a balloon full of my small dreams

Close Enough [Prince of Tennis ; Data Pair]

happiestwhen — Thu, 31 May 2012 09:27:59 GMT

Title: Close Enough
Pairing: Inui Sadaharu/Yanagi Renji, established relationship
Rating: PG
Summary: Inui and Renji live together. ~domestic bliss~
Word Count: ~1300
A/N: early birthday present for my favorite data boys. *gives them all the happy endings*

The day begins like any other. Inui wakes up at 6:30am and wanders into the bathroom to begin his daily ritual: take a shower, read the business section of the morning paper, eat breakfast (it's Tuesday, so Renji will be making omelets), and then leave for work by 7:45.

Renji is out the door at 8:15 to catch his own train. They both work three stations and one line transfer away and selected the apartment for its equidistance. And for the spare bedroom that makes an excellent laboratory.

Inui's commute takes one minute and 45 seconds longer, but Renji's coworkers are chatty and often keep him that much longer anyway. Their salaries are nearly identical. Inui makes slightly more, but Renji is more frugal, spending less on hideous sweater vests and fresh vegetables.

When they come home, they run algorithms to decide who will cook dinner. Renji is a better cook, but Inui is faster, more efficient, and pays more attention to nutrition content. Once they had thought it would be fun to try and cook together, but it had just spiraled into a disaster they now refer to as the Tomato Incident.

Besides, they do plenty of other things together.

*

They have fought six times since moving in together. Inui has kept track in a special logbook. It isn't labeled like his other notebooks, and instead has a small green heart drawn on the corner of the cover to distinguish it. He keeps it in his desk in his laboratory, writing in it only when he's alone, or when Renji is sleeping.

Their first fight was, as one might expect, the Tomato Incident. Tomato jars are, as it turns out, rather difficult to open, and Inui's hands were still wet from rinsing the other vegetables, and he hadn't meant to send the jar flying onto the floor, crashing open and sending tomato puree all over Renji's new loafers but not all outcomes can be predicted with data.

Their second fight was over laundry. Inui was in charge of laundry ever since he'd learned to mix his own detergent. He claimed it was lighter on the fabrics, and better for preserving the original color. Renji put up with it even though it made all his clothes smell like cucumber. The trouble with laundry was that Inui had never read that you need to separate coloreds from whites. Living at home meant that his laundry just appeared, newly clean, on the line outside his window without him having to so much as move a finger. He figured a machine couldn't be that hard to use, and yet this one was stubborn and managed to turn all of their clothes a pale pink. Or else Inui hadn't accounted for human error. Machines didn't know him like people did.

Renji, upon confronting Inui about it, held up a pair of bright red boxers as the most likely suspect.

"Those were a present," Inui had said.

"I know," Renji had replied. "Your friend Fuji Syuusuke has very strange taste."

"I didn't know they would do this."

"Probability that Fuji did, 92%," Renji had said, and Inui could tell he was trying to sound angry, but that he wanted to laugh. He'd added, "You're lucky I look good in pink."

Their third fight was over groceries. On Monday, Wednesday, and every other Friday, Inui gave Renji a list for grocery shopping, since the grocery store was closest to his university. (On Tuesday, Thursday, and every other Friday, Renji gave Inui a list of books to look for at the secondhand shop near his office.) Inui compiled the list based on the data of their favorite foods, careful not to repeat the same base foods more than once in the same week, and also of course he included the necessary ingredients for his most recent juice recipes. On this particular occasion, Renji had come home with everything but the carrots Inui had asked for and Inui had stared at him blankly for 27 seconds before speaking.

"I needed those," he had said, finally.

"I forgot," Renji had replied.

Inui had looked confused. "You never forget things," he'd said, and went to lock himself in the laboratory to write about it in his logbook.

Their fourth fight was over Renji's friends. Renji had remained close with Yukimura and Sanada all through university, and invited them over often for tea or dinner or just to chat. Inui never minded much, but he did mind when he and Renji were in bed and Renji had gotten a call from Sanada saying to meet him immediately and, instead of telling Sanada he was busy --because he quite clearly was, if his hands down Inui's pants were any indication-- Renji had simply leapt out of bed, jumped into some clothes, and dashed out the door.

It had turned out that Sanada's first child had just been born, but how was Inui to know that?

Their fifth fight was over Inui's friends. Inui never thought of them as friends so much as old colleagues, but Renji insisted they were friends. Especially Kaidoh. Renji seemed wary of him every time he came to visit; his bare ankles and his long black hair falling in his eyes.

Inui had assured him he had nothing to worry about, and it was true; he didn't. But Inui also refused to show Renji any of his eighten Kaidoh Kaoru Data notebooks, which didn't really put points in Inui's favor.

For the record, he didn't let Renji see his notebooks on Tezuka either.

Their sixth fight was over data. They were discussing the probability of rain that weekend as they had planned a picnic and the percentages were not matching up. Inui knew that this was because Renji had not accounted for the variable of the cold front that was supposed to be moving in from the south as soon as next week, and Renji knew that this was because Inui had not accounted for the possibility of a typhoon this early in the season.

It didn't end up raining at all that weekend, which went against both of their predictions.

*

When Inui comes home one night and finds Renji in the laboratory, sitting at Inui's desk, a paper clip twisted open on the table and his drawer unlocked, he thinks that surely, this is going to be Fight #7. Probability upwards of 96%.

But when Renji looks up at him, Inui's notebook open in his hands, he doesn't look angry. His face is open and light and Inui is horrified that he's about to say he's leaving him. Maybe this was the push he needed. Inui has researched dating enough to know that this many fights signify trouble.

Renji doesn't say he's leaving. Instead he says, "I don't care about the laundry," voice quiet and gentle.

Inui smiles at him. "I don't care about the groceries," he replies.

"I don't care about the tomatoes," Renji says, laughter dancing in his voice now. "Those shoes didn't fit so well anyway. I don't care about your mistakes, or your secrets." He thumbs the binding on the notebook thoughtfully.

Inui sighs. "Statistics predicted this wouldn't go smoothly," he says, and it's true. The figures are all there in the first page of the notebook. But Renji must have read those already.

"Few things in life do." Renji closes the notebook and rises from the chair. "That's what makes them interesting. Maybe you shouldn't listen to statistics all the time." He takes Inui's hand and pulls him until Inui can't help but step forward, closer.

"But—" Inui starts, sure there's a point he should be making.

"Sadaharu?" Renji tugs at Inui's ugly sweater vest and slips his fingers up under the wool.

Inui blinks at him. "Yes?"

Renji smirks. "Shut up," he whispers, and kisses Inui so hard Inui thinks he sees stars. Probability 99% that isn't true, but statistics don't mean everything.

Let There Be Morning [Prince of Tennis ; SanaYuki]

happiestwhen — Sat, 26 May 2012 11:00:14 GMT

Title: Let There Be Morning
Pairing: Sanada/Yukimura
Rating: PG
Summary: A binary star system consists of two stars both orbiting around their center of mass. For each star, the other is its companion star.
Word Count: ~4800
A/N: originally written for grasshopper. *misses*

--

When Yukimura takes two steps forward, and rests his palms on the mattress of his standard-issue hospital bed, Sanada thinks that he has never looked stronger. His eyes are hard and dark, unreadable, and his mouth curves only when he opens his mouth to speak, and when he turns around to face his team, to look Sanada in the eyes and say, "We still have the Nationals. It's not over yet."

When Yukimura picks up the canvas bag left by his parents in the chair next to the bed and slings it over his shoulder, casual as ever, Sanada feels like he might be in love with his captain, just a little bit. He realizes in actuality that he has probably been in love with Yukimura for quite some time, although he can't really say when it must've started. In his memory, there have always been only two things: honor – all of the diligence, hardwork, and perseverance that go with it, and Yukimura.

Sometimes Sanada wonders if the two things are even all that separate.

--

It begins in winter.

The team has moved their practices indoors because the weather has gotten cold fast. The sky outside is tinged a perpetual ugly grey, and the wind is sharp and fierce. Sanada bundles up in scarves and gloves but glares when his mother suggests he buy a wool hat to cover his ears.

The day is Thursday and Yukimura has been acting strange all week, moving slower, swinging wildly, but he doesn't explain; makes up excuses about exams and projects and too little sleep. In retrospect, Sanada will remember the week in October when Yukimura was home sick for a week and a half with some kind of stomach flu. He will realize that maybe it wasn't just flu, and will nearly slice up his dojo blaming himself for not noticing sooner.

Sanada will remember the Junior Senbatsu Training Camp, and the way Yukimura had politely requested to not be considered and Renji had said, "Hmm," and Yukimura had simply replied with, "I won't find stronger opponents there than I will at my own school," which, in retrospect, Sanada will realize is unlike Yukimura, but he accepted it at the time because with Yukimura, he will accept anything.

In time, Sanada will remember many things, little details and signs he should have noticed had he not been under the impression that Yukimura was invincible, that there was no such thing as wrong, with him. He will remember faltering smiles, laughter too sharp and empty, a near-limp in Yukimura's step one day after practice, the time his racket slid out of his hand like his fingers had given up their hold on it.

But today, Sanada merely thinks, tarundoru, but says nothing out loud because Yukimura is captain first and foremost, and even on his off days, he is still a challenge for all the other players, and maybe that's why none of them see it coming. Yukimura is strong even in the face of weakness, especially then.

He challenges Sanada to a practice match and when he serves, the speed is not what it should be, and neither is the accuracy, and Sanada manages a return that shouldn't be easy.

"Buchou, are you having an off day?" Kirihara calls, juggling three tennis balls in the air with his racket, an opportunistic gleam in his eyes.

"Shut up, Akaya," Yukimura replies curtly, returning to the base line to serve again. Kirihara looks stunned for a second. Yukimura almost never tells him to shut up. Stern glares, maybe, but words are different, and harsh words are generally reserved only for all-team criticism and lectures.

Sanada watches the arc of Yukimura's body as he leans up into the serve, the way his arm follows through as if it's straining to do so and thinks, Yukimura doesn't have off days.

On the Wednesday of the week prior, it was laps. Yukimura has always been fast, but that day he was slower than everyone else. The next day, he made up for it by sprinting the whole way through, but he looked exhausted by the end. Sanada has never seen Yukimura look exhausted before. Rikkai's captain has always played with a strange grace that doesn't seem to tire him, as though he's waiting at the net for a worthy opponent to emerge and up to now, all this is just practice to him.

On Tuesday of this week, it was missing a shot he would normally make. He was playing against Renji and the ball went at least two feet over the line. Renji's eyes had opened in surprise and he mumbled something Sanada couldn't hear. That night, Sanada wondered if Yukimura was worried about something, if he had done something wrong to disappoint him. He thought through all the options, but all the options, to him, were mental rather than physical. He couldn't imagine Yukimura being physically weakened. It was simply impossible.

Today, though, Sanada realizes that this has nothing to do with mental resolve or stamina. There is something wrong, and he is about to call the practice match off when it happens:

Yukimura is watching Sanada, waiting to receive his serve, and then, just as Sanada tosses the ball in the air, Yukimura's racket slips from his hand and clatters to the ground and then he slumps after it, eyes glassy and wide, their gaze sliding back and upwards. He falls backwards, spasming awkwardly and seeming to be choking, and collapses onto himself like a dropped toy.

Sanada watches as though through a pane of glass; stands there dumbstruck as everyone else rushes onto the court. Kirihara hollers, "Buchou!" over and over and Marui and Niou crowd around him, shaking Yukimura's shoulders, checking for a pulse.

"What happened?" Kirihara wails and that's what snaps Sanada back into the moment. When he finally regains his ability to move and walks purposefully, unthinkingly, over to Yukimura, everyone parts automatically to let him through, as if they know he belongs at Yukimura's side.

Sanada tells Renji to call for help, and asks Yagyuu to look for a blanket and some ice. He is surprised at how calm and commanding his voice sounds. He looks down at Yukimura and feels like he's shaking in the inside but his hands are not. When he lifts Yukimura up in his arms, his captain feels weightless. Sanada remembers carrying Yukimura once before, when they were in second year and Yukimura forgot his shoes in the clubroom and they got caught in the rain on the outdoor tennis courts. He'd offered to carry Yukimura on his back and Yukimura had felt like a boy then, sturdy, filled out and firm.

Now he feels like nothing at all and Sanada will wonder later how it was possible for someone who looks so strong standing to feel so light in his arms.

--

Sanada tells himself he's going to stop going to the hospital. The nurses and doctors all know him on a first-name basis, and they greet him with sad smiles when he comes to the main desk and asks if he's in the same room as the day before, if there have been any changes in his condition. He is and there aren't and everyone seems to be just waiting. He wonders if it does any good to visit if nothing is changing. Maybe Yukimura's eyes light like that for every visitor. Maybe Sanada is nothing special, and maybe Yukimura really is dying, as they say. Maybe Sanada should just focus on tennis. That's what Yukimura would say. He's so wise for his fourteen years. People think Sanada is wise, too. Mature. He holds his words in and keeps a cold expression, but he isn't wise. He doesn't say smart things like Yukimura does.

Sanada should stop going to the hospital. It isn't doing any good.

The other Rikkai players are starting to look at him suspiciously when he leaves practice early or comes in late. He's fukubuchou, after all, not some lackadaisical first year. He needs to start behaving like a leader, like the leader. He tries to think of how Yukimura would act, were their positions reversed. He pictures poise and gentleness and dignity and he straightens up before telling the team to gather around to discuss their practice menus.

Sometimes it's hard for Sanada, to stand tall in the face of shadow. Sanada is just Sanada. Yukimura is different: Half god, half demon, all fourteen-year-old boy.

But Yukimura is dying. No one says it outright, but Sanada can feel it every time he steps into the cold, sterile hospital room.

The team wouldn't understand even if Sanada tried to explain. He likes to see Yukimura alone, without the rest of the team crowding around and cracking jokes. He needs the silence and the comfort of Yukimura's soft voice murmuring platitudes. He's never not known his captain's presence, and having it drowned out by the other player's voices and smiles makes him nervous. Sometimes Yukimura speaks so softly he can scarcely be heard. But when he needs to be, people listen.

Not even the snap of Atobe's finger can command this sort of attention. And Yukimura isn't snapping, or speaking. He isn't even looking at anyone in particular and yet all eyes are on him like he's the sun. Yukimura has laughing eyes and a smile that feels like a light's been switched on and you're so close to the bulb that it'll burn you, but it’s so dazzlingly bright that you can't bear to look away. He doesn't smile much lately though, and laughs even less, saving his cheeriness for when the team is visiting together. He lets the mask fall when he's alone with Sanada, and it makes Sanada's chest sting, but he understands what it means for Yukimura to be himself with him, and he understands that he has to be strong.

It isn't Yukimura's silence now that gets to Sanada though, because Yukimura was never someone who could be silenced entirely. There are still the knowing looks, the tight line of his lips, the quietly barbed words, demands for more practices, more laps, "Push the team harder, Sanada."

Sanada isn't used to being the only one pushing and he pulls his cap down lower over his forehead at practice so the rest of the team can't see the look in his eyes.

--

One afternoon, Sanada brings Yukimura his racket in the hospital. He doesn't want to, but it is Yukimura's request and like a samurai to his master, Sanada can do nothing but comply.

It's amazing; horrifying and amazing, watching such a fragile body wielding that kind of power again. Yukimura's grip has changed. It's more delicate, not sharp and deadly like the Yukimura who Sanada had faced on to the courts week after week for the past three years. Maybe his play style has changed, too.

That is, assuming he will play again.

Yukimura seems to be reading Sanada's mind, because he says, "You'd all better be keeping up with the practice menu. I'll know when I come back if you haven't been training as hard as you should be. I won't go easy on you."

Sanada nods and takes off his hat, setting it down on the foot of the bed before taking a seat next to Yukimura by the window. Yukimura sits up in the bed, the blankets rumpling, and runs his fingers over the grip of the racket, and up to the racket face where his skinny fingers test the string tension. Sanada worries vaguely that Yukimura's knuckles will snap before those strings will.

He looks back at his cap, wondering why he took it off in the first place. He feels suddenly exposed, to what, he isn't sure; Yukimura's illness, his calm acceptance of his fate, the sound his fingers make as they slide into the notches on the racket face.

Yukimura had told Sanada once, in their first year, that he thought Sanada hid too much under his hat, like he was trying to intimidate people. He'd laughed with a tinkling sound like bells, and pulled the cap from Sanada's head and tossed it across the tennis court. For some reason, Sanada hadn't gotten angry. He wants to tell Yukimura now that he was right, but isn't sure Yukimura even remembers.

"We should play," Yukimura says, his voice sounding soft and far away.

Sanada lets out a sharp, dry laugh. "We can't."

"There's a tennis court a block or two from here." Yukimura looks at Sanada, his eyes pale violet now and almost pleading. "No one would have to know."

"You can't play like this," Sanada says, his words even and measured. He doesn't dare defy his captain, but there are some things that are simply out of his control.

Yukimura says, "I was 'like this' for months before anyone stopped me, before they took me here."

"You'd lose," Sanada whispers, and somehow that's what gets the reaction.

The racket drops from Yukimura's hand and makes a hollow, skittering sound when it hits the tile. It doesn't drop because Yukimura is weak and cannot hold it; it drops because Yukimura lets his fingers open and allows it to fall.

Sanada understands the difference and can see that this is the closest Yukimura Seiichi will ever come to showing his raw anger.

"I'm sorry," Yukimura says quietly and Sanada turns away.

--

Sanada thinks, all through registering and the preliminary matches, that he'll get to play Yukimura again, maybe as early as next week, right here on this very court.

Maybe.

Yukimura will smirk at him, a soft curl of lips against pale skin, and serve across the net, hard. Sanada will volley it back, light enough that Yukimura will laugh at him, voice shallow like handbells. "You're going easy on me," he'll say. "Stop that." And Sanada will begin to protest but Yukimura will only return the ball harder and faster, catching Sanada off-guard so that it slams into the ground and bounces past him.

"Do you think I'm going to break?" Yukimura will say, after he's won. He will win again, because Sanada has never been able to beat Yukimura. Nothing can beat Yukimura.

He is jolted back to reality when he goes back to the locker room to change and sees Yukimura's regulars jacket folded carefully on the shelf. It hasn't been worn for weeks now.

--

Yukimura recurs in Sanada's thoughts like clockwork. His name rests on Sanada's tongue and is a dull thudding in his chest. Sanada can't help but visit him. It's the only thing that feels right anymore. He knows he's captain now, but practice feels wrong and empty without Yukimura there.

Yukimura was always the team's pillar of strength. Sanada doesn't know how to be the strong one, but he's trying, really trying.

--

"It's hard to laugh today," Yukimura says, matter-of-factly, making no plea for pity or sympathy, but Sanada feels his heart twinge with ache just the same.

"You shouldn't do anything to--" he starts.

"I know," Yukimura says with a smile. "Let's go outside." And even though Sanada thinks it's a bad idea -- Yukimura could catch cold. He should be resting. The nurses all said as much. – he is helpless to deny Yukimura any request. He rises from the chair to help Yukimura off the bed and into his wheelchair. He never thought so much time would pass here that the wheelchair would suddenly seem so familiar. He still doesn't look like he belongs in it.

"I can do it," Yukimura says calmly, when Sanada reaches for the handle bars behind the chair. He presses his palms to the wheels and pushes, steering himself with enough grace to almost clear the door, but the left side scrapes the hinge. The sound it makes is awful, and lasts much longer than it should.

"I--" Sanada starts, rushing forward.

"I can do it, Genichirou," Yukimura insists, and Sanada watches in horror as the Rikkai captain swerves backwards and forwards again twice before making it out into the cold white corridor.

--

They never sit close together. Sanada always takes the chair furthest from the bed, leaving an empty chair between them, full of things Sanada isn't sure how to say and promises he knows he must keep.

The nurses never disturb them when they're together, although neither one of them told them to.

Once Sanada had run into Yukimura's parents in the hospital. They were on their way out and Yukimura's mother had looked just as tired as Sanada felt, dark circles under her eyes as she wrung her hands and fidgeted with the tassles on her bag.

They'd greeted each other with polite bows, and Yukimura's parents had said, "Our son is so lucky to have someone like you in his life."

"I'm the lucky one," Sanada had replied, and hoped he'd be able to hold onto that luck for a while longer.

--

On one team visit, they all go up to the roof to watch the sunset. Yukimura's eyes light up joyfully when they arrive, and stay light and full of life through the whole visit. He almost looks like himself again, like the medicine and therapy treatments haven't stolen him away.

He always seems happiest when everyone is there around him, listening with rapt attention to his every, carefully chosen word. They all love him, Sanada realizes. They all need him to get better.

Kirihara sticks magnets to the back of Yukimura's wheelchair, a strawberry and one that says "glam princess". Sanada is about to smack him when Yukimura catches the reflection in the mirror and smiles.

"Now I have bling," he says, eyes laughing. Sanada can't help but crack a smile, too.

--

"You'll catch cold," Sanada says, one afternoon when they're in the courtyard in front of the hospital. It's February and Yukimura shouldn't be outside, but insists on it every time Sanada comes to visit. "I don't like that stale room," he'd said. "The window doesn't open."

Sanada starts to take off his tennis jacket to give to Yukimura but Yukimura refuses with a wave of his hand. "I'm fine, Genichirou," he says, but Sanada can see him shivering.

He settles for draping the jacket over the back of Yukimura's wheelchair, his hand rests on Yukimura's shoulders unnecessarily, the only time he has an excuse to touch him like this, and his fingers curl in and hang on just briefly.

Yukimura smiles and raises his hand to cover Sanada's and Sanada notes that he's stopped shivering.

--

One day, Sanada comes in and finds Yukimura curled up in his wheelchair, fast asleep. The chair is pushed all the way to the door, as though he was waiting to go outside. When he opens his eyes, they're light and distant from lack of sleep.

"I'll come back tomorrow," Sanada says, apology in his voice.

"No," Yukimura protests, "tell me about today's practice." His face hardens and Sanada recounts the drills, warm-ups, and different matches that were played, and Yukimura is listening but his eyes don't have the same passion they once did. He's become vapor, instead of fire. He tires easily and falls asleep as Sanada is telling him about his thoughts for the city tournament line-up. Sanada doesn't stop talking.

--

Kirihara asks Yukimura if there will be scars from the operation.

Yukimura laughs and Sanada realizes that he hasn't considered that yet. He imagines going swimming with Yukimura and seeing a gaping hole in his chest, a jagged scar down his throat, a zipper of stiches over his back. He doesn't know what they're going to do, just that it's dangerous, but he wonders now if Yukimura will look different, will look empty, like the scalpel's stolen something.

He can't sleep that night or the night after it because he's suddenly terrified. What if something goes wrong? The doctors tiptoe around him like it's a miracle he's even alive.

--

Yukimura becomes simplified, reduced into spare parts and bits of punctuation, the brackets of his finger joints, the hollow comma-shadows under his eyes. He doesn't look like the captain Sanada once knew, but when he speaks, his voice is firm and solid. He can see Sanada doubting, worrying, because Yukimura was always perceptive.

He suggests silly things like playing shogi or Uno or having a wheelchair race down the hall just to make Sanada smile. And Sanada does; he can't help it. The games always take longer than usual due to Yukimura's medication, but Sanada is patient enough for both of them, even when he can see the tick in Yukimura's face as he struggles to keep up, or grows frustrated when he's losing. He demands that Sanada never go easy on him, and Sanada doesn't. Even when his fingers are too weak to hold the chess piece and it falls to the ground and shatters over the tile, and Sanada looks at him with wide, terrified eyes, Yukimura laughs.

"My coordination isn't spectacular right now," he says with a smile. And Sanada doesn't know what to do so he smiles too. He smiles until Yukimura's stamina drains and he falls asleep, and then he sits and watches his captain. Sometimes he slides his hand gently over Yukimura's, not holding, but touching, feeling the leap of his pulse with each heartbeat, feeling reassured each time it comes.

Once, Yukimura had suddenly woken up, but he didn't look angry, and although Sanada had tried to pull away, Yukimura had grabbed his hand firmly under his own, their palms pressed together over the hospital blanket. He'd squeezed so tightly Sanada was sure his circulation would get cut off. And they didn't say anything because it was what it was and nothing more.

There never have been words for what they have together.

When Sanada is alone with Yukimura, he feels like he's helplessly caught in orbit. The light in Yukimura's eyes is like gravity, drawing him in and holding him, and he can't imagine pulling away or wanting to be anywhere other than at his side.

--

Sometimes Yukimura tries to do tricks in his wheelchair, and Sanada is scared he's going to fall, but Yukimura hasn't fallen since The Fall, and Sanada trusts him.

Sometimes when they go outside together, Yukimura insists on standing, on walking. His steps are slow and deliberate like his body is betraying him with each movement, like he has to will it to move.

They both stand for a long while looking out through the grated fence of the roof. They don't look at each other, just forward, out over the city. They stare in the same direction for a long time in silence, before Yukimura speaks.

"When I'm better, I want to play everyone," he says.

Sanada looks at him. "The whole team?"

"Not just Rikkai. Everyone. It's been so long since I've played a game. I have so many opponents now. I can't wait." His voice is clean and resolute. "I'll start with you, Genichirou. I hope you'll be ready for me."

Sanada nods. He will try. He knows instinctively that he will never beat Yukimura Seiichi at tennis. He thinks no one will, really. It doesn't matter if he stopped or if he's sick. He'll come back stronger than ever.

Sanada doesn't think about the score of the game he'd play when ill.

--

On Sanada's birthday, the Rikkai tennis team plans a party. Sanada almost doesn't allow them to go through with it. The last thing the team needs is a party, with Kantou to prepare for, even if it is, at least nominally, in Sanada's honor. After hearing Niou and Bunta's plans, Sanada confides in Renji that he thinks the whole thing is a terrible idea. Wholly inappropriate. A party isn't a party without Yukimura there and his day would be better spent with a visit to the hospital and an extra team practice.

"The hospital visiting hours don't extend that late into the evening, Genichirou," Renji argues. "You're already spending all your money on bus fares to get over there as it is. Loosen up just this once. For your team. Seiichi wouldn't want to hear that you're putting his welfare above your own."

"But he's the captain."

Renji sighs. "You're the captain in his absence."

"Don't say that."

"Genichirou, we have to make do."

--

Sanada definitely isn't expecting to open the clubroom door that night and see Yukimura sitting there, surrounded by his teammates, all of them singing "Happy Birthday" to him with broad smiles and open arms.

"How—" Sanada starts, feeling suddenly dizzy. Yukimura is wearing his old headband and his jersey is draped over his lap. Sanada thinks he must be dreaming. This can't be real.

"They came up with an amazing plan," Yukimura starts, and then tells Sanada enthusiastically about how the team had broke him out of the hospital for the evening, everyone following Yanagi's carefully crafted plan, how Kirihara and Marui had distracted the nurses with tennis tricks and Niou and Jackal had rushed Yukimura towards the elevator, whizzing past the examination rooms, probably breaking all their previous wheelchair race records. He looks weary from travel, but is clapping his hands together with delight as he adds how Yagyuu had almost tripped a nurse by accident, how they'd nearly been caught, how they somehow made it to the hospital entrance, chanting "Always win, Rikkaidai!", and had rushed to the train station and made it all the way to Rikkai without anyone calling Yukimura's parents.

Without stopping.

"Yu—yu—" Sanada attempts. He can't even get his name out. Niou and Kirihara are howling with laughter. He can't imagine what his face must look like. Finally he pulls himself together and says simply, "I can't believe it."

"Happy birthday, Genichirou," Yukimura says, and claps his hand around the back of Sanada's neck, pulling him close for a hug. Sanada can feel his shallow breaths of air against his earlobe and the tickle of his hair against the side of his face. Yukimura has never embraced him like this before, and Sanada almost wants to pull back. It feels wrong somehow, to be this close to Yukimura, this intimate. It feels almost sacrilegious.

--

The surgery is scheduled for the same day as the Regional Final. Sanada doesn't sleep well that entire week. He's slotted to play Singles 1, and despite all their confidence and preparation, he is terrified that it will come down to him, that he will lose it for the team. That he will lose it for Yukimura.

If I lose, Yukimura might--

Sanada can't bring himself to finish the thought. He knows in his head that it's completely irrational. The game and the operation cannot possibly be connected, and yet in his heart he's frightened that they might be. If he can win, then Yukimura will survive, recover, return to the team and to tennis and take the Nationals will them.

If he cannot win, then maybe Yukimura won't either.

--

So, this is it. Sanada looks over at Echizen who is testing the strings on the face of his racket. He looks into the stands at Kirihara and tips the brim of his hat again. He thinks of Yukimura's peaceful face under the anesthesia mask as they wheel him into surgery. It will be over soon and he'll awake and the Rikkai team will be there with the gold medal, the Kantou victory. Sanada pictures his captain's laughing eyes, open again and newly full with fierce strength.

Yukimura, Sanada thinks, and steps onto the court. I absolutely will not lose.

Date [Whistle! ; Fuwa/Shige]

happiestwhen — Sat, 26 May 2012 07:56:16 GMT

Title: Date
Pairing: Satou Shigeki/Fuwa Daichi (Whistle!)
Rating: PG, 419 words
Summary: "Don't sweat it. Just buy me dinner and we'll call it even." (set after the game in ep. 22)
Notes: I honestly have no recollection of writing this, and am not sure where I was going with it, but I found it and figured I'd just post it as is. Apparently I was really into Whistle! for a week way back when.

Shige is startled to hear Fuwa's voice when he answers his phone. He didn't think Fuwa even had his number, let alone the reason to call it.

"Are you available tonight?"

Shige runs a hand through his hair. "Available for what? You want to practice again already?"

"I owe you one."

"You—" Shige lets out a sigh. "Oh. I didn't mean for you to take that literally. It was a joke, you know? Spur of the moment kind of thing."

There's a sound on the other line like Fuwa is fiddling with the phone cord, like he's nervous, but Fuwa is never really nervous. "I didn't think it was a joke. You saved that ball so it follows that I owe you one."

Shige laughs. It seems unfair to take advantage like this, but if Fuwa is willing to buy him food, then he might as well take him up on the offer. "Fair enough. Do you want to just meet at the meat bun stand, the one a few blocks over from the school?"

He hears the phone cord crumple and slacken again. "I could come to your house."

"I'm not quite following. You want to bring me dinner?"

It's Fuwa's turn to sigh. "I've consulted the magazines and references on this subject. I know the proper decorum."

Shige sits down on the edge of his bed. He doesn't know what kind of references there are out there for dinner I-O-U situations, but if such things exist, Fuwa of all people would have found and read them. "I didn't think there was a standard way to go about this. You honestly don't have to bother. I thought you'd have forgotten by now. I mean, it was just in the middle of the game and—"

"Forgetting would be dishonorable," Fuwa replies quickly. "I'll pick you up for the date in about an hour, then."

"Date?"

"Yes, that is the proper term for such a meeting. Dinner, and possibly other activities, with one party paying."

Shige shakes his head. "Fuwa-chan, you're not looking at this right. It's not a date unless the girl is cute and you like her, you know? If it's just an off-hand soccer thing, then it doesn't count."

There's a long silence, so long that Shige wonders if maybe Fuwa's phone got disconnected, but finally the reply comes: "Shouldn't both parties be in agreement about whether or not it counts? Maybe we can come to a consensus after the fact. See you in an hour."

The line clicks and Fuwa stares at his phone, unable, for once, to find words.

Keeping Score [Prince of Tennis ; TezuFuji]

happiestwhen — Fri, 25 May 2012 12:31:38 GMT

Title: Keeping Score
Pairing: Tezuka/Fuji
Rating: PG
Summary: Fuji has a confession, of a sort. (~1400 words)
A/N: written for mirimea in the 2007 their_white_day exchange. I had completely mentally blocked the fact that I ever wrote TezuFuji and just now found this. Apparently have more skeletons in my closet than I thought. XD

~§~

The ball hits the ceiling and bounces back into Fuji's palm. He looks over at Tezuka, watching him tug his jersey off over his shoulders and fold it carefully on the shelf in his locker. Tezuka's locker looks barren, unlived-in, cold. Fuji's locker is much the same, except for the picture on the inside wall of an empty tennis court. He'd taken the photo a week after his first match against Tezuka, way back in first year before his hand was as steady and his eyes were as sharp as they are now.

It's the sixth weekend in a row that they've played and now the score is tied again, 3-3. The probability that Fuji will win next weekend is almost exactly 50% -- he doesn't have to be a data expert to know.

Fuji tosses the ball again and remembers how it sounded hissing over the surface of the court, rolling back against the net. Fuji knows nearly all Tezuka's moves by heart, and yet they still manage to take him by surprise. He can recognize the curve of his serves, the arcs of his returns, but he doesn't know when they'll come, or how quickly. He doesn't know how strong the pull of the zone will be at any given moment.

Tezuka keeps him on his toes.

They've been playing these past six weeks at Fuji's request. This tennis is new and on their own time, outside of high school practices with no one watching; no expectations but their own. Maybe Tezuka doesn't get it, or maybe he does, but it's not just about tennis to Fuji. There's a reason he lingers in the changerooms even though he's quick to get out of his jersey and shower. There's a reason he walks with Tezuka to the bus station, even though they rarely speak, and there's a reason he brings an extra water bottle, though Tezuka is never careless enough to forget his own.

Sometimes Fuji wishes he could ask Tezuka out to dinner or a movie, a normal date thing like normal couples do, but Tezuka wouldn't understand. They're not a couple like that. It's not that they're two boys, it's that they're Tezuka and Fuji, and as simple as it would be to call Tezuka up and ask him out to a café, Fuji feels he has to temper himself. Tezuka is never careless, and so Fuji can't be either. Tezuka never addresses their relationship, and when Fuji tries, Tezuka responds only in eyebrow raises and noncommittal grunts, so Fuji doesn't push it.

He's grateful to have this much.

Fuji likes games. He likes angling, teasing. He likes watching people for reactions, and that's precisely what has always made Tezuka such a frustrating puzzle. Tezuka doesn't react to things the way normal people do. He rarely gets flustered like Taka-san, or blushy like Kaidoh. He is amazingly controlled and solid.

Fuji would trade half his photo collection for just one glimpse at Tezuka when something's really gotten to him. He's almost afraid of that. It might destroy his interest in Tezuka entirely.

"Tezuka," he starts, but doesn't know how the question ends. Fuji is most careful with his words when he's with Tezuka, because with Tezuka it feels like he's tightrope walking. Precision is the key.

Tezuka turns around and he's in his regular weekend clothes again and it's the first time Fuji has missed the change. But then, Fuji no longer has to pay attention to everything Tezuka does because he knows what Tezuka looks like with his shirt struggling, somehow still dignified, over his head, with his jacket on, zipped to the collar, with his school uniform on looking somehow younger, sharper.

Fuji likes to catalogue these movements, these frames, but he can't work out what any of them mean. With Tezuka, Fuji feels like his intuition fails him. Tezuka is not an open book like Inui or Eiji, and he doesn't communicate code in Fuji's language the way Saeki does.

There are days when Fuji wishes he weren't a genius. He knows more than he understands.

"Fuji," Tezuka says, and the tone is expectant, like Fuji is keeping Tezuka waiting, when really it's completely the opposite.

It is Tezuka's move, his turn to serve, because Fuji doesn't initiate things unless he needs to. He lets things happen around him, taps them to keep them spinning but doesn't like to interfere too much. He takes the little things and keeps them like his photographs, carefully arranged in his memory, and waits for something more.

He likes taking sips from Tezuka's water bottle after Tezuka already has. He likes propping his chin up in his palm and watching Tezuka writing, his hand steady, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, never a mistake, never a flip of the pencil to erase. He likes standing in Tezuka's shadow, or standing so his shadow falls over Tezuka's shoes. They're little tricks, but they bring him closer.

"What do you like, Tezuka?" Fuji asks.

Tezuka's eyes look lighter for a split-second and it's enough to tell Fuji that he's surprised.

Tezuka clears his throat. "I like a lot of things. What do you mean?"

"Well," says Fuji, taking a step forward. He drops the tennis ball and lets it bounce, muted, against the ground. Sometimes Fuji says things just to see how Tezuka will react. Once he told Tezuka about the time he and Saeki stayed out until 3am lying on the beach, waiting as the tide crept higher over their toes, up to their ankles. He asked if Tezuka liked the beach, which is to say, if Tezuka would like the beach, like that, with Fuji. Fuji always means what he says, though, even when it's the answer that means more to him. "I like curry, and Yuuta, and playing tennis against you. What do you like?"

"Oh," Tezuka says, but it isn't an 'oh' of understanding, "I like tennis, too."

Fuji smiles, because the answer is not quite what he hoped for, but it's good. Some questions have simple answers, and with Tezuka nothing that seems simple ever really is.

"I'm glad," Fuji says, and his smile widens until it hits his eyes and his face scrunches, tightens, feels like it's closing up.

Their games are tied, and there will be another weekend for more questions, there will be another day of classes on Monday and Fuji can tap his pen against the corner of Tezuka's desk with a sly rat-a-tat-tat until he gets his attention, but for now, Fuji is satisfied with this.

Which is why he isn't sure why he does what comes next.

First Tezuka takes a step back. Then Fuji takes a step closer. And another.

"I like you," he says.

Tezuka's eyes seem to darken momentarily. "I know," as if to acknowledge the meaning behind the past six weeks of games, even though he won't stand close enough to Fuji in the hallways to even hold his hand.

That's when it happens -- the opportunity that opens up like a chance ball spinning right into the perfect path for a counter.

Fuji lets out a little white laugh and stumbles forward, onto his toes, a careless mistake, and his mouth covers Tezuka's, for a second, for long enough to get his point across, and then he pulls away again.

He steps back, licks his lips. He has nothing to compare the taste to, but he likes it. It isn't spicy, it isn't sugar-sweet. It isn't really anything at all.

Tezuka is standing there, just as he was moments before, unmoved, his eyes open.

Maybe Fuji has pushed too far this time, but he couldn't help it. He's always worked on instinct, and maybe now he's pulled ahead in the score.

He licks his lips again. Tezuka blinks.

Fuji walks away, leaving the ball in Tezuka's court, a whisper-slide Tsubame Gaeshi across the clay, like the shiver of Tezuka's shirt against his skin when he moves, finally, and crosses his arms over his chest like a shield.

"As expected of Tezuka-buchou," Fuji sing-songs over his shoulder, and begins to count to ten.

"Wait," Tezuka calls.

Fuji smiles to himself, and turns around.

~§~

Ice Cream [Prince of Tennis ; MomoKai]

happiestwhen — Tue, 22 May 2012 13:05:11 GMT

Title: Ice Cream
Pairing: Momoshiro/Kaidoh
Rating: G
Summary: Momo is a pig. Kaidoh is a grump. They are OTP. (~375 words)
A/N: found this drabble from who knows how long ago on my external harddrive. Figured I would post it here. :D

Momo isn't picky about ice cream flavors. Today when he and Kaidoh are at the ice cream parlor on their third not-really-date (which happens to be just as food-centric as the previous two, although that's honestly not Momo's doing) he orders a giant waffle cone with everything on it.

"You're such a pig," Kaidoh says, content with his small cup of chocolate frozen yogurt.

Momo grins and takes a long slurping lick of his ice cream. "You're just jealous."

Kaidoh rolls his eyes. "Yeah, like that's an explanation for everything."

Momo kicks Kaidoh's knee under the table.

Kaidoh kicks back so hard Momo nearly drops his ice cream cone. "Hey!"

"Idiot, you started it."

"You called me a pig!"

"Well, you are."

"And you're a snake."

"Better a snake than a pig."

Momo scowls and turns back to his ice cream cone, ignoring Kaidoh's glare. At least the ice cream doesn't give him dirty looks. In fact, it gives him really seductive, melty, come-hither looks. Momo takes a big bite into the ice cream and of course it's a mistake. Brain freeze.

Kaidoh raises an eyebrow when Momo's face twists up, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Are you okay?"

Momo nods. "Headache," he whines.

"Moron." Kaidoh takes a delicate bite of his yogurt, purses his lips around it, swallows, and then hisses, "You're disgusting. I don't know why I'm even here."

Momo leans across the table and dips his finger into Kaidoh's cup. Kaidoh practically squawks in annoyance. "You wanted to come when you called me about it this morning," Momo says, winking suggestively.

"You said tennis."

"I was hungry!"

"You said that two burgers and a meat bun ago!"

Momo shrugs. "I'm a growing athlete."

"So am I, but you don't see me eating half of Tokyo." Kaidoh spoons another bite of yogurt into his mouth, and this time a bit of it lingers on the corner of his lips.

"You've got... uh…" Momo starts. The ice cream is really mesmerizing and Momo can't help but stare. He's never seen Kaidoh with food on his face before.

"What," Kaidoh replies flatly. "Spit it out, Momoshiro."

Momo just grins. "Nothing. Nothing at all." Maybe if he plays his cards right, he'll get to lick it off later.

Growing Pains [Prince of Tennis ; gen]

happiestwhen — Sun, 20 May 2012 13:25:30 GMT

Title: Growing Pains
Characters: all-Seigaku, Nanjiroh-ex-machina?
Rating: PG
Summary: Nanjiroh gives Ryoma a present. Because he's a good father like that. (~300 words)

Ryoma gasps as they fall out of his bag and onto the tennis court. The whole team turns and looks at him. Inui raises an eyebrows and reaches for his pencil.

"Ochibi!" Kikumaru calls, dashing over and picking one of the packets up off the ground. There's a strange grin plastered on his face as he slings his arm around Ryoma's neck. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Momo emerges from the clubroom with Kaidoh in tow and Kikumaru immediately waves him over. "Look! Look!" he calls, waving the condom in the air. "Look what Ochibi has!" Tezuka looks like he has gone into shock and Fuji giggles into his hand. Inui continues to scribble furiously. A mortified Oishi seems to be hiding behind one of the tennis ball baskets. Kaidoh just hisses and reaches up to re-tie his bandana.

Momo rushes over and his eyes go wide. "Echizen!" he exclaims, obviously impressed. He takes the packet and turns it over in his hands, as though admiring a treasure. Ryoma winces as Momo flicks the brim of his hat and asks, "Who's the lucky girl?"

Ryoma picks up his racket and swings it over his shoulder, wondering when practice will start.

"Details, Ochibi!!" Kikumaru chimes. Kawamura and Horio seem to have caught on and now look visibly uncomfortable. Tezuka looks like he's going to die.

Ryoma looks at the wrapper: "Maximum Pleasure," it reads. Oh, he thinks, understanding. Ew.

He pulls down his cap. "Che. Those aren't mine," he says, untangling himself from Kikumaru's grip. Everyone on the court relaxes noticeably and when Tezuka finds his voice again, he tells everyone to start running laps.

Ryoma looks down at the plastic wrappers and sighs. He really hates his father.

Defining Relationships [Prince of Tennis ; MomoKai]

happiestwhen — Sun, 20 May 2012 13:12:00 GMT

Title: Defining Relationships
Pairing: Momoshiro/Kaidoh
Rating: PG
Summary: Momo and Kaidoh have to share a room. (~4100 words)
A/N: written for celianna who wanted more MomoKai, and for spurious who is the best person to ship things with. :D

When Kaidoh gets to the room, he sees another duffel bag already dumped on the floor at the foot of the beds. He'd recognize that bag anywhere. It's sort of hard to miss the idiotically bright red stars on the sides.

"Stupid Momoshiro," Kaidoh grumbles, and as if summoned, Momoshiro emerges from the bathroom, flicking his hands dry.

"Oi, Mamushi!" he yells, slinging an arm around Kaidoh's neck. His voice is annoyingly loud as ever. "Sure took you long enough to find the room! It's so big, right? I feel like I'm on vacation."

Kaidoh hisses and jerks away from Momoshiro's touch. "I was helping unload bags," he says, eyes narrowing, "instead of running straight up here like a selfish asshole."

Momoshiro just shrugs. "I had to pee," he says matter-of-factly.

"Don't tell me that!" Kaidoh yells. He feels his heart rate quicken, like even his body is itching for a fight, but he doesn't want to disappoint Inui-senpai and Tezuka-buchou by fighting on the first day of camp, so he tries to calm down and unclench his fists.

Momoshiro wipes his hands on the front of his shirt and walks over to the two beds. "I call the one by the window!" he crows, and flops down on top of it like a ragdoll.

"Wait a minute!" Kaidoh growls out and stomps over to the bed. He towers above Momoshiro, who looks like he couldn't care less. "I want the window."

"Well, I already called dibs," Momoshiro says plainly. He wriggles on the bed, messing up the comforter in the process. "There. See. It's my bed."

Kaidoh lets out a long, impatient hiss. He slowly counts to three in his head. "Fine. See if I care."

Momoshiro beams. "You can sleep in it with me if you like."

"Gross!" Kaidoh's face scrunches up in horror and Momoshiro grins even harder at that. "Asshole!" Kaidoh kicks the foot of the bed, but only ends up stubbing his toe. "I'm going to go train," he says gruffly. "Don't touch my stuff."

"Like I'd want to!" Momoshiro calls after him.

*

When Kaidoh gets back two hours later, Momoshiro seems to have not moved an inch. He's still sprawled out on the bed, face smashed against the pillow. Lazy moron, Kaidoh thinks, but moves quietly so as not to wake him.

Turns out, he isn't even asleep, as Kaidoh discovers a moment later when Momoshiro rolls over and looks him up and down. "What did you do, Mamushi? Run a marathon? You're covered in sweat."

"It's called exercise," Kaidoh replies flatly. He gives Momoshiro a similar once over. "Obviously it's a new concept to you."

Momoshiro scratches his stomach. "Why are you so serious all the time? I exercise plenty and you know it," he says, flexing a bicep. "We're here to have fun! Relax!"

"We're here to strengthen the team," Kaidoh replies, and disappears into the bathroom to shower.

*

That night, Kaidoh feels, for the first time in his life, what homicidal mania must feel like.

He's been trying to sleep for the past half hour, but Momoshiro has turned into a snoring pig and Kaidoh forgot to pack earplugs. He'd assumed he would share a room with someone normal, anyone but Momoshiro, really.

He clamps his pillow over his ears and tries to relax, but even then he can hear Momoshiro's snores. Kaidoh wonders if he's doing it on purpose to get a rise out of him, but after staring at his rising and falling chest for a full minute, Kaidoh decides that the idiot is actually asleep. No wonder Echizen had always turned up at breakfast with dark circles under his eyes, Kaidoh thinks. Having to put up with this dumbass sure would take its toll.

Kaidoh shifts on the bed, trying to get comfortable, which is hard when his ears are being assaulted, when suddenly Momoshiro snorts, his breath hitches, and he stirs on the bed, snoring coming to a halt.

"Stupid Mamushi," Kaidoh hears him murmur. He sits up in bed and looks at Momoshiro, who still looks fast asleep.

"Momoshiro?" Kaidoh tests. No response. "Moron?" Nothing. "Hey asshole!" Momoshiro's fingers clutch at the corners of his pillow and pull it closer to him.

What a loser, Kaidoh thinks. Talking in his sleep.

But at least he's stopped snoring.

*

Kaidoh wakes up early the next morning to go for a run. He feels off from not sleeping well, and glares daggers at Momoshiro as he leaves because of course, Momoshiro looks perfectly content in his bed, not realizing that he made Kaidoh lose a precious hour of sleep.

Kaidoh thinks about waking Momoshiro up by chucking a tennis ball at his head but hey, even he isn't that mean.

Instead he slams the door really hard on his way out and listens with satisfaction to the yelling that follows.

*

When he comes back, feeling refreshed from the solitude, his muscles burning, Momoshiro is sitting on his bed watching some cartoon. His blanket is still wrapped around him and his hair is disheveled. Kaidoh wants to laugh, because he looks pretty silly, but he's still supposed to be angry at Momoshiro for ruining his night with his snoring, so he settles for a hiss.

"You are one sweaty snake," Momoshiro says, not even looking up from the TV screen.

Kaidoh wipes his hand over his forehead. Well, the idiot is perceptive, but that's not saying much. He goes into the bathroom to wash his face, splashing cold water over his cheeks. When he looks up into the mirror, Momoshiro is standing right behind him.

"What the hell?" Kaidoh growls. "Can't you give me some privacy?"

"I didn't realize you were doing anything super private," Momoshiro replies with a smirk, and he's got his hand on Kaidoh's shoulder again. That idiot just loves invading Kaidoh's personal space. He must know how much it ticks Kaidoh off.

Kaidoh turns around and hisses at him, face still dripping with water. "I'm not! But it's really annoying having you constantly in my face!"

Momoshiro edges closer, as if Kaidoh's words are a challenge rather than a warning. "Well, then I guess the next few days will be tough for you, Mamushi," he says, and his breath whispers over Kaidoh's cheek. "You can't get rid of me."

Kaidoh shivers involuntarily and Momoshiro's eyebrow shoots up. Shit, Kaidoh thinks. He noticed. It's not his fault Momoshiro is totally crowding him, breathing his stinky morning breath all over his face. Anyone would react the way he did.

"Brush your teeth," Kaidoh snaps. "We're supposed to meet in the lounge in twenty minutes."

Momoshiro makes a big show of reaching over and around Kaidoh's body to get to his toothbrush and Kaidoh can't do anything but stand there, stunned. This asshole, he thinks, and shoves past him out of the bathroom. Then he realizes that he needs to brush his teeth as well.

Fine, he'll wait.

Of course, Momoshiro ends up taking much longer than necessary in the bathroom. He must spend at least five minutes brushing his teeth, and then he spends another fifteen putting that stupid gunk in his hair. Kaidoh grows increasingly agitated, but he doesn't want to pick a fight with Momoshiro, not now, not right before they have to go practice with their team. He needs to be calm and collected.

When Momoshiro comes out, his hair is slicked up into that stupid style he loves so much and he's grinning. "Well, I guess it's time to go," he says cheerfully.

Stupid Momoshiro, Kaidoh thinks. He knew he was going to use up all the time on himself. Kaidoh has all of thirty seconds to get to the bathroom and brush his teeth before they have to go.

*

The whole day at practice, Kaidoh feels like he has a second shadow. Every time he turns around, Momoshiro is there, smiling at him like he knows some secret. Kaidoh checks his shirt four times to see if Momoshiro has stuck a note to his back, but there's nothing there, and there's nothing on his bandanna or in his hair, and, What the hell is Momoshiro staring at anyway? Does he want to go at it or something?

They run with ankle weights and do jumping exercises with cones as hurdles. Their coach has really gone all out with an obstacle course of tennis balls and tires that they have to navigate their way through quickly. They do lunges with stretch bands around their legs for resistance, and practice hitting balls into buckets, baskets, and other targets. Kaidoh feels invigorated.

But he also wishes he could just play a real game.

Momoshiro seems to be thinking the same thing, because during lunch, he challenges Kaidoh to a match.

"Is that why you wouldn't stop looking at me?" Kaidoh demands, as Momoshiro shovels food into his mouth like a pig. He takes a delicate bite of his own rice and breathes in and out.

Momoshiro opens his mouth and food comes flying out when he speaks. "No, I was just looking at you, loser."

"What were you doing that for?!" Kaidoh shouts.

"To make you mad," Momoshiro replies plainly, words muffled by bits of meatball.

"Asshole," Kaidoh hisses, and turns his attention back to his lunch. He can tell Momoshiro is grinning at him even without looking up. He can always tell. It makes his face heat up and he quickly excuses himself and goes to sit next to Kikumaru-senpai instead.

Which turns out to be a terrible idea, because Kikumaru immediately notices his blush and starts interrogating him about it.

"Fsshuu," Kaidoh breathes, feeling agitated and jumpy. He'll go run after lunch. That'll help.

*

He's midway through a run around the court grounds when Momoshiro catches up with him.

"You didn't give me an answer," he says.

Kaidoh keeps running, subtly quickening his pace. He hears Momoshiro's breath hitch with strain and feels smug. Maybe if that moron spent more time concentrating on exercises and less time following him around like a creep, he wouldn’t be so out of shape.

"Hey, are you even listening to me?"

"No one ever listens to you, moron. Can't you see I'm running here?"

"Answer me!" Momoshiro demands, his voice suddenly very loud. It causes Kaidoh to slow to a stop. He turns around, feeling heat rising in his face again.

"Fine," he says tightly. "Fine. Let's get it over with then."

Momoshiro looks satisfied and Kaidoh hates admitting that he won this round. No matter how much Kaidoh tries to be stubborn, Momoshiro has a weird way of breaking down his defenses in the end.

*

They set the match for after dinner, since Momoshiro has a boundless appetite and has to stuff himself with pork and rice and peach jelly before he can play. Kaidoh thinks he's just stalling, putting off his inevitable defeat.

The game starts and they rally back and forth, matching each other, point for point. Momoshiro returns Kaidoh's snake shot, and Kaidoh slices back Momoshiro's dunk smash, and each game ties up the one before.

Five games in, Kaidoh can feel a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, but he suppresses it.

It's still meant to be a secret how much he enjoys playing Momoshiro. Sure, Kaidoh likes playing anyone at tennis, but Momoshiro is a special kind of opponent. His level is so close to Kaidoh's that the game could go on forever and it often feels like it does.

It's never an easy win, and that's what makes it so satisfying.

*

Kaidoh doesn't win this game, though, and try as he might, Kaidoh will always be a bit of a sore loser. Especially since he was training his ass off while Momoshiro was sitting around their room watching cartoons.

As soon as Momoshiro has taken match point, Kaidoh clenches his fist around his racket and stalks off the court. He isn't sure where he's planning to go, because he knows he'll just have to see Momoshiro's smug face again once they get back to the room.

*

And god, is Momoshiro ever smug. When Kaidoh finally arrives back after walking in circles around the camp lobby, Momoshiro has fashioned himself a crown out of notebook paper and greets Kaidoh with a surly, "Hey loser!"

Kaidoh feels the blood heat up and rush faster through his veins. "Don't you dare," he starts, voice testy and thick. Sometimes he feels like a jack-in-the-box that Momoshiro keeps winding and winding until he's pulled so taut that it would take almost nothing to make him burst.

"I'm just calling it like I see it," Momoshiro says, his whole face seeming to mock Kaidoh.

The lid on the jack-in-the-box pops open and Kaidoh growls and launches himself onto Momoshiro's bed, tackling Momoshiro and shoving him back against his pillow. "Play me again and then we'll see who's a loser!" he hisses, low and dangerous. Momoshiro looks completely caught off guard, his paper crown askew and his eyes wide.

"Lighten up, Mamushi," Momoshiro protests. "It was just a joke!"

"Tennis isn't a joke," Kaidoh replies, but he lets up on his grip and climbs off of Momoshiro, feeling him exhale a breath of relief as he does.

Momoshiro's facial expression flattens out and he says, quietly, "You played really well, Kaidoh. It could have gone either way."

Kaidoh lets air hiss out between his lips because he doesn't know how to respond. He knows Momoshiro is right. The game was really close. But a loss is a loss and it still stings.

"Let's play again," Momoshiro adds. "I'm sure you'll win next time."

"You're my rival, you're not supposed to say that," Kaidoh replies, giving Momoshiro a confused look. If he didn't know better he'd think the idiot was actually rooting for him.

"We're teammates first," Momoshiro says, and his mouth parts into a smile.

Kaidoh growls. "Yeah, whatever," he says, but he feels somehow calmer now.

*

That night, Kaidoh falls asleep first, but is awoken around one in the morning by Momoshiro's violent snoring. His whole bed seems to be vibrating with the sound. Kaidoh rolls over and stares at Momoshiro, who is rolled onto his side facing Kaidoh. His face looks impossibly calm. Kaidoh doesn't understand how Momoshiro is able to sleep through the ungodly noises he's making, and, feeling annoyed that Momoshiro gets to sleep when he doesn't, yanks off his shirt, balls it up, and pitches it at Momoshiro's face.

Momoshiro doesn't wake up. He doesn't even stop snoring. Instead he grabs Kaidoh's shirt with both hands and tugs it into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.

Is that asshole smelling my shirt?, Kaidoh thinks. Momoshiro snorts loudly as if in response and rolls over onto Kaidoh's shirt so that it's pinned under his cheek. His snores get louder.

Kaidoh calmly gets out of bed, feeling the cool air nip at his bare skin, and walks over to where Momoshiro is sleeping.

"Mamushi…" Momoshiro groans, voice low and guttural. Kaidoh freezes.

"Momoshiro?" Kaidoh asks, feeling like he's having déjà vu. Momoshiro doesn't reply, just burrows his face more deeply into Kaidoh's shirt. Kaidoh takes another step forward, and then another until he's standing right in front of Momoshiro's face. Then he reaches and out and plugs his nose between his thumb and index finger.

Momoshiro gargles, coughs, and then jolts upright in bed.

"What the hell?!" he splutters, blinking his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Kaidoh glares down at him. "You're keeping me awake."

"Where the hell is your shirt?" Momoshiro demands. Kaidoh points silently at the green tank top lying next to Momoshiro's shoulder. Momoshiro's eyes go wide and he flings it at Kaidoh as though it's contaminated. "Did you do something to me in my sleep?!"

"God no!" Kaidoh throws back, eyebrows pulling together. "You were snoring like a pig and I couldn't sleep so I threw my shirt at you. But then you grabbed it and moaned my name and…"

"I'm sure I did not," Momoshiro interrupts, but his voice cracks when he says it and he isn't looking Kaidoh in the eye anymore.

"Stop keeping me up," Kaidoh hisses, and stalks back over to his own bed.

"Stop taking your shirt off," Momoshiro replies, and rolls over to face the window. When he falls back asleep this time, he doesn't snore.

*

The next morning, Kaidoh meets up with Inui at the gym to do weight training. He's midway through his third set of bench presses, when Inui asks him, "How are things with Momoshiro working out?"

Kaidoh tenses and nearly drops the barbell on himself. "I don't want to talk about him," he says. "Add more weight." Inui obliges, and then starts writing something in his notebook. Kaidoh raises an eyebrow before continuing with the set. He's probably just making a note of the weight, he thinks.

"I was noting the weight," Inui says, as if he can read Kaidoh's mind. "But I'm also writing that the rooming arrangement with you and Momoshiro is working out with 87% success. He's really pushing you. It was a rather impressive suggestion on his part to share a room with you in the first place."

Kaidoh stops and drops the bar back into its rest. "What do you mean on his part? It wasn't like it was his idea to share a room with me or anything…"

Inui pushes his glasses up on his nose.

"Inui-senpai?" Kaidoh breathes, and feels something flip-flop in his chest.

The lenses of Inui's glasses glint mysteriously.

"I should go," Kaidoh says, grabbing for his towel. He runs.

*

When he gets back to the room, Momoshiro is there doing push ups against the wall. So he does exercise after all, Kaidoh thinks, but he doesn't want to get distracted from the reason he came back.

"I got some interesting data from Inui-senpai," Kaidoh says, and, when Momoshiro doesn't bother to stop or turn to look at him, continues with, "He told me it was your idea for us to share a room."

Momoshiro stops and rubs the back of his neck nervously. "Yeah, about that…"

"Why?" Kaidoh asks plainly. "To piss me off even more? Do you want a fight that badly?"

"No, idiot," Momoshiro replies, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Because we're friends and I knew it wouldn't be boring if I was with you. You have no idea how boring hanging out with Echizen all the time can be. I usually feel like I'm the only one talking…"

"You're always the only one talking, loud-mouth moron. And we're not friends. We're rivals." It's a very important distinction, Kaidoh thinks. Momoshiro is his rival and that's not allowed to change. It's how things are supposed to be.

"We can be both," Momoshiro offers.

Kaidoh hisses. "But I don't like you."

"Well that's too bad, then," Momoshiro says, and starts to smile, "because I'm pretty awesome. And… I like you." Kaidoh feels heat rising in his cheeks and he wonders if he can dash into the bathroom before Momoshiro notices. Stupid smiley Momoshiro… liking Kaidoh and wanting to be friends and doing things like hugging his shirt while he sleeps.

"Is it too hot in here?" Momoshiro asks, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

"Shut up. I'm going to—"

"Run?" Momoshiro finishes. "No, you're not."

"I'm not?"

"No," Momoshiro takes a step forward, and then another, and Kaidoh is frozen in place and feels like his heart is beating so fast that it's about to follow the jack-in-the-box and tear its way out through his chest.

Suddenly Momoshiro is way too close. The air crackles with electricity, or maybe that's the sound of the candy wrapper Momoshiro is stepping on, and suddenly Momoshiro is kissing Kaidoh and Kaidoh has no idea why but he's kissing him back. He feels embarrassed and awkward and is glad Momoshiro's eyes are closed so he can't see just how terribly he's blushing right now.

When Momoshiro pulls away, his face is red too, but he's smiling and Kaidoh feels strangely like he's about to smile, too. That was weird, he thinks, and now he needs to go for a run more than ever, because if he stays in this room with Momoshiro much longer, he isn't sure what might happen.

Momoshiro seems to be thinking the same thing, because he says, "So about that run?"

Thank god, Kaidoh thinks. "Yeah, I'll just be going," he says. He turns to leave but feels a hand on his wrist.

"Can I come too?" Momoshiro's voice is cracking again, and Kaidoh is scared because Momoshiro is touching him again, and he just did that already, with his mouth, and it is way, way too confusing for Kaidoh to process. But when he looks into Momoshiro's eyes, he sees his own fear reflected in them, and so he shrugs, not knowing what else to do. Is this what friends do? Is this what Momoshiro meant when he said he wanted to be friends?

"No," he says finally, and leaves.

*

He throws himself into the run and goes until he's tired and sweaty. He pushes himself more than he did all month. He runs until he's so far from the camp that it's only a distant light in his peripheral vision and drags his feet on the way back, trying to stretch out time for as long as he can. Maybe Momoshiro will have switched rooms when they get back. Maybe Momoshiro was possessed by a demon and the real Momoshiro will return and none of that will have even happened.

Kaidoh doesn't know what to do. He paces back and forth in front of the door to their room. He doesn't want to fight Momoshiro and that's the strangest thing, because that's an instinct he thought he could always count on. He just feels confused and nervous.

He almost can't turn the door handle, his palm is so sweaty.

Inside, Momoshiro is waiting. Kaidoh looks at him nervously but Momoshiro isn't looking at him. The room is completely silent except for their breathing, and it sounds like thunder when Kaidoh shuts the door behind him.

"Do you think we should—" he starts, just as Momoshiro says, "I'm sorry about the—" They both trail off mid-sentence.

Kaidoh doesn't know what to say. He goes into the bathroom and washes his face. He splashes far more water on than is necessary and lingers for as long as he thinks he can get away with. When he comes out, Momoshiro is lying back against his pillow, looking at the ceiling. He looks just as terrified as Kaidoh feels. And that's the only feeling Kaidoh can really name at this point. There are a bunch of other emotions swirling around inside of him but the only one he can identify is fear. He is so scared of what happened and what might happen and what he and Momoshiro are now, because it's certainly not rivals anymore and it's probably not friends either, but Kaidoh doesn't have many friends so he could be wrong.

"Why did you kiss me?" he asks finally, and thinks to himself, Why did I kiss him back?

Momoshiro rolls over onto his side, facing away from Kaidoh. "I told you I liked you," he says. "It was really stupid though. I'm sorry. I messed everything up."

"No!" Kaidoh blurts, without being able to stop himself. "I mean, you didn't mess everything up. I just… wasn't expecting it and…"

"And?"

One of the emotions that Kaidoh can't find a name for seems to take hold of his voice and he finds himself saying, "I guess we could try again."

Momoshiro's body stills. He rolls back over and then sits up on the bed, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Play a game with me first," he says.

*

This time, Kaidoh wins the game and when they get back to the room, he kisses Momoshiro first, before he has a chance to freeze up and second guess what he's doing. It feels good, just like their tennis, just like their run, just like everything they do together. He's still confused, and he wonders if it's okay to be more than rivals with Momoshiro. Momoshiro said they could be both rivals and friends but can they be rivals, friends and whatever they are now all at the same time?

He realizes that maybe he puts too much stock in labels when Momoshiro decides to stick his tongue in Kaidoh's mouth, because suddenly they are the furthest thing from his mind.

Yeah, he thinks, he and Momoshiro can be anything, and pushes Momoshiro back onto the bed, nudging his knee between Momoshiro's legs.

They can be everything.

Happy Birthday [JE ; Ryo/Ueda]

happiestwhen — Sat, 19 May 2012 11:54:41 GMT

Title: Happy Birthday
Pairing: RyoDa
Rating: G
Word Count: 345
A/N: another old gift for samenashi and also my first attempt at anything JE.

"Happy birthday," Ryo says, pushing the card at Ueda. For a second, Ueda looks surprised, but not in a bad way, and Ryo thinks that maybe he's succeeded at being civil for once.

Then Ueda looks at the card and then back at Ryo. "This isn't a birthday card." The lighthouse twinkles as if to illustrate his point.

"It's what I had lying around." Ryo gestures vaguely with his hand, not wanting to go through the trouble of explaining the hows and whys. "It's the thought that counts, right?"

"Oh," Ueda says. "Oh."

Ryo chances a grin and repeats, "Happy birthday," a little more hopefully this time, but Ueda looks like he's going to cry and hell, Ryo just can't win with this guy.

"Aren't … you going to say anything?" Ryo asks.

Ueda looks at the floor. He still looks like he's going to cry and Ryo wonders if maybe he can't help it, if maybe his face got stuck that way since the last time they talked. The idea makes Ryo want to laugh, but he doesn't, because he's trying, really trying to be nice.

"You could have bought a card," Ueda says, his voice a little higher than usual. "It's not like you're poor." The words are incredibly careful, as if Ueda had been using those seconds to stall and think up a good retort.

Ryo does laugh this time. "I said it was the thought that counts! You should be glad that I stopped by at all today. I could have just forgotten, you know." Then he pauses and looks around. "Where is everyone else anyway? Did they forget?"

Ueda glares at Ryo and then, as if on cue, the waterworks start. At least there are still some things Ryo knows he can count on. He feels a smug warmth rising in his cheeks and thinks that there's a reason Ueda doesn't react like this with everyone. Maybe he gave Ueda a pretty good birthday gift after all.

That is, until Ueda punches him. After that, Ryo mostly just feels pain.

Pancakes [PoT/Yakitate!! Japan]

happiestwhen — Sat, 19 May 2012 11:51:10 GMT

Title: Pancakes
Pairing: none really, maybe some implied MomoKai or Kaidoh/Suwabara (KaiKai? ^_^), mostly just Kaidoh/grumpiness
Rating: G
Word Count: ~700
A/N: originally written to woo samenashi who wanted Kaidoh/Suwabara Kai (from the very awesome series "Yakitate!! Japan"). figured I'd go ahead and repost it.

"What is it?" asks Kaidoh. Everyone's crowded around the back of the classroom where three desks have been pushed together and there are strange people dressed in blue and white.

"Oh," Momoshiro replies, mouth full of something (although, Kaidoh thinks, that isn't really surprising), "class demonstration!" The words come out digested-sounding and Kaidoh grimaces. If they aren't having class today, then he'd be better off running laps outside, or taking his things to the library to study. He notices the rest of the students have plates and are eating, too, and thinks, This is great. This is just what the school needs; more reasons for Momoshiro to turn into a pig.

He wanders to the back of the room and watches, keeping his distance because he isn't really interested. The whole table seems to be generating a lot of heat, and is emitting a strange kind of glow, but Kaidoh soon realizes that it's all coming from the bakers' hands. The guests have brought hot plates and griddles. They're stirring and flipping and sprinkling in tasty-looking ingredients.

They're making pancakes, Kaidoh realizes, and begins to wonder if Momoshiro has more connections than he'd thought. But pancakes aren't that exciting. His mother made them a couple times last year when she was going through her American cooking phase. For a month, everything in the Kaidoh household was a little bit greasy, and Inui-senpai noticed that Kaidoh was a little slower on their morning jogs. The blueberry pancakes were kind of tasty, Kaidoh concedes, but he doesn't understand how they constitute a legitimate distraction from a whole day's lessons.

"Do you have other kinds?" a girl in front of Kaidoh asks, pushing her pancake around in a lake of maple syrup on her plate. Kaidoh thinks she must be as dense as that spiky-haired moron because there is obviously more than one kind of pancake.

The one tall baker seems to be thinking the same thing because he snorts and his gaze narrows as he replies, tersely, "Of course." He reaches under the desk and pulls out a container full of various kinds of fruits and asks the girl if she'd like any of them in the next batch. She points cautiously at the orange slices, and adds, "Are you really allowed to put that kind of stuff in a pancake?" Kaidoh agrees that maraschino cherries and pineapple pieces don't seem like things traditionally put in pancakes -- at least, they aren't things his mother ever mentioned, but the short baker just flashes a grin, his strange, antenna-like hairs bobbing enthusiastically, and says, "You can add anything you want!"

Kaidoh wonders if the kid is really old enough to be working at a bakery, eyeing the "P" on the uniform dubiously. He looks younger than that Dan kid from Yamabuki.

The kid is quick with his hands though, and he seems to know what he's doing. The girls fawn over him as he works, sort of the way those first years in the tennis club fawn over Echizen. Kaidoh sighs and looks back to the tall baker. At least he looks reasonable.

The baker's eyes meet his own and Kaidoh gets a weird feeling of something like deja vu. From the front of the classroom, Momoshiro makes a squawking sound like a dying chicken and happily exclaims, "There's cheese in this! I can't believe it!" He rushes back to the table, pushing through the swarm of girls, and thrusts the pancake in Kaidoh's face. "Isn't this amazing? Who'd have thought! If I had some meat I could make a pancake burger!"

The short baker beams. Kaidoh grinds his teeth together. The tall baker sighs, and rolls his eyes. "Moron," he mutters.

Kaidoh blinks, wondering if he's heard right, and then thinks that maybe these pancake demonstrator people might not be so bad after all.

He smiles a little at the tall baker and, as Momoshiro is reaching for the baker's collar and beginning to launch into a string of protests, adds, "Nice bandana."

The Games We Play [HP ; Ron/Draco/Neville]

happiestwhen — Sat, 19 May 2012 02:39:36 GMT

Title: The Games We Play
Pairing: Ron/Draco/Neville (and permutations)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: heavy angst (no spoilers for HBP since this was written before the book's release)
Summary: The problem with Draco is that he wears his thoughts and feelings pinned to his chest like his Slytherin House crest.
Word Count: 2756
Notes: originally written (but never posted) as an extra gift in the reversathon for madsdog, who requested: Ron/Draco fic with bottom!Draco and Neville as a third wheel. Would love to see emotional-one-sided-ness with Ron as the detatched and Draco as the emotionally involved one. Heavy angst preferrable. Also, if it can be worked, I'd love to see the story happening backwards- from resolution through complication to initial situation- although that's not necessary.. Thank you to platoapproved for looking this over for me!

10.

Tonight is the leaving feast. Everyone is chattering about what they will do over the summer, the things they will see and the people they will meet.

Draco looks calm, the picture of resolve, as he shrugs the sleeves of his robes down over his arms. He has made a decision. He will give himself to someone who will appreciate him. He will become a Death Eater.

He spends his last night at Hogwarts repeating this over and over in his mind, until he has convinced himself that this will make him happy. It won’t, of course, but Draco is used to lying to himself.

The next afternoon, at King’s Cross station, Ron doesn’t even favor Draco with a final glance. It’s as though they never had anything to begin with, that it was all just some hopeful delusion, a figment of Draco’s imagination. He watches as Ron’s parents smile and hug him, their smiles broad and matching the sparkle in his eyes. He looks happy, and he is not with him, Draco observes. He looks happy because he is not with him, Draco’s mind amends.

Maybe Draco will kill him in a battle in a month or two, using the spells he’s learned and those he will learn. Maybe he will watch Ron Weasley fall and drain slowly, paling, and gasping, and under the tip of Draco’s wand.

Draco won’t though.

His own heart has already shattered, and he doesn’t think he would have the strength to kill the person who holds the remaining pieces.

9.

Ron stops looking at Draco when they pass in the hallways, and he is never waiting for him in the boys' toilets, or near the alcoves outside of the Great Hall. His lips are smooth now from lack of kissing. Draco watches him laughing with Harry and Hermione at breakfast, and when one of them looks up, it is always Harry, and Draco immediately looks back down at his plate.

Draco thinks that maybe he could send Ron an owl, track him down, corner him against a wall, figure out a way to get him alone, get him in a position where he’d have to listen to Draco. He does none of these things, though, because Draco understands that this was just a game to Ron, another way to make Malfoy’s life hell. It was never a game to Draco, not even the first time, the strange and frantic kiss in the hallway that meant so much more than a first kiss should. It was important. Draco hates ‘important’ almost as much as he hates ‘temporary’.

He still doesn’t really understand ‘over’.

He grows almost desperate enough to look for someone else, but when he kisses Pansy Parkinson in the Slytherin common room, it is a mistake and he immediately pulls away. Her lips are nothing like Ron’s. They are small and sweet and purse when he looks at her wide-eyed, and tells her that he’s an idiot, and that he’s sorry, and that it wouldn’t happen again. The mold of her mouth to his is all wrong, and the kiss leaves him feeling stale.

8.

They’re fucking in Gryffindor this time, on Ron’s bed, and Ron is moaning loudly against the pulse point in Draco’s neck, his freckles flooding Draco’s vision. It’s like some strange, blotchy canvas, wrapping around Draco and suffocating himself with a feeling that isn’t lack of oxygen.

Draco’s arms are looped up around Ron’s neck, pulling him closer, and Ron’s knees are grazing Draco’s calves – Ron is still so much taller.

Neither one of them hears the footsteps on the stairs, or the creak of the dormitory door swinging open, until it is too late.

Potter.

Draco wonders why he isn’t surprised as Ron slows above him and he can see that wild black hair and those green eyes that are flashing with dark anger. Harry was always the one to take away anything that mattered to Draco.

Harry says nothing, but his face is going red and he looks livid, angrier than Draco had ever thought him capable of being.

Ron pulls on his trousers quickly, not meeting Harry’s eyes, and when he looks back at Draco, his mouth is a thin line. Draco’s eyes are awash with ‘I love you’s, but Ron just tells him to leave, to get the fuck out. Draco sits up on the bed and grabs his robe just as he hears Ron apologizing, not to Draco, to Harry, and he is telling Harry that it is over, that it was a mistake, that it won’t happen again.

The words come too easily for Draco’s liking. But he isn’t surprised. Ron was always Harry’s friend first. He wouldn’t choose anyone over him, not even if Draco is a good fuck.

7.

Neville knows what is going on. Of course he knows. He understands what they’re doing, the game they’re playing and how he is just a pawn, a territory they’re both fighting for. Still, he says nothing and when Draco comes to him again in an attempt to make Ron jealous, an attempt that will not work, Both of them know this before it’s even begun, but Draco is about presentation, about trying even when it’s foolish, and he will get Ron’s attention if it kills him because Draco Malfoy does not go ignored.

Neville complies, even if it means getting fucked on his bed just when he knows Ron will walk in and see them. Draco doesn’t fit against the curve of Neville’s body, he feels awkward and wrong with his cock in Neville’s arse, because it’s different and it’s Ron’s place to do this. It isn’t even good sex, and Draco wishes he had thought of someone better to fuck because, really, Longbottom?

When Ron walks in and sees them, he doesn’t look angry. Draco knew he wouldn’t be, but it still hurts. Ron is possessive of his friends, not of Draco. He doesn’t care who Draco fucks and who fucks Draco because he knows who Draco belongs to in the end. Ron has learned not to get angry over petty things.

That’s all Draco is, a petty thing.

6.

Draco mentions, once, when they are lying together in the empty Slytherin dormitory, that he is thinking about not getting the Dark Mark. He tells Ron that he is contemplating joining forces with Dumbledore instead.

“That’s nice,” Ron replies. It’s obvious he’s not listening. He must be thinking of other things, of how long he will have to shower before dinner, or if he remembered to copy down his homework in Transfiguration. Ron has stopped listening to the things Draco has to say because he was never with Draco for his pretty words. He can go to his friends for conversation. He goes to Draco to forget about words and sentences and the war everyone is talking about these days.

“I don’t love you,” Draco whispers coarsely as Ron is pulling his robes on and heading for the door.

“Oh, I know,” Ron says, smirking at Draco’s predictably bad lie.

5.

Draco doesn’t ever tell Ron outright what he wants from him, that he wants him to love him, because Ron wouldn’t listen anyway. He just takes what he can have, what Ron allows him to have, which is sex. Draco thinks vaguely of things he’d like to say, conversations he’d like to have, as he feels Ron pulsing inside of him, thrusting deeply in and out, crushing Draco’s chest underneath his and choking Draco with his tongue. Their sex is rushed now. There is no time for talk because Ron is always hurrying to get back to Hermione to study Charms, or to Harry to practice Quidditch. He is a good friend, Draco thinks, but he will never be Draco’s friend. He isn’t even Draco’s lover.

Draco will gulp down that thought and will himself to forget it. He only ever thinks these foolish things when Ron is gasping against him, and Draco lies still and breathing hard, because Ron does not touch him, and he has to pull himself off to have any sort of release.

He should just leave him. But he can’t. It’s become strangely comforting, their routine, even when it’s far from comfortable.

4.

Draco hates that Ron is a Gryffindor. He hates everything that means. Ron has changed and grown into his red and gold and now he is fearless, bold to the point that he is ruthless. Perhaps he would have made a good Slytherin. Perhaps he is just trying to survive like everyone else. (Perhaps Draco is too.)

Draco hates that Ron can hurt him and hurt him, but never to the point where Draco wants to leave. He hates that it is Ron’s game, and that Ron is winning and that no matter how horrible it gets, Draco thinks, naively, that he will be able to triumph in the end. It’s the same reason Draco zips around the Quidditch Pitch at five in the morning every other day of the week. He still thinks that one day he will beat Potter, even if it is impossible.

Draco thinks that he will make Ron hurt too. He sucks Neville Longbottom off in an alcove near the Great Hall one morning before lunch. Neville’s cock is not like Draco’s, and Neville’s face has more worry lines and pouting lips and his eyes look strangely alert where Ron’s just look lazy these days.

Afterwards, Draco asks him who was better. At first Neville says nothing, but then he understands. He says a name, and Draco seems to agree. He runs his tongue over his lips and frowns. His mouth is small and his tongue is dry, and yes, both of them know that Ron was better, that Ron is better. It’s always Ron because Ron is that brilliant, brave Gryffindor, the Boy Who Lived’s best friend, and as much as Draco wants to brush him off, he cannot seem to think of a clever insult. He wouldn’t be with Ron if Ron wasn’t better. He’d be with Nott or Zabini or fucking Bulstrode, for Merlin’s sake. But he is with Ron, and Ron is better. Than him. And he can’t think of any excuse for himself because he’s the one being fucked into the bed sheets at night, and there is nothing he can say to talk himself around that.

That’s why Draco loves him, isn’t it?

After Neville leaves, doing up his trousers quickly and murmuring something about never mentioning this, Draco falls back against the wall, the familiar one next to the third window. Later, he will go back to the dormitory and vomit into the sink, hating the taste of Neville’s come in his throat.

3.

The problem with Draco is that he wears his thoughts and feelings pinned to his chest like his Slytherin House crest. They’re there for everyone to see and Ron can’t help but take advantage of that. Ron can toy with Draco, twist him around in ways he couldn’t before, because Draco trusts Ron, likes Ron, maybe even loves him. Draco doesn’t let himself admit any of these things, but they’re written all over his face when Ron enters a room.

Ron doesn’t care about Draco, because he never has. He loves Hermione. He loves Harry. He loved his sister and he loves his parents and his brothers. But he is indifferent to Malfoy. If he can’t win by hexing him, he will hurt Draco in other ways. Because he can. Because Draco hurt Harry. Because Ron will never forgive him for that.

And so, it isn’t entirely unexpected that Ron fucks Neville in the toilets one afternoon. He doesn’t do it because he wants Neville. He does it because he’s never had that kind of control before – over Draco, not Neville, and because he can. Neville lets him, because he can do that too.

It is hot and strange and Neville feels nothing like Draco. He is all chubby skin where Draco was sharp angles, but inside, he still feels the same. Wet, sticky, and unsatisfying at the end.

Later, Ron will tell Draco what he’s done as he is gagging Draco’s mouth with his cock. He can’t wait to see the expression on Malfoy’s face. He thinks that maybe if it had been Harry he’d fucked, he might have even been able to make Draco cry.

2.

“What?” Ron’s voice is sharp like the edge of a knife.

“Well,” Draco starts, “I mean, only if you’re interested.”

Ron sneers. Draco hadn’t realized that Weasleys were able to sneer like that. But then he nods, and a deal is made. They don’t shake hands, of course, and the terms are not discussed, but there is an agreement.

Ron leans in and kisses Draco firmly on the lips and Draco wonders how it is that it suddenly seems like the whole thing had been Ron’s suggestion. Draco was the one who mentioned continuing this, whatever this is. Ron isn’t supposed to care. It’s all just a means to an end. Ron doesn’t care. And Draco tells himself that he doesn’t either. It’s just something temporary to sate a perfectly normal need.

But it’s more than that to Draco, because while Ron keeps his feelings reserved for his friends, Draco has no one else to give his own to, so he automatically finds himself putting whatever he’s got into this, this relationship with no name or category. Ron has Hermione and Harry for emotions. Draco is just a fuck toy.

But Draco doesn’t understand the concept of ‘temporary’. If Ron is with him, then he is with him, on Draco’s terms, for as long as Draco wants. At least, Draco will tell himself that this is how things are, even though it’s his back against the wall, his knees scraping on the dirty floor.

1.

The fight begins like all the others. Harsh words and low-blow insults give way to wands and fists and flashes of hexes that ricochet off the walls and send beams of fragmented, flashing light slicing back across their arms and legs, turning them to raw, burned skin.

Ron has gotten better with his words and spells over the summer; Weeks of practice with Fred and George have paid off, and he doesn’t stumble or trip when hissing out an unsavory hex. But Draco fights with fury and fervor that Ron somehow lacks now. Perhaps this is because, since his sister’s death, Ron hasn’t been able to will himself to become passionate about anything, even if the anything is Draco Malfoy. He fights as though he needs to, as if the sweaty struggle that leads to them both scraping shoulders dangerously against the rough stone wall is somehow sustaining Ronald Weasley’s existence.

Draco’s fingers are clutching at Ron’s neck and Ron is pressing back, with palms and elbows and hipbones. Draco feels his spine sliding painfully along the stone bricks behind him and he opens his mouth to gasp but the sound turns to a moan halfway through, because Ron has edged his knee between Draco’s legs, pinning him back against the wall and rubbing his thigh against Draco’s cock that is, despite all logic, half hard already.

“Weasley,” he hisses out, his voice strangled. Pushing back against Ron only serves to increase the friction between them and Draco’s eyes go wide when Ron’s lips press against his. It isn’t a sweet sort of kiss. It feels like anger and vengeance and something just short of possessiveness.

Draco’s hands flail against Ron’s shoulders, but he is pinned tight and firm against the wall, and he can feel Ron’s cock pressing into his stomach, the heat dark and vulgar but somehow it’s enough to make Draco want to kiss back. He does, his lips smooth and wet against Ron’s, and he can feel Ron’s slippery tongue, that is all Weasley and Gryffindor and things Draco hates, probing against his.

He feels Ron thrusting against him, and then there is a sticky sort of warmth clinging to the space between them. Fuck, Draco thinks, realizing that Ron’s come, and he has too.

“Well, Malfoy,” Ron says, breathing hard as he pulls back, “at least it seems you’re good for something.”

Draco can’t do anything but look at him, searching Ron’s eyes for an explanation. He doesn’t find one, but later while he’s trying to concentrate on his Potions essay, he will find himself thinking back to those lips, and the name that goes with them.

Similarities [HP ; Fred/George]

happiestwhen — Sat, 19 May 2012 02:37:37 GMT

Title: Similarities
Pairing: Fred/George
Summary: Freckles and a Ravenclaw skirt. (PWP)
Rating: NC-17ish (cross-dressing, incest)
Word Count: 306
A/N: for fivil because apparently she wanted porn the last time around. :P

---

You touch, you touch, and you can’t stop because he is all smooth freckled skin and rough material of that skirt, that skirt you swiped from the Ravenclaw girls’ laundry and is now hiked up around his waist. The blue and coppery threads weave together and it’s scratchy and perfect under your fingers as you pull at the waistband.

He pulls you down onto the mattress – your bed, maybe it’s Lee’s; you are too drunk around the eyes on the heat of his stare to know. His cheeks are flushed and yours must be too and your skin feels hot when you grind against him, against his thighs and his cock and the skirt that ripples in checkers of blue plaid, blue like his eyes when the light hits them at just the right time of day.

Glisten-sweat-drip-dark-flesh-yours-his-ours; you can’t keep up and soon your hearbeats have forked and his is beating against the press of your palm, while you move steadily against him, your mouth parted, your inhale and exhale hissing through your lips.

He spreads his legs now, muscles cording and strong and tight like your own, and your eyes trace the freckles on the inside of his thigh, mentally connecting them, tattooing your brother’s body with the kisses you long to place there.

Arch. Kiss. Lips meet and skin collides and muscles press and balk and release. And he calls your name in the instant you gasp his. The syllables mingle together so that they’re just sounds. There is no you or him, there is just the pulse of still-tense breath around you as you tremor and tremble and his arms loop around your neck. When the bedsheets tangle between your feet, there is no I.

No one could tell you two apart anyway.

And it doesn’t matter, because there is a we.

---

on the importance of knowledge [HP ; Fred/George/Lee]

happiestwhen — Sat, 19 May 2012 02:35:29 GMT

Title: on the importance of knowledge
Pairing: Fred/George/Lee
Rating: PG
Word Count: 389
A/N: written for akutenshi2007 who wanted Fred/George/Lee: dreams, Quidditch, cherry, beat, eyelashes.

)))

You think they’re funny, the way they don’t let things come between them. You think they’re strong for that too, and you wonder sometimes, as you watch them laughing, tossing pillows at each other, if you would ever have been able to handle being a twin. You also wonder sometimes if you’re the only one who has ever been able to tell them apart. You’re proud of it, though you won’t ever reveal just how it is you know. It is something about the way George has at least twice as many copper-colored eyelashes, and that Fred’s lips are more full so that when they smile, they look different though it’s just around the corners of their mouths, and no one else would ever notice because who else takes the time to look at their mouths but you? They smile so much it strains the muscles in your jaw just to grin back, and you love that feeling. You think just the dreams and memories of those secret smiles you three share will be enough to keep you happy for the rest of your life.

)))

You suppose that there’s more to school than Quidditch, but when it’s a Gryffindor match, nothing matters but them, and even as you’re shouting out the latest score or announcing that Harry has once again caught the Snitch, your eyes are on them, always on them. You wonder if anyone ever notices, but decide that they must all be too busy with their own things to see the way you melt and drown and fall apart whenever Fred and George are around. It’s worse after the games and practices, when you are all in the Great Hall stuffing yourselves with cupcakes and cherry pie. They ramble on about game strategy and flying and you try to pay attention but you don’t understand and, to tell the truth, you’re not even sure you want to. You’re content to just watch their mouths move as they finish each other’s sentences.

)))

You think and suppose and wonder many things, but you know that those what-ifs don’t matter because your heart skips a beat when they refer to you, all three of you, together, as ‘we’, ‘us’, a single word. And you know that it is only two letters, and it is only the whole world.

)))

Summer Chill [Prince of Tennis ; Fuji/Saeki]

happiestwhen — Thu, 17 May 2012 13:05:07 GMT

Title: Summer Chill
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3786
Pairing: Fuji/Saeki
Author's Notes: written for digital_blitz in the funpotexchange.
Summary: Saeki realizes he isn’t so great with this "friends-with-benefits" thing.

They didn’t plan this.

With Fuji, nothing is ever planned. They are riding the train on one of the lines between Tokyo and Chiba in the early evening. The city lights streak across the windows as the train rushes past buildings and houses, a panoply of movement and chaos, but inside the car there’s nothing but a rumble and skip of wheels on steel and the sound of their breathing.

It had started with a smile from Fuji and that’s usually all it ever takes. He never asks for anything directly, merely suggests without needing words -- more often than not Saeki ends up feeling that it was his idea to begin with. With Fuji’s regulars jacket draped over his lap, Saeki tries not to squirm, which is difficult when Fuji’s hand is down his pants. He doesn’t look at Fuji, because he’s sure that would give him away, and while the train is not completely full, it’s also not completely empty, and the three salarymen at the other end of the car could wake up at any moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Saeki can see Fuji, eyes calm and closed in concentration, the light from the setting sun casting his cheeks in a warm, golden glow. The corner of his mouth keeps twitching up in a smirk. He doesn't seem at all concerned the publicness of this. On the contrary, he seems to like it. Saeki supposes he should be used to that by now. What is exciting for Fuji is terrifying for any normal person.

The door to the bathroom swings open a moment later and Fuji murmurs in Saeki’s ear and jerks them both to their feet. Saeki is terrified for a second that everyone will see, but the fear doesn’t last because Fuji pulls them into the bathroom and as he slides the door closed, cloaking them both in secrecy and safety, Saeki can see the businessmen still dozing quietly, no one suspecting a thing.

Once they’re in the bathroom, it takes some navigating to get into a comfortable position. The room is small and cramped; hardly enough room for the both of them to stand and with each sway of the train car, Saeki is certain he’s going to lose his balance and topple face first into the toilet. Train bathrooms weren’t really intended for this sort of thing -- whatever it is Fuji and Saeki have going on here; Saeki’s never been sure. With Fuji, things are rarely clearly defined. Then again, they never need to be. Saeki trusts Fuji wholly. He holds onto the sink as Fuji shivers out of his pants and reaches for Saeki’s own, not hesitating. They’re both hard now and when Fuji sucks at the pulse point on Saeki’s neck, it’s almost too much for him to handle. He bucks up against Fuji’s thigh and they press their bodies together, their gasps rising over the rhythmic click-clack of the train.

And then comes the moment that changes everything.

Saeki comes, suddenly and hard against Fuji’s stomach and Fuji follows soon after, his arms wrapped tight around Saeki’s shoulders for balance. Saeki smiles and opens his eyes to look at Fuji but realizes as he is doing so, that Fuji isn’t looking back at him. When he catches the flash of Fuji’s open eyes, they’re hazy and unfocused, staring at nothing at all. He could be looking at anything but he definitely isn’t looking at Saeki. It causes Saeki to suck in a breath he didn’t know he was longing for, and something constricts painfully in his chest.

He knows he isn’t thinking clearly, but he wants to shake Fuji and make him look at him like he’s been looking at Fuji all this time, but Fuji just smiles and hums to himself, still staring off at nothing. Saeki doesn’t know why it suddenly matters. They do this all the time, so why should this be any different, and yet it is. Saeki wonders suddenly if all Fuji cares about is the publicness, the thrill of the situation and suddenly he doubts this-- whatever it is. He doesn’t want this to be something that they just do as a passing hobby. He’d never put much thought in it before, because everything with Fuji had always been uncomplicated and comfortable and he’d never searched for reasons or explanations. But now he wants this to mean something, although he doesn’t know what at the moment, just that he feels something, and it’s painfully possible that Fuji doesn’t.

*

As soon as the train reaches their station, Saeki bolts from the train, embarrassed and confused, leaving Fuji standing on the platform looking equally puzzled. He isn’t sure why he runs, why things feel different all of a sudden. A part of him is shouting, this isn’t supposed to happen. He isn’t supposed to get worried or angry, not at Fuji. That’s what always held them together; they never fought. There was never anything to fight about.

Now Saeki wonders if there was something all along, and he was just too much of a doormat to notice.

Fuji finds him half an hour later in the playground of their old kindergarten. Saeki is curled up inside the tube slide, knees to his chest. He knows it’s Fuji without needing to open his eyes. He’s always been able to sense Fuji’s presence because Fuji tends to glide more than walk, his footfalls gentle and carefree.

He stops in front of the slide opening and crouches down, and when Saeki opens his eyes, Fuji is looking at him with the same expression he’d had on the train platform, one of confusion, but not hurt.

"What’s wrong?" Fuji asks. "Did I do something?"

Saeki wants to grab him by the collar and pull him towards him, and at the same time wants to shove him away. Of course Fuji doesn’t understand. "Who were you thinking about?" he asks, voice low and dangerous.

"When?"

"On the train."

"No one, really. What’s wrong, Saeki? You’re acting strange."

Saeki wants to yell, I’m not the strange one! because he’s finally realizing that the whole feelings thing, the thing they’d never acknowledged about this-- that’s normal. He’s normal. He’s just been denying it for too long, and frankly, he’s been hanging out with Fuji for too long to remember what the "normal" way to do things is.

"I was thinking about someone, you know," he replies quietly.

"Oh," Fuji says. He puts his hands over Saeki’s knees and squeezes, but that isn’t the response Saeki wants. Saeki wants Fuji to understand and feel the same.

"Are you unhappy?" Fuji asks. Saeki shakes his head, because he doesn’t know what he is. He doesn’t know how he feels, just that he does, abruptly and desperately, and he doesn’t know what to do. Fuji smiles up at him, face light and open. His expression is impossible to read. Saeki didn’t realize how blank a smile could be. The most terrifying thing about Fuji, Saeki thinks, is that he could break someone’s heart and smile, just like that, eyes closed and crinkled at the corners. He wouldn’t even realize he was doing it either. Saeki isn’t sure why, but he feels a bit like that’s what Fuji is doing this very moment.

"If you’re not unhappy then that’s good," Fuji says, and he squeezes Saeki’s knee again. The touch is warm and cold at the same time, because Fuji isn’t saying anything, really. He isn’t saying the right things. The problem with Fuji is that he wants to make people comfortable. He will adjust to play at the level that will connect them, but it's never representative of his true skill. He says what he thinks Saeki wants him to say, but is himself a mystery. He can deal out platitudes by the dozen, but his true feelings remain masked. Saeki remembers when he and Fuji were so close that they caught each other's colds. Back then, he had seemed so simple and easy to comprehend. Now Saeki has no idea what Fuji’s thinking and it scares him.

"It’s all just fun, right?" Fuji continues, eyes going unfocused again. Right. Fun. Maybe it’s all just another kind of game to him.

*

It hadn’t started that way.

The first time had been the summer of their first year of high school. Fuji and Yuuta had come back to Chiba with their family for two weeks of vacation and they’d stayed in Saeki’s house, the three boys sharing Saeki’s room, sleeping on futons squeezed in wall-to-wall.

It was the first time they’d seen each other since they’d graduated middle school and Saeki had been terrified that Fuji would have changed, come back completely different -- a meter taller, or with spiky hair or a girlfriend on his arm.

But Fuji had been the same as always and they fell into the easy rhythm of friendship. It had never taken any work to be friends with Fuji.

One especially humid afternoon, they had gone down to the beach, sinking their toes into the sand as they sat sharing oranges and soda.

The orange juice had dripped down Saeki’s chin and he’d laughed, wiping it away with the back of his hand. That’s when it started--

Fuji had always been strange, and maybe if they were younger Saeki would have thought nothing of it, but now it was deliberate, purposeful, full of a different kind of intent.

Fuji had taken Saeki’s hand and licked the orange juice off, running his tongue over the back of his palm and pressing what might have been a kiss against Saeki’s knuckle, his eyes locked on Saeki the entire time. Saeki had been unable to do anything but stare back. He could have sworn there was a crackle of electricity in the air, and in his chest. He could see in the curve of Fuji’s mouth as he had let go of Saeki’s hand that something was about to change, that something was about to happen between them.

It was the most terrifying moment of Saeki’s life.

But with Fuji, there had never been any real danger, and the fear was mixed with excitement and anticipation for what would come. Saeki had given Fuji a curious look, wondering if one of them should say something, and Fuji had replied with a raised eyebrow, like a challenge, before leaning in and kissing Saeki on the mouth.

Just like everything else in their many years of friendship, it had been easy and right, not like he’d always heard first kisses with girls would be. Fuji had seemed like a natural. He knew exactly what to do, he knew all the pressure points on Saeki’s neck and shoulder, all the ways to make him tense up, or curl his toes, or moan out loud.

Saeki hadn’t even allowed for the thought that maybe Fuji had done this before.

They ended up in the ocean, the waves rushing against their backs as they kissed, Saeki getting the hang of it as things went on. He learned that Fuji liked it when he sucked at his ear lobes, or bit his bottom lip. He learned how Fuji’s shoulder blades felt under his palms, the way they jutted backwards when he arched his back. Fuji kept pulling Saeki under, wrapping his legs around Saeki’s, one knee hooked around Saeki’s thigh, and holding them both down until they couldn’t stand it anymore and came up, gasping for air.

It felt invigorating.

Saeki had no idea how long they stayed like that, bobbing in the shallow water, tongues in each other’s mouths and hands in each other’s hair and sliding over skin. He had heard a voice calling his name from somewhere down the beach, sounding very far away. When they finally pulled apart and Saeki looked around, he realized they’d drifted quite a ways. Funny the things you don’t notice.

"Dinner!" The voice called.

Fuji had squeezed Saeki’s hand before letting go and running, laughing, out of the water, splashing Saeki deliberately as he did.

At dinner that night, everything had been completely normal. Fuji was calm and composed. He didn’t even acknowledge what had happened, not even when the two of them went to the bathroom to wash their hands. Saeki was terrified to be the first to mention it, so they stood there side by side at the sink in silence, but as Saeki ran his hands under the faucet all he could picture was Fuji’s mouth covering them.

As they all sat there around the table, Saeki’s palms had felt clammy and hot at the same time and he was sure his cheeks were bright red. He was jittery, feeling everything all at once. Before that day, he didn’t realize it was possible to feel quite that much. Sure, he’d heard of all the shoujo manga stories, but he thought that was just dumb girl stuff. Now he felt certain he actually did have butterflies in his stomach. He’d met eyes with Fuji over their bowls of rice and miso soup, but Fuji’s expression revealed nothing and Saeki thought that maybe he’d just dreamed it, gotten heat stroke on the beach and merely imagined that they’d kissed.

But then before they went to bed, Fuji had climbed over Yuuta and onto Saeki’s futon, straddling him and kissing him cleanly on the mouth. He’d whispered, "Goodnight!", in the same cheerful tone he always did and Saeki had echoed it back like a reflex. He didn’t realize until Fuji was gone and the weight of his body disappeared just how strange it was. Only then did Saeki realize that something had changed and could never be undone.

That it was a terrible mistake.

But Fuji doesn’t make mistakes. He doesn’t regret anything. He just has fun and does what he wants to do and that sets everyone else at ease. The next morning when they woke up, Saeki had felt Fuji’s arms wrap around him, one knee nudging its way between his legs. He’d squawked in horror, but Fuji had quickly reassured him that Yuuta was already gone, although Saeki was half-certain that Fuji probably wouldn’t have cared either way. Fuji had kissed Saeki then, the two of them lying there with hair sticking up at odd angles and their pajamas wrinkled from sleep. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world. Saeki didn’t have to worry, because it was just the two of them. And things with the two of them had always been simple and perfect and required no instruction manual or explanation.

It had started so small, but now it had turned into this big thing, Saeki thinks. It’s consumed them both and eaten up the root of their friendship. It is never just the two of them anymore. It’s the two of them and a tennis locker room, or the two of them and a subway car, or, once, the two of them and an empty supermarket aisle. It feels like the setting is more important than the players and Saeki doesn’t know how to get back to that simple summer day when it was just them and the waves and the beach and the tangerine that had tasted so good on their tongues.

That was the first and only time that Fuji had come to him. Every other time had been incidental, or at Fuji’s suggestion. Saeki realizes that he went along with it every time because he wanted to be with Fuji, but he was always the one doing the work. He’d gone to Tokyo so many times that they might as well have been dating. But that isn’t what this is, right?

Saeki has no idea.

*

They haven’t talked since the playground. Saeki has three text messages, one voice mail, and a dozen other missed calls from Fuji on his phone, but he hasn’t replied to any of them, except to say, "I’m busy", once. Fuji doesn’t seem to be pushing the subject. His messages are casual, rather than demanding, and that annoys Saeki because he wants Fuji to feel more than that, to care more, to want fight for this, for him. He wants to be missed and wanted and needed, because he is realizing increasingly that he misses and wants and needs Fuji.

Maybe he was always just another distraction. Fuji has many friends now. What if he has other friends like Saeki? Saeki had always imagined their friendship was somehow special and better than the others, but maybe it wasn’t. Or maybe it was and they compromised it by adding this extra element. After all, in the year since it started, they hadn’t ever just hung out. Maybe they didn’t know how to just be friends anymore.

It had seemed like the most natural thing in the world at first but Saeki is realizing, in his time apart from Fuji, with his other friends, that it is anything but the norm. He had never thought anything they did was strange until now. And what is it, exactly, that they are doing?

Saeki isn’t sure how to define it. It isn’t dating. Dating is with girls. Dating is going to dinner or the movies and holding hands. Saeki wonders why Fuji never seemed to think any of the things they did were strange. Sometimes Saeki thinks that Fuji just can’t feel things like nerves or anxiousness. He never seems to have doubts or worries. He doesn’t get stressed when he’s playing tennis either -- because it’s all just a game to him. Maybe this is too.

*

Saeki didn’t plan on it going like this.

He is riding a bus towards downtown Chiba City, sitting at the back of the bus, staring out the window at the gray buildings that pass by. He doesn’t realize they’ve stopped, that someone’s boarded, that footsteps are approaching. He doesn’t even turn his head until a familiar voice says, "Is this seat taken?"

Saeki looks up and sees Fuji. "What are you doing here?" he asks, his voice coming out weirdly quavery.

Fuji smiles. "I wanted to see you."

"You could have called or come to my house..." Saeki replies, feeling defensive.

"Well, I knew you’d be here." Fuji’s smile broadens as he says that and Saeki understands why Kentarou calls him creepy. "So can I sit here?"
Saeki drags his bag off the seat and Fuji sits down. They ride in silence for a stop before Fuji speaks again. "I’m sorry," he says. "I know something is wrong, but I don’t know what."

Saeki freezes up. He doesn't know how to explain. "It’s about... um... the things we do."

"What about them?"

"Do they mean anything for you?"

"Of course." Fuji laughs. "That’s a silly question."

Saeki sighs. "Well then why is it always in weird places? It makes it feel... it feels like a game. It doesn’t feel right."

Fuji’s face goes serious. "I didn’t know you didn’t like that."

"I don’t-- I mean, it’s fine. I mean, I do. I like it. But why are we never alone? Why never at my house?"

"You didn’t invite me."

"Then why never at your house?"

"With Yuuta there?" Fuji’s eyes crinkle up with delight, before softening again. "What’s wrong with the way things are? What’s wrong with just this?" Saeki isn’t sure why, but his chest always feels like it’s about to burst when he’s around Fuji lately, like it’s all too much and too big, and "just this" is not enough anymore.

"You’re missing the point!" he grumbles.

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is..." Saeki begins to reply. He feels frustrated, not sure how to make Fuji understand. "The point is I think I like you!" Saeki blurts, not sure what he’s saying but realizing that it’s the truth, that it’s been the truth since that first day on the beach when the air had been electric and he’d had butterflies fluttering around inside him.

"Good," Fuji replies, "because I like you too."

"And just because you--" Saeki starts angrily. "Wait... what?"

"I like you too," Fuji repeats, slower this time. "I’m crazy about you. I don’t really care where we are because I don’t care who sees. I don’t notice when I’m with you. Wasn’t that obvious?"

"Well..." Saeki says, and can’t get out much more than that because he’s too stunned to think. Suddenly everything about Fuji seems to fall into place. Fuji has always seemed to be a mystery, his whole existence there solely to confuse or unbalance. But it’s all so simple when Saeki steps back to look at it. Fuji just... likes people. Fuji just likes him. He’d spent so much time puzzling over Fuji’s hidden motivations, wondering if it was all a scheme, if he was just a pawn in some greater game. He hadn’t been expecting all that to fall away and leave something so uncomplicated.

Fuji is not trying to trick him or use him. He just wants to be with him.

"So are we still friends?" asks Fuji. The tone of his voice is hesitant yet hopeful. Saeki’s never known hesitation from Fuji and it thrills him in an unexpected way. Fuji is nervous.

Fuji is scared too.

"Best friends," Saeki replies, and there’s nothing but confidence in his reply.

Fuji grins. "Well, in that case..." he says, tone suddenly suggestive.

Saeki smiles back. "How about we start with this," he says, and takes Fuji’s hand in his, like they're on a first date.

Fuji doesn’t hesitate and squeezes back tightly.

Maybe All Rivals Do [Prince of Tennis ; MomoKai]

happiestwhen — Thu, 17 May 2012 12:54:38 GMT

Title: Maybe All Rivals Do
Pairing: Momoshiro/Kaidoh
Rating: this is surprisingly pretty PG-ish
Summary: Momo spends a lot of time not thinking about Kaidoh.
Word Count: ~6600
A/N: MomoKai is the best. The end.

Momo can picture it clearly even without closing his eyes: the perfect double cheeseburger -- ketchup oozing out of the sides of a bun piled high with pickles and onions and cheese and the most magnificently juicy beef in existence. He licks his lips, imagining the taste.

"Momo-senpai." Momo is jolted from his thoughts by the voice. He turns and looks down and meets Echizen's unimpressed gaze. He is bouncing a ball effortlessly on the edge of his racket. Momo wonders how long he's been standing there. Had he heard Momo's amorous stomach growls?

"We're supposed to be playing a match," Echizen continues, tone edged with impatience. "Why are you staring at Kaidoh-senpai?"

"I-- what? I'm not staring at that snake!" Momo starts to protest, but when he turns back, he realizes that the spot in his vision previously occupied by a mirage of heavenly grilled meat is now filled with Kaidoh Kaoru's grumpy face. Of course, Momo thinks, Mamushi would find a way to ruin even his most delicious of daydreams.

Oishi later points out that Momo is playing more aggressively than usual, and worries that Momo is feeling overly stressed over their upcoming ranking matches. Momo just laughs. He doesn't get stressed.

But after practice when Kaidoh bumps into him as they pass each other in the clubroom doorway, Momo feels the skin on his arm flare up like a burn.

*

Kaidoh's been weird lately, Momo thinks to himself.

He's in math class, snacking on strawberry cream bread behind his book and not paying attention to anything the teacher is saying. Math isn't really his thing. There are too many numbers up on the board for him to focus. Food, however, is his thing. Usually he spends the entire class eating and thinking about the cute girl who sits in front of him. She always wears a bracelet on her right wrist that jingles as she writes. Momo can't help but be distracted. It's not his fault. But she's absent today, so Momo's mind has to find a new distraction. And it's blatantly obvious that something's up with Kaidoh. It isn't that Momo particularly cares about Kaidoh or what he does or where he goes, but it might affect the team and that would just not be cool at all.

Kaidoh skipped practice twice last week. Kaidoh Kaoru never skips practices. When he does come to practice, he acts really weird, picking fights with Momo but then dropping them abruptly the second Momo gets physical. And then there was the game where they played doubles against Taka-san and Fuji-senpai and they'd bumped into each other diving for a ball and Kaidoh had grabbed for Momo's hand instead of his shirt collar. It had been sweaty and Momo's racket had fallen to the court with a noisy clatter.

Yesterday, Kaidoh even left school after lunch and went who knows where, not that Momo had been paying particular attention. It's just that Kaidoh's stupid, ugly bandanna is hard to miss, and left a conspicuous absence. Momo thought about following him but then remembered the curry bread he had in his desk and decided that tastiness outweighed curiosity.

Come to think of it, Inui-senpai has been acting strange too. Stranger than usual, that is, Momo corrects. Inui-senpai has always been weird. Lately he does things like show up to the tennis clubroom with bouquets of lavender, or stand outside the school in the mornings making mysterious phone calls. Does he have a girlfriend? Is he a double agent for a rival team? Is the lavender laced with some new performance enhancer he's developed in his creepy lab?

No one else seems to notice that anything is out of the ordinary. Tezuka-buchou seemed angry about Kaidoh at first but now he just seems stoic as ever, although Momo thought his face looked red two days ago before practice, the same day Inui had shown up with those dumb flowers.

At least Momo can count on Echizen to still be normal. Echizen never really changes.

He still hasn't grown any taller either, but Momo's sure that'll happen eventually, because Momo's friends should always be tall and awesome like him.

*

After lunch, Momo passes by the science lab on his way back to class. He's juggling two drinks and three cups of pudding and he practically drops all of it when he hears cackling coming from inside the room.

Cackling that sounds distinctly like Inui-senpai.

Momo pokes his head in and sees Inui hovered over the table with something Momo is sure says, "Love Potion #3.14159".

Then suddenly Momo puts it all together: The flowers, the phone calls, Kaidoh acting weird, missing practice and class. What if Inui-senpai had confessed to him? What if Inui didn't have a girlfriend but had a... a... boyfriend? Momo crinkles up his nose. If he were going to date a guy it wouldn't be a loser like Kaidoh. It would be someone really awesome. Just like Momo. He catches his reflection in the window and winks at himself. Yeah, he's a total stud.

But that's not the point. The point is that two of his teammates are obviously having a weird romantic entanglement. Just like Kamio and the mumbly guy from Fudomine. And those two guys from Rikkai. And... come to think of it, a lot of the tennis players Momo knows seem to be gay. He isn't sure why he didn't notice before. Momo isn't sure why the discovery bothers him as much as it does. He doesn't really care who Inui-senpai dates, and he definitely doesn't care who Kaidoh dates. He tells himself it's just frustrating to have two team members so obviously distracted from the game and the team's preparation for competition.

It's simply unacceptable.

He thinks about Kaidoh all through Japanese history and into his English lesson too, which is more than a little awkward since today they have to make sentences with "I like" and Momo definitely doesn't want to associate that sentiment with Kaidoh.

*

Over the next couple of days, Momo starts to piece together all the clues and hints that Inui-senpai and Kaidoh have been leaving. He's even started taking it all down in a notebook; his own special kind of data. He wonders if it will help him get a better grade in his math class, but thinks maybe he isn't doing it correctly, just scribbling down random percentages in the margins alongside doodles of snakes getting their necks strangled and eyes punched all black and blue by a super awesome ninja with cool hair. Momo feels like he's being productive, anyhow. He thinks that Inui-senpai probably makes up half his statistics anyway. No one could be that smart.

99% chance that Kaidoh and Inui-senpai are one of those super gross sticky-sweet couples, Momo writes.

Earlier this week, Inui-senpai brought Kaidoh a present wrapped up in tissue paper. Momo snuck it out of Kaidoh's locker when he was busy changing and discovered it was a stuffed mouse. What a weird gift, he'd thought, but maybe Inui-senpai and Kaidoh just had a weird relationship like that. Maybe Kaidoh was secretly really into mice. After all, Momo didn't know much about him. He didn't care to learn anything about him either. Kaidoh was his rival and he hated him and he obviously didn't care what he liked or didn't like or whether or not he liked mice.

Mice are stupid, he writes, ignoring the time he'd seen one down between the train tracks at the station by his house and had shrieked like a girl.

Another time at practice, Inui-senpai and Kaidoh had been whispering in a corner and Momo swore he heard his own name. Maybe they were on to him, he'd thought, and stealthily snuck away, using his expert ninja skills. He couldn't let on that he knew about them. Their obvious paranoia just makes them look even more suspicious, he thinks.

And just now, as Momo is walking to class, drawing a particularly awesome doodle on the cover of his notebook of Kaidoh getting buried under a pile of gigantic, rabid mice, he bumps into both Inui-senpai and Kaidoh looking suspicious in the hallway. He quickly hides his data notebook behind his back just as Inui scribbles something down on a piece of paper, folds it up, and passes it to Kaidoh. "My data is never wrong," Inui-senpai says, glasses glinting. Momo looks between the two of them and then at the paper that Kaidoh is now clutching in his hand. Kaidoh looks at Momo and ducks his head. His cheeks turn pink.

Now they're passing love notes right out here in the open, Momo thinks with disgust.

He swipes the note from Kaidoh's desk during lunch but it seems to be completely encoded, or else Inui-senpai has terrible taste in romance. At the top it says, "For Kitten".

What a gross pet name, Momo thinks. Mamushi is a viper and will never be anything but a viper. People don’t get to have more than one nickname. Not to mention thinking about Kaidoh as a kitten makes Momo feel really weird inside. In his inner mind theater, Kaidoh cocks his head to the side and mews at him, eyes big and glossy. Momo shivers. His face feels really warm. The whole situation is obviously giving him a fever. If he doesn't put a stop to it, it will probably spread to the entire tennis team.

*

In order to gather more information, Momo follows Kaidoh on his training schedule after school. He runs behind him not because he can't keep up, because Momo is awesome and could totally beat that snake if he wanted, but because he doesn't want to give himself away. Inui-senpai is there too, and Momo is sure they won't do anything suspicious if they know he's watching, and Momo needs proof that he's right.

But the weird thing is, before Momo can get any data of his own, Inui suddenly makes an excuse to leave and dashes off, mumbling something about needing to buy tea, and Kaidoh stops running.

He stops so quickly that Momo practically plows right into him.

"What the hell," Kaidoh growls, spinning around to face him. His eyes go wide and then his face gets even angrier. "Momoshiro? What the hell?!"

"Oh," Momo replies, trying to be casual. He scratches the back of his head. "You're running here too?"

"I always run here, loser."

"Oh," Momo repeats. "I guess I've never noticed since I'm always so far ahead." Yeah, he's an awesome liar.

Kaidoh hisses, "You wish."

"You spend too much time with Inui-senpai," Momo says, changing the subject. He wonders if this is the right way to bring it up. Does it sound too obvious? He hasn't even mentioned dating.

Kaidoh frowns. "What do you care about who I spend time with? What are you, my mother?"

Momo scrunches up his face in disgust. God, he doesn't want to think about Kaidoh being related to him in any way. Besides, Momo is way too manly to be anyone's mom.

"I just think it might not be good for the team," Momo says with a shrug. Right, exactly. Because that's the only reason he cares about any of this at all. Momo is a good team player. Kaidoh is just a dumbass with a freak for a boyfriend.

Kaidoh's eyes narrow the way they do right before he starts a fight. "How is me training not good for the team?"

"Uh... Well..." Momo scrambles for an answer, but he can't get one out before Kaidoh takes off again, running at double speed this time.

*

Momo finally catches up with him twenty minutes later, where the path opens into a small clearing with some trees and picnic benches. Kaidoh is lying on the grass stretching his quads. Momo sits down next to him and tries to pretend he isn't completely out of breath.

"You should train more," Kaidoh says, sounding impossibly calm even though his forehead and arms are beaded with sweat, "if you want to know what's really good for the team."

Momo presses his elbows into the grass and props himself up into a reclining position. He thinks Kaidoh should really wipe his face with a towel -- it's distracting -- and wonders if he looks just as gross when he's all sweaty. He runs the back of his hand over his forehead and replies, "Only losers need to train as much as you do."

"Play a game with me and I'll show you who the real loser is," Kaidoh replies, but there's no threat to his words. He's too busy doing his stupid stretches. Right now he has his knee up to his chest, his leg in the air, and he looks completely ridiculous, Momo thinks, and so he says it: "You look ridiculous."

"It's called stretching," Kaidoh grinds out. "You should do it too or you'll probably get a muscle cramp."

Momo doesn't want to admit that Kaidoh's probably right. It's been a while since Momo ran that much, that fast. He's in good shape, probably awesome shape, but Kaidoh is like a creepy training machine.

"At least drink some water," Kaidoh continues, passing Momo his bottle.

Momo takes it and is about to drink from it before he catches a glimpse of Kaidoh's mouth, his lips looking full and wet. "I don't want your germs," he says quickly, shifting his gaze to a particularly long blade of grass.

"I don't have any germs," Kaidoh replies tersely, but he's blushing again. He does that a lot lately, Momo thinks. He's sure Inui-senpai could provide the statistics.

"Why do you always train with Inui-senpai?" Momo asks.

Kaidoh shrugs and lets go of his legs, lying down flat on his back. "Well, for one, he's not an asshole like some people." His foot kicks into Momo's calf and it stings more than it should.

"You should train with someone more awesome," Momo says, resting his head back against the ground. The grass tickles the back of his neck.

Kaidoh laughs. "Like who? You? Yeah right. I like Inui-senpai just fine."

Momo grins. "I know you do," he sing-songs. He makes a mental note to put it in his data book.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," Momo replies, still smiling. "Hey, that cloud looks like a pile of french fries!"

"You would say that. Are you always hungry?"

"No, I'm serious!" Momo argues. "Look at it." He leans in and raises his hand to guide Kaidoh's gaze with his finger. Their cheeks are nearly touching. Momo can feel Kaidoh emanating warmth.

"Huh, you might be right," Kaidoh says quietly. He squirms in the grass.

"I'm always right," Momo replies simply.

"You're always an idiot," Kaidoh says, punching Momo in the arm. "You should stretch."

Momo pulls one leg up to his chest and feels it burn. "Okay, you can help me."

Kaidoh's body tenses. "What?"

"Well, you're the expert, right?" Momo delights in the way he can twist Kaidoh's facial expression with a sentence. Right now it's somewhere between horror and disgust.

"Fine," Kaidoh replies, face smoothing out into a mask. He gets up and crouches in front of Momo, lifts Momo's leg, bends it, and pushes it toward Momo's chest. His touch is weirdly tentative, like he's scared of what will happen, like he thinks he'll break Momo if he puts too much pressure.

Momo lets out a breath and loosens his shoulders. "You can push harder, you know," he says, facing pulling into a grin.

Kaidoh jerks back at that, dropping Momo's leg. "You can stretch on your own," he says. "I have to go." He gets up and leaves before Momo can even get out a retort. Maybe there really was something to Kaidoh's training menu. He sure could move fast.

*

The next day, Momo has a leg cramp from all the running and lack of stretching and Inui-senpai keeps sending weird text messages full of animated emoticons. Momo's pretty sure they're to Kaidoh but it's hard to tell from across the clubroom. All he can see are dumb dancing smilies and hearts and each time he hears Inui's phone beep, Momo feels a sting of irritation. Later when he looks through it, while Inui is busy running through possible line-ups with Oishi and Tezuka, all the messages are password-locked and the only recent calls seem to be to Tezuka-buchou and some "Professor" whose number is in Kanagawa. Inui must be on to Momo and is trying to delete the evidence. Either that or Kaidoh's number is encoded too. Momo quickly scrolls through to see if there's anyone listed as "Kitten", but comes up empty-handed. He feels sort of satisfied knowing the nickname didn't stick.

Momo thinks this case might be harder to crack than he thought. He's used to conspiracies and mysteries but most of those involved tennis. He's not sure what to do with ones that don't.

*

After practice, Momo sees Inui-senpai standing by the school gate. He's talking to someone on his phone, and Momo creeps closer to try to hear.

"Come to my house at seven o'clock. I've prepared a special meal and I--" He stops, then pulls the phone away from his ear. "He hung up," he says to himself, but looks more perplexed than angry.

Stupid Mamushi, Momo thinks, he's even rude to the guy he's dating.

Inui turns to leave and Momo waits a moment before coming out from behind the hedge. A second later, he sees Kaidoh emerge from the clubhouse, looking grumpy as usual. Momo wonders why he's looking so pissed off when he has a dinner date. Maybe their relationship is on the rocks. Maybe they'll break up soon and the Seigaku tennis team disaster will have been averted. Momo smiles to himself at the thought.

If they really are going to break up then Momo wants to be there to see it go down. Quietly, with his expertly mastered ninja stealth, and accompanying theme music, he follows Kaidoh but strangely, Kaidoh doesn't seem to be going towards Inui-senpai's house. Instead he just seems to be going home. Momo stops humming his super awesome secret agent theme-song and wonders if Kaidoh's going home to change into a fancy outfit for his date. He tries to imagine Kaidoh getting dressed up, but it just ends up getting distorted into an image of Kaidoh in a dress.

Gross.

*

As Momo nears Kaidoh's house, he realizes that Kaidoh is slowing down. If he isn't careful, he'll run into him again like he did when they were training. Momo takes slower strides and tries to soften his footfalls, but soon Kaidoh stops, right outside the front of his house, and turns around. Momo looks for something to hide behind, but there's nothing but Kaidoh's mailbox.

"Why are you following me?" Kaidoh asks, tone accusatory.

"I'm not," Momo replies, quickly and coolly. "I was just in the neighborhood."

Kaidoh hisses. "You're a terrible liar. I could hear you humming the whole way home."

Shit. Momo doesn't really have a lie for that so he decides to be direct. "I know you're up to something," he says.

Kaidoh blushes. "Who told you?"

"A-ha!" Momo exclaims, raising a triumphant fist. He feels like a super hero calling out a villain. "I knew it!"

Kaidoh toes the ground and adjusts his tennis bag on his shoulder. "I guess you can come inside and see her, then."

"I knew you were--" Momo stops. "Wait... What? Her?"

*

They're in Kaidoh's bedroom, surrounded by several trays of snacks that Kaidoh's mother has brought up for them, and Momo is staring stunned at the kitten in Kaidoh's arms. A kitten that is purring and contentedly chewing on a stuffed mouse toy.

"I found her a couple weeks ago," Kaidoh explains. His face looks weird, Momo thinks, and it takes a moment for him to put his finger on what it is. Then it hits him. Kaidoh doesn't look grumpy, or annoyed, or like he's about to punch someone. In fact, he's kind of smiling. It's so strange, Momo almost wants to pull his phone out and snap a picture of it to save for posterity. Kaidoh Kaoru -- looking happy and normal. Who'd have thought?

"So, what's her name?" Momo asks, reaching out to stroke her head. The cat's eyes flick open and she looks up at Momo and lets out a tiny, high-pitched meow.

Kaidoh's face goes suddenly red. Momo wonders if he's sick. Did Inui make him drink some new juice? Is Kaidoh allergic to cats? That would be appropriately dumb and stubborn of him, Momo thinks, to have a cat allergy and still try to keep one for a pet. "Her name..." Kaidoh starts. "Uh, her name is..."

"Well?" Momo prompts. What's Kaidoh's problem? Did he forget the cat's name? He's a bigger moron than Momo had previously thought.

"Her name is Lemon," Kaidoh says finally, looking down at his feet.

Momo grins. "What a fruity name," he says.

"Says the guy named Momoshiro."

Momo reaches for a cookie and stuffs it into his mouth. "My name is awesome. You only wish your cat could have such a cool name." He sits down on Kaidoh's bed and grabs another handful of snacks.

"You aren't staying," Kaidoh says gruffly. He looks grouchy again, and Momo thinks that balance has been restored to earth.

The cat still looks happy as ever. "Lemon wants me to stay," Momo says, and the cat mews in agreement.

He reaches out to pet her again at the same time Kaidoh does and their fingers brush each other's over the fur. They both pull back. Momo's palms suddenly feel really sweaty and something in his chest constricts with confusion. The kitten looks between them and mews louder.

"I have to go," Momo says, just as Kaidoh says, "Maybe you should leave." His cheeks are pink. The doorknob gives Momo an electric shock on his way out.

*

The next day, Eiji-senpai catches Momo in the lunch line and swings his arm over his shoulders.

"So I heard you met Momo-chan yesterday," he says, grinning.

"Huh?"

Eiji bounces in place. "Kaidoh's kitten! Isn't she cute? Oishi and I had a playdate with her last Saturday."

Momo nearly drops his lunch tray. "He told me her name was Lemon..."

"But-- it's not! He-- OH." Eiji freezes, his eyes going wide. "Whoops..."

"What do you mean, 'whoops'?!" Momo demands.

"Well, gotta run!" Eiji says, patting Momo on the back before dashing off.

*

Momo waits all through practice to confront Kaidoh. He feels like a ball of impatience and annoyance and his tennis is all over the place. He plays Echizen but can't return a single point. He plays Fuji and nearly hits him in the head with a dunk smash. He plays Kaidoh and wants to grab him by the collar and scream in his face.

As soon as everyone else has left the clubroom to go shower, Momo stomps over to Kaidoh. "You stupid lying viper," he says. His palms feel super sweaty again.

"What?"

"You told me your cat’s name was Lemon and it’s not, is it? Eiji-senpai told me the truth."

Kaidoh shoves his fists into the pockets of his jacket. "Um..."

"Why would you name your cat after me when you're dating Inui-senpai?" Momo demands. "Why not name her Creepy Mad Scientist Cat instead?"

Kaidoh's eyes go wide. "I'm not dating Inui-senpai!"

"Sure you are," Momo replies smugly. "I know all your secrets... Inui-senpai's creepy love potion, the note, the mouse, the flowers, all those phone calls and texts, your dinner date last night, the--"

"I like you, you jackass!" Kaidoh interrupts, voice coming out in a high squeak.

Momo freezes. Kaidoh freezes too. A moment of silence falls between them and Kaidoh's gaze darts around the room like he's searching for an escape route.

"Stop lying," Momo says, his voice cracking with uncertainty. "There's no way you--"

Kaidoh doesn't wait for Momo to finish his sentence and grabs Momo's collar, pulling him closer until their lips meet. Momo suddenly feels Kaidoh's mouth, warm and wet against his. There's a hiss of air between his lips and then Momo can feel Kaidoh's tongue and it is immediate and demanding and just like every fight they ever had. It is also terrifying, and Momo doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to lose, so he fights back, pressing his mouth hard against Kaidoh's and forcing his tongue between Kaidoh's lips, into his mouth. It's new but at the same time, not weird, and that makes it scarier than anything. Momo feels light-headed and he tears Kaidoh's hand away from his jacket and leaps back.

"What the hell?" he explodes. "What are you doing?!"

Kaidoh's face looks weird again, but in a different way. Momo's never seen him look this way before.

"I wanted you to understand," Kaidoh says.

Momo rubs his knuckles over his lips. "Understand what? That you're a kissing monster?"

"That I like you," Kaidoh replies, voice low and quiet. His lips look red like a girl's. Momo doesn't know what to do. He wants to fight Kaidoh, because he feels hot and frustrated, but everything has suddenly changed, and isn't sure what fighting Kaidoh means now.

"I thought you liked me too," Kaidoh adds. "I mean, you did follow me around for a week..."

Momo grabs Kaidoh by the collar and pushes him back up against the locker. "I wasn't following you! I don't like--" he starts to argue, but stops when he's aware of how close they are now.

"You kissed me back," Kaidoh says plainly. Momo can feel Kaidoh's breath against his face when he speaks, and he can see Kaidoh's tongue through his parted lips.

"No I didn't," Momo retorts.

"You didn't..." Kaidoh repeats, voice incredulous.

"That's right," Momo says firmly.

"Then what was the part where your tongue was--" The corner of Kaidoh's mouth quirks up and Momo wants to punch him, wants to shut him up. Fuck it, he thinks, feeling stupid and brave at the same time as he leans forward and presses his mouth against Kaidoh's.

"Mmmf," says Kaidoh, which Momo takes as him admitting defeat. He pushes against Kaidoh until he can feel all of him, and it sends electric shocks through his arms and legs and other places too. Kaidoh's kissing is addictive, and Momo wonders if he's any good at it himself, wants to be just as good or better, but somehow this doesn't seem like the kind of fight where there's only one winner.

Momo pulls Kaidoh off the locker and against him and just as Kaidoh lets out a long, low growl, Momo trips over a racket and they both crash backwards over a basket of a tennis balls.

It doesn't do much to discourage them though, because soon Kaidoh is on top of Momo, kissing him again, hands trying to pull his shirt off and it feels amazing and--

--suddenly Momo hears the door open. They both pull away and freeze. Momo sees Echizen standing in the doorway, looking confused.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"We were just... uh... fighting," Momo says, and thinks it isn't entirely a lie.

"Fighting?" Echizen asks. His eyes flick to Momo's shirt which is pulled halfway up his chest.

"Yes," Kaidoh replies.

"In a manly way," Momo adds.

"Your lips are really red," Echizen says. Momo thinks he sees him smirking.

*

Kaidoh acts really weird the next day, which is annoying because Momo kind of just wants to make out with him again, an impulse Momo doesn't even want to begin to analyze, an impulse he didn't even know he had before yesterday. It's probably normal, right? Maybe fights just naturally escalate to kissing. Maybe all rivals do it. But whatever the explanation, Momo isn't getting anywhere with Kaidoh because he is being weird. He doesn't try to fight with Momo during lunch hour, or before practice, and during practice he volunteers to play against Horio of all people the second Momo so much as glances at him. It's like he's trying to pretend the whole thing never happened. Momo grumbles as he zips up his jacket. Stupid snake. He was the one who started it and now Momo's the one stuck with all the feelings.

*

Momo wears a mask to school the next day to keep Kaidoh from kissing him, because, fine then, if Kaidoh wants to be a jerk about it and not even care or acknowledge that it happened then Momo will just not care either. He won't lose to Kaidoh at not caring.

"Dumbass," Kaidoh says, when he passes Momo in the hallway.

Momo smirks back at him from under his mask. Sure took him long enough to notice. "I’m not the one who goes around forcing himself on dudes."

"Say that again, asshole..."

"I said--"

"Shut up," Kaidoh replies, storming off.

*

Momo is unable to sleep that night. He wonders if maybe he's actually coming down with something. His palms were sweaty all day and he couldn't concentrate on anything but Kaidoh. He doesn't care, of course. He was perfectly awesome before Kaidoh kissed him so why can't he just continue to be perfectly awesome now that it happened.

Momo isn't sure why, but all he can think about is whether or not it will happen again.

Around 10:30, he's had enough with the frustration and calls Kaidoh up and demands that he meet him at the burger place near his house.

"Fsshuuu," is Kaidoh's reply, but he doesn't say he won't come.

"You owe me. You know why," Momo says before hanging up, with a tone to tell Kaidoh that what he wants isn't a burger. Well, that's not true. Momo could really go for a burger right now too. He didn't eat a second helping for dinner because he was too preoccupied with how Kaidoh hadn't picked a fight with him at all in two days. His stomach growls and it reminds him of how Kaidoh had growled at him in the locker room. He swipes his tongue over his lips but that just reminds him of Kaidoh too.

He'd better meet him tonight, Momo thinks.

*

The burger place is practically deserted, so Momo doesn't need to worry about people seeing them together, but he grabs a booth in the back corner all the same, just in case Kaidoh is feeling like kissing, because Momo sure is. But he still totally isn't caring, and doesn't want to have to be the one to make the first move, so just to articulate the point, when Kaidoh leans in, Momo stuffs a hamburger into his mouth to keep Kaidoh from kissing him.

He wasn't going to, as it turns out, he was just reaching for a napkin.

"That's disgusting," Kaidoh says, as Momo tries to chew through an entire burger.

"You're disgusting," Momo grinds out, words muffled from the bun and meat. "Kissing freak."

Kaidoh pulls a face. "Like I even want to right now."

"You don't?" Momo raises an eyebrow.

Kaidoh blushes and Momo feels smug. "Your breath smells like hamburger," Kaidoh says.

Momo finally swallows the burger. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he replies. "You said you liked me. Doesn't that mean you even like my breath?" Momo breathes out audibly to demonstrate.

"You're gross," Kaidoh says. He kicks Momo's foot under the table.

"Your cat is named after me," Momo replies, holding in the urge to grin.

"Asshole." Kaidoh is blushing fiercely now. His mouth pulls apart as he lets out a soft hiss, with no malice or bite behind it. His lips are glossy and red and look so soft. Momo wonders what would happen if he just leaned across the table and kissed him...

"Is there something on my face?" Kaidoh asks, looking horrified. It takes Momo a moment to realize that he's been staring at Kaidoh's mouth for who knows how long now. Shit. Kaidoh's going to think he's a pervert.

"No, I just..." Momo trails off and waves his arm around in the air.

Kaidoh covers his mouth instinctively.

"No! I--" Momo starts, feeling defensive.

"I'm leaving," Kaidoh says, and he does.

*

The next day, they go for burgers again on the way home from school. Momo isn't even sure how it happens. Neither one suggests it, but they're both not so subtly trying to edge into each other's personal space, while blatantly avoiding talking about it. The whole way there, Kaidoh keeps bumping into Momo and it seems to be on purpose, or else he really is just that clumsy.

Momo is midway through his third burger, which Kaidoh paid for, when he realizes he's been completely slacking off on his data. He'd been so distracted what with the kissing and all. "Wait, so Inui-senpai…?" he starts.

"--has been calling Tezuka-buchou," Kaidoh finishes flatly, as though everyone knew this but Momo.

"You're not dating him?" Momo asks to clarify.

"I already said I wasn't!" Kaidoh shouts defensively. "He's Inui-senpai! Why would I date him!"

"You're dating me…" Momo says slowly, feeling proud at the realization.

Kaidoh hisses. "This isn't a date."

"You bought me a burger," Momo points out. Kaidoh hangs his head, but Momo can see his face turning red. Momo wants to kiss him again, but the restaurant is crowded today and Momo can see other kids with Seigaku uniforms sitting just a few tables away and the last thing he wants is for everyone in school to know that he's going around kissing Kaidoh fucking Kaoru. He wants it to just be him and Kaidoh so Kaidoh will stop being so scared and weird and he can shove Kaidoh up against the wall and smash their lips together. He isn't sure when his body became such a hormonal monster but it's probably Kaidoh's fault.

"I was so sure Inui-senpai had a crush on you," Momo says through bites of french fry. "I mean, all those weird gifts and notes...."

Kaidoh rolls his eyes at him. "They were about my cat, idiot. Inui-senpai doesn't have a crush on me."

"How do you know?"

"Because he likes Tezuka-buchou. And I would punch him if he did."

"You aren't punching me."

"Do you want me to?" Kaidoh balls his hand into a fist. Momo has to admit he kind of does. Does that make him even more of a freak?

"No, just. Well, we do a lot of stuff together, right?" Momo starts. "Like doubles and..."

"Where is this going?" Kaidoh asks skeptically.

"I mean it would only make sense for us to date," Momo mumbles quickly into his hand. Instead he blurts loudly, "We saved a puppy together!!"

"So, what? Now we should get married or something?" Kaidoh bites back. Momo can feel himself blushing.

"No! What? No! Not yet! I mean, not ever!"

"Now who likes who?" Kaidoh says with a smirk.

"I don't like you, asshole," Momo says, as his fingers reach for Kaidoh's hand under the table.

*

The next day at school, Momo makes every excuse he can to touch Kaidoh more than usual. He's frustrated. They've been for burgers twice, which surely counts for something, but each time Kaidoh came up with some reason to leave without any kissing or even any fighting, or any, well, anything.

"You two seem different," Fuji says, eyes twinkling, as Momo and Kaidoh pass each other, changing courts during a practice game, deliberately looking anywhere but at each other's mouths.

Is it that obvious? Momo wonders. He feels the same as before. Kaidoh still gets him heated when they're playing, when they're doing anything, but now instead of wanting to punch him, he just wants to put his mouth all over his skin. He almost does do that, right in the middle of the game too. Kaidoh has just taken the match point and Momo leaps over the net and grabs him by the collar, pulling and pulling him until his face is just inches away. And then Momo realizes that everyone is watching him, and, What has gotten into him? Does Inui-senpai's love potion actually work and was it slipped into his water bottle by accident?

*

Momo just can't take it anymore, so after practice is finished he follows Kaidoh home. Actually, he tries to walk home with Kaidoh, but Kaidoh's running like he does when he's training, like he doesn't want to be caught, and Momo has to hurry to keep up.

"Why are you following me?" Kaidoh snaps when they reach a stoplight. "That thing that happened... isn't going to happen again, you know."

"Su~ure it isn't," Momo replies smugly, and he can see in the way that Kaidoh's expression changes that he's right. "I'm just going to see my good friend Momo-chan."

Kaidoh shoves him into a fence. "You can't come to my house."

Momo smirks and grabs Kaidoh's collar. "Why not?"

"Because we aren't friends."

"But I got a present for you!" Momo says, suddenly remembering.

Kaidoh's eyes narrow. "What kind of present?"

"Like as a thank you for the burger yesterday." Momo reaches into his bag and pulls something out.

"What is this supposed to be?" Kaidoh turns it over and looks at it suspiciously.

"It's a bandanna. You know, like you always wear. Only this one has cooler colors." It is covered in red and blue rocket ships. Really cool, manly rocket ships. Not lame, kiddie ones. Obviously.

Kaidoh's mouth twists. "Didn't you just use this to wrap your lunch earlier?"

"No…" Momo lies. "What are you talking about? I got it at the bandanna store."

"There is no bandanna store," Kaidoh says flatly, and his fingers twist into the zipper of Momo's jacket.

"How would you know?" Momo replies, pulling on Kaidoh's shirt.

Kaidoh hisses. "You are such a dumbass."

"So you're not going to wear it?" Momo runs a finger down the side of Kaidoh's neck. He feels Kaidoh's pulse leaping under it.

Kaidoh shakes the cloth. "It still has food on it," he says, arching his hips up into the curve of Momo's body.

Momo lets out a sigh. "You could wash it," he says quietly.

"Don't give someone a dirty present!!" Kaidoh growls, pulling Momo closer.

"Well, fine then," Momo says dramatically, starting to pull away. "If you don't want it, I'll just take it back."

Kaidoh growls. "No, I want it," he says, and then blushes at how the words sound coming out.

"Well, then. I have something else for you, too," Momo says, and moves closer again, kissing Kaidoh on the mouth, putting all of his impatience and frustration into it, his lips and tongue both urgent and needy. Kaidoh's shirt rides up as Momo pins him against the fence, and Momo tries to tug on the hem to pull him closer but grabs bare skin instead and the touch sends shockwaves through his fingertips.

"Sure took you long enough," Kaidoh breathes when they pull apart. "You are such a moron."

"Yeah, well you were such an asshole, always running away," Momo replies, volleying the insult back. "I really--" he says, breathing heavily. "I really hate you sometimes."

"No, you don't," Kaidoh replies, and pulls Momo back for another kiss.

No, I don't, Momo concedes. He can't even hide the smile spreading across his face. Don't at all.

Matched Set [HP ; Fred/George]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 23:08:43 GMT

Title: Matched Set
Pairing: Fred/George, sorta.
Rating: PG
Summary: Tragedy starts where laughter ends.
Word Count: 274
A/N: for fivil, to make up for the pumpkin seeds. (un-betaed again)

~~~

When George laughs – when he laughs – Fred thinks there is something of himself in that sound. Their voices are similar, not identical, as one might expect, but similar, yes. They can still speak in perfect unison if they try.

The twins haven’t spent a night apart from each other in ages, and, now, with the war raging all around them – threatening to swallow them both whole – they aren’t sure they would know how to cope on their own. They’re a matched set – matching clothes, hair, eyes…

George smiles now, fingering the darkness, the air above the bed they share when the night is too cold for them to sleep separately. (It’s summer and, while it is unspoken, they both know the night is still too cold.)

Their arms – freckled and bending with shared joints and muscles – wrap around each other in the way they must have once when they were younger, and Molly Weasley was still alive to mix them up, call them by the wrong names. No one confuses them now, because Fred has dark shades of purple and grey under his eyes from Auror training, and George looks more serious than he used to, and laughs only for Fred, because even laughter is rationed now.

In private, when it is just the two of them – or the one, the twins, together, a singular – they can smile. They understand each other enough to know that smiling isn’t the same as losing, that they don’t have to retain hardened shells with each other, that they are allowed to laugh.

They’re a matched set – matching clothes, hair, eyes… matching laughs, when they let themselves laugh.

~~~

Louder, Louder (i'll be right beside you) [HP ; Fred, George]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 23:07:19 GMT

Title: Louder, Louder (i'll be right beside you)
Author: happiestwhen
Topic: Insanity, Mental Illness
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Fred, George
Summary: George is hit with a curse that is slowly destroying his mind. Fred is despondent.
Word Count: 2482
Notes: written for Session One of wizard_trauma for the Character Specific prompt W. This story is one of the few that really hurt my heart to write but I am pleased with the way it turned out. Thank you to bloodybrilliant and stephanometra for help with early revisions and fact-checking; to platoapproved for the encouragement; to noticeably, starrysummer and waxrose for the beta-reading; to sunblossoms for the final once-over; and to fivil for just being who she is. ♥ The title is from the lyrics to "Run" by Snow Patrol.

Comments and feedback of any kind are always appreciated.

:::

one.

It starts with laughter.

I punch him in the arm but he won't stop, and soon I'm doubled over and chuckling right along with him. My sides hurt and I forget what was so funny to begin with. George's laughter is contagious. Mum says that like it's something bad, like a disease. She should laugh more. Then she'd see.

We're out of the Burrow now, in our own flat. Away. Gone.

We need laughter. That isn't a bad thing, can't be. It's something to fill in the silence when we forget the words. We. It's together because we can't function apart. The words don't sound the same when it's just one of us speaking. The laughter doesn't either.

We play Exploding Snap until our arms are sore from tossing cards and our faces are smoky with ash. We're both grinning, teeth white and eyes bright. Tossers, Charlie would say. And we'd nod and reply, altogether too seriously, Who else were you expecting?

When he smiles, I smile, and his sentences are mine. I always know what he's thinking, anticipate his words, fill in the missing syllables. I can read the secrets in his eyes and sometimes we don't even need to speak.

Laughing is best when you're not alone. It's fuller that way. Better.

two.

We learn together, too. All of our creations are ours, shared. We work together because the pieces just don't fit when I'm on my own.

The Shield Boots began selling immediately, and the order with the Ministry was our largest yet. George and I celebrated with a lavish dinner in our flat, music weaving its way through the air and into the walls, so loud and pounding we were sure that they'd send Aurors after us. (There was enough leftover food for them, too, of course, should they care to drop by.)

We scattered dungbombs on the steps to our neighbor's flat and even tried out some of our new creations — powder that would spring up from the pavement and cover the face of whomever passed by with speckles and stripes; rocks that exploded and played music... it was brilliant. A great night. A silly, stupid romp through immaturity, but great, yes.

I remember being happy that night. I remember laughing like a loon and looking in the mirror and seeing myself, arm slung around my brother's shoulder. We were indistinguishable, twin smiles and eyes sparkling with alcohol and happiness.

He'd make the delivery to the Ministry's drop-off point the next morning. I remember him sleeping at my side, nose buried in his pillow. I remember looking at him, shock of red hair against the white pillowcase and sheets. I remember looking at George. I remember seeing him when he was still full and complete.

three.

It rains the night it happens and the sky is grey. The Mediwizards step aside when I walk into the room, and George is there in the bed. His eyes are closed, but he's breathing. He has to be. I would feel it if he wasn't.

He was careless, I think. He was unarmed, and foolish, and probably skipping and whistling and being an arse as usual.

The Mediwizards tell me that George didn't even know the name of the spell that was cast. He fainted when they asked him to recount what had happened. George doesn't faint. I don't either. We don't. But now we do. No, he does. Now there's something between us and I can't feel George's thoughts like before. I can't think his thoughts and he isn't speaking any sentences for me to finish.

I feel nauseous as I leave the room and wait out in the hall for Mum and Dad. Something is very wrong.

four.

The Mediwizards don't know what to do. I hear them murmur things in low whispers when they think I'm not listening. No cure, they say. Terminal. I don't know what to make of it, because George's eyes are open now and he's grinning like he just stared death in the face and made it through without a scratch. Everything seems fine, but there's a hollowness in George's eyes that wasn't there before.

He doesn't look sick, though, so I don't understand why the Mediwizards are keeping him.

Insanity, I hear one of them whisper to another, a nudge of a shoulder and a nod of the head.

Oh.

five.

There must be something I can do. There is a solution to every problem. I invent. I am an inventor. I create and redefine and recreate and remake and fix. It's what I do. We. What we do. The Wheezes has always been about circumventing the rules, finding a shortcut, a better way of doing things.

That's all I need. An invention. A perfect fix. George would laugh if he heard me thinking about this in such a logical way. All of our inventions have started on impulse. Spontaneity. That's what I need.

But I don't. I can't. There isn't a joke or prank or creatively titled charm that will fix what's happened. And even if there was, I wouldn't be able to find it soon enough, and I wouldn't be able to make it without George. I just don't work the same on my own. Peas in a pod, Mum used to say. She was right.

six.

Names are the first things to go. It starts with Harry, and Ron. Percy is just a wisp, and George can only remember him on rainy days. He knows my name still, so I cling to the hope that things will be okay again. He knows Mum and Dad, but sometimes he forgets that he is George. George Weasley. That this is St. Mungo's. That we are in London.

I hate to see him struggle because we're no longer on a level field. Every year spent learning together is fading fast, but he's still George. He is still my brother even when he looks up blankly when Charlie or Bill comes through the floo.

Soon all the names are gone. Soon we're all just faceless blurs before his eyes and I want to shake him and snap him out of it.

I want to, but I can't.

seven.

Some days, George isn't George. He begins to think he's someone else. Some days it's simple, easy to write off and ignore. Some days he calls himself Fred, and I would smile if it weren't so painful to see him like that, looking in the mirror and seeing me, my face, my eyes there. It would have been a brilliant prank to pull on Mum if it weren't real. He would have played it so convincingly. He does. He doesn't see himself anymore. But I do.

Some days, he even thinks he's a girl. Ginny, the youngest Weasley daughter. He complains about how his hair is too short, about his clothes being too loose. I want to laugh, because it's hilarious, or should be, but laughter isn't allowed anymore. Everyone looks solemn and worried and the Mediwizards come and go and even though they've allowed George to return to the Burrow, it doesn't feel like home. This is a hospital in disguise, and they call my brother 'the patient' like he's something wrong and inhuman.

Some days, George is just not George. And some days, he is too tired to think to be anyone else. Those days are the worst, because he looks like he's wearing a mask that he doesn't really believe belongs to him.

Those days, I ignore him and spend the afternoon outside kicking garden gnomes and trying to think of other things. There are no other things anymore, though. The shop is closed and there's nothing left to focus on. Nothing left that matters.

eight.

Some days, he is Harry. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The Mediwizards can't explain it, how he remembers so much sometimes, and at other times, nothing. He is Harry Potter, and he will defeat Voldemort with a single curse, and sometimes it's that unrecognizable magic that damaged his own mind, and sometimes it's just a string of nonsense syllables. George doesn't know magic anymore, at least, no magic that would be any use to him.

He speaks with such conviction that I'd almost believe him. He tells me of secrets and solutions and victory hidden amidst the peaks of the Alps or the Himalayas. He has no idea what he's saying, but he's nearly fanatical, so I nod, and smile, and hope that the next morning, he will have forgotten it all again.

I don't care now if Voldemort lives or dies. Harry and Hermione and Ron have been gone for some time now, and we haven't heard news yet. I hope they're well. I know Harry will succeed. I hope. But I don't care, because even if we win, George will still wake up screaming and crying and tearing at the sheets and calling out for people who are not there. Who never existed.

nine.

Some days, George is just sad. I stare at him across the kitchen table as he traces circles in his porridge with his fingertip and wonder what's in his head now. Who. Where. I wonder if he knows I'm sitting there, right in front of him. I wonder if he's scared. I wonder if he knows he's still my brother. That I love him. That it will be okay. (That it won't.)

ten.

There are days when I have to stop him from killing himself. I find him in the kitchen, tearing through the cupboards and drawers in search of knives. I don't let him do magic anymore, because he's unstable, and any spell he casts could kill him. I broke his wand in half and hid it from reach. He asks about it sometimes, on days when he remembers he's a wizard. It doesn't help when I try to explain. He just gets angry, and slams the door in my face or bangs his fists on the wall, hating me for taking his magic away.

He's six years old again and throwing a tantrum because Mum took our pack of Exploding Snap cards away. This time, though, there wasn't anything to take away. It was already gone.

He's not six years old. He's nineteen and he doesn't even know it. He's nineteen and he wants to end it all right this second. But I won't let him. He's hurting too much. More than anyone his age should, and I want to kick him into next week and tell him what an arse he's being, but he just doesn't understand. There are shadows under his eyes that match the shadows in his mind that I do not understand. I wish he'd explain it all so that I could finish his sentences again.

eleven.

I hate the look of terror on my brother's face. On my face. My twin's. Mine. He is helpless and so am I. There's nothing left for us to do here. Terminal. No cure. Everything the Mediwizards said is true. It's over. Accept it, their eyes seem to say, each time they leave the house. There's an almost-sympathy in their expressions, and I hate it because they can't understand. They don't see what I do. To them, George is just another failed case to mark down and file away. There isn't anything more they can do, they say. They've given up and think we should too. I won't, though. I keep trying, looking for an answer. It's there somewhere. Has to be.

George is silent these days, and it hurts, because this house feels empty when no one's speaking. There are nights when I yell at my reflection in the bathroom mirror just because it feels like George is there yelling back.

Sometimes he responds, though. Sometimes he looks up with a flash of recognition in his eyes. That's when it hurts the most, because I know he's only seeing because he thinks it will make me smile. And I try to. I do.

Sometimes I call him George and he turns and grins and says, Yes, Fred, but he doesn't know who Fred is anymore. His voice is automatic, the sentence mechanical.

The tone is the same, and it's still George's lips pulling into the grin. It's George there even when it's not, and I hate that I can't distinguish between what's now and what was. I hate that I get wrapped up in the possibility of hope, because when I go to clap George on the back and make a joke, it all breaks and I realize I'm just touching empty space. It's still George there, but it isn't. It never will be again.

twelve.

Sometimes it's like he's heard me, like he understands. His voice bubbles into laughter, but it's not real. He sounds hysterical, and nothing is funny.

He is not George anymore, won't answer to that name, not even by mistake or to pretend. He is still my twin, though, my mirror, and I hold his hand when he grapples for faces and people who are not there.

I repeat my name over and over and he keeps laughing.

So this is the end of it, then. This is what we are reduced to. I cling to the light that I still believe is there and he reaches for me like I am a shadow.

The muscles in his back cord under my hands and I feel my own shoulders tense and release. If I could just keep him steady, keep myself upright, it would be okay. But we've both fallen now and there isn't a way to fix this. So we slump to the floor and sit like that.

He's still laughing.

It is then I understand that he will never be the George I remember. He will never be the brother I started Hogwarts with, the brother who was sorted with me and slept in the bed to my right for seven years. He will never be the brother who invented Canary Creams (though we shared the credit), or the brother I kissed by accident after our Daydream Charm prototype went awry. He will never again be the brother I joked with and smiled with and lived with and— and—

I understand, but I do not accept. His freckles are still in all the right places, and his hair is just as much a mess as mine is. When he laughs, it sounds the same.

Time works in strange ways. Horrible ways. Terrible ways. As long as I hold onto George, things will be okay. Different, but okay.

He is shaking in my arms. He hasn't stopped laughing yet. He looks at me and says, quietly, You're a really good friend, you know that. He doesn't even look like he recognizes me. But he's smiling, and he's laughing.

So I laugh, too.

:::

Thirty Minutes [HP ; Harry/Ron]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 22:56:11 GMT

Title: Thirty Minutes
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: PG
Word Count: 200
A/N: written for incroyable who wanted Harry/Ron with sheets, sunshine, quiet, laughter, and hair.

6:30

Sunshine filters in through the pale, thin curtains, illuminating the room in a warm glow. (The bed is warm, even without blankets.)

6:31

Harry rolls over, his dark hair fanning out in odd angles against the white pillowcase.

6:32

The sheets are soft and tangle between their feet as their toes curl and extend and their legs cross and overlap (and sometimes touch the bedposts).

6:35

Harry’s hands are a smooth canvas of olive against the map of freckles that is Ron’s chest.

6:39

They lie still for a full minute and just look at each other, Harry’s fingers in Ron’s hair and Ron’s heart drowning in the green of Harry’s eyes – like it belongs there.

6:42

Ron’s mouth is warm and wet when Harry kisses it, and Ron tastes like morning and smiles and laughter.

6:50

Harry lies back against the mess of bed sheets as Ron climbs on top of him, Ron’s parted lips finding the skin of Harry’s neck, pressing smooth indentations of Ron, from Harry’s adam’s apple to his collarbone.

6:51

(The mattress dips under their weight.)

6:58

Ron whispers against the shell of Harry’s ear, his voice hoarse with sleep.

7:00

“I love you.”

Minutes [HP ; Harry/Ron]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 22:54:25 GMT

Title: Minutes
Pairing: Harry/Ron, if you want it to be
Rating: insanely G
Summary: “Harry lay looking up at the canvas, but no flying fantasies came to him now to ease him to sleep, and it was a long time after Charlie's snores filled the tent that Harry finally dozed off.”- Chapter Nine, Goblet of Fire
Word Count: 575
A/N: For cerintha, although if you look at the rating, this is clearly not smut. More just atmospheric ramblings. Heh.

*~*~*

Harry can hear Ron’s breathing in the bunk above him. The boy’s exhalations come in nervous sounding flutters, a constant, yet shallow, rhythm of in and out. Then the sound hitches, and Harry watches the mattress dip as Ron rolls over. It is loose in the bed frame, squeaking under the boy’s weight as he shifts; Harry can hear the sound of head sinking into pillow, of feet tangling together with blanket.

Ron’s breaths were coming unevenly now.

He is awake, Harry thinks, without really needing to think it.

Harry sits up on the bed, eyes looking up at the blue and white striped ceiling of the mattress above him. It is old, underside dirty from years of use, but it is familiar and comfortable and, Harry thinks, who cares what the mattress looks like when it’s dark and you’re just trying to get some sleep?

Harry kicks away his sheets, nudging them down to the end of his bed with his bare feet. The sheets are so soft now from overuse; the material feels like Harry supposes sea-glass must feel after ages of being sanded away by water – Harry has never been to the ocean though; He wouldn’t know what sea-glass feels like against the pads of his fingertips.

“Ron?” It comes out as a harsh, half-urgent whisper.

There is movement in the top bunk and the mattress sighs audibly under Ron’s weight. Seconds later, Ron is leaning over the edge of his bed, looking at Harry with a tired grin. His hair hangs down messily, almost in his eyes, which are sparkling now, if slightly perplexed.

When Ron speaks, his voice sounds dusty, unused, and somehow far away. “All right there, Harry?”

“All right,” Harry repeats, and Ron looks at him quizzically before climbing down off his bed to join Harry on the lower bunk. He curls his knees into his chest and sits at the far end of the bed, back pressed against the post behind him, eyes worried now.

“You’re okay?” He asks again, voice having regained its full quality.

Harry smiles weakly. He is all right, and okay, and perfectly fine. Just rattled. That’s it, he tells himself, and leans back against the pillow.

There is a rustling at his feet and then higher until the mattress sinks and Harry feels Ron there next to him, propping himself up on his elbow and giving Harry a lop-sided smile.

“Yeah,” Harry says. Their eyes meet and Ron nods before bringing a tentative hand to rest on Harry’s chest. Harry is wearing a forest green sweater, one of the ones from Mrs. Weasley, and it is embroidered with a brilliant “H” on the front. The wool is rough under Ron’s palm, rough against Harry’s chest, too, but Ron’s fingers are long and calloused and feel familiar, just there.

The early morning light is streaming in now from the holes in the tent sides, holes that no one has bothered to patch. Harry decides he likes them; they give the air inside an ethereal quality, the low light filtering in and giving the illusion of glittering snow. But it can’t be snow because it’s summer, and it’s warm.

Ron traces the “H” on Harry’s sweater, his eyes heavily-lidded and breath coming strange and nervous. He places his hand over that letter, and for a moment the label disappears.

For a moment, they are just two boys alone in the dark and there are no expectations.

*~*~*

Linger [HP ; Harry/Ron/Severus, Neville]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 22:53:26 GMT

Title: Linger
Pairing: Harry/Ron/Severus, Neville (wtf, brain, wtf)
Rating: NC-17, I guess
Summary: One of 1001 Ways Harry and Ron Scarred Neville for Life, a True Tale That Could Possibly Involve Severus Snape or Draco Malfoy.
Word Count: 679
A/N: for xylodemon's fic requesting spree. I think that Neville ended up enjoying this more than the prompt suggested he should. :\

~~~

“Detention!” It’s an exclamation that, for Neville Longbottom, has become all too familiar, but this time, the word isn’t directed at him. He looks across the room to where Harry and Ron have knocked over their cauldron, the contents sizzling dully and seeping between the cracks in the stone floor. His gaze shifts to Professor Snape, who is glowering at them both with a coolly triumphant smirk on his face, as if to say ’finally’. Ron sighs and Harry looks unfazed, but he shoves his hands into the pockets of his robes dejectedly and nods when Severus adds, “8pm. Don’t be late.”

As the students file out of the classroom, Neville swears he sees Professor Snape wink at Harry, and he tells himself a second later that he must have inhaled some of the fumes from his potion, and is experiencing hallucinations.

~~~

Neville isn’t sure how he managed to leave his Potions textbook in the classroom for the sixth night in a row, but, well, there it is. He trudges down the stares to the dungeon, fully expecting Professor Snape to be livid when he pushes the door open, and if he were witty, Neville could probably even come up with an insult or two that the Potions Master would throw at him.

As he pushes the door open this time, words fail him, and he just stands for a moment in the doorway, trying to absorb the bombardment of color, peach and yellow and pink and freckles, more freckles than Neville has ever had the desire to see. They’re all over Ron’s legs and back and he is on his knees, his wildly red hair knotted with Professor Snape’s fingertips. Harry is perched on the edge of Snape’s desk, looking casual and sated, and his fingers are drawing small circles around the head of his cock, and Neville can’t do anything but gulp, trying to swallow the meek little sound that is edging its way through the space between his two front teeth.

He can see his potions textbook sitting precariously on the edge of his desk, and it’s just a few meters away. But if he moves, they’ll look up, they’ll see him, and they’ll know. He isn’t sure why that makes him feel so guilty; after all, they’re the ones who are doing this. He shifts his weight from left to right, trying not to notice the way his trousers seem to be impossibly tighter, and ignoring the beads of sweat on his forehead, on Harry’s forehead, which is slick and glistening like his cock.

Neville can’t see Ron’s face, because it is bent and turned away from him and Ron’s mouth is full of Professor Snape’s cock and Snape is making a face that Neville wishes he could erase from his memory because god, that’s his Professor, and please no, no, make it stop now, please.

Neville stays quiet, and hopes he isn’t breathing too loudly, but then he forgets that concern because surely their gasps are louder than his breaths and really he shouldn’t worry about it. But he can’t help but worry, and his eyes keep picking up the textbook with their gaze, but he isn’t close enough, and he should just leave it, and accept the consequence when he doesn’t have his homework completed the next morning.

He could always borrow Seamus’ book, or Dean’s. Surely they wouldn’t mind.

But Neville knows he isn’t going to do that, though he isn’t sure why because it would be the logical course of action, and then he wouldn’t have to stand here for another moment, watching Professor Snape’s tapering fingers clench around Ron’s neck, dragging him down again. He could leave now and no one would be the wiser.

Neville’s feet are stuck firmly in place, and the textbook on his desk has become a blur in his peripheral vision.

If they don’t see him, if they don’t notice him there, he could just slip out quickly.

(If they don’t see him, he could just stay and watch a while longer.)

~~~

Tastes Like Chicken [HP ; Albus/Fawkes]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 22:51:07 GMT

Title: Tastes Like Chicken
Pairing: Dumbledore/Fawkes
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1009
Warnings: bestiality, implied necrophilia and food smut
Summary: Dumbledore. Fawkes. Smut. (This is just me exploring another possible kink, of course!)
A/N: Written for the sole purpose of scaring the new flist stowaways (when you people told me not to scare them, how could I resist rebelling a little?). Oh, and for shaychana because she helped me develop this hottt® idea, and noticeably because she’s just as strange as me. Oh, and if you take this fic seriously… your loss.

*~*~*

Albus was the sort of person who was considered wise by an overwhelming majority of the wizarding community. It was simply irrefutable fact that he had lived long and learned much. However, it was also becoming fact that there was something slightly off-kilter with the man. To put it simply, the man was crazy.

But most people didn’t really know just how crazy.

The Hogwarts Headmaster had always had an affinity for birds, especially the phoenix. Any of the other faculty members would tell you that he loved Fawkes, respected the animal and, according to several professors, had a rather unhealthy relationship with the bird.

---

It all began on the day when the door to Dumbledore’s office was sealed shut. The usual password didn’t work and Professor Flitwick, paranoid that he was, immediately suspected Dark magic and traced the perimeter in search of clues as to what charm might have been cast.

Severus Snape was far more cynical about it, suggesting in a sardonic tone that perhaps the headmaster just wanted to be alone with his bird, the innuendo slicing through his words like knives. He’d smirked and sauntered back to the Potions dungeons, leaving the other professors staring after him with expressions that ranged from disapproving to appalled.

But Snape had been correct in his assumption. For, at that very moment, Albus Dumbledore was sitting in a plush chair in his office, being serviced by the beak of a very obliging bird.

“Mmm…” he murmured, eyes twinkling as they blinked open and closed behind his half-moon glasses.

The bird nudged him gently, the beak surprisingly less sharp than would be expected, but still harder than any fingertips would have been. But it was Fawkes, and that made it alright in Albus’ mind and it felt relaxing more than anything.

Most people would be surprised that a man his age would still be able to get it up after so many years, and it was true that in most cases, he couldn’t. But there was something about the touch of that cool beak around him and the clucking noise of the sliver of tongue that always managed to do it for him.

Albus Dumbledore was just a kinky bastard. Snape had known this as he traipsed back to his room with a smug glower. He’d known ever since that day in his second year when the headmaster had invited him in for a chat in his office and, well, being the private man that he was, Snape didn’t like to go into detail. Suffice to say, he had very reliable evidence as to just how perverted the old wizard could be.

Dumbledore had begun to ‘experiment’ with Fawkes several years back. It started with just petting, but had since progressed to wildly extravagant things including having Fawkes give him a rimjob, which he liked, to shoving the bird’s claws up his arse, which he didn’t; Those talons were mighty sharp, he later discovered, avoiding Madame Pomfrey’s skeptical gaze when he went to her for treatment for the subsequent inflammation.

But there was one thing the headmaster had yet to try. It was Burning Day, and after what Snape had said in that all-too cocky tone, McGonagall had suggested that perhaps this was the reason Dumbledore’s office was locked. Perhaps he simply needed some time with the bird as it underwent its habitual transformation from ashes to rebirth.

Minerva would have been surprised to find just how correct she was in this assumption.

Dumbledore had managed to slip out of his flowing robes and was now poised over his desk, coaxing Fawkes on with the tone of voice of a jolly grandfather.

The bird thrust in, gagging loudly but undeterred – it knew its place.

Dumbledore moaned in a whistle tone, his beard shuddering over the wood of the desk.

But only seconds later, there was a heat, a heat that was foreign and could only mean one thing.

A string of obscenities shot from the headmaster’s mouth as he realized that his beloved bird had gone up in flames earlier than expected, and now his arse was very much on fire. And despite the fact that Albus was quite the kinky bastard, even he had his limits. And this was just not on.

His shrieks permeated down through the spiraling staircase and came muffled upon the ears of the professors who were still waiting with worried looks outside the entrance of his office.

“I told you!” Flitwick screeched triumphantly, “This is the work of some dark wizard! And he’s up there right now with Dumbledore!”

Professor Sprout’s eyes widened in panic; she’d always been prudent, but the urgency in Filius’ words was causing her to become slightly riled herself.

A few minutes passed as the professors all exchanged looks, trying to think of some dignified way to approach the situation.

And then the cries from Dumbledore’s office ceased.

Upstairs, the phoenix had been reborn, a little runt of a bird flopping its wings in the air hesitantly. But Albus was not fooled. He would make that blasted bird pay. He’d been so close to orgasm he could taste it… and then… that stupid bird had to go and ruin everything.

He would pay, thought the headmaster, drawing the wand from its resting place on the corner of his desk and murmuring the incantation.

”Incendio.”

That night at dinner, Minerva McGonagall noticed that Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling with more than their usual share of mischief and he was devouring his dinner with a ravenous hunger.

“A good night, Albus?” she asked, trying to think of a way to tiptoe back to the issue of his locked office door.

“Splendid,” he replied, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “This meat is fantastic, isn’t it?” he added, collecting the bones in a neat corner on the side of his plate, “truly exquisite.”

Minerva should have thought it odd that the headmaster kept licking his lips, and should have found it strange that he was the only one eating chicken that evening.

*~*~*

Sharing Lemon Drops [HP ; Albus/Fawkes]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 15:27:44 GMT

Title: Sharing Lemon Drops
Pairing: Albus/Fawkes
Rating: PG
Summary: Albus loves Fawkes. Fawkes loves Albus.
Word Count: 522
A/N: written for the squickathon. Thank you to darkasphodel for being squicked when noticeably and I weren't. :>

~~~

Fawkes is playful when they’re alone. He smells like the lemon drops he’s stolen from off Albus’ desk and the musky tinge of fire clings to his feathers as he wraps his wings around Albus’ neck. He sings with a soft, throaty gurgling tone, and it reminds Albus of the mermaid language or toilets flushing, five at a time, in unison – not that he’d ever played a prank like that in his youth.

When they kiss, it’s difficult, and complicated, and Fawkes nips at Albus’ lower lip before they get things quite right. A beak feels nothing like a normal mouth, and a phoenix’s beak is hard and smooth and it’s hardly a kiss at all, come to think of it. Albus tickles the bird under his chin and Fawkes ducks his head approvingly and warbles smugly as he nudges against the twisting white of Albus’ beard. When they sleep (and they sleep together), Fawkes crawls under Albus’ beard as though it’s a carefully knitted blanket, and Albus’ steady breaths are like clouds whispering over the phoenix’s feathers.

"I love you," Albus tells Fawkes, his voice quiet, like it's some very special secret. When he says it, it doesn't sound sentimental or dripping with promise. It's just a statement of fact, the way it is, all part of their arrangement, their relationship. He leans in close and kisses Fawkes on the top of his head, ruffling the red and gold feathers. His fingers curl around the bird's clawed feet, his thumb stroking the bird carefully.

"Fawkes," he whispers, his beard trailing across the phoenix's regal tail feathers. He'll sing to the bird in rusted, un-melodic tones, sometimes just nursery rhymes, sometimes things he's made up special for Fawkes. Fawkes seems to know when he hears his name. His eyes widen and he nudges Albus gently, as if to say "Yes, me. That's me."

Albus pampers his phoenix with baubles and charms and ribbons that he ties about Fawkes' throat when no one is looking. The green and blue and yellow threads collide with the red, and Albus thinks, unity, kissing Fawkes' beak. Fawkes tastes like the texture of polished oyster shells, and smells like birdseed and whipping wind and in the mornings. Maybe the lemon sherbet is the taste on Albus' own tongue, instead, but it doesn't really matter because it's shared anyway.

On the lazy autumn days, they lie together, man and bird, sprawled atop the wood of Albus’ desk, ignoring the papers and quills that are scattered on the floor. Fawkes’ beak taps spiraling designs over Albus’ chest and Albus tells the phoenix stories of past headmasters, of the Hogwarts founders, of the Boy-Who-Lived and how he saved the wizarding world from mortal peril without even raising a finger. He smiles and Fawkes kisses him, a peck on the cheek. The bird’s beak catches on Albus’ beard, tugging playfully, and Albus laughs, his voice light and soft.

These are the afternoons when Minerva McGonagall opens the door to Dumbledore’s office, only to close it again immediately, the blush rising on her cheeks as she tries to process what she’s seen.

~~~

Nature’s First Green is Gold [HP ; Albus/Fawkes]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 15:25:11 GMT

Title: Nature’s First Green is Gold
Pairing: Albus/Fawkes
Rating: PG, angst
Warning: HBP SPOILERS
Word Count: 940
A/N: OTP OTP.

1.

Fawkes understands that this is the year things will change. There is a buzzing of words he cannot comprehend, but he picks up the sounds of ‘Potter’, and the syllables are repeated so often, strung together like that, that Fawkes understands that they must be important. He can only decipher one thing, one sound, and that is when Albus Dumbledore’s mouth forms the word ‘love’. He doesn’t know what it means, but it feels like the triumph of a thousand Burning Days, a thousand rebirths, a thousand of the Headmaster’s smiles.

2.

Albus smiles each morning as he emerges from his office, his phoenix perched on his golden bar, making quiet, tired sounds. Albus understands, with a would-be twinkle in his eye, the dangers that might come from stepping outside, from casting spells and shaking hands and from living in a world that Harry Potter does not (cannot) trust. Inside his office, Fawkes is bright and warm and will not nip at his fingers. One can never have too much faith, he thinks, stroking the bird’s soft tail feathers, or too much trust.

3.

Saving Harry Potter is the hardest job Fawkes is ever given, but he complies, and fights the Basilisk as though the creature were his own longtime foe. Dumbledore looks worried, yet relieved, when he returns, and he says something that might be ‘thank you’, but the words are untranslatable. Fawkes still isn’t sure why the boy with dark hair and strange spectacles is important at all, but he is important, to Dumbledore, and that is all that matters.

4.

He watches the bird swerve and glide over the silver sheen of the lake and looks wistful, for a moment, as though he has just discovered something vital, something important – and maybe he has. The sky streaks with the red and gold of flapping wings and the song Fawkes sings is beautiful and calming and filled with a joy that cannot be broken down into the simple language of consonants and vowels. It is subtle enough, hidden amidst the night wind, that maybe no one else even hears it. It’s a full moon tonight, and there will be other sounds and cries to make Albus Dumbledore’s eyes glaze with sadness and regret. Fawkes flies back into the office with a flourish, as if anticipating the Headmaster’s thoughts, and nestles against his side. ‘It will be all right.’

5.

Fawkes is not trained to fetch, or fight, or reply to commands. He acts on instinct, on the tilt of a head and the blink of an eye. Fawkes understands who he is bound to, where his place is, and as he nuzzles into the cloud-soft whiskers of Dumbledore’s beard, Fawkes finds home. When the phoenix zips in front of a curse meant for the Hogwarts Headmaster, it is not because of a command. It is, the bird realizes, as he bursts into a thousand tiny sparkling flames, because of the silent look of fear in Dumbledore’s eyes. It is because he hates that look, that he has come to equate with danger, and pain, and alone. Fawkes cannot bear the ‘alone’.

6.

It’s just practice, preparation, exercise, when Albus casts his Patronus, the silvery phoenix dancing from the tip of his wand and taking flight. The wispy figure swirls amidst the backdrop of clouded night sky, mingling with the constellations, its tail feathers line a star shower. It twirls its wings through Fawkes’ body, silver and crimson weaving together until the two are one body, a single figure, the most beautiful thing Albus Dumbledore has ever seen.

7.

The room lights up for a second, a brilliant summer glow like a thousand fireflies, and then Fawkes is gone. When he is reborn, like the many countless times before, he flaps his wings experimentally against the cooling ashes, and then opens his eyes, taking in the world around him for the first time. The first thing he sees is always Albus Dumbledore, tears glistening in the corners of his twinkling eyes like it’s still as miraculous as every time before. There’s that sound again. That word that Fawkes remembers. That ‘l’ and ‘o’ of lips. The phoenix’s hearts swells.

8.

His breaths are calm, his pulse steady, and he does not close his eyes now. He gazes at Severus tiredly, understanding, even before the curse is cast, that this is the end. The poison sets heavy in his veins, and the green light flares through him like dark energy. They’re the wrong colors, the green of the curse and the pitch-black of Severus Snape’s stare. The air hissing out between his parted lips, Albus Dumbledore closes his eyes, and hopes that he might see red and gold again.

9.

Fawkes trembles on his perch. The air has grown cold. His wings feel like ice, and they flap like dead weights in the night air. He knows, without needing to know, that Dumbledore is gone. He can’t even think what that word might sound like, but the phoenix knows it just the same. He feels it, that that voice is silent, that those eyes have closed, and that those lips no longer part to smile, or to laugh. Fawkes flies to the window ledge, awkwardly tucking his wings against his body, and stares up into the flickering night sky, and the strange, sparkling green pattern hovering against the black. They’re the wrong colors, and they give him no comfort. When Fawkes sings, the phoenix’s song is hollow and broken, echoing over the night like the sob of one who has just had their whole world pulled out from under them.

Grief Management [HP ; Albus/Fawkes]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 15:24:18 GMT

Title: Grief Management
Pairing: Albus/Fawkes, implied Albus/Stan necro

*

Inside is a crystal figurine, a transparent phoenix glittering yellow and white in the lamplight.

Albus contemplates it quietly, his fingers knotting in the tangle of his beard that hasn't seen soap or comb in months, his mouth parting in a silent sigh that spells out vowels and consonants and words like red, and feathers, and mine. He doesn't say anything aloud because there is nothing left to say and the clear, glassy outline is inanimate, and will not hear him.

People die, he understands, having thought and spoken the words so many times, but phoenixes should not, cannot, and Fawkes has. He didn't recognize the effects of the curse when it hit the bird squarely in the chest, but Albus could see Fawkes' life fading, his eyes dulling to bleak, darkened obsidian, his beak paling to the color of an earwax Every Flavor Bean.

They buried the phoenix on the Hogwarts grounds, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It has been five days, and while the war marches on around him, Albus Dumbledore has still not recovered.

So it isn't unreasonable that he doesn't notice when the Knight Bus crashes into the wall of Hogwarts Castle, just outside his office. He is too busy stroking the cold, lifeless crystal feathers of his beloved bird and wallowing in the guilt that he was unable to stop the curse from being cast.

It isn't until Argus Filch drags an unconscious Stan Shunpike into his office that Dumbledore turns his gaze away from the figurine.

"I'm afraid he might be dying," Filch says, his tone belying the gravity of the words.

Albus nods, tells Filch that he will see to the matter immediately, and then dismisses him. He looks over the body of the Knight Bus conductor, his arms awkward and gangly, his face spotty and pale. He is dying, Albus can see, Shunpike's lips turning blue from a retreating hiss of oxygen. He doesn't do anything though, even though he knows several charms that might revive him.

He doesn't because he is lonely now, desiring company, and a dead Knight Bus conductor isn't likely to fight back.

*

Burning Day [HP ; Albus/Fawkes]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 15:22:35 GMT

Title: Burning Day
Pairing: Albus/Fawkes
Rating: NC-17, fisting, SQUICK
Summary: How Albus Dumbledore got a fistful he wasn't expecting. (HBP SPOILERS, featuring my very own squicky theory)
A/N: dedicated to xylodemon, with love.

~~~

His fingers twisted inside of Fawkes a second time, and the phoenix let out a sound like a crow of pain and delight, and nuzzled closer into Albus Dumbledore's beard. Three, four, five, until the bird was stretched and wet around his knuckles, Fawkes' voice shrill and his beak pinching just short of painfully on the place where Albus' neck met his shoulder. The phoenix's tailfeathers felt like live fire to the touch as they brushed against the shivering material of the Headmaster's robes, looking like trembling crimson and gold ripples. Albus curled and uncurled his fingers within his beautiful bird - his, and smiled.

He didn't realize it was a Burning Day. How could he have forgotten? It seemed like only yesterday Fawkes had been reborn, risen from the ashes and greeted him with pecks on the throat and wide, curious eyes. He imagined that the heat around his wrist was just the bird nearing orgasm, the rhythmic clenching around his fingers nothing more than the grind of Fawkes' body down over his hand.

The flames, however, were a surprise. Soon, where once had been a squawking, thrusting bird, was nothing but ash. Albus Dumbledore's hand was crackling with burns, and ached as he experimentally touched his thumb to his index finger.

The newborn phoenix poked its ashen head out of the pumice, and nudged Albus' burned wrist. The headmaster hissed, recoiling and holding his hand to his chest and surveying the damage. Burned. Charred. Virtually unusable.

He wondered how he would explain this one.

~~~

All Strings Will Snap [JE ; Ryo/Ueda]

happiestwhen — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 15:11:51 GMT

Title: All Strings Will Snap
Pairing/Group: Ryo/Ueda, some very tiny bits of implied Nakamaru/Ueda & Jin/Kame
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: lots of profanity and Ryo being a jerk
Notes: written for sashjun in the 2010 je_holiday exchange and only just realized that I'd forgotten to ever repost here. D:
Summary: Ryo accidentally kisses Ueda while drunk. Rumors and ridiculousness ensue and everything goes downhill from there...

The night is going awesome so far. Ryo has already scored three phone numbers, made out with two hot girls and one who wasn't bad-looking after several shots and made up for her looks with good kissing, and he's been drinking for free all night so far. Being a celebrity sure has its perks.

He isn't really sure when tipsy veered into falling-down-drunk territory, but suddenly Ryo finds himself making easily one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

It starts normally enough: He spots a hot girl from across the crowd of dancers in the cramped, smoky club. She has her back to him and is sporting that rocker-chic look – skinny jeans and heavy military boots, baggy asymmetrical top and a thick, red checked scarf that falls over her bare shoulders. She has a nice body, at least from behind. Sexy hips, nice ass, Ryo thinks. Her hair is messy and short. She looks like she'd be wild and she isn't dancing much so maybe she's a little shy and insecure, too. Just Ryo's type.

He attempts a swagger as he saunters toward her, but the club is crowded and he's had more tequila shots than he can count, and he stumbles into a nearby table instead, vaguely recognizing Nakamaru's massive nose as he apologizes and continues on his way. If he were more sober he might have stopped to consider that Nakamaru wouldn't come here alone and that maybe one particular wimpy, too-pretty-for-his-own-good member of KAT-TUN would be there with him.

But he doesn't stop to think because he isn't really functioning with his brain right now anyway, and seconds later he is spinning the girl around and locking lips with her in a sure-to-make-the-panties-drop Nishikido Ryo signature kiss.

Only, it isn't a girl, Ryo realizes upon opening his eyes.

Ueda Tatsuya stares back at him, looking stunned, all the color draining from his face. Surprisingly, he doesn't look disgusted, which is how Ryo feels, and he shoves Ueda back in horror and it's only then that Ueda looks angry, his face scrunching up in a way that's not even remotely attractive. Ryo can sense the punch before it actually happens, four knuckles stinging right into his jaw and sucking out any remaining libido he might have had for the night.

"I thought you were—" he starts, making a desperate plea for his pride, but Nakamaru is already there at Ueda's side, shaking his head and dragging Ueda out of the club by the wrist. Ueda looks back over his shoulder at Ryo with a look like he's close to tears. Or maybe close to throwing up. It's hard for Ryo to tell when everything still looks kind of blurry to him.

*

Luckily it is dark, and while there are several fan reports about Ryo making out with some Japanese girl at the club, shoving her away violently, and then getting punched, only one of them – by some Italian fan blog, says that the girl was actually Ueda, and no one really believes that anyway. "Wishful thinking," the comments read, punctuated with smirking emoji and creepy manips of Ryo and Ueda kissing or staring longingly at each other against a backdrop of "Love in Snow" lyrics.

Ryo slams his laptop closed angrily. He can't sleep that night because he keeps replaying the scene in his head, trying to figure out how the hell Ueda tricked him like that. Ueda isn't a girl. It was plain as day the second he'd shoved him away. How could Ryo have been that drunk?

He's most pissed about the fact that, for all fifteen seconds it was happening, Ueda was actually a really good kisser.

*

Ryo nurses an exceptionally shitty hangover all morning, hiding his eyes behind big sunglasses and under a baseball cap. His jaw aches and it'll take more foundation than Tegoshi has in his arsenal to cover up the nasty bruise. He really wishes he didn't have to go in to work this morning, but they have recording to do and being an idol means not having sick days at his disposal. He slurps at his can of coffee and drags his feet off the train platform, alarmed by the sudden tap on his shoulder.

He turns around and sees Ueda, looking far less worse for wear from the night before, his hair perfectly arranged and his arms swimming in a dumb sweater with a glittery skull appliqué on the shoulder.

"Nishikido," he says brusquely, and Ryo nods weakly. "I figured it was you... There aren't many people this painfully short."

"We're like, the same height," Ryo argues, but there's no heat to his words. He's too exhausted to argue with Ueda this early in the morning, and he still feels humiliated from the night before.

Ueda shrugs. "Maybe when you stand on tiptoe." Then he quickly changes the subject, with all the casualness of a truck barreling into the side of building. "About last night..."

"Why were you even there?"

"Nakamaru-kun invited me. He wanted to check out this new DJ."

"There was a DJ?" Ryo asks blearily.

Ueda rolls his eyes. "But that's not the point," he continues, lowering his voice slightly and pulling Ryo into a nearby alcove. "What was with the kiss?"

Ryo shakes off Ueda's arm and raises his hands defensively. He isn't used to Ueda being so forward. "First of all," Ryo growls, "can you not refer to it as 'the kiss'? Makes me nauseous. And secondly, it wouldn't have happened if you didn't look so damn girly from behind..."

"I'm not a girl!"

"Well, yeah, I know that now. I was drunk. It wasn't like I wanted to kiss you."

"Maybe you were just too drunk to care." There's a strange tone to Ueda's words. "You'll take whatever you can get if the tabloids are to be believed." Ryo remembers that one time he drunkenly groped Shige at karaoke and thinks that maybe Ueda has a point, but he doesn't want to give Ueda the pleasure of being right.

"Trust me, if I wanted to sleep with a guy you wouldn't be at the top of my list." He mentally goes through his list in his mind... Tego-nyan would probably be up there. Maybe Ohkura. Oh, and obviously Kimutaku, just to say he did. At any rate, they'd be people Ryo actually, you know, gets along with.

Ueda seems to see the gears turning in Ryo's mind, because the corners of his mouth crinkle at that, his lips pulling back into a hard line. "Do you mean you've given this much thought?" But there's no venom to his comeback.

"I don't need to fantasize 24/7 like you. I can go out and get the real thing."

"If by 'real thing' you mean plastic bimbos at the clubs, then I'll pass."

Ryo's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, I guess you think you could do better?"

"I know I could," and with that, Ueda stalks off in the direction of the main office.

*

"Why does 2chan think Ueda is your girlfriend?" Ryo could really do without people continually popping up and startling him like this today. At least until after he's had two or twenty more painkillers. He turns and sees Jin bounding beside him, pointing in confusion at his phone screen where there is a string of photos of Ryo and Ueda from this morning at the train station.

"Are you serious?!" Ryo grabs the phone out of Jin's hands and squints at the screen. "Who took these?!"

"They think it's your ~mystery girlfriend~," Jin says, voice practically bubbling with excitement as he scrolls down through the comments. Jin always loves good gossip.

"How can you even tell that's Ueda?" Ryo feels strangely relieved that all the photos are angled in a way that hides Ueda's face. From the back he really does look like a chick.

"How can they not tell? Are you really dating him?"

"No way! We just ran into each other this morning on the way to work. Can't you tell? That's the train station down the street."

Jin's eyes suddenly go wide. "What if—" he starts, "What if the person who posted these pictures is still following you. What if they're... here... now?!" His voice is suddenly shrill and manic.

"It's probably just that creepy kid from Jump."

"Wait, which one?"

"You know, the—oh, you're right. I guess it could be any of them."

"Don't worry, Ryo-chan," Jin looks stern. "I'll protect you and your right to date Tat-chan if you so choose."

"I'm not dating him! God. It's not his fault he dresses so girly. Why do you think we'd be dating." A look of horror crosses Ryo's face. "Did he—did he say anything about it?"

"Koki said he was acting weirder than usual when he came in this morning," Jin replies casually. "He flipped out and broke two hair barrettes."

Ryo feels instantly uncomfortable. "Oh, great," he says dully. If it gets out that Ryo is going around kissing guys in clubs he'll never be able to live it down. That would be a far worse rumor than another girlfriend scandal. He can't become the next Kamenashi.

"Why, did something happen?" Jin leans in conspiratorially.

Ryo sighs. It's best Jin hears it from him than some terrible twisted version Ueda will inevitably spill to all of KAT-TUN later. Because Ueda would totally do that, Ryo's sure of it. He'd be completely satisfied tarnishing Ryo's reputation as an uber-potent heterosexual powerhouse.

"Okay, you can't tell anyone," Ryo hisses, putting on his best I-mean-business face. "And I'm serious about this. But I... I sorta kissed him."

Jin erupts into a fit of laughter, but Ryo's expression doesn't change and suddenly Jin stops, mouth falling open. "Holy shit, really?!" There is a pause, and then he lowers his voice. "How... How was it?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?! It wasn't like I even wanted to kiss him!"

"What, did you accidentally fall on his mouth or something?"

"I was drunk," Ryo explains. "I thought he was a girl."

"You and all of Japan, apparently," Jin replies, waving his phone. Several lines of T_T faces blink back at him.

"It didn't mean anything, okay?"

"Su~ure," Jin says, winking. "But just so you know, that's not how Ueda feels. Sounds like he is worked up about it."

"Well, he's always been an over-sensitive little princess. That's not my problem."

"Maybe he wants to be more than a notch in your bed post." Jin suddenly has that tone he uses when imparting sage advice like what drink combinations you should avoid at all costs or how to orchestrate a threesome. "Make an honest man out of him, Ryo-chan."

Ryo rolls his eyes. "You're disgusting. You realize this is Ueda we're talking about here."

"Yeah and with beer goggles on you thought he was pretty sexy, ne?"

"A temporary lapse in judgment. Now shut up about it or I'll go tell Kamenashi that you fantasize about him and don't even need the aid of alcohol to do it."

"You wouldn't."

*

The next time Ryo runs into Ueda, it's on his route home from work. It's a nice day out so he's decided to walk, taking the less busy streets and back alleys to avoid possible run-ins with fans.

He doesn't expect this to result in a run-in with Ueda instead.

As Ryo rounds the corner to a street of classier love hotels, he runs, quite literally, into Ueda. Their shoulders knock and Ueda drops the bag – manpurse, Ryo thinks – on the ground.

"What are you doing here?" Ryo demands, as Ueda brushes himself off and picks up his bag. Several pages of sheet music and cd falls tumble out. Ryo catches a glimpse of the song title, "Winter's Embrace". Could Ueda get any more lame?

Ueda's forehead scrunches up. "I could ask you the same question. I'm going to the recording studio. I suppose you're here meeting some slutty girl?"

"I'll have you know that this route runs by my apartment," Ryo replies, not taking Ueda's bait. "Can't you take a different one?"

"Sorry, I don't have all of your frequent locations pinned my google maps," Ueda replies dryly. "Well, I'll just be going then. Wouldn't want you to try to kiss me again."

"You only wish you could be so lucky," Ryo replies with a smirk, realizing several blocks later that the remark probably sounded really, really gay.

*

That week there is a paparazzi pic in Friday of Ryo and an "anonymous female" meeting for a mid-day romantic rendezvous at a love hotel. Ryo is growing increasingly certain that Ueda was somehow behind all of this. How else could he somehow always escape completely undetected? His face is hidden this time by the page of sheet music in his left hand.

*

"How did you get my number?" Ueda's voice sounds sleepy and not in the least bit amused.

Ryo is a little drunk, which is the only reason this seemed like a good idea in the first place.

"Shuddup," he grumbles. "I asked Jin."

"Jin is such an idiot."

"No! No!" Ryo squawks in protest. "You are the idiot!"

"Okay..." It must be taking every ounce of patience for Ueda to not hang up. "`How much have you had to drink?"

"The right amount!!" Maybe the rumors about Ryo being a belligerent drunk were not entirely unfounded. "I called to tell you to stop ruining my reputation! I know you're behind this!"

"What?"

"The scandal! The photos! All of it! It's all your fault!" Ryo waves his hands wildly as if Ueda will be able to see.

"Oh, and here I thought you wanted to be seen as a disease-ridden manslut."

Ryo stops flailing. "Did you seriously just use the word manslut?"

"Jin uses it all the time," Ueda says flatly.

"Well, that's 'cause Jin is one," Ryo replies with a laugh. "Wait—don't change the subject!"

There is a sigh on the other end. "You were the one who got all hung up on my word choice."

"Are you really that desperate to be with me that you would make up a dumb rumor like this?"

"You're the one who kissed me!"

"You—you made me do it! With your stupid face!"

There is laughter on the other end. "Ryo-chan, alcohol really makes you lose your witty edge."

"Don't call me that!" Ryo growls. "And cut your damn hair! Maybe then people would stop mistaking you for my girlfriend."

"I'm not going to do whatever you say. Why are you so upset about this? It isn't the first time you've been Fridayed."

"But—" Ryo sputters. "It's with you!"

Ueda feigns hurt and whimpers dramatically. "I thought you liked our ~scandalous~ relationship."

"Yeah, back when it was a dumb Shounen Club joke..."

"We don't have to hate each other."

"Yeah that doesn't mean we have to date each other! Cut your hair, okay?"

"Good night, Nishikido," Ueda says wearily.

"I said, cut it!"

The phone receiver clicks.

*

Ryo doesn't see Ueda again until KAT-TUN and Kanjani8 appear on Music Station together to promote their new singles. It's the first time in a while that they are having simultaneous releases. Yoko bounces about excitedly, happy to hang with his "best buddy" Kame, who seems to quietly tolerate his antics, and Taguchi is happy to have a new audience to try out his latest puns on.

When they're in the dressing room, Ryo finds himself watching Ueda, feeling something that might be jealousy as he sees the way everyone else interacts with him, Nakamaru sharing a meat bun with him, Taguchi jabbing him in the side playfully, Kamenashi talking to him in quiet seriousness. Ryo isn't sure why he cares or why he even notices but soon he finds himself in the middle of the room shouting about how Ueda's hair looks completely idiotic and what kind of costume is he wearing anyway?

It's like a dog being stuck in a room with a bone. He can't not bite at it. He has to provoke Ueda. It's just too easy. Riling him up is weirdly exhilarating. Almost like the thrill of performing, but in smaller, snarkier doses. He knows when he's gotten under Ueda's skin by the way his face scrunches, and a second later Ueda has Ryo by the wrist and drags him out into the hallway.

"What was that all about!" Ueda spits. "I thought you didn't want people to think something was going on!"

"Well, you have to admit, your hair does look pretty terrible today. Moreso than usual." Ryo wonders how far he would have to push to make Ueda cry these days. Ueda has grown a tougher skin, as well as some pretty impressive upper body muscles. Ryo is probably more likely to get a right hook in the jaw than waterworks.

"I assume this isn't just about my hair. Are you still hung up on that photo?"

"My fans are freaking out about it, you know. They are horrified at the thought that I might be taken. Everyone wants a piece of the Sexy Osaka Man."

Ueda makes a gagging noise at that. "It's really not that big of a deal," he says, voice level. "It's just a gossip rag. It'll die down in a week or so."

"Yeah, I guess it wouldn't be a big deal for you. I'm not sure you even have fans."

Ueda's shoulders tense. "Why are you such an asshole?"

"Why have you not cut your hair!" Ryo tugs on a particularly long strand at Ueda's shoulder and Ueda swats his hand away in irritation. "I have scissors in my bag," he adds helpfully.

"I'm not going to change just because I'm making life inconvenient for you."

"It's more than an inconvenience! My whole status is in question! I know you must be loving this though."

"You're the one who's making such a big deal out of it!"

"You're the one slandering my reputation with your stupid girly body," Ryo grumbles. "You must just be jealous that you aren't out getting lucky with the ladies."

"Trust me, that is the last thing from my mind..."

"What? I suppose you'd rather be getting lucky with guys or something instead?"

Ueda stiffens and doesn't answer.

Ryo gapes at him. "Oh shit. No way... I mean you've always dressed pretty faggy, but I didn't think you'd actually—"

"Shut up." Ueda looks at the floor.

"Hey, Princess. Am I your type?"

"Fuck you." Ueda kicks him hard in the shin.

It hurts like hell but Ryo still smirks and replies, "Yeah, you wish."

Ueda stalks back into the dressing room and slams the door.

*

Two nights later, Pi calls Ryo and doesn't waste any time getting to the point:

"I heard you were stalking Ueda." Pi says. "Jin said you kissed him."

Ryo practically explodes. "I told him not to tell anyone!!"

"So it's true?" He sounds a little too happy about the news. "You kissed him?"

"By accident! That loser has really girly hair, it was an honest mistake!" He is getting tired of having to explain this to everyone.

"It seems like you're into him..." Yamapi prods.

"I'm not!" Ryo squawks.

"Then why are you with him all the time?"

"It isn't all the time! We just keep running into each other..."

"Like fate?" Ryo can hear the annoying smile in Pi's voice.

"No!" he grumbles. "Maybe he is the one stalking me! Did you ever think that?"

"Ueda doesn't seem like the stalker type. Not like you."

"I hate you sometimes."

"Like Ueda?"

"Yes! God, I hate Ueda!"

"You never really hated him."

"Well I can hate him now, can't I?!"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Pi replies consolingly.

"You're supposed to be on my side here!" Ryo shrieks.

"I am. I just don't see how getting worked up about it is going to help."

"But he's so annoying... His stupid hair, and his stupid lips and the way he stands, and his fashion, and his accessories, and his taste in music, and the deep way he talks, and how he's always so quiet like he thinks he's better than other people, and the way he sticks glitter to his face, and the way he cries over dumb shit like greeting cards and JE songs."

"Wow..." Pi replies, sounding a little horrified. "I didn't realize you were that obsessed."

"I'm not obsessed!" Ryo says, although it comes out as more of a whine than an assertion. He realized midway through his tirade that he does sound like kind of a psycho when he talks about Ueda.

"Maybe you just can't express your feelings properly. You always did suck at flirting."

"I have not been trying to flirt with him!" Ryo kicks an empty pet bottle across the room.

"Well maybe you should let Ueda know that, because that is definitely not what Kame told me."

"Kamenashi is a douchebag."

"He said you've been giving Ueda all these weird mixed signals."

"I think the only signal I'm giving him is, stop being such a cockblocking girl. He's killing my mojo."

Pi cracks up at that. "Oh please, you don't have any mojo."

"No, that would be you, dead fish eyes."

*

The latest issue of Friday has an interview with Ryo's new "girlfriend", the alleged "K-san" who was spotted earlier with Ryo outside the love hotel. Ryo charges into the steak restaurant and throws the magazine down onto the table in front of Ueda.

"How did you even know I was here?" Ueda barely looks up from his meal. "Have you memorized my social calendar now?"

"C'mon, you're too lame to even have a social calendar. Jin told me you'd be here. Now the real question is, why did you tell Friday I was a shitty lover?"

"Excuse me?" Ueda's eyes skim over the article and then he laughs. "Well, obviously that isn't me." He rolls his eyes. "I thought you were supposed to be smart. It's just some trash dreamed up by the editors. How would I even know what kind of lover you'd be?"

"I—Right! Exactly! You wouldn't! And for your information, I'm fucking excellent in bed."

"Right," Ueda replies dryly and continues to poke at his hamburger steak. "I bet K-san wasn't actually too far from the truth. I mean I did hear you have a habit of biting people like a rabid dog."

"Some people are into that!"

"Excuse me, but I'm trying to enjoy my lunch. Don't make me lose my appetite here with talk of your sexual preferences."

Ryo scowls. "I thought you'd be thrilled at even the suggestion of being sexually connected with Nishikido Ryo."

"Not everyone wants to sleep with you. You just don't get it, do you," Ueda says flatly.

"What is there to get?" Ryo demands.

"That I—that someone—you just don't seem to have any consideration for anyone else's feelings! You're too stunted in both height and social skills!"

Well, that was a low blow. "All right. Here's some consideration for you: I don't like you. Stop telling Kamenashi that I want to date you or whatever. I don't. Like. You."

He's pretty sure he sees the beginning of the trademark sniffling as he turns for the door, and this time, doesn't feel the same satisfaction at being able to make Ueda cry. He feels like maybe he hit below the belt.

*

"Stop harassing Ueda." It's Nakamaru calling this time, more surprising than it should be considering the incident in the restaurant earlier that day, which, also predictably, somehow earned its own new 2ch thread under the subject line "Nishikido Ryo argues with new girlfriend during lunch date".

"I'm not harassing Ueda!" Ryo retorts. "What the hell! Did I make him cry or something?"

There is silence on the other end.

"Oh..." Ryo starts to feel bad, but then remembers his rage earlier over the comments on 2chan about Ryo being an abusive boyfriend. (If he was Ueda's boyfriend, Ryo thinks, he would be awesome at it, just like he is at everything.) "That little shit is way too sensitive."

"Or maybe he actually cares about you, if you haven't noticed!" Nakamaru sounds angry and Nakamaru never sounds angry.

"What are you talking about?"

"Are you really that dense?"

"Don't call me dense!"

"Do you always use anger as a defense mechanism?"

"It's not a—what?"

Nakamaru's tone softens a little. "You both have a really funny way of showing how you feel..."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Why does everyone think that I'm harboring some kind of secret crush on Ueda?! What's it to you, anyway?"

"I care about Tatsuya. I don't want to see him get hurt."

"I was just teasing him..."

"You said it yourself: He's sensitive."

"Yeah well, if he has a problem he can call me himself."

*

As it happens, it ends up being Ryo calling Ueda and not the other way around. He's out at the club again, too drunk to drive and too tired to wait for the trains to start running again.

"Do you only ever call when you're drunk?" Ueda's tone is kind of unreadable, but he doesn't sound angry.

"It's called drunk dialing. Don't read so much into it."

"Does that mean I'm on your speed dial now?"

"What? No."

"So do you have my number memorized?"

"Shut up, I just need a ride home. The trains have stopped and everyone else I know is already wasted."

"And you don't have a hot girl to go home with?"

"They were all pretty ugly tonight."

"Or you just aren't nearly as smooth as you think." There's a smirk somewhere in Ueda's voice.

"Can you just come pick me up, please..." Ryo whines.

Ueda sighs. "You are so going to owe me."

*

When Ueda pulls up to the curb, Ryo's eyes light up.

"My savior!" he exclaims, and Ueda smiles too. Ryo thinks that Ueda looks really, almost painfully adorable when he smiles like that, but it must be the alcohol talking, because Ryo never thinks Ueda is cute.

He's too drunk to walk in a straight line so Ueda has to get out and lead him to the car, belting him in and closing the door for him. Ryo absentmindedly thinks that there's sure to be another paparazzi pic of this moment, what with Ueda looking especially girly in his flowing tunic-shirt with silver stars on the sleeves and his hair pinned with a flower barrette, but he doesn't much care as long as Ueda gets home to a bed soon.

They get into the car and Ryo looks out over the dashboard at the cityscape. All the neon lights blend together and after this, Ryo's memory goes blurry too. He remembers Ueda's face looked stranger than usual, almost ethereal, and he remembers cupping it in his hands and staring into Ueda's eyes for a long moment that would have certainly been awkward had he been sober. But Ueda hadn't pushed him away.

"Are you sure you're not a chick?" Ryo remembers demanding, half inexplicably horny and half paranoid.

After that, he doesn't remember much at all.

*

Ryo wakes up several hours later in an unfamiliar bed, and when he rolls over, Ueda is sitting there, staring at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"What the hell," Ryo says, instantly defensive. He quickly glances down to make sure he's still fully clothed. Thank God.

"You passed out," Ueda offers. "I didn't know what to do."

"How did I get here?"

"I brought you here."

"Have you been there all this time?"

"Hey, it wasn't like I got any sleep. Why did you drink that much?"

It takes Ryo a minute to remember, and then it all comes flooding back to him... He'd been frustrated over Nakamaru's phone call, and all the constant prodding from Yamapi and Jin, and how stupidly pretty Ueda looked in all those paparazzi photos. He vaguely remembers tearing pages out of the newest issue of Myojo and lighting them on fire in his stove, watching Ueda's face crinkle and distort as the flames caught the edges. And then he'd gone to the club and gotten drunk beyond comprehension. Oh, right.

"I just felt like it," he says weakly.

"How do you feel now?"

Ryo thinks for a minute. "Strangely... okay..."

"You're not so bad when you're not trying to pick a fight with me."

"Was that a compliment?"

"Might have been..."

"Compliments are awkward when we're sharing a bed," Ryo observes blankly. "Stop staring at me like that."

"We could probably be friends if you weren't always trying so hard to be contrary."

"You don't exactly make it easy to get along with you either. Besides, we can't be friends. Whenever we're together people think we're dating, remember?" Just like that, Ryo can feel his hangover coming on. It's like the subject is inescapable.

"Why do you care what they think? I thought you were tougher than that."

"I'm tougher than you!"

Ueda punches him hard in the shoulder. "You wish. I'm glad you're feeling better though. I have to go to a photo shoot. You can let yourself out, yeah?"

Ryo watches him stand up and go to the closet. He watches Ueda pull off his shirt and search for another one. They all look pretty identical to him.

"You have freakish muscles," Ryo observes.

"And you are an underdeveloped shrimp," Ueda replies, not missing a beat. Ryo hadn't realized he'd said it that loudly. He throws a pillow at Ueda but misses. Ueda just turns and smiles and Ryo feels something tugging at his chest.

"I should go," he says quickly, climbing out of the bed, but his feet get tangled in the sheets and he trips, tumbling into Ueda, who stumbles backwards and they both land in a pile on the floor. Ueda just smirks up at him. "Falling for me?"

Ryo just glares. He wishes Ueda would put on a damn shirt already. And stop smiling like that.

*

It would be fine if this was just a one-time thing, but it happens again the following weekend. This time Ryo isn't nearly as drunk. He can get home fine on his own, but somehow he ends up calling up Ueda and demanding a ride, just the same.

"Come pick me up," he says, as soon as Ueda answers.

"I'm not your chauffeur."

"C'mon, it's not like you have anything better to do."

"I was writing a song, actually."

"It was probably super sappy and depressing."

There is a groan. "Well when you say that how could I resist giving you a ride?"

"So you'll be here in twenty?"

There's a long silence before, "Fine," followed by, "Jerk."

Ryo smiles as he slides his phone back into his pocket.

*

Ueda's car pulls up twenty-five minutes later – Ryo had been checking his watch – and Ryo jumps in without a second thought.

"Thanks," he slurs. The display on the dashboard reads 3:53. Ueda looks tired but there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It kind of turns Ryo on. He reaches for Ueda's free hand and threads their fingers together, not sure why it's suddenly important to him that they be touching.

About ten minutes into the drive, Ryo realizes that Ueda isn't going to drop him off at his house. They're going back to Ueda's. Together. The unspoken agreement hangs in the air and Ryo is pretty drunk so he can make excuses for himself later, but Ueda seems totally and completely sober. Maybe Nakamaru was telling the truth. Maybe Ueda cares about him... Maybe Ueda has been waiting for this...

Ryo isn't sure he wants to think of the implications of what that might mean.

*

As soon as Ueda unlocks the door to his apartment, Ryo practically attacks him with his mouth, shoving him against the wall and kissing him violently. Ueda really is a good kisser, and not at all in the girly way. He is strong and dominant and pushes back against Ryo with all the hunger and intensity that Ryo is feeling.

They somehow make it to the bedroom, Ryo losing his jacket and shirt in the process, and Ueda presses him down onto the bed, climbing on top of him like a feral animal cornering its prey. Ryo tugs at Ueda's shirt, pulling it up over his head and off, and then works on Ueda's pants, which are laced up at the sides and have far too many unnecessary buttons and zippers and snaps.

"So... stupid..." Ryo breathes, fussing to get them off.

Ueda just laughs and leans down to bite Ryo's neck.

"I knew it!" Ryo crows. "You are totally into biting!"

"Only if I'm the one doing it..." Ueda purrs, licking a line down Ryo's bare chest and to the top of Ryo's jeans which he starts to unzip with his teeth.

Ryo gasps, suddenly a lot less articulate than he'd been a few seconds ago. "Shit, Ueda. How did you—"

"You're not the only one out getting all the action."

"Fuck—"

"Jealous?"

"Just..." Ueda pulls Ryo's jeans off and reaches under his boxers, his fingers smooth and warm. "Oh god," Ryo moans. "Don't stop."

Ueda lets out a triumphant giggle. "Who's the tough guy now?"

A whine bubbles up in Ryo's throat. "Shut up," he hisses, half to Ueda and half to himself. He's too far gone to think of a snarky retort.

Ueda dips his head down and Ryo can feel his breath on the tip of his cock, and he arches up off the bed. When Ueda starts to suck him off, Ryo can't help but yelp, both from pleasure and surprise. He's sure if he were to step outside himself for a moment and take in the absurdity of the situation, that Ueda Tatsuya is giving him a blowjob, his mind would explode, so tries not to think about it too much. It doesn't have to mean more than it does.

Ueda looks up at him and their eyes meet and Ueda holds Ryo's gaze as he swirls his tongue over the tip of Ryo's cock, and then closes his eyes as he takes it deep into his throat and pulls back again. He repeats the motion, strands of hair falling into his eyes as he speeds up and then slows back down, his mouth wet and soft. His shoulder blades tense and relax with each moment. His back arches like a cat's. Ryo has never seen or felt anything so fucking hot.

"I love when you do that," he whispers.

He can feel Ueda smirking and it's almost too much for him. "Wait—Wait—" he whimpers frantically, but Ueda isn't stopping, and Ryo can't hold on any longer. When Ueda looks up at him again, his dark eyes alight with fire, Ryo comes.

*

Ryo wakes up the next day in an empty bed. He feels a little sore. Ueda is gone. There's a note on the dresser that just says, Sorry.

Ryo doesn't have a clue what the fuck that is supposed to mean.

*

Two days later, he can't find his jacket in the laundry basket and then realizes he must have left it at Ueda's.

Ueda hasn't called him, and he hasn't replied to any of Ryo's text messages. Ryo is trying to be cool but he can't help but feel a little hurt. Maybe this was Ueda's plan all along, to humiliate Ryo in the worst way possible. But it just didn't make any sense... Ueda seemed to enjoy it. Ryo is pretty sure Ueda came, too, although he is a little hazy on anything that happened after the blowjob. Did they have sex? Did they cuddle? Maybe he'd said something idiotic or they'd got in a fight?

He is clueless.

He is also terrified that everyone knew by now. The day after that night, he'd practically doused himself in cologne because he was worried people would be able to smell Ueda on him. Koyama had looked at him super strangely, but maybe that's just because he smelled like a perfume store.

*

He decides to talk to Yasu about it.

"You're gay, right?" Ryo starts, never one to beat around the bush.

"What?" Yasu looks up from his magazine, startled. "No... Why does everyone always think that?"

"Um," Ryo gestures vaguely to Yasu's current outfit, which includes a pair of pink leggings and a silver and green plaid skirt.

Yasu just waves it off with a friendly smile. "Is this about Ueda?" he asks, sitting down cross-legged on the floor next to Ryo.

"Why would you say that...? Did someone tell you?" Ryo is beginning to wonder if there is some secret grapevine running between everyone in Johnny's, like that gossip girl show that Tegoshi tried to get him to watch once.

"It's just every time KAT-TUN are at the jimusho, you're bothering Ueda."

"I'm not bothering him. I just." Ryo looks down at his hands, uncertain how to best try to explain the situation.

"Wait—what happened?"

Ryo shifts awkwardly.

"Oh my god. Did you two sleep together?"

"We—wait, how the hell could you know that?"

Yasu just laughs. "You're surprisingly easy to read, Ryo-chan."

"I was drunk." It was becoming an alarmingly common statement for him.

"Well, maybe you should talk to him when you're not drunk. You can't always use alcohol as an excuse."

"I know."

"Maybe he likes you too."

"Well, he should. I'm fucking awesome. Wait—what do you mean, too? I don't like him! I just want my jacket back and I want to know why he's acting so weird."

"Do you want it to happen again?"

"I don't know—No. Well, maybe. Yes. I don't know."

"I think you should just admit it to him," Yasu replies gently.

"I don't want to. He should be able to figure it out."

"Yes, because you're spelling it out so clearly for him..."

"I—hey. Shut up."

"Maybe he doesn't feel like you appreciate him. Every time you talk to him, you are drunk or hostile or both. That can't be good on his ego."

"So you're saying I should be nice to him?"

"You should just... like him," Yasu says, waving his hand in the air, "if you like him."

"But I don't really know if I like him. I mean, I like to argue with him." He adds quickly, "I don't like guys." Unless it's Ueda, he doesn't say.

"Maybe don't focus so much on the labels. Liking someone doesn't have to define you."

"If only he wasn't so lame," Ryo whines. He thinks about Ueda's stupid ballad about winter's embrace, about his hair barrettes and the way he wears lip gloss.

"Was he lame in bed?" Yasu asks.

"No, he was fucking amaz—Hey. Why am I telling you this. You pervert!"

Yasu laughs and socks Ryo in the arm. "Just talk to him."

*

When Ryo checks his phone later that day, there's a message from Ueda:

Nishikido

I know this is weird. I don't know if you remember what happened. Maybe it's better if you don't... It was wrong of me to take advantage of you like that.

But. This isn't a recent thing for me. This isn't a drunk thing for me. It's been a while. Remember when we had to read those dumb letters to each other on stage?

Since before then.

I didn't mean to tell you like this. But, well, now you know. You can make fun of me all you want.

Also, I have your jacket.

Ryo reads the message over eight times before rushing out the door and hailing a taxi.

*

When Ueda answers the door, he is wearing a depressingly oversized fleece sweater that looks big enough to drown in, like he thinks he will be able to disappear into it. His hair is shorter now, just scraping the tops of his ears and tapering at the back of his neck. He doesn't look anything like the sexy girl Ryo thought he saw that night in the club.

But he still looks like Ueda.

Ryo stares at him, a thousand possible ways to start the conversation but what comes out is: "You cut your hair..." He kicks himself. Ueda was right, he wasn't smooth at all.

"Yeah," Ueda says, fingers fidgeting with the sweater sleeves. "Now no one will think we're together."

"You didn't have to do that."

"What, did you want people to think I'm your girlfriend?"

"As it turns out, I don't really give a fuck what people think—" Ryo says, not totally believing it until the moment the words come out of his mouth, but suddenly he's kissing Ueda right there in broad daylight in the doorway to Ueda's apartment. And he doesn't care who sees.

(Although he hopes Friday will get a better angle on Ueda's face this time, listening for a shutter click. If he's going to have a love scandal he wants people to at least get the facts straight.)