(no subject)
Title: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Oshitari/Atobe
Word count: 3,305
Notes: Written for theprerogative, who prompted with "law". Much thanks to ice_killer and g3ssh0ku for the betas.
Yuushi, this is so stu-
Hello, I-
Dear, idiot Yuushi, is it your goal in life t-
Setting down his pen, Atobe stares at the piece of stationary in front of him, the page blank save for a frivolously fancy A centered at the top. In the past forty-five minutes, Atobe has already attempted to begin this letter in ten different ways, none of which seem to be appropriate. Briefly, he even considers drafting an outline, but pitches the thought because he is writing Oshitari a letter, not an essay.
The soul of a letter is free and spontaneous. It is supposed to capture the fleeting thoughts of an individual’s mind like a camera with lightning-quick shutter speed. Delineating any portion of a letter would be defeating the purpose of writing one in the first place.
He runs a hand through the silky locks he spent forever and a day arranging and rearranging that morning, feeling a sandy brown thread of hair slip out of place. He only raises an eyebrow and resumes fighting the silent war that rages between him and the paper, wondering when it had become so difficult to find the right things to say.
Words used to flow smooth as a placid river’s currents from Atobe’s mouth when he spoke to Oshitari, but now something has changed. Atobe does not know if this change is as the result of the distance that now stretches between the two of them, or the result of a more deeply-rooted problem.
Atobe picks up the pen again and places its tip to blank page in front of him, watching in odd fascination as blue ink drains from the fountain and onto the paper, bleeding outward, forming a fuzzy ring around the ball of the pen. Rationally, he knows he should not ruin perfectly good pieces of stationary, but viscerally, he could not care less.
Just as he lifts his pen to stain another dot, the phone on his desk rings. Begrudgingly, he reaches to answer it. Before he can fully state his name, however, he tears the phone from his ear, wincing as Jirou’s voice beats mercilessly against his right eardrum.
“Mou, Atobe,” Jirou begins to whine, and Atobe knows right then that he is going to be on the phone for a minimum of an hour, “everyone’s being boring, and Mom gave me this book that’s really a downer.”
“Is that so?” Atobe begins inking the second dot, about an inch from the first. “What book is it?”
“Dunno,” Jirou replies, and Atobe can almost see him accompany his words with a shrug despite that they on the phone and Atobe cannot physically see the movement of his shoulders. Or much at all. His eyes are on the inkblots. “It’s some book with all these depressing laws.”
“Murphy’s Laws,” Atobe identifies. There are quite a number of depressing laws floating around out there, but none of them quite measure up to Murphy’s Laws.
“Yeah, those.” Jirou is probably making a face at the phone as he looks down at the book at hand. “This guy needs some friends and something happy in his life,” Jirou says as Atobe sinks his pen into the paper again, this time about five inches away, letting more ink burn the page, further marring the stationary’s white perfection. “I mean, look at this one: ‘If anything simply cannot go wrong, it will anyway.’ What’s that even supposed to mean?”
It means, Atobe thinks, loosening the grip on his pen, as Jirou continues to ramble on about how desperately Murphy needs a cheer-me-up, that one can spend forever prepping Yuushi for a pleasant dinner where one’s father won’t have an aneurysm, and Yuushi will purposely defenestrate all sense of what is appropriate dinner conversation and table etiquette the moment he walks through the door.
The memory of his father staring disapprovingly at Oshitari from his first greeting - “Hello, Atobe-san. How is it?” - to his last goodbyes, shouted from the balcony- “Have a nice evening, Atobe-san. Don’t let me stop the fun.” - and every minute in between remains startlingly vivid.
During dinner, Oshitari had taken to refuting the point of view of Atobe’s father on every subject, whether it be business, economics, social class, or politics. At first, Atobe had not been entirely sure how his father and Oshitari’s views clashed so violently - he certainly hadn’t noticed it before - but it had only been when Atobe’s father had made a remark about War and Peace being a piece of literary nonsense and Oshitari had debated to the contrary that Atobe figured out exactly what Oshtiari was doing.
By the end of dinner, during which Oshitari had used all the wrong forks, spoke at all the wrong times, and behaved all the ways he knew Atobe’s father found to be improper, the CEO of the Atobe corporation had turned several shades of purple and might have ended up having that aneurysm after all had Atobe not quickly offered to show Oshitari his way out.
Out on the balcony, Atobe cornered Oshitari like a wolf on the prowl for flesh, torn between wanting to kiss Oshitari and wanting to slap him. He did both, in that order.
“I’m hurt,” Oshitari drawled. Though Atobe’s slap had been no more than a light pat on the cheek, Oshitari acted as if he had been mortally wounded by a wildcat. “Striking the man who realized all your late night fantasies. That’s cruel, Keigo, and it hurts me, right here.” He attempted to tap a spot near his heart.
Atobe sputtered. “That’s your shoulder, stupid - and what the hell? We haven’t even - ”
“Tonight, I said all the things you’ve been wanting to say to your father, done all the things you’ve always wanted to do in front of your father, and pissed off your father the way you’ve always held back from doing because he’s your father,” Oshitari said, gently flicking a piece of Atobe’s hair that had fallen in his face during the kiss. Had Oshitari not known Atobe’s face better than he knew his own, he would have missed the way those eyes, intensely bright under the dark of night, widen just so, the way those gently arching eyebrows knitted just there, and the way those lips blended into a hard, thin line just like that. Oshitari could almost see the how did you…? starting to form on his face.
Leaning down to place his mouth next to Atobe’s right ear, Oshitari added in a deep, low whisper, “But if there are other fantasies you would like for me to realize, I wouldn’t mind.”
The kick Atobe placed on Oshitari’s shin was far from a light nudge. The blow brings Atobe back to the present where Jirou is babbling in the same ear that now tingles, remembering Oshitari’s words. His body has a memory of its own.
“…I mean, there are some that are logical, I guess, but it’s still weird how he words them. Like there’s something wrong with it. ‘Nothing is as easy as it looks.’ You hear people say it all the time, but doesn’t this guy make it sound all bad? It’s like...”
It’s like saying goodbye. Atobe leans back in his chair, letting the pen in his hand take liberty over the piece of paper that is now sullied with random dots and scribbles. A fall breeze washes over his skin from the back window, billowing the cerulean curtains. Gently, the sky blue fabric teases the bottom of Atobe’s spine as the breeze coaxes the strands of his hair apart in a soothing hush of warm breaths. The atmosphere is much like it was the day Oshitari boarded his flight to London. The air was cooler, though, despite that it was summer then and it is fall now.
As the lone senior on the team to choose to study abroad, Oshitari found himself leaving earlier than anyone else to hunt for an apartment, find a favorite grocery store, and seek out places to drink endless cups of coffee and lounge lazily, indulging in sappy romance novels when academic essays didn’t strike his fancy. When Oshitari offered this to explain why he was leaving mid-July instead of early-August, Atobe only rolled his eyes and told him to do as he wished.
Oshitari split the months between when he had first announced his decision to study in London and when he is due to depart with Atobe, who acted all too eager to be rid of him, and paperwork that seemed capable of asexual reproduction. The latter Oshitari found false through common sense; the former he found false at the airport, two hours before he was due to board.
At Oshitari’s big sendoff, all the seniors of the club, plus Ohtori and Hiyoshi, minus Atobe, had reported in front of security. The product of this Hyoutei expression (seniors + O + H - A) had Oshitari peeking subtly in every direction, unsure of the reason behind Atobe’s absence. Though they hadn’t exactly discussed the bidding of farewells at the airport, Oshitari had taken Atobe’s presence for granted because the team was going to be there, and Atobe was the captain of the team. And it wasn’t as if they were just acquaintances. Hell, they weren’t even just friends.
As all seven of them hobbled past security, stomping their shoes back on - with no Atobe around to tell them that they looked like a group of unbecoming and unsophisticated plebeians, they could put their shoes on any way they wished - and then past the magazine stand, Oshitari spotted a flash of familiar brown hair tucked away behind a Danish magazine held upside down, and he halted in his step, Mukahi crashing into him and letting out a loud curse.
“If you want to stare at trashy magazines, fine, but don’t just stop like that,” Mukahi grumbled, rubbing his forehead, which had knocked against Oshitari’s protruding shoulder blades. “You’re all bone…”
Oshitari ignored Mukahi’s complaints and squeezed his shoulder in a manner intended to be placating before muttering distractedly for the redhead to tell the rest of the team that he suddenly got the urge to pee and that he would be right back. Without a further word, Oshitari dashed off, leaving Mukahi to wonder if it was really that big of an emergency.
Behind the magazine booth, a voice curled around Atobe’s ear and he jumped, startled. “Do you intend to see how much you can comprehend of a language you didn’t know to begin with, upside down?” Oshitari asked.
“I know Danish,” Atobe quipped, sniffing defensively and rushing in an undignified fumble to flip the magazine he was holding in his hand so that it was right side up. “See, on this page, the article is describing a faster, more fuel-efficient way train that will be introduced publicly in 2011.” Atobe had no clue what he was saying, merely basing his guess on the picture of a shiny, chicly airbrushed train.
The eyebrow Oshitari lifted as he scanned the page was unimpressed. “Keigo, that article is talking about the train wreck that happened on the November twentieth last year and the new evidence that now lead investigators to believe that that wreck was not an accident.” At the way Atobe winced, Oshitari could not help but add, “You should have at least gotten the date right.”
“Shut up,” Atobe snapped, lips adopting an irritated scowl as he shoved the magazine at Oshitari. “I was just leaving.”
As Atobe turned on his heel to stomp away, Oshitari took a firm grip of his wrist. “I’m sorry. I never know when to stop.”
The look Atobe tossed Oshitari before spinning back around and throwing theirs lips together, hard and desperate, was an explosion of frustration, agitation, and the millions of nameless emotions that had been repressed and compressed like sardines, hitting them both like a wave of fire, invading their senses and burning their skin raw with its smoldering intensity. Against Oshitari’s lips, Atobe agreed, “No, you really never learn.” The words ended up a harsh moan as their tongues collided, battling for senseless dominance until Oshitari tore their lips apart.
Tugging lightly at the wrist he still had not released, Oshitari bent to rest his forehead against Atobe’s. His drawl was thrown off tempo by erratic breathing as he spoke. “We have time.”
Atobe gave a nod, and they stumbled toward the nearest restroom. They didn’t know who was leading the stumble. It didn’t matter.
An hour later, they emerged from the restroom, Atobe with a pink flush smeared across his pale cheeks and Yuushi with a smirk tugging at his lips. Giving them a quick one-over, Shishido scowled in disgust and leapt out of his seat. “Oh, lame. Let’s keep a twelve-foot radius between me and your afterglow-y selves.”
Just as Oshitari opened his mouth to make a remark, Atobe smacked them both upside the head. “It’s not story time. Hush.”
“Such abuse. This is what I put up with in exchange for - ” Oshitari began in mock resignation before he was cut off by a near blow to the groin. The casual banter and acts of playful violence - this is the way it’s supposed to be¬ - continued until Atobe pulled Oshitari aside just as he joined the line to board.
“So,” Atobe said, intertwining Oshitari’s fingers with his own and holding them in a tight and secure lock. In one word, he had voiced a million thoughts. In one gesture, he had laid out a million feelings.
Oshitari studied Atobe’s face and smiled, placing a possessively lingering kiss on Atobe’s lips. “You think too much. It’s going to be fine.”
Atobe Keigo is not insecure, merely rational, and he thinks it is only rational to fear for a long-term long-distance relationship.
As their fingertips slid past and apart, Oshitari kept his eyes Atobe’s face, gaze steady, as if he was trying to take notes or look for an answer. He paused for a beat in his step and smiled again, as if he had just found that answer.
“It’s poor manners to stare.”
Oshitari chuckled. “It’s difficult not to,” he quipped before turning and walking away.
Even now, as Atobe continues to listen to Jirou’s phone discursions, he can feel blood graze his cheeks. He slashes the paper in front of him with his pen.
“I especially don’t get this last one.”
“What is it?” Some of Atobe’s focus has returned.
“It’s weird. Like, kind of contradictory.”
Atobe waits for Jirou to continue.
“'Every solution breeds new problems,’” Jirou reads, confused. “But if it was meant to be a solution, why would it create more problems?
That doesn’t make any sense.”
Atobe smirks to himself, knowing exactly how much sense this makes. For example, Oshitari has a problem with phone conversations and e-mails, as he claims that they are too impersonal. Atobe knows that, really, Oshitari just thinks it’s more romantic to write letters, but doesn’t mention this. In the end, their solution to the problem Oshitari has against e-mail and the telephone - two forms of communication Atobe finds ten-folds more efficient and relevant in this day and age because letters are so obsolete it hurts - comes to exchanging monthly mail.
As made evident by Atobe’s scribble-laden stationary, the problem this creates is that Atobe doesn’t know what he should write. Unconsciously, he has grown to working his words based on the nuances in the expressions that flit through Oshitari’s eyes, which he can no longer see, given that they are a deep, blue ocean away.
…Except, as Atobe finds out, after Jirou runs off to a date that he is now late for, that those eyes may not be as far away as he had thought because in the past hour he saw it all: the clear, warm moisture on Oshitari’s lips as he pulls their mouths together, the knowing smirk on Oshitari’s all-too-smug face as he takes on the role of a merciless tease, and the shades of blue in Oshitari’s eyes as he just stares, and says nothing, and drives Atobe insane.
Atobe now has words flooding into his mind, but as he stares down at the once-blank stationary in front of him, it stares back at him. Or rather, the little stick people stare back at him. It is no masterpiece - that is for certain - as Atobe is not an artist; however, it is evident that the one on the left with the tear mole is Atobe, and the one on the right with the round glasses is Oshitari, and that is enough. Not everything has to be perfect.
Smiling down at his letter, Atobe adds at the bottom, Do you remember? and sends it off this way.
Omake
“Oi, Keigo,” Oshitari says the next time Atobe calls, “do I honestly look like a caveman to you?”
Atobe blinks at the phone blankly. “What?”
“In your picture,” Oshitari prompts, “I look like I’m a caveman ready to ravish you, the innocently oblivious maiden.”
“I do not look like a girl,” Atobe insists, pretending to take offense. “I am perfectly manly.”
“Yes, but Keigo - ”
“Yuushi.”
Oshitari pauses for a beat to decide whether Atobe is serious, or pulling one of those “Oh, god, stop. No, don’t really stop, you bastard - keep going” things over on him. He doesn’t take his chances, and changes the topic. “Jirou said you and he had an interesting conversation about Murphy’s Laws.”
“We did.” Atobe doesn’t think it’s necessary to mention that he had contributed a grand total of about ten words to the conversation.
“Did he tell you about Murphy’s more provocative laws?” Just hearing Oshitari’s words summons the image of a devilish smirk and a pair of glinting glasses.
“No, he did not…”
“I believe one of them goes like this,” Oshitari says, taking Atobe’s words as an invitation to go on, “Sex is like snow; you never know how many inches you are going to get or how long it is going to last.”
There is silence on Atobe’s end. Just when Oshitari thinks Atobe has hung up on him, Atobe clears his throat.
“Yes, Yuushi. I would know.”
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Oshitari/Atobe
Word count: 3,305
Notes: Written for theprerogative, who prompted with "law". Much thanks to ice_killer and g3ssh0ku for the betas.
Yuushi, this is so stu-
Hello, I-
Dear, idiot Yuushi, is it your goal in life t-
Setting down his pen, Atobe stares at the piece of stationary in front of him, the page blank save for a frivolously fancy A centered at the top. In the past forty-five minutes, Atobe has already attempted to begin this letter in ten different ways, none of which seem to be appropriate. Briefly, he even considers drafting an outline, but pitches the thought because he is writing Oshitari a letter, not an essay.
The soul of a letter is free and spontaneous. It is supposed to capture the fleeting thoughts of an individual’s mind like a camera with lightning-quick shutter speed. Delineating any portion of a letter would be defeating the purpose of writing one in the first place.
He runs a hand through the silky locks he spent forever and a day arranging and rearranging that morning, feeling a sandy brown thread of hair slip out of place. He only raises an eyebrow and resumes fighting the silent war that rages between him and the paper, wondering when it had become so difficult to find the right things to say.
Words used to flow smooth as a placid river’s currents from Atobe’s mouth when he spoke to Oshitari, but now something has changed. Atobe does not know if this change is as the result of the distance that now stretches between the two of them, or the result of a more deeply-rooted problem.
Atobe picks up the pen again and places its tip to blank page in front of him, watching in odd fascination as blue ink drains from the fountain and onto the paper, bleeding outward, forming a fuzzy ring around the ball of the pen. Rationally, he knows he should not ruin perfectly good pieces of stationary, but viscerally, he could not care less.
Just as he lifts his pen to stain another dot, the phone on his desk rings. Begrudgingly, he reaches to answer it. Before he can fully state his name, however, he tears the phone from his ear, wincing as Jirou’s voice beats mercilessly against his right eardrum.
“Mou, Atobe,” Jirou begins to whine, and Atobe knows right then that he is going to be on the phone for a minimum of an hour, “everyone’s being boring, and Mom gave me this book that’s really a downer.”
“Is that so?” Atobe begins inking the second dot, about an inch from the first. “What book is it?”
“Dunno,” Jirou replies, and Atobe can almost see him accompany his words with a shrug despite that they on the phone and Atobe cannot physically see the movement of his shoulders. Or much at all. His eyes are on the inkblots. “It’s some book with all these depressing laws.”
“Murphy’s Laws,” Atobe identifies. There are quite a number of depressing laws floating around out there, but none of them quite measure up to Murphy’s Laws.
“Yeah, those.” Jirou is probably making a face at the phone as he looks down at the book at hand. “This guy needs some friends and something happy in his life,” Jirou says as Atobe sinks his pen into the paper again, this time about five inches away, letting more ink burn the page, further marring the stationary’s white perfection. “I mean, look at this one: ‘If anything simply cannot go wrong, it will anyway.’ What’s that even supposed to mean?”
It means, Atobe thinks, loosening the grip on his pen, as Jirou continues to ramble on about how desperately Murphy needs a cheer-me-up, that one can spend forever prepping Yuushi for a pleasant dinner where one’s father won’t have an aneurysm, and Yuushi will purposely defenestrate all sense of what is appropriate dinner conversation and table etiquette the moment he walks through the door.
The memory of his father staring disapprovingly at Oshitari from his first greeting - “Hello, Atobe-san. How is it?” - to his last goodbyes, shouted from the balcony- “Have a nice evening, Atobe-san. Don’t let me stop the fun.” - and every minute in between remains startlingly vivid.
During dinner, Oshitari had taken to refuting the point of view of Atobe’s father on every subject, whether it be business, economics, social class, or politics. At first, Atobe had not been entirely sure how his father and Oshitari’s views clashed so violently - he certainly hadn’t noticed it before - but it had only been when Atobe’s father had made a remark about War and Peace being a piece of literary nonsense and Oshitari had debated to the contrary that Atobe figured out exactly what Oshtiari was doing.
By the end of dinner, during which Oshitari had used all the wrong forks, spoke at all the wrong times, and behaved all the ways he knew Atobe’s father found to be improper, the CEO of the Atobe corporation had turned several shades of purple and might have ended up having that aneurysm after all had Atobe not quickly offered to show Oshitari his way out.
Out on the balcony, Atobe cornered Oshitari like a wolf on the prowl for flesh, torn between wanting to kiss Oshitari and wanting to slap him. He did both, in that order.
“I’m hurt,” Oshitari drawled. Though Atobe’s slap had been no more than a light pat on the cheek, Oshitari acted as if he had been mortally wounded by a wildcat. “Striking the man who realized all your late night fantasies. That’s cruel, Keigo, and it hurts me, right here.” He attempted to tap a spot near his heart.
Atobe sputtered. “That’s your shoulder, stupid - and what the hell? We haven’t even - ”
“Tonight, I said all the things you’ve been wanting to say to your father, done all the things you’ve always wanted to do in front of your father, and pissed off your father the way you’ve always held back from doing because he’s your father,” Oshitari said, gently flicking a piece of Atobe’s hair that had fallen in his face during the kiss. Had Oshitari not known Atobe’s face better than he knew his own, he would have missed the way those eyes, intensely bright under the dark of night, widen just so, the way those gently arching eyebrows knitted just there, and the way those lips blended into a hard, thin line just like that. Oshitari could almost see the how did you…? starting to form on his face.
Leaning down to place his mouth next to Atobe’s right ear, Oshitari added in a deep, low whisper, “But if there are other fantasies you would like for me to realize, I wouldn’t mind.”
The kick Atobe placed on Oshitari’s shin was far from a light nudge. The blow brings Atobe back to the present where Jirou is babbling in the same ear that now tingles, remembering Oshitari’s words. His body has a memory of its own.
“…I mean, there are some that are logical, I guess, but it’s still weird how he words them. Like there’s something wrong with it. ‘Nothing is as easy as it looks.’ You hear people say it all the time, but doesn’t this guy make it sound all bad? It’s like...”
It’s like saying goodbye. Atobe leans back in his chair, letting the pen in his hand take liberty over the piece of paper that is now sullied with random dots and scribbles. A fall breeze washes over his skin from the back window, billowing the cerulean curtains. Gently, the sky blue fabric teases the bottom of Atobe’s spine as the breeze coaxes the strands of his hair apart in a soothing hush of warm breaths. The atmosphere is much like it was the day Oshitari boarded his flight to London. The air was cooler, though, despite that it was summer then and it is fall now.
As the lone senior on the team to choose to study abroad, Oshitari found himself leaving earlier than anyone else to hunt for an apartment, find a favorite grocery store, and seek out places to drink endless cups of coffee and lounge lazily, indulging in sappy romance novels when academic essays didn’t strike his fancy. When Oshitari offered this to explain why he was leaving mid-July instead of early-August, Atobe only rolled his eyes and told him to do as he wished.
Oshitari split the months between when he had first announced his decision to study in London and when he is due to depart with Atobe, who acted all too eager to be rid of him, and paperwork that seemed capable of asexual reproduction. The latter Oshitari found false through common sense; the former he found false at the airport, two hours before he was due to board.
At Oshitari’s big sendoff, all the seniors of the club, plus Ohtori and Hiyoshi, minus Atobe, had reported in front of security. The product of this Hyoutei expression (seniors + O + H - A) had Oshitari peeking subtly in every direction, unsure of the reason behind Atobe’s absence. Though they hadn’t exactly discussed the bidding of farewells at the airport, Oshitari had taken Atobe’s presence for granted because the team was going to be there, and Atobe was the captain of the team. And it wasn’t as if they were just acquaintances. Hell, they weren’t even just friends.
As all seven of them hobbled past security, stomping their shoes back on - with no Atobe around to tell them that they looked like a group of unbecoming and unsophisticated plebeians, they could put their shoes on any way they wished - and then past the magazine stand, Oshitari spotted a flash of familiar brown hair tucked away behind a Danish magazine held upside down, and he halted in his step, Mukahi crashing into him and letting out a loud curse.
“If you want to stare at trashy magazines, fine, but don’t just stop like that,” Mukahi grumbled, rubbing his forehead, which had knocked against Oshitari’s protruding shoulder blades. “You’re all bone…”
Oshitari ignored Mukahi’s complaints and squeezed his shoulder in a manner intended to be placating before muttering distractedly for the redhead to tell the rest of the team that he suddenly got the urge to pee and that he would be right back. Without a further word, Oshitari dashed off, leaving Mukahi to wonder if it was really that big of an emergency.
Behind the magazine booth, a voice curled around Atobe’s ear and he jumped, startled. “Do you intend to see how much you can comprehend of a language you didn’t know to begin with, upside down?” Oshitari asked.
“I know Danish,” Atobe quipped, sniffing defensively and rushing in an undignified fumble to flip the magazine he was holding in his hand so that it was right side up. “See, on this page, the article is describing a faster, more fuel-efficient way train that will be introduced publicly in 2011.” Atobe had no clue what he was saying, merely basing his guess on the picture of a shiny, chicly airbrushed train.
The eyebrow Oshitari lifted as he scanned the page was unimpressed. “Keigo, that article is talking about the train wreck that happened on the November twentieth last year and the new evidence that now lead investigators to believe that that wreck was not an accident.” At the way Atobe winced, Oshitari could not help but add, “You should have at least gotten the date right.”
“Shut up,” Atobe snapped, lips adopting an irritated scowl as he shoved the magazine at Oshitari. “I was just leaving.”
As Atobe turned on his heel to stomp away, Oshitari took a firm grip of his wrist. “I’m sorry. I never know when to stop.”
The look Atobe tossed Oshitari before spinning back around and throwing theirs lips together, hard and desperate, was an explosion of frustration, agitation, and the millions of nameless emotions that had been repressed and compressed like sardines, hitting them both like a wave of fire, invading their senses and burning their skin raw with its smoldering intensity. Against Oshitari’s lips, Atobe agreed, “No, you really never learn.” The words ended up a harsh moan as their tongues collided, battling for senseless dominance until Oshitari tore their lips apart.
Tugging lightly at the wrist he still had not released, Oshitari bent to rest his forehead against Atobe’s. His drawl was thrown off tempo by erratic breathing as he spoke. “We have time.”
Atobe gave a nod, and they stumbled toward the nearest restroom. They didn’t know who was leading the stumble. It didn’t matter.
An hour later, they emerged from the restroom, Atobe with a pink flush smeared across his pale cheeks and Yuushi with a smirk tugging at his lips. Giving them a quick one-over, Shishido scowled in disgust and leapt out of his seat. “Oh, lame. Let’s keep a twelve-foot radius between me and your afterglow-y selves.”
Just as Oshitari opened his mouth to make a remark, Atobe smacked them both upside the head. “It’s not story time. Hush.”
“Such abuse. This is what I put up with in exchange for - ” Oshitari began in mock resignation before he was cut off by a near blow to the groin. The casual banter and acts of playful violence - this is the way it’s supposed to be¬ - continued until Atobe pulled Oshitari aside just as he joined the line to board.
“So,” Atobe said, intertwining Oshitari’s fingers with his own and holding them in a tight and secure lock. In one word, he had voiced a million thoughts. In one gesture, he had laid out a million feelings.
Oshitari studied Atobe’s face and smiled, placing a possessively lingering kiss on Atobe’s lips. “You think too much. It’s going to be fine.”
Atobe Keigo is not insecure, merely rational, and he thinks it is only rational to fear for a long-term long-distance relationship.
As their fingertips slid past and apart, Oshitari kept his eyes Atobe’s face, gaze steady, as if he was trying to take notes or look for an answer. He paused for a beat in his step and smiled again, as if he had just found that answer.
“It’s poor manners to stare.”
Oshitari chuckled. “It’s difficult not to,” he quipped before turning and walking away.
Even now, as Atobe continues to listen to Jirou’s phone discursions, he can feel blood graze his cheeks. He slashes the paper in front of him with his pen.
“I especially don’t get this last one.”
“What is it?” Some of Atobe’s focus has returned.
“It’s weird. Like, kind of contradictory.”
Atobe waits for Jirou to continue.
“'Every solution breeds new problems,’” Jirou reads, confused. “But if it was meant to be a solution, why would it create more problems?
That doesn’t make any sense.”
Atobe smirks to himself, knowing exactly how much sense this makes. For example, Oshitari has a problem with phone conversations and e-mails, as he claims that they are too impersonal. Atobe knows that, really, Oshitari just thinks it’s more romantic to write letters, but doesn’t mention this. In the end, their solution to the problem Oshitari has against e-mail and the telephone - two forms of communication Atobe finds ten-folds more efficient and relevant in this day and age because letters are so obsolete it hurts - comes to exchanging monthly mail.
As made evident by Atobe’s scribble-laden stationary, the problem this creates is that Atobe doesn’t know what he should write. Unconsciously, he has grown to working his words based on the nuances in the expressions that flit through Oshitari’s eyes, which he can no longer see, given that they are a deep, blue ocean away.
…Except, as Atobe finds out, after Jirou runs off to a date that he is now late for, that those eyes may not be as far away as he had thought because in the past hour he saw it all: the clear, warm moisture on Oshitari’s lips as he pulls their mouths together, the knowing smirk on Oshitari’s all-too-smug face as he takes on the role of a merciless tease, and the shades of blue in Oshitari’s eyes as he just stares, and says nothing, and drives Atobe insane.
Atobe now has words flooding into his mind, but as he stares down at the once-blank stationary in front of him, it stares back at him. Or rather, the little stick people stare back at him. It is no masterpiece - that is for certain - as Atobe is not an artist; however, it is evident that the one on the left with the tear mole is Atobe, and the one on the right with the round glasses is Oshitari, and that is enough. Not everything has to be perfect.
Smiling down at his letter, Atobe adds at the bottom, Do you remember? and sends it off this way.
Omake
“Oi, Keigo,” Oshitari says the next time Atobe calls, “do I honestly look like a caveman to you?”
Atobe blinks at the phone blankly. “What?”
“In your picture,” Oshitari prompts, “I look like I’m a caveman ready to ravish you, the innocently oblivious maiden.”
“I do not look like a girl,” Atobe insists, pretending to take offense. “I am perfectly manly.”
“Yes, but Keigo - ”
“Yuushi.”
Oshitari pauses for a beat to decide whether Atobe is serious, or pulling one of those “Oh, god, stop. No, don’t really stop, you bastard - keep going” things over on him. He doesn’t take his chances, and changes the topic. “Jirou said you and he had an interesting conversation about Murphy’s Laws.”
“We did.” Atobe doesn’t think it’s necessary to mention that he had contributed a grand total of about ten words to the conversation.
“Did he tell you about Murphy’s more provocative laws?” Just hearing Oshitari’s words summons the image of a devilish smirk and a pair of glinting glasses.
“No, he did not…”
“I believe one of them goes like this,” Oshitari says, taking Atobe’s words as an invitation to go on, “Sex is like snow; you never know how many inches you are going to get or how long it is going to last.”
There is silence on Atobe’s end. Just when Oshitari thinks Atobe has hung up on him, Atobe clears his throat.
“Yes, Yuushi. I would know.”