FicAlert! PoT> a i (Silver Pair) PG-15(ish) Pt4
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
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.
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
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.