Everlind

Drabble Dump

everlind — Fri, 07 Jun 2013 19:37:28 GMT

I don't know. This just happened.

Ohtori forgets how this started.

This being his hand walking playfully over the length of Shishido’s spine, his warm skin absolutely wonderful under his fingertips.

He knows this isn’t… normal?

At one point they crossed a certain line that went beyond friendship, landed half in boyfriend territory and spent the rest of its time awkwardly straddling a border that wasn’t even properly defined in the first place.

Shishido makes his cheeks burn, sometimes. When he smiles -just like that- rough and sweet and crooked, for him only. God, it really makes his stomach flutter. Shishido will see this, smile some more and cup his burning cheeks and just -hold him. Breathing one another. Just. Perfect. And the next moment they could be horsing around and teasing each other, like two stupid teenage boys ought to.

They’re nothing and everything.

It’s really confusing.

It works.

It works until Ohtori thinks too hard about it. When he starts thinking, he realizes how strange their… their thing is. Being around Shishido calms him. Around him he can be his best and his worst, without having to worry about a single damn thing. Shishido is warm and welcoming and so, so beautiful, that it physically hurts to look at him sometimes. He wants to touch him and be close to him, to make sure he’s secure and happy and smiling. Loves to have his arms full of him, laughing, warm, so warm and smelling like… well. The place he wants to be. The only place he wants to be.

Surely that is love. But they never really kiss. Okay, no, sometimes they do. Shishido has no qualms about touching his mouth, or visa versa, but it’s just that… it’s only that. He loves Shishido’s mouth because it’s his and he wants to touch it because it’s a part of Shishido’s face, whether he does so with his hands, skin or own lips. But they don’t…

kiss.

Like that.

Ohtori doesn’t really think about doing so, either. He’ll be close and Shishido’s mouth will be there and he’ll say hi, but that’s it. And he touches him, strokes his skin, marks the blemishes and notes the freckles. Peels his shirt off sometimes, so it’s easier. Shishido’s skin is wonderful.

But.

It’s intense and it hurts and it dizzies him, but it’s not.

Not.

Sexual?

Not really.

One day Ohtori thinks too hard, can’t understand and recognize what they have, it’s so harsh and gentle and when did it even start? He loves Shishido, he’s sure of that.

So he pushes him down and kisses him.

Like that.

Sweeps his tongue into his mouth and tastes him. He tastes amazing, wonderful and sweet and like nothing he has words for. Shishido lets him, kisses back. But when they pull apart they consider each other, carefully, and, no, nope this is not… it is, but not like that.

Ohtori has him pinned. Shishido is so beautiful, his long hair spread around his head like silk, his lips swollen from the kiss and his eyes nothing but faithful, at ease and adoring. Maybe a little mischievous and Ohtori love that, loves how infinitely precious he feels, the curve of his cheek and the column of his neck, even as he knows Shishido is capable of overpowering him.

It’s everything and nothing. Ohtori frowns down at him, confused and a little hurt. So Shishido pulls him close, cradles his head against his chest and soothes him.

No, he doesn’t understand it. And he forgot when he stopped being able to.

All that he does know is that Shishido is where, who, he needs to go to when his own self is not enough. It’s weird, because it’s often not to crumple and have to be held. No. Often it enough to have him there, be able to touch him.

This.

His hand walking along Shishido’s knobby spine, rucking his t-shirt up as he goes. Shishido is on his stomach, caught up in a video game. Ohtori’s day was hell, he doesn’t even know what his father wants anymore because Ohtori is doing all he can.

Yet when his fingers conquer the bony bump where his spine connects with the base of his neck, do a little victory tap-dance before face planting in the heat of Shishido’s skin, it doesn’t matter. Dark hair is soft and steaks along his face as he nuzzles the back of Shishido’s neck. All his senpai does is tip his head back in acknowledgement before settling on the game once more.

That’s all he needs.

He forgot how this started.

But it’s what he needs.

Drabble Dump

everlind — Fri, 07 Jun 2013 19:16:11 GMT

Guys. Guys. This is HOMESTUCK. Not Prince of Tennis. Homestuck. Yes, I know. Color me shocked. There isn't even sex or cats in it. Crazy stuff. Everybody dies, by the way. Skip if not your cuppa.

For extra sad: Background music

Bright Eyes

For some reason you expected the end of the world to be more…

Louder.

Yeah. Instead there's nothing. Nothing but your labored breathing. Fuck. You really fucking hate red. And it's all over you. Can't even lick your lips without swallowing the nasty stuff down. Terezi would get a kick out of this. Where is she? You try to recall when you last saw her. Fierce and beautiful as she hacked everything down that stood in her way. Not here. There's only you here. You and the end of the world.

Guess you're really going to die here, then. Alone.

Fuck.

For a moment panic pulls you under and your vision goes hazy. You pant for air even as it makes your blood pump out faster through hole in your chest. Fuck. Fuck this, you don't want to die alone, you really don't, fuck fuck fuck, you don't even know if you won and if they're okay, what if they are out there, dying, dead, gone, because you fucked up yet again and you have to help them, you're their leader, what if they need you?

Fuckdammit. Get up you useless piece of shit.

You try.

You fail.

Blood leaks out around you.

It's warm. Feels perversely good against your cold skin. So many stars. You look at them, because that's all you can do. You're beginning to get sleepy. Fuck, what a hilarious piece of bullshit. You're never tired. You don't have time to be tired, fuckdammit. So why are you just lying here?

Oh yeah.

You were busy dying.

Okay, you're sort of scared. Your fingers curl, blood gathering under your claws. Warm. Fuck, you're shivering. The stars are beautiful though. So blue. Why did you never notice that?

"Karkat."

Fingers touch your jaw, smooth back your hair. Raindrops fall on your face. Warm. Feels nice.

"Karkat."

Fuck.

So tired.

You scowl at the stars. Water slides down the curve of your cheek and slips between your lips. Salty. Clean. Better than your own goddamn mutant blood, that's for sure. The stars are so blue. Like the sky.

What?

John leans over you.

You blink.

"Found you," he says and smiles down at you.

He's red, too. Huh. Wasn't his moronic God Tier pajama bullshit blue? Dave? No. No, it's definitely John. It's his black hair and wide blue eyes. He's also dirty and battered and bruised. His face is wet, drops of rain down his cheeks. And red. Almost as red as you. He looks like shit.

You tell him as much.

He laughs, softly, head bowing over yours. "Yeah, well. You don't look so great either, buddy," he chuckles.

It hurts so much when he lifts you, but he does it so gently you let him. Allow yourself to cradled in his arms, head leaning against his shoulder. You feel like your worthless body is made out of lead, straining to sink through him and into the earth. But it feels good, too. He's so warm. Your head tips sideways and you exhale against his skin.

John wipes blood off your face with the heel of his hand.

"Did we win?" you ask. Your voice comes out surprisingly clear.

"Yeah," he says, as he swipes his thumb over the bridge of your nose. "We did it."

"Good," you nod a little. "… John."

"Hm?"

"I'm dying."

"I know."

"Oh."

"I'm here."

He's warm.

"I wish I could say goodbye to them," you say. "See them one last time." A snort escapes you. "Sentimental bullshit, huh?"

John swallows. More rain splatters onto your face. He uses it to clean the red away, smearing it away with great care.

"Don't cry, John," you say.

"You first, stupid," he answers. The tip of his finger follows a wet track down your cheek. And then he kisses you. Your lips are almost too numb to feel him. But you think it's nice, nonetheless. He tastes like blood. Yours or his own, it's hard to say. It doesn't matter.

You both sit there for a while. John tries to smooth your hair back, carefully arranges it around your horns. Eventually he sort of begins to sag, chin dropping towards his collarbone, until he's curled over you, clumps of his hair tickling your face. It takes everything you have left, but you fumble for his hand and curl your fingers around his.

It's so quiet. Nothing but your labored breathing. And John's.

Then he starts to sing.

"Bright eyes,

burning like fire."

You barely hear it over the sluggish, desperate convulsing of your blood pusher. He sort of whispers it against your eyelashes.

"Bright eyes,

how can you close and fail?

How can the light that burned so brightly

Suddenly burn so pale?"

John is cold now. Against your cheek you can feel the wavering beats of his… his heart? Yes. Heart, that's what they call it. It's different than yours, only two beats. Ba-dump. Like that. Not like yours. Ba-woosh-da-ump. His is simpler. Straightforward. Like John himself. It sounds nice.

When John lies down next to you, you're not afraid anymore. You can barely feel him, but he's there, right next to you.

The end of the world isn't so bad, you think.

John's lips against your neck, his fingers laced with yours. His red is the same as yours.

You're not sure who goes first. It doesn't matter.

"Bright eyes."

The stars sure are beautiful.

FicAlert! PoT> Tezuka's Hairy Little Problem (Tezuka. gen. ) PG Pt2

everlind — Fri, 07 Jun 2013 18:52:17 GMT

Title: Tezuka's Hairy Little Problem
Recipient's Name: Everybody from the funpotexchange
Author: Everlind
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 11 400
Pairing/Characters: Tezuka. Cameos from various other characters.
Warnings: Crack, Tezuka-style. Sort of. Kittens. Fuji. Kite being purple. Gouya. Oh, and killer whales.
Summary: Tezuka rescues a cat.
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: My recipient was 'the community' (funpotexchange). So I decided not to roll about in Silver Pair like a dog in its own pee and come up with something everybody might enjoy. This happened. Uhm. I'm sorry?
Thanks go to S. and M. for sparking this idea.
This story would not have happened, nor be what it is without the help of my amazing beta neooldetokyo. I am the luckiest bastard alive. Thank you.

Tezuka's Hairy Little Problem

"Why don't you keep her?" Fuji asks during practice next day.

Tezuka frowns at him.

Fuji beams back. "You seem awfully attached to her."

Tezuka frowns some more, adjusts his glasses. Tries to tune Fuji out by letting his eyes follow Kawamura's burning stampede at one side of the court. He nearly beheads an unfortunate Kaidoh who is supposed to function as his doubles partner.

"Have your parents actually told you you had to get rid of her?" Fuji goes on.

He purses his lips.

"We don't think you any less focussed because you've become attached to an animal, Tezuka," Fuji murmurs softly, looking up at him unsmiling.

Tezuka stares at him.

Fuji smiles again. "Well, Inui might," he concedes. "He hopes the cat might be the key to your downfall."

Does he?

"INUI 15 LAPS!"

Inui glasses wink in the early morning sun. After a scribble in his notebook he takes off.

Fuji shakes his head. "And perhaps I was hoping you'd lighten up a little, ne, Tezuka?"

Tezuka narrows his eyes.

Holding up his hands in surrender, Fuji laughs. "I'll start running," and he jogs off to join Inui.

As they pack up afterwards, Kaidoh lingers. He darts furtive glances left and right. Tezuka, thinking he wants to discuss today's doubles match with Kawamura (and their spectacular loss), dutifully lingers. At last the clubhouse empties, with Inui the last to leave and looking as if he would love nothing better than to hide in the laundry basket and spy on them.

"Buchou." Kaidoh says.

His face is red. Seems like that disastrous match really distressed him.

"Here," Kaidoh mumbles, thrusting his fist out at Tezuka.

Tezuka stares. After an impasse of about a minute Tezuka holds out his hand. Kaidoh drops something on his palm and races out as though the devil is on his heels.

It's a little wind-up mouse.

"But I'm not keeping her," Tezuka says to the empty clubhouse.

***

On his way home Tezuka passes the alley again. It seems just as awful and dank and putrid as it did on the day he found her. The cardboard box is still there, sagging and stained, having sucked up all the juice that leaked from a nearby garbage bag with a big tear in the side. The letters on the paper have blurred into nothing more than random hazy squiggles. Inside there's still two fingers' width of murky water.

Suddenly Tezuka can't stand the sight of it anymore.

He grabs the box and lifts it. The sides tear clear away from the bottom and the water splashes onto the bottom of his pants, stinking and disgusting. It trickles down his wrists and into his sleeves when he stuffs it into a dented garbage can, out of sight.

He slams the lid on it and turns his back on the alley.

***

Cat massages Tezuka's belly with little feet. The stink of garbage still seems to linger, elusive and sickeningly sweet, even though he took a scalding hot shower. Flat on his back on bed, Tezuka stares at the ceiling, troubled.

He can't keep Cat.

Inui is right.

He's been late twice, the whole of his allowance is gone and he's had to ask for one in advance so he could buy more milk replacer and litter to fill the tray so she can properly attempt to do her business. There has been no time for English lessons on the radio in the morning nor for The Gluttonous Player Title in the evening. He's completely forgotten about his diary besides the single sentence he set down on the day he found her (incidentally being: 'found a cat today.'). He's had little to no sleep and no extra time to play tennis at all. He thinks about the cat all day and all night, worried and frustrated and hoping she's okay.

Careless.

Not to mention the exams are looming close.

Cat stops kneading and climbs up to his chest to turn herself into a little curl to sleep. Right over his heart.

Tezuka never intended to get a cat.

***

Besides those of his family, Tezuka doesn't have that many numbers listed in his mobile phone. Not even all of his own team members. Some class members. Miyuki. Atobe. A few others.

He's asked everybody from the tennis club and all those he considers friends in school. His mother asked neighbors. And the neighbors' neighbors. He's tried Miyuki and Atobe. Tezuka doesn't want to take Cat to the pound; he won't settle for anything less than a loving home. And he would prefer it if she went to someone he knows, too.

It's not that he really knows Kite, let alone trusts him, but Tezuka's judgement of another's character is infallible and for all that Kite is ruthless, he's also surprisingly caring and loyal. So Tezuka calls Kite as Cat piddles in the tray with litter like a proper little lady.

A static click as the call is answered.

There's a considering pause before Kite talks. "Tezuka," he drawls, slow and pleased.

"Kite." Tezuka answers.

"Do what do I owe this…" a lingering pause, "pleasure?"

Tezuka can imagine him lounging about somewhere, looking like the cat that got the canary, dressed in something impractically form-fitting.

And purple.

Definitely purple.

Very, glaringly purple.

"Tell me, Kite." Tezuka begins. "Do you have any pets?"

"I do." Kite answer, almost reverently.

"Oh?"

"Do you want to meet him?" Kite asks.

Tezuka blinks and shifts uneasily. Glances at the door. Fervently hopes Kite isn't inviting him to… visit. Or intending to visit him.

"Stay right where you are," Kite instructs him, sounding gleeful as though about to offer him a real treat. Not that Tezuka would ever accept any treats from Kite; he's not suicidal. Besides, any animal Kite would keep can't be anything but bad news. Tezuka imagines it to be slick and slippery. An eel, perhaps. Or a poisonous frog. Or some illegal crossbreed of sorts.

There's a rustle and then an hollow absence of noise that signifies he's put the phone down. Tezuka once again glances at the door, thinking that somehow he wouldn't be surprised if Kite was suddenly standing there, looking all purple and his glasses glinting eerily.

Meanwhile Cat inspects her puddle, seems to deem it worthy and then buries it.

Kite returns to the phone. "Tezuka, meet Pi-chan. Say hello to Tezuka, Pi-chan."

Pi-chan says: "I'm going to feed you gouyaaaaaaa."

Applause filters through the phone. Kite is simply delighted. "Good boy Pi-chan! Whosagoodboy? Yesyouare! Yesyouare!"

"Kite?" Tezuka asks.

"Yes?"

"What the hell was that."

"GOUYA!" Pi-chan croaks threateningly.

"Pi-chan is a cockatiel." Kite says. "He's my number one."

Not only is Kite's clothing inappropriately snug and purple and does he play dirty and cheats, he's also clinically insane. Tezuka is not really surprised at all.

"Our eyes met in the pet shop," Kite goes on, his voice going tender and faraway, as though reliving a wondrous moment. "It was fate. Sometimes, Tezuka… you just know when it's right. You'll feel it in your bones."

"I see," Tezuka says neutrally.

"Goooooooooooooooouuuuuuuu-" Pi-chan interjects, "-yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

"Whosaprettybird? whosaprettybird?"

"Gouya."

"Pi-chan is!"

As nobody but Cat can see him do it, Tezuka takes the liberty of making a face.

"I'll kill anybody who'll harm a feather on Pi-chan's head!" Kite informs him at that moment, as though having sensed a disturbance in the force. He sounds direly serious.

Only his head? Tezuka thinks. Better not say that. He might wake with Kite standing over his bed, dressed in a purple cat burglar suit, about to force-feed gouya to him. He's not quite sure what would get to him first: all the purple, or the gouya. He decides not to mention Cat, either. For some reason Tezuka doubts that offering Kite to adopt Pi-chan's natural enemy would be a good move.

He'd better extract himself with haste. "It was nice to meet you… Pi-chan," he says, mouth twisting.

"Say bye-bye to Tezuka, Pi-chan!" Kite goes, apparently never once suspecting Tezuka from anything else but a burning desire to meet his brain-addled bird and listen to it threatening him with gouya.

"Feed. You. GOUYA." Pi-chan says.

"Yes, good day," Tezuka replies and promptly hangs up.

This conversation may just give him nightmares.

***

"Saa, Tezuka," Fuji says at practice next day.

Tezuka is not in the mood for Fuji. Inui just fed Momoshiro a glass of his newest batch: Inui's super-special-ultra-awesome-spectacular-utterly-mindblowing-majestic-and-shiny Juice Deluxe version 5 point three and two quarters.

Momoshiro seems to be quite dead.

Inui takes notes. "Not quite what I was expecting to happen," he murmurs as he nudges Momoshiro with the tip of his trainer.

"Tezuka?" Fuji prompts, poking him with a sharp finger right between his ribs.

"Aa," Tezuka goes, through clenched teeth.

"Why don't you ask Yuuta? About the cat? Yuuta loves cute animals!"

Tezuka blinks and stares at him. Fuji is making about as much sense as his tennis does.

"We can go ask him as soon as practice is over," Fuji says, smiling. "Ne? It's a date! Eiji, want to play a game?" he hollers and then positively skips off.

Tezuka stares at his retreating back and feels the onset of migraine creeping up on him.

***

They meet Yuuta at the street courts. As if it is not bad enough that Fuji is there… being, well, Fuji, Mizuki is there, too. Yes. Definitely a migraine. All Tezuka can think of is that he wants to be home, tucked up in bed with a novel and Cat curled up in the curve of his neck, purring. Instead he's somewhere near St. Rudolph's. With two Fujis and Mizuki.

And it is raining again.

Mizuki is wearing a purple raincoat.

Tezuka eyes is wearily.

And the umbrella that Yuuta is holding up for him has golden roses on it.

Tezuka eyes that wearily, too.

And when Mizuki puckers his lips and liberally applies pink gloss, Tezuka decides to avoid looking at him altogether, lest the purple canary shrieking GOUYAGOUYAGOUYA from his dreams last night is possibly joined by something even worse.

Which is proving to be hard as the first thing Mizuki does is flounce up to him and announce, "Tezuka-kun. Good to see you," as though they're old chums in a golf club. He tosses his head and his hair does an artful flip in response. "Fuji," he adds. Significantly.

"Hn," Tezuka goes, deciding that some noise of acknowledgement is in order as not to appear completely impolite.

Fuji looks right through Mizuki. "Yuuta!" he says, smiling happily.

"Yo, aniki," Yuuta replies, corner of his mouth tugging up. "Tezuka-san," he adds, politely, inclining his head.

As… unique as Fuji's tennis is, sometimes Tezuka wishes they'd have gotten Yuuta instead. Yuuta, whilst young and reckless, is normal. Mostly. More normal than his brother, at least.

"What did you want to see me for, aniki?" Yuuta asks, stuffing his free hand in the pocket of his windbreaker.

"Tennis, I assume?" Mizuki chuckles as he plays with his hair. "Nfu."

Fuji ignores him. "Do you want a kitten, Yuuta?"

Yuuta blinks. "Uhm. Why?" he ventures.

There, see? Yuuta is normal. The first one not to repeat 'cat' as though he's never heard of such an outrageous concept before. Maybe he can swap club members with Akazawa. Heavens know that St. Rudolph can use stronger players and Tezuka would be able to boast having at least one normal individual on his team. Which might just be worth ditching Fuji for.

"I found an abandoned kitten a few days ago," Tezuka tells him.

"That's terrible," Yuuta says, looking genuinely scandalized that there's still people on the loose who're that heartless.

Tezuka makes a mental memo to call Akazawa as soon as possible.

"So, what do you say?" Fuji prompts, elbowing Tezuka with a smug little quirk sitting around his mouth.

"Yuuta," Mizuki says.

"Er," Yuuta glances sideways at Mizuki and then back at Tezuka. "I suppose I could ask the principal? I think there's this one guy a floor up who's got a bunny."

"Yuuta," Mizuki says.

"Maybe Onee-san could go with you, Yuuta!" Fuji tells him enthusiastically. "Her… physical presence is usually rather convincing."

Yuuta blinks an innocent blink. "Uh, er, I suppose," he says.

"Yuuta," Mizuki says.

"You could have all the kitten's commodities I've obtained so far, too," Tezuka feels obliged to point out.

"Really?" Yuuta says, grinning. "That's great, I-"

"YUUTA!" Mizuki shrieks.

"-I … what, Mizuki-san?" Yuuta turns to him, a faint frown on his features.

Mizuki hold up a finger. The nails seems suspiciously… periwinkle. Tezuka promptly looks at the ground. "First of all, my hair is getting wet." Glancing at the umbrella, Yuuta hastily rightens it, spluttering an apology. "Second of all…" He pauses dramatically. "A cat?"

Yuuta stares at him. "I like cats," he says.

"A. CAT." Mizuki repeats, turning about as purple in his face as his coat is.

"…yes?" Yuuta says lifting a brow.

Mizuki puts the back of his hand to his brow and swoons. "I can't believe you'd be that inconsiderate of me, Yuuta," he sniffs.

Fuji glares at him.

"What-what do you mean?" Yuuta babbles, looking worried.

"HAIR! Yuuta-kun!" Mizuki says mournfully. "Hair. Cat hair. Everywhere. On all my clothes!"

"Uhm," says Yuuta.

"MY CLOTHES. YUUTA-KUN!" Mizuki adds.

"I…I…" Yuuta flounders.

"What are you even doing in my little brother's room?" Fuji asks sweetly.

Mizuki glances nervously at him. Yuuta mumbles something about homework, red in the face. Fuji's eyes, instead of narrowing, go even wider.

Mizuki pouts. "The idea is preposterous. I can't believe you were considering this without even a single thought about the consequences."

It seems that consequences is interchangeable with 'Mizuki's wardrobe'. Tezuka sighs.

"But-" Yuuta mumbles.

"No more!" Mizuki moans, looking away and blinking rapidly. One sob escapes him. "It is clear where your priorities lie. I shall go now. I think I need to lie down in a dark room, I can't… I just- can't…."

A pause.

Mizuki isn't going. He's still standing there, posing as if about to rush away in anguish, not moving.

"Ahem," Mizuki says.

Yuuta looks at him, lost.

"The umbrella, please?" he hisses through his lips.

"Oh!" Yuuta gives it to him.

Mizuki twirls off.

The three of them stand in silence, rain misting down on them. If Yuuta is in the least bit disconcerted about the… oddity of the situation (and Mizuki), he's hiding it well. In fact, he rather looks as though this is something he deals with on a regular basis.

Instead he mops rain off his face with the back of his hand. "I guess that's a no, then." Yuuta says, sounding disappointed. "Sorry, Tezuka-san."

"Aa," Tezuka nods. "It is no trouble."

And there's no way he's letting Cat anywhere near Mizuki.

"Yuuta," Fuji speaks up, voice like liquid honey. "Does Mizuki help you with your homework… a lot?"

"Uhm."

"Does he ask you to do strange things, Yuuta-kun?" Fuji insists. "Or does he touch you? In inappropriate places?"

"ANIKI!" Yuuta shrills, going red in the face.

That's when Tezuka decides it is time to go home. He's reached his quota of being able to deal with sheer madness today and then some. Likely enough to last him for ever.

No more.

***

Cat hasn't had any other accidents besides that one time she peed down his neck. Both Tezuka and she like for her to ride on his shoulder. Cat will nestle under his hair and purr, little claws clutching at his shirt, sometimes accidentally puncturing his skin below. Tezuka doesn't mind much. He rather likes tipping his head to the side and feeling the soft brush if her fur against his skin.

That's where she's sitting when Tezuka decides to tell his parents that he has failed to find a home for her and maybe they could consider keeping her.

"You were still looking?" His father says, frowning vaguely. "She been here for nearly two weeks. Your mother and I have already rather resigned ourselves to her staying here."

Tezuka counts. It hasn't seemed as long to him.

"Of course, sweetheart," his mother says, smiling. "I am actually sort of happy to see you taking to the cat so. I am sure you are different around your friends but here at home you are so serious at times!" she titters. "Even worse than your father."

"Honey," his father mumbles, frowning.

Tezuka frowns, too.

"Just mind that you have to care for her yourself. We'll help you with some necessities, like the litter," his father tells him, giving him a level look. "A shame of your allowance, otherwise, I think."

Tezuka bows his head, heart strangely buoyed. Cat rattles her purr into his ear. "Thank you," he says, softly.

His father flashes a rare smile at him.

"What are you going to name her?" his mother asks him, beaming up at him as though Tezuka has just conquered some vastly important milestone in his life.

"Cat," Tezuka says. It's how he's been thinking of her for a while.

"…just Cat?" his mother repeats, smile falling and looking exasperated.

"There's a certain logic in that," his father adds, sounding nearly amused. He catches Tezuka's eye.

"Well," Tezuka says, smiling not quite back at his father. "She is cat-shaped."

"True that," his father nods sagely.

Tezuka's mother throws her hands into the air. "Oh, the two of you!" she exclaims and stomps off to vent her frustration on the dishes. His father and he share a rare lifting of the corner of their mouths.

Back in his room, Tezuka watches Cat play with the toy mouse Kaidoh bought her. Cat stalks it, intent and serious, even when it has run down and just lies there. Every few minutes Tezuka will reach out and re-wind it and let it shoot off again, making Cat nearly ballistic as she tears after it, all clumsy stick-legs and twitching tail.

She's his. She's staying.

Forever.

There's a knock on his door and his grandfather sticks his head inside. "Sanada's kid will take the cat."

"What?" Tezuka blurts, surprising himself.

A peculiar look crosses his grandfather's features, nearly hidden by the semi-shadows of the hallway. "Genichirou."

Tezuka feels like he did during that match against Atobe. The sensation of throbbing pain and something slipping through his fingers -so close. Nearly unforgivably close. The toy rockets to a halt against the side of his foot. Cat bounds up to it, but instead of attacking she lies down on his foot. Tezuka stares at her, numb.

"Mother and father just said…" he begins, haltingly.

"I heard," his grandfather interrupts him, not unkindly. "But I went out of my way to ask and he said yes. Will you back away now?"

Cat has stopped purring. She's rigid.

Tezuka feels the same.

But what he says is: "Of course not. Thank you for your hard work."

***

It is like he's not really there when he packs Cat's things the next day. The litter tray has been scrubbed clean and Tezuka puts the remainder of the milk replacer, as much cans as he can and the mouse inside. His hands move methodically, stomach churning, while fighting the way his throat constricts.

Cat is sitting on his bed, watching him.

Tezuka can't look at her.

It is for the best. He knows this. Just looking back at the absolute chaos that represent the past two weeks of his life tells him enough. Not to mention the state his bedroom is in. The cans taking up half of it, the molested tennis balls, the brand new racket strings that she's chewed on. When she's adopted Tezuka's life could line up seamlessly with his old routine again, there could be more tennis and more time for studying. He might write in his diary again. He'll have enough sleep again. Everything would be as it is supposed to be.

But what he feels has nothing to do with logic at all.

It hurts to pick her up and tuck her against him, bearing her away. He can't look at his mother frowning at him out of the living room.

This is the right thing to do.

Sanada.

How come he never even actually considered Sanada? How come he thought of someone like Kite, but not Sanada? He interacts far more with Sanada and has known him for years. Sanada, besides perhaps Oishi and Kaidoh, would be the most obvious choice of all.

So why did he never even think of asking him? Perhaps, unconsciously, because some part of him knew that Sanada would say yes.

His grandfather drives him. The litter tray slides around a little on the seat next to him, but Cat is tucked against his chest in the crook of his arm. Tiny, delicate claws are hooked tight into his sweater and her ears are flat. She looks as miserable as the day he found her.

The ride to Sanada is rather long, but it seems much too short to Tezuka. Through the window a green haze of wet, dripping cedar trees flashes by, interspersed with pockets of equally drenched, waving bamboo. Everything is gray and cold and sodden, much like his insides. His eyes ache, he was unable to sleep but for brief, restless snatches. Part of that is due to sitting up against the headboard with Cat napping in the cradle of his arms. So little. Only a baby.

Will she forget about him very fast?

When they pull into the drive of Sanada's house and pass the Koi pond, Tezuka thinks he may just be unable to get out of the car. His whole body seems to freeze, worse than yips, a wave of numbness engulfing him like a cold wave. He's always loved the way Sanada's house looks: traditional and compelling. Serene. Now he'd rather be home, take a small leap into the past and remain stranded back into yesterday evening.

Anticipating their arrival, the front door opens and Sanada's grandfather hobbles out. After a moment, Sanada comes trailing behind.

Whatever it is that he feels, it is not yips. Tezuka takes a deep breath, adjusts his glasses and slides out of the car, shielding Cat from the frosty bite of the wind that rakes the mountains so high up.

Sanada looks like he always does. Tall, broad and forbiddingly serious. The only aspect out of place is the lack of his cap, revealing a glorious cowlick in his hair, sticking up as though inspiring to be an antenna one day.

"Tezuka," he says, giving a stiff jerk of the head in greeting. "Renji mentioned that Inui had told him about your, ah, problem."

My furry little problem.

Tezuka feels his throat close up dangerously. Barely he manages a nod and he's quite unable to muster up so much as a shred of annoyance about Inui's gossiping. He coughs to clear his throat. "I have her litter tray with her things with me," he begins, fighting his own voice into flawless steadiness. "I figured you would have better use for them, now."

"Aa," Sanada agrees. His eyes fall to Tezuka's chest, where Cat clings like a fledgeling bat to the wall of a cave. His face softens.

He swallows. Cat seems fragile between his fingers, ribs like spun glass barely protecting the frantic hammer of her tiny heart, the fur like downy gossamer, ill equipped to protect her from any harm.

It is better like this. Tezuka lifts her away from himself.

Cat digs in her nails and mewls, dragging his clothes away from his body with her, before a small tug disconnects her. Paws spread wide, she grips uselessly at the air, suspended. Her tail is tucked up against her tummy.

Tezuka holds her out to Sanada, eyes averted.

Sanada's large hands lift to receive her, but drop before he actually takes her. "Tezuka," he says. "You don't-"

"I do," Tezuka injects, voice flat and cool. "I cannot keep her. It would be careless."

One of Sanada's brow lifts as he gives Tezuka a Look.

Tezuka is not much of a talker, even about something that lights him afire with passion such as tennis. Nor is he prone to showing his emotions, not for any other reason than that's who he is. But words escape him now, despite himself, in a flat monotone as though he's discussing something as trivial as a grain of sand, and not the creature he is making himself give up.

"I do not have the time, nor place to keep her. My room is full of cat food for which I have no place and because I have to contain her there she chews on everything. The strings of my rackets, the pages of my novels, the wires of my computer. It has been necessary for me to severely disturb my usual routine to feed her and care for. I have barely had the time to continue following my English lessons on the radio, or even make entries in my diary, let alone go to bed at a respectable hour. I am not particularly good at feeding her, my uniforms and clothes are constantly stained. I have done nothing but care for the cat for two weeks, with barely any regard towards my tennis and doing only a mediocre amount of effort for school." He takes a deep breath, head swimming. Cat hangs motionless between his fingers, staring up at him. "Exams and tennis are coming up. I need to be prepared," he finishes.

There.

All of it is absolutely true.

Sanada will understand why it needs to be so. But Sanada just stands there and looks at him, still with that eyebrow lifted. He appears almost amused.

Tezuka feels a curl of frustration, or even more. Is he mocking him?

"There is no reason for me to keep her," Tezuka grits out and thrusts her a little closer towards Sanada still.

Sanada makes no move to accept the cat, but clears his throat instead. "There is," he tells Tezuka.

Tezuka stares at him.

"You do not want to give her away." Sanada says, matter-of-factly. "Tezuka. I estimate one more week and she'll be ready to start on solid food. In a few weeks she'll be almost entirely self-sufficient. After a couple of months she'll roam outside for a considerable amount of time. Cats are like that. Self-sufficient."

"But-"

"Atobe told me that he played you recently," Sanada's voice cuts in like the blade of a sword. The wind scatters a lock of hair across his forehead. His eyes burn like fire. "He told me you were more formidable than ever."

Tezuka shakes his head. "But-"

"Before long the cat will be entirely independent," Sanada goes on steadily, like waves hitting a rocky shore with endless patience. "Not to mention that I highly suspect that this so called mediocre amount of effort towards both school and tennis will be unnoticed by anybody else but yourself."

"And Inui," Tezuka mutters, despite himself.

Sanada's mouth curves slightly. Now he does lift a hand and almost despite himself Tezuka has to suppress the violent urge to snatch Cat out of reach. A hand lands on Tezuka's shoulder, warm. "Just keep the cat, Tezuka." Sanada says. "You don't want to give her to me."

Cat chooses that moment to cry. It's a forlorn, weak whimper that stabs home like a dagger to his heart. Gathering her into a fuzzy ball under his chin makes something thaw inside of him. Cat clutches at him.

"And I don't think the cat wants you to, either." Sanada adds. And then he cracks a rare smile.

It is enough to leave Tezuka less than succinct for a while, disbelieving.

But then slowly he smiles back.

***

"There's a problem," Tezuka says.

Both their grandfathers cease their discussing of whose wrinkles are the most glorious to behold.

"A problem?" Sanada's grandfather says.

"Aa," Sanada says. "Achoo. Achoo." he adds.

Tezuka nods, too. All serious. "It seems Sanada is allergic to Cat."

"You are?" Sanada's grandfather says, sounding perplexed.

"Achoo achoo," Sanada says. Again. "Achoo." One more for good measure.

"Huh." Sanada's grandfather goes, brows lifting. "I don't remember you ever being."

"A terrible shame," Tezuka nods solemnly.

"Sure is. Achoo sniff," Sanada says.

Tezuka's grandfather stares hard at him, eyes keen. "Hm," he rubs his chin, dragging wrinkles in his wake. "Seems like you have no choice but to keep it," he says.

"I shall do what is necessary," Tezuka replies dutifully.

"Achoo," Sanada says.

"Kunimitsu," his grandfather says. "Don't be careless again." His eyes are entirely too knowing, but suddenly kind and slightly amused. He seems to be fighting a smile.

Tezuka looks down at Cat cuddled away in his clothes. "Aa," he agrees. He won't be. It nearly cost him more than he was prepared to give.

And it seems like his grandfather knew this. A test?

A gnarled but strong hand takes his bicep and steers him towards the car. "Let's go home," his grandfather says.

Cat goes with them.

-omake-

A week later Tezuka receives a padded envelope in the mail. His mother brings it up to his room for him, interrupting him as he studies. Cat sits near his feet, gobbling out of her dish. Instead of milk on the floor and on his clothes, it is now gourmet cat food.

There's more inside than just a letter. He cannot recall expecting anything at all. Carefully he cuts it open, mindful not to potentially damage anything inside in case he needs to send it back.

Out falls a collar. A cat collar.

Tezuka nearly recoils in horror.

If Kite and Mizuki hooked up and did unspeakable things together, this might just be the result of it. The collar is a lurid, eye-watering purple, with pink roses stitched across every single millimeter of it. Diamonds sparkling brighter than Fuji's tennis line it at regular intervals. A golden medallion finishes it off. Engraved on the front is 猫.

Tezuka frowns at it, then gingerly reads the accompanying note.

It's from Atobe.

After a beat, Tezuka laughs. Out loud.

His mother yells up, asking whether he is alright and what is that strange noise?

He tells her he's alright.

More than ever.

-fin-

FicAlert! PoT> Tezuka's Hairy Little Problem (Tezuka. gen. ) PG Pt1

everlind — Fri, 07 Jun 2013 18:50:56 GMT

Cold, fat drops of rain begin to splatter down as he walks back home. They leave coin-sized marks on the pavement where they fall. One plummets down the neck of his collar, raising goosebumps. Tezuka never lets his guard down; he's left the house prepared. A young woman in a business attire hurries along the sidewalk, briefcase over her head. Tezuka steps aside to let her pass and then opens up his umbrella.

The rain clatters on the clear plastic before streaking down like errant tears. Tezuka shifts his bags and thinks about his homework. There's is quite a lot of it, the exams are looming closer. After bath and dinner he might not have time to read that new book he recently purchased, or to watch his program. No matter. His grades are more important.

I won't get careless! Tezuka tells himself. He'll not allow anything to distract him.

It starts raining harder. His feet swim in his shoes and everything from mid-thigh down is soaked. Tezuka thinks about his bath again, about which bath salts he might use. It's cold. His exhales fog his glasses in steady bursts. No use in wiping them off.

Something squeaks.

Tezuka stops walking.

Something squeaks again, high and plaintive.

He cranes his head left and right, squinting against the haze covering his glasses. It comes out of an alleyway. There, on the ground near some garbage cans, is a soggy cardboard box. A puddle flows around it, oily rainbows warping across the surface.

Cautiously approaching it, Tezuka peers inside. A small something makes feeble paddling movements in the inch of water that has collected at the bottom. A paper is taped to the side, announcing:

FREE KITTENS.

It hardly looks like cat. Still, Tezuka can't stand by and let this happen. So he takes the towel he used for tennis practice, fishes for the flailing cat and wraps it carefully up. It's pathetically tiny. Its pink mouth opens wide on a mewl. It shivers.

And then Tezuka stands there with a kitten in his hands, quite at loss of what to do with it.

So he takes it home.

***

"I don't know, Kunimitsu," his mother says, eyeing the kitten skeptically. "Perhaps you could take it to the shelter?"

"Aa," Tezuka says. The kitten squirms around feebly within the folds of the towel. The once white terrycloth is gray where the fur touches.

"But I think they'll be closed by now," she adds.

"Hn," Tezuka nods. That is unfortunate.

"Poor thing. I'll get a box."

"Thank you," Tezuka says. He'd rather wished she'd take it off his hands so he could take a bath. The cat smells. He's cold. His socks are wet. He's got homework. But he always finishes what he starts.

His father lowers the newspaper and looks at his son. His glasses hang from the end of his nose. "Why don't you ask any of your friends whether they want a kitten?"

A good plan, why did he not think of that himself? He could have gone to Oishi's, or Inui's first and ask, before taking it along home. Perhaps not Inui, Tezuka reconsiders. Momoshiro had to spent the whole of afternoon practice on the toilet with cramps. Again. Who knows what he'd feed a cat.

His mother arrives with an old box that once held their microwave. It is padded with clean, but old towels. Tezuka puts the kitten inside. It sort of squats in the middle of the box, squeaking. Its tail is curled up around a hind leg.

He'll call Oishi first.

***

"Tezuka!" Oishi greets him, sounding pleasantly surprised.

"Oishi," Tezuka says. "Do you want a cat?"

"I, ah? What?"

"A cat."

"A…. cat?"

"I found one," Tezuka says. He's sitting cross-legged on a towel in his room. He's taken off his soaked pants and socks so he would not track puddles on the floor, but nothing else. He needs to take care of the cat first. The box sits against the end of his bed. Occasionally a querulous mewl comes from it.

"What do you mean?"

Tezuka tells him about the box in the alley, the rain.

"Oh, is it alright?" Oishi asks immediately after, sounding distraught. "Is it injured? Have you checked?"

Tezuka looks at the box and realizes that there may be more to this than simply rescuing the cat.

Oishi seems to realize as much. "Check whether it is bleeding anywhere and if it can walk alright."

Nudging the kitten produces another squeak. There's no blood. It crawls along on its belly when prodded. "Seems to be," Tezuka says.

"Make sure it is not undercooled from being in the cold rain so long. Oh! And try to feed it! If it is a baby you may have to give it a bottle. And make sure it doesn't have fleas."

Fleas?

Tezuka withdraws his hand. "Aa," he says. The kitten looks rumpled and sad. "So, will you take it?" Tezuka asks again.

"Oh, I am sorry, Tezuka," Oishi apologizes. "I have fish. And cats and fish… well. You get the picture."

He does.

"I see," he answers.

"Why don't you ask Echizen?" Oishi suggests instead. "He's got Karupin, doesn't he? Maybe a friend for his cat?"

A good idea, Tezuka concedes. Why didn't he think of that himself?

"Thank you," Tezuka says, and hangs up.

***

With his index finger already hovering above the buttons on his phone Tezuka realizes that he has no idea what Echizen's mobile phone number is. So, ever organized, he checks the register for the tennis club and comes up with his house number instead.

He dials it and waits. The kitten mews plaintively.

Someone picks up. "Yes?"

Tezuka does a slow blink.

"This is Tezuka Kunimitsu speaking," Tezuka says. "Might I speak to Echizen?"

"Eh?" the other person says. "Mitsi? Are you Ryoma's giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-rlfriend?"

"Excuse me?" Tezuka exclaims.

No answer, instead the man on the phone can be heard yelling: "Ryoma! It's your girlfriend on the phone! Issit the one with the cute hair? She's got a really low voice, though."

Some mumbling and bumbling about. They appear to be wrestling. His father (or one of Echizen's rude uncles, he rather hopes) asks Ryoma about third base. Tezuka wonders what sports has anything to do with it.

Eventually Echizen seems to succeed in liberating the phone. He sounds slightly breathless and not so slightly annoyed. "Who is this?" he asks.

"Tezuka," Tezuka answers.

"…buchou?"

"Aa."

"Why are you calling?" Echizen asks, sounding vaguely perplexed. "Is it about tennis?"

"No."

"Oh," Echizen goes, sounding more like his usual self. Bored with the universe at large.

"Do you want a cat?" Tezuka asks.

"A cat?" Echizen repeats, sounding confused again.

Tezuka frowns. Why does this seem so hard for everybody to understand? His mother hollers a floor down about dinner. Tezuka's stomach rumbles in answer. Echizen breathes down the line, waiting.

"Aa," he answers.

"I have a cat," Echizen tells him.

"Maybe your cat wants a friend?" Tezuka suggests.

"No," Echizen answers. "Karupin doesn't like other cats."

"I see," Tezuka says, pursing his lips.

His mother yells once more about dinner. The cardboard box in his room sways as something thuds against the side. The kitten cries. It is probably as hungry as Tezuka is. A second thump and the box teeters over. The cat rolls out.

"Ask Kaidoh-senpai," Echizen offers, sounding distracted already. "He likes cats, but doesn't have one."

"Thank you," Tezuka tells him.

They both hang up.

Meanwhile the kitten has tottered over to Tezuka and his pressing its clammy, cold and likely flea-infested body up against Tezuka's leg. For warmth. Tezuka checks the time. It is late. Too late to disturb Kaidoh. And the cat needs looking after first.

"Seems like you will be staying the night," Tezuka remarks with a sigh.

***

They try cold fish. They try slivers of meat. They try bread soaked in milk.

The kitten refuses everything. Instead it cries and cries and cries. With lukewarm water they manage to get it cleaned up some. There's no fleas. Small mercies.

Tezuka's dinner gets cold. He still hasn't bathed. He still has homework. Eventually his parents wander off towards the living room, leaving Tezuka to try and tempt the kitten into eating and drinking. His grandfather shuffles in about an hour later. He purses his lips down at him.

"Is that cow’s milk?" he asks, indicting the broth.

Tezuka nods.

"Careless!" his grandfather shouts, causing both Tezuka and the cat to jump in surprise. Milk and soggy bread splatters everywhere. "It could give it diarrhea!"

Even though the kitten isn't interested, Tezuka pushes the bowl away instantly.

"I'll take you to the veterinarian," his grandfather says.

***

The veterinarian gives Tezuka milk replacers, in a ready-mix liquid formula, as well as suitable soap to wash it with.

"It's a very young kitten," she tells him. "You'll have to bottle-feed it regularly and take good care of it. It is lucky she's relatively healthy. Make sure to hold her close so she'll stay warm, and put heating pads in her box for the night. She just peed, so she can do that alone, but make sure she has a clean place to relieve herself."

Relieve herself? Pee? Bottle-feed?

But what about his dinner? His bath? His homework? Tennis?!

"Can't you keep it?" Tezuka asks.

"Her," the veterinarian corrects him. "And no." she puts the kitten back in his hands.

Tezuka pays with the money he'd been saving up for a limited edition book set he's had his eye on for a while. There's an additional fee for the after-office-hours service. All of his allowance disappears in a fat wallet that does not belong to him. The kitten burrows into the neck of his sweater, tiny claws sharp as needles. Her chilly nose smudges along his jaw.

It is still perching there when Tezuka tries to chew through his stale, rubbery dinner. It took him over an hour to bottle feed it, milk spilling everywhere. On his glasses, on all the rest of him, on the cat, on the table, on the floor. Somehow even on the ceiling. Another cause for his grandfather to call him careless. He won't let it happen again! A thorough washing had been in order, so Tezuka had bathed her carefully. Only then himself.

It is late. Past his usual bedtime. He still has homework.

His eyes droop a little.

The kitten wriggles in his neck. Then pees, a warm liquid squirt aimed straight down his spine.

"Careless!" his grandfather says, shaking his head.

His mother remarks how wasteful it is to run a second bath. Tezuka nods, apologizes and then thanks her. While he washes himself a second a time, the kitten flounders about in the folds of his discarded clothing.

Tezuka knows he could only have done the right thing. But he'll be glad when the kitten goes to Kaidoh tomorrow.

He scrubs his neck and back and shoulders with the loofah until his skin peels off.

***

Throughout the night, the kitten wakes Tezuka with its piteous calls. Thrice he attempts to feed it. Only once it is actually hungry. His alarm goes off at three so he can re-heat the pads to keep her from getting cold. She mewls on regardless, until, at four, Tezuka takes her into bed with him. She stops meowing, but now Tezuka doesn't dare close his eyes lest he dozes off and rolls onto her in his sleep. At five-thirty his alarm goes off again. Tezuka yawns over his breakfast, through his stretches and during his weight training.

His grandfather eyes him disapprovingly. His mother tuts and fusses.

It is necessary to feed the kitten again instead of following the English lessons on the radio as he usually does. His mother reluctantly agrees to feed her during the day, taking in the smear of milk on his cheek and the scratches on his forearms.

Of course, all the fussing with the bottle and the mess that needs to cleaned up after makes Tezuka late for practice. Three whole minutes.

For the first time in his life.

Careless! he tells himself. He won't let his guard down ever again. And yet, all he can think about is the kitten, worrying his mother will forget to re-heat the heating pads, or that she'll be unable to get her to drink. What if she escapes from his room and someone steps on her? What if Chu-sama (Tezuka's old teddy bear) isn't enough to keep her company?

As if that isn't enough Momoshiro and Kaidoh are on the courts face-to-face, fighting.

"OH YEAH?"

"YEAH!"

"SHUT UP, YOU IDIOT!"

"NO, YOU SHUT UP MAMUSHI!"

Tezuka hurriedly changes into his uniform and steps out on the courts, calculating the appropriate amount of laps all the while. Nobody is playing any tennis. He may make all of them run extra for this.

"My, my," Fuji says, shaking his head and sounding disapproving. Notably, he is not doing anything at all to prevent the scene. Tezuka frowns at him and clears his throat to assign enough laps to the both of them that they'll still be out of breath by this afternoon's practice. And that might just mean they'll not have enough left to pick fights with one another.

"Saa, Tezuka," Fuji says.

Tezuka blinks and looks down at him.

"You are late."

So he is. "My apologies," Tezuka says. "I was… held up."

"YOU SMELL, MAMUSHI!"

"WHAT KIND OF INSULT IS THAT, IDIOT?"

"Aah, guys, please-" Taka tries to pry them apart gingerly.

"What is the problem this time?" Tezuka asks Fuji.

"YOU SMELL LIKE FEET!" Momoshiro yells, helpfully.

"YOU SMELL LIKE BUTT!" Kaidoh retorts.

"No idea," Fuji replies, smiling.

"GET YOUR UGLY FACE AWAY FROM ME, YOU IDIOT!"

Tezuka notes that Kaidoh appears to be foaming at the mouth. Perhaps he'll pass out before long and they can continue practice in an orderly, disciplined fashion. Hosing them always creates enough of a mess that they'll need the rest of the morning to mop it all up. And Tezuka intends to be playing tennis (while Kaidoh and Momoshiro run laps until the soles of their trainers catch fire). He opens his mouth to yell.

"Chances of Tezuka being late… 0,01%," Inui says, looming up besides them out of nowhere. "I may need to recalculate that now, considering your, ah, hairy little problem."

"Tezuka has a hairy little problem?" Eiji repeats loudly, wrinkling his nose and dropping a pointed glance where apparently he suspects this issue to be situated. Fuji copies the gesture, but does not seem as dismayed as Kikumaru is at the prospect. Intrigued more like.

"I-" Tezuka begins to say, inching away.

"Tezuka encountered a felis silvestris catus last evening," Inui explains.

Kikumaru yelps, somersaulting away in a flash. "Is that contagious?" he queries from a what he judges to be a safe distance (the other side of the court).

Tezuka frowns at Inui, wondering if he should bother asking how he even knows.

"Ah, Tezuka," Oishi calls him, smiling but looking harried as Kaidoh and Momoshiro continue screaming in the background. "How's the cat you found yesterday?"

Thank you, Oishi. Tezuka inclines his head gratefully. "Still alive."

"YOU STUPID BIG GORILLA!" Kaidoh snarls, standing close enough that spit flies into Momo's face.

"OH YEAH?" Momo spits right back.

"YEAH!"

"A cat?" Fuji repeats, looking up at Tezuka with interest.

"Aa," Tezuka says.

"Did you find a home for it?" Oishi asks.

"Not yet, no." He pointedly looks at Fuji, Inui and Kikumaru, lifting his eyebrows.

They smile big plastic smiles back.

So that's how it is, then.

Inui clears his throat and scribbles something in his notebook. "Chances of Tezuka asking Kaidoh next… 92 %. But success rate is likely less than 0.02%."

"AT LEAST A GORILLA IS SMARTER THAN A STUPID SNAKE!"

Tezuka spares half of his frown in their direction before leveling the rest of it at Inui.

"Kaidoh's brother is allergic to cats," Inui adds hastily.

"IS NOT!"

"IS TOO!"

"NOT!"

"TOO!"

"Guys, guys, please!" Taka sighs. "Violence isn't the answer."

Oishi sighs. "I'll get the hose."

Tezuka frowns.

"What about Echizen?" Fuji suggests.

"I've already asked."

"That is troublesome," Fuji says. Utterly unhelpful.

I know, Tezuka thinks. I was three minutes late!

"TOO!"

"NOT!"

"TOO!"

"NOT!"

"NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT!"

"TOO TOO TOO TOO TOO TOO!"

"NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT-"

Tezuka screams: "50 LAPS!"

***

Oishi comes home with him after school. Just the two of them; Tezuka is faintly relieved that Eiji is unable to tag along because he had to rush home for some errand. It is raining again and Oishi does not have an umbrella with him. Tezuka reminds him not to let his guard down -especially considering it has done nothing but rain for two weeks now-, but holds his own out to the side so they can share.

"AH, Oishi-kun!" Tezuka mother chirrups as they pile into the genkan. "How nice to see you again! Staying for dinner?"

"Tezuka-san," Oishi returns, smiling warmly. "My mother will expect me home, I am sorry."

"Nonsense! I'll give her a ring to let her know you'll be staying. We're having clam soup," she smiles over her shoulder before disappearing into the living room.

Tezuka suspects his mother would love to adopt Oishi.

Upstairs Oishi coos over the kitten. It suckles busily at the tip of his pinkie while Tezuka prepares the milk replacer. Oishi gives her the bottle while Tezuka watches thoughtfully.

"Who's a good little girl?" Oishi sing-songs. "You are!" The kitten nestles in his hands and sucks hungrily.

Tezuka frowns a little. "I'll do it."

"Of course," Oishi agrees, and hands her over.

They sit in silence for a while. Clean and dry, the remaining daylight now shows the kitten to be a striped gray. She fits in the palm of Tezuka's hand as he cups it against her body to steady her.

"Ah, I picked something up for you at the pet store!" Oishi says, pulling the zipper of his backpack open and wrangling a rectangle-shaped something out of it. A litter tray. In pink. With white hearts on it. "She needs to learn how to pee properly. You can fill it with some clean sand or paper towels for now, I suppose," he shrugs and hands it to Tezuka.

He accepts it with his freehand, corralling the cat against the inside of his knee to keep her from toppling as she drinks enthusiastically. "I'm not keeping the cat," Tezuka replies, holding the tray at a distance, unsure of what to do with it.

"I know. I'm sorry I can't help you, Tezuka," Oishi says. "If it weren't for the fish I'd love to have her."

"Aa," Tezuka nods, setting the tray aside to deal with later. All this doesn't solve his problem, though.

The kitten empties the bottle and promptly rolls to her side in the cradle of Tezuka's legs. It starts to purr.

"You know," Oishi says, considering the cat. "I may know someone else who might take the cat."

"Oh?"

"Aa, it is someone who already has a pet, but I'm not sure what it is. A cat or a dog or a bunny. But he likes animals," Oishi reasons. "I'll give you his number."

***

"Moshi moshi?"

"Shishido?"

"…er, yeah?"

"This is Tezuka."

"… who?"

Tezuka sighs. Oishi makes a wry face. "Tezuka," he repeats, slowly.

"Tezuka."

"From Seigaku." Tezuka adds.

"I know that," Shishido mutters. "I think you have the wrong number." A pause. "Sir," he adds, sort of awkwardly.

"This is Shishido Ryou?"

"Yeah."

"From Hyotei?"

"Yeah."

"Then I have dialed the correct number." Tezuka says. Atobe's regulars seem a little dim-witted. Must be taxing to communicate with on a daily basis.

"Isn't it Atobe you're meaning to call?" Shishido says Atobe like people say: 'my grandmother's dirty panties'.

"…no," Tezuka says, thinking this ought to be obvious when the first thing he said was Shishido's name. He must offer Atobe his condolences. Suddenly those rumored migraines of his do not seem spur-of-the-moment dramas designed to make his fan base flutter and swoon with concern at him.

"Uhm," Shishido goes. "What do you want?" he asks carefully, as if he fears Tezuka may blackmail him for past crimes committed. Or recent. Likely tennis-related.

"Do you want a cat?"

"Excuse me?"

"A cat," Tezuka repeats. Then adds. "Meow. You know."

"I know what a cat is!" Shishido bursts out. "What am I gonna do with a cat? I got a dog."

"Ah," Tezuka says, frowning. 'Dog' he mouths at Oishi.

Oishi gives an apologetic shrug. The cat kneads Tezuka's thigh and purrs. It still has a milk mustache.

"My apologies," Tezuka says after a pause. "Oishi suspected it might be a cat."

"Che," Shishido goes. "Choutarou's the one with the cat."

"I see," Tezuka says. "Thank you."

"WAIT-" Shishido starts.

Tezuka hangs up.

***

Through Kikumaru they acquire Ohtori's number. Oishi stays chatting on the phone with his doubles partner as though they haven't seen each other in centuries. He wonders what those two still have to talk about after a day of being attached at the hip. To give them privacy, Tezuka wanders into the hallway with the kitten riding on his shoulder, sharp claws clutching at his shirt.

He punches in Ohtori's number. Within seconds it is picked up.

"Tezuka?" Shishido says.

Tezuka blinks a slow blink. "Yes?"

"Why did you hang up? Choutarou was sitting right next to me," Shishido scoffs. "Waste of time."

In the background, Tezuka can hear someone else exclaiming: "Give me my phone Shishido-san!"

"Ah," Tezuka goes, momentarily at loss for words. "So. Does Ohtori want a cat?"

"D'you want another cat, Choutarou?" Shishido asks, a grin in his voice.

Ohtori is sitting close enough that Tezuka can clearly hear him answer: "My cat is allergic to cats."

"What?" Tezuka says, despite himself.

There's a pause. "That's fucked up Choutarou," Shishido says.

"She has special NEEDS!" Ohtori says gravely.

"I'll bet," Shishido mutters. Then adds to Tezuka, "I am sorry, Tezuka-san." Perfectly polite as-you-may all of a sudden.

Tezuka blinks again. Shishido is weird.

"Atobe's got loads of animals though," he continues. "Elephants. Penguins. I bet he can handle another kitten."

"I suppose," Tezuka concedes. He'd rather been hoping he could've avoided asking Atobe. "Sorry for the trouble," he adds.

"No problem," Shishido answers.

Tezuka hangs up.

In his room Oishi squeals: "EIJI!" Then he giggles.

Lifting a hand to absently scratch the kitten on her head, Tezuka considers that despite their differences, he and Atobe may just be in the same boat, after all.

***

After Oishi has gone home, Tezuka sits at his desk and revises today's classes and subjects, completes the homework and goes through a stack of Science III notes for the exams. After dealing with Atobe's Doubles One pair, he really doesn't feel up to contacting Atobe himself, too. Plus, for someone like Atobe he'd better plan a whole uninterrupted evening. He's tiresome like that.

It's rather late, but Tezuka decides to read one chapter in his novel regardless. He takes the book and the kitten into bed with him, props himself up with some pillows.

Outside it still rains, the pattering against the window panes is soothing. He wants to concentrate on his book, but all he can think about is how someone simply dumped a box of kittens in a rat-infested alley with no regards for their safety. He can only hope that the other kittens were taken away by well-intended people and have found good homes. Terrible to think that they did not care about this one last kitten and left her behind in such a downpour. Against his side the kitten lies curled up like a little knot, too small, too scrawny. Tezuka rests his palm on her body.

He'll do his very best to find her a good home.

***

"Found anybody who will take it yet?" his father asks.

"No," Tezuka says, shaking his head. He's feeding her the bottle at breakfast. "But I am pretty confident that an… acquaintance of mine will take her."

"Really?"

"Aa."

"Well then, that's positive news, no?" his father says rather pointedly before disappearing back behind his newspaper.

Tezuka blinks. He supposes it is. The kitten suckles hungrily, tucked away protectively in the crook of his arm.

***

The gates swing wide. An enormous mansion looms in the distance.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Tezuka." Atobe announces, mouth curling.

The limo rolls smoothly up the drive, passing a pond where a flock of flamingos pick their way though the water. He's not quite sure how he ended up sitting in this sleek black vehicle with Kabaji next to him and Atobe lounging artfully across from them. One moment he was simply calling him to ask about the kitten and the next Atobe insisted on showing him that he has the very best accommodations available for any sort animal and Tezuka simply must come and see for himself.

Peafowls strut over the immaculately tended lawn. They sit on hedges trimmed into shapes of unicorns and giant tennis balls. They nest in flowerbeds teeming with blooms in all possible colors. Suddenly a roar echoes over the grounds and they flutter their wings in distress.

"They must be feeding the Siberian tigers," Atobe remarks with studied casualness. "We have agreed to aid in the breeding program - a fairly important undertaking, seeing as these magnificent creatures are endangered."

"Aa," Tezuka says. He doesn't quite know what else to do but nod occasionally. All he wants to know is whether Atobe will take the kitten and raise it with love, patience and wisdom. Siberian Tigers have no matter in that. He hopes.

The car pulls to a stop right before a broad set of marble steps leading up to the mansion. A butler opens the door. Tezuka feels monumentally awkward and slightly annoyed. He can open the door of the car perfectly fine himself. Atobe leads them inside, gleaming shoes crunching on the shining white gravel. Kabaji trails a pace behind Tezuka on the left, as though he suspects him for attempting to make a break for it. Tezuka's almost tempted. He much more prefers either of their company on the other side of the net on a tennis court. He knows precisely what to do then. But this is rather beyond him.

"Would you care for some mimosa, Tezuka?" Atobe ask him.

When one is Tezuka Kunimitsu, one does not say 'umm'. But it is pretty close right then. Instead he just blinks in a way he hopes to be enquiring.

"It's virgin."

He has absolutely no idea what Atobe is babbling about, though he would not be surprised he has a harem of willing girls at his beck and call stowed away somewhere. "No, thank you," he says eventually. "Sorry for the trouble."

"My mother and father are still entangled in some debate with a few of our business associates," Atobe continues on smoothly, flipping his hair aside. "My apologies."

Though he simply inclines his head, Tezuka knows only relief. As if one Atobe is not bad enough. Perish the thought of dealing with three of them.

"Shall I show you the killer whales, perhaps?" Atobe asks him, smiling.

Tezuka sincerely hopes that the whales won't have anything to do with cats, rather like the tigers. But he is a guest and thus he shall strive to be perfectly polite and courteous, so he follows. They are led through sumptuous hallways. Vases of roses teeter on what seems to be any available surface at hand. Intricate frescos dazzle him when he looks up. Marble floors gleam. Paintings hang at perfect intervals, portraying men and women with Atobe's hair and eyes, the proud tilt of his chin. They pass through what seems to be a vast ballroom, an incredible dining room flaunting a table that must be able to seat over fifty people and an indoor swimming pool complete with several slides and three jacuzzis.

Tezuka suspects Atobe is not quite taking the most straightforward route.

At long last they arrive at the basin. Three orcas, each about the size of a bus, weave through the water with surprising grace. At a gesture of Atobe one of them swims up to the glass pane and regards them with keen intelligence.

Atobe looks at him expectantly.

Tezuka stares back. "I suppose you keep your cats elsewhere?" he ventures after a while.

"Of course," Atobe tsks. But he deflates some. "Come along then."

This time it only takes two hallways and a staircase. Tezuka can hear the cats before he sees them. At a snap of Atobe's fingers, Kabaji opens a door.

Cats.

Everywhere.

More than Tezuka ever imagined there were.

All sizes and colors and sorts. Cat condos, scratching posts, climbing jungles and cat beds. Skeins of wool, wind-up mouses and wall dancers. Gleaming bowls of food, sparkling saucers of water. Pristine litter boxes.

Tezuka can only stare. No doubt this must be a paradise for cats. A herd of cats stampede towards Kabaji and clamber all over him. The purring is deafening. Kabaji stands stoic, big shovel-sized hands delicately petting, his feet covered in a rolling furry blanket of adoring felines. Their fur shines sleek and bright with health.

Atobe seems pleased with his reaction and steps inside to pluck up a specimen bearing striking likeness to Echizen's cat. "Any questions you have you may ask Mikael, he'll answer them."

"Pleased to be of assistance," Mikael says, bowing to him.

"Aa," Tezuka agrees, wondering whether Atobe keeps butlers folded away in corners for when he has need of them. Like those virgins.

Mikael has an open, friendly face when he directs himself at Tezuka to ask: "What sort of cat will be joining us? A California Spangled? Kurilian Bobtail? Or a Minskin perhaps?"

"I am not sure," Tezuka hazards. A pause. He thinks for a moment. "She has stripes," he adds thoughtfully.

"Ah." The butler says, blinking. "No matter, they are all welcome. Even those of… ah, less fortunate lineages."

"Good," Tezuka says, pleased. "She is still very small and needs to be bottle-fed. I assume Atobe knows how to-"

"Bo-chama?" Mikael splutters, seemingly shocked that Tezuka dare suggest such a thing. "No, of course not. Though he would undoubtedly be skilled at it, taking care of Bo-chama's pets is part of our job."

"… I see," Tezuka says. "So he does not…" he wonders how to express 'love' or 'cuddle' without sounding profoundly foolish.

Thankfully, Mikael seems to know what he is attempting to convey. "Bo-chama makes an effort to distribute his presence equally amongst all his pets. Usually he takes a greater hand in the care of the hounds and horses."

"Hm," Tezuka purses his lips.

Mikael seems flustered. "It is simply impossible for Bo-chama to spend time with every single one of the animals every day. They adore him regardless, even those on the island."

"The… the island?" Tezuka repeats, shocked.

"Hai," the butler smiles at him, interpreting Tezuka's blank look for one of profound awe. "For the animals that do not fit on the premises. He flies out to visit them once a month."

"Right." Tezuka says.

Atobe must have seen some of his concern in Tezuka's eyes, because he walks up to him with all presences dropped. "Tezuka?"

"This…" Tezuka frowns, uncomfortable that he must turn Atobe's offer down. "While I have no doubt that these cats are well taken care for and content, I would prefer to find someplace more… of a home."

Atobe opens his mouth to protest, then closes it. "I would not mind keeping her in my room," he hazards after a while.

"Bo-chama already has so many responsibilities!" Mikael protests. "I would be honored to-"

"Sorry for the trouble," Tezuka delicately interrupts him. "But I will look elsewhere. You are very generous, Atobe."

Atobe looks rather pinched, as though he's failed a very important test. But he nods, slowly. "I understand."

What an uncomfortable situation. Both Mikael and Kabaji stare at Tezuka as though he is a heartless wretch for making Atobe doubt his prowess at caring for animals. And it is not that Tezuka even doubts him, or questions the contentment of any creature he owns. But he intends to find the cat a home where there's someone who smiles at her first thing in the morning and bids her a goodnight every evening. Someone devoted to her with their whole heart and soul.

After having been left to die in the rain, that is the very least she deserves.

Tezuka doesn't know how to explain this. So he offers the very best next alternative. "We could play a game of tennis?"

After a stifled moment, Atobe smiles a smile as sharp as a razor.

***

The sun is setting when they are forced to decide on a draw.

Neither of them would have, but a butler looking mighty like Mikael had come trotting up to them to inform Atobe that his father required him inside. And it seems that Atobe's father will is law, because Atobe did not even attempt to put up a protest, even though he is clearly reluctant.

"Tezuka," he says between heavy breaths as he pats at his face with a snowy white towel. "My driver will take you home."

"That won't be-"

"Yes, it will be," Atobe cuts over him. "I am giving you a little something for your… ah, kitten. And I won't take no for an answer," he hurriedly adds as Tezuka opens his mouth.

Tezuka closes it to produce a proper frown before saying: "I am not keeping the cat, Atobe."

"Ahn?" Atobe goes, muffled, with his back turned to Tezuka. "Well, then I suppose you can give it to whomever will become her new owner."

The little something turns out to be what seems a lifetime supply of luxury cat food. Tezuka has no choice but to stack the cans in his room. They line a whole wall and then some, like a bad parody of new wallpaper. There's also a sea of cans lined up like soldiers under his bed and yet more cans under his desk, stacked so far out Tezuka now has to sit with his knees drawn up on his chair if he does homework.

Wonderful.

***

That night Tezuka lies curled on his side in bed, watching the fuzzy bump of the kitten's body as she sleeps. Carefully, with the tip of his finger, he strokes along her spine. She's soft.

Surely there must be someone who would take her and love her like she's supposed to be. It is impossible not to adore something so tiny and fluffy. She's positively… cute. Tezuka's train of thought grinds to a stop. Cute. Girls like cute things, don't they? How can this not have occurred to him before?

"I think I know someone else who might like you, Cat." Tezuka whispers to her under his breath.

In her sleep, she sighs and tips her head into his palm.

***

Miyuki picks up almost as soon as the dial tone engages. "THIEF-BRO!" she shrieks through the phone.

Tezuka winces. In his lap, the kitten arches her back and hisses. Sort of. It rather sounds as though she sneezes. The outburst actually propels her backwards and she lands in a confused heap between a pile of books and tennis balls.

"Miyuki," Tezuka acknowledges.

"It's been so LONG!" Miyuki tells him. "Why didn't ya call me sooner?"

Scooping Cat up Tezuka drops her in the cradle of his legs again. He'd rather have her not wandering off. Before school this morning she'd crawled under his bookcase and had refused to come out. Tezuka had been five minutes late this time, arriving with dustbunnies still clinging to his hair. Inui had felt it necessary to comment that his Hairy Little Problem was distracting him. He's not distracted! But he can't hardly let her stay and starve under the bookcase either.

Meanwhile Miyuki is going on a mile a minute. About school, about tennis, about her brother, about how Tezuka just disappeared and how is his shoulder?

He tells her it is fine.

"We should play again, Racket Thief-bro," she says suddenly, a little too fast, a little too flippant.

Tezuka blinks. He's not sure if he should tell her that it is a long way to go for one single leisure match. There's an awkward silence as Tezuka fails to provide a proper response.

"That's… that's not why you were calling, huh?" Miyuki mumbles at last.

"Aa," Tezuka manages, realizing he didn't do something he was supposed to do but not quite sure what it even is. "Would you like a cat?" he asks instead, hoping to cheer her.

"… a cat?" Miyuki echoes, sounding monumentally unimpressed.

"A cat. Meow."

"I know what a cat is!" she snaps.

It's like Shishido all over again. Tezuka pinches the bridge of his nose.

Miyuki sucks in a breath and continues in a calmer tone: "What would I want with a cat?"

"Keep it as a pet?' Tezuka hazards.

"Tcha." Miyuki sighs. "I don't really like cats."

Impossible.

"But…" Tezuka looks at Cat. "She's small and cute and fluffy?"

"So what?" Miyuki asks him. "Not all girls like that sorta stuff, Thief Bro."

"Oh," Tezuka goes, confused. "I am sorry for the trouble."

"No big," Miyuki answers.

Running the backs of his knuckles along her tiny body, Tezuka silently apologizes to Cat. Another dead end.

On the other end of the phone Miyuki whispers softly: "Guess I'll see you around then?" and then a small hopeful "Sometime?" follows it up.

"Of course," Tezuka answers, smiling a little. "Bye-"

"Thief-bro."

"Yes?"

"You sound like you'd rather keep the stupid cat yourself. Silly."

She hangs up.

Tezuka stares in disbelief at his mobile phone.

…on to part two!

Comment on part two, please.

Drabble Dump

everlind — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 18:38:12 GMT

This happened and I don't even know.

On top of everything else, it is too much.

The only reason that made the past half year bearable was the illusive promise of after. After meant change. Any change at all, no matter how minute. However negative even, just something to take and grit his teeth against. Just being visible for once.

Everything within his power to do, he’d gone and done. Made national television through his contribution as a pianist for a famous play. Had his artwork hand-picked and displayed in four of the most important buildings in Japan (and, no, dammit, none of them were owned by Atobe). Graduated with the highest marks to have been obtained in the past eight years. Contacted by five lawyer firms the day he was out of university.

Wordlessly, he’d opened all five envelopes (thick, white paper. Bold yet elegant script. Personally written, not just a template that had been copy/pasted) and then put the propositions on the kitchen table in a stately, wide fan.

His father had said nothing.

Nothing.

And failing that, all he’d wanted was for his girlfriend to just… hold him. Make him realize there was a better reason for having been unbearably lonely for the past six months. For her to just hold him and smile at him and take him to bed so he could lose himself.

Instead she’d been distant. Hurt. Because he had abandoned her. Never mind that he’d been doing it for her. Them. Their future. For his father. His mother. And maybe, most of all, yes.

Dammit.

Yes.

For himself.

Worst of all? He gets it. Of course she’s hurt. The last time he saw her was three weeks ago for a lunch date at a coffee shop. During which, admittedly, he was utterly focussed on his laptop and the thesis he was putting the final touches to. It wasn’t that he didn’t miss her, he did. Like a burn on the front of his heart. But everything had had to be pushed away because he couldn’t do it if he allowed anybody close. He’d just crumple and cling to the offer of support, let his tight control slip.

Everything was supposed to be… better? After. Or at least different?

Instead it is the middle of the night and he’s still got nothing. Like he’s missing a big, vital part and he’s used too much of himself to realize what it is. It’s snowing and it’s cold. Ohtori is not quite sure how he wound up outside in the middle of the night, can’t remember what happened or how he got here. He’s just so tired.

Eventually he’s shivering so hard he can hear the clack of his teeth echo eerily through the empty streets. Realizes he should pause and take a moment to figure out where he is and where’s he’s going. Looks up, vision blurry.

Recognizes where he is. Recognizes the small house he’s standing in front of instantly. Recognizes the shape of the motorcycle carefully tucked under a tarp before the window.

This, at least, makes sense.

It takes five minutes of continuous leaning on the doorbell before the sound of a bolt being slid free reaches his ears.

And there he is.

He looks absolutely perfect. Shishido is in a pair of large, baggy sweatpants, fluffy socks with puppies on them and a long sleeved shirt so big it leaves his left shoulder naked. Long hair tied back in a mussy ponytail, more strands out than in.

After a moment of blearily blinking up at him, Shishido growls: “Have you any idea what time it is? No, shut up. I’ll tell you. It’s three in the fucking morning.”

Ohtori blinks at him.

“This had better be fucking good,” he says, but reaches for Ohtori’s frozen fingers and tows him inside.

What hurts most is that somehow, even though he’s only heard him once in the past year -over the phone- is that here, with him, it is stepping into something wild and warm and nameless.

And achingly familiar.

Shishido is careful and slow, mindful of the pain in Ohtori’s cold hands, his utter exhaustion. He’s warm, like curling down in a patch of sunlight on the first nice spring afternoon, and smells of sleep. He’s rumpled all over and just that is enough to overwhelm him with the slow bubble of something neither of them have a name for, even after all these years.

Love, yes.

Happiness, yes.

Home, yes.

No.

Not really.

No words for this.

No words for Shishido fishing up a sweater and pajama pants from Ohtori’s, neatly folded and stowed in the top drawer along the rest of his clothes. Helping him dress when he gets too sluggish to do it himself and all but shoving him into bed when he stands around dozing. The way he just crawls in right after and gathers him against his front -arms around Ohtori’s shoulders, legs around his hips, mouth in his hair. In answer Ohtori raises his legs until the tops of his thighs touch Shishido’s buttocks, as if he’s sitting on his lap somehow.

He smells like soap and skin. Drowsy and warm and good and Ohtori presses his face into the arch of his neck and breathes in deep. Fingers drag slowly through his hair, teasing everything into a hopeless nest of curls, before smoothing it all down again, three, four strokes before his hand cups the back of his head. Answering with a slow press of his lips against Shishido’s jaw, Ohtori sighs, deep and endlessly relieved.

They’re both endlessly tired, Shishido is nearly slack and soft with sleep except for the fingers playing in his hair and Ohtori just done, having nothing left. Nevertheless he slowly begins talking and he’s sure half of it doesn’t make any sense and is slurred as he grows upset again. He fears he mights start to cry and stops himself harshly, a word choked off in the middle. When Shishido’s thumbs move over his cheeks in slow, gentle sweeps, Ohtori realizes he is.

Shishido dries his tears, ducks so they can touch their foreheads together and kisses them away instead. It’s sweet and somehow pure, even as he passes over his eyelids, nose and mouth, not so much a kiss as an inability to express what he wants.

It’s always been like this.

It’s beyond anything he has a word for and he guesses this is something uniquely them. All he knows it’s something real and powerful that somehow falls under ‘love, romance, relationship’ and yet misses all three of those entirely. Often he’s wondered if this a by-product of the way they played tennis. Letting all their shields and sense of individuality slide away until they needed no words, no contact, no nothing to understand the other perfectly. They never achieved synchro, even though once Ohtori wanted to more than anything. At the end of their partnership he’d come to realize they’d somehow moved beyond it, smashed it apart to feeble cobwebs and walked away with half of the other’s self instead because they couldn’t remember how to untangle properly.

So they are left with this, the aching frustration of not being able to crawl past the other’s skin and into his core and stay there. It’s scary and confusing and… consuming, more than everything. And yet somehow simple and good, so damn good, because he doesn’t really need any words.

Shishido is kneading his shoulders, has his mouth resting between Ohtori’s eyebrows and just holds him until he’s boneless and relaxed and warm, so warm, outside and inside, the places nobody should be able to reach.

“Warm,” he says.

“Hm,” Shishido hums, lips quirking. “Proud of you.”

Ohtori is smiling through his tears, feeling his wet lashes catch against Shishido’s face as he blinks. His heart is beating so loud he can hear it when he opens his mouth. He does and they both chuckle, sleepy and tender. Ohtori slips his hands under Shishido’s sweater to feel the gravelly rumble of that laugh against his palms.

They fall asleep like that.

Ohtori’s sleep is dreamless except for the sense of belonging and peripheral heat of Shishido’s skin. In the morning they have shifted a little, he onto his back with Shishido tucked in the curve of his arm, head pillowed on his left pectoral. There’s a leg slung over his hips, heavy and solid. Shishido is already awake, his long hair all over the place and predictably half in his mouth, too. Dark irises meet his own steady in silent greeting as Ohtori wakes up fully. They share a small smile before Shishido nods his chin towards the window.

It’s snowing. Thick, heavy flakes.

They don’t move. This time Ohtori’s fingers wind up in Shishido’s hair, arranging the dark mass so it makes a banner across the bed. Glides his palm along it, marvels at how sleek it feels. Shishido’s lashes are long and beautiful on his cheekbones and he fits just right against him like that, snug against his side.

They just lay there, watching the snow fall.

Ohtori has no idea what is going to happen. Knows he’s going to have to make a decision, will have to decide what to fix and what to abandon, will have to do something. Soon.

But not right now.

Drabble Dump

everlind — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 14:18:39 GMT

A drabble-ish thing. For allthetenipurifeels on tumblr.

It is summer.

Ohtori feels strangely disconnected as he wanders along the food and game stalls. Not in a bad way, actually. It just seems as though his stands in his own bubble of introspection, more sensitive to what is happening and how it all hinges into a great whole as opposed to the people streaming by him caught up in the moment.

It's not quite dark yet, just an haze of evening in the air. Lanterns strung overhead are red blue and orange, leading the way towards the river. If he wants a nice spot to watch the fireworks he ought to head down and secure it, but the bustle and laughter caught between the streets is oddly soothing.

He thinks about heading towards the temple, maybe do a few sketches to try and capture the atmosphere when he walks into him.

Almost.

They recognize each other a heartbeat before they knock together, that same old awareness of the other they had on the court flaring up like cold fire. Maybe that hurts more than the look that flashes across Shishido's face -anger, reservation. His hair is different, tousled across his forehead and longer overall, but it retrains its careless disarray. He's thinner and leaner, as though all excess has been sloughed away until only the core remains, leaving him to walk in a small circle of his own fizzling energy. His face-

No, still the same.

Just guarded now.

"Choutarou," he says, voice low.

"Hi," he says stupidly, not sure whether the familiar use of his name is to needle him or simply because it's what he's always done. "How have you been?"

A muscle near Shishido's eye jumps. "Alright," he says. "You?"

No words for that. Ohtori opens his mouth and exhales, then just shrugs.

Something loosens in Shishido's eyes. The lantern lights make his hair glint red and auburn, pools deep shadows along the muscles of his throat and his collarbone. Looking at the sharp, territorial arch of his shoulder makes Ohtori recall the taste of his skin on his tongue. He knows Shishido is perfectly aware of this. It's in the way his lips part, his eyes cringe away, towards the ground.

His heart doesn't knock faster as much as it knocks harder. Like it is trying to bash its way out through his chest.

"Ryou!" A guy about their age all but leaps into Shishido's neck, grinning. "We lost you."

"Did you?" Shishido's smiling a little and he looks over the other's arm towards a group of people some ways ahead. He waves, effecting a goofy cheerful smile and the others laugh and wave back just as stupidly. Ohtori thinks he catches the red of Mukahi's hair.

Then the both of them swerve back to look up at Ohtori, the boy apparently in no great rush to let go of Shishido. He's handsome in a sharp way, like Shishido is, short black hair and dark eyes.

Shishido sighs and juts his chin towards Ohtori. "That's Choutarou."

A pause.

"The Choutarou?" he asks, mouth making an 'o' of wonder.

Shishido rolls his eyes. "Yes, fuckass, The Choutarou."

An impish grin. Smiles come easy to this one. Ohtori wonders where they met. "I'll be over there with rest. Holler if you need me to hold your hand." With a wink he slides away.

"Asshole," Shishido tells him amiably enough.

"Faceache," the other retorts and bounds away. When he arrives at the others he body-barrels into them all. Shouts of protest reach them. A high pitched yowl sets their teeth on edge. Definitely Mukahi.

Shishido's mouth twitches despite himself, but then he looks back up to Choutarou, expression solemn. It's been a more than a year since Shishido last smiled at him. No, the last they managed to make each other do was hurt. He'd never seen Shishido-san cry and he wishes he could somehow take that back.

He doesn't know how.

"I'm sorry," Shishido suddenly says, staring hard at Choutarou's chest. His throat works convulsively.

"Me, too," Ohtori says. "I shouldn't have-"

Shishido makes a noise and he falls silent. "It's both our fault," he says roughly, but not unkindly. "I should go," he adds hastily, inclining his head towards his friends.

He nods, probably, does something, because Shishido looks one last time at him before twisting around to go.

Ohtori watches him, watches him walk away a second time, and he forgets to breathe. It's stupid, but he just can't, can't inhale, exhale, just open his mouth on the gaping pain and then he's shouting Shishido's name and going after him.

He grabs both his shoulders and shakes him a little. "Look," he begins. "I've missed you." It falls of his tongue as though it's been sitting there all along, waiting.

Shishido's carefully not looking at him. "Choutarou. We can't- I mean."

"No," he snaps and Shishido jumps a little. He's probably squeezing to hard, the muscles under his palms are tense and taut. "No, listen. I miss… I miss you. I miss being around you. I miss talking to you. I miss that you always listen, even when I'm talking about music and you don't understand a word I'm saying. I miss having to nag at you because you never tend to your scrapes and they always get infected and I miss having to smack your hands so you don't pick at the scabs. I miss the way you roll your eyes when I do and I miss the way you tell me off for being lame. I miss the way you hum along to music even though your English is so terrible. I miss arguing about whether cats or dogs are the best. I miss playing Mariokart with you, even though you always cheat. I miss that you came to my concerts despite having to dress up nice. I miss having someone who just… understood. I…"

He inhales. Shishido is staring wide-eyed up at him.

"I miss tennis with you."

His hands drop away and his mouth is dry. When it sinks in what he's just done his face heats up unbearably.

Shishido goldfishes at him, blinks and then, miraculously, smiles. Ruefully, but it's there and it's real. "Geez. Choutarou, you're so damn lame. Seriously."

And then he's laughing, but it's sort of thick and jagged and weird, until Shishido tiptoes so he can hug him properly. That shuts him up. He's probably squeezing too hard again, but Shishido doesn't seem to mind. Besides, the hands wound in the fabric over his back are trembling, too. It's different. Odd that Shishido -his Shishido- feels different after a year, slender but tougher, sharper. But he still smells the same. Ohtori closes his eyes.

"Are you here by yourself?" Shishido asks, voice muffled into the cotton of Ohtori's shirt.

Not trusting his voice, he nods. Dark hair tickles along his cheek.

"Okay," Shishido says and pulls away. "I think we got room for one more."

With a grin he starts walking backwards towards the group, watching Ohtori compose himself for a moment before turning around properly and calling, "You coming?"

"H-hai," he manages and runs to catch up with him.

FicAlert! PoT> Roses (Ohtori/Shishido) NC-17 very

everlind — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 18:47:46 GMT

Title: Roses

Writer: Everlind

Wordcount: 2860

Characters: Shishido, Ohtori

Pairing: Silver Pair

Rating: Very, very NC-17

Warnings: pure smut, PWP

Summary: Seduction at its finest.

Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.

Author's Notes: Okay, so I badly wanted to have Pygmalion done for Choutarou's birthday.. but I just didn't make it. The story is too damn long and I have too damn little time. Seeing as Choutarou's basically sexually frustrated and confused all over the place in that verse, I decided to let him have some nice, uncomplicated sex with the object of his desires… That and I just wanted to write wall!sex, okay?

Many thanks to nerdish (as always for holding my hand and alphaing) and amyused (for betaing and alphaing and doing an awesome job ♥ ).

*Special:* Number 023 'Lovers' for the Big Table of Doom

♥♥♥HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHOUTAROU♥♥♥

Roses

It's like he can't help himself.

Like part of him, a part he wasn't aware he even had, has stirred to sit up and take notice of the look in his partner's eyes. Suddenly it's almost easy to tilt his head just so -revealing the pale column of his throat and knowing with absolute, thrilling confidence that those eyes are on him. Knowing that the look in them is almost dangerous, definitely dark and edged. Hungry.

Shishido doesn't really think of himself as very handsome, not really, despite all his big talk towards the contrary. All his vanity went when he took scissors to his long hair, scattered the strands in the dirt. Now he's average and healthy looking, which is okay by him. But when Choutarou looks at him like that it makes him feel like the single most beautiful person on the whole damn world.

It's the tuxedo.

Or, well, that's what started it.

And while he's teased Choutarou in public, it never was like this. A place where he knows Choutarou can't do a damn thing about it for hours yet -Atobe's wedding reception. And never like this, tormenting him with it, slowly and relentlessly driving him absolutely mad with it. And never keeping it up when there's a tinge of anger in those eyes, born from frustration at knowing he's being baited and completely helpless against it.

It's not just seducing him. It's taking Choutarou's desire, playing on it and turning it against him.

When he finally does deign to look his partner in the eye he can see him shiver even as his eyes burn in accusation. And dark promise.

Just you wait. They say.

Bring it. Shishido lifts an eyebrow.

And then walking past him, failing to brush against him by the merest whisper and then showing Choutarou his back. Angling the slant of his shoulders so the nape of his neck is vulnerable, pale and smooth against the black of his collar and the dark edge of his hair. Knowing without a doubt that Choutarou sees it, aches over it, hard and ready in those nice prim dress slacks.

Powerful.

That's how it makes him feel.

The ballroom is bathed in golden candlelight. All the gold filigree, crystal chandeliers and marble is a bit too opulent for Shishido's tastes. Not the mention the extravagant number of red roses everywhere. The sort with lavish, velvety petals, like thick, rich fabric and as big as his palm. Their scent is thick in the air. Almost but not quite too much.

Atobe is still lost on the dance floor somewhere, cradling his new wife lovingly and looking for once completely flabbergasted at his own damn luck. The rest of the team is scattered. Shishido knows Jirou is asleep under the buffet table -not accidentally he suspects, as that's where Bunta is stuck taking care of the desserts. He's pretty sure Oshitari and Gakuto are scandalizing everybody by having loud, vocal sex in the bathroom and both Hiyoshi and Kabaji are leading their own lady loves through the slow dance. And he last saw Taki buried under a pile of females dying to know who did his nails.

Shishido traces the edges of the dance floor, trying to hide his smile. Knowing that Choutarou is right behind him, that his eyes are on him, seeing how the fabric moves over his back, slips over his thighs. Eventually he stops under the pretense of choosing another drink.

"Want another?" he asks, looks casually over his shoulder, lashes lowered.

And starts in surprise when Choutarou is suddenly crowding him from behind, close enough he can feel the heat of his body. "Stop it," he whispers, lips nearly ghosting against the shell of his ear.

God. Fuck. The heat of his breath is unbearably good and Shishido knows he's pushing it when he sort of bears his throat against it, inviting. "Stop what?" he murmurs back.

Choutarou doesn't touch him, doesn't do anything but inhale, smelling him. Shishido knows they're both thinking the same thing and he breathes in deep, too. Choutarou smells clean. Like his aftershave and freshly pressed clothes. There's nothing he wants more to press his mouth over him, rub their bodies together, lick the sharp tang away until it's just him. Dammit.

Over the curve of his shoulder he can see Choutarou draw his lip in with need, suck it, eyes narrowed and positively furious. Shishido smiles at him.

"I'm warning you," Choutarou hisses. His bottom lip is gleaming wet from having been in his mouth and it's enough to make Shishido's body go tight with arousal in response. He doesn't bother to hide it, lets it show on his face as he looks up at him. For a heartbeat Choutarou's face is nearly a snarl and then his hand clamps him by the scruff of his neck and drags him away.

Shishido stumbles, trying to turn around correctly, but Choutarou is nearly lifting him clear off the ground. "What the- hey!" he snaps.

Out of the ballroom and into one of many polished hallways. Some people give them curious looks and then a sharp, swift turn into some sort of niche -out of sight. Choutarou spinning him and pushing him back sharply. The wall is cold against the skin of his neck and wrists and unyielding when Choutarou shoves him into it more firmly, pressing him flush between it and his body.

"I told you," he says, planting two hands next to Shishido's head and bearing down on him with all the righteous anger of someone pushed beyond his limits.

There's nothing playful about him: brows furrowed, expression forbidding. Dressed in that nice, prim suit it makes him look… well, fucking hot. It's always been like that, anger makes him burn, seems to flip a hidden switch that takes away all the kindness, the air of deference, the ever-present distance. Replaces it by something primal but contained and all the more alluring because of it. You can catch a glimpse of it when they play for real, when it's just the all-consuming need to dominate their opponents, or each other. But even then it's not as… hungry as it is now. Between just the two of them Choutarou is perfectly himself, balanced between those two opposites.

But this is a part of him, too.

Shishido breathes, swallows.

Choutarou leans in, hovers his mouth over his, just out of reach and looks at him. Just looks at him, eyes narrowed and challenging.

This just isn't fair, Shishido thinks bitterly. And then he remembers who started it: he did. And he intends to finish it. It's the barest shift, so that he leans more at a more languid angle, back hollowed, head tipped back against the wall and staring right back at Choutarou, eyes lidded lazily. Lets his lips part ever so slightly.

That does it. Choutarou eyes barely flicker towards his mouth. Then he doesn't kiss him so much as devour him. He bites him first, right over his lips, pinching them. Teeth sharp and stinging before he opens his mouth warm and rough over his.

Big hands slide down the wall to touch his jaw, nearly cradling it as he eases Shishido's face up so his mouth his right under his. It warm, rough and slick when Choutarou licks his lips apart and he lets him do it. Lets him taste him, like drinking him through the kiss, tongue sliding through his mouth before drawing back to nip at his bottom lip, kiss it, warm and moist before letting those hands slide lower. Fingers drag down his neck, cup his shoulders and then stroke down his chest until they find his hips. Then he reaches back to cup Shishido's ass, hitching him up and forward a little.

Shishido can feel him through his vest and dress shirt, hard, nearly painful as he presses against his stomach. He hisses into Choutarou's mouth and their eyes snag for a moment, dark and frantic.

Some part of him knows they're still in public, barely out of sight, not even hidden. Anyone could see. Here, where some of the most powerful women and men in Japan are gathered to witness one of the most paramount unions of the year. Really, he couldn't care less. Can only allow his head to fall back and his thighs to part when Choutarou grinds into him. It's all he can do to keep from moaning when Choutarou flexes against him, forcing him to stand on the tips of his toes to accommodate the difference in height.

Choutarou takes off his pants, hands impatient on the buttons and the zipper, angry as they bunch around Shishido's ankles because he forgot the shoes. Despite the heat of the moment and the very real possibility of Choutarou tearing them in his ire, Shishido has to laugh, breathlessly. Keeps laughing until Choutarou savagely pulls them off, nearly yanking Shishido off his feet, laughing until Choutarou has him naked from the waist down, large hands curling around the backs of his thighs before lifting.

The drag of the wall against his tailbone burns as Choutarou picks him up, but the powerful swell of muscle in Choutarou's shoulders is beautiful. As is the dizzying contact of Choutarou against him, his cock hard and searing even through his pants. Shishido wraps his legs around his waist, tucks his head in the curve of Choutarou's neck to finally get rid of that cologne, the taste stinging on his tongue as he licks it off.

Somehow Choutarou manages to undo his fly and free himself with only one hand and Shishido held against his front. No lube, nothing, just the two of them. Shishido sucks Choutarou's fingers, laving his tongue against them and making sure Choutarou knows what he's thinking of sucking instead. Breathes against his mouth as those slick fingers push in and out of him, breathes Choutarou breathing into him, lips occasionally catching as they lean their foreheads together.

Shishido wants to stroke himself, slake the edge of his desire some, but it's all he can do to hold on. Against his thigh he can feel Choutarou hard and ready, wet enough to leave a streak of it against the crease of his right buttock as he pulls out his fingers and steadies himself. As soon as he can he moves both hands to Shishido's hips to lower him slowly, not because he's being careful, but because it's driving Shishido insane.

The wall grates against his spine under their combined weight and there's even harsher teeth on his neck as Choutarou sinks into him. Shishido claws at Choutarou's shoulders in desperation, wants him to move. In retaliation Choutarou's fingers dig into his buttocks, spreading him wider until a small, thick noise escapes him despite himself.

A flash of white teeth, victorious. "Shh," Choutarou says into his mouth, covers it with his own to swallow the rest of the sound.

Shishido has nothing, can't move with Choutarou's fingers clutching bruises into his ass as he holds him pinned in place on his cock, can't even make any noise, can't even bite his need into Choutarou's skin. So he uses his hands, all he's got left, to grab a handful of Choutarou's fair hair, slicked back so nicely, wind it between his fingers and force his head back to snarl at him.

A low chuckle. "Ask me," Choutarou suggests, keeping him suspended. Even as Shishido uses his hair to pull, Choutarou strains against it so that it must hurt, leaning in until he can lick the edge of Shishido's lip.

It's shadowed in the alcove, but golden candlelight burns like drops of gold through his shuttered eyes. There's something soft against his cheek, velveteen. Roses, cleverly would around a strip of lace-like marble spanning the wall. Choutarou hitches his hips, just a little, not nearly enough. Scatters petals into Shishido's hair and between their bodies.

"Tell me to fuck you and I will," he murmurs, nuzzling against the edge of Shishido's jaw and voice so soft it's nearly lost against his skin. His fingers are harsh on his buttocks, but his thumbs rub idle circles.

Shishido just bares his teeth at him, slides the second hand into Choutarou's hair and holds him in place to kiss him and that works, works really fucking well, Choutarou's mouth open and warm under his, until he allows him to sink down. Just a little. Enough to hurt, enough to drive him absolutely crazy, enough to feel his partner is close, too hard, too swollen and how the hell is he keeping still?

"Fuck!" Shishido hisses, grip slackening on those pale strands.

A smile, teeth at his jaw. "You sure?"

God.

Shit.

"Yes, dammit, you bastard," he breathes, barely able to finish that before Choutarou pulls him away from the wall and uses Shishido's weight to have him take the last inch. Instead he chokes, forehead thunking against his partner's.

Choutarou kisses his cheek. Slides out, watching Shishido's expression carefully. Shishido can only look down on him, at Choutarou's fierce, beautiful face, the hair on end from his manhandling, lips bruised dark from kissing. Feels the power in the body against his as the other braces to hold them both and simply unable to comprehend that this is happening to him.

Whatever he sees in Shishido's face, it seems that Choutarou decides that it is enough, and begins pumping his hips up in earnest. It's too sharp, too good and too much to do anything but breathe against Choutarou's mouth. Winds his arms around Choutarou's neck, pressing their faces together, loving how their skin catches as Choutarou slides him up and down his cock. He comes when Choutarou kisses him, almost chaste, on his mouth -just a press of lips against his own.

They wobble for a moment as he arches his back, clamping his legs harshly around Choutarou's waist, before the latter manages to balance and tip them into the wall again. More petals rain down, some disappearing down the collar of his shirt. Or sticking in the evidence of his orgasm. Sexy. Suddenly it makes him laugh, because they must look utterly ridiculous.

Choutarou makes a pained noise. Still hard and feeling Shishido shake around him as he snickers.

"Hey," Shishido says, sobering, leaning forward to kiss his chin, nibble at his throat. Brushes some hair from his forehead.

Wordless, Choutarou closes his eyes against the gesture, steadying himself. He sets Shishido down, shaky on his legs, turns and presses him into the wall. Warps an arm around Shishido's waist, laces the fingers of the other hand with those of Shishido splayed against wall. Too sensitive, still winded, Shishido leans his forearms against the cold stone to brace himself. It's deeper, without restraint, Choutarou pounding into him, forehead tucked against Shishido's neck. Teeth at his skin, like holding onto him, pinching and marking and making sure they both know who they belong to.

Choutarou comes, teeth digging into his neck to keep from making any noise, fingers curling through the fabric against Shishido' stomach. Stays there, to catch his breath, releasing Shishido's skin. Kisses it almost apologetically, while stroking up and down Shishido's chest. Pauses for a moment over his frantic heartbeat, as if to capture the rhythm in palm of his hand.

Has to swallow twice before he's able to say: "Happy now?"

Shishido laughs, causing Choutarou to hiss in warning again, still inside him. Shishido just laughs harder. "Very," he answers.

Dressing warrants some grumbling and cringing -Shishido's back hurts, his ass hurts and his neck hurts where Choutarou bit him. That and his shirt is ruined, covered in his own damn mess and his pants hopelessly rumpled. Rose petals everywhere. Shishido plucks them away with a disgusted frown, while Choutarou fishes out a ridiculously fancy handkerchief, the sort meant for decoration rather than actual use -monogrammed and all- and uses it to wipe the back of Shishido's thighs as best as he can. Shishido smothers a grin into his partner shoulder, pretty sure the kerchief was a gift from the latter's father and relishing the fact that he's using the damn thing to wipe his cum off him.

Just as he's leaning over to try and buckle his pants Choutarou touches the mark on his neck. "Sorry," he says. His hair is an absolute disaster; a crossbreed of hair product and frantic pulling and tugging, his mouth livid from being nibbled and kissed.

"No, you're not," Shishido says, smirking, and tries to pat down those wild curls some.

"Hm," he hums, agreeable. Raises his hand to cup Shishido's face for another kiss, softer this time. "Don't tease me again," he adds, as they venture back into the hallway.

Shishido is still too buzzed to care anyone would have to take only one look to know what they've been doing, cares only about Choutarou's large hand at the small of his back, another apology as he gently strokes his stiff spine.

He doesn't say anything.

No use making promises he's not going to keep anyway, right?

-fin-

FicAlert! PoT> Pygmalion (Ohtori/Shishido) PG-13

everlind — Sun, 30 Dec 2012 18:34:59 GMT

Title: Pygmalion
Writer: Everlind
Wordcount In progress
Pairing: Silver Pair
Rating: About PG-13-ish?
Warnings: Alternate Universe, nudity, sassy Hiyoshi
Summary: The one where Ohtori's long absent sexuality gets dropped on him like a nuclear bomb.
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: In Ovid's Metamorphosis, X, Pygmalion was a sculptor who fell in love with a statue he had carved. Interesting to note is that due to the Propoetides being shameless harlots Pygmalion was not interested in women; yet he nonetheless fell in love with his statue because it was so beautiful and realistic.

Pygmalion

Ohtori Choutarou is nineteen years old and a virgin.

Apparently this is Big Deal.

To other people that is. It never particularly bothers Ohtori until sex and the having of it (or in his case, not) turns up in a conversation. Problem being, when you are nineteen and going to college it invariably always boils down to sex sooner rather than later. Because at that age everybody is in a perpetual state of sexual frustration which needs to be vented and exercised at any and all opportunity.

It has even already been discussed -in terse, strained monosyllables- between him and his new roommate. Said roommate being a very private and rational person, not at all of the judgmental sort. Truly, Ohtorilikes iyoshi. They get along. But he'd felt really irritated when even he went as far to go Really? Never?

Maybe Ohtori doesn't miss it because he never experienced it, but if he were to be completely honest with himself that sort of intimacy has never really occurred to him before. Even the few token attempts at 'dating' and the subsequent 'making out' haven't really been able to thrill him. It is nice enough if the girls are moderately intelligent and didn't slather on too much lipgloss, but otherwise he's never truly suffered the uncontrollable urge to rip off their clothes, throw them onto the nearest available surface and have his wicked way with them.

Ohtori, when he can be bothered to stop and consider it more closely, mostly figures he hasn't met the right girl yet

That and he doesn't particularly care, regardless. So besides the occasional "What? Never Seriously?!" he just goes around being a regular college student.

It is halfway through the first semester that he realizes there might be more to it than that.

Advanced Life Drawing is by far Ohtori's favorite class.

Not because he gets to ogle naked people without getting sued for it. No, Ohtori just likes drawing people. He's really good at it, too. This is something he is aware of without any undue cockiness or arrogant pride. It is simply true. Besides knowing this himself, everybody else says so, too.

It is a Tuesday

Ohtori has already dragged himself through a full day of classes and is starting to feel a little fuzzy at the edges, as though someone has microwaved his brain. Not to mention his hand is cramping from taking notes and it is a very miserable, rainy and dank day all in all.

But as he sits down at his easel and starts pulling out supplies, he feels himself relax. Life Drawing classes are held in the attic, all wooden beams and worn, paint-splattered floors. Glorious amounts of light slant in through the big, canted windows, ideal for drawing. As everybody trickles in there's subdued conversation at the edges of Ohtori's own personal bubble, along with soft snores from his neighbor who droops in a crooked faceplant against the easel next to him.

Again.

Ohtori would've woken him up, had he known his name. Alright, Ohtori is also rather shy and withdrawn. This all worked fine in middle school, but in college it is all about being social and being social in th right way. He doesn't feel too guilty, because his neighbor always wakes up like clockwork as soon as the model takes the first pose.

"Alright people," the professor says quellingly, shushing everybody. "New model today" -loud groans of dismay, drowning out the rest. Secretly, Ohtori allows a small sigh of relief. Their previous model had been a woman, middle-aged, but possessing of an amazing, voluptuous body that had drawn a terrible amount of lewd commentary. Ohtori had loved drawing her, never having had a model with such an interesting and extreme frame -tiny waist and full thighs, luscious hips and pert breasts, like a vision straight out of Ancient Greece. But having to witness half of the male students make rude gestures and even going so far to try and ask her out had spoiled the experience entirely.

"Enough!" the professor barks, "I trust you all to show the due respect that you failed to show the previous sessions."

There is movement at the edge of his vision as the model comes out from behind the screen, crossing to the middle of the room on bare feet, wrapped in a yukata for the sake modesty until he has to take it off.

Ohtori, who had been struggling with securing a roll of canvas to the wooden board on his easel stops moving. And breathing. And thinking

To his right his neighbor wakes up, jolting up with a manic grin on his otherwise innocent, amiable features

"This is Shishido Ryou, he'll be our young male model for the rest of the semester and-"

Nothing registers beyond the name

He is of average height, about the same age as him, maybe older. Slight. And not looking as though he is thrilled to be there. Dark eyes sweep with an oddly intense, yet unseeing expression around the room, passing over Ohtori without any flicker of change and then… halt.

His neighbor stirs, slightly. Out of the corner of his eyes Ohtori can catch him doing a thumbs up. There's a stirring of something on the model's face and then, an eyeroll. That is all, before his attention is diverted to the professor who brings out a tiny stool. The professor speaks to him, quiet and subdued, giving instructions. The model nods and takes off the yukata.

Ohtori feels a horrible, terrible stab as though a lance has thudded into place between his shoulder blades, where it sticks -quivering, rendering him motionless.

Around him there is a sudden flurry of activity as all the students set to work. Not a peep from anybody

Ohtori remembers to breathe and starts into motion, not even having caught how long the sessions will be or if there is any specific media he ought to use. Frantically he looks towards the others and there's only their industrious scribbling.

No time. Instead of turning to the roll of canvas he went through pains to put up all neat and smooth he lunges for his sketchbook and flips through it in a near panic until he gets a perfect, clear page. Pencil. A few clatter to the floor as he grabs for them clumsily and instantly everybody looks at him. Even the model -without turning his head, just those dark eyes slanting sideways

Ohtori feels himself grow hot as his cheeks pound with humiliation.

What' wrong ith him?

And then, when everybody turns to the task at hand again, Ohtori takes a deep, steadying breath. And looks.

He has to. It's what an artist does, first and foremost -observe. The heat in his cheeks doesn't leave. Shishido is nearly facing him. Close enough at least to leave not very much to the imagination. There's a jumble of wild, hysterical observations that scream at him. One prominently being: he's got long hair

He does. Long enough that part of it drapes over his shoulder, dark and smooth like precious ink. The rest goes down his back, ending in sleek licks below his shoulder blades

The second is rather more objective in that Ohtori can't help but see the extreme, glaring, near shocking contrast compared to the previous model. As though the professor is deliberately messing with their heads. Ohtori has done nothing but swooping his brushes and pencils in wonderful dips and arches for two weeks. And now Shishido sits before him, all angles and flat planes and harsh, territorial lines

Thin. Enough so to show ribs and hipbones that arch like a challenge, even sitting. Wonderful, boney wrists and an exquisite set of clavicles. Ankles the way you sometimes see in children, almost delicate and fragile seeming. This, while nothing about him is fragile. In fact, there's strong delineations where muscle sits on his body, all lean, tough strength. There are scabs on his left knee, but other than that he has smooth, flawless skin that still holds a promise of brilliant, sunny afternoons. The tops of his thighs and hips are noticeably paler, besides the dark trail of hairs starting under his navel, going down and-

Draw.

He has to draw.

Fingers shaking, Ohtori folds his fingers more securely around the pencil. It's like he's never drawn before, as if he suddenly can't remember how he ever did this before. It always came to him fluently, sweet and rich and sometimes wild, fingers skating across the page with perfect confidence and joy.

And now he doesn't even dare to press down enough to touch the page.

Ohtori looks up again, forcing himself to choose a point to start from, something he otherwise never has to pause to consider; he'll be making shapes before he realizes it.

It is as though he fails to take in the man as a whole, instead his eyes catch and trip on the hands -the way his fingers curl in repose-, only to get lost on the slope of his shoulder -sharp and yet with a swell of muscle in the bicep that speaks of exercise- , the chest right under the sharp shadow of his collarbone -so stark, clear and honest as it balances between the neck and torso- and then, further up where he didn't dare to linger before.

Shishido's face.

Here, Ohtori's fingers twitch, then clamp around his pencil.

His face is devoid of expression, politely blank. Or not. No, not quite. There, around his eyebrows, a slight frown and those dark eyes inappropriately fierce, almost like defiance, lik I dare you.

Ohtori doesn't, he looks away and then back, not to the eyes but the rest of his face. It is finely wrought, sharp and yet not too angular, not overly masculine but not at all feminine, with thin lips under a neat nose, high cheekbones. His eyebrows slant, with an irregularity in the left one: barely perceptible at the outmost corner.

"Fifteen minutes are over!" the professor suddenly says and Ohtori nearly goes into cardiac arrest. On the stool, Shishido snatches up the yukata and slips into it before standing and stretching

There is not a single line on Ohtori's page

Briefly he considers throwing out a wild sketch, but quickly dismissed it. There is no way any amount of scribbling would cover up the fact that he's not done anything at all for the past fifteen minutes.

As the professor arrives at his easel he makes a noise of surprise. "Ohtori, what… where?"

"I'm… I am sorry, sensei," Ohtori manages, feeling his face heat up again. "I don't, uhm."

"Anything the matter?"

"I guess I was... surprised?" he hazards, which is true enough.

A chuckle. "Yes, I realize this model is vastly different from Tori-san last week. But it is imperative to master different body types, maybe it helps to consider the negative spaces for a moment or to find balance in the line of his spine and the angle of his hips which defines the rest of his body, and go from there."

"I- yes," Ohtori manages. "Thank you, sensei."

Left with a sense of frustration and shame, Ohtori glares at the empty page. He knows this and it smarts that needs to be told, now. Art is what he does, day in, day out. Such basics shouldn't have to be repeated to him and yet there he is, with a blank page and confusion pressing him down.

During the second pose, Ohtori forces himself. Pencil to page, a firm, skating line. His back. Then, Ohtori makes his eyes go up, consider. Shishido's back is to him and he is lying down, almost, propped up on one arm, head hanging to trail hair to the elevated stage. As though he is about to lower himself down fully. Ohtori sits and looks, it ought to be a pose depicting slow, languid movement, steeped with defeat, but what he gets is the sense of rising, as if he feels that Shishido will push away from the ground and stand any moment now

There's more energy in the pose than should be.

His pencil is moving, thoughtfully. Unsure what to do with that, how to handle the relaxed muscles and weight clearly gravitatin down hen he feels as though his hand wants to sho up. There's beauty in the line of his spine, like a stretched out S tipped sideways. His hand moves, even as he sits frowning.

Again, fifteen minutes are up. Shishido puts on the yukata again, hiding himself. Ohtori looks at his page and groans in dismay. At least he more or less has the full figure, but it is absolutely disjoined, wayward, scuttling strokes making up the most of it with a saturated fixation on the top of his back, shoulders and dominant supporting arm. There lingers some semblance of his usual skill: in the succinct, meticulous manner of capturing details in an understated way. No more than necessary, sometimes a mere suggestion

It would like nice if the rest wasn't an utter disaster.

"Oh," the professor goes.

And with that one word Ohtori hangs his head a little. He's never any less good than he can be to spare his fellow peers, even if they resent him for easily being the very best of the class. Not that he craves the praise, let alone needs it, but it comes his way regardless when he draws the way he does. And now this. The professor is duly disappointed with the result.

"This, it's good, Ohtori," he begins, overly gentle, indicating the part of the shoulders. "Very good, wonderful energy here, but the rest is unbalanced. Do the whole figure first, detailing after. And mind these short, nervous strokes, go for fluent, complete lines and-"

Ohtori sits and fumes at himself, bearing the lecture because he deserves it even though he already knows all the professor tells him from looking at it himself.

Despite knowing, the whole two hours are more of the same. During the five remaining minutes of the last pose, Ohtori puts his pencil down with a sigh. Maybe it's just a temporary block. He hopes. So instead he sits there, frustrated and confused and finds himself staring at Shishido despite the discomfort it brings. There's a sense of restless energy about him and his mind is obviously elsewhere. His chin is propped up on his hands, which curl together almost vulnerably. Dark hair makes a backdrop for them. The dark eyes are distant, thoughtful, eyelashes shuttering them. They are dark and dusky, almost sweet compared the perpetual frown of his eyebrows.

He's beautiful.

Ohtori finds he's drawing anyway.

When the session ends, Ohtori feels like he'd gone through a clothes mangler. Weak, shaky and disoriented. His hands fumble on closing the sketchbook because his eyes want to track the slight figure gathering the yukata around him before he disappears from view behind the partition. Ohtori rubs at his face as others already stream past, a snatch of two girls giggling, heads bent together close as they whisper about the model.

Already looking when Shishido emerges again, Ohtori takes in the sight of him clothed in an oversized hoodie and scruffy jeans, rucksack slung casually over his shoulder. Normal. And yet not at all diminished for that. And Ohtori is noticing the ponytail, too, restraining the sweep of dark hair but for a few stubborn stands framing his face and then, wait He's coming right at me. Ohtori panics. He's noticed, he's seen, Ohtori doesn't know but there is purpose in his direction and the eyes are leveled right at him and he thinks he dies a little. Shishido speaks.

"Wake up!"

Ohtori jumps, scatters pencils again, drops his sketchbook and starts to grab for words to form an apology for staring and he gets out "I" before he realizes Shishido is not even talking to him at all. He's talking to his neighbor.

Ohtori blinks.

"Hmmm, is it over?" the other artist goes, scratching blonde curls sleepily.

"Geez, Jirou, did you really sleep through it all?" Shishido asks, stooping to grab a bunch of pencils and pastels and dropping them into the other's bag. Rough. His voice is rough. Familiar and gravelly and Ohtori wishes desperately to know what these two people mean to one another. Why Shishido is talking to him. A painful, irrational swell of pure jealousy.

The other gets up, too, gathering his sketchbook to his chest and accepting the packed bag from Shishido. "I did not!" he says indignantly. "In fact, if I ever have to draw your dick again it'll be too soon."

Ohtori goggles.

Shishido scoffs and sort of herds him into motion towards the exit. "Please, like it's anything you haven't seen before."

Ohtori chokes.

"We were five!" Jirou protests, seemingly not at all bothered by the thread of conversation

"Yeah, well, like it-" Shishido abruptly stops, crouches, picks something up. Turns. "Hey," he holds a brush

Ohtori can only sort of pant shallowly for air, his chest aches.

"This yours?" Shishido looks straight into his eyes, harsh, unashamed and almost violent. Ohtori drops his own, feeling his temperature rising to feverish height.

"Uhm." Words, he needs words. Dammit brain, this is your chance! Nothing.

"Hello?" Shishido prompts, making an amused expression.

Ohtori catches it, blushes some more and instantly commits the lines of his face to memory. "Yes," he manages and accepts it with shaking fingers. "Thank you."

"Sure," Shishido's already turning away, the exchange slipping past him without any lingering impact. Instead he pushes Jirou towards the door ahead of him and they both disappear from view.

Heart in his throat, Ohtori turns the brush between his fingers absently.

This?

Not good.

"Okaeri," Hiyoshi mumbles as Ohtori falls into their tiny apartment. "What do you are you alright?!"

Ohtori stands there for a moment, thinks about it and then promptly bursts out into high, rather hysterical laughter. On the couch, Hiyoshi just stares at him, mouth open in shock. When the tinny sounds of his hysterical mirth dies down enough to sound rather edged in sobs, Hiyoshi springs up, grabs his wrist and drags him to the couch.

"Here, sit down." He orders, attempting some very awkward soothing motions by patting Ohtori on the top of his head. "I'll -I'll make you some tea and-"

"I'm gay," Ohtori says.

Hiyoshi snatches his hand back. "Uhm. Okay," he goes, sounding bewildered and shocked.

"I'm gay," Ohtori echoes. "What now. Shit." and then adds, exasperated. "Oh, sit down. Don't be silly."

"Okay," Hiyoshi repeats again and sits, if far enough to be out of reach were Ohtori to suddenly make a garb for him if his homosexual urges compelled him to molest his roommate.

They sit together in silence; Ohtori with his head in his hands and Hiyoshi looking on as though observing a train wreck, not wanting to but unable to help himself.

"I want you to know that I very much wish to be supportive, but having never received the token five-step pamphlet I am at loss as to how to proceed," Hiyoshi tells him, seriously.

More wild laughter bubbles past Ohtori's lips before he can choke out, "Me neither."

Slowly then, the story comes out; the two hours of torture that he wishes never had happened. That he wishes never had ended. Ohtori doesn't even understand why he's telling Hiyoshi this, why he'd even trust him regardless of the stupidity of blurting out this new found information about himself at his roommate, who, all in all, could've reacte a lot orse. Actually, in all honesty, Hiyoshi sits through it quite blank and silent, listening until Ohtori splutters to an exhausted halt.

Silence.

Hiyoshi opens his mouth and closes it again. Squirms. Finally gathers himself enough to say, "Okay."

Ohtori laughs again, calmer than before.

"I am unsure that finding another man beautiful makes you… uh, that way inclined," Hiyoshi ventures. "It is not like you, ah… wanted to, uhm."

Raising his head, Ohtori just makes a face at Hiyoshi.

"Oh," he goes, looking away sharply. "You did."

"I don't know," Ohtori admits, closing his eyes. "I don't know."

"Okay," Hiyoshi says, helplessly. Then adds, "It's okay."

"Sorry," Ohtori sighs, hanging his head. "I shouldn't have-"

"It's okay," Hiyoshi repeats and this time tentatively grabs his bicep in a show of support

"Thanks."

The hand releases him. "Don't mention it."

"I… I need a nap," Ohtori whispers, getting up on shaky legs before going to gather everything he just sort of dropped. "I'm tired."

"Alright," Hiyoshi agrees, watching him with sharp eyes. "Stir fry for dinner?"

"Sure," Ohtori nods some more before reaching out for his sketchbook as though he's afraid it'll bite. "Thanks."

"It's okay," Hiyoshi repeats and disappears into the kitchen.

After a moment, Ohtori goes into his room, closes the door behind him with a click.

That evening, Ohtori sits cross-legged on his bed staring with something akin to despair at the drawings he made of Shishido. Partly because they are just so terribly awful and partly trying to figure everything, but most of all himself, out. Maybe he is overreacting, finding someone beautiful doesn't need to mean anything more than that. Yet this is a blatant lie and he knows it. It wasn't just that. The episode sits in mind with an intensity nothing short of terror, even if it was not quite that

Not quite that at all.

It is not like you, ah… wanted to, uhm.

Did he

Ohtori is not sure. Most of the time he was simply too confused to be considering anything beyond the naked body before him. He doesn't want to try, either. He wants to forget it, hang on to not much caring about it at all because his situation with his parents is disastrous enough without having to introduce a boyfriend to them.

Stop right there, Ohtori scolds himself Please, 'boyfriend?'. Like that would ever happen.

Besides, that would be doin exactly hat he scorned the rest of his fellow peers for, lusting after someone only because he'd gotten to seen him naked. Not to mention it would be very unlikely that Shishido would be… lik that, too.

Please, like it's anything you haven't seen before.

Ohtori's fingers curl into a furious first.

We were five!

Childhood friends? Definitely something like that. They were obviously close.

With a sigh, Ohtori turns another page and sees it was his last sketch. There's a near obsessive focus on the hands, the line of his jaw and chin, the lips before the rest of the drawing falls apart in a scatter of skittering, frantic lines. I bothers him immensely. Almost absentmindedly he reaches for a pencil.

Next day, he walks into the attic looking and feeling like dead warmed over. Out of habit he gravitates to the usual easel he occupies and lets his bag fall to the ground with an alarming thud, likely obliterating several chalk pastels in the process. For all that, he's oddly calm. Maybe his nerves were truly shot so badly he is incapable of doing anything else but have a random existential crisis at Hiyoshi's expense. That, or the fact that he didn't sleep at all may have something to do with it.

"Here."

Ohtori lets out a shrill little shriek entirely unbecoming of a one hundred and ninety-some centimeter tall male and grips the front of his sweater in alarm like a victorian lady having vapors

It's the blonde neighbor, holding out a can of energy drink. Smiling.

Jirou, he remembers The friend, his brain adds in a dark, suspicious undertone.

"You look horrible!" he gushes. "No offense and all."

"Uhm," Ohtori goes and wishes he wasn't socially inept. "Thank you."

"No problem," Jirou says, grinning. "I'm offering because I know what it feels like to be tired."

Ohtori nods slowly, pops the can. It smells like fizzy sirup. "Because of your condition?" Ohtori asks, referring to the way he always falls asleep.

A frown. "Condition?" Jirou repeats. "I don't have a condition."

"Oh," Ohtori goes, drooping. Awkward.

"That's just because he's a lazy bum," a voice says from behind him. Shishido.

Ohtori inhales his can of soda up his nose and promptly doubles over with spluttering, gross coughs. Just his luck.

"I'm not lazy!" Jirou protests and then adds, "Hey, you okay?" as Ohtori sits with energy drink dribbling out his nose and down the front of his shirt.

Ohtori flaps a hand at him, nodding.

"Alright," Jirou agrees doubtfully, before letting him be. "I only fall asleep when there's nothing exciting going on," he shoots back at Shishido.

"I'm naked, what's not exciting about that?" Shishido returns, pushing the side of Jirou's head.

Ohtori chokes some more.

"Maybe if you had boobs," Jirou tells him, pushing back. "Go change."

"Bah," is all Shishido says, disappearing towards the far end of the room.

All this while Ohtori frantically dabs at his face with his sleeve, wondering whether this would be a good time to impale himself upon a pencil or something. Surely, at this point, that would be a mercy.

"You okay?" Jirou asks, regarding Ohtori as though he's in his last death throes.

"Fine!"

"I know he looks scary, be he's really quite nice," Jirou says, smiling gently.

"What?" Ohtori wheezes, sniffing miserably.

"Ryou," Jirou clarifies. "No need to be scared of him."

A bark of laughter escapes him before he can smother it by clapping both hands in front of his mouth. Several students turn to give him weird looks. Jirou makes a concerned, if rather dubious face as though questioning the integrity of Ohtori's mental state of mind. Then, with a shrug and a smile, he pulls away to his own easel to set up a canvas.

Ohtori resigns himself to doing the same. As much as he likes working in his sketchbook, it would be easier to work larger and might not be so tempted to fiddle with details. Maybe with a piece of good, fat charcoal. That should be enough to force his style.

"Everybody ready?" The professor calls, walking to the middle of the room with Shishido tagging behind in the yukata again, looking mutinous. Whatever the reason he is doing this for, it's not because he enjoys doing it. "Standing poses, twenty minutes each. Go!"

Shishido takes off the yukata. And.

Stands there.

Naked.

Ohtori sits down, eyes the size of saucers and scrabbling for his sketchbook with the air of a drowning man just having spotted a piece of driftwood. Okay, alright, he's gay. That, or he's suffering from random erections like it's the last one he'll ever have and his body is making it count and thank heavens the sketchbook is big enough to hide all the evidence and he really wishes he wasn't wearing a sweater because is it warm in here or what?

This is terrible. Pure blasphemy. Utterly unprofessional! And also sad and pathetic and it is totally, hideously unfair that Shishido is the most beautiful person he's ever seen. Even when he stands there scowling murder at some undefined point in the distance

His sinuses still sting from the energy drink and his perfectly set up canvas stands there, unused. Ohtori reaches for a pencil instead and sits there once more, lost and confused and quite unable to grasp Shishido as a whole. The body before him still makes him ache and the problem in his pants isn't going down, but with the pencil in his fingers he passes a threshold despite himself and he's looking, looking, searching for a place to start.

It is as if Shishido's too much for the pages of his sketchbook, as thought it can't possible contain the whole of him and Ohtori knows this is impossible, because he's drawn people countless times before. Worst of all is that he wants to draw him like this, because the pose is lovely. Shishido stands there, head hanging and elbows pointing up to the ceiling with his raised arms and hands caught in the long strands of hair. Again there's an obvious line of movement in him starting right from the dominant leg supporting his body to the suppressed tension in muscles of his stomach and the swell of his shoulders as he holds his arms up.

His ribs are pronounced, drawing shadowed lines into his flank and that's wonderful, even if Ohtori worries about Shishido eating enough. But on the white paper it comes out preciously, the thin, fragile ribcage caught under the skin and the powerful bunch of muscles at his shoulders and -Ohtori has to, he's an artist, he's got to draw what he sees- his nipples, which are dusky and pebbled and Ohtori shoves the rising surge aside roughly, because he's not willing to ruin this

Two days ago he was perfectly, happily clueless and now this.

And when the twenty minutes are up, Ohtori only has the part of shoulder and ribs and nipples to show for it, with the rest ambling off in finicky, crude lines. The balance sits more or less alright, but something is off regardless and he's shaking his head at in dismay.

The professor comes up to him, ready to lavish praise, takes one look and ambles into the opposite direction hurriedly. If Ohtori was a lesser sort of person he'd dramatically rip out the page and crumple it. Not that he ever would, because it would feel like rejecting Shishido by proxy and he's already too far gone for that.

"Don't tell me," Hiyoshi says in a tone that betrays he already knows and dreads the answer. "You have Life Drawing every day?"

Ohtori kicks off his shoes at the entrance, shifts his sketchbook around as he takes off his coat and just gives Hiyoshi a look.

"Sucks to be you," Hiyoshi mutters, shrugging philosophically before disappearing into the kitchen again.

Blearily Ohtori drifts after him, stomach rumbling ravenously as he gets a whiff of whatever it is Hiyoshi is prodding with a spoon. It is one of their agreements: Hiyoshi cooks for the both of them while Ohtori irons their clothing. The rest of the chores they divide, but Ohtori is terrible at cooking, while Hiyoshi is passable and Hiyoshi hates ironing with the burning passion of a thousand suns while Ohtori finds it rather soothing. It works.

"Not on Mondays," Ohtori answers belatedly and then does a frustrated, aimless turn.

"Still the same model?" Hiyoshi asks, delicately.

"For a whole two weeks," Ohtori mutters. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Oh my fucking god, I did NOT need to know that," Hiyoshi spits at him, edging away.

"What?" Ohtori goes, bemused. "What, I don't- HEY! I'm not going to- to-"

"Oh please!" Hiyoshi snorts, lip curling. "We all know what 'I am going to take a shower means' when you've only yesterday revealed that this person has such an impact on you you think you're gay after nineteen years of abstinence!"

"That has nothing to do with- Tch. You know what, never mind. I'm going to take a shower." Ohtori flings up his hands and strides out of the kitchen.

"Make sure to wash out the tub so I don't step in-"

"NOT LISTENING!" Ohtori yells at him and slams the door of the bathroom shut with vindictive satisfaction. Stupid Hiyoshi. As though he's going to masturbate in the shower to the images of Shishido's naked body. His naked, very beautiful, very male body.

That is naked.

Ohtori stares angrily at the tub, at his reflection in the mirror, tries vehemently not to think about it and then curses Hiyoshi soundly in all the most terrible ways which he can think of.

"It's okay," Hiyoshi says later, as they're both sitting down with dinner.

"You're terrible," Ohtori says sullenly. "I'm never going to forgive you."

"Okay," Hiyoshi says placidly.

Ohtori shoves him.

The following week is a haze for Ohtori. He does well enough in his other classes, but Life Drawing becomes the focal point of his entire day -one he both dreads and longs for. Knowing he's sexually attracted to someone is disconcerting. It's new and strange and suddenly there's questions, questions he's never had before. Because he never cared. Only now do the full implications of his profound lack of interest present an issue. It seems impossible that he never cared before, that the girls he kissed were nice but that he only did so because it was expected of him and that's what you do when you're in a relationship. That after these dates he went home, picked up his sketchbook and drew anything that came to mind -anything except for the girl he was just with. Because those never came to mind.

Now he wonders about kissing someone he's never kissed before. Finds himself looking at the unhappy set of another person's lips and wonder, wonder in this maddeningly, desperate way and his body reacts, too. Beyond the humiliating erections. He'll look at Shishido's face, at that mouth he's never kissed and wonder whether he'd be as forceful, as fierce as his eyes always are, as domineering as his presence, or completely different. Ohtori doesn't know him, doesn't know this person, but his own lips will feel warm and aching, almost fuller with the need to find out.

And Shishido is a man.

Part of Ohtori is pretty sure he's upse because t's a man and the other part is upset becaus he doesn't care, which makes no sense at all but isn't any less true for it. What does this make him? Some part of him had been always been shrugging its proverbial shoulders because it was alright, he just hadn't found the right girl yet. Then sometimes, especially after one of those social pitfalls about sex and the having of it and how everybody obviously wanted it and why aren't you having it, there'd been the tentative knowledge that he could very well be asexual. Even that was also ruefully accepted with a shrug, because he wasn't sure either way. But now he knows he's attracted, sexually attracted, enough to have feverish dreams about it, enough to grit his teeth angrily and slip his hand under the waistband of his boxer shorts, enough to suffer through hours of Life Drawing with a painful erection. Does that make him bisexual? He's kissed girls and it was okay. He didn't recoil or hate it. Or does it make him gay? Gay, when he's never in his life thought about another boy like that, ever.

He doesn't know.

So he's confused and tired and cranky. Virtually obsessed with someone whom he doesn't know but has seen naked. Enough so that Hiyoshi -politely enough- decrees that Ohtori has to close his door at all times becaus the sketches are kinda freaking him out, okay? Ohtori, no offense, but your whole room is covered in them. It's true. Ohtori draws Shishido during the day, when he's right there, alive and real and in front of him. And he draws him when he gets home, during the weekend, the Life Drawing free Monday, draws him constantly, frustrated that h can't.

He can't draw Shishido.

After two weeks, Ohtori almost sobs in relief when Tori-san makes a reappearance.

A speech about respect is drilled into them accordingly and soon Ohtori finds himself standing at his easel with a brush, at ease and confident with only a small amount of apprehension. Until he touches the first stroke onto his pristine canvas.

And it's perfect.

Drabble Dump

everlind — Sat, 29 Sep 2012 20:05:22 GMT

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHISHIDO RYOU YOU AWESOME AMAZING MANLY MAN YOU!!!

Ice Cream: 911 WORDS - PG

Even in the early evening it is still too hot. They'd been hoping for a breeze or a drop in the temperature, but it remains swelteringly warm. Heat beats down from the skies, rises up from the courts, even radiates from his racket frame.

His sweat stings where slides down his face and his shirt sticks flush against his skin. Even the slightest movement drags at him, as though the stifling air grabs at his body with slimy fingers, his arms, his legs, making him sluggish and slow, hindering him so that-

And right then the ball slams into his court.

Ohtori groans.

"Let's take a break," Shishido says, ruffling a hand through his hair aggressively. Sweat drops fly in all directions like a dog shaking itself. Dropping his racket on his bag he walks over to where Ohtori still stands, unwilling to give up.

"No, I'm good, I can still-" he begins to protest, but Shishido shakes his head, stops right in front of him and pokes him.

On his nose.

Ohtori flinches away. It feels as though the tip of Shishido's finger was a red hot brand that just scorched him.

"Sunburn," Shishido says, doing that wry lop-sided smile at him. "Any longer and you'll be blistering where you stand." With a nod of his chin he indicates Ohtori's arm. It's a painful shade of red.

He'd been so caught up in the game he's not even noticed. "But I applied sunscreen…" Not only that, but Shishido-san has not only refused to do so for himself, but he's been running around without a shirt the whole time, too.

And he looks fine.

"C'mon," Shishido says, leading him off the court. "Training more is no use if you're gonna get a heatstroke."

As always, his senpai is right. Ohtori sighs and follows him. They change shirts and Shishido forces his cap on him. It's soaked with Shishido-san's sweat, but he doesn't mind. The shade across his eyes is a welcome change from the glare of the sun.

The park where the street courts are is still busy, even at this time in the evening. Now that they've stopped playing tennis, it is almost pleasant. Almost. Even so his clean shirt already slicks itself to his back between his shoulder blades.

In companionable silence the two of them turn for home -exactly the reason Ohtori did not want to stop yet. He likes spending time with Shishido-san and doesn't really want to say goodbye yet, but he doesn't know what to say to prevent this.

Instead, Shishido-san does it for him. Grabbing Ohtori's bicep, he stops him. "Hey. Wanna get some ice cream?"

Ohtori blinks, and then follows Shishido's gaze. There's a stand near the fountain on the plaza.

"Oh," he goes, drooping. "I… I have no money, Shishido-san."

His partner winks at him. "That's what senpais are for. Lemme treat you."

And before he can protest, he's already striding confidently over. Ohtori trips over his feet hurrying after him. Despite his vehement protests, Shishido insists to get him one. In the end, as they stand before the vendor, he caves. "Vanilla, please."

Shishido blinks up at him. "… Just… vanilla?"

"Hai!"

"No sprinkles?"

"Ah, no."

"Chocolate?"

"No, thank you."

"Whipped cream?!"

"Just plain, please."

Shishido makes a face and shrugs. "Ooookay, your call," and orders for them.

After, they plunk down the grass with the ice creams, stretching out their legs and humming happily. Shishido is a messy eater, he constantly needs to lick his fingers and slurp at the sides of his cone to keep up. Ohtori makes quick work with evenly distributed licks to keep it from dripping.

Shishido stops slurping long enough to wipe his arm across his mouth so he can ask: "Just vanilla?"

Pausing, Ohtori blinks at his cone. "Yes?"

"Isn't that… kinda boring?"

Ohtori looks at his cone, feeling his cheeks glow -on top of his sunburn. "I… I never…"

Boring?

Out of the corner of his eye, he glances at Shishido's choice. It's chocolate and strawberry -traditional choices on themselves, but smothered under sprinkles and chocolate sauce and something that may be crunched nuts.

His own is just plain vanilla.

Ohtori likes the taste of it: clean and fresh and sweet. He never thought that it might be boring. That Shishido-san would think so. Suddenly his appetite fades. Shishido-san is right, it is… boring.

"Lemme taste," Shishido says and before Ohtori can think about how he licked it into a neat round scoop, he holds it out. Shishido takes a small nip from the side and leans back to carefully contemplate it, jaw working.

After a moment, he holds out his own. It's a mess, streaks of pink and brown slathering the sides of the cone and the curl of Shishido's grasping fingers. Ohtori takes a munch out of a place that more or less has all the toppings and both tastes.

It's… a burst of different things. All tasty. Sort of overwhelming. But alright. Delicious. The longer he thinks about it the more he wished he'd put chocolate or sprinkles on his own.

"…" Shishido licks his lips. "Actually, this is nice. I like it. Just vanilla?"

Ohtori nods.

"It's good."

A slow smile curves his mouth. "Maybe I'll try sprinkles on mine, next time," he admits.

Shishido nods, "I might try vanilla."

After a moment they both smile. They don't go home for a while.

FicAlert! PoT> Tumescence (Ohtori/Shishido) VERY NC-17

everlind — Sat, 29 Sep 2012 19:37:24 GMT

Title: Tumescence
Writer: Everlind
Wordcount: 5000
Pairing: Silver Pair, with a twist.
Rating: NC-17. Very, very, very NC-17.
Warnings: excessive use of 'Choutarou'. Prepare for massive confusion.
Summary: ...er, this is utterly PWP. Pure, unabashed smut abound. Only proceed if you can stomach this kinda stuff.
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: This is the porniest piece of fanfiction I have ever written.
hyakuiro I don't know if you remember, but way back when you mentioned Silver Pair threesome. Somehow. Well, here it is.
Special thanks to: nerdish and namae_nashi for being constantly awesome and patient with me.

*Special:* Number 033 'Too Much' for the Big Table of Doom

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHISHIDO RYOU YOU AWESOME AMAZING MANLY MAN YOU!!!

Tumescene

This is either a dream or a nightmare. Hard to decide.

Shishido stands looking at the both of them with a hand pressed against his mouth as though in severe pain. Well, his brain definitely is.

Will the real Ohtori Choutarou please stand up?

But they both already fucking are.

Carefully, he looks at him. Them. One arm he has wrapped around himself, protectively, hand fisted in the fabric over his ribs. The other he keeps in front of his mouth. Holding himself together. Stuff like this doesn't happen. There isn't such a thing like… a look alike that looks so alike -exactly alike- that Shishido honestly cannot tell which one is his Choutarou. And that, that makes him feel a complete and utter asshole.

Shouldn't he be able to?

Shouldn't he?

With this person. Shouldn't he?

He's known Choutarou for a decade. Longer, even. And it is him. Them. Us.

Yet no matter how long and carefully he looks, he is not able to tell which one is his Choutarou. They both seem to be. Down to their pores. There's nothing to tell them apart. Their clothing is the same: folded, creased and buttoned exactly alike. Even how the light reflects off the familiar cross is identical.

And that is not even starting on how they are both looking at him. Both of them, both able to read Shishido's face, his building dread, have disbelief etched over their features. Unable to comprehend how he can not see, not know it is him (the two of him? them? Augh!).

It's the most awful fucking thing ever.

Because how can he not? Choutarou is like a damned slab of his heart. Don't you know the person whose body is more familiar than your own not only physically but mentally? Shishido sure damn would've sworn he did.

But they see him not knowing and Shishido wants to claw at his face in frustration. The disappointment is even worse than the actual situation. Most fucked up of all? It's twofold. Goddammit.

"Shishido-san," Choutarou says (the left one, Shishido notes). "It's me."

Yes, I noticed! Shishido's brain provides in a uncharacteristically high-pitched shriek.

"No!" The other (right one) shouts, voice urgent and raw. "Don't you-" he looks at himself -his other self? the other Choutarou?? his clone???- "don't you dare!" he hisses. Then he turns to Shishido. Pleads: "Ryou. Please."

The hand clapped over his mouth presses down hard enough to bruise his lips on his teeth.

"It's me!" the first one insists. "Look at me. I-"

"No!" says the other. "I know you know it's me. I-"

-know you feel this. Us. There is no way you cannot. It's us.

He doesn't need to say this. Shishido knows. It's in his eyes. That's the worst part. He feels us when he looks into his eyes… and he also feels it when he looks into the other's eyes.

And that's just not possible.

They can't… both be Choutarou. And if they are not, then… well, neither of them is. Even if they both feel like him. Just not fucking possible.

One bright note is that the two of them seem just as creeped out by the whole 'two Choutarous' thing as he is. They keep sneaking sideways glances at one another when they're not desperately gazing at Shishido to make up his befuddled mind. Must be like looking in a mirror suffering some particularly nasty lag.

"Look," one of them says, holding up his hands. "We can't both be Ohtori Choutarou. That's just not-"

"Possible right?" the other finishes. "I know. And I know I am Ohtori Choutarou." He looks at Shishido, who makes a 'don't involve me in your existential crisis' face. Not that they'll spare him or anything. "And he knows it, too," Choutarou ends urgently. His chin lifts, but when their eyes meet they cling warm and knowing.

I've had you in my hands above me, your head thrown back with pleasure, as you moved and moved and moved and I held you and held you after, too, when you held me back.

Shishido looks away.

And into the other Choutarou's eyes. Which is a pretty shitty and bad thing to do.

Because the other, dammit, they both are -he, too-, because he knew what passed between them with that look, knew exactly what made Shishido look away. It hurt him, seeing that, because it was him, too, even while Shishido saw it in the other's eyes.

"Choutarou…" he says, mouth dry.

A thick swallow. "Do you remember the first time we kissed?" he asks.

Shishido groans and closes his eyes. That's fucking below-the-belt, in a not sexy way. Of course he does. And now he's remembering, vividly, thinking about it, how it was snowing and Shishido had forgotten his gloves and Choutarou had suggested to share his -one on Shishido's right and one on Choutarou's left- and clasp the ones in the middle for warmth. Lame much, right? But Shishido had been so stupidly head-over-heels about him that he'd agreed and his stomach had been one painful knot of longing during the whole trek home. At the door Choutarou had not let go of his hand, but used it to pull… He'd kissed Shishido then, in the snow-bright night. Soft, and a little clumsy, off-center. Between the bow of his mouth and the corner, more nervous exhale than lips. It had been everything Shishido had ever dreamt of.

Exactly the same as how Choutarou is kissing him now.

And just like then, he's too shocked to even react in any way whatsoever. Instead he just kinda uselessly stands there, noting that, hey, there's two Choutarous in the room and he's being kissed by one of them.

HOLY SHIT! one part of his brain shrieks uselessly. There's two of them, the other half purrs, knowingly. It kinda sounds like Oshitari.

Before he can even try to examine -from a distance and hiding behind the couch, cause anything sounding like Oshitari is not to be trusted- the second portal to a whole wide wicked world of Things That Suddenly Are Possible, Choutarou pulls Choutarou violently away.

Wait, what?

Yes, well. One of them has hauled the other away by the back of his shirt and is currently attempting to shake him hard enough fit to rattle the teeth out of skull. Whilst shouting the sort of obscenities Shishido would swear Choutarou doesn't even know the meaning of. Wrong again.

When he catches something along the lines of: "-ever again I will rip your liver out and use it to-"

"WHOA!" Shishido yells, shouldering between them both and using a sharp elbow to jab them apart. "No ripping, maiming or other physical crippling of any kind. Or brutal murder," he adds, just to be sure.

"He kissed you!" he breathes, low, teeth bared. Angry and anguished and putting a hand on the small of Shishido's back that shakes like dry leaves in the wind. "It's me… how can you let him when it is me?"

The hand falls away. All three of them stand there.

"I-" Shishido starts, feeling small and grubby and undeserving and horribly, fatally confused. "I can't… I know it is. You. But you is him also," he jerks his head sideways, miserable.

A shuddering intake of air, half a pained hiss. Shishido doesn't look at either of them. His mouth tingles.

"Then let me kiss you, too!" he says. No, snarls. He's never ever heard him do that. It's Choutarou. Soft, politely-spoken, kind and good Choutarou. Choutarou who insists on helping every little old lady he sees to cross. Choutarou, whose absolutely most foul curse words encompass the whole of two: damn and shit. Choutarou who blushes, still, when Shishido slides his hand down the front of his pants and whispers he likes big presents and dang, Choutarou, you're really spoiling me today. Choutarou, who never raises his voice at him in anger. Choutarou who is everything he is not, snarling.

He's noticed before that despite the differences… they're sometimes very alike, too.

A hard, violent, "No!" from the other. His hand is taken, clutching a little too tight around his palm.

Shishido hesitates. "You're both-"

But then there's fingers, which brush along his jaw before finding his chin to tip his head up -just the way it makes his knees weak. He shuts up. It's exactly the same mouth that finds his, the sensation of the connection, the shape of his mouth, the width, the grooves in his lips, the… the way he tastes. The scent, the person itself, it's familiar, it is home, it is Choutarou who is kissing him, hungry, angry, possessive, pleading and searching, using the pressure of a finger pad to coax his lips parted and then tasting Shishido there.

At first, he doesn't dare kiss back, not whilst still clasping hands with a person currently not kissing him. So Choutarou takes from him, warm slow suckling pecks that grow more demanding and moist as they build. Until Shishido's mouth parts, fully, under the onslaught and Choutarou traces his tongue along the part where his lips become slicker, more sensitive. And Shishido can only stand to yield for so long, so when Choutarou lets him, he takes back.

It only occurs to him that he's still holding the other Choutarou's hand when they break apart to breathe.

There's a thundering silence. His body forms a thread tying the impossible together: one hand wound into a shirt, the other holding a hand. Shishido has his own fingers tangled with the hand holding his, holding on hard. Just in case.

This way lies madness he thinks. Both his hands clamp down harder. He hangs his head, grits his teeth.

Behind him, where his right arm trails to, is a noise. A throat being cleared "This…" trails off into silence.

Under the fist clutching the fabric, he can feel the rumble of the answering, "This."

Something is happening. He lifts his chin an inch, suddenly desperately terrified that it'll shatter and he'll be left with the ashes. Neither of them are looking at him. Compared to them, he's short, and they're both staring over the top of his head.

At each other.

There's a moment.

Shishido feels his panic crest.

The line of tension in his arm stretched back slackens as Choutarou steps closer. Close enough he can feel the heat of him. Shishido swallows. Numbed and skittish, his confused brain is half picking up on what is about to happen. But not quite. It's impossible. Not quite. No way. Yes. Not quite, what? Yes please. He bites his bottom lip.

It's like standing in the eye of a tornado, those two having silent communication that does not include him, but is all about him. He can feel the electric force of them prick his skin into goosebumps.

One of them speaks. So near, too close suddenly. Shishido jumps.

"He's-" Silence. The familiar shy silence, just for an instant. Then it crystallizes, all sharp, solid edges.

"Yes."

Choutarou leans in. For a moment Shishido can't even tell which one is standing where and does it even matter when they're both him anyway? "Do you like this, Shishido-san?"

"Two of us."

It feels like his cheeks will catch fire. His heart hurts him -battering against his ribs, as if it'd like to drill its way out.

"Ryou?"

It should feel wrong. But the one standing behind him rests his hands on Shishido's hips and the other nudges the side of his face with his. And it just feels right, terrified though he is, simply right because they both are Ohtori Choutarou.

Lips catch against his temple when they answer, "I think he does."

They crowd him. There's heat against his front, human heat, a human body, a body that is familiar, a body he knows. And the selfsame presence is leaning into his back. His heart seems to have hit the hyper-drive to light speed.

The lips drop a little lower. They're still swollen and warm from their kiss. On Shishido's cheek they smile, "I know he does," when they press so close into him Shishido fears his heart will freak out and abandon ship.

His stupid dick is harder than a rod of iron. He fears if not his heart, his moronic penis will be the end of him.

There's no way to describe it. Choutarou is in front of him, bodily lined up, torso to torso. Feebly Shishido's hand is hanging on to the crumpled shirt. The cross, scratched and battered, lies against shining skin. Shishido sees it, dimly, while kisses are pressed against his cheekbone and jaw. There's a truly masterful erection pressing into his belly. From behind, an arm snakes around his waist. A collective hiss when it catches contact between the press of them as it passes, but Shishido was silent, eyes lidding against the more aggressive and demanding attitude of being leaned into, the body behind curving so he can feel another hard-on, pressing against the seat of his worn jeans. Lips on the back of his neck, edged with teeth.

Everything is a little hazy. His body buzzes, like he's had a drink too much. He's warm, so warm. It's hard to concentrate, his head seems a little loose, swimming with the sensations of somebody who wants him against his back and someone who wants him against his front, hard male bodies. He's being kissed, anything but his mouth. The lips are warm and dragging, almost wandering across the angle of his cheek. On his neck, they are harder, deeper.

He breathes. His mouth feels like a moist bruise.

His hand is still being held. A thumb strokes his skin, tracing a scab along his knuckles gently. Someone kisses his ear, oh damn, and he shivers. He leans, just a little, until he can feel a heartbeat. He loves that, the thrumming. And the smell. Choutarou. His stomach flutters, like the sinuous rubbing of a cat on the inside, a little lower and darker and more animistic than mere butterflies. Like this it feels like his skin is reaching for Choutarou, a taut not completely pleasant sensation that is more maddening than anything else. And with two of him, it feels like he's gonna be ripped apart.

The mouth on his neck presses towards his jaw, and Shishido's bares his neck for him, unable not to. There's a spike of tension with the both of them near his face, especially as Choutarou behind him keeps on, mouth parading a conquering path to Shishido's mouth. Mingled exhales chase across his skin. Through his lashes, he can see both Choutarous staring, hard, at one another. Possessive, sorta. But… the one in front of him lifts a hand, takes Shishido's chin and angles it so that, fuck, god fuck, the one behind him can have a taste. Offering him to the other.

And it is a taste. Slow and unabashed. More tongue curling into his mouth than kiss.

Somewhere, somehow, he's being led -backing up- through the living room. It's a tangle of hands, he can feel the scrape of fingernails through the fabric of his shirt, along his belly and it seems to rake down his spine like burning honey. Details seem far-off. Distances don't seem to match to what he thinks he knows and time seems to have come to a halt, smooth and placid like an untouched lake.

A bed.

His shirt is being unbuttoned -one, two, threefourfive. Four hands guide him. Who's who? The one that kissed him first? Does that matter, because they both have, technically. Or not. Theoretically then? He doesn't know. He doesn't care. Two palms drag over his skin (belonging to the same person, or still the same person separately?), smoothing over his thundering heartbeat before passing over his nipples. It's an acute sensation, sharp, cutting, something that seems to sizzle inwards before crawling down his spine, making him hollow his back. His lips part. They're sealed by a mouth.

Choutarou's.

His shirt slides off his arms.

Choutarou drags him onto the bed, maneuvering until he's leaning back against him as he sits against the headboard. He nuzzles the side of Shishido's throat while his hands slip down from his shoulders, drag over his nipples slow enough to make him arch and then down, down, down, until long clever fingers find him through his jeans. He works the flat of his palm over the bulge, up and down.

Meanwhile, Choutarou stands a step or two away from the bed, watching as he slowly undoes his own shirt.

This is gonna cost him his mind, Shishido knows. But, well, yeah. It's gonna be worth it.

The two of them seem to have decided they're not only both Ohtori Choutarou, but that they're one, sorta. Kinda like Shishido suspects he often wishes he could suck Choutarou off whilst fucking him and having been handed a mind-fuck (har har) of a solution. It is eerie how coordinated they suddenly seem, now that they've decided to stop squabbling for the right of identity and have settled for fucking him instead.

Kinda odd, that.

Not that Shishido is complaining. Fuck, no, not at all, not when those fingers are undoing his fly, the little ra-ta-ta of the slider working down the teeth of his zipper landing like little shocks down the length of his cock.

"He's close," Choutarou says, undoing his own fly with perfect synchrony as Shishido's is.

"Not yet," Choutarou murmurs against his ear. "Ryou, not yet."

His brain might bleed trying to keep up with this. "Knock it off," he growls.

"Hm," the torturous sensations around his crotch cease.

Shishido makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a snarl and a whine and whimper, only totally dignified and manly of course. "Fuck. You bastard," he hisses. "Fuck! Oh-"

The bed dips. When he peers through his lidded eyes, the room is lost in a misty swirl, pitifully insignificant compared to the sight of Choutarou naked, hard, sitting next to him.

Damn. Oh yeah. Choutarou is… well. He's sexy. Completely unaware of it, too. The way he sits there, not posing, every scrap of his attention on Shishido, like always. His torso is lean and strong and just right for it to match against him and suddenly Shishido wants to raise his arms and hold him, heart-to-heart. The expression is familiar, dark eyes and gentle mouth in a face made up of longer, simpler angles than his own. Straight-forward, almost. His legs are long and shapely, his erection lying at the crest of them, looking, well, dang impressive. Forever the legendary envy of the locker-room, his Choutarou.

And yet his eyes are on Shishido, first on his face, then wandering. He doesn't touch, but when his eyes linger over his nipples, a damp thumb suddenly settles to tease one, a rolling swipe. A harsh exhale escapes him and his head drops back a little. Satisfied the eyes go on, lower, down over his shivering stomach, towards the bulge in his boxers, framed by the V of his open jeans. There's a damp spot already.

Fingers dip under the waistband, touch the slickness at the head. Choutarou still doesn't touch. Despite himself, a low, throaty groan escapes him, when the hand moves, slowly spreading his own arousal down the rest of cock. Someone smiles and it isn't him. Shishido is not sobbing. Nope. Just out of breath. Dammit.

"This…" he manages, voice drawn high, "is not fair."

Teeth nip at the edge of his ear. "Isn't it?" Choutarou wonders.

Cold air hits his aching hard-on. Shishido gasps at the cruel contact, eyes flying open. The hand already there has pulled him out of his boxers, is lifting his cock, up, holding it steady so-

When a mouth slips over it, all suck and moist, living heat, Shishido blanks out for a moment as he rises nearly to his elbows, hands clamping down on the thighs at either side of him.

It is night and day. Morning and evening.

His dick is being held, at the base, pointed up so Choutarou can ease his mouth down him, slack and accepting and all seeking tongue, before drawing back up, lips dragging. And there's two hands kneading his thighs, slowly easing his jeans and boxers down. There's the soft, wet noises, the ones that are always there, but they seem indecent and so damn loud in Shishido's ears and he's so close, too close, he hurts, his skin hurts and if he doesn't come he'll unravel in all the ways he does't want to but… but… dammit, fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck him, please. Please.

One hand leaves nipples, which feels bruised and abused by the attention in that way that only feels good during sex. Instead it rest over his throat, cupping his Adam's apple, easing his head back acutely to kiss him, lopsided and open mouthed, wet tongue trailing the shape of his lips.

Choutarou says: "Stop."

All three of them gasp for air. Shishido's have little hitches at the end, voice in it with the effort. His pants seem to be gone. Vanished. Vaporized by his horniness or something. Choutarou looks up at him, lips swollen, redder than usual. His eyes are dark, black and frank as he looks up the length of Shishido's body. Lips linger at the edge of his mouth, making little soothing pecks, while the other hovers at the head of his dick, placing a little kiss, and then another.

A look is exchanged. Shishido just blinks, attempts to fight, feeling like he ought to have more control in this, he usually has. But he's at their mercy, which they don't have. A tongue drags, flat and hard from the base of his cock towards the head, tasting him, before lifting away. Now he whines, high and serrated, body lifting up from the sheets in an effort to follow.

Both of them tumble. There's an unnatural amount of limbs involved. Oh, wait. Not Choutarou. Choutarous.

This is crazy.

They put him between them, like how he was kissed into submission. At least they're all naked. He doesn't know when the other lost his clothes. They're gone. He can feel an answering erection against his own, also slick, god, damn, yes, yeah, better than anything other to feel gliding between they bellies, easing the friction. That's good. That's, damn, he likes this, Choutarou lined up skin to skin, sweat adding to the intimacy, mouths locked. Shishido knows he's sloppy, knows his teeth are too sharp to bite down, a nip to ground himself when fingers prepare him. He doesn't let go, either. If it hurts, Choutarou doesn't mind. The tip of his tongue keeps slipping along Shishido's upper lip. Under his palms he can feel the smooth, steady roll of Choutarou's body as he sways himself up and against him. He's touching Shishido's face, all reverent cradling and stroking fingers.

His sense of self is stretching thin, knowing that Choutarou is rocking against him cock-to-cock, mouth-to-mouth and all the skin and body in-between. But against his back is Choutarou, also, kissing his shoulders, the top his spine, exhaling hot and needy into the hair at the nape of his neck, adding a third finger, careful, always so careful, knowing that he'll need it to be able to stand him sliding inside.

The fourth hand is resting on his thigh.

When the curling fingers leave him, Shishido feels bereft, too small for his own skin and he thinks he says something into the mouth on his own. A soothing noise, unsteady, while Choutarou cants up harder against him, hard enough almost to drag his orgasm out of him with the raw, base feeling of a hard cock slipping on his own.

It all stops for a moment when behind him, Choutarou eases inside. It always hurts. Somehow it is less sharp, odd, but no less important to be careful, now. Two faces nearly merge as they both have their lips on his face. By now they must be finding one another's kiss on him, tasting the same. Their hair tangles, damp with sweat, darker.

His face feels wet. From their mouths, his sweat, their sweat, tears, he doesn't know. His mouth is parted, weak and vulnerable, all sharp exhales against the corner of someone's lips. It is too much. His body can't take the strain, not like this. Everything narrows down until he's barely aware of where his body begins and ends. Choutarou eases in, hard, steady, mindful. A large hand his curled in a dead-grip on his hip. It's a mindless state when a pace is set, drawing back, Shishido can feel it, the catch of his skin and the ridge of the head of his cock, the girth -leaving, but not for long, filling him again until he needs to make a noise, something useless, but a noise. A leg hooks over his, for better leverage, drawing him closer.

Shishido moves between them, forwards and back between them, between them, the both of him, Choutarou. When he can't do anything but breathe, barely, they move him, all hands and strong thighs and hips against the curve of his buttocks and a hard cock against his belly, mouth on shoulders and his cheeks, playing him with their thrusts. The heartbeat between his shoulder blades seems impossibly loud, like a drum, urging his own straggling one on, to beat up in turn to answer the one knocking at his chest.

Someone says, "Harder. Fuck him harder."

Shishido wants to say, no, please, I can't… I can't… I-

Instead he shouts, maybe a name, maybe yes. When Choutarou snaps his hips up in a hard stab, it seems to become harder, sharper, all white, white, blissful noise that is soundless, he's screaming he thinks, his mind a little shivering pinprick under the force of his approaching orgasm, knowing he's plastered between two men that are Choutarou, but still two men. Choutarou -against his front- reaches around him, slipping his hand between the both of them to frame the area where his cock is plunging into Shishido's body, to feel the act of it. He comes with that sound being ripped from him, wild and jagged as his head goes back and his body goes taut, and he feels Choutarou come, too, inside of him, too intimate, as is the feeling against his belly, a combination, all three of them.

His mind shatters, finally. He knows nothing more.

It's really morning when he opens his eyes. He can tell by how the dark is made up of quirky odd luminescent shadows spilling over the mussed sheets. A relief to finally have some sense of time, after the long misty unknown.

Shishido blinks.

His stomach feels tacky. Gee, thanks a lot. Two of them and both lazy asses. At least one of them has wiped the back of his thighs and buttocks. Still… half a job.

Carefully, anticipating some ache, he shifts. Huh. His body feels oddly… unburdened. He'd expected to hurt after that. Fabric slides smooth and soft over his naked body, but catch in the remains of his come.

Yuck.

"You're awake," Choutarou says. His voice is adorably rough and fuzzy.

Shishido turns his head on the pillow to look at him. A ten-mile wide grin sits on Choutarou's face, eyes shining as he leans on an elbow to look at him. Well then. Someone is in a good mood. He turns to look at the other one.

Gone. Bathroom?

Shishido props himself up some. "Where's the other one?" he asks. His voice is a little uncoordinated, but otherwise fine. After a cursory scan of the bedroom, Shishido makes to rise his eyebrows in enquiry.

Whoa.

That's quite a scowl.

"The other who?" Choutarou asks. His face seems to be wavering insecurely around the edges of his anger.

Scratching his hair, Shishido makes a face. "The other you," he says, slowly. "There… there were two-"

Wait.

Crap.

Fuck.

No.

Fuck. No, shit.

Whatever his face shows, it is enough to dispel Choutarou's jealousy, the sudden streak of fear. He starts to chuckle, low and disbelieving, then louder. Shishido face-palms then lifts the sheets -half-dried come or no come- and hides beneath them.

Choutarou laughs, loud and pleased and down-right flattered when he burrows after him to press a grin into Shishido's bed hair. "One of me not enough for you?" he asks.

His face burns under the stain of his blush. "Shut up!" he snarls, embarrassed. His brain has betrayed him. He wants to crawl into the ground and forget this happened. Wants to forget how Mister Ohtori Choutarou sat drolly by to watch him have a goddamn wet dream.

"Hmm…" Choutarou hums, all smiles and warm hands fishing for his face as they crawl deeper into the sheets.

It's kinda hard to breathe and musty and all fabric, but Choutarou kisses his resisting lips. "Saa, Shishido-san," he says, pressing a warm kiss to his nose. "You just have to tell me, you know, when you need mo-"

"Choutarou!" he gasps, batting at hands and wriggling as his partner crawls over him.

His body is sensitive, but Choutarou makes it a worthy, lengthy session counting for two. There's a nearly dopey grin on his face all the while, unless they're moving together. Shishido remembers to whack him over the head occasionally, when he isn't attempting to bodily merge with him.

His alarm bursts into music just as slumps forward onto Choutarou's chest, utterly wrung, spent and empty. His body feel alike a limp noodle. He kinda suspects he'll only be capable of slithering like one out of bed and then lay there, useless. Forget jogging. Further movement is impossible. There's muscles aching he wasn't even aware that he had.

Of course, this is when Pancake jowls like a banshee for breakfast.

Choutarou pets his hair absently. "That enough?" he breathes shallowly. Good, normal. There's laughter caught in his chest, tickling against Shishido's cheek where he rests it.

Sticking his head somewhere into hiding near the vicinity of Choutarou's armpit, he manages a sound that most likely is more agreement than not.

One Ohtori Choutarou is more than enough.

Really.

Stupid brain.

-fin-

FicAlert! PoT> Tone Deaf (Hiyoshi, Ohtori, Shishido) PG

everlind — Sat, 25 Aug 2012 21:58:33 GMT

Title: Tone Deaf
Writer: Everlind
Wordcount: 1500
Pairing: None. (Yes, I am shocked, too.)
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Hiyoshi asks a friend to help him.
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY oriaon!!!!!!! I hope you like this, even if it is sorta kinda very lame ^_^; I TRIED OKAY?

Tone Deaf

He should've asked someone else.

But when it is about music and more specifically playing music on a piano, there is only one name to leap to mind and that is Ohtori Choutarou. So he asked him. They're friends and Ohtori was absolutely glad to help him out, because that is what he does -help people.

Not that he is not helping him now. He is. At least, he knows that he is. But he can only sit there and stare as Ohtori's fingers fly over the keys and there's sound. Which is nice.

But then he stops making the sound and turns to Hiyoshi. "Now you try again, Hiyoshi-kun," he says, scooting a bit aside on the bench to give him more room. That's not so nice.

Hiyoshi frowns and inches sideways so he's sitting where Ohtori sat. Then he looks at the keys. Takes a deep inhale. And looks at the keys some more.

"Like so," Ohtori says, lifting his own and setting them on the keys, fingers arching just so.

Hiyoshi studies them carefully and then copies him. Ohtori fidgets uncomfortably for exactly five seconds before he reaches and moulds Hiyoshi's hands they way they ought to be.

"Sorry," he says, giving a smile.

"It's alright," Hiyoshi answers and it is, even if the way Ohtori directed his fingers to bend is an awfully uncomfortable feeling. Muscles straining all unnatural.

Okay. Piano. Posture.

Now.

Music.

He knows what to do. Hiyoshi is clever, he's a diligent student and even if he doesn't particularly like (like, at all) music class, it's no reason not to do the best he can. So he's fully aware which keys he needs to press and when, how to keep his eyes on the first staff because the teacher gets mad when they gape down at their own hands.

He plods through halfway the song before Ohtori's cringing gets on his nerves.

Peee-LONK, the piano says when Hiyoshi drops his hands to level a look at him.

"Uhm," Ohtori says and it is actually rather amusing to watch the war of expressions on his face. Thing with Ohtori being is that he is so ridiculously kind that he feels bad to tell Hiyoshi he… sucks.

Because he does. Hiyoshi knows he does.

That's why he asked his most musically talented friend to help him. Because he needs to play this song next week for marks and despite knowing how, he somehow just gets completely and utterly lost as soon as he tries to. A lot like languages, he feels. You can study all night long on a specific grammatical aspect, master it completely and then be asked next day to demonstrate your comprehension of it by constructing a whole sentence. Out loud. In front of the whole class. Which results in renewed trail and error because knowing how is not the same as speaking it. Because there's you thinking and trying to get the word right and then you have to remember more words and in which order did they all go again? And tenses. There's always those to stab you in the back, too.

Music is like that.

That's why he prefers mathematics. Logical without a fault.

"Like this," Ohtori says and Hiyoshi needs to scramble sideways to avoid a mouthful of uniform shirt as Ohtori leans over to lean into the keys and play, like he always does, heart in his fingers and almost apologizing to the piano for Hiyoshi's inexpert fumbling. When he stops he just sort of stares at Hiyoshi, a 'there you see?' plastered between his eyebrows.

"I did that," Hiyoshi says, rather dryly. "Exactly like that."

"I -you…" Ohtori sort of waves his hands in the air. "No. You didn't." -a quick, apologetic wince- "No. You have to… your rhythm is way off and the way you press into the keys… you have to-" he stops and runs a hand through his hair. It stands up in disastrous half-curls and cowlicks.

Hiyoshi knows where he caught that bad habit.

"You have to listen, Hiyoshi," Ohtori says. "Not just do, you have to listen. It's not just moving your fingers."

"That's a big part of it, I'd say," Hiyoshi points out, because it is. How else is the music supposed to happen is not by pressing those keys.

"But most of the music happens here first," Ohtori says, in that earnest, genuine way of his and Hiyoshi thinks he'll have to snort out loud if he actually is sappy enough to tap his heart, but instead Ohtori taps his temple. "Like tennis."

"This is nothing like tennis," Hiyoshi growls at him.

At all. He likes tennis. He loves tennis. But he really, really, really doesn't like music. And less every minute.

"Try again," Ohtori just urges. "But listen first."

Hiyoshi briefly considers arguing semantics because how can you listen first, when there's no music yet, but decides against it. After Ohtori has once more ceded him more space he peers at the sheet, then at his fingers (and Ohtori can't seem to help himself but reach over to correct him again) and presses down.

This time he decides to ignore Ohtori looking as though they're slaughtering his cat and just go on until the end. Because he knows Ohtori is giving him advice and because Ohtori knows what he's talking about, Hiyoshi does try to listen. But it's a limping, querulous sound that he draws forth, his heavy notes half-empty, the high ones shrill and wavering on everything else in-between and, frankly, it is just downright-

"Whoa, that sucks, Wakashi!"

BEZOOOOOOOOOOONG protests the piano when Hiyoshi presses his hands flat down in irritation. Maybe if closes his eyes, he'll just go away.

"Why don't you show him how to do it right, Choutarou?" Shishido says, coming over and plunking himself down right next to Hiyoshi as though he's got all the right to.

"Well," Ohtori goes, tugging at his hair again.

"That's what he was trying to do, Shishido-senpai," Hiyoshi tells him, voice level, not quite adding 'before you came along and interrupted' though he's annoyed enough he really wants to. And all this coming from the person who had allegedly been so hopeless at music he'd been degraded to the triangle -according to Jiroh-senpai.

Ohtori seems to be able to tell, as he instantly sets to convincing Shishido to scoot aside so he isn't crowding Hiyoshi and to shut up because 'it is really important for Hiyoshi-kun to learn and he needs to concentrate'. Then he turns to Hiyoshi again. "It was… quite…"

Utterly amused, Hiyoshi wonders what word Ohtori will manage to choke out that is not an outright lie.

"Passable," he settles on in the end, looking rather miserable. "But don't worry! With a little more practice you'll be better than me!"

From his other side there's a little noise of derision. Ohtori gives his doubles partner a Look (one that may say: 'if you do not behave, Shishido-san, I am going to be very displeased with you and we don't want that, do we?!) before grabbing Hiyoshi's hands and setting them on the keys again rather firmly.

"Play," he says. "And don't forget to-"

"Listen," Hiyoshi sighs. "Yes, I got it."

So, ignoring Shishido's rapidly rising levels of glee, he leans down and plays. It's as though with Shishido-senpai's presence his every stumble, his every hesitation is magnified thousandfold and the both of them are staring at his hands and he really wishes they'd stop and he really, really doesn't like music.

Finally, the last note sort of splutters and dies.

Silence.

"Uhm," Ohtori says.

Hiyoshi glares at the piano morosely.

"Wow, I wish I hadn't listened," is Shishido's succinct opinion on the matter and Hiyoshi has had quite enough.

Tilting his head to the side he gives him a serious and maybe even slightly hopeful look. "Well, senpai," he says. "Seeing as Ohtori-kun can't, maybe you should teach me."

"Sure- uh." Shishido blinks. "What?"

"To play the piano," Hiyoshi clarifies. "As good as Ohtori-kun can play, he can't seem to teach me. But you are so very good at teaching people, aren't you, senpai?"

"I." Shishido stutters. "Erm. Well."

"And," Hiyoshi goes on, "You have already had to play this last year, correct? So it should be easy for you."

To make it even better, Ohtori's face brightens and he nods, "Hiyoshi-kun is right, Shishido-san! What a great idea!" and nobody can sound so sincere as Ohtori does when he means it.

And to that face, Shishido is utterly and completely powerless. His shoulders hunch.

"I… I suppose," Shishido mumbles, suddenly regarding the piano like those panties they once found in the club house, the violet silk ones that nobody knew where they came from but all sort of suspected belonged to Taki.

"Thank you," Hiyoshi says, dipping his head. "Please take good care of me."

Shishido glares at him, not at all fooled.

Hiyoshi allows his lips to curl, just slightly.

Ohtori beams happily at them both.

Maybe music isn't all that bad, after all.

Gekokujou

-fin-

drabble Dump

everlind — Sun, 29 Jul 2012 21:13:26 GMT

619 WORDS - PG

He'd known he's in trouble for a while.

But knowing doesn't change anything, despite him sorta wanting to change it or fix it or just plain stop it.

"Shishido-san."

Shishido starts, feeling as though Choutarou just speared him through with one of those scud serves of his. That's when he realizes he's still hesitating at the threshold, completely entangled in his own web of thoughts. Choutarou stands doing that polite smile of his, but not quite. Now it is his still polite smile but a different one -the one he uses for Shishido. The violin case and book bag are already neatly lined up at his desk and those long, graceful fingers are working on the buttons of his uniform.

Down Shishido looks, noting his own uniform, which is in complete disarray: shirt untucked and rumpled, pants rolled up sloppily because he's wearing one of Sho's old ones, his tie dangling loose around his neck and holes in his socks.

Fuck dammit.

With a deft roll of his shoulders, Choutarou takes off his vest and hangs it over the back of his chair. It looks freshly ironed, even after a whole day at school and changing in and out of it during practice. Shishido is pretty sure his own smells funky.

"Do you want something to drink?" Choutarou says, smiling.

"Sure," Shishido nods and plunks hid own backpack to the ground with the resounding thud of too many books and loose pencils.

Going to play host, Shishido is left alone feeling like the biggest idiot in the history of idiots. "Stop it," he tells himself. He's been in Choutarou's room before. Not once or twice, but plenty of times. He's stayed for dinner and slept on a futon right there on the floor. It's not any different now. It isn't.

The only difference there is is that Choutarou's parents aren't home. They got the place all to themselves the whole evening and night.

So what? Shishido asks himself. Nothing is going to happen.

He knows this. He's known it for a while. But he can't seem to stop it, can't seem to smother these painful squirming sensations. And he feels stifled, almost nauseous and his heart hammers at the back of his throat like this awkward swollen thing and his palms are sweating and there's Choutarou's bed. Where he sleeps.

No.

That's just weird. He's not gonna do that.

But.

NO!

He makes himself turn away look at the rest of the room, but it only serves to remind him that Choutarou is downstairs being a lame dork and fiddling with tea and snacks and stuff like that, because that's the way he is. He'll be a while, trying to get it right.

The room is empty.

Shishido swallows. Chews his lip. And slowly walks over. Sits down carefully.

Before he can help himself he's pulling his legs up and lying down, rolling on to his stomach. Pressing his face into Choutarou's pillow. Breathing in. Deeply.

It smells like him.

And then scrambling away from it, unbelieving he dared to do such a thing. Something so pathetic and weird and and… girly and lame. Totally, way lame. He stands there, hugging himself, hating that he's utterly incapable of acting normal and his heart is hammering and his face feels hot and all he can think about is that he smells nice.

"Act normal," he mutters to himself and forces his arms down to his sides, relaxing.

The sheets are a bit rumpled. Shishido plucks inexpertly at them and then sits down, leaning against the side. Drawing his legs up, he crosses his arms over his knees and rests his chin on them.

It's going to be a long night.

FicAlert! PoT> Locks (Silver Pair) PG-13

everlind — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 10:38:41 GMT

Title: Locks

Writer: Everlind

Wordcount: 4550

Pairing: Silver Pair

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: none.

Summary: Some things you may never understand until you think to look for them.

Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.

Author's Notes: for my wife, namae_nashi. Happy Valentine's Day ♥

My gratitude goes out to nerdish, who always knows how to keep me from crumbling into a useless, gibbering heap of fail.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHOUTAROU!!!

Locks

There's a roaring between his ears. And cold sweat running down his spine. Rather painfully reminiscent of how it was the very first time knowing what the squirming knot high-up under his ribs meant.

Five years should have been long enough. For it to stop, that is. Or lessen. Or something -anything, really. They haven't been and Ohtori now wonders how he managed to convince himself they ever would be. Not that he thinks that for the knot to go away would be a solution. Just that it would be sort of nice to get on with his life, because this surely isn't doing anybody any good anymore. Least of all himself. And he thought he had.

Then again, if he'd moved on with his life -or past the knot, he wouldn't have been here, would he?

The sound of tennis brings back an instinctive response in his body. The impact of the balls on the strings, the scent of clay and sweat. The sounds. That voice.

It makes Ohtori feel like he's a teenager again, barely fourteen years old, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks in the changing rooms. The confusion at first, the dawning realization, the dreams. The long years of being hopelessly in love after.

Being in love isn't even remotely romantic. Ohtori never understood how people thought it was. To him it was one haze of confusion and second-guessing and hours spend daydreaming up one unlikely scenario after the other knowing it would never happen. Which, he supposes, is bad enough by itself had it been a girl.

But Shishido-san is hardly a girl.

Why is he here again?

Down below on the courts the tension is mounting. Ohtori watches them battle it out with his heart pounding against the back of his teeth. He wishes one of them would score already, only to break the pressure hanging like a stifling cloud over the stadium.

Shishido still doesn't look like a girl. In fact, he's never looked as different from the boy with the long ponytail as he does now. He's not skinny anymore. His build is unmistakingly that of an athlete. When he leans his weight on his right foot and then pushes off to run down a volley, Ohtori can see the swell of thigh strain under his shorts even from where he's sitting. He's quiet, too. He never used to be- all noise and curses, throaty growls. Sometimes he may utter a 'hah!' when he gets a tricky return, but he's almost eerily quiet the rest of the time. Dignified.

Not hard to guess how that happened. At the sidelines Atobe stands, shoulders squared and rigid, in a severe suit despite the heat. He appears fixated on Shishido, as though willing him to conquer that first point by sheer force of will.

Which he does.

Around him the audience surges to its feet, cheering. Ohtori is out of his plastic seat as well, before he remembers himself. He sits down again, only to feel immensely awkward between the forest of clamoring people still standing up. When they subside again, all he can see from Shishido's reaction is the slow, triumphant curling of a fist. Atobe hasn't moved a muscle.

A serve is set up and the game begins again.

Shishido is a different person.

Ohtori is a different person.

But sitting there, badly disguised on a hard seat in the middle of a sea of strangers and watching Shishido play tennis -singles, at that-, he feels like nothing has changed at all.

A lot of it was stolen touches.

Resting a hand on his shoulder. Accidentally shifting his leg so their knees bumped. Handing a bottle of water exactly so that their fingers would touch. Picking nonexistent lint of his clothing. Which had been easy, too. Shishido was rather tactile. He was like that with everybody. Even though Ohtori tried not to fool himself into believing it was different with him, it still felt like it.

They'd been so close.

And sometimes when Shishido touched him, he would swear that it meant more. Like something he knew down into his bones. They'd lain on a bed together, talking for hours, close enough to breathe each other in. Shishido had slept against Ohtori's side, leaning on him. He'd massaged Ohtori's shoulder, which had ached for a long time after he'd injured it against the Golden Pair -surprisingly gentle and patient and thorough. They'd spend hours talking on the phone together, way into the night, the last few hours often just listening to one another breathe.

And they'd been so. close.

Which had been the worst part of it. The knowing and understanding of each other, being so attuned how to move and even breathe in tandem that it was hard at times to properly separate himself from his senpai. It had been more than being best friends. This is something he knows he did not imagine.

But despite that, despite Shishido resting a warm hand on the back of his neck, Shishido smiling that special crooked smile at him, Shishido looking at him as though he was staring straight into Ohtori's heart, despite it being too much to be just friendship- Shishido still had gotten a girlfriend in his first year of high school.

One day she'd just been there. Shishido didn't tell him straight away. For some reason Atobe knew and, naturally, he told Kabaji. And Kabaji being Kabaji (that is unfailingly kind and protective) had walked home with Ohtori after school one day and gently told him. Ohtori doesn't remember much else from that day, or that night. Or much right up until Shishido had stood before his door two days later and told him face-to-face. Granted, it had been sort of garbled and spluttered, and Shishido had been wringing his cap until it had been near unrecognizable.

If it hadn't been for Kabaji, Ohtori believes he'd have done something that would've destroyed their friendship right there and then. Instead he had managed to choke out a hoarse form of congratulations or something close enough like it, because Shishido's muscles had relaxed and his face had smoothed out and he'd looked relieved and happy.

Happy. In a way Ohtori hadn't seen him before.

Part of him had never wanted to meet, let alone see the girl.

Especially when he heard that she was very pretty and Shishido-san was not-so-secretly proud and yet dazed that she'd picked him, and even Oshitari had been saying that despite all her virtues there ought to be something dreadfully wrong with the girl to have picked Shishido, of all people.

Ohtori knew why.

And when she turned out to be exactly that when he did first meet her, it had been as though someone was lovingly squeezing his heart. She'd been pretty and smart and funny and sort of tomboyish and utterly perfect.

When Shishido looked at her, his heart was in his eyes. He'd loved her and Ohtori had watched him love her. It had given him solace in the worst way ever. Seeing Shishido be in love with her had sort of helped, in way, because even if it hurt as though his flanks were splitting under the pain of his emotions, he'd been happy. There'd never been any doubt about how Shishido felt when he'd seen him touch her. Kiss her. He was all rough and protective gentleness with her, fierce and intense even when they were sitting at other ends of a room.

Ohtori was his best friend. To Shishido's credit, he'd never put him aside for her. They still hung out and not much changed between them. Shishido still touched him. Only that Ohtori now knew there wasn't more in his gesture than fondness and affection and perhaps love, but of an entirely different order. After a while of seeing how careful Shishido was, making sure Ohtori knew he was his best friend and that even a girl he loved could not destroy that, Ohtori occasionally told him to bring her along.

It had been okay, somehow. There is nothing wrong with helplessly loving someone even if they don't love you back. As long as they're worth it.

And Shishido had been.

Still is.

Ohtori almost wishes he wasn't.

They've been playing for hours.

Shishido's shirt is dark with sweat.

Yet it is obvious that his stamina has doubled, if not tripled since high school. And he plays differently, too. Has to, Ohtori supposes, if he wants to make it in singles. Out of practice himself for years makes it that Ohtori is hesitant to judge, but he thinks he's about as good as Atobe was during their last year as a team together. Granted, it took Shishido nearly a decade to achieve such a level of skill -while Atobe had oozed it naturally out of every pore.

Even though he's only ahead by a small margin, Ohtori can tell he is dominating the court. While he has to wring every point off the other, he still keeps taking them steadily. The other is frustrated. Shishido is still eerily calm. One thing that has not changed is his intensity. He still has that look. He's not looking anywhere else but at his opponent, but Ohtori can feel the steady invasive burn of it. Aggressive. Frank. Demanding.

He'd looked at her, that way, too.

Knowing it will hurt like hell doesn't stop him from scanning the stands for the familiar outline of her body. But there's a lot of slender, dark-haired people present and he can't locate her.

Likely if he searched the internet he'd be able to find out whether they've married by now. The man on the court below could even be a father. Of more than one, if the predictions of team were correct.

The first to be married, they joked. With two kids and a dog right after. A house. A steady job.

Ohtori never stayed to find out.

When Shishido left after high school, Ohtori allowed him to leave his life, too. He saw him occasionally in the beginning, and less after time passed. Ohtori didn't call him, didn't visit him. One day he stopped returning his calls.

It was a sort of gift to himself. The chance to move on. Find someone else. Not stand on the sidelines secretly coveting someone else's love.

Not that it had been easy. He'd cried in the ugliest way ever -tears streaming and nose running and mouth open on sobs when he couldn't get any air. More than once. He cried the first time he turned Shishido down for a game of tennis -after, when he was safe under his blankets. And he cried the first time Shishido's name appeared on the screen and decided not to pick up -ever again. He cried when he realized Shishido at long last had stopped trying.

And he cried plenty in-between, too, for no other reason that he wanted it to stop hurting. Crying is stupid and absolutely useless and solved nothing at all. He knows this. Didn't make it any easier, though.

Sex was wonderful. He liked someone else to hold him, someone warm and sweating underneath, the taste of skin and lips. He'd been with other people. They all found him remote and too compliant and it never lasted. Ohtori thinks he knows why.

The key is standing on the court below, sun catching on the drops of sweat covering his brow.

He has kissed Shishido.

Once.

Sort of.

It sort of remains frozen in painful clarity in his mind. The laughter of the rest of the team walking ahead of them -Oshitari had been singing, rather off-key. The hot, stifling rain that flooded the streets day after day. Sodden fabric had clung to his skin, his shirt soaked to the point of transparency. The droplets had made a sparkling haze in the halo of the street lights and Ohtori had looked up at the night sky, finding it brilliant with stars. Cloudless. He'd been wondering where the rain was coming from when there were no clouds when Shishido had leaped up behind him, wrapping both arms playfully around his shoulders and nearly making Ohtori trip.

After steadying him Shishido had given him that smile, lop-sided and brazen, only to fall into step with him.

They'd walked in silence behind the rest, sharing a wry look when both Gakuto and Jiroh joined Oshitari's song about dancing bananas.

Ohtori remembers the rain. He hadn't been cold. But when Shishido put an arm around his waist -easy, affectionate- he'd hissed at the unexpected heat of him. It had felt as if he'd touched Ohtori's bare skin and his chest had felt so full, too full and straining for this person next to him that he'd dropped his head and kissed Shishido's forehead.

It hadn't felt weird or inappropriate. Shishido hadn't moved away, hadn't said anything. His fingers had curled a bit in the soaked fabric of Ohtori's shirt. They'd just walked on, Shishido's arm around his middle.

Often Ohtori curses the fact that it had been raining. Shishido had been just as thoroughly drenched as he was and he hadn't tasted like anything but rain. Or rather, when Ohtori licked his lips right after, there'd only been a mineral tang.

The rest of the night is rather hazy.

But he remembers that moment.

The bright winks of the rain flying through the beams of light, his sodden clothing, the warm body and the arm around his waist. The wet tickle of hair against his upper lip. The full contact of touching someone else's body with his mouth. The heavy weight in his chest.

Shishido.

The plastic edge of the seat bites painfully into his behind. Ohtori has scooted so far forward that if he moves one more millimeter he'll fall right off.

Determination.

That's what Shishido is, down there on the courts. He can still see the spontaneity, his natural impulsiveness in his wild and reckless returns -but even that has been honed to perfection. Atobe didn't mold him into something he wasn't. He took what was there and improved on it. Atobe still stands there at the sidelines, never moving but to hand Shishido a towel or a water bottle. It's not like he doesn't dare to look away in fear of Shishido messing up. But his whole back, his body is one flex of ill-suppressed of tennis, like Ohtori's is: muscles fighting as though he's standing right behind Shishido once again together on the court. Atobe is there with him, too, staring on at the side while all the rest of him -heart, mind and soul- is with Shishido.

Shishido isn't the favorite. The other player is. Shishido is a sudden wild card in the tournaments, steadily on the rise since last season.

They've been battling it out for hours. Ohtori can tell Shishido is starting to tire. And he's not sure, but he think he can detect the old gleam of terror that he'll lose, and lose for everybody to see, lose right before Atobe's eyes, lose when he believed nothing could take him down.

C'mon, Ohtori wills at him. You can do this. I know you can. Don't you dare lose the first time I see you after five years.

Even through the other player has the advantage of experience on his side, as well as the favor of most of the audience, Shishido doesn't snap. Instead he suddenly switches from a stable defense into sudden, ferocious offense.

He makes a low, deep noise, not as much as a sound as a harsh exhalation as he dashes up to the net and uses a rising and Ohtori nearly closes his eyes against how familiar that looks, even as he sits there smiling.

That's right.

The other player is taken aback, but he not so that he fumbles the return.

Sweat flies in a glittering arc off the ends of Shishido's hair

Ohtori bites his lip until he tastes blood.

And then, suddenly, it is game set and match, 7-6, Shishido.

There's a shocked pause. Even Shishido himself is motionless, his racket still up over his left-shoulder, legs braced. And then crowd becomes one massive roar of noise, something that can be felt in the bones. Dazed, Ohtori rises, too, a beat after.

Below Shishido is shaking hands. The other player accepts his defeat admirably, allowing a smile. His lips move. Shishido answers back. If he was feeling strained a moment ago, nothing shows of it now. He seems to crackle with energy, from the way his hair stands crazily on end to his eyes, which seem bright even when they are black. The sun gleams on his skin; he's soaked.

Atobe strides up to him and for a moment Ohtori thinks he's about to leap joyfully into Shishido's arms. Instead, he sort of presses Shishido's hand at first, but after a moment, they embrace.

And then.

Shishido puts his arms around Atobe and rests his chin on his shoulder. Looks up. Right at where Ohtori is standing, not cheering, not applauding, not whistling, but watching.

He sits down, ducks his head. Tugs at the brim of the cap he's wearing, feels for the sunglasses. Checks his cross, tucked into the pocket of his pants. When he finally dares to rise up and peek, Shishido has long since moved on. Some reporter has shoved a mic under his nose and is undoubtedly doing the usual spiel of post-victory questions. Atobe hovers nearby, undoubtedly anticipating do damage control before long.

Ohtori looks down, not applauding, not doing anything but watching. His eyes burn, the center of his being burns.

Five years.

Congratulations.

People become one single minded mass when they're with as many as they are now. Obediently they all troop towards the exits. Confusion erupts when they spill into the main reception area, where others are already lining up for drinks or snacks or are nattering away on their cell phone. In the middle is Ohtori, shuffling along as swiftly as he can, wanting to be gone already.

Why am I here again?

Before his eyes, Shishido flies over the courts. A man. An athlete. A husband. A father. His best friend. A boy when Ohtori feel in love with him, but he finds that even after five years of nothing, of complete absence, he still feels sad and fond and angry, and as stupidly, uselessly in love when he was a child.

He wishes he hadn't come.

He wishes he hand't seen the announcement in the paper.

He wishes he were stronger.

And he is so damn happy he came and saw him play, saw him win.

Yes. It's worth it.

Ohtori stands before the wall of flesh, of people crammed together as they shove and push and complain their ways towards the exit. As he waits, snatches of the match and of old memories dart before his eyes. It was a good match. The cap itches as his hair underneath is starting to curl up in response to the heat, wet with sweat. He wants a shower. And then, bed. He feels utterly drained, even if he sat down all afternoon and did nothing at all but torment himself mentally.

Someone grabs his shoulder, hard and impolite. Ohtori turns to look, pulling away-

Shishido glares up at him. "You," he says. "Come with me."

All around them people are beginning to turn their heads. Shishido on the courts is different from Shishido right this moment -dressed in dry, nondescript clothing and no tennis racket anywhere in sight. Nobody seems sure how to react, whether the person standing right there is the athlete who just dragged in a phenomenal victory. Some move, some even begin to feverishly rummage for a camera, but before anybody is sure enough to do anything at all, Shishido is bodily towing Ohtori away and back towards where he came from.

Ohtori, at least, has no doubt whose hand is clamped like a hostile vice on his wrist.

It almost surprises him when he realizes Shishido is still smaller than him, how the t-shirt seems to eat up his frame even as the muscles in his forearm roll like iron cables under his skin.

The further they retraced Ohtori's steps, the more the crowd dissipates, until at last there's a deserted concrete stretch of hallway with nothing in it but the two of them. Shishido lets go, as though he cannot bear to touch Ohtori any longer. For a moment they stand there, suspended, an echo of the crowd's roar still imprinted on the whole stadium. Shishido is turned away from him. The nape of his neck is tanned and slick with sweat. Ohtori feels as though he's about to choke one something, his heart or his own stupidity, he's not sure.

"You bastard," Shishido says, voice shaking and hoarse. Then he turns around, unwillingly. His jaw is set.

He looks terribly young.

Only twenty-three, Ohtori reminds himself. But Shishido looks younger than that, as though the last five years have never happened, completely stripped away. When Shishido lifts a violent hand towards his face, he doesn't flinch. The cap is snatched away, his hair tugs in protesting snarls when it leaves his head.

"Why?" Shishido asks him, looking angry and lost and uncomprehending.

Taking the sunglasses of himself, Ohtori folds them before sliding them into the other pocket of his pants. The bridge of his nose crawls painfully -he's not used to wearing glasses of any sort.

"WHY?" Shishido demands, throwing the cap to the ground distainfully. "Answer me, you stupid asshole."

Ohtori doesn't know what he wants. An apology? Why what in the first place? That Shishido is angry he understands, but his old friends seems to be unraveling, leaving no evidence of the strong, independent individual on the courts. Instead he's uncomfortably human and hurt and Ohtori knows it's him who caused it and he has no idea what to do.

He never intended to speak to Shishido again.

He never intended to see him again.

Or know what he was doing, what his life was without him.

But he came to this match and he should've known that five years wouldn't be enough. Not for him. And not for Shishido.

Despite everything, they never stopped being close. Too close.

"You think I wouldn't know?" Shishido asks him, gesturing wildly. "You think I wouldn't know it was you?"

Ohtori knows that his silence isn't helping. But his throat seems to be twice the size it ought to be and his lips are dry and painful and his eyes hurt and Shishido-san is there, standing before him. They haven't talked in five years. All he's got left for Shishido-san are three words he'll never say.

"Answer me!" Shishido shouts and he surges forward, fury etched into every line of his body. He slams both fists into Ohtori's chest, no mercy, no kindness, not anything but anger and confusion. "How dare you? You ruined everything. You stupid coward."

Once more he lifts his fists and brings them down, full-force. The third time he sort of wilts half-way and his curled hands press weakly down. His head tips forward. The top of his head is right under Ohtori's chin -exactly as Ohtori remembers it. His hair is nearly black, his lashes unforgiving on his cheekbones. His lips are white.

"Go away," he snarls. "Just leave. I- Why? Why are you here, looking like this. I hate that you can still do this."

Ohtori looks down at the dark crown of his head, speechless.

"I hate it," Shishido snarls and he looks up. His teeth are bared. "I hate that you can still- you ruined everything. Damn you."

And then the slack hands on Ohtori's chest become vicious clamps that haul him forward and down. Shishido kisses him.

The salts of on his lips -from his match, from his anger- stings Ohtori's mouth like white-hot acid. He's furious and warm and moist, a different entity compared to how remote Ohtori suddenly feels. Shishido doesn't stay long. There's the punishment of his mouth, a sudden thawing, lips soft and remembering and then his breath shuddering a retreat.

Ohtori stares down at him. For the first time he notices he couldn't have pulled back even if he wanted to. Shishido is stronger than him, shorter, slighter, but stronger. The muscles stand out like ropes in his arms and along his neck. Even though Ohtori is entirely at his mercy, Shishido stares up at him, dark eyes wide -searching his face as though he is looking for something.

"Damn you," he says again, lowering his eyes. Suddenly lifeless, Shishido's hands drop away.

They stand there. Ohtori doesn't know what it is he feels. It hurts like hell and more than anything else he wants it to stop. He doesn't know this Shishido. He can't breathe.

Shishido doesn't look at him again, instead he breathes in, closes his eyes. Then he turns and leaves. Ohtori can't even bring himself to watch his retreating back. His eyes are on the crumpled cap on the ground. His mouth hurts. When his tongue circles his lips they taste of blood and sweat that isn't his.

Shishido kissed him.

Ohtori mops at his cheeks, but there isn't anything to dry. His cross feels like a mountain of lead in his pocket.

Shishido kissed him.

The hallway is empty. Ohtori swivels his neck left and right, unsure where they came from, unsure where to go. Before he understands what he doing, his feet are moving, walking, jogging, sprinting.

The concrete hallways all look the same. Ever so often they branch off -showing a glimpse of the stadium. A stitch develops in his side. He hasn't participated in any form of exercise or sport for years.

Five, to be exact.

Years, that is.

His head swims as he hurtles heedlessly through the bowels of the stadium. Everything is gray and empty and cold and Ohtori is starting to panic, and his heart is straining under the sudden surge of blood and he's having trouble breathing and just as he stumbles to a halt, hiccuping for air, he sees Atobe.

Even there it is like those five years never happened. Atobe is a man, he's married and he's moved on to a life Ohtori couldn't ever hope to understand. But when he stands there, arms crosses and regarding him, utterly unimpressed, he's Ohtori's captain all over again.

Atobe's eyes are pale and uncommonly blue. His mouth is white as Shishido's was when he turned away. He stares at Ohtori, down his nose even when he's taller than him by a head.

This is the part where he is supposed to say something, but for the life of him, Ohtori can't. He stands there mute and shaking and breathless.

Fixing his eyes on one of the many doors of the hallway Ohtori finds himself in, he jerks his chin at it.

In there.

Ohtori bows his head and moves towards it. There's a key on the door. Hesitantly, Ohtori checks it. It's unlocked.

He opens the door.

-fin-

FUNPOTEXCHANGE

everlind — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 15:58:31 GMT

HURRY HURRY! Don't miss the opportunity to sign up for the

FUNPOTEXCHANGE

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SILVER PAIR ADVENT CALENDAR 2011

everlind — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 20:29:38 GMT

For those not a member of tori_shishi but who love Silver Pair regardless:

SILVER PAIR ADVENT CALENDAR 2011!!!

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Thank you all so very, very much for making this happen.

FicAlert! PoT> Dependence (Silver Pair) PG Pt2

everlind — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 16:16:59 GMT

Title: Dependence
Writer: Everlind
Wordcount: 13 300
Pairing: Silver Pair
Rating: PG
Warnings: LOTS of tennis (possibly of the inaccurately written kind). Atobe's conniving. Ohtori over-thinking. Shishido being thick. Oshitari being… you know.
Summary: The Kantou Tournament is near. How do you learn to play doubles with someone in four days?
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: So much tennis and so little boy touching. Goodness.
Thank you nerdish for all the encouragement and support!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHISHIDO RYOU!!!

*Special:* Number 026 'Teammates' for the Big Table of Doom

PLEASE VISIT SHISHIDO'S BIRTHDAY FEST AT tori_shishi!!!

Dependence

Shishido-san isn't wrong about playing one another first.

But he feels rather weird staring at and being stared at in return when they play. A lot of his serves go into the net. Ohtori can see his senpai carefully note every single wild serve, dark eyes intense. Yet he doesn't say a word about it, which unnerves Ohtori more. Even Taki-senpai often got worked up over how much he netted his serves.

Ohtori is confident in his serve, despite this. Just like he's profoundly grateful for his height when he's got a racket in his hand and the hostile lines of the court marking his territory. He wouldn't be hyotei, not to mention a second year regular, if he didn't love to win and win hard. It thrills him to see his opponents shrink back after his first serve. There's nothing awkward about him when he keeps pushing even after cornering them. There's nothing sweet about him the moment their eyes reflect the knowledge that there's nothing they can do. He gets all the high shots and most of the wide ones, too, being tall means that he covers a wide area simply by being himself. His body is straggling behind with filling itself out as he keeps shooting up, but Ohtori has started to realize that besides speed in his serve, he's capable of hitting heavy and hard.

It's just difficult to keep up with himself. Some of his technique suffers because he fed it all towards making his serve what it is.

But.

When he sees Shishido-san play, he think he's got the solution.

No.

Not a solution.

An answer.

Shishido is fast. But the edge his reaction time and speed have are new. But it's the rest of his tennis kept him in the regulars for three years, too. Until Tachibana. Who is a captain.

Granted, his style has altered to adjust itself to the new skills, but the overall effect is that he plays freer and smoother… though not smooth enough, it seems, seeing as he does a skid that leaves a red weal on his leg. But he takes the game.

"Let's take a time-out?" he asks as they move to switch courts.

An eyebrow arches. "Tired already?"

Ohtori doesn't say no, he isn't. He doesn't say, I need to make sure you put something on that injury, either. Shishido-san is a bit weird about that. If he can get him to sit down first, he can just tackle him with disinfectant before he can think about protesting.

While his senpai twists the cap off a bottle of water, Ohtori digs for the cotton swabs and the antiseptic.

"It's just a scratch," Shishido says when he sees Ohtori coming. He looks mostly annoyed, but Ohtori is pretty sure he can detect a trace of amusement in his voice, too.

"Won't take long," he mutters and starts to mop at the film of blood where some of the skin is abraded.

Shishido sits and shakes his head a little. "I don't know why you bother," he tells him. "It's not like I won't take a shower when I get home or anything."

"You always need to clean it, senpai," Ohtori counters. "No need to risk an infection."

There's a hum above him. "Yes, mom."

Feeling the blood rise full force to his face, Ohtori's hands drop. He didn't mean to be overbearing. He just doesn't want Shishido-san to be in any unnecessary pain.

There's a chuckle. Shishido-san chuckles from his chest, deep and gravelly. "Choutarou," he says. "I'm just teasing."

The blood doesn't seem to be in any hurry to leave his face, though. So he quickly puts on some salve to keep dust from getting at the wound and sits back.

"Don't forget to drink," Shishido points out after they sit in silence for another minute.

Ohtori nearly mutters something about 'who's being mothering now' but he doesn't quite dare. Instead he manages a sheepish smile: "Aa, I know. But I forgot to pack any. I was kinda in a hurry."

Shishido gives him a terrifically unimpressed look. "Right. You pack clean cotton swabs, disinfectant and salve, but no water?"

His cheeks seem to burn like miniature suns. It sounds as weird as his senpai puts it and he doesn't know what to respond to make it less so.

"Here," Shishido says and nearly upends his bottle of mineral water down Ohtori's t-shirt as he shoves it at him.

He fumbles before managing to grab it. Blinks at it.

Shishido stands. Scabby knees are level with his eyes before they walk off. "I wiped the top," he adds over his shoulder.

His senpai doesn't see that he'd already taken a big gulp -he's parched- before he finished telling him that.

***

Tuesday finds Ohtori and Hiyoshi walking towards the cafeteria together.

Ohtori's stomach whines and growls. Ashamed, he pressed his hands against it and wills it into silence. His mother prepares lovely bentos packed full of things he likes, but he thinks he might just get something extra from the shop to go with it today.

Students mill the hallways. They call out to friends. There's a laugh ahead of them, rough and warm. Ohtori lifts his head automatically.

Shishido-san is standing with a group of friends near an open window. They are probably his classmates. Jiroh-senpai is out cold and hanging off Shishido's side. The talk between them is animated and Shishido is explaining something that is received with little grins and some eye-rolling.

Mid-narrative Shishido's eyes flick away from his audience towards him. His hands pause and his grin widens. "Hey, Choutarou," he says, giving a nod. The whole group (including Jiroh-senpai cracking open an eye) turns to look at him.

Ohtori doesn't know whether to be pleased or embarrassed. Possibly a bit of both. He manages to warble a reply that has Shishido smiling even wider and then he and Hiyoshi move on and past him.

They stop so Ohtori can get an extra bowl of rice. Hiyoshi waits and frowns.

"What's the matter?" he asks.

"It's just… odd. You and Shishido," he says flatly. Hiyoshi doesn't pussyfoot. He just says it.

Ohtori blinks.

Hiyoshi's lips go thinner. "It's bad enough that he pressured you into helping him and now they also force you to play tennis with each other. It is true you are too nice and should never have let him press you, but surely this…" he shakes his head.

Forgetting all about the steaming bowl of rice and his hunger, Ohtori stops and stares. "It wasn't… quite like that," he manages.

A flat, disbelieving look.

Ohtori gropes for words to explain. "It's true that I wasn't sure about helping Shishido-san… but I did say yes."

"Yes, I am sure he asked all nice and polite," Hiyoshi mutters.

A smile steals across his lips. "Alright, maybe he didn't. But I still agreed. By the end of it we…"

What's the word for what they are -besides 'a doubles pair'?

"He's obnoxious," Hiyoshi says, somewhat mulish.

Something starts to dawn. Ohtori can't recall Hiyoshi ever having any particular hang-ups about Shishido-san before. Until now.

"Uhm," he goes, suddenly awkward. "Do you maybe want to sleep over after the Kantou Tournament? We can watch that series, maybe. You know. The one with the ghosts." Too bad that might mean he'll sleep poorly for a few nights. After the Tournament some sleepless nights aren't as disastrous. He just never expected Hiyoshi to feel threatened. Then again… well, Ohtori can't readily think of anybody other than Hiyoshi he'd rely on if he'd have to. Before. Now, he feels like he might just turn to someone else, too. And Hiyoshi seems to be all too well aware of this.

Hiyoshi's face does that weird thing where it doesn't do anything at all, but still manages to convey some sort of emotion. "… I'll ask my mother," he mumbles, decidedly not smiling.

They walk on and find a spot to eat. Ohtori pats himself on the back for having avoided a crisis.

Hiyoshi is a good friend.

And until a few nights ago, the only true friend. And he wants him to know he'll always respect that (but not by saying it, or anything like that… that would be… weird).

Maybe he and Shishido aren't quite friends yet.

Still.

He thinks of Shishido's nod and calm:

Hey, Choutarou.

Belatedly, he smiles back.

***

Mid-summer means that the sun still shows its face when Ohtori heads back to the courts after dinner. It's far from sunset, but the light is warmer and hazier nonetheless. Each individual knob of Shishido's spine is highlighted as he peels off his shirt.

Ohtori walks up to him and tries not to stare -but he does anyhow. It's punishing himself a little. Especially when Shishido turns towards him when he hears his footsteps on the clay. His chest is almost comically dotted with bruises -like oversized dalmatian spots. Ohtori knows that he should not feel guilty about it, but he kinda does nevertheless. Shishido asked him, commanded it at times, to serve at him. So he did.

The bruises are fading. Instead of livid purple-red, they are turning greenish brown with a yellowish ring around the edge.

He can't imagine how much pain he must've been in -or still is.

"Hi," Shishido says, giving him a lopsided grin as he reaches for a dry and clean shirt. Ohtori wonders how long he's already been at it. "By the way, how's your studies? Just say so if we gotta knuckle down for a moment."

"Ah! Hai! Thank you," Ohtori ducks his head, then gives a little smile of his own. "I've finished for today, though. Thank you."

An eyebrow twitches. "Eh… kay," he mumbles, eyes veering away towards the open courts. "Don't mention it."

There's an awkward silence.

Ohtori's smile wavers a little. He's not sure what to say, this is still a little new and wobbly and he badly wants to make a good impression besides having a fast serve (and wanting to give up his spot -though Shishido-san went kinda ballistic over that, so maybe that wasn't good to begin with).

Slinging his bag over a shoulder, Shishido-san peers up at him, as if he holds an answer to a specific question. Suddenly he nods and gestures towards the gate. "What do you say we hit the street courts? We're not gonna find out much if we stay here."

A shiver of anticipation curls in Ohtori's belly, a not entirely pleasant sensation. Yes, his heart says. No, his mind counters. What if they find out this won't work? The back of his neck is slick with sweat. A drop rolls towards his t-shirt collar.

"Alright," he manages.

It is hard to believe how nervous he is. His mind is mulling over all sorts of possible doom scenarios whilst Shishido lengthens his stride to match him.

"I hope there's some guys playing," Shishido remarks into the silence.

His footsteps falter and for a moment they are in disharmony. "Aa," he breathes.

Shishido pauses and studies him as Ohtori catches up. They walk on for about ten steps -a matched sequence of right, left, right, left- and then suddenly Shishido bumps their shoulders together. "Don't worry," he tells him. "It'll be fine."

After a moment, Ohtori nods -slowly.

Trust

he reminds himself.

I do

he answers.

***

"Rough or smooth?"

Ohtori's fingers clench convulsively around his racket handle.

"Rough," Shishido says, seemingly at ease and confident.

Ohtori wants to trust, he really, really, really does and, well, he does, honest. But did Shishido-san really have to challenge two highschoolers?

"Smooth," the burliest of the two grins. "Too bad kiddo."

When Shishido turns to him, Ohtori stares. His eyes are bright. They burn where the dying sun touches them. He's used to Shishido-san's eyes being all aggressively intense. But this…

Ducking his head for an instant, Shishido murmurs. "We're gonna fucking crush them."

"Uh," Ohtori goes, trying hard to suppress the urge to wipe his sweating palms on his shorts. "Hai."

No formations just yet. Not for them. The other doubles pair lines up close together to center court, an up-and-back formation. The burly highschooler's partner is whippy and graceful, when he serves there's an almost gentle 'Hah!'.

It's nothing too fancy. Shishido gets it, normal pace, and lets it curve back over the net.

Ten minutes into the game, with thirty-love for the other players, Ohtori feels sweat break out. Cold sweat. His stomach screws up tight.

Shishido is nothing at all like Taki-san.

Taki is very balanced and very… punctual. His shots are always hit with just the right timing. That doesn't make them especially hard to counter, but it makes his form and poise very succinct. It makes it easy to know where he will go, when he will do so, how he'll return or when Ohtori needs to take the shot. No need to call for one another, they were well tuned. There's nothing loud or domineering about him. He was kind to Ohtori and besides a mind your serve Ohtori-kun, he never scolded him.

Shishido-san is… Ohtori has no words for it. He's seen Shishido play, so he kind of knows. But playing with him…

It's like he's been handed a music sheet of a very well-loved symphony of his, one he's not quite able to play without one yet -only the one he's looking at it in braille.

Feeling, intuition, nearly heart over mind.

In doubles, their whole personal style-dynamic alters. Shishido remains the retriever, but even as he stalks the baseline, he also dashes up front in a flash and then prowls there. There is no obvious division about who guards what side, unlike the one he had worked out with Taki-senpai. It's more chaotic. Shishido may be a counter-puncher, but he's aggressive. He attacks by defending. He's all jagged and harsh movements, complete with growly noises and expletives. He's a boiling presence everywhere and Ohtori can't take his eyes off him, because he needs to figure out what to do.

One thing is clear. Shishido is playing with a lingering shred of desperation from the recent ordeal. The very lines of his back are taut and edged -directed inward. It's not that he ignores Ohtori, because he does attempt to reach for that balance he told Ohtori about. Worst of all is that Shishido is a adept gamemaker, he signals, gestures. They're good signals. But it is like the beloved symphony where he nearly knows what ought to come next -nearly isn't good enough when you aren't sure.

The other team presses hard. Shishido's cockiness has pissed them off. A tricky, clever game is played out by them. It is not the first time these two are standing on a court together. The burly guy hits strong, nearly vicious shots. Ohtori can tell they take their toll on Shishido, he'd think it pride if he wasn't so absolutely sure that it isn't pride. Yet he mulishly keeps returning them when he can, while he ought to let even the easy ones pass by for Ohtori to take. Strength draws whipcord lines of muscle in Shishido's body, but it is a different kind than Ohtori's.

They take two games from them. Ohtori's service game was a win, barely, because he faulted a lot of his serves.

As they switch courts, Ohtori sees his senpai's hands shake a little. "Shishido-san…"

Shishido turns and smiles at him, "Don't worry, we'll get them."

Sighing, Ohtori frowns a little. It's not that! He thinks. It's okay if they can't mesh and balance perfectly from the start, but Shishido-san has to remember that while yes, he can return those shots, he doesn't need to. The two lost games don't matter, not yet, but Ohtori doesn't have any intention of losing. Not even to someone he doesn't know on the street courts. He's hyotei. He's a regular. Every game matters. After the past few weeks, Shishido aches to win, to prove himself over and again.

Let me help you. Ohtori watches him take his position at the baseline. Allowing me to help you means we can both win.

Shishido serves, it's nice and sharp, but that's it. It's returned easily.

Already at the net, Ohtori has the chance to press the advantage. Shishido dashes, but Ohtori calls he's got it -and he does. The look on Shishido's face says he's slightly flabbergasted, but not particularly cross. Just honestly confused.

It starts to dawn on Ohtori that it isn't because Shishido doesn't want to, or not even doesn't trust him -he did leave the shot to him at a moment's call. It's that he doesn't know how to depend. Doesn't realize he can. That it is alright to.

Every single return, every single attack, defense and move Shishido makes, all of them, are to make up for that one loss. Shishido-san is hard on himself.

The worst part is that Ohtori begins to see that Shishido is supporting him and very adeptly so, that's he good at doubles and a clever game maker. But. The other way around, it never seems to occur to Shishido that the supporting has to work both ways. Not even because he thinks Ohtori will mess up. It's almost like he's got a glaring -and particularly obtuse- blind spot in that regard.

It's ridiculous. As the game continues and Ohtori takes initiative, they start to gain. One moment they're pure iron on their court, it's insane just how tight and right they move, like they've done it a hundred times before. Suddenly it all frays at the edges, comically so, when the tide of support tilts and Shishido does his 'me against the world' act. That he lets Ohtori take the shots he calls for isn't enough. They become two people on one court trying to hit fuzzy yellow-green balls, just barely managing not to barrel into one another.

They still win. The other team is pretty good, but they're just better. Separately even, and endlessly more so when they get it right.

Not to mention that the last game is service for Ohtori.

But 6-4 isn't that brilliant. Not against the teams they are up to this Friday. And this pair was as speck of dust compared to others.

Ohtori doesn't say anything yet. All things considered, it wasn't too bad.

But he thinks about the… the answer. The very painfully obvious answer.

Two more evenings.

What question to ask to get Shishido to see it before then?

***

On Wednesday, tension runs high during afternoon practice.

Ohtori is oddly reluctant to play with Shishido for the whole club to see. Almost like showing a rough sketch of some concept he has in mind for a painting. He'd rather reveal it when the time is ready. When it is ready, perfect, like he knows it can be.

Obviously Atobe does not think so. It's not been officially announced that they are a doubles pair now, or even that they may be included in the tournament line-up. Time is running short.

And Atobe… Atobe is waiting.

We're doing our best! Ohtori wants to say. They are. They both arrived an hour earlier this morning, to practice with the ball machines. They won't go home later, either. They'll stay, eat the extra bento and force themselves through homework (most of which they've crammed in during break between classes) and then start again.

Today there's an overwhelming focus on doubles again. People's eyes linger on him, they must suspect something -the one half without an official partner but there is also Shishido and Hiyoshi and even Taki and what now? Ohtori fiddles with his racket at the sidelines, waiting for Atobe to make up his mind. While he's lecturing Oshitari and Mukahi, Shishido suddenly rushes up to him, grabs his arm and tows him towards the relative privacy near the exit of the courts.

Shishido crowds close, his hand is a secure around Ohtori's wrist. Unyielding yet not unkind. His eyes are keen as they find his. Ohtori blinks. "Listen," he whispers. "We gotta try for doubles one!"

Ohtori's jaw drops. "Excuse me?" he manages.

"Look. This, we can do this. I believe we can," he says, up and close in Ohtori's personal space. "We have to try."

It's hard not to close his eyes and sigh. It's insane how terribly… overzealous Shishido gets when he gets the whiff of the faintest possibility. And nothing but full-throttle will do.

Wait.

Is there?

A possibility.

Doubles One?

Ohtori thinks of his beloved symphony and the perfect painting.

Yes, well. But. The Tournament is in two days. They'd have to be pretty well satisfied it they managed to secure doubles two properly by then.

He looks at Shishido and is positive his senpai can read what he's thinking in his eyes. Yet. "We'd have to defeat Oshitari-san and Mukahi-san," he whispers. Is that agreeing?

"Yes," Shishido breathes. "Yes."

Yes.

They don't play them that practice. There's another fast rising doubles pair amongst the ranks of many that they have to take on first. Casually Atobe announces the practice matches, but as soon as he says 'the Shishido-Ohtori pair vs Ashida-Kase pair' everybody turns their eyes towards them. Even Jiroh cranks himself up long enough to take a good look. Hiyoshi appears pensive. When Ohtori meets his eyes, he nods. Barely. Atobe has already strutted along to order someone else around. Ohtori wonders what and how, exactly, Shishido said to him.

It's just practice. It's nothing official.

Ashida-san and Kase-san have seen them both play, but there is nothing they can do against Ohtori's serve, even knowing. And Shishido is still testing the full range of his hard-won reflexes, even startling Ohtori at times when he's just suddenly standing there, ready. Of course, together on a court, their tactics alter to accommodate one another.

Mostly.

Shishido is still doing part-time doubles.

Stop trying to prove yourself, Ohtori wants to say. Well, yell by then, honestly.

It's worse today, when they smack into disharmony it shows. And the whole club is watching. Ohtori still doesn't know what else to do but forcibly call for the shots, and Shishido will let him have them, but it's so forced, so unnatural to how they play when they get it right. So they fumble and there's gaps and they become obstacles for one another to try and avoid tripping over.

Shishido will dash up to return, already making the faintest alignments necessary to hit his rising and Ohtori will say 'mine' or gesture and take it for himself, to show that -here, I am here, allow me to do my job- and Shishido will grind to an abrupt stop and the Kase will already have returned by the time he's centered himself and… They become sloppy and clumsy.

And they still win.

But it is not a performance worthy of doubles one.

And all the while, Oshitari stands and watches. Behind his glasses his eyes are dark and calm and unreadable.

It's not good.

Atobe doesn't say much. Not at any moment is he watching them. Yet Ohtori doesn't doubt for a moment that he saw everything, has plucked it apart and analyzed it with his Insight. Has seen that Shishido is in a way the strongest, yet weakest facet of their combination and that Ohtori is unable to fix it though he knows how.

How do you explain something so instinctive and obvious when the other can't even make such a simple leap of logic himself?

Trust me?

Shishido does. It's not that.

It's not trust. And it's not balance. The balance is there, they got it, but it gets lost when… something else that pries them apart. Is it because Shishido is so used to fixing his own problems? Yes, Ohtori was there to help, but Shishido used him as a solution to a problem he knew. And he's not harboring any hard feelings towards Shishido for that at all. But it is not helping them now. If he'd offered to help Shishido it might have been different, having had Shishido accept his aid verbally.

Maybe.

When practice ends, the two of them remain on the courts. They take a break for Shishido to towel himself off and to switch into a dry shirt and to eat. Shishido has sandwiches with him, all cheese, as opposed to Ohtori's hugely varied and fancy bento his mother prepared for him. They get eaten with as much relish as Ohtori eats his flower-shaped vegetables. Some of his rice balls have little faces and Shishido chuckles and rolls his eyes playfully when he sees them.

Just as suddenly does he get serious. He puts everything down and frowns.

"I know I'm pushing you… us," he mutters. "I know. But, can't you…" he makes indecipherable motions with both hands up and down and between them and around them. "We can," he concludes at last.

Ohtori sets his food aside also. "Will you try something with me, senpai?"

"Uh, sure."

Ohtori stands up. After a beat, Shishido does too.

"Turn around, back to me," Ohtori tells him. It's stupid. It's silly. And maybe not even entirely appropriate, but he's heard other teams at school do it.

A quirk of the mouth, but Shishido turns. His cap is still on his bag and the nearly bald spot shows. Compared to Ohtori, his body is terribly slender. He has to look down acutely when he focuses on the area around Shishido's arms and shoulders. "Let yourself fall backward," he says.

"Er, what?" Shishido goes, glancing over his shoulder.

"Don't worry," Ohtori presses. "Please."

And, just like that, Shishido goes more or less limp and lets himself keel backwards.

Ohtori catches him.

It's not even difficult. Shishido winds up being heavier than he suspected, but it's no trouble for him. Dangling with an almost pointed air in his arms, slack, Shishido mutters, "And what did we just achieve?"

Ohtori lets him get up. They face one another. Shishido is oddly flushed. Not answering the question, Ohtori bites his lip for a moment and then murmurs. "Can we do it the other way, too?"

Someone clears his throat, maybe Shishido, maybe him. The hair carding is definitely Shishido though. "What are-" he stops and looks Ohtori carefully up and down, taking in his greater height and weight. "Alright," he whispers.

Ohtori makes it a point not to announce it when he lets himself drop, nor to hesitate. Nor even to try and lessen the impact, accommodate his height.

Air whooshes past his ears for a heartbeat and then with a small noise, Shishido catches him. No stumble, no nothing. He's got him, securely, even when Ohtori lets himself hang, pure dead weight, somewhat longer than necessary to prove his initial point.

Shishido seems keen on putting more space between them after and he looks awkward. Considering the absurd request, Ohtori admits that he'd probably like to distance himself also if he'd been in Shishido's place.

"What was that all about?" he grumbles. It's not anger though. His brows are slanted into a frown, but his eyes catch the sun through his dark lashes as he looks up at Ohtori.

It takes a lot out of Ohtori to say what he does, because it isn't in his nature to speak out. He's a brooder. Even when provoked he bottles it, locks it inside and slaps a smile on it. He doesn't always get around to saying what he means, the easy, clear way. Least of all does he challenge people -or their methods-, without a good reason.

But this is a good reason.

Shishido won't get it.

"I don't think playing more tennis will help, Shishido-san," Ohtori says.

Here's when Shishido proves that they don't know one another very well yet. He expected anger, but there is none. The little his expression reveals hints at something darker and directed inward. Perception of failure? All he says is, "Why not?"

Ohtori doesn't answer.

"We're playing Oshitari and Gakuto tomorrow," Shishido tells him.

Now it's his turn to start.

"Atobe told me. Go check the roster if you don't believe me. We've got doubles two anyhow." That last sounds like a personal defeat, almost an apology, too, of not having been able to accomplish everything right now, right away.

After a moment of considering this, Ohtori nods. "I believe you." He does. Even more so, he thinks he's right even more so now.

"But you still think we gotta… go home?" Shishido forces out, rattled.

He nods. "Shishido-san. Trust me."

Groaning, Shishido drags both hands over his face. "I can't believe this. I know you want that spot as bad as I do, but… you don't make sense." More hair pulling and frowning. After an earth-shattering exhale, Shishido snarls, "Fine. I'll trust you."

Ohtori nods.

Good.

***

Oshitari and Mukahi stand at their side of the net.

Not able to tell whether this is simply pretense or not, Ohtori sees how they don't seem to take note of them at all. Maybe they simply aren't worried. Everything about them is relaxed, at ease, playful. Mukahi says something, it has a complaint and Oshitari's name in it, and Oshitari reaches out and does this… well, really lingering stroke through Mukahi's hair. Mukahi shuts up.

Ohtori blinks.

Shishido nearly bowls him over. "Okay," he says, then arches a brow at him. "You alright?"

"Ah, yes," Ohtori manages, yanking his eyes away from their opponents as though scalded. It's more comfortable to look at Shishido-san anyway, he seems… rested. The sharp look in his eyes is almost familiar now. And Shishido always makes it a point to look straight into your eyes. Ohtori finds he likes it. "Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Shishido answers, then lightly punches his arm. "Don't make me regret not practicing more yesterday."

Unable to help it, he flinches. He's afraid of this, more than the losing itself. His tactic has made it so that if he is wrong, he's also ensured they'll really struggle playing together for a while because he'll have shattered the trust.

"I'm kidding," Shishido says. "Relax."

I hope so, Ohtori prays.

Around them, the whole place is a whirlwind of activity. The Kantou Tournament is tomorrow. Hiyoshi and Jiroh are playing singles on the court closest to them. Jiroh is more or less awake.

"Kabaji!" Atobe snaps his fingers.

"Usu," Kabaji says.

"He'll referee," Atobe tells them. Oshitari and Mukahi have stopped fooling around. Next to Ohtori, Shishido is a warm presence. When they both inhale the hairs on their arms catch and tickle. He can sense the stillness in Shishido, the anticipation of what they both know will come. "The winners get doubles one." Pure energy seems to course up through his doubles partner and leap across the air into Ohtori. He shivers.

Across the net, their eyes meet. Right now they are not teammates. Even Shishido and Mukahi, close friends, narrow their eyes at each other. Oshitari smiles at Ohtori. He doesn't smile back.

"Tch," Shishido goes. "Doubles one will be ours."

"We'll see, Ryou," Oshitari positively purrs. "Smooth or rough?"

"Choutarou," he whispers.

"Rough," Ohtori answers for him.

"Really now," Oshitari says, sounding inordinately fascinated. "I wouldn't have guessed."

"Just spin the goddamn racket you asshole," Shishido snaps.

"Stop!" Atobe interjects. "Kabaji will do it."

"Usu."

Kabaji spins the racket. "Rough."

"We'll serve," Shishido says and pointedly gives Ohtori a ball. "Kill them," he says.

Taking his position, Ohtori bounces the ball. He notes that Atobe has stopped acting and is watching at the sidelines. He always centers himself by this little vice: the bouncing, careful, rhythmical, until it builds. From the soles of his feet and up his back until it aches between his shoulder blades because he has to serve or fly apart at the seams.

Shishido doesn't signal for where. Doesn't matter.

Ik… Kyu…

Nyu… He tosses it up, high, higher than most do and then, ready, watches it reach its peak -and return on the down arch.

KON. He hits.

It's in.

Perfect. Glorious.

Best of all? Shishido's tiny, infinitesimal tremor when it impacted, having followed the course of serve with his whole being. Even Oshitari just stands there, blank. There's nothing he can do.

"Fifteen-love," Kabaji calls.

"We know," Mukahi snarls.

"Don't worry about this game, Gakuto," Oshitari says, smiling. "Just stand there and be pretty. It's our turn, soon."

Mukahi sighs and stops trying to look as though he even has a chance to receive. He pats his hair. "Stupid cheater serve. Smirk all you want, Ryou, we'll get you."

"See me tremble," Shishido fakes a yawn.

"Bastard!"

Ohtori serves before it turns into a verbal (or not so) cat fight between those two.

"Game, Shishido-Ohtori pair!"

Not a single fault. Ohtori allows a fist pump.

"Looking good," Shishido calls at him as they settle into more familiar positions on the court. As they gravitate closer, Shishido cuts with his eyes towards the other court. "They're gonna try and keep it short."

Ohtori nods. They always do, fast and furious, with Mukahi flipping and hopping about so fast you'll get nauseous. But Oshitari is the one you want to watch out for. He is. And he does not like the way in which his eyes linger on Shishido, thoughtfully, before he serves.

It is aimed smack-dab mid-court. Ohtori suspects to see what they'll do, so he steps sideways and lets Shishido have it. He flows up and returns it with a slice backhand, hitting low and deep the way he prefers.

Gakuto stays twirling about at the net, so Oshitari gets to return it. It comes back over, heavy and hard and Ohtori knows before it happens that Shishido will try for it.

He does, Ohtori lets him, not wanting to jangle the harmony, but knowing this isn't the way either. It gets returned, but the angle is all wrong -Oshitari doesn't particularly hit hard per se, but he did so now, with obvious intention. And Shishido still went for it. Gakuto is a hop-skip-backflipping blur, and suddenly the ball is in their court.

"Fifteen-love, Oshitari-Mukahi pair." Kabaji announces.

"Told ya!" Mukahi shrieks, before dissolving into laughter. Oshitari doesn't smile, he's watching.

Shishido seems unconcerned. Ohtori is getting a bad, baaaad feeling. He has the net, for now, letting Shishido do his retrieving near the baseline. A long rally follows, at odds with their opponents usual preferred style. Oshitari is taking a lot of the balls, too, and not even offensively.

They loose a point, another and then the game. Mukahi is a ball of bouncing glee, but Oshitari is a dark and watchful presence.

"Don't mind," Shishido says.

It's just one game, but Ohtori feels there's more going on.

Shishido's serve. He lands, surprisingly, a no-touch ace, a wide angled shot with a nasty spin towards a corner. Oshitari is more than ready for it next time, and the serve itself isn't as sweet as the first. A rally begins, lengthy again, and Ohtori finds himself only watching as Oshitari seems to-

Ohtori catches on way too late.

By the time he puts himself in place Oshitari already knows where the fatal flaw lies. Some sort of unspoken communication passes between him and Mukahi, after which the latter joins in. Ohtori had hoped, foolishly, that they'd have been able to build more reserve in their game, make enough headway that they could flaunter their way through and up to the last winning game. But to already have been caught at 1-1 is bad.

Of course, he should have known better when it is Oshitari-san.

Everything falls to pieces. All pressure gets directed to Shishido and not even so that it is obvious. It's all balls that are his forte -but it is all of them, no matter who hits, Mukahi or Oshitari, and just so that Shishido will be severely tempted to take them. So subtly that for Ohtori to call for them it seems pushing it. He still does, now and then, but it is an unnatural gesture to intercept them. They know how to tempt Shishido, his need to prove that, yes he knows he's being targeted, but he can handle this, his wounded pride and aching thirst to keep control.

Shishido doesn't even really get why he's being targeted.

And when Ohtori ventures to relieve the back court when Shishido gets drawn up front, they'll suddenly target the vacated side. It makes Shishido run to get it and Ohtori seem careless.

One advantage that remains theirs is that Shishido has insane stamina. The rallies are fast and harrowing, but he keeps up beautifully. Otherwise they'd have collapsed already. But as Shishido keeps being tempted by the easy shots that aren't easy at all, the sort he should not have to give up, Ohtori sees that once in a while Oshitari will hit heavy and violent, normally not such a big deal, but under the pressure it starts to tell.

Some of the high lobs Shishido does leave to him, but it's a disjoined effort. Ohtori tries to draw their shots, but as soon as Oshitari returns it is directed back towards Shishido.

The game draws out, and then they loose it.

Atobe is at the sidelines, ever watchful. Others have stopped to look also, muttering.

Whatever he tries, as soon as he has control, he loses it again. This despite the fact that Shishido signals for him, despite the fact that they manage to set up tactics, despite that sometimes they click and fight back. Oshitari is only interested in one thing, and he keeps doing that. Almost matter of factly. It's deadening, and yet dangerously frustrating for Ohtori. He becomes more reckless when they do have control, making it a force-play, but then there's a glint of glasses and it dissolves through their fingers.

They take 2 - 3 with Ohtori's second service game, a close call. He's so worked up he nets two, and faults another. The remaining scud serves aren't that brilliant either. Not as fast, and barely in.

At this rate, they will lose.

"They're targeting you," Ohtori pants as he mops at his forehead with his forearm.

"Really?" Shishido hisses. "Gee, I haven't noticed." He's cross, not per se at Ohtori, but at himself, at their stumbling.

"You have to let me take them!" Ohtori insists. "All of them!"

"What? And just stand there?" Shishido counters. "It's not singles!"

"Exactly!" Ohtori nearly yells.

A disbelieving shake of the head. "We should've worked on tactics yesterday evening," he mumbles. He keeps clenching his right hand, thoughtfully. There's a light shake in his fingers.

"The only tactic we need is-"

"Are you two done squabbling?" Mukahi shouts. "A panic attack is not going to save you now. Let's just get this over with." He smirks, twirls his racket.

One last simmering look and Shishido stalks off.

Well done, Oshitari-san, Ohtori thinks, hanging his head.

Oshitari gives them a nasty twist serve and they get sucked into the game again. They've stopped testing with rallies. Now, confident of their game and mindful of Gakuto's stamina, they start to attack.

They drop points faster than they can keep up. Oshitari is giving Shishido a taste of his own medicine, hitting low and deep to stop him in his tracks. Ohtori stands as close as he can without being in the way, knowing that unless he can get through Shishido's thick skull, they're goners. Possibly the only way to do this is to knock him unconscious.

It's no use to scream at Shishido, he'll just scream back, too frustrated to listen, too set on showing that he can do this. Alone with two on a court. Ohtori stands at the baseline, nearly behind Shishido and watches it happen, helpless.

Then, suddenly, Mukahi fumbles a shot. Chance ball. It arcs right towards Shishido, but odd and steep and irregular, even Ohtori has no idea how it is coming in, especially not with the sun being right there, lucky for Mukahi really and -but Shishido is so intent and getting it, even blind, that he backs up, trips, and falls.

It doesn't even register he's moved until he's already got his hands under Shishido's arms and the ball twocks into the court next to his left foot.

"Thirty-love," Kabaji says.

"You alright?" Mukahi calls, standing at the net, suddenly deprived of little grins and anxious.

Ohtori hoists him to his feet and steps away.

"Uh, yeah," he mumbles. "Choutarou has my…" he trails off. Slowly, carefully, their eyes meet. "He has my back," Shishido finishes.

It's barely a whisper, but it carries.

Oshitari's eyes widen. Atobe's lips move. Jiroh and Hiyoshi have stopped playing and are watching.

"-I…" he starts.

Ohtori hums. "Bloody massacre?" he offers.

There's a wonderful, blooming grin. He holds up his arm. "Fuck yeah," Shishido growls, as they bump. "Let's slaughter them."

They turn towards their opponents again.

"You wearing water-proof panties, Gakuto?" Shishido asks casually as he moves into position.

"You're losing," Mukahi returns. "Big time. It'll be-"

"Ga-ku-to," Oshitari says, quellingly.

"What?" the redhead snaps. "Geez."

Ohtori's blood starts to tingle. And when Shishido, almost pointedly steps aside to let the easy, slow, gentle ball -one last ruse of Oshitari's- in Ohtori's care, it starts to sing.

They play.

Ohtori… well, it's nearly frightening. Everything slots into place, a resounding, cosmic crack as they align, balance, mesh, play, perfectly. Suddenly Shishido is not only an aggressive, domineering presence, he's an anchor, even when he steps aside -more so than he needs to- and Ohtori understands.

He doesn't even need the music sheet for this symphony anymore, finding out he never needed it, almost with an aplomb 'I can't believe how this was even difficult before'. The perfect painting is already there.

They start reeling in games. As Oshitari abandons all attempts of pressure on either of them and pulls out his own troublesome play, Shishido moves back in it. For the first time, his reflexes start to show, sharper and abrupt, even after how long they've played, whilst Mukahi starts to slow down, jumping less and twirling not at all.

"Don't be shy, Choutarou," Shishido grunts between harsh breaths. "Hit a little harder."

It's difficult not to start laughing then, but he smiles and complies. Mukahi's racket flies out of his hands -he's finished.

That does not mean Oshitari makes it easy. Even just with him fighting, the last two games are hard.

Game, Shishido-Ohtori.

Oshitari is, like Ohtori, tall and lean. The long reach and his innate grasp of the game make him formidable. He aims for Ohtori, with his less rounded-style but formidable serve.

Shishido covers for him, first at the baseline, taking care of his misses. Then by his side, supporting and defending and then slipping before him, in danger of being hit, but perfectly confident in Ohtori's ability to read him, trusting him wordlessly-

they both swing, almost in perfect unison, but Shishido lets the shot pass for him. In a split second Ohtori takes it, slugs it over the net but Oshitari is there, ready, returning and Gakuto, who is standing right at the net looks at Ohtori when Shishido follows it up.

Landing it right between his feet.

There's a shocked pause. Gakuto stares at the ground as Oshitari whips his head around. He and Shishido breathe.

"Game, Shishido-Ohtori pair six to three," Kabaji says.

Noise bursts out. Before he can think of turning and grinning, Shishido has grabbed him, laughing and it's really really really gross, their fronts a mash of copious sweat and cotton. But Ohtori laughs, too, and he never ever ever though winning could feel this good.

They're doubles one.

***

Atobe leans against a locker as they towel off after their shower.

Ohtori and Shishido keep finding each others' faces to grin again, silly and disbelieving. Mukahi stomps about complaining loudly, nagging like a musquito, so Oshitari stops him by slapping his behind -which stops everybody doing everything to stare. Mukahi's butt is… naked and the slap echoes.

"I didn't see that," Shishido concludes, and turns away making a face.

Oshitari saunters off, poker-faced, to comb his hair. Mukahi stands there, hand on his own butt, face flooding with hectic color.

After demonstratively rolling his eyes, Atobe looks at the both of them. "Figured it out, did you?"

"Uh-" Ohtori goes, wondering what it is if it wasn't trust that they figured out.

Shishido nods, wryly. "Yeah," he glances up at Ohtori. "Dependence."

***

They're the last to walk home. Atobe is a graceful figure quite some ways ahead of them, having allowed an approving smirk when Shishido had returned the spare key proclaiming they didn't need it anymore.

Tomorrow, they will play doubles one.

Ohtori can't believe it and he wants to tell Shishido: you were right, right all along, sorry I was so worried about… about everything.

Before he can even fumble to try and say so, Shishido exhales low and shaky. "Hey, ah-"

Ohtori glances at him. Shishido's hair is dark, gleaming brown as it dries in the warm evening air, still striking, shorn short or not. It catches glints of the red haze of the sunset like fire.

"Yes?" he prompts.

"You were right," Shishido says. "It was… it was me."

How do you tell someone that, yes, you nearly ruined it for the both of us, but you were amazing -if a little infuriating- during it and even more so after, when you got it right, and I would never have known I could play like that without you. Thank you.

"That's alright," is all he says, smiling a secret smile.

Shishido bumps him, smiling his own lop-sided smile. "You got my back."

They share a glance.

"Hai," Ohtori says.

***

Mukahi and Oshitari are slumped forward with towels over their heads. A shocking, upsetting loss. Always discouraging to loose the very first match. Hyotei members mutter, worried. Nobody tells them to go. Atobe stands, arms crossed, and just watches.

He's never felt more confident.

"Ohtori. Let's go."

"Hai."

-fin-

...back to part 1!

Feedback, thoughts and comments immensely appreciated!

FicAlert! PoT> Dependence (Silver Pair) PG Pt1

everlind — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 16:12:02 GMT

Monday mornings are always the worst.

After all it is the first day of the week. Of a whole week of school and classes and tests.

Ohtori, for all his dedication to his education, doesn't like Mondays any better than the rest of his peers. This one is particularly bad, though. Heavier and more stifled than all others to have gone by this year. Sunday, yesterday, has left him feeling like a washcloth that's been wrung out too tightly. Too much emotion and stress, followed by yet another night of harsh, tearing pangs stabbing into his body.

Absentmindedly he reaches down and rubs his shins through his track-pants. Please, please let it just be pains from all the extra exercise past two weeks have been filled with. Anything. But not growing pains. Not that. He's one hundred eighty-five centimeters tall. He's thirteen.

Really now.

Anything but growing pains.

The bus jostles through the streets. They're deserted.

Quarter to seven. There will be morning practice for the rest of the week. After all, the Kantou Tournament is this Friday. Less than five days left. They have to win. Have to. Or it ends there and then.

Ohtori knows he should start feeling nervous, but he's tired and preoccupied and only slightly worried about his lack of a doubles partner. He wonders what Atobe will do with him now.

The loss of Taki-san is a doubled edged presence taking up residence in his chest. Yes, he does feel awful. Taki was a good senpai, a good doubles partner and a good person. And, indirectly, Ohtori stabbed him in the back.

But how can he truly feel guilty when Shishido-san is back on the team?

He did the impossible.

Thinking about that victory, though technically not his own, makes him feel quite the opposite of awful.

The bus shudders to a stop and Ohtori struggles with arranging two bags and a violin case in the narrow space. Where his tennis bag rests, his skin grows damp instantly.

It's so hot. Even this early.

On the courts there's the sound of tennis balls being passed back and forth already. He hears a haughty rap of a command and voices chiming a loud 'haaaaaai'. Even Atobe-san has come early. He wants to win more badly than all of them combined. Ohtori resolves to give it his everything this Friday. If he is allowed to play. After all, what is a doubles player without a partner?

There's a slight flutter in his chest, but not much more. The true panic will probably settle in a day before the Tournament.

He walks into the clubhouse right as Shishido-san walks out.

They both freeze.

Ohtori doesn't know what to say.

Sunday, though only yesterday, is an entirely different era. The bond he formed with Shishido-san over the past two weeks was severed precisely and finally so yesterday. Shishido did what he set out to do, the thing he asked Ohtori to help him with. There is no need for him anymore. That aside, Shishido-san is his senpai and they have never really taken much notice of each other before. Alright, he does admit to having been in quite some awe of Shishido (and, ah, okay, his hair) when he first joined. Maybe even admired him; his thoughtless bravery (saving babies like he did it every day) and rough-edged manner of being. But that quickly changed when Shishido turned out to be just another person on the team with a serious attitude problem.

But.

After what happened… he kind of wants to be friends with him.

His mouth opens but there's no words. What does he say?

He's never been a social butterfly, someone who easily makes friends, like Mukahi-san. He doesn't brim with witty commentary as Oshitari-senpai does. His best friend is, and has been for years, Hiyoshi. He knows a lot of people and gets along with them just fine. If Hiyoshi is doing work for the school newspaper, he doesn't lack any company to sit with during lunch. But there it ends.

Shishido-san is so vastly different and so interesting that Ohtori has a hard time letting go now he's seen a little glimpse of that other, kinder, side.

Yesterday they did go out after practice together to get Shishido-san a cap. It had been sort of awkward, but not bad, and Ohtori had tried to work up the courage to ask his senpai whether he wanted to go for ramen with him. His treat. To celebrate. But it sounded all so wrong and childish and desperate in his head that he chewed much too long on the words. Shishido left sooner than Ohtori had wanted him to, but his senpai had been so tired and had still seemed dazed with the knowledge that he was back on the team.

So he stands there, a stutter caught in his throat, with all those thoughts rattling through his skull, when Shishido-san tilts his head and quirks a little grin at him.

"You look like you just crawled out from under a rock," he says.

Ohtori breathes. Blinks. Looks at his senpai. He looks just as bruised and battered as he did yesterday. Not as bad as when they first started out, but beaten up all the same. At least there's a clean bandage on his eyebrow. He looks like a whole different person, back in his regular's shirt, hair shorn. And yet still him. Ohtori doesn't think there is anything out there that can make Shishido-san be any less… well, Shishido-san. He's bit like a force of nature, in that regard.

"Your hair-" Ohtori manages uselessly, after groping vainly for something more intelligent to say."It's more even."

Shishido's eyes veer up as he runs his fingers through it. "Yeah," he snorts. "My mother freaked out. She was at it all evening to try and fix it. Didn't really work though." He turns his head showing a big chunk of hair that Shishido's scissors sheared off with barely a finger's length spared.

He grins and starts towards the courts, but pauses to elbow Ohtori lightly. "But I got this now, don't I?" he says and puts on the blue cap they got yesterday. "Still not used to the bill though. Can't see anything coming from high up."

"Wait-" Ohtori reaches for the bill and tugs it around, backwards.

"Hah!" Shishido chuckles ruefully. "That I didn't think of that earlier. Thanks- ah, go get ready, Atobe is giving us the evil eye."

And indeed he is. Ohtori is surprised neither of them turn to stone. With that, both of them go their separate ways.

Ohtori tries his best to find his old rhythm, but the whole regular's team is still recovering from the sudden over-haul. There's Hiyoshi in his bright new regular's shirt and Shishido back in his old one. And, amazingly, there's Taki.

"Taki-san!" he exclaims, confused.

Taki smiles. "I know, right?" he tugs at the hem of a blue sleeve. "Won't be included in the Tournament line-up, though, Atobe said. Looks like you're on your own, Choutarou-kun."

Ohtori feels his own smile falter. "Oh."

"Don't worry," Taki hastens to assure him. "You're too valuable to be used as a reserve. They're just trying to give you a new place. Probably in doubles two."

He nods, cracks a tense smile and starts on his laps. He should be grateful. He should be. But he's a defect unit now. He's no good as a singles player. At least not with so many other, better, choices for singles.

Practice ends with everybody tugging at their shirt collars and groaning as they pile into the showers. Ohtori has a glimpse of Shishido-san whipping off his shirt and revealing his torso covered in fist-sized, yellow-brownish bruises. He winces and looks away to pick out a stall. As the showers shut off one by one, leaving everything steamy and smelling of wet boy, the clubhouse tickles empty in no time. Everybody hurries off towards their first class.

Hiyoshi accompanies him towards the building. "You look troubled," he says.

Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, Ohtori realizes that the panic is starting to settle in now. Likely because he's more awake to realize the profound change that has just wracked the regular's team, with emphasis on his own position in it. "It is nothing, Hiyoshi-kun. I hope we will win this Friday," is what he tells his friend. No use in whining about it.

"We will," Hiyoshi says. "See you at lunch?"

"Ah, no," Ohtori smiles apologetically. "Music practice during lunch."

"Right then," Hiyoshi nods. "See you in the regular's clubhouse then." The way 'regular's' rolls of his tongue is as though he's savoring the word, tasting the sensation of the significance it carries.

Ohtori smothers a little grin. Hiyoshi is much more elated at being a regular than he initially showed. Now that it isn't truly on the back of Shishido's hard work anymore, Ohtori is happy for him.

He deserves to be there.

Ohtori himself though... as one part of a pair without another half.

He sighs again and heads towards his first class.

***

It feels good to pour some of the frustration into the piano. His violin lies on a desk behind him, but right now he just needs to bite his way through a particularly difficult symphony, leaning on the keys with more force than necessary.

Vaguely he hears the rest of the orchestra try and keep up with him, but the aggressive torrent of his music sweeps over the feebler strains. Ohtori is always as unapologetically good as he can be at music. The rest should be able to keep up, they are on the orchestra for a reason, but today his passion leaves them cowed and timid.

Sakaki says as much to them as they pack up with barely enough time to stomp down their lunches. "This was a weak performance. You play with all your heart, or not at all."

Murmurs of agreement and apology. Some of the members give Ohtori looks, resentful ones.

"Ohtori-kun," Sakaki continues. "Less dominant. Let the others breathe."

Ohtori deflates some. "Aa. Sorry, sensei." He reaches for his violin.

"Ohtori-kun."

He stops breathing. "Yes, sensei?" he asks softly.

"Stay," Sakaki tells him.

Ohtori curses inwardly, closes his eyes for a moment. He knew this was coming. There was no way that he would have gotten away with helping Shishido-san the way he did with no repercussions. So he stays, having to watch all the others flee, bentos already tucked under their arms. His stomach growls.

"Ohtori-kun."

"Yes?"

"I have decided not to drop Taki off the regulars," Sakaki says.

Ohtori doesn't say anything, just feels something inside of him knot itself into a cold lump. Behind him is the piano. He brushes his palm over its glowing surface and breathes.

"He won't be your doubles partner again. Ever," Sakaki continues.

In the significant pause, Ohtori looks back steadily and wishes Sakaki wouldn't play with him like a cat teases a mouse. Nevertheless, he refuses to break his facade. Polite smile, attentive look.

Sakaki's eyes narrow. "Shishido will be your new doubles partner now."

Ohtori's expression doesn't falter, but he leans bodily back against the piano, thrown off balance so badly he sways from it physically.

"You have the privilege to inform him of this," Sakaki adds. The corner of his mouth tugs up the slightest fraction.

Ohtori smiles, nods. "Yes, coach," he says and turns to leave.

As he walks out of the music room he thinks: Oh god, no.

Sakaki did have the last word after all.

The bell rings.

Ohtori goes to class, bento untouched.

He's not hungry anyway.

***

You have the privilege to inform him of this.

Ohtori abandons all hope and angsts.

Just when he thought of trying to reach out to Shishido-san and try to be friends, maybe, he has to go and tell him that sorry, Shishido-senpai, but your singles 3 spot? The one you fought so hard to regain? The one because of which you're covered in bruises and probably permanently scarred in your face? That one? Yeah, you can kiss it goodbye. Because you're stuck with me.

In doubles.

He hears not a word the teachers say to him in class. More than once he's asked whether he's feeling alright, he looks rather pale, maybe he should visit the sick-bay.

Ohtori waves it off with more smiles and profusely apologizes.

Then he spends the rest of his classes staring at the board without truly seeing anything. He's always respected Sakaki. Always, before, Ohtori was able to glean a shimmer of the actual reason behind his actions. There is a logic, a method, to his seemingly cold tactics and decisions.

Now that he's been drawn into one such a tactic himself, Ohtori can't see a valid, reassuring base to back-up this new decision. Not to mention there's more than a little indignation on Shishido's behalf, too.

He doesn't care that Atobe probably has had a hand in Taki's continued membership on the regular's team.

What he cares about is that Shishido-san got kicked off, was left to fight until bruised and scarred, all but humiliated, rejected and then finally re-accepted with what was cool disinterest.

Alright. Yes, it's true. Shishido's attitude problem? Fixed.

It should have ended there. Instead, he gets knocked down a notch on top of it. Dumped in doubles. With him, no less.

Clever way to tie up loose ends, though.

And why keep Taki and not use him?

Shishido is a singles player. Has been in that slot for a better part of his first, his whole second and the beginning of his third year. What he has seen from Shishido's abilities in doubles recently is meagre. Casual face-offs, with some random partner. Never serious.

He can't even remember whether Shishido is bad at it, or just adept.

He's never had to care.

Ohtori's pencil makes furious doodles in the margins of his book, randomness, dark, jagged lines. In less than five days they have to make a solid combination.

With Shishido's track record they. can't. loose.

And Ohtori doesn't want to lose. At all. He wouldn't have made it to the regulars if he didn't care about winning so much. Would Sakaki kick them both off, if they did?

Ohtori doesn't know.

Worse? These are all the worries clamoring for attention, but loudest of all is the roar of: what do I tell Shishido-san?

***

Ohtori doesn't tell him when he sees him in the clubhouse.

He doesn't tell him, or call out to him, as they run laps.

He doesn't offer to help him with his stretches and whisper it to him furiously under his breath.

And most of all he doesn't suggest they team up for a game of doubles, even though Atobe has randomly decided that today they'll practice formations.

And no, Atobe-san can glare and twitch his eyebrow as much as he wants at Ohtori, but he's not telling Shishido anything now.

Makes only sense that Atobe has had a hand in this, actually.

Do you want him to hate me? Ohtori wants to yell as he furiously slams balls into his opponents' court. His partner, a pre-regular, runs around flapping his arms like a goose, being completely useless. Not that he needs his help, anyway.

When he can, he observes Shishido playing with Oshitari, but the latter is making more a game out of teasing Shishido, than of the tennis itself. Eventually Shishido snatches a ball out of mid-air and hurls it at Oshitari (instead of their opponents), hitting him on the back of his head and the both of them get disqualified.

Ohtori rubs his temples.

Atobe is doing much the same. "Alright, dismissed," he calls out, pinching the bridge of his nose.

With relieved groans, everybody rushes off towards the showers, wanting to claim the best stalls, steal each other's driest and less smelliest towels.

"We lost," Oshitari points out, his smile entirely in discord with the statement. He trails after Shishido, rubbing at the back of his head.

"It's your fault," Shishido hisses back over his shoulder. "Should've left me alone."

"But I missed you while you were gone," Oshitari says.

Shishido kicks him and the two of them end up in a tussle of elbowing and light shoving. Mostly they succeed in blocking the door for the rest of regulars.

"Idiots, the whole lot of them," Hiyoshi speaks up, popping up next to him out of nowhere. He shakes his head after them and then looks up at Ohtori. "What's the matter with you? You're as white as chalk."

Ohtori shakes his head. "Later," he says.

Hiyoshi arches a brow.

"It's a little complicated," Ohtori elaborates reluctantly. "Tell you about it when it's resolved."

"Fair enough," Hiyoshi agrees. "As long as you aren't in some sort of trouble."

The smile that tugs at his lips is wry and empty at best. "Not yet."

***

The shower doesn't help to ease the nerves. He takes it ice-cold to clear his head, but just ends up shivering and more wound up. Almost he stalls too long, some part of him hoping that Shishido will have left already by the time he emerges.

Instead Shishido is still there wrapped up some sort of enthusiastic conversation with Mukahi that seems to involve a lot of arm-waving.

Ohtori even has time to dry himself properly, dress, take time with his buttons, laces and tie and generally fidget and try to avoid the inevitable. Eventually the whole clubhouse is deserted but for him, Shishido-san, Mukahi and Atobe, who does his eyebrow-twitch at him again while he talks on one of his phones with someone.

Ohtori takes a deep breath, clenches his hands into fists and then consciously relaxes them. He walks up to Shishido.

He's still not completely dressed, barefoot and shirtless and of course that means that Ohtori gets a nice, good close-up from all the bruises, scrapes and scabs that make a macabre patch-work quilt out of Shishido's otherwise smooth skin. Somehow his eyes are drawn to the nape of his neck, an area significantly paler than the rest of him, as it was previously protected from the sun by the tassel of his ponytail. As he sidles closer from behind, Shishido makes a sort of exploding noise, arms outlining what could be the mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion. Ohtori has to smile, even though he is reminded how different they are from one another.

Mukahi is nodding thoughtfully as though he's pondering one of life's deepest mysteries, and then he catches sight of Ohtori looming awkwardly behind Shishido.

"Ohtori-kun," he says, blinking.

Shishido turns and looks at him, too.

The bandage is gone from his eyebrow, washed away by the spray of the shower, probably. The wound is horrid: a gaping split, scabbing at the edges and blue spreading outwards from it into Shishido's short hair.

Ohtori swallows. "Shishido-san," he mumbles. "Could I speak to you for a moment?"

Shishido looks surprised, but the corner of his mouth hitches up a little. "Sure, I'll just get dressed."

Avoiding Mukahi's frankly curious looks and Atobe's smug eyebrow tilt, Ohtori shuffles his feet and waits for Shishido to finish. Shishido's shirt is only half-buttoned and sticks to his damp skin as they walk together out of the clubhouse. Almost unconsciously they orbit towards the sakura tree behind the clubhouse, where they had another serious conversation not so long ago.

At last Shishido steps up in front of him, blocking his path. "Okay, what's up? Who died?"

"What?"

"Just," Shishido makes vague motions at his face. "Everything. Is something wrong?"

Ohtori sucks in a shuddering breath. "Well. I. This afternoon. I-"

"Yeees?" Shishido prompts, eyeing him with curiosity.

"Sakaki-san. He wanted to talk to me- We. He said. I-"

Ohtori staggers back a few steps as Shishido all but lunges forwards, hands clamping over his shoulders. He staggers even more when he gets the full-frontal treatment of Shishido's burning, dark gaze. "Fuck. No. No!" he growls, hands painfully tight on Ohtori's body. "That asshole."

Ohtori reels. Did Sakaki already tell him? Did Atobe? Is Shishido psychic?

"I'm so sorry," he goes on, confusing Ohtori. "I thought it was safe. That it was okay. I'll- I'll go talk to him. Tell him to take me instead."

"What?" Ohtori asks, completely befuddled.

"What what?" Shishido counters, genuinely furious. "He can't kick you off the team! I knew he was up to something; it was too easy. But not like this. I'll make him see that it's better for me to go-"

Ohtori interrupts, "Shishido-san."

"-damned stuck-up arsehole, probably has the handle of a racket up his- er. Yes. Sorry. Yes?"

"I'm not off the regulars," Ohtori tells him, touched at Shishido's vehement reaction, though slightly outraged at his foul-worded litany.

"Oh." Shishido-san lets him go rather sheepishly, rocks back on his heels.

"And neither are you," Ohtori follows up, before he gets blasted with another outburst.

"Oh," Shishido goes again and grimaces. "So we are here because…?"

"Sakaki-san. He said we, that Taki and I-" Ohtori trails off, bites his lips. Why is this so hard to say? He can't do this.

"Choutarou."

Ohtori's attentions snaps towards his senpai like an elastic band being released. Choutarou.

"Just tell me," Shishido goes on reassuringly. Then he smirks. "I don't bite. Often."

That does draw a little chuckle out of Ohtori and suddenly he's able to say it as it is. "Sakaki wants us to play doubles together." He swallows. "I'm so sorry, senpai."

There's no crushing disappointment on Shishido's face the way he expected there to be, nor a vicious curl of his lip. Instead he's perfectly still for a moment, a rare occasion indeed, absorbing the information. Even though he is rolling the information over in his head like a mouthful of something foreign, his gaze turned inwards, Ohtori has time to re-affirm to himself that yes, the look in Shishido-san's eyes is always like this.

It was probably the most prominent thing that set him on edge around Shishido, before. That look. No matter what, when or why. No matter the topic of the conversation, the circumstances, Shishido has this way of looking as though he's constantly challenging you. Ohtori hadn't liked that at all, before. When Shishido has looked at him, he'd felt put on the spot, deemed feeble, and then felt as though Shishido demanded why Ohtori wasn't doing the full hundred percent plus then some.

It is a look that, before, had seemed to say: is that it? The best you can do?

After Shishido's own considerable humiliating defeat, it had made Ohtori feel defensive and prickled.

Now he knows that Shishido just always has that look. Intense, almost hungry, and bordering on shamelessly invasive. Aggressive.

And now he's also able to read better all the emotions that seep through that initial impression. Such as now.

Shishido has already accepted the idea. And he confirms this by saying, "Guess that makes sense."

Despite being relieved of walking out of this encounter with his nose still attached, Ohtori feels all the other worries wash it away. "Shishido-san," he says, and his voice cracks a little in his desperation. "We've only got four evenings."

Shishido's mouth forms a strange shape and his eyes dart up to meet his.

And that's a look he's become intimately familiar with, too. Determination. Ohtori almost groans in dismay. And he definitely knows what's coming now.

"Then we had better start practicing, don't you think?" he says.

This time the look in his eyes is most certainly a challenge.

Ohtori knows they've been handed Mission Impossible in the most base form of the meaning. But when Shishido-san looks at him like that? For some reason it makes Ohtori respond with, "Today."

"Today," Shishido confirms and holds out his fist, knuckles forward.

For a moment he blinks at the gesture, the hand extended towards him like a fist-punch paused in mid-motion. Then he gets it. He's never done stuff like this with Taki-san, either, but Ohtori thinks he could get used to this newness.

He fist-bumps Shishido back.

***

"Okay," Shishido-san is saying. "We'll meet up after dinner. Here's my cell number, y'know, in case…" he trails off.

Ohtori flushes guiltily at the memory of leaving Shishido hanging before, on a most crucial moment. The paper he receives is obviously been torn out of a school-issued textbook, the numbers are scrawled in hasty pencil. Just like that, he's got his senpai's cellphone number. He folds it carefully, slips it into his pocket.

"Where should we meet?" Ohtori asks.

"Erm," Shishido goes, eyes darting back and forth restlessly.

"Right here, naturally," a cultured voice speaks up.

Shishido jumps about a mile, knocking Ohtori sideways per accident. "Atobe!"

"Atobe-san," Ohtori echoes and wonders how much he's heard from their conversation.

"I'm quite certain you have a key to the courts, have you not, Shishido?" Atobe says as he walks up to them, mouth curled into a secret smile.

Shishido goes red. Ohtori notices that when he blushes, it's a smudge over his nose and cheekbones, his ears and a gradient flush over his neck and collarbone, too. Now that he thinks about it, how did Shishido get a key to the courts when he was dropped off the regulars? Nobody has one, but Atobe. Use of the spare key has to be granted by explicit, written permission. Ohtori is quite certain that Shishido did not come by the key by asking Atobe nicely for it.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Shishido growls low, but he's an awful liar. The blush if even more pronounced and his frown quite epic.

Shishido-san, Ohtori groans inwardly and closes his eyes.

Atobe looks as though he's enjoying himself. His eyes shine with amusement. "Oh, come on now, Shishido," he says, chuckling throatily, "you did not honestly believe that Ore-sama would do something as absentminded as leaving the spare key unattended in the middle of my desk, do you now?"

Shishido makes an incoherent noise of anger.

"Let me spell it out for you," Atobe continues, but rather seriously this time. "I knew what you would do. From the moment I dropped you off the team. So I let you find the key. I let you bully Ohtori into helping you. I let Ohtori help you. I let you defeat Taki. I let you run after Sakaki. I let Ohtori follow you. And here you are. Both of you."

Of all things, it is obvious Shishido did not expect this. It's also clear that he cannot understand why Atobe did what he did.

Ohtori, in some secluded corner at the back of his mind, but most prominently in his heart, starts to understand.

"And now I have made it so that the both of you will see it out to the end. Together." Atobe finishes, his smooth voice almost as softly tuned as the orange wash of the early evening settling in. "And Shishido? Don't screw up," he adds. With that he turns smartly on his heel, strides off.

The two of them stand there, flabbergasted.

Shishido looks as though he's been whacked over the head by a sledgehammer, the way he stands there gaping in the general direction Atobe stalked off in.

"Together," Ohtori echoes. Then something dawns on him. "You stole the key, senpai?"

Shishido starts. "Uhm," he goes and runs a hand through his hair. "Well, not really. Atobe wanted me to find it, didn't he?"

"Shishido-san…"

"Well, he did!" Shishido says defensively. Suddenly his jaw drops in the light of sudden realization. "Atobe let me cut my damn hair off! That fucker! I'll get him back!"

That's it. That does it.

Ohtori starts to laugh.

Shishido stares at him for a few heartbeats, watching him get tears in his eyes and gasp for breath as he laughs it off, and then he starts laughing too.

***

It hardly surprises Ohtori to find his senpai already warming up when he returns to the courts. The back of Shishido's shirt is already soaked. Setting down his bag, he joins him. He's a little late because his parents weren't exactly happy with his going out again, even hinting he was little young to have 'special lady friend'.

Muscles flex against his palms as he helps Shishido with his stretches. If only they knew.

They never took Ohtori's tennis very seriously. And they certainly do not appreciate how much time he is prepared to invest in the sport. Certainly they would not approve that he even let his grades slip for a moment because he was investing so much time into someone else's tennis. But it seems that Shishido's tennis will also be his now.

"Alright," Shishido says, rolling his shoulders. "Doubles."

Ohtori looks at his senpai and hopes he's not expecting Ohtori to offer great insights on how to proceed. Taki was always the one who controlled their combination, who guided him, the gamemaker. He's used to taking clues from him.

"I say we play each other first," Shishido continues, carefully looking him up and down.

"Each other?" Ohtori repeats.

"Yeah, well," Shishido flaps his racket vaguely at the other side of the court. "I've seen you play, of course. And we've done a few matches over the years. Not to mention last week I did nothing but watch you play and… and serve. But I didn't really think of you other than an opponent. I'd like to play you and think of how we'd best…" he trails off.

"Find a combo that brings out our strengths?" Ohtori offers tentatively. It's what he feels most doubles pairs do.

A small smile runs around the edges of Shishido's lips. He makes a sort of shrug with a shoulder that means neither yes or no. "… play in perfect balance." he murmurs instead.

Ohtori blinks.

"You're right. To a certain extend," Shishido goes on. "It'd be stupid not to use your serve as trump card, nor your height. And it's a good thing we don't have to squabble for territory. So that's good."

"Don't forget your speed," Ohtori points out, feeling his cheeks redden under the matter-of-fact praise he's receiving.

Another little lop-sided twist of the lips. "Hn," he goes and then moves on, a very new and modest something. "Thing is, it's not just doing the things we're good at and doing them on the same court without getting in each other's way. It's not singles."

"I… suppose," Ohtori concedes. He never expected Shishido, who's happily wallowed in his singles 3 spot for quite some time, to display a subtler grasp of the doubles play than himself.

He remembers a few doubles games of his, of course. Like the very first time he saw Shishido play tennis, it was with Mukahi-senpai against Atobe. But that wasn't so much doubles as what Shishido just described: two players doing what they do best on the same court. But… he remembers that Atobe often made Shishido play with promising pre-regulars in doubles games, because he's good at being… being a gamemaker.

Huh. Ohtori thinks as he realizes that this is true. The more he thinks about Shishido in doubles, the more he remembers him being… a sort of positive guiding force.

It's odd to conclude this in retrospect.

It's just that… Well. He looked up to Shishido for a while, before he joined and for a while longer after he did, true. He was brave and gallant and just… so cool. But then he became down-right arrogant and what used to be a flippant and tough remark seemed to him to become rather condescending at times. And so boastful of his own competence (and unlike Atobe, not likely to be able to back it up all the time). Not to mention his way of looking, always, always as though he thought you came up short to his grand expectations.

He knows better now, of course.

During that period he never quite understood why all the all the other younger members liked him so. Especially after he, himself, had felt thwarted that Shishido wasn't brave and off-handedly kind and and… everything he'd imagined him to be.

Turns out that the person Ohtori looked up to never quite left. Perhaps he knew this, on some level, when he said yes when all this began. He most certainly did this Sunday, when he offered to give up his regular's spot for Shishido-san. He looks up to Shishido more than he ever did when he was in grade school. But the person who stands before him today is more worth it than ever.

Shishido is right when he refers to 'balance', but Ohtori knows in his bones that between them it'll be about trust.

He decides to start right away.

...on to part 2!

Comment on part 2, please.

BIRTHDAY FEST 2nd EDITION.

everlind — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 21:04:17 GMT

SEX!

Got ya looking. Now go join this:

Shishido's Birthday fest at tori_shishi

Contributing is encouraged, but certainly not mandatory. You are entirely free (and most welcome!) to just comment-spam!

FicAlert! PoT> Perfectly Normal (Silver Pair) R

everlind — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 20:38:53 GMT

Title: Perfectly Normal
Writer: Everlind
Wordcount: 5600
Pairing: Ohtori/Shishido
Rating: R (heavy?)
Warnings: masturbation
Summary: The one where Ohtori Choutarou wishes he'd knocked first (only totally not).
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: Juuuust drabblin'. If I am atrociously rusty, do excuse me.
Thank you nerdish for holding my hand through this.

Perfectly Normal

There's cool tiles against his cheek and cooler water pelting down on his neck. Cold enough to sting a little by now. But Ohtori's cheeks glow warm, still, hours after. He burns and shivers at the same time. The streaming shower shuts out all noise, but for the drumming of his heart. His fingers are wrinkled, numb. It must be past supper time.

Ohtori's hungry, but he doesn't think he could eat if he wanted to.

He keeps seeing it. Him. Shishido-san. Over and over again. The color of his skin, a dusky tan against the snowy linen but for the area between his hips and a handspan above knees. How it had gleamed in the half-light, damp with sweat, catching glints on the sharp angles and slick shadows in the hollows. The rise and fall of his chest. The darkness of his nipples. The sparse trail of hair down from his navel. And his hands. His hands… there. On himself. Touching.

Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stop seeing it, Shishido-san masturbating and that Shishido-san saw him, of course, because he kept standing there, too shocked even to back away and apologize or even to quietly close the door.

There's a lot of things he feels, but most of all he feels stupid. Very very stupid. Dumb and slow and naive.

He gets teased by his friends, being shy about it and slow on the uptake and the not ever wanting to talk about it. He knows they think him an innocent and that's okay, because he is, but now it will never be okay again.

He should've gotten it.

He should have.

He gets it when one of the other team-members slip away, suddenly, some with no explanation and others with half-excuses. Or like Oshitari, positively shameless. He gets the abrupt absences or the random need for showers and 'naps'. He gets the irregular rhythm of the shower sprays when they all clean up after practice.

They're teenage boys.

Ohtori does it, too.

Granted, not nearly as much as the others seem to do, because he feels awkward and weird knowing Jiroh-san or -even worse- Atobe-san is in the stall next to him. But sometimes he can't not. He's sixteen and has kissed a girl once. It was nice. The small curve of her breast under his palm was even better, when she put his hand there. Sometimes he thinks about it, when he touches himself, or at least in the beginning. Near the end it all gets more muddled and he can't really recall what he thinks about then. There's just the urgency to come -it never takes long to do so. And then he cleans up and continues whatever it was he was doing.

So he does it, too, and does it a lot at home and he gets it.

But for some reason Shishido's incomprehensible mumble about being tired and needing a nap after the game against Mukahi and Jiroh, he didn't get. He doesn't know why not. Shishido-san is… well, he's Shishido-san. And for some reason his very weak excuse to have some 'alone-time' didn't register. Now he realizes that Shishido is at least as private about it as he is, because never before there was a pointed non-silence in his shower stall and during the four nights they shared a room together there were no rustling sheets or creaking mattresses or anything conspicuously rhythmic but for the steady breathing in his sleep. So that means that for four nights -five days- he might not have… not like Ohtori, who can't seem to help himself and did it in the showers, or when Shishido -always an early riser- had already dressed and left in the mornings.

It's perfectly normal.

Except, for some reason, this is different.

He remembers once accidentally walking in on Hiyoshi, the spluttering and the profuse apologizing on his part. Hiyoshi's mutinous silence after, also an acutely private person. His awkward assurance of 'don't worry about it' and Hiyoshi snarling back 'I'm not!' and then somehow they forgot about it, because these things happen and they're both boys and it was just a little embarrassing. But nothing life-altering.

Ohtori remembers feeling concerned about Shishido, because why would he suddenly leave in middle of practice after a thundering win? Maybe the heat had made him unwell and he was too proud to admit it. Not only is he Ohtori's doubles partner, his senpai and the person he looks up to most, but also his very closest and best friend. They look out for one another. On the court and off it.

Most of all he remembers opening the door, lips parting to ask a stupid question and never asking it. Because Shishido-san had been on the bed, naked. His body had been caught between that state of intense relaxation and quivering tension and his head had been tipped back on the pillows, his hair spilling like rivulets of ink around his head. Eyes closed and lips parted barely, he'd lain there: hands working up and down and up and down and up and down and up and Ohtori had stood there and watched and had seen everything and had felt. Something. Something he doesn't know exactly what it was, but he knows that he's hiding here in the showers because he's afraid Shishido-san saw it, right there on his face. Ohtori had been looking at all of him -at the swollen lips and the taut body and his hands and -and his cock. Shishido's cock. Which had been hard -of course it had been- and new and just… just right and the same like his but different, or course, and just right.

He'd been staring at that, feeling something, still staring as the hands had stopped suddenly. And when he looked back at Shishido's face, Shishido's eyes had been open -nearly comically huge with shock and dark, so dark, like chips of coal and burning with both arousal and insetting fury.

It couldn't have taken longer than ten seconds, maybe even less, all that happened and Ohtori had not even managed to apologize. He'd just turned and ran, not even closing the door in his mindless retreat.

All that makes for an awful, horrible problem. But worse is that they're at one of Atobe's many retreats, training for the upcoming Nationals. So Ohtori can't even go home and hide all alone in his room, hoping that Shishido-san will have slept off most of his anger by the next day and they can pretend everything is normal and nothing happened ever and they're still best friends.

As it is he can't do any of that, they're here for a whole week and he shares a room with Shishido-san.

And now he's missed supper because he's too much of a coward to shrug it off and doesn't know any words that can dispel what happened like he said to Hiyoshi then. Surely there is some remark that can make it slightly amusing, or even just an apology, or anything that makes it just what it was: a seventeen year old boy masturbating and his friend accidentally walking in on him. That's all it was. Or should have been.

But Ohtori stood and looked and. And he felt something.

His heart thrums, everything between his eyes and knees feels squirmy, even more so when the image swims into focus again, unbidden. Shishido-san on his back, hands on his cock, gleaming. Pleasuring himself. Again, maddeningly, his whole attention stops to consider… it, again. Shishido's cock. He knows what a dick looks like, dammit, he's got one of his own and yet he can't not think about it, remember what it looked like. Like his own, but different. Smaller. More slender. Denser, darker hair around the base and just right. Perfectly right.

Everything is ruined.

It will never be okay again, after this.

Ohtori knows this because he knows why. He knows why he looked.

Because he liked what he saw.

***

It's likely that he'd have stayed and wallowed in his own misery until he expired from it left on his own. He can get like that.

He's rather sensitive at times, especially where Shishido-san is concerned. He's gotten like that before, over-thinking and dramatizing situations that aren't even half what they actually are, or aren't what he makes of them at all.

'Suck it up and be a man', Shishido-san sometimes even snaps at him when he over-over-over does it beyond any sort rationality. He'd been hurt the first time Shishido had said that, until he'd recognized the wry amusement and even fondness in his tone, realizing he'd gone and acted as much of a drama-queen as Shishido-san himself sometimes could be.

Right now he feels rather justified in feeling as wretched as he is, because is there any explanation for his standing there and watching? Not to mention running off and not even closing the damn door to preserve what was left of Shishido's tattered dignity and privacy?

As it is, it's Hiyoshi who comes to see whether he's still alive.

"Ohtori-kun?" his voice comes, flat and slightly annoyed over the spray of his shower.

Ohtori closes his eyes and sees Shishido-san again, his vulnerable mouth and long shining hair and his cock, hard, wet. His angry, shocked eyes.

"Choutarou?" Hiyoshi repeats, slightly less annoyed and a little more worried. And, because he's smart and not dumb and stupid and naive like Ohtori is, he raps on the door of his stall and says: "Are you, uh, busy?"

Slowly, muscles cramped and frozen from sitting for hours under the cold water, he stands up. "I'm here," he croaks.

"Uh-huh," Hiyoshi goes, sounding rather exasperated.

"I'm just… taking a shower."

"Alright," Hiyoshi goes ambiguously, clearly uninterested in any details. "It's wasteful to use up so much water if you're not washing," he says.

Ohtori turns off the spray and grabs the now damp towel, wrapping it around him like a cape, huddling. He pushes the door open and steps onto the warm tiles, eyes averted. It's almost funny how far and how close Hiyoshi can be to the truth, at the same time.

"Your lips are blue," Hiyoshi remarks, frowning.

Silently, Ohtori discards the towel and starts putting on his clothes, still rank from all the sweating he did during practice. It was what he was wearing when he went to check on Shishido-san and it was what he was wearing when he came here to hide.

Hiyoshi watches him, eyes narrowed. "Have you been sulking?"

Shrugging into his shirt, Ohtori turns away from him.

There's a nearly audible eye-roll, so powerful is the gesture. "Don't tell me you two have been fighting again?" He goes, exceedingly irritated. "Can't you deal with it after the Nationals? You have to preserve your doubles play, your win is one we take for granted."

Ohtori feels a like of what might be anger, had he not been so miserable he can't rise to the emotion. "This is more serious than losing our game at the Nationals," he says, strained.

Hiyoshi stares at him as though he uttered a blasphemous remark about Hiyoshi's mother and a donkey.

"Forget it," Ohtori sighs.

Like Hiyoshi could ever understand what this is about.

"This isn't about your crush on Shishido-senpai, is it?" Hiyoshi asks.

Ohtori trips over his own feet and bangs his shins into the low bench.

"Can't you have this crisis after the Nationals?" Hiyoshi goes on, growing rather agitated.

"I don't have a -a crush on Shishido-san!" He says. Or rather squeaks.

Again that look. The one where Hiyoshi is looking at him as though he's speaking Swahili. Hiyoshi tends to do that a lot around him, Ohtori has noticed.

"You don't," Hiyoshi repeats, slowly.

"No!" Ohtori goes, voice rather hight and shrill in a very, very lame way. "Of course not!"

"Okay," Hiyoshi says. "Fine. No crisis then. I don't have time for that particular kind of crisis of yours, not with Nationals so close."

Ohtori blinks at him. His shins ache, scraped raw.

Hiyoshi considers him, lips pursed. "If you still need to crisis you are free to do so after the Nationals," he allows. "Just not now."

"To crisis is not a verb," Ohtori weakly points out.

"Where you and Shishido-senpai are concerned, it is," Hiyoshi mutters.

"There's no crisis!" Ohtori insists.

"Okay," Hiyoshi says, lifting his hands. "Words cannot express my relief that there isn't. Though I wonder why you were still here, under a cold shower, after midnight, and why Shishido-senpai is even more… ah, difficult to put up with than usual. But now that you have assured me that these facts are entirely unrelated and will have no effect whatsoever on your doubles game, I can go and sleep soundly knowing that your win is guaranteed at the Nationals. Which we will win also. Right?"

That last word sounds to Ohtori rather like a threat to his life, so he nods and tries to look completely calm and suave and confident. He suspects he comes off appearing as if he's about to hurl, because Hiyoshi looks genuinely concerned after that.

And when they walk back under a star spangled sky, Hiyoshi says softly, "It'll be alright. Don't worry about it."

Ohtori's lips tremble, his hands curl into fists as he walks with laden feet back towards his room.

The room he shares with Shishido-san.

***

The house is quiet when they return. All is hazy shadows and profound silence but for the soft strain of insects buzzing in the night. It's warm: a heady, sweat-inducing press of heat, but Ohtori finds himself shivering slightly. He was under that shower much too long.

That, and he doesn't think he was this nervous since playing the Nationals second year of middle school.

There's much he'd give for not having to go back to that room right now. His feet seem like leaden weights and the rest of his body rather off-center as though he drifts besides his physical self a step to the left and slightly behind. Hiyoshi is silent, and Ohtori doesn't know what to say to him, doesn't know if he could talk now what with his heart pounding so hard it's strangling his throat.

Hiyoshi stops at the room he shares with Jiroh-senpai. Ohtori stops, too. He swallows. His throat bobs with difficulty and the sound is almost indecent in the stillness.

It's one of the few times Ohtori wishes he wouldn't find all this feelings stuff so hard to talk about, and maybe even for boys to be more like… girls. Then he could've talked about it to Hiyoshi and maybe figured something out together and Ohtori could've had asked whether Hiyoshi thinks Shishido-san hates him now. Though he also thinks this he'd rather die than talk about it.

And Hiyoshi only says: "Good night." all solemn and unhelpful, before going inside and closing the door in Ohtori's face.

Dragging his feet, Ohtori makes for his own room. Opens the door carefully.

He doesn't know what he'd prefer. For Shishido-san to be asleep and thus postponing the confrontation until morning, or for him to be awake and so there can be a confrontation about it, however bad or not, allowing Ohtori to deal with it. Both have merit, maybe come morning it won't look so bad anymore and Shishido-san might have been able to swallow his humiliation and maybe even it's okay that they ignore it then. But Ohtori knows he'll forever be stuck with the situation, because he can't forget and it'd be always there -a ticking bomb. On the other hand, if Shishido is awake they can- well, figure it out. Maybe it isn't so bad and they just have an awkward moment, or Shishido will get angry and tell him he's… he's gross for watching like he did and that he left the door open and that he's dumb and childish and that he hates him and they'll never be friends again.

All that flashes through his mind as he steps inside, closes the door, and takes a deep breath before looking.

Shishido is awake.

He's sitting on his bed, wearing shorts and an oversized t-shirt that he has pulled over his up-drawn knees, back to the wall. His hair is a disaster, as though he's tried to sleep and has been unable to, it hangs in dark tangles around his face. In the little light spilling in through the windows, his eyes gleam as he stares up at Ohtori.

Ohtori's heart hammers painfully.

Neither of them say anything as Ohtori takes off his sweaty clothes and takes a clean t-shirt to wear instead. Past few nights both of them slept just in their boxers, because it is so damn warm. But Shishido is wearing a shirt now and it makes Ohtori want to cover up, too.

It doesn't take very long and it leaves Ohtori just standing there, feeling more useless and ashamed than ever.

"You're awake," he manages at last. The soft whisper is atrociously loud as it breaks the silence.

Shishido nods. "Yeah," he says, and his gaze drops self-consciously to this toes poking out from under the hem of his shirt. He wiggles them and nods some more. "I couldn't sleep," he adds.

Ohtori feels more like an ass than ever.

"I'm sorry!" the words burst from him as though violently removed there by a team of pulling horses. "Shishido-san, I swear- I'm so-"

"Choutarou," Shishido says.

He stops himself, swallows convulsively.

Shishido scoots aside, towards the head end of the bed. Making room for him, Ohtori realizes.

After a hesitation that lasts far too long for it to be a natural pause, Ohtori walks over and crawls onto the bed. They sit side-by-side, backs to the wall. They're not touching, but Ohtori finds him suddenly very aware that he can smell Shishido. He's not sure he's ever noticed it like he has now, yet the scent is not unfamiliar. It's all boy; musky and sharp, with some soap and sweat and grass in there and, Ohtori realizes, not unfamiliar at all and very, uniquely, Shishido-san. The boy part of it is indefinable, all Shishido-san himself and oddly… dual in nature. Or its effect is. On Ohtori. At first it's comforting: taking some edge off his misery, lessening the cold clump of dread stuck in his belly. But then there is the sudden rather being very aware of it and the more he thinks about it the more he finds himself liking it too much.

He's not even able to convince himself that he doesn't want to lean in and press his face against the side of Shishido's throat.

This is stupid. He's never ever had thoughts like these. Not like this. It's true that he thought a lot about Shishido-san and in the soft daze before sleep he'd fantasize about them playing tennis together and he somehow being really really good and winning their game for them, or maybe even managing to keep someone like Kirihara from hurting Shishido during the match and his senpai being really, well. Happy and grateful and full of praise and awe. Maybe he'd hug Ohtori. He knows full-well that Shishido would make anyone stupid enough to 'accidentally on purpose' knock a ball into him eat their racket. He knows that he'd hate to be protected like that, like he couldn't do it on his own. But it's just fantasies and Ohtori isn't about to apply this in real life. Like in real life, when he plays the piano when Shishido is around, his senpai is just all quiet and simply watches. But in his fantasies he'd ask Ohtori to teach him to play the piano and Ohtori'd say 'yes, I'd love to' and take his hands to guide them as he explained how.

Or they'd be stuck during a sort of camping trip out in the dark, cold, just the two of them. And Ohtori who is always better prepared would have a blanket on hand and offer to share… and.

Ohtori stops himself. Tries his very best not to burst out in hysterical laughter.

What does it say about him that Hiyoshi figured something like this out way before he did?

But maybe, well. It's maybe normal. Shishido is a boy. Ohtori is a boy. Maybe his brain, out of self-preservation or sheer naïveté, never made the link that being both boys doesn't mean they can't kiss and touch, too. Yet he knows there's boys who do, he's not that stupid. But somehow knowing that there's boys who like to kiss other boys was not enough to figure out that maybe, just maybe, he'd like to try and kiss Shishido-san, too. It seemed apart, something that happened, not even remotely related to himself.

His chest aches. Would he? Would he really? Ohtori tries to imagine kissing Shishido-san. It's strange. The concept doesn't work at first. Shishido is his senpai. And he's never seen Shishido kiss anybody, ever. And Ohtori hasn't more than one experience to try and match it against. Kissing that girl, the one who was all bold and put his hand over her breast. What was her name again? He can't recall. It had happened before he knew it. It'd been nice. Ohtori'd thought he'd enjoyed the over-all experience, despite the not knowing what to do when and her lipgloss being overwhelmingly strawberry flavored.

But when he thinks about leaning in and kissing Shishido, everything is very vague. He can't fathom any sort of comparison to another experience, something that would match what Shishido's lips'd feel like or what he'd taste like. Not even how his body would feel against the palms of Ohtori's hands. The idea is there, of kissing him, but the details scatter and hide and can't figure out what to think of it.

That girl had been very slight, slender, his hands had seemed indecently clumsy and brutal on her. Her mouth had been full and soft. Her hair had been as fine as candy floss, clinging in nearly invisible strands between their mouths.

Shishido is… well, he isn't anything like a girl. True, he's slender and lean, lighter than Ohtori is. But there's nothing delicate about him, not even with the long hair. And that part isn't even the same either, actually. Shishido's hair is all dark chaos, hanging more in his face than off it. Of course it's usually brushed and all smoothly tied up in a ponytail, but rarely loose like it is now. It's very long, Ohtori notices. At least as long as it used to be, before he cut it, or maybe even longer. And his mouth… its. Well, not like a girl's either. Sure it works the same: he's got an upper and bottom lip, too, and teeth and a tongue, so the actual mechanics can't be anything new. But Shishido's mouth hardly invites to kissing when it's in a scowl like that. His lips are thinner, too. More severe. And he doesn't smile all nice as much as he does that lop-sided little grin of his. They don't shine all prettily with some sort of gloss. Instead they're of a fleshy hue darker than his skin, only vaguely pink.

No, he doesn't know what to think of how it would be like to touch Shishido's mouth with his own -and what a curious gesture that turns out to be, now he thinks of it. What he does know is that he's more curious about it than averse to it and that he'd… well, he'd like to know. If only if it would mean that he'd be close to Shishido for a moment, near his hair and to smell him better. Maybe embrace him, and pay careful attention to how his body would feel against his, the sharp angles and muscle and flat planes. Ohtori knows he'd like that. The holding part. He's always liked it when Shishido touched him, the only person who he doesn't mind it from. The fistbumps and friendly arms slung around his shoulders are always a special sort of reward, when Shishido does them.

Ohtori ponders all these very basic things, the kissing, the embracing and holding, all the while being hyper aware that the boy who is sitting next to him was only this afternoon spread out wearing nothing at all on this very selfsame bed. His hands on himself… on his. Between his legs. And Ohtori had seen him do it and he knows, shamefully, that he liked what he saw then. Everything. From the dusky nipples down the hard flat of Shishido's stomach, muscles etching shadowy grooves here and there, to his cock. That had been the same but different. And very hard.

And yet he can't figure out what kissing him would be like.

"You're very quiet," Shishido says on a soft exhale.

Ohtori manages a stunted shrug. "Just thinking. Sorry." He adds again, for good measure.

There's a little silence. "I'm sorry, too," Shishido bites out, putting his chin on his knees and closing his eyes tightly.

"Don't be!" Ohtori says immediately, fiercer and rougher than he meant to. "Don't be. It's okay."

Shishido turns his face away. "You know it's not. We both know it."

His eyes feel hot and itchy, like there's vaseline smeared in them. He doesn't want this to happen. He doesn't want Shishido to acknowledge it's not okay, not while he doesn't know what to say to something like that.

As he looks to the side, to see what's on Shishido's face, he sees another person. A boy, somewhat older than him. His skin is dark from the summer sun, but still pale in the moonlight. He's not as tall as Ohtori, and he doesn't have his shoulders or chest either. Everything about him suggests movement, even as his body is hidden in a huddle under his t-shirt. He's tired and frowning. There's a small disruption in his left eyebrow, near the corner, hairs missing and skin scarred shiny. His face is all angles, sharp and finely made, a neat nose above an unhappy mouth. His eyes are dark, slanted. Intense, even shuttered like this. His lashes are thick, dark, an echo of the dark irises. They are beautiful eyes. He has very thick and long hair, scrunched up around his face and neck from restless hands playing with it. The line of his throat, the bare shoulder where the shirt gapes look incorrigibly vulnerable.

Ohtori looks at this boy, who looks just as afraid and confused and worried as he is -only more scowly and frowny about it, and asks: "Can I kiss you, Shishido-san?"

Maybe he saw it coming, the way they know what the other will do on the court before he moves to do so, before there even is a reason to. He lifts his head and looks at him, but nothing else and his mouth looks entirely un-kissable: lips pressed shut hard, a flat, nearly white as he bites back a mess of emotions with sheer determination.

Leaning in to touch his mouth against Shishido must be the bravest and most reckless thing Ohtori's ever done. Especially when he's only ever conceived the notion of kissing Shishido-san but a few moments ago, has not been able to over-over-over-think it as he prefers to do with the really important things and isn't even sure whether he's even allowed to.

Shishido didn't tell him yes.

But when he's nearly there, almost, he can feel Shishido suddenly exhale once hard and controlled, as his lips relax and his head dips… just so. Just so that when their mouths touch, it's… well. Perfect.

Ohtori didn't know what to expect, not even the moment their mouths connected, but whatever it was, it wasn't this. Not the sudden, intimate softness of the connection, the abrupt alien heat of Shishido's parted lips and how soft they are, his lips, warm and sleek and new. They both still for a moment, leaning into the connection carefully. Ohtori can feel the staccato tempo of Shishido's heart where his shoulder presses into Ohtori's chest, or maybe that's his own, pounding hard and strong against his ribs. Shishido breathes again, it tickles between the small sliver of space where the natural grooves of their mouths don't connect and Ohtori automatically licks his lips.

There's the most wonderful sound out of Shishido-san he's ever heard, a soft, throaty, 'hah'.

He didn't know Shishido-san was capable of such a noise, something so unguarded and gentle, with barely any voice and yet a rumble in his throat.

A hand ghosts over the back of his arm, unsure. Ohtori leans in deeper, lips moist now and moves them against Shishido's. It doesn't matter that he's still not sure how it works, because Shishido moves them back, along his own, slanting for an angle that rakes fire up Ohtori's spine. It involves getting close, and closer, and then Ohtori very carefully lifts a hand to rest it on a sharp shoulder. The cotton of the shirt is thin, the skin underneath warm.

They kiss with their lips parted and Ohtori begins to taste Shishido, subtle and faintly salty, and this is simply something he couldn't have imagined ever. Not his own shaking hands and harried heartbeat, the aching sweetness of those lips, the scent of another boy, the strength in the body under his hand. The knowledge that Shishido's saliva is on his mouth, as the inside of his lips drag, then settle on Ohtori's bottom one.

He suckles. Ohtori's mouth parts and Shishido moves up and then, somehow, their tongues are touching.

It's all very strange. Ohtori can't figure out how to angle his head and whether their mouths are supposed to be seamlessly locked together, or whether this is okay, being slightly apart and meeting in the middle at the threshold of one other's lips. He kinda figured that kissing with tongues involved… well, sticking your tongue in the other's mouth, but this isn't quite like that. There's no force or pressure, just Shishido close to him and tasting and caressing and clinging kisses between the sensation of feeling heat and softness.

And then Shishido suddenly stops. The brief glimpse Ohtori catches from his face there's abject terror in his eyes. He's biting his lip, hard.

Ohtori doesn't know what to say. All he knows is that he couldn't stand up if his life depended on it and that his shorts are way too tight and that his heart is pounding all the way up in his throat and that when he got up this morning he'd never have believed that by the end of the day he'd have the taste of Shishido's mouth lingering over his lips.

And he'd never, ever have believed he'd have the guts to reach for Shishido's chin, tilt his face towards his and kiss the corner of his mouth. Shishido's hands curl between their chests, like he's trying to figure out whether he wants to push Ohtori away or yank him closer.

Then he mumbles, "I don't get it."

Ohtori embraces him, holds him until Shishido's arms settle gingerly around his shoulders. It takes a while, but then Shishido rests his head against the side of Ohtori's throat and he does the same -breathes in.

"I didn't either. But… this is okay, right? I mean… this could work," he whispers against Shishido's temple.

Shishido's body shakes as he chuckles a little wildly. "Could work."

"I… I'm sorry about this afternoon. I'm sorry I ran- I-" because I liked too much what I saw, is what he doesn't add. "I've never-" kissed a guy before "I've never- ah. But, I like you. Shishido-san. I like you."

Something melts in Shishido, almost like all his muscles were taut with tension and fear and only now he dares to relax a little. A faint tremor remains, all over his body. "This is a little sudden. How can you know-" he sighs and a hand on his sleeve crushes the fabric in his fist.

Right then Ohtori re aliases that Shishido has thought of this before this afternoon (… or maybe even during?). Thought about it because he wanted it. It's not sudden for him -or at least the only thing that is sudden is Ohtori wanting to try and kiss him after catching him masturbating.

So, okay, perhaps it's a bit weird.

Or a lot.

But it is okay.

"It's okay," Ohtori tells him and starts to smile. "We can take it slowly. Get used to- to this. It's okay."

Finally, Shishido leans bodily into him. A shaky exhale leaves him, not a sob, Shishido-san doesn't sob… not quite. Ohtori smiles into his hair and holds him and knows that this is okay. So yes, this -they- need time. But that's fine. A lot of couples need that.

And yes, sure, they're both boys and Ohtori is barely sixteen and it is kinda weird.

But when he has Shishido in his arms like this and he can't stop smiling and he hopes he's allowed to kiss him again soon… Well. What about that isn't perfectly normal?

-fin-

FicAlert! PoT> In Sickness and in Health (Silver Pair) R

everlind — Mon, 02 May 2011 21:24:19 GMT

Title: In Sickness and in Health
Writer: Everlind
Wordcount: 3765
Pairing: Silver Pair
Rating: R (for mentions of sex and nudity, but it is really quite tame)
Warnings: Unsexy moments.
Summary: Taking care of your sick partner is part of the job, too.
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: For amyused at silver_swap 2010-2011.

In Sickness and in Health

Even with the last shreds of sleep still clinging to him, Shishido knows something is off.

As always he awakens with a blink, barely a three minutes before his alarm set to go off at five. For a moment he lays in the comforting darkness, chill air tickling his face. But under the sheets, it is hot. Very hot.

Too hot.

So he reaches for his clock, resets the alarm, before turning and slipping a questing hand towards the source of the heat. He finds a naked, hot hip. After ghosting his hand along the area he figures out Choutarou is curled into a ball, facing him.

Tucking himself closer, he carefully explores his partner's body, hands barely skimming. Despite the heat, Choutarou has goosebumps. Despite having goosebumps, he sweats, a clammy cold dampness covering him.

"Hey," Shishido murmurs and touches the curve of Choutarou's jaw.

He's burning.

"Hey, c'mon," Shishido repeats more firmly, cupping a shoulder to shake Choutarou lightly.

This time Choutarou goes "Mrf," and shifts, pulling his long legs even closer towards himself.

"Wake up," Shishido insists.

It takes some prodding and shaking, because Choutarou needs to come from some far, near-comatose sleep.

Eventually a head pops up from underneath the comforter. As he comes fully to himself, Shishido is quite horrified to hear his heavy, but regular breathing start to wheeze, with the splutter of phlegm backing it up. Teeth clack.

There's a nice, thick sniffle. Choutarou mumbles indistinctly. "Have I overslept?" Then he starts to cough; horrid, raw sounds that come from deep within his chest. Like a seal, his mother had teased gently ages ago, when he had bronchitis.

This is not truly bronchitis, but something of a really bad cold.

Whatever it is, Shishido doesn't like it one bit.

"No, you haven't," he tells him as he shifts to sit up.

Choutarou gasps as a draft of cold air slips under the blankets, thanks to Shishido's moving. In the dark Shishido can see his light hair and the rest of his face hidden by shadows, dark smudges where the eyes should be, a macabre sight against the shallow paleness of his skin. He curls towards Shishido, pillowing his head on a thigh. Arms and legs wind around the rest of his leg, clutching it like some bony pillow to his torso.

Everywhere their skin touches, Choutarou burns.

"Choutarou," Shishido says, trying to keep his attention.

"Hn, is it time?" he slurs, lips making unintentional kisses on his leg. His voice sound as though he's got a mouthful of cotton swabs to soak up the blood after eating a bowlful of nails.

Shishido sighs, wonders what to do. "No. But you need to get up for a moment, alright?"

A long pause, punctuated by labored breathing. More difficult sniffling.

Then: "Okay."

Shishido shivers when he slips out of bed as soon as Choutarou releases his leg, but it is not the same kind of bone-deep shuddering Choutarou does. Dazed and stupefied by the fever, he obeys so perfectly he simply gets out of bed along with him. Shishido pushes him back down, disgusted that he's such rubbish at this caring business.

"Wait- just sit here, 'kay?"

"Okay," Choutarou goes agreeably.

Taking a moment to drape the comforter around his exposed torso, Shishido navigates by the dim light sifting in through the slats towards the wardrobe. In the progress of searching he nearly upends the whole contents of the closet, uncaring that he rumples and scatters neatly folded clothing everywhere, but in the end he digs up what he needs: a pair of flannel pajamas.

With a nice dorky plaid pattern on them in blue.

Whatever, if it works it works.

"Here ya go," Shishido says with false cheer as he walks over with them.

"What's that?" Choutarou asks. He sounds more articulate. The cold air seems to have cleared his head some.

"Pajamas," Shishido says.

"What- why? I need to go to work- I-"

And Shishido, unsurprised, watches scramble up. Predictable.

Choutarou stands, for a moment, gloriously naked and gorgeous before him. Though Shishido isn't (for once) distracted by the sight. No, he's getting ready to-- Choutarou sways --catch him.

"Oompf," Shishido huffs, arms full. Choutarou might look all lean body and long legs but he's really quite heavy. "Easy does it."

"I'm-" Ohtori gasps, a shocked exhale into the hair next to Shishido's ear. Arms locked tight to keep himself up, like a fierce, stooped embrace, if it weren't for the fact that Shishido was holding his full weight.

"You're sick," Shishido fills in and half carries him back towards the bed. "Now sit down, goddammit."

"But I-"

"Have to shut up and let me get you into these pajamas," Shishido tells him firmly and eases him to sit down.

Kneeling, and still quite cold himself (he's also naked) he gropes for the hastily dropped pajamas. With gentle nudges and guiding hands, he helps him into the pants and eases it up his legs, "Butt up," he murmurs and tugs the waistband over his hips when Choutarou does, shakily. Then, kneeling up between Choutarou's spread legs, he says "Hold out your arm," and slips the shirt on.

"Shishido-san."

Well. That's been a while since he's heard that. The fever is making him muddled.

Choutarou pauses, too, clearly confused by himself. Meanwhile Shishido eases his other arm into the garment. Then he amends firmly, "Ryou." nods to himself. "Ryou, I can't- I have to go to work, I have a meeting- I-"

"Shh," Shishido shushes into a soft kiss against Choutarou's half-open mouth. Which, alright, ew, because Choutarou tastes strange, too. Sick and sticky saliva.

But still way good enough to kiss him a second time when those lips close.

"Ryou," Choutarou repeats, half-muffled face-to-face. "I have to- it's really important."

In the dark, they stare at each other. The faint light hits Choutarou's eyes just right, lights them up from within, despite them being glazed and a little unfocused. His cheeks are flushed with fever and his lips swollen. Right then, he looks like he's just coming down from an orgasm, and Shishido closes his eyes for a moment when he recalls Choutarou under him, looking exactly the same.

Only healthier.

And (hopefully) happier than now.

"You can't even stand," Shishido manages as soon as he can wrangle his mind away from the bad, baaaad, (but actually really fucking amazing) image.

"But!"

"No buts," Shishido says sharply. "C'mon, get in."

Choutarou is helpless, body weak. Shishido has no trouble pushing him over and tucking him in. As he shifts, dark eyes still on Shishido's face, Choutarou's cross winks faintly, before sliding hidden in the neckline of his shirt. The sickness sits too deep, Choutarou's body moves as though his limbs are leaden and foreign. He sniffles, hacks up a harsh cough and finally settles. Shishido runs his fingers lightly through damp half-looped hair, frowning, and then gets up to dress.

The house is bathed in early morning grayness. Deep shadows, luminous in-between everything else. The last quiet before all hell breaks lose outside. Shishido loves these few hours in springtime and summer, the early lightness yet when everything still sleeps. It's nice to job at this hour, alone in the crisp of morning and it's nice to wake up on a Sunday at this hour and slide up against a broad back, dozing.

Pancake mewls and winds around his legs as he steps into the kitchen, all sweet as sugar and innocent like, only she's actually trying to trip Shishido up in hope he might bash his head into the countertop or something.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles and fills her a dish of that ridiculously expensive stuff Choutarou always insists she needs.

Then he fetches the phone and calls Choutarou in sick.

On the other end of the phone he has some young-sounding thing, the frontdesk flirt, who's all honey when she answers "Oh, that's awful. I do so hope he gets better soon."

When Shishido hangs up, he hisses under his breath, "I'm sure you do, bitch." and goes on to call the doctor.

The advantage to getting up as early as he does -to jog, but well, today's not really a normal morning- is that he's before the usual rush of fakers who need a doctor's note when they realize that they aren't really in the mood for work. Being able to arrange a doctor's visit at ten in the morning eases some of Shishido's worries.

Just as he's starting on tea for Choutarou, mint with honey to ease his throat -he can hear him hacking all the way from the bedroom- the phone goes again. The caller ID displays:

Ohtori

"Aw, crap," he mutters. Little snitch, the front desk girl called Choutarou's parents to tell them. "Hi," he says flatly, not even bothering to sound polite. He's not dealing with this shit, Choutarou is sick and unwell and this circus will take too much time otherwise.

"…Shishido-kun?" a voice tentatively asks.

Shishido blinks. He expected, as always, Choutarou's father.

But it's his mother.

"Er. Yes, sorry. I-" and he runs out of words. It's been ages since he's talked to her under any sort of circumstances without the looming presence of her husband.

As if hearing his thoughts trickle out of his ear, into the receiver and down the line, she answers. "He's on an unexpected business trip."

"Oh," Shishido says, quite stupidly.

"Yes," she answers. Then adds tentatively, "Choutarou is sick? The secretary called."

Shishido nods, remembers she can't see it and answers, "Yeah, I. He- he's got, like, this really bad cough. And a fever. And snot."

He facepalms. Way to sound like a complete moron.

As he backpedals for words worthy of a person stationed in an educational function, there's a sudden scramble in the bedroom. Shishido is just in time to whip his head around to watch Choutarou run, bumping into walls as he goes, towards the toilet.

Followed by sounds of someone being violently sick. He winces.

"What's that?" Choutarou mother exclaims, perplexed.

"That's your son puking his guts out," Shishido tells her and paws through a drawer for a washcloth to douse in cold water. "Look, I need to go-"

"Wait! Shishido-kun?"

Shishido doesn't manage to suppress an irritated, "Yes?"

"Can I-," a small pause and a deep breath, "-can I come by later today? I want. Well."

He closes the faucet, breathes in deep himself. "Sure, I'd like that. I don't wanna leave him alone all day. So."

"Thank you."

"No problem."

After a tense moment, he breaks the connection, pushes the exchange from his mind and heads for the toilet.

The time it took for the conversation to end, Choutarou has gone through the worst of it. He's slumped against the wall holding his head as though he expects it to fly apart. The little snatches of air he gasps in rattle wetly.

He jumps when Shishido touches his hair, a flinch of discomfort. Of shame.

"Told you you were sick," he whispers and crouches next to him. The smell of vomit is heavy and acrid with bile. Not enough in his stomach to properly empty it.

"No," Choutarou croaks. His face is white, eyes bloodshot, and then he turns his head away.

"Shh," Shishido soothes and rather ruthlessly takes advantage of being stronger for once, tipping Choutarou's head towards him again with steady hands on his jaw. "S'okay," he murmurs and wipes the feverish face with the cool washcloth.

After a moment of cringing in self-disgust, Choutarou relaxes, like a knot unravelling. A shaky hand comes up to cup Shishido's with the washcloth against his cheek, trapping it there to soak up the lingering freshness.

"I called the doctor," Shishido whispers, cleaning his mouth with the washcloth before turning it inside-out and pressing it against Choutarou's forehead. The fever scorches right through it after a barely five seconds. Shishido swallows, worried. "And your mom will be by later."

"Okaa-san?" Choutarou says, voice soft but surprised.

"Hm-mm," Shishido hums. "Stomach settled?"

"Empty, in any case," Choutarou huffs a laugh, but starts coughing.

"When you get sick, you get sick good, don't you?" Shishido murmurs and begins to hoist him up from the floor.

***

Eventually he has to leave Choutarou ensconced on the couch under a mount of blankets and pillows, with a steaming tea-pot and a mug within hand-reach. And a bucket on the floor, for good measure, too.

He hates it, but doubts the doctor will be very willing to write him a note for work that explains he needed the day off to nurse his boyfriend.

Besides, Choutarou is a grown man.

It just aches to see him undone so, the quiet strength overwhelmed by fever.

Even knowing that the doctor will check him up and then his mother, doesn't make Shishido feel any better exactly. He worries and is needlessly harsh at work. His students take it, but exchange looks that say 'wonder who pissed in his noodles this morning'.

At the end of the day, as a sort of apology, he doesn't give them the usual atrocious amount of homework, not even half of it. When they file from his class, he can see them shooting him glances that seem to say he's forgiven.

Shishido smiles a little. He's had to work like an animal to get his degree, move half-way over the world to soak up the necessary and better-regarded studies, but he likes his job, at least. And a good group of students willing to work, helps.

As he checks his mobile, he sees he's got a text.

From Choutarou's mother.

He ate some soup. I put enough for both of you to have dinner from in the fridge. Got his medicines.

Shishido stares at it, scratches his hair, before deciding that, nope, can't deal with the weirdness. Instead he sends back a short but heartfelt thank you.

After all that crap he'll always be suspicious of Ohtori's parents, but it is nice to know that one of them is, at least, not some out-of-control crazy robot without common sense beyond that what's he's programmed to compute.

Then he tucks away his mobile and rushes out, home-bound.

Back home he finds his partner snuggled away in a nest of blankets, the cat curled up against the back of his neck, as if offering body-heat. The bucket hasn't been chucked up in, but has been substituted as trash-can instead, half-full of used tissues already. The blinds are drawn almost shut, darkening the room.

Shishido peers over the arm of the couch. Choutarou looks asleep, but then he pries open a crusted eye. Mucus filling his head to the brim.

"Hrm," he grunts.

Shishido grins slightly. "Hello to you too." He sits down on a small free lip of the couch. Pancakes gives him a resentful look and slinks off the couch. Ignoring the ill-mannered creature, Shishido slips a hand between the sheets, feels his way until he touches a warm body. The fever has gone down marginally. "Soup still in here?" he asks, rubbing Choutarou's belly.

"Mmyeah," Choutarou goes and then lurches up as his body contorts around what must be the bazillionth coughing fit. It is a grating, wretched sound, of much abused lungs and throat.

Shishido swallows, rubs a soothing hand over those broad shoulders. "Keep it down, handsome."

As the last spasm ebbs away, Choutarou struggles to sit up straight. He leans into Shishido like a dead weight. "My body hurts," he complains. He clutches his chest, where the cough batters up from him.

He sniffles. Clears his throat. Starts coughing again.

Shishido can't do a thing.

After, he shivers and crawls up against Shishido as though hoping to sink into him. Shishido wraps his arms around him and holds him. Under his palms Choutarou's lungs rattle with phlegm. He smells stale, too, sick and not like himself at all. Only the salt of his sweat is vaguely familiar, but even that is not as it should be.

Anxious because this is something he can't fix, can't make right, Shishido leans in and kisses him; a chase touch of lips on lips.

Choutarou's mouth is shockingly hot for that short instant, but then he pushes Shishido away. "Don't kiss me," he mumbles.

Shishido stares, rather shocked and vaguely hurt.

Though his eyes are glazed and lidded from pain and exhaustion, the quality in his look changes, going to that protective/possessive gentleness thing he has about Shishido. "You could get sick, too," he clarifies.

"That's bullshit," Shishido says and after an eyeroll leans in pointedly to kiss him again. Just that, no more, and then lean into one other again. Choutarou's head under his chin.

"You're warm," Choutarou mumbles tiredly.

"You're hot," Shishido returns, with enough playfulness that he's rewarded with a strangled little chuckle for his efforts.

And that brings on another bout of coughing, one so intense Shishido fears he'll choke on it, but every once in a while he sucks in a wheezing gasp of air. To see him curled over himself, hand splayed over his chest and his face contorted in agony is enough to make Shishido's heart wring and twist and stutter.

It lasts too long.

Choutarou is out of breath and heavily flushed when it stops, still curled over and shaking. His hair is soaked and his face, too, with sweat and tears forced out by the strength of the fit.

Shishido mops his face dry with the hem of his sleeve, before saying, "Wait here a moment. I got an idea."

Flopping back, Choutarou manages a strangled, "No glue and popcorn. Or traffic cones. Or chalk."

Shishido rolls his eyes and chooses to ignore that. He's not in high school anymore, geez.

***

A good twenty minutes later he's stripping Choutarou down, already naked himself.

The bathroom is misty. Steam rises from the hot bad. Salts tint the water greenish.

Choutarou breathes, a forced heavy rhythm, with a little catch at the end.

"You sound like Darth Vader," Shishido says, smiling, as he eases the pants down Choutarou's legs. He skims his fingertips lightly along the length of them and when the fabric pools to the ground, taps the ankle his partner needs to lift.

"Who?" Choutarou asks, before going. "Oh, him. Heeey." A watery glare follows it up.

Shishido laughs, leads him to perch on the stool. The light moment disappears when he notices how Choutarou has to brace himself on Shishido's shoulders to stay in balance, even when sitting. Shishido kneels between Choutarou's bend legs with his knees spread, making sure he can take the weight.

"Just hang on, let me do this for you," Shishido says, and lets the water run.

He's always liked being wet together with Choutarou. Even like this, just soaping him down and doing his hair is nice. Under normal circumstances this inevitably leads to more, the soapy slick of skin and wet mouths too much to resist. Now it's just this, caressing his partner's skin, trying to see if he can massage the ache away.

After washing himself and rinsing them both down, he all but lifts Choutarou into the tub. Which is quite a feat really, with his partner being as tall as and as heavy as he is. But he manages, without breaking either of their necks.

Choutarou makes a soft, satisfied little noise and inhales deeply as he sinks into the hot water.

Shishido only lets him go after making sure he won't suddenly topple and drown on a mouthful of bathwater. Then he gets in himself, squeezing in behind his partner.

They splash a little as they arrange themselves, but in the end Choutarou is leaning back into Shishido's chest, head cupped in the crook of Shishido's neck. Shishido nudges kisses into wet hair, which curls dark, and listens with relief as the rattling breath evens out, the lines of pain smooth away. It's vaguely erotic, to have Choutarou's rear tucked into the V his legs make around him, but it's also just nice to simply cradle him, naked together and nothing more.

With one hand he softly kneads Choutarou's shoulders, knowing how your body can ache when sickness roots in deep. The other laces with one of Choutarou's, both their hands cradled over the latter's stomach. Shishido dips his thumb into the navel right next to it and finds himself suddenly with a weight seemingly being lifted from his back.

He was more stressed about this than he realized. It's just, he can't ever remember Choutarou so... helpless. Because he never is. And it rattles bad to suddenly see it and not be able to really take the pain away.

Choutarou hums, kisses Shishido's chin with fuzzy accuracy.

"Better?" Shishido murmurs, eyes drooping as well.

"Yes," Choutarou says softly. "Ryou?"

"You're really sweet."

What the-?

"…sweet?" Shishido echoes distastefully, suddenly not feeling as caring anymore. What is he? A freaking' girl? Most be the fever, making him talk nonsense.

It had better be the fever.

But then Choutarou's mouth -dear God- twitches into a little smirk.

Shishido regards him with deep suspicion.

"Yes. Sweet. Oh-"

The last noise is a pained gasp, accompanied with his face scrunching up and a hand clutching at his chest again. He draws away out of the embrace, body in spasms.

Shishido's heart somersaults itself into a knot with sudden terror. He sits up so fast his head swims. "What? What is it? Does it hurt? Can I help-"

Another strangled grunt. "Aaah. I-I. Need-" he curls and shivers. The hand makes a claw over his heart.

"What? Just say it! I'll do it- Choutarou, c'mon, you're freaking me out!"

"No- It's too much to ask..."

"I swear, anything, just stop scaring me!" Shishido all but yells and wonders whether the folks of the hospital will mind it much if Choutarou has to be fished out of the bath. Naked.

Choutarou hisses, trembles and then suddenly turns to look at him, laughing. "Would you wear a nurse outfit then?"

For an instant Shishido sits there, having a heart-attack and half, mouth wide and struck speechless.

Then he pushes Choutarou's head under the water.

Choutarou comes up spluttering, shoves him awkwardly back, loses balance and dips under again. It's tempting to let him drown, but Shishido fishes him up as soon as his head goes under anyway.

This time it's for real. Choutarou coughs, barking sounds from his chest, spits up water.

"You ass," Shishido says, pounding his back gently. "That's what you get from disrespecting your senpai."

More coughing and snorting up water. But not enough that he can't get an "You'd look cute in it," out before going on hacking.

Shishido bites back the urge to attack. It must be the fever; it has cooked his brain to a pulp. He's delirious. He had better fucking be delirious.

And he doesn't really want Choutarou drowned, to be honest.

And he'll get his revenge as soon as he's better.

Double portion.

Make it triple.

A lot.

Definitely.

-Owari-

"Achoo!" Shishido sniffles, frowns. His head throbs.

"You alright?" Choutarou asks, sticking his head around the door.

"Fine, just fine."

"Wait, let me-" Choutarou presses a large hand against his forehead. "You're burning up!"

"Nonsense, s'just a little warm inside, that's all.

"…"

"Really."

"I'm not going to say I told you so about the kissing thing."

"… you just did. And I'm not sick!" Shishido glares at him. Not sick. He doesn't do sick. Sick is lame. "Achoo!"

Choutarou raises a brow at him.

"Shut up."

-fin-

Drabble Dump

everlind — Mon, 02 May 2011 20:58:36 GMT

Author: Everlind
Wordcount
Pairing: Ohtori/Shishido (Silver Pair)
Rating: All Ratings (see after title)
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Notes: For Shishido's Birthday Party Event 2010 at tori_shishi.

Birthday Drabble Collection

CROSSING PATHS (PG-13)

Apparently the ability to recognize mutual sexual attraction comes with age.

Shishido stands there, feelings as lost and desperate and scared as he when he was fourteen and had nothing to loose, yet so much to gain by catching one stupid yellow ball. It took them one jolt of their eyes meeting and he's feeling all that topped with a good dose of need and he doesn't like it one bit.

How long has it been? Six years? Seven?

That they would meet here, of all places, in some obscure art gallery he didn't want to go to in the first place, but was pressured into by some friend. Who dumped his sorry ass for more tasteful company as soon as she could, at that. So he's spend better part of the evening staring at the so called artworks, trying to figure out how the hell he got tricked into this. The scribbles and blots and dollops of paint on the various flat surfaces mean jack shit to him, it's all abstract or whatever, and silly. The deep strong pull in the center of his being, however, at the sight of this person isn't abstract at all and very serious.

"Shishido-san."

He closes his eyes on a longer, steadying blink.

But fucking hell Choutarou has aged well.

His voice even, has gone deeper, smoother, cultured and warm and the sound of it slides down his spine like a dribble of hot honey.

And so tall, towering over everybody, but no longer hunching and conscious about it. Or maybe that is the good deal of well-deserved confidence he's seemed to have gained, that clothes him better than any tailored tuxedo could (and damn at that, Choutarou seems to be doing well for himself. No surprises there), because now his shoulders are squared and his back straight and his chin up.

Figures only Ohtori Choutarou could stand there like that, a small magnet to all eyes present, self-possessed and yet none of the arrogance any other would exude.

He nods back. "Choutarou."

He knows he should curb his familiarity, because he doesn't have the right to call him that any longer, but when his former doubles partner looks at him, like that, the point is moot anyway.

And the point is moot completely when they end up at Shishido's small, cramped apartment, with him pressed up against the wall, held there by a strong body against his front and being kissed like he's never been before.

He's never had anybody hold his face like that, a firm thumb tipping his chin up, but the rest of the fingers sprawled in a careful cradle over his cheek. Nor has he ever spend more than twenty minutes just caressing one other's lips, without the other person getting fed up and shoving their tongue inside of his mouth regardless of how intimate the simplicity of just lips can be. Nobody has ever touched his neck like that, finger pads lingering over his throat and soft swipes at his jawline, as though it's a part of him worthy of being thoroughly explored and committed to memory.

Nobody has ever left his mouth with a warm cling of lips being removed, only to kiss his forehead and hug him.

It figures Choutarou's a brilliant kisser as well.

Considering everything, it is probably safe to assume he's got in a lot of practice.

It figures that this is worse than anything that has ever happened to him, ever. It's horrible and he wishes it wasn't happening, because now he needs to open his damn mouth and ruin it, because he can't do this, not with Choutarou.

He pushes him back and Choutarou, being who he is (that is good and kind and perfect), lets him escape from the embrace.

Shishido looks at the ground, winces when he notices just how worn his 'good' jeans are, how he must look standing next to someone like Choutarou and what is likely the stupidest thing perched on the tip of his tongue.

Likely there'd be troves people ready to kill to be in his position, but he still has some shreds of respect left. Even if he isn't comparable to Choutarou and even if this is something he might want, he won't do it.

A hands touches his short hair, hesitatingly, flattening a wayward clump of it before cupping the nape of his neck.

"What's the matter?" Choutarou asks.

Damn, the way he looks with his nice white shirt undone and crumpled, enough buttons loose to show a generous slice of chest and his mouth red and swollen from being nibbled at by him.

Yup.

Let's face it. He's hit a whole new level of 'dumb'.

Still.

"I'm not some… one night roll between the sheets of the thank you-and-goodbye sort, Choutarou," Shishido tells him, trying for firm and proud, but winding up sounding as though he's swallowed a pack of cotton swabs. "It's not my style. Just saying… before this. Well. Goes any further."

He expected the famed polite smile of miles-wide distance or even indignation that he'd take Choutarou home only to refuse him.

Clearly that, but not being kissed again, at the corner of his mouth all chaste, before being enveloped in arms again.

"I know," Choutarou says against his temple. "I didn't think you'd even let me come back with you. I am so happy you did." He laughs, truly elated, and leans in to kiss Shishido's mouth, though it hangs open in the most eloquent display of the emotion 'surprise' known to mankind.

And then he kisses him again and again, and then his eyelids and cheeks and the tip of his nose and then his mouth again.

"You're impossible to get over," Choutarou murmurs.

Shishido swallows. Heavily. He's not suffering from suspiciously warm eyes or anything. Just a speck of lint. He hides his face against Choutarou's chest.

"If we're not going to… going to have sex," he says, voice strangling over the last word in an effort to get it out nice and casual, "then what are we gonna do in the middle of the night?"

There's a small pause. Choutarou holds him and kisses the top of his head while he mulls it over. "Do you still play?"

Shishido pulls back, looks up at him incredulously. "Tennis?"

A half-shrug and a sheepish smile.

"At two in the morning?"

A somewhat more doubt-filled nod, a wry twist of lips.

"That's crazy." Shishido tells him. "And it sounds like the best thing I've heard in years. You can borrow my spare racket. Let's go!"

"Hai, Shishido-san!"

CUDDLE (PG-13)

It's almost one in the morning when Ohtori makes it to bed. Small beads of water cling to the ends of his hair and tickle down the side of his throat where they brush his neck.The room has a nip of the oncoming autumn in it and makes him shiver as he undresses. His eyes feel heavy and his arms are sluggish when he moves to lift up the sheets.

It feels good to lift his feet off cold wooden paneling and swing them into bed and even better when he reaches and finds impossibly warm and buttery skin. Shishido is slack and pliable in his sleep and molds easily to the curve of his front when he draws him closer.

Sharing a bed with Shishido is the most amazing things to come out of their living together, despite it being easily one of the mundane and necessary routines of basic needs that need to be fulfilled.

Besides the warmth and the feel of him, there's the smell. He buries his face into the nape of neck and breathes in, closing his eyes.

To him, it's the best moment of the day.

DANCING IN THE DARK (PG-13)

"…Shishido-san?"

Shishido looks up from where he's stuffing all the wrappers and streamers into a large plastic bag. Somewhere across the hall Hiyoshi and Jiroh are doing the same. As far as parties go, this was a pretty good one. Secretly he is beyond grateful for that, because he wanted the last night the hyotei regulars were still a team, to be memorable.

It's late.

Not late enough to early morning, but the night is poised right on the brink where it is most dark and quiet, the shadows as heavy and vast as the ocean.

At nose-height for him are two knees covered, for once, in jeans. His eyes trail up them (and don't linger on where the legs crest together, nu-huh) and up, and up. Dammit. With him crouching and Choutarou standing it seems like he'll go on sky-high. Well, he kinda is sky-high, isn't he? In a completely different manner.

He smiles up at his doubles partner. "Hey," he murmurs.

Or (he swallows) is that ex-partner now? After all it is Sunday morning now and their last day of being a team has ended at the stroke of midnight. For him, at least. Choutarou'll go on being a hyotei regular for another year. Shishido will go on to university.

But, damn. These last few years have been quite something.

Choutarou doesn't smile back. He's solemn and his eyes gather what little light there is left and gleam with burning warmth. Shishido doesn't need to ask to know his thoughts are dwelling on the crushing finality of this moment.

They've talked about it, of course. The end of high school does not mean the end of them, but it is an end all the same.

Slowly, he stands up, knees popping. He leaves the bag at his feet, spilling decorations and wads of tacky paper. He's covered in a ton of glitter, thanks to Taki. Choutarou has gotten even taller, but handsomely so. It fits him and Shishido loves how he looks in the dim lamplight, the way the shadows dust his cheeks and enhance his features.

Even if they manage to see each other every single day, this won't ever come back. They look at each other, share a curl of mouth that's not a smile.

"Can I ask something of you, Shishido-san?" Choutarou asks, he seems hesitant as though he suspects that his request will splatter against a wall with a capital N.

Shishido blinks. "Yeah, sure."

A thick swallow and then Choutarou reaches for his hand. "I don't think we've ever danced. Would you…"

They've done just about everything to one other two people can do to each other (without all the really gross kinky stuff of course, geez), but they've never danced. After all… that's kinda, well, super-lame. Why would they?

Choutarou must see the overall opinion flash over his face, because his expression turns somewhat wry and sheepish. And resigned. His mouth opens.

"Yes," Shishido says quickly, before he can change his mind or Choutarou can laugh it off with polite words. He swallows a lump what of feels like sticky cotton balls down, nods. "Yeah."

It doesn't matter that Gakuto is already unhooking the sound installation and there's no music to dance to.

It doesn't matter that they can hear their teammates (ex-teammates, now) move around softly in the background.

It doesn't matter that dancing seems to mean that they cling to each other, Shishido's head resting against Choutarou's shoulder with that familiar silver cross winking at him or Choutarou digging his fingers into his back really hard as though he wants nothing more than to reach inside and fuse together.

The hall is shadowy. Paper crinkles as they shuffle in a slow, slow circle, embracing. Shishido sheds glitter from his hair and clothes, covers Choutarou with it in the process.

Against his throat, Choutarou's hearts beats fast, panicky. Shishido gathers him closer, rubs his back. In his hair there's damp warmth. Shishido pulls back, tiptoes.

The kiss is more a sharing of contact and breath, a reaffirmation that this is lasting, even if the rest has ended. They lean foreheads together as Shishido smudges the wetness across Choutarou's cheeks with his thumbs, erasing it. He looks at him from under his lashes and grins when he sees that his hair has left Choutarou's face covered in gleaming specks.

"You're covered in glitter," he whispers and flicks some sparkles off Choutarou's nose.

Choutarou laughs softly, voice still a little thick, yet genuine. He ruffles Shishido's hair as per demonstration and the both of them watch all the glitter cloud into the air.

It's silver.

DISTRACTION (PG-13)

A drop of sweat rolls down his temple.

Shishido-san must do it to torture him.

He must.

There's no way he can't know what the Inducement formation does to him. Not only is Shishido-san bend over at the waist leaning forward, with his behind pointing at him, there's the beads of sweat at the back of his neck, which Ohtori aches to catch on his tongue as to taste the salt exertion of their game, but there's also the back of his thighs and the muscles cording taut, which he knows are vulnerable and sensitive under his touch and ticklish when they lie exhausted after. Also the sight of Shishido breathing, hard and deep, expulsions that make his body heave puts him in mind of other situations, which involve his hands cupping Shishido's hips and his heartbeat under his lips.

Not even to mention the slope of his spine and the set of shoulders or even the back of his arms, tendons tensed for action.

It's all he can do not to grab him and throw him down and-

"Choutarou!"

POK!

The ball hits his forehead hard enough to actually bounce back over to Oshitari's and Mukahi-senpais' side.

He staggers and then sits down hard on his ass.

Shishido-san is there in a flash instead of his dash, pulling his hands away and checking for damage.

When he's certain the only souvenir is just a tennis ball-shaped spot, he stands up and plants his fists on his hips.

His eyebrows scream disapproval.

"Che, Choutarou," he mutters, "pay attention."

"Sorry, Shishido-san, I-"

"-was having really wonderful daydreams." Oshitari finishes for him, a bland, knowing smile around his mouth.

Mukahi winks.

Shishido raises an eyebrow.

Jiroh, who is supposed to be refereeing, snores.

Ohtori blushes.

ENDEARMENTS (PG)

Hiyoshi calls his girlfriend sweetheart when he thinks nobody is listening in on his phone conversations (though someone always is. Not to mention probably recording it as well).

Kabaji calls Hanata Hana-chan, in a soft, warm voice.

Atobe calls his girlfriend things like 'exquisite pearl' or 'beauteous apparition'.

Oshitari calls Gakuto all sorts of things, most of them rather X-rated and not suited for repetition.

Taki has started calling everybody darling for about half a day, until Shishido-san threatened to shove a canister of tennis balls down his throat.

Shishido just calls him Choutarou.

He says it all the time, greeting him as a senpai in the hallways, yelling it at him on the courts, with a question mark in the lilt as he offers a stick of mint gum, or just tossed out in a sentence.

But he also says it low and rough, maybe a little jagged around the edges when they manage to fit themselves together really good, but always warm and intimate and more sweet than any endearment could be.

Ohtori calls him Shishido-san.

Always.

Okay, no, not true.

There are moments, specials ones, when he calls him Ryou. They are rare and in between and that much more powerful because of it.

But one day he'll call him that always.

And that will be more significant than any endearment could be.

HANDS (R)

It's just hands, Shishido tells himself.

He can deal.

Really. The sight of those long fingers dancing over his jutting hipbone have no effect whatsoever on him. None.

He's not horribly aroused. Not at all. They are watching some lame movie together (which actually is kinda cool because lots of stuff is blowing up in it) and Shishido is not suffering from the biggest hard-on of a century because Choutarou has gorgeous hands and is touching him with them.

Only that's the situation and Shishido bemoans the fact that one of his biggest turn-ons is Choutarou's large hands. It's just that his partner is happily munching on popcorn and staring at the screen, while Shishido is lying half in his arms being caressed and nearly besides himself by just seeing him do it. But he just can't stop staring at Choutarou's fingers doing a clever maneuver that inches up his shirt, baring a strip of his stomach, before he brushes a tickling hand over his skin there.

It is just that Choutarou has beautiful hands. Long, slender fingers and broad palms, short even nails and delicate wrists. A pianist's hands. There's immense strength in them and you can see that, but you can also tell they are used to creating wonderful things such as music and art and an impossibly fast serve. He has an exquisite way of moving his hands as well, gentle but sure, fingers arching just so as he trails them around Shishido's navel, round once, twice, before one finger stretches to dip inside, ticklish.

All that is one thing. But Shishido remembers the time there was a mirror involved (which neither of them had noticed until Shishido suddenly had the shock of his utterly-aroused mirror-image staring back at him) and he mostly remembers just how big the contrast of Choutarou's hand on his hip was and the feeling that visual gave him.

At any given time he'll complain loudly about their height difference and the unfairness of it.

In reality Shishido likes it. He wouldn't admit to it even with a knife at his throat, but in the privacy of his inner thoughts he can dwell on it, the steadiness Choutarou's touch will give him and the sensation of being held safe. There's nothing out there that can make him loose it as much as the sight of Choutarou's hand curled around his thigh, cupping the whole side of his leg with ridiculous ease, or seeing it guiding his waist or spanning his stomach completely.

And that's not even mentioning Choutarou cradling his face between his palms, because that will make his knees shake and his lips part in supplication no matter what.

Truth?

When Choutarou touches him, nothing else matters.

Especially when he's as aroused as he is, tucked into the crook of Choutarou's arm and fingers swiping lightly back and forth over his belly.

His fingertips are slightly rough, from playing the piano and the violin, but they are so soft when they glide along his skin. They circle and play, tracing the elastic of his boxers, the lightest of swipes and Shishido wants him to quit playing around and touch him already.

Somehow he grits his teeth through the feathering of caresses until they're nearly at the end of the movie, when the shit gets good and it's one glorious brain-numbing pulp of exploding cars and buildings. By then his stomach is so sensitive from being touched all the damn time and his thighs are trembling from being so stupidly turned on that he can hardly breathe with it. His skin is pricked into goosebumps as thought it s trying to crawl off his body and up those fingers for more contact. And just when he thinks of grabbing that trice damned hand and getting himself off with it, Choutarou puts it on him.

Palm flat, fingers starfished in the middle of his belly, his navel trapped between the space of his index and thumb.

It feels so good, not to mention warm and intimate that Shishido can't stop the sharp gust of air escaping him and his head tipping back on Choutarou's shoulder.

Which is what gets his partner's attention. There's a turn of the head -Shishido can feel Choutarou's chin slide through his hair- and he knows he's looking down over his shoulder, undoubtedly making note of the tent in his pants.

Goddammit.

Actually he's too busy trying not to shamelessly arch up into that hand to be truly humiliated. He's just downright horny and he wants Choutarou to fix it, since it was all his fucking fault to begin with, having those hands attached to him and all.

"Hello," Choutarou murmurs appreciatively, cheek bunching into a smile against his temple.

If Shishido was more eloquent he'd open his gob and ask him who he was greeting: him or his damn dick, but turning that into grammatically correct sentence is currently beyond him. All he can do is hiss: "Touch me."

"Alright," Choutarou says rather too agreeably.

And with that his hand drags up, palm on Shishido's stomach, past his navel and under his shirt. It's a strong, smooth drag and Choutarou halts over his solar plexus, so tender a spot between the rest of his muscles. Then he strokes down and sideways, leaving the fabric rucked up over his chest. It's palm against the side of his waist and fingers hooked onto his belly and Shishido goes weak with emotion when he sees that contrast, the large hand and long beautiful fingers still spanning half of him.

That was just the left hand. Now the right hand joins in as well, mirroring the grip on his waist and like that he has a perfect hold on Shishido.

It's beautiful and good when they start wandering over him, but always safe and clean between the elastic of his boxers and the lowest of his ribs. It's still fucking good, because Choutarou is behind him, watching himself touch Shishido and knowing that it fucking turns him on so bad he's already hovering there, at the edge of his orgasm. His face is resting in Shishido's hair, mouth at the side of his face breathing hot gusts, heavy too, but not like Shishido is panting, desperate to spill over.

In the end Choutarou doesn't even need to slip his fingers into his boxers, or swipe at his nipples. He just kneads and strokes the safe and innocent middle zone of his torso sweet and appreciative, egging him into arching and leaning into his hold, but never quite there, not until Choutarou removes one hand to cup his face, cradling it towards his lips kissing at the temple and saying "Ryou," into his skin.

Like that he comes, shocked and outraged that the delicate possessiveness of that gesture would tip him over, but it did and Shishido feels himself bow with the intensity of it, one hand guiding at his waist and the other on his face and the hot moistness of lips next to his ear and Choutarou against his back.

When he flops back, he has barely enough awareness left to see how half of the fucking world seems to be exploding on screen.

"Boom," Choutarou offers, completely straight faced.

Shishido weakly attempts to elbow him, but just gasps and flops lifelessly.

It's just hands Shishido tells himself.

And they are.

But they are Choutarou's hands and over the years he's learned to play Shishido with them as expertly as he handles that damn piano.

An artists's hands.

HUNGER (NC-17)

They don't have much time.

Half an hour, maybe. If they're lucky.

When the last person had strolled out of the clubhouse their eyes had met. Next instant Ohtori had had Shishido pushed up against a random locker and is currently kissing him with everything he's got, all the pent up hunger and the missing of him and the loneliness of two weeks behind it. Shishido is giving as good as he's got back, placing kiss after kiss on his mouth, just heavy presses of lips, nothing more, as though he wants to reassure himself that this really is going to happen.

"Touch me," he whispers. "touch me, please."

He is. Kneading the muscles in Shishido's back, loving the reality of holding someone's body, cupping each hand over ribs as to feel him breathe and live between his palms.

They struggle getting their shirts off and as soon as Ohtori drops his to the ground he prepares to try and see if he can somehow crawl past Shishido's skin and into him. Two hands on either side of his face stop him and they really don't have much time, but Shishido is looking at him, like that. It makes Ohtori blush, even though he is fully prepared to rip the last vestiges of Shishido's clothing off him so he can proceed with putting his mouth just about anywhere on that body in the little time they have. The look is sexual, but also more, the untranslatable something that assures Ohtori that they might be young and desperate, but what happens between them is something that will last.

It doesn't calm his need to have Shishido right this instant, but instead of slamming him up against the lockers again he kisses him.

Of course, that doesn't mean he hasn't got Shishido up against the lockers and his hand kneading his erection through his shorts five minutes later.

They're on a tight schedule, after all.

The clubhouse isn't their style. Not really. But the energy between them had been building up to this over the course of the past few days and the hot, aching hunger had been maddening. He'd been aching for Shishido and now that he can feel just how badly Shishido is aching for him, cupped in the palm of his hand and he knows exactly how to fix this.

The only foreplay consists out of Shishido biting at his mouth and jaw, his eyes glowing with scalding eagerness. He is good at that, playing his skin until he's on the edge where yes would've become no had Shishido not been so damn good at keeping him at the 'yes' and also at the 'yes, please, please, Shishido-san, don't stop!'

Shishido likes to use his teeth. Nips and nibbles and scrapes of them, carefully marking Ohtori all over. Well, not all over, he makes sure the marks are invisible when he is wearing clothes. But his chest and stomach and even the inside of his thighs are all fair game. Now his target seems to be Ohtori's left nipple, to his great distress, because Shishido likes to use his tongue as well as his teeth and if he keeps this up there's not going to be much more action from him.

So now it is his turn, pushing Shishido's shorts and boxers down his hips, his hands creeping back towards his buttocks (and really, Shishido as a fine behind, tough he'd never dare to voice this out loud). Shishido bites hard, a little too hard, teeth luckily not on his nipple, but at each side of it, leaving purple half moons bracketing it, when Ohtori slides a finger inside of him.

The lotion isn't perfect but all they have and he doesn't want to hurt Shishido-san, but neither have they got much time.

As careful as possible he presses a second finger into the hot cling of his body, slides his free hand soothingly up and down a sharp hip.

It's nearly too much when he lifts him, and too much when Shishido's thighs clamp possessively around his waist, and it's very, very close when the pressure is deep and sharp, before he slides into the slick, tight sensation of being inside of Shishido-san.

"Oh, fuck," Shishido hisses, and his head falls with a hollow thud against the locker.

It must hurt, it must. Ohtori knows the feeling himself: fierce and burning and so intensely sharp, but there's a look on Shishido's face, one that is soft and hazy and, Ohtori realizes, very in love.

They're louder than they should be. Shishido is making an actual full-throated noise, a cry and a growl of pleasure and Ohtori can hear himself say things, stupid things he'd never even think of saying and Shishido-san is hearing them and saying them back. Besides their moans and sighs and the words that get bitten out between open-mouthed licks and nips, the locker makes an atrocious metal clunking noise to the rhythm of his trusts.

He's gripping Shishido where his thighs flow over into his buttocks and he can spread him, a little, to take him even deeper, so he does, with Shishido's nails racking fiery trails along his shoulders and biceps, but also saying his name hard in acute approval and need.

They're devouring one other, reveling in the sweat between them, the slick essence of Shishido's own arousal, the moist heat of their mouths meeting and the agony of pleasure.

It's too much when Choutarou looks down when Shishido starts pumping himself hard and fast and completely shameless about it, the heat of his orgasm against the skin of his stomach and the pure bliss as his free arm pulls at his neck to rub their faces together.

That's as far as he lasts, with Shishido shuddering and breathing hard and clamping down around him because then he's coming too, over and endless it feels like, sobbing at the pain of the final release.

His knees give out and he crumples to the floor, Shishido's back making a squeaking noise as it drags against the locker. With Shishido in his lap, Ohtori rests his head on his shoulder and tried to remember how the base mechanics of breathing worked.

"You okay?" Shishido asks after a moment. He sounds kind and warm, but worried, too.

That half an hour will be as good as gone.

"Yes," Ohtori says into his neck. "I am now."

IT FIRST HAPPENED WHEN… (PG)

It first happened when he was thirteen.

New and nervous on the regular's and there thanks to the unparalleled strength of his serve. The changing rooms after practice. It had been an accident really. He'd turned to reach for his school shirt and had landed nose first into long brown hair.

Shishido-senpai had been heading towards the showers, last off the courts after a drawn-out game against Jiroh. His hair had been damp and sweaty, had smelled strongly of him. It had been soft, silky almost, loose out of its ponytail as it had been, because Shishido-senpai had had the elastic between his fingers and a bottle of shampoo in the other hand.

Most people on the team had some sort of fascination with Shishido-senpai's hair, positive or negative. There hadn't been anybody else with hair that long, not like his, to his shoulder blades when down, before he hacked it off.

But Ohtori had stood there dazed and startled and warm deep to the core of his being, while Shishido-senpai had given him a weird and rather cross look over his shoulder, but had just walked on.

He is twenty-three now.

And it still happens.

Now Shishido's hair is short and tickles, but still so soft and thick and wonderful to bury his nose in. Now Shishido will smile or roll his eyes and touch him back.

It still happens.

LAUGH (PG)

When Choutarou throws his head back and laughs, it does something really weird to Shishido.

He never knew that there was any way to experience a sound in a more physical way that getting goosebumps during a kick-ass guitar solo.

Goosebumps is just that, a slightly chilly and pricked experience.

But when Choutarou laughs Shishido smiles, too.

The sound of it is surprisingly deep, masculine, more so than his polite intonation would suggest. And he can feel it, down his spine like a clatter of hot, thick drops and then slick down molten, to settle along the crest of his hips and radiate inwards. There the presence of it will echo through the pit of his belly and glow. It will warm him and spread up again, higher until it washes over his chest, through his heart and reach his lips.

He'll smile or even laugh with him, a resounding moment of very damn good between them.

And Choutarou will look at him and smile right back.

PRESENT NR1 (PG)

The first present Choutarou ever gave him was when he turned fifteen.

His parents had graciously vacated the house for the occasion, so he could have a modest amount of friends over to celebrate with. This turned out to be mostly the team, of course, and some other friends .

And Choutarou.

Who was part of 'the team', part of 'friends', but also a whole new category all by himself.

It came as a surprise when the bell rang and Shishido dropped Gakuto out of his chokehold to dash over and open the door. Only to see what must've been every single flower in the near vicinity of Tokyo crowed on his doorstep. All in hues of bright, loud red and dusky purple.

Maybe it only looked that much, but then again Shishido had never received flowers.

Let alone from another guy.

"Happy Birthday, Shishido-san!"

Slightly bemused, Shishido accepted them. For as far as he could tell, they were beautiful flowers. Full and fresh, but also smelling utterly of… well, flowers. Which, du'h, was kind obvious that they should, but his mother had told him once that you could tell the quality of a bouquet by its smell. And in this case… Wow.

In the doorway, his partner shuffled his feet. "Do you…" Choutarou hesitated, gestured anxiously. "Do you like them?"

Shishido blinked.

Well, they were flowers.

Which equaled pretty, he supposed.

"Y-yeah…" he tried to stuff his nose between the petals without looking as though he was deeply inhaling.

And they really smelled nice.

Choutarou fidgeted, looked as though he might begin to regret his decision, until Shishido peeked through all the red and purple that was filling his vision and smiled at him.

"Yes, I like them," he grinned and stepped aside to let his friend enter. "Thank you."

Really, even if he hadn't liked them (but he kinda sorta really really did), it would have been worth the small lie just to see Choutarou light up and beam that genuine smile at him. Seeing Choutarou happy was enough to make him happy these days, though he hadn't really puzzled out why that seemed to be so.

Everybody gave them a look when the both of them walked into the living room, Shishido with his arms full of the most glorious flowers ever grown and Choutarou with a pleased flush. Maybe it was because it was his birthday that everybody kept their mouths shut. Everybody except for one, that is.

"Flowers?" Oshitari said, one brow arching and his mouth curling. "Ohtori-kun gave you flowers. He gave you flowers."

Shishido fetched a vase and turned to look at him. "Yeah. He did," he said pointedly. "Why?"

The last was a challenge. He knew what Oshitari was hinting at, but Shishido'd be damned if that damn wannabe-megane so much as thought that he'd allow him to embarrass Choutarou over his choice of present. He knew that Choutarou had probably agonized over it for weeks and had chosen flowers with the best of intentions, unusual though it might be for a boy to give to another boy.

Bottom line? He liked them. It was unusual and special and personal. Choutarou had even gone as far as to pick out his favorite colors.

Oshitari quirked his damnable secretive and knowing smirk at him and shook his head. "It was nothing," he said. "They're nice."

Later that night, when everybody had gone back home and his mother was finished stuffing him full snacks, Shishido sat in the middle of his bed looking at the flowers on his nightstand. Flower petals had a certain soft, visual quality about them, which made you want to touch them. He'd reach and touch one, marveling at how fuzzily lustrous the purple became towards the center, or how vibrant the red. It wasn't even necessary for him to lean in to get a good whiff of their scent: the whole room smelled of them.

In the end he had to admit he didn't like them after all.

He loved them.

The idea that Choutarou had given him something like flowers sat strange, but not unwelcome. It was a warm splash of knowledge that lived in his mind and had him smiling at the sight of them.

But one thing was bothering him immensely, so badly that it nearly soured his mood.

Flowers died.

They withered.

First they'd go limp. Then they'd start curling closed. The edges would go brown and the scent would become sickeningly sweet. Finally the petals would drop, littering the cabinet, the corner of his bed and the floor.

The concept of that progress made the bottom of his stomach feel faint and weak. But they'd been cut off. They would die, no matter how carefully he took care of them. Taking a picture would preserve a accurate and nice visual memory of them. But it wasn't enough. The flowers themselves would be gone nonetheless and he hated that he couldn't stop that. The moisture held in them would turn bad and poison them all the same.

And then it came to him.

At the back of a drawer in his desk sat a long-forgotten and dusty notebook. When he'd turned ten an uncle had somehow thought to please him with a 'grow-up' book, with sturdy leather binding and thick, blank creamy pages. He'd torn one sheet from the back of it the day after he'd got it to fold an airplane from, but had lost further interest when it refused to fly straight.

He ruined about six flowers in the process, growing more frustrated at each attempt, but after one and a half hour of sweat-bathed fiddling, he had two of them -one red, one purple- pressed securely between the pages.

He'd seen girls do it.

Nobody needed to know.

PRESENT NR2 (PG)

The flowers had gone soft and papery. The red had faded, but couldn't be called pink. The purple had lightened to violet. The stems and leaves were the darkest of greens. When he put his nose close enough, the faintest whiff of their original scent lingered.

Shishido smiled to himself and carefully turned enough pages to keep the flowers secure, until he got to a fresh spot. At the top of the page he wrote the date as clean and neat as he could, his best handwriting.

It was the day after his sixteenth birthday.

Today, after school, Choutarou has been waiting for him at the gates.

Shishido had hardly believed his eyes. For all that they were close, it was difficult to keep up regular contact. They were too young to be truly free of those rules that would've otherwise allowed them to meet up in the evenings. Choutarou's parents especially found evenings to be for studying and Sundays as well, and if not that, for practicing his music. A handful of times was all they'd managed to see each other.

He hadn't asked, but he suspected Choutarou from actually lying to his parents to get away after classes on a school day and staying out as late as they had been. The idea makes him feel guilty. But it had been awesome, complete with tennis and tons of unhealthy food and the two of them stumbling over their words in an effort to try and tell one other everything they'd been unable to share.

Somewhere in the middle of it all the two of them had crammed into a photo booth.

It had been a tight fit, especially with their tennis equipment and Choutarou's long limbs. Their legs had been one long unbroken line from hip to ankle and Shishido had found himself wanting to do something about that, but he wasn't sure what. Then there'd been the flashes of the camera and the both of them making faces or teasing each other.

Out of the numerous they'd taken, only one strip he actually slips into the notebook.

Four frames.

In the first Shishido is making a devil's horns gesture and baring his teeth frightfully, while Choutarou is looking sweet and radiant as he flashes a V-sign.

In the second they are shoving each other and it shows them laughing and their hands wound into t-shirts. Choutarou is barely in the frame, mouth wide and smiling, as Shishido pretends to push him out of the cubicle.

The third has Shishido with his arms around Choutarou's neck, wrestling, and Choutarou's long hands at his ribs as he tries to tickle him.

In the last, the fourth, he still has his arms around Choutarou's neck, but the teasing has fled and they're just sorta smiling at each other. Choutarou is flushed, his hair is on end and his eyes are a dark, deep brown.

He likes that last one best.

PRESENT NR3 (PG)

It could've been the worst birthday present ever.

Instead it was one Shishido would always remember.

Rain was coming down hard and thick. He was wet through. His black shirt hung on him, the hood heavy with all the water it had sponged up, dragging at his neckline. Jeans chafed at his hips and clung precariously low, staying where they should be by virtue of the belt he had looped through before heading out. Slicked against his skull, his hair made sticky tendrils against his ears and neck, scattered droplets when he whipped around to grin at Choutarou.

His friend was just as soaked as he was. Not only that, but he was wearing a white shirt that was positively see-through at this rate, causing girls to grope him left and right. At fifteen-going-on-sixteen, Choutarou was growing into his body. There was a period where everything about him had been mismatched: feet too big, arms too long, shoulders too broad, waist to slender, and all in different spurts. He'd been awkward and suffering from pain pangs in his legs. Now he stood impossibly tall and everything about him was coming together.

He was handsome.

And now, under an inky sky packed with rainclouds and the multi-colored lights from stage playing over his features and grinning back at him, he was even more so.

The concert was great.

Shishido had only attended a few, whenever Gakuto could scrape enough money together to accompany him. That had been fun, as well. But now, with Choutarou by his side, it was even better. Never had he expected to open the card his friend had given him only to see two tickets for a rock-concert (which, after this night, he'd hide in the notebook). It had been a band he might've mentioned once or twice to Choutarou, but never had ranted over, because it wasn't the other's style at all. When he'd gotten the heads up that the band was coming to Tokyo he'd ran to the nearest sales point after school. By then, of course, it had been too late. It had been a bitter disappointment.

So imagine his surprise to get them from Choutarou, who liked freaking' Chopin, and two of them, because they were both going.

It was amazing to see one of his favorite bands, one not well known in Tokyo -let alone Japan-, live.

It didn't matter it was pouring.

He didn't care that the mud was splattered up his jeans 'til his knees.

The rain was actually warm and glorious.

The band was awesome, as good as, no, better, than he'd expected, but for some reason when Choutarou tipped his head towards the sky, eyes blinking against the drops and eyelashes spiked together, rain sliding down his face and his hair a curling mad nest, enjoying himself, well… that was even better.

That night, Shishido realized he was in love.

PRESENT NR4 (PG-13)

When he turned eighteen, he got a present of sorts.

It was a strip of notebook paper, folded into a neat square so it could be pushed between the slats of his locker.

It said:

I love you. Meet me at the fountain at 20:00.

It had been the most simple and blunt love declaration ever. The script had been carefully manufactured into a standard and bland style, unrecognizable. It had not been written on colored or scented paper, nor had it been written in colored or scented ink. No elaborate text that listed all his virtues or the admirer's own, no extensive litany on why they belonged together. No hearts. No name.

Because of that alone, Shishido decided to show up.

It was refreshing and honest, something he appreciated.

So after numerous helpings of his favorite foods prepared by his mother, Shishido slipped out and retraced his steps back to school. It was strange to be there after classes: the grounds empty and devoid of life, the light slanting differently. Only the clatter of the fountain.

There was no one.

Shishido felt hot anger and humiliation, because for the one time he showed up it was some prank, something some asshole would have a good laugh about how gullible he was.

And then someone behind him said: "Shishido-san."

His best friend stood there, tall and concerned looking.

Shishido blinked. "Choutarou? What are you doing here? Don't tell me… you got one, too?"

Choutarou looked at him, steady and there, as he always was. "One what?"

"Some note with a love declaration." Shishido said, lip curling sardonically. He couldn't believe he fell for it.

A shake of the head. "No, I didn't," he whispered.

Shishido didn't get it then.

He didn't get it, either, when Choutarou came closer. He didn't understand why he seemed so close, too close, closer than he ever had been, or was that just his imagination. Even when Choutarou kissed him, warm mouth on his dry lips, he didn't understand.

But when Choutarou said, "I wrote it," after he pulled back, leaving Shishido's mouth a humming bee-sting, he started to get it.

And he really got it when Choutarou kissed him again

That night at home, when he carefully placed the slip of paper in his notebook, he got the flowers and the look on Choutarou's face in the photo booth and the concert tickers for a band Choutarou didn't even like.

He closed the notebook with the greatest care and touched his mouth, smiling.

PRESENT NR5 (R)

The fifth item wouldn't stay taped down.

Even though he'd taken the smallest pebble he'd found.

It wasn't the first time they'd made love and he sure hoped it wouldn't be the last. They'd snuck out together, in the earliest hours of the night, to be alone together. The house Atobe had rented off to celebrate his birthday had been right near the beach and when they'd slowly undressed one other, it had been with the swelling tide as the only other sound besides their heartbeat.

That night was for him the present. The two of them alone, bodies rising and falling like the waves behind them, Choutarou murmuring at him as he moved over him, behind him, under him and after, when they laid embracing. It had been utterly dark, barely enough stars out to see one other, but it hadn't mattered to express what was needed.

He'd actually gotten an 'official' present: a videogame he'd been lusting after, but hadn't been able to afford. Of course he'd been grateful.

But for this, he is even more so.

PRESENT NR6 (PG-13)

It hadn't even been the fanciest restaurant. No family diner, either, but just nondescript food. Cheap but tasty, especially when he didn't have to wrestle a meal into submission in his tiny apartment.

Stomach full and working on the last of the wine meant that Shishido had been feeling loose and easy, happy to be together with Choutarou. They saw each other as much as possible. But both of them had responsibilities left and right and now that Choutarou had graduated and had got himself a good job, they saw each other only a handful of times. Hear each other, yeah. Shishido's phone bill could testify for the hours they spend talking over the phone, or if the costs were running too high, chatting and e-mailing. They missed each other and even now, in a public restaurant, they couldn't help but press their legs together under the table, to soak up the contact.

They were lonely even when surrounded by other people.

He missed Choutarou like a keen blade of the knife piercing through him. And this after being together for six years already, so it wasn't an adolescent fancy.

But it had been wonderful: full of laughter and burning looks, but then Choutarou had gone all quiet suddenly.

"It's you birthday," he'd said, plucking at the hem of his sleeve.

"I hope you'll give me what I wanted," Shishido had said, with a pointed glance and a little smile.

Choutarou had laughed, tapped their knees together under the table. "That, too," he'd responded. "But something else as well."

He'd taken something out of his pocket, slid it across the table towards Shishido after the slightest hesitation.

A key.

He hadn't got it.

Now, standing with Choutarou before a small house, he gets it like a kick to the stomach.

It was a place they'd looked at when Shishido had moved out of his parents' house and Choutarou had helped him in his hunt for a flat to live. He'd fallen in love with this house instantly, no matter how small it was, or how much work it'd need. As soon as he'd stepped inside, he'd known that this was the place. The general atmosphere, the green he saw outside the window, the quality of the air and sky and light. The feeling of it, the layout of the rooms, the ingenious sliding closets and storing compartments. The large open windows.

Even then, in that split instant, he'd seen himself live there with Choutarou. Big enough for the two of them and a dog. He could picture how the furniture might go, how the light would fall in the room when they woke up. Or the two of them at the table for breakfast, or Choutarou on his piano that would, with some careful planning, fit inside as well. The old fashioned large tub, big enough to bathe both of them. Big enough to make love in.

But, fresh from university, he hadn't had enough money to afford even half of it, by manner of speaking.

"I should've talked about it with you," Choutarou said huskily. His voice sounded strangled, thick. "I'm sorry. I didn't think-"

Shishido didn't let him finished. They were right in the middle of the street and it was still light out, but he tiptoed and kissed Choutarou, over and over and over.

"It's perfect," he muttered in between kisses. "The perfect present. Don't you ever get me anything else again."

Choutarou nodded and promised and Shishido dried his tears of relief with a clean, if rumpled, napkin from the restaurant.

It's a tear-stained napkin that is the last thing to go into his notebook.

The most perfect present.

PRESENT NR7 (PG-13)

When he wakes it is to the warm haze of sunlight on his face. The curtains hadn't been pulled properly and the sun has risen just so that it slants through the gap and across his eyes.

Either it is that which woke him or the soft brush of long fingers combing through the hair at his temples. Or even the wriggling body against his butt.

Tentatively, Shishido cracks upon an eye.

"Good morning," Choutarou says softly. He's leaning on the knuckles of his supporting hand while he touches Shishido with the other. Sheets have slid down to bare his shoulders and chest. In the warm morning sun, he seems to glow.

God. This is it, isn't it?

Happiness.

Something squirms, then flops. A paw hits him in the small of the back.

Stupid dog. Ever since she figured out how to open doors, she's been sneaking inside their bedroom. They'll go to sleep without the dog and usually wake up with her sprawling and taking up half of the bed. A lock might be the answer, but neither of them have the heart to shut her out.

There's a lazy wag of tail when he pokes her and then a lolling tongue. Shishido rolls his eyes.

During all this, Choutarou keeps fingercombing, eyes warm and intent. Shishido sighs contently, leans his head into the caress.

It doesn't happen a lot that they both manage to get the day off on his birthday. Wonderful, a day together in the middle of the week and one that seems to promise the last of the sun for the year, at that.

That's all nice and all, but Shishido actually plans on kicking the dog out soonish so he can do something about that look in his partner's eyes.

Choutarou kept his promise. He's never gotten another birthday present in all of the years since they moved in together and he's truly more than okay with that. This is enough. There's nothing that could top this and if Choutarou really feels like giving him something, he'll find an excuse to do so next week.

But for more than ten years now his birthday has been just this: waking up together with Choutarou, in the selfsame house they moved into.

That's more than enough.

Choutarou smiles, but there's the promise of sex in the curve of his mouth. Shishido smiles back, starts to feel for a waist under the covers.

"Happy birthday," he murmurs as they draw together to embrace.

Shishido starts to kiss his neck.

"I noticed something while you were asleep," Choutarou says as his hands slide down Shishido's back.

"Hm?"

"You're getting gray streaks at your temples."

Shishido somehow chokes, coughs, splutters -all at once- before proceeding with hitting Choutarou up the side of his head. His partner laughs, loud and clear, as Shishido tries to simultaneously bite and drool on him.

Yet he can't help but smile, too.

In the bottom drawer of his nightstand lies the notebook.

Shishido hasn't put anything else in it but for these: a red and purple flower, photo booth snapshots, concert tickets, a note, a pebble and a napkin.

And that's enough.

This is more than enough.

RESTLESS SLEEPER (R)

He wakes because there's a sudden draft of cold air along his back and a foot in his side. Fishing for the sheets rewards him with sharp elbows and sprawling arms instead.

Ohtori opens his eyes, peers.

Shishido easily takes up more than half of the bed, all sharp angles and boney limbs akimbo, with one foot planted on him, just about ready to shove him out.

He grabs the foot, pushes it away, which rewards him with a sharp fist knocking him over the head and when he grabs that Shishido's other foot lands just shy of his crotch.

Letting go of all the rest he takes care of that first trapping it under his right leg. At which Shishido shifts and pulls up his free knee sharply, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Coughing, he maneuvers it down, plasters it under his left leg. Just as he manages to keep their shins from grinding painfully, there's a forearm in his mouth so he grabs it and pins it down, too.

Shishido opens his eyes, sees him braced on all fours over him, blankets lost and naked and cold and not to mention highly annoyed.

He still has one hand left over.

Shishido smiles up at him sleepily, lifts it.

The palm of his hand is warm and rough as it settles on his jaw and steady as he coaxes Ohtori's head down to kiss the annoyance away.

Ohtori smiles into it, kisses back. But the hand isn't done yet. While Ohtori is preoccupied by the kiss it moves down his neck, down his chest and reaches between them.

Gropes him between the legs.

Choutarou gasps and shudders, looks down on Shishido's sleepy smug face with surprise.

The hand pumps up... and down, nice and slow.

"Sorry, did I wake up?" he murmurs. His fingers tickle towards the tip of him and his thumb swipes over the head of him. "Do you mind?"

"Uhm," Ohtori goes.

"Thought so."

He doesn't mind Shishido's restless sleeping so much after all.

SKETCHBOOK (PG)

It is a drawing of him.

They are ALL drawings of him.

Page after page after page after page of them.

Even pretending to be sneaky is something he's incapable of, he's just sitting in Choutarou's chair leafing through the sketchbook. Shishido thought that Choutarou was just suffering from 'idle hands' and had been doodling, really, creative and crazy talented as he is.

But Choutarou was drawing him.

In great detail.

Right now he's staring at a page that has been devoted solely to his eyes. He knows they are meant to be his and would have even if what is sketched out on the page wasn't an exact copy of what he sees in the mirror each day (but which they are). But there is one with the bandage over his eyebrow and one without, even, with the scar in great detail. Even more so confronting are the endless repetitions of his irises and pupils, with his lashes and lids detailed in painstaking effort and a vague hint of eyebrow in a rough pencil slash above it. He's shocked at the intensity the gray tones of graphite convey and doesn't know how to feel about the possibility of him truly looking at people like that.

Not only that, but pages filled with his mouth and shapes it makes, some with teeth bared and others with his lips relaxed or smiling.

Half of the book is devoted to his face and every single detail of it, even with his hair still drawn long here and there.

The other half are even more startling. His arms and shoulders. His hands and the folds of skin over his finger joints, the scars on his knuckles, his short and blunt nails. But also his knees and legs, the shape of his calves, muscles bunched and taut, but relaxed also, and his thighs corded as he crouches to receive a serve, or lean as he stretches. His chest and nipples and collarbones and navel, his back and boney spine, his ribs, his feet and toes.

It's his body, in great detail.

It's him.

He hears Choutarou come in and stop short when he realizes what his senpai is looking at.

Neither of them move, or say anything, or look at each other. They breathe. Choutarou stands where he is and Shishido looks at the sketches until it gets dark.

He stands up only when Choutarou's mother yells to tell him it is time he should go.

Slowly, methodically, he shuts the sketchbook and closes it, puts it back under the stack of magazines it was hidden under. After he zips up his rucksack and gathers his sweater, he walks out of the room.

As he passes Choutarou he looks up at him.

Choutarou looks as though something vital has fled out of him. He seems hollow and pained, though his shoulders are squared and a tad challenging. No shame.

Just resigned.

Shishido reaches for his hand -his right, the one that has made all those sketches, thousands of them, all devoted to him- and kisses it.

Softly and as much dedication as he can he pours into it, though it can never begin to match all the hours Choutarou must've spend bend over that sketchbook.

But he has years to make up for it.

STRANGE BED (PG)

He can't sleep.

No matter how he turns or how he tosses or how he arranges his arms and legs, he can't.

It's a strange bed.

Or futon, at that.

And he'll have to sleep there for a whole week. Not only that, but all around him the whole team dozes, snoring and mumbling and creating sleepy smacking noises, generally making it even more difficult for him to focus on the 'clean slate' state of mind, because he keeps wondering who is dreaming about the brain eating-pineapples.

Only Shishido-san seems quiet in the bed next to him, a still outline under the sheets.

Ohtori sighs, turns yet again. He's exhausted. He wants to sleep. Instead he switches to his other side and squeezes his eyes shut.

Sighs again.

"Can't sleep?" Shishido's voice carries soft and hushed through the rest of the noise.

Wincing when he realizes that he was keeping Shishido-san awake with his sighing, tossing and turning, Choutarou shifts to face him. "Sorry, Shishido-san," he whispers back. "I didn't mean to keep you up."

Shishido is two dark eyes gleaming in the faint light and dark hair above the oval of his face. "Strange bed again?" he asks instead.

"Yeah," he answers and tries to still his squirming.

Another hour passes during which there's no more conversation. Maybe Shishido-san fell asleep again. Ohtori turns left, then right, tries letting his arms and legs dangle over the edges, flips to his stomach and back again. Nothing helps and he's tired. He groans and puts his head under the pillow.

"Wait," Shishido murmurs and before Ohtori can react there's a draft of freezing air against his back.

Then it is replaced by an unbelievable warmth as Shishido spoons up against him. His heart races and his breathing escalates and Shishido just holds him. The futon is too small for two growing teenagers, it didn't even begin to fit Ohtori's long limbs properly to begin with. Shishido is plastered against him, a breathing, living source of warmth and skin and why does there seem so much exposed of it suddenly? At his ankles and arms and neck and a sliver of back and stomach where his shirt has ridden up and Shishido-san is touching all of it!

"Sweet dreams," is all he says and two heartbeats later he's gone.

For quite a while he lies there, stiff as a board and too bewildered to move, while Shishido breathes in a damp, hot patch against the back of his neck. But after half an hour the warmth of the second body is soothing and the arms keeping him place stop him from tossing and the rhythm of Shishido's breathing is lulling.

There's also his heartbeat, slow and steady between his shoulder blades and Ohtori's own starts to match the pace of its own accord.

He relaxes.

Yawns.

The last thing he wonders, before he falls asleep, is whether this means Shishido-san will sleep in his bed the whole week.

TOOTHBRUSH (PG)

It's lame.

It is and he knows it, but doesn't matter when nobody else knows, right?

Really though. There is nothing that endears him as much as the sight of Choutarou dressed for bed in his pajamas with little puppies on it, all sleepy eyed and fuzzy with a toothbrush in his mouth, scrubbing until the foam drips into the basin.

He's Choutarou's senpai and he shouldn't be wanting to… cuddle Choutarou when this happens, but he does.

Worst of all?

When Choutarou watches him crawl up on his futon and curl in a little ball because it is cold and snowing outside, huddling into his oversized t-shirt for maximum body-heat retention and says, "You look cute, Shishido-san."

"Don't be lame!" Shishido hisses as he feels his cheeks heat up.

Even lamer is Choutarou just laughing, loud and true, before reaching over to hitch the sheets over the exposed nape of his neck.

It's lame.

But he kinda likes it anyway.

THUNDERSTORM (PG-13)

Ohtori would be indignant when Shishido-san laughs softly at his reaction, if he weren't occupied making sure that Shishido was right besides him and as close as can be with him not crawling into his lap. But he doesn't push Ohtori away and that's what matters.

"You're not afraid, are you?" he asks, voice warm and that much more present with everything dark.

"Of course not," he says quickly.

But he sort of is, actually.

Thunder and lightning never bothers him, he finds he kind of likes a good thunderstorm, but they have a heavy typhoon on their hands, which is bad enough all by itself, but now the power went down as well.

It's the combination of the screaming wind and groaning house and the lightning that grinds down from the sky and the thunder rattling the spoons in their teacups. It's the violence and real danger of the storm outside that pricks his skin uncomfortably and the light being gone suddenly doesn't help either.

It's pitch black, because the streetlights went, too, but for the sudden flashes of lightning illuminating everything, sharp and shocking, before drowning everything in shadows again.

"Looks bad out," Shishido-san says matter of factly when an earsplitting clap of thunder jolts the very insides of their body.

Ohtori nods, but of course Shishido can't see it.

"Don't worry about it," Shishido goes on. "It'll blow over soon. Concentrate on something nice."

"Like what?" Ohtori asks him, voice short and cramped, but he can't help it. What is he supposed to concentrate on anyway, when he can't see?

There's a pause.

"Maybe…" his senpai moves, bumps his cheek. "This?"

Something warm and soft touches his mouth, shyly almost, before pulling away again.

The typhoon is a distant, vague concern all of a sudden. Shishido-san just kissed him.

"Nice?" Shishido breathes softly, suddenly being the one that is worried and frightened and uncomfortable.

"Uhm…" Ohtori goes, and fishes for him in the dark to find his face so they can try that again.

When they kiss this time, Ohtori forgets all about the thunderstorm.

VIDEO GAME (R)

GAME OVER

"Fuck!" Shishido howls, flinging his arms around in frustration. "Fuck, goddammit!"

"I won," Choutarou says placidly, putting the controller down in the cradle of his legs and stretching his arms above his head.

Shishido glares at him.

It's not that he minds Choutarou being really fucking good at Tekken, but he minds that he can actually beat Shishido at it, not to mention breeze by his high score and set a new one (which completely sucks, because he spend ages upping his own, only for Choutarou to skip by and ruin it in one afternoon).

Choutarou smiles back at him.

Shishido tosses the controller down with a scoff and watches it skid along the carpet before disappearing between some empty candy wrappers. Then he sighs, "Fine," he mumbles. "What do you want? The History essay or the summary for Biology?"

Choutarou gets up.

"Something else?" Shishido asks, wondering what other homework he might have for him to do.

Long legs step into his vision. In the uniform pants it's all nice thighs and strong calves shifting against the checkered fabric.

"Chemistry?" he guesses.

Choutarou looks at him, caught between playfulness and shyness. His cheeks are pink.

"English?" Shishido hazards.

Long fingers dance over the fabric of his pants and then move up towards his belt. Which he unbuckles.

"Uhm," Shishido goes, confused.

There's a low rip of the zipper going down.

"Oh."

Choutarou goes even redder. "Only if... I mean, you don't have to, but... I was hoping if-"

"I see."

"Sorry, I don't mean to-"

With the buckle and zipper undone it is easy to tug at the fabric until it pools around Choutarou's ankles and the snug boxers come easy enough after he eases them over slim hips.

He bites at the soft inside of Choutarou's leg, nuzzles.

"Sit down on the bed," he murmurs.

He does and Shishido inserts himself between his spread legs, rubs his hands over the trembling muscles and buries his head without further ado in Choutarou's crotch, getting a gasp and jolt in return.

He smiles.

Maybe he should lose more often.

FicAlert! PoT> a i (Silver Pair) PG-15(ish) Pt7

everlind — Mon, 02 May 2011 19:30:45 GMT

Title: a i
Author: Everlind
Wordcount 50 600+
Pairing: Ohtori/Shishido (Silver Pair)
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Drama, very mild gore, questionable ethical issues, attempts at humor, hopefully not too much OOCness. Oshitari. Kite (and his tight purple pants).
Summary: 'Can you make a robot love a human? But isn't the question: can you make a human love a robot?' (A.I. Artificial Intelligence by Steven Spielberg)
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Notes: For hazelandnuts at silver_swap 2010-2011.

a i

Three weeks go by like water slipping through a sieve.

If Shishido were a sappy idiot, he'd say it were the happiest of his entire life. They are, but he doesn't say it, doesn't need to when they both know it.

It's a haze of green trees, leaves bright like emeralds in the burning sun and sudden downpours. When the skies are clear they go outside and walk a lot. On the second week they manage to procure a bike in the nearby village and they use that instead, one for the both of them. Choutarou usually pedals, while Shishido sits on the luggage rack, as he weighs much less. He's more than happy to rest his forehead on that working back, warm sun-lit dapples shifting over his face.

They explore and go places, waterfalls and mountains and shrines, local villages. Once they spend three entire days searching for the perfect vista Choutarou is determined to paint and when they finally find it they wind up in the grass, hands peeling clothes away. They go back the next day and do the same thing, but Choutarou also draws, a little bit. They return to the cape, where Choutarou has his way also, but admits that the pebbly surface was kinda painful and the wind rather drafty, to which Shishido rolls his eyes and smirks.

The forest is endless, the mountains rugged. It's not an easy place to live, but Shishido thinks he could get used to it despite it. He climbs trees and plucks oranges, which he throws down for Choutarou to catch -until he nearly falls out of one and barely avoids breaking his fucking his neck. They also find peaches and colorful flowers and plants that grow sticky little seeds that cling to your clothing.

When it rains, they explore each other, sometimes until they both hurt and have to stop, snickering like embarrassed teenagers. They also fix what they can, leaks and broken power outlets, rusty hinges and worm-eaten panelling. There's white paint and they use that, too, which makes everything look newer, like a beginning. Sometimes they just lie entire afternoons on the futon, kissing and talking softly, as rain sluices from the rumbling clouds.

Shishido thinks that maybe it's okay if they are selfish like this, just the two of them hell-bent on their mutual happiness.

It's not impossible, either. The village is small, but provides everything they need. If he had to find work here it'd be simple menial labor. He could do that, or he could scout out one of the small cities and inquire about for something else. If they approach it cleverly this might work for Choutarou, too, and they could build something here.

They could live here.

Together.

There'd be no constant fear, the pressure, the knowledge of everything being right when the world says it not. No restrictions and eyes watching and judging and saying: no.

His family -mother father brother-, Jiroh, his friends but also family and his job and Oshitari, his friend somehow, every single fucking thing he knows and loves he'd have to let go, all of it, leave behind to have Choutarou instead.

Choutarou is asleep next to him, he's bare and his skin glows blue in the rain and he's him. Shishido lies down next to him and sighs, starting to realize he made up his stubborn head about this before they even came here.

That doesn't make it easier.

***

In one of the backwater rural villages there's a market underway as they arrive. Local specialties, carts overloaded with fresh fruit and vegetables, rolls of fabric and hand-made jewelry.

Shishido buys some sort of mystery meat on a skewer and eats it up, trailing behind Choutarou's curious advance through the crowd.

He pauses only once and then for a long time to look at something, eyes intent. Standing to the side Shishido glances around, a little bored and still hungry, until Choutarou moves on, eyes lingering wistfully on the object.

Shishido manages to lose him (only not really) half an hour later to backtrack.

He buys it, the necklace, even though it's just a silver cross on a chain.

***

It looks really fucking good on him though.

Definitely likes it there, resting against that chest, winking at him. Shishido presses his mouth where the chain drapes around his neck and suckles. There's a little sigh from Choutarou as he bares his neck for more.

It's their last day here and it is nearly gone. An orange spill of late afternoon light sets everything shining and warm. Their bags are packed, ready to go. Shishido doesn't intend to go much further in the little time left to them than this futon and the mussed sheets.

There's time to do more than just lie together and breathe, and Shishido could and wants to, actually. But first they have to talk.

Choutarou is waiting for him to do so. His question from the first day has remained unanswered up until now. Both of them just wanted to hang onto the rising tide between them in the past few weeks, until now, when they have to.

Never before has he felt like this, aching in such a base, consuming way for someone and he thinks he has the answer, if Choutarou agrees. Oh god, Shishido hopes so badly he'll agree.

Thick lashes lift and Choutarou looks at him, eyes quiet. "Now what?" he repeats softly.

Shishido finds himself nervous, hands shaking. Pushing himself up he sits next to him, cross-legged and naked and completely at ease with that, but he hardly dares to ask what he needs to.

Eventually he clears his throat and asks: "Are you happy, Choutarou? Here with me?"

Fingers play with the cross, tracing the contours. "Yes," he answers, plain and simple.

"Would you…would- dammit," Shishido curls his nails into his palms, encounters the shiny patch of skin on his right palm. "We could have this. Would you like to… to stay?"

There's a pause and then Choutarou sits up, also, opposite of him. The cross dangles into the air as he leans forward. "You mean… here?"

"Yeah," Shishido goes. "Like this."

Choutarou doesn't answer right away, though he opens his mouth to do so. At long last he manages a confused, "But your family. Your friends. Everything- you'd have to-"

"I know," Shishido interrupts with a sigh. "I know. Just answer already."

A wild little laugh, as Choutarou shakes his head, disbelieving. "Yes. Yes, of course. I can't believe you have to ask."

"I gotta." Shishido presses his eyes shut, hard, before opening them, expression morbidly serious. "I gotta. Listen. Choutarou, you know right? I will die" -he whips out his hand to smother the frantic denial that's about to burst free, fingers pressed against parted lips- "I will. You know that. I will die. Someday. I might get sick or have an accident. But if I'm lucky… I'll. I'll grow old, Choutarou."

They stare at each other over the length of Shishido's arm. "You won't," he whispers.

A stuttered exhale escapes through those lips and Shishido lowers his hand. His eyes ache, warm, but he ploughs on. "You'll always be like this, on the outside. You know I won't look like this forever… I'll get… I dunno, gray hair and waste away. I'll be weak and maybe sickly and ugly and old. I'll have wrinkles and I might even go blind, or worse, wrong in my head. You won't."

He pauses.

"Ever," he adds.

The intention was to be strong. Calm and collected. It's the truth and they both know it, but Choutarou fears Shishido's mortality enough not to want to ever mention it. Instead he finds his lips shaking and he's fighting to keep from being a weak idiot. He's been a weak idiot before around Choutarou and never again.

Choutarou looks at him. For some reason he's calmer now, more so than Shishido is, who feels his mouth tremble with emotion.

"Ryou," he says. "I can die, too. We'll just have to plan it. Wipe my-"

He shakes his head, exasperated. "No, you stupid idiot, no! Don't you get it?! You'll stay like this, they way you are now… all… all p-perfect and dammit, I'll be old and gross and maybe even incontinent or demented or other fucked up things before I die."

Comprehension dawns on Choutarou's face. Its edged with a sideways smile. "Is that what you're worried about? Hah," the smile spreads, up into his eyes. "Don't you get it? I can't get old. You're human. I'll not be able to do that, grow physically older, just like I won't be able to eat or cry or get sick or bleed and so much other things. Did that bother you when you decided to ask me stay here? No, because you know that already and accepted me being what I am. Who I am."

Still smiling, Choutarou reaches. His palms are warm and large on either side of Shishido's face as he holds it. Thumbs stroke his lips, tracing, and Choutarou presses a warm kiss between the tips of them. He leans their foreheads together and they sit there, naked, Shishido's back hitching when he murmurs: "I accepted you being what you were, long before I said yes just now. You'll just have to grow old for the both of us."

Shishido crawls into his lap and rest his ear against Choutarou's chest. There's no heartbeat.

"Alright," he says, starting to smile, too. "I can do that."

***

Both of them are quiet on the ride back, reflecting on the weeks that had just happened to them. The memory is sweet and dreamy, but the impact life-altering. Shishido tries to order his thoughts, tries to stop feeling sad. His family, his friends, he's not sure how to tell them, what reasons to give. Should he call the old man first or Atobe, to quit his job?

They'll need a car now, he thinks.

He wonders what Jiroh will say. Realizes he might not see Oshitari again, nor Oishi and any of his other colleagues. The memory of the party, of Oishi and Eiji kissing flits through his mind and he questions how it is for them and what they'll do about it. What they can do about it, with Eiji licensed as a Tannhauser product.

What he does decide is that he'll apologize to them both, somehow.

They get off at their station, stiff and sore from sitting down so long and from doing other things -to each other- three weeks long. Choutarou strikes a comical sight loaded like a pack-mule with all his bags, while Shishido just has one huge hiking bag strapped to his back, arms free. As they walk the short distance to their apartment, Shishido fishes out his mobile phone and powers it up. He took it with him in case of emergency, had he needed to reach someone. But it had been shut off the whole time; Shishido had been unwilling from the start to let anything or anyone disturb them.

The company jingle plays and the screen lights up. Immediately it vibrates, incoming messages, missed phone calls, voice mails. Shishido frowns at the sheer number of them as they start up the stairs. A lot of them are from Oshitari.

Choutarou fishes out the key and opens the door, while the phone starts to play the Star Wars theme song even as Shishido tries to open and read the first text -Oshitari again. Calling him right now.

With snap of his wrist he opens it and takes the call, "What?" he demands. "What is-"

"Ryou. Wherever you are right now, go back. Go back now. Are you listening? Get the hell-"

A hand touches his stomach, holding him back, shielding him protectively.

Shishido, confused with Oshitari screaming in his ear, glances at up at Choutarou -and knows enough. He looks through the doorway.

Sanada and Kite stand there.

"Shishido-san," Kite says, voice flat. "We need you to come with us."

***

"Don't hurt him!" Shishido yells.

"It's fine," Choutarou says softly. "It's fine."

It's not fine.

"Kite!" Atobe snaps. "Let go of it already."

Kite lets go. For the first time he looks like Kite the hitman and not Kite of the tight purple pants. Sanada next to him his ten times worse.

It's not fine.

If he could, he'd punch someone, maybe do even worse. Atobe probably suspected this, he'd had him stay handcuffed. There hadn't been anything he could do, for a moment he'd braced himself to try and fight his way out, but Choutarou had shaken his head -barely perceptible. So they'd been taken along like sheep ready for slaughter and the only thing Shishido had managed to do was 'loose' his mobile phone, not that it gives Oshitari much cover when they decide to track his calls.

And now they're here, where it all started Shishido supposes, at Tannhauser. In Atobe's office, no less. It seems foreign and unreal, like he's seeing it for the first time. Especially in the clear summer light, the situation sits at discord, wrong. Like it isn't truly happening.

Choutarou is near the window, face carefully blank, but his eyes betray him. There's fear there, and not for himself.

Atobe is pale and drawn, his eyes dark. He doesn't look one bit like his usual snobby self. For once he seems frail and pained and rather terrified himself.

"Ryou," he says on a sigh. "If you promise not to punch anyone I'll have your handcuffs removed."

They stare at one other, a long, hard look, before Shishido nods -once. Sanada is surprisingly gentle when he removes the metal bands and Shishido rubs them to get the circulation going again. His body is wound tight like a spring, his eyes find Choutarou again, who's very, very quiet.

And just this morning they were in Kōchi, one single entity as they drew close, free.

Now Atobe rises, looking wan and tired. "You have no idea how lucky you are," he tells him, managing a weak smile.

Shishido feels himself bare his teeth, like an animal'd do when backed into a corner. "Lucky, huh? Didn't feel like that when you had your thugs grab us."

There's a cross look. Atobe scoffs, "Like you'd have come along when asked. I meant lucky that we got there before they did. Lucky that you're still alive and arrived when you did. They'd have shot you. You'd be dead."

"They?" Shishido repeats, shaking his head and gesturing at the situation at large. "Atobe, I'm not following here, what the fuck is going on."

A heavy sigh. Atobe perches on the edge of his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's rather simple. You were careless. First there was the continued mystery of hardware that went missing, which is accepted as I encourage you all to immerse yourself in your work. But over the course of the years, especially the last one, we saw that the whole sum was adding up to be a complete and finished android, not just an extremely elaborate experiment. A highly advanced android. The best. The newest."

It strikes Shishido as strange when nobody looks at Choutarou then, who still stands there, eyes tracking every single move but otherwise motionless.

Atobe continues, "Then you alerted someone I planted in the company with severe fluctuations in your behavior -coincidentally around the time some core parts and components went missing that would've been required to finish an android. Not only that, but project number Five had algorithms on its heart-drive nobody could comprehend, that didn't make any sense, also coinciding with the aformentioned. And then…" a shake of the head. "How can you expect to keep something like this hidden? Activated? While you let it play music and let it outside? Ryou?"

There's no use in answering. Shishido stares at him, cold and hard.

After a moment Atobe says, "You have been lucky that I am who I am and that I have the people working for me I do. We managed to keep you under surveillance, protected you, for a short while only, which was as long as we could. Because the government, or those that pull its strings if you will, have tracked you down too. Then you left and managed to disappear. I thought you'd made your escape, wisely so. We cleared your apartment of evidence -such as your laptop, you fool, and everything else. Yet this morning you appear back here and I realized you were a blind idiot and had just gone off on vacation. Taking your android with you. You blind, stupid fool. Have you any idea what this could cost you?"

At 'this' he points at Choutarou.

"He's got a name," Shishido snarls, lowly.

"Don't," Choutarou whispers.

Still nobody looks at him.

Shishido takes a step closer and says quietly. "Atobe. I did it."

A sad smile, but there's a touch of pride in there, directed at him. "I know. Which makes it all the more of a waste."

That one word stabs him, low in the stomach and catches there, suspended in white-hot hysteria. "Waste? What do you mean?"

"We're losing precious time. I have to get you out of here, away and safe. If I can make it out to be merely that, that you've succeeded at programming an AI-complete android, I can keep you out of prison. With you out of the way and it wiped of all evidence that you tampered with-"

Nobody can stop him. He's got Atobe by the lapels of his collar, gasping for air before any of them can even consider drawing their guns on him. Neither did he know he could be so strong, lifting him clear off the ground for a moment, before slamming him hard into the desk. There's a painted noise as he shakes Atobe, hard.

"Nobody is touching Choutarou," he snarls low and ugly. "Not you, not anybody. Over my dead body."

"Don't make it come to that," Atobe whispers. He doesn't struggle, just stares at him, intently. "You don't understand it, do you. It's not me you have to worry about, but everybody else -and they are coming for you. Coming here, right now, I imagine. You have one choice: it or the both of you."

"Just me then," Choutarou says, raising his hands in surrender as everybody in the room snaps his head around to look at him. "I don't mind."

"No," Shishido says.

Just no.

"But-"

"Shut up, Choutarou, let me handle this," he rasps, furious. "Don't you fucking dare say another word."

Choutarou swallows convulsively. "Let Atobe-san go first. He means well."

At the very first word to leave his mouth both Kite and Sanada's guns swerve to him, red dots appearing on either side of Choutarou's face, at his temples. "It spoke!" Kite says, sounding genuinely disturbed.

Atobe, still pressed into the desk, closes his eyes. Shakes his head. "Where are his Three Laws?" he whispers. "Ryou. Oh god. Kite, get Oishi and Yanagi in here."

"Now," he adds, when the man hesitates.

"Let him go," Choutarou repeats to Shishido as Kite hurries away, voice soothing.

Slowly, hands hurting from the force he used, Shishido lets go. Atobe coughs and rubs at his throat, but doesn't seem very upset about being manhandled.

"Have you lost your damn mind?" Atobe demands. "They'll put a bullet right into your brain regardless of what I say, if it keeps walking around unchecked."

"I'll go with-" Choutarou begins.

"SHUT UP!" Shishido rages and he does, this time, eyes wide and dark. Inside of his chest, something is starting to hurt -a slow leaking pain blooming outward from the left side of his chest. "Atobe," Shishido tries again. "Look at him, dammit. Look at him, in the eyes, and tell me what you see-"

"I-" Atobe protests.

"Look at him," Shishido roars, grabbing Atobe's bicep and whirling him to face Choutarou. "Just look."

He does, then. Atobe looks at him and Choutarou looks back, steady and pleading.

Finally Atobe turns around, eyes defeated. "Only you could raise something like this out of the ashes." Pulling away, he takes a step towards Choutarou, smiles -a twist colored with finality. "I am sorry," he says, but it sounds not like Shishido wants it to, an admittance to an mistake.

"It's alright," Choutarou says.

"No it is not," Atobe tells him. "It's not."

"What?" Shishido goes, voice rising as his innate sense of something wrong is about to happen blares.

Oishi arrives, out of breath, right then, Kite in tow. For a moment the whole room turns to look at him.

"Oh no," he says. "Oh no."

"Where's-" Atobe begins.

"Yanagi isn't in the office," Kite says tersely, his eyes watch Choutarou, hawk-like as if expecting him to go on a murdering rampage any second.

Atobe seems in physical pain as he makes the next decision. "Get Oshitari instead."

Kite leaves again, and that leaves Oishi, shaking his head in absolute denial. "No," he says, to Atobe, to Choutarou, to Atobe. He avoids Shishido. "No."

"Please," Choutarou says. "I'd rather if it were you."

"Choutarou," Shishido whispers, feeling a rush of something so violent coursing up his back that it nearly knocks him out cold. "What are you-"

Nobody listens to him.

Atobe keeps shaking his head, not in denial like Oishi, but just at an general lack of comprehension and despair at the situation he finds himself in. "You don't have to. I won't force you. Not when you are…" that sad little smile is back.

"You won't have to," Choutarou says. "It's my choice."

And Shishido catches on. Something snaps in him. Somehow he rushes Oishi first, who goes down, the person directly in his way. Sanada is right behind him, bearing him to the ground, impossibly heavy, inhumanly strong. Someone screams, wild and wounded and then Sanada is clutching at his face, crumpling.

All that happens within barely a beat of his heart and he's shaking Choutarou, saying things, wild and desperate, but most of all no. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No No No No No No No No NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNonononononononono. NO.

n o

There's arms around him, Choutarou's holding him and rocking him, mouth open against his temple and answering, I'm sorry, I have to and then lifting his chin to kiss him and Shishido feels something go out of him when those lips press against his, and leave, possibly to go with Choutarou, whose eyes lift, away from his face -holding him, securing him, arms trapped between them with such gentleness- to something behind him. Against his mouth, he says: "I'm sorry. I have to, for you. I lo-"

The blow falls like an iron pike piercing his skull and the moment shatters, fragmenting into darkness as he loses consciousness.

Choutarou, cheeks wet and mouth moving around that precious word, is the last thing he sees.

Shishido wakes to a white ceiling.

The taste of something metallic (blood?) lingers on his tongue. Everything aches, but not as terrible as his head does. His stomach turns, nauseatingly. It's worse when he turns his head, to see Oshitari sitting besides his bed. He's reading an old romance novel. Behind his glasses, his eyes remain fixed on one stop on the page. But they shoot towards him as he stirs and he stands up, fast, the book dropping to the ground forgotten.

"Thank god," he breathes. "You woke up."

Even blinking hurts. He didn't know he could hurt so and it is not just his head anymore. It's something else. Something is horribly, terribly and irrevocably wrong with him.

"Water?" he asks.

Holding the glass to Shishido's lips, he lets his sip, but not too much. Then he carefully lowers him again, his eyes loom dark wounded before Shishido's wavering gaze.

"Why did you come back?" Oshitari whispers. "I tried so hard. I betrayed Keigo. Why didn't you stay? Why didn't you pick up your phone? Why did you come back?"

He's nearly too weak to speak. "-you" Shishido manages, instantly winded.

Oshitari sighs and nods. "Me. Shishido, I… am not a psychiatrist for androids. Why would such a thing exist when nobody's managed to- well. Before."

A shake of the head. Oshitari takes off the glasses he doesn't need and sets them aside. "It's my fault. I should've realized you honestly didn't realize the danger you were in. The danger even Keigo couldn't protect you from. As soon as I realized what was happening to you. I never said anything about it, but when Atobe started to suspect I had to go along. I tried. It's my fault. But I tried."

Shishido stares at him. There's a splitting pain in the middle of his body, where the wound is, one that will never heal. For a moment he hates Oshitari, and Atobe, hates that he woke up and hates himself most of all.

"I am… glad I got to talk to him. He was amazing," Oshitari whispers. "Your Choutarou."

Then he opens his right hand. In the middle of it lays a silver cross on a silver chain, pooled around another small silver spherical object.

He dies there then, most of him does anyway. His body lies on the bed and tears track down his cheeks and he's gone.

***

It doesn't seem right that the world can go on, somehow. It's filthy and wrong that it can do so, but the day comes when his concussion has healed.

The only physical injury that can.

He takes the cross and the chain, but leaves the other thing. The thing that is as empty and dead as he is.

***

Atobe comes to see him, once, as he is preparing to leave.

He stands in the room, utterly defeated.

"I didn't-" he begins.

"I know," Shishido answers. "We were a team, once."

"We are," Atobe murmurs.

Shishido just looks at him.

"I am sorry," Atobe whispers.

***

He doesn't know what Atobe did or what it cost him to do so. Shishido only knows that he walks the streets as a free man two weeks later, with only a severe reprimand on his file and some dire warnings.

It doesn't matter. He doesn't care.

Whatever it was that left him is gone for good, a gaping black hole in his humanity.

Nothing really manages to get through to him.

Jiroh holding him, physical and alive, breathing and heart beating in agonized sympathy is all right, distantly.

That's it.

Shishido doesn't blame him. Nor does he blame Atobe or Oshitari.

Only himself, endlessly.

***

His mother cries when he tells her.

Shishido does a fairly decent job of hugging her and being soothing, stroking her shining brown hair.

It doesn't help, but it's all he has to offer.

He almost feels something, then, because he does love this woman, or would have if he'd still been able to. The fact that there is a feeble stirring within him makes him reconsider.

But then she asks about someone, that colleague of his, the tall one.

Shishido kisses her forehead and says goodbye.

***

There's not much left to take along. Shishido wants no reminders, nothing but the void in him, the only keepsake he needs. That and the scar on his right palm.

One backpack is all he needs -like last time.

It helps. All the money he had is gone. One payment, everything he had. He has no reserves. Doesn't need them where's he is going.

On a cold, late summer morning he gets on his motorcycle -all he has left with the clothes on his back and the hiking pack strapped into place- and leaves everything else behind.

Everything.

When he grabs the handlebars and kicks the machine into motion, a necklace spills out of the collar of his t-shirt. A silver cross winks on it.

***

Kōchi in September is not very different from Kōchi in July.

Cooler, a little. Dryer.

All trees bear fruits now.

Shishido picks some pears and eats them, leaning against his motorcycle at the side of a sandy road. Rice paddies climb up the hillside behind him, water gleaming under the setting sun.

The fruit tastes sweet and fresh on his tongue, dribbles down his arm as he bites down. He wipes his mouth on his arm, careless. An old man with a goat-pulled cart passes him and bobs his head. Shishido bows back, watches him creep at a snail-like pace down the road.

Everything is still as green and wild as it was last time. Mist drapes between the mountains, veiling the very tips. Insects chirp busily, fluttering in tiny glinting specks through the grass under his shoes.

He stands there, for a long time, and wonders why he can't make himself go any further. It takes him a while to figure out he can still fear pain, or the possible advent of it.

Nevertheless, even that doesn't matter.

So he gets on, motor roaring to life and heads towards it.

***

His hair is damp with sweat when he removes his helmet.

Shaking his head, he takes his time, moving slowly. Parking his motorcycle properly, loosening his baggage, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. His fingers shake. He doesn't know what he expects.

But not nothing.

Shishido turns, sees the cabin, his cabin, and feels absolutely nothing.

Thank god.

Birds sing and dart through the branches above him and now it is the orange tree with its shaded, ripe and split fruit that attracts the tiny butterflies.

It's his.

Home.

Shishido walks towards it, teeth gritted at the weight of the bag, lugs it inside. There everything is like it was left -a patchwork of boarded holes and fresh paint. He looks, forcing himself to watch the place he was laid out on his back, being held. Nope, still nothing.

With a sigh, he lowers his bag, exhausted.

A shadow detaches itself from a darkened corner, looming over Shishido. He starts, heart giving a token pulse that has to pass for raw fear, and frowns.

The man frowns back, playful.

Shishido backs away and his heart is starting to pound now, his lips moving and his head shaking, unbelieving.

No.

It's not.

It can't be.

No.

But the man holds him then, arms cradling him to the front of his body, one hand cupping the back of Shishido's head to press it to his chest.

There's no heartbeat.

"It's me."

Shishido shakes his heads, but everything about him shakes, his body, his pumping muscle in his chest, his very soul.

Choutarou dips his head and kisses the tears from his cheeks, smiling.

"Oishi says hi."

-fin-

...back to part 6!

NOTES: Well. This story. I once said the sci-fi genre was the last thing I'd ever consider writing, especially in regards to Silver Pair. It is just not my cup 'o tea. Yet here we are. I asked for a challenge when I signed up for this round and I got the pleasure of writing for hazelandnuts this time. I looked at the wants: '…AUs(!!!), especially sci-fi AUs'. All the others where prompts I had done before. So yeah. Uh. Somehow I my brain translated this to: let's write a monster sci-fi AU fic :D
Yeah, I don't know either.

hazelandnuts I hope so damn much you'll like this. I am sure you didn't have this in mind when you typed down sci-fi AU, but I still hope you'll enjoy this. I pulled the 'cameos' prompt in there, too.
nerdish. I have no words to thank you for your iron support throughout this wild ride. This story wouldn't ever have existed if you hadn't fed me the android prompt, nor without your hand-holding, patience and kindness.
namae_nashi for putting up with my endless nagging and self-pity even though she had no idea what was going on. Thanks for being unfailingly awesome.
And Jules, my beta. For always pulling through, even when I come trotting up at the last possible moment with a 50 000 + word count fic for a fandom she isn't even into.

FicAlert! PoT> a i (Silver Pair) PG-15(ish) Pt6

everlind — Mon, 02 May 2011 19:22:12 GMT

They sleep together from then on. Mostly in a sort of puppyish heap, not necessarily embracing, just a tangle of limbs and warm bodies, breathing in perfectly synchronized unison.

There's never a touch other than comfort and ease, gentle holding. It drives him crazy.

Shishido finds himself waking up in need of cold showers. His dreams are velvet dark, of cool sheets under his back and heated skin against his front. A mouth across his own and hands tangling in his hair.

The desire to take more makes him edgy and restless.

Worse is that he knows Choutarou wants more, too. Yet all they do is cuddle, and watch each other with greedy, starving eyes.

Everything will be fine one moment, they'll just be talking and Shishido will be answering something and there'll be no response because Choutarou is staring at his mouth, as if deeply contemplating all the other uses it could serve besides idle conversation.

It's stupid and silly that they don't, when they both want it and it leaves Shishido half-crazed to go through longing so violent he's sick to his stomach and yet find himself frightened what it might mean if they gave in. It's remains scary. Choutarou still is what he is and everything about it is wrong. There's a law against it just as sure as there's a law against tampering with possible soul blueprints and the law that states that your ass is going down if you unleash a non-Three Laws conform android on the world.

And yet, when they curl together just so and Shishido gets to bury his face against Choutarou's hot, soft skin, everything about is right.

He wishes Choutarou would just fucking kiss him already.

When he does, finally, it is yet again not as he imagined it would happen.

It happens kinda unannounced and natural, no big fuss. They're in bed, Shishido flush against Choutarou's broad back, right arm tucked through the hollow of Choutarou's neck. His right hand his palm-up, unfurled as he dozes off.

And Choutarou tips his head into that palm and kisses the ravaged center of it.

Shishido manages to hyperventilate and stop breathing all at once. By the time he has harnessed enough rational brain-power to open his mouth and say something about it, Choutarou has dropped of to sleep, lips still parted on the scar.

He's left hot and squirming, wanting to gnaw in aggravation on Choutarou's shoulder, because what kind of asshole does that?

But he lies still, body aching for more, breathing in and out until the other rolls away in his sleep, leaving his arms free. Shishido doesn't move, but stares at his kissed palm in wonder, fingers curling closed carefully as if he'd like to trap it there safe and maybe to look at once in a while like you'd do with a caught butterfly.

***

It becomes a sort of game. One which's only rule seems to be: it is forbidden for this to make any fucking sort of sense at all. Oh, and maybe, let's re-visit the adolescent era of intense sexual frustration. You know the kind. Oh yeah.

For days after Shishido'd swear he can feel that one elusive press of lips on his body. His palms tingles, as if world stopped right there in his scarred hand. Like a damn blushing teenager, he even catches himself being reluctant to wash it -what if all the traces went down the drain? Forever?! That bad. The only thing that kinda tops that is he pressing his own lips there, too, curious to see if he can re-discover the taste of Choutarou's mouth. He sticks his hands under the water right after, soaping them up and telling himself that acting like one doesn't mean he is the girl.

Not. at. all.

Dammit.

The bottom line is that he cherishes that one chaste kiss, but also realizes that it was just that -a kiss on the palm of his hand. Which was given while Choutarou was admittedly very sleepy, so it might've been nearly a unconscious gesture.

So he mentally kicks his own ass when he finds himself smiling lovingly at his hand and tries to get on with his life.

But it happens again, this time with no mistake.

Shishido is sitting at the table in the kitchen, rifling through his mail. There's a lot of junk in it, possibly misplaced by the mailman: a few travel catalogues and leaflets with airplane, train and bus info. He can't quite figure it out why it's in there, only that there's no plastic sleeve around it, nor an addressee mentioned anywhere.

As he's puzzling over it Choutarou walks by, stands by his side for a moment, jean-clad hip against Shishido's shoulder as he watches him turn pages. After a moment he stoops and presses his mouth to Shishido's forehead, sweet and intimate, before going about his business (which seems to be none at all, as he leaves the kitchen as empty-handed as he came in). Leaving him nailed to his chair by that kiss, thunderstruck as a slow, belated blush creeps up his neckline to his cheeks.

His stomach is doing somersaults, spastically churning his lunch into a mess as he walks into the living room after having sat on his chair for another half an hour before he dared to reach up and touch his forehead, disbelieving. Choutarou is on the couch with a sketchbook, studiously busy. The pencil whirls in furious lines over the paper, more so when an answering blush stains his cheeks, too, as Shishido leans in the doorway and looks at him, arms crossed and a 'Well?' pasted between his eyebrows.

It's easy to act cocky and none too impressed, but it still takes him a while before he can walk confidently into the room to go stand behind Choutarou. The pencil hitches as he rests his hands on those shoulders, thumbs ghosting up into the hair at his nape and down again, coaxingly almost. Then he presses his face there, lips catching clumsily as he imagines what else he might be doing to Choutarou other than just standing behind him as he kisses his neck. But he keeps his face there, nose rubbing before he breathes, "Don't be a tease."

Choutarou's voice is husky, thick. "I'm not teasing."

Shishido puts his head next to his, leaning over the back of the couch. "Heh. Sure."

"I'm not," Choutarou repeats, cheek bunching as he smiles a little. "Yet."

Pinching his sides leads to a rather high-pitched yip and Shishido keeps tickling him until he shrieks his submission -ticklish, how is it even possible? Choutarou grabs and hauls him over the back of the couch and they lie there, struggling and fingers seeking out vulnerable parts. Shishido starts to laugh as he sits down on his lower stomach, an excellent position to reach his ribs and sides and neck and Choutarou yells and gasps and giggles again which causes Shishido to loose his momentum as to tease him. Before he knows it he's on the receiving end and he's laughing, laughing so hard it hurts and Choutarou with him, head back and full-throated and Shishido thinks it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

When they lie in a panting, muttering heap, Shishido realizes it's the first time he's ever heard him laugh.

***

The easel is angled towards the urban-ravaged panorama. It's a jagged, blackened cement outline, with neon dotting it. Yet the canvas shows misty mountains, with a glimpse of an early morning ocean between the peaks.

"Huh," Shishido goes, grinning a little. "Accurate."

Choutarou dabs his brush against his cheek, leaving a green smear. "I'm not painting Tokyo," he says.

Scrubbing with his sleeve at the paint, Shishido snorts. "Really? I wouldn't have guessed." He peers closer. It's awfully detailed for something made-up. "How'd you come up with this? It's beautiful."

The praise leaves a visible glow, but he shrugs and admits. "I saw it in one of those catalogues. Eidetic memory does the rest."

Shishido nods and steps back inside to fetch the stack of catalogues. He idly turns pages, actually reading what he sees there, eyebrows lifting. They're not even locations outside of Japan.

When he finally finds the photo Choutarou is churning out flawlessly thanks to his super-computer brain -with a few touches of his own, granted- Shishido reads the information that goes with it.

Something clicks into place.

"Would you like to go on vacation to Kōchi?"

***

"I don't know," Choutarou murmurs as they both bend over the small circled block of text. "It's kinda…" he shrugs.

"Creepy?" Shishido goes.

"Awfully convenient," Choutarou says instead. "It's like someone planned this trip out for us."

"Or maybe some loser just dropped info intended for someone else accidentally in our mailbox," Shishido counters.

"What if it is a trap?" Choutarou whispers, avoiding his eyes right then.

That makes him glance up. "For what? Us?"

When Choutarou nods, slowly, Shishido remembers that's he's in a position to be considered one of the dangerous kind of criminals out there, with Choutarou skimming the edge of 'illegal weapon of mass destruction'. It's none to far fetched either, after numerous blood-stained 'bumps' in the road of robotic sciences a non-Three Law conform android is comfortably up there in the niche of nation-wide mass hysteria.

"Well, why the hell would they bother to plan out a nice and cozy vacation when they know where we live? Instead of presenting us with brochures they'd bust in guns blazing," Shishido points out. "Shoot my brains out if I resist. Try in your case."

"That's not funny," Choutarou whispers.

"You're bullet-proof. Mostly," Shishido adds, grinning.

"Don't!" Choutarou hisses. "Don't joke about it," he says.

There's a terse silence. Shishido opens his gob to fumble out an apology that isn't one, but gets the intention across.

"I'm not talking about me being an android," Choutarou interrupts before he can embarrass himself.

Shishido's perishable, delicate human body often seems to upset Choutarou in the weirdest ways. Sighing, he taps Choutarou's ankle under the table with his foot.

"Point was we'd be dead already," Shishido says.

They discuss the matter a little longer, but in the end Shishido gets his way and rings up the number in the contact ad. Turns out to be a small, tiny little house tucked away deep in the forests and mountains, at half an hour from a teeny tiny rural village. It's not so much for rent as it is up for sale, but the old man agrees to renting it out to them for three weeks, at a very agreeable price if they fix some minor things around the place.

It's a golden deal.

Too good to be true, almost.

***

The days leading up to their departure both of them hardly sleep.

A little of it is nerves over the whole rather odd situation. But a lot of it, most of it and in Shishido's case nearly all of it, is the marrow-deep knowledge that the waiting will end there.

Maybe that's strange or weird, that they'd need to go someplace for this to happen, what they both want most.

And want a lot.

They're still playing their game, but it's almost practice now. The touches are deliberate and lingering and the little chaste kisses move away from relatively safe zones (though Shishido begins to suspect Choutarou could kiss the tip of his nose and leave him squirming).

Three days before they have to leave Choutarou kisses the inside of his leg, just above the knee he's bandaging after a rather rough game of tennis. It's a hot, open-mouth press there, that stays. Shishido's jaw drops open a little bit at how naughty that looks, in a disturbingly sweet way.

Two days before they have to leave Shishido gets fed up enough to open his mouth on Choutarou's neck, tasting him there, the salty tang and the skin. And he kisses him there, over and over until Choutarou is so much as putty pressed into the corner of the couch, eyes lidded.

A day before they have to leave, Choutarou stops him as he comes fresh out of the shower, eyes intent. Placing his large hands at either side of his ribs, he holds him and leans in to nuzzle a small kiss at the pulse-point in his chest, which leaves it in a galloping flutter of disbelief. After, he sits between spread knees on the ground, Choutarou ruffling his hair dry.

The night before they have to leave, Shishido finds himself on his back, panting as Choutarou does it again and again, going as far as to open mouth and catch his heartbeat on the flat of his tongue.

They don't sleep much at all.

***

Most of the planning went into figuring out how to get there.

By car seemed the most obvious and convenient way, but before long Shishido decided to make do entirely by public transport. They have time for it and he thinks Choutarou might enjoy it more, the experience of traveling like that. As they partly get away to be rid of the restrictions snaring them, but mostly him, this seems like a good way to do it.

It's a long trip. They wake up at the crack of dawn, or rather, they leave bed at the crack of dawn. It's a tangle of lingering hands and rubbing limbs. Shishido can't believe they're touching like this, so intimately familiar and yet haven't really done anything.

Dawn is just a hazy smear at the east when they head for the train station. Shishido feels bleary around the edges, but Choutarou is wide-eyed to soak it all up. The OLs in their suits and high heels and briefcases seem to confuse him as much as chaotic soup of traffic does. So near to the station it becomes quite the adventure to dodge and wind and slip through the crowds of people. Knowing how it all works, technically, is way different from being in the middle of it and having a crotchety obaasan shove her plastic shopping bags into your stomach to steal some space.

The first train is a crowded bustle, packed with dapper salary men and loud teenagers.

But the second train is easier. They have a seat, Choutarou by the window, nose nearly smashed up against it as he peers outside. The landscape rushes by. It's rice paddies and maples and waving fields one moment, iron and concrete buildings next. People, lots of different people. Some girls board and flutter their lashes at Choutarou, who kinda looks confused. Shishido smiles behind his hand.

There's nothing that shows Choutarou for being anything other than human, and very so at that. He's polite when they move through the crowds, apologizing in the wake of Shishido's elbowing advance. His mouth curves when an older sister crosses their path, pulling along a chain of three younger siblings, lined up like ducklings. His lashes flutter at the onslaught of food and drinks being sold at the station, looking left and right to see what is on display.

The further they travel south, the more lush natures becomes There are rows of trees bearing citrus fruits, endless stretches of rice paddies with the sun spilling low and rich over them. Choutarou sits watching it all, taking it in like as though the visuals ease a sort of starvation.

On the seat between them, their fingers touch and curl together.

***

They have to hitchhike. It really is the middle of nowhere.

Giant Camphor trees rear mighty above their heads where they are dropped off at a dubiously deserted gravel path. There's moss and vines on the trunks of the trees and birds chirping everywhere.

Choutarou tips his head back and breathes in, while Shishido scowls at the dodgy scribble of a map the old coot mailed him a few days ago.

"There should be a trail nearby," he murmurs, peering over the edge of the printout and seeing none.

Still smiling, Choutarou points uphill. "Let's go that way," he says, starting to hoist bags up his shoulders, along with a violin case and his huge maps to hold artworks in them. At least he carries it all himself.

Rolling his eye at the display, Shishido tugs at the rim of his cap, shading his eyes. Then he gathers up his own luggage and they start up the trail.

They do find the house… cabin, rather. It's kind of perched next to a rocky stretch of mountain, roof alive with tufts of grass and small plants. They wade through high grass to get there, smelling earthy, rich forest. There's the tang of the ocean in there, salty and fresh, but it is fleeting on the air and mostly overpowered by the jungle they seem to be in. Small white butterflies skitter around an overgrown monster of a rose-bush and there's an orange tree, too.

It's a ramshackle thing, in need of a lot more than some minor fixings. But Shishido loves it instantly. It doesn't make any sense, it's run down and in the middle of nowhere and there's nothing there. Nothing but them that is.

And maybe that's all it takes.

Inside proves to be as old as the outside. Furled leaves pile into the corners and tatami mats fray where the years of passage have worn them thin. But it is not unsalvageable. It's mostly one huge room and a smaller one, screened off by sliding doors, then an opening leading to a kitchen and finally a bathroom, with a deep stone bath. There also seems to be quite some storage space to tuck things away. Enough that even if they had brought all their belongings they'd have storage room to spare.

Shishido realizes he's picturing him… them, living there.

When Choutarou's arms sneak around him from behind and a kiss is dropped on his crown, he knows that Choutarou is thinking about exactly the same thing.

***

There's a tense moment when they find the futon and shake it free of dust. Their eyes meet over the blanket and Shishido feels his chest screw as tight as a vice with nerves. In the end they drape it over a chair in the kitchen to let the mustiness air out.

They go for a walk instead.

Shishido doesn't think he's ever been somewhere as green and wild before. They follow a barely visible trail, or rather Shishido follows Choutarou's tall form as the latter rather eagerly hurries ahead, as though every single damn Camphor tree and brambly undergrowth is worth staring at the way he does -mouth parted and eyes wide like he needs to have studied all of them. Today.

"Have you any idea where you're going?" Shishido mutters after a while. He bats at an insect, drawn to his blood.

"Down this trail!" Choutarou laughs, using tree-roots as steps as he clambers down a rather steep hillside. Ocean winks in the distance. It's not undoable, but there's plenty of ground to cover to reach it -enough to get spectacularly lost in. And all he has is the sketchy map from the main road to their cabin.

Shishido looks at him and then back over his shoulder the way they came from. "I should've installed GPS on you before we went," he grumbles. He's not fast enough to duck the clump of grass thrown at him.

It's warm and sweltering and humid. Shishido fans his face with his cap. He's hot and sweating and he's kinda starting to hope they'll find the ocean soon. Eventually he takes of his shirt and tucks it through his belt loops. The weak little breeze there is feels good on his skin. It's the end of the rainy season and today is dry, but the steam rising off the forest suggests a recent squall of considerable size.

Still, it's nice.

Shishido never thought he could feel so calm and happy to be hiking through the forest like this, with a film of water covering his body and the sun heavy on the back of his neck when the treetops let it through. It probably has something to do with Choutarou (and a lot with Choutarou's bare torso after he follows his example) and his curiosity. He peers into bushes where small animals skitter about, reaches to let his finger pads linger over fuzzy moss crusted into the bark of the trees. He tips his head up, smiling to the skies.

He moves around, perfectly human. Knowing full well all of it is semi-organic artificial components and how they have been attached and made to work doesn't help Shishido in seeing any evidence to the contrary. His skin flexes and moves, muscles stretch between his shoulder blades. He breathes, an aesthetic aspect mostly, helping only to power minor functions. Bluish veins run under his skin, now raised due to the heat, even though cutting him wouldn't show a single drop of blood. Yet he can blush and flush, a complex chemical reaction that took years to develop, and sweat. His mouth was wet on Shishido's chest this morning and his eyes gleam. He knows how it works. But he remembers the soft, fleshy side of his body and the swell of his thigh and the hard slats of ribs, his arching hips.

By now he has to admit that Choutarou could probably look less human than he does and Shishido'd still feel that dizzying rush in his lower belly when he lets his eyes linger on the dip of his spine above his waistband.

He has his own mannerisms and pattern of speech (horrifyingly polite at that, the dork), and his voice took on a coloring that was distinctly him. His eyes show emotion and he blushes in his own distinct way -two dark patches on his cheeks as opposed to Shishido, whose flush spreads all the way down his chest. He has hobbies and interests, aversion to certain things and moral belief in others. Technically he could operate on a higher lever, but instead he reasons and behaves like a human does.

He dreams.

He feels.

He loves.

Shishido walks a small distance behind him, hands deep in his pockets and shakes his head to himself.

He truly did it.

The first to succeed. But maybe also beyond that. It's not just perfect AI and perfect emphatic, emotional aware AI at that. There is a soul in there.

Choutarou is a person, a human being despite his hand-crafted artificial body.

Maybe there are no degrees in AI. Maybe once you actually get there, in the metaphysical realm and manage to make a spark there -you just get this, a someone.

If that is the case, Shishido thinks, then the research his colleagues are conducting, scientists all over the world hoping to wield the discovery for whatever purposes -are doomed to fail. Even if it is world-domination through AI-driven tennis playing androids, or whatever.

Before long robots of Choutarou's AI caliber will have to be recognized for what they are -human. It's inevitable. All minor categories in a social setting have been so. By bloody and horrifying means that usually accompany these revolutions -wars, slavery, attempts at genocide and much more than he wants to think of.

Were he any less selfish, then Choutarou would be the catalyst for this, to ensure that any other AI-driven androids to spring forth out of science won't have to suffer needlessly for decades, for longer even.

Were he a better person, he might insist on it.

Instead Shishido watches Choutarou be completely free to be himself and lets his mind linger on how it might be to live here.

With him.

***

Choutarou is careful in the ocean, only ankle deep in.

Standing next to him, Shishido licks the salt from his lips. The breeze ruffles his hair away from his forehead. Above, the skies are steely gray with rain. Before it crashes down the temperature will rise wet and unbearable.

They walk the length of the small cape, after Shishido plants a branch in the pebbly sand to mark where they came out of the forest.

"So?" Shishido asks after a while.

"What?"

"The ocean. Like the smell?" he clarifies.

Choutarou takes the seashell Shishido once brought him out his pocket, tosses it at him. Catching it one handed, he grins a little, rolls it over the palm of his hand.

"I don't know how to thank you," he murmurs, voice distant.

"Whatever for?" Shishido demands, frowning.

"How many people would so this for something that's not real?" Choutarou says softly. He swallows, throat bobbing.

Shishido stops walking, suddenly angry. "I'm not hauling your ass all the way out here for you to whine about being artificial."

"I-"

"No, shut up," Shishido snarls savagely and takes two steps to close the distance between them. "Enough," he hisses, breath ragged and then he grabs a handful of Choutarou's hair to force him closer so he can finally kiss him and end this madness.

It's not nice. Shishido is rather brutal and the kiss isn't so much as their mouths meeting as it his him trying to punch some sense into Choutarou's head with his own. He draws back, teeth bared. Choutarou blinks, shocked.

Not quite like he imagined that, either.

Dammit.

He turns, intending to stomp back the way they came from, fume for a while.

Before he can fully turn, however, hands reach for him and draw him back, frantic and sudden and then his mouth is brushed -lightly. It's a small peck. Almost chaste if Choutarou didn't pull back a moment to squeeze his eyes shut and bite his bottom lip as he inhales shakily.

"Oh god," he breathes.

Shishido tip-toes, following that mouth, and kisses back, and again, and again until Choutarou's hands are in his hair, angling his head for more. Just that first, pressing is all, still pecks until their lips start to cling, more so when Shishido parts his on a small noise when he feels a hand on the side of his body, thumb slanted along his lower rib and the rest of that hand splayed hot like a brand.

They have touched before. They've put their mouths on each other before, but this, lips yielding against each other and the heat of another mouth, the taste of it, the fullness of their lips and hot exhales is the most erotic damn thing they have ever done to one other. The natural curves of their lips catch and fit together, just so, Choutarou's fuller than his own, and the bottom one swollen and soft when Shishido suckles lightly on it.

The world is quiet, the ocean still.

Choutarou is trying to touch him everywhere at once: the hand on his waist running mindlessly along his back, knuckles brushing sweetly up Shishido's throat to his jaw, his chin and they gasp, both, when Shishido opens his lips and a hand on his hip clenches convulsively when their tongues meet. He pulls back before it can become more than just that, lips shining and eyes dark.

"Shishido-san, are you-"

A sharp bite at his neck brings him up short, jumping. "If you ask whether I am sure, I'm kicking your ass."

"A-alright," Choutarou whispers, looking at him and looking at him and just looking and Shishido could die happy now, having seen that.

"And call me Ryou," he adds, before wrapping his arms around Choutarou's neck and dragging him down.

It feels right. Their lips slack and accepting and the heat of it when he can feel Choutarou's tongue against his own, tasting and there, inside of his mouth. Their bare chests brush and Shishido shudders and Choutarou smiles and gathers him closer for more, cupping his face as though to drink from Shishido's mouth, to breathe him in. Deep, searching kisses follow, slanting in hungrily before lifting away to breathe and rub their faces together just to dip down for more. Their lips linger, wet and moist and Shishido seems to burn, blood laced with ice-cold fire that leaves him humming and weak-kneed and wanting.

They pull back a little, just to smile and rub noses, before kissing again, because they can't seem to stop, not ever, please.

Shishido's heart beats loud and hard enough for the both of them.

***

It starts to pour as they hurry back.

Choutarou seemed perfectly ready to undress Shishido right there, and lie them down on their discarded clothes, rain notwithstanding.

Not that that doesn't seem like an absolutely brilliant -if scandalous- idea, but Shishido wants it to be perfect now. Everything has gone different than he thought it would and he's made so many mistakes and he's gotten so many things wrong before. But not this. Not now.

In a bed, safe and dry.

For a while Shishido doesn't think they'll make it back, not with hands lingering and reaching and rain soaked mouths seeking each other out for more. He'll be pressed against a tree, bark digging into his skin, thinking fuck it, I can't wait but then he knows why he's doing this and with whom and he'll take Choutarou's hand and lead him.

When the cabin finally looms through the rain, Shishido nearly cries with relief, since he can only stay virtuous for so long when Choutarou keeps touching him, murmuring things like 'I need you' and 'please' and 'Ryou', his name.

But it's a comfort to stumble inside and out of the rain. The interior is shaded in blues and grays, muted and dream-like. They find towels, which they take with the futon and sheets into the large main room, where their unpacked bags still sit. The sliding doors are opened and the patter of rain on grass and leaves loud.

They dry each other, pressing soft towels to one other's bodies, slowly undressing at the same time.

Calm and easy, even when Shishido fears his heart is making a valiant attempt to bridge the gap between the two of them, so it can go and stay within Choutarou. Who smiles and laughs softly, pressing his face to the visible flutter as he murmurs things that makes it pound even crazier and make Shishido blush harder.

Then it is like he dreamed, velvety and warm -twin cries of relief as they finally get to tumble skin-to-skin onto the cool, white sheets. Choutarou is impossibly warm on him, and Shishido could drown in the visceral pleasure of his weight on him, with hands in his hair and a mouth on his, kissing frantic and hot, never quite breaking it, not even when they murmur at one other, not when the rise and fall of their bodies change to match Shishido's pulse, and not even when they watch one other, eyes tied like their bodies at the very end with Choutarou saying his name over and over, like he was frightened, and Shishido answering, understanding and merciless.

It was everything he'd ever dreamed about. It was nothing like he'd ever dreamed about.

It was more.

It was simple.

It was terrifying and violent and sweet and gentle.

After, they lay in an exhausted heap with Shishido still on his back, boneless and Choutarou leaning half-over him, fingers tracing the lines of Shishido's face. The skies are still crashing down outside, and water hazes inside coolly to dust their bodies with a sheen. They skin clings hot, unwilling to relinquish the connection.

He leans down and kisses Shishido's cheek. "Now what?" he asks, question warm and fraught on his cheek.

Turning his head to brush their aching, abused mouths together, Shishido whispers. "Sleep. We'll worry about it tomorrow."

"Ryou," Choutarou says, sudden and choked.

Shishido pulls him down, curls his body up against him, breathes in. "I know," he says. "Me too."

....back to part 5! OR ...on to the final part!

Comment on last part, please.

FicAlert! PoT> a i (Silver Pair) PG-15(ish) Pt5

everlind — Mon, 02 May 2011 19:19:24 GMT

However you interpret that night, it pulled down a certain wall between them.

There's closeness between them that wasn't there before, a sense of comfort and ease in touching one other. So when Choutarou puts his hand at the nape of Shishido's neck, thumb rubbing, Shishido offers him a watery smile.

"Let's have it," Choutarou says, drawing away to lean against the kitchen counter.

Hopping up on the table, Shishido faces him for a long time. His legs swing restlessly. One of his feet has a bandaid on it, from when he kicked into a chair a few days ago. He didn't put it there. The chill of the night has made way for a warm breeze coming in through the wide-open window. It ruffles his hair.

Strange how the absence of that wall changes everything. Choutarou and he have been reaching, blindly. But when they figured out they could reach for each other and meet in the middle it made way for… equality. Now his silence no longer upsets Choutarou, who just stands there and waits for him to talk. Slowly he begins to relay his conversation with Jiroh, the warnings Oshitari gave him, his own thoughts. The other listens, lets him rant.

It takes longer than he thought, first one hour, then two, then a long silence.

"So you do think I have a soul," Choutarou states, thoughtfully.

Shishido tosses him an annoyed look. "I thought that was kinda obvious."

Shoulders rise and fall. "How would I know? Maybe I am just a result of clever programming."

"Do you really believe that?" Shishido says.

"No," Choutarou admits. "I don't."

"Well then," Shishido counters. "My point exactly; what do we do now?"

"I have a choice in this?" Choutarou's voice is hushed and his eyes worried.

"Yes."

That's all he needs to say. He knows: he can shut Choutarou down right here and now. Or he could command him to open his chest and they could both have a look at how Choutarou works on the inside. He took him apart and put him together again. He broke the law making a machine. A robot. An android.

It doesn't matter anymore. It's that simple. Choutarou is here now. Not Kon.

He waits as Choutarou lapses into silence. In the late afternoon light, everything kindled in a hazy amber. The sun is warming up enough for Shishido to feel it through the fabric of his t-shirt, he breathes in deeply, knowing that whatever gets decided next will determine both their lives forever.

Choutarou is looking out through the window over Shishido's head, feeling the unfurling warmth of the season on his face the way Shishido has it resting on his back. Sometimes he looks a little young, younger than Shishido does. Not much. A year, maybe two, but not more. Now he seems older, the way the light catches his eyes and hair, draws his features into contrast.

"Is it selfish of me to decide that it's worth the risk?" Choutarou murmurs, more to himself than to Shishido. "To stay here with you?"

"I'm down with it," Shishido says.

"We don't know how you'll be punished if they find out about me," Choutarou whispers.

Shishido tilts his head. "But we do know what they'll do to you when they find out."

Wiped. Destroyed. Recycled. Killed.

A nod. Then a shrug. They look at one other. Shishido feels his throat screw shut with every passing second.

"I'm down with that," Choutarou repeats, mouth twitching.

Shishido closes his eyes. He can't figure out whether he's happy or sad. The sensation is too much to take in. So he concentrates on the sun-lit, tiny kitchen, the tiny apartment and the two of them in it.

"We should get a bigger place," he says instead.

***

Compared to his old apartment, it's huge.

In reality it is only moderately sized. But it has two rooms. Two separate rooms.

Shishido was perfectly aware of this when he signed the papers. But when they sleep in the two very separate rooms for the first night, Shishido realizes they are just that. Separate.

He sleeps poorly.

***

There's not much to unpack.

His old place was starting to get a little crowded by the end, but here it is all spread out too much. Wide-open plains of nothingness. It needs a couch most of all, maybe some stuff to stick on the wall besides Shishido's Star Wars posters. It's nice. Wooden paneling makes it look perpetually cozy and warm. The walls are off-white, clean and not cracked. They have a large balcony and a nice view of the city, as well as a huge park within walking distance. There are street courts in the park also.

There's a bath. Turned out just perfect to ease his screaming muscles when they carried the little stuff he had up there all by themselves. Choutarou loves it, too, and Shishido often sees wrinkly fingertips as remaining evidence of his indulgence in this when he comes back from work.

An easel takes up one corner and shelving near it holds mismatching glasses and cups of pencils, felt-tips and brushes and a bazillion different kinds of paint and coloring tools. The other corner holds the old blue heater, but also a fan. Both of them take turns burning or wiring. The weather is still undecided.

In the evening they drag one of the futons to the living room and camp out together until it is time to go to bed.

It is nice.

It would be perfect.

If only he could sleep.

He never really thought about it much ever since he bought Choutarou a futon. They've been sleeping in the same room for a month. Barely? Somehow he got used to the breathing of another person close-by, of another presence within reach as he slept, during that short time.

After a week, he's bleary-eyed and in a constant state of exhaustion.

He yawns when he rolls from under the blankets and yawns his way through breakfast, sometimes synchronized with Choutarou's, which makes them laugh. Yawns when he drives to work on his motorcycle -fogging up the shield and causing him to nearly hurtle into a tree. Yawns some more when he pokes at number Six, almost finished now, a crappy job if there ever was one. Hides behind a yawn when he runs into Oishi in the cafeteria at lunch, ignoring his pleading eyes. Blocks out Oshitari's useless prattling by yawning, over and over.

Comes back home yawning.

He stifles them when they sit at the table together, Shishido with rice and pickled vegetables steaming in a bowl, the two of them leaning over a furniture catalogue. Choutarou knows what his salary is, what number his bank account reads. Shishido doesn't question it when he says some are too expensive and others a possibility, but maybe this store has better options. He's better with that kinda stuff, instead of Shishido who'd just buy it heedless of what tomorrow might bring and what bills with it.

They spend the whole evening debating and weighing one option over the other, arguing colors: 'red!' against 'wouldn't a neutral light gray or brown be better?' -Choutarou wins that one- and comparing prices until they both find something they like.

It's a little more expensive than Choutarou wanted, but two days later they have the couch in the middle of the living room. It takes up a lot of space. But finally it looks like they can start living there instead of camping. The thing is pretty big and a muted gray, the sort that matches everything.

"Now we just need a Playstation," Shishido says.

Choutarou rolls his eyes. "We'd need a TV first."

"Oh yeah."

He's happy and tired and crawls into his futon gratefully that night, convinced that this is the night he'll finally sleep.

After four hours of staring at the ceiling and seriously considering whether Glow in the Dark stars are a little too silly for someone his age, Shishido isn't convinced anymore. He gives up and droops into the living room. Makes blooming tea and finds the couch. He wilts into a huddle in the corner, legs drawn to his chest, knees hard knots against his chin as he hugs them. The clock read three in the morning, witching hour. Shishido stares at the steam curling in mindless patterns from the teapot, lids heavy.

At four something warm settles against his side, leaning. He falls asleep a minute later.

They keep up the charade for four days, with Shishido lasting an hour less every night before making for the couch. The fifth day they just keep sitting together on the damn thing, sheepish. If Shishido'd detract another hour form their elaborate pantomime they'd wind up right now.

He's too ashamed to say it out loud. It's kinda lame when he thinks about it, too.

So he's grateful for Choutarou opening his mouth and saying: "We should move the futons to the same room. Use the second room for storage and your desk. I think it would work better. Don't you?"

Shishido nods, frantically. "Good plan," he says.

They move everything around the same night. Neighbors scream and pound the walls. It takes three hours, but after those the futons are in one, all the rest in the other.

The distance is perfect. A long stretch of a reach between them, but not at either side of the room. A lamp between them, some books.

When they settle down, Shishido can see Choutarou curl to his side and close his eyes in the faint haze from the streetlights. He tucks a hand against his face, still, and lets out a long sigh. His other hand is between them on the tatami, fingers unfurled as though beckoning.

Shishido doesn't sleep so well that night, after all.

He spends the night watching instead.

***

It's summer when things change.

Or maybe nothing really does, but for Shishido the world gets turned upside down and inside out.

He comes back from his habitual run in the evening, skin damp and sweat dripping down the ridge of his spine and into the elastic of his shorts, which clings wet and low on his hips. Blood rushes through him and he feels as though he's floating when he walks into the apartment.

Orange shadows bathe the living room. It's empty. But water patters in the bathroom, the spray of a shower going full blast. He waits, patting the dribbles of perspiration from his temples with a towel, mopping his nape with it. Stands around and attempts to clear clutter away, but making more instead.

He's hot and sticky and wet and he just wants a damn shower. Shishido frowns and sighs. He's never gotten a hang of that 'patience is a virtue' thing.

He's looking at a new painting Choutarou is getting on with, something with bold lines and a lot of red.

The bathroom door opens and Shishido turns, mouth opening to say something.

He never says it.

Choutarou is in the act of wrapping a towel around his hips and falters. For a moment his body is a clean, unbroken line of skin. It can't be more than a second, or two, or rather three of his heartbeats before it stops -his heart- just like that. Then they both start, Choutarou tucking the towel closed, apologizing profusely and Shishido shies back hysterically when he takes a step closer.

The apartment isn't that big. Shishido bumps into the low table, hard, and unbalances. He puts out a hand to steady himself as he turns, enough for his shins to scrape down the edge of the wooden surface and for him to put out an arm to catch himself. It plants right in the middle of a tiny teacup, which shatters under the weight of his palm, his arm, his body.

By the time he can conclude he's not broken his neck, Choutarou is hauling him upright. His hand leaves a bloody print on the wood, white shards like bones in the middle of it. He pulls away, or tries to, but the hands on his biceps are stronger than he is and pushing doesn't help either, because a piece of teacup that is lodged in his palm gets wedged deeper when he presses against that chest.

"Let go!" he yells. He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"Calm down!" Choutarou yells right back.

Shishido bares his teeth and shoves at him, uncaring that the blood suddenly dribbles in a steady stream down his arm when he does. It pools to a halt into his armpit, drips down into his shirt. They bloom like red roses where to fabric absorbs them.

Choutarou lets him go, appalled.

"What are you doing?" he demands, voice hoarse. Angry.

He doesn't answer, but hastens into the kitchen, thumb and index wrapped around his wrist. His right wrist, dammit. Under the blast of the faucet, the blood vanishes from the wound. The pressure stabs and Shishido hisses. The shard is in deep, it sticks out all wrong, a white slash across his palm. His lips tremble, bloodless.

Choutarou comes into the kitchen with a first aid kit and Shishido doesn't think of how they went out and bought that together, or how he insisted that they'd get it and Shishido just rolled his eyes and smiled.

"Let me help," Choutarou says. It's edged around the syllables, harsh. Then, gentler, he adds, "Please."

Fair hair is in his face when Choutarou bends over the ruined center of his right hand. His fingers twitch uncontrollably, even though it is being held steady. His heart stutters in protest when he sways a little, head dipping closer to Choutarou. He smells nice.

Shishido blinks at that, that there could be a scent to him beyond soap or anything artificial. Yet there is, something that cannot be described, something irrevocably human and unique. His mouth shudders parted on an inhale and he wonders whether he'd taste something, too, if he leaned in.

The idea makes him jerk, violently, to get away from it and everything. Choutarou just had taken hold of the shard and his unbelievably stupid move dislodges it. He screams, something caught on the serrated edge, and the blood wells up anew. Before him, white as chalk, Choutarou stares at the shard.

Blood drips on the floor between them.

When it gets cleaned a second time it doesn't look all that bad. Almost innocent enough to make Shishido wonder where all the blood came from. The gash is red and gleams slick on the insides. Thick layers of skin curl as it dries. It feels as though his arm is on fire and everything pulses angrily kinda like if his heart decided to relocate for the occasion or he grew a second one there.

"You have to go to the hospital," Choutarou breathes, voice upset and strangled. There's blood on his cheek and at his temple, where he thoughtlessly brushed hair away. "This will need stitches."

Shishido makes his fingers stretch and doesn't wince at the knife-sharp pull he feels in the center of his hand.

Two larges ones cup is own, oh so carefully. "Stop that, let me bind it a-and then... we need to call someone."

The white bandaging spots red as it gets wrapped around. They stand close. Shishido stares at the chest before him, at the red smear on the left side he made. He looks up and their faces nearly brush because that's just how close they exactly are.

Choutarou smiles at him, unhappy. "Humans are so fragile," he says.

Humans.

He's an android.

Shishido burns. His hand, yes, but deeper, too, in an awfully base sort of way and everything is all wrong.

His lips move.

Choutarou is so very close that he inhales the very breath on which he utters the first word. His eyes widen, hurt now, too, in a less visible way than Shishido is.

Betrayed.

Then he shuts down.

***

He doesn't cry.

It's all under control now.

Next day he goes to work on an empty stomach, because he cannot bear to enter the kitchen just yet. Not with dried blood on the floor and a deactivated android left where he… it was.

He goes to Oishi instead, distant and aloof. It does need stitches and Shishido watches, detached, as the needle plunges in at one side, crosses the gap and reappears at the other side. Neat, even. Clean. The wound closes up, tight and red. It will leave a scar, but it will heal. All wounds heal.

Eiji stands to the side, eyes huge and a little too knowing.

It's easy to ignore something that isn't really real. It is.

He thanks Oishi, bowing just enough and all polite, before leaving without another word.

It is.

Even when there's a snide: "You're a coward." tossed at the back of his head.

Shishido closes the door and walks away.

***

He's doing fine.

He works, he eats and after he finds a solution, sleeps. The apartment is spacious with just him in it. That's fine, he likes it that way.

Nothing (not nobody) stops him from buying a TV and the newest playstation a week later. He plays games, late into the night sitting cross-legged on the nice gray couch. The stuff that doesn't belong to him (it doesn't really belong to anyone, actually) he ignores. His eyes slide over the small marks, traces, hints that have been left, unseeing and deaf to their little shout-outs for reason.

Nor can he make himself touch… it, where it still is halted mid-motion, strangely enough, and not inanimate as it ought to become. After two days of having to live with the knowledge of those open eyes, he throws a dishtowel over it, hiding the sole witness of his cowardice.

Then again, what does it matter when it's not real anyway?

It doesn't, that's what.

***

Number Six is finished.

Everybody gathers around to watch him activate it, months behind schedule as he was, curious. Even the androids drift in to watch, empty moving shells following strings of code. Shishido doesn't mind. Not even Hiyoshi and Kite standing at either side of him, laser guns drawn, bothers him. Only Oshitari and his dark eyes do, where he leans against the wall and watches Shishido, not the android.

Shishido curls his fingers around the disfigured center on the palm of his right hand. It pulls a little, but Oishi politely informed him that the strain would ease when he took the stitches out. It is not yet a scar. Shishido does not doubt that it will, because all wounds heal.

The figure is laid out on the table, average height, average size, average looks. Brown hair and when the lids will peel back brown eyes.

"Six," he says, voice strong with the command. "Activate."

Nothing happens.

There's some shuffling. Niou coughs behind his hand, eyes shifty. Inui's glasses gleam and Yanagi purses his lips. At either side of his, the guns waver. Oshitari just looks on.

Shishido clears his throat. The fingers of his right hand twitch, spasmodically. "Six," he says, loud and clear. "Activate."

Nothing at all.

Something in him snaps. "Goddammit, ACTIVATE!" he roars and slams both fists into the table.

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Shishido gets a hold of himself. His hand trembles, both of them, but when he uncurls them he sees that the scab has come off on the right one. It bleeds a little.

Oshitari is the first one to speak: "Probably just a faulty connection," he says, pushing away from the wall and walking out. Not before adding: "Funny how Six rather resembles you, ne?"

Mouth dry, he realizes he's right. It's not even another dumb quip of his. The thing on the table does look like him, if a watered down version.

Niou whistles, "Creepy," and then slinks out, too. The rest of them follows.

Shishido is left alone, staring at the android that looks like him, sick to his stomach.

***

That night, he dreams.

He is in a glass box, sleeping. His eyes are closed but somehow he can see. People pass by and look at him, curious. As if he's on display.

Jiroh comes to see him. He raps a knuckle on the glass and says, "Ryou, you have to wake up." Then he falls asleep.

Shishido lies there, unmoving. It's a little cold and he wonders if this is all there is. Years pass by. Shishido never moves, he's alone in his glass box, laid out like a corpse in a coffin, hands crossed over his stomach, neat and tide. He's cold because he has no clothes.

There's a layer of dust on the glass pane above him. It piles up and up until he can see nothing but the little light that filters through it which moves like water does, rippling, only he's dry. Oshitari passes by, and Shishido knows it's him because he draws a heart on the glass pane, clearing the dust away as he drags his finger, and there's dark hair and glasses. He raises a hand to his lips, secretive.

But he leaves, too.

So he waits more. He waits for a very long time. The heart gets filled in again, until there's just dust, centimeters of it piled up. Like he never had one at all. But it is there, he can feel it pumping in his chest, real.

Oishi comes then, he drags his hand in a broad swipe and leaves a window for Shishido to look out through. He's completely covered in dust Shishido sees. Gray and ill-looking. But he smiles and says: "There you are, Shishido! You look a bit tired, have you been sleeping?"

I never sleep, Shishido wants to tell him, but he can't because he's not supposed to: eyes closed and never moving.

"Oshitari says you need to be kissed awake, like in a fairy tale," Oishi tells him. "I will go and see if I can find someone who wants to!"

He smiles.

Shishido tries to shake his head, say: No… but he can't move.

Eiji is wearing a little crown when he comes to see him. He peers through the swathe of cleared dust and shakes his head: "Ew, no!" he exclaims, nose scrunching. He leaves then and Shishido lies there, never sleeping.

Other people visit him, too. Sometimes they wear a crown, but most of the time they don't. All leave.

Atobe comes, wearing a crown so huge it blocks out the very skies. "Don't put out until the third date, Shishido!" he advises him. "And wear a tie."

Nobody comes after that. His heart beats the countdown, every pump a pump less in his life, a beat lost. He's running out of time. He's running out of life. He doesn't sleep. His eyes are closed. He's already in the coffin that will bear him to his grave, prepared. Nobody will ever come.

But then someone comes, late, too late, stumbling to an exhausted halt. Shishido sees him with his closed eyes, the tall man with fair hair. He lifts the lid of the glass box, instead of just peering through it. Sunlight caresses his face. The man is wearing no crown, his body is as bare as Shishido's is.

Choutarou leans over him, hand feeling for his chest.

Shishido's heart knocks up into greeting, saying hello.

"Shishido-san," he says. Fingers reach for his chin, like in the stories: holding it between thumb and index. They tilt his jaw, his face, for a better angle, exposing his mouth. His lips.

Then he kisses him.

His mouth is warm and just right. The contact is a question, shy and sweet, just a press before he withdraws and just breathes.

Shishido breathes back.

Finds that he can open his eyes and move, so he reaches for Choutarou's face to kiss him again.

Their mouths meet, slick and soft, again and again. Shishido aches for him and pulls him closer, and closer, hands splayed over his back and arching to be as close to him as he can. Their chests brush and Shishido's heart pounds, thick and swollen with blood. When their lips part, it's even warmer, and better and Shishido opens his mouth to have him, taste him and he's awake and alive and smiling against that mouth.

"Ryou," Choutarou whispers and then accepts his invitation.

His tongue is careful inside of his mouth, brushing carefully up against his own, then the roof and ridge of his teeth, suffusing his mouth with his presence and warmth. Then, carefully, he sucks on it. It feels good. Intimate.

Then it feels more moist, wet, when Choutarou draws it into his own mouth. The pull gets stronger, tight and demanding. Shishido's head gets tipped back, held between two hands.

He can't move and the pull, the suck on his mouth, starts to hurt.

Please, he wants to say. Stop, it hurts. You're hurting me.

His throat hitches and strains.

Choutarou.

Shishido screws his eyes tight shut and screams, inside his head, when he feels his heart hitch, too. His head falls back under the pressure. It hurts, so damn much, when his heart pounds, hard and then slithers up into his throat. His gullet strains around the bulge of the pumping thing as it travels up, splitting apart at the seams, before it lands at the back of his throat, pulsing. It's there, he feels, beating in fear on his tongue, all purple and huge and moist, choking him.

It scrapes blood against the back of his teeth when it is pulled away there, out of his body, and arteries snap in a spray of blood. It floods his mouth, so he also drowns then, as he dies.

He falls back, dead, chest a vast void, and his lifeless eyes see number Six licking his bloody lips, teeth white as he chews.

Shishido comes awake with a scream caught in his throat. He can't make it, can't make any sound, so he dry-heaves, curled over his chest, hands clutching at his own heartbeat.

The room is dark, and humid.

His pants are like footsteps in the echoing silence. His fingers seek his own skin and find that pulse-point and his heart reaches back to assure him of its presence, as if to seek comfort itself.

When he lays back, the pillow is damp.

Just my sweat, Shishido tells himself and presses his soaked cheek into the soaked fabric.

***

As is just his luck, Shishido runs into Sanada on his way up. Dark eyes meet his for a moment, unreadable. Then he marches out of the elevator.

Unlike last time, Atobe is alone in his office. And when he takes his seat, it's just the two of them. Unease hangs like a greasy cloud of exhaust fumes between them. Shishido shifts, waits for Atobe to say something. He's expected nothing less but the usual finger-thick infuriating smugness and if not that, the glow that was there when he and Jiroh circled one other on a marble dance floor.

Instead he sees tired lines on his face and something akin to hesitation. It's not that, can't be, because as Atobe is Atobe and he never needs to hesitate. Whatever it may be, one thing remains unaltered: Atobe's eyes boring into his, fearless.

Shishido looks back, steady.

"Shishido," he begins, tone that of someone that wields authority and is about to wield it on Shishido's ass right now.

Before he can stop himself, Shishido braces, ready to fight back.

Atobe sees it. His eyes flash once dangerously but leave them just as quickly as it came. He closes them for a moment and when his lashes lift Shishido finds himself looking at a very old friend of his.

"Ryou," he says, an exhale. "What's going on?"

Something in side of him lets go, too. "I'm doing my best," Shishido says.

He is… but. Nobody gets it, not just him. In all essence number Six is perfect. There is no faulty connection, no core algorithm missing. All the hardware and software that needs to be there, is there. But nobody, not him, Inui, Yanagi or Niou can get it to start. Not even to make it run on standard Tannhauser programming.

It doesn't make sense.

"I know that," Atobe says. "But that is not what I am asking."

Shishido frowns.

"You. What is going on with you?" Atobe asks. "You come in and work, yes, but there's isn't anybody home though the lights are on. It's worse than half a year ago, when you looked tired and malnourished. You look healthy but you aren't."

"I am fine," Shishido says. "I feel good."

"You don't," Atobe counters and bares his teeth to silence his instant protest. "Oishi has voiced his concerns about whichever methods… or combination of, you are using to fall asleep."

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Shishido insists, pricked.

"You're such a fool," Atobe says, shaking his head. "Fine then, you leave me no choice. Take a vacation, Ryou. A long one. We will see about your position within the company when you've recovered."

The inside of his body seems to become liquid shock, dripping down to a cold, freezing puddle in the pit of his stomach. He feels hollowed out, as if a metaphorical ice-scream scoop scrapes his insides out. His throat bobs.

An almost kind expression crosses over Atobe's face. "I am not firing you. I'm not even altering your salary. I'm just taking you off the AI project and relocating you to another department."

Even though he's felt his interest and passion for the project waning, the idea of being taken away from it is inconceivable. "I can try harder," he promises. "I can do better."

"You can," Atobe agrees. "That is why I am relocating you. We were a part of a team once, Ryou. And I don't forget."

Shishido stares at him, uncomprehending, shaking his head unwillingly.

"You are dismissed," Atobe tells him.

After just sitting there for quite a while and it becomes clear this is no joke, Shishido rises, shaken. Stands there.

"Ryou," Atobe adds. "Go home."

***

Home.

Shishido looks around.

It's the last place he wants to be. He moved here for the wrong reasons. This is just a place he is staying at. For now.

Just being there raises his hackles. He can't rest his eyes anywhere without seeing something wrong, wrong all so very wrong. When he moves about the place he has a set trajectory he walks along, the path where he encounters the least anomalies. The table has magazines spread all over it, hiding the dark red smear on its surface. But the kitchen… that's the worst. There's no way to move it without touching it or activating it and both are awful, hideous options for different reasons. Ignoring it is all he can do, for now.

But it's there, forever caught in that sweet, protective gesture, hands cupped together to hold something that isn't there anymore.

Even when he lies on his futon he can feel it there.

Shishido tosses and turns.

Not even the towel that's been draped over it long enough to go gray with dust helps. Always, that skin-crawling feeling that he's being watched, followed, never alone in his empty apartment. He'll be bending over an article in his favorite magazine and it'll be there, right behind him, close enough he expects to feel the ice-cold caress of it against the nape of his neck, down his spine. Or he'll turn in terror, knowing, just knowing it's there, watching him with the wide-dead eyes of betrayal, and see an empty room.

He fights it, resents it, wishes he could just do something about to make it all stop.

But he doesn't, because at the darkest hour before dawn, when he's too exhausted and heartsick to care, he can give in to the strange comfort that presence gives him.

***

His days are aimless, void of any meaning.

Shishido works out, plays video games, eats. Feels more tired than ever.

There's no tennis.

***

All he can manage is to wake up every morning and even that requires inhuman effort. Exhaustion drags him down, steel claws dug into his person. The calendar on his desk has a few days crossed out on it, but not anymore now. Shishido sees no use in keeping track of it.

He's no idea whether it is two or three days after he gets send of 'on extended leave', or two or three weeks. It seems like forever, but the summer has barely begun. But then Jiroh is standing before his door one afternoon, livid.

Shishido opens the door and is confronted with a small thundercloud. If small thunderclouds can be relatively short and harmless looking, topped off with blonde curls and backed by the wholesome glow of a summer's day.

"What have you done to him?" he asks, voice low.

Shishido inches the door closed to a crack, his body firmly inserted in the small gap. "To who?"

Jiroh takes one step, hand whipping out. The door flies open with a bang, scratching the wooden paneling. Shishido splutters. He doesn't even take off his shoes when he strides inside, so he splutters some more.

Then, he demands: "Where?"

"Get out!" Shishido hisses. It's no use, but he rushes after him, frantic. "Get the fuck out!"

They struggle, Jiroh moving about, searching, Shishido holding him back, fingers harsh on his friend's arms.

The apartment isn't that big. Jiroh sees the tall figure almost instantly. "Oh," he goes, like a knife just slid between his shoulder blades.

Shishido's hands trail lifelessly from his arms when Jiroh moves towards him. He goes numb, detached. He doesn't even feel a thing when he witnesses Jiroh drawing the dirty towel away, leaving a tall, bare person standing there, with only yet another towel around his hips.

"Oh Choutarou," Jiroh whispers. Slowly he slips one of his own hands -his right hand- between the two cupped ones, palm-up. It's a wrong fit. It doesn't seem to make him think differently of him, of Choutarou, even when he's deactivated for the first time ever since Jiroh met him.

Shishido feels nothing, not even the throb of the wound on his right hand. But he does look away, stomach heaving threateningly, when Jiroh lifts his hand and uses his middle and index fingers to close Choutarou's lids. Like closing the eyes of a dead man.

When he turns to Shishido, his lip is curled in disgust. "You're better than this. He's better than that-"

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" Shishido screams, so abrupt he startles himself. "Huh? You're the one who said that I ought to distance myself from it! You're the one who-"

"It?" Jiroh interrupts with a scoff. "I'd never have pinned you for a coward, Ryou."

"Did Atobe send you?" Shishido demands.

"I sent myself," Jiroh says, eyes rolling. "What does it even matter? What does it matter when you've got him there, like this? Dammit, either suck it up and take him to Tannhauser or get a grip and deal with it. I warned you. This will end in tears -it will! But either way you've gotta do something. You did this. You bear the responsibility for it even if it destroys you, if it hasn't already."

"Don't tell me what to do!" he snarls. "You don't know-"

"I don't?" Jiroh says, voice slipping sharply around the intonation. "I knew. From the first time I saw you two together, I knew. Play the dumb fool, if you like, and pretend like there's nothing. But out of respect for him, Ryou, you have to. To Tannhauser then. If that makes you happy. Just-" he shakes his head, the gesture more than just disapproval.

With that he walks out of the kitchen, face ashen. Not looking at him. At the door he pauses, tilting his head towards the living room. "It's okay to be afraid," he says. "But not like this."

He doesn't close the door.

Shishido can hear him walking down the hallway, to the stairs and leave.

***

Unlike other people, Shishido needs to be on his knees in the dirt, disgraced, before he can start to climb.

It's happened before. Never it is pretty. Always it pushes him face down, humiliated and with all that's wrong about him out in the open. And there it leaves him, to fend for himself. Every time Shishido manages to get up, walk over and shove back.

This time, too.

It just takes him very long.

He is frightened.

Terrified.

He doesn't understand how Oishi and Eiji can stand it.

When he forces himself to look at the truth, it's almost… sick. Wrong. He thinks that, then, but in his heart he doesn't feel the same. Then again what does his stupid heart matter when the machine standing before him is more human than he turns out to be.

And what does anything matter when Jiroh said that Tannhauser was the only option and every single particle of Shishido's being screamed that it isn't an option at all. Which leaves him here, in the kitchen.

He stands before Choutarou and looks at him. That's all he can stand to do for hours. It's a punishment of sorts, twisting the knife in chest with his own two hands.

As the sun sinks below the lip of the horizon, Shishido leaves to fetch a blanket. Then he stands there, clutching it to himself, eyes fastened on the closed lids.

Night settles in, heavy. Moonlight shines silver, spilling through the kitchen window. It spills around the curve of Choutarou's cheek, utterly beautiful. Shishido hurts, even now, with just this. The world slows down, slumbering, and in the absence of everything else, Shishido finds the words. First slowly, hesitatingly, but then like a dam worn away faster and faster, a trickle, a stream, a river, a waterfall, an ocean that empties in the silence, everything he's known but never looked at.

It hurts to speak, near the end. His throat feels like sandpaper, swallowing impossible.

The moon is a fading disk in the early skies, the last minutes before dawn when he's finally finished. By then he can barely say what matters most of all.

Two words.

Never again, Shishido swears.

"Choutarou…" he whispers, voice worn. "Activate."

He had no delusions.

When those eyes open it's with the exhale of his betrayal still resting on Choutarou's tongue.

The offered blanket is ignored. Choutarou looks at him, just once, and then walks away.

***

Worst of all is the distance. The wall.

He knew that, of course.

The presence of it is all the more so painfully obvious after its absence. That and it's twice as tall, as vast and as barb-wired as ever before.

Choutarou doesn't touch him. At all.

Before it happened unconsciously, when passing one other, taking or giving something, lending a helping hand. Normal. Gestures that always happen between humans, even between complete strangers. Never longer than a second and no lingering impressions, even. That was before.

Yet even that doesn't happen.

Combined with the physical closeness they had, the natural reaching out and taking, his aching for it is a constant sear in his chest.

But he doesn't touch back.

***

They talk, a little.

"Anything you'd like to watch tonight?"

"I am going out for a run."

"I'll get that."

"Do you mind if I open the window?"

Shishido'd add an 'I'm sorry' to it if he'd thought it might help. But what would being sorry matter when it's the trust between them that lies in tatters? It's not something that can be fixed with an apology.

So they move around each other, carefully. Choutarou plays on his violin a lot. Hauntingly sad melodies, hours on end, often Shishido will have to leave the place for a while, left with no other choice than that or break down himself. That's the most emotion he gets from the other who's taken to sitting on the balcony for all the other hours, staring out of the bustling city from behind the metal bars, in complete silence.

Shishido fears he's broken him, somehow. In worse ways than he can imagine. Choutarou is and remains an android, but he's too human for this to be fixable.

It's not an error in his code, or a lack of anything.

He watches him watch the world, trapped by what he is, by the restrictions chaining him down forever.

And then he gets an idea.

***

All androids come Three Laws safe. By the law all activated, or those meant for integration in human society must be. At Tannhauser it's standard procedure to program the Three Laws of Robotics first, before anything else is. It's their guarantee.

1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

2. A robot must obey any orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

***

They're standing on the balcony.

It's warm and humid, even with the evening settling in. The horizon is a smudge of pinkish hues, with star-speckled night at the furthest edge. Choutarou's hair curls damply against his neck and his throat gleams. It still hurts, watching him, but now he understands it's not fear. Not really. It's something worse than that.

And Shishido thinks he might be alright with that. Not that he has much of a choice. It's a part of him as much as his heartbeat is, now. So doing this makes perfect sense, in a way. It's been a week since he re-activated him. He walks up to him into last sun of the day, feeling much more himself than he has before. Impulsive and reckless, kinda, even though he did think about this.

"Hey," he murmurs.

Choutarou turns slightly, eyes lingering on the scenery before them a little longer, reluctant to let it go. "Hey," he returns. His mouth moves and it looks like a smile. It's a perfectly polite one. His eyes are unreadable, distant.

"I won't command you to," Shishido says. "But I am asking… might I…" it sounds so odd, kind of dirty even and both aren't really gonna work right now. So he holds out the cable, laptop under his arm.

There's revulsion for a moment, but then he shrugs. "As you wish," he says, bobbing his head. His voice is kind, smooth, but the bitterness is all in his eyes. Quite unrepentantly he begins to unbutton his shirt, even when Shishido has to swallow thickly and drop his eyes.

How can it be so new, can it fascinate him so completely when he made that? And didn't even make it that way to please himself, personally, like that.

They sit opposite of one other, the laptop between them and the cable coiled nearby. Choutarou is shrugging the fabric off his shoulders even as the flawless skin splits across his chest to let the hatch open.

Shishido finds it doesn't bother him. All that stings is that Choutarou doesn't even care enough to ask why, just does it, like he's not human enough to have a choice in the matter. It's kinda like an extra slap in the face, though a deserved one.

It almost makes him smile, to see inside of him like this again. Deja vu and yet not, like he had nothing to do with this miracle at all. In all essence, he didn't.

"Tell me if I hurt you," Shishido breathes and reaches inside.

Choutarou's brows arch a little, in an odd vulnerable gesture as he watches Shishido's right hand disappear into his chest, up to the wrist. As if ashamed. Shishido watches him closely as he feels for the interface that'll grant him access to both drives. Only his lips tremble when he connects, a click they can both hear. A green led winks on and Choutarou swallows convulsively, the dying sun catching the bob of his adam's apple.

Shishido realizes that maybe he thinks he's about to die, too.

That he'd let him, scares Shishido most of all.

They don't speak when Shishido pulls his laptop onto his crossed legs and begins to click and scroll through files and codes, essentially picking Choutarou's very brain apart. And his soul. Choutarou keeps staring at the cable leading into his open chest, like you can't resist watching the needle dig into the skin when getting an injection.

What he looks for is a programmed onto both drives, the one located in the skull and his heart-drive, for extra security. It's standard procedure. It takes the ugliest hack out there to delete it, both of them, and Shishido uses it.

A task bar pops up on his screen, filling up. There's a sound event of something being deleted. As plain and quick as that, Choutarou's Three Law Safety clause is gone.

Shishido doesn't look at him when he reaches inside to disconnect again, resting one hand gently against his bare ribs as he tugs the cable loose. With finality he closes the hatch, too, letting his fingertips linger until the lines are gone. Then he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and begins to roll the cable.

Before him, Choutarou's jaw hangs open rather comically, staring at the crown of Shishido's head as he realizes what he just did. He still sits there, shellshocked, when he gets up with his laptop and steps inside, wordless.

He's making himself some popcorn when Choutarou steps through the sliding doors and walks up to him.

"What you just did has the penalty of death on it," he whispers.

Shishido turns to face him, reclining against the counter top. Choutarou looks at him as though the world as he has come to know it, doesn't exist. For all intents and purposes, it doesn't anymore. He narrows his eyes and crosses his arms, and nods.

"Choutarou," he says, deliberately loud and haughty. "Shut down."

Choutarou reaches for him instead.

***

The rest comes naturally.

Having made Choutarou as human as he can makes more difference than he expected it would. Never before had he any idea just how much of what he said to Choutarou was influenced by the Three Laws and as such his responses and behavior towards Shishido, in return.

He can't remember when anybody last looked at him like that. He doesn't think anyone ever has.

They still don't touch, not after that one painfully raw embrace.

So they watch each other.

Glancing up to catch Choutarou looking at him, the way he does now, feels like being touched all the same.

They're waiting for something, what Shishido doesn't know, since nobody is going to come around and give them permission or anything. When they're at opposite sides of a net and Choutarou serves, body lean and powerful as he moves, Shishido thinks that he's waiting just for a glimpse of this: the heat making Choutarou sweat hard enough that droplets fly off the ends of his hair as he hits a return. The curve of his hip as his shirt hitches up, as sharp and territorial as the lines on the court. His teeth bared in challenge and his sharp smile when he takes a point.

It's almost… sexual, the game. Or maybe he's so gone that everything seems to be.

But the park is deserted and the courts are bathed in the floodlights and the two of them play, hard and there's noises when they do. Little growls from him, low grunts from Choutarou and their breathing, in fast loud sucks of air. Only the hollow twocks of their rackets connecting with the tennis ball breaks it up, but they're still breathing at each other, their voice in it. Shishido's lips burn from the passing of air, swollen and red and he keeps them parted.

Choutarou's eyes snag on his mouth when he dashes up to the net. Thus he takes that last point, again with his rising.

"Good game," Shishido tells him as they walk up to the net. His chest heaves and blood pounds between his ears. He can feel sweat and dirt caked into his hand, taste grime on the damp skin around his mouth.

"One day," Choutarou responds, smiling.

He seems taller than ever, Shishido's head is at an angle to meet his eyes this close.

"Keep telling yourself that," Shishido smirks at him.

"Hmm," Choutarou goes and reaches out.

Shishido is wearing an old blue cap, keeping his face clear of hair and the glare of the floodlights and Choutarou takes the bill and twists it around.

"It's strange when I can't see your eyes," he murmurs.

It's a good thing he's red in the face from exertion or else his blush would show. It wasn't a touch, but he could feel the heat from that hand, smell the sweat. His heart flops about drunkenly. He does look to the side, but not without snorting. "Che, you gotta watch the ball, you idiot."

"I'm an android," Choutarou counters. "I'm good at multitasking."

"Right, that's why I kicked your ass just now," Shishido grins and shakes his head.

"I don't mind," Choutarou says softly. "I like playing tennis with you, Shishido-san. I… I like-" he stops, biting his lower lip.

Shishido swallows convulsively. "What?"

There's no answer. Or maybe there is, when Choutarou just looks at him and Shishido has to catch his breath.

***

Everything has changed, Shishido thinks.

Yet nothing really has.

They're still waiting. And he still watches Choutarou watch the world from behind the metal bars of their balcony. For all that Shishido is home, they can't go very far. The street courts. Some shops and supermarkets, but even those not more than once, maybe twice a month, together.

Maybe that's it, that they're caught in this strange stasis, restricted to protect both their lives. This moment captures that perfectly, another sun sinking and Choutarou sitting on the balcony looking out at the world, Shishido in the open doorway watching him in turn.

It pleases him to stand behind Choutarou and let his eyes linger over the nape of his neck, the strong angle of his shoulders and along his back, to his narrow hips. He's aglow with the warm hues, bathing his skin in a flushed orange. It still hurts to watch him. His fingers tremble with the desire to scoot in close and press his face between those shoulder blades.

Instead he sinks down cross-legged next to Choutarou, a cup of tea between his hands.

"What's on your mind?" Shishido asks, after half an hour of easy silence.

The answer comes with a minute or two of delay, but it does come, thoughtfully. "Can you swim, Shishido-san?"

Shishido nods.

Choutarou tilts his head. "Can I swim?"

"You'd sink," Shishido responds, quietly. "Your molecular density is too great."

"I thought as much," Choutarou sighs.

"Would you've liked to?" Shishido asks.

"I think so," Choutarou murmurs. "Isn't it a little like flying?"

"I can't fly so I can't compare, but I think flying would be more exciting of the two." Shishido admits, recalling the cool glide through water, floating in a way, true, but not the wild thrill of freedom flying might bring.

"Do you often dream you can fly?" Choutarou asks, watching him thoughtfully.

"Sometimes," Shishido shrugs, then grins ruefully. "I always end up crashing. Do you? Dream of flying and all?"

Choutarou's throat works and his lashes hide most of his eyes. "I always dream about the same thing."

Taking a sip of rather cold tea, Shishido sighs, wry. "Aa. Tennis."

A soft hum. Choutarou turns his head towards him, but his gaze is shy and averted. "You should have figured out that… tennis is only a small part of what I dream about."

He looks up, a little exasperated when Shishido goes: "Huh?" Their eyes meet and Choutarou is watching him, his eyes moving in a soft deliberate path across his face, the look in them racking shivers down his spine. Shishido gets it and starts to blush, glowing with a secret, fierce joy. "Oh," he adds, trying to keep his mouth from betraying him.

Choutarou did dream about him.

And he still does.

Right now, he thinks he knows what flying might feel like.

***

If he dreams about Shishido, then he's not having pleasant dreams about him.

At least not now.

Something wakes him in the dead of the night. The room would have been completely dark if the city wasn't always awake. There's just enough light that when Shishido pries his eyes apart it's to the vague outline of Choutarou's tossing form. A noise rises from him, frightened and haunted, which rises to a cry as he bolts up and sits there staring in blind terror, panting.

Then, in an agonizing display of humanity, he clutches at his chest and dry heaves against the wad of emotion choking him, body straining.

Shishido hoists himself up to his elbow, worried. "Hey," he whispers.

The other starts at his voice, as though that little word was a ringing gunshot, his eyes wide with terror the first few seconds, unseeing. Then they soften with dawning relief. A thick swallow. The moonlight catches his face. Choutarou looks wan and pale, damp with sweat.

"Bad dreams?" Shishido asks.

Looking away, he nods, once and harsh. He's still sitting upright, his hands a shaking knot against his lower belly. Choutarou sits there and trembles, face contorted.

The room is warm, humid. Choking. Shishido gets up and cranks the window open a slit so cool air rushes inside, easing the heavy press.

Some part of him fantasized that their first touch would be erotic, or at least romantic -just right, just perfect and so very significant- the sign for them to stop waiting. It's kinda silly and kinda very lame that he thought that, rolled the image of Choutarou dipping his head towards his around on his tongue like a piece of sweet candy.

Instead it's him walking past the mussed heap of his own futon towards Choutarou's… and the brush of his fingers through tangled, moist hair.

He's no good at being soothing and murmuring the right things, so instead he takes what he knows and gives in; to himself to what they both feel. Being physically close always carried some kind of innate comfort with it and Shishido wants nothing more than be close to him now. His patience was wearing thin anyway.

There's a little sigh as he combs his fingers through Choutarou’s hair and a startled sound when Shishido sits down, pressed up to him. Their skins sticks together like wet velcro where their arms brush, their cheeks. Under his right palm the fabric is pasted to a broad back, soaked. Without a word between them, Choutarou peels it off, nose scrunching. His bare chest, the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes, the lingering gleam of exertion, how the moon catches his sharp collarbone, the muscles and further down to the teardrop of his navel- it's utterly beautiful.

Somehow he loses his shirt, too, before they lie down together.

Choutarou is heavy.

They shift and knock limbs and hard bones together and Choutarou nearly knees him in the crown jewels as they try to fit. Eventually they lie in a press of sweating skin to skin, Shishido flat on his back and Choutarou tucked against his side, head on his chest. Left side, naturally. There's a muscular thigh hooked over his own and an arm slung over his stomach. His body dwarfs Shishido's, but he finds he doesn't mind much, not when he can dig his fingers into soft hair and breathe Choutarou in, deeply.

He's flying again, though pinned down and his body thrums in response to the heat and warmth of having someone so close. How can something so simple feel so good?

Lips curve into a smile, he can feel the corner of it against his skin. "It's beating very fast," Choutarou sighs, tipping his head closer still. "Like it wants to escape."

Shishido closes his eyes, pretty sure that's the last thing it wants.

....back to part 4! OR ...on to part 6!

Comment on last part, please.

FicAlert! PoT> a i (Silver Pair) PG-15(ish) Pt4

everlind — Mon, 02 May 2011 19:17:12 GMT

He buys a second futon. Just can't stand Choutarou sitting in the corner like a lifeless marionette any longer. If he lies down it looks more natural, but lying on the bare floor seems cruel, too. Even though he cannot feel it when shut down, it bothers him too much. Especially after that incident. Now it feels as though he's punishing Choutarou every damn night, because isn't like Shishido is.

He tries to arrange it with a respectable distance between the both of them. Comes to face with an utterly ridiculous problem. The stupid apartment is too small. Shoving it up against the opposite side of the room seems kinda cold and unfriendly, but having it closer has the damn thing smack dab in the middle of everything. Shishido manages to trip six times over it in the half an hour he leaves it there. And any closer is just too close.

Choutarou watches him slide the futon around centimeter per centimeter, looking bemused. There's a pleased flush over his face, though.

After nearly a whole afternoon of grumbling and moving his few belongings around to no avail, Shishido stands with his hands on his hips, looking at it all and concedes that the place really is kinda small. Too small.

***

"Stop making such a show of it," Shishido grunts after having to hear Choutarou turn around into a new position of the umpteenth time.

If there was a Kama Sutra for all possible positions one might take to reach the blissful state of sleep, Choutarou has just gone through them all. And Shishido had to hear to him wriggle about, sheets rustling and making happy sighing noises. Which kinda bothers him. A lot.

"Sorry," Choutarou says. "I've never slept in a bed before."

Score, that one makes him feel like an ass again. Even though it isn't intended to.

"S'okay," he mutters. "But are you done now? Cause I'd kinda like to go to sleep."

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"So-" he swallows the rest convulsively.

Shishido grins and shifts to his side to face him. He can vaguely make out his profile as he stares at the ceiling. His hands are laced above the sheets, carefully posed.

"Ah, Shishido-san?"

"Hm."

"Might I…"

"What?"

"Would you mind not shutting me down?" Choutarou asks, voice low. "Eiji-san says he can dream. I'd like to try and see if… if I can too. I won't move around."

Shishido moves until he's curled on his side. He feels kinda bad that he never considered the possibility that Choutarou might prefer to play at make-believe than, well. He smiles, sour. Who wouldn't prefer pretending over the other option?

In the dark his eyes find Choutarou's, who's watching him anxiously. He nods, "Sure."

The smile is instant and bright as a lightbulb. It hurts Shishido in the stomach. "Thank you," comes the hushed answer. And then, "Good night." One last rustle and Shishido is left to stare at a broad back.

He's still staring at it, three hours later, unable to sleep. Not that he knows for sure -not without poking or asking, anyway-, but Choutarou looks asleep. Either he's doing a really good job pretending, or he really is sleeping. Wonders where he's off to, if he is.

"Sweet dreams," he whispers and closes his eyes also.

***

Next morning he wakes up to see Choutarou facing him on his side, one hand palm-up on the floor between them and the other pressed against his mouth, like a child. His body is relaxed, but in a natural way. Tossing has left the sheets lower, caught at his waist, and his shirt rumpled. The little light that dusts his face shows the eyes moving behind the lids.

Amazing, Shishido thinks.

He clears his throat and says, "Hey," as gently as he can.

The lids squeeze and a discontented noise rises from his throat. There's a bleary, unfocussed look in his eyes when he opens them.

"Sleep well?" Shishido asks, sitting up himself and stretching.

A grunt. Choutarou burrows under the sheets, an irritable lump.

That makes Shishido laugh, out loud and with delighted surprise. "Not a morning person, that's for sure," he shakes his head and stands up. Stretches until his pajama yawns at his stomach, lifting clear of his waistband. His spine pops. When he's done he finds Choutarou peering at him from over the edge, looking rather accusing and messy. "Well, that answers that question. You did sleep."

"Until you woke me up," is the reply. "It was nice," he adds as though Shishido was the one to come up with the concept of 'getting up in the morning' purely to torment him.

Nice.

Eiji's earnest face repeats before his mind's eye: I dreamt of Oishi.

Why he wants to know, or why it'd matter, he's not sure. All he realizes is that he really, really wants to ask: 'Did you dream of me?'. Studiously avoiding to cross gazes with him, Shishido goes with a mildly interested intonation: "So, what did you dream of?"

Choutarou sits up and slips from under the covers. Which he promptly begins to make, despite Shishido's wadded ball at the end of his own bed indicating that he's free to do otherwise. His shoulders are strong, wide. Muscles shift under the thin fabric.

"Tennis," he says, cheerfully. "I dreamt of tennis."

"Tennis?"

"Aa," Choutarou goes, tugging the folds smooth. "Tennis."

Shishido looks at the back of his head. The rising sun catches on his messy hair just so. Why did he make it fair again? He can't remember. He can only look at the back of Choutarou's neck, the soft vulnerable nape and the way his hair curls there, almost sweetly.

The swell of disappointment is like blood rising in a fresh cut.

***

"Shishido, my light, my love, my life."

"No," Shishido says, quite simply.

"You haven't even heard what I wanted to say," comes the vaguely plaintive reply. It would have been more convincing had it been less smug. Oshitari appears at his right and leans against his workbench, causing a small tremor. It makes him slip and squash his right index finger under the wrench he was wielding in the tight confines of the android's chest hollow.

"Fuck," he snarls, sticks it in his mouth to suck on. A copper-like tang fills his mouth. "You bastard. What is it? What do you want?"

"Nothing but your love and affection, naturally," Oshitari says. "That and Jiroh, if you can manage it."

A paper dangles before his eyes. It's shiny and filigreed around the edges and Shishido groans at the all too familiar sight of it. "Fuck, again?"

"Keigo does so like parties," Oshitari says, mouth curling. "That and he needs to get laid."

Shishido lays the wrench to the side, lest he attempts to bash Oshitari's skull in with it. Kite and his tight purple pants are just a gunshot away and all. Today doesn't seem like a feasible moment to get his brains splattered against the wall of his office -not when he's got a seashell in his rucksack to show Choutarou.

"I'm not his pimp," Shishido hisses.

Oshitari's mouth opens and his lips start to form a word -one that looks potentially suspicious. So Shishido punches him in the ribs, not hard enough to bruise or injure, but a no-nonsense warning all the same. "If you say jailbait, I will hurt you."

Looking genuinely startled, Oshitari says, rubbing his side: "I was just going to say that he and Keigo got along very well last time and Jiroh is single. And Kabaji approves."

"Kabaji- wha?" making a half-twirl in his chair, Shishido frowns at him. "You discuss Atobe's love life" -or lack of it, which amuses Shishido to no end- "with Kabaji?"

"Why not?" he asks. "Kabaji knows him best of all. Plus he seems to be a bit of a romantic at heart."

The probability of it is too disturbing by far. Oshitari is a matchmaking terror all by himself. A rather painful recollection of Oshitari blackmailing him into going out for dinner with a girl from archives comes to mind. Apparently she had the hugest crush on him. Declared him her one true love. After said dinner she had never talked to him, let alone acknowledged his existence, again. To add Kabaji 'the matchmaking android' to the tally is too much for his traumatized brain to handle. Especially in conjunction with rumored x-ray vision.

"No," he says. Firmly.

Jiroh is his best friend, almost family. He's not letting him get thrown out there for Atobe-who-needs-to-get-laid-ouch-my-brain to molest. That and the idea that they'd -oh damn- get together? A ridiculous image of him and Jiroh being joined by Atobe at Tensai Tarts comes to mind. No thanks.

Better amend that. "No fucking way."

An arm slips around his shoulders. Oshitari leans in, mouth nearly brushing the curve of his ear and whispers, voice slick like a sheet of ice: "And who will be your partner, hm, Shishido? I will admit that you'd probably strike a more impressive image with someone tall and broad by your side, instead of little golden Jiroh. But as you don't have such a partner to readily accompany you-" he pauses, deliberately, "or do you?"

Shishido is as still and blank as he knows to be. Most of all he doesn't look at Oshitari. "You know someone like that?" he asks, voice distant.

"No," Oshitari says and leans back a little. "But I suspect you might."

Despite his misgivings, Shishido looks at him, eyes wide. Oshitari is so close he can feel his breath on his face. He's cold through, numb with shock.

"Please deliberate your options carefully," Oshitari murmurs. This time his voice is utterly different. In a way Shishido has never heard it before. "I would rather not see you hurt."

"Yuushi."

"I am your friend," Oshitari says, pulling back, but still looking at him. "You know that, right?"

They stare at one other for a long, long time. Oshitari has always been hard to read. His mouth spouts a lot of crap, and more than half of it he neither means nor actually feels. He's always been a nuisance, better at his job than Shishido, more useful overall (even though he rarely makes himself so) and always capable of putting his finger right where it smarts the most. He's good at understanding androids, better at reading humans and ace at pissing Shishido off. Possibly because he's the polar opposite: everything he feels or thinks is right there on his face, should one care to look for it.

It seems Oshitari cares.

He didn't know.

"I-"

"By the way," Oshitari says, slapping a newspaper over the invitation on his workbench. "Isn't it about time you looked for a bigger place?" It's opened to the real estate listings. Some have been circled.

Shishido keeps staring at him.

The infuriating twist of lips is back. "Have a productive day," Oshitari says, before walking out again.

For the rest of his day, Shishido sits staring at both the invitation and newspaper, not understanding at all what just occurred.

Completely unproductive.

***

"Shishi- what happened? What's wrong?"

Shishido shuffles inside, mind so crowded with information and misgivings and suspicions that he can't tell one idea from the other. The motorcycle helmet gets pulled out of his hands and he's helped out of his jacket as well.

"Does your- ah." Choutarou peers into his eyes, worried. "Does your head still hurt?"

"My head?" Shishido manages, even more confused than just a second ago.

"From my serve," comes the whisper.

"Tch," Shishido rolls his eyes. "Hardly. You're gonna have to hit me harder than that."

That gets a completely horrified look. "I don't want to hit you again! I didn't-"

Shishido nudges him, playfully. "I was kidding," he tells him.

"It's not funny," Choutarou insists, pale and drawn-looking. "I didn't-"

"I know," he soothes -or tries to sound like it, at least, but it ends up coming out annoyed. "I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

Choutarou looks very worried about it.

Mouth curling a bit, Shishido shakes his head. Fishes around in his rucksack and takes out the shell. It works. Choutarou's eyes lit up, like the rising sun itself and Shishido wants to take that smile and keep it in his pocket all day long.

To see Choutarou take hold of it, realize that he knows what it is but has never actually held or seen it for himself… he derives a sort of warm, sweet pleasure from seeing him handle it. A seashell is not something particularly awe-inspiring or rare, but Choutarou holds it and carefully explores it with every single sense he's capable of. And as Shishido gave him all five that's what he does.

Feel: his fingers going over the rough, ribbed outside and then dipping inside to feel the mother of pearl there, smiling at the near silky smoothness of it.

Taste: pressing it against his lips first, then parting them. The tip of his tongue appearing for just a moment, quick but just too curious not to. He can taste, as well as a human can. He makes a face at the chalky, mineral residue.

Sight: it's a colorful shell. Blue-purple hues in a spiral-pattern through off-white, and the myriad of colors swirling together on the inside. Shishido sees him turn it over, and over, and over again and suspects that the place will be covered with seashell sketches and paintings tomorrow.

Sound: he knows how it works. Machine learning. But it's still arresting to see him lift it and hold it against his ear. "I can hear the ocean," he murmurs, even though he knows it's not that what he hears.

Smell: then, lastly, he smells it, eyes fluttering closed as he breathes in deeply. Holds it in. When he finally exhales, his lashes lift and he smiles.

"Salty," he says.

Shishido nods, smiling himself. Or rather, not having stopped since he started.

"Sorry," Choutarou goes, predictably enough. "Must look rather weird. Me ah, sniffing it."

The smile slides into a smirk. "Yeah, you did turn out to be a head case alright," he says over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen.

"Must be thanks to that head case scientist that put me together, then," Choutarou mutters darkly.

Coming up short, Shishido pauses, then turns, unsure what to think of that remark nor of how to respond to it. They look at one other, ten of Shishido's heartbeats -he counts them and he guesses Choutarou does, too- and then Choutarou grins.

"Oi!" Shishido protests and smacks him over the head.

There's some playful pulling and shoving, and Choutarou giggles when his ribs accidentally get tickled, which sets Shishido off into howling laughter. A blush lingers on Choutarou's cheeks when they putter about with dinner. Ever so often Shishido will glance at him, mouth twitching and there'll be an indignant 'I didn't giggle!', complete with supposedly forbidding frown. And Shishido will start laughing all over again.

His stomach hurts by the time he's done eating and not because he had too many seconds. When the dishes have been cleared and they have retreated to their futons, Shishido feels steady and relaxed enough to bring out the invitation.

Choutarou is on his stomach an arm's length away from him, eyes flicking to the strategically positioned seashell as watercolors dampen the pages of his sketchbook.

"Saa, Choutarou?" Shishido goes into the stillness of the room.

"Yes?" Eyes keep trained on his artwork, focused and deliberate in every single lick of his brush on the paper.

Turning to his side to watch his face, Shishido says, "There's this party Atobe is throwing. I gotta go, cause, yeah. I work there and all."

The stroke of his brush falters for a moment. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Shishido says. "We gotta take someone along. You know, since it's kinda formal."

"Of course," Choutarou goes. The brush lifts away and his chin drops a millimeter or two. "Who're you taking?"

"I'm sorry," Shishido whispers.

"Why?" Choutarou murmurs back. "It'd be asking for trouble."

"I know you'd like to…" Shishido begins. What he doesn't add to finish is -you've never been to a party before. Might not ever. If things had been different.

"Shishido-san?"

Shishido stops attempting to finish his half-hatched sentence. Listens.

"Thank you," Choutarou says and his smile crosses the distance between as sure as if he'd have reached out to take his hand. Or heart, because that's what it feels like most. That's where it hurts most.

"What for? I'm taking Jiroh, not-"

"That you care enough to consider. That you care enough to think about it. That you care enough to feel sorry that you can't," Choutarou spells out. Shoulders lift slightly. "Take your pick."

Being the one on the receiving end of a blush, Shishido turns to lie on his back, staring studiously at the ceiling. "Of course I-" he swallows, throat working. Then he repeats what Oshitari explicitly told him that afternoon, that which Shishido never got before and needed to have explained first to see its truth: "We're friends, right?"

A long pause.

The setting sun pulls stretched shadows out of everything. Even Shishido's shadow, which leaks from his body to climb up against Choutarou's.

"Friends," Choutarou echoes. His voice is tight and funny, like it's being squeezed through a narrow tube. Then he nods, head bobbing neatly up and down. The brush gets swirled in a small bowl of water. A cloud of stormy blue blossoms, stirred into motion. "Yes," he affirms. He means it, too.

Yet Shishido feels that he's just said the most wrong thing he could've altogether.

***

"How do I look?" he asks, voice terse. Then he answers his own question. "I look ridiculous, don't I? I do. Shit. I'm calling in sick. No, Atobe'd kill me. Sanada'd kill me. Fuck, he'll order Kite and his tight purple pants to kill me-"

A head pokes around the door of the bathroom. "Kite and his whoooooo…" There'd be more 'ooooo', Shishido suspects, if there was any breath left in him to utter them. But the sound leaves him in a whoosh of air, as though he's been sucker punched. Just silence. Choutarou blinks. Rubs his eyes. Peers. Blinks again. Then he flushes, almost violently as though he happened upon a bondage party of the more twisted flavor -possibly involving Oshitari and bunny slippers- and he withdraws his head hurriedly.

Shishido looks at his reflection. Sourly. He knew it. "Give me my damn jeans," he bites out, feeling humiliated. It's a sensation he doesn't deal well with.

"Erm," comes Choutarou's rather not so eloquent comeback.

"Choutarou?" he calls.

"Jeans are… gone. I cannot, er- yes," he sounds as though he's nodding at his own nonsense.

Shishido sticks his head into the room, scowling. Choutarou blinks at him, standing ramrod straight in the middle of his futon. Shishido frowns until his forehead hurts. He's late and he doesn't want to go and he's wearing a goddamn tuxedo (why?!) and he feels utterly, completely lame. He wants his jeans and he wants them now and Atobe can take any stupid commentary he's got and stick it up his-

Right then the melody of 'A Shave and A Haircut' is buzzed out on his doorbell. Jiroh yells something indistinct through the door.

When Choutarou turns to go and open it, he reveals the 'missing' jeans being held behind his back.

"Hello," Jiroh says on a yawn. "This better be good. Is he ready?"

"Uhm," Choutarou says. It involves a certain twitch of the head that may be a nod or a shake. Or a crossbreed.

Jiroh raises his eyebrows.

"Make him give me my jeans back," Shishido growls. He feels naked.

"Urgh," Jiroh says. "No way. I am wearing a tuxedo and so are you. Let's go James Bond, before I fall asleep."

Withdrawing into the bathroom once more, Shishido stares at himself in the mirror. He's uncomfortable and it shows. He doesn't know what to think, but he's certain Atobe will laugh at him. Someone enters the bathroom. He thinks it might be Jiroh to come and pry him away, but the sheer height of the person proves otherwise.

Choutarou appears behind him.

In the reflection he can meet Choutarou's eyes over the crown of his own head with a generous hand span to spare.

So tall.

Pink stains the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, and flushes darker still when he rests both hands on Shishido's shoulders. They cup them completely. It's like heat spills from his palms, inflaming his body where it dribbles down his chest. Shishido shivers.

"You look fine," Choutarou murmurs.

His hands squeeze, gently. Shishido can feel the pads of his thumbs against his nape. It's so warm in the bathroom that his face colors slightly. Just as he thinks he might actually break into a sweat the hands are removed, sliding down his front to fix his crooked tie, to twitch at the lapels. He can't breathe. Fingers tentatively rake through his hair, tousling it more artfully, and then firmer again as Shishido feels his eyes lid against the sensation of it. It feels good and it's all he can do but to lean his face into the touch.

"I'm going to lie down and sleep and you'll have to carry me and you'll be even later and I'll abandon you there for more pleasant company if you don't hurry up!" Jiroh sing-songs.

Both of them start. Choutarou's hands slip out of his hair. He sticks them firmly in the pockets of his pants instead. Their eyes meet one last time. Shishido manages a faint smile.

Choutarou doesn't return it. His voice is hoarse when he says, "Have a good time."

***

There's a reason Shishido hates parties.

More specifically Atobe's parties. Most of the time the generous presence of food and drinks make up for it. But the bad outweighs the perks on these occasions. One, Atobe is there. Two, Oshitari is there. Three, everybody else from work is there. Four, he's in a tuxedo. But number one does a pretty good job all by himself to poop any party Shishido might attend.

"Ah, Shishido," his voice wafts out from a clique of uppity business men. "I was worried you might not show."

"I'm sure that would have left you devastated," Shishido mutters, turning towards him.

Atobe steps from between two men, smirk already in place. He's resplendent in a white tuxedo, groomed and tweaked to outshine everyone present. He seems to be wearing lipgloss. Shiny lipgloss. It has no right to look as good on any man the way it does on him.

Instinctively Shishido braces himself. Tries not to appear bothered when Atobe rakes his eyes up and down his person with shamelessly judgmental intentions. "Well," he says.

Shishido begins to work up a scowl, the kind that'd make paint peel off the walls upon contact.

"You ought to dress more like this," Atobe says. "It's a waste you don't."

"Told ya you looked just fine," Jiroh pipes up, having hunted down a pair of shirttails bearing a platter of champagne flutes. He gives one to Shishido, before clinking their glasses together. They ring beautifully. "You're too insecure."

Sometimes he wishes he could grab Jiroh by the ankles and dangle him through a window or something. "I'm not insecure. I just don't like to wear a tuxedo," he says tersely.

"Sure," Jiroh agrees, too easily enough for it to leave any credence to Shishido's statement of the contrary.

"Akutagawa-san," Atobe says, surprised. "What a pleasure to see you again."

"I'll bet," Shishido growls against the rim of his glass.

Someone stands on his toes, sharply. From the glint of his eyes it seems to be Jiroh. Feisty little shit.

"Hello, Atobe-san," Jiroh greets him, voice even. His eyes glitter from over the edge of his glass. "Tell me," he adds, conversationally, "how do you feel about the ethical issues your work raises?"

Atobe blinks.

Shishido blinks, too.

"I - uh, well," Atobe flounders.

Shishido suppresses the violent urge to point and laugh like a five-year old.

Nodding, as though that perfect sense, Jiroh continues: "Of course there must be all sorts of precautions in place to make sure that the actual creation of an individual, artificial or not, is handled correctly."

Atobe blinks again.

Shishido wonders whether this might be the moment to club Jiroh over the head or if that would draw too many attention to himself and the subject at hand.

"An entrepreneur of such caliber as you must've got quite some safeguards in place, I imagine" Jiroh says, smiling as he takes Atobe's arm.

Atobe preens tentatively.

For some reason he's not too surprised he winds up at the walking buffet effectively dateless, about five minutes later. Sometimes he forgets how scary Jiroh can be when he puts his mind to it (like that time he shoved Shishido out of the top bunk because he wanted it and Shishido split his eyebrow). Oh well, he's Atobe's problem now. Shishido shrugs philosophically and reaches for a cracker with cheese, because that's the only thing he recognizes.

"You should try the caviar," Oshitari informs him. "It's delicious."

It gets pushed under his nose. It looks like blubber. Before Oshitari can get it into his head to try and feed it to him, Shishido snatches a cheese cracker and stomps it in his mouth. "No thanks," he mumbles.

"I have just witnessed something awfully curious," Oshitari informs him as they drift down the table stuffing their faces with the idle hunger only men seem to posses. "You brought Jiroh and I thank you for that. Yet Keigo didn't appear to have decided whether he was happy about it or not."

"Jiroh's tougher than you think him to be," Shishido says, placated with the idea that Atobe might not be feeling very smug at all right now.

That gets a nod. A fruit tart disappears into his mouth. "I figured as much," Oshitari admits and inhales another fruit tart for good measure. "Oh, look, there's Kite-san and his… oh my."

"Oh no," Shishido says.

"His tuxedo is purple," Oshitari says in hushed tones, as if he does not want to scare his own unholy glee away.

Kite spots them and comes over. "Evening," he says. "The two of you, huh? Somehow I am not surprised."

"Wha?" Shishido goes.

Oshitari looks like the cat that got the cream and a whole cage of canaries. He puts an arm around Shishido's shoulders. "We do our best to remain professional at work, of course."

"Drop dead!" Shishido snarls, hitting the arm away. "Don't listen to him," he tells Kite. "It's Atobe, he-"

"Atobe?!" Kite yells. "You're doing the boss?!"

Everybody in a ten meter radius stares at him. Shishido wishes he'd spontaneously combust on the spot. "No-" he grounds out. "I meant that Atobe stole my date. My date that is not Oshitari. My date that will never ever be Oshitari."

Oshitari smiles, none to bothered. "I live in hope."

"That little blond boy?" Kite says, brow curling like the lock of his hair does against his forehead.

"He's the same age as me," Shishido hisses, beginning to discover new heights (or is that depths) to which his dislike for Kite can go -beyond the purple pants. "He's my best friend," he adds, for good measure.

Dark eyes narrow speculatively. "So he's free?"

Shishido doesn't grace that with an answer.

The pleasure is, of course, all Oshitari's to do it for him. "For now," he says. But with those two words a whole story is told. A story that might have a slightly pornographic ending, that is. There's a strategic pause and then Oshitari casts about feigning surprise, "Hm, I wonder where they went."

"Please excuse me," Kite says distractedly, wandering off.

Shishido and Oshitari share a glance.

"Is it me, or is everybody gay here?" Shishido asks him.

Oshitari pats his head. "Believe me when I say it's you."

Shishido hits him.

***

After three hours of having put up with his nonsense Shishido manages to distract Oshitari by drawing his attention to Sanada's very formal kimono. Oshitari being Oshitari had gone over. Clearly he has a death wish. If they get lucky Sanada might shoot him.

It's quite a few hours past midnight. Shishido wanders around the edges of the ballroom, lurking in the shadowy corners and dodging colleagues. He feels out of place. Candles are lit all over the hall, not only in the chandeliers but perching on every available lip and ridge, flames flickering. People dance and talk and laugh. Shishido sips at his champagne -his… fourth? Fifth? He lost count- and wonders whether Jiroh is alright and happy.

That's when he sees him -them- Atobe and Jiroh.

Dancing.

The surge of 'fuck no' he'd expected doesn't come. Not when Jiroh is smiling like that in response to whatever it is Atobe is saying and most certainly not when Atobe looks at Jiroh as if he's the most awe-inspiring thing he's ever seen in return. He didn't know Atobe was capable of looking at anyone like that besides his own reflection in the mirror.

Mirror.

His skin tingles where Choutarou held his shoulders hours earlier, as though the memory is infused with his physical touch. What would Choutarou have done if he'd been here? What would he have liked the most? The candles? The reflecting marble floors? The way everything smells -expensive perfume and cloying scented candles and food? The chandeliers, dangling like giant light-infused gems above their heads? Maybe the music. Classical, of course. Atobe likes that kinda stuff, too. Would he have danced? Can he dance?

If he can, it is not something Shishido wrapped into the package.

And… with whom? Shishido swallows.

Atobe has a hand on the small of Jiroh's back. His eyes never leave the face turned up to his.

Smiling vaguely, Shishido decides he can live with it. That is, after he gets another glass of champagne. He drinks without tasting as he weaves in and out through pockets of people. The music is delicately upsweeping, a sweet thrill Shishido only recognizes when the symphony is halfway. Violins.

Beethoven.

Shishido's breath snags in his throat. What is he doing here, anyway? He's tired. He's lonely -always, but less so at home.

Home.

One last look to see how Jiroh is faring -towards a promising destination judging by his glow- and then he puts the glass aside. As he leaves the ballroom the music surges to an urgent pinnacle, almost like the wind easing along his stride. Shishido exits into a dark hallway. Candles wink at regular intervals, leading the way. So he follows. And winds up lost. It seems all hallways have candles in them. Just like most hallways seem to lead towards darkened yet unlocked rooms. Rooms that are not always empty, either.

Sex, drugs and rock 'n roll, Shishido thinks. How to do it the snob way.

It takes him a while to puzzle his way out. Especially when he might've had too much alcohol. Plus that the stupid hallways all look the same. He wishes some people would just get a room (literally!) instead of sucking faces where Shishido can see them, giving him a nasty start ever so often. Eventually he locates what must be a side door, or back door, or whatever door, just not the one he came in through.

Outside he finds himself in a rose garden. In the star-lit night the red blooms are jet black, the white ones silver. Beautiful. It's an oasis of peace and quiet.

This is what he'd have liked the most, Shishido thinks almost absent-mindedly, the contrast.

He'd probably paint it.

It's cold, or it should be, but the alcohol makes him flushed with an unnatural warmth. The hair against his temples is damp. He hopes there'll be taxis not too far from the garden. Small chance of him making it back home otherwise.

Right when he thinks he can see headlights, with engines thrumming in the background, Shishido walks in on yet another couple playing tonsil hockey. He starts -badly, flinching backwards from what he sees without the identity of those two horrified faces registering.

"Excuse me," he mumbles, hurrying away, towards the safety of the cabs.

Only when he's inside of one, warm and safe, does his mind catch up with what he saw. He goes cold to the bone.

"Fuck," Shishido breathes.

Oishi and Eiji's faces are burned into his mind's eye, with their swollen lips and lingering hands. Oishi and Eiji. Kissing. Oishi. and. Eiji. Kissing. Each other.

"Fuck," he repeats, heartfelt. "You damn idiots."

With that discovery haunting him, the ride home seems endless. He's not a little drunk and confused and tired and lonely and frightened. With his fumbling, cold hands and clouded mind he doesn't get the door open on the first try. Nor on the second. Or third. And the short hike from the cab to the apartment left him shivering and hating the stupid tuxedo and all he wants is to get inside and curl up before the heater to sleep it off.

He's cursing softly, shoving feebly at the door and struggling with the key when it opens all by itself. Or not. Choutarou steadies him when he tumbles inside as the door gives. Shishido looks at him, teeth clattering. He's awfully warm. He shuffles closer and inside, so the door can be closed again. It leaves them standing in a huddle, Shishido nearly in the circle of Choutarou's arms.

He's doesn't have the look of someone who has only just awakened. The laptop's lighted screen and scattering of pencils and brushes confirms as much. The room is shadowed and cramped, but is inviting and familiar. A sekiyu heater glows in the one last empty corner, bathing the room in a red glow. Standing by the door leaves his back twice as cold, as though the night pries through the edges to clutch at him.

Inching closer as to absorb some of his body heat, Shishido murmurs, "Did you wait up for me?"

"Maybe," Choutarou says, lips twitching. "Are you… ah. Have you had too much to drink, Shishido-san?"

"Ryou."

"What?"

"I wish you'd call me Ryou," Shishido says. He feels himself unraveling at the edges, like a worn cloth. He's so damn tired. "That's my stupid first name, right? So why not?"

Dark brows jump up a little. "You have had too much to drink. Where's Jiroh-san?"

"You call Jiroh, Jiroh," Shishido mumbles to himself.

"Shishido-san," Choutarou says firmly, dipping his head to catch his wandering eyes. "Where is Jiroh-san?"

Pulling himself together a little, Shishido answers with a sigh. "Right now? Still in Atobe's arms I imagine. Not sure where and I don't wanna know either, but safe." He looks at Choutarou accusingly. "I wouldn't leave him if he weren't safe."

Brown eyes smile at him. So do those lips. Choutarou has a nice mouth. Full and kind, when he has this sorta look. "I know," he assures him. "It's the other way around I was worried about. Why you are here all by yourself."

"I'm an adult," Shishido tells him indignantly. Then adds, "There were cabs."

"I see," Choutarou says.

Shishido keeps looking at him. And his mouth. Eventually Choutarou rests a hand against the middle of his back and steers him into the room. A few steps and they are standing in the middle of it, Shishido motionless and bleary.

"Did you have a good time?" Choutarou asks.

A shrug, but then he considers. "It was okay," he admits. Then adds: "I saw Oishi and Eiji kissing."

Going very, very still, Choutarou hums a little. "Ah, I see." A warm hand touches Shishido's wrist, lingers over his pulse point.

"I'm tired," Shishido says, suddenly. His body still trembles. His head swims. His eyes find a futon with the covers peeled back invitingly and Shishido longs to curl up there and sleep. The wretched tuxedo has to go first.

There's uncoordinated attempts at undressing, but he stumbles and sways, until Choutarou is there helping him. So he kinda leans into his chest and lets him, drifting off. It feels good. Natural. He doesn't mind Choutarou taking his hands and pushing them into the sleeves, nor even when he undoes his pants and pushes them down his hips.

"Sorry," he exhales into Choutarou's chest.

"It's alright," comes the reply into his hair. Fingers curl around the hem of the thin t-shirt he had under the dress shirt, lifting. "Arms up," Choutarou says softly. His voice trembles the way Shishido's body does.

Shishido lifts his arms. He aches, in the center of his being. So when his head comes free, feathering his hair in all directions and then finally his wrists, he lowers them again. Around Choutarou's shoulders. The shirt drops near his feet.

His skin erupts in goosebumps.

"Shishido-san." It is barely louder than the intake of breath on which it is uttered.

"Hm?" he just goes.

His face is pressed just below Choutarou's collarbone. He can feel the hard ridge of it against his forehead through the shirt. He can feel him breathe, erratically, feel the muscles expand and contract as he does so. When he turns his head so his cheek is resting against him, Choutarou flinches.

"Don't-" he hisses, pushing him back -gently enough.

It's like a smack in the face and sobers him up instantly. "Sorry," he says, appalled at himself and his lack of self-control. He shakes his head, disbelieving. The room spins and Shishido sinks to his knees to prevent himself from keeling over.

Surprisingly enough, Choutarou sinks down with him, into a nice seiza. "Careful," he says.

Shishido can't stand to look at him. What's wrong with him? What was he thinking going around hugging Choutarou unannounced and not even knowing whether it'd be alright. Why would Choutarou even want to, just like this, with no reason? His looks at his boney knees. And he's not even wearing anything other than a pair of snug boxers. Idiot, he screams at himself. Idiot.

Fingers lift his chin, until he concedes to look at Choutarou. "I didn't mean to push you away," Choutarou says, hand dropping when their eyes meet. "It's weird when you do that… when my. My chest is empty. You won't hear anything."

"It's not empty," Shishido sighs, rubbing at his face and breaking the eye-contact.

"But it's not like yours," Choutarou insists, mulish. His own eyes have re-located to Shishido's chest. "Just look," he says, awed.

Shishido looks. Makes a wry face. Nope, sure isn't all like Choutarou's. Kinda scrawny.

"Your pulse point," Choutarou clarifies.

Ah.

That again. He looks. After a moment he sees it, too. Smack-dab between the slight indentation his breastbone makes and his left nipple, his skin jumps ever so slightly. His heart. Shishido is vaguely horrified at the sight of it. He knows it is there all right, but watching it beat like that is as though watching the clock of his own mortality count down irrevocably.

But Choutarou is watching it with such horrible, overwhelming tenderness on his face. Painfully, almost, the way his brows are drawn together in an inverted frown and his lips are clenched. "Does it hurt?" he asks, voice hushed. Eyes flick up briefly to his.

"What?" Shishido says, voice lowered like Choutarou's is. As though they're sharing secrets.

"Your heart," Choutarou says. "It moves so hard. Doesn't it hurt?"

Shishido looks at him, at the face that is as familiar to him as his own. "Sometimes," he whispers.

Whatever his face shows then, Choutarou doesn't catch it. His hand lifts halfway and then halts, outstretched fingers curling closed.

He might be drunk, but even he can tell that they both need it. Only now his inhibitions are lowered enough to actually do it, gathering Choutarou closer until they are embracing once more. This time he's held back and he has Choutarou's head tucked under his chin as the latter leans in a forced stoop to press his face to Shishido's bare chest. Listening.

It's late.

Shishido is tired. He lays his cheek on Choutarou's hair and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again it's almost morning. Gray light creeps through the blinds, illuminating the dust-motes swirling around. His exhales make small clouds in the early morning chill. His lids are heavy and sleep is still holding him, but something woke him up, something that jolted his eyes open for an instant. Someone. Choutarou is either dreaming, or is simply a twitcher. His hand convulses over Shishido's chest again.

That same someone put a shirt on him and maneuvered him towards a futon. The same someone holding him.

They are not quite embracing. But they are sharing the same heap of blankets and Choutarou's hand is splayed on his chest… the left side of course. It's not awkward. Shishido wonders whether it is the magical hour before dawn that makes this so natural. Or maybe they both realized that their self-inflicted loneliness was stupid, especially since they could just reach out and have this.

Nothing happened.

They just held each other. But they are in bed together. Shishido wonders if it matters when they are okay. Suddenly, hauntingly, he sees Oishi and Eiji again, their mouths clinging and needy. His breathing catches, and his heart does, too.

Choutarou makes a soft, low sound. Questioning.

"Shh," Shishido says, lulling. He pushes the image violently away and turns closer towards the warm body next to him.

They go back to sleep.

***

Jiroh looks like death warmed over. His hair is a bird's nest and there are dark shadows under his eyes. He droops sleepily over his noodles and yawns a lot. But sometimes he'll also bestow a random, dopey smile upon his food, as though it just murmured sweet nothingness at him.

Shishido grins against the rim of his cup. "You should never put out until the third date," he clucks his tongue, shakes his head.

"Yes, you with your vast knowledge ought to know all about it," Jiroh mumbles, rolling his eyes.

A sneaker kicks Shishido's shin under the table.

"I have knowledge!" Shishido splutters. He does!

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jiroh says. "I meant knowledge that isn't a decade outdated."

Now Shishido kicks Jiroh under the table, sharp enough his friend winces.

"It's not been that long!" he defends himself. "And it's not as though getting into Atobe's panties makes you Casanova or anything."

"Yeah," Jiroh sighs, smiling again and obviously thinking about Atobe and his panties or whatever.

A perfectly horrifying idea. Shishido shudders accordingly.

"We're going to take it slow now," Jiroh says more seriously. "We hardly know each other."

Shishido nods. He needs to get used to the reality of his best buddy banging his boss. What has the world come to? Oishi and Eiji kissing, Atobe and Jiroh doing stuff, what's next? Oshitari and Kite? If that happens, he'll shoot his own brains out himself, thanks very much.

"Anyway," Jiroh goes on. "I pried some information out of him first."

"Before you pried him out of his pants -ouch, stop kicking me!"

"Stop making me!" Jiroh counters crossly. "And listen, it concerns Choutarou and what might happen if you don't have him registered as company property. As it stands now he's a rogue android running on highly illegal software -no, shut up and listen. What you did will fall under the same law and restrictions that applies to cloning. It's not done. Period."

Shishido looks at him, playful grin fading like snow before the sun. "What are you saying?"

"If they find him, they'll destroy him," Jiroh says. "Not Atobe. The cops or whatever three letter abbreviation responsible for it. He'll get wiped. Then they might re-program him for another use, or take him apart and recycle him."

His heart pulses as though someone just kicked it, hard.

"But if you were to go to Atobe he might stand a chance. He'll fall under scientific research, which Atobe is allowed to conduct as long as it does not violate or endanger other humans and their environment," Jiroh looks at him, hard. "You have to talk to Atobe."

His hands seem pale and fragile on the table between them. Bluish veins crisscross the backs of his hands. "I'm not sure he'll agree to go," he admits.

Jiroh reaches and takes his hand. The touch is warm and solid. "Ryou. By the time he will agree it might be too late."

"He's human," Shishido tells him. "I can't treat him like an object!"

"You've got to!" Jiroh hisses. "Don't you get it? If you don't then others will. If he's human then he can die."

Snatching his hand away, Shishido stands up. "Don't!" he snarls softly.

Brown eyes stare up at him. All happiness from earlier seems to have left them. "Please. Don't you see it might be better? For the both of you, if he goes?"

Shishido looks at him, eyes narrowing.

Jiroh ploughs on. "You're getting too attached to him. Almost as if you're in-" he stops there, abruptly.

"As if I'm what?" Shishido growls.

Jiroh closes his eyes, breathes in. Opens them again. "Ryou. Please."

Already he's backing away, "I gotta go," he mutters.

He runs.

....back to part 3! OR ...on to part 5!

Comment on last part, please.