(no subject)
Part one.
Ten-thirty the last Saturday of winter break found Oshitari in front of his miniature television with a box of tissues and The Bodyguard flickering across the screen. The television in his room was an heirloom, he would tell anyone who asked, though this wasn't quite the truth: it had only been passed down one generation from Oshitari's mother to Oshitari, and Oshitari wasn’t sure he wanted to give this treasure up to his children. That was, if he ever decided procreation was the way to go.
The thing was, as much of a fan as he was of the theatre and cinema, there wasn't anything quite like watching a romance in the dark crevices of the night from a little box that projected unsteady and flickering pictures. Oshitari thought that the torment of watching a movie from this screen was very much in keeping with the tone of romance.
Just as Oshitari leaned forward - this was the beginning of the abandonment and confusion - light from the hallway crashed into the room, ruining the "forbidden love at midnight" lighting Oshitari created.
"I need help," Atobe announced, striding in and taking the door behind him.
Oshitari squinted up at him. Atobe looked like a ruffled avian: locks of his hair out of place and limbs fidgety. It was the first he had seen of Atobe since their respective returns. He could not help but smile.
"I agree," he said. He pushed himself onto his knees and brushed some stray strands back from Atobe’s forehead. "That's better. Was Greece so unkind to your hair?"
Atobe glared, and then plopped down beside Oshitari on the bed, their hips colliding into each other. Atobe wiggled for Oshitari to move over, though there was room for a giant penguin on his other side.
"Shut up." Atobe raised the stack of papers in his hands. "Take a look at these."
"'Our university offers excellence in the areas of...'" Oshitari stopped reading from the top page of the stack. "The shredder is in the basement."
Atobe reached out to thwack Oshitari upside the head. Oshitari dodged and Atobe ended up smoothing a hand up Oshitari’s back. The way Atobe took back his hand was awkward at best.
"You were the one who sent me cryptic messages about choosing," Atobe said, once Oshitari had refocused his attention on his Friday night romance.
Oshitari didn’t turn his head. He tilted it at the screen. "Did I now."
"Don’t play stupid. The emails," Atobe said.
Oshitari blinked first at Atobe, and then at a spot on his headboard, behind him. After a pregnant pause, he smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Sure. How can I help?"
Atobe was acutely aware of the strange blanks in Oshitari's speech, but he didn't let on. "Well, first, you can stop sounding like you work at a quick mart."
"Are you suggesting there is something wrong with working at a quick mart?"
Atobe lifted an eyebrow. "It isn't the most desirable profession."
Oshitari's lips fell apart, mock-affronted, as he protested, "But Keigo, I don't insult your friends."
"That’s because all my friends are your friends," Atobe quipped.
"Not the guy with the suede jacket last year at your birthday party." Oshitari wrinkled his nose and recalled the bulky shoulder pads. "He ate all the guacamole."
"He wasn't my friend. You know that. My father invited him for public relations," Atobe said. "Besides, it wasn’t as if you needed to eat any more than you had already."
"You shouldn't make fun of the metabolic abnormal. It could be bad karma." Oshitari said, so cheekily that Atobe chuckled despite himself.
Before he can say anything in reply, though, a series of mechanical rings sounded from behind. Oshitari’s eyes slide past him to observe the source of the sound.
"It's 11:11."
Atobe turned to look at the digital clock with its red block numbers. "Is that my cue to get up and perform acts of ritual sacrifice?" If Oshitari had occult religious practices that required him to howl at the moon at precisely 11:11, it was news to Atobe.
"It's your cue to make a wish. Before the minute turns."
"Because we all know how reliable superstitions are," Atobe pointed out.
Oshitari shook his head and put a hand over Atobe’s eyes. "Close your eyes and make a wish, Keigo, for whatever you want."
Atobe huffed and sputtered, but after an extra moment of contrary rebellion, his eyelids fluttered shut against the palm of Oshitari’s hand.
Oshitari closed his own eyes.
There was buzzing. In the bleary background of the night rang the sounds of Whitney Houston belting runs after runs of floating notes and white marquisette curtains rustling like palmetto fronds. A rush of summer struck Atobe like the final gong on New Year's Eve. He made his wish.
Then, after a light bump on the shoulder: "What did you wish for?"
Atobe's eyes slid open. Oshitari’s face was closer than he remembered. On impulse, he shifted back, but before another word, the distance he had created was gone. This, though, isn't a bad thing in and of itself.
"I’m not supposed to say. Otherwise it won’t come true." The effect of verbal irony was lost on the extra breaths Atobe took.
"No one would know you told if we kept it very, very quiet," Oshitari insisted. His voice was the hush of hands brushing over cotton.
Atobe's throat dried. He looked down at a loose thread on his sleeve for a moment, and when he looked back up, Oshitari's face was right there, the tips of their noses centimetres away. Up close, Atobe thought, the image of Oshitari's feature morphed into something different.
Atobe was reminded of impressionistic paintings. From a distance, there was a full image, recognizable as a sunflower, reaching for the light, or a child playing in the abandoned parking lot after a week's rain. When one stood close enough, face-to-face with the canvas, however, one could see that the patch of green that had looked like leaves just moments ago were but a playground of squiggles and the arc above the child wasn’t a rainbow but a play of colours, a trick of the eye.
"Sailing," Atobe said, at last. "I think I would kiss anyone who could take me sailing right now." Though this was ridiculous to ask in Tokyo's winter of anyone, in spite of monetary status, Atobe felt justified in doing so. If Greece took away his winter, he wanted at least a day of summer to compensate
"Would you really?"
"Would I what?" Atobe asked a moment before the thought clicked into his mind: kiss whoever took him sailing. He about flailed himself off the bed. "Are you stupid?"
"No, no I’m not," Oshitari said, laughing. He moved in. This time, Atobe didn't shift away. "Actually, I think that I'm just possibly very, very - "
Lights pushed into Oshitari and Atobe’s eyes as the door slammed open. "Men," a voice from the doorway proclaimed, "are only worth as much as their..." Oshitari’s sister blinked and regarded the two boys "...sperm - am I interrupting?"
"You aren't," Atobe answered quickly.
"But our sperm is very flattered," Oshitari added. He showed no signs of being at all disturbed. Atobe glared at him out of the corner of his eye. "I take it you had a spectacular evening out?"
"Oh, absolutely," said Oshitari’s sister. She tapped her foot at Oshitari’s doorway, evidently trying to decide which of a variety of possible moves would be likely to achieve maximum amusement for her.
Oshitari's gaze slid sidelong toward Atobe. He looked back at his sister. "Would you like to...join us?"
The rhythm of her mauve heels come to a halt as she stood up straight and smiled. "Actually, I think I will take my leave. I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome, after all." She winked in a way that made Atobe think of a rock and a hard place. "Return my tape when you're done, please."
"Absolutely," agreed Oshitari, returning her smile. They seem to communicate in a language of curves and twinkles Atobe didn’t quite comprehend, but she left them with a small wave and an easier atmosphere. Atobe was thankful, all things considered.
A bubble of silence fell snugly between them. It wasn't difficult to pop.
"So..." Atobe said. "The universities?"
As soon as the words had left his mouth, there was some part of him that regretted his momentary cowardice.
They would have to grow out of evasion at some point. Then, they would talk about the million and more moments when Oshitari's shoulders would brush past Atobe's in the hallway, the moment of contact too long to be accidental; when Oshitari would whisper something, an innocent joke, and to Atobe’s ears it would sound suggestive; when their knees would bumped under the table and one of them wouldn't jump to move it aside. And what happened the day before Atobe jetted off to Greece. That too.
But not now - the timing isn't right. It may never be, but today, there was something unquestionably bereft.
"It’s up to you," Oshitari said. "It’s something only you can tell yourself, I think."
Atobe gnawed this over on the inside of his cheek, and nodded and shuffled the papers. "I have time."
"Of course."
Atobe smiled and tilted his head to one side. It was understood that this was silent gratitude. "I suppose I will leave you with your... " Atobe raised an eyebrow at Whitney as he slid onto his feet "...film, now."
"Or would you rather stay and watch?"
Atobe looked a little longingly at the spot he just vacated. "I should probably go home. My parents are leaving for Kyoto tonight to attend a conference, and father probably has some things to say. Besides - " a corner of Atobe’s lips kicked " - I don’t think I’m up for another night of handling you with kid gloves."
Oshitari pouted, indignant. "Greece changed you,” he accused.
Atobe raised his hands, palms out. "Last time we watched Titanic, who was the one with 'Fragile: Handle with Care' hazard stickers on his forehead?"
Oshitari thought about this. "And which one of us slept with a nightlight on until second grade again?"
Atobe's eyes widened. He was beginning to question security at his home. He wouldn't put nanocameras past Oshitari.
"I was going to invite you to my party, but now I have changed my mind," Atobe informed Oshitari loftily
"You're hosting a party?"
"Yes. This Saturday. Mother said I could. It is going to be just Hyoutei and a couple of extra-interesting people."
"I’m not Hyoutei or extra-interesting?"
"You are," Atobe said. "But you're also annoying as hell. That sets you back to zero."
"You've accepted that about me since the beginning. You can no longer use that against me."
Atobe pretended to consider this. "You want to come?"
"I would love to."
"I guess it wouldn't hurt to have someone to vacuum up the unfinished food."
Oshitari agreed.
There was something hanging in the air, thick and palpable. It swung tauntingly before their eyes, but they weren't sure who was supposed to reach out and stop the vacillation.
In the end, they just wished each other good night. The words went unsaid, as always.
-----
What Atobe had said was only to be the Hyoutei regulars plus some turned out to be the Hyoutei regulars plus every face they had seen around the junior tennis circuit.
There was noise everywhere, threatening to pound the Atobe mansion out of its place: Ohtori and Oishi trying to keep Inui from slipping questionable doses of Juice into the punch, Shishido yelling at Jirou to stop sleeping because Jirou had grown blissfully bored during a Wii Tennis match, and Mizuki tittering to himself as he strung beads in Taki's hair as Taki took a little snooze.
When Oshitari had entered, ten minutes ago, a pool of people had gathered to throw stuff at the latecomer. After Kikumaru pried himself off Oshitari's back and Mukahi hopped away, having dished his own two cents of "Yuushi, you lazy pig," a voice approached him from behind. From Atobe’s tone Oshitari saw a satisfied smirk.
"Are you here to clear the dishes?"
Oshitari turned and smiled back. In Atobe's hand, there was a glass of what Oshitari assumed was sparkling grape juice, though the thin strand of marrow red that stained the top of Atobe’s cheeks had its own opinions.
"I'm here to be awed by your hosting prowess," Oshitari said. "Looked like Tezuka was, appropriately. I ran into him on the way in."
Atobe gave his hair a flip and set a grin on his lips. "Of course he was."
"Did you ever have the chance to play him since Nationals?"
"I did," Atobe said. "A few weeks ago, we crossed paths at the street courts."
Oshitari nodded along, sure there must be something more Atobe had to say.
But Atobe only raised his glass to take a sip of his drink. This left Oshitari wondering if the match not been all that Atobe had imagined, or if it was just that the match was something that was exclusively Atobe and Tezuka's and not something Atobe wished to share. If it was the latter, Oshitari could relate.
"It's good to see things resolved," said Oshitari. Part of it was small talk, part of it was what Oshitari wanted to say but cannot outright.
"I chose a university," Atobe blurted suddenly, the words pushed from his tongue in a rush. And then, upon a beat of self-consciousness, he added, “...speaking of things resolved.”
"Oh? Which?"
"A Tokyo university," Atobe answered. They were all, more or less, the same: Tokyo-based, reputable, Good for His Future. The details wouldn’t matter much to Oshitari who would be attending college in England come fall.
"That's great." When Oshitari smiled, it gleamed dully and half-heartedly in the eyes that bore into Atobe, open and deliberate.
Atobe's stomach felt as heavy as an anchor. The chain to the anchor twisted, around and around and around. Oshitari's eyes on him - the unwavering glance, the unchangeable force - struck him hard every time, and never failed to leave him in a small, static-filled room of his own.
When Oshitari's eyes averted to something to Atobe's right, it was almost shocking, comparable to lung-removal surgery.
"Hey look," said Oshitari, pointing at the fish tank Atobe was leaning on. "Keigo's molesting Yuushi."
Atobe stared at Oshitari as if he had just spoken Italian. "What?"
"Your fish," Oshitari explained, as if it was totally obvious and, gosh, why didn’t Atobe get it? "See, that one is Yuushi - " he pointed to a clown fish " - and that one is Keigo. He goes by Kei-chan, too."
Atobe sputtered. "Yuushi, my fish do not have names."
"Of course they do. And don't say that; you’ll hurt their feelings." Oshitari grinned wide and happy at the fish. "Look, look, and there’s Kathy and Heathcliff hiding behind that boulder. It's a pity you didn't create moors in this tank. Otherwise it would be just like in the book."
"Yuushi."
"And there's Scarlett and Rhett by the fake seaweed..."
"Would you stop that?" Atobe said, but he was laughing.
"But they need names. Oh, oh! This is rich: Scarlett's cheating on Rhett with Darcy."
At this, Atobe raised an eyebrow and decided to try his luck. "Actually, I think that's Rhett cheating on Scarlett with Darcy."
"...They do make more sense, don't they." He studied Atobe with a quirk at his brow. Atobe was trying on a new type of smile, fitting it for size.
Just as Atobe and Oshitari both opened their mouths, a crash sounded from the opposite side of the room. They both turned their heads just in time to see Taki lunge at Mizuki's throat and Fuji Yuuta and Ohtori teleport from opposite sides of the room to pull them apart.
"I'm sure Mizuki-san had good intentions."
"No need to thank me for trying to pump life into your flat-wire hair!"
"You ruined it! I look Jamaican!"
Oshitari shot a glance at Atobe. As if looking Jamaican was the worst thing in the world.
Atobe shrugged. It wasn't the most appealing look.
"Should we?"
"No. I won't stop you if you want to, though. I'd rather not involve myself...with that." Atobe did not specify if he was talking about Mizuki, Taki, or the situation.
"I think I will, then."
Atobe watched as Oshitari walked over to the couches and seated himself smack in the middle of the battlefield, and decided that he was either insanely brave or insanely stupid.
-----
As they were about to part the night before, Oshitari had asked Atobe if he had any afternoon plans for the next day.
Atobe didn't, but Oshitari's display of having an apparently clairvoyant sense for knowing the right things to say, whether it was for the purpose of resolving a fight or making knots twist low in Atobe’s stomach, made him wary.
"Why?"
"I want to know if I should pack lunch for a cow or a rhinoceros."
If Oshitari knew how to cook, it was news to Atobe. "Are you suggesting a picnic?" He didn't think he needed to point out how bourgeois the idea was and how ridiculous it was in winter.
"Sailing," Oshitari corrected.
It was less bourgeois than picnicking, certainly, but it was equally ridiculous. "The lakes are all frozen."
"So?" It was more answer and less question.
Atobe thought about this.
-----
"Well," Atobe said. "This is...sailing, huh."
He was reluctantly impressed, and he very much wanted to break out in peals of laughter.
Only Oshitari would be able to talk the swim team captain into letting him use the pool for his own purposes. Only Oshitari could talk her into enlisting the whole team's help in putting up decorations - a disco ball covered in yellow paper for a sun, hanging from the ceiling beam; cotton balls taped to the pipes for clouds; and a poster of Italy for shore side scenery.
"Ready to take off your shoes?" Oshitari looked excited, like a child.
"Why am I taking off my shoes?" Atobe raised an eyebrow at Oshitari's footwear, a pair of old black flip-flops.
When Atobe opened his mouth to further his protests, Oshitari pushed on. "There aren't tides here, obviously, but it's a precaution. And see,” Oshitari said, producing a pair of flip-flops identical to his own, but in blue, "we wouldn't want this beauty to go to waste."
Atobe cast Oshitari a dry look. "Because I bet you spent fortunes on that."
"Shut up. It’s no longer the Victorian Ages, Keigo. I promise I won't molest you if I see your ankles."
Atobe slipped off his shoes and socks, and slips into the flip-flops. There were hard tan lines above his ankles; his feet were bleached from lack of sun exposure.
"In please," Oshitari said, setting his hands on the subtle curves of Atobe's waist and nudged him forward.
"I walk fine without your help." Atobe sputtered as he tripped into the plastic blow-up boat in an undignified stumble.
Oshitari smiled and shrugged in a way that made everything seem just as simple as a small rise of the shoulders. He stuck his head into the cooler he brought. "Ham or turkey?"
"Ham," Atobe said, taking a peek past Oshitari's shoulder. "Is there a family of seals you neglected to mention coming to join us?"
"No. Although that would have been cool."
"Your superhuman metabolism never fails to astonish me. You should take it to a doctor." When Oshitari opened his mouth, cheeky response no doubt at the edge of his tongue, Atobe held up a hand. "Please, spare me."
Oshitari only smiled to himself. He slipped into the boat and took a bite of his sandwich just as Atobe did. "What do you think?"
A pause. Atobe had an expression on his face. He took another bite. And then: "When did you stop sucking?"
Oshitari's eyes sparkled with amusement, the first symptom that Atobe had taken the wrong cut. "To the extent of my knowledge, I haven’t quite begun. But if you’re lucky, I might."
It took a beat for the joke to register. When it did, red flooded Atobe's face and he chucked a pickle, filched from the cooler, at Oshitari. The irony of the pickle neither escaped Atobe nor helped him to feel avenged.
"Sorry," Oshitari said ruefully. He waited patiently for Atobe to stop glaring quite so murderously. "You look good today, by the way."
Atobe attempted to salvage the pathetic morsels that remained of his dignity. "Appearance is paramount, obviously."
"You should have told Ryou that yesterday. His shirt was quite..." Oshitari waved a hand "...modern."
"It's what happens when he falls asleep conveniently behind textbooks daily and then acts as if he doesn't know what an iron is."
"If you give him a book about ironing, maybe he can sleep on it and learn through diffusion," Oshitari suggested. "He seems to be good at that."
Atobe snorted. “I quite agree.”
"What would you say about my appearance?" Oshitari's voice was cool and neutral.
This question startled Atobe like flick of cold water against his neck. Quickly, his eyes scanned: a white button-down shirt and khakis that fit slim around his waist, held by a loose belt. He looked lazily, carelessly attractive.
"I would say that you're acceptable."
"Just acceptable?" Oshitari was studying him from behind dark eyelashes.
"Are you seeking praise from me. Try harder."
"What do you suppose it'll take?"
The tone of general inquiry disturbed Atobe. He opened his mouth to take another bite of his sandwich, ostensibly because he was hungry, but really to buy himself time. He paused when Oshitari’s big toe touched his heel. At some point in the exchange, Oshitari had closed in on him.
When Atobe turned, he saw his own reflection in Oshitari’s eyes, and he panicked.
"You're touching me.”" This was neither witty nor intelligent; it was probably a line Atobe would have to erase from his memory banks later when he remembered this day.
For once in his life, Oshitari did not say something that served as root for embarrassment. Instead, he began, in a story-teller's voice, tentatively.
“Did you know...” Oshitari said, and then stopped.
Atobe's skin was buzzing at all the places they touch; it was distracting.
"What?" he demanded, sharper than he intended. Nerves tossed and turned and bounced around like atoms in a high-pressure container.
"In China, there are many stores that sell the same merchandise, but at distinctly different prices."
Atobe stole a glance at Oshitari. Until now, he had never noticed how Oshitari looked like he thieved his eyelashes from some unwitting girl. "There are stores like that everywhere, yes..."
"But there, if you don't bargain, you'll be ripped off." Oshitari paused and breathed, long and slow. "I knew walking into the shopping district in Yunnan that I wanted to bring a locket for you."
Atobe was sure he was going to be too certifiable crazy to hear the ending if Oshitari kept up at this rate.
"When I walked into the first of a long line of little shops, I saw the perfect locket. Despite that I loved this one at first glance, I figured I would find a better, more beautiful, one at a more reasonable price at a different store.
"Every locket I saw after this one was always kind of what I was looking for, but not really. I saw many that were actually identical, but they weren’t quite the same." Oshitari chuckled beneath his breath, like even he knew that this was a little ridiculous, but Atobe understood. "I guess...unconsciously, I'd already had my heart on that one, so every other that came after never seemed to measure up."
Atobe narrowed his eyes, surveying Oshitari's face. "And then...?"
"I went back to the first store, and hoped that I wasn’t too late."
"Were you?"
Out from his left pant pocket Oshitari drew an elliptical silver locket that winked under the natatorium lights. "No, I lucked out." He pressed the cool metal against Atobe’s palm. "The Chinese give these lockets to children at birth to protect them from evil. I didn't know you at birth, so I’m giving you one now."
The hollow piece of silver, lined with intricate oriental patterns lied snugly in Atobe's palm; it was a perfect fit. "This will be good, then, for dinners with my father," Atobe said, with a wry smile. "Thank you."
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Oshitari's eyes were solid and unwavering on Atobe.
Oshitari's words churned clumsily in Atobe’s head.
"Did we stop talking about locks?"
"I don't know. Did we?" Oshitari took his glasses off the bridge of his nose. He folded them behind his back.
The tables had turned. All the weight rested on Atobe's shoulders, but this was a weight that didn’t suffocate him, burden him. This wasn’t a weight he fought against.
"I say we did, awhile back." Atobe's lungs felt emphysemic. His eyes drifted down Oshitari's face in time to see Oshitari wet his lips unconsciously. This made Atobe feel a little bit better, like he wasn’t alone.
"That’s fine."
"Good."
Their breathing hung in the air like thick, grey Londonderry smog.
"I - "
"You - "
They chuckled, a little uneasy.
"What were you going to say?" asked Oshitari.
"I...have forgotten." When Oshitari did not look at all convinced, Atobe rolled his eyes. "It's true."
"False," Oshitari accused.
"True," Atobe insisted.
"False."
"True."
"False."
"True."
"False."
"Yuushi."
"Yes, Keigo."
Atobe considered his options. "You are a sap who uses ridiculous metaphors."
Oshitari, in turn, considered his options. "...True."
"True?"
"Yes."
Uncrossing his legs, Oshitari scooted closer. Their hips bumped. "My story will end the same way, twice."
Atobe hummed. "We’ll see."
"Play by the rules, Keigo." Oshitari frowned.
"Why?"
"Because."
They pushed past any boundary of personal space that might have been instated. There were hands on shoulders and thighs, streaks of cotton underneath fingers.
Breathing shortly against Oshitari's lips, Atobe parroted, "Because?"
Oshitari leaned in until they could both feel the pressure of each other's lips on theirs, but there still was no actual contact. They tilted their heads to opposite sides so that when their lips did touch, they would fit, and there would be no awkward bumping of their noses and everything would be perfect and right and just the way it was supposed to be.
In hindsight, Atobe supposed their first kiss was comparable to many things. Above all else, though, their first kiss was like the skin under a scab: raw, new, and yet completely familiar. In this, Atobe found catharsis, so purifying a release he thought he might scream, in the contrast of soft and hard of Oshitari's lips. The hand moving up and down his body traced exclamation points, commas, semicolons - a grammar of touches for the lifetime of words that have fallen silent.
Atobe pushed and shoved until they made their way on deck, their bodies in a sprawl. Oshitari's eyes were fixed and unblinking. Without the veil of round, frameless glasses, they looked impossibly deep and impossibly dark.
They were honest, and they told a story of their own.
Oshitari's hair was untamed and free. A summer storm crossed his features. Atobe knew that look; he might as well have been looking into a mirror.
"You are the most impatient person I've ever met," Oshitari said.
Atobe felt silently smug that Oshitari's velvet smooth voice was edged with rough arousal. "What, do you want to wait?" he returned.
"No," Oshitari admitted. "I don’t think I do." Without warning, he gripped Atobe by the shoulder, and it was the first time he used his size against Atobe as Atobe's back met the ceramic-tiled wall.
With hands fumbling, Atobe found the collar of Oshitari's shirt. Fisting one lapel in each hand, he jerked in opposite directions, a fault line of liquid emotions spilling from the chasm. There was a feeling of adrenaline that washed Atobe away like a tide as he peeled away the shirt that stuck like a second skin against Oshitari’s body, throwing it aside.
It wasn't long until they were pressed flush against each other - inch for inch.
Their mouths met again and moved, in strokes that were slower but not any less electrifying. Oshitari’s tongue goalied Atobe’s bottom lip, back and forth. Oshitari kissed like he played music: slow, deliberate, and excruciating in a way that made Atobe squirm and his hips move in tantrum to their mouths.
In the split-second that they touched between the legs, Atobe bit down hard on his lips and his neck snapped back into an angel-white arch, heaven's gates, and when Oshitari's tongue invaded his mouth, Atobe felt like he had swallowed lightning.
The touches happened in slow motion at first, one of those stop-action sequences that seemed to go on forever, but then the pictures quickened in pace: moderato, allegro, vivace, presto, prestissimo -
Oshitari came around their cocks in a vice, and he watched as Atobe ripped their mouths apart and bit down hard on his lip. It was the single most arousing thing. Now, an inch from this was never going to be enough.
Leaning down in bumpy, ungraceful jerks, Oshitari coaxed Atobe's teeth away from his lips.
"In this game, no one wins," he said, voice rough and burnt with strain, "if you keep score."
Their eyes met, and they saw reflections.
Atobe smirked, shaky but proud all the same. "Who says we're playing?"
Not a second later, his hand snapped down above Oshitari's, and they soared high, past the ceiling pipes of the natatorium and into the clouds. Everything after this moment could only be remembered in fragments and snapshots:
Heads tossed forward, faces devil rouge, eyes black and wild, skin feverish temperatures.
Lips white like the gate-like teeth that guarded harsh screams.
Mouth against ear, muttering torrents of words, fast and low, as if afraid that, like fire over water, the moment would vanish too quickly, too soon.
Hands gripping hard and merciless with the vice of an archer drawing his last arrow, the tension increasing, maddening and exhilarating, until finally - release.
They stumbled with no particular grace together toward bull's-eye. The force threw their hips together, unforgiving, as sharp angles met shaper lines, and they struggled and thrashed, catching an updraft and spreading their wings until they flew together.
It had always been better together.
-----
At one the next morning, Atobe woke to the sound of a rhythmic thumping against his window. He jumped, the claws of sleep still buried deep into his conscious, from his bed and landed on his back on the floor. He cursed softly, heading for the bust of Beethoven on other side of the room. At the very least, it was something hard and heavy with which to defend himself from the creep he was sure was out there.
Halfway across the room, Atobe realized with a jolt that the thumping was very, very familiar. So familiar, in fact, that he was feeling like a moron now for not having recognized it straight away.
A tennis ball. Someone was bouncing a tennis ball against his window - in the middle of the night. Atobe wanted to scream. He had a good idea who the culprit might have been, but it would only be fair to give him the benefit of the doubt.
That was, of course, until the bouncing stopped as suddenly as it had begun, only to be replaced by a soft melody - the smooth strains of violin. Atobe stilled, his hand on the cream pane of his window. The theme from that movie, the Whitney Houston one. Atobe was trying to convince himself that the giddy, fluttery feeling in his stomach was completely manly.
He was smiling when he threw open the window, and hissed, "You! Is it a personal goal of yours to be arrested at least once before going off to another country?"
Oshitari stopped playing and smiled up back at Atobe, face obscured by a large, puffy winter coat that made him look like a snowman. "He speaks! Oh, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being over my head - "
Atobe closed the window on Oshitari's recitation. Seeing Romeo and Juliet before winter break was one time too many for Oshitari to handle, it seemed.
Ten minutes and much eye-rolling later, Atobe had managed to snatch Oshitari into his room - violin, case, and all - without disturbing half the house from their sleep, though Atobe was fairly sure that there would have to be bribing of his butler who had awoken in all the jingle-jangle upon morning.
"Do you perform escapades like this often?" Atobe asked, closing the door behind them and bending down to pick up a piece of sheet music that had flown from Oshitari’s violin case. The page was cold and there was scribbling on the back. Atobe squinted at it, and then looked disgusted. "I cannot believe you wrote notes from Psychology on your music."
Oshitari took a seat on Atobe’s bed. "In my defence, some of it had to do with music."
"Because I can see how castrated rats losing their libido is completely related to music," Atobe said pointedly. He held Oshitari’s music out for him to take. "You should have left the case home, at least. Quicker escape in case we had let the dogs on you."
"But Keigo, then you wouldn’t have had the chance to make fun of my sheet music." Oshitari said this very matter-of-factly. 'Besides, I don't have anywhere else to keep this." He took a small, brown book from his case and put it in Atobe's hands.
Atobe stared down at it, and his tongue stuck on the roof of his mouth. He didn't even have the words to suggest that Oshitari could have kept it in his igloo of a coat.
"You had this?"
Oshitari nodded. "I stole it from you before winter break."
"I've no idea how long I spend searching for this. How did I doubted my first impression of you? Thief."
"Fair thief," Oshitari amended. He didn't look remorseful at all. "You saw what I had to say about Jane Eyre. It was my turn."
Atobe had nothing to say about this except that he had been planning to let Oshitari see it when he was finished. He just...hadn't had the time.
"And Keigo?" Atobe looked up from his hands and stiffened when, again, Oshitari was right there. He had to stop doing that. Or at least teach Atobe how to do that. "I can’t believe you didn't recognize your own words."
"My own words?"
"'Good things don't wait around forever for people to come to their senses.'" Oshitari took the book from Atobe's hand and opened it to a page he had taken to memory. He pointed at a sentence in the margins.
"You said that about Jane and Mr. Rochester. In the emails, I was quoting it back at you. When you showed up at my house, I was expecting you to come in accusing me of plagiarism, not demanding that I help you with colleges." The smirk on Oshitari’s face was amused, but there had lain much subtext.
"Isn't that what you mean when you...?"
Oshitari laughed, and shook his head. "Keigo, Keigo."
Atobe clicked his tongue, slightly irritated. He tapped his foot and thrummed his fingers across the duvet. "What."
"Think of analogies. As Jane is to Mr. Rochester..."
Atobe's fingers paused. "Oh." His heart was hammering in his chest. "Oh."
"You love word games, I can tell."
Atobe shoved him on the shoulder, hiding the upwards curve that was beginning to find a comfortable home on his lips. "You're such an idiot."
"I wasn't the one who completely overlooked the allusion."
"My father was pushing me to pick at the time. It was what was on my mind."
"It doesn’t matter much now." He grinned, a warm counterpart to the cold outside. "Here. This is yours." He handed Jane Eyre back to Atobe.
"Actually, it's yours," Atobe said. "It was supposed to be your graduation gift. It's a bit early but..."
"I love it. It's the most precious gift."
Atobe was sure this wasn't quite the truth, but he glowed all the same. He looked down at the forefinger on Oshitari's left hand. It was inching toward Atobe's wrist.
"So, we are..."
"Divine?" Oshitari offered.
Atobe considered rejecting this for a moment, out of instinct of dealing with Oshitari. But then he thought about it. He studied the subconscious tapping of his finger, and then looked up and saw the same, familiar blue-black. He tilted his head to one side.
Sitting atop the cream carpeting of his bedroom at two in the morning, it was easy to be lost in the dark folds of the night. It was easy to pretend that, come morning, there would be no one else in the world but the one who sat by his side. This was a meter from heaven, a place that wasn't quite perfect. And that made for what it was: celestial, divine, and imperishable.