Delayed Reaction - Chapter 1/?? - Atobe
Title - Delayed Reaction
Fandom - Prince of Tennis
Author -Cherry-San/Cherry_san
Rating - PG-13/T
Series Archive - Delayed Reaction (New)
Summary - TezxSanxAtoxFujixRyo. Young love never lasts. Hormones and emotions mix and you don't realize that 10 years later you won't remember their name. But years after a breakup, five boys wake up and remember.
Warnings - Spoilers, slight AU for end of series, minor OCs
Notes - OT5. Dear lord, help me. I've joined the dark side. My obsession with OT5 has spawned this.
Atobe pressed his manicured finger down delicately, efficiently ending the call on his cell phone. With a tired sigh, he set the sleek, black phone down near the corner of the mahogany desk. He brushed a stray piece of hair away from his eyes are he stared blankly into the lit computer school, number and figures scrolled across surface in an unintelligible blur. He closed his eyes, releasing them from their strain of work, silently willing the headache away.
He opened his eyes slowly after a moment, allowing his gaze to trail to the bottom corner of the screen to read out the time. Late. It was getting late, even for Atobe’s strenuous work standard. He stood up from his chair, mentally wincing at scraping of the base of the chair against the floor while he moved the computer mouse a few inches in order to save his work. He limbs moved automatically as he moved to shut down the piece of machinery, his free arm already pushing his chair back toward the desk by the time the screen flashed black.
Atobe gripped the edge of table, rebalancing himself after the long period of sitting silently at his desk, expertly balancing the necessary paperwork. As Atobe walked out of the door, he waved his hand to dismiss the servants that waited quietly outside his office.
Reaching his room, he undressed himself mechanically, giving a small signal for his personal butler to bring him his nightly glass of wine. He slid the light purple silk nightshirt over his slim shoulders as he stared out into his garden, his eyes focused on the shimmering half moon that glistened against the raven black sky. The customary ruffles of his shirt tickled against his chest as he stared into nothing, his mind blissfully devoid of any thought.
He remained silent, even as he butler came by, offering the slim glass out to Atobe on a pallet, the sleek surface of the liquid jittering at the movement. Atobe grasped it expertly, bringing it up to his lips to allow the alcohol to slide down his throat. His eyes slid shut as the soft chink of glass and wood met his ears, his servant placing the remaining bottle of wine onto a nearby surface. He only turned around as he heard the door slide shut from behind him, allowing him to set the glass gingerly down onto his nightstand parallel to the burgundy colored bottle as he slid himself under the silken covers. The king-sized bed shifted at the added weight, empty except for its recent occupant.
Atobe despised it. He despised turning around and seeing nothing. He never wanted to admit that even before his wife had moved herself into the eastern hall; it had always been far too empty.
His wife, Hashimaru Keiko, was a beautiful woman from an old and traditional Japanese family whom Atobe had married at his father’s urging shortly after he received full control over all of the Atobes’ industrial workings. Atobe Industry needed an heir, an heir that only Atobe could provide. So they married, created an heir, and then distanced themselves to the fullest of their abilities and vast resources.
Distance indeed. His wife called a few nights prior, Atobe recalled as he took another sip of wine. France, was it? Or perhaps Italy, he mused. Keiko always did have a fondness for Italy… and its culture. Atobe held back a mirthless chuckle, swirling his wine glass with half-lidded eyes. ‘Culture,’ he thought dryly.
Atobe ungracefully tilted his head back, allowing the remaining half of wine to slide down his throat. He let the taste flow across his tongue as he set the glass down, savoring the slight tingle the drug left in his mouth. He reached over, grasping the dark glass bottle with pale manicured fingers. He balanced it expertly, the reflection of light hitting his eyes for a moment from the dark colored glass before he shifted the angle. The faint splashing of liquid reached his ears as he poured another glass. As he tilted his head to pour the toxin down his throat, he idly wondered when he started drinking the liquid in such unseemly quantities. ‘A few months ago,’ he mused. ‘Maybe years.’
Atobe stopped counting thing that didn’t matter.
As Atobe finished the second glass of wine of with a disdainful relish reaching over to turn off the lamp that settled on the nearby stand, Atobe wondered when everything started.
And he forces himself to sleep before he allows himself to realize that he already knows.
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The Atobe family had servants. Lots of servants. On average, the family had no less than three dozen full-time workers at the mansion at any given moment. Each year, the family went through at over a hundred new servants. Some would stay in their service for a few years while others left within a week. The family demanded loyalty, silence, promptness, and discretion. However, in return for years as acting as a loyal, well-spoken maid or butler, the family offered not only a hefty paycheck but also a generous retirement settlement.
Few workers actually manage to reap the long time reward, however; the family’s utter need for perfection was a main cause of their high turnover rate. Those who stay over the years and has watched over their young master Atobe can’t help be realize that despite the grandeur, the wealth, and the fame Atobe Keigo possessed, their young master was still trapped in regret for letting go.
There are a total of two servants under Atobe’s employment that still remember the first time Atobe started to play tennis. These two are among the five that even remember the skill their master Atobe held on the tennis court. But those who do remember, those who can bring up the image of a young boy standing on a tennis court, his hand raised in the air to snap once and to be left with a silent crowd, knew that this boy possessed the ability to be great.
Atobe rose. Vice captain to captain. Vice president to class president. He rose quickly to whatever status available, only held back by long standing traditions involving his age. Memories of the years attening Hyotei remain prominent as they gaze at the aged CEO, the image of a teen clad in a blue and white uniform with eyes piercing into nothing as single hand moves in insight overlap that of an overworked man sitting stiffly at a desk, his head bent low as his smoke gray eyes scanned over numbers and letters and graphs.
They remember the comments, the accusations, of the boy’s sudden status rise in school. Others thought it was his money, his family.
Then they saw him play.
Those two remaining servants had watched as their young master fought against fallen gods and reigning princes. They watched as the other smiled a secret smile on the court, his muscles moving with poise as he slid across the baseline, his body already bent to continue the rally. They watched as the young master spoke calmly with interest, one hand gripping the smooth plastic container of the cell phone, the oddest spark of something in his eyes, his smirk turning into a true smile. They watched as the young boy played, fought, ruled, and fell.
Atobe Keigo was a character. He was a narcissistic, conceited drama queen who loved attention. He was a charismatic leader who got everything he asked for with a snap though he honestly demanded little. He was a man who could rule over thousands with respect and sublimity while still remaining human.
But perfection is for the naïve, and even Atobe could be a fool when in love.
Some servants watched and realized.
One of them remembers that Atobe was still a teenager in the throes of hormones, curiosity, and first loves.
One of them wonders if Atobe learned anything, even know. Pride means nothing when seen next to what he had. What he gave up.
And both of them only hope that it isn’t too late to turn back the clock.
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Atobe Keigo couldn’t sleep.
A sliver of light cut across the darkened room, the result of a slight gap among the dark indigo curtains that framed the glass-paned windows. Atobe shifted restlessly, the dark satin sheets curling around his legs as he attempted to find a comfortable resting spot. His smoke gray eyes stared aimlessly as his wall, his mind blissfully blank for the time as he traced the outline of the curtains with his eyes.
“Keigo, won’t you come to bed? It’s rather lonely over here without you.”
“Hn, in a minute. I’m almost done.” Click. Click. Click.
…
“It’s been a minute, now come to bed.”
Click. Click. “Just-”
“Keigo.”
A sigh. Then a smirk. Click. Click. “Very well. I suppose that it’d be cruel to deny my lovers my magnificence for any longer.”
Yawn. “Just shut up and get over here, Monkey King.”
Smile. “My pleasure.”
Atobe turned his head, tearing his eyes away from the curtains to stare blankly at his hand that was curled absently around the tops of the sheet. His fingers traced the seam of the fabric, the feathery bumps of thread gliding under his skin. He didn’t know why he thought of that.
He was lying, and he knew it. He knew why he thought of that conversation. Curtains. His hand fisted the sheets for a moment before he unfurled them, stretching his fingers out as he moved them to rest at his side. Ryoma had threatened to burn “those hideous purple curtains you picked out” if Atobe didn’t “stop that annoying typing” and help complete the five way orgy that was waiting for him in their joint king-sized bed.
Shuusuke laughed. Kunimitsu gave an amused smile. Genichirou chuckled.
Atobe released a sigh, turning onto his other side as he slid one hand underneath his pillow, savoring the cool touch against his palm. Strands of gray hair fell into eyes he shifted, moving his legs to untangle them from their capture among his sheet. He shifted his hand as the fabric warmed to his temperature, eager to find another cool resting spot. Again his shifted, tilting his head upward toward the fabric canopy over his head to allow the clump of hair to fall back into place and away from his line of vision.
His slid his eyes shut, willing his mind to relax and forget and just sleep.
“Genichi-”
…
…
“… Well that was a rather pleasant welcome I must say.”
Atobe turned again, lying on his back as his left hand was perched limply over his abdomen.
“Stop molesting Ryoma, Keigo.”
“Saa, Kuni-chan. Let Kei-chan have his fun for now. He has been busy lately.”
“I must agree with Shuusuke, Kuni-chan. I have been severely overworked these last few days. I think I need something to release this tension that’s been building up.”
Atobe left hand twitched irritably, his thumb bending to feel the outline of his silver wedding band he wore for the public. His other hand reached over to join its partner; his fingers twisting the plain metal band and jiggling it loose. He gave his fingers a stretch as he opened his eyes, carelessly tossing the ring into his bedside drawer. He brought his hand in front of his face, his keen eyesight catching the outline of his hand despite the lack of lighting. His fingers traced over the small indent the ring had made in his skin. Both hands fell back to his sides with a soft ‘flop’, a heavy sigh escaping the diva’s lips.
He swallowed hard as he tried not to think about it again. It. The fivesome he had been ardently involved in for almost two years. The all-male orgy that had been the most exalting experience he could remember.
Atobe didn’t want to be reminded of giving up the four men he loved more than anything. He didn’t want to remember breaking apart from the passion, the tenderness, the humor, the…security.
“Shuusuke, can you take your hand off my ass please? I have a match tomorrow, and it’s hard to sleep when you keep fondling me like that.”
“That’s not me, Ryo-chan. My hands are on Gen-chan and Keigo-chan right now.”
“Hn.”
“Thanks, buchou.”
Atobe gave up. He slid himself from under the covers, his arm reaching over a few inches to snap the light back. He grabbed a robe from his closet, sliding the silk over his shoulders in one smooth movement. He tied the cloth around his waist, the soft feel of carpet against his flesh disappearing as he slid a pair of slippers over his bare feet.
He walked back to his office, all of his night staff politely ignoring him in the hallway as he made his way through the mansion. The lights clicked on as he opened up the large oak doors, and Atobe made his way over to the liquor cabinet that was more for decoration than anything. He slid the lock open, allowing the glass door to swing open. He grabbed a small glass and a bottle that was filled with a generous amount of amber liquid.
He poured himself a glass, watching idly as the liquid settled in the cup. As he slid the bottle back into the cabinet he found himself amazed at the smooth surface of the liquid that stood in the cup.
A light ripple made its way over the surface as Atobe sat down as his desk, his movements jostling the wooden counter. The miniature waves spread throughout the rest of the exterior layer of the alcohol, crashing into the thick glass walls with an inaudible slosh.
And with a bitter smile, Atobe took a sip.
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“…Stay one more night, Keigo? Please?”
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