FIC: Glory Days, Yukimura/Sanada, NC17 (2/7)
Title: Glory Days (2/7)
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Sanada aims for the Nationals. And more...Yukimura/Sanada.
At the start of the matches, Yukimura and Tezuka meet on court. They shake hands and speak quietly. Kirihara strains in his seat and leans over Sanada. “What are they saying? That we’ll beat the shit out of them?”
“Akaya,” Jackal says, pulling Kirihara back off Sanada.
Singles 3. Sanada plays the first match of the day against Fuji Shuusuke. He had thought that Fuji would play singles 2 and that he would have a chance to observe a couple games first. Instead, he is the one to set the pace of the finals.
Fuji Shuusuke is good. Better than when Sanada saw him play Kirihara at the Regionals. His step is faster, his shots are more daring and unexpected, and there is a hint of violence in the spins and slices of his balls. They graze Sanada’s legs, Sanada’s arms too many times.
Has Seigaku’s tensai learned something from Akaya? he thinks, as he backhands a return deep towards Fuji’s baseline. It’s too low for a triple counter, even the Higuma Otoshi, and Sanada smiles when Fuji strains too his small frame far and skids across the court, missing the ball by a couple inches.
Game, Sanada 7-5.
He’s played better opponents before. Atobe. Echizen. Yukimura. But despite this, his heart is racing and his body feels slow and sluggish, the game settling into his bones as he walks up to the net to shake Fuji’s hand.
Fuji smiles, so different from his narrow-eyed determination during the game. “Good game,” he says sweetly.
Sanada nods.
He takes his seat in the bleachers as Yanagi and Marui walk onto the court. Marui shoves the last of his cake into his mouth and wipes the back of his hand across his face to clear the crumbs. Yukimura tells them something from the bench. It feels odd not to be benchcoach after doing it so many times this season. Not that Sanada ever said much, or encouraged Rikkai with the cheers and smiles and positive words that Seiagku does. Rikkai has discipline. Discipline wins, not the honeyed words of an old woman.
Yukimura puts Renji in doubles 2 on purpose. Seigaku’s Inui stands across the court, with the boy who wears bandanas and hits a powerful buggy whip shot. This time they face off in doubles, but it turns into a rematch of sorts, Inui versus Yanagi, the old doubles pair. Sanada watches the ball whiz across the court. Yanagi controls the pace and Marui follows. Inui controls his side.
It is singles, played with four people.
Inui-Kaidoh pair have more experience and in the end, Yanagi and Marui lose 6-4 when Marui fails miserably against Kaidoh’s legendary stamina.
“Their combination wasn’t as strong as Yukimura had thought,” Jackal mutters. “Marui’s volleys were off and his rising shot couldn’t handle the buggy whip since I normally do instead. He got tired trying to return all of them.”
Sanada grunts. “We won’t lose to Seigaku again.”
Kirihara loses singles 2 to Echizen.
Yukimura says “You played a noble game, Akaya,” loud enough that Sanada can hear the words clearly. Kirihara may have lost, but he sits next to Sanada, sitting as tall and pleased with himself as though he’d lead the team to victory himself.
His eyes are tinged with pink, but Echizen still stands, no bruises, no concussions. Kirihara hasn’t fully learned to control his strength, but he’s getting better. Sanada stares at Kirihara from underneath the shade of his cap. Kirihara smiles and chuckles, exhausted and out of breath. “I’ll slaughter him next year,” he says. “As buchou.”
Sanada stiffens. He hopes that Akaya is joking. Kirihara only makes it worse when he adds, “Yukimura-buchou was telling me I should be the one to lead Rikkai next year. And then I’ll have three Nationals under my belt, too.”
Sanada is glad that he won’t be there to witness Kirihara in any sort of leadership role.
The court heats up in doubles 1 and the sun shines directly overhead, hot and glaring. Yagyuu’s glasses shine like laser beams as he serves. The Golden Pair wants a rematch, but Rikkai’s doubles 1 won’t concede. Sanada knows Kikumaru, especially, has improved with the Senbatsu camp and Goodwill Games, but not enough. When Seigaku improves, Rikkai exceeds them still.
Sanada waits for the trickster to start to pull the aces from his sleeve. Seigaku does too. No switches come mid-game. Yagyuu doesn’t hit Kikumaru in the face. Oishi takes a hit to the knee, but even Sanada can admit that it was his own carelessness at missing the shot that caused it; Niou probably didn’t cause it intentionally.
Rikkai leads 5 games to 3. Switch court. Oishi to serve. He serves deep and sure toward the baseline, where Yagyuu hits it back. Kikumaru jumps across the court and flies parallel to the net. “Hoi!” he calls, as the ball hits the sweet spot of his racket and bounces.
0-15, Seigaku.
Yagyuu slams his racket on the court. The crowd shuts up, the echo of the sound an iron curtain of silence. “Would you shut up with the hois?” he shouts.
Niou’s toothy grin reflects the sun. Kikumaru stands in shock, unmoving until Oishi claps a hand on his shoulder and whispers something in his ear.
Seigaku’s concentration is lost. Rikkai sweeps the game and takes the set.
Singles 1. The moment everyone has been waiting for this season. The moment Seigaku has longed for, the moment Rikkai has hoped for.
Yukimura versus Seigaku’s Tezuka.
The stronger the opponent, the more meaningful the win.
Sanada steps down the bleacher seats. “I’ll be benchcoach,” he tells Yanagi. Yukimura doesn’t smile when Sanada walks onto the court and sits on the bench. He takes his jacket and track pants off, piling them up beside Sanada. He looks as stoic and serious as Tezuka, his mouth set in a thin line.
“Yukimura,” Sanada says.
Yukimura turns around, holding his racket. “Sanada,” he says evenly.
“Good l-”
“I don’t need that,” Yukimura says. He peels off his right wristweight, then his left. “I will win.”
Sanada holds his breath as Yukimura steps onto the court, speaking with Tezuka, their words lost to anyone but themselves. He holds his breath as Tezuka serves and when the first hit of Yukimura’s racket on the ball registers in his mind, he remembers to exhale.
For once the Rikkai cheerleaders are quiet. For once the Seigaku team has shut up.
Tezuka takes the first point, and his team erupts in applause. Sanada’s stomach sinks. Yukimura, he thinks.
Yukimura isn’t the one sweating on the court. Sanada peels his cap from his hair and wipes his forehead. Sweat stings his vision and dribbles down his nose as Yukimura serves. The game goes back and forth between the two. Whatever injury Tezuka had to his shoulder, it’s gone. Whatever Guillain-Barré did to ravage Yukimura’s body, it’s gone.
All Sanada can see is two boys, playing their best tennis ever. The speed is faster than anything he’s seen from Yukimura before, the shots are powerful. Tezuka struggles to return them, groaning his frustration and Yukimura grunts when he hits them back. The balls slam into the clay court. The zero shiki drop shot collapses to the ground by the net. Yukimura dives and hits it with the tip of his racket.
There is blood and sweat and dirt and dust and speed and power and it’s beautiful to watch this dance of tennis. This is no four-beat tango with Atobe, this is no three-minute set with Sengoku. Yukimura and Tezuka have created something that lives and pulses, back and forth, back and forth. Tie breaker. Point Tezuka, point Yukimura.
Until the 57th point. Yukimura is up one point. Sanada’s eyes go wide as he watches Yukimura’s knees start to crumple under him. He jumps off the bench just as Yukimura lunges and hits the ball, so low that it skims the top of the net.
But it goes over.
And in.
A zero-shiki drop shot of his own, reached during this hazy state of self-actualization Yukimura has been playing in for the duration of the match.
They’ve won.
They all pour out to Yukimura. Kirihara is shouting and crying and grabbing at him, grinning from ear to ear. Jackal and Marui throw themselves into the pile. Niou jumps into the crowd, pulling Yagyuu along, who laughs louder than the rest of them. Renji pumps his fist in the air and pulls Sanada’s hat off his head, throwing it into the air. It soars above their heads, arcing in the blue, blue sky.
“Are you all right?” Sanada tries to shout at Yukimura. He can barely hear himself above the cheers and the clapping of the tennis club and the cheerleaders in the bleachers, and the shouting of the regulars.
Yukimura grins. “I was getting tired,” he mouths.
Sanada pulls Yukimura close to him, hugging him tighter than even Kirihara. He laughs and Yukimura laughs and he feels tears prick his eyes and he doesn’t care if he’s letting his guard down because they’ve done it!
Three years in a row.
Just as Yukimura had promised in freshman year.
***
“Let’s find a sushi bar,” Niou suggests.
No one disagrees. The elation from the win is high, although the gold medals weigh heavy around their necks. Yukimura’s hands keep moving to his collar, fingering the ribbon, lifting the medal and smiling to himself.
They wander the area around the stadium, a part of the city that Sanada doesn’t know very well. Their bodies may be tired, but Sanada feels more alive than ever. They hang off each other, laughing and grinning and saying “Wasn’t my serve great?” and “Didn’t my volley just blow Seigaku off balance?” and “My smash totally confused them!” Sanada can barely remember the games in this haze, only the moment of elation when that last ball skimmed the net and dropped over.
“Are you all right?” Sanada asks Yukimura, whose steps are slower than the rest. This lazy meandering through the streets, in search of sushi, may be slow, but Yukimura trails behind Yanagi, who brings up the rear of the group.
“My body is just tired, Sanada,” Yukimura says. “I haven’t played that hard in a long time.”
“It was a satisfying win,” Sanada says.
Yukimura stops in the middle of the sidewalk. He brings his fist up to Sanada’s chin. “Of course,” he says. “I’ve been waiting to play Tezuka for a long time.”
Sanada’s skin still hums where Yukimura touched it by the time Niou and Marui find a sushi shop that suits them. He rubs his thumb absently under his chin, touching Yukimura back by proxy.
They order platters of mixed sushi. Marui grabs the biggest pieces first, chowing down before any one else has even lifted their chopsticks or fingers. The sushi shop is crowded with salarymen, arriving after work. Through the windows, the amber glare of the low sun filters through bamboo shades, diffusing across the patrons inside. Sanada stretches out and grabs a piece of the eel sushi. His stomach growls. He hasn’t had a chance to think about eating much until now, it was just grab-and-go snacks between matches since this morning at the stadium. Now, he drinks back tea like it’s shots of alcohol, and pops sushi and cucumber rolls just as fast as Marui and Kirihara.
Niou has grown silent and still as they eat, spitting food, still talking about the game, about the win, about the ceremony and the brilliant array of fireworks and the glittering trophy, soon to be delivered to the Rikkai tennis club. Suspicious, Sanada watches him fish around in his tennis bag and grab a waterbottle, pouring it out into a cup for Yagyuu.
Yukimura notices, too, and he raises his eyebrows. Niou pulls out a can of beer. “Celebratory drink, buchou?” he offers.
Yukimura shakes his head. “No drinking for six weeks after my operation.” He gives an apologetic smile, but doesn’t sound too sorry.
“If the sushi chef catches you-” Sanada starts, but Marui drapes a shoulder across Sanada and blocks the view from the kitchen.
“Lighten up, Sanada,” he says. Kirihara bursts into laughter and grabs one of the cans from Niou’s bag, cracking the tab open with a loud pop and guzzling it.
“Ugh, this is disgusting!” Kirihara shouts, but he keeps drinking it, grimacing after each gulp.
“We’re underage!” Sanada hisses to Yukimura across the table. “Shouldn’t you stop them?” He glances over his shoulder. None of the other customers have noticed them, the loudest of the people in the shop. The place hums with activity, boys clearing tables and wiping spills, the sushi chefs shouting orders, knives shining and chopping, slicesliceslice. Glasses klink and customers speak. Dozens of droning voices combine, able to drown out the sounds of eight underage teenagers in tennis uniforms.
Yukimura shrugs. “Lighten up, Sanada,” he echoes, unable to hold back a grin.
Sanada sighs in defeat, and pops a piece of salmon sushi in his mouth, savouring the salty, savoury taste as Renji holds his cup out to Niou for some of the sake poured from a dark waterbottle.
“To victory,” Jackal says, holding out his cup. Eight glasses clink in toast, even Sanada, who holds up his tea. Marui gulps his shot and falls backwards laughing. Were it any other night, he would do something. But for once, he thinks maybe he ought to lighten up just a little.
He doesn’t take the alcohol away. But he doesn’t drink it, either. He and Yukimura sit across from each other at the end of the table, ordering more platters of sushi when they run low, and more tea for themselves, and Renji, too, after what seems to be his third drink.
“How many has Yagyuu had now?” Yukimura asks Renji, when Yagyuu knocks his glass over and laughs louder than Kirihara.
Renji shrugs. “Judging from his impaired judgment and slurred speech, five or six.” Niou pours Yagyuu another drink, his own hand sloppy with the waterbottle. “Seven now,” Renji says.
Marui faceplants in the wasabisushi. Jackal pulls him up to his feet and they disappear into the bathrooms laughing uncontrollably. Sanada frowns and sips his tea. A group of businessmen behind them have started to point and whisper at their team. When Yagyuu shouts at the top of his lungs, “Fuck Seigaku!” one of the sushi chefs from the kitchen comes out and asks them to leave. Yukimura smiles and agrees, polite as ever, but Sanada can only feel his face on fire with embarrassment for the team.
“Idiots!” he shouts as they stumble onto the sidewalk. “What the hell were you thinking in there?”
Niou ignores him and says, “Let’s find a KARAOKE BAR!” He points down the street and starts to run. The half-empty bottles of liquor clank in his tennis bag. Yagyuu runs up to Niou as grabs onto his back, and they grapple on the street, laughing and giggling like freshmen girls. Sanada stares for a long moment because he never thought he’d hear that sound from Yagyuu. Ever.
Yukimura laughs beside him as they walk quickly to keep up with Niou and Yagyuu, who have been joined by Kirihara, rushing blindly through the evening pedestrians. “Yagyuu certainly seems…”
“To be a loud drunk,” Renji finishes.
“Yes,” Sanada says.
The city is beautiful at night in this part. Blinking neon signs of yellow and blue characters and letters and American brand names flash overhead along with sparkling officetowers and highrises, alit from within. They turn a block west, then two north. Niou and Yagyuu and Kirihara don’t seem to care where they go. Marui walks into a garbage bin and has Jackal carry him until they find a dingy karaoke joint.
Inside it is smoky and smells even stronger of alcohol than they already do. Yukimura books a room and Niou has hooked up the karaoke machine before Sanada closes the door behind them all.
He doesn’t want to remember the karaoke. It passes in a blur of bad English lyrics and corny ballads and Yukimura prodding him to sing another duet with Kirihara that requires too many long notes and Sanada’s voice cracks and Kirihara prances around too much and hits his head on a table. Yagyuu and Niou drink more, sharing the last of the sake bottles, and then Yagyuu sings a song in even worse English, loud and slurred and doubled over with laughter before he can finish.
At some point Jackal dances on the table, shaking his hips Brazilian-style. At some point Marui vomits into a garbage can, then asks Niou for another beer. At some point Yagyuu loses his glasses and when Sanada retrieves them from behind a chair, they don’t sit right on his face, all cock-eyed and off-balance.
At some point, Yukimura sits beside Sanada, sliding up beside him at the end of the couch. The rest of the couch is empty, save for Kirihara crawling off the other end and helping himself to Niou’s never-ending stash in his tennis bag. Sanada stiffens when Yukimura touches his leg. “It’s after two, Sanada,” he says. “We ought to go home soon.”
Renji must hear them because he glances over to Yagyuu, now slithering across the floor as Niou claps and says, “You’re Seigaku’s Mamushi, Hiroshi- slither like a snake!”
Renji says, “I’ll call home and see if we can all stay there. There is a very minute chance that Yagyuu’s parents would be happy to see him in this state.” A loud smash makes them all look to Kirihara, who sits stunned for a moment, the broken glass of a bottle lying on the ground beside him.
“Or Akaya’s parents,” Yukimura says.
***
The van that drove them this morning- yesterday morning- has long since gone. Sanada is the first on the bus, and pays their fares. He doubts that Yagyuu or Kirihara or Marui would realize they’d need to.
It is so late that they take the first morning bus, but it might as well be the night before, because the city is still dark and sleepy. The bus driver yawns and mutters “Kids these days…” as they lurch into their seats. The bus is empty save for them, and Sanada is glad that no one else has to see them.
The feeling of embarrassment, however, is tiny compared to the fullness in his heart, the medal resting under his uniform t-shirt against his skin. He touches the ribbon, making sure it is still there, still real, and he smiles a little to himself.
“Isn’t it a bit late for this?” Yukimura asks as he lifts Sanada’s cap from his head. Yukimura sits in the seat next to him, and sets the cap on his lap. Sanada pats down his flyaway hairs and Yukimura laughs at him, softly. His laughter is punctuated with a wide yawn.
They have a long bus ride back to the part of Kanagawa where Renji lives, near Rikkai Dai Fuzoku. Sanada has called his parents with the laconic excuse that Renji’s house is faster to get to and he’s tired. He doesn’t want them to smell the alcohol on his clothes. Yagyuu and Marui spilled a few too many drinks on him over the course of the night.
The city is a black blur beyond the bright fluorescent glow inside the bus. Sanada shifts in his seat and brings his legs up, shoving himself into a comfortable ball against the back of Renji’s seat in front of him. Yukimura shifts beside him, too, until he sighs and leans his head on Sanada’s shoulder. Sanada starts to sit up, but Yukimura murmurs, “Just stay, Sanada” and curls closer.
Sanada’s heart beats so hard and loud against his ribs; he knows Yukimura must feel it throughout his body. But Yukimura doesn’t say anything. Instead he just sits and smiles and closes his eyes until his breathing is deep and even.
The shine of gold peeks out from under his uniform jacket. Sanada can feel Yukimura’s breathing stirring his hair, warm and ticklish.
No one else notices them. Kirihara’s head is thrown back and he snores softly across the aisle. Yagyuu and Niou sit near the front of the bus, Niou’s head starting to loll and Yagyuu has finally shut up, although his eyes are red and glazed behind his glasses. Marui and Jackal sit quietly, Marui doubled over and moaning that his stomach hurts from the sushi and the beer.
Renji, right in front of Sanada, stares out the window, smiling to himself in that state of half-consciousness, restful and mellow. He must be able to see the reflection of everyone else on the bus in the window.
Lighten up, Sanada.
Sanada sucks in a breath and stretches his arm out. It happens to conveniently slide behind Yukimura’s shoulders and his fingers happen to conveniently curl around Yukimura’s neck, grazing the soft skin and the silky hair, touching the ribbon of the medal, too. Yukimura sighs again.
Sanada doesn’t think Yukimura is asleep anymore, but he pretends because Yukimura is pretending and Yukimura hasn’t moved away yet, but seems to inch even closer, his fingertips reaching across Sanada’s chest. Sanada tightens his grip. It’s more than casual, it’s more than a hug, more like an embrace.
It makes his heart beat faster still, this new game that he doesn’t quite understand how to play, but one that he wants to win just as much as the Nationals championship.
***
Renji’s mother, Sanada thinks, is far too nice to eight boys, drunk on victory and alcohol. She doesn’t say much as Marui stumbles in and Niou half-drags Yagyuu, who slurs a thanks, honorary and all, at Renji’s mother.
“Try to be quiet, Renji,” she tells them as she flicks the lightswitch off. “We’re sleeping upstairs.”
There aren’t enough futons to go around and the ones spread out on the floor smell musty and old and unused. Sanada helps Renji push a low table against the wall, giving them a bit more room. Jackal has passed out on the couch and Kirihara is curled up on the floor close by Renji, who lies down on the futon nearest him, sighing heavily, exhaustion and elation finally taking their due.
Marui collapses onto the futon by Sanada’s feet. Yagyuu and Niou are beside him, on another and Yukimura sits placidly on the one in the middle, his eyes moving from the futon to Sanada, inviting him with one look.
It’s late, Sanada thinks, and it means nothing. He unzips his uniform jacket and the cool air of the air conditioning makes him shiver, his arms sticky and a little sweaty from having walked in the early morning mugginess to Renji’s house from the bus stop. He lies down beside Yukimura and every pore of his body is aware of how close they are. Sanada doesn’t move. He can barely breathe. Yukimura shifts on top of the sheets. It’s too warm still, even to crawl under them, and Sanada is glad for that. One more layer of intimacy he is terrified of.
Marui, however, does crawl under the sheet of his futon, before rolling over. His snores are loud and wet. Sanada can see his mouth hanging wide open on the pillow, and the sheen of drool, too.
Yukimura rustles. Sanada cranes his head. “It’s too hot for these,” Yukimura says. He pulls his uniform pants off and lies back down, stretching his arms out above his head. “Aren’t you too warm, Sanada?” he whispers.
Sanada glances around the dark room. All of the other regulars have peeled off jackets and pants and Jackal and Kirihara have taken their shirts off too. The room smells heavily of sweat and lingering smoke from the karaoke bar. He swallows the lump in his throat and pulls his pants off carefully, worried that Yukimura might notice the strain between his legs. Sanada can’t ignore it, not with Yukimura so close, so close that Sanada can smell his deodorant and sweat and the fruity smell of whatever laundry soap his mother washes his headband in. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, willing himself to sleep before he does something foolish like try to touch himself, or try to touch Yukimura.
The bus was one thing, but here, in the dark, on a futon?
No.
The slight murmuring subsides, moment by moment, until they lapse into silence in the dark room. Light shines through the big windows, but even Sanada’s eyelids are heavy with sleep. Lying here, on a lumpy bed, but a bed nonetheless, his body feels the toll of today, the toll of the past few days and he can feel himself start to drift…
Until he hears Niou gasp. “Don’t!” Niou hisses, his voice breathy and panting. “Yagyuu…”
Sanada’s eyes go wide when he hears something that he suspects he really should not be hearing at all. The moans from Yagyuu, the strange sound of saliva on skin, of Niou gasping again, rustling of fabric and then a groan.
He prays he isn’t the only person awake. But no one else says anything to stop them. Sanada curses them all, especially Renji, who would be far better as saying “Stop doing that,” that Sanada ever could, not without sputtering and going red in the face. Tennis, fine, but not…
He can’t help himself when he shifts, inch by inch, to see exactly what Yagyuu is doing. He strains to see in the dim shadows, but he can easily make out Yagyuu, sprawled across Niou, his glasses thrown off somewhere. Niou’s shirt has ridden up, exposing pale skin that Yagyuu licks, his tongue swirling around, leaving shiny marks that sparkle in the moonlight filtering in through the window.
Niou’s hands are in Yaguu’s hair. “Stop!” he insists, but it doesn’t sound very convincing, now when his command turns into an extended moan.
And then Yukimura coughs loudly.
“I think you should go to sleep Yagyuu, Niou,” he whispers, loud enough to be heard across the room. “Save that for some other time, please.”
Sanada rolls over and stares, wide-eyed at Yukimura. “You’re awake?” he mouths.
“Yes,” Yukimura whispers. Someone stirs beside them. Renji mutters mathematics and scenarios and scores softly under his breath, but the only bit Sanada hears is “love-fifteen”. The futon shifts as Yukimura crawls off of it and stands up, stretching his arms above his head. He tiptoes between their sleeping teammates and opens the door into the hallway.
Sanada follows him.
It must be four in the morning at least. No one else is awake anymore. Renji’s house hums with the buzz of dehumidifiers and air purifiers and the air conditioning. The sound of crickets chirping outside and Yukimura’s footsteps through the hallway override everything else. Sanada worries that Yukimura will collapse, that Yukimura will start to vomit, that Yukimura will fall to pieces if no one is there to support him.
Yukimura leans against the wall and waits for Sanada. His eyes are wide and shiny and his hair falls across his face without his headband. Sanada wants to brush it away, but he could never, ever be that forward with Yukimura, like this.
When Yukimura’s hand reaches out to brush his bangs from his eyes, Sanada wonders if he is the one who will fall to pieces. He closes his eyes and whispers, “Yukimura…”. Fingers on his lips stop him from saying anything else, and then Yukimura clenches his hands on Sanada’s t-shirt and pulls their bodies closer. Their noses brush and Sanada’s eyes fly open enough to see Yukimura, so close, smiling as their lips touch.
Every feeling, every accidental touch before, is magnified a hundred times, and a hundred times more as dry lips brush over his, again and again, teasing and smiling, growing bolder as Sanada’s knees turn to tokoroten jelly.
“There,” Yukimura says. He sighs against Sanada’s mouth, his breath hot and warm and tasting of ponta from the karaoke bar. “I’ve served, Genichirou. Aren’t you going to start returning?” He hums, his fingers touching Sanada’s neck, Sanada’s hairline, Sanada’s lips again. “Isn’t this what you want?”
“Yukimura…” Sanada turns and their cheeks touch, slowly, slowly moving his face until they kiss. Yukimura’s hand curls around the back of his neck and pulls Sanada towards him. Sanada doesn’t know what he’s doing, or how to do this and Yukimura leads him, their mouths opening, Yukimura’s tongue sliding between his lips and his teeth until their tongues meet, slow and steady. Yukimura’s arms tighten around Sanada. He gasps into the kiss, his body shaking, his knees threatening to buckle as shivers run down his back.
They have won the Nationals, and Sanada feels he has won all over again.
Yukimura pulls back, licking his bottom lip and smiling softly. His hand trails down Sanada’s arm until their fingertips meet, the barest of motions, and Yukimura leads him back to Renji’s family room. With the door closed, they lie back down on the futon. It feels colder than before and Yukimura pulls the sheet over their bodies as he moves close to Sanada. They share the same pillow, facing each other under the thin cotton sheet. Yukimura curls his arm around Sanada’s head and pulls him to his chest. Sanada lies there, breathing in Yukimura’s scent, of soap and deodorant and sweat and smoke and even the metallic tang of the victory medal, until he falls asleep.
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Sanada aims for the Nationals. And more...Yukimura/Sanada.
At the start of the matches, Yukimura and Tezuka meet on court. They shake hands and speak quietly. Kirihara strains in his seat and leans over Sanada. “What are they saying? That we’ll beat the shit out of them?”
“Akaya,” Jackal says, pulling Kirihara back off Sanada.
Singles 3. Sanada plays the first match of the day against Fuji Shuusuke. He had thought that Fuji would play singles 2 and that he would have a chance to observe a couple games first. Instead, he is the one to set the pace of the finals.
Fuji Shuusuke is good. Better than when Sanada saw him play Kirihara at the Regionals. His step is faster, his shots are more daring and unexpected, and there is a hint of violence in the spins and slices of his balls. They graze Sanada’s legs, Sanada’s arms too many times.
Has Seigaku’s tensai learned something from Akaya? he thinks, as he backhands a return deep towards Fuji’s baseline. It’s too low for a triple counter, even the Higuma Otoshi, and Sanada smiles when Fuji strains too his small frame far and skids across the court, missing the ball by a couple inches.
Game, Sanada 7-5.
He’s played better opponents before. Atobe. Echizen. Yukimura. But despite this, his heart is racing and his body feels slow and sluggish, the game settling into his bones as he walks up to the net to shake Fuji’s hand.
Fuji smiles, so different from his narrow-eyed determination during the game. “Good game,” he says sweetly.
Sanada nods.
He takes his seat in the bleachers as Yanagi and Marui walk onto the court. Marui shoves the last of his cake into his mouth and wipes the back of his hand across his face to clear the crumbs. Yukimura tells them something from the bench. It feels odd not to be benchcoach after doing it so many times this season. Not that Sanada ever said much, or encouraged Rikkai with the cheers and smiles and positive words that Seiagku does. Rikkai has discipline. Discipline wins, not the honeyed words of an old woman.
Yukimura puts Renji in doubles 2 on purpose. Seigaku’s Inui stands across the court, with the boy who wears bandanas and hits a powerful buggy whip shot. This time they face off in doubles, but it turns into a rematch of sorts, Inui versus Yanagi, the old doubles pair. Sanada watches the ball whiz across the court. Yanagi controls the pace and Marui follows. Inui controls his side.
It is singles, played with four people.
Inui-Kaidoh pair have more experience and in the end, Yanagi and Marui lose 6-4 when Marui fails miserably against Kaidoh’s legendary stamina.
“Their combination wasn’t as strong as Yukimura had thought,” Jackal mutters. “Marui’s volleys were off and his rising shot couldn’t handle the buggy whip since I normally do instead. He got tired trying to return all of them.”
Sanada grunts. “We won’t lose to Seigaku again.”
Kirihara loses singles 2 to Echizen.
Yukimura says “You played a noble game, Akaya,” loud enough that Sanada can hear the words clearly. Kirihara may have lost, but he sits next to Sanada, sitting as tall and pleased with himself as though he’d lead the team to victory himself.
His eyes are tinged with pink, but Echizen still stands, no bruises, no concussions. Kirihara hasn’t fully learned to control his strength, but he’s getting better. Sanada stares at Kirihara from underneath the shade of his cap. Kirihara smiles and chuckles, exhausted and out of breath. “I’ll slaughter him next year,” he says. “As buchou.”
Sanada stiffens. He hopes that Akaya is joking. Kirihara only makes it worse when he adds, “Yukimura-buchou was telling me I should be the one to lead Rikkai next year. And then I’ll have three Nationals under my belt, too.”
Sanada is glad that he won’t be there to witness Kirihara in any sort of leadership role.
The court heats up in doubles 1 and the sun shines directly overhead, hot and glaring. Yagyuu’s glasses shine like laser beams as he serves. The Golden Pair wants a rematch, but Rikkai’s doubles 1 won’t concede. Sanada knows Kikumaru, especially, has improved with the Senbatsu camp and Goodwill Games, but not enough. When Seigaku improves, Rikkai exceeds them still.
Sanada waits for the trickster to start to pull the aces from his sleeve. Seigaku does too. No switches come mid-game. Yagyuu doesn’t hit Kikumaru in the face. Oishi takes a hit to the knee, but even Sanada can admit that it was his own carelessness at missing the shot that caused it; Niou probably didn’t cause it intentionally.
Rikkai leads 5 games to 3. Switch court. Oishi to serve. He serves deep and sure toward the baseline, where Yagyuu hits it back. Kikumaru jumps across the court and flies parallel to the net. “Hoi!” he calls, as the ball hits the sweet spot of his racket and bounces.
0-15, Seigaku.
Yagyuu slams his racket on the court. The crowd shuts up, the echo of the sound an iron curtain of silence. “Would you shut up with the hois?” he shouts.
Niou’s toothy grin reflects the sun. Kikumaru stands in shock, unmoving until Oishi claps a hand on his shoulder and whispers something in his ear.
Seigaku’s concentration is lost. Rikkai sweeps the game and takes the set.
Singles 1. The moment everyone has been waiting for this season. The moment Seigaku has longed for, the moment Rikkai has hoped for.
Yukimura versus Seigaku’s Tezuka.
The stronger the opponent, the more meaningful the win.
Sanada steps down the bleacher seats. “I’ll be benchcoach,” he tells Yanagi. Yukimura doesn’t smile when Sanada walks onto the court and sits on the bench. He takes his jacket and track pants off, piling them up beside Sanada. He looks as stoic and serious as Tezuka, his mouth set in a thin line.
“Yukimura,” Sanada says.
Yukimura turns around, holding his racket. “Sanada,” he says evenly.
“Good l-”
“I don’t need that,” Yukimura says. He peels off his right wristweight, then his left. “I will win.”
Sanada holds his breath as Yukimura steps onto the court, speaking with Tezuka, their words lost to anyone but themselves. He holds his breath as Tezuka serves and when the first hit of Yukimura’s racket on the ball registers in his mind, he remembers to exhale.
For once the Rikkai cheerleaders are quiet. For once the Seigaku team has shut up.
Tezuka takes the first point, and his team erupts in applause. Sanada’s stomach sinks. Yukimura, he thinks.
Yukimura isn’t the one sweating on the court. Sanada peels his cap from his hair and wipes his forehead. Sweat stings his vision and dribbles down his nose as Yukimura serves. The game goes back and forth between the two. Whatever injury Tezuka had to his shoulder, it’s gone. Whatever Guillain-Barré did to ravage Yukimura’s body, it’s gone.
All Sanada can see is two boys, playing their best tennis ever. The speed is faster than anything he’s seen from Yukimura before, the shots are powerful. Tezuka struggles to return them, groaning his frustration and Yukimura grunts when he hits them back. The balls slam into the clay court. The zero shiki drop shot collapses to the ground by the net. Yukimura dives and hits it with the tip of his racket.
There is blood and sweat and dirt and dust and speed and power and it’s beautiful to watch this dance of tennis. This is no four-beat tango with Atobe, this is no three-minute set with Sengoku. Yukimura and Tezuka have created something that lives and pulses, back and forth, back and forth. Tie breaker. Point Tezuka, point Yukimura.
Until the 57th point. Yukimura is up one point. Sanada’s eyes go wide as he watches Yukimura’s knees start to crumple under him. He jumps off the bench just as Yukimura lunges and hits the ball, so low that it skims the top of the net.
But it goes over.
And in.
A zero-shiki drop shot of his own, reached during this hazy state of self-actualization Yukimura has been playing in for the duration of the match.
They’ve won.
They all pour out to Yukimura. Kirihara is shouting and crying and grabbing at him, grinning from ear to ear. Jackal and Marui throw themselves into the pile. Niou jumps into the crowd, pulling Yagyuu along, who laughs louder than the rest of them. Renji pumps his fist in the air and pulls Sanada’s hat off his head, throwing it into the air. It soars above their heads, arcing in the blue, blue sky.
“Are you all right?” Sanada tries to shout at Yukimura. He can barely hear himself above the cheers and the clapping of the tennis club and the cheerleaders in the bleachers, and the shouting of the regulars.
Yukimura grins. “I was getting tired,” he mouths.
Sanada pulls Yukimura close to him, hugging him tighter than even Kirihara. He laughs and Yukimura laughs and he feels tears prick his eyes and he doesn’t care if he’s letting his guard down because they’ve done it!
Three years in a row.
Just as Yukimura had promised in freshman year.
***
“Let’s find a sushi bar,” Niou suggests.
No one disagrees. The elation from the win is high, although the gold medals weigh heavy around their necks. Yukimura’s hands keep moving to his collar, fingering the ribbon, lifting the medal and smiling to himself.
They wander the area around the stadium, a part of the city that Sanada doesn’t know very well. Their bodies may be tired, but Sanada feels more alive than ever. They hang off each other, laughing and grinning and saying “Wasn’t my serve great?” and “Didn’t my volley just blow Seigaku off balance?” and “My smash totally confused them!” Sanada can barely remember the games in this haze, only the moment of elation when that last ball skimmed the net and dropped over.
“Are you all right?” Sanada asks Yukimura, whose steps are slower than the rest. This lazy meandering through the streets, in search of sushi, may be slow, but Yukimura trails behind Yanagi, who brings up the rear of the group.
“My body is just tired, Sanada,” Yukimura says. “I haven’t played that hard in a long time.”
“It was a satisfying win,” Sanada says.
Yukimura stops in the middle of the sidewalk. He brings his fist up to Sanada’s chin. “Of course,” he says. “I’ve been waiting to play Tezuka for a long time.”
Sanada’s skin still hums where Yukimura touched it by the time Niou and Marui find a sushi shop that suits them. He rubs his thumb absently under his chin, touching Yukimura back by proxy.
They order platters of mixed sushi. Marui grabs the biggest pieces first, chowing down before any one else has even lifted their chopsticks or fingers. The sushi shop is crowded with salarymen, arriving after work. Through the windows, the amber glare of the low sun filters through bamboo shades, diffusing across the patrons inside. Sanada stretches out and grabs a piece of the eel sushi. His stomach growls. He hasn’t had a chance to think about eating much until now, it was just grab-and-go snacks between matches since this morning at the stadium. Now, he drinks back tea like it’s shots of alcohol, and pops sushi and cucumber rolls just as fast as Marui and Kirihara.
Niou has grown silent and still as they eat, spitting food, still talking about the game, about the win, about the ceremony and the brilliant array of fireworks and the glittering trophy, soon to be delivered to the Rikkai tennis club. Suspicious, Sanada watches him fish around in his tennis bag and grab a waterbottle, pouring it out into a cup for Yagyuu.
Yukimura notices, too, and he raises his eyebrows. Niou pulls out a can of beer. “Celebratory drink, buchou?” he offers.
Yukimura shakes his head. “No drinking for six weeks after my operation.” He gives an apologetic smile, but doesn’t sound too sorry.
“If the sushi chef catches you-” Sanada starts, but Marui drapes a shoulder across Sanada and blocks the view from the kitchen.
“Lighten up, Sanada,” he says. Kirihara bursts into laughter and grabs one of the cans from Niou’s bag, cracking the tab open with a loud pop and guzzling it.
“Ugh, this is disgusting!” Kirihara shouts, but he keeps drinking it, grimacing after each gulp.
“We’re underage!” Sanada hisses to Yukimura across the table. “Shouldn’t you stop them?” He glances over his shoulder. None of the other customers have noticed them, the loudest of the people in the shop. The place hums with activity, boys clearing tables and wiping spills, the sushi chefs shouting orders, knives shining and chopping, slicesliceslice. Glasses klink and customers speak. Dozens of droning voices combine, able to drown out the sounds of eight underage teenagers in tennis uniforms.
Yukimura shrugs. “Lighten up, Sanada,” he echoes, unable to hold back a grin.
Sanada sighs in defeat, and pops a piece of salmon sushi in his mouth, savouring the salty, savoury taste as Renji holds his cup out to Niou for some of the sake poured from a dark waterbottle.
“To victory,” Jackal says, holding out his cup. Eight glasses clink in toast, even Sanada, who holds up his tea. Marui gulps his shot and falls backwards laughing. Were it any other night, he would do something. But for once, he thinks maybe he ought to lighten up just a little.
He doesn’t take the alcohol away. But he doesn’t drink it, either. He and Yukimura sit across from each other at the end of the table, ordering more platters of sushi when they run low, and more tea for themselves, and Renji, too, after what seems to be his third drink.
“How many has Yagyuu had now?” Yukimura asks Renji, when Yagyuu knocks his glass over and laughs louder than Kirihara.
Renji shrugs. “Judging from his impaired judgment and slurred speech, five or six.” Niou pours Yagyuu another drink, his own hand sloppy with the waterbottle. “Seven now,” Renji says.
Marui faceplants in the wasabisushi. Jackal pulls him up to his feet and they disappear into the bathrooms laughing uncontrollably. Sanada frowns and sips his tea. A group of businessmen behind them have started to point and whisper at their team. When Yagyuu shouts at the top of his lungs, “Fuck Seigaku!” one of the sushi chefs from the kitchen comes out and asks them to leave. Yukimura smiles and agrees, polite as ever, but Sanada can only feel his face on fire with embarrassment for the team.
“Idiots!” he shouts as they stumble onto the sidewalk. “What the hell were you thinking in there?”
Niou ignores him and says, “Let’s find a KARAOKE BAR!” He points down the street and starts to run. The half-empty bottles of liquor clank in his tennis bag. Yagyuu runs up to Niou as grabs onto his back, and they grapple on the street, laughing and giggling like freshmen girls. Sanada stares for a long moment because he never thought he’d hear that sound from Yagyuu. Ever.
Yukimura laughs beside him as they walk quickly to keep up with Niou and Yagyuu, who have been joined by Kirihara, rushing blindly through the evening pedestrians. “Yagyuu certainly seems…”
“To be a loud drunk,” Renji finishes.
“Yes,” Sanada says.
The city is beautiful at night in this part. Blinking neon signs of yellow and blue characters and letters and American brand names flash overhead along with sparkling officetowers and highrises, alit from within. They turn a block west, then two north. Niou and Yagyuu and Kirihara don’t seem to care where they go. Marui walks into a garbage bin and has Jackal carry him until they find a dingy karaoke joint.
Inside it is smoky and smells even stronger of alcohol than they already do. Yukimura books a room and Niou has hooked up the karaoke machine before Sanada closes the door behind them all.
He doesn’t want to remember the karaoke. It passes in a blur of bad English lyrics and corny ballads and Yukimura prodding him to sing another duet with Kirihara that requires too many long notes and Sanada’s voice cracks and Kirihara prances around too much and hits his head on a table. Yagyuu and Niou drink more, sharing the last of the sake bottles, and then Yagyuu sings a song in even worse English, loud and slurred and doubled over with laughter before he can finish.
At some point Jackal dances on the table, shaking his hips Brazilian-style. At some point Marui vomits into a garbage can, then asks Niou for another beer. At some point Yagyuu loses his glasses and when Sanada retrieves them from behind a chair, they don’t sit right on his face, all cock-eyed and off-balance.
At some point, Yukimura sits beside Sanada, sliding up beside him at the end of the couch. The rest of the couch is empty, save for Kirihara crawling off the other end and helping himself to Niou’s never-ending stash in his tennis bag. Sanada stiffens when Yukimura touches his leg. “It’s after two, Sanada,” he says. “We ought to go home soon.”
Renji must hear them because he glances over to Yagyuu, now slithering across the floor as Niou claps and says, “You’re Seigaku’s Mamushi, Hiroshi- slither like a snake!”
Renji says, “I’ll call home and see if we can all stay there. There is a very minute chance that Yagyuu’s parents would be happy to see him in this state.” A loud smash makes them all look to Kirihara, who sits stunned for a moment, the broken glass of a bottle lying on the ground beside him.
“Or Akaya’s parents,” Yukimura says.
***
The van that drove them this morning- yesterday morning- has long since gone. Sanada is the first on the bus, and pays their fares. He doubts that Yagyuu or Kirihara or Marui would realize they’d need to.
It is so late that they take the first morning bus, but it might as well be the night before, because the city is still dark and sleepy. The bus driver yawns and mutters “Kids these days…” as they lurch into their seats. The bus is empty save for them, and Sanada is glad that no one else has to see them.
The feeling of embarrassment, however, is tiny compared to the fullness in his heart, the medal resting under his uniform t-shirt against his skin. He touches the ribbon, making sure it is still there, still real, and he smiles a little to himself.
“Isn’t it a bit late for this?” Yukimura asks as he lifts Sanada’s cap from his head. Yukimura sits in the seat next to him, and sets the cap on his lap. Sanada pats down his flyaway hairs and Yukimura laughs at him, softly. His laughter is punctuated with a wide yawn.
They have a long bus ride back to the part of Kanagawa where Renji lives, near Rikkai Dai Fuzoku. Sanada has called his parents with the laconic excuse that Renji’s house is faster to get to and he’s tired. He doesn’t want them to smell the alcohol on his clothes. Yagyuu and Marui spilled a few too many drinks on him over the course of the night.
The city is a black blur beyond the bright fluorescent glow inside the bus. Sanada shifts in his seat and brings his legs up, shoving himself into a comfortable ball against the back of Renji’s seat in front of him. Yukimura shifts beside him, too, until he sighs and leans his head on Sanada’s shoulder. Sanada starts to sit up, but Yukimura murmurs, “Just stay, Sanada” and curls closer.
Sanada’s heart beats so hard and loud against his ribs; he knows Yukimura must feel it throughout his body. But Yukimura doesn’t say anything. Instead he just sits and smiles and closes his eyes until his breathing is deep and even.
The shine of gold peeks out from under his uniform jacket. Sanada can feel Yukimura’s breathing stirring his hair, warm and ticklish.
No one else notices them. Kirihara’s head is thrown back and he snores softly across the aisle. Yagyuu and Niou sit near the front of the bus, Niou’s head starting to loll and Yagyuu has finally shut up, although his eyes are red and glazed behind his glasses. Marui and Jackal sit quietly, Marui doubled over and moaning that his stomach hurts from the sushi and the beer.
Renji, right in front of Sanada, stares out the window, smiling to himself in that state of half-consciousness, restful and mellow. He must be able to see the reflection of everyone else on the bus in the window.
Lighten up, Sanada.
Sanada sucks in a breath and stretches his arm out. It happens to conveniently slide behind Yukimura’s shoulders and his fingers happen to conveniently curl around Yukimura’s neck, grazing the soft skin and the silky hair, touching the ribbon of the medal, too. Yukimura sighs again.
Sanada doesn’t think Yukimura is asleep anymore, but he pretends because Yukimura is pretending and Yukimura hasn’t moved away yet, but seems to inch even closer, his fingertips reaching across Sanada’s chest. Sanada tightens his grip. It’s more than casual, it’s more than a hug, more like an embrace.
It makes his heart beat faster still, this new game that he doesn’t quite understand how to play, but one that he wants to win just as much as the Nationals championship.
***
Renji’s mother, Sanada thinks, is far too nice to eight boys, drunk on victory and alcohol. She doesn’t say much as Marui stumbles in and Niou half-drags Yagyuu, who slurs a thanks, honorary and all, at Renji’s mother.
“Try to be quiet, Renji,” she tells them as she flicks the lightswitch off. “We’re sleeping upstairs.”
There aren’t enough futons to go around and the ones spread out on the floor smell musty and old and unused. Sanada helps Renji push a low table against the wall, giving them a bit more room. Jackal has passed out on the couch and Kirihara is curled up on the floor close by Renji, who lies down on the futon nearest him, sighing heavily, exhaustion and elation finally taking their due.
Marui collapses onto the futon by Sanada’s feet. Yagyuu and Niou are beside him, on another and Yukimura sits placidly on the one in the middle, his eyes moving from the futon to Sanada, inviting him with one look.
It’s late, Sanada thinks, and it means nothing. He unzips his uniform jacket and the cool air of the air conditioning makes him shiver, his arms sticky and a little sweaty from having walked in the early morning mugginess to Renji’s house from the bus stop. He lies down beside Yukimura and every pore of his body is aware of how close they are. Sanada doesn’t move. He can barely breathe. Yukimura shifts on top of the sheets. It’s too warm still, even to crawl under them, and Sanada is glad for that. One more layer of intimacy he is terrified of.
Marui, however, does crawl under the sheet of his futon, before rolling over. His snores are loud and wet. Sanada can see his mouth hanging wide open on the pillow, and the sheen of drool, too.
Yukimura rustles. Sanada cranes his head. “It’s too hot for these,” Yukimura says. He pulls his uniform pants off and lies back down, stretching his arms out above his head. “Aren’t you too warm, Sanada?” he whispers.
Sanada glances around the dark room. All of the other regulars have peeled off jackets and pants and Jackal and Kirihara have taken their shirts off too. The room smells heavily of sweat and lingering smoke from the karaoke bar. He swallows the lump in his throat and pulls his pants off carefully, worried that Yukimura might notice the strain between his legs. Sanada can’t ignore it, not with Yukimura so close, so close that Sanada can smell his deodorant and sweat and the fruity smell of whatever laundry soap his mother washes his headband in. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, willing himself to sleep before he does something foolish like try to touch himself, or try to touch Yukimura.
The bus was one thing, but here, in the dark, on a futon?
No.
The slight murmuring subsides, moment by moment, until they lapse into silence in the dark room. Light shines through the big windows, but even Sanada’s eyelids are heavy with sleep. Lying here, on a lumpy bed, but a bed nonetheless, his body feels the toll of today, the toll of the past few days and he can feel himself start to drift…
Until he hears Niou gasp. “Don’t!” Niou hisses, his voice breathy and panting. “Yagyuu…”
Sanada’s eyes go wide when he hears something that he suspects he really should not be hearing at all. The moans from Yagyuu, the strange sound of saliva on skin, of Niou gasping again, rustling of fabric and then a groan.
He prays he isn’t the only person awake. But no one else says anything to stop them. Sanada curses them all, especially Renji, who would be far better as saying “Stop doing that,” that Sanada ever could, not without sputtering and going red in the face. Tennis, fine, but not…
He can’t help himself when he shifts, inch by inch, to see exactly what Yagyuu is doing. He strains to see in the dim shadows, but he can easily make out Yagyuu, sprawled across Niou, his glasses thrown off somewhere. Niou’s shirt has ridden up, exposing pale skin that Yagyuu licks, his tongue swirling around, leaving shiny marks that sparkle in the moonlight filtering in through the window.
Niou’s hands are in Yaguu’s hair. “Stop!” he insists, but it doesn’t sound very convincing, now when his command turns into an extended moan.
And then Yukimura coughs loudly.
“I think you should go to sleep Yagyuu, Niou,” he whispers, loud enough to be heard across the room. “Save that for some other time, please.”
Sanada rolls over and stares, wide-eyed at Yukimura. “You’re awake?” he mouths.
“Yes,” Yukimura whispers. Someone stirs beside them. Renji mutters mathematics and scenarios and scores softly under his breath, but the only bit Sanada hears is “love-fifteen”. The futon shifts as Yukimura crawls off of it and stands up, stretching his arms above his head. He tiptoes between their sleeping teammates and opens the door into the hallway.
Sanada follows him.
It must be four in the morning at least. No one else is awake anymore. Renji’s house hums with the buzz of dehumidifiers and air purifiers and the air conditioning. The sound of crickets chirping outside and Yukimura’s footsteps through the hallway override everything else. Sanada worries that Yukimura will collapse, that Yukimura will start to vomit, that Yukimura will fall to pieces if no one is there to support him.
Yukimura leans against the wall and waits for Sanada. His eyes are wide and shiny and his hair falls across his face without his headband. Sanada wants to brush it away, but he could never, ever be that forward with Yukimura, like this.
When Yukimura’s hand reaches out to brush his bangs from his eyes, Sanada wonders if he is the one who will fall to pieces. He closes his eyes and whispers, “Yukimura…”. Fingers on his lips stop him from saying anything else, and then Yukimura clenches his hands on Sanada’s t-shirt and pulls their bodies closer. Their noses brush and Sanada’s eyes fly open enough to see Yukimura, so close, smiling as their lips touch.
Every feeling, every accidental touch before, is magnified a hundred times, and a hundred times more as dry lips brush over his, again and again, teasing and smiling, growing bolder as Sanada’s knees turn to tokoroten jelly.
“There,” Yukimura says. He sighs against Sanada’s mouth, his breath hot and warm and tasting of ponta from the karaoke bar. “I’ve served, Genichirou. Aren’t you going to start returning?” He hums, his fingers touching Sanada’s neck, Sanada’s hairline, Sanada’s lips again. “Isn’t this what you want?”
“Yukimura…” Sanada turns and their cheeks touch, slowly, slowly moving his face until they kiss. Yukimura’s hand curls around the back of his neck and pulls Sanada towards him. Sanada doesn’t know what he’s doing, or how to do this and Yukimura leads him, their mouths opening, Yukimura’s tongue sliding between his lips and his teeth until their tongues meet, slow and steady. Yukimura’s arms tighten around Sanada. He gasps into the kiss, his body shaking, his knees threatening to buckle as shivers run down his back.
They have won the Nationals, and Sanada feels he has won all over again.
Yukimura pulls back, licking his bottom lip and smiling softly. His hand trails down Sanada’s arm until their fingertips meet, the barest of motions, and Yukimura leads him back to Renji’s family room. With the door closed, they lie back down on the futon. It feels colder than before and Yukimura pulls the sheet over their bodies as he moves close to Sanada. They share the same pillow, facing each other under the thin cotton sheet. Yukimura curls his arm around Sanada’s head and pulls him to his chest. Sanada lies there, breathing in Yukimura’s scent, of soap and deodorant and sweat and smoke and even the metallic tang of the victory medal, until he falls asleep.