Toki ni ai wa futari wo tameshiteru because I love you...
Because I am feeling generous, here, have a few (crappy) Yongha/Yashiro drabbles I have written over the past few months for doumeki. Enjoy~! ♥
He didn’t like Coke. He had never liked Coke, not the regular kind, not the diet kind, not the kind with vanilla or lemon or whatever it was they were lacing it with recently. He hated it and had always hated it-and it was puzzling and more than a little annoying that the members of his fanclub had been cheerfully bringing him cans of the vile stuff between matches and at tutoring sessions.
He really didn’t get it-at least until the day he was walking home from the small grocery store around the corner and spotted one of his wide-eyed admirers on the street corner, watching him intently, clearly making a note in her head of every item sticking out of his bags.
When he got back to his apartment, he dumped the bags on the kitchen table and announced, “If you’re going to poison yourself with sugar and caffeine and whatever the hell else they put in there, you can buy the poison yourself. People used to bring me coffee.”
The man on the couch only smirked. “Coffee has caffeine, smartass. Gimme.”
He was probably lucky that the can he hurled at Yashiro’s head missed.
***
“This,” Yongha said a little desperately, “is not what it looks like.”
“I’m sure.”
“Stop smirking at me. It’s not. It’s… it’s…” he tried hopelessly for an explanation.
“An eyelash curler,” his lover said helpfully from the bathroom doorway.
“No! Well, yes, but…”
“I always knew you owned one. Natural beauty my ass. Natural beauty does not take an hour in the bathroom and seventy different bottles of hair products.”
“I’m going to kill you next time you come in here uninvited,” Yongha growled.
“Right,” Yashiro replied nonchalantly. “Hopefully you don’t try to stab me with that thing. That would be a little sad. I’ll let you get back to your primping, princess.” Before Yongha could stop gaping and retaliate, he laughed and escaped down the hall.
***
"You know, considering how much grief you gave me over my... grooming habits-"
"You mean your eyelash curler?"
"...Whatever."
"Thought so."
"If you're finished, I was saying that considering that one instance, you're kind of a hypocrite, aren't you?"
"Am not."
"How long have you been in the bathroom?"
"..."
"That amount of hair gel is probably a hazard to the environment."
"..."
"You realize you only think you look like a rebel?"
"Oh shut up."
"You look like a hedgehog."
"I'm going to kill you."
"By poking my eyes out? With your hair?"
"DAMMIT YOU-"
"Put the hairbrush down. You really think you're going to hurt me with it?"
"..."
"Ah. Revenge is sweet."
***
They kind of tiptoe around Valentine’s Day, mostly because, well, he’s not a damn girl-Ko’s the one with the girly hair-and anyway, they’re not really together like that, whatever people may say and whatever a few nights-and days, and one really mind-blowing lunch break-at the last international tournament might indicate. But those labels are for other people. They’re just…
Not like that. That’s all.
That doesn’t make him feel much better when he doesn’t even get a damn phone call, but really, what did he expect? The bastard doesn’t call anyway, why should this day be any different from the others? Kiyoharu kicks over a garbage can on the way to his game, gets thoroughly dressed down by a furious old lady for it, and in turn makes his opponent cry with his vicious midgame. And still doesn’t feel better.
A few months later, the fury comes spilling out when they meet in the preliminaries for a Korean charity tournament, but Ko only raises one perfect eyebrow-Kiyoharu swears he must wax them weekly, or something-and points out that he didn’t receive a phone call either, nor anything else, and really, “you have my number too, chibi.” This leads to a loud, overblown argument à la Shindou and Touya-though to be fair, Kiyoharu does most of the yelling-and they make the front page of a minor tabloid because apparently Ko is famous or something. The fallout from this disaster takes months to clean up, and by the time they’re on speaking terms again, neither of them really remembers what the argument was about in the first place.
Then again, maybe not. A couple of weeks into November, Kiyoharu gets a package with a Korean postmark containing a box of Korean pocky-which tastes just like Japanese pocky and begs the question of why anyone would mail pocky across international borders-and a note informing him that Ko has done his best to reform, and hopes he is not going to end up in another tabloid next month when they meet again.
Kiyoharu stares at the note and the box of pocky and wonders whether that bastard has definitively lost his mind. Then he calls Touya as the most likely candidate to know about some obscure Korean thing involving pocky and blurts out, “Why the hell would someone send me pocky by mail?”
And Touya, being Touya, actually appears to know the answer, because Kiyoharu can hear the suppressed smile in his voice as he answers, “Oh, it’s November, isn’t it! Pepero? Congratulations, I suppose.” Which, come to think of it, isn’t really an answer. “I’m sorry, Yashiro, now is really not the best time,” he continues before Kiyoharu can demand what the hell that was supposed to mean. “I will call you back in an hour, if that is all right?” Before Kiyoharu can get a word in edgewise, he hangs up.
That leaves the internet, which, fortunately, is more than willing to provide him with an explanation. He is grinning when he calls Ko, who answers the phone with a laugh and tells him, “I thought confusing you might be the way to get you to actually call, this time.”
He didn’t like Coke. He had never liked Coke, not the regular kind, not the diet kind, not the kind with vanilla or lemon or whatever it was they were lacing it with recently. He hated it and had always hated it-and it was puzzling and more than a little annoying that the members of his fanclub had been cheerfully bringing him cans of the vile stuff between matches and at tutoring sessions.
He really didn’t get it-at least until the day he was walking home from the small grocery store around the corner and spotted one of his wide-eyed admirers on the street corner, watching him intently, clearly making a note in her head of every item sticking out of his bags.
When he got back to his apartment, he dumped the bags on the kitchen table and announced, “If you’re going to poison yourself with sugar and caffeine and whatever the hell else they put in there, you can buy the poison yourself. People used to bring me coffee.”
The man on the couch only smirked. “Coffee has caffeine, smartass. Gimme.”
He was probably lucky that the can he hurled at Yashiro’s head missed.
***
“This,” Yongha said a little desperately, “is not what it looks like.”
“I’m sure.”
“Stop smirking at me. It’s not. It’s… it’s…” he tried hopelessly for an explanation.
“An eyelash curler,” his lover said helpfully from the bathroom doorway.
“No! Well, yes, but…”
“I always knew you owned one. Natural beauty my ass. Natural beauty does not take an hour in the bathroom and seventy different bottles of hair products.”
“I’m going to kill you next time you come in here uninvited,” Yongha growled.
“Right,” Yashiro replied nonchalantly. “Hopefully you don’t try to stab me with that thing. That would be a little sad. I’ll let you get back to your primping, princess.” Before Yongha could stop gaping and retaliate, he laughed and escaped down the hall.
***
"You know, considering how much grief you gave me over my... grooming habits-"
"You mean your eyelash curler?"
"...Whatever."
"Thought so."
"If you're finished, I was saying that considering that one instance, you're kind of a hypocrite, aren't you?"
"Am not."
"How long have you been in the bathroom?"
"..."
"That amount of hair gel is probably a hazard to the environment."
"..."
"You realize you only think you look like a rebel?"
"Oh shut up."
"You look like a hedgehog."
"I'm going to kill you."
"By poking my eyes out? With your hair?"
"DAMMIT YOU-"
"Put the hairbrush down. You really think you're going to hurt me with it?"
"..."
"Ah. Revenge is sweet."
***
They kind of tiptoe around Valentine’s Day, mostly because, well, he’s not a damn girl-Ko’s the one with the girly hair-and anyway, they’re not really together like that, whatever people may say and whatever a few nights-and days, and one really mind-blowing lunch break-at the last international tournament might indicate. But those labels are for other people. They’re just…
Not like that. That’s all.
That doesn’t make him feel much better when he doesn’t even get a damn phone call, but really, what did he expect? The bastard doesn’t call anyway, why should this day be any different from the others? Kiyoharu kicks over a garbage can on the way to his game, gets thoroughly dressed down by a furious old lady for it, and in turn makes his opponent cry with his vicious midgame. And still doesn’t feel better.
A few months later, the fury comes spilling out when they meet in the preliminaries for a Korean charity tournament, but Ko only raises one perfect eyebrow-Kiyoharu swears he must wax them weekly, or something-and points out that he didn’t receive a phone call either, nor anything else, and really, “you have my number too, chibi.” This leads to a loud, overblown argument à la Shindou and Touya-though to be fair, Kiyoharu does most of the yelling-and they make the front page of a minor tabloid because apparently Ko is famous or something. The fallout from this disaster takes months to clean up, and by the time they’re on speaking terms again, neither of them really remembers what the argument was about in the first place.
Then again, maybe not. A couple of weeks into November, Kiyoharu gets a package with a Korean postmark containing a box of Korean pocky-which tastes just like Japanese pocky and begs the question of why anyone would mail pocky across international borders-and a note informing him that Ko has done his best to reform, and hopes he is not going to end up in another tabloid next month when they meet again.
Kiyoharu stares at the note and the box of pocky and wonders whether that bastard has definitively lost his mind. Then he calls Touya as the most likely candidate to know about some obscure Korean thing involving pocky and blurts out, “Why the hell would someone send me pocky by mail?”
And Touya, being Touya, actually appears to know the answer, because Kiyoharu can hear the suppressed smile in his voice as he answers, “Oh, it’s November, isn’t it! Pepero? Congratulations, I suppose.” Which, come to think of it, isn’t really an answer. “I’m sorry, Yashiro, now is really not the best time,” he continues before Kiyoharu can demand what the hell that was supposed to mean. “I will call you back in an hour, if that is all right?” Before Kiyoharu can get a word in edgewise, he hangs up.
That leaves the internet, which, fortunately, is more than willing to provide him with an explanation. He is grinning when he calls Ko, who answers the phone with a laugh and tells him, “I thought confusing you might be the way to get you to actually call, this time.”