Happy Santa_Smex, fic_faery!
To: fic_faery
From:ver2frog
Title: You and Me and the One You Love
Recipient's name: fic_faery
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Oshitari-centric. Oshitari/Atobe, Atobe/Tezuka, and some others.
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.
Summary: Yuushi likes boys. He might be the only one.
Despite alarming statistics among other schools’ tennis clubs, wild speculation circulated by the unofficial Atobe Keigo fanclub, and some very conspicuous fist-bopping during tournaments, the Hyoutei Boy’s Tennis Club did not offer up any definitive proof of engaging in what Oscar Wilde called the love that dare not speak its name.
Yes, even if Atobe Keigo dressed like that on non-school days.
Yes, and even if Doubles 2 engaged in blatant flirtation on a first name basis, and Doubles 1 proclaimed undying devotion and self-sacrifice in an embarrassing drama staged before hundreds.
And yes, even if their ace volley specialist insisted on plastering himself to the back of their reliable, giant second-year as his preferred mode of transportation, and the loving lilt of “na, Kabaji?” was never far from the captain’s lips.
And their serious bowl-cut reserve player couldn’t possibly be the token beard for the rest of the team’s truly flamboyant propensities.
Still, you couldn’t blame a boy for dreaming.
*
You could say it all started with Candy Candy. The popular girl’s novel turned manga, leading to the popular anime series, about a young orphan girl adopted into a rich family, cheerful and upbeat despite snobbery and nasty bullying, the freckle-faced blonde that every boy in the series fell in love with. The web of complex friends and boyfriends and relationships, engagements and breakups, friendships turned romances were far more heart-stirring and appealing than stories about crude tin robots defending the Earth.
After a point, you didn’t want to go out with Candy. You wanted to be Candy.
And it was all downhill from there for Oshitari Yuushi.
After that, he trod a well-beaten path through girls’ manga, romance novels, and when conventional boy-girl romance became stale and predictable, he ventured furtively into the final frontier: boys’ love.
Which was all fine and good-he read it for the subversive plot. No really. Even when cousin Kenya gave him a rare (and slashy) Terry ♥ Anthony keychain for kicks (and that pairing wasn’t even possible in canon!) Yuushi could manage a sorely put-upon chuckle and change the subject. That side of the family was a little too permissive, even by laidback Oshitari standards.
But when Oshitari Yuushi, fifteen-years old, a bright, gawky third-year at Hyoutei Gakuen with a reputation for lazy brilliance, woke up one morning in April sweaty and rumpled, with his hair stuck to his forehead, even this genius couldn’t deny the truth of what splattered come through his pajama bottoms and the blankets. And it wasn’t because of Candy Candy any more.
Especially since his mother asked him over breakfast why Yuushi was so angry at his friend.
“I’m not pissed, Ma,” Yuushi slurred into his miso. He liked picking out the little cubes of tofu, just for kicks.
His father didn’t look up from his newspaper. “Language, young man.”
“I mean, I’m not angry at my friends, mother.”
“Well, I suppose it’s something else then. He is your friend, isn’t he, Yuushi? This Atobe boy? The boy with the charm point on his cheek? It’s a portent for tragic love, you know, a mole in the path of tears,” his mother said with a romantic sigh. Dr. Oshitari coughed behind his paper rather impatiently. His son took after his mother. In all the worst ways.
“Don’t fight with your friends, young man. Especially not with the Atobe boy. His father’s important, on the board of directors at the hospital and an important contributor. You shouldn’t go around picking fights like a hooligan.”
“I’m not--!” Yuushi stopped. You didn’t want father to lower his newspaper. Not when Yuushi felt last night’s guilty spectacle was screening all across his glasses like a dream-world multiplex.
His mother propped her chin on her hand and stared out the window. “I was certain you were yelling, Keigo this morning. Several times.” She got up to clear the dishes. “You should spend more time with your friends, Yuushi. Studying isn’t the only thing in the world.”
The newspaper rustled sharply but stayed up.
*
If Yuushi had to find the culprit for his now obviously surfacing tendencies, hands down, it would have to be Shishido Ryou from the Tennis Club.
What kind of boy had hair like that? Now, really?
And really, could you blame a boy for staring when the culprit in question is whipping off his shirt at the locker behind you with all that hair down to his ass? Really. Yuushi wasn’t like that on his own.
So, it wasn’t really Yuushi’s fault that he was taking an inordinately long time tying his shoelaces and absentmindedly trying to convince himself Shishido looked like a girl. Otherwise, why would Yuushi like looking at him? Now really. Squint and you saw a girl. From the back at least.
Never let it be said that Shishido ever beat around the bush. Rubbing his wet hair with a towel, he glared down at a dazed Yuushi.
“What’re you staring at, moron?”
Yuushi blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“You have blue stars on your underpants.”
He’d have to work on that.
There were several eye-witness accounts as to what happened afterwards. Some say Shishido jumped first. Others claim that Oshitari displayed some obscure fighting technique (probably from the Kansai region) that involved flicking wet towels at your opponent. The reports are unreliable, as onlookers were mostly engaged in yelling and cheering, and pretending to pull the two apart while egging them on.
But for Yuushi, that afternoon was dog-eared in his memory, to be revisited over and over again late at night when he slipped his hand down his pajama bottoms and tried to recall in loving detail how it felt to hold down wrists to bruising while he grappled with a deliciously (near) naked boy struggling under him as Yuushi rolled over him and surreptitiously rubbed himself against white underpants with blue stars on them.
After that, he was pretty certain Shishido didn’t look like a girl anymore.
*
He ended up playing doubles because he kept getting distracted watching the other player’s crotch. Yuushi had almost completed a detailed size chart in his head when Sakaki-kantoku switched him into doubles.
And watching Gakuto prance around this side of the court actually helped improve his game. Even if he did it just so he could see Gakuto’s shirt fly up.
“Hey, Yuushi! Watch me do this!”
Oh yes, he was watching all right.
For the first few weeks, Doubles 2 went through their hot, sweet, and sweaty honeymoon phase. At least in Yuushi’s head. Gakuto’s dark red bob was just like a girl’s too. And he was petite and limber and-in Yuushi’s head-really liked it when Yuushi licked behind his ears, squirming in fake protest in Yuushi’s lap and rubbing against him even harder as he slipped his little hand inside Yuushi’s gym shorts. Dirty Dream #9.
At least, that’s what happened in Yuushi’s head.
Outside of Yuushi’s head, Gak-kun was straighter than American corn flakes. Not a twist or curve of “alternative preferences.” Which probably explained why Gak-kun took such perverse glee in pointing out why the rest of the school was “so gay.” Which he, Mukahi Gakuto, so totally wasn’t. Which was why it was okay to put his head on Yuushi’s lap while he carefully licked off the pink candy icing from his strawberry Pocky and picked at the rest of the team.
“Kantoku, yup, he’s the original player. So gay, of course. See his lavendar colored tie? See? See? He has a little tie-pin, like this little silver flower thingy. Five pointed, too,” Gak-kun waggled his eyebrows as if five-pointed flowers meant something in the special gay code. “And his pocket handkerchief matches too. That’s so gay.”
“Maybe he’s just a snappy dresser, Gakuto.”
Personally, Yuushi liked to imagine that Kantoku would pay special attention to the select members of the team. There had to be a reason for the desk in Kantoku’s office and Yuushi wanted to be the first one on it. Or under it. Or bent over it. And then, he’d find out, personally, why Kantoku was so invested in his fine silk ties. Yes, Dirty Dream #11, 15,16 and 21.
“Shishido, you know, is just a little gay.”
Yuushi could have told him that. He knew Shishido wasn’t really trying very hard to get Yuushi off of him that one time. Or at least it seemed that way late at night when he was lovingly replaying naked wrestling day-or Dirty Dream #5-with his hand down his pajama pants.
“Of course not,” Yuushi said, if only for politeness’ sake.
“Of course yes, Yuushi. The guy uses conditioner on his hair for christs’ sake.”
Yuushi only shrugged. Wishful thinking didn’t give him a real live boyfriend, anyway. At least not outside of his head.
“Perhaps.”
Yuushi had almost steeled himself against the disappointment that was the Tennis Club: fit, athletic boys, who all undressed in front of each other with cheerful camaraderie, that in the end led only to the empty pit that was Yuushi’s romantic life. It was like parading a steak and lobster dinner in front of a starving man, and whisking it away every time he got close.
And just when Yuushi had almost resigned himself exclusively to an exciting erotic life of the mind at Hyoutei Gakuen, Gakuto carelessly pulled down the fort of his resolve and played in the ruins.
“ ‘Course, Atobe-sama is gayer than a tree full of monkeys.”
Atobe-sama, as Gak-kun called him, was over by the water fountain flirting with the very female and very pretty student council vice-president. Gakuto, apparently unaware of the bomb of possibility he’d tossed so carelessly into Yuushi’s barren romantic landscape, licked at his strawberry Pocky stick, put it back in the box, spit glistening on pink candy coating, and blithely picked out a new one.
“No way, Gak-kun. Keigo’s not… uh… you… uh, really…?”
“Uh, duh,” Gakuto rolled over sideways to look up at Yuushi. His cheek was a palm’s breadth away from brushing against Yuushi’s oh-so-interested nether bits.
Sayuri-chan was giggling in a non-student council way and slapping Atobe’s arm, which Atobe didn’t appear at all averse to. Yuushi was used to quashing his little hopes and dreams daily. And if he was lucky, Gakuto wouldn’t notice Yuushi’s interested bits (that were growing increasingly more interested with Gaku-kun’s breath) as he almost rubbed his face against them while committing obscene acts unto his strawberry Pocky.
Yuushi was watching Atobe-sama, after all. And Gak-kun on his lap didn’t help, either.
“He doesn’t look it-”
“Oh please,” Gakuto tossed his head impatiently in Yuushi’s lap, almost acting out Dirty Dream #8-you know, the one where the very-straight Gak-kun decided to lick away at something other than strawberry Pocky. “How he keeps going on about that guy? What’s his name? Bazuka?”
“Tezuka-”
“Yeah, that guy. The tall, skinny guy with the glasses who plays tennis over at Seigaku. Man, sometimes I want to kick his head in. Bazuka this, Bazuka that--”
“It’s Tezuka, Gaku-”
“Yeah yeah, whatever. It’s like Seigaku’s all shiny and cool, and Atobe-sama’s thinks we’re just dog’s dinners. Like we don’t have anyone decent on the team to watch. He could go nutty over one of our own and I wouldn’t want to kick in his head half the time. Hey, Yuushi! You’re tall and skinny. And hey! You wear glasses, too!”
“Yes, Gakuto, I wear glasses.” Yuushi’s heart was in his throat, but by now he was used to pushing it down at the sight of hope. Because it wasn’t hope, really. “Good of you to notic-”
“You could go out with Atobe-sama.”
“Now, I don’t think-” I could stand the disappointment and despair when he punches me? I don’t think I want to leave the Tennis Club and all possible points of contact because I decided to act on my crazy impulses? I don’t think you’ve given this much thought? I don’t think I want to risk it? I don’t want to be hurt? I don’t want open myself up for rejection? And I have a perfectly marvelous fantasy life anyway-
“It’s a great idea, Yuushi! Atobe-sama obviously has a secret thing for tall skinny tennis players in glasses. Shut up! Yeah, everyone likes girls. That’s not the point. You’re a tall skinny, guy who wears glasses, and plays tennis. It’s perfect. You have to! We can’t have Prince Me!Me!Me! over there go fawning over Seigaku.”
Then Yuushi was left to wonder why he was called a genius when brilliant minds like Gakuto’s were overlooked because of such a negligible factor of mere sequential logic. Atobe liked girls. It didn’t matter. Tezuka, as far as Yuushi could tell, wasn’t a girl. Atobe seemed to be obsessed. A quick switcheroo would do.
Perhaps some of you feel the need to stand up and tap Yuushi on the shoulder at this moment, in the name of all things sensible and wise, sit him down with a friendly arm around his shoulder, feed the skinny delusional boy some comfort food, preferably fried, and say, “Dear Yuushi… dear, dear Yuushi. Please reconsider…. Gakuto’s nuts.”
Perhaps, dear reader, for the sake of the story, it was well that instead of your steady good sensible self, the one who happened upon Yuushi at his crossroad of decision, stumbling not so gracefully over Gakuto’s prone form, was Shishido Ryou.
“Crap! You dumbass! What’re you doing lying around… er…”
Even Shishido had to stop himself short and look around. Most of the club left their gear lying around the benches, open gym bags and dirty towels littering the stands until Kantoku gave them the glinty eye more fearful than Moms on a Sunday. Jiroh was napping as usual on the other side of the court.
“What?” Gakuto was picking through his Pocky, not bothering to look up. That was fine. Yuushi could do the looking. “You left your eyeballs on the court, girly face? You stomped all over my knee!”
“Oh shut up, bowl head.”
“You kicked me,” Gakuto grumbled, armed with full pout, rubbing his kneecap with his thumbs. Suddenly, it seemed, his knee hurt a lot.
“I did not!”
Though Shishido did have the compunction to look a little sheepish now. Gakuto could ape injury better than most world-class soccer players and look sweet and brave at the same time. His face was hidden behind the neat red bob, and he ignored Shishido with finesse. But he was looking all right.
“Fine,” Gakuto whispered.
Yuushi knew Gak-kun was faking it, Shishido knew Gak-kun was faking it, but that didn’t matter when Gak-kun was rubbing his (not very) bruised knee quietly and fixedly, albeit with a barely perceptible hitch in his low, gravelly voice. Now Shishido was kneeling right next to them, his breath tickling Yuushi’s hair, and rubbing his calloused fingers over Gak-kun’s knee. This was new, and newly filed away for later as Dirty Dream #24.
“You okay?”
Gaku-kun made a tiny, brave nod. Shishido wasn’t convinced.
“Want me to carry your gym bag?”
Gak-kun rubbed his knee again, and brushed over Shishido’s fingertips.
“Okay.”
Gak-kun’s voice seemed to have crawled into his throat, what with facing the future with an amputated leg, the noble one-legged tennis player of Hyoutei Gakuen. A future where Shishido would be carrying all his gym bags. Even Gakuto seemed to think he’d gone a bit too far.
“Here,” Gakuto offered up his box of strawberry Pocky as he and Shishido walked toward the club house.
“Thanks,” Shishido muttered, rather penitently.
Laden with two gym bags and Gak-kun draped over his other shoulder, he chomped, unaware, into the pre-licked (now dry) strawberry Pocky Gak-kun had put back in the box.
Gak-kun looked behind his shoulder at Yuushi with a thumbs up and mouthed, “Go for it!”
That settled it. Yuushi would have a boyfriend.
Atobe-sama wouldn’t know what hit him
*
“The deal’s off. You have to be the married one now.”
Conversations on the phone with Kenya were never very coherent. For one thing, he was haphazard. Not in the head. Just his conversation. Which might mean the same thing. Yuushi would finish a doodle and start on the next one-mostly they were cartoon faces with know it-all-smirks, and lately with a mole on the cheek-before Kenya was finished with whatever topic he’d plucked out of the air.
A couple years ago, when the family first moved to Tokyo, Yuushi had wondered if it was a sign that they were growing apart, that he wasn’t part of Kenya’s everyday life, and they would slowly misunderstand each other and lose interest and contact. But this was Kenya. He made Gakuto look like he made sense.
“You have to carry on the family name. It’s all up to you.”
“Uh, Kenya… I don’t know what you’re talking… uh… we have the same name-”
“Do you like someone?”
This couldn’t have come at a worse time. Not when he’d just discovered the courage and insight to go after his heart’s desire, but at a moment when it was too rare and delicate to breath upon lest it shatter in the air. Or, something like that.
“Uh… I don’t really-”
“Good. ‘Cause, dibs. I do.”
“Uh… good… for you?”
“So, someone has to get married, otherwise the name will die out.”
“Kenya…. We’re fifteen.”
“I mean, later. I’m not going to change.”
The problem was, Kenya would sound resolute about everything, the kind of juice he wanted at Happy Burger, the color of his socks, the boy he was not going to marry. What? Wait-
“Wait, Kenya… what are you… I mean, are you saying you like-”
“Come on, Yuushi. I’ve been covering for you for years, you sicko pervert.”
“Uh… thanks?”
“Only, now I have to be the sicko pervert. So you get married. Okay?”
It wasn’t his uncle’s fault Kenya was that way. He probably was just as strict as Yuushi’s father. Even if he did walk around the house in his underwear. Even in the winter. But then he wore red wooly socks. It usually had a damaging effect on Yuushi’s brain for the rest of his winter break.
“Kenya, much as I’d like to… uh…congratulate you on your… er…impending… er… non-nuptials, I really don’t think… I mean… ”
“He has cool hands, okay? You made me say it. At least I’m sure he’s got cool hands. Not that I’ve ever seen them, since you can’t, but I can’t stop thinking about… like what they’re really like and… you know, stuff they’d do and… you know what I mean?”
“Uh… you like someone’s hands you can’t see?”
“Oh, shut up. It’s not like you have someone cool who plays the best tennis and is just plain scary and cool and just…shut up!”
He supposed not. Atobe-sama wore leopard print underpants, after all.
Dirty Dream #25 involved bandage bondage.
*
All goals needed a solid plan. A plan that wasn’t too fussy and neurotic, but exuded a calm, laissaiz-faire attitude to the world. The plan that seemed too effortless to be a plan. Otherwise, people would call you a mere hard worker instead of a genius.
Following Atobe around seemed like a good idea. More so when the team assumed Yuushi was being reasonable and responsible and watching out for Atobe-oujisama when he skipped over to other schools. After a week of it, Yuushi could see Gakuto’s point about fawning over Seigaku. Of course, the rich were never “crazy,” just “eccentric.”
Well, Atobe-sama was super special that way. And it was difficult not to get caught up in one of his more hair-brained ideas. He was just so cute when he was enthusiastic, Yuushi went along with him, no questions asked.
Even if Yuushi knew it would have been wiser to buy second-hand Seigaku uniforms if one were to spy on Seigaku, instead of dress up in black like spies. But Yuushi liked wearing a black fedora with his aviator shades, so he didn’t really mind. It was too hot for black trench coats, which was a pity.
And he always took care to slip in a compliment every so often, so Atobe would absorb little hints of Yuushi’s pure tender feelings deep down his pants.
“Tezuka hasn’t used The Zone for the past few weeks. Not that there’s anyone of his caliber around for him to hone his talent. He’s wasted at Seigaku, wasted!”
“Of course, Atobe. Your shirt looks very nice, by the way.”
“What? And another thing, when did they start recruiting midgets at Seigaku? He’s good though, despite his showy little tricks.”
“You’re absolutely right, Atobe. And the blue stripes with the grey go nicely with your cheeks-”
“Grab the bags, Oshitari! They’re moving to Court B. Wait! Why’s the runt going with him?”
And while Atobe crouched in the bushes, unaware that Inui Sadaharu was making note of him taking notes of Tezuka, Yuushi sat down next to him and watched Atobe’s shirt crawl up. The best part was when Atobe would peer out of the bushes and Yuushi would sit down behind him, legs crossed to be comfortable, and sort through a neat mental catalogue of fantasies to wile away the afternoon.
Dirty Dream #31 was his favorite, spawning variations 32-41, all distinctly different, from reluctant to playful to bizarrely kinky, a muffled furtive handjob, or a blowjob, or one where the entire Seigaku team watched. Then took turns. At each end.
Yuushi would chart the frontier of his erotic future on the slender expanse of skin that peeked out from the hem of Atobe’s shirt down to the tantalizing line of his trousers.
And answering, Yes, No, Of course, You’re right, Atobe, was easy enough as Yuushi leaned back, eyes half-closed, and mapped out the play of ghostly fingers over this vision just beyond his grasp, slowly, lovingly pressing imaginary touches across the small of Kei-chan’s back, taking his time to puzzle out the mystery of his spine, the delicate bumps on the too thin back of a boy pulled lanky by his growth spurt. The freckle two centimeters left of center, the concave of stomach that dipped to softer flesh, the curve of ribs and the sparse growth of hair leading down a tempting path.
Keigo would be ticklish too, Yuushi knew, sensitive and skittish, but he would close his eyes and lean back, and they would fit together, two perfect pieces of an intricate puzzle, when Yuushi would bury his nose into Keigo’s hair, and slip his fingers under the tab of his waistband, and underneath, lower, until he reached the crinkle of hair and warm, vulnerable skin, hot and hard in his palm.
It didn’t matter that Keigo would be watching someone else-even Yuushi’s fantasies had that persistent grain of truth in them-that he would be looking away, eyes only for Tezuka, right as Yuushi would feed another kind of hunger, gently, firmly stroking him to a steady rhythm. Keigo’s breath would hitch and he would grind himself backwards against Yuushi, urging him for more speed, while Tezuka smashed a ball into the other court without breaking formation.
But Yuushi would hold back, going no faster or slower, neither tightening nor loosening his grip, as focused and consistent as Tezuka’s perfect tennis, as they played Keigo between them, tennis and sex consuming their rapacious little princeling who would only thirst for the aloof perfection of those who did not want him back.
And when he came, mesmerized by the Tezuka Zone, his form, his speed, his concentration, Tezuka’s name on his lips, Yuushi would be the one to hold him as he fell back, satisfied and wanting, until sleep would erase the bitter twinge of longing. And it would be enough if Yuushi could hold him, even as he dreamt of other people.
Or at least he imagined.
Of course, it wasn’t as though Atobe completely ignored Yuushi’s presence. He’d take Yuushi out for dinner at Bennigan’s after their bout of after-school spying (Atobe-sama didn’t deign to grace Happy Burger with his shiny presence), even if it was only to talk more about Tezuka. Yuushi did his homework over his Buffalo wings and fries and vanilla ice-cream, to wring out the day as long as he could, and surreptitiously watched Atobe wipe his fingers in his annoying, cute, fussy way.
“He’s not been to the street courts, but he’s not at the school courts either. Tezuka wouldn’t skip practice. He wouldn’t, would he, Oshitari?”
That wrenched Yuushi out of his dirty daydream #17, the one where Atobe decided licking his fingers in public was not only to be condoned, it should be embraced, and proceeded to lean over the table to lick the carefully dabbed bit of ice-cream from the corner of Yuushi’s mouth.
“Huh? Oh, of course not, Atobe,” Yuushi said, with his most soothing, comforting smile. Keigo started tapping the tabletop impatiently, then ripped up three packets of artificial sweetener into his empty glass.
“And that little runt isn’t anywhere to be seen, either. I don’t like this, Oshitari. That mouthy little brat’s nothing but trouble.”
“Yes, I can’t agree more… but ‘little’and ‘runt’ is rather redundant, don’t you thin-”
“I don’t know what you’re blathering about, Oshitari. I don’t trust the Shortest Wonder. There’s just something wrong about them that I can’t quite put my finger on.”
It was time for some true Oshitari wisdom, words that would open Keigo’s eyes to the truth before him.
“Well, I suppose… but single parents are not a good choice for romance. They’ll always be thinking about their little one to pay proper attention to you. That’s why you should leave them be, and find someone without that little addition.”
Unfortunately, such advice fell on deaf ears as Atobe caught sight of Tezuka Kunimitsu heading for the subway station with his tennis bag over his shoulder, Seigaku’s first-year wonder trotting behind him.
“We have to go after them! Come on!”
And weeks of practice had Yuushi collecting their bags and carefully retrieving the platinum card Atobe had flung at the counter and running after him. Again.
*
The tennis court under the bridge was forgotten by most of the city’s denizens, yet remained well-kept if somewhat worn out, a faded contrast to the furious clash of skill and power across the net, between a coolly masterful Tezuka and his aggressive inheritor.
There was no room for anyone else, not absent teammates or rivals present, currently ignored as they stood behind the empty shack of an office, a perfunctory screen that nevertheless set apart the match in front of them from the rest of the world.
Not enough of a shield, however, to keep Atobe from becoming an unwitting witness to what happened next, fingers digging into his palms, as they were trapped, unable to leave lest they draw attention to themselves. After the first shock to Hyoutei’s resident prince, when Echizen Ryouma reached up and pulled Tezuka Kunimitsu down to him, fists bunching up Tezuka’s sweat soaked collar, Yuushi could only catch Atobe as his knees buckled under him, and close his palms over Keigo’s ears as the pair outside, unaware of their reluctant but captive audience, became a couple on the court. Literally.
Seigaku’s ichinen wonder had stamina to match his tennis. Much stronger than Atobe’s nerves, it seemed. Yuushi, experienced with years of daydreaming, could pretty much picture what was going to the exact second to second byplay.
“I think they’re done. Want to go now?” Yuushi asked, a good fifteen minutes after the noise died down. Atobe leaned against the wall of the shabby office, his head braced despondently against the top of his knees. Yuushi’s hand slid down from covering Atobe’s assaulted ears and rested over his shoulder.
Atobe didn’t speak.
“It happens to everyone, you know. It’s perfectly natural, of course. Hormones, adrenaline, tennis.”
Keigo still didn’t say anything, or look at him. This was starting to worry him, even as Yuushi fed reassuring lies to Atobe, make all of this seem as normal as possible.
“I’m sure it happens at Hyoutei, too, just behind doors, since we’re not like Seigaku, oh no. But it’s all right, Kei-chan-” ooops “I mean, Atobe, s’all natural. Like the birds and the bees-uh, I mean other birds.”
There, that should be hint enough. But Atobe’s head dropped, this time to the side, lolling on Yuushi’s shoulder like a marionette with its strings cut.
“I guess, I never figured the boy wonder for a top, though if you think about it, Tezuka is pretty much a classic bottom-”
“Oshitari?” Atobe said quietly.
This was hopeful.
“Yes?”
“Just shut up.”
“Okay.”
And they sat there for an uncounted number of minutes, as the sunset drenched the walls orange, then pink, and still Atobe didn’t seem to want to stand up. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuushi spied one fat tear trickle down over Keigo’s beauty mark, before Keigo swiped it away with his thumb, in a rather tired and slow movement.
And they sat there as the stars came out, when Keigo finally said, wearily and stiffly.
“I’d like to sit here, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
And he didn’t say anything when Yuushi held his hand, more comforting than romantic, and he leaned his head on Yuushi’s shoulder and sniffed, like a child whose his favorite toy has been smashed under a truck. Which is rather tragic when you happen to be a child.
And Yuushi could have carefully sorted out this moment, sitting in the eerie light of dusk, Atobe’s hand in his hand, Atobe’s face occasionally buried against Yuushi’s neck to mask his hiccups, and label it as Dirty Dream #50, frills and variations forthcoming.
But he didn’t.
And that was fine, too.
*
Despite alarming statistics among other schools’ tennis clubs, wild speculation circulated by Shishido-san’s very suspicious hair, and some rather conspicuous fist-bopping during tournaments, the Hyoutei Boy’s Tennis Club did not offer up any definitive proof of engaging in, what someone famous that he forgot probably called, the love that dare not speak its name.
Or at least that was what Ohtori Choutarou told himself firmly as he sat back against the bleachers and made up Dirty Dream #3.
finis
Art by Kakushiazi