PoT: when it rains, it pours
For hopsakee. Definitely. <3
Keep in mind I cannot write sex scenes worth crap and that is why there is so much vagueness and pussy-footing around the subject in this fic.
Fuji thinks it's strange that even after all this time, Tezuka still writes songs with Fuji's voice in mind. Not in so many words, of course, but he writes them so it ends up that Fuji understands exactly how to sing them and Ryoma doesn't, which makes Ryoma's interpretation exactly that: an interpretation. Tezuka writes it through Fuji and then Fuji somehow makes Ryoma understand how it should be sung. It's not the same as Fuji singing it; all of them realize that soon enough. Sometimes Oishi will stop in the middle of a practice and say, "Something's off," and all of them will sit there mute because no one puts it into words precisely why it's off, even though they all know.
But the thing is that Ryoma really does sing it right. He doesn't sing it the way Tezuka writes it, but that's exactly what catches people. The way Ryoma twists and turns the melody and changes his voice so that they hear a million things going through it at once like Ryoma's telling them the story of their life through the song when really all he's done was sing a line.
Still. The way Tezuka writes the songs mean he usually ends up working more with Fuji than he works with Ryoma and that Fuji usually is the one interacting with Ryoma, so that their conversation always goes, "But Tezuka thinks this" and "Tezuka wants that", and during a recording session it's Tezuka touching Fuji on the shoulder or the arm and looking at him. Then everyone has to endure the long, sort of sulky silence Ryoma puts them all through when Fuji steps in to talk with him: it's like feedback from the radio, a pause in the recording, something uncomfortable that no one likes to bring up again, that no one can put down, that no one wants to think about.
It's a division, Oishi points out to Fuji on day. "Like separate camps. You and Tezuka versus you and Ryoma."
Fuji says after a while, considering it like some kind of proposition, "But we're not really working against each other, are we?"
Oishi smiles sadly as he drums his hands against the table and says, "No, but you're not working together either."
The reporters like to talk about that, like to say, "Tezuka-kun, shouldn't the lyricist and the vocalist work closer together?" They never press the point though, because that's usually when Fuji steps in, all mollifying mildness and gentle politeness and taut lines between defensive and offensive. In between snapping pictures of Ryoma's face, made up and kept still so that he always looks like a sullen teenager, and Tezuka's face, all solemn and highly ingrained in the photos so that he looks so much older, there's never room for too much speculation. After a while no one wants to know the reason. They just accept it as another one of the oddities about that band, file it away for another one liner in an article in some magazine, joke about it like one of the unsolved mysteries in life, and no one ever knows about Fuji being the strange metal in between the two sides of the coin.
And so it goes on like that, will always go on like that. Fuji thinks it's fate or destiny or something that they found him first and that he found Ryoma. It's the way it was meant to be, the way it'll always will be, the way the three of them are made to interact together, fit together, elementary and elemental, complementary and complimenting.
Though sometimes, Fuji admits he has his doubts too.
*
Tezuka thinks of it this way.
Fuji is a winding trail through a particularly misleading mountain. Sometimes it hides under fallen logs and brush and wildflowers trampling over the stone path. Sometimes it's right before you and disappears quite suddenly under a haphazard mountain creek, falls into ripples and eddies and riverbanks, and then you get you feet wet crossing over to the other side to find just more path.
Fuji, Tezuka thinks, is just an endless chasing process, and then there comes a point where the chasing becomes the thing you're looking for, and then that's it. You're satisfied.
Ryoma, though, is something of a wildfire, something uncontrolled and uncontrollable and you don't even think of making it tame. The color of raspberries and autumn leaves and so very savage underneath it that it makes you wonder how he managed to pass off as so placid in the first place. Ryoma is something kindled accidentally, vicious in its secrecy, and Tezuka gets the odd impression from Ryoma that he has to be very careful not to char his hands when handling Ryoma.
With Ryoma, it's never enough, never drastic or extreme or real enough, never moving quickly enough or slowed down far enough, or perfect enough. With Ryoma, you keep trying.
That's why Tezuka can't write songs for Ryoma. He's afraid that there's something in Ryoma that will see through the paper, the words, the notes, see all the way through until he strikes against the very core of Tezuka and burns it all away. He had thought that when he first heard Ryoma sing, had said to himself, "That boy's on fire," and Ryoma had that night, had been on fire, had burnt the stage to the ground, and Tezuka always wonders if maybe that's what it feels like to be insane, to want Ryoma to do that again, to want Ryoma to blind and smolder and burn, but to also wonder if every step would bring Ryoma closer and closer to burning Tezuka away with him, as well.
Tezuka thinks of it this way: Fuji is something winding away and away and Ryoma is something barreling straight through, and the two of them are something meant to falter and magnetize and live with each other, but Tezuka-- Tezuka knows he's just a person, just a solitary hiker or stream or pebble, something that has to plod forward in life with no choices, no kinetic motion, nothing to protect him or save him or shield him or free him; he has to do this all by himself.
*
Atobe thinks of it in the beginning because he can't take his eyes off Ryoma the first time he sees him, honestly cannot tear his eyes away. Ryoma's small and lithe and lethal when he looks at Atobe, flashes his eyes around like the way they used to describe high-class geishas, and Atobe's first impression is that Ryoma must be born with some kind of deep hidden passion and from then on has just hid everything in his sleeves like he's afraid he'll lose it all otherwise. It's a weird feeling and Atobe keeps looking at Ryoma because it feels like everything about Ryoma is a half-truth mixed in with a white lie, which is--
Kind of flattering, actually, Atobe admits, and it makes him want pretty badly in a way Atobe's not sure he's wanted before. He's so busy spending that rehearsal watching the sweep of Ryoma's eyelashes, the turn of his face, the line of his jaw, the smallest, subtlest, lingering smile on that volatile face, that he barely notices Fuji's expression. And when Atobe does finally notice Fuji glancing their way every so often, just enough so that Atobe can feel the tension and the static lifting hairs off his neck, it's even better. Atobe takes advantage of every opportunity to lean in close and brush the back of his hand or his fingers over Ryoma. When they share the microphone, he lets himself lean down a little so he's closer to Ryoma to feel the heat coming off of him. He can tell from Ryoma's half-smiles that Ryoma's caught on, and it's this little thrill of excitement, this little whisper that Atobe twists into something else.
It happens spontaneously in the dressing room when Atobe isn't expecting it. Later he'll think maybe he had already formulated an idea, a rough sketch of a maneuver, but in truth it catches him off guard, the way Ryoma pulls off his shirt in a casual quick movement like hooking a fish, and when he turns to Atobe his eyes are more brilliant than anything Atobe has ever seen before as he says, "You've been looking at me all night."
And then Atobe's not quite sure what happens. One minute they're both standing and the next Ryoma's sort of straddled around his waist looking down at Atobe and looking quite pleased with himself, and Atobe knows he's smiling with Ryoma because Ryoma's still shirtless and still very, very young but his hands are skilled as he strips Atobe's shirt off somehow without smothering Atobe in the process and starts running his hands along Atobe's shoulders. Atobe pulls Ryoma down a little and whispers harshly, "You're attached, aren't you," and isn't a bit surprised when Ryoma turns his head so he's talking hot and direct into Atobe's ear, "So are you." Ryoma's words are very moist, Atobe realizes, slides smooth and wet along Atobe's ear.
"Your boyfriend looks murderous," Atobe points out as he's reaching down for the button of Ryoma's pants, and Ryoma is biting at the point where Atobe's jaw is starting to fade into his ear as he says, "He is."
"Oh," Atobe says, except he's not quite sure if he's saying anything or just making a sound, and he wants to ask, "How murderous?" except Ryoma's really working his way down Atobe's jaw now, and Atobe has the perfect position just to flip the both of them around so that Ryoma's the one with his back to the floor. And he's pushing Ryoma down and Ryoma is leaning up and in, all irresistible heat and warmth and touch.
At one point right before they're both naked, Ryoma strains up against Atobe's cheek and whispers, "He's especially murderous when he's listening right outside our door." He jerks his hip against the line of Atobe's, smiles wickedly, and the way he moans and breathes and gasps against Atobe's skin all the while, the way he sounds, satisfied and in controlled and not at all desperate, assures Atobe that Ryoma's not joking about Fuji being right outside the room, except by now Atobe can't stop and doesn't want to stop and he's being hit with the hard and painful truth that given a second chance, he still would have chosen this.
Atobe remembers later that Ryoma is laughing the entire time, soft breathy laughs that brush against Atobe's chest. He's never heard someone so happy, so careless, so dangerously beautiful, and that night and many nights afterwards he wants to know what it is exactly that Ryoma's laughing about, whether it's Atobe or Fuji or Ryoma himself, but he doesn't think he'll ever find out.
*
Fuji's waiting for Ryoma in their hotel room when Ryoma comes back. He's sitting on the bed facing the bathroom, just sitting with his hands folded neatly and immobile in his lap like he can stay that way forever and will. His legs are crossed at the ankles, the heels of his bare feet resting against the bed, his pajamas spread out behind him on the bedspread. Ryoma stands in the doorway for a little while watching Fuji sit there staring into the openly lit bathroom before he slides onto the bed, slipping his arms in between Fuji's elbows and sides, rests his head against Fuji's shoulder, sits there and breathes for the longest time. Fuji thinks of himself as a statue to keep from moving. Ryoma's breath tickles Fuji's neck; his hands are clasped against Fuji's stomach almost like he's giving Fuji the Heimlich maneuver and they're so warm against Fuji's shirt that it forms this tight little ball in Fuji's chest.
When it gets to a point where Fuji suspects that Ryoma's arms are getting tired and his head is starting to hurt from that angle and blood rush, Ryoma gets off the bed from the other side and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. There's the sound of running water and clothing hitting the ground, Ryoma's bare feet making puckering sounds as they hit the hard surface of the tile floor.
Fuji sits on the bed and trembles during the entire time Ryoma's in there.
The way Ryoma comes out of the bathroom, he's being hit by the backlighting, so Fuji can just barely see the outlines and edges of Ryoma's wet body, completely naked. Ryoma has a towel in one hand and running it roughly over his hair, not really even drying it. Fuji can see where the water level went up to in the bathtub because there's a slanted line separating Ryoma's skin into two shades of pink, one darker than the other. When Ryoma completely steps out of the bathroom, the skin on his chest is still white and on his hands is a strange, vivid pink red.
"Don't drain the bathtub," Fuji says softly from the bed. "I'll just use your old bath water."
Ryoma lies on the bed right next to Fuji and curls his wet body around Fuji the best he can, almost like a cat, and Fuji has to pull himself away. When he steps into the tepid water feet first, Fuji thinks he can smell Atobe's cologne in the air. Neither Ryoma nor Fuji wears any cologne regularly, and there's this smell of musk and sandalwood and dried oranges that Fuji's never really smelled before.
By the time Fuji is done with his bath and is listening to the water spiral down the drain as he dries himself off, Ryoma is already asleep on Fuji's side of the bed, half dressed in his pajamas as if he fell asleep midway through, his hair a wet mess all over Fuji's pillow.
For Christmas, Ryoma buys Atobe's cologne for Tezuka. It doesn't quite register on Fuji at first. For the longest time he feels nauseous around Tezuka whenever he gets close to him. It's almost a palpable quiver in Fuji's hands all the way up to his shoulders like he's frozen in some really awful nightmare. He finally catches on one day when he's drinking with Tezuka in the studio and Tezuka tries to lean in to kiss Fuji and Fuji catches a whiff of the smell, the oranges in any case, and Fuji has to gently push Tezuka away, partly because he can't bear to get any closer and partly because of Tezuka.
That night Fuji comes home smelling just slightly of alcohol and topples Ryoma backward over against the bed saying, "You're really a very clever boy, aren't you?" as his hand traces circles higher up and higher up on Ryoma's stomach, and Ryoma just smiles exactly the way Fuji thought he would. It's like Ryoma is trying so hard to pretend that he doesn't know what Fuji's talking about that he's fully aware he's giving it away.
Even though Ryoma writhes urgently under them hungering for everything he can get, Fuji's touches are even lighter than air that night, are so light and precise and cutting and like a surgical knife that when Fuji mouths the places he's touched Ryoma, Ryoma's surprised nothing bleeds.
*
Atobe picks up Tezuka like he picks up any person off the street, a lot of cheesy drunk pick-up lines and heavy flirting, but what he remembers the most about that one night he has with Tezuka isn't the sex but what happens afterwards, when they're both under the sheets of Atobe's bed, lying perfectly still. Atobe has the back of his hand against Tezuka's chest, rising and falling with Tezuka's breath, and Atobe says, "It's really pretty dreadful, wanting this much." Tezuka makes some inexplicable gesture with his hand before he lays it on top of the sheets and says, "Ah," in such a way that Atobe understands that Tezuka knows exactly what he's talking about, which is actually nothing at all about Atobe, Tezuka, or anything they had done that night.
He remembers Tezuka's hand on the sheets casting weird shadows, Tezuka's glasses just barely catching the glare from the light, the way Tezuka's throat had worked when he had said, "Ah," and he remembers how warm and how close his hand had felt being cradled by Tezuka's chest, the same kind of warmness Atobe's sure is only shared by two people who are both locked out of the same house by the same key.
*
A few days afterwards Tezuka writes a song about the texture of a person's palm, the way a light bulb gradually burns itself out, the sound of a fan flapping endlessly in the summer, and heartbreak. It's called "Yesterday's Afternoon Like Today's Morning", and when he gives it to Ryoma, Ryoma sings it perfectly the first time, exactly the way Tezuka had wanted it sung, without Fuji having to help a single time.
A/N: With the music I was listening to when writing this, I am surprised nothing degenerated into bubblegum pink sappiness. *dies* But then again, I was also listening to any number of other songs, so like, the soundtrack for this fic? A very varied and unbelievable thing, and totally inappropiate at times. *completely mooches off her friends list and mp3 rotation websites* *fizzes away*
Keep in mind I cannot write sex scenes worth crap and that is why there is so much vagueness and pussy-footing around the subject in this fic.
Fuji thinks it's strange that even after all this time, Tezuka still writes songs with Fuji's voice in mind. Not in so many words, of course, but he writes them so it ends up that Fuji understands exactly how to sing them and Ryoma doesn't, which makes Ryoma's interpretation exactly that: an interpretation. Tezuka writes it through Fuji and then Fuji somehow makes Ryoma understand how it should be sung. It's not the same as Fuji singing it; all of them realize that soon enough. Sometimes Oishi will stop in the middle of a practice and say, "Something's off," and all of them will sit there mute because no one puts it into words precisely why it's off, even though they all know.
But the thing is that Ryoma really does sing it right. He doesn't sing it the way Tezuka writes it, but that's exactly what catches people. The way Ryoma twists and turns the melody and changes his voice so that they hear a million things going through it at once like Ryoma's telling them the story of their life through the song when really all he's done was sing a line.
Still. The way Tezuka writes the songs mean he usually ends up working more with Fuji than he works with Ryoma and that Fuji usually is the one interacting with Ryoma, so that their conversation always goes, "But Tezuka thinks this" and "Tezuka wants that", and during a recording session it's Tezuka touching Fuji on the shoulder or the arm and looking at him. Then everyone has to endure the long, sort of sulky silence Ryoma puts them all through when Fuji steps in to talk with him: it's like feedback from the radio, a pause in the recording, something uncomfortable that no one likes to bring up again, that no one can put down, that no one wants to think about.
It's a division, Oishi points out to Fuji on day. "Like separate camps. You and Tezuka versus you and Ryoma."
Fuji says after a while, considering it like some kind of proposition, "But we're not really working against each other, are we?"
Oishi smiles sadly as he drums his hands against the table and says, "No, but you're not working together either."
The reporters like to talk about that, like to say, "Tezuka-kun, shouldn't the lyricist and the vocalist work closer together?" They never press the point though, because that's usually when Fuji steps in, all mollifying mildness and gentle politeness and taut lines between defensive and offensive. In between snapping pictures of Ryoma's face, made up and kept still so that he always looks like a sullen teenager, and Tezuka's face, all solemn and highly ingrained in the photos so that he looks so much older, there's never room for too much speculation. After a while no one wants to know the reason. They just accept it as another one of the oddities about that band, file it away for another one liner in an article in some magazine, joke about it like one of the unsolved mysteries in life, and no one ever knows about Fuji being the strange metal in between the two sides of the coin.
And so it goes on like that, will always go on like that. Fuji thinks it's fate or destiny or something that they found him first and that he found Ryoma. It's the way it was meant to be, the way it'll always will be, the way the three of them are made to interact together, fit together, elementary and elemental, complementary and complimenting.
Though sometimes, Fuji admits he has his doubts too.
*
Tezuka thinks of it this way.
Fuji is a winding trail through a particularly misleading mountain. Sometimes it hides under fallen logs and brush and wildflowers trampling over the stone path. Sometimes it's right before you and disappears quite suddenly under a haphazard mountain creek, falls into ripples and eddies and riverbanks, and then you get you feet wet crossing over to the other side to find just more path.
Fuji, Tezuka thinks, is just an endless chasing process, and then there comes a point where the chasing becomes the thing you're looking for, and then that's it. You're satisfied.
Ryoma, though, is something of a wildfire, something uncontrolled and uncontrollable and you don't even think of making it tame. The color of raspberries and autumn leaves and so very savage underneath it that it makes you wonder how he managed to pass off as so placid in the first place. Ryoma is something kindled accidentally, vicious in its secrecy, and Tezuka gets the odd impression from Ryoma that he has to be very careful not to char his hands when handling Ryoma.
With Ryoma, it's never enough, never drastic or extreme or real enough, never moving quickly enough or slowed down far enough, or perfect enough. With Ryoma, you keep trying.
That's why Tezuka can't write songs for Ryoma. He's afraid that there's something in Ryoma that will see through the paper, the words, the notes, see all the way through until he strikes against the very core of Tezuka and burns it all away. He had thought that when he first heard Ryoma sing, had said to himself, "That boy's on fire," and Ryoma had that night, had been on fire, had burnt the stage to the ground, and Tezuka always wonders if maybe that's what it feels like to be insane, to want Ryoma to do that again, to want Ryoma to blind and smolder and burn, but to also wonder if every step would bring Ryoma closer and closer to burning Tezuka away with him, as well.
Tezuka thinks of it this way: Fuji is something winding away and away and Ryoma is something barreling straight through, and the two of them are something meant to falter and magnetize and live with each other, but Tezuka-- Tezuka knows he's just a person, just a solitary hiker or stream or pebble, something that has to plod forward in life with no choices, no kinetic motion, nothing to protect him or save him or shield him or free him; he has to do this all by himself.
*
Atobe thinks of it in the beginning because he can't take his eyes off Ryoma the first time he sees him, honestly cannot tear his eyes away. Ryoma's small and lithe and lethal when he looks at Atobe, flashes his eyes around like the way they used to describe high-class geishas, and Atobe's first impression is that Ryoma must be born with some kind of deep hidden passion and from then on has just hid everything in his sleeves like he's afraid he'll lose it all otherwise. It's a weird feeling and Atobe keeps looking at Ryoma because it feels like everything about Ryoma is a half-truth mixed in with a white lie, which is--
Kind of flattering, actually, Atobe admits, and it makes him want pretty badly in a way Atobe's not sure he's wanted before. He's so busy spending that rehearsal watching the sweep of Ryoma's eyelashes, the turn of his face, the line of his jaw, the smallest, subtlest, lingering smile on that volatile face, that he barely notices Fuji's expression. And when Atobe does finally notice Fuji glancing their way every so often, just enough so that Atobe can feel the tension and the static lifting hairs off his neck, it's even better. Atobe takes advantage of every opportunity to lean in close and brush the back of his hand or his fingers over Ryoma. When they share the microphone, he lets himself lean down a little so he's closer to Ryoma to feel the heat coming off of him. He can tell from Ryoma's half-smiles that Ryoma's caught on, and it's this little thrill of excitement, this little whisper that Atobe twists into something else.
It happens spontaneously in the dressing room when Atobe isn't expecting it. Later he'll think maybe he had already formulated an idea, a rough sketch of a maneuver, but in truth it catches him off guard, the way Ryoma pulls off his shirt in a casual quick movement like hooking a fish, and when he turns to Atobe his eyes are more brilliant than anything Atobe has ever seen before as he says, "You've been looking at me all night."
And then Atobe's not quite sure what happens. One minute they're both standing and the next Ryoma's sort of straddled around his waist looking down at Atobe and looking quite pleased with himself, and Atobe knows he's smiling with Ryoma because Ryoma's still shirtless and still very, very young but his hands are skilled as he strips Atobe's shirt off somehow without smothering Atobe in the process and starts running his hands along Atobe's shoulders. Atobe pulls Ryoma down a little and whispers harshly, "You're attached, aren't you," and isn't a bit surprised when Ryoma turns his head so he's talking hot and direct into Atobe's ear, "So are you." Ryoma's words are very moist, Atobe realizes, slides smooth and wet along Atobe's ear.
"Your boyfriend looks murderous," Atobe points out as he's reaching down for the button of Ryoma's pants, and Ryoma is biting at the point where Atobe's jaw is starting to fade into his ear as he says, "He is."
"Oh," Atobe says, except he's not quite sure if he's saying anything or just making a sound, and he wants to ask, "How murderous?" except Ryoma's really working his way down Atobe's jaw now, and Atobe has the perfect position just to flip the both of them around so that Ryoma's the one with his back to the floor. And he's pushing Ryoma down and Ryoma is leaning up and in, all irresistible heat and warmth and touch.
At one point right before they're both naked, Ryoma strains up against Atobe's cheek and whispers, "He's especially murderous when he's listening right outside our door." He jerks his hip against the line of Atobe's, smiles wickedly, and the way he moans and breathes and gasps against Atobe's skin all the while, the way he sounds, satisfied and in controlled and not at all desperate, assures Atobe that Ryoma's not joking about Fuji being right outside the room, except by now Atobe can't stop and doesn't want to stop and he's being hit with the hard and painful truth that given a second chance, he still would have chosen this.
Atobe remembers later that Ryoma is laughing the entire time, soft breathy laughs that brush against Atobe's chest. He's never heard someone so happy, so careless, so dangerously beautiful, and that night and many nights afterwards he wants to know what it is exactly that Ryoma's laughing about, whether it's Atobe or Fuji or Ryoma himself, but he doesn't think he'll ever find out.
*
Fuji's waiting for Ryoma in their hotel room when Ryoma comes back. He's sitting on the bed facing the bathroom, just sitting with his hands folded neatly and immobile in his lap like he can stay that way forever and will. His legs are crossed at the ankles, the heels of his bare feet resting against the bed, his pajamas spread out behind him on the bedspread. Ryoma stands in the doorway for a little while watching Fuji sit there staring into the openly lit bathroom before he slides onto the bed, slipping his arms in between Fuji's elbows and sides, rests his head against Fuji's shoulder, sits there and breathes for the longest time. Fuji thinks of himself as a statue to keep from moving. Ryoma's breath tickles Fuji's neck; his hands are clasped against Fuji's stomach almost like he's giving Fuji the Heimlich maneuver and they're so warm against Fuji's shirt that it forms this tight little ball in Fuji's chest.
When it gets to a point where Fuji suspects that Ryoma's arms are getting tired and his head is starting to hurt from that angle and blood rush, Ryoma gets off the bed from the other side and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. There's the sound of running water and clothing hitting the ground, Ryoma's bare feet making puckering sounds as they hit the hard surface of the tile floor.
Fuji sits on the bed and trembles during the entire time Ryoma's in there.
The way Ryoma comes out of the bathroom, he's being hit by the backlighting, so Fuji can just barely see the outlines and edges of Ryoma's wet body, completely naked. Ryoma has a towel in one hand and running it roughly over his hair, not really even drying it. Fuji can see where the water level went up to in the bathtub because there's a slanted line separating Ryoma's skin into two shades of pink, one darker than the other. When Ryoma completely steps out of the bathroom, the skin on his chest is still white and on his hands is a strange, vivid pink red.
"Don't drain the bathtub," Fuji says softly from the bed. "I'll just use your old bath water."
Ryoma lies on the bed right next to Fuji and curls his wet body around Fuji the best he can, almost like a cat, and Fuji has to pull himself away. When he steps into the tepid water feet first, Fuji thinks he can smell Atobe's cologne in the air. Neither Ryoma nor Fuji wears any cologne regularly, and there's this smell of musk and sandalwood and dried oranges that Fuji's never really smelled before.
By the time Fuji is done with his bath and is listening to the water spiral down the drain as he dries himself off, Ryoma is already asleep on Fuji's side of the bed, half dressed in his pajamas as if he fell asleep midway through, his hair a wet mess all over Fuji's pillow.
For Christmas, Ryoma buys Atobe's cologne for Tezuka. It doesn't quite register on Fuji at first. For the longest time he feels nauseous around Tezuka whenever he gets close to him. It's almost a palpable quiver in Fuji's hands all the way up to his shoulders like he's frozen in some really awful nightmare. He finally catches on one day when he's drinking with Tezuka in the studio and Tezuka tries to lean in to kiss Fuji and Fuji catches a whiff of the smell, the oranges in any case, and Fuji has to gently push Tezuka away, partly because he can't bear to get any closer and partly because of Tezuka.
That night Fuji comes home smelling just slightly of alcohol and topples Ryoma backward over against the bed saying, "You're really a very clever boy, aren't you?" as his hand traces circles higher up and higher up on Ryoma's stomach, and Ryoma just smiles exactly the way Fuji thought he would. It's like Ryoma is trying so hard to pretend that he doesn't know what Fuji's talking about that he's fully aware he's giving it away.
Even though Ryoma writhes urgently under them hungering for everything he can get, Fuji's touches are even lighter than air that night, are so light and precise and cutting and like a surgical knife that when Fuji mouths the places he's touched Ryoma, Ryoma's surprised nothing bleeds.
*
Atobe picks up Tezuka like he picks up any person off the street, a lot of cheesy drunk pick-up lines and heavy flirting, but what he remembers the most about that one night he has with Tezuka isn't the sex but what happens afterwards, when they're both under the sheets of Atobe's bed, lying perfectly still. Atobe has the back of his hand against Tezuka's chest, rising and falling with Tezuka's breath, and Atobe says, "It's really pretty dreadful, wanting this much." Tezuka makes some inexplicable gesture with his hand before he lays it on top of the sheets and says, "Ah," in such a way that Atobe understands that Tezuka knows exactly what he's talking about, which is actually nothing at all about Atobe, Tezuka, or anything they had done that night.
He remembers Tezuka's hand on the sheets casting weird shadows, Tezuka's glasses just barely catching the glare from the light, the way Tezuka's throat had worked when he had said, "Ah," and he remembers how warm and how close his hand had felt being cradled by Tezuka's chest, the same kind of warmness Atobe's sure is only shared by two people who are both locked out of the same house by the same key.
*
A few days afterwards Tezuka writes a song about the texture of a person's palm, the way a light bulb gradually burns itself out, the sound of a fan flapping endlessly in the summer, and heartbreak. It's called "Yesterday's Afternoon Like Today's Morning", and when he gives it to Ryoma, Ryoma sings it perfectly the first time, exactly the way Tezuka had wanted it sung, without Fuji having to help a single time.
A/N: With the music I was listening to when writing this, I am surprised nothing degenerated into bubblegum pink sappiness. *dies* But then again, I was also listening to any number of other songs, so like, the soundtrack for this fic? A very varied and unbelievable thing, and totally inappropiate at times. *completely mooches off her friends list and mp3 rotation websites* *fizzes away*