FIC: Accidentally All Right (Kirihara/Yanagi, NC17, 2/3)
Title: Accidentally All Right (2/3)
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Kirihara/Yanagi + others
Wordcount: 24 000
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by Konomi Takeshi. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Lots of boobs, a few pubes and the crotchless panties. Spoilers for 40.5 and the entire manga series.
Summary: Kirihara discovers something about Yanagi-senpai.
Author's notes: This is one-shot fic related to Dénoument and We'll Always Have Kanagawa. The fics can be read separately, but they make more sense together. Written for Yanagi's birthday 2008. Happy Birthday Yanagi!
This fic has been truncated into 3 parts due to length. The parts are NOT chapters. This is a one-shot fic.
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]
Yukimura says, "If you do this poorly again, you won't be allowed to be buchou next year."
Sanada says, "Tarundoru." He crosses his arms over his boobs, but they still shake.
Yanagi says, "You could come over to study at my house."
Kirihara stares at his senpais. His senpais stare back. Yanagi's idea is the worst idea ever, considering that Kirihara had a wet dream last night where he licked Cucumber Pepsi off Yanagi's chest. And considering that Kirihara has already masturbated in the shower before school, at lunch in the toilets on the fourth floor annex at school, and he's hard again and was planning to jerk himself in the showers after tennis practice. If Yukimura does it sometimes with his back turned, then it's probably okay if Kirihara does too.
Only now, he can’t. Kirihara squirms on the spot. His dick is on fire and his balls are about to explode. He shakes his head. He waves his hand in front of his face. "No-o!" he says. He cringes as his voice breaks. "That's okay! I promise I won't fail aga-"
"I can help you, Akaya," Yanagi says.
Yukimura gives Kirihara a look. Sanada tries, but with his girl parts, he's not the same anymore. Kirihara starts to laugh, but the tension inside doesn't go away.
It might be easier to be like Yukimura and Sanada, who hold hands in the hallways. It might be easier to be like Jackal and Marui, who argue and fight and then Marui makes cookies and sings weird songs on his acoustic guitar in the auditorium and tries to apologize that way. It might be easier to be like Niou and Yagyuu, who are ignoring each other right now.
Instead, it's hard.
Kirihara hasn't really talked to Yanagi since their date. It was two weeks ago. It'll be his birthday in a couple more weeks. He's shot up another two inches this month and his knees creek at night. His cock hurts half the time because he masturbates too much. His palms get sweaty and his voice breaks up when Yanagi looks at him or asks him to turn up the ball machine another 5 km/hour.
"Faster!" he shouts.
Kirihara shudders.
"Harder!" Yanagi yells.
Kirihara shakes. His feet trip out underneath him and he's on the floor in a melted mess of hormones. Last night, he dreamed about Yanagi. He always does. His sheets are sticky when he wakes up. Sometimes, they're stupid dreams. Yanagi whispers data in his ear and touches Kirihara's nipples. Yanagi unbuttons his shirt and licks his lips. Yanagi crawls on Kirihara's stomach in the tennis clubhouse and moans, "Faster, Akaya. Be the number one at-"
Kirihara wakes up before Yanagi finishes. His heart pounds. His thighs tremble and the shuddering aftershocks of orgasm rip through his body.
That's a good morning.
And now, Yanagi is inviting him over to study. Kirihara smacks his palm to his forehead and moans. "Not good," he mutters. "Not good…"
He's sorta been avoiding Yanagi. No text messages. No calls. No awkward small talk in the clubhouse about how he can be number one with a new training menu. Kirihara doesn't know how to date and Yanagi doesn't make it any easier. He's a guy who's a girl who doesn't want him to tell anyone else and ugh! Kirihara groans. His temple throbs. His brain hurts.
Kirihara's been flubbing serves. He's roofed more tennis balls than Yagyuu and Marui combined. At this rate, he'll never be number one at anything except sucking and if Yanagi walks any closer to him, Kirihara'll cream his pants.
Kirihara walks by a cement retaining wall. Yanagi's street is suburban and boring. Honeyed sun makes the rooftops gilded and the top of Kirihara's head warm. The last vestiges of summer will be gone soon. Kirihara wishes that it could last longer. He wishes that their walk would last longer and that he would have longer to prepare something to say to Yanagi so that he can escape.
Instead, they go up to Yanagi's room. It's messier than Kirihara remembers. It looks like a boy's room. There are dirty socks and textbooks on the floor. Yanagi's pasokon hums on his tiny desk. The curtains are black and the walls are white. His sheets are rumpled.
Kirihara swallows. He tiptoes across the floor. His body vibrates with a hundred sensations. His toes crunch on Yanagi's open books. His arm brushes the side of Yanagi's mattress. Kirihara's head swims. He's drowning even before Yanagi says, "What chapter are you working on in class now?"
He doesn't know what he's doing when he grabs Yanagi's leg. He doesn't know what he's doing when he pulls Yanagi down onto him. Yanagi lands with an "Oomph!" His body is heavy and hard, but his lips are soft. His tongue is wet in Kirihara's mouth. Kirihara groans. His dick hardens even more, if it's possible.
Kirihara can only think with one part of his body. He touches Yanagi's shoulder. A tie is thrown across the room. A shirt is ripped off. Yanagi pulls back and lifts his arms out of the sleeves. Up close, his boobs are definitely a girl's, but tiny. Kirihara licks them. He's nervous and not, because he's thinking with his dick and his dick is on fire. This is good, he thinks. He's got Yanagi's shuddering stomach under his lips. He's got Yanagi's hands fisted in his hair. He accidentally bites and Yanagi smacks him on the head.
For a moment, the mood is ruined. Reality is heavier than the erection in his pants. Kirihara ducks his head and tries to apologize. He pushes Yanagi off him. He shakes his head and his chest hurts.
Their panting is harsh in the room. A metal fan sits idle on Yanagi's desk. Kirihara hugs his legs. "I'm sorry," he says. The salty taste of Yanagi's skin is on his lips, but he doesn't lick them.
Yanagi stands up. He's not wearing a shirt and his pert little breasts stick out, barely. Kirihara's hands shake with the memory of squishing them against his palms. Yanagi looks at him. He says Kirihara's name. He says it again and tells Kirihara to look at him.
Kirihara does what he's told. Then his eyes widen when Yanagi unbuckles his belt. The pants slide off his hips and he steps out of a pair of y-fronts. He's naked and warm when he settles down on Kirihara. Yanagi is naked and real when he kisses Kirihara's neck. Guys are supposed to be aggressive. Kirihara's supposed to be the one urging them onto the squeaky mattress and tugging off his own pants. But Yanagi is sorta a guy and Kirihara's still sorta very nervous when he touches Yanagi's hips with his sweaty hands. They're naked together and moving and his stomach is tied up, but not as much as his dick. It's beyond anything Kirihara could have ever hoped when his dick slides inside Yanagi's cunt. His eyes roll back. The blood pulses behind his pupils. He shouts. He moans. Yanagi gasps. He rocks on Kirihara's dick. Kirihara moves his leg and tries a thrust. Yanagi sucks in another breath.
He squeezes his cunt around Kirihara and Kirihara is gone.
After, when Kirihara is half-asleep and curled up on the messy, squeaky bed, the sound of a pen scratching on paper makes him crack an eye open. Yanagi sits at his desk in his shirt and y-fronts. Then he closes a notebook and crawls back onto his bed. He sets his head on Kirihara's chest and sighs.
Kirihara's heart doesn't stop pounding.
***
He's in New York City and his chest aches. Kirihara told Renji to come with him.
Renji said no.
"You're getting all this shit!" Kirihara yelled. Not even Kento and Genki's wii game in the family room drowned the sound out. He grabbed Renji and hugged him tight. Renji was stiff and cold. His voice was hollow when he said,
"I've been getting that for years, Akaya. It's nothing new."
He never said a word and Kirihara never knew. Now, thinking about it, he kicks himself. He punches the wall. A landscape painting shakes, but the room is deathly silent. He's alone and he's a fucking idiot.
Most years, Renji comes. Now, Renji refuses. Kirihara goes to the training facility and he slams balls around with his coach. He goes to the stadium and plays. It's rote memory burned into his body, the way Renji has burned into him over the years. It's easy to crush the fresh-faced kids and old farts who should've retired by now in the first few rounds.
He looks into the stands. On the tv screen, his point is announced. Kirihara can see a field of faces: whites, blacks, Asians, some with signs in Japanese for him or Yukimura, their darling stars. He looks into the faces of these women with their sunglasses and dyed hair and wonders which of those bitches have sent letters?!?
Kirihara digs his nails into his grip tape. The sun glares. It's difficult to see the other player, but he doesn't need to. The grunts and gasps are good enough. The ball sings in the air. Kirihara slams the ball with a Kick Serve, then he uses a Knuckle Serve on the next shot.
The little Romanian punk doesn't stand a chance.
It's not his fault, but Kirihara doesn't care. The victory is hollow and the cheers are empty. They rise up around Kirihara as the racket falls from his hands. Pink-tinged sweat stains the court by his feet. He touches his forehead and smears blood across his skin. Kirihara looks at his hands, then he looks up to the stands.
Which of you bitches sends those letters? he thinks. He arms are tense. His legs shake. Hot anger boils in his blood that seeps into his eyes. The stands are a wash of carmine-tinged faces. Kirihara throws his head back and screams. The crowd doesn't know the difference between frustration and elation.
New York is lonely on his own. Kirihara shrugs off his manager and he shoves off his coach. Yukimura texts him: he's going through to the next round too, do they want to meet up for dinner tonight? Kirihara cuts into a dive bar in a seedy area of the city. He can't read the street signs. He can't understand the taxi driver. He tells the driver, "Here" and hands him a fifty. It's more than enough. Whatever questions the driver might have, Kirihara doesn't answer.
He points and grunts in the restaurant to the waitress. Using Japanese is futile. A hamburger on a huge plate of fries, a coffee that's black and bitter, a slice of lemon pie slide across his table. Kirihara eats them all. Everything tastes sour and ashen, like the dust of the tennis courts. Customers stare at him. The waitresses whisper.
Kirihara goes back to the hotel. He's nearly out of money when he hands the next taxi driver another fifty at the back entrance of the hotel underground parking garage. His sneakers echo on the pavement. It's dim here and smells of garbage and diesel. A fluorescent light flickers and Kirihara's shadow dances.
There is the click of heels behind him. The sound ricochets off the brutalist piers of cement, painted with chipped numbers. Kirihara whips his head around. His fists are already balled.
It's a woman, probably Japanese under her aviator frames and hat. Kirihara dives for her and grabs her collar. He shakes her. "You BITCHES!" he screams. "Fucking STOP IT!" She's tiny and weightless and her head lolls like a ragdoll. She cries.
His voice echoes in the garage, too. It's primal and grating. Kirihara closes his eyes and releases her. Guilt weighs his body down like lead when he steps back. He doesn't apologize but the woman reaches out with a thin pad of paper.
She ducks her head. In Japanese, she says, "Please sign, Kirihara-kun. My daughter is your biggest fan."
Kirihara blinks. His hands have gone cold and he can't feel his fingers.
"She's five," the woman says. "I came all the way to America to see you play." She bows her head again. "Please. My daughter says that one day she wants to play tennis with your daughter too."
The woman takes off her sunglasses. In the hissing light of the parking garage, Kirihara can see that she's not one of them.
He tries to sign the woman's pad, but his signature wobbles so much that all Kirihara can manage are an A and a K in romanji. "Sorry," he mutters.
***
At school, Yanagi is a guy. He dresses like a guy. He walks like a guy. He plays tennis like a guy and he even changes in the clubhouse. But no one else notices that Yanagi turns his back to take off his shirt. No one else notices that his hips fit his shorts tighter. No one notices that he finds excuses to shower later, or not at all.
Kirihara notices. He pretends not to watch Yanagi play tennis. He pretends to walk across the courts with a tennis ball in his hand instead of his eyes lingering over Yanagi's body. One blink of his eyes and Yanagi is naked, writhing on top of him and moaning as their bodies slap together. Kirihara shivers.
He doesn't flunk his English tests anymore. One blink of his eyes in class and Yanagi whispers verbs in his ear, his tongue hot on Kirihara's cheek as he kisses the grammar lessons onto Kirihara's skin. Kirihara swallows. His pen rolls off his desk, but he doesn't forget the passive past tense now.
One by one, the other regulars drop practice. Yagyuu and Niou disappear to the tool shed more afternoons than not. Sanada finds them, Marui tells Kirihara, "And they were, like, doing it!"
Kirihara blinks. A hundred thoughts that So am I!? or What if someone finds out about Yanagi-senpai and me?!? flash through his brain, rapid-fire and so bright that Kirihara winces from the ache. "Uh…whoa," he says.
Marui nods. "I mean, I thought I'd always be the one to lose it first, you know? Jackal just needs to warm up to me a little more."
Kirihara nods. "Uh…yeah," he says. He agrees with whatever Marui says. Yanagi walks across the court. His face half-turns to Kirihara. Afternoon light catches a small smile on his lips and his eyes are soft around the edges. Kirihara's knees turn to jelly. His dick's already hard.
Usually, they go to Yanagi's house. Sometimes they go to Kirihara's apartment. Always, they have sex. No adults are home and two teenagers have freedom for an hour or two. Kirihara relishes the time between the click of the front door and the step over the threshold into one of their bedrooms. The anticipation makes him shake and shiver all over. There is a delicious tension between his legs and spreading through his belly. Yanagi gasps and moans. His skin is supersensitive, just like Kirihara's. One touch and they're panting. A second touch, a deep kiss with wet, eager tongues volleying between their lips and clothes are peeled off.
Yanagi is on his back. It's a Thursday and the weather is cool enough that the A/C has been turned off. There is nothing but the sounds of his moans. He wraps his arms around Kirihara's neck. Kirihara kisses his chest. Yanagi twists. Kirihara's dick touches Yanagi's knee, on the inside, where the hairs are downy. Kirihara kisses a path down Yanagi's stomach. He smiles when Yanagi sucks a breath in. Lately, his dreams are move vivid. Now, Kirihara wakes up, hot and sticky, with the imagined taste of Yanagi's cunt cloying to his mouth.
Now, Kirihara nudges Yanagi's thigh. "Senpai," he mutters.
Yanagi hisses. The hands in Kirihara's hair tighten. "Akaya-no!"
Kirihara's never been one to listen to his senpais. Yanagi's legs part, even though he yanks on Kirihara's hair. His mouth says no, but the tilt of his neck says yes. Kirihara kisses, licks, tastes. He explores the strange, hot, wet folds and he scrunches up his forehead. It's new. The noises Yanagi makes are raw and fresh. Shivers rack his spine. Kirihara's dick pulses at the sounds: mewls, sighs, whimpers, a shift of skin on the messy sheets under their body. Yanagi's legs are long and tight. They wrap around Kirihara's head, then spread out as far as they can. Kirihara digs his hands into Yanagi's thighs. His skin is smooth and buttery. His moans are even silkier when he comes.
Before this, Kirihara didn’t know that girls could come too. He looks down at Yanagi. His heart pounds. His blood throbs under the surface of his skin. His body is flushed and warm and Kirihara loves it. Yanagi's lazy hands wrap around Kirihara's dick. He jerks Kirihara off and he comes too, with a grunt and a thrust to Yanagi's side. It's not as satisfying as coming inside Yanagi, but it's still pretty good.
Kirihara lays his head on the pillow. It would be so easy for the words, "I love you. I love this" to slip from his lips in this state. Contentment washes over him, enveloping and warm like Yanagi's happy sigh in the back of his throat. Kirihara's body cools and his breathing slows. Lethargy droops his eyes and he allows it to consume his body. There is a beat or two of silence and stillness, then Yanagi rises from the bed. Kirihara watches through a slitted eye. Yanagi sits at his desk. Yanagi opens a drawer and takes out a notepad. He writes something. The pen scratches. A pause makes Kirihara close his eyes. Apprehension twists his stomach, but the scratch of writing begins again. Yanagi sighs and crawls back onto the bed.
"Twelve minutes," he murmurs. "Interesting."
What…? Kirihara thinks. He waits and the swollen groom that blooms in his gut grows bigger and bigger. Finally, Yanagi sets his head down. Finally, his breathing slows and evens out. Kirihara creeps off the bed. He's not stealthy and the mattress creaks under his body. Yanagi's naked body is supine on the sheets. His face has a faint flush and Kirihara's eyes slow over the patch of black hair between his legs.
Then he looks at the desk. The opens the second drawer from the top. He pulls out a black notebook. His eyes take in the word Stuff on the cover, written on a piece of packing tape in black marker.
Inside the book are graph paper pages. The first fifty or so pages are blank. Kirihara frowns. He was certain Yanagi was writing in this book.
But then, a page flutters. It is covered in figures and words.
Date: 12/09
Time: 17:21 (roughly)
Length: 13 minutes
Foreplay: Kissing
Orgasm: Male (yes), Female (no)
Kirihara can't breathe. He turns the page.
Date: 13/09
Time: 17:55
Length: 18 minutes
Foreplay: Kissing, oral sex (male), groping
Orgasm: Male (yes), Female (no)
Date: 13/09 (#2)
Time: 19:02
Length: 9 minutes
Foreplay: Groping, kissing (minimal)
Orgasm: Male (yes), Female (?)
Each page is the same.
Each page is filled with data.
Yanagi was never interested in anything else. Two dozen pages-even Kirihara's birthday-list the same cold, clinical information of their bodies slapping together and Kirihara coming into Yanagi's body after slobbering and groping.
Kirihara pulls on his clothes. Yanagi calls his name when Kirihara slams the door behind himself. As he runs down the alley, his sneakers echo on the pavement.
***
It's raining-not hard, but just enough of a patter on the ground to make the streets slippery and the world that much dimmer. Kirihara drove to the sports complex this morning. He wasn't in the mood to deal with the stares on the train. The Honda hugs the curves of the road, but the traction isn't good. Kirihara's hands grip the wheel and his knuckles are white.
He glares at the rear view mirror. A row of zelkovas lining the side of a street whiz by. He glares in the side mirrors. He signals, turns, then drives down the street toward home. The blasting A/C combined with the drizzle makes the car frigid. This morning's half-drank coffee cup jiggles in the cup rest and splashes on his bare knee.
Maybe Renji says he doesn't care, but Kirihara does. Two months since he discovered that nearly ten years it's been going on. Maybe Renji says it's no big deal, but it's eating Kirihara up inside. He digs his nails into the steering wheel. He signals, then turns again. He stops at a light. The suburbs are grey and dismal. The soft glow of traffic lights blurs in the puddles on the road. Students walk along the sidewalks, ducking under umbrellas on their way to cram school-or, for those lucky ones, on their way home.
A girl walks by in a skirt the colour of Rikkai Dai's uniform, but her umbrella hides her face. Kirihara turns at the right moment. He knows that blue umbrella and that tall, graceful gait. He lifts his head and his throat catches. Frantically, he rolls down the window and sticks his head out. "Natsuko!"
The light changes to green. The umbrella lifts and Natsuko looks at him. It takes her a moment, but she runs to the Honda. The car behind Kirihara honks. He turns around and scowls, giving the car the finger. Vaguely, he knows he should feel guilty for doing that in front of his daughter, but it doesn't matter the moment Natsuko flings the back door open and slides in.
"Dad," she says.
The windshield wipers squeak. Kirihara glances back in the rear view mirror. The ends of Natsuko's hair have curled with the rain, but her face is entirely Renji's, only rounder.
"Cram school?" he asks. Kirihara drives. Natusko nods and says yes.
Kirihara says, "Aa." He starts to drive. He knows the direction, sorta, but he plugs the address into his GPS, just in case. Kirihara looks at the GPS. Rain slithers down the windshield. Natsuko sits up straight in the back seat. She towels off her hair and neck with a handkerchief from her school bag. Fifteen years ago, Kirihara had the same school bag. Rikkai Dai hasn't changed in ages.
The silence between them is awkward. Kirihara's never been good with teenage girls-he never had to be. Renji wasn't really a girl. Kirihara never dated anyone else. Teenage girls were that elusive, normal thing he never experienced and looking at his daughter, Kirihara is just fine with that.
But his chest hurts a bit. His heart flutters and weighs down on his lungs all in one breath. He opens his mouth.
"Is your mom-"
"She's fine, Dad," Natsuko says. She looks at him in the mirror. She blinks and sighs, the way Renji does, but she doesn’t roll her eyes. She's a good kid. Kirihara checks the GPS again. He turns left after the green. The rain picks up. He switches the wipers to a faster mode. The motion is quick and unconscious.
Kirihara nods. "I see," he says. He doesn't.
Natsuko's cram school is closer to the downtown of this district. Blinking signs flash on the narrowing roads. Kirihara darts around a parked car-there is a low row of cars and bikes, all parallel-parked on the curb and making it a bitch to see around if there's any perpendicular traffic. He's got the right of way. Kirihara tightens his grip on the steering wheel. The puddles are deeper here and the potholes shake the Honda. Natusko bounces in the back. Her pubescent breasts bounce too.
The rain pounds the roof of the car. Natsuko's face looks paler and her voice shakes. Kirihara swerves around a parked lorry that starts to creep out. "Bitch!" he hisses under his breath. The lorry didn't even bother with their blinker. Kirihara honks. The lorry honks back, but Kirihara's gone in a blink.
"Ne, Dad?"
GPS says straight through the next set of lights. Kirihara squints. He touches his upper lip and pushes down on the gas. "Hn?"
"Can I have some money for ramen?"
Kirihara reaches into his pocket. He nods and for a moment, he blinks with the realization that Renji's present is still in his pocket. Idiot! Kirihara winces. His fingers fish around for change, for a 1000 yen note. "Going out with friends?" he asks.
Natsuko makes a small noise. She's embarrassed. Kirihara rubs his chin with one hand and the other stays glued to the wheel.
"Hiromi and I are going to get some after lessons-"
But then Natsuko screams. "DAD!"
Kirihara looks up, but he can't see anything except a blinding light. Natsuko's screaming chills his blood and he can't hear anything else. His entire body stops as he dives to the backseat to protect her from whatever it doesn't fucking matter-
A deafening crunch mixes with the screams and the hot, white light and there is nothing else.
His body is crushed. Kirihara moves and pain bursts in every pore. He groans and sinks back. He's lying on something hard. He tries to open his eyes to the sound of beeps and muffled voices. His ears are stuffed with cotton and his mouth is stuffed with wool. He cracks an eye open. The sensation feels like he's ripping skin. Kirihara shakes with agony in his eyes. He tries to touch them, but his hands won't move.
He opens an eye. Someone is in his face. He knows this person.
Renji.
"Akaya."
He moans softly. Renji's eyes are dark and wet. He touches Kirihara's face and steps aside, enough for Kirihara to take in the white walls. The room is filled with beeping and hissing machines. It reminds him of Yukimura, years back as kids, in the hospital.
He's in the hospital.
"Shit…" he says. It comes out like a moan. Kirihara coughs. His lungs tickle. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. He remembers fragments: the blinding lights of another vehicle's headlights, the rain and the GPS glowing in the darkness, and then the screams that run down his spine, even now.
Natsuko!
His eyes fly open. His body is on fire. His skin prickles and his legs won't move, but Kirihara tries to sit up. Renji touches his arm and shakes his head. "She's fine," he says. Arms wrap around Kirihara's face. Renji holds Kirihara to his chest. It's familiar and warm. Renji's words are calm. "She's all right-just whiplash, Akaya."
Kirihara closes his eyes and swallows the wool from his mouth.
***
Kicking the wall doesn't help. Slamming his fist into the pillow doesn't do anything. Shredding tennis schedules and menus does nothing except give Kirihara sharp little paper cuts.
Yanagi already did that. Kirihara's covered in invisible cuts all over his body: a thousand slices that add up to a stab to the gut. Or, to his heart.
It's been a month now and the days keep passing. Yanagi retired from the tennis team. Only Sanada and Yukimura are left. Kirihara takes over the practices. He pushes himself through the drills. On some level, it feels good to scream out laps and threaten his kouhais. On some level, it feels good to demonstrate serves and smash balls over the net.
But there's never anyone there to return them.
For the first time, Kirihara is alone at practices. His teammates might be juniors too, but they seem younger. They laugh about winning the Nationals like it's nothing. They laugh about classes and girls like it's nothing. Kirihara towels off his hair. He rubs so hard his scalp tingles. He looks in the mirror of the bathroom and bares his teeth.
"Akaya."
He stiffens. He turns, but there is no one. The wet echo of the showers distorts the silence of the bathroom stalls. So many times he's heard Yanagi call his name. So many times he's deleted messages from his cellphone. So many times he's walked away from the cafeteria when he sees a tall head over the crowd, looking at him, pleading with him.
Yanagi has stopped trying. Kirihara tells himself that he's stopped caring, too.
But deep down, he's bleeding inside. Kirihara closes his eyes and shakes his head. Blood thumps through his skull. If he let it, he could go into bloodshot mode right now. Instead, he balls his fist and growls. It doesn't help.
He's still the idiot who thought Yanagi might have liked him.
He's still the idiot who didn't know Yanagi only wanted data.
Kirihara listens to the first years talking in the locker room. They fall silent as he walks past them. Only when Urayama shivers in his shoes does Kirihara realize he's scowling. He tries to soften his expression and force a laugh, but he can't. Kirihara nods to them. Not one nods back.
He walks home alone in the half-dark. The moon is a sliver on the horizon and the air is crisp. The leaves have started to fall. Day by day, the trees shake their coats to the ground. Kirihara steps on the crunching leaves and sighs. He stuffs his hands into his pocket and looks up.
The insects have all died. The birds have gone dormant, all except for the crows, who seem to swarm and follow him home each evening. Kirihara dumps his tennis bag and his backpack by the door. "I'm home," he mutters.
He used to go to Yanagi's house. They used to come here. He's home alone. The tv plays in the background as he microwaves an instant ramen. Kirihara flops down on the couch. Images flicker in his eyes, but he doesn't really watch them. His eyes drift toward the wide balcony window. The moon has risen in the sky. Pearly light streams around it.
He's always been an idiot. He's always been dumb at school. Tennis was the only thing he was good at. He thought he was pretty good with Yanagi, but it was all a joke. Kirihara swallows a mouth of noodles, but they stick in his throat.
Days, weeks blur into one as the leaves finish their lingering death. Cold mornings become frosty and laps during tennis practice become tougher. Kirihara wears his tennis tracksuit and a pair of mittens. Half the first years have their wool coats and only the bravest juniors go without gloves.
Niou happens to be hanging around the courts. Kirihara looks over and waves. Niou waggles his eyebrows, but Kirihara doesn't smile.
"Yo," Niou says.
"Can I talk to you?" Kirihara asks. He blurts it out. He's bad with that-talking before he thinks, but he doesn't regret it this time. His insides twist, but he needs to ask.
"Finish your STRETCHES!" he screams at the team.
He and Niou walk. Niou may have a girl's body, but his strides are masculine and long and lazy-same as ever. They walk past a waxy hibiscus, the leaves evergreen. Kirihara's breath clouds in the air. It is the same colour as Niou's hair.
"Senpai," he says. He swallows and tries again. "Senpai, are you doing it with Yagyuu because you like him, or because it's…." Data. An experiment. Meaningless. A joke.
Kirihara's cheeks feel hot. Niou looks at him with wide eyes. He blinks, then hides his face in his scarf. Niou clears his throat and mumbles something. Then he says, "Look, kid, I'm flattered and all but Yagyuu would-"
"I don't wanna date you!" Kirihara snaps. A twitch breaks under his sneaker. The sound it makes is as brittle as the weather.
Niou nods. He starts to snicker. Kirihara doesn't laugh.
"It's private," Niou says.
"I'm just-"
Niou frowns. He slips an arm around Kirihara's shoulder. "Look, I…" Niou turns away from Kirihara, but the arm around his neck tightens. Kirihara struggle and Niou ruffles the top of his head. Boobs rub against Kirihara's arm. Kirihara squirms some more. Niou says, "I like Yagyuu, okay? I like doing it with him and it feels good. Maybe when you're older you'll get it-OI! Don't!"
Kirihara tickles Niou's side. It's not really funny, but it kills the weird, serious mood that had begun to creep up. "I'm not a baby," Kirihara says.
Niou laughs at that, too.
***
The elevator hums as it ascends. Kirihara leans on the wall. His fingers brush the grimy plush base-boarding. His crutch leans against the opposite wall. Hana-chan holds onto his hand. Her palm is sticky and she's smiling at him.
"Remember to rest," Renji says.
Kirihara grunts. He hobbles out of the elevator that Renji holds open. With a sigh, Renji says, "Here". He holds out an arm. Kirihara refuses.
"I'm not a baby!" he snaps.
Hana-chan walks on her tiptoes down the hallway. "Ne, Daddy?" she asks.
Kirihara looks at her. Using crutches and holding her hand at the same time makes for very slow movement. He groans in frustration and drops the crutch to drag his leg instead.
Renji frowns and stops. His eyes are hard and he says, "No, Akaya." When Hana-chan picks up the crutch and pretends to walk with it, Kirihara laughs. Renji's frown deepens.
"No," he says. Renji hands Hana the keys and says, "Open the door for Daddy and Mommy, please." Renji takes the crutch away and slides an arm around Kirihara's middle. "Don't be walking on the fracture."
"It's nothing," Kirihara says. Renji gives him a pointed look. Hana-chan claps as the door swings open. She shouts, "We're home!" to no one in particular. It's the middle of the afternoon on a weekend. Only the plants on the kitchen window ledge are there to greet them.
Kirihara settles on the couch. He hates this. He hates being cooped up. He hates that he won't make it to Bangkok for the Invitational. "You'll be lucky to be out in January," his coach said-he had read the doctor's report. Smashed tibia, cracked ribs, bruises all down his side and Kirihara's lucky that there was no internal bleeding. He lies on his other side. His breathing rattles a little. His body aches. He won't admit it, but the ride home and the elevator ride was exhausting. His body is broken.
The Honda was t-boned and it's in even worse shape. Kirihara hasn't asked about it and Renji hasn't told him. It was their first car. It was their only car. Kirihara bought it with the money from his Grand Slam win. The sleek, white car with the purring motor was just as beautiful as the gilded trophy in the display case above the flatscreen tv in their apartment.
Kirihara stares at the tv. His reflection frowns at him, its brow knitted up with vague pain. Renji's reflection moves around the kitchen, tying an apron around its waist and opening the fridge. Renji pads back with a glass of warm tea. He sets it down beside Kirihara's head.
"Here," he says. Renji kneels on the floor at the head of the couch. He's at Kirihara's level. The apron he's wearing smells vaguely of grease and sweat and lemon dish soap. "We're having a guest for supper."
Kirihara grunts. He cranes his head. Renji looks at him. "Who?"
"A friend of Natsuko's."
Kirihara grunts again.
"Yagyuu and Niou's Hiromi. I'm making hamburgers."
Kirihara sinks deeper into the couch. The energy has drained from his muscles. His legs are atrophying and shrinking under the old sweatpants he's wearing. One leg is bunched around the knee over the plaster cast. His stomach turns at the memory of Renji's attempts at cooking. He winces.
Renji smiles, a little. He hands Kirihara the glass of tea. The cup is warm and ceramic with a chip on the rim. Coils of ginger steam float up to his nose. Kirihara sips it carefully.
"I bought the croquettes," Renji says. "Don't worry."
"And the hamburgers?"
Renji makes a noise. "I have a recipe. The data's easy enough. They can't be messed up too badly…" Renji leans against the couch. He touches Kirihara's cheek. The bone throbs, but Kirihara ignores it. He's missed Renji this past week in the hospital. He's missed Renji's unconscious touches and his smell and home. Kirihara sighs and closes his eyes. Renji touches his ear and strokes his hair. The sensation is soothing. Kirihara lets his body sink into Renji's warm hands.
Yagyuu Hiromi arrives before dinner, at the same time as Natsuko. He is polite and exactly like Yagyuu, only with a mole on chin (a little too low to be fully Niou, either). Kento and Genki have their gameboys out in their bedroom. Kirihara's been forced to listen to the "motherfuckers!" and "I'll get you, scum!" since they got home from school. He should tell them off for language, but he knows exactly where they get it from.
Since they don't bother anyone, Renji says nothing. He's in the kitchen with his back turned. The smell of frying hamburgers has yet to become an acrid burn and set off the smoke alarm. Kirihara's stomach rumbles. Hospital food-bland fish, watery soup, plain jellies and weak tea-have done nothing for him. His mouth waters. Hana-chan sits at his feet and pulls his slippers off. "I'm hungry," she says.
"Me too," Kirihara says.
Yagyuu Hiromi only intensifies the churn in Kirihara's gut. Kirihara stares at the kid and he knows from Natsuko's faint blush and the fact Yagyuu Jr the first won’t look him in the eye that something is up. At the table, Kirihara's forced to sit beside him. He narrows his eyes, but Yagyuu Hiromi doesn't cower. He pushes his glasses up his nose and nods when Renji offers rice.
It's awkward for Kirihara to sit with his leg splayed out to the side, propped up on a stool. Kirihara drains his glass of tea. It would be better as sake, or beer. He looks at the food on his plate and blinks. There is a croquette, yes. There is rice and hamburger, but the hamburger swims in a strange white sauce, peppered with black flecks.
"It looks…lovely, Kirihara-san," Yagyuu Hiromi tells Renji.
"It looks nasty, Mom," Genki says. Kento echoes him and tosses his chopsticks down. Hana-chan doesn't seem to care: she starts to eat anyway.
"So you go to cram school together," Kirihara says. He clenches his jaw. Yagyuu Hiromi nods. "And you're at Rikkai too?" Yagyuu Hiromi nods at that, too. Kirihara purses his lips. Natsuko won't look him in the eye.
Renji clears his throat. "And the tennis team-your mother said you're the captain of the boy's team."
Yagyuu Hiromi nods. He touches the mole on his chin and for an instant, he's got the same cocky grin Niou has. "Yes," he says. "We're winning, of course. That's just the way the game is."
"It shouldn't be any other way," Renji says. "Number one, ne, Akaya?"
Kirihara blinks. He looks down at his plate and notices that he's managed to mangle his hamburger and shred the paper napkins that Renji set around the table. Any other night, he might laugh and say oops, but tonight, he's on edge. Blood pounds in his skull. Kirihara can hear himself breathing harder.
Yagyuu Hiromi shifts in his chair. Natsuko sits on her hands and chews her bottom lip. Hana-chan looks up with a big smile and tells Yagyuu Jr the first, "You're nee-san's boyfriend!"
Kirihara stiffens. His legs throbs. It feels like every fragment of bone floating around his lifeless leg is on fire. His body shakes and his insides curdle.
There is a beat of tense silence, then Yagyuu Hiromi nods. Natsuko nods too.
Kirihara's chopsticks fall to the floor and roll across the Pergo.
***
Christmas is coming. The aluminum Christmas tree is set up in the main room and lights are strung around the kitchen. There is a frostiness in the air that makes Kirihara curl up on his bed. He didn't shower after tennis today. It was too cold and the first years complained the hot water tank was broken.
The shopping arcades are filled with customers in Santa hats and the noodle bars all play carols. Kirihara got a text about free Christmas ringtones from his cellphone company on the bus home. He deleted it. He's not in the mood to think about what Santa-san will bring him this year.
Yanagi?
He shakes his head. No, he doesn't want Yanagi. He doesn't want anything now, except to be number one. His muscles ache from strain at practicing in the frigid weather. He stretches out his shin and rubs his calf. Kirihara looks at the Grand Auto Theft posters on his wall and sighs.
Santa-san probably doesn't exist anyway.
He flops back down onto his pillows. There is a test in History next week before the holidays. Kirihara's got a Japanese project due too. There is an English assignment, a composition about Christmas, but he's not in the mood for that either.
All he feels like doing is moping.
Not even dicking around with his old gameboy and Pokemon Ruby is appealing.
His sister bangs on his door. "I'm going out!" she yells.
Kirihara rolls his eyes. He listens to her shuffle to the front door of the apartment. The buzzer sounds. She talks with a friend and then the door slams closed. Silence follows. Kirihara sighs heavily into the air. His fingers are cold, even though he's wearing a sweatshirt. His toes are cold. His socks probably have holes. He's probably outgrowth them again.
He stares out his window. A dim sun wavers in the west; the scarlet band on the horizon slowly sinks. His door creaks. The apartment moves. Kirihara breathes and closes his eyes.
But there is someone else breathing in the room too.
His eyes snap open. He stands up and grabs the pull cord for his light. It hisses and sputters. Dead insects from the bulb flutter to the floor as the light strengthens.
Yanagi stands by the doorway. "Your sister let me in," he says. He's still wearing his wool coat and school pants. Kirihara backs up into his bed. His bedroom is invaded as Yanagi walks across the floor, closer to him. Yanagi's mouth is set in a thin line. His Adam's Apple bobs.
Something red hot and viscous rises in Kirihara's throat. He balls his fists. He curls his lip, but before he can do anything, Yanagi says, "Hear me out. Before you do anything, just listen to what I have to say. I'm your senpai," he says.
His dark eyes hold Kirihara's. I'm your senpai and you'll respect me, his eyes say. Kirihara glares back at him. He grinds his teeth. Yanagi turns to the side and touches one of the old Jump issues on Kirihara's desk. Long fingers trail over the spines.
"It's true that I did it for the data, at first."
Kirihara's knuckles crack. Yanagi whips his head around. His eyes waver in the light and the black pupils look wet. Kirihara's fist loosens. Yanagi steps closer. Kirihara can smell something fruity and floral and new wafting off Yanagi.
"It's true that I took data on you-and I shouldn't have Akaya, I'm sorry. But you have to understand, you…" Yanagi makes a noise. "If you woke up one morning with your…dick gone, how would you feel?"
Kirihara blinks. The heat in his belly simmers. Yanagi looks up at the light, then his eyes come down to Kirihara. He doesn't look away. "Akaya…" He exhales. His breath is warm the closer he steps. Something rustles. His coat falls to his feet. Kirihara backs up into his mattress and he can't go any further when his knees hit the edge.
"Akaya, I started to-I liked what you did."
Yanagi tosses his tie away.
"I liked you."
He steps out of his pants.
"Ido like you. A lot."
Yanagi pulls off his school shirt. He stands in the cold room, looking at Kirihara with his chin held high.
And he's wearing a bra. And lacy little underpants that hug his hips. His body has filled out this past month or two. Kirihara doesn't recognize it like this. He doesn't remember this woman's body, in front of him, but his cock does. He stiffens. He twitches. He closes his eyes as Yanagi touches his jaw. His breath is shuddered as Yanagi whispers, "I'm sorry." He lets himself fall against Yanagi's chest when Yanagi takes Kirihara's hand and places it on his hip.
He's wet between the legs when Kirihara slips his hand under those lacy underpants. "Akaya…" Yanagi moans. "No more data. I promise."
Yanagi rips his clothes off. Kirihara feels something wet on his face. There's something almost wet on Yanagi's face, too, but he kisses that off, too. It's messy and fast and furious, like Kirihara's best tennis games. Yanagi served, but the pace is Kirihara's. He rubs Yanagi's bra between his fingers. He feels Yanagi's stiff nipples under the satin cups. He curls his hands in Yanagi's cunt until Yanagi is on his knees and begging.
Yanagi rides him. Yanagi throws his head back and squeezes his cunt around Kirihara's dick. Kirihara's eyes roll back from sheer, raw pleasure as he thrusts and bucks and digs his fingers into Yanagi's yielding skin.
"You're number…one-oh! Akaya!" Yanagi pants. Yanagi gasps. Yanagi shakes and shudders and comes around him, pulsing and throbbing and trembling in waves until Kirihara comes too. His body burns. His blood boils. His dick explodes and he can't stop pushing deeper into Yanagi until they are both boneless on top of his bed.
Yanagi curls against him. Yanagi takes Kirihara's hand and sucks on his fingers. Kirihara thinks about what Yanagi said. He smiles to himself and buries his face in his pillow.
"What?" Yanagi asks.
Kirihara shakes his head. You're number…one!
He flips onto his back. Yanagi spreads himself supine over Kirihara's chest. Kirihara can't stop smiling, though. "Is it true?" he asks. "What you said? About…me being…?"
Yanagi hums.
If he can't be number one at tennis yet, maybe he can be number one at something else.
***
Underneath the cast, his leg itches. The skin crawls and the hairs prickle. Kirihara hobbles to the kitchen when Renji is out at the park with Hana-chan. He tries a cooking chopstick. Then he tries a fork. The sensation of the prongs on his skin is divine. His eyes roll back and he scratches more. He shivers. He gasps. His dick even twitches a bit because it feels so good to get that spot underneath his cast that his fingers won't reach and just scra-
"Akaya!"
Kirihara looks up. Renji stands in the doorway with a bag of groceries. Kirihara takes the fork out with as much dignity as he can (which isn't much) and he starts to laugh at himself. He winces. Renji frowns.
The truth is, Kirihara's bored. Physio at the hospital three times a week and a check up with the doctor on Fridays are the highlights of his life. He sits on a chair at the table and practices swings with his racket. The motions are soothing, until he accidentally smashes a pottery bowl from Kyushu that happened to be sitting on a shelf nearby.
He sits on the couch and plays three-way gameboy games with Genki and Kento. Kirihara's still as sharp with his eyes and hands as ever. He presses the buttons frantically. He grunts. He shouts. His player dives for the magical gold ball but the elf is too fast and-
"Aw, shit!" he says. The game beeps and the sing-song music of his character's death might hurt, if it wasn't so funny watching Kento grin. Kento's missing a front molar on top.
"I'm number one!" Kento shouts.
"No, you’re not!" Genki shouts back. He lunges and jumps and lands on his brother. They start to wrestle. The gameboys are completely forgotten. Kirihara pumps his fist and whoops.
"No fighting before dinner!" Renji calls from the kitchen table. When Kento locks Genki in a headlock and Genki elbows his brother in the gut, Renji sets his book and stands up. His shadow looms over the main room. Kirihara slithers deeper into the couch. He might feel bad for cheering his boys on, but it's a guy thing.
He wants to be a good dad. Mostly, he feels kinda bad that he's sitting on his ass at home all day instead of being out at practice or on the circuit and trying to provide and be all adult and responsible. When he's alone in the middle of the afternoons at home, Kirihara sits on the floor. The curtains are closed. The light is weak in at this time of year, but the streams that peek through the edges blind Kirihara. He sighs and lies down, hands behind his head.
The accident was his fault. He should have been watching the road. He should have seen that drunk 23 year old driver speeding through the lights. He should have done more to protect Natsuko. She says she's fine, but she's been reading less. She's been going out more and later with…her boyfriend and there is a slight limp to her gait that wasn't there before.
It hurts that she's growing up and going out with someone now. As much as Kirihara wants to say something to her, as much as Kirihara wants to grab Yagyuu Hiromi by the collar and tell him to get the fuck away and not touch his daughter, the sharp stab to his stomach stops him.
One morning, Renji says, "We're going out." Kirihara nods. He flops back onto the couch. He needs a shower, but he's tired of putting the plastic cover on over his cast. His leg feels dirty. His leg tingles. He's useless and he can't even get up off the couch because there's no real point.
A jacket flies into his face. Kirihara pulls it off and looks up. Renji raises an eyebrow. Well?
Hana-chan grabs his hand. "Come on, Daddy! Don't be a lazyass!"
Kirihara blinks. The word sinks in and the memory surfaces. He's heard that expression a hundred times before. Memories flutter through his mind: Sanada yelling at him during tennis practice, failing English papers in junior high school, hiking in the winter with friends and jumping into outdoor onsens in January.
"Where did you learn that?" Kirihara asks. Hana-chan bounces between him and Renji, one hand in each of theirs. Unconsciously, they lift her up every second step in perfect rhythm. She squeals and laughs and says she doesn't know.
"Where do you think?" Renji asks. "Of course she learned it from Genichirou."
Kirihara nods. He rubs his chin. His crutches are a bother to use and Renji said nothing when they left the apartment without them. His pace is slow. He drags his foot, which is leaden and dead in the heavy sock and slipper. The park is filled with scarlet maples and shivering gold ginkos. Leaves crunch underfoot. Hana-chan runs up to the gathered drifts and kicks them. He and Renji walk together. The air might be cool, but Renji's hand is warm in his.
Kirihara stuffs his other hand into his pocket. The present is still there, nearly six months later. He closes his eyes and bites his lip to stop a wince from coming. Kirihara takes a deep breath. It's nothing special, and yet, in some ways, it is.
He opens his mouth to speak. He takes the edge of the paper out of his pocket, but Renji stops. Renji looks up at the sky. It is unnaturally blue and bright today, framed by the buildings surrounding the park and the frail branches of the trees around them.
"I already told Natsuko-I know what you're thinking," he says, out of nowhere. "I already had a talk with her. We don't want to be…" Renji looks at him. Kirihara pushes the present back into his jacket pocket. Renji adds, "We're not going to be thirty year old grandparents. 100% certainty of that."
Kirihara swallows the lump. It accumulated in his throat and now spreads down into his belly. He nods. "Good," he says. It's tough to make the words come. It's awkward, too.
Renji squeezes his hand. He takes a step forward toward Hana, who runs under a pine tree and shrieks at a lone duck waddling away from her. "Did you have something?" he asks.
Kirihara shakes his head. His voice sounds as brisk and brittle as the air when he says, "It was nothing."
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Kirihara/Yanagi + others
Wordcount: 24 000
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by Konomi Takeshi. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Lots of boobs, a few pubes and the crotchless panties. Spoilers for 40.5 and the entire manga series.
Summary: Kirihara discovers something about Yanagi-senpai.
Author's notes: This is one-shot fic related to Dénoument and We'll Always Have Kanagawa. The fics can be read separately, but they make more sense together. Written for Yanagi's birthday 2008. Happy Birthday Yanagi!
This fic has been truncated into 3 parts due to length. The parts are NOT chapters. This is a one-shot fic.
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]
Yukimura says, "If you do this poorly again, you won't be allowed to be buchou next year."
Sanada says, "Tarundoru." He crosses his arms over his boobs, but they still shake.
Yanagi says, "You could come over to study at my house."
Kirihara stares at his senpais. His senpais stare back. Yanagi's idea is the worst idea ever, considering that Kirihara had a wet dream last night where he licked Cucumber Pepsi off Yanagi's chest. And considering that Kirihara has already masturbated in the shower before school, at lunch in the toilets on the fourth floor annex at school, and he's hard again and was planning to jerk himself in the showers after tennis practice. If Yukimura does it sometimes with his back turned, then it's probably okay if Kirihara does too.
Only now, he can’t. Kirihara squirms on the spot. His dick is on fire and his balls are about to explode. He shakes his head. He waves his hand in front of his face. "No-o!" he says. He cringes as his voice breaks. "That's okay! I promise I won't fail aga-"
"I can help you, Akaya," Yanagi says.
Yukimura gives Kirihara a look. Sanada tries, but with his girl parts, he's not the same anymore. Kirihara starts to laugh, but the tension inside doesn't go away.
It might be easier to be like Yukimura and Sanada, who hold hands in the hallways. It might be easier to be like Jackal and Marui, who argue and fight and then Marui makes cookies and sings weird songs on his acoustic guitar in the auditorium and tries to apologize that way. It might be easier to be like Niou and Yagyuu, who are ignoring each other right now.
Instead, it's hard.
Kirihara hasn't really talked to Yanagi since their date. It was two weeks ago. It'll be his birthday in a couple more weeks. He's shot up another two inches this month and his knees creek at night. His cock hurts half the time because he masturbates too much. His palms get sweaty and his voice breaks up when Yanagi looks at him or asks him to turn up the ball machine another 5 km/hour.
"Faster!" he shouts.
Kirihara shudders.
"Harder!" Yanagi yells.
Kirihara shakes. His feet trip out underneath him and he's on the floor in a melted mess of hormones. Last night, he dreamed about Yanagi. He always does. His sheets are sticky when he wakes up. Sometimes, they're stupid dreams. Yanagi whispers data in his ear and touches Kirihara's nipples. Yanagi unbuttons his shirt and licks his lips. Yanagi crawls on Kirihara's stomach in the tennis clubhouse and moans, "Faster, Akaya. Be the number one at-"
Kirihara wakes up before Yanagi finishes. His heart pounds. His thighs tremble and the shuddering aftershocks of orgasm rip through his body.
That's a good morning.
And now, Yanagi is inviting him over to study. Kirihara smacks his palm to his forehead and moans. "Not good," he mutters. "Not good…"
He's sorta been avoiding Yanagi. No text messages. No calls. No awkward small talk in the clubhouse about how he can be number one with a new training menu. Kirihara doesn't know how to date and Yanagi doesn't make it any easier. He's a guy who's a girl who doesn't want him to tell anyone else and ugh! Kirihara groans. His temple throbs. His brain hurts.
Kirihara's been flubbing serves. He's roofed more tennis balls than Yagyuu and Marui combined. At this rate, he'll never be number one at anything except sucking and if Yanagi walks any closer to him, Kirihara'll cream his pants.
Kirihara walks by a cement retaining wall. Yanagi's street is suburban and boring. Honeyed sun makes the rooftops gilded and the top of Kirihara's head warm. The last vestiges of summer will be gone soon. Kirihara wishes that it could last longer. He wishes that their walk would last longer and that he would have longer to prepare something to say to Yanagi so that he can escape.
Instead, they go up to Yanagi's room. It's messier than Kirihara remembers. It looks like a boy's room. There are dirty socks and textbooks on the floor. Yanagi's pasokon hums on his tiny desk. The curtains are black and the walls are white. His sheets are rumpled.
Kirihara swallows. He tiptoes across the floor. His body vibrates with a hundred sensations. His toes crunch on Yanagi's open books. His arm brushes the side of Yanagi's mattress. Kirihara's head swims. He's drowning even before Yanagi says, "What chapter are you working on in class now?"
He doesn't know what he's doing when he grabs Yanagi's leg. He doesn't know what he's doing when he pulls Yanagi down onto him. Yanagi lands with an "Oomph!" His body is heavy and hard, but his lips are soft. His tongue is wet in Kirihara's mouth. Kirihara groans. His dick hardens even more, if it's possible.
Kirihara can only think with one part of his body. He touches Yanagi's shoulder. A tie is thrown across the room. A shirt is ripped off. Yanagi pulls back and lifts his arms out of the sleeves. Up close, his boobs are definitely a girl's, but tiny. Kirihara licks them. He's nervous and not, because he's thinking with his dick and his dick is on fire. This is good, he thinks. He's got Yanagi's shuddering stomach under his lips. He's got Yanagi's hands fisted in his hair. He accidentally bites and Yanagi smacks him on the head.
For a moment, the mood is ruined. Reality is heavier than the erection in his pants. Kirihara ducks his head and tries to apologize. He pushes Yanagi off him. He shakes his head and his chest hurts.
Their panting is harsh in the room. A metal fan sits idle on Yanagi's desk. Kirihara hugs his legs. "I'm sorry," he says. The salty taste of Yanagi's skin is on his lips, but he doesn't lick them.
Yanagi stands up. He's not wearing a shirt and his pert little breasts stick out, barely. Kirihara's hands shake with the memory of squishing them against his palms. Yanagi looks at him. He says Kirihara's name. He says it again and tells Kirihara to look at him.
Kirihara does what he's told. Then his eyes widen when Yanagi unbuckles his belt. The pants slide off his hips and he steps out of a pair of y-fronts. He's naked and warm when he settles down on Kirihara. Yanagi is naked and real when he kisses Kirihara's neck. Guys are supposed to be aggressive. Kirihara's supposed to be the one urging them onto the squeaky mattress and tugging off his own pants. But Yanagi is sorta a guy and Kirihara's still sorta very nervous when he touches Yanagi's hips with his sweaty hands. They're naked together and moving and his stomach is tied up, but not as much as his dick. It's beyond anything Kirihara could have ever hoped when his dick slides inside Yanagi's cunt. His eyes roll back. The blood pulses behind his pupils. He shouts. He moans. Yanagi gasps. He rocks on Kirihara's dick. Kirihara moves his leg and tries a thrust. Yanagi sucks in another breath.
He squeezes his cunt around Kirihara and Kirihara is gone.
After, when Kirihara is half-asleep and curled up on the messy, squeaky bed, the sound of a pen scratching on paper makes him crack an eye open. Yanagi sits at his desk in his shirt and y-fronts. Then he closes a notebook and crawls back onto his bed. He sets his head on Kirihara's chest and sighs.
Kirihara's heart doesn't stop pounding.
***
He's in New York City and his chest aches. Kirihara told Renji to come with him.
Renji said no.
"You're getting all this shit!" Kirihara yelled. Not even Kento and Genki's wii game in the family room drowned the sound out. He grabbed Renji and hugged him tight. Renji was stiff and cold. His voice was hollow when he said,
"I've been getting that for years, Akaya. It's nothing new."
He never said a word and Kirihara never knew. Now, thinking about it, he kicks himself. He punches the wall. A landscape painting shakes, but the room is deathly silent. He's alone and he's a fucking idiot.
Most years, Renji comes. Now, Renji refuses. Kirihara goes to the training facility and he slams balls around with his coach. He goes to the stadium and plays. It's rote memory burned into his body, the way Renji has burned into him over the years. It's easy to crush the fresh-faced kids and old farts who should've retired by now in the first few rounds.
He looks into the stands. On the tv screen, his point is announced. Kirihara can see a field of faces: whites, blacks, Asians, some with signs in Japanese for him or Yukimura, their darling stars. He looks into the faces of these women with their sunglasses and dyed hair and wonders which of those bitches have sent letters?!?
Kirihara digs his nails into his grip tape. The sun glares. It's difficult to see the other player, but he doesn't need to. The grunts and gasps are good enough. The ball sings in the air. Kirihara slams the ball with a Kick Serve, then he uses a Knuckle Serve on the next shot.
The little Romanian punk doesn't stand a chance.
It's not his fault, but Kirihara doesn't care. The victory is hollow and the cheers are empty. They rise up around Kirihara as the racket falls from his hands. Pink-tinged sweat stains the court by his feet. He touches his forehead and smears blood across his skin. Kirihara looks at his hands, then he looks up to the stands.
Which of you bitches sends those letters? he thinks. He arms are tense. His legs shake. Hot anger boils in his blood that seeps into his eyes. The stands are a wash of carmine-tinged faces. Kirihara throws his head back and screams. The crowd doesn't know the difference between frustration and elation.
New York is lonely on his own. Kirihara shrugs off his manager and he shoves off his coach. Yukimura texts him: he's going through to the next round too, do they want to meet up for dinner tonight? Kirihara cuts into a dive bar in a seedy area of the city. He can't read the street signs. He can't understand the taxi driver. He tells the driver, "Here" and hands him a fifty. It's more than enough. Whatever questions the driver might have, Kirihara doesn't answer.
He points and grunts in the restaurant to the waitress. Using Japanese is futile. A hamburger on a huge plate of fries, a coffee that's black and bitter, a slice of lemon pie slide across his table. Kirihara eats them all. Everything tastes sour and ashen, like the dust of the tennis courts. Customers stare at him. The waitresses whisper.
Kirihara goes back to the hotel. He's nearly out of money when he hands the next taxi driver another fifty at the back entrance of the hotel underground parking garage. His sneakers echo on the pavement. It's dim here and smells of garbage and diesel. A fluorescent light flickers and Kirihara's shadow dances.
There is the click of heels behind him. The sound ricochets off the brutalist piers of cement, painted with chipped numbers. Kirihara whips his head around. His fists are already balled.
It's a woman, probably Japanese under her aviator frames and hat. Kirihara dives for her and grabs her collar. He shakes her. "You BITCHES!" he screams. "Fucking STOP IT!" She's tiny and weightless and her head lolls like a ragdoll. She cries.
His voice echoes in the garage, too. It's primal and grating. Kirihara closes his eyes and releases her. Guilt weighs his body down like lead when he steps back. He doesn't apologize but the woman reaches out with a thin pad of paper.
She ducks her head. In Japanese, she says, "Please sign, Kirihara-kun. My daughter is your biggest fan."
Kirihara blinks. His hands have gone cold and he can't feel his fingers.
"She's five," the woman says. "I came all the way to America to see you play." She bows her head again. "Please. My daughter says that one day she wants to play tennis with your daughter too."
The woman takes off her sunglasses. In the hissing light of the parking garage, Kirihara can see that she's not one of them.
He tries to sign the woman's pad, but his signature wobbles so much that all Kirihara can manage are an A and a K in romanji. "Sorry," he mutters.
***
At school, Yanagi is a guy. He dresses like a guy. He walks like a guy. He plays tennis like a guy and he even changes in the clubhouse. But no one else notices that Yanagi turns his back to take off his shirt. No one else notices that his hips fit his shorts tighter. No one notices that he finds excuses to shower later, or not at all.
Kirihara notices. He pretends not to watch Yanagi play tennis. He pretends to walk across the courts with a tennis ball in his hand instead of his eyes lingering over Yanagi's body. One blink of his eyes and Yanagi is naked, writhing on top of him and moaning as their bodies slap together. Kirihara shivers.
He doesn't flunk his English tests anymore. One blink of his eyes in class and Yanagi whispers verbs in his ear, his tongue hot on Kirihara's cheek as he kisses the grammar lessons onto Kirihara's skin. Kirihara swallows. His pen rolls off his desk, but he doesn't forget the passive past tense now.
One by one, the other regulars drop practice. Yagyuu and Niou disappear to the tool shed more afternoons than not. Sanada finds them, Marui tells Kirihara, "And they were, like, doing it!"
Kirihara blinks. A hundred thoughts that So am I!? or What if someone finds out about Yanagi-senpai and me?!? flash through his brain, rapid-fire and so bright that Kirihara winces from the ache. "Uh…whoa," he says.
Marui nods. "I mean, I thought I'd always be the one to lose it first, you know? Jackal just needs to warm up to me a little more."
Kirihara nods. "Uh…yeah," he says. He agrees with whatever Marui says. Yanagi walks across the court. His face half-turns to Kirihara. Afternoon light catches a small smile on his lips and his eyes are soft around the edges. Kirihara's knees turn to jelly. His dick's already hard.
Usually, they go to Yanagi's house. Sometimes they go to Kirihara's apartment. Always, they have sex. No adults are home and two teenagers have freedom for an hour or two. Kirihara relishes the time between the click of the front door and the step over the threshold into one of their bedrooms. The anticipation makes him shake and shiver all over. There is a delicious tension between his legs and spreading through his belly. Yanagi gasps and moans. His skin is supersensitive, just like Kirihara's. One touch and they're panting. A second touch, a deep kiss with wet, eager tongues volleying between their lips and clothes are peeled off.
Yanagi is on his back. It's a Thursday and the weather is cool enough that the A/C has been turned off. There is nothing but the sounds of his moans. He wraps his arms around Kirihara's neck. Kirihara kisses his chest. Yanagi twists. Kirihara's dick touches Yanagi's knee, on the inside, where the hairs are downy. Kirihara kisses a path down Yanagi's stomach. He smiles when Yanagi sucks a breath in. Lately, his dreams are move vivid. Now, Kirihara wakes up, hot and sticky, with the imagined taste of Yanagi's cunt cloying to his mouth.
Now, Kirihara nudges Yanagi's thigh. "Senpai," he mutters.
Yanagi hisses. The hands in Kirihara's hair tighten. "Akaya-no!"
Kirihara's never been one to listen to his senpais. Yanagi's legs part, even though he yanks on Kirihara's hair. His mouth says no, but the tilt of his neck says yes. Kirihara kisses, licks, tastes. He explores the strange, hot, wet folds and he scrunches up his forehead. It's new. The noises Yanagi makes are raw and fresh. Shivers rack his spine. Kirihara's dick pulses at the sounds: mewls, sighs, whimpers, a shift of skin on the messy sheets under their body. Yanagi's legs are long and tight. They wrap around Kirihara's head, then spread out as far as they can. Kirihara digs his hands into Yanagi's thighs. His skin is smooth and buttery. His moans are even silkier when he comes.
Before this, Kirihara didn’t know that girls could come too. He looks down at Yanagi. His heart pounds. His blood throbs under the surface of his skin. His body is flushed and warm and Kirihara loves it. Yanagi's lazy hands wrap around Kirihara's dick. He jerks Kirihara off and he comes too, with a grunt and a thrust to Yanagi's side. It's not as satisfying as coming inside Yanagi, but it's still pretty good.
Kirihara lays his head on the pillow. It would be so easy for the words, "I love you. I love this" to slip from his lips in this state. Contentment washes over him, enveloping and warm like Yanagi's happy sigh in the back of his throat. Kirihara's body cools and his breathing slows. Lethargy droops his eyes and he allows it to consume his body. There is a beat or two of silence and stillness, then Yanagi rises from the bed. Kirihara watches through a slitted eye. Yanagi sits at his desk. Yanagi opens a drawer and takes out a notepad. He writes something. The pen scratches. A pause makes Kirihara close his eyes. Apprehension twists his stomach, but the scratch of writing begins again. Yanagi sighs and crawls back onto the bed.
"Twelve minutes," he murmurs. "Interesting."
What…? Kirihara thinks. He waits and the swollen groom that blooms in his gut grows bigger and bigger. Finally, Yanagi sets his head down. Finally, his breathing slows and evens out. Kirihara creeps off the bed. He's not stealthy and the mattress creaks under his body. Yanagi's naked body is supine on the sheets. His face has a faint flush and Kirihara's eyes slow over the patch of black hair between his legs.
Then he looks at the desk. The opens the second drawer from the top. He pulls out a black notebook. His eyes take in the word Stuff on the cover, written on a piece of packing tape in black marker.
Inside the book are graph paper pages. The first fifty or so pages are blank. Kirihara frowns. He was certain Yanagi was writing in this book.
But then, a page flutters. It is covered in figures and words.
Date: 12/09
Time: 17:21 (roughly)
Length: 13 minutes
Foreplay: Kissing
Orgasm: Male (yes), Female (no)
Kirihara can't breathe. He turns the page.
Date: 13/09
Time: 17:55
Length: 18 minutes
Foreplay: Kissing, oral sex (male), groping
Orgasm: Male (yes), Female (no)
Date: 13/09 (#2)
Time: 19:02
Length: 9 minutes
Foreplay: Groping, kissing (minimal)
Orgasm: Male (yes), Female (?)
Each page is the same.
Each page is filled with data.
Yanagi was never interested in anything else. Two dozen pages-even Kirihara's birthday-list the same cold, clinical information of their bodies slapping together and Kirihara coming into Yanagi's body after slobbering and groping.
Kirihara pulls on his clothes. Yanagi calls his name when Kirihara slams the door behind himself. As he runs down the alley, his sneakers echo on the pavement.
***
It's raining-not hard, but just enough of a patter on the ground to make the streets slippery and the world that much dimmer. Kirihara drove to the sports complex this morning. He wasn't in the mood to deal with the stares on the train. The Honda hugs the curves of the road, but the traction isn't good. Kirihara's hands grip the wheel and his knuckles are white.
He glares at the rear view mirror. A row of zelkovas lining the side of a street whiz by. He glares in the side mirrors. He signals, turns, then drives down the street toward home. The blasting A/C combined with the drizzle makes the car frigid. This morning's half-drank coffee cup jiggles in the cup rest and splashes on his bare knee.
Maybe Renji says he doesn't care, but Kirihara does. Two months since he discovered that nearly ten years it's been going on. Maybe Renji says it's no big deal, but it's eating Kirihara up inside. He digs his nails into the steering wheel. He signals, then turns again. He stops at a light. The suburbs are grey and dismal. The soft glow of traffic lights blurs in the puddles on the road. Students walk along the sidewalks, ducking under umbrellas on their way to cram school-or, for those lucky ones, on their way home.
A girl walks by in a skirt the colour of Rikkai Dai's uniform, but her umbrella hides her face. Kirihara turns at the right moment. He knows that blue umbrella and that tall, graceful gait. He lifts his head and his throat catches. Frantically, he rolls down the window and sticks his head out. "Natsuko!"
The light changes to green. The umbrella lifts and Natsuko looks at him. It takes her a moment, but she runs to the Honda. The car behind Kirihara honks. He turns around and scowls, giving the car the finger. Vaguely, he knows he should feel guilty for doing that in front of his daughter, but it doesn't matter the moment Natsuko flings the back door open and slides in.
"Dad," she says.
The windshield wipers squeak. Kirihara glances back in the rear view mirror. The ends of Natsuko's hair have curled with the rain, but her face is entirely Renji's, only rounder.
"Cram school?" he asks. Kirihara drives. Natusko nods and says yes.
Kirihara says, "Aa." He starts to drive. He knows the direction, sorta, but he plugs the address into his GPS, just in case. Kirihara looks at the GPS. Rain slithers down the windshield. Natsuko sits up straight in the back seat. She towels off her hair and neck with a handkerchief from her school bag. Fifteen years ago, Kirihara had the same school bag. Rikkai Dai hasn't changed in ages.
The silence between them is awkward. Kirihara's never been good with teenage girls-he never had to be. Renji wasn't really a girl. Kirihara never dated anyone else. Teenage girls were that elusive, normal thing he never experienced and looking at his daughter, Kirihara is just fine with that.
But his chest hurts a bit. His heart flutters and weighs down on his lungs all in one breath. He opens his mouth.
"Is your mom-"
"She's fine, Dad," Natsuko says. She looks at him in the mirror. She blinks and sighs, the way Renji does, but she doesn’t roll her eyes. She's a good kid. Kirihara checks the GPS again. He turns left after the green. The rain picks up. He switches the wipers to a faster mode. The motion is quick and unconscious.
Kirihara nods. "I see," he says. He doesn't.
Natsuko's cram school is closer to the downtown of this district. Blinking signs flash on the narrowing roads. Kirihara darts around a parked car-there is a low row of cars and bikes, all parallel-parked on the curb and making it a bitch to see around if there's any perpendicular traffic. He's got the right of way. Kirihara tightens his grip on the steering wheel. The puddles are deeper here and the potholes shake the Honda. Natusko bounces in the back. Her pubescent breasts bounce too.
The rain pounds the roof of the car. Natsuko's face looks paler and her voice shakes. Kirihara swerves around a parked lorry that starts to creep out. "Bitch!" he hisses under his breath. The lorry didn't even bother with their blinker. Kirihara honks. The lorry honks back, but Kirihara's gone in a blink.
"Ne, Dad?"
GPS says straight through the next set of lights. Kirihara squints. He touches his upper lip and pushes down on the gas. "Hn?"
"Can I have some money for ramen?"
Kirihara reaches into his pocket. He nods and for a moment, he blinks with the realization that Renji's present is still in his pocket. Idiot! Kirihara winces. His fingers fish around for change, for a 1000 yen note. "Going out with friends?" he asks.
Natsuko makes a small noise. She's embarrassed. Kirihara rubs his chin with one hand and the other stays glued to the wheel.
"Hiromi and I are going to get some after lessons-"
But then Natsuko screams. "DAD!"
Kirihara looks up, but he can't see anything except a blinding light. Natsuko's screaming chills his blood and he can't hear anything else. His entire body stops as he dives to the backseat to protect her from whatever it doesn't fucking matter-
A deafening crunch mixes with the screams and the hot, white light and there is nothing else.
His body is crushed. Kirihara moves and pain bursts in every pore. He groans and sinks back. He's lying on something hard. He tries to open his eyes to the sound of beeps and muffled voices. His ears are stuffed with cotton and his mouth is stuffed with wool. He cracks an eye open. The sensation feels like he's ripping skin. Kirihara shakes with agony in his eyes. He tries to touch them, but his hands won't move.
He opens an eye. Someone is in his face. He knows this person.
Renji.
"Akaya."
He moans softly. Renji's eyes are dark and wet. He touches Kirihara's face and steps aside, enough for Kirihara to take in the white walls. The room is filled with beeping and hissing machines. It reminds him of Yukimura, years back as kids, in the hospital.
He's in the hospital.
"Shit…" he says. It comes out like a moan. Kirihara coughs. His lungs tickle. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. He remembers fragments: the blinding lights of another vehicle's headlights, the rain and the GPS glowing in the darkness, and then the screams that run down his spine, even now.
Natsuko!
His eyes fly open. His body is on fire. His skin prickles and his legs won't move, but Kirihara tries to sit up. Renji touches his arm and shakes his head. "She's fine," he says. Arms wrap around Kirihara's face. Renji holds Kirihara to his chest. It's familiar and warm. Renji's words are calm. "She's all right-just whiplash, Akaya."
Kirihara closes his eyes and swallows the wool from his mouth.
***
Kicking the wall doesn't help. Slamming his fist into the pillow doesn't do anything. Shredding tennis schedules and menus does nothing except give Kirihara sharp little paper cuts.
Yanagi already did that. Kirihara's covered in invisible cuts all over his body: a thousand slices that add up to a stab to the gut. Or, to his heart.
It's been a month now and the days keep passing. Yanagi retired from the tennis team. Only Sanada and Yukimura are left. Kirihara takes over the practices. He pushes himself through the drills. On some level, it feels good to scream out laps and threaten his kouhais. On some level, it feels good to demonstrate serves and smash balls over the net.
But there's never anyone there to return them.
For the first time, Kirihara is alone at practices. His teammates might be juniors too, but they seem younger. They laugh about winning the Nationals like it's nothing. They laugh about classes and girls like it's nothing. Kirihara towels off his hair. He rubs so hard his scalp tingles. He looks in the mirror of the bathroom and bares his teeth.
"Akaya."
He stiffens. He turns, but there is no one. The wet echo of the showers distorts the silence of the bathroom stalls. So many times he's heard Yanagi call his name. So many times he's deleted messages from his cellphone. So many times he's walked away from the cafeteria when he sees a tall head over the crowd, looking at him, pleading with him.
Yanagi has stopped trying. Kirihara tells himself that he's stopped caring, too.
But deep down, he's bleeding inside. Kirihara closes his eyes and shakes his head. Blood thumps through his skull. If he let it, he could go into bloodshot mode right now. Instead, he balls his fist and growls. It doesn't help.
He's still the idiot who thought Yanagi might have liked him.
He's still the idiot who didn't know Yanagi only wanted data.
Kirihara listens to the first years talking in the locker room. They fall silent as he walks past them. Only when Urayama shivers in his shoes does Kirihara realize he's scowling. He tries to soften his expression and force a laugh, but he can't. Kirihara nods to them. Not one nods back.
He walks home alone in the half-dark. The moon is a sliver on the horizon and the air is crisp. The leaves have started to fall. Day by day, the trees shake their coats to the ground. Kirihara steps on the crunching leaves and sighs. He stuffs his hands into his pocket and looks up.
The insects have all died. The birds have gone dormant, all except for the crows, who seem to swarm and follow him home each evening. Kirihara dumps his tennis bag and his backpack by the door. "I'm home," he mutters.
He used to go to Yanagi's house. They used to come here. He's home alone. The tv plays in the background as he microwaves an instant ramen. Kirihara flops down on the couch. Images flicker in his eyes, but he doesn't really watch them. His eyes drift toward the wide balcony window. The moon has risen in the sky. Pearly light streams around it.
He's always been an idiot. He's always been dumb at school. Tennis was the only thing he was good at. He thought he was pretty good with Yanagi, but it was all a joke. Kirihara swallows a mouth of noodles, but they stick in his throat.
Days, weeks blur into one as the leaves finish their lingering death. Cold mornings become frosty and laps during tennis practice become tougher. Kirihara wears his tennis tracksuit and a pair of mittens. Half the first years have their wool coats and only the bravest juniors go without gloves.
Niou happens to be hanging around the courts. Kirihara looks over and waves. Niou waggles his eyebrows, but Kirihara doesn't smile.
"Yo," Niou says.
"Can I talk to you?" Kirihara asks. He blurts it out. He's bad with that-talking before he thinks, but he doesn't regret it this time. His insides twist, but he needs to ask.
"Finish your STRETCHES!" he screams at the team.
He and Niou walk. Niou may have a girl's body, but his strides are masculine and long and lazy-same as ever. They walk past a waxy hibiscus, the leaves evergreen. Kirihara's breath clouds in the air. It is the same colour as Niou's hair.
"Senpai," he says. He swallows and tries again. "Senpai, are you doing it with Yagyuu because you like him, or because it's…." Data. An experiment. Meaningless. A joke.
Kirihara's cheeks feel hot. Niou looks at him with wide eyes. He blinks, then hides his face in his scarf. Niou clears his throat and mumbles something. Then he says, "Look, kid, I'm flattered and all but Yagyuu would-"
"I don't wanna date you!" Kirihara snaps. A twitch breaks under his sneaker. The sound it makes is as brittle as the weather.
Niou nods. He starts to snicker. Kirihara doesn't laugh.
"It's private," Niou says.
"I'm just-"
Niou frowns. He slips an arm around Kirihara's shoulder. "Look, I…" Niou turns away from Kirihara, but the arm around his neck tightens. Kirihara struggle and Niou ruffles the top of his head. Boobs rub against Kirihara's arm. Kirihara squirms some more. Niou says, "I like Yagyuu, okay? I like doing it with him and it feels good. Maybe when you're older you'll get it-OI! Don't!"
Kirihara tickles Niou's side. It's not really funny, but it kills the weird, serious mood that had begun to creep up. "I'm not a baby," Kirihara says.
Niou laughs at that, too.
***
The elevator hums as it ascends. Kirihara leans on the wall. His fingers brush the grimy plush base-boarding. His crutch leans against the opposite wall. Hana-chan holds onto his hand. Her palm is sticky and she's smiling at him.
"Remember to rest," Renji says.
Kirihara grunts. He hobbles out of the elevator that Renji holds open. With a sigh, Renji says, "Here". He holds out an arm. Kirihara refuses.
"I'm not a baby!" he snaps.
Hana-chan walks on her tiptoes down the hallway. "Ne, Daddy?" she asks.
Kirihara looks at her. Using crutches and holding her hand at the same time makes for very slow movement. He groans in frustration and drops the crutch to drag his leg instead.
Renji frowns and stops. His eyes are hard and he says, "No, Akaya." When Hana-chan picks up the crutch and pretends to walk with it, Kirihara laughs. Renji's frown deepens.
"No," he says. Renji hands Hana the keys and says, "Open the door for Daddy and Mommy, please." Renji takes the crutch away and slides an arm around Kirihara's middle. "Don't be walking on the fracture."
"It's nothing," Kirihara says. Renji gives him a pointed look. Hana-chan claps as the door swings open. She shouts, "We're home!" to no one in particular. It's the middle of the afternoon on a weekend. Only the plants on the kitchen window ledge are there to greet them.
Kirihara settles on the couch. He hates this. He hates being cooped up. He hates that he won't make it to Bangkok for the Invitational. "You'll be lucky to be out in January," his coach said-he had read the doctor's report. Smashed tibia, cracked ribs, bruises all down his side and Kirihara's lucky that there was no internal bleeding. He lies on his other side. His breathing rattles a little. His body aches. He won't admit it, but the ride home and the elevator ride was exhausting. His body is broken.
The Honda was t-boned and it's in even worse shape. Kirihara hasn't asked about it and Renji hasn't told him. It was their first car. It was their only car. Kirihara bought it with the money from his Grand Slam win. The sleek, white car with the purring motor was just as beautiful as the gilded trophy in the display case above the flatscreen tv in their apartment.
Kirihara stares at the tv. His reflection frowns at him, its brow knitted up with vague pain. Renji's reflection moves around the kitchen, tying an apron around its waist and opening the fridge. Renji pads back with a glass of warm tea. He sets it down beside Kirihara's head.
"Here," he says. Renji kneels on the floor at the head of the couch. He's at Kirihara's level. The apron he's wearing smells vaguely of grease and sweat and lemon dish soap. "We're having a guest for supper."
Kirihara grunts. He cranes his head. Renji looks at him. "Who?"
"A friend of Natsuko's."
Kirihara grunts again.
"Yagyuu and Niou's Hiromi. I'm making hamburgers."
Kirihara sinks deeper into the couch. The energy has drained from his muscles. His legs are atrophying and shrinking under the old sweatpants he's wearing. One leg is bunched around the knee over the plaster cast. His stomach turns at the memory of Renji's attempts at cooking. He winces.
Renji smiles, a little. He hands Kirihara the glass of tea. The cup is warm and ceramic with a chip on the rim. Coils of ginger steam float up to his nose. Kirihara sips it carefully.
"I bought the croquettes," Renji says. "Don't worry."
"And the hamburgers?"
Renji makes a noise. "I have a recipe. The data's easy enough. They can't be messed up too badly…" Renji leans against the couch. He touches Kirihara's cheek. The bone throbs, but Kirihara ignores it. He's missed Renji this past week in the hospital. He's missed Renji's unconscious touches and his smell and home. Kirihara sighs and closes his eyes. Renji touches his ear and strokes his hair. The sensation is soothing. Kirihara lets his body sink into Renji's warm hands.
Yagyuu Hiromi arrives before dinner, at the same time as Natsuko. He is polite and exactly like Yagyuu, only with a mole on chin (a little too low to be fully Niou, either). Kento and Genki have their gameboys out in their bedroom. Kirihara's been forced to listen to the "motherfuckers!" and "I'll get you, scum!" since they got home from school. He should tell them off for language, but he knows exactly where they get it from.
Since they don't bother anyone, Renji says nothing. He's in the kitchen with his back turned. The smell of frying hamburgers has yet to become an acrid burn and set off the smoke alarm. Kirihara's stomach rumbles. Hospital food-bland fish, watery soup, plain jellies and weak tea-have done nothing for him. His mouth waters. Hana-chan sits at his feet and pulls his slippers off. "I'm hungry," she says.
"Me too," Kirihara says.
Yagyuu Hiromi only intensifies the churn in Kirihara's gut. Kirihara stares at the kid and he knows from Natsuko's faint blush and the fact Yagyuu Jr the first won’t look him in the eye that something is up. At the table, Kirihara's forced to sit beside him. He narrows his eyes, but Yagyuu Hiromi doesn't cower. He pushes his glasses up his nose and nods when Renji offers rice.
It's awkward for Kirihara to sit with his leg splayed out to the side, propped up on a stool. Kirihara drains his glass of tea. It would be better as sake, or beer. He looks at the food on his plate and blinks. There is a croquette, yes. There is rice and hamburger, but the hamburger swims in a strange white sauce, peppered with black flecks.
"It looks…lovely, Kirihara-san," Yagyuu Hiromi tells Renji.
"It looks nasty, Mom," Genki says. Kento echoes him and tosses his chopsticks down. Hana-chan doesn't seem to care: she starts to eat anyway.
"So you go to cram school together," Kirihara says. He clenches his jaw. Yagyuu Hiromi nods. "And you're at Rikkai too?" Yagyuu Hiromi nods at that, too. Kirihara purses his lips. Natsuko won't look him in the eye.
Renji clears his throat. "And the tennis team-your mother said you're the captain of the boy's team."
Yagyuu Hiromi nods. He touches the mole on his chin and for an instant, he's got the same cocky grin Niou has. "Yes," he says. "We're winning, of course. That's just the way the game is."
"It shouldn't be any other way," Renji says. "Number one, ne, Akaya?"
Kirihara blinks. He looks down at his plate and notices that he's managed to mangle his hamburger and shred the paper napkins that Renji set around the table. Any other night, he might laugh and say oops, but tonight, he's on edge. Blood pounds in his skull. Kirihara can hear himself breathing harder.
Yagyuu Hiromi shifts in his chair. Natsuko sits on her hands and chews her bottom lip. Hana-chan looks up with a big smile and tells Yagyuu Jr the first, "You're nee-san's boyfriend!"
Kirihara stiffens. His legs throbs. It feels like every fragment of bone floating around his lifeless leg is on fire. His body shakes and his insides curdle.
There is a beat of tense silence, then Yagyuu Hiromi nods. Natsuko nods too.
Kirihara's chopsticks fall to the floor and roll across the Pergo.
***
Christmas is coming. The aluminum Christmas tree is set up in the main room and lights are strung around the kitchen. There is a frostiness in the air that makes Kirihara curl up on his bed. He didn't shower after tennis today. It was too cold and the first years complained the hot water tank was broken.
The shopping arcades are filled with customers in Santa hats and the noodle bars all play carols. Kirihara got a text about free Christmas ringtones from his cellphone company on the bus home. He deleted it. He's not in the mood to think about what Santa-san will bring him this year.
Yanagi?
He shakes his head. No, he doesn't want Yanagi. He doesn't want anything now, except to be number one. His muscles ache from strain at practicing in the frigid weather. He stretches out his shin and rubs his calf. Kirihara looks at the Grand Auto Theft posters on his wall and sighs.
Santa-san probably doesn't exist anyway.
He flops back down onto his pillows. There is a test in History next week before the holidays. Kirihara's got a Japanese project due too. There is an English assignment, a composition about Christmas, but he's not in the mood for that either.
All he feels like doing is moping.
Not even dicking around with his old gameboy and Pokemon Ruby is appealing.
His sister bangs on his door. "I'm going out!" she yells.
Kirihara rolls his eyes. He listens to her shuffle to the front door of the apartment. The buzzer sounds. She talks with a friend and then the door slams closed. Silence follows. Kirihara sighs heavily into the air. His fingers are cold, even though he's wearing a sweatshirt. His toes are cold. His socks probably have holes. He's probably outgrowth them again.
He stares out his window. A dim sun wavers in the west; the scarlet band on the horizon slowly sinks. His door creaks. The apartment moves. Kirihara breathes and closes his eyes.
But there is someone else breathing in the room too.
His eyes snap open. He stands up and grabs the pull cord for his light. It hisses and sputters. Dead insects from the bulb flutter to the floor as the light strengthens.
Yanagi stands by the doorway. "Your sister let me in," he says. He's still wearing his wool coat and school pants. Kirihara backs up into his bed. His bedroom is invaded as Yanagi walks across the floor, closer to him. Yanagi's mouth is set in a thin line. His Adam's Apple bobs.
Something red hot and viscous rises in Kirihara's throat. He balls his fists. He curls his lip, but before he can do anything, Yanagi says, "Hear me out. Before you do anything, just listen to what I have to say. I'm your senpai," he says.
His dark eyes hold Kirihara's. I'm your senpai and you'll respect me, his eyes say. Kirihara glares back at him. He grinds his teeth. Yanagi turns to the side and touches one of the old Jump issues on Kirihara's desk. Long fingers trail over the spines.
"It's true that I did it for the data, at first."
Kirihara's knuckles crack. Yanagi whips his head around. His eyes waver in the light and the black pupils look wet. Kirihara's fist loosens. Yanagi steps closer. Kirihara can smell something fruity and floral and new wafting off Yanagi.
"It's true that I took data on you-and I shouldn't have Akaya, I'm sorry. But you have to understand, you…" Yanagi makes a noise. "If you woke up one morning with your…dick gone, how would you feel?"
Kirihara blinks. The heat in his belly simmers. Yanagi looks up at the light, then his eyes come down to Kirihara. He doesn't look away. "Akaya…" He exhales. His breath is warm the closer he steps. Something rustles. His coat falls to his feet. Kirihara backs up into his mattress and he can't go any further when his knees hit the edge.
"Akaya, I started to-I liked what you did."
Yanagi tosses his tie away.
"I liked you."
He steps out of his pants.
"Ido like you. A lot."
Yanagi pulls off his school shirt. He stands in the cold room, looking at Kirihara with his chin held high.
And he's wearing a bra. And lacy little underpants that hug his hips. His body has filled out this past month or two. Kirihara doesn't recognize it like this. He doesn't remember this woman's body, in front of him, but his cock does. He stiffens. He twitches. He closes his eyes as Yanagi touches his jaw. His breath is shuddered as Yanagi whispers, "I'm sorry." He lets himself fall against Yanagi's chest when Yanagi takes Kirihara's hand and places it on his hip.
He's wet between the legs when Kirihara slips his hand under those lacy underpants. "Akaya…" Yanagi moans. "No more data. I promise."
Yanagi rips his clothes off. Kirihara feels something wet on his face. There's something almost wet on Yanagi's face, too, but he kisses that off, too. It's messy and fast and furious, like Kirihara's best tennis games. Yanagi served, but the pace is Kirihara's. He rubs Yanagi's bra between his fingers. He feels Yanagi's stiff nipples under the satin cups. He curls his hands in Yanagi's cunt until Yanagi is on his knees and begging.
Yanagi rides him. Yanagi throws his head back and squeezes his cunt around Kirihara's dick. Kirihara's eyes roll back from sheer, raw pleasure as he thrusts and bucks and digs his fingers into Yanagi's yielding skin.
"You're number…one-oh! Akaya!" Yanagi pants. Yanagi gasps. Yanagi shakes and shudders and comes around him, pulsing and throbbing and trembling in waves until Kirihara comes too. His body burns. His blood boils. His dick explodes and he can't stop pushing deeper into Yanagi until they are both boneless on top of his bed.
Yanagi curls against him. Yanagi takes Kirihara's hand and sucks on his fingers. Kirihara thinks about what Yanagi said. He smiles to himself and buries his face in his pillow.
"What?" Yanagi asks.
Kirihara shakes his head. You're number…one!
He flips onto his back. Yanagi spreads himself supine over Kirihara's chest. Kirihara can't stop smiling, though. "Is it true?" he asks. "What you said? About…me being…?"
Yanagi hums.
If he can't be number one at tennis yet, maybe he can be number one at something else.
***
Underneath the cast, his leg itches. The skin crawls and the hairs prickle. Kirihara hobbles to the kitchen when Renji is out at the park with Hana-chan. He tries a cooking chopstick. Then he tries a fork. The sensation of the prongs on his skin is divine. His eyes roll back and he scratches more. He shivers. He gasps. His dick even twitches a bit because it feels so good to get that spot underneath his cast that his fingers won't reach and just scra-
"Akaya!"
Kirihara looks up. Renji stands in the doorway with a bag of groceries. Kirihara takes the fork out with as much dignity as he can (which isn't much) and he starts to laugh at himself. He winces. Renji frowns.
The truth is, Kirihara's bored. Physio at the hospital three times a week and a check up with the doctor on Fridays are the highlights of his life. He sits on a chair at the table and practices swings with his racket. The motions are soothing, until he accidentally smashes a pottery bowl from Kyushu that happened to be sitting on a shelf nearby.
He sits on the couch and plays three-way gameboy games with Genki and Kento. Kirihara's still as sharp with his eyes and hands as ever. He presses the buttons frantically. He grunts. He shouts. His player dives for the magical gold ball but the elf is too fast and-
"Aw, shit!" he says. The game beeps and the sing-song music of his character's death might hurt, if it wasn't so funny watching Kento grin. Kento's missing a front molar on top.
"I'm number one!" Kento shouts.
"No, you’re not!" Genki shouts back. He lunges and jumps and lands on his brother. They start to wrestle. The gameboys are completely forgotten. Kirihara pumps his fist and whoops.
"No fighting before dinner!" Renji calls from the kitchen table. When Kento locks Genki in a headlock and Genki elbows his brother in the gut, Renji sets his book and stands up. His shadow looms over the main room. Kirihara slithers deeper into the couch. He might feel bad for cheering his boys on, but it's a guy thing.
He wants to be a good dad. Mostly, he feels kinda bad that he's sitting on his ass at home all day instead of being out at practice or on the circuit and trying to provide and be all adult and responsible. When he's alone in the middle of the afternoons at home, Kirihara sits on the floor. The curtains are closed. The light is weak in at this time of year, but the streams that peek through the edges blind Kirihara. He sighs and lies down, hands behind his head.
The accident was his fault. He should have been watching the road. He should have seen that drunk 23 year old driver speeding through the lights. He should have done more to protect Natsuko. She says she's fine, but she's been reading less. She's been going out more and later with…her boyfriend and there is a slight limp to her gait that wasn't there before.
It hurts that she's growing up and going out with someone now. As much as Kirihara wants to say something to her, as much as Kirihara wants to grab Yagyuu Hiromi by the collar and tell him to get the fuck away and not touch his daughter, the sharp stab to his stomach stops him.
One morning, Renji says, "We're going out." Kirihara nods. He flops back onto the couch. He needs a shower, but he's tired of putting the plastic cover on over his cast. His leg feels dirty. His leg tingles. He's useless and he can't even get up off the couch because there's no real point.
A jacket flies into his face. Kirihara pulls it off and looks up. Renji raises an eyebrow. Well?
Hana-chan grabs his hand. "Come on, Daddy! Don't be a lazyass!"
Kirihara blinks. The word sinks in and the memory surfaces. He's heard that expression a hundred times before. Memories flutter through his mind: Sanada yelling at him during tennis practice, failing English papers in junior high school, hiking in the winter with friends and jumping into outdoor onsens in January.
"Where did you learn that?" Kirihara asks. Hana-chan bounces between him and Renji, one hand in each of theirs. Unconsciously, they lift her up every second step in perfect rhythm. She squeals and laughs and says she doesn't know.
"Where do you think?" Renji asks. "Of course she learned it from Genichirou."
Kirihara nods. He rubs his chin. His crutches are a bother to use and Renji said nothing when they left the apartment without them. His pace is slow. He drags his foot, which is leaden and dead in the heavy sock and slipper. The park is filled with scarlet maples and shivering gold ginkos. Leaves crunch underfoot. Hana-chan runs up to the gathered drifts and kicks them. He and Renji walk together. The air might be cool, but Renji's hand is warm in his.
Kirihara stuffs his other hand into his pocket. The present is still there, nearly six months later. He closes his eyes and bites his lip to stop a wince from coming. Kirihara takes a deep breath. It's nothing special, and yet, in some ways, it is.
He opens his mouth to speak. He takes the edge of the paper out of his pocket, but Renji stops. Renji looks up at the sky. It is unnaturally blue and bright today, framed by the buildings surrounding the park and the frail branches of the trees around them.
"I already told Natsuko-I know what you're thinking," he says, out of nowhere. "I already had a talk with her. We don't want to be…" Renji looks at him. Kirihara pushes the present back into his jacket pocket. Renji adds, "We're not going to be thirty year old grandparents. 100% certainty of that."
Kirihara swallows the lump. It accumulated in his throat and now spreads down into his belly. He nods. "Good," he says. It's tough to make the words come. It's awkward, too.
Renji squeezes his hand. He takes a step forward toward Hana, who runs under a pine tree and shrieks at a lone duck waddling away from her. "Did you have something?" he asks.
Kirihara shakes his head. His voice sounds as brisk and brittle as the air when he says, "It was nothing."