Mirror Writing: All In One

Time goes on, captains change, pairs are broken and reformed, friends and rivals grow closer. Some possible futures for Seigaku, Hyoutei, St. Rudolph, and Fudoumine. These arcs are based on the anime continuity, but with a very Divergent Future, anime spoilers throughout, and lots of romance.

Long Exposure – One

Upon meeting again in the hospital, after Seigaku plays Rikkai, Tachibana decides Fuji could use a friend outside of tennis. Drama With Romance, I-3

Character(s): Fuji Shuusuke, Tachibana Kippei, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Tachibana Kippei was fretting. It wasn’t a common activity for him, but he didn’t have a great many alternatives at the moment. He still wasn’t permitted to walk any significant distance. Certainly not far enough to visit the person he’d been told was also a guest in this hospital to see if he was all right.

So he was sitting up on the hospital bed he had come to loathe, picking at a raveled corner of the far too thin blanket under him. He’d been told before, most notably by his little sister, that he worried too much. But he couldn’t shake off a feeling of responsibility for this injury. Couldn’t forget the direct, burning blue look Fuji had shared with him over an innocuous roll of tape. That look had promised to take up the hope Kippei couldn’t carry for a while, and asked for his help to gather the spirit to bear it.

How could he not feel he had some responsibility for what had happened?

A knock at the door was a welcome distraction.

When he saw who was coming in, though, Kippei surged up off the bed and strode to meet him, hardly noticing the warning stab of pain through his foot.

“Fuji!” Kippei caught his shoulders, examining his visitor closely. “Are you all right?” Fuji blinked at him, looking rather surprised at this greeting.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” he murmured. Seeing the brilliant eyes focus and track, Kippei breathed a short sigh of relief. Fuji’s brows went up.

“Your teammates stopped by, along with mine, to tell me what happened. And Ann’s tape of the match didn’t exactly relieve any of my concern,” Kippei told him. He lifted a hand to touch, very lightly, Fuji’s cheekbone just under the temple. “That was an extremely reckless thing to do,” he said, quietly.

Fuji’s smile was a bit sharper than usual.

“So. Do you think you need to scold me in Tezuka’s place, since he isn’t here to do it himself?” he inquired. A half laughing breath escaped Kippei, and he dropped his hands.

“Of course not,” he said, stepping back to sit on the edge of his bed. “For one thing, you never chose me as your captain, and I don’t have the right. For another,” he smiled slightly, “I have no doubt Tezuka can deliver his own reprimands, whether he’s present or not.”

Fuji didn’t answer, busying himself instead with pulling out a chair. He sat precisely, hands folded. Kippei eyed his posture.

“You’re worried about what he might say?” he asked, more gently. Fuji’s smile froze just a little. Kippei waited.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Fuji said, at last. “I… haven’t actually spoken to him about that match, yet.” Watching him, Kippei recognized a variation on the expression Akira had worn the day he tried to keep a traffic accident quiet from him, and play on anyway. He doubted Fuji would let him push for details, though. At least not right away. Well, that needn’t be a problem; he certainly had the time to spare to work it out.

“If I promise not to ask, will you come visit again?” Kippei asked. “It’s really boring, here.” Fuji looked up with a quick laugh.

“All right.”

It took Kippei over a month to winkle out the source of Fuji’s disturbance, following his match with Kirihara. By then Fuji was visiting his house, rather than a hospital room. It wasn’t until he succeeded that he really thought to question why he was doing it. Even then, all he could really tell himself was that Fuji needed someone to ask, someone to have the patience to wait out his smile.

The break came the second time Fuji brought him ice cream to cool the frustration of physical therapy. It was also the day after Seigaku had heard from Tezuka that he would be home soon. They sat outside, passing the carton back and forth, but neither the good weather nor the butter-pecan was able to keep Fuji’s attention.

“Have you ever had a friend you didn’t understand?” Fuji asked, abruptly.

“Several.” Kippei didn’t mention that Fuji himself was currently one of them.

“And what if, suddenly, you did come to understand?” Fuji was staring up at the sunlit leaves above them, looking more lost than Kippei remembered ever seeing him look before, though he doubted a casual observer would recognize it.

“And didn’t know how to say so?” he hazarded. He’d realized some time ago that Fuji wasn’t really much good at speaking directly.

“And didn’t know how to apologize,” Fuji corrected softly, looking down at his hands.

“Was the friend hurt that you didn’t understand?” Kippei thought he might be starting to see what the topic of this circling conversation was.

“I never had to. Not before then. Te… he never pushed me like that.”

Kippei nodded to himself.

“Some things, only an enemy can do for you,” he said, and paused. Fuji might be angry with him for the next part, but someone needed to say it and he didn’t think Fuji could bring himself to. “Beyond that, though, you never let him push you.” Fuji flinched slightly, and Kippei sighed. “You didn’t want to be an opponent to him. I don’t think Tezuka will hold that against you, Fuji. You came forward when it mattered.”

“But it means so much to him,” Fuji murmured. “It’s always been his goal…” Kippei set a hand on his shoulder and shook him once.

“Stop that,” he said, firmly. “Take it from another captain, Tezuka cares more for the well being of his team than for that title.”

Fuji blinked at him a few times, jarred out of his introspection.

“You’re right. Of course he does,” he answered eventually, with a self-deprecating little smile that nearly made Kippei grind his teeth. He tightened his grip on Fuji’s shoulder.

“Fuji. You did not fail him.”

After a moment of aching stillness, Fuji took a deep breath and let it out, closing his eyes. When he opened them again he offered Kippei another small, but more genuine, smile, and laid his fingers over Kippei’s hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

Kippei didn’t have a chance to do anything about the conclusions he had come to until after Nationals were over. Over for Fudoumine, at any rate. Just their luck, he reflected, that after clawing their way to the quarterfinals they should come up against Seigaku. He would almost have preferred Rikkaidai again. He knew he couldn’t speak beforehand. They had to play this round out however it fell.

In the end it worked out well enough. He was proud of his team; the matches actually went all the way to Singles One. Tachibana Kippei had never, in his life, been pleased to lose, and never would be. Nevertheless, he was satisfied that he had played his best against Tezuka, and had no hesitation about approaching him afterwards.

“Tezuka.”

“Tachibana,” his fellow captain acknowledged, stepping apart from his team at Kippei’s silent request.

“Nearly the end of the season,” Kippei observed. “It’s been a good year for both our teams, injuries and all.”

Tezuka’s mouth tilted, rueful and partial agreement.

“It will be at least a year before either of us is in a position to draw up team rosters again, but there was something I wanted to ask you now.” Tezuka tipped his head, inquiring with one brow. Kippei met his eyes evenly. “When we come to play each other again, I would prefer not to play opposite Fuji.”

“Is there a particular reason why not?” Tezuka asked after a long, searching look. Kippei smiled a bit wryly.

“Because he needs someone who doesn’t,” he said, simply. Tezuka’s eyes darkened, and Kippei shook his head. “I’m not criticizing you, Tezuka, it’s just…”

Just that, although Fuji was devoted to Tezuka, and Kippei suspected that Tezuka was one of Fuji’s few real friends, Tezuka saw all truly talented players as potential opponents. Even the ones on his own team. One had only to watch how he handled young Echizen to see that. And Fuji… Fuji couldn’t seem to imagine truly exerting himself against those he cared for.

“You want to be safety for him?” Tezuka asked, deep voice soft, and Kippei relaxed. Tezuka did understand; good.

“Yes.”

“I will see to it, then.” Tezuka turned to head back to his team, paused, and looked back over his shoulder. “Thank you. For your compassion.” Kippei thought his eyes were just a little sad.

Kippei inclined his head. “Thank you for your trust.”

“It’s his trust you need to worry about,” were Tezuka’s parting words.

Kippei didn’t doubt them in the least.

TBC

A/N: I have used the manga version of the match between Fuji and Kirihara, since it’s far more dramatic.

Wrapped Around My Finger

Mizuki seduces Yuuta, and possibly vice versa. Drama With Romance, I-3

Character(s): Akazawa Yoshirou, Fuji Shuusuke, Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime, St. Rudolph

Pairing(s): Mizuki/Yuuta

It wasn’t that Yuuta didn’t know what kind of person Mizuki Hajime was. He knew perfectly well. Mizuki was viciously ruthless. He was the kind of person who worked through manipulation because he enjoyed it. He was a flaming control freak and downright obsessive. Yuuta recognized all these things quite readily.

The only thing he refused to admit was where he recognized them from.

Mizuki was also the first, and, for a long time, the only one to recognize Yuuta’s skill, and his weaknesses, as his. The one who had never asked “Oh, did you start playing tennis because of your brother?” The one who took him, and, yes, used him, purely and completely on his own merits.

Of course Yuuta knew he had an ulterior motive for it, he wasn’t stupid.

But that wasn’t the point.

It started with a few casual touches, Mizuki’s hand on his arm or shoulder to call his attention or in farewell. It would have been less noticeable if Mizuki had been the sort to touch anyone, however casually.

He wasn’t.

That was Akazawa’s part. When a hand fell on a team member’s shoulder for encouragement or camaraderie, or, occasionally, a brisk shaking, it was their captain’s hand not their manager’s. Mizuki didn’t touch. It was typical of the difference between them. Akazawa held them together as a team; Mizuki drove them forward as his personal game pieces. Between the two it pretty much worked out.

So Yuuta noticed those as-if casual touches, and wondered what Mizuki was up to. The idea that he might not be up to anything didn’t even deserve a first thought.

Yuuta got his first clue, though he didn’t recognize it at the time, in a heated discussion between Akazawa and Mizuki that broke off as soon as he approached. Akazawa gave Mizuki a hard look before turning away.

“You had better be right about this not affecting the team,” he told their manager. Mizuki gave him a mock-surprised look.

“You doubt my analysis of the situation?” he asked with a dangerous lilt.

“Just remember who’s always involved when your analysis fails, Mizuki,” Akazawa said, sharply.

“I always do,” Mizuki replied though his teeth. Akazawa snorted. He patted Yuuta’s shoulder, absently, in passing, and Yuuta saw Mizuki’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Mizuki-san?”

A smile was added to the edged look.

“Shall we work on your serve, Yuuta-kun?” Mizuki ordered as if it were a suggestion, urging Yuuta toward the far court with a hand on his back.

Yuuta didn’t start to worry about what Mizuki was doing until the day Mizuki parted from him after practice with a hand on his cheek and a thumb brushing, ever so lightly, over Yuuta’s mouth. That was when it occurred to him that this might not have anything to do with tennis, which reminded him of the conversation he had heard the end of, and then he spent the rest of the day locked in his room, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying not to hyperventilate.

Mizuki couldn’t possibly be… well, he couldn’t. Right? Admittedly, he tended to look rather predatory around Yuuta, but that was just how Mizuki was. Wasn’t it? He’d looked like that for years, now.

It didn’t take very long for Yuuta to realize that was not necessarily a reassuring thought.

The next day he was so hyper-aware of those maybe-not-casual touches that he dropped two games. After the second he noticed Akazawa giving Mizuki a very dirty look, and had to escape, pleading a headache. Memorizing his ceiling for the second evening in a row, Yuuta tried to think the problem through. He could do this. His brother wasn’t the only smart one in the family.

If Mizuki really was… well, coming on to him, the first question was, did he want it to stop?

It was actually kind of a hard question. This whole thing was disconcerting, and had him very off balance. But, in a way, it wasn’t actually new. He’d always been flattered, right from the first, that Mizuki paid attention to him, sought him out. He’d gotten used to how… intense Mizuki’s attention was. The idea that Mizuki might want him, personally, made him shiver.

Ok, so maybe he didn’t exactly want it to stop. Next question was, what to do about it?

Actually, was there anything he could do? Yuuta chewed reflectively on his lip. It wasn’t as though Mizuki had done anything very obvious, yet. It was still possible that something else entirely was going on. Mizuki might be experimenting with a new management style, using Yuuta as his guinea pig. That would also explain Akazawa’s irritation.

Or Mizuki could just be waiting for Yuuta to stop jumping like he’d stepped on a tack every time he was touched.

Yuuta glared at his ceiling as though it were responsible for the conclusion that the best thing he could do was wait and see, and try to relax a little. There was no getting around it, though, and he spent the next few days attempting to have more patience than he usually needed. His captain’s temper subsided as Yuuta’s game steadied again.

Sure enough, that seemed to be the signal for the next step.

Mizuki took to, not just touching, but stroking down his arm or across his back. Yuuta stopped doubting his original conclusions. And, as the days slipped by, he started wishing that Mizuki would get on with whatever he had planned. The touches had gone from odd to shocking to commonplace to downright teasing, and Yuuta was tired of waiting.

He asked Mizuki, later, whether every language had a saying about being careful about what one wished for.

Yuuta was finishing a weight workout late in the evening when Mizuki tracked him down. Neither thing was unusual. Yuuta liked having the room to himself, which meant coming in late, and Mizuki liked to check on his training and adjust his regimen if necessary.

“Not even out of breath, Yuuta-kun? Perhaps you should increase your repetitions.”

It was not usual for Mizuki to prowl into his personal space and run a hand down his chest, reminding Yuuta forcibly that his shirt was still lying on the bench behind him. Mizuki’s fingers outlined his muscles, and Yuuta thought sparks might be skittering in their wake. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from Mizuki’s hooded stare to check.

“Excellent definition, Yuuta-kun,” his manager murmured. Yuuta stood, frozen, as Mizuki’s palm skated down his stomach. He shuddered as it stopped there.

“Mizuki-san,” he choked. Mizuki’s lips curved, and his hand rose to the back of Yuuta’s neck.

“Do you have any idea,” he said, softly, “how much it pleases me to know that, if I decided I wanted you right now, on one of the weight benches, you would offer me no resistance?”

The light-headed thought crossed Yuuta’s mind that, yes, he did have some idea how much that would please someone like Mizuki Hajime. Maybe, sometime, he would tell Mizuki that yielding was a reasonable trade for being the center of his focus. That focus was almost as tangible as body heat, as Mizuki leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

“Not yet.” He drew back, graced Yuuta with a demure smile, and strolled out the door.

Yuuta couldn’t make it back to his room this time, and had to settle for memorizing the ceiling of the weight room instead. At least, until it occurred to him that he was lying sprawled on one of the weight benches, and that Mizuki might just decide to come back, and take that as an invitation. He hauled himself upright and forced his shaky knees to support him.

What had that been about? Mizuki touching Yuuta like that and in the next breath assuring him that nothing would happen.

He supposed that Mizuki might have just wanted to ease his anxiety by making his intentions clear. Or it could be that he wanted to be sure of Yuuta’s willingness. It was also quite possible that Mizuki had done it just because he felt like provoking someone. Yuuta would actually have put his money on it being a little of all three. As he tried to convince the adrenaline singing through him to subside enough for sleep, he reflected that it was probably weird for him to be attracted to that combination of whimsy and iron calculation. But there it was. Things that caused most people’s eyes to cross seemed quite normal to him. He’d come to terms with that much.

And he honestly had to admit to himself that Mizuki had gotten it dead right. If he had kept going, Yuuta wouldn’t have stopped him. Yuuta’s backbrain helpfully presented him with an image of Mizuki pressing him down on that bench and running his hands lower.

So much, Yuuta thought, gasping, for lowering his adrenaline.

He spent the next week being ganged up on by his subconscious and his hormones at extremely inconvenient moments, such as when he was called on to read in Literature or translate in English. As a result he wound up with extra homework and spent several long evenings in the common room of his floor, dwelling on the unfairness of the universe and the incomprehensibility of English articles.

“Trouble with your English again, Yuuta-kun? Would you like some help?” Mizuki’s voice inquired from the door. That voice always had an insinuating edge, but Yuuta swore it hadn’t been this suggestive last week. He debated throwing his textbook, but decided that would probably only lead to a longer period of frustration. He settled for glaring.

Mizuki seemed to find this amusing.

This time, at least, Yuuta was ready for it when Mizuki crossed the room, stepped over his legs and leaned his hands on the back of Yuuta’s chair, caging Yuuta under his body. Yuuta rested his head back so he could look Mizuki in the face, offering, waiting, challenging, and could they please actually get somewhere this time? Fire lit in Mizuki’s normally cool eyes.

“Ah,” he breathed. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for, Yuuta-kun.”

Mizuki’s lips covered his, and Yuuta opened his mouth under them. Mizuki kissed the way he did everything else, intense and thorough, his tongue tasting every part of Yuuta. When he drew back it took Yuuta a few moments to realize that his eyes had fallen shut. He opened them to see Mizuki smiling down at him. It was not a smile that gave anything away, and Yuuta found himself having to ask.

“Mizuki-san, what… where… is this going?”

Mizuki trailed a finger down Yuuta’s neck, smile sharpening at the shiver that resulted.

“I think that’s for you to say, Yuuta-kun,” he murmured. Yuuta blinked.

“It is?” he asked, a bit nonplussed. At Mizuki’s nod, he sank back in his chair, even more breathless than the kiss had left him. Yes, this was Mizuki, the one who knew him, the one who had watched him, who knew exactly what would win him. Not just the trade of his pliancy for Mizuki’s complete attention, but giving Yuuta the choice and determination.

So, what was it going to be?

“Dating?” he suggested, eventually, finding no better word for where he would prefer to start.

“Indeed.” Mizuki leaned down again, brushing another kiss across Yuuta’s lips. “In that case, would you care to join me for dinner next Friday, Yuuta-kun?” For some reason, that made Yuuta blush, where the kisses hadn’t.

“Sure,” he answered, glancing aside. Mizuki laughed, low, and turned Yuuta’s face back up to his for a third kiss, long and slow, before he pushed back from the chair. He left Yuuta staring at the ceiling of the common room, this time, and completely incapable of thinking about the difference between a and the. Help with his English, yeah, right.

Yuuta decided it would be a good idea to write to his brother about his upcoming… date. Aniki was usually scrupulous about letting Yuuta go his own way, keeping his manipulations obvious enough to avoid if Yuuta really wanted to. But Aniki really didn’t like Mizuki, and if this was going to be one of the times he lost his temper, and Yuuta lost his prospective boyfriend to a homicidal sibling, well better to know sooner than later.

Five days later he wrote again to say that it had been cheating to send Aniki’s boyfriend’s little sister to try and talk him out of it. They had ended up yelling at each other at the tops of their lungs, across a picnic table on the campus lawn, about pig-headed idiots and interfering amateurs. It had actually been kind of nice to yell at someone who would yell back properly, instead of smiling and speaking softly and making Yuuta feel unbalanced.

Unfortunately, Ann’s rather acidic observations about Mizuki had enough truth in them to stick in Yuuta’s head. He knew perfectly well that Mizuki was focused pretty obsessively on his brother; it was one of the things they shared. When Aniki had said that he wasn’t going to continue professionally in tennis, Yuuta had gone to Mizuki as the only person who would understand his fury over the news. A niggling uncertainty refused to be dislodged.

Though being taken out on a date where, however casual their surroundings, Mizuki insisted on holding the door and pulling out a chair for him, went a long way toward flustering Yuuta enough to swamp it. When it became clear that Mizuki intended to see him back to his door, and quite probably past it, the thought of what was likely to happen next was actually familiar and calming by comparison. Yuuta thought that was probably why Mizuki had gone to such lengths to unsettle him in the first place.

When Mizuki closed and locked the door behind them, and pressed Yuuta gently back against the wall, though, the uncertainty resurfaced.

“Yuuta-kun?” Mizuki asked, as Yuuta looked aside, chewing on his lip.

“Mizuki-san… why?” Yuuta finally asked. “Why me? I thought it was… my brother… you wanted.” He might never forgive himself for actually saying that, but he had to know.

“Mmm. It would be nice to have him, too,” Mizuki agreed, casually. Yuuta’s head snapped back around, jaw loose. “But that has nothing to do with this.”

Yuuta sputtered. Mizuki tilted his head and looked at him, measuringly.

“I want something different from him than I want from you,” he explained. “I don’t doubt I’ll get it, eventually, because I understand him. And there’s something he wants that I can give him.” Yuuta found the curl of Mizuki’s lips and the light in his eye very unnerving. “If I survive the experience, perhaps I’ll tell you what it is. But what I want from you is,” Mizuki pursed his lips, “deeper.”

Yuuta’s heart jumped at the silky tone of the last word.

“What do you mean?” he asked, voice husky in his own ears.

“I want you for good,” Mizuki told him, cool and low. “You’re passionate, Yuuta-kun, and determined in a way he can never hope to be. I like that.” He leaned in. “I always appreciated your looks, of course. Such strong, clean lines to your body,” his hand smoothed down Yuuta’s side, “such expressive eyes, rich and sharp as new steel,” he drew Yuuta down to him, “and such a soft mouth for someone so fierce.” He stroked his tongue gently over Yuuta’s lower lip, and Yuuta gasped.

“But that wasn’t what really drew my eye, at the beginning,” Mizuki continued. “It was the fire in you. Useful and beautiful both; my ideal, Yuuta-kun.” He caught Yuuta’s face between his hands. “And all the more when I saw you knew I would let you destroy yourself to win, and you accepted that. Yet again when you defied me, and took only what you wished of my advice, and still returned to me.” His mouth quirked up. “Helpless things are only of passing interest. You are fascinating. You yield to me and yet keep your own way.”

Yuuta was grateful for the wall at his back, because without it he thought the intensity of Mizuki’s gaze and words would have had him on the floor. And then Mizuki smiled, and shook his head, and said the one thing that Yuuta never, honestly, thought he would hear.

“It was you from the very first, Yuuta-kun. At the start I mostly wanted to defeat Shuusuke as a gift to you. Here and now, he has no relevance. It’s you I wanted first.” He ran a hand up Yuuta’s neck, lifting his chin with a thumb, and pressed his mouth over Yuuta’s pulse. “So?”

Yuuta was shaking as his hands found Mizuki’s waist.

“Yes,” he whispered, harshly. Mizuki’s lips curved against his skin.

He let Mizuki pull him away from the wall, onto the bed. Let Mizuki’s hands strip off his clothes. Lay, breathing fast, waiting to see how far Mizuki would take his consent. Mizuki stroked his fingers through Yuuta’s hair, looking down at him curiously.

“Not completely innocent, are you?” he murmured. “It shows in your eyes. Everything does, of course.” He shifted and ran his hands down Yuuta’s thighs, pressing them apart. Yuuta shuddered, breath stopping completely. The weight of Mizuki’s body settling over his, the softness of his skin against Yuuta’s, pulled a choked off sound from his throat.

“What would you do if I did choose to take this all the way?” Mizuki’s voice brushed his ear. Yuuta closed his eyes.

“I said yes,” he answered, unevenly.

“So you did,” Mizuki agreed, sounding amused. “But perhaps we’ll start a bit slower.” He kissed Yuuta softly, hands stroking him, soothing the trembling. “I am curious about your source of information, though. Let me see.” Yuuta opened his eyes to see Mizuki leaning on an elbow with his chin in one hand, contemplating him thoughtfully.

He bit his lip and turned his head a little away. Mizuki’s rare laugh washed over him.

“You walked in on someone? Probably Akazawa and Kaneda, then.”

Yuuta nodded, though, technically, he had not walked in on them. The sight of Kaneda bent over under their captain had frozen him on the threshold, and Kaneda’s moans as Akazawa drove into him had been loud enough to cover the sound of Yuuta, very carefully, closing the door again.

“Well, let me assure you that I have a far lighter touch than our esteemed captain,” Mizuki purred. “We’ll get to that later, though.”

He kissed Yuuta more deeply, through teasing, and now Yuuta relaxed under him. Mizuki’s touch danced down his body, drawing low sighs from him, and Mizuki’s mouth gradually followed. Yuuta twisted and arched into the glide of Mizuki’s tongue down his stomach, came up off the bed with a sharp cry at the swift, slick heat of Mizuki’s mouth closing around him. Mizuki’s tongue slid down and then up his length, curled around him, coaxing, demanding. Yuuta lost track of time and place, attention narrowing to the hot sensation that wound around him tighter and tighter until the world snapped into glittering shards from it.

When his breath returned, Mizuki moved back up to lie beside him, smiling down at Yuuta with smug pleasure. Yuuta turned on his side and laid a hand, hesitantly, on Mizuki’s hip.

“Mizuki-san… you…?” He chewed on his lip until Mizuki stroked a finger over it to stop him.

“In a little bit, Yuuta-kun,” Mizuki told him, lazily.

The phone rang.

Yuuta glared over at it, wondering who had the bad timing to be calling now. Mizuki smiled and waved in a don’t let me interrupt you manner, so he answered, despite some misgivings. He couldn’t suppress an exasperated sigh when he heard who was on the other end.

“What are you doing calling me now?” he asked.

“I just wanted to make sure you’d gotten back all right, Yuuta,” his brother answered. Yuuta rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Aniki, I got back just fine, and Mizuki-san didn’t eat me on the way home.”

There was one beat of dead silence from everyone before Mizuki folded up laughing and Yuuta felt his face growing hot.

“Yuuta,” Aniki’s voice was getting dangerously pleasant, “who is that?”

Before Yuuta could muster a coherent answer, Mizuki held out a hand for the phone. Yuuta shrugged and handed it over. Redirecting his brother’s attention would be a good thing, and if Mizuki was volunteering to be thrown to the wolf, far be it from Yuuta to stop him.

“Indeed, Shuusuke, I didn’t eat your brother on the way home,” Mizuki said, still chuckling. “I waited until we got back.”

Yuuta was positive he was the color of a radish.

“Mizuki-san!”

Mizuki handed the phone back with satisfied smile.

“It got rid of him,” he pointed out, and leaned over Yuuta, pressing him back with a hand on his chest. “I can bait him at greater length later. Right now, I have better things to do.”

Ann had asked him, once, how he could stand to be in between two such possessive people. On the one hand was his brother, who would be perfectly happy to rip the lungs out of anyone who looked at Yuuta the wrong way. On the other was his boyfriend, who would be equally happy to break the hands of anyone who touched Yuuta. Not that either of them would ever be so straightforward about their revenge. No one seemed to understand that it was the equal possessiveness that made it work.

Well, that made it work for Yuuta.

His brother detested his boyfriend, and his boyfriend was obsessed with his brother. It was Aniki’s hostility that ensured Mizuki would be careful what he did to Yuuta. What he did without Yuuta’s consent, at any rate. And it was Yuuta’s acceptance of Mizuki that kept Aniki at a little distance, gave Yuuta some breathing room. Yuuta liked his brother’s protectiveness, as much as he liked Mizuki’s touch. As long as there was something to keep each from getting out of hand.

It all worked out for Yuuta.

End

In the Forest of the Night

Takes place in Current Tenipuri Year. Ohtori reflects on the pair he’s found himself a part of. Drama With Romance, I-3

Character(s): Ohtori Choutarou, Shishido Ryou

Choutarou couldn’t remember precisely when Shishido-san had started calling him by his given name. It had been some time during those first, grueling, late night training sessions. He did remember being surprised by it. A number of things had surprised him, right around that time.

He had never, before that, given much thought to the cutthroat system of Hyoutei’s tennis club. It was just the way things were. Well, he had noticed that it seemed to make for astonishing rudeness among the pre-Regulars, but that didn’t have to affect him. Choutarou had been raised to show courtesy; Otou-sama always said it was one of the best ways to disarm an opponent. So he was polite to his peers and his seniors, both, and lent a hand wherever one seemed needed, and devoted every bit of his strength to working his way up the ranks. It hadn’t taken long. The grumbling of people with less dedication had little meaning to him. By the same token, it was pleasant, the mass support that Atobe-buchou’s hand with the club placed at his back once he was a Regular. But Choutarou never deceived himself by thinking that his performance rested on anything but his own will and effort. The shape of the system that went on around him didn’t matter.

And then Shishido Ryou had come to him, after his sudden defeat at Fudoumine’s hands, and asked for help with some training. Choutarou had agreed, as he always did, though the help Shishido-san wanted had been a bit out of the ordinary. He had watched Shishido-san drive himself to catch an unreturnable serve with his bare hands, night after night, and seen something he hadn’t expected.

After very little observation, during his first year, Choutarou had decided that no one among the Regulars shared his own dedication, with the exception of the captain. They were all very talented, but also flippant and careless, not devoting anywhere near the concentration that Choutarou thought the game called for. Under the floodlights, though, in the burning of Shishido-san’s eyes, in the scrapes and bruises and blood on the court, in his voice with every snarl of Next!, Choutarou had seen drive and will to match his own.

That was what had driven him to break his usual reserve and plead with Sakaki-sensei to reinstate Shishido-san. And when their coach’s threat had brought home, for the first time, the cold finality of Hyoutei’s system, it was that recognition of kinship-at-last that had driven him to lay his own position on the line. He would certainly have regretted it, if he had lost his place. But if Hyoutei’s system had no room for the pure determination and burning edge that Shishido-san had reached, then perhaps Choutarou truly didn’t and couldn’t belong there, either.

Not that he hadn’t been extremely relieved when Atobe-buchou had stepped in.

And when Shishido-san had finished trading insults with Atobe-buchou, and it had taken some time for Choutarou to figure out that this might be Shishido-san’s way of thanking their captain, he had turned to Choutarou and called him by name. That was the first time Choutarou really remembered, though at the same time he had recalled an increasing number of Choutarous slipping in among the Ohtoris during the weeks they worked together.

No one else at the school called him by his given name.

Choutarou wondered, sometimes, if Atobe-buchou had seen it starting then. It would explain why he had immediately thrown them together as a doubles pair. It was the kind of thing that he, long acquainted with Shishido Ryou, might well have seen at once.

It took Choutarou somewhat longer to realize that, when he had given Shishido-san his support, he had gained something in return, tossed in his path as easily as Shishido-san might toss him a towel after a long practice.

Shishido-san’s loyalty.

Choutarou was friendly with many, but friends with few. It was the way he had always been. Shishido-san didn’t seem to care. He breezed through Choutarou’s public manners as casually as he elbowed past Atobe-buchou’s arrogance. Ohtori Choutarou was now his partner, and his friend, and that was that.

Choutarou had been stunned.

He had never known someone who would so freely grab his arm to get his attention, grin at him to share an inside joke, yell at anyone he found giving Choutarou grief about his control and then turn around and lecture Choutarou himself about the same thing. He had certainly never known anyone at Hyoutei who matched his focus on the court without hesitation or complaint. But Shishido-san did all of that, now. And, for the first time since he had entered the tennis club, Choutarou had relaxed. As part of a pair, his success was no longer purely dependant on his own effort and will; but Shishido-san’s fierceness left no room for anxiety or reluctance to depend on him.

When they had beaten Oshitari-senpai and Mukahi-senpai at doubles, Choutarou had returned Shishido-san’s brilliant grin with a smile so open it felt strange on his face.

Shishido-san’s determination for him, and pride in him, when it came to defeating Choutarou’s own weaknesses, had, for the first time, given Choutarou more than his own will to support him.

Shishido-san’s spendthrift energy and warmth had drawn Choutarou in until he found it hard to imagine living without them. But in another half a year…

A cold, dripping waterbottle against the back of his neck pulled Choutarou out of his introspection with a yelp.

“You’re miles away, Choutarou,” Shishido-san chuckled, dropping onto the bench beside him. “What’s up?”

“I was just thinking,” he said, taking a sip of water to cover his confusion.

“About what?” his partner prodded, leaning back. He waited while Choutarou gathered his thoughts.

“This spring, mostly. Graduation,” Choutarou answered, finally. “I… don’t really like the thought of playing alone again.”

“Who said anything about alone?” Shishido-san asked, sharply. Choutarou blinked at him. “Just because we can’t play together in the tournaments for a year, that doesn’t mean a thing. We’re a team, Choutarou. The Shishido-Ohtori pair. Got it?” Shishido glared at him, the one that meant he thought his partner was being dense.

“Of course,” Choutarou said, slowly, “but it will be two years before we can play as a pair again.”

“Bullshit,” Shishido-san pronounced. Choutarou opened his mouth and closed it again. He contented himself, at last, with raising his brows at his partner. Shishido-san grinned, teeth gleaming.

“First class doubles pairs are hard to find,” he said, “especially at the really competitive schools. They’ll let us play. You’ll see. Atobe likes to win.”

Ah. Shishido-san did have a point. And Choutarou had no doubt that Atobe-buchou would have a good deal of influence, even as a second year.

“So,” Shishido-san continued, “the only thing you have to worry about next year is keeping Hiyoshi from trying to take over the entire world.”

“Shishido-san, he’s not that bad…” Choutarou began, a smile starting at the corners of his mouth.

“I imagine I’ll be stuck as the one who gets to try and keep Atobe’s ego from gaining any more mass, than, say, Jupiter,” his partner continued, blithely.

“Shishido-san…” Choutarou was laughing now.

“And we’ll have to get together often to blow off steam about what a pain they are to deal with, and since we’ll be together we might as well get in some match time while we’re at it, right?”

“Yes, Shishido-san,” Choutarou agreed, once he caught his breath.

His partner nodded at him, firmly.

“Don’t you forget it, Choutarou.”

“I won’t,” Choutarou promised.

End

Relay

After the third-years graduate, how do those who remain adjust? Drama, I-2

Character(s): Echizen Ryouma, Kaidou Kaoru, Momoshiro Takeshi, Ryuuzaki Sumire, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Ryouma didn’t exactly mind that Nationals were over. After all, they had won. He did, however, mind that the third years were retiring from the tennis club. How was he supposed to beat all his senpai if they weren’t around to play against?

On the other hand, in the midst of the day’s goodbyes, and team bonding, and dodging Kikumaru-senpai, he had wandered across Tezuka-buchou explaining Momo’s new duties to him, and that was good for a laugh.

A silent laugh, so Tezuka-buchou wouldn’t send him away.

“…and, of course, the assignments for the ranking matches,” Tezuka-buchou finished. “It’s a good idea to keep a running list of which players might balance out the blocks.”

Momo looked a little dazed, and Ryouma couldn’t resist needling just a little. “Sounds like the job is mostly paperwork,” he noted. “Maybe it should have been Kaidou-senpai after all; he’s a lot better at finishing homework on time.”

His friend shot a glare over his shoulder while Ryuuzaki-sensei grinned.

“Kaidou is very conscientious,” Tezuka-buchou agreed, evenly. “But Momoshiro has developed a better eye for broad strategy.”

Momo blinked at this unusually direct compliment, and looked down, almost fidgeting. His embarrassment would have been another good opportunity for teasing, which would only be fair turnabout, really, but Ryouma only tugged down his cap a bit, acknowledging his captain’s unspoken command to stop poking holes in the new captain’s confidence.

Ryuuzaki-sensei got in the last word, though, which Ryouma supposed he should have expected.

“I wouldn’t laugh too hard, Ryouma,” she said, dryly. “After all, it’s almost certain to be you in another year.”

Ryouma choked, and stared at her, wide-eyed, as Momo snickered.

“So, Echizen,” Momo called over the whir of bike wheels, “how many times a week do you think you’re going to have to smack Arai’s ego down?”

Ryouma made a face. Despite riding backwards and not being able to see his friend, he was sure Momo was grinning. “Inui-senpai does averages, not me.”

The fact was, though, after finally making it into a regular slot in the wake of the departing third years, Arai had gotten even more annoying. And Ryouma had, in fact, stooped to deliberately showing him up a few times just to make him quiet down.

“And here I thought you had a schedule,” Momo said, lightly. “It’s seemed like you were taking some trouble to keep him in line the past couple weeks.”

Ryouma made a noncommittal noise.

“Especially when he starts in on Kachirou,” Momo added, perfectly casual.

Ryouma appreciated the sideways tact Momo used to ask him questions like this. Because, of course, the question behind Momo’s comments was What are you trying to maneuver your teammates into? Momo had gotten very good at guessing what kind of things Ryouma wouldn’t like to admit to out loud. He leaned against Momo’s back and shrugged, knowing his friend would feel it. “We need more people who can play doubles, don’t we?”

Momo was quiet for a moment. “You think Kachirou will be good enough to make it into the Regulars by spring?”

Ryouma, since he was out of sight, let himself smile at Momo’s tone. It was serious and focused, the tone of a team captain asking for the opinion of one of his players before he made a decision. It was the tone that, when used in front of Kaidou-senpai, made him stop hissing and growling over what an idiot Momo was. Not, of course, that he ever did that where anyone but Momo or Ryouma was likely to hear.

“He has the ability, as long as he has the chance to work on it,” Ryouma answered. “And he’ll work for it.” He left it unspoken that Kachirou had more of Seigaku’s spirit, that way, than Arai did. He thought Momo had probably already noticed that.

“All right, we’ll work on it,” Momo said, decisively. “Anyone else you’ve got your eye on?”

“You’re the captain,” Ryouma pointed out. “Momo-buchou.”

“Oh, knock it off,” Momo growled.

Ryouma was perfectly straight-faced, as he waited for Momo to lock up.

“Long day, wasn’t it?” he prodded.

“Oh, yeah, go ahead and laugh,” Momo complained.

“All those new first years watching you.”

“Echizen.”

“Looking up to you as a role model.”

“Echizen…”

“Lot of responsibility, isn’t it?”

Momo turned around and glowered at him, sorting through his keys for the one to his bike chain.

“Do you wish Tezuka-buchou had picked Kaidou-senpai yet?” Ryouma finished, raising his brows inquiringly.

“If I agree to pay for food, will you shut up about this?” Momo asked, just a little plaintively.

Ryouma grinned. “Sure.”

“Brat.” Momo slung an arm across Ryouma’s shoulders as they headed for the bike racks. Ryouma hunched them just a little, thankful that he was getting big enough not to be pulled off his feet by that maneuver anymore. Which probably made it less effective retribution, from Momo’s point of view, but that was just too bad. Ryouma had always done his part of their roughhousing more subtlely, twitting Momo with jabs of words or expression. If it bugged Momo that physical retaliation couldn’t keep up his end of the game anymore, he was perfectly capable of switching tactics.

Maybe that new responsibility was affecting Momo’s brain, though, because he hesitated, and cocked his head at Ryouma. “Do you really mind it?” he asked, tightening his arm for a second.

Ryouma blinked and shrugged, not hard enough to dislodge the arm. “No big deal,” he muttered. Certainly, it had gotten a little wearing to be pounced on by Kikumaru-senpai. But Momo was just like that, and he’d gotten used to it. Momo didn’t mind that Ryouma was quiet and obnoxious, and Ryouma didn’t mind that Momo was loud and obnoxious. They met in the middle, and it all worked out. He hadn’t really thought it needed to be said.

“Good,” Momo declared. “Didn’t think so, but…” He ruffled a hand through Ryouma’s hair.

Ryouma swatted the hand away, glaring. Momo grinned.

“C’mon, Echizen, food’s on me,” he said, airily. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and there’ll be something interesting on the street courts tonight.”

The team was coming together, no one had broken anyone’s neck, the club’s fans were actually a little quieter than usual, they were into training for the tournament season, and Ryouma could feel his edge slipping.

What was even more annoying was that his dad noticed it.

It would have been less annoying that Ryuuzaki-sensei noticed, too, if she’d had anything useful to say on the subject.

“You need more competition, Ryouma, this year’s team isn’t strong enough to keep you moving along.”

Ryouma eyed her from under his cap. “I know.”

“And he’s not the only one,” Momo put in from where he was fishing out his water bottle. “But that’s easier said than done.”

Their coach gave them a half-lidded stare. “Maybe.” And then she strolled away.

Momo and Ryouma looked at each other.

“What was that about?” Momo wanted to know.

Kaidou sniffed, on his way past. “Idiot,” he stated, quietly.

“What?!” Momo growled, just as quietly.

Ryouma hid a smile. Positions of responsibility hadn’t stopped them bickering. They just did it more softly now. Wouldn’t do for the captain and vice-captain to have a screaming fight in the middle of practice. He had overheard Ryuuzaki-sensei explaining this to them very clearly after the first time they did have one, and both of them had been rubbing their ears as they emerged from that little talk.

“I’ll lock up today,” Kaidou-senpai said.

Momo blinked at this non sequitur, but Ryouma suddenly remembered Kaidou-senpai, last week, consulting something that looked a lot like a recently updated exercise menu in Inui-senpai’s writing. He remembered thinking, just a bit enviously, that maybe Kaidou was still practicing with Inui-senpai. Ryouma almost heard his brain click as it all fell together. He eyed Momo. “Not a very long walk to the high school campus,” Ryouma observed. “We should make it if we leave right after practice.”

“Just a walk up the hill,” Momo agreed, smiling now, apparently pleased enough to ignore Kaidou’s mutter of Took you long enough.

Ryouma tipped his head and gave Kaidou’s back a one-sided grin. “Thanks, Kaidou-senpai.”

Kaidou-senpai waved it off, brusquely. For one instant, Ryouma dearly wished for one of Fuji-senpai’s cameras, because he could have blackmailed Momo for years with a shot of the nearly affectionate look he gave his yearmate.

So Momo and Ryouma snuck off the instant practice was over, and made their way uphill. Momo’s cheerful smile got them directions to the tennis courts, and Ryouma was somehow unsurprised to see Fuji-senpai, Inui-senpai and Tezuka-buchou leaning against the fence while the last of the high school tennis club left. Inui-senpai smiled an unnervingly pleased smile, and held out a hand to Fuji-senpai. Fuji-senpai silently dug in his pocket and dropped coins into Inui-senpai’s palm. Then he smiled at them, too.

“That was quicker than I expected,” he told them, genially.

Ryouma stifled the urge to step quickly behind Momo. He was too big for that to be really effective anymore.

“Ryuuzaki-sensei obtained permission for us to use the courts after hours,” Tezuka-buchou told them without preamble.

Ryouma felt the tingle of anticipation for a good game sweep through him, and nearly sighed with relief. He hadn’t felt that nearly often enough, since winter started. There was a nice glow, a relaxation into the effort, that came when he played Momo, but it didn’t put sharp edges on the world and make his blood sing.

“What are we waiting for, then?” he asked.

Doubles pairs were peculiar things, Ryouma decided. He understood a little better the players who could do doubles or singles with equal facility, like Kachirou, or Ibu and Kamio. But the dedicated pairs were just weird. He could swear that he’d just finished playing two people, despite the fact that only Ohtori had stood on the court and that Shishido had barely said a word the entire game. Watching Momo gradually box in Hiyoshi, Ryouma reflected that maybe he was glad he still really didn’t work very well in doubles. He didn’t mind being part of a team; and there were people he didn’t mind being close to, if they understood each other. But that was… understanding. Two people who were just on the same wavelength. It wasn’t so… intrusive.

As they gathered up to leave, Ryouma took a look at the lemon-sucking expression on the face of Hyoutei’s captain and the light of absolute determination in his eye, and his mouth quirked.

“Maybe, if we play Hyoutei again, this year, you should put Kaidou-senpai up against Hiyoshi,” he suggested to Momo. “I bet they’d get along.”

Momo laughed. “I’d put a little more weight on whether Kaidou can beat him than whether they get along.”

“It goes together,” Ryouma pointed out. “Tachibana, Atobe, Sanada, Yukimura, Tezuka-buchou—it’s why they play good games against each other.”

Momo looked at him rather oddly, and Ryouma raised his brows. He couldn’t believe that Momo hadn’t seen it; in fact, he knew Momo had seen it, because he’d commented on it before, if not quite in the same terms.

“You have a strange definition of getting along, Echizen,” Momo said, at last.

Ryouma blinked and shrugged. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. And you’re right about Kaidou and Hiyoshi.” Momo looked thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe that would work.”

Ryouma nodded. He’d known Momo would understand.

Theoretically, Ryouma was doing homework over at Momo’s house.

Actually, he had long since finished his own English homework, checked Momo’s, and moved along to snooping in Momo’s paperwork, which was a lot more interesting.

“You put us in the same block again?” he asked. “Kaidou-senpai is going to accuse you of keeping the good competition for yourself, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Momo agreed, draping himself off his bed and over Ryouma’s shoulder.

Ryouma eyed him sidelong and sighed.

“What?” Momo grinned. “You did say you didn’t mind.”

Ryouma opened his mouth to point out that he hadn’t said he didn’t mind Momo taking the place of his jacket, but then closed it again. To say that would immediately invite the question of whether he really did mind, and he would then have to admit that he didn’t. It was just Momo and Momo wasn’t annoying like that, though he doubted he could explain why not, if pressed. Better not to say anything.

“Besides,” Momo went on, more seriously, “if I put myself and Kaidou in the same block we might get careless because we’re in too much of a hurry to get at each other. And this lets me put Arai and Kachirou in separate blocks, too.

Which could only be considered a good idea, Ryouma admitted. Arai had never quite gotten past his whole seniority thing.

“You know, everyone thinks it’s some kind of miracle that you and Kaidou-senpai can play doubles together when you don’t do anything but fight anywhere else,” he mused.

Momo shrugged. “We fight enough that we know each other. I trust his strength, and he trusts my belief in it. That’s all we really need.”

Ryouma smiled, and glanced at his friend. “Not bad, Momo-buchou.”

“Just you wait, Echizen,” Momo told him, with a dark look. “Your turn’s coming up, and I’m going to get my laugh in, too, before I go.”

Another day, another round of paperwork. Ryouma was starting to wonder whether he could convince Ryuuzaki-sensei to make Kachirou captain next year.

Today, though, there was something of more personal interest than usual.

“Momo-senpai.”

“Hm?” Momo asked, from the depths of his Science textbook.

“You’re putting me in Singles One against Josuikan.”

“Yep.”

“You think we’re going to get to Singles One, against them?”

“Nope.”

“Momo,” Ryouma growled, completely out of patience.

Momo looked up with a wry smile. “I know you want to play absolutely every match you possibly can, Echizen. But it isn’t good for the team to always rely on you to pull their nuts out of the fire, and it isn’t good for you to get into the habit of carrying too much. You should get a little bit of rest, at this point in the season.”

“Rest?” Ryouma repeated, with careful disbelief.

“Yeah, rest.” Momo sounded both amused and a little exasperated. “That thing you think you never need. You have to learn to pace yourself someday, you know. Not,” Momo added, turning a page, “that I have any reason to think I’ll be able to convince you to do it, when Tezuka-san couldn’t.”

Ryouma sat back, grimacing. He hated it when Momo got all reasonable on him. He supposed it was a good thing it didn’t happen too often. “As if you have room to talk,” he grumbled, quietly.

“Yeah, it’s always hard to judge for yourself,” Momo agreed, easily. “That’s what we have other people for.”

Ryouma gave it up. Not that he wasn’t going to glower at appropriate moments, to remind Momo that he was annoyed about this. But he’d known from the start that Momo had a protective streak. The fact that it always irritated Ryouma when it was applied to him just made it the more ironic that it was a major reason he had trusted Momo immediately.

Besides, Momo had a point about the team. If Momo wanted his players to take Ryouma’s example, rather than let Ryouma do all the work… well, that was how a captain should think.

Ryouma really wondered whether he could pawn the position off on someone else.

“We should…” a yawn interrupted Momo, “get going, if you want to catch Atobe at the park courts tonight.”

Ryouma stayed right where he was, sprawled in the warm grass under the trees. “Up late last night?” he asked.

Momo waved a hand dismissively, and then had to use it to cover another yawn. “My sister has an earache,” he admitted. “I stayed up with her, reading, when she couldn’t get to sleep. Anyway,” he prodded Ryouma in the ankle with a toe, “you wanted the practice against Atobe to be sure you’re in good shape to take Kirihara next week. We should head out.”

“No hurry,” Ryouma said, folding his arms behind his head.

“You’re just like that cat of yours,” Momo accused, slumping back down himself. “Impossible to move once you get comfortable.”

Less than ten minutes later a faint snore sounded beside Ryouma, and he smiled. He did have to suppress a start when Momo rolled over to use him as a pillow, though. He’d woken up like that, often enough, but usually he was asleep himself before they managed to sprawl into each other. Personally, Ryouma blamed buses. First they made you fall asleep, and then they made you fall over.

He pulled his bag over to make a pillow for himself. He could track down Atobe later.

“All things considered, I expect you already know how this job works,” Ryuuzaki-sensei told Ryouma.

He gave her a resigned look, waiting for her to finish whatever official lecture would seal his doom.

Momo was snickering.

“Congratulations, you’re captain. It’s more than I ever managed to wring out of your father. Enjoy it. Or not. Now get out of here and go say your goodbyes.” She waved them off.

“So,” Momo said, getting his laughter under control as they moved back towards the courts, “what do I have to bribe you with to get you to keep helping me with English while I study for exams?”

After a judicious moment of consideration, Ryouma rejected the bill for food as too easy. “You have to listen to me complain about the paperwork,” he decided.

“Deal,” Momo agreed, instantly. “I’ll stick around campus until practice is over, then; it’ll make it easier if you keep riding home with me.”

Ryouma eyed his friend. “Thinking of ‘sticking around’ the courts?” he asked, pointedly.

Momo looked a bit sheepish. “Eh, you guessed.”

“Study inside, Momo-senpai,” Ryouma told him. “We can practice for real up the hill.”

Momo grinned at him, wryly. “Whatever you say, buchou.”

Ryouma glared, and had his hair ruffled for his trouble. Still, he supposed he had earned that one. Captain. He suppressed a shudder. Should be an interesting year. He let Momo wind an arm around his shoulders and steer him back to his club.

End

Long Exposure – Two

Fuji, slowly, learns how to be cared for; fortunately, Tachibana is patient. Drama with UST, I-3

Character(s): Fuji Shuusuke, Tachibana Kippei

Pairing(s): Tachibana/Fuji

Shuusuke sat with his chin in his hands and watched as Tachibana celebrated the first week of their first year in high school with an… experiment.

He couldn’t quite manage to simply call it “cooking”, not when he’d seen labs using hazardous chemicals pursued with less concentration.

Tachibana tasted what had started life as a Thai curry recipe with a thoughtful expression. He rummaged through through the spice rack for yet another unmarked canister and shook a careful sprinkle into the pot. After a thorough stir and another taste he finally nodded.

“Almost ready for the squid. Fuji, could you give me a hand and chop those lime leaves into strips?” he asked, turning to the refrigerator.

“Of course,” Shuusuke agreed. As he arranged the leaves on their long axis and took the knife Tachibana handed over, he reflected on the knack Tachibana had, the one Shuusuke admitted all his friends probably had to have, of drawing him in. Of making him participate rather than simply watch. Tachibana seemed to do it more unthinkingly than Eiji, who favored nagging until Shuusuke gave in. It was a game between them. Tachibana just asked, as casually as if he never noticed Shuusuke’s tendency to observe from the sidelines.

It was a puzzle, since Shuusuke couldn’t imagine that someone as observant as Tachibana himself was really hadn’t noticed. Fortunately, Shuusuke was fond of puzzles.

“So, how is the high school tennis club?” he asked, recalling Tachibana’s misgivings on that subject. Tachibana sniffed.

“There is one. That’s almost all I can say for it.” The innocent squid received an increasingly cold look. “The players are third rate, judging kindly, with no discipline to speak of. The coach lets them slack along with no motivation at all.”

“Ah, well, history is hard to overcome,” Shuusuke needled, gently. Tachibana gave him a trenchant look that Shuusuke parried with a cheerful smile.

It was true in both senses, though. Certainly the inertia of apathy did nothing to help Fudoumine’s high school tennis club. But the history that clung to Tachibana himself undoubtedly formed a stumbling block of its own. Ann had told him the whole story one day, last winter, when Tachibana had been detained by school matters and she had detailed herself to console his friend by taking Shuusuke for hot chocolate. Fear of Tachibana kept the coach and other students from interfering with his team, but it probably wouldn’t make either listen to his recommendations now.

“It isn’t as though I make a habit of losing my temper,” Tachibana grumbled, taking the shredded lime leaves and stirring them in. Shuusuke leaned against the counter beside him.

“No. But you can and you have, and that’s enough.” Shuusuke was familiar with the phenomenon.

“It shouldn’t be,” Tachibana said, inflexibly. “Anyone with the common sense to look at the circumstances would know perfectly well that I’m no more dangerous than you to people who are merely infuriating.”

Shuusuke blinked at him. After a moment his silence seemed to catch Tachibana’s attention.

“What?” his friend asked. “It’s obvious that you never let your temper go unless someone provokes you intolerably. You certainly never lose it on your own behalf.”

Shuusuke blinked again. Even his own teammates were a little… wary with him at times. But Tachibana appeared both serious and completely matter-of-fact. He made no further comment, but offered Shuusuke a spoon and gestured to the pot.

“See what you think.”

Shuusuke complied, and made a small, pleased, sound over the rich, tangy burn.

“Wonderful,” he declared. Tachibana nodded, satisfied.

And then he proceeded to divide the concoction into two separate pans, and added four cans of spice-diluting cocoanut milk to the larger, before apportioning the squid and covering them to simmer.

“Then everyone should have a good dinner,” he concluded.

Really, very little escaped Tachibana’s notice, Shuusuke decided.

By the middle of summer, Shuusuke was a frequent enough visitor at Tachibana’s house to tease his mother by calling her okaa-san, which made her laugh and say that he could almost pass for Ann’s brother. Ann had suggested that Tachibana should start calling Shuusuke his little brother, so Shuusuke could see what it was like for himself. Tachibana had given them all a tolerant look and sent Ann to fetch more ice for the water pitcher.

He seemed to understand how sensitive the subject of little brothers was for Shuusuke. Which made it more uncomfortable when he did press the issue.The most uncomfortable conversation on the subject actually started as one about Tezuka.

“I told him, today,” Shuusuke said, looking out the door to the Tachibanas’ porch.

“Tezuka?” Tachibana asked, and Shuusuke nodded.

“I told him I would play for him until we graduated. After that,” Shuusuke shook his head, “there’s really nothing in it for me.” Tachibana’s mouth twisted a bit.

“Did he argue with that?”

“No.” Shuusuke gave his friend an honest half smile. “Tezuka understands, I think.”

Tachibana said something under his breath that sounded like about time, but, before Shuusuke could ask, Ann came flying into the room and tackled her brother, who oof-ed obligingly.

“You’re almost too big to do that any more, Ann,” he told her, laying a hand on her head and smiling down at her. “What is it?”

“Okaa-san wants me to go shopping for some vegetables and fish. Is there anything you want me to pick up?”

“If you pick up some plums I’ll make umeboshi.”

Ann squeaked happily and promised to do so.

“Bye, Onii-chan, Fuji-niisan!” she called back on her way out the door.

“Ann…” Tachibana sighed, looking after her with exasperation. Shuusuke suppressed a chuckle. Nothing her brother said convinced Ann to stop calling Shuusuke that.

“It’s all right,” he said, mildly. Tachibana turned thoughtful eyes on him.

“Have you told your brother yet?” he asked. Shuusuke ruthlessly held back a flinch.

“Not yet. Did I tell you that Yuuta is the captain of St. Rudolph’s tennis club this year? The start of term is busy, and he hasn’t visited home yet, but he sent me an email to say.” He turned his public smile to Tachibana, and had to stifle a second flinch.

Tachibana’s expression was even and waiting, and just a touch stern. It was the same expression Shuusuke saw on Tezuka, when Tezuka knew he was talking around something.

“Fuji,” Tachibana said, quietly. Shuusuke looked away. “He’s not angry at you.”

“Really.” Shuusuke let his eyes turn sharp, even though he’d already noted that it didn’t have quite the usual effect on Tachibana. He still wanted his friend to know he was getting annoyed.

“Not,” Tachibana allowed, “that he isn’t several times more likely to argue with you about this than Tezuka. I expect Yuuta-kun will be outraged that he won’t have the chance to keep trying to beat you.”

An involuntary snort of laughter escaped Shuusuke. He had to admit, that sounded very likely.

“Fuji, part of why he loves tennis is because he loves you.”

That hit Shuusuke like a ball in the stomach, and he swallowed hard. There were times when he would have preferred a less perceptive friend.

“Does Ann-chan ever get angry at you just for being her older brother?” he asked, quietly.

“Of course she does, how do you think I know?” Tachibana answered, looking rueful. “Not to mention the uproar as soon as I say the first word about her dates.”

“Now that,” Shuusuke observed, “is not something I’ve had to worry about.”

“Be thankful for your blessings,” Tachibana told him, darkly. Shuusuke smiled for real.

“Oh, I am.”

It was an especially frosty day, which suited Shuusuke’s mood admirably.

He knocked on Tachibana’s door, and made polite conversation with his mother absently and automatically, mind ticking down the minutes until he could gracefully leave her and go find Tachibana in his room. Tachibana let him in, looking a bit surprised since they hadn’t arranged to meet that day and Shuusuke hadn’t called ahead. He ceded the desk chair, which by the looks of it he had been working at, to Shuusuke and sat against the side of his bed.

Shuusuke examined his folded hands, considering the best way to begin.

“The tennis club was talking today about who were likely to be Regulars next year,” he said at last. “Everyone assumes Tezuka and I, and Eiji and Oishi, of course.” He paused. “One of the second years, it seems, has noticed you and I talking at the tournaments this year, and wanted to know if it was all right with me, being so friendly with someone who would be an enemy. He was joking, I think,” Shuusuke added as Tachibana started forward a little.

“As we were leaving, though,” he continued, “Tezuka mentioned to me that I would not, in fact, be playing you. Ever. That you had asked not.”

“Yes, I did,” Tachibana agreed. The casual calm of his tone came close to snapping Shuusuke’s temper. One more question, he thought.

“Did you think I needed to be protected?” he asked, and despite his best control he could hear the cut-glass edge in his own voice. Tachibana was silent almost long enough to make Shuusuke look up at him.

“Yes,” he said at last. Shuusuke’s gaze shot up at that, glaring.

“I am not weak,” he enunciated, low and dangerous, “nor fragile, nor so volatile that I can’t handle playing against you.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Tachibana sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, looking harried. “Fuji…”

Shuusuke raised a brow and waited. He didn’t move as Tachibana got up and came to kneel in front of the chair. Not an eyelash flickered as Tachibana set both hands on his shoulders.

“Fuji, everyone needs to be protected. Even the ones who usually do the protecting. It doesn’t mean you’re weak; it means you’re as human as the next person. And I don’t, for one instant, believe you are less human than the next person.”

Shuusuke stiffened, hearing echoes in his mind of things overheard, spoken behind hands. It wasn’t very far from genius to monster, he’d known that for a long time. But that wasn’t the point.

“I don’t need to be sheltered,” he said, firmly. Tachibana heaved a much longer sigh this time.

“Fuji, listen to me,” he said. “Just because you can survive exposure to ice cold rain doesn’t mean it’s healthy. I’m not saying you aren’t strong enough for everyone else, or that you shouldn’t be. Just let someone return the favor every now and then.” His eyes softened. “No one ever really has, have they? Or you wouldn’t be making so much of this.”

That gave Shuusuke pause for thought. Eiji helped him… to make mischief. He always listened when Shuusuke wanted to talk, but he never pushed and he’d certainly never done anything like this. Onee-san, well, she was always there, but… never like this. Tezuka… Tezuka drew him on. Tezuka guarded, but he didn’t protect. Still. Wasn’t there some inconsistency, in Tachibana saying this to him?

“Who do you let protect you?” he challenged. The sudden lightening of Tachibana’s expression took him by surprise.

“Ann, sometimes. Kamio, sometimes.” Tachibana laughed a little. “Neither of them would ever forgive me if I didn’t let them.”

Shuusuke considered that. No one with the slightest observational skills would ever suggest that Tachibana Kippei was less than a very able protector of his family and his team. Yet… they protected him? Memories emerged, of Ann facing down anyone who showed her brother and his people less than respect, of Kamio fielding administrative problems before they could ever come to his captain’s attention. Perhaps they did, Shuusuke mused.

Actually, that suggested a compromise that his heart and mind might both agree on.

“Would you let me?” he asked. Tachibana smiled up at him slowly.

“Turn about is certainly fair play,” he admitted.

He started to sit back, and, impulsively, Shuusuke caught one hand as it left his shoulder. Just to say thank you… it wasn’t enough this time. He lifted Tachibana’s hand, pressed his lips to the back of the fingers, and let go.

He heard Tachibana’s breath catch. The fingers paused, returned to brush against his cheek, light as butterflies landing.

“Fuji?” he asked, very softly.

Shuusuke found he could only look at Tachibana openly for a few moments. There was warmth there. Not just an umbrella against that cold rain, but a pile of towels, too, Shuusuke though, amused at his own imagery. But it was warmth he wasn’t quite sure how to reach towards.

“I interrupted your homework, I’m sorry,” he apologized, veiling his eyes again.

“It’s all right.” Tachibana stood and stepped back. “I was about to take a break and make some tea in any case. Join me?”

“I’d like that,” Shuusuke agreed.

TBC

Fearful Symmetry

Snippets of how Ohtori and Shishido keep company while they’re apart, during Ohtori’s third year of junior high and Shishido’s first year of high school. Drama With Romance, I-3

Character(s): Ohtori Choutarou, Shishido Ryou

Ohtori

At the end of the first day of his last year of junior high school, Choutarou found Shishido-san leaning against the wall of the school grounds, waiting for him. Tension he had carried all day without noticing unwound from his shoulders.

“Shishido-san,” he greeted.

“Choutarou. How’d it go? Is it Hiyoshi?” Shishido-san fell in beside him, hitching his bag over his shoulder. Choutarou nodded.

“Hiyoshi-kun is captain this year. I think it will work well. He’s very different from Atobe-san.” It didn’t need to be said that Atobe-san had the ability to back up his flamboyance, and anyone else who tried to use the same style to lead the club was likely to make a fool of himself. Shishido-san chuckled, just a bit nastily.

“Yoshimaru-buchou is already worrying about Atobe.”

“But seniority won’t let Atobe-san take his position,” Choutarou said, puzzled. “Not even Atobe-san.”

“No. But he’ll be playing as a Regular; no one really doubts that. And it won’t be fun, being captain when the ace who can beat his socks off is a first year,” Shishido-san pointed out.

Choutarou smiled at Shishido-san’s glee over his captain’s discomfiture. Yoshimaru-san must be the quiet type; that always made his partner uncomfortable. He listened, as Shishido-san detailed the quirks and attitudes of the high school tennis club, in a better mood than he’d been all day.

Shishido

Ryou eyed the sakura trees along the route home with annoyance. Sure, they were pretty, but they also made a mess, and you’d think the things would have finished blooming by now. It was getting on toward summer.

“Shishido-san?”

Ryou glanced back at his companion with a quick grin.

“Yeah, so, anyway, Kaa-san said it would be fine with her, even if we run late and you wind up staying for dinner now and then. I figure it’s easier to get work done with company; even if we’re not studying the same things.”

Choutarou still looked hesitant, but Ryou knew better than to take that personally. His partner was just allergic to putting himself forward, at least socially.

“I’ll have to ask,” he started, and Ryou’s grin widened.

“No you won’t. Kaa-san decided to call your mother herself. They agreed to trade off who feeds us.” Ryou nudged Choutarou in the ribs to make him close his mouth. “The direct approach runs in the family,” he added.

“So does thinking ahead of your opponent,” Choutarou told him, with a small smile to show he was teasing. Ryou was pleased. Most people would probably say Ohtori Choutarou wasn’t capable of teasing, or of a smile that bright. Nice, but distant, most people would say. Not, Ryou thought, smugly, with him.

“Just anticipating my partner,” he corrected, easily. The way they should be.

Ohtori

Shishido-san flopped down on the bench beside Choutarou and grabbed for his water bottle.

“Is anything wrong, Shishido-san?” Choutarou asked. “You seemed kind of distracted today.”

It was as polite a way as he could think of to point out that Choutarou didn’t normally win when they played singles against each other. It was getting closer, but still. Shishido-san shook his head and tossed Choutarou his own water.

“Just had a weird night,” he said, reassuringly. Choutarou raised his eyebrows. Shishido-san made a face.

“I was out playing pool last night, and ran across Seigaku’s Fuji.” He shuddered, though Choutarou thought he probably did it for effect. “Never, ever trust that guy, especially if he’s smiling. He completely fleeced four players in an hour, and three of them were the kind who usually do the fleecing themselves. And when one of his fellow sharks took exception to being cleaned out, Fuji backed him off without even raising his voice. He’s seriously creepy.”

Choutarou found himself smiling just a little at the disgruntled tone of Shishido-san’s story telling. He rather thought that Shishido-san’s real distraction came from the reminder that he wasn’t playing in the tournaments this year, while Fuji was. It was something close to unheard of, to have two first years among the Regular team, but Seigaku’s high school captain was apparently more interested in giving talent free rein than abiding by seniority. Hiyoshi-kun had smiled an extremely sharp smile, when he’d heard, probably at the idea of what Atobe-san would have said when he heard.

“I think another doubles pair has showed up, Shishido-san,” he said, instead. “Do you want to ask them for a game?”

Shishido-san’s eyes glinted, annoyance forgotten.

“Why don’t we do that?”

Shishido

Ryou still hadn’t managed to stop snickering by the time he met Choutarou to walk home. His partner gave him an inquiring look.

“Did something happen at practice, Shishido-san?”

“You could say that, yeah,” Ryou snorted. “Oshitari and Mukahi finally got walked in on. And the best part,” he added, snickering again, “was that Oshitari just looked over his shoulder, told them to come back in fifteen minutes, and kept right on. In the general club room, no less! I knew it was gonna happen some day.”

Choutarou cleared his throat, and Ryou saw that he was blushing. Whoops. Sometimes he forgot just how reserved his partner was about personal things. He patted Choutarou’s shoulder.

“Didn’t mean to embarrass you, Choutarou. It was just that everyone’s reactions were hysterical! You should have heard Atobe reading Oshitari the riot act about doing things with style.”

Ah, there was the little smile, again. The one from their early days as a pair, that meant Choutarou wasn’t entirely sure, yet, that he should be showing that he was happy or amused. A change of subject would probably make him relax again.

“So, how did your matches against Fudoumine go?” he asked, “I meant to come watch, but Atobe was feeling like a bastard and practically dragged me to the high school matches instead.” And he was going to get Atobe back for that. He was not married to his partner, thank you very much, he just cared more about Choutarou than the entire high school tennis club put together.

“Tachibana-san couldn’t make it to this match, to watch, either, and there’s really an edge they lack when he’s not there,” Choutarou said, a hint of disapproval in his tone. “It went all the way to Singles One, but we won.”

“Completely uncool,” Ryou agreed, firmly ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that was pointing out certain similarities to his own performance without Choutarou.

That was different. Choutarou wasn’t the center of his game; he was just… the other center of his game. Ryou had to shake his head at himself, wryly, before bumping Choutarou with his shoulder.

“So, your mom make any more of those killer chocolate cookies this week?”

Ohtori

Choutarou was having a very bad day. His E string had broken last night, and the store close to his house didn’t have the brand he favored. He’d had bizarre dreams that he couldn’t remember very well, involving a tennis court that somehow had nets all over it. The lingering restlessness from that had distracted him so much he’d burned three pieces of toast in a row, before Okaa-sama made him sit down and let her do it.

Normally, a match, especially a tournament match, let him put things like that aside, but today he was playing Seigaku’s Echizen-kun in Singles Two, and somehow it was just the last straw. Despite all the concentration and discipline he could muster, Choutarou couldn’t shake the horrible, foggy feeling of losing right from the start.

He tightened his mental grip as much as he could, preparing to serve.

“Choutarou!”

His head snapped up at the sound of his name, and he spun to see Shishido-san standing behind him, one hand wound into the fence. Choutarou recognized the look on his face. It was the same one he’d had while they worked on controlling his serve. Impatient. Sharp. Burning with incontrovertible belief that Choutarou would succeed.

Choutarou took what felt like his first real breath all day, and nodded. Shishido-san smiled back, bright as sunlight flashing off a knife.

All right, maybe he’d have a little more sympathy for Fudoumine next time. Maybe.

These days Echizen-kun could return over half of Choutarou’s serves. This one was not one of that half. As Echizen-kun shook out his hand, he gave Choutarou a one sided smile, eyes interested for the first time this match. Choutarou let his own mouth curve slightly, cool and pleased.

He knew Shishido-san was grinning, behind him.

Shishido

Ryou closed his History of the Heian Era text with a thump and cast himself back, carelessly, across Choutarou’s bed.

“I will be so glad when it’s next year,” he commented to the ceiling, knowing Choutarou would have looked up at the rustle when he fell back. “I mean, singles is fun, and all, but it’s just not the same.”

“Me, too.” Choutarou slipped out of his desk chair to sit leaning against the bed. “There’s just something… missing.”

“Yeah,” Ryou agreed, softly. It was almost enough, just to hang out with Choutarou, to share frustrations over their teams, to redesign the curriculum when they got bored with their homework. And they had played together a lot this year. But there was an extra edge that came with playing as a pair, against real challenges, that the street courts only supplied once in a blue moon.

Though the street courts did make it easier for Atobe to come watch them unobtrusively. Which he was capable of, if he put his mind to it. Being himself, Atobe hadn’t said a thing, but Ryou hadn’t known him this long for nothing. He had no more doubt that he’d be able to talk Atobe around to supporting he and Choutarou.

“Besides,” he went on, mood lightening a little, “somebody’s got to get Oshitari and Mukahi’s heads out of the clouds. They think they’ve got a cakewalk to Doubles One next year.” He turned his head, crooked grin meeting Choutarou’s sudden, brilliant smile. There was confidence there, and anticipation.

“Too bad Oshitari-senpai and Mukahi-senpai will have to settle for second,” Choutarou said, reaching out his hand to his partner. Ryou clasped it.

“Yep. Too bad for everyone else.”

End

Burning

In the winter of Ohtori’s third year of junior high and Shishido’s first year of high school. Shishido reflects on his partner, and their bond as a doubles pair. Drama With Romance, I-3

Character(s): Ohtori Choutarou, Shishido Ryou

The first time Ryou found himself admiring his partner’s body, he chalked it up to hormones and went on from there. He’d read his mother’s old human biology textbooks, and knew he was at the age where these things were supposed to start happening. It wasn’t the first time he’d caught himself looking at one of his teammates, either.

After a few months, though, he started noticing something.

When he looked at Choutarou the appreciation wasn’t colored by his usual awareness that he’d sooner sit through a makeover with his brother’s girlfriend than let the person in question within actual arm’s reach. And half the time it wasn’t precisely Choutarou’s body he was appreciating. Of course, Choutarou was striking to look at; the contrast of silver hair and large, dark eyes got lots of attention. But what caught Ryou’s attention was the poise of that tall figure; the straightness with which he always held his shoulders; his habit of running a hand through already rumpled hair, making it glow as it feathered down again; the way his eyes brightened and warmed, like chocolate melting, when Ryou complimented his technique.

By the time Ryou figured out that he was genuinely attracted to his partner, and it probably wasn’t going away, he had it pretty bad.

Some people, especially a certain other, really annoying, Hyoutei doubles pair, might have said it was a perfect setup. Ryou knew better. For one thing, he had no idea what Choutarou liked. His partner’s reserve made him one of the most asexual people Ryou had ever known, short of Hiyoshi. And while Choutarou was a lot nicer about rebuffing advances than his yearmate, everyone who made one to date had still been turned away.

Ryou had no intention of screwing up their combination by coming on to his partner if Choutarou wasn’t interested. He and Choutarou were already as close as siblings, without the disadvantage of having annoyed each other all the while growing up. Ryou valued that very highly. His hormones could damn well go sit on ice. He stared out his bedroom window at the light dusting of snow glittering on the trees and houses. It was certainly the right season.

Well, spring would be here soon, and Choutarou would graduate, and they would be in the same school again. He could always keep an eye out, and see. He was pretty sure that, when Choutarou made up his mind what he was interested in, it would show in spite of that reserve. For one thing, Choutarou tended toward the intuitive the same way Ryou tended toward the analytical. With him, everything just was. Which was an occasional drawback when it came to finding and training out his technical weaknesses, but that was what partners were for. For another thing, Choutarou let a lot of his reserve go with Ryou.

Ryou grinned up at his ceiling, remembering his absolute shock, that day he’d heard Choutarou put his position on the line for the sake of Ryou’s. That had been the first day he’d seen a hint of the shy, friendly brightness beyond the steel determination that was Choutarou’s trademark as a player. That, as much as Choutarou’s genuine respect for him in his hour of disgrace, had reconciled him to playing as part of a doubles pair.

“Shishido-san?” came his partner’s quiet voice from across the room. Ryou rolled over to see him stacking his books, papers neatly tucked away.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think all doubles pairs are this close?”

Ryou blinked, startled once again at how closely their thoughts matched sometimes.

“Where did that come from?” he asked. Choutarou drew his knees up and rested his chin on them, looking thoughtful.

“My History and Society course is talking about how chance influences events, and it just started me thinking. It was really chance that we wound up as a pair. But we work together really well in doubles, because our styles and personalities fit. And that made me wonder about what it is that makes doubles in general work. All the really good pairs that I’ve seen seem… very close. I wondered if that personality match is necessary.”

Ryou regarded his partner. Was Choutarou’s reserve starting to rebel against that closeness? It didn’t seem likely; Choutarou had always seemed pleased, almost relieved, that he and Ryou were so in synch. Still.

“We’re closer than just a personality match would make us,” he observed. “Compatible personalities can happen even with people who have barely met.”

Choutarou nodded, solemnly. No clues yet.

“I think the best pairs probably are all close like this. It would take kind of a strange mind to share so much understanding in a game and then just drop it when the game ends,” Ryou said, carefully. “Do you mind?”

Choutarou blinked at him, brown eyes wide.

“Oh! No, that wasn’t what I meant, Shishido-san,” he assured his partner. Ryou relaxed again, mouth quirking.

“You sure?” he asked. Choutarou smiled, and Ryou savored more of that brightness that Choutarou didn’t show to anyone else.

“I’m sure,” Choutarou affirmed. “I was just wondering about what that means for a pair like Inui-san and Kaidou.”

Ryou thought about it for a long moment, and then almost fell off his bed laughing at the mental pictures.

“Shishido-san,” his partner admonished, but Ryou could hear the edge of suppressed laughter in his voice.

“I just,” he gasped, “had this image of the two of them griping over Tezuka, the way we do over Atobe and Hiyoshi…” He dissolved again, and this time Choutarou was laughing too.

When they calmed down again, Ryou felt satisfaction displacing the uncertainty of his earlier thoughts. As long as he was the one who made Ohtori Choutarou laugh out loud, the rest of it was almost beside the point.

End

Long Exposure – Three

Tachibana and Fuji ease into intimacy. Drama with Romance, I-3

Character(s): Fuji Shuusuke, Tachibana Kippei

Pairing(s): Tachibana/Fuji

A month into his second year of high school Kippei was very pleased with the world. The fact that he was currently surrounded by spiky, vicious looking plants didn’t change that in the slightest. Nor the fact that Fuji was laughing at him, silently. Ann had been laughing at him for weeks, after all, and she was far less subtle about it. But the fact was, Kippei had his team back, and that was enough to distract him from any number of chortling siblings and flora of carnivorous appearance.

Not, of course, that he hadn’t been meeting with his team, his real team, to practice all last year. But now they were all in the same school again, and it was official. They were his again, and no one would even consider arguing. Least of all the lingering older tennis club members, none of whom could hold a candle to any of his players.

Fudoumine was back. Was it really any wonder he couldn’t stop smiling?

Even if he was wondering how many variations on gray-green and spiky one botanicals exhibit could fit in.

“It’s good to see you so happy,” Fuji murmured as they wandered the branching, pebbled paths that had, so far, been deserted of any fellow plant-life enthusiasts.

“I suppose I’ve been a bear about the tennis club for the last year, haven’t I?” Kippei asked, as apologetically as he could while he felt like grinning every time he thought of his team. Fuji chuckled.

“No more than Tezuka, certainly. He never said out loud, but we could all tell he was twitchy over not being in control of the team any more.”

“He seemed to respect your captain, though,” Kippei noted, with a hint of question.

Fuji didn’t answer immediately, instead exclaiming over the planting they had just come in sight of.

“They do have a Saguaro!” He laid his hands on the perimeter rope, as if he yearned to reach out and touch the tall plant. To Kippei it looked like the archetype of a cactus: a tall, striated barrel with arms branching out and up. “They’re endangered in America,” Shuusuke told him, sounding a bit wistful, “I thought it might only be a rumor. They take a very long time to mature; it’s one of the problems with propagating them.”

“Cacti are good at enduring, aren’t they?” Kippei asked. “Surely these will, too.”

“They’re like any plant. They endure anything except sudden environmental change.” His smile quirked. “I suppose it’s true of animals, too.” He sighed, faintly. “Tezuka does respect Yamato-buchou. He’s the one Tezuka got a lot of his sense of responsibility from. But Tezuka prefers direct commands, and Yamato-buchou tends to be rather roundabout. I think it made Tezuka… uncertain. Nor was there really anything any of us could do but wait it out.”

Kippei responded automatically to the shadow that darkened Shuusuke’s eyes, and wrapped a light arm around his shoulders. He could wish that it didn’t make Shuusuke feel guilty when he couldn’t help Tezuka, but that was the kind of person Shuusuke was. Natural success always left you ill prepared to deal with any failure at all, even failures that weren’t your fault.

“Humans are more flexible than plants,” he observed. He glanced down to find Fuji gazing at him with the same curious fascination he had been directing at the cacti. Kippei raised his brows.

“You touch so easily,” Fuji said.

“Is there some reason I shouldn’t?” Kippei asked. That wistful edge was back in Fuji’s voice, so Kippei didn’t think the statement was an indirect request to let go. Even when Shuusuke shied back from some intimacy, he never objected to Kippei’s touch. Kippei wondered, sometimes, whether that was Fuji’s promissory note; his assurance that, when he retreated, he only wanted a little space, not for Kippei to leave him alone. So Kippei had waited and let Fuji choose his own time. Lately, based on the thoughtful, sidelong looks he’d been getting from under Shuusuke’s lashes, he had started to hope that the time might be soon.

Thus his increased freedom with touching Fuji, which led to more direct looks. Looks that had begun to seem less thoughtful and more decisive.

Fuji seemed to consider his question, for a moment, before a small, secret smile crossed his face and he leaned ever so slightly against Kippei.

“No.”

Kippei felt a tension that had been with him for a long, long time let go. It wasn’t that he thought Fuji had been deliberately teasing him…

Well, mostly not.

But the fact remained that Fuji was very skittish about receiving expressions of simple affection. Or, at least, he had been. He seemed to have decided that he could relax now. Kippei slid his arm down to Shuusuke’s waist and drew him a little closer. Shuusuke, however, having made up his mind, didn’t seem to think this was sufficient. He gave Kippei a sparkling, laughing smile and reached up to tug him down far enough to kiss him.

It was probably fortunate for Kippei’s heart that he’d realized some time since that Fuji Shuusuke didn’t have much in the way of middle gears. There was neutral, and then there was full ahead. Full ahead, in this case, was a warm, open mouthed kiss that lasted quite a while before Shuusuke let him go. Kippei took a moment to catch his breath and another to be pleased they were still the only visitors at the exhibit.

“You know,” he said, eventually, “for the longest time I thought you were in love with Tezuka.”

“I will always care very deeply for Tezuka,” Fuji told him, softly. “But if we were closer than friends, what he wants from me would be too…”

He broke off, but Kippei could fill in the rest. It was hard enough for Shuusuke to exert his strength seriously against a friend; to do so against a lover would probably tear him apart. He gathered Shuusuke a bit closer, still.

“Was that why you asked not to play opposite me?” Shuusuke asked, suddenly. Kippei blinked down at him a few times before releasing an exasperated sigh.

“I’m not the one who’s that machiavellian,” he pointed out. “I simply thought it would be better.” A chuckle vibrated through the body in his arms, and Kippei realized he was being teased.

He buried a smile of his own in the caramel colored hair under his chin.

Tuesdays, like most days of the week, featured afternoon practices for both Fudoumine and Seigaku. Thus, Kippei was a bit surprised when he emerged from locking up the club room to see Shuusuke pacing like a tiger in a cage under the somewhat alarmed eyes of Akira and Shinji. He must have left practice half-way through to be here already, and that wasn’t like Shuusuke.

Nor was the tight-lipped, hard eyed expression on his face as he glanced up at Kippei.

“You’re here early,” Kippei noted, a bit cautiously.

“Tezuka said I should go,” Shuusuke said. His voice was low and sharp, the way it got when he was angry and trying not to show it too much. And if Tezuka had sent him away from practice, it meant that whatever was wrong had made Shuusuke angry enough to affect his game.

Kippei had a few quick words with Akira and Shinji before waving his concerned seconds off and leading Shuusuke under the trees beside the courts. There was room to pace, there, and little likelihood of passers by at this time of day.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning against a sturdy maple. Shuusuke stalked to the fence and back.

“Yuuta,” he bit out, “is actually considering dating that… snake Mizuki. The one who was almost responsible for injuring him. That heartless, amoral bastard is making advances on my little brother.”

Kippei carefully refrained from saying anything foolishly reasonable, at this point, such as It’s Yuuta’s choice in the end. It wouldn’t help. Besides, he knew perfectly well that, if it were Ann, he would have set off immediately to make Mizuki eat his own tennis balls until he renounced any interest in her.

“Are you worried he’ll hurt Yuuta-kun?” he asked, instead. Shuusuke came to an abrupt halt, fists clenched.

“It’s not just that,” he said, at last, sounding more strained now. “Mizuki has used Yuuta, before, to get at me. What if it’s like that again? And I can’t say something like that to Yuuta, not even to warn him!” He looked at Kippei, tense conflict in his eyes. Kippei winced. No, that wouldn’t work very well, would it?

Kippei didn’t really think that Yuuta hated the fact that his brother was a better tennis player than he. Anyone who watched him watching Shuusuke play could see the glow of pride, and Yuuta smiled when he heard someone praise Shuusuke’s skill. Always provided they didn’t mention Yuuta. What invariably enraged the boy seemed to be the automatic assumption that he was secondary. To be told that he was being approached only because of his connection to his brother, to be told by his brother no less, would send him up in flames.

Well, now he understood why Shuusuke was angry and tense enough to show it openly.

Voices coming around the side of the court interrupted his thoughts.

“…tennis club. They have a lot more pull than they did last year.” Another second year, who Kippei unfortunately recognized, turned the corner. He seemed to be showing a friend the school grounds. He looked up, noticed Kippei, and immediately sneered.

“Of course, it’s still a pretty slapdash club,” he remarked loudly. “Mostly a bunch of first years; can’t seem to get any interest from the senior students. Rumor has it they’re kind of… rowdy.”

Kippei sighed. Tokogawa and he had never gotten along, and the other second year liked to bait him. He’d chosen the wrong time to do so, though. Shuusuke was already in a poor temper; something of his had been threatened. He never let something like that slide, and for it to happen twice in one day…

Kippei leaned back against his tree and crossed his arms. Well, with luck this would let Shuusuke release some tension.

Tokogawa froze as Shuusuke pinned him with an arctic blue glare.

“Every team who has gone against Fudoumine with that attitude has met with the humiliating defeat such blindness deserves,” Shuusuke said, a flaying edge in his voice. “Their courage and determination, even more than their considerable talent, have earned the respect of both professionals and peers. Of whom you are clearly not one. To belittle something you know nothing of makes it clear how much of a fool you are.” His eyes narrowed, glinting, as Tokogawa gaped. “Unless, of course, you would like to try proving to me you do know enough?” he purred, gesturing toward the courts.

Tokogawa nearly tripped over himself getting turned around and hustling his friend away. Shuusuke watched them go, satisfaction wafting off him almost visibly.

“My team will be pleased to know you have such a good opinion of them,” Kippei observed, lightly. Shuusuke blinked over his shoulder, focus interrupted. Which had been the point of the comment, after all. Kippei smiled and held out his arms, offering. After a moment Shuusuke gave him a smile back and came to rest against him. Kippei stroked his hair and said nothing more. He didn’t know whether it was simply the novelty or not, but being held, silently, always calmed Shuusuke. That Shuusuke would let Kippei calm him seemed like a good sign at the moment.

“I suppose that was an overreaction,” Shuusuke sighed, at last, “but it annoys me when people make such petty attacks on you.”

“My hero,” Kippei teased, gently. Shuusuke sniffed. “What about Ann?” Kippei asked, suddenly.

“What about her?” Shuusuke lifted his head so he could give Kippei a curious look.

“Ann gets along reasonably well with Yuuta-kun, and she shares your opinion of Mizuki,” Kippei explained. “She might be able to at least warn him of the possibility.”

Shuusuke thought about that, and the longer he thought the wider his smile got. Finally he broke down chuckling, probably at the idea of the outspoken Ann pinning down the touchy, reserved Yuuta for a personal conversation.

“Ann-chan probably would be able to talk to him about it,” he said.

“I’ll mention it to her, then,” Kippei promised.

For the first time that day, Shuusuke truly relaxed, and let his head fall back to Kippei’s shoulder. Kippei set aside his own concerns in favor of appreciating the feeling of holding Shuusuke, alone in the warm, still afternoon.

That winter they had an ice storm, on a Saturday night by luck. Kippei found himself wandering through the frozen city, very shortly after sunup Sunday morning, with Shuusuke and his camera. He wasn’t entirely clear on how this had come about, but thought it might have had something to do with the phone call before he was entirely awake, and a promise of hot chocolate.

He supposed it was a good thing, every now and again, to be reminded that his lover was a ruthless manipulator who liked to win, and who, moreover, did it by reflex the way most people breathed. At least this time it wasn’t the pool hall. He’d never seen so many poor dupes fleeced in such a short period, and Shuusuke’s high good humor about the whole affair had been faintly unnerving.

He’d mentioned it to Tezuka the next time they’d met and gotten an amused chuckle in reply. He had never suspected Tezuka of such a low sense of humor.

“All right,” Shuusuke announced, having caught one last picture of the sun making an aureole of frozen branches, “that’s all the film. Ready to go back?”

Kippei agreed as mildly as he could. Not that the ice-coated trees and streets weren’t beautiful, but his toes were getting very numb.

He had never had more cause to be grateful that Yomiko-san was a sweet and thoughtful woman. Not only did she have hot chocolate waiting, she had also put a couple blankets by the heater to warm, and sent them straight up to Shuusuke’s room with those and a tray when they piled in the door, shivering. Shuusuke carefully labeled his rolls of film and put them in his to-be-developed basket before availing himself of either.

“There,” he said, with satisfaction, perching on the foot of the bed and winding his feet into one of the blankets. “And when it all melts, perhaps I can get some good shots at lower speed.”

“What difference does the speed make?” Kippei asked around his mug. Since he suspected he might find himself along for the next trip, too, he might as well know what was going on.

“The longer the shutter says open, the more movement is picked up by the film,” Shuusuke explained, wrapping pale fingers around his own mug. “You can get some wonderful effects with running water that way. Here.” He leaned over to pluck an album from his shelves, and flipped it open.

Kippei’s breath stopped. The photo was a study in contrasts. A small waterfall, long lines of soft white, was surrounded by leaves whose edges looked sharp enough to cut.

“Sometimes it’s like the world waits for you,” Shuusuke said in a far away tone. “The wind died completely just after I finished setting up the tripod. Nothing moved but the water, for the whole one second exposure. It was perfect.”

“Yes,” Kippei agreed, softly. Shuusuke glanced up at him, surprise melting into shy pleasure.

“Today was all very short exposure,” he continued, busying himself with putting the album away. Kippei shook his head, affectionately. Every time he touched something important to Shuusuke for the first time, Shuusuke slipped around it for a while. “The shorter the exposure, generally, the sharper the image. And ice needs its edges to show the beauty.”

“Will you show me today’s pictures, when they’re ready?” Kippei asked. Shuusuke gave him a smile more brilliant than the reflected morning light outside, and nodded.

Kippei decided, as Shuusuke curled up against him to share all the blankets, that this wasn’t such a bad way to start a Sunday after all.

End

Tyger

Ohtori and Shishido finally come to terms with their attraction, and their partnership. Romance With Drama and Porn, I-4

Character(s): Ohtori Choutarou, Shishido Ryou

Pairing(s): Shishido/Ohtori

Choutarou had learned years ago that a cool response was his best revenge on hecklers. So, when one of the second years suggested that Shishido-san must have done some extraordinary favors for Atobe to have arranged for the Shishido-Ohtori pair to play, despite Choutarou only being a first year, he didn’t twitch. He wanted to feed the smirking bastard his own racquet, but he knew that wouldn’t help anything in the long run.

For one thing, he knew no one actually believed any such thing. Shishido-san’s… discussion with Atobe-senpai had been quite vehement and perfectly public. Half the club had hung around while Atobe-senpai had arranged for Choutarou and Shishido-san to play a match with the current Doubles Two pair. Their resulting win didn’t count toward team rankings, since it had been after actual club practice time, and theoretically their coach was not aware of it. But Choutarou was quietly permitted to play as a pair with Shishido-san again. He had known there would be resentment, as they advanced, even without Atobe-senpai’s silent warning just before their “trial” match began.

“If you think we aren’t strong enough to be candidates for the Regulars, you’re welcome to try proving it, Senpai,” Choutarou suggested, calmly, now. The smirk turned into a grimace, which made him feel a little better. What he spotted over the heckler’s shoulder made him feel a great deal better.

“That Shishido…” the second year spat, only to be cut off by a razor sharp voice behind him.

“Yeah? What about ‘that Shishido’?”

Choutarou couldn’t help a tiny smile as the heckler and his two friends whirled around to see Shishido-san leaning against the fence.

“You have a problem with me?” Shishido prodded, pushing away from the fence and advancing. “Or my partner?” he added, eyes narrowing.

He watched their disorderly retreat with a gleam of satisfaction, before sighing.

“It’s fun to watch ’em run, but there are times I wish I had your cool, Choutarou. Furokawa’s going to be a pain for weeks after this.”

Choutarou bit back his initial response, but then thought again. This was Shishido-san, after all. His partner. So.

“I’m glad you don’t, Shishido-san,” he said, quietly. Shishido-san turned toward him, one winged brow lifting.

“Why not?” he wanted to know.

“It’s… a cold way to be,” Choutarou explained. “You’re not a cold person.”

Shishido-san’s expressive mouth twisted, wryly.

“And you are?” he asked smacking Choutarou on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Don’t give me that, Choutarou. Maybe you can fool the rest of them, but I know you better.” Choutarou ducked his head.

“Yes. But you’re… you’re very passionate, Shishido-san. I’m not like that.”

They walked in silence until he turned toward the classroom buildings.

“You have something else today?” Shishido-san asked, surprised.

“I wanted some extra time to practice with the piano this week. The tutor said it would be all right for me to come in late, as long as I lock up behind me.”

“Yeah?” Shishido-san tipped his head to the side. “It bother you to have an audience?”

Choutarou was startled. Shishido-san had heard him play before, but usually by coincidence. He’d never asked to listen.

“It won’t bother me,” he said, at last, “though I’m afraid you’ll be bored.” Shishido-san’s mouth quirked.

“Doubt it.” He fell in beside Choutarou again.

All right, so Shishido-san didn’t look bored, as he slung himself into one of the chairs in the second music room while Choutarou started working through his warmups. That was good. It made it easier to slip into the music when he started practicing for real, listening, feeling, for the moments when the flow hitched, places he needed to go back and smooth. When he snuck a look at Shishido-san, between pieces, he looked relaxed and contemplative, eyes half shut. It was a rare look for Shishido-san to wear, but Choutarou had seen it enough to know it wasn’t boredom. In the end, he was comfortable enough to wrap up with a run through one of his own rare compositions.

He had written this one last year, trying to catch a moment in the music. It was a day he and Shishido-san had been playing each other, on one of the courts near Shishido-san’s house, and a storm had driven them under cover. Shishido-san had stood at the very edge of the pavilion, staring raptly at the sky and laughing with each especially impressive crack of thunder. He had leaned into the storm, the way Choutarou had seen him lean into a good opponent. The idea of playing a storm had taken Choutarou’s fancy, and he’d tried to sketch out, in music, what it might feel like.

He took a deep breath and let it out as the last chord slid through his fingers. The stillness just after was one of the things he played music for, the peace after the rush. When he looked up, he was almost surprised to see Shishido-san still there, eyes burning into him. Shishido-san stood, without speaking, came to Choutarou’s side, gripped his shoulder and shook him, gently.

“And you think you aren’t passionate? Choutarou, for a smart guy, you can be really dense sometimes. Just because you don’t show it in many ways doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” he said, seriously. “I haven’t seen you underestimate yourself very often. Don’t do it now.”

To hear that from the one person whose judgment Choutarou was willing to trust as he would his own laid peace over him as deep as the stillness after a good performance.

“Thank you, Shishido-san,” he murmured. Shishido-san smiled down at him, the small smile that meant something was going their way. The thought flickered across Choutarou’s mind that Shishido-san was close enough to kiss him.

He almost swallowed his tongue in startlement. Where had that come from?

“Choutarou?” Shishido asked, looking concerned. “You all right? You looked kind of odd for a second, there.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Choutarou assured him, automatically. “I think I just spaced out for a minute; it’s been a long day.”

“You can say that again, Mr. Two Club Overachiever,” Shishido-san teased. “We’d better get you home before you fall asleep on your feet.”

Choutarou laughed and agreed, but when he finally went to bed that night he didn’t go to sleep for a long time.

It was not news to him that he was powerfully drawn to his partner. When he had spoken of Shishido-san being passionate he had left out the parts about how it infused everything he did. Every gesture practically glowed with it, like the corona during an eclipse. It fascinated Choutarou, and all the more for the contrast it made with his own reserve and containment. Their complementary natures were as much what made them an outstanding doubles pair as the similarity of their drive and will to succeed.

Choutarou had thought that was all it was.

He decided to test it with a little thought experiment, of sorts. He closed his eyes on the dark room, and cast his mind back to himself sitting at the piano and Shishido-san standing beside him. How would he have felt if Shishido-san had closed that last distance, run his hand up Choutarou’s neck to tangle in his hair, leaned down and touched his lips to Choutarou’s…?

Tingling heat shot through him, curling low in his stomach. Choutarou’s eyes snapped open to stare at the darkness, breath fast, heart pounding. All right. So. Yes. He really was attracted to his partner. Fine.

Now, what on Earth was he going to do about it?

Choutarou’s thoughts insisted on running in circles, and they were starting to make him dizzy. The most reasonable thing he could do was decide whether he thought Shishido-san shared his attraction or not, and either tell him, in the first instance, or do his best to ignore it, in the second. The problem came in step one.

Shishido-san sought him out, even when they weren’t practicing. Shishido-san used a language of expressions that was just between them. Shishido-san acted like Choutarou’s wellbeing was an extension of his own, and cared for it as matter-of-factly. Those were things that Choutarou had seen established couples do. But it could easily be that Shishido-san did all that because they were a team, and friends, without being at all attracted to Choutarou. Then again, he touched Choutarou far more easily than he did anyone else. But, then again, it could just be…

Around and around.

And underneath it all, the intuition that he should just speak up, pushing against the fear of damaging what they already had.

The court was one of the few places he could put it all aside, because a game was a game and training was training, and nothing interfered with that. But Shishido-san was starting to notice his distraction whenever Choutarou stood still for more than a minute. There were a few things about which Shishido-san could show great patience, but his partner holding out on him did not seem to be one of them. It only took a few weeks before he cornered Choutarou while they were packing up after practice.

“All right, Choutarou, give. What’s got you so wound up, lately?” Shishido-san didn’t look up from zipping his bag, but his tone was not casual. Choutarou bit his lip.

“It’s nothing, Shishido-san, there’s just been something on my mind.”

“Yeah, I got that part. You’re throwing yourself into games like you don’t want to come out the other side.” Shishido-san blew out an exasperated sigh, and stood directly in front of Choutarou. “C’mon, what’s up?”

Choutarou couldn’t quite bring himself to look Shishido-san in the face when he was so close, and contented himself with examining his partner’s shoes instead. “It’s nothing. Really,” he murmured. He could hear the frown in Shishido-san’s voice, when he spoke.

“Choutarou, you’re starting to make me nervous, here. Come on, look at me.” When Choutarou didn’t look up, his voice lowered, half an order and half an entreaty, “Choutarou…”

That tone, and Shishido-san’s hands closing over his shoulders, drove Choutarou’s head up. Shishido-san was leaning forward, barely a hand-span away. His breath caught, and a shiver sheeted over him before he could stop it. Choutarou was sure his eyes were as wide as an animal’s caught in oncoming headlights.

Shishido-san was his partner, the one he willingly shared his mind and heart with when they played; he knew Choutarou. Choutarou felt apprehension, but no surprise, to see Shishido-san’s expression changing, the frown of irritation and concern giving way to surprise, to inquiry, to a thoughtful examination that finally faded into a look almost as wide-eyed as Choutarou’s own.

“You’re kidding me,” he said, softly.

Choutarou wanted to look away again, but since he couldn’t give himself a reason for doing so, any longer, besides cowardice, he swallowed hard and kept his eyes on Shishido-san’s. His partner was very still for twenty heartbeats; Choutarou counted them. And then one of Shishido-san’s hands rose to his chin, thumb settling against his cheek. Choutarou’s breath stopped entirely.

“You sure?” Shishido-san asked, tone gentler than ninety-eight percent of the tennis club would probably ever credit. Choutarou remembered Shishido-san asking him the same thing, the first time they had talked about just how close they were becoming. Warmth started in his chest, unlocking his lungs.

“Yes,” he whispered. Shishido-san’s thumb brushed over his mouth, and he had to close his eyes for a moment. When he looked up again, Shishido-san was smiling, crookedly.

“Is this what you’ve been so knotted up over?” he asked. When Choutarou nodded, Shishido-san shook his head.

“My partner, the brilliant idiot,” he said, mock-disgusted. “Even if I didn’t want you too, did you think I’d be upset about it or something?”

Choutarou felt a flush rising in his cheeks, and glanced aside as far as Shishido-san’s hand would let him.

“You should know better than that, by now,” his partner admonished. “And, anyway, if I’d had any idea you felt like this I would have done something about it a lot sooner, believe me.”

Choutarou looked back at Shishido-san, ruefully.

“Actually… I only realized a few weeks ago,” he admitted. Shishido-san leaned over him, laughing softly.

“Choutarou,” he chuckled, before his lips covered his partner’s.

It was… Shishido-san. Impulsive, and casual, and impatient. Sharp and sleek. Warm and open. And Choutarou relaxed into that warmth, the way he always did.

“Well,” Atobe-senpai murmured to Shishido-san, as practice broke up two days later, “that’s certainly one way to increase the effectiveness of your combination.”

“One more comment like that, Atobe, and I’m gonna see if that mouth of yours is big enough to fit your racquet into,” Shishido-san growled back.

Choutarou steadfastly made as if he hadn’t heard a thing, as Atobe-senpai strolled off, laughing low in his throat. He was deeply grateful that no one else seemed to have noticed anything; he really didn’t feel that it was anyone’s business but his and Shishido-san’s. As they headed toward Shishido-san’s house, it being his turn to host homework and snacks, Choutarou couldn’t help asking, though.

“Shishido-san, why are you and Atobe-senpai like that? I mean,” he hesitated, “you’re… friends… aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well,” Shishido-san snorted. Then his mouth quirked, reminiscently. “It goes back a long way. Atobe and I were in the same class almost from the start, and it was hate at first sight.” He glanced at Choutarou, with the tilt of brows that meant he was just a little embarrassed.”We’re both kind of attention hogs; even Atobe admits that, though he has different words for it, of course. I forget what we were even arguing about, actually. I do remember that he made one smart remark too many, and I hauled off and socked him one.” Shishido-san grinned, showing a lot of teeth, at what seemed to be a happy memory. “I also remember being surprised that he gave as good as he got.” The grin twisted. “Atobe has always fought dirty, unless he has a reason not to.”

Yes, Choutarou had noticed that. He’d spared a moment to be glad, every now and then, that being one of Atobe-senpai’s team was apparently sufficient reason.

“Well, one of the Elementary teachers had probably just been to a developmental psychology seminar, or something,” Shishido-san continued, a bit tartly, “because they shut us up in a room together to cool down.”

“Um,” Choutarou commented.

“Yeah. Thing was, in a way it worked. We didn’t spontaneously become buddies or anything like that, but we did agree that, while we hated each others guts, we were even more pissed off at the adults who thought we would fall for a set up like that.” Shishido-san shook his head. “The older I get, the more I understand why Tou-san says they couldn’t pay him enough to teach at Hyoutei. But it’s been like that ever since. We have enemies in common, goals in common. And he doesn’t try to wrap me around his finger, and I always give him straight answers.” Shishido-san shrugged. “It works out.”

Maybe, Choutarou reflected, as they made their way up to Shishido-san’s room, they had both needed someone to be open with. Really open.

They shed their bags, but Shishido-san stopped him before he could pull out his books.

“You have anything that needs doing right away?” he asked. A tingle danced down Choutarou’s spine.

“No,” he answered, softly, taking a small step toward his partner.

“Good.” Shishido-san smiled, slow and pleased, sapphire eyes darkening as he ran a hand up to the nape of Choutarou’s neck and tugged him down to a kiss.

Choutarou pressed a little closer to Shishido-san’s body, opening his mouth as the tip of Shishido-san’s tongue skated over his lower lip. Shishido-san seemed to take the hint, because his lips curved against Choutarou’s, and he pulled his partner down to his bed. Choutarou let out a tiny laugh when Shishido-san planted an elbow on either side of his head and just looked down at him with the glowing smile he gave Choutarou when they won a hard game. Choutarou reached up, and Shishido-san’s smile curled in just a little at the edges as Choutarou ran his hands through the brush of thick, silky hair. It was soft against his palms.

“You’re just going to look, Shishido-san?” he asked, moving one hand to touch his fingertips to his partner’s mouth. He gasped when Shishido-san captured one, delicately, between his teeth, touching back with his tongue.

“Mmm,” Shishido-san purred, letting go. “You mind if I touch?” His voice made Choutarou shiver, lower and huskier than usual, and the spark in his half-lidded eyes suggested just what kind of touching he meant.

“I don’t mind,” Choutarou whispered, a little breathless. He wasn’t entirely sure, himself, how far he was ready to let this go, but he wanted Shishido-san to touch him. He wanted to add the warmth of Shishido-san’s hands to the warmth of his partner’s simple presence and smile.

“The Student Council are sadists,” Shishido-san said, conversationally if a bit muffled against Choutarou’s throat, as his fingers worked their way down Choutarou’s shirt buttons. “They design these uniforms to be taken off, and then expect us to keep our minds on studying.”

Choutarou’s chuckle unraveled as Shishido-san’s hands stroked down his chest, brushing his shirt aside. His breath escaped on a soft aaaahh when Shishido-san slid down him to trace the muscles of his stomach with a warm tongue. His insides felt shivery, uncertain, as if he’d stepped into a fast elevator down. When Shishido-san bit down, gently, it felt like a static shock, and Choutarou arched up off the bed with a sharp sound.

“Shishido-san!”

His partner moved back up to kiss him, pressing him down with the comforting weight of his body.

“Too much?” Shishido-san asked.

“I…” Choutarou actually couldn’t make up his mind about that. He certainly didn’t want to stop. So he asked something else, instead. “Shishido-san… would you mind? If I touch?”

Shishido-san grinned, and rolled them both over, taking Choutarou above him. “Feel free,” he said.

The shirt was, as Shishido-san had pointed out, quick work, and Shishido-san made small, appreciative noises as Choutarou explored his chest with light fingers. It was when he got to the pants that Choutarou hesitated, glancing up at Shishido-san to make sure this would be all right. Holding Choutarou’s gaze, reassuring him more by action than any words could, Shishido-san reached down and unfastened the button and zipper himself before leaving it to Choutarou again. Choutarou had to tear his eyes away from his partner’s before he could continue.

Seeing Shishido-san lying naked on a bed was a very different matter than seeing him changing into or out of uniform, and it stopped Choutarou again, all his attention taken up with tracing the lines of Shishido-san’s body, dark against the white sheets. A soft laugh drew his eyes up to Shishido-san’s face, and his wicked smile, as he stretched like a cat, muscles shifting and flowing under his skin.

“Like what you see, Choutarou?” he asked, teasing.

Choutarou swallowed, and nodded, and came to him, touching his partner with something like wonder. Shishido-san’s skin was fine-grained, smooth as he stroked across it, and his partner sighed and stretched again under his hands. A pleased smile curled Choutarou’s own lips as he glanced down and noticed just how much Shishido-san was enjoying this. Slowly, hesitating a little, he reached down and curled his fingers around Shishido-san’s length.

“Choutarou,” Shishido-san breathed, harshly. “Oh, yeah.”

Choutarou stroked him, gently. He hadn’t quite realized, touching himself, how soft this skin was, and feeling the heat of someone else’s arousal against his palm was… very different. He was breathing almost as fast as Shishido-san. Small things lodged themselves in his memory: the flex of Shishido-san’s moan; the line of Shishido-san’s leg as he drew one knee up; Shishido-san’s hands fisting in the sheets, not trying to return anything yet, leaving this moment to Choutarou; the arch of Shishido-san’s throat as he threw his head back, suddenly voiceless, hips thrusting up into Choutarou’s hand; the way Shishido-san was still hot to his touch when he finally fell back, panting.

Choutarou was just starting to wonder about the mechanics of cleaning them up when Shishido-san slitted his eyes open and laughed. He fished around the headboard of the bed without looking, and extracted a box of tissues. When Shishido-san had applied those and tossed them over the side, he pressed Choutarou down and kissed him slowly.

“So, can I return the favor?” he asked, his tone playful but his eyes serious.

“I’d like that,” Choutarou said, softly.

“See? I told you you were, so, passionate,” Shishido-san observed as he stripped off Choutarou’s remaining clothing. “Or maybe I should just say aggressive.”

“Shishido-san,” Choutarou laughed, feeling a blush cross his cheeks.

“Hmmm.” Shishido-san covered Choutarou’s body with his own, drawing a quiet gasp from Choutarou, before he spoke again. “You know, all things considered, it’s probably all right to be a little less formal now.”

Choutarou blinked up at him for a moment before he actually understood. The formalities were so automatic for him… But his partner had a point.

“Shishido,” he essayed, a little shyly. His partner’s bare name in his mouth somehow felt more intimate than the bare skin against his own.

“Mm. Better,” his partner purred, nudging Choutarou’s head up so he could lick teasingly at the tender skin under his jaw.

Choutarou closed his eyes. If what he wanted was the openness that his partner offered him so freely, it was only right… And this was his partner, he was safe here…

“Ryou,” he whispered. He heard his partner’s breath catch, and then he was being kissed, hard, caught up against Ryou’s body so tight he almost couldn’t breathe, though he didn’t miss it just then, kissed again and again.

“Choutarou.” His partner’s voice was rough against his ear.

Choutarou was still a bit dazed when Ryou slid down his body, but Ryou’s fingers stroking him hard focused his attention. The hot, wet slide of Ryou’s tongue licking up his length, delicately as he might an ice cream cone he wanted to make last, knocked him back again. He shuddered at the soft, quick touches, moaning when the heat of Ryou’s mouth finally closed around him. That heat raced through him, snatching him up like a wave ready to throw him to shore, and the speed of it might have frightened him without Ryou’s hands to steady him, remind him of who was with him. Choutarou closed his own hands, hard, on Ryou’s arms and let the wave of heat and pressure and pleasure take him, lift him, cast him forward and out of himself.

Ryou was holding him when the tremors running through him finally relaxed, and he turned his head into his partner’s shoulder, shaken but pleased.

“All right?” Ryou asked, quietly. Choutarou nodded, and a thought struck him, prompted by the knowledge in his partner’s voice when he asked.

“You’ve… done this before.”

“Yeah; a fling here and there at the seminars and camps,” Ryou answered, shrugging.

“I think I’m glad for that,” Choutarou murmured, wrapping an arm around Ryou’s waist. His partner chuckled.

“Good.”

Choutarou lay, thinking about how comfortable Ryou’s arms around him, and Ryou’s hand rubbing his back, were. Comfortable, comforting, warm and natural. Intimate. He stirred.

“Ryou?” he started, still shy with his partner’s name.

“Mm?” There was a happy, satisfied grin in that small noise, and Choutarou smiled before biting his lip.

“Will you mind if I call you by your family name, at school, still?” he asked, softly. “It’s… this is…”

“Personal,” Ryou finished for him, holding him tighter. “Of course I won’t mind.”

“Thank you.” Choutarou settled a little closer, into peace deeper than he had ever felt, even with his music. Clearly, he thought, smiling to himself, the closeness and the touching hadn’t been just because Ryou was his partner.

Clearly, there was no “just” about their partnership.

End

Simple

A little Momoshiro introspective about how he manages to be friends with Ryouma. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Echizen Ryouma, Momoshiro Takeshi

Pairing(s): Momoshiro/Ryouma

Momoshiro Takeshi considered himself a straightforward sort of guy. He didn’t bother to hide what he thought much, and he liked the friends he made by being outgoing and cheerful. He didn’t stand on formality, and if that caused certain stiff-necked classmates of his to call him an annoying idiot, well Momo knew that he gave respect where it was due and accepted it where he’d earned it, and that was good enough for him.

Which could be why he’d gotten along with Echizen Ryouma right from the start. They had very similar approaches, that way.

It was one of the more interesting things, to Momo, about their friendship. He was outgoing and outspoken, while Echizen was self-contained and sparing with his words. Momo, despite his casual ways, was really quite proper most of the time, while Echizen, despite his genuine respect for skill and accomplishment, mouthed off to absolutely everyone. And yet, somehow, they were always in the same place, always looking the same way, always knowing what the other would do.

Kachirou had mentioned, once, that it was strange Momo and Ryouma still couldn’t play doubles to save their lives, since they seemed to understand and predict each other so well. Momo had replied that that wasn’t enough for good doubles, especially when what they could unfailingly predict was that both of them would go for the ball no matter where it landed. Kachirou had agreed, ruefully, that Momo had a point.

In fact, the only one Momo had seen who could play doubles with Echizen was Kachirou himself. And that highlighted the difference, of course. Kachirou played as support to Echizen, and he did it well because he’d spent so long watching how Echizen played. Momo knew how Echizen played, too, but Kachirou… orbited Echizen. Ryouma was the primary in that relationship. And neither Momo nor Ryouma would ever do that for each other. For them, Momo decided, extending his astronomy metaphor, it was more like a double star, both turning around a common center. Not that determination to win generated gravity. Or, maybe it did…

An elbow in the ribs interrupted his musing.

“Momo-senpai, quit dozing off and work on the English,” Echizen directed from where he was propped against Momo’s back, reading his Japanese textbook.

Momo sighed. “Right, right, whatever you say. Buchou.”

Ryouma reached over his head and noogied Momo.

Despite his startlement, Momo could hold back a delighted grin. Lately, Ryouma had been descending to physical retaliation, in their teasing; it was almost as good as having another little brother. Momo thought it was probably because Ryouma was afraid of losing contact, with Momo gone from the club. His sister had acted a little the same, when Momo had started junior high and wasn’t in the same school with his siblings anymore. Whatever the cause, it meant that, every now and then, Momo actually won.

Thinking of his brother gave Momo an idea, and he reached around his side and crooked his fingers in Ryouma’s ribs.

A stifled squeak answered, and half a second later Ryouma was on the other side of the room, plastered against the wall, glaring at him.

“You’re that ticklish?” Momo asked, hugely amused.

“Of course I’m not ticklish,” Ryouma snapped. Momo recognized the spinal-reflex, defensive denial, and grinned more broadly. Ryouma glowered.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t let on,” Momo assured him.

Ryouma gave him a very suspicious look.

“After all, I have to keep some advantages to myself,” Momo finished.

Ryouma now looked like his worst suspicions had been confirmed.

“You worry too much, Echizen,” Momo told him. “C’mon, homework.” He patted the floor next to where Ryouma’s book had fallen.

Ryouma didn’t budge a centimeter. Momo sighed a little. Looked like he’d found another gap. Most of the time, he and Ryouma could have their little brawls without worrying, because Ryouma gave as good as he got; it passed the time until they encountered an outsider they could cooperate to take down. Every now and then, though, Momo stumbled across some gap in Echizen’s poise. The first one had been Karupin, and he still remembered being startled at how badly Ryouma’s cool attitude had shattered when his cat was missing. Feeling the slightest bit vulnerable did not seem to be something Ryouma did with any grace whatsoever. Momo held out a hand.

“Come on, Ryouma,” he said, more gently. “You know I wouldn’t.” Wouldn’t attack his friend in a weak spot anywhere except on the court. Wouldn’t deliberately hurt him.

Ryouma tucked his head down, and didn’t say anything, but did come back across the room and settled down beside Momo with his book. Momo smiled, wryly, down at his friend’s bent head. Not quite like having another little brother, he decided. He understood Ryouma better than he did his brother, most of the time, and Ryouma was more willing to be coaxed. Not that a single other person would believe him about that last, but it was still true. Under certain circumstances, Ryouma was also more willing to be protected. As long as Momo was casual about it, Ryouma would let Momo protect him when it came to one of those little gaps.

No, not quite like a brother.

Ryouma leaned against his shoulder, silently, and Momo leaned back, reaching for his homework again.

End

Twist

Ryouma encounters someone who jars his view of what tennis is, and has a few revelations in the aftermath, some less comfortable than others. Drama With Almost Romance, I-4

Character(s): Echizen Ryouma, Momoshiro Takeshi

Pairing(s): Momoshiro/Ryouma

As soon as this Matsueda character had shown up at the street court, Momo had figured he was bad news. He had the contemptuous smirk of someone looking to make trouble, but he hadn’t moved right away, and it was a bad sign when troublemakers stopped to think first. He’d waited, watching the other players, and finally approached Echizen for a game. Even though Echizen didn’t play at speed on street courts like this, unless someone really got his goat, it was clear to Momo that Matsueda had pegged Echizen as the best player present. And, of course, the day Echizen turned down a challenge would be the day there was a blizzard in July. Momo had still disliked the look of Matsueda enough to murmur in Echizen’s ear to keep an eye out, even if it did make his friend give him the raised eyebrow.

By the end of the third volley, Momo was sure there would be trouble.

When Echizen switched to his left hand at the end of the first game, Momo’s jaw tightened. A whisper swept around the court; the ones who played in this area regularly knew, by now, what it meant. This challenger was good.

And he was, Momo had to admit. Not good enough to win against Momo himself, and certainly not good enough to win against Echizen. But good enough to make Echizen smile.

Normally.

Echizen wasn’t smiling now.

Momo swore silently. He knew what was wrong. He’d met a few of Matsueda’s kind before; even played one, once, and regretted it after. But he didn’t think Echizen ever had. Oh, he’d played plenty of the crazy ones, the ones who were out of control and dangerous. Heck, he’d been on the same team with Fuji-senpai, and Momo hadn’t even taken a whole year to figure out that Fuji-senpai would have been one of the crazy ones if Tezuka-buchou hadn’t, somehow, steadied him.

But even the craziest had respected the game, or at least they had once Echizen was done with them. A real challenge, the chance to gain the respect of someone brilliant… that did it every time. Forged a connection in the heat and glee and craziness of the game itself. Even that lunatic Akutsu had responded to that, and it had eventually brought him back to the game once everyone had the brains to stop nagging him.

Momo remembered being concerned during that game, too, worried that the nut case Echizen was playing would cross the bounds of the game, worried how Echizen would deal with an opponent who held the game itself in contempt. But, in the end, Echizen had broken through. Echizen had seen past Akutsu’s derision to the desperate, frantic desire for a real challenge underneath, and, in his own inimitable way, had kept hammering until he’d reached it. Momo remembered going from being a bit worried about Akutsu’s dismissive contempt to being a little alarmed at his absolute, devouring, manic focus on Ryouma, once the game heated up. At no point had Momo really been surprised, though. Even then, he’d taken it pretty much for granted that Echizen could hold any fire barehanded, on the court.

But not this time.

This time, it was acid, not fire, and Momo didn’t like to think what might happen if Echizen grasped it. There was a vicious edge to Matsueda’s smile that got sharper every time he pulled out another move, pushed Echizen a little harder. A fast drop shot; a respectable smash; a sly, curving slice that came in deceptively slow. For all Matsueda’s skill, though, Momo could see that the true center of his attention was elsewhere. By the end of the third game he thought Echizen had seen it too. Momo would have bet a week’s tab at McDonald’s that it had only taken so long because the very idea was so utterly alien. The ones he’d played who thought like that, that Momo knew about, had always been pretenders; no real talent, no challenge.

Echizen stood for a moment, before he served, staring at his opponent.

“What’s the matter kid?” Matsueda called. “Getting scared?”

Echizen’s hand clenched around the ball, and Momo snorted. It was probably the best thing the bastard could have said right then.

The best thing for Echizen, at least.

Echizen’s mouth set hard, under the shadow of his cap, and Momo knew he had laid aside his disturbance for later. The line of his body and the flash of his eyes as he cast the ball up said that now was the time to end this.

The last games rushed by in a flare of power and finesse that left Matsueda’s jaw hanging. Despite his own misgivings, Momo could help a smirk as the man slunk off at the end of the set, chased by the grins and condolences of the other players. The grin faded as he watched Echizen pack up, too. Momo zipped up his own bag and silently fell in beside his friend as Echizen left the court.

Echizen never exactly chatted, but his quiet now made Momo uncomfortable. Despite that, he didn’t press for conversation; it wasn’t the time. He watched Echizen as they walked, following his path without comment. They weren’t exactly going in circles, but every time they went a little closer to Echizen’s house, his friend managed to take the next turn in another direction. Momo was just wondering whether he should nudge Echizen toward the school and let him walk around the track until he wore himself out, when they fetched up in a playground between his house and Echizen’s.

Echizen finally stood still, there, and Momo eyed him, considering whether it was time to push. A violent shudder ripped through Echizen, dropping his bag off his shoulder, and he started moving again, pacing between one hollow cement animal and another. Momo’s mouth thinned.

“He didn’t care,” Echizen said, voice tight, spinning on his heel for another round.

“No, he didn’t,” Momo agreed, quietly. Ryouma whirled on him.

“How?” His eyes, even in the low light, were shadowed, wide and hurt. “How can you be any good and not care? Somehow?”

The drawn look and voice were too much for Momo, and he took the two strides forward that would bring him to Echizen, and pulled his friend close. Now he could feel just how tense Echizen was, almost shivering with it. Ryouma didn’t protest, for which Momo was belatedly glad; his friend still wasn’t quite as tall as Momo, but he wasn’t tiny anymore, either. If he were upset enough to strike out it wouldn’t have been fun. But the fact that Echizen stood still in his hold, neither stiffening nor grumbling at him, more than anything, told Momo just how upset Ryouma was. He sighed and leaned back against the climbing tower, tugging Ryouma with him. He’d known Echizen wouldn’t understand it; so, how to explain?

“I asked Ryuuzaki-sensei that, after the first time I played someone like that myself,” he recalled, after a bit. “She said it just happens, sometimes.”

Ryouma stirred against him, and Momo heard a shadow of his usual sniff of contempt.

“She said,” he continued, encouraged, “that there are two kinds of players who are bad. Bad for everyone else, dangerous to the game. One is the kind who has a whole lot of talent but no challenge. She said that those are the ones who don’t respect anyone else, and do stupid or dangerous or cruel things because they’re bored. Like they’re trying to provoke someone into stopping them.”

Echizen nodded, faintly. Momo had figured that description would ring a bell.

“The other is the kind who has talent, but only sees the game as a means to an end. Not something they enjoy for itself, just something that lets them get something else they want.”

Echizen stood very, very still for a long moment.

“Like I was,” he said, at last, muffled, “before Tezuka-buchou…”

Momo’s arms tightened in automatic response to the blank emptiness of that usually sardonic voice. His first instinct was to deny it completely, because, damn it, he’d always seen more than that in Ryouma from the first moment they laid eyes on each other. But he hadn’t spent a year as team captain without learning to face unpleasant thoughts, and he was sure that if he was anything less than totally honest right now Ryouma would ignore him entirely.

“If Tezuka-buchou hadn’t gotten through to you, you might have been,” he answered, carefully. “Eventually. But I can’t believe you would have gone much longer, anyway, without meeting someone who could show you what else tennis could be.” He puffed a little laugh against the raven-wing hair beside his cheek. “You had too much fun with it, even if you wouldn’t admit it yet.”

He felt, rather than heard, Ryouma’s answering laugh, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“All you can do is what you did,” he concluded. “Beat them fast and go on.”

Echizen slumped against him, head thumping down on Momo’s shoulder.

“Great,” Ryouma muttered.

Momo grinned and ruffled his hair, and this time Ryouma swatted at his hand with a growl and pulled away to stand upright. Momo was impressed all over again with his friend’s resilience. He’d needed a few days of not playing anyone but his teammates to get over his own encounter with tennis slime. As they collected their bags and walked on he thought the atmosphere had lightened enough to tease Echizen about having fast recovery time. Ryouma blushed and glowered at him.

“Momo-senpai…” he drawled, threateningly.

“When are you going to get a girlfriend, anyway?” Momo prodded at him, having to choke back a snicker at the shudder and grimace he got in response.

“Never!” Ryouma’s response was particularly heartfelt, and Momo figured his little fanclub must have been especially shrill this week.

“Boyfriend?” Momo suggested, helpfully, and got an elbow in the ribs for his trouble. The familiar chaffing made them both smile.

“Seriously, though,” he added, “I knew you could handle it. After as many of the crazy kind as you’ve come up against, the slime are just a nasty shock. Not a challenge.” Momo shot a sidelong look of satisfaction at Echizen.

“Haven’t been that many,” Echizen objected with a small shrug. Momo snorted.

“Yeah? Just think for a minute about how many people you’ve played who fit that first description.”

Echizen tucked his hands in his pockets and slouched along thoughtfully for the block that remained before the turning that would take each of them home by separate ways. Momo expected an absent good night, or possibly a smart remark about the relative sanity of tennis players. He did not expect Echizen to stop short at the intersection, and stand as if turned to stone. Momo, looking over in surprise, caught a haunted, sick expression on Ryouma’s face before he shuttered it.

“Echizen?” he asked, startled. Ryouma swallowed twice.

“I don’t want to go home yet,” he whispered at last, turning sharply away from his street.

Calculations cascaded through Momo’s mind, starting with just how long someone in Echizen’s excellent shape could stay up, walking, if he decided to; touching on the number of times he’d seen emotion that open from Ryouma, a very small figure; and finishing with the best way to actually get some sleep while not leaving his friend alone with whatever thought had hit him so hard.

“You can come home with me, if you want,” he offered.

Ryouma blinked up at him, and Momo gave him a half-smile in reply, turning toward his own street.

“Come on,” he directed. As he’d hoped, the peremptory tone broke Echizen out of his paralysis, and if his friend gave him a dark look he still came along. They were about half way there when Momo remembered that his sister had friends over to stay, this being Saturday, and wondered whether they had left so much as a spare blanket, let alone a spare futon.

They hadn’t.

There was one extra pillow sitting, lonely, on the shelf of the linen closet. It was, Momo reflected with some resignation, better than a bus provided and he and Echizen had managed to nap on plenty of those. Echizen barely seemed to notice, accepting the t-shirt Momo offered and climbing into bed, when Momo scooted over to make room, with a somewhat abstract look on his face. When Momo turned on his side to give them both a little more kicking space, Ryouma turned his head on the pillow and gazed at him for a long moment. The large, dark eyes seemed to swallow what little light was in the room and Momo laid a hand on Ryouma’s shoulder, questioning. Ryouma grunted and turned over too, putting his back to Momo.

Momo smiled and let his hand stay on his friend’s shoulder as they settled down to sleep.

He woke, slightly disoriented, when sunrise speared light through the blinds he hadn’t closed all the way. It took several seconds to pin down the cause of the disorientation. He remembered right away that Ryouma was next to him. He wasn’t in quite the same place, however.

Ryouma had, in fact, turned over, managing to steal most of the covers, and burrowed against Momo’s chest. He had also managed to throw an arm over Momo’s ribs without in any way compromising his possession of the blanket. Momo snorted, and let himself drift back to sleep. He knew better than to try and get the covers back, and Ryouma himself was warm enough. He had no idea how long he dozed, but he was jarred to partial alertness when Ryouma woke up and stiffened with a start. Still half asleep, Momo responded with the protective reflex that had always run hand in hand with his competitive reflex where Ryouma was concerned.

“Sh. ‘S okay,” he mumbled, rubbing Ryouma’s back soothingly.

Ryouma didn’t relax in the least. Momo woke up a bit further, recalling that he had reason to be concerned for his friend, and tightened his hold.

“Ryouma,” he murmured, “it’s all right.”

For a long moment Ryouma was so still Momo wondered if he was breathing, and then his head tilted a bit, hair brushing Momo’s collar bone.

“Is it?” he asked. His tone was soft, hesitant. Momo had no idea what was behind that question; he was only sure that whatever it was struck deep. Ryouma usually covered any uncertainty with an easy sang froid, or else overwhelmed it with fiery determination. Was it all right? Was what all right? How could he answer?

One corner of his mind, slightly more awake than the others, perhaps, noted sharply that he could damn well answer the way he always answered when Echizen needed help.

Calmness settled over Momo’s internal dithering. If he didn’t know what had moved Ryouma to actually ask for reassurance, he did know that he would back his friend up, whatever it turned out to be. That was all he needed to know right now.

“Yes,” he answered, with certainty. “It is.”

Ryouma let go a tiny breath, and slowly, like stretching a sore muscle first thing at morning practice, relaxed. His back loosened; his head settled into the curve of Momo’s shoulder; the hand Momo hadn’t realized was clenched in the cotton over his side let go; a faint shiver completed the progression, and Ryouma lay quiet against him.

Now it was Momo who had the urge to hold his breath, rather than break the moment. The warmth of Ryouma’s trust, more than even he had ever been given before, stole over him like the sunlight creeping across the bed. He gathered Ryouma closer, and pressed his lips silently to the morning-ruffled hair. Ryouma settled himself a bit more comfortably, with a very faint sigh, and they were still. The shrieks and crashes of his sister and her friends getting up and fed came and went with only the smallest twitch from Ryouma at the especially impressive bangs.

At last, though, Ryouma stirred, and Momo loosened his hold. He propped his head up on one hand as Ryouma flopped over onto his back and looked up at him. Ryouma’s expression was… odd. Almost wistful. Almost scared. Maybe a little sad and a little hopeful. Momo had to quash a strong urge to catch Ryouma back into his arms and not let go. Normally, Ryouma could be counted on to whap him over the head for doing any such thing. Momo wasn’t sure what would happen if he did it this morning.

Ryouma lifted a hand and laid it on Momo’s chest, light and tentative. Momo had to close his eyes for a second, before he covered Ryouma’s hand with his own. A smile lightened Ryouma’s eyes. Momo wondered, not for the first time, whether Ryouma had started wearing his beloved cap when he played in order to hide those expressive eyes that showed every thought and feeling unless he was very careful.

“Good morning, Momo,” Ryouma said, quietly. Momo ran his fingers through Ryouma’s hair, and, for once, Ryouma accepted the gesture.

“Good morning, Ryouma,” Momo answered.

End

Ripple

The day after the events of “Twist”, Ryouma tries to sort out his thoughts. Drama With Slight Romance, I-3

Character(s): Echizen Ryouma

Ryouma scrunched down in his bath until the water was at his nose and contemplated the surface of it.

It had been a strange weekend. First the game with Whatshisname, which had set him off balance pretty badly, and then the talk with Momo, and then this morning… Every time he had to deal with Momo’s sister he was glader than ever that Nanako was so much older than he was. And not his sister. And not crazy. Maybe girls didn’t become sane until they grew up.

The day itself had been better. He and Momo had wandered around, and a bit of luck had come his way when they stumbled over a few of Fudoumine. He’d had a pretty decent game against Ibu. And another against Kamio, once he’d managed to actually get Kamio’s attention off of his staring contest with Momo. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure they had thought it was a good game; they’d been too out of breath to say.

Momo probably thought Ryouma hadn’t heard him thank them.

Ryouma lifted a hand out of the water and watched drops patter back down.

He knew Momo was a little worried about him, still. He’d insisted on walking Ryouma home, and it had been hard to miss the sidelong looks. He supposed Momo had a reason; Ryouma had kind of freaked out last night.

He leaned back with a sigh and poked at the thought that had been lying in the back of his mind ever since. Was his dad one of the crazy ones?

He didn’t remember, now, when it had started. It might even have always been this way, that every effort of his, on the court, was met with the same words. Some variation on You’ll never beat me like that; nope, a hundred years too early. And he knew what the real message in that taunt was: defeat me—if you really think you can. It was a dare. Pushing him down to make him push back harder. There was a name for that, in English, Ryouma remembered reading it somewhere. Ah, yes. Reverse psychology.

Ryouma snorted and swished a hand, impatiently, though the water. What a load of crap. He also knew perfectly well why it worked, when he thought about it. It was the dishonesty that got him mad. The way that never-changing formula pretended that any progress Ryouma might be making was negligible, invisible. Ryouma was capable of tracking his own progress, and he knew he was starting to close in. And he was bound and determined, and had been for years, to beat his dad completely enough that he couldn’t brush it off or say it was a fluke, that he would be forced to acknowledge the truth!

Ryouma frowned at the water. What a stupid reason to play tennis.

He pushed a wave of water away from him, watched it rebound, caught a little bit of it and pushed it back again. It wasn’t a motive that would ever open up the game to him, a fact that pissed him off more the better he understood it. He’d been going stale before he came to Seigaku. He could see that, now. He hadn’t been playing tennis, he’d been pursuing a vendetta. Like that would get him anywhere! What had his dad been thinking, anyway? He was just damn lucky that Ryouma really did like this game he had a talent for and had found people to remind him of that, because otherwise Ryouma would have been stuck right there in the same place, without being able to move forward or to win or do anything but keep trashing the small fry and never understanding why he couldn’t reach any further, watching his dad lose interest and…

He slapped a hand down, splashing water up, violently, and sucked in a long breath. It was all right. It hadn’t happened. He’d come to Seigaku, and found good people to play against and with, and Tezuka-buchou had seen and understood. Ryouma folded his arms on the edge of the bath and rested his head on them. He had a sudden wish to be with his captain. Not even to play a game, necessarily; just being around Tezuka calmed him down, made everything seem a little clearer, a little cleaner. He didn’t always say out loud what the point of his orders was, but his challenges to Ryouma, and his wish for Ryouma, was always clear and straightforward, and Ryouma could trust that the point was always the benefit of the team and its players. He could trust that Tezuka-buchou’s praise or cautions or reprimands actually meant something.

It would be nice if he could trust his dad like that.

But his dad didn’t think like Tezuka-buchou. His dad had never shown him that the game could be more than just beating some particular opponent, that there was a core to it, a spirit to it that went beyond that. Maybe his dad couldn’t show him. Ryouma supposed he might give his dad the benefit of the doubt and figure that his dad knew that too—that it was why he had sent Ryouma to Seigaku. But he didn’t know if he wanted to give his dad the benefit of anything, just now. After a day of simmering, the thought that had hit him hardest, last night, was starting to take on a shape Ryouma could grasp, and the edges on it were sharp.

To taunt and dare, to make himself into the enemy, to drive with insults… Ryouma could see a teacher doing that. Not a nice teacher, maybe not a good teacher, at least Ryouma had never seen that work too well when Mr. Cotswold or Yoshida-sensei did it, but a teacher that the student had come to and said ‘I want to learn this thing you know’. There was a… a deal made, there, on both sides, and everyone more or less knew what they were getting into.

A teacher, maybe. But a father?

Ryouma twisted against the edge on that thought. It cut.

Did he really have a father anymore? Did his dad even see Ryouma as his son, anymore, or just as the one who might, possibly, finally, give him a real game? A real challenge. Even a real defeat. The better he played, the worse it seemed to get. Oh, yeah, his dad got all bright-eyed, but it didn’t feel like that was because he was proud of Ryouma. It felt like the eagerness Ryouma saw in his opponents. And from them it felt right; that was what they were to each other. But a father? That wasn’t how Kachirou’s dad looked at his son, when they grinned and gave each other a thumbs up. It was a lot closer to how Akutsu had looked at Ryouma the first time they played.

That, that was the thought that had kept him huddled against Momo this morning.

Ryouma blinked down at the water in front of his nose. Weird. Remembering this morning was actually making him feel a little better. Like he could breathe again. Like…

Like someone was holding him.

Ryouma snorted a laugh. If he ever admitted to Momo that his protective streak made Ryouma feel better, he’d be doomed. Probably for life. Momo would never again believe Ryouma was serious when he grumbled or swatted Momo away. Still, he admitted to himself, turning over to stare up at the ceiling, it had felt… nice that Momo took the trouble to comfort him.

If Momo stopped believing Ryouma was serious, Ryouma supposed, as he climbed out of the bath, he could deal with that. Heck, maybe he could even deal with the rest of it. Maybe.

End

The Winner Is…

Mizuki and Fuji play head games with each other. Psychological Drama with Porn, I-5, D/s overtones

Character(s): Fuji Shuusuke, Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime

Pairing(s): Fuji/Mizuki, Mizuki/Yuuta/Mizuki

Mizuki Hajime knew that Shuusuke had had a bad day. Even if he hadn’t known from other sources, one look at the way he was walking would have told the story: stride a bit longer than usual, feet coming down a touch too emphatically.

More significantly, he was walking alone.

All of which meant that Hajime had chosen what should be the right time for his approach. It was hard to be sure, with Shuusuke. But, then, that was what this was all about. And Shuusuke had just come close enough to identify who was leaning against the wall of this particular, usefully deserted, stretch of his way home, which meant it was time to begin. Hajime swallowed his nerves and called out.

“Shuusuke. How good to see you again.” Shuusuke didn’t acknowledge his presence by so much as the twitch of an eyebrow. Perfect. “Why, Shuusuke, I’m injured,” Hajime added, “and here everyone always says you have such excellent manners, even when you’re angry. Or, should I say, especially when you’re angry.”

Shuusuke checked in front of him and spoke without turning his head.

“Don’t overestimate the tolerance afforded you because you’re keeping Yuuta company.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Hajime replied, hoping that he was speaking the truth. “You’re very careful of your brother’s things. Do you think he’s all that averse to sharing?” That got Shuusuke to look at him, disbelief flickering briefly in the hard, brilliant blue.

“Excuse me?” Shuusuke said, as though he thought he might genuinely have misheard. Hajime smiled. He knew perfectly well that the thought of touching anything belonging to his brother truly never would cross Shuusuke’s mind. Shuusuke was predictable when it came to Yuuta—and only when it came to Yuuta. If he was lucky, Shuusuke wouldn’t know how sure Hajime was of that, though.

“Yuuta knows I want you, too,” he explained smoothly. “I told him.”

And that turned Shuusuke all the way toward him, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“What?”

Hajime leaned back a little more ostentatiously against the wall.

“He asked. I told him. Surely,” he looked at Shuusuke through his lashes, “you wouldn’t want me to be dishonest with him.” Before Shuusuke calmed himself enough to dissect that particularly specious bit of logic chopping, Hajime continued in a thoughtful tone. “I was a bit distracted at the time, but if I recall correctly, I mentioned that I expected to get you, too, because I can give you something you want.”

A subtle snarl twisted Shuusuke’s mouth.

“And what,” he inquired, low and cutting, “could you imagine you might have that I would want?”

He was still too far away, Hajime decided. One more goad, then, and pray he got the timing right.

“Well, I have Yuuta, for one,” he noted. Shuusuke took one long step toward him, and he forced the next sentence past the tightness in his chest. “But you’re right, it isn’t something I have.”

Shuusuke paused, less than arm’s reach from him, and Hajime breathed again.

“It’s what you want,” he said, quietly, “and what I can give you.”

Shuusuke raised a devastatingly eloquent eyebrow. The part of Hajime’s mind that insisted on focusing on inconsequentialities wondered whether he had learned that by observing Atobe. But this was the first critical moment, and it was only a tiny part. He reached out and laced his fingers lightly through Shuusuke’s. Taking Shuusuke’s hands with him, he raised his own and laid them back against the wall by his head.

“Control,” he murmured. “Anything you want. Anything you choose.”

From Shuusuke’s sudden stillness, he knew he had called it right. Exultation that he had the pattern correct battled with anxiety over what his being correct meant for the near future. But just the first step wasn’t enough for him, and he didn’t, quite, want to stop. Shuusuke was leaning in just a bit, starting to press his hands into the brick.

“Anything?” he repeated, and there was a darker edge to the soft voice now. Hajime bit down a shudder; not yet.

“Anything,” he agreed.

“And you get what out of this? You enjoy being controlled?” There was disbelief in Shuusuke’s tone, and Hajime had to admit it was justified. He answered with part of the truth, the part that he hoped would see him through this in one piece.

“I enjoy power. Strength. Having it is nice. Being touched by it is… also enjoyable. You are very strong.”

Shuusuke was leaning harder now, hands closed around Hajime’s wrists.

“Strong enough that even throwing yourself on my non-existent mercy excites you?” he asked, pleasantly.

Now Hajime released the shudder, let his smirk slip away to show the fear and anticipation underneath as he raised his eyes to Shuusuke’s.

“It terrifies me,” he said with complete honesty. “I don’t have any illusions about you, Shuusuke. You made sure I wouldn’t. But I want this.”

The sharp eyes drilled into him, as Shuusuke closed the last distance between them. He lowered his head and ran his lips down Hajime’s neck, nuzzled past his unbuttoned collar.

Bit down savagely.

Hajime jerked sharply against the body pressing his to the wall, a harsh choke drawing out into a groan as Shuusuke’s lips slid softly back up. He slumped back against the brick, trembling under Shuusuke’s hands, breathing fast. Waiting for what Shuusuke would choose. Shuusuke drew back enough to study him.

“You really are serious,” he observed.

“Yes,” Hajime whispered, leaning his head against the wall.

The slow smile that curved Shuusuke’s mouth would have sent any sane person running, very far and very fast. Just as well, probably, that Hajime had never made any strong claims to sanity when he was in pursuit of a goal he wanted.

“Come with me.” Shuusuke led the way toward his house, and Hajime followed. No one else was home, which Hajime took as a sign of favor from fate. Shuusuke led him up to his bedroom and gestured, as if politely, for Hajime to precede him. Suspecting what the point of this was, Hajime didn’t turn around once he had entered.

He was distantly pleased with another correct perception when he felt Shuusuke against his back, and arms reached around him. Long fingers undid the knot of his tie, worked loose the buttons of his shirt, and then the button of his slacks, delicately drew away his clothing and only brushed his skin every now and then. Shuusuke’s fingers sliding over his stomach made the muscles twist and jump in response, and Hajime struggled to breathe. Shuusuke’s hands on his shoulders guided him to the bed, pressed him down on his back.

Shuusuke stood back, regarding him for a long moment, and then briskly stripped off his own clothes. Hajime let out his breath, with silent thanks to all the gods he didn’t believe in. There had been a high probability that Shuusuke would choose sex over outright violence. It paralleled Hajime’s relationship with Yuuta in a way that would appeal to Shuusuke’s mind, whether he admitted it or not. But the probability hadn’t been high enough for Hajime to have real confidence in it.

Having some idea of where things were going gave Hajime a measure of equanimity as Shuusuke gathered his wrists in one hand and pinned them over his head. Another long look, another unnerving smile, and Shuusuke ran his other hand down Hajime’s thigh, up his side.

Gently.

Hajime’s eyes widened as the gentleness of Shuusuke’s touch registered. Soft caresses, firm enough not to tickle, soothing his body, seducing him toward pleasure. Shuusuke’s eyes glinted down at him.

“So?”

Such a small word to contain so much challenge. A challenge to submit, not just to domination, but to pleasure at Shuusuke’s hands. Hajime knew that if he accepted it, if he relaxed that much, it would make the shock exponentially worse if Shuusuke chose to alter his approach and use pain after all. He knew that Shuusuke knew it too, and was aware of their mutual knowledge.

That had, after all, been the pattern of their first match on the court.

That was Shuusuke’s challenge; his suggestion that Hajime would not actually be able to give him the measure of control he wanted. Hajime was shaking again. But this was why he was here. He would bet on this. If Shuusuke wanted to truly unsettle him, he would not, in fact, repeat himself. He would stay with pleasure.

And enjoy the edge of uncertainty he had placed Hajime on.

One last, convulsive, shudder, and Hajime forced himself to go limp under Shuusuke’s grasp.

“Anything,” he reiterated, voice breaking even on that single word.

“Hmmm,” Shuusuke murmured, thoughtfully. And then that appallingly gentle touch returned, and Hajime pushed aside his perfectly reasonable fear and abandoned himself to the pleasure his longest standing opponent seemed to want to bring him. And it was always, and only, pleasure. Shuusuke didn’t tease him, or seek to startle him; only caressed and stroked until he was hard and panting, arching under Shuusuke’s touch, legs spread wantonly. Shuusuke answered the pleading look Hajime didn’t have the coherence to give voice to, and rubbed a finger softly against his entrance, drawing a long moan from him as Shuusuke pressed, slowly, in.

The rather disconnected thought crossed Hajime’s mind, that it was probably an awkward stretch for Shuusuke, who hadn’t once released Hajime’s wrists. But, yes, this was right, Shuusuke would want to watch his face. And then the feeling of Shuusuke’s fingers thrusting into him derailed any attempt at thought.

Shuusuke prepared him thoroughly, and when he set a hand under one of Hajime’s knees and pressed it back, opening him, when he slid into Hajime, there was still no pain. The layered pleasure was becoming a pressure in him, instead. Hajime couldn’t even cry out as Shuusuke’s first, long thrust drove home, slowly, slowly. Shuusuke was still for a moment, letting him catch his breath, and then he was moving, long and slow, drowning Hajime in a flood of hot, electric sensation, building it higher. As soon as Hajime found his voice again Shuusuke leaned forward, thrust harder, and the world turned white, and the moan turned into something like a scream. Shuusuke didn’t let up, and the the jolts of pleasure unwound Hajime’s muscles and broke the world into licks of unbearable heat, and a true scream clawed its way out of his throat as he came.

It didn’t take Shuusuke long to follow him, and the shallow, rocking thrusts as he did coaxed the last possible response out of Hajime, leaving him utterly unstrung and overwhelmed by the care Shuusuke had taken and the pleasure he had given. A few tears of sheer overload spilled from Hajime’s eyes. Shuusuke, recovering himself, looked down at them.

Bent down and kissed them away.

It was a gesture of triumph, the kind of graciousness in victory that only drives the fact of defeat home. They both knew Shuusuke felt no tenderness toward him whatsoever. For one moment Hajime thought it might break him, that he would not be able to stop the tears or the trembling.

But as he closed his eyes he also knew that he had won. Shuusuke had overwhelmed him, reduced him to prostration, quite literally. But Hajime had successfully calculated and predicted all of it: the pattern of Shuusuke’s actions, the branches that the pattern might take. Hajime had won on his true chosen ground, and the shame of his first defeat was washed away.

That thought was enough to calm him and still him. He thought some of it probably showed in his eyes as he opened them and looked up, because Shuusuke cocked his head and gave him one last long, thoughtful look before finally letting Hajime go. It took a few tries before he gained his feet.

“The bathroom is down the hall on the left,” Shuusuke informed him quietly.

“Thank you,” Hajime returned in a similar tone. He snagged his clothes on the way out, and returned, once prepared for polite society again, to stand in the doorway. “I’ll see you later, Shuusuke,” he said, exhaustion draining the usual edge from his voice.

“Yes,” Shuusuke agreed, with a faint smile.

He wondered, as he made his occasionally wobbly way back to St. Rudolph, just how much of his real purpose Shuusuke had divined, and what form of retribution he could expect if Shuusuke took offense at losing in any way. Well, he’d figure it out. He was confident of that, again.

He certainly wouldn’t say no to a little extra reassurance, after that experience, though, and he let his feet take him to Yuuta’s door rather than his own. He had never been more grateful for Yuuta’s tendency not to lock his door, which let him walk straight to where Yuuta sat, and sink down and lay his head on Yuuta’s knees without the need for greetings or explanations.

Not that the latter seemed very necessary. After a startled moment he felt Yuuta’s long fingers combing through his hair, and they sighed almost in unison.

“You went to Aniki, didn’t you?” Yuuta more stated than asked. Hajime nodded slightly. “Did he hurt you?” Yuuta wanted to know.

The question was so utterly unanswerable that Hajime started laughing. And then it was a bit difficult to stop. Yuuta slid out of his chair and pulled Hajime into his arms, as he chortled, rubbing his back until he calmed, gasping for breath.

“I invited him to rip out my soul and wring it like a washcloth,” Hajime said, eventually. “He accepted. But, no, he didn’t hurt me.” His head was resting on Yuuta’s shoulder, but Hajime could almost see the Look Yuuta gave him.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have bad hobbies?” Yuuta muttered. That set Hajime off again. Yuuta scooted them both around until he could lean back against his bed, pulling Hajime to lean on his chest.

“I won, Yuuta,” Hajime said, softly. “It was the only way I could win.”

“On your own terms,” Yuuta filled in. “Yes. I know.”

Which was fairly impressive, considering that Hajime had never told him what he wanted with or from Shuusuke, but this was Yuuta, after all. He understood that kind of thing.

“Yes, you do understand,” Hajime mused, only half aware he was speaking out loud. “I love that you understand.”

Yuuta’s startlement telegraphed in his moment of stillness, but he seemed to decide that his boyfriend was just more strung out than previously suspected, because he didn’t answer. Only gathered Hajime a bit closer. It was pleasant to rest against him. Hajime didn’t realize he was dozing until Yuuta woke him up so they could move up to the bed.

In the course of moving, Yuuta noticed the now-dark bruise above Hajime’s collarbone, and gave him another Look, clearly questioning the claim that Shuusuke hadn’t hurt him.

“It was just the one moment during the initial negotiations,” Hajime assured him. Yuuta bristled anyway, glaring at the bite mark. He had the family possessive streak, all right, Hajime reflected. Fair enough; Hajime did, too, without the excuse of genetics.

Which was partly why, when Yuuta gave him a soft kiss, he answered passionately, drawing Yuuta’s tongue into his mouth, inviting him to taste that there had been no intruders. It was the one gesture, the one advance, Shuusuke had not made. When Yuuta drew back, a little breathless, Hajime gave him a pleased and sleepy smile.

They twined around each other, Yuuta still running his fingers through Hajime’s hair as he drifted off. He was almost entirely asleep when he thought he heard Yuuta murmur to him.

“We both understand, Mizuki. And we’ll always find a way to win. Always.”

End

Clove Apple

The aftermath of Fuji’s encounter with Mizuki, and explanations for Tachibana. Drama With Romance, I-4

Character(s): Fuji Shuusuke, Mizuki Hajime, Tachibana Kippei

Pairing(s): Tachibana/Fuji

Kippei tracked him down on a small, sunny hill in a quiet corner of the park near Shuusuke’s house. He sat down beside Shuusuke, close but not touching.

“Eiji called me,” he said, quietly. “He said you were acting strangely at practice today. He was worried.” Shuusuke shrugged one shoulder.

“I was… out of sorts I suppose. Tezuka kept me away from most of the other club members. I suppose it is a bit strange for he and I to play much.” He snorted, remembering. “Echizen had the nerve to tell me I play better when I’m calm, afterwards.”

“That sounds like him,” Kippei smiled.

They sat in silence for a while, and Shuusuke tried to gather his thoughts. He should have known he wouldn’t be able to avoid Kippei for long; he really hadn’t been thinking very clearly. At last he leaned back on his hands, looking up at the clear, pale sky.

“I had,” he paused to fish for a neutral term, “an altercation with Mizuki two days ago. It got… a little out of hand.”

Kippei waited, and Shuusuke relaxed a little when he didn’t push for an immediate explanation.

“I was already angry that day,” he went on, and released a half laughing breath. “It sounds so petty when I tell it out loud. But that morning…” he paused again, trying to find the beginning of the sequence in his memory. “Everyone pretty much knows who will go on professionally, from the club, and who won’t. Everyone knows by now that I won’t. Some know that my brother probably will. I suppose I’m not one to talk about competitiveness,” he smiled tightly, “but sometimes I could do without the side effects. One of the second years was saying that it was too bad Fuji Yuuta would be the name the tennis world remembered. And then he realized I was listening and hurried to say that he was sure people would always remember Yuuta’s talent as second to mine.”

Kippei winced.

“Quite,” Shuusuke murmured. “I was unsettled enough to message Yuuta over lunch and ask how his training was going. I really should know better by now, don’t you think?”

Kippei moved around to sit behind Shuusuke and wrap an arm around his waist. Shuusuke leaned back against him with a sigh. The next part was going to be harder.

“I don’t know whether Yuuta mentioned it to Mizuki, but Mizuki was waiting for me on my way home. He… challenged me.”

“To what?” Kippei asked when Shuusuke didn’t continue.

“A game. I suppose.” Shuusuke sternly told the hollow feeling in his chest to go away for the nth time in almost three days. It made breathing feel like work. Once again, the feeling refused to go anywhere. Kippei’s arm tightening around him reminded Shuusuke that he wasn’t alone. And that there had, in fact, been a total of four parties fairly intimately involved in what had happened. On an impulse he turned and kissed Kippei.

It was a little wild, a little desperate, and Kippei started out returning it more gently, trying to soothe Shuusuke. As the seconds ticked by, though, Shuusuke thought the fact of the kiss fell in with what else he had said, and gave Kippei some of the shape of the “altercation”, because his lover’s kiss changed. It became deeper and hotter, demanding in a way that Kippei rarely was. Ironically, that calmed Shuusuke faster than the earlier softness. When they broke apart Kippei raised a hand to his cheek and held his gaze, eyes dark and serious.

“You aren’t the only one who’s possessive, Shuusuke,” Kippei told him.

Yes, Kippei had an idea what had happened. But not all of it. Shuusuke shook his head, laying a hand on Kippei’s chest.

“What he offered, what I did, it wasn’t about sex.” Kippei’s lips tightened as Shuusuke confirmed at least the mechanics of the encounter, but he didn’t protest Shuusuke’s interpretation. Yet.

“What was it about?” he asked, quite calmly under the circumstances Shuusuke thought. He turned again so he could lean back against Kippei.

“Control,” he answered, biting down a grimace as he remembered Mizuki’s voice gliding over that word. “Knowledge. I suppose,” he summoned a small smile, “it was more like a game of go than anything.” Entrapment, oh yes. He had to hand that to Mizuki, and he should have recognized it sooner.

“A game of go with a bed as the board?” Kippei suggested, sounding amused despite himself at the idea. Shuusuke smiled more genuinely, letting the intellectual metaphor carry him over his discomfort.

“Mmm. More like the bed, and the bodies, as the stones. The board was the mind.”

There was silence behind him for a moment before Kippei closed both arms around him.

“Shuusuke.” He didn’t sound amused any longer. He sounded a little shaken. Shuusuke supposed that made two of them. He didn’t really want to dwell on that.

“Besides, I never let him touch me,” he added, veering back to the original question and keeping his tone casual. Kippei’s hold tightened, and Shuusuke realized he’d probably just given away a little more of the mechanics than he’d really wanted to.

“Mizuki accepted that?” Kippei asked, both surprise and a touch of distaste in his voice. Shuusuke laughed, wearily.

“Oh, yes. Mizuki waylaid me, provoked me until I was extremely angry, invited me to take him any way I pleased and accepted everything I did, just to prove a point.” Shuusuke leaned his head back against Kippei’s shoulder. “He knew what he was doing, Kippei.” He fell silent, hoping his lover could unravel that and wouldn’t ask him to put words to the details.

“He knew?” Kippei asked at last, carefully. Shuusuke’s mouth twisted. Kippei had gotten very good at reading under what he said.

“Every last step,” Shuusuke confirmed with false cheer. He never did that for long around Kippei, though, and let it go to turn in Kippei’s arms until he could curl up against him.

“And it’s so easy,” he whispered. “To do that to people. To control, to break. Because I can. And when I’m in the middle of it it’s so satisfying, but afterwards, when I stop and look back… it doesn’t feel right.” Kippei stroked back his hair.

“I know,” he said. Shuusuke stirred at that. Kippei wasn’t like that.

“You do?”

“I know that you don’t really enjoy going that far. It’s pretty obvious.” Kippei smiled down at him when Shuusuke raised his head to give him an inquiring look. “All the people you’re most drawn to are ones you can’t control.”

Shuusuke ran a quick catalogue in his mind, and decided Kippei was right. Tezuka, who wouldn’t let him. Eiji, with whom there was no point. Taka-san, who was too sweet to tempt him. Even the firebrands like Echizen.

And Kippei, of course.

“So,” he smiled, reassured enough to tease a little, “you’re not worried about it at all?”

Kippei turned on his side, spilling Shuusuke into the grass, and dropped a kiss on his forehead.

“Of course not. I recall saying once that you don’t strike out unless you’re unbearably provoked, and never on your own account. It’s still true. Mizuki prodded you about Yuuta, didn’t he?”

Shuusuke nodded, holding back a snarl at the mere memory. From the quirk of Kippei’s mouth, he didn’t think he’d been entirely successful. That was all right, though; Kippei was the one person he could show anything to.

“So,” Kippei continued, “you might not want to admit out loud that Mizuki won this round, but it’s clear from what you have said that he asked for everything he got.”

Shuusuke opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it. Unfortunately, that statement was correct on every count. He had been focusing on how much he disliked the aftermath of getting carried away to distract himself from the thought that Mizuki was every bit as much to credit, and possibly more, as himself. And he hadn’t quite realized it until Kippei pointed it out. He felt a faint flush heating his cheeks.

“You’ve never been much good with your own motivations, Shuusuke,” Kippei pointed out, gently. “Let it go and stop worrying.”

Shuusuke took a stern hold of himself and considered his possible causes for worry. Was he dangerously out of hand? No. Was he, he sidled around to look at the thought with dislike, seriously concerned that Mizuki knew him well enough, now, to hurt him? To hurt him the way he knew, in a dark, back corner of his mind, Kippei could by knowing him so well. That one took more consideration, but the manner of Mizuki’s approach implied that he didn’t think he could overwhelm Shuusuke; and Shuusuke was now on his guard. So, no, not really. Was he really worried that Yuuta wouldn’t forgive him for what he’d done to his brother’s lover, be it ever so consensual? Shuusuke knew he had come very close to breaking Mizuki; it was why he had let Mizuki go with his success intact even when he realized what it had all been about. Somehow he doubted his brother would agree that any aftereffects were anything other than Shuusuke’s fault.

All right, perhaps he would still worry about that one. He sighed and reached up for Kippei.

“Mostly,” he allowed.

Kippei’s smile was wry as he leaned down. Shuusuke sighed again, against his mouth, for quite different reasons, as Kippei’s kiss folded him in weightless warmth like the sun on this hillside.

“No one but you touches me like this,” he said, softly, as they parted. Kippei answered by catching him up in another kiss, this one slow and deliberately sensual, a sliding dance of tongues. The hollowness in Shuusuke’s chest that had persisted for three days finally faded away. Shuusuke felt as though Kippei’s breath helped fill his lungs all the way. He drew Kippei down until his lips were at Kippei’s ear.

“Kippei,” he murmured, “make love to me.”

“Right here?” Kippei’s tone was half serious and half teasing. Shuusuke shook his head, and spoke slowly.

“No. I think I want to remember who belongs in my bed.”

When Kippei’s arms closed around him hard enough to drive his breath out, he knew his lover had accepted that sideways apology.

Lying against Kippei’s side, later, in the cool afternoon shadows of his bedroom, and far more pleased with the world, Shuusuke wondered whether he should call Yuuta. It would be nice to know whether his brother was upset with him or not.

The message tone rang on his phone.

“Someone has bad timing,” Kippei muttered. Shuusuke made agreeing sounds, but craned for a moment to check who it was from.

Then he leaned across Kippei and snatched at his phone so that he could glare at the sender from close range.

“Shuusuke?”

He stabbed the message button and read. His lips pulled back from his teeth, though he managed not to snarl out loud. That arrogant, insufferable, little…

“Shuusuke?” Kippei repeated, a bit cautiously.

“Dear Shuusuke,” he read off the message, “Please don’t be concerned. Yuuta’s opinion of my sanity has been confirmed, and he doesn’t blame you for any of it. Except, possibly, the bite mark. Regards, Mizuki.” Kippei didn’t make a sound, but Shuusuke was leaning over his stomach and could feel the muscles trembling, holding back what was probably a laugh. He transferred his glare, dropping the phone pointedly over the side of the bed. So, Mizuki thought he knew him that well, and had the gall to reassure him?

“I don’t think I ever fully appreciated just how much Mizuki likes to play with fire,” Kippei observed, mildly. “Can I hope you’ll chose a different way of burning him next time?”

The glare lost a good deal of force, and Shuusuke laid his head back on Kippei’s chest.

“Of course,” he confirmed, softly, pressing closer. Kippei’s hand stroking his back lulled him, and he set out to ignore Mizuki’s baiting in favor of Kippei’s heartbeat.

He could teach his would-be rival a lesson later, Shuusuke decided as he slipped into a doze, rocked by the rhythm of his lover’s breath.

End

Fence

A typical day in the life of Ryouma and Momo, with a few extra revelations on Momo’s part. Karupin gets in on the action. Drama With Getting-There Romance, I-4

Character(s): Echizen Ryouma, Karupin, Momoshiro Takeshi, Ryuuzaki Sumire, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Pairing(s): Momoshiro/Ryouma

Momo tried not to take too much enjoyment in Ryouma’s paperwork griefs. He figured a little was due him, though, and couldn’t help grinning just a bit as he waited for Ryouma at the corner where their ways home came together. His approaching friend looked distracted.

“So,” Momo said, as he pushed off from the wall and swung into step with Ryouma, “decided yet?”

“Mm,” Ryouma answered without looking up, “for everyone but Rokkaku and Hyoutei. You never know where Aoi’s going to show up.”

“Oh, come on, that’s the easy one,” Momo scoffed.

Ryouma gave him an eloquent Oh, really? look from the corner of his eye.

“Has he gotten any less bouncy this year?” Momo asked.

“Nope,” Ryouma said, glumly.

“And he’s always impatient to play. Kind of like another team captain I could mention but won’t.”

Ryouma glared.

“So he’ll probably put himself in Singles Two or Three to make sure he gets a chance,” Momo finished. “You know,” he added, thoughtfully, “I bet if you called him and offered to meet him in one of those slots, he’d adjust his own lineup to make it work.”

Ryouma blinked, and a wicked smile spread over his face. “Maybe I won’t mention that part to Ryuuzaki-sensei,” he murmured.

“Ah, you’re getting sneaky,” Momo clapped him on the shoulder. “Fuji-senpai would be proud. Now, what’s up with Hyoutei?”

Ryouma held the gate to his house open. “They’re a pain, like always,” he grumbled.

“Can’t be more of a pain than Hiyoshi was, last year,” Momo declared, kicking off his shoes.

Ryouma paused on the stairs to consider that. “Maybe. Come on, though, I’ll show you.” In his room, he dug out several sheets of paper and spread them on the floor. Momo settled behind him, looking over his shoulder.

“This year’s captain,” Ryouma tapped the name Fukuzawa, “he’s a lot better than Hiyoshi was at talking their coach into new ideas. He took a few tricks from Fudoumine, and sometimes puts the best players in early. And just about everyone knows we only have one strong doubles team. Again. Even if Kachirou and I play doubles, that’s only two wins and leaves singles completely open.”

“Yeah, better assume one win and one loss in doubles,” Momo put in, resting his chin on Ryouma’s shoulder. “They should be short on good doubles, too, this year.”

“Which means,” Ryouma continued, “that Fukuzawa is likely to come in early, which means I should too. But what if he second guesses me? If I take Singles Three while he stays with One, I don’t think Kachirou will be able to handle him, and they’ll have three wins in the end. I hate this,” he sighed, leaning back against Momo with a faint thump.

“Oh, yeah,” Momo ruffled his hair, “you thought it was a lot more interesting when it was my job, and you could just poke your nose in for the fun of it.”

Ryouma growled and elbowed him.

“I bet you were the sort of kid who went on all the really scary rides at amusement parks just to hear how loud everyone else screamed,” Momo teased.

“That,” Ryouma observed, with trenchant accuracy, “would be Fuji-senpai. Besides, I think we only ever went to an amusement park once, when I was really little.”

“And here I thought America had lots of them,” Momo remarked, surprised. “What did you do, then?”

“What do you mean?” Ryouma asked, poking the end of his pen at the paperwork.

“With your family,” Momo clarified.

Ryouma glanced over his shoulder, brows raised. “Played tennis.”

Momo sat, staring straight ahead, as Ryouma crossed something out and scribbled a different name in. The absolute incomprehension in his friend’s eyes hit him like a fist. He thought about his own family, about the annual trip to the beach; about his sister nagging until he took her to pet stores to play with the puppies; about his father and brother wearing almost identical pleading expressions while begging his mother to come watch a local motor cross match with them; about his mother’s soft laugh the first time she played his favorite computer game with him, after days of wheedling on his part, and beat his score. And then he thought of not having any of that happen—of having all of it swallowed by tennis. Tennis the way he had seen Ryouma and his father play it, taunting and needling and provoking.

Absolute fury boiled up in him, twisting his stomach and tugging at his mouth with a snarl.

Ryouma paused in his shuffling of names, and looked around at him. “Momo?” he asked, sounding surprised.

Momo wrapped both arms around his friend, and rested his forehead against Ryouma’s shoulder, hiding his expression. “Nothing. It’s nothing,” he said, quietly.

After a moment, Ryouma leaned back into his hold, puzzled, Momo thought, but willing to offer silent comfort for whatever was wrong. The irony was almost enough to start him laughing. He tightened his arms, instead, thankful that, for whatever reason, Ryouma had decided it was all right for Momo to hold him.

A fuzzy touch on his ear startled him into looking up. Karupin had come in and was standing with one paw on Ryouma’s shoulder, batting at Momo with the other. He meowed in a you’re taking up my space kind of way.

“What if I don’t want to move, yet?” Momo argued.

Karupin batted, insistently, at his cheek.

“No,” Momo said, definitely.

Karupin paused, considered him, and then, with no warning at all, whapped him in the jaw with a remarkably strong, if furry, right hook. Momo jerked back.

“Ryouma,” he said, indignantly, “your cat just punched me!”

The announcement was probably redundant, seeing as Ryouma was doubled over with laughter. Recovering himself, he gathered Karupin up in his arms and, before Momo could protest this favoritism, turned to lean against Momo’s chest, bracing Karupin against them both.

“It’s okay, Karupin,” Ryouma assured his cat. “You don’t have to worry about Momo.”

“Yeah, see?” Momo seconded, cautiously putting an arm around both of them. “I’m not trying to steal him, I just want to share him. Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s good to share?”

Karupin managed to give him a very skeptical look for something with such a round, fuzzy face, before he snuggled against Ryouma to be petted. Momo suppressed some uncomplimentary remarks. That furball was the only living creature he had ever seen Ryouma look at with open tenderness, and Momo had a good idea of who would lose if it came to a choice between the cat and himself. It was, in fact, utterly typical that Ryouma should let himself practically cuddle with Momo, not for Momo’s benefit, but for his cat’s.

Recalling what he had been thinking about before Karupin interrupted, Momo suddenly had a much better idea why that might be, and looked with less disfavor on the purring menace in Ryouma’s arms. That cat was probably the sole member of his family Ryouma loved and trusted without reservation. Karupin might just be the main reason Ryouma had even been capable of trusting enough to becoming a part of the Seigaku team, much less willing to do so. Momo sighed and leaned his cheek against the top of Ryouma’s head, and scratched behind Karupin’s ears himself. Carefully.

When he left, that day, he gave Karupin a serious look. “Take care of him, okay?” he said, nodding toward Ryouma.

Ryouma gave him a startled look, and Karupin meowed in a tone Momo translated to Teach your granny to suck eggs, kid. Momo grinned and let himself out.

Away from them, though, Momo found his thoughts circling around and around the realization about Ryouma’s family life that had struck him, and by the time he arrived at practice the next morning he felt like there was a rut worn in his brain. It didn’t help his temper any. He finally resorted to a tactic he didn’t need very often, and took himself off to one side to practice his swings. He tossed each ball up, focused on where it needed to go, and imagined Echizen Nanjirou standing there.

He didn’t actually realize that his balls were breaking through the fence until Ryuuzaki-sensei yelled at him.

“Honestly!” she finished her harangue. “What were you thinking? Go get a drink and calm down!”

Catching his breath on one of the benches, Momo was aware of movement in his direction. A quick glance showed it to be Oishi-senpai, and Momo winced. Now, how was he going to explain himself? Oishi-senpai was never intrusive, but he was hard to hold things back from. Another odd note caught his eye, though. Tezuka-san had crossed, quickly, to have a word with the team’s captain, and then turned and gestured Oishi-senpai back. Momo bit his lip and looked at the ground.

“That exercise will work better if there’s actually someone there to return the ball,” Tezuka-san said, beside him.

Momo blinked up at the vice-captain for a moment before cosmic irony overcame his surprise at not being dressed down. He snorted a laugh and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I couldn’t do it if it were you standing there, though,” he said, a little tired, glancing away. “You’re the one who changed things for him.”

Tezuka-san looked at him for a long moment, and then his eyes narrowed. “I see,” he said, quietly. He touched Momo’s shoulder.

“Come practice while thinking about something else then,” he ordered. “Like winning.”

Momo looked up with a grateful smile. His favorite challenge, for all he doubted there was much chance of it ever happening. There was nothing better to get his mind off a problem. “Yes, Tezuka-senpai,” he agreed.

Really, he reflected, as he followed Tezuka-san to an empty court, it was no surprise Ryouma had found Tezuka-san’s cool approach more reassuring than intimidating. After his father, it must have been a relief to deal with someone so straightforward and consistent, even if what he consistently was was demanding. Tezuka-san challenged his people, always, but he also, somehow, and Momo had never quite figured out how, convinced them of his implicit belief that they would succeed. It was contagious. And it spread to other parts of a person’s life, too. Momo wasn’t sure when he had decided that keeping a snippy, independent-minded brat like Echizen Ryouma well and safe was one of his challenges, but there it was. And if it had become still more personal than that, it just made the challenge all the more exciting.

“Ready?” Tezuka-san called.

Momo grinned.

“Any time!”

End

Puzzle

The Clue Trout descends upon Ryouma. Drama Finally Romance with Slight Porn, I-3

Associated fanart: Momo and Ryouma during a fluffy moment, by Hikariblue.

Character(s): Echizen Nanjirou, Echizen Ryouma, Fuji Shuusuke, Inui Sadaharu, Kachirou Katou, Momoshiro Takeshi, Seigaku

Pairing(s): Momoshiro/Ryouma

“You sure you don’t want to get that looked at?”

Ryouma rolled his eyes. If one more person asked him that, they were going to eat a tennis ball. “Yes, I’m sure,” he sighed. “I banged my funny bone, that’s all. You’d think I’d been in a traffic accident or something.”

Momo looked stern, which almost made Ryouma smile. A year and a half ago, Momo would never have been able to pull the expression off. Ryouma was forming the theory that you could only learn it by being responsible for people two years younger who kept doing stupid things. Kachirou was very good at it, though too good natured to hold it for long.

“Don’t give me that,” Momo growled, “you know perfectly well it’s a nerve cluster; of course everyone’s worried.”

“Inui-senpai said there was nothing to worry about as long as my grip kept coming back steadily,” Ryouma argued, deciding that if he ever met the person who had injured Tezuka-buchou and thus been the ultimate cause of all this mother henning, they would regret it very deeply. “It has been. You’re getting as bad as Oishi-senpai.”

That succeeded in distracting Momo, and Ryouma did smile at the indignant expression on his friend’s face. “You coming in?” he asked, opening his gate.

“For a while,” Momo agreed, smiling back a little ruefully, which Ryouma took to mean he would let the subject be changed.

About time.

They were waylaid, however, by his dad’s hail from the court.

“About time you got back! Come and play some real tennis.”

Ryouma leaned against the porch, trying to decide whether it would be more trouble to play with a lingering handicap or to refuse and deal with the ragging. He didn’t have any particular interest in telling his dad about today’s little slip at practice, which argued against playing, but… He blinked as Momo stepped past him.

“Well, now, Ryouma’s had a long day. If you want a game, why don’t you play me?” It was less a request than a demand, and Ryouma’s brows went up at the hard light in his friend’s eyes.

His dad eyed Momo up and down, and the little smile that said Momentary entertainment, how nice crossed his face. “Why not,” he murmured, and beckoned Momo onto the court.

Ryouma frowned as he watched them play. They were both acting strangely. His dad wasn’t being quite his fully annoying self, and Momo was…

Momo was angry.

Not angry in the snarling-with-Kaidou-senpai sort of way, which wasn’t really angry, though Ryouma couldn’t say just what it was. Not angry the way he got at an opponent who ticked him off and who he wanted to beat. This was colder. His eyes were burning, but it was like the fire of the cutting torch in the art class studio—so focused down that the heat became sharpness. Ryouma had watched Momo play for years, and he knew Momo played hot; Momo liked it that way. He didn’t stop to think, unless he was playing doubles and had to take a partner into account. He saw and he acted. It was the same way Ryouma had seen him do his math homework: writing down the answer immediately, and then going back to fill in the steps that led to it, because they were required.

This time, Momo was thinking. Watching, and testing, and watching again. He wasn’t playing for the score, Ryouma realized, slowly. He was playing to find something out about his opponent.

Ryouma was confused. What could Momo want to know about his dad, that could make him this mad? Momo’s eyes still had that bright glitter in them when the match ended. Ryouma didn’t think he’d ever seen quite that look before.

“So,” his dad asked, casually, “find what you want?”

Ryouma snorted to himself, confusion momentarily overcome by familiar exasperation. Of course his dad had spotted it.

“Not especially,” Momo answered, evenly.

“Hm.”

Ryouma sighed as his dad smiled, inscrutably, and strolled inside. He looked up at Momo, who had come to stand beside him.

“What was that all about?”

Momo shrugged. “You didn’t want to mention that,” he gestured at Ryouma’s arm.

“Yes,” Ryouma agreed, and waited. Momo’s mouth quirked.

“And I didn’t think you needed to deal with it today,” he added, and quickly held up a hand. “I know, I know, overprotective mother hen.” He made a mock tragic face. “Even after all this time you don’t appreciate your senpai. Ah, I’m used to it.”

Ryouma, caught between laughing and glowering, folded his arms and looked aside.

Thus, he was surprised when Momo’s hand came up to cup the side of his face. He looked back around, eyes wide. He’d long since given up on enforcing any idea of personal space with Momo, but this was a little unusual.

“You should have someone you can actually trust, every now and then, that’s all,” Momo said. His mouth tugged up at one corner. “Someone who can talk, instead of meow.”

And then the oddness of the moment seemed to reach Momo, too, and he dropped his hand and shouldered his bag.

“See you tomorrow,” he told Ryouma, and made for the gate, leaving Ryouma staring after him and still wondering what that was all about.

Ryouma was still wondering at club practice the next day, and stalked around the courts with only half his attention on his team. When his Singles Three player nearly nailed him in the back with a wild ball he didn’t even bother to glare.

“You need to retape your grip, Ougurou,” he said, absently, swatting the ball back.

“Yes. Um. I’ll do that now,” Ougurou said, sidling away before Ryouma could change his mind.

And normally Ryouma would have called him out to demonstrate in action just how the problem could harm Ougurou’s game. But he had other things on his mind today, and Kachirou seemed willing to take up the slack if the way Ougurou was shuffling in face of his lecture was any indication.

What had that been all about? It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to Momo touching him; in fact, if he were quite honest with himself he’d started to invite it. The contact was comfortable, and Momo was a good friend, after all. But that had been more than just friendly.

Ryouma stopped, and stared blankly through the fence. Just friendly. What was just friendly? What wasn’t?

He started walking again, more slowly. He knew he didn’t necessarily have the most normal view of these things. Apart from his dad’s occasional jokes about wanting to grope his mom for old time’s sake, at which point she offered to smack him one for old time’s sake too, he didn’t see any examples of anything from them. With his mom so busy with her job and the house, they didn’t really spend that much time together, he guessed. And if Nanako was dating anyone, she didn’t seem to have any intention of letting her aunt and uncle, or her cousin, know about it.

Not that he could blame her.

“Sagara, Tsunan, get back to work on your new formation,” he directed his gossiping Doubles One pair, passing quietly behind them. Another day he might have been somewhat more amused that they jumped half a meter before stammering out affirmatives.

Maybe he should ask someone’s advice on this. Except that the person he would normally ask about personal things was Momo. Besides, he didn’t like having to ask.

He knew that he took his desire for self sufficiency from his mother; Nanako had commented on it before. Maybe he could take some methods from her, also. She was good at logic. So, logically, how to answer this question?

If his parents weren’t any help, maybe he could compare the situation to someone else. Someone a little more average. So, who did he know who was more than friends?

Well, there was always Ann and Sakuno. Yeah, they would be a good comparison; Ann had a protective streak wider than Momo’s. Ryouma figured it was probably genetic. How did she act around Sakuno?

She was almost always in contact with her, for one thing. A hand on her wrist, shoulders brushing, leaning against Sakuno, a hand around her waist. The more of those gestures Ryouma tallied up, the more unnerved he felt. That was the way Momo was around him, all right. And he hadn’t noticed. Why hadn’t he noticed?

Whether it was intuition or logic, the answer sprang up in his mind and rooted his feet to the ground. He hadn’t noticed because it hadn’t felt any different. He had always been comfortable around Momo, from the first day they met and he recognized the gleam of challenge in the eyes of the second year who had interfered to protect his kouhai.

Which raised the interesting question, had Momo noticed?

He could see about answering that later, Ryouma decided, briskly. Right now, he had things to be doing. Mind relieved for the moment, he called his team in and set them playing two on one, in rotation. The expressions of relief rather startled him, given how grueling this exercise got before too long, and he looked a question at Kachirou, who was smothering a laugh.

“They’ve been worried all day that you were distracted by thinking up something more, um, interesting for them,” his vice-captain explained.

“Hm. I’ll have something for tomorrow, then,” Ryouma said, with a wicked smile. “Wouldn’t do to let everyone down.”

Kachirou lost the fight with his laughter, shaking his head.

Figuring out whether Momo had noticed proved more difficult than Ryouma had expected. Not because Momo was particularly difficult to read, but because Ryouma kept getting distracted. When Momo leaned against him, or sat behind him, or wrapped an arm around his shoulders, Ryouma kept forgetting to watch Momo because, now that he was noticing it, he was noticing how nice it felt.

And it did feel very nice. Having someone close to him, someone he could relax with because he knew for a fact Momo didn’t mean him any harm, felt… warm.

In fact, he was starting to have to resist the urge to press closer, to invite Momo to hold him tighter.

At last, after a particularly unproductive day of staring at his History homework while his thoughts tripped over each other trying to observe Momo watching him, Ryouma decided, quite firmly and rationally he thought, that enough was enough. Logic was great, but Ryouma had known for a long time that instinct and action often had the edge. He clapped his book shut and tossed it off to one side.

Beside him, Momo looked up. “Homework that frustrating?” he asked with a grin.

“Actually, no,” Ryouma declared. “Something else is, though.”

And, as Momo was opening his mouth, probably to ask what, Ryouma turned and slung a leg over Momo’s, settling comfortably astride his lap. Momo’s mouth stayed open.

“Ah, Ryouma?” he managed, after a moment.

Ryouma spread his hands against Momo’s chest, and felt his sudden intake of breath, watched his eyes widen. Momo’s hands didn’t seem to share the surprise, though, and closed firmly at Ryouma’s waist. Mmm, yes; that was nice. Ryouma smiled. He was now prepared to bet that Momo, or at least the part of him in control of his hands, had been perfectly aware of how their touching had changed. Which raised yet another question.

“So, what’s been taking you so long?” he asked.

Momo opened his mouth, closed it again, and growled. When he saw Ryouma’s grin, he, too, seemed to decide that action was the best course, because he slid his hands up Ryouma’s back, and pulled Ryouma against him, and caught Ryouma’s mouth with his. Ryouma didn’t make it easy for him; he was laughing. Momo persisted, though, tracing the curve of Ryouma’s lips with his tongue, kissing the corner of his smile. And Ryouma finally sighed, and leaned against him, and kissed back.

The feeling of Momo’s arms this tight around him, and Momo’s tongue playing tag with his, was a lot more than just warm.

Momo drew back a bit. “Are you sure you haven’t done this before?” he murmured against Ryouma’s mouth.

“Very sure,” Ryouma told him, repressively, and rocked forward to kiss him again.

Oh.

A lot more.

If the groan that tangled with his in the middle of their kiss hadn’t been enough to tell him, he could feel, now, that Momo was enjoying this as much as he was. Experimentally, Ryouma shifted, rocking their hips together again. Heat tingled through him, and he heard a soft, wordless sound in his own throat. Momo leaned his head back against the bed behind him, but if he meant to catch his breath it backfired. Ryouma took the opportunity to taste the skin under Momo’s jaw, and they both gasped as their bodies pressed flush together.

Ryouma’s hands moved down Momo’s body, almost involuntarily, because he wanted more. More contact. And clothes were very much in the way, though not for long. Momo bit back a moan as Ryouma’s fingers brushed against his skin, curled around his cock. Ryouma rather liked that sound. He liked it more when he felt Momo’s fingers shaking just a little as he loosened Ryouma’s pants and slid a hand inside.

And then Ryouma kissed Momo again, hard, to muffle his own harsh moan. Shivers coursed through him, trembling out from Momo’s touch. Their fingers tangled together as Ryouma pressed closer, feeling Momo’s other hand smoothing up and down his back, and he wound his own free arm around Momo’s shoulders to brace himself against the flickering, shuddering heat.

“Ryouma,” Momo whispered, and Ryouma buried his head against Momo’s shoulder, pressing his lips against the skin of Momo’s neck, biting down with the first surge of pleasure that wrung his entire body. He shuddered, hearing Momo’s sharp gasp, riding the fire that twisted through him again and again. It was too much, in the end, and he heard his breath sob through his chest as the fire threw him loose, falling…

But he was leaning against Momo, and Momo was holding him. He couldn’t be falling. The hot pleasure let him back down into warmth that curled around him, gently. Both of them stayed where they were, and Ryouma listened to Momo’s breath calm against his ear. Their fingers were still tangled together, and, while messy, there was something oddly comforting about the feeling.

At last, Momo stirred, shifting to fish in his pocket and produce a packet of tissues. Ryouma stifled a laugh at the practicality, and didn’t look up as they cleaned themselves off.

Momo’s fingers brushed over his hair. “You all right?” he asked, quietly.

“Of course,” Ryouma told him, raising his head to look Momo in the eye.

Those eyes were just a little soft, and lit with a smile at Ryouma’s answer. Ryouma bent his head back down to Momo’s shoulder to hide what he was fairly sure was a blush (of all things!), and locked his arms around Momo.

“Of course I’m all right,” he said, again, though a smile.

Momo’s fingers rubbed up and down his neck. “Good.”

It was possible, not likely but possible, that Ryouma was being paranoid. He was nearly positive, however, that Inui-senpai had been spending more time than usual watching him at unofficial practice, today. It was starting to make him a bit twitchy. He edged around the other side of Momo on the pretext of getting his water bottle, and leaned briefly against Momo’s shoulder for reassurance.

A quick glance showed Inui-senpai scribbling furiously.

“Momo-senpai, has Inui-senpai had a new project going or something?” Ryouma asked, cautiously.

“Not that he’s mentioned,” Momo answered, a bit uneasily.

The soft laugh behind them was not reassuring, despite its warmth, and Ryouma turned to give Fuji-senpai a wary look. While Fuji was an excellent source of protection from everything from too-loud teammates to malicious opponents, and one Ryouma was perfectly willing to take advantage of, the flip side was that Fuji tended to regard protectees as his personal source of amusement.

He certainly seemed amused by something, today.

“It’s just Inui’s way of wishing you well,” Fuji-senpai told him. “Come play a set with me, Echizen.”

Ryouma hefted his racquet and headed back to the court. He wasn’t going to ask. It just wasn’t worth the trouble, and answers usually presented themselves sooner or later if he just let it ride. Sometimes his subconscious just needed time to decide what Fuji-senpai was talking about. They were, in fact, in the fifth game before Ryouma’s backbrain piped up with a suggestion of what Fuji-senpai’s rather cryptic remark might have implied. His swing went wild, and he nearly tripped over his own foot before slamming to a halt and staring across the net at his senpai’s blandly inquiring look.

It showed? And Inui-senpai was recording this in one of his damned notebooks?

Ryouma shot a blistering glare at Inui-senpai, who smiled cheerfully back. He growled very quietly, and directed an even more searing look back at Fuji. Fuji-senpai wasn’t even attempting to look innocent, any more, and his eyes were laughing.

Before Ryouma could attempt bodily harm against his grinning seniors, however, Tezuka-buchou turned from coaching Momo through a speed exercise and narrowed his eyes at them.

“Fuji. Inui.” An admonition to knock it off and get back to work hung, unspoken, after their names, and, with a last chuckle, Inui tucked away his notebook and Fuji backed off to receive Ryouma’s next serve. “Echizen, mind your concentration,” Tezuka-buchou added.

Ryouma ground out an acknowledgement, and stalked back to serve. He was going to kill them both, he really was. Later, because Tezuka-buchou had a point; nothing interrupted the game, not even senpai who were getting far too much amusement out of Ryouma’s… relationship with Momo. At least, he grumbled to himself, there was still a handful of months to go before they would be on the same campus again. He could hope they wouldn’t be smirking quite so hard by then.

When practice ended, though, and Fuji-senpai’s hand fell on his shoulder, Ryouma’s mistrustful glance met an unusually soft smile. Ryouma looked aside, stepping firmly on the urge to squirm, and Fuji-senpai squeezed his shoulder, companionably, and let him go. None of them were smirking as Momo draped an arm over his shoulders.

“Come on, Ryouma, let’s get something to eat; I’m starved!”

“You’re always starved, Momo-senpai,” Ryouma pointed out, going along easily.

The looks that followed them, as they left, might even have had an edge of affection.

All right, maybe he wouldn’t actually kill them.

End

Insight

Tezuka introspective. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Tezuka Kunimitsu

He knew that no one among his peers was credited with greater insight into his opponents than Atobe Keigo. It was a justified reputation. But Atobe concentrated on the physical, and tended to ignore the signs of character that the ball wrote on the face of a racquet. It was the weakness in his strength, because those signs were the ones that told whether a player would or could go beyond his physical limits.

He found it strange that Atobe ignored this when he was one of those people himself.

But, then, Atobe had had years to get used to the idea that he didn’t need to know, that it would never matter, that no one could overtake him no matter how they drove themselves. Old habits were hard to change. No one had driven Atobe, or shown him in the language of his own body how much it could matter.

No one until himself.

And, to his credit, Atobe did watch him for those signs of the intangible, now, when they played. Not that he made it terribly difficult, he supposed. Nothing was very concealed when he played Atobe. When they faced each other the fronts ripped away, Atobe’s affectations and his own reserve both burned to glittering ash in the heat of their contest. He knew it was what kept them both coming back for another unofficial match every few months, carefully stepping around ever having to inform their coaches, for almost three years now.

Sometimes he wondered if Atobe realized just how much of himself he showed, when they played.

Perhaps it still didn’t occur to Atobe that his opponent would see. He knew his own style was somewhat deceptive. It appeared that he forced the game onto his terms, that it was simply the fine extent of his control that caused each ball to come to him as if called. But it was more than control; it was also understanding. He learned the language that the ball spoke to his racquet, and spoke it back, and the ball heeded. But the ball was only a carrier, in the end. The language he had to learn each time, listening through his hands, was that of his opponent.

Atobe’s language was both raw and sleek. There was fury in the power of his techniques, and malice in the way he held his hand until the most overwhelming moment so that he could crush those who dared stand against him, those who dared try to stop him. He used his strength as a bludgeon, and his speed to confuse, and his arrogance to infuriate. Where some balls sang against the strings his screamed.

And when someone sent that scream back, proved that he had heard it, Atobe’s eyes brightened and his smile turned hungry and true.

Tezuka Kunimitsu knew why he kept coming back. It was to hear a desperation and hope and frustrated rage that matched his own.

Sometimes he wondered whether Atobe saw that, too.

End

Backstage – Part One

Tezuka and Atobe meet while out fishing, in the Spring of their third year of high school. Conversation, verbal jousting, poetry, philosophy, angst, dramatics and humor ensue. Drama with Budding Romance, I-3

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Well, wasn’t this just a fine thing?

When Atobe Keigo wanted to get away from the duties and expectations of his game, his team, his opponents, he had a particular place to go. An isolated little bite out of the lakeshore where none of those things would follow. And now he saw all of them reflected at him in Tezuka Kunimitsu’s eyes. If the fishing paraphernalia spread out comfortably around this slightly overgrown grove was any indication, his best rival already had the place staked out for a long day. He had excellent taste, if execrable timing. Keigo took a few deep breaths; he would not, he told himself strenuously, scream with frustration. No matter how cathartic it might be just now. He had an image to maintain, even if Tezuka didn’t usually believe it.

Tezuka’s startled gaze fell on Keigo’s equipment and sharpened. He tipped his head to one side.

“Do you come here to fish, too?”

Keigo raised a brow. Too? Come to think of it, he had seen plenty of signs that someone else liked to fish at this place. He hadn’t thought much about it, except to be pleased that their schedules never seemed to overlap. He certainly hadn’t imagined that his unofficial timeshare partner might be Tezuka.

“Yes,” he answered at last, gathering himself to go look for another spot as graciously as possible. It took a fair degree of gathering, and Tezuka beat him to the punch.

“There’s room for both of us, if you don’t mind,” he offered, quietly.

Keigo accepted, stifling his surprise. It occurred to him, as Tezuka gathered his things to one side, that he’d definitely been out-gracious-ed, but he let it slide in the interest of peaceful fishing. Tezuka didn’t seem like the sort to practice competitive graciousness, in any case.

In fact, the edge of competition was completely lacking in Tezuka’s manner today. The absence was a bit jarring, Keigo mused as he laid out his things. He and Tezuka rarely encountered each other except on the court, and their personal competition was everything, there. Keigo loved it. Tennis was almost always entertaining, of course, but with Tezuka… Tezuka’s intensity washed away all the extraneous bits that usually occupied Keigo’s attention. The crowd, the future, the presentation, they all faded, and nothing mattered but the moment and the ball drawing lines in the air between them.

They’d learned, over the last few years, to bring seconds along, even for their unofficial matches. Once they were absorbed in the game only exceptional intervention, such as, say, a car crashing into the court, would induce either one to back down before the final score was decided. It wasn’t uncommon for them to leave so exhausted neither of them could walk a straight line without help.

This present still calm was , ironically, not helping his peace of mind, Keigo reflected as he cast his line out.

And how was Tezuka taking it? A sidelong glance showed him focused on the water as if it were a meditation garden. Keigo decided to take the opportunity to indulge his curiosity, and looked closer.

Tezuka’s stillness was nothing new. The quality of stillness wrapped around him even in the middle of a hard game; it was one of the things that often intimidated his opponents. It was a good tactic, and Keigo smirked every time he saw it used on someone else. There was something, though. Something in the line of his shoulders, and the set of his hands.

After a long moment it finally came to Keigo. Tezuka was relaxed.

Not the waiting whipsnap that fatally deceived so many on the court, but really relaxed. Keigo was not much given to introspection, at least not when he could help it, but one particular conclusion hit him hard enough to knock his breath out.

Keigo came here to find a little stability, a restful, solid time when he didn’t have to worry about balancing the needs and quirks of his team against the ruthless demands of their coach. Here, he didn’t have to deal with the annoyance of some uppity little hotshot after his position. He didn’t have to listen to his father casually mentioning the statistics on how many youthful tennis stars completely failed as professionals, and thank God for Grandfather, that was all Keigo had to say. He didn’t have to be arrogant enough to prop up the egos of two hundred odd mediocre players. He could be quiet. He could be lackadaisical. He could be abrasive or not, as he pleased. He could, in short, relax.

Tezuka clearly came here for pretty much all the reasons that Keigo himself did. It was an insight he really felt he could have done without. Not least because it immediately presented the question of whether the flash of understanding was mutual.

“There’s no audience here, Atobe, you don’t have to stay in character just to play to me.” Tezuka’s voice held a hint of impatience, as he glanced over, and Keigo realized abruptly how much he’d focused on Tezuka for the past few minutes. Of course he’d noticed.

And, Keigo supposed, that answered that question. He turned his attention to his line. He wasn’t sure today would be a relaxed day for him, but at least he was distracted from his regular problems.

Five minutes later he was studying Tezuka again. Fish were less demanding, but they weren’t as interesting.

He had known already that Tezuka used his reserve to conceal his intensity. It now appeared that he also concealed a certain… softness? tolerance? Keigo sighed to himself, because now his curiosity was engaged. And, after his pride, curiosity was probably his second strongest driving force. Well, if he was going to indulge it, he might was well do so with flair. What would be a good approach to stir up some revelations? Hm…

“Do you ever wish you had chosen a different front?” he asked. Tezuka eyed him, and he decided to prod a little harder. “Not that it isn’t an effective one, the stone silence does emphasize your command presence nicely, but don’t you ever get tired of it? Face get stiff?”

One of these days, Keigo told himself as Tezuka’s brows rose, it would probably be a good idea to restrain his sense of humor. It had gotten him in trouble before. In fact, it was the source of most of his bad reputation, including the part that held he couldn’t possibly have a sense of humor because one person couldn’t fit that and his ego too.

Tezuka was not, however, looking offended. He looked, insofar as Keigo could decipher his typically minimalist expression, thoughtful.

“Do you?” he bounced the question back. Keigo read a certain censure in the sharpness of his voice, and snorted.

“If you had as many people to deal with as I do, you would have chosen a front that afforded you some amusement into the bargain, too,” he declared.

“It amuses you to annoy people?” Tezuka inferred.

Keigo smiled. “Infinitely.”

“It amuses you to toy with people?”

“Provided they’re worth toying with,” Keigo specified, leaning back on his elbows. Tezuka reeled his line back in.

“If you want an honest answer to your question, Atobe, give me an honest answer to mine.”

“That was honest, Tezuka. I enjoy frustrating people who don’t realize that I am toying with them. If that fact itself also amuses me, that doesn’t make it any less true.” He tipped his head back to look up through the leaves. “You must know what it’s like. To be the best without a regular challenge. What’s worthwhile then?” Tezuka was silent for a minute before he spoke, in a meditative tone.

“There are times you remind me of Fuji.”

Keigo sat up rather quickly at that.

“I beg your pardon! I remind you of that little blond sociopath of yours? I have never been that unstable!” He glared at his companion.

“Indeed,” Tezuka noted, a bit too neutrally for Keigo’s taste, as he made a new cast.

Keigo slouched back and made a mental note that a relaxed Tezuka, while not significantly more emotive, was a good deal more outspoken.

“I am content with my own choice,” Tezuka stated after a few minutes of silence. It took Keigo a moment to remember the question that this was an answer to. But, then, it was only what he would expect out of Tezuka’s particular inflexible integrity, that he would keep his end of even a forgotten agreement.

“Always?” Keigo wanted to know. Contemplative silence reigned again for a while before Tezuka replied.

“Like your choice, mine has results that please me. Those I don’t wish to deal with don’t bother me. My team obeys me.” Keigo smirked over that last, while Tezuka paused again. “Like you, I don’t like the pressures that originally made me learn these habits. But, like you, I chose something that would let me stand against those pressures. Those expectations. Those denials.”

Keigo had to fight a sudden urge to back away, quickly, from that deep, even voice saying such unexpected, personal, accurate things. A corner of his mind observed that it was no wonder his opponents on the court looked so alarmed when he did this kind of thing himself.

“I don’t recall saying any of that,” he observed in his best languid drawl. The look Tezuka turned on him was not at all relaxed; it reminded him, with unpleasant abruptness, of how Tezuka looked when he played.

“Why do you come here, Atobe?” Tezuka asked. The change in direction gave Keigo a moment of mental whiplash, but he understood what Tezuka was asking. And he was ruefully aware that he’d been asking for this when he decided to prod Tezuka. The real question, now, was whether he wanted to afford his rival, of all people, the kind of frankness that he had previously reserved for such undemanding recipients as the fish.

On the other hand, hadn’t he done that already? What else were their matches, if not utterly brutal honesty written out in every movement? Brutality, in fact, had been their point of contact from the beginning. It was pleasant to have a couple constants in one’s life. And, reputation to the contrary, Keigo had never been one to hand out anything he couldn’t take.

“I come here to trap slippery creatures, reel them in, and then decide whether I want to kill them or not,” he said, making another cast.

A sharp glint of appreciation lit Tezuka’s eye for a moment.

“And you,” Keigo suggested, “come here because the fish understand your sense of humor better than your friends.”

Tezuka picked up one of the sharp, barbed hooks from his tackle box and held it up so that it glinted in the sun.

“Perhaps.”

Several casts later, Keigo remembered something he’d been wanting to ask since he got here. “Why are you here today, Tezuka? You’ve never come on Thursdays before.”

“That’s how my schedule worked out, this spring,” Tezuka shrugged slightly and tilted a brow. “Yours?”

“Likewise.” They both contemplated this fact in silence. “Ah, well. It will add a touch of interest to the conclusion of high school.”

“To say the least,” Tezuka murmured, and set his hook in a hapless fish with a flick of his wrist.

TBC

A/N: I do know that fly-fishing, which is what Tezuka’s hobby, at least, is listed as, is not a sitting still on the shore sort of affair. Since I wanted to boys to talk, though, I took a bit of artistic license.

Backstage – Part Two

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Kunimitsu had started approaching his favorite fishing spot a little warily since his schedule and Atobe’s had fallen into synch this spring. Today, however, his caution appeared unnecessary. Atobe was not waiting, with his usual edgy words and mocking smile only slightly blunted by the peace of water and silence.

Instead, he was sprawled out with one arm thrown over his eyes, looking rather rumpled. He hadn’t even set his line yet.

At the rustle of Kunimitsu setting up, he raised his arm for a moment and muttered something that might have been a greeting. Kunimitsu considered his companion as he sorted through his hooks. Atobe was a showman, even when he was relaxing. If he was showing exhaustion, he probably wanted to be asked about it.

“Are the fish particularly tiring today?”

“The fish are the very souls of courtesy,” Atobe informed him. “They’re waiting for me to recover before taking up negotiations.”

“Ah.” Kunimitsu waited, curious to see whether Atobe’s obvious desire to talk about it would win over his habit of misdirection.

“I think some of my team may fail to graduate this year,” Atobe mused. “I’m going to kill them first. Mukahi decided today was the perfect day to provoke Shishido, and told him it was a good thing he was so persistent, as it almost made up for his lack of talent. To which, predictably, Shishido replied that that was better than having a useless talent and no staying power, and becoming a drag on his partner. Which, of course, made Mukahi angry enough to resort to fists over words. You’ve never seen such a catfight.” Atobe ran a hand through his hair. “And that got their partners into it, and thank God both Oshitari and Ohtori have level heads and managed to pull those two apart. Except I’m reconsidering whether Oshitari can really be said to have a level head any more, because he decided the best way to shut Mukahi up would be to kiss him. Not that those two are anything but an open secret, but there’s such a thing as style, not to mention discretion, and I’m just thankful Hiyoshi had the good sense to chase off most of their audience before that.” Atobe sat up at last and reached for his water.

Kunimitsu found himself having to stifle a chuckle at the indignant tirade. The expressive flex and swoop of Atobe’s voice, when he was in full swing, was as good as anyone else’s extravagant gesticulation.

“Did you ever consider theatre as a hobby?” he inquired. Atobe shot him a sidelong look for the apparent non sequitur.

“Not really.”

“You would have been quite good at it, I think,” Kunimitsu told him, blandly. “Aristophanes would suit you. The Thesmophoriazusae, perhaps.”

Atobe choked, and snorted water out his nose.

If Kunimitsu were honest about it he would have to admit that Atobe wasn’t the only one who liked provoking people now and then. It was merely that Kunimitsu restrained himself, while Atobe made an art of flamboyant unrestraint. This place was where they relaxed, though, and perhaps they met in the middle, Atobe less artful and Kunimitsu less restrained.

“Your timing is as good as your humor is terrible,” Atobe rasped, recovering. Kunimitsu let a faint smile show. He didn’t think he had to say out loud that Atobe had no room to complain.

“Your team has stayed remarkably cohesive over the years,” he observed instead. Atobe waved a dismissive hand.

“It’s the doubles pairs that have been stable. Neither of them could be pried apart with a crowbar. Shishido wasn’t a Regular again until Ohtori caught up. Though I doubt Oshitari and Mukahi will continue with tennis after this year. They’re the second rank doubles team, again, and I doubt they can improve much more. At least,” he added, lip curling, “not unless Mukahi gets it though his head that contempt for his opponents won’t automatically let him win.”

“A very bad habit,” Kunimitsu agreed.

Atobe glared at him. He was very easily provoked today, Kunimitsu noted. And, apparently, more out of sorts than was immediately evident, because he declined to rise to the bait.

“In any case, I could say the same of your team. You have that mouthy little brat of yours back again, don’t you?”

“Of course.” And Arai had been deeply irate to be ousted from the Regulars by Echizen’s arrival, despite, or possibly because of, everyone else’s sure knowledge that it would happen. Tezuka shook his head. “Though you could say he never really left. He’s been practicing with us right along.”

Atobe slanted a look at him. “Ah? I wouldn’t have thought you’d bend the rules like that. Some favoritism creeping in, Tezuka?”

“It was in everyone’s free time,” Kunimitsu returned, serenely. Atobe really was off his stride today.

It wasn’t until Atobe jerked his line too hard and lost a fish that Kunimitsu thought it might be something serious. Lack of control was not normally one of Atobe’s problems, even when he was angry. Now, though, he saw a very fine trembling in Atobe’s hands, the kind that might translate into a series of bruising smashes if he had held a racquet instead of a fishing pole. He waited, patiently, for whatever was wrong to emerge.

“What are you planning to do when you graduate?” Atobe asked, at last.

“To play professionally.” Caution made Kunimitsu’s voice expressionless. Where was this going?

“Ah. Has anyone ever told you the odds of good junior players succeeding professionally?” Atobe’s voice was almost as even as his own, but the expression that accompanied it was a subtle snarl.

“No,” Kunimitsu answered quietly. The snarl was becoming less subtle, and Kunimitsu found himself a little concerned what might happen if Atobe gave his rage free rein outside of the court. He considered the problem.

He had observed Atobe interacting with his coach a few times. It was clear they respected each other, and he had thought at the time that Atobe must not be very familiar with support if he responded so warmly to such a cold trainer. He had an increasingly firm idea that someone in Atobe’s family was the source of the frustration and anger that seemed to drive Atobe’s game.

So…

“There’s supposed to be something more important. Something of higher worth,” he stated, cool and certain. Atobe stilled. “But it isn’t the same, and it isn’t enough.”

“Business,” Atobe nearly spit the word.

“Kendo,” Kunimitsu offered in return.

“They don’t understand what it’s like,” Atobe said, low and soft, staring over the water.

Kunimitsu thought about his brat , as Atobe named Echizen. He remembered the morning Momoshiro had come to practice, after finally prying the initial source of Echizen’s tennis obsession out of the boy, and proceeded to hit balls through the fence until Ryuuzaki-sensei had yelled at him.

“That may be for the best, in the end,” he pointed out. Atobe looked at him as if Kunimitsu had suggested he dye his hair orange, and he couldn’t decide which scathing retort he wanted to use first. That was more normal, and Kunimitsu relaxed again.

“That’s better,” he said, turning back to his line. Atobe arched a brow at him.

“What’s better?”

“Your temper. Not that it’s anything to boast of at the best of times, of course.”

Atobe scowled at him before turning away to fiddle with his line. At length he muttered a thank you almost as indecipherable as his earlier greeting had been. Kunimitsu smiled, amused.

“Really, you’re the highest maintenance rival I’ve ever had,” he told Atobe, deadpan.

After one blank moment Atobe laughed low in his throat and lounged back by his rod.

“As it should be,” he declaimed.

TBC

A/N: The Thesmophoriazusae is a play by the Greek comedic playwright Aristophanes; it’s full of low humor and crossdressing and sexual innuendo.

Backstage – Part Three

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Spring was starting to warm into summer, and the fish were getting smarter.

Or, at any rate, pickier about what they’d bite. Thursday afternoons had acquired a slower pace. Keigo basked in the mild sun, storing up pleasure in anticipation of the crushing heat to come later in the year. Practices would become downright grueling, then, he knew.

“A little hard to believe this is the last year we’ll be training with our teams,” he murmured, eyes closed.

“Mm.”

Keigo opened his eyes. He was becoming increasingly fluent in Tezuka-speak, which was a very tonal language. That particular tone was more terse than he would have thought the comment warranted. He examined Tezuka’s hands on his pole. He was definitely thinking of something besides the fish. It looked like today would be another challenge to get something out of his companion; that was always good for an entertaining hour or two.

“Too bad the competition will be so poor for the Nationals this year,” he suggested. “With Rikkai still in such disarray after losing a doubles pair and Sanada, both, the only real challenge, besides you, is Fudoumine.”

Tezuka’s mouth tightened for a moment. Ah, getting warmer, then. Something about one of the other teams, perhaps?

“I never expected Sanada to drop out of tennis unless Yukimura did.” Keigo drew a breath to continue, and then let it out silently as Tezuka’s eyebrows dove down. He smiled with great smugness. Got it in one. Now, then, something about Sanada himself, or about his captain?

Of course, judging by the edge to Tezuka’s expression, if Keigo pushed this he might just start returning, and that could get… uncomfortable. Tezuka saw him far more clearly than Keigo was used to. But that had never stopped him before.

“I hear Sanada’s studying the sword, instead,” he mentioned casually.

“Yes. I’ve been told.” Tezuka’s voice was hard and cold, and Keigo sat up to look at him. There were harmonics in that statement that he would have recognized at five hundred meters. The frustration, especially.

Pieces fell together.

“You’re related to that Tezuka family, then?” he asked.

“Through my grandfather,” Tezuka answered flatly. He didn’t mention his father, Keigo noticed, as though his father didn’t enter into the matter. Maybe he didn’t. Too bad they couldn’t trade, he thought, a bit sourly. He might pay money to watch his own father blunt his bluff attitude on Tezuka.

He didn’t suggest that there must be other cousins and such to take up the tradition; in cases of family tradition, especially as famous a tradition as the Tezuka school of kendo, that didn’t usually make a difference. Tezuka stirred.

“I doubt my team will suffer such confusion when the seniors leave,” he said. “Yours, on the other hand…”

Keigo chuckled, accepting the change of topic. Entertainment was one thing, but if he did press Tezuka further on this subject the return was likely to go beyond painful and into deadly. He didn’t want to push Tezuka that far. Not here.

“Unlike your merry band, Hyoutei is used to reforming dramatically each year. Hiyoshi has the experience to hold the new players together.” Keigo pursed his lips thoughtfully. “He might even follow on professionally.”

“I doubt any from my years except Echizen will become professionals,” Tezuka noted, unusually forthcoming with what Keigo rather thought was relief.

“Not even that bouncy power-player of yours?” he asked, a little surprised. “What was his name… Momoshiro. An annoying loudmouth, but he has the talent.” Tezuka gave him a distinct People who live in glass houses sort of look before replying. Keigo smiled.

“For a few years, perhaps, but I doubt he wants to bother with something that cutthroat in the long term. Momoshiro is invested in his team. I won’t be surprised if he becomes the Seigaku coach when Ryuuzaki-sensei retires.”

“What about your socially maladjusted data specialist?” Keigo prodded. “Hiyoshi has been quietly enamored of his determination for years; surely you aren’t telling me he lacks the focus.”

Usually Keigo’s insulting epithets for Tezuka’s team garnered at least a sharp look, promising retribution, but this time Tezuka’s face was a bit distant as he watched the water.

“There was a time I thought he would,” Tezuka spoke at length, tone as distant as his expression. “But I’m not so sure any longer.” He seemed to return to himself and finished, more briskly. “He may choose to become a trainer; he certainly has a knack for it.”

“Hm. I suppose Jirou might take that path, too,” Keigo mused, reeling in his line for another cast. Tezuka quirked a brow, and Keigo was in an good enough mood not to make him ask out loud.

“Shishido and Ohtori will probably go on, too, as doubles specialists,” he speculated. “Oshitari and Mukahi will probably go settle down somewhere and be scandalous.” He shuddered, delicately. He would never admit it, but he envied Tezuka his star doubles pair. They seemed so… calm and undramatic. Hyoutei only needed one dramatic personality, and that was him. “I don’t think I’m going to miss it that much,” he concluded.

Tezuka was still for a moment. “You won’t miss the attention? Being the center of that circus?” he asked, mildly. A crack of black laughter escaped Keigo.

“What a good comparison. Not really, no.” He had become a little… attached to this particular team, but that was no ones business but his. And, perforce, Sakaki-sensei’s. “Being the focus of two hundred little minds with less talent? Being their talisman, so they’ll all focus on one goal?” He bared his teeth. “The annoyance value of acting like an idol is pleasant, but it would have limited utility, professionally. I think I’ll choose something else after this year. Hell, I’ll act like anything that’s called for, including humble, if the sponsors can just break me loose from…” He bit off the end of the sentence. Damn Tezuka’s silence, that invited him to talk without thinking. Relaxation or no, he’d gotten too careless here.

“From your family?” Tezuka finished for him, and Keigo quashed a wince. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one with the marvelous insight? Not, he supposed, that it was such a large leap from some of the other things they’d said in this place.

He thought about that for a minute.

“You… were planning in that direction, too?” he hazarded, not looking at Tezuka. If Tezuka felt trapped by the question he’d never answer it.

“Somewhat.” The deep voice was barely audible, and when Keigo glanced over Tezuka was looking down at his own hands folded on his knees. It looked like a harder thought for Tezuka than it was for him.

On impulse, Keigo leaned over and laid his fingers on Tezuka’s wrist. Tezuka’s head turned toward him, sharply.

“Great minds think alike,” Keigo offered, in English, with a lazy smile.

A corner of Tezuka’s mouth actually twitched, and the bittersweet-brown eyes lightened.

“Ah. In that case I shall look forward to Tachibana’s company as I go about choosing a sponsor,” he said, smoothly.

Keigo gave in at last, and fell back, laughing freely.

TBC

A/N: The idea of Momo becoming the Seigaku coach came from Familiarity by Monnie. It stuck in my head and wouldn’t leave.

I ran across an actual Tezuka school of kendo while out browsing the web. The coincidence of names was too good to pass up, despite the fact that, canonically, Tezuka’s grandfather teaches Judo.

Backstage – Part Four

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Atobe seemed to have something on his mind this week. He kept glancing over at Kunimitsu and then away. After the fourth time he did it, Kunimitsu sighed.

“You might as well say whatever it is.”

Atobe really must have been distracted, because he immediately recoiled to his default response of mockery.

“What,” he drawled, “you think you can figure it out if I don’t? Let us witness your great deductive abilities, then.”

Kunimitsu eyed him. Atobe didn’t often fall back on that sort of thing any more. He shrugged one shoulder. “I think that if I wait quietly you’ll say in any case. You might was well say it now as later.” Atobe blinked, and slouched back, grumbling under his breath.

“Just because I know how to use my tongue…”

Kunimitsu smiled. It was too perfect. He couldn’t resist.

“Do you, now?” he murmured.

Atobe’s eyes widened, and he stared at Kunimitsu for several beats before he burst out laughing. There, that was better. Atobe’s mocking humor was a serrated thing, both sleek and ugly, subtle and vicious. Kunimitsu preferred it when Atobe relaxed enough to laugh, instead.

“Innuendo from Tezuka Kunimitsu,” Atobe managed at last, “be still my heart! The world must be ending.” He sighed and looked out over the lake. “I was wondering why you invited me to stay. That first day we were both here.”

The question surprised Kunimitsu. Most of the understanding between he and Atobe was unspoken. He had not expected Atobe to want to change that. Well, how to explain, then?

“The things you say here,” he began, at length, “could you say them anywhere else?” Atobe’s eyes flickered. Kunimitsu turned one hand palm up. “Neither could I. But you aren’t a member of my team, that I have to maintain my authority with. You aren’t a classmate I have to get along with. I have no family duty to you. And there are things you understand.”

Atobe considered this for a while.

“You were so sure of all that at the time?” he asked, finally, not quite mocking but clearly on edge. Kunimitsu’s mouth tightened; he wasn’t sure Atobe would accept the answer, but he had asked for it. And while Atobe might not have noticed it, yet, Kunimitsu told him the things he asked directly. Always.

“We’ve been playing each other for years, now,” he pointed out. “You are very honest when you play full out. And given that key, you aren’t difficult to read at other times, either.”

Tension threaded through Atobe.

“Besides,” Kunimitsu added, after a moment, returning to the original question, “sometimes you quote German poets with a very bad accent. It’s an amusing way to pass the afternoon.” The tension leaked away as Atobe drew himself up.

“A bad accent?” he repeated, in a deeply offended tone. The gleam in his eye undercut his supposed indignation.

“Horrible,” Kunimitsu confirmed, evenly. “You mangle the gutturals.” Atobe snorted.

“Well, if it’s a good accent you want…” He tilted his head, consideringly, and started to recite in what Kunimitsu recognized, after a few sentences, as Greek. He thought the language suited Atobe. The sound of it was sharp, but it had a rolling rhythm, like an avalanche of broken stone seen from far enough away to make it fluid. When Atobe finished, Kunimitsu quirked a brow at him. Atobe’s smile was a bit distant as he translated.

“Imagine the condition of men living in a sort of cavernous chamber underground. Here they have been from childhood, chained by the leg and also by the neck, so that they cannot move and can only see what is in front of them. At some distance higher up is the light of a fire burning behind them.” He paused. “The prisoners so confined would have seen nothing of themselves or of one another, except the shadows thrown by the firelight on the wall of the Cave facing them, would they?”

“Plato,” Kunimitsu identified it. Atobe nodded. It had to be from The Republic, as that was the only thing by Plato that Kunimitsu had ever read. He remembered being irked by the man’s complacence, while appreciating the idea of ability being allowed to lead. On reflection he wasn’t at all surprised that Atobe knew it well enough to quote.

Though what he had chosen to quote today indicated that he focused more on the bleak picture of human understanding than on the bright, brittle vision of a perfected society. That didn’t entirely surprise Kunimitsu either.

“I think I prefer the German poets,” he said quietly. A particular passage from one of his favorites came to mind, and he quoted it in turn. “You know how much more remarkable I always find the people walking about in front of paintings than the paintings themselves. It’s no different here, except for the Cézanne room. Here, all of reality is on his side: in this dense quilted blue of his, in his red and his shadowless green and the reddish black of his wine bottles. And the humbleness of his objects: the apples are all cooking apples and the wine bottles belong in the roundly bulging pockets of an old coat.“

Atobe looked at him inquiringly. “That’s not poetry.”

“It’s a poet’s letter about a painter’s work,” Kunimitsu explained. “Rilke writing about Cézanne.”

“You like Rilke enough to memorize his letters?” Atobe asked on a chuckle.

“The philosophy of artists appeals to me,” Kunimitsu told him softly. Atobe was silent, with the rare depth in his eyes that only showed when he was thinking seriously about a challenging idea. Kunimitsu kept his gaze as light as he could. Atobe was… compelling like this. But he didn’t think it would be wise to let his companion know that.

It wasn’t as though his ego needed the assistance.

“Cooking apples, hm?” Atobe murmured. “That’s certainly different from the ideal Form of Apple-ness.”

“Quite,” Kunimitsu agreed, dryly. Atobe leaned toward him.

“But isn’t perfection what we’re looking for? Especially on the court?”

“Yes,” Kunimitsu allowed, “but perfection differs from one player to another. There wouldn’t be a game if it didn’t.”

“You don’t think the final winner would be the one who found the real perfection?” Atobe challenged, dark eyes almost glowing.

“If that were true you and I should be converging toward a similar style.” Kunimitsu noted. “We’re not.” Atobe leaned back with a delighted smile.

“Good point.” Then he gave Kunimitsu a narrow look. “Why haven’t you ever argued philosophy with me before, Tezuka? You’ve been holding back on me.”

Kunimitsu couldn’t hold back a quiet laugh. It was so like Atobe to be irate over something like that. He was just a bit surprised that Atobe also seemed to feel that they had passed from rivals good enough to talk to friends good enough to argue. But perhaps Atobe hadn’t thought it out quite that far. Kunimitsu had rarely observed him applying his quite incisive intelligence to his own feelings.

“I won’t any longer, if you like,” he offered.

“I should hope not,” Atobe admonished him. “So, are you familiar with Theses on the Philosophy of History?”

Neither of them really seemed to mind that they didn’t catch any fish at all that day.

End

A/N: The passages of Plato and Rilke in this story are quoted, with a few artistic inaccuracies, from The Republic of Plato, Oxford Press edition, translated by Francis Cornford and Letters on Cézanne, North Point Press edition, translated by Joel Agee.

For those who may be curious, Theses on the Philosophy of History is a thoroughly cracked-out essay by the German philosopher Walter Benjamin. I highly recommend it. That it appears as subject matter in one of Laurie Anderson’s songs should tell you something about how wonderfully bizarre it is.

Undertow

Hiyoshi’s perspective on a “chance” encounter between Hyoutei and Seigaku, and especially their captains. Drama with Flirting, I-3

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Echizen Ryouma, Hiyoshi Wakashi, Hyoutei, Kikumaru Eiji, Momoshiro Takeshi, Mukahi Gakuto, Ohtori Choutarou, Ooishi Shuuichirou, Oshitari Yuushi, Seigaku, Shishido Ryou, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Atobe

Wakashi thought, later, that it started innocently enough, with Mukahi complaining. That was nothing unusual. Nor did it surprise anyone that Mukahi was annoyed that he hadn’t gotten a chance to play against Kikumaru and his partner at Prefecturals this year, and, in the Doubles Two slot, was unlikely to have the chance at Regionals either, even supposing Seigaku and Hyoutei came up across from each other again. Wakashi ignored him, as he usually did. It was nobody else’s problem that Mukahi and Oshitari hadn’t been able to secure a position as the first doubles team.

So it escaped his notice, until long after the fact, that Atobe’s smile had taken on an extra edge, or that their captain had dispatched one of the lesser club members on an unspecified errand. The first anyone really knew of something going on was at the end of practice a few days later when Atobe answered his cell phone and suddenly had the gleam in his eye that meant someone was going to regret his existence very soon.

“Mukahi, you were saying you wanted a chance to play Seigaku’s Golden Pair?” Atobe asked, with a shark’s smile.

“Yes,” Mukahi answered, a bit warily.

“Well, here’s your chance. You remember the courts down by the park?” Everyone nodded. “It seems some of the Seigaku team have gathered there today. Interested?”

Mukahi’s eyes lit almost as brightly as Atobe’s, and he looked over at his partner. Oshitari nodded agreement.

“Definitely interested,” Oshitari replied for them.

“Who all is there?” Ohtori asked, looking a bit thoughtful. Atobe’s smile widened enough to make Wakashi wonder just what he had in mind.

“Kikumaru and Oishi. Echizen. Momoshiro. And Inui.” His glance flicked toward Wakashi on the last name, and Wakashi suppressed a snarl. Atobe’s sense of humor had not been a welcome addition to his ongoing study of Inui Sadaharu’s techniques and play style.

“Echizen, hm?” Ohtori mused. Wakashi had no idea what value Ohtori could see in being steamrollered by Seigaku’s most annoying member, but he must see some. His steel was showing as he glanced at Shishido. His partner grinned back at him.

“I get the bouncy spiky-haired one, then,” Shishido said.

From the expressions Wakashi saw, the entire team was thinking the same thing about pots and kettles.

In the end everyone agreed to go except Akutagawa, who wanted a nap, and Taki, who tended to distance himself as much as possible from Atobe’s little projects. Wakashi wasn’t sure why he went, since he had no intention of challenging any of Seigaku tonight. Certainly not Inui, and definitely not Echizen. Echizen was on his list of people to defeat later. After he caught up to Atobe. And he would.

Maybe it was just his curiosity about what Atobe was doing, he reflected as they made their way to the park. Because he had to be doing something. Atobe didn’t go to trouble without a reason.

Of course, he could just be getting a kick out of putting Seigaku off balance. His expression was pleased enough when the other team stared in surprise at Hyoutei’s arrival. Predictably enough, Echizen recovered his tongue first.

“Slumming?” he asked, eying Atobe.

“Gakuto missed Kikumaru so much we had to come visit,” Oshitari purred. Kikumaru’s eyes narrowed just a bit. He never had liked Mukahi. There were days when Wakashi sympathized a great deal.

“Oishi.” It was just short of an order, and Oishi shot his partner a look both resigned and affectionate.

“One set,” he specified, moving onto the court.

Every time he watched doubles pairs interact Wakashi became more grateful that he was a dedicated singles player.

As he watched the game get going, Wakashi wondered again just why Atobe had arranged this. It should be clear to anyone that, unless Oshitari had something phenomenal up his sleeve, he and Mukahi were going to lose. And then Mukahi would be absolutely unlivable for weeks. He would sulk. He would snap if anyone mentioned the game. And he would drive his teammates insane by focusing obsessively on whatever Oshitari came up with to address… the weakness…

Wakashi chewed on his lip and thought. At last he went and stood behind Atobe’s shoulder. “You brought them here to lose,” he stated. “To lose badly. They won against Inui and Kaidoh, even it it was just barely. You want them to lose badly enough to spur them on.”

“You’re learning,” his captain murmured, without turning his head. There was that about Atobe, Wakashi reflected. He was not what anyone could call nurturing. He didn’t lift a finger or say a word to teach Wakashi how to lead a Hyoutei team. But when Wakashi figured something out, Atobe did let him know whether or not he was right.

It was both annoying and useful. Because, while Wakashi didn’t know whether he could exceed Atobe as a team captain, he was damn well going to keep trying. Anything less was unthinkable.

Sure enough, Oshitari and Mukahi lost. At least Oshitari managed to soothe his partner down from throwing an outright fit. Wakashi had to admit, Kikumaru’s feline grin of triumph probably didn’t help any. Ohtori’s match with Echizen was about as uneven as Wakashi had expected, but Ohtori seemed satisfied. Inui also looked pleased, presumably for different reasons. By Wakashi’s count he’d filled six pages with notes, during the match. Perhaps, he thought, as Shishido and Momoshiro swaggered onto the court, grinning and boasting at each other, Ohtori was using Echizen the same way Wakashi used Inui. As a gauge of his own progress.

With the example and tacit permission of Atobe’s frequent matches with Tezuka, Wakashi had sought out a match with Inui every now and then. If Wakashi had progressed significantly since the last time Inui had a chance to take his measure, then they had a close game. Wakashi had even managed to win one or two. If he hadn’t made enough progress to be a bit unpredictable, then he lost quickly and humiliatingly. It was effective. He couldn’t imagine that it would do much good to play Echizen for such a purpose, but, then, Ohtori had some of the same spark that Echizen did. None of the bravura flare, but the same fine edge and knack for reaching beyond what was reasonable.

Shishido’s game with Momoshiro was closer than Wakashi had thought it would be. Momoshiro’s strength and sharp eye won in the end, but Shishido’s speed and finesse drove through his guard often enough to make it tight. Echizen tossed his friend a water bottle as they returned, and told him he was slowing down in his old age. Ohtori gave his partner the smile he reserved for Shishido, brighter and gentler than the one he kept for everyday politeness.

And that seemed to conclude the evening. Wakashi was quietly relieved that Seigaku’s captain hadn’t shown up. No telling what kind of fireworks might follow if Atobe and Tezuka got into a match with most of their teams… looking… on…

Oh, hell. So much for leaving in time for dinner.

Echizen had noticed, too, and nudged Momoshiro, nodding toward where Tezuka stood just beyond the court, leaning on a lamp-post.

“Buchou!” Momoshiro exclaimed, and then everyone turned as Tezuka approached. Atobe gave no evidence of surprise, and Wakashi was positive he’d known the second Tezuka arrived.

“Tezuka,” Atobe greeted him. “You’re late.” Tezuka didn’t dignify that with a reply, merely nodded to Inui.

“Fuji passed on your message,” he said. Why that should make all the third-year Seigaku smile, Wakashi couldn’t imagine. Inside joke, he supposed.

And then Tezuka and Atobe came face to face. Wakashi had a sudden image of a piece of paper, drifting between them, ignited by the force of those locked stares.

“So?” Atobe asked, softly. Tezuka merely nodded, and dropped his bags, pulling out his racquet. Wakashi’s gaze crossed Oishi’s, the same touch of resignation in both. If their captains planned to go all out…

Sure enough, as Atobe and Tezuka set themselves on the court, a familiar feeling swept out from them like an ocean wave.

Wakashi was never quite sure why Atobe had chosen to ask him along as combination back-up and gofer at his unofficial matches with Tezuka. Most probably because he was the one most likely to keep his mouth shut, and not mention Atobe’s obsession to their coach, who thought Atobe had better things to be concentrating on. Wakashi had as little to do with Sakaki-kantoku as he could reasonably manage, and wouldn’t say anything in any case. They both knew he owed Atobe. They both knew that it was Atobe’s influence that kept Wakashi a regular despite defeat, in the past. Not so much this year, perhaps; even Kantoku didn’t really expect him to win against Seigaku’s Singles Two player. He had kept three games, and, despite his own infuriating surety that Fuji Shuusuke had been taking it easy, that seemed to be enough for everyone who remembered what Seigaku’s wild card was capable of.

But that didn’t erase the first time. Not in Wakashi’s mind, and certainly not in their coach’s. Atobe’s backing had saved him that year, much as it had Shishido. But Shishido and Atobe had been friends for a long time; it was easier for him to accept the help. Wakashi despised being indebted to Atobe. The only thing that made it tolerable was that Atobe clearly didn’t expect it to stop Wakashi from trying to overthrow him.

And he was going to do it. Even watching these games hadn’t dissuaded him, though he realized now that it was unlikely to happen unless he followed Atobe into the professional circuit. Chased him, the way he had realized, years ago, Inui chased Tezuka.

One of the reasons he wasn’t dissuaded was that he wanted to find this intensity, this absolute focus and commitment that resonated between Atobe and Tezuka and covered the court like deep water. He leaned into it as they slashed across the court, returns singing through the air. In fact, everyone was leaning forward, entranced by the passion and precision of the players. The momentum never relented; this game was shaping up fast and hard, with few twists.

Or so Wakashi thought until Tezuka feinted a smash and delivered a drop shot instead. Regarding the ball that rested demurely just his side of the net, Atobe’s mouth curled up and he directed a smoking look at his opponent.

“It isn’t polite to leave your partner hanging, Tezuka,” he admonished. Tezuka raised a brow at him.

“Do you doubt my endurance, Atobe?” he asked, with perfect composure. Atobe threw his head back and laughed, returning Tezuka’s serve with a vicious slice.

The jaw of every single watcher dropped.

“Impossible… they’re flirting!” Mukahi sputtered.

“They are,” Kikumaru seconded, apparently too stunned to notice who he was agreeing with.

“At the very least,” Oshitari murmured, sounding as floored as his partner.

Wakashi exchanged a long, wide-eyed look with Oishi, his fellow witness to matches between these two. This was certainly a new development.

That look caught Shishido’s attention, and he leaned over Wakashi’s shoulder.

“So, Hiyoshi,” he said, conversationally, “how long has this been going on?” Every eye focused on Wakashi, and his spine stiffened in response.

“Ask Atobe-buchou yourself, if you want to know,” he snapped. Shishido took on the look of a man calculating his chances of surviving a jump from a fifth floor window.

“Maybe,” he muttered, dubiously.

“I don’t think I really want to know,” Momoshiro put in, sounding just a bit ill.

Wakashi ignored them all in favor of the game. He was not, actually, all that shocked, though that kind of banter seemed more in Atobe’s line than in Tezuka’s. He’d have thought Seigaku’s captain would have had more decorum, even in the heat of a match. But it really fit well enough with the way these two played each other. The purity of the effort they exerted against each other, the complete, wordless rapport between them, the unspoken agreement that they could and would drive each other to the limit and beyond, it was the kind of thing that easily bled over into other kinds of passion. They were both breathing hard, now, dripping with sweat in the setting sun, and concentrated on each other like the twin mirrors of a laser.

Wakashi had occasionally been disturbed, watching them play, by a random thought wondering what it would be like to go to bed with one or the other of them. Since he would never, under normal circumstances, even consider the possibility, he had stamped out the thought quite violently the first few times it occurred. After a while, though, he realized that it was only the spill-over of the games. Even separated by the length of a court, Atobe and Tezuka were in constant contact while they played, just as much as if they had been running their hands over each other.

They reached a six game tie not long after the street lights came on.

“We’ll be here until midnight if we don’t stop them now,” Oishi said quietly. Wakashi nodded agreement, and Oishi crossed the court to Tezuka, quickly, before he could serve again. Wakashi hopped over the low wall and leaned against it, waiting to see whether he would have to add his voice to Oishi’s. Tezuka tilted his head, considering whatever Oishi was saying to him. He nodded, thoughtfully, and looked over to quirk a brow at Atobe. Atobe looked displeased, and waved a dismissive racquet. Abruptly, Tezuka’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. Atobe’s mouth tightened, but after a moment he nodded and turned toward the seats. Wakashi was relieved. Talking to Atobe right after a match with Tezuka always made him feel like he was transparent. Atobe’s focus was slow to widen again, enough to include anyone but Tezuka.

The teams broke up, chattering in the released tension, most of them dissecting the game. Shishido had a one sided smile that suggested he planned to tease Atobe about flirting as soon as some private opportunity presented itself. The gleam in Echizen’s eye indicated he had similar plans, despite his current silence. They drifted off in ones and twos.

Atobe and Tezuka were looking at each other again.

Wakashi sighed. Why him? A quiet word to Ohtori let him hustle both his yearmate and Shishido off, leaving Atobe and Tezuka in peace.

Or as close to peace as the two of them probably ever got.

At this rate, his captain was going to start owing him.

Epilogue

“Atobe.”

Keigo slung his bag over his shoulder and turned an inquiring look on Tezuka. Tezuka didn’t answer aloud, instead taking Keigo’s right hand in his own. He turned it palm up and pressed gently along the lines of the tendons. Keigo knew he would feel the tremors in the muscles. When Tezuka looked up, eyes demanding an explanation, Keigo shrugged his unburdened shoulder.

“I was working with Ohtori on his singles technique today. He’s starting to be able to volley at strength, if someone can return his shots for long enough.”

“And you baited me for a match today, anyway?” Tezuka asked, anger in the lowering of his voice. His fingers moved down Keigo’s wrist and forearm, testing. “And you would have kept going if I hadn’t noticed it.”

“It was a match of opportunity, and don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing,” Keigo said, firmly. Tezuka ran a thumb down the long tendon of his arm, and he sighed faintly. It felt very pleasant. That seminar in sports medicine Tezuka said he had taken last winter definitely had some dividends.

“Perhaps.” The corners of Tezuka’s mouth twitched up. “But considering this I don’t want to hear any more comments on my endurance.”

Keigo’s smile showed his teeth, and he looked Tezuka up and down, slowly.

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” he purred. Tezuka chuckled softly, and let his hand go.

“See you Thursday?”

“Of course.”

End

A/N: I am indebted, for a good deal of my conception of Hiyoshi, to Ruebert. Particularly the idea that he would be drawn to Inui’s attitude and methods. *tips hat* Doumo.

Transpose

Heat, tennis, sex. Porn With Insights, I-4

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Atobe

Full summer had arrived, bringing Keigo’s seasonal temper with it. It was beneath him to be cranky, but the heat made him restless. This was the one time of year when he genuinely envied Jirou’s ability to sleep through anything, including heat waves.

The outdoor courts in the city became unspeakably muggy and sticky in the depths of summer. Keigo was extremely grateful that, this year, Tezuka had finally seen reason and agreed that their matches would be better held on the court at the Atobe house, where there was fast recourse to air conditioning. It was no great problem to chase off the staff, who didn’t really want to be out in this heat either, though the butler had given him a suspiciously pleased look while commenting on how nice it was that he had a friend who could visit so casually.

On second thought, Keigo imagined that Akihito was probably getting as tired of Keigo’s public pose as Keigo himself was. He’d always supported it cheerfully enough, but after six years it was undoubtedly getting old for both of them.

Besides, he was right. It was nice that Tezuka could visit and give Keigo a chance to work off his summer induced agitation.

Keigo stalked to his end of the court and rounded on Tezuka, waiting. His breathing deepened as Tezuka set himself, and he could feel his focus narrowing. The world ended at the square of chain link surrounding them. Response danced in every fibre of his muscles, waiting to leap out and answer his opponent’s moves. Tezuka cast the ball upwards and Keigo saw the trail it left in the air, was moving even as Tezuka’s racquet finished its arc.

He loved the speed of their games, the immediacy. And, when it came right down to it, the simple, unfettered force. Neither of them would ever hold back, and that release intoxicated him. All the tension he held around himself day by day, and honed to a tool that could shape his future, broke loose and rushed out from him, through him, like a wind storm. Transparent. Overwhelmingly powerful. Terrifying. Uplifting.

In this season, in this mood, it was even more. His restlessness drove him, flying ahead of the storm, seeking to spend himself into calm. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, playing against Tezuka brought him to that calm. Other times he had to settle for the physical lassitude of worn out muscles.

His teeth clenched as he drove back a smash. It seemed that today might be one of the latter times.

It was a long game, and perhaps his edge of desperation was an asset of sorts, because he finally won it. But the restlessness still snapped through him. As he and Tezuka made for their water bottles, Keigo found himself wishing that the match hadn’t ended, that it could keep going for a while longer, even though they were both wringing wet and gasping for breath. As the sunlight glowed on Tezuka’s skin, Keigo found himself wanting, very much, to keep going.

And maybe, he thought suddenly, maybe he could.

The restlessness lifted his hand, and Keigo combed Tezuka’s hair back with his fingers. With his focus still limited to Tezuka himself, it made perfect sense to step in close enough to slide his mouth over Tezuka’s.

And perhaps Tezuka agreed that this was simply a continuation of the game by other means, or perhaps they were just both too tired to bother stopping themselves. After a single breath, Tezuka’s arm curled around Keigo, pulling him firmly against Tezuka’s body. Both Keigo’s hands found their way under Tezuka’s shirt, sliding up the sweat-slick length of his back, palms noting every curve and plane. He tangled one leg around Tezuka’s and breathed in Tezuka’s sigh. He felt Tezuka turning them both, felt the fence against his shoulders, shivered. He closed his hands over Tezuka’s hips and pulled Tezuka, hard, between his legs. His fingers tangled in Tezuka’s hair again, as Tezuka’s mouth moved down his throat. Tezuka’s hips flexed into his, driving him against the fence, against Tezuka’s hands as they slid down past Keigo’s waistband.

“Tezuka,” Keigo whispered, “yes, do it.” He felt Tezuka’s breath draw in against his neck.

“Atobe…”

“Now,” Keigo urged, drawing back far enough to yank down all the interfering cloth and stroke between Tezuka’s legs. The sound Tezuka made was too harsh to call a moan, the velvet voice rough against Keigo’s ear.

And then Tezuka was slipping down his body, far enough to lift Keigo’s legs, and Keigo knew he was going to have diamonds printed into his back from the fence, and he didn’t care. He was still running ahead of the storm, and this, this might be enough to calm him. His hands clenched hard on Tezuka’s shoulders, and he pressed all the tension of his body out to his hands, enough to let Tezuka…

…in. Burning. Stretching him apart. Rough and…

…hot. And Tezuka paused.

“Atobe,” he breathed, questioning.

“Don’t stop.”

“Keigo…”

“Don’t stop.“

Tezuka’s hand snaked between them, and strong, calloused fingers stroked up Keigo’s cock. He tried to arch into that touch and couldn’t, and then Tezuka was driving into him, hard and deep, and they were both moving, bodies never parting. The burning heat of the air, of the sunlight, of Tezuka inside him drowned Keigo’s senses, twined fire through every vein. He shuddered as the heat built in him, higher with every layer of sensation, pleasure shivering on the edge of bearable. He moved to meet it, as he always moved to meet Tezuka’s focus, Tezuka’s hands, racing, immediate, brilliant, and the fire rushed out, taking his breath more thoroughly than the longest match they had ever played.

They sank down in a loose tangle of limbs, and Keigo leaned his head back against the chain link. He felt Tezuka’s forehead fall to his shoulder. They were silent for several long minutes.

“Shower?” Keigo suggested, at last, with the casualness of exhaustion.

“Good idea,” Tezuka agreed in a similar tone.

It took another few minutes before they actually managed to get up.

Keigo had long ago decided that money wasn’t everything, but having it certainly made some things easier. For example, money, and Grandfather’s indulgence, had provided changing rooms with shower and bath right off the court. He had rarely been happier for them. He pulled Tezuka under the water with him, not least so that he would have someone to lean on if his legs decided to give out. They were considering it, he could tell. He sighed, happily, and stretched up into the spray, relaxed for the first time in days.

Tezuka was looking amused, possibly over Keigo’s expression.

“Hold still,” he murmured, and took the soap to wash Keigo’s back. Keigo was pleased, if a bit surprised. He hadn’t really taken Tezuka for the sort to indulge in affectionate gestures afterwards. He was more surprised to feel Tezuka’s hands on his hips, and Tezuka’s thumbs gently spreading him open. Checking for bleeding, he realized. He snorted.

“I’m fine, Tezuka. I know my own limits,” he said.

“Do you?” Tezuka sounded curious. Keigo waved a hand.

“And affair here and there at the seminars and camps. You know what it’s like.”

“Once or twice,” Tezuka admitted. His arms closed around Keigo. “Feeling better, now?”

Keigo started, and then laughed, leaning back against Tezuka.

“You know me too well,” he accused.

“I know you, period, Keigo,” Tezuka observed. The intimacy of his given name made Keigo pause. He turned his head enough to see Tezuka out of the corner of his eye.

“Isn’t that what I just said?” he asked, quietly.

Tezuka said nothing, just bent his head to place a kiss on Keigo’s shoulder, and Keigo slowly relaxed. It was nothing new. Not really. More like a piece of music, written for violin, played on the flute instead.

They stood together under the water for a long time.

End

Pace

Tezuka convinces Atobe to take things a little slower. Porn With Insights, I-4

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Atobe

Keigo sat in Tezuka’s kitchen and reviewed the circumstances. Tezuka’s parents and grandfather had taken a week’s vacation to visit his aunt, the grandfather’s only other child. So, for a week, Tezuka was in sole possession of the house.

To be perfectly frank, Keigo was nearly slain with envy. He really thought he might sell his soul for the glorious peaceful silence of a house to himself for just twenty-four hours, let alone a full week.

Tezuka, however, apparently wanted company, and had invited Keigo home with him at the end of this Thursday’s fishing. He had offered to cook whatever of their catch was suitable to the purpose, having packed along a small thermal bag to bring the fish back in. Tezuka was currently engaged in poaching the fish with ginger shoots. This otherwise blameless activity was holding all of Keigo’s attention, because the look in Tezuka’s eyes at one or two points during the afternoon indicated to him that his fishing partner had, to put it euphemistically, plans for the evening.

Keigo decided it was about time to test his hypothesis. He leaned back in the kitchen’s sole chair, which he had, of course, appropriated.

“Just ginger?” he asked.

“You had something else in mind?” Tezuka inquired, without turning.

“Just wondering whether ginseng or anything similar was going to make an appearance,” Keigo drawled. That got Tezuka to turn around, and he left the fish for a moment to come and stand over Keigo. He reached out and trailed his fingers down the underside of Keigo’s jaw.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he stated, softly. Keigo’s eyes lidded, and he gave Tezuka a lazy smile.

“Perhaps not,” he murmured. Hypothesis confirmed, he decided, as Tezuka returned to preparing dinner.

The fish was excellent.

He accepted Tezuka’s invitation to see his room as demurely as possible, and almost laughed at the tiny smile Tezuka showed him that said, yes, they both knew exactly what was going on, but it was amusing to play out the game of manners anyway. When they got there, though, it was Tezuka’s turn to chuckle, because Keigo immediately made for his bookshelves and couldn’t resist critiquing the collection.

“…and not nearly enough epic poetry. Really, Tezuka, I’m not suggesting you take up Milton, but with your taste for history I would at least expect Virgil.” He paused. “Nietzsche, hm? Now that’s one I wouldn’t have thought of you.”

“Even when the mouth lies, the way it looks still tells the truth,” Tezuka quoted in German. Keigo turned to find him lying on his bed, looking at the ceiling. He came to stand beside the bed.

“I suppose it does,” he agreed, looking down. At the moment, Tezuka’s mouth was both soft and serious. Tezuka held out a hand to him, and Keigo took it and let himself be pulled onto the bed. He plucked off Tezuka’s glasses as Tezuka leaned over him. Tezuka didn’t comment.

“Keigo. Will you let me go slowly this time?” he asked, instead. Keigo grinned.

“You want a long game, Tezuka?” He stretched, provocatively. “We can do that.”

Tezuka’s mouth was still soft and serious as he kissed Keigo, and it took Keigo entirely by surprise when Tezuka’s hand slid between his legs and stroked.

“And here I thought you said slow,” he gasped, arching into that unexpected heat.

“I did,” Tezuka murmured against his lips. Keigo shivered.

“Aaaahh… You could have just said you wanted to tease me,” he pointed out a bit breathlessly. Tezuka’s hand stilled.

“I don’t.” Keigo eyed him skeptically, and he shook his head. “The point of teasing is to frustrate.” A wry smile curved his mouth. “That’s Fuji’s forte, not mine. What I want is to pleasure you, Keigo.”

Keigo lay, looking up at the clear, piercing eyes above him. He had never said in so many words that he was a dedicated sensualist, but it wouldn’t have been that hard to figure out from their conversations. Especially not after the three week long debate over Schiller. And this, his rival, his companion, his friend, the one who saw him, and touched him, and understood, wanted him happy, pleased. Pleasured.

Keigo closed his eyes and whispered, “Kunimitsu.”

Kunimitsu’s mouth found his again, tongue curling around his own and drawing him out, and Tezuka’s hand was moving again, fondling him, and this time Keigo gave himself over to the heat without hesitation.

Kunimitsu made fairly short work of their clothes, but missed no chance to stroke Keigo’s skin, trace the lines of bone and muscle. Keigo basked in the glow of those touches, purring as he stretched into the space Kunimitsu’s hands sketched for his body. His gaze followed as Tezuka drew a little away, at last, reaching for the bedside stand.

And then he had to pause and blink.

A diffuser. Normally, the cup on top held water, and a few drops of oil or flower petals. Somehow, as he watched Kunimitsu dip his fingertips into it, he doubted that was water in there now. He laughed softly, and bent one leg as Kunimitsu reached under him, slick fingers slipping between his cheeks.

Warm.

Keigo sighed as the warmth stroked him, not entering but circling, massaging. Languid heat washed over him, seeping out from that gentle touch, loosening his whole body.

When two fingers finally slid into him it pulled a long, low moan from his throat. They passed gently, so gently, over the place the flashed fire up his spine, and Keigo tensed, pressing into it. Kunimitsu leaned down against him, speaking low in his ear.

“Relax. Relax for me, Keigo, and just feel. Please.”

After a long, shuddering moment, Keigo managed to let the tension go again, and Kunimitsu’s fingers moved, slowly, and it was suddenly… more.

Not fire but lava, not a flare but a presence, and Keigo sank down into sensation that didn’t build but sustained. And now Kunimitsu’s tongue slid down the side of his neck, lapped over his nipples, brushed warm and velvety over his stomach. It was all Keigo could do to keep breathing as Kunimitsu’s fingers left him and returned, hot, now, inside him. The silky pleasure was building again, burning again, and Keigo drew Kunimitsu’s mouth back up to his.

“More?” Kunimitsu asked, voice husky. A long, powerful shudder rippled through Keigo’s body.

“Yes.”

When Kunimitsu drew him up onto his knees, Keigo found that he needed to lean against Kunimitsu’s support, behind him, because his muscles were uninterested in holding him up. He let his head fall back with a long, harsh breath as Kunimitsu passed one hand down his chest, down his stomach, to grasp and stroke him. The stretch and pressure of Kunimitsu thrusting into him, slow, slow and hard, drowned his senses again in thick, hot pleasure. Individual sensation was lost. He couldn’t have said immediately what was in front of his eyes, could only hear Kunimitsu’s low moan beside his ear, could only feel heat sweeping up every nerve and Kunimitsu’s body against him, holding him, driving him under…

…the heat.

Kunimitsu’s arms were still around him when Keigo caught his breath again. They loosened when he stirred, but he only turned until he could rest against Kunimitsu’s shoulder, and after a moment the arms draped around him again.

“You’re right. You don’t tease,” Keigo murmured. A wordless sound of agreement answered him. Keigo looked up and surprised a look on Kunimitsu’s face that bore some resemblance to his expression when he won a match. Fiercely satisfied.

Keigo thought about that automatic comparison for a moment, and decided perhaps it wasn’t so automatic after all. Kunimitsu looked like he had succeeded in something that mattered to him, and Keigo didn’t really think that drowning his lover in pleasure would merit quite that expression. A long game, Keigo had said earlier. Was this a longer game than he’d thought? He combed through his memories of recent interactions between them, and then further back, and then still further.

At last, he leaned up on one elbow and brushed Kunimitsu’s hair back from his face so he could look him in the eye.

“You’ve been… courting me,” he asserted. “Since the spring, haven’t you?” Still eyes looked up at him.

“I took the opportunity that presented itself.”

Keigo decided that was as good as an admission, considering the source.

“All for this?” he wanted to know.

“When I saw you, at the lake, I wondered if we could give each other some peace, as well as the balance we already had,” Kunimitsu explained.

Keigo brushed his fingertips over Kunimitsu’s lips.

“Peace?” he asked. Kunimitsu ran his fingers through Keigo’s hair and smiled.

“Yes.”

“You’re completely mad, you realize that, of course,” Keigo told him, conversationally.

“Perhaps,” his lover replied with every evidence of serenity. Keigo laughed, and slid back down to lie against him.

“Kunimitsu,” he whispered.

End

A/N: Ginseng has an old reputation as an aphrodisiac.

Already Are

Atobe watches Tezuka, and reflects. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Atobe

Keigo folded his arms on the edge of his couch and rested his chin on them to regard the occupant. Kunimitsu seemed to be well and truly asleep, one hand holding his half-folded glasses against his chest, Keigo’s copy of Faust falling out of the other. His eyes were relaxed, though his mouth wasn’t, particularly.

Keigo didn’t have a great many examples to work from, yet, but he had come to the conclusion that Tezuka Kunimitsu never relaxed completely, even in sleep.

There were reasons, of course. Tezuka had at least as many responsibilities as Keigo, and was quite serious and dedicated about fulfilling them. In addition to the general run of Student Leader Responsibilities, such as keeping the photography club from getting into fist fights with the chemistry club over who got to use the well-plumbed and windowless lab room, there was the stress of keeping the tennis club in line and the team in trim. Keigo entirely sympathized, though it had been a bit hard to convince Kunimitsu of that the time he burst out laughing over Kunimitsu’s description of the taste of an accidental slug of Inui Juice. Keigo knew that Kunimitsu identified far more strongly with his individual team members than Keigo allowed himself to do, and that their advances, or lack of the same, just added to the strain.

But surely, he mused, sleep was the one place none of that could follow. Or should be.

Not, he had to admit, that Kunimitsu hadn’t woken Keigo from a nightmare once or twice when his waking troubles had followed him down to dreams. He had refused to say what it was about, last time, and Tezuka hadn’t pressed him. The memory of walking across a frozen lake, and looking down to see his team, trapped under the clear ice, of reaching down, only to find that he was reaching up, that he was trapped, too… He shuddered and pushed it away. It wasn’t even the images, really, it was the remembered feeling of panic and then helplessness that made his stomach twist. It had happened the evening after they played Seigaku at Prefecturals.

Keigo sighed to himself. All right, so perhaps he was more bound up with his team than it was entirely a good idea for him to be. He was even fairly sure when it had started.

It almost had to have been the day Tezuka had taken his world and tilted it up on one corner, proven to him that he had missed something about an opponent, that he hadn’t seen everything.

Keigo knew his coach was still dubious about the resulting change in Keigo’s approach to his team. A loss was a loss, in Kantoku’s eyes. Keigo insisted, though, that he never defended any player whose failure had not driven him to such improvement that it would not happen again. He had never been wrong about that, and so Sakaki permitted Keigo’s judgment to prevail. He had no doubts about what would happen if he ever were wrong. The rule of Hyoutei still held, albeit modified. The weight of it now rested on Keigo, should he chose to absolve one of his players of a loss.

How, after all, could he still believe that a loss was a loss after that first game? He had won… but he hadn’t. Tezuka had lost, and yet…

And that was what had brought Keigo to take such foolish personal risks on behalf of his team members. Looking at it objectively, he could only shake his head at himself. But it was also undeniable that his team had responded more willingly to his hand, after. Shishido even called him Buchou without it sounding like an insult, every now and then. He smiled, a bit wryly, at the man sleeping under his gaze, and recited, quietly, in German.

“My eyes already touch the sunny hill,
Going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
It has its inner light, even from a distance –

And changes us, even if we do not reach it,
Into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are.“

Keigo raised his head and lifted one hand to brush Kunimitsu’s hair back. “One match, Kunimitsu,” he murmured. “Maybe some day I’ll ask you if you knew what you were doing.” And then he chuckled to himself. “Quoting poetry over my sleeping lover, yet. One of these days I’ll lose my mind completely and actually write poetry for you, I have no doubt.”

He leaned down and kissed Kunimitsu, softly. Drawing back, he was pleased to see that Kunimitsu’s mouth had finally relaxed.

End

A/N: The poem is most of “A Walk” by Rilke, trns. Robert Bly.

Color of the Sea

Atobe and Fuji have a chat about possessiveness. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Fuji Shuusuke

Shuusuke had had his suspicions, but he hadn’t been entirely sure. Not one hundred percent. Not until he walked out the front entrance of the school, listening with amusement to Eiji’s enthusiastic explanation of why Betta fish were fascinating, and spotted Atobe leaning against the wall, waiting. Waiting for him.

Then he was sure.

“Atobe,” he greeted, as Eiji’s exposition cut off in surprise.

“Fuji.” Atobe pushed off from the wall. “Mind if I walk with you for a ways?”

Shuusuke thought about where he was headed today. Not normally someplace he would take company like Atobe. But… yes, it might be a useful illustration. He nodded and touched Eiji’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Eiji.” Eiji gave him a long look, and Atobe a longer one, before he nodded in turn.

“Ok. Have fun, Fujiko-chan.” His friend winked and strolled off humming, and Shuusuke stifled a laugh. Eiji knew him very well.

Atobe fell in beside him as he turned toward his own destination, and Shuusuke spoke softly.

“There was something you wanted?” A pleasingly double edged question to start off with.

Atobe was quiet for a few moments, and when Shuusuke looked at him his expression was edgier than usual.

“You’re Tezuka’s friend, as well as one of his team members,” he said at last. Shuusuke waited for him to do something besides state the obvious.

“Has he told you that we are,” Atobe paused judiciously, as if seeking just the right words, “seeing each other?”

“Not in so many words,” Shuusuke replied, and left it at that, waiting to see what Atobe would make of it. Atobe’s answering chuckle was warmer than he had expected.

“Ah, yes. We are speaking of Tezuka, after all. I should have said, has he indicated. Well, that makes things easier.”

“How so?” Shuusuke asked.

“There was a… precautionary question I wanted to ask you,” Atobe said, glancing at him, sidelong. Shuusuke waited, keeping his expression bland, and Atobe’s expression took on a slightly disgruntled edge. “Well, I suppose I didn’t expect you to make it easy,” he snorted.

Atobe took a deep breath, and when he let it out his bearing changed, less flippant, more focused, closer to the way Shuusuke had seen him at times when he thought he had a worthy challenge on the court. And, yet, more hesitant than that. When he spoke, Atobe’s voice was quieter and more even then Shuusuke had ever heard it before.

“Anyone with the slightest pretense to a brain knows that you’re dangerous, Fuji.” He glanced over, eyes dark. “And I have to say, that smile only makes you unnerving as well as alarming. If you’re actually trying to hide it, I recommend a different tactic.”

So, this was going to be a serious conversation. Shuusuke knew from observation that Atobe didn’t like to speak seriously or let on how much he saw or knew until he could use the information to his advantage. So. Shuusuke let the smile fade, unveiling his eyes from behind his lashes. Judging by the sharp half smile that crossed Atobe’s face, he appreciated both the threat and the compliment of that honesty.

“Anyone with eyes also knows that you’re very possessive,” he continued, quite matter-of-fact. “Your team, your friends, your family,” a pause, “your captain. Anyone who harms any of those comes in very quickly for an extremely unpleasant experience of some sort.” For a moment his expression was typically mocking again. “I imagine Jirou’s delight with your little lesson to him came as a bit of a shock.” A sigh. “But I’m not like Jirou, so it seemed wise to find out now if you have any objections.”

“And if I did?” Shuusuke probed.

“If you objected I would expect it to be because you thought I was a threat,” Atobe said, elliptically. “And if you thought I was a threat, I would expect you to carve my heart out and never lose that smile while you did it.”

Shuusuke gave him the smile he didn’t usually show, the dangerous and delighted one, enjoying this opportunity to show the danger clearly to someone who seemed to respect it for what it was. This was turning out to be very interesting.

“You would be right,” he murmured.

“I didn’t doubt that I was,” Atobe shot back, calmly.

“Didn’t you?” Shuusuke prodded. “What makes you think you really understand that kind of protectiveness?” Atobe snorted again, with more disdain than exasperation this time.

“It’s true I tend to make friends who can take care of themselves, but there have been one or two. One or two pure hearts.” He looked at Shuusuke full on, eyes glinting. “And I know that if I thought you were a serious threat to his peace… I’d carve your heart out with a smile.”

Shuusuke considered. He didn’t really have any particular objections, and, if he had, that last sentence would probably have laid them to rest. But it would be nice to have confirmation, and, after all, Atobe had offered this game. So he let his expression stay cool and sharp.

“What is Tezuka to you?” he asked. Atobe tilted his head, and gave him a question back.

“Do you love him?”

Shuusuke understood that Atobe wanted his credentials to ask such a question, or hear the answer, and he did want to hear it, so he replied as accurately as possible.

“Tezuka is very dear to me.” That seemed to suffice. Atobe’s eyes softened, and Shuusuke was fascinated to see that they actually lightened, turning the color of deep water under a clear sky.

“He is silence that hears,” Atobe said at last, sounding far more casual than he looked. “He is a hand to catch my balance on. He is a drive that matches mine and a mind that can argue against me.” He fell silent, and Shuusuke decided to try drawing out the still unsaid things hinted at by a faint smile that looked remarkably like one of Tezuka’s. He was reasonably sure there was more to this than what could have been a description of a good doubles pair.

“Is that all?”

But, apparently, that was as forthcoming as Atobe was willing to be. His eyes shuttered again, and he raised a sardonic brow.

“Did you really want me to mention the part about an incredible body and hands that know exactly where to touch?” he asked. Shuusuke’s mouth twitched. An excellent deflection.

“Perhaps,” he returned slyly. Both Atobe’s brows went up, and he looked a bit askance at Shuusuke, probably trying to gauge his seriousness.

And here they were, with perfect timing, at the park where Kippei was waiting for him, standing now from the bench he’d occupied and looking rather surprised at Shuusuke’s company. And also, perhaps, to see Shuusuke without his public face.

“Shuusuke?” he asked, coming to stand close in a silent offer of support if it was needed. Shuusuke smiled, softly, up at him.

“Tachibana,” Atobe acknowledged, casually. And then he looked twice, suddenly eyeing the distance between Shuusuke and Kippei. More precisely, the lack of distance. And then he looked very narrowly at Shuusuke, who gave him an amused look back.

“Tezuka isn’t a man who can be possessed,” he noted, by way of explanation.

Atobe was very still for a moment, and in that moment Shuusuke was sure Atobe understood. That he knew Shuusuke had accepted his company on the way to see Shuusuke’s lover in order to flaunt the ease and closeness of their bond. And also to assure Atobe that Shuusuke would not contest him for Tezuka out of jealousy. And to imply that, if Shuusuke did object, it would be because he recognized a good relationship and didn’t think Atobe could supply that.

Shuusuke was, actually, somewhat impressed with the extent of understanding he read in Atobe’s face. And then he was rather surprised when Atobe flung back his head and laughed.

“Ah, very nicely done,” he said, recovering himself. “Perhaps, the next time Kunimitsu compares me to you, I’ll take it as a bit more of a compliment.” And he nodded to Kippei and continued on his way, still chuckling.

“Kippei,” Shuusuke said, gazing after Atobe with pursed lips, “please remind me that I need to have a talk with Tezuka.”

“About what?” Kippei asked, curiously, brushing Shuusuke’s hair back with a soothing touch. Shuusuke looked at him, keeping a tight grip on his outrage.

“Did you hear? Tezuka has compared me to him.” He glared at Atobe’s retreating back. “I have never been that unsubtle!”

End

Feels Like Home

Atobe decides to turn the tables. Porn With Characterization, I-4

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Pairing(s): Atobe/Tezuka

One of the things Kunimitsu found most fascinating about Keigo was how changeable he could be. He could be accommodating one moment and utterly intransigent the next. And there was no guaranteeing that either was genuine, not simply a lever to turn his audience to his hand. The only time Kunimitsu was entirely sure of his honesty was on the court.

Or, of late, in bed. Between them, it almost came to the same thing.

Normally Kunimitsu simply had to be grateful for his years of experience with Fuji’s social duplicity, which gave him some preparation for riding out Keigo’s occasional, mercurial enthusiasms with some degree of equanimity. Though he only pointed out that fact when he had some reason to want to rile Keigo. Today called more for bemusement than equanimity, actually.

Kunimitsu had known that Keigo had strong opinions on music. He had known that Keigo enjoyed classical music. He had known that Keigo’s taste had some odd quirks, after coming across his copy of Bach pieces played on synthesizer. He had not quite expected that, upon his confession that he was entirely unfamiliar with American blues and country music, he would be more or less dragged to Keigo’s room and planted on an enormous floor pillow at what Keigo claimed was optimal distance from his impressive array of speakers in order to listen to some of Keigo’s collection.

Upon completing these arrangements, Keigo had promptly retired to his couch with a copy of The Frogs and seemed to be ignoring Kunimitsu’s presence.

Definitely bemused.

He had to admit, the music was interesting. The woman singer had an impressive range, and a powerful voice, clear and throaty by turns. He could only pick out about two thirds of the words, but what he did understand veered between brash and poetic.

Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that Keigo liked it.

When the music ended, he stayed reclined on the pillow, looking up at Keigo’s ceiling. One verse had stayed with him, echoing in his head.

Now, we have learned to build
Out of concrete, out of steel,
And our buildings stand a thousand years and then
Even they are bound to fall.

But the women cross the river
Never learned to build a wall.

Keigo entered his field of vision, and stood looking down at him.

“Kunimitsu?”

“It’s… good,” Kunimitsu said, quietly. He and Keigo were both very accomplished at building. That song made him wonder what it would be like to not be. Another line returned to him. The women cross the river, they can kill you with their eyes. That he had felt. Perhaps they were closer to living without walls than he had first thought.

When they were honest with each other.

And perhaps Keigo saw his thoughts in his eyes now, because his own eyes darkened. Kunimitsu shifted under the heat of that look, and lifted a hand to Keigo.

Keigo sank down to kneel over his body, and twined his fingers through Kunimitsu’s hair. The force of his kiss came as no surprise; Keigo was an aggressive lover as often as he was playful or languid. Kunimitsu hesitated as his hands found Keigo’s back, though. There was something different this time. Something in the slide of Keigo’s tongue against his, in the hand tilting his head back. Something in the way Keigo held his body over Kunimitsu’s, not touching yet.

Kunimitsu’s breath tripped as the difference slid into focus. There was no hint of pliancy in Keigo’s movement.

In the abstract, he’d known this was coming from the start. It would have been absurd to imagine that Keigo would be willing to give way to him always. In a way, Kunimitsu was surprised it had taken this long for Keigo to decide to turn the tables. But that didn’t really lessen the immediate shock.

Kunimitsu’s effort to rearrange his expectations was caught short when Keigo dipped his head and closed his teeth over Kunimitsu’s throat. His body snapped taut as a drawn bow against the one above him, breath leaving him in a sharp, uncontrolled sound, and he shivered as Keigo drew away, slowly, lips whispering after the sharp scrape of teeth. Kunimitsu lay, shaken, as Keigo cupped both hands around his face.

“You’ve never done this the other way around, have you?” Keigo murmured. Kunimitsu shook his head, unwilling to trust his voice. Keigo’s hand trailed down his chest as he leaned forward to breathe against Kunimitsu’s ear. “You know what I want, though.”

Kunimitsu reflected that Keigo had a significant advantage when it came to these things, because if ever a voice was made for seduction, it was Keigo’s, with a tone like sandwashed silk stroking bare skin.

“I want to see this powerful body spread out under me,” his lover continued. “I want to hear your voice roughen and break because of what my hands are doing. I want to feel you sigh because I’m inside you. And I want you to feel what it’s like, Kunimitsu. What it’s like to let go. To let someone else take trouble for your pleasure.” His hand traced the tension in Kunimitsu’s muscles, and he shook his head a little. “I won’t do anything to hurt you, Kunimitsu. If you don’t trust my gentleness, at least trust my skill.”

That was such a Keigo thing to say that Kunimitsu lost a bit of tension in a smile.

“That isn’t it,” he answered, quietly. “I just… didn’t expect to… like that.” It was the intensity of his own response that shocked him, the rush of heat that had answered Keigo’s gesture of dominance. He had not expected it to arouse him.

He was also surprised to look up and see Keigo regarding him with some exasperation.

“Kunimitsu,” Keigo sighed, “pleasure is pleasure. You can’t give any mind to what lesser people think about giving or receiving it.”

That, too, was so purely Keigo that Kunimitsu couldn’t restrain a chuckle. On the other hand, it did make sense of why Keigo had been willing to receive from Kunimitsu at all. Sometimes, Keigo’s airy disregard of any stricture that happened to inconvenience him did have advantages. Kunimitsu brushed the backs of his fingers against Keigo’s cheek.

“Come, then,” he invited.

Keigo’s mouth covered his again, as Keigo undid the buttons of his shirt and brushed it aside. Kunimitsu let his head fall back, let the shudders run through him, at the sharp catch of Keigo’s teeth against his throat, again, and nipping at the shivering muscles of his stomach, and at Keigo’s fingers drawing light patterns over his shoulders and collarbone. Those long fingers undid the button at his waist delicately enough that they never touched his skin, and somehow that care and control called out a deeper shiver than anything else.

Having dealt with the last fastenings, though, Keigo chose to coax off Kunimitsu’s shirt first. And then, with the kind of caprice that could only be deliberate, rose and slowly stripped off every thread of his own clothing. Kunimitsu wondered whether Keigo was trying to unsettle him, keep him off balance. Or maybe it was the reverse, because the bare line of Keigo’s body leaning over him was familiar. Keigo smiled at Kunimitsu’s faint sigh, and his tongue stroked the hollow of Kunimitsu’s shoulder.

His left shoulder.

Kunimitsu’s hands closed hard over Keigo’s ribs as a violent shudder tore though him. Why was he remembering that first match now?

“Not to injure, Kunimitsu,” Keigo said, low, “but isn’t that how we are? It matters who wins, but it matters more that we play with everything. I don’t want anything more than everything you are.”

It made perfect sense, which was probably why Kunimitsu had sought more from Keigo than the occasional game in the first place. Giving everything. Accepting everything. That was, indeed, how they were. A soft moan rose in his throat as Keigo’s tongue caressed that tender skin again. And then the inside of his elbow. And then the inside of his wrist. Those soft, sliding touches over pulse points tingled, rippling out though his blood, and Kunimitsu was gasping by the time Keigo reached his palm.

Midnight eyes gazed down at him as Keigo took Kunimitsu’s fingers in his mouth, tongue curling around each one and stroking up the sides, teeth nipping at the tips. Keigo drew back only to trace the lines of Kunimitsu’s palm with the tip of his tongue before sucking two fingers in again. One hand drifted down, trailed over Kunimitsu’s stomach, between the open edges of his pants, and drew a thumb down the hard length still covered by smooth cotton, suggesting, promising. Keigo’s tongue sliding over his fingers, and Keigo’s fingers brushing over his cock somehow slid together into a single touch like an electric shock.

Kunimitsu felt like a plucked string, held between those two points of contact, vibrating to a single note. It startled him, and he tensed against it. That only made it strong enough to force a harsh sound from him. Even Keigo’s full weight covering him didn’t damp that vibration completely.

And then Keigo brushed back his hair, and his mouth closed on Kunimitsu’s ear. Every muscle in Kunimitsu’s body seemed to unstring itself at once, and his bones started to melt.

Trust Keigo to go straight for the weak point.

Kunimitsu made a low, soft sound and closed his eyes, turning his head to give Keigo a better angle.

“There, now,” Keigo whispered, between nibbles. “You’re extremely responsive when you’re not thinking, Kunimitsu. I didn’t quite expect that.”

Kunimitsu didn’t bother to reply; he wasn’t sure he could at the moment. He could barely gather the coordination to shift his weight as Keigo drew off the last of his clothing, and didn’t move while Keigo padded briefly into his en suite bathroom to fetch something. Kunimitsu didn’t see what it was, as Keigo dropped it beside them, but given the circumstances he could make an educated guess. Keigo settled between his legs, and suddenly Kunimitsu felt as though a flock of butterflies were fluttering against his nerve endings. Keigo slanted a look at him, and then pressed an open mouthed kiss to the inside of his knee, tongue curling around the tendon behind it. The lips against his skin curved into a smile at the harsh breath that drew out of him.

“Mmmmm,” Keigo murmured. “You let go more easily than I thought you would. Enjoyable, isn’t it?”

He laid a path of kisses down the inside of Kunimitsu’s thigh, and the last one became a gentle bite that somehow turned Kunimitsu’s half-tensed muscles to water. As his legs fell further open a detached corner of Kunimitsu’s mind noted that Keigo was well on his way to getting everything he’d said he wanted. From the lazy smile Keigo wore as he stroked a hand down Kunimitsu’s stomach, he was well aware of the fact.

And then the wet heat of Keigo’s mouth closed over his cock, and detachment fled. Keigo’s tongue fulfilled what his fingers had promised earlier, sliding against him, flirting, slow and sensuous, twining around him and pulling him toward the edge of pleasure, before he drew away, leaving Kunimitsu panting. His breath left him entirely, on a small aaahh, as Keigo’s fingers slipped under him, warm and slick, pressing slowly into him, answering the yearning Keigo’s mouth had roused.

Keigo’s timing was flawless, as usual. The strangeness of the sensation didn’t catch up until Keigo’s fingers stilled, inside him, waiting. Kunimitsu twisted against it, a little, muscles twitching, and Keigo stroked his fingers out just a bit, and then back in. That was better, smoother, and Kunimitsu released a sigh as he looked up into Keigo’s eyes, intense and focused as his lover leaned over him.

“It’s the movement you like, hm?” Keigo asked, not waiting for an answer before he stroked deeper, and Kunimitsu let his eyes fall closed as he rocked into the touch. It was strange, but also… almost soothing. A massage for muscles normally unregarded. A tingling expansion, like the first stretch after waking in the morning.

And then Keigo’s fingers curled, pressing, and fire raced outward from them. Again, and again, and Kunimitsu didn’t bother trying to hold back the sharp cry or stop his body from jerking against that rush of sensation.

“Good?” Keigo purred.

“Yes,” Kunimitsu answered, hearing his own voice husky and breathless. “Yes.”

Keigo smiled, slow and heated, and drew his hand away, lingering, caressing. It moved to the base of Kunimitsu’s spine, rubbing gently, loosening the tension there.

“Ready?” Keigo whispered.

Kunimitsu nodded, eyes holding Keigo’s burning gaze. That gaze held him, steadied him, as Keigo pressed insistently against his entrance.

“Now it’s your turn to relax for me, Kunimitsu,” Keigo said, softly, hand soothing against his back.

Kunimitsu knew this would be difficult, and probably painful, if he couldn’t relax. He rested his mind against the intent of Keigo’s eyes; it would be all right. He pulled in a deep breath, and when he let it out he let all the tension, even that of pleasure, flow from him. And while he was suspended in that liquid moment, Keigo sank into him, opening, stretching, a long, smooth motion until Kunimitsu’s muscles clenched against the intrusion and Keigo halted, a gasp wringing from him. Another breath and he was all the way in, and immediately drawing back a little and rocking home again.

The stretch burned a bit, but the movement soothed it, warmed it, and the slick glide back and forth pressed hard against the place Keigo’s fingers had teased and caressed. Tiny showers of sparks cascaded down his nerves, and pulled a long, low moan in their wake. Keigo’s thrusts started to lengthen, deepen, and his hand moved from Kunimitsu’s back to reach between his legs, clasp around him. Fire trailed after Keigo’s fingers, wrapped around Kunimitsu, flaring with the rhythm of Keigo driving into him.

And Kunimitsu finally let go all the way, not thinking, not anticipating, not worrying. He abandoned himself to the pleasure of Keigo’s touch, so hard, so gentle, arching into it. They moved together, finding a pace that flowed, faster and faster, like running downhill. Running until they didn’t touch the ground, gasping for breath, almost flying with the speed, the sensation, the electric, singing tension building under Keigo’s hands on him, the burning, sleek movement of Keigo so deep inside him, opening him out, out, until the tension snapped like current grounding and he lost himself in the shuddering tide of heat.

When he had recovered himself enough to open his eyes again he saw Keigo, propped on one elbow beside him, regarding him with an expression of great smugness.

“Enjoy yourself?” Keigo purred, spreading a hand over Kunimitsu’s chest.

“It’s a good thing I already knew you don’t have any modesty at all,” Kunimitsu observed, dryly. Keigo arched an arrogant brow.

“What could I possibly have to be modest about?” he asked.

Kunimitsu didn’t trouble to answer. There was no reasoning with Keigo in a mischievous mood. Instead he nudged Keigo’s arm out from under him and pulled his lover down into his arms.

“Yes, I did enjoy myself,” he murmured before Keigo could express his indignation.

“Hmph,” Keigo snorted, but stretched against him, pacified, and carded his fingers through Kunimitsu’s hair.

They lay in the fading afternoon, exchanging slow kisses, and Kunimitsu decided he could let the thinking and worrying that Keigo had taken from him wait a while longer yet.

End

A/N: This story is titled after a Linda Ronstadt album I was listening to while writing it. My Atobe seemed very fond of it; it was the first time I’d ever heard this muse fanboy over anything. The lyrics quoted are from the second to last song on that album, “The Women ‘Cross The River”. The Frogs is a play by Aristophanes, poking fun at the strictures of the stodgy old school of art in the person of Euripides, as always.

Confluence

Mild chaos and vast snarkiness as many paths cross at a music store. Drama With Romance, I-3

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Echizen Ryouma, Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime, Momoshiro Takeshi, Ohtori Choutarou, Shishido Ryou, Tachibana An, Tachibana Kippei, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Pairing(s): Mizuki/Yuuta, Momoshiro/Ryouma, Shishido/Ohtori, Tachibana/Fuji, Tezuka/Atobe

Tezuka

Kunimitsu had some misgivings about accompanying Keigo to a music store. Particularly one this large. Music was, after all, one of Keigo’s enthusiasms. He could only hope Keigo had entertained the other people in the train car more than he had alarmed them, holding forth as energetically as he had on the antecedents of jazz. He hesitated to think what would happen if they found a knowledgeable clerk inside for Keigo to chat with.

Blackmail was, however, blackmail, and Keigo had threatened to select things for Kunimitsu’s collection if he didn’t come along to make his own choices.

“So,” Keigo said, looking around with a gleam of avarice in his eye, “where shall we start?”

“Your show,” Kunimitsu told him, evenly, “at least until it comes to my collection. Wherever you like.”

Keigo looked to be in a mischievous mood, to judge by the look of Well, of course that he flashed Kunimitsu before leading the way through the racks. After a brief stopover in Pop they finally fetched up at the border of Jazz and Classical.

“Mm. Akiko Yano, Nunokawa Toshiki, Raphael Lima, Ishmael Reed, now there’s one I didn’t expect, even at this store. And why,” Keigo added in a long-suffering tone, “can’t anyone ever catalogue Gershwin properly?”

“Well,” came a light voice behind them, “surely not everyone can be blessed with your incisively discerning taste, Atobe.”

Kunimitsu turned to see Fuji, Tachibana beside him, smiling with the kind of earnest sincerity that could only be fake. He glanced aside to see how his companion was taking it. Keigo studied the rack in front of him with a thoughtful look for a moment before one side of his mouth twitched up. He wrapped arrogant entitlement around him like a robe and turned as well.

“Of course,” he agreed, carelessly, stance suddenly a pose for admiring crowds.

Kunimitsu caught Tachibana’s eye, full of amused sympathy, and shrugged an eyebrow. Still, it might be a good idea to redirect the two before innocent bystanders happened along and entered the line of fire.

“Similar taste in music, too?” he mused to no one in particular. Fuji’s smile didn’t flicker, but Keigo gave him a cool look.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t seriously be suggesting that Fuji’s tastes run to Zig Noda.” He had drawn a breath to continue when Fuji’s slightly frozen expression stopped him.

“Kose Kikuchi,” Fuji admitted, after a moment.

They turned as one to glare daggers at Kunimitsu, who refrained from responding. Tachibana had a hand over his mouth.

“Similar instruments,” Keigo declared, “do not equate to similar styles.”

“Quite so,” Fuji agreed, stepping toward a different rack. “And it was Roy Hargrove that I particularly hoped to find today.”

“The latest album?” Keigo asked, sharply, discarding his front in face of a possible threat to his program of acquisition. “I hope there are two copies, then, I’d hate for you to be disappointed, Fuji.”

Of course, Kunimitsu reflected, as Keigo strode after Fuji, his genuine behavior didn’t always differ that markedly from his public act. Particularly when one of his enthusiasms was involved. Tachibana leaned against the rack beside him, looking after the other two.

“Shuusuke is still annoyed with you over that particular observation,” he noted.

“I’m not surprised,” Kunimitsu said. “Keigo is, a bit, too.” Tachibana gave him an oblique look.

“If you knew it would irritate them, why did you say it?” he asked. Kunimitsu folded his arms.

“Better they be annoyed with me than each other. Imagine the consequences.”

Tachibana rubbed his fingers over his forehead, suddenly looking a little pinched. “I’d really rather not.”

Kunimitsu looked at him sharply, questioning. After a moment Tachibana shook his head.

“It’s more his story than mine,” he said, quietly.

“Mm.” Still, Kunimitsu had to respect the point. He had entrusted his friend to Tachibana years ago; it was good to know the trust wasn’t misplaced.

Atobe

“Metheny is one step away from elevator music,” Keigo snorted, as he and Fuji made their way back to their respective partners. “Next you’ll be telling me you like Yanni.”

“A narrative format keeps music from becoming meaninglessly abstract,” Fuji countered. He paused long enough to give Tezuka something Keigo read as a vindicated look. Probably because they were disagreeing. Keigo considered weighing in with a smug smile of his own, but decided it would detract from the point.

“Well. Isn’t this quite the congregation?” asked a new voice. Keigo glanced around to see Mizuki Hajime and Fuji’s brother, Yuuta, come around the corner from the next aisle. Something in the quality of the silence beside him drew his gaze back to Fuji, and he almost took a step away.

The gleam of more or less good natured mockery in Fuji’s eyes was swallowed into a flat, icy blue, slick as the side of a glacier. Any hint of a smile fell away like a dropped piece of paper. It wasn’t an expression Keigo had ever seen on Fuji before, not even when he was playing for real. A quick look at Kunimitsu showed enough disturbance in the line of his mouth that Keigo didn’t think he was familiar with this either. Tachibana had closed the distance between he and Fuji, and laid an unobtrusive hand on his back.

“Mizuki,” Fuji stated, soft and flat.

Yuuta looked edgy, but Mizuki merely clasped his hands behind his back and smiled.

“Shuusuke. You’re looking well.”

Keigo was, a bit unwillingly, impressed with Mizuki’s nerve. Or, possibly, his mental instability. A corner of Fuji’s mouth twitched, as though he were suppressing a snarl. Keigo was wildly curious about exactly what Mizuki had really just said; subtext almost dripped from that simple greeting.

Tachibana’s presence abruptly became more noticeable. Keigo, familiar with the ways a person could draw the eye, noted with interest that Tachibana did it without even shifting his body language much. He didn’t step forward, or loom. He simply straightened, and his presence washed out from him, momentarily overwhelming even the intensity of Fuji’s focus, pulling Mizuki’s gaze away from his target. Tachibana gave him a hard look. After a moment, Mizuki inclined his head and opened one hand, palm up.

If Keigo had to guess, he would judge that Tachibana knew what was unspoken between Fuji and Mizuki, and had warned Mizuki to back off from the subject. And Mizuki, for whatever reason, had acknowledged Tachibana’s right to interfere and accepted the warning.

And for some reason that had caused Yuuta to relax. Fuji too, after a stiff moment.

Keigo stifled a sigh, resigning himself to the hell of ungratified curiosity, because, even if Kunimitsu knew what was going on, Keigo knew he would never get the answer out of him.

“You two have fun, then,” Yuuta said, running a hand through his hair, and sounding a bit rueful. “I’ll just be over there.” He slipped back into the other aisle, leaving both his brother and his lover looking after him, the one bemused and the other affectionate. Though it took Keigo a second look to place the expression on Mizuki’s face, before it reverted to a more accustomed smirk as Mizuki turned back to Fuji.

“He doesn’t like listening, when it gets to be about him,” Mizuki told the elder Fuji. That, at least, made sense to Keigo. Everyone who had any contact with either of them knew that Yuuta was a bone of contention between Fuji and Mizuki.

That cold tension was singing through Fuji again, though not quite as intensely as before.

“So many assumptions, Shuusuke,” Mizuki murmured. “Where would be the challenge in that?” Then he practically grinned. “So, what are you here for today?”

Keigo studied Mizuki. Unlike Fuji, Mizuki looked exactly like someone in the middle of a good game: breathing light and fast, eyes wide and brilliant. He’d long suspected that Mizuki liked to do things indirectly, and that his airs and affectations were as much a front as Keigo’s own. He’d suspected that it was done for Mizuki’s own amusement, and that he snickered up his sleeve at everyone who took the flouncing and strutting seriously. This was the first time he’d really thought that tennis itself might only be a medium for Mizuki, not a goal.

Fuji waved a hand at the racks around them.

“We came for music,” he answered, in the tone of someone dealing with an idiot. Mizuki merely smiled.

“Ah. Not the company of friends?” He paused, and Keigo sniffed at the melodrama. “But I suppose not, given the conversation as we arrived. Really, Shuusuke, anyone would think you were jealous.” His glance flicked toward Kunimitsu.

Keigo was about to snort, because hadn’t he and Fuji been over that already? But the shift in Fuji’s weight, the tense and twist of his hands, stopped it. Keigo’s eyes widened. There must be some truth in what Mizuki was saying, or Fuji wouldn’t be reacting like this. From the way Kunimitsu stiffened beside him, he had caught some of it, too.

And that was enough for Keigo to interfere.

“Jealous?” he drawled. “You should check your facts, Mizuki. Envious, now, that’s a bit more likely.” It wasn’t easy to lounge while standing upright, but that’s what talent was for. Tachibana was looking at him with a mix of disbelief and amusement. Kunimitsu was completely poker faced, except for the angle of his brows, which communicated a certain resigned affection to Keigo. Fuji slanted a wry glance at him, appreciating the double edge of Keigo’s intervention.

Mizuki looked at him with irritation before narrowing his eyes. When he spoke, it was to Fuji, every nuance of tone and stance saying that Keigo’s interruption was insignificant.

“You have my sympathy, of course. It can’t be easy to lose such a subtle bond to someone so greedy that he can’t stand not to be the center of attention.”

Now it was Keigo’s turn to suppress a snarl, because he’d be damned before he gave Mizuki the satisfaction. Of course, the delivery annoyed him infinitely more than the accusation, which he’d heard with tiresome frequency. A part of him, however, had to appreciate the precision of the attack. It played perfectly off the manner of intervention he had chosen, and also seemed to touch on a genuine sore point with Fuji. He filed that last observation away for future consideration.

Yes, this was definitely Mizuki’s true game.

Keigo’s own response rallied though, just as for any other attack. That moment after he had spoken, a flash of surprise had shown in Mizuki’s eyes, as if he’d forgotten Keigo’s presence. Combined with his choice of counter, Keigo rather thought it indicated something about Mizuki. It was, after all, easiest to recognize a weakness one shared. He wondered whether Fuji had caught it.

Ah, yes, there was the smile. The dangerous one.

“Perhaps,” Fuji answered in his most dismissive tone, and turned most of the way away from Mizuki to smile far more softly up at Tachibana. Keigo detected subtext again, since Tachibana didn’t really seem the sort to typically touch his lover’s cheek in public the way he was right now.

Mizuki certainly seemed to get it, as his expression turned extremely disgruntled for a moment. Keigo rather thought all four of them were waiting for a classic Mizuki temper tantrum. He, at least, was quite surprised when Mizuki merely nodded, eyes sharp, conceding the game if not the match.

“Another day, then, Shuusuke,” he murmured, and turned to follow the path Yuuta had taken.

Tachibana looked after him, down at the still glinting eyes of his lover, and finally over at Kunimitsu.

“Tezuka,” he said, wearily, “is it one of your requirements for team members, to be pathologically incapable of refusing a challenge?”

Keigo chuckled. “You’re just noticing?”

Yuuta

Yuuta slipped around the end of the cd racks, and nearly ran over Tachibana Ann, who was peering through a gap at the confrontation on the other side.

“Oh, not you, too,” he groaned. She gave him a stern eye.

“Your boyfriend is crazy,” she declared. “What did he do to make Fuji-niisan look like that?”

“None of your business,” Yuuta told her. “And Aniki is my brother, in case you’ve forgotten. You already have one, what do you want with another?”

“Unlike some people, I happen to like big brothers,” she shot back. Yuuta sighed, and leaned against the rack opposite.

“Knock it off, Ann, you’re not that stupid.”

She had the grace to look slightly abashed, as she tucked her hair back. “Well, no,” she admitted, in a less aggressive tone, “but there are really times, Yuuta.” Yuuta glanced aside. Aniki knew that Yuuta loved him. That was all that mattered. Right?

“Aniki and Mizuki had… a fight. Kind of,” he offered. “I think it’s over now, though. Mostly.” Feeling a little nervous at the number of qualifiers his unspoken pact of honesty with Ann forced him to add, he joined her in peering through the racks.

“Ooo, that was a good one,” Ann said, admiringly, of Aniki’s finishing move. Yuuta grinned down at her.

“You can be really vicious, you know that?”

“Good thing, too, otherwise how would I ever deal with you?”

They both sighed, and stepped back, as Mizuki let the challenge go.

“He was actually kind of restrained, today,” Ann noted, thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose he’s been ill?”

“Like I said, things are better. Mostly.” Yuuta shrugged, concealing his own surprise and relief. Ann looked over as Mizuki rounded the corner to their aisle.

“Ann-chan, how pleasant to see you here,” Mizuki greeted her. Not in a terribly good mood, but not fuming either, Yuuta gauged, and relaxed a little more. Ann gave Mizuki a long look before turning to Yuuta.

“He’s still a snake,” she said, firmly. “But I suppose, sometimes, he’s not completely horrible.” And, with that, she took herself off toward the Rock section.

“Charming girl,” Mizuki murmured. “Did you find everything you wanted?” Yuuta couldn’t help smiling at that question, even though it made his boyfriend quirk a brow at him.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Mizuki said, softly, reaching for Yuuta’s hand. Yuuta’s breath caught as he raised it and placed a kiss in the palm, just the tip of his tongue flicking against Yuuta’s skin.

“Mizuki!” Yuuta gasped, biting his lip and glancing quickly around to make sure no one was near. Mizuki gave him a dark look, from under his lashes, his promise to find out, later, exactly what Yuuta had been smiling over.

“Shall we go, then?”

Shishido

“So, who is this guy you’re so excited to find?” Ryou asked, following in his partner’s wake as Choutarou paced down the aisle, casting his eye over the racks.

“Chris Norman. He’s a classical flautist, primarily, but he does a lot of other really neat ethnic music, and he favors a wooden flute. It has a much softer tone than metal. I’ve never found a store that carries any of his albums, before. The first time I heard him was actually in concert.” Choutarou glanced back at him, with a small, bright smile in his eyes. “You’d like him.”

Ryou was wondering just how to take that, when Choutarou stopped short. Only Ryou’s quick reflexes kept him from barrelling into his partner.

“Atobe-buchou,” Choutarou said, voice startled. Ryou stepped around him to see.

And then he almost stepped back behind Choutarou, because it wasn’t just Atobe. It was also Tezuka, and Tachibana, and Fuji. The captain’s club, plus head case. Every club seemed to have one of the latter, and he supposed Fuji was better than Ibu, but Ryou would have preferred Jirou. At least he was reasonably harmless.

“Ohtori. Shishido,” Atobe replied. Ryou swore his eyes gleamed with amusement at Ryou’s discomfort, for an instant, but you could never pin Atobe down about stuff like that. A moment later he was turning back to Choutarou. “Are you here for anything in particular today?” he asked. Choutarou smiled his faint, public smile.

“The store called just this morning to say that they had Chris Norman’s first album in.”

“Chris Norman.” Atobe’s eyes went distant for a moment. “He played with the Baltimore Consort, yes?”

The conversation that followed had very little meaning to Ryou; he liked listening to music, but the details never really stuck with him. So he split his attention between pride in his partner and irritation with Atobe. Both pleasant constants in his life. He could always be proud of Choutarou, of the poise that let him keep his countenance in just about any situation, including chatting with his captain under Tezuka’s gimlet eye and Fuji’s alarming smile, and of a determination to match Ryou’s own, even when it was his own partner he was arguing with. Ryou still didn’t think fraternization between teams could possibly be healthy, but Choutarou had gotten him to admit that it didn’t seem to have affected Atobe and Tezuka’s games. Just personally, Ryou thought that was the weirdest thing of all.

He hauled back his wandering thoughts as Atobe… dismissed Choutarou with a gracious nod. There were really times when Ryou wished they were still eight years old and he could get away with punching the smug bastard. Still, in his own annoying way he seemed fond of Choutarou, and that got him a lot of latitude in Ryou’s book. He sauntered after his partner, exchanging companionable sneers with Atobe on the way past.

“Such a unique leadership style you have,” he heard Fuji remark, genially, behind him. “Do you tell your team members to imagine your face on the tennis ball, or do you trust that it will happen naturally?”

Ryou barely managed not to choke, because he had gotten through more than one practice with exactly that tactic. He’d been right all along. Fuji Shuusuke was creepy.

“Whatever works,” Atobe returned in a careless tone. Ryou could hear the smirk in it, and shot a glare over his shoulder.

“Remind me again why I’m friends with a jerk like you,” he growled, running an impatient hand through his hair.

“Because I’m the only one who would put up with your dramatics,” Atobe answered, promptly and loftily.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Ryou gave him a look rich with disbelief. “Nice talking to you, Mr. Pot, I’ll just be getting back to my teacups, why don’t I.” He didn’t bother waiting for an answer before turning his back and stalking off after Choutarou. Maybe he’d send Tezuka a sympathy card when Valentine’s rolled around. When he caught up to his partner, Choutarou offered him one of the sample-this-disc headphone sets.

“This is it.”

Ryou had to admit, it was pretty music. It almost sounded like a traditional flute, but not quite; and a lot bouncier.

“Now,” Choutarou added, “imagine the man playing that, standing in front of a formal orchestra, wearing jeans and a bright red knit shirt and suspenders.”

Ryou burst out laughing. “You’re kidding!” When Choutarou shook his head, smile flashing, Ryou had to agree, “All right, yeah, I probably would like him.”

Choutarou’s pleased look nearly made him glow; it was one of the expressions Ryou was especially fond of. He was just considering whether it would injure his partner’s reserve if Ryou ran his fingers through the unruly drift of silver hair, when familiar voices interrupted.

“I mean, really, you need a life, Ryouma.”

“I have a life.”

“Besides tennis. Come on, forget the old man and act like a normal person for just one afternoon!”

“And another after that,” Echizen pointed out, inexorably, “and another after that, and…”

“Now you’re getting the idea.”

Momoshiro, Ryou identified the other speaker. No one else had quite the same congenially full-of-himself tone.

“Momoshiro, Echizen-kun,” Choutarou greeted them, turning.

“Hey,” Ryou seconded.

“Ohtori, Shishido-san, how’s it going?” Momoshiro hailed them, easily. Ryou considered him one of the easier players to get along with off the court. The same couldn’t be said for his companion, who just nodded—unusually cordial for Echizen. “Guess this place is attracting tennis players today, hm?” Momoshiro added, grinning.

“You have no idea,” Ryou muttered.

“It’s Tezuka-buchou and the Monkey King,” Echizen observed, peering further down the aisle. “And Tachibana and Fuji-senpai, too.”

Momoshiro winced a little. Ryou sympathized completely. Neither team had been prepared for finding out that their captains had hooked up. Even though Choutarou had said they should probably have expected it. Echizen’s expression sharpened into an evil, little smile.

“We should say hello.”

“Hey, Ryouma, hang on, we… you shouldn’t… Ryouma!” Momoshiro’s snatch at Echizen’s collar missed, as the younger player made a bee-line for the greatest source of trouble available.

Typical.

“It can be troublesome to have a partner who’s so impulsive, can’t it?” Choutarou asked.

“You can say that again,” Momoshiro muttered as he made after Echizen.

It took another minute to catch up with Ryou.

“Choutarou…” he said, drawing it out. His partner made wide eyes at him.

“Yes, Shishido-san?”

Ok, now he was sure, because Choutarou never called him that, anymore, unless he was teasing. He stepped into his partner, backing him against the rack.

“If we weren’t in public,” he said, softly, watching Choutarou’s eyes darken.

“Then, what?” Choutarou murmured. Ryou laughed.

“Grab your stuff, and let’s get out of here. And I’ll show you.”

If the cashier thought it was odd that the customers were grinning silently at each other, he didn’t mention it.

Momoshiro

Momo was an easygoing sort of guy. Which was a good thing, considering. It really wasn’t often, anymore, that he had the urge to whap Ryouma over the head with a racquet. It was much more effective to tickle him until he couldn’t breathe; Ryouma was far too aware of his dignity for his own good.

But whenever Ryouma saw an opportunity to mouth off to their captain he took it, and then it was time for caring friends to restrain him. Possibly with a straitjacket, because he really had to be crazy to tease Tezuka-san like that. The fact that Momo had never once, in three and a half years, succeeded was beside the point. So was the incomprehensible fact that their captain generally let Ryouma get away with it, sort of. If there was any topic that would finally drive Tezuka-san over the edge, it had to be his… relationship with Atobe.

Momo caught up just as Ryouma offered their captain his best insolent smirk.

“Buchou. Out on a date?”

Tezuka-san looked down his nose at his youngest team member with no expression Momo could detect, but Ryouma’s eyes gleamed like he’d gotten a rise out of him. Atobe, after one look, leaned against the racks, silently declaring that it was not his team and not his problem. Momo didn’t know exactly how he managed to get that across just by leaning back and crossing his arms. That talent was one of the more irritating things about Atobe.

Maybe Ryouma thought so, too, because he turned to Atobe next. “Guess there’s no hope for a game today, then. Too bad. Beating you would have been a good way to wrap up the weekend.”

“I’m told it’s good for people to have dreams,” Atobe returned, condescending as ever. “Nice to see you have one that will last you so very long, Echizen.”

Momo’s cautious look at Tezuka-san showed that he didn’t seem upset that Ryouma was ragging on his boyfriend. That was a relief. A sudden thought came to Momo, that Ryouma was challenging Atobe in front of their captain by way of asking permission. Ryouma never directly disobeyed the captain, but he was a master of avoiding being given orders that he didn’t want to follow. Giving the captain a chance to object was as good as asking if it was all right.

Which meant, Momo realized, that Ryouma would take Tezuka-san’s silence for assent, and keep needling Atobe until he got what he wanted. Ryouma was opening his mouth for the next shot when bright laughter cut across him.

“Ryouma-kun, you’re almost as good at ticking people off as you are at playing tennis. And that’s saying something.”

Tachibana Ann appeared from around the corner, grinning when Ryouma raised a brow at her.

“Ann-chan,” Momo exclaimed, relieved. “Are you here with your brother?” She grinned wider.

“Yes, but I thought he’d probably appreciate it if I got lost for a while.” She flicked her eyes at her brother and Fuji-senpai, standing together. “I’ve been exploring on my own; this place has a ton of great stuff!” She waved a handful of plastic cases, and Momo leaned over her shoulder to see.

“Oh, hey, I didn’t know Do As Infinity had another one out, what’s on it?”

“Momo-senpai.” Ryouma’s voice was low, but it got Momo’s attention. Ryouma didn’t sound that sharp very often. When he turned, though, Ryouma just looked at him, sidelong. He seemed irritated. It took Momo a couple beats to figure out why, but when he did he smiled. Ryouma looked away again, not meeting anyone’s eyes, now.

Momo came away from Ann, to stand behind Ryouma and lay a casual hand on his shoulder. “Ready to go bargain hunting?” he asked.

“Sure,” Ryouma muttered, still not looking back at him.

Ann-chan had a knowing smile on as she turned to her brother. “Did you guys find everything you wanted, Onii-chan?”

Occupied with her questions, the other players returned Momo’s goodbyes distractedly.

It wasn’t, Momo thought, as they moved on, that Ryouma was possessive, exactly. And he wasn’t anyone’s definition of clingy. There were just people he didn’t like Momo to pay too much attention to, and Tachibana Ann was one of them. The word boyfriend hadn’t even been breathed between them, yet, except jokingly, but they didn’t often need things spoken out loud.

Momo ruffled Ryouma’s hair, and Ryouma swatted at his hand.

“Cut it out,” he said, sounding sulky. But he turned his head enough to glance at Momo over his shoulder, eyes momentarily softer and mouth curving up at one corner. Momo smiled back, and let his hand rest, briefly, at the back of Ryouma’s neck before falling.

There were easier things than words.

Tezuka

Kunimitsu slung his bag of CDs into a corner, in a rare moment of messiness, and almost collapsed back on his bed. He pressed a hand over his eyes, pushing his glasses up, hoping to alleviate the threatening headache. He’d really never thought a simple trip to the music store would be so harrowing. If he had, he’d have risked whatever musical white elephants Keigo might have chosen for him.

The bed dipped, and he felt a hand pluck his glasses off entirely. “Oh, come along, Kunimitsu, admit it. It was funny,” Keigo chuckled.

Kunimitsu lifted his hand, the better to glare at his lover. Though he couldn’t quite maintain it when Keigo’s cool fingertips pressed across his forehead, driving the tense almost-pain away.

“You’re worried about Fuji,” Keigo observed. Kunimitsu didn’t bother denying it.

“I never expected Mizuki, of all people, to…” he trailed off.

“Lock his interest?” Keigo suggested. “It could be worse.”

Kunimitsu made an inquiring noise, closing his eyes as Keigo’s thumbs stroked the arch of his brow bone.

“Mizuki himself doesn’t seem completely unbalanced about the whole thing,” Keigo told him, thoughtfully. “And I imagine Tachibana will keep Fuji from going too far.”

Kunimitsu was worn out enough to accept Keigo’s judgment over his own fears, though he made a mental note to see if he could get the whole story out of Fuji later. On the other hand, he revised his thought as Keigo’s lips brushed across his, perhaps he wasn’t as worn out as all that. And he really felt he deserved some consolation after a day like this.

He reached up to pull Keigo down against him.

End

Branch: *looks around, slightly hunted* Ok, so, we’ll flip a coin to see which couple gets their smut first, right?

All Muses: *ignore her*

Momo: It’ll be us, first, we’re cuter.

Shishido: You wish! You give her way too much trouble, with all that non-verbal crap. It’ll be us.

Atobe: Speaking of trouble, you have far too much back-story requirement, Shishido. Besides, she loves me best. *preens*

Ryouma: Exactly. You two old guys need a chance to get your breath back.

Branch: *sidles behind Fuji* I’m just glad you don’t like me writing smut for you and Tachibana.

Fuji: *slow smile* Actually, I’ve been considering that.

Branch: *pales, backs away as all muses turn to look at her* Help! Muse Police! I’m being mugged!

Innocence and Experience

Immediately follows “Confluence”. What would happen if they weren’t in public… Porn Without Plot, I-4

Character(s): Ohtori Choutarou, Shishido Ryou

Pairing(s): Shishido/Ohtori

Ryou was aware that he and Choutarou were both still grinning when they got back from the music store and closed the door of his room. It was probably just as well that his parents had taken the day to go shopping as well. Who knew what his mother would make of their expressions. Just to be on the safe side, he locked the door anyway.

“So,” Choutarou spoke from the window near the bed, without turning, “we aren’t in public now.” Ryou’s grin quirked, remembering what he had said to Choutarou’s teasing in the store. If we weren’t in public…

“No, we’re not,” he agreed, eyeing his partner.

Choutarou pulled his shirt over his head in a long stretch, and let it fall from his arms. Ryou caught sight of a tiny smile on his partner’s lips as Choutarou turned his head, not quite far enough to look at Ryou over his shoulder. So, Choutarou wanted to tease him a little more. No one else would ever believe it of his reserved and proper partner, he reflected. Ryou crossed the room to stand behind Choutarou and laid his hands flat on his partner’s stomach, sweeping them up to his chest, feeling Choutarou’s sigh through his palms. Ryou bent his head just slightly to press his lips to the sleek curve of Choutarou’s neck and shoulder.

“Ryou,” Choutarou murmured. His name, in that tone, was an invitation, and Ryou let his hands drift back down to finger the waist of Choutarou’s jeans, unzip them, slip inside to brush against the heat of his partner’s skin.

Choutarou laid his own hands flat against the wall in front of him, leaning forward. The line of his body, his hips rocking back against Ryou’s made Ryou stop and swallow a little hard.

“Choutarou,” he said, softly, leaning against his partner’s back. Did Choutarou mean what Ryou thought he did?

“Not slowly, Ryou,” Choutarou whispered. “Not today.”

Apparently he did. Choutarou’s straightforward sensuality could still surprise him, sometimes. Well, all right, then. Ryou stood back a little and brushed his fingers down Choutarou’s spine to hook jeans and underwear together, and pull them down. Choutarou arched into the touch, sucking in an audible breath, tossing his head back.

Ryou thought he probably set a new speed record stripping off his own clothes, and his hands were shaking just a bit as he fished out the bottle that usually lived in an empty tennis ball can, where his mother would hopefully not find it. He pressed Choutarou closer to the wall.

Choutarou spread his legs further apart and rested his head against his forearms, crossed on the wall in front of him. They were both breathing faster, now. Ryou dropped a light kiss on the nape of Choutarou’s neck, where the silver hair curled under. He ran a slick hand up the inside of Choutarou’s thigh, between his cheeks, and rubbed softly. Choutarou tensed slightly, pressed back into Ryou’s touch. Ryou bit his lip at his partner’s low moan, leaned against the line of Choutarou’s body, enjoying the velvet warmth of their skin brushing together down chest and leg. Remembering that Choutarou didn’t want to wait, he pressed his fingers deep into his partner’s body. Deep, but still slow. Slow enough not to hurt, he hoped. Choutarou’s moan was no longer low, and it distracted Ryou as much as the burning heat of Choutarou’s body.

“Ryou, now,” Choutarou said, soft and husky. A hoarse sound slipped past Ryou’s lips; Choutarou asking for his touch still turned him inside out.

Ryou took a deep breath and drove into his partner, biting his lip harder to keep from forcing himself past the resistance of Choutarou’s body too fast. Sparks ran over him, through him as Choutarou relaxed and opened under him, and finally he felt the sweat-damp softness of Choutarou’s skin all against his own. He wound an arm around his lover, other hand reaching between Choutarou’s legs again, and felt his partner shaking.

Choutarou’s light voice whispered pleas and encouragement as Ryou rocked out and back in, fondling Choutarou, licking the salt from the back of his neck. The taste and sound drew Ryou on, and he was sliding, deep, fast, driving Choutarou against the wall, into Ryou’s hand. Heat gripped him, not letting go, hard, and Ryou was pulling in breaths through the filter of Choutarou’s hair. Faster, and Choutarou cried out. The sound, and the feather of Choutarou’s hair brushing Ryou’s temple as his partner threw his head back completed some circuit in Ryou, driving, reaching, touching lightning that struck down through him. It left him shaking, nerves singed by it.

They collapsed, slowly, to the floor, and Ryou leaned his head on Choutarou’s shoulder, panting. Choutarou’s soft laugh caught his wandering, and slightly dazed, attention.

“What?” he asked, voice a bit rough still. Choutarou turned his head to look at him, brown eyes light and soft with pleasure and amusement.

“I should tease you more often,” he told Ryou.

Ryou buried his head against his partner’s neck again, laughing.

End

Branch: *casts eye back over ShishiTori branch* You made me do all that just to get a PWP?

Ohtori: *apologetic* Do you mind terribly, Madam? We do appreciate it so much.

Branch: *opens mouth, closes it again* … *looks at Shishido*

Shishido: *leans chair back on two legs, smirking*

Branch: *sighs* No, Choutarou, I don’t mind as much as all that.

Shishido: *grins* They fall for it every time. It’s the eyes.

Branch: *glares* You just watch it, boyo, or I really will write that “affair at a summer seminar”. *yells into next room* And Roy! Quit teaching Choutarou your vocabulary! He’s too young.

Roy: *lounging in doorway* Nonsense, Madam. He’s a natural.

Shishido: *narrow look* Oi.

Assurance

Immediately follows “Confluence”. Mizuki and Yuuta’s various reactions to Mizuki’s clash with Fuji at the music store. Porn with Insights, I-4

Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime

Pairing(s): Mizuki/Yuuta

Yuuta had noticed the sidelong smiles Mizuki gave him on the way back from the music store, and was not surprised by Mizuki’s hand on his wrist, when they turned into the residence halls, urging him toward Mizuki’s room. Nor was he surprised when Mizuki immediately pressed him down to the bed. Yuuta watched the shadowy, blue eyes above him while long, slim hands stripped his clothes away. The eyes were focused intently on him, as if Yuuta were something Mizuki had memorized, but suspected might have changed since. Yuuta smiled. He liked it when Mizuki was like this. Mizuki had told the truth, that first time; he did have a very light touch. Now, though, his hands were slow and strong, and the mouth on Yuuta’s was open and demanding. This was Mizuki without the calculation, and Yuuta liked the honesty of this raw, insistent desire. He stretched and sighed under Mizuki’s caresses.

Normally, Mizuki also liked to take his time with preparation, waiting, coaxing, teasing until Yuuta was hot and wanton, but today seemed to be different all around. He pulled Yuuta, swiftly, up to his knees, back against Mizuki’s chest. Arms wound around him tightly, not letting them part. Yuuta stiffened as he felt Mizuki’s cock pressing against him already.

“Mizuki?”

“I want to feel you, Yuuta, as close as we can get,” Mizuki murmured, mouth brushing against the nape of Yuuta’s neck. “Will you trust me?”

Yuuta thought back to the scene at the store today, to Mizuki’s restraint in not following Aniki’s challenge to the hilt. Mizuki must be wound tighter than a watch spring, still, and edgy from that partial victory. Yuuta probably should have expected that Mizuki would want some reassurance of Yuuta’s welcome and acceptance. Yuuta knew he had always been the flip side of that coin, comfort and sanity to Mizuki when he was lost in his own obsessive drive. Despite the fact that their definition of sanity wasn’t always the generally accepted one. And, after all, hadn’t he just been thinking that he liked it when Mizuki got a little less careful with his intensity? He smiled and relaxed in Mizuki’s arms.

“Yes,” he answered. Mizuki’s arms tightened even further before he reached for the handsome blue glass jar that Yuuta teased him for keeping lubricant in.

He had to breathe deeply against the first ache of Mizuki pushing into him, gasping at the slow pressure. He let Mizuki support him as the slow, slow stretch unwound all his muscles one strand at a time and left him trembling. He felt as if only Mizuki’s hold kept that burn from pulling him apart. The shaking uncertainty of his whole body choked his voice. He could only manage a faint moan as Mizuki paused, completely inside him. Mizuki whispered his name, that normally smooth voice harsh. Then he was moving again.

Yuuta heard Mizuki’s name in his own voice, rough and breathless, and rocked back to meet his lover as he relaxed and opened under Mizuki’s gentle motion. The more he relaxed the stronger Mizuki’s thrusts became, and deep enough to taste in the back of his throat, a rough slide so tight it brushed the edge of discomfort. But Yuuta liked the firmness of the touch, the contact, the closeness of Mizuki so tight inside him. He shuddered as Mizuki slid one hand down and stroked a finger up the underside of his growing erection. Those long fingers fondled him even as Mizuki’s grip refused to let him go far enough to thrust into his lover’s hand. Yuuta groaned and surrendered his last tension, sank back in Mizuki’s hold. He gave himself to the rhythm Mizuki created for them, fell down into the heat of Mizuki’s hands, and the strength of his body lifting Yuuta, driving him under a flood of burning, shivering sensation, heat like sand under a summer sun spiraling up him, finally overflowing.

Mizuki held him close, even after the shuddering heat left him, limp and panting in its wake. He laid Yuuta down gently, pulled on his robe, grabbed a towel and left, returning in a few minutes with the towel cool and damp. Yuuta grinned just a little. The stroke of the towel was as sensual and careful as Mizuki’s usual lovemaking; it was a considerate gesture.

It was also a declaration to anyone who might take notice, in the hall or the bathroom, that Mizuki had just had Yuuta in his bed and, by implication, left him too satiated to move. He’d give Mizuki that; it was close enough to true, and Mizuki needed, right now, to know and advertise that Yuuta accepted and chose him. It would calm him back to his normal levels of manipulativeness, Yuuta thought.

Mizuki lay back down, twining a leg through Yuuta’s and leaning on an elbow so he could see Yuuta’s face as he stroked a hand over his chest.

“So,” he purred, “what were you so amused by at the store?”

Yes, Mizuki was definitely back to normal. Just like him to wait until his target was dazed to ask the question. Yuuta caught Mizuki’s fingers in his as they made distracting circles on his skin, and studied them as he tried to find words.

“You asked if I found everything I wanted,” he said, slowly. “I was smiling because I think I did. You… you were both all right.”

“You were watching my little passage with Shuusuke?” Mizuki asked, casting a speculative eye on Yuuta. Yuuta blushed. Yes, he knew he always said he didn’t like seeing them fight over him, but…

“I was worried,” he muttered. “I’ve never seen Aniki quite that cold, not even the first time he played you, or the first time he played that little bastard Kirihara. And I know you, you don’t let things go. So I was worried. But you…” he brought their clasped hands to his lips and spoke against them, “you held back.”

“Yes,” Mizuki agreed.

“Why?” Yuuta looked up. Mizuki gave him a sidelong glance under his lashes to go with a crooked smile.

“Do you think I want both Tachibanas baying for my blood?” he asked, dryly. “Just the one is bad enough.”

Yuuta couldn’t suppress a snicker. Mizuki freed his hand to stroke Yuuta’s hair.

“It isn’t for revenge anymore, Yuuta,” he explained, gently. “It isn’t to regain my honor. It’s a game proper now, and it doesn’t do to rush a game, or overextend too soon. Besides,” he kissed Yuuta slow and deep, stealing his breath, “Shuusuke takes care with things that belong to you. So do I.”

Yuuta looked up silently for a moment before winding his fingers through the soft strands of Mizuki’s hair and drawing him down to another kiss.

“Everything I wanted,” he repeated, voice husky.

End

Delta

Atobe is rather tired of Tezuka brooding, and decides it’s time for another conversation with Fuji to see if the problem is amenable to a swift kick. Romantic Drama With Occasional Porn, I-4

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Fuji Shuusuke, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Atobe

Watching Tezuka Kunimitsu mope was a novel experience. Keigo couldn’t recall ever having seen anything quite like it before. The moodiness wasn’t terribly obvious, of course, Kunimitsu generally wasn’t obvious about anything. But from close up, Keigo definitely noticed a certain distance in his eyes and a wrinkle of brow that was a bit different than usual.

After two weeks of uninterrupted novelty, though, the brooding was getting old. Keigo was perfectly willing to allow that Kunimitsu had a right to be concerned for his friends. But thinking about other people to the exclusion of Keigo himself, when Kunimitsu was with Keigo, was not something he intended to tolerate. Accordingly, when Keigo decided Kunimitsu had been sitting at his desk and staring at team schedules without blinking for just a little too long, he also decided it was time to take action.

Keigo tossed Kunimitsu’s copy of Elective Affinities, which he had been reading in bits and pieces whenever he came over, on the bed and swung to his feet. He stalked across the room and tugged Kunimitsu’s chair away from the desk, swinging it around. Kunimitsu refocused and looked up at him, startled.

“Keigo, what… ?”

Keigo leaned over and kissed him.

Kunimitsu was stiff with surprise for a long moment, before Keigo coaxed his lips to soften and part. Keigo went about the kiss in a thorough and leisurely fashion, tangling his tongue with Kunimitsu’s, nipping gently at his lower lip, and eventually Kunimitsu sighed and his hands lifted to find Keigo’s hips. Keigo smiled against Kunimitsu’s mouth as he let Kunimitsu pull him down to straddle the chair.

“That’s better,” Keigo murmured.

Kunimitsu gave him a dry look. “Feeling neglected?”

“Unforgivably so,” Keigo agreed, easily. “You’re taking far too long to think about something that’s probably very simple.”

“And you know that it’s simple because…?” Kunimitsu asked, mouth tightening a little.

“That is an assumption on my part,” Keigo allowed. “But I’ll bet a case of Dunlop Abzorbers that complication is an assumption on your part. Have you said more then five words to Fuji in the last two weeks?”

“Yes,” Kunimitsu answered, in a very final tone.

Keigo eyed him. “Let me rephrase that. Have you said more than five words about whatever is actually bothering you?”

Kunimitsu’s gaze darted away and then back.

“Thought so,” Keigo said, smiling.

Kunimitsu’s mouth acquired a very stubborn set. “We’re coming into the hardest part of the tournament season. I won’t risk an upset in the team right now.”

And that was that, Keigo knew. Two things Kunimitsu would never compromise: his game and his team. If he had convinced himself that pressing Fuji would be detrimental to the team, there was vanishingly little chance Keigo, or anyone else, could persuade him otherwise. Clearly, then, this was a case where Keigo would have to get involved directly, if he wanted Kunimitsu’s attention back where it belonged.

Wasn’t it a pleasant coincidence that this would also give him some chance of satisfying his curiosity over what had happened to Fuji lately?

Satisfied with his nascent plan of action, Keigo pressed closer against his lover. “Whatever you want, Kunimitsu,” he agreed, as suggestively as possible, in Kunimitsu’s ear.

A soft laugh told him that Kunimitsu consented to the distraction. “Anything?” he asked, a teasing edge in the low voice now.

“Mm. Anything,” Keigo purred, leaning down to Kunimitsu’s mouth again.

Keigo leaned against the wall of Seigaku’s high school campus, tapping his fingers impatiently. Where was Fuji? He was about ready to start pacing when his ear finally caught a familiar voice, light and sardonic.

“…I’m perfectly happy to help, Inui. Provided, of course, that you’re drinking this stuff, too. After all, any good experiment needs a control, yes?”

“Certainly, but, you see, you are the control for this one,” Inui answered, just a bit hastily, as the two emerged from the school grounds.

“About time,” Keigo interrupted, stalking towards them. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of scientific progress, or the possible death of a rival, but we need to talk, Fuji. Come on.” When Fuji failed to follow him, Keigo glanced back, annoyed. “If you don’t hurry up, he’ll be along, too, and then this entire exercise will have been pointless. I don’t intend to go out of my way for you more than once.”

Inui was looking on with raised brows. They twitched up a bit higher when Fuji, after a long, narrow look at Keigo, turned to him and said, “Will it be a problem if we postpone this particular experiment?”

“Not at all,” Inui murmured.

Fuji nodded, and paced forward to join Keigo. “Let’s go, then.”

“If I recall correctly, there’s a halfway decent cafe about ten blocks on,” Keigo noted as they walked.

“That will do, yes.” Fuji’s voice was very even, and Keigo’s lips quirked. Wary, was he? Fair enough; Keigo had a good deal more leverage in this encounter than he had the last time they’d spoken of personal matters. Keigo was honest enough with himself to admit that this was one of the reasons he had gone to the trouble of coming here today.

And, of course, far be it from Keigo to disappoint expectations; as soon as they were ensconced at a table with their drinks he opened up with both barrels.

“So, Mizuki thinks you’re jealous because my presence interferes with your friendship with Tezuka. Is he right?”

Fuji did not, Keigo noted, twitch; instead he became very still. One breath. Two. “Mizuki is perceptive, but also, you must have observed, rather… warped,” Fuji said at last.

“In other words, yes,” Keigo translated, sipping his tea. “Didn’t we have this conversation once already?”

Fuji looked at him with distinct disfavor. Keigo sighed.

“What on earth do you have to be jealous of?” he asked, exasperated. “You have a lover who, unless I’m vastly mistaken, you’re perfectly happy with, you’re still at the same school with Tezuka, which, I should point out, I’m not, and I find it extremely difficult to believe that he’s paying any less attention to any member of his team, let alone you.”

“That’s none of your business,” Fuji told him, tightly.

“Probably not, but it’s troubling Tezuka and he won’t ask if he thinks the answer might disrupt your team.” Keigo caught a flicker in Fuji’s eyes as they turned down to his coffee, and blinked. Had Fuji not realized that was why Kunimitsu kept silent? Keigo would have sworn that Fuji knew Kunimitsu better than that. “What is going on with the two of you?” he asked, puzzled.

“Nothing,” Fuji said, quietly.

Keigo rested his chin in his hands. Fuji was fond of double talk, even when it came to body language, let alone words. Nothing was happening; so, maybe something should be? “Are you saying that Tezuka really is paying less attention to you?”

This time Fuji twitched, though Keigo would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching closely.

“However much he teases about the two of us being similar, I still have a hard time believing I might be replacing you,” he mused. “We’re different things to him, Fuji.”

He realized, later, that he had misjudged just how much what was happening must have been disturbing Fuji, because the one thing Keigo had never expected was that Fuji might actually snap badly enough to say what he did next.

“You wouldn’t think so, of course,” Fuji bit out, eyes narrow and cold. “You’re going to be staying in his world; there’s nothing for him to hold against you.”

Keigo stared, stunned, for a long moment before he heaved a sigh and leaned back, pressing a hand over his eyes. He couldn’t believe Fuji had misread Kunimitsu that badly. No, wait, he could believe it; after all, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t known plenty of intelligent, talented individuals who where, nevertheless, gifted with the people skills of dried seaweed. It was just that he expected this kind of thing from Ryou, not from Fuji. And if this was the root of Fuji’s skittishness, then what he was really worried by must be… Keigo silently recited his choicest German invective. “And here I’d thought you were supposed to have a good brain to go along with the good reflexes.”

“I beg your pardon?” Fuji said, with the mildness of a green and pleasant mountain just before it explodes and rains burning rock all over the landscape. Keigo ignored the hint.

“It happens, all right? It isn’t your fault, it isn’t his fault, it just happens, and it certainly isn’t because he’s angry at you, you idiot!” he snapped.

Fuji blinked at him, temper temporarily derailed. “What happens?” he asked.

Keigo held up one hand and ticked points off on his fingers. “You’re starting to not have as many things to talk about, yes? And he does not, in fact, treat you any less warmly…” he paused to think about that, and amended, “any more harshly, anyway, he’s just not quite there as much, yes? And when you talk about some things, he just doesn’t seem to connect the way you expected him to. Is this ringing any bells?”

Fuji nodded, slowly, as if he thought this might be a trick question. Keigo snorted.

“We’re growing up, Fuji,” he pointed out. “We’re going in different directions. He doesn’t blame you for not staying with tennis, any more than you blame him for his choice to stay. But talking about things only one of you is deeply involved with is different. That’s all.” Keigo lifted his cooling tea for a sip to conceal his expression.

Not fast enough, it seemed.

“You’re speaking from personal experience?” Fuji asked, gaze sharp.

“None of your business,” Keigo answered, brusquely.

It was Fuji’s turn to lean back in his chair. “It is if you don’t want me to think that entire lecture was a self-serving fiction you pulled out of your ear,” he said, coolly.

Keigo glared, and reminded himself never, ever to play poker with Fuji. The man was downright addicted to maneuvering people. “You and Mizuki deserve each other,” he growled.

Fuji smiled at him, if a show of that many teeth could be called a smile.

“Fine, fine,” Keigo said, wearily. “If you insist on being so mannerlessly uncivil to someone trying to do you a favor,” he ignored Fuji’s snort, “yes, it has.” He swirled the dregs of his tea in the cup. “We’re still friends, even if it’s not the same as it used to be. I go to as many of Kabaji’s poetry readings as I can manage, and he comes to as many of my games as he can fit in. We can still have perfectly good talks. It’s just not exactly the same.” He cut himself off, a little annoyed at having said so much, and looked up preparing a barb to distract Fuji.

Fuji was staring at him as if Keigo had been speaking in Arabic. Keigo raised a brow.

“Poetry readings,” Fuji repeated. “Kabaji? Kabaji Munehiro?”

And it was Keigo’s turn for a toothy smile. Fuji was keeping his composure better than most, but disbelief edged his voice and widened his eyes. Ah, it was too bad he didn’t have a camera handy; Kabaji would have laughed.

“Oh, yes,” Keigo confirmed with an airy wave. “His first collection will be published next year. Really, I’m a little surprised you haven’t heard.” He sipped delicately. Cold tea was a small price to pay for the perfect gesture to finish this play.

And now it was time to be going, before Fuji recovered himself.

“Well, I’m delighted we could have this chat,” he said, rising. “I hope it clears things up, and you stop sulking so Tezuka stops moping. I expect I’ll see you at Nationals; until then.”

As he made it to the door, he heard Fuji starting to laugh, behind him. Ah, success. It was a sweet thing.

Keigo expected to see some improvement in Kunimitsu’s mood in reasonably short order. What he did not expect was that Kunimitsu would arrive, unannounced, at the door of his room, a mere two days later.

“Kunimitsu?” he greeted his lover, a bit surprised he had managed to circumvent the staff.

Kunimitsu crossed to the couch before Keigo could rise and knelt, swiftly, catching Keigo’s face between his hands. The kiss that followed muffled any thoughts Keigo might have mustered under the heat of Kunimitsu’s lips smoothing over his, tempting and offering and demanding. Kunimitsu’s hands stroked down Keigo’s chest and around his back, pulling him tighter against Kunimitsu’s body, and Keigo slid bonelessly off the couch to the floor. His quiet moan was swallowed in Kunimitsu’s mouth. Keigo was just starting to wonder whether the door was locked when Kunimitsu drew back and regarded him with a calm expression and laughing eyes.

“What was that about?” Keigo asked, rather breathless.

“Payback,” Kunimitsu informed him, serenely.

“Remind me what for, so I can make a note to do it more often.”

Kunimitsu smiled. “For baiting Fuji badly enough that he gave you an honest answer; for annoying him enough that he was too busy shredding your character to be reserved with me.”

“And then again, perhaps not,” Keigo decided. “He spoke to you about it?”

“Yes.” Kunimitsu sighed a little. “I hadn’t realized he might think…” He pressed his lips together.

Keigo wove his fingers through Kunimitsu’s hair. “For five and some years, now, he’s been close enough to you to guess what you’re thinking without having to ask,” he pointed out. “For all that, though, I’m betting that Fuji’s never been so good with people that he would have recognized what’s happening now until someone thumped him over the head with it.”

Kunimitsu’s mouth curled, and his eyes were distant. “He isn’t, always, no,” he agreed.

“That sounds like the start to a good story,” Keigo suggested.

Kunimitsu returned to the present and gave him a reproving look. “No.”

“You know, it’s very cruel of you to rouse my curiosity like that and then refuse to satisfy it, Kunimitsu,” Keigo told him in an injured tone.

A familiar gleam lit Kunimitsu’s eyes. “Are you really that disappointed?” he asked, one hand sliding down Keigo’s body again.

“That depends,” Keigo gasped as that warm hand closed, firmly, between his legs, “on whether you intend to satisfy anything else.”

Kunimitsu’s tongue traced a slick path up Keigo’s neck. “Yes, I think I do,” he answered, softly.

A low sound rose in Keigo’s throat and he leaned back against the couch as Kunimitsu’s hand kneaded against him. Kunimitsu wasn’t normally the one who pushed things this quickly. But those were definitely Kunimitsu’s fingers undoing Keigo’s pants, and Kunimitsu’s hands urging him back up to the couch, and spreading his knees apart.

And it was very definitely Kunimitsu’s mouth closing on him, hot and wet and slow. Keigo fell back against the cushions, moaning as Kunimitsu sucked, hard, before his mouth gentled again. Kunimitsu’s tongue flirted with him, rubbed back and forth across screaming nerves, and Keigo tangled his fingers in Kunimitsu’s hair again. The silky spring against his hands somehow felt very much like the the touch of Kunimitsu’s mouth sliding down his cock, and Keigo flexed his fingers against that softness to keep himself from thrusting up into the sleek heat of Kunimitsu’s mouth too forcefully.

That compunction frayed as Kunimitsu slid Keigo’s pants a little further down, and strong fingers reached under him, pressing, massaging. Keigo cried out, sharp and yearning, as that touch pushed into him, almost harsh, almost rough without anything to smooth the way. The contrast with the softness of Kunimitsu’s tongue sweeping over him put an edge like a knife on the heavy pleasure building low in Keigo’s stomach and tensing his thighs. He bucked up as Kunimitsu’s lips stroked him, and Kunimitsu’s fingers drove into him again. And again. And again. Keigo spread his legs wider and arched with the tantalizing, electric promise of Kunimitsu’s touch.

And, just as the raking burn of Kunimitsu’s fingers thrusting into him steadied into a deep, open heat, Kunimitsu’s mouth slid down him one more time and hardened, sucking, the stroke of Kunimitsu’s tongue almost rasping. Demanding. Keigo’s body answered, tensed, shuddered as raw sensation surged through him, wringing him so hard he could barely gasp. Over. And over. And over. Until it dropped him back to the cushions, panting, a little dazed.

Slowly Keigo’s senses resumed their normal proportions, and he stared up at the ceiling while a thought formed in the stillness of his mind. Not that Kunimitsu entirely left him in peace to contemplate. Kunimitsu’s hands, tugging Keigo back down to his lap, were insistent, and Keigo leaned against him, smiling, while he caught his breath.

“You know, when you’ve been worrying over something and finally manage to stop, you tend to break out really quite noticeably,” he said, at last. “I think, perhaps, you need better stress management techniques.”

“Are you complaining?” Kunimitsu asked, against Keigo’s shoulder.

“Certainly not. Just mentioning it, in case you want to fine tune things so as to keep that famous composure of yours better.”

“That matters less with you,” Kunimitsu said, without lifting his head.

Probably just as well, because Keigo was fairly sure his entire expression had turned soft, and it still made him just a touch embarrassed when Kunimitsu actually saw how he affected Keigo sometimes. Keigo rested his cheek against Kunimitsu’s hair.

“Are the two of you all right, now?” he asked.

Kunimitsu nodded.

“Good,” Keigo declared, and put a hand under Kunimitsu’s chin to tip his face up to Keigo’s. “Then I think it’s my turn,” he murmured.

He felt Kunimitsu’s lips curve under his, before they parted for him.

End

Feline

Tezuka coaxes Atobe into an afternoon of relaxation. Written for the Porn Battle prompt: Tezuka/Atobe, languid. Porn with Atomosphere, I-3

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Tezuka Kunimitsu

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Atobe

It was Kunimitsu’s personal discovery. If Keigo was petted for long enough he unwound, forgot to be driven and arrogant, and relaxed into a languid sprawl of limbs, lounging against Kunimitsu’s chest for hours at a time without protest.

"Mmmmm." Keigo pressed closer as Kunimitsu rubbed the back of his neck slowly. "Keep doing that."

Well, perhaps he didn’t entirely forget about being imperious and demanding.

Keigo opened one eye, looking up at Kunimitsu with lazy suspicion. "What’s so amusing?"

"Nothing." Kunimitsu leaned down and kissed him gently.

"Mmm. Well good," Keigo murmured against his mouth, twining slow arms around his shoulders. "Now make love to me some more."

Kunimitsu laughed quietly. No, Keigo never really forgot to be imperious. "Very well." He stroked his hands down Keigo’s body, slowly, savoring the sleekness of his skin and the solid warmth of him. Keigo arched wantonly into his hands, nearly purring. He was irresistible, like this, openly reveling in sensuality, and the sound he made as Kunimitsu spread his thighs apart went straight to Kunimitsu’s groin.

He kissed down Keigo’s throat, open mouthed, tasting his skin, and Keigo tipped his head back, stretching out against the sheets and making little murmurs of pleasure as Kunimitsu’s fingers gently opened him again.

When Kunimitsu slid into him, slow and slick, they both moaned.

The hot grip of Keigo’s body closed around him and Kunimitsu’s hips found their own rhythm, steady and hard. Pleasure shivered through him and he gasped as Keigo smiled, eyes dark and drowsy, and rocked up into his thrusts. He closed a hand on Keigo’s cock, stroking firmly, wanting the entire pleasure, and watched Keigo draw taut, abandoned to sensation, and moan as his body clenched around Kunimitsu’s cock.

He caught Keigo up, lifting him, driving into him faster, deeper, and Keigo’s lazy purr was the last thing it took to send pleasure burning through him, wild and sweet.

They settled back against the pillows, twined around each other, and Kunimitsu rubbed a slow hand up and down Keigo’s back, soothing him back into perfect relaxation.

If he was careful, they could be here all afternoon. And Kunimitsu tried never to be careless in anything.

End