Happy Santa_Smex, goldie!
To: goldie
From:marksykins
Title: Complimentary Angles
Recipient's name: goldie
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Fuji/Inui
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.
Author's Notes: One non-creepy, genius-y, semi-public-loving, fumbling-about Fuji for you, Goldie. Because you've been so good this year. *adjusts glasses*
Inui starts it. He doesn't mean to, but somehow Inui knows this thing between him and Fuji is all his fault.
High school is about what Inui had expected -- too many people concerned with uninteresting things, too many boys obsessed with too many girls, too much gossip, and too much stupidity. Inui records what he sees, but he does it more out of habit than interest. Fuji is hardly uninteresting, though, and he's never anything Inui expects. They've ended up in the same Advanced Geometry section, and Fuji is the only person Inui really speaks to in the class, so it seems logical to ask him to run proofs with him.
"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Fuji asks with a smile.
Inui flips through notebook pages, trying to figure out exactly what it is kids say. Whatever it is, he doesn't think it has anything to do with geometry proofs. On the other hand, he is a kid and he mentioned proofs--
"Inui," Fuji says and puts his hand on Inui's arm, making Inui look up again, "it's a joke."
"Ah. Of course." Inui twitches his nose, jerking his eyeglasses back into place. "Do you know where I live?"
Fuji nods. "I'll be there with bells on."
Data indicates there is only a twenty-two percent chance that Fuji owns anything with bells, and that means Inui will have to update everything on Fuji all over--
"It's just a saying!" Fuji calls merrily, waving as he disappears down the hall.
Ah. So that's what the kids are saying these days.
+
Fuji is gracious when Inui's mother brings up a tray of snacks and juice (the normal kind, ignoring Inui's insistence that the Brilliant A. I. Power Mix in the refrigerator would be ideal for studying), but seems more intent on examining Inui's bedroom than refreshments. He touches Inui's desk, his computer, the shelves of data.
"How long have you known me, Inui?" Fuji studies the coded equations scrawled on Inui's walls.
"Three years, eleven days, and approximately two hours," Inui answers instantly.
"And you'd say we were friends, wouldn't you?"
This line of questioning seems unusual even for Fuji. "Yes," says Inui after a much longer pause, "I would say we were."
"I've never been in your room before."
Inui shrugs and puts down the tray on the floor in front of his bed. "I've never seen yours, either."
Fuji smiles. "No, I suppose you haven't." He sits down on Inui's floor, pushing aside a stack of tennis magazines to make room, and takes a handful of shichimi chips. Inui joins him, situating himself so the tray is between them and gets to work on their assignment.
It's pleasant enough doing homework side-by-side in silence, Inui supposes, even though he's typically used to working at his desk or on his bed. Of course, it's been a very long time since his mother last prepared him any sort of after school snack, so there are tradeoffs. Inui thoughtfully taps his protractor against his chin; he supposes it's also been a rather long time since he's had any guests over. Though it doesn't really matter since it never occurs to him to ask.
"Done!" Fuji declares, throwing down his pencil and smiling so widely his eyes aren't visible at all. Inui still has one problem to complete so he doesn't bother mentioning the crumb stuck to Fuji's chin, especially since Fuji's method of waiting for Inui to catch up involves leaning across the tray and reading over Inui's shoulder. "Oh," he murmurs under his breath, clucking his tongue as Inui plots a point on graph paper.
Inui looks up again, and now Fuji's smiling face is eight-point-five centimeters from his. "Do you mind?"
"No," says Fuji without moving. "Do you?"
Inui looks down and sees his mistake, scowling as he erases the point and draws it again, a mark against the paper so dark that he nearly tears right through it. Then he takes a deep breath and schools his expression into a neutral one before facing Fuji again. "We should compare work."
"Okay," says Fuji, and hands Inui his papers. The crumb is gone. Inui passes over the graph paper and notebook he's been writing in and tries not to say anything as Fuji idly flips through the pages before even looking at Inui's assignment. Inui is pleased when he spots an error in Fuji's second problem set, less so when Fuji finds two mistakes in Inui's third. They debate the best solution for the fourth one, Fuji finally conceding defeat after Inui recites half a chapter from his translation of Euclid's Elements.
It's fun to argue this way, and Inui is grinning when they switch assignments again.
"My room is bigger than yours," Fuji says, his hand still on Inui's notebook even as Inui tries taking it back.
Inui raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Mm." Fuji loosens his grip on the notebook, waiting until it's safely in Inui's lap again before leaning over the tray again to draw on a fresh sheet. "It's more square than this room," he tells Inui, drawing a square room with crude representations of a bed, desk, and bureau. "I have more sunlight, though I like that your desk is near your window. My window has a lot of cactus plants. I collect them--"
"I knew that," Inui interrupts, though he keeps his eyes glued on the page as Fuji sketches a smiley cactus above the room square. It has a flower. He makes a mental note to catalog Fuji's artistic skills the next time he updates his data.
Fuji draws a tennis racquet. "I keep fewer tennis magazines than you, and I'm not a slob."
"Hey," Inui protests.
"I don't draw on my walls. I have a full length mirror that my sister uses more often than I do. My room is big because I used to share it." He draws another rectangle bed into the empty side of the room, using lighter strokes. "I don't anymore."
Inui looks up at that and finds Fuji watching him again. Now their faces are seven centimeters apart, close enough that Inui can count Fuji's eyelashes if he wants. He sort of wants to. One, he thinks, distracted when Fuji wets his lips. Inui's stomach drops in a way he wants to explain but can't, and he clutches the sides of his notebook with both hands, hard enough that he resists on instinct when Fuji pulls it away.
It's lucky their cups are empty because Fuji knocks them over as he shoves the tray aside, and by then Inui is too distracted by Fuji scrambling into his lap to observe anything else.
Inui knows how he should act -- he should be disgusted by this because Fuji is a guy, because this isn't natural.
He watches, doing nothing as Fuji's fingers stroke slowly over the sides of his face, over the arms of his glasses to pull them off.
He should be disgusted because Fuji assumes Inui is also like that, a piece of Fuji's data that Inui definitely didn't have before.
Fuji throws Inui's glasses onto the bed and leans over, his hair tickling the sides of Inui's face, settling his full weight onto Inui's thighs.
He should at least be polite as he turns Fuji down for the mistaken assumption.
Inui's hands slide up Fuji's legs, fingers curling around his hips as he tilts his head back to rest against his mattress. Fuji smiles and wets his lips again, and the burn in Inui's chest as Fuji kisses him is like a neverending rally when all the air has gone out of his lungs.
"Inui," Fuji murmurs against his lips, "you're my friend, too."
Inui wants to tell Fuji how weird he is, but he knows that's the pot calling the kettle black, and besides now he just wants to occupy his mouth in other ways. Fuji's knees push into Inui's legs so hard they ache, an ache forgotten as Fuji grabs the sleeve of Inui's t-shirt and topples them over so Inui's back hits the floor and Fuji is still straddling him, Fuji is rocking against him.
"Fuji," Inui says, breaking away, though his voice is twenty-eight percent breathier than he'd anticipated and his eyes are closed. He means to roll them over, roll Fuji off, but he rolls his hips instead and his tongue goes numb before the no, stop can come out, and then it doesn't matter because Fuji kisses him again, licking the numbness right out of Inui's mouth. "Fuji," he says again when they have to breathe, and that makes Fuji suck on his neck. "Fuji," he says when he's pushing up and up and up, more and more, until he's shaking and finally remembering that his mother is still downstairs.
"So eloquent," Fuji replies as he moves again, closing his eyes on a prolonged shudder. Inui watches him and thinks it's really, really pretty because Fuji is right; the eloquence has gone right out of him.
Their homework is all over the place. The food is all over the place. Inui feels like he's all over the place, little points of Inui plotted randomly and searching for a sine curve.
Fuji moves away. Inui finds his glasses and slides them back into place, making him feel a little more whole. "Do you do that with all your friends?" he jokes, plucking at the front of his pants.
"Do you have a towel?" Fuji replies, smiling.
+
Fuji doesn't turn around to speak to Inui before class, but even though Fuji made a quick exit from Inui's house, somehow Inui knows that Fuji isn't angry at him. He's studied Fuji long enough to know that when Fuji wants Inui to know something, then Inui will. It's the stuff Fuji doesn't want Inui to know that's always been the problem.
When Tsukahara-sensei calls class to order, they discuss the homework and Fuji and Inui completely dominate the conversation, even though Fuji still doesn't turn around.
"Good work, you two," the teacher tells them, and Fuji quotes Euclid in response. Inui smiles down at his desk, and when he looks up again, still smiling, Fuji is turned all the way around in his chair. He blinks at Inui, eyes wide and blue, one corner of his mouth quirked. Something about this strikes Inui as more genuine than Fuji's regular expression, and Inui wonders if his data isn't all that incomplete.
So Inui supposes he's passed, even though he hadn't been aware they were playing a game. But that's always the way with Fuji -- of course it's a game; Inui should have recognized it sooner.
The tone signaling the end of class sounds. Inui gathers up his things without a word or glance in Fuji's direction. There really isn't any time between classes for socializing, which is why Inui makes the decision not to go to his next lesson. The high school is larger than the junior high, a labyrinth of corridors that Inui memorized before the first day, and as he weaves around students, twists left and right, he knows Fuji is following him. He can feel it, instinctively, knows that if he turns around and looks, Fuji will disappear like Eurydice with a choice.
Inui stops at the haunted bathroom -- not actually haunted, just a problem with the plumbing, but that's data Inui won't share as long as the room offers relative privacy -- and tilts his head to one side, still without looking back. He pushes open the door.
"Coming?" Inui asks.
"Hopefully," Fuji's voice replies, echoing in the now-empty hallway.
Inui chuckles. The door swings shut behind them.
+
Tennis tryouts a few days later are far more relaxing than Inui had anticipated. He'd thought he'd be nervous starting all over, like being twelve again, but he hadn't towered over upperclassmen then, hadn't been one-ninth of a national-level team then, couldn't even officially tryout then, not like he can here. Plus, Inui has had a lot of orgasms with another person in the past week and even all his theoretical calculations and projections on that can't compare to real results.
Inui makes notes about the high school players, jotting down blatant weaknesses in form and followthrough, and thinks about how none of these were obvious the last time the older kids were on his team. He predicts he will be a regular within two months -- and that's a generous estimate.
"Weren't they scarier when we were younger?"
Inui adjusts his glasses and hides a smile. "Fuji. When were you scared of anyone?"
"Oh, everyone is scared of something, Inui."
Fuji walks beside Inui as they continue the circle around practice, hands clasped behind his back and occasionally kicking up dirt like a little kid. If Inui's self-training has been specifically geared toward making him more intimidating, Fuji's method must be the exact opposite. Inui often spends time trying to guess Fuji's training regiment and never gets anywhere with it, and going on sight alone Fuji looks delicate and weak. But Inui has witnessed fire on the court, and he's been pinned to floors and walls by Fuji's little hands. It's all an act, and even if Inui isn't getting the whole picture, he's ridiculously grateful for the pinhole glances. Fuji nudges his side.
"Yes?" Inui asks.
Fuji grins at him. "You haven't written anything in two-point-five minutes."
"Ah." Inui looks down at the blank page. "I suppose there's nothing worth writing down."
"Oi! Hey, you two!"
Two older students in regular jackets yell to them, racquets resting on their shoulders. Inui recognizes them as the third years that played first doubles most often when he was a first year; they also played doubles last year for Seigaku High School. They lost the city prefecturals.
"You two were on the famous championship team, right? Do you play doubles?"
Fuji and Inui look at each other. They do, though not with each other, or they haven't before -- but Kaidoh still has the middle school's title to defend and Kawamura isn't playing anymore. Besides, they've both played with other partners, too. Inui quickly calculates their odds.
"What do you think?" Fuji asks.
Inui finds he lacks data, but his palms itch the way they always do when he wants to play. "The answer to both of their queries is yes, Fuji."
"So are we playing?" The older students look impatient.
"Oh, we always are," Fuji tells them and goes off in search of his bag.
It's a rout. Inui knows his combination with Fuji isn't perfect; there are holes in their formations big enough to drive a truck through. But just because Inui can see it -- and judging by the way Fuji is running back and forth across the court, so can he -- doesn't mean their opponents can. Inui's serve has improved another three kilometers per hour since he increased repetitions with his hand weights, and when Fuji needs to counter a move, it's effortless. Inui has no desire to take data on the other team, but he nearly runs for his notebook twice as Fuji volleys. Inui wants to play Fuji soon, one-on-one, even though it's probable he'll be defeated.
"I still want your data," he tells Fuji as they change courts.
Fuji taps the frame of his racquet against his palm. "Is that all you want from me?"
Well. No, it's not.
When their opponents finally collapse, the score is 6-2. They walk over to the net to shake hands with the upperclassmen, but when their only response is heavy breathing and two identical leg twitches, they shrug at each other and walk off toward the clubhouse.
"How is Kaidoh?" Fuji asks out of the blue.
Inui hitches his bag up on his shoulder. "Fine," Inui says slowly. "Kaidoh has been working very hard. The last time we spoke he told me he wants the team to be as successful as it was last year and asked if I could continue preparing his training menus."
"As expected," Fuji smiles.
"Yes. He's very focused on tennis -- a girl in his class has been leaving him envelopes in his shoebox, but that hasn't led to anything."
Fuji stops walking. "He told you that?"
"Momoshiro did, actually. He called me." Inui pushes up his glasses with the back of his hand. "Kaidoh and I don't often discuss personal matters. It is not in our nature."
"You're discussing personal matters now."
Inui frowns. "How is Kawamura?" he asks, abruptly changing topics. "I haven't spoken with him in some time."
"Oh, preparing for a traditional existence. He trains at the restaurant every evening after school, and his father has introduced him to a very sweet family friend. She goes to Yamabuki, and they seem very happy." Fuji starts walking again. "Idyllic, even."
This is confusing, even though the message is clear enough: Everyone is normal but them. No one else is carrying on illicit homosexual affairs in bathrooms and over dodecahedrons, at least.
Inui jogs to catch up and holds open the door to the clubhouse. Tezuka is inside, unlacing his sneakers.
"Tezuka," Inui greets. He sits down next to him, somewhat relieved for the distraction from the conversation he and Fuji have been having. "I didn't see you play."
Tezuka doesn't look up. "I won my match quickly. You two make an interesting pair."
Fuji sits on Tezuka's other side. "You saw?"
"Part of it. Though you still need work before you'll be a viable combination."
"Mada mada dane, Inui?" says Fuji, grinning at him over Tezuka's shoulder.
Inui laughs. This is definitely easier; he still can't quite unravel what happened outside. Tezuka gets up and heads toward the showers, mostly ignoring them, though Inui observes the crease of annoyance that appears between his eyebrows.
"Would you want to play with us sometime, Tezuka?" Inui calls after him.
"No," Tezuka says without turning around, and Inui is pleased by Fuji's quiet laughter that follows.
+
"I can't see it," Inui mutters to Fuji in the library. He reads the problem again, but Fuji is no help; he has been systematically lining up a row of origami cranes instead of solving for the ratio of the sides of the triangle. Knowing Fuji, he's figured this out days ago and he's toying with Inui just because he can. Inui sighs and figures it's probably better he works it out for himself.
He rips a fresh piece of paper and folds one corner so it meets its opposite end. Fuji smiles at him and folds another crane with an encouraging nod. There are eight now, all of their heads angled toward Inui. It would be less unnerving if Fuji didn't dot little eyes on the sides of their heads. Inui draws a right triangle on his paper.
"Fuuuuuuuuji," someone whines in an exaggerated whisper. They both turn around as Kikumaru slings his arms over both their shoulders and leans in close. "I need help!"
"That's not news," Fuji replies, but he has a fond look on his face as he twists in his chair to face Kikumaru. Inui's forehead wrinkles up and his stomach twinges when he spots it, making him hastily turn back to his geometry homework.
Kikumaru rounds the table and sits across from them, throwing his bag down. "Mean," he says, sticking his tongue out. Fuji turns one crane in Kikumaru's direction.
"What's up?" Fuji asks.
Inui tries to concentrate on homework, but finds his eyes following as Fuji moves his hand off the table to rest it on his leg. Fuji's hands and legs provide sufficient distraction from math.
"The history assignment makes no sense." Kikumaru has his arm thrown dramatically across his face. "I read the whole chapter and I thought I had all the clans and battles straight, but the essay question is asking about dumb stuff the chapter didn't even cover! Did you start it?"
Fuji nods and rifles through his binder, using only one hand. Inui is baffled because Fuji would gain fifteen percent mobility if he used both hands for this task, instead of keeping one useless on his leg. Fuji slides a few pieces of handwritten paper across the table to Kikumaru with his right hand and slides his left hand into Inui's lap.
Inui breaks his pencil mid-quadratic equation. The prevalence of ambidexterity among Seigaku's tennis players wouldn't be so unnerving if Fuji had displayed it in any way other than this. Fuji works open Inui's zipper, while Inui tries hard not to look like anything at all is happening. He picks up another pencil.
"Did you do the supplemental reading?" Fuji asks Kikumaru.
Fuji's fingers slip beneath the waistband of Inui's underwear, curling around his dick, already hard with anticipation and familiarity, having no idea that they're in plain sight in the school library with a witness sitting across the table. Inui draws a tiny triangle over and over again.
Kikumaru and Fuji discuss the Edo period as Inui tries desperately to pretend like y2 is the most interesting thing in the world. His vision is a little blurry as Fuji flicks his wrist, not nearly enough fast enough or with enough pressure, so Kikumaru won't notice any unnecessary arm movement, or maybe too fast and with way too much pressure, because Inui wants to moan and almost doesn't care that they're in plain sight. Fuji is smiling serenely, voice even and calm, like he isn't jerking Inui off in the middle of the library. Kikumaru is bouncing around in his chair, shaking the table and threatening to expose something that even Inui can't explain away.
It's a mistake looking in Fuji's direction. In between answering Kikumaru's questions, he shoots sly glances in Inui's direction, poking his tongue out to wet his lips, and Inui has to concentrate on his homework in order to stop himself from throwing Fuji down on the library table. He factors as quickly as possible, his new pencil flying across the page.
Fuji twists his hand up, a mind-blowing finishing move that sends Inui's pencil skittering over the edge of his margin. Inui's mouth falls open and he gasps, loud enough that Kikumaru pauses mid-sentence to look at him.
"Inui! Are you okay?" His eyes are wide with concern. Fuji pulls his hand out of Inui's pants.
"Square root of the Golden Ratio," Inui mumbles, burying his burning face in the pages of his notebook. "I've figured out y."
Kikumaru gathers up his things again, jostling Inui's head in the process. "Golden Ratio, that sounds neat! Maybe I should have taken geometry with you instead of history, eh, Fujiko?"
The vision of Fuji doing this with Eiji instead flits through Inui's brain, the thought clearer than before and clearly bothersome. Inui is glad when Kikumaru bounds out of the library again.
"It's good that you took geometry instead of Eiji," Fuji tells him.
Inui turns his head a little, peering up at Fuji one-eyed. The lenses of his glasses are smeared, casting weird halos of light around Fuji's head. "Why?"
Fuji thoughtfully sucks on his fingers, licking each one clean and making sure Inui is watching him the entire time. "Because I couldn't figure that one out. What was that about the Golden Ratio?"
Inui lifts his head and slides his notebook over to Fuji. The row of cranes appear to be laughing at him -- it's all in the eyes.
+
"Do we do this because we're bored or because you like me?"
Fuji asks this while Inui is on his knees. He doesn't sound like it matters one way or another how Inui answers, more like he's interested for intellectual purposes -- data collection, one might even say. Inui is impressed that Fuji can ask such coherent questions while having his cock sucked. He knows he can't manage it, at least.
Inui waits until Fuji comes to answer, spitting into a tissue and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I'm not bored. Are you?"
Inui drops the tissue but doesn't move, waiting for Fuji even though his knees are starting to ache from the clubhouse's concrete floor. They're both regulars already, but they volunteer for extra clean-up just for the privacy they get after. Now, though, every sound echoes extra loudly as Fuji's non-reply stretches into silence. Inui keeps his hands firm on Fuji's thighs, even as Fuji rearranges his clothing and closes his eyes and begins to smile.
"Don't do that," Inui orders. Fuji's smile falters at that. "I answered your question; the least you could do is answer mine."
Fuji places his hands on either side of Inui's face, thumbs stroking along the sides of his jaw, and bends to press their lips together. It's not like Fuji to be at a loss for words, but Inui goes along with it, still worked up from going down on Fuji. Little pin-prickles of tension race up and down Inui's arms as he pushes his tongue inside Fuji's mouth. He kneads his knuckles against Fuji's legs, stroking the inner seam of Fuji's shorts as he breaks the kiss.
"I find you fascinating," Inui says, rising to his feet. "That is not a new development." Fuji blinks back at him as Inui straddles the bench and faces Fuji's side.
Inui licks the side of Fuji's throat, bites down on his ear. There is a trickle of sweat starting at Fuji's temple and rolling down the side of his face. Inui licks that, too. It doesn't seem to matter that Fuji has just come; his breathing is irregular, staccato, and his fingers twist the material of his shorts. Inui sees the pieces in his mind meet their corresponding units, clicking together, falling into place. He slides closer and wraps his arms around Fuji's waist.
"You don't do this just to pass the time, do you? You could do this with anyone."
Fuji shakes his head. "I'm not bored. I'm experimenting," he says and turns his head, looking right at Inui, their faces very close together. There is an intensity in Fuji's eyes, something Inui rarely sees off the courts.
"And your results?" Inui asks, raising his eyebrows.
"Favorable," Fuji replies in a quiet voice. "I think you should come home with me." Then he tackles Inui, pushing him down on the bench.
+
Inui goes home with Fuji. He stands in the middle of Fuji's room, overhearing the muffled murmurs Fuji and his sister make float in from the hall, but for the first time in a long time he doesn't want to eavesdrop.
He looks around. Fuji has sixteen cacti in his room, a desk that is approximately a meter off the ground, a single bed made with hotel room corners, and a giant stuffed tennis ball with a smiley face sitting on one of his bookshelves. The rest of the shelf space is shared by tennis trophies interspersed by books and DVDs. Framed photographs line the walls -- pictures of Fuji's family, the tennis team, seemingly random objects. The only photo Fuji himself appears in is one with his brother when they are both small. Fuji was right; his room is neater than Inui's bedroom, and bigger, and emptier. Inui knows this should be recorded, but he already has a drawing of Fuji's room in his notebook and that seems like enough somehow.
"Inui." Fuji is framing the doorway, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. "Yumiko says you can stay for dinner if you want."
"I have to call my mother," Inui says. He's already reaching into his pocket for his telephone, but Fuji is in front of him, hand closing around Inui's wrist.
"Do that later," Fuji says. "Okay?"
Inui nods.
Fuji pulls Inui over to the bed, still holding his arm, and Inui sits against the wall kind of awkwardly, his legs sticking out over the edge of the bed. Fuji is a warm weight next to him, his shoulder pressed to Inui's shoulder, his leg stretched out along Inui's. He wiggles his toes in his sock feet.
Inui isn't sure what he's supposed to do here. He sort of wants to call Tezuka and describe Fuji's room to him; he sort of wants to kiss Fuji so they won't have to talk about unfamiliar topics anymore; he sort of wants to ask Fuji every question he's ever had about him, rapid fire, just to see how many Fuji will answer. Inui opens his mouth.
"I find you fascinating, too," Fuji interrupts.
Inui scrunches his forehead. Were they in the middle of a conversation?
Fuji looks up at him, threading his fingers with Inui's and squeezing. "You said it before. I wanted to see how you'd react to me. I like reactions."
"I like your reactions," Inui replies without thought.
"I like yours. But I'm done with this game," Fuji says. "Let's level up."
"Did you solve an equation?" Inui asks.
"I don't know. What do you see?"
"I see it," Inui says. He pushes his glasses up with his free hand. "Your theory has been proven, one-hundred percent."
Fuji smiles, a real one, and it's weird how Inui can almost always tell the difference now; he still isn't sure if he got the data or if Fuji gave it to him. "I'm glad, Inui."
"What do we do now?" Inui asks. "Do we make out to celebrate?"
Fuji laughs and the movement shakes Inui's whole body. "Later," Fuji says, resting his head on Inui's shoulder. Inui rests his head against Fuji's head. Fuji's head is kind of hard and his hair tickles and Inui's glasses dig into the side of his face. But this is okay. This is weird and quiet and makes Inui's stomach jumpy and sort of makes sense and sort of doesn't.
This...is nice.
Besides, Inui thinks as he kisses the top of Fuji's head, data indicates they'll still get to do it in the haunted bathroom.