Fandom: Prince of Tennis, Claim: Kirihara Akaya
Title: Kirihara Akaya
Author: Stormy1x2 ( traveling_storm )
Prompts: 065: Passing, 066: Rain, 067: Snow
Characters: Kirihara Akaya, Sengoku Kiyosumi
Notes: We've gone sharply off the canon path WAAAAY into AU land now. Mature themes ahead, child abuse, language.
065. Passing
Sengoku watched the second year curiously. 'Surprised' was not the word he'd use to describe what he'd felt when Taichi had skidded to a halt in front of him, fairly exploding in his excitement to tell him that Kirihara Akaya was on the grounds and wanted to talk to him. 'Flabbergasted' was a more accurate phrase. Or 'stunned.'
Well, whatever the reason, it had to be something bad. He seriously doubted the Rikkai player would run all the way from his district to theirs unless there was something pushing him big-time, and he'd never believe the 'just passing by' line. Rikkai was an hour bus ride away, for Kami's sake.
Kirihara, still breathing heavily from his long run, was alternating his gaze from Sengoku to the ground, to Taichi and back to the ground again. Taking pity on him, Sengoku spoke without turning around. “Taichi? Would you mind going and getting a water bottle for Kirihara-kun?” He smiled, when Kirihara looked up at him. “That's a long run, and we don't want to be improper hosts by letting our guests get dehydrated. What would people think of Yamabuki then?”
“Yes, desu!” Taichi snapped his hand up in a decent salute, and sprinted off again.
Akaya watched him leave, eyes narrowed. “Have you guys tried Ritalin?”
Sengoku snickered. “Nah. We kinda like Taichi the way he is.”
“Whatever.” Akaya shrugged.
“How 'bout we take a walk?” Sengoku suggested, gesturing to the empty track field nearby. The cross country team did neighborhood runs in the afternoon, and the soccer team had an away game that day, which meant no one was using the track. “You can do a proper cool down instead of standing here letting your muscles cramp up, and we can talk at the same time.”
Kirihara nodded, and let him lead the way over.
Dan Taichi came running back as they hit the track, handing over the water bottle with a happy burst of, 'Here you are, desu! Is there anything else I can do, desu?”
Sengoku dismissed Taichi with another grin. The look Kirihara gave Taichi was one of confusion mixed with wariness, the kind he often saw on the faces of people forced to deal with small children while waiting for them to attack. “I promise you, he's harmless.”
Kirihara was too busy guzzling the water to retort verbally, so he settled for shooting him the finger, making Sengoku laugh out loud.
“You're too damn cheerful,” Kirihara said finally, dropping the empty bottle to the ground. Sengoku ignored it. They could pick it up on the way back, unless Taichi skittered out and scooped it up for them.
“I try to be,” he replied. “I find it makes my outlook on life more positive.”
Another snort came from Kirihara's direction, but the boy didn't say anything else in response. Sengoku raised an eyebrow, waiting a minute, before shrugging and starting to walk the track. Kirihara hesitated a split second before joining him.
“So...” Sengoku said, at the hundred meter mark. “You planning on telling me what inspired this little visit, or am I going to have to guess?”
Kirihara's jaw tightened; Sengoku could see the tendons in his neck bunch. “You... we're friends, right?” He glanced quickly at Sengoku and then turned back to the black rubber of the track. “I mean, at Camp, you said...”
“I am sincerely honored to count you as one of my friends,” Sengoku assured him quickly. This truly was getting interesting.
“Yeah... friends... friends talk, right?” Kirihara's cheeks had a faint splash of pink highlighting them. “About... things.”
“They do.”
“About... serious things?”
Sengoku studied Akaya's profile out of the corner of his eye. The pink was fading away, but the bleakness in the boy's eyes was not. Not for the first time, he wondered what on earth had brought the unusually-solemn boy so far away from home. And why, he thought curiously, isn't he talking to his teammates instead of me?
“I don't want them to know,” Kirihara said bluntly.
Oops. Apparently he'd said that out loud.
“You don't consider your teammates friends?”
Kirihara shot him a look that plainly said he thought that was a stupid comment. “Of course they're my friends. But they might tell someone. They're...” He stopped, biting his lip.
“Too close,” Sengoku finished for him.
Kirihara shot him a look of surprise, and then nodded. “Yeah.”
“I see.” The redhead folded his arms behind his head as they walked. “So, what serious things did you want to talk about?”
“I... “ Kirihara looked frustrated. He tried again. “Back at camp... you made a comment. About people not being allowed to hurt me.”
“I did,” Sengoku agreed cautiously.
“You sounded like you meant it.”
“Of course I meant it. No one deserves to be hurt for no reason. Not you, not anyone.”
Kirihara looked at him, staring hard. “You said it like you knew what you were talking about.”
Sengoku faltered slightly under that determined gaze, and he swallowed hard, painfully. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to regain his composure. Briefly, he thought about lying, denying Kirihara's words, but not only would that insult the younger boy's intelligence, it would also make him close up. Something told him that would not be a good thing.
Coming to a decision, he opened his eyes, looked back at Kirihara evenly and then nodded. “I did. I do.”
Suddenly, the hardness melted away from Kirihara's eyes, leaving behind nothing but utter misery and confusion. Years seemed to slip off him, leaving him looking younger then he had before, and Sengoku wondered again, just what had brought this proud young man to this level of desperation.
“Tell me?” Kirihara asked quietly, beseechingly.
Sengoku studied him and saw a mirror of himself, the way he'd been years ago. He had the same look of inner torment that had taken Sengoku years to overcome. If it was truly that bad, Sengoku wanted to help in any way he could. Especially since he knew firsthand how it felt.
Maybe something good could finally come of what had happened to him all those years ago.
Word Count: 1018 / 28776
066. Rain
**Warning** Disturbing themes ahead.
Sengoku Kiyosumi was five years old the first time his parents left him at Uncle Kenji's house while they went on a two week vacation in Thailand. His uncle had patted him on the head, told him to stay in his room and play quietly, and not to bother him.
His mother called him 'Kiyo', but his uncle called him 'Sumi-chan', and Sengoku hated that name because it reminded him of a little girl named Kasumi in his preschool class who used that nickname and tried to ruffle his hair when he wasn't paying attention.
Kiyo played in his room - in reality, the guest bedroom of his uncle's house - with the toys he'd brought until his tummy rumbled. He decided to go downstairs and ask Uncle Kenji to make dinner.
Uncle Kenji wasn't in the living room, but Kiyo was too hungry to look around for him. He was five years old, and mommy had always said he was a good helper in the kitchen. He could get his own food.
In the process of getting the cookies from the upper shelf (via the kitchen chair), Kiyo accidentally knocked the box into the sink filled with soapy dishwater, rendering the cookies uneatable. Getting milk from the fridge was a bigger disaster - his stubby, five-year old fingers couldn't handle the big heavy carton, and he dropped it. It splattered open upon impact, milk spreading across the linoleum like white rain puddles.
His uncle came in from the backyard and saw the mess. Before Kiyo could say anything, his uncle's hand connected with his backside so hard he was propelled across the floor, sliding painfully into the legs of the kitchen chair. His uncle screamed at him for making a mess, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him up, dangling him from his painfully tight grip. He shook Kiyo violently, dropping him to push his nose in the spilled milk like he was a chastised puppy. When he let go, Kiyo skittered away on all fours, leaving his raving uncle in the kitchen to clean up the mess.
He'd huddled in the spare bedroom until he'd finally fallen asleep. The next morning, his uncle acted like nothing had happened, and had taken him to preschool. For the rest of the two weeks, he'd only blown up if Kiyo made a mess, and Kiyo learned very quickly to clean up after himself. His uncle told him not to tell anyone; that if he did, people would come and take him away from his mother and father. Kiyo didn't want that to happen, so he agreed that he would be a good boy, be careful, and not say anything.
Upon their return, his parents had been happy with the new respect Kiyo seemed to have for his belongings. His mother praised him for being so neat and tidy. Obviously her brother-in-law was a good influence on her son, and so she had no reservations about leaving Kiyo with Kenji several more times over the next two years.
Soon after Kiyo turned seven, his mother had an emergency at work. She called Kenji to come over and act as a last minute babysitter. Kiyo tried to stay in his room for the entire night, but eventually he had to go to the bathroom to get ready for bed. He accidentally squeezed too much toothpaste out of the tube; it squirted out into the sink. When he tried to wipe it up, it just spread around even more.
Uncle Kenji came in and started screaming at him for causing trouble. He pushed Kiyo roughly out of the way, and Kiyo hit his head on the toilet as he fell. Blood was streaming down the side of his face, but his uncle was too preoccupied with cleaning up the toothpaste in the sink. When Kenji did finally notice, his first concern was that the blood would stain the tiles on the floor.
By some miraculous act of the gods, his mother came home sooner then expected. She had been horrified at the sight of Kenji muttering angrily and roughly scrubbing blood off the tiles in the bathroom, with her sobbing, blood-stained son curled up in a ball behind him.
The police and her husband were called. Uncle Kenji had been taken away for evaluation, and Kiyo had been taken to the hospital to get stitches. Not long after, they asked him if anything like that had happened before. Kiyo had been afraid to tell them - afraid that Uncle Kenji has right, that someone would take him away. It took a long time before the entire story came out. His parents held and soothed him as he cried out his hurts.
After he'd calmed down, Kiyo was given a very gentle yet firm talking to about what was and wasn't allowed to happen to him. His mother had cuddled him, his father laying a protective hand on his son's shoulder even as he held his wife with the other, and they both told him several times, “No one is allowed to hurt you.”
It was something Kiyo would never forget.
Word Count: 858 / 37634
067. Snow
“So where is he now?”
Kirihara's tone was casual, but Sengoku, used to long years of deciphering Akutsu's various growling intonations, easily picked out the hard line of steel embedded in his words.
“Living somewhere else,” Sengoku said, shrugging. “He was diagnosed with OCD and mild schizophrenia. He served time in a mental hospital instead of jail. Then he got out a few years ago and moved away. He's better now that he's on his meds, but my mother doesn't want him near us. I can't say I disagree.”
“What about your dad?”
“Visits him once a year, mainly to make sure he stays on his meds, and to make sure he's okay.” Sengoku blew out his breath in a sigh. “I don't really blame him so much, anymore. I mean, he was a sick man. But I'm glad I don't have to deal with seeing him.”
“Mmm.”
Sengoku stopped walking. Obviously surprised, Kirihara stopped and turned around, looking at him in confusion. “Sengoku?”
“I just spilled my guts about something I've been trying very hard not to think about for a long time,” Sengoku said quietly. “That means you owe me. And I want to know what you came here to tell me.” He had his own suspicions, but he was getting a little tired with the hedging.
Kirihara scowled. “I'm getting there.”
“Not fast enough.”
“I know, I just...” Kirihara abruptly flopped to the ground, folding his legs and propping chin in his hand. He waved at Sengoku. “Sit. I'm tired.”
Sorting back an amused laugh, Sengoku joined him. “So? Spill.”
Kirihara leaned back on his hands and unfolded his legs, stretching them out along the length of the track. “My parents suck.”
Sengoku didn't say anything.
“My mom never wanted kids, you know? But that's what people do when they get married. I don't blame her for not taking any real interest in me, or the things I do, but she still sucks.” Kirihara's eyes were half-closed, staring fixedly at his sneakers. “My dad is a real genius when it comes to business. Everyone wants him to come solve their problems, so he's gone a lot. When he's home, he's pissed off over everything. Hell, I don't think he wanted kids either, but like I said, that's just the way things are done, right?”
Sengoku folded his arms, head tilted to one side. “They hit you?”
“Yes. No. Well, not like what you mean. It's more like I get a smack down for mouthing off, or for failing a test, or whatever. I never been hospitalized or nothing - just bruises and stuff.” Kirihara barked out a short, dry laugh. “Maybe I'm looking at this the wrong way. I mean, if they cared enough to hit me, that's obviously proof that they cared about me in some way, right?”
Sengoku didn't like the way Kirihara was using the past tense. “What happened?” He prodded gently. Something must have, to make Kirihara break out of a pattern of bottling things up, and force him to go on a two hour run to find someone who would listen.
He was right.
“Mom's gone. Took off while I was at camp.” Kirihara's voice was suddenly very controlled, his words clipped and terse. “I came home and found my dad at the bottom of a bottle. He left this morning on a business trip. Don't know when he'll be back.”
He hated being right. “He left you alone?” After the thirteen year old learned that his mother had left? Sengoku suddenly wanted very much to meet Kirihara's dad and show off the boxing skills he'd picked up over the past few months.
“Not the first time,” Kirihara said bluntly. “Won't be the last.” He snapped his gaze on to Sengoku's like twin laser beams. “I'm not telling you this because I want you to do anything, got it? I just... needed to tell someone. Someone who... “ He stopped, and his eyes dropped again.
“Someone who knows.” Sengoku finished his sentence again. “I understand.” And he did, in a way. Kirihara could talk to him for the same reason Sengoku had found it almost disturbingly easy to tell his own story to the Rikkai player. Rivals in tennis, they were suddenly brothers in their own spilled blood.
They sat their for a minute before Sengoku's phone went off. He jumped, and then answered it. It was Minami - practice was over, and Sengoku owed him extra laps for ditching the last half.
Kirihara was pulling grass out of the ground next to the track. “I should go,” he said. He stood up, brushing dirt off his track pants.
Sengoku had the feeling Kirihara was embarrassed over his mini-breakdown. Not that it had been much of one, but then, they still didn't know each other well enough in other ways to trust each other with an emotional outpouring. “You gonna be okay?”
“Of course.” The tone again, implied that Sengoku was an idiot for assuming otherwise.
Sengoku held out his hand. “Phone,” he demanded, fingers wiggling. Kirihara blinked, but handed over his cell phone. Sengoku tisked when he saw all the missed calls. “You should answer when people call,” he said, entering his own cell number into Kirihara' s phone. “It's rude to just ignore them.”
“Shut up.”
Now that sounded like the Kirihara he knew. “Call me if you wanna talk again.”
“Sure.”
Sengoku glared at the second year. “I mean it.”
“I said I would, didn't I?” Kirihara glared right back at him, before it dissolved into a smirk. “What, don't trust me?” He put a hand to his chest. “I'm hurt that you could ever think me capable of lying to you.
“Oh yeah, pure as the driven snow, you are,” Sengoku muttered. “At least text me or something when you get home, so I know you didn't throw yourself in front of a bullet train, okay?”
“Yes, mom.” Kirihara sketched a salute. “See ya 'round.”
“Brat,” Sengoku said, but it was with affection, and he waved amiably at the boy until he disappeared. Then his smile turned into a more contemplative frown as he took out his own cell phone. He wavered over it for a while, tapping his finger against the plastic casing.
Finally, he came to a decision and he searched his address book for a phone number not many people knew he had. The line rang once before someone picked up on the other end. Sengoku spoke first.
“Hey... it's me.”
Word Count: 1047 / 38681
Kirihara's BDT found here
Author: Stormy1x2 ( traveling_storm )
Prompts: 065: Passing, 066: Rain, 067: Snow
Characters: Kirihara Akaya, Sengoku Kiyosumi
Notes: We've gone sharply off the canon path WAAAAY into AU land now. Mature themes ahead, child abuse, language.
065. Passing
Sengoku watched the second year curiously. 'Surprised' was not the word he'd use to describe what he'd felt when Taichi had skidded to a halt in front of him, fairly exploding in his excitement to tell him that Kirihara Akaya was on the grounds and wanted to talk to him. 'Flabbergasted' was a more accurate phrase. Or 'stunned.'
Well, whatever the reason, it had to be something bad. He seriously doubted the Rikkai player would run all the way from his district to theirs unless there was something pushing him big-time, and he'd never believe the 'just passing by' line. Rikkai was an hour bus ride away, for Kami's sake.
Kirihara, still breathing heavily from his long run, was alternating his gaze from Sengoku to the ground, to Taichi and back to the ground again. Taking pity on him, Sengoku spoke without turning around. “Taichi? Would you mind going and getting a water bottle for Kirihara-kun?” He smiled, when Kirihara looked up at him. “That's a long run, and we don't want to be improper hosts by letting our guests get dehydrated. What would people think of Yamabuki then?”
“Yes, desu!” Taichi snapped his hand up in a decent salute, and sprinted off again.
Akaya watched him leave, eyes narrowed. “Have you guys tried Ritalin?”
Sengoku snickered. “Nah. We kinda like Taichi the way he is.”
“Whatever.” Akaya shrugged.
“How 'bout we take a walk?” Sengoku suggested, gesturing to the empty track field nearby. The cross country team did neighborhood runs in the afternoon, and the soccer team had an away game that day, which meant no one was using the track. “You can do a proper cool down instead of standing here letting your muscles cramp up, and we can talk at the same time.”
Kirihara nodded, and let him lead the way over.
Dan Taichi came running back as they hit the track, handing over the water bottle with a happy burst of, 'Here you are, desu! Is there anything else I can do, desu?”
Sengoku dismissed Taichi with another grin. The look Kirihara gave Taichi was one of confusion mixed with wariness, the kind he often saw on the faces of people forced to deal with small children while waiting for them to attack. “I promise you, he's harmless.”
Kirihara was too busy guzzling the water to retort verbally, so he settled for shooting him the finger, making Sengoku laugh out loud.
“You're too damn cheerful,” Kirihara said finally, dropping the empty bottle to the ground. Sengoku ignored it. They could pick it up on the way back, unless Taichi skittered out and scooped it up for them.
“I try to be,” he replied. “I find it makes my outlook on life more positive.”
Another snort came from Kirihara's direction, but the boy didn't say anything else in response. Sengoku raised an eyebrow, waiting a minute, before shrugging and starting to walk the track. Kirihara hesitated a split second before joining him.
“So...” Sengoku said, at the hundred meter mark. “You planning on telling me what inspired this little visit, or am I going to have to guess?”
Kirihara's jaw tightened; Sengoku could see the tendons in his neck bunch. “You... we're friends, right?” He glanced quickly at Sengoku and then turned back to the black rubber of the track. “I mean, at Camp, you said...”
“I am sincerely honored to count you as one of my friends,” Sengoku assured him quickly. This truly was getting interesting.
“Yeah... friends... friends talk, right?” Kirihara's cheeks had a faint splash of pink highlighting them. “About... things.”
“They do.”
“About... serious things?”
Sengoku studied Akaya's profile out of the corner of his eye. The pink was fading away, but the bleakness in the boy's eyes was not. Not for the first time, he wondered what on earth had brought the unusually-solemn boy so far away from home. And why, he thought curiously, isn't he talking to his teammates instead of me?
“I don't want them to know,” Kirihara said bluntly.
Oops. Apparently he'd said that out loud.
“You don't consider your teammates friends?”
Kirihara shot him a look that plainly said he thought that was a stupid comment. “Of course they're my friends. But they might tell someone. They're...” He stopped, biting his lip.
“Too close,” Sengoku finished for him.
Kirihara shot him a look of surprise, and then nodded. “Yeah.”
“I see.” The redhead folded his arms behind his head as they walked. “So, what serious things did you want to talk about?”
“I... “ Kirihara looked frustrated. He tried again. “Back at camp... you made a comment. About people not being allowed to hurt me.”
“I did,” Sengoku agreed cautiously.
“You sounded like you meant it.”
“Of course I meant it. No one deserves to be hurt for no reason. Not you, not anyone.”
Kirihara looked at him, staring hard. “You said it like you knew what you were talking about.”
Sengoku faltered slightly under that determined gaze, and he swallowed hard, painfully. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to regain his composure. Briefly, he thought about lying, denying Kirihara's words, but not only would that insult the younger boy's intelligence, it would also make him close up. Something told him that would not be a good thing.
Coming to a decision, he opened his eyes, looked back at Kirihara evenly and then nodded. “I did. I do.”
Suddenly, the hardness melted away from Kirihara's eyes, leaving behind nothing but utter misery and confusion. Years seemed to slip off him, leaving him looking younger then he had before, and Sengoku wondered again, just what had brought this proud young man to this level of desperation.
“Tell me?” Kirihara asked quietly, beseechingly.
Sengoku studied him and saw a mirror of himself, the way he'd been years ago. He had the same look of inner torment that had taken Sengoku years to overcome. If it was truly that bad, Sengoku wanted to help in any way he could. Especially since he knew firsthand how it felt.
Maybe something good could finally come of what had happened to him all those years ago.
Word Count: 1018 / 28776
066. Rain
**Warning** Disturbing themes ahead.
Sengoku Kiyosumi was five years old the first time his parents left him at Uncle Kenji's house while they went on a two week vacation in Thailand. His uncle had patted him on the head, told him to stay in his room and play quietly, and not to bother him.
His mother called him 'Kiyo', but his uncle called him 'Sumi-chan', and Sengoku hated that name because it reminded him of a little girl named Kasumi in his preschool class who used that nickname and tried to ruffle his hair when he wasn't paying attention.
Kiyo played in his room - in reality, the guest bedroom of his uncle's house - with the toys he'd brought until his tummy rumbled. He decided to go downstairs and ask Uncle Kenji to make dinner.
Uncle Kenji wasn't in the living room, but Kiyo was too hungry to look around for him. He was five years old, and mommy had always said he was a good helper in the kitchen. He could get his own food.
In the process of getting the cookies from the upper shelf (via the kitchen chair), Kiyo accidentally knocked the box into the sink filled with soapy dishwater, rendering the cookies uneatable. Getting milk from the fridge was a bigger disaster - his stubby, five-year old fingers couldn't handle the big heavy carton, and he dropped it. It splattered open upon impact, milk spreading across the linoleum like white rain puddles.
His uncle came in from the backyard and saw the mess. Before Kiyo could say anything, his uncle's hand connected with his backside so hard he was propelled across the floor, sliding painfully into the legs of the kitchen chair. His uncle screamed at him for making a mess, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him up, dangling him from his painfully tight grip. He shook Kiyo violently, dropping him to push his nose in the spilled milk like he was a chastised puppy. When he let go, Kiyo skittered away on all fours, leaving his raving uncle in the kitchen to clean up the mess.
He'd huddled in the spare bedroom until he'd finally fallen asleep. The next morning, his uncle acted like nothing had happened, and had taken him to preschool. For the rest of the two weeks, he'd only blown up if Kiyo made a mess, and Kiyo learned very quickly to clean up after himself. His uncle told him not to tell anyone; that if he did, people would come and take him away from his mother and father. Kiyo didn't want that to happen, so he agreed that he would be a good boy, be careful, and not say anything.
Upon their return, his parents had been happy with the new respect Kiyo seemed to have for his belongings. His mother praised him for being so neat and tidy. Obviously her brother-in-law was a good influence on her son, and so she had no reservations about leaving Kiyo with Kenji several more times over the next two years.
Soon after Kiyo turned seven, his mother had an emergency at work. She called Kenji to come over and act as a last minute babysitter. Kiyo tried to stay in his room for the entire night, but eventually he had to go to the bathroom to get ready for bed. He accidentally squeezed too much toothpaste out of the tube; it squirted out into the sink. When he tried to wipe it up, it just spread around even more.
Uncle Kenji came in and started screaming at him for causing trouble. He pushed Kiyo roughly out of the way, and Kiyo hit his head on the toilet as he fell. Blood was streaming down the side of his face, but his uncle was too preoccupied with cleaning up the toothpaste in the sink. When Kenji did finally notice, his first concern was that the blood would stain the tiles on the floor.
By some miraculous act of the gods, his mother came home sooner then expected. She had been horrified at the sight of Kenji muttering angrily and roughly scrubbing blood off the tiles in the bathroom, with her sobbing, blood-stained son curled up in a ball behind him.
The police and her husband were called. Uncle Kenji had been taken away for evaluation, and Kiyo had been taken to the hospital to get stitches. Not long after, they asked him if anything like that had happened before. Kiyo had been afraid to tell them - afraid that Uncle Kenji has right, that someone would take him away. It took a long time before the entire story came out. His parents held and soothed him as he cried out his hurts.
After he'd calmed down, Kiyo was given a very gentle yet firm talking to about what was and wasn't allowed to happen to him. His mother had cuddled him, his father laying a protective hand on his son's shoulder even as he held his wife with the other, and they both told him several times, “No one is allowed to hurt you.”
It was something Kiyo would never forget.
Word Count: 858 / 37634
067. Snow
“So where is he now?”
Kirihara's tone was casual, but Sengoku, used to long years of deciphering Akutsu's various growling intonations, easily picked out the hard line of steel embedded in his words.
“Living somewhere else,” Sengoku said, shrugging. “He was diagnosed with OCD and mild schizophrenia. He served time in a mental hospital instead of jail. Then he got out a few years ago and moved away. He's better now that he's on his meds, but my mother doesn't want him near us. I can't say I disagree.”
“What about your dad?”
“Visits him once a year, mainly to make sure he stays on his meds, and to make sure he's okay.” Sengoku blew out his breath in a sigh. “I don't really blame him so much, anymore. I mean, he was a sick man. But I'm glad I don't have to deal with seeing him.”
“Mmm.”
Sengoku stopped walking. Obviously surprised, Kirihara stopped and turned around, looking at him in confusion. “Sengoku?”
“I just spilled my guts about something I've been trying very hard not to think about for a long time,” Sengoku said quietly. “That means you owe me. And I want to know what you came here to tell me.” He had his own suspicions, but he was getting a little tired with the hedging.
Kirihara scowled. “I'm getting there.”
“Not fast enough.”
“I know, I just...” Kirihara abruptly flopped to the ground, folding his legs and propping chin in his hand. He waved at Sengoku. “Sit. I'm tired.”
Sorting back an amused laugh, Sengoku joined him. “So? Spill.”
Kirihara leaned back on his hands and unfolded his legs, stretching them out along the length of the track. “My parents suck.”
Sengoku didn't say anything.
“My mom never wanted kids, you know? But that's what people do when they get married. I don't blame her for not taking any real interest in me, or the things I do, but she still sucks.” Kirihara's eyes were half-closed, staring fixedly at his sneakers. “My dad is a real genius when it comes to business. Everyone wants him to come solve their problems, so he's gone a lot. When he's home, he's pissed off over everything. Hell, I don't think he wanted kids either, but like I said, that's just the way things are done, right?”
Sengoku folded his arms, head tilted to one side. “They hit you?”
“Yes. No. Well, not like what you mean. It's more like I get a smack down for mouthing off, or for failing a test, or whatever. I never been hospitalized or nothing - just bruises and stuff.” Kirihara barked out a short, dry laugh. “Maybe I'm looking at this the wrong way. I mean, if they cared enough to hit me, that's obviously proof that they cared about me in some way, right?”
Sengoku didn't like the way Kirihara was using the past tense. “What happened?” He prodded gently. Something must have, to make Kirihara break out of a pattern of bottling things up, and force him to go on a two hour run to find someone who would listen.
He was right.
“Mom's gone. Took off while I was at camp.” Kirihara's voice was suddenly very controlled, his words clipped and terse. “I came home and found my dad at the bottom of a bottle. He left this morning on a business trip. Don't know when he'll be back.”
He hated being right. “He left you alone?” After the thirteen year old learned that his mother had left? Sengoku suddenly wanted very much to meet Kirihara's dad and show off the boxing skills he'd picked up over the past few months.
“Not the first time,” Kirihara said bluntly. “Won't be the last.” He snapped his gaze on to Sengoku's like twin laser beams. “I'm not telling you this because I want you to do anything, got it? I just... needed to tell someone. Someone who... “ He stopped, and his eyes dropped again.
“Someone who knows.” Sengoku finished his sentence again. “I understand.” And he did, in a way. Kirihara could talk to him for the same reason Sengoku had found it almost disturbingly easy to tell his own story to the Rikkai player. Rivals in tennis, they were suddenly brothers in their own spilled blood.
They sat their for a minute before Sengoku's phone went off. He jumped, and then answered it. It was Minami - practice was over, and Sengoku owed him extra laps for ditching the last half.
Kirihara was pulling grass out of the ground next to the track. “I should go,” he said. He stood up, brushing dirt off his track pants.
Sengoku had the feeling Kirihara was embarrassed over his mini-breakdown. Not that it had been much of one, but then, they still didn't know each other well enough in other ways to trust each other with an emotional outpouring. “You gonna be okay?”
“Of course.” The tone again, implied that Sengoku was an idiot for assuming otherwise.
Sengoku held out his hand. “Phone,” he demanded, fingers wiggling. Kirihara blinked, but handed over his cell phone. Sengoku tisked when he saw all the missed calls. “You should answer when people call,” he said, entering his own cell number into Kirihara' s phone. “It's rude to just ignore them.”
“Shut up.”
Now that sounded like the Kirihara he knew. “Call me if you wanna talk again.”
“Sure.”
Sengoku glared at the second year. “I mean it.”
“I said I would, didn't I?” Kirihara glared right back at him, before it dissolved into a smirk. “What, don't trust me?” He put a hand to his chest. “I'm hurt that you could ever think me capable of lying to you.
“Oh yeah, pure as the driven snow, you are,” Sengoku muttered. “At least text me or something when you get home, so I know you didn't throw yourself in front of a bullet train, okay?”
“Yes, mom.” Kirihara sketched a salute. “See ya 'round.”
“Brat,” Sengoku said, but it was with affection, and he waved amiably at the boy until he disappeared. Then his smile turned into a more contemplative frown as he took out his own cell phone. He wavered over it for a while, tapping his finger against the plastic casing.
Finally, he came to a decision and he searched his address book for a phone number not many people knew he had. The line rang once before someone picked up on the other end. Sengoku spoke first.
“Hey... it's me.”
Word Count: 1047 / 38681
Kirihara's BDT found here