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by ? // for seiskink69
characters/pairings: Suggested Hibari/Ryohei.
rating: T
warnings: shounen-ai
wordcount: 1, 058
summary: The day Ryohei joins the boxing club is the day he meets Hibari, all woolen-tempered and standalone.
notes: I can’t remember the word for “love of the sea”.
The day Ryohei joins the boxing club is the day he meets Hibari, all woolen-tempered and standalone, and the day the rules are explained to him in bright, green ink. If, he is told, on a blustery day in the middle of November, leaves falling and the burnt smell of roasted chestnuts in the wind, your grades lower, you will be removed. One of many promises spoken to him in even tones, in expressions of boredom and slight distrust, for Hibari knows no one but himself.
He smiles, and goes to thump him on the back - misses, of course, his eyesight is bad today - thanks him for making things, extremely, clear. Because Namimori hours are over, only these two and the activity clubs are left. It’s a little grating on his patience, children staying after when they have nothing of importance to do. And:
“Hey.” The voice is like powdered chalk, all fading, childhood hues and oh-so light; any dust of tact blown away in the wind. He doesn’t scowl, but it’s close, and makes a mental note about the boy’s - messily knotted - tie. Hooligan. A sentence starts out long, slow, like a casual remark, and rises in pitch. A false afterthought.
The reply is curt, seeps into his bones and shreds what it finds there, but his hope is still intact enough for a second try. The idea is that perhaps, today, someone will be bitten. His fingers itch to wrap themselves around Ryohei’s throat, to dig nails into that soft, downy skin, [He wants blotches, olallie-tainted smudges to mar his neck and shoulders, thin scarring and something to be crushed] where he can squeeze until -
“No.”
And that is that. Kyoya walks away, the empty sleeves of his jacket swaying, slightly. The clouds are dark, plum-bruised, and soon it will rain: he can taste it in the air. The plan is to return to his classroom, make sure everything is in proper order - sometimes the people on duty moved the dust around, instead of cleaned - and then he would retire to his apartment, and study.
The cement is dry beneath him, and then there are the heavy thuds of shoes against the pavement, Sasagawa running after to question him once more. The answer is the same, but this time accompanied by warning blow - a strike across the face. Blood drips down. Don’t bother me, he says, and frowns. What I hate most is people who group together, like a pack of quivering deer trying to protect themselves in numbers from a single wolf. I am not a herbivore.
Despite this he asks, one more time, and gets much worse than a broken nose. Hibari does not like annoyances, or those who are weak - and this is both - so he slams a foot into the boy’s ribs and continues from there, not a challenge. [Part of him breaks a little, to see the uniform] of his school sullied with blood. The other student can’t react soon enough to defend, or to fight back, and in the back of his mind he knows he’s going to have to take a nap, today, because already he is feeling tired, sluggish and dull, sticking to the ground like roots and leaves, fallen leaves. Winter is almost here, and with it shorter days - he doesn’t like the cold it brings, either, and shivers against the wind.
When he’s finished, he roughs him up a little more so an ambulance can be called, and then waits until it arrives, tracing the sensitive skin of his wrist with one finger for something to do. Flicks his bangs from his face. He’ll need to cut them when he gets home, in the bathroom mirror. Hibari can see his veins, blues and greens and muggy purples, and silently compares them to that of the driver when the van appears, all business and breaking speed. Tells them: Fix him up, he’s a student here. And then, he leaves.
xxxxxx
Hibari slams him into the wall, one hand on his hip and one arm across his chest, elbow resting against his collarbone and the junction of his arm, easily. Curled around a single tonfa, metal unwavering. The sound of Ryohei’s head hitting the cement behind him is familiar, and safe, and slightly nostalgic. And he almost does it a second time, but doesn’t want to give him a chance to move, so he doesn’t and he doesn’t.
Despite the awkward positioning of his limbs, and his shorter stature, he has the upper hand. The other student is dazed, but when he speaks the full force of his enthusiasm is still there - and Kyoya bristles. The ribbed edges of his sweater always irritates his skin, there are marks of red from scratching. His eyes trace the lines as far as they can go: indigos and marions and milk-white smears, bloomed and faded scars. Eyelashes like freshly-ground ink. A white brace is on his nose to keep the bone in place while it mends itself, and he can imagine the marrow, and the cells, and the myelin sheaths with neurons never, never touching.
“You haven’t completely healed from last time.” He spits, pressing harder against an injured limb, waiting for the snap. Because he was sleeping up here, during his lunch break, and he’s heard this asked a thousand times before, and someone should beat some sense into him so he can at least knot his tie properly, the idiot. His vision blurs, and the flooring turns to ultramarine, reflecting the sky, and he blinks, twice. Takes a step back, then another, and tells him to leave him alone, just leave him alone, only it comes out -
“Déjame en paz.”
And he frowns, confused, and retries in the proper language. Words thick from dreams. So Kyoya yawns, and lets Ryohei be, resting against the wall with his eyes shut tight in pain. Flesh still tingling with heat, where they touched. Disgusting. He briefly considers taking a shower, here, because there is enough time left - but doesn’t want the boxer to follow, so instead he returns to his classroom and naps against his desk until the teacher wakes him. Because Sasagawa, he knows, won’t ask him again.
by ? // for seiskink69
characters/pairings: Suggested Hibari/Ryohei.
rating: T
warnings: shounen-ai
wordcount: 1, 058
summary: The day Ryohei joins the boxing club is the day he meets Hibari, all woolen-tempered and standalone.
notes: I can’t remember the word for “love of the sea”.
The day Ryohei joins the boxing club is the day he meets Hibari, all woolen-tempered and standalone, and the day the rules are explained to him in bright, green ink. If, he is told, on a blustery day in the middle of November, leaves falling and the burnt smell of roasted chestnuts in the wind, your grades lower, you will be removed. One of many promises spoken to him in even tones, in expressions of boredom and slight distrust, for Hibari knows no one but himself.
He smiles, and goes to thump him on the back - misses, of course, his eyesight is bad today - thanks him for making things, extremely, clear. Because Namimori hours are over, only these two and the activity clubs are left. It’s a little grating on his patience, children staying after when they have nothing of importance to do. And:
“Hey.” The voice is like powdered chalk, all fading, childhood hues and oh-so light; any dust of tact blown away in the wind. He doesn’t scowl, but it’s close, and makes a mental note about the boy’s - messily knotted - tie. Hooligan. A sentence starts out long, slow, like a casual remark, and rises in pitch. A false afterthought.
The reply is curt, seeps into his bones and shreds what it finds there, but his hope is still intact enough for a second try. The idea is that perhaps, today, someone will be bitten. His fingers itch to wrap themselves around Ryohei’s throat, to dig nails into that soft, downy skin, [He wants blotches, olallie-tainted smudges to mar his neck and shoulders, thin scarring and something to be crushed] where he can squeeze until -
“No.”
And that is that. Kyoya walks away, the empty sleeves of his jacket swaying, slightly. The clouds are dark, plum-bruised, and soon it will rain: he can taste it in the air. The plan is to return to his classroom, make sure everything is in proper order - sometimes the people on duty moved the dust around, instead of cleaned - and then he would retire to his apartment, and study.
The cement is dry beneath him, and then there are the heavy thuds of shoes against the pavement, Sasagawa running after to question him once more. The answer is the same, but this time accompanied by warning blow - a strike across the face. Blood drips down. Don’t bother me, he says, and frowns. What I hate most is people who group together, like a pack of quivering deer trying to protect themselves in numbers from a single wolf. I am not a herbivore.
Despite this he asks, one more time, and gets much worse than a broken nose. Hibari does not like annoyances, or those who are weak - and this is both - so he slams a foot into the boy’s ribs and continues from there, not a challenge. [Part of him breaks a little, to see the uniform] of his school sullied with blood. The other student can’t react soon enough to defend, or to fight back, and in the back of his mind he knows he’s going to have to take a nap, today, because already he is feeling tired, sluggish and dull, sticking to the ground like roots and leaves, fallen leaves. Winter is almost here, and with it shorter days - he doesn’t like the cold it brings, either, and shivers against the wind.
When he’s finished, he roughs him up a little more so an ambulance can be called, and then waits until it arrives, tracing the sensitive skin of his wrist with one finger for something to do. Flicks his bangs from his face. He’ll need to cut them when he gets home, in the bathroom mirror. Hibari can see his veins, blues and greens and muggy purples, and silently compares them to that of the driver when the van appears, all business and breaking speed. Tells them: Fix him up, he’s a student here. And then, he leaves.
xxxxxx
Hibari slams him into the wall, one hand on his hip and one arm across his chest, elbow resting against his collarbone and the junction of his arm, easily. Curled around a single tonfa, metal unwavering. The sound of Ryohei’s head hitting the cement behind him is familiar, and safe, and slightly nostalgic. And he almost does it a second time, but doesn’t want to give him a chance to move, so he doesn’t and he doesn’t.
Despite the awkward positioning of his limbs, and his shorter stature, he has the upper hand. The other student is dazed, but when he speaks the full force of his enthusiasm is still there - and Kyoya bristles. The ribbed edges of his sweater always irritates his skin, there are marks of red from scratching. His eyes trace the lines as far as they can go: indigos and marions and milk-white smears, bloomed and faded scars. Eyelashes like freshly-ground ink. A white brace is on his nose to keep the bone in place while it mends itself, and he can imagine the marrow, and the cells, and the myelin sheaths with neurons never, never touching.
“You haven’t completely healed from last time.” He spits, pressing harder against an injured limb, waiting for the snap. Because he was sleeping up here, during his lunch break, and he’s heard this asked a thousand times before, and someone should beat some sense into him so he can at least knot his tie properly, the idiot. His vision blurs, and the flooring turns to ultramarine, reflecting the sky, and he blinks, twice. Takes a step back, then another, and tells him to leave him alone, just leave him alone, only it comes out -
“Déjame en paz.”
And he frowns, confused, and retries in the proper language. Words thick from dreams. So Kyoya yawns, and lets Ryohei be, resting against the wall with his eyes shut tight in pain. Flesh still tingling with heat, where they touched. Disgusting. He briefly considers taking a shower, here, because there is enough time left - but doesn’t want the boxer to follow, so instead he returns to his classroom and naps against his desk until the teacher wakes him. Because Sasagawa, he knows, won’t ask him again.