Happy Santa_Smex, Medieval128!

[reposoir]

To: medieval128
From: link621

Title: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
Recipient's name: medieval128
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Atobe/Tezuka
Warning: Don't trust Atobe behind the wheel.
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: Happy holidays, medieval128!



With one hand, Atobe fiddles absently with the diamond stud in his left ear and bothers only to give half his attention to the chaos around him. When Tezuka leaves the room, he can almost physically feel the absence as though his presence was pushing up against Atobe from all directions and the pressure is now released. But even without the youngest member of their family, the room still feels more full and lively than any breakfast at Atobe's home.

Tezuka Kuniharu is a laid-back man, he appears very comfortable in his own skin much the way his son always seems anything but self-aware. He has the same effortless good-looks as his son, the same soft brown eyes, but his age shows in thin lines creasing the corners of his eyes and lips. He is the first one to sit at the breakfast table, dressed for work but obviously groggy, and he does not even consider Atobe's presence in pausing to kiss his wife good morning. He assures her that what she is cooking smells, looks, and tastes delicious.

By comparison, Atobe's father is not nearly as gracious or even as handsome. There were hundreds of Kuniharus that worked for the Atobe family, but none of them ever made a lasting impression on the Atobe patriarch, even after years of working in his service. Years of running the company have made him cynical, business-oriented, and one-minded when it comes to interacting with coworkers, employees, and even his own son.

The Tezuka home is handsome and traditional; from where he sits in the dining area, he can see out into the garden that surrounds the back side of the home where some time ago he caught his rival in the act of talking casually on the phone. When he is here, and almost nowhere else, Tezuka always seems relaxed and comfortable - his posture is only stiff when his grandfather is there to disapprove of slouching and he always seems to be wearing pale pastel colors with a variety of necklaces that each have a story.

"You're still here," Tezuka mutters under his breath, taking his seat beside Atobe. He goes on to greet his mother and father as though Atobe was not sitting beside him - they ask him all the usual questions: how was his flight, was he feeling jet lagged, when was he returning, and wasn't it nice of Atobe-kun to bring him in from the airport? "He was returning from Europe this morning as well," Tezuka replies, his eyes darting briefly to Atobe.

Per a hard-fought agreement with his father, Atobe had attended Tokyo University for the first two years of his higher education before he transferred out of the country to a university in the United Kingdom where he intended to stay until he completed his masters. The decision had not pleased his father in the least, but they had a deal - if Atobe aced every one of his university classes while taking a full course load, when he was twenty, he would be given free reign to do whatever he wished with his college fund.

Every year, he comes back to Japan for the Christmas holiday; with his mother's foreign upbringing, the holiday means quite a lot more in his family than it did in the average Japanese home. Nearly half the car ride from the airport to Tezuka's home was spent trying to explain why anyone would leave milk and cookies out on the counter overnight. Despite his best efforts, Tezuka still felt that it was a waste of food - there was no Santa there to claim them, so why should they be left out?

Atobe sighed and did not bother to explain that in his home, the members of their staff were Santa and they were always very greatly appreciative of the treat.

When Tezuka picks up his chopsticks, Atobe takes note of the way his long fingers grasp the utensils naturally. His eyes focus on the customary motion as Tezuka lifts a small amount of rice to his mouth, parts his lips, and pauses to look back at Atobe when he realizes he is being watched.

"Aren't you eating, Atobe-kun?" Tezuka's mother smiles invitingly at him, and that is when he realizes that she has been waiting for him to begin before touching her own meal. Honestly, it does not really look appetizing after months of fresh-baked muffins and scones from the bakery just down the block from his condo; the weather this time of year is enough to drive any man to be a coffee and confections addict. Grilled fish and rice might as well be monkey brains. Though, he has heard that is supposed to be some sort of delicacy.

He also does not wish to offend his hostess - he has actually become quite fond of her in his infrequent visits to the Tezuka household. Atobe thinks Tezuka Ayana is a woman with balls of steel.

It could be natto, he tells himself and also picks up his chopsticks. "Thank you, this looks delicious." He half-expects to be kicked under the table by the man beside him. He is allowed to eat in peace for several minutes while Tezuka's parents continue to play twenty questions with their son - what will he do with the time off? Is he going out, today? Has he met a nice girl in Germany?

Tezuka's chopsticks get stuck half-way between his bowl and his mouth and Atobe smirks knowingly.

"No," responds Tezuka and sets the bowl back down on the table.

Apparently not deterred by the simple answer, Kuniharu asks, "Whatever happened to that nice blonde girl... what was her name?"

Atobe has to take a drink from his glass of water to keep from outright laughing. Every muscle in Tezuka's body is tense, ready to leap at the first sign of an escape route.

Kuniharu turns to their guest and says, "Kunimitsu has always been attracted to blondes." Ayana quietly tells her husband not to embarrass their son and Tezuka goes entirely still.

"Is that so?" Chuckling easily, Atobe comments, "I didn't expect you would be attracted to foreigners, Tezuka." It is the first time he has said the other's name in nearly six months, but it comes just as easily as though they saw one another every day. To Tezuka's parents, it might even appear as though they were not just reuniting for the first time since an inconclusive encounter in the summer.

It was late June and Atobe was on summer holiday. Much of it was spent in summer business courses, but one day in particular he gave in to the temptation of having a bit of fun when he received an unexpected call from an old friend. "It's me," he said when he answered the phone and pulled on his sunglasses to shade his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun. For most of the morning, he had been enjoying fruity drinks and soaking up sun at his local members-only pool. He was on the board, but still had not yet convinced them there should be adult-only cocktail hours at the pool.

"Atobe." Tezuka's voice did not sound far away or delayed as it usually did when he would call from Germany, Australia, the States, or wherever his professional tennis career had most recently taken him. It was always Tezuka who called Atobe because whenever Atobe called him, he was sent straight to voice mail. The number had also not been that of the international cell phone that Atobe knew to call when if he did want to get in contact with Tezuka... it was a local number.

Interesting.

"You're in town, I take it." Atobe shifted in his chair, the sounds of children screaming and splashing in the pool quickly disappearing somewhere into the background as he focused completely on what was being said on the other line. He would be damned before he wasted this opportunity to milk this for all it was worth; the last time they saw one another was around the time Tezuka's long-time friend Oishi was celebrating his birthday. Atobe had spring break and Tezuka made a point to visit Japan for the occasion. Since then, they had not spoken directly, only in exchange of voice messages.

"I'm at the airport," Tezuka confirmed. "My flight to Chicago was canceled and the next plane leaves in the morning." He paused after he spoke and added. "I'm on a payphone."

Getting to his feet and stepping into his thong sandals, Atobe instructed, "Stay right there - I'm on my way."

Tezuka Kunikazu comes in from the garden and interrupts the conversation. He is a bit less physically imposing that Tezuka, standing no taller than Atobe, but he is broad and strong - for a man in his eighties, he is formidable. Possibly for a man of any age, really, after so many years of mastering the art of Judo. His personality is much like Tezuka's - serious and stern - but he wastes no amount of fondness on his daughter-in-law. "Atobe-kun, was it?" His voice is deep - the sort of voice Atobe has only really ever heard in Kurosawa films when the highest ranking samurai speaks and somehow reaches notes an octave below anyone else while still being in the human range of hearing.

Atobe is on his feet in a second, bowing low next to the table. "Atobe Keigo, I'm a friend of Kunimitsu's." It is so rare that he has reason to use the name, and when he does he always feels like he has put his hand in the cookie jar and expects to be scolded for it. Instead, he hears Tezuka softly greet his grandfather beside him and continue to explain that the two of them used to play tennis together back in junior high. Atobe seats himself as Kunikazu does.

"I played him before I left for Kyushuu," Tezuka says as an identifying factor. It is ignored.

"Atobe... as in the multi-billion dollar corporation?" Kunikazu does not wait for a response before turning on his son. "You could climb to that level of success if you had the focus, Kuniharu." His eyes are intense and he is absolutely serious. Atobe doubts from the look of him that Kuniharu is more than ten or fifteen years out from retirement - it would not give him much time to somehow become the head of a company, accrue a large mass of wealth, and then have a son that would be willing and able to take over the family business when he was dead and gone. This did not factor in for the eldest Tezuka. "At your age, I was still working ten hour days at the police academy!"

Embarrassed, Kuniharu just says, "Father, let's talk about this another time..."

The Tezuka patriarch thoughtfully folds his arms while Ayana stands and walks around the table to pour tea for her father-in-law. Kunikazu looks back at Atobe and asks, "Do you know Sanada's boy?"

"Genichirou, grandfather," Tezuka corrects, turning his attention to the end of the table where his father is seated. "Genichirou is our age." It is unusual to hear Tezuka refer to anyone at all by their first name - he certainly never calls Atobe by his first name - but it is possible that it is to distinguish between other members of the Sanada family. As if Atobe could somehow forget his once rival, Tezuka turns to him and clarifies, "He went to junior high and high school at Rikkai."

"And university in Tokyo on a scholarship," Atobe continues the thought, feeling slightly victorious for somehow being privy to information that escaped Tezuka himself. He and Sanada had been in a couple of classes together and had been the most dysfunctional doubles pair in the history of Toudai's tennis club before Atobe transferred out of the country. Sanada sometimes still sends him impersonal emails. It is not friendship, but it infinitely better than whatever it was going on between them back in junior high. Arguing, clashing personalities, marking territory... Tezuka once expressed that he thought they were fighting over who would play him - Sanada probably was.

"I've known him since we were in junior high." His best charming smile on his face, Atobe looks back to the head of the household. He and Sanada got off to a rather rocky start - Sanada hated everything about the little blonde upstart and Atobe found Sanada endlessly frustrating. Back then, Atobe always thought that Sanada was really good at a great many things, but had no capacity to grow. Even if he was better than Atobe at anything in particular, eventually Atobe would be best because of his tenacity and adaptability.

Stubborness and pig-headedness, Sanada calls it to this day.

"He and I met many years ago." Tezuka is looking at his food as he speaks. That ties up the score, if not tilts it in Tezuka's favor for the sheer length of time he has known Sanada. So much for inside information. "We did not get along as children. He was a..."

"Sore loser," Kunikazu supplies.

Atobe believes it.

"You're speeding," Tezuka pointed out calmly, though his hands gripped at the door until his knuckles were white. With the top down, his hair whipped around his forehead and ears and his shirt flapped wildly against his collarbone and neck. Sports cars had never been Tezuka's cup of tea - he liked practical vehicles; vehicles that struck a balance between being economical and fulfilling their purpose. The thing Atobe drove was anything but practical - it was red, sporty, had black leather seats despite being the dead of summer, and was Italian.

Atobe drove fast, but expertly. Somehow, the cream-colored bucket hat on his head had not budged and he had not yet been blinded by the glints of his watch that would hit Tezuka in the eye every time Atobe so much as turned the wheel slightly. He wore his watch on his left arm, just as Tezuka did. "Would you care to drive?" There was a challenge in his tone - the country highways could be intimidating to a foreign visitor. It was a beautiful, clear day, there was very little traffic out, but it could still be intimidating.

"I don't drive." Prompted by a disbelieving glance from the driver, Tezuka expanded upon his first statement. "I don't have my driver's license."

"You're twenty," Atobe pointed out, frowning.

Tezuka shook his head and his grip loosened just a bit on the door. Talking took his mind off the speedometer that was pushing 120, now. "I don't stay in one place for any great period of time. It would be difficult to allot the needed time to instruction and fulfilling licensing requirements." He would never need it, in Japan, and usually when he was traveling for tennis, transportation was provided for him or he could figure out public transportation well enough. Worse come to worst, he could afford a cab. Mizuno had picked up his sponsorship nearly a year and a half before, and ever since the profession had become quite lucrative.

Not missing a beat, Atobe suggested, "I could teach you." As though he sensed Tezuka's impending objection, he tacked on quickly, "I'm a fantastic driver." He was met with silence that was just as harsh as anything Tezuka might have said to the contrary.

Finally, Tezuka said, "No."

"Come now, Tezuka, be reasonable."

"No. Absolutely not." Tezuka glanced down at the bag sitting at his feet - it was Atobe's and it had been in the trunk before it was displaced to make room for Tezuka's luggage. The bag was mesh and held a bathing suit, tanning lotion, and a book written in English - it looked like a mystery novel, from the cover. Not Atobe's usual fare, but it was the summer time and the best time of all to give up on intellectual pursuits and let his brain melt away. He could spend the other three seasons being clever.

"What if a cop pulls us over?" Asked Tezuka conversationally. The speedometer was sitting at 143.

Atobe laughed joyously - he threw his head back, taking his eyes off the road for three seconds. Tezuka counted each second nervously, but also made note that Atobe had his ears pierced - he wore simple diamond studs, not too flashy but doubtlessly high quality stones.

Thankfully, Atobe had everything under control. "I'll win him over with my charm and good looks."

Tezuka's father leaves for work half an hour late so he can stay and talk to his son and their guest. Once he is out the door, Ayana ushers Tezuka to his old room to get settled and unpack his things and Atobe follows. The room has remained unchanged in many years; on the far wall from the door there is a cork board that displays various fishing lures and other fishing tackle. Another wall is plastered with a large poster of a mountain that Tezuka once climbed - it looks too incredible and remote to have ever been tackled by human feet, but knowing Tezuka and mountains, Atobe does not doubt the validity of his claims for a second. Otherwise, the room is fairly plain, average size for a bedroom, and cleaner than Atobe's room has ever been even with servants who clean it every day. Maybe Ayana would be interested in a job.

For the second time today, Tezuka points out, "You're still here." There is no accusation or confusion in his voice. He is asking a question without having to actually sound like he cares one way or another - something that he is wont to do. Sometimes he asks Atobe how he is by saying, "You're doing well, I presume," and each time Atobe falls for it and allows him to not ask the question. He answers.

"Still," Atobe agrees and goes to the cork board on the wall. He recognizes the brands of a couple of the lures - he has them in his own collection, though many of his have seen little use over the past few years. He wonders distantly just how many times Tezuka gets out fishing, these days, and how much convincing it would take to get him to come along with Atobe, sometime. "It's been a while," Atobe responds after a pause, trying to turn Tezuka's own technique back on him - to ask for an explanation for getting no returned calls, no calls at all, since that summer night at Atobe's condo.

"It has."

Silence stretches out between them and they meet eyes. With anyone else, Atobe might feel uncomfortable, but such silence with Tezuka is altogether commonplace. They size one another up, proverbially puffing out their chests, but Tezuka gives first. He slumps back into his chair at his desk as the effects of jet lag finally begin to settle in. He lets one hand drop over the back of the chair, his back slumping slightly and his knees held slightly apart. Atobe knows the story behind the necklace he is wearing, today - it is a shark tooth on a leather band that he said he purchased in southern Florida on a particularly brutal North American tour. He said the mosquitos were the size of horseflies. Atobe took his word for it, he had never seen a horsefly.

"Was it her?" Atobe folds his arms and leans against the wall - there is nowhere else to sit but the bed, and he might start feeling jet lag himself if he sits on something plush and inviting. Honestly, it is the first mention he has heard of this blonde girl, and for all his joking, he does not like it. Tezuka dating is fine, Tezuka is allowed to date, but if that was the reason why he had not seen fit to call Atobe in months, Atobe will not be pleased. A nagging voice in his mind tells him that it is probably him - Atobe himself was the one that scared off Tezuka.

He has not left a voice mail for Tezuka since October - the last was on the seventh to wish him a happy birthday.

The question makes Tezuka uncomfortable; it is nearly imperceptible on his face, but Atobe has trained himself to notice the tightness of Tezuka's lips, the way he seems to swallow deliberately, and how he does not break eye contact but also appears to look through Atobe rather than directly at him. When a sigh escapes him, Atobe anticipates that he will be told off - that it is none of his business or that it is not really relevant to the situation at hand; possibly reminded once more that he is still there without any invitation to stay.

What Atobe does not anticipate is exactly what Tezuka choses to say. "There is someone, indeed a blonde."

Atobe huffs, but Tezuka does not supply further information. He gets up and unpacks his suitcase.

"So, what's in Chicago?" One leg folded over the other and eating with a fork, Atobe looked rather out of place in the restaurant that was otherwise filled with college-age boys having fun quite loudly and drinking entirely too much beer. It was a low-key place and the rest of Atobe's outfit was suited just fine to his surroundings, but his shoulders were square, his posture straight, and he was cutting a french fry with a fork. "Not much to do there this time of year, is there? I don't remember reading about any important tournaments being held there." He then lifted the french fry from the plate with the fork while others in the restaurant ate with their hands dipping their fries in mayonnaise, mustard, or ketchup. Tezuka wondered if Atobe just always stood out this much or if he was making a special exception for when he was with a guest from out of town.

It was the sort of place Momoshiro or Echizen would enjoy, but they would be among the loud students making a nuisance of themselves. It was rare that Tezuka actually spent an extended period of time with people his own age, and it was people his own age that encouraged that particular behavior.

"Honolulu," responded Tezuka as he took his straw out of his mouth and put his cup of iced tea back on the table. Nothing on the menu looked particularly appetizing to him, but he had managed to talk Atobe into believing he was only hungry enough for a small salad. Even the salads here were different, though, as he found every time he went to a new place. He had learned years ago to avoid Japanese food in other countries; it would only make him nostalgic - it was never quite right, though usually fairly decent if he got a recommendation.

Atobe was staring at him like he had just declared the world was flat and also the center of the universe. "Honolulu is the capital of Hawaii, is it not?" The food on his plate was temporarily forgotten in favor of Tezuka's apparent misgivings about geography. "Chicago is in the middle of Illinois." Normally, they were able to communicate fairly well and such strange statements by Tezuka did not require a full pause for an explanation, but something was misfiring between them. Something had been misfiring since Tezuka first saw Atobe with windblown hair, a devil-may-care grin, and a pair of thongs with a Hawaiian floral pattern.

With a shake of his head, Tezuka corrected himself, "My connection to Los Angeles is in Chicago. My final destination is in Honolulu." Obviously.

"Obviously," Atobe replied with a hint of amusement in his voice. It was the same voice he had used once to accuse Tezuka of avoiding him, so many years prior.

Surely it was just Tezuka's imagination that Atobe's foot brushed his calf under the table, but he looked out the window to hide that he had noticed all the same.

Atobe does give in to his desire to be comfortable and hours pass against his wishes. When he wakes, he is lying on Tezuka's bed with his hands flopped loosely over his stomach. Tezuka's suitcase is stowed away in the closet; his clothes are doubtlessly in the laundry if not already clean, folded, and put away. The man himself is at the moment missing, but it is just as well. Atobe sits up and brushes back a heavy white curtain from Tezuka's window to gaze outside - the weather has not changed since he was last outside, however many hours ago - he cannot be sure without a clock.

What sort of person does not have a clock? There had to be one, somewhere. Atobe is on his feet, again, moments later looking for any sort of time-telling piece. The computer might work, but if it is password protected, he doubts he would be able to crack the code and log in. Perhaps the password is mountain or fishing or Echizen or one of Tezuka's many obvious interests. He might even be the sort of fool who would put his birth date as his password or an easy-to-remember code such as zero through six in numeric succession. Beside the keyboard on the desk is Tezuka's watch - that will do.

Tezuka's watch that could not possibly be right, Atobe laments. Assuming the watch was on German time, it is nearly two in the afternoon in Tokyo and he has been asleep for at least four or five hours. It is overcast and cold, just as it was this morning, so the room remains dark enough that he might fall back asleep were he not careful. A cup of coffee, his latest and most dangerous addiction, would be able to cure his lethargy, but the Tezukas did not strike him as coffee drinkers. If he asks really nicely, maybe Ayana would be able to find some strong black tea that will at least give him the kick in the pants from caffeine.

The door opens and Tezuka steps through now garbed in track pants, a t-shirt, and a towel over his shoulders. His hair is wet and he put in contacts since he was last in the room. He is no longer showing the signs of fatigue that he was when Atobe first fell asleep. "You're up," he acknowledges, though if it particularly pleases him, it does not show in his voice.

"I fell asleep," Atobe confesses and sits back down on the edge of the bed. "Your watch is wrong," he adds, working the small knob on the side of the watch to correct the time. It is an analog watch with gold hands and a black face. The numbers are not marked as anything other than dashes but for the twelve that appears as a Roman numeral at the top of the face. Overall, it is very much to Atobe's taste - just like the rest of Tezuka's wardrobe. If they were to spend every day together, he thinks it would be inevitable that they would some days leave home wearing the same outfit or at least the expensive and thrifty versions of the exact same outfit.

He has the thought that he would like to dress Tezuka, but the thought is dismissed when Tezuka sits beside him on the bed. Then, he thinks, he would much prefer to undress Tezuka.

"We should talk." When Tezuka takes the watch from Atobe, his hand lingers there a moment too long. If he were to say it is not deliberate, no one would believe him. He does take the watch, though, and put it back on his left wrist, the same as Atobe, with the face on the inside of his wrist rather than on top. "You think I have been avoiding you," Tezuka points out astutely, not looking at Atobe as he speaks. "You are right about that."

Atobe cannot contain himself - he speaks the question before pausing to reconsider. "Is it because of that blonde?"

"Yes," Tezuka responds. "But I think it is time I faced what happened."

The words shed clarity upon the situation.

"When did you pierce your ears?"

"I've had them pierced since I was five, I just didn't wear studs during sports." Atobe fiddled with his key in the lock to let them inside the condo. He glanced back over his shoulder and asked, "Do you like them?"

Tezuka had no idea what to say to that; he himself would not wish to have his ears pierced, but they did suit Atobe. He could not say that he liked that they suited Atobe without opening a whole new can of worms that already seemed to be wriggling in his stomach. "They're diamonds," he stated, going for the saftest route.

"Diamonds are a girl's best friend," responded Atobe with a chuckle.

"You must have a lot of friends."

The door opened and they stepped inside, Atobe leading the way back to where Tezuka could sleep for the night. Atobe's condo was orderly without being neat - tidy without being clean. Despite Tezuka's initial expectations, he felt comfortable and at home when he walked in the door and was greeted by expensive furniture covered in what appeared to be homemade knitted throw blankets. The sheer discrepancy of the two was boggling, but the trend continued as he walked down the hall. Priceless paintings hung beside photographs taken in his school days. One picture in particular caught Tezuka's attention - it was from years before, clipped from a magazine article, and displayed Tezuka's hand firmly gripped in Atobe's held above the net that stood between them. Tezuka's face in the photograph was grim, but to his surprise Atobe was just as somber. His lips were smiling, but his eyes were not those of a boy who had defeated his rival after years of waiting for the chance just to play.

The memory of the match was faint, by then, but Tezuka did remember Atobe's words as clearly as if he had just spoken them. "This was the best match."

Something in Tezuka's gut tightened and he continued back to the room Atobe was leading him to - where he could stay. It was actually the only bedroom at all in the condo, but Atobe insisted that he would be better off sleeping on the couch because he was shorter and his legs would not hang over the side. Such notions were so ridiculous that Tezuka did not honor it with a response, he simply allowed Atobe to have his way. Putting the couch aside, they would have comfortably fit on the king size bed that Tezuka really should have expected but stared at indignantly nonetheless. One person could not feel comfortable in such a bed - it would be large and empty.

Atobe had never said anything about his comfort. "You're lonely," Tezuka said with certainty in his voice. That was why he had raced to the airport, that was why they went to the obnoxious hang-out, that was why Atobe was so willingly opening his doors to Tezuka for a place to stay.

"Aren't you?"

Tezuka had nothing to say to that. It was not loneliness that compelled him to drop his bag near the door and follow Atobe's beckoning gestures to the bed.

He would accept that it was loneliness for Atobe happily, so long as Atobe continued to look at him that way. Atobe sat back on the bed, leaning back so his elbows sunk into the blankets. Tezuka put one knee up between Atobe's legs, trailing his fingers uncertainly along Atobe's knee but never breaking eye contact. They did not kiss - Tezuka's mouth was drawn toward Atobe's collarbone and neck where the slightest brush of the lips won him a soft sigh and more aggressive nips were answered with an appreciative groan. Atobe's hand slipped into the back pocket of Tezuka's jeans and settled there, squeezing and pulling Tezuka up to make eye contact again.

They did not kiss, even sharing the same breath. Atobe was testing Tezuka - inviting him to give in to what he wanted, and Tezuka stubbornly refused. His lips brushed over Atobe's cheekbone and again touched to his earlobe. Atobe's other hand dug deep into his hair and he gasped softly when Tezuka took the soft skin of his earlobe between his teeth, the diamond stud knocking against his front teeth and scraping against his tongue as he gently sucked.

"That is obscene," Atobe growled, but his hand had abandoned Tezuka's hair in favor of clawing at his shirt.

Once more, Atobe got his way - both shirts were soon discarded, left crumpled in a pile somewhere behind Tezuka he could not see. This gave him free reign to explore Atobe's chest with his mouth, but the other man had something else in mind. Quicker than he could follow, he was on his back, pressed to the bed, and Atobe was holding his arms to his sides firmly. At this distance, even Tezuka could not continue to believe it was no more than just loneliness and sexual desire. What he saw in Atobe's eyes was old - like the spine of a book that has been broken after it has been loved almost to the point of its destruction. When that book was first printed was what Tezuka did not know, but the picture in the hallway stuck in his mind.

"That long?" He wondered aloud, but Atobe did not seem to hear him. He ducked his head down to press their lips together - it was Atobe's loss, but Tezuka could not help but feel like it was also his victory. What began as something calm and warm escalated quickly to a frantic pace. When they paused, Atobe's breath was hot, smelled unappealingly like french fries, but the sensation of it against Tezuka's lips was maddening. He could not allow Atobe the moment to breathe - he wanted too badly to take more of Atobe.

Each kiss was hungier than the last, their hands were roaming farther into uncharted territory, and it was with no sense of decorum that soon Tezuka found himself doing whatever it took to rub himself against Atobe's legs seeking release. With the grace known only to a dancer, Atobe rolled his hips in time with Tezuka's until he was loudly groaning and whimpering with each small movement. Tezuka himself was quiet, as ever, but his body did all the talking for him.

It was not awkward that night. They contented themselves to curl up in one another's arms, neither speaking a word, and softly kissing whenever their faces lingered close. Tezuka's last memory of the night was Atobe's warm, swollen lips against his own.

"I'm the blonde," Atobe says with a strange distant quality to his voice. He hears himself talking as though he is a fly on the wall, listening to himself from outside his body. "It was too awkward for you afterward." A part of him has suspected that all along, but to hear that he was the one that caused the trouble between them still makes him feel uncomfortable. He only knows it to be uncomfortable because the concept of heartbreak seems as far-fetched as his his obsession with Tezuka possibly being a stronger, sweeter affair. He cannot bring himself to look at Tezuka, just yet, so he sits in silence and stares moodily at the floor.

"You're the blonde," Tezuka confirms, and he does still sound like the thought does not sit well with him. "Keigo," Atobe's attention snaps to Tezuka when he uses the name. "I told my father I met someone. A blonde. This summer." Atobe wonders if it is the closest thing to a lie Tezuka has ever spoken, but only because Atobe's brain refuses to wrap around the thought that maybe Tezuka means to say that the person he had been talking about so fondly was Atobe.

Atobe is silent. Tezuka's arm rests over his shoulders and he can hear a soft ticking from the watch to remind him of time's passage.

He is lonely; the top of the world is a lonely place to be when you are the only one there. It would be a convenient enough excuse. But Atobe is not going to be bested by Tezuka, again - if Tezuka can be honest, so can he. "I only picked you up from the airport so I could see you again. I thought you were dead set on ignoring me when you no longer returned my calls."

"You stopped calling."

"In October."

They are at a standstill, again, that lasts for twelve soft ticks of Tezuka's watch.

Atobe looks toward Tezuka, to a face he has practically memorized over the past decade even as it has changed and matured. "Why don't you come home with me," he suggests. "I'll let you drive the Jaguar."

"No," Tezuka says firmly, but he is smiling.