[Fic] Missing You
A/N: My first fic for the Yokosuka pair!
Pairing: Kenchi/Tetsuya (sort of)
Rating: T
Kenchi hates his life.
For as long as he remembers, he’s never had a moment of peace. He sees ghosts, visions and the rare glimpse of the future. He suffers from a permanent migraine as a result. He isn't normal in any sense of the word, even though he tries to blend into the crowd.
The spirits he encounters don’t usually bother him, preferring to amble aimlessly and ignore the living world. Spirits with lingering regret and couldn’t bring themselves to move on. Spirits tethered to the place they had died for whatever dark reason.
Kenchi wishes he wasn't born a psychic, even if he occasionally gets out of PE during the summer, claiming heatstroke and various other ailments.
It gets worse when he shifts into a fairly large apartment with suspiciously cheap rent and, he finds out later, a long history of murder and suicide victims who are more annoying than troubled and pitiful.
A young lady in white with long black hair and a missing eye grins toothily at him.
A young man with dyed strawberry blonde hair waves from the mirror in the hallway, a gaping hole in his bright polka-dotted shirt where the heart used to reside.
A family of four gathers at the dining table, eating breakfast comprising of eggs and toast. Even the phantom pot of coffee is steaming ectoplasm. (Ha. Ghosts. Phantom. Hahaha.)
Between the unwanted occupants in his house and his noisy next door neighbours whom he has never met - many a time he could hear pounding and the unmistakable sounds of sex in the middle of the night - he is trying to figure out which he dislikes more.
If only he could just exorcise the spirits he encounters; that might be one problem less. However, the equipment is expensive; no wonder exorcists charge ludicrous amounts whenever they perform an exorcism. No one does it for free.
He adjusts his tie. His hair is waxed, not a strand out of place. He looks smart.
He slips on the fake glasses he often wears and checks himself in the mirror, pointedly ignoring the strawberry blonde still preening in front of the mirror and is now dancing a horrible rendition of some female idol group. The glasses temporarily dull the throbbing migraine between his eyes.
He’d only just stepped out of the door before a familiar lancing pain builds up behind his eyes and has to brace himself on the wall as he rides out his newest vision, a string of curses that puts a sailor to shame escaping his mouth.
He sees pristine white sheets. He smells the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He feels the gentle breeze of a bright morning with skies the colour of cornflower blue. He hears someone call his name, teasingly, affectionately. Then he raises his head -
Brown. It’s the first thing he sees when his vision ends abruptly, the searing pain in his head disappearing so suddenly that he almost feels whiplash. Disoriented, Kenchi feels lost, like he'd tripped on a wild banana peel and fallen backwards. That's when he realises that the comparison is not so far off, as he's currently lying flat on his back, staring up into someone's eyes - brown, the colour of rich coffee and dark chocolate - and forcibly jerks himself back to reality by discreetly pinching his thigh.
He must be very hungry if he were already thinking of food fifteen minutes after munching down his toast, the non-ectoplasm type thank you very much.
The person straddling his hips furrows his brows in concern. “Kenchi? Are you alright?” He says, giving him a hard shake. “Kenchi, can you hear me?”
“Huh?” Kenchi blinks. His glasses are askew. “How do you know my name?”
Who is this stranger? My visions have never just ended that way before, unless it’s that person, he thinks, puzzled. How? Why?
“It’s really you!” The man cups his face. “It’s me Tetsuya, your high school classmate. Remember?”
“I -“ The world is spinning, he can’t think straight, and Kenchi thinks he might have a concussion after all.
“I’m the prince who always carries you to your palace in the sickbay.” The man smirks and scrambles back out of his space.
“Shut up, I won't pick you even if I were a princess,” Kenchi growls, rubbing at his temples. The sarcasm is spiking his memories of a certain someone who used to enjoy trading insults with him, and he finally recalls a pretty boy with sharp, handsome features and a legion of fangirls.
The same boy who had accompanied him to sickbay during his fainting sprees, stolen his first kiss out of a dare, and has now matured into a fine specimen.
He says he's Tetsuya. There is only one Tetsuya I know.
“Wait, Tetsuya, are you my neighbour?” Kenchi does a double-take, and immediately regrets it when he feels his migraine coming back.
“Hmm? What do you think?” Tetsuya smiles, saccharine and sweet, and Kenchi is torn between punching him and kissing that smirk off his pretty face. He can still remember the taste of his lips slanted over his own, lush and soft and tasting of coffee, and fights down a blush. No need to think of unnecessary things, self. It was only a dare.
“I hope not.” He’d hear no end of Tetsuya’s sexual escapades, most exaggeratedly described of course. That guy is more nauseatingly romantic than seductive, if Kenchi hadn’t felt his teeth rotting from the sheer sweetness of Tetsuya’s, ahem, sweet nothings whenever he is forced to hang out with him and his then-girlfriend.
“Luckily for you, I’m just a friend of your neighbour’s,” Tetsuya grins, offering his hand.
“Friend?” Kenchi echoes disbelievingly, recalling the live action porn he hears each night, and quirks an eyebrow.
“Yes. They’re regular customers at my café,” he explains patiently, as if expecting Kenchi to know what his occupation is despite the lack of contact for almost a decade. Maybe he does. “I was just delivering a birthday cake when I saw you collapsing. Now are you going to take my hand or should I retract my offer before you make me look more stupid than I feel now?”
Snorting, Kenchi glances at a nicely wrapped cake box placed neatly at the side, and nods. He takes the proffered hand and nearly prevents himself from moaning at the relief when his migraine immediately vanishes.
“Get up, fool, you’re heavier than you look.” Tetsuya aims a kick at his ribs, which he hurriedly dodges. “Aren’t you supposed to go somewhere?”
“I’ll send you the hospitalisation bill if I end up there because of a broken rib or two,” he retorts, grudgingly adding that he has a date at Shibuya at ten.
As Tetsuya manhandles him to the lift, Kenchi finds himself absently thinking how it would be like to have this man touch him forever. If only to relieve my headaches which no medicine can cure, he adds hurriedly, thankful that no one can read his mind.
Pairing: Kenchi/Tetsuya (sort of)
Rating: T
Kenchi hates his life.
For as long as he remembers, he’s never had a moment of peace. He sees ghosts, visions and the rare glimpse of the future. He suffers from a permanent migraine as a result. He isn't normal in any sense of the word, even though he tries to blend into the crowd.
The spirits he encounters don’t usually bother him, preferring to amble aimlessly and ignore the living world. Spirits with lingering regret and couldn’t bring themselves to move on. Spirits tethered to the place they had died for whatever dark reason.
Kenchi wishes he wasn't born a psychic, even if he occasionally gets out of PE during the summer, claiming heatstroke and various other ailments.
It gets worse when he shifts into a fairly large apartment with suspiciously cheap rent and, he finds out later, a long history of murder and suicide victims who are more annoying than troubled and pitiful.
A young lady in white with long black hair and a missing eye grins toothily at him.
A young man with dyed strawberry blonde hair waves from the mirror in the hallway, a gaping hole in his bright polka-dotted shirt where the heart used to reside.
A family of four gathers at the dining table, eating breakfast comprising of eggs and toast. Even the phantom pot of coffee is steaming ectoplasm. (Ha. Ghosts. Phantom. Hahaha.)
Between the unwanted occupants in his house and his noisy next door neighbours whom he has never met - many a time he could hear pounding and the unmistakable sounds of sex in the middle of the night - he is trying to figure out which he dislikes more.
If only he could just exorcise the spirits he encounters; that might be one problem less. However, the equipment is expensive; no wonder exorcists charge ludicrous amounts whenever they perform an exorcism. No one does it for free.
He adjusts his tie. His hair is waxed, not a strand out of place. He looks smart.
He slips on the fake glasses he often wears and checks himself in the mirror, pointedly ignoring the strawberry blonde still preening in front of the mirror and is now dancing a horrible rendition of some female idol group. The glasses temporarily dull the throbbing migraine between his eyes.
He’d only just stepped out of the door before a familiar lancing pain builds up behind his eyes and has to brace himself on the wall as he rides out his newest vision, a string of curses that puts a sailor to shame escaping his mouth.
He sees pristine white sheets. He smells the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He feels the gentle breeze of a bright morning with skies the colour of cornflower blue. He hears someone call his name, teasingly, affectionately. Then he raises his head -
Brown. It’s the first thing he sees when his vision ends abruptly, the searing pain in his head disappearing so suddenly that he almost feels whiplash. Disoriented, Kenchi feels lost, like he'd tripped on a wild banana peel and fallen backwards. That's when he realises that the comparison is not so far off, as he's currently lying flat on his back, staring up into someone's eyes - brown, the colour of rich coffee and dark chocolate - and forcibly jerks himself back to reality by discreetly pinching his thigh.
He must be very hungry if he were already thinking of food fifteen minutes after munching down his toast, the non-ectoplasm type thank you very much.
The person straddling his hips furrows his brows in concern. “Kenchi? Are you alright?” He says, giving him a hard shake. “Kenchi, can you hear me?”
“Huh?” Kenchi blinks. His glasses are askew. “How do you know my name?”
Who is this stranger? My visions have never just ended that way before, unless it’s that person, he thinks, puzzled. How? Why?
“It’s really you!” The man cups his face. “It’s me Tetsuya, your high school classmate. Remember?”
“I -“ The world is spinning, he can’t think straight, and Kenchi thinks he might have a concussion after all.
“I’m the prince who always carries you to your palace in the sickbay.” The man smirks and scrambles back out of his space.
“Shut up, I won't pick you even if I were a princess,” Kenchi growls, rubbing at his temples. The sarcasm is spiking his memories of a certain someone who used to enjoy trading insults with him, and he finally recalls a pretty boy with sharp, handsome features and a legion of fangirls.
The same boy who had accompanied him to sickbay during his fainting sprees, stolen his first kiss out of a dare, and has now matured into a fine specimen.
He says he's Tetsuya. There is only one Tetsuya I know.
“Wait, Tetsuya, are you my neighbour?” Kenchi does a double-take, and immediately regrets it when he feels his migraine coming back.
“Hmm? What do you think?” Tetsuya smiles, saccharine and sweet, and Kenchi is torn between punching him and kissing that smirk off his pretty face. He can still remember the taste of his lips slanted over his own, lush and soft and tasting of coffee, and fights down a blush. No need to think of unnecessary things, self. It was only a dare.
“I hope not.” He’d hear no end of Tetsuya’s sexual escapades, most exaggeratedly described of course. That guy is more nauseatingly romantic than seductive, if Kenchi hadn’t felt his teeth rotting from the sheer sweetness of Tetsuya’s, ahem, sweet nothings whenever he is forced to hang out with him and his then-girlfriend.
“Luckily for you, I’m just a friend of your neighbour’s,” Tetsuya grins, offering his hand.
“Friend?” Kenchi echoes disbelievingly, recalling the live action porn he hears each night, and quirks an eyebrow.
“Yes. They’re regular customers at my café,” he explains patiently, as if expecting Kenchi to know what his occupation is despite the lack of contact for almost a decade. Maybe he does. “I was just delivering a birthday cake when I saw you collapsing. Now are you going to take my hand or should I retract my offer before you make me look more stupid than I feel now?”
Snorting, Kenchi glances at a nicely wrapped cake box placed neatly at the side, and nods. He takes the proffered hand and nearly prevents himself from moaning at the relief when his migraine immediately vanishes.
“Get up, fool, you’re heavier than you look.” Tetsuya aims a kick at his ribs, which he hurriedly dodges. “Aren’t you supposed to go somewhere?”
“I’ll send you the hospitalisation bill if I end up there because of a broken rib or two,” he retorts, grudgingly adding that he has a date at Shibuya at ten.
As Tetsuya manhandles him to the lift, Kenchi finds himself absently thinking how it would be like to have this man touch him forever. If only to relieve my headaches which no medicine can cure, he adds hurriedly, thankful that no one can read his mind.