Fic for tokyostory, part 3/3
Part One
Part Two
Wednesday leaves them still too close to the day prior, and too far away from the weekend.
“This isn’t even practice,” Atobe snarls to himself, ten minutes into it and triple that number of fights, both physical and not. Oshitari is playing against Ohtori again today, and Shishido is missing every second shot Kabaji turns back to him.
Mukahi doesn’t complain about a single one of Atobe’s Tannhauser serves. They get faster and faster, and Atobe’s scowl deepens.
“Hey,” Mukahi says, too brightly, back in the clubhouse. “My parents are away this weekend --”
“Who the hell goes away two weeks after Golden Week,” Shishido mutters. Mukahi swallows visibly, and ignores him.
“I can totally kick my brother out on Saturday, so,” he grins, “bring your own booze?”
“I am there,” Oshitari confirms. Mukahi eyes him.
“Don’t bring stupid girly drinks like last time,” he says, warningly.
“Didn’t Shishido break the martini shaker,” Jiroh muses aloud. “At New Years, was it a martini shaker or something else --”
“It was my blender,” Atobe supplies, with the requisite eyeroll. “I can come on Saturday.”
“RSVP, you bastards,” Mukahi shouts, flinging his shirt in the air for extra effect. It lands on Jiroh’s head and muffles his sound of confirmation. “Ew, Jiroh, did you just gum up my shirt?”
“I’ll come,” Shishido says, back to the room at large. He scratches the back of his neck. “D’you wanna head out together, Choutarou?”
“I can’t,” Ohtori admits. Mukahi says, “Well, fuck,” under his breath. Shishido nods, hurriedly.
“Yeah, okay, you probably have -- violin practice, right,” he supplies, as Ohtori nods miserably. “Okay.”
“You coming, Hiyoshi,” asks Mukahi. Hiyoshi stares at the floor. “Oh my god, you’re such a girl, you can come even if Shishido’s going to throw a tantrum --”
“What the fuck, Mukahi,” Shishido yells, and Mukahi takes his shirt back from off Jiroh’s head in order to fling it at Shishido’s. “Argh!”
“Yes or no,” Mukahi asks Hiyoshi. “I don’t give a shit, I just want to know if I can count on you for booze, because if you’re not going to bring booze --”
“You’re going to uninvite him if he doesn’t bring alcohol,” Atobe clarifies, buttoning up his shirt reflexively. “That’s classy.”
“Gakuto is known far across the land for his class,” Oshitari grins at Atobe, who focuses on the top three buttons.
“Okay,” Hiyoshi says, at length. He closes his locker. “I’ll come.”
No one is surprised when Shishido’s locker nearly comes off its hinges, it’s slammed so hard. Shishido is only prevented from repeating the performance by the entrance of some subregulars at the same time as he is exiting the clubhouse door.
“That bitch,” Mukahi notes, to collective agreement.
The day does not improve.
Atobe is trying to make a clean escape in order to go eat lunch in solitude, when he’s accosted by a girl he knows vaguely from his English class.
“A moment of your time?” she pleads, and Atobe tries not to let his aggravation show. She has him follow her into an empty classroom, and seats herself on a desk. Atobe stays standing. “Did you not read the note?”
“What,” Atobe says, flatly. She colours.
“Oh, well,” she manages, “I thought you’d be flattered and -- interested, especially after --”
“What is this about,” he demands. His voice has an edge he cannot help. To her credit, she lifts her chin and meets his eyes squarely.
“Would you go out with me, Atobe-san?” is all she says.
“I’m sorry, no,” Atobe replies, mechanically. His answer is always rote. “I’m not dating right now, and --”
“Any reason for that?” she interrupts, and Atobe blinks at her, thrown. “Even if you don’t like, well, you can’t say the pretence wouldn’t be benefi --”
Atobe slams his hands against the nearest desk to him, startling them both.
“My being disinterested in wanting to date you and my sexuality,” he says, hands shaking, “have nothing to do with each other, and I’d thank you to watch what you insinuate.”
“You don’t have to be cruel,” she says, quietly, and there are tears in her eyes. Atobe closes his. When he opens them again, she’s left the room.
Oshitari finds him still rooted to the spot, some ten minutes later.
“Hey, just wondering if you wanted one last study session after--”
“The girls in this school now think I’m gay,” Atobe hisses. Oshitari stays in the doorway. “I do not want to do anything of the sort, it’s already --”
“But Keigo,” Oshitari sneers, “You’re not gay!”
Atobe looks up. Oshitari’s sneer shifts into something else, and he murmurs a soft apology before leaving Atobe alone again.
When Atobe sends a text message to the team at eleven-thirty that night, cancelling the next morning’s practice, Oshitari’s replying comment of ‘something the matter?’ is enough incentive for Atobe to rips open the French doors of his bedroom and fling the mobile as far out into the grounds as he possibly can. He can barely hear the impacting crunch of it landing, he’s breathing so hard.
* * *
Kabaji tells him about the note first thing. Atobe says, “She can say whatever she likes. I won’t give her the satisfaction,” and goes to his classes and eats lunch in silence and sits his history test in his last period like nothing is wrong.
“Eyes on your own tests,” their teacher warns. Atobe squirms, and doesn’t manage to finish the test ahead of his classmates, which means he can’t walk away from the room quickly enough to evade them.
"Good job, there," Shishido tells him. He looks morbidly pleased. Atobe sets his mouth in a firm, authoritative line. "I've been saying for years that you're an asshole, maybe girls'll finally listen --"
"I actually," Atobe interrupts, decisively, "wish you would die, right here and now."
“Oh, this sounds exciting,” says Oshitari, from somewhere behind Atobe. Shishido turns to look at him. Atobe continues to bore his gaze onto Shishido. “Are you killing him before or after our test results come in next week?”
“What?” Atobe asks. Shishido’s shit-eating grin has begun to fade.
“Well, I think if you’re going to make him suffer, you really ought to let his text score do half the work for you, Keigo.”
“What the fuck,” snarls Shishido, “do you mean by that?”
“We all saw your post-exam look of devastation,” supplies Oshitari, brightly. Atobe turns around to stare at him. “Are you going to cry when the results are posted?”
“Yuushi,” begins Atobe.
“Do a little mourning for your trampled hopes and dreams?” Oshitari continues, tone easy and conversational and much louder than Atobe’s had been. Shishido lets out a murderous sound.
“Right, I’m going to just --” Atobe starts to say, only Shishido chooses that moment to lunge at Oshitari, and Atobe beats a hasty exit instead, unmissed by either party. He hears Mukahi yell, “Oh my god, why are we fighting now and whose side am I on?” as he leaves.
He gathers up his amid whispered conversations in the cloakroom, and walks as slowly as he can to his limo parked out front. Atobe rereads his planner, and then the notes he’d taken in class, and is just stepping into his foyer, finally, when his phone rings. Atobe hands off his bag to his butler, and slides open his slick new mobile, fumbling a little once he sees the caller.
“That was a phenomenally stupid production, even for you,” he announces into the mouthpiece.
“Thank you for asking after my health,” Oshitari replies sweetly. “My grievous injuries are in fact healing quite nicely --”
“Your own fault,” Atobe scoffs, meandering into the closest sitting room and throwing himself onto the centrepiece sofa. He stares at the window treatment on the far side of the room. “He’s already twitchy, you probably shouldn’t have.”
“And Shishido probably should have prodded you about things you’d made clear you’re tired of being prodded about,” Oshitari retorts, quickly and awkwardly.
“For god’s sake, is this some sort of pissing contest?” Atobe asks, incredulous. “Are you trying to preserve my honour now? I know you feel responsible, but --”
“For what,” interrupts Oshitari, sharply. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“You prod me about things I don’t want to be prodded about all the time,” Atobe insists, sitting upright now. “Never mind Shishido, it’s not --”
“But clearly it is,” Oshitari cuts in, again. His voice snaps across the phoneline like an elastic band. “Clearly it’s on your mind, Keigo.”
“Who, Shishido? No,” Atobe says, staunchly. “Nothing is!”
“Why should I --”
“I’m sorry, I have homework,” exclaims Atobe. It comes out sounding almost desperate. His back is ramrod straight.
There is a long silence.
“All right,” says Oshitari. “I’ll see you tomorrow at practice.”
“You aren’t too grievously injured to attend?” Atobe grins, shifting to one side so he can drum his fingers restlessly along the armrest of the sofa.
“You wouldn’t accept my excuses, anyways,” says Oshitari.
Atobe tells him, “Very droll. Later,” and snaps his phone shut with a long exhale.
* * *
It’s the first time Atobe’s been this close to the wall. There are students everywhere, but that’s hardly unusual anymore. Atobe folds his note in half, and pins it to the wall with a black thumbpin.
As he is walking away, he hears a dismayed cry from a voice he does not recognize. “’Work harder’? What kind of note is that? Here, you read it, I’m sure it’s Atobe’s --”
Oshitari is standing at the school entrance. Atobe passes him by without a word.
Oshitari shows up for practice proper a good ten minutes late. Atobe is too busy trying to keep Shishido’s focus on his game rather than on the vital importance of telling Hiyoshi to go fuck himself every three minutes, that he barely notices.
“Bring your own booze,” Mukahi chants, in the clubhouse after practice, and after school in the cloakroom, until even Shishido is turning his ire on him. “Swear to god, I’m doing a bottle count before anyone comes in!”
“Taxation without representation, how uncouth,” Oshitari murmurs, to no one in particular. Atobe looks at him, and can’t look away fast enough for Oshitari not to notice. “Keigo?”
“Nothing,” says Atobe, sliding on his street shoes.
“Did you,” Oshitari says, abortively. He laughs when Atobe makes no notion that he’s heard. “Okay, well, I thought it might be -- did you want to hang out afterwards? After Mukahi’s thing?”
“You won’t be getting too drunk to function?” Atobe scoffs, and stands up to leave. Oshitari shrugs.
“Suit yourself. I’ll see you there.”
* * *
“The hostess with the --” Shishido squints up at the ceiling, and reaches for his beer and the insult he’s seeking. “Gakuto fucking sucks, that’s the point.”
“That is not even funny,” Oshitari cuts in, flatly. Atobe glances at him, amused. Oshitari has to tip his beer can all the way back when he next drinks.
“And you,” yells Shishido, “World’s most unwanted peanut gallery!”
“Thanks so much,” says Oshitari. “I’m going through a rough period in my life right now.” Atobe laughs. Oshitari stands up, shakily. “I’m tired of drinking beer,” he says, with the air of a great personal revelation.
“It’s all shitty right now,” begins Atobe, when no one says anything and Oshitari hasn’t moved anywhere. “You think I really wanted to deal with --”
“No, fuck, I can’t hear about this again,” Mukahi explodes. “Every five seconds! We get it! We get it,” he repeats, when Atobe glowers at him. Shishido is laughing. “Yuushi, if you don’t come back with booze for everyone, I’m going to cut you. It is your job as the tallest person who came.”
“Whatever,” Oshitari replies, and trudges off to the kitchen, putting one hand on the doorframe as he goes. He brings back a bottle of rum and another of Coke, which is soon emptied between their six glasses. “We’re running out.”
“I brought my own stuff,” Hiyoshi says, when Shishido, predictably, levels a drunken glare his way. “Not my fault we’re going to run out before midnight!”
“Oh hey,” Mukahi cries, picking up the empty Coke bottle. “Anyone up for truth or dare?”
“Fuck yes,” Shishido breathes, and rips the bottle out of Mukahi’s hands, setting it to spin wildly on the floor in front of him before anyone else can even consent to playing. “Jiroh! Truth or dare, runt.”
“Dare,” Jiroh says, excitedly. Shishido looks stymied for a second, before crowing,
“I dare you to -- to lick my shoe,” and dissolving into laughter.
“Why do you always make me lick your shoe,” Jiroh whines, but dutifully steps over Mukahi in order to go fetch the appropriate footwear. He comes back and gives the sole of it a decent lap of the tongue, to Shishido’s jubilant cheering.
“It’s like a drunken eight-year-old,” Atobe remarks, grinning at Shishido.
“What?” Shishido beams, the insult flying over his head. “Spin it, man!”
Jiroh spins. It lands on Oshitari.
“Truth,” Jiroh says dramatically, “or dare.”
“Dare,” answers Oshitari without hesitation.
“I dare you to -- tell us your darkest secret!”
“Oh my god, that fails worse that Shishido’s,” Mukahi sighs, downing a long gulp of his rum-and-coke, and chasing it with a can of beer that may have been Shishido’s. “Does that even count?”
“Yes it counts,” Shishido grins. Oshitari scowls.
“I’ll pass,” he says. Jiroh lets out a cry. “I get a free pass, don’t I?”
“Fine,” Shishido deigns, “but you lose your turn.”
“Since when are you lord and master of truth-or-dare games?” Atobe questions, reaching across Oshitari to his right in order to grab a can of beer. Oshitari leans as far back as possible. “I’m not infectious, Yuushi.”
“Who’s turn is it, then,” Oshitari prompts.
“Mine, right?”
“No, it’s mine,” says Mukahi, “Because you all suck and someone has to be awesome about this.”
He spins the bottle.
Atobe frowns. “Wait, do we even need to use the bottle? Isn’t that for kissing?”
“Pretty much,” Hiyoshi sighs, and they share a put-upon look. Shishido waves his hand between them, spastically.
“Hey, pay attention! It’s you, Atobe!”
“What?”
“Truth or dare, what do you think,” Mukahi scoffs.
“Dare.”
“Dare you to eat my tube of toothpaste,” submits Mukahi, jeeringly. Atobe rolls his eyes.
“The actual tube, or just the contents.”
“Both!” Shishido yells, at the same as Mukahi says, “Contents.”
“Whatever,” Atobe sighs. “It’s not poisonous, I’ll do it.”
The tube is brought. It’s about one-fifths of the way full.
“What a challenge,” grins Atobe, and squishes all of it into his mouth. It takes him a good forty seconds to swallow, but he manages. “That is revolting.”
The trend only solidifies, and Shishido eventually runs out of creativity when his fourth bottle-spin lands on Atobe.
“Truth or dare, you glorious bastard.”
“Okay,” Atobe says, slowly. “I don’t want to eat anything else ever again, so. Truth.”
There’s a moment’s pause. Shishido clears his throat theatrically.
“So are you, or are you not,” he says, gearing up to it, “gay, and do you want to hook up with your seeecret lover!”
“Oh my god that is a horrible waste,” Mukahi moans. “What the hell, he’s been screaming about it for-fucking-ever, we’ve covered this!”
Atobe glares for all he’s worth. “No, I am not gay, and no, I do not, even though that is two truths, you dirty cheat.”
“Way to be,” Mukahi scowls at Shishido. “At least eating weird shit is new and exciting.”
“Right,” Oshitari says, suddenly. He turns to look at Atobe, who stares back. “Atobe Keigo, you are a fucking liar and I am tired of it.”
And then he slides both his hands over Atobe’s cheeks, and pulls him into a kiss. Atobe’s hands go slack in his lap, and his head tilts, a little, enough to cause Oshitari’s hands to smoothly through Atobe’s hair, to rest on his nape. Atobe makes a sound no one has ever heard from him before.
They wrench away from each other as quickly and as violently as lightning, electricity sparking through the ground.
Atobe holds Oshitari's gaze for a second, maybe less, and then drops his gaze to the floor in front of him, like the drop of an anvil.
“My turn,” Oshitari says hoarsely. He pulls his knees up to his chin, and spins the bottle. Shishido doesn’t react when it stops pointed towards him. “I dare you to swallow an entire canister of cinnamon. I dare you.”
“What?”
“Cinnamon. You. Swallowing,” repeats Oshitari, somewhat less coherently. “Dare.”
“That’s -- uncool, Yuushi,” Mukahi says, frowning. “That’s actually dangerous, Shishido, don’t --”
“But I like cimanon,” offers Shishido, stupidly. He’s staring slack-jawed at Oshitari, and then at Atobe, like a shocked pendulum.
“No,” Mukahi tells him. He meets Oshitari’s eyes. “Pick another dare.”
“So no one -- I’m out, then,” Oshitari says, stumbling to his feet, the motion jarring his voice. It’s already half an octave too high. Jiroh starts to speak. “I’m out, fuck.”
Atobe flinches at the front door’s slam.
“Drinks!” Mukahi exclaims, hauling himself to his feet clumsily. He tugs at Jiroh’s shoulder. “Up you get, you’re carrying stuff.”
“Okay,” agrees Jiroh, following Mukahi into the kitchen, where they immediately do nothing so much as think about getting drinks.
“Oh my god,” says Mukahi, perched on the marble countertop. “Oh my god, Jiroh.”
“That was so weird,” Jiroh confirms. He seats himself cross-legged on the floor. “Weeeeird.”
“Yeah, that,” Mukahi nods. “How drunk is he?”
“A lot,” says Jiroh, and then frowns. “Wait, how drunk is who?”
“Point.”
They sit without speaking for a few moments. Back in the living room, Shishido has started in on his new favourite hobby of insulting Hiyoshi. Mukahi heaves a great sigh, and Jiroh looks up at him.
“Gakuto.”
“Yeah?”
“So -- I’m pretty sure Yuushi wasn’t being jokey,” Jiroh says, nibbling at the cuticle of his index finger. “That wasn’t a jokey kiss.”
“God,” Mukahi exhales, staring up at his ceiling lights. “I needed to be a lot more drunk than I was, for that.”
“Yuushi was really drunk,” Jiroh points out. His brow furrows, suddenly. “Did he take his mobile with him when he left?”
“I dunno; are you worried or something?” Jiroh stares at him, and Mukahi hastily adds, “Well, obviously if he’s not back soon we’ll send a search party or whatever, but I think he’s --”
“That was weird,” Hiyoshi says, coming into the kitchen and wearing a confused expression. “Did he plan that?”
“I bet he did,” Shishido slurs, shoving Hiyoshi aside and staggering towards the kitchen table. He throws himself into a chair. “Just like you planned to ruin my life.”
“I don’t think Yuushi’s trying to ruin anyone’s life,” Jiroh says, flopping over onto his side so he can stretch out and poke at Shishido’s foot. “Maybe forgive Piyo already, also.”
“That was just so weird,” Hiyoshi repeats, frowning at the floor.
“Says you,” Shishido snorts, and reaches for the drink on the kitchen table that isn’t there. “Oh fuck, my drink.”
“Are you seriously going to disagree with me about this,” says Hiyoshi. “You don’t think it’s weird at all?”
Shishido squints at him drunkenly for several seconds before stating, “You are up to something.”
Mukahi curses, and hops down from the counter. He pulls open the fridge and starts pulling out beer and the impressive bottle of vodka that had been Oshitari’s offering.
“Tryin’ to trick me,” mutters Shishido, glowering at Hiyoshi. “Ruining my life or something.”
“Yes, Shishido,” Mukahi exclaims, uncapping the vodka, “Hiyoshi has engineered all of this. Just for your pleasure, you special princess.”
“I knew it,” Shishido hisses, and then stands in a disoriented motion, yelling, “I knew it, I will kill you --”
Jiroh yelps when Shishido’s warpath gets tangled up in his legs, and hurriedly scoots over to where Mukahi is standing.
“I am not going to stop you,” Mukahi calls out to them, as Shishido starts throwing punches. He finds a glass in the cupboard, pours it full of vodka, and passes it down to Jiroh, who takes it distractedly. “Stay the fuck away from my appliances, though!”
Shishido lets out a warcry, and lands his first punch to Hiyoshi’s head, which has the immediate effect of Hiyoshi all but throwing him across the room.
“Hey, cool, it’s like martial arts!” laughs Jiroh.
Shishido is not laughing. Hiyoshi says, “If we beat each other up, will you stop being an asshole?”
“That actually has never worked,” Mukahi mutters, from the safe sidelines. Shishido says something involving a lot of profanity, and charges at Hiyoshi head first, pushing them both into the Mukahi family kitchen table. Several cracks are heard. Mukahi goes pale. “Fuck, that better be your bones and not the furniture --”
Shishido’s head comes up from the scattered pile of chairs bleeding, and Mukahi curses as Shishido starts flailing all of his limbs in Hiyoshi’s general direction.
“Aw, guys, break it up,” Jiroh cries, climbing to his feet. “I wanna get asked truth-or-dare!”
Hiyoshi manages to get Shishido in a hold, which Shishido responds to by biting down hard on Hiyoshi’s forearm.
“Don’t bleed all over the place,” Mukahi instructs angrily. Another flail from Shishido sends them back into the kitchen chairs. “Oh, fuck you both, I’m going to mess your shit up --”
“Er,” says Jiroh, and waits only to see Mukahi gets the broom out from his pantry before slipping back into the family room.
Atobe is exactly where they’d left him. He’s turned on the television.
“Whatcha watchin’?” Jiroh asks, nervously. Atobe doesn’t respond. “Okay, cool. Um. So Gakuto and Piyo and Ryou are all dying in the kitchen, d’you wanna be after-hours buchou?”
Atobe looks up. “What.”
“Gakuto has a broom,” Jiroh informs him. Atobe makes a noise that might have been a laugh, and gets up.
“Oh what the hell,” Atobe mutters. Mukahi has abandoned the broom, and is trying to position one of the much-abused chairs between Hiyoshi and Shishido, not unlike a lion tamer might.
“Atobe,” Shishido cries, when he sees Atobe there in the doorway. He makes a lunge at Hiyoshi, who jabs the palm of his hand in Shishido’s forehead. Mukahi brandishes the chair threateningly. “Ow, you fucker! Atobe, help, Hiyoshi’s gonna ruin all our lives, has to be killed --”
“No, I don’t,” Hiyoshi disagrees.
“It’s a curse,” Shishido wails, trying to shove the chair out of his way and ending up stabbing himself in the eye with one of the legs. “Fuck!”
“You’re an ass, Shishido,” Hiyoshi tells him, with plain satisfaction. “And you have just gouged out your own eye in your drunken stupidity.”
The injury does nothing at all to diminish Shishido’s will to fight, and he redoubles his efforts.
Atobe says, “Open the patio door,” to Mukahi, stomps over to Shishido, seizes Shishido’s head, and manhandles him out into the yard, where Shishido promptly loses his balance and crashes on the grass.
“Awesome,” Mukahi breathes, running back to the counter where he’s left his glass of vodka.
“Shishido,” Atobe intones, coldly.
Shishido’s screaming ceases in hearing something in Atobe’s voice.
“You are going to shut the fuck up,” Atobe tells him, “right fucking now and stop acting like a deranged person. You are better than this. Being drunk is only going to excuse you so far."
For a few seconds, there is blissful silence. Then Shishido face twists into a drunken parody of a sneer.
“Yeah? How far is it going to excuse Oshitari?”
Atobe doesn’t say a word as he goes back into the house, amid Mukahi’s indignant, “No, wait, that’s stupid, aren’t you going back to kill him for real?” and Hiyoshi’s silent gaze.
“I’m calling my chauffeur and going home,” Atobe calls back, once he’s halfway through the house. “I’ll wait outside. Goodnight.”
Shishido stays silent in the wake of Atobe’s exit for about thirty seconds, before screaming, “I’ll kill you with a rake, Hiyoshi!”
“Right, I’m getting the hose,” Mukahi says, matter-of-factly. He slips out onto the patio deck and pads towards the hose, neatly coiled against the side of the house. Hiyoshi squints out into Mukahi’s yard.
“The neighbours’ll complain.”
“Yeah, but I’ll be happier,” he reasons, and goes to turn the water on. “Hey, Shishido!”
Shishido turns his head in time to get a tidal wave of water directly in the face. Oddly, this does little to teach Shishido the value of silence.
Hiyoshi goes back into the kitchen, where Jiroh is pouring random juices into his glass of vodka.
“Too strong?” Hiyoshi asks, and Jiroh nods. Hiyoshi reaches for the glass. “I’ll have it, if you like.”
“Okay,” agrees Jiroh, and they stand in companionable silence until Mukahi comes back inside, sliding the door shut behind him with a massive thud. Shishido throws his entire person against the glass five seconds later, leaving a man-sized water mark.
Mukahi holds a finger up to him warningly, and speaks loudly enough for Shishido to be able to hear through the glass door. “Break my door, and I break your face. You can either sleep on my lawn, or go the fuck home, but you’re not getting back in the house.”
Mukahi’s look is entirely too pleased. Hiyoshi coughs.
“So,” he begins, “Where’d Oshitari-senpai go?”
“I have no fucking idea,” Mukahi says, loftily. “Hey, d’you think Shishido will die from his head injury?”
“I -- hope not?” Hiyoshi answers, confused.
“Aw, you don’t mean that,” sighs Mukahi. “Maybe we should call Yuushi.”
“I’ll do it,” Hiyoshi offers, when Mukahi offers a giggling Jiroh a drink from his constantly-refilled glass. Hiyoshi shuffles back to the family room, where he left his bag and mobile phone.
Oshitari takes six rings to answer.
“Oshitari-senpai, you can come back now,” Hiyoshi tells him.
“Oh, well,” Oshitari hedges, voice fuzzy at the edges. “It’s a nice night, maybe I’ll --”
“Atobe-buchou went home,” Hiyoshi elaborates, in the most neutral voice he can manage. “You’re drunk and will probably die on the streets, so come back.”
There is a significant delay in Oshitari’s answer.
“I’m -- drunk and confused,” mumbles Oshitari. Hiyoshi glares at the Mukahi family sofa.
“Are you lost,” he asks baldly. Oshitari doesn’t respond for a good twenty seconds, and then there is just dialtone.
Hiyoshi sighs, sprawls onto the sofa, and begins channel-surfing. Mukahi and Jiroh get louder for about twenty minutes, and then quiet down when the flow of alcohol has presumably abated. They join Hiyoshi on the couch shortly thereafter, looking weary. Jiroh falls asleep with his feet on Hiyoshi’s lap and his head in Mukahi’s.
Around three in the morning, the front door opens. Oshitari shuffles in.
“I started to get sober,” he says, dully.
“I’m going home,” Hiyoshi answers, carefully renegotiating Jiroh’s feet and standing. Jiroh wakes up anyways. “No one die of alcohol poisoning.”
“Yuushi, you’re back,” Jiroh notes, sleepily. He yawns as Oshitari comes to replace Hiyoshi’s spot on the sofa. “Did you have a good walk?”
“No,” Oshitari answers, and they all wave weakly at Hiyoshi as he turns the doorknob and heads off. “Hey, why is Hiyoshi allowed to go rambling around after hours and I’m not?”
“You did not see Hiyoshi versus Shishido, fight spectacular,” Mukahi scoffs. “Piyo can probably fight off bears, he’ll be fine.”
“Oh,” says Oshitari. He scrubs at his face with the heel of his hand.
Mukahi clears his throat. “Shishido’s sleeping outside. Not by choice.”
“That’s horrible,” Oshitari smiles wanly. “Can I have the sofa to sleep on?”
“Yeah,” Mukahi agrees. “Don’t puke on anything, though.”
“I will try my very best,” says Oshitari, thickly, and buries his head in the upholstery. Mukahi and Jiroh quietly head upstairs, to sleep in a pile on Mukahi’s futon.
* * *
Oshitari ends up talking the train home before ten the next morning. He returns each and every disapproving stare he gets from his fellow passengers.
The first thing he does when he gets home to a house that is empty (‘Gone shopping’, reads the note from his parents on the counter) is pour himself a glass of water. He sips at it, cautiously.
The second thing he does when he gets home is jump two feet in the air at the sound of his doorbell. Oshitari goes to look through the peephole, and Atobe says, “I know you’re in there, don’t bother pretending you’re not home.”
Oshitari opens the door. They stare at each other. Atobe’s expression is identical to his tennis-playing one.
“I smell disgusting and have not washed my hair,” Oshitari informs him, trying for insouciant and landing squarely on miserable.
“I am aware of these things,” says Atobe haughtily. He waves his hands at Oshitari in a sweeping motion, until Oshitari backs up enough to let Atobe through the door.
Oshitari retreats to his kitchen, and sits down at the table. Atobe stands as though waiting, and Oshitari heaves a massive sigh.
‘I am really, really fucking tired of all these elephants in the room,” is all Oshitari says.
“Which one?” Atobe sits down heavily. “We’ve got a few to choose from.”
“A menagerie,” agrees Oshitari. Atobe swallows.
“You kissed me,” he says. “And it seemed to me -- like you meant it.”
“I did,” answers Oshitari. Atobe bites his lip.
“Are you admitting that you kissed me, or the second part.”
“Both.”
“How did you mean it,” Atobe says. “Yuushi.”
“I really couldn’t be less interested in discussing the horrible embarrassments I’ve subjected myself to lately, Keigo.”
“I know, but,” Atobe stops, frustrated. He lays his palms flat atop the table in front of him. “Look, we were both a bit drunk, and I trust you when you say you didn’t write that note, so.”
“So,” Oshitari echoes. The silence drags, a net cast through open water. “So why are you here?”
“Because you wanted to hang out this weekend,” explains Atobe, “And that didn’t really happen at Mukahi’s house, or at least not -- hanging out, more like, I don’t know, things,” he stammers, helplessly now that he’s started. “Happened, but not. Hanging out. So today I’m here to hang out.”
Oshitari’s grin is only half as infectious as it usually is. Atobe smacks his palms lightly against the table twice, and then again. “Please, continue to leave me in awkward silence, Yuushi,” he snaps, finally.
“You know what, Keigo? Nothing would have been awkward if you hadn’t made it that way inside your own head,” retorts Oshitari, voice low. He stands up. “I’m getting something to drink. Do you want anything?”
“Fuck, no I don’t want anything to drink, you’re the one who’s been difficult lately, not me!” Atobe tells him, angrily. Oshitari doesn’t turn around, and takes his time inspecting the contents of his fridge. “It’s you, not me!”
Oshitari whirls around, lightning fast, and fixes Atobe with an expression that is perfectly, flawlessly blank. Atobe’s hands are fists, and his face has gone red.
“My dearest Keigo,” says Oshitari, slowly and with a civility drenched in sarcasm, “I think it’s both of us.”
“Oh, well thank god you’ve elucidated that much,” Atobe snarls. “Everything is solved! Maybe we should write each other notes, next!”
“I’d have nothing to say that hasn’t already --” Oshitari slams into silence, like hitting a wall. Atobe stares. Oshitari inhales visibly, and turns back to his fridge, reopening the door.
“Yuushi,” tries Atobe. He’s gone very, very still. “Yuushi, what.”
“You wouldn’t like hearing it,” Oshitari tells the contents of his fridge. Atobe pushes his chair back quickly, and marches over to the other side of the opened fridge door. “I already asked if you wanted anything, Keigo.”
“Wouldn’t like hearing it like --” Atobe breathes in through his nose. The kitchen’s clock, hung on the opposite walls, ticks loudly. “Like I didn’t like being kissed by you? Like that?”
“What?” Oshitari says, intelligently. He lifts his head up to stare at Atobe. Atobe is glaring as hard as he can, but Oshitari isn’t averting his gaze at all. “What does that mean? There are too many likes in that sentence, I can’t --”
“I’m not,” Atobe tries to tell him, desperately. He takes his hands in and out of his pockets before settling them on top of the fridge door, where they clench and unclench. “I don’t know! Stop staring at me like that!”
“Can I tell you something?” Oshitari murmurs, at length. He shuts the fridge door, leaving Atobe’s hands with nothing to grip. Atobe makes a small sound of unhappiness.
“Anything, tell me anything,” he answers. He meets Oshitari’s eyes, shocked, when Oshitari takes his trembling hands in his own.
“Don’t get hysterical on me,” warns Oshitari, though there is a tell-tale lilt to his own voice. He squeezes Atobe’s fingers. “This is enough of a disaster already --”
“Disasters are unplanned,” Atobe says without thinking. Oshitari cocks his head to one side, and slides his thumb up and down the inside of Atobe’s wrist.
It ends up being enough of a disaster to be worthwhile.
* * *
There is not a single person by the wall on Monday. The notes are a sickly bunch, frayed and ragged-looking, and Atobe leans against the opposite wall, contemplating them in silence.
“Oh hell,” Shishido says, joining Atobe in leaning. “I was going to post my run time.”
“No one would be impressed, I promise,” Atobe reassures him. “I’m surprised you had the physical fortitude to manage standing, let alone running.”
“Whatever,” Shishido growls. “I hope your Sunday was miserable, too.”
Atobe opens his mouth to reply, but changes his mind, opting to greet Oshitari as he comes to stand beside them.
“Well. So we’ve reached the end of it,” he remarks, gazing at the wall with something like fondness. “Alas, poor wall of anonymity and suffering, we hardly knew ye.”
“Do you have to make it into a tragedy?” Atobe asks him, and Oshitari makes a big show of wiping his imaginary tears. “Your pathos leaves me unmoved.”
“Yuushi,” Jiroh’s voice calls, from back in the cloakroom. “Are they being mean to you?”
“Yes, please come save me,” Oshitari yells back.
“Fuck you and fend for yourself,” says Mukahi, appearing around the corner and standing to block their collective view of the wall and its decaying collection of notes. “Huh. Guess that’s over with.”
“Ah, everything but the climactic reveal,” Oshitari disagrees, arching his eyebrows. “I expect a full disclosure during lunch period, and I shan’t be disappointed.”
The day is warm enough, so they go outside by unspoken consensus when lunch begins, sprawling on the grass.
“I swear,” Oshitari is laughing, even as Shishido and Mukahi each dig an elbow into his sides, “Nothing!”
“Nothing?” Mukahi cries. “You disappoint me!”
“You wrote enough for the entire school three times over,” Atobe rolls his eyes. “Don’t say you felt the lack.”
“So not the point,” sniffs Mukahi. “Mine were just the usual shit -- the one about being ass at doubles was from me, Piyo, by the way.”
“No kidding,” Hiyoshi says drily. He then colours, and inspects a particularly interesting cloud formation. “Do I need to say what --”
“Unless you want me to punch your throat,” Shishido warns, waving his cheese sandwich at Hiyoshi threateningly. “And I don’t care at all about who else’s life you may have ruined, because mine was totally --”
“Shishido-san,” says Ohtori, exasperated. Shishido shrugs, and offers him his unopened bag of ketchup chips. “Thank you.”
“Don’t eat them all and get fat,” Shishido cautions, scowling. “If you get fat and can’t run --”
“I won’t,” Ohtori promises, a smile tugging at his otherwise serious expression.
“That’s heart-warming,” Mukahi snaps. “Now seriously, who wrote the one about my English mark? Atobe --”
“I wrote exactly one note, and it certainly wasn’t to you,” Atobe scoffs. His haughty countenance is somewhat undermined by Oshitari’s surreptitious efforts and sprinkling plucked grass onto his head. Atobe doesn’t notice until he turns his head and a shower of greenery comes down over his face. “Yuushi, are you twelve or something?”
“You probably would’ve felt better if you’d left a note, Yuushi,” Mukahi says, holding out a hand to Hiyoshi, who diligently if reluctantly spills some of his trail mix into Mukahi’s palm. “Ew, trail mix, what the hell?”
“Why are you eating it, then,” Hiyoshi mutters.
“I mean,” Mukahi continues, flopping onto his back, “just look at Shishido. He’s gotten at least two months of spastic fury out of his system in less than two weeks; who can’t learn from that example?”
“Fuck,” Shishido says, “you.”
“Well, I miss all of it already,” Mukahi sighs. “I learned so much. I should get course credit.”
“Pretty much anything would help your average at this point, this is true,” Atobe puts in, slyly. Mukahi gapes at him, apoplectic expression growing. “Just because I didn’t write any notes about you, doesn’t mean I don’t agree with them.”
“Here’s to that,” Oshitari laughs, and holds up his bottle of orange juice in salute.
* * *
Atobe spends the entirety of his last class trying to get Oshitari’s attention. He scrawls, Did you get my note in second period, or not? and sends it on a true course to Oshitari’s glass-protected left eye. Oshitari reads it, and gives Atobe the blankest smile possible.
The final bell rings, and Atobe charges to the cloakroom, preparing to leave at light speed. And then he waits, and waits, and only glares at Oshitari when the latter walks in, wearing that same blank smile.
Atobe stands at his locker, back straight and head high, while Oshitari shoves yet another stray page into his bag. It takes forever.
Oshitari looks up, and stands, unhurriedly. There is a hank of errant hair across his face. Atobe crosses his arms fiercely.
“You look like a confused girl, Keigo.”
“I’m not --”
“You are. Actually.” Yuushi takes three steps forward.
“Well, that’s,” says Keigo. The light jacket he’s wearing is bunching at the elbows from the strain of his crossed arms. “I have no idea what to say to you.”
“Okay,” Oshitari smiles. “Shall we?”
Atobe exhales, and starts walking. Oshitari follows, humming under his breath.
“Kei-chan,” Oshitari says, when they reach the curb where Atobe’s limo idles. Atobe stares at the ground. “Keigo.”
“Well, if you’d read my damn note,” Atobe hisses, and heaves the car door open before his chauffeur has a chance to even register their presence. He takes Oshitari’s upper arm, and all but shoves him into the limo. Oshitari is laughing again as Atobe clambers in after. “You would know!”
“It’s only words,” answers Oshitari, over the sound of the driver putting the clutch into gear. “I can do without.”
“It’s a confidence,” Atobe says, lowly. The limo pulls onto the street, cautiously. Oshitari looks at Atobe, settling his school bag over his lap. Atobe says, “Somebody’s got to be the honest one.”
“Uh-huh,” Oshitari comments, lip quirked up in a badly-concealed smirk. “Is that my cue, or something?”
“Well, well,” Atobe delays, crossing and uncrossing his legs irritatedly. “It is mildly annoying to know that you avoided making any confessions at all during this end debacle, I don’t --”
“I was pre-empted,” notes Oshitari, coolly. “You can’t possibly want me to be derivative.”
“Not the point,” says Atobe. The space between their thighs, side by side, catches his eye, and it takes him a moment longer to continue. “Everyone else took a leap of faith.”
“Including you?” asks Oshitari. He’s wearing his amusement as openly as the sky. “Your little note just now, you mean?”
“It is not ‘little’, you ass, I spent time and -- shut up,” growls Atobe, at Oshitari’s laugh. “It took some doing!”
“Keigo, you likely wrote bits of vague information on your mother’s stationery,” Oshitari smiles. “I kissed you. I win at this game.”
Atobe’s blush is intense enough to look debilitating, but he rallies bravely.
“Discretion,” he chokes out, “is the better part of valour, and for your information, it is the not knowing that is the hard part, so in terms of --”
“Wait, what? So being discrete but also knowing everything absolutely is required to win? Damn,” Oshitari whistles. “This just got serious.”
“You do not win,” Atobe insists, then, loudly, “And it is not a competition, anyways!”
“I would certainly hate to deprive you of your continued triumph,” concedes Oshitari. He fixes Atobe with a deep look. “A pity.”
“What are you even talking about,” says Atobe, shoving at Oshitari’s knee with his hand, childishly. He leaves the hand where it is.
“The way you factor it, Keigo, my direct action was an act of woeful indiscretion,” explains Oshitari. He covers Atobe’s hand with his own, drumming his fingers atop it casually. “This is presumably a weaker showing than your own tortured unknowing, so I suppose I shall have to let you preserve your victory.”
“Yuushi,” Atobe intones, thigh warm against Oshitari’s and hand even warmer, “maybe if you were less in love with your wit and more interested in saying what you meant, we’d get somewhere.”
“Well,” sighs Oshitari. “I certainly can’t besmirch your moral victory by kissing you again.”
Atobe can only suppress his reacting expression so quickly. Oshitari says, “I’m only thinking of you, Keigo.”
“Maybe I’ve underscored your honesty,” tries Atobe. Oshitari lifts the hand on his thigh and sets it back onto its owner’s. “Straightforwardness is really undervalued, in general --”
“I hope you watch your mirrors when you back up at that speed, Keigo.”
“I am not,” Atobe squawks. “I am making a generalized statement about my recent experience, an experience you also shared with me --”
“So now we’re talking vague, non-specific honesty,” Oshitari points out. “This scoring rubric is really confusing, you should think of streamlining it.”
“I am trying,” begins Atobe, about fifty decibels above regular speaking volume. Only Oshitari’s amused glance at the thick window separating them from Atobe’s chauffeur forestalls him. More quietly, he says, “I am trying to deliver a confession, so if you stopped being clever for three seconds --”
“A bit late for confessions.”
“Shut up,” Atobe moans, throwing his head back frustratedly and bouncing it against the soft upholstery behind him. Oshitari hums tuneless into the brief silence, before Atobe erupts. “Now I don’t want to say anything nice to you ever again!”
“Mm,” says Oshitari, unconvinced, and then makes the same noise against Atobe’s lips, a key to a hidden lock.
Atobe is trying to say, “Stop now, we’ll be there at any minute and this is one discretion I really have to keep,” but when his fingers come against a familiar square of folded paper tucked into the back pocket of Oshitari’s pants, what he says instead is, “Oh, Yuushi.”
“D’you want it back,” Oshitari asks, softly against Atobe’s cheek.
“Keep it,” says Atobe.
END.
Part Two
Wednesday leaves them still too close to the day prior, and too far away from the weekend.
“This isn’t even practice,” Atobe snarls to himself, ten minutes into it and triple that number of fights, both physical and not. Oshitari is playing against Ohtori again today, and Shishido is missing every second shot Kabaji turns back to him.
Mukahi doesn’t complain about a single one of Atobe’s Tannhauser serves. They get faster and faster, and Atobe’s scowl deepens.
“Hey,” Mukahi says, too brightly, back in the clubhouse. “My parents are away this weekend --”
“Who the hell goes away two weeks after Golden Week,” Shishido mutters. Mukahi swallows visibly, and ignores him.
“I can totally kick my brother out on Saturday, so,” he grins, “bring your own booze?”
“I am there,” Oshitari confirms. Mukahi eyes him.
“Don’t bring stupid girly drinks like last time,” he says, warningly.
“Didn’t Shishido break the martini shaker,” Jiroh muses aloud. “At New Years, was it a martini shaker or something else --”
“It was my blender,” Atobe supplies, with the requisite eyeroll. “I can come on Saturday.”
“RSVP, you bastards,” Mukahi shouts, flinging his shirt in the air for extra effect. It lands on Jiroh’s head and muffles his sound of confirmation. “Ew, Jiroh, did you just gum up my shirt?”
“I’ll come,” Shishido says, back to the room at large. He scratches the back of his neck. “D’you wanna head out together, Choutarou?”
“I can’t,” Ohtori admits. Mukahi says, “Well, fuck,” under his breath. Shishido nods, hurriedly.
“Yeah, okay, you probably have -- violin practice, right,” he supplies, as Ohtori nods miserably. “Okay.”
“You coming, Hiyoshi,” asks Mukahi. Hiyoshi stares at the floor. “Oh my god, you’re such a girl, you can come even if Shishido’s going to throw a tantrum --”
“What the fuck, Mukahi,” Shishido yells, and Mukahi takes his shirt back from off Jiroh’s head in order to fling it at Shishido’s. “Argh!”
“Yes or no,” Mukahi asks Hiyoshi. “I don’t give a shit, I just want to know if I can count on you for booze, because if you’re not going to bring booze --”
“You’re going to uninvite him if he doesn’t bring alcohol,” Atobe clarifies, buttoning up his shirt reflexively. “That’s classy.”
“Gakuto is known far across the land for his class,” Oshitari grins at Atobe, who focuses on the top three buttons.
“Okay,” Hiyoshi says, at length. He closes his locker. “I’ll come.”
No one is surprised when Shishido’s locker nearly comes off its hinges, it’s slammed so hard. Shishido is only prevented from repeating the performance by the entrance of some subregulars at the same time as he is exiting the clubhouse door.
“That bitch,” Mukahi notes, to collective agreement.
The day does not improve.
Atobe is trying to make a clean escape in order to go eat lunch in solitude, when he’s accosted by a girl he knows vaguely from his English class.
“A moment of your time?” she pleads, and Atobe tries not to let his aggravation show. She has him follow her into an empty classroom, and seats herself on a desk. Atobe stays standing. “Did you not read the note?”
“What,” Atobe says, flatly. She colours.
“Oh, well,” she manages, “I thought you’d be flattered and -- interested, especially after --”
“What is this about,” he demands. His voice has an edge he cannot help. To her credit, she lifts her chin and meets his eyes squarely.
“Would you go out with me, Atobe-san?” is all she says.
“I’m sorry, no,” Atobe replies, mechanically. His answer is always rote. “I’m not dating right now, and --”
“Any reason for that?” she interrupts, and Atobe blinks at her, thrown. “Even if you don’t like, well, you can’t say the pretence wouldn’t be benefi --”
Atobe slams his hands against the nearest desk to him, startling them both.
“My being disinterested in wanting to date you and my sexuality,” he says, hands shaking, “have nothing to do with each other, and I’d thank you to watch what you insinuate.”
“You don’t have to be cruel,” she says, quietly, and there are tears in her eyes. Atobe closes his. When he opens them again, she’s left the room.
Oshitari finds him still rooted to the spot, some ten minutes later.
“Hey, just wondering if you wanted one last study session after--”
“The girls in this school now think I’m gay,” Atobe hisses. Oshitari stays in the doorway. “I do not want to do anything of the sort, it’s already --”
“But Keigo,” Oshitari sneers, “You’re not gay!”
Atobe looks up. Oshitari’s sneer shifts into something else, and he murmurs a soft apology before leaving Atobe alone again.
When Atobe sends a text message to the team at eleven-thirty that night, cancelling the next morning’s practice, Oshitari’s replying comment of ‘something the matter?’ is enough incentive for Atobe to rips open the French doors of his bedroom and fling the mobile as far out into the grounds as he possibly can. He can barely hear the impacting crunch of it landing, he’s breathing so hard.
* * *
Kabaji tells him about the note first thing. Atobe says, “She can say whatever she likes. I won’t give her the satisfaction,” and goes to his classes and eats lunch in silence and sits his history test in his last period like nothing is wrong.
“Eyes on your own tests,” their teacher warns. Atobe squirms, and doesn’t manage to finish the test ahead of his classmates, which means he can’t walk away from the room quickly enough to evade them.
"Good job, there," Shishido tells him. He looks morbidly pleased. Atobe sets his mouth in a firm, authoritative line. "I've been saying for years that you're an asshole, maybe girls'll finally listen --"
"I actually," Atobe interrupts, decisively, "wish you would die, right here and now."
“Oh, this sounds exciting,” says Oshitari, from somewhere behind Atobe. Shishido turns to look at him. Atobe continues to bore his gaze onto Shishido. “Are you killing him before or after our test results come in next week?”
“What?” Atobe asks. Shishido’s shit-eating grin has begun to fade.
“Well, I think if you’re going to make him suffer, you really ought to let his text score do half the work for you, Keigo.”
“What the fuck,” snarls Shishido, “do you mean by that?”
“We all saw your post-exam look of devastation,” supplies Oshitari, brightly. Atobe turns around to stare at him. “Are you going to cry when the results are posted?”
“Yuushi,” begins Atobe.
“Do a little mourning for your trampled hopes and dreams?” Oshitari continues, tone easy and conversational and much louder than Atobe’s had been. Shishido lets out a murderous sound.
“Right, I’m going to just --” Atobe starts to say, only Shishido chooses that moment to lunge at Oshitari, and Atobe beats a hasty exit instead, unmissed by either party. He hears Mukahi yell, “Oh my god, why are we fighting now and whose side am I on?” as he leaves.
He gathers up his amid whispered conversations in the cloakroom, and walks as slowly as he can to his limo parked out front. Atobe rereads his planner, and then the notes he’d taken in class, and is just stepping into his foyer, finally, when his phone rings. Atobe hands off his bag to his butler, and slides open his slick new mobile, fumbling a little once he sees the caller.
“That was a phenomenally stupid production, even for you,” he announces into the mouthpiece.
“Thank you for asking after my health,” Oshitari replies sweetly. “My grievous injuries are in fact healing quite nicely --”
“Your own fault,” Atobe scoffs, meandering into the closest sitting room and throwing himself onto the centrepiece sofa. He stares at the window treatment on the far side of the room. “He’s already twitchy, you probably shouldn’t have.”
“And Shishido probably should have prodded you about things you’d made clear you’re tired of being prodded about,” Oshitari retorts, quickly and awkwardly.
“For god’s sake, is this some sort of pissing contest?” Atobe asks, incredulous. “Are you trying to preserve my honour now? I know you feel responsible, but --”
“For what,” interrupts Oshitari, sharply. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“You prod me about things I don’t want to be prodded about all the time,” Atobe insists, sitting upright now. “Never mind Shishido, it’s not --”
“But clearly it is,” Oshitari cuts in, again. His voice snaps across the phoneline like an elastic band. “Clearly it’s on your mind, Keigo.”
“Who, Shishido? No,” Atobe says, staunchly. “Nothing is!”
“Why should I --”
“I’m sorry, I have homework,” exclaims Atobe. It comes out sounding almost desperate. His back is ramrod straight.
There is a long silence.
“All right,” says Oshitari. “I’ll see you tomorrow at practice.”
“You aren’t too grievously injured to attend?” Atobe grins, shifting to one side so he can drum his fingers restlessly along the armrest of the sofa.
“You wouldn’t accept my excuses, anyways,” says Oshitari.
Atobe tells him, “Very droll. Later,” and snaps his phone shut with a long exhale.
* * *
It’s the first time Atobe’s been this close to the wall. There are students everywhere, but that’s hardly unusual anymore. Atobe folds his note in half, and pins it to the wall with a black thumbpin.
As he is walking away, he hears a dismayed cry from a voice he does not recognize. “’Work harder’? What kind of note is that? Here, you read it, I’m sure it’s Atobe’s --”
Oshitari is standing at the school entrance. Atobe passes him by without a word.
Oshitari shows up for practice proper a good ten minutes late. Atobe is too busy trying to keep Shishido’s focus on his game rather than on the vital importance of telling Hiyoshi to go fuck himself every three minutes, that he barely notices.
“Bring your own booze,” Mukahi chants, in the clubhouse after practice, and after school in the cloakroom, until even Shishido is turning his ire on him. “Swear to god, I’m doing a bottle count before anyone comes in!”
“Taxation without representation, how uncouth,” Oshitari murmurs, to no one in particular. Atobe looks at him, and can’t look away fast enough for Oshitari not to notice. “Keigo?”
“Nothing,” says Atobe, sliding on his street shoes.
“Did you,” Oshitari says, abortively. He laughs when Atobe makes no notion that he’s heard. “Okay, well, I thought it might be -- did you want to hang out afterwards? After Mukahi’s thing?”
“You won’t be getting too drunk to function?” Atobe scoffs, and stands up to leave. Oshitari shrugs.
“Suit yourself. I’ll see you there.”
* * *
“The hostess with the --” Shishido squints up at the ceiling, and reaches for his beer and the insult he’s seeking. “Gakuto fucking sucks, that’s the point.”
“That is not even funny,” Oshitari cuts in, flatly. Atobe glances at him, amused. Oshitari has to tip his beer can all the way back when he next drinks.
“And you,” yells Shishido, “World’s most unwanted peanut gallery!”
“Thanks so much,” says Oshitari. “I’m going through a rough period in my life right now.” Atobe laughs. Oshitari stands up, shakily. “I’m tired of drinking beer,” he says, with the air of a great personal revelation.
“It’s all shitty right now,” begins Atobe, when no one says anything and Oshitari hasn’t moved anywhere. “You think I really wanted to deal with --”
“No, fuck, I can’t hear about this again,” Mukahi explodes. “Every five seconds! We get it! We get it,” he repeats, when Atobe glowers at him. Shishido is laughing. “Yuushi, if you don’t come back with booze for everyone, I’m going to cut you. It is your job as the tallest person who came.”
“Whatever,” Oshitari replies, and trudges off to the kitchen, putting one hand on the doorframe as he goes. He brings back a bottle of rum and another of Coke, which is soon emptied between their six glasses. “We’re running out.”
“I brought my own stuff,” Hiyoshi says, when Shishido, predictably, levels a drunken glare his way. “Not my fault we’re going to run out before midnight!”
“Oh hey,” Mukahi cries, picking up the empty Coke bottle. “Anyone up for truth or dare?”
“Fuck yes,” Shishido breathes, and rips the bottle out of Mukahi’s hands, setting it to spin wildly on the floor in front of him before anyone else can even consent to playing. “Jiroh! Truth or dare, runt.”
“Dare,” Jiroh says, excitedly. Shishido looks stymied for a second, before crowing,
“I dare you to -- to lick my shoe,” and dissolving into laughter.
“Why do you always make me lick your shoe,” Jiroh whines, but dutifully steps over Mukahi in order to go fetch the appropriate footwear. He comes back and gives the sole of it a decent lap of the tongue, to Shishido’s jubilant cheering.
“It’s like a drunken eight-year-old,” Atobe remarks, grinning at Shishido.
“What?” Shishido beams, the insult flying over his head. “Spin it, man!”
Jiroh spins. It lands on Oshitari.
“Truth,” Jiroh says dramatically, “or dare.”
“Dare,” answers Oshitari without hesitation.
“I dare you to -- tell us your darkest secret!”
“Oh my god, that fails worse that Shishido’s,” Mukahi sighs, downing a long gulp of his rum-and-coke, and chasing it with a can of beer that may have been Shishido’s. “Does that even count?”
“Yes it counts,” Shishido grins. Oshitari scowls.
“I’ll pass,” he says. Jiroh lets out a cry. “I get a free pass, don’t I?”
“Fine,” Shishido deigns, “but you lose your turn.”
“Since when are you lord and master of truth-or-dare games?” Atobe questions, reaching across Oshitari to his right in order to grab a can of beer. Oshitari leans as far back as possible. “I’m not infectious, Yuushi.”
“Who’s turn is it, then,” Oshitari prompts.
“Mine, right?”
“No, it’s mine,” says Mukahi, “Because you all suck and someone has to be awesome about this.”
He spins the bottle.
Atobe frowns. “Wait, do we even need to use the bottle? Isn’t that for kissing?”
“Pretty much,” Hiyoshi sighs, and they share a put-upon look. Shishido waves his hand between them, spastically.
“Hey, pay attention! It’s you, Atobe!”
“What?”
“Truth or dare, what do you think,” Mukahi scoffs.
“Dare.”
“Dare you to eat my tube of toothpaste,” submits Mukahi, jeeringly. Atobe rolls his eyes.
“The actual tube, or just the contents.”
“Both!” Shishido yells, at the same as Mukahi says, “Contents.”
“Whatever,” Atobe sighs. “It’s not poisonous, I’ll do it.”
The tube is brought. It’s about one-fifths of the way full.
“What a challenge,” grins Atobe, and squishes all of it into his mouth. It takes him a good forty seconds to swallow, but he manages. “That is revolting.”
The trend only solidifies, and Shishido eventually runs out of creativity when his fourth bottle-spin lands on Atobe.
“Truth or dare, you glorious bastard.”
“Okay,” Atobe says, slowly. “I don’t want to eat anything else ever again, so. Truth.”
There’s a moment’s pause. Shishido clears his throat theatrically.
“So are you, or are you not,” he says, gearing up to it, “gay, and do you want to hook up with your seeecret lover!”
“Oh my god that is a horrible waste,” Mukahi moans. “What the hell, he’s been screaming about it for-fucking-ever, we’ve covered this!”
Atobe glares for all he’s worth. “No, I am not gay, and no, I do not, even though that is two truths, you dirty cheat.”
“Way to be,” Mukahi scowls at Shishido. “At least eating weird shit is new and exciting.”
“Right,” Oshitari says, suddenly. He turns to look at Atobe, who stares back. “Atobe Keigo, you are a fucking liar and I am tired of it.”
And then he slides both his hands over Atobe’s cheeks, and pulls him into a kiss. Atobe’s hands go slack in his lap, and his head tilts, a little, enough to cause Oshitari’s hands to smoothly through Atobe’s hair, to rest on his nape. Atobe makes a sound no one has ever heard from him before.
They wrench away from each other as quickly and as violently as lightning, electricity sparking through the ground.
Atobe holds Oshitari's gaze for a second, maybe less, and then drops his gaze to the floor in front of him, like the drop of an anvil.
“My turn,” Oshitari says hoarsely. He pulls his knees up to his chin, and spins the bottle. Shishido doesn’t react when it stops pointed towards him. “I dare you to swallow an entire canister of cinnamon. I dare you.”
“What?”
“Cinnamon. You. Swallowing,” repeats Oshitari, somewhat less coherently. “Dare.”
“That’s -- uncool, Yuushi,” Mukahi says, frowning. “That’s actually dangerous, Shishido, don’t --”
“But I like cimanon,” offers Shishido, stupidly. He’s staring slack-jawed at Oshitari, and then at Atobe, like a shocked pendulum.
“No,” Mukahi tells him. He meets Oshitari’s eyes. “Pick another dare.”
“So no one -- I’m out, then,” Oshitari says, stumbling to his feet, the motion jarring his voice. It’s already half an octave too high. Jiroh starts to speak. “I’m out, fuck.”
Atobe flinches at the front door’s slam.
“Drinks!” Mukahi exclaims, hauling himself to his feet clumsily. He tugs at Jiroh’s shoulder. “Up you get, you’re carrying stuff.”
“Okay,” agrees Jiroh, following Mukahi into the kitchen, where they immediately do nothing so much as think about getting drinks.
“Oh my god,” says Mukahi, perched on the marble countertop. “Oh my god, Jiroh.”
“That was so weird,” Jiroh confirms. He seats himself cross-legged on the floor. “Weeeeird.”
“Yeah, that,” Mukahi nods. “How drunk is he?”
“A lot,” says Jiroh, and then frowns. “Wait, how drunk is who?”
“Point.”
They sit without speaking for a few moments. Back in the living room, Shishido has started in on his new favourite hobby of insulting Hiyoshi. Mukahi heaves a great sigh, and Jiroh looks up at him.
“Gakuto.”
“Yeah?”
“So -- I’m pretty sure Yuushi wasn’t being jokey,” Jiroh says, nibbling at the cuticle of his index finger. “That wasn’t a jokey kiss.”
“God,” Mukahi exhales, staring up at his ceiling lights. “I needed to be a lot more drunk than I was, for that.”
“Yuushi was really drunk,” Jiroh points out. His brow furrows, suddenly. “Did he take his mobile with him when he left?”
“I dunno; are you worried or something?” Jiroh stares at him, and Mukahi hastily adds, “Well, obviously if he’s not back soon we’ll send a search party or whatever, but I think he’s --”
“That was weird,” Hiyoshi says, coming into the kitchen and wearing a confused expression. “Did he plan that?”
“I bet he did,” Shishido slurs, shoving Hiyoshi aside and staggering towards the kitchen table. He throws himself into a chair. “Just like you planned to ruin my life.”
“I don’t think Yuushi’s trying to ruin anyone’s life,” Jiroh says, flopping over onto his side so he can stretch out and poke at Shishido’s foot. “Maybe forgive Piyo already, also.”
“That was just so weird,” Hiyoshi repeats, frowning at the floor.
“Says you,” Shishido snorts, and reaches for the drink on the kitchen table that isn’t there. “Oh fuck, my drink.”
“Are you seriously going to disagree with me about this,” says Hiyoshi. “You don’t think it’s weird at all?”
Shishido squints at him drunkenly for several seconds before stating, “You are up to something.”
Mukahi curses, and hops down from the counter. He pulls open the fridge and starts pulling out beer and the impressive bottle of vodka that had been Oshitari’s offering.
“Tryin’ to trick me,” mutters Shishido, glowering at Hiyoshi. “Ruining my life or something.”
“Yes, Shishido,” Mukahi exclaims, uncapping the vodka, “Hiyoshi has engineered all of this. Just for your pleasure, you special princess.”
“I knew it,” Shishido hisses, and then stands in a disoriented motion, yelling, “I knew it, I will kill you --”
Jiroh yelps when Shishido’s warpath gets tangled up in his legs, and hurriedly scoots over to where Mukahi is standing.
“I am not going to stop you,” Mukahi calls out to them, as Shishido starts throwing punches. He finds a glass in the cupboard, pours it full of vodka, and passes it down to Jiroh, who takes it distractedly. “Stay the fuck away from my appliances, though!”
Shishido lets out a warcry, and lands his first punch to Hiyoshi’s head, which has the immediate effect of Hiyoshi all but throwing him across the room.
“Hey, cool, it’s like martial arts!” laughs Jiroh.
Shishido is not laughing. Hiyoshi says, “If we beat each other up, will you stop being an asshole?”
“That actually has never worked,” Mukahi mutters, from the safe sidelines. Shishido says something involving a lot of profanity, and charges at Hiyoshi head first, pushing them both into the Mukahi family kitchen table. Several cracks are heard. Mukahi goes pale. “Fuck, that better be your bones and not the furniture --”
Shishido’s head comes up from the scattered pile of chairs bleeding, and Mukahi curses as Shishido starts flailing all of his limbs in Hiyoshi’s general direction.
“Aw, guys, break it up,” Jiroh cries, climbing to his feet. “I wanna get asked truth-or-dare!”
Hiyoshi manages to get Shishido in a hold, which Shishido responds to by biting down hard on Hiyoshi’s forearm.
“Don’t bleed all over the place,” Mukahi instructs angrily. Another flail from Shishido sends them back into the kitchen chairs. “Oh, fuck you both, I’m going to mess your shit up --”
“Er,” says Jiroh, and waits only to see Mukahi gets the broom out from his pantry before slipping back into the family room.
Atobe is exactly where they’d left him. He’s turned on the television.
“Whatcha watchin’?” Jiroh asks, nervously. Atobe doesn’t respond. “Okay, cool. Um. So Gakuto and Piyo and Ryou are all dying in the kitchen, d’you wanna be after-hours buchou?”
Atobe looks up. “What.”
“Gakuto has a broom,” Jiroh informs him. Atobe makes a noise that might have been a laugh, and gets up.
“Oh what the hell,” Atobe mutters. Mukahi has abandoned the broom, and is trying to position one of the much-abused chairs between Hiyoshi and Shishido, not unlike a lion tamer might.
“Atobe,” Shishido cries, when he sees Atobe there in the doorway. He makes a lunge at Hiyoshi, who jabs the palm of his hand in Shishido’s forehead. Mukahi brandishes the chair threateningly. “Ow, you fucker! Atobe, help, Hiyoshi’s gonna ruin all our lives, has to be killed --”
“No, I don’t,” Hiyoshi disagrees.
“It’s a curse,” Shishido wails, trying to shove the chair out of his way and ending up stabbing himself in the eye with one of the legs. “Fuck!”
“You’re an ass, Shishido,” Hiyoshi tells him, with plain satisfaction. “And you have just gouged out your own eye in your drunken stupidity.”
The injury does nothing at all to diminish Shishido’s will to fight, and he redoubles his efforts.
Atobe says, “Open the patio door,” to Mukahi, stomps over to Shishido, seizes Shishido’s head, and manhandles him out into the yard, where Shishido promptly loses his balance and crashes on the grass.
“Awesome,” Mukahi breathes, running back to the counter where he’s left his glass of vodka.
“Shishido,” Atobe intones, coldly.
Shishido’s screaming ceases in hearing something in Atobe’s voice.
“You are going to shut the fuck up,” Atobe tells him, “right fucking now and stop acting like a deranged person. You are better than this. Being drunk is only going to excuse you so far."
For a few seconds, there is blissful silence. Then Shishido face twists into a drunken parody of a sneer.
“Yeah? How far is it going to excuse Oshitari?”
Atobe doesn’t say a word as he goes back into the house, amid Mukahi’s indignant, “No, wait, that’s stupid, aren’t you going back to kill him for real?” and Hiyoshi’s silent gaze.
“I’m calling my chauffeur and going home,” Atobe calls back, once he’s halfway through the house. “I’ll wait outside. Goodnight.”
Shishido stays silent in the wake of Atobe’s exit for about thirty seconds, before screaming, “I’ll kill you with a rake, Hiyoshi!”
“Right, I’m getting the hose,” Mukahi says, matter-of-factly. He slips out onto the patio deck and pads towards the hose, neatly coiled against the side of the house. Hiyoshi squints out into Mukahi’s yard.
“The neighbours’ll complain.”
“Yeah, but I’ll be happier,” he reasons, and goes to turn the water on. “Hey, Shishido!”
Shishido turns his head in time to get a tidal wave of water directly in the face. Oddly, this does little to teach Shishido the value of silence.
Hiyoshi goes back into the kitchen, where Jiroh is pouring random juices into his glass of vodka.
“Too strong?” Hiyoshi asks, and Jiroh nods. Hiyoshi reaches for the glass. “I’ll have it, if you like.”
“Okay,” agrees Jiroh, and they stand in companionable silence until Mukahi comes back inside, sliding the door shut behind him with a massive thud. Shishido throws his entire person against the glass five seconds later, leaving a man-sized water mark.
Mukahi holds a finger up to him warningly, and speaks loudly enough for Shishido to be able to hear through the glass door. “Break my door, and I break your face. You can either sleep on my lawn, or go the fuck home, but you’re not getting back in the house.”
Mukahi’s look is entirely too pleased. Hiyoshi coughs.
“So,” he begins, “Where’d Oshitari-senpai go?”
“I have no fucking idea,” Mukahi says, loftily. “Hey, d’you think Shishido will die from his head injury?”
“I -- hope not?” Hiyoshi answers, confused.
“Aw, you don’t mean that,” sighs Mukahi. “Maybe we should call Yuushi.”
“I’ll do it,” Hiyoshi offers, when Mukahi offers a giggling Jiroh a drink from his constantly-refilled glass. Hiyoshi shuffles back to the family room, where he left his bag and mobile phone.
Oshitari takes six rings to answer.
“Oshitari-senpai, you can come back now,” Hiyoshi tells him.
“Oh, well,” Oshitari hedges, voice fuzzy at the edges. “It’s a nice night, maybe I’ll --”
“Atobe-buchou went home,” Hiyoshi elaborates, in the most neutral voice he can manage. “You’re drunk and will probably die on the streets, so come back.”
There is a significant delay in Oshitari’s answer.
“I’m -- drunk and confused,” mumbles Oshitari. Hiyoshi glares at the Mukahi family sofa.
“Are you lost,” he asks baldly. Oshitari doesn’t respond for a good twenty seconds, and then there is just dialtone.
Hiyoshi sighs, sprawls onto the sofa, and begins channel-surfing. Mukahi and Jiroh get louder for about twenty minutes, and then quiet down when the flow of alcohol has presumably abated. They join Hiyoshi on the couch shortly thereafter, looking weary. Jiroh falls asleep with his feet on Hiyoshi’s lap and his head in Mukahi’s.
Around three in the morning, the front door opens. Oshitari shuffles in.
“I started to get sober,” he says, dully.
“I’m going home,” Hiyoshi answers, carefully renegotiating Jiroh’s feet and standing. Jiroh wakes up anyways. “No one die of alcohol poisoning.”
“Yuushi, you’re back,” Jiroh notes, sleepily. He yawns as Oshitari comes to replace Hiyoshi’s spot on the sofa. “Did you have a good walk?”
“No,” Oshitari answers, and they all wave weakly at Hiyoshi as he turns the doorknob and heads off. “Hey, why is Hiyoshi allowed to go rambling around after hours and I’m not?”
“You did not see Hiyoshi versus Shishido, fight spectacular,” Mukahi scoffs. “Piyo can probably fight off bears, he’ll be fine.”
“Oh,” says Oshitari. He scrubs at his face with the heel of his hand.
Mukahi clears his throat. “Shishido’s sleeping outside. Not by choice.”
“That’s horrible,” Oshitari smiles wanly. “Can I have the sofa to sleep on?”
“Yeah,” Mukahi agrees. “Don’t puke on anything, though.”
“I will try my very best,” says Oshitari, thickly, and buries his head in the upholstery. Mukahi and Jiroh quietly head upstairs, to sleep in a pile on Mukahi’s futon.
* * *
Oshitari ends up talking the train home before ten the next morning. He returns each and every disapproving stare he gets from his fellow passengers.
The first thing he does when he gets home to a house that is empty (‘Gone shopping’, reads the note from his parents on the counter) is pour himself a glass of water. He sips at it, cautiously.
The second thing he does when he gets home is jump two feet in the air at the sound of his doorbell. Oshitari goes to look through the peephole, and Atobe says, “I know you’re in there, don’t bother pretending you’re not home.”
Oshitari opens the door. They stare at each other. Atobe’s expression is identical to his tennis-playing one.
“I smell disgusting and have not washed my hair,” Oshitari informs him, trying for insouciant and landing squarely on miserable.
“I am aware of these things,” says Atobe haughtily. He waves his hands at Oshitari in a sweeping motion, until Oshitari backs up enough to let Atobe through the door.
Oshitari retreats to his kitchen, and sits down at the table. Atobe stands as though waiting, and Oshitari heaves a massive sigh.
‘I am really, really fucking tired of all these elephants in the room,” is all Oshitari says.
“Which one?” Atobe sits down heavily. “We’ve got a few to choose from.”
“A menagerie,” agrees Oshitari. Atobe swallows.
“You kissed me,” he says. “And it seemed to me -- like you meant it.”
“I did,” answers Oshitari. Atobe bites his lip.
“Are you admitting that you kissed me, or the second part.”
“Both.”
“How did you mean it,” Atobe says. “Yuushi.”
“I really couldn’t be less interested in discussing the horrible embarrassments I’ve subjected myself to lately, Keigo.”
“I know, but,” Atobe stops, frustrated. He lays his palms flat atop the table in front of him. “Look, we were both a bit drunk, and I trust you when you say you didn’t write that note, so.”
“So,” Oshitari echoes. The silence drags, a net cast through open water. “So why are you here?”
“Because you wanted to hang out this weekend,” explains Atobe, “And that didn’t really happen at Mukahi’s house, or at least not -- hanging out, more like, I don’t know, things,” he stammers, helplessly now that he’s started. “Happened, but not. Hanging out. So today I’m here to hang out.”
Oshitari’s grin is only half as infectious as it usually is. Atobe smacks his palms lightly against the table twice, and then again. “Please, continue to leave me in awkward silence, Yuushi,” he snaps, finally.
“You know what, Keigo? Nothing would have been awkward if you hadn’t made it that way inside your own head,” retorts Oshitari, voice low. He stands up. “I’m getting something to drink. Do you want anything?”
“Fuck, no I don’t want anything to drink, you’re the one who’s been difficult lately, not me!” Atobe tells him, angrily. Oshitari doesn’t turn around, and takes his time inspecting the contents of his fridge. “It’s you, not me!”
Oshitari whirls around, lightning fast, and fixes Atobe with an expression that is perfectly, flawlessly blank. Atobe’s hands are fists, and his face has gone red.
“My dearest Keigo,” says Oshitari, slowly and with a civility drenched in sarcasm, “I think it’s both of us.”
“Oh, well thank god you’ve elucidated that much,” Atobe snarls. “Everything is solved! Maybe we should write each other notes, next!”
“I’d have nothing to say that hasn’t already --” Oshitari slams into silence, like hitting a wall. Atobe stares. Oshitari inhales visibly, and turns back to his fridge, reopening the door.
“Yuushi,” tries Atobe. He’s gone very, very still. “Yuushi, what.”
“You wouldn’t like hearing it,” Oshitari tells the contents of his fridge. Atobe pushes his chair back quickly, and marches over to the other side of the opened fridge door. “I already asked if you wanted anything, Keigo.”
“Wouldn’t like hearing it like --” Atobe breathes in through his nose. The kitchen’s clock, hung on the opposite walls, ticks loudly. “Like I didn’t like being kissed by you? Like that?”
“What?” Oshitari says, intelligently. He lifts his head up to stare at Atobe. Atobe is glaring as hard as he can, but Oshitari isn’t averting his gaze at all. “What does that mean? There are too many likes in that sentence, I can’t --”
“I’m not,” Atobe tries to tell him, desperately. He takes his hands in and out of his pockets before settling them on top of the fridge door, where they clench and unclench. “I don’t know! Stop staring at me like that!”
“Can I tell you something?” Oshitari murmurs, at length. He shuts the fridge door, leaving Atobe’s hands with nothing to grip. Atobe makes a small sound of unhappiness.
“Anything, tell me anything,” he answers. He meets Oshitari’s eyes, shocked, when Oshitari takes his trembling hands in his own.
“Don’t get hysterical on me,” warns Oshitari, though there is a tell-tale lilt to his own voice. He squeezes Atobe’s fingers. “This is enough of a disaster already --”
“Disasters are unplanned,” Atobe says without thinking. Oshitari cocks his head to one side, and slides his thumb up and down the inside of Atobe’s wrist.
It ends up being enough of a disaster to be worthwhile.
* * *
There is not a single person by the wall on Monday. The notes are a sickly bunch, frayed and ragged-looking, and Atobe leans against the opposite wall, contemplating them in silence.
“Oh hell,” Shishido says, joining Atobe in leaning. “I was going to post my run time.”
“No one would be impressed, I promise,” Atobe reassures him. “I’m surprised you had the physical fortitude to manage standing, let alone running.”
“Whatever,” Shishido growls. “I hope your Sunday was miserable, too.”
Atobe opens his mouth to reply, but changes his mind, opting to greet Oshitari as he comes to stand beside them.
“Well. So we’ve reached the end of it,” he remarks, gazing at the wall with something like fondness. “Alas, poor wall of anonymity and suffering, we hardly knew ye.”
“Do you have to make it into a tragedy?” Atobe asks him, and Oshitari makes a big show of wiping his imaginary tears. “Your pathos leaves me unmoved.”
“Yuushi,” Jiroh’s voice calls, from back in the cloakroom. “Are they being mean to you?”
“Yes, please come save me,” Oshitari yells back.
“Fuck you and fend for yourself,” says Mukahi, appearing around the corner and standing to block their collective view of the wall and its decaying collection of notes. “Huh. Guess that’s over with.”
“Ah, everything but the climactic reveal,” Oshitari disagrees, arching his eyebrows. “I expect a full disclosure during lunch period, and I shan’t be disappointed.”
The day is warm enough, so they go outside by unspoken consensus when lunch begins, sprawling on the grass.
“I swear,” Oshitari is laughing, even as Shishido and Mukahi each dig an elbow into his sides, “Nothing!”
“Nothing?” Mukahi cries. “You disappoint me!”
“You wrote enough for the entire school three times over,” Atobe rolls his eyes. “Don’t say you felt the lack.”
“So not the point,” sniffs Mukahi. “Mine were just the usual shit -- the one about being ass at doubles was from me, Piyo, by the way.”
“No kidding,” Hiyoshi says drily. He then colours, and inspects a particularly interesting cloud formation. “Do I need to say what --”
“Unless you want me to punch your throat,” Shishido warns, waving his cheese sandwich at Hiyoshi threateningly. “And I don’t care at all about who else’s life you may have ruined, because mine was totally --”
“Shishido-san,” says Ohtori, exasperated. Shishido shrugs, and offers him his unopened bag of ketchup chips. “Thank you.”
“Don’t eat them all and get fat,” Shishido cautions, scowling. “If you get fat and can’t run --”
“I won’t,” Ohtori promises, a smile tugging at his otherwise serious expression.
“That’s heart-warming,” Mukahi snaps. “Now seriously, who wrote the one about my English mark? Atobe --”
“I wrote exactly one note, and it certainly wasn’t to you,” Atobe scoffs. His haughty countenance is somewhat undermined by Oshitari’s surreptitious efforts and sprinkling plucked grass onto his head. Atobe doesn’t notice until he turns his head and a shower of greenery comes down over his face. “Yuushi, are you twelve or something?”
“You probably would’ve felt better if you’d left a note, Yuushi,” Mukahi says, holding out a hand to Hiyoshi, who diligently if reluctantly spills some of his trail mix into Mukahi’s palm. “Ew, trail mix, what the hell?”
“Why are you eating it, then,” Hiyoshi mutters.
“I mean,” Mukahi continues, flopping onto his back, “just look at Shishido. He’s gotten at least two months of spastic fury out of his system in less than two weeks; who can’t learn from that example?”
“Fuck,” Shishido says, “you.”
“Well, I miss all of it already,” Mukahi sighs. “I learned so much. I should get course credit.”
“Pretty much anything would help your average at this point, this is true,” Atobe puts in, slyly. Mukahi gapes at him, apoplectic expression growing. “Just because I didn’t write any notes about you, doesn’t mean I don’t agree with them.”
“Here’s to that,” Oshitari laughs, and holds up his bottle of orange juice in salute.
* * *
Atobe spends the entirety of his last class trying to get Oshitari’s attention. He scrawls, Did you get my note in second period, or not? and sends it on a true course to Oshitari’s glass-protected left eye. Oshitari reads it, and gives Atobe the blankest smile possible.
The final bell rings, and Atobe charges to the cloakroom, preparing to leave at light speed. And then he waits, and waits, and only glares at Oshitari when the latter walks in, wearing that same blank smile.
Atobe stands at his locker, back straight and head high, while Oshitari shoves yet another stray page into his bag. It takes forever.
Oshitari looks up, and stands, unhurriedly. There is a hank of errant hair across his face. Atobe crosses his arms fiercely.
“You look like a confused girl, Keigo.”
“I’m not --”
“You are. Actually.” Yuushi takes three steps forward.
“Well, that’s,” says Keigo. The light jacket he’s wearing is bunching at the elbows from the strain of his crossed arms. “I have no idea what to say to you.”
“Okay,” Oshitari smiles. “Shall we?”
Atobe exhales, and starts walking. Oshitari follows, humming under his breath.
“Kei-chan,” Oshitari says, when they reach the curb where Atobe’s limo idles. Atobe stares at the ground. “Keigo.”
“Well, if you’d read my damn note,” Atobe hisses, and heaves the car door open before his chauffeur has a chance to even register their presence. He takes Oshitari’s upper arm, and all but shoves him into the limo. Oshitari is laughing again as Atobe clambers in after. “You would know!”
“It’s only words,” answers Oshitari, over the sound of the driver putting the clutch into gear. “I can do without.”
“It’s a confidence,” Atobe says, lowly. The limo pulls onto the street, cautiously. Oshitari looks at Atobe, settling his school bag over his lap. Atobe says, “Somebody’s got to be the honest one.”
“Uh-huh,” Oshitari comments, lip quirked up in a badly-concealed smirk. “Is that my cue, or something?”
“Well, well,” Atobe delays, crossing and uncrossing his legs irritatedly. “It is mildly annoying to know that you avoided making any confessions at all during this end debacle, I don’t --”
“I was pre-empted,” notes Oshitari, coolly. “You can’t possibly want me to be derivative.”
“Not the point,” says Atobe. The space between their thighs, side by side, catches his eye, and it takes him a moment longer to continue. “Everyone else took a leap of faith.”
“Including you?” asks Oshitari. He’s wearing his amusement as openly as the sky. “Your little note just now, you mean?”
“It is not ‘little’, you ass, I spent time and -- shut up,” growls Atobe, at Oshitari’s laugh. “It took some doing!”
“Keigo, you likely wrote bits of vague information on your mother’s stationery,” Oshitari smiles. “I kissed you. I win at this game.”
Atobe’s blush is intense enough to look debilitating, but he rallies bravely.
“Discretion,” he chokes out, “is the better part of valour, and for your information, it is the not knowing that is the hard part, so in terms of --”
“Wait, what? So being discrete but also knowing everything absolutely is required to win? Damn,” Oshitari whistles. “This just got serious.”
“You do not win,” Atobe insists, then, loudly, “And it is not a competition, anyways!”
“I would certainly hate to deprive you of your continued triumph,” concedes Oshitari. He fixes Atobe with a deep look. “A pity.”
“What are you even talking about,” says Atobe, shoving at Oshitari’s knee with his hand, childishly. He leaves the hand where it is.
“The way you factor it, Keigo, my direct action was an act of woeful indiscretion,” explains Oshitari. He covers Atobe’s hand with his own, drumming his fingers atop it casually. “This is presumably a weaker showing than your own tortured unknowing, so I suppose I shall have to let you preserve your victory.”
“Yuushi,” Atobe intones, thigh warm against Oshitari’s and hand even warmer, “maybe if you were less in love with your wit and more interested in saying what you meant, we’d get somewhere.”
“Well,” sighs Oshitari. “I certainly can’t besmirch your moral victory by kissing you again.”
Atobe can only suppress his reacting expression so quickly. Oshitari says, “I’m only thinking of you, Keigo.”
“Maybe I’ve underscored your honesty,” tries Atobe. Oshitari lifts the hand on his thigh and sets it back onto its owner’s. “Straightforwardness is really undervalued, in general --”
“I hope you watch your mirrors when you back up at that speed, Keigo.”
“I am not,” Atobe squawks. “I am making a generalized statement about my recent experience, an experience you also shared with me --”
“So now we’re talking vague, non-specific honesty,” Oshitari points out. “This scoring rubric is really confusing, you should think of streamlining it.”
“I am trying,” begins Atobe, about fifty decibels above regular speaking volume. Only Oshitari’s amused glance at the thick window separating them from Atobe’s chauffeur forestalls him. More quietly, he says, “I am trying to deliver a confession, so if you stopped being clever for three seconds --”
“A bit late for confessions.”
“Shut up,” Atobe moans, throwing his head back frustratedly and bouncing it against the soft upholstery behind him. Oshitari hums tuneless into the brief silence, before Atobe erupts. “Now I don’t want to say anything nice to you ever again!”
“Mm,” says Oshitari, unconvinced, and then makes the same noise against Atobe’s lips, a key to a hidden lock.
Atobe is trying to say, “Stop now, we’ll be there at any minute and this is one discretion I really have to keep,” but when his fingers come against a familiar square of folded paper tucked into the back pocket of Oshitari’s pants, what he says instead is, “Oh, Yuushi.”
“D’you want it back,” Oshitari asks, softly against Atobe’s cheek.
“Keep it,” says Atobe.
END.