settles upon, not wanting to keep having this
conversation when he could be planning how to lose horribly. "It's really  not
anything bad for the team--it's just something I have to do."
 
“I seriously need to know,” Eiji informs him, rolling onto his stomach to look
up at him. “There’s too many people keeping secrets and being upset, and it’s
giving me a stomachache.”
 
"Taka-san beat up Mizuki, and to keep him from reporting it to the authorities,
he wants me to play Yuuta and lose." Fuji sags back slightly, tiredly. "That's
it. I don't want Taka-san to find out about this or for him to get in trouble,
and that's why I just need to play Yuuta and lose and appease that piece of
garbage." 
 
“I knew it was something about that gross slimy guy!” Eiji scowls. “He’s trashy
trouble, you’re right. Is Taka-san okay? He’s not hurt or anything, is he?”
 
"No, Taka-san is perfect as always. But you get it, right?" Fuji presses. "He
can't know about all of this. I just want to keep it that way, and keep him
from getting in trouble. He really wants to play at Nationals."
 
Eiji nods slowly, frowning as he thinks over the situation. “Yeah, makes sense,
I guess. But--but why does this gross guy want you to lose to Yuu-chan? I mean,
wouldn’t it make more sense for you to have to pretend to lose to him?”
 
Fuji shrugs. "For one, he's really beaten up. Taka-san did a really good job, I
was so proud of him. Ah, but, anyway, I don't know why he's so set on this.
Maybe he's trying to declare his love for Yuuta anew or something, which is
gross and not going to work."
 
Eiji makes a face, gagging a little. “That’s...super nasty. I’ll tell Oishi,
it’s a good idea for us to play. We can’t lose Taka-san now, right? He’s an
important part of Seigaku’s Nationals team!”
 
At least someone else has sense. This is why Eiji is his best friend. Fuji
nods, his shoulders sagging a little from relief. "Thank you, Eiji. Just don't
tell him about all the backstory, okay? You know that'll just stress him out
and he'll start making those awful whining noises."
 
“Right!” Eiji leaps to his feet from a cold start, then pauses. “Also, don’t
keep saying that kind of stuff about Oishi. You’re asking him for an awful lot,
and he’s being a really good friend, so stop being mean to him for being upset
about losing.” Good Boyfriend Status: Achieved.
 
"…You hate those noises, too," Fuji points out on a sigh, but holds up his
hands in surrender all the same as he lists slightly to the side. "Okay, okay.
I won't say anything else mean, I promise." 
 
Yeah, he’s an awesome boyfriend. Eiji heads back to Oishi’s room, flopping down
gracelessly on the bed. “Yep, it’s about Yuuta. Can we have the match? Hey, why
did you say you wanted to put me in Singles?” He grins, and pokes Oishi’s side.
“You sick of me already, partner?” The smile isn’t as bright as it could be,
and something knots up in his stomach.
 
Oishi blinks--opens his mouth--shuts it--and then shakes his head firmly.
"Never. I just think someone as good as you should have a chance in singles,
too." He rubs the back of his neck, briefly glancing at his phone (asking
Tezuka again will just irritate him, so forget that) before he just sighs. "All
right, we can have the match. If it's just about Yuuta, that's fine, I guess." 
 
“I’ve never beaten you in singles,” Eiji points out, still suspicious. “If
that’s all, why don’t you put us both in singles? Make Ochibi play doubles
again, that was funny the first time.”
 
"He's not going to play doubles at Nationals at all, though, you know that,"
Oishi patiently replies, shaking his head. "And I'm not going to play singles.
You're good enough that you could, if we needed you to."
 
Eiji frowns. “You know, I didn’t like doubles either until I tried it with you.
If you want me to do singles in just the practice match, why don’t you play
doubles with Ochibi? He’s only tried it with Momo, and Momo…” 
 
Well.
 
The idea sort of makes Oishi's hair stand on end, truth be told. He's seen
Echizen play doubles, and it's not a pretty sight. In fact, it makes him want
to start biting his nails just thinking about it. But--"I guess that's fair,"
he says, slowly nodding as he thinks it over. "If you'll play singles, I'll put
him in doubles with me. It'll be an experiment, nothing permanent." 
 
Eiji laughs, and leans over to lay his head on Oishi’s shoulder. “We’ll call it
The Match For Making the Golden Pair Want to Play Doubles With Each Other
Again,” he announces. “It’s gonna be awful!”
 
"I always want to play doubles with you," Oishi mutters defensively, and snakes
an arm around Eiji's waist to give him a slow, but firm hug. "I'm just…trying
to do what's best for the team right now, you know? I want back-ups and new
ideas, after what happened at the Kantou." 
 
“What happened at the Kantou was that we took second place in the region,” Eiji
points out. “How many times has Seigaku gone to Nationals, hmm? And we did it
under Awesome Captain Oishi.”
 
"I'm not awesome. We lost." Tezuka wasn't upset or anything, but it still feels
like he should have been. Ugh. 
 
“But we’re going to Nationals! That’s great!” Eiji leans harder into Oishi, as
if he can sort of give him some of the confidence that Eiji has in him. “We’re
going to destroy St. Rudolph, and then go into the first round at Nationals
riding high. And you’ll want to play doubles with me so bad after playing with
Ochibi.”
 
"Well…all of that is true…" Oishi hedges, and he finally just sighs, giving in
and cracking a smile. "It'll be fine, right? Tezuka will be back, too, and that
means we'll be even more ready."
 
“We’ll be totally unstoppable,” Eiji assures him. “We’re Seigaku’s best team
ever, with Tezuka or without. Man, Oishi, if everyone wasn’t so hung up on
Tezuka being so great, we probably would’ve won the Kantou. Everyone was just
thinking how hard it was going to be, you know? Even me, and you know me and
Tezuka don’t...get along.”
 
"I know you don't." Oishi slowly flops backwards, pulling Eiji down with him
and onto his chest. "Tezuka is really good, though. You know that, Eiji. We do
stand a higher chance of winning having him on the team." 
 
Fortunately, with Eiji in his arms like this, he still feels like they could
win…even without Tezuka. 
 
(Hopefully, that doesn't make him a bad captain or something.)
***** Fuji & Yuuta, Fuji & Mizuki *****
Fuji doesn't know how to lose convincingly. 
 
Admittedly, he can fake losing, for a time, to someone that underestimates him.
Yuuta isn't that someone. Yuuta knows him too well at times, at least in
tennis. 
 
Fuji is still agonizing over this in the clubhouse when Echizen arrives, albeit
begrudgingly. The kid really hasn't shown up to practice more than three times
in the past couple of weeks, and that's troubling to Oishi without a doubt.
Fuji doesn't care. It would be nice to be able to count on Echizen, but
counting on people is something that he does when Taka-san is involved, not
with anyone else. 
 
"Fuji-sempai," Echizen grumpily begins, rummaging through his locker, "did they
give you a weird slot for this practice match, too?"
 
Fuji lifts his head, shrugging. "Not really. I asked for mine, and I've played
singles three plenty of times before."
 
"They put me in doubles, with Oishi-fukubuchou." 
 
It's hard not to laugh. Echizen just scowls at him. 
 
"Sorry," Fuji attempts, though he isn't sorry at all. "Consider it a good
experience." 
 
"It's because they don't trust me in singles anymore, isn't it."
 
Fuji's eyebrows raise. A show of insecurity from Echizen is both hilarious and
annoying. He likes it. "Doubtful. I think it's because Oishi wants to play with
someone that doesn't know him as well so he can get away with having an injured
wrist for a bit longer."
 
Echizen's mouth opens, then closes, and he turns back into his locker with a
frown. "You're kind of a jerk, Fuji-sempai."
 
"Uh huh. Listen, do you know a good way to fake losing? I'm trying to come up
with one." 
 
Asking Echizen is probably the worst idea ever, but what's there left to lose?
Surprisingly, Echizen snorts, giving him a sour look. "Fuji-sempai, you know
how you always play to that point that you realize you're gonna lose, and then
you actually start fighting back because you're a weirdo that likes being boxed
into corners?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Don't do that last part."
 
Oh. 
 
It's a lot easier to do that than Fuji imagines. The hard part, of course, is
actually getting Yuuta to look him in the eye when they play, so Fuji stops
trying after awhile. It makes it easier to just stay in his head and think
about don't try, don't fight back, just let him slowly overtake the score.
 
4-4, and Fuji slowly starts realizing that he doesn't have to put on the brakes
because…hmm. 
 
Yuuta has gotten better.
 
Much better, actually. There's the urge to actually surge forward and play hard
and eagerly try because of it, but Fuji doesn't, and that's when the next match
goes by in a flash. Momentum. Yuuta has it on him in spades now, and it makes
his heart thud hard in his chest. 
 
5-4, Fuji Yuuta.
 
"Is Fuji going to lose?" 
 
First years need to shut up. Of course he's going to lose. That's fine. 
 
(That doesn't mean he likes hearing it.)
 
40-30, Yuuta's match point, Yuuta's serve, and Fuji can't help but get
irritated. There's a compulsion deep-set in his brain that he's sure Mizuki
must know about, because he can't just let someone beat him like this. 
 
When Yuuta figures out how to return Tsubame Gaeshi, though--mmn, well, he
deserves the win, Fuji thinks, and that kind of makes his knees weak in a bad
way for once. 
 
"6-4, St. Rudolph wins!"
 
At least shake my hand, Yuuta, Fuji desperately thinks, offering him a smile at
the net. "You've gotten much better," he quietly says, firmly convincing
himself that he's blinking away sweat and not weird tears. 
 
God, he hates losing. He hates it even more when he realizes that he barely had
to fake it.
 
Yuuta can hardly stand. He makes it to the net, drawing his arm across his
forehead and coming away soaked with sweat. He tries it, sucks up his nerve,
and somehow manages to look his brother in the eye.
 
Then, he grabs his hand, whether out of consolation or because he needs it to
stand, gripping it as firmly as he can. His eyes are searching, and his voice
is hoarse when he manages to speak. “Was that...real?”
 
It doesn’t feel like it. The genius can’t lose. He never has. Yes, Yuuta’s been
practicing as if he’s going to be going up against the devil himself, but
that’s nothing new. He always does that, and his brother still always wins.
 
The smile turns strained. There's an impulse to immediately tell Yuuta no, it
wasn't, that he really didn't try, that if he actually put real effort into it,
they'd have a real match, and the result would be different. 
 
Admittedly, Fuji is sure that he could still beat his little brother, but…it
would be much, much harder now, harder than it ever was before. That's scary. 
 
"Mm. It was real." Fuji sags back onto his heels, gripping Yuuta's hand
tightly. "Feel that, Yuuta?" he quietly asks. "I'm shaking. You did really,
really well." 
 
Yuuta’s eyes burn, and he squeezes them shut to keep from crying like a stupid
little kid. There’s pride, and defiance, and a hollow, aching feeling of loss. 
 
His brother isn’t supposed to lose. His brother is supposed to be perfect.
 
“Play me again,” he hears himself demanding, even though he can barely stand.
He lowers his eyes, unable to look at his brother now. “Play harder, I know you
can beat me.”
 
Fuji's face falls. Was he not convincing enough? Shit, no, he had to have been.
"Yuuta--we can play again later, but--"
 
Ah, no. He was convincing. Definitely. This is just further proof that no
matter what, he just can't make Yuuta happy, even (mostly) legitimately losing.
"You know the way I play tennis better than anyone--it's natural that you'd
finally beat me, you know? You caught me going the wrong way so many times, and
figured out how to beat my counters--you worked hard for this." And I never
work hard. "I'm proud of you. Come on, let's go sit down."
 
Yuuta sags a little, clutching his brother’s hand for support more than as a
handgrip for a moment, then nods. “Yeah.”
 
It takes a long inhale before he feels like himself again, and staggers over to
the bench, slumping down onto it. “Didn’t expect you to actually lose,” he
mutters. “I kept thinking you were gonna pull some other trick out, and I’d be
totally screwed. Why didn’t you?”
 
"Because I don't have any more tricks," Fuji wryly points out, dropping a towel
on top of his head as he flops down next to his brother, not letting go of his
hand just yet. The other regulars are looking at him like he's an alien, and
that's fine. Ah, this really is the worst time for him to lose. Now everyone's
going to think he's going to lose at Nationals, and that's less good, but…maybe
they'll work harder to pick up the assumed slack. Maybe he needs to work
harder, too. "My counters don't work like that. They're developed to work
against certain techniques, and once they're broken…it's all still just tennis.
Your basics are stronger than mine now. That's the key." He's not lying about
that, either. Shit.
 
Yuuta grabs a bottle of water, swigging at least half of it before putting it
down, gasping for breath. “You don’t seem as upset as I thought you’d be.” He
rolls the bottle between his hands, shoulders bowed, and dammit, he still can’t
exactly catch his breath. He steals a look over at his brother’s team, and at
least all of them look shocked and upset. “Man. I’ve thought about this day so
many times, but it doesn’t….I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like I thought it
would.”
 
"I'm really mad." Again, not a lie, explicitly. Fuji lifts his head, sparing
Yuuta a brief, sideways glance. "I hate losing." Also not a lie. "But…mm.
What's the point in acting upset when I was beaten by someone better? I don't
have any right." His eyes lid as he slowly rocks back up to his feet. The more
thinks about it, the more anxious he is, and Fuji hates that. "You shouldn't
get comfortable, Yuuta. The next time we play, I won't let you take a point." 
 
“Yeah. Okay.” Yuuta’s eyes drift over to the rest of his team, none of whom
seem terribly excited about him returning. “We could...watch the match from
over here, if you want. I’m surprised to see they put Echizen in doubles.”
 
Normally, Fuji would be incredibly excited about the fact that Yuuta actually
wants to sit with him, actually wants to talk to him, but--"Sorry, Yuuta. I
need to go drown myself for a minute." 
 
Shooting himself in the foot as always, that's him, Fuji Shuusuke, and he trots
off before Yuuta can say anything else, even though he kind of just wants to
flop against his brother's shoulder and curl up there all sweaty and try not to
think about tennis at all for awhile. Instead, shoving his head underneath the
cold water of the fountain is as good of a balm as he's going to get. 
 
Shit, he's fucked up. Or, more accurately: shit, he fucked up. 
 
A swift poke to the shoulder is all the warning Fuji has that Eiji is here,
before Eiji flops over Fuji’s back. His voice is a lot lower than usual as he
says, “Oi...you didn’t have to fake it that well, you know. I mean, you could
have made it a tiebreak. Now everyone’s all nervous.”
 
"I didn't really have to fake it." Fuji slowly pulls his head out from
underneath the water, letting it drip onto his face and down his back--and
subsequently, onto Eiji--when he leans back. "Yuuta's gotten much better. I
started trying, at the last game. I just…started too late." 
 
“What, really?” Eiji’s own laugh is a bit nervous, and he gives Fuji a squeeze.
“That’s good, right? You should probably be proud of him and stuff. Hmm, but I
hate losing too, so I get that.”
 
"I am really proud of him." Fuji wobbles a little, mostly supported by the fact
that Eiji is squeezing him now. "I'm really lazy, aren't I, Eiji?" 
 
“Uh, yeah.” Eiji grins. “Otherwise, we’d be like Kaidou, or Inui, and all we’d
think about is running around and stuff.”
 
"That's not what I mean. Even you trained hard and fixed your stamina issues."
Fuji turns on the water again, and dislodges himself to shove his head
underneath it once more. "I guess I should start trying to do something like
that, too, but…I don't know what to even work on." 
 
“You need to work on playing serve and volley players,” Eiji says immediately.
He leans back against the wall, hands pillowing his head. “Like we always mean
to, when we go to the movies instead.”
 
"Probably," Fuji agrees, coming up again from his second drowning expedition
and heaving a long sigh. "I wish Tezuka were here. He'd be able to help." He
looks sadly back at Eiji through his soaking wet bangs. "Do you think I've let
my guard down?" 
 
“Uh...I bet Tezuka would say that,” Eiji says pragmatically, hedging his bets.
“Hey, come watch the rest of the matches with me, it’ll be fun. I’ll play that
Captain in singles. Hey, is Yuu-chan gonna be Captain next year? That would be
cool, right?”
 
"Mmn, it would." Fuji drifts away from the fountain. He doesn't want to think
about Yuuta being at St. Rudolph even if he is captain. St. Rudolph is a
plague. "I hope everyone else wins. Then we won't all seem like total failures
like I am."
 
Eiji’s eyes dart around to the rest of their team before he leans in and
whispers, “But you meant to lose, Fuji. That means you really won, right? You
got what you wanted, and Taka-san’s not going to prison?”
 
That is the one shining glory of it all. Fuji relaxes slightly, remembering
that there was a point to all of this rather than his utter failure. "That's
right. You're right." His shoulders sag. "Thanks, Eiji. I kind of forgot about
that." I really hate losing. 
 
“Stop being dumb,” Eiji advises. “Go sit on Taka-san’s lap if you’re not going
to hang out with your brother. Watch me play the Captain, I’m gonna get him
back for that stupid blurry ball!”
 
Both seem like good options, but mostly, Fuji wants to go home. He doesn't say
that, though. Sulking is unbecoming. "I'll watch. Don't let him take a game, I
know you're that good."
 
Eiji sketches him a quick salute. “Hoi hoi!” 
 
He trots off to start warming up, though his attention is more than divided
when it comes to watching the doubles matches. No one, it seems, can take their
eyes off the Oishi-Echizen pair that seems destined for disaster, including
Yuuta, still sitting awkwardly between the St. Rudolph and Seigaku portions of
the stadium.
 
Sulking is unbecoming, but it's a lot easier when Yuuta seems like he's sulking
a little, too. Or at least, hiding.
 
Fuji slowly drifts back over, dropping himself back down next to his brother, a
barrier between him and the St. Rudolph team. "Why aren't you sitting with
them?" Time to ask, he supposes. Yuuta won't just tell him, he never does.
 
This time, Yuuta doesn’t look up at his brother, keeping his eyes on the
players shaking hands. “They don’t really...talk to me anymore.” He’d thought
it would be hard, to keep his voice from sounding bitter. Instead, it mainly
sounds sad to his own ears. “I mean...we couldn’t tell them what really
happened, so it just seemed like...it came out of nowhere. He didn’t tell
anyone, but….” He exhales a breath, scrubbing a forearm across his own eyes. “I
guess everyone knew it was because of me, since we stopped talking after that.”
 
Wait, your team actually liked Mizuki? is on the tip of Fuji's tongue, but
thankfully, his filter seems to be forming again as he comes more back to
himself. "…But he'll be fine. And I heard he wasn't even filing charges
anymore, so he can't be that upset about the whole thing. They can't be upset
with you, you didn't do anything." 
 
“I don’t know.” Yuuta swallows hard, and it makes his sore throat ache.
“They’re not being mean to me or anything, it’s just really awkward, and no one
wants to talk to me.” He grimaces. “God, that sounds petulant, but it’s true. I
mean, it’s just that he’s always with them, and…” He really can’t even say
Mizuki’s name, not when that still hurts, too.
 
"Yuuta…" Here it comes. The point when he says something stupid to make it even
worse, the point where he gloats and makes it clear that he's so, so happy that
he's gotten his way because thank god Mizuki isn't dating Yuuta anymore and--
 
Damn it.
 
Fuji wants to vomit. He's wanted to vomit for awhile now, though, and it's a
shame that it just won't happen already. "…Do you want me to talk to him?" It's
vile, the very thought of it, and it makes him slowly knead his fingernails
into the palm of one hand until it starts to hurt. "To Mizuki. So I can
apologize." 
 
There is only one thing that could be worse than that, and it's the idea of
continuing to look at Yuuta when he's so upset. This can't keep happening.
He'll get over it, though is something that repeatedly echoes in his head, but
how is Yuuta supposed to get over it when all of his friends and teammates at
St. Rudolph aren't letting him? 
 
Yuuta scowls at him. “You’d just make it worse. I know how you get around him,
Aniki.” He looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching. “Maybe I’ll just
transfer schools next year. I mean, I came here to get better at tennis,
and...well, if I’m good enough to have a game like that, maybe I learned what I
need to.” He swallows again. Dammit, the frog in his throat has to go away
soon.
 
Fuji pulls out his phone before he starts drawing blood with his own nails. "I
don't think you should have to transfer," he murmurs, flipping it open.
"They'll forget about this if you let them. Again, it wasn't your fault." 
 
To: Human Garbage 
Subject: I'm coming over later
We need to have another chat. Yuuta's gotten good, by the way.
 
“I wish.” Yuuta focuses on the game, pointedly ignoring the rest of his
teammates. “Captain just announced next year’s captain.”
 
To: Fuji (the probably male one)
Subject: Oh ARE you now?
I kept my mouth shut, keep your razors to yourself.
 
Fuji briefly glances up. "And? You don't have to be captain to be the team's
most valuable player." 
 
To: Human Garbage
Subject: I can pick locks
I'm not using them on YOU. I need to talk to you about Yuuta.
 
“The only other second-year is Kaneda, and he outright said he didn’t want it.
Captain said he had to take it or it would go to a first year.”
 
To: Fuji (the probably male one)
Subject: Not if they’re filled with superglue
Fine. I can spare ten minutes. Come at 4:17 or don’t come at all.
 
Fuji sighs, flipping his phone shut. He wants to die. Maybe he will, later.
"Yuuta. You have to give them time to calm down. Trust me, they will, and it'll
be fine." 
 
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Still, Yuuta doesn’t sound terribly happy about
it, and changes the subject. “Who’s going to win, you think? I heard Echizen
was awful at doubles.”
 
"He is. But Oishi's the best doubles partner someone can have." Fuji leans back
onto one hand. "They'll win, if only because he can ignore how selfish Echizen
is on the court and play around that." 
 
“I dunno. Kisarazu-sempai and Yanagisawa-sempai have pretty good coordination.
We used to go out for shabu-shabu, and they’d never even bump the tongs.” The
words are a little wistful, and Yuuta clenches a fist to keep himself from
thinking too much about it (or about how he’s eaten his last 15 meals in his
dorm room).
 
Sometimes, Fuji remembers that Yuuta is actually fairly normal for one of his
family members, and that he actually requires human socialization and contact.
If only he was normal like that…mm. No, that sounds like so much work. Mostly,
he wants to take Echizen home after this and shove him facedown onto the bed.
"We could go out for shabu-shabu tonight, if you want. I've got some stuff to
take care of first, but, you know."
 
“Yeah, okay.” Yuuta pauses for a moment, then shakes his head. “Wait, you’re
going to be celebrating with your team tonight, right? We can go out another
time.” It’s not like he has any plans. What with being knocked out of Nationals
and not exactly having a welcoming group of friends, there’s been a whole lot
of Internet time going on in the evenings, almost enough to make him consider
coming home. He’d been close, a few nights this week, but the thought of seeing
his brother had turned his stomach.
 
Fuji blinks over at him. "Celebrate? Oh. No, I don't care about that. If they
want to go out, they can. They don't need me for that. I'd rather go out with
you, anyway. Let me treat you, I promise I won't make you eat anything spicy.
We can even skip over to Kanagawa if you want, and go to that favorite bakery
of yours." 
 
Yuuta’s stomach growls at the thought, and he nods before thinking. “Yeah,
okay!” He can already almost smell the big ovens. He can’t wait to take…
 
He swallows. “Just find me whenever you’re done with your stuff,” he says, flat
and toneless. “I’ll be in my room.” It’s still a good bakery.
 
Why he always has to fix things that he doesn't think are broken is beyond him.
 
Fuji picks at his cuticles for a solid half hour instead of thinking about how
he's going to try and talk to Mizuki in a positive way. He barely notices that
Echizen and Oishi's match is over, and that they've won, somehow, even though
it went into a tiebreak. Good for them, he supposes. That's how it should be.
Echizen has all the ability in the world to improve, and always works hard to
do so.
 
How, though?
 
He doesn't pay much attention to the other matches that happen afterwards,
except for Eiji's. He wins, but still drops a game, and Fuji thinks if he were
in a better place mentally, he'd tease him. The whole team is definitely
planning to go out to eat, but he excuses himself at the same moment that
Echizen does, lies about why already readily on his tongue. 
 
They try to convince him to come, to cheer him up, but it's all sorts of moot.
 
Mm, well. He's got about 45 minutes to meet up with Mizuki. Not enough time to
hookup with Echizen, but later. Fuji casts him a meaningful glance before
drifting out of the clubhouse and heading off.
 
He doesn't look forward to paisley, though. He never does. Finding himself
outside of Mizuki's door, Fuji can barely bring himself to knock, especially
when he considers, again, what he's about to do.
 
The door opens, and Mizuki looks for all the world as if he hasn’t left since
the last time--save for a couple telltale signs available to the sharp-eyed,
including boots still slightly damp with mud (the exact same shade as that
around the tennis court), a face slightly flushed from exertion under what’s
left of the bruises, and appliances that haven’t yet been turned on. “You’re
early,” Mizuki says, a touch of grumpiness in the tone, and he shuts the door
behind Fuji. “Not that this should take long. What, do you want it in writing
or something?”
 
"I told you, this is about Yuuta." Paisley. Everywhere. Fuji represses a
shudder. It's making his skin crawl more than usual, but most things are at the
moment. "Tell me why you wanted me to lose to him." 
 
Mizuki rolls his eyes, collapsing dramatically back onto his pillows--which he
knows are in quite good taste, and rather exciting to boot. “What does it
matter? I assume you threw the game, then? Unfortunately, I’m still not nearly
well enough to venture out.”
 
"6-4. He was very convinced." Fuji steps closer, arms folding over his chest.
"Tell me why you wanted me to lose. If you broke up with him, you shouldn't
give a flying fuck about his issues with me." 
 
“I don’t see why I should tell you anything at all,” Mizuki says, voice bored
as he casts a glance out the window--not that there’s much to see, facing into
the courtyard and unhelpfully away from the tennis courts as it does. “Maybe I
just wanted to see the genius taken down a peg. Obviously.”
 
"If you wanted to see that, you would have done that yourself--or tried to,"
Fuji flatly points out. "I'm going to ask you one more time, because you're a
really shitty liar. Why?" 
 
“Ugh, you’re a pain,” Mizuki laments, glaring up at Fuji from his pillow nest.
“If I say it was so Yuuta would feel better about himself, are you going to
have that hulking beast of yours rearrange my features again?”
 
"I wish." If he vomits this time, he hopes it's on Mizuki. "Apparently, the
whole team has decided to shun him now because you've broken up with him. Now,"
Fuji slowly begins, resting a hand down calmly next to Mizuki, all the better
to loom over him, "I have no idea why your team gives a shit about you. I have
no idea why they'd turn their backs on Yuuta in favor of you. The point is, you
need to fix that and make him happy to be here again." 
 
Despite his best efforts, Mizuki leans away, putting himself at even more of a
disadvantage. “Where the hell do you get off?” he demands, trying to fight the
urge to just sort of claw at Fuji like a cornered cat. “You had me beaten up
because I was dating him. I broke up with him. I even said I wouldn’t press
charges--entirely valid charges, I might add--if you did such a stupid little
thing as throw a match, and now you’re trying to make me--what? Make everyone
like him again?” His laughter is a little hysterical. “Aren’t you a little
over-concerned with your brother’s romantic life?”
 
"Probably," Fuji breezily answers, "but I don't care. The fact is, he's
apparently happier being a part of this horrible school and apart of your
horrible team than he ever has been when he's around me or part of something
that I'm involved in. So bring him back to that point. I really don't care what
you do to make it happen." The words try to stick in his throat, but no, he's
going to say it. He didn't come this far not to, and it's for Yuuta, besides.
"You can date him again, for all I care, if that's what will make him happy." 
 
“As if I’d be stupid enough to touch that with a ten-foot pole,” Mizuki scoffs.
If Fuji keeps leaning over him, he’s going to kick. He’s going to kick, and
unfortunately, he’s not wearing shoes, which means it probably won’t have too
much of an effect, but he’s fairly certain he’s going to kick nonetheless.
“You’re the brocon, you date him.”
 
Fuji's eyebrows raise. "That's disgusting. Look, I'm giving you my word, isn't
that nice? I won't let my boyfriend break your face if you decide that you want
to date Yuuta again--so long as he stays happy, of course."
 
“If I wanted to play Russian Roulette with no fixed time limit,” Mizuki says
dryly, feet still poised to kick (if he has to), “it wouldn’t be in a game
conditional on your happiness with me. There are so many strapping young lads I
could spend my time with that aren’t attached to a loaded maniac with a
complex.”
 
Fuji straightens up with a sigh, shrugging tiredly. "Uh huh. One, how many do
you give a shit about, and two, how many are going to let someone like you
top?" 
 
A fellow sufferer, Mizuki knows immediately, and lets out a frustrated noise
halfway between a sigh and a groan. “Is that why you sicc’d that monster on me?
Because you found out he likes it facedown? What else did he tell you?”
 
Fuji's head ticks slightly to the side in open irritation. "He actually didn't
tell me that he preferred it that way, but thanks for those details that I
really didn't want to hear." God, Yuuta really might be adopted after all. "I
just assumed that it had happened, because of our conversations. All the more
reason to think my offering of peace is gracious, don't you think? My little
brother is far too good for you." 
 
“You aren’t offering peace! I haven’t done anything to you, and you’re
threatening me with--I don’t even know what, but certainly physical violence if
I don’t do exactly as you like, for as long as you like. No matter how much I
like him, I’m not stupid enough to say yes to something like that.” No matter
how nice Yuuta looks in paisley--or spread out on top of it. Ah, not the
memories to dwell on right now.
 
"You're failing to understand that I don't care if you do anything to me," Fuji
patiently says, even though he's very much at the end of his patience. "It's
all what you did to Yuuta. Somehow, startlingly, you not dating him does more
harm than it does good, or so I've seen thus far. I've told myself that I
should give him time to let him get over it, but being an overdramatic piece of
shit is a family trait, and my tolerance levels are very, very low. I don't
care if you date him again. Do it, or don't, but do not make him feel like he's
an outcast on this team because you want to be a pissy little bitch. If he
talks to me about transferring again, I'll know that I need to come back here
and harass you one more time, and you aren't going to like that." 
 
“What can I do,” Mizuki asks, with what he thinks is refined grace for someone
being repeatedly harassed and intimidated, “to make sure I never have to see
your face again? Because I pick that option.”
 
Fuji gives him a bright smile. "Two things. One, I'm going to give him tickets
to the Nationals. Go with him. Two, invite him to his favorite bakery in
Kanagawa tomorrow, because I'm going to be a horrible big brother tonight and
cancel all my plans with him in favor of fucking a twelve year old just to make
you look good." 
 
“And then you’re going away?” Mizuki presses. This, he feels, is the most
important part of the plan--the part where Fuji goes away for good. Admittedly,
he’s a little bit curious about the twelve-year-old involved, but not enough to
ask about it. “For good?”
 
"Mm. Assuming Yuuta doesn't come complaining to me in the near future." 
 
“Great. You want me to date the bloody Sword of Damocles.”
 
"What a lovely reference. I'm so glad to know that the man my brother is dating
has at least half of a brain." 
 
Mizuki lets out a sigh. Possibly a whimper. It’s difficult to say. “Fine,” he
says, because agreeing sounds better than being bullied into it--and he’s
rather certain that Fuji Shuusuke has more unpleasant tricks up his sleeve.
“Now get out of my room. Don’t you have a pre-teen to fornicate with?”
 
"I sure do. And he, like most of my ventures," Fuji snidely tosses over his
shoulder as he turns to go, "lets me top."
 
Presumably. 
 
"That's a lot of pictures of Tezuka-buchou," Echizen comments when Fuji finally
smuggles the brat home with him.
 
Honestly, Fuji does mean to talk to him about tennis and ask him how he always
plays with everything that he has, but there's something about that question
that makes him end up fucking Echizen up against that wall with all of those
pictures there as a backdrop. Whoops.
 
The second time, they make it to the bed. That's a little less effort, which is
good, and Fuji lights a cigarette afterwards, much to Echizen's chagrin.
 
"Gross, Fuji-sempai."
 
"Don't act like Taka-san right now," Fuji mumbles, dangling an arm off the side
of the bed. "I need this." 
 
Echizen gives him an irritated look before he slowly slides out of the bed and
grabs for his pants. "I need a shower."
 
"Down the hall, second door on the left." 
 
He can still do dinner with Yuuta, Fuji thinks as Echizen slinks out of the
room, bowlegged. Yeah. Assuming he can summon the effort to get out of bed in
the near future. Maybe. Maybe he can just cook Yuuta something not-too-spicy
instead.
 
Yuuta is of two minds about coming home, but, well, his brother had promised.
Shuusuke rarely goes back on a promise, but he doesn’t exactly have a steel
trap for a mind, either. An hour after their appointed date has come and gone,
he shows up at his own house, using a key and finding the deadbolt engaged.
Right, someone’s home, and neither his parents nor his sister have the car
parked there--so it must be Shuusuke.
 
That assertion is further backed up when he sees Echizen Ryouma, surly and
heavy-lidded as ever, limping bowleggedly out of his brother’s room, fumbling
his way to the bathroom. “Uh. Hey.”
 
Echizen gives Yuuta one, bored look over his shoulder. "Cheers." The bathroom
door shuts and locks behind him promptly.
 
"Oh, Yuuta, you're home!" Cigarette out, pants on, that's good enough when he's
rolling out of bed quickly. Fuji trots over to the door and out into the
hallway, beaming. "We can still do dinner if you want! I got a little
distracted, Echizen wanted to meet up about tennis and things."
 
Yuuta’s nose wrinkles. “You smell like an ashtray, Aniki, gross. And, uh…” His
face colors. Maybe that smell is left over from Echizen, or maybe it’s his
brother, or more likely, it’s both of them.
 
"Sorry, sorry. It's a bad habit, I know." Fuji's eyebrows raise. So sue him,
he's had a long day--week. A long week. If he has the opportunity to tease
Yuuta, just a little bit… "You're turning some interesting colors, Yuu-tan." 
 
“Don’t call me that,” Yuuta mutters, looking to make sure that the bathroom
door is closed, and--yep, the shower is running. As soon as he hears that, he
accuses, “You skipped out on me to hook up with Echizen?”
 
"He was very convincing," Fuji sighs, sagging into the doorframe. "It's okay,
though. I was already behind because of my errands--I got you tickets to the
National Tournament and everything."
 
That brings a slight perking up, though Yuuta still isn’t entirely able to
shake the idea of his brother and Echizen--and the way Echizen had been
walking--and the marks on his neck, and the—
 
He swallows hard. It’s just been too long, and he’d been used to having that
pressure released. Now that he doesn’t have a boyfriend, he over-reacts to
things like that. It makes sense. “Yeah, sure. Just make sure you don’t lose
early, I want to get good use out of it. I only need one, though.”
 
"Nope, I got you two." Fuji grabs him by the arm, dragging him into his bedroom
and idly kicking Echizen's shirt over a condom wrapper before Yuuta can notice.
He plops his brother down onto his bed as he drifts away to rummage through his
tennis bag for the tickets in question. "Even if Seigaku loses, you should
watch the whole tournament," he says, dropping himself back onto the bed next
to Yuuta and handing the tickets over. "You'll be able to learn a lot just from
watching all the other teams, you know?" 
 
Yuuta glares at his brother, and--ugh, the bed is still warm, and he just knows
they were…
 
He clears his throat. “You’d better not be planning to set me up with Echizen.
I don’t want to go out with anyone you’ve been screwing, Aniki.”
 
Fuji blinks. "Eh? Oh, well, I wasn't, but I do think you two would make a cute
couple, now that you mention it." 
 
“This is why Mi--why everyone thinks you’re a brocon,” Yuuta mutters.
 
He chooses to ignore that slip-up. "Why? I just want you to be happy. Speaking
of which," Fuji gracefully segues--or at least, he thinks it's graceful, "I
wanted to talk about what would really make you happy right now. You know that
I really didn't…appreciate, Mizuki." That's a word for it. "But if you wanted
to be back with him…and that's because he made you happy, I'd accept that." 
 
Yuuta’s jaw clenches, and he tries very hard not to throw a punch. “He broke up
with me. I’m doing a really good job of not just hating you for that, so don’t
bring it up.”
 
No one is hearing him today. "Yuuta. I'm telling you to get back together with
him." It's a shame that no one is hearing him today, because having to repeat
things like this makes him sick. "Invite him to the Nationals. You know that he
broke up with you because I got involved, not because he wanted to." 
 
“Wow,” Yuuta says, hearing the sarcasm in his own voice and not bothering to
hide it, “what a great idea. I’ll just go up to the guy that my brother had
beaten to a pulp and tell him that it’s okay if we start dating again. Oh,
except he hates me and won’t even talk to me.”
 
"I apologized to him today." That's a lie, but Yuuta doesn't need to know that.
He did talk to Mizuki, and that's what counts. "That's why I was late." 
 
Yuuta closes his mouth with an audible snap. “You...oh.” He swallows, but he
can’t help the naked hunger, the edge of pain in his voice when he asks, “Did
he say it was okay? Did he ask about me? Do you think he wants to get back
together?”
 
Ahhh, this is really going to make him sick. 
 
The fact that Yuuta sounds so ready for Mizuki to take him back makes Fuji's
stomach turn. Ugh. But this is what he's decided to go with, and he has to
stick with it now. "I told him what bakery you like in Kanagawa. Don't be
surprised if he invites you to go with him some time." Fuji sighs, leaning back
onto his hands. "So invite him to Nationals and see what happens. I bet he'll
go with you, you know he'd love a chance to collect everyone's data." 
 
“True. He used to talk about it all the time, like it was a giant amusement
park or something….” Yuuta can’t help looking down at his phone, checking
almost frenetically for any missed messages. “Nothing yet...are you sure he’ll
say yes? I mean, he’s been kind of a hikikomori ever since, I don’t think he
wants anyone to see him like this…”
 
"Yuuta," Fuji says gently, and terribly full of fake patience, "he'll say yes.
Give him a little bit, though, because you know he's--" An idiotic pissy bitch.
"--high strung."
 
Yuuta exhales, sitting back on his heels. He’s nearly vibrating now, and it
seems as if the dark circles under his eyes have vanished with the relief
tinged with excitement. “I don’t--what should I do, I mean, I’ve only—” He cuts
himself off, giving his brother a wary look. “I probably shouldn’t ask you.”
 
"You can ask, I don't mind." Why not add to his torture for the day? 
 
"Fuji-sempai, where'd you throw my bag?" 
 
Fuji doesn't bat an eye when Echizen wanders his way back into his bedroom,
mussed and damp and still barely clothed. "Oh, here, Echizen." He slides off of
the bed, scooping up the kid's shirt, hat, and tennis bag. 
 
"Thanks," is the half-yawned response before Echizen slowly, methodically pads
his way from the room once more, signaling an end to that love affair. 
 
Fuji flops back down onto the bed, smiling. "You were saying?" 
 
Yuuta scowls at him. “Last time I tried talking to you about this kind of
thing…” He lets that hang in the air. His brother knows what happened.
 
"I promise I'll be good. Come on, Yuuta, please?" 
 
Yuuta huffs out a breath, and still gives him a glare. “How do you...I mean, I
know you’ve been with like, a lot of guys, right?”
 
"Mm. A lot." Fuji's head tilts. "What about it?" 
 
“Dunno how you can be so casual about it,” Yuuta says under his breath, “but
whatever. The point is, how do you…” He bites his lip. “How do you re-date
someone? Like, go back to the beginning, or start where you left off? Do I have
to, you know, wait for it again?”
 
Ooh, boy. That's out of his realm of expertise. Fuji hesitates, thinking, and
tries to pretend this isn't about Mizuki at all. "I think…probably, you don't
have to wait? I mean, probably, you should wait to see how he's acting. But
see, this is why make-up sex is a thing!" He knows that much. "Maybe that'll
just happen right off the bat and it won't be awkward at all." 
 
“Really? That would be good. I just...I mean, if you’re right, and he does want
to get back together...I don’t want it to be awkward.” When things are awkward,
Mizuki gets angry. And weird. Weirder. “Am I supposed to do something to make
it different?”
 
"You probably should never talk about me," Fuji says, thinking happily back to
how terrified Mizuki had looked at different intervals. "Yeah. That would be
for the best." 
 
“To be perfectly honest,” Yuuta says, looking his brother dead in the eyes,
“it’s not like I usually talk about you during sex.”
 
"I was just talking about in general, but okay," Fuji cheerfully says. "That's
good to know, too." 
 
“What do you mean, that’s good to know?” Yuuta demands. “You’re the one that’s
a brocon!”
 
"Only in the sense that I want to always make sure you're happy and safe! Don't
worry, Yuuta, I'd never be a weird pervert or anything like that with you." 
 
Yuuta rolls his eyes, but he relaxes onto the bed a little more. “God. I
haven’t come in here to ask you about this stuff...I mean, before Mizuki. In a
really long time, you know?” It’s not as if their parents had been all that
eager to have “the talk.”
 
"I know. But you can always ask me whatever you want," Fuji says, leaning
sideways to flop against Yuuta's shoulder a bit. "I'm not going to lie, I do
know a lot about sex." 
 
“The way you say that,” Yuuta mumbles, though he doesn’t exactly make a move to
push his brother away. “You make it sound like you’ve done half of Tokyo or
something, Aniki.”
 
"Oh, no, not that much. I don't remember all the people I've slept with,
though, so I guess there's a lot." 
 
“Huh? How can you….what do you mean, you don’t remember? The last time I
checked, you remember every tennis game you ever played.” Yuuta shifts, trying
to help his common sense win out over his curiosity, and failing miserably.
“How many were, uh, guys?”
 
"Sex is different, though." Fuji plops his chin atop Yuuta's shoulder,
thinking. "Most. Three quarters? I like guys more because it's more of a
challenge. Yuuta, you're so cute, when did your shoulders get this broad?" 
 
“Huh? I dunno. I mean, I guess we don’t spend a lot of time together anymore.”
It’s his own fault. He knows it is, but it’s probably not going to change any
time soon. 
 
Mizuki says his shoulders are broad, too, says it when he’s gripping them and
spinning him over, pressing him down to the bed with hot kisses on the back of
his neck—
 
Yuuta clears his throat, and shifts slightly. Yeah, nothing to see here. “I
didn’t even realize you were hooking up with anyone before Taka-san. I guess I
don’t really notice things all that well.”
 
You never notice anything. And this is why Yuuta needs to be protected. He's
just a baby, really. Fuji sighs a little, pressing his cheek against Yuuta's
shoulder. "I usually don't bring them home,so you might not have noticed. I
mean, unless they're Neesan's boyfriends. Sometimes, they like me and that
happens."
 
Yuuta’s eyes widen. “Seriously? Aniki, that’s horrible! What if she finds out?
Would—you wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” No, he reasons, he’s safe. “I
mean, you hate Mizuki-san.”
 
Fuji raises his eyebrows. "She knows, and doesn't care. It's not like I
encourage it or anything. Don't worry, though, Mizuki's safe."
 
“Oh, good. Because…” Ugh, this is the moment of truth. Yuuta takes in a deep
breath, and admits, “Mizuki-san has...a thing for you. I mean, a weird thing. I
thought maybe you should know.” God, his brother is going to hate him.
 
"Ah. Well, that's…" Oh, god, he can't fake this. He can't fake this. "Yeah, I
kind of figured that out awhile ago. It's all right, I just ignore it." 
 
Yuuta lets out the breath he’d been holding. “Oh, good. I mean, he’s...I mean,
it’s like….I know we’re not dating anymore--I mean, I want to, and I hope
you’re right and he still does--but he’s basically the only guy I’ve ever met
that you either haven’t done or who isn’t in love with you.”
 
"Yuuta," Fuji patiently says, resting a hand upon his arm. "No one really loves
me. But I have had sex with most of the guys you know, yes." 
 
“God,” Yuuta mutters, and he knows it’s true. “Who haven’t you? I mean, besides
Tezuka. And me.”
 
"You just have to rub in the Tezuka thing, don't you…" Fuji sighs, and slowly,
he flops backwards, landing in a heap on his back. "Seiki, for one. I don't get
in the middle of Inui and Kaidou's weird drama, and Momo is boring…"
 
“That’s like, three. Three guys I know. And Tezuka. Four. And Mizuki-san.”
 
Oh, god, Yuuta can't even count. Let's ignore that. "Well, I haven't slept with
anyone on your team. Does that make you feel better?"
 
Yuuta frowns, thinking. “Kind of? I mean, you might have fun. Captain Akazawa's
pretty hot.”
 
"Eh. He and his doubles partner have a thing, seems rude to intrude." Fuji
shrugs. "Weren't you going to ask me for sex advice instead of the names of
everyone I've slept with? Because I can tell you right now, I literally don't
know all of them so this is kind of pointless." 
 
Yuuta’s face flushes. Even if his brother is letting him, it’s still kind of
weird. “Yeah, okay. I just...you do both, right? Top and, uh, bottom?” Yeah,
his face is going to catch fire at this rate.
 
"Yep, both. I'd prefer the former," Fuji wistfully says, "but when you look
like a girl, that's easier said than done. I think that's a Japanese thing…"
 
Yuuta has no idea what his brother is talking about, but instinct tells him
that might just be for the best. “Yeah, anyway. The thing is, what if,
like...like, if you’re on the, on the b-bottom, let’s say, just for argument’s
sake...what do you do? I mean, you’re just just supposed to lie there, right?”
 
Oh, dear. Fuji just stares back at him sadly. "Ah. No. You know, Yuuta, you
don't just have to be on your back when someone's topping you. Just the other
day, I had Taka-san tied up and rode him like a pony, for example!" 
 
A strangled noise forces its way out of Yuuta’s throat, and he nods dumbly. “O-
okay,” he stammers, “I’ll try to, uh, keep that in mind. Um, but what if you’re
not usually on your...what if that’s not how you usually do it?”
 
"Okay, Yuuta," Fuji says, as patient as always as he pushes himself up onto his
elbows, "you're going to have to tell me how you usually like it. I really
don't care if it's face down or against a wall or bent into something from the
Kama Sutra, but I can't give you real advice unless you tell me what you're
into. It's not like I'm going to repeat it, you know. I don't want anyone to
have that kind of advantage over you." 
 
“I don’t see how anyone could use this…” Yuuta trails off as his face attempts
to spontaneously combust from embarrassment. He’s pretty sure that can happen.
He read it in a manga once. “Uh...f-facedown.” He trails off on the word,
ending so quietly it’s hardly audible. Whatever, his brother has weirdly good
hearing.
 
Damn it, Fuji was hoping that Mizuki was lying about that. "Mmkay." How can his
little brother's favorite be his own least favorite sex position ever? There
was an adoption somewhere. "Then…ahh, that's a tough one, you know. I mean, you
can be really squirmy and stuff--ummm, do you like being tied up? That's
something new to bring in!"
 
Yuuta’s breath catches slightly at that, even if he makes a mental note to
never, never look his brother in the eyes again. Yes, looking down is an
awesome idea. “Never asked before,” he mumbles. “Sounds...good, though.”
 
"Mm, see! There's something. Ah, but honestly, why are you worried?" Fuji leans
over, poking his hip. "You don't have to up the ante after you break up or
anything. Just have fun." 
 
For just a second, Yuuta leans into that touch, tiny and fleeting as it is, and
mumbles something completely unintelligible.
 
"Eh? What was that, Yuuta?" 
 
Yuuta clears his throat for a solid three seconds, then amends his original
comment. “I mean, uh, what if I...want him to? But he’s, he’s not, uh...he
doesn’t…” Dammit, if only some of those dreams didn’t start just like this, it
wouldn’t be so stressful.
 
"Oh, is Mizuki super vanilla? That's funny. I guess he was a virgin when he
slept with you for the first time, wasn't he." That's still pure gold, really.
"Just tell him what you want in plain Japanese. If you have a hard time saying
it to his face, write him a cute note or something. You're so cute, Yuuta,
he'll really love it." He wishes he were dead and he hopes Mizuki has the worst
sex ever.
 
Yuuta turns his head, and moves around so he can bury it in his brother’s
shoulder. Given the difference in their heights, it’s not that easy.
“‘S’embarrassing to talk about this kind of thing,” he mutters, “but at least
you’re not making it weird. Thanks.”
 
Fuji tries to feel the rage he felt a few hours ago about Mizuki and losing at
tennis and everything else surrounding it. Nope, that's gone. Instead, he
melts, and does so in the form of grabbing Yuuta tight and clinging for dear
life. Ahhh, yes, he can die happy now, Yuuta getting close to him on purpose,
Yuuta snuggling with him, Yuuta's so cute--"It's fine," Fuji happily breathes,
nuzzling his face into Yuuta's hair. "I just want you to be happy, you know?"
 
“Aniki,” Yuuta says, muffled into his brother’s shoulder, “you’re kinda
suffocating me. Just a little.”
 
"That's impossible, you're so much bigger and stronger than I am now! Ahh,
you're so cute, Yuuta, just let me hug you a little longer--"
 
For once, Yuuta gives up and just lets him. He even wraps his arms around his
brother, just for a minute. “Just don’t be weird about this later,” he says
into Fuji’s hair. “I’m just...having a bad week.”
 
"For once, we have something in common," Fuji sighs, pretty sure that he'd melt
off of the bed if Yuuta wasn't holding him back now. "But you beat me in
tennis, so that's something good, right?" 
 
“Yeah. I guess.” Yuuta squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to think of how his
brother had looked, shaken and terrified, on that tennis court. “I didn’t want
you to get upset or anything. That wasn’t what I wanted.”
 
"I'm just a bad loser." Fuji stuffs his face down into Yuuta's neck. "I was
going to get upset no matter what. I'm glad you won, though; you've been
working hard, and really deserve it." 
 
Yuuta pulls away slightly, breaking the embrace to try and study his brother’s
face. “That’s not why you lost, right? I mean, I know you said it was real,
but...Aniki, you don’t lose. I’ll believe you if you say it was fake. I won’t
even be mad.” He will, probably, but not that mad.
 
Nooo, don't stop cuddling me for the sake of this conversation. Fuji promptly
wriggles close again, peering up through his bangs. "I lose. I'm know I'm not
where I should be in my game right now. You know I almost went to a tiebreak
against Rikkai's Kirihara. Really not good."
 
Abruptly, Yuuta remembers when he’d first started going to Seigaku--how he’d
been so inferior to his genius brother, been so unable to do anything on the
court--not an awful player, just not nearly as good. His brother had helped him
then, had stayed after, had volunteered a hundred times when Yuuta had pushed
him away. “I’ll help you,” he says, hands firm on his brother’s shoulders.
“I’ll practice with you all through Nationals, whenever you want.”
 
Fuji blinks, then sort of dissolves. Oh, no. Yuuta's way too cute, and that's a
problem. He has a hard time believing that Yuuta was yelling about how much he
hated him just a day ago, especially when he's being this cute. "…Okay," he
quietly says. He really doesn't care if it does nothing to help out his game--
Yuuta wants to play with him again. "I really appreciate it, Yuuta." 
 
“Don’t go getting all weird about it. This is going to help out my game, too,”
Yuuta warns him. “Then when I get to high school, we’ll be rivals again!”
Still, it feels different--less like charity, more like brothers just helping
each other, now that he’s beaten him. He gives a wry smile. “Honestly, now that
it’s over, I don’t even know why it was all that important for me to beat you.
It’s not like I wanted to hurt you or anything, Aniki.”
 
"This is why you're so cute." Fuji reaches up, squishing Yuuta's cheeks before
he can help himself. "Really, really cute. Don't worry, you didn't hurt me. I'm
just a sore loser, it's nothing personal. Remember that time I placed second at
the U-13 Regionals in figure skating and how I nearly threw my skates at the
judges? I still think those scores were rigged." He had been so pretty, it was
a crime. 
 
“You did throw them,” Yuuta points out dryly. “Neesan just caught them. Ah, I
don’t suppose you think she might make raspberry pie tonight?” he asks, hopeful
about food now that things are a little less weird.
 
"The point was that I wanted to cut someone, though…" Fuji mumbles before
releasing Yuuta. "I can ask her. She'll probably do it if you promise to spend
the night." 
 
Yuuta hesitates. “Um...I was going to call Mizuki-san first,” he admits, “and
see if he wanted to, I don’t know...if he wanted that ticket, at least, I
guess. If he wants to see me tonight--I mean, he probably won’t, but you said
he might…”
 
Foiled again, but this time, it's all his own doing. "Call him," Fuji hears
himself say even though he's mostly focused on fighting back the urge to grind
his teeth. "I'll talk to Neesan and see if she'll bake you something either
way."
 
“Great!” He might be a little too excited about that pie. Whatever, it’s the
world’s best pie, and he’ll fight anyone who says different. He picks the phone
out of his pocket, heart thudding hard as he does, and asks anxiously before he
dials, “You’re sure he’ll say yes, right? I mean...there are so many other guys
he could be with…”
 
Not big, strong guys that want him to bone them into a mattress."He'll
definitely say yes," Fuji confirms, sliding off of the bed. "Good luck, Yuuta.
I'll give you your privacy."
 
Because I literally can't listen to any part of this conversation without
wanting to die.
 
***** Atobe & Tezuka *****
Tezuka stays in Kyushu for as long as humanly possible.
 
He knows, theoretically, that he should check in with his family and his team
as soon as he arrives back in Tokyo. Theories, however, don't always coincide
perfectly with what he wants, and that's why he ultimately ends up at one (of
many) of Atobe's mansions.
 
It's to check on the status of a few things, he tells himself.
 
It's not because he misses his so-called boyfriend after three weeks of being
away. 
 
Immediately upon being seen in, there's Beat, attempting to leap up into his
arms as if he's a pomeranian instead of an afghan hound. That, at least, hasn't
changed a bit. 
 
It isn’t more than a moment after the dog leaps up that a strong young man
follows, leaping nearly from the doorframe into Tezuka’s arms, only not
tackling him by an extremely slim margin. “Kunimitsu! Only one person makes
Beat make that bark, I knew it was you!”
 
Arms full of dog and boyfriend, Tezuka rather feels like the-husband-returned-
home-from-magical-adventure, a la trashy fantasy novel number five. Does that
make Atobe his excitable wife? Probably. "Your sixth sense never fails to
astound," he grunts, setting the dog down (it doesn't help, Beat starts
climbing him) in favor of actually properly catching and holding Atobe. "Yes,
it's me, Keigo." 
 
Atobe gently lifts (and tosses) the dog on his merry way before claiming his
prize, quite happily leaping into Tezuka’s arms before he realizes. “Scheiss,
your arm, I’m scattered by your arrival,” he says in dismay, jumping down and
picking Tezuka up instead. “Did I break it? Are you ruined? I’ll provide for
you the rest of your life, my beloved rival.”
 
"Keigo, put me down." The height difference doesn't exactly make it easy for
Atobe to ever lift him, anyway, even if Tezuka has been told on every occasion
that he weighs 'nothing.' "My arm is fine--that was the point of all that
recovery time, you know."
 
Atobe does as he’s bid, though he can’t resist dipping and kissing his
boyfriend just once. What kind of a romantic would that make him, anyway? “And
it was quite successful, I see! Excellent. You’ll need it for when you face
Hyoutei in the finals. I won’t hear of anyone but you leading our biggest
rival.”
 
Tezuka straightens up with a huff, using the need to shove his glasses up as an
excuse to hide the brief flush that cuts across his face. "Damn," he mutters.
"That's right. You did get a ticket into Nationals. I believe I was tuning out
your presence at the drawing in the midst of the testosterone explosion." 
 
“It was quite remarkable. So rude to say you forgot me, Kunimitsu,” Atobe
chides, sliding an arm around Tezuka’s waist to lead him to the back of the
manor. “I was using all my powers of concentration to keep my hands and eyes
off you. My god, you do tan up nicely.”
 
"You aren't anywhere near our block, though; enjoy facing Rikkai," Tezuka
deadpans, letting Atobe haul him along and ignoring the comment about his tan.
Spending the summer in Kyushu is not exactly kind. "The more I've looked at the
block that Seigaku is in, the more I'm concerned, especially after hearing that
Echizen has been skipping practice, and Fuji has been losing practice
matches." 
 
Atobe’s eyebrow climbs slightly at the news about Fuji. “Worried, Kunimitsu?
You shouldn’t be. If anything, your block looks like a snooze, and you don’t
need to worry about Ryouma.” He winces briefly. “Shit, is that mentioning it? I
know I’m not to do that.”
 
"The fact that it's so easy is what concerns me." Drawn into Atobe's room,
Tezuka is quick to collapse, flopping down into the nearest chair. "Tell me
that you've been helping him practice tennis and I really, really don't care
what else has been going on." 
 
Atobe wastes absolutely no time in climbing into the chair with Tezuka. Yes,
this is perfect. Tezuka is horrendously bony, and he’s grown to miss that like
an phantom limb when he’s gone. Fuck it all, he’s definitely in love, how
quaint. “We play tennis the vast majority of the time,” he assures Tezuka,
slowly winding himself around the other boy. “He’s improving by leaps and
bounds, really. I’ve rarely seen such drive.”
 
That's all Tezuka needs to hear, really. He exhales a long sigh, tension that
he wasn't even aware of leaving his body the moment that Atobe curls up on and
around him. He's a furnace, and Tezuka has decided that's a very good thing,
especially when he can sort of…curl up and tangle his arms and legs around
Atobe and keep him close with no hope of escape. "Did you ever tell him that
the person he played and lost to was Yukimura?" 
 
“No.” Atobe wishes briefly that he had suckers. Anything to keep Kunimitsu
curled up with him is a plus, after only a few weeks away. Christ, he’s turning
into a lovelorn maiden. How trite. “He has no idea I even met his opponent.
Knowing how shaken he already is, I thought it inappropriate to make him even
more fearful by revealing the name of his future rival. No reason to scare him
senseless when it can be a figment of his imagination, or a wandering tennis
monk for all he knows.”
 
"He's going to figure it out at Nationals, though." Tezuka promptly shoves his
face into Atobe's hair, which is always sort of mystifyingly soft, no matter
how much dye or bleach he goes through. He also always smells good, and that's
something that Tezuka didn't realize he missed until right about now. "If he
ends up losing his mind when he finally sees Yukimura," he mutters, "I'm
blaming you." 
 
“Look, Kunimitsu,” Atobe says, winding even his fingers around Tezuka, unable
to sacrifice any contact whatsoever after three bloody difficult weeks, “he can
either be terrified for a long period of time or a short period of time. Take
your pick. God, you smell good.”
 
Tezuka opens his mouth to complain about Atobe's handling of the whole Yukimura
vs. Echizen situation anew, but gives up. It's strange to talk about one's
teammate, protege, and more-or-less adopted little brother when wrapped up
around one's boyfriend. "We're somewhat disgusting right now, I think," he
settles upon instead with a sigh. 
 
“I agree wholeheartedly.” Atobe tucks his face into Tezuka’s...neck, probably,
and inhales deeply. “Mmm….I had thought to tackle you and have you on the
ground as soon as you got home,” he says, somewhat ruefully, “but all I can
think of is making sure you don’t ever leave again. Give me a few minutes to
sort of absorb you.”
 
"…I don't mind being absorbed." His glasses are getting in the way of shoving
his face against Atobe's skin, so off they go, tucked away onto a side table
before Tezuka winds himself right back around the other boy. "I probably smell
like suntan lotion, don't get too into that." 
 
“No, I’m keeping you away from the sun. You’re not allowed to crisp. You just
smell sort of...outdoorsy.” Atobe’s mouth is brushing across skin, so perhaps
that counts as a kiss. It’s close enough, just another extension of how he’s
pretty sure there’s no such thing as close enough. “Name a place. I’ll take you
there after Nationals. Sky’s the limit. Actually, no, we can go to space if you
want, I have a guy.”
 
Tezuka almost laughs at the ridiculousness of that. "I've been gone for too
long to enjoy the idea of space," he dryly says, finally finding a good
position where he can sort of…tuck Atobe up against his chest and underneath
his chin and properly wrap all four limbs around him. Yes, good. "I just want
to be somewhere quiet and low-stress for awhile." 
 
As much as Atobe enjoys being able to lead Tezuka through wonders of the world
(and of, ah, private time), he does enjoy being tucked up like a particularly
cherished package. “Personally, I’d prefer not to leave this spot for a good
week or two,” he says, muffled against Tezuka’s chest. “Bathroom breaks
permitted.”
 
"Same," is the quiet admission into Atobe's hair. "But Nationals start
tomorrow, and that means noise and stress for another solid week. We're going
to watch Rikkai's match tomorrow. If you take Hyoutei to watch Shitenhouji's,
I'll trade information with you." 
 
“Perfect.” Everything about having Tezuka back is, anyway. Hell, Atobe tells
him as much. “You being here is perfect, Kunimitsu. I expect you to take
responsibility for domesticating me. I was quite a rake.”
 
"Yes. Now you're something of a housewife." 
 
Atobe sighs, and gently nips at the skin closest to his teeth. “Rude. What does
that make you, my dashing husband returned home from the wars?” 
 
Stop it, he thinks in horror at his slowly-rising penis.
 
Tezuka gives into the urge to pinch Atobe's ass. It's honestly nothing short of
hilarious that Atobe apparently likes being a housewife. "Probably. Is it Atobe
Keiko now?" 
 
Atobe surrenders. “As long as you don’t think I’m going to let you top or
anything,” he says, huffing out a breath into Tezuka’s chest. “Honestly that
whole dichotomy is so Japanese.”
 
"Literally nothing would make my penis softer." 
 
Atobe’s laugh is more of a startled snort. “That’s something, at least. I’m
certainly keeping you, my prize of war.” He nuzzles his nose into Tezuka’s
chest (hairless, still so odd). “Don’t you have any desires apart from my
glorious self? Anything you might be...more hesitant to reveal? I know you read
those novels, you must have ideas.”
 
"Don't you already know enough about how weird I am?" Tezuka mutters, though
he's mostly unfazed by this line of questioning. "Honestly, Keigo--excuse me,
Keiko. Your 'glorious self' is more than enough to handle on most days." 
 
Atobe grabs the nearest skin he can find and deals it a firm pinch. “Is that
it?” he demands, still laughing a bit. “You want to see me in some sort of
Yamato Nadeshiko getup? I can’t say nothing would make my penis softer, but
that’s fairly high on the list of things about which I’m firmly ambivalent…”
 
Tezuka rolls his eyes, and frees one arm to smack at Atobe's hand. "Pass.
Definite pass. You are about as far from a Yamato Nadeshiko as one can imagine,
and that ideal has never appealed to me, anyway." 
 
Atobe grabs that hand, then brings it to his mouth for a kiss, and a delicate
nibble on the end of one fingertip. “What ideals do appeal to you, my sweet
war-prince? I think you’ll find me quite accommodating. I wouldn’t want you to
get bored, after all. Choose anything, we’ll consider it a coming-home
present.” He’s missed Tezuka so much, he’d probably even let him top.
 
Probably.
 
Well, the sentiment is there, but fortunately, it won’t be put to the test.
 
"Sweet war-prince," Tezuka just has to repeat, deadpan, though he's starting to
get a little more than distracted by the way Atobe's mouth is near his hands.
"…You know most of everything, anyway. Everything else requires far too much
work for today." 
 
“All I know,” Atobe argues, giving one of those long, elegant fingers a flick
of his tongue, “is that you like it when I press you into the mattress, stuff
you full, call you filthy names, and treat you as if your only purpose in life
is to keep my cock warm. Does that sound about accurate?”
 
"…Do you have to list it all like that…" It starts making his mind click off,
and that's not conducive for conversation. Hopefully, Atobe realizes that, even
when he sort of starts to melt down into the chair, fingers curling. 
 
Shit, he’s gone too far. He never gets any interesting information out of
Tezuka this way, even if he does get just about everything else he wants out of
it, more often than not.
 
Oh, well.
 
Atobe’s lips curl into a smile, and he slides his hands up Tezuka’s torso,
lingering on his nipples, tugging and pinching. That usually does as well as
anything to get him started. “What if I made you pierce these, Kunimitsu?” he
breathes, shifting slightly, mouth moving against Tezuka’s neck. “I could put a
chain through them, and lead you around like a pretty pet.”
 
He might have been leading an active fantasy life while Tezuka was away. It’s
just possible.
 
Apparently, Atobe realizes and doesn't care. That's fine, too, Tezuka absently
decides, shivering and jerking with those first few pinches. The less he has to
talk about his weird fantasies, the better. Atobe's are better, anyway.
"…Whatever you want," is the groan to follow, the mental image accompanying
that making his toes curl as he slides a hand up to cling at the back of
Atobe's shirt. 
 
“That’s right,” Atobe breathes, not even bothering to tear Tezuka’s clothes
off, not when he can get what he wants by rearranging slightly. He leans down,
grabbing Tezuka’s hand and bringing it up between his legs. “Whatever I want.
That’s what I’m going to do with you, Kunimitsu. Touch it, show me how much
you’ve been thinking about it. Any humiliating dreams, down in Kyuushuu?”
 
As much as he doesn't particularly like anyone touching his cock, Tezuka would
be the worst liar ever to say that it didn't turn him on almost more than
anything to have Atobe just grab his hand like that and shove it against his
own. Yes, that's a lot of blood rushing south in his veins right now. "Every
other night," he weakly admits, swallowing hard when his fingers tentatively
curl around the hard line of Atobe's cock, feeling it pulse underneath the
press of his palm. "I don't remember them, but…they're only ever about you." 
 
Tezuka is so unfair. Everything about him sends Atobe into a frenzy, even when
he’s quite sure he’d just wanted to cuddle today. “You’ll be the death of me,”
he groans, and probably shouldn’t sound quite so happy about it. “When you lie
on your dreadfully uncomfortable futon and touch yourself,” he purrs, nipping
at Tezuka’s earlobe, tugging it in his teeth, “do you think about me inside
you? I can give you a toy to wear when you miss me, Kunimitsu. It’s not as good
as the real thing, but I’m not sure anything but this—” punctuated with a
thrust of his hips into Tezuka’s hand— “will satisfy you anymore.”
 
Tezuka is going to die. 
 
Those teeth on his skin, Atobe's voice in his ear, the way his cock feels hot
and heavy in his hand even through his slacks--yes, he's going to die. He
shudders, melting a little more, the compulsion to grab at Atobe's cock and
squeeze is strong and impossible to resist as he throws a long leg over Atobe's
hip, trying to keep him close in the event he thinks about moving away. "I…" It
always takes a moment to think of words when he's this glazed over, when Atobe
keeps whispering those things into his ear and making his brain click off. He
licks his lips, anxious, too hard to think straight at all. "I can't…unless
it's you, I can't get off." Embarrassing to admit, god, but it's true. "Any
time that I'm…away from you--I just--" 
 
The first sound that Atobe lets out is completely unintelligible, the next
morphing into a groan of “Kunimitsu—”
 
He’s done. The switch has been flipped, and the cuddling is a thing of the
past. Atobe grabs Tezuka firmly and throws him onto the bed, leaving his own
clothes on but ripping Tezuka’s off, tossing them over his shoulder before he
shoves Tezuka down into the bed and pins him there. “It’s because you’re trying
to be so good for me,” he growls, one hand around Tezuka’s neck (gently), the
other grabbing his thighs to spread them apart. “You know you don’t deserve to
get off unless you’re getting me off, isn’t that it, my lovely pet?”
 
That's the last little switch in his own mind, flipped and locked into place
with the key thrown right down the drain. Tezuka can't breathe and that has
nothing to do with the hand around his neck, which does nothing to hold him
down but does everything to make him melt into a trembling puddle. His cock
aches, straining between his thighs, dripping onto his stomach, hard to the
point that his eyes cross from it and every brush of Atobe's hands on his skin
is torture. 
 
When was the last time that he got off and rememberedit? Wet dreams don't
count. Tezuka's voice cracks on a whimper when he thinks of answering, and he
gives up, desperately lurching upward, grabbing at Atobe, too far gone to think
at all. "Please," he chokes out, clinging, his nails scratching a little in the
process. "Keigo, I need it, I can't--" 
 
“I know.” The words are soothing for all his dominance, and Atobe’s hands are
more sure and practiced than they are gentle. The hand around Tezuka’s neck
looks good, makes him sigh. “I’m going to get you a collar, Kunimitsu,” he
says, though he won’t do anything of the kind and they both know it. “Then
everyone will know who you belong to. Open your legs, show me what’s mine.”
 
The downside to having a big bed (and he has a bed that could comfortably sleep
a few couples with wild sleeping habits) is that there are no nightstands
terribly close. He grimaces at the pause, but rolls off briefly, rummaging in
the stand until he finds the bottle he’s looking for, using it to slick up his
fingers and cock.
 
The brief pause is enough to help Tezuka remember how to breathe again, at
least. He shuts his eyes, his chest heaving as he just lets his legs fall open,
trying not to think about the idea of that collar and what it would mean,
because that just makes his cock ache and that hurts now, to the point he has
to blink away tears.
 
"…It's been like this for weeks." He's pathetic, he knows it, but nothing
works. Something's probably wrong with him, Tezuka knows, but… "I hate being
away from you." 
 
This time, it’s Atobe who has to remember how to breathe.
 
He swallows hard, looking down between Tezuka’s legs, and his own stomach
churns in sympathy. “Christ, Kunimitsu, you’re blue.” He reaches out to touch,
but no--that’s not what he needs. As much as Atobe can’t imagine being so hard
for so long, a little handjob isn’t what Tezuka needs right now. To be honest,
he’ll probably come the first second they’re together anyway.
 
“I’m not going to get you ready,” he groans, adding more lube to his cock,
rubbing it around until it catches on Tezuka’s hole. The tightness of it almost
makes him pass out, and he bites his lip, looking down into Tezuka’s face.
“Such a slut, Kunimitsu,” he pants, and pushes. “I bet that’s all it takes for
you, isn’t it?” God, he hopes so.
 
What's left of coherent thought soon clicks off, and that's for the best. 
 
Tezuka's never been bad at this part, at least, knowing his body as well as he
does. He's better at it when Atobe takes the time to make everything slick and
ready, but this is fine, too. More than fine, because god, Atobe's cock is big
and thick and hot when it pushes inside him, even just those first few inches
and--
 
And he just gives up. 
 
Tezuka doesn't feel himself come as much as he does feel his body gratefully
give in. Dimly, Tezuka realizes that he makes a grab for Atobe's back and
clings to him when he shudders down to his core, his voice breaking on half a
dozen whimpers when Atobe's in him even a little bit and he's coming all over
his stomach  in long, desperate pulses. All that trembling doesn't really stop,
even once he's sagging into the bed, his legs splayed as wide as he can manage
to just let Atobe fuck him, and Tezuka isn't sure if he'll ever really breathe
normally again. Good. 
 
“There we go,” Atobe breathes. God, but Seigaku is full of whores, he thinks
wryly, between this and the way Ryouma goes whimperingly boneless whenever he’s
all the way inside. Irritably, he shoves the brat from his mind. Nothing could
be better than what he has here, than Tezuka Kunimitsu’s ultimate surrender.
 
He wraps his arms around Tezuka, kissing his face over and over again as he
presses in deep, letting him ride out the shocks before he starts moving. This
is more than usual, more intense than usual, and Atobe doesn’t want to hurt
him, after all. “I can finish another way,” he offers, and there’s not an ounce
of hesitation in it. “Is it too much?” His hands are gentle now, softly
touching caresses, and he holds himself as still as he can while still buried
hilt-deep.
 
Tezuka's head shakes slowly side to side, chest still heaving, still blinking
away tears, still not quite hearing everything, but the insinuation of it being
too much--"Too much," he agrees somewhat hoarsely, but he grabs at Atobe with
shaky hands all the same, his thighs coming up to squeeze at the other boy's
waist, needy, desperate no matter how he shakes. "But good. Don't stop,
Keigo." 
 
“God, I love you,” Atobe gasps in English, eyes shutting as he moves. He can at
least give Tezuka a little while to adjust, rocking gently inside him,
littering his shoulders with little bites, holding him close. It’s the most
intimate position they’ve ever fucked in, and Atobe can feel every breath.
“Never going to let it get this far again,” he promises, not quite sure of
which language he’s using. “Just call me--I’ll be there with the jet, I’ll take
care of you, you know I treat you right. Feeling good yet, Kunimitsu?”
 
A good portion of that's in English, but that's fine. Tezuka's mind is working
a little more now that he's not so painfully wound up, and he's spent a good
portion of his free time in the past year learning the language better for a
reason. "Always feels good," he mumbles, admittedly in Japanese (slurred,
sticking to his tongue), but that's because even if he can understand, he
doesn't trust a lick of anything that comes out of his mouth in moments like
these. Atobe presses in long, and deep, and Tezuka just shudders, his back
arching with that movement, toes curling against the bedsheets when he writhes
down onto Atobe's cock, his hands splaying against the other boy's spine. Yes,
it's definitely starting to feel good. "K…Keigo…please--" Take care of me.
 
“Shh, I’ve got you, Kunimitsu.” Atobe laughs, rocking gently into Tezuka’s
body, filling him as far as he can go with every easy thrust, and his hands
come up to caress Tezuka’s face. “You need a shorter name. Something easier to
say in the heat of things.” 
 
Tezuka is tight as a vice, but if Atobe has one thing going for him, it’s his
self-control, his stamina.
 
Also, he hasn’t exactly been chaste while Tezuka’s away.
 
That control lets him stop to kiss Tezuka, slow and long, nibbling on his lip
as he surges inside him. “I’ve got you. Just let go and enjoy.”
 
"Sorry," Tezuka mutters, his hands curling against Atobe's back when he feels
how deep he's in. It doesn't matter if he's still feeling sore and overused and
done, his cock wants to be hard again, and it's making a valiant effort to make
that happen. 
 
"Like the way you say it, though," he mindlessly admits, his fingers sliding
up, grabbing at Atobe's hair when he's kissed, when Atobe just stays inside of
him and Tezuka can squirm down onto his cock as much as he likes. Missed not
hearing you say it, no one else uses that name, says it like that. 
 
There’s nothing about Tezuka that doesn’t do him in, and Atobe is gleefully
lost. Every deep kiss is better than the last, and Atobe makes them last. “Take
your time,” he whispers, and thrusts in deep, holding there for a minute to let
Tezuka writhe. “I’m not letting you go until you’re fully satisfied, even if
you beg.”
 
There’s a need for more lube after several minutes, though, and Atobe pulls out
just long enough to slick himself again before sliding home, and god, it feels
like home. 
 
He wavers for a moment--is this really the time for confessions?--and admits
into Tezuka’s shoulder, “Not one other person calls me by my name. Just you.”
His father refers to him as my heir if at all, Mother calls him the abominable
KeiKei, and to everyone else he’s either Atobe-sama or Bocchan. 
 
God, he’s lost in Tezuka.
 
That long, slick slide pulls the breath from Tezuka's lungs anew, and he melts
for a moment, his head lolling back, his fingers clutching at Atobe's
shoulders. "Good," he exhales in spite of himself, dragging a hand down Atobe's
spine. "Then it's just for me." 
 
Normally, he'd be far too embarrassed to say that, but god, who cares, he says
enough nonsense around Atobe anyway, and he's never been mocked, not even once.
"Keigo," Tezuka mumbles, a little mindless, lurching up to mouth a wet,
inaccurate kiss to Atobe's mouth. "If…if you turn over, I'll ride you." 
 
“Nn, Kunimitsu—” 
 
The word is broken as Atobe nods, strong arms grabbing Tezuka’s hips and
flipping them over. His first instinct is to sit up and help the other boy,
guide him up and down with every motion, but…
 
“I want to watch you.” Atobe rests back on his elbows, eyes drinking in the
sight of Tezuka, tanned and healthier than Atobe’s ever seen him, lithe form
glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, sticky already with one release, cock
hardening again as he moves. “Let me see you enjoy it. Take what you need.”
 
Normally, this makes Tezuka nervous. It doesn't let him just hide his face into
Atobe's shoulder or behind his own arm, nor does it give him the opportunity to
just melt and give up. Like this, though, Atobe's cock is even deeper inside of
him, and Tezuka shudders long and hard as he wriggles down, his thighs
trembling, bunching as he moves. 
 
The best is when he leans back just a little bit. Something about that makes
Atobe's cock press perfectly inside of him, and Tezuka jerks, biting his lip to
strangle down a groan, even though his cock twitches and throbs when he slides
a hand back, bracing it on one of Atobe's knees to better grind down like that
again, sweat trickling down his spine when his back arches.
 
Atobe is pretty sure that he used to have some kind of stamina.
 
One urgent wriggle from Tezuka, and all thoughts of that go out the window. His
mind shorts out briefly into static, and it’s with a strangled groan that he
manages not to just come immediately. It’s delicious torture to hold still, to
let Tezuka do as he wills, and the best part about it is that he gets to watch.
That, more than anything, makes it all worthwhile.
 
“You find something good, Kunimitsu?” he gasps, rolling his hips up again to
slide into Tezuka when he moves like that again. Atobe knows full well what it
is he’s found, and his eyes lid at the pressure around his cock, squeezing him
with every needy thrust. “Watching you--you’re going to make a mess—”
 
I’m going to make a mess, he thinks ruefully, hands clenching from the effort
of not simply grabbing Tezuka and slamming him down. It’s worth it, god, it’s
so fucking worth it.
 
There goes any and all attempts to keep his voice down. Atobe's hips rolling up
to meet him makes that long, drawn-out press against his prostate all the more
mind-numbing, and Tezuka's voice breaks on a breathy, mindless groan, his cock
dripping on Atobe's stomach now, no matter how much and how hard he came
before. 
 
The next long, aching grind of his hips down is enough to make his vision white
out briefly, and Tezuka can't think with the way that his body twitches and
shivers. All he can process is lurching forward briefly, just long enough to
grab at one of Atobe's hands, because if Atobe's not going to grab him,
Tezuka's going to do it himself--this time, drawn up to his mouth where his
lips wrap hungrily, desperately around a pair of Atobe's fingers as he wriggles
down as much of Atobe's cock as he can.
 
Well, it had been fun to watch Tezuka when he’d had that self-control. It was
nice while it lasted, Atobe reflects briefly, and curls his fingers on Tezuka’s
tongue, delving into his mouth and listening to the obscene noises that come
from his lips. 
 
That’s all it takes--that and a groan of, “Fuck, Kunimitsu—” are all he can
think before his other hand is on Tezuka’s waist, his hips snapping up to fill
Tezuka again and again. He lurches forward for leverage, and knows that his
fingers are carving finger-shaped bruises into pale flesh--and that both of
them like it that way. “Ride me hard,” he grunts, sliding his fingers entirely
into Tezuka’s mouth. “Come on, get me off, I’m so close, show me what you can
do—”
 
Tezuka's moans are sloppy around Atobe's fingers, and that's really the best
way for them to be. 
 
It was nice to find the right places to move that felt good to him, but
honestly, anything feels good with Atobe, especially like this. Tezuka lurches
forward and makes a solid grab at the bed's headboard, the leverage more than
enough when he plants his knees to grind down onto Atobe's cock, his breath
ragged and unsteady through his nose when he writhes down hard and insistent.
He doesn't really have to try. Every muscle bunches up like this without him
even thinking about it, and that makes his own eyes roll back and flutter shut,
every noise he makes muffled and wet and desperate. 
 
Tezuka is almost there--Atobe can read it in him, but he’s close himself, and
it’ll take more than physical closeness to get Tezuka there. That’s the thing
about Tezuka--he’s a cerebral creature, enough so that even he doesn’t know how
much, and getting him to open up and enjoy could have been one of the most
difficult things he’d ever done--except it isn’t.
 
It isn’t, because he understands Tezuka, and Tezuka trusts him.
 
Atobe leans up and grabs Tezuka’s hair, shoving him down to his back. “Your
legs must be cramping and aching by now,” he breathes, eyes alight as his hand
fists in that soft brown hair, yanking on it a bit. His hips flex, cock driving
deep inside Tezuka with every breath, and god, he’s so close. “I’m getting off
in you,” he continues, breath coming in pants against Tezuka’s ear as he slams
in hard. “Maybe I’ll finish you off after. Maybe I’ll just--make you walk
around dripping with your cock hard for a while.”
 
That thought is too much, and Atobe groans, head thunking down against Tezuka’s
chest when it finally rips its way out of him. He hasn’t come like this in
ages--since the last time he’d seen Tezuka--and the force of it shocks even
him.
 
Atobe knows him so well that it's just scary. 
 
Or it would be scary, if it were anyone else. With Atobe, it's never too far,
never really too much, and that's good, because if it were, Tezuka thinks he'd
die. He already feels pretty close to death when he feels Atobe spill, hot and
slick and so much that he can feel it dripping out of him when Atobe moves even
the slightest bit. That makes Tezuka's own breath stutter and catch up in his
chest, his back arch, his legs splay wide as he whimpers, lurching up just once
so that his cock slides against Atobe's stomach--and fuck, he's gone. 
 
It's different than the orgasm he had earlier--not digging into his very bones,
but intense to the point that he shudders and jerks long after that first wave.
Still just as good, still mind-numbing, still enough to make him a limp mess on
the bed afterwards, body decisively giving up. 
 
Atobe slumps over. It’s his turn to be noodles; he’s been awfully structured up
until now. “That’s that,” he slurs, probably in Japanese. “You feel better,
Kunimitsu? I can--if you need me again, I need six or seven minutes and an
energy bar.”
 
"No." It's petulant, and very slurred, and also, very content. One of Tezuka's
arms wraps around Atobe, thunking solidly against his back. "I'm done."
 
“Oh, thank the fucking lord.” That’s probably not Japanese, but swearing is
awful in Japanese, and the tone is pretty obvious. “w’time is it? Bedtime.” He
answers his own question, bedtime a definitive fact regardless of clock time.
 
"Bedtime," Tezuka dimly agrees--at least, for the moment. He needs to sleep
this off. Oishi can wait a few hours to know that he's coming home. His parents
can, too. Especially since his mind is nothing but static and a whole lot of
senseless, pointless things, like: "Why is your accent so nice." 
 
“Is it?” Atobe smiles against Tezuka’s chest. “Quite right. Mm, yours sounds
like your foreigner teacher was from somewhere in America, but it’s all mixed
up with German pronunciation on your ‘s’s. Truly charming.” If he uses the word
“lisp,” Tezuka might be offended, even though Atobe is honestly nothing but
charmed.
 
"Need to fix that," Tezuka mumbles, certain that he probably won't unless Atobe
stops calling it charming, and settles for slowly, unsteadily rolling them to
the side. "Turn around. Spoon." He can definitely speak three languages, his
current coherency in his native tongue is proof of that. 
 
“Fuck, yes,” Atobe groans, and turns around, wriggling immediately back against
Tezuka. No one is allowed to know he’s never the big spoon--no one.
 
Yes, good. Their bodies fit together perfectly this way, and Tezuka immediately
curls up around him, legs tangling and an arm limply thrown over Atobe's waist.
"Thank you, Keigo," is the exhale against blond hair, and there are really no
less than a dozen things Tezuka could be thanking him for, as far as he's
concerned. 
 
Atobe has never in his life imbued a sentence with more sincerity. “Kunimitsu,
it is truly my pleasure.”
 
~
 
It's just supposed to be a couple of hours.
 
When Tezuka wakes up, though, that's definitely sunlight coming in through
Atobe's curtains, and he just has to groan, rolling slowly over onto his back
to stare up at the ceiling. Fuzzily, mind. His glasses are still somewhere,
discarded in the midst of cuddling, so there's really no telling. 
 
Apparently, this is just what happens when he's hit by the truck that is Atobe
Keigo. 
 
Atobe, being one of the soundest of sleepers Tezuka has ever known, doesn't
stir when Tezuka slides out of bed and disappears to shower and change. It's
still early, thank god, or he'd really be the worst captain that ever did grace
the ranks of Seigaku. 
 
And it's not like they have a match today, besides. 
 
His mind is still fuzzy even after being thoroughly drowned by Atobe's shower
(he'll never admit it, but he'd move in for that thing alone) and he's still
tucking his shirt in and setting his glasses back on his face when he slowly
drags himself from the bedroom, retracing the previous journeys he's taken to
this particular manor's kitchen. Breakfast. He'll be able to function if coffee
and rice. 
 
He doesn't, of course, bargain on Atobe's father being there. 
 
He's actually in the middle of answering one of Oishi's worried texts to tell
him yes, he'll be there, it'll be fine, get everyone ready to watch Rikkai's
match and just relax when he sees Atobe Ren and kind of…freezes for a moment.
Really, how does one deal with this kind of situation? How European is he if
he's the Japanese side of the family? Atobe never talks about his father and
when he does, it's awkward and brief, and Tezuka doesn't push for that very
reason--
 
This is why he doesn't socialize, let alone date. 
 
"…Good morning," Tezuka politely attempts, and his bow is probably a little bit
too deep, but he'd like to make sure that he's covering all of his bases. Maybe
breakfast really isn't necessary at all. At least, not here. He should probably
go home…
 
Atobe Ren looks up over his morning paper, then gives a seated bow. “You must
be a friend of my son. Have a seat. Paper?” He nods to a servant, not calling
him by name as Atobe is wont to do, and coffee is immediately provided. 
 
The servant gives a low bow (not the elegant European kind they usually give
around Atobe, but a proper stiff Japanese bow), and stands silently, obviously
awaiting some kind of order.
 
This is also why he rarely spends the night--or at least, doesn't leave Atobe's
room until he's awake, too, and sleepily going through the motions of being a
human. How does one people, exactly. How does one deal with people that are
constantly in one's house? 
 
Tezuka's phone buzzes after that initial text, but he doesn't dare look at it.
Too impolite, probably Oishi freaking out still, unpleasant on all levels. "No,
thank you. I'm Tezuka Kunimitsu, it's good to meet you." Nervously, Tezuka
slides into his own seat, and glances hesitantly at the servant, wishing that
he paid attention and had the same name recall that his boyfriend does (though
it's weird, sometimes). "…Could I have some rice, please?" Then he can just
leave, and make this entire thing a gratefully distant memory.
 
The servant gives Atobe Ren a quick glance, and picks up an almost
imperceptible nod before hurrying away, coming back within the minute with a
large bowl of steamed rice, setting out small saucers of seaweed, egg, bamboo,
and salmon around the bowl. “Tea or coffee, sir?”
 
“I’ll take care of that,” Ren says, and even if it doesn’t sound like a
dismissal, the servant bows once more and retreats. The master of the house
gives Tezuka a look, then says, “You seem like a coffee man. Am I wrong, Tezuka
Kunimitsu?” He plucks a cup from the cupboard, and pours a cup of coffee for
Tezuka without waiting to hear the answer.
 
"Ah…no. You're right. Thank you, Atobe-san." -sama? Fuck. He doesn't know, it's
Atobe's father. Tezuka's gaze flits briefly sideways to the nearest clock,
calculating how long it will take Atobe to wake up in the near future. It can't
be long, not if he wants to shower and preen as per usual before actually
making it to the opening of Nationals on time. Breathe normally, just eat, then
escape, then go back to being the shittiest captain that Seigaku ever saw by
being late on the day of Nationals and not even showing up to plan the line-up
on time because he was busy having sex with his boyfriend. 
 
Atobe Ren slowly folds up his paper, taking a drink of his coffee before
speaking. “You seem like an intelligent boy. Do you know what I like about you,
Tezuka-kun?” His face gives away nothing. He could easily be sitting at a high-
stakes poker table. In his world, perhaps he is. “You seem to understand the
concept of discretion. I value that just as much as my son does other
qualities.”
 
Tezuka shrieks internally. 
 
Shit, shit, shit, he does not want this conversation, why is this happening.
His fingers shake a little around his chopsticks. Can't blame the arm for that
now, it's definitely anxiety. "…Considering I personally prefer the form of
discretion that requires that I never leave the house, you're right, Atobe-
san." Was that too dry. Probably. Shit. He's serious, though, he'd never leave
his room if he didn't have to, except for tennis. 
 
“Left-handed,” Atobe Ren muses, watching him eat. “Interesting. I’d thought you
were more ambitious. Captain of a team headed for a championship, student
council president...you accomplish all of that wishing you were locked in your
bedroom?” He takes a sip of coffee, eyes penetrating.
 
Why does he have to stare so much. Rude, for one thing, Tezuka warily thinks,
slowly eating. "I still just try to do my best. Somehow, those things end up in
my lap, and seeing as no one else will handle them properly…I do it. Just
because I'd prefer to be a hermit doesn't mean I don't have ambitions, sir." It
all unfortunately requires some form of social interaction.
 
Atobe Ren nods once, a slow confirmation. Then, his eyes crinkle at the edges,
just a touch, and he gives Tezuka a thin smile. “Athletics, no doubt. Do you
have any plans for once your career is ended by that arm of yours?”
 
Tezuka really doesn't want to hear about how his arm is going to break again in
the future, not after he spent over a month in rehabilitation for it.
"Honestly, I'll probably live on a mountain and become a boring carpenter." 
 
Atobe Ren arranges his chopsticks neatly on a holder, and stands, pushing in
his chair. “There’s nothing boring about being a carpenter, Tezuka-kun. Teach
my son how to hold a hammer. Or take one billion yen to never see him again.”
He says one sentence as casually as the next, taking a last sip of his coffee
before setting down the empty mug.
 
That's…jarring. Frankly, horrifying, and enough to make his appetite disappear
instantly. "Once Nationals is over, I'll teach him how to build a bookshelf."
It's deadpan, but Tezuka really isn't joking. He'd like to think Atobe's father
is, but he doubts it. 
 
“Good. He can use the practice. The other offer is off the table.” A quick nod
to the servant, and the bowl and coffee mug are whisked away as if they’d never
been. “Then again, you could just build a table, couldn’t you? Have a pleasant
day.” With that, he’s gone, leaving behind the morning paper, which the servant
silently offers to Tezuka.
 
What the fuck.
 
Even after Atobe Ren leaves, Tezuka is jittery and nervous. Downing his entire
mug of coffee in about fifteen seconds doesn't help, and he excuses himself in
the next breath. 
 
Is this a rite of passage or something? Tezuka has no idea, but he does know
that he's glad he left his tennis bag in Atobe's room, because he needs to sort
of grab Atobe for at least five seconds to make up for that experience. 
 
Atobe is just emerging from his room, yawning and stretching, when he nearly
bumps into Tezuka. His face splits in a lazy, delighted grin, and he reaches
out before noticing the look on his face. The smile fades, and he looks down
the hall around Tezuka’s back, asking in a tone more at home in Oishi’s voice
than Atobe’s, “Is my father here?”
 
"Yes." Tezuka promptly yanks him back into the bedroom, shutting the door.
"What the hell, Keigo. You could have warned me." 
 
Atobe swallows, and flips the lock shut on the door--not that it matters, if
his father wants to get in, the servants have a master key. “I didn’t know he
was going to be home, you know he almost never is. Are you...is
everything...fine?” He wishes he didn’t sound so uncertain.
 
"Well," Tezuka says, trying to ignore the beginnings of his own headache,
because Atobe looks positively terrified and that's new, "after being praised
for my discretion, patronized for my choice in potential careers, and then
offered a billion yen to never see you again…I think everything is fine. I told
him I'd teach you how to build a bookshelf instead, and he seemed amicable." 
 
Atobe’s laugh is high and startled. “Just...thank you. Ah, I’m sorry,
Kunimitsu, I really had no idea he was home.” He reaches out a hand, resolving
not to look behind himself as he plucks at Tezuka’s collar. “More importantly,
where are you going to learn how to build a bookshelf?”
 
Tezuka gives him an exasperated look. "Keigo. I helped build our family's cabin
in Hokkaido; I think I can build a bookshelf." 
 
Atobe’s eyes go wide, and the looming specter of his father is banished for a
moment. “Ah...Kunimitsu, you can’t just tell me things like that when we have
to go to the tournament,” he admonishes. “You’re going to make me leap into
your arms again, and that’s hardly becoming of two captains on the first day.” 
 
He waves a hand at the door irritably. “I’ll take us out through the servant’s
quarters, I don’t want to deal with him right now. Doubtless that will only
last so long, but…”
 
"No, you don't have to sneak around in your own house." Even he thinks that's
ridiculous, really, and the more he thinks about it, the less terrified he is
regarding Atobe's father, and the more he's annoyed. Tezuka pulls away to grab
his own tennis bag. "I'll walk out with you. Give me your bag, you can finish
getting ready at my house before we go to the tournament. We're already late,
so we might as well cause a scene by making everyone think we're conspiring
together." 
 
Atobe is entirely certain he is going to swoon. No, that won’t do, he’s Atobe
Keigo, and no mere perfect specimen of a boyfriend is enough to tarnish his
glorious manliness.
 
Even so, his voice comes out in a garbled whine, and he sneaks a kiss to
Tezuka’s cheek before grabbing his uniform and bag, and handing over his tennis
bag. 
 
It’s only as they’re walking out does it occur to Atobe that he never asked
whether Tezuka had taken the money or not. He threads his arm through Tezuka’s,
a fierce little smile on his face. Of course, he hadn’t needed to.
***** Dinner Before the Semifinals *****
Yukimura is pretty good at attracting attention.
 
Marui doesn’t think he’s particularly attuned to their captain’s comings and
goings, but no one else seems to have noticed his appearance, however brief,
during the match between Rikkai and Rokakku. Marui’s eyes flick over towards
the end of his match--these guys are losers, what a walk in the park--and
almost says something before Yukimura disappears again.
 
Weird.
 
“Game and set won by Rikkai! Marui-Kuwahara pair, six games to love!”
 
Marui tears himself out of his thoughts to grin, pop a bubble, and shake hands
with their exhausted opponents before giving Jackal a fistbump. He hands over
his racket, gesturing to the stands. “Put this down for me? I need to run to
the bathroom. Also, you missed a spot here.”
 
He pokes the offending hair, then heads off to the bathrooms, presumably in
what passes for an attached clubhouse. He’ll say this much for Hyoutei--it’s a
decent place, and everything is brand sparklingly new. After a brief pause to
actually use the bathroom (sometimes the drinks go right through him if he
doesn’t eat enough cake, and there could have been more cake), he catches sight
of Yukimura again. “Oi! Captain, I didn’t think you were coming today.”
 
The cheerfulness in Marui’s face, buoyed by the easy win, dies at the look on
Yukimura’s face. 
 
The Captain looks scared.
 
So much for not attracting attention.
 
Yukimura was hoping that he could avoid any and everyone, especially when he's
not even dressed in his uniform save for his jersey tied around his waist. It
was stupid to think someone wouldn't notice him sneaking a peek of the match;
Sanada would have called him later, anyway, so there wasn't much of a point.
 
(So sue him for wanting to see histeam winning so easily again.)
 
At least it's Marui. It's not Sanada, who he's frankly terrified of seeing
right now. At least it's not Yanagi, who could start spewing numbers at any
point. At least it isn't Kirihara, who never understands a thing, or Niou, who
knows too much at a glance. It's Marui, someone Yukimura can fake a weak smile
for as he tries not to hyperventilate when he thinks too much. "Hi. Sorry; I'm
not sticking around, I just wanted to see how you all were doing." 
 
Now if only his heart would stop trying to thud its way out of his chest every
five to ten seconds.
 
Marui smiles, but it’s a little uncertain, and he finds another spot on the
bench. “Physical therapy take a lot out of you today, or--wait, you had a
checkup, right? Hey, did you see we won?” Winning usually makes Yukimura happy,
and he doesn’t really look happy.
 
"6-0, barely a point dropped. I didn't get to watch Yagyuu's match, but I'm
assuming it was the same." Yukimura leans forward, his elbows resting on his
knees. "If you guys keep going at this rate, you won't even need me for the
rest of the tournament."
 
“We’re your team,” Marui points out, kicking his feet out to the sides. “Of
course we’re good. Did you see Akaya’s crazy lineup? It’s hilarious, he’s so
mad now that he knows his match won't matter. I heard him begging Yanagi to
throw the match.”
 
The smile Yukimura cracks this time is more genuine, though it's mostly
directed at the floor, not Marui. "Sanada won't go for that, thankfully. Smack
Akaya for me if he keeps at that crap, will you? You're my enforcer when I'm
not around." 
 
“Sure,” Marui says, though they both know he’s not the greatest at the whole
“enforcement” thing. Sometimes he gets it confused with encouragement, or kinda
goes along with whatever it is because he forgets he’s supposed to be watching
Kirihara, and it’s not like he always has bad ideas, and sometimes they sound
funny…
 
Marui tilts his head. “You okay? How was the check-up?”
 
"No," to the first question and, "Bad," to the second. Yukimura wavers,
debating how much to say, trying to remember if Marui is as much of a gossip as
Niou, and then starting to get upset that he has secrets to keep in the first
place. "They, ah. They didn't actually clear me to play." His heart is beating
so hard that he's pretty sure it's going to come through his chest. "But it's
fine, because I already submitted the forms and those have gone through and I'm
on the roster and all of that. The tournament officials don't need the updated
ones, and I'm not telling them anything has changed." 
 
The bottom falls out of Marui’s stomach. Bad is...bad. His mouth dries, and he
tries to process what Yukimura had said before immediately leaping to
conclusions. Bad is…
 
“Have they started again?” It’s not a question he likes to ask, but it’s kind
of important to know. “The numbness and everything?” He tries not to say what
he’s thinking--that this isn’t fair, that the surgery was supposed to fix
everything, that there’s no reason he should have had to go through a horribly
dangerous operation with a low chance of living if it was just going to happen
again—
 
Yukimura doesn’t need that. Sometimes, Marui can remember that he’s the oldest
of all of them, and it’s his job to be at least a little bit mature.
 
"Not yet." He can't even say 'no.' Yukimura can't stop his shoulders from
sagging now, not when Marui gets it. "But…all the bloodwork said that they
didn't get everything, so the numbness will probably be back. I get goosebumps
a lot, they said that's a sign." His next exhale is shaky. "And I guess I'm
going to be playing the whole tournament with staples down my spine still
because they won't take those out, either. Nothing's healing up right." 
 
Marui had forgotten the fear.
 
It had kept him up at night sometimes--not anything like the pulse-pounding
anxiety he knows Yukimura must have felt, or the staggering loneliness Sanada
had obviously been feeling, but he remembers feeling it. Yukimura is a beacon,
a guiding force, a dominating presence. He’s as much a part of the tennis team
as the balls and racquets are, for everyone on Rikkai. The fear of losing that-
-of losing his friend--makes Marui’s insides churn.
 
But that doesn’t help Yukimura, either. Marui firms his jaw, and puts a hand on
Yukimura’s shoulder. “Rikkai is here for you, and we always will be.” He
pauses, then adds, “And I’m going to make you a cake.”
 
The suddenness of that particular statement mostly shocks Yukimura into
laughing, even if it's a little wet on the edges. No, nope, not happening
again, he's not going to turn into a crybaby, Sanada can't push that off onto
him. "I could use a cake right now," he admits all the same, drawing in a long,
shaky breath to steady himself. "Thanks, Bunta. But please don't tell anyone on
the team; I really don't want everyone going through the tournament thinking
about it. I'm sorry to burden you with that, but…"
 
Marui waves that away. “Compared to the other stuff I’m holding in, this is
easy,” he confides. “Your secret’s behind many locked doors, Captain. And I’ll
make that cake as soon as possible so you can really feel better.”
 
"Mm, good. I look forward to your genius skills." Yukimura takes another breath
before he straightens, squaring his shoulders. "Right. Don't tell Sanada I was
here, and go back and cheer everyone else on for me. I'll probably be off
practicing until I fall over, you know the drill." 
 
There’s just about nothing Marui can say to deter Yukimura when he’s like this,
so he settles for, “Just make sure you’re not too tired to enjoy those genius
skills, okay? Boy, they probably think I pooped a lot.”
 
Yukimura's expression is wry. "Just tell them you met a pretty girl and flirted
with her for awhile." 
 
“Oh...that’s a way better excuse.” Marui beams. “Thanks, Captain! I’ll cheer
twice as hard for both of us, but I don’t think it’s going to last very long. I
know Kirihara wants to set another record.”
 
"Good for him." Sometimes, Yukimura thinks he's leaving the tennis club in good
hands for next year. Then he remembers that Kirihara regularly forgets his own
street address, so there's that. "Just…thanks, Bunta." At least his heart
doesn't feel like it's going to leap out of his chest--for the moment.
 
~
 
The Nationals, thus far, have been easy.
 
That makes Tezuka nervous. Breezing past schools that already showed lackluster
performances in their own previous matches doesn't bring him any comfort,
especially there's a distinct pattern emerging on the tournament bracket now
that the quarterfinals have been finished and cleared. 
 
Rikkai dominates their bracket, Hyoutei theirs, Seigaku theirs, and,
shockingly…Shitenhouji theirs. Having gone up against Higa, the surprise from
Okinawa, Makinfouji Gakuen, the second seed, and then Shishigaku, the school
both Chitose and Tachibana came from, and defeated every single last one of
them soundly… 
 
Tezuka feels that he's right to be anxious, especially when their own wins have
been easy, boring, and uneventful. 
 
That's why this is necessary. All of Seigaku (except Oishi, he has a brain)
might be comfortable and excited to be going up against Shitenhouji the next
day, but he isn't, and he needs more information. Tennis bag slung over one
shoulder, Tezuka approaches the ranks of Hyoutei after their own quarterfinals
victory of the day. 3-0, just like their own. "Atobe," he greets, inclining his
head. "My team and I are going out for sukiyaki." Not his number one choice,
but majority rules. Oh well. "Would Hyoutei like to join us?" 
 
Atobe almost smiles before getting it under control. No, a proper sneer is
what’s truly necessary here, none of that smiling nonsense. “I suppose,” he
says, long-suffering, “we can deign to attempt to eat such common fare. Ah,
Kunimitsu, we must make time to talk while we’re there. Important finals
matters.”
 
His own team, thick as some of them are, refuse to accept that they’re going to
go up against Rikkai again with the same result as the last time, years ago.
Atobe, on the other hand, has been paying attention. Oshitari has as well,
presumably, but he won’t stop crowing about how well his stupid sprinter cousin
is doing, so he’s no help whatsoever.
 
"That's the idea," Tezuka dryly agrees, turning on his heel. "Your information
for mine. The restaurant's within walking distance, come on."
 
"Are you sure this is okay?" Oishi whispers hushedly underneath his breath when
Tezuka drifts back to his own team. "Sharing information with Hyoutei like
this…" 
 
"I'm going to kill him," Tezuka says underneath his breath, even as he ignores
a rather terrified looking Oishi. Calling meKunimitsu inpublic--
 
“This is idiotic,” Oshitari says, not bothering to lower his voice (or his
atrocious accent, no matter how Atobe instructs him) as they pull even with
Seigaku on the way to the restaurant. “Atobe, if they win their match, we’ll be
facing them in the final. Why would you want to give them extra information?”
 
“Tennis is a sportsman’s game,” Atobe announces. “Neither Tezuka nor myself
fight dirty. You should be far more concerned with seeing to it that you and
Gakuto don’t--Jirou, come on, out of traffic.” 
 
Jirou yawns, and this time he makes the step up to the curb. “Sorry! Ah,
Kabaji, carry me to the food.”
 
"Usu." Jirou is, subsequently, scooped up and tossed over one broad shoulder.
 
Momoshiro snorts. "'Don't play dirty'--what the hell is that, after your last
match with the captain--"
 
A bored, put-out "Momo-sempai" sounds at the same time as Tezuka's sharp
"Momoshiro", making the second year blanch and scowl. 
 
"Let's all get along," Oishi firmly pleads. "We can all benefit from this, and
if we see one another in the finals, all the better for it."
 
"I have collected a great deal of data from Rikkai as of late," Inui gleefully
agrees.
 
"Yuushi just spends all of his time watching his cousin," Gakuto snorts.
 
"I'm starting to think Rikkai doesn't have a captain," Ryouma grumpily mutters.
 
“Oh, they have one,” Eiji assures him, giving a swift noogie for good luck.
“He’s nine feet tall and breathes fire, and he only comes out if you play under
a full moon. Right, Fuji?”
 
“He’s just been in the hospital,” Kaidou growls. “You wouldn’t make fun of
Tezuka-buchou for needing to go into the hospital, Echizen. Show some respect.”
 
Ryouma growls back, yanking his hat down in an attempt to protect his head from
more touching. "I'm not making fun of him. I'm just saying, he didn't play at
all in round one, and we were playing stuff in round two and for some reason I
had to play singles three so I didn't get to see if he was even around--"
 
"He's a demon," Fuji cheerfully cuts in. "Nicknames aside. You have to summon
him with six Wilson racquets and 666 tennis balls."
 
Tezuka spares Atobe a sideways glance that speaks volumes of have you ever
wanted to kill your own team so badly.
 
Atobe’s look is amused, if anything, as his strides lengthen, just enough to
catch up.
 
“Really?” Jirou wakes up, hands under his chin, elbows propped on Kabaji’s
back. “Marui-kun never mentioned that! Does all of Rikkai have phones that only
work for twenty minutes a month, like Marui-kun? I think that’s so sad!”
 
“Terribly tragic, since they’re all wealthy,” Oshitari says snidely. “And can
certainly afford—”
 
Shishido punches him in the shoulder. “Stop explaining your own jokes, it’s so
lame.”
 
Atobe’s amused look drains away, replaced with something a lot closer to
Tezuka’s.
 
Tezuka's eyes rise briefly skyward, as if begging for strength, and he holds
open the door to the restaurant upon arriving it--presumably, to let his own
team enter, but Atobe just happens to go first. Coincidentally. 
 
"How sad are you that we didn't invite Shitenhouji, Yuushi?" Gakuto snidely
presses, nudging his doubles partner in the ribs. 
 
"But he has the right to be sad, doesn't he?" Ootori confusedly asks.
"Obviously, he and his cousin are really close, so…"
 
The shopkeeper looks a bit stunned, as he should. "Oh, welcome, welcome! So
many guests--let's see, we'll move to the back, there's more room for all of
you--"
 
"Stay near me, Eiji," Oishi mutters underneath his breath.
 
"I'm sitting with Tezuka-buchou," Ryouma firmly says, grabbing hold of the back
of Tezuka's jersey. Tezuka hides the brief, pleased look on his own face by
shoving up his glasses. 
 
“Perfect!” Atobe beams, and looks around for someone to make his point--no,
damn, he can’t have Hiyoshi sit next to him, he’s dreadfully unpleasant and
kills any mood just by being in the same post code. “Ootori, come sit on my
other side, it’ll be captains and rookies at the head of the table.”
 
“Oi,” Shishido snarls, “he’s no rookie, Atobe—”
 
Atobe’s eyes flash dark at him in that way that says The Captain is making a
point and you can either be a part of it or be obstructive to it.“He’s a
second-year, close enough. It’s settled, then!” Besides, Ootori is one of the
few people on his team that he can trust not to have any odd designs on Seigaku
or its captain, courtesy of how obliviously moonstruck the younger boy is over
his doubles partner. “Kabaji, is there a menu in this place? Oh, look, it’s
printed on the tablecloth. How quaint.”
 
"I'm honored, Atobe-san!" Ootori is now fairly sparkling. Hiyoshi mutters
something about this being the true start of the revolution, at long last.
 
"Oh," Fuji sighs sadly. "I wanted to sit near you, Tezuka. It's been so long--"
 
"Fuji," Oishi quickly says, grabbing the boy gently by the shoulder to steer
him away. "Sit next to Eiji and I. Taka-san, you, too." 
 
Tezuka simply sighs, settling himself down and trying not to be annoyed by
everyone. This does serve a purpose, after all, and he has to keep reminding
himself of that. 
 
Once they sit down, Atobe attempts to ignore everyone else, leaning in close to
Tezuka. “Let’s get down to this,” he says firmly, “before they either decide to
blow something up or go screw in the bathrooms.” It’s open season on which
“they” he’s referring to, and honestly, it could be almost anyone. “I have
notes. Kabaji,” he calls, “my notepad. No, not that one,” he says hastily,
seeing a leatherbound green notebook marked Food Journal April-August come out
of the bag, and it’s stuffed immediately away. “The blue one, I told you which
one I needed to see.”
 
Tezuka, being faster than Kabaji, promptly reaches around Atobe and gracefully
snatches the whole bag from the other boy's grasp. "Thank you, Kabaji. So you
keep journals, too, Atobe? Interesting." 
 
"Oh, are we comparing notes now?"
 
Inui has this habit of appearing behind him at all times, and Tezuka feels a
full-body twitch ripple down his spine. "Inui. Just give me your notebook." 
 
"Some of my shorthand might need explanations--"
 
"Inui."
 
Rather moodily, the notebook is handed over, and Inui sulks his way back to his
seat. All notebooks, acquired. 
 
“You,” Atobe says firmly, “need to give me that, it’s nothing important, just
how I keep track of how much I eat. As we both know, keeping an athlete’s
physique doesn’t happen without effort.”
 
“Excuse me, sir,” the waitress chirps--and Atobe spies Kikumaru’s finger on the
button to summon her as the culprit. 
 
Without thinking, Atobe rattles off, “I’ll have the number six, extra large, no
onions. Listen, Tezuka—”
 
Tezuka's eyebrows arch high. "Extra large? You're going to eat all of that
yourself?" 
 
"Atobe-sempai binged all the time while you were gone," Ryouma languidly
supplies. "Tezuka-buchou, split a number four with me." 
 
"All right." Tezuka subsequently leans back, flipping through the so-called
'food journal' with intense amusement. 
 
When an attempt to reclaim said journal proves unsuccessful, Atobe resigns
himself, and quickly searches for a way to play this out without losing too
much face. “Then gaze on my glorious numericals,” he says, leaning back with
confidence. “It is far nobler to succeed with the efforts of your labors
glistening on your brow.”
 
Tezuka gives him a sideways glance. "You're complaining about how many calories
a granola bar has."
 
“Notating.” Atobe’s smile starts to look a little strained around the edges.
“With private reflections. Do you want to talk about lineups or not?”
 
Tezuka's eyes roll skyward. "I do." He shuts the journal, handing it back over
as a peace offering. He firmly ignores how Fuji keeps looking at him around
Eiji and Oishi and Ryouma. It's just going to be one of those meals,
apparently. "You received Rikkai's lineup, I'm assuming."
 
“I didn’t.” Atobe says it as if the phrase has excessive meaning--which of
course, considering that it’s Rikkai, it does. “They’re hiding something,
obviously. Some secret weapon.”
 
That makes Tezuka's eyebrows raise. Sanada, if nothing else, would have
insisted on a 'head-on' fight. Moron. "Strange, for them. To be safe, then, put
yourself in singles two." 
 
The look Atobe gives him is somewhere between grudging and affronted. “Singles
One is more than just ego, Tezuka,” he says, pained. “You know that, that’s why
you put yourself there so often. My team needs to know that if it goes to
Singles One, we will definitely not lose. Oi, Ootori, am I not inspirational in
Singles One?”
 
"You're amazing, Atobe-san!"
 
Weirdo. "While I understand your reasoning behind putting yourself in singles
one, that's not going to make a difference if you can't get there this time,"
Tezuka bluntly points out. "You have to weigh your opponents against that
necessity. Do you have anyone else that can tip the score in your favor if they
win both singles three and doubles two?" 
 
Atobe nibbles delicately on his bottom lip, thinking. “I had plans,” he says,
somewhat put-out. “One of their doubles teams would be disastrously weak
against my best doubles team, and I was going to ensure that they played, but
without the lineup being released, I could be throwing both matches away. Jirou
is fantastic, but only against a certain kind of player--I hate to admit it,
but I was really counting on being able to strategize after seeing the lineup.”
 
"Then let's write a worst possible scenario for you," Tezuka says, passing over
Inui's data notebook to Atobe. "Let's assume Rikkai is attempting to finish you
off quickly. That means they'll be putting their best in the first three
matches. Start with the easy decision--put your best doubles team in doubles
two, because you need that defense regardless."
 
Atobe nods slowly, and pulls out a piece of the notepaper, jotting down Doubles
Two--Ootori/Shishido. “Then...should I put my second-best pair in Doubles One,
do you think, or two strong singles players? That would at least throw them off
a bit, and to be honest,” he adds, dropping his voice deliberately, “I only
have one excellent doubles team.”
 
Tezuka gives him a look that reeks of I'm very, very aware. "The first and
third matches are crucial, so you can't let singles be your weaker links. You
might just have to hope Rikkai is putting their weaker doubles in Doubles One,
because they don't think it's going to get there." He leans back, thinking.
"Kabaji wouldn't be a bad idea against whoever they put up in Singles Three--
probably Kirihara, or Sanada, is my guess." 
 
The ego, the immense condescending radiance, bleeds off slightly when Atobe is
thinking up strategies, huddled together with Tezuka and idly eating sukiyaki
with one hand. “Hmm, probably. But I want my good pair to play their weaker
one--I know the Marui-Kuwahara pair beat your doubles more soundly, but they’re
terribly poor against speed. I honestly don’t think either of my doubles teams
could do much against those tricksters. Oshitari thinks he can see through
those illusions, but to be frank, I can’t see that being true.”
 
"If Rikkai is in a hurry," Tezuka says, "then they'll put their best in Doubles
Two, so you're taking a gamble if you don't put up someone that can match them.
But then again, Yukimura might be bored after all this time as an alternate,
and might want to play you in Singles One…so he might give you a doubles match
to get there." Tezuka shrugs a little helplessly, and plucks up his chopsticks
to start nibbling on the bowl set between himself and Ryouma. "Their lineups
have been strange at this tournament, that much is for sure." 
 
Atobe frowns, then hastily sketches in,D2--O/G, D1--O/S, S3--K, S2--J, S1-O-s.
“I might switch the doubles,” he muses, then pulls out another page. “We should
talk about Shitenhouji. I went to see their match, Tezuka--you’ve definitely
got something to be worried about.”
 
"I'm aware," Tezuka mutters, brow knitting as he tears out a sheet of paper for
himself. "Especially since they've been destroying the most challenging
opponents while we've basically been asleep on the court. Is the rumor true
about Chitose sending his last opponent from Shishigaku to the hospital? That
doesn't sound like him." 
 
“Well,” Atobe hedges, “I’ll allow that Shishigaku's captain went to the
hospital after that match, but from what I saw, he put himself there. No, you
don’t need to worry about Chitose--he’s the same kind of player you are,
really. Your problem is going to be singles there, however.”
 
Tezuka offers him a pointed stare. If nothing else, Seigaku has plenty of
strong singles players, so for Atobe to say that… "All right. Start telling me
about their captain, then. He's been putting himself in Singles Three and Two
this whole time; courtesy of their loss against Rikkai last year, no doubt."
 
“Doubtless,” Atobe agrees, “and he has an agenda. He’s been deflecting attacks
from everyone’s strong players shockingly easily--I’ve yet to see him drop a
game, and I hear he hasn’t in the entire tournament. Tezuka, I’ve heard the
only time their Singles One and Two have played in this tournament have been in
the first rounds when they play all five--and that in those, neither he nor his
rookie dropped a single game. Chitose is the least of your concerns, and that’s
saying something.”
 
And now he has a headache without a doubt. This was what he was afraid of.
"…Then he'll probably be in Singles Three again, to start out strong." Tezuka
hesitates, thinking. "Fuji, maybe. His tournament record in singles is
impeccable." 
 
“If you can wake him up,” Atobe mutters. “Make him angry. Insult his brother,
that seems to work wonders. At least you don’t have to worry about a power
match; Shiraishi won’t injure whoever you put up against him, so don’t hold
back on that account. The rookie, though…”
 
"I'll play him," Ryouma pipes up, and Tezuka ignores the eavesdropping little
brat.
 
"Shiraishi will have him in Singles One, which we hopefully won't end up
playing." S3: Fuji.Tentatively. 
 
"I'm never going to get to play at this rate," is Ryouma sulky mutter. 
 
Tezuka twitches, and turns his head to look at him. "If you want to play, I'll
put you in doubles." 
 
"Don't wanna."
 
"Please tell me Shitenhouji's doubles pairs aren't as much to speak of," Tezuka
tiredly begs of Atobe.
 
Atobe frowns, thinking. “Against some players, deadly. Against others, useless.
One is fairly constant. If you have a doubles team that doesn’t laugh much or
has a classy sense of humor, you’ll be fine, and that’s doubles two. They like
to switch up doubles one--like the singles, they don’t always put their
strongest players last, but it’s usually some combination of Chitose, their
little genius, Oshitari Kenya, and that monk that they swear is only 14.”
 
Oshitari’s ears prick up, a few seats away. “I heard my name.”
 
“Not you, the other Oshitari.”
 
“Oh, are we talking about Kenya?” It’s hard to mistake the hope in his voice.
Shishido punches him in the arm.
 
"Gross, Yuushi," Gakuto complains, punching Oshitari's other arm.
 
Ah, yes, that headache is growing. Tezuka briefly closes his eyes, trying to
desperately think about his team members and whether or not any of them have
senses of humor. God, he doesn't know. He doesn't care, either, so there's
that. D2: ???Momoshiro and Kaidou, maybe… or Inui and Kaidou, that seems
plausible. "Why does no one release their lineup," he mutters, frustrated. "The
Atobe Directorate should mandate that everyone does at tournaments held in
their facilities next year." 
 
Atobe raises an eyebrow. “That means everyone will see it at the same time,” he
points out, “and you wouldn’t be able to plan without changing your own lineup
afterwards.” He grimaces, and admits, “I was looking forward to that little
boost of luck, though, and dammit, what happened to Rikkai’s fabled
confidence?” He leans over, and says to Ryouma, “You must have scared the piss
out of Sanada to make them change that much.”
 
Ryouma scowls, stuffing a hunk of noodles into his mouth. "Doubt it. They
probably just forgot to post it or something. Buchou, I don't wanna play
doubles."
 
"You're probably going to play doubles," Tezuka dismissively mutters.
 
"Don't wanna." 
 
"Oishi. If I needed you to play doubles with Echizen, would you?"
 
Oishi looks slightly frightened by this concept, but Ryouma begrudgingly
settles back. "If it's Oishi-sempai," he mumbles, grumpily, "I guess it'd be
okay. He's good. It's not like when I had to play with Momo-sempai, he sucks."
 
"Hey!"
 
"Echizen…" Oishi now looks a little awestruck at the compliment, and Tezuka
wishes he was dead.
 
Atobe stares at Tezuka as if he’s grown a second head. “Are you insane? You’re
crippling your Golden Pair and putting your best singles player besides
yourself in doubles at the same time? Why?”
 
"Because," Tezuka simply says, "I need a doubles pair that can adapt to
absolutely any situation. Oishi can in doubles, and Echizen can in singles and
doubles when playing with Oishi, which means their combination will work
against any doubles pair Shitenhouji throws against us."
 
"Tezuka!" Oishi's sort of glittery-eyed now. Tezuka wishes he'd stop getting
that way at every single compliment.
 
"I don't plan on letting us get to the point of playing Singles One, and unlike
you," Tezuka archly says with a look to Atobe, "I have a number of younger
players that have potential that needs training."
 
Atobe opens his mouth to argue, then laughs instead. “As you like, Ootori’s
already trained, and Hiyoshi just suffers from personality flaws.”
 
Revolution, Hiyoshi decides darkly at the other end of the table, is coming.
 
“At any rate, does that mean you’ll throw away Singles One? I have to say, I
think you and Ryouma are the only ones who could take on that rookie of theirs.
Fuji, perhaps, but you’ll need him against Shiraishi.”
 
"That rookie," Tezuka slowly says, "was the one that ended a match with one
shot, wasn't he?" 
 
“So I hear. A bouncy, brightly-tempered redhead,” Atobe adds with a roll of his
eyes. “They seem to be breeding them somewhere.”
 
Tezuka's gaze sharply turns to the rest of the table. "Kawamura. Kikumaru.
Janken for the Singles One slot." 
 
"So unfair," Ryouma sulks.
 
Immediately, Eiji and Taka turn to each other, eyes intense and fists clenched.
They chant, and throw.
 
“Tie,” Kaidou announces, then again, “Tie.”
 
Finally, Taka throws paper to Eiji’s rock, and the look of startled wonder on
his face is complete. “Really, Tezuka? You actually want me to--I swear I’ll
represent our team to the best of my ability! Though my skills may be meager,
you can count on me to the very gates of hell!”
 
"All right," Tezuka replies, certain that's captain-y enough."Kikumaru, you'll
be in Singles Two, then." He feels good about that choice, honestly. 
 
Fuji is now petting Taka's arm. "I'm so proud of you, Taka-san!"
 
"Well, that settles most of it, then," Tezuka mutters, glancing down at his
list. S3: Fuji, D2:…Momoshiro/Kaidou(for sure, now, it's a statement of sorts),
S2: Kikumaru, D1, Oishi/Echizen, S1: Kawamura.Really, what else could he do
other than duplicate himself and Echizen and play every slot? Against a team
like Shitenhouji, every combination feels just about as worthless as the next. 
 
Atobe steals a look at the list, then smiles. “Rest up for me, Tezuka,” he
says, then shoots a look at Ryouma. “Or is it that you’ll send Ryouma against
me? After all, we have no idea how that match would go. Well, I have an idea.”
 
"You'd lose," Ryouma immediately replies, leaning around behind Tezuka to look
at Atobe through a proper insight pose. "I can see all your weaknesses, Atobe-
sempai."
 
Tezuka wonders why this has to happen when he's between the two of them. "Put
yourself in doubles, Atobe," he dryly shoots back, "and then maybe you could
play against both of us at once." 
 
Atobe manages to hold his tongue, which he thinks is quite a remarkable feat
when he’s about two words away from dragging Ryouma off to the bathroom for a
blowjob. “As if you’d ever play doubles,” he scoffs instead, leaning back after
a quick wink to the boy. “You’re not one to practice what you preach, Captain.”
 
"I apologize," Tezuka says, completely straight-faced. "I forgot that you play
doubles all the time, Atobe. Your ego is more than enough as a partner; Echizen
and I could never compare against such a combination." 
 
"…Is Tezuka-buchou actually joking?" Momoshiro whispers to Ryouma, who just
shrugs, more interested in making a face at Atobe. "But I don't think I've ever
even heard him laugh!" 
 
Ryouma sighs. "All of you are dumb." 
 
“If you’re serious,” Atobe says, ignoring Ryouma’s supposed ‘gaydar,’ “my
glorious self will be glad to face you, even in doubles, any time of your
choosing.” Shit, do I have a good doubles….dammit. “Ootori, you’d prove your
worth alongside me quite nicely.” 
 
Down the table, Shishido frowns, and gestures at Atobe with his chopsticks,
muttering to Jirou and Gakuto under his breath, “He’s been trying to muscle in
on Choutarou all night. Fucking lame and annoying.”
 
Ootori hesitates, worry clearly reflecting across his face. "I'd…I'd be
honored, Atobe-san, but I'm not really sure I feel comfortable playing doubles
with anyone other than Shishido-san."
 
"Weak," Gakuto calls out.
 
"Sounds like that's quite a problem," Tezuka idly notes. "Forfeiting before the
match even occurs might be a good idea, Atobe."
 
Affronted, Atobe looks down his table, then sighs. “Oshitari, it’s your lucky
day. You’re playing doubles with me in a special private match.” Ugh, it could
be worse, and Oshitari isn’t about to say no.
 
"I'd play doubles with you, Tezuka," Fuji calls over.
 
"I already have a partner, Fuji." Someone save him. 
 
“Name your time,” Atobe says, turning back to Tezuka before Oshitari can be so,
so weird about it. “I’m assuming the place will be at one of my courts--or we
could do it this evening, if you aren’t afraid.”
 
"Excuse me," Oishi interrupts, less starry-eyed now, much more firm, "but the
chance of injury is a little much to risk the night before the semi-finals,
don't you think?"
 
"But I wanna play," Ryouma grouses, tugging on the back of Tezuka's jersey.
 
"…You'll be playing in the tournament tomorrow," Tezuka somehow manages. How do
people with little brothers function normally when they're being cute. 
 
“Tell you what,” Atobe says, thinking fast. “We can make a deal. When we meet
in the finals, Oshitari and I will meet you in Doubles One. No tricks, no
changing lineups. None of us are the best doubles players—”
 
“Atobe!”
 
“Shut up, Oshitari, you know it’s true. Anyway, that means we aren’t crippling
our teams...and we’d see how it is when we’re really going for it as hard as
possible.” He raises an eyebrow. “Well?”
 
Tezuka considers it for all of a moment before he nods. It isn't as if it's
doing any harm to the team, and if anything, his own is at an advantage
courtesy of it. "Done. When we see one another in the finals, Echizen and I
will meet you in Doubles One."
 
"This all seems oddly romantic," Fuji sighs out.
 
"Weird," Gakuto mutters.
 
The door to the restaurant slams open, and before the proprietor can even ask
how many for a party that large, a blur of red-yellow-black hurtles through the
air to land on the table. “It is you!” the wild thing crows, pointing directly
at Ryouma, not paying attention to the bowls and plates knocked over. “I’d know
that expression on your face anywhere--you’re Koshimae! I saw you from the
stands and tried to go to see you, but—”
 
A bandaged hand comes down on the back of the boy’s neck, lifting him off the
table by the collar. “Kin-chan!” Shiraishi Kuranosuke chides, holding him far
enough away that he isn’t hit by flailing limbs. “You can’t walk through
people’s food. You made a mess. Do you want to pay for it?”
 
“Lemme go! Ahh, Shiraishi, let go, I want to eat sukiyaki and talk to
Koshimae!”
 
“It must be love at first sight,” Koharu sighs, falling dramatically back
against Yuuji.
 
"…Friend of yours, Echizen?" Tezuka somehow manages, sitting back from the
table a bit and pushing up his glasses.
 
"I need my data book back," Inui insists, and Tezuka just hands it over, not
evenwanting to know. 
 
Ryouma merely stares. "…Who are you?" he finally asks, squinting. 
 
"Every single team," Tezuka mutters underneath his breath, mentally sounding
off for every single hyperactive redhead out there.
 
“I’m Kintarou Tooyama! We’re going to have a match tomorrow, yeah!” Kintarou’s
eyes gleam, and he nearly manages to break away from Shiraishi’s hold. Nearly.
“I heard you’re the strongest guy on Seigaku, and I want to play you!”
 
“I told you, you have to wait for the semifinals.” Shiraishi gives a bow,
smiling at the captains. “I’m really very sorry for the interruption, he got
away from me when I was getting out of the van. He’s been talking about your
Echizen all week, ever since Kenya said—”
 
“Sit down,” Shishido mutters, grabbing Oshitari by the shoulder when he rises
at the sight of his cousin entering the room, shoving him back into his seat.
 
Tezuka merely inclines his head. "It's fine. I hope we end up having a good
match tomorrow." 
 
"Ah! Yuushi!" Kenya greets with a grin, waving as he walks in. "I thought you'd
be scared shitless about tomorrow, but here you are, eating dinner with the
enemy--"
 
"Fuji, you're listing to one side," Oishi hisses, elbowing his friend.
 
Fuji promptly blinks, straightens up, and wipes his mouth where he was also,
apparently, drooling a little. Shiraishi,damn.
 
Ryouma stares back at Kintarou, bored. "You don't even know my name, I'm not
playing you." 
 
“Sure I do!” Kintarou argues. “The super-strong guy who’s got steel bones and
eyes that shoot lasers! He’s from Australia and can defeat anyone with his
tennis! Koshimae!”
 
“Kenya,” Oshitari says, somewhat alarmed, “I fear you’ve somewhat mistranslated
my explanation about Echizen over here.”
 
“He’s got the kanji wrong,” Koharu calls, then loses his voice when he sees
Atobe and Tezuka together. “Ah...Yuu-chan, hold me back, look how delicious
those Captains are, all cuddled up! Definitely on our team!”
 
“Are you insulting our Captain?” Kaidou demands, nearly knocking his chair over
when he stands. “I’ll kill you!”
 
Atobe leans over, muttering quietly to Tezuka, “I have headache medicine
smuggled in from overseas.”
 
"Ooh, there's another one," Yuuji snidely jabs towards Kaidou, then firmly
tightens his arm around Koharu's waist. "Don't you even think about snuggling
up between those two dreamboats, though, you damned harlot!" 
 
"What the hell," Momoshiro manages.
 
Ryouma turns back to eating his meal. "I'm not gonna play you." 
 
"Just kill me instead," Tezuka mutters back, hoping it is, at least, a quick
death.
 
“That,” Atobe says, trying to figure out if there’s an angle he can sit at with
someone between himself and the team of lunatics, “is their Doubles Two team.
Took four games off of Sanada-Yanagi pair last year. Change your lineup.”
 
Kintarou’s face falls so drastically he actually sags, and Shiraishi’s arm
muscles flex as he actually holds the (surprisingly heavy) boy by the back of
his collar. “B-b-but you have to play me!” he insists. “I ran here from Osaka
to find you! Shiraishi, you monster, you said he’d play me in Singles One!”
 
“Kin-chan, you’re going to get us kicked out of another restaurant,” Shiraishi
says with a sigh. 
 
“I don’t want to eat in the alley again, Kin-chan,” Koharu whines. “All the
beautiful men are in here!”
 
"How," Tezuka manages in a hushed voice, scooting away from the table in an
attempt put some kind of distance between himself and Shitenhouji in general,
"did they take four games." 
 
Yuuji scowls, yanking Koharu further away. "We're gonna eat in the alley no
matter what if you keep looking at them like that!" 
 
Kenya, unfazed, plops himself right down next to his cousin. "So, are you guys
sharing tactics or something? Don't be shy, let's all share!"
 
"As if they'll share with us, Oshitari-sempai," Zaizen mutters, stuffing his
hands in his pockets as he still lingers back at the door. "We're playing some
of them tomorrow."
 
Ryouma doesn't look up from his bowl. "Even if I was in Singles One, I wouldn't
play you because it's not gonna get to that point." 
 
Shots fired. Tezuka isn't sure if he should give Ryouma a pat on the back for
that, or to apologize for him. He settles for doing nothing; that's usually 
neutral enough.
 
Oshitari uses his chopsticks to shove a chunk of sukiyaki noodle in Kenya’s
mouth. “I’m sure you’re more than welcome, Kenya. But we aren’t all privy to
the Captain’s meeting. How was your train ride? Were you comfortable?”
 
Next to him, Shishido isn’t shy about making gagging noises.
 
Unfortunately, that attracts the attention of Koharu, who whispers something
into Yuuji’s ear while pointing at Shishido, at which point both of them burst
into raucous laughter. Shishido hunkers down over his sukiyaki, turning slowly,
painfully red.
 
“Then play me right now!” Kintarou insists, making another unsuccessful break
for freedom from Shiraishi. “Koshimae, you’re supposed to be the strongest one,
and I need a good game! I already beat everyone in Osaka, let me see what makes
Kyoto so great!”
 
“Tokyo, Kin-chan, we’re in Tokyo.”
 
“Yeah!”
 
“Excuse me,” Shiraishi adds to Fuji, hand still gripping Kintarou’s collar,
“but are you all right? You look a little overheated and dizzy.”
 
"Huh? Ah," Fuji slowly says, coming back to his senses and staring up, up at
Shiraishi, so tall and broad and oh, god, his hands, Fuji knows he's left-
handed, he can sense it even if he hadn't already known and he does like a
left-handed man--"Perhaps some fresh air…would be good…"
 
"Not gonna play you," Ryouma replies, bored. "Oishi-sempai says I can't play
any private matches because of the semifinals tomorrow."
 
"It's the smart thing to do," Oishi firmly insists. "Don't act as if it's a
crime, Echizen."
 
"Eh. It is when I can't play Atobe-sempai."
 
"Oshitari, quit being so gross," Gakuto mutters grumpily. 
 
"Which Oshitari?" Kenya immediately asks, slurping down another noodle. 
 
Gakuto blinks. "Shit. Uh, the other one. He's always Oshitari."
 
"I'm always Oshitari, too!" Kenya insists, smacking a hand against his chest.
"Oshitari Kenya!" 
 
Gakuto doesn't know what the fuck he's gotten himself into, and settles for
watching Ootori attempt to sort of weakly pat Shishido's shoulder and reassure
him that Shitenhouji's weird doubles team isn't pointing him out as super homo.
 
Fuji’s complexion really is startling, and Taka immediately puts the back of
his hand against Fuji’s forehead. “You are a little warm,” he frets, pouring
some of his water onto a napkin and dabbing at Fuji’s forehead. “Can I get you
something? Do you need me to call you a taxi?”
 
“So many manly men,” Koharu sighs. “Yuuji, we’re on the wrong team. Then again,
both Seigaku and Hyoutei seem like they’re just full of our team, don’t they?”
 
"Both of 'em," Yuuji agrees. "Seems like all the Best Four are like that this
year, huh? Your favorite's on Rikkai," he jealously mutters. 
 
"Just gonna…fresh air," Fuji breathes, listing against Taka's shoulder for a
moment before he slowly climbs to his feet, swaying, and slithers out of the
restaurant. 
 
Fantastic. Fuji is now some kind of ill--more so than usual--which makes Tezuka
rethink, yet again, his lineup. "How rude is it to leave right now," he mutters
to Atobe. 
 
Atobe snorts. “You want to leave your team alone with their tender mercies?” he
demands. “They get up to this much trouble with me watching them.”
 
“Yuu-chan is my favorite!” Koharu swears, leaping into the other boy’s arms.
“Even Sanada-kun could never compare!”
 
“Oishi,” Eiji whispers, “if you tell me we look like that to other people, I’m
going to kill myself.”
 
"Koharu, I knew you'd never betray me!"
 
"We don't," Oishi frantically whispers back. "We absolutely don't. We don't
look anything like that." 
 
Tezuka's left eye starts twitching. 
 
Ryouma finishes off his bowl and slowly slides away from the table. "I'm
going," he announces. "If Oishi-sempai won't let me play tonight, then I'm just
gonna go practice instead." 
 
“I’m coming too!” Kintarou manages to plant a foot on the wall, and twists out
of Shiraishi’s hold, evading the next grab, and pelts out of the restaurant. 
 
Shiraishi sighs. “Kenya, you’re the only one who’s fast enough to catch him
now. That’s your job.” 
 
“Gross,” Shishido says in response to the tragic look on Oshitari’s face, and
punches him again. 
 
“Ooh, so physical!” Koharu croons. “Yuu-chan, hit me like that! Why didn’t we
go to the S&M school, or the one with the DoS Captain?”
 
"Koharu," Yuuji patiently sighs, "you know you're way too fragile for Rikkai's
captain to order you around like that all the time. You need a more…delicate
touch, one that only I know about--"
 
"Save it for the bedroom, you two," Kenya sighs, not exactly energetic about
chasing Kintarou down.
 
Ryouma stops short of the restaurant's door, side-stepping so that Kintarou
doesn't directly collide with him. It smells like cigarettes out there, anyway,
which means Fuji is still lingering around and being weird. He doesn't wanna
deal with that, not yet, not when there's information floating around. "You
guys played Rikkai in the semifinals last year, right?" he poses, turning
around and raising his eyebrows at Shiraishi. "Did you play their captain,
Shitenhouji-buchou?" 
 
Shiraishi grimaces. He steps lightly to the side, making sure Kenya will lose
his voice in the press of people--and in the way Koharu is attempting to snatch
off Kaidou’s bandana. “Unfortunately, no,” he admits. “I was in Singles One.
Learned my lesson, too. It’s all very well to be the one who everyone can count
on if things go wrong, but it’s a lot better to make sure they never go wrong
in the first place.” He smiles. “Heard the stories? Nervous to face him? I hear
you’re doing Singles one now, congratulations. That’s a big job for a first
year.”
 
Ryouma shrugs, adjusting his hat. "Not nervous. Just wanted to know." Damn, but
why doesn't anyone know about Yukimura? Maybe he really is a demon like Fuji
said, and needs to be summoned. "You keep putting your first year in Singles
One, so it doesn't seem like that uncommon of a thing." 
 
“My first year is in Singles One,” Shiraishi explains, “because he’s a wild
card. He won’t lose, but I also think it’s worthwhile to keep everything going
according to plan. Try asking someone from Rokakku or Fudomine. They should
know all about the Child of God.”
 
Ryouma scowls. "Except he didn't play." 
 
"It's true," Tezuka tiredly points out. "Yukimura has been an alternate in
every match thus far. They also failed to release their lineup for the
semifinals this time." 
 
Shiraishi’s eyebrows climb. “Maybe he’s still convalescent, then. I heard he
was in the hospital. I’ll send him another get-well token.”
 
“Does that mean Sanada-kun is going to be captain of Rikkai now?” Koharu asks,
eyes shining. “When he bends over, you can see he’s wearing a fundoshi under
his uniform!”
 
"Oi! Where the hell are you looking, Koharu?!" Yuuji demands.
 
"Gross," Ryouma mutters, yanking his hat down further as he turns for the door
again. "Well, whatever. If he's not there, he's not there. I don't wanna play
someone who's not at his best." 
 
“Don’t worry,” Shiraishi calls after him. “I’d be afraid to play Kin-chan,
too.”
 
Ryouma twitches, stopping dead. "I'm not afraid to play anyone." 
 
Tezuka wonders if it's time to leave now.
 
“My apologies,” Shiraishi says, with a little bow that does nothing to hide his
smile. “You should be, though. He defeated everyone in Osaka. Even the high
schoolers and adults.”
 
“Tezuka,” Atobe says, low and urgent, “he’s going to be playing a match in five
minutes if you don’t stop him, and you have a match tomorrow.”
 
Ryouma thinks one more time about Kintarou before saying: "All right. Fine,
let's g--"
 
"No," Tezuka hurriedly cuts in, standing up quickly. "I'm not allowing it,
Echizen."
 
"Why won't anyone let me play a match," Ryouma crossly mutters. "I wanna play."
 
"No."
 
"But--"
 
"Your captain said no, Echizen," Oishi firmly adds. 
 
Ryouma looks like he wants to tear out someone's throat. "But I want to." 
 
"No one at these schools is any fun," Kenya sighs out, leaning back in his
seat. "Yuushi, why'd you even come to Tokyo if everyone's gonna be like this?" 
 
“Sometimes, I wonder,” Oshitari says with a sigh. “Kenya, you look tired. Are
you sure you ate enough?”
 
“We all wonder about you, Oshitari,” Shishido grumbles.
 
“Kenya,” Shiraishi says sharply, eyes still on Ryouma, “are you chasing down
our lunatic prodigy, or are you going to let him be hit by a succession of
heavily-dented cars? Now.”
 
"Lame, Yuushi," Gakuto mutters.
 
Kenya sighs heavily, clapping his cousin once on the shoulder before he starts
out of the restaurant at a brisk jog.
 
"I wanna play," Ryouma repeats, his eyes sliding from Tezuka to Atobe. "Atobe-
sempai."
 
"He's not your captain!" Oishi somewhat incredulously cuts in. "Don't ask for
permission from him!"
 
"But he'll say yes, I bet. Atobe-sempai, please?"
 
"Keigo," Tezuka hisses underneath his breath, low enough for only Atobe to
hear.
 
Atobe’s lip quivers. But, he wants to protest, he’s calling me Atobe-sempai!
And look at those eyes! 
 
He clears his throat, blinking rapidly, and looks down. “Do as your Captain
says, Ryou--er, Echizen.” The look he shoots Tezuka says very clearly that he
has some very serious rewards coming up in the very near future.
 
Ryouma scowls, just shy of stomping his foot. "Fine. Forget it, then, I'm gonna
just go." 
 
It's probably for the best. Tezuka sags back into his seat when Ryouma finally
does stalk out. "I apologize for his rudeness, Shiraishi. He's been frustrated
since the start of this tournament, I think." 
 
Shiraishi gives him a weary smile. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Honestly, Kintarou’s
been the same way. He only got to play in the first couple matches, when we
played all five rounds. Was it the same for your rookie?”
 
"More or less." Ryouma has been another headache and a half, though, courtesy
of his quest to find first-hand accounts regarding Yukimura, and failing.
Tezuka has wondered a dozen times over now if he should just tell him that he's
already had one, but…ugh. He sighs, glancing over to Kaidou and Momoshiro, both
hissing and spitting and turning bright red at every idle comment that
Shitenhouji's 'famed' comedy doubles pair makes. He leans slightly sideways,
closer to Atobe. "How strongly do you feel about the need for a change in my
doubles pairs?" 
 
Atobe shrugs. “They work by getting their opponents riled up. Do you think your
d2 will really be able to handle that kind of, er, stimulation?”
 
“Bandana-kun, let me be your bride--or groom, I bet that’s what you want, isn’t
it?”
 
“I’m going to rip your face off!!!”
 
A muscle in Tezuka's jaw twitches. "But I don't want to switch things around."
 
"Koharu!" Yuuji snarls, grabbing for his boyfriend. "You're going to be my
bride, don't go sidling up to him like that! At least share!"
 
Koharu’s eyes are sly behind his glasses, darting between Momoshiro and Kaidou.
“We could share both of them. Mm, which end do you want, Yuu-chan?”
 
Kaidou throws a despairing look towards the head of the table and his captain,
as if begging, Am I actually allowed to hit him if no one holds me back?
 
“You’re going to have to do something about the Viper,” Atobe muses. “He’s the
one that can’t be controlled. Momotaro over there just feeds on it, you know
that.”
 
This means that he needs to act like a captain. 
 
Tezuka heaves a long, weary sigh. Right. Climbing to his feet, he spares Kaidou
a nod. "Kaidou. Step outside with me for a moment, I'd like to speak with you."
If he fixes this now, maybe this will all be fine. Somehow. 
 
Kaidou holds his tongue (with difficulty) until they get out of the restaurant.
As soon as the door shuts, he immediately says, “Captain, it’s not my fault,
they wouldn’t stop saying those things, and it’s not like I am what they’re
saying I am—”
 
"I don't care," Tezuka bluntly says, and tries not to inhale cigarette…and
other smoke. 
 
"Oh, Tezuka, Kaidou, hi," Fuji breezily greets, putting out his cigarette on
the wall. 
 
Tezuka hates his life. "Fuji. Chitose."
 
There's an awkward pause, and Fuji finally gets it. "Ohh. Okay. Come on,
Chitose, let's talk over here instead." 
 
"…As I was saying," Tezuka dryly continues, trying not to heave too heavily a
sigh as he looks back at Kaidou, "I honestly don't care what they're spewing.
Reacting to them like that gives them the upper hand, and it will in your match
against them tomorrow, too. Tell me now: can I count on you to win or not?"
 
Kaidou swallows hard, taking a deep breath of cool summer evening air. “Of
course, Captain,” he says, but doesn’t sound terribly convinced. “It’s just…the
things they’re saying. Come on, I’d never lose to guys like that!”
 
"They're saying it," Tezuka patiently replies, "because they're getting a
reaction. Didn't they say the same things to Atobe and I when they first walked
in?"
 
Kaidou, if possible, turns an even deeper shade of red. “That’s different,” he
mutters. “You and Atobe are...different.” From the look on his face, it’s
painfully clear he doesn’t wish to further elaborate.
 
"Because we don't care." That's not entirely true. Tezuka would care, very
much, if his sex life was talked about in great, grand details, or if Atobe
started trying to make out with him in public (the difference is that he'd care
about that sort of thing if Atobe were male or female, so there's that). He's
also fairly certain that Atobe would care very, very much if someone started
harassing him because he was dating another man, but that's neither here nor
there. But about these idiots--no, they don't care about them. "Kaidou, ignore
them. If they see that they can get a reaction out of you, they're going to use
it in the match, and I need for you to be able to get over it and actually
play. And quite frankly," Tezuka says, lowering his voice, "if they did
actually say something rude to you that was deserving of a punch to the face, I
would argue your case at any disciplinary committee."
 
“They said they were going to--that they wanted to d-do things to me, Captain!”
Kaidou’s voice is harsh, his face drawn into an intense, humiliated scowl. “How
can they say those things? And in public? They need to learn some respect!”
 
"While I agree with you," Tezuka tiredly begins, "it's literally just a matter
of being able to tune it all out." And now for the final bit of motivation--"Do
you want to play singles in the finals, Kaidou?"
 
Kaidou’s head snaps up. There’s a hunger for it--to prove himself, to show that
he’s earned the spot of being Captain next year instead of just ‘not as useless
as Momo,’ and he wants it. “Yes, Captain! You can count on me!” God, he hopes
he can get it together.
 
"Then win this doubles match, and you'll have a slot. You have to be the one
that keeps it together, because you know Momoshiro is just going to feed off of
your reactions." Don't let your guard down and all of that seems a little trite
in this circumstance, and so Tezuka just sighs, giving Kaidou's shoulder a firm
clap. "Don't let them bait you. You're better than that."
 
Kaidou takes a deep breath, then nods. He can do this. He’s not an idiot like
Momoshiro, after all. He swallows hard, then asks, “Captain? Were
you...nervous, before becoming Captain? N-not that I think you’re definitely
going to give it to me or anything! I was just asking.”
 
"I'm usually nervous in some regard," Tezuka deadpans. Well, it's not a lie.
Most people just never believe it. "But honestly? I didn't even want it. I was
hoping it would be given to Fuji, or even Inui." 
 
“But—” 
 
Kaidou looks horrified at the prospect. “Neither of them would ever be half--
no, a tenth of the captain you are!”
 
Tezuka's eyebrows arch. "I'm glad you think that," he honestly says, "but most
of the time, Kaidou, I'm not entirely sure if what I'm doing is correct or not.
So yes, I was nervous. It's fine if you are, too, because I can't imagine
leaving Seigaku to anyone else."
 
Kaidou firms his jaw, and sets his shoulders. “Yes, Captain! You can depend on
me. Those stupid perverts won’t get the better of Kaidou Kaoru, no matter what
they say or do. We’ll go to the championship!”
 
"Good. Now go back inside and prove it." Hopefully, this has served as
inspirational. Tezuka isn't kidding when he says he's rarely sure if what he's
doing is any good or not. 
 
~
 
Chitose doesn’t expect someone to come out of the restaurant right away. He can
see through the window that there aren’t too many people inside that aren’t in
the rival teams, and his own has only just gone in. With that in mind, there
are few good places to take the edge off...but this will do, in a pinch, and
playing Shishigaku counts as a pinch.
 
Of course, he’s only just lit up when the door opens. Of course. He puts it out
hurriedly on the restaurant wall, stepping to the side to cover up the stain.
If it’s someone who doesn’t know the smell, this probably won’t be an issue.
 
In theory, fresh air is good, but then there's the scent of something that
distinctly isn't wet, rainy summer Tokyo.
 
Fuji just smiles when he sees who it is, though, and he sidesteps away from the
door, pulling out a cigarette from his own back pocket. "Lucky. I didn't think
there would be anyone out here that would give me a light." Wow, but Chitose is
even taller when he's up close.
 
A lot of people would relax, seeing Fuji out here. Those people would be
thinking directly along the lines of he’s not likely to turn me in. Something
about Fuji, however, makes Chitose distinctly unable to relax. 
 
He pulls out a lighter, however, and offers the light. “Being cramped up in
there is no fun,” he says with a little smile. “Sometimes you need a little
space. Right, Fuji Shuusuke?”
 
Fuji leans in, lighting his cigarette and then rocking back onto his heels on a
long, drawn out exhale. "Mnn, mostly, I got a little flustered looking at your
captain. Can't say that in front of a crowded room, though, so here I am." His
own lips curl into a faint smile. "You must have a better excuse, though."
 
Chitose shrugs. His eyes are sharp now, watching every move; Shiraishi doesn’t
need any creepers after him, and Fuji Shuusuke is just about the number one
entry on the Do Not Allow list, as far as Chitose’s concerned. When he speaks,
however, his voice is mellow. “Recovering from our last game. Plus...it didn’t
really feel right to be in there with the team after I quit.”
 
Ooh. There's that rumor confirmed. Fuji's eyebrows arch, but he doesn't respond
right away. "What a shame. I think Tezuka was looking forward to playing you in
the semifinals. He usually has a lot of nice things to say about you." Which is
weird, because Tezuka rarely says anything about anyone, let alone anything
nice. Gross.
 
“I’m sure I’ll meet up with him in a match someday. Men like us...our paths are
destined to cross.” To hell with it, he’s not playing and Fuji Shuusuke won’t
turn him in. Chitose lights up the remainder of the joint behind his back,
inhaling deeply, then letting it go.
 
Getting a second-hand high is pretty good, Fuji thinks. His eyes lid, and he
flicks ash off of the end of his cigarette. "Will you at least be there to
watch? It looks like I'll be playing Shiraishi, which I think is going to be
fun." He glances sideways, catching Chitose's gaze. "Or did you get banned from
the stadium after sending that player from Shishigaku to the hospital? I hear
that was quite a match." 
 
Chitose blows out a long trail of smoke, and leans back against the wall. “Not
my fault, referee says. No one told him he had to let the ball hit him. Didn’t
you hear? Tennis is supposed to be a game for fast people.” A little smile
plays around the edges of his lips. “I’ll be watching Kura. Don’t think for a
second I won’t.”
 
What did that asshat do to provoke that is on the tip of Fuji's tongue, but ah,
he's not so good at listening to other people's problems. He'd like to be, in
theory, but it never really works out. "…So if you're going through the trouble
of staying around and watching," he slowly presses, "then why quit?" His next
inhale is long and deep, and he definitely gets two kinds of smoke at once.
That's nice. 
 
Chitose raises his eyebrows. “You want a hit?” he asks, holding it out. “You’re
kind of...leaning.”
 
"I'm usually leaning," Fuji cheerfully admits, but waves the joint away and
curls up around his cigarette again. "Thank you, but I'm weird when I'm high,
you don't want that."
 
“Yeah,” Chitose deadpans, “god forbid.” He waits a few long moments before
taking another hit, starting to cruise on the good feelings. “I’m just not sure
that playing tennis is what I should be doing right now, you know? Not sure I
like the man I am when I do it, not right now.”
 
"How do you even figure that out?" Fuji wonders out loud, his head tilting
slightly to the side. "Is it when it starts being a chore? Or when it starts
upsetting other people? If that was the case, I should have stopped a long time
ago." 
 
“Nah, got nothing to do with other people. Tennis—that’s a big mistake people
make,” Chitose says, waving his hand to make a point. “They get into this
mindset of thinking it’s the end, but it’s just the way you frame your journey.
You gotta pay attention to the way your feet touch the road. If it starts being
about other people and not about what you feel, you’ve got to let it go, just
to see if you can start feeling you again.” He blinks a few times. “God, I’m
really high.”
 
"I wish I could get high that easily," Fuji sighs, breathing in nicotine more
than anything else and, well, that takes away the rush that seeing Shiraishi
brought about, more or less. "Tennis has always been about other people for me,
though, so I guess I messed up from the beginning." He shrugs a little. "Oh
well. So long as I win, it's okay. You used to be pretty like that, too; I
remember your old matches."
 
“Why do you play?” Chitose turns, facing Fuji face-on now for the first time,
looking into the eyes that freak him out a little. There’s something not-quite-
right going on there, he’s sure of it, even if no one else seems to notice.
“What old matches?”
 
"The ones when you were at Shishigaku last year. See, Sanada mentioned your
name at the Kantou, and that made Inui have to look up your old tapes…" Fuji
takes a long drag from his cigarette, flicking off the ash afterwards. "Mm,
but, I mostly think I play to find that one little thrill again, you know? Our
rookie does that for me, sometimes. Maybe Shiraishi will, too."
 
Chitose has to laugh at that. He has to laugh a little bit at everything, right
now. “You’re not going to like playing him as much as you think you are.”
 
"Why do you say that? He's not serve and volley, so automatically I find him
more appealing. The shoulders also help." And those hands.
 
“He’s no fun to play.” Chitose shrugs. “You’ll see. I don’t want to spoil the
surprise for you.” Don’t want you to give a chance to read up on him and find a
way to beat him, more accurately.
 
"I bet he's fun in his own way," Fuji sighs, eyes glazing as his mind starts
wandering. "Are you two dating? Is that why you're so protective?" 
 
“That would make more sense, wouldn’t it?” Chitose agrees. “Nah. There’s
just...something about him I really love. Dunno if he’s the dating kind,
though. I’m certainly not.” It would be not anymore, but there had never been
dates in the first place, so maybe more like not ever.
 
"That sounds like Tezuka and I," Fuji fondly reflects. "He's just
so…untouchable. But I'm really not a good person, and I definitely wouldn't be
good for him…it's better if I stay away. If he ever wants me, he'll tell me,
I'm sure of that." 
 
Chitose nods a little. “Yeah...I see what you’re saying. There’s elements of
that, sure. But I think I’m a lot less selfless than you seem to be implying.
Just doesn’t feel right, me and him. From my point of view, and I’m pretty sure
from his, too. Hell, for all I know, he likes girls.” It could be true. He’s
never exactly asked.
 
Fuji reaches over to pat his arm sympathetically. "It's hard when they like
girls and you don't look like a girl," he says knowingly. "Fortunately, I do. I
could find out for you, if you want." 
 
Chitose smiles, and puts a hand over Fuji’s. “Thanks,” he says, “and please
don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d do pretty much anything to stop him from
ending up with you.”
 
"That's probably smart," Fuji breezily agrees, "because I'm trash, and I'd love
to eat him alive." 
 
“Do you have an accurate count of how many guys have told you there’s something
wrong with you?” It’s a fairly venom-less question, more curious than anything.
 
"I lost count when I was…11. Ish. It's gotten pretty high in the past few
years, so, you know," Fuji lightly answers, unfazed. "Surprisingly, though,
most people take awhile. You're fast, though!"
 
Shockingly, most people seem to think it’s scarier to play Tezuka than this
wack-job. Chitose will never understand what most people fear. He shakes his
head a little, and stabs out the end of his joint, neatly pocketing it to avoid
leaving a trace behind. “I’m not being facetious when I say I’ll be watching
Kura’s match. Most of us are pretty protective of him. Me I guess most of all.”
Not that he’d have to be if Shiraishi would just listen to him when he tells
him Fuji Shuusuke is dangerous.
 
"I'd hope so! He seems a little…" Fuji trails off, thinking, and then just
smiles, shrugging uncaringly. "Whatever. I can't wait to see you there."
 
The door swings open, and whoops, that's time to put out his cigarette.
Athletes don't smoke, or so their stern (gorgeous, strong, beautiful…) captain
is pretty set on believing. 
 
Tezuka believes a lot of things, though, and that's not Fuji's fault, either.
 
***** Sanada & Yukimura, Rikkai *****
Not telling anyone is driving Yukimura insane.
 
The past few days have been hell--a barrage of hell, considering all of his
time spent at home has been fielding phone calls, diving for the line and
nearly ripping the cord out of the wall a few times in the process. It's been a
whole lot of picking up prescriptions, and then hiding them. It's been lying to
doctors at the next, follow-up appointment, and saying that his parents were
busy, and that he's fine, he's used to this by now, he doesn't need them there,
here's a note signed by them saying the same thing.
 
He can't tell even his parents what his test results say yet, not when he's so
sure they'll pull him from the tournament. 
 
That won't do. Not when he's so close. It's the night before the semifinals,
and while Yukimura isn't worried, Kirihara's lineup is…questionable. It's more
questionable with the fact that he's in Singles Three, not Singles One, and
while he doesn't mind and does want to play… 
 
As if to prove his worries, he rolls off of his bed to escape to the bathroom
(not for the first time today) and heaves up the contents of his stomach for a
minute and a half. 
 
No, this won't do. Blaming the heat in the middle of the day is one thing, but
this…Yukimura groans, shutting his eyes and flopping his head down onto the
toilet seat as he reaches up to flush. This sucks. Just a few more days. He can
skip taking these particular pills until after Nationals--it won't make a
difference, anyway. 
 
"Nii-chan, Gen-chan is here!"
 
Simultaneously, the thoughts of my hero and shit, shit, shit run through
Yukimura's mind. "Send him up in five seconds, Kaede!" he calls down, wobbling
to his feet to brush his teeth because gross, gross, gross. 
 
Downstairs, Kaede looks gravely up at her brother's childhood friend. "Nii-chan
has been very sneaky lately," she says, completely serious. "I think he's
planning something. Approach with caution." 
 
Sanada sighs, and rubs his temples slightly. No stress, that’s just begging to
bring one of his headaches back, and they’ve been in rare form since Yukimura’s
been out of the hospital. It’s a relief that he’s out, of course, but at least
when he was in the hospital Sanada wasn’t constantly worried that he’d do
something to hurt himself.
 
“I’ll be careful,” he promises, just as serious as Kaede. He hopes it’s only a
result of Yukimura furiously planning for their retreat after Nationals, and
swells a little bit with pride. At some point, Yukimura will ask for his
parents’ permission, only to find that Sanada has already done so, and received
it in spades. 
 
He makes his way upstairs, padding on the carpeted steps (how Western, like
most of the house) in socked feet before politely knocking at the door. Stupid,
that after ten years his pulse can still jump a beat knowing I’m about to see
him.
 
"Don't knock, that's so lame," Yukimura teases as he opens the door, having
pieced himself together again with a smile. Kaede told Sanada something weird,
he can tell, but it's better not to bring it up or that's just going to make it
more difficult to keep secrets (secrets that he doesn't really want to keep,
anyway). "Have you seen Akaya's lineup for tomorrow?" he tosses over his
shoulder as he walks further into the room. "I wonder if he'll ever realize
that putting himself in Singles One means that he won't play."
 
“He thinks he’s courting your approval,” Sanada says, disdain in every
syllable. “He thinks he’s proving himself to you as a captain. He’s slacking
off!” 
 
Despite the vitriol in the words, his expression softens a little as he shuts
the door behind him, reaching out a hand to tug on the back of Yukimura’s
sleeve, bringing him close for a soft kiss.
 
Tension leaves Yukimura in a rush, and god, that's a lot of tension, judging by
the way he goes somewhat limp and wobbly for a moment. 
 
"Be nice about our baby, Gen-n-n," he sighs, flopping his arms over Sanada's
shoulders and letting himself lean into that broad, warm chest for a moment.
"At least we have a rookie that tries hard. A lot of teams can't say that."
 
Sanada snorts at that, and his arms go around Yukimura, briefly holding him off
the ground without really realizing it. “That’s certainly the case. Then again,
have you seen the bracket that Seigaku’s been playing in? Pathetically easy.”
 
Yukimura hooks his chin over Sanada's shoulder, content to dangle for that
brief moment. Yes, good. He could do this all night and be quite happy. "Mmmhm.
They're really in for a rude awakening tomorrow. Shitenhouji is a good team
with a solid lineup. I'd enjoy facing them in the finals." 
 
“I wouldn’t. Never again.” That stupid doubles team, with their stupid jokes,
and their stupid wigs, and their stupid...ugh.
 
"I wouldn't make you play doubles against them," Yukimura cheerfully reassures
him, giving Sanada's back a pat before he leans away. "Never again. Niou and
Yagyuu would be fine. They'd just roll their eyes and ignore them. Ah, but
that's thinking too far ahead." 
 
“Tomorrow’s match comes first,” Sanada agrees, finally letting Yukimura go.
He’s not quite as warm as Sanada would like, but that will come in time. “Are
there any matches you’re actually unsure of against Hyoutei? We’ve never lost
to them, no matter what our lineup is.”
 
"Mmnn…" Yukimura flops back onto the edge of his bed, grabbing the lineup sheet
and passing it to Sanada. "We'll win, that's not the issue. Doubles Two might
be a loss, though, if Atobe is smart enough to put his one good pair up."
Honestly, talking about a match that they've definitely already won isn't
something he can easily focus on. It feels wrong that Marui knows what's going
on and Sanada doesn't, because at least Sanada should, but Sanada is worse than
his parents ever were, and would definitely make sure that he didn't play a
single match and--ugh. 
 
Sanada sits on the edge of the bed, absently reaching over to brush a strand of
hair behind one of Yukimura’s ears. “Your hair is getting shiny again,” he says
with a little smile, then turns to the sheet. “It could be worse. Hmm...do you
think he’s putting me in doubles so often for a reason?”
 
That's not going to last, Yukimura miserably thinks. "He likes being the stand-
out in singles. Not that he ever gets to play…" If he did tell Sanada, there
would have to be a way to do it that didn't make it sound so bad. 
 
Sanada scowls down at the list. “That’s absurd. There’s no honor in a victory
that’s just handed to you. You can’t just cut a door into a mountain, you have
to scale the damn thing, and if he thinks that being Number One in points is
going to feel satisfying, he’ll taste my fist!”
 
"Uh huh." Shit, there's no good way to bring this up. If he doesn't tell Sanada
the whole truth, then there's no way he'll get out of it without Sanada
dragging him down to a hospital immediately for a doctor's full opinion, and,
well, they've already given that. No, he just can't say anything. 
 
Sanada’s eyes flicker sideways for a moment. Yukimura isn’t exactly paying
attention. Ah, it’s probably just because he’s boring. He turns back to the
list, frowning. “Marui has to get over that flinchy thing. Maybe putting him in
singles would work there when he doesn’t have anyone to rely on.”
 
"Mmhm." Right. If he just doesn't say anything, that's fine. That, coupled with
not taking that horrible stuff that makes him want to throw his own guts up on
an hourly basis, should keep everything hidden until after Nationals--then he
can tell Sanada, and it'll be awful still, but he can't keep him from playing
at that point.
 
That’s about as much noninterest as Sanada can handle, and he reaches over,
laying his hand against Yukimura’s forehead. “Come on, we’re taking you to the
hospital.”
 
"Eh?" Yukimura blinks hard, jerking back. Was he talking out loud? No, he
doesn't do that unless he's sleepwalking or weird things like that. "No way!
I'm fine. Don't be weird, Gen." 
 
“Your temperature is up,” Sanada says patiently, keeping his voice calm as he
lays a hand over Yukimura’s, “and you’re drifting off in the middle of
conversations. We knew a relapse was possible, remember? It’s fine, no matter
what’s gone wrong, we’ll just figure out how to get you back on track.” He
gives that hand a squeeze that he hopes is comforting.
 
"You're being weird," Yukimura repeats, yanking his hand away with a huff. His
heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest again, and that's just no good
at all. Calm down, Seiichi, he hasn't figured it out yet. "I'm not drifting
off, I was just thinking about other things." 
 
“I think I know by now when your temperature is up,” Sanada says patiently,
again, and stands, making his way to the bathroom. “Thermometer in the same
place? Call a cab if you don’t want your mother to find out yet.”
 
"You're being horrible," Yukimura groans, climbing up from the bed to follow
after him. Shit, shit, did he put those pills away? Unable to remember, he
grabs at the back of Sanada's shirt, digging his heels in to try and haul him
back. "I just went in for a check-up, remember? And I was fine!"
 
“They obviously missed something.” Sanada sighs, turns, and cups Yukimura’s
face in his hands, holding him gently. “It’s all right to be scared,” he says,
looking into brown eyes as familiar as his own. “If you need me to take over
some things again, that’s fine, just...trust me. You did before, remember?”
 
Yukimura scowls up at him, even as he tries to rapidly think of a way to turn
this whole conversation around. "I'm not scared because there's nothing wrong.
I just went in, they did all the  normal tests, I'm fine--and--" Suddenly, an
idea. Yeah. That's a good one, and he's pretty sure it'll work. "I just…I was
distracted because I was thinking about other things--and--you know--a fever
isn't the only thing that's going to make someone's body temperature go up." He
swallows, and god, he's lame, he doesn't even have to fake being a little
nervous when he reaches out and curls his fingers into Sanada's shirt. "I was
thinking about you." 
 
Sanada stops. For a second, even his pulse stops--or no, he realizes moments
later with a flush, his pulse is just casually redirecting all of the blood in
his body. He clears his throat, and mutters, “You...you mean you were thinking
about…” 
 
His pulse is back now, hard and loud as a drum in his own ears as his hand
comes up to curl over Yukimura’s. “I, uh...oh.”
 
That worked really well, and the more Yukimura thinks about it, the better plan
this becomes. If I die before we get on a mountain, at least there's one thing
crossed off the list, he dryly thinks. "Mmhm." He steps closer, peering up at
Sanada through his lashes. "Who says we have to wait?"
 
Sanada’s mouth goes dry, and he loses his footing for a second, backing up
against the wall. “Uh,” he tries, and it comes out broken into a squeak at the
end. “W-we were going to wait until...Seiichi, I’ve been planning this for a
year—”
 
"We don't have to go all the way or anything. That can wait for the mountain."
Yukimura steps after him, gripping Sanada's hand. Yes, the longer this goes on,
the more he thinks this is a great idea, especially when his own pulse starts
racing. Come on, body, cooperate with me. "Do you know how much I think about
you?" he breathes, burying his face into Sanada's neck so that the other boy
doesn't have to see how hot his cheeks flush when he starts pushing Sanada's
hand down. "It was bad enough when I was in the hospital, but now that I'm home
and I still can't be with you like I really want…"
 
“Ssss,” Sanada says, as his voice shorts out and he starts seeing spots from
being so dizzy. He clears his throat, and tries again, though he isn’t entirely
sure what he’s going to say. Yukimura is making some very compelling points,
like standing really close to him, which Sanada is pretty sure is cheating from
how it makes him let out an odd creaking noise. “I’m--I--uh--S-Seii….”
 
Yeah, good. Now, if he could just--convince himself to be really bold about
this, and shove Sanada's hand between his legs because that sounds really good
and makes his breath catch. Yukimura can't quite bring himself to do it,
though, but he is pressed very close, and he can feel how warm Sanada is and
how his heart is beating so, so fast--
 
The knocking on his door sounds more like a stampede than anything. "Nii-chan!
You have guests!"
 
Yukimura groans, his head thunking against Sanada's shoulder. "Make them go
away, Kaede!" he snaps over his shoulder.
 
"But it's the whole team!"
 
Yukimura growls, and instead of going to the door, just reaches up and yanks
Sanada down for a real kiss. "You can't tell me this is a bad idea," he
breathes, teeth catching Sanada's lower lip, "because you're just as hard as I
am."
 
Some dim part of Sanada’s mind that’s still functioning protests that this is
not an accurate portrayal of his desires since he’s almost always this hard,
but that’s quickly strangled into a groan. “Let’s just ignore them for five
minutes,” he hears himself whispering. “W-won’t take long, I need to touch you,
I’ve waited so long—”
 
“Buchou! I’m making a cake in your kitchen!”
 
“Yukimura-buchou! Did you see my lineup?”
 
“Puri!”
 
Yukimura has never wanted to kill his whole team, but he certainly does right
now. "Five minutes," he breathlessly agrees all the same, and one hand fumbles
at the front of Sanada's pants, emboldened by the fact that Sanada sounds like
he's going to die if Yukimura doesn't touch him now. 
 
"He's in there with Gen-chan," Kaede smugly tells someone outside of his
bedroom, and Yukimura wants to kill his little sister, too. 
 
“No way! Sanada-fukubuchou, did you see—”
 
“Not now, Akaya. They might be busy.”
 
Somehow, even Kirihara’s enthusiasm doesn’t sour Sanada’s mood as fast as
Yanagi’s knowing tone, and he regretfully pulls away. “Later,” he mutters, and
ducks into the bathroom. “You go out first.”
 
Shit, nope, this is ruining everything. "No, you," Yukimura hurriedly demands,
still unable to remember if those pills were put up or not, and he dives past
Sanada and into the bathroom in time to shove him out of it and slam the door
in his face. "Or wait just a minute!" 
 
"Busy with what? Looking at my lineup? It's good, isn't it?"
 
Maybe this is a mercy in disguise, Yukimura miserably thinks, briefly knocking
his head back against the bathroom door. He stashes the pair of bottles
underneath the sink, tucked underneath half a dozen towels. Doing this makes
him feel like a drug addict, which is so great. Who would want to fuck someone
that's all gross and sickly, anyway? 
 
“Fine,” Sanada mutters through the bathroom door, “I’ll go out first. Your
shower doesn’t get all that cold, anyway.” He throws open the bedroom door, and
glares Kirihara down. “Don’t you know not to interrupt your captain?” he
thunders, grabbing the boy by the back of the neck and dragging him down the
stairs. “Didn’t he get out of the hospital three weeks ago? Doesn’t he need his
rest?”
 
“He needs a cake,” he hears from the direction of the kitchen, followed by,
“No, Jackal, you’re holding it wrong!”
 
"How can I hold it wrong? It's just a mixing bowl!"
 
"Sanada-fukubuchou, I just--I wanted to make sure it was all okay!" Kirihara
wails, somewhat panicked, trying to squirm out of his hold. "Come on, let me
go!" 
 
"It can hardly be okay if you put me in singles again, Kirihara-kun," Yagyuu
mutters from where he sits on the couch, Kaede already having stolen his
glasses.
 
"But I didn't!"
 
"Why are you all here, anyway?" Yukimura complains when he finally bursts from
his bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time. "Normally, we hold a party before
and after finals." 
 
“Got bored,” Niou declares, flopping onto both the couch and Yagyuu at the same
time. “Why not four parties this time? You’ve missed out on enough crap.”
 
“I’m making a full banquet,” Marui calls from the kitchen, “so nobody had
better have had a snack!”
 
Sanada’s headache is back.
 
"Buchou! Yukimura-buchou, didn't my lineup look good this time?" Kirihara
eagerly presses, managing to get free of Sanada's grasp and dart over to
Yukimura. "You get to play and everything!"
 
"Didn't you want to play, Akaya?" Yukimura wryly points out, setting a hand
atop Kirihara's head. "You should have played Singles Three."
 
"No! I need to be in Singles One." 
 
Yukimura tries not to roll his eyes. "Uh huh. Ma~ru~i," he hums, drifting off
to the kitchen. "Was this all your idea?" 
 
Marui shifts immediately in front of the door, and when that doesn’t exactly do
much to block it, kicks Jackal in front of the door. “I’m busy,” he says very
seriously. “I’m so busy. Buchou, this is a very important meal, so do not
interrupt the creative process and get out of my kitchen.”
 
"You interrupted my creative process with Sanada," Yukimura hisses underneath
his breath. "This better be one hell of a cake."
 
"But Buchou, wasn't my lineup good? Wasn't it?"
 
"Oh my god, Akaya--Yanagi, do something!" Yukimura groans, stalking back into
the living room and swatting at Niou's legs on the couch. "Make room."
 
"Kaede-chan, please give me my glasses back."
 
"My esteemed greatness doesn't have to return anything to you!" 
 
“Yukimura,” Sanada says, affronted as he snatches the glasses out of Kaede’s
hands, “I thought you said she was getting over this rude pattern of speech.
Have all of you forgotten you are guests in this home?”
 
“Puri.” Niou manages to snag the glasses on one toe, deftly whisking them close
and depositing them squarely on Yagyuu’s face, shimmying further on top of
Yagyuu when Yukimura starts squashing him. 
 
“Akaya,” Yanagi says patiently, pulling a brightly-colored pinwheel out of his
bag and handing it over, “why don’t you sit quietly for five minutes? Remember
what we said about giving people a chance to realize how much they like having
you around.”
 
"Oh…yeah." Kirihara sulks, but sits.
 
"I'm not rude, I'm amazing," Kaede insists, pouting as she flops down into her
father's esteemed comfy chair. It's something of a throne to her, at any rate.
 
"Yes, yes, you're the best, Kaede-kun," Yukimura sighs, sinking down into the
couch even though Niou's feet eventually end back up in his lap. Whatever.
"Listen, all of you. We're going to crush Hyoutei into the ground. If it isn't
a clean sweep like the rest of this tournament has been, I'm going to be
annoyed. That especially goes for you, Marui!" he calls towards the kitchen. 
 
“Why me?” Marui wails. “I’m playing doubles! It’s a joint effort, and we’re
amazing!”
 
“Anyone who doesn’t pull his full weight will not be tolerated!” Sanada
thunders. “Especially you, Akaya!”
 
"Eh?! Why wouldn't I pull my weight, I'm really good, I've got this, Sanada-
fukubuchou!"
 
"I'm singling you out because you run from heavy shots and knowing Atobe, he'll
put his only good doubles pair against you in hopes of saving face." Yukimura
huffs, and irritably pulls at one of Niou's toes. "Let's all just make sure
Akaya doesn't have to play Atobe, all right?"
 
Kirihara's face falls. "But…but I really want to--"
 
"Let's just make sure."
 
"I've got stamina," Kirihara mumbles sulkily. "So much. I could beat him, I
could do it, I could." 
 
“Yes,” Sanada says, eyes boring into Kirihara’s around the brightly-colored
toy, “because you fare so well against a school’s Ace. You can play Atobe after
you beat Fuji Shuusuke.”
 
“Boss,” Niou says, wiggling his toes pointedly. “Boss.”
 
“Jackal, get out! You’re ruining my concentration with your bad bowl-holding!
Kaede, you’re in!”
 
"My kingdom formation begins," Kaede hisses, clenching a fist in victory above
her head as she darts off into the kitchen.
 
Kirihara curls up behind his pinwheel, sulking. "I could beat Fuji if I play
him again. Just wait." 
 
"You're not going to be playing Fuji again. I'll be picking the lineup for
finals, you've done more than enough." Yukimura pulls on another one of Niou's
toes. 
 
"But--"
 
"No buts, Akaya. You aren't playing Singles One in the finals, that much I know
for sure." Yukimura's eyes glaze a little. "Shitenhouji. I want to play
Shitenhouji. Shiraishi's tennis is so…"
 
“Perfect,” Sanada agrees, folding his arms. “But Yukimura, I’m not playing
doubles against Shitenhouji.”
 
“Genichirou, I’m sure they’ve forgotten all about last time—”
 
“It’s not going to happen.”
 
"Don't be ridiculous, Sanada. You'll be playing Singles Two. Do you hear that
Chitose quit? What a shame," Yukimura sighs, letting his head roll over the
back of the couch. "Yanagi, do you think you could hold Akaya together in a
doubles match?"
 
"But I want to play singles!"
 
"Quiet, Akaya."
 
"Who else would be playing singles, though? I'm awesome!" Right, focus on the
pinwheel, breathe in slow and deep, out just as slow and long.
 
"Dunno. You wanna play singles, Niou?" Yukimura gives his calf a pinch. "You
could be Singles One, and I could play Singles Three against Shiraishi and his
perfect, perfect tennis."
 
Sanada’s face falls. “Chitose quit? No, I was going to play him!” There’s some
visible distress on his face, and he sits down heavily in the recently-vacated
comfy chair.
 
“Or,” Niou says idly, playing with a lock of Yagyuu’s hair, “we could not
randomly throw away our rank as the best doubles pair in the country. Come on,
it’s not like we’re going to lose to a couple dumb homo gags, we can out-homo
them any day.”
 
“This is all predicated upon Shitenhouji beating Seigaku, of course,” Yanagi
says mildly, but no one pays much attention.
 
“Buchou! Marui calls, distressed, from the kitchen. “I could beat the homos! Me
and Jackal, they’re no match! I mean, for our tennis! And I’m totally more of a
genius than the weird old lady guy!”
 
"I'm not going to let you climb me like a tree on the court, Niou-kun," Yagyuu
flat out warns him.
 
"Well, if you want to keep your doubles rank, then you can play Doubles One.
Since when did you start caring so much, Niou?" Yukimura teases. 
 
"I'll play singles! I'll do it, Buchou--"
 
"Yanagi," Yukimura says, looking over to his friend, "that pinwheel is not
working." 
 
“We never thought it would work for long,” Yanagi agrees, and tucks the
pinwheel back in his bag, pulling out three beanbags instead. “Akaya, do you
still want to learn how to juggle?”
 
Niou, meanwhile, simply leans over and murmurs into Yagyuu’s ear, “You’ll let
me climb you whenever I want, I bet. Eh, Yaaagyuu?”
 
"Hell yeah, Yanagi-sempai! Gimme!"
 
"Oh, that's just no good at all," Yukimura sighs, and then looks
sympathetically over to Sanada before Kirihara can break something. "I'm sure
Chitose would play you in a private match, you know. I can talk to Shiraishi
about arranging a practice match between our schools regardless, if you want." 
 
"Niou-kun," Yagyuu admonishes, swatting the other boy away as his face slowly
colors to bright red. 
 
"Oi, not on my couch," Yukimura snaps, giving Niou's rat tail a yank.
 
“If he quit,” Sanada points out gloomily, “he’s hardly going to be in a
practice match. Put me in Singles One if you don’t want it, then. I don’t mind
inspiring our team to victory.”
 
“You have to start with one,” Yanagi explains patiently. "Back, and forth.
Back, and forth.”
 
"Mm, but if I talk to Shiraishi, he might be able to convince Chitose,"
Yukimura lightly points out. "You know they're close. It'll be good, I'll talk
to him, but in the meantime, Singles One is yours."
 
"Nooo, Buchou--"
 
"Oh, be quiet and juggle, Akaya." 
 
Kirihara sulks, and irritably proceeds to do so. 
 
“If you can get him to play,” Sanada agrees. “Maybe he’ll do Singles One, you
know Shiraishi never does anymore.”
 
“Akaya, please try catching the bag with your other hand rather than throwing
it at my face, as a general preference.”
 
“I have appetizers!” Marui announces from the kitchen, and sends Kaede running
out with a tray of sausage curls baked into fresh herb biscuits, alongside
vegetable kabobs.
 
Akaya abandons his beanbags (they end up in Yanagi's face, of course) in favor
of launching himself at food. "Ah! Sorry, Yanagi-sempai! I'm just pretty sure
I'm gonna die if I don't eat."
 
"You've redeemed yourself, Marui!" Yukimura calls into the kitchen, snatching
Kaede over by the back of her shirt to get first pick.
 
"Nii-chan, you're gonna get fat."
 
"I'm never going to be fat, shut up." 
 
"You're going to get fat and never fit into the dresses Kaachan makes you
model--"
 
"Kaede!" Yukimura hisses, horrified. "Shut up!"
 
“Don’t worry, Buchou!” Marui calls gleefully. “A lot of things don’t have meat,
and everything is designed to make you super fat and healthy. And you’d look
awful in a dress, super shoulders!”
 
“Tell that to his mother,” Sanada grumbles around two or three sausage
biscuits. “She doesn’t understand.”
 
“Ah,” Yanagi asks delicately, “is there anything…less, ah…”
 
“Jackal, take this plate of plain blanched vegetables and a bread roll to Mr.
Boring.”
 
“Many thanks, Bunta.”
 
"At least all of you understand," Yukimura bemoans, taking a solid bite out of
his kabob. Oh, he can die happy now. He curls up around it and the other one
that he snagged happily. "I don't want to be fat, though, so don't overfeed me,
Marui." 
 
"There's one dress that makes him look like a princess--"
 
"Does anyone want a little sister?" Yukimura crossly interrupts.
 
"Mine is quite sweet, actually," Yagyuu idly puts in.
 
Kaede makes a face. "Yeah, I know her. She's in my class, and she's boring."
 
"Must be…umm…what's that word--oh yeah, genetic!" Kirihara pipes up. 
 
Yagyuu looks nothing short of horrified. "I'm not boring!"
 
“I’m actually coming to Mei-chan’s defense here,” Niou pipes up, stealing
broccoli off the end of Yagyuu’s skewer. “Kaede, you have to be nice to her,
she’s real sweet and not nearly as boring as her brother.”
 
“Is she a nerd too?” Sanada asks.
 
“Buchou, you’re not eating enough!” Marui hollers. “Your teeth have a very
distinctive sound andI don’t hear it!”
 
"How in the world can you know what my teeth sound like?" Yukimura
incredulously shouts back. 
 
Kaede's eyes roll to the sky as she flops down on the ground, gnawing on a
biscuit. "But she's a big nerd. She cries if she's called on in class, and she
won't play tennis!"
 
Yukimura stretches out a leg and uses his sister's head as a foot rest. "On the
tennis front, you have to be nice and teach her. That's how you get worthy
opponents, look at how good I made Sanada!"
 
"Lame," Kaede declares, shoving her brother's leg off. "Marui-kun, Nii-chan
isn't eating!"
 
"I'm eating!" Yukimura quickly argues, hurriedly trying to finish off his first
kabob.
 
Marui’s eyes gleam threateningly at him from the doorway. “There will be cake
soon,” he intones, slowly sliding back into the kitchen. “And you’re going to
eatall of it.”
 
“Should that sound threatening?” Sanada demands. “Because it sounds
threatening.”
 
Niou kicks back in Yagyuu’s lap and starts breaking a biscuit into tiny pieces,
tossing them into Kaede’s hair. “Hey Boss, ten points if you get one in
Sanada’s cleavage.”
 
"I always eat all of your cake, Marui!" Yukimura protests, even as he leans
forward to pluck a biscuit piece out of sister's hair. "Sanada, lean forward,
just a little bit." 
 
"Mom's gonna be mad if there's biscuit everywhere," Kaede solemnly says, even
as she plucks the pieces out of her hair to eat them herself. 
 
"Why does she care, she never cleans herself," Yukimura disinterestedly
replies. 
 
"Mei-chan plays tennis with me," Yagyuu mutters underneath his breath, still
stuck on the idea of his poor sister being tormented by the hell beast that is
Yukimura Kaede. 
 
“I don’t have cleavage! Seiichi!"
 
Yanagi leans forward, and a thick crumb manages to land directly in the cleft
between Sanada’s pectorals. “I do believe that’s twenty points to me for
excessive length.”
 
“Renji!”
 
“I don’t blame her for not wanting to play with Kaede,” Niou says, pretending
to attempt to speak quietly. “I mean, Mei-chan’s obviously the best one in her
class, she probably just doesn’t want to embarrass anyone.”
 
"Damn it, Yanagi," Yukimura laughs as he aims, fires, and misses, the piece of
biscuit ended up on Sanada's collarbone. "You're not supposed to be better at
this, I know that cleavage really intimately!"
 
"Wait," Kirihara pipes up, sliding out of his food coma somewhat, "don't you
use cleavage to talk about girls? Sanada-fukubuchou isn't a girl."
 
Kaede twitches, her eyes landing sharply upon Niou. "She's not better than me.
I'm the best! Me! The Crimson Blade!" 
 
"Giving yourself a nickname isn't cute orimpressive, Kaede," Yukimura hums.
 
Niou shrugs. “Mei-chan beat me once. You never have. Piyo.”
 
“Crimson Blade is a startlingly pedestrian nickname as well,” Yanagi chimes in.
“It says nothing about your dominance on the court, merely existing as a
rephrasing of the kanji in your name. Genichirou, lean forward a little more.”
 
“I’m going to tie both of you in a knot,” Sanada growls, tucking his legs up to
his chest and stuffing half a kabob in his mouth in one bite.
 
Kaede stares around at the team, slack-jawed for a moment. "I will not forget
this," she hisses, climbing to her feet. "You'll regret these attempts to
dethrone me!"
 
"Oh, she's gone," Yukimura mildly comments, watching her storm up the stairs.
"Thank god. Ah, score!"he crows, one very lucky shot delivering a piece of
biscuit down the one and only opening of Sanada's shirt still available. "Niou,
if Yagyuu's little sister really beat you, we're gonna need to have a
conversation." 
 
“She did,” Niou assures him. “I mean, it was a one-point match, and Yagyuu got
his overshirt and undershirt stuck together and accidentally took them both off
so I was pretty distracted, but she sure did.”
 
Sanada fumbles in his shirt, furious and red-faced, and throws the stick of his
kabob at Yanagi. “No more points! My shirt is off limits, and so is my chest!”
 
"Niou-kun--"
 
"That doesn't count, then," Yukimura dismissively waves off. "Yagyuu's pasty
whiteness is enough to leave anyone blinded for a brief moment. Sanada, just
take your shirt off, do us all a favor." 
 
“This isn’t some kind of an onsen! This—”
 
“Ooh, we should go to an onsen,” Niou says immediately. 
 
“I wouldn’t mind,” Yanagi agrees.
 
“Just wait for the cake to finish baking!”
 
"I wanna go to an onsen!" Kirihara immediately, eagerly agrees. "Can we? Like,
tonight?" 
 
"It's certainly not too late to go," Yagyuu says. "Niou-kun, for once everyone
is agreeing with your ideas. You should be proud." 
 
"Ahhh, that's no fair," Yukimura bemoans, lurching forward to toss his last
kabob stick onto the empty platter. "The doctors still won't take my staples
out, so I can't--ah, shit," he mutters, clapping a hand over his own mouth.
Admitting that little tidbit around Sanada kind of ruins the whole 'everything
was perfect at my last check-up' thing. 
 
A long moment of silence settles over everyone. Then, quietly, Sanada stands,
sets down what’s left of his kabob, and walks upstairs.
 
Niou winces. “Think he’s expecting you to go after him, Boss.”
 
"I'm trash," Yukimura mutters, and he quickly turns to Yagyuu, grabbing one of
his arms. "What do I say to convince him, medically, that I'm 3000% okay?" 
 
"Um--"
 
"You have five seconds or I'm asking Yanagi."
 
Yagyuu swallows hard. "Well--"
 
Yukimura's gaze turns plaintively to his friend. "Yanagi, help."
 
Yanagi frowns slightly, then clears his throat. “Well, while it isn’t my exact
realm of expertise, producing the documentation from your doctor that you’re
entirely healed should do the—”
 
“He’s not, you oblivious asshole,” Niou growls, throwing a tasteful throw
pillow at Yanagi’s face. “Duh. Wait, was everyone else really missing that?”
 
“Tell him you’ll be fine after you eat my cake! It’s true!”
 
"Bunta, pay attention to the oven," Jackal hisses, dragging the other boy back.
 
"That's not going to help," Yukimura groans, releasing Yagyuu to bury his face
briefly in his hands. "Damn it. I had him convinced and everything. I'm the
worst, I'm really the worst." 
 
"…But you can't still be that bad, Yukimura-buchou," Kirihara hesitantly
presses. "You had the surgery and everything." 
 
"I'm gonna just kill myself," Yukimura mumbles, hauling himself to his feet and
steeling himself before heading up the stairs and to his bedroom. Shit, shit,
he's in so much trouble. The pills are hidden at least, that's one plus.
"Genichirou, come on," he attempts, shutting the door behind himself. "It's
just that the incision wasn't healing up that well, you know how much I've been
training, so that's not anything weird!"
 
Sanada opens the door behind him, coming in from the hallway. “I just got off
the phone with your doctor,” he says quietly, not facing Yukimura. He doesn’t
really say anything after that, not that he needs to.
 
It feels rather like the bottom of his stomach has dropped out. "Oh," Yukimura
weakly manages, slowly sitting himself down onto the edge of his bed. "Okay."
What does he even say to that, honestly. 
 
Sanada doesn’t sit. He walks into the bathroom, leaving the door open and
looking in the medicine cabinet. “I asked if you’d missed your prescription. He
told me he was concerned you weren’t taking it after getting the bad news. Did
you flush it?”
 
Yukimura seriously considers the killing himself thing. It sounds better than
listening to all of this. "Under the sink and towels," he dully supplies. "I've
been taking it." Just thinking about it makes him feel sick again. "But I'm not
going to for the rest of the week." 
 
Sanada nods, then kneels down to check under the sink and towels, retrieving
the medication and pocketing it. Then finally, he turns to face Yukimura, and
the pain, worry, and anger is naked on his face. “You didn’t trust me.”
 
"Considering your first reaction to feeling that I had a fever was to whisk me
off to the hospital again, how could I?" Yukimura defensively replies, curling
his hands against the edge of his mattress. "I have to play in this
tournament." 
 
“Why?” Sanada demands, striding to the bed and grabbing Yukimura by the
shoulders. “What the hell is so important about this tournament? It’s not worth
your life! Fuck the tournament! Get better, go pro next year, play for thirty
years, but don’t….don’t leave me…” Angry enough to be vulgar, overwhelmed
anyway, Sanada crumples to his knees, grip on Yukimura’s shoulders going weak.
 
"You stilldon't get it!" The way Sanada is acting makes him feel like a selfish
child, but now--"Do you think I want to leave you?" Yukimura demands, sliding
off the edge of his bed to flop onto the floor next to Sanada. "Do you think I
like hearing that I'm sick again? I'm not trying to leave you, I'm not trying
to make it worse, I just--forget going pro, this might be the only chance I
have." His lower lip trembles, and he slowly scrunches himself up into a ball,
shaking his head. "I thought going through with that surgery would fix it, but
even that didn't work. What chance do I really have this time?" 
 
“We’ll find you another doctor,” Sanada says, still not meeting Yukimura’s
eyes, and something hot and wet splashes onto his hands. “We’ll take you
somewhere else--Europe, or America, somewhere with better specialists, I’ll get
the money from my family if yours can’t, we’ll figure something out. I’m—” He
chokes off a sentence he’s not ready to say, and it turns into, “I’m behind
you, just tell me what you want to do. I’ll help you. God, I’d give my life for
this to be over.”
 
"Genichirou." Suddenly, there's some weird, intense calm that floods his veins,
and it probably has a lot to do with the fact that Sanada's the one crying now,
and that always kind of does it, in situations like these. "It's okay."
Yukimura lurches forward, his hands on Sanada's face. "I don't want to be in a
hospital right now. I don't want to go to Europe or America right now. I just
want to play in this tournament, get our third Nationals win, and have fun with
everyone else before going up to that mountain. Okay? Please don't cry, you're
going to make me cry and that's always gross." 
 
It’s no use, of course. Once he starts crying like this, it’s difficult to
stop, though Sanada tries, he tries. “I…”
 
He gasps for breath, a shuddering, elusive thing. “Thinking about you...going
through this alone, because you didn’t think you could trust me...I must be the
world’s worst…”
 
"No, hush, you're so dumb," Yukimura groans, though there's no vitriol behind
the words. He's too busy hauling Sanada forward, shoving the other boy's face
into his chest. "I was going to tell you, right after the tournament was over.
I was going to try and tell you today, but I got scared of what you'd do." He
shoves his face down into Sanada's hair. "You can't tell my parents." 
 
Sanada shakes his head, as much as he can when his face is buried in Yukimura’s
chest. He doesn’t make much effort to move, though. This is just about the best
place he could be, because Yukimura is still warm—
 
Not like those dreams he has, that he’d thought were over. Not like what could
be the case in six months, visiting Yukimura at the hospital and seeing the
curtains drawn, seeing a white sheet laid over a cold body—
 
Sanada can feel himself trembling, but he forces the tears to stop, somehow.
Eventually. “I,” he says, through a shaking breath, “am going to take such good
care of you. You--you can’t lie to me about this kind of thing, Seiichi. It
makes me hate myself.”
 
"Well, stop it," is the grumble of a response. Yukimura holds tighter to Sanada
still, giving him a firm, solid squeeze. "I didn't want to lie about it. I
don't like lying to you about anything. I'm really, really sorry, I just…I
thought it couldn't hurt for a few days, and then once the tournament was over,
it wasn't going to matter, anyway…" He sighs, slumping back. "This really
sucks." 
 
Sanada nods, feeling suddenly very tired, and very empty. “That’s an
understatement.” He can’t stop feeling raw, as if his insides have been scraped
over a ginger grater, leaving him exposed and bleeding. It’s how he’d felt all
the time, when Yukimura was sick, in the days he’d thought far behind him now.
“What did the doctor say exactly? Is it as bad as it was? Where is it now? Is
there another surgery?”
 
"It's the same thing." Every time he has to admit it, it's worse. Maybe he
should just get it over with and tell the whole team at once. That narrows down
the number of times it could come up, at least. "They just--didn't get all of
it, you know? So it's back, and I'll start getting that numbness all over
again. Even if there was another surgery--which there isn't--I don't know if
I'd do it again." 
 
“If it’s the same thing,” Sanada says, wiping his face with the back of one
hand, “and they just...messed up the surgery the first time...why can’t they do
it again? Not that I want you to go through it again, but if it’s that or the
year you had…”
 
"Because they don't think they can get it all. They need to run more tests, but
I guarantee they're gonna say that," Yukimura sighs, letting his head thunk
back against the side of his bed. "And instead they're just going to medicate
me until I want to die." I can't handle eight months of throwing up every day
again, Ican't.
 
Have to be sensible. He needs me to be sensible.Sanada takes in a deep breath,
because it’s not like going to pieces is going to help anyway. If Yukimura
lives, he lives. If he dies, they die. “Whatever you think is best. If your
doctors are no good, we’ll get you better ones, and I’ll support you. No matter
what you need.” More than ever, he wishes with all his might that his marrow,
his organs, his blood were a match, but he’s had them all tested with no
results.
 
It's not a matter of doctors and you know it. "Mm. After the tournament,"
Yukimura gently reminds him, sliding his fingers through Sanada's hair and
kneading a little. "Until then, I'm normal and healthy as far as everyone
knows. Well, you know. As healthy as I can be with gross metal in my back. Sure
you won't pull that out for me?" 
 
“Seiichi, you know the thought of that makes me gag.”
 
"Lame. I'll see if Niou will do it, then." He won't, not really. "Oh, ah. Just
so you know. Marui kind of...knows already."
 
Sanada inhales deeply, then exhales. “All right. No wonder he won’t meet my
eyes.” He tries not to think about Marui knowing before him—no, it’s fine, he
must have just seen something he wasn’t supposed to. “That explains why he’s so
insistent on feeding you tonight.”
 
"…I kind of showed up during the round one match and watched for a second. He
saw me, and wanted to know why I was so upset at the time." Yukimura sighs,
flopping his head down against Sanada's. "He's making me a cake. I have to eat
a lot of it or he's going to be mad." 
 
“Sneak it to me under the table.” Sanada’s voice is mainly tired now, an echo
he recognizes in Yukimura’s. “Just three more days. Then you’ll let me take
care of you properly, right?”
 
"Mm." Yukimura stuffs his face properly into Sanada's hair. "'m really sorry
for not telling you. For once, I just didn't want you to have to worry." 
 
“Seiichi, I’m always worried.” One hand comes up around Yukimura’s waist, the
other stroking his hair gently. “But...I mean, I wouldn’t say I was ready for
this, but I was kind of...I mean, we knew it was a possibility. I just didn’t
want to find out like that.”
 
"You could have not called my doctor and instead remained oblivious for a few
days." Yukimura pauses, and begrudgingly adds, "This definitely means you're
not going to do it with me tonight, doesn't it." 
 
“Since I know those pills make you vomit and kill your erection,” Sanada
agrees, “it’s probably not a good night for it. Besides, I do have it all
planned out.”
 
"I'll have you know I have already thrown up enough today to make sure nothing
happened tonight!" Theoretically. "But your point stands about the erection
thing. Mostly, I just wanted to touch yours." 
 
Sanada’s smile is weary, and the twitch his cock gives is only halfhearted.
“Later. On the mountain. Let’s win Nationals first.”
 
Yukimura sighs. Well, it was worth a shot. "Yeah. I do like winning. Before
then, let's go eat cake--I hope you brought your eyedrops with you." 
 
“Dammit.”
 
"It could be worse. You could look like Yagyuu does every day." 
 
***** Kintarou & Ryouma, Tezuka & Atobe & Ryouma *****
“Yukimura in Singles Three.” 
 
Atobe’s frustration turns to vindication, and he throws his head back, laughing
aloud. It’s more for the benefit of his team than anything, though he can’t
help but feel glad now that he knows what’s been going on. “And here I thought
it might all have been some elaborate plan. Just the kind of tricks I should
have expected, but still--the winner will be Hyoutei!”
 
Yukimura blinks back at Atobe, honest, open confusion on his face. "Eh?" 
 
It's already been one of those days, if one counts last night. Even with Sanada
helping him hide portions of Marui's cake, he swears he still had dreams about
being buried in it. Now there's this rather odd reaction to the lineup
announcements…
 
He smiles, his head tilting slightly to the side. "Rikkai doesn't play tricks,
Atobe. What are you referring to, exactly?" 
 
“Your attempts to win by underhanded methods, of course,” Atobe says, waving a
dismissive hand. “But I have faith in my team. I didn’t need to withhold the
lineup just to make myself feel more secure.” He snaps, and the stadium bursts
into raucous cheers.
 
Yukimura's smile starts to twitch a bit. "…But we never withhold lineups." 
 
Atobe’s scornful expression says it all. His mouth helps. “Now to claim that my
glorious self is lying--the year has changed Rikkai, has it not? Let’s just
shake hands and get down to business rather than hearing your falsehoods.”
 
Yukimura might be offering Atobe his hand, but mostly, he's slowly,
methodically turning back and staring straight back at a certain second year.
"A.ka.ya."
 
"Shit," Kirihara whispers underneath his breath, eyes wide. "I knew I forgot
something. I'll do it right now! I've got this, Yukimura-buchou--"
 
"It's a little late now, Akaya. It's right there, on the board," Yukimura
snaps, jabbing a finger in the direction of the lineup in question as he sweeps
back over to the bench, ripping his jersey off. 
 
"Buchou, you're saying my name in katakana, I can hear it--" 
 
"Sanada."
 
Kirihara blanches, immediately backing away. "No no no no no, Sanada-
fukubuchou, please--"
 
The sound of the backhand echoes a little when he delivers it in a stadium.
Interesting.
 
“Rikkai team,” the referee calls, “refrain from horseplay on the tournament
grounds! First warning!”
 
Atobe tuts, shaking his head slowly. “You may have found a scapegoat,” he
calls, “but Hyoutei knows now that the great Reigning Kings fears the Emperor
of Ice!”
 
He turns, pleased with how things are going (even if it doesn’t look as if
he’ll get to play at all, damn) and mutters to Ootori and Shishido, “We got
lucky. Play as fast as you can. Don’t pull a single punch.”
 
“Shut up, Atobe.”
 
Dammit. At least Shishido said it quietly enough that the other team won’t
overhear it, this time.
 
"Shit, Yukimura-buchou's mad," Jackal mutters, watching the way their captain
fairly stalks back out to the court after retrieving his racquet.
 
"Kirihara-kun, you'll need to take responsibility later," Yagyuu warns the
second year that is currently curled up on the bleachers and whimpering. 
 
"But I just forgot! He can't be that mad, can he?"
 
"Of all the teams to forget to post the lineup for, though," Jackal points out,
"you did it on the very worst one."
 
Kirihara lurches over to Yanagi, clutching at one of his arms. "Help, Yanagi-
sempai." 
 
On Hyoutei's side of the stadium bleachers, it's Tezuka who lightly clears his
throat behind Atobe after having wormed his way down the rather packed seats.
He expected no less courtesy of this particular match, but still. It borders on
ridiculous. "So Rikkai forgot to post their lineup. Charming." 
 
“Yes, forgot,” Atobe murmurs, leaning back against the fence to make it easier
to chat with Tezuka. “Supposedly. Interesting how they just forgot when
otherwise it would have guaranteed that everyone would know just what shape
he’s back in, isn’t it?” He shakes his head, annoyed. “I don’t know that even
Kabaji’s purity is enough to beat him, but at least the correct doubles pairs
are facing off.”
 
"You got lucky in that regard." Tezuka's eyes keenly follow Yukimura's presence
on the court, pointedly ignoring the stare from across the damned stadium that
he's felt since he made his presence known within Hyoutei's ranks. Gross. "But
considering he's not even bothering to make a spectacle of keeping his jersey
on while he plays today, maybe you'll get lucky here, too." Or maybe it's just
hot as hell out here, even though it's morning. Who even knows when it comes to
Rikkai. 
 
“Don’t pass this along,” Atobe says out of the corner of his mouth--it’s
possible someone on Rikkai can read lips— “but I think Kabaji might actually
fare better there than myself. He’s less...hmm, what’s a kind way to say….he’s
less cerebral.”
 
Tezuka's eyebrows arch. "You would have the yips in about five seconds," he
deadpans, "so you're probably right. Fair warning, by the way. Echizen is
coming this morning to watch."
 
Atobe huffs out a breath. “You’re in charge of his freak-out,” he says
shamelessly. “Virtue of being his actual captain.”
 
"He's going to yell at you. You were there."
 
Atobe shrugs. “For all he knows, his victor was hooded and masked. Mind you, he
was hooded, and I only spoke to him for a moment. Could have been any willowy
teenage wandering tennis prodigy.”
 
"If you think Echizen thinks you're that stupid," Tezuka tiredly replies, "then
maybe you actually are." 
 
"Singles Three, Yukimura Seiichi versus Kabaji Munehiro, Yukimura to serve!"
 
"Let's have a good match, Kabaji-san."
 
"Usu."
 
"That's Yukimura Seiichi?" 
 
Oh, god, they're here now. Tezuka had prided himself on escaping the crowd of
his team and getting into the stadium first, but it seems as if they've found
them. It's Momoshiro's turn to comment first, of course. "Damn, is he going to
be okay? That's the guy that took out Taka-san's arm." 
 
"That's just because he copied the Hadoukyuu," Fuji points out. 
 
"Yeah, well, how else are you supposed to beat a guy that's nothing but power
like that?" Momo mutters.
 
"Technique." Tezuka glances back over his shoulder at his team. "You'll see
soon enough. Where's Echizen?"
 
"Cheers," Ryouma mutters in greeting, yawning as he wriggles his way through
the crowd. "So did Rikkai-buchou actually show up this time?" 
 
Tezuka waits. It takes about fifteen seconds for it all to process; he knows,
because he counts. Ryouma's silence is somewhat legendary as he slowly sits
down, and doesn't say another word. This is your fault is all that Tezuka's
look down to Atobe says.
 
Well, this is less than ideal, Atobe supposes. Still, at least he has a match
to oversee, which lets him neatly avoid Ryouma’s eyes for a while. He can’t
quite avoid taking a quick peek, and—
 
Ah. 
 
That’s not a happy child.
 
“Damn,” Atobe sighs, watching the match. “At least he made it three games in.
See it starting?”
 
“Oishi! What’s going on? It looks like he can’t even see!”
 
“I don’t get it,” Taka says, confused as he watches the match. “Kabaji must be
far stronger than that man. Why is he acting afraid?”
 
"It's like Tezuka said--it's all technique," Oishi explains, sighing as he
sinks back into his seat. "Every single point is long because Yukimura returns
every shot. After awhile, that just…builds up in your mind."
 
"Like no matter where you hit, he'll return it." 
 
Oishi blinks, glancing over to Ryouma. "Echizen, are you all right? You're a
little pale."
 
"I'm fine." His fingers curl over his knees tightly, all to keep them from
shaking visibly. 
 
Tezuka spares Ryouma one glance and one glance only. Calling attention to the
fact that Ryouma is obviously intimidated isn't going to do him any good right
now. "He's not in perfect form, though, Atobe," he quietly says. "Those first
two games that Kabaji took are telling. He's is the only person I've ever seen
take games off of Yukimura in an official tournament."
 
Atobe sighs. “I didn’t want to win or lose like this,” he admits. “No wonder he
didn’t play in the preliminaries. He’s got to be barely clinging to
consciousness. How many drugs do you think he’s on, Tezuka?”
 
"Enough to not be legally playing here," Tezuka dryly says, thinking about his
own painkillers that he religiously pops before every match now, whether he
needs them or not. "You could make a scene about it, if you wanted to." But you
won't, will you.
 
The look Atobe gives him is nothing less than insulted. “I won’t hear that kind
of thing, especially from you. That’s not the way a true rival behaves.”
 
He sighs, and nibbles delicately on a single fingernail. “Even if there weren’t
a moral component, I hardly want to draw attention to the fact that one of my
best players is being bested by a cancer-riddled ill child.”
 
"Handily," Tezuka feels the need to add. "He's being beaten handily." Why
didn't he challenge Yukimura on that day? It would have been much more
satisfying…something to tell Sanada later, if he feels like it. 
 
"I was pretty sure," Ryouma suddenly says, his voice somewhat unsteady, "that
Rikkai's captain was going to be like Sanada. But bigger." 
 
"Nope," Fuji breezily says, leaning sideways already. "Yukimura Seiichi has
always been like this."
 
"Game, Yukimura! 5 games to 2!"
 
"Fast," Momoshiro mutters, shaking his head. "What the hell. Oi, Echizen, don't
act like you're gonna pass out, did you eat breakfast this morning?" 
 
“Don’t go getting too afraid just yet,” Atobe says, voice carrying a little
more as Kabaji stumbles around the court--ah, Atobe’s heart aches at that. “You
still have to defeat Shiraishi’s team before you can worry about the Child of
God or my glorious self.”
 
Even by now, Taka knows to be ready with physical support when someone mentions
Shiraishi, just in case Fuji tips entirely over.
 
The muttering on the bench among Hyoutei is not encouraging. “Just like last
year,” someone mutters, and “Even Kabaji’s no match,” and “If this is what
Singles Three is like, even Atobe doesn’t stand a chance in Singles One.”
 
Atobe’s smile fades, and it’s with a glare that he kicks the bench. “Cheer for
Kabaji!” he commands, and the look in his eyes must be truly frightening for
them to start cheering so promptly, so loudly.
 
Not that it does much good, but that seemed set in stone from the very
beginning. 
 
That being said, even from the stadium bleachers, Tezuka can tell that Yukimura
is drenched with sweat, and that has only a little to do with the heat. The
last game flies by, if only because it's a series of double faults and no-
return aces, all courtesy of Kabaji's continuing yips. It's hard not to feel a
pang of sympathy at that, and Tezuka looks away after Yukimura claims the match
point with a beautiful backhand that doesn't match the obvious irritation
creasing his brow. 
 
"Game and match, Rikkai's Yukimura! 6 games to 2!"
 
"For someone that won so easily, he doesn't look too happy about it," Ryouma
mutters.
 
"In all the official matches Yukimura Seiichi has ever played, he's never
dropped a single game," Inui chimes in, only now looking up from where he had
been furiously taking notes. "Until now, of course. Sloppy, for him." 
 
"That was sloppy?" Momoshiro incredulously replies.
 
"That," Tezuka agrees, "was sloppy." 
 
Atobe idly notes the way that Yukimura’s team waits until he’s out of the line
of sight of the audience before running to him. They all know he’s still
unwell, then, and are covering for him. In English, Atobe mutters, “Here goes
the Hail Mary,” as Shishido and Ootori take to the court, readying that intense
serve. 
 
He’d been a lot more confident of those two when they hadn’t been facing the
best serve and volley player in the country and the man widely known to have
the most impenetrable defense in the country, of course.
 
He leaves the bench for a moment, hurrying to Kabaji’s side, swiping a towel
from Hiyoshi, who won’t be playing and doesn’t need it. “Kabaji, can you hear
me?” he asks, wrapping the towel around his old friend’s neck.
 
There's a moment where Kabaji's mind keeps swimming, everything a blur
including his hearing, but he eventually manages, in English: "Yes, and I'll
live." 
 
"I've already seen enough," Ryouma mumbles, shoving himself up from his seat.
 
"Echizen," Oishi immediately scolds, turning to him. "Don't be rude, sit down
and watch the rest of the matches."
 
"They're all gonna be the same." He shoves his hands into his pockets. "What's
the point? Even Atobe-sempai knows." 
 
It’s not true, Atobe wants to say. We...could take Doubles Two.
 
If they’re lucky.
 
Singles Two will be a massacre. Jirou might not know it, but facing Sanada will
be no fun at all, no flashy techniques, just a solid philosophy and a lot of
speed and power. Doubles One is a joke; the best doubles team in the country
against Oshitari and Gakuto makes him want to leap off a bridge.
 
He could take Singles One. He could, he knows--but they won’t get that far, and
it won’t matter. 
 
Still…. “Ahn? Ryouma, where’s your friendly spirit? Do you think Hyoutei will
leave its friends when you find yourself in trouble? Not a chance! Our voices
would ring out even more loudly!”
 
“Atobe,” Shishido growls from the court, “you’re way too noisy, shut up.”
 
Ryouma's eyes sharpen and narrow. "Considering you knew that I played Yukimura
that night and didn't tell me," he says flatly in English, "your friendly
spirit doesn't count for much."
 
Fuji whistles quietly. 
 
Tezuka shoves his glasses up. "Echizen, sit down."
 
"I'm going." Ryouma turns on his heel, taking the bleacher steps two at a
time. 
 
“Merde.” Atobe curses under his breath, and very nearly turns and runs after
the boy, and manages to swallow his urge at the last second. “Tezuka,” he urges
quietly, “I can’t leave in the middle of the match. If you can hold him, I’ll
talk to him after.”
 
Tezuka exhales a long, aggravated sigh. "You dug this grave," he reminds the
other boy underneath his breath before he turns away, taking after Ryouma in
short order. 
 
"This is gonna be good," Fuji hums, scrunching himself contently up against
Taka's side. 
 
There has to be some kind of food stand around here somewhere.
 
Kintarou peeks his head into a few bathrooms, a janitor’s closet, and what
looks like the control room for the lights--which he is smart enough not to
touch, even if Shiraishi probably wouldn’t think so. 
 
Smug with his victory, he peeks through a few more doors, then catches sight of
a familiar-looking cap around his own height.
 
Koshimae.
 
Kintarou’s body sings with anticipation and delight, and he bounds after the
boy, ducking through traffic, somehow winding up in the parking lot before he
actually manages to catch up. “Hey! Koshimae! It’s me, Tooyama Kintarou from
Shitenhouji!”
 
Vending machines are his best friends right now, because at least they give him
Ponta, and don't tell him that he's capable of winning when he very clearly
isn't. Honestly, Ryouma isn't sure if he feels like screaming or crying. Maybe
sleeping is a more viable option.
 
He knows Tezuka is following him, but avoiding him seems like a much better
plan. Tezuka probably knew. Everyone probably knew about Yukimura, and they
just didn't want to tell him so he wouldn't put it all together in his head. 
 
All that training was for nothing.
 
(That's usually the case, when he thinks about his father, too, and it makes
Fuji-sempai make one hell of a lot more sense to him.)
 
None of this makes a difference, anyway. He should've known better than to come
to Japan and play for some stupid middle school team. He could be going pro
right now, he could be doing something better, but instead, he's getting
himself all freaked out over some kid with cancer. "What do you want?" he
snaps, flopping down onto the nearest bench and flipping open the tab to his
can. "Koshimae isn't my name, get it right already." 
 
Kintarou slams into Ryouma, sitting next to him on the bench and grabbing his
hands. He can feel the strength in those hands, even if they’re slender and
small, and he just knows that this guy gets it. “Hey, I know we’re not supposed
to play before our match today, but you have to play really hard, okay? There’s
no one strong like you in Osaka!”
 
"…You are so weird," Ryouma mutters, yanking his hands away--or, well, trying
to. Kintarou is a lot stronger than he looks. Weirdo. "I already told you I'm
not playing singles against you." Maybe he'll just skip out entirely.
 
“You’re not?” Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise, but it kind of is. “Buuut
Shiraishi said that maybe you were playing a brain game with me! Ha, you won’t
catch me so easy--I’m ready to play you!” There’s a desperate eagerness in his
eyes, and Kintarou mostly stops himself from climbing all over the other boy.
 
"Get off of me," Ryouma complains all the same, because Kintarou is really
close to him even if he's not on him quite yet. "I'm not playing mind games
with you; I'm playing doubles. I probably won't even get to play if all the
upperclassmen win like they're supposed to." 
 
Kintarou lets out a frustrated noise, falling dramatically back against the
bench. “But I haven’t gotten to play all tournament! They keep putting me on
reserve, it’s awful. I didn’t start playing on the team so I could sit around
and waaaatch, I want to play!”
 
"Maybe it's because you're obnoxious," Ryouma grumbles underneath his breath,
taking a long swallow of his Ponta. "No one wants to listen to that when
they're trying to play tennis. This whole tournament is pointless, anyway." 
 
“Pointless?” Kintarou’s head cocks to the side, and he hops up onto the bench,
propping his elbows up on his knees. “Why? Are they not letting you play anyone
strong either?”
 
Ryouma shrugs. "Turns out the one person I wanted to play, I've already played
before. And he already beat me, so whatever." His fingers tighten around his
soda can until it crunches a little. "I've been training really hard, but
there's no point." 
 
Kintarou’s eyes light up. “A revenge story! Cool! Ahh, I wish I had a rival
like that! You have to say something really cool when you beat him, okay? I can
help you think of lines if you want, I read a lot of manga.”
 
It's pretty clear that Kintarou is dumber than a sack of wet mice. Great. "I
don't wanna play him anymore." 
 
Kintarou frowns. “But you have to beat him. The legendary Koshimae has to grab
victory with his own teeth or whatever!”
 
Ryouma's stare is deadpan. "I don't wanna play him anymore," he repeats, and
takes another long sip of his soda. "It doesn't look fun at all, and nothing I
did worked last time, so whatever." 
 
Kintarou nods knowingly. “Did you try jumping really high?” he asks, dead
serious. “Ah, that looks good. Gimme a sip.”
 
"What? No. On both counts," Ryouma flatly refuses, curling up protectively
around his soda. "Do you even know how to play tennis?" 
 
“Sure!” Kintarou beams. “You hit the ball with the racquet, and then the other
guy hits it back! I love tennis!”
 
Ryouma wishes he was dead. "How do you ever win anything," he mutters. "You
can't even figure out my name. You can't win if you just keep tennis as simple
as that." 
 
“Sure I can! I always do!” Kintarou pulls his racquet, a handmade old wooden
brandless contraption, off of his back. “Come on, play me right now! We can,
uh, use the bench as a net! Just one point, it’ll be great!”
 
Ryouma glares at him, and downs the rest of his soda before tossing the can
over into the trash. "Don't wanna." 
 
Kintarou lets out his breath in a huff, falling back onto the bench. “No one
will play me,” he groans, looking up at the sky. “This is a million times worse
than losing, I bet.”
 
"No, it isn't." Ryouma yanks his hat down, irritated. "I'd rather someone not
want to play me and be afraid of me. Sounds like you've never lost, so you
don't know what you're talking about." 
 
Kintarou laughs. “You’re right! But it sounds like losing just gives you
another reason to fight, right? Not being able to play is the worst. I’d rather
lose a hundred times as long as it was to someone really strong and cool like
you!”
 
"…You don't even know me," Ryouma says, exasperated, for what feels like the
millionth time. "You're so weird. Go play someone like Rikkai's Sanada, or our
captain, then you can talk to me about losing and see how it feels." 
 
“I met Rikkai’s Sanada! He’s a big gorilla, right?” Kintarou beams. “I heard
that one time, this one guy took six games off him! I bet he was huge!”
 
"He's a gorilla," Ryouma tiredly agrees. "And I think that was my captain. I
took 5 games, though." Too bad I still lost.
 
“Whoa!” Kintarou manages to leap up onto the back of the bench, rocking back
with the excitement of it all. “He told Shiraishi to keep me on a leash. I’ll
beat him someday! Ahh, I bet you’re getting really good training out of
practicing with your captain, right? He looks boring but Shiraishi says he’s
one of the best in Europe!”
 
That sounds like some weird lovechild of Atobe and Tezuka, actually, and what
with how much Kintarou usually seems to confuse things, Ryouma isn't surprised.
"Atobe-sempai isn't my captain, but he's one of the best in Europe," Ryouma
agrees. "And Tezuka-buchou isn't boring, and he's one of the best in Japan.
They're both really good teachers." Not that it's helpingme, but that's not
their fault."Sanada isn't the problem, though. I could've beat him." That much
he's sure of.
 
“I knew you were super strong!” Kintarou scuttles sideways a little, poking at
Ryouma’s hat. “Is this a champion hat? Did you get it for beating someone
amazing? I heard you were from Australia, did you meet any giraffes?”
 
Ryouma stares at him, protectively grabbing at his hat. "Leave it alone," he
growls. "I'm not from Australia, I'm from America. I've never met a giraffe my
entire life!" 
 
“Me neither!” Kintarou says, delighted. “Hey, I heard there was a guy on your
team that can make a bear fall out of the sky. Did you ever play him?”
 
"What the…oh. You mean the Higuma Otoshi thing. A bear doesn't really fall out
of the sky, it's just a name." Ryouma snorts, leaning back. "But I've played
Fuji-sempai, yeah. He's going against your captain, I think."
 
Kintarou nods, grinning. “He’s gonna lose. Everyone loses against Shiraishi,
he’s awesome. Well, not me, but our game got interrupted when that guy with all
the tattoos came to talk to us.”
 
Ryouma has no idea what Kintarou is talking about, but that's probably for the
best. "Yeah, whatever. Fuji-sempai's good. He'll win. That's why I know you're
not gonna get to play today." 
 
“Ha!” Kintarou leaps down to the ground, landing flat on both feet. “No way!
Shiraishi is way cooler than your Captain Fuji!”
 
"He's not captain," Ryouma points out, long-suffering. "He's not even vice-
captain. Do you guys even have a vice-captain?"
 
Kintarou thinks for a minute, scratching his head. “I’m pretty sure we do,” he
says finally, “but I don’t think it’s me. I’ve definitely heard the word
before, though.”
 
Ryouma thinks they probably just don't have one, just like Hyoutei. "Whatever.
I'm still not gonna play you, even if you're vice-captain."
 
“Doubles is lame, why do you wanna play doubles?” Kintarou complains. “Do you
have to touch him all the time like Koharu-nee-chan and Yuuji-nee-chan?”
 
"First of all, gross," Ryouma says. "Second of all, I don't wanna play doubles.
I just have to because the captain says so."
 
“But I want to play you now,” Kintarou says, frustrated. “Wanna janken for it?
If I win, we can play, and if you win, you get to serve first!”
 
"That means we're playing either way," Ryouma irritably says. "Why would I
wanna janken if I can't get out of that? Didn't you just say that you know
we're not allowed to play until the matches?"
 
Kintarou groans as if he’s dying. “But you’re the most interesting guy I’ve met
in Tokyo! You look so cool and you’re so strong and everyone from Shitenhouji
is afraid of you, so you’ve got to be interesting!”
 
"They're dumb," Ryouma mutters, yanking down the bill of his hat. "So are you.
Don't make things so weird, for one thing." 
 
"Aa~hhh! What was even the point of that match? After Marui-sempai and Jackal-
sempai lost, no one else stood a chance! I really wanted to play!"
 
Ryouma is pretty sure he hasn't been gone that long, but by the looks of it,
he's wrong. That's all of Rikkai, striding out of the stadium and hardly
looking worse for wear after facing Hyoutei in what is probably record time. He
scrunches himself up into a ball, his hat pulled down as far as it can go. 
 
"Don't rub it in, Akaya," Jackal mutters, swatting at the back of Kirihara's
head. "I'd like to see you go up against that serve."
 
Kirihara scowls. "I would've! I would've hit it back every time!" 
 
"Considering you can't even remember to post the lineup, I doubt the Captain is
going to let you do much of anything anytime soon, Kirihara-kun," Yagyuu
chides. 
 
"That was just one time! That's also different than hitting back fast serves, I
could do that, I really can do that!" 
 
“Puri!” Niou chimes in, and tugs on a lock of Kirihara’s hair. 
 
“Jackal!” Sanada snaps, and fetches a blow to the back of Jackal’s head. “You
can make fun of Akaya when you win your matches. Not before!”
 
Marui silently shifts his walking pattern to wind up on the other side of the
entire group from Sanada. Nope, not today. 
 
“Judging by my calculations,” Yanagi says, “there is a 89.79 percent chance of
victory at tomorrow’s finals match, assuming Shitenhouji wins their semifinals
match.”
 
“We’re definitely going to win our match!” 
 
Kintarou’s loud voice makes every head in Rikkai swivel.
 
Ryouma wants to kill him. I hate you so much is the look he swiftly delivers to
Kintarou, because it's too late to get up and leave, and it's too late to just
run. Why did Tezuka-buchou have to respect my boundaries and not hunt me down
like a dog?
 
Yukimura, previously flanked by Rikkai's tallest and thusly hidden in the
middle of the group, peers around Yanagi for a solid look. "Ah, it's
Shitenhouji's rookie. Shiraishi had a lot to say about you."
 
"Is he any good?" Kirihara skeptically asks, shrugging his tennis bag higher up
his shoulder. He's jittery, twitchy from not having a chance to play, and it's
obvious. "Yanagi-sempai, if I played against him, what's the chance I'd win?"
 
Kirihara’s twitchiness and eagerness to play has nothing on Kintarou’s. “Zero!
I’m definitely going to make you go back to Hokkaido!”
 
Yanagi’s smile is thin, and he leans slightly to the side, asking Yukimura, “Do
you really want me to tell him?” Embedded in the words is the warning, It’s not
a great chance.
 
“You!” Kintarou points at Yukimura, and grabs his racquet. “Are you the one
that played Koshimae? He’s gonna avenge you! Tell him, Koshimae!”
 
"It seems like Shitenhouji's rookies are really lacking on manners," Yagyuu
says, pushing up his glasses with vague annoyance as he and Jackal both
sidestep slightly in front of Yukimura. 
 
"Shut up," Ryouma hisses, grabbing for the back of Kintarou's jersey to drag
him back down.
 
"Koshimae?" Yukimura echoes, perplexed for a moment before he looks around
Jackal and it clicks. "Oh, you mean Echizen.You haven't had much of a chance to
play in this tournament either, have you?"
 
Words kind of freeze up in his throat, and Ryouma hates that. Is this what the
yips are really like? Is he going to end up like Kabaji on the court? I already
did once, apparently. He swallows hard, and releases Kintarou in favor of
turning partially away. "Doesn't matter to me."
 
"Like he'd be able to beat Yukimura-buchou, anyway," Kirihara scoffs, and moves
to set his tennis bag down and get out his racquet. "Come on, I'll play both of
you, right here and now--"
 
"Sanada," Yukimura tiredly says.
 
Kintarou doesn’t even get a chance to accept before Kirihara is summarily
“disciplined” and pulled back. “I thought you learned your lesson about
accepting challenges from random people on the street,” Sanada growls. “You
want to break the rules of the reigning kings on the day you forgot to release
the lineup?Shameful!”
 
He gives Ryouma a nod, deeper than he would an acquaintance. “Echizen. Tell
your Captain we’re coming for him. He saw what running away does to his team.”
 
Apparently, Ryouma can't quite look at Sanada, either.
 
Kirihara's whimpers and protests aren't even enough to make him laugh, when
they definitely would be entertaining enough usually. He does like seeing
assholes like that taken down a peg, but in this case…everyone on Rikkai is
scary now, apparently. He shrugs, shuffling backward, and scoops up his own bag
from the bench. "Whatever."
 
If Tezuka-buchou had been here, he would have beaten you when I couldn't have. 
 
Ryouma's not sure if that's a good thought to have or not. 
 
"You can tell me that yourself, Sanada." 
 
The hand on his head isn't exactly warm, but it is strong, and Ryouma sags a
little bit underneath the weight of it. Tezuka is at least easy to hide behind,
and he slowly shifts back to do as much. 
 
"The fact that you classify 'recovering' as 'running away' is rather
interesting to me, Sanada, considering the state of some of Rikkai's own team
members," Tezuka lightly adds.
 
That brings about a sudden shift in the posture of several Rikkai team members,
a few of whom look more than ready to attempt immediate bodily harm on Tezuka
(though Kirihara certainly would, Sanada believes, had he understood the
comment). Sanada’s face is a mask of fury and disgust, and there’s a curious
motion of his hand as if he’s attempting to draw a sword for a second.
“Tezuka,” he spits. “You had better not lose to Shitenhouji. We have a
reckoning coming.”
 
“At least no one on Rikkai left the country for tennis elbow,” Niou says, hands
shoved into his pockets in an oddly aggressive stance for him.
 
"Or sold out to a certain directorate to make it happen," Yagyuu idly adds. 
 
"Wait--hey! Did you just insult Yukimura-buchou?" Kirihara demands, the
comments finally clicking in his head. "What the hell, fuck off!"
 
Jackal grabs the back of his jersey to keep him from lurching forward, though
it obviously takes considerable effort on his own part not to just let Kirihara
go.
 
Tezuka ignores all of it, and pointedly doesn't even look at Sanada. "Yukimura.
Hopefully we'll meet up in Singles One." 
 
Yukimura's eyebrows raise slowly. "Hopefully." 
 
"Buchou, let's just go," Ryouma mumbles, grabbing at the back of Tezuka's
jersey to pull him away. 
 
“Hold up!” Kintarou leaps off the bench, down in front of Tezuka. “You’re
Koshimae’s captain, I remember! If you want to get to play the bumblebees, you
have to play me in Singles One first!”
 
Of course, it’s hard to make himself heard over the enraged muttering coming
from Sanada.
 
Niou sidles up to Yukimura, giving him a look that very clearly offers services
related to making sure Tezuka neither plays Singles One or is very happy about
life tomorrow. “Puri.”
 
Yukimura offers Niou a wry smile, and reaches up to tug on his rat tail. "Don't
worry about it. Come on, everyone, Marui was going to reveal a new mystery cake
at my house. I could really use it right now, and he needs to redeem his loss."
 
 
Tezuka offers Rikkai a last, bored glance before stepping around Kintarou
without batting an eye. "I'm not in Singles One, and you shouldn't be overly
ambitious, anyway." 
 
Ryouma makes a face back at Rikkai in general (even as he's clinging to the
back of Tezuka's jersey in earnest). It's a lot harder to be intimidated by
them when Tezuka's there, because he doesn't seem to care at all. 
 
~
 
Expecting Atobe to deal with Ryouma at the actual tournament simply isn't going
to happen, and Tezuka knows that. 
 
More annoying--the fact that Rikkai doesn't stick around to actually watch
their match against Shitenhouji is just an insult, and that makes Tezuka set
his teeth into a slow grind for the vast majority of the match. 
 
"Game, Shitenhouji's Shiraishi! 6 games to 1!" 
 
And it doesn't start off well, either.
 
Tezuka doesn't want to deal with Fuji right now. He's slumped over on the
bench, drenched with sweat, shivering with a towel over his head, and Tezuka
doesn't want to deal with that. He at least doesn't have to stress about the
state of Momoshiro and Kaidou's match, because Kaidou seems to have stepped up-
-marginally.
 
"Game, Seigaku's Momoshiro-Kaidou pair! 7 games to 5!"
 
"Good job, both of you," Tezuka quietly praises, with a weighted glance to
Kaidou. 
 
The next match worries him to a degree, but--
 
"You've got this, Eiji," Oishi reassures the other boy. "You're better, you're
faster."
 
Fortunately, he is. Kikumaru is a capable singles player in his own right, of
course, even against the nonsense of Naniwa's Speed Star.
 
"Game, Seigaku's Kikumaru! 7 games to 5!" 
 
Ryouma doesn't look entirely thrilled to have to play doubles (or to play at
all), but that doesn't matter so long as he wins, and fortunately--
 
"Game, Seigaku's Oishi-Echizen pair! 6 games to 4!"
 
In a way, Tezuka isn't sure if he's supposed to be relieved or not. 
 
The whole of the team wants to go out to celebrate, and he feels like he
should, too, this was his promise to Oishi, to his team, but--something settles
into a pit of his stomach, worrisome and making him nearly sick with dread. He
quietly backs out of the idea, leaving Oishi to arrange any and all festivities
that he deems fit with the excuse of needing to determine the lineup of the
finals, and he ends up with Ryouma all but clinging to his arm instead, looking
more tired and drained than Tezuka ever remembers seeing him. 
 
"Are you sure he's all right?" Oishi worriedly asks. "If he's not well enough
for the finals on Friday…" 
 
"He'll be fine," Tezuka reassures him. "All the more reason for me not to
attend dinner tonight. I'll make sure he's taken care of." 
 
To: Atobe
Subject: Busy?
If not, can you send a car? 
 
It doesn't take long for said car to arrive, and Tezuka sort of drags the half-
asleep kid along. Ryouma ends up passed out in his lap by the time they even
end up at Atobe's, and he's in Tezuka's arms when he's let in, both tennis bags
slung over his shoulders. Ryouma cracks his eyes open long enough to sullenly
glare around at his surroundings, and Tezuka merely sighs. 
 
"I'm putting him to bed," he flatly informs his boyfriend upon arriving at his
bedroom, not even bothering to knock when he sweeps in and plops Ryouma right
down onto Atobe's bed. Ryouma makes a few decisively grouchy noises before
burrowing himself the entire way underneath blankets and sheets and enough
pillows to suffocate fifteen grown men. 
 
There’s little to protest, and Atobe probably wouldn’t feel like it anyway. He
looks down at Ryouma, and tucks him in under a coverlet that probably cost more
than every flight Ryouma’s taken put together. “How was Shitenhouji?” he asks,
and it isn’t as loaded a question as it could be. He’s heard via every source
he needs about the actual scores, and things could certainly be worse. Of
course, the scores were rather close, but… “Even if it isn’t your desired
outcome, not getting to Singles One in the semifinals is certainly something to
brag about.”
 
Ryouma makes a low growling noise, burrowing himself down deeper.
 
Tezuka fixes a very tired look upon Atobe before simply letting himself flop
back into the nearest chair-that-probably-can-turn-into-a-chaise. "How much
wine do you think you can convince your servants to hand over tonight?" he
deadpans, not entirely joking. 
 
Atobe slowly raises an eyebrow. Then, without changing his expression, he
flicks a switch in the bedside table.
 
The wine rack that slides out of the wall is nearly as long as the massive bed
itself, and moves quietly on hydraulics. “It’s not the best selection,” he
admits, “but there’s a credible representation of whites, reds, champagnes,
rosés, and riesling. We’ll need to ring for Alexander if you want Canadian Ice-
Wine, however.”
 
Tezuka is glad that he wasn't entirely joking, because now he's not joking at
all. "What is less likely to aggravate my headache?" he asks on a sigh. "I also
need to admit something horrible to you, assuming you haven't already heard
about it via the rumor mill." 
 
“Drink a glass of water between every glass of wine,” Atobe says immediately.
“Your headache will go away fastest with the stronger wines, and I know you
don’t always react favorably to reds...have you tried the Domaine Marcel Deiss
1994 Alsace? Your rehabilitation center was near there, was it not?” 
 
The viscous golden fluid is fragrant enough to make his own head spin slightly,
and Atobe uncorks, then pours, handing over the glass before taking another for
himself. “Sweeter than you’re used to, I’d wager,” he adds, raising his glass
in a toast. “Sweet enough to make a delightful compliment to insulting a cancer
patient, my dear Kunimitsu.”
 
"To his face," Tezuka groans, and his head throbs at the memory of it. He
ignores the toast in favor of taking a careful sip, because he's fairly certain
he needs something to dull everything sooner rather than later. "To Sanada's
face. He wanted to draw a nonexistent sword on me, I saw it. Rikkai is going to
destroy us." 
 
Atobe gives him a consoling pat on the thigh, settling up crosslegged on the
bed. “There, there. Maybe they’ll be so furious that they’ll get sloppy,” he
suggests. “Ah, I would have given anything to see Sanada’s face.”
 
Tezuka briefly buries his face in one hand. "Even I have morals sometimes.
Admittedly, he started it--telling Echizen they were coming for me, the
lunatic," he mutters, taking another hurried sip of his wine. "And then saying
that I abandoned the team, what else was I supposed to say if not fire back
another insult? Of course, Yukimura didn't say a word." 
 
“Despicable of them, to claim the moral high ground,” Atobe agrees. “Honestly,
you shouldn’t worry too much about it. They were always going to be taking you
more seriously this time, after you nearly wiped the floor with them last time-
-I can’t even think of anyone who’s ever come that close to beating Sanada
besides you. And myself, of course,” he says casually, though as far as he
knows, Tezuka hasn’t heard about their little ‘run-in’ last week.
 
That earns Atobe a flat stare. "When did you play him?" he asks, wracking his
brain to try and think if he's just missed something. "And why, if you didn't
explicitly have to." 
 
“Because I never have,” Atobe explains, taking a sip and swishing it around in
his mouth. Yes, definitely worth $12,000 a bottle. He does hope Tezuka is
appreciating it. “And quite frankly, I was well aware that I wouldn’t be
playing him this time. The only time Sanada has ever played Singles One is when
Yukimura was indisposed. It was last week, when you were holed up with your
team for those three days? I dropped by Rikkai.”
 
"…And?" Details. He does need details. Tezuka has never been intimidated by
Sanada, but this is a different situation now. It's not even the fact that he
insulted Rikkai's captain, though that certainly doesn't help. It's the fact
that his ace in the hole is passed out on Atobe's bed after having hidden
behind him all day because he's terrified of Yukimura. 
 
Atobe leans over, running his fingers gently through Ryouma’s hair. “He’s
right. That fire serve is no fun at all to hit back.” His smile is small, but
rather self-confident. “I was beating him. Yukimura called his dog back to heel
before we could finish, though.”
 
That makes Tezuka relax slightly. He sags back into his chair, bringing his
wine glass back to his lips. "Good. Then he's still as beatable as he always
was. I'm sorry that Akutagawa fared so poorly against him today, by the way." 
 
Atobe sighs. “That was a genuine shame,” he admits, “and I feel awful that he’s
been showing so ill lately anyway. I was hoping to put him up against that
Kirihara, and I would have if I’d known their lineup. Have you ever seen him at
his best, Kunimitsu? He’s excellent, took down Kabaji in two practice matches
out of three.”
 
"I've heard. Don't worry, he'll have an opportunity to show well next year."
His headache is starting to abate slightly, thank god. Tezuka isn't sure if
it's the wine or Atobe, but he'll assume it's both for the time being. "Oishi
is supposed to text me with Rikkai's lineup as soon as it's posted. I doubt
they'll leave it up to Kirihara this time; they're out for our blood." He
hesitates, frowning as he lowers his voice, "I don't want to have Echizen
play." 
 
“He’ll play.”
 
Atobe is sure of that much, at least, and there’s no hint of doubt in the
words. “Honestly, I don’t think you could stop him. He’ll say a lot of things,
but he’ll play when it comes down to it. He loves the game as much as you or I,
maybe more.”
 
"Keigo, he's been hiding behind me whenever Rikkai shows up. Worse, even, when
Yukimura walks out onto the court--you saw Echizen's reaction to his match
today," Tezuka argues. "Even if he goes out onto that court, he'll have the
yips. He has them right now. My whole team does--I've never seen Fuji play like
that before, and Fuji and Echizen usually feed off of one another." 
 
Atobe’s teeth worry at his lip, and he takes a larger sip. Finally, he clears
the topic that he’s been so good not to bring up; he has been trying. “How did
you get over yours?”
 
Tezuka stiffens, attempting to fight the reflexive urge to curl up behind his
wine glass. "What are you talking about?" 
 
Atobe holds up his hands, backing down. “Nothing, my mistake. I just
thought...hmm, perhaps you could fabricate a time when something similar
happened to you,” he invents. “Ryouma has a toxic opinion that in order to be
good one must never lose. There’s no one he admires more than you, Kunimitsu.
You know that.”
 
Exhaling a slow breath, Tezuka draws one long leg up to his chest, dropping his
chin down atop his knee. There's little point in lying to Atobe, especially
when he's already obviously figured it out, but there's reflex and
defensiveness and all of that and…ugh. "I stood up for Chitose's little
sister." He glances up over his glasses. "Shishigaku still has something of a
vendetta against him. While I was down in Kyushu, I ended up in the middle of
it. I didn't want to tell you because I was fairly certain you'd start ordering
hits like the yakuza." 
 
“Don’t be so crass,” Atobe says, waving one hand--which he then reaches down to
squeeze Tezuka’s hand gently. “My family would never use something so crass as
the yakuza, please. I should hope you’d have more faith in my discretion than
that.” Unless they hurt you. No one is allowed to do that.“Tell Ryouma about
it, when he wakes up. It could help.”
 
"…I'm just worried that it's too little, too late." Tezuka's fingers slowly
curl within Atobe's. "If I end up putting him in Singles One, I have to make
sure that we don't get there." 
 
“Then put him in Singles One, but Kunimitsu…” Atobe hesitates, and gives a
small squeeze. “This might not sound like much coming from me,” he allows, “but
you do have the rest of the team to worry about. Which position are you
playing? Singles Two, I assume?”
 
"I'm not sure," Tezuka admits, and he promptly downs the remainder of his wine
when he has to think about lineups for too long. "I don't want to make any
decisions before I know what Rikkai is doing."
 
As if on cue, his phone buzzes, and Tezuka twists to pull it from his pocket. 
 
From: Oishi
Subject: They posted it
Let me know ours ASAP!!
 
S3: Kirihara
D2: Yagyuu/Niou
S2: Marui
D1: Sanada/Yanagi
S1: Yukimura
 
"Explain," Tezuka deadpans, passing his phone to Atobe.
 
Atobe takes a look at the list, then wordlessly fills up Tezuka’s glass, a
little fuller this time. “Water first,” he reminds him, then stares down at the
phone. “I can only imagine this is some kind of punishment for Marui after he
gave us that match. But putting himself in Singles One, in his condition?”
 
"It's a challenge," Tezuka bitterly replies. He doesn't want water, but reaches
begrudgingly for that glass first. He does need some wits about him for this
conversation. "A fucking taunt--'see if you can even get here through our
weakest set-up yet.' Sorry." Apparently, he's reached the point of 'Rikkai
inspires vulgarity.' He understands the reactions of every other team in Japan
regarding them now. 
 
“For a weak setup, they’re certainly leading with the strongest doubles pairs
possible,” Atobe says, frowning. “They can certainly afford to throw one or two
singles games from this standpoint. Hmm.” He pulls out a sheet of paper,
sketching out a rival S3/D2/S2/D1/S1. “How much do you hate rematches?”
 
"…A lot," Tezuka wearily admits. "But I don't have another doubles pair strong
enough to go against Rikkai's best set. They're forcing me to use Oishi and
Eiji as Doubles Two--and honestly, Oishi will never forgive me if I don't put
him there. They're gunning for that top doubles spot regardless of our victory
or not." 
 
“Then let them have it,” Atobe says, waving a hand. “Every man should be able
to choose his own destiny, even if it will end rather dramatically. Hmm...are
you still confident in Fuji after this recent string of meltdowns?”
 
"No, but…I'm more confident against him against someone like Marui. He dislikes
playing against serve and volley players, but as far as we've seen, he's been
more than capable against him, and Marui hasn't proven himself defensive enough
to deal with Fuji if he's kept at the baseline." It's time for the wine again.
"I also promised Kaidou a singles slot. I think he can handle Kirihara."
 
Atobe nods, jotting down the notations with a fountain pen. “And yourself
against Yukimura,” he muses, then taps the pen against the paper. “Echizen in
doubles again? Who on earth else is on your team, I must be forgetting...right,
either Inui or Momoshiro. There’s no way those two as a pair can handle Sanada
and Yanagi, you must let Ryouma play.”
 
Tezuka shakes his head. "I can't put him in doubles again. He'll think that
I've completely lost confidence in him." While that isn't true, Tezuka doesn't
like the idea of Ryouma in Singles One, either. He does like the idea of
denying Sanada any sort of rematch against him, but… "Why didn't you go to
Seigaku," he tiredly asks. "You and I could have beaten Sanada and Yanagi in
doubles." 
 
Atobe’s mouth quirks. “I probably shouldn’t be entirely aroused by that
prospect. I’ll blame the wine if you will.”
 
"…Same," Tezuka admits, shoving down that little coil of heat in his belly that
threatens to be far too distracting. "As it is, I think I'm going to have to
play doubles with Inui."
 
“Or,” Atobe says, making a few quick notes, “since you’re absolutely rubbish as
a doubles player, put yourself in singles and Fuji in doubles. You can beat
Marui Bunta any day of the week, obviously, and he’s a decent enough doubles
player, though I don’t know how he’ll fare with Inui.”
 
Tezuka frowns. "I just don't think anyone else is capable of facing Sanada.
Assuming Kaidou wins, I'm not sure our Golden Pair is enough to beat
Rikkai's…and even if I beat Marui, we'd still be going to Doubles Two, which
we'd lose, and then…Singles One…" He trails off, suddenly sounding exhausted.
"There's no good combination." 
 
Atobe sighs, and leans back, taking another long drink. “That’s your problem,”
he says, opening the top button of his silk shirt, laying back against the
pillows. “You’ve got to stop thinking about it as if you can win. They’re the
National Champions, Kunimitsu, and to call you the underdogs is being generous.
Just….look for a good game. Christ, there’s no penalty to losing. Someone has
to.”
 
"I know that. But…" Tezuka trails off, downs the rest of his wine glass in
about two swallows, and sets it aside before slowly crawling into bed next to
Atobe. "We've never made it this far. I didn't think we could, no matter how
many promises I made. To lose at this point…"
 
“You’ll still have all of your victories.” Atobe slides an arm around Tezuka’s
shoulders, pulling him close and stroking his hair. “Besides, you might be able
to pull it off. As you so astutely pointed out, at least one of their number
isn’t exactly in fighting shape.”
 
Tezuka muffles a groan into Atobe's shoulder. "I'm never going to live that
down. If I lose, I'm the asshole that couldn't back it up, and if I win, I'm
the asshole that beat the kid with cancer." 
 
“It’s his own fault for playing,” Atobe says with a laugh. “He shouldn’t expect
any special preferential treatment in the National Finals. Still, it’s
definitely poor luck all around. Your opponent is supposed to conceal those
weaknesses, not flaunt them to make you feel worse.” He purses his lips,
thinking. “I suppose he did try. The surgery made it a bit obvious.”
 
"I think he was trying to conceal it," Tezuka tiredly says. "And still is.
Which leads me to wonder exactly what's going on and how much of an ass I
should feel like, which is already rather considerable." 
 
"It was still a sick burn, Tezuka-buchou," Ryouma sleepily mumbles from
underneath his pile of blankets. "Really cool, especially against Sanada."
 
Tezuka is fairly certain that he's too tired, and possibly bordering on too
tipsy to stop cuddling Atobe, even when Ryouma is apparently awake.
 
“Sanada deserves it,” Atobe agrees, and uncovers at least a smidgen of Ryouma’s
head, relocating a pillow. “Ne, Sleeping Beauty?”
 
"He's weird," Ryouma agrees on a yawn, slowly scooting over to bury himself
next to Atobe's side, even when he's pretty sure he's still mad at him. "And
half the things he says aren't Japanese, pretty sure." 
 
“Thank you,” Atobe says, vindicated. “I have no idea what he’s talking about,
most of the time. Incomprehensible--what the hell is a taru-doru?” His other
arm comes around Ryouma, squishing him close, something of comfort, something
of apology.
 
"Antiquated conjugation of the verb 'tarumu'," Tezuka supplies, pushing his
glasses off to make it easier to half-bury his face into Atobe's neck. "He
thinks he's a samurai. Moron." 
 
"Weird," Ryouma repeats, curling himself into a ball within Atobe's hold.
Apology accepted, more or less. He resigns himself to being grumpy for a few
more days, but that's it. "Rikkai's captain beat Kabaji-sempai really easily. I
remember how hard it was for Kawamura-sempai to even play against him…" He
trails off, worry audible in his voice instead of the usual boredom and general
disdain for everyone around him. "I've been training to play against Sanada,
not…someone even better." 
 
Atobe couldn’t feel much better than this right now, basking in the way the two
of them feel pressed up against him. It isn’t even precisely sexual; he just
can’t remember the last time someone had been so trusting, so close to him.
Well, except Jirou, but Jirou is like that with everyone (and it’s a large
portion of the reason why Jirou has never been kicked off of the regulars).
“Chaos theory,” he murmurs, squeezing them both a bit. “You might be Yukimura’s
Achilles Heel. After all, he’s bound to underestimate you. His ego is out of
control.”
 
"Coming from you," Tezuka and Ryouma say in unison. 
 
"He already beat me once, though," Ryouma adds, huffing as he buries his face
firmly into Atobe's side. "Did he even know who I was? Atobe-sempai, you smell
good." 
 
“I told you this scent was good, Kunimitsu,” Atobe says, slightly smug. His
fingers curl into Ryouma’s hair, petting him gently, stroking a thumb down the
back of his neck. “He knew. That’s good, it means he’ll underestimate you. We
want that.”
 
"Hopefully," Tezuka quietly says, "we won't even have to go to Singles One.
We'll beat them before that." 
 
"…I still don't know if I can play him if we do," Ryouma mutters, annoyed with
himself, embarrassed at his inability to get over it. He shoves his face down
into Atobe's chest even more. "I hate this. Atobe-sempai, you say Tezuka-
buchou's name weird." 
 
"Quiet, Echizen."
 
"But he does." 
 
Atobe rolls his eyes. “That’s his first name, Ryouma,” he laughs
condescendingly. “The names are flipped around in Japan, remember? His name
isn’t actually Buchou. That just means ‘Captain.’”
 
Tezuka strangles down a laugh.
 
Ryouma lifts his head, brow furrowed in irritation. "I know that, Ahobe-
sempai," he flatly says. "And I know Tezuka-buchou's first name. I'm telling
you that you're saying it wrong."
 
Atobe blinks. “What? No, I’m not. Tell him, Kunimitsu.”
 
"See! You did it again," Ryouma insists.
 
"It's really fine--" Tezuka attempts.
 
"No, he's saying it wrong. You don't pronounce the 'u' at the end of it,"
Ryouma tells him. "You know, like how you don't say the 'u' at the end of
'desu'? Though I guess you never use that…"
 
Shit. No, can’t admit defeat, it’s not like him at all. No, the only
alternative is to use a pun, one that he has literally waited 15 years to use.
“However,” he announces, feeling the growing dread all around him, “you
pronounce the ‘u’ at the end when you speak…” he pauses for dramatic effect,
“in Keigo.”
 
Once. He can only use this once in his life.
 
Tezuka's stifled, sputtering laughter is barely muffled into Atobe's shoulder.
He's drunk enough for this, yes.
 
"Lame, Atobe-sempai," Ryouma says, world-weary. "Really lame."
 
“Shut up, you just didn’t get it,” Atobe says, laughing himself along with
Tezuka. The one who’s laughing is the one that matters most, anyway. “Why do
you call me Atobe-sempai, anyway? I don’t go to your school.”
 
"Because it makes your penis hard," Ryouma says, unapologetically. 
 
"No, Echizen," Tezuka immediately chides, not lifting his face from Atobe's
neck. "Not right now." 
 
"What? It's true." 
 
“Have to give him points for truthfulness,” Atobe admits. “Kunimitsu, do you
want more wine?” Not that he’s trying to get him drunk or anything.
 
"If I drink more wine," Tezuka warns, "I am not going home tonight." 
 
"You're still gonna say it wrong?"
 
"I like the way he says my name," Tezuka defensively mutters. 
 
“If he likes it, I’m going to keep saying it that way. And no, Kunimitsu, I am
not sending you home drunk to your grandfather. He’d probably have me
arrested.” He pauses a moment, then asks, “Ryouma, do you want to taste a sip
of mine?”
 
"You are correct," Tezuka says, a little hazily. "He would definitely have you
arrested. I could have more wine."
 
Ryouma eyeballs it skeptically. "Does it taste bad? I'm pretty sure all wine
does." 
 
“It can take some getting used to,” Atobe admits, “but Reisling is a sweet
wine.” Sweet and strong, which is why he’s being so careful to make Tezuka
drink water. Being hungover on the day of finals would be no good at all. Thank
god for teenage metabolisms.
 
"…I'll try one sip," Ryouma begrudgingly allows. "Am I really going to have to
play Singles One tomorrow?" 
 
"Not if I can help it," Tezuka mutters, curling up around his wine glass. "Tell
Fuji to get over himself, too."
 
"Fuji-sempai's been weird lately. I think he freaked himself out when he faked
losing to his brother and stuff. Tezuka-buchou, did you know he has pictures of
you all over his walls?"
 
"No, and I really didn't want to know." More wine, and quickly. 
 
It takes a moment for that to sink in through the wine, and when it does, Atobe
could be a lot happier. He downs the rest of his glass, pours another, and
hands it to Ryouma. “And how exactly was your trip to Fuji Shuusuke’s bedroom,
Ryouma? Educational?”
 
"…It was all right," Ryouma reluctantly answers, tentatively peering down at
the wine. Smells weird, pretty sure he prefers soda any day, but he slowly,
warily takes a sip. He makes a face, and passes it back. "Fuji-sempai is
weird."
 
Tezuka pauses, letting all of that process for a long moment before it finally
clicks. He'd like to blame the alcohol, but he's aware of exactly how oblivious
he is to most sexual things. "Wait. You and Fuji--"
 
"Gross, Tezuka-buchou, don't make me talk about it."
 
"I might kill him," Tezuka mutters underneath his breath. Atobe is one thing,
and something he has accepted. Fuji, however…no. No, not good.
 
“Ryouma, I thought you had better taste than that.” Ugh. Ugh. “I mean, surely
you can tell there’s something...Kunimitsu, what’s a nice way to say ‘batshit
crazy?’ Ah, yes, something rather amiss going on with Fuji.”
 
Ryouma shrugs. "I dunno. He's fun and all that, he's just weird. I think his
brother has a crush on him." 
 
Tezuka immediately holds his wine glass out to be topped off. "Keigo, please." 
 
“A-ah, water first,” Atobe instructs, grabbing a bottle of expensive purified
water and tipping it into Tezuka’s mouth. “At least half the bottle. Then you
may have more wine. I won’t hear that I’m the reason you lost the finals match,
Kunimitsu. And Ryouma, there’s a very good English saying, so stop me if you’ve
heard this one.” He clears his throat, and switches to English. “Don’t put your
dick in crazy.”
 
Ryouma's brow furrows, and he says in English: "But he put it in me, does that
count?"
 
“Yes. It counts. Honestly, Ryouma,” Atobe mutters, tugging on the boy’s hair,
“I thought you had more instincts of self-preservation than that. If he hurt
you…”
 
"He didn't hurt me," Ryouma defensively mutters, batting away Atobe's hand. "It
was fun. I mean, he had a cigarette afterwards and that was gross, but
otherwise, it was fine. I think he's bigger than you, by the way--"
 
"I can speak English, too, you know," Tezuka snaps in Japanese. "And I don't
want to hear about this." 
 
It’s for the best that they’re interrupted. Atobe isn’t sure how much more
indignity he can stand. Fuji Shuusuke, for one thing, is so very dead. “You’ll
just have to measure again sometime,” he mutters a bit sulkily, then switches
back to Japanese. “Kunimitsu, I’m just making sure he’s not hurt or anything.”
 
"I'm not hurt," Ryouma reiterates. 
 
"You have my permission to kill him," Tezuka says, finishing off his required
amount of water and demandingly pushing his wine glass in Atobe's direction.
"After the finals." 
 
“This is the last one,” Atobe warns, and pours the glass generously
nonetheless. “I do hope he’s some use to you in the finals. Otherwise, you
should ship him back to wherever he came from--Chiba, was it?”
 
"This is the last time I have to deal with him," Tezuka groans, his head
lolling a little against Atobe's shoulder as he cradles his wine glass. "He's
awful."
 
"He really likes Tezuka-buchou."
 
"Echizen, no."
 
"He has a cactus named after you. He introduced me."
 
Tezuka drinks more, and quickly. 
 
“Anyway,” Atobe says hurriedly, staying away from a topic that makes his blood
pressure shoot through the roof in a less than desirable way, “Ryouma, how
would you make the Seigaku lineup? I’m sure the captain values your opinion.”
 
Ryouma hesitates, peering over Atobe at Tezuka for a moment before slinking
back down. "I dunno. I do know that you have to let Oishi-sempai and Kikumaru-
sempai play those assholes that they played before, though."
 
"I'm aware," Tezuka wearily says. "And they will. For better or for worse."
 
"I don't wanna play Sanada again." 
 
"All right." 
 
"And I don't wanna play Yukimura, either."
 
Briefly, Tezuka considers switching Kaidou and Ryouma's singles slots. Dear
god, he is drunk. "How long do you think it would take Kaidou to get the yips?"
Tezuka seriously asks his boyfriend. 
 
“Hmm. Buoyed by the excitement of having your trust in him as next year’s
captain? At least three minutes.” 
 
Atobe doesn’t bother trying to make it sound nice. It isn’t nice. “Please
remember, I’ve watched Rikkai win many times, up close and personal. It’s no
fun, but it is predictable.”
 
"No, I'd rather hear it. You know I hate it when people sugarcoat." Tezuka
takes a long sip of his wine. "Echizen, I need you in Singles One."
 
Ryouma scrunches himself into a ball. 
 
"We might not get there, but I need you there."
 
"Don't wanna." 
 
"Echizen. Do you think you're the only one that's scared?" 
 
"I'm not--"
 
"I've been scared of playing everyone since I first hurt my arm," Tezuka
tiredly admits, "and even after recovering, I'm still scared. I still take
painkillers for it before matches even when it doesn't hurt, just as a
preventative measure. But I still play. You have to be able to do that, too,
because no one else will." 
 
"…You could," Ryouma mutters. "You could play Singles One."
 
"I have to play Doubles One. Inui is going to fall on his face if I let him
play with anyone else, because Yanagi is going to be staring back at him
again." 
 
"I don't like Rikkai," Ryouma settles upon. 
 
"Well, neither do I."
 
"They aren't playing tennis. They're being assholes." 
 
"More or less," Tezuka agrees, and finishes off his wine far too quickly. Whoo.
Yes. He's lightheaded now. 
 
“So be an asshole back.” Atobe grins, and pokes Tezuka in the shoulder. “You’ve
already started, right? God, you two--do you only want easy victories now? It’s
only a good win if there’s something to truly bring down. Be grateful for the
intimidating villain you’ve been given!”
 
"We lost the Kantou to them, though," Ryouma points out. "Kind of badly."
 
Tezuka gives Atobe a put-out stare. "The sick kid is never a good villain." 
 
"I dunno, Yukimura is still pretty scary."
 
"Echizen. I'm proving a point here."
 
“Ahn, you’ve cast yourself as the villains, then.” Atobe raises an eyebrow, and
polishes off his own glass of wine--yes, that’s enough, judging from how a
couple drops spill. “You might as well be convincing about it, then. Aren’t the
villains supposed to be confident? We shall crush them into oblivion,
etcetera?”
 
"We shall crush them in the fields, we shall crush them in the streets," Tezuka
begins.
 
"Didn't Sanada say something like that?" 
 
"Close enough, it's all the same when you're roleplaying being a samurai all
the time." Tezuka twists around, burying his face back into Atobe's neck. "You
do smell good. Echizen, I'm not letting you play Singles One tomorrow."
 
"…Then what am I playing?"
 
"No. No, you'll be in the slot. Just…not gonna let you play." 
 
“Yes, good. Swear your vengeance, it’s...good.” Atobe really likes it,
actually, and stretches out, getting one arm around each of them. “You should
both smell me more. Apparently, I smell fantastic. I think that’s better than
fretting over lineups and samurai.”
 
That's probably true. Burying his face into Atobe's skin and curling up with
him does sound better than fretting…and Ryouma doesn't look nearly as shaken
up, besides. He's sort of made a nest, burrowing down against Atobe's side. 
 
"You have to come tomorrow," Tezuka murmurs into Atobe's ear. "And stick
around, no matter what." 
 
“I’ll be there. For both of you.” The words are egalitarian, but the way Atobe
turns his head, meeting Tezuka for a long, slow kiss made delightfully
lingering by the wine, belies the truth. “Until the end.”
 
***** Eiji & Oishi *****
Eiji has the best doubles partner in the world, he’s pretty sure. It’s honestly
a pleasure to watch him, which makes not actually playing doubles with him for
once a bearable experience instead of the uncomfortable upsetting torture he’d
thought it would be. Oishi moves perfectly, of course, but that’s not what’s so
interesting to watch. Eiji watches his eyes, watches the way they glaze
slightly over, mapping out the entire court without consciously realizing what
he’s doing, and moving seamlessly, effortlessly into the space he needs to
fill. He does it so well that Echizen even manages to react in time, slowly
coming to trust Oishi and letting him have the balls that fall naturally within
his domain.
 
And why shouldn’t he? Oishi is the best doubles player, after all. He can play
with anyone, including high-strung bratty singles players that have never been
able to work with someone else.
 
It’s how they got together in the first place.
 
Maybe that’s what makes Eiji a little more jittery, a little more on edge than
usual after the celebratory dinner. Sukiyaki is good (he eats more than his
fill), and there’s nothing forced or feigned about the way he congratulates
Oishi or Echizen, not when they’re both his beloved friends and have done so
well for Seigaku.
 
It’s only later, when almost everyone has cleared out, that he finally decides
to say something. “Hey, Oishi? Walk me home? They’re changing the lights on
your street and you’d be going home in the dark otherwise, so come the long
way.”
 
How long did it take you to think of that excuse is what Oishi immediately,
wryly thinks, but he nods all the same. Eiji is a creature of habit if nothing
else, and being able to tell when he's got something on his mind is important. 
 
Fortunately, Oishi's been doing that for a few years now. 
 
"I wasn't aware that I was afraid of the dark now," he gently teases, and
shoulders his bag, sending a nod off to the last lingering members--Momoshiro
and Kaidou mostly, scrabbling over the last bits of some eating competition. "I
can't stay over tonight, if that's what you're planning for." 
 
Eiji weaves sideways, knocking his shoulder against Oishi’s. “Hmm, you sure do
seem to have something perverted on your mind,” he teases. “Wouldn’t Tezuka be
mad if we showed up to the finals all tired?”
 
"Eiji," is the immediate hiss underneath Oishi's breath, and he flits a glance
briefly around before glowering over at his partner. "That's not what I meant.
I just meant--in general, I can't stay over. But," he adds begrudgingly,
"Tezuka would be mad. Probably at you." That should put an end to that. 
 
The smile fades into a shiver at the idea of Tezuka’s cold, soulless eyes.
That’s no good. “Good thing I don’t have anything in mind, then.” He steers
Oishi down the side street that leads to his house eventually, hopping up to
touch a low-hanging bit of scaffolding. There’s no one around at this time of
night, even in Tokyo. A woman comes out to sort her recyclables, then goes back
inside. A man turns a corner with his little yapping dog, then turns another
and disappears. There’s a Metro line that could get him a lot closer to home,
but the walk isn’t bad, and Oishi would be taking a train anyway. “You were
soooo good in doubles today. Number one doubles player.”
 
"Eh? No way," Oishi groans, shaking his head in an attempt to get rid of the
memory. Echizen is a chore, and while he has no inclination to complain to the
kid's face… "I still have a headache. It's like I'm trying to cover for three
people, and three very unorganized people at that. Echizen is so used to not
having to worry about anyone on the court that he's just…ugh, I thought Momo
had taught him a few things, but I guess not." 
 
“But you played with him, and no one else could do that. That’s why you’re the
best.” Eiji’s smile isn’t exactly false, but he might be adding a little extra
enthusiasm to it. “I mean, you’re kind of like….the best doubles teacher,
right? You turned me into a good doubles player when I was a selfish first-
year, and now you’re doing it for him.”
 
"It's really not the same," Oishi sighs. "Echizen isn't ever going to be that
good at doubles, I think. I mean, he could if he really worked at it, but I
don't really want to sit around and teach him…ah, does that sound horrible?
It's just really stressful playing with him."
 
“You were really good at it, though.” Eiji hops up onto the curb, toe-heeling
the length of it, glad it gives him an excuse to look down at his feet instead
of at Oishi. “And I mean...you finished training me, right? So you’re looking
for a new protege.” 
 
Maybe Oishi will be relieved that he’s figured it out for himself. Maybe he’s
been trying to get out for a while, but hadn’t known what to say, or was trying
to protect Eiji’s feelings. It’s better for everyone if Eiji brings it up now,
definitely.
 
"Huh?" Oishi slowly comes to a stop, blinking over at the other boy in open,
honest confusion. "Eiji, what are you talking about? I never wanted
another…protege. I never considered you that, either. I always just thought of
you as my partner."  His head tilts, brow furrowing. "Did you really think I
wanted to play with Echizen? I would have rather played with you, any day of
the week." 
 
Eiji’s smile this time is forced, and he folds his hands behind his head,
looking up at what he can see of the sky, occluded by pollution and clouds.
“Eh, it’s not like I said you couldn’t play with me or anything,” he points
out. “Not like you didn’t have a choice. Come on, I’m trying to be mature.
You’re ruining it.”
 
"…Tezuka was the one that wanted me to play with Echizen, so that he'd have the
experience--not because I didn't want…Eiji, you needed the experience in
singles, too, so it's fine," Oishi insists, trying not to start worrying at his
lower lip. "For the finals, I definitely want to play with you. Is that okay?
Unless you don't want to play with me now." 
 
“I don’t want to play with you just because you have no other choice.” Eiji
jams his hands in his pockets, then sits down on the curb, tucking his knees up
against his chest. Three vacant taxis drive by as the light changes, then carry
on, leaving them alone again. “Dunno why you would say I need experience in
singles if you really want to stay my partner, though. You don’t have
experience in singles. It just makes it sound like you’re trying to tell me
goodbye gently.”
 
"That's…" Oishi trails off for a moment, at a loss, and slowly sinks down,
sitting next to Eiji. "That's not it at all," he quietly says, setting his bag
down at his feet. "Eiji, you're great in both singles and doubles. You know
that. I'm nothing special in singles, and that's why I've never wanted to play
it. You should, because you're really great, and the other thing is…" He
hesitates, then heaves a sigh, his expression wry. "I really didn't want to
tell you this, but I guess it's okay now. My wrist was acting up still, and
that's why I didn't want to play in a match with you. I didn't want to be the
one to drag you down, or the one that was going to kill our ranking. We're so
close to being the number one in Japan, you know?" 
 
Eiji takes a long minute to turn that over in his mind. Then, very carefully,
he draws back a fist and punches Oishi in the shoulder. “You idiot! You’re the
one who told me I should be in doubles, Oishi! You got me addicted to it! Are
you just testing me to see if I’d really prefer singles after all, or if I’ll
beg you to come back? We won’t be number one if we haven’t played together in
forever!”
 
"Don't hit me, I need that arm!" Oishi protests, scooting away. "I wasn't
trying to test you! I was just trying to make sure that you got to do something
while I was healing up! Look, we'll still be number one--we're the Golden Pair,
aren't we?" He reaches out and swats Eiji on the back of the head. "It's better
this way, our ranking is still great and we're still prepared for the finals." 
 
Eiji ducks too late, and comes up scowling, rubbing at the back of his head.
“You always say I should take time and think more about what people really
mean,” he complains. “Then when I try it you say I’m thinking too much and that
nothing is happening at all. Make up your mind!”
 
"There's a time and a place for thinking about things that much," Oishi
patiently replies. "Right now, you're over thinking it all. I've already
explained it to you, so just listen to what I'm saying. I'd rather play doubles
with you than anyone else in the world." 
 
Hearing it, especially hearing it a few times, goes a hell of a long way
towards mollifying Eiji. He lets out a huge breath, then stretches out his arms
when he gets back up to his feet. “Okay, message received! But you’re gonna
have to be a lot more clear about when is a time and place for it, because you
were definitely acting weird, and it’s the first time you haven’t played
doubles with me in years.” He gives Oishi a sly look, and adds, “And I don’t
know how much you were teaching him, anyway. There’s a lot of doubles
partnerstuff that I don’t think you should teach a kid like that.”
 
Oishi, for his part, looks nothing short of horrified. "Eiji! This is Echizen
we're talking about, why would I--how could I ever do that?" He hauls himself
to his feet, bag in tow. "I'm sorry for acting weird, but don't make jokes like
that. You've been spending way too much time around Fuji if you think that's
funny!" 
 
“Mm, I spend time with the people that make time for me. Not my fault you’ve
been busy.” He makes a face, starting towards his house again. “You wanna hear
something gross, though?”
 
It's not even worth attempting to make a rebuttal towards the former part of
that, so Oishi just sighs, rolling his eyes skyward and falling into stride
next to Eiji. "I usually don't, but you can tell me anyway." 
 
“Fuji did Echizen against the Tezuka wall.”
 
Oishi gags reflexively. "Eiji, warn me next time," he pleads, shutting his eyes
briefly to try and get control of his stomach. Gross, gross, gross."What is
wrong with him? Is Echizen okay? Is Taka-san okay? Does he know about this?"
Tezuka is never going to know about this. 
 
“Mm, Fuji’s being bad. I think he wants Taka-san to break up with him.” Eiji
sighs. “I don’t know how he gets these weird ideas. I mean, he thinks Taka-san
is too nice for him, and, I mean, I guess that’s true, but why wouldn’t you
just be glad you got something really good instead of trying to mess it up?” He
shrugs. “According to him, Echizen’s been sleeping with a lot of guys lately on
other teams and stuff. Weird, right? He’s supposed to be our baby.”
 
"He is our baby," Oishi says, trying desperately not to think about Echizen
sleeping with…well, anyone. He's too young, too immature, too much of a brat
that still clings to the back of Tezuka's jersey…gross, gross, gross. Maybe
Tezuka does need to know about this. "Taka-san is too nice for him," he
eventually agrees, trying to take his mind off of Echizen sleeping around, ugh.
"But…Fuji has been more manageable since they started dating. I've never
exactly seen Fuji be cruel to him, but that kind of mindset is getting there." 
 
“Fuji thinks Taka-san is stupid.” Eiji rounds the last corner to his house,
relieved that most of the lights are already off inside. That’s just less he
has to deal with. “I’m pretty sure Taka-san’s a lot smarter than Fuji thinks.
He also thinks Taka-san is soooo innocent, you know? How many innocent guys
would date Fuji, though?”
 
"Fair enough," Oishi agrees, sighing tiredly. "But Fuji is good at faking it. I
mean, it's hard not to get a sort of creeped out vibe from him on most days,
but who knows?" He bites his lip, thinking as he walks. "Even still, he's good
for Fuji, I think, and if Fuji pulls a stunt like this before finals, it's not
going to be good. Have you said something to him?" 
 
“I told him he’d be a dumbass to let Taka-san go,” Eiji says, tugging on
Oishi’s sleeve to take him around the back way. “I think they need to talk.
Also, if they talk it out and they get happier, maybe he’ll leave poor Echizen
alone. It’s weird, Oishi!”
 
"It's really weird, but…" Of course, it's Eiji that always wants to meddle in
this sort of thing, and while Oishi is worried about Echizen, it's Fuji that
always makes him wary. "Fuji isn't really the talking type," he points out. "I
mean, he's the oversharing type, but not about his relationships, just his
imagined ones. What do you want to do, lock them in a room or something?" 
 
“Great idea! We can use your house, though,” Eiji muses. “My house has thinner
walls.” He pats his pockets, realizes he’s forgotten his key, and shrugs.
“Gimme a boost up to my window, I’ll pull you up.”
 
"That was a joke, Eiji. I'm definitely not letting them talk at my house,"
Oishi protests, and frowns at him. "Also, I just told you I couldn't stay the
night." 
 
Eiji’s face falls. “Oh. I didn’t think you meant you couldn’t come up at all.
Is your dad mad at you or something? Did he find your porn?”
 
"Eiji." I don't have that much porn is on the tip of Oishi's tongue, but he
decides not to give Eiji any more ammunition. "…I can stay for a little
while." 
 
“Yay!” Eiji doesn’t really need a boost all that much. He climbs up Oishi
without much consent, standing on his shoulders and grabbing the bottom ledge.
In a moment, the light in his room clicks on, and he’s back, hanging down by
his knees and offering dangling hands. “Just like last time.” He knows his
smile is cute upside down.
 
Eiji honestly has no right to be that cute. 
 
Oishi's apprehensions die in an instant, and he sighs, reaching up to take
Eiji's hands with a smile. "But not too long," he warns, jumping up to use the
side of the house as leverage. With Eiji's pull, he's up in an instant, and he
slides down to the floor. "Finals tomorrow, and then I can stay over for as
long as you want."
 
“Sure. And we’ll have lots of reasons to celebrate then, anyway.” Eiji shuts
the window, then hops onto his bed cross-legged. “Oi, when you said you could
stay for a little while...how long is a little while? I don’t want you to get
in trouble.” Oishi always gets mad at him whenever he gets in trouble. No fun.
Plus, his parents are painfully strict.
 
"…Long enough," Oishi hedges, not sure how much he should push his luck, and
not really wanting to, besides--but it's Eiji, and apparently, he's been upset.
He climbs to his feet, plopping himself down onto the bed next to him. "Maybe
long enough to really decide what to do about Fuji, and for me to apologize
again for upsetting you." 
 
Oishi is sitting close, and Oishi isn’t secretly mad at him or bored with him.
Immediately, Eiji goes into snuggle mode, leaning sideways to lean on him,
rubbing the flat of his cheek against Oishi’s shoulder. “Eh, you don’t have to
apologize, I learned my lesson about not thinking too much. And we’ll just lock
Fuji and Taka in a room, problem solved.”
 
Oishi strangles a long-suffering noise in this throat at that, but loops an arm
around Eiji's waist all the same, tugging him closer. "I don't think that's
going to really work," he mutters, turning his head to press his face into
Eiji's hair. "Because I'm pretty sure Fuji can pick locks."
 
“I’d like to see him pick a dresser shoved in front of the door. Don’t worry
about it, they’ll figure it out eventually. Fuji just likes to run away and be
slippery if you let him.” Eiji turns his head, giving the tip of Oishi’s nose a
tiny bite. “Does my hair smell good?”
 
A gentle flick to the tip of Eiji's nose follows that. "No biting. You know it
does. Are you sure we should be meddling in their business at all? I know
Fuji's your friend, but it might be better just to let him break up with Taka-
san. Then I won't have nightmares about what they could possibly be doing
together." 
 
“You said yourself Fuji’s calmer with Taka-san around. You want to release him
on the wide world? Especially when he’s started messing with Echizen?” Eiji’s
nose crinkles. “I can lick if you don’t want me to bite.” The suggestion could
be more subtle, but it could be innocent, too. Maybe to someone who didn’t know
him.
 
"…I'd like to think that Echizen is smart enough to stay away from him at the
end of the day." He is, probably, but Echizen also doesn't know fear, and
that's no good. Oishi gives Eiji's nose another light tap. "If you want to lock
them in a room together, you're  arranging it, and not at my house. You also
know that licking is better than biting, but…" Time limits. Finals tomorrow.One
of these days, he'll learn not to stare at a clock and fret.
 
“Sure, I’ll be in charge of it,” Eiji agrees cheerfully. Then he rearranges
himself, giving up pretense and straddling Oishi’s lap, one knee on the bed on
either side of his hips. “Anything else you want me to be in charge of?”
 
"Eiji--" That's the last bit of protest Oishi can muster, truth be told,
because he's missed the other boy, especially over the past couple of weeks.
Prior to that was bad, too, when Tezuka was gone and there was more time for
the team that needed to be had than time for just Eiji, and…
 
Oishi exhales a slow breath, briefly shuts his eyes, and gives into the urge to
just curl his hands around Eiji's hips and tug him close. "Everything," he
admits, deciding that he's fine with being scolded if it means he gets to spend
more time here. 
 
There’s a surge of relief, of tension releasing that Eiji hadn’t known he’d
been carrying when he hears that. He lurches forward, grabbing Oishi’s face in
his hands, kissing him hard, open-mouthed and wet, a little frantic. Missed
you,he wants to say, and I thought you didn’t want this anymore, didn’t like me
anymore, you big idiot.
 
It’s never been so much of a relief to kiss Oishi, not since the first day he’d
done it, when he wasn’t sure if Oishi would kiss him back or punch him in the
face or just stammer a lot and say it would be for the best if they pretended
it never happened. Things are different now--Eiji’s hands in Oishi’s hair are
possessive, because Oishi, gentle, handsome, kind, smart Oishi, belongs to him,
even if he’s still a big idiot. “Oishi,” he breathes. “Hmm, I was going to say
we could just make out and not get you in trouble, but...nn, I missed you a
lot, you know?”
 
A sideways glance to the clock is the last thing Oishi can manage before he
flops back onto an elbow, grabbing at Eiji's hair with his other hand. "Already
in trouble," he breathlessly admits, smile wry, and he lurches up to kiss Eiji
back again, the tension in his own shoulders dissolving in a moment. It feels
good to just have a moment alone with Eiji again, to kiss him and grab at him
and be grabbed at. "But it's fine. They'll think it's tennis, and blame Tezuka,
not you." For once, they have that saving grace, and Oishi secretly thinks that
Tezuka owes him a little. 
 
“Good, Tezuka can take it, and he owes you a lot for dumping the team on you.”
Eiji pauses, then adds, “Even if you’re a better captain.” Then he turns his
head, sucking at a spot under Oishi’s ear, moving down his neck, not staying in
the same place for too long, knowing better than to leave marks. “Nn, you can’t
let me miss you so much,” he chides. “I’m gonna forget to be good.” He’s
already starting to forget, helped quickly along by the fact that he doesn’t
care all that much, not when he’s getting hard under his stretchy shorts.
 
"No marks," Oishi hurriedly insists underneath his breath, a habit that he
can't really break. He's sure that Eiji knows better, but the problem is that
he always kind of wants Eiji to leave marks. He's the one that can't be
trusted. With that, Oishi gives up entirely, flopping back with a long huff of
breath, and sinks one hand into Eiji's hair, the other dragging down his back
to end up curling around the curve of his ass. "Let's be fair--you're never--
ah--that good--"
 
Eiji’s laugh is breathy and eager. Not having to be the one pushing for once is
nice. He doesn’t mind it, but it’s nice this way all the same, wriggling in
Oishi’s hands, trying to keep quiet, knowing he’s at least better at that part
than Oishi is. “For someone who’s so bad, you sure want me a lot,” he teases,
and sucks on Oishi’s shoulder, biting where he can at least cover it up with a
shirt easily enough. “Nn, you have to tell me now.” They’ve been together long
enough that Oishi knows his speech patterns, knows what he means when he says
just that much.
 
The hand in Eiji's hair comes to his own mouth instead, stifling the stupid,
over-eager groan that wants to escape when Eiji wiggles against him like that.
His other hand's fingers knead into the curve of Eiji's ass, dragging down the
back of one of his thighs. Oishi doesn't like having to say it. Sure, it's just
Eiji that's hearing it, but it still lights up a flush to his cheeks, and makes
his voice catch up in his throat. "You can put it in." And then, to hurriedly,
breathlessly clarify: "Just--not like last time." Where he ended up feeling
like he was hit by a train the next day, and that just wasn't good for anyone
involved. 
 
Eiji’s cock throbs at the words, whispered and hungry and genuine. “It’s gonna
be so much better than last time,” he promises, kissing Oishi’s cheek and
forehead and lips again, then raising his weight up onto his hands to better
position himself. 
 
Oishi doesn’t take pity on him, as a rule. Oishi doesn’t feel bad and ask for
things he doesn’t want, and he doesn’t put up with things he doesn’t like if he
doesn’t have to. That’s one of the things Eiji loves about sex with Oishi--he
knows when he’s doing something wrong, which makes it easy to learn exactly
what Oishi likes, and easier to give it to him. “You want me to do it slower,
or gentler, or both?” Probably they should actually take their pants off this
time, too. Last time had started real fast. This time, he works a hand down the
front of Oishi’s sweatpants, making sure he gets nice and hard, finding him
already pretty close to perfect, thick and hot and heavy against his hand. “Mm,
he wants to have a lot of fun tonight, I think.”
 
Oishi huffs out a breath, shutting his eyes again briefly to try and get a
handle on the fuzziness that his brain is quickly becoming. Eiji always does
that to him, but with sex, it's even worse (better), especially when he can
feel Eiji's own cock pressing against his thigh. "Slower--at least, at first,"
he clarifies, a shiver raking down his spine when his hips cant up into Eiji's
hand thoughtlessly. He squirms a little, his hands grabbing at Eiji's back,
curling into his shirt, tugging. "And with everything off," he adds in a
mutter, thinking about the mess that ended up making last time. It was fun at
the time, but afterwards, not so much. "Is your door locked?" 
 
"Sure,” Eiji says, then pauses, letting out a long sigh. “I don’t know,” he
admits, and gets off long enough to check--nope, wasn’t locked, and he flips
the deadbolt with a chagrined little shrug. “Is now.” 
 
It’s probably for the best that they had to separate for a second, since it
gives him time to catch his breath, and makes it easier to strip off his
clothes, shimmying out of both sets of shorts along with his shirt. There’s no
ounce of hesitation or shyness--how could there be, when it’s Oishi? He grabs
Oishi’s pants by the waistband, tugging them off along with his shirt while
he’s still standing. “You,” he says, climbing back on top now that there’s
nothing but skin between them, his own burning hot against Oishi’s cooler
limbs, “said slower. Oishi wants it nice and hard tonight, yeah?” Just saying
the words makes him ache, and he can feel his cock starting to drip, standing
up almost against his stomach as he settles onto his knees between Oishi’s
spread legs.
 
The words have a similar effect on Oishi, and he has to reach down, wrapping
his fingers around the base of his own cock, squeezing to keep himself in check
when his breath catches and his cock throbs, dripping onto his own stomach.
"Just like that," he rasps, grabbing at Eiji with his other hand, hauling him
down to kiss him hard, needy, tasting the sharp, lingering mint of Eiji's gum
and feeling slick sweat underneath his fingers when they drag down the back of
Eiji's neck. His thighs squeeze around Eiji's hips, eager. "I've missed you
too, Eiji." 
 
There’s a fierce fire that kindles in Eiji’s chest every time Oishi says
something like that. It’s so easy for them to fall into the trap of counting on
each other--and it is a trap. It’s dependable, and it’s safe, and they love
each other an awful lot, but sometimes they forget it’s been a long time since
the words, the actions. It’s been three weeks since they’ve been hard together,
more than a month since they’ve been naked together, and Eiji’s hard enough for
every minute they’ve been apart. 
 
Eiji drags a hand down Oishi’s chest, feeling the smooth muscles laced over his
heartbeat, steady and strong. It draws down to the growing puddle on his belly,
dipping a thumb into it and making a slick trail across his abdomen. It would
be so easy--they’d both be slippery-wet in a second, and they’re both so hard,
and the idea of grinding down frantically against Oishi until that nagging,
itching ache in his balls goes away is a tempting one. 
 
Then he remembers how Oishi had sounded, breathing, You can put it in. Yeah,
that’s worth it, he guesses. He almost just shoves in at the thought, but no,
no, that’s really not good and they know that, that’s for stupid beginners and
Fuji had smacked him upside the head last time he’d admitted to trying it that
way. 
 
The bottle Fuji had given him with a sly smile is a lot more empty than it had
been the last time they’d used it. “I’ve been thinking about Oishi-buchou a
lot,” Eiji admits, and slicks himself up before sliding forward to nestle
between Oishi’s thighs. “You’re hot when you’re Captainy. Nn, when’s the last
time you played with it, or do you want me to use my hand?”
 
Don't forget the condom, Eiji,is on the tip of his tongue, but Oishi bites it
down in spite of all common sense that screams otherwise. God, he's hard. Eiji
feels good between his legs like that, and it's stupid, but being called Oishi-
buchou makes his cock even harder, bringing him to swallow hard and sink a hand
into the bedsheets as some desperate preventative measure from just coming
already. 
 
He also might just really, really want to feel Eiji in him--for real, with
nothing in the way, because when was the last time that happened?
 
"Just put it in." He's not going to answer that question, he's not, because
Eiji will tease him later, but it's been so long since they've been together
like this that it shouldn't be a surprise that he's been taking care of it
himself, right? Oishi grabs at him with arms and legs alike, hauling him
closer. "Just--slower, remember? It's always good that way." 
 
Eiji nods, intent and serious as he can be when Oishi is grabbing at him, when
Oishi has so much want in his eyes. “Slow at first, I remember.” He grins, and
even if Oishi says to just put it in, he circles a finger around Oishi’s hole,
feeling it suck at him, testing and--yes, Oishi’s definitely not that out of
practice. “Try to warn me if you’re gonna be noisy.”
 
Then he catches sight of Oishi’s face, and his heart hurts for a second. He’s
not sure if it’s supposed to do that just from seeing a face, but it’s only
ever Oishi’s face, so that’s all right. He leans up, kissing Oishi with what is
supposed to be passion and ends up as something sweeter, something more
lingering.
 
He pulls back, and almost says something, but gives a little smile instead.
They don’t need to talk right now. It’s slow, and gentler than Oishi probably
needs when he slides in, the first initial push as easy, as smooth as he can
make it without whimpering at how tight and hot and good it feels to finally be
inside again where he belongs.
 
Oishi is perfect, he thinks, or maybe says aloud.
 
Oishi would like to tell Eiji that he's not that noisy, that he's gotten better
at keeping his voice down when they do this, but that would defeat the purpose
and make it way harder to actually shut up when Eiji is in him, hot and hard
and throbbing and perfect. 
 
"Eiji--" That's muffled, thankfully, into Eiji's shoulder when Oishi digs his
fingers into his back and arches up, shoving his face into the crook of his
neck, his thighs squeezing tight about his waist when he squirms down with a
ragged, broken noise leaving his throat. That tension lasts a moment more, but
then it leaves him feeling boneless, thankfully, gratefullyfull, and Oishi
shudders, his head flopping back down onto the bed. "Good," he mumbles,
smoothing a hand down Eiji's back, sort of petting him as much as he is
encouraging him. "Just like that--" 
 
Eiji hasn’t been with too many people--just Oishi, and Fuji, and a girl once
when he knew he loved Oishi but was hungry for validation that he wasn’t
actually a homo--but he knows implicitly that no one is better at this than
Oishi. Every part of him, from his strong, trembling thighs to the arch of his
back, from the taste of his skin to the rasp of his voice, is perfect. He
slides in slowly, trying to be mindful, but no, that time is over now.
 
He doesn’t have to ask. That’s the beauty of being together as long as they
have, one of a long line of amazing things about it. Eiji knows when it’s time,
can feel it in the shuddering, twitching release of Oishi relaxing around his
cock, and pulls almost entirely out only to slide back in harder with a soft
slap of his balls against Oishi’s ass. There aren’t enough kisses, aren’t ever
enough kisses, and he steals them again and again, sucking and biting at
Oishi’s lip, losing control a little more with every sound he wrings out of
Oishi’s perfect throat with each thrust. “Nice and hard,” he whispers, all too
conscious that he has a sister asleep just one room over. “The way we like it,
yeah?”
 
The harder Eiji shoves into him, the harder it is to keep his voice down. His
next whimper cracks, breaks, and Oishi is grateful, at least, that the sound is
muffled in Eiji's mouth, even when those kisses make it harder for him to catch
his breath. 
 
His cock aches, and his body squeezes tight, his hands clawing down Eiji's
back, coming to grab at his ass and squeeze and knead when Eiji's in so deep
that he can't breathe properly. "You're going to--ahh--make me--" He can't keep
his voice down, and god, that's not good. Oishi's cock twitches when he arches
up, grinding against Eiji's stomach, and every slick slide against lean, long
muscle is enough to make his eyes cross when Eiji's so far in him, shoving him
into the mattress now. 
 
Eiji is good at following cues. When it’s Oishi, he can follow even the
nonverbal ones, although verbal ones are always better. It’s why they’re so
good at doubles, and even better at this, all tangled up in each other and
moving fast. 
 
Oishi doesn’t know how easy he is to read, but that’s fine. Eiji can see it in
every wince, every widening of his eyes, every hitch of his breath, every
tightening of his thighs. He looks, and he learns, leaning in and thrusting at
the angle that makes his pulse jump, grazing his teeth over a spot Oishi
doesn’t know is one of his favorites. Oishi’s cock bumps against his stomach,
slick and throbbing and heavy, but Eiji is too good to have to stroke it, he
thinks. “Oishi…”
 
Oishi already knows.
 
"Eiji--" The gasp of that name is ragged, rough around the edges, enough to
make Oishi swallow hard and regret the choice of ever trying to speak in the
first place. It doesn't matter, anyway. He can feel Eiji, slick and dripping
inside of him, every thrust making his own cock twitch now, every touch of
teeth and nails enough to make him feel like he's pleasantly, gloriously
overstimulated. 
 
Thank god that his body finally just gives up. He has enough presence of mind,
just before, to clamp a hand over his own mouth, to muffle the broken noises
that want to escape when he lurches up and clings to Eiji with his other hand
and grinds down onto that perfect cock and comes hard all over his own stomach.
Oishi's chest heaves, his eyes rolling back when he arches his back up again,
wanting just a little bit more to milk the way it feels for as long as he can,
because nothing else feels like this and he's very sure that Eiji is perfect,
always perfect. 
 
For once, Eiji has to strangle his own noises. Usually Oishi is the loud one,
and that’s sure true today, but the way Oishi is moving is enough to make him
see stars, enough to drag his orgasm out of him, leaving him breathless and
satisfied and still hollowly, urgently wanting more no matter how much he has,
wrapped up in Oishi, around Oishi, inside of Oishi. 
 
His hips still move in needy little circles, slower and slower as Oishi
squeezes around him, and he grinds up as deep as he can when he finally comes
to rest, thick dark hairs tangling together with sweat and sticky fluids.
There’s spit drying on Eiji’s face from sloppy kisses, sweat dripping off of
his nose onto Oishi’s cheek, and Eiji can’t stifle a pleased little laugh.
“There’s no one in the world better than Oishi,” he murmurs, stretching out
languidly on top of him, softening cock still buried deep. It always takes him
a while to really get soft, and there’s nowhere better to wait.
 
Oishi exhales a long breath against Eiji's cheek, ruffling his sweat-damp hair,
and flops his arms back around him, finally, gratefully trusting his own voice
again. Actually, no, that's not true. He's still not entirely confident about
using it, but this is somewhat better. "Wrong," he mutters, slowly stroking a
hand down Eiji's spine. "You're better." He's missed this far too much, and
that makes it difficult to even entertain the idea of leaving any time soon. 
 
Eiji nuzzles down against him, sated and tired and thrilled. “Can I stay inside
another minute?” he asks, lips brushing against Oishi’s cheekbone and tasting
salt, maybe from sweat, maybe from tears, which is kind of hot. “How late can
you be?”
 
I'm already way too late Oishi thinks, but doesn't say it, because it's fine.
Tezuka can be blamed a little bit more. "It's fine," he sighs instead, a smile
on his lips. "It can be another few minutes. We don't get to do it like this
that much." He should probably be chiding Eiji about not using a condom more,
but right now, he can't bring himself to care. 
 
“They should cut you some leeway on the night before the finals,” Eiji says
firmly. “You’d definitely be stressing out if it weren’t for me.” He shifts
slightly, and his eyelids flutter as his cock twitches inside Oishi. “Mm, does
it still feel good? I can take it out if it’s squishy or stingy, but you
always…” He brushes the hair back from Oishi’s forehead, sort of proud and
affectionate all at once. “You always look so good when it’s in you, did you
know?”
 
"It's embarrassing when you talk about it like that, you know," Oishi mutters,
but that's about the extent of his protests. He squirms a little when he thinks
about it, and sighs, less exasperated, more disappointed at the whole curfew
thing. "Don't get hard again, I can't stay long here enough to do it again
properly." 
 
“Then don’t wiggle like that,” Eiji complains, and shifts enough to let it
slide out, or he really will need to do it again properly. There’s a rush of
liquid, and then Eiji is muttering, “Shit, shit, shit,” and fumbling for a box
of tissues to keep the bed from getting unmentionably wet where he’s going to
have to sleep tonight.
 
"This," Oishi immediately hisses, grabbing for the box of tissues at the same
time, trying to ignore how weird that feels and no, stop it, don't get hard
again,"is why I always tell you to use condoms. Never again!"
 
“Ehh, but it felt good, right? And it’s a lot easier to hide this way, Ken-nii-
chan found it last time and I had to make up a weird lie!”
 
"But it's so much messier, you know that. Also, think about all the diseases--
I mean, not between us, but please tell me you still always used them with
Fuji."
 
Eiji gives Oishi’s shoulder a hard shove. “I haven’t done anything with Fuji
since he started dating Taka-san, dumbass!” Fuji might be fucking around, but
Taka-san is an angel, and Eiji would rather be celibate than hurt him.
 
"I was hoping as much, but I was just checking." Oishi huffs, and grabs a
handful of tissues for himself, wincing as he tries to clean up himself as best
as he can. A shower would be nice, but impractical when it would wake up the
whole house. "Don't forget that you're in charge of dealing with him, by the
way."
 
Eiji flaps a hand, then yawns, stretching out on the bed, slinging his legs
over Oishi’s. “You wanna borrow some underwear so yours don’t get messed up on
the walk home?” he offers. “I have old ones, you can throw them out after so no
one sees the laundry.” Never let it be said he isn’t a good boyfriend.
 
"…That's probably a good idea." Another reason to always use condoms. What was
he thinking? Oishi groans and thunks his head back against a pillow for a
moment. "Tezuka still hasn't texted me with the line-up," he wearily admits.
"If he doesn't soon, I'm going to be up all night thinking about it." 
 
“What does it matter?” Eiji asks, flopping over to grab a pair of clean
underwear in colors his mother likes and he hates. “We’ll beat them, and we’ll
be number one in Japan. Echizen won’t lose, Tezuka won’t lose, and Fuji...well,
maybe he’ll snap out of it, but still, that’s already three matches. Boom. Too
bad, so sad, see you next week.”
 
"I wish it was that simple," Oishi sighs, staring up tiredly at the ceiling.
"I'm sure that we'll win, but…everyone else, I'm really not sure." 
 
Eiji leans up, kissing his cheek. “It’s useless to tell you not to worry,
right?”
 
"Yes. Absolutely. But I do like hearing it from you." 
 
“Mmm, then don’t worry. Let Tezuka worry, he’s making you go back to being
vice-captain, so it’s his job. Unless you can play the matches for them, what’s
the point?”
 
"He's not making me, I'd much rather be vice-captain," Oishi complains with a
gentle swat in Eiji's direction. "And while you're right, I'm still going to
worry." Slowly, he drags himself out of bed, finding his clothes in odd places
on Eiji's floor. "I'm just hoping that Echizen will be feeling better
tomorrow…and Fuji, too." 
 
***** Yagyuu & Niou, Fuji & Yuuta, Fuji & Taka *****
Fuji usually feels a bit disoriented, but now is certainly a degree above
that. 
 
It's just icing on the cake for it to start pouring down rain after they leave
the stadium. It's one of those days, Fuji thinks, and while normally the rain
makes him feel kind of nice, it mostly makes him want to sit outside and drown.
Just a little. 
 
Skipping out on the celebration dinner is a good thing. Tezuka does it, too,
and drags Echizen with him. That's interesting, but Fuji doesn't care all that
much. His head is still pounding, his fingers numb, and…ah, he really is
soaked, especially because he's just sort of been walking for awhile and not
paying attention to where he should be getting on a bus. 
 
That's where the disorientation starts.
 
Niou is actually a shockingly nice guy, which he doesn't expect. He also
doesn't expect the offer to be taken inside and dried off to start with a
blindfold, because apparently, Niou's apartment is somewhat of an undisclosed
location. Sure, why not. 
 
By the time he does end up on Niou's couch, Fuji doesn't have the heart to tell
him that he can tell by the scent of the rain outside that they were right back
where they started. He also doesn't really want to mention that he can see out
of the edges of the blindfold if he tilts his head just right, because that's
probably just going to make him end up outside again. 
 
What matters, of course, is that he's cuddled up into a ball in Niou's jersey
while his clothes dry, and that's good. 
 
"Niou-kun, I told you to stop leaving your door unlocked!"
 
Fuji tilts his head to peer out of the blindfold. Hmmm. Guests. Perhaps it
isn't so undisclosed here after all. None other than Yagyuu Hiroshi is now in
Niou's apartment, shaking off his umbrella and sighing in exasperation. 
 
"It doesn't matter how nice this area is, you're still--" Pause. The twitch is
audible. "Fuji…Shuusuke, was it?" 
 
"Mmn. Niou, can I take my blindfold off yet?" 
 
"Niou-kun," is Yagyuu's increasingly irritated voice, "why is he blindfolded?" 
 
“Because this place is a secret, which you seem to have forgotten,” Niou
mutters, throwing up his hands as if nothing he does is at all important and
why does he even try when his plans will all be ruined? “Fine, take the damn
thing off, I’m going to kick you if I see you peeking one more time. Coffee?”
 
"I thought I was being so subtle," Fuji sighs, peeling the blindfold off and
snuggling back down into Niou's jersey. Yes, he does sort of like the look that
Yagyuu gives him when he does that. 
 
"…I'veforgotten that it's secret? You're the one that brought him here," Yagyuu
crossly points out, shoving up his glasses even though they're already quite in
place. "Why, by the way?" 
 
"It was raining," Fuji offers blithely. He's rather pleased to see that Yagyuu
looks quite more annoyed behind closed doors than he ever allows in public.
 
This is no good at all, and certainly bears out Niou’s deep-seated conviction
that helping people is more trouble than it’s ever worth. “He looked like a wet
cat,” he mutters, as if that’s some kind of explanation. “He’s just here while
his clothes dry. He tried wearing mine, but…” 
 
Every item had been so large it had either looked absurd or indecent, and Niou
feels weird about sending out items that could be used to track him, anyway.
 
"You don't bring real wet cats home," Yagyuu flatly points out, trying not to
think of all the times when he could have very much used a day of being brought
home by Niou and that didn't quite happen. Gross. Gross and irrational
jealousy, certainly, but he's tired, and this is just…absurd. 
 
"I'm prettier," Fuji breezily notes. 
 
Yagyuu opens his mouth, shuts it again, and turns right back around to grab for
his umbrella--maybe to leave, maybe to bludgeon someone (Fuji). 
 
“Yeah, you can get right the fuck out if you’re going to be a cunt about it,”
Niou growls to his houseguest, and grabs Yagyuu’s arm, hauling him into the
kitchen. “What the hell’s the matter with you? And what do you mean I don’t
bring real wet cats home, where do you think that smell comes from?”
 
"You have Fuji Shuusuke curled up on your couch and looking less like a wet
cat, but more like a cat that's caught the damned canary," Yagyuu hisses
underneath his breath, snatching his arm away with a pointed huff. "He's been
making eyes at you this whole tournament, has a boyfriend, and you still
brought him home. You. To your house. Your secret house that you only let me
know about." 
 
Niou stares at him. “He was fucking blindfolded,” he hisses back, startled and
disgruntled at this sudden change in Yagyuu, not liking it one bit. “He missed
his bus and he’s obviously kind of fucking touched in the head, he could have
died or something. What do you care, as long as I haven’t fucked him?”
 
Yagyuu's eyebrows raise as he folds his arms. "And you weren't going to? Niou-
kun, you've never even brought Yukimura-kun home with you." 
 
“Yukimura never shows up at my house half-dead! Damn, is this what I get for
trying to do something nice? No, I wasn’t going to.” Niou folds his arms,
slouching defensively back against the sink. “Is this a thing now? You just
assume I’m gonna fuck, like, every guy?”
 
"No, I'm assuming you're going to fuck someone pretty that you bring home with
you," Yagyuu matter-of-factly snaps. "Which I personally think is pretty valid
when you never bring anyone else home."
 
“Are you serious here?” Niou demands. “I’m sitting here telling you I’m not
gonna, and you don’t even give a shit? Shit, if I were that blindsided by every
pretty fucking face, why would I be dating you?”
 
There’s a horrible moment after Niou realizes how that sounds, before he can
make his brain work. “I mean that if I were just going to fuck whoever, I’d
never have asked--"
 
"You really," Yagyuu curtly interrupts, holding up a hand to shut Niou up,
"don't have to keep going." 
 
It makes something twist in Yagyuu's chest--stupid--and makes his face burn,
but fine. Yagyuu is fairly certain that he's in the right with what his mind is
otherwise telling him is irrational jealousy. He's the only one that's supposed
to know about Niou's private life. Yukimura doesn't even know (doesn't care
enough, only he cares enough), and where Niou lives, as ridiculous as it all
is, is part of that. If Niou doesn't get that, fine. 
 
"Go ahead and do what you want, I don't care." He does. Stupid. "I'm sorry I
dropped by. Teach Fuji to fix your hair for you, while you're at it."
 
Somewhere deep down, Niou knows that Yagyuu is hurting, that he’s being an
asshole because he feels jealous, or upset, or whatever, and isn’t actually
trying to hurt him.
 
Really, really deep down.
 
The look on Niou’s face turns ugly, and if Yagyuu still knows anything about
him (unlikely, impossible), he’ll know how rarely Niou has been this angry in
his life. “Didn’t mean to inconvenience you, Mr. President,” he snarls, and
slams the door open, holding it like the gentleman his stupid piece of shit ex-
boyfriend is supposed to be. “Go tell Yukimura I want to play singles tomorrow-
-if you can stop ogling him long enough to actually talk to him.”
 
"He's already made the line-up, so we'll have to make do," Yagyuu stiffly snaps
back, shoving up his glasses and grabbing his umbrella. "Don't make this into
an issue at the finals with him, or you'll be minus a prettier face to bat your
eyes at, won't you?" 
 
He practically rips the door out of Niou's hand to slam it shut behind himself,
and Fuji sits on Niou's couch, blinking slowly. "Can I still wait until my
clothes dry before you toss me out like that?"
 
Niou stares at the closed door for a lot longer than he’d like to believe.
There’s an awful finality about it, that closed door, and he can’t help but
feel like he’s five years old again and learning to juggle, and had thought
himself good enough to do it with his sister’s expensive, precious snowglobe.
There’s that instant again when it had slipped through his fingers--he’d
cursed--the dread had settled in his belly--and then, the knowledge that it was
too late, that there was nothing to be done, even before the glass shattered.
 
Really, he should have known better than to date his best friend. Better to
play with cheap toys. Funny how he’d forgotten that lesson.
 
Fuji had said something, and Niou tries to figure that out. He shakes his head,
tearing his eyes away from the door that Yagyuu isn’t coming back through.
“Yeah. Whatever. You can watch TV if you want.”
 
"…Dating," Fuji slowly offers, setting his chin on one knee, "is generally a
bad idea. I've only dated one person, but I figured that out really quickly." 
 
“That’s really nice,” Niou says, and there’s just about no life in his voice.
“Just so you know, talking about what just happened is not an acceptable
alternative to watching TV.”
 
"You can name a cactus after him. I did that with Tezuka, and it's the third
one. I'm not sure if that means anything or not, though." 
 
Niou flops down on the couch. “You need to water them,” he says wisely.
“Plants. Lots of people fuck that up.” He knows better.
 
"I water them. Maybe too much. Sometimes, they get me back for that." Fuji
pauses, thinking. "I could give you a cactus if it would make you feel better."
 
Niou is pretty sure there’s at least a few things seriously medically wrong
with Fuji Shuusuke’s brain. “I don’t want a cactus. I’ll probably eat it.”
 
Fuji stares back at him, a little wide-eyed. "You can't eat it. They're
sharp." 
 
“It was a joke. Ha, ha, I want to die right now. Get it? I’m fucking funny.”
 
"I have options for that in my tennis bag if you want them," Fuji offers
without batting an eye, and then startling clarity is all that's on his face
after that. "You can blame it all on me when you make up with him later, if you
want. If he likes to punch things, he can punch me, I don't mind. I can even
actually come onto you and it won't be a lie." 
 
Niou stares at him. “I can’t tell if that’s the most freakishly selfless thing
I’ve ever heard, or the weirdest come-on. Is that what you were going for?”
 
Fuji's head tilts. "It could be both, I think. I would definitely fuck you."
 
“Yeah, I know.” Niou shrugs. “You’re really obvious. It’s kind of weird,
actually. Did you break up with your boyfriend?”
 
"No one else thinks I'm that obvious," Fuji says, sighing. "And no, I didn't,
but I should. He's so nice and deserves much better, and I think it would be
good if I left him alone." 
 
“But you’re not.” That’s a weird-ass mentality. Niou contemplates getting Fuji
a drink, but this asshole just cost him his first and only boyfriend, so he can
die of thirst. “Because you like him too much to be apart from him? Or am I
supposed to be the reason you break up?”
 
"Mm…well, I didn't plan on meeting you today. I was going to just let it
happen, he would have gotten sick of me eventually…" Fuji trails off, thinking,
then shrugging, and curling up a bit more into a corner of the couch. "I didn't
even know we were dating for about five weeks, so I don't think I'm a good
boyfriend, anyway. How long were you dating before?" 
 
“Six days.” Niou snorts, humorless and self-deprecating. “Longest relationship
I’ve ever had. You know how it is, you start to drift apart after a while.” His
chest aches. Yayguu is stupid. He should go after him. No, Yagyuu needs to come
back and apologize. No, who needs his apology? Niou does.
 
Fuck.
 
"You really should just blame it all on me and let him punch me," Fuji attempts
to helpfully suggest once more. "Then it's not an official breakup and it'll
all be fine."
 
“He’d hurt his delicate golf-playing hands. Ugh, how did I wind up with someone
who playsgolf?” Niou slouches down on the couch, attempting to disappear into
it. “Gross. Besides, if he thinks this is cool and that punching you will fix
it, I don’t want to date him.”
 
"Golf isn't so bad…Tezuka likes fishing, and I do like that," Fuji absently
notes. Slowly, however, he scoots over, nudging his shoulder against Niou's. "I
can apologize to him, if you want. Mostly, I just wanted you to tell me that I
was pretty. I do like hearing that." 
 
“Yeah, but you know you’re pretty.” Fuji does. It’s obvious. So does every
pretty guy. “Just don’t tell me you’re toppy too, or I really might fuck you.”
 
Fuji looks back at him, unblinking. "I really like topping big guys. A lot. And
I'm good at it." 
 
“Dammit.”
 
Briefly, Niou considers sending Yagyuu a text--Are we really broken up, or am I
not supposed to fuck other dudes still?--but he’s pretty sure Yukimura would
call that tacky. Hey, there’s another reason to refrain, even though his dick
is getting kind of hard. “Look, if I fuck you the night before finals, my
captain is going to render all the fat on my body into cheese. Rain check? Till
the next rain, that is, and we’re both single?”
 
Fuji's head cocks slightly, analyzing, but he settles for a nod all the same,
his weight still comfortably flopped against Niou's side. "That sounds good.
I'm much better at being single. I don't get how boyfriends work." 
 
Niou doesn’t respond. For six days and four hours, he’d thought he did.
 
It's less than an hour later when Fuji's out of Niou's apartment, somewhat
regretfully. It's not pouring rain anymore, also a shame, but it does make it
somewhat easier for him to walk on the streets and not end up at home looking
like a drowned rat. 
 
Mostly.
 
Ah, well. At least he's home. It's a better place to be the more he thinks
about it, because no one is going to talk to him, no one is going to remind him
about his utter failure, and no one is going to drive into his brain that
he'snot good enough (on a dozen levels, mind). 
 
Fuji flops face-first onto his mattress, uncaring that he's still damp, that
his hair is sticking to his face and not doing him any favors. He feels a
little like he's suffocating because of it, which is less good. He reaches a
hand over, paws at his nightstand, sticks a hand into the drawer that he pulls
out, and gingerly drags a finger over something sharp. 
 
And then there are footsteps, and that ruins a few plans. 
 
Sister? No, on set. Mother? No, late afternoon nap. Damn it, Yuuta isn't
something that usually crosses his mind, but when those steps stop in front of
his bedroom door, that sounds about right. "You can come in," Fuji tosses over
his shoulder, muffled from the pillow and his hair, unmoving except to shove
his nightstand drawer shut again. 
 
Yuuta shuts the door quietly behind himself, seeing his brother sprawled out. A
frown steals over his face, and he sits on the edge of the bed. 
 
Maybe it isn’t as bad as he thinks. Maybe his brother is just pulling
something, faking something. He’s weird enough that it almost sounds plausible.
“Hey, Aniki. You ready for the finals tomorrow?”
 
"Mm. As ready as I'm going to be," Fuji cheerfully says, slowly rolling onto
his back. Ah, he wishes he had been able to keep Niou's jersey. It smelled
good, if not slightly of wet cat. "I hope you weren't there to watch today.
That was no good." He knows Yuuta was there, obviously. 
 
Yuuta shifts, and swallows hard. It’s not supposed to be like this. His brother
is obnoxious, unbeatable, and fearless. He’s ineffable, frustrating, and
elusive.
 
He’s not supposed to be like this. He’s not supposed to lose.
 
“Make sure you don’t play like that in the finals,” he mutters. “Mizuki-san
will gloat if you do. I hate that.”
 
Oh, good. Mizuki gloating; that's very appealing. "I think I just got off on
the wrong foot. Or, you know, maybe I'm just getting to the point I'm only good
for doubles. Ah, that's no good," Fuji murmurs out loud. "Breaking up with
Taka-san then would really make things awkward. Mm, anyway, don't worry, Yuuta.
I'll play just fine in the finals, you'll see." He doesn't feel terribly
confident; mostly weird, somewhat shaky around the edges, and earlier, Fuji was
sure that was just the chill from the rain. 
 
“You’re breaking up with Taka-san?” The idea is weird, and doesn’t exactly make
Yuuta happy. “Did he hurt you? I knew he was violent after what he did to
Mizuki-san, if he hurt you I’ll kill him!” Yuuta’s hands are uncertain when he
reaches out, checking his brother’s arms, his face, his neck for injuries,
careful not to touch too firmly.
 
"Yuuta, you're so cute." That's normal and good, at least, and makes Fuji reach
out and grab him, promptly hauling him down. "Taka-san didn't do anything," he
hums, soothed by the chance to just pet Yuuta's hair. Hopefully, he'll be
allowed to do so for a while longer. "I'm just not a good boyfriend. He
deserves better. Just like you do."
 
“You’re so stupid, Aniki,” Yuuta complains, though he lets his brother crush
him for a little, just a little, just because he’d looked so...upset.
Unsettled. “That’s okay for guys like you. For guys like us, we have to take
what we can get.”
 
"Nuh uh, wrong. You're really cute, and no one deserves you." He might be
squeezing too hard, but that can't be too much of an issue, because Yuuta is a
lot stronger than him and probably doesn't feel it all that much. "I don't know
how to be a good boyfriend. I bet you do." Even though Fuji doesn't want to
think about Yuuta being Mizuki's boyfriend and being a class act about it. Ugh.
 
Yuuta considers squirming away from his brother’s squeezes, but to be perfectly
honest,  Mizuki’s sisters squeeze him harder to say hello. For that matter, his
own sister squeezes him harder to say hello, so he endures it a little while
longer. “I think...I mean, mostly,” Yuuta says, trying to say it without
sounding like an asshole, “you just have to think about what the other person
wants, you know? I mean, you can say all that stupid stuff about what people
deserve, but I mean, who cares what they deserve?”
 
"I do." Maybe that is the problem. Ah, well. Fuji thinks that he deserves a lot
of things and never gets them, like a swift crack across the face, but that's
neither here nor there. He slowly strokes a hand over Yuuta's hair, smooshing
his face down into his chest. "That doesn't seem to mean much, though. I
thought Shitenhouji should've won today, for example. I think they deserved it
more than we did, but…"
 
“But…” Yuuta turns his face, annoyed all of a sudden. “Maybe you’re right,” he
mutters, drawing back from his brother, though he doesn’t pull physically away.
“I mean, people want really stupid things. I just don’t get why you think
you’re so bad when you’re…”
 
"Garbage?" Yes, it does bring him some satisfaction to just say it out loud.
"Yuuta, even you don't like me," Fuji points out, slowly loosening his hold,
albeit reluctantly. 
 
After everything that’s passed between them, that shouldn’t come as such a
shock to hear.
 
Still, Yuuta’s head snaps around, and his eyes are stunned, wide as he looks up
at his brother. “What? That’s...ugh, you’re so stupid. You’re just
embarrassing, and you piss me off, and I’m jealous as hell, but that doesn’t
mean I don’t like you. I’m your brother. I’m proud you’re my brother. God, I
thought that was obvious.”
 
How tired and off-kilter is he that those words almost immediately bring tears
to his eyes? Perhaps more accurately, how tired and off-kilter is he that he
doesn't just start bawling immediately and without restraint? Fuji immediately
tightens his hold again, and yanks Yuuta down more strength that he's given
credit for, all to stuff his face into the side of his brother's neck. "Yuuta,"
he says, voice muffled, "you're way too cute. You can't say things like that,
I'm going to die." 
 
It does, however, still feel oddly and perhaps pathetically good to hear that
sort of thing.
 
All right, Yuuta supposes that he’s brought this one on himself, though it is a
little uncomfortably close to a dream he’s been having lately for comfort.
“Ugh, this is what I mean by embarrassing,” he complains, though he could be
shoving a lot harder at his brother’s arms. “You have to pull yourself
together, okay? I’m coming to the game with Mizuki-san, and I want…” His voice
drops a little, almost shy as he admits, “I want to show everyone how cool my
brother can be. No dying!”
 
"I'm not going to die," is Fuji's sniffly declaration. "But I don't think I'm
good at being cool anymore. You need to be the cool one now, Yuuta, I'll just
turn into Neesan, take a sabbatical. You can be the one that's good at tennis
and everything then." It sounds good when he's thinking it, less when he's
saying it, but Yuuta is warm and easy to cling to.
 
“I don’t want it by default!” Yuuta rolls his eyes. His brother is so dramatic
sometimes. “Of course you’re still cool. Losing doesn’t mean you’re not cool.
The way you move…” He trails off, cheeks dusted bright red. “Listen, just drop
this stupid ‘deserve’ nonsense and call your boyfriend. You don’t even believe
in it, and I can prove it.”
 
"I don't like losing, though." It comes out petulant, and Fuji hates that. He
feels like a sulky child, and while he's fairly certain he's allowed that at
the age of 14, he still doesn't think it's supposed to be part of his persona.
"And I do so believe in it. I think Taka-san deserves everything good. I'm not
good. I'm the worst. If he was your type, I'd tell you to date him, because
you're perfect." 
 
Yuuta makes a face, then remembers that Taka-san is a nice person, and tries to
hide it. Seriously, though ugh. “Yeah, but you think the only person as bad as
you is Mizuki, you told me, so that means you’d have to date him, or no one.
You suck at being celibate,” he can’t help but add, “from what you told me, so
you’d be sleeping with him, and you’re not. So there.”
 
"I considered it," Fuji lightly admits. "When you told me that you wouldn't
date anyone that I slept with, I considered it. But then I thought about
actually putting it in Mizuki and that made me want to die." 
 
Heat--anger, confusion, and some other things he can’t quite name (or doesn’t
want to) surge through Yuuta. “Maybe he would have put it in you. He does
that.”
 
"He could have tried, but that's really no fun. Ah, Yuuta, you're a little
flushed, are you okay?" Fuji worriedly presses, immediately putting a hand on
his brother's face. "You're not getting sick, are you? It was raining so much
today." 
 
Yuuta yanks back from the touch, cheeks redder than ever. “I’m fine! Or, yeah,
it might be the rain. Anyway,” he says, changing the subject before it can get
any more like that one dream, “the point is, you didn’t do it even though
you’ve been talking all that crap about deserving. Just admit that you’re bored
with Taka-san. You know that’s what everyone’s going to say if you break up
with him anyway.”
 
"But I'm not bored with him." Fuji's brow furrows, and he drops his hand down
limply. "I really do think he deserves better. A lot better. Like, pretty girl
that wants to have kids with him after dating him all through high school
better. I'm not good at that part." 
 
Yuuta shrugs. “Everyone’s gonna think it anyway. Besides, just because he might
‘deserve’ that pretty girl or whatever, that doesn’t mean there’s a pretty girl
who’s gonna date him. There’s…” He swallows hard, looking away, his chest
suddenly tight. “If he’s not gonna get that, why not just try to make him happy
for a while? You could at least...make him happy for a little while, even if it
couldn’t last.”
 
"But I think there are a lot of pretty girls who would date him." Fuji frowns,
and grabs at Yuuta's face again, giving it a squeeze. "It sounds like you're
projecting, Yuuta," he very solemnly says. "I know all about that. Has Mizuki
been horrible to you again? You can tell me, I'll take care of you."
 
Yuuta glares as much as he can, given how much his brother is squashing his
face. “It’s nothing like that! Mizuki-san is fine, it’s…”
 
His heart thuds, like it does whenever something happens that’s a little too
close to one of those disturbing dreams, and he searches frantically for
something to say that will put his brother off. “Uh...it’s a sex thing. With
Mizuki-san. But you don’t want to talk about that, so it’s fine.” There. Now
his brother will drop the subject, and they won’t have to be this closeto each
other on his brother’s bed, which, no matter what Mizuki-san says, is probably
not normal in a dream.
 
Fuji's eyes narrow on reflex. Mizuki plus Yuuta plus sex equals nothing good in
his book, and it makes him immediately nervous. "You can tell me, Yuuta. If
he's doing something bad, you can tell me," he firmly insists, still keeping a
firm hold on Yuuta's face. "In fact, you should. Like I said, I'll always take
care of you, and it's not like he's good enough for you, so you have to let me
help you with this kind of thing." This is a much better thing to talk about.
He doesn't want to talk about his love life, Yuuta's is much more manageable. 
 
No, this isn’t what Yuuta wants, this is his brother being obnoxiously helpful
and protective, and Yuuta’s face burns when his blood pounds hard in his ears
and he tries not to think about how it would beso easy for his big brother to
help him with this problem if he weren’t such a fucking coward pervert. 
 
“Uh...it’s nothing bad,” he says hastily. “I just…” Shit, what am I going to
say that won’t have him poison Mizuki in his sleep? “Look, you’ve, uh, been
with a lot of guys, right?”
 
"Mm." Fuji slowly loosens his grip on Yuuta's face, deciding to make it easier
for him to talk. He already looks somewhat frantic, so there's no need to make
that even worse. Poor Yuuta, so easily embarrassed and adorable about it. He'll
kill Mizuki one of these days, he will. "Lots. Why?" 
 
Yuuta scoffs a little, easier to think now that his brother isn’t on him. “Not
that many, liar. You don’t have to make that up to sound cool.”
 
"Okay, but I have. Like…I don't remember most of them, so there's that. It's
unimportant, most weren't good at all. Go back to telling me what Mizuki did
wrong." 
 
Yuuta’s hand fists in the bedding of his brother’s bedsheets, flicking at a
stupid-looking tassel. “It’s not that he’s doing anything wrong,” he mumbles,
suddenly very self-conscious. Well, not that suddenly; he’s usually self-
conscious when his brother is around, all lithe grace and effortless beauty and
stupid, stupid everything. “He’s just...how do you ask for something without,
uh...well, without admitting you want it?”
 
Fuji thinks, rolling onto his back again and peering contemplatively up at the
ceiling. "It depends on what it is, I think. If it's a sex thing, you could
just kind of start doing it and then you don't have to verbally admit it. Most
guys go along with that pretty well, because men only think with their dicks." 
 
Yuuta’s face hurts, he’s so embarrassed. How do you even talk about something
like this? But no, he’s seen it, read about it in books, it has to be a thing.
“Uh...you say you’ve been with a lot of guys,” he hedges, deliberately looking
anywhere other than at his brother--and in this room, that unfortunately means
looking at a lot of blurry pictures of Tezuka’s clothed shoulders from behind.
“Do all of them...like it the same way?”
 
"Oh, no. Definitely not. Everyone's got preferences." Fuji tries not to
remember Yuuta's preferences. Ah, but he does, and it makes him twitch. "Is
Mizuki not doing it right?" I'll kill him. "I knew he wasn't good enough for
you." 
 
“It’s not his fault,” Yuuta says quickly, all too aware that his brother
occasionally makes good on his creepy threats. “Jesus, Aniki, if you had your
way I’d be alone forever. I just….” Okay, the longer he puts this off, the
longer he has to keep having this conversation. He takes a deep breath, then
babbles, “HowdoIgethimtobelessgentle?”
 
Oh. Oh, it keeps getting worse. Fuji tries not to twitch again, but it's easier
said than done when he slowly turns to Yuuta, smiles, and strokes his hair.
"Mizuki," he patiently says, "isn't going to do that right. You really need to
be with someone that has more experience." 
 
Yuuta lets out a noise something like a dying whale in the depths of despair,
and thunks his head into his brother’s chest. “You have more experience.
Right?” He can taste his own heartbeat. Is that normal?
 
This is good. Yuuta cuddled up to him, Yuuta admitting all of his deep, dark
secrets to him, Yuuta realizing that Mizuki is trash…perhaps today isn't a
total waste after all. Fuji decisively wraps his arms around his little
brother, cuddling him closer. "I do, and that's why I know that he's going to
be awful at it. He really has no sense for that sort of thing, and the last
thing I want is for him to hurt you." 
 
God. Yuuta knows better than to hope--his brother is never serious, never, no
matter how many hints he drops, no matter how often he’s come so close to
saying it outright--but he’s so, so stupid. He knows it, he knows how fucking
stupid it is to even think there might be a chance that his brother is as sick,
as twisted, as fucked-up as he is—
 
“Yuu-tan,” his brother laughs, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing,
“Your lips are soooo soft! You smell so good! Your shoulders are so broad!”
 
Maybe Mizuki is right and they are just dreams, but maybe, just maybe, his
brother is just as hesitant about admitting this as he is. His stomach twists,
his pulse thuds dully, his mouth goes dry, and slowly, nervously, Yuuta
wriggles his way up, wondering how hard it will be to pretend he hadn’t meant
to brush his lips against his brother’s neck, his breath shaky and uneven, eyes
squeezed shut.
 
It doesn’t feel like he’s really awake, not as long as he keeps his eyes shut.
Shuusuke’s skin is as soft as he’d known, and if only his own breath weren’t so
loud, it might have been an accidental movement.
 
Maybe if his hands weren’t trembling so much.
 
It should be obvious enough when Yuuta goes silent and doesn't refute anything
that he's saying about Mizuki, but--
 
The problem is that Fuji knows that breathing pattern so well, knows what it
means, knows what it means way too well when another guy is wriggling closer to
him and mouthing his neck and breathing on his skin, hot and fast and trembly. 
 
Shit. 
 
What did I do to encourage this is the first, frantic thought that crosses his
mind, and Fuji firmly shoves away his self-imposed space cadet routine to cling
to stark clarity instead. Bad. Worse. Especially when he already has all four
limbs wrapped around Yuuta and hurriedly moving away is going to make this
worse still. "Yuuta," he quietly attempts instead, sliding a hand up to gently
press at one of his shoulders, trying to put distance between them as carefully
as possible, "listen--I think…I did something to confuse you." 
 
Every tenuous, insane pipe dream, every half-mad prayer he’d strung up in the
cathedral of his mind severs at once. They shatter, those what-ifs and maybes,
at the first sound of his name in his brother’s voice.
 
Shuusuke knows.
 
That’s not eagerness, relief, or arousal in his voice.
 
Despite his brother wrapped around him, despite the fact that he’d been flush
to the brim with as much courage as he’d ever managed to muster a bare second
ago, Yuuta feels suddenly, inescapably cold, hollow, and starkly, sickly
terrified. He’s thrown away his only chance--he’s only got one to use for his
entire life, after all--of pretending that this--that having his brother
wrapped around him, surging into him, moaning his name--had never occurred to
him.
 
Shuusuke knows.
 
Yuuta goes very, very still. He doesn’t dare pull away yet, not when he knows
he’ll see his brother’s eyes, not when this is his last chance to have Shuusuke
as even a brother. It all plays in his head in a split-second, which is easy,
given how much of his time has been spent imagining this exact moment in the
past. He could laugh it off, apologize, say he’s sick or high or drunk or tired
and Shuusuke will let him, and it will always, always be in his big brother’s
eyes whenever they talk. He could pull away, run, never see him again, and he
knows already how painful that is, knows how painful and lonely it is even with
Shuusuke coming by sometimes to beg him home with curry and pie. He could blame
Mizuki, if he wants Mizuki to literally be found dead within a week. 
 
So he’s already ruined everything, and there’s nothing left to lose.
 
Because Shuusuke knows.
 
“I thought you knew.” His voice sounds strange to his own ears, ragged,
tortured, and everything he’s been holding in for years is painfully naked in
it.
 
Shit, shit, shit is the better part of Fuji's thought process, because he's so
certain this is his fault. Most things that go wrong for Yuuta are his fault.
This can't be any exception, because maybe he's said or done something or--
well, what hasn't he done? He's trash enough that it would be easy for Yuuta to
misconstrue I've slept with lots of guys to mean I'll sleep with anyone and--
 
Has he ever fucked up so royally in his entire life? 
 
Usually, he can at least pinpoint the exact moment. Right now, he can't, and
that's scary. Fuji feels like something of a deer in the headlights when he
draws in a slow, meant-to-be-calming breath. "I--" Maybe if he blames it all on
himself, maybe if he says that he did know, but ha, just kidding, I was messing
with you, I'm taken, of course you can't sleep with me, maybe that will make it
more his fault, less Yuuta's, somehow. 
 
Except he wanted to break up with Taka not fifteen minutes ago, so that excuse
doesn't hold much weight, and it's even scarier how much Fuji would prefer to
just hide behind Taka right now and forget about this ever happening. 
 
"…I'm sorry," is what he manages instead, and that sounds painfully,
pathetically inadequate. "Yuuta--I'm really sorry, but I can't." 
 
Of course he can’t. 
 
The sudden burn in Yuuta’s eyes is startlingly painful, but it’s nothing
compared to the lump the size of a tennis ball in his throat. They aren’t
moving, neither of them are, because once they move, they’ll have to deal with
this. They’ll have to look each other in the eye, and admit that this is really
happening, and that doesn’t sound like anything either of them want to do. 
 
Do you hate me?
 
He wants to ask it, but he doesn’t want to hear the answer, the urgent,
consoling voice telling him of course not, Shuusuke could never hate him, his
sweet, perfect, innocent little brother.
 
You’re always grabbing me and kissing me and cuddling me even though we’re
grown up, you tell me I’m perfect and handsome and—
 
And Shuusuke is his big brother, and not a fucking deviant. He doesn’t have a
brain that’s wired wrong, not like Yuuta does, and even if he’s apparently
slept with half of Tokyo, he probably doesn’t close his eyes and say his
brother’s name when another man is inside him.
 
Not like Yuuta does.
 
“Yeah.” His throat closes up after that one word, raw and excruciating, and he
can’t say anything else.
 
How do I fix this, how. 
 
Fuji's own breath gets trapped up in his throat, and it takes another painfully
long moment before he can think of anything. "You really deserve better, trust
me." It's the only thing he can think of, and at least Fuji believes in it
himself. "You--ahh, listen, Yuuta, it's fine," he attempts, forcing his hands
to move, to smooth one of them soothingly down his brother's spine. "You just
need to find a boyfriend that's good to you, you know, one that's really going
to be able to take care of you like you want. You don't even like me, you're
just a little hard up, I get that." 
 
Shuusuke is trying to give him an out.
 
Yuuta tries to go along with it. It would be so easy that way, to agree that
yes, Mizuki doesn’t give him what he needs, sure, he’ll find someone better and
get over this, no, it’s not really Shuusuke that he wants, ha, ha. 
 
He just can’t. Not today.
 
His eyes blaze, and he grabs his brother’s shoulders, slamming them down to the
bed in a sudden surge of frustration. “You always say that,” he accuses, some
of that pain back as anger, his voice jagged and low, hands tight on his
brother’s shoulders. “Yuuta, don’t be with Mizuki, no one understands you like
me, no one could make you happy like I know how, I’m the best in tennis and the
best in bed and no one but me is good enough for you!” He sees the splash of
hot tears on his brother’s face and chest as they fall from his own eyes, and
is detachedly interested that he can’t feel them falling or hear them in his
voice.
 
Fuji freezes up. It's really not something that he likes doing, because isn't
he supposed to be the one that can talk himself out of anything? Being
confronted with a real problem is new, and he rather likes his imagined ones
much more. "B…but--" He swallows, blinking hard. "I didn't--I don't mean it
like that. Like this." 
 
The more he turns it over in his head, the more it really does sound…bad. Shit.
How did he miss that? Brocon jokes aside, he never really thought--"You're my
little brother," Fuji tries again, desperately. "I'm just trying to take care
of you." 
 
“Yeah,” Yuuta says bitterly, “like driving away the one guy I ever tried to
date. I thought--with Mizuki--I thought you’d at least--I mean, shit, he’s just
like—even you were mentioning it—”
 
He pulls himself away, running both hands back through the short brush of his
hair.
 
It takes some supreme effort not to be sick. "Yuuta--he's horrible," Fuji
hurriedly says, lurching up to grab at his brother's arm. "And so am I, and
that's why you shouldn't be with either of us. This is all my fault, don't you
get that? There are so many other guys out there that you could be with that
are much, much better." 
 
“But I don’t want them!” 
 
He keeps trying to stop talking, but the lid of the box is open now, and none
of his usual tricks for shutting up and putting up are helping. He can’t pull
away from his brother’s touch, not now, and grabs Shuusuke by the shirt collar,
hauling him close, studying his face for something, anything to tell him what
to do. “I try! Girls, too, I can’t like them--you’re good at it, I can’t do it,
I can’t--it’s just always you, and he’s not good enough but he’s close enough
and he doesn’t mind—”
 
"Mizuki knows?" That's horrifying on another level. It isn't even that Mizuki
knows about this specifically; it's that Mizuki knows something about Yuuta
that he just now found out, and that makes something in Fuji's chest twist.
That's all he can process for a moment. "Yuuta--you can't just tell him things
like this," Fuji tries, resting his hand over Yuuta's. "At least I care about
you, he's just going to keep using you."
 
“I didn’t tell him, shit.” The problem with Shuusuke’s room is that there’s
nothing good to focus on, just Tezuka’s blurry face and calves judging him
everywhere. “It’s not that hard to figure out, I—I mean, I didn’t mean to, but
he heard what I said and he said it was okay and he didn’t...I mean, he didn’t
hate me or anything.” He laughs once, bitterly, humorlessly. “That’s so fucked
up. I said my brother’s name when he was fucking me, and that went better than
confessing to you just did.” His brother probably has pills somewhere. He knows
there are blades around.
 
There's no getting rid of that sick feeling, is there? Not even a sideways
glance at one of his better shots of Tezuka--minus glasses, the ultimate score-
-does anything to calm him down. Instead, it just makes him feel a bit sicker.
This is my fault, all my fault, I did this, I don't know how to fix it.
 
"…I don't hate you. I could never hate you." Fuji isn't even sure if that helps
or not, but he hopes it does. "I just…I know this is a really bad idea, and I
don't want to hurt you, or for you to…to feel worse about this. It's my fault
you feel like this, I know that." 
 
“Shut up, Aniki.” The anger has drained away now, leaving Yuuta shaky, empty,
and cold. It’s almost a relief. “It’s not your fault. You’re not like this, so
it can’t be your fault.” It’s mine, for wishing you were like this. “God, look,
I’m not that fucked up, I know it’s wrong, okay? I just…” he wants to punch a
wall, but settles for flopping back and staring at the ceiling instead. “It
seemed like you knew.”
 
For a stupid, fleeting moment, Fuji is fairly certain that he wishes he could
just give Yuuta what he wants. That would make it a lot easier, wouldn't it?
Break up with Taka, be Yuuta's boyfriend, really make him happy for once--
 
It makes him throw up in his mouth a little. 
 
Swallowing hard, Fuji shakes his head. "I didn't. I'm sorry. Really sorry."
 
Yuuta misses him.
 
It’s weird, because his brother is right there next to him, physically close
and totally whole, and Yuuta already misses him. He misses the brother he’d had
half an hour ago, who thought nothing of holding him close and laughing into
his hair, and the one who called all hours of the night to make sure he was
fine, that his trash boyfriend hadn’t done something. 
 
He’s killed the brother he loves so much, with a stupid kiss. 
 
He wants to say something, but there’s nothing to say. He just stares up at the
blank ceiling, wishing he didn’t feel so much like a murderer.
 
Fuji shifts, uncomfortable, awkward in his own skin for the first time that he
can remember, and he slowly makes a grab for his cell phone. 
 
To: Taka-san
Subject: Sorry to bother you, but
Can you come over?
 
His fingers shake a little, and that's not good. He sets his phone down,
drawing in a slow breath. "Neesan's going to be home soon," Fuji attempts,
grasping at normalcy. "I bet she'd make you dinner, if you wanted." 
 
The idea of food makes Yuuta’s stomach turn. “Nah. I’m just…” He huffs out a
breath. “Look, we both know that once I leave I won’t come back.” Just give me
a minute to be next to you, for the last time.
 
To: Fuji-kun
Subject: Re: Sorry to bother you, but
On my way. Evrything OK?
 
Fuji's stomach gives another lurch. "You don't have to do that. Yuuta, I'm
never going to tell anyone, you know that. And I don't want you to feel weird,
I don't hate you, I could never hate you. We can just pretend this never
happened." 
 
His hand squeezes too-tight around his phone, a sideways glance down at it
making it clear there's no point in replying. 
 
“But you know.” It’s final, and in a way, it’s a relief. At least he doesn’t
have to pretend he isn’t affected when his brother hugs him anymore, because
that’s never going to happen again. Yuuta tries for a smile, but fails
miserably, and hauls himself off the bed. “I’m…” God, he’s pathetic. “I’m not
who you wanted me to be. I’m….I’m sorry, Ani...Shuusuke.”
 
He can’t look at his brother.
 
Instead, he wrenches the door open, then runs out of his brother’s room, out of
the house.
 
I'm trash, it's me.
 
Fuji sighs, flopping onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. That happened.
That actually happened. He can't even pretend that it didn't, because he still
feels sick, and rather like he wants to throw himself out of his own bedroom
window. 
 
To: Taka-san
Subject: Re: Sorry to bother you, but
no
 
Still trash, actual trash, because he's treated Taka like he's some throwaway
plaything and now he's begging for him to come over and--what? Soothe him?
Considering Fuji can't even tell him what's going on, that's not going to go
over so well. He groans, throwing his phone onto the floor, and dragging a
pillow onto his face.
 
Suffocating would be good. 
 
It’s barely ten minutes later when Taka shows up, red-faced and sweaty around
the hairline, still wearing the headband with KAWAMURA SUSHI printed on it and
his chef’s coat untied over a plaid shirt. He bows formally to Yumiko and
leaves his shoes at the door before hurrying through Fuji’s open door, not
wasting any time in shutting the door behind him then kneeling on the bed,
carefully cupping Fuji’s face in both large hands. The worry on his face is
intense, and everything about the way he positions himself--back to the door,
body between Fuji and the rest of the room, up on his knees and towering over
Fuji--says protection. “There was a passenger injury on the train, or I’d have
been here sooner,” he explains. “Sorry, I couldn’t run faster.”
 
Fuji realizes, not for the first time or the last time, that he's fucking
stupid around Taka.
 
Wasn't he going to break up with Taka after finals? That was a better plan, not
this one, where he just slowly sits up and throws his arms around Taka's neck
and clings. He's disgusting, and selfish, and his stupid little brother wants
to fuck him and that makes him sick and he can't even say that. 
 
Fuji blinks hard, stops himself from crying for the umpteenth time--stupid, he
doesn't deserve to, it was his fault, what the hell--and keeps clinging.
"Sorry," he says before he can sift and censor what he's going to say, like he
always does. "I'm sorry. I've been awful, I don't know why." 
 
“Shh, you’re fine, I’m here.” Not that it’s probably much of a comfort to Fuji,
Taka thinks with a little involuntary jab at himself, but it’s all he has. He
holds Fuji close, squeezing him hard enough to make him feel his presence, to
help him realize that this is real, that he’s safe. “No matter what’s bothering
you, it’s okay, we’ll fix it, okay? You don’t have to tell me, it’s fine.”
 
"I want to tell you." That's the worst part. He just promised Yuuta he wouldn't
tell anyone, but he wants to spill everything to Taka right here, right now,
and that sucks. His next breath is a shuddery one, and he burrows his way into
Taka's chest, his arms all sorts of wobbly when they flop over Taka's
shoulders. "I can't fix it. I fucked up, it's all my fault, I really don't know
what to do." 
 
Taka holds Fuji close, letting his breathing even out, gently petting his hair
with every exhale. It’s probably not much comfort, but if Fuji doesn’t want to
talk, maybe he can at least make it easier. Swallowing his own pride (easier to
do than he’d thought it would be), he says gently, “If this is about...look,
you don’t even have to tell me who it was. I forgive you, okay? But, uh, if
this is about something else, then I’m really sorry for assuming. Sorry in
general. But if it is that, it’s, uh, fine.”
 
It doesn't even process for a moment. Fuji blinks wetly into Taka's chest,
trying to put the pieces of that together and--oh. Shit. No, this is why he
doesn't deserve anything good in life. This is why he's filth, and why he
shouldn't be allowed to sit crying in his boyfriend's shoulder when he's
literal fucking trash. He's grateful for the reminder.
 
His palms itch, and so he curls his nails into one of them--hard. "Who do you
think it was?" 
 
Taka hesitates. Guessing games are no fun, especially not games like this. “I
don’t care. Honestly, Fuji, I don’t. Look, we both know I’m lucky to have you
even this much.” He smiles, trying to be encouraging, and squeezes a little
tighter. “If it was someone that--did he hurt you? I won’t let anyone hurt you,
no matter what.” Because this is what he has going for him--he knows it. He’s
loyal, and eventually, even if Fuji has to run through every better guy in the
world (and he knows just how many there are), Taka will still be here, and Fuji
will really see how much he loves him.
 
"…Is there literally nothing I can say to you that will make you go away?" 
 
Fuji lets his forehead thunk against Taka's chest, angry that he let those
words slip out, but at the same time, sort of relieved. Maybe this is how Yuuta
felt when he finally just confessed. Maybe Taka will figure out just how
horrible he is, and how hard he's been trying to make Taka see so that he would
leave first. "Taka-san, you deserve so much better. You deserve someone that's
going to treat you right. It was Echizen, by the way." 
 
Taka’s smile falters, and fades. “I’m not…Fuji, I’m not hard to get rid of.” 
 
He settles back onto his heels, loosening his arms, but keeping them around
Fuji’s body, just in case he’ll let himself be held a little longer. “All you
have to do is tell me you don’t want to be with me. Believe me, I’ve been
expecting it. But I’m not going to break up with you.” He leans down, pressing
a gentle kiss to Fuji’s cheek.
 
"Why not?" It sounds petulant, incredulous all at once, because god help him,
he doesn't get it. Fuji's shoulders shake as he sits back, blinking hard again.
"Why wouldn't you break up with me? I'm an awful boyfriend, Taka-san, and I've
been treating you horribly for the past few weeks. You almost got thrown in
jail because of me, Mizuki was going to press charges." Apparently, he's just
going to say shit tonight. That's just fucking great. 
 
Taka frowns, half-concerned and half-frustrated, verging on the edge of a bit
of anger now. It’s always slow, his anger, but it’s been building for quite a
while lately, and it’ll come out eventually, he knows. “Why is that your
fault?” he asks, letting his arms drop. “I didn’t ask your permission, and you
didn’t tell me to take care of that guy. I can make my own decisions, and that
includes wanting to date you. I’m not a kid.”
 
"It's my fault because you would have never done it if I hadn't been so upset
about Mizuki. And just because you can make your own decisions doesn't mean
they're good ones--wanting to date me is a really, really bad one." Fuji bites
his lower lip to make it stop trembling. "No one wants to date me, because
they've figured it out. When are you going to see how bad of a person I am?"
 
Taka flushes dark, and doesn’t meet Fuji’s eyes. “You think I’m really slow.”
It’s not really a question.
 
"I think," Fuji firmly replies, "that you try to see the good in people even
when it isn't there. You give out way too many chances, and that part isn't
smart." 
 
The frown on Taka’s face deepens, a long crease forming between his eyebrows.
“Fuji...I’m not nearly as nice as you seem to think I am. Just because I can
see the good in some people doesn’t mean I expect stuff out of them. I mean,
like--I know full well that Akutsu is probably going to spend most of his time
doing awful things, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing in him worth
anything. It doesn’t mean he’s not worth knowing or having as a friend, you
know?”
 
"Why would you keep him around when he does nothing but say horrible things to
you and treat you like you're trash?" Fuji exasperatedly replies, his fingers
curling tightly over his knees. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Taka-san.
You deserve to have good friends, a good girlfriend, not someone like me. Do
you like it when I ignore you and make you feel like you're my last option?" 
 
“No,” Taka says frankly, because Fuji seems to be in the mood for honesty, no
matter how rough that might be. “But I don’t like it when you push me away
either. You don’t always know best, you know. I’d rather be your last option
than no option at all.” His voice drops, and he says, a little earnestly, “As
long as you text me when you’re upset, I’m the happiest guy there is. I never
thought you’d want me even this much.”
 
How did I even find someone with self-esteem on par with mine?Fuji dimly
wonders, and he briefly shuts his eyes, drawing in a slow breath. "Why?" he
finally asks, honestly baffled. "Why would you want to be treated like that?
I'm pretty, but there are other options."
 
…And then there's sudden realization when he looks sideways and catches a
glimpse at another badly blurred photo of Tezuka and shit, shit, how many times
has he imagined himself having a similar conversation with Tezuka? I'd rather
be your last option than no option at all, I never thought you'd want me even
this much--he's going to be sick all over again. 
 
For this, Taka has no words. He spreads his hands, helpless, and gives Fuji a
weary smile. “It’s you,” he says simply, because for him, it just is.
 
"…But I'm not worth it." That's where it's different. Tezuka is. Tezuka's
definitely worth it. He's handsome, and smart, and so, so good at everything
that he does, and Fuji knows that he's a good person. But he won't ever even
try, because he knows that he's not good. "I'm not a good person. I'm worse
than Akutsu, because everyone around me suffers without me even trying." Yuuta,
tenfold. "I'm…Taka-san, I'm the worst, I don't want you to keep being sad
because of me." 
 
The miscalculation, of course, is in thinking that Taka isn’t nearly as
stubborn as he actually is.
 
He folds his arms, face implacable as he looks at Fuji. “You don’t get to
decide it. If you want to break up with me, that’s your choice, but you can’t
make me not want to be with you.” He scoots forward, unable to keep up the look
on his face, and reaches out to cup Fuji’s cheek, stroking his hair. “You think
I don’t know you? You’re the reason I’m on the regulars--who else stayed with
me after school twice a week for a year, helping me with my serve and my
reactions? Who helped me pass Current Events in our first year? Who played
doubles with me when he could have been in Singles every time if he wanted to
make an issue out of it? Fuji, it’s like you don’t see the good parts in
yourself--but that’s okay, because I do.”
 
"You're only picking and choosing things," is Fuji's immediate protest, his
voice shaking around the edges. "There's way more bad things than good--and
those good things you listed, they're just…" He trails off, sagging forward,
leaning his head into Taka's hand. He can't help it, not when Taka is this
warm, this solid, real and actually here and…no, no, he can't do this. "You're
way too good for me. You need, really need, someone that can be good for you,
too. I spend all my time taking pictures of Tezuka, I'm the worst big brother,
I'm just--"
 
“I don’t care!” Nothing he says is getting through to him, so Taka grabs Fuji’s
shoulders, shaking him a little. “That’s a stupid thing to care about! Just
because you tell me to doesn’t mean I’m going to stop loving you, so stop
trying, because it’s never going to happen!” He punctuates that with a rough,
urgent kiss, emboldened by the feeling of Fuji’s pliant body under his hands,
terrified into acting by the thought oflosing him.
 
Fuji feels shaky all over, and that, for once, is new. 
 
There's a protest already on his tongue, the same argument over and over in
hopes that Taka will eventually understand, but it's gone the moment he's
kissed--no, before that, something about Taka loving him, that's what kind of
kills it. A moment of turning that over in his head finally makes him lurch
backwards, a hand on Taka's chest, his own heaving slightly. "You don't mean
that. Taka-san..." I haven't done anything worthy of you feeling like that.
 
Taka is having none of being banished right now. He grabs Fuji again, so easy
to do when he’s so much stronger, and lifts him bodily into his lap, eyes
burning as much as they ever do on the tennis court. “You can’t just order me
around like that. I’m a man. I can make my own choices.” He kisses Fuji again,
insistent, urgent, before saying, “And no matter what you tell me, I’m going to
choose you every time.”
 
Fuji isn't very good at relenting--at least, in something like this. For once,
though, he's not being given a choice, and being in Taka's lap makes it a bit
more difficult to keep arguing. Another protest dies on his lips--but he's sure
it's a good one this time, Taka will get it--
 
I'm going to choose you every time. 
 
"…No one's ever…" No, that's weak, pathetic, stupid, he's not that stupid,
guys--girls--both have said that before, because he's pretty, because he knows
what to say to make them like him, but he's been trying for awhile now to make
Taka realize that he's awful and to make Taka hate him and that just doesn't
seem to work. His vision isn't getting wet and blurry, except it is, and that's
awful. "B-but I've been horrible to you all week, and I slept with someone
else, and…"
 
“And I still choose you.” Taka can be implacable as hell when he wants to, and
right now, they both need it. His arms are strong and warm, wrapped around
Fuji’s body, pulling him close but not stifling. “And I’m going to be your
boyfriend until you tell me you don’t love me anymore.” He frowns, something
occurring to him, and asks, “If you were really that bad a person, wouldn’t you
be trying to get me to stay with you?”
 
"Maybe I'm such scum that I want you to be so upset that you just leave on your
own." It's not exactly enthusiastic when he says it, though, and Fuji can't
even muster the strength to pull away, not when Taka is so warm and such a balm
to his nerves. He exhales a long, shuddering sigh. "We're in middle school,
Taka-san. How can you talk about love like that?" 
 
Taka’s hands are sure and strong, stroking gently up Fuji’s shoulders, down the
tense curve of his back. “I’m old enough to choose my career,” he says softly.
“Tezuka is old enough to go pro. Oishi is old enough to choose medical school.
If I’m in love with you, shouldn’t I say it? You need to know I’m going to take
care of you, no matter what. You’re safe with me.”
 
Fuji butts his head against Taka's chest. "In what way do I need to be
protected? Most people need protection from me. Listen, do you have any idea
how weird I am?" 
 
“I have known you for three years,” Taka points out, “and I like to think I’m
smarter than the average rock. I mean, no offense, but look around your room.
Don’t you think there’d be something wrong with me if I hadn’t figured some of
it out by now?”
 
"…I don't really try to hide it," Fuji allows. "But this is just the tip of the
iceberg." He'd mention his Yuuta photo collection, too, but he can't talk about
Yuuta right now.
 
“I,” Taka says solemnly, “am not afraid of a lot more ice. I’m pretty tough,
Fuji. I can handle it.”
 
"…You are, aren't you." That comes out more tiredly than Fuji would like, and
he lets his head thunk against Taka's chest again. "Just because you're tough
doesn't mean I want you to have to be, though." 
 
Taka’s fingers dig slightly into Fuji’s upper arms, and if he were anyone else,
the clip of his voice would sound annoyed. “Can we try dating for a little
while where we just...be ourselves, and not worry about what the other one is
supposed to think? Because I think I know you pretty well by now, even if you
don’t think I do.”
 
God, he'd be a liar if he said that didn't sound good.
 
Unrealistic, but good. Fuji chews on his lower lip, glancing down, not really
trusting himself to look at Taka when he's pretty sure he's just going to start
crying like a dumbass--again. "I don't think you do," he softly agrees. "But if
we do that, you have to promise me you'll break up with me if you don't like me
anymore." 
 
Taka blinks. “Why would I stay with you if I didn’t like you? Sure, that’s
easy, I promise.” He kisses Fuji’s forehead, then tilts up his chin, looking
gravely into his face. “But it’ll never happen. It’s…” He almost looks away,
but forces himself to be brave. “It’s not like I just fell in love with you
when we started going out, you know. It’s been a long time.”
 
"Taka-san, I don't think you're real," Fuji solemnly says, reaching up to
gently poke one one of Taka's cheeks. "I don't think someone real can be that
sweet." 
 
“Maybe,” Taka says, batting at Fuji’s hand gently, “you’re doing that thing you
think I do. I’m not that sweet, Fuji.”
 
"But you are. No one else says things like this to me. I think that's pretty
solid proof." 
 
“Fuji, I’ve done a lot of stuff that wasn’t sweet. I have bad thoughts too, you
know.” It makes him ashamed to admit, but maybe Fuji needs to hear it. “You’re
just seeing the good in me because you want to.”
 
"Don't turn that back on me, that's not cute. It's not the same, anyway; it's
not like you plot violent murders or anything." 
 
Taka doesn’t say anything to that, but his hands clench, and his head bows
slightly.
 
"Okay, but it's not like you plot violent murders for the fun of it. Or, you
know, ruin the lives of your siblings on a daily basis." 
 
“Is Yuuta okay?” Taka asks. It’s probably never going to be Yumiko Fuji means
when he says “siblings.”
 
"Nope," Fuji replies, faux-cheerful. "And that's my fault, too. I upset him a
lot today; that's why I…kind of had to call you over. I'm sorry for bothering
you, Taka-san." 
 
“It’s no trouble,” Taka insists. His father had been not exactly thrilled, but
he hadn’t been angry that Taka had run out in the middle of his shift, either.
“What happened? You were so shaken up, did he say something? Was there a
fight?”
 
"I just messed up a lot, as per usual." Fuji gives up, goes limp, flops against
Taka's chest and hooks his chin over his shoulder. This could be worse, he
tells himself. Taka will figure it out eventually. He will, though right now,
Fuji is very sure that he doesn't want Taka to figure anything out about him.
"I'm just not good at anything anymore, I think. Maybe that's better." 
 
Taka is starting to feel more and more that this isn’t so much what a teenager
looks like when he’s afraid he’s ‘too good’ for someone, but instead is what a
genius looks like when he’s throwing a temper tantrum. He doesn’t have a whole
lot to say to that, just squeezes Fuji a little and assures him, “I’m sure
Yuuta still loves you, no matter what you did.”
 
"Wish he didn't," Fuji mumbles, shuddering a little. "You can squeeze me until
I pop, that would also be good." 
 
“Sorry, is that too tight? I can—”
 
The sound of the lock clicking on the door is startling, and Taka looks towards
it. “I thought no one was home.”
 
Fuji's eyes narrow at the door, and he slowly slides out of Taka's hold,
wobbling his way to the door. Locked, obviously, which is…new. "Neesan," he
patiently says, "if this is your idea of a joke, it's bad." 
 
The sound of something heavy being dragged laboriously across the door is loud,
Taka thinks, much louder than the voice that calls through, “Don’t call me that
nickname, it’s a bad one. You and Taka can stay in there until you straighten
things out and stop breaking up!”
 
Fuji twitches. "Eiji," he tiredly says, "we already made up. Why are you doing
this? Why are you at my house?" This has been way too long of a day.
 
“You and Taka-san are fighting, and you’re usually a filthy liar,” Eiji informs
him firmly. “Make up! Taka-san, fight-o!”
 
Taka looks nervously over at Fuji. “How long is he going to keep us in here? I
have homework.”
 
"You can ask Taka-san, too, you know," Fuji points out on a sigh. "He'll tell
you the same thing." He glances over at Taka, heaving his shoulders in a shrug.
"I'll do it for you if he decides to be a jerk about it. Otherwise, there's
always the window if you're feeling adventuresome." 
 
Taka chews his lip. “That’s kind of high up,” he admits. Fuji’s anger he can
handle, no problem. Heights are a little different. “Kikumaru-kun, it’s true,
we’ve made up.”
 
“He might be making you lie! Um, but still date him please, I’m sure he loves
you very much!”
 
"Eiji," Fuji very firmly says this time, "if you moved a dresser in front of
this door, I guarantee it's Yumiko's, and she's going to be angry. So move it,
and let us out." 
 
“I helped him, Shuusuke-kun!” comes a woman’s delighted voice. “It’s some of my
most delightful colors, too. That should force a settlement!”
 
Eiji’s laugh is only a little strained. “Your sister has interesting ideas, but
she’s a lot stronger than she looks!”
 
Fuji just looks back helplessly at Taka. "Do you want to spend the night?" 
 
Taka gives him a shy little smile. “If you don’t mind letting me call my
father...I’d love to.”
 
***** Kintarou & Ryouma, The Finals *****
The finals are tomorrow.
 
It's something that rings loud and clear in Ryouma's thoughts, and it won't
shut up. It won't shut up even after Atobe managed to convince him to drink
half a glass of wine, and from there, things got fuzzy for about half an hour. 
 
It's probably better that he left when Tezuka-buchou started getting weird and
pawing at Atobe like a cat. 
 
Now, flopped on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about how the
finals are just hoursaway and he can't sleep and he's going to fail and this is
all the worst thing that could happen, Ryouma wonders if there's anything else
he can do.
 
Probably not.
 
He crawls slowly out of his bed, frowning at Karupin's absence, and pads his
way down the hall. Maybe if he sits and stares at a tennis court for awhile,
he'll have better ideas about how to win. Maybe. He doesn't know what else to
do, so…
 
Sliding open a door and being presented with someone actually sitting on the
tennis court, however, doesn't inspire any good thoughts or planning. Mostly,
it inspires complete and utter confusion. "Who--" He pauses, eyes narrowed.
"Karupin, don't talk to strangers!"
 
"Reneeeh." 
 
"Don't give me that! Come--ugh, who--" A second glance, and Ryouma just groans
as he recognizes the thing on his tennis court. This kid again. But how? "What
do you want?" 
 
Kintarou’s face lights up. “Koshimae! What are you doing here?” He picks up the
cat, making it wave one resentful paw at Ryouma. “Look, kitty-chan, this is
Koshimae! He’s a really strong guy!”
 
"That's my cat," Ryouma says, bristling visibly as he hops off of the
surrounding deck and onto the ground. "Put him down, what are you doing here?
This is my house!" 
 
Kintarou laughs. “Even I know this is a shrine! That’s pretty cool, that you
have tennis courts in shrines in Tokyo. I wish we did in Osaka!” He looks
around, hands laced behind his head. “Hey, I can’t see the hotel from here!
Ahhh, I might be lost.”
 
For not the first time, Ryouma hates his dad for his weird housing choices.
Karupin seems unconcerned, the traitor, and sits slowly licking one paw. Always
that one paw."There aren't any hotels around here. How did you get lost like
that?" 
 
“Uhhh, Zaizen said to go get ice, so I went to get ice. Then I saw this tennis
court!” There was probably some stuff in between that, but Kintarou can’t
remember it all that well. “Hey, if you live here, do you sleep in the bell?”
 
"I sleep in my room," Ryouma exasperatedly replies, scowling accusingly at his
cat--Karupin probably encouraged him, rude. "You can't just wander into
people's houses at night. Also, that's my tennis court, you can't play on it
unless I say you can." 
 
“Cool! I wish I had a tennis court.” Kintarou tickles the cat’s belly, not
bothering to snatch his hand back before it gets overstimulated and takes a
swipe. He hardly notices. “So, can we play?”
 
Ryouma's eyes narrow. "It's the middle of the night, and I have to play in the
finals tomorrow." 
 
Kintarou groans, flopping down onto the court. “What’s the point of having a
tennis court if you’re not going to play on it?” he demands. “It can be a warm-
up! Just one point!”
 
"That's not a warm-up. I'd beat you in like, five seconds." Karupin is still a
traitor, and so Ryouma ignores him (with some effort) when he comes over to rub
on his ankles.
 
“You’re on!” Kintarou leaps up without using his arms, grabbing his racket off
his back. “Where are the balls?”
 
"…That wasn't an invitation," Ryouma wearily manages, but…ugh, that does sound
at least a little better than sitting and staring at a tennis court aimlessly.
"Wait a few seconds, I have to go get my racquet, too." 
 
“Just don’t run away!” Kintarou crouches down, pulling out some crumbs from his
pocket and laying them in front of the cat. “Hey, does your kitty like gummis?”
 
"Don't feed him that!" Ryouma hisses over his shoulder, and huffs, warily
eyeing Karupin once more before trotting back inside. 
 
This is a dumb idea, and Tezuka-buchou would kill me if he knew. Ryouma is
pretty sure of that. He's also pretty sure that Kintarou is going to lose,
though, which makes him feel a bit better. He grabs his racquet and a new can
of balls before stuffing his feet into his shoes at the door. "Here," he
grumbles, throwing the can to Kintarou. "Open it, but remember, just one point.
It's really late and leave my cat alone." 
 
Kintarou takes the gummi back from the cat after Karupin gives it an
experimental lick and flounces away. He shrugs, and pops it in his own mouth,
opening the can and grinning at the noise. “We play with the not-pressure ones
in Osaka,” he says, and pops one out, testing the bounce on the court. “Here I
go, Koshimae!!” 
 
The first serve isn’t anything special. Most of Kintarou’s moves aren’t--he
gets the ball over the net and into the other space, and that’s the best part
until he can do something really fun.
 
Boring. Ryouma is very sure of his evaluation now, that this one-point game is
going to be about five seconds long, and he has to wonder how this guy did
anything interesting during the first two rounds of the tournament. 
 
He even has time to make sure that Karupin is out of the way before he hits the
ball solidly back with a backhanded slice. Boring, but ah, he wishes his match
tomorrow would be like this, in a way.
 
That ball is easy to get. Kintarou whacks it with his racquet, sending it back
past Ryouma’s ear, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Take it seriously!” he
calls, a grin starting to light up his face. Even bored like the other boy
obviously is, there’s a delicacy in his movements that’s...new. Interesting.
 
"Make me," Ryouma grumpily snaps back, backtracking to easily catch that ball,
too, even several feet from the baseline, and putting it back into the left
corner. Okay, that was better. Maybe Kintarou's kind of slow to start. Still,
he's nothing impressive, not like Tezuka-buchou, or Fuji-sempai when he's not
being a weirdo, or Atobe-sempai on every day except manicure day. 
 
Kintarou races over to the left corner, flipping and twisting in the air to get
to the ball in time, sending it arching high into the air only to slam down
just past the net, bouncing up high again. “Koshimae! Nice shot!” he yells,
hoping the cat is watching.
 
Who plays tennis like that, anyway? The shots are stupid, and they don't make
sense, and it feels more like he's playing some idiot on a sugar high than an
actual tennis game.
 
Ryouma does like a ball that's hard to hit, though.
 
He waits for the ball's descending arc--for the most part, but he gets antsy,
hits it hard back over the net, straight down the middle of the court. "Stop
hitting weird things!" 
 
“Make me!” Kintarou shoots back, parroting Ryouma’s words from earlier. He
laughs when he hits the ball, slamming it into the baseline so fast the ball is
a yellow streak in the air. His racquet sings in his hand, and his eyes never
leave Ryouma’s. That’s where the tennis really is, he knows. Not in the body,
but in the eyes.
 
Reflex takes over, and Ryouma dives, catching the ball with the top of his
racquet, not the sweet spot, leaving him to curse when it arcs up into a high
lob. 
 
That's better, though. Shockingly, that's better, now that he's a little out of
breath and his skin prickles with the rush of adrenaline. He wanted an easy
point, validation that he can still play, but--
 
This is better.
 
Kintarou’s whole face lights up. He loves lobs. “Watch out, Koshimae!” he
calls, leaping into the air for the kind of smash he doesn’t get to do very
often. Not the super ultra great delicious mountain storm, not yet, but a smash
nonetheless, one with so much momentum he goes into a triple-flip on his way
down. 
 
Ryouma is good, and Kintarou can almost taste the excitement. He’d known this
was the man he had to play.
 
"What the hell is all that spinning for?!" It's less annoyed now, more of a
laugh in his voice, and Ryouma's backhand this time is two-handed, because the
power and weight behind that smash makes him have to dig his heels in to return
it. 
 
It takes effort to keep precision in his return, but Ryouma manages it, feeling
relief course through his body when the shot skims the net lightning-fast,
leaves it wobbling a little, and it's good to know that he still has it--not
just in a doubles game, but here, on his own court, by his hands only. 
 
“Whoa!” Kintarou jumps for the return, his legs screaming as he dives. There’s
something about the way that Ryouma returns every ball that makes Kintarou
think he actually knows where every ball is going to go. Well, time to surprise
him, then!
 
He lets the top of his racquet skim the ball before sort of scooping it over
the net, then hits the ground hard. Right, he’d forgotten he was diving! He
pays no attention to the bruises and scrapes, leaping back to his feet to make
sure he hasn’t missed anything.
 
"That's not fair," Ryouma protests, launching himself forward, barely catching
the ball with his racquet in time--and even with enough effort that leaves him
with a face full of dirt, he still isn't sure if he gets it over in time.
 
Actually, he doesn't hear the thud of the ball at all. He blinks, glancing up
through his bangs, and finds himself staring incredulously as the ball sits
neatly atop one of the net's poles, unmoving. "How," he crossly mutters
underneath his breath, slowly drawing himself to his feet and dusting himself
off. "That one doesn't count." 
 
“Let’s play again!” Kintarou says nothing about how they were going to play one
point, and only one point. “This time, I won’t hold back!” How can he, when
everything he’s ever wanted is in this game?
 
"Fine, let's go!" 
 
Famous last words.
 
The next morning, Ryouma finds himself sort of stumbling off the bus at the
stadium, Kintarou attached to him in some way or another. That's fine. What
matters is that he got here, managed to take a shower that woke him up for five
minutes without Kintarou following him, and that he got here. 
 
It also matters that he played tennis all night with a weirdo from Osaka that's
really, really good. 
 
That being said, Ryouma wishes coffee didn't taste so awful, because he could
use some of it right now.
 
"I bet your captain--" Time to yawn. Loudly, long, impressively. "I bet your
captain's gonna be here looking for you today. You're gonna get in trouble." 
 
Kintarou shakes his head, still a little damp from Ryouma’s shower. “Probably,”
he agrees, slumping a little (a lot) against Ryouma’s shoulder. That’s a good
place to sleep, even while they’re both sort of walking. “Ne, Koshimae...when
you win, I wanna take you out for takoyaki.”
 
“That’s what you do with a boy you loooove, Kin-chan!” Koharu-nee-san had told
him. It sounds about right, just now. Plus, he’s starving. 
 
“Ochibi!” Eiji is the first one to spot him, and he comes running over,
grabbing Ryouma and squashing him slightly. “We all couldn’t reach you! We
thought we were going to have to send Momo-chan out in Singles One!” He
gestures towards the stands, where a trembling white-hatted figure with a
unibrow is on his knees in front of Momoshiro, for some reason or another. “I
know Yukimura is scary, but…”
 
Ryouma blinks tiredly into Eiji's chest. That's right, Yukimura. He remember
that, and it makes him nervous sort of…distantly,but then he thinks of the past
few hours of tennis, and he can't quite process why. "Kikumaru-sempai, I'm
mostly just sleepy. Can you let me go?" 
 
"Don't say that like you thought I couldn't win!" Momoshiro incredulously
shouts back. "Echizen, where the hell have you been? Just because you're scared
of Rikkai's captain doesn't mean--"
 
"No. It was tennis." Ryouma wriggles his way free of Eiji's arms, and drifts
further into the stadium. "I don't like takoyaki that much. Is it better in
Osaka?" 
 
“Mm! It’s the best in the world!”
 
“Kin-chan!” Shiraishi’s voice is suffused with relief. “I told you he’d show
up! You monster, were you chasing cats all night again?”
 
“No! I was out with a boy!”
 
Koharu faints. 
 
“Oy, Ryouma!” Atobe strolls over, joining the small throng of people clustered
around them. “I went to pick you up, but your father said you’d been gone all
night. I thought you’d made a run for it.” He switches to English for Ryouma’s
benefit, adding, “If the thought of Yukimura scares you all that much—”
 
"Our baby is growing up! Koharu! Koharu, no, don't leave me! You have to see
how cute Kin-chan's boyfriend is!" 
 
Ryouma blinks in open confusion at the no less than fifteen weird things
happening around him. "Atobe-sempai," he slowly says, tired enough that he has
to think his words through, "do you have any of that good coffee? You know, the
kind that doesn't taste all bitter and weird?" 
 
"Echizen." 
 
The throng of people parts, and it's Tezuka that Ryouma finds himself staring
up at. "I'm glad to see you made it. I was concerned that you had--"
 
"Atobe-sempai," Ryouma repeats, reaching over to grab his jacket. "Coffee." 
 
Tezuka, world-weary, pushes up his glasses. "Echizen, you can't let your g--"
 
"Inui-sempai, is takoyaki and coffee a good breakfast?"
 
Tezuka twitches.
 
"Doubtful," Inui tosses over. "Also, if you're still concerned about your
match, then the caffeine in coffee might make you even more nervous."
 
"I'm justsleepy," Ryouma grumpily says. 
 
Atobe steers Ryouma sideways, settling him under a conveniently located awning,
set up with coffee and pastries, served by a rather perky girl in a maid’s
uniform. “From Paris this morning,” he explains, though whether he’s talking
about the pastries or the girl is anyone’s guess. 
 
From the other side of the stadium, a strange yowling sound rises, then is
abruptly cut off as if the person making it had been elbowed in the gut. Atobe
takes a sip of coffee. “Ah, Kunimitsu, something tells me that Sanada has just
seen who he’ll be playing in doubles.”
 
Kintarou perks up slightly at the pastries, then looks up at Tezuka. “You’re a
captain and you’re playing in doubles?”
 
Tezuka, still frowning from the injustice of not being able to remind Ryouma
about keeping his guard up when he's obviously already been letting it down,
just shrugs. "For better or for worse." 
 
Ryouma promptly curls himself around something iced and chocolatey, and starts
to nibble. Food does seem to wake him up slightly. "Tezuka-buchou can play
anything. I bet he could beat your captain." 
 
"Oi, Kin-chan, are you gonna let him get away with saying that?" is Kenya's
loud complaint as he marches up, swatting at the back of the kid's head. "Where
were you last night?" He's not going to mention that they only found out that
Kintarou was gone when Zaizen complained about the lack of ice ten times over.
"Hey, food! Thanks, Hyoutei-buchou, give my regards to Yuushi!" 
 
“Ahh, I was playing with a cat and playing tennis!” Kintarou says, drooping a
bit after the slap, though still not enough to entirely wake up or detach
himself from Ryouma. “And yeah, Shiraishi can beat anyone, he beat your genius
Kini-sempai!”
 
Atobe looks slightly put out at the sudden influx of people taking his
pastries. “These were meant to be…” he starts, looking at Ryouma and Tezuka,
then gives up. They can have a private meal later, when they’re not all so
wound up. 
 
“Make sure you eat a lot, Ochibi!” Eiji says, snapping the waistband of his
elastic shorts as he finishes getting ready. “That scary Yukimura ate a lot, I
saw him! But we’ll try to make sure you don’t even have to play.”
 
“Oy!” Kintarou comes awake finally, stuffing a pastry in his mouth, showering
himself with crumbs. “Koshimae isn’t afraid to play tennis with anyone!”
 
"You're all killing my appetite," Ryouma mutters, gnawing on another pastry
before washing it down with glorious caffeine. "Atobe-sempai, why is your
coffee so much better?" 
 
"For better or for worse," Oishi starts when he hurriedly walks up, clipboard
under one arm, "it seems as though Rikkai's ranks aren't exactly well-collected
this morning."
 
"There were quite a few arguments about doubles pairs," Inui pipes in, open
amusement on his face. "Not with Renji, of course, but…" 
 
"Oh," Fuji breezily says, until now mostly hidden behind everyone courtesy of
his height, "I imagine there would be." 
 
There's a pause wherein everyone's gaze snaps towards him. "What did you do?"
Oishi immediately asks, wary.
 
"Nooothing."
 
"I don't care," Tezuka says, deadpan, before Oishi can immediately, frantically
press for more information. 
 
“That’s because Japanese coffee is about as good as Japanese “cheese,”” Atobe
says with a sniff, taking another glorious sip. 
 
Eiji shoves Fuji in the shoulder. “You shouldn’t mess with doubles pairs, nya!
That’s a sacred bond!”
 
“It’s true,” Koharu chimes in, putting bits of pastry into Yuuji’s mouth,
perched on his lap. “There’s nothing more...intimate than a doubles match.”
 
Quietly, Eiji moves to stand on the other side of Oishi.
 
"I just said I did nothing," Fuji innocently says. 
 
"I don't care," Tezuka repeats, firmer this time. "Echizen, if you're still
concerned about your match--"
 
"Whoa, no kidding, this coffee is way better than our stuff! If I had this
stuff during my other matches, the Speed Star of Naniwa would have been even
faster--"
 
Tezuka just sits down, giving up. 
 
Ryouma nudges Kintarou's shoulder. "Didn't your team lose to Rikkai last year?
That sucks." 
 
“Yeah.” Kintarou grimaces. “I wasn’t there yet! Shiraishi didn’t even get to
play, but I bet he would have beaten Yukimura. Right, Kenya?”
 
Given how much Kenya is vibrating at the moment, it might not be for the best
to ask him right now.
 
"Hey, Hyoutei-buchou, did Yuushi come today? I bet he did. I'm going. I'm gonna
go find him!" 
 
With that, he's gone--thankfully, Tezuka thinks. 
 
"Uh huh." Ryouma slowly starts feeling like a person again with the next pastry
and another sip of coffee. "Yukimura's scary, though. I dunno if your captain
could beat him."
 
"Echizen," Tezuka tries for the umpteenth time, "remember what we talked about
underneath the railway three months--"
 
Ryouma doesn't seem to hear him. "I still don't wanna play him. Kintarou, come
to Seigaku and you can play him." 
 
“Sure! I’ll play Singles One!” Kintarou grabs for his racquet and nearly
pulverizes the pastry table, stopped at the last moment by a heavy blow to the
back of his neck. “Ow! Oy, watch where you’re—ah, Shiraishi!”
 
“Kin-chan,” Shiraishi says, sounding even more weary than Kintarou despite the
fact that he, at least, was not out playing tennis all night, “you’re causing
trouble. Come watch with your friends.”
 
“I don’t want to! I’m going to play Yukimura!”
 
“It was a joke, Kin-chan. You have to let Echizen play his match. Sorry for all
this commotion,” he says, with a bow to Tezuka and Ryouma, and slings Kintarou
over his shoulder. 
 
“No! Stop it! Koshimae, wait for me!”
 
“Seishun Gauen, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku, please line up,” a voice says over the
loudspeakers.
 
Ryouma drains the rest of his coffee, and stares after Kintarou, a mix relieved
that he's being carried off, and very, very sad. "Buchou." He reaches over,
tugging on Tezuka's jersey. "Tezuka-buchou, make him bring Kintarou back."
 
Tezuka opens his mouth, shuts it, and looks helplessly over at Atobe. Are you
making any sense of this. "…We need to go start our matches now, Echizen." 
 
"Mm." 
 
"Tooyama isn't going to Seigaku." 
 
"He could."
 
Atobe mouths, Background check in progress, and starts furiously texting
someone, sneaking a picture of the wild redhead and uploading it to a website
private citizens aren’t supposed to know about.
 
Rikkai is a silent, motionless line of yellow and black at the net, all burning
eyes and tense muscles. There’s a moment when it looks as if Sanada wants to
say something, to step forward, but it passes, and his eyes flick instead to
Yukimura in silent deference.
 
It's only when they're at the net that Ryouma feels that anxiety creeping back,
slow and obnoxiously cold. He yanks on his hat, letting it obscure his vision,
lest those pastries want to come up again. 
 
Think about last night, and all of this morning, and how fun that was instead.
Not about how scary he is, I'm just as good, I can do this. 
 
"Bow!" 
 
Rikkai is all perfectly straight backs and uniformity, Seigaku a little less
with Momo and Kaidou shoving for a bit more room, and when they straighten,
Yukimura's the one that beams brighter than the sun, dissolving an intense
amount of tension. "Let's have a good showing today, Tezuka."
 
I am the asshole that either can't back up his words, or the asshole that beat
cancer kid, Tezuka tiredly reminds himself, and reaches out to shake Yukimura's
hand. "Let's." Sanada is staring at him. Intensely. It's weird, and not even
worth a nod. 
 
“Woohoo!” Kintarou shouts from the stands. “Kick his ass, Koshimae!”
 
“They’re not even playing yet, Kin-chan!”
 
“Ow!”
 
They barely manage to leave the court before the call comes for Singles Three.
Kaidou lets out a deep, hissing breath of tension, turning his neck this way
and that to loosen himself up. He looks up at Tezuka, that desperation for
approval almost naked in his eyes. “I’ll start us off right,” he promises, and
tries to imagine the weight of captaincy that will be on his shoulders in just
a few months.
 
"Don't let your guard down." At least he can say it to Kaidou, and Kaidou
listens. "You're more than capable of beating him, Kaidou. Just don't let him
rile you up." 
 
Rikkai's side of the stadium, however, could be more collected. 
 
"Buchou! Buchou, I've got this. The last time I played someone like this, it
was easy."
 
"I'm aware," Yukimura says, trying not to sound tired or put out about
Kirihara's excess energy already coming out at full force, "and that's why
you're playing against him right now."
 
More of a concern--Niou and Yagyuu, who haven't made eye contact all morning,
and are sitting on opposite ends of the bleachers. This is not the day for
this. "Show them what Rikkai's next captain is capable of," he says, smacking
Kirihara hard on the back. He's not worried about Kirihara; there's no reason
to be. "Niou, come here." 
 
Niou slinks over to his seat next to Yukimura, glaring and sulking all at once.
He ignores the sound of Kirihara’s weird laughter, and the weirder hissing that
follows it. “Yeah, what?”
 
Yukimura's in a hitting mood--Akaya laughing like a deranged banshee inspires
it--and thus Niou's shoulder gets a solid smack. "Don't 'yeah, what' me. What
the hell is going on with you?" 
 
Niou barely flinches. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he honestly
can’t remember the last time he’d had something to eat or drink. “Swap me with
Marui. I wanna play Singles.”
 
It's pretty rare that something involving tennis makes Yukimura feel sick to
his stomach, but hearing that does, especially when it isn't the first time
he's heard it today. 
 
"Yukimura-kun, please let me play singles." 
 
"Why?" Yukimura spares a look over his shoulder--good, Sanada is too busy
staring Tezuka down across the stadium--and sneaks out an energy drink that's
stashed in his bag, shoving it into Niou's hands. "I need you in doubles." 
 
Niou turns the bottle over in his hands, a little too fuzzy to quite grasp the
concept of what it’s supposed to be. “Put in Marui and Jackal. Unless Jackal
thinks Marui is a cheating slut without any proof.”
 
Marui, mostly on instinct, slaps Jackal across the head. “Hey!”
 
Yukimura reaches over, pops the tab on the drink, and shoves it more firmly
into Niou's grasp. "You're not hearing me. I need you in doubles. The only
other pair that can stand up against Seigaku's Golden Pair is Sanada and
Yanagi, and they have their own match to worry about." His voice drops for the
next part: "If Yagyuu was an asshole to you, I'll kick him off the team later,
but I can't right now, Niou."
 
“Then put me in with fucking Sanada for all I care,” Niou growls, swigging the
energy drink. It’s a mark of Sanada’s thousand-mile stare that he doesn’t even
blink at that. “Switch Yagyuu for Marui. No, wait, I forgot,” he adds, louder,
“he’s so fucking intimidated by Fuji Shuusuke that he’ll probably just pee all
over himself.”
 
Yukimura twitches. 
 
With that, something obviously snaps in Yagyuu. "Coming from someone whose dick
would be too hard for him to even focus on the ball--"
 
"Enough!"
 
Yukimura's snap is akin to a whip cracking, and most of the team flinches.
Simultaneous to that, there's the referee's call of "Game Kirihara, 3 games to
2!" and Yukimura draws in a long, deep breath, folding his arms. "You are going
to play doubles," he flatly tells Niou, his eyes sharply flitting to Yagyuu as
well. "And you're going to get over whatever the hell is going on for the
duration of that match. This is for Rikkai's third consecutive victory, and you
are not going to ruin that."
 
Yagyuu uncharacteristically slouches down into a ball. Yukimura considers
getting Sanada to hit him--both of them, actually, but with Niou, corporal
punishment needs to be applied sparingly. 
 
This is a fool’s goddamned errand, and they all know it. Niou snorts out a
bitter, caustic breath, thinking about playing with someone he wouldn’t trust
to watch the time, let alone watch his back. 
 
The words Rikkai’s third consecutive victoryhave honestly never meant less to
Niou. It sucks, and Yukimura would kill him, but it just doesn’t seem to
fucking matter right now. Yagyuu had touched his face so gently, had been so
genuinely surprised that Niou would want to date him, had moved inside him so
perfectly, had become him seamlessly with enthusiasm. 
 
And the whole time, he’d been about three seconds away from being positive Niou
was fucking around on him, apparently. 
 
“I’d say I would,” Niou says, and even he is surprised by how hard and tight
his voice is, “but I can’t be trusted. Duh. I’d think you’d know that. I’m
fucking trash.”
 
For a minute, there's a collective--minus Yagyuu, pointedly looking the other
way--holding of breath. A rare display of Yukimura's temper is long in coming,
and judging by the brief flash of frustrated fury that passes over Yukimura's
face, they're all pretty sure it's going to happen. 
 
Instead--"Sanada, Yanagi, make sure you're properly warmed up; doubles two is
going to be a wash," Yukimura mutters, stalking away back to the coach's bench,
unable to spare Niou another glance. 
 
It comes true like a devastating prophecy.
 
It would be easy to blame it on the fact that no one would ever have expected a
Seigaku victory in Singles Three; Rikkai starts shifting when the referee
announces a tiebreak, of all things, and Kirihara’s manic energy starts to fade
after ten, twenty, fifty points until he makes one final, careless strike after
hundreds of good ones.
 
“Game and match, Seigaku’s Kaidou! Seven games to six!”
 
Niou tries to pull it together. His tricks don’t work if he doesn’t have an
audience, doesn’t have an assistant, so he tries to go for what Yukimura says,
and just play tennis.
 
Except from the first point, he knows it’s useless. Yagyuu doesn’t move with
him. Yagyuu doesn’t trust him. Yagyuu is a piece of shit and Niou has to
seriously refrain from just beating him with a racquet and playing singles
against Kikumaru and Oishi.
 
“Game and match, Seigaku’s Oishi-Kikumaru pair! Six games to three!”
 
Niou disappears from the court. Afterwards, no one will remember which
direction he left in.
 
Kirihara is still apologizing. "I'm sorry, Buchou, I'm really sorry--"
 
"Hush." Just because Yukimura is tasting bile doesn't mean that it's Kirihara's
fault. He played well. He actually did. He's young, not as experienced, lacks
the control, the focus, but Doubles Two--
 
Kirihara is actually a noodle on the bench, still not quite able to stand. "I'm
still sorry--"
 
"Marui," Yukimura interrupts, thinking he's doing a very good job of making it
clear that his heart isn't thudding all the way up to his throat. Not like
this, Ihaveto play, wehaveto win.He takes a deep breath, and smiles when he
claps a hand down onto the other boy's shoulder. "You've got this, don't you?" 
 
Marui pops a bubble, and attempts not to swallow his own tongue out of fear.
Sure, he’s a genius, but this is Fuji Shuusuke. Marui tries not to
hyperventilate, and wishes suddenly that he were in doubles after all. Jackal
is so good at being easy to lean on that Marui can pretend he isn’t leaning at
all. “Yeah. I’ve got this. I’ve totally got this.” Am I supposed to be sweating
this much?
 
"You," Yukimura firmly reminds him, refusing to show a single bit of the dread
twisting in his belly, "are the best serve and volley player in the country.
Fuji hates that about you. Use it to your advantage, stay at the net, make his
life a living hell." 
 
"Singles Two, Seishun Gakuen's Fuji versus Rikkai Dai Fuzoku's Marui!'
 
For Tezuka's part, he's nothing sort of startled into shocked silence.
 
Oishi and Eiji have been sort of rolling around in the bleachers for the last
ten minutes, and that's all well and good for them, but it hasn't really
clicked in his head yet that they actually won. Kaidou seems to still be acting
similarly, with his head down and his eyes wide, and finally, there's an eager
thud to his heart that makes Tezuka think they can actually win this. 
 
Even if it's because Rikkai is self-destructing--for some reason--he'll take
it. 
 
"Fuji." Thank god it's Fuji. He never thought he'd think that, but right now,
he does. "You can win this."
 
"Mm." Fuji scritches his fingers slowly into his racquet, and smiles. "I've got
this, Tezuka. No worries." 
 
That optimism lasts for a total of about 45 seconds, because Fuji--for some
unearthly reason--walks up to the net, shakes Marui's hand, and spares a glance
off into what seems to just be space. And then--
 
"I forfeit." 
 
"What?" Momoshiro practically squeaks out, dropping Ryouma from where he's been
squeezing him. "Fuji-sempai, what--"
 
Silence, then, but only from Fuji, who hurriedly walks off the court, tosses
his racquet aside, and is gone, disappearing down from the bleachers. Everyone
else is a flurry of whispers, and it takes Tezuka a long moment to react, his
mouth dry, his heart in his throat.
 
Then, he's angry.
 
"Go warm up," he snaps at Inui, who drops his data notebook in his haste, and
Tezuka immediately whirls after Fuji, seeing red for the first time in what he
knows is years. "What," he calmly attempts, "was that?" 
 
Fuji's shoulders are high and stiff, his expression openly nervous, but Tezuka
doesn't care. Tezuka is probably going to kill him. "Tezuka--"
 
"No." At some point, he grabs Fuji by the collar of his uniform and shoves him
against the stadium wall--hard. The advantage of his height has Fuji dangling a
few inches, and Tezuka doesn't care about that, either. "You could have won.
Seigaku could have won. Even if you didn't want to play, you should have told
me, but instead you walked out there and said that you forfeited and
immediately gave them the win!" 
 
"Tezuka, I--"
 
"I said no. This isn't just about you!" If you had played and won, Echizen
wouldn't have had to go out there. He wouldn't have had to deal with this. You
ruined everything. 
 
Taka is fairly certain that nothing in the world could make him flinch and give
up as much as the idea of Tezuka furious. Tezuka is fantastic, he’s inspiring,
he’s calm without being cold, and he’s the reason Taka joined the tennis team
in the first place. Talking back to Tezuka would be like slapping his father in
the face.
 
He doesn’t even hesitate.
 
There’s no space between Tezuka and Fuji, so Taka makes space. He’s a big man
even for his fifteen years, and he knows it, putting all of himself in front of
Fuji. “Tezuka-buchou,” he says, voice shaking at the sheer insubordination of
what he’s done, “don’t touch him again. Please.”
 
Fuji looks like something akin to a scared mouse behind Taka's back, complete
with the tell-tale trembling. Tezuka would sic a cat on that mouse. But before
that, he wants an explanation.
 
"Singles Two, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku's Marui by forfeit! Doubles One, Tezuka-Inui
pair versus Sanada-Yanagi pair, please come to the court!" 
 
Tezuka's teeth set themselves into a slow grind, and he says nothing when he
whirls away, not even sparing either of them a second glance. 
 
Fuji's knees wobble, and he clings to the back of Taka's jersey, his breathing
still far from even. "You didn't have to do that," he says, his voice small. "I
deserved it."
 
Taka’s vision spins, and he sinks down to his knees, head in his shaking hands.
“I yelled at the captain,” he whispers, eyes wide and horrified. “I did that. I
yelled at--oh god, I yelled at Tezuka, I told him what to do, oh god.”
 
He might be rocking back and forth a little bit.
 
Fuji gives up, and flops down next to him, back against the wall. "It was
pretty hot," he says, filter gone. "Tezuka is so scary when he's angry. I've
had dreams about that before." 
 
Slowly, Taka turns to stare at him, still quivering a bit. “Are you okay?” he
asks, a shiver going through him at the memory of Tezuka’s burning eyes. “Did
you hurt yourself or something? What did that Marui say to you?”
 
"No. Nothing. I…" Fuji trails off, curling back up against the wall, shivering.
"I saw Yuuta. In the stands. I think Mizuki dragged him here." 
 
“Ohh.” The word means more than that, and now, at least, Taka understands. He
exhales slowly, and raises a hand, then lets it drop lamely to his side.
Touching in this situation seems tricky, and likely to make it worse as much as
make it better. “I’m guessing you don’t want to talk to him?”
 
"I can't even look at him." Admitting that makes him feel sick, like he's
really, really failed somehow, even more so than before, and Fuji looks
hesitantly up, obviously nervous about meeting Taka's gaze. "Taka-san…if I tell
you something, you have to promise not to tell anyone else."
 
At that, Taka actually looks a little affronted. Barring the honest question
about who he would ever tell one of Fuji’s secrets to, the implication…. “You
really don’t think I’m trustworthy?”
 
"That's not it. It's…it's not even my secret to tell, is the thing." But I
can't not tell someone. 
 
Taka looks around, making sure no one is nearby. They aren’t, at least nowhere
close enough to see, though he can clearly hear the referee announce, “Game,
Tezuka-Inui pair! Three games to one!” followed by a shout of “Tezukaaaaa!”
 
“Whatever it is,” he says quietly, wondering vaguely whether there’s something
less awkward he could be doing with his hands, “I already told you, you won’t
scare me away. And I...I don’t think a man should have to say he’s trustworthy-
-you either are, or you aren’t, you know? So it’s up to you to decide whether
to trust me.”
 
"Yuuta came onto me last night." Just saying it makes his stomach give a really
unpleasant lurch. "Apparently, he's wanted to be with me for a long time, and I
never had any idea. Like--really with me. Like he and Mizuki are. He even told
me that he was with Mizuki because he was just like me." Ah, he's definitely
going to be sick. Fuji shuts his eyes, swallowing hard, and sags down the wall
a little more. "It's my fault. I know it's my fault, I…somehow, it just is." 
 
“He--he what?” Taka doesn’t have siblings (a fact for which he’s usually
disappointed, and right now grateful), but he’s pretty sure that’s not as
common as Fuji is making it sound. “Did he--came onto you--did he hurt you?”
He’s a broken record, he knows it, but some things are important, necessary to
find out before the conversation can move on, and making sure Fuji is safe is
the number one priority.
 
"No. I wish he had put me out of my misery, though," Fuji ruefully says. "I
mean, all brocon jokes aside, I'd never…do something like that, you know? But
now I don't know what to do." 
 
Taka frowns. “Do? Why do you have to do something?” He scratches nervously at
the back of his neck, then admits, “I mean, I don’t know anything about this
kind of, uh, situation, but you didn’t do anything, right? So...I mean, he
probably just needs to get over it.” And best of luck to him, because Taka
knows firsthand how difficult it is to watch Fuji, to want him, and to think
that there’s no chance in hell at ever being with him...but be unable to let
the idea go anyway. He’d had two years of it, after all.
 
"He's my little brother, Taka-san. I have to do something. Listen--you know how
you always want to protect me?" Against all logic, obviously. "That's how I'm
supposed to be with Yuuta. But…I don't know how to now. If I'm around him, he's
upset, and I can't give him what he wants, I even thought about it but that
just…" He trails off helplessly, letting his head thunk back against the wall.
"Maybe, if I just did it once, and let him get it out of his system…"
 
"Game, Sanada-Yanagi pair! 4 games all!" 
 
"We're going to lose because of me," Fuji tiredly adds. "Which is just great." 
 
Taka swallows down the initial revulsion that comes with the suggestion, trying
to think about something, anything else...but no, Fuji needs this, he thinks.
He needs to talk about this, and being in a relationship isn’t always laughter
and Fuji eating his sushi and correcting his grip. “I think,” he says
carefully, “that would only work if...uh, I’m not sure how to say this? But...I
mean, how does he want you?”
 
"I don't even know the full extent of it," Fuji admits. "I didn't really want
to know. I don't think it's going to work, anyway, Taka-san, so don't look so
green. I don't think I could go through with it." He draws a knee up to his
chest, setting his chin down onto it. "I bet Atobe knows if there's a balcony
around here somewhere. I could throw myself off of it." 
 
“Don’t say that.” That fierce protectiveness extends even to protecting Fuji
from himself, which is good, because so far that’s been something of a full-
time job. 
 
“Game, Rikkai! Six games to five!”
 
“Listen,” Taka tries again, trying to ignore the score and any excitement about
tennis, because it’s really not that important right now, “whatever happens,
whatever you want to do—”
 
“Just the rest of the match, it won’t take long,” an unctuous voice wheedles,
coming a bit closer. Fuji and Taka are fairly well-concealed by the bleachers,
but only on one side.
 
“I didn’t want to come in the first place!” That, unfortunately, is Yuuta, Taka
realizes, his stomach sinking.
 
“We can go by the benches, you can say hello to—”
 
“That’s never going to happen! I’m going home--ow, ow, ow, Mizuki-san, that
hurts—”
 
"You," Fuji says, grabbing onto Taka's jersey in spite of what he says next,
"need to go." Because he really doesn't want Taka to witness any of this
conversation, and he doesn't even want to witness it, and there's no telling if
Mizuki's going to start talking about restraining orders again and if Taka gets
mad enough, there's going to be more jail time.
 
Taka looks into Fuji’s eyes, then shakes his head firmly. “I’ll stay right
here. I won’t do anything unless you want me to, though.” Or unless someone
tries to hurt you, because that’s never going to happen.
 
You are such a problem is what Fuji wants to say, staring back at Taka with
something akin to both frustration and stupid adoration before he pulls away,
wobbling up to his feet. "I would have thought someone so dedicated to
researching other teams would enjoy a match like this--ah…what was your name
again?" He's not going to look at Yuuta, it's better if he doesn't look at
Yuuta. 
 
There’s a moment of genuine surprise and apprehension on Mizuki’s face before
he quickly covers it, retreating into that slimy demeanor with a little, quiet
laugh. His hand is still up, pinching Yuuta’s ear to keep him from bolting,
with the taller boy bent over and grimacing.
 
“Fuji Shuusuke-kun,” Mizuki says, about to rub his hands together, but no, one
is still busy. How inconvenient, but Yuuta would certainly run if he let go. He
casts a look over at Taka, and pretends for Yuuta’s sake that they don’t both
know exactly why his brother had abandoned his match. “Ah, a lover’s tryst. Far
more important than something as silly as a national finals match.”
 
"There wasn't any need for me to play." Fuji does feel guilty, in spades,
because this is Tezuka's dream, this is Ryouma's worries and fears, but…he's
selfish, and he knows it, and also, there's a little thing called a flight or
fight instinct. "I guess someone from St. Rudolph wouldn't know how that
feels." 
 
“Game and match, Rikkai, Sanada-Yanagi pair. Seven games to six.”
 
Taka winces, and tries to hide it. 
 
“You’re right,” Mizuki muses. “No one from my team could possibly understand
running out on a match so--stop squirming, it’s distracting!”
 
He gives Yuuta a shake, then lets go, glaring at him. “Are you going to stand
there and behave?”
 
Yuuta scowls, looking down at the ground and decidedly not at his brother,
rubbing his bright-red ear. “You said we could go after Singles Two.”
 
“It got interesting. Really, Yuuta, you have no curiosity.” Mizuki looks from
Yuuta to Fuji, then mentally throws up his hands. “Yuuta, go watch the match.
I’ll be back for you soon.” He meets Fuji’s eyes, as if daring him to tell
Mizuki not to order his little brother around.
 
Fuji ignores him, and only looks at Yuuta when his back is turned and he's
hurrying away, and even then, it makes his stomach flip-flop. "Taka-san, can
you please go cheer for Echizen? For both of us?" Please, I'll be fine, you
know that Mizuki couldn't even take down a grasshopper. 
 
Taka gives Mizuki a look that he would usually reserve for something at the
bottom of a very deep trench. “I’ll be right over there,” he says, and hopes
Fuji understands just how fast he can move if he has to. 
 
“What a fine specimen of a man he is,” Mizuki says with a little smile,
watching Taka take to the stands. “Tall, broad, short brown hair, darker skin,
square forehead...we really do have a similar type, don’t we, Shuusuke-kun?”
 
"I'm actually going to pull out one of your teeth and make you eat it," Fuji
calmly tells him. "What do you want?" 
 
The oily smile wavers for a second, then disappears. Mizuki looks around as if
to make sure no one is watching him being considerate, and his body language
changes. The hip comes un-cocked, the arms fold, the shoulders go down, and the
head comes forward. It’s exhausting, actually giving a shit about someone
instead of just toying with them constantly, and the strain is wearing on him,
eating away at the pretense whenever he forgets to maintain control. “I wanted
to find out what actually happened between the two of you,” he says, voice less
affected than usual. “He’s been hysterical every time I tried to talk to him,
and I’m really quite sick of cleaning up his vomit.” 
 
Especially since he has an overly-sympathetic gag reflex, so every time he
hears retching, his body feels compelled to add to it. Highly inconvenient and
messy.
 
Fuji wonders if he's supposed to feel sorry for Mizuki, but he doesn't. Only in
one regard, and that's that apparently Yuuta calls out his name when Mizuki's
fucking him, but then again, Mizuki is fucking his little brother, and that
kills all pity. "If you really cared about him," Fuji says without batting an
eye, "you would lovingly clean up his vomit all the time."
 
“I don’t feel the need to prove anything to you,” Mizuki lies. “I just want to
know if I should bother trying to get him to talk to you, or if your
relationship is a lost cause from now on.”
 
Pathetic, that he’d been so affected. It had been so easy to use Yuuta, to
manipulate him into everything Mizuki had wanted, and it had been a rush to be
right about him.
 
That rush, of being able to play the younger boy like a particularly well-tuned
flute, had disappeared the first time Yuuta had let him see just how fucked-up
he truly is inside. Mizuki had been playing with his puppet’s strings, sure--
but he isn’t the one who’d tied them there.
 
Fuji wonders if this garners an actual conversation. He doesn't think so, but
he's here now, and really tired, and sick to his stomach and honestly wants to
go watch Ryouma's match. He'd so much rather be focused on tennis, on winning,
but--"I don't know what to do," he finally says, his shoulders sagging, briefly
shutting his eyes. He doesn't want to admit this to Mizuki. He doesn't want to
admit this to anyone. "I can't give him what he wants. I won't. So I don't know
what to do." 
 
Mizuki gives him a long, inscrutable look, then nods slowly. “Go watch your
first-year’s match. I know you’ve thrown away my number, but it’s in your cell
phone. I’ll meet you tonight, late.”
 
That sounds very unappealing. "Why? So you can tell me how horrible of a
brother I am at length?" 
 
Mizuki rolls his eyes, and gestures around at the stadium. “Would you rather
talk about your very particular brand of familial closeness here?”
 
"You assume I ever want to talk about it." Fuji sighs, shrugging. What does he
have left to lose, anyway? "Fine, so long as it isn't a talk about how you can
be more like me to appease him."
 
Mizuki’s lip curls, and he huffs out a breath. “I do hope you won’t mind if I
refrain. I like to think I am a great deal more tolerant of certain things than
the next man, but….” He spreads his hands. “Even I have my limits, whether that
is a surprise to you or not.”
 
"It is a surprise, thanks." Why, why, why are you dating him, Yuuta; he's
awful, he's the worst. He's just like me. "I'll see you tonight." 
 
The way that sentence makes Mizuki laugh quietly to himself is a very good
reason why they should never meet, and Mizuki disappears back to the stands to
grab Yuuta. “Until tonight, Fuji Shuusuke-kun.”
 
***** Echizen vs. Yukimura *****
"Sorry, Tezuka." 
 
That begs the question of why Inui is still talking to him. Tezuka doesn't
glance up when he drops down onto the bench, a towel slung around his
shoulders, arm throbbing. Psychosomatic? He'd usually say yes, but right now,
he doubts it. Sanada's shots hurt, and after essentially playing against both
Sanada and Yanagi by himself--
 
"Tezuka." 
 
And now Fuji is back, looking more subdued than usual, somewhat huddled into
his jersey, and Tezuka forces himself to glance up and act like a captain for
five seconds at the very least. 
 
"I'm really sorry." 
 
"There's no point in dwelling on it now," he dully says, and his eyes slide
away to Ryouma instead--nervous, but not entirely the jittery mess that he had
assumed he would be. 
 
Ryouma, for his part, finds himself oddly relieved at Tezuka's loss. It's not
just me that can't win against Sanada is the thought that firmly echoes in his
mind, but at the same time…Yukimura isn't Sanada. 
 
Also, Tezuka's loss means that he does have to play after all. 
 
Ryouma tilts his head back, glancing up at Kintarou, who sort of is dangling
over the railing of the bleachers. "You could join Seigaku's team right now,"
he suggests, knowing Kintarou's going to take it really seriously, and that's
funny. "And play Rikkai's scary captain so you and I could play instead." 
 
"Oi, don't tell him things like that! He's gonna believe you!" Kenya hisses. 
 
“Yeah!” Kintarou, unfortunately, is just as gullible as his team seems to
believe. He leaps down from the bleachers and grabs Ryouma’s jersey off of the
chair, tugging it on with a grin as he runs onto the court. “Yukimura! Come
have a match with me, if you’re not scared!”
 
The referee looks somewhat startled at the appearance of an unscheduled player
in a Seigaku jersey. “The Singles One Match will begin,” he announces, a little
doubtfully.
 
Ryouma sits back down, rather pleased. 
 
"Echizen." Tezuka wants to kill himself more than usual. "You realize this
grand scheme of yours isn't going to work."
 
"But what if he wanted to transfer like, right now. What are the rules?"
 
"Echizen. You need to become Seigaku's pillar of--"
 
"I'm just asking. For a friend."
 
Sometimes, Tezuka is rather strongly reminded of the fact that Echizen Ryouma
is 12 years old. He supposes not all 12 year olds were like him, and building
cabins in the dead of winter. "Please go play your match."
 
"It's fine," Yukimura calls over, and Tezuka really, really wishes that he were
dead. He would like it more if Yukimura didn't get these kind of jokes. "It's
not like the bench coach gets a chance to go and warm up, so this'll do!
Touyama Kintarou, wasn't it?" 
 
Something about the force of nature that is Yukimura Seiichi gets through to
the referee, and he nods. “Ten minute break! Players, warm-up!”
 
“Yahoo!” Kintarou does a flip onto the court, brandishing his racquet at
Yukimura. “Yeah! Touyama Kintarou! And I’m the one who’s gonna knock that rice
off your head!”
 
Behind him somewhere, he can hear the familiar sound of Shiraishi sighing.
Shiraishi sighs at the weirdest things.
 
"Uh huh," Yukimura says. Rice. That's a new one. "Let's play to one point,
then." 
 
For some reason, Ryouma looks even more pleased than he did before. 
 
"Echizen," Fuji says, dangling over the bleachers a little. "Is that your new
boyfriend?"
 
"Shut up, Fuji-sempai."
 
"Your taste is lacking."
 
"Shut up, Fuji-sempai."
 
"Isn't he a little high strung for you?"
 
"Shut up, Fuji-sempai." 
 
Tezuka wonders if Atobe has performed that background check or not, and also,
how Yukimura Seiichi can be so fucking calm and keep delaying a match that will
determine who wins or not. Wouldn't it be better to just get it over with? 
 
"I played him for a solid six hours last night," Ryouma says triumphantly. 
 
"Great." Because Tezuka loves hearing that his ace is exhausted. 
 
“Coffee for you,” Atobe says firmly, pressing a cup into Ryouma’s hand. “And
medicine for you,” he says, pressing a couple of unmarked white pills into
Tezuka’s hand. They’re aspirin, but with the words scraped off, and his beloved
Kunimitsu is so vulnerable to the power of suggestion. Atobe’s seen him “high”
off of a single tablet of ibuprofen before. 
 
Kintarou whirls in the air as if he doesn’t need to land, laughing and leaping
and hollering, and Atobe silently passes Tezuka the report. “Ryouma,” he says,
trying to be somewhat politically correct, “are you actually...interested in
the Touyama boy? I’ve had a chat with his Captain, you see.”
 
Ryouma blinks up at Atobe, huddled around his cup of coffee and obviously not
quite getting it. "Interested?"
 
Tezuka swallows both tablets dry, and tries not to cringe at the report in his
hand. Why couldn't Ryouma decide to like someone at least a bit smarter. 
 
Ryouma's gaze flickers to the match, though he pointedly only watches Kintarou,
not Yukimura, because Yukimura still makes something tense and unpleasant twist
up in his belly. It's hard not to watch every precise return, though, and
Ryouma secretly wishes he had been returning Kintarou's shots with that much
control. "Why were you talking to his captain? We just played tennis a
little." 
 
Atobe isn’t entirely sure what to say about that, except that it’s not normal
to show up exhausted and clinging to a stranger as if he’s the only lifeline
you’re ever going to get. Instead, he shrugs. If Ryouma wants to make weird
mistakes, he’s really already made the worst one. He doubts anything Touyama
Kintarou does could compare to Fuji Shuusuke. “The phrase ‘as a box of hammers’
came up,” he does try, but hell, Ryouma’s right--the kid can play tennis.
 
And then it happens.
 
Atobe sees it out of the corner of his eye, the way Kintarou stumbles, the way
his shot almost goes out because of it. He sighs, and stands, patting Tezuka on
the good shoulder. “Won’t be long now. The boy is lost.”
 
Tezuka wants to ask where did we go wrong, why does Echizen like this one but
more important is the way that Ryouma tenses up and sits up and watches, now
openly nervous. 
 
"He can't get the yips. He's…" Too good, it must be something else. 
 
"Everyone does, eventually," Tezuka quietly says, and Ryouma swallows the last
of his coffee in one gulp.
 
"There we go!" Yukimura just has to sound so cheerful when he finally hits a
cord ball and sends it neatly toppling over, far too close to the net for a
less-than-coherent Kintarou to reach in time. "Ah--careful, Touyama, don't fall
down." 
 
Tezuka glances over to Ryouma to tell him to get ready, that he'll be fine
(even if he probably won't), but Ryouma's already gone, racquet in hand,
trotting out to the court and grabbing Kintarou by the arm to steady him.
"What," he says underneath his breath to Atobe, "inspired him to like that one
so much." 
 
“Clearly, we’ve gone wrong somewhere,” Atobe says with a tragic little sigh. He
looks at Tezuka’s face, and no, those stress lines are no good at all. He sends
off a few text messages, one to Tezuka’s mother (in his phone as Kaachan), one
to his pilot, and one to the caretaker at his summer home in the Alps. Yes,
that should do nicely to take care of those wrinkles before they become
permanent. Ah, he shudders at the thought.
 
On the court, Kintarou’s hand fists in Ryouma’s jersey, eyes wide and unseeing.
“N-no,” he mutters, frowning as he stumbles, leaning against Ryouma, “let me
keep going, I can--I can do it! Where’s the ball? I can do it,” he insists,
even as his hands are shaking so badly he nearly drops his racquet. “Just a
little more, I can do it, I can do it for Koshimae!”
 
"I told you he was scary," Ryouma mutters, slinging an arm around Kintarou to
better steady him and taking his racquet from him before he can drop it. Ugh,
he doesn't like this. He was hoping that it was all a fluke, that it wasn't
always like this--but apparently, it is, and there's that feeling of dread
clinging to him anew, especially when Yukimura drifts back over to the
bleachers and seems content to casually chat with Sanada for the moment. "It's
fine, Kintarou. Just don't make me carry you off the court. You're heavy." 
 
Strong arms lift Kintarou into the air, even as he mutters again, “No, I can do
it! I can play, I can still—”
 
“Kin-chan,” Shiraishi says, kindly, “it’s time to let Echizen have his match.
Come sit with your friends.”
 
It’s probably a mark of how shaken Kintarou is that he turns his head, burying
his face into his Captain’s shoulder instead of protesting further. Shiraishi
gives Ryouma a gentle smile, hoisting Kintarou onto his hip with one arm,
patting Ryouma on the shoulder with a bandaged hand. “Good luck in your match,
Echizen. Yukimura Seiichi likes it when his opponents give up. Don’t make him
too happy, ne?”
 
“Ochibi! You can do it! Do your best!”
 
“Don’t lose, Echizen!”
 
“Good luck, Ryouma-kun!”
 
No, bring him back, Ryouma petulantly thinks, stopping himself before he can
lift a hand up and kind of grab at the back of Kintarou's jersey (it's his own,
because the weirdo stole it, but…). He draws in a deep breath, yanks his hat
down instead, and stalks up to the net. 
 
Yukimura, as per usual, is all smiles. "I'll never really understand how you
all can play with hats on. Don't they get in the way?"
 
Ryouma scowls. "You play with that stupid jersey on your shoulders."
 
Yukimura straightens it for good measure. "At least it doesn't get in the
way." 
 
Ryouma glowers at him, mentally vowing to knock that thing off because Kintarou
couldn't and that's not fair, and whirls on his heel to head back to the
baseline without offering Yukimura a handshake. If he knows how much I'm
shaking right now, I'm done for. 
 
"Singles One, Seishun Gakuen's Echizen versus Rikkai Dai Fuzoku's Yukimura!
Echizen to serve!"
 
Just remember what it was like to play with Kintarou. Remember what it's like
to play with Atobe. I'm just as fast, just as good, no, I'm better, I'm--
 
His first serve is sent screaming over the net--and then back, just as fast,
just as hard, slicing by his ear and leaving his breath to catch in his
throat. 
 
"Love-15!" 
 
I can turn this into a war of attrition. If I can take him to a tiebreak, like
Atobe-sempai--
 
"There it is, the twist serve!" 
 
Stop calling my attacks, this isn't a manga.
 
"Love-30!" 
 
If it were a manga, it wouldn't be a very satisfying one. 
 
Atobe is on the verge of asking Kabaji for a Valium. This is more than
nervewracking, this is Ryouma, this is their child. A quick sideways look to
Tezuka shows he’s not alone in feeling this, and it’s not easy to keep from
shouting out advice, encouragement, and other useless phrases.
 
That doesn’t stop Seigaku, of course. It also doesn’t stop Kintarou, as soon as
he manages to shake off his yips. His voice is one of the loudest in the
stands, and Atobe doesn’t miss the way he turns his head to the side sometimes,
burrowing deeper into his stolen jersey. 
 
There’s already a slump of nerves to Ryouma’s shoulders, and Atobe wants to
cringe...until he sees Ryouma’s face. 
 
“Oshitari,” he calls, turning to his other side. “A million yen on Echizen.”
 
"You're nuts," Oshitari snorts, leaning forward to better talk over the growing
din. "Whatever was bugging Yukimura against Kabaji the other day isn't
bothering him here." 
 
"Game, Yukimura!"
 
"See?" Oshitari smugly says. 
 
"Echizen losing his service game right off the bat…" Oishi worriedly trails
off, sinking down into his seat. 
 
"He's done that before," Fuji says with a little shrug. "Don't stress about it
yet." 
 
From what Ryouma remembers of their match late at night in Tokyo, Yukimura's
serve isn't anything special. He's right, of course, but that doesn't make it
any easier to control Yukimura's returns, which are much more vicious in their
own way, considering how they gnaw at his nerves and…
 
His vision briefly goes out of focus, and he breathes in a deep, ragged breath,
gritting his teeth and forcing his mind to come back. 
 
"15-love!"
 
"30-love!"
 
"40-love!"
 
A thought flickers through Ryouma's mind, and he spares a brief, fleeting
glance up into the stands at Kintarou, just in time for the next ball to rocket
past him. 
 
"Game, Yukimura! 2-0!"
 
"Che," Ryouma mutters, yanking on his hat, and his toe scuffs the ground as he
stumbles. He can feel Yukimura watching him, fucking analyzing him, and while
that makes him nervous, he's noticed something. It's just time to test it.
 
The serve he hits over has a wobble to it. It's not focused and clear, like he
can't focus on it, like he can't really connect with the ball, and the return
of it--softer, bored, less of that sharpness and mastery--is something that
proves he's right.
 
If he fakes he has the yips, Yukimura's not going to play like he needs to give
them to him. Now, to get points…that's going to take some luck, but he can do
this. Ryouma stumbles for the next ball, but hits it, much to Yukimura's
obvious surprise, and it smacks the top of the net before toppling over, just
inside of the right line. 
 
"15-love!" 
 
Atobe hisses out a breath in something like sympathy. It’s a lucky shot, that
much is obvious, and damn, but it’s a good thing he doesn’t need that million
yen. Oshitari will probably blow it all on romance novels and read them to his
cousin over the phone.
 
Come on, Ryouma. You can snap out of it.
 
“Ochibi…” Eiji whispers, gnawing on his lip, fingernails digging into Oishi’s
arm.
 
All around the stadium, people sit tensely, watching, nervous, fatalistic. All
except for one person, who just laughs. “Nice one, Koshimae!”
 
“Kin-chan, I don’t think he can hear you.”
 
“NICE ONE, KOSHIMAE!!”
 
Tezuka has to tear away his eyes away from the match at hand--because his heart
is twisting up in his chest and he wishes he were dead ten times over--and just
look at Atobe. Where did we go so, so wrong. 
 
"He means that he literally can't hear you, dumbass," Zaizen mutters, rapidly
thumbing through the next stage of his phone game. "That's what happens.
Would've happened to you, if you kept playing." 
 
"Oi, Zaizen, if you don't put that up, I'm gonna smack you," Kenya threatens,
and Zaizen begrudgingly pockets his phone. Kenya slaps his ass anyway. 
 
"15 all!"
 
You'resoloud, Ryouma dimly thinks in Kintarou's direction, taking in a slow,
calming breath before he hits his next serve. Hitting them deliberately slower
than usual isn't fun, but it seems to be making a dent on Yukimura's
willingness to be so calculating when he plays. That's what he needs. Another
hurried fumble for the return, and he hits it--luckily--right down the center
of the court, Yukimura's backhand missing it by a hairsbreadth. 
 
"30-15!"
 
"Hmm." Fuji leans forward, chin in one hand. "Echizen's being cute."
 
"You're so weird sometimes, Fuji-sempai," Momoshiro mutters, gripping the
railing of the bleachers tightly. 
 
"Yes. But I'm also not wrong." 
 
"Eiji, you're drawing blood, please stop." 
 
“Game, Echizen! One game to two!”
 
Eiji’s nails retract like claws when he stands, cheering wildly. “Yeah! Ochibi,
FIGHT!”
 
“KOSHIMAE!!!! YOU’RE DOING—”
 
“Kin-chan, I’m going to make you wait from two stadiums away and he’ll still
hear you.”
 
A bottle of water makes its way into Yukimura’s field of vision. Niou still
looks tense, angry, disappointed, guilty, and disgusted, crouching next to the
bench as the players take a break. “He’s faking.”
 
Yukimura's eyebrows raise, and he lifts a hand to take the bottle of water. He
refuses to guzzle it--he feels good, he firmly tells himself, if not a little
sore. It's just hot. "You'd know a lot about that, I suppose." 
 
He's not really done being mad yet, apparently. A glance to the stands gives
him a good reason to hold firm to that, because Yagyuu's face is still on the
ground in a permanent bow. Good. 
 
“Yeah. I would. And I’m better at it than he is. I’m shitty at tennis but I’m a
good fucking liar, so take it from a liar.” The bitterness in Niou’s voice is
palpable.
 
"You're good at tennis." Yukimura gives up, and dumps the rest of his water out
over his head, shaking it off like a dog afterwards. "You're awful at people,
and that makes me really sad."
 
"Players, resume! Yukimura to serve!"
 
Yukimura's eyes follow Ryouma as he makes his way back to the court--unsteady,
but not overly so. There's still a marked degree of control there, and Yukimura
sighs, irritated that Niou is right. 
 
Fine, then. 
 
It takes more effort to make his serve something faster and more brutal, but
he's tired of this game already. He wants to be done with it. He wants to win,
to have his trophy, because no other team's name belongs on there, and he's
tired of this brat--
 
"15-love!" 
 
"Yukimura-buchou's mad," Kirihara nervously mutters. 
 
Ryouma dives for the next serve, obvious seeing it clearly, and Yukimura yanks
on his jersey, straightening it on his shoulders. 
 
"30-love!" 
 
"Play me outright, or just go ahead and forfeit, boy," he flatly orders, and
Ryouma stiffens, his grip visibly tightening when Yukimura serves again. 
 
"I," Oshitari announces to Atobe, "am going to buy so many romance novels when
I win this bet." 
 
"40-love!" 
 
Tezuka shuts his eyes. "Atobe, do you have any other narcotics?" 
 
"40-15!" 
 
Tezuka's eyes open again, and Ryouma's chest is heaving, his face smeared from
dirt as he picks himself up. "I played someone better last night," he declares,
wiping his face and smudging dirt more over his nose in the process. "Your
movements are pretty bad, Kami no Ko-san." 
 
A little thrill runs down Tezuka's spine. "Never mind," he mutters underneath
his breath, leaning forward slightly, trying not to be intensely amused when
Yukimura rips his jersey off and throws it into Kirihara's face. 
 
"40-40!"
 
"Advantage, receiver!"
 
"Game, Echizen! Two games all!" 
 
"How much," Tezuka asks very seriously, reaching over to grab Atobe's knee,
"did you work with him when it came to stamina." 
 
“Enough to beat Sanada that way.” Atobe’s eyes are a little wider, lighting up
now at the sight of Ryouma standing up, fighting back. “I never dreamed
Yukimura would be well enough to play, but he’s never been fond of long
matches. Kunimitsu...if he can hold on…”
 
He has a chance.
 
Kintarou, for his part, fumes with jealousy. Whoever Ryouma had played last
night must have been really good, maybe the best.
 
Eiji, Momo, and a reluctant Kaidou start following the first-years in their
cheers, chanting Ryouma’s name more enthusiastically as the match goes on. The
banners flap above; National Tournament Final Match.
 
“Rikkai!” Sanada bellows, every muscle in his shoulders corded to the point of
breaking. “I don’t hear you! Yagyuu, get up and cheer or I’m going to kick your
face through that dirt!”
 
"Game, Yukimura!"
 
"Game, Echizen!"
 
"Four games all!" 
 
"Five games all!" 
 
"Are you kidding me," Momoshiro whispers incredulously, and hurriedly leans
over the bleachers to toss Ryouma a bottle of water--then a second one, when
the first one becomes a makeshift shower. "Echizen, you're already drenched,
don't make it worse!"
 
"Do you have any idea how hot it is, Momo-sempai," Ryouma groans, flopping down
onto the bench and just throwing his hat down, giving up on wearing it. His
face is flushed red, and sweat is clinging to weird places--like his eyelashes,
which makes it pretty hard to see at times. Just two more games. If I can just
win two more games… 
 
Ah, he's dizzy, though. Playing Yukimura isn't just a physical game, but a
mental one, and constantly being on guard like that makes him tired in ways
he'd never thought he could be. 
 
"Atobe-sempai." He leans his head back, peering up at the other boy. "You make
this look a lot more stylish than it really is." 
 
Atobe hands over a microfiber towel, wiping gently at Ryouma’s face. “I make
everything look more stylish than it is,” he says, in what sounds from the tone
to be a consoling statement. Then he leans down, close to Ryouma’s ear, and
adds, “You are making it look dreadfully arousing, though.” 
 
He’s not making it up. The tenseness of his muscles, the sweat dripping from
him, and above all, that fierce, determined light in his eyes...yes. This is
the Echizen that Atobe had wanted to reach out and touch.
 
“You’re kicking his ass, Koshimae!” Kintarou sounds delighted, hurling himself
down to the bench next to Ryouma, wrapping an arm around him and squeezing
hard. “There’s no one better than you at tennis! You’re making that big gorilla
spit out his teeth!”
 
Sanada, on the Rikkai side, is standing behind Yukimura, wiping his forehead,
snapping harshly at first-years that aren’t moving fast enough with sports
drinks. “You have him on the run,” he says, confident as only he can be, even
when he can feel Yukimura trembling from the exertion. “He can’t last much
longer, not against the Child of God.”
 
Hearing Sanada isn't all that easy over the weird, dull roar in his ears. "Just
two more games," Yukimura mutters, exhaling a long breath when he looks
skyward. When was the last time he started counting games like that? Ah, that's
awful. Just two more, two more, two--
 
"You've got this, Yukimura-buchou!"
 
"Come on, Captain, you can do it!"
 
"Invincible Rikkai Dai! Always win, always win, Rikkai Dai!" 
 
Right, now for standing up. 
 
Yukimura wobbles for a split second, catching himself with his racquet. His
legs burn, because no amount of endurance training over the past three weeks
makes up for disuse over a period of eight months. His entire back feels like
it's on fire, and squaring his shoulders pulls and tugs at muscles that feel
like they're wrapped into little knots. 
 
Two more games.
 
It's way too hot.
 
"You'd think," Yagyuu mutters, the first thing he's said that isn't apologizing
and cheering for awhile, "that they'd postpone this courtesy of the heat." 
 
"It's not going to be any colder tomorrow," Jackal wearily points out. "It is
what it is, I guess." 
 
"You're both being lame!" Kirihara snaps. "For Yukimura-buchou, it doesn't
matter! Come on, cheer louder!" 
 
"Players, resume! Echizen, to serve!"
 
Yukimura is fairly certain the little shit throws a wink off to the sidelines,
and he briefly wishes something horrible on whoever is dating the brat. 
 
"15 all!"
 
"30 all!"
 
"40 all!"
 
"Advantage, receiver!"
 
Every damned match, Yukimura thinks in palpable frustration, wiping sweat from
his eyes, his chest heaving, his grip white-knuckled. Why?
 
"Advantage, server!"
 
"Game, Echizen! 6 games to 5!"
 
Yukimura hates the way his heart sinks, knowing this has to go to a tiebreak
now if he wants to win. 
 
When the game count reaches six games all, and the tiebreak begins, Sanada’s
heart sinks, too.
 
He knows that cocky placement of Echizen’s step, and he knows the way he’s
squaring up before serving. He knows it, because he’s played it--not in the
Kantou, but a few weeks ago. It hasn’t been there the whole time, but as soon
as the words tiebreak were spoken, it had come out.
 
Sanada’s eyes burn over the court, and sure enough, there is Atobe Keigo,
sitting next to the Seigaku team, leaning forward and far too concerned for a
rival captain. That bastard has tutored him!
 
Yukimura is strong. Yukimura is graceful, accurate, intense, and everything
that a man should ever want to be--but his strongest point is not stamina.
Technique, mental strength, and to some degree speed--Sanada would put Yukimura
up for those against any tennis player in the world, up to and including
Federer, and he’s only a little blinded by pure, loving devotion. 
 
Briefly, when he sees the look on Niou’s face, he even stops wanting to murder
him. This is your fault, he thinks,and Niou knows it without hearing the words.
But at least you’re as terrified as I am.
 
“Fuck winning,” Niou says, quiet and dangerous, eyes locked on Yukimura. “Come
on, Boss, just walk out of there.”
 
“COME ON KOSHIMAE! JUST TWO MORE POINTS!”
 
“32-33!”
 
“54-55!”
 
“67 all!”
 
Atobe feels like he’s playing, or running a gods-be-damned marathon. His heart
is in his throat, and he dispenses with pretense, clinging to Tezuka’s sleeve.
“He’s going to win,” he whispers one moment, and the next, “He’s going to die!”
 
There's sweat in his eyes, down his neck, matting his hair to his head and
leaving him feeling like he's drowning. Breathing in deep doesn't help, but
hitting the ball does, and Ryouma simply gives into the urge to throw himself
full body into every single swing, because that gets the ball over. 
 
"Come on, Echizen!"
 
"Yukimura-buchou, just two more!" 
 
"75-74!"
 
Tezuka just has to sit back for a moment, disbelieving, as out of breath as
Atobe is next to him, and he can't help but point out, a laugh almost in his
voice: "He's already doubled our record." 
 
"80-81!"
 
"One more, one more, one more, one more--"
 
It's the same thing repeating in Yukimura's own head, when he arches back to
serve. 
 
One more. 
 
He tastes sweat, blinks it hard off of his lashes, the slipperiness of his
racquet in his own hand annoying and distracting. His hair won't stay out of
his face, his knees refuse to bend enough, and the ball just doesn't connect
well with his racquet anymore. That's not my fault. The strings are done, I'll
switch after this if I need to.
 
"Fault!"
 
There's a slew of whispers when the ball hits the net, and on the other side of
the court, Ryouma just shrugs, rocking back on his heels. 
 
"Rikkai's captain can't even serve anymore!"
 
"He's done for--"
 
Yukimura's teeth grind. 
 
"It's fine, Captain! Come on, one more point, one more point!"
 
I know that already, Iknow.
 
"Double fault! 81 all!" 
 
"Yukimura-buchou!" 
 
Back to square one. That's what this whole match feels like, and it's surreal.
Yukimura draws in a slow, deep breath, and that hurts, too. Sweat drips down
his spine, stinging, and he twists his arm briefly back to make sure he's not
bleeding. He is, but not enough for the referee to see. Good enough.
 
Right. Progress. He always likes to see progress in everything, but there's
none of that here, not now, not ever--
 
His knees wobble, his head pounds, and that's definitely the ground that he's
suddenly on. His stomach flips, and he only barely keeps his breakfast down
when he rolls onto his back, chest heaving. 
 
Getup, Seiichi.
 
Except getting an elbow underneath himself doesn't work, and his stomach flips
again, his vision blurring. Just a few more minutes, damn it, I can do this. 
 
“YUKIMURA!”
 
In the future, Sanada will never remember whether it was his own voice, Niou’s,
Kirihara’s, Marui’s, or all of the team together. 
 
It’s all of the team together that charge onto the court, ignoring the referee,
ignoring the tiebreak and the score and Rikkai’s third consecutive win. They
crash into each other, seven men headed to one point, and no one even notices. 
 
It’s Sanada, though, that gets his arms under Yukimura, lifts him bodily, feels
the odd way Yukimura is both tense and limp at the same time, and holds him
protectively to his chest. 
 
“Rikkai’s Yukimura, forfeit. Game and match, Seigaku’s Echizen!”
 
The roar of delight from the blue and white side of the arena can’t match the
roaring in Sanada’s ears, and he touches Yukimura’s feverish cheek. “Yukimura.
Seiichi, talk to me, say something!” There’s a car waiting for them, waiting to
take them to the cabin on top of a mountain, and none of it means anything if
Yukimura has ripped himself open.
 
Kirihara, still clutching Yukimura's jersey--now, rather tear-soaked--worriedly
points out, "S-Sanada-fukubuchou, he's bleeding--"
 
"Am not." There's a mental disconnect even when he's heard the game call, when
he's heard Seigaku's cheering. Yukimura can see--albeit through a sort of
blurry filter--the whole of Seigaku's team rush the field, grabbing Echizen up,
tossing him in the air--"Put me down," he firmly orders, one trembling hand
pushing against Sanada's chest, "and let me play."
 
"Tournament doctor or ambulance?" Jackal hushedly asks Sanada, not entirely
sure of how much a scene they should be causing when Yukimura's still
conscious. 
 
"This year's winner of the Boy's Junior High Tennis National Tournament,
Seishun Gakuen!"
 
"You'd think they could turn the volume down or something," Kirihara mumbles,
sniffling. 
 
“Ambulance,” Sanada says firmly, when he sees that Yukimura still isn’t
entirely aware that they’d lost. He attempts to set Yukimura onto his feet, but
there’s no tension in him that says he can carry himself, and Sanada picks him
back up again immediately. “Seiichi,” he says, willing his voice to be steady
for Yukimura, for all of them, “it’s over. You fought bravely.” He ducks his
head for a moment, feeling the tears spill down his cheeks, and looks around at
his team, dredging up determination from a place he hadn’t known he had. “We
all fought bravely. Line up!”
 
Then again, compared to the idea of Yukimura dying, this doesn’t seem nearly as
bad as he’d anticipated.
 
Even Tezuka’s face flushed with happiness doesn’t induce the same kind of rage
he’d been expecting, not when Yukimura is half-conscious in his arms and, of
course, he had beaten Tezuka earlier...which is not important right now, he
reminds himself.
 
Kirihara looks all the world like he wants to start booing Seigaku and their
happy faces, but for once, he thinks twice. Seeing his captain lose--seeing how
he is right now, worse by the minute, now mostly limp in Sanada's arms…it's a
shocking, weird slap to the face. "Sanada-fukubuchou," Kirihara hurriedly says,
tapping him firmly on the shoulder. "Jackal-sempai is calling the ambulance,
you go out to meet it, I'll get the medal and do the ceremony stuff, I'm next
year's captain, I should be responsible." 
 
"Hey, Koutei-san." 
 
There's a collective raising of hair on the backs of all of the Rikkai
regular's necks when Ryouma approaches their little throng, and he actually
hesitates, lurching his weight back away from them. "I just wanted to shake his
hand," he awkwardly, huffily says, scuffing one toe against the court. "And
yours, Sanada. I forgot, last time." 
 
Sanada moves carefully, arranging Yukimura over one shoulder so he has a free
hand. First, he claps Kirihara on the shoulder, strong and proud. “You’ll be a
good Captain,” he says, and means it.
 
Then, though it takes all his pride, he nods to Echizen Ryouma, holding out his
hand. “We had a good match,” he says finally, glaring at any of his team that
want to say anything else. He knows without asking that Yukimura isn’t exactly
capable of shaking hands right now, and instead says for him, “He’ll shake
yours the next time you meet him on a tennis court.” He swallows hard,
realizing for the first time that this is the very last time they’ll be here,
here at the Junior High National Championships, and clears his throat. “Keep
going higher,” he says, and heads for the edge of the court and the road
beyond.
 
***** Kintarou & Ryouma *****
It's something of a madhouse after the trophy is deposited into Tezuka's hands,
after Taka has the flag and nearly kills them all with it, and trying to make
everyone hold still for the pictures is an act of the gods. 
 
"Everyone!" Oishi announces. "Taka-san's father wants to host our celebratory
dinner!"
 
Immediately, Ryouma is bored. He doesn't want to eat, he wants to go and do
something.Maybe more tennis, not sure. Side-eyeing Atobe is a good start,
though he's chattering away with Tezuka like no tomorrow, and Tezuka is hugging
that trophy like he's never going to let it go. 
 
Fuji, too, is distracted, hooked underneath Taka-san's arm, or on his shoulder
to keep him out of the crowds at times. Everyone seems to have forgotten about
the weird forfeit thing, and when there's a whispered word of it's about Yuuta,
that sort of ends any and all speculations about whether it was necessary or
not. It probably was. It was Fuji. 
 
Atobe seems like the better option. Ryouma slowly trots over and grabs the back
of his jacket. "Atobe-sempai, are you going to eat with everyone, or…" 
 
Atobe grimaces slightly, and he ruffles Ryouma’s hair, pulling him into a one-
armed hug. “You were magnificent. Even my glorious self was awed at your
prowess.”
 
Then he sighs slightly, and disengages. “But we have a plane to catch. And I’m
not sure…” He looks at Tezuka, his beautiful, proud, beloved rival, glowing
with a well-earned victory, and his chest clenches so hard he can barely
breathe. He raises an eyebrow, masterfully faking control and his eyes dart to
Ryouma. “I don’t suppose…?”
 
"I could come, too," Ryouma immediately supplies, and Tezuka, distracted
temporarily by Oishi going on about tournament statistics, about how they've
made history at Seigaku, only then glances back to the two of them.
 
"Ah," Tezuka says, "no." 
 
Ryouma immediately pouts. "Why not? Where are you going, I could go, it would
be fun--"
 
"Echizen, not today."
 
"But--"
 
Ryouma's eyes flicker over to Fuji again--nope, attached to Taka-san, god help
that guy--and he huffs, rocking back onto his heels. "But I won," he says,
petulantly. It actually still seems pretty weird to think that he won, after
he'd been scared for so long. All the more reason he deserves a reward, to be
honest. "Atobe-sempai, please?" He might have drawn out a couple of those
syllables longer than necessary for cute factor. 
 
Atobe feels himself wavering. Damn, but he is not strong when it comes to
Ryouma, or saying no to him. “Kunimitsu,” he begins, but at the look in
Tezuka’s eyes--heated, possessive--he rethinks what he was going to say, and
switches tactics. “Kunimitsu, you can’t leave him unhappy tonight--he’s just
won you the National Championship. We can’t go until he’s taken care of.”
 
Tezuka exhales a long, weary sigh. "You say this as if I want him to be
unhappy," he mutters, shoving up his glasses. "What do you expect me to do?
Echizen, where's that redheaded friend of yours?" 
 
Ryouma blinks, then shrugs. "Dunno. I haven't seen him since I won." He feels
like he needs to stress that a little more. Maybe then people will get the
point. 
 
Shiraishi is strong, but Kintarou is strong and determined, and Shiraishi
simply can’t keep hold of him forever. He might tear his shirt a bit when he
finally gets away, pinwheeling his arms to catch his balance, ducking to avoid
being snatched up again with gentle words of he’s with his team, he doesn’t
want to see you, dumbass, you have to let him have his moment.
 
That’s stupid. He can’t steal time!
 
Kintarou isn’t sure how many of the bleachers he hits on the way down, but it’s
not many, and pretty soon he’s careening into Ryouma, sending them both to the
ground. “You won! You kicked his ass, Koshimae! I knew you would, there’s no
one cooler and stronger than you! Ahh, you’re like a manga hero! You need a
catchphrase to say whenever you kick the villain’s ass because you’re so cool!”
 
"…You still have lots more to work on?" Ryouma dryly suggests, his face pressed
firmly into the court. He doesn't seem entirely inclined to protest about it.  
 
"Problem solved," Tezuka deadpans, and calmly grabs Atobe by the wrist to haul
him away. "See, you aren't needed here." 
 
“That’s an awesome catchphrase! Hey, hey, who were you playing last night that
was so strong? I bet I’m stronger! I’m gonna be the strongest guy you’ve ever
played, Koshimae!”
 
Atobe hesitates for one more second, then decides that quite simply, he doesn’t
want to get in the middle of it, and Ryouma is smiling, so whatever. “Let’s get
the hell out of here,” he suggests, taking Tezuka’s hand and running for the
waiting limousine (and later, the jet, and finally the cabin in the Alps).
 
"…I was talking about you, idiot," Ryouma grouses, slowly attempting to get to
his feet again. "Let me up, you're really weirdly heavy. Do you have to go back
to Osaka tonight?" 
 
Kintarou’s face clears when he hears that, and drags Ryouma up to his feet.
“Nope! We’re staying another night in the hotel! Do you wanna come stay with
us? There’s an ice machine, I think.” No, he’d gotten lost on the way to the
ice machine. Maybe it doesn’t exist. “Zaizen snores, though, and you need a lot
of sleep after that awesome battle!”
 
"I'm not tired." Weirdly, he's not, and sleep is the last thing on his mind.
Tennis is better. Maybe running. Not eating sushi, though, that's dumb. "And
I've got a better idea." Ryouma grabs Kintarou's hand, and drags him back
through the crowds before finding Shiraishi, and tugs on the back of his
jersey. "Shitenhouji-buchou, can Kintarou spend the night at my house? I'll get
him to the train tomorrow." 
 
“Yeah! Can I spend the night at Koshimae’s house? He lives in a bell with a
cat!”
 
Shiraishi’s eyebrows raise. “Ah, not to put too fine a point on it, Echizen-
kun, but...are you sure about this?”
 
“Let him go, Kurarin! How dare you stand in the way of true love?”
 
Ryouma stares up at him. "Why wouldn't I be sure?" 
 
"Two dumbasses in love, that's just gre--" There's a resounding slap. "Stop it,
Kenya-sempai." 
 
“Please, Shiraishi? Please, please, please, please—”
 
“Fine, Kin-chan.” Shiraishi winces a little at the absurdly high-pitched noise
that comes out of Kintarou’s mouth. Last night had been restful. “Echizen-kun,
I hope you’re better at making sure he gets to Tokyo Station than he is. Noon
tomorrow, don’t be late.” It would be hard to be worse at directions than
Kintarou is.
 
Firmly, Chitose puts a hand on Yuuji and Koharu’s shoulders before they can
complete their plan of stuffing Kintarou’s pockets with condoms “just in case.”
 
"That's easy. Come on, Kintarou." Ryouma grabs him by the arm--firmly--and
hauls him off. "Oishi-sempai, I'm going!"
 
"Eh? Where are you--"
 
"I've got a date."
 
Everyone on the team sort of freezes up. Inui's notebook comes out. 
 
"Echizen," Oishi slowly says, "wouldn't you rather come and eat sushi with all
of us?"
 
Ryouma immediately looks bored. "We do that all the time."
 
"It seems like everyone is going off on romantic ventures tonight," Fuji says,
half-wistful, half-predatory in the general direction that Tezuka and Atobe had
left in. 
 
“Not everyone,” Kaidou mutters. It’s everywhere that he’s surrounded by pairs,
god.
 
Taka looks around to make sure that no one is watching, then leans down to
whisper, “I can carry you off on one after sushi, if you don’t mind?” 
 
“Koshimae deserves the best food in the world!” Kintarou says, almost
accusingly. “Hey, Koshimae! When we’re done eating we should play tennis!” 
 
“Ochibi, you just got done with a huge tournament,” Eiji says, eyeing the wild
child attached to his “baby” with some concern. “Hmmm….don’t you want to come
out with us to Kawamura Sushi?”
 
Ryouma just sighs. "Are you all gonna be weird if I don't go?" he grumps,
looking over at Kintarou. "Do you want to eat sushi?"
 
"Echizen, don't be like that!" Now Momoshiro is on him, too, and that makes
Ryouma growl. "Come on, we're celebrating the most amazing victory of all time!
I don't think there's ever been a longer match played in the history of the
tournament--Inui-sempai, look that up!"
 
"I'm busy. Kaidou, I wonder who is considered the acting captain right now with
Tezuka absent--you, or Oishi…hmm."
 
Fuji's pleased, breathy little "Taka-san…" makes Ryouma roll his eyes as much
as Momo does, he squirms away, latching onto Kintarou more firmly. "My sempai
are dumb."
 
“Definitely Oishi-sempai,” Kaidou growls, and hisses a little, though it’s at
least half in a pleased way that Inui-sempai had the idea that it could be him.
 
“I love sushi! Mm, but takoyaki is better, I’m gonna take Koshimae out for
takoyaki someday!”
 
Before leaving with the rest of his team, Shiraishi hangs back long enough to
slip three 500 yen coins into Ryouma’s hand. “I heard you were going out,” he
explains quietly. “Sorry, it’s all I have with me.” Then he ruffles Kintarou’s
hair, and the rest of Shitenhouji heads off to the hotel.
 
“Oishi,” Eiji says urgently, tugging on Oishi’s sleeve, “do you think he knows
what takoyaki means?”
 
"I don't know," Oishi hisses underneath his breath, suddenly nervous. "Should
we tell them? I think Touyama might know, but you know Echizen doesn't. It's
kind of…obscure…" 
 
“But we can’t tell him!” Eiji tugs on Oishi’s sleeve harder, though he most
certainly already has his attention. “Then he’ll know that we know. Uhh...hey,
Fuji! C’mere, I wanna talk to you!” Fuji will do it. Fuji already knows
everything, and Fuji did Echizen against the Tezuka wall, so Echizen knows
about Fuji.
 
Fuji blinks, drifting closer for a second, but then he realizes that he has
dislocated himself from Taka, and so: "But…Taka-san is over there." 
 
"He's useless, forget it," Oishi frets. "I think maybe we should just do it,
Eiji. We can't just keep him in the dark."
 
“Uh...I know!” Eiji beams. “Make Kaidou do it!”
 
"Kaidou? No way! He'll just hiss and make it weird," Oishi says with a shake of
his head. "Ahh, if only Tezuka were still here, he'ddo it." 
 
“No he wouldn’t!” Eiji argues. “He’d freak out and tell Echizen to become the
pillar of support, and you know it. Go on, you know Kaidou knows what it
means,” he says meaningfully. Kaidou lives in a glass closet.
 
Oishi exhales a long, exasperated breath, and looks worriedly over at Kaidou
before steeling himself and walking over. "Kaidou. I need you to do something
for me." Lowering his voice, he explains: "I need you to tell Echizen what
takoyaki means." 
 
Kaidou’s face seizes up, his glee at their victory instantly transformed into
something guarded, nervous, and he lets out a low hiss. “I...don’t know what
you mean, Oishi-sempai.”
 
"Kaidou," Oishi patiently says, clapping a hand onto the other boy's shoulder,
"I need you to tell him. Blame it on Shitenhouji's homo brigade or something,
but I know you know, so do it." 
 
Kaidou turns slowly purple, then ducks his head in agreement. “You owe me,
sempai,” he mutters, then slinks over to Ryouma, not meeting his eyes. “Oi.
Echizen. I need a word about next year’s team, privately.”
 
Ryouma blinks up at him, then sighs, dislodging Kintarou for a minute. "Fine.
But can it be quick? I'm hungry and Kintarou wants takoyaki or something." 
 
Ugh, Oishi-sempai really owes him. Besides, Kaidou is pretty sure they’re all
barking up the wrong tree as far as trying to save Ryouma is concerned, though
he keeps that knowledge to himself for the moment. “Yeah, it’s quick. Listen,
Echizen. You’re American, so I have to ask. Do you know what it means to go out
for takoyaki with a guy?”
 
Another slow blink, and Ryouma immediately looks sort of put out. "Is this some
weird sex thing?" 
 
“It’s a homo thing,” Kaidou growls. “I don’t know if he knows,” he says,
jerking his chin towards Kintarou. “If you don’t want everyone thinking you’re
a homo, stop him from saying you’re going out to takoyaki.” There, it’s out,
and maybe if he’s lucky, they can end this conversation without Ryouma asking
him,How do you know that, Kaidou-sempai? Hell, maybe he’ll just think that
everyone in Japan knows. Yeah, that’s what he’ll say.
 
There's a short pause, and Ryouma leans in closer, face impassive. "Kaidou-
sempai. I am literally getting him to spend the night with me so I can have sex
with him. I think I can handle some homo takoyaki. Maybe you should ask Momo-
sempai or Inui-sempai out for some, too." 
 
Kaidou stares blankly at Ryouma for a moment. Then, uncharacteristically, he
snorts out a laugh, and punches Ryouma on the shoulder. Weird fearless kid. 
 
It sort of makes him lonely, for some reason, when he slinks back to the rest
of the group. “He knows,” he mutters to Oishi, and when Kintarou leaps
immediately back onto Ryouma, he hisses again. “Think they both do. Leave ‘em
alone, they know exactly what they’re doing.”
 
Oishi spares them another, worried glance before looking over to Eiji. "Your
baby is growing up," he tiredly sighs. "Apparently. How are we supposed to
handle this?" 
 
“It’s gross and I hate it,” Eiji says immediately, then adds in a whisper, “But
I’m not so mad that we won’t do stuff tonight, since we won.”
 
Kaidou hates everyone on his team that can’t properly whisper. He’s also pretty
sure that everyone on his team is getting laid but him. Momo has a girlfriend
every week, Inui sneaks off to see that Rikkai guy, Ryouma is going out for
takoyaki, Tezuka is off in Atobe’s expensive something, Fuji is Taka-san’s
girlfriend, and literally everyone knows about Eiji and Oishi’s “secret”
relationship.
 
"Oi."
 
It's Zaizen that taps the back of Kaidou's shoulder, looking as bored as ever.
"Koharu-sempai and Yuuji-sempai sent me back," he says wearily. "You're invited
to takoyaki or something if you wanna come." 
 
There's a wolf whistle that comes from somewhere.
 
“Welcome to Kawamura Sushi!” Taka dons his headband the minute they enter the
restaurant. “Dad, table for eight!”
 
“Seven,” Eiji says, counting quickly.
 
“No, we have Ryouma’s friend with….hey, where’s Kaidou?”
 
"He gave up," Ryouma says.
 
"What?" Oishi asks, baffled.
 
"We're not sitting at the Fuji table," Ryouma tells Kintarou, dragging him
away. 
 
Dinner is good, as far as that goes, though Kintarou is pretty sure that it
could be better if they were eating things that weren’t raw. When Ryouma says
sushi, he really means sushi, and not the rolls at the store with tuna and mayo
stuffed into rice. This is actual raw fish, the kind his mother likes but his
father agrees is slimy, but Kintarou is hungry and eats it all anyway.
 
There’s no one as cool as Ryouma. His sempai all seem to know it, and Kintarou
glows with pride—that’s his Koshimae, somehow. He’s not sure exactly how, yet,
but it’s definitely his. 
 
It gets even better when Ryouma pays for the meal without blinking, then
snatches Kintarou up and drags him off to the bell and cat shrine again. “Whoa,
it’s even bigger tonight! Or wait...yeah, there’s stars out, that’s it!”
Kintarou’s eyes are wide, looking at the huge gates, the expansive grounds.
“Wow, Kenya told me everyone in Tokyo lives in a shoebox! You must have won a
contest or something!” It makes sense, of course. Ryouma is the coolest, so he
must live in the coolest house.
 
Ryouma gives him a briefly exasperated glance, and opens up the main door to
the shrine-turned-house. "I lived in an apartment in New York, but not here. I
dunno how Oyaji got this place, but I don't wanna know, either. I'm home," he
calls into the house briefly, toeing off his shoes. "Come on, Kintarou, we'll
just go to my room." 
 
“Oi, oi, brat, didn’t you have a tennis match today?” Echizen Nanjirou saunters
out into the living room, wearing a yukata and slippers and nothing else.
“How’d you do?”
 
Shit, there’s a priest in Ryouma’s house! Kintarou flinches, then bows deeply,
searching in his pocket before pulling out a 5-yen piece, setting it on the
ground, then clapping twice like he really should have before they came in.
 
“Eh?”
 
"Kintarou, don't bother," Ryouma wearily says, nudging him with a socked foot.
"That's just my dad. Who can't even remember," he darkly adds, glaring over at
his father from underneath his hat, "that it was National Finals today."
 
“Oh, was that today?” Nanjirou asks, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t
worn a disguise, sat in the back row, then immediately snuck away afterwards.
“Hey, it’s your fault for not reminding your old man. How’d you do?”
 
“He’s the best strongest coolest player in all of Japan!” Kintarou says, eyes
shining as he squeezes Ryouma’s arm. “He beat that Yukimura so bad they took
him away in an ambulance! No one in the world is cooler or stronger!”
 
Nanjirou isn’t trying too hard not to laugh. “I see you, uh, brought home a
souvenir. Do I need to put a cot in your room? Or a leash?”
 
"Shut up, Oyaji. Of course I won." Ryouma sighs, and starts attempting to drag
Kintarou past his father and down the hall. "Kintarou's good at tennis and we
might go play later, so don't be weird and hog the court all night." 
 
“Ah-ah-ah,” Nanjirou says with a grin, stepping deftly in front of them to the
side. “How do I know he’s not some crazed killer? I should probably go a round
or two with him.”
 
Ryouma's eyes narrow, and he folds his arms, scowling up at his father. "No
way. He's mine, I'm not letting you play him." 
 
“Ooohh, is Ryouma in love?” Nanjirou laughs. “Should I make you boys leave the
door open all night? Careful, boy, my pervert son will eat you all up!”
 
Kintarou stares at Nanjirou, then looks at Ryouma. “If I beat him at tennis
will he leave us alone?”
 
“Oi! Don’t be just as rude as my brat!”
 
"Oyaji, you're the worst and I hate you," Ryouma mutters, yanking on his hat to
hide his blush and grabbing Kintarou by the arm to haul him bodily down the
hall. "He'll never leave us alone, let's just go to my room." 
 
“See if I bring you snacks! Ungrateful wretch!”
 
Kintarou ignores the strange priest man, and closes the door behind them, then
looks at the door, opens it again, and closes it. “Whoa, you have a really
thick door! And...wow, is this all your room? How many brothers and sisters
sleep in here with you?”
 
Ryouma turns the lock, and shoves a chair in front of the door for good
measure. Not that it'll do much, but still. "I'm an only child," he answers,
shrugging off his jersey and leaving it on top of his tennis bag. "Karupin
sleeps in here with me, though. He hogs the bed."
 
“My dog does that, too,” Kintarou says knowingly, and flops down on Ryouma’s
bed. “That’s really squishy! Ahhh, Koshimae, you were so cool today against
that scary Yukimura. Are you still all sweaty? I was going to come give you a
towel, but Shiraishi made Gin sit on me.”
 
"Not really. I mostly dried off." Kinda gross, though, but whatever, it's just
sweat. Ryouma flops down next to him, rather pleased that he's still getting
congratulations over his victory. "I was pretty cool, wasn't I." 
 
“The coolest!” There are almost real stars in Kintarou’s eyes. “Everyone says
no one can beat Yukimura, but I knew last night that wasn’t true. No one can
beat you and me, Koshimae!” 
 
He flops to the side, laying his head on Ryouma’s chest, hugging him close.
“When I played him it felt like someone switched the world off,” he says, voice
dropping several octaves, and for the first time, it sounds as if he’s actually
started puberty after all now that he isn’t yelling. “I thought I was dying.”
 
"…That happened to me before." Ryouma tosses his hat off to the floor before he
curls up, finding Kintarou surprisingly comfortable to lie against like this.
He's warm, rather like Atobe-sempai is, though minus the fancy cologne. That's
not necessarily a bad thing. "That's why I didn't want to play him again," he
admits. "I've never been scared of tennis before, but when I played him…" 
 
He trails off, slinging an arm around Kintarou's hip. "I'm glad you played that
one-point match with him. I'm sorry it was really scary, but it kind of made me
want to beat him up." 
 
“It doesn’t feel like tennis,” Kintarou complains, and snuggles closer,
burrowing determinedly into Ryouma’s side. “I’m glad you showed me you could
beat him, otherwise I’d be scared to play him again.” He props his head up on
Ryouma’s chest, grinning. “You make me not scared, Koshimae.”
 
"Don't make it weird. Tennis just shouldn't be scary, that's all." Ryouma butts
his head down into Kintarou's hair, huffing out a breath. "You could beat him.
But you should wait. I wanna play him again first, once he's 100% and all that.
Maybe the tiebreak would go on longer…"
 
“Nn, that tickles, Koshimae.” It’s far from a complaint. “I heard people
talking in the stands. They said it was the longest tiebreak ever, but we went
longer than that last night. I didn’t tell anyone they were wrong.” He shoves
his face against Ryouma’s chest, inhaling. “I wanted to keep our secret. You
smell sweaty.”
 
Ryouma squirms. "Sorry," he mutters, though he's not sorry, and if he didn't
think being sweaty after playing tennis for forever wasn't a turn-on, then he'd
be seriously out of luck. "We can play again later, if you want. If we start
keeping records, we can keep breaking them." 
 
“We’re gonna break all of them, every day.” Then, Kintarou remembers that he
lives in Osaka, and Ryouma lives in Tokyo, and holds tighter, burrowing into
his chest and the nice sweat-smell even more. “Ne, Koshimae? I wanna come to
Seigaku so I can see you every day.”
 
"Don't, our team's gonna be bad next year." It makes him wince to think about
it, actually. He wriggles, slinging a leg over Kintarou's hip. "Your team's
gonna be good. Maybe. Look, what I'm saying is you should stay there and we can
meet up at Nationals again. And I can come and visit and stuff. I'd say you
could come here, but you're bad a trains."
 
“Most trains go too slow,” Kintarou agrees, and stuffs his face into Ryouma’s
neck over his t-shirt. Yes, much better. “And they’re really confusing. Mm,
Zaizen’s gonna be a really bad Captain, Shiraishi says so and all he does is
tell everyone how gross we are and throw glitter. Who’s your captain gonna be?
The lizard man?”
 
"Kaidou-sempai, yeah." Kintarou's mouth is right against his skin now, and
whenever he talks and breathes, Ryouma just has to squirm a little. The problem
is that he just won't stop breathing. Okay, that's phrased wrong, but still.
"He'll be okay. But then it's just me and Momo-sempai and everyone else sucks."
 
“Mm, Kouharu-nee-san and Yuuji-nee-san like your next year captain. I think
they’re gonna play sex games with him tonight.” Kintarou says it frankly, and
snakes an arm around Ryouma’s waist.
 
"Good, he's kind of…" Ryouma trails off, realizing how abruptly blunt the
conversation went, and yeah, that's good. He relaxes almost instantly. "We
could do that, too. I mean, not games or anything, that's weird, but we could
kiss and stuff." 
 
“Yeah?” Kintarou brightens, and he raises up onto his elbows and knees above
Ryouma, looking down at him. “Great! You’ve done it before, right? You’re
probably really good at it, but I’ll catch up to you really fast! I wanted to
practice for you last night, but no one would even though I asked nicely.”
 
"I've done a lot of things before." Yeah, he's really proud of that. He's good
at it, he knows, because otherwise Atobe would have said something. Ryouma
pushes himself up onto an elbow, his nose brushing against Kintarou's. "I don't
care if you're bad at it," he admits, his voice hitching a little, which is
stupid, because he has done this a lot. "I mean, I don't think there's really a
way to be bad at it if you like someone." 
 
Kintarou’s grin is challenging, excited, and not a bit afraid. “Then we’re
gonna be the best at it,” he promises, voice dropping low, “because I’ll never
like anyone as much as I like Koshimae.”
 
His tennis, his smell, his cocky grin, his cool soft hands--there’s nothing
about Ryouma that doesn’t make Kintarou want to do everything with him, and
kissing seems like a great place to start, especially if he tastes like he
smells, like strength and power and tricks and surprises.
 
Kintarou closes the gap between them, kissing the way he’s seen in manga,
tilting his head to the side to press their lips together. It feels a lot nicer
than it had seemed when he’d practiced on a pillow, and he makes a low, hungry
noise deep in his throat.
 
Yeah, that's…surprisingly good. 
 
There's a thrill that slides down his spine, one that was kind of there with
Atobe, but not that much. Atobe's a good kisser, and taught him how to kiss,
and that's good, because right now, Ryouma knows to wrap his hands up into
Kintarou's hair and pull him down and kiss him harder, his lips parting on his
next breath to gently scrape his teeth over the other boy's lower lip. 
 
It's definitely not like with Fuji, who would barely kiss him at all, not that
Ryouma cared. This is just better in every way, because he can wriggle up and
even if the kisses aren't the most precise things, they're good, and insistent,
and needy, and also because Kintarou is warm and the weight of him is always
surprising because he's so solid. Ryouma groans low in his throat, flopping
back, dragging Kintarou with him. "You're not bad," he mumbles on his next
breath. 
 
Ryouma’s lips make Kintarou think things, feel things, he wasn’t even sure he
was supposed to be feeling. They’re new, those feelings, but they’ve been
getting more and more important in the last couple years. Ryouma, at least,
seems to know what he’s doing, especially when he moves his mouth really
interesting ways. 
 
Kintarou knows he has to be squashing Ryouma a bit, but no one is complaining,
so he just lays on him, intrigued by the way Ryouma feels so cool, then stops
thinking about anything at all when teeth are grazing his lips, making him
wriggle. “You get me,” he breathes, leaning down over Ryouma with his eyes
intent, “I’ll get you right back!”
 
His next kiss is deeper, with more teeth, and he copies what he’d felt Ryouma
do--but different, less technique, more pure, natural instinct. Do this, he
usually feels, and this will be the right move, this will feel right. He’d
never thought he’d feel that way in stuff that wasn’t tennis, but then again…
“We can go to more than one point, right, Koshimae?” he asks, lips still
pressed up against Ryouma’s.
 
"This isn't tennis," Ryouma huffs out, his eyes lidded as he squirms, getting
Kintarou between his thighs rather than straddling his hips. It's better that
way, because he likes being able to squeeze his legs around the other boy and
keep him close. "We go until we wanna stop, that's it." Maybe that does sound a
little bit like tennis, though.
 
His hands drag down Kintarou's back, and he fists his hands into his shirt when
he lurches up for another kiss, bumping their noses and kissing him harder with
his next, ragged breath. It's weird, being the one that has all the knowledge
for once, but it's not that much, and Kintarou seems about as eager as he's
always been, so it all evens out. 
 
“Nn, I don’t wanna stop, I wanna keep going!” Probably forever. Kintarou isn’t
sure if there’s an “end” to the way this goes, with Ryouma’s legs wrapped
around his and their lips pressed together, but if there is, he wants to take
the journey again and again. 
 
He’s not stupid, he thinks. He can handle this. This is a body thing, not a
mind thing, and he’s a lot better at body things than he is mind things. Sure,
math is hard and English might as well be more math, but no one can beat him in
any sport he’s ever tried, and sports are just things that bodies do. This is
probably something he can do great with just impressions and instinct.
 
He lurches forward, his hands tangling in Ryouma’s hair. Yeah, that’s good,
that makes him feel strong and powerful and also really hot in his lower belly.
Kisses are supposed to be with eyes closed, he knows, but he has to steal a few
looks, just at the way Ryouma is gasping for breath, at the way his cheeks have
color in them, at the way his skin is so pale and his hair is so dark. “You
have really long eyelashes, Koshimae,” he whispers, and has the weird idea that
he could use his tongue in kissing, tasting Ryouma’s lips and his own tongue,
and he tries it.
 
When Kintarou's hands go up into his hair like that, Ryouma kind of melts,
shivering when he sinks down into the bed and curls his toes into the sheets.
It's stupid, but he likes the way Kintarou's tongue feels when it slides
against his own, even when he normally just cringes at that and pulls at
Atobe's hair to make him stop. 
 
This, though--this is good. 
 
"You can pull on my hair, if you want," Ryouma mumbles between kisses, and he
squirms again, trying to get a hand between them, fumbling at the elastic of
Kintarou's shorts. He doesn't yank them down yet, or stick his hand in them,
but he does grab at the outline of Kintarou's cock, his breath hitching when he
squeezes. "You're really hard." 
 
“Hmm?” Kintarou cocks his head to the side, then grins when he realizes what
Ryouma means. “Oh, yeah, that happens sometimes.” He fumbles for a minute,
breathing heavier than usual even though this isn’t too much exercise, and the
grin widens when he gets a hand up between Ryouma’s legs. “You too, Koshimae.”
The light in his eyes doesn’t burn any less fiercely, but his voice is a little
shyer when he asks, “Do you wanna touch them? I bet we could do it and kiss at
the same time.” God, why hasn’t anyone thought of that before? Kintarou is
pretty sure he’s a genius.
 
Yes, he has chosen wisely. It doesn't matter how weird Atobe or Tezuka or
Shiraishi think this plan was, Ryouma knows that it was perfect. "Yeah. Good
idea," he breathes, his legs spreading a little bit at Kintarou's touch, and
he's already grabbing and tugging on the other boy's shorts to get them off.
"Gimme. And then definitely kiss me more." 
 
Kintarou is really absurdly good at taking his clothes off fast. His shorts hit
the ground next to his racquet, and yeah, he’s pretty into the idea of Ryouma
touching it. “It got a lot bigger this year,” he says, looking down at it as if
constantly surprised, and he grabs Ryouma’s hand, tugging it forward until he
can rub up against it. “Nn, you have a cold hand, but it still feels good.”
 
Then he remembers what Ryouma said about kissing, and he leans forward,
fumbling between Ryouma’s legs while he kisses him again. “You have like,
perfect teeth. Koshimae looks like a movie star.”
 
"You're weird," Ryouma mumbles, but he's far more distracted by Kintarou's
cock, and the fact that it's heavy and hot in his grasp, even more so when he
slides his fingers around it and squeezes. It jumps when he does that, and it's
slick underneath his thumb when he drags that up to rub over the head. 
 
He decides to help Kintarou out a little bit, and squirms, kicking off his own
shorts most of the way. They still end up around one ankle, but whatever, good
enough. "Come here," he breathes, tugging on Kintarou's cock a bit to get him
more between his legs. "It'll feel really good if we rub them against one
another, like you said." 
 
If Ryouma thinks it’s a good idea, it must be a good idea, Kintarou decides,
because everything else has been pretty much perfect. He lays down flush with
Ryouma’s body, even though his mouth goes pretty dry when Ryouma touches him
like that. Ryouma has good fingers, really quick and slender and fast, and
Kintarou knows his own can be just as good if he tries hard.
 
The way Ryouma feels is a surprise, enough that he lifts up slightly onto his
knees and stares at it, cradled between his two hands. His brow furrows, and he
traces a finger all around the head, rubbing it with his thumb, and then slides
his hands down from tip to base, fascinated. “You don’t have a, a thing,” he
mentions, startled. “No skin. Does it feel the same?”
 
"Uh huh." Hard to really think and process when Kintarou is touching him, but
somehow, Ryouma manages. He growls underneath his breath all the same, digging
his hands into Kintarou's back to get him close again, because he's warm and
they're both a little sweaty again and that's really good and feels nice.
"Everyone's in America's is…ah…like that. Doesn't matter, still feels good." He
grabs at one of Kintarou's hands, guides it so that he's wrapping his fingers
around both of them, and Ryouma's breath hitches at that contact, his tongue
flicking out to wet his lips. "Your hands are bigger," he explains, eyes
lidded. "Feels good when you're grabbing them both like that, right?" 
 
Kintarou is pretty sure he’s on fire just about everywhere.
 
There’s no other word for the heat that courses through him, not when he just
wants to grab and kiss and touch until they both burn up, but he’s not even
sure how he would start.
 
Ryouma knows what to do. Ryouma knows where to put his hand, and he’s right,
that does feel good. “Really good,” he agrees, and his scrambled brain
remembers something Gin had taught him, the Breath of Fire, and he breathes out
slowly and with his chi, letting go of the nervous tension that has him strung
up like a wire.
 
Yeah, that’s better. The nerves die down, and all Kintarou can feel is his cock
next to Ryouma’s, slippery and hard and rubbing together, and even though
Ryouma hasn’t told him to, he starts to stroke them together like he’d do his
own. “Koshimae has pretty skin,” he whispers, hand moving faster when he sees
how good Ryouma looks like this. He leans down and licks a long stripe up
Ryouma’s neck, groaning at how good it tastes. “Hey, if you come on yourself,
I’ll lick that off you too.” He’s kind of hungry, now that he thinks of it, and
Ryouma tastes better than anyone should.
 
At that, Ryouma's breath hiccups, startled by how much harder that makes him
when he was pretty sure he was as hard as he already could be. Now, his cock
just drips over Kintarou's fingers, onto his stomach, and he grabs at handfuls
of Kintarou's hair, shivering hard when the other boy's mouth drags over his
skin like that. 
 
"Soon," he breathlessly agrees, lurching up, getting his thighs tight around
Kintarou's hips so that he can arch his back and wriggle up eagerly into the
touch of Kintarou's hand. His palm is calloused, his grip really tight and
good, and Ryouma's voice breaks on a whimpering sigh when he yanks on
Kintarou's hair, keeping his mouth on his neck because it feels really good.
"Y-you can bite--it's good, if there are marks--"
 
Bite?
 
For a weird moment, Kintarou is fairly certain that Ryouma thinks he’s a
vampire--or maybe Ryouma is one--but he’s a little too grounded in the physical
right now to let his brain take off by itself the way it does sometimes. No,
this has to just be one more thing Ryouma knows about, which means it has to be
good if it’s anything like all the rest of it.  Gently, he sets his teeth to
Ryouma’s neck where he seems to want them, soft at first and then harder, just
relaxing into the idea of whatever he’s doing and letting the body take care of
the rest of it.
 
Ryouma isn’t cold now. He’s more like a blue-burning flame, so hot he just
seems cold, and Kintarou can’t get enough of it. He can hear himself letting
out grunting, growling noises of pleasure, his hips jerking up fast as he moves
his hand, and he gasps, groaning with his eyes shut, sucking and gnawing on
different patches of Ryouma’s neck when he tenses, quivers, slams his hips up,
and spills in more thick, wet pulses than he can ever remember.
 
Ryouma can't remember if he's ever come this hard.
 
Honestly, he doesn't remember much beyond clinging to Kintarou's back, digging
his nails in hard, raking them down the other boy's spine when he finally,
gratefully spills, arching up with a hard, broken gasp. Kintarou's teeth feel
good, his hands are perfect, the way Kintarou grabs at him even better, the way
he comes all over him and leaves a sticky mess between them making him groan
and shudder and twitch up into Kintarou's hand anew--
 
God, he's dizzy. Ryouma sags down into the bed, his chest heaving, his eyes a
little glazed when he peers up at the ceiling, trying to remember what day it
is. 
 
This, Kintarou thinks, is close to the feeling he has when he’s been starving
all day, then eats a huge bowl of food--and somehow, the eating just makes him
hungrier when he’s done.
 
His hand is still tight around them, and it takes an effort of will to relax
it, rubbing off some of the sticky liquid from them before he moves down. He
crouches down over Ryouma, breath still coming fast when he bends, dragging his
tongue over the slick skin of his stomach, lapping and licking up the mess.
More than anything, he likes the way Ryouma’s skin tastes, and the way he
quivers, muscles tensing under the skin at every touch of Kintarou’s mouth.
“Mm, Koshimae is still all sweaty.”
 
"Your fault, this time," Ryouma manages, his voice breaking at the end when
Kintarou's mouth is on him again and ahh, god, he could get used to that. He
sags down, twitching and trembling when that tongue swipes out over his skin,
and shuts his eyes, breathing in deep, dragging a hand slowly through
Kintarou's hair. "You're really good." 
 
“Mm, yeah? Well, you’re the best, so...let’s get better together!” Kintarou
dips his tongue into Ryouma’s belly button, then nuzzles against his stomach.
“We can do it again, right?” he asks, suddenly aware of how little he knows
about this kind of thing. “I mean, I don’t have to go until tomorrow, and
you’re probably gonna taste good all night.”
 
"We can do it again," Ryouma kind of dazedly agrees, sparing a glance at his
door. So long as that stays locked, hell yes. "Just--don't let me forget to set
an alarm for tomorrow, in case we fall asleep or something." 
 
“I usually forget to set my alarm, so that’s fine!” 
 
Kintarou dips his head down again, concentrating now. Ryouma had tasted really
good the lower down he got, though whether that’s skin or the other stuff, he
isn’t sure. Hmm, that’s pretty important to discover. He starts licking, and
kissing a little because it feels good, down Ryouma’s abdomen, down to the
crease where his leg meets his hip, then over between his legs. 
 
Yep, that’s the good taste.
 
“I won’t bite here,” he assures Ryouma, and gives a little lick just where
smooth skin becomes covered in dark, thick hairs.
 
Ryouma's hips jerk reflexively, courtesy of how overstimulated he already is.
"Can't you wait five minutes?" he groans, tugging on Kintarou's hair a little
bit, though he doesn't exactly put much effort into stopping him. The idea of
biting reminds him how much his neck is throbbing--pleasantly, mind, but oh
god, explaining that tomorrow--and Ryouma shivers hard. This must be why Atobe
always wanted him down there. "You're sure it doesn't taste bad or anything?" 
 
Kintarou laughs. “Tastes like you.” 
 
There’s an unspoken addition to that:Everything about you is perfect. He
doesn’t say that much, because there’s a slight feeling that would make Ryouma
do or say something weird, and that’s not worth it, even if it’s really,
honestly, 100% how he feels. “I can wait if you want me to. Just wanted to
taste you.” 
 
He sits up on his heels, unabashedly starting to stroke himself again, already
half-hard. “Is there a rule? Is it like swimming after eating? You gotta tell
me, Koshimae, or I won’t ever learn.”
 
Honestly, Ryouma doesn't get why everyone else acts like Kintarou is so stupid.
Okay, well, he's not the brightest, but if you just tell him bluntly, he gets
stuff just fine and seems to remember it well enough. That's applied to both
tennis and sex things now, so that's a pretty good track record. "Mine's just
sensitive right after," he says, flopping his head back with a long, exhaled
breath. "So you've gotta give me a few minutes. Want me to put my mouth on
yours? I'm good at it." 
 
That idea is enough to bring him the whole way back to hard, and Kintarou
scrambles up, kneeling on either side of Ryouma’s head. “That sounds great,” he
says enthusiastically, and settles back onto Ryouma’s chest, balancing his
weight on his feet and knees so he doesn’t crush the smaller boy. 
 
He wasn’t joking earlier--Ryouma really is as pretty as a movie star, with
perfect pale skin and dark lashes and straight white teeth. His heart thuds,
and some of the silly things Koharu and Yuuji say to each other start to make
sense in the back of his mind as his body thrums in excitement before Ryouma
even moves. “If it’s you,” he says, urgent, quiet, with a smile he feels with
his whole body, “it’s gonna be way better than good.”
 
Weirdo Ryouma wants to accuse him of being for not the first time, but it
doesn't quite make it off his tongue when his heart does some weird, thumping,
twisting thing in his chest. Instead, he just huffs, his face hot, and he
reaches out to grab at Kintarou's cock again, tugging it to his lips. 
 
Kintarou tastes better. That's a good sign already, and it makes Ryouma's own
cock give a needy twitch that's still too much right now. His eyes lid, and his
tongue flicks out, dragging over the tip of Kintarou's cock, his own breath
already more ragged when Kintarou bumps against his lips, already kind of slick
and drippy. 
 
Propping up a pillow behind his own head makes it easier, because he does kind
of want to play a bit more with it than he usually gets to. The taste doesn't
bother him as much, so that's part of it, but also…okay, he's dumb, but
foreskin is cool. Even when Kintarou is this hard and it's all mostly pulled
back, dragging his tongue even near it brings about some pretty enthusiastic
reactions, and Ryouma is all about that. 
 
Kintarou’s breath comes in ragged, eager gasps, and he vaguely remembers what
Ryouma had said about liking his hair pulled. Yeah, he can do that. His hands
fist in Ryouma’s hair, then slide back, short fingernails trailing against his
scalp at the front, grabbing up all the hair there from where it’s plastered to
his forehead with the sweat. It’s almost a handle, and Kintarou grips hard,
tugging him down every time it feels good. 
 
That tongue is wet and slippery and hot, and it feels strangely delicate moving
over the head, teasing under the skin. “More on the bottom,” he says without
thinking, not even realizing he’s pretty much giving orders. When he realizes
it, he mutters an apology, then adds, “it’s more sensitive there, feels--nn,
your tongue is good, I want--I want you to like the way it tastes.”
 
It’s important, somehow, for some reason, even if he can’t figure out why. It
just is, and from the way Ryouma is making those urgent, sloppy, pretty noises,
Kintarou feels himself growing harder and harder with every swipe of his
tongue.
 
Again, Ryouma doesn't get why everyone thinks Kintarou is so stupid, because he
remembers and gets it and just knows things. 
 
He likes being told what to do right here and right now, and he likes it when
Kintarou's hands are in his hair, pulling and keeping his head down. He
breathes out hot and ragged through his nose, grateful for the moment that
Kintarou's not as big as Atobe, because his jaw already aches a little like
this, but…ugh, he likes that, too, especially when he does something Kintarou
really likes and he shoves harder into his mouth. 
 
Ryouma's hands slide around the backs of Kintarou's thighs, nails kneading in
when his tongue wriggles underneath the head of Kintarou's cock. He swallows
hard with the other boy's next lurch forward, shoving down his gag reflex to
swallow again around Kintarou's cock, hoping that Kintarou doesn't think it's
gross that he's drooling and that the sounds he's making are wet and sloppy and
messy. It makes his own dick hard, too, and that's the important thing.
 
Ryouma makes that sound, and Kintarou lets out a whimper.
 
He’s never felt any kind of pleasure like the one wrapped around his cock right
now, and it’s enough to make him shiver with every thrust. More important is
the fact that Ryouma’s mouth is on his cock, is one of the best things he’s
ever felt in his life, and Kintarou can’t imagine anything in the world feeling
better than each sloppy kiss and lick. “You’re so messy,” he whispers, awed,
and his cock jumps in Ryouma’s mouth when he says it. 
 
For a second, he wonders if the gagging noises are bad--but no, he doesn’t
think so. Ryouma is smart, one of the smartest guys he’s ever met, and he’s
definitely smart enough to make it obvious if he doesn’t like something.
 
Encouraged by that thought, Kintarou grabs his hair tighter, and starts
thrusting in little circles into Ryouma’s mouth, feeling that tongue drag over
the bottom just like he’d asked, and he groans. “You--you do like it, yeah, I
can tell you do, that’s why it’s perfect with you—just lemme know when you’re
not so sensitive, I want yours too—”
 
Tellinghim is easier said than done, and even Ryouma's groans and whimpers are
muffled and wet right now, so there's that. There's also the fact that he's
pretty sure he doesn't need his dick touched either way, because just sucking
on Kintarou's is enough to make him hard and to make him squirm.
 
It's all in the way that Kintarou grabs at him, really, the way that he holds
his head down and makes him just take it. He liked when Atobe did that, too,
and it's even better here, when he can fit most of Kintarou in his mouth and
down his throat and not feel like he's completely going to die. His eyes roll
back when Kintarou's cock twitches against his tongue, and he swallows hard,
sucks on him hungrily, and only a moment later does he get two seconds of
reprieve, pulling back with a slick pop and a ragged, panting gasp. "Y…you can
touch it, if you want," he rasps, his voice rough around the edges, and he's
already grabbing for Kintarou's cock again to get it back in his mouth, his
tongue dragging over his lower lip to lap up some of the mess. "But--I can come
just…just with you in my mouth like this, so you don't have to. Hold my head
down, I like it like that." 
 
Kintarou’s eyes go wide. He reaches back, feeling just how hard Ryouma is--
dripping, and quivering, and that makes his mouth fall open for a second. This
has to be some next level shit.
 
“You’re really good at this,” he marvels, and then yeah, Ryouma knows what he’s
doing, so he’ll have it however he wants. 
 
Kintarou grabs his hair again, new handfuls to make sure the old ones don’t get
too sore, and simply shoves his cock into the other boy’s mouth, daring to go
further, all the way until he’s pressed up against his face. His balls ache,
and he pulls his cock out for a moment, urging Ryouma’s face lower. “Can you
suck them? Then you can have it again,” he promises, rubbing needy and
breathless against Ryouma’s face, hands twisted in the thick dark strands of
his hair.
 
Ryouma's eyes flutter, his face flushed hot and his own cock hard enough that
reflex makes him lurch into where Kintarou's tugging him without a single
protest. Kintarou's skin is hot there, too, and he looks up through his lashes
when he gets his mouth where Kintarou wants it, long kisses turned to messy,
wet sucks. "Like that?" he breathes, voice hoarse, his unsteady breathing
making it hitch into whimpers. His nails bite a little into Kintarou's thighs,
because he's so hard that he hurts now, and--"Want--need you back in my mouth,
please, Kintarou--"
 
Kintarou’s mouth goes dry again, and he nods. “There’s no one better than you,”
he whispers again, and the intensity in his face is matched only by the way he
shoves his cock back into Ryouma’s mouth. 
 
This is probably too much, no matter that Ryouma had said yes, had begged for
it, and seems like he’s so thirsty for it that he wants to drink the whole
thing down. Kintarou can’t quite stop himself from thrusting deep into the
other boy’s throat, so fast he can hear his balls slapping against Ryouma’s
chin with every thrust, and his hands are tight in his hair. 
 
He looks back, sees how hard Ryouma is, and switches his grip so there’s just
one strong hand, more than enough to yank his head around. The other grips
Ryouma’s cock, and Kintarou breathes, “Can you do it when I do it? That would
be--so cool—”
 
Whoops, he’s further along than he’d thought, and he can’t muffle a startled
shout when he slams in, bucking against Ryouma’s lips, bruising and battering
them with his last frantic thrusts as he comes deep down Ryouma’s throat, hips
still pistoning enough that he can see foam forming at Ryouma’s lips, some
fluids mixing with saliva and dripping out sloppy around his cock.
 
It's really weird and overstimulating and way, way too much to come two times
this close together, especially when he's trying to swallow and breathe and--
well, generally think. 
 
Easier said than done, and Ryouma effectively gives up. It feels good to do
that, though, to just kind of fall, and he's a shuddering, squirming mess when
he spills, choking on Kintarou's cock at the same time because breathing is
something he'll need to do eventually, and when he finally gets his head to the
side, he's panting, shivering, his eyes watering and every nerve in his body a
twitching, trembling mess. 
 
It feels way too good, strangely enough. 
 
Maybe his brain clicked off at one point or another, he doesn't know. He
doesn't care, either. Ryouma groans, coughing weakly, swallowing again to get
what he can down his throat before he shakily wipes at his mouth, blinking away
the reflexive tears that are trying to escape. "You," he whispers, shutting his
eyes, "need to learn to keep your voice down." 
 
For once, Kintarou ignores him. Ryouma looks perfect, with all the tears and
the drool and the blotchy skin, and Kintarou moves down, taking Ryouma’s face
in both of his hands and kissing him deeply, as deep as he thinks still counts
as a kiss and not sex. He can taste himself, but only superficially. More than
anything, he can taste Ryouma, everything that makes him crazy, makes him
ravenous, makes him want to glue the two of them together and throw away the
solvent. His mouth is searching, promising, and certain in a way that Kintarou
hadn’t even known he could be.
 
When he pulls away, more shaken by that kiss than by everything else they’ve
done, he nods slowly, a tiny smile hovering around his lips. “I’ll be quieter.
You’re just too cool, it surprised me.”
 
Ryouma, head spinning even more, just nods, flopping down with a long, ragged
breath. "S'okay," he mumbles, and he sloppily grabs for Kintarou, trying to tug
him down next to him so they can cuddle up against one another again. "You're
pretty cool, too. I don't want you to go back to Osaka." 
 
“Mmkay. I won’t go.” That sounds like a very good solution right now, Kintarou
thinks, and he wraps his arms around Ryouma, pulling them snugly together. His
eyes start to droop, and he snaps them open, heart thudding. “I almost fell
asleep! Nn, I said I wasn’t gonna sleep so I didn’t miss anything with you!”
But he hadn’t slept at all the night before, and after doing all of that, he
feels slightly as if he’d been hit by a mountain of pillows.
 
And for once, Ryouma is awfully warm to cuddle up against.
 
"We can get up early," Ryouma mutters, and he only pulls away long enough to
flick his alarm clock on before rolling back like a wobbly blob. "And stuff.
That way, it's fine." 
 
If only Kintarou knew that he was the world's worst early riser, and that he'd
never get up early for anyone else willingly.
 
What Kintarou wants is to fall asleep on Ryouma, cuddled up to him, kissing him
a little in his sleep, and wake up long past the time they’re supposed to be at
the station. He’s not real good with trains, anyway.
 
What happens is that somewhere around vague morning time, a loud rattling and
banging comes from the door, and the crazy pervert priest is making noises.
“Oi! Brat! Your alarm is making the cat craaaazy, wake up and turn it off! What
did you do, barricade the door? Do I have to come in the window?”
 
Ryouma groans, growls, hisses, and in general makes a bunch of noises that make
him sound like a cat more so than Karupin. "I hate you, Oyaji," he mumbles, and
flops an arm to the side, swatting at his alarm vaguely until it shuts off. 
 
It's so early. 
 
"Shower," he decides at the first attempt to peel himself out of the bed.
Gross. Also, now he feels the whole of yesterday, which consists of lots of
sore muscles and weird, achy things all around his neck and scalp. 
 
One glance in the mirror means that it's even more of a problem. 
 
"Shit," Ryouma mutters, poking at his own neck warily. Ow. Okay, so that's
never been a problem before. Atobe and Fuji didn't bite like that, so there's
that, but…
 
“Whoa! Those are really dark!” Kintarou sounds fascinated, but also very, very
sleepy when he stumbles into the bathroom, still pantsless, and drapes himself
over Ryouma’s shoulder to kiss one of the bite marks. “I didn’t know it was
gonna look like that.”
 
Ryouma slinks down a bit, but his irritation upon initially seeing the marks is
now decisively mollified. "Neither did I," he admits, frowning in the mirror.
"I dunno how to hide them if they're that bad. Maybe they'll fade in the bath
or something…"
 
“Maybe!” For some reason, it makes Kintarou feel good that neither of them
quite know what to do here; he’s usually the last to know about things like
this, and this seems like something Zaizen or Kenya would laugh at him for not
knowing.
 
“They probably do,” he says, frowning as he tries to think. “I mean, I know
Koharu and Yuuji do a lot of sex, and they don’t ever have those marks.” He
flips the switch on the bath, filling it up and checking the temperature with
his hand, adjusting several times. “Hey, since you’re kind of a cold guy, I bet
you like the bath really hot, right?” He doesn’t, personally, but he can stand
it if it’s for Ryouma, the blue flame guy.
 
"It doesn't have to be too hot; sensitive skin," Ryouma explains over his
shoulder, still frowning in the mirror and poking at the hickeys periodically.
Who can he ask about this? Fuji? No, Fuji would tease him too much. Atobe is a
given, but he's overseas and probably really, really busy with Tezuka-buchou.
Maybe he'll give him a shot, anyway. "Hold on a sec, I need to grab my phone." 
 
He trots back into the bedroom, and finds his cellphone buried in his tennis
bag. He's missed a good dozen texts, mostly continued congratulations, and he
sighs, flipping through them briefly before he quickly sends a message
instead. 
 
To: Atobe-sempai
Subject: help
how do you get rid of like a million hickeys, pls respond asap, i have to go
out in public
 
To: Royal Brat
Subject: oh good lord
Desperately sorry for gaps in your education. Cold metal. Makeup. 1wk minimum.
Good luck hope u had fun.
 
“Whoa, your bathtub is huge!” Kintarou sounds delighted, and does attempt not
to splash too much, lowering himself into the bath and gleefully waiting for
Ryouma. “Ne, Koshimae, I’ve never seen a bath this big that wasn’t an onsen!”
 
“Oi, brat! You better not be expecting me to drive you anywhere! You woke me up
and now you’re ignoring your cousin making breakfast!”
 
"We're going to take a bus to the station, Oyaji!" Ryouma huffily snaps,
worriedly frowning down at his phone. Cold metal means going to the kitchen,
probably. And makeup…uggh, he can't ask Nanako for help there, it's too weird. 
 
He tosses his phone on the bed, giving up. "I've seen a bigger bathtub," Ryouma
tells Kintarou as he walks back into the bathroom, dragging out a couple of
fresh towels to have nearby before he slides his way into the tub. That feels
good, at least, especially when he slowly submerges himself completely. He
comes up for air a moment later, blinking water off of his lashes. "Atobe-
sempai's are huge. It's almost weird." 
 
“Whoa,” Kintarou says, appropriately impressed. He reaches out, brushing the
hair back from Ryouma’s face, and beams at him. “Ne, Koshimae, can you tell me
something? Is this a private thing or an all-the-time thing or an only-once
thing?” It’s important to know--he probably should have asked first, but he
remembers now, and that’s what’s important. “Koharu-nee-chan says Tokyo is
weird about private things being all-the-time things, and I don’t want you to
be in trouble!”
 
Ryouma blinks, his brow furrowing as he attempts to figure out what exactly is
being asked. "It's definitely not an only-once thing," he says, and his heart
thuds weirdly at the thought of that. "I'm gonna figure how much the Shinkansen
pass costs or whatever and visit you and things. We have to play more tennis."
For the rest, though: "It's not just Tokyo that's weird about stuff like this.
I think it's just Japan. If it were America…" he sighs, drawing his knees up to
set his chin upon them. "Anyway. I think it's only good if we tell our friends.
I don't want anyone to be weird about it, that wouldn't be fun."
 
Kintarou lights up as if he’s suddenly been plugged in, and he displaces a huge
amount of water when he lunges forward, wriggling between Ryouma’s thighs as he
comes up to kiss him, deep at first, then once slow and soft. “I don’t want it
to be once only. And I don’t care if the Shinkansen is really expensive, I’ll
run here to see you.”
 
"You can't run all that way," Ryouma protests, but he hides a little smile
against Kintarou's mouth all the same, his arms slung over his shoulders.
"Don't be dumb about it. My stupid dad needs to get me a present for winning
Nationals, I'm gonna make him pay for the Shinkansen stuff." 
 
Kintarou nuzzles into Ryouma’s hair for a second, then dunks him swiftly under
the water. “I did run!” he insists, bringing him up again. “I ran here for the
tournament. I heard you were gonna be here, but I missed the train, so I ran to
Tokyo.” He’s nearly bristling with energy now, and adds, “It just felt
important.”
 
"Uh huh," Ryouma manages when he comes up for air, spitting water and shaking
it all out of his hair with a huff. "You're being weird again. You don't have
to run anymore, I'll just come to see you instead. And you can take me out to
real takoyaki and stuff." 
 
“I would, though,” Kintarou says, pushing the water back from Ryouma’s face,
meeting his eyes intently. “If you don’t come to Osaka, I’ll just run. Even if
you go back to Australia, I’ll run there.”
 
It's not even worth correcting the Australia thing. "Okay, but, you don't have
to," Ryouma firmly tells him, reaching out to grab Kintarou's face. "So don't.
I'll come play tennis with you in Osaka, and it'll be good."
 
“Yeah!” Kintarou kisses him again, then slips under the water himself, hastily
scrubbing off the grime and sweat of the last several days. “I’ll just have to
get you all sweaty with tennis so I can lick that off of your skin,” he muses.
“That would be good.”
 
"Okay, but don't do that in public." 
 
Kintarou nods seriously. “Got it. Ne, just keep telling me what the rules are,
and I’ll get ‘em all someday!” He beams, then grabs a bar of soap, turning
around. “Wash my back?”
 
"Yeah, yeah." At least Kintarou seems to remember what he tells him. That's the
part that matters.
 
Less good is hiking up his jersey's collar as high as it will go to take him to
the station, and praying that no one looks too hard. Why isn't his hair longer?
It would be better right now, at least. 
 
"Koharu! Koharu, look, it's our baby!"
 
"Yuuji-sempai, you're really gross today." 
 
Ryouma has to do a double take, because--yep, that's definitely Kaidou lurking
around grouchily. 
 
With hickeys.
 
And glitter. 
 
Ryouma can't help but smirk, and tugs his hat down a bit. Good. He's not the
only one. "Cheers, Kai~dou~sem~pai." Wheedling out his name always does
irritate him, and that's funny. 
 
Kaidou hisses lower than usual, attempting unsuccessfully to pull up the collar
of his jersey before he catches sight of Ryouma’s own neck. His eyes dart from
Ryouma to Kintarou, and he snorts. “Echizen. If you want to come into the
station with me after these clowns leave, we can shop for scarves. Someone
won’t lend me one,” he snarls, glaring at a good half of Shitenhouji.
 
Kouharu giggles, and flips the scarf around his own neck. “Wear them like a
badge of honor, Bandana-kun! Or...that other nickname…”
 
Kaidou abruptly turns purple. “You said that was just last night!”
 
Zaizen doesn't look up from his phone to quip: "You're gross, too, Kaoru." 
 
"Scarves in the middle of summer are dumb, though," Ryouma protests, listing a
little to the side courtesy of Kintarou's continued clinging. "I don't wanna." 
 
"Is it just me, Shiraishi, or does Kin-chan's new boyfriend look like some
Tokyo high roller?" Kenya hisses underneath his breath, tapping Shiraishi's
shoulder. "I hope Kin-chan doesn't end up like Yuushi, obsessed with this kind
of high society life now that he's been exposed to it--"
 
"I'm from America," Ryouma deadpans. "You know that." 
 
"Even worse! Suspicious. Koharu, you need to like, give him an interview or
something."
 
This wasn't part of the plan. Ryouma starts slowly inching away, thinking that
Shitenhouji is less than good. 
 
“So rude, Kenya-kun!” Koharu cries. 
 
“Yeah, Kenya! Leave Koshimae alone! I’ll throw a car at you!”
 
The way half of Shitenhouji pales says that isn’t nearly the idle threat it
really should be, coming from a 13-year-old just over 5 feet tall. 
 
“Besides,” Koharu adds, eyes glinting behind his glasses, “what kind of
information specialist would I be if I didn’t already know...everything?” He
says the rest with a long wink to Ryouma that is clearly meant to be anything
but reassuring. “I’ll catch you up on the train!”
 
“Just….get on the train.” Shiraishi, courtesy of his team, is fighting a
monster headache. He rubs at his forehead with a bandaged hand. “Kin-chan, say
goodbye to your new friend.”
 
“Don’t wanna!”
 
“Kin-chan, if you don’t get on the train—”
 
“I’ll run back to Osaka! I don’t care!”
 
“Gin, Chitose, please carry Kin-chan onto the train.”
 
Kintarou wants to go for a kiss, but remembers too well that Tokyo Station is
probably not a great place for that. Instead, he squeezes Ryouma’s hand,
hopefully hard enough that he understands just how difficult it is to leave.
“Soon, Koshimae! You’ll come to Osaka and we’ll eat takoyaki!”
 
"Uh huh." Shitenhouji is weird. Ryouma is really sure that he's never going
there permanently. He gives Kintarou's hand a long squeeze all the same, and
after a moment's hesitation, tugs off his jersey to awkwardly shove it into the
other boy's arms. "You wore it all day yesterday, anyway," he mutters, yanking
his hat down. "I'll just say I lost it and get a new one." 
 
There's some weird, high-pitched cooing that comes from god knows well, and
Ryouma wants to die. "Let's go,Kaidou-sempai." 
 
Kaidou takes Ryouma’s arm, steering him away even as Kintarou shrieks, “I’ll
wear it every day, Koshimaeeeeeeeee—”
 
“You don’t want to hang around with those people,” Kaidou mutters, even if his
frown lines look a hell of a lot lighter today than usual. “Trouble, all of
them. They know things.”
 
Ryouma shrugs and tries to hike up the collar of his shirt to hide his really
obviously marked up neck. He also tries not to miss Kintarou already. Stupid.
"I dunno, Kaidou-sempai. You seem pretty happy."
 
“That’s….not the point.” Kaidou ducks his head, and leads him down the long
hallways of Tokyo Station. “Echizen...look, as next year’s captain...listen,
you need to understand one thing about all this homo crap.”
 
The stare Ryouma fixes upon him is really uninterested. "I'm not wearing a
scarf in the middle of summer, if this is where this is going." 
 
Kaidou scowls at him. “No. What you need to understand is that literally no one
on our team thinks anyone knows.”
 
Ryouma blinks up at him. "But they're all really obvious. Like…especially
Oishi-sempai and Eiji-sempai…and, well, Fuji-sempai and Kawamura-sempai keep
making kissy faces at one another, and once, I was in the room when Tezuka-
buchou and Atobe-sempai got drunk."
 
Kaidou shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Also, literally all of them will swear
to you that they like girls, or it’s just a one-time thing. They genuinely
think no one can tell.” It’s an absurd relief, to talk like this the way he
only has twice in his life, once with Inui when he’d been the drunk one, and
once last night, from which he’s still riding a sort of high. “It’s a Japanese
thing.”
 
"…Weird," Ryouma says, shrugging tiredly. That sounds like a lot of work, and
really stressful, and he's not into that. Japan is strange. "But I'm not like
that. It's not like I'm gonna broadcast it, though. I already told Kintarou not
to tell anyone that isn't on his team, which is all full of homos, anyway, so
it's fine." 
 
“Look, it’s not just….” Kaidou frowns. “You do know that you can get in trouble
at school for this, right? Like, expelled? And what it could do to your pro
career?” God, being a captain is hard, and it hasn’t even started yet.
 
"How is anyone at school gonna know?" Ryouma points out. "Kintarou doesn't go
to Seigaku. And I had sex with Atobe-sempai and Fuji-sempai, too, and no one
ever found out. Also, when I go pro, I'm really not gonna care. If they don't
like my boyfriend, then I don't like them." 
 
Kaidou grabs him by the shoulder, making him stop, dragging them out of the
main thoroughfare. Quietly, harshly, he demands, “Name a gay ATP tennis player.
A man.”
 
Ryouma scowls, but thinks, and then shrugs, wriggling out from underneath
Kaidou's grasp. "I'll be the first one, then. I don't care." Even if he has a
point…ugh. No, thinking like that is dumb. Irritated, Ryouma rubs at his sore
neck. "You're making it so weird, Kaidou-sempai. Atobe-sempai never worries
about this stuff."
 
“Wait ten years. He’ll be married. Men like him always do that.” Kaidou takes
off his bandana, rubbing at his head, then puts it back on. “I’m trying to be a
good sempai, Echizen.”
 
"…Atobe-sempai likes Tezuka-buchou a lot, though." The idea of Atobe marrying
anyone doesn't really click at all, actually. Ryouma smacks that thought away
for good measure. "How do you know so much about this stuff, anyway? Are real
homos in Japan just born with innate knowledge, or…"
 
Kaidou jams his hands in his pockets, looking down. “Not everyone has a rich
family to protect them.” There’s more--that he’s not smart like Tezuka, not
brave like Oishi, not set-up in life like Kawamura, that he has one thing and
only one thing that he’s good at, that a good Japanese man doesn’t love
housework and puppies and exercising with other men and wearing women’s
clothing, that there is such a thing as self-preservation, and enough internet
research to accomplish it--but Echizen doesn’t need to know all of that. “In
ten years,” he says finally, “they’ll all be married, because they’re all
better at faking it than we are, and they want to have lives and careers.
You’re good enough to go pro. So’s Tezuka. Tch, he should be having this
conversation with you, not me.”
 
Ryouma's head slowly tilts. "Tezuka-buchou doesn't ever say much, though," he
says matter-of-factly. "And you could go pro, too, Kaidou-sempai. You beat
Kirihara, didn't you? He wants to go pro, he screams about it all the time.
Maybe you could even be a coach in America or something." 
 
Kaidou’s face turns slowly, painfully red, and he ducks his head, trying not to
pass out from the sudden rush of blood to the head. He hisses, and looks around
for a water fountain. “Th-thank you, Echizen,” he chokes out, still blushing
furiously. Not that it’s a dream of his, or anything--to be a trainer, a coach,
with his own gym and facilities, to have players trusting him, putting their
futures in his hands…
 
“Maybe you could--work with me on my English next year.” Anything to get out of
Japan.
 
"Sure. Your grades are already pretty good, aren't they? So you've got a good
foundation. I mean, also, Tezuka-buchou left the team to you, so he obviously
thinks you're good. Kaidou-sempai, don't turn that red, it's weird." 
 
Kaidou scowls, but knows it doesn’t mean too much when he’s still lit up like a
fire hydrant. “Just...ask your dad about Bill Tilden some time,” he mutters.
“And come buy a scarf with your sempai so you don’t get a lot of awkward
questions. Try to remember you’re a national champion. What if one of those
damn reporters puts your photo on the cover of a magazine looking like you do?”
 
"But they all took my picture yesterday." Even still, Ryouma trots after him
with a sigh, grabbing onto the back of the other boy's jersey so that he
doesn't lose Kaidou in the crowds. "A scarf is going to make me look way less
cooler than a national champion should look." 
 
“Those marks make you look like a--well, you know,” Kaidou mutters, and drags
the boy through the crowds to a stall that sells men’s apparel, pointedly
ignoring the one right next to it with all the laces and silks. “And you know
how those reporters are. They could turn up today to do some stupid follow-up
thing. Here, try the ascot.”
 
A thought suddenly occurs to him. "Is this why Tezuka-buchou wears all those
scarves?" 
 
“Like I said,” Kaidou mutters. “They really think no one knows.”
 
Ryouma, unconcerned, flips out his phone and sends a text.
 
To: Atobe-sempai
Subject: withholding information
tezuka-buchou wears scarves because u've been chewing on him, not because he's
stylish. also my neck is still 1 big bruise and why didn't u warn me
 
To: Royal Brat
Subject: Obviously :)
You did not try the metal trick. Also your captain is delicious and I cannot be
blamed. He says you have let your guard down.
 
Kaidou looks at a silk plaid number, then eyes the price tag and sets it back
down. “Ascots have less material,” he growls. “Why aren’t they less expensive?”
 
To: Atobe-Sempai
Subject: rude
kitchen was occupied. my guard wasn't down i was just busy, tell buchou i am
mad at him too
 
"Because fashion," Ryouma grumpily answers. "Just pick out whatever for both of
us, consider it a present from my dad because it's his cash, anyway." 
 
***** Fuji & Mizuki *****
He should, Mizuki realizes far too belatedly, have arranged a meeting place. 
 
Fuji Shuusuke, bitch that he is, will take any reason to lord whatever small
power he has over him. He’ll take that power he has over everyone, forcing
their cooperation, beaming that innocent, perfect smile at them no matter how
treacherous the true person underneath actually is. 
 
It’s what makes them so alike, after all.
 
Mizuki keeps his phone set to vibrate while he tends to Yuuta. It was stupid to
drag him to the game today, though he’d thought that maybe, maybe, seeing his
brother play would have snapped him out of some of this funk he’s been in. It
hadn’t worked, of course. Nothing does except sex, rough and a little alarming,
and Mizuki is increasingly finding himself rather not up to the task.
 
He makes an effort, though it’s more difficult than usual, and Yuuta is more
obvious than usual. It’s with another man’s name in his ears that he makes
Yuuta come, forces it out of him, though not as forceful as the other boy
wants, and puts Yuuta to bed (like a child, like someone that needs him, so
trusting it makes Mizuki sick and not affectionate at all, dammit), and checks
his phone.
 
Still nothing. That bitch.
 
Finally, he loses his patience and texts, because he remembers the number even
if he pretends he doesn’t. He could have dialed any number he’s ever seen from
memory, not that that kind of perfect recall does him much good against a
supposed genius, he thinks bitterly.
 
To: Shuusuke-kun
Subject: Tonight
Before it turns into tomorrow??????
 
Oh, right. He was supposed to meet up with Mizuki, wasn't he. 
 
Considering how the thought turns his stomach, Fuji almost ignores the text and
goes back to huddling underneath blankets and thinking about Taka-san and
tennis and Taka-san. Then there's the reminder that this whole meeting has to
do with Yuuta, and though that still makes him sick…
 
To: Human Garbage
Subject: Re: Tonight
Where? It's late and I don't like you.
 
Irritably, Mizuki remembers being convinced as a child that everyone got one
secret murder. If only his sister had been right.
 
To: Shuusuke-kun
Subject: Re: Tonight
My information says you’re likely to be at that sushi place (=  ｀ェ  ´=) we can
do it at the park around the corner.
 
To: Human Garbage
Subject: Re: Tonight
What the fuck is that face. 
 
To: Shuusuke-kun
Subject: Re: Tonight
It’s a smirk! An angry one! Meet me at the park in 20 minutes!!!!
 
To: Human Garbage
Subject: Re: Tonight
It looks like a chipmunk, but ok.
 
Fuji sighs, pushing himself up onto one hand and wondering if he looks anything
close to suitable for public. It's been a night. "Taka-san, I have to go
converse with some human garbage." 
 
The sated, happy look on Taka’s face vanishes. “No. Don’t go. Please? Or I’ll
come with you, I don’t want you talking to that bastard.”
 
"I'll be back, I'm not going to stay out all night with him." Fuji flops back
down, petting Taka's hair. "I don't want to talk to him, either, but it's about
Yuuta, so I really should."
 
For a brief moment, it looks as if Taka is going to order him not to go, to
simply grab him and capture him and not let him. For a brief moment, he really
wishes he were the kind of man who could.
 
Instead, he relents, and nods. “If you have to, I guess. Should I come and
watch? I can hide in the bushes. What if he has friends, what if they try
something on you to get back at what I did?”
 
"Taka-san, don't be silly. Of course he doesn't have friends, he's Mizuki. Ah,
where did you throw my pants, I think I need those for public interaction."
 
“I hate your pants,” Taka mutters rebelliously, but picks them up off the
ground and hands them over anyway. “If you don’t come home--er, back--in an
hour, I’ll come looking for you, okay? Or text me?”
 
"Don't worry, my phone's coming with me," Fuji reassures him as he gets
dressed, unsure if he should be pleased about this increasingly protective
behavior, or annoyed by it. He decides to be pleased, considering his chest
does weird little tightening things and Taka is just so strong and…ah, no, shut
up, he has places to go. 
 
He probably still looks like he got run over by a truck (good, he'll gloat
about it), but that doesn't stop him from making it to the park with time to
spare, and he neatly seats himself on the nearest bench, idly wondering if
human garbage is good for compost. 
 
God, just the sight of Fuji Shuusuke does strange things to Mizuki--anger,
resentment, jealousy, and a hefty dollop of unavoidable arousal all clash
together until he’s laughing, low and furtive. For a second, he contemplates
asking Fuji if they want to drop the posturing and the insults and just talk
about Yuuta, but that feels too much like admitting a weakness. And that is a
good emoticon, dammit!
 
“Fuji Shuusuke,” he says, stepping out of the shadows--yes, he’d chosen his
location quite well. “I see you didn’t bring the wild animal that obviously
attacked you.” Even the memory of Kawamura makes his lip curl, and he
instinctively looks around, making sure the hulking lump isn’t skulking around
with that delinquent friend of his, ready to finish the job and actually kill
him this time the way his friend had threatened. Maybe someday he’ll fall
asleep without being jittered awake by that memory.
 
"No, I left him leashed at home," Fuji sweetly offers, not even bothering to
stand--not even bothering to look up from where he's checking his e-mail on his
phone, actually. "But even as well as he's trained, I can't leave him alone for
long, so what's this about?"
 
“Ah, not housebroken,” Mizuki says with a sniff, and wavers for a moment before
finally sitting down at the opposite end of the bench. Then, dropping the
pretense, he flatly asks, “What did Yuuta do to you?”
 
"Do?" Fuji glances up at that, his eyebrows raising. "Mostly, he mouth-breathed
on my neck and skirted around the issue of wanting to fuck me for about half an
hour, then cried on my face."
 
Mizuki lets out a long breath. “Good, good.” Then, realizing how it sounds, he
amends, “He can’t really talk about it. All he’s said is that he ruined
everything, he ruined you, he attacked you, and he’s ruined both of your lives
forever. I honestly couldn’t tell whether he’d confessed or whether he’d raped
you. And while I don’t want you to get the wrong idea and think I’d feel sorry
for you,” he clarifies, “that would be a hell of a lot harder to pull him back
from, don’t you think?”
 
"…If you really think Yuuta is actually capable of hurting anyone, then you're
more of an idiot than I thought," Fuji sighs, tucking his phone away. "He's
just upset right now. He'll get over it." That's better than admitting that he
doesn't know how to deal with this and that he can't even really look at his
brother right now, especially to Mizuki.
 
Mizuki stares, all acts dropped for a brief second. “Really? That’s how easy it
is to you?” 
 
Mizuki Hajime knows that he is not a nice person. Honestly, he’s never cared.
But after having Yuuta cry himself sick over and over again, clinging to Mizuki
of all people, Mizuki who is easily worse than the person he’s desperate for…
 
It had been a surreal experience.
 
Fuji shrugs tiredly as he leans back. "Are you upset because you give a shit,
or because someone else pulls his strings better than you do?" he asks,
glancing to Mizuki. "I tried giving him an out, and telling him it was okay,
and--" His stomach flips, and he reminds himself that he's not obligated in any
way to tell Mizuki about any of this. "I even thought about humoring him, just
once."
 
Mizuki flaps a hand, unperturbed. “That would have just made it worse, I think.
Good lord, it isn’t as if he just wants to fuck you, you know.”
 
"…Isn't it, though?" Fuji slowly presses, trying to keep the confusion off of
his face because he really doesn't like not knowing something around Mizuki. It
makes him nervous. Dammit, Yuuta. "Considering all he really talked about was
the idea of having sex with me and calling out my name when he's fucking you."
 
Mizuki glares at him, then scoffs. “As if he ever tops. Dear lord, you’re dense
for a genius.” It isn’t pity that moves him to tell the rest, just...something,
whatever it is, that makes him want Yuuta to be safe and whole again, as soppy
as that sounds. “He said your name when he was asleep a long time before he
said it when I was in him, Shuusuke-kun. And I don’t mean wet dreams.” His
mouth twists. “Nightmares, good dreams, all the same, always calling out for
you. You had single rooms growing up, didn’t you? He told me you always wanted
to sleep in his bed, but he wouldn’t let you. Now you know why.”
 
Ugh. The longer this goes on, the more Fuji feels like he has really, really
fucked up. Normally, he's at least aware when he fucks up, and that's the worst
part of all of this. "He sure tells you a lot of things," Fuji crossly notes.
"I wonder if it's to make you stop talking about tableware."
 
Mizuki smiles thinly. “Maybe it’s because someone is finally listening instead
of simply projecting onto him.” The smile vanishes. “And my taste in tableware
is exquisite.”
 
"At least I project good things onto him. There's nothing good about paisley." 
 
“We didn’t come here to discuss my taste level--my excellent taste level!”
Mizuki snarls, annoyed at himself for letting Fuji Shuusuke get the better of
him again. “I just came here to tell you...leave him alone or treat him right.
Like a real brother, not a doll that you can hug and kiss and touch and squeeze
then abandon.”
 
"What do you think I'm trying to do?" 
 
Ah, whoops. That's a nerve. Fuji really doesn't like it when someone manages to
push his buttons, but the accusation of abandoning his brother is definitely
one of them. He reaches over, grabbing Mizuki by the collar to roughly yank him
closer. "I have never abandoned him," he lowly, dangerously says. "You're the
piece of filth that treats him like he's a doll, so don't you dare tell me how
to deal with him." 
 
“I,” Mizuki grinds out through his teeth, “am the one who’s been nearly
murdered for being with him, and the one who’s been doing increasingly
traumatizing things to get him to try to sleep through the night, Shuusuke-kun,
all because you threatened to have me killed if I didn’t leave him and then go
back to him--and you’re accusing me of pulling the strings here?”
 
"Don't act like you hate it so much. Didn't you like having a little marionette
to play with before?" Fuji releases Mizuki with a shove. "I assumed that you,
of all people, would enjoy having someone constantly pretend that you're me."
It's fine that his stomach keeps twisting into little knots. Definitely. 
 
The look on Mizuki’s face turns ugly. He’s hardly a very physical person, but
he does manage to get very close to Fuji, right up in his face as his
expression darkens. “You bitch,” he spits, “this isn’t about me. I’ve been
cleaning up your mess, and it’s a lot of work! It would serve you right if I
broke up with him right now and let him deal with this on his own! Do you think
he’d come running back to you? Or not? Where would he go?”
 
"Do you think I wanted this to happen? I just found out yesterday that he felt
like this!" Fuji snaps back, his eyes flashing. "Don't think for one second
that I wanted to encourage this or hurt him. The only thing I've ever wanted to
do was protect him, and I can't even get that right." His cheeks flush in
frustration, and he climbs to his feet, putting distance between them again.
"Break up with him if you're so fed up. If nothing you do makes him happy and
nothing I do makes him happy, then--" He cuts himself off, swallowing hard,
reallyhating that he's around Mizuki right now and wondering if he can just cut
his throat or something to make this all go away. It seems pretty logical at
the moment.
 
It’s Mizuki that breaks the stand-off first, looking away with a scowl. “I’m
not going to break up with him,” he admits, as if it’s some stupid secret. “I
only meant that after all of this, you should at least give me the bare minimum
of credit--if I was only with him because he was easy to manipulate, I would
have chosen a much easier target. It isn’t as if I couldn’t.”
 
He could. Has, in the past, but none of them had responded quite like Yuuta.
None of them had been quite so hungry for his touch, had been so ready for his
kisses, had grabbed at him and tried to drown in him the same way.
 
None of them have ever needed him before. Him, Mizuki Hajime. The idea is
preposterous.
 
"I don't believe you." It's a rather weary statement, and there's not much
vitriol behind it. "But I don't care. You're doing less harm than I am, so
whatever." 
 
“Tch. Both of you,” Mizuki mutters, twirling his hair around his finger. “Both
of you Fuji brothers are so content to whine and cry and talk about how
pathetic and damaging you are. It doesn’t take a genius like me to see why the
two of you are so miserable.” He ticks causals off on his fingers. “Yuuta falls
in love with you. You, having no sense of boundaries, squeeze and kiss and pet
him. Yuuta pushes you away, you squeeze him tighter. Finally he snaps, you push
him away for once, and now you both look like you want to kill yourselves. Good
lord, you’re exhausting. Just have him over for that disgusting curry and treat
him like he’s your precious brother again. Though maybe with a bit less
touching.”
 
"That's assuming he'll actually show up," Fuji tiredly points out, "or listen
to me. Or answer my calls or texts. Also, you can't be a genius if you use
horrible emoticons like earlier." 
 
“Why do you have to be such a cunt when I’m trying to help you?” Mizuki snarls.
Damn, but he wishes he were the kind of man who could have a physical
altercation without simply, well, falling down. “My sisters have more balls
than you when it comes to this kind of thing! Just ask him to come home whether
he comes or not so he knows you don’t hate him!” And maybe he’ll stop begging
me to hurt him every night, because that’s all kinds of terrifying that I don’t
know how to deal with.
 
"I already told him I didn't hate him and he didn't listen." Fuji huffs, and
flops back down onto the bench, deciding that picking at his cuticles is a
better past time than thinking too hard about this. "How bad is he that you
actually want to shove him back onto me for awhile?"
 
“He wants me to hurt him.” Mizuki’s voice comes out flat, which he supposes is
better than coming out as shaken as he usually feels before, during, and after.
“He kept saying he killed you. But by all means, stop asking after you’ve tried
once, I’m sure he’s fine.”
 
Fuji gives him a sideways look, and then reaches out to pat Mizuki's shoulder,
maybe-sympathetically. "I'm sure that's very traumatizing for someone as
vanilla as you." 
 
“It’s not--I’m not--anyone would—” Mizuki’s face twists, and he slaps the other
boy, heart sinking when he sees how weak that handprint is. “Are you really
going to stand here and criticize the way I fuck your brother, you piece of
shit?”
 
"Echizen's cat hits harder," Fuji idly muses, shaking it off and tucking his
hair behind one ear. "No wonder Yuuta keeps asking for it, you obviously aren't
getting it right the first time." 
 
“And you’re so good at it?” Mizuki challenges, trying not to shake out his
hand, because ow. “You wouldn’t know what to do any better than I would!”
 
Fuji offers him a very accomodating smile. 
 
Mizuki rolls his eyes. “Prove it.”
 
Fuji picks a second more at one uneven fingernail, shakes out his hand, and
calmly backhands Mizuki across the face with a resounding crack. "Hold on," he
says without skipping a beat, fishing out his phone, "I have to text Taka-san
that I'm going to be later if you want a proper lesson." 
 
Mizuki hits the ground hard. It’s far from the first time in his life, but he’s
fairly certain he’s never seen stars quite like this before. He manages to
catch himself, sort of, on one knee and his hands, and barely manages to
straighten by the time the phone is away again. “You--you hit me! That’s not
sex!”
 
The look on Fuji's face is a mix of boredom and honest pity. Yuuta has horrible
taste. "Get back down there, I was going to use you as a foot rest. You're
right, though; that isn't sex, it's foreplay." 
 
There’s something about the force of nature that is Fuji Shuusuke in a bad mood
that Mizuki can’t help but find attractive. Slowly, he lowers himself down to
the ground again, warning, “I don’t like feet. That’s weird.”
 
"It's not about what you like," Fuji sweetly informs him, and promptly digs his
heel right into Mizuki's shoulder. "You're not getting it, dumbass. If Yuuta
wants you to boss him around and tell him that he's filth and that he's nothing
more than your toy to use, then you do it and you make him happy, because
someone has to." 
 
Okay, that’s seriously uncomfortable. “How could anyone get turned on by that?”
he demands, swatting ineffectually at Fuji’s foot. “Jesus Christ, I’ve never
been softer.”
 
"Listen, everyone has preferences. I'm just telling you what will get him off."
Fuji pauses, shudders, and quickly performs a mental erase on that. "I'm just
telling you what will get people like him off," he says instead. "Make him suck
you off while he's down there or something, call him names, whatever. What did
he want before that freaked you out so badly?" 
 
“Nothing weird like this,” Mizuki grumbles, sitting cross-legged on the ground
and folding his arms. “He just…” Ugh, it won’t do Yuuta any good if he gets all
blushing and maidenly over it. “Normal things. But he doesn’t like them to
stop. A spanking, but no matter how hard--he was so tense, but he didn’t want
to relax, and my hand wasn’t enough.” His hand had hurt for hours, actually,
and that had only been for a few minutes, before Yuuta had pressed the
hairbrush into his hand and looked at him, pleading and tortured. “He wanted me
to leave marks. Deep ones.”
 
God, Yuuta is an idiot. Fuji has to wonder how they ended up being so different
when it comes to things like this. He irritably, tiredly rubs a hand over his
eyes. "People like that get off faster and easier if you do things like this,
though. He--they just don't know it until they try it. Just tie his hands up
with one of your ugly scarves, make him get on his knees, and--" Fuji leans
forward, grabbing up a handful of Mizuki's hair right near the scalp to firmly
pull. "Tell him to get to work, just like that. Pretend he's fucking up and
slap him for it, repeat ad nauseum." He releases Mizuki again with a shove,
shrugging as he pokes him in the chest with one foot. "It's not rocket
science." 
 
The whole idea of it turns Mizuki’s stomach a little. One finger moves to his
hair, twirling it nervously, and he mutters, “That’s not sex. That’s just
cruelty. Why would anyone want that? He already thinks enough bad things about
himself, I don’t want to put more in his head.”
 
"You're making it worse by not doing it, because then he thinks it's weird and
perverted. It's just a game, you idiot." Fuji's head hurts. "Theoretically, at
any rate, if you're just keeping it in the bedroom. You obviously don't really
want to hurt him--someone. Where's the harm in indulging him--someone, dammit,
carefully?" 
 
Mizuki lets out a frustrated noise. “There is really no justice in the world,”
he complains. “Why couldn’t we switch places, and I’ll be the brother and you
be the lover? How does he even know he wants these things? I know full well he
was a virgin when I first had him.”
 
"Remember when I talked about pulling out your teeth? I could kick them out
right now."
 
Mizuki starts to snarl out an answer, but stops at the last second, settling
down onto the ground and not meeting Fuji’s eyes. He takes a deep breath, and
admits, “I don’t know what to do. This is awful and it must be for you, too. If
one of my sisters told me…” He gags slightly just at the thought. “I couldn’t
even imagine.”
 
"You don't have to do anything that he tells you, you know," Fuji points out on
a long sigh, leaning forward to set his elbows onto his knees. "And with
sisters, it's definitely different. Yumiko's a loon, too, but at least she
loses interest quickly." 
 
Mizuki’s eyes dart over to Fuji, startled. Then, a little frown creases between
his brows. “What the hell did your parents do to you?” he asks, stunned.
 
Fuji blinks, then shrugs. "My father shares my wonderful sense of humor, and my
mother is usually in need of a sabbatical. Otherwise, nothing." 
 
“Did you grow up next to a power plant or something? Were they first cousins?”
Mizuki sighs, head dropping down to his hands. “You couldn’t possibly
understand what it’s like to want someone and to just be...not what they want.”
Of course he can’t. He’s a genius, a model, the picture of sly perfection.
 
There's a pause while Fuji thinks. "I guess they did have the same last name
before they got married. I should probably ask about that sometime." Then, he
shrugs it off, sighing as he looks at Mizuki. "You're such an idiot. Do you
really think I've never had a crush on someone and known that it wasn't ever
going to work out?" 
 
“You?” Mizuki laughs, bitter and low. “Who in their right mind could turn you
down?” There’s something of a tamped-down hunger there, mixed with the
bitterness.
 
"Just how hard is your dick that it makes you blind? None other than Tezuka, of
course," Fuji sighs wistfully. "He did throw me against a wall today, though.
That's going to be some great material for later on."
 
“Ah. That does explain why Yuuta is so intimidated by him,” Mizuki muses. Then
he puts a hand in his lap, just to surreptitiously check that Fuji had been
being facetious and he wasn’t actually erect without knowing it.
 
"Is he? Ah, that's sad, because I don't stand a chance at all. Tezuka's
infatuated with Eurotrash." Fuji impassively reaches over and rests a hand on
Mizuki's shoulder. "Look, there you go. Now it's hard." 
 
Mizuki glares balefully up at him. It’s hard to be angry at someone for being,
essentially, just like him, for getting off on the same petty power games that
he always has, and for quite simply being better and more efficient at it. “You
do know that if you ever wanted Yuuta to leave me, all you’d have to do is let
me fuck you.”
 
Fuji smiles, and pulls his hand away. "So I've heard. That's an odd rule that
he has. Fortunately, the idea of your dick in me literally makes me want to
die." 
 
“It’s a severely limiting quirk, from what I’ve heard. Why restrict the dating
pool so drastically?” Mizuki trails a nail down Fuji’s hand, idly. “You might
like it.” Dimly, he isn’t even really sure why he’s doing this, except that
it’s Fuji, and in some way there’s nothing else he can do.
 
This is pretty funny, in a way. "Uh huh. And what about your dick is going to
make me come when literally no one else can get me off like that." Look, Mizuki
doesn't need to know about Taka's skill set.
 
Mizuki raises an eyebrow. He wouldn’t think of this with literally anyone
else...but it is Fuji Shuusuke…
 
Mentally shrugging, he rests a hand on Fuji’s thigh. “Then maybe you should
tell me what’s so good about yours.”
 
"…You really are trash," Fuji slowly informs him, trying to ignore the weird
way that his skin both crawls and twitches pleasantly. It's probably just the
idea of being able to grind Mizuki's face into the dirt. Probably. "I could
tell Yuuta that you instigated this, and he'd never be with you again." 
 
“You could,” Mizuki agrees, and the thought of that brings an almost pleasant
ache to his chest. Is that what it feels like to have something to lose?
Interesting. “But you won’t do that.” He doesn’t move his hand from where it
rests on long, lean muscle, and digs his fingers in slightly.
 
"You assume one hell of a lot. You really want me to have something to hold
over your head, don't you?" Fuji presses, his eyebrows raising. "No wonder you
can't slap him around like he wants; sounds like you'd rather be on your back
regularly instead." 
 
Mizuki’s face twists, and he snatches his hand back. “Is that the kind of filth
you think I should be saying to him?” he demands, half angry and half genuinely
curious. God, if it were anyone but Fuji Shuusuke, he’d never, ever have
offered. It isn’t as if he hasn’t had the opportunity before; St. Rudolph’s has
no girls, and Mizuki knows how he looks. If he hadn’t before with his sisters
dressing him up and putting clips in his hair, he certainly has after three
years of private all-boy’s Catholic school with horny classmates. 
 
It’s never been something that appeals to him before. Not with Yuuta, not with
the rest of his team...but ah, something about that false smile of Fuji
Shuusuke makes him lick his lips and wonder.
 
"What, do you want me to whisper sweet nothings in your ear and tell you that
you're pretty? I mean, I guess Yuuta doesn't do that, but…" Fuji trails off.
"The problem is that I'm really not drunk enough for this, and I'm trying this
new thing where I at least try to be a good boyfriend for like, a day. It
happens to coincide without breaking Yuuta's one rule about who he dates, so
that kind of helps." Also, I'm prettier, so it's hard to give you a
compliment. 
 
“There’s a bar two blocks…” Mizuki trails off before he can complete the
suggestion, and sighs. “Can we drop the bullshit for a second and actually talk
about what the hell we’re going to do about Yuuta?”
 
Fuji's expression sobers for a split second before he glances away. "I don't
know what you expect me to do at this point. Every time I've ever tried to fix
something in the past, it's just gotten worse."
 
“You literally found out about this yesterday and have tried precisely
nothing.”
 
"I'm just talking about in general with Yuuta. As far as this goes, I did tell
him that it was okay and that I didn't hate him and that we could just pretend
it never happened…"
 
Mizuki raises his eyebrows. “And? Then? That’s all fine, but he didn’t believe
you. At least tell me you attempted to go after him or call him.”
 
Fuji slowly admits: "I kind of called Taka-san over and then had sex with him
all night instead."
 
Mizuki tilts his head to the side, and says calmly, “I think I’m going to
actually not respond to that, because it’s not constructive right now. Call
him. Text him. And if he doesn’t respond to you, I’ll let you know when it’s a
good time to come to our dorm room, because he won’t listen to me when I tell
him to talk to you.”
 
"Listen, it was make-up sex, I needed it," is the grumpy mutter underneath
Fuji's breath. "And anyway, you know Yuuta isn't going to respond to my calls
or texts, so why don't you just grab him by the ear and drag him home again or
something?" 
 
“And if I do?” Mizuki asks, not sounding nearly as confident as he likes. “At
our dorm, he’s in charge, he has the upper hand--well, on you, not on me.
That’s not the point. If he were here, it would be in your domain. That’s why
he left, Shuusuke-kun.”
 
"Stop calling me that. Fine, then, call me when he drops by. I guess." The idea
makes Fuji want to rear up and hiss in protest. Maybe Mizuki is onto something
about power balances. 
 
Mizuki nods slowly. “Very well. Ah...and Shuusuke-kun, if this doesn’t work? I
think you should leave him alone. For a long time.” The words are hurtful,
Mizuki knows, and for once he doesn’t mean to be. “And I’ll tell him you simply
don’t know what you’re missing, and it was your fault in the first place,
because it will give him something to cling on to. So let’s hope this works.”
 
"What did you think I was going to do anyway?" Fuji wearily shoots back,
letting his head fall into his hands for a moment. "I had plans to never even
talk to him again. I might still just do that, because he might be happier."
 
“If you do,” Mizuki says frankly, “he will lose his entire family. He won’t
talk to your parents again, you know that. He’ll be terrified you said
something, or that they look too much like you, or that you’ll come home
unexpectedly. He’s only thirteen. He doesn’t deserve to lose them and you all
at once.”
 
"So bring him home and make him part of yours. He'd probably be happier,
anyway."
 
“As part of—” Mizuki’s laugh is high-pitched and a little hysterical. “No one
could be happy around them.”
 
Fuji's eyebrows arch high. "You think anyone could be happier around our
family?" 
 
“I think you haven’t met mine.” Disgust twists Mizuki’s face; he hadn’t meant
to bring them up. Brother’s mentor, brother’s boyfriend or not, there are some
things that he truly doesn’t want The Genius Fuji Shuusuke asking about. He
stands, brushing off his trousers. “I’ll text you. Be ready.”
 
"Should I tell him about how you came onto me on multiple occasions when I show
up?" Fuji lightly offers. "That might break the ice in an interesting way."
 
Mizuki stares at Fuji as if he’s suddenly started speaking Greek--and for all
he knows, Fuji could. “Do you honestly hate me more than you love him? Christ,
I can’t believe what awful taste he has.”
 
"It was a joke. But as a matter of fact, I do hate you quite a bit, though, so
if I have a chance to push you down while still loving him, I'll take it," Fuji
sighs, rocking up onto his feet with a slow stretch of his arms over his head.
"Don't make yourself out to be some saint when you've done nothing but hurt him
before, too."
 
Mizuki twirls a finger--yes, yes, get on with it. “Spare me the bitter rehash
of our storied history, Shuusuke-kun. Go deflect on someone else to make
yourself feel better. You just can’t stand to think that I might actually be
good for him, can you?”
 
"Mm, you'd be right. Remember, I really hate you. Fortunately, I really don't
think you're good for him at all." Fuji folds his arms, shrugging. "He flat out
told me that he was dating you because you were 'close enough.'" 
 
“Then perhaps I’ll leave him like you so obviously desire, and he can deal with
his broken heart alone.” Mizuki hears the anger shaking in his voice, and he
stares right at Fuji, less than a foot between them, less than an inch’s
difference in their heights. “Hate me or no, you need me to be there for him
right now, so temper that foul tongue of yours.”
 
"When you start doing something that actually does some good, then you can tell
me what to do," Fuji quietly tells him, stepping back to walk away. "Sleep
well, Hajime-chan." 
 
***** Sanada & Yukimura *****
"Fault!"
 
"Double fault! 81 all!"
 
It's not a good thing to wake up to, not when it feels like he's been hit by a
truck, and then backed up over five times after that. 
 
Yukimura bolts up straight from where he lies, heart thudding, shoulders tight
and high, and oh, does he regret it courtesy of the pain that ripples down his
spine and through his muscles. He far more slowly flops back down, shutting his
eyes, breathing in a long, deep breath. A dream--no, scratch that, a nightmare,
one that he lived what feels like ten minutes ago.
 
Except he's definitely not on the tennis court that he last remembers, and
nowhere near Echizen Ryouma.
 
Home? Hospital? Cracking open his eyes, Yukimura prays for the latter to not be
true, and is rewarded. That being said, it's certainly not his bedroom, either,
and that starts to make him worry. 
 
Investigating. That's what he's going to do. Yukimura rakes a hand back through
his hair when he sits up, attempting to piece together at least the past few
days. 
 
Nothing processes since that ill-fated finals match. 
 
Maybe he died. Tennis is a nice way to go, and at least it's warm here. And
cozy. And he's tucked underneath enough blankets that getting out of them is a
new battle to be won. 
 
Some sound alerts Sanada, and he reminds himself to walk, not run, into the
room for fear of spooking Yukimura. He has a large fish dangling from one hand,
no shirt on, and a damp pair of shorts. He pauses for a moment in the doorway,
and the customary stern expression settles into something softer. “Good
morning.”
 
"I definitely did die," Yukimura concludes out loud, staring wide-eyed at
Sanada for a moment. "With a picturesque heaven and everything…"
 
Sanada snorts at this silliness, then takes just a second to set the fish down
in the kitchen, washing his hands before joining Yukimura in the bedroom. “You
were out for a long time,” he agrees. “They took your staples out, and you
didn’t even flinch.”
 
Right. Okay, less dead, more alive, weirdly enough. Yukimura reaches a hand
back reflexively, so used to those obnoxious pieces of metal that the idea that
they're gone doesn't even process. Still sore--everything is sore, let's be
fair, but not feeling those things through the yukata he's wrapped up in helps.
"I don't remember that at all," he admits, his brow furrowing. "I…mostly, the
last thing I remember is the last point of the match." 
 
He doesn't need to be told that he lost. 
 
“That,” Sanada says gently, “was the day before yesterday.” 
 
He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand out to cup Yukimura’s face,
gently stroking his cheek with a thumb. “You’ve been resting. Your parents had
you signed out into my care.” His mouth twists as he admits, “Yagyuu’s father
pulled all kinds of strings to let that happen.”
 
Yukimura twists away, immediately bristling. "Good for him, I guess. He's just
trying to make up for the fact he lost like that. Idiot." Was that any worse
than his own loss, though? 34.82 percent, those were his chances, and he
couldn't even make that happen. His mouth is dry and there's a stupid lump in
his throat and he sags, trying to think of the last time that tennis didn't
make him want to cry. "And everyone else? Akaya?"
 
“Angry.” Sanada glares at nothing in particular, but certainly not at Yukimura.
“Begging for rematches. He told me he’d be sending you an apology letter, but
he has no way of locating us. No one does.”
 
"He doesn't need to apologize to me, anyway."
 
Yukimura flops back again, staring up at the ceiling. "Not even Marui's allowed
up here, huh? I could eat his food." Marui's win might have been a fluke, but
it's not so offensive that he's angry about it. It's mostly just tennis in
general that makes him want to scream into a pillow, though it has a lot to do
with Yagyuu, the idiot, or Niou, the dumbass jerk face…ugh."I hope you've
already burned every tape of my match that you could get your hands on." 
 
“The only thing I’ve had my hands on is you. But if you’re hungry, I do have
some things. Some leftovers from Marui, and there’s a lot of fresh fish, if you
want to wait for me to prepare it. And rice, of course,” he adds, hoping to
somehow distract Yukimura from tennis. It will probably take a while, he knows,
but he’s equal to the task.
 
"…I could eat a thing," Yukimura begrudgingly agrees, slowly inching his way to
the edge of the bed. Whoo, he still feels like jello. That's interesting. "Have
you been fishing without me watching? Rude." 
 
Sanada isn’t quite sure what to say to that, so he just shrugs. “You have the
next two weeks to watch. I’ll catch you more fish than you can eat, if you
want.” He kneels at the edge of the bed, slipping one slender foot into a
slipper, then the other. “Raw, or cooked?”
 
"You can't deplete the ecosystem like that…but I'd still watch." Yukimura sighs
and flops forward, giving into the urge to just throw his arms around Sanada's
shoulders and bury his face into his neck. For better or for worse, that has
something of a chain reaction--the scent of him, the warmth of him, every easy
bit of strength that he can feel sets him off, and Yukimura clings tighter, the
next breath he huffs out hot and wet. "I'm really sorry, Gen."
 
Sanada doesn’t know whether to cry in anger, or relief. Nothing in the world
should be so important to Yukimura that it can make him cry, not after what
he’s defeated--but the fact that he sounds so genuine, so humanly upset, is
enough to melt Sanada down to his core.
 
He holds Yukimura tightly, as tight as he can without rupturing something, and
rocks slowly back and forth. “You were magnificent,” he says, tears running
down his own cheeks far more than they are down Yukimura’s. “No one could be
prouder to have you as Captain, or friend.”
 
Yukimura shoves his face harder into Sanada's shoulder, pointedly refusing to
look up when he knows if he sees Sanada crying, he's really going to start
crying, and it's bad enough that he can just tell. "Shut up," he whispers.
"I've never been more stupid in my entire life, you know that. I lied to you so
I could play that stupid match and I couldn't even win." 
 
“It’s a force of nature, Seiichi.” Sanada nuzzles into Yukimura’s hair, knowing
he’s getting it damp, not willing to stop for that reason. “You played a
beautiful game when it was most difficult. There’s nothing to feel ashamed of.”
Then he scowls. “If anything, it’s Atobe’s fault.”
 
"Atobe's?" That seems out of left field, and Yukimura sniffles, lifting his
head up just enough to look up and over Sanada's shoulder. "If it was his
fault, then I feel even worse."
 
“Don’t. He’s been binge-training the brat--er, Echizen,” Sanada amends,
remembering how Echizen had come over to shake his hand, “on stamina. That’s
why you weren’t wearing him down.”
 
Suddenly, it clicks. "I saw that little brat wink at someone!" Yukimura furious
recalls, wrenching away to flop back onto the edge of the bed again. "I saw
him! I thought he was just being a little shit flirting with his girlfriend or
something to show off, but I bet that was to Atobe! Ugh, gross." 
 
“I could see it in his movements,” Sanada adds. “He also told me before that I
had played the untested Echizen. I didn’t know what he meant, but...Seiichi, he
didn’t have to spend the time since the Kantou relearning how to walk. Taking
him to a record-breaking tiebreak when you were in that condition is nothing
less than a miracle--and you did break the record,” he adds. “That’ll be in the
books forever, with your name on it.”
 
"With my loss next to it," Yukimura wearily points out. "Which is less cool.
Ugh, there was just so much about that match that I didn't realize until it was
too late. I…" He trails off, exhaling a long, resigned sigh. "Echizen deserved
that win." It makes something ache in his chest to say it, but he forces a
smile when he glances up to catch Sanada's gaze. "But at least you beat Tezuka,
right? Go ahead and brag, you know you want to."
 
Sanada allows one corner of his mouth to tilt up at the side, and no more.
“It’s finished between me and him,” he says, and makes his most valiant attempt
to date to really, truly let it go. It works, better than it ever has, and will
stay gone until Tezuka does something else. “I have my satisfaction.” He
pauses, then adds, gently, “The boy did play well. Phenomenally so.”
 
Yukimura sighs, long and hard, and tells himself to just let it go. It makes
him angry and sick to think about it, but that's not going to change anything
now. 
 
Easier said than done, of course, but he's going to try. 
 
"Right." Yukimura flops his arms back over Sanada's shoulders. "Pick me up and
feed me. I nearly died, I think I remember that part." 
 
“You definitely did. And we’re not going to talk about that any more.” Sanada
lifts Yukimura, princess-carrying him out of the bedroom and to the huge soft
sofa in front of the (quiet for the summer) fireplace. “Fish, or Marui’s
leftovers? He gave me dough to bake into bread, so that’s done and warm too.”
 
"It's weird when you nearly die," Yukimura insists instead of shutting up about
it. He flops down onto the sofa, infinitely pleased with the arrangement, and
can't quite stop peering around at things. "I might have to complain once or
twice about that experience. I want your fish for now, just crisp it up or
something and I'll bite the head off like a real man." 
 
Sanada mutters something about Shinto complaint departments and lunatic
captains while he cooks, taking each small fish and making certain it’s fried
to Yukimura’s heinous and over-done standards. “You can look around when you’re
finished eating,” he allows, and prepares a plate stacked high with the little
fish, a hunk of fresh bread on the side that he’ll probably wind up eating
himself.
 
"Mm, you made it all look really nice here." Yukimura twists over onto his
side, grabbing a fish off the plate before Sanada can even set it down and
biting off the head just as threatened. If he's been out for two days, then
that explains why he's ravenous. He'll never tell Sanada (he probably already
knows, he knows everything), but even breakfast the day of the tournament
itself was somewhat lacking. "No tennis court, though, huh."
 
Sanada’s eyes narrow, and he takes a fish himself, biting it neatly in half and
swallowing each half in a matter of seconds. “You need a few days away from
tennis. Once you’re completely well again, I’ll look into having a court built
up here. Not before.”
 
Yukimura makes a face, and grabs two fish next time, because Sanada can't be
trusted. "I'll be fine in a day. You brought all my meds and stuff, right?
Also, please tell me my parents didn't flip out once they heard I was sick
again, I didn't want to have to lie to them, but…"
 
“They’re not angry with you.” Sanada notices the thievery, and switches to
gnawing on the fresh bread instead. There are plenty more fish for later, and
Yukimura needs to gorge himself. “Obviously concerned, but not even that
surprised, to be honest. I think the doctors were less optimistic with them
than they were with you when you first went in for the surgery.”
 
"Oh, good. I can feel less bad about being a liar, then, because everyone lies
to my face, too." Another fish, head bitten off first, decisively. "Did Niou
apologize yet?" 
 
“Face to the ground,” Sanada says tiredly. “Swearing he’s going to make it up
to you and it’s going to be creative.” He pauses, then adds, “Echizen came over
to shake your hand.”
 
Yukimura looks skeptical about Niou apologizing on the ground--Niou doesn't
like that, gets weird about it, so it probably was weird to watch--but the
whole Echizen thing makes him crack a smile. "Trying to make up for that Kantou
oversight, I guess. He's cute, but has the misfortune of apparently dating
Atobe. Hey, at least you know those rumors about him and Tezuka are unfounded
now; your love can still be pure," he teases.
 
Sanada growls, taking another fish out of punishment and chewing only twice
before swallowing it whole. “Don’t be disgusting. You’re the only pure love I
need.” Although it is just as well that Tezuka isn’t dating Atobe. Those rumors
were disturbing, to say the least. Heh. Tezuka.
 
"You're the disgusting one. Look, I can see the 'heh. Tezuka.' written all over
your face," Yukimura laughs, snatching the whole plate away to have at the
remainders of fish himself. 
 
“No, it’s over, I’m not even thinking of him anymore! Ah, that was a good
battle.” Sanada’s eyes are slightly misty, but unlike usual, he’s able to bring
himself out of it--and before he gets fully hard, which is good. Instead, he
slings an arm around Yukimura’s shoulder, nuzzling against his ear. “That’s
some great bedhead.”
 
"Ahh, boo, I need to fix it," Yukimura laments, though he makes no attempt to
do so and instead nestles his way into Sanada's side, butting his head gently
back against the other boy's. "You can't expect me to be perfect after a
kidnapping."
 
“But you are.” Sanada tilts his head up for a kiss, soft and sweet despite the
fried-fish smell, which is on both of them anyway. “I might have to kidnap you
more often. What do you want to do first?”
 
"You could kidnap me forever if there was also tennis." Maybe after a few
hours, that itch to run out and grab his racquet and play will die down, but
that's only a maybe, and Yukimura doesn't think that counts for much. He rubs
his cheek against Sanada's shoulder, contemplative. "Dunno. You're my captor,
you're supposed to have ideas." 
 
“I do have ideas.” Sanada squeezes Yukimura’s shoulders gently, just enough to
give him the sense that he’s here, he’s safe. “If you want to go outside,
there’s a surprise around the side, or we could swim in the pool. If you want
to stay inside, there’s a surprise in the bedroom. I don’t think you noticed it
yet.”
 
Yukimura blinks, huffs, and reaches up to give Sanada's face a squish between
both of his hands. "You're going to spoil me too much," he frankly says, "and
that's saying something, because I'm already awful. Which reminds me, kidnapper
and savior, did you think to bring my glasses? I know you think contacts are
weird so I'm not even gonna go there." And it's not like anyone else
(apparently) is going to see him when he's on a mountain with Sanada.
 
Sanada doesn’t even bother to tell him they’re in the bedroom, next to the bed-
-if Yukimura could have seen that, he’d have already been wearing them. It’s
the matter of a couple seconds to go retrieve them, and he gently sets them on
Yukimura’s ears. “I know the cabin isn’t much,” he says, before Yukimura can
get his first good look. “I’ll keep making improvements.”
 
Ahh, yes, clarity, and thankfully so, because it's a lot prettier when he
doesn't have a blur filter naturally applied. "You hush, it's literally
perfect," Yukimura sighs, swinging his feet to the floor and briefly testing
his weight on one foot. Not as bad as earlier. Maybe it was mostly a food
thing. "When did you have the time to even build all of this? So secretive,
Gen."
 
“Mornings, mostly.” Sanada stretches out, far more relaxed than he’s been now
that he doesn’t have to worry about whether Yukimura will wake up or not.
Yukimura can move, he looks rested, and he’s alive, so that’s all of his
worries taken care of. “Oh, and the doctor said that he’s putting you on a
gentler course of medicine for a month. He thinks your body needs a rest. A
little less effective, but they shouldn’t interfere with your digestive system
and, uh, other systems as much.”
 
"You're at practice in the mornings," Yukimura mutters underneath his breath,
still attempting to piece together that timeline. He's just fairly certain that
Sanada is magic now, and can teleport or something similar. He reaches out,
grasping the arm of the sofa to haul himself upright. Yes, good. Not swaying
all that much, and he does like that. "'Other systems', huh? Good, maybe I'll
be able to keep up with your hormones again." 
 
“I haven’t been working on it for the last three weeks,” Sanada grumbles.
“Obviously. It was just...something to keep my mind off of things when you were
in the hospital. I had no idea it would be finished so soon.” It had nothing to
do with how he’d heard that Tezuka, apparently, had built a cabin when he was
eleven, damn him. “How is it so far? You ate more than before. Keeping it
down?”
 
"Mmn. Nothing too bad so far. Hey, does this mean that if I disappear overseas
to go pro, you'll build another cabin to keep yourself preoccupied while I'm
busy?" Yukimura teases over his shoulder, drifting off to wander through the
cabin now that he can actually see. It's not huge, but who would want it to be?
Sanada built it, and it's theirs, and that's the part Yukimura is concerned
about (also, it's perfect besides). "Because we could have a few hiding places
like this all over Japan, I think."
 
“That’s the plan,” Sanada says, without a hint of humor. “You explore for a
minute, I’m going to wash up.” There aren’t many dishes, not when they’d been
eating off of the same plate, but there are a couple of larger fish to scale
and gut.
 
Yukimura is pretty interested in having half a dozen of these little miniature
mansions everywhere, especially when Sanada's the one building them. 
 
Wandering back into the bedroom is his first choice, because the offer of
surprises is something that he's not going to ignore. Where is the question,
though Yukimura pauses in that endeavor for a moment to flop onto the edge of
the bed, resting his legs that still feel something like goo (better to do it
now, than when Sanada is looking). 
 
Coincidentally, that places him directly facing what appears to be more
furniture that Sanada made himself--a desk this time, and Yukimura's up again
the second he sees that sketchbook placed on it. Opening every drawer just
further proves that he has the literal best boyfriend in the existence of the
world, down to the fact that Sanada pays attention to the brand of paint that
he'd always use when he actually used to have the time to draw. 
 
Maybe Sanada will still accidentally drink his paint water like an idiot.
 
Sanada hears drawers opening, and smiles to himself even as his pulse speeds
up. He’s been watching Yukimura’s hands carefully for the last three weeks, but
while they’re clearly tired from tennis, there’s none of the trembling, none of
the uncontrollable shaking there had been before, before the surgery. He’d
enlisted help, asking Yukimura’s sister to steal some of his paint, and had
gone to the store he remembered being dragged to and demanded whatever a “full
set” was for someone who liked to paint with the stuff. 
 
Is it right? He wants to ask, but bites his tongue. Yukimura isn’t shy about
letting him know when he’s done something wrong.
 
A few seconds pass before Yukimura trots out of the bedroom, and lands with a
solid thump against Sanada's back, his face pressed into the back of his neck
and his arms tight around his waist. "If you don't stop being so perfect, I'm
going to think that you're animatronic," he says, voice muffled against
Sanada's skin. 
 
Sanada starts to laugh, but it catches in his throat, tears pricking hot at his
eyes. It’s been a long time since Yukimura has hugged him like this, and Sanada
chokes down a sob of relief, of delight, and braces himself against the
countertops. “If you’re happy,” he says, voice shaking, and can’t go on.
 
"Gross, don't cry, you're going to make me cry, I've warned you like five times
now!" Yukimura squeezes tighter, and nuzzles his face down into Sanada's skin,
huffing out a breath. "Look, now you have to be my model the whole time we're
here. Don't you see what you've done? I'm so out of practice and it's going to
be awful." 
 
“You might not want to draw the whole time,” Sanada says, getting himself under
control again. It’s difficult, when he’s been forcing himself to be strong for
Yukimura this whole time, and suddenly Yukimura seems like his former self,
strong and fearless and stunning, shining like any star he’s ever seen. “You
haven’t seen the outside yet. But I’ll model for you, as long as you don’t do
that thing with the oil again.”
 
"Maybe I'll draw outside. And if I want to oil you again, I'll oil you again,
your muscles looked so good in the right light--ahh, imagine them in natural
sunlight like that, you'll be even more handsome--"
 
“You always get bored before I can get it all off!” Sanada argues, and steers
him towards the back door, out into the sunlight. “It takes hours to get it all
off!”
 
"What if I like you oily like that?" Yukimura demands, clinging to Sanada's arm
and letting himself be steered along. "We've got nothing but time, you can
stand being oiled for longer!"
 
“It’s weird! And you never like it as much as you think you do, so I’m just
sitting in an oily bathtub using up all my soap for hours!”
 
"You listen here, Genichirou--if I need you oiled for a painting, you'll be
oiled, and I'll like it very, very much and probably want to get oily with you
so you need to learn to appreciate it more." 
 
This is not an argument Sanada is going to win with words (much like every
other argument they’ve ever had), so instead, he simply steers Yukimura around
the corner and to the small, barely-started garden, arranged in neat trellised
rows.
 
Yukimura, already poised to come up with another oil-rebuttal, soon shuts his
mouth. "Oh. Okay, I might be outside, too." He's already off of Sanada's arm,
slippers kicked off because they're just going to get dirty at this rate,
anyway, and then he's in the garden, touching and poking and rearranging.
"There is no way you just did all of this in the mornings! Can you teleport
now? Is that another samurai thing?" 
 
Sanada raises an eyebrow. “You can believe that I built an entire cabin, but
not that I planted four little rows of seeds? If they’re the wrong ones, I can
pull them up and put new ones in, I think.”
 
"Listen, I love you, but you're not the greenest thumb out there. This was
effort for you." Yukimura hops over and grabs his face and kisses him hard.
"And it's so cute and perfect and you aren't pulling up any of our children or
I'll hit you." 
 
“Any of our—” 
 
Anything Sanada might have wanted to say dies with Yukimura’s kiss, and it’s an
effort not to just sink down to the ground right there. This isn’t like the
kisses from earlier, not after a second. Sanada’s hands come up to Yukimura’s
hips, and he pulls him close, deepening the kiss and feeling his skin grow
tight, his pulse speed up.
 
A long exhale through the nose, and Sanada finally manages to pull away,
resting his forehead against Yukimura’s, breathing harder than he’d expected to
after just one kiss. “You...ah. You like it, then.” He tries to keep his voice
normal, when all he wants to do is throw them both down in the dirt and….well.
 
"Mmhmm." Yeah, that feels good. His pulse is an eagerly thumping thing in his
veins, and Yukimura slings his arms properly around Sanada's neck, holding
tight. "If you're going to throw me on the ground, that's good, but avoid our
children." This feels a lot better and a lot more natural than it did that one
stupid night in his bedroom when he was just lying to Sanada's face and making
up excuses. This makes him want to climb Sanada like a tree, and he
contemplates the logistics of that.
 
Sanada draws in a deep breath, trying to remember his meditation techniques
when his blood is pulsing hard and fast, and Yukimura is in his arms, and
everything smells right and feels like it was always supposed to. “I think,” he
says, trying to remember that he does know how to think, “I have everything,
uh, ready inside, if you want to...move.” The thought of using those things
he’d acquired (mostly from Niou) makes him fairly convinced he’s going to pass
out...until he remembers that it’s Yukimura, that it’s perfect, and they’ve
wanted this for time out of mind, it feels.
 
"Like, right now," Yukimura readily agrees, giving Sanada's chest a little
shove. There's really no time to waste when his body is cooperating and Sanada
is cooperating and climbing him like a tree is inevitable. "I'm going to eat
you alive if you don't drag me back inside like I'm a stolen samurai bride."
 
“A samurai would never steal a bride,” Sanada complains, but it’s a good enough
excuse to get Yukimura in his arms, and he’ll take it. This is a hell of a lot
better than the last time he’d held him, passed out and delirious with pain,
and the late morning sunshine is strong and nourishing up this high.
 
Maybe he can blame the altitude for how quickly his breath comes when he lays
Yukimura down on the bed. Probably not, though. “I need to kiss you,” he says,
a hint of an apology in his voice when he climbs onto the bed, reaching for
Yukimura as if they haven’t been this close in years, maybe ever.
 
"You don't have to say that, Gen," Yukimura murmurs, and he shoves his glasses
up and off before reaching for the other boy, eager to tug him down and have
him close. "Just do it." 
 
Sanada might want to go on and on about how much better he looks, but
personally, Yukimura thinks Sanada is the one that's already benefitted more.
Crying at the drop of a hat aside--Sanada's just like that, anyway--the tension
is gone from his face and shoulders, the lines in his face softened, and…well,
it's a preference, but he's always so much more handsome without that stupid
hat. 
 
Yukimura, Sanada notes with something like heartbreaking relief, tastes like he
used to. Well, he tastes like fish more than anything, but underneath that
there’s something strong, something fragrant and unmistakable as it is
unnameable, and it twists Sanada’s chest with every brush of their lips. He
stretches out, hands running up the sides of Yukimura’s body, up his back
gently, avoiding the forming scar, and pressing into his shoulders, where he
carries his tension.
 
There’s not as much as there has been this last year, and Sanada will take that
as a win any day. “You’re perfect," he says, voice wet and overwhelmed. “And
I’m here with you.” There’s no luckier man in the world, he knows.
 
You're being so, so dumb is on the tip of Yukimura's tongue, but he silences
himself with a huff, lurching up to kiss Sanada again, more insistently when he
starts thinking about wanting to cry again. Even if he couldn't hear it, he
swears he can sense it before the waterworks start. "At least say that right,"
he quietly scolds. "'You're perfect, and you're mine.' That's better." 
 
Getting all four limbs around Sanada's body is good, and all the better to drag
him down for another, needy kiss. Sanada is always so warm, and he swears he's
going to melt before they even get anywhere. That feels pretty normal, like it
used to be, and that, more than anything, makes Yukimura sag with relief. 
 
“This is how it was always supposed to be.” 
 
Sanada says it, and knows it, feels it in his heart. Just to make sure Yukimura
does too, he grabs his hand, bringing it to his own bare chest, swallowing hard
when he looks down into Yukimura’s eyes. “Feel it, Seiichi?”
 
He’ll probably start crying again at any second, and they both know it. At
least it’s not going to stop him from being good, being what Yukimura needs,
from being what they both need him to be. Just the thought that they’re in bed
together, and that there’s nothing and no one around that can stop them, is
enough to make Sanada’s heart thud against his ribs, against Yukimura’s hand.
 
Yukimura swallows hard, curling his fingers against Sanada's chest as he nods.
"Yeah." 
 
He'd like to make a quip about all I'm feeling is muscles, idiot, but he can't
even tease Sanada right now, not when his own heart is thudding out through his
chest and he's all sorts of nervous-excited and really, really just needs to
keep kissing Sanada until he can draw in a full breath again without it
catching all up in his throat like that. And so--"If you don't kiss me again,"
he warns, "I'm going to be upset." 
 
It’s a good thing, then, that kissing Yukimura is all Sanada wants to do.
 
Each kiss is long and sweet, delving deep with his tongue, pulling back just in
case he triggers a gag reflex the way he had one particularly bad day in the
hospital. Part of him wants to let his hands wander, but more of him just wants
to kiss, and he takes Yukimura’s face in his hands, pulling back every so often
just to look at him, wonder in his eyes. 
 
He doesn’t need to say anything. If Yukimura doesn’t know by now, nothing he
says is good enough, anyway.
 
Being looked at like that by someone like Sanada should make everyone else in
the world feel intensely, horribly jealous, and Yukimura hopes they all know
what they're missing. 
 
Getting his arms tight around Sanada again is the best plan he's had in awhile,
especially when he's being kissed like that and left out of breath courtesy of
it. His nails rake dully against Sanada's spine, fingers spreading over the
smooth, hard lines of muscle, and it feels a little too good to wriggle and get
Sanada between his thighs. It's been awhile since anything felt this good and
not awkward, and god, he wants to savor that. 
 
No monitors, no stupid IV lines, no little sisters banging on his bedroom door,
no texts from Yanagi or the rest of the team--yes, perfect. "This is the best
idea you've ever had." Yukimura really does mean that.
 
Sanada smiles, brushing the hair back from Yukimura’s forehead, then kissing
it. He looks around the room, silent except for faint birdsong, and admits,
“It’s pretty good, isn’t it? I just wanted to be away from anything and
everything when we finally…” 
 
He takes a deep breath, and summons his courage. After all, he’s laying between
Yukimura’s thighs, and is pretty content to be there. “When we make love.” God,
he’s going to cry again.
 
"If you just go ahead and keep crying a steady stream of tears, it will be much
easier on you," is Yukimura's gentle tease. He lurches up, kissing Sanada
firmly on the lips. "You're perfect," he says easily. "And you've really done
everything in the world to make me happy, and it's working, trust me. So just
relax a little bit, okay? We're here now." 
 
“I am relaxed.” For some reason, it’s true, and Sanada bends his neck to kiss
Yukimura again, tasting and teasing him with his tongue and his lips. “More
than...mm, more than in a long time.”
 
It’s not exactly a surprise, or a mystery. It’s just that Yukimura is happy,
and there’s nothing that could be more of a balm to his nerves than that. His
hands are strong and broad, and no matter how he caresses Yukimura’s arms,
shoulders, sides, he keeps returning to his face, kissing, pulling away to just
stare for a minute, memorizing before kissing him again. “You won’t be angry if
it isn’t perfect? I don’t…” But Yukimura knows, of course.
 
"You're being dumb." Now he can say it, and gently catches Sanada's lower lip
with his teeth for good measure. "One, how would I know; two, it's you, so it's
impossible for it not to be perfect." Yukimura is pretty sure about that second
part, at least, but he just has to ask now: "How much research have you been
doing?" His own 'research' consists of Niou, which is a pretty good source, but
the idea of Sanada doing anything remotely similar is…ugh, really, really cute.
Here lies Yukimura Seiichi, death by samurai moe.
 
Sanada’s cheeks darken, and he tries and fails to remember that it’s a good
thing, that that embarrassing research is going to help them make it good, that
no one is going to make fun of him too badly. “Some,” he admits. “I mean, no
firsthand sources or anything, but…” 
 
He clears his throat. “Old books. And, uh, Renji helped me use the computer to
go on the internet.”
 
Yukimura tries and fails not to start giggling. Shit, shit, he's the worst, but
Sanada is just so cute. "Well, our combined knowledge should get us somewhere,
then," he teases, reaching around to yank the sash of his yukata free. "Why
didn't you just ask Renji, though? I mean, not about the weird stuff he's into,
but…"
 
Sanada gives him a look. “Do you want to hear his instructions? It would way
too weird.” He hesitates for a second, then admits, “I also...uh…” His blush
intensifies. “When I think about it too much I get all….it was better to do it
privately.”
 
"Eh…at least Niou's informative and fun to listen to," Yukimura relents,
shrugging down his yukata from his shoulders and flopping back with a sigh.
"Everything makes you hard, though, so that part," he says, boldly reaching
forward to grab at the waistband of Sanada's shorts, "isn't a surprise." 
 
Automatically, Sanada’s hand comes down to stop him, muttering, “Seiichi, no,
we can’t—”
 
Before he remembers.
 
Slowly, he releases that hand, and even presses himself closer, sucking in a
breath as he feels Yukimura’s hand against the stiff, aching length of himself
through his shorts. “Sorry. I guess...we can.” 
 
And because they can, he reaches down and drags a hand up one pale thigh,
breath hitching when he feels the warmth of Yukimura against his hand, cupping
him and trying not to let his heart thud out of his chest as his cock twitches.
 
Damn right we can, you carried me up a mountain for this. 
 
Yukimura can easily count the numbers of times that he's actually been bold
enough to put his hand this close, but that was over a year ago, and maybe a
few pathetically desperate times in the hospital, but this is one hell of a lot
better. Sanada's encouraging him this time, too, not hissing at him to quit it,
and so his fingers eagerly curl around the outline of Sanada's cock, breath
hitching when he can feel how hot and hard he is even through fabric. 
 
His own body is cooperating, too, and that's a fucking relief, and--almost
over-stimulating, when was the last time he even jerked off. A really long time
ago his body cheerfully reminds him, his cock suddenly that much harder when
Sanada's hand is on him, and ah, that's a rush of breath pulled from his lungs.
Whoo, this is going to be an experience. 
 
Sanada feels almost reverent toward everything he’s cupping in his hand, and he
rubs the pad of his thumb over the head, trying to keep his breath even when
all he wants to do is…
 
Right, Yukimura’s hand is moving through the fabric, and he’s going to have to
warn him.
 
“Uh, Seiichi, it’s—” He gulps, eyes crossing a little at the press of that hand
curling around him. “It’s not gonna be--long. B-but I can keep going after, so
maybe I should just--get it over with—”
 
Okay, it's not almost over-stimulating. It's way too overstimulating,
definitely, and Sanada's fingers shouldn't be allowed to feel that good, not
when they're all calloused and warm and really, really good and--
 
Yukimura swallows down a ragged, broken little whimper--mostly. Not so well at
all, actually, not when he can't help but wriggle up into Sanada's hand and
easily come all over it with just another upward lurch. "You better be able to
keep going after," he pants out, and fumbles at Sanada's shorts, yanks them
down enough to actually get his hand on his cock. "You're so hard, Gen--"
 
Sanada has just about enough presence of mind to realize that Yukimura just
came on his hand, that he’s sort of holding Yukimura’s come, sticky and hot
and—
 
It’s a good think they’re in the mountains smack dab in the center of a
thousand private acres. Sanada isn’t quiet when he comes, letting out a groan
that shakes the windows as he lurches against Yukimura’s touch. “Ah—” He’s on
the verge of apologizing, before remembering that Yukimura did too, and
Yukimura cannot be allowed to think that he’d done anything wrong.
 
Much better is kicking off his shorts, then realizing when he looks down. “Uh…”
He’s never quite thought of that before. There’s very little in his hand--is
that how much men are supposed to do it? “Sorry mine’s so, uh, messy…”
 
Yukimura promptly shuts him up by yanking him down and kissing him again, hot
and messy and demanding. "You can be as messy as you damn well please," he
mutters, flopping back, dragging Sanada with him, his body still feeling
twitchy and shivery all over. That wasn't even that great of an orgasm, but
shit, that's the first orgasm he's had in… 
 
"Months," Yukimura blissfully sighs out loud, and kisses Sanada again for good
measure. "First time in months. Maybe a year. Don't remember. Can we keep a
running tally, I wanna know how many times you make me come." 
 
Sanada whimpers. “If you talk like that,” he says gruffly, “it’s gonna be
pretty rapid-fire.” Sure enough, he hasn’t even gone fully soft yet, his cock
twitching hard at that breathy suggestion. There are some perks to being
fifteen, he supposes, and some rewards for the punishment from the gods of
being hard nearly all the time.
 
Then he realizes that they’re together, naked, and lying on top of each other,
and he really does almost come again. Experimentally, he scoots up on his
knees, managing to lay his cock against Yukimura’s own, sucking in a breath at
just that amount of heat, friction, slippery perfection. “We probably should
have talked first about what we were going to do,” he realizes. It isn’t like
he doesn’t want to do everything, but what should be first?
 
"Don't care," is Yukimura's somewhat squeaked out response when Sanada slides
up against him like that, and his nails end up raking up Sanada's spine in the
process. Definitely overstimulated again--yes, already--and his thighs shake a
bit before he summons the strength to press them tight to Sanada's waist.
"Really don't…ahh…Genichirou, you are not fair." 
 
“Let me make love to you.” The words just come out, and Sanada doesn’t regret
them for a second. He knows he’s antiquated, stodgy, an old man before his
time, but all he can think is how good they are together, how well they fit
together, and his hands squeeze Yukimura’s inner thighs, trailing up higher,
then down to his knees, then up again. “I want to be inside you, Seiichi,
please—”
 
Here's the thing about being on a hair-trigger--it just doesn't stop. Sanada's
hands and his words and the idea of it makes Yukimura's nerves prick and twitch
anew and he has to breathe long and deep before he can even think that maybe
he's not going to come just yet. "Yes, yes, yes--god, do you know how many
times I've thought about that?" Sanada probably doesn't, but rest assured, it's
a lot. 
 
“Not as many as I have.” He’s also thought about it every other way it could
possibly be as well--most of the times he wakes from an embarrassing dream it’s
to the memory of hot, quick breaths and teasing words from behind him--but this
is his most pervasive fantasy, down to the clear sunlight spilling in through
the window to glint off of Yukimura’s hair. “You have to swear you’ll tell me
how to do it right,” he mutters, and opens the drawer next to the bed, pulling
out everything the internet website said that he would need--wet wipes,
condoms, rubber gloves, and lubricant. “Don’t spare my feelings.”
 
"I'll kick you in the face, no worries." Yukimura spares a sideways glance into
the drawer, and that calms down that hair trigger a bit as he makes a face.
"Don't make this weird, rubber gloves freak me out. Listen, do you know how
much Niou has told me? He's good for something, and I guarantee he has a lot
more fun than anyone writing some stuffy article online would." 
 
Oh, no, he doesn’t like the gloves. Sanada frowns. “No, there’s a checklist. If
I don’t properly lubricate you, you could get hemorrhoids or anal fissures. I’m
not willing to take that chance.”
 
"Genichirou," Yukimura calmly says, reaching out to place a hand on the other
boy's chest, "you're making it so weird. I mean, if you really need to wear
gloves to put your fingers in me, go for it, but that sounds--and would
probably feel--really hospital-y and I am so not into that." 
 
“I…” Sanada puts the gloves back in the drawer, trying not to be irritated
either at Yukimura, the online site, or himself. “I just don’t want to hurt
you. Do you...have you…” Come on, Genichirou, if you can do it, you can say
it!“Have you done it to yourself before?”
 
"Well, awhile ago," Yukimura huffs, leaning back onto his hands. "You're not
going to hurt me, you know. Niou says it's pretty easy once you get used to it,
anyway." 
 
Well, that clinches it. “If Niou can do it, we can do it,” Sanada says, and
believes himself. He glares dubiously at the bottle of lubricant. “Do we really
need any of this stuff, or is it all just a lie that article made up?”
 
"No, we definitely need a lot of that," Yukimura hurriedly says, snatching the
lube away before Sanada can get rid of it. "You really should have asked Renji
more about this before, you know he's a freaky expert about it!" 
 
“I tried.” At least this conversation is doing what coming didn’t, and is
helping him breathe easier without wanting to grind on everything at all times.
“But--I got really--I had to ask him to leave after a minute,” he admits. “Not
that I want him or anything! Just, the idea of doing it with you...it was
really strong.”
 
"Uh huh. Give me your hand," Yukimura orders, a little snap of his fingers
following. "Fortunately for the both of us, I had a lot of conversations with
Niou about sex because there was nothing better to do with my time for several
months." His expression shifts wry. "Originally, the first thing I had wanted
to do after I got out was do it with you."
 
Sanada produces his hand, still sticky with drying fluids, and grimaces. “It
wasn’t exactly good timing,” he admits, “you getting out right before
Nationals. I originally wanted to take you up here right after you got out,
but...we’re here now. What are you going to…”
 
"What do you think I'm going to do? You don't need a glove because I'm not
gross, and let's be real, we've known each other since we were four," Yukimura
points out on a laugh, and flips open the top of the bottle. That's a nice,
generous amount that spills over Sanada's fingers, and probably a good start.
Niou was pretty firm about lots and lots of lube, don't you fucking skimp."Do I
need to drag those fingers of yours where they need to go, or did your article
online tell you a~ll about that?" 
 
Sanada flushes dark, and mumbles, “Yeah, I know where it goes.” 
 
Despite everything he’s read, there’s definitely a hesitation, and he has to
ask--no, he can’t--no, he has to, even with his fingers hovering awkwardly in
the air first. “Do you need to use the toilet first? I mean, if we start and
then...I mean, it’s better if you do it now, I think.” He’s going to die of
embarrassment.
 
Yukimura's stare is deadpan. "Remember when I threatened to kick you in the
face? I'm literally going to do it in about five seconds if you don't put them
in me." Maybe Niou's advice of just squirting the whole thing up there himself
is a better plan of action. 
 
Sanada quells the urge to ask again. That would just sound like he doesn’t
trust Yukimura, and he can’t have that, he just can’t.
 
It’s that, more than the threat of being kicked in the face, that compels him
to move, fingers sliding down until they’re touching Yukimura’s balls, then
down further. He sucks in a breath, and tries to remember what had felt good on
himself when he was practicing, making sure he wouldn’t do anything bad to
Yukimura. One first, and he rubs it around the hole first before working it
gently inside.
 
Yukimura’s tighter than he is, and Sanada tries not to think about why that
could be. Instead, he presses kisses to one smooth shoulder, whispering,
“Relax, please?”
 
Ah, well. Yukimura seems to recall this being a bit easier some time ago, but
it's not like he tried all that hard and he wasn't the biggest fan, so there's
that all coming back to him…
 
"I'm fine." Deep breaths. That'll do it. He flops back, drawing in another,
slow breath through his nose, kneading one hand into the mattress and firmly
telling himself not to be a baby about it when it just feels a little weird
right now. It doesn't hurt,at least. "Gen, you look like you're going to cry
again, please don't," he crossly adds, shifting to get more comfortable. "Not
right now." 
 
That startles Sanada, and he actually laughs, stilling his finger when it’s in
to just the first knuckle. “I, ah...I was trying not to come,” he admits,
sitting back so he can squeeze the base of his own throbbing cock, trying to
force it back a little. “If you don’t like it, we can do it the other way. I
don’t mind, and it might be easier.” Sanada is actually a little proud of the
fact that he can say that and not want to die. He really is loosening up, he
thinks.
 
"Said as if I'm not gonna put it in you later either way," Yukimura huffs, and
okay, the little shiver that rakes down his spine when he sees how hard Sanada
is definitely helps. Yeah, that is what he wants in him, definitely. "No, we're
doing it this way first," he mutters. "Just--ugh, I'm not going to break,
really put them in already, I'm pretty sure your dick's going to feel a lot
better." 
 
“But it’s bigger,” Sanada protests, though not very hard. He manages, finally,
to get his finger the rest of the way inside, hoping this feels better for
Yukimura than it looks like it feels. “Seiichi, it’s fine if you don’t like it,
I read that not all men—”
 
"Shut up, Gen," Yukimura groans, and he's got the presence of mind to at least
kick at Sanada's hip. His body decides to give one last, half-hearted shiver of
protest before he just sags down into the bed. It's not perfect, but it'll do.
"It's good when it's in there deeper, and the longer you draw it out and don't
just do it--that's when I don't like it."
 
In answer, Sanada draws back his hand and starts working in a second slippery
finger, taking Yukimura’s crude order and shoving in quickly, stroking and
stretching once it’s all the way in. “I was just waiting for you to relax,” he
mutters, and squeezes his own cock harder, trying to bodily force himself to
wait, all the more conscious that it’s really not working, not when Yukimura is
squirming and slick and hot around his fingers and he can’t stop thinking about
what he’d be like around his cock. “Is that what you mean by just doing it? You
said you’d tell me,” he points out, “not that you’d kick me.”
 
"Forgot a little, sorry." That's faster, but closer to what Yukimura wants, if
he's going to judge by the way his cock jumps and the way his breathing hitches
raggedly. It feels a lot better now that there's more in there, and an
experimental wriggle down against Sanada's hand makes his eyes flutter and his
legs splay. Scratch that. It's close to perfect, especially when Sanada's hand
moves a little and his fingers press deeper still. 
 
"If you need to jerk off while you're fingering me--" Saying that makes
Yukimura's throat lock up a bit, and yeah, he's hard enough again that it's
distractingly good. "J-just--make sure you can get it up again soon, or I'm
gonna be mad." 
 
Sanada nearly protests that he can rarely get it up again that fast, but with
Yukimura around his fingers, squirming and breathless, he doesn’t doubt that he
could. 
 
Still, it wouldn’t last long, and there wouldn’t be much substance to it. He
squeezes harder than he usually has to, actually dropping his hand down and
squeezing lower, and finally manages to get himself under control. To distract
himself, he pants, “You know….you know how they tell you to...to think of
something unattractive when you’re close, so you don’t do it too fast?” 
 
He laughs, and slides a third finger in, looking at Yukimura’s face only long
enough to make sure he’s not in too much pain, any longer and he’d be finished.
“Never worked for me once.”
 
That feels good.
 
Sanada has always had nice fingers (Yukimura knows, he's made his poor
boyfriend sit there for hours and hold his hands out so he could just draw them
over and over and over), but when they're in him like this, he can feel exactly
how long they are, how they can curl inside of him like that and how they
really stuff him full. 
 
Apparently, that thought triggers something good in his brain, and like
flipping a switch, his body seizes up in one long, ragged shudder, his toes
curling when something like an orgasm twitches down his spine. None of the mess
this time, that's good, if not weird, and he's still hard and dripping over his
stomach as much as he is panting and grabbing at Sanada's shoulders and trying
to drag him in closer. "In me," Yukimura hears himself mindlessly insist.
"Sooner, rather than later--Gen, please--"
 
The article had talked about a lot of stretching--like, hours--but Sanada is
pretty sure that Yukimura knows what he’s talking about, and this has to be a
lot better than having needles and tubes stuffed into his body anyway. Besides,
he’s taking three, and if he wants more, well, Sanada isn’t about to say no.
 
Not when he can already feel the sweet clench of Yukimura around him, the
squeeze of it, the wet heat that he can’t even imagine being around his cock or
he’ll go off like a firework again. 
 
He nods, breathless, and grabs a condom. His fingers are too slippery to open
it when he slides them out of Yukimura, and that leads to some creative,
frustrated cursing before he grabs a second one with trembling fingers, tearing
it open with his teeth. “Stupid thing,” he mutters, dropping it, picking it up
again, and trying to put it on the wrong way. “I swear I practiced, it just
doesn’t look like it.”
 
"Forget about it." Niou had tried to gross him out on at least twenty million
different occasions, but that's pretty hard to do when he's been in a hospital
for eight months. "When are we ever going to be with anyone else?" Yukimura
presses, lurching up to grab at Sanada's wrist and still his shaking hands. It
probably doesn't do much, because his own are still a bit twitchy, and just
touching Sanada again kind of sets another fire off down his spine. Yeah,
that's weird. Deep breaths, deep breaths. "It really doesn't matter, and I
don't want our first time with plastic…rubber…whatever those things are made
out of, ugh, slimy, to be in the way." 
 
Sanada stares down at him for a long moment, utterly transfixed by everything
that is Yukimura. He swallows hard, then tosses the flimsy piece of plastic
over his shoulder, hearing it hit the wall with a sad wet noise. “You were
joking,” he says, remembering to grab more of the lube and rub it all over his
cock. He positions himself, the head throbbing when he presses right up against
Yukimura’s hole, and he looks up to meet Yukimura’s eyes. “When you said that
about being my bride. But I will be your husband.” 
 
And because he’ll die if he doesn’t, he pushes in, goes to heaven, and tries
not to cry.
 
There will be plenty of time for telling Sanada that he wasn't explicitly
joking, that he'd happily be his bride (more or less), but right now--
 
Ah. Yeah. That's more than fingers, very much more than fingers.
 
"Slow, slow, slow--" is Yukimura's little breathless hiss of protest for a
moment, digging his nails hard into one broad shoulder when Sanada pushes in
and god, that's a lot. His body decides to protest far more firmly than he
verbally is for a moment, and that's less good. All the breath feels like it's
been sucked from his lungs, and it's not cute to hiss and whimper and claw at
Sanada's back like that, he thinks. 
 
Deeeep breaths. He's got this. 
 
He flops back, his hands still the source of his tension, digging little half-
moons into Sanada's spine. His legs, too, are kind of tense shaky messes, but
that's going away, slowly but surely. "My husband," he pants out, flushed and
feeling sweat trickle straight down his spine from how much effortthis takes,
"definitely feels bigger inside."
 
Sanada is trying to go slow--it’s important, because this is Yukimura actually
asking instead of hitting, and that generally means it’s important--but nothing
had mentioned the way this feels.
 
Every article he’d managed to find on the internet had talked about how it felt
for the man receiving, how it had been a stretch, a slow cramping stuffing
full, comparing it to decidedly less arousing bodily functions--but nothing had
prepared him for the way Yukimura feels inside. Tight heat, clamping down
harder than his own hand ever has at the first ring, tighter still at the
second, and then nothing but sweet wet heat encircling him, molten velvet
squeezing, welcoming him with every silken caress.
 
“Sorry,” Sanada breathes, panting hard as he tries to hold still, but none of
his usual tricks--breathing, meditating, giving mental pep talks--are doing
anything, and his hips keep grinding in tight, urgent circles. He manages at
least to not slam in to the root, but it’s a hundred times harder than he’d
thought it would be, and his hairline breaks out in sweat. “Sorry, I’m--I can’t
stop—”
 
"That's…it's okay. It's fine, I--" If he says it enough times, it'll become
true. Manifest destiny and all that, and Yukimura's not wrong. The more he
relaxes, the less it feels like he's being split open, the more that stretch
starts feeling like a pleasant-enough ache, and he groans, giving up and just
throwing his thighs tight around Sanada's waist, dragging him in. "J-just--just
like that, it's good." 
 
Wriggling down against Sanada's cock himself helps, actually, and so  Yukimura
does it again, biting his lower lip to keep back a noise that's a little too
squeaky for his liking. That's good so long as it's not too fast, and
everything kind of feels too fast right now. He blows a sweat-soaked strand of
hair out of his face, and grabs at Sanada's face, dragging him down. "Kiss me,"
he insists, needing that extra lifeline when everything else is just way too
overwhelming. 
 
That’s an order Sanada can’t help but obey, even when it seems like the rest of
his mind is in his cock. His mouth almost crashes into Yukimura’s, and he
tastes salt--shit, he’s crying again and hadn’t even noticed, doesn’t even know
why this time. 
 
“Please,” he begs, lips squashed against Yukimura’s, and he’s not even sure
what he’s begging for. Nothing could have prepared him for this; the only thing
his cock has ever been in is his own hand, and that’s so far from this it’s
comparing a candle to the noon sun. “I’m going to die.”
 
His hips are moving again, sliding him farther, farther in, encouraged by the
legs around his waist, and surely Yukimura can’t hate it too much if he’s
yanking at him like that. The only saving grace Sanada has at the moment is the
fact that he’s passed some sort of threshold, and it actually feels too good to
come.
 
Yukimura's saving grace is the fact that when Sanada's in him all the way,
their skin pressed flush and slick when it slaps together…his mind just kind of
short circuits, and it does start feeling really good. 
 
Every lurch of their bodies makes him twitch down to his toes, and his hands
scrabble at Sanada's back, dragging down his spine and digging in where he can.
"Me, too," he manages, high and breathy and needy when he catches Sanada's
mouth in another, wet kiss, not sure if he's tasting tears or sweat but it's
all good. Arching his back makes his cock slide against Sanada's stomach, and
he shudders, his eyes glazing for a moment. It definitely feels different to be
hard when Sanada's in him this deep. 
 
"Just--whenever you want, it's fine--" It would have been fine ages ago,
Yukimura doesn't care. He doesn't care about much of anything anymore, because
nothing has felt this good in a long, long time, when Sanada's grabbing him and
holding him and in him and he can't do anything but hold on.
 
“Do you—”
 
Sanada’s breath shorts out, and his spine arches, making him hunch over
Yukimura and thrust hard for a glorious, sharp-edged second until he gets his
breath back. The friction is enough to drive him insane, even with the rather
vast quantity of lubrication, and he can’t imagine ever being in quite this
much pleasure before or after. “Do I--do you want me to—”
 
His hand comes to rest over Yukimura’s cock, unsure, not knowing whether that
would make it better or worse or do nothing at all, and his hips snap up again
when he feels how hard Yukimura is, hard and dripping so much it’s a small
puddle on his stomach. “Holy…”
 
There goes what's left of his sanity. Go figure, of course he'd just like it
when Sanada holds him down and shoves it in him like that. He's going to regret
this later--but probably not, probably never, not when he arches his back and
wriggles and squirms and the next, breathy noise that leaves his throat is more
than eager. "You," Yukimura pants out, his thighs squeezing around Sanada's
waist, his hands in Sanada's hair, dragging his mouth to his neck, "are
perfect, stop asking questions, you're literally perfect and I'm so close,
Genichirou--"
 
Really close, like to the best thing ever, and every muscle vibrating in his
body tells him that and god does he need it.
 
“Not gonna make it,” Sanada gasps, because he’s closer than he’s ever been,
somehow, and Yukimura is grabbing at him, and he’s inside Yukimura. He’s not
entirely sure what he’s not going to make it to, but he’s quite positive that
he isn’t going to make it. 
 
And then, just like that, he does.
 
The next thrust is harder, more needful, and it drags along his cock, the lube
wearing off just enough to make it burn a little. Apparently, that’s what he
needs, because his entire body seizes with pleasure. All control goes out the
window, and he slams in deeper than he means to, almost convulsing in his need,
slamming in again and again as he comes what feels like more than he ever has
in his life, deep inside Yukimura, and just the thought of where he’s coming is
enough to send him over the edge again.
 
He’s not sure what sound he makes when it happens, but it probably isn’t
anything coherent enough to be a name, and it definitely isn’t flattering.
White spots burst in front of his eyes, and he slumps down, twitching hard,
gone boneless and pathetic.
 
That feels weird, and good, and a bunch of other things all at once, and
Yukimura's mind cheerfully shuts the fuck up. 
 
He actually doesn't really remember coming. Mostly, he remembers clinging so
tightly to Sanada that he's not sure he himself can breathe, and he remembers
kind of…falling, his body giving up and every nerve feeling achingly overused
when everything twitches and tingles. Everypart of his body is a shaky mess
when he finally regains the motor control to let Sanada go, and his hands hurt
from how white-knuckled his grip was. 
 
Yukimura blinks hard, his vision blurry and that's not changing because it's
also wet and that's just weird. If sex makes him into a crybaby, too, that's
new, but it could be worse. In the aftermath, everything is definitely sore,
but he can't even bring himself to swat at Sanada and make him move because
warm and sticky and heavy and all of that is surprisingly therapeutic.
 
“Love you.” The words are archaic as well as half-sobbed, and Sanada doesn’t
regret them a bit. “Seiichi. I want you for the rest of my life. I’ll get
better at this. I’ll build you cabins and tennis courts.” He’d have thought
he’d be too exhausted to talk, but apparently not. “I...if that’s what coming
is supposed to feel like, maybe I haven’t ever done it before.”
 
Yukimura wishes that his smack to Sanada's back was harder, but he's pretty
floppy right now, so it's not much of anything. Also, shit, he's just going to
start crying now, too, apparently. That's so not cool, but… "Genichirou, don't
you everleave me," he huffs, and stuffs his face into Sanada's neck. "You're
already perfect, so shut up, I love you, too, and look, just because it was a
really good orgasm doesn't mean you've never had one before in the past."
 
“When,” Sanada asks, huffing out a breath as he tries, god, he tries to control
his emotions, “are you going to be out of that hitting mood?”
 
"When you start kissing me enough to soften me up again."
 
The next laugh is wet, and Sanada presses his lips to Yukimura’s, knowing the
kiss is just as damp. Even that little movement is enough to shift him inside,
and he grimaces, sliding back just enough to slip out, followed by a slow ooze
of liquid. “How….how was it? I mean, obviously we’ll both get better at the
logistics, but basically?”
 
Yukimura hisses out a breath, blinking hard up towards the ceiling to get rid
of that little prick of less-pleasant tears. Ow, ow, ow. It doesn't feel as
good when Sanada's out of him, that's for sure. "Really good," he breathes all
the same, and sags back down into the bed in a heap. "I'm pretty into being
your wife, by the way. I wanted to tell you I wasn't joking, but we got
distracted, obviously."
 
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sanada grumbles, embarrassed now. “You’re making fun of
me.”
 
Yukimura stretches out one long leg, and slowly kneads his toes against
Sanada's thigh. "What, you don't want me to be your bride? I'd be a fashionable
one, at least." 
 
“You’re not a woman.” Sanada can’t quite summon the annoyance in a level high
enough to smack Yukimura’s foot away, but he considers it. “And I’d never want
you to be. Obviously.” He frowns slightly, and adds, “I’ve never really asked.
Do you like women, too? Or are you like me?”
 
"I'm not offering to be a woman, Gen-n-n. Ah, you're no fun." Carefully,
Yukimura drags himself up into a sitting position, making a few pointed,
irritated growling noises at the soreness in his muscles and…in other weird
places. "I like women." Theoretically. "I definitely think they're pretty. Heh,
I used to draw you as a woman a lot, I should try that again sometime…" 
 
Sanada shrugs, flopping down on his back, glad now that he’d sprung for the
largest bed they had. “I was just curious. Do your parents…” He cuts himself
off, ruffling his own hair. “Never mind, this isn’t the time to talk about that
kind of thing. I just want to lay here with you for a while.”
 
"What, no reaction to the gender bending? Really?" Yukimura flops down on top
of him, nestling up underneath his chin. "My mom spent so long in France that
she nearly popped me out over there," he wryly points out, "and my dad doesn't
care about anything. You know they don't care. Also, they love you." 
 
“I know.” Sanada tightens his arms around Yukimura--god, they feel comfortable
there. It’s where they’ve always been meant to be, and he knows it. “I know
they don’t care that we’re together. I didn’t know whether they’re still
expecting you to really get married someday, like mine are.”
 
"Eh? No way. I mean, unless you count to a tennis racquet…" Yukimura trails
off, frowning, and peers up at him through the mess of his hair. "I'll kidnap
you to England. You can't get married." 
 
Sanada tugs on his hair. “I didn’t say I was going to. But you know they’re
expecting it, right?” He worries slightly at his bottom lip. He hadn’t
remembered how progressive, how Western Yukimura’s family is in contrast to his
own.
 
"…Okay, but," Yukimura says, his brow furrowing. "You could just tell them
already that it's not going to happen. Then they're not expecting it." 
 
“Can we not talk about this right now?” Sanada turns his head to the side,
mouthing against Yukimura’s ear. It had seemed like an inevitability--an
obvious one. There hadn’t seemed to be any need to say it. Now, he just wishes
he could take it back. “You’re here. I’m here. I know what it’s like to be
inside you. I love you. What could be better than that?”
 
Sometimes, Yukimura remembers how painfully traditional Sanada is, and it just
makes him sigh. "Fine, fine. Consider it dropped." He snuggles up against the
other boy instead, butting his head underneath his chin. "I love you, too. And
this cabin." Taking his mind off of a lot of things, tennis included, seems a
lot easier now.
 
Sanada lets out a long breath of relief. At least like this, it’s easy. They
can be happy. He kisses Yukimura’s cheek again, then flops back ruefully. “I’d
planned on making love to you five or six times,” he confides. “I hadn’t
expected it to take so much out of me. Are you sore? The article said it might
feel strange for a while, or you’d need to...well. You know.”
 
Yukimura bites his shoulder instead of hitting him this time. "Five or six
times is way too many. You can do that over the course of this one week, I
think. I'm sore, but I'm fine, and not getting up right now." 
 
“Sleep if you’re sleepy.” Watching Yukimura really sleep has become one of the
finer pleasures of Sanada’s life. “Or I’ll cook for you if you’re hungry. Or…”
He draws a thumb up Yukimura’s arm, then down, slow and easy. “Or we can just
stay like this until we need a bath.”
 
Yukimura smiles, and flops his head back down onto Sanada's chest. "If you put
me to sleep, I'll just wake up and expect you to fish for me in a fundoshi
later. I believe you promised." 
 
Sanada just holds him, and smiles. “I always keep my promises. We’re here,
aren’t we?”
 
***** Yagyuu & Niou *****
Niou hates Yagyuu more than he misses him.
 
After all, Yagyuu is a prick. Yagyuu is an asshole. Yagyuu should be the one
apologizing first--down on his knees, really, if Niou has anything to say about
it. Yagyuu’s the one that can’t be trusted, because shit, Niou isn’t the one
that fucked everything up.
 
A day after Nationals, Niou Googles “how to make him apologize first.”
 
He prowls, the way only cats and he can, with about the same temperament as a
studdy tom. He almost fucks a girl in a club (why the bouncers let him in, he
has no idea), and leaves instead as soon as she gets her hand down his pants.
It doesn’t feel right, so he goes to a gay club (and the bouncer lets him in
only after he flashes a lot of cash). He almost lets a guy drag him into the
back room and fuck him senseless, and is pretty sure later that night that he
should have, and the only reason he didn’t is because the fuckface has a beauty
mark. If he wanted to see that shit, he’d fuck himself. Not like he never has.
 
Three days after Nationals, Niou Googles “how to get back together and still be
right and make him think it’s his idea because it’s really all his fault and
not mine.”
 
Mostly, Niou is angry, angry at himself for being predictable. He hates knowing
that someone could look at him and think, yes, this is a guy that’s been
dumped, it makes total sense for him to act this way.
 
He takes up smoking again, and drops it, disgusted. He adopts three stray cats,
then kicks them out when they sleep on his tennis uniform. 
 
A week after Nationals, Niou Googles train times back to Shikoku, and hates
himself for wanting a hug from his mother.
 
Niou comes to the sickening conclusion that he misses Yagyuu more than he hates
him, and he does not, in fact, have his pride. It’s almost two in the morning
when he dials Yagyuu’s number, then hangs up in disgust. If he wakes the
bastard, he’s wrong, and he’s pretty sure that taking the first step by calling
is as gross as he wants to be.
 
So instead, he waits until 6:05 in the morning, after Yagyuu brushes his teeth,
and Niou hates himself for knowing that he’s calling exactly 3.5 cups of tea
into Yagyuu’s day.
 
No one ever calls him, is the thing. 
 
That's why his phone buzzing makes Yagyuu jump and nearly drop his half-way
finished cup of tea. Warily, he glances down at it, and the number flashing
across the front of it makes his stomach twist into knots.
 
He's not sure if he can answer, is the other thing.
 
He's apologized in spades to Yukimura, to Sanada, to everyone else, but that's
about tennis, not about…something else. Niou is a special case, and he's not
even entirely sure he should be apologizing with his face to the ground about
anything. Is it really his fault? How much did he mess up, exactly? 
 
He flip-flops on the issue, obviously. 
 
On the last ring, Yagyuu picks up the phone and flips it open, but doesn't say
anything until he's out of the kitchen and hiding up in his room again.
Actually, he has a hard time of thinking what to say then, too, and he sort of
awkwardly holds the phone up, stressing until he blurts out: "I didn't think
you'd call again."
 
That uncomfortable silence--almost-silence, anyway, he can hear the big dork
breathing--is better than words. Niou can handle uncomfortable silence, he
finds. It’s what comes after that’s difficult, because what comes after is
Yagyuu and feelings and shit. 
 
Niou finds himself wishing for a cigarette, but he’d given the last of his pack
to the cats as a consolation prize for kicking them out. All he has is an
orange, so he peels it slowly, angrily, with his nails. There’s an urge to just
say Puri, but that’s a prank call thing, and Yagyuu doesn’t quite get him
enough to know what it would really mean.
 
“Wasn’t sure you’d answer.” That hurts to say, makes Niou feel sick and ugly,
and he says without thinking, “I wanna be sure again.”
 
"I don't…" What Niou is saying is way cooler than anything he could manage, and
that makes Yagyuu feel even more insecure about this whole thing than he
already does. He swallows hard, starts counting weird grooves in his ceiling,
and almost loses track of the conversation (if it can even be called that). 
 
"I don't know what you want me to say." His hand shakes on the phone, and he
switches it to his other hand. That doesn't help. "I'm…" He trails off again,
nervous, awkward, so stupidly and pathetically awkward, and finally says,
really quietly: "I miss you, though." 
 
“I didn’t fuck him.” There’s something almost petulant, almost sad in Niou’s
voice. Sure. Almost. 
 
“I didn’t fuck anyone. I just--fuck, are you coming back?” Niou feels something
cold and wet, and looks down to see that three of his fingers are sunk deep
into the stupid orange. Yukimura’s right, and he does need his nails clipped.
 
"I…" Yagyuu hesitates, and frowns, and glances down even though Niou's not
there and it's not like he has to meet his eyes or anything. "Like, coming
over? Or relationship things or what, I'm--ugh. Niou-kun, can I say I'm sorry
and can we never talk about this again, because it's really awful and awkward."
Rattling it off like that may or may not have good results, Yagyuu doesn't
know. 
 
“Yeah, shit, both. Fuck.” Niou sinks down to the ground, folding himself up
into a ball, and his voice is somehow both harsh and weak at the same time.
“Get here fast. I’ve been me for too long.”
 
He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. At some point, Yagyuu stopped
counting as “anyone,” he guesses.
 
It's probably pointless to explain to Niou that he's supposed to be babysitting
his little sister today, and…okay. Okay, he can make this work. He's going to,
at any rate. 
 
"Don't tell Kaasan that I'm leaving you alone."
 
Mei isn't very trustworthy on most days, but this will do for now. 
 
It takes about an hour to get to Niou's apartment, and he still has the key.
Not that it matters--the door is unlocked, with a few stray cats lingering
around outside (where did they get those cigarettes), and Yagyuu gingerly steps
over them to walk inside. "Niou-kun?" Hopefully, he isn't dead or dying. 
 
Niou makes some small effort to drag himself into a standing position. He
raises one eyebrow, but it’s not exactly the cocky move he wants it to be. “Go
ahead and tell me I look like shit. Even the cats told me that already.” And he
knows it’s true, since every time he passes a mirror the circles under his eyes
are a little darker, and his hair hasn’t been properly crunchy for days. His
roots have even grown out, enough that he’s started wearing a hoodie on the few
occasions he leaves the apartment, and every surface is covered with delivery
pizza boxes. Three or four mean things about how Yagyuu looks are on his own
tongue, but he finds quite suddenly that the act of saying them is more than
he’s up to. That perfectly pressed clothing, the glinting ineffable eyes behind
the glasses, the way Yagyuu’s lips part slightly when he doesn’t know what to
say--shit, how’s he supposed to insult the big dork when he’s so fucking
desirable?
 
"…Well, they're wrong." 
 
The words leave his mouth before he can censor them, and that's embarrassing.
Yagyuu's face flushes, and he shuts the door properly, locking it, and toeing
off his shoes as he looks to the ground. He's an idiot. He's not just that,
he's really, really stupid. "You look good to me. Do you want me to bleach your
hair or something?" Not that it matters. He's dumb, but he does like Niou's
roots, just a little (a lot).
 
“Not yet. Not going out.” Niou looks around for something to do with his hands,
but only sees the half-mangled orange. Yeah, that’s no good, so he shoves his
hands into his pockets instead, annoyed at himself and Yagyuu and everything in
between...and there does seem to be a hell of a lot in between. “Who’s wrong?”
he asks, hating to admit ignorance and doing it anyway. “Who fucked up? Because
I’m like, a minute away from saying fuck it and just jumping you, but if I do
that we’re just gonna do this again in like a week, because you think I can’t
keep it in my pants and maybe I can’t.”
 
I thought we didn't have to talk about this is the desperate thing on Yagyuu's
tongue, but apparently, they're going to talk about it, and oh, god, that's no
good at all. 
 
"…I think both?" Yagyuu tries, shrugging helplessly. He lingers near the door
for another moment, and only sidesteps away from it slightly. "I…it's…I think I
probably would have dropped it, and believed you," he admits, "and I do, now.
But the way you said that one thing--that if you were just after a pretty face,
it wouldn't be me that you were dating…" Ugh, stupid, this is stupid, he's
stupid. He's mortified enough that he really, seriously considers jumping out
the door and offering himself as a human meal to the cats.
 
“That wasn’t what I fucking meant.” That’s real anger in Niou’s voice, and it
isn’t directed at Yagyuu so much as it is at himself. “You interrupted me. I
was saying...I don’t fucking remember, something about how I could fuck anyone
with a pretty face, but you’re a hell of a lot more. Shit, you know I don’t
date anyone just because they’re pretty, you fucking know that, I don’t date
anyone.”
 
Because dating leaves him like this, apparently, surrounded by smoking cats and
pizza boxes with bad hair, hunching down to the ground and hating the floor and
the air for being space between the two of them.
 
"Oh." It's actually even worse to be that wrong about the whole thing, and the
human meat sacrifice idea comes back in spades. Yagyuu swallows, thinks, pushes
up his glasses, and draws a complete blank.
 
Except to just…slowly inch over, and plop down onto the floor next to Niou,
hunched up in a very similar ball.
 
"Then it was my fault, and I'm dumb, and I'm sorry." 
 
Niou pretty much falls to the side. He buries his head in Yagyuu’s lap, then
hunches his way closer, forcing the Yagyuu-ball open to climb into his lap,
creating a space for himself and smelling like orange pulp. “I fucked up too.
Stay. We’re both fucking filth, just be me for a while and I’ll be you and
it’ll be my fault.”
 
Fucking hell, the relief of having Niou back in his lap again is enough to
knock the breath out of his lungs, and Yagyuu kind of likes that he smells
weirdly like oranges, anyway. "Can we…like…do this at my house?" he hesitantly
asks, winding his arms firmly around Niou and refusing to let go even as he
asks that. "You can still be me, I'm supposed to be watching my little sister
and I wanted to just leave her at the arcade but you know how shy she is
and…look, the wig will even cover up your hair." 
 
“Yeah. Gimme your shit.” Niou wriggles out of his shirt as if it’s been a year
since he’s been someone else, not a week, and somehow manages to strip out of
his shorts without getting off of Yagyuu’s lap. For once, being naked doesn’t
mean he’s all over his partner. Instead, he sets himself to the task of his
socks, carefully rolling them up, and taking out the fake rattail, tucking it
up into his hairline. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, relief in every
syllable, “you should be mad when I can be around someone else naked and not
fuck them. You’re the only one.” That’s a dumb thing to admit, and Niou
mentally hisses a little at himself.
 
Yagyuu heaves a long sigh in Niou's general direction. "I don't like being mad
period," he grouses, taking off his glasses and handing those over first as he
methodically undoes the buttons of his shirt. "Mostly, I just want…" No, that's
getting way too sappy and stupid and homo and nope, nope, nope. That being
said--Niou is warm and naked in his lap and he stills his own undressing to
grab him again for a moment, squeezing him to his chest. 
 
Niou tenses for a second, then flops. “Me too,” he says, more in response to
what Yagyuu didn’t say than in response to the comment about being mad. He
shoves the glasses on his face, and his vision rearranges itself, all swirly
and nauseating and good.
 
Briefly, Yagyuu shoves his face down into Niou's hair, breathing in deep. It's
not crunchy like it usually is, and Niou's got some serious roots going on,
enough that anyone would know his natural hair color and that's no good at all.
He'll fix that later, definitely. "I need to keep giving you my clothes," he
says. "But I don't want to let you go. That's an issue." 
 
“How bad does Mei-chan need a babysitter?” Niou says, muffled into Yagyuu’s
stupid skinny chest that has way more muscles than anyone would expect. No,
he’s going to be at least a little good and try not to sort of bite his chest,
not even though Yagyuu deserves it and Niou deserves to taste him after a week
of gross unforced celibacy.
 
"She doesn't need one," Yagyuu says, logically. "But I'm supposed tobe there.
She's gonna be in her room drawing BL the whole time, so we could get there and
just kind of…never leave my room. Except for when I need to feed you." 
 
“I do need to be fed,” Niou agrees, and finally starts peeling himself away
(grumpily) from Yagyuu’s chest. “This is no good,” he mutters. He considers
protesting that Yagyuu hasn’t even kissed him yet, but shit that’s a nasty homo
thing to say. Instead, he straightens up, in character already though all he
has are the glasses, and tilts Yagyuu’s chin up for a gentlemanly kiss. Yeah,
that’s way less gross.
 
Ah. Okay.
 
When they do things like this, it's a lot easier. Things make sense a bit more,
which is weird, but still good, and so Yagyuu just lets himself be kissed as a
result, giving Niou's lower lip a bite for good measure. That feels way too
good after what feels like ages without, and he gives up, immediately grabbing
for Niou's arms and yanking him back down into his lap, right between his legs,
because fuck it. 
 
Niou lets out a noise--a noise that says all of this is quite undignified, and
he’s quite long-suffering, thank you--and grabs at Yagyuu’s shoulders. “Let me
make it up to you, Niou-kun,” he breathes, going for that jump of nervousness
and eager scandal that Yagyuu is always projecting. “Anything--let me do
something good for you, just the way you like it.”
 
This is so much fucking easier, and Yagyuu is readyfor that.
 
He's glad his shirt is already mostly unbuttoned, because he shrugs at it like
he's shedding his skin, slouching underneath Niou's grasp when he flops down
onto the floor, head on a pizza box and his hands raking down Niou's spine.
"Fuck me." His mouth is dry, and his head is spinning, and that feels great.
"Fuck me until I can't move." 
 
Niou’s hands are so ready they’re almost fumbling, but no, not quite. There’s
enough casual elegance in them from years of practice (suddenly remembered)
that he still manages to grab sure and strong. He tweaks a nipple, just the way
he likes it, tugging and rolling it between his fingers. “I want to see you
with your legs spread,” he says, eyes raking down the newly exposed flesh,
hands pawing at his abdomen, his thighs, avoiding his cock. “Wide, so I can see
where you need me. Can you do that for me, Niou-kun?”
 
Yagyuu wonders if it's normal to get this hard, this fast. Probably not. His
breath catches all up in his chest, and he's never been quicker about shucking
his pants and underwear, kicking them aside with enough force that there's
another box mountain that goes tumbling down. His cock throbs once it's
actually free, aching in the chilly air of Niou's apartment, and he squirms to
spread his legs wide. "You're such a fucking pervert, Yaaagyuu," he breathes,
eyes lidded and dark. It doesn't matter that his vision is blurry, he can see
more than enough. "You gonna want to watch me get ready, too?" 
 
Niou nods, swallowing hard when the words are so lewd, no matter that he’s said
worse a hundred times. “We’ll see,” he breathes, hands squeezing Yagyuu’s
thighs, “if I can wait long enough--ah, but you need to be prepared carefully,
don’t you? Show me you’re still tight for me.” He leans down, breath hot on
Yagyuu’s ear, and murmurs, “I’ll know if you’ve been bending over for anyone
but me, Niou-kun. If you have anything to confess, do it now.” 
 
His eyes are challenging. Time to see if Yagyuu really does understand him, or
if he’s really married to the idea of Niou being an uncontrollable slut.
 
"Fuck you," is the breathy, ragged mutter underneath Yagyuu's breath. "You
fucking know I've been hard up without you, you ass. Wasn't this about making
it up to me?" 
 
Sounds about right, Yagyuu thinks, especially when he's making a mindless grab
for Niou's cock, his fingers coming away slick when they drag up it from root
to tip. "Looks like you've been just as bad," he snidely points out, getting a
good bite in on Niou's shoulder. "You're not even gonna be able to get it in at
this rate." 
 
Fuck, if Yagyuu isn’t careful, Niou’s going to fall in love with him or
something. 
 
“Just for that,” he says instead, adjusting his glasses with one delicate
finger, “I think I’d like to prepare you myself. I do hope you can take it as
fast as I’m going to give it to you...I’d just hate for you to be
uncomfortable.” 
 
There’s no sting in the words, just a teasing challenge, and Niou grabs the
lube on the counter (one perk of living alone out of many) and wastes no time
in sliding two, then three fingers in in quick succession. It’s a damn good
thing they’re switched right now; for all that Niou loves taking dick, Yagyuu
is unfortunately better at it, physically speaking. He dips his head down,
resting his forehead against his shoulder. “You’re not wrong,” he adds, in a
rough whisper. “Open up fast, or this isn’t going to last long at all, and I--
I need to be in you, Niou-kun.”
 
Even if he next to never does this, doesn't like it all that much, not usually-
-right now, there's literally nothing better.
 
His cock is hard enough between his legs that he has to reach down, choking
down a ragged, broken groan when he squeezes at the base of it to keep from
spilling right there with Niou's fingers buried in his ass. It feels really
fucking good, and he grinds down against his hand, his head turning to the side
to bite and suck at the side of Niou's neck, uncaring if he leaves a mark,
though he knows it would normally be something that Niou would do to piss him
off. 
 
"I need it." Yagyuu's own voice is rough around the edges, his other hand's
perfectly filed nails still more than enough to leave red streaks down Niou's
back. "Fucking hell, Yagyuu--just shove it in me, I'm--"
 
“You’re a damned slut is what you are,” Niou rasps, shoving at Yagyuu’s head to
shove him down to the ground, but there’s no sting to the words, not to match
the affection there. “Clawing at me like one of your diseased cats.” 
 
There’s the urge to clasp his own mouth to Yagyuu’s neck, sucking and biting,
but that’s nothing he needs right now. No, now he needs to bein, and from the
way Yagyuu’s bucking down on him, wanton and hungry, that’s no issue at all.
 
He pulls his hand out, and wipes it fastidiously on his own discarded shirt,
because how many times has Yagyuu done that to him? “Take a deep breath,” he
urges, hands under Yagyuu’s knees, yanking his legs back, apart, wide. It’s
been long enough since they’ve done this that he has to stop and admire for a
second, the way his hole is already stretched and shiny and red, and he smiles
to himself, thinking about how it’s going to look in a minute. Yagyuu does
that, he knows, and that knowledge is enough to make his hard cock twitch as he
shoves it in, just as hard as Yagyuu would ever dare.
 
Considering how his back arches, his muscles twitch and bow and shudder, his
hands immediately on Niou's back even more strongly and insistently, that deep
breath doesn't do much good and Yagyuu doesn't much care, besides.
 
It's mind-numbing, and maybe that's why he's never liked this that much. As
Niou, though, he fucking loves it. His mind blanks out and he groans, squirming
down even when he's sure that Niou's in all the way, a desperate, needy grunt
escaping his throat when he gets his legs around Niou's waist and writhes down
like he's dying if he doesn't have more. "Just like that," he pants out, his
eyes rolling back, licking his lips when he reaches his hands up and sinks them
into Niou's hair. It's better that it's not crunchy right now, because it feels
closer to his own. "Fuck--fuck, you always know how to fuck me right, Yaagyuu--
"
 
Niou wonders if the real Yagyuu ever feels this surge of jealousy whenever he’s
in balls-deep. Maybe, if he always looks like he’s having this much fun.
 
“That’s because you make it so easy, Niou-kun.” Niou’s voice is a whisper, his
hands rough on Yagyuu’s legs, leaving bruises with every moment he thrusts in
deep. Pretending and illusion are all well and good, but he can’t exactly
pretend his dick any bigger, so he doesn’t feel any of the guilt the real
Yagyuu ever does (should) when they fuck this hard. “You’re so bad at taking
it, but you love it so much.”
 
A hand comes up and leaves a cruel, swift slap to one cheek of Yagyuu’s ass,
and Niou’s breath hiccups as if he can’t believe how arousing that is. “You
like it when I give you what you need.” It isn’t a question.
 
Yagyuu's voice breaks on a yelp, and yes, this is a good reason to do this
here, not at home, because fuck keeping his voice down when he knows the walls
here are thick and also, he doesn't care. "Just need it," he hungrily agrees,
squirming to better grind down, panting hard when he still feels that sting
from Niou's hand when he moves just right. 
 
"Doesn't matter if it's too much--fuck, Yagyuu--" he sags down with a shudder,
tries to stay as tense as Niou always is, a wound-up ball of energy that just
won't relax no matter how hard he's fucked, but that's hard when every thrust
just turns him to shuddery goo. "Dunno if I can--you're just--" Gonna make me
come in like five seconds, that's just not fair, is this why you never last and
I always do?
 
“It’s fine.” Niou can feel his concentration fading, breaking when Yagyuu is so
good, so tight and hot around him, so messy and fucked up and actually still
wanting to be with him. It’s like they are on the court, invincible as each
other until they aren’t, and Niou breaks, lurching into Yagyuu as he thrusts
harder and harder, hips slamming down to meet his. “Fill you up,” he groans,
because he might have Yagyuu’s glasses, but he sure as hell doesn’t have his
stamina, and it’s with that rueful thought that he loses it, spilling deep and
realizing only so much later that they hadn’t used a fucking condom, and being
vindictively glad about the mess more than anything.
 
Yagyuu hates the way that feels, but at the same time, it makes him come harder
than he has in a long time. 
 
His hands claw down Niou's back, up into his hair, yanking him down for a
messy, sloppy kiss that's mostly teeth, but more than enough to keep his voice
down. His breath is still a ragged, useless mess, and they're going to be stuck
together at this rate courtesy of the slippery, stickiness of his own come
spilled over his stomach. 
 
He always feels gross after things like this, but maybe that's better. He
certainly doesn't let Niou pull away, and instead keeps a hand fisted into his
hair to make sure they stay plastered together, sweaty and breathing hard.
 
“You like it, right?” Niou’s voice comes in long, hot pants, breathing out on
Yagyuu’s ear, on his cheek. Yagyuu is good at switching, but sometimes he needs
a reminder about who he’s supposed to be, what he’s supposed to feel. “You like
the way it makes you all messy. Like you’re the used condom. It feels good to
be used and thrown away, right?” He hopes his voice is still Yagyuu’s.
Annoyingly, he’s feeling some things that aren’t, and tries to tamp that down
by touching the glasses--yes, they’re askew, that’s probably the problem.
That’s why his voice is coming out raw.
 
"Fucking hell," Yagyuu mutters, groaning as he flops back, his head banging
down onto another fucking pizza box. He twitches and shivers and scrapes his
nails down Niou's chest, halfheartedly using him like a scratching post.
"Just…" He swallows hard, voice sticking in his throat. In character? Maybe.
Can't process, doesn't give a shit now. "You're not allowed to really fucking
throw me away."
 
“Idiot.” That comes out with a little more (or less) vitriol than Niou means it
to, and he buries his face, glasses and all, in Yagyuu’s shoulder. “I’m the
only one who won’t throw you away, Niou-kun. You won’t let me, will you?” There
shouldn’t be an element of pleading in his voice, but it’s been a hard week,
and everyone else he likes hates him, and the cats have taken his cigarettes.
 
"Dumbass. I'll drown you first." Yagyuu's face is in the other side of Niou's
neck, and he huffs, breathing in sweat and Niou, which is always weird but less
like wet cat today. "Might still do it. You know. In the shower. Where we could
go right now." Look, his tolerance for being gross only goes so far.
 
Niou rolls his eyes, and takes off the glasses. “Lame, Yaaaagyuu. Put your
fucking clothes back on, we’ll drown at your house and your perv sister can
draw more BL about me and...what did she name him? Yukito Mura?”
 
"Miou and Yukito, yes." Yagyuu snatches his glasses back with a sniff. "Don't
remind me, she had to print out 11 copies each of her weird BL from my
printer."
 
Niou stretches out, grabs his shorts, realizes they’ve probably seen better
moments, and tosses them back over his shoulder, slinking into the bedroom to
grab something less...stiff. “You’re just mad because she keeps making you into
Miou’s female classmate, Hiroko.”
 
Yagyuu scowls, reflexively shoving at his glasses as he hauls himself to his
feet and primly begins straightening his clothing. At least it isn't too worse
for wear, but the fact that he's sticky and gross isn't exactly appealing. "I
just don't understand why I'm the only one that she turned into a girl. Even
Sanada is still a man, it's strange." 
 
“Duh.” Niou sticks his head out, wearing an absurdly stupid looking hat and a
turtleneck, not that he’s run out of clothes or anything. “If she thinks about
you in her little harem, she’d be thinking gross brocon thoughts. This way
you’re safe, Hiro-chan.”
 
"Don't call me that. It's weird." Yagyuu sighs, long-suffering. "Niou-kun, at
least bring some of your laundry so I can do it while we're babysitting." 
 
“Yeah,” Niou says, then looks around at the mess of the apartment. “That really
seems like more work than I want to put in when my hair’s like this. Let’s just
go, I don’t mind looking stupid for a day. We’re just gonna be in your room
anyway.” There’s a flutter of his eyelashes at that last that makes it a lot
dirtier than the words imply.
 
Undeterred (and unfazed), Yagyuu ignores him in favor of grabbing the nearest
trash bag, stuffing it full of whatever discarded articles of clothing are
around, and promptly hauls it behind him when they head towards the door. "I'm
going to deal with the rest of your apartment later, but this is a start.
Imagine how disappointed Mei-can would be if Miou showed up less than
beautiful." Gag.
 
“As long as Hiro-chan thinks I’m presentable,” Niou mutters, and locks the door
behind him. Wherever he’s going has to be better than where he’s been. Yagyuu’s
there.
 
***** Atobe & Ryouma, Atobe & Tezuka *****
If there’s one thing Atobe doesn’t expect to see when he steps off the plane,
surreptitously dropping his hand with Tezuka’s, it’s a crowd of reporters. In
all fairness, he probably should expect them everywhere, what with his own
infamy and the delightful nature of his personality, but he must admit, it’s a
bit of a shock to have them so obvious. His smile doesn’t change as he waves,
but with how many of them there are, with how hungry they look, he knows
they’ve got something. “Brace yourself,” he whispers out of the corner of his
mouth. “They know something.”
 
“Atobe-san, is it true you’re dating!?”
 
“Atobe-san, are the rumors of a gay love affair true?”
 
“Atobe-san, are you going to try to be the first openly gay pro tennis player?”
 
“Atobe-san—”
 
“Atobe-san—”
 
“Atobe-san, were you at the National Championships to cheer on your—”
 
“Atobe-san, did seeing him win the trophy—”
 
The only saving grace, as far as Atobe is concerned, is that no one is taking
pictures of Tezuka. His own heart is frozen, then hammering, but this is just
press. He’s been dealing with press all of his life, and neither they nor their
invasive questions are nearly as bothersome as they could be, as long as they
leave Tezuka alone.
 
The press aren’t difficult to deal with, since he knows what he’s doing. It’s
easier to deal with them than it is to return home, knowing he’ll have to deal
with Darryl, his father’s genius media consultant. He laughs off the matter in
the car, still baffled at the origin of it all, even as he warns Tezuka that
he’ll probably be seen in public with some scandalous married woman or other
before the week is up. 
 
The numbness in Tezuka’s face is the worst of all, he thinks.
 
Then he’s abruptly forced to reconsider what “the worst of all” is when he
finds his father has company.
 
Five hours later, dressed in borrowed sweats and cap from an annoyed Shishido,
Atobe scales the side of an old house that sits on a shrine, hoping he’s not
making anything worse, checking at every corner for more flashing cameras. The
window is locked, obnoxiously, and he has to remind himself that Ryouma
couldn’t possibly know who he’s locking out, or he wouldn’t have dared. “Oi!
Echizen!” he hisses, knocking on the glass when Ryouma comes in, homework in
one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Let me in!”
 
It takes a moment for Ryouma to figure out what, exactly, is making all of that
noise. He blinks when it finally processes, and he nearly drops his water in
the process. "Atobe-…sempai," he manages, his head tilting to the side, and he
sets his things down before slowly padding over to the window. "What are you
doing out there?" 
 
Atobe hauls himself in as soon as the window is open, grimacing in distaste at
the indignity of it all. “I came to make certain you’re all right. I know how
my father took it, but I wasn’t sure about yours.”
 
Ryouma stares at him, head still tilted. "…Took what?" he asks, clueless, and
he reaches up to slowly tug on the bill of Atobe's hat. "That really looks
weird on you…"
 
Atobe gives him a tragic, pained look, and shuts the blinds before taking off
the hat. “The news story? Oh…” He flops down on Ryouma’s bed, sort of owning
it, and attempts to pull off the sweatpants with some dignity. “Some fool of a
reporter got it into their head to make up some story about the two of us being
secret lovers. Your father was at my house when I got home.”
 
Huh. Well, that's weird. Ryouma plops down onto the bed next to him all the
same, wondering why his dad hasn't freaked out on him yet, but that's just as
well. "But we aren't secret lovers. You're dating Tezuka-buchou."
 
“Well. It isn’t as if we haven’t been secret lovers,” Atobe points out with an
arched brow, reaching out to tousle his hair. “I just came to check on you.” He
makes a face. “And to ask if you’ll check up on Kunimitsu for me for the next
week or so? I have to keep him out of this, no matter what.”
 
"…But was it really secret on purpose? We just didn't tell anyone." Ryouma
stretches out, peering up at him through his bangs. "Tezuka-buchou isn't mad at
me, is he?" 
 
Atobe blinks, startled. “Of course it was a secret, and no, he’s not angry with
you. Honestly, it isn’t as if I can publicly flaunt the things I enjoy, with
you or with him. According to my Public Relations Consultant, the best way to
fight fire is with fire, so expect to hear me implicated in a much bigger
scandal in the near future.” He’s pretty sure his father has some married
socialite or supermodel all set up for him to romance in the next week or so.
 
"It's weird, Atobe-sempai." Ryouma reaches over, pulling on the hem of Atobe's
shirt absently. "I feel like I just had this conversation the other day. Why do
people care so much?"
 
Atobe shrugs. “Japan.” He wraps his arms around Ryouma on instinct, drawing the
boy in to his chest, more for his own reassurance than Ryouma’s. “I say that,”
he admits, “but it’s just as bad in other places. Worse, maybe. Here they just
exclude you. It isn’t as if I care, but…” He hesitates for a moment, then
admits, “I was getting careless. I’d forgotten--but this is a good reminder.
There’s a lot that’s expected of me.”
 
"You hang out with Tezuka-buchou all the time and you still let your guard
down. Shame on you, Atobe-sempai," Ryouma deadpans as he burrows against
Atobe's chest, breathing in deep. "We weren't even dating. I just don't get why
it matters." 
 
“Because I have enemies. My father, really, has enemies.” Atobe grimaces, and
his hands fist in Ryouma’s shirt. “And I still have to make a suitable husband
one day.”
 
“Oi! Ryouma!” A lazy knock at the door precedes an attempt to open it, which is
met with annoyed failure. “Open up, brat. Gotta talk to you.”
 
"Che." Ryouma lifts his head, but otherwise, makes no attempt to move. "I'm
busy, Oyaji. Homework things." He looks over at Atobe, and says very seriously:
"How do you feel about pillow forts?" 
 
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” Atobe says frankly. “But
doubtless I could procure enough pillows to fill a fort.”
 
“This is more important than homework. Naa, are you gonna make me beg for the
pleasure of my son’s company? We can have this talk through the door if you
want!”
 
"Gather all the pillows," Ryouma solemnly says as he sits up. "There are more
in my closet. I'll be back. Oyaji, I hate you," he firmly calls back before
stalking over to the door, unlocking it, and slipping out of his bedroom before
his father can get a glimpse inside. "What do you even want?" 
 
Echizen Nanjirou tosses a tennis ball against the wall, catching it each time.
It gives him a convenient excuse not to look his son in the eye. “I’ve had one
of the grossest conversations I can think of today,” he says, making a face.
“Also, if you want a billion yen, lemme know.”
 
Ryouma's brow furrows, and he leans back against his bedroom door. "How many
tennis racquets can that buy?" 
 
“Of the snotty kind you like? Eh, I dunno. A lot.” Nanjirou tosses the ball
higher, bouncing it off the ceiling and wall before deftly snatching it out of
the air. “That Atobe guy’s dad said he’d give it to you if you stopped seeing
him.” The curiously flat tone of his voice belies the obvious emotional
response in his words.
 
"…That's really stupid." It's actually so stupid that Ryouma doesn't even know
where to start, and so he just frowns. "I'm not gonna do that. Why were you
talking to Atobe-sempai's dad, anyway? That's just weird, you never leave the
house because you're old."
 
“Oi, you’re not the only one that gets invited places! Plenty of people want my
company!” Nanjirou throws the ball harder, wishing they could play during this,
but that always makes Ryouma crabby. “What’s-his-name sent a limo for me, I
figured they were throwing a party for me. Obviously. Turns out he wanted to
talk about some nasty thing they were saying about my kid in the paper. Eugh,
as if they don’t have enough to worry about without bothering a damn kid whose
voice hasn’t dropped about gross sex stuff…”
 
"Oyaji, you're making this so weird," Ryouma mutters, shifting uncomfortably
and folding his arms tightly over his chest. "Atobe-sempai's my friend, and we
aren't dating. There you go, there's what you've been wanting to ask."
 
Thunk. The ball hits the wall, and Nanjirou snatches it again. “I didn’t want
to ask. I just wanted to know if you wanted the money.” 
 
Thunk.
 
“Or if I need to be prepared to read articles about your sex life for the next
twenty years.”
 
"Well, if people are gonna be busy lying about it, maybe," Ryouma huffs,
scuffing his foot against the ground. "Or poking their nose where it doesn't
belong. They should just leave Atobe-sempai alone, and me, too. We've both got
boyfriends, so this is all really dumb."
 
The tennis ball hits the ground, and Nanjirou picks it up, still not meeting
Ryouma’s eyes. “That captain of yours? Or the one with the bike that always
comes to get you? Or--no, it’s the redhead.” He tries not to make a face. “Just
stick it out a couple years, you’ll see how cute girls are. With the…” He makes
a few motions with his hands, suggestively grabbing at the air.
 
"Gross, Oyaji." On all counts, really, and so Ryouma just rolls his eyes.
"Girls are gross, too, but not as gross as you. You met Kintarou the other day,
and you were a jerk to him, and I hate you."
 
Nanjirou tosses the ball at his son’s face. “Stop being such a little asshole.
I’m trying to not be so serious about the whole thing. Shit, I thought you
wanted to go to the Open again this year.”
 
Ryouma catches the ball with a scowl. "I do, and so what? Just because I have a
boyfriend isn't gonna change anything about how I play tennis."
 
“You can’t be that stupid.” Nanjirou leans back against the wall, then fumbles
in the pocket of his yukata for a cigarette. “You grew up in America, dumbass.
You know what everyone’ll say about you, how they’d treat you.”
 
"It's still not gonna change how I play tennis." Ryouma looks at him,
exasperated, and throws the ball right back to his face. "Forget it, I need to
go help Atobe-sempai learn how to build a pillow fort, you're just making
things worse."
 
“So he is here?” Nanjirou vaguely means to fake ducking at the ball, but that’s
a lot of work when he’s focused on something else, and he snatches the ball out
of the air without a thought. “Be careful, brat. Public opinion means more than
you think it does. Ask your brother about that sometime.” He shoves the ball
back into the pocket of his yukata, annoyed, and desperately needing a smoke.
 
"Who?" Ryouma deadpans, pretty sure his dad is just being weird as hell, as per
usual. "And yeah, Atobe-sempai is here. Because you talked to his dad earlier
and made things worse, I bet."
 
“That’s me,” Nanjirou says airily. “I definitely seek out powerful men and talk
about my kid’s sex life to them. Also, your so-called friend is rude as hell!
He referred to you as ‘the relevant Echizen,’ the asshole.”
 
That makes Ryouma's lips slowly twitch into a smirk. "Well, he's not wrong.
You're old and have hip problems." 
 
“Oi, we can go a round right now! Then we’ll see who has hip problems. Jeez,
win one National Championship and you’re more full of yourself than ever.”
Nanjirou flops down to the couch, flipping on the tv and grabbing a magazine he
doesn’t even bother to hide anymore. “And leave the door open.”
 
"I'm not gonna leave the door open." 
 
“Gross, kid.” Despite the words, Nanjirou hardly gets up to enforce the rule.
That would mean admitting there’s a reason to, and that’s something he really
doesn’t want to think about too hard.
 
It's not like I'm gonna do anything, Ryouma wants to say, but that's giving
meaning to his father's concerns, and so he just makes a face at Nanjirou
before turning right back around and going into his room. "Sorry," he crossly
mutters, locking the door and then hauling his desk partially in front of it.
"Gotta barricade us in, my dad's the worst."
 
“If he’s letting you barricade us in, he’s not the worst.” The words are
intended to come out gloomily, but how can anyone be truly gloomy when there
are this many pillows, and he’s not just allowed, but encouraged to do
ridiculous amounts of construction with them? “Come inside the pillow fort,
Echizen. The barrier is structurally sound.”
 
Ryouma eyes it skeptically, and grabs a blanket to drape it over the top of the
structure for added barrier effect. "Hmmm. Not bad, Atobe-sempai. I'd say this
was a B+ pillow fort. Oh, I need my cat," he suddenly remembers, and drops down
underneath the bed to haul out a sleeping Karupin.
 
Atobe’s face lights up, and he immediately makes space for Karupin, wriggling
to the side carefully so as not to destroy the structural integrity. “I see
this is now a mixed-media pillow-and-blanket installation. Of course, steel is
stronger than carbon and iron alone. Ah, your cat is much less bitey than mine,
good.”
 
"Reeehneeeh."
 
"He likes you," Ryouma translates, and slowly climbs into the pillow fort
himself, pleased at this arrangement. "My dad seems to think I can't play
tennis well if I have a boyfriend."
 
“I’d think the current rankings of the best players in Japan would be a rather
damning indictment of that opinion,” Atobe says, raising an eyebrow. This is
relaxing, even if he is wearing appallingly ugly clothing.
 
Karupin starts licking Atobe's sweatpants. "But I'm number one on the juniors
circuit right now, and I have a boyfriend."
 
“And also in the top five are myself, Kunimitsu, and those two mooney-eyed
lunatics from Rikkai, which is my point exactly. What? What the hell was
Shishido wiping on these? Ugh, must be his strange cheese sandwich fetish.”
 
"Karupin also just likes pants. I mean, maybe he's saying that the other
rankings don't read like that, but I don't care." Ryouma huffs, flopping down
hard, and the pillow fort wiggles a bit. "Atobe-sempai, does it cost a lot to
go to Osaka frequently." 
 
Atobe frowns. “Good lord, I have no idea. What counts as a lot of money? Also,
are we talking by shinkansen, ship, helicopter, horseback…”
 
"I guess shinkansen? I dunno, I thought you might. Maybe I should ask Tezuka-
buchou later, he'd know." Ryouma tugs gently on Karupin's tail when he just
won't stop licking, but at least Atobe doesn't seem to mind it too much. 
 
Absently, Atobe reaches down and scritches the cat behind his ears. “I bet he
would know. He’s ever so good with practical things like that.” His voice is
slightly wistful, for all that they’d just spent the week together in the Alps.
“Ah, rude of me, I didn’t even ask how your date with Shitenhouji’s Kintarou
was...though if you’re asking about frequent tickets to Osaka, I’m assuming it
went well?”
 
"Mm, even though you couldn't help me very much about hickeys," Ryouma crossly
reminds him, huddling down into the fort a bit more. 
 
"Reehneeh."
 
"Don't mock me, Karupin. How was I supposed to know? I've never gotten marks
like that before."
 
Atobe turns his head to the side, hooking a finger in Ryouma’s collar and
tugging it slightly, a smirk forming. “He got you good. Seriously, you didn’t
try the thing I suggested. Besides, the best part about neck biting is that it
leaves marks. There are plenty of fun places to put your mouth that are less
incriminating.”
 
"Yeah, but I like it when people bite my neck and stuff," Ryouma mutters,
swatting at Atobe's hand with a huff. "I couldn't try that thing you told me
because my dad and cousin would've really noticed, then. Tezuka-buchou never
has marks, do you just not bite him or something?" 
 
At that, Atobe looks pleased. “I told him no one would notice the scarves. But
no, usually I stick to other locations.” One side of his lips quirk up. “I told
you, we are making at least an attempt to keep it quiet. His grandfather would
probably have me arrested for corrupting the youth, not to mention what he’d be
risking in terms of his pro career. I wouldn’t do that to him.”
 
"Ah…Kaidou-sempai did mention the scarves, but I've still never noticed."
Ryouma scoots closer, setting his cheek against Atobe's chest. "Do you really
think that I can't play tennis if I have a boyfriend?" 
 
Atobe is familiar enough with Ryouma by this point to know when the child needs
to be petted, and immediately starts stroking his hair. “Obviously I don’t
think that. Hell, if you have any trouble getting sponsors because of it by the
time I take over Father’s company, I’ll sponsor you myself. I’d pledge it now,
but in light of recent circumstances...I, ah, doubt I’d be allowed to.” He
hates not being able to do the things he wants to do, because what else is
wealth good for?
 
"I've never needed help getting sponsors, though. They just kind of show up."
Butting his head against Atobe's hand, Ryouma slings an arms and a leg over the
other boy, snuggling up with Karupin sort of sitting on Atobe's hip. "But
thanks. Everyone else seems to act like it's gonna make it so I can't go pro,
but I think that's dumb." 
 
“Anyone who bets against you is a fucking fool,” Atobe says frankly. “Besides,
you have so many outlier factors. You’re Asian, for one thing. Don’t ask why,
but that will help.” His mouth twists in distaste, and he tucks his chin over
Ryouma’s head. “You’ll get the most opposition from Japan, but there shouldn’t
be any danger. I’m assuming you already know it will be dangerous for you in
America.”
 
"I lived in New York, I think I can handle it." 
 
Ryouma pushes his face against Atobe's neck, slowly nuzzling. "It's not like
I'm gonna flaunt it or anything. I wouldn't flaunt it if I were dating a girl,
either. That's just lame."
 
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Atobe says, hand still stroking gently, “but
you know New York from the position of a wealthy prodigy.” He remembers,
briefly, how it feels to be marginalized, wealthy or not, member of an elite
group or not, with the older boys standing around and taunting him for his
playing, his heritage, the fact that he’s new money. The taunting and violence,
he knows, are nothing compared to what would have happened had he not been so
protected by his name and status. “I’m not saying you’ll flaunt it, but if
someone asks you, I doubt you’d lie.”
 
"Well, no. I won't." Ryouma huffs, and drags his teeth over Atobe's collar bone
in a faint bite. "Because that seems really dumb. Also, there's no point in
lying when Kintarou won't lie, either." 
 
Atobe flicks Ryouma in the forehead. “God, no marks today of all days, not
above the neckline. How do his family feel about it, by the way? Or your
father, I didn’t ask.”
 
"Dunno about his. My dad thinks it's gross, I think." That should probably
bother him more than it does, but Ryouma just shrugs and takes a snap at
Atobe's finger instead. "This is all really, really dumb."
 
“The world can be, in general,” Atobe agrees. He traces his finger across
Ryouma’s lips, amused despite his annoyance. “You could always do what I’m
going to do, of course. Find a suitable girl and give her as much of you as she
needs, and keep the rest for the one you really love.”
 
Ryouma glares, and bites again. "Girls are gross."
 
“The uncompromising wisdom of youth, I see.” Atobe taps Ryouma’s nose, then
leans down to kiss him swiftly, nipping at his lip. He looks at the door, and
pauses. “How soundproof are your walls?”
 
"…It's an old shrine," Ryouma wryly points out, but he doesn't exactly tell
Atobe no, not when he's warm and they're cuddled up really close in a pillow
fort. "You are noisy when you do it, though, Atobe-sempai." 
 
“And you love it,” Atobe points out, not embarrassed in the slightest. He
raises an eyebrow, and murmurs, “If you don’t want me to make noise, I could
always occupy my lips elsewhere.” Just because he hasn’t with Ryouma doesn’t
mean he wouldn’t, and Tezuka is considerably less than fond of the act.
 
Ryouma's eyebrows raise, contemplative. "You'd do that? I thought you just
liked it when I did that." 
 
"Reehneeh."
 
"Ah, no, Karupin. This is too adult of a mood for you," Ryouma grumbles,
shooing him out of the pillow fort and to the floor.
 
“I,” Atobe says confidently, “have been told I’m quite excellent at it.”
Perhaps not for a while, but he’s pretty sure the opinion stands. He shoves
Ryouma onto his back, palming at the front of his shorts, feeling him start to
fill out under his hand. Fortunately, his own mouth has grown since the last
time he’d attempted this, and Ryouma is not the largest guy in the world. “Not
since I was your age, though,” he admits with a roguish grin, and sets about
kissing Ryouma senseless.
 
Ryouma figures he's had worse ideas about still doing things with Atobe when
apparently the news is trying to follow his every move, so why the hell not?
 
Also, when he misses Kintarou, this kind of thing is really good. He likes the
way Atobe kisses--usually, and right now is definitely one of those times. He
muffles a groan into Atobe's mouth when he lurches up, grabbing at his hair to
tug him down and kiss him harder. "I bet," he taunts between kisses, "that I
taste better than you do."
 
A swift pinch to Ryouma’s rear is the best response to that, and Atobe follows
it up with a biting tug to his lower lip before yanking down his shorts. “You
need to learn some humility, little prince,” he says, laughter in his voice as
he shoves up Ryouma’s shirt. “Also some discretion--why bite and suck your neck
when I can do this?” He sets his mouth to one small pink nipple, laving it with
his tongue, tugging on it with his teeth, giving him a taste of the kind of
suck he’s working up to as his hand starts sliding down.
 
He usually makes an attempt to not be noisy, but when Atobe's mouth is on him
like that, Ryouma can't help it. His voice breaks a little, and he barely
swallows down the whimpering noise that escapes when he arches up against the
other boy's mouth, pulling on Atobe's hair. "B…because that's--ah, Atobe-
sempai, they're sensitive." Trying to hiss out that protest is easier said than
done, and Ryouma just huffs instead, flopping down with an intense shiver. 
 
“That is kind of the point.” Atobe rubs his thumb over the nipple he leaves
behind, giving the other a quick suck before working downward. “Besides,” he
breathes, getting Ryouma’s shorts entirely off and tossing them over his
shoulder, “it’s so much lewder to know that I’ve marked you up here—” He
nibbles, sucks on a spot on Ryouma’s inner thigh, a few inches away from his
cock— “than anywhere else.” 
 
God, he hopes he hasn’t lost his touch. He’d been good at this, he knows it,
even if his experience was somewhat...hasty, and not terribly broad. “I haven’t
given you your reward for beating Yukimura yet.”
 
Atobe's right about one thing--it feels really, really lewd to have him down
there, sucking on his skin and breathing on his cock. Ryouma shudders, shutting
his eyes briefly when his cock twitches hard, and he triesnot to just yank on
Atobe's hair and make him put his mouth on it already. "I could have lots of
rewards," he eagerly agrees, his voice ragged around the edges. "If they're
like this."
 
Atobe laughs, cheek pressed against Ryouma’s thigh, and leaves another mark
there just for fun, licking and biting before moving to the other thigh. “Wait
until we finally have our official match.” 
 
He turns his head, exhaling hot over the head of Ryouma’s cock, then dipping
his head back down to nibble and lick at another bit of upper thigh, close
enough this time that his hair brushes against the length of Ryouma’s cock,
teasing, never a full touch.
 
Ryouma is pretty sure he's going to die.
 
He'd whine and whimper a lot more about that, but he has to keep quiet, he has
to. He groans all the same, though, letting his head roll back onto a pillow,
his own breath hot and uneven when his legs splay, openly needy, skin twitching
underneath every bite. His cock drips over his stomach, every breath making it
harder to just stay quiet when it just throbs. "Atobe-semmmpaiii…you're not
being fair." 
 
Atobe’s hands come up to those smooth, slender thighs, spreading them apart as
far as they’ll go (pretty far, the kid is flexible) and effectively pinning him
down before he dips his head, flicking the tip of his tongue over the head of
Ryouma’s cock, tonguing the slit for a moment before asking, husky and low,
“Have you ever had a blowjob before, Ryouma? No? Then be prepared to be awed by
my prowess.” Then he sinks down, taking half of it into his mouth at once,
cheeks hollowing in suction as his tongue swirls. Yes, he does remember this.
 
At the last second, Ryouma thinks to just clamp a hand over his own mouth, his
breath huffing hot and ragged and loudagainst it, but not as loud as the
squeaking, eager moan that escapes when Atobe's mouth is on his cock. 
 
His eyes actually roll back into his head a bit. That feels good, all hot and
slick and wet, and if he wasn't pinned down by strong hands, he'd easily be
arching up and wanting more. Ryouma still squirms, panting through his fingers,
wanting more of that tongue against him and those lips and everything, yes
please. Why didn't he get this kind of a reward sooner?
 
Shit, Atobe probably should not be liking this as much as he is.
 
It had always seemed to be something of a chore before, either because the
receiver wasn’t properly impressed and grateful, or because he’d gotten
frustrated when it wasn’t perfect. This is much better; Ryouma is trembling
like a leaf in the wind, he’s thrashing, and the way he has to cover his own
mouth is quite charming--and flattering, but that’s to be expected.
 
Encouraged, Atobe delves farther still, working Ryouma’s slender cock between
his lips, managing to get all the way down before pulling back to bob on the
head and the first few inches, then pulling off entirely. His hand comes up to
squeeze and stroke as his mouth wanders, nipping at those pale thighs again,
fingertips dragging through the coarse dark hairs at the base of his cock.
“You’re certainly more Japanese here than I am,” he murmurs, amused, and
refrains from mentioning that Tezuka is the same, sleek straight hairs all
nestled neatly together. At least Ryouma seems to enjoy being touched here more
than Tezuka does.
 
Ryouma honestly can't decide if he should be grateful for that reprieve or
desperate for more of Atobe's mouth all over again, and so he just settles for
a whimper, flopping his head back when his chest heaves. His thighs twitch when
Atobe's mouth is on them again, his toes slowly curling, and he reaches one
fumbling hand down to grab at Atobe's hair again, mindless and needy.
Desperate. Yeah, he settles for desperate. "You can't stop for too long," he
begs. "Please, Atobe-sempai, I'm gonna die." 
 
I knew I was still good at this!
 
“Since it’s you’re reward,” Atobe verbally relents, quietly pleased at the way
Ryouma is responding, “I suppose I can indulge you. Make some more of those
sweet noises for me.”
 
With that, Atobe curls the first two fingers of his hand around the base,
gently squeezing and stroking as he takes the rest in his mouth, bobbing and
sucking, automatically looking for the edge of foreskin to dip his tongue into,
but no, Ryouma’s is like his own. Instead, he drags his tongue up the
underside, flicking it against the bottom of the head, alternating the swift
licks with a few hard quick sucks, urged on by the hand in his hair. This is
what you get for calling me Atobe-sempai in that tone of voice all the time.
 
Scratch that, he's going to die either way.
 
That's good, though, because every lick just makes him twist and squirm and if
he could somehow have more of Atobe's mouth, he would. The noises Atobe's
making are good, too--slick and messy and it turns Ryouma on to know that he's
not the only one that makes those noises when he's got his mouth on a dick. 
 
He shivers from head to toe at that thought, and his nails scrape against
Atobe's scalp in another, needy tug. It's not hard, he's too shaky for that,
but it feels so good that he can't help it. 
 
The same goes for keeping his voice down, apparently. 
 
Ryouma clamps his other hand down over his mouth again, but it doesn't help
that much to keep down his whines and whimpers and then the sudden, brokenly
ragged noises when he's close and then coming, his back arching and hips
lurching up when he spills hot and slick. 
 
Ah.
 
Right.
 
Atobe works hard, thinking of steel traps and his own iron determination, and
barely, just barely manages to keep from retching or gagging. It isn’t the
taste--that’s fine, slightly bitter and salty at once and tasting more of skin
than anything else--but the texture, and he swears he can feel it on his tongue
long after he manages to swallow.
 
But with the noises Ryouma makes, with the way he shivers and clings and
whines, Atobe can’t help but feel incredibly pleased with himself. 
 
He moves up, taking Ryouma into his arms, stroking and petting his hair. “You,”
he murmurs, “are nice to have like that. So responsive.”
 
Ryouma just sort of…groan-whimpers-breathes for a moment, burying himself
against Atobe, nuzzling mindlessly into his neck, throwing his arms around his
shoulders and shivering with every weirdly lingering aftershock. 
 
"Atobe-sempai is good at that." Or so he can assume, judging by how he feels
even afterwards. "You can do that more often. Fair trade." 
 
It probably shouldn’t please Atobe quite so much to get that kind of
affirmation. Amusing, he thinks, that Tezuka’s consistent, firm refusal of any
attention of the kind had apparently made an impact on his ego in that regard,
at least. “It will quite literally be my pleasure,” he murmurs, hands sliding
around Ryouma and tugging him close. That reminds him of how painfully
neglected his own cock is, and he turns Ryouma around, spooning up behind him
and grinding against his ass. “Just give me a second,” he grunts, sliding his
cock forward between those pretty pale thighs. “Won’t take long.” He’s already
so on-edge from the noises Ryouma has been making that he’s dripping and
flushed, nibbling on Ryouma’s ear when he thrusts forward.
 
Oh, that's nice, too.
 
If his last orgasm hadn't been so good, Ryouma's pretty sure he'd be hard
again. He likes the way Atobe feels behind him like this, much bigger and
easily wrapping around him, and he likes the way that his cock fits so well
between his thighs, thick and hot and throbbing, rubbing against sensitive,
bruised skin. Ryouma shivers, squirms back, and reaches one hand down, his
thumb rubbing over the head of Atobe's cock and coming away slick and sticky.
"You feel good like this, too, Atobe-sempai," he murmurs, sighing when he
wriggles, squeezing his thighs around Atobe's cock.
 
That little touch of Ryouma’s hand is all Atobe needs, apparently. He gasps
when he comes, burying his face into Ryouma’s neck, kissing and sucking despite
knowing how stupid it is to leave marks there after this--but Ryouma is sweet
and warm, strong and vibrant, and his hands dig into the boy’s hips to yank him
closer as he spills messy and wet over Ryouma’s thighs. 
 
Best of all, he doesn’t have to immediately pull away and take care of Ryouma
after this, not the way he does after he fucks someone. Instead, he curls
around the boy’s smaller form, nuzzling contentedly as his arms tighten. “You
don’t feel half bad yourself.”
 
Ryouma settles back with a long sigh, practically vibrating what with how
pleased and content and warm he is. "You can stay, if you want," he mumbles,
flopping his head back against Atobe's shoulder. "But you have to do some of my
homework later, if you wanna stay in the pillow fort."
 
Atobe laughs, warm breath tickling the fine hairs on Ryouma’s neck. “Paying
rent, ahn? It would be my first time. Sounds intriguing.” He’ll probably need
to leave soon, but that’s no reason not to enjoy this while he can. More
quietly, he adds, “You were honestly magnificent at the finals. I loved
watching you.”
 
"I won because you said I was hot. Pretty sure." 
 
“An effective remedy, to be sure.” Atobe nips at Ryouma’s ear. “You are hot.
You know that.”
 
"Yeah," Ryouma says, unabashedly, "I know. Kintarou says I look like a movie
star."
 
“It is nice to be adored, isn’t it?” Atobe asks without the slightest hint of
irony or sarcasm. He nearly says something--he and Tezuka have spoken so much
during their Alps trip about whether Kintarou was smart enough, sensible
enough--but on a hunch, lets his eyes glaze over in that way he does when he
tries to see, really see something about a person. He blinks.
 
“Oh. Like that for him, is it?”
 
"Huh? Mm." Ryouma burrows down into pillows and sheets a bit more. "He's good
at tennis, it's hard not to like him a lot." 
 
Atobe almost points out that Ryouma’s ears are flushed pink, but refrains at
the last moment. He feels delightfully relaxed for the first time today, and
he’d rather enjoy that than tease the brat, at least for the time being. “Up,”
he says instead, with a swift pinch. “Or it’ll dry on you, and I’ll have to
hear your complaining again.”
 
"Nnh, but Atobe-sempai, you're warm." Ryouma swiftly rolls over, fastening
himself to the other boy, and burying his face down into his chest. "You can
just stay, that would be better."
 
Yeah, Ryouma’s right. This is better.
 
It’s good enough that Atobe forgets things like the trouble he’s in and
responsibilities, at least for five minutes.
 
Or eight hours, until the sun comes up.
 
“Oi! Brat!” Nanjirou knocks on the door, tries the handle, and finds it
barricaded. “Fine, starve to death, I’m eating all of Nanako’s food myself!”
 
“Shit,” Atobe mutters, coming awake (and sticky) at the sound.
 
Ryouma groans, and butts his head underneath Atobe's chin, all four limbs
either around or on him, depending on how he looks at it. Karupin is also on
them, perched right above their heads on a pillow. "Want breakfast?" he
mumbles, stretching slowly. "I don't think my dad would mind that much…"
 
Atobe yawns. “He can’t possibly be worse than my father,” he says with a shrug.
“Mm, good morning, Karupin-sama.” His stomach makes a fervent noise, reminding
him that he’d had nearly nothing to eat the day before, then topped it off by
swallowing something that usually makes him ill. “But if it bothers you, I’ll
sneak out the window. It wouldn’t be my first time.”
 
"Atobe-sempai, the cat burglar." Ryouma slowly starts to wiggle way, grimacing.
"Maybe…bath first though. Ah, so gross. Can we go play tennis after this, or do
you have to go do weird girl-dating things?"
 
“Ah yes, I’m going to pick up a stranger for some sort of breakfast date.
Scandal at the house of pancakes.” Atobe runs a finger up his own stomach in
distaste. “Definitely bath, breakfast, then tennis. Ah, we probably shouldn’t
play at my house until Father is out of town again, though.”
 
"There are public courts." Ryouma slowly rolls out of the bed, destroying the
pillow fort in the process. "I'll run the bath, you can socialize with Karupin.
Maybe Nanako is doing a Japanese style breakfast today…"
 
Atobe’s stomach flips over at the thought. “Delightful,” he mutters and turns
instead to Karupin, dangling a stray thread in front of the cat and nearly
getting his fingers torn off in Karupin’s excitement. He catches sight of
Ryouma’s phone, and calls, “Do you mind if I text your captain from your
phone?” The problem with his father buying him so many phones, of course, is
that his father can access all of them if he so chooses. Usually he doesn’t
care, but right now, there’s no risk Atobe wants to take.
 
"Go for it," Ryouma calls from the bathroom over the sound of running water.
"He usually doesn't answer, though, Tezuka-buchou is weird about texts." He
doesn't know why he's telling Atobe that; Atobe probably knows better even than
he does.
 
To: Tezuka-buchou
Subject: it is I
Ryouma let me use his phone. Just checking on you. I’d come to see you in
person if I could. I’m sorry I’m so sorry.
 
“No worries, he does read them,” he says, considerably more cheerful-sounding
than he feels. “He just doesn’t respond. Do you have any roses for the
bathwater, or are we doing this like we’re camping?”
 
"Atobe-sempai," Ryouma says wearily, "you're so weird. I hope you don't like
the water really hot, because I don't." 
 
To: Echizen Ryouma
Subject: Re: it is I
k
 
"Ah, so fast." Ryouma's head pokes out of the bathroom at the sound of his
phone, blinking. "What did you say to make him do that?" 
 
Atobe is too busy sighing dramatically to answer for a long minute. Tezuka
understands. That single letter is such a relief, more effort than it would be
for anyone else, and Atobe has to fight the urge to keep texting, knowing it
wouldn’t help and would just make Tezuka uncomfortable and confused. 
 
Instead, he stands and stretches, making his way to the bathroom and delicately
dipping a toe into the shockingly tiny tub. Marvelous, it’s like something out
of a historical recreation. “This temperature is fine,” he assures Ryouma. It’s
not like the baths at his own house, of course, but he knows better than to
demand that everywhere. He doesn’t mind roughing it once in a while. It works
to get the sticky off, and that’s all he needs.
 
"So is everything okay with Tezuka-buchou?" Ryouma presses, sliding in without
hesitation at the other end of the tub, and dunking his head under in the next
instant. He comes up looking like a drenched cat, and shakes the water out of
his hair subsequently. 
 
"Reehneeeh."
 
"Oh, yeah, sorry." He reaches out a damp hand to stroke down Karupin's back,
thoroughly wetting him in the process. "He likes it when you pet him when
you're wet." 
 
“Your cat is weird,” Atobe says, but pets the strange beast all the same. “Yes,
Tezuka’s fine. Upset at the situation, but he’s not angry at anyone, I think.”
He hesitates, then gives Ryouma’s shoulder a squeeze. “We’re not breaking up,
even if I’m going to be seen with someone else. Don’t worry.” He’s not even
sure why he thinks Ryouma will be worried, but it’s very important somehow that
he doesn’t.
 
Ryouma eyeballs him, but nods. "Good. You can't break up with Tezuka-buchou,
that would be really bad. He likes you a lot." 
 
"Reeehneeh." 
 
Ryouma dumps a handful of water on Karupin's head. 
 
Atobe almost corrects him--that’s the wrong L-word--but lets it go. Ryouma’s
still so young, their current activities notwithstanding. He leans back as far
as he can get without getting his hair wet, and scrubs at his skin, feeling the
last of the mess float away. “It’s not going to happen. Things between us are…”
he pauses, then dumps some water on the cat. “Permanent. That’s the closest
word.”
 
"Reehneeh."
 
"Good. It should be permanent." Ryouma pauses, thinking, and scrubs idly at his
hair. "Why can't you just go back to England and take him with you? Then you
can play tennis together and do whatever you want." 
 
“Are you kidding? England is worse. England, America--they speculate over
there. Oh, it’s fine to be other if you’re in entertainment, but in sports,
business, finance? That’s a…” He frowns, thinking of an expression, and
switches to English. “Good Ol’ Boys club. Not to mention the violence.” Not to
mention he isn’t entirely certain that none of that violence would be
calculated, and directed at Tezuka in a “random” event meant to remove him.
 
"That's so dumb, though," Ryouma sighs out, stretching out one foot to poke at
Atobe with his toes. "Tezuka-buchou would hate that, though, so I get it. Maybe
if I go over first and stuff, it won't be as bad later on…"
 
“He’d hate people talking about it most of all.” Atobe catches that foot,
running a hand up Ryouma’s leg to give his thigh a squeeze. “Could you handle
it, do you really think? Have reporters and friends and strangers on the street
shouting at you, asking about whose dick has been in you this week? Harassing
anyone you chose to be seen with? Sponsors dropping you because you’re a
pervert? Loaded questions for a 12-year-old, but you’re nothing if not
precocious.”
 
"If they want to know whose dick has been in me, I'll tell them," Ryouma
bluntly answers, his shoulders heaving in a shrug. "I'm not gonna flaunt it,
that's dumb, but I don't see any reason to lie, either. If I lose sponsors,
I'll just get new ones. I'm good at tennis, that's all I'll make them care
about." 
 
There’s no use arguing. If anyone can do it, Atobe knows that Ryouma can. Atobe
sighs, advises, “Don’t grow up too fast,” and dunks the brat for good measure.
 
~
 
With it being the last few days of summer vacation, it's easy to still be
something of a hikikomori. 
 
His parents have long given up on the task of attempting to make him be social,
even when he's been gone before and after Nationals. Tezuka is thankful for
that, because he really doesn't want to talk to anyone right now. Surely, they
know what's been going on as well, but at least they aren't embarrassing enough
to talk about it...
 
"But have you seen the news?" Oishi had pressed briefly over the phone. "About
Atobe, and Echizen? Are you sure it's wise to--"
 
"Atobe can handle it." 
 
I can't get involved are the unspoken words, and it's better not to say that at
all, because Tezuka is certain they'll come out panicky. 
 
Giving Atobe distance is easier said than done, but very, very necessary. That
one text message from him--from Echizen's phone, damn it all--is something of a
balm to his nerves, but not that much when Tezuka keeps thinking of scenarios
when it could have easilybeen him that everyone found out about and--
 
"Kunimitsu, you have company!"
 
"Tell them to go away," Tezuka immediately, crossly calls back, huddling up
into a ball even further behind his recently library haul. 
 
"That's not going to happen, honey! Oh, come here, sweetheart, you've been
through so much, haven't you?" 
 
Tezuka exhales an exasperated sigh, shuts his book, and hauls himself to his
feet to leave his room. "Kaasan, I told you, it's strange when you're so
familiar with my fri--"
 
Oh. 
 
Never mind. 
 
He swallows hard. "Keigo."
 
Atobe looks up, but doesn’t let go of Tezuka Ayana, keeping her folded in his
arms as he clings just slightly, just enough to take the miserable edge off.
“Ah, Kunimitsu, good to see you. Kaachan, please forgive me, I forgot to give
you the present I had for you.” He pulls away, and reaches into the pocket of
his coat, pulling out a small wrapped box. “I just thought, well, you didn’t
get to see the match, and the closest thing would probably be a tennis
bracelet!” He beams as he hands it over, but his eyes stray to Tezuka, and the
smile wavers.
 
Ayana sighs long and hard, and promptly grabs Atobe back with all the strength
that her tiny form belies. "You are precious, and I will appreciate your gift
thoroughly once you allow me to hug you a bit longer."
 
"Kaasan…" Tezuka attempts, hesitantly wavering some paces away still. "He
doesn't want you all over him like that…" 
 
"He certainly does. This son of mine needs a mother's love." 
 
Tezuka shrugs, defeated. He supposes it's true that Atobe doesn't look exactly
upset that his mother is cuddling him like that, but, well…that would imply
that he's really able to look Atobe in the eye right then and be a good judge. 
 
It’s true enough, what Ayana says, and Atobe firmly buries his face in her
shoulder for a long minute, breathing in deep. But then again, he thinks in
chagrin, being able to see Tezuka isn’t much less of a balm to the nerves.
 
He pulls back, squeezes her hands, and kisses her on the cheek. “I’ll be out
soon, ne, Kaachan? If it’s not too much trouble, could I perhaps have some of
your special udon?” Not something he would ever admit to craving, but the way
she makes it is just...better, somehow. “I’ll make sure Kunimitsu eats as
well.”
 
"You," Ayana very firmly says, patting him gently on the cheek, "are such a
good boy. Get that child out of his room at some point, he hasn't seen the sun
in days."
 
"That's how I like it," Tezuka dryly remarks.
 
"So gloomy! Keigo-kun, be the sunshine in his life. Go on, then, both of you." 
 
Tezuka shrugs helplessly, and gestures broadly back to his bedroom. "Come on,
sunshine of my life." 
 
“So romantic, my moon and stars!” Atobe is pretty sure he can get away with the
romance by being That Ridiculous Foreigner, especially at this house, and
especially when it’s just Tezuka’s mother.
 
As soon as the door shuts behind them, he latches onto Tezuka, grabbing him in
a fierce hug and holding him there. “I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, face
buried in Tezuka’s shoulder even when he’s on his toes. “I never meant for you
to get dragged into this, I’m sorry.”
 
Tezuka breathes in deep, rocks back on his heels, and gives up.
 
His arms wrap tightly around Atobe, easily lifting him with the force of it.
"That," he quietly admits, burying his face down into the other boy's hair,
"was the worst thing ever, and it wasn't even me that they were accusing. That
can't ever happen, Keigo." 
 
“It won’t. It won’t ever, I swear it.” Atobe squeezes so tightly it should be
uncomfortable, and it still doesn’t feel like nearly enough. Fortunately,
Tezuka is a lot stronger and more solid than most people think, and that gives
him license to squeeze. “I’ll never let you go through that. I’m taking care of
it.”
 
The heap of pillows that serves as a reading spot is easy enough to flop back
down onto, Atobe hauled immediately into his lap before Tezuka can even settle
down. "How? You're father isn't going to…no, you wouldn't be here if he wanted
you to stop seeing me." That makes his chest ache, and he's probably holding
onto the other boy too tightly. "What about Echizen?" 
 
Atobe nestles firmly into Tezuka’s lap, trying very hard not to think about
what he would have done if his father had told him to stop seeing Tezuka. Ah,
no, that’s not something he wants to deal with. “Never change your behavior
because of a scandal, Kunimitsu,” he says, nuzzling into Tezuka’s chest. “It’s
just proof that you believe in your own guilt. No, it’s easy enough. I’ll be
publicly seen with a woman, some lovely married thing too old for me, and
they’ll put her next to Echizen. It’ll make it terribly easy for me to laugh
that whole thing off as nonsense. My father has...silenced the initial source.
Some new servant blabbed.”
 
It sounds ridiculous--all of it, really--and not something that he ever thought
he'd even run parallel to, but…ugh. At least it does sound handled, in a way,
even if Tezuka has a headache if he thinks about it for too long. "Maybe you
should just start coming over here more, then," he mutters. "It isn't as if my
mother isn't in love with you."
 
Atobe grimaces. “I’ll have to borrow more peasant clothes from Shishido, ugh.
But at least your bed is comfortable, and Kaachan is always perfect.” He frowns
for a moment, thinking. “Does she know? About us, I mean.”
 
"Considering I told her, yes, I'm going to assume that she knows. She is the
one that reminded my father, very recently, that he broke off his arranged
marriage with a perfectly nice girl to be with her instead, so he apparently
has no room to be annoyed with me," Tezuka dryly says. "Which I do find
convenient, sunshine of my life."
 
Atobe finds himself suddenly blinking very rapidly, and suffering a sudden
inability to swallow around the tightness in his throat. “Your mother,” he says
firmly, “is a gift from whatever gods you believe in. To me.” He thunks his
forehead against Tezuka’s shoulder. “Father likes you. I heard him telling
Darryl to keep you out of the media at all costs. Apparently you’re a
‘grounding influence’ on me.”
 
"Are you sure? I have yet to teach you to build that bookshelf." God, that's a
weight off his shoulders that Tezuka wasn't even aware of, though. He was very
certain that Atobe's father disliked him thoroughly,but…maybe he had made a
better impression on him than he'd previously assumed. Tezuka exhales the
breath that he had been holding, and sags backwards, holding Atobe firmly to
his chest. "My mother wants to feed you until you pop and then do it again. I
warned her that you didn't like Japanese food, but now you've encouraged her." 
 
“She’s actually a good cook,” Atobe says, “not just repeating the same recipe
her great-great grandparents used to make.” He can feel himself going boneless
as well, responding to Tezuka’s relaxation on an almost molecular level. “You
don’t mind too much? About the girl?”
 
Tezuka just groans. "Please. If anything, it's a relief. It'll work, won't it?
As an excuse? That's all I care about, for both your sake and Echizen's." 
 
“It’ll work,” Atobe assures him. “They don’t have any proof, so it’s just wild
speculation. The good news is that foreign media, especially in England, is
going through a phase where they think it’s trashy to speculate on the sexual
habits of the underage, so they’ll do nothing without proof. As long as it
stays without proof and in Japan, it’ll blow over as soon as I pick up this
woman.” He brushes a hand through Tezuka’s hair. “You don’t mind if I sleep
with her?”
 
"Keigo," Tezuka says, very bluntly and firmly, "I don't care. Anything to make
this go away." It's odd, probably, that he's never felt particularly threatened
by any of Atobe's other 'acquisitions' (though the idea of someone else coming
onto Atobe turns his stomach), but…what's the point of feeling that way,
anyway? Realistically speaking, there's going to eventually be a woman in
Atobe's life. "Use 'ore-sama' in bed, maybe it'll turn her off." 
 
“Preposterous. How could that turn anyone off?” Atobe gives Tezuka’s nose a
swift nip. “She wouldn’t understand, anyway. She’s some European supermodel my
father’s picked out. I...I’m meeting her tonight.” This is as good a time as
any to stop saying I have toand start simply stating what he’ll do, he thinks.
 
"Ah." So much for offering Atobe a chance to stay over. Even if Tezuka thinks
he's remarkably tolerant of all of this, he's still somewhat annoyed by the
idea that he can't simply curl up with his boyfriend for the evening when he'd
really, really like to. "Well, if you do end up turning her off and ruining her
night, my mother will welcome you back here with open arms."
 
Atobe runs a finger down the front of Tezuka’s neck, dipping into the V of his
open first button. “Just your mother?” he asks, looking up into Tezuka’s face.
“Or is it with something else open that you’ll welcome me back yourself?”
 
Tezuka just looks at him, a mix put out and (sort of) affectionate. "It's too
disgusting to just say that. We can talk about how I can leave a window
unlocked for you, though." 
 
“Ahn, but I like it when you’re disgusting.” 
 
There’s a moment when he almost says more. He almost warns Tezuka--you know
it’s always going to be like this, as long as you’re with me, you can get out,
it’s only going to get worse once I’m out of school, you’re seeing the most
freedom I’m ever going to have--but the urge passes. Instead, he just makes a
face, plucking at the borrowed sweatshirt. “At least you’re never as bad as I
feel in these.”
 
Tezuka gives him a consoling pat on the back, but even he has to fight down a
snort of laughter. "It really doesn't suit you. I could give you something of
mine, it's still too big but it's not quite as…well." He's no fashionista, but
ah. Some things, Atobe just shouldn't ever been seen in. It's too weird.
 
“Too long,” Atobe corrects. “I’m more than a match for you in breadth, you
know.” He sighs, then shakes his head. “Don’t take this as a compliment to your
fashion sense, but even your clothes would allow my glorious self to shine
through. Only by truly dampening my beauty can I be sure of anonymity. At least
I have a ready supply of these, though tragic.”
 
In reply, Tezuka just settles for rolling him over and pulling his sweatshirt
up and over his face in hopes of suffocating him. "Ah, yes. Such beauty
dampening. You and those thick bones."
 
Atobe flails, shoving ineffectually at Tezuka’s chest. “Let me up! Ugh, all I
can smell is bad Japanese cheese, this is worse than torture!”
 
Tezuka glances over at the wall, bored. "I can't recognize the wailing of
peasants, sorry." 
 
Atobe lets out an indignant shriek, finally managing to claw his way out of the
appalling thing, tossing it to the side in revulsion. “Just...burn that, will
you? I’ll make my excuses and buy him a new one--it’s Shishido’s, and I can
only hope he’ll be grateful for whatever improvement I purchase him.”
 
"I'm sure," Tezuka dryly retorts, and briefly hauls himself to his feet to pull
one of his own sweatshirts out of his closet. "Here--too long or not, at least
it's not going to smell like cheese." That's just bizarre. 
 
Atobe gives him a suspicious look, and sniffs the shirt. “Whose is this? Why do
you have it? You don’t wear sweats. That’s one of the things I love about you.”
 
"…Keigo," Tezuka deadpans, plopping right back down next to him, "have you
never had a day where you didn't want to get dressed properly? This does occur
naturally, I assure you, especially among injured hikikomori." 
 
Atobe stares, hands fisting into the offending garment. “But that’s what silken
dressing gowns are for.”
 
"Not for us peasants, I'm afraid."
 
Silently, Atobe makes his plans for Tezuka’s next birthday. Out loud, he
mutters, “Very well. But if I ever see someone else’s clothes in your closet,
Kunimitsu, I shall be very put out. I’m aware of the double standard, and I’m
not certain I care.”
 
"Considering that's never going to happen, by all means. As you've pointed out
on every single occasion, I am made of noodles." Tezuka leans in closer. "But I
have other sweats. How much more do you want to cringe about it?" 
 
Atobe holds up a hand, admitting defeat. “I think I’ve seen all I can handle
for today, thank you. Perhaps you can inflict your loungewear upon me another
time.”
 
"You could use some loungewear," Tezuka mutters underneath his breath, and
hesitates a moment before reaching out, grabbing that hand to pull Atobe closer
again. "If she's the worst ever and you decide to skip out, I really can leave
a window unlocked."
 
Just as he’s about to pontificate that of course it will be fine, no woman
could resist his glorious charms, Atobe’s words catch in his throat. Instead,
he nods, a little hesitant, a lot grateful. “I...will probably not be able to
stay away,” he admits. “If I don’t come, I’ll come tomorrow.”
 
Oh, thank god is the reply that Tezuka really can't let leave his tongue, and
he settles for just nodding, tucking Atobe's head underneath his chin when he
flops back again. "There isn't much of summer vacation left. You might as
well." 
 
Atobe groans slightly, hands fisting into Tezuka’s shirt to drag at him. “Don’t
remind me. Are you having a graduation ceremony? I have to set about choosing
next year’s captain from two rather dismal offerings.”
 
"At some point--at least Seigaku's captain for next year has been decided,"
Tezuka wryly notes, letting himself be tugged at will. "Hyoutei next year
should be…hmmm. What's the word."
 
“A battle to the death?” Atobe suggests gloomily. “They’re both good players,
but one has no confidence and the other has no people skills. Ah, no, if I make
it a battle to the death Hiyoshi will definitely win. He has skills and no
conscience.”
 
"'Disaster' was the word I was looking for, but you are far more an optimist
than I. Sure, a battle to the death then. Pick the neurotic one, it'll be
funny." 
 
“You’re just saying that because your last captain decided it would be funny to
pick the neurotic one with no people skills.”
 
"It was funny. I'm hilarious and my captaining skills are, too."
 
Atobe snorts, then tries to actually imagine Ootori as a captain, and cringes.
“Why can’t I clone myself? I can buy the school, squish it up into one hybrid
middle-high, and just never stop being captain. Ah, I’ll buy a college as
well.” On the off-chance he’s allowed to keep playing tennis in college.
 
"So you want to turn Hyoutei into Rikkai. Sounds unpleasant, and also,
unlikely. Create the illusion of a good arts program while you're at it, then
you're really set." 
 
"Boring carpenter-san! My good son's udon is ready! Does he want to eat it
surrounded by books and not love like you do?" 
 
"What have you done to my mother," Tezuka wearily asks. 
 
“What I do to literally everyone I meet,” Atobe assures them. “I made her
furious that not everyone she knows is me. Yes, Kaachan! We’ll be right out!”
 
He stands, dragging Tezuka up with him, made easier by the fact that Tezuka is,
as usual, possessed of the weight of a small bird. “Come eat with me. It’ll
make her love me even more.”
 
"I'm not sure she needs to do that," Tezuka protests, but the force of nature
that is Atobe Keigo makes it rather difficult to argue. "You've already made
her happy enough that you like her cooking."
 
“And we can’t have her happy?” Atobe asks, laughing. “Come on, we’ll sit around
the--do you have a dinner table? Or just one of those delightful blanket
things?”
 
"Kotatsu. But you're going to pass out if we bring that out, so you're not
allowed to have it right now," Tezuka firmly tells him, giving into his demands
and opening the door. He may or may not drag said kotatsu into his room later,
though, if Atobe returns. "Personally, I enjoy the slot in my door that allows
them to feed me like I'm in a dungeon, but…"
 
Atobe almost laughs, but looks on a whim.
 
“You’re serious,” he deadpans. “She actually feeds you like that? For what
offense? Never mind, you probably love it. You probably put it in yourself, my
delightful carpenter.” Even if Tezuka’s family knows, apparently, Atobe still
drops his hand when they enter the main part of the house.
 
"You are going to sit and eat." Ayana is immediately a swarm upon them,
grabbing Atobe first and steering him to the dinner table. She is, of course,
wearing his gift. "You look so pale, Keigo-chan--"
 
"Ah, we're at -chan now."
 
"You hush, Kunimitsu, I'm talking to my good son. Listen, Keigo-chan, you need
to eat and if you're still hungry afterwards, I'm going to feed you again. Are
you going to be spending the night? I have extra pillows and blankets, and I
assure you, you won't be interrogated this time." 
 
Tezuka merely rolls his eyes. "Kaasan--"
 
"You listen, Kunimitsu, you're going to take care of this boy when he's over
here."
 
"I usually do." She's in rare form today.
 
Atobe pats her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “No one takes care of me
better than you, Kaachan,” he assures her, basking in the love like a plant
that has been kept indoors for far too long only to finally see the sun. Yes,
such a flowery analogy is perfect, he’s certain. “I wish I could spend the
night, but alas, complications and commitments elsewhere interfere.” 
 
Just now, he sort of wishes he could just run away, elope, never to be seen
again.
 
But that’s the kind of life that seems to be reserved for those who own more
than one pair of sweatpants.
 
Ayana gives a long, dramatic sigh. "Do you see this perfection, Kunimitsu?"
 
"I usually am privy to it."
 
"Are you sure he's kind enough for you, Keigo-chan? Ah, I made sure to get you
black tea this time, I know you aren't the most fond of green." 
 
One of these days, Tezuka wryly thinks, Atobe is going to sort of meld to his
mother. 
 
Atobe’s face lights up at the tea, and he takes a long, slow inhale through his
nose, breathing in perfection before his first sip. “Ah, god….this is true
delight. My darling Kaachan, unless you tell me you’re fed up with that husband
of yours, I can find no one more suited to myself than Kunimitsu, no matter how
dour he may get.”
 
Ayana shrugs helplessly. "I do know how that feels."
 
"Please don't start talking about your unlikely whirlwind romance with
Otousan," Tezuka deadpans, spinning a few noodles around his chopsticks. 
 
"Kunimitsu can be a charming child at times. It's just when you least expect
it…does he still cry when he has to speak in public?"
 
"Please start talking about your unlikely whirlwind romance with Otousan." 
 
Atobe is nearly on the floor, both from the difficulty of holding in his
laughter and the absolute delight he feels at those words. 
 
Only a text message’s buzz against his leg manages to kill the smile on his
face, which turns to an unhappy sigh when he reads it. 
 
He takes a last slurp of the udon, swallowing the last noodle in his bowl
before standing and giving her, of all people, a proper Japanese bow. “My
deepest apologies, beloved Kaachan, but it looks like I’m needed elsewhere.”
His hand might find its way to Tezuka’s shoulder, squeezing harder than he
means to.
 
"You come here," Ayana demands, and promptly wraps Atobe up in a fierce hug,
picking him up with the force of it and unknowingly mirroring her son's own
actions from earlier in the process, no matter her height. "Whenever you're
done being busy, come back over here and I will feed you until you can't move.
You've gotten skinny, I already have one skinny son." 
 
"Let him go, Kaasan," Tezuka mutters, setting down his chopsticks as he climbs
to his feet. "I'll walk you out, Keigo." That's the least awkward thing to do,
he's pretty sure.
 
Atobe gives Ayana a last squeeze, then promptly flops his head onto Tezuka’s
shoulder as they make for the door. “You’re the perfect height for this. For
the love of god, stop growing immediately. If I tell you how perfect you are
again, will you stay this way?”
 
"I can try." Tezuka slides an arm around the other boy's waist, and gently tugs
him closer when they reach the door. "I don't know, though. Being taller than
you is all sorts of entertaining." 
 
Atobe leans up, looking over Tezuka’s shoulder to make sure they’re alone, and
nipping at his earlobe. “But Kunimitsu,” he purrs, “this makes it so much more
difficult to have you up against the wall. You want to limit me further?”
 
Tezuka opens his mouth, then shuts it again, hesitating for a moment before
allowing his knees to wobble…just slightly. "Keigo," he quietly warns, "you do
not have time to finish what you're starting right now."
 
A flash of disappointment flashes across Atobe’s face. Then, he brushes the
backs of his fingertips over Tezuka’s cheek. “Later,” he promises, eyes dark
with ideas. Then he pulls away with a visible effort, and makes his way out to
the car that is, of course, already waiting outside.
 
***** Fuji & Yuuta, Yagyuu & Niou *****
A text message that Yuuta is around and receptive never comes. There are a few
others from Mizuki over the course of the next few days.
 
Monday
To: Fuji (the male one)
Subject: Timing
Not today. Definitely.
 
Tuesday
To: Fuji (the male one)
Subject: Not today either
¯\_(  ツ  )_/¯
 
Wednesday
To: Fuji (the male one)
Subject: Maybe tomorrow?
Think he’s coming around
 
Thursday
To: Fuji (the male one)
Subject: Nope
But I have a plan
 
Thursday
To: Fuji (the male one)
Subject: it didn’t work
He’s gone.
 
It’s late, past midnight when a key turns slowly, clumsily in the lock of the
Fuji town home. Footsteps shuffle heavily, arrhythmically down the hallway,
pausing by an empty bedroom with posters from years ago still hung up before
continuing down the hallway. A voice curses, and a couple of shoes belatedly
hit the floor before the shuffling footsteps continue, more quietly,
accompanied by a slow drag of fabric against one wall. 
 
The footsteps pause outside Fuji’s room, and a soft brush of fingertips sounds,
followed by a quiet, hesitant knock and a louder, more forceful one. “Aniki,”
comes the slurred voice. “Aniki.”
 
Fuji had a dream like this once, but most dreams starting with loud noises and
Yuuta ended up poorly. 
 
That's probably why he bolts awake so quickly, no matter if he's bleary-eyed
and not quite processing. He stumbles out of bed, fumbling for a light, and
then his door when his eyes refocus. 
 
Yuuta isn't supposed to be home, is the thing. 
 
As half-awake as he is, Fuji doesn't entirely realize that quite yet. More than
anything, it's just the fact that it's Yuuta that's home, though he reeks of
alcohol and doesn't seem entirely steady on his feet. "Yuuta, why are you…"
Drunk? Home? All of the above?
 
Then, he remembers. 
 
Ah. Yes. Awkwardness. Fuji wavers in the doorway, glancing hesitantly up at his
brother. "…Are you all right?" Even as awkward as it all is, suppressing that
worry is, apparently, impossible. 
 
Yuuta grins, a wide, sloppy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh good. You’re
home. You’re…”
 
Slowly, he sinks down into a wobbly crouch, rocking back onto his tailbone with
a thunk. “Mizuki-san had wine. Ssso gross. I’m gross.”
 
"Ah." Fuji reaches down, gingerly taking Yuuta's hands. "Okay, but, you can't
sit there. Let's go into my room." He's going to kill Mizuki. Was this his plan
after all? Where did he get wine, the pathetic useless piece of trash? 
 
Somehow, Yuuta makes it into his brother’s room, slumping against the Tezuka
wall. “You don’t...you don’t hafta touch me. Make you sick. Grosssss.”
 
The fact that Yuuta thinks that is enough to make him sick. Fuji frowns, and
sinks down to his knees in front of his brother. "You don't make me sick,
Yuuta," he quietly says, reaching out a hand to touch his cheek. "Listen, I'll
put you to bed, and we can talk about this later."
 
Yuuta gulps a breath, and lays his head against his brother’s hand, eyes
closing. “Dunno why it’s….so….ugh. Why d’you like him so much?” He gestures
vaguely, since any direction of gesture will work to point out Tezuka in this
room.
 
Oh, no. Why won't Yuuta just let him put him to bed already? Apparently, even
drunk, his little brother never listens. "Because…" Fuji sighs, dragging his
thumb over Yuuta's cheek. "Because Tezuka just has a way about him, I guess.
Also, probably because I can never have him."
 
Yuuta looks around, as if somewhat convinced there will be more alcohol if he
looks hard enough. “Talked to Neesan,” he mutters, toes wriggling against the
floor. “She told me. ‘Bout you and her. To make me feel….not so….”
 
Fuji is going to murder his sister. "That wasn't anything," he firmly says,
though his stomach twists into little knots. "But if she said it to make you
feel less gross, that's good. You shouldn't feel bad, Yuuta. I'm not…I don't
think you're a bad person or anything like that." 
 
“You think it’s wrong.” Yuuta blinks, and there’s something accusatory in his
look that was just hurt, disgusted before. “Why?”
 
"…Because you're my little brother." Fuji shrugs helplessly, leaning back
slightly. "The one thing I've always wanted to do is protect you, and if I was
with you like that…I think--no, I know I would just end up hurting you. Does
that make sense?" 
 
“You fucked her.” Yuuta tries to hold eye contact, and winds up slumping
farther to the left. “You’re too good for me. You know it. You think it. Yeah.
I’m hurt now. Shit.” He’s going to throw up--no, the feeling passes, and he
slumps entirely to the side, head thunking on the ground. Yuuta doesn’t notice.
“You just don’t want me. Nothing to do with brother.”
 
"Yuuta, I was ten, and if you think for one minute that I care about Neesan
like I care about you--" Fuji sucks in a slow breath, shuts his eyes, and
lurches forward again to firmly grab Yuuta by the shoulders. "I," he solemnly
says, "am trash. I am literally the worst thing for you in the world. Please,
please don't make this about not wanting you, I can't…I've never thought about
you like that, and it's not because you wouldn't be perfect for someone else.
It's because you're my little brother." 
 
“But I don’t care!” Yuuta moves suddenly, his hands fisting in his brother’s
shirt. Even drunk, he’s far stronger, and it’s much easier than it should be to
lift his brother off the ground when he surges up, holding him dangling in the
air. “You’re perfect. I had to get away from you--what if--w-w-what if…” His
muscles slowly unclench, lowering Fuji to the ground when his breath comes in
rough, angry sobs. “W-what if it never g-goes away?”
 
"Then it doesn't, but it probably will, when you find someone that's actually
good for you," Fuji insists. He should feel more shaken up about all of this,
but Yuuta is so upset that he can't even process it. Instead, he reaches up,
firmly dragging Yuuta down into a tight hug. "I still love you, Yuuta, nothing
is going to change that. I don't think you're gross, or sick, or anything like
that, so it's okay." 
 
Yuuta gives up, shuddering as his head tips forward, thunking against his
brother’s shoulder. His stomach churns even at the slight heat of Shuusuke, and
he gulps at the air. “If--if it doesn’t gross you out--m-maybe--maybe if you
tried, you’d like it.” He hears the pleading note in his own voice, and it
makes him sick.
 
"Yuuta," Fuji gently says, steering him away from the Tezuka wall and to his
bed, because what else can he do at this point, "I'm not going to do that. Come
on, you just need to go to sleep, you're so drunk." 
 
“Let me.” Yuuta reaches up, fisting a hand in his brother’s hair. In a sudden,
startling, striking moment of clarity, he knows--he could grab Shuusuke, pin
him down, take everything he ever wanted, and no one would stop him. Shuusuke
would try, but he’d give in. 
 
Somehow, just knowing is enough to make Yuuta snatch his hand back as if his
brother’s hair were fire. “Bucket—” he gasps out, and manages to grab his
brother’s trash can, retching up the contents of his stomach over the side of
the bed.
 
"That's karma," Fuji cheerfully says even though his heart is thudding out of
his chest. He sidesteps away, grabbing a towel thrown over the back of his desk
chair, and then the back of Yuuta's shirt, hauling him upright and stuffing the
towel into his face when he sits his brother down onto the edge of his bed.
"Wipe your face, sit there, and don't grab me like that again."
 
Yuuta nods shakily, scrubbing at his face with the towel. “You used to talk
about it,” he rasps, feeling slightly saner. Maybe that’s just the pain in his
throat, bringing him back to earth. “Talk about how much you liked it when guys
grabbed you and shoved you into things. To Neesan. I used to listen at your
door.”
 
"Eavesdropping is rude, you know." Ah, well. Fuji pushes his trash can away
with one foot, and offers Yuuta the glass of water already at the side of his
bed. "Yuuta, it's not that you're doing anything wrong. It's that you're my
little brother, and I'm not going to sleep with you, even if you apparently
know an alarming amount about my preferences."
 
“I don’t just want that.” Yuuta takes the water, and holds it between his
hands, waiting until his stomach settles slightly before he takes a sip, hoping
the cool of it will calm his nerves. “You asked me on a date once. I’d be a
good boyfriend.” He hears himself, and grimaces, drinking the water in a few
huge gulps. It was easier when he was drunker.
 
"…That word doesn't…Yuuta, it was just to play tennis, wasn't that obvious?"
Fuji thought it was. No one else even batted an eye, either. He sighs, sitting
down next to the other boy. "I know you'd be a good boyfriend. I wouldn't be,
though. I'm not at all, actually."
 
Yuuta drains the rest of the water, then sets the cup down, looking up into his
brother’s eyes. “Can I just...say everything now? I’m drunk and I couldn’t feel
much worse, let me just get it all out.”
 
Oh, god, there's more? Fuji tries not to panic. "If you think that will help…" 
 
“I think about you...all the time. Like a guy should think about a girl.” Yuuta
swallows, looking down at his hands. “I know you think it’s just a weird sex
thing, but it’s not. I mean, I don’t think it is. And I just—I don’t get how
you think you’ll hurt me. I mean, this is already...it’s every day. It’s all
the time, and I don’t...I don’t see it going away. The only guys I’ve ever seen
you hurt are the guys that want you that you won’t date, like Seiki...and
Mizuki-san….and me.”
 
This is literally the worst thing, and Fuji thought it couldn't get any worse.
"Yuuta…I don't know how many other ways I can say this. I can't date you.
You're my little brother, and that's what you'll always be to me." He exhales a
slow breath in an attempt to calm the thudding of his heart, but it still
hasn't quite calmed down from when Yuuta's hand was in his hair, and…nope,
nope, nope. "You're a really good person, and…ugh, look, here's the thing,"
Fuji finally sighs out, turning slightly to face him. "You're not stupid. You
obviously get that you're my type, and that I'd normally be all over guys like
you. But you're my brother. It has nothing to do with whether or not you're
good enough, because you're seriously great, Yuuta. It's just not going to
happen, because even if you can forget the fact that I'm your brother, I can't
forget the fact that you're mine." 
 
“But what does it matter?” Yuuta’s voice cracks into something raw and
miserable, and the way he turns makes him dizzy enough to let him know that not
eating, drinking, then throwing up aren’t the best life choices. “What’s a
brother? It’s not like we could have kids--and our family’s already so fucked
up, Aniki--and if you want to protect me--you think my boyfriend is trash, but
you’d rather I was with him? Protect me then! Better yet, let me--just let
me….”
 
He stands, almost punches a wall, but trips and sort of faceplants into it
instead. “Fuck this.”
 
Ah, well, at least that wasn't the Tezuka wall.
 
Fuji briefly shuts his eyes, suddenly very aware that it's late, that he's
tired, that he doesn't want to deal with this, and oh, he does hate men that
don't take no for an answer, even if they're his little brother. "Mizuki might
be trash, but he's been better throughout this whole thing than I have." Damn,
he never thought that he'd be defending Mizuki, but the more he thinks about
it… "Would you bother anyone else like this if they said that they didn't want
to go out with you?" 
 
Climbing to his feet, Fuji walks over, grabbing Yuuta by the arm to spin him
around. "It's not cute, you know, and I never thought I'd say that about you.
I'm sorry that I can't feel the same way as you do, but I don't. Plus, you've
been awful to your piece of shit boyfriend. I would know, I did the same thing
with mine, but I made up with him and everything and that's what you should be
doing, not repeatedly asking me out after I've told you 'no' a dozen times.
Just because I'm your brother and really tolerant of you doesn't make it
okay." 
 
Yuuta gulps so hard he nearly swallows his own tongue. He swallows again, and
hangs his head, scratching embarrassedly at the back of his neck. “How do you
do that?” he demands. “How do you make me feel like a little kid having a
tantrum when I thought we were having an adult conversation?”
 
They weren’t. He was drunk and raging and really, really inappropriate, and
despite all odds, the lecture actually makes him feel a little better. “I like
it better when you’re my brother,” he whispers to the carpet, not sure if it
makes any sense.
 
Fuji heaves out a breath, and gives Yuuta's arm a gentle squeeze. That's
better. That's his brother, and not the weird, intense drama queen that he's
been dealing with for what feels like way too long. "I like it better, too. I
know I'm not a very good one at times, but I do try to be, Yuuta. I love you a
lot, so I guess there's that going for me. Listen, though, if you had punched
the Tezuka wall, we would have had words."
 
Yuuta snorts. “It’s not like you don’t have copies and negatives of all of
those pictures in the box in your closet. You used to give me 1000 yen to
organize them.”
 
"That's not the point. The point is, you should always respect the Tezuka wall.
Also, you really reek of bad wine, and you need to take out the trash for me
and take a shower."
 
Yuuta nods numbly. “Yeah. I’m sorry.” He grabs the trash can, only wobbling on
his legs a little, and hesitates by the door. “Aniki. I’m not saying it was
your fault that I started feeling...like this. But the way you act...did make
me think you might, too. That’s the only reason I said anything.”
 
"I know." Fuji sighs, shrugging tiredly. "The captain of team over share and
lack of personal space, that's me. I don't blame you either way, Yuuta. It is
what it is." 
 
Yuuta rolls his eyes. “More like team, uh, low self-esteem. No, I can do better
than that, shit. What’s a better word for that?”
 
"Yuuta, it's time for you to go now."
 
“Yeah.” Yuuta grimaces. “Can you not...tell people about this? I mean, I wish
you could forget too, but...yeah. Never mind, do whatever you want, it’s my own
dumb fault. Night, Aniki.”
 
"Yuuta, I am literally never going to repeat a word of this," Fuji gently tells
him, and puts a hand firmly on the door. "Now go on, get to sleep, and call
your piece of filth boyfriend in the morning." 
 
The look Yuuta shoots him is, for once since the stupid thing began, more about
relief than pain. “Yeah. Okay.” He doesn’t stumble too much, though he could be
more steady on his feet when he lurches down the hall to the room he hasn’t
redecorated since he was 11.
 
~
 
Niou shouldn’t be too angry.
 
He tells himself that again and again, but none of it seems to make a
difference to the way his whole body heats up, furious and pulsing with every
breath he takes. He’d just mixed up the phones--no, fine, he was checking
Yagyuu’s phone on purpose, but only because the damn thing kept going off with
texts every five fucking minutes, and Yagyuu takes long girly showers.
 
That’s why he’s splayed out angrily when Yagyuu finally gets out, noodly form
wrapped in a towel from the waist down, looking...well, fine, looking like
something Niou wants to hit over the head and drag into his bedroom, but that’s
not important right now. “I hope she sucks dick good,” he says, taut and hard,
tossing Yagyuu’s phone onto the couch. “Doesn’t really seem worth it,
otherwise.”
 
For once, Yagyuu really has no idea what Niou's talking about. He's usually
pretty good at piecing parts of the puzzle together, but this…
 
"Okay," he slowly says, flopping down onto the arm of the couch, "you're going
to have to help me out here and tell me legitimately what you're talking
about." 
 
“Your phone kept going off.” Niou glares at the phone accusingly, as if it’s
the phone’s fault his boyfriend is a cheating whore. “‘Yagyuu-sempai, thanks
for meeting with me and teaching me that move.’ ‘Yagyuu-sempai, your arms are
soooo strong, teach me how you get so limber.’ ‘Yagyuu-sempai, when can I see
you again?’ I hope this Kaoru chick has at least got big tits. You’re gonna
ruin my reputation otherwise.” That stupid look on Yagyuu’s stupid handsome
face makes Niou want, crave to believe there’s another explanation, but ugh,
Yagyuu never gave him a chance when Fuji was on his couch.
 
Yagyuu stares a moment longer, and then groans, burying his face down into one
hand as it clicks. "Niou-kun," he tiredly says, "that'snot a girl. That's
Kaoru-kun--you know, Kaidou Kaoru? The bandana guy, Seigaku?"
 
Niou stares blankly for a minute before it clicks into place, and he bursts
into laughter, cracking up so hard that he slides off the couch arm, sideways
onto the cushions. “You--seriously--pfff--that guy? You’re fuckingthat guy?
Shit, I can’t even be mad, fucking hell you have weird taste!”
 
"I'm not fucking him!" Yagyuu incredulously snaps back, looking rather
mortified, truth be told. "God, no! Why do you think I'm fucking him, we just
played a doubles match when a couple of idiots were insulting Yukimura-kun. He
seems nice enough, but I'm not fucking him."
 
Niou’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? You’re not? Shit, then he’s got it bad
for you.” He goes back into the deep, throatily seductive voice he’d used for
‘Kaoru’ before. “‘Yagyuu-sempai, I need to see you, I need to feel your big
strong arms around my booooody…’”
 
Yagyuu exhales an aggravated sigh, yanking his towel off to snap Niou across
the head with it before stalking away to get dressed. "He's not interested in
me like that. You're being disgusting, Niou-kun."
 
Niou rolls with the hit, sagging cheerfully onto the sofa. “Okay, but he’s into
you. Seriously, reread his messages. He wants your sempai body.”
 
"You're making things up," Yagyuu calls over his shoulder. "Please remember
that only you are insane enough to want my body, first of all."
 
Niou nearly falls off of the sofa staring at Yagyuu’s ass. Yeah, well. “I will
literally bet you anything you want that if you asked him out he’d trip over
his own bandana getting here as fast as he could. I’ll bet you my sister. I’ll
fucking bet you an island, you know my dad gives us some for gambling.”
 
"…I'm not going to ask him out." The idea is baffling, truth be told. Yagyuu
tugs his pants up, and starts tucking his shirt in. "We just played tennis,
that's all. Niou-kun, I really think you're making things up. Is this some kind
of revenge method, or…"
 
“Or,” Niou clarifies. “I’m just telling you, he’s into you. Shit, I was just
freaking out because I thought you were boning some chick, but this is funny.”
He stands, and loops his arms over Yagyuu’s shoulders from behind. “But if he
tries anything, I’ll probably bite his face off. You’re so fucking taken.”
 
He can't help but be pleased at hearing those words (maybe more than pleased,
judging by the flush to his cheeks that he promptly smacks down). Yagyuu pushes
his glasses up with a huff, leaning back into Niou's hold. "Don't bite his face
off. It's already suffering." 
 
Niou slowly digs his fingernails into Yagyuu’s chest rhythmically, nuzzling
against his neck, breathing in deep and getting a nose full of bath products
for his trouble. “Suffering? Why, did someone else’s boyfriend rearrange it
before I could get there?”
 
"I'm just saying that I have standards, and he isn't meeting them. Ah, Niou-
kun, sharp nails," Yagyuu mutters, smacking lightly at one of his hands. 
 
“You like my sharp nails.” Probably not true, at least not when they’re not
raking down his back and Yagyuu’s stuffing him full of cock. With that in mind,
Niou rubs up against him from behind, shamelessly grinding. “How soon do you
have to go?”
 
"I literally just took a shower," is Yagyuu's immediate protest, though it's
sort of hard to argue with 99% of what Niou does, this included."Did you sync
heat cycles with one of your cats or something?" he dryly asks, twisting around
in Niou's hold. "Not that I mind…"
 
Niou meets his mouth in a filthy kiss, sucking long and hard on one of Yagyuu’s
lips, curling his tongue around Yagyuu’s, hands coming up to tangle in neat wet
hair. “You were naked,” he says unapologetically, rubbing his half-hard cock
against one lean thigh. “I’m into it. One of your best looks. You’re...fuck,
you’re so much hotter than you know.”
 
Well, there goes those attempts to argue.
 
Yagyuu has to admit that he's easily affected by flattery. Niou's flattery,
first and foremost, and when it's accompanied by grabbing hands and the other
boy grinding up on him like he's going to die if he doesn't get to keep
going…yeah. Well. 
 
"You're always hot," he mutters against Niou's mouth, grabbing handfuls of his
ass to haul him closer and kiss him harder. Niou's mouth remains a distraction
for a moment, but then it's his neck that looks particularly appealing, always
fun to bite because Niou's so pale, and everything he does shows up there in
stark contrast. "You're showering with me again, after this." 
 
“Prissy bitch,” Niou laughs, and reaches his hands up to yank on Yagyuu’s
nipples through his crisply pressed shirt. “You just like how it feels to bend
me over in the shower and play with all your come leaking out of my hole,
right?” Every fucking time, not that Niou’s complaining. “Fuck me up so you can
clean me up, Yaaagyuu.”
 
The thing about Niou is that he isn't fair, and he kind of has Yagyuu by the
cock the moment his hands are on his nipples or he's saying his name like
that. 
 
Or both, right now, which is just rude, Yagyuu thinks.
 
"You've been watching too much porn," he mutters, firmly shoving Niou back and
sending him sprawling over the couch as he unfastens his fly. "Take your pants
off already, where'd the lube go?" 
 
Something about the sight of Yagyuu unbuttoning himself purely for the purpose
of getting out his dick to shove it in makes Niou so hard so fast that he can’t
breathe for a second. “You look fucking dangerous,” he nearly purrs, licking
his lips, eyes dilated as he reaches behind himself, grabbing the lube from his
bookbag. Yeah, he’s usually watching too much porn, but where else is a guy
supposed to get ideas? “You like it when I act like a slutty porn star, don’t
lie.” He can’t even move his eyes, locked on to Yagyuu’s cock as he sprawls
back.
 
There are a dozen things he could say about that, but most of it comes down to:
"You always act like a slutty porn star." So I can't help it, damn it all.The
thing is, Niou has him somewhat trained, and that…….could be a lot worse. 
 
It's pretty great, actually. 
 
"Unlike slutty porn stars, though," Yagyuu archly begins as he climbs onto the
couch, fisting a hand into Niou's hair and yanking his head back as he pushes
his legs apart to wriggle between them, "you always whine about taking dick.
Are you going to be better about that today, or still complain?" 
 
Niou sucks in a breath, pushing up Yagyuu’s shirt without unbuttoning it,
rubbing and tugging at his nipples as he arches his back. “You like it when I
complain,” he accuses breathlessly, moving his hips up to rub against Yagyuu’s
hardening cock, feeling his own throb in response. “Makes you feel like a big
man, right? Shoving it in me whether I want you to or not?” 
 
Ah, that’s a button, and he bites his lip, groaning a little at the idea, hands
splaying out over Yagyuu’s chest as his legs spread.
 
Maybe the problem is that they tend to watch the same porn, and therefore, have
twenty dozen similar preferences. 
 
Yagyuu's breath catches up in his chest, and he nods, dragging his fingers out
of Niou's hair to get him by the throat instead to hold him down. "You'll take
it. It's because you're only good for taking dick, and you know it." 
 
When he's already this hard, it's not easy to get his cock out, but he needs
to, because shit, just look at what's squirming underneath him. Yagyuu swallows
hard, releasing Niou just long enough to fumble with the lube and get a
generous amount on his cock. "Doesn't really matter what you tell me," he
breathes, voice rough around the edges when the head of his cock catches
against Niou's hole. "I'm gonna make sure you're stuffed full."
 
Shit.
 
Niou feels himself getting lightheaded as all the blood in his body rushes to
his cock, and his hands scrabble at Yagyuu’s chest, not sure if he’s trying to
keep him or push him away (and knowing full well he doesn’t want to push him
away). “Fuck, go slow,” he mutters, wriggling down to try and spread his legs
wider, as suddenly Yagyuu’s cock looks a lot bigger than normal. Maybe it’s the
way he’s just pulled it out, not bothering to take off the rest of his clothes,
and fuck, that’s hot as hell.
 
It’s not hard to imagine Yagyuu as some important businessman on a lunch break,
running out for a bento and seeing something much more attractive in an
alleyway. He’s got that hunger, that ruthless amorality in his eyes that Niou
knows from his father’s friends, knows is good for business, and somehow even
that makes him harder. “Gonna be too big this way,” he groans. “You gotta--do
something for me first.” He swallows hard, not even sure if he wants Yagyuu to
listen or not.
 
"Weren't you just proud of being slutty a minute ago?" Yagyuu grabs up Niou's
wrists before he can keep pushing at his chest, shoving them back over his head
to the arm of the couch. Niou might be stronger than him, but the thing is,
Niou usually just lets him shove him around, and that makes up for a lot. Right
now, it makes up for everything. 
 
"You'll get used to it," Yagyuu tells him, his breath catching hard when he has
to let off a bit of steam and let his cock grind against the inside of Niou's
thigh, sticky and slick from lube and his own precome. "I bet you've had
bigger. The way you move--you're just fucking asking for it." 
 
Just to be sure, though, Yagyuu gives into the urge to empty that bottle of
lube completely--over his own cock, letting it drip down Niou's balls and hole
as well. He doesn't wait after that, though that first push is always the
worst, the tightest, because just getting the head of his cock in Niou takes
effort, but once it's in--god, he's in heaven. 
 
The long whimper Niou lets out is totally unfeigned, and his eyes burn with
tears for a minute at the sheer stretch of it. It steals his breath for a
minute, not entirely comfortable, and shit, shit, shit he needs a boyfriend
with a smaller dick.
 
He groans, wriggling ineffectually under Yagyuu’s hand, knowing it’ll just
force Yagyuu into him more, harder, and damned if that isn’t what he wants
right now. It burns, and Niou shoves himself down for more with a broken whine,
head lolling back as he thrashes. “F-fuck, it’s too big,” he hisses out, thighs
trembling from being shoved open so wide, and he cramps and aches from being
stuffed so full. Every movement Yagyuu makes is slick-sweet torture, dragging
at his insides and making him shudder. 
 
Finally he manages to relax, and his head thunks back against the arm of the
sofa as he arches. “Gonna charge you double,” he moans, shoving himself down.
 
Yagyuu's nails bite into Niou's wrists, and oh, those are going to be some
interesting bruises. Niou's like a vice around his cock, so tight that it aches
even when he relaxes, and that's only comfortable when he shoves in so deep
that their skin slaps together, everything sticky and slick and just messy-
sounding, which makes him throb inside of his stupid slutty boyfriend.
 
"Shut up." Yagyuu lurches up, biting at the arc of Niou's throat, sucking hard
when he feels the other boy swallow, when he feels Niou's breath catch up in
his throat. "I'm just fucking you because you're cheap, and you fucking like
it." His own voice breaks on a groan, his eyes squeezing shut when he grinds
forward, his next hard thrust shoving Niou back into the arm of the couch.
"Just look how good you are at taking it."
 
It’s a blatant lie--Niou knows he’s just about the worst at taking dick--but
damned if he doesn’t love it. 
 
There are a few scattered fantasies in Niou’s mind--something about a maid,
something about a whore, something about a businessman with dark eyes behind
his glasses--but Niou can’t focus on anything but the thick cock driving into
him over and over, taking him deep, making him squirm. 
 
He doesn’t even have to beg, Fuck me like a whore, because Yagyuu already is,
Yagyuu gets him, and Yagyuu’s already dicking him as hard as he can take.
Nothing about this position is comfortable, but that doesn’t stop Niou from
writhing down helplessly, bucking with every punishing thrust, begging, “F-
fuck, you’re in too deep, I can fucking taste it—” just before he loses it, a
full-body shudder that feels like it goes on forever, cock throbbing and
spilling over his stomach when Yagyuu drills into him just right. It’s been a
while since he’s come like this, the slow burning intensity of a completely
dick-free orgasm, and for a long minute, he can’t even breathe as he rides it
out, feeling his cock leak more and more, draining him so completely he can’t
stop shaking as the pleasure ripples through his body.
 
Niou is incredible to watch.
 
He's fucking gorgeous, especially when he's being fucked, and for not the first
time, Yagyuu has to wonder why the hell are you with me, but god, he's not
going to question it, not when he's shaking and shivering underneath him. 
 
It makes Yagyuu's mind click off entirely. It makes him give up holding Niou's
wrists down, just makes him grab at his hips instead, yanking him down onto his
cock when he shoves up into him with panting, ragged gasps and grunts against
his neck. He's not gentle when he comes, either, shoving up in as deep as he
can, his head thunking down against Niou's shoulder when he spills hard and
fast and feels like his spine has just been ripped out of him from the force of
it all. 
 
"Fuck," Yagyuu eloquently groans, collapsing down when he just can't stay taut
and shivering forever.
 
“Take it from me,” Niou says, muffled into Yaguu’s hair. “You definitely just
did.”
 
Moving sounds like a fool’s errand, and Niou is far more content to just lay
there limp and aching, a few choice bits of himself throbbing in time with his
heartbeat. “Shit man. Were you saving that up or something? I’m pretty sure you
can see my belly poking out. Better put a towel under me when you pull out.”
 
"Gross, Niou-kun," is the muffled, half-hearted protest against Niou's neck.
Unable to help himself, though, Yagyuu sneaks a hand between them and presses
down low on Niou's stomach. Ah, well, he is an awful pervert after all, he
supposes. "I bet it would be easy to feel my cock right here, though, when it's
hard."
 
Niou groans, grabbing weakly at Yagyuu’s hand. “Fuck, don’t, I’m gonna be so
sore.”
 
"Sorry, sorry." With a grimace, Yagyuu twists to grab his previously discarded
towel, because Niou's probablyright about the mess. Ah, yep, inevitable, when
he pulls out, and they're definitely both going to need a shower. "I could just
start using a condom again when we fuck…" Niou's love-hate relationship with
latex, however, usually made that less than fun.
 
Niou lets out a hiss at that, though whether at the sudden stinging emptiness
or the suggestion is difficult to say. “Keep those for when we’re in a hurry.
Or in public. Or roleplaying something where we’d have to.” He tries to sit up,
and yeah, that actually burns so much he has to blink rapidly.
 
"…Perhaps a bath is a better idea." Or not moving for a few more minutes in
general, honestly. Yagyuu gently pushes Niou back down by the shoulder. "Do you
want a cigarette? I have a few spares in my bag." That usually takes the edge
off, if nothing else. 
 
The look Niou shoots him is grateful and affectionate, and he sprawls out on
the sofa, extending a hand. “Only if you light it for me like in the American
movies. Share it?”
 
Yagyuu's smile is wry, but he nods, tucking himself back up into his pants
before climbing off the couch to fish out the cigarette in question. "Which
American movies, though?" He sets it between his own lips to light it up all
the same, exhaling smoke in the next moment before passing it over to Niou.
"Indirect kisses are better." 
 
Niou gives him a brief smile, then takes the cigarette, taking a long drag
before saying in what he probably believes is fantastically American accented
English, “Here is look at you, kid.”
 
"Niou-kun, you're awfully cute, but I've just gotten used to your islander
Japanese. Don't switch it up now." 
 
“Puri.”
***** Sanada & Yukimura *****
It’s the rumble of his stomach that wakes Sanada from the best sleep he’s ever
had. No, he realizes on second thought. Not his stomach, but Yukimura’s.
Yukimura is in his arms, relaxed and pliant, and the sunlight is spilling in
through the window in sweet warm rays, not too hot at this altitude. 
 
Sanada vaguely considers waking up and doing his meditation exercises...but
Yukimura is warm and alive. He shuts his eyes, counts to ten a few times, and
opens them again. That will do. Everyone needs a day off once in a while.
 
He’s always wanted to wake Yukimura with slow kisses, and does so now, starting
behind his ear and working forwards along his jaw, brushing against his lips.
The rest of their bodies are touching, which is one of the most decadent things
he can think of--he was inside Yukimura, and even if it wasn’t perfect, it was
still the best thing he’s ever felt. “Morning,” he murmurs, nuzzling under
Yukimura’s ear.
 
Being woken up isn't Yukimura's favorite thing in the world, but like this,
it'll do.
 
Yukimura rolls partially backwards, flopping his weight against Sanada's chest,
and gently butts his head back against him. "Already?" he mumbles, blinking
slowly at the sun pouring in through the window. "Nn. Apparently." 
 
Sanada is warm and comfortable and even though he feels all sorts of stiff and
weird in some odd places, it's pretty easy to ignore. There are good reasons
behind it all, after all, and remembering that makes Yukimura snuggle back
against the other boy. "You didn't get up at four in the morning. That's new." 
 
Sanada laughs, feeling better, more relaxed than he has in ages. “I think we
slept for about sixteen hours. I don’t know about you, but I think I needed
it.” His arms sling low around Yukimura’s waist. Just being able to hold him
casually, without wires and tubes in the way, is the greatest feeling of all.
 
"I could sleep more." He usually can, even if he's rarely given the chance.
Yukimura slowly rotates, squirming around to face Sanada instead, peering up at
him through the mess of his hair. "Gen is starting to look awfully cute again,
though. No eye bags, fewer lines, that's good." 
 
“Less worried.” Sanada kisses Yukimura softly, gathering him close. One hand
trails down Yukimura’s back, and he murmurs, “You did say you wanted to do it
lots of times…” before sliding just the tip of his finger down and in, teasing
slightly.
 
It's actually pretty impressive how quickly he can wake up when something
hurts, and the result is a whack to Sanada's face and a knee right to the groin
in Yukimura's sudden attempt to put distance between them.
 
"Sorry, sorry--that hurts, though, you can't just do it without warning!" 
 
Sanada’s eyes bulge, and he curls in on himself, swearing creatively in his
mind when all that comes out is a high-pitched whine. “Sss--s-s-
seiichi...why…..”
 
"I said I was sorry!! And I just told you why, you can't just do that out of
nowhere!" Yukimura sits up with a huff, raking a hand through his hair and
trying not to scowl too much. Why did it have to hurt that much, though? Niou
didn't warn him about that. "Man up, Genichirou, I didn't kick you that hard.
Maybe your dick will be smaller next time because of this. Do you need some ice
or something?" 
 
Sanada waves that away, sucking in a few deep breaths. “You mostly got me in
the thigh. Just...clipped them a little.” His smile is wan as he straightens
up, cupping himself reflexively. “Sorry, I just remembered you saying it was a
fantasy of yours to wake up like that.”
 
"…I forgot." Apparently, being sleepy and thinking about sex don't go as hand
in hand in his mind as he'd like. Yukimura huffs again at that realization, and
flops back down onto his back. "Also, it all still hurts, so nope, not gonna
happen."
 
Sanada nods, scooting away slightly so he doesn’t accidentally hurt him any
further. “Sorry. I don’t know...how to make it better than that yet. Maybe it
would hurt less if we used a condom?”
 
"Unless that's going to end up making you smaller, I doubt that." 
 
Sanada lets out an irritated huff. He doesn’t want to be irritated, but… “I
know how long it takes you to heal up from things. If we’re not going to be
able to do it the whole time we’re up here, I’d better start sleeping on the
sofa. Otherwise it’ll test my self-control the whole time.”
 
Yukimura gives him a sour look. "Your self-control? I've been sneezing and
orgasming, do you know how weird that is? We are definitely still going to do
it." 
 
“Welcome to my hell,” Sanada says dryly. Then, an idea occurs to him, and he
asks almost shyly, “Does it hurt...you know, in front?”
 
"Use your big adult words, Gen-n-n." He can't help but pick on Sanada this
morning, just a little. 
 
Sanada scowls. “I didn’t think that was sexy. The computer said it was more
sexy not to use the words.”
 
Yukimura slowly rolls to the side, burying his face down into a pillow to
stifle his laughter. 
 
“Fine! Penis! Penis! Is that what you want to hear?”
 
The laughter gets worse, and Yukimura holds up a hand for mercy. "I'm
crying,Gen, g-give me a sec, my eyes still hurt from last night--"
 
Sanada growls, and tosses a pillow over Yukimura’s head. “Get control of
yourself! I’m asking if your penis is in pain!”
 
The laughter turns to muffled shrieks. "It's fine, fine, god, I'm gonna throw
up and that's your fault, too--"
 
Sanada briefly considers murdering him, but that would be too kind a fate. 
 
Then, something breaks, and his own mouth starts to twitch. It’s just so good
to hear Yukimura’s laugh again--how could he deny him anything? 
 
That doesn’t stop him from rolling Yukimura up in a bundle and leaving him
there, though.
 
"Hey! Hey, Gen, get back here!" 
 
Of course, it's pretty hard to yell at Sanada when he's still giggling nonstop,
and it takes a long while before his chest stops heaving and he can properly
breathe. Yukimura wheezes, slowly rolling himself towards the edge of the bed.
"I feel like this is undeserved punishment!"
 
Sanada folds his arms, looming over him. “You tell me to wake you up that way,
then you kick me in the nuts! You tell me to say the words, then you laugh
yourself sick! I’m trying to have sex with you!”
 
Yukimura peers up over the bundle of blankets that he's still thoroughly
wrapped in. "It's not my fault that it hurt or that you were unintentionally
funny. You're just really cute sometimes, Genichirou." 
 
Sanada’s scowl softens, and he sits on the side of the bed, cupping Yukimura’s
face. “It’s good to see you having fun. I just...I always want to be with you,
you know? I don’t like being laughed at.”
 
"Listen, if you don't think shouting 'penis' at the top of your lungs is funny,
then we've got some things to talk about," Yukimura solemnly says, butting his
head into Sanada's touch. 
 
“You’re hard to please,” Sanada complains, but he untucks the ends of the
blanket, scooting back onto the bed. “And you said you didn’t like it when I
laughed anymore.”
 
"…That's because your laugh borders on terrifying," Yukimura slowly reminds
him. "I mean, not like, Akaya terrifying, but pretty close. I'll let it slide
up here, though; I bet it's cuter on a mountain."
 
Sanada butts his head against Yukimura’s shoulder. “This is why I don’t laugh.
You call me stiff, but this is the reason.”
 
"Wrong. You stopped laughing when I got sick, not because I told you it was
weird." Yukimura wriggles out of the blankets to get his hands in Sanada's
hair, kneading his fingers into his scalp. "Like I said, I bet it's cuter now."
 
It’s startling, how quickly Yukimura can take him from dour and unhappy to
desperately, madly in love. Sanada relaxes into that touch, eyes sliding shut.
“You’re right,” he whispers. The last time he’d thought something was really
fantastically fun, something was actually funny, had been in China, the week
before Yukimura had collapsed for the first time. “But we have lots of it ahead
of us, don’t you think?”
 
"Mm. You woke up cuter, and you're being cute right now…so that's a sign of
good things to come, I think," Yukimura teases, petting Sanada's hair slowly.
"Back to the point at hand, though--I could always put it in you next time. I
dunno if you'll like it, though."
 
Sanada doesn’t blush. Then he does, despite his best efforts, though he doesn’t
mean to. “That’s why I asked whether it hurt,” he says, only a little
embarrassed. “I thought I should at least try it once, like you did.” The idea
that maybe they’ll both hate it is a chilling one, and one he hadn’t thought
of. Ah, well. Maybe they’ll just be a couple who needs hands and mouths to make
each other happy.
 
For now, Sanada shifts on top of Yukimura, straddling his hips. There’s no need
to be shy, he tells himself firmly, but just that is enough to bring color to
his cheeks, even as his cock swells.
 
Huh, well, that makes him harder faster than he anticipated. Back to the ole
sneezing and orgasming thing, Yukimura supposes, which could be worse. Deep
breaths. Deep, soothing breaths, and less thinking about how nice Sanada looks
there and how broad his shoulders are and how big his pecs are and--
 
More deep breaths. "I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't go back on that other
stuff," Yukimura manages, curling his hands around Sanada's hips, "because just
looking at you is a problem…"
 
Sanada leans down, and kisses Yukimura’s lips, silencing him. “If you could see
how much more vibrant you look…” 
 
He trails off, but kisses Yukimura’s cheeks, his eyelids, his nose before
rocking back, arranging himself until Yukimura’s cock is resting against the
cleft of his ass. He nods at the bedside stand, and the lube. “If you want to
wear the gloves it’s fine, I don’t mind,” he assures Yukimura. “Whichever.”
 
You are missing the point Yukimura is desperately inclined to tell him, but
better is more breathing deep so that he doesn't come immediately. Stretching
an arm over to snatch up the lube is at least a distraction from the way his
cock already aches. "If you don't like it, make sure you tell me," he warns,
pushing himself up, one hand's fingers slick and dripping when they drag down
the cleft of Sanada's ass, brushing against his hole before one slowly wriggles
inside. "I'm not set on this whole 'you have to try it because I did' thing,
so…" 
 
Given Yukimura’s reactions the day before, Sanada expecting pain, something
violent, something he’ll just have to grit his teeth and tolerate--and he will,
he tells himself, because that’s what a man does.
 
He’s not prepared for the way it actually feels.
 
His eyes flutter, and his hands ball into fists on Yukimura’s chest as his back
bows, hands clenching and unclenching as he lets out a low groan. “You...yeah.”
He takes a deep breath, and deliberately squirms, feeling the way that shifts
the finger inside of him and rocking back slightly. “I think...more.”
 
Yukimura blinks, and being both startled and aroused is an odd combination for
sure. "Really?" 
 
Well, that's good. He was pretty ready to pull his hand away and just grab
Sanada's cock, but this works. He licks his lips, dragging his hand back
slightly just enough to make it easier to get a second finger inside, easily to
the second knuckle. Sanada is hot and slick around him, and the way he moves… 
 
Ah, nope, nope, can't think too much. The way his cock twitches is a reminder
of that, and Yukimura shivers when he lurches up, snapping his teeth gently
against Sanada's shoulder. "You like it that much?" 
 
Sanada nods, not trusting his voice for a moment when that second finger
presses inside him. He bites his lip, eyes half-lidded as he moves his hips
back, taking a deep breath and looking inward at his body, figuring out which
muscles to relax. Meditation makes this easier, he thinks, and maybe this will
get Yukimura to try it out with him, if anything will. “S’good,” he murmurs,
leaning back on his bent knees, sitting almost in seiza as he moves, rubbing
slowly back on Yukimura’s cock. “I think...you could just…” No, Yukimura wants
the words, and Sanada’s face flushes hot. “P-put your cock in me.” 
 
God, that sounds embarrassing. Yukimura is going to make fun of him.
 
Yukimura's fantasies all quickly, cheerfully rearrange themselves, because ah,
yes, this is apparently the best thing in the world and go figure it would take
a mountain and nearly dying twice to figure that out. 
 
"Genichirou--" That's raspy around the edges, really, really eager even though
his mouth is dry, and Yukimura has to suck in a shaky breath to try and stay in
some semblance of control. His hand shakes when he pulls it away, fumbling with
the lube a second time, just enough to slick up his cock when he lurches up
onto his elbows again. "You look so good like this," he breathes, wriggling to
get his cock where Sanada needs it, and god, that first push inside is way
better than it should be, all hot and slick and he's probably going to die a
third time right about now. 
 
Given how much Yukimura had complained the night before, Sanada expects to have
to swat at him, to have to tell him to go slow, to beg him to be gentle—
 
That doesn’t exactly happen.
 
Sanada doesn’t recognize the sound coming from his own lips, but he tips his
head back, groaning long and low, and rocks down hard onto Yukimura’s cock.
“Seiichi,” he murmurs, over and over as he rocks, back on his heels until his
ass is flush with Yukimura’s hips, and then grinding down. “God, Seiichi—” 
 
Someone should have told him it would feel like this, slick-hot-hard pressing
inside of him, filling him up and stretching him open, opening him like the
sweetest pleasure, the most exquisite pain, making him crave more with every
breath.
 
Why didn't we do it this way before is Yukimura's glazed over thought process,
but that's quickly gone and focused on how Sanada looks when their hips are
flush, when his cock is buried inside so deep that his vision blurs and he
can't help but flex his nails into Sanada's hips to pull him down for more. 
 
His own back arches, his hips twitching up whenever Sanada grinds down onto
him, and yes, that's pretty damn close to perfect. Yukimura's fingers curl
around the curve of Sanada's ass, kneading when he pulls the other boy down and
god, that feels good. "You," he pants out, his head falling back, eyes
fluttering when his cock throbs, "look like you were made for this, Gen."
 
Sanada tries to say something, but it comes out garbled, a drawn-out moan
without words, something that starts as “Fuck me” and goes all the way through
“Seiichi please, please” and everything in between.
 
Strong thighs flex as he raises himself up onto his knees, then down again,
breath catching anew when he feels Yukimura burn inside of him. That’s good,
that friction that comes when he moves, and he starts going faster, eyes glassy
and dilated as he rides that perfect cock stuffing him full. “Made for you,” he
finally manages to pant, one hand coming up to wipe the sweat from his brow.
His cock throbs, and his hand steals down to wrap around it, slowly stroking
himself in time with his movements. In all his life, Sanada can’t remember ever
being so lost in sensation, and revels in it.
 
It was nice knowing you, self-control.
 
How is a thought that briefly crosses Yukimura's mind, because god, he knows
Sanada wasn't doing anything wrong the night before--this is just something on
another level, and he really can't think of a time that his cock was this hard,
his nerves this on fire, and stealing a glance down at how Sanada is jerking
himself off--
 
"God, Genichirou--" That's the last coherent thing he can manage to gasp out,
Yukimura's voice breaking around the edges when he lurches up, buried in as
deeply as he possibly can be. His nails scrape against Sanada's hips, digging
in to hold him down, all so that he's sure he's coming inside as deeply as he
possibly can. No one else is allowed to see you like this, you're mine, mine,
mine--
 
The sudden splash of intense liquid heat inside is enough to make Sanada forget
his name, enough to make him shudder and jerk, grinding down with every half-
breath, and he lets his head fall back as he groans. “Seiichi…”
 
That’s what it is, doing him in. It’s Yukimura, inside him, physically now
where he’s always been mentally. Sanada would love to think it’s that reason
that he spills so much, so hard, over Yukimura’s abdomen and chest and even
face, god, but the reality is probably far more base, far more to do with the
hard cock driving into him again and again, claiming and possessing him.
 
Sanada wouldn’t have it any other way.
 
He tries not to collapse, and manages to at least catch himself before he
utterly squashes his boyfriend, lowering himself to the side in a spent, sated
slump. His ass twitches, he notes with dismay, but even that is a sort of
filthy-slippery-messy-ache that makes him shift around to feel more of it.
“Oh,” he manages, finally. “That way.”
 
Yukimura's mind is still fuzzy, and that's good, to a point. He groans, rolling
around to grab at Sanada, landing a sloppy kiss on his lips before he just
gives up and flops down. "That way," he breezily agrees, lifting a hand up to
wipe half-heartedly at his cheek. How the mess even made it there, he doesn't
know, but he'll attribute it to his prowess in bed, if anything. "Like…Most of
the time, I think." 
 
Sanada lets out a laugh, the most relaxed and content one he’s heard from his
own mouth in years. “You’re amazing. That was amazing. I...god. I messed you
up, didn’t I?” he teases gently, wiping at another spot with his thumb.
 
"You can make me a mess any time. All the time. Again, right now," Yukimura
hums, lurching up to kiss him again, grinning as he does. "The faces you make--
damn, Gen, I wish I had known. That would have solved a lot of problems." 
 
“I wish I’d known, too,” Sanada says, meeting his kiss with an answering grin.
“I could have practiced. Then again, it doesn’t seem to have made much
difference. Nn, it’s messy, isn’t it?” He flexes a little experimentally, then
shrugs. “Not too bad. Worse the other way, I think, because I...you know. A lot
more.”
 
Yukimura's eyes glaze. "I'm going to cover you in oil and then we're going to
do it again and I'm going to watch the way all your muscles move like that."
Yesss, he has the best ideas.
 
“Always with the oil,” Sanada grumbles. “Why can’t you cover me in something
that comes off easier?”
 
"Well, you look really good sweaty or just soaked through and kind of dirty,
too. But oil…oil makes everything all shiny, and I do like that." 
 
“Soap is shiny! Let’s try soap!”
 
"Lame. I'm gonna oil you." 
 
Sanada groans, and lays a hand on Yukimura’s chest, just close enough to feel
his heart thudding. “As long as we get to do it again after,” he agrees,
somewhat grumpily. “This way.”
 
***** Kaidou & Ryouma, Kaidou & Zaizen *****
Echizen Nanjirou is getting sort of sick of banging on his son’s door. “Oi!
Brat! You have a visitor! That room better not have any pillow forts today!”
Under his breath, he mutters, “And you better not be dating this one.”
 
At least this one doesn’t call him names like “The less-relevant Echizen.” On
the contrary, the kid on his doorstep seems almost too starstruck to move,
which Nanjirou has always enjoyed. “You can come in for tea,” he offers, when
Nanako glares at him. The kid bows deeply, then takes off his shoes, though not
his bandana, and settles into seiza in front of the low table.
 
“Thank you for inviting me into your home.”
 
“Whoo, damn you’ve got a low voice! How old are you, anyway?”
 
“Fourteen, sir.”
 
Nanjirou shoves over a teacup, which Nanako fills before slapping him upside
the head. “Ach! Watch it, or the ghost will get you!”
 
“Ghost?” The kid looks like one, pale and drawn all of a sudden, and Nanjirou
has to try hard not to laugh out loud.
 
“Yeah, sure. This is an old shrine, right? Let me tell you about the headless
samurai…”
 
Nanako knocks on Ryouma’s door with a long-suffering sigh. “Ryouma, if you want
to rescue your friend from your father, you should probably get out here soon.”
 
It begs the question which of his friends is brave enough to come through the
front door, but Ryouma drags himself slowly out of bed, yawning and bleary-eyed
even though it's nearly noon. 
 
"Coming," he mutters, raking a hand back through his hair, and he methodically
tucks Karupin underneath one arm as he stumbles down the hall and stands in the
doorway. Ryouma blinks, and Karupin squirms. "Kaidou-sempai?"
 
“Hey, look who’s actually up before noon! This is not usual behavior, right,
kid? Tell him!”
 
Kaidou looks like he’s about to throw up, but he gives Ryouma a weak nod.
“Morning. Got a question for…” His face gains color again, softening when he
sees Karupin. “Nice cat. Really cute.”
 
"Shut up, Oyaji." Karupin squirms again, and Ryouma lets him go, watching him
leap over to Kaidou and sit next to him, tails swishing expectantly. Ryouma
yawns again, and flops down onto the floor in a heap. "Is this a tennis thing,
Kaidou-buchou?" 
 
Kaidou pulls a coiled-up piece of yarn out of his pocket, for just this
occasion, and starts dangling it in front of the cat. It’s not like he can help
it, when he has that little face. “Oh! Uh, not an official one. I was just--my
father has to go to Osaka for business, and there’s…” He coughs, but the cat’s
antics, swiping dangerously with unclipped nails, are enough to take his mind
off of what he’s asking. “If you want to come, there’s an extra seat in the
car.”
 
“Eh? What would he do in Osaka? What a weird guy!”
 
“Next year’s captain of one of the top four teams in Japan has invited me--er,
not just me, all of Seigaku next year, but Momoshiro can’t come--to a practice
match down there since I already have a ride.” Kaidou can’t help but touch that
inviting belly, just a little. 
 
“Why would he want to play a practice match? You guys already beat them,
right?”
 
"Oyaji, shut up." His dad is so lame, why does he have to ask so many
questions? Ryouma sleepily reaches out to pull on Karupin's tail. "That's a
long drive, Kaidou-sempai. You're not gonna be mad if I just sleep the whole
time, are you?" 
 
Kaidou shrugs. “I’ll probably be doing homework the whole way. My dad is a very
safe driver, Echizen-san,” he adds hurriedly. “I can give you the phone numbers
of—”
 
Nanjirou waves a hand. “If he wants to go to Osaka, whatever. Bring me back
some omiyage.”
 
“Yes, Echizen-san.”
 
“I was talking to my brat. But yeah, you bring me omiyage too!”
 
"Oyaji, I hate you." Ryouma shrugs at Kaidou. "Sure, Kaidou-sempai. I'll go
with you. Sounds like fun." Kintarou will be there, we are going to playsomuch
tennis. 
 
“Good.” Kaidou stands, bowing again. “We’re leaving around noon, is that all
right? I just found out this morning. It’s going to be three days.”
 
"Uh huh." Hmmm. It could be longer. Maybe he'll just stay after the fact, and
never leave because tennis. Karupin chases after Kaidou's ankles, latching onto
his socks. 
 
Nanjirou laughs at the cat’s antics, then yells, “Nanako!”
 
“I’m not your servant, Uncle,” she says sweetly, setting the teapot down hard
enough that some spills onto Nanjirou’s lap.
 
“Ow! Rude! I was just asking if you knew where my—”
 
“Auntie says you’re not allowed to have your wallet until you stop spending
your allowance on porn. Ryouma-kun, here, take this for the trip,” she says,
handing over a few bills, “and give this to Kaidou-san’s father for the
gasoline, and take these for the shinkansen if you want to stay longer. I
certainly wouldn’t mind if you wanted to get away.” Whether she’s referring to
the Tokyo rumors about Ryouma and Atobe or to the general fact that Nanjirou
exists is anyone’s guess.
 
His cousin, at least, understands. "Thanks, Nanako." He eyeballs Karupin, still
clinging firmly to Kaidou's ankles. "You have to make sure Karupin isn't lonely
while I'm gone, though. Maybe I should leave him with Atobe-sempai, he has a
cat, too…"
 
“Yeah, because that will kill those rumors,” Nanjirou mutters, and Kaidou looks
distinctly uncomfortable. 
 
“I’ll play with him every day,” Nanako promises, ruffling his hair. “I know I’m
not you, but I can at least let him sleep in my room like he does when you’re
in America.”
 
"Shut up, Oyaji. Yeah, that'll work," Ryouma decides, pulling gently at
Karupin's tail again until he whirls around and leaps into Ryouma's lap
instead. "Okay, Kaidou-sempai. We'll make this into an adventure. Hopefully,
you won't end up glittery this time."
 
Kaidou flushes such a deep red it’s nearly plum-colored, and makes a hasty bow
to Nanjirou before fleeing.
 
“Weird friend,” Nanjirou remarks, giving Karupin’s tail another tug and getting
scratched for his troubles. “Oi! Why don’t you do that to him?”
 
"Karupin has good taste," Ryouma deadpans, hauling himself up to his feet. "I'm
never coming home, Oyaji, just so you know." 
 
“Promises, promises. What should I say if Atobe-sempai comes looking for you,
huh?”
 
"That I'm in Osaka playing tennis with my boyfriend."
 
Nanjirou glares at him, giving his side a pinch. “Just don’t go blabbing that
around. You might not care about your pro career yet, but you will later.”
 
Ryouma smacks him on reflex. "Atobe-sempai says he'll sponsor me when he takes
over the company, so I don't have to worry about much once that happens."
 
“At least you’ve found something that’ll get you far in life,” Nanjirou says
sarcastically, and kicks back on the sofa. “My kid, getting to the top by
giving men--ow.”
 
Nanako drops the book, smiling sweetly. “Why don’t you go pack, Ryouma-kun?
Uncle and I are going to have a conversation.”
 
"Mm." Ryouma shoots his father a last, irritated look before scooping up
Karupin and trotting back to his bedroom. 
 
"Reehneeeh."
 
"I dunno why he has to make it weird, either, Karupin," Ryouma mutters,
shutting his door and setting the cat onto his bed. "He's way more gross about
the girls that he chases after and the porn he buys, and he's married."
 
"Reehneh."
 
"Yeah, I don't think Mom would make it weird, either." Maybe Osaka is a little
more like America. If Shitenhouji's team is any indication, maybe. Ryouma
sighs, hauling his tennis bag out from the closet. Sometimes, he's pretty sure
the only good thing about Japan is the food.
 
~
 
Kaidou has never been more thankful for his father.
 
His father, at least, doesn’t ask questions. He’s proud enough of his son being
next year’s captain that he’s perfectly content to drive, listening to the news
on the radio turned way down the whole way, making it easy for Kaidou to do his
homework even with Hazue kicking his seat half the time. It’s even easier when
he gets to the English section, since Ryouma is generous enough to cross-check
his answers, something his father is very impressed with. 
 
“I’m so happy my son has a friend like you, Echizen-kun,” he says, before
dropping them off at Shitenhouji. “Five pm on Thursday, boys! Play hard!”
 
“That’s the plan,” Kaidou mutters under his breath.
 
And then they’re standing in the courtyard of what looks to be an old shrine,
and Kaidou looks around with a scowl. “Does everyone but me live in an old
shrine these days?”
 
Ryouma shrugs, hefting his tennis bag higher up on his shoulder. "Maybe. This
is a really weird looking school. I didn't realize schools could look like
this." He has a headache from that car ride, courtesy of Kaidou's little
brother, and yeah, that's enough to make him want to take the train back.
"Kaidou-sempai, are you gonna go see the Homo Brigade while we're here?"
 
Kaidou hefts his bag up onto his own shoulder. “Yeah,” he admits, not looking
at Ryouma. “Might be the last time for a while. They’re going to a really elite
high school. Scholarships, you know?” He might still be in contact with them.
Half the reason Hazue is so bratty today is how furiously password-protected
all of Kaidou’s devices are now, meaning no room for little brothers to sneak
on and play computer games when they might see incriminating emails.
 
"Get a scholarship in tennis next year or something." Ryouma exhales a long,
tired sigh, trying not to yawn again. "I've been wondering if Osaka is more
like America…they seem a lot more laid back here. Maybe I should go here next
year…ah, but then you'd be stuck with Momo-sempai." 
 
“I’m always stuck with him,” Kaidou says gloomily. “Seriously, if you transfer
we won’t have a chance. We’ll be knocked out of District.” He shrugs, then
admits, “But they do seem a lot more laid-back down here, as long as you make a
joke out of it. I dunno, maybe it’s just this team.” He looks around, frowning.
“Are we supposed to ring the big bell or something?” He fishes out his phone,
sending off an annoyed text message.
 
"Dunno. Let's just wander around, we'll figure it out," Ryouma says, shrugging
as he makes to take a step past the gate.
 
"Ah! They're here! No, wait!"
 
Ryouma freezes, greeted suddenly and enthusiastically by a waving Kenya some
meters away. That lasts for a second, because suddenly, Kenya is there. "You
have to always do something extreme when you come past Shitenhouji's gates,
Echizen!"
 
"Yeah, I'm not gonna do that," Ryouma mutters, starting forward again.
 
"You're ruining the spirit of our school!"
 
"Kenya-sempai, you ruin more things than that," Zaizen deadpans, hands stuffed
into his pockets as he rounds the corner and suddenly appears. "Yo, Kaoru." 
 
Ryouma takes that opportunity to walk right in and not give a damn.
 
“I’VE GOT IT!”
 
Kintarou is suddenly on Ryouma, on his shoulders just as he walks through the
gate.
 
In response, the waiting crowd lets out a burst of applause. “Nice, Echizen!”
 
Kaidou looks up at Zaizen, and has to bite his lip. “Hikaru.” How is he
supposed to think of something extreme when Zaizen is looking at him like that?
How is he supposed to think at all?
 
“Koshimae! You really came! Shiraishi said not to get my hopes up but you’re
here!” Kintarou doesn’t waste any time, throwing his arms around Ryouma and
squeezing.
 
"You're heavy, don't do that again," Ryouma grunts, swaying from the force of
Kintarou's hug. "If you mess up my shoulders, I'll end up like Tezuka-buchou." 
 
"Come on, let's see what you can do, Kaidou!" Kenya crows.
 
Zaizen heaves a long-suffering sigh. "I've got some glitter," he offers
blandly. 
 
"Overused! Rejected! Zaizen, you'll never have a career in comedy!"
 
"I don't want one, Kenya-sempai." 
 
“No way, Koshimae! Not someone as strong and cool as you!” 
 
Kaidou thinks hard, but everyone he wants to see is on theother side, so he’s
got to get through somehow. Letting out a low hiss through his teeth, he grabs
his racquet out of the bag, scraping it against the ground as he turns, faster
and faster, until he gets through the gate. 
 
There’s a heartbeat of silence where he’s afraid he’ll have to explain it, but
then Koharu pops up behind Kenya, crowing, “Look, look! He made us a pretty
picture! Kyaaa, we don’t deserve you, Kaoru-kun!”
 
The scratches on the ground sweep in a pattern, and Kintarou is the last one to
get it. “It’s a lizard!”
 
“It’s a snake, Kin-chan,” Shiraishi says with a critical eye. “The kanji for
snake, even. Impressive! Very extreme, Kaidou-kun!”
 
Zaizen throws glitter on it, for good measure.
 
Ryouma, certain that he's already had his fill of Shitenhouji weirdness and not
enough praise for how cool he is, tugs on the sleeve of Kintarou's jersey
instead. "Let's go play tennis." 
 
"Not so fast, Echizen," Kenya hums, stepping in front of him. "The fact that
you want to use our courts means that you're willing to pay the fee."
 
Ryouma blinks back, immediately bored. "Okay."
 
"The fee of playing for our school next year!"
 
"Eh." Ryouma shrugs, and looks back at Kintarou. "So where are the courts?" 
 
Kintarou punches Kenya in the shoulder, hard enough to send him skidding back a
few steps. “Leave him alone, Kenya! If you wanna talk you can tell him how cool
he is!” He grabs Ryouma around the waist, then positively drags him off to the
courts. “You can serve first, Koshimae! Your serves are awesome!”
 
Kaidou looks down at the kanji, then up at Zaizen. “How did you get it to land
like that?”
 
Ryouma can't help but smirk, fixing his hat as he's hauled off. "They are
pretty awesome, aren't they?" 
 
Zaizen looks Kaidou dead in the eye. "Skill."
 
Kenya, having recovered from Kintarou's punch, immediately chimes: "That's our
genius!"
 
"Also, I got sick of having it in my pocket." 
 
"Ahh, young love," Yuuji sighs out, draping himself on Koharu from behind.
"Just look at him, Koharu. They're so sweet, doesn't it remind you of us?" 
 
“So cute, Zaizen-kun and Bandana-kun!”
 
“You know my name now! Stop calling me that!”
 
“Nicknames are a sign of affection!” Koharu’s gaze sharpens, and his tone is
wicked as he adds, “Ne, Kaoru-kun?” 
 
It’s not quite as intense a blush as he’d had when Zaizen referred to him that
way, but Kaidou scuffs his toe through glitter nonetheless. 
 
Shiraishi claps his hands together, reasonably satisfied with the morning so
far. “Right! It looks like the rookies are already...yeah, they’re definitely
gone. Zaizen, Kaidou-kun, do you want to have your captain’s meeting first, and
then decide what the matches will be?”
 
Zaizen shrugs, glancing over to Kaidou and waving a (somewhat glitter-coated)
hand. "Sure, whatever. I guess we're using the shoebox." 
 
"Clubhouse! It's a clubhouse, you ungrateful brat!" Yuuji snaps.
 
"It's a shoebox," Zaizen repeats, deadpan, and turns to lead the way. 
 
"Kin-chan didn't even kill anyone this morning…" Kenya says, mystified. "Man,
we really do need to get Echizen here." 
 
“Kenya,” Shiraishi sighs, pulling him back from the Captain’s meeting, “I told
you to go slow with asking him to come here. We don’t want him to think we’re
just out to poach his talent from his friends.”
 
"Okay, but," Kenya says, turning back with a frown, "we kind of are. Also,
damn, Kura, Kin-chan is so calm with him around! Look how less stressed you
are."
 
Shiraishi flutters a hand--it matters not. “But we decided, it was to make
everyone happier. Ryouma-kun needs to be in a happier environment, and Kin-chan
needs someone to focus all his energy on.”
 
"While we're at it, let's get Hikaru's cute boyfriend to come here, too," Yuuji
chimes in. "They can be the new homo brigade!"
 
"I don't think Zaizen's into that," Kenya wryly says.
 
Yuuji looks him dead in the eye. "You don't know anything about what he's
into."
 
"I follow his blog!" 
 
“He needs a lot of comedy training,” Koharu says with a frown. “Good instincts,
but so repressed. Kurarin, do you think he could get a scholarship?”
 
“We’re a free school,” Shiraishi reminds him.
 
“But for housing expenses! Ah, the world is cruel to young lovers!”
 
Shiraishi smiles and shakes his head. His team is weird.
 
"He could just move in with Hi~ka~ruuuu--"
 
In the clubhouse, Zaizen twitches. "Gross. I can hear them." 
 
Kaidou glowers, and locks the door for good measure. “Are they always like
this? Tch, it’s their fault anyway.”
 
"Always." Zaizen flops down into a chair. "Literally always. Also, I dunno what
kind of meeting they want us to have. Tennis is tennis."
 
“Maybe decide meetups?” Kaidou shrugs. “I’m not sure what kind of match they
think we can have, it’s just me and Echizen and he’s...busy, I guess.” He looks
down, nudging at a spot on the ground (easy to get out with the special green
cleaner he has in his bag) with a toe. “I wouldn’t mind playing you.”
 
"It's good that he's busy. Kintarou's nuts when he's not around, it's weird."
Zaizen's expression shifts wry. "Dunno if I wanna play you. You beat that
Kirihara guy, so you sound like a lot of work."
 
Kaidou can’t even be annoyed, not after so long looking up to Fuji, to Tezuka,
to the rest of them. “Tennis is a lot of work for me,” he says, elbows resting
on his knees. “No matter who I’m playing. That was the hardest match I ever
played.”
 
"Well, you won, didn't you?" Zaizen points out, eyebrows raising. "So the hard
work paid off. Congrats and all that; you guys were about to win in straight
sets if not for your weird sempai's freak out moment." 
 
“I don’t know what happened there.” Kaidou shrugs. “No one tells me and I don’t
ask. But we still won, so it’s fine.”
 
"I literally have no idea what goes on around here, either, so I feel that
pain." Zaizen flops forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Right, captain
things. Umm…I guess we could play a match? Maybe we should play a doubles
match, too, against Koharu and Yuuji or something, I dunno. That sounds less
good."
 
Kaidou looks down at his hands, picking at a nonexistant speck on one of his
fingernails. “My captain only just started trusting me in singles again. I’ll
play doubles if we can also play singles.”
 
"Che. I never get to play singles, lucky. Yeah, all right, we'll play a match."
Zaizen stretches a leg out and over to poke Kaidou with one foot. "He's not
gonna be your captain for much longer. Who's your vice captain gonna be, that
other second year or Kintarou's wife?" 
 
Kaidou snorts. “Echizen doesn’t have a leadership bone in his body. Not much of
a common sense one, either.” He swallows, and looks down at Zaizen’s foot, not
really sure what to do about it, but sure that he’s supposed to do something.
“You don’t seem nervous about being captain.”
 
"'s not like I have a choice. The only other option is Kintarou, or…well.
Quitting the club." Zaizen shrugs, and drops his foot again. "I'm just not
gonna have a vice captain. Naming Kintarou to that position would be the same
as not having one, anyway, so there's that."
 
At least your captain doesn’t constantly humiliate you by telling someone else
that he’s going to be the pillar of Seigaku. “Momoshiro and I will probably
fight all the time. I think that’s what Tezuka wants, for some reason.” He
hesitates, then opens his tennis bag. “You have a tear in your pants,” he
mutters, pulling out his sewing kit. “Put your foot back, I’ll fix it.”
 
Zaizen blinks, then shrugs, hesitantly lifting his foot back up to place it on
Kaidou's knee. "You don't have to or anything." Who carries around a sewing kit
like that? "…Fighting wouldn't get anywhere here, though. It only lasts a day
at most between Koharu and Yuuji. The rest of the time, Shiraishi's just
worrying about everything and telling me how to organize shit for next year.
Like, I get it--I'm not gonna be a good captain, whatever."
 
Kaidou searches for a color-match in his thread, finds one, and threads the
needle in a second, deftly twisting the end into a sewer’s knot and hiding the
knot under the fabric. “I wish Tezuka-buchou would tell me more about what I’m
supposed to do,” he confides. “Oishi-sempai tried, when he was acting captain,
but most of that was just about finding out what everyone’s eating and changing
their calorie plan. I know I could train everyone physically, but...mentally?”
Mattress stitch, he decides, and sets to work.
 
"I can't even do that," Zaizen wryly admits, watching with some degree of
fascination at how nimble Kaidou's fingers are. Huh, didn't expect that.
"Listen, don't get mad, but your captain's kind of a hikikomori. I know the
type, I am one. He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing." 
 
“That’s what he says,” Kaidou confirms. It’s easier to talk when his fingers
have a job. Then he doesn’t feel quite so awkward, quite so useless. “He says
he’s faking it most of the time. He’s just...really good at faking it. I don’t
think I could do it the same way.” He looks up, and meets Zaizen’s eyes briefly
before returning to his task. “You could be like him. You’re confident like
him. I can see people being inspired by you.”
 
"…Is not caring the same as confidence?" Zaizen supposes it is, in some weird
way, but he shrugs all the same. "I dunno. I'm not like Shiraishi at all.
You're good at being scary, your team'll respect you. Everyone here just wants
to slap my ass, even the first years."
 
“It’s a good ass,” Kaidou says without thinking, and flushes dark red, bending
over his sewing and finishing it with a triple-knot, severing the ends with a
tiny pair of scissors, embossed with a bear’s smiling face on the blade.
“Sorry.” The memory of that one time comes back to him, so hard he has to catch
his breath. They don’t need the glitter if they do it again, he thinks, though
he tries so hard not to assume. He’d thought, when he’d first gotten the
invitation, that it had been a cover for something else, but then the team had
actually showed up, so there went that plan. Maybe Zaizen just wants to forget
that night. Kaidou knows he can’t.
 
Zaizen doesn't even bat an eye. "Don't apologize, everyone says it. Oh, hey,
those scissors reminded me." He pulls his foot away and leans back to his
locker, smacking the old thing open and reaching inside. "Took a few tries and
got a lot of penguins first, but there was a gashapon machine at the arcade
that had these." A single fat, stuffed polar bear dangles from one keychain as
he passes it over. "Figured it was destiny or something, dunno." 
 
Kaidou’s eyes go wide, and his hand tightens on the keychain. “Th-thank you,”
he stammers, and immediately fishes out his keychain, unclipping the old one, a
ratty old rabbit with a dumbell in one hand that his brother had given him two
birthdays ago. Ah, the polar bear is perfect, fat and cute and so pure white he
has to force himself not to try and wrap it in plastic. “I didn’t get you
anything,” he mumbles, ducking his head.
 
"Huh? You don't have to get me anything, it's fine." Zaizen sits back, rubbing
at the back of his neck awkwardly. "And you fixed my pants, so that was cool.
Anyway, yeah, we should get out of here, or Koharu's gonna start accusing us of
making out or something…" So much for captain's meetings. Seriously, what does
Shiraishi expect him to do?
 
Kaidou swallows. “Yeah. Let’s go.” He squeezes the bear for a moment, then puts
it regretfully back into his bag, opening the door to find….
 
Nothing.
 
He scowls, looking around. “Where’d they all go? Is this some kind of a trick?”
No, Echizen and Kintarou are still playing on the court in the distance, he can
hear the ball being whacked back and forth among occasional explosions.
 
Zaizen stares tiredly out the door. "They're gonna do something weird. I hate
when they do something weird." Which means that he hates most of his time at
this school, truth be told. 
 
“Your school,” Kaidou growls, “is really stressful.” Seigaku is stressful, too.
Most places seem stressful.
 
"What they fail to understand is that if they aren't here telling me to do
something, I'm going to go home." 
 
Kaidou shoves his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t blame you. I’ll make your
excuses if they show up and want your participation for something.”
 
Zaizen looks sideways at him, eyebrows raised. "Seriously? Why should you stay
here if there's nothing for you to do, either? Echizen and Kintarou are gonna
be at it for hours, let's be real." 
 
Kaidou shrugs. “I don’t want to impose. I can always run laps.”
 
"Yeah, no," Zaizen dismisses immediately, already fishing in his pocket for
their train fare. "Take a break, gym bunny, let's get out of here."
 
“I...I don’t have a gift for your family. Can we stop at a Conbini?”
 
"If you want, but they're not gonna be home." Gap moe, Zaizen belatedly thinks,
struggling to count coins all of a sudden. Shit. Did they leave on purpose?
Shit. "You're making it into a big deal." 
 
“Sorry. At least let me pay for the train.” Kaidou digs out the money his
father had given him for the trip, neatly pressed in his wallet. “And I can get
us something to eat on the way, if you know somewhere good.” That should be
enough, right? Oh god, I’m going to his house. I’ve never even been to Inui-
sempai’s house.
 
This way, he doesn't have to keep attempting to count and failing. It's kinda
weird, though, like a girlfriend paying for a date, but Kaidou's a guy, so does
that count? Shit, Zaizen doesn't know. Maybe he should have listened to
Koharu's dating advice in the past. Is this even dating? Shit. Ugh. "Let's just
get out of here before they start blowing up things," he mutters awkwardly,
shoving his hands back into his pockets and making his way towards the gate. "I
live pretty close to the school, at least. It's the only reason I ever went
here." 
 
“I was wondering,” Kaidou admits. “I think a school like this would give me a
headache.” His own school gives him a headache more often than not, to be
honest, and that’s just because of all the brightly-sparkling people.
 
He follows Zaizen--at least he doesn’t walk slow, no matter how apathetic he
might look--and takes note of the surroundings. “How do you deal with the heat
down here?” he mutters, stripping off everything but his vest and shorts and
stuffing the rest in his tennis bag.
 
"I don't move much," Zaizen dryly answers, grimacing when he hears an explosion
that sounds like it's coming from Shitenhouji behind them. It's a good thing
that they left when they did. "Also, our house has central air. My dad's a
pussy that can't live without it, so he had it specially installed and
everything. It makes everything better."
 
“I’m pretty good at handling the heat,” Kaidou says offhand, mentally judging
how far, how fast he could run in this humidity. That would probably add an
extra component to his workouts, and he abruptly wonders what Inui would say. 
 
Then he thinks about how voraciously Inui would be taking notes on him and
Zaizen, and hurriedly tries thinking about something else. “None of the signs
down here are in English,” he notes. “I usually try reading them to practice,
in Tokyo.”
 
"Yeah, not as many tourists down here. We lived in Tokyo for like, four months,
when I was a baby. Up in Hokkaido, then down here…" Zaizen trails off, pausing
to pay for their tickets--if he does it before Kaidou can shove money at him,
that's good, right? close enough--and hands Kaidou the ticket without looking
at him. "My dad's work moves around a lot. We've been here for a few years now,
though, so I guess it's fine. I'd rather be in Tokyo, though."
 
Kaidou stares at the ticket, then shoves his wallet back in his pocket. As
usual, he’s pretty sure he’s missed something. His fingers brush against the
polar bear, and he can’t help a little secret smile as he follows Zaizen
through the turnstile. “Tokyo’s all right. Not where I want to live forever,
but it’s fine. I can see you there.”
 
"More of a music scene," Zaizen decidedly says, leading the way up the stairs
and to the platform. Good, not busy. "All the good stuff comes there, not here.
You wanna be a pro, right? I figured Tokyo would be a good spot for that, too."
 
“Yeah, well, until I get my start.” It’s a dream he’s shy to share, but there’s
something about Zaizen--probably the fact that he doesn’t seem to care--that
makes it seem safe to confide in him. “I want...ugh, it’s gonna sound stupid. I
want to build enough of a name for myself on the pro circuit, then open a
training center. Or a gym for pros, something like that.” He shoves his hands
in his pockets with the ticket. “Sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”
 
"Not really." Zaizen looks down at his shoes, idly toeing at a crack in the
tiles. "Sounds pretty cool, and you'd be good at it. Ideas like that are why
someone like Tezuka picked you out as the next captain, you know? I'm pretty
sure Shiraishi just picked me because there wasn't any other option." 
 
The train rolls up with a squeal, and Zaizen waits until literally everyone is
off and out of the way before hopping on and immediately sitting down. "You
wanna go overseas or something? Because that's gonna make that a lot easier to
do."
 
There aren’t too many people on the train, not even the usual little old lady
he has to give up his seat for, and Kaidou sits, unfamiliar with the situation.
“Yeah. Gonna make a lot of things easier.” That much, he hopes, can go unspoken
between them.
 
He squeezes the bear inside his bag. “You remind me of Tezuka. He doesn’t think
he’s a good captain either, but we all love him.”
 
Zaizen gives him a disbelieving stare. "Kintarou likes climbing me and then
complains that I make a bad watch post for Koshimae because I'm too short. Does
that count?" 
 
“You never know what next year’s first-years will be like. Definitely never
expected Echizen and Kintarou, huh?”
 
"Could've done without. Seriously, would you want another Kintarou?" 
 
“With that win-loss record? Looking at our team next year, I wouldn’t say no.”
Kaidou grimaces. “I wish our first nationals win ever hadn’t happened right
before I became captain. That’s a hell of a lot to live up to, and almost the
whole team is graduating.”
 
"Eh, you can't look at it like that. You played in the finals the year that
Rikkai's winning streak was broken." Zaizen shrugs, rocking to his feet when
the train announces its next stop. "If Chitose gets held back a year, then we
might be good, but otherwise, we're in the same boat as you. Shishigaku's just
gonna win everything down here again." 
 
“And the Kantou will go back to Rikkai,” Kaidou says gloomily. “You going pro
in high school? Or are you gonna focus on your music?”
 
"Rikkai's just a tennis mill, so whatever. At least none of us will suck as
much as Hyoutei will." That makes Zaizen almost laugh, and he hops off the
train. "I've never thought about going pro, though. Don't think I'm good
enough, besides. 'Genius' is kind of a stupid word to throw around like
everyone does."
 
“I thought it just meant you were good without having to work,” Kaidou mutters.
Really, only two stops? That distance wouldn’t have counted as one of his
morning jogs. Probably not even as one of the jogs he does at recess time. How
the hell is Zaizen not completely atrophied from lack of muscle stimulation?
“You were on one of the best four teams in the country without having to work.
I saw your tournament record.”
 
"Don't really wanna work at it that much," Zaizen admits, leading the way up
the stairs only because the escalator is too packed. "People that work harder
are gonna be better as time goes on, so I'll leave the pro circuit to people
like you."
 
“Then...can I hear some of your music?” The fact that Zaizen so casually
affirms some of Kaidou’s life mottos makes him instantly friendlier. Unlike his
own sempai that are geniuses, Zaizen at least appears to know that such things
have their limit. “Do you have some at your house?”
 
"…Sure, if you really wanna hear it." Zaizen shrugs awkwardly. Shit. Shit, it's
easier to talk about tennis, tennis isn't…obtrusive. "You won't like it,
though. You like traditional stuff."
  
“It can’t be weirder than the stuff Inui-sempai makes me listen to,” Kaidou
says, shrugging. “Or my brother.” Hazue is going through a phase where he
listens to anything his friends listen to, which mostly means candy-colored
girls with big breasts singing high-pitched songs very quickly.
 
"Yeah, sure." His house is only two blocks from the station, thank god, because
it's hot and he's tired of moving. Zaizen steps up onto the porch of a two
story stand-alone, fishes out his key, and opens the door to a rush of cold
air. "Here we go. Oh, thank god, Kaasan left the air on…"
 
Kaidou lets out a long sigh of relief. “God,” he groans, taking off his shoes
and bandana and wiping his forehead, “I haven’t been this properly cool since
March.” It’s a little intoxicating, and he takes a long minute to just breathe
before he looks around. “You have a lovely home,” he says automatically.
“Dammit, I was going to buy dinner, I forgot in the heat.”
 
"S'okay, we can raid the fridge," Zaizen says, kicking his own shoes aside.
"There's juice there, too, and some sports drinks and stuff. We'll be alone
until pretty late, my mom just left to visit my brother up in Ibaraki, and my
dad's working weird hours. Were you guys staying in a hotel while you're here
in Osaka, or what?"
 
“My dad and brother are staying with a family friend. Your sempai told me I
could stay in one of the dormitories.” Only way we could afford to make the
trip.He bows before properly entering, and steps into the living room. “And I
think Echizen is...probably going to sleep wherever he and Kintarou fall down
after playing until they’re exhausted.”
 
"Gross, you don't wanna stay with Koharu and Yuuji. Just crash here." Shit,
wait. Is that too forward? Ugh, what does he even care. Zaizen wanders in the
kitchen briefly, grabbing a couple of drinks and a few bags of chips from a
cabinet. "Come on, let's go upstairs. It's even colder in my room." 
 
Kaidou breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I mean, I’m very grateful to them,”
he says hurriedly. “I’m just...not sure I’m up for another takoyaki party. Not
yet.” There had been so much glitter. It was probably one of the best
experiences of his life, but also one of the more traumatizing. An annual
event, if anything, he decides.
 
"They're so gross," Zaizen agrees immediately, leading the way up the stairs.
"Also, you never know when it's going to be a takoyaki party, or a takoyaki
party. Koharu's a good cook, but sometimes it's the kind of party that doesn't
have cooking and instead has lots of weird noncon glitter." He opens his
bedroom door, kicks a few books out of the way, and throws his bag haphazardly
to the side. "Make yourself at home." 
 
Kaidou’s eyes widen, and he has to work not to flinch. It’s not a clean room,
and he instinctively clenches his hands as they twitch, wanting to get to work.
Instead of that, he bows, announces, “I’m coming in,” and looks for a chair to
sit on, then sits on the floor instead. “That’s...a lot of high-tech stuff. Is
it all for music?” Listening to other people talk about something they love is
about a hundred times better than talking himself, Kaidou learned long ago.
 
"Ah, yeah." Zaizen unveils a chair underneath a pile of school uniforms, and
flops down into it, flipping his computer on. "I've got a switch board for all
my speakers now, just set it up the other day. And a fresh hookup for my
keyboard and everything, so the quality's a lot better when I upload everything
to my blog and Nico. Who knows, maybe I'll get picked up by a label for a
Vocaloid cover. Kenya-sempai keeps promoting my stuff, ever since I made him
internet famous." He pauses, realizing how much he just rattled off, and slinks
back into his chair a bit. 
 
Kaidou’s eyes narrow as he looks at the setup. “Mm. From the things I’ve seen,
I bet your team would get a lot of views. They love doing crazy things.” He
doesn’t mention that he mainly watches workout videos on Youtube.
 
"…I don't want to give them any more encouragement," Zaizen darkly says. "The
whole school is like that; the team doesn't need to feel special." 
 
Kaidou snorts. “I don’t know if I could handle it. A few crazy characters are
enough for me to handle.” He looks around, then picks up a somewhat obscure-
looking piece of equipment gingerly. “Should this really be on the ground?”
 
"Eh, it's fine, it's not gonna die down there. Your school is weirder, in a
way. What's up with that Fuji guy?" 
 
“Another genius,” Kaidou grumbles. “He used to say that the only thing he liked
better than suffering was watching other people suffer. He acts like a girl
sometimes, it gives me the creeps.”
 
"Are you sure he's not a girl? He looks like one, and his uh…doubles partner…" 
 
Kaidou glares at the ground a little. “He’s not.” Then, as if to explain
himself, he asks, “Don’t Shitenhouji all shower together?”
 
"Well, yeah, but I dunno, I thought you guys might have some weird rule that
lets rich girls play on your team if they're good enough." 
 
“We don’t care that much about money. We’re not Hyoutei,” Kaidou scoffs. “Have
you played them?”
 
"No, but they were at all of our matches at Nationals, watching." Zaizen
snorts. "What a joke. What's up with their captain? Koharu's got a thing for
him, it makes Yuuji lose sleep at night." 
 
“He’s the richest asshole in Japan and he likes to show it off.” Kaidou runs a
hand through his hair, nice and cool with the bandana off and the air on. “I
think Tezuka thinks he’s funny.”
 
Heh, sweet. This sounds like gossip he can use as a bargaining tool with
Koharu, because bargaining tools mean finding new ways to skip practice. "So is
it true, then?" he casually asks. "Are they dating?" 
 
“I dunno,” Kaidou responds, one eyebrow raised. “Are you gonna put it on your
blog?”
 
Zaizen rolls his eyes. "I'm not that much of an ass. I didn't talk about the
takoyaki party, did I?" 
 
“No,” Kaidou admits. “I’m just protective of him, I guess…” He hisses through
his teeth--but if Zaizen didn’t put up the takoyaki party (and he didn’t,
Kaidou’s been stalking his blog), then maybe what he wants is real, and Zaizen
can be trusted. “Yeah. I mean, they didn’t tell me or anything, but I just have
to look at them, you know?”
 
"Figured." Yeah, this is definitely gonna be a great bargaining tool later.
"You've got one hell of a gaydar, though," he idly notes, attention briefly
turned towards his computer monitor (one of three) as he checks his e-mail.
"You'd fit right in at Shitenhouji. If you transfer here, you can still be
captain." 
 
“I’ve always been...able to tell. Not that it’s done me much good. Mostly it
means I fall for guys with hot boyfriends.” Kaidou can’t quite help looking
over his shoulder, just to make sure there are no inquisitive little siblings.
It hardly seems real, to be able to talk about it without fear. “Can’t go that
far away for school. Can’t afford it.”
 
"That's your excuse? Not, 'I've gotta stay at Seigaku, it's my duty'?" Zaizen
wryly returns, eyebrows raised. "Scholarship apps go 'till the end of
September, you know. Apply, they're tennis hungry now." 
 
Kaidou grunts. “Thought you’d like the other argument better. Most people don’t
want to hear about honor and duty.” Momoshiro.
 
"Just seemed weird for you, is all. And fair warning, everyone's trying to
poach that first year of yours."
 
“That’s his duty’s problem.” Kaidou slumps back against the wall. “I wouldn’t
even blame him. Our team isn’t going to be much next year. I bet they’re all
dying to have him at Shitenhouji, right?” Just for a minute, he considers being
captain of a team that all seems to genuinely love each other, where they’re
all absurdly comfortable, where no one hides who they are. “Maybe he should go
here. He can afford it.”
 
"The amount you're spending to go to Seigaku probably is more than just dorm
housing here. The school's free." Zaizen resists the urge to go hunting for
concrete numbers online. No, that's stupid. If Kaidou doesn't want to, he
doesn't want to, but he's pretty sure that Kaidou wants to. "To be fair,
though, I'd still be a shitty vice captain." 
 
“You’d be better than Momoshiro. Anyone would. All he cares about is hamburgers
and pretty girls. Useless.” No, he’s not considering it. Tezuka would hate him.
That matters. He’s sure it does.
 
"Not sure if that was a compliment or not…" Zaizen muses, leaning back in his
chair and distractedly reaching up to fiddle with one earring. "You'd have to
deal with Kintarou, though. Maybe Chitose, if he's held back. Imagine if it
were Kintarou and that Echizen kid. They're like, married already and
everything." 
 
“They remind me of Tezuka and Atobe, a little.” Kaidou frowns, fiddling with
the edge of his bandana. “Tell me. If Echizen did transfer here, would things
be...easier for him? Than in Tokyo? With Kintarou, I mean.”
 
Zaizen thinks, then shrugs. "Probably. Maybe. Everyone kinda laughs it off
here, you know? Dumb hicks and all that, that's what people think everyone from
Osaka is. Seems like everyone's a lot nicer here, though, if you ask me, even
about the homo thing. I don't care that much because I'm usually rude, but I
could tell the difference in Tokyo. I know it got Shiraishi flustered a few
times, just in general." 
 
“Everyone cares a lot there. About most things.” Kaidou frowns, thinking.
“Shiraishi, really? Not about...no, I can usually tell, but he’s hard to read
like that.” There’s something wistful in his tone, but not for Shiraishi.
“Osaka sounds nice.”
 
"Eh, Shiraishi just gets flustered in general. I dunno if he's homo or not, I
don't ask and he takes my phone away a lot." Zaizen stretches out a leg, and
pokes at Kaidou's shoulder with his toes. "Seriously, there are scholarships.
Apply and stuff, what's really stopping you?" 
 
Kaidou tries to think of his reasons when Zaizen’s touching him, even just with
a foot, even just his shoulder. There’s his family, but he’ll be going away
someday anyway, and if he can get a scholarship, there’s no problem. There’s
his promise to Tezuka--but if Ryouma leaves to go pro, like he probably will,
there’s no team, and Tezuka wouldn’t want him to give up a chance, probably. If
there were a scholarship, that would be even less of a burden on his family
than the tuition for Seigaku. 
 
All of that doesn’t really compare to the idea of going to a school where he
doesn’t have to run 30 kilometers a day just to keep a small percentage of the
thoughts away.
 
“I’ll apply.” His mouth is dry when he says it. “Don’t expect me to get
anything, I’m not a perfect student or anything.”
 
Zaizen's not sure why that makes him feel so relieved. "Yeah, well, trust me,
most people aren't Koharu and Yuuji. All the classes are weird here, it drives
me nuts." He flops back, letting his foot slide down Kaidou's arm before he
pulls it away. "Like I said, it's the tennis that'll do it. I'll tell Shiraishi
to put in a word for you, I'm sure he'd be thrilled." 
 
Kaidou swallows hard. “Do you have a foot thing?” he asks, looking up into
Zaizen’s face. Ah, shit, Zaizen is so pretty. It’s easy to forget when they’re
looking in different directions and just talking. “You keep touching me with
your feet.”
 
"My legs are longer, it's easier than getting up." Zaizen, entirely unfazed by
the question, just looks vaguely amused. "Why, do you?" 
 
Kaidou shakes his head, shifting slightly in his seat, to be expected after so
long in seiza. “Feet are usually pretty gross. People don’t pay enough
attention to them in the shower.”
 
"Fair enough. You're kinda OCD, aren't you?" Zaizen spares a glance at his bed,
cluttered with his tennis bag and laundry--then at the floor, cluttered
similarly, but with bags from CD stores and book stores--and then at his desk,
with soda cans and other assorted messes. Whoops. "You're trying not to jump
out of a window right now, aren't you." 
 
Kaidou grimaces, and admits, “Trying to figure out how rude it would be to ask
if I can clean it.”
 
"…Well, I'm not gonna tell you no…" Zaizen exhales a breath, rubbing at the
back of his neck. "I mean, I was just gonna throw the stuff off the bed so we
could make out on it, but if you wanna clean first, that's fine, too." 
 
Kaidou looks around frantically, trying to think of a compromise. “How about if
I just clean off the bed?” he suggests, and before Zaizen can answer, he’s
already moving, whipping cloth into brisk folds, sorting trash by
recyclability, filing papers almost faster than he can read them. It only takes
a few minutes, and Kaidou almost doesn’t notice that he’s made the bed as well
before he turns around, itching fingers finally a little sated. “Much better.”
 
Zaizen stares. "You're way too good at that. It's kind of weird. Shit, I hope
the roommate you end up with isn't like me." 
 
“I don’t mind messy people as long as they don’t mind me cleaning.” Kaidou
shrugs. “It gives me something to do. Does Shitenhouji have a good supply of
hot water? That’s pretty important.”
 
"I think so? The only time I heard about it running out was this time that
Kintarou literally left a shower on all day, and it flooded the whole gym.
Somehow." Zaizen hauls himself up from his chair, hesitating before he reaches
out to touch a strand of Kaidou's hair. "It's pretty. Don't get to see much of
it because of your bandanas," he awkwardly notes. "It's more of that hidden gap
moe thing, I think." 
 
Kaidou freezes for a minute. No, he doesn’t have to turn around and look behind
him, he reminds himself, and it’s not a trick. He still remembers the softness
of Zaizen’s mouth--chapped lips, a sly tongue, nipping teeth--and the way his
skin had tasted on his belly, his palms when Kaidou’d gotten too loud. “I’m not
cute,” he mutters, because if there’s one thing he knows for sure, it’s that
he’s nothing like adorable. He’s spent years secretly collecting cute things;
he’s something of an expert.
 
His own hand comes up, fingertips tracing over the metal rings in Zaizen’s ear.
He’d wanted to touch them the last time, but there had been so much going on.
He’d never gotten the chance. “Did these hurt? Do they now?” The back of his
hand brushes against Zaizen’s cheek, and he tries not to breathe harder at
that.
 
It's different when Koharu and Yuuji aren't here, that's for sure. Yuuji's
always kind of hyper and eager and good at everything, and Koharu's always got
something in mind and calls all the shots. Apparently, he gets to call the
shots now, and that's a mix of overwhelming and exhilarating and shit, shit,
he's not that good at being cool and suave and all that. Mostly, he's good at
being the weird music geek that isn't that thrilled about being good at One Gay
Sport. 
 
"They hurt when I got them," Zaizen admits, "but they don't hurt now. That's,
uh. Kind of why I kept getting them." That's a somewhat sheepish addition, but
hey, Kaidou might as well know how weird he really is. His own fingers slide
back through Kaidou's hair, then along the back of his neck. "And I dunno. I
think you're cute." 
 
Kaidou shivers down to his toes in a long, continuous shudder. He’d thought for
a fleeting second last time that maybe, maybe venting that desire would help to
get it out of his system. Instead, it had been even worse the whole time since,
and he’s been craving more of the same. 
 
For a minute, he misses Koharu and Yuuji. They’d known what to do the whole
time, and had never made him feel stupid for not knowing, delighting in their
teachable moment. Now, he supposes it’s up to him. 
 
He shuffles a little closer, eyes locked on Zaizen’s, head tipping back into
those fingers. “You like it when things hurt?” It’s an honest question, asked
in curiosity. “All things, or just those?”
 
"…Most things?" Zaizen hedges. Ah, shit. Shit. The urge to reach for his phone
and text Koharu and ask him how do I do this, exactly, be very specific, it's
easier when you're here is very strong. "I dunno. To be honest, I haven't…it's
mostly been a few times with those two, you know?" 
 
He decides to be brave about it, and grabs Kaidou by the arm, tugging him over
to the bed that almost looks too neat to mess up. Almost. "And once with Kenya-
sempai in a shower, but I don't think that counts," he mutters. "So, sorry if
nothing's all that good." 
 
Kaidou shakes his head, honestly grateful. “The takoyaki party was my first
time,” he admits in a rush. “I didn’t think any of you would want to see me
again after.” He lets himself be tugged down, and deliberately sits closer to
Zaizen, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Yes, they feel good there, and
as much as Zaizen claims to hate working, there’s some lean muscle on his
frame.
 
“Can I…” He tries not to bite or lick his lips. “I want to…” Touch. Kiss. Feel
like last time.
 
"Yeah, okay." Zaizen is pretty sure he's got this much down pat. It's why he
suggested it in the first place, and scooting closer makes it easier to just
wrap his hands up in Kaidou's hair and pull him close. If they're kissing, they
don't have to talk about logistics, and that's the best thing of all. 
 
Zaizen's just glad that he remembered correctly about what Kaidou's mouth felt
like--surprisingly soft, really, really pliant and easy to kiss, and it already
sets a shiver down his spine when he gets his teeth on Kaidou's lower lip to
gently tug. 
 
Kaidou lets out a noise, urgent, desperate, and lunches forward, shoving his
mouth further against Zaizen’s. It takes effort to go slow, but Kaidou is
appreciating every tiny movement, every minuscule swipe, ever—
 
Then Zaizen’s teeth set to his lips, and Kaidou groans.
 
He pushes Zaizen down to the bed, kissing him deeply, not moving apart from
that, just tasting Zaizen’s mouth, remembering the taste of that cheap gum and
something else, metallic and secretive. If just one kiss is enough to make him
feel like this again, he thinks dazedly, imagining what more will do is enough
to make him whimper.
 
Moments like this make Zaizen remember that shit, Kaidou is strong, and it
takes some serious effort on his part to lurch upward and kiss back, his breath
hot and ragged when he finally manages to pull back for more than a second--and
that's only because his tongue piercing comes just shy of catching against
Kaidou's lip, whoops. "Fuck, sorry," Zaizen mutters, wiping his mouth. "I
forgot. I'll take it out." It's not his fault he's not the best at kissing with
that thing yet. If he had more practice, sure, he'd be amazing. 
 
“Don’t.” Kaidou’s voice is low and breathy, and he kisses Zaizen again, knowing
what it is now, tongue delving deeper. God, Zaizen is so hot, all modern music
and tantalizing piercings and casual disaffection, and it takes an effort of
will to believe that he’s actually here, that Kaidou, awkward, clumsy,
frightening-looking Kaidou actually has some kind of permission to touch him.
“I like it,” he murmurs, stretching out over Zaizen’s body, sucking in a breath
through his nose when his lips find Zaizen’s again.
 
Did I actually just score points?
 
Shit, he's pretty sure he did. Cool, then. Yeah, whatever, no big deal, Zaizen
tries to tell himself, to not get overexcited that Kaidou's actually into it.
Kaidou's not weirded out like most Japanese people in general, not squicked and
constantly concerned about infections and his health like Shiraishi, but…
 
Yeah, all right. 
 
Zaizen sucks in a ragged breath through his nose as he drags a hand down
Kaidou's back, nails raking down his spine when he arches up to kiss back
harder, a groan caught up in his throat when Kaidou sucks on his tongue and
kind of makes his eyes roll back into his head. "You sure that was your first
time?" he rasps. You don't kiss like it was.
 
“Think I’d remember,” Kaidou grunts, eyes rolling back into his head when
Zaizen’s nails, ah, they’re sharp, and Kaidou likes that a lot more than he
thinks he’s supposed to. That piercing is maddening, flicking out at him when
he least expects it, urging him to look harder, to seek deeper, and he’s only
too content to obey.
 
The only problem with laying on Zaizen is that he doesn’t realize for a minute
that he’s sort of laying on Zaizen, and he’s not exactly light. Is that right?
He can’t quite remember from last time, and he shifts to try and plant his arms
and legs to the sides on the bed, lifting some of his weight.
 
That has the slight issue of dragging the hardness between his legs against
Zaizen’s, and Kaidou sucks in a strangled noise. Zaizen had only said make out,
not anything more. He pulls back, lips shiny and wet, and drags a thumb over
Zaizen’s lips, still not sure he’s really here. “Too much?” he rasps.
 
"Hell no." Zaizen shoves himself up onto an elbow, his tongue dragging over the
tip of Kaidou's thumb before he sucks it hungrily into his mouth, eyes lidded
when he finally lets it go with a scrape of his teeth. "We already did a lot of
weird shit," he mutters, one hand clawing its way up Kaidou's back again to get
his fingers all wrapped up into his hair, "so we can do whatever we want now." 
 
That being said--the stuff Koharu and Yuuji like to do might be fun, but…small
doses. Mostly, Zaizen likes being able to shove Kaidou onto his side (with some
serious effort, jesus christ he's solid) and wriggle up next to him, sighing
out a breath through his nose when their hips grind up close. "You feel good,
Kaoru."
 
Kaidou lets his eyes close, then forces them open again, because damned if he’s
not going to remember every possible second of this. Zaizen is gorgeous, like
something out of a magazine that he’d never be able to see in real life, like
most of the men Kaidou falls hard for only to realize that of course they’re
taken, why wouldn’t they be taken? 
 
But for some reason, this one is here, with him, and he’s going to remember
every second of it.
 
He stretches out, letting one hand sling low over Zaizen’s waist, spreading out
on his lower back to tug him closer for every languid motion of their hips.
“God,” he groans, and yeah, he probably shouldn’t be so turned on just by
hearing his own name. This is startlingly intimate, somehow even intimate with
all of their clothes on, and it’s odd that it should feel like that after the
last time. After all, this is just kissing, just laying there, but something
about it….
 
“Just wanna do this for a while,” he mutters, and kisses him again, rubbing up
harder every time his tongue flicks over that piercing.
 
"Same," Zaizen breathes, wriggling closer and slinging a leg over Kaidou's hip.
Yeah, that's one of his better decisions. It's easy to stay close like that, to
feel that tense, aching heat between them, and fuck, that's good. His cock
aches with every slow roll of his hips, and Kaidou's tongue dragging
occasionally over his piercing is just as bad, if not worse, like someone's
pushing a button that makes his cock twitch every fucking time. 
 
Maybe he's weird (he knows he's weird), but he also likes the way that he can
dig his nails into Kaidou's back and feel every flex and shiver of his muscles
when he does that. "Shit," Zaizen mutters between kisses, "you're really hot,
that's not fair." He's pretty sure he didn't sign up for this. How did this
even happen, was this Koharu's fault again? 
 
It takes Kaidou a long, kiss-drenched minute to even process the words, they’re
so nonsensical to him. Hot? 
 
The confusion probably shows on his face, but damned if he wants to pull back
and question it now. Maybe Zaizen just has poor vision like most of the people
on their teams, Kaidou’s heard rumors that being farsighted makes someone
better at tennis. 
 
But to interrupt now with something like everyone just says I have a scary face
and I agree just sounds petty and pathetic. Just take the compliment, loser,a
voice says in his head, and for once, he listens.
 
It might have something to do with the way Zaizen is rubbing up against him,
the way his nails are pricking into Kaidou’s back, the way his mouth is like
water and Kaidou’s been thirsty all his life. He wishes he were better with
words--could tell Zaizen that he’s beautiful, he’s sexy, he’s all the things
Kaidou has always wanted to say to a man, but his tongue isn’t just occupied,
it’s tied, frozen by the awkwardness of it all. 
 
Fuck it. If there’s ever a situation where actions speak louder than words…
 
Kaidou pulls Zaizen in hard, one hand raking through short dark hair, the other
slung low on his back, slipping down to squeeze and knead that perfect ass.
“God, I can’t blame them,” he breathes, thinking of Zaizen’s teammates, hoping
the other boy will know what he means.
 
Zaizen arches with a hiss of breath, his pulse jumping up a notch and shit,
yeah, okay, that's good, that's a lot different than everyone just slapping him
because they can. Kaidou's hands are strong, too, apparently, and that's really
nice, especially when he's grabbing an edge too hard and Zaizen's just not
gonna tell him that because he likes it an awful lot. 
 
Instead, he answers by hauling Kaidou down into another kiss, all teeth and
eager flicks of his tongue, his breath hitching raggedly when his piercing
catches and gets pulled on and ah, shit, his cock is way too hard for him to
see straight now. "Can I?" Zaizen mindlessly asks, one hand already shoving
between them, grabbing at the fastenings of Kaidou's shorts. He's never felt
like he's going to die if he doesn't have someone's cock to grab at until right
now, but there's a first time for everything, he guesses. 
 
The words of eager assent stick in Kaidou’s throat, and he just nods dumbly,
unable to think of how to make the words that mean yes, God, yes. 
 
He’s lightheaded with just the idea of being here with Zaizen, and the actual
truth of it is so much better, so much bigger, so much more than he ever could
have imagined lying with a boy and kissing could be.
 
He takes Zaizen’s grabbing as some kind of permission, because if he doesn’t
he’s probably going to explode. One hand still kneads at his ass, and the other
slips down the waistband of his pants, ignoring the tightness of them in his
desperate, important mission, hand curling and trembling at the same time. “P-
please,” he rasps, tilting his head to mouth at Zaizen’s neck, breath hot on
the other boy’s skin. He’s so hard it hurts, and his hands aren’t gentle.
 
Shit, it's kind of dumb how good this is.
 
Zaizen can think back to all the times he's gotten off pretty hard and
prettydecently, but the build-up didn't feel like this at all, even though his
hands are kind of shaky and fumbling when he gets his own fly down, too, and
that makes it a lot easier for Kaidou to grab wherever he wants when his own
fingers are pretty fucking busy. 
 
Kaidou's cock fits easily in his grasp, like it's supposed to be there, and
damn, he's hard. Zaizen sucks in a ragged breath through his nose at that, and
his own hips rut forward when he bites at Kaidou's neck, unthinking when his
hand can squeeze and stroke, his fingers quickly becoming slick and sticky.
"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut, his mouth more teeth than lips
whenever he finds skin. "Fuck, Kaoru--" 
 
“Hikaru—”
 
Kaidou almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, but he doesn’t care right now,
not when this is all a hell of a lot hotter than it should be. Somehow, sweaty,
awkward foreplay followed by clumsy grabs at his cock are getting him harder
and hotter than everything that had happened at the party--and there had been
so much. This is still better, and when Zaizen’s fly opens (right, smart, he’s
so dumb when his dick is hard), it’s with a grateful hiss that Kaidou gets his
hand around Zaizen’s cock properly, rubbing his thumb over the head to get it
sticky before wrapping around the shaft in quick, rough pulls. 
 
He almost protests that he’d just gotten over those love bites on his neck, but
to hell with it, he’s got a scarf now. His hand leaves Zaizen’s ass, coming
back up to his hair to wrench his head back— “Sorry, sorry—” before kissing him
again, rough and insistent as he lurches forward, coming as hard as he ever
remembers in his life against Zaizen’s deft fingers. “Hikaru,” he gasps again,
trying, trying to keep his eyes open and remember.
 
Apologies are really best left for people that aren't pushing all his fucking
buttons just right.
 
That's not something he can say right now, though, and so Zaizen just groans
against Kaidou's mouth, kissing him hard and sloppy and desperately when he
grinds forward against Kaidou's hand, shoving himself into those long, perfect
fingers, his own hand squeezing and stroking with every pulse of Kaidou's
cock. 
 
When he comes, it's all with one long, trembling shudder, spilling slick and
messy over Kaidou's hand, and fuck, he can't breathe. Every inhale catches up
in his throat, doesn't quite make it to his lungs, and Zaizen flops forward
limply, shivering when he wriggles and that makes him rub up against the palm
of Kaidou's hand again. "Shit," he groans, hooking his chin over Kaidou's
shoulder. "I think I've been doing sex wrong." 
 
Kaidou bites back another moan, nuzzling into Zaizen’s neck instead. It’s not
easy to get his breath back, and he nods in wordless agreement of the
sentiment. Every time Zaizen’s cock twitches against him, his own gives an
answering twitch, and that’s just distracting, especially when he can feel the
mess dripping through his fingers, and can’t help but think of how the last
time, he’d…
 
He swallows hard, pulls back slightly, and asks, low-voiced and more eager than
he wants to be, “Can I...I don’t know if you can again after, but I want to—”
He licks his lips, eyes tracking down to Zaizen’s open shorts, and he lets out
a soft groan just at the thought of having his mouth where his hand is.
 
Zaizen doesn't really think. Hormones have a way of taking over, he supposes,
and that's all well and good when Kaidou's obviously pretty eager. He's already
got one hand in Kaidou's hair, besides, and it's easy enough to tug and start
pushing him down. "You really are OCD, aren't you," he mutters, voice still
breathy around the edges, "Kaoru-chan." 
 
That doesn’t really process for a second, but maybe that’s just because
Kaidou’s dick is still hard. When he gets it, he bites back a moan at the idea,
nodding as he lets himself be shoved down, nuzzling against Zaizen’s abs as he
pulls down his shorts. “Yeah. You want me to--clean it up?” His Adam’s apple
bobs as he swallows, looking up at Zaizen’s face as he lowers his mouth,
dragging it along sticky flesh.
 
One of his better ideas, really. Zaizen's mouth goes dry, and he just settles
for nodding for a second, his fingers tightening in Kaidou's hair and his
tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip. He's not really hard again yet, but
that doesn't stop Kaidou's mouth from feeling really fucking good. "Y-yeah. All
of it, make sure you don't miss a drop." 
 
God.
 
Kaidou’s hands brace on Zaizen’s thighs, and he nods mindlessly before moving,
lapping at every messy spot he sees. He starts around the base, at the top of
his thighs where there’s a stray smear, a random droplet, then moves slowly
until he’s mouthing over the head of his cock, the musky, bitter taste of it
going right to his cock. That’s something he’d learned about himself, at that
takoyaki party.
 
There’s never enough of it for him.
 
He tongues the slit in the head, and when the half-hard cock is entirely clean,
he starts licking his hand, cleaning it off as he’d been instructed, determined
not to miss a drop. The filthy noises coming from his mouth don’t even bother
him, not when all he can think is that heady scent, and it’s not long before he
can’t stop himself from turning back to Zaizen’s cock and covering it again
with his mouth.
 
The noises get to Zaizen more than anything, and it really doesn't take long
for him to get hard again with that in mind. 
 
Kaidou sounds like an AV star. He's not sure if he should tell the other boy
that, but damn, it's kind of uncanny, and really, really hot. Zaizen exhales a
long, shuddering breath, and wraps both of his hands up into Kaidou's hair,
tugging his head back for just a moment. "You like the taste a lot, don't you?"
he mutters, and swallows hard when the head of his cock presses against
Kaidou's bruised lips, already sticky again, and he blames Kaidou for that
entirely. "If you do it right, you'll get to taste even more." 
 
That promise shouldn’t make Kaidou as hard as it does.
 
He mouths over the head of Zaizen’s cock gratefully, hungrily, sloppy and eager
and forgetting to breathe half the time. It’s like something from the vast
majority of his fantasies, being allowed to lick and suck as much as he wants--
and he wants a lot. 
 
Dimly, in the back of his mind, he thinks he should probably ask Zaizen more
about what he wants, what he likes. Right now, all he can focus on is the thick
fluid dripping out of the end, and he can’t help but let out a whine at the
taste as it smears over his tongue. His hands steal back, grabbing handfuls of
Zaizen’s ass just to pull him closer and let him take even more, eyes rolling
back into his head when he gets his mouth around all of it, bumping at the back
of his throat.
 
Zaizen is pretty sure the only other time his cock has been sucked this
enthusiastically was the last time with Kaidou at that takoyaki party.
 
His breath leaves him in a rush when Kaidou just swallows all of it, and
Zaizen's fingers can't help but tighten up into Kaidou's hair, scraping against
his scalp. "Good," he rasps, his voice breaking on a groan when his hips roll
forward, because god, it feels good to just be able to fuck into the slick, wet
heat of the other boy's mouth. "God, you're good at that." I am so going to
film this next time he dazedly thinks, because he's pretty sure he needs this
on video, with Kaidou's face flushed and hungry and his lips wrapped around his
cock like he's going to die if he doesn't have more. 
 
Kaidou barely hears him. 
 
His world narrows to the way Zaizen’s cock tugs on his lips when it slides into
his mouth, the taste that slowly fills his senses with every swipe of his
tongue over the head, and the thick, invasive feeling of something shoving down
his throat. That, he’s sure in some sparkling moment of clarity, is all that
matters.
 
Zaizen thrusts into his mouth, and he suddenly realizes he’s so hard he’s
leaking, and it just gets worse when there’s someone thrusting into his mouth.
He looks up through watering eyes, blinking until he can see Zaizen’s face
clearly, and that just draws another muffled, wet moan around his cock. His
hips move in unconscious little circles, rubbing slowly off against the bed as
he sucks, so secondary to the cock in his mouth it’s almost laughable.
 
No one should be allowed to blame him for wanting one of these, like…once a
day. At least. 
 
It's literally something straight out of an ero game, because AVs with real
people just don't have this kind of shit. Fuck, he's definitely scored, and
that makes Zaizen's breath stutter, his hands grip tightly at Kaidou's hair to
hold him still when his hips roll forward, when he gives into the urge to
really just fuck his mouth because it's pretty obvious that Kaidou loves it. 
 
It's not like he can make it last that much longer, anyway, so he might as well
make itgood. 
 
Zaizen wishes he was better at dirty talk at moments like this, but he's not
sure it would work, anyway. It's hard to do anything but pant and groan when
he's using Kaidou's mouth like that, and he's pretty sure his mouth shuts right
the fuck off when he's buried in as far as he can and the way that Kaidou
swallows around him rips away what's left of his control. "Kaoru--" That's as
much warning as Zaizen can manage before he spills, hot and slick and flooding
Kaidou's mouth, his fingers trembling and white-knuckled as they hold Kaidou in
place to make sure he swallows it all. 
 
The fact that Zaizen’s hands are holding him down, forcing him to swallow--as
if he wouldn’t anyway--is what draws a hard, desperate whimper from Kaidou’s
throat. 
 
The taste fills his mouth, and he shudders, pleasure sparking through his body
as he swallows, feeling it slide down his throat like the filthiest, best thing
he’s ever tasted, thick and bitter and humiliating in a way that makes him
shudder, makes his toes curl. He sucks on the head until he’s sure there isn’t
any more, then laves the softening shaft with his tongue, cleaning up any stray
drops. Then his head flops to the side, resting on Zaizen’s thigh as he licks
his lips and catches his breath. “Thanks,” he pants, wiping his mouth with one
hand as he looks up, cheeks flushed, chest heaving.
 
"Shouldn't I…be thanking you…or something?" Zaizen dimly manages, his head
rolling back as he gulps in a long breath of air. "Fuck, Kaoru. You're way too
good at that." 
 
Kaidou’s hand comes up to Zaizen’s other thigh, absently petting and stroking.
“I like it,” he admits, voice still rough and husky. “I’ll do it whenever you
want.” Yeah, he definitely needs to transfer schools.
 
He's definitely asleep right now and this is definitely a dream. Isn't this the
dream of every hormonal teenager? Shit, and here his brother told him
hikikomoris never got anything in life. "Can I like…record it next time? Just--
for when you're not here…and stuff." Zaizen swallows hard. "You just look
really good when you're doing it." 
 
Kaidou shifts, his cock twitching hard at that comment. “As long as I don’t
have to watch it or anything,” he mutters. “Whatever, go ahead.” The idea of
Zaizen touching himself to him when he’s away…he swallows hard. “Would you
really do that? When I’m not here?”
 
"Um, yeah. I'd skip practice for that shit." He probably will, actually. Right
now, though, Zaizen settles for hauling Kaidou up and kissing him again, pretty
content to be turned on by the taste of himself still on the other boy's lips.
"This is gonna sound weird," he bluntly says, "but you're better than basically
every AV star out there. I'd know, I watch a lot of porn." 
 
“Yeah?” That probably shouldn’t turn Kaidou on as much as it does, but damned
if he’s not happy to be kissed, letting his arms fall around Zaizen again as he
arches up close. “We should...I mean, if you have a favorite or something
sometime, I’ve never...my little brother is really nosy on the computer.” Not
to mention that he’s still hard and steadily leaking against his own thigh.
 
"I have a really good collection." Zaizen buries his face into Kaidou's neck,
one hand pawing down between them to let his fingers drag down the length of
Kaidou's cock before wrapping around it in a slow squeeze. "Later, though," he
mutters. "You're so hard, god." 
 
“Always gets like that,” Kaidou grunts, then gasps at the squeeze of Zaizen’s
fingers. His hips jerk up involuntarily, rutting against Zaizen’s hand. One of
his hands tangles in Zaizen’s hair, the other slides down to squeeze his ass--
and yeah, that’s just about his favorite position, he thinks, especially when
Zaizen’s lips are so close to his neck. “Hikaru…p-please, just—”
 
Fuck, you make the cutest noises.If he wasn't still reeling from that fucking
incredible blow job, Zaizen is pretty sure he'd be rutting against Kaidou just
as bad as he was before. For now, though, he just squeezes and strokes and gets
his mouth on Kaidou's neck, biting and sucking his way up to the lobe of his
ear, which gets caught up in his teeth for a long, insistent pull. "Whenever
you're ready," he breathes. "You just feel really good like this." 
 
All it takes is the scrape of teeth, and Kaidou sees stars.
 
His hips buck into Zaizen’s hand, and he clings tightly with both hands when he
comes, the unfamiliar touch getting him off a hell of a lot faster than he can
ever do by himself. He turns his head, gasping, and manages to get his mouth on
one of Zaizen’s piercings at the last second. That drags another burst out of
him, and leaves him groaning and shaking, looking down to see the mess
trickling through Zaizen’s fingers. “Hikaru…” He tries to catch his breath, and
flops to the side, finally feeling that tension leave him in a last
overwhelming wave.
 
Zaizen settles for flopping down listlessly for a moment, steadying his own
breathing and really appreciating that he's going to have bruises in some
interesting places. Actually, all of his piercings kind of hurt, too, and
that's…new. And nice. Yeah. 
 
"I think…it's time to take a break," he eventually says, voice still ragged,
lifting up his sticky hand for an experimental lick. "Because I don't remember
how to breathe."
 
Kaidou hisses out something that could be a laugh, and collapses down to the
bed. “Ugh. Play me some music or something. Or the US Open is on, I bet you
could stream it.”
 
"Listen, that requires moving right now, and I literally cannot." 
 
Kaidou raises an eyebrow. “Was it really that good, or are you really that
weak?”
 
"Maybe both. Seriously, do you have any idea how good you are at giving blow
jobs, it's fucking insane." 
 
“Really?” That’s a pleased heat in his belly, and Kaidou sort of snuggles
closer. “Haven’t given that many. That was the…” He frowns, thinking. “Third?
Fourth? The party all kind of blends together. You know, you were there.”
 
"Fucking parties," Zaizen mutters, and slings an arm and a leg over Kaidou in
the process of reaching over him to grab a remote over on the opposite side of
the bed. One click of it turns another monitor on, and he half-heartedly
navigates to one of his favorite streaming sites. "I'm not that good at giving
them. Gag reflex, mostly. Also, they say tongue piercings are good for that
stuff, but honestly, I think it just makes it harder. Once, I almost swallowed
it. I don't even know how that happened, I blame Koharu." He usually blames
Koharu.
 
“He has...a lot of ideas,” Kaidou mutters, and that thought makes his cheeks
flush when actually having Zaizen’s cock in his mouth didn’t. “S’fine by me,
though,” he adds, and turns around, nudging back against Zaizen. Usually he
finds himself drawn to men much larger than himself, at least significantly
taller, attracted by the idea of this exact position--but if Zaizen doesn’t
mind he’s the larger one, he’ll try to forget it. “I don’t mind giving. Prefer
it.”
 
Zaizen comfortably snuggles his way against Kaidou's back, secretly quite
pleased. Being short means not a lot of offers to be the big spoon, but their
bodies still fit together just fine, so what's the problem? "Cool. I mean, I
don't mind, so if you ever want it, just say so. Ah, success," he adds mostly
to himself, dropping the remote once he's got a stream of the next match going,
and turns it full screen. "Hey, so are we…" Ugh, awkward, awkward, it's a lot
easier to just touch dicks. "Are we dating or something, because that would be
good." 
 
Kaidou swallows hard. He reaches back, grabs Zaizen’s arm, and pulls it over
himself. “Yeah.” That one word has so much relief, so much release in it it’s
almost like a mental orgasm, and he huffs out a breath, startled by how much
better he feels after just that much. 
 
The hell with it. Momoshiro might be a decent Captain.
 
"…Good." Zaizen stuffs his face into the back of Kaidou's neck, nuzzling there
for a moment before hooking his chin over his shoulder and giving the other
boy's waist a squeeze. That was easier than he thought it would be (or that
Koharu and Yuuji ever made it out to be), thank god.
 
***** Rikkai *****
Kanagawa city air after being on a mountain for two weeks is definitely an
experience, but Yukimura finds he's much more tolerant of it when he actually
feels better.
 
By the end of it, he was beating Sanada in a race down the mountain. Given,
Sanada was carrying all of their stuff, but that's beside the point, and
Yukimura's still pretty sure that qualifies as a win, besides. 
 
"Why doesn't Nii-chan have to go back to school tomorrow?" Kaede complains the
late morning after he arrives home. Yukimura's still yawning, hating that he's
up this early (it's a few minutes shy of noon, which is way too early and still
morning to him), but he's regrettably somewhat (very somewhat) stuck on
Sanada's sleep schedule after two weeks of it. "I want my vacation to be
longer, too! This is an injustice!"
 
"Ah, yes. More vacation time in a hospital," he quips, reaching over to steal a
pastry right off of her plate.
 
Kaede glares at him. "Nii-chan, your hair has gotten really long. You look like
a girl."
 
"Shut up and give me a hair tie."
 
"It has butterflies on it."
 
Yukimura makes a face, and Kaede steals the pastry back as Yukimura looks
plaintively at his mother. "I feel fine, you know. I could go back to school."
He'd rather do that and see the whole team and feel like he's being
constructive for once, truth be told. 
 
"An injustice! It's an injustice!"
 
The doorbell rings, and someone (Kirihara) doesn’t bother to wait for anyone to
answer. A second passes, and it’s an avalanche of teenage Japanese boys
cascading into the house, all of whom are holding presents, some of whom stop
to apologize with their foreheads to the ground first.
 
“Buchou! I baked you so many cakes!”
 
“Welcome home, Seiich—”
 
“Yo, you made it down from the cabin of love.”
 
Sanada waits in the doorway, arms folded. He moves enough to whack Kirihara
upside the head when he forgets to take off his shoes, then closes the door
behind him, bowing to Yukimura’s mother. “Yukimura-san, thank you for inviting
us. Please excuse our arrival.”
 
“Nonsense, you boys are always--er, usually welcome.” She beams, and tugs off
his hat before he can say anything, deftly hanging it on the coat rack and
daring him silently to put it back on in her house. “Marui-kun, I don’t think I
need to tell you the kitchen is yours?”
 
“On my way!” Marui flashes a peace sign at Yukimura, then bounds off for the
kitchen, supplies under one arm and Jackal in tow.
 
"Buchou! Buchou, did you get my letter of apology? I sent it, but I wasn't sure
that the address was any good--"
 
Yukimura just settles for blinking rapidly. "…I thought Sanada didn't let you
have the addr--"
 
"I know, but I sent it to The Mountain, so I figured that would work!"
 
Kaede flops forward, thunking her head against the table, which is about what
Yukimura wants to do as well. Kirihara just beams. "So did you get it?"
 
"Ah…"
 
"Listen, if you didn't get it, I can tell you everything that it said. I
memorized it, Yanagi-sempai helped!"
 
Yukimura looks helplessly over to Yanagi--how did you let this happen, Renji--
and just happens to catch sight of Yagyuu, face down on the floor in a bow. Ah,
they're still on that. "Yagyuu…you can get up…"
 
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Yukimura-kun, I'm really very sor--"
 
"I just said it was fine…"
 
"I'm so, so sorry--"
 
How long has this been going on?
 
Yukimura Seiki sighs, shaking her head. “They’ve been over here every day, like
that, on the front porch,” she says in his ear. “Just tell them you forgive
them already, I told them it was just tennis, but they won’t listen to me.”
 
“Yeah, I don’t do the head down thing,” Niou mutters, and slinks closer,
stuffing an envelope into Yukimura’s hand and slinking back again.
“Just...yeah, whenever. I’m really sorry.”
 
“Stop crowding him!” Sanada thunders, and Seiki sighs, hand on her bosom. “What
a man,” she murmurs to herself.
 
"That's because it's not just tennis, Mom," Yukimura hisses underneath his
breath, frowning down at the envelope with open suspicion. 
 
"Buuuchouuuu, you have to let me apologize to you properly!"
 
"Akaya, I already forgave you," Yukimura exasperatedly replies, poking at the
envelope cautiously. "Niou, this isn't a bomb, is it?" He'd like for it to be a
letter of apology or something comparable, because he really needs someone to
talk to about The Mountain, but…ugh.
 
"Gen-chan," Kaede pipes up, "why won't you take me to a mountain?" 
 
"Because you're a girl," Yukimura mutters, cautiously opening up one end of the
envelope and bracing himself for an explosion.
 
“Just...it’s an investment.” Niou looks dreadfully uncomfortable, as if he’s
afraid it’s really a bomb. And it might be, if he takes it the wrong way. “Dad
asked for my opinion on something. If you don’t want it, just forget about it.”
 
Behind Niou, Sanada tenses, ready to slap him into another time zone if
Yukimura doesn’t start smiling soon.
 
Yukimura, more confused than ever, opens up the envelope properly. "Yagyuu, get
off the floor already."
 
"But--"
 
"If you don't get up, I'm gonna get Sanada to pull you up. Besides, I'm not mad
at you anymore."
 
Yagyuu is up instantly, and Yukimura unfolds what appears to not be a bomb.
Maybe? His eyes scan rapidly, and everyone is silent, and that's no good when a
weird, strangled squeak leaves his throat. "But…" 
 
Kaede immediately leans over. "What is it? Is it really a bomb? Is it gonna go
off?"  
 
"What do you mean your dad asked for your opinion on this? Niou--" Yukimura
sucks in a sharp, ragged breath, and tosses what is apparently a sponsor's
offer down onto the table when he's up and launches himself at the other boy
for a tight, unrelenting hug. 
 
Yagyuu wearily snaps a picture for his sister's records.
 
Niou’s hug is just as fierce, without a trace of worry that he’ll somehow hurt
Yukimura. It’s sort of hard to be concerned about that when he feels so solid,
and is kind of--no, definitely—
 
“Yeah, okay, boss, you’re definitely choking me now.” He could sound a lot more
miserable about that.
 
"Good, choke, you deserve it!" Yukimura huffs, squeezing the life out of Niou
with no regrets. 
 
"Yanagi-sempai," Kirihara hisses underneath his breath, "what just happened?"
 
"Ahhh, this is just perfect timing, now I really don't feel bad about not being
able to come back," Yukimura giddily sighs, rocking back on his heels and still
not quite letting Niou go. "My first real confession!"
 
"Yukimura-kun…aren't they called offers--"
 
"Shut up, Yagyuu, they're definitely called confessions. I'd know." 
 
“It’s definitely not your first confession,” Sanada grumbles.
 
Yanagi bows, and forces Kirihara down into a bow as well. “Congratulations on
beginning your pro career, Seiichi.”
 
“What did I miss?” Marui yells from the kitchen. “Jackal, go find out what I
missed!”
 
Niou sort of snuggles his head into Yukimura’s shoulder. Yeah, there are worse
places to be. “Do you not hate me anymore?”
 
"I didn't hate you to begin with," Yukimura consolingly sighs. "Just the fact
that you lost really horribly at tennis and you literally picked the worst day
to do that on and decided to be a little shit about it--"
 
"Oi, what did we miss?" Jackal calls, poking his head out.
 
"You can both be updated when you're done in there, I've got to hold a meeting,
anyway," Yukimura huffs, giving Niou a last, long squeeze before letting him
go. "I have got to tell you so manythings," he whispers. "You aren't going to
even come close to believing me." 
 
Niou’s eyes shift sideways to Yagyuu. “Same,” he admits, a dumb little smile on
his face. “Just--mountain good?”
 
Yukimura sighs dreamily. "You have no idea. Drag Yagyuu off to your island or
whatever, highly recommended."
 
"Wait, Yukimura-buchou's going pro?" It obviously just clicked in Kirihara's
mind. "Like, right now? But who's gonna be captain for the rest of the year?
We've still got to train!"
 
"Tournament season is over, Kirihara-kun," Yagyuu points out, pushing his
glasses up. "And I'm fairly certain that Yukimura-kun isn't going pro right
this second…" 
 
Sanada scowls, and steps close to Kirihara, but doesn’t give him a slap. Maybe
there are still too many good feelings coursing through him, judging by the
fond look he shoots Yukimura. “Who do you think would be captain? We’re all
retiring!” He turns Kirihara’s head, and asks, a bit more quietly, “Are you
ready to make us proud?”
 
Yanagi’s hand comes up to Kirihara’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You’ll be a
very good captain, Akaya.”
 
“Puri.”
 
Kirihara blinks, and his expression suddenly takes on an edge of terror. "But--
there are still a lot of months left! You can't retire yet, I'm not--"
 
"A.ka.ya." Yukimura reaches over, grabbing handfuls of his curls to thoroughly
muss them. "You'll be a really good captain."
 
"But--but, Buchou--"
 
"Nuh uh, none of that." Yukimura's expression softens. "There's no way around
it, Akaya. I'm not coming back to classes with the rest of you, anyway." 
 
“Genichirou and I will be around to train you for the next few months,” Yanagi
says reassuringly. “But you’ll be Captain effective very soon. We’ll be too
busy with exams and studying to help you much with training your new team.”
 
“Not that that means you can slack off!”
 
Niou grins. “Just because you’re in charge doesn’t mean you can run from us.”
The puri, he thinks, is implied.
 
"Yukimura-buchou…" Kirihara's eyes quickly well with tears, and Yukimura
valiantly attempts not to squeak when Kirihara suddenly tackles him and
squeezes him hard enough that he can't breathe.
 
Yukimura wheezes instead, logically. "Mercy, Akaya--"
 
Kirihara doesn't really seem to hear, but at least it's an excuse for him to
release Yukimura and latch onto Sanada instead, who is considerably more
difficult to lift off of his feet. "Sanada-fukubuchou--"
 
"I'll still come by to coach a bit!" Yukimura cheerfully tosses over. "But
mostly, I'm going to be focusing on my rehab, and apparently, with this influx
of confessions before I'm even advertising my prowess--"
 
"You seriously got like, one offer, Nii-chan." 
 
"S-Sanada-fukubuchouuuuuu--" 
 
"Ah, it seems he's going to keep doing that," Yagyuu sighs. 
 
Sanada sighs, and pets Kirihara’s head, dragging him into a bone-crushing hug.
Akaya means well, he knows, and might even be a good captain someday, if he can
temper his own development instead of having others help him through it.
“You’ll be fine. You have a lot to live up to, though! Avenge our loss to
Seigaku! Crush them for Rikkai!”
 
“That’s too much crushing on vacation,” Niou complains, flopping onto the
couch. 
 
“Buchou!” Marui calls. “You have to taste some things! I need input!” He runs
in, an hors d’ouvre in each hand, and looks around, frowning. “Why is everyone
freaking out and hugging?”
 
Yukimura flaps a hand dismissively and immediately reaches for the food. "Just
talking about third year retirement. Akaya didn't quite realize how soon he'd
have to take over, you know?" 
 
"I can't live up to you guys, I caaaaan't--" 
 
A sigh follows that. "He's stuck in a loop. Akaya!" 
 
Kirihara whimpers and squeaks, bolting out of Sanada's hold. "Yes sir!"
 
"How badly are you going to destroy Seigaku next year?" Yukimura sweetly asks.
 
That seems to do it. Kirihara's eyes start to glaze red. "That fucking viper--
I'll murder him--"
 
Yukimura glances away, uncaring. "There we go, that's doing it. Ooh, Marui,
this one's really good."
 
Marui beams. “Twenty like it, coming right up!”
 
It isn’t long until plates are stuffed into every hand, crammed onto every
table. It’s difficult to tell Yukimura’s mother that no, they don’t need any
champagne when a few select people on the team seem to think that no, really,
they do, but Sanada manages it, even though Niou flicks canapés at the back of
his head.
 
After resounding cheers of “Kampaaaaai!” the food goes quickly, and Sanada’s
main concern is trying not to make eyes at Yukimura over the food.
 
Niou leans against Yukimura’s shoulder. “Spill now, or later?” he asks around a
mouthful of amuse-bouche.
 
"Now, I think," Yukimura sighs happily, leaning back against Niou in turn.
Ahhh, it feels good not being mad at anyone, especially Niou. Truthfully, he
hasn't been mad for awhile now (he kind of stopped being mad right after it all
happened), but Sanada kept reminding him, and that made it drag out. "First and
foremost, how are you so into taking Yagyuu's dick if it's even bigger than
Sanada's?" he presses underneath his breath. "Because that's not fun." 
 
"Sanada-fukubuchoooou, why can't you stay and be my vice captain for awhile?" 
 
“That’s not how school works, Akaya! You’ll stand on your own two feet!”
 
“Well,” Niou says, unabashed (though quietly), “I stretch myself out with my
fingers every day that he doesn’t do me. Also I like it when it hurts, so
there’s that. But yeah, I told you to practice if you were gonna take a big ol’
dick.” He squeezes Yukimura’s hand in sympathy. “Still burn-y? I can give you
some lotion.”
 
Yukimura huffs, shaking his head. "As if. We only did that once, that's a lot
of work and not a lot of reward." He leans in closer, his smirk nothing shy of
diabolical. "Guess who's actually a huge slut for it."
 
"But Sanada-fukubuchou, I don't even know who could be my vice captain! Why
can't it be you, you're the best!"
 
Niou immediately turns around and punches Yaguu in the arm. “You owe me 5,000
yen.”
 
"Ow, Niou-kun. For what bet do I owe you that, I'm trying to at least keep
records."
 
Yukimura elbows Niou in the gut in turn. "Don't take bets on it! You didn't
even ask me for details, I want to brag about it!" 
 
Niou grins, turning his full attention back to Yukimura. “Sorry, boss. He just
keeps losing bets. It’s a sickness.” Not to mention Yagyuu had been ever so
scandalized at the idea that his beloved Yukimura was actually a top, for some
stupid reason. The big dork. “So, positions? Does he like it when you grind his
face into the ground?” Yagyuu will owe him more yen, if so.
 
"Face right down into a pillow, because he's waaaay noisier than I am." He has
wanted to brag about this for what feels like an eternity. Yukimura leans in
eagerly, smirk still in place. "Though the first time, he just climbed on it,
like he was gonna die if he didn't have more of it in him." 
 
Whoops, that’s an erection starting. Niou crosses his legs under the table,
eyebrows climbing steadily higher. “He make good noises? Damn, do you think he
practices at night or something? Was he good at taking it?”
 
"He's got to practice, how else would he be as good as he was?" Yukimura huffs,
leaning his chin into one hand with a grin. "He's so easy, too. Some of the
time, I barely even got it in before he came all over himself--"
 
"I have literally lost every bet now, thank you," Yagyuu mutters underneath his
breath, no matter how he tries to ignore them. So much for Yukimura, his
beautiful, delicate princess in bed.
 
“I’m gonna punch you later,” Niou grouses, kicking Yagyuu under the table.
Damn, he’s probably gonna have to wear the blue wig tonight. “So, boss, you
gotta tell me about the noises. High-pitched? Or all growly like when he’s mad?
I bet he’s a whiner.”
 
"Mmmn, nope, he's really manly about it. He gets all growly at times, sure, but
he gets all throaty and rumbly and it's good." Yukimura sighs wistfully, his
gaze trailing over to Sanada and landing there. "When he's face down, you can
see all his muscles bunch up and there are so many…"
 
Sanada turns his head to the side and sneezes explosively into his shoulder. 
 
Niou snickers. “How about after? Did he get all shy and nervous about it, or
was he slutty? Ooh, did you get your dick in his mouth? How’s his gag reflex?”
He might be having what some people would call “too much” fun.
 
"Oh, god, Niou, that's the funniest thing," Yukimura hisses, grabbing him by
the shoulder and shaking him. "He was so shy when he was doing me! But when I
was doing him, he was just a total slut. It was the best, seriously, and I'll
have you know, my gag reflex is great." He pauses, and winces. "But, I do not
recommend Sanada's." 
 
Niou leans in, his eyes wide and intent. “Boss, please tell me he threw up on
you. Please. Please. Please. I really need to hear this.”
 
Yukimura scowls, leaning away slightly. "Look, it's not like he did it a lot."
 
Niou erupts into laughter so intense it’s silent, shaking his shoulders and
bringing tears to his eyes. This, truly, is the pinnacle of human achievement,
and he’ll probably never be able to stop picturing Sanada vomiting on dick.
 
"You're such an ass! Stop laughing, I'm going to kick you in the balls if you
don't stop--and I'll kick you off the team--"
 
They're loud enough that everyone else can hear them now, and that prompts
Kirihara's: "You can't do that! I'm the captain now!"
 
Yukimura stops shaking Niou for a moment to stare back in complete and utter
incredulous disbelief, which makes Kirihara slowly slink behind Yanagi in spite
of himself. 
 
“Now, now, Seiichi,” Yanagi says mildly, patting Kirihara’s hand, “you did say
he needed to take more responsibility.”
 
“I’m sorry,” Niou gasps, pawing ineffectively at Yukimura’s arm. “I’m sorry,
I’m sorry, I can’t—”
 
“What did you do?” Sanada demands. “Answer!”
 
“Oh god,” Niou begs, grabbing Yukimura’s sleeve, “please let me answer.”
 
"No! You're not allowed to answer, now stop laughing and tell me about your
misadventures, Ma.sa.ko--"
 
"Oh, dear, he's got the girl version out now," Yagyuu sighs, pushing up his
glasses and pointedly looking away. 
 
"I want details," Yukimura hisses underneath his breath, shaking Niou until his
head snaps back and forth. "Because I wanna know why you were so nutty at the
finals that you lost like a little girl!" 
 
Niou finally, with effort, stops laughing, gulping in air and trying to get
back some semblance of control. “Fine, fine,” he says, wiping tears out of his
eyes. “Shit, it almost seems funny now. Yagyuu freaked out because he thought I
was sticking my dick in Fuji Shuusuke.” Abruptly, it occurs to him that it’s a
pretty stupid reason to throw away a match in a national finals. Well, he’s
always known that, but saying it aloud… “He broke up with me. Asshole.” He
follows this with a swift poke to Yagyuu’s thigh.
 
"Don't bring me into this conversation," Yagyuu frantically protests, scooting
away. 
 
"Hmmm. But did you stick your dick in him," Yukimura archly presses. "Because
he's pretty, albeit batshit insane. Do you at least know why he forfeited like
that? I mean, thank god, but…"
 
Niou sticks up his left hand--his tennis hand, which means, obviously, a lot
more. “I didn’t stick my dick in him, and he didn’t stick it in me. I didn’t
even touch the looney bat. I might have if Yagyuu was on board,” he allows,
“but we’d been dating for like, six days. I figured that was pushing it. And….I
dunno, maybe he was just real scared of Bun-chan.”
 
Yukimura looks skeptically over to Marui. "…Dunno about that. But, seriously?
You two broke up over that? That'swhy you lost your match?" He smacks Niou's
chest half-heartedly. "I looked at the ranking charts, you two are only like
two points underneath that Seigaku pair because you still won everything else
all season! Gross! You're trash!" 
 
Niou shrugs. “Yeah, I’m gonna be honest, that doesn’t matter too much to me. I
was way more pissed off that he thought I was fucking around.” He grimaces.
“I’m really sorry we let you down, though. That’s...yeah, that’s pretty
unforgivable.”
 
"You're so lame," Yukimura sighs out, folding his arms and trying to look mad
for a second longer, but fails. "Are you two at least going to keep playing in
high school? I'm going to be mad if I don't have games to come and watch other
than Akaya's." 
 
Niou blinks, startled. “Uh….I dunno.” He darts a look over at Yagyuu, then
leans in, explaining quietly, “We haven’t actually talked about it. But
Sanada’s gonna be playing, right? You can always go watch his games, when
you’re a big famous tennis pro.”
 
"How have you not talked about it? Aren't you two going to the same high
school?" Yukimura hisses, leaning in closer as well. "You're dating again now,
aren't you? Look, you have to keep playing tennis together, you're doubles
partners so it's even more of a thing." 
 
Niou wants to evade, and nearly does--and then, on a whim, turns to Yagyuu
instead. “Oi, Yaaagyuu. What high school are you going to?” His heart thuds.
God, he’s so gay for this big nerd.
 
Yagyuu blinks at the sudden question, and looks warily back at Niou, taking a
hurried sip of water. "Well, I'm not sure yet, but I'm taking Rikkai's exams,
of course, but also there are a couple of schools in Tokyo that focus more on
sciences that I'll be looking into…" 
 
Yukimura claps Niou on the shoulder. "Aren't you glad that you're good at every
subject except English?" 
 
“I have an A in English,” Niou reminds him, kicking back in his chair.
“So...you wanna keep playing doubles in high school?” Dammit, why does he have
to be the one to ask everything? Gross. Plus, everyone is looking at them.
 
"An A doesn't mean you're good at it--"
 
Yagyuu gives Yukimura a frantic look, as if to say Yukimura-kun, please, he
doesn't know (and it's cute)."I…well, I--"
 
Kirihara's eyes roll almost audibly. "Duhhh, of course Yagyuu-sempai does, you
two are the best doubles pair in the country!"
 
"…The schools I narrowed my search down to do have a good tennis program,"
Yagyuu mumbles, shoving at his glasses. 
 
Niou starts feeling his face heat up. Damn Yagyuu, for making him look like the
stupid clingy one. That’s the plan, he knows it is. “Yeah, well, tell me if you
do or not.” He wishes for a moment he had a fork instead of chopsticks; it
would be really satisfying to stab his food right now. 
 
Yanagi turns to Sanada. “Genichirou, will you continue attending calligraphy
classes in high school?” 
 
Sanada stares at him. “Of course. Why would you ask such a—”
 
“Because apparently Masaharu thinks it’s time to ask questions with obvious
answers.”
 
Stupid Yanagi.
 
"Seeeee?" Yukimura wheedles, grinning as he leans in close to Niou again, eyes
flashing victoriously. Perfect Yanagi, always there when he needs to prove a
point. "You have to play doubles together still. You're gonna be even more
awesome. I mean, your captain won't be, whoever he is, but that's beside the
point. You'll be his ace, that guaranteed victory in Doubles One, just like I
taught you!"
 
Yagyuu hides his own stupidly flushed face by ducking over his food, and
Kirihara starts having a mild panic attack about who his doubles pairs are
going to be next year.
 
“Whatever,” Niou mutters, slouching down low in his chair. “Yeah. I guess. If
Yagyuu wants to.” 
 
Marui slaps Jackal’s shoulder. “Hey! Why haven’t you asked me if I want to be
your doubles partner next year yet?”
 
Jackal looks back at him incredulously. "Because I thought it was obvious! I'm
not dumb like they are, Bunta!"
 
"Yanagi-sempaiiii, why won't you stay behind and be my doubles partner?"
 
"Heh. I," Yukimura regally announces, folding his arms, "obviously don't need a
doubles partner. And if I did, I'm sure Sanada would suffice."
 
Sanada just snorts, and doesn’t elaborate. The poor unlucky sap that one day
has to be Yukimura’s doubles partner has every bit of his sympathy.
 
“Akaya, do I need to remind you again how middle and high school work?”
 
"Look, I'm just saying, you could fail a few classes and stay back."
 
Yagyuu slowly, quietly leans over, and hesitantly taps the back of Niou's
shoulder. "I didn't know if you wanted to play in high school still," he
awkwardly admits. "But if you still want to…I do, too."
 
Niou immediately thunks his head onto Yagyuu’s shoulder. “Dumbass. You’re my
partner.” And everything else is sappy and stupid and implied anyway, so he
doesn’t bother to say it.
 
***** Seigaku, Kaidou & Zaizen *****
Going to Hyoutei to play tennis, Atobe is sure, is a better idea than going to
Seigaku. None of his team, as opposed to Tezuka’s, are going to be practicing
during summer vacation. God, no. Not at school, anyway. 
 
But Tezuka overrides him with a simple, “I’m just not going to do that, Keigo,”
so they go to Seigaku, because Atobe likes playing tennis against Tezuka more
than he likes winning this argument...for now.
 
There are, to Atobe’s annoyance, a few scattered first and second years running
around, serving the ball and chasing after it like pathetic little chipmunks.
That’s unkind of him, but in all honesty, he doesn’t care, so it’s fine. The
sun is low in the sky, courtesy of the long morning they’d spent in Tezuka’s
bedroom practicing German and talking about the most overrated foreign foods in
Tokyo shops, with only the occasional break for a languid makeout. Vacations
are excellent.
 
“Get ready,” he calls, launching himself into a spin. “You’ll be awed by my
prowess if you let your guard down, ha!”
 
Tezuka has to keep convincing himself that even if he's seen around Atobe, it's
not going to be the end of the world.
 
It never was before. It shouldn't be now. They're rivals to anyone that glances
at them, and this proves it, especially at his school. Like most of his worries
and neurosis, they need to be tackled head-on, and this is no exception. 
 
You're the one that's going to draw attention, being so noisy, Tezuka wryly
thinks, and proves his point by deftly returning Atobe's next smash with a
slice that barely makes a sound on his racquet, sending it sailing gently over
the net. 
 
"Nice, Tezuka-buchou." 
 
Tezuka blinks, straightening on the baseline when Ryouma lets himself into the
tennis cage, plopping his bag down and then sitting himself down next to it.
"Echizen."
 
"Mmnn. Back from Osaka." Ryouma flops forward when he spreads his legs out to
either side, landing nearly flat on his belly between them in a long, forward
stretch. "Don't stop, I like watching you both play."
 
Atobe lets out a laugh, shaking his hair back from his face as he grabs the
ball, trotting back to the baseline. “I thought you were gone for the rest of
the summer, at this rate. You haven’t gone all Osakan on us, have you?” He
draws back an arm, and serves hard, hoping to sneak in before Tezuka starts
that damned zone. At least on a serve, Atobe can make him run.
 
Ryouma looks up from underneath the brim of his had, suspicious. "Not yet."
 
Tezuka exhales a breath through his nose as he veers to the right corner to
return Atobe's serve with a sharp backhand. "Yet?" 
 
"Mm. Yet." Ryouma's arms stretch out to grab at his own toes, exhaling a
satisfied noise when that pops a few vertebrae of his spine into a better
position. "It's hotter down there, somehow."
 
“Going south will do that. Remember your captain’s tan when he returned from
Kyuushuu?” Ah, but Ryouma hadn’t been able to see the whole tan, glistening
golden-brown skin in that utterly delightfully tacky tan left by his tennis
clothes. That, Atobe is certain, is a sight reserved for his lucky eyes alone. 
 
He only just manages to get his hands up fast enough, and his muscles cord when
he returns the shot with a smash, leaping into the air and slamming it down.
“Did they at least have air conditioning?”
 
Ryouma's eyes follow the ball, unable to help himself, and watches the way that
Tezuka goes a solid meter behind the baseline to catch that smash on its
stupidly high bounce, sending it back over with another sharp, precise backhand
to the exact same spot. "Some places did. Kintarou's apartment didn't. I mean,
one room did, but…" Ryouma trails off, huffy. "Apparently, Shitenhouji's
captain for next year has a house with central air. Atobe-sempai, do you think
I could find an apartment down there with central air, or is that just not a
thing in Osaka?"
 
"Echizen, it's just a matter of building tolerance." Talking about air
conditioner just makes him sweat more, Tezuka is fairly certain. 
 
"Don't wanna. I can't stay down there if it's that hot." 
 
“You can find anything anywhere, if you have the resources.” It’s an easy
answer, and true, but the implication makes him put a little more power than he
was intending behind his next shot, a slice to the center line. “You can’t be
serious. In the land of buffoons?”
 
"Kintarou's down there, so…" 
 
Tezuka stumbles, and the next ball connects with the edge of his racquet.
 
Ryouma watches it sail over the net as a high lob, and then flop down just
outside of the line. "Out."
 
Straightening his glasses, Tezuka just looks at him. "Are you transferring from
Seigaku?" 
 
Suddenly awkward, Ryouma shrugs, hunching up into a ball. "Maybe. Dunno. I
mean, Seigaku's gonna suck next year…"
 
Tezuka just looks at Atobe instead, a weighted stare that all but says he is
your son right now.
 
Atobe shoots back a look that says in no uncertain terms that this is more than
news to him. “Ryouma. Child. You can’t be serious. This was the number one team
in the nation this year, and because of you.” He stares, and tries not to pout.
“You can’t both leave me in Tokyo by myself!”
 
"You can move to Osaka" and "You can move to Germany" are said in exact unison,
and Tezuka turns away off of the court to grab a bottle of water while Ryouma
huffs again. 
 
"It's not gonna be number one next year, though." He hauls himself to his feet,
brushing off dirt from his knees. "It's just me and Kaidou-sempai and Momo-
sempai that are left. Everyone else sucks. Tell him, Tezuka-buchou."
 
Tezuka just takes his glasses off, and dumps cold water over his head. 
 
"See, he knows. Kintarou's in Osaka, and…" Ryouma trails off, biting his lip,
wondering if he should say something, but then deciding on it, anyway. "Kaidou-
sempai wants to transfer down there. His boyfriend goes to Shitenhouji, too."
 
“No wonder the birth rate in Japan is so abysmal,” Atobe mutters under his
breath. “Listen, Ryouma, you never know what kind of first-years there are
going to be next year--and there’s no guarantee Shitenhouji will be as good as
they were this year, their team is heavy on third-years as well. Christ, if you
want a guaranteed win, go to Fudomine, they’re almost entirely second years.”
He frowns. “On second thought, don’t go to Fudomine. Come to Hyoutei! Bring
Kintarou if you want, scholarships for all.”
 
"Keigo, your poaching of him isn't any better, you know," Tezuka dryly points
out, shaking out his hair. 
 
Ryouma sighs, long and hard. "I don't wanna go to Hyoutei. It's going to be
lame, you only have weird tuning fork guy and Kabaji and…who was going to be
captain, again?"
 
"Hiyoshi."
 
"Thanks, Tezuka-buchou. That guy that I can never remember. Yeah, I'm not gonna
do that. Shitenhouji has Kintarou, and Zaizen--he likes cats--and maybe Chitose
if he gets held back, and probably Kaidou-sempai if he can get a scholarship." 
 
"I'm fairly certain," Tezuka carefully begins, "that Kaidou wants to be captain
of Seigaku."
 
"Yeah, well, he's dating Shitenhouji's next captain who says he can be captain
instead, so there's that." 
 
God dammit. Should he feel bad about this? Maybe, but…everyone underneath his
direction that wanted to win did get their win, so there's not much in the way
of responsibility left for him. "Echizen--"
 
"Tezuka-buchou, if you wrote him a recommendation letter, he'd get his
scholarship. You're already signed with a sponsor and everything."
 
Tezuka just looks helplessly over at Atobe, fairly certain that there was no
hope of arguing with Ryouma before this had even started. 
 
How Ryouma found out about Ootori’s tuning fork habit, Atobe will never know,
though he isn’t wrong about its strangeness. Atobe looks from Ryouma to Tezuka,
then back again. Just to be sure, he lets his eyes unfocus, using Insight, and
sighs. “Kunimitsu, just let him go with your blessing. He’s already made up his
mind. Haven’t you, boy?”
 
Ryouma scuffs at the court with one toe. "Kinda." 
 
Tezuka sighs, long and hard. "If you go and you're miserable because it's hot
down there and that school is a hellhole, you're not blaming me."
 
Ryouma perks up. "Got it."
 
"You're going to blame Keigo instead."
 
"Got it." 
 
“Oi! I’m the one telling you to come to Hyoutei! You don’t have to move and we
have air conditioners!”
 
"But I won't be on the same team as you or as Kintarou, so there's no point."
Ryouma stares over at him plaintively. "You could come visit me." 
 
Atobe rolls his eyes. “If I’m going to be making trips to Germany, I might as
well make the occasional jaunt to Osaka. But you need to come visit me, too.
No, you don’t have to go home and see your father while you’re here.”
 
Ryouma immediately looks relieved. "Oh, good. I'm bringing my cat, though. I
bet he'd like your bath tub…like, a lot. Tezuka-buchou, you have to come visit,
too." 
 
"I'm going to be very busy, Echizen."
 
"Che. Atobe-sempai, you have to make him come visit, too."
 
“You try making him do something he doesn’t want to do.” Atobe thinks, then
adds, “Though I will say I’ve been acquiring many pillows. I’d very much like
it if you both came to see the raw materials I’ve procured for our next fort.”
There are so many.
 
Ryouma's face immediately lights up. "I'm into that. Tezuka-buchou, that means
you have to come visit."
 
Tezuka just sighs, pushing up his glasses. "We'll see." 
 
"It'll be good. I bet Atobe-sempai has enough pillows to make a fort for all of
us." 
 
"I'm sure."
 
"And for Karupin." 
 
What have you done is the look that Tezuka sends in Atobe's direction, along
with an aggravated swat of a tennis ball.
 
Atobe snatches the ball from the air with ease, pocketing it. “Now now,
Kunimitsu,” he chides in amusement, “don’t be cross because he needed a new big
brother to play with while you were away or uninterested.” He snatches Ryouma’s
hat, just so he can ruffle the hair underneath. “Have you even asked your
father about transferring, or is that not an issue?”
 
Ryouma scowls, making a grab for his hat again, only to miss by several inches.
He settles for glaring up from his bangs instead. "I'm not gonna ask him. I'm
gonna ask my mom, she'll let me do it, she's from Osaka. Oyaji's weird and
gross and doesn't like my boyfriend."
 
Oh, god. That sounds less good, truth be told. "Echizen," Tezuka carefully puts
in, walking over to the net, "are you certain that's--"
 
"He's the only reason I came to Seigaku, anyway. He has some weird thing about
it." Ryouma frowns. "Maybethen he'll learn not to be so dumb about this kind of
thing." 
 
Tezuka dimly realizes that he's never had a real argument with his parents a
day in his life, and he's very, very poorly equipped to deal with this. Well,
shit. 
 
There’s always some hint of alarm in Atobe when Ryouma says things about his
father like that. The idea of telling his own father that he’s hated, that he’s
not going to have a choice—
 
Atobe pales slightly at the idea of it.
 
One look at Tezuka shows him that he isn’t the only one. “Bloody Americans,” he
mutters in English.
 
Ryouma's glare immediately sharpens. "Oi. It's not an American thing, it's a
my-dad's-a-jerk thing," he snipes back in English as well. 
 
"Your father is just trying to do what's best--"
 
Ryouma just looks tired at that, and says in Japanese, "Tezuka-buchou, no
offense, but you just really like his tennis."
 
Tezuka hesitates, tilting his head to the side, and shrugs a little, defeated.
"I do like his tennis."
 
"Excluded from this conversation, then," Ryouma says in English again, huffily.
"My dad's just a jerk and is mad that I have a boyfriend, that's it."
 
Atobe tries to imagine simply excluding his father from decisions, and winds up
sighing wistfully. “Anyway,” he says, more to snap himself out of it than
anything, “if you can pull it off and you’ll be happier, I wish you...well, I
wish you would transfer to Hyoutei, and it will always be open to you when
you’re sick of the heat. But until then, I wish you nothing but joy
of...Osaka.” His tone could be more neutral on that word, he supposes. “You
will come over and build a pillow fort before you leave.”
 
Ryouma sniffs. "I'm gonna stay the rest of this year at Seigaku, so I'm gonna
build a lot of pillow forts. I'm better at them than you are, your structure is
faulty." 
 
When did pillow forts become such a thing, Tezuka dimly wonders.
 
Atobe’s eyes light up. “We should all go to New York!” he decides on a whim.
“Kunimitsu’s never been, and I haven’t since I was a child. Ah, Ryouma, I bet
you know the best places, don’t you?”
 
Ryouma's head tilts. "Well, I know the best places to play tennis, and the best
Japanese restaurants. We could stay with my mom."
 
"Weren't you just complaining about Americans?" Tezuka dryly notes, poking
Atobe with the end of his racquet.
 
“Yes, but I grew up British. It comes with the territory,” Atobe says airily.
“They wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if we didn’t complain about
them, I’m sure. Besides, don’t you want to see the Statue of Liberty? Or…” He
wracks his brain for a minute, thinking. “I don’t know, baseball? Immense
hamburgers?”
 
"They're not that big, Atobe-sempai, and the Statue of Liberty is crowded and
boring. Also, everyone that plays baseball is fat." 
 
"That's…odd," Tezuka offers. 
 
"Mm. But New York is still fun. My mom would like you. Especially you, Atobe-
sempai, she always wants new clients." 
 
Atobe is vaguely mystified by Ryouma’s family situation on a good day, and this
does not appear to be one of those. “What exactly does she, er, do?” he asks,
wondering if it would be in bad taste to inquire as to whether the lady is some
sort of prostitute. There has to be some reason she isn’t living at home--
though, having met The Samurai Nanjirou, Atobe thinks he has some ideas about
why.
 
Ryouma blinks. "Oh, yeah. You've never met her. She's a lawyer."
 
Tezuka's eyebrows raise. So she really does exist.
 
"She went to school in America for it. I think she likes it better over
there…she only visits sometimes, and most of the time, she and my dad kind of
do their own thing." Ryouma shrugs. "Anyway, her apartment's near Central Park,
it might be fun to go."
 
Atobe turns to Tezuka, giving him a look that can only be described as Can we
please please can we please please can we can we please?
 
"…I'll have to work out the scheduling with--"
 
"Whenever's fine for her, I know. She gets bored and likes when I come home;
she'd like it more if I brought friends." 
 
Tezuka sighs, resigned and also surrounded on all sides. "All right, then."
 
“The sooner the better,” Atobe decides. “Before summer break is over, and
before you need to start training in earnest for your new sponsors.” And before
Father decides that my middle school freedom is at an end.
 
What obnoxious thoughts. He didn’t used to have such obnoxious thoughts.
“Kunimitsu, let me ask Kaachan. She’ll say yes if I ask.”
 
Ryouma's brow furrows. "Kaachan?"
 
"Don't ask," Tezuka wearily responds to Ryouma, and then just shrugs at Atobe.
"Go for it."
 
"…Kaachan,though." Ryouma's lips twitch. "Atobe-sempai, are you five?" 
 
“Kaachan is a tremendous woman, and I won’t have you infantilizing my adoration
for her,” Atobe says loftily. “Needless to say, gentlemen, we’ll be taking the
jet. Will tomorrow work for both of you? If she’ll let me drag you off to the
Alps, I’m sure New York will be a breeze. Ryouma, I don’t suppose you have to
tell your boyfriend that you’ll be gone, will you?”
 
"What's the point?" Ryouma gloomily says when reminded about Kintarou not being
around. "He doesn't have a cell phone." 
 
Tezuka is glad for that, in a way. "Tomorrow it is, then." He'll have to
remember to write that recommendation letter before they take off. 
 
Seigaku will be fine, either way.
 
~
 
Kaidou stares at the letter in his hands.
 
To be honest, he’d always thought it was a slim chance that he’d ever be
looking at an envelope containing a letter that started, 
 
“Kaidou-san,
 
We are pleased to inform you that…”
 
To have it start that way and end in a way he never could have dreamed...and to
have a slip of paper enclosed that said he was officially welcomed in a
capacity of tennis club captain--that the scholarship (him, a scholarship)
covers his travel and housing expenses…
 
It’s a good 45 minutes before he truly understands.
 
When he does, he’s not sure whether to be angry, humiliated, or glad. He grabs
his phone, and sends off furious texts.
 
To:  財前光
Subject: ???
Was this you? I know this was you!!
 
Kaidou has a specific ringtone and text tone on his phone, which is about the
only thing that ever makes Zaizen pull out an earbud and stop staring intently
at his computer screen. 
 
Instead of dick pics, though, he gets this. Huh. Weird. And not that
satisfying. 
 
To: Kaoru
Subject: Re: ???
i literally have no idea what you're talking about
 
Instead of writing back, Kaidou snaps a photo of the letter, then scowls when
the text is unreadable. 
 
To:  財前光
Subject: Re: ???
Shitenhouji. Scholarship. I didn’t apply. I got it. You???
 
Definitely not what Zaizen expected, but okay. A little thrill goes down his
spine at that, which is dumb, because apparently, Kaidou is upset about
this…for some reason. 
 
To: Kaoru
Subject: Re: ??? 
wasn't me, but congrats?? are you coming because i could not be captain sooner
 
To:  財前光
Subject: Re: ???
Don’t know. Have to talk to Tezuka. 
 
Then, a second later as an afterthought, he shoots off another. 
 
To:  財前光
Subject: Maybe
Miss you.
 
To: Kaoru
Subject: Re: Maybe
i was about to say, where is my due amount of recognition. miss you, too. 
 
Zaizen pauses, thinking, and decides to not ask for dick pics this time.
 
To: Kaoru
Subject: Re: Maybe
also i bet it was that little shit first year of yours, ¥1000 says he's
transferring too
 
Damn, that makes sense. Kaidou lets out a hiss, then makes a decision. If it is
Ryouma, then Tezuka may already have heard, or may be about to. That’s bad. If
he’s going to hear, it should be from the source.
 
To:  財前光
Subject: …
Going to talk to Tezuka now. Later if you’re not busy I will be home.
 
He can go on the roof, he thinks, tying a clean and pressed bandana around his
head, and shoves his phone into his pocket as he jogs out the door with a grunt
to his father. That’s private enough. If Hazue is a little asshole and keeps
his window open, he’ll just go to the dog park. There are plenty of quiet hills
there where no one will be able to hear him talking.
 
Plus, he’ll be able to look at dogs.
 
All of this travel lately makes Tezuka's head hurt on a permanent basis, but
thankfully, he's now home for… 
 
At least a week.
 
You're going pro, that's the important thing.He'll be able to relax once he's
overseas and overseas permanently, more or less. He'll have his first matches
soon enough, and that idea is enough to motivate his headache to leave sooner,
rather than later. 
 
Until he hears "Kunimitsu, you have a visitor!" and he tries not to groan. 
 
It's not Atobe; his mother has a different tone of voice when it's Atobe. That
makes him wary, and Tezuka slowly slinks out of his bedroom, poking his head
around the door and down the hall. 
 
"Kunimitsu, stop being such a recluse and come and greet your friend."
 
Bandana. Oh. Well, it could be worse. Tezuka exhales a breath that's relieved
more than anything. "Kaidou, how are--"
 
"Did you run all this way? Goodness, if only Kunimitsu was that active!"
 
Tezuka wishes, as per usual, that he was dead.
 
Kaidou gives Tezuka’s mother a low bow, and another (much lower, this one an
apology) to Tezuka. “Please forgive my intrusion, I’m so sorry to bother you on
vacation. Sorry again. Do you mind if I speak to you for a moment?”
 
"Can I get you boys some tea? Anything? No, I'm putting it through the slat,
Kunimitsu--"
 
"We can talk in my room," Tezuka wearily says, stepping back towards it. 
 
Kaidou follows, bowing again to Tezuka’s mother, bowing at the entrance to
Tezuka’s door before entering. It’s awkward, but at least it’s nice and clean
(except some papers that definitely need to be sorted, and--yes, he could
easily fit all of those stray tennis balls in one of those containers, and the
books need to be categorized badly—
 
“Uh, forgive me for intruding, Captain,” he says again, standing awkwardly in
the doorway. “I wanted to talk to you about next year.”
 
"Please, come in and sit." He's gotten too used to Atobe, and to Europe, and to
anything close to it. People just do things there, and don't wait for
permission, and that's almost better. Tezuka drops himself down onto the edge
of his bed, his hands on his knees. "What about next year, exactly?" 
 
Saying this is so difficult it’s painful. Kaidou feels his chest tensing, his
heart thudding, and all he can think is he trusted me, he entrusted me with his
sacred duty and I want to throw it in the trash, I’m trash, that’s where I
belong. “I….” 
 
His knees fold, and he goes down to a bow with his head pressed to the floor.
“I’m sorry, Captain! Please reconsider making Momoshiro Captain next year! I
don’t deserve it!”
 
Tezuka stares, and ah, yes, that headache is back again. "I'm not sure why you
think you don't deserve it," he slowly attempts, "but if this is about your
transfer to Shitenhouji, this is probably the point when I should tell you that
I wrote your recommendation letter." 
 
Kaidou’s eyes bulge out, and his hands tremble on the ground. “Echizen,” he
growls, slowly raising up onto his knees, still not looking at Tezuka.
“Captain, I swear, I wasn’t going to go. I didn’t even apply! Yes, I considered
it, but that was just weakness, I know you entrusted me with Seigaku, and
that’s why I’m not worthy of it!”
 
"Echizen told me about it, but I turned in the form for you," Tezuka says, just
barely resisting the urge to stretch a leg out and use Kaidou's back as a
footrest. It's just so level… "It isn't weakness to do something that would
make you happier, Kaidou." Yes, that was so captain-y, he can almost taste it.
 
Kaidou’s eyes burn suddenly, and he blinks rapidly, fighting the urge to clutch
at his chest. It’s startling, to hear the words he’s wanted--but no, that’s
weakness. Or is it?
 
“Buchou,” he chokes out, hands fisting on his thighs, perfectly trimmed nails
biting crescents into his palms nonetheless. “I never...I didn’t want to let
you down. Your opinion means so much to me.”
 
"You really aren't letting me down, Kaidou." Tezuka exhales a sigh, leaning
back onto one hand. "Do you think it's weakness for me to be leaving for the
professional circuit?" he bluntly asks. "It's what I want to do, and what makes
me happy. I see no difference between that and you wanting to go to
Shitenhouji. Besides, I'm certain that Momoshiro will be able to do an
excellent job with Seigaku, in his own way." It will crash and burn, but it
will crash and burn either way, and perhaps it's better if it doesn't do that
when Kaidou is in charge of it. He'll commit seppuku, most likely. 
 
Kaidou opens his mouth to tell Tezuka he’s been a stellar captain, an
inspirational captain…
 
But in all honesty, he has been gone a fair amount of time. And Momoshiro, that
idiot, will probably be happy….and Zaizen, who he’s replacing, will be happy…
 
Kaidou swallows, and bows again. “Thank you, Buchou. Your permission means more
to me than I could ever say.”
 
"You say that now," Tezuka dryly quips. "Good luck with both Echizen and
Touyama next year. If you make it out of there alive, consider it a success." 
 
“There are a lot of explosions whenever they’re together,” Kaidou allows.
“But...Echizen seems happier too, I think.” He looks up, stunned at his own
rudeness. “Not that I could ever be the captain to him that you were! Are! Ah,
sorry, sorry…”
 
"I wasn't here when he needed me the most," Tezuka wearily points out. "And
I'll be leaving again soon enough. Make sure you can keep an eye on him
properly, Kaidou, because I still won't be able to." 
 
That...that sounds like a new sacred duty. “Yes, sir!” Kaidou nearly shouts,
dipping a low bow again. “I swear, I won’t let you down.”
 
Two cups and a teapot slowly inch through the slat on the door, and Kaidou
turns to stare at them, flabbergasted.
 
"It's better this way," Tezuka says, pushing up his glasses. "For everyone." 
 
Ten minutes later, full of suspiciously-procured tea, Kaidou stops at the dog
park during his jog home, feeling considerably lighter and more energetic.
 
To:  財前光
Subject: Free?
Call if you are. I have an hour.
 
Texting is great for when he can’t summon the energy to talk to someone, but
this is something he wants to say in person...or at least over the phone.
 
Time to switch out earphones for a headset, which is done with extraordinary
speed for someone that was minutes ago too lazy to reach over and turn on
another monitor. It's because there might be good news, admittedly, but…
 
Also, because it's Kaoru. That's a dumb, gay thought. "Yo," Zaizen sighs out,
flopping back into his chair and pausing his game for the moment. "Take care of
that captain business?" 
 
Kaidou almost doesn’t answer for a minute, because some young lady is jogging
with a Lhasa Apso. Aww. “Yeah,” he mutters, pulling the phone up to his ear.
“It’s, uh...all taken care of. I got it. The whole thing.” He clears his
throat, and sees a Shiba in the distance perk up its ears. Aww. “I’m coming.”
 
Zaizen blinks, honestly surprised. "Seriously?" And here he thought Kaidou was
going to back out--something about duty and honor and whatever--but this is
pretty fucking sweet. "Thank god," he exhales, shutting his eyes briefly. "I
did not want to be captain. And, you know. No more of this long-distance crap."
Especially because Kaidou aggressively refuses to Skype.
 
“Yeah. No more of Hazue coming into my room when...when we’re on the phone.”
Kaidou’s face flushes dark. That had been...less than good, even though they
hadn’t been doing anything. Kaidou knows his voice gets soft when he talks to
Zaizen, and the less Hazue knows about that, the better. “Hikaru. They’re
giving me a single room.” Tezuka must have written one hell of a letter.
 
"Heh, seriously?" Zaizen's mind might already be going to webcams. You know,
when he isn't crashing over there or whatever. "That's pretty cool. Even
Chitose doesn't have a medical single. I wonder what the dorm rules are about
people staying over and stuff like that…"
 
Kaidou kicks his legs out in front of him, waiting until the nice man with his
large dog walks by. “You’re another student, aren’t you? I’m sure you can
just...come over for homework. And stay.” 
 
He lowers his voice, even though no one is within a hundred paces. “Couldn’t
stop thinking about you last night. Tch, that sounds dumb.”
 
"You're cute," Zaizen mumbles, banging his head lightly back against his chair.
Shit, the only thing about this is waiting until the transfer happens. He's
going to die. That's so homo. "I wish your dad would have another business trip
down here or something." 
 
“Yeah, probably not. That was the first one he’s ever had.” Kaidou bites his
bottom lip for a moment, watching a Shi Tzu chase a frisbee (poorly).
“Echizen’s coming too. We’re definitely going to take Nationals between him and
Tooyama. And us.”
 
"And maybe Chitose. If he gets held back." That's kind of exciting, in a stupid
sports way, and Zaizen huddles up into a ball because of it. "Maybe I can
like…come to Tokyo for a weekend or something. My parents would let me, they
let me do anything if they think it's because I have friends."
 
Kaidou’s breath skips, and he sits up. “Yeah? I mean, just if it’s no trouble.
You didn’t get to see a lot of it last time, I could…” He can bribe his brother
to leave them alone, that’s what he can do.
 
"I'll let you know." Zaizen kicks at his desk slowly. "I bet we could find a
love hotel in Ikebukuro, if you really wanted to." He's heard things on 2ch
about it.
 
Kaidou lets out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan, and strangles
it somewhat ineffectively. “Uh. Yeah. I don’t know about down there, but they
don’t ask how old you are in Tokyo. People talk.” Sempais talk, more like.
“They have air conditioning, too.”
 
"Oh, thank god. I'll do some research, then." He might already be typing up a
new thread. "So…you're happy about transferring, right? No regrets?" Shit, he's
happy. He doesn't have to be captain, and he gets a boyfriend that's here.
 
“Hmph. What’s the point of regrets?” Not that there’s a little smile on his
lips now, or anything. “My captain wasn’t even mad at me. Ah, Shiraishi won’t
be angry at me for disrespecting his orders and making you captain, will he?”
Now he has a whole new set of people to disappoint.
 
"Shit, no. He'll be thrilled, I stress the ever living crap out of him. He gets
all frantic and takes my phone away. You're not going to take my phone away,
are you?"
 
“Why would I take your phone away?” Kaidou swallows, and breathes, and tries to
breathe again before asking, “Would you...you could send me a picture of you.
Just feels stupid that I don’t have one.”
 
"Ah, sure." Zaizen pushes his glasses up, and holds the phone away after
switching it to camera mode. One V-sign later, and he texts it over. "Have at
it." He might already have a lot of pictures that he took when the opportunity
struck. Whoops. "He always would take my phone away during practice. He'd steal
my headphones, too--can you not ever do that, because I hate it." 
 
“As long as you obey orders, I don’t care what you do at practice,” Kaidou
says, not entirely sure why he should care--Shiraishi does seem to be the
particular sort. The phone beeps, and he checks the photo…
 
And nearly drops his phone.
 
A low hissing noise comes through the line, and he mutters darkly. “You should
have taken a less cute one. Now I can’t concentrate on anything.”
 
"Sorry." He's not that sorry at all. Zaizen might be smirking triumphantly to
himself. "Is it the glasses? Koharu says they're a charm point."
 
“It’s just you. The pose isn’t helping either!” Another hiss, and Kaidou’s legs
tuck up towards his chest. “Stupid Osaka.” Who came up with the idea of
distance, anyway?
 
"Stupid Tokyo. No, wait, I like Tokyo." Zaizen sighs, flopping backwards again.
"Take a picture of a cute dog for me, will you? Then it'll…feel like I'm in the
park or something, I dunno." Gay. Homo. Sogay. Fuck, he's so gay, and that's
saying something, because he would do a chick. He'd do Kaidou if he were a
chick. But he's still so gay right now. 
 
“Yeah. Just a second.” Cute dog sighted. Ugh, even better, it’s two cute dogs
being walked by the same man, one large and fluffy and the other small and
jumpy. Yeah. Perfect.
 
He snaps the photo, and sends it. After a moment, he says, “If you were here,
we could bring my sempai’s dog down here and play. He doesn’t mind if I walk
her sometimes.”
 
Shit, that's cute. Stupidly cute, and Zaizen groans, burying his face down into
his knees. "I've never had pets," he admits. "But dogs are really cute. Cats,
too. Kenya-sempai just has a weird-ass iguana…" 
 
“My brother has allergies. Tch, if I could get an apartment of my own I’d have
pets. Dogs and cats and maybe a bun--er, a rabbit.” Nice save.
 
Zaizen is going to get him a goddamned bunny. If Kenya could keep a giant
lizard in the dorms, a little rabbit isn't going to make much of a difference.
"Yeah. That sounds good. Oh, hey, is Echizen staying in the dorms, too?
Kintarou's been going on and on about the kid's stupid cat." 
 
“Dunno. Haven’t talked to him. Eh, I probably should. I guess he’s the one that
asked Tezuka-buchou to write me that letter.” Kaidou’s face twitches. “He does
have a cute cat. Dark face. Big paws.” Yeah, he should go over later, just to
say thank you.
 
"Uh huh." In the Google search box: best pet store in osaka. Shit, he's ruined.
"He's probably not gonna be in the dorms with it if he's bringing it, then.
Watch him get an apartment all by himself, lucky brat." 
 
“Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it when you have money. He lives in a
shrine. Hold on, there’s an Akita.”
 
The phone rustles, and after a moment, Kaidou is back. “I sent you a picture of
it. His name is Tomo-sama. I think he would like frisbee.” Zaizen is easy to
talk to, and Kaidou looks down at his hands, not even awkwardly fiddling with
the grass like they would be if he were talking to anyone else. Like this, he
doesn’t even feel that burning need to jump up and run a few laps around the
park.
 
Zaizen glances down at his phone when it beeps, and flips open the message. Ah,
shit. Normally, he doesn't give a damn either way about animals, but when
Kaidou talks about them, they're suddenly a dozen times cuter. "We've got a
back yard, so I dunno why we never had pets. Probably because I'm too lazy to
take care of them properly. My brother's got a dog, up in Ibaraki. My nephew
rides it like a pony."
 
That makes Kaidou’s chest ache, and he groans a little. “If you ever want to
get one,” he mutters, “I’d take care of it. You wouldn’t have to do a thing.”
Or if we ever got an apartment together--yeah, he’s not going to say that.
“Hey, what weekend do you want to come up? I’ll check with my dad tonight.”
 
"He's not gonna care if it's when school is going on, is he?" Zaizen flips open
his calendar, making sure there's no tennis thing that he's forgotten. "Not
this one…but the next, maybe." 
 
“Yeah, good.” At least he’ll have time to clean up. Sure, it’s clean now, but
not like, having-people-over clean. “You wanna bring your racquet? I bet we
could use a street court around here, or I could probably get us in at Seigaku
if I asked. Or we could…” He swallows, and tracks the path of another Shiba.
“Do not-tennis stuff.”
 
"We can do all the stuff." Dumb. He's so dumb. Jesus, he's a dumb homo. Zaizen
inwardly groans at himself and flops his head forward into one hand. "Kaidou-
buchou." 
 
Kaidou’s breathing stops for a second, and he sort of curls up on himself.
“Oh.” He clears his throat, and realizes with horror, “You’re going to be
calling me that….all the time. In public. Oh god.”
 
"Ah, whoops. I can just call you Kaidou, if you want." Damn, Zaizen kind of
liked the Kaidou-buchou thing, though. "Maybe the other one's just better for
bed…"
 
“No, no, I have to get used to it. Besides, I…” Kaidou clears his throat again-
-damn, he sounds like his grandfather like that. “I like it when you...there.
When you called me Kaoru.” He buries his face in his hands, glad now that
Zaizen can’t see him.
 
Kaidou is probably making some really fucking cute faces right now, and Zaizen
is mad that he doesn't get to see. He needs to install cameras everywhere,
clearly. "…Yeah, well. We'll just desensitize you to the other one, then. And
Kaoru when no one's looking." 
 
“Yeah. That’s better.” Kaidou starts to say something else, but a young woman
jogs by with a golden retriever. A second later, he mutters, close to the
receiver, “I have to get out of public. If I talk to you anymore when you’re in
that voice I won’t be able to get home.”
 
"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to. Look at some cute dogs and I'll get back to my
game." At least he's home alone, and can casually go and jerk off to the idea
of Kaidou's cute goddamned faces. "Don't forget to talk to your dad." 
 
“Yeah. I’ll text you.” That’s probably safer. He’s already thinking about how
easy it’ll be to shove off some money onto Hazue when Zaizen’s here and send
him to the arcade, and his parents do always want to go to his grandmother’s on
the weekends…
 
“Uh.” How does he hang up, again? “Later, Hikaru.” Nothing else. Not yet.
Stupid. Ugh, he’s so stupid about Zaizen.
 
"Later, Kaoru." He's gonna have to seriously break that habit in public, isn't
he. Damn. Maybe if he sends Kaidou a few pics for later, that'll make up for
it. 
 
Dumb, dumb. At least they're both really dumb.
 
***** Rikkai *****
It's not his fault that he can't stay away. 
 
All right, maybe it is. The thing is, Rikkai is so close to the hospital, and
being done with rehab and general checkups for the day places him in the area
right at the time that afternoon club activities begin. 
 
They can't fault him on showing up even on a day that he's not supposed to be
coaching. 
 
Well, Sanada might, but…he could try and be sneaky.
 
That worked so well the last time, Yukimura wryly notes, and sighs as he walks
down the hill overlooking the tennis courts. The school added more courts after
their first Nationals victory, because they were so good, so obviouslyready to
bring greatness to Rikkai… 
 
God, it's strange to think that by the end of it, he'll have only really spent
a year and a half actually at this school. So much for 'the three years we'll
be here.' 
 
Unable to help himself--his feet just sort of make him gravitate to a tennis
court, he swears--Yukimura heads over, lingering outside of the cage. 
 
"Hey, Urayama!! Your movements still suck, get it together!" 
 
It's probably bad that his first thoughts about Kirihara chasing after someone
using bastardized snarls of things he's said so frequently in the past is oh
no, he's so cute. 
 
Sanada isn’t always the most observant man in the world--but it would take a
stupider man than him to not see Yukimura Seiichi when that’s what he’s been
dying to see all day. 
 
With a nod—that’s just as good as verbal assurance that Akaya is doing great,
he’s sure—Sanada slips out of the senior’s area, stealing around the back of
the fence as the soon-to-be-second-years struggle to return even the most basic
serves, and most of the second-years sweat and curse their way through
footwork.
 
He makes his way around the fence, raising an eyebrow, not that Yukimura will
see it under his cap. “Come to see him all grown up?”
 
"Ahh, I'm caught," Yukimura sighs, smiling as he flops against the fence a bit.
"Don't be mad. He's so cute, I couldn't help it. It seems like everyone's
listening to him pretty well…still no decision about a vice captain yet,
though, huh?" Not everyone can have someone like Sanada permanently attached to
their hip, after all. 
 
“I’m not mad.” It’s hard to be, on such a nice day, and Sanada shifts a little
closer, tugging on one stray lock of hair. “Someone gave him the stupid idea
that if someone could be coach, president, and captain, he could be both
captain and vice captain.” He snorts. “It’s working about as well as you might
expect.”
 
Yukimura winces at that. "Oh, that's no good at all. I'll have a talk with
him." He fidgets. "Maybe not today. If he gets used to me coming on days that
I'm not coaching, that won't be any good…" 
 
“Another day.” Sanada steps a little closer, but doesn’t put his arm around
Yukimura. That wouldn’t do in public...and between them, that kind of thing is
unnecessary anyway, and always has been. “Everything all right at the
hospital?”
 
"Apparently," Yukimura drawls, his eyebrows lifting, "they think I should go up
on mountains more often. They think I should go back immediately, actually, and
for months." 
 
Sanada breathes a sigh of relief. “So I didn’t mess you up. I was afraid--but
good, good.” He frowns, thinking. “I could probably get the leave of absence if
I asked today, but maybe not until next week. I’ll get the homework done, of
course, but they need to know I’m serious.”
 
"Don't be dumb!" Yukimura lightly smacks at his arm. "I'm not going up on the
mountain again this soon! They were exaggerating, exaggerating. I'm not letting
you of all people miss school because of me, that'd be…unnatural. Also, we
can't leave Akaya like this, not right now." 
 
“Yukimura.” Sanada catches the slapping hand--still not out of his hitting
mood, apparently--and looks him in the eye. “I would do anything if it meant
having you with me for longer. Give up school, tennis, anything.”
 
Yukimura huffs, glancing away and tugging half-heartedly on his hand. "Don't be
dumb," he repeats. "You don't have to give anything up. I'm doing better
already, and I don't want to make going up there a chore. We'll go up on the
next holiday or something, it'll be refreshing instead of necessary." He really
does hate it when things are necessary.
 
Sanada squeezes, then releases. “Whatever you say.” He looks back at Kirihara,
and rolls his eyes. “You’ll want to smack him, the next time you see him. He’s
been using ‘ore-sama’ again. Thought we cured him of that.”
 
"Ah." 
 
Twitch. 
 
Well, there goes his last bit of self-control.
 
Yukimura calmly snatches Sanada's racquet out of his grasp, and his hat off of
his head. "Akaya!!" He does a pretty good impression of Sanada, when necessary.
 
Kirihara bolts, Urayama cheers about getting a service ace off of him, and oh,
it is funny to watch Kirihara turn at least a million colors before settling on
stark white. "Y…Yukimura-bu…um…ah…Yukimura-kantoku?" 
 
"What's this about 'ore-sama'? Do you know how classless that is?" Whoops, he's
in the cage now, there's no turning back. "I'll show you greatness, you little
rat, get over here--"
 
"Yukimura-buch…kaaantoku, it was just once or twice!" 
 
"Do you really want to play hit the baby today? You're still the baby!"
 
"Noooooo!" 
 
"Ah, he has The Hat," Yagyuu mildly observes some distance away. "There's no
turning back." 
 
“Stop moving,” Niou demands instantly, tugging Yagyuu back into position.
“You’re my shade. Good shade doesn’t move.”
 
“I can be the baby today, Kirihara-buchou!” Urayama says, pathetically eager.
“What’s the game?”
 
“Let him play, coach,” Marui calls, limbering up his arm just in case he really
gets to hit someone today.
 
Jackal places a firm hand on Marui's shoulder. "Can you really justify hitting
that thing? Just look at him, he's so little." 
 
"Listen, Ca…coach, I've got this, I can use ore-sama and be so cool about it--"
 
Yukimura smiles. "Urayama, go and get us a few balls, will you? You're always
so good at that."
 
Kirihara turns whiter still. "W…why do you need balls? I--"
 
"Because I'm going to hit them at you until you can return them, or until you
pick a vice captain."
 
"Y…Yanagi-sempai, h--"
 
"He's graduating!"There's the first ball, straight to the chin.
 
Yanagi claps quietly in encouragement. “Choose wisely, Akaya!”
 
“Have you seen his hair?” Marui asks, gesturing to Urayama running rapidly back
and forth, tucking balls into his shirt. “I could definitely hit it. Huh, he is
good at picking up balls. I figured Buchou was just throwing him a bone.”
 
“Here you go, Yukimura-kantoku!” Urayama’s eyes shine brightly as he dumps
thirty or forty balls into the hopper.
 
“5,000 yen says he picks Urayama as vice-captain just because that’s the only
name he can remember,” Niou mutters to Yagyuu, slinking further into his shade.
 
"To be fair," Yagyuu wearily admits, pushing up his glasses, "he's the only one
I can remember on most days because of his hair." 
 
Jackal exhales a slow breath through his nose. "I want to shave it off," he
quietly says, voice strained. "All of it." 
 
"Yanagi, move!" Yukimura flips Sanada's racquet around in his hand, shrugs, and
promptly sends a twist serve right up into Kirihara's face.
 
"Ghhh--"
 
"Well?"
 
"I--"
 
"Captains need to be quick thinkers!" The next ball slams into his chest. 
 
"Guh--please, Yukimura-kantokuuu--"
 
"Weak!" Yesss, that was another excellent Sanada impression, he's on fire
today.
 
Niou shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea. He did take a game off of Kuki Kiichi
from Kakinoki.”
 
“Yukimura.” Sanada claps a heavy hand onto Yukimura’s shoulder. “Perhaps not in
front of his kouhai. Leave him his dignity.” What little there is of it.
 
Marui’s face falls. “Does that mean I don’t get to hit anyone?”
 
"Anyone that uses 'ore-sama' shouldn't be afforded dignity," Yukimura sniffs,
but he doesn't shrug off Sanada's hand. 
 
"I've got this!" Kirihara suddenly announces, whirling on Urayama. "Oi, you!
Change your hairstyle and you can be my vice captain!"
 
"Oooh, innovation," Yagyuu says, starting a polite golf clap. 
 
“That’s big talk from someone that owes me 5,000 yen,” Niou says, rubbing his
head against Yagyuu’s thigh. One of these days, he’ll actually start collecting
on those bets.
 
Urayama’s eyes nearly sparkle out of his head, and he drops immediately into
several bouncy bows. “Y-yes, Kirihara-buchou!” 
 
He looks around desperately, then, not turning up any implements, takes a deep
breath, sticks his fingers in his own hair, and ruffles furiously until the ice
cream cone comes out. To his credit, he only cries a little. 
 
“Now tell him to stop wearing blush!” Marui calls.
 
"Oi, Bunta," Jackal hisses. "I think that's just his face!"
 
"I'll buy you more hair crunchifier," Yagyuu placatingly says, patting the top
of Niou's head gingerly.
 
"There! See, I figured this out," Kirihara proudly announces, folding his arms
over his chest. "I've got one hell of a handle on this team, don't I, Yukimura-
kanto--guh." Another ball hits him right in the gut. "But I picked a vice
captain!!"
 
Yukimura shrugs impassively. "Sanada's racquet is fun."
 
Sanada plucks his racquet out of Yukimura’s hand. “I think that’s enough for
right now,” he says sternly. He looks over at Urayama--and sort of sighs. He
can’t exactly imagine the kid standing up to Kirihara when he goes too far.
Then again, maybe they’ll all be surprised.
 
Maybe.
 
“Akaya! Send them back to practice!” He’s not doing much better for the whole
let-him-have-his-dignity thing--but Kirihara isn’t doing a great job about
looking like he deserves it, either.
 
Marui looks up at Yukimura, swinging his legs on the bench. “Yo, Buchou. How
many cakes do you have leftover? Jackal is making me a shopping list.”
 
Yukimura takes Sanada's hat off, but doesn't return it as he trots over to the
bench, plopping down next to Marui. "A few. I could have more. Strawberry,
maybe?"
 
"R-right, right--everyone back to practice, you'll be running if you don't get
back to work!" 
 
"He's so cute," Yukimura sighs, squeezing the hat firmly. "Rikkai's management
might be shaky for next year, but it's awfully charming…"
 
“They’ll be fine.” Sanada isn’t so sure, but as vice-captain, even retired
vice-captain, it’s his job to be sure. 
 
“Strawberry, yeah!” Marui nods to Jackal, the Holder of the List. “Mm, they’re
gonna be good this time of year. Did you have any on The Mountain?” The
capitalization is implied.
 
“No. Just flowers and some herbs for cooking.” Sanada still isn’t sure how he
feels about everyone knowing about The Mountain, but at least no one knows
which mountain. That’s something, he supposes.
 
“Boss, tell Yaaaagyuu to hurry up and decide on Rikkai high. He’s stalling.”
 
Yanagi folds his long fingers, resting his chin delicately atop them and
watching Kirihara lead, occasionally calling out advice. “Watch the left flank,
Akaya.”
 
"Oh! Thanks, Yanagi-sempai!!"
 
Yukimura strangles down a few of his own bits and pieces of advice, and reminds
himself repeatedly that he's not even supposed to be here today, and he has to
let Kirihara work on his own or he'll never get better. Deep breaths, deep
breaths. "The rest of you are continuing into the high school division, aren't
you? Then you obviously should, too, Yagyuu."
 
"I--"
 
"Obviously," Yukimura sweetly cuts him off. "What good are you all going to be
if you can't snag a Nationals victory in high school?" 
 
“Your dad can’t possibly expect you to do better,” Niou mutters. “If there was
anything better than Rikkai you’d have gone there for junior high, right?”
 
“Don’t be worried about the exams,” Marui agrees, slamming sideways into
Yagyuu’s shoulder. “If Jackal can pass, you can pass.” He beams at Jackal.
 
“What are you waiting for?” Sanada demands. “If you don’t want to play tennis,
just say so!”
 
"Oi! I did pretty well on the exams, Bunta!"
 
"Yaaagyyyyuuu," Yukimura wheedles, reaching over to snatch his glasses off and
hand them to Marui while Yagyuu still sways from the force of Marui's weight
slamming into him, "we're waiting for an answer."
 
"I--" Yagyuu sighs defeatedly, holding up his hands. "Fine, okay, okay. I was
going to go there anyway, I just wanted to know that everyone else was going to
go there, too." He huffs, self-consciously lifting a hand to push at his
glasses before he awkwardly remembers that they're already gone. "…I didn't
want to go somewhere that I didn't have any friends at," he mumbles underneath
his breath.
 
"Sanada, hit him, he's being such a nerd right now." 
 
Sanada starts, but Marui pops up between him and Yagyuu. “Buchou, can I hit
him? I’m ready.”
 
“Leave him alone, fatty,” Niou snarls, pinching Marui’s thigh.
 
“I’m going to hit all of you!” Sanada thunders.
 
“Chance of that happening is just under 22%,” Yanagi says mildly. “A few are
runners.”
 
"Marui-kun, please give me my glasses back." 
 
"What's with everyone being in such a hitting mood lately?" Jackal miserably
puts in.
 
"It's good, I think!" Yukimura cheerfully hums. "Let's go play hit the baby and
see what happens!"
 
"Please? I'd like to be able to see." 
 
Marui pops a bubble, and nearly tosses Yagyuu his glasses back before realizing
that duh, without them he probably can’t see them to catch them, and hands them
back. Then he punches him in the shoulder for good measure. “Nerd.”
 
“Seiichi, I recommend that we allow Akaya to complete training before any
hitting extracurriculars. It will improve his performance 19.29%.”
 
“You’re a nerd, too,” Sanada mutters.
 
“So are you.” Niou pokes Sanada with one shoe. “Perfect-grades-san.”
 
"Fine, Renji, you're so lame." Yukimura yanks on Niou's rat tail. "You get
better grades than your nerdy boy toy." 
 
"At least Bunta and I aren't nerds," Jackal mutters underneath his breath. "Or
Yukimura-buchou."
 
Yukimura beams.
 
"Ah, yes, startlingly average," Yagyuu grumbles, rubbing at his shoulder
still. 
 
"Hey! I'm not average! Look, it was just chemistry that I flunked out of." 
 
If only I had had this for three years. 
 
The thought occurs to Yukimura and almost makes his smile fade--until he looks
out to the court, where Kirihara is ruling it with an iron fist (well,
relatively). 
 
He'll be fine. More than fine. He'll be Rikkai's number one, no mistakes. 
 
This was all still pretty damn good, though. 
 
 
 
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