FIC: Turning the Devious Into the Direct (Happy Birthday, Sanada!!)

[reposte]

Title: Turning the Devious Into the Direct
Author: Ociwen
Rating: R
Wordcount: 9500
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: The devious is turned into the direct as Sanada discovers that what he wants might not be the same as what he's found.
Author's Notes: Written for Sanada's birthday (2007). Special thanks to Pix for helping me out.



Smash!

Thwop!

The ball slams into the net, refusing to go over. It deflects back, bouncing twice, then rolling softly to a stop behind the baseline.

Sanada wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sweat towel. He grinds his teeth, trying to find his concentration, but it is failing along with each and every attempt.

Overhead, the fluorescent flood lights shine a harsh artificial glow onto the courts. Sanada is the only one here- thanks, luckily, to Yukimura managing to wheedle out a spare key from the high school captain.

Sanada’s carbon copy hangs on his keychain, a reminder of Yukimura’s generosity, warm in his pocket. For a moment, he can feel his concentration drifting, and then the machine beeps out a warning. Sanada digs his sneakers into the ground.

Ten seconds to the next ball.

He exhales deeply, trying to build that trance-like state within himself that allowed him to shoot that one lone ball with his new move last week. It can’t have been a fluke. But he hasn’t been able to replicate the same topspin combined with the angle and speed and power he needs to freeze the air, to make that ball drop mid-shot, like a falling icicle in winter.

Countdown: three…

Sanada loosens his grip on his racket handle. Maybe adjusting that will help.

Two…

Breathe out. Calm. Clear mind.

One…

Thwock!

The ball shoots straight for his chest. Sanada takes a half-step, rocking back on his heel. He sucks in a breath as the ball coasts across the face of his racket. Power races through his body as he tries to channel it to the ball, curving his racket, twisting his wrist. He smashes it back through the air, watching immovably as the ball once more smucks straight into the middle of the net.

Dammit, he thinks.

Sanada spits a wad onto the ground. His teeth are grinding again. He’ll have worn them down to the gums before he manages to perfect this move.

“Yukimura,” he mutters. I need your help with this…

He should call Renji and ask for help first, maybe. Ask Renji to videotape his practicing so Sanada can pick apart for himself- objectively- what he needs to work on to get this move right.

But at the same time, it’s private. He doesn’t want to show anyone else until it is perfected. Yukimura asked at practice two days ago, “Are you going to use that Ice shot in our next game, Sanada?” He’d smiled, his dimples forming and his round face bright from the morning sunlight. Sanada’s insides melted and he spent the rest of the morning practice punishing his body in the weight room because he couldn’t get Yukimura’s face out of his vision.

The shot needs to be perfect for Yukimura.

Taking a break, Sanada turns the ball machine off and walks over to the bench. He tosses his cap to the side for a moment. Sanada grabs a waterbottle from his tennisbag, drinking half the bottle in three forced gulps and dumping the rest over the top of his head. The weather is warm, even at this time of night, when the first of the fireflies have begun to swarm in the campus shrubberies at dusk.

There is a brief and fleeting wind tonight. When it rustles through the trees, Sanada closes his eyes, relishing the feeling of the air tickling the back of his neck, combing through his hair like fingers and cooling his body, hot with his effort of this move.

The trees swish, leaves like fine rice paper. The shadows move like samurai- fast and silent, always changing around him. Sanada stiffens, the back of his neck prickling and the hairs on his arms standing up. He can hear quiet footsteps on the courts belonging to a second person.

Yukimura? he wonders. His pulse picks up. Face softening and twisting the brim of his hat in his hands, Sanada turns around.

To see Niou, standing in front of him, shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets and his bleached hair barely hiding the faint smirk at the corner of his lips.

“Go away,” Sanada grumbles.

“Yo!” Niou says, completely ignoring him. He holds his hand up in a lazy wave as Sanada turns back to the ball machine, stomping over to turn it on again, hoping to drive Niou away from his breached solitude and leave him in peace.

The machine churns and clanks. Sanada adjusts the ball feed and re-sets the timer.

“How’s it coming?” Niou asks.

Sanada squeezes his eyes closed for a moment. “That is none of your business, Niou. Go home. The courts are closed now.”

“Then why are you here?” Niou asks.

Sanada snorts. He refuses to answer Niou’s pestering. Niou, though, doesn’t let him. The shadows move again, the rush of wind through the blooming trees sending the fresh, sweet smell of spring into the air. Something tickles his hand. Sanada whips his head down, his cap riding up as he sees Niou’s long fingers touching his hand, guiding his wrist to turn over.

Sanada doesn’t move. His arm is slack in Niou’s hand. He doesn’t know what to make of this, what to make of Niou’s unreadable eyes, so dark that Sanada has never seen this look on his face before.

“Try holding your hand like this,” Niou says. His voice is low, picked up by the wind and carried across the courts.

Sanada stands motionless as Niou’s fingers slip away from his skin, leaving a lingering trail of warmth snaking over the back of his hand. He narrows his eyes, waiting for the inevitable blow, the joke, the smirk, the whatever new trick Niou has for him today.

“He doesn’t look at you,” Niou says.

The air goes still. Sanada’s face burns, but the long shadows from his cap must hide it. Niou has sucked every motion to himself, every sound as his footsteps echo, crunching into the ground when he walks away.

“But maybe other people do,” Niou murmurs.

For several long, long minutes Sanada doesn’t move, but stands, slack-jawed and confused as he watches Niou’s back leaving the chain link gate, walking off towards the bus stops at the end of the high school campus. His throat is dry and the ball machine beeping loud before he remembers to shut it off.

Sanada has never understood Niou, but those dark eyes follow him home, lurking in the back of his mind.

***

May showers drown the landscape of the high school campus, seemingly ten times the rain the same weather brought last year. The cafeteria is packed with students by the time Sanada grabs his bento from his locker and walks down to the main floor. It smells of stale chicken curry here and old chocolate milk and the heady sweat of too many teenage bodies, with flowery perfumes floating off the masses of girls, clustered in the corners with their girlfriends and pink bento boxes.

Practice was moved into the gymnasium this morning. First years picked up balls and ran laps along the linoleum basketball lines, sneakers slapping and echoing a hundred times over. It was deafening and any hope Sanada might have had for using the ball machines drizzled away like the rain down the classroom windows.

Yukimura usually sits in the cafeteria. Usually near the microwaves. Sanada scans the room, his hand clenched around the fabric of his bento bag and his heart beat starting to race. He can’t hear the voices of Marui or Yukimura over the din of hundreds of other students, but as soon as he spots Marui’s bright hair, Sanada starts to walk over.

Beside Marui, head bowed with laughter, Yukimura sits, eating his lunch with Yagyuu and Jackal, too. Sanada’s voice catches in his throat, seeing Yukimura smiling so easily outside of tennis, where he drives himself with steely determination and equally hard expressions.

Two tables away, Sanada dodges a senior, then three more, and he can see, close now, that the table where Yukimura sits is filled with people- girls to Yukimura’s left, and some juniors beside Jackal. Looking up, Yagyuu nods to Sanada, then shrugs when he realizes there aren’t anymore seats around.

Yukimura continues to talk with Marui. Sanada can hear the trill of his laughter, stinging slightly that he can’t join in. That he doesn’t have the guts to squeeze himself between Yagyuu and Yukimura the way Marui might. Finally, when Yagyuu turns back to their friends, Sanada gives up. He waits until he has left the cafeteria before he allows himself to frown.

The hallways are silent as his ears ringing with the cafeteria noise, growing dimmer with each step he takes away. It’s the fault of the rain, not him, but Sanada can’t help but feel anger rising inside that Yagyuu and Jackal and Marui got there first. That Yukimura didn’t notice and Yagyuu didn’t say anything.

Lazy ass, he thinks.

If Renji didn’t have AV club twice a week at lunchtime, Sanada would look for him to eat lunch with. He curses his luck. He curses the weather, causing the entire student body of the high school to cram into the cafeteria.

Inside a lonely stairwell, Sanada climbs the steps two flights where a wide window ledge looks out onto the campus. He isn’t alone and when Niou’s white head turns his way, Sanada feels his chest squeeze with a different sort of apprehension.

He says nothing, but sits down beside Niou. He’s an acquaintance, a teammate, and someone to eat lunch with at least. The cement is cold, even in May, under his bum. Niou sighs and looks up the next flight of stairs. Under his cheek, his tongue moves around, as if he’s contemplating something to say. His bento sits untouched on his lap.

Sanada isn’t curious, but he does look over Niou’s shoulder out of the corner of his eye to see what Niou has for lunch. Rice. Cold cucumber pickles and daikon. Three shumai that might have broccoli inside, but that are so browned from cooking it’s hard to tell.

No wonder Niou’s blue chopsticks still sit in their holder.

Unwrapping his fabric bento cloth, Sanada opens his own lunch boxes. The only sound between them is their breathing- Niou, then Sanada. Niou, then Sanada. And then the clack of Sanada setting his bento down on the far end of the ledge. His mother has packed his bento to the brim- shortribs in dark, sticky BBQ sauce, rice with nori flakes and black sesame seeds, cold tempura carrots and cauliflower.

Without saying a word, Sanada takes some of the shortribs carefully between his chopsticks and sticks them on top of Niou’s rice.

Niou whips his head around. His mouth opens, just enough to show his surprise, but then he closes it again before muttering, “Thanks.” Niou chews for a moment, eating the ribs between his fingers as the rain drips outside, permeating the atmosphere with a soothing quiet so removed from the cafeteria buzz. The walls here seem even greyer with the dimmed light.

“How’s the move coming along?” Niou asks.

Sanada grunts. Niou licks the BBQ sauce off his fingertips, his pink tongue getting the last of the sauce at the side of his lips. “At least you made the team this year,” he says.

Sanada picks at his own shortribs with his chopsticks, pulling off the sweet tangiest edges and chewing them until mush to get the longest taste rolling over his tongue. Niou pokes at his rice, stabs at his pickles with a cringe when he eats them.

The rain rustles the trees outside. A cold draft ripples through the stairwell, stirring Sanada’s hair up. Feeling the need to break the fresh silence, he says, “The cafeteria was full.”

Niou swallows a bite of rice and tucks his chopsticks away. “Yeah, I saw Yagyuu there before.”

The rain keeps falling. A second draft makes Sanada shiver as the hairs on his bare arms stand up. He left his sweater in his locker, thinking the cafeteria would be warm. Now, he’s envious of Niou’s rumpled sweater, the arms rolled up to his elbows.

And then it is Niou’s turn to reach over and catch Sanada off guard when his fingers brush over Sanada’s ear, tucking a strand of hair behind it.

Sanada freezes. This strange Niou, the same one from nights ago, staring at him with black eyes has returned, this time with his dark eyes reflecting the stirring grey clouds outside the window. Maybe other people do…he said. Sanada still doesn’t understand what he meant by that, or what he means when he offers Sanada a package of cookies from his backpack.

“I had a spare set,” Niou says. His eyes look away from Sanada, once more looking down the stairwell, unfocused on the railing.

Sanada picks the package up from his lap and turns it over. Chocolate cookies, the sort he could buy from a convenience store. Two sets of cookie wrappers crinkle at the same time as both he and Niou open their own.

“Is Marui making you a chocolate cake?” Niou asks. He brushes the crumbs off his lap and crumples up the cookie wrapper, shoving it into a wide crack between the wall and the window. “That’s your favourite, right?”

Sanada doesn’t admit that chocolate cake is his favourite. His ear burns from where Niou’s fingers touched it and he feels hyper-aware of his hair. Sanada never tucks it behind his ears. That’s what his cap is for at practice. The rest of the time, it hangs where it falls, sometimes in his eyes, sometimes not.

He wants to move it away, and at the same time, his hands don’t work that way. Cold from the drafts, his fingertips feel numb on top of his own empty cookie wrapper. The warning bell for afternoon classes rings three times and Niou doesn’t move, nothing except his blinking eyes that seem so far and away.

Despite the lump in his throat, Sanada stands up and says, “What are you playing at Niou?” His hair moves as he does, falling back in front of his eyes. His cheeks feel warm, though, thinking about the pulsing on the shell of his ear. It’s an illusion, caused by the Trickster himself to unsettle Sanada. He hates the feeling.

Niou rumples up his bento cloth and shoves it into his pocket. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling the back near his short ponytail. Breathing out, he finally says, “Who says I was playing at anything?”

Before Sanada walks down the stairs to his own classroom, Niou leans forward, looks up with a sly smile and flicks the ends of Sanada’s hair. “Its better when you don’t have a hat to hide under, you know.”

Sanada is almost certain he hears Niou whisper, “He doesn’t know what he’s missing” as he walks upstairs, carting his bento under his armpit. But he doesn’t understand that, either. Niou is up to something, and Sanada isn’t entirely sure he wants to know what it might be.

***

He should be worried when Niou shows up to afternoon tennis practice with a duffelbag. Instead, Sanada is too busy with tennis. Too busy nodding and grunting polite thanks when people wish him a happy birthday. Even in the weight room, as he strains under the bench press, pushing his muscles to the limit of pain, the captain has to come up to him and say,

“Happy Birthday, Sanada. You going out with the team after practice?”

“No,” Sanada says. He doesn’t mention the plans made by Renji, the cake of Marui’s, the fact that he would rather spend his time with his old junior high teammates, almost all still pre-regulars.

Yukimura and Renji hang back with Sanada after the showers, their hair beading water onto the edges of their shirt collars. “I’ll lock up tonight,” Yukimura tells the captain. He dangles the clubhouse key from his finger.

“Gonna give him an initiation?” another senior on the regulars asks, nodding at Sanada.

Sanada glares from under the brim of his cap.

In the pre-regular section of the clubhouse, Marui and Jackal have dragged a folding table out, stacking plastic cups and paper towels from the toilets in lieu of cake plates. A few other straggling pre-regulars give them odd looks, wondering what is going on until Niou snickers. Sanada can hear the words “sweet sixteen and never been kissed”.

Even across the room, people between them, Sanada’s cheeks flush. That is none of Niou’s business.

And it is then that Sanada notices the blue duffelbag piled beside Niou’s backpack and his tennisbag. Neither Yukimura or Renji have one with them. Sanada assumes that Yukimura packs light.

Renji had texted him last night: If you’re having a sleepover with Seiichi and me, I suppose you’ll want me to leave early…

Sanada hadn’t replied.

Renji looks from Yukimura now, to Sanada, and then winks. Yukimura checks his wristwatch, asking “Is he here yet?”

Sanada cringes as soon as he hears the sound of Kirihara’s voice on the other side of the doorway. In breezes Kirihara, six inches taller and a good six kilos, too. The kid is as cocky as ever, walking with the captain’s new swagger. “Buchou!” he shouts, running to tackle Yukimura.

Yukimura rolls his eyes and pushes Kirihara away.

Kirihara meets Sanada’s eyes level now. “Happy Birthday, Sanada-fukubuchou!” he says. Then, he forces a high-pitched laugh, grinning from ear to ear as he says he didn’t have enough money to buy a present.

“Your presence is more than enough, Kirihara-kun,” Yagyuu says before Sanada has a chance.

Besides, no one else brought presents. No one brought anything, except Marui’s cake and Niou’s strange bag. Marui cuts the cake, his knife skills nowhere near on par with his cooking. The mangled mess of chocolate with cream frosting tastes wonderful- not that Sanada would say that aloud. He thanks Marui, although his words are lost because Yukimura has managed to get cake on his face.

The brief glimpse of Yukimura with white frosting smeared on his cheek transfixes him. Yukimura’s face, radiant with a genuine wide smile, is a present on its own and Sanada savours it far more than the cake in his mouth.

Except Yukimura doesn’t look at him. Yukimura isn’t clapping him on the shoulder. And Yukimura wipes the icing off too quickly, even before Sanada’s heart starts to pound hard.

Niou leans against the table, cradling his piece of cake in the cupped palm of his hand. He picks at it the way he did the ribs several days ago at lunch. Sanada has tried to not think about that day. Considering he and Niou don’t share classes and Niou isn’t a tennis regular, it’s been easy. Now, though, seeing Niou lick his fingertips the same way, it feels at though every other person in the room has left. The warm summer air, filled with the scent of heady hydrangeas and early roses, has turned cold and drafty on Sanada’s skin, just like that day.

Niou’s eyes move around the room, resting briefly on Yagyuu, then sliding over to Sanada. Sanada nods his head once.

Stretching out his long legs even further, Niou returns to eating his cake. Nothing but crumbs remain on the platter Marui brought and even they are fair game for Marui. He scrapes his fingers over the plate, moaning about the lack of cake.

“I made a double-recipe!” he moans. “Just for you, Sanada!”

Every time that Sanada takes a step closer toward Yukimura, crowded around with their old teammates, Kirihara’s voice rises again. He talks about his new team, the rosters, the tournaments, the rumours from the Tokyo circuit. Sanada waits and folds his paper towel up- making lines one direction, then the next, unknowingly making the first few origami steps to a paper crane.

Karaoke is suggested, but laughed off. Sanada grumbles no. Not on his birthday. His stomach growls, despite the cake, and his mother will have teppenaki at home for him, Renji and Yukimura. Along with more cake, too.

“Perhaps we could go next week,” Renji tells Kirihara. “Or for my birthday.”

Wishes for Sanada to have a good birthday from the old team leave him feeling awkward and more than eager to go home sooner. Sanada nods and mutters and says thank you, but he is no Yagyuu. Not with the prospect of a sleepover tonight, of Renji leaving early and having Yukimura all to himself, not shared with seven other old teammates the way he is now.

Fire burns inside Sanada’s belly at the thought of being in the dojo, futons pushed together as they talk about tennis, about junior high and how different the high school team is, being the youngest players once again. The night will be warm and the moon bright, peeking out from soft grey clouds.

He doesn’t dare hope for anything more, just to be able to have Yukimura to himself for a little while. Just to be able to look at Yukimura from under his bangs, looking back at Sanada with a small smile over his thin lips. They could talk about tennis, about the professional tennis season, and makes plans to go to this year’s ABC Tournament in the summer, held in Fukuoka this time.

“Genichirou?” Renji asks.

Sanada blinks. He clears his throat and picks his bags up, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and his tennisbag over the other. Yukimura waits in the door frame, swinging his keychain in lazy circles around his finger.

“It’s nice to have a key like this,” Yukimura says.

From the back of the locker room, Niou makes a noise. Sanada looks at him, his face hardening. “Don’t you have a bus to catch?” Sanada grumbles.

Niou fakes a yawn, his fingers brushing over the mole on his chin. “If the party’s moving, I’ll come with,” he says.

Sanada’s jaw tenses.

Renji says nothing.

Yukimura raises his eyebrows. “Yagyuu’s left already,” he says.

“I know,” Niou tells him.

“The more the merrier,” Yukimura says loudly.

Sanada curses silently. Lazy ass. Yukimura doesn’t seem to realize that Niou was not invited, just him and Renji. It was supposed to be intimate, the three of them together again, celebrating small-scale at Sanada’s home.

Sanada keeps his mouth shut as they walk towards his house. Yukimura and Renji walk ahead. Sanada behind them, and Niou behind him. The last afternoon sun has started to set, streaking the sky with dying streaks of violet through the vaulted ultramarine. The pigeons have settled down for the night, but the crows are out in full force, flocking from tree to tree like a straggler behind Niou.

“Go home,” Sanada mutters under his breath.

Niou drags his duffelbag on the pavement, scraping the bottom in a lazy zigzag.

Sanada glances over his shoulder, willing Niou to leave them be. But Niou is still there, plodding along with a blank face, his eyes utterly emotionless until they look up to Sanada.

Niou’s lips quirk- barely- as if he’s trying to say something that Sanada can’t read. That Sanada doesn’t want to know about, even if he could.

***

“You’re on the team with Genichirou too, then?” Sanada’s brother asks Niou.

Sanada’s family, along with Niou, Renji and Yukimura sit around the cramped table, dipping their sliced salmon and shrimp and pork into the hot broth. It’s messy and steamy and Yukimura gets broth on Sanada’s leg more than once.

Sanada doesn’t mind. Not even when the hot broth seeps through the fabric of his yukata, which he changed into earlier.

“Sorry,” Yukimura says, his mouth full of food. He smiles, black hair falling over his eyes. Forgiveness radiates through Sanada’s murmured response that it’s fine, it doesn’t matter.

Yukimura’s elbow bumps Sanada’s arm. Tea sloshes over the rim of his cup, dribbling down Sanada’s face and onto his thigh, staining the indigo fabric of his yukata even darker.

“Sorry,” Yukimura says a second time, or perhaps it’s more by now. Sanada shakes his head at Yukimura’s offer of a handkerchief from his pocket.

It would smell of Yukimura- of his deodorant, his laundry detergent, his cedar soap and the milkcandies stolen from Marui that he sucks on between classes. Sanada would tuck the handkerchief under his pillow and sniff it at night, inhaling Yukimura by proxy.

“Its fine,” Sanada mutters.

Yukimura shrugs.

Renji says nothing, but one of his eyebrows raise. For years, they have grown accustomed to each other’s moods, each other’s minimal words. Sanada has never needed to mentioned things that Renji can figure out on his own.

At the other end of the table, though, Niou talks loudly with Sanada’s brother, answering questions about Sanada and the tennis club, all sly smiles and shooting glances down towards him. Sanada’s neck feels hot, and not from the scalding broth. He breathes through his nose, trying to ignore Niou’s words.

Exhale.

“…dunno if the captain likes him much, since Sanada beat him at a game a few weeks ago…”

Exhale.

“…he and Yanagi had fifty laps the first week because the coach caught them screwing around with the ball machines. Sanada likes to blame innocent people like me, you know…”

Exhale.

“…yeah, my sister goes to the university. You seen her around? She’s hot, but your little brother wouldn’t think so…”

Sanada’s brother seems to enjoy talking with Niou. And his grandfather, too, sits across the table, listening to Niou and occasionally giving Sanada a long, hard look, sizing up his grandson in relation to this strange boy with bleached hair he has never met before.

His mother serves them cherry cake after, making even slices with a wet knife. Sanada’s family disappears into their home, leaving the four of them around a half-empty table, cakes on their plates and the last dregs of uncooked meat around the cooling pot of broth. Niou sits off by himself, not having moved closer to Sanada, Yukimura and Renji. He picks and prods, the same as he did earlier in the afternoon, and ends up leaving half of his slice untouched.

The plate slides down the table, stopping in front of Yukimura. “You want?” Niou asks.

Yukimura eats Niou’s leftovers.

Sanada eats his slice slowly. It is overcooked and dry like most of his mother’s baking. It sticks to the back corners of his mouth, but neither Renji nor Yukimura seem to mind, both helping themselves to the remnants of the cake sitting on the table. Niou, though, eats the last of the yellowtail slices, dropping them into his mouth and chewing slowly.

His throat bobs when he swallows. Sanada watches his Adam’s apple move and then Niou catches his eye again. Sanada looks down at his cake. He picks out a cherry with his chopsticks, popping that into his mouth and sucking the sweetness out as long as he can. Niou lurks in the corner of his eye, assessing and staring at Sanada as if there is no one else in the room the way his eyes pin him down.

“Good thing Marui’s not here,” Niou says after a beat of silence, punctuated only by the sounds of Yukimura and Renji’s clinking forks. “His ass doesn’t need anymore cake.”

Sanada chokes on the cherry, coughing to clear it out of his throat.

The dojo is quiet on Friday nights, smelling of the pine beams and freshly-aired tatami mats. Of old steel swords, stacked on the lacquered shelves. From cupboards they drag old cushions between the rice-paper walls to sit on and talk. Niou is the only one who doesn’t. He wanders between the labyrinth of sliding walls, checking out and checking things out, as if he’s never been he before, or he’s searching for something.

“Akaya’s certainly taking his captaincy well,” Yukimura says. He flops back from his cushion onto the tatami mat, fanning his pink face with a fast hand.

Renji hums in agreement, shifting on the mat to lean his weight onto his other leg. He swipes a sheet of calligraphy paper from Sanada and fans his face too.

It doesn’t feel that warm to Sanada, not in the airy rooms of the dojo. The evening cools the house down and through the doorway, the bonsai trees shiver with the slight breeze. Lamps hang, glowing moon-yellow, around the room as Niou creeps in the background, casting a series of shadows over the dormant shinken.

For a couple hours, they talk on and off. Niou doesn’t leave, but instead he drags his duffelbag against a wall and kneels down on Yukimura’s cushion. He looks out of place here, even more than Yukimura and Renji in their school uniforms. Niou loosens his tie, slipping it out of his collar and into his pocket.

In the end, Renji keeps his word, as he always does. Faking a yawn, he stands up and says, “Unfortunately, I need to go home early. Have a good night.” He nods to Sanada, winking once, then to Yukimura and Niou.

It is Sanada’s turn to feel the unnatural warmth on his skin after Renji leaves and Yukimura and Niou remain. His eyes linger on Yukimura, still lying on his stomach on the tatami mat, drawing with his fingertips on the weave. His heart lodges in his throat, wishing that Yukimura’s fingers would touch his skin that way.

Once Niou leaves too, maybe…

“-don’t you think, Sanada?” Yukimura asks.

Sanada coughs, ducking his head in embarrassment for his mind’s wanderings again. “Yukimura?”

“I was telling Niou that we should have gone to karaoke for your birthday tonight like in junior high. But Niou said he didn’t think so.”

Niou is turned away from Sanada, staring out towards the bonsai garden. Beyond him, the koi pond sits tranquil and tinkling, the bamboo fountains in constant motion. He shrugs, mumbling something under his breath that Sanada can’t hear, but whatever it is, it makes Yukimura laugh and stretch his arms out.

He pokes Sanada in the big toe.

Sanada sucks in a breath. His eyes go wide, then wider still when Yukimura stands up. “Gotta get home,” he says. “I have a doctor’s appointment in the morning.”

Sanada opens his mouth, and then starts to shake his head. Hair falls into his eyes, but he ignores it. He reaches to grab Yukimura’s arm just as Niou looks over his shoulder at the two of them.

“I thought…you were sleeping over?” Sanada asks.

Yukimura picks his tennisbag up. His brow furrows and he blinks twice, his long lashes making his eyes even bigger. “Yanagi didn’t say anything about a sleepover. You’ll be fine sleeping by yourself, ne Sanada? Besides, Niou’s still here.”

“I even brought my slippers,” Niou says, unzipping the end of his duffelbag. He holds them up as proof for Sanada.

The door closing behind Yukimura sounds more like a slam of finality. Sanada stares at the back of it, seeing the figure of Yukimura in his mind, walking towards the road, silhouetted by the pavement lanterns, shaped like tiny temples.

He doesn’t remember that he’s not alone until he hears the sound of Niou clearing his throat, rather loud, behind his back.

“Don’t you get it, Sanada?”

***

A heavy beat of silence falls. Leaves in the bonsai trees and the tiny cherry tree in the courtyard swish with the wind sifting through them. The sound of Yukimura’s footsteps is long gone, replaced only with Niou’s soft breathing.

“He’s never going to notice you like that,” Niou says.

The winds move again. Sanada stands, immoveable like a mountain until Niou’s socks creak over the flooring. He starts to speak, “Sa-”

Sanada whips his head around, his hand raised to smack Niou across the face-

Invade like fire…

But his hand doesn’t move, it just holds inches from Niou’s cheek. Niou’s face twists in a grimace, so brief it catches Sanada off guard a second time. His fingers curl, his wrist falling slack at the single furrow across Niou’s forehead, at the sheen of his eyes, at the parting of his mouth.

Niou’s hair flutters around his face, white strands glowing from the light of the fat lamps in the dojo. Something warm touches the back of Sanada’s hands, and only when Niou guides them between their faces does Sanada realize this. His fingertips brush Niou’s mouth, dry and warmer still, and then there is a pressure, like a kiss and…

His heart stops beating. His breath catches in his chest, swelling like the spring breezes in the garden. Niou moves his mouth over Sanada’s thumb, kissing the pad, running the wet inside of his mouth to the side of Sanada’s index.

“Stop!” Sanada snaps. “What are you playing at, Niou?” He tries to drag his hand away, burning from the touch of Niou’s mouth, but Niou just laughs against his fingers, breath even hotter than the look when he raises his eyes.

“Why do you think I’m playing at something?” he murmurs.

Before Sanada can say, Because you’re the trickster, Niou steps back to turn on his heel. Sanada’s arm falls, tingling from Niou’s mouth. Niou slinks around, asking “So where are these straw dummies you chop up here?”

Sanada moves his fingers against his thigh, trying to get the feeling to return to his hand, but all he can feel is the memory of that warm mouth, now starting to sink down into his body. He shakes his head. Niou is messing with him.

“Go home,” he says. Then louder, Sanada repeats himself in case Niou didn’t hear.

From the other side of a thin paper wall, Niou says “Sorry, already told the parents I was staying at a friend’s tonight.”

“Go bother Yagyuu,” Sanada snaps. “Go-”

“No,” Niou tells him. Through the wall, his voice is smooth and calm, but slick with determination. The soft tones he used moments before have been replaced with his usual self. Sanada doesn’t know which he prefers, but he wants them both gone. He wants to be left in peace to be confused.

Niou hums. Sanada tenses. Something rattles and Sanada knows that sound, of metal unsheathed, the heavy weight of a sword’s end clattering on the floor.

“Niou!” he yells. Sanada lunges for the wall, sliding it out of the way to see Niou standing in front of one of the dojo straw dummies.

He holds the sword with the point on the mats, two hands on the handle the way he would for a rising shot in tennis. Niou’s back is to Sanada, and his shirt rises up on his hips when he heaves the sword into the air and bats at the dummy.

The dummy tips over, swaying back into place with a wooden balance. Niou’s nicked the side of it, but nothing more. The silver sheen of the metal in Niou’s hands makes nervous tension coil in Sanada’s stomach. He knows Niou too well.

“Don’t play around with that!” he growls. Sanada stomps forward to grab the sword before Niou can hurt something- or himself- and Niou makes no motion to stop him. But Niou’s hands don’t leave the sword, his grip only tightens.

Sanada’s hand sits on top of his. Niou turns his thumb over, brushing over the pad of Sanada’s, and it makes a shiver run down Sanada’s back. The wind stirs again, lifting the ends of their hair, making tiny feathers of straw float on the air.

“So show me how,” Niou says. His head tilts, the ends of his hair poking into Sanada’s cheek because he’s moved closer still in his half-attempt to stop Niou.

Niou’s hair is stiff with wax and smells of hair product, the salon-sort Sanada’s mother might use. He’s never noticed before, but then Sanada has never been this close to Niou- front nearly pressed up to Niou’s back, legs inches away from each other.

“What?” Sanada asks.

“Show me how,” Niou says. He starts to lift the sword against Sanada’s pressure on it. “I wanna chop this bugger up. I’ve seen you do it before.”

Sanada opens his mouth. Niou leans back, finally touching the length of his body to Sanada’s. He’s warm and solid. An invitation for something that isn’t Yukimura asking him for help with this, like in the odd fantasy Sanada might have.

No, the moon is the thin crescent outside, just after the new. Streams of light shine into the dojo not from the stars, but from the twinkling lights of Yokohama in the west. Niou’s eyes are just as bright when he looks at Sanada, the corners crinkling like his mouth. “Show me,” he murmurs.

It might be against his better judgment, but the ghost of before haunts Sanada. Without thinking, he shakes his head and moves his hands over Niou’s. “Like this,” he mutters, “Your grip is all wrong. It’s too tight.”

Niou waggles his eyebrows.

Sanada ducks his head. His face is on fire and he regrets his words. And yet, Niou doesn’t laugh at him, he doesn’t smile, he just nods and mouths “Okay”. His hands shake when he fixes Niou’s arms, when he places a palm on Niou’s hip to steady him. Niou says nothing else, except, “Like this?” or “I see.”

And his tongue darts out, licking his lip with a sheen of saliva before Sanada’s throat catches and he manages an “Okay, now try. Use a diagonal stroke. Hit it right where the shoulder would be.”

The sword arcs up over Niou’s head, mirroring the shape of the moon in the downswing. Sanada sucks in his breath as Niou exhales heavily. The sword strikes, quick and smooth, but not enough. It ends up lodged half-way through the dummy. Not deadly enough.

The shinken clatters onto the mat beside Niou’s feet. Sanada cringes at the sound. Silence follows, and then Niou starts to laugh, throwing his head back as he laughs at himself.

“Good thing I’m not a samurai,” Niou tells Sanada. He touches his mole, then his lips, drawing Sanada’s eyes to his mouth once more. That feeling in his chest for Yukimura- that crushing pressure on his ribs that makes it hard to breathe, hard to think properly- shouldn’t be here, not right now, not with Niou.

Blood rushes to Sanada’s head, louder than the bamboo fountains outside. The breeze stops, but the lamps flicker as Niou is lost in Sanada’s wavering vision, too close for comfort. Hands splay across Sanada’s cheeks, warm and sweaty and smelling of steel from the sword.

There is no sound when Niou kisses him, nothing except the intake of his breath as shock pulses through his body. What is he doing? Sanada thinks. His brain explodes in a thousand different directions as he tries to figure out what Niou is doing, why Niou is doing this.

When Niou pulls back, biting his bottom lip to suck it into his mouth, tasting whatever he must be able to from Sanada’s mouth- Sanada gets it. He gets the darkened eyes, the hands still clutching his face, fingers curling on his cheekbones.

No, he thinks.

Niou kisses him again. He leans forward, leans up and slides one of his hands around the back of Sanada’s head, threading his fingers through Sanada’s hair. Hot, wet tongue on his lips and Sanada finally opens his mouth to kiss back.

***

This isn’t right. He’s not Yukimura.

Niou doesn’t kiss the way Yukimura might. He’s as tentative as Sanada is at first, standing in the dojo with his hands slack at his sides, unsure of where to put them. His mouth tastes a bit stale and salty, from the teppenaki, but his tongue is laden with a residual spice that Sanada can’t quite place. He’s eager for it, it intoxicates him with confusion and the desire to figure it out and slowly, he kisses back because he’s scared and confused and Niou is touching him and pressed against him and it’s not a joke.

It can’t be a trick, this. The past week hasn’t been a trick- the comments and looks from Niou. Niou’s fingers touching his hair, and now buried deep at the back of Sanada’s head, pulling himself closer to Sanada. Niou’s fingertips burn his scalp, hands running over and over through his hair as Niou’s kisses deepen, as Sanada kisses him.

When Niou’s body rubs against him for the first time, and Sanada can feel the strange press of an erection that is not his own, he freezes up. He stops sliding his tongue over Niou’s and he pulls back, wiping his mouth and catching his breathe. Still in his face, Niou searches his eyes, pulling at Sanada’s hair to guide his head down.

“What?” Niou whispers. Fast kisses to the sides of Sanada’s mouth, just the chaste press of dry lips. “Sanada…” he says, his voice almost a moan, almost a plea.

The way his body reacts isn’t a lie. Sanada’s pulse races. His stomach twists, torn between wanting to give into Niou’s touching and to push Niou away even further. Sanada closes his eyes, his face flushed, his cock hard. He’s never kissed anyone before, but Niou wouldn’t know that. Niou probably hasn’t either- Sanada tells himself he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care.

His hands are cold, his legs unsteady. Pushing the paper walls around, Sanada sits down on one of the futons his mother must have spread out earlier in the evening for them. Quiet, like the forest, he tries to compose himself.

Niou, though, is swift like fire. He invades Sanada’s space, pushing himself down beside Sanada, arms to either side of Sanada’s shoulder, nose bumping Sanada’s. Breathing hard, Niou swallows and rushes his words. “Do you get it?” he asks. “Do you?”

Sanada can’t look at Niou, not with that gaze scorching his eyes to the point where they sting. He turns his head, trying to get away, as futile as it might be to not even shove Niou aside. His perseverance isn’t trivial. Sanada dodges and Niou dives again, hands roaming down Sanada’s shoulders, down his arms and across his chest.

Sanada gasps.

Those hands dip down the front of his yukata, meeting his warm skin with feverish intensity. Lips meet again- Sanada can’t hold back, not with the ache between his legs, not with Niou’s knee touching the inside of his thigh, dangerously near his cock. His touch sends jolts of pleasure through Sanada’s body, from his nipples to his toes, which curl against Niou’s calves as they tumble backwards onto the futon.

Niou’s mouth on his neck, grazing the skin with his teeth, drives Sanada into a corner he doesn’t want to break out from. He groans, his own hands having found their way to the hem of Niou’s shirt. This is frightening, to take that leap and place his own hands on Niou’s stomach, but when he shudders with a moan on Sanada’s neck, Sanada realizes that this is real. Niou is as hard as he is. Niou wants this even more, the way he inhales, like a series of sobs, and rubs his erection on Sanada’s hip.

Their fumbling hands, the bumping of their noses, the strange slimy trails of Niou’s tongue tells Sanada that Niou hasn’t done this before either. Discarded clothes make them awkward, having to look at each other in a light that is too bright for this. Niou hesitates for a moment and then he pushes Sanada’s yukata off his shoulders, bending down to kiss the dips in his arms, of his collarbones. His hair tickles Sanada’s face, so Sanada pushes back. With a surge of boldness, Sanada tugs at Niou’s shirt, working at the buttons until Niou makes a little noise and just peels his shirt off, throwing it into one of the paper walls.

He’s seen Niou naked a hundred, a thousand times and never paid attention before. Seeing Niou hobble from foot to foot, naked and hard, hair mussed from his shirt, it makes that something catch in Sanada’s throat. He grabs at Niou’s clothes, trying to help, but it only makes them trip over each other, unsure and wary of what to do next.

Until their mouths meet. And their bodies seem to know what to do, sliding and twisting together on top of the futon, knees between thighs and hands digging into arms, backs, necks, mouths knocking, searching for the dance of their tongues. Sanada closes his eyes, thinking with his body the way he would in tennis, reacting to Niou’s plays- arching back when Niou’s dick brushes his, groaning when their hips buck together. His face, his chest, his entire body is on fire where Niou’s skin touches his- from his forehead to their feet, still wearing their socks because it was too much effort to try to pull them off.

Niou isn’t Yukimura. He digs his knee into the back of Sanada’s thigh, bony and sharp to make their bodies closer, to rub their erections even harder. He digs his fingernails into Sanada’s hips and tips his head back, muttering, “Playtime’s over, Sanada…”

His long neck, stretched out for Sanada’s mouth, is covered with Sanada’s lips, his tongue, his kisses- or what he hopes are. He licks Niou’s bobbing Adam’s Apple, and when Niou suddenly rolls over, pulling Sanada on top of him, Sanada’s teeth graze Niou’s earlobe, tasting the salt behind his jaw.

This close, from above, Niou looks almost vulnerable. His eyes are big and black, his mouth too red from kissing, his lips parted in a hiss of pleasure as their bodies keep straining together. Sanada can’t think straight- and maybe he doesn’t want to, not like this with his dick between Niou’s thighs, so tight he chokes on the intensity surging through his veins.

Against his lower back, Niou pushes with the back of his palms, forcing Sanada down. Niou squeezes his legs, a breathy laugh escaping his lips when Sanada thrusts, groaning and grinding his teeth to keep from humping Niou’s leg, or fucking his thighs.

“You’re too naïve,” Niou says, his voice thick. He lifts himself up, their bodies entwined, and moves his knees together, his thighs tightening. His mouth lingers on the side of Sanada’s mouth, moving without a sound to say, “Do it.”

His thighs press all around Sanada’s cock, then tighter again, making Sanada gasp before a funny sound, like a whine, hits his ears. He can’t stop himself, pushing forward, thrusting and grinding and rubbing and pushing himself down, down into Niou, his hair falling over his face, over Niou’s. Hands on his back, his own on Niou’s arms, in Niou’s hair, feeling the sweat, the sticky wax, the saliva too. Their bodies rock, Niou panting and moaning and Sanada gasping for air, unable to respond to Niou’s sloppy kisses. The erection against his belly burns but it’s he who comes first, pushing himself into that exquisite numb climax with a grunt, thrusting his dick still, blind between Niou’s legs as he comes, hot and shaking and sobbing.

Niou’s eyes go wide, his pupils disappearing for a split-second and his entire body flushing with fever and then he groans too, bucking into Sanada and clawing at Sanada’s back. Sanada can feel Niou shuddering up on him, and the sensation of hot, sticky come between their bellies, too.

For a long moment, they lie together like this, their breathing slowing in tandem as the first soft blush of wind flutters in from the open windows of the dojo. For a long moment, Sanada glances down at Niou, their eyes wide mirrors of each other, and he looks at Niou and Niou looks back.

***

The strangest parts come after.

They might have both just come over each other, but Sanada can’t look Niou in the eyes when he extricates himself, sticky and sweaty and feeling like his skin crawls. He winces, unwilling to look down at himself. The room smells the way his sheets do after a good long session with his hand and the pilfered vitamin-e cream of his mother’s.

Niou isn’t any more comfortable. He clears his throat, getting up onto his knees and crawling over to his tennisbag. Sanada turns, just enough to see Niou’s ass in the air, with blooms of red on the sides of his hips, finger-shaped streaks on his pale skin.

Sanada looks at his hands, tingling from whatever just happened. It can’t be the same hands that made those marks, and yet…

“Here,” Niou says. He looks off, somewhere beyond Sanada at one of the sliding walls, their shadows slow-moving across the white panels. In Niou’s hands is a grimy-looking tennis towel.

Sanada swipes it. He keeps his back turned to Niou when he wipes his belly, his dick, the crevices of his legs and his balls. The skin down there is over-sensitized now, and it makes him hiss at the towel’s motions.

Niou pulls on a pair of pajama pants, low-slung on his hips. With a loud yawn, he stands up and stretches his arms high enough to almost touch the pine rafters of the dojo. Sanada puts his yukata back on. His arms are so lethargic, shaking and fumbling with the folds.

“Here,” Niou says. Without looking up, he takes the fabric in his hands and pulls it on around Sanada, tying quickly. Niou finishes with a pat to Sanada’s side, right on the obi. “Sanada?” he asks after a long pause.

Sanada grunts; he doesn’t know what else to say. On unsteady legs, he walks over to the back doorway of the dojo. He inhales, exhales, ostensibly deep calming breaths that ought to stop the fresh pounding of his heart, the fresh flush over his face. Or maybe it’s an older flush, the remnants of their fumbling around. Just thinking about it now makes Sanada’s lips burn. He tries to ignore the sensation, but he can’t resist sticking his tongue out enough to taste the side of his mouth.

It tastes of nothing. And it tastes of Niou, too. Of teppenaki and the cinnamon candies that Sanada can hear Niou grabbing from his backpack. Of sweat and heady sex, too. It makes him lightheaded. He needs to breathe the fresh air to clear his thoughts.

The bamboo fountain trickles, the soft plonking sound of the knocking wood changing directions as it empties itself into the pond. Fish bob under the surface of the water, murkily reflecting the soft grey clouds in the ink sky. The faintest crescent moon peeks out behind the clouds now and then disappears again.

Niou breathes out heavily, “Puri.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sanada can see him slouching against an empty rack for swords, his hands in his pajama pockets. He wears them low on his hips, revealing the lines leading down to his…

The ghost press of Niou’s cock on his belly makes Sanada suck his stomach in.

“Those…look like Yagyuu’s,” he grumbles, breaking the silence between them. His words sound stupid, formed off the top of his head, but it’s true. The pale blue check looks too plain for Niou. The longer Niou doesn’t respond, the longer Sanada thinks about this. His forehead furrows. Maybe they are Yagyuu’s, maybe Niou-

“Why can’t he just be my friend?” Niou snaps. “Tch.” He clicks his tongue, his face hardening and his lips pursing. “Don’t you think I would have tried with him-” But Niou shakes his head, leaving the words unsaid, whatever they might have been. “We should have cleaned off in there,” he says, nodding out to the fish pond in the courtyard, surrounded by clipped bonsais and dripping dwarf maples.

“That’s gross. It’s a koi pond” Sanada says. Niou’s flickering smirk snares Sanada, leading him away from the doorframe and back into the dojo. Niou takes one hand from his pocket, as if to grab Sanada’s, but before he would, he instead spins around and picks up his duffelbag.

“Come with me,” Niou says.

Sanada doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move either. Niou cocks an eyebrow up at him. He holds a finger to his lips, grazing the edge of his mole. He’s up to something- it’s beyond obvious, even to Sanada.

“Just come,” he says.

Sighing, Sanada follows him. Niou’s hair is messier than usual, the back pressed flat to his head from lying on his back before. Sanada averts his eyes, not wanting to admit to himself that he was the reason for it. When Niou swings the doorway open, Sanada stops.

“You can’t go outside like that,” he mutters. “You’re in your pajamas and you’re not wearing a shirt.”

Niou murmurs something under his breath. He doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders shrug, outlined by the streetlights streaming into the dojo through the doorway. “We won’t go far,” he says, slipping on his sneakers. “I promise.”

Sanada pauses in the threshold, one foot behind in the dojo, one ready to step through and follow Niou down to the front gate. He doesn’t have keys to the dojo to lockup. He shouldn’t trust Niou- he’s pulled too many tricks over too many years. At the same time, all Niou would need to do is turn around and look at Sanada with those dark, slitted eyes glowing with the knowledge of what has transpired between the two of them now.

Sanada steps outside before his mind decides.

They don’t go far, barely two blocks down the road, into an empty lot behind a parking lot. The cement gapes with deep cracks that Niou stomps right over before he dumps his duffelbag on the ground.

Finally, Sanada sees what is inside.

Niou’s bag is packed with fireworks- Big Bang cans and tiny sparklers. Packages and long rockets on the end of sticks that Niou starts to shove into the pavement crags.

“What are you doing?” Sanada asks. Niou jabs another two fireworks into the ground. He looks up, flipping his hair back from his eyes. It’s too dark to see him properly, but Sanada can hear the sound of Niou crinkling packaging and ripping open paper cartons.

“It’s your birthday, right?” Niou asks.

Sanada blinks. “Yes,” he says. A sparkler is held out to him. Niou nods for Sanada to take it. Hesitantly, Sanada wraps his fingers around the end. Their fingers start to tangle for a moment, Niou’s fingertips sending jolts of electric current between Sanada’s fingers. He could be smiling in the dark, Sanada doesn’t know for certain.

Not until Niou strikes a match.

His face gleams with red-gold shadows, his hair glowing like white-hot embers in the dim night and the vacant, derelict lot.

Sanada’s sparkler starts to spew, choking sparks into the sky: make-shift stars. Niou dances from firework to firework, moving to light them with ease, fast and furious. His motions are dulled by the explosion of light and sound, the deafening zoom of explosives into the sky above.

Blinding light and a cacophony of sound and heat all around, the hot glowing death of the sparkler in his hand. Niou grabs Sanada by the arm, dragging him close and causing Sanada to let go of the sparkler. It is lost amid the exploding fireworks behind them.

Niou’s mouth is wide with laughter, but Sanada can’t hear a sound from him. He starts to laugh, too, because Niou is laughing and it is funny, whatever it is, and the fireworks are a hundred colours of burning chemicals- copper green and cobalt blue bursting into the sky, blooms of cherry and gold leaving smoking trails as the dying rockets fall back to ground.

His grip is hard, hot on Sanada’s yukata. Niou bunches the fabric up, then looks up, his eyes a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours, making Sanada’s knees feel weak and the blood rush all over again.

He might not have wanted this before. He might not have been looking for this, but now it is here, standing in front of him and kissing him and laughing with him, pulling his hand to dance around the cracking bloom of fireworks going off.

Niou is the only one Sanada looks at right now. Niou is the only one he can see.

Sanada gives into the eager pull of Niou’s hand, letting himself fall forward.

***

It is Sanada who pushes two of the futons together in the dojo.

Their bodies are warm, even if cold toes cut into Sanada’s calf as they curl up against each other. Niou’s hair in Sanada’s face, Sanada’s nose in Niou’s neck.

“Play tennis with me tomorrow,” Niou says.

Sanada shifts on his pillow. Niou’s eyes are huge this close, his lips shiny with kisses and curled with a smile.

“I think I know how to melt that ice formation of yours, Sanada.”

Never has Sanada wanted to perfect his new move more than now. “I’ll crush you,” he says.

Niou sucks in a laugh, and pushes his hips along Sanada’s hip, his dick hard and enticing, making Sanada’s twitch. Making Sanada’s stomach twitch with excitement. Niou’s glitter for an instant before he murmurs in Sanada’s ear, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Sanada wouldn’t either.