Fic: Prodigal Son (Giant Killing; Tatsumi/Murakoshi)
Here's the story I wrote for prillalar for our second annual sekrit story exchange - I've been wanting to write for this fandom FOREVER. It has three of my favorite things: soccer, pretty boys, and angsty backstory. Did I mention soccer? Feel free to ask me "What the hell is Giant Killing?" and I will try to pimp you into it!
Title: Prodigal Son
Fandom: Giant Killing
Wordcount: 2000
Notes: For prillalar!
Summary: They have a lot to work out :).
Prodigal Son
"So, this new allenatore," Gino says, cornering him in the locker room after practice, even though he and Gino don't talk. Gino's cocky and arrogant and has a brilliant left foot, which might make him acceptable as a teammate but doesn't mean Murakoshi has to talk to him. "What is his deal?"
"He doesn't have a deal," Murakoshi says, meaning the conversation is closed, but in his years in Japan Gino's never picked up on the subtleties.
"Koshi, you know what I mean. He comes in, swoops down," Gino illustrates this with his hands, "after all these years, and expects everyone to, poof, take him back in?"
Funny for Gino to care; he wasn't even around then. He'd been a punk kid halfway across the world, skating by on natural talent as much then as now, Murakoshi's sure.
"Tatsumi is ETU's choice as coach," Murakoshi says. "It's our duty to stand behind him."
Gino makes a face, like he can't believe even Murakoshi would say something like that. "Come on, you knew him way back when," as if Murakoshi has one foot in the grave. "You can tell me what he's like."
Murakoshi's the last person who can say what Tatsumi is like. He used to think he knew, because it was everything Murakoshi was: loyal to his team, determined to put ETU at the top of the table, caught up in the excitement of building something together.
"Hard working," he says, because it's safe and will piss Gino off.
***
Tatsumi calls him over after a series of back and forths with Tsubaki, who still has more scattered moments than brilliant ones but is starting to come along. Murakoshi jogs to the sidelines and ignores the way seeing Tatsumi still makes his stomach flip uncomfortably.
"How is he doing?" Tatsumi says, his eyes on Tsubaki. Murakoshi knows he has an interest in him; Tsubaki wears Tatsumi's old number after all, plays his old position. Murakoshi doesn't see it. Tsubaki has the legs, and he takes direction with the singleminded purpose of Gino's pet name for him, dog, but Murakoshi can't see building a team around him.
"He's improving," Murakoshi says.
Tatsumi nods. Murakoshi can smell the faint must of Tatsumi's jacket. Tatsumi's eyes flick to his, like he's turning something over in his head, and Murakoshi's already readying a response, that they'd said their piece, agreed to move forward, they don't need to talk about it.
Tatsumi doesn't say anything, however. Murakoshi tells himself he's not disappointed.
***
Murakoshi's third game in an ETU jersey, he'd had the assist on the game-winning goal, his first, so he accepted the beer someone thrust in his hands in the bar after even though he didn't drink. Tatsumi was at a table in the corner with Goto and a couple other players, and he tried not to stare openly at him, too old for hero worship.
Half a beer later, his head was full of grand ideas of taking ETU to the top, taking the Cup, even, spreading through him with the warmth of the beer and feeling inevitable. It gave him the courage to approach the table. His palms were sweaty; in their eyes he was just a rookie. But Tatsumi smiled at him when he came over, said, "Good job on the assist."
For a moment Murakoshi couldn't speak. "Thank you," he finally pushed out, knowing he was still flushed from the beer. "I'm proud to play on such a team. To have the opportunity to play with you."
Someone at the table laughed. Murakoshi thought he saw a glint in Tatsumi's eyes, but all he said was, "I'm sure we'll do good things."
A rote response to what Murakoshi had meant seriously. He returned to his table, nursing the rebuff with the other half of his beer.
***
"Why do you keep defending him?" Kuroda hisses out, slamming his equipment in the locker and balling up the yellow substitute's shirt at the bottom. His anger is like a dog digging in its claws, snarling mindlessly. "He'll drive this team to the ground just like he did when he left."
Murakoshi's gotten better at ignoring him. He's surprised how much he enjoys it, this release from obligation. But Kuroda's wrong; he's not defending Tatsumi. Most of the time he doesn't think Tatsumi has any idea what he's doing. But he doesn't have to defend Tatsumi to do what he says. He wonders if it had been all blind loyalty back then, too, caught up in whatever Tatsumi has that compels others to follow.
He sees Sugie start to say something, feels Dori's eyes on them, too. He finishes changing, puts the rest of his equipment away. Kuroda's already slumped in defeat. There's nothing Murakoshi can say.
Dori catches him as he's leaving, falls into step beside him. "Kuroda's just blowing off steam."
Murakoshi grunts an acknowledgment. It's more than that, but it's no longer his problem. Find a weapon to let you win. He wants to tell Kuroda this, shake him awake to make him see, but though part of Murakoshi hates that all of Tatsumi's words settle deep in his gut, taking root, the other part doesn't want to share them.
"He'll have to find his own way," Murakoshi says, and Dori nods.
***
He didn't talk to Tatsumi again until the bus broke down after a loss to Osaka, management scrambling to find a hotel to put them up in for the night. Murakoshi's mind was too full of the loss to sleep so he prowled the hotel, the sterile lights of the lobby too bright for the hour, and followed the sounds of clicks and soft thumps until he found Tatsumi bent over a pool table with a cue stick in his hand.
Murakoshi stood in the doorway, watching. Tatsumi's long fingers wrapped around the cue, holding it loosely. He couldn't stop staring at them.
"Do you play?"
Murakoshi shook his head. "I never learned," he said. His mouth was dry. He wet his lips, and Tatsumi's cue slipped on the ball, so slight that Murakoshi thought he imagined it.
"I picked it up in France," Tatsumi said. The World Cup, he meant. Murakoshi had watched Tatsumi on the field against Argentina. They'd held Goliath to just a goal, but it was still a loss. "It's useful for the game."
Murakoshi studied the layout of the balls on the table, picturing their positions on the field. He could see the relevance in the geometry of it, but football was more than angles and passes and what spectators saw on the field.
"Or maybe it's just a way to pass the time." Tatsumi's mouth quirked in a smile. "You're thinking of everything you should have done differently."
"Yes," Murakoshi said, remembering the move the Osaka number 17 had used to get by him, each intercepted pass.
"Don't," Tatsumi said. "It's done." Murakoshi thought he was speaking to himself as much as Murakoshi. He replaced the cue on the wall rack. "Goto's staying with family in the city," he said, and Murakoshi couldn't wrap his mind around the non-sequitor until he remembered that Goto was Tatsumi's usual roommate.
His mouth, which had been dry before, was a desert. His stomach curled with shame and want. Numb, he followed Tatsumi to the elevator, to Tatsumi's floor, Tatsumi's long fingers now on the keycard.
Tatsumi sucked him the way he played on the field, brilliant and unpredictable. Murakoshi wanted to touch him, close his hand over what he could barely see, much less grasp. He came down Tatsumi's throat, chest tight and lungs burning, not knowing if he'd vocalized the cry or if it had just seared the inside of his head.
Tatsumi returned from the bathroom, wiping his hand with a towel. He'd gotten himself off while his lips had been locked around Murakoshi's dick, and Murakoshi hadn't even noticed. That was that, then. His legs were too wobbly to hold him, but he made the effort anyway.
Tatsumi stopped him with a hand on his chest, pushed him back on the bed then stretched out next to him. They didn't touch. Murakoshi stared at the ceiling, listening to the low rasp of their breathing, wondering if Tatsumi was going to say something, but when he turned his head to look, Tatsumi was asleep.
***
"Rookie of the year," Tatsumi said, after Murakoshi gave his first blow job. Tatsumi didn't seem to mind that he was terrible at it, that he'd choked halfway through and spit out Tatsumi's come, and Murakoshi didn't know if he even liked it or not, except nothing had ever gotten him so hard.
Murakoshi thought it must be written all over his face, I'm fucking Tatsumi Takeshi, but none of the other players seemed to notice. Murakoshi got used to getting hard at inconvenient times, watching Tatsumi undress after a game and thinking about going to Tatsumi's after with the dirt of the pitch still on them, Tatsumi's white sheets smelling like detergent; he got used to hiding it, running through plays and drills in his head until it went away.
In the end, it wasn't even Tatsumi who told him. It was Goto, his long face eyeing Murakoshi cautiously, enough that Murakoshi wondered if he knew. He put on his shin guards, pulled his socks over them then picked up his cleats, nodding at whatever Goto was saying. At some point Goto stopped, probably because by then they were out on the field.
He heard the coach call out an order, and one of the other midfielders trotted over to take Tatsumi's place.
***
He's leaving the clubhouse when he sees that Tatsumi's door is open, the blue flicker of game tape playing out over the walls of the corridor. He pauses a moment outside, then pushes the door the rest of the way open.
Tatsumi's sitting cross-legged on the bed. Even in the blue light Murakoshi can see exhaustion on his face. A rare show of truth, and it upends his world a little, a shift of constant. Then Tatsumi tilts his head, inviting him in.
Murakoshi joins him on the bed. The futon is lumpy and uncomfortable. He tries to focus on the game in front of them, but the camera can never show the real game, not the way it's played on the field. Tatsumi's gaze is fixed on it, however, and Murakoshi wonders what he sees. Perhaps Tatsumi just knows something he doesn't. It wouldn't be the first time.
Tatsumi takes Murakoshi's wrist in his hand, circles it loosely with his fingers. It's more of a shock than if he'd kissed him, but Murakoshi doesn't pull his wrist away.
"Practice tomorrow at one," Tatsumi says, as if they're meeting in the hall, as if they're just player and coach. Tatsumi's fingers are like a brand. The closest thing he'll ever get to an apology, not that Murakoshi's ever asked for one.
"I know," Murakoshi says. I'll be there, he doesn't say, but he's never had to.
When he leaves, a couple of kids are kicking a ball under a street lamp. It gets by them, bouncing to Murakoshi's foot. He lifts it easily, lobs it back to them, and they almost let it roll away their eyes are so wide.
He takes the long way home.
END
Title: Prodigal Son
Fandom: Giant Killing
Wordcount: 2000
Notes: For prillalar!
Summary: They have a lot to work out :).
Prodigal Son
"So, this new allenatore," Gino says, cornering him in the locker room after practice, even though he and Gino don't talk. Gino's cocky and arrogant and has a brilliant left foot, which might make him acceptable as a teammate but doesn't mean Murakoshi has to talk to him. "What is his deal?"
"He doesn't have a deal," Murakoshi says, meaning the conversation is closed, but in his years in Japan Gino's never picked up on the subtleties.
"Koshi, you know what I mean. He comes in, swoops down," Gino illustrates this with his hands, "after all these years, and expects everyone to, poof, take him back in?"
Funny for Gino to care; he wasn't even around then. He'd been a punk kid halfway across the world, skating by on natural talent as much then as now, Murakoshi's sure.
"Tatsumi is ETU's choice as coach," Murakoshi says. "It's our duty to stand behind him."
Gino makes a face, like he can't believe even Murakoshi would say something like that. "Come on, you knew him way back when," as if Murakoshi has one foot in the grave. "You can tell me what he's like."
Murakoshi's the last person who can say what Tatsumi is like. He used to think he knew, because it was everything Murakoshi was: loyal to his team, determined to put ETU at the top of the table, caught up in the excitement of building something together.
"Hard working," he says, because it's safe and will piss Gino off.
***
Tatsumi calls him over after a series of back and forths with Tsubaki, who still has more scattered moments than brilliant ones but is starting to come along. Murakoshi jogs to the sidelines and ignores the way seeing Tatsumi still makes his stomach flip uncomfortably.
"How is he doing?" Tatsumi says, his eyes on Tsubaki. Murakoshi knows he has an interest in him; Tsubaki wears Tatsumi's old number after all, plays his old position. Murakoshi doesn't see it. Tsubaki has the legs, and he takes direction with the singleminded purpose of Gino's pet name for him, dog, but Murakoshi can't see building a team around him.
"He's improving," Murakoshi says.
Tatsumi nods. Murakoshi can smell the faint must of Tatsumi's jacket. Tatsumi's eyes flick to his, like he's turning something over in his head, and Murakoshi's already readying a response, that they'd said their piece, agreed to move forward, they don't need to talk about it.
Tatsumi doesn't say anything, however. Murakoshi tells himself he's not disappointed.
***
Murakoshi's third game in an ETU jersey, he'd had the assist on the game-winning goal, his first, so he accepted the beer someone thrust in his hands in the bar after even though he didn't drink. Tatsumi was at a table in the corner with Goto and a couple other players, and he tried not to stare openly at him, too old for hero worship.
Half a beer later, his head was full of grand ideas of taking ETU to the top, taking the Cup, even, spreading through him with the warmth of the beer and feeling inevitable. It gave him the courage to approach the table. His palms were sweaty; in their eyes he was just a rookie. But Tatsumi smiled at him when he came over, said, "Good job on the assist."
For a moment Murakoshi couldn't speak. "Thank you," he finally pushed out, knowing he was still flushed from the beer. "I'm proud to play on such a team. To have the opportunity to play with you."
Someone at the table laughed. Murakoshi thought he saw a glint in Tatsumi's eyes, but all he said was, "I'm sure we'll do good things."
A rote response to what Murakoshi had meant seriously. He returned to his table, nursing the rebuff with the other half of his beer.
***
"Why do you keep defending him?" Kuroda hisses out, slamming his equipment in the locker and balling up the yellow substitute's shirt at the bottom. His anger is like a dog digging in its claws, snarling mindlessly. "He'll drive this team to the ground just like he did when he left."
Murakoshi's gotten better at ignoring him. He's surprised how much he enjoys it, this release from obligation. But Kuroda's wrong; he's not defending Tatsumi. Most of the time he doesn't think Tatsumi has any idea what he's doing. But he doesn't have to defend Tatsumi to do what he says. He wonders if it had been all blind loyalty back then, too, caught up in whatever Tatsumi has that compels others to follow.
He sees Sugie start to say something, feels Dori's eyes on them, too. He finishes changing, puts the rest of his equipment away. Kuroda's already slumped in defeat. There's nothing Murakoshi can say.
Dori catches him as he's leaving, falls into step beside him. "Kuroda's just blowing off steam."
Murakoshi grunts an acknowledgment. It's more than that, but it's no longer his problem. Find a weapon to let you win. He wants to tell Kuroda this, shake him awake to make him see, but though part of Murakoshi hates that all of Tatsumi's words settle deep in his gut, taking root, the other part doesn't want to share them.
"He'll have to find his own way," Murakoshi says, and Dori nods.
***
He didn't talk to Tatsumi again until the bus broke down after a loss to Osaka, management scrambling to find a hotel to put them up in for the night. Murakoshi's mind was too full of the loss to sleep so he prowled the hotel, the sterile lights of the lobby too bright for the hour, and followed the sounds of clicks and soft thumps until he found Tatsumi bent over a pool table with a cue stick in his hand.
Murakoshi stood in the doorway, watching. Tatsumi's long fingers wrapped around the cue, holding it loosely. He couldn't stop staring at them.
"Do you play?"
Murakoshi shook his head. "I never learned," he said. His mouth was dry. He wet his lips, and Tatsumi's cue slipped on the ball, so slight that Murakoshi thought he imagined it.
"I picked it up in France," Tatsumi said. The World Cup, he meant. Murakoshi had watched Tatsumi on the field against Argentina. They'd held Goliath to just a goal, but it was still a loss. "It's useful for the game."
Murakoshi studied the layout of the balls on the table, picturing their positions on the field. He could see the relevance in the geometry of it, but football was more than angles and passes and what spectators saw on the field.
"Or maybe it's just a way to pass the time." Tatsumi's mouth quirked in a smile. "You're thinking of everything you should have done differently."
"Yes," Murakoshi said, remembering the move the Osaka number 17 had used to get by him, each intercepted pass.
"Don't," Tatsumi said. "It's done." Murakoshi thought he was speaking to himself as much as Murakoshi. He replaced the cue on the wall rack. "Goto's staying with family in the city," he said, and Murakoshi couldn't wrap his mind around the non-sequitor until he remembered that Goto was Tatsumi's usual roommate.
His mouth, which had been dry before, was a desert. His stomach curled with shame and want. Numb, he followed Tatsumi to the elevator, to Tatsumi's floor, Tatsumi's long fingers now on the keycard.
Tatsumi sucked him the way he played on the field, brilliant and unpredictable. Murakoshi wanted to touch him, close his hand over what he could barely see, much less grasp. He came down Tatsumi's throat, chest tight and lungs burning, not knowing if he'd vocalized the cry or if it had just seared the inside of his head.
Tatsumi returned from the bathroom, wiping his hand with a towel. He'd gotten himself off while his lips had been locked around Murakoshi's dick, and Murakoshi hadn't even noticed. That was that, then. His legs were too wobbly to hold him, but he made the effort anyway.
Tatsumi stopped him with a hand on his chest, pushed him back on the bed then stretched out next to him. They didn't touch. Murakoshi stared at the ceiling, listening to the low rasp of their breathing, wondering if Tatsumi was going to say something, but when he turned his head to look, Tatsumi was asleep.
***
"Rookie of the year," Tatsumi said, after Murakoshi gave his first blow job. Tatsumi didn't seem to mind that he was terrible at it, that he'd choked halfway through and spit out Tatsumi's come, and Murakoshi didn't know if he even liked it or not, except nothing had ever gotten him so hard.
Murakoshi thought it must be written all over his face, I'm fucking Tatsumi Takeshi, but none of the other players seemed to notice. Murakoshi got used to getting hard at inconvenient times, watching Tatsumi undress after a game and thinking about going to Tatsumi's after with the dirt of the pitch still on them, Tatsumi's white sheets smelling like detergent; he got used to hiding it, running through plays and drills in his head until it went away.
In the end, it wasn't even Tatsumi who told him. It was Goto, his long face eyeing Murakoshi cautiously, enough that Murakoshi wondered if he knew. He put on his shin guards, pulled his socks over them then picked up his cleats, nodding at whatever Goto was saying. At some point Goto stopped, probably because by then they were out on the field.
He heard the coach call out an order, and one of the other midfielders trotted over to take Tatsumi's place.
***
He's leaving the clubhouse when he sees that Tatsumi's door is open, the blue flicker of game tape playing out over the walls of the corridor. He pauses a moment outside, then pushes the door the rest of the way open.
Tatsumi's sitting cross-legged on the bed. Even in the blue light Murakoshi can see exhaustion on his face. A rare show of truth, and it upends his world a little, a shift of constant. Then Tatsumi tilts his head, inviting him in.
Murakoshi joins him on the bed. The futon is lumpy and uncomfortable. He tries to focus on the game in front of them, but the camera can never show the real game, not the way it's played on the field. Tatsumi's gaze is fixed on it, however, and Murakoshi wonders what he sees. Perhaps Tatsumi just knows something he doesn't. It wouldn't be the first time.
Tatsumi takes Murakoshi's wrist in his hand, circles it loosely with his fingers. It's more of a shock than if he'd kissed him, but Murakoshi doesn't pull his wrist away.
"Practice tomorrow at one," Tatsumi says, as if they're meeting in the hall, as if they're just player and coach. Tatsumi's fingers are like a brand. The closest thing he'll ever get to an apology, not that Murakoshi's ever asked for one.
"I know," Murakoshi says. I'll be there, he doesn't say, but he's never had to.
When he leaves, a couple of kids are kicking a ball under a street lamp. It gets by them, bouncing to Murakoshi's foot. He lifts it easily, lobs it back to them, and they almost let it roll away their eyes are so wide.
He takes the long way home.
END