Day 24 ~ Movement R
24
"-od Morning! It is almost six and the perfect time for you early birds to get up and get a head-start on the day! Stick your head out the window to see the first snow of year; the perfect moment, ne? Hopefully tomorrow we'll wake up to a white Christmas after all. I feel up to playing a good old Christmas classic, what abou-"
Shishido slams his fist down on the button.
Fucking hell.
Even Gakuto. He wants to support his friend's radio station. He truly does. Usually with pleasure, no problem. Gakuto has an okay taste in music and knows how to attract listeners. Yet even he seems to have this inexplicable need to hop on the bandwagon and milk the last drop out of season's commercial idiocy.
He shifts his head towards the window. A slight gap between the curtains shows cool, clear twilight, at odds with the time of the year's usual doom and gloom impression. Figures it has to snow on top of it, too. Not his preferred conditions to go jogging in.
Not that it'll stop him, but it sure does put a major damper on his enthusiasm.
Especially when there are arms around him, hot exhales against his collarbone. A leg is slung over his hips.
Nice. Warm.
He's half-hard, pressed against the soft skin of Choutarou's inner thigh. It feels good to have him close like that, wonderfully physical and tangible, instead of hasty phone calls whenever Choutarou finds a small window of time to ring him, just his voice distorted through the receiver. It's good to have him home. Well, back in Tokyo, though even that has to do with the schedule of his tour. And home is Choutarou's apartment, for now. Not that he's complaining. Far from.
The temptation to close his eyes and let sleep pull him down is great.
Instead he starts to sit up. Or tries to, at least. Choutarou sure does hang on securely, for being asleep and all. It takes inching, maneuvering and prying limbs off him before he can stick even one leg out into the cold air.
His toes touch the fuzzy sleeve of the now cold water bottle and he kicks it aside whilst trying to tug free his arm, the last piece of him Choutarou has hold of. With one last firm yank he lets go and Shishido stumbles out of bed with the force of his momentum.
It's freezing.
Teeth clattering, he tries to find appropriate clothes to face the blistering cold with, not to mention which'll keep him dry despite the snow. Through all his muttering and hissing and cursing, Choutarou sleeps on, nestling into the warm indent left by Shishido's body.
Dressed and armed for the temperature outside, Shishido stands next to the bed, taking note of the exhausted lines on Choutarou's face. Dead to the world. Not surprising, considering that he's been doing nothing else but performing with his orchestra, going from place to place and doing his utmost best, because that's what he always does. Upon his arrival in Tokyo Shishido had been waiting for him and the only time they didn't spend 'making up for lost time' in bed was on the ride from the airport to Choutarou's apartment.
He's crashing the whole week at Choutarou's, spending the holidays together. Nothing fancy, nothing too… too… Christmassy or anything. Just the two of them at home.
That is, when they can. Already this evening Choutarou will be on stage again, wowing everybody with his music. Shishido is looking forward to it with mixed feelings, mostly content with the knowledge that after, Choutarou and he will end up in this bed again.
He feels a little guilty for keeping Choutarou up as long as he has, but his mind is full of images of heated skin on skin, of mouths sloppily tasting and clinging over and over, the rock of their bodies… and he knows that Choutarou wouldn't have had it any other way.
Besides, he can sleep in.
After one last look (that may or may not have been accompanied by a slightly -or very- lovestruck expression) he walks into the living room. Fishes Choutarou's keys from the pocket of his pants -where they still are after having been discarded rather hastily yesterday i.e. the floor-, he heads out.
For a jog in the first snow of the year.
***
The snow falls in thick, loose clusters.
They lightly coat his knit cap and his jacket, but it's cold enough they don't melt upon contact. The ones that catch on his eyelashes linger, strange and awkward. Once he steps inside the convenience store the hot air curtain blasts them to droplets. Shishido takes off his hat, fishes his ponytail out his collar. The fly-aways from the tassel cling against his neck, made static by the wool of his hat.
It is still early, but the signs of the heavy rush that'll flood the supermarket are already there. There's a noteworthy amount of young women, undoubtedly trying to get their hands on the prime pieces of fish, flesh and vegetables to cook oscar-worthy Christmas dinners with.
Shishido tries to ignore them, as well as all the horrid decorations: fat, silly Santa-sans everywhere and a crapload of tinsel. Lights flash merrily everywhere. One of the staff wears a red hat with a white plush trim and pompom at the end.
Everybody is fucking insane.
Shishido loads his basket with the usual kind of groceries. Enough for an elaborate dinner, but plain and simple and certainly none of the typical Christmassy crap everybody buys. He'll make a light dinner before Choutarou has to head off, enough to give him an energy boost, but not so he'll feel stuffed before the veritable workout he always engages in whilst playing the piano. Some snacks and a bottle of champagne. To celebrate being together.
As last and as per ancient ingrained habit, he stops by the racks of magazines. Picks out his usual favorites -sports, music, gaming- and peruses them. The staff no longer glower at him for it, he takes care not to crinkle them and puts them back correctly. Once in a while he buys one. Not to mention he always does his grocery shopping here.
That and the girl that always occupies the check-out near the magazines might have somewhat of a crush on him, so she's more than content with him standing there for a while.
He's checking out Monthly Pro Tennis -memories- when he first hears them.
Girls. Giggling. High school age -the worst kind.
"Ne, Midori-chan, look!" one says. Her nail is bubblegum pink with a strawberry decal sticker on it. It stabs like a needle towards an elaborately stacked display. She's pointing to a box with a cake inside.
A Christmas cake.
Shishido rolls his eyes, shakes out his magazine and holds it higher as not to have to witness the idiocy. That doesn't stop him from hearing it, though.
"Daikichi-kun does like chocolate… should I get it?"
"It's on sale! And it is Christmas. Can't have Christmas without a cake. Maybe I should get one for Ken, too? What do you think?"
"You should! He'll love it. Besides it is cake, nothing can ever go wrong with that."
"This one has sugar snowflakes, cute!"
"What about this one? It has gifts on it."
"-will take the chocolate one-"
"Daikichi'll love it, I just know-"
"-perhaps this one. It has a lot of whipped cream-"
"-on sale anyway-"
"-men love food-"
"-especially cake-"
By the time they leave, every single one of them toting a big box towards the register, Shishido has gone through the whole magazine. Nothing special, it's low season. He puts it back and takes one with the newest video game and movie releases instead, dumps it into his basket. Shuffles. His hair still sticks to his face. He pats at it, but that makes it worse, long hairs puffed up like a cat's tail.
There's nobody lining up at the register. The cashier smiles at him.
Shishido takes a step. Towards the display.
He'll just have a look to see what the fuss is about.
That's all.
***
The straps of the plastic bag cut into his wrist as he struggles with sticking the key in the lock. The stupid cake is heavy.
Okay, so yeah, it's a Christmas cake.
Shishido peers into the plastic bag as he takes a detour to the basement to fetch Choutarou's mail for him. Which -if last year was any indication at all- will be a lot.
The cake looks good. Well, good enough. It sort of slid sideways in its box (he might've been kinda careless with it), ended up smeared against the side a little. But it still is unmistakably so a Christmas cake. If not for having been bought in the season and all, the white chocolate placard on top with 'Merry Christmas' in red and green frosting rather gives the game away.
Arriving in the basement Shishido gets a rather abrupt, yet genial plan.
He dumps the rest of the groceries underneath Choutarou's mailbox, kneels with the plastic bag that has the cake inside on the ground. Pries open the lid. Takes off the white chocolate placard with 'Merry Christmas' on it. Eats it.
Hah.
Sheer brilliance.
Now it could just be any sort of cake he just happened to buy on the day before Christmas.
Nothing lame about that, right?
At this rate he could give Oshitari a run for his money. Who's the real tensai anyway, huh?
The pleased rush lasts a few moments. Then he takes in all the crap stacked up, in, around and on Choutarou's mailbox. Christmas cards, Christmas presents, Christmas wishes, Christmas letters, … Christmas, Christmas, Christmas.
Gathering the whole lot of 'em, he stuffs everything in his pockets and in the plastic bags. Starts up the stairs. Slowly.
There's quite some letters. In abnormally floral-patterned envelopes.
First one is of a certain Ebisawa Aiko.
Hm.
Doesn't sound familiar.
He sticks it in his left pocket.
Second one is from Kihara Yuuki. Doesn't know her, either. It goes with the first.
Third one has Ugaki Koichi on it. Shishido chews on it. Some guy who went to university with Choutarou. That one he puts into his right pocket.
Anami Kaoru. Left pocket.
Ohtori Sachi. Right pocket.
Hiyoshi Wakashi. Right pocket.
Shishido. Heh. Right pocket.
Hojo Misao. Left pocket.
After having gone through the stack -taking his sweet time going up the stairs, pausing ever so often- he takes the ones from his left pocket out again.
Ebisawa.
Tch.
He pries it open.
Skims it. When he catches 'admire, handsome, single, love and meet' scattered in opulent quantities across the page, he half wads it and jams it back into his left pocket. All of them but one -a certain Ichiro Mariko turns out to be some former classmate Shishido vaguely remembers (though he checks, but the letter is full of bland and honest seasonal wishes)- end up in one big crumple of carton and paper.
The presents undergo a similar treatment. He checks the cards, puts the safe ones back inside his plastic bag with the cake. One of them, he guesses, contains a book (coincidentally a present from Hiyoshi) another a CD (from Sachi-chan). There's also a rather suspiciously squishy present from Oshitari, but when he kneads it, there's something hard and cylindrical inside the soft… whatever it is.
He's half tempted to drop it before the 'Crazy Old Cat-lady's' door, but in the end relents that even he isn't that heartless. After a rather intense inner dilemma, he concedes to put it with the book and the CD.
It had better not be what he suspects it might be.
But it is Christmas and he decides that even Oshitari sometimes deserves the benefit of the doubt.
Besides, there's always ample time for Oshitari's ass to be kicked at a later date and all, if need be.
Three of them are without a doubt, candies or chocolates. He pauses on a landing to rip open the first. The card reads something along the lines of 'a great admirer of yours' and a not so subtle 'single' dropped in, as well. A store-brand sort of chocolates, but fancy ones.
Tasty.
The second one is a bag of imported cookies.
Good ones, too. Buttery and heavy.
For a single instant he considers leaving the third one to Choutarou. But then he sees the name on the card.
By the time he finally steps into Choutarou's apartment again, he feels rather over-fed and unlikely to have a craving for chocolates anytime soon. Maybe he should've tossed the boxes, but he feels oddly vindicated for having eaten them instead. Especially the last one. Home made. Must've taken her hours.
Kicking off his snow-sodden shoes, he pads towards the fridge to store the cake away. Puts on some water to boil for the tea, flips the switch on the heater in the living room. The cards and letters from his right pocket he drops onto the coffee table. The actual, genuine presents go where the rest are stacked (not under a Christmas tree, Choutarou wasn't home to put one). The sweets from aunts and nieces go on the coffee table as well.
All the rest gets deposited into the trash (where they belong) without a second thought.
Duty done, he goes to wake up Choutarou.
It's almost ten, anyway. Soundlessly, Shishido pushes open the door.
Still out cold.
It makes him smile to see Choutarou curled on his side, one hand pressed against his mouth and the other loosely curled towards him, as though beckoning. He always sleeps like that alone, surprisingly vulnerable and almost child-like.
He swings the door wider.
Takes a few steps back until he bumps into the couch. That ought to be enough distance to get a fair charge at his unsuspecting victim. One last moment to appreciate how peaceful Choutarou looks. Then he launches himself.
The thunder of his approaching footsteps brings a small crease between Choutarou's brows, all the reaction he gets the time for before Shishido jumps him, landing braced over him on all fours. After which he promptly proceeds with snarling and growling, making a sharp nip-nip-nip-nip from the curve of Choutarou's shoulder to the tender underside of his jaw.
Choutarou makes a rather comical noise of shock, flails most ungainly, flops around, before waking up enough to realize he's not being devoured by some monstrous carnivore.
By then Shishido has moved on to gnawing and drooling on his ear, playfully worrying the lobe like a dog with a squeaky toy. Rather apt, taking Choutarou's rather squawking 'eeks' and 'aaahs' into account.
He has the upper hand for a quite a while, before Choutarou regains enough control of his sleep-sodden limbs to grab him and overpower him. By then there's a rather generous amount of saliva slicked on his neck and ear, as well as little red bruises that might or might not fade, just as most of them might or might not have been made sometime during the night.
Choutarou wrestles him, looking torn between an indignant sort of annoyance, as well as amusement.
Shishido only fuels the fire by tickling, nibbling and rubbing the length of his thigh rather strategically up against him.
"You." Choutarou grounds out, trying to pin both his arms, yet trying to arch away from the steady press of Shishido's leg against his crotch at the same time. "Are so dead."
Shishido grins, cocks an eyebrow. "What? About time you woke up, sleeping beauty."
A gasp.
Shishido shifts his leg. Up, down. Grins.
"Sleeping Beauty gets kissed awake," Choutarou grumbles. "And not by receiving an earful of drool."
"You weren't complaining about my drool last night. Chou-ta-rou," Shishido says, laughing at the faint flush it gets. "And you can still get a kiss, if you want it."
Choutarou lies down on him. He's rather pouty, but his eyes are glowing. "I don't think you deserve a kiss. I think you deserve to be locked in the bathroom so you can think about your crimes."
"Yeah. Punish me," Shishido says, mimicking an expression of remorse. "I've been naughty."
Now Choutarou lifts a brow at that. "… naughty? Have you been at the energy drinks again? You look like you've got a sugar-rush."
Shishido shrugs.
"Hmm…" Choutarou lets go of his wrists so he can cup his large, warm hands against either side of Shishido's face.
Now he's just smiling.
"I think I'll have that kiss," he murmurs. And leans down to take just that.
They kiss.
After a while Choutarou draws back and frowns.
"What?" Shishido demands, lips puffy and slick and wanting more. "What is it?"
Choutarou licks his lips almost thoughtfully. "Am I imagining things, or do you taste like chocolate?"
Shishido smirks.
"You're imagining things," he says and tugs his mouth on his again.
***
Ruffling his hair dry with a towel, Shishido watches Choutarou open the fridge and peer inside. There's a small pause, but there's a certain quality to it, like profound wonder mixed with astonishment.
Choutarou tilts his head just enough to look at him. He's smiling hard enough to dimple. "You bought Christmas cake," he says.
Tossing the towel aside, Shishido presents him with a scowl. "Correction. I bought cake. It just so happens to be the day before Christmas. These two facts to do not have to be related beyond that."
"Of course," Choutarou says, still smiling as he takes out the box and fetches plates.
They eat it on the couch.
For all that it is store-bought, the cake is delicious. Shishido polishes off two pieces, starts his third. Nobody ever figured out how he could eat so much and not gain weight.
Choutarou is slower, has just started his second slice. He smells like pomegranate shower gel and aftershave, exactly like Shishido himself smells. For some perverse reason he derives deep pleasure from nicking Choutarou's stuff when he stays over. From clothes to soap to his toothbrush, even (because really now, considering where they've put their mouths on one other, it'd be kinda hypocritical to flinch back from that). Choutarou has a practical mind, though, and now Shishido has his own toothbrush there and even his own drawer. Despite that small attempt at organization there's little signs of him all over the apartment. Game walkthroughs next to a stack of music magazines, a PSP, hair elastics, mint gum wrappers.
Not that he'd admit it, but he loves this.
Loves how easy and normal it is. His pajamas appearing in Choutarou's laundry, the energy drinks he likes in the fridge. Books he likes on the nightstand, conditioner for long hair in the bathroom.
Even this, on the couch together, Shishido reading the magazine he bought, Choutarou going through the mail he brought in.
Slow, easy.
Together they polish off more than three thirds of the cake. After, Shishido takes a square of mint gum out of the tin in his back pocket (special edition tin for Christmas… there was no regular packet to be found. Bah), chews.
The phone rings.
Shishido flips a page, frowns at this year's seasonal movie. The resume's title is 'The Magic of Christmas'. He skips and flips another page. Choutarou re-joins him on the couch with the cordless, as well as more cards and some of the presents Shishido pre-sorted for him.
"-just arrived yesterday, yes." Choutarou says.
A voice filters down through the receiver.
The hair on the back of Shishido's neck stands on end. His stomach churns in protest. He doesn't look up from the article, but his eyes stop moving.
Reiko.
"Aa. It's snowing really hard here, too. Hm… yes, by car I should think. Driving carefully. The car might just glide towards the concert hall by itself, though," Choutarou answers.
High, pre-orgasm tinted laughter filters through, as if that was the funniest thing she's ever heard in her entire life.
That insipid, opportunistic bitch. First chance he has he's calling the phone company to have her number blocked. Shishido is known to have deep, personal dislikes towards certain people. But Reiko is someone he quite cheerfully abhors. He can entertain himself for hours thinking up manners by which she might meet an early and messy end.
She and Choutarou once did a duet together, he on the piano, she on the violin. Every recital they performed together was sold out within a few hours, months beforehand. For long after their names popped up in various articles, with vague hinting at the two of them being an item.
Shishido knew it wasn't so, doesn't doubt Choutarou for even a second.
But it hurt and still stings a little, though none of this is Choutarou's fault. He was perfectly professional, if friendly and courteous towards her. Reiko, however, dangled like a limpet off his person every single opportunity she got. That and somehow the two of them were always spotted together when they went out for dinner, even though it always was talk of music and business.
It's safe to say he'd happily skip to when given a baseball bat with which he'd be allowed to bash in her empty, little skull.
She asks something.
Choutarou looks at the small mountain of gifts next to him on the couch. "You sent me something? You shouldn't have… wait, I'm-" he rifles through the presents.
Shishido does his best to seem completely and utterly absorbed in the review about the latest Resident Evil movie.
"…can't seem to find it. What was in it?" Choutarou asks.
Shishido turns a page. New Disney cartoon. Fascinating.
There's a pointed pause. "…Chocolates?" Choutarou repeats. Looks at Shishido. "Home-made chocolates? I'm sorry but I can't seem to find-" another suspicion-filled look in his direction.
Shishido: one; Reiko: zero.
He smiles, not a little smug, pops a bubble.
There's some mewling and pouting over the phone, at which Choutarou promises to go down and check his mailbox again. Shishido has mostly ceased any pretense of reading and is eavesdropping with abandon. Quite openly.
Despite his victory concerning the chocolates, the conversation drags on. Reiko pumps him shamelessly for information and his near-future plans, which Choutarou clumsily tries to skirt around.
"… so you aren't going out with the orchestra later tonight?" Reiko asks him.
Shishido puts aside his magazine, folds his gum in a tissue. Settles down to narrow his eyes meaningfully.
Looking cornered, Choutarou shoots him a quelling look. "No, but I am-"
She doesn't even let him finish. "I've got a table booked at this lovely restaurant. I think we've dined there before, I recall you greatly preferred the-"
That does it.
He scoots closer.
Choutarou glances at him, seems to know what he is up to but is quite unable (or maybe even unwilling) to stop him from doing it. Nevertheless he tries to shoulder him away when Shishido leans in.
He doesn't kiss him. Doesn't even come near his mouth. Instead he brushes his face along the side of Choutarou's throat, up to exhale against the shell of his ear, to tease the tip of his nose through the soft curling hairs around his ears. His own ponytail drapes dark against the white of Choutarou's shirt, slick and faintly wet still.
He presses close. The length of his torso against Choutarou's side, held just so that he'll be able to feel the warmth of him, his chest and ribs and stomach.
There are valiant efforts on Choutarou's part to continue the conversation over the phone in a normal, blasé sorta manner. But Shishido knows him, knows how to bare his throat and curve his back to catch his eye, his attention.
More than once there's an indignant "Ohtori-kun?!" from the other side of the line, when Choutarou fails to respond.
But he doesn't completely buckle and Shishido has had enough.
Leveling a meaningful look at Choutarou he slides towards the ground, between Choutarou's legs. Without further ado he buries his face in his crotch, and is not a little gleeful to discover how 'distracted' Choutarou really was. He opens his mouth, exhales hot through the fabric against the hard jut of his erection.
There are no words to describe the look on Choutarou's face. Halfway murderous through extremely turned on.
"Aaa-aaah," he goes, as Shishido does it again, only now inching his hot mouth up and down a little. "I… eehm. I got… to. Leave now. C-call back? Er. I-" Shishido looks up through his lashes, cups his mouth over him, tasting fabric but uncaring when Choutarou rather chokes and mutters in a completely undignified manner, "GOTTA GO!" and hangs up.
Shishido doesn't hide his smirk.
Not even when Choutarou seems rather angry at his theatrics. "Ryou-" he grounds out.
Shishido lifts his head. Pointedly licks his lips. It doesn't matter that all he tastes is jeans, it's the rising flush the gesture brings to those cheeks he's after. "Yes?" he asks.
"Why- how- That's not-" he's actually a little outraged, brows frowning and eyes blazing. "Couldn't you just have waited? It's rather childish of you-"
Shishido chucks his chin up. Arches an eyebrow. "You're always free to call her back and ask for another batch of home-made chocolates instead of my mouth on your cock. But hey, whatever you want."
They have a staring contest. While Choutarou's mouth is a hard slash, his blush rises until his ears go pink with it.
"Well?" Shishido presses. He takes the cordless and presents it: a challenge.
The line of Choutarou's mouth softens. Ignoring the phone, he touches Shishido's jaw instead, asking.
Inwardly, Shishido fist-pumps.
Shishido: one-fucking-bazillion; Reiko: minus infinity.
***
He can still taste him on his tongue, even an hour later.
True, the taste isn't anything to cheer about, by itself. But the fact that he can taste Choutarou, as intimately as that, is a testimony to Shishido about how serious they are. Sucking dick is coarse? Maybe so, Shishido doesn't particularly care. Not when it still counts as love making. Not when an hour ago Choutarou's head was tipped back, neck bared and thrumming with the sort of sounds he only makes when it feels really, really good. Not when an hour ago there were long fingers in Shishido's hair, hands full of long dark strands, kneading and tugging and just there to feel the bob of his head up and down, over and again until he came.
That Choutarou lets him, is one thing.
It is another that he looks at Shishido after, heart in his eyes.
It is something completely different that as soon as Choutarou let him, it stopped being about Reiko. That even ceased to matter.
He licks his lips, smiles to himself. They've come far.
"I don't think this is edible anymore," Choutarou says. His head is in the fridge.
Shishido has a rather nice view of his ass sticking back as he bends over. He prods the rice and meat in the pan. They're making omurice. Or rather, Shishido is making it. Choutarou is sorting out his fridge. Most of the contents are past date. When he pulls back, he's holding a green container.
"What was in it?" Shishido asks.
"Something you made just before I went on tour. I think it was oden," he adds, holding it up to the light of the window.
Shishido remembers making oden in this kitchen. Heck, he knows Choutarou's kitchen better than Choutarou does. For all that his partner can cook, he's not very keen on it and often too tired to do so himself. Most of all he quite likes Shishido's cooking and sometimes tosses in lame compliments about his own attempts not being able to compare ever since having eaten Shishido's. Which, admittedly, lame as they are and all Shishido loves hearing.
On his way to the trashcan, Choutarou passes him and rests a hand briefly on the small of his back. Almost absentminded. Shishido's throat tightens. This could've been something he'd have every single day. At least when Choutarou is home. In all honestly he doesn't tour constantly, nor as far as he just has. But he could've been living here by now, maybe even long enough to cease feeling as pathetically starved for Choutarou's every single touch and the spotlight of his attention.
About a year ago, Choutarou asked him to move in.
Shishido refused.
He'd been frightened by how much he'd wanted it. And also by how badly he didn't want it.
Yes, this place is more home to him than his own. Probably if he went to count every single day he's spend here this year, he might even have spent an equal amount of time in both places. A waste of rent and other costs. Especially when he considers just how far gone on Choutarou he is.
His mother, fuck, even his father, have asked him what the holdup is. They've celebrated their ten year anniversary. That's longer than most marriages last. And that all through puberty, high school, graduation, university, first jobs and new environments.
But what if he screws up?
Shishido mouths off alright, but he knows his own weaknesses well enough. What of one of his ugly streaks is bad enough to ruin this? Granted, Choutarou knows him, maybe even better than Shishido knows himself. But knowing and dealing 24/7 every day of your life with it is quite another matter.
Now he's got the faint security of the needy desperation that underscores their time together. Now Choutarou can't seem to get enough of him. What if they live together and Shishido turns out what he knows he is? Ordinary. Not particularly inspiring. Quite obviously not a part of Choutarou's career. Even a dangerous threat to it, considering.
Choutarou isn't into glamour and fame. Contrarily he's rather shy of it, awkward almost. He just wants to play the piano. But being with Shishido could single-handedly ruin it.
That last? An excuse.
He's just a big coward.
Choutarou's the single most import thing in his life and he's frightened about screwing up.
Though when they eat the omurice together at the kitchen table, just talking, Shishido thinks about it.
Really thinks about it.
***
That afternoon, Choutarou practices.
When Choutarou plays the piano, there's no place for anything else. Even Shishido, whose head is usually full of things he has to do, is doing and wants to do, has to stop and respect the power of it.
He doesn't mind. Not really.
Though it scares him, sometimes. When Choutarou plays, it does something to him. For all that this should be private, something that belongs only to Choutarou and Shishido rightly doesn't even understand and shouldn't have a part in… it does something to him.
Listening to Choutarou play the piano, his life, his ambition, his job, it feels almost private.
Choutarou moves his fingers, his hands, his whole being to demand those unearthly noises out of the instrument and Shishido doesn't get the act of it. Yet somehow when he stands and lets the music fill him up until he threatens to spill over and knows it's not something he's separate of.
This might be practice for tonight, but it feels like hands cupping his heart.
***
"You should get changed."
Shishido grunts. Clacks the buttons on his PSP.
His tuxedo has already been laid out. He doesn't want to put it on. He doesn't really want to attend the concert anymore, altogether. This morning it was all vague and unthreatening enough, but now they've got to be there in less than an hour and a half. If Choutarou hadn't made the mistake of practicing earlier today, Shishido might've been tempted. After all, he loves to hear him play, loves to see him play. But he's gotten his own private concert already, so why attend the 'real' one? The one where everything is so 'real' it gets fake.
The one where after Choutarou will be swallowed up by the press and admirers and the sort of people Atobe could've become but didn't, not really. Those are also the ones where he'll be slinking at the sidelines, unknown, unimportant, instantly forgotten. It's not Choutarou's fault and he's welcome to his fame, deserves it, but Shishido doesn't want to be reminded that he can't and won't ever have a part in that portion of his life. He has no need to be reminded that in those moments they are irrevocably separated.
Choutarou makes another mistake in taking the grunt for one meaning: 'Why of course, I'll be dressed and ready to go in a jiffy, as soon as I rip this pixelated bad guy's spleen out'.
And that's how with only fifteen minutes to spare, Choutarou -fully groomed and attired- finds Shishido sitting on the couch, tongue sticking out in concentration as he X, X, triangle, squares the boss of level 17 to hell. He fistpumps, selects 'yes' when questioned to save.
"Ryou?" Choutarou says, rather too sweetly. "Can you get changed, please?"
He sighs. Puts his PSP aside and says: "I don't want to. Look-"
"You can't not come!" Choutarou interjects.
"Why not? It's not like you need me around to blow people's minds with your music," Shishido counters. Then adds, rather unwisely, "Besides, I hate tuxedos."
The first part of his reasoning might've gotten him somewhere, but the second smashes the lid on the tiny crack of opportunity he had. It also smashes the lid on Choutarou's patience.
Which he decides to express physically.
By bodily picking Shishido up. Upside down.
One moment Shishido is attempting to dart away from the reaching arms, the next the world swoops and he's dangling upside down, face somewhere in the vicinity of Choutarou's knees, legs uselessly treading air. Blood rushes to his head and his shirt and pants legs ruck down. The tin of mint gum clatters to the ground. He bats at Choutarou's legs, or tries to, but is so disoriented that he ends up sort of half-clinging to his left leg to steady himself.
All this is accompanied by colorful expletives, amongst most notably 'fuck' and 'damn' (there might also be a few wobbly cries of 'put me down!'). There's also a half-laugh, wild and out of control and attempts to gnaw at Choutarou's kneecap.
He gets vague impressions of the table's legs and tatami mats, knocks his still kicking leg against a doorframe and only realizes he's in the bedroom just as Choutarou drops him on the bed.
There's no doubt that he's red in the face from being upside-down, but he's also laughing, weakly and unable to help himself. That is until he sees his tuxedo draped over the hanger and hooked onto the edge of the closet. He's faster than Choutarou. Before the latter can turn to the tuxedo, Shishido lunges and gets hold of his belt. Hauls him down on top of him.
Shishido kisses him, sloppy and forceful, especially when Choutarou goes 'HMPF' (= RYOU!) and forces his hand between their faces to cup it over his mouth and push his head away.
"Ryou," he repeats, not pleased at all and flushed himself.
"What?" Shishido counters. "You're the caveman who dragged to the bedroom upside down. What the hell did you have in mind, if not this, huh?" As he says this, he hooks his legs over the back of Choutarou's knees, trapping him between his thighs.
Choutarou glares at him. "You need to get changed now, or we're going to be late."
Shishido's frowns back. "I told you I don't want to-"
"You are getting into that tuxedo even if I have to tie you down and drug you," Choutarou says low and urgently. "Don't push me. Get dressed."
They stare at each other.
Shishido nods. "Alright."
Choutarou starts to smile.
"On one condition."
The smile falls.
"If I can outlast you for five minutes, I get to stay home," Shishido challenges.
Choutarou shakes his head. "No. Don't be difficult. We don't have time for this, don't-"
"You're right," Shishido concedes, nodding gravely. "You wouldn't even last two minutes, let alone five. I'm sorry, forget about it." He begins to struggle into a sitting position. "Hand me the damn suit, so I can-"
He's pushed flat on his back again. He fakes a blink of surprised innocence.
Choutarou gives him a look.
This is just too easy.
***
"Don't give me that look," Choutarou says. "I won fair and square."
Under his breath Shishido mutters something about dextrous fingers and not being warned and cheating.
Choutarou rolls his eyes, but he's smiling also, no doubt recalling Shishido's head falling back and his cry of defeat that sounded oddly like victory at the same time. Until he got past his high and had the presence of mind to feel embarrassed that Choutarou won so easily and single-handedly at that... literally.
And the stupid tuxedo is all stuffy and tight in the wrong places. The tie pinches his neck. Shishido hooks two fingers around the cloth and drags it looser, before taking out the tin of mint gums and popping one into his mouth.
Scowling and chewing, Shishido keeps his eyes locked on the road ahead of them, despite being a sore lose, ever alert. The snow falls thick and heavy, etching deep tire tracks into the white blanket. They do nearly glide towards the concert hall, after all.
For the first time Choutarou's excruciatingly slow pace is warranted.
Running only slightly late they arrive and manage to park the car without any mishaps. As he pulls the brake Shishido can see the first signs of nerves: trembling fingers.
They only increase as they get out and hurry out the freezing cold into the building. A little wide-eyed and his words tumbling past his lips somewhat fast Choutarou greets the compère and bows too low when he apologizes for their tardiness. As he accompanies Choutarou towards his dressing room, he lets his hand brush Choutarou's, takes his cold fingers when nobody's looking.
They don't talk much when they are in the dressing room. Choutarou opens the mini-fridge and takes out a bottle of water, the kind that comes in an exquisite glass bottle and costs more than Shishido can imagine. He pours a glass, but leaves it. Instead he opts for ruffling through the stacks of music scores, not seeing what he's looking at.
Sometimes other members of the orchestra stick their heads inside, offering kind words but appearing as distracted and drawn as Choutarou does. Shishido doesn't know whether they fully realize what his presence means. He doesn't ask.
This is the limbo zone of Choutarou's career. Shishido wonders what he does when he's elsewhere, how he beats down his nerves by himself. Also he realizes he might not have been capable of letting Choutarou walk out the door earlier, not all alone. He's standing amongst the splendor, but it has no meaning to him, the finely wrought table and matching chair on which Choutarou is seated, the deep red carpet.
Even drinking the untouched glass of water doesn't alter his feeling of being disconnected.
But when the compère appears to announce that they should take their places -Choutarou behind his piano and Shishido in the seat reserved for him in the theatre- Shishido places both his hands on Choutarou's shoulders.
Their eyes meet in the mirror. Shishido returns the wild look with one of his own, the same kind when they used to walk onto a court.
Shishido raises an eyebrow, smirks.
Crush them, Choutarou.
Choutarou smiles.
***
He doesn't just crush his audience.
He practically vaporizes them and that's before the performance gets to his solo. Shishido is already glad to be sitting down during the steadily climbing crescendo of the music, through which Choutarou's piano only shines brighter instead of blending into one voice with the other instruments. That's when he fully realizes that when Choutarou said that 'he's been granted the honor to perform with a well-known orchestra', it actually means that the orchestra are all lucky bastards that provide background support to delicately underscore the dominant instrument: the piano. Of which is only one, the one Choutarou is sitting at.
Ever modest, that partner of his.
Though he looks like someone else entirely.
Choutarou can't lie, not when he plays. He's always played from his heart, which is his greatest strength but also what makes his music potentially unstable, at times, when he isn't feeling 'there', wherever he goes when he plays like this. Shishido kinda compares it to when Choutarou bends over him and kisses his neck, hips moving, but he's not sure it is the same.
He can't lie then, either.
This person is a little different than the one moving over him in a half-dark room, but there's passion and fierceness Shishido recognizes.
This one cuts a ferocious and intimidating figure -teeth bared, neatly combed hair starting to curl into disarray as he perspires. Tall, broad-shouldered and a picture of stark black and white, he is nothing short of magnificent and glorious to behold.
Shishido takes it in: the wide domed ceilings (best acoustics in Tokyo, Atobe once said), the gold filigree and the plushly dressed chairs and curtains. The glittering crystal chandelier dangling above the dais like a giant gem -likely mounted solely for this occasion alone- the dark, polished wood.
The seat he's sitting in is one whose ticket he can't pay for, would he have had to. It dawns on him that this truly is the sort of scene that moves even beyond common fame, for Choutarou would have to have told someone about reserving one for him. And these seats aren't allotted freely at all. Yet the implications of what this might mean -a man that is not related to Choutarou being the one to receive the sole ticket- remains private.
The people who work here aren't just professionals. Their love for music ranges beyond common hang-ups like men being with other men.
All this adds to the sickening rush of emotion, but Shishido is pretty sure that they could've sitting in a seedy bar hidden away in some back alley and he'd still feel like his guts are being twined around the prongs of a fork, like spaghetti.
Because really?
He's so proud of Choutarou.
Enough it hurts him like this.
The person playing the piano is real and this amazes Shishido, yet he also feels empowered in the knowledge that everybody else in the whole damn building only knows him as this.
And their interpretation of this one facet gives them a stunted, superficial impression of his public image.
Shishido has seen and is intimately familiar with the whole picture.
He knows Choutarou sleeps on his side alone in bed, knuckles pressed against his mouth like a child. He knows Choutarou loves spooning up behind him, their height differences making it so that the fit is perfect. He knows that Choutarou is a quiet, deep sleeper, but snores softly when he's had a drink too much.
He knows Choutarou can sit hours before a blank canvas, day after day, and Shishido will wonder at this and wait for the moment he inadvisably picks up his brush or charcoal and creates. Sudden, unannounced and then for hours on end to such extremes Shishido will have to bodily separate him from it.
He knows that Choutarou buys the girlish, fruity soaps, but the more sharp and musky aftershaves. He knows that he still uses strawberry toothpaste with extra fluoride for children.
He knows that strange noises and creaking floorboards will frighten him, especially after scary movies, and he won't sleep until Shishido goes to check.
He knows that Choutarou prefers the brown mug, because it feels just right against his lips, holds just enough tea. When lost in thought he'll take a sip from the mug and leave it at his mouth, worrying his upper lip along the rim, liking the feel of the smooth enameled inside.
He knows that Choutarou loves it when Shishido tickles his fingers along the nape of his neck when he passes by.
He knows that when Choutarou sketches, especially when drawing human characters, he'll make the face of the one he's trying to capture. Shishido has never seen him frown as severely as when he's (the few times he was bribed to) posed for Choutarou, but has also seen him open his mouth, smirk, stick out his tongue, pout and bare his teeth.
He knows Choutarou sneezes in threes.
He knows that Choutarou is the kinda weirdo who eats the 'least yummy part' of a meal first and saves the best for last (whereas Shishido always starts with the tastiest and flat-out leaves what he doesn't like).
He knows that kissing the inside of Choutarou's wrist right over the pulse-point when they have sex will sometimes pull him almost violently over the edge.
He knows Choutarou always tries to keep one used garment of Shishido's, 'accidentally' misplacing it or even hiding it, because he likes something that smells like him when Shishido isn't home. He knows because he once found a long lost t-shirt tucked away under his pillow, so threadbare and used Shishido didn't even recognize it at first glance.
He knows it hurt Choutarou when he said 'no'. He remembers the look in those eyes when he shook his head.
He remembers the first time he saw Choutarou. A tiny, scrawny midget hanging off his mother's hand in the supermarket. He doesn't know why he remembers that, doesn't even know when it was, only knows that it was way before hyotei.
He remembers the first time Choutarou touched him. Under floodlights and a clear night sky, grabbing his hand to haul him to his feet again.
He doesn't remember the decision to grow his hair again, but he does remember the slight curve of Choutarou's mouth when he said 'it's getting longer again'.
He remembers a summer, a certain morning. Warm, glowing sun streaming in through the window and a beloved, cold dog on the kitchen floor. Then he remembers nothing, until his name was called, caring and worried. An arm around his shoulders and something finally making sense to him when all else would not.
He remembers weeks, months spend in distraught agony, not knowing how to handle this, the thing inside of him that made him first dream and then want and then need and there being no answers.
He remembers something painfully familiar, a dead cat under the tires of car and someone hurting but too strong and proud to admit it. An awkward evening, a forced hug. Somehow a night spend together holding in one bed, better and right and finally making sense.
He remembers the first time Choutarou stood on a stage, the start of what was to be many. He remembers how the light looked on his hair, the shaking hands, the heart that beat a mile a minute. He remembers the shock on his face when the whole audience burst out into ecstatic clapping, then the rising euphoria. The kiss that had followed after -when Shishido had gone to find and congratulate him- had tasted of that, but so, so much more also.
After that first, the remembers more performances. He remembers them being further away and Choutarou being gone longer and longer. He remembers the ache of loneliness, the cold bed and the hours he sat against the wall in his room, listening to a crappy recording Gakuto made of Choutarou's first concert, over and over again, until one day it refused to start. Then he remembers just sitting against the wall.
He remembers a birthday of his, two years ago. Choutarou abroad and away for weeks to come. He remembers being dragged out by friends, by Gakuto and Jiroh, laughing at his 'pining', scolding him for staying inside to sulk because his boyfriend wasn't there for his birthday. Shishido remembers letting them and having a moderately good time. He remembers coming home at two in the morning. He remembers Choutarou sitting on his doorstep.
He remembers Choutarou on the phone, saying he was sick of it, that he was tired that he wanted to go home (to him). He remembers a towering phone-bill after staying on the phone just listening to one other breathe, only to fall asleep.
He remembers every single damn time he saw Choutarou again, when he was back, after a day or a week of being on tour. He can roll the images of these memories through his mind like candy.
He remembers and knows all this when he listens to Choutarou be this one tiny facet that can never compare to the whole of him, what makes him him and real, someone he wouldn't want to trade for the world.
Someone who is home.
Someone who deserves yes.
***
Mouth stuffed full of mint gum, Shishido drops the tin back into his pocket, where it lands with a hollow, metal clatter. He tries chewing, cheeks straining, but eventually spits the half-hard wad of gum into the nice linen handkerchief that came with the tuxedo.
He's making the right decision.
***
The concert ends in a thunderous applause as every single damn person simultaneously rises for a standing ovation, a human forest with waving limbs.
On stage Choutarou bows, low.
Shishido stands up, too. Not to clap or whistle, but to rush backstage in hope he can reach Choutarou before all the rest does. In his pocket, the tin clatters about.
He needs to flash his ticket and his backstage-pass, endure the snottily lifted eyebrow of the guard. Backstage sounds are muffled, even his footfalls as they sink into the plush red carpet, but the roar in the theatre is almost as though he's underwater, deaf by hearing nothing. It makes him feel oddly isolated, alone almost. But then he thinks of the tin and the look on Choutarou's face and him, physically touching him, because it doesn't matter that he's… he's that on stage, which is him, yes, but insignificant compared to the rest of him and they know that, because if he can just grip his shoulder, then they're them and he's making the right decision.
But then he rounds a corner only to find a wall of flesh blocking his way, clustered together and pawing to get to the front of the heap. Shishido skids to a halt, breathing heavy, not knowing what to do. There's reporters and journalists, avid lovers of Choutarou's music and plain fans, conversing in breathy voices. One girl at the back is in high heels and her skirt is so short Shishido can see the lacy frill of her panties. She's got killer legs.
The crow is huge. The sheer number of the people, the frenzy of them, catches him off guard. Momentarily he doesn't know what to do. Stay there? If Choutarou sees him, surely- No, that wouldn't work, he just has to wait a minute.
The dull roar, like a herd of mooing, carnivorous mutant bovines, alerts him that Choutarou's made an appearance. Cameras flash. Voices raise into a jumbled mess of praise and questions and people just calling Ohtori-san, Ohtori-san, please! and Shishido has never seen anything like it, didn't know it had gotten this bad. It's complete and utter chaos. His head swims.
He looks, but doesn't see him. The tin weighs heavy in his pocket. He doesn't really want to come closer, he's not- not part of that.
Then between the fancy up-do of a reporter and a bouquet of roses being waved, Shishido catches a glimpse of him. Choutarou sees him, too. Their eyes meet across the chaotic cluster of people. In a snap of an instant, Shishido fully realizes what this means. That Choutarou is also that man there, adored by others, praised by many, and with a fully-formed handprint on the pages of the music books, all before hitting thirty.
And Shishido stands there, with the most weird and belated sort of present in his pocket ever, and they look at one other, parted by a world of difference.
People start to swing their heads around to track down who Choutarou is looking at, whose name his lips are saying-
This is beyond him. He couldn't belong and he can't ever compete and he's just him, only Shishido Ryou, and he was plain dumb to ever think otherwise.
Before his presence can harm instead of being merely useless, Shishido turns and gets the hell out of there.
***
For a while the only thing he can hear are his uneven, half-running steps, his harsh breathing and behind him the dull roar like a hungry ocean. So when he sees the ornate glass doors and finds them unlocked, he slips through and outside into the cold night. Breathes.
It's still snowing. For a while Shishido stands there, panting and blood pounding against his eardrums, while thick flakes melt into starbursts on the black martial of his tuxedo. After one last steadying exhale, he walks towards the stone balustrade supported by thick, ornate plinths and leans heavily on them, head hanging. It must be freezing, he thinks absently, and shivers as the snow falls on his bare nape. With a sigh, he yanks out the elastic, lets his hair fan open around his face and neck.
It really has gotten long. Long enough to brush the balustrade when he leans on his elbows again.
Outside it is quiet.
Everything is white.
Fresh and new and utterly beautiful.
And very, very cold. His fingers fumble clumsy, stiff and shaking as he fishes out the tin from his pocket. Nearly drops it over into the abyss as he pries open the lid. Which really, really, royally and truly would have sucked, because he put his own apartment keys in them. Carefully, he shakes the tin to make them rattle and wink light at him. They're coated with sugary power and most likely sticky. Shishido frowns at them, then tenses. Shuts the tin and drops it back into his pocket.
Before the door opens he knows who is opening that door, yet when he turns he still experiences a sharp pull down the center of his body to see Choutarou standing there, slightly out of breath and color high. Someone must be covering for him. That or the papers will be full of his walking out on the press and his fans tomorrow. Though it feels like he's been up here for ages, it can't have been that long.
Without saying a word, Shishido turns again, looking out over the snow-covered Tokyo city-scape.
Choutarou joins him, leaning heavily on the balustrade -an echo of Shishido's earlier gesture. Not speaking, they stand side-by-side for a long while.
Their breath clouds before their faces. Choutarou curls his long fingers into his palm to protect them from the cold. Shishido's hair sticks against his lips.
It's snowing.
Seems like it is gonna be a white Christmas after all.
Shishido doesn't really like Christmas. Sure, he thinks the basic idea of love and tolerance and sharing and rejoicing is… nice, if kinda lame, but it feels forced that everybody should be like that during only one specific and media-dictated time of the year. He doesn't want to give anybody a fucking useless present because he's supposed to, but he'd rather give them something they really, really want and don't expect to get, spontaneously.
It feels rather fake to him.
That's why he and Choutarou don't give each other presents with Christmas. Part of him knows Choutarou would like to and that he usually sneaks in something a few days after by lieu of present, being all 'oh, I just saw this today and thought you'd like it, no big deal', though Shishido will accidentally stumble over it hidden away in the bottom drawer of his desk... months beforehand.
But maybe this year he can… give something spontaneously, something -he hopes- Choutarou will still really, really want and didn't expect to get anytime soon.
Before he can think better of it, before he can think of what just happened inside and the whole reason they wound up on the balcony, he reaches into his pocket and holds out the tin to Choutarou, careless and carefully not looking at him, because he doesn't want Choutarou to see how really, really he wants it now, too.
He stands holding out the tin like that for about a minute, not-speaking, not-looking and he's so damn nervous it takes a while for him to realize Choutarou is not accepting it. He turns to look, stomach sinking.
Choutarou looks rather confused, expression clearly saying 'but I don't want mint-gum' and seeming rather too intimidated by Shishido's fierce wordlessness that he's not sure how to decline without having to endure a prolonged silent-treatment because of it.
For the first time, Shishido opens his mouth and says rather testily: "It's a present."
Choutarou blinks, mouth twitching, but takes the tin. Inspects it. Looks up to thank him, confused but sincere (the idiot) and Shishido nearly hits him over the head right there and then. For all that his partner is a musical prodigy, he can be kinda slow on the uptake otherwise.
"Choutarou," he says on a sigh. "You gotta open it."
Snow catches on his hair and cheekbones, flaring rainbow spots in his vision as the light from through the glass doors refracts on them. Choutarou is outlined in a hazy halo of light as he opens it.
The keys gleam dully.
The scent of sugary mint fills the air.
Choutarou frowns, puzzled. Takes the keys out, turns them over in his palm questioningly.
"Your apartment keys," Choutarou states.
Shishido nods.
The long fingers are angry red, played hot and sore, now bitten cold. "I don't-" he starts, but Shishido cuts him off.
"-I don't need them anymore," Shishido murmurs awkwardly, pulling at a strand of his hair and starting to look away. "You asked and I… well, yes. If you still, uh, still want me to. You know" -he breathes in deep- "your home could be mine. If you don't mind and still want me t-"
The words come stunted and awkward and so damn lame that it comes as a profound relief when Choutarou decides to shut him up.
By kissing him.
It's so cold that the heat of his mouth burns and stings and there's hair somewhere in it, long and snagging on their lips. And when Shishido tips his head back and opens his mouth for Choutarou to lick inside, it gets into their mouths too. Their lips catch and drag, cold and clumsy and sensitive when snow flakes sneak into the kiss, sharply cold and instantly forgotten. Choutarou is deliberate and demanding, holding him so close that Shishido is lifted to the tips of his toes while he kisses him, a steady deep contact. Their lower lips catch and their tongues slide together, slow and good and Shishido can feel the words drops like hot peddles at the crest of his hips when Choutarou murmurs with lips slicking against his:
"I'd love that."
-Omake-
Christmas morning dawns to a vista of snowfall of the likes Tokyo hasn't seen in years.
Everything seems soft and hazy, but mostly the utter stillness is what permeates the atmosphere. There's not much noise but for the low whir of the heater and the crinkle of wrapping paper as Choutarou opens his presents.
Yesterday's cake is still tasty and Shishido slowly spoons the last slice of it into his mouth. He's content with just watching Choutarou and relive snatches yesterday's rather spectacular aftermath. Choutarou still feels kinda bad for 'desecrating' the hallowed changing room where so much esteemed artists and musicians have sat and did their… whatever the hell it is people usually do in their changing rooms besides switching stuffy outfits. But Shishido doesn't feel even one drop of guilt, not for the cracked mirror, not for any… uh, marks that may have been left. Mostly he is plotting how he can convince Choutarou to mount a big-ass mirror on his bedroom wall.
… their bedroom wall.
Damn.
Shishido gets goosebumps just thinking about it.
He sits there kinda, yeah alright, smiling all lame and dreamy, completely relaxed and happy for all of fifteen minutes.
Then Choutarou clears his throat. Delicately.
The happy feeling squirms uncomfortably.
"…ah," Choutarou coughs. "Ryou?" His ears are flaming red.
The happy feeling starts to wilt. He sits up. "Yeah?"
"Oshitari-san… has, uhm, given me a present. But I-" he shakes his head a little and Shishido rises sharply from the couch. "I can't help but think he… er means for you to use it or-"
Shishido peers over his shoulder.
The happy feeling transforms into a raging flaming bull of death. Shitting fireballs. Of death. Or cause it. Slowly and excruciatingly.
He takes a deep, steadying breath. "I," he says. "Am gonna fucking murder him."
Choutarou winces. "Thought so." He mutters, but then he hitches a shoulder and goes on in a small voice: "-but you have to admit it's kinda-"
"Finish that sentence and die, Ohtori."
"Sorry, Shishido-san."
-fin-