[je/kat-tun] I wandered lonely as a cloud, part one
Title: I wandered lonely as a cloud [part one]
Pairing: Akame/UedaJin/Ryoda/basically Ueda whoring around with everyone (i am forgetting my namesquishes)
Rating: PG-13. No graphic sex as per request biatch.
Warnings:: Bad, bad stuff here. I wrote this when I was still fresh in fandom (and when -oh, Ueda, RnK was still going on will you believe it). Groping is like the new golden rule. Out-of-character, seemingly-random cameos made by everyone I like/liked/leered-at.
Notes: 3369 words written for sono_kiseki, my (beloved) kick-buddy who keeps ditching me for Lana. It was supposed to be a birthday gift, but apparently I can't do those, either. /shot. Look I formatted it especially for you, too! HERE'S YOUR STUPID UEDA I PROMISED YOU LIKE THREE QUADRILLION MILLION YEARS AGO OKAY. It's still not done yet, but I have had Ueda-block since like the beginning of me and JE. Follows that shameless school!AU made up back in the days when ezyl was still young and impressionable. They run track and touch each other and everything!
Summary: Ueda Tatsuya isn't known as the school slut for nothing.
-
-
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
- William Wordsworth, I wandered lonely as a cloud
One of the greatest things in the world, he thinks, is being able to run.
It doesn’t take a lot of skill. Running is innate in human ability. He doesn’t have to take lessons on running or argue with disagreeable people on a team. He doesn’t have to read books on running to understand its many profundities, nor does he have to listen to his teachers relate running to overtly long-winded stories from their personal lives.
Essentially, all he needs is a pair of running shoes, a road, and maybe a raindrop or two to brighten up the sky. He can run whenever he wants, wherever he wants, with people and without. He can live and breathe while running, think to himself and dream and make-up things. The same principles of running can be applied to life. Ease out your breathing, stretch before a sprint. You’ll definitely stop, but never for long; just enough time to enjoy the scenery. Then it’s time to move on.
And that’s how he lives. By taking running steps and never looking back.
The only thing he finds a little annoying is being outside with a sun on his head. It gives an unappealing sock tan, inevitable for someone who wants to spend time outdoors. That’s probably the most adequate explanation as to why it’s so sunny today. Weather enjoys making an enemy of track runners.
So, there’s a sun.
It’s in the sky, like any regular sun. It’s swelling, scintillating, expiring life forms, exchanging violent bands of UV rays with the ground. There’s no clouds visible, no breeze stirring across the field. The air is completely devoid of that fresh wind promised of May. Instead, it’s chunky and hot; hot enough to make him feel like he’s sitting in a stove like a turkey. He breathes it in, all of it, in through his nose and out through his mouth, the way he was taught to breathe in this type of weather. It feels like he’s trying to swallow fat chunks of carrot in a soup fresh from the pot. In-out.
In-out.
Then there’s the track.
And unlike the sun, the track is not at a standstill, not waiting for anything to catch up with it. It’s roped-off, rusty dirt smooth and flattened and kicked up again by the spiked toes of runners, all of them clad in skimpy uniforms, pulled back in the nonexistent wind. He is at the head of the pack, head held at a 100-degree angle and shoulders relaxed. Second lap of the eight-hundred meter. The only other competition that hadn’t fallen back was the short kid from Fukagawa-the one with an odd habit of breathing deeply, the kind of breath you’d take when you’re walking instead of running. Deep-breathing is liable to cause cramps in distance runs, his coach had told him, but it didn’t seem to be affecting this guy at all.
Just a little more, his heart beats. A little more and I’ll win.
I need to win.
He feels the sun bear down on his back, and prays that the sock tan won’t show up if he strips fast enough in the locker room. Sweat is gushing from his pores in droves of water freefalling off a cliff-but his mouth is dry, lips chapped, eyes watering from the rush of stiff, hot air whipping past his cheek. If he hadn’t been in a boys’ track uniform and trying to finish a race, he would be showing all the symptoms of a teenage girl in love (or a blowfish gulping for breath in dirty supermarket water, there really wasn’t a difference). Worse, he’s distracted. He’s acutely aware of the eyes of all spectators on the benches, cheering for him and for his rivals, the pole-vaulters and the high-jumpers on the field having taken a break in flipping their slim bodies over the bar to gawk at the runners. All he can think about is the prospect of shade, of iced Gatorade at the end of the track and a simple nonchalant gaze he knows will be waiting for him.
He’s there.
He coughs. The thickness of the air is making him choke on his breath. As they race down the last two-hundred, Fukagawa-guy begins to slow, the muscles on his face straining. So there had been a cramp, after all. Idiot. He relaxes his shoulders a little more, guides his steps into longer strides of a full sprint. The straight-away is ahead, he can feel his legs beginning to protest and his lungs contracting painfully, but he lunges forward, spikes clacking a steady rhythm on the dirt, in tune with the steady sound of his lungs sucking breaths. Bump, bump, bump.
This’ll be an easy win.
Just a little more…
Here’s a dream that’s different, at last.
∞∞
Ueda Tatsuya has often heard others say that he is the prettiest boy in school. And while he tries to maintain some form of humility by blushing whenever he receives a flattering comment, he’s unable to stop the smirk coming onto his lips. Because there’s really no denying it, either-Ueda thinks he’s pretty good-looking, too. He’s got the whole I’m-sex-on-a-cracker look perfected down to the last detail. And coupled with tight jeans, loose-tailed shirts and an occasional piercing, a smile from Ueda-kun had the power to send the entire female class into temporary cardiac arrest. Not only that; Ueda’s also an athlete. He runs on the track team, and he’s proud to say that he’s done it at least once in the locker rooms with his boyfriend, Akanishi Jin.
As Sachika-chan from class 8A (the official president of the Ueda Tatsuya fan club) would say, with a trembling hand on her breast, “God, he’s sexy.”
Who wouldn’t want to be in Ueda’s place? Who wouldn’t want to be the heir of a world-class trades company? Patron of the graduates fresh from Tokyo University of the Arts, time to spend in large countryside villas around the world, spending money people hope to earn in thirteen lifetimes? Besides, who wouldn’t want a boyfriend whose hips gained more titles than his name?
And who is he, really?
No one remembers.
He makes them all forget.
“Oh, Uebo, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind, hey Uebo-” clap, clap- “hey Uebo!” -clap, clap- “Oh, Uebo, you’re so cool, you’re so cool you make me dr-”
“Shuddup.” He grumbles from under the wet towel, chucking a shin servicing kit at the source of annoyance.
“Ow!” Taguchi yelps on cue, rubbing his face where the ice pack had met its target, “But you won…”
“So why are you wetting your pants over it? I won, you didn’t.”
His cheerful friend doesn’t miss a beat at the rude remark. “You took the win from Fukagawa High School! We are so going out for yakiniku.”
“Junno, he doesn’t need a wannabe homosexual male cheerleader egging him on at every single event he runs,” Ueda’s fellow teammate Nakamaru limps into the room, whipping a towel at Taguchi and plopping himself down next to Ueda on the bench. “One who doesn’t even pay the two-hundred-yen entrance fee for watching us run our asses off, cheapskate. You can’t be that desperate for money to ask out the cheerleading squad, can you?”
“Hey! I have more female admirers than the two of you put-”
“Are you high?” Koki growls. The burly thrower is lounging in the corner; stroking the smooth head of a lead shot-put ball like it belonged to a set of female anatomy, baseball cap slung low over one eye and sipping PowerAde from a two-gallon bottle. He’s brooding, having placed second in his event to an Osaka boy. As per the regulations of Nagase-buchou, the senior captain of the thrower’s team, Koki is required to chug down three bottles of sports-drink every hour. Ueda often suspects that some other form of alcoholic substance is stirred into each bottle for an extra kick, because the way Koki is acting right now is no testament to his own state of mind, “Shut the fuck up, Taguchi, before I fuck it up for you.”
“How was the two-hundred?” He pokes Maru in the shoulder, cutting Junno off before he can pout again and ignoring Koki’s drunken pervert-talk.
“I placed third. Somebody rubbed soap on the track and I nearly tripped into a pole-vaulter,” Maru’s expression is waspish as he scratches his sunburnt nose, and nudges his teammate’s foot with a small smile, “Ueda. I think you’re going to get a sock tan.” Ueda’s hand automatically moves to cover his foot with an embarrassed blush.
“Well, a lot of good you just did him there,” Koki slurs, swaggering from his corner to the doorway, hand still nursing his shot put ball, “He still has a thirty-two to run. You should leave now, Ueda. You’ll miss your heat. Not about to stink us with your socks anytime soon.”
“Your socks smell the most, Koki,” Junno offers.
“Good luck on the two-mile,” Nakamaru waves him towards the door, “Masuda told me about this great gyoza restaurant. Win, okay? I’ve been waiting ages to try it out.”
“Okay. Goodbye,” he says curtly, and opens the door of the locker room with swing.
Sometimes he wishes that his friends didn’t all have to join the track team. He would be perfectly fine just hanging out with Ninomiya-senpai and the rest of the cross-country team, but when Nakamaru had tripped in on MatsuJun and Sakurai-senpai’s whiskey-kissing-game, he had deemed it unsafe for Ueda to brave by himself (whether or not he might’ve actually wanted to participate in one of those parties, himself).
It hadn’t been a big problem at first. But then Koki had to sign-up for the thrower’s team, Junno -claiming that he could not run or throw or jump without a knife being pointed in his direction- had to coax the sports commissioner into letting him become team manager, Kamenashi had to take an interest in high-jumping (as if he could ever compete with Oguri-senpai from class 11B), and -worst of all- Akanishi Jin had to try out for hurdles (of all things), because he had decided that he could no longer trust his boyfriend in the hands of Ohno-buchou (who was probably the safest one out of all of the cross-country boys).
To further depress the situation, his friends had to form a “gang”, and give themselves a really stupid nickname, KAT-TUN.
Ueda hates cartoons. He fucking hates cartoons.
And so, as he takes further steps away from the locker room and his crazy gang mates, Ueda fights a strong urge to heave a breath of relief.
It is very much short-lived.
He doesn’t make it past the corner of the food stand before a hand covers his eyes. Another claps over his mouth, and he feels himself being wheeled-around and pushed roughly back against the wall of the locker room building. The sticky gravel meets his chest, chafing against the thin fabric of the uniform. Oomph. He tries to struggle out of the grip of his kidnapper, but then a pair of lips attaches themselves to the back of his neck, teeth run over the top of his spine, and the hand that was a blindfold releases his head and moves down his shirt, caressing the area above his abdomen until he shudders, breathing out a stifled moan. “Congratulations on your win.” The voice on his neck mutters, all husky and low. Fingers dart towards his thigh, pulling, peeling back his shorts, “Though you could’ve saved that smile for me.”
He tries to grit his teeth. The hands are very distracting. “Get off, Jin. I have two miles to run.”
“But you like this,” he feels the curve of a pout on his spine. The fingers brush over his waistband, they tug the uniform down a little lower and he gasps a little when he feels tongue and hot air on his skin. Akanishi doesn’t give up. He lets out an involuntary whimper when he's unceremoniously flipped around, his back pressed against the wall of the locker rooms, now, his track shirt riding up his stomach. And then Jin is pressed against his body, mouth covering his mouth and fingers curled tightly around his hip and destroying Ueda’s hard-earned sobriety with a hard dick. His kisses are demanding, crushing, and completely out of place. Hands reach to pull his shorts off. Ueda sucks in his breath.
He does like this.
He likes it so much that he hates it.
“Oi, Akanishi!”
Ueda jerks around so violently that Jin is temporarily knocked off balance, sending both of them crashing into the wall. He opens his eyes, and wants to die a million slow and painful deaths. Oh fuck, it’s him.
“Just can’t keep it in your pants, can you? Idiot. He’s about to miss his event.”
“I can do whatever I want with my boyfriend,” he hears Jin snarl, hands circled possessively around his waist.
He strains a little against Jin’s arms; they’re a little too tightly-wound across his body, almost as if Jin wasn’t willing to let him go into the evil clutches of Nishikido, who was still wearing that smug smile that made his heart beat like he’d just been running on the track. His throat feels dry all over again as he plucks tenderly at his boyfriend’s hands. “Jin…I really should go warm-up now, okay?”
Ryo turns around, casually takes steps back towards the bleachers, and with his back to the pair, starts to call out to Jin like he’s training a dog. “Good boy, Akanishi, release him now.”
Jin makes a big mistake. He growls. And that’s enough to make Ueda start giggling like crazy. He couldn’t help it. Ryo turns back, and both he and Jin give Ueda a weird look.
“Jin, you know…you should let me have a turn once in a while.”
“Shut up, Nishikido!” Both of them say at the same time, even though Ueda doesn’t really mean it and he’s only saying it for the sake of saying it.
“I know you like him.” Jin says angrily. “The way you look at that stupid Nishikido makes me sick.”
On the way to the field exit, Ueda hits a storm.
“Hey, Ueda! Good job on that thirty-two,” Sakurai-senpai claps him on the shoulder, hand sliding down to lift Ueda’s shirt up a couple of centimeters to examine the younger distance runner’s abs, “Still working out, I see. No wonder you’re so fast.” Sho’s hand gets a little too close for comfort, and Ueda shifts away from his senpai as fast as he could manage.
“Yeah, good job,” Ninomiya-senpai adds, not bothering to look up from his Nintendo DS.
Ohno-senpai smiles in an expression that was probably meant to be stoic but turned out a little choked when Ninomiya’s hand, in an attempt to press all three buttons on the DS at once, bumps into his butt by accident. “Now we can’t lose to you. What was your time again?”
“I can’t remember,” he replies untruthfully, to the background of what sounds like an army of evil monkeys being smashed to pulp. Nino-senpai never turns off the sound. It was a common question that his cross-country senpais liked to ask him, and Ueda had learned over the years that none of them had any real desire to know.
“Are you doing anything in celebration?” Aiba asks him, giving Ueda another friendly pat, though this time Aiba’s fingers linger at the small of his back a bit longer than was necessary, and Ueda manages a stiff smile before edging toward Ohno-buchou.
“Can’t make it, sorry,” Ninomiya pipes up automatically, “Got plans.” The massacre of the evil monkeys continues.
“Nino’s got a very personal date with Nishikido Ryo, today, that’s why,” Sho-senpai smirks lightly, almost as if enjoying a personal joke. “Ryo-chan’s had his eye on our Nino since the incident with the Post-It notes.”
Ueda and Ohno jump up warily at the same time (though the cross-country captain had a slightly different reason for it). “W-What Post-Its incident?” He asks, feeling his heart thump at the mention of Nishikido.
“He met Nino in a curry shop. The two of them hit it off when Erika-chan from class 11-A dumped both of them at the same time with a set of pink Post-It notes.” Aiba explained obliviously, a little too cheerful in expression than how it should’ve sounded, “She stuck them right here.” He gives Ninomiya’s forehead a sound slap.
“Ninomiya-senpai, is this true?”
Nino swats Aiba’s hand away from his eyes, and gives a noncommittal grunt from his videogame.
“Ueda-kun, wanna go out for yakiniku with us?” Jun-senpai nudges him, his hand flicking over Ueda’s ass. “The old cross-country team misses you.”
He swallows again, feeling a blush steal over his cheeks. “Sorry, I promised Nakamaru I’d go with KAT-TUN today.”
Nino bumps his head against the wall in his excitement of killing monkeys, and nearly passes out. Ohno and the rest of his team (but mostly Ohno) rushes forward to save him and Ueda takes the chance to leave the vicinity as quickly as possible.
It doesn’t help that the old cross-country team never ceases to try making passes at him through friendly groping.
Ueda doesn’t want to live in a rich family any more than the next billionaire tycoon’s son. There are always people running around in his house, shuffling forward to offer tea, change your clothes for you, watch you jack off without batting a single embarrassed eyelash. There’s always trouble in the house. More than once, he’s walked in on the steamy affair between the kitchen maid and his father’s male secretary.
Because there had been another time, too, when Ueda had taken the position as school loser. From grades one to six, Tatsuya-kun had been nothing but the kid who always wore a hood, who spoke in mumbles not reaching over thirty-five decibels, who would have the lowest score in the class had it not been for Koyama Keiichiro. His parents didn’t care. He blames his mother and father for it.
And then he’d met Tanaka.
Koki had the natural tough, overprotective big brother stance common to most people prone to gang violence, street fighting, and bling. It was routine to lock the entire upper floor of his house when his best friend brings friends over. And when he’s just fourteen, Ueda takes one peek into his friend’s cell phone and confirms for a fact that Tanaka has at least the names of three separate drug dealers on his speed dial, plus one judo master. Text messages about stalking a law firm reveal Koki also being well-acquainted with known gang-banger Ikuta Toma.
He asks Koki about Ikuta one day, and received the most unsatisfactory answer that his friend had ever given him.
“Aw, Toma’s not bad. He’s just been scarred for life too many times to stay sane for long stretches of time. If you ever meet him, remember to guard the buttons on your shirt as tightly as you can, okay? Toma would never let a piece of prey as pretty as you escape.” Koki frowns. “But knowing you, you probably wouldn’t even bother guarding anything. You’re too rich, you could probably just buy a new shirt.”
“What are you talking about?”
Tanaka, exasperated at having to explain more of his street-sense to a rich boy, tells him to go figure it out for himself.
TBC.
...end of part one. (and I kinda don't know where I put part two >__> omg where did the plot go???)
Hope you enjoyed it? D= Even the copious amounts of Arashi-groping? Feedback is love love love.
--
Pairing: Akame/UedaJin/Ryoda/basically Ueda whoring around with everyone (i am forgetting my namesquishes)
Rating: PG-13. No graphic sex as per request biatch.
Warnings:: Bad, bad stuff here. I wrote this when I was still fresh in fandom (and when -oh, Ueda, RnK was still going on will you believe it). Groping is like the new golden rule. Out-of-character, seemingly-random cameos made by everyone I like/liked/leered-at.
Notes: 3369 words written for sono_kiseki, my (beloved) kick-buddy who keeps ditching me for Lana. It was supposed to be a birthday gift, but apparently I can't do those, either. /shot. Look I formatted it especially for you, too! HERE'S YOUR STUPID UEDA I PROMISED YOU LIKE THREE QUADRILLION MILLION YEARS AGO OKAY. It's still not done yet, but I have had Ueda-block since like the beginning of me and JE. Follows that shameless school!AU made up back in the days when ezyl was still young and impressionable. They run track and touch each other and everything!
Summary: Ueda Tatsuya isn't known as the school slut for nothing.
-
-
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
- William Wordsworth, I wandered lonely as a cloud
One of the greatest things in the world, he thinks, is being able to run.
It doesn’t take a lot of skill. Running is innate in human ability. He doesn’t have to take lessons on running or argue with disagreeable people on a team. He doesn’t have to read books on running to understand its many profundities, nor does he have to listen to his teachers relate running to overtly long-winded stories from their personal lives.
Essentially, all he needs is a pair of running shoes, a road, and maybe a raindrop or two to brighten up the sky. He can run whenever he wants, wherever he wants, with people and without. He can live and breathe while running, think to himself and dream and make-up things. The same principles of running can be applied to life. Ease out your breathing, stretch before a sprint. You’ll definitely stop, but never for long; just enough time to enjoy the scenery. Then it’s time to move on.
And that’s how he lives. By taking running steps and never looking back.
The only thing he finds a little annoying is being outside with a sun on his head. It gives an unappealing sock tan, inevitable for someone who wants to spend time outdoors. That’s probably the most adequate explanation as to why it’s so sunny today. Weather enjoys making an enemy of track runners.
So, there’s a sun.
It’s in the sky, like any regular sun. It’s swelling, scintillating, expiring life forms, exchanging violent bands of UV rays with the ground. There’s no clouds visible, no breeze stirring across the field. The air is completely devoid of that fresh wind promised of May. Instead, it’s chunky and hot; hot enough to make him feel like he’s sitting in a stove like a turkey. He breathes it in, all of it, in through his nose and out through his mouth, the way he was taught to breathe in this type of weather. It feels like he’s trying to swallow fat chunks of carrot in a soup fresh from the pot. In-out.
In-out.
Then there’s the track.
And unlike the sun, the track is not at a standstill, not waiting for anything to catch up with it. It’s roped-off, rusty dirt smooth and flattened and kicked up again by the spiked toes of runners, all of them clad in skimpy uniforms, pulled back in the nonexistent wind. He is at the head of the pack, head held at a 100-degree angle and shoulders relaxed. Second lap of the eight-hundred meter. The only other competition that hadn’t fallen back was the short kid from Fukagawa-the one with an odd habit of breathing deeply, the kind of breath you’d take when you’re walking instead of running. Deep-breathing is liable to cause cramps in distance runs, his coach had told him, but it didn’t seem to be affecting this guy at all.
Just a little more, his heart beats. A little more and I’ll win.
I need to win.
He feels the sun bear down on his back, and prays that the sock tan won’t show up if he strips fast enough in the locker room. Sweat is gushing from his pores in droves of water freefalling off a cliff-but his mouth is dry, lips chapped, eyes watering from the rush of stiff, hot air whipping past his cheek. If he hadn’t been in a boys’ track uniform and trying to finish a race, he would be showing all the symptoms of a teenage girl in love (or a blowfish gulping for breath in dirty supermarket water, there really wasn’t a difference). Worse, he’s distracted. He’s acutely aware of the eyes of all spectators on the benches, cheering for him and for his rivals, the pole-vaulters and the high-jumpers on the field having taken a break in flipping their slim bodies over the bar to gawk at the runners. All he can think about is the prospect of shade, of iced Gatorade at the end of the track and a simple nonchalant gaze he knows will be waiting for him.
He’s there.
He coughs. The thickness of the air is making him choke on his breath. As they race down the last two-hundred, Fukagawa-guy begins to slow, the muscles on his face straining. So there had been a cramp, after all. Idiot. He relaxes his shoulders a little more, guides his steps into longer strides of a full sprint. The straight-away is ahead, he can feel his legs beginning to protest and his lungs contracting painfully, but he lunges forward, spikes clacking a steady rhythm on the dirt, in tune with the steady sound of his lungs sucking breaths. Bump, bump, bump.
This’ll be an easy win.
Just a little more…
Here’s a dream that’s different, at last.
∞∞
Ueda Tatsuya has often heard others say that he is the prettiest boy in school. And while he tries to maintain some form of humility by blushing whenever he receives a flattering comment, he’s unable to stop the smirk coming onto his lips. Because there’s really no denying it, either-Ueda thinks he’s pretty good-looking, too. He’s got the whole I’m-sex-on-a-cracker look perfected down to the last detail. And coupled with tight jeans, loose-tailed shirts and an occasional piercing, a smile from Ueda-kun had the power to send the entire female class into temporary cardiac arrest. Not only that; Ueda’s also an athlete. He runs on the track team, and he’s proud to say that he’s done it at least once in the locker rooms with his boyfriend, Akanishi Jin.
As Sachika-chan from class 8A (the official president of the Ueda Tatsuya fan club) would say, with a trembling hand on her breast, “God, he’s sexy.”
Who wouldn’t want to be in Ueda’s place? Who wouldn’t want to be the heir of a world-class trades company? Patron of the graduates fresh from Tokyo University of the Arts, time to spend in large countryside villas around the world, spending money people hope to earn in thirteen lifetimes? Besides, who wouldn’t want a boyfriend whose hips gained more titles than his name?
And who is he, really?
No one remembers.
He makes them all forget.
“Oh, Uebo, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind, hey Uebo-” clap, clap- “hey Uebo!” -clap, clap- “Oh, Uebo, you’re so cool, you’re so cool you make me dr-”
“Shuddup.” He grumbles from under the wet towel, chucking a shin servicing kit at the source of annoyance.
“Ow!” Taguchi yelps on cue, rubbing his face where the ice pack had met its target, “But you won…”
“So why are you wetting your pants over it? I won, you didn’t.”
His cheerful friend doesn’t miss a beat at the rude remark. “You took the win from Fukagawa High School! We are so going out for yakiniku.”
“Junno, he doesn’t need a wannabe homosexual male cheerleader egging him on at every single event he runs,” Ueda’s fellow teammate Nakamaru limps into the room, whipping a towel at Taguchi and plopping himself down next to Ueda on the bench. “One who doesn’t even pay the two-hundred-yen entrance fee for watching us run our asses off, cheapskate. You can’t be that desperate for money to ask out the cheerleading squad, can you?”
“Hey! I have more female admirers than the two of you put-”
“Are you high?” Koki growls. The burly thrower is lounging in the corner; stroking the smooth head of a lead shot-put ball like it belonged to a set of female anatomy, baseball cap slung low over one eye and sipping PowerAde from a two-gallon bottle. He’s brooding, having placed second in his event to an Osaka boy. As per the regulations of Nagase-buchou, the senior captain of the thrower’s team, Koki is required to chug down three bottles of sports-drink every hour. Ueda often suspects that some other form of alcoholic substance is stirred into each bottle for an extra kick, because the way Koki is acting right now is no testament to his own state of mind, “Shut the fuck up, Taguchi, before I fuck it up for you.”
“How was the two-hundred?” He pokes Maru in the shoulder, cutting Junno off before he can pout again and ignoring Koki’s drunken pervert-talk.
“I placed third. Somebody rubbed soap on the track and I nearly tripped into a pole-vaulter,” Maru’s expression is waspish as he scratches his sunburnt nose, and nudges his teammate’s foot with a small smile, “Ueda. I think you’re going to get a sock tan.” Ueda’s hand automatically moves to cover his foot with an embarrassed blush.
“Well, a lot of good you just did him there,” Koki slurs, swaggering from his corner to the doorway, hand still nursing his shot put ball, “He still has a thirty-two to run. You should leave now, Ueda. You’ll miss your heat. Not about to stink us with your socks anytime soon.”
“Your socks smell the most, Koki,” Junno offers.
“Good luck on the two-mile,” Nakamaru waves him towards the door, “Masuda told me about this great gyoza restaurant. Win, okay? I’ve been waiting ages to try it out.”
“Okay. Goodbye,” he says curtly, and opens the door of the locker room with swing.
Sometimes he wishes that his friends didn’t all have to join the track team. He would be perfectly fine just hanging out with Ninomiya-senpai and the rest of the cross-country team, but when Nakamaru had tripped in on MatsuJun and Sakurai-senpai’s whiskey-kissing-game, he had deemed it unsafe for Ueda to brave by himself (whether or not he might’ve actually wanted to participate in one of those parties, himself).
It hadn’t been a big problem at first. But then Koki had to sign-up for the thrower’s team, Junno -claiming that he could not run or throw or jump without a knife being pointed in his direction- had to coax the sports commissioner into letting him become team manager, Kamenashi had to take an interest in high-jumping (as if he could ever compete with Oguri-senpai from class 11B), and -worst of all- Akanishi Jin had to try out for hurdles (of all things), because he had decided that he could no longer trust his boyfriend in the hands of Ohno-buchou (who was probably the safest one out of all of the cross-country boys).
To further depress the situation, his friends had to form a “gang”, and give themselves a really stupid nickname, KAT-TUN.
Ueda hates cartoons. He fucking hates cartoons.
And so, as he takes further steps away from the locker room and his crazy gang mates, Ueda fights a strong urge to heave a breath of relief.
It is very much short-lived.
He doesn’t make it past the corner of the food stand before a hand covers his eyes. Another claps over his mouth, and he feels himself being wheeled-around and pushed roughly back against the wall of the locker room building. The sticky gravel meets his chest, chafing against the thin fabric of the uniform. Oomph. He tries to struggle out of the grip of his kidnapper, but then a pair of lips attaches themselves to the back of his neck, teeth run over the top of his spine, and the hand that was a blindfold releases his head and moves down his shirt, caressing the area above his abdomen until he shudders, breathing out a stifled moan. “Congratulations on your win.” The voice on his neck mutters, all husky and low. Fingers dart towards his thigh, pulling, peeling back his shorts, “Though you could’ve saved that smile for me.”
He tries to grit his teeth. The hands are very distracting. “Get off, Jin. I have two miles to run.”
“But you like this,” he feels the curve of a pout on his spine. The fingers brush over his waistband, they tug the uniform down a little lower and he gasps a little when he feels tongue and hot air on his skin. Akanishi doesn’t give up. He lets out an involuntary whimper when he's unceremoniously flipped around, his back pressed against the wall of the locker rooms, now, his track shirt riding up his stomach. And then Jin is pressed against his body, mouth covering his mouth and fingers curled tightly around his hip and destroying Ueda’s hard-earned sobriety with a hard dick. His kisses are demanding, crushing, and completely out of place. Hands reach to pull his shorts off. Ueda sucks in his breath.
He does like this.
He likes it so much that he hates it.
“Oi, Akanishi!”
Ueda jerks around so violently that Jin is temporarily knocked off balance, sending both of them crashing into the wall. He opens his eyes, and wants to die a million slow and painful deaths. Oh fuck, it’s him.
“Just can’t keep it in your pants, can you? Idiot. He’s about to miss his event.”
“I can do whatever I want with my boyfriend,” he hears Jin snarl, hands circled possessively around his waist.
He strains a little against Jin’s arms; they’re a little too tightly-wound across his body, almost as if Jin wasn’t willing to let him go into the evil clutches of Nishikido, who was still wearing that smug smile that made his heart beat like he’d just been running on the track. His throat feels dry all over again as he plucks tenderly at his boyfriend’s hands. “Jin…I really should go warm-up now, okay?”
Ryo turns around, casually takes steps back towards the bleachers, and with his back to the pair, starts to call out to Jin like he’s training a dog. “Good boy, Akanishi, release him now.”
Jin makes a big mistake. He growls. And that’s enough to make Ueda start giggling like crazy. He couldn’t help it. Ryo turns back, and both he and Jin give Ueda a weird look.
“Jin, you know…you should let me have a turn once in a while.”
“Shut up, Nishikido!” Both of them say at the same time, even though Ueda doesn’t really mean it and he’s only saying it for the sake of saying it.
“I know you like him.” Jin says angrily. “The way you look at that stupid Nishikido makes me sick.”
On the way to the field exit, Ueda hits a storm.
“Hey, Ueda! Good job on that thirty-two,” Sakurai-senpai claps him on the shoulder, hand sliding down to lift Ueda’s shirt up a couple of centimeters to examine the younger distance runner’s abs, “Still working out, I see. No wonder you’re so fast.” Sho’s hand gets a little too close for comfort, and Ueda shifts away from his senpai as fast as he could manage.
“Yeah, good job,” Ninomiya-senpai adds, not bothering to look up from his Nintendo DS.
Ohno-senpai smiles in an expression that was probably meant to be stoic but turned out a little choked when Ninomiya’s hand, in an attempt to press all three buttons on the DS at once, bumps into his butt by accident. “Now we can’t lose to you. What was your time again?”
“I can’t remember,” he replies untruthfully, to the background of what sounds like an army of evil monkeys being smashed to pulp. Nino-senpai never turns off the sound. It was a common question that his cross-country senpais liked to ask him, and Ueda had learned over the years that none of them had any real desire to know.
“Are you doing anything in celebration?” Aiba asks him, giving Ueda another friendly pat, though this time Aiba’s fingers linger at the small of his back a bit longer than was necessary, and Ueda manages a stiff smile before edging toward Ohno-buchou.
“Can’t make it, sorry,” Ninomiya pipes up automatically, “Got plans.” The massacre of the evil monkeys continues.
“Nino’s got a very personal date with Nishikido Ryo, today, that’s why,” Sho-senpai smirks lightly, almost as if enjoying a personal joke. “Ryo-chan’s had his eye on our Nino since the incident with the Post-It notes.”
Ueda and Ohno jump up warily at the same time (though the cross-country captain had a slightly different reason for it). “W-What Post-Its incident?” He asks, feeling his heart thump at the mention of Nishikido.
“He met Nino in a curry shop. The two of them hit it off when Erika-chan from class 11-A dumped both of them at the same time with a set of pink Post-It notes.” Aiba explained obliviously, a little too cheerful in expression than how it should’ve sounded, “She stuck them right here.” He gives Ninomiya’s forehead a sound slap.
“Ninomiya-senpai, is this true?”
Nino swats Aiba’s hand away from his eyes, and gives a noncommittal grunt from his videogame.
“Ueda-kun, wanna go out for yakiniku with us?” Jun-senpai nudges him, his hand flicking over Ueda’s ass. “The old cross-country team misses you.”
He swallows again, feeling a blush steal over his cheeks. “Sorry, I promised Nakamaru I’d go with KAT-TUN today.”
Nino bumps his head against the wall in his excitement of killing monkeys, and nearly passes out. Ohno and the rest of his team (but mostly Ohno) rushes forward to save him and Ueda takes the chance to leave the vicinity as quickly as possible.
It doesn’t help that the old cross-country team never ceases to try making passes at him through friendly groping.
Ueda doesn’t want to live in a rich family any more than the next billionaire tycoon’s son. There are always people running around in his house, shuffling forward to offer tea, change your clothes for you, watch you jack off without batting a single embarrassed eyelash. There’s always trouble in the house. More than once, he’s walked in on the steamy affair between the kitchen maid and his father’s male secretary.
Because there had been another time, too, when Ueda had taken the position as school loser. From grades one to six, Tatsuya-kun had been nothing but the kid who always wore a hood, who spoke in mumbles not reaching over thirty-five decibels, who would have the lowest score in the class had it not been for Koyama Keiichiro. His parents didn’t care. He blames his mother and father for it.
And then he’d met Tanaka.
Koki had the natural tough, overprotective big brother stance common to most people prone to gang violence, street fighting, and bling. It was routine to lock the entire upper floor of his house when his best friend brings friends over. And when he’s just fourteen, Ueda takes one peek into his friend’s cell phone and confirms for a fact that Tanaka has at least the names of three separate drug dealers on his speed dial, plus one judo master. Text messages about stalking a law firm reveal Koki also being well-acquainted with known gang-banger Ikuta Toma.
He asks Koki about Ikuta one day, and received the most unsatisfactory answer that his friend had ever given him.
“Aw, Toma’s not bad. He’s just been scarred for life too many times to stay sane for long stretches of time. If you ever meet him, remember to guard the buttons on your shirt as tightly as you can, okay? Toma would never let a piece of prey as pretty as you escape.” Koki frowns. “But knowing you, you probably wouldn’t even bother guarding anything. You’re too rich, you could probably just buy a new shirt.”
“What are you talking about?”
Tanaka, exasperated at having to explain more of his street-sense to a rich boy, tells him to go figure it out for himself.
TBC.
...end of part one. (and I kinda don't know where I put part two >__> omg where did the plot go???)
Hope you enjoyed it? D= Even the copious amounts of Arashi-groping? Feedback is love love love.
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