(no subject)
Title: Kekka (Result)
Part: 2/3
How was it possible, Atobe wondered, that his roommate could be such an utterly difficult individual?
Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair. Jirou wasn’t Oshitari’s transparent, and rather aggravating, manipulation (well, transparent to Atobe, in any case.) Jirou wasn’t Hiyoshi’s fixed, just barely short of insolent, stare whenever Atobe deigned to drop a point; it wasn’t Atobe fault that Hiyoshi could apparently not see that it had been a move on his part to draw the game on, and allow his opponent some sense of accomplishment before Atobe crushed him. Jirou wasn’t Gakuto’s sheer obnoxious perverseness. Jirou certainly wasn’t the nauseating sweetness, meriting drifting sakura petals and the exchange of stuffed animals, apparently, that was the Shishido-Ootori doubles pair, newly reunited after a year of high school and Shishido Ryou being absolutely unbearable to deal with.
Well, it had not been Atobe’s choice that his entire Regular team be composed of no-one but ‘utterly difficult individuals.’
At the same time, though, as much as Atobe prided himself on being able to come up with the perfect gift, given the occasion… considering that even his perfect mind was struggling, contemplating what to give his roommate for his seventeenth birthday, Jirou must have been the very height of difficulty. Which, considering his teammates, was saying quite a bit.
“What about the historic first edition of Playboy?”
Atobe blinked as Mari tapped her lower lip with one of his ergonomic mechanical pencils, her gaze turned thoughtfully up towards the ceiling. She had not just said…
“It’s certainly… unusual,” she tucked back a long strand of her dark hair, and dropped the pencil back to the tabletop as she folded her hands in her lap. She really was quite the little lady, sometimes, despite her strange speech habits. He approved. “ And Jirou likes collector’s editions, doesn’t he?”
She truly was only trying to be helpful. Jirou did, after all, like collector’s editions.
Mari couldn’t help it if her intellect couldn’t match his-honestly, why she would think that Jirou-who barely cared enough to pass his English classes-would want to read any of the articles in Playboy’s first edition, much less want to look at pictures of naked women… really, now, she didn’t think Jirou was that base, did she? That aside, Mari certainly couldn’t consider that Atobe was vulgar enough to give him something of the sort, even if Jirou were…
He had to admit that Taira Mari was certainly, by far, the most competent fanclub president he’d ever had. After all, Valentine’s Day was no longer the ordeal that it had once been; furthermore, he no longer had to lower himself into talking down to his father’s personal shopper when the woman managed to utterly mistake what he’d been asking for. For whatever reason-whenever he let Mari speak to her, he was saved the trouble of having to hire a new personal shopper… because the next time, the woman actually bought him the exact sort of item that he’d requested.
Atobe reminded himself of this at about the same time he reminded himself that his dentist had advised him not to grind his teeth. “I don’t know why you would think Jirou would want something like that, Mari,” he gritted out between his teeth.
Sometimes, in rare moments, he thought that there truly was something rather… impish about her. But then her eyes were as wide, and worshipfully earnest, as ever-of course, she was the president of his fanclub; she’d never consider misleading him in any way… “Well. Wasn’t glorification of the female body a rather integral part of the Renaissance movement? And I’m told that Playboy was somewhat more… tasteful… at the beginning.”
Well. And he was not going to ask where Mari had acquired that particular bit of information; perhaps she’d visited the Museum of Sexuality in Amsterdam, as he had. “That is indeed the case, and both are true.” Western art history was necessary, yes, to create a well-rounded international individual, but at the same time… well, the introduction of Renaissance-era art through Playboy certainly would have been rather a novel teaching method. “I am not saying that female nudes are unattractive, but they’re hardly what interests Jirou.”
Cultural edification was all for the best, but birthdays were for pleasure.
“Ah.” She blinked at him, very slowly, with something that was almost a smile tightening the corners of her mouth. “You’re right, Atobe, of course.” Well, naturally he was. Though-strange, how he couldn’t quite recall the occasion of her nodding at him quite so… agreeably… before… “First edition of Playgirl, then?”
Atobe stared.
Mari smiled. Very sweetly.
There had been grosser misunderstandings in his memory, but… not many of them, no. She could not possibly- ”Mari.” He clipped out her name between clenched teeth. Of all the utterly impertinent suggestions… “I was of the belief that you were a well-brought up girl; drop the subject of pornography, and do attempt to be helpful. ”
Her shrug rippled along her shoulders-honestly, while his ire was not something anyone ever courted if they had any self-preservation instinct, Atobe was distantly rather glad that Mari, unlike the previous fanclub president-or had it been the one before that? They hadn’t lasted long enough for him to bother to get their names-didn’t faint at the least hint of his displeasure. “I’ve been trying to be helpful for the past two hours, Atobe.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Honestly, I’m serious. What haven’t you given him already? Considering that he lives with you and you’ve spent the past two years spoiling him horribly, it’s admittedly rather hard for anyone to think of the ‘perfect gift.’” Her mouth moved at the corners-just a twitch; perhaps he had been putting too much stress on her these past few days. “Even someone as flawless as you. There’s only so much perfection in this world.”
An eminently reasonable comparison, it was true, perhaps to someone who was not gifted to the degree that he was, but… he hadn’t been spoiling Jirou. It had merely seemed eminently unfair to deny him anything when Atobe himself lived in such comfort. “Perfection does not ‘exhaust’ itself, Mari,” he informed her. “It merely changes.”
“So why not change?” she shrugged, again, but her gaze didn’t leave his face. “Money’s no object, not that he cares about it anyway. What’s something that he could possibly want-not some pillow, or tennis accessory, or book… something only you could give him?”
There were times he got the strange, strange impression that Mari was attempting to stare something into his mind, but truly, the girl had grown up in America; she was certainly more than competent enough to make up for the fact that her manners were strange and apparently she didn’t know better than to stare. “You are not being clear, Mari. It’s unlike you.”
She made a sound between her clenched teeth that sounded rather like a groan. Yes, perhaps he definitely had been overworking her: not everyone, after all, could work near-tirelessly on their duties as he could, and she was, despite her competence, hardly perfect. He’d send her home as soon as she’d explained herself. “I’m just saying, Atobe, that Jirou probably want more than just books, and tennis, and sleep.”
Did he, now? He couldn’t imagine what Mari might have noticed that he hadn’t-after all, he did live with Jirou… “Such as?” Perhaps another trip to the beach, as plebian as that was… Jirou did so love building his sand-castles.
Both her hands rose, slowly, and she pressed her fingertips against her temples, rubbing in tiny circles. “I can’t speak for Jirou, really, but some distance from the world’s most dense genius would be so terribly nice right now…”
Atobe smiled, touched. It was so rare that she acknowledged his brilliance verbally-Mari truly was a girl of considerable reserve. It was truly like her to want to separate herself from the rest of the fangirls, even though in the past three years, she’d held herself so sternly to the impression that she was not madly in love with him… it must have been a strain on the poor girl to remain so close to him for two hours without admitting her feelings. “Then you may go home. It’s rather late-I suggest you call Hiyoshi to meet you at the station.” For all the freshman’s impertinence, Atobe did have to admit that Hiyoshi’s traditional upbringing did make him useful. Occasionally.
The rubbing intensified, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s hardly that late. Besides, he has a kobujutsu class to teach. And you’re missing the point, Atobe. Sometimes people just need their space.”
Atobe raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t his fault she was being unclear again. “Now, Mari. Are you trying to avoid Hiyoshi again?” he couldn’t blame her, sometimes. Hiyoshi, when he started going on about gekokujou, was amusing, but it quickly grew to be rather tiresome. Though Atobe would hope that the martial artist would know better than to rant on about such matters to Mari, one never knew with him…
Mari smoothed out her skirt with both hands when she rose from the sofa, and lifted her neat little plastic binder from the coffee table, gently riffling through the coloured organisation tabs until they rattled gently. “We weren’t talking about me, but Jirou.” She smiled at him so sweetly that his eyes widened. “I’ll see you at tomorrow’s student council meeting, Atobe.”
Atobe blinked as the door clicked gently shut behind her.
She couldn’t possibly be implying that Jirou would want distance from him. Of course, she idolised Atobe-she was his fanclub president, how could she not?-and the nervous tension that being so close to the man she idolised was causing, since she wasn’t able to admit her feelings to him for some reason or another, had elicited that particular remark. Distance? Well, he would understand it in Mari’s case-unrequited love was a rather romantic ideal, it was true, but she was certainly the type of girl who would leave rather than pine.
He couldn’t imagine why Jirou would want distance from him, but-on the other hand, Atobe could not even imagine what it must have been like, living in another’s room. Even if said room was Atobe Keigo’s, and Jirou plainly found himself privileged to be able to share his space, not to mention his own plush bed…
Atobe had no illusions about his own concept of privacy-the penalty of perfection was, perhaps, the utter inability to remain out of the public eye; there would virtually always be someone around him, even if it was simply his servants, and he’d never truly cared. Being alone had never been a particular priority of his, and he’d adjusted to Jirou’s presence to the point where glancing up late at night to find his roommate tucked under the sheets, knees curled almost to his belly, was more comforting than disturbing. Perhaps he’d have felt differently if Jirou snored, but having him there, the soft whisper of breath on his collar, the gentle motions of someone sleeping peacefully, were oddly soporific, besides being aesthetically pleasing.
But other people did rather put a premium on ‘having their own space.’
Well, Jirou had his own bedroom to return to, if he so chose-but said bedroom was, it was true, within a suite of rooms that was exclusively Atobe Keigo’s. Jirou would hardly be so crass as to actually say anything, of course, but during that rather uncomfortable fiasco several weeks ago, Jirou had left Atobe’s bed to stay in his own bedroom again…
Still, he was strangely reluctant to ask Jirou if he wanted to return to his dorm room-no doubt because he very much suspected that the high school dorms would not be significantly different from the tiny, miserable little room that Jirou had once lived in, with its flaking paint, and water stains, and gaping, black-iron bedframe. After all, one truly only lived in the dorms if one did not have the resources for an apartment close enough to school for convenience… and while Jirou had, in fact, moved in originally to save Atobe the trouble of having to trek to the dorms to wake him up for class…
Wasn’t the apartment next door empty?
It was one of the smaller ones in the building, it was true-hence its emptiness-but that would rather conveniently circumvent the matter of privacy… and an apartment all of his own was a princely gift indeed, for someone’s birthday… and he wouldn’t have to go far at all to wake Jirou for classes, so it wouldn’t be a terrible inconvenience…
He’d have to look into it.
Atobe smiled, and brushed back his hair with some contentment as he stood, and walked into the bedroom-Jirou was curled up on the bed already, his well-washed sleeping shirt almost transparent against the black bedspread, but he cracked an eye open when Atobe reached down to pull the covers higher over his tucked, drooping shoulder. Jirou’s habit of nudging the sheets down grew irritating if one did not prepare for it beforehand. “Mmm. Sleep now, Atobe? S’late. ”
“Ah. Soon,” he nodded, smiling despite himself. Really, Jirou had to be the only one who could say things with such utter hope in his voice, even if it was simply for the optimal warmth of Atobe’s body curled around his. Honestly, it was quite charming to be appreciated so. Uniquely Jirou, to be certain. “I’ll join you in a little while. Oyasumi, Jirou.”
Jirou’s eye remained open a moment longer, but its drift downwards was as inevitable as the yawn which he buried in the black sheets, tucked almost to his chin, when Atobe reached downwards and brushed his fingertips over Jirou’s cheek. Simply to coax him to sleep, of course, not because he rather liked the way Jirou always turned his face into the small stroke, nuzzling at the ball of his palm with soft lips.
He’d never be so self-serving.
“Oyasumi, Atobe.”
*_*_*_*
“Shishido-san, don’t-”
“Get down here, you little blonde rat!”
“He didn’t mean anything by it, Shishido-san, I’m sure-”
“Choutarou, he patted your butt, how the Hell can you possibly think-Jirou, I’m coming up there to get you!”
“But Shishido-san, I’m sure it was an accident!”
Atobe merely rolled his eyes.
He would never have mentioned it to Shishido, of course, but in this case… his drama was likely well-founded, insofar as he doubted very much that Jirou’s hand falling to brush Ootori’s rear had been an ‘accident’-not considering the speed with which his roommate had danced his way up the delicate metal of the monkey bars afterwards.
Jirou, he thought, looked altogether too delighted at Shishido scrambling up the monkey bars after him for it to have been an accident. One would have thought that Shishido would have learned, after all these years, that team members occasionally placed hands on Ootori simply because Shishido was so amusing when in the midst of a full-blown jealous snit.
As Gakuto had often said, and one of the few times when Atobe had truly agreed with him-really, when the Purity Pair were not in the process of sending everyone in the vicinity into diabetic shock, they could be very amusing. While it was completely beneath Atobe to tease the way Gakuto and Oshitari took such pleasure in doing… apparently, their bad habits had rubbed off even on Jirou, practically dancing with glee on the other end of the monkey bars from a rather vividly cursing Shishido. Who had just realised that the delicate structure was almost fifteen feet off the ground. Oh, the idiot.
It was passing amusing how Shishido almost inevitably fell for even Jirou’s occasional little tricks… Atobe truly failed to understand how the doubles player could be so utterly blind as to not catch the keen twinkle that sparked like lamplight, deep in Jirou’s eyes, when he plotted mischief-it lit his face, and curved the very edges of his lips into the most strangely tempting little bow…
Jirou tumbled headlong off the monkey bars with a squeal, a slim tumble of limbs flailing in his brand-new black button-down, and Atobe’s heart stopped in a freefall too-long instant when he took one step forward, too slow-
Jirou squeaked happily when he sank into the safety net, and bounced out of it to skitter-directly at Atobe, chocolate eyes boring into him with the force of Jirou’s laughter. He didn’t jump onto him-Atobe would certainly have taken exception to that; he was not a set of monkey bars-but, rather, changed directions so suddenly he blinked to find Jirou out from his line of vision-until he felt a pair of slim arms wrapping around his waist, warm with excitement and running. From behind him.
Now, if Jirou could change directions so quickly that even Atobe had hardly seen the shift of muscle… his roommate had been a passingly decent Singles Two in years past, but Atobe suspected that these days, he could have likely given a certain irritating blue-eyed tensai a fair dance on the courts. He probably had given Fuji a good game, even if it had made him late for dinner. Jirou was no match for Atobe, yet, of course, but there were few who were. But there was no doubting, much to Atobe’s satisfaction, Jirou’s physical competence on the tennis courts.
Or his enthusiasm. Anywhere.
“Atobe! Isn’t this place just the best?” someone should have told Jirou that rubbing against Atobe’s back as he bounced, while the sensation was not altogether unpleasant, was… somehow, oddly inappropriate. He didn’t even need to look to know that Oshitari was smirking-even if the team tensai was ostensibly in the process of spotting for Gakuto on the trampoline. “This is the best birthday party ever!”
Well, of course it was. Atobe had arranged it, after all. He chuckled, glancing over his shoulder dryly. “Naturally. At the same time, Jirou, how many times do I have to tell you not to jump off the monkey bars?”
And there was no point in telling Jirou not to tease Shishido-not when Shishido was still perched, scowling, on the top of the monkey bars, apparently not trusting in the safety nets under the delicate twisting structure of the fifteen-foot-tall spire as much as Jirou did. Atobe, frankly, couldn’t blame him-courage was all very well, but there were times when it was for the careless: he was still entirely too certain that he’d glance over to find his roommate splattered to the floor after a particularly sloppy leap… Jirou was not, after all, exactly known for the precision of his movements.
“But Atobe, it’s fun, ” Jirou insisted, and Atobe blinked to feel a heat-flushed cheek pressing against his back, directly between his shoulder blades. At least, it sent a pulse of warmth moving down his spine, even through his shirt-just how much running had Jirou been doing? “It’s more fun than… than opening presents, even! Not as fun as tennis, but it’s close! Comeoncomeon! You try!”
Someone should have informed Jirou that dragging him backwards-when he still topped Jirou by a good fifteen centimetres, after all these years, and perhaps a solid thirty pounds of pure toned muscle-was hardly a good method to get Atobe to do what Jirou wanted. Still, he had to laugh as Jirou squirmed against him, arms still firmly wrapped around his waist in a tuck of cloth whispering against his sides, “I prefer to keep my head intact, Jirou.”
“But that’s what the nets are for!” Jirou protested, unwinding himself from around Atobe. It did leave the strangest cold spots down the line of his back, but Jirou was so very earnest… “It’s like flying! ”
“And besides, Atobe’s head’s too hard for hitting the floor to do anything to him anyways,” Shishido smirked, reaching a hand back to comb through his hair-but did he honestly expect such eyes as Atobe’s not to note the fact that his other hand was white-knuckled with something resembling a death-grip on the curving silver metal? “He’s just scared, Jirou.”
Atobe rolled his eyes. Honestly, if Shishido thought that such a remark could even come close to irritating him… “I’m merely practical enough not to get up there in the first place. I note that you are still crouching on top of the monkey bars, Shishido.” He grinned as a rather disgruntled look flickered across Shishido’s blue eyes, twisting the corners of his mouth into a scowl. Teasing Shishido was far too easy a pursuit to be a challenge for him, but… oddly enjoyable. Perhaps Jirou had the right of it. “Why is that, exactly?”
Jirou grinned up at him, the light of mischief turning his eyes upwards when he announced, “Atobe’s the best! ” to the echo of Shishido’s growl, before trotting off. Apparently towards the trampolines. Which did not have safety nets. Well, Oshitari would simply have to spot for two, except for one.
“You know, there are times I think we’re all safer when he’s asleep, ” Shishido muttered.
There were times when Atobe certainly agreed.
Ootori blinked up at him, and reached out a hand to help his roommate down from his painstaking inchworm motion down the very set of poles he’d used to climb up. Atobe chuckled-it truly was extremely like Shishido to climb up something without considering his method of getting down. “But Shishido-san, he’s so happy. Look at him.”
Well, yes-Ootori did have the right of it, which was why Atobe was not insisting on dragging Jirou home. Not yet, at least-Jirou would protest, but he would promptly fall asleep in the limo onto Atobe’s shoulder, and by the time Atobe chivvied him awake enough to walk his way to the apartment, he’d simply collapse dead onto the bed in any case. Preferably, he’d manage to do it without any disasters occurring beforehand-Atobe had resigned himself to the fact that anything that involved the full complement of Hyoutei Regulars, no matter how well planned, was likely to spiral into disaster for reasons out of anyone’s control.
True, this birthday party had been as close to ideal as possible, so far-the probability for chaos was somewhat minimised by the fact that Jirou had specifically requested only a few friends from outside the tennis club in addition to the Regulars. It was admittedly a touch childish, but Jirou had seen an ad for this place in a magazine, and had spoken about it with such enthusiasm that, well, Atobe had thought it would surprise Jirou to have his birthday here, rather than a simple visit. The place was admittedly rather novel : a pizzeria with an attached arcade and playground for somewhat… older… children (somehow, Atobe thought that most parents would balk at five-year-olds on such things as climbing walls, or doing things such as boxing with foam gloves practically the size of Mukahi, and tumbling fifteen feet into safety nets) but despite the fact that none of them were five-year-olds, his heart still stopped every time Jirou went flying into the safety nets.
He had absolutely no desire to lose a national-class Singles player to a careless jump, to say nothing of an old friend and roommate.
Oh. Wait. But he was going to lose a roommate.
Atobe blinked, just a little, at the strange thought.
It wasn’t as if Jirou was going anywhere-Atobe was hardly lazy enough that taking the few steps towards the apartment next door would be an inconvenience, if he wanted to fetch Jirou for some reason or another. No doubt, they would still be having breakfast together on Atobe’s coffee table, because the idea of Jirou waking up to make himself breakfast was simply preposterous. Actually, they would, more likely than not, be having most of their meals together, and he’d inform Jirou that of course Jirou was welcome to borrow any of the books from Atobe’s library that he chose-it would hardly do to deprive Jirou of his extensive literature collection.
Jirou would simply have his own space.
He’d be delighted, of course. Why wouldn’t he be?
The chimes hanging over the door tinkled softly, and a little girl’s voice chirped, “Sei-niiiiichan, there are so many people!”
Atobe smiled, and glanced upwards. It had, he’d imagined, been only appropriate to invite Jirou’s family to the party, after all. On all the other occasions, they’d been at school, or busy-but this was the first year that his roommate’s birthday had fallen on a Saturday.
It wasn’t difficult to catch the exact moment Jirou realised who, exactly, was at the door. Not when he did, in fact, fall off the trampoline that he was bouncing so happily on-much to Atobe’s chagrin, and he certainly was going to have to have a talk with Oshitari about the proper way to spot someone-and land just hard enough on his feet that he fell promptly to his rear.
Of course, it being Jirou-in the next heartbeat before Atobe could walk over there and upbraid him for being so careless (and make sure he hadn’t actually injured himself; one never knew) he was on his feet and charging for the door with a happy cry of “Sei-niichan! Meimei!”
Of course, it being Jirou, he promptly tumbled headlong over absolutely nothing on his way to the door. And fell headfirst into the large pit of foamy, fist-sized balls, flailing about… rather ineffectively.
Atobe just sighed, and started walking over to extract his roommate from the balls that were, according to Jirou’s piteous plea, trying to swallow him. Somehow, the ‘piteous’ in his voice grew somewhat less effective when Jirou was grinning widely enough to rival a tennis match with Atobe. Well, almost, in any case.
And then he blinked, as Jirou’s older brother and younger sister went hurtling from the door-thankfully dodging Regulars and guests who didn’t quite manage to get out of the way-to dive helter-skelter into the same ball-pit, much to Jirou’s delight and Atobe’s bemusement.
The exuberance ran in the family, it seemed. Which was… amusing, almost, because Atobe didn’t forget such things, and he was entirely too certain that Jirou’s brother was, if not already of legal age, almost twenty…
Well, it was a touch childish, perhaps, but it wasn’t his way to question when it was easier to simply accept a glass of ginger ale from a circulating waiter, and sit back. He was particularly impressed with the wait staff; they hadn’t so much as batted an eyelid at the antics going around the playground, and had very quickly learned to stand very still whenever there seemed to be an activity that involved an inordinate amount of running anywhere in their general vicinity. (General vicinity, especially in Shishido’s case, equating ‘the breadth of a tennis court away.’)
Good help was so very difficult to find, and even the most unshakeable composure could be rather strained by extended contact with the Hyoutei Regulars-well, he would know that better than anyone, wouldn’t he?
Atobe leaned back against the wall, chuckling as Ootori and Shishido were wrested apart by… yes, that was certainly Gakuto. It wouldn’t be very long now, he imagined, until Jirou extracted himself from the chaos by falling asleep-the balls in the ball pit really were rather soft and comfortable, he’d tested them himself… for the sole purposes of ascertaining that they would do no harm to any of the members of his tennis club, of course.
Within minutes, he smiled as Jirou’s flailing form slowed, and finally stilled.
Automatically, he raised a hand to call for Kabaji, before changing his mind, and starting to walk towards the pit himself to fish out his errant roommate. It was such an inconvenience to do such things himself, but it would have been rather be a pity to interrupt the second-year: he seemed in the process of acquiring the all-time high score on the place’s DDR Extreme machine, much to Gakuto’s annoyance. And, truly, any lesson that taught Gakuto that he was not, in fact, the princess of the world, was one worth teaching.
The sleepiness did not extend to Jirou’s entire family, it seemed-not when Atobe reached the pit only to find Jirou’s aniki, with Jirou slung rather carelessly over his shoulder and the little girl adhered to his leg, climbing out of the ball pit with some difficulty.
Apparently, this was something he was accustomed to.
Jirou slipped, a little, and Atobe winced as Akutagawa Seiichirou juggled him back into place-the position did look terribly uncomfortable for anyone who wasn’t in the process of, oh, being rescued from a burning building, but apparently, Jirou wasn’t even twitching…
“Thank you for this, Atobe-kun,” Seiichirou was taller than his little brother-not a fantastic accomplishment-and just about Atobe’s height. Well, actually, it was rather an unfair comparison to make, the fact that no-one could truly be compared to Atobe aside: the boy was all careless legs and elbows and sinew, wirier still than Jirou, with glasses perched askew on his straight nose and, rather startlingly, coppery-red hair falling into his eyes. Despite the glasses. How was that actually possible? “This is a lot of fun-I don’t think Jirou’s ever had a birthday like this before.”
Well, no, of course not. Who else could arrange a birthday like this but Atobe Keigo?
Atobe took his place in the corner of a booth to lay his drink down-and blinked as Jirou’s brother promptly lay Jirou down onto the same padded bench, Jirou’s head lolling rather automatically to Atobe’s lap.
He blinked again when Jirou’s younger sister-Masayo, wasn’t it? She had Jirou’s hair, if paler still, tied at the top of her head in two curly pigtails-squeezed herself into the tiny space between the seat-back and her elder brother’s body to plop her head onto Atobe’s thigh.
Though the hypersomnia did not run in the family, apparently, the habit of acquiring other people’s body parts as pillows did.
If Seiichirou attempted to join his brother and sister on Atobe’s lap, Atobe was most definitely going to protest-
No, he was seating himself across from Atobe, thankfully, on a stool. With his hands propped between his legs rather than on the table, leaning forwards onto them with careless (and wobbly) pleasure-if anything, the resemblance between the siblings, in mannerism if not necessarily in face, was utterly uncanny.
“Thanks for always inviting us, na? I’m so glad we could come, this year,” Akutagawa Seiichirou nodded his thanks at a waiter, taking a glass of orange juice. “‘Kaasan and ‘Tousan send their regards, and they say thank you, but…” the small shrug was fluid, accepting. “Well, They’d have come if they could. Thanks. S’nice to be around my favourite little brother on his birthday. You’re better to him than the little slug deserves, Atobe-kun.”
Atobe merely smiled. “Not at all, Akutagawa.” The utter earnestness of the Akutagawa family never failed to amuse him, really. Certainly, Atobe’s own parents had long since left it to him to decide whether he wished to have a birthday party, or not, so he’d been planning them since he’d turned ten, but they certainly wouldn’t have ever thought of attending. Still, Jirou had obviously been brought up in a very different household from his own. As indicated by the fact that both of Jirou’s parents had work on a Saturday. “It’s nothing. Besides, as he’s your only little brother, I think it’s only natural that he be your favourite.”
“Well, yeah. But I like him all the same. And all these things mean a lot to him.” Still, the gaze behind those thick, gold-edged lenses was surprisingly keen-perhaps he’d gotten too accustomed to seeing sleep, soft and warm as hot chocolate, in Jirou’s eyes, and seeing their counterparts looking out of his brother’s angular, older face was somewhat disconcerting. Perhaps he’d gotten accustomed to Jirou’s face, Jirou’s sleepy smile. He had to say-sadly, Seiichirou was most definitely not as attractive as his sibling. “Don’t have any brothers, do you? No sibs, I bet.”
The very thought of it was amusing. Even imagining his mother wanting to go through what she called ‘the interminable bother of pregnancy,’ more than absolutely necessary to produce an heir to the Atobe name… “No siblings, no,” Atobe shook his head, and took a sip of his cool ginger ale. “Why?”
“Good.” Seiichirou’s toothy grin, however, did resemble his brother’s. To a rather eerie degree. Perhaps it was the exuberance. “So there’s no-one to be mad when you stop calling me Akutagawa. Sei-niichan’s just fine. It’s easier.”
Atobe choked on his sip of ginger ale. It must have been out of a fresh can-there was most certainly too much fizz in it. “I… excuse me? Why? ” That smile wasn’t faltering. “Sei-niichan,” and the syllables sounded so utterly strange on his lips, “is not significantly shorter than Seiichirou. Or, for that matter, Akutagawa.”
A smaller head stirred on his lap, and he found himself looking down into a pair of… where in the world had Jirou’s little sister managed to acquire hazel eyes? The curls were understandable, but… “But it’s easier, Kei-niichan! ”
Atobe twitched. He was very, very, very certain that no-one in his lifetime had dared to call him ‘older brother.’ Much less by butchering his first name. “My name is Atobe, Masayo-chan,” he informed her. With a faint sense of helplessness stirring in the back of his mind, because most days, Atobe counted himself fortunate if he could convince Jirou into any sort of common sense past that night-impenetrable barrier of sleep and cheer-and his siblings were showing themselves to be… rather similar.
Furthermore, there were two of them.
Not that Atobe was not up to the challenge, but…
“I know that,” she informed him happily. “But since you can call me Meimei, I can call you Kei-niichan! And since he’s Sei-niichan, it rhymes!” Her cheerful white smile wrinkled somewhat as her brows crinkled together. “Sort of. Jirou-niichan doesn’t work. S’okay, Jirou-niichan’s weird, anyway.”
No matter how much he agreed with the final sentiment, Atobe was not inclined to agree. “I don’t call you Meimei,” he protested, faintly.
Seiichirou-who-was-most-certainly-not-Sei-niichan shrugged. “But you could, if you wanted to. She likes rhymes.”
The insane logic did run in the family. Really, he dreaded the day he might have to sit down for a meal with Jirou’s parents. Though, admittedly, he wasn’t entirely sure why that particular thought had come up-perhaps simply because he’d finally met Jirou’s siblings.
And of course there wasn’t a chance of appealing for sanity to a certain Singles Two player who had brought his entire family down on Atobe’s head-never mind that it had been Atobe who had invited them, they were still Jirou’s family!-because a) Jirou was asleep, and b) he’d learned better than anyone that Jirou, while aesthetically pleasing and rather amusing, was likely twice as crazy as his own family.
“Time to get the little slug up for cake, Atobe?”
Atobe thought that perhaps he’d never been so glad to hear the voice of his fanclub manager; it truly was Mari’s way to appear at exceedingly opportune moments to work at extracting him from the adoration of fans. Or, in this case, the overintimacy of members of a family that he was fairly sure were not his… not that he couldn’t do it himself, but that was, in fact, what he’d allowed her to become the head of his fanclub for.
Atobe’s head swivelled to face his fanclub head, who honestly did have the most expressive look of amusement in her eyes for a girl who hadn’t so much as cracked a smile. It had always been Atobe’s way to focus on what he was doing-and who he was conversing with-so perhaps it was fairly reasonable that he hadn’t noticed that she had, to all appearances, been standing close enough to realise when he required her services.
And, apparently, near enough to hear Jirou’s brother call him a little slug, from the way she was smiling.
Atobe Keigo acknowledged that he was a great many things, but stupid had never been one of them. One of these days, he was most definitely going to have a talk with his fanclub president about eavesdropping… he understood her overwhelming desire to be near him, but it was inappropriate. For now…
For now, he had a certain little sleepy figure on his lap to wake up…
…ah. Atobe had to smile, just a little, as Masayo’s mouth gaped open in a yawn-one that she rather politely covered with one small hand, before stretching-and wrapping her arm firmly over Jirou’s waist.
Correction, two little sleepy figures…
Atobe blinked as Seiichirou lowered his head to the table, eyes slitted behind his glasses.
Or was it three…?
*_*_*_*
Tsuzuku (To Be Continued)
Part: 2/3
How was it possible, Atobe wondered, that his roommate could be such an utterly difficult individual?
Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair. Jirou wasn’t Oshitari’s transparent, and rather aggravating, manipulation (well, transparent to Atobe, in any case.) Jirou wasn’t Hiyoshi’s fixed, just barely short of insolent, stare whenever Atobe deigned to drop a point; it wasn’t Atobe fault that Hiyoshi could apparently not see that it had been a move on his part to draw the game on, and allow his opponent some sense of accomplishment before Atobe crushed him. Jirou wasn’t Gakuto’s sheer obnoxious perverseness. Jirou certainly wasn’t the nauseating sweetness, meriting drifting sakura petals and the exchange of stuffed animals, apparently, that was the Shishido-Ootori doubles pair, newly reunited after a year of high school and Shishido Ryou being absolutely unbearable to deal with.
Well, it had not been Atobe’s choice that his entire Regular team be composed of no-one but ‘utterly difficult individuals.’
At the same time, though, as much as Atobe prided himself on being able to come up with the perfect gift, given the occasion… considering that even his perfect mind was struggling, contemplating what to give his roommate for his seventeenth birthday, Jirou must have been the very height of difficulty. Which, considering his teammates, was saying quite a bit.
“What about the historic first edition of Playboy?”
Atobe blinked as Mari tapped her lower lip with one of his ergonomic mechanical pencils, her gaze turned thoughtfully up towards the ceiling. She had not just said…
“It’s certainly… unusual,” she tucked back a long strand of her dark hair, and dropped the pencil back to the tabletop as she folded her hands in her lap. She really was quite the little lady, sometimes, despite her strange speech habits. He approved. “ And Jirou likes collector’s editions, doesn’t he?”
She truly was only trying to be helpful. Jirou did, after all, like collector’s editions.
Mari couldn’t help it if her intellect couldn’t match his-honestly, why she would think that Jirou-who barely cared enough to pass his English classes-would want to read any of the articles in Playboy’s first edition, much less want to look at pictures of naked women… really, now, she didn’t think Jirou was that base, did she? That aside, Mari certainly couldn’t consider that Atobe was vulgar enough to give him something of the sort, even if Jirou were…
He had to admit that Taira Mari was certainly, by far, the most competent fanclub president he’d ever had. After all, Valentine’s Day was no longer the ordeal that it had once been; furthermore, he no longer had to lower himself into talking down to his father’s personal shopper when the woman managed to utterly mistake what he’d been asking for. For whatever reason-whenever he let Mari speak to her, he was saved the trouble of having to hire a new personal shopper… because the next time, the woman actually bought him the exact sort of item that he’d requested.
Atobe reminded himself of this at about the same time he reminded himself that his dentist had advised him not to grind his teeth. “I don’t know why you would think Jirou would want something like that, Mari,” he gritted out between his teeth.
Sometimes, in rare moments, he thought that there truly was something rather… impish about her. But then her eyes were as wide, and worshipfully earnest, as ever-of course, she was the president of his fanclub; she’d never consider misleading him in any way… “Well. Wasn’t glorification of the female body a rather integral part of the Renaissance movement? And I’m told that Playboy was somewhat more… tasteful… at the beginning.”
Well. And he was not going to ask where Mari had acquired that particular bit of information; perhaps she’d visited the Museum of Sexuality in Amsterdam, as he had. “That is indeed the case, and both are true.” Western art history was necessary, yes, to create a well-rounded international individual, but at the same time… well, the introduction of Renaissance-era art through Playboy certainly would have been rather a novel teaching method. “I am not saying that female nudes are unattractive, but they’re hardly what interests Jirou.”
Cultural edification was all for the best, but birthdays were for pleasure.
“Ah.” She blinked at him, very slowly, with something that was almost a smile tightening the corners of her mouth. “You’re right, Atobe, of course.” Well, naturally he was. Though-strange, how he couldn’t quite recall the occasion of her nodding at him quite so… agreeably… before… “First edition of Playgirl, then?”
Atobe stared.
Mari smiled. Very sweetly.
There had been grosser misunderstandings in his memory, but… not many of them, no. She could not possibly- ”Mari.” He clipped out her name between clenched teeth. Of all the utterly impertinent suggestions… “I was of the belief that you were a well-brought up girl; drop the subject of pornography, and do attempt to be helpful. ”
Her shrug rippled along her shoulders-honestly, while his ire was not something anyone ever courted if they had any self-preservation instinct, Atobe was distantly rather glad that Mari, unlike the previous fanclub president-or had it been the one before that? They hadn’t lasted long enough for him to bother to get their names-didn’t faint at the least hint of his displeasure. “I’ve been trying to be helpful for the past two hours, Atobe.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Honestly, I’m serious. What haven’t you given him already? Considering that he lives with you and you’ve spent the past two years spoiling him horribly, it’s admittedly rather hard for anyone to think of the ‘perfect gift.’” Her mouth moved at the corners-just a twitch; perhaps he had been putting too much stress on her these past few days. “Even someone as flawless as you. There’s only so much perfection in this world.”
An eminently reasonable comparison, it was true, perhaps to someone who was not gifted to the degree that he was, but… he hadn’t been spoiling Jirou. It had merely seemed eminently unfair to deny him anything when Atobe himself lived in such comfort. “Perfection does not ‘exhaust’ itself, Mari,” he informed her. “It merely changes.”
“So why not change?” she shrugged, again, but her gaze didn’t leave his face. “Money’s no object, not that he cares about it anyway. What’s something that he could possibly want-not some pillow, or tennis accessory, or book… something only you could give him?”
There were times he got the strange, strange impression that Mari was attempting to stare something into his mind, but truly, the girl had grown up in America; she was certainly more than competent enough to make up for the fact that her manners were strange and apparently she didn’t know better than to stare. “You are not being clear, Mari. It’s unlike you.”
She made a sound between her clenched teeth that sounded rather like a groan. Yes, perhaps he definitely had been overworking her: not everyone, after all, could work near-tirelessly on their duties as he could, and she was, despite her competence, hardly perfect. He’d send her home as soon as she’d explained herself. “I’m just saying, Atobe, that Jirou probably want more than just books, and tennis, and sleep.”
Did he, now? He couldn’t imagine what Mari might have noticed that he hadn’t-after all, he did live with Jirou… “Such as?” Perhaps another trip to the beach, as plebian as that was… Jirou did so love building his sand-castles.
Both her hands rose, slowly, and she pressed her fingertips against her temples, rubbing in tiny circles. “I can’t speak for Jirou, really, but some distance from the world’s most dense genius would be so terribly nice right now…”
Atobe smiled, touched. It was so rare that she acknowledged his brilliance verbally-Mari truly was a girl of considerable reserve. It was truly like her to want to separate herself from the rest of the fangirls, even though in the past three years, she’d held herself so sternly to the impression that she was not madly in love with him… it must have been a strain on the poor girl to remain so close to him for two hours without admitting her feelings. “Then you may go home. It’s rather late-I suggest you call Hiyoshi to meet you at the station.” For all the freshman’s impertinence, Atobe did have to admit that Hiyoshi’s traditional upbringing did make him useful. Occasionally.
The rubbing intensified, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s hardly that late. Besides, he has a kobujutsu class to teach. And you’re missing the point, Atobe. Sometimes people just need their space.”
Atobe raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t his fault she was being unclear again. “Now, Mari. Are you trying to avoid Hiyoshi again?” he couldn’t blame her, sometimes. Hiyoshi, when he started going on about gekokujou, was amusing, but it quickly grew to be rather tiresome. Though Atobe would hope that the martial artist would know better than to rant on about such matters to Mari, one never knew with him…
Mari smoothed out her skirt with both hands when she rose from the sofa, and lifted her neat little plastic binder from the coffee table, gently riffling through the coloured organisation tabs until they rattled gently. “We weren’t talking about me, but Jirou.” She smiled at him so sweetly that his eyes widened. “I’ll see you at tomorrow’s student council meeting, Atobe.”
Atobe blinked as the door clicked gently shut behind her.
She couldn’t possibly be implying that Jirou would want distance from him. Of course, she idolised Atobe-she was his fanclub president, how could she not?-and the nervous tension that being so close to the man she idolised was causing, since she wasn’t able to admit her feelings to him for some reason or another, had elicited that particular remark. Distance? Well, he would understand it in Mari’s case-unrequited love was a rather romantic ideal, it was true, but she was certainly the type of girl who would leave rather than pine.
He couldn’t imagine why Jirou would want distance from him, but-on the other hand, Atobe could not even imagine what it must have been like, living in another’s room. Even if said room was Atobe Keigo’s, and Jirou plainly found himself privileged to be able to share his space, not to mention his own plush bed…
Atobe had no illusions about his own concept of privacy-the penalty of perfection was, perhaps, the utter inability to remain out of the public eye; there would virtually always be someone around him, even if it was simply his servants, and he’d never truly cared. Being alone had never been a particular priority of his, and he’d adjusted to Jirou’s presence to the point where glancing up late at night to find his roommate tucked under the sheets, knees curled almost to his belly, was more comforting than disturbing. Perhaps he’d have felt differently if Jirou snored, but having him there, the soft whisper of breath on his collar, the gentle motions of someone sleeping peacefully, were oddly soporific, besides being aesthetically pleasing.
But other people did rather put a premium on ‘having their own space.’
Well, Jirou had his own bedroom to return to, if he so chose-but said bedroom was, it was true, within a suite of rooms that was exclusively Atobe Keigo’s. Jirou would hardly be so crass as to actually say anything, of course, but during that rather uncomfortable fiasco several weeks ago, Jirou had left Atobe’s bed to stay in his own bedroom again…
Still, he was strangely reluctant to ask Jirou if he wanted to return to his dorm room-no doubt because he very much suspected that the high school dorms would not be significantly different from the tiny, miserable little room that Jirou had once lived in, with its flaking paint, and water stains, and gaping, black-iron bedframe. After all, one truly only lived in the dorms if one did not have the resources for an apartment close enough to school for convenience… and while Jirou had, in fact, moved in originally to save Atobe the trouble of having to trek to the dorms to wake him up for class…
Wasn’t the apartment next door empty?
It was one of the smaller ones in the building, it was true-hence its emptiness-but that would rather conveniently circumvent the matter of privacy… and an apartment all of his own was a princely gift indeed, for someone’s birthday… and he wouldn’t have to go far at all to wake Jirou for classes, so it wouldn’t be a terrible inconvenience…
He’d have to look into it.
Atobe smiled, and brushed back his hair with some contentment as he stood, and walked into the bedroom-Jirou was curled up on the bed already, his well-washed sleeping shirt almost transparent against the black bedspread, but he cracked an eye open when Atobe reached down to pull the covers higher over his tucked, drooping shoulder. Jirou’s habit of nudging the sheets down grew irritating if one did not prepare for it beforehand. “Mmm. Sleep now, Atobe? S’late. ”
“Ah. Soon,” he nodded, smiling despite himself. Really, Jirou had to be the only one who could say things with such utter hope in his voice, even if it was simply for the optimal warmth of Atobe’s body curled around his. Honestly, it was quite charming to be appreciated so. Uniquely Jirou, to be certain. “I’ll join you in a little while. Oyasumi, Jirou.”
Jirou’s eye remained open a moment longer, but its drift downwards was as inevitable as the yawn which he buried in the black sheets, tucked almost to his chin, when Atobe reached downwards and brushed his fingertips over Jirou’s cheek. Simply to coax him to sleep, of course, not because he rather liked the way Jirou always turned his face into the small stroke, nuzzling at the ball of his palm with soft lips.
He’d never be so self-serving.
“Oyasumi, Atobe.”
*_*_*_*
“Shishido-san, don’t-”
“Get down here, you little blonde rat!”
“He didn’t mean anything by it, Shishido-san, I’m sure-”
“Choutarou, he patted your butt, how the Hell can you possibly think-Jirou, I’m coming up there to get you!”
“But Shishido-san, I’m sure it was an accident!”
Atobe merely rolled his eyes.
He would never have mentioned it to Shishido, of course, but in this case… his drama was likely well-founded, insofar as he doubted very much that Jirou’s hand falling to brush Ootori’s rear had been an ‘accident’-not considering the speed with which his roommate had danced his way up the delicate metal of the monkey bars afterwards.
Jirou, he thought, looked altogether too delighted at Shishido scrambling up the monkey bars after him for it to have been an accident. One would have thought that Shishido would have learned, after all these years, that team members occasionally placed hands on Ootori simply because Shishido was so amusing when in the midst of a full-blown jealous snit.
As Gakuto had often said, and one of the few times when Atobe had truly agreed with him-really, when the Purity Pair were not in the process of sending everyone in the vicinity into diabetic shock, they could be very amusing. While it was completely beneath Atobe to tease the way Gakuto and Oshitari took such pleasure in doing… apparently, their bad habits had rubbed off even on Jirou, practically dancing with glee on the other end of the monkey bars from a rather vividly cursing Shishido. Who had just realised that the delicate structure was almost fifteen feet off the ground. Oh, the idiot.
It was passing amusing how Shishido almost inevitably fell for even Jirou’s occasional little tricks… Atobe truly failed to understand how the doubles player could be so utterly blind as to not catch the keen twinkle that sparked like lamplight, deep in Jirou’s eyes, when he plotted mischief-it lit his face, and curved the very edges of his lips into the most strangely tempting little bow…
Jirou tumbled headlong off the monkey bars with a squeal, a slim tumble of limbs flailing in his brand-new black button-down, and Atobe’s heart stopped in a freefall too-long instant when he took one step forward, too slow-
Jirou squeaked happily when he sank into the safety net, and bounced out of it to skitter-directly at Atobe, chocolate eyes boring into him with the force of Jirou’s laughter. He didn’t jump onto him-Atobe would certainly have taken exception to that; he was not a set of monkey bars-but, rather, changed directions so suddenly he blinked to find Jirou out from his line of vision-until he felt a pair of slim arms wrapping around his waist, warm with excitement and running. From behind him.
Now, if Jirou could change directions so quickly that even Atobe had hardly seen the shift of muscle… his roommate had been a passingly decent Singles Two in years past, but Atobe suspected that these days, he could have likely given a certain irritating blue-eyed tensai a fair dance on the courts. He probably had given Fuji a good game, even if it had made him late for dinner. Jirou was no match for Atobe, yet, of course, but there were few who were. But there was no doubting, much to Atobe’s satisfaction, Jirou’s physical competence on the tennis courts.
Or his enthusiasm. Anywhere.
“Atobe! Isn’t this place just the best?” someone should have told Jirou that rubbing against Atobe’s back as he bounced, while the sensation was not altogether unpleasant, was… somehow, oddly inappropriate. He didn’t even need to look to know that Oshitari was smirking-even if the team tensai was ostensibly in the process of spotting for Gakuto on the trampoline. “This is the best birthday party ever!”
Well, of course it was. Atobe had arranged it, after all. He chuckled, glancing over his shoulder dryly. “Naturally. At the same time, Jirou, how many times do I have to tell you not to jump off the monkey bars?”
And there was no point in telling Jirou not to tease Shishido-not when Shishido was still perched, scowling, on the top of the monkey bars, apparently not trusting in the safety nets under the delicate twisting structure of the fifteen-foot-tall spire as much as Jirou did. Atobe, frankly, couldn’t blame him-courage was all very well, but there were times when it was for the careless: he was still entirely too certain that he’d glance over to find his roommate splattered to the floor after a particularly sloppy leap… Jirou was not, after all, exactly known for the precision of his movements.
“But Atobe, it’s fun, ” Jirou insisted, and Atobe blinked to feel a heat-flushed cheek pressing against his back, directly between his shoulder blades. At least, it sent a pulse of warmth moving down his spine, even through his shirt-just how much running had Jirou been doing? “It’s more fun than… than opening presents, even! Not as fun as tennis, but it’s close! Comeoncomeon! You try!”
Someone should have informed Jirou that dragging him backwards-when he still topped Jirou by a good fifteen centimetres, after all these years, and perhaps a solid thirty pounds of pure toned muscle-was hardly a good method to get Atobe to do what Jirou wanted. Still, he had to laugh as Jirou squirmed against him, arms still firmly wrapped around his waist in a tuck of cloth whispering against his sides, “I prefer to keep my head intact, Jirou.”
“But that’s what the nets are for!” Jirou protested, unwinding himself from around Atobe. It did leave the strangest cold spots down the line of his back, but Jirou was so very earnest… “It’s like flying! ”
“And besides, Atobe’s head’s too hard for hitting the floor to do anything to him anyways,” Shishido smirked, reaching a hand back to comb through his hair-but did he honestly expect such eyes as Atobe’s not to note the fact that his other hand was white-knuckled with something resembling a death-grip on the curving silver metal? “He’s just scared, Jirou.”
Atobe rolled his eyes. Honestly, if Shishido thought that such a remark could even come close to irritating him… “I’m merely practical enough not to get up there in the first place. I note that you are still crouching on top of the monkey bars, Shishido.” He grinned as a rather disgruntled look flickered across Shishido’s blue eyes, twisting the corners of his mouth into a scowl. Teasing Shishido was far too easy a pursuit to be a challenge for him, but… oddly enjoyable. Perhaps Jirou had the right of it. “Why is that, exactly?”
Jirou grinned up at him, the light of mischief turning his eyes upwards when he announced, “Atobe’s the best! ” to the echo of Shishido’s growl, before trotting off. Apparently towards the trampolines. Which did not have safety nets. Well, Oshitari would simply have to spot for two, except for one.
“You know, there are times I think we’re all safer when he’s asleep, ” Shishido muttered.
There were times when Atobe certainly agreed.
Ootori blinked up at him, and reached out a hand to help his roommate down from his painstaking inchworm motion down the very set of poles he’d used to climb up. Atobe chuckled-it truly was extremely like Shishido to climb up something without considering his method of getting down. “But Shishido-san, he’s so happy. Look at him.”
Well, yes-Ootori did have the right of it, which was why Atobe was not insisting on dragging Jirou home. Not yet, at least-Jirou would protest, but he would promptly fall asleep in the limo onto Atobe’s shoulder, and by the time Atobe chivvied him awake enough to walk his way to the apartment, he’d simply collapse dead onto the bed in any case. Preferably, he’d manage to do it without any disasters occurring beforehand-Atobe had resigned himself to the fact that anything that involved the full complement of Hyoutei Regulars, no matter how well planned, was likely to spiral into disaster for reasons out of anyone’s control.
True, this birthday party had been as close to ideal as possible, so far-the probability for chaos was somewhat minimised by the fact that Jirou had specifically requested only a few friends from outside the tennis club in addition to the Regulars. It was admittedly a touch childish, but Jirou had seen an ad for this place in a magazine, and had spoken about it with such enthusiasm that, well, Atobe had thought it would surprise Jirou to have his birthday here, rather than a simple visit. The place was admittedly rather novel : a pizzeria with an attached arcade and playground for somewhat… older… children (somehow, Atobe thought that most parents would balk at five-year-olds on such things as climbing walls, or doing things such as boxing with foam gloves practically the size of Mukahi, and tumbling fifteen feet into safety nets) but despite the fact that none of them were five-year-olds, his heart still stopped every time Jirou went flying into the safety nets.
He had absolutely no desire to lose a national-class Singles player to a careless jump, to say nothing of an old friend and roommate.
Oh. Wait. But he was going to lose a roommate.
Atobe blinked, just a little, at the strange thought.
It wasn’t as if Jirou was going anywhere-Atobe was hardly lazy enough that taking the few steps towards the apartment next door would be an inconvenience, if he wanted to fetch Jirou for some reason or another. No doubt, they would still be having breakfast together on Atobe’s coffee table, because the idea of Jirou waking up to make himself breakfast was simply preposterous. Actually, they would, more likely than not, be having most of their meals together, and he’d inform Jirou that of course Jirou was welcome to borrow any of the books from Atobe’s library that he chose-it would hardly do to deprive Jirou of his extensive literature collection.
Jirou would simply have his own space.
He’d be delighted, of course. Why wouldn’t he be?
The chimes hanging over the door tinkled softly, and a little girl’s voice chirped, “Sei-niiiiichan, there are so many people!”
Atobe smiled, and glanced upwards. It had, he’d imagined, been only appropriate to invite Jirou’s family to the party, after all. On all the other occasions, they’d been at school, or busy-but this was the first year that his roommate’s birthday had fallen on a Saturday.
It wasn’t difficult to catch the exact moment Jirou realised who, exactly, was at the door. Not when he did, in fact, fall off the trampoline that he was bouncing so happily on-much to Atobe’s chagrin, and he certainly was going to have to have a talk with Oshitari about the proper way to spot someone-and land just hard enough on his feet that he fell promptly to his rear.
Of course, it being Jirou-in the next heartbeat before Atobe could walk over there and upbraid him for being so careless (and make sure he hadn’t actually injured himself; one never knew) he was on his feet and charging for the door with a happy cry of “Sei-niichan! Meimei!”
Of course, it being Jirou, he promptly tumbled headlong over absolutely nothing on his way to the door. And fell headfirst into the large pit of foamy, fist-sized balls, flailing about… rather ineffectively.
Atobe just sighed, and started walking over to extract his roommate from the balls that were, according to Jirou’s piteous plea, trying to swallow him. Somehow, the ‘piteous’ in his voice grew somewhat less effective when Jirou was grinning widely enough to rival a tennis match with Atobe. Well, almost, in any case.
And then he blinked, as Jirou’s older brother and younger sister went hurtling from the door-thankfully dodging Regulars and guests who didn’t quite manage to get out of the way-to dive helter-skelter into the same ball-pit, much to Jirou’s delight and Atobe’s bemusement.
The exuberance ran in the family, it seemed. Which was… amusing, almost, because Atobe didn’t forget such things, and he was entirely too certain that Jirou’s brother was, if not already of legal age, almost twenty…
Well, it was a touch childish, perhaps, but it wasn’t his way to question when it was easier to simply accept a glass of ginger ale from a circulating waiter, and sit back. He was particularly impressed with the wait staff; they hadn’t so much as batted an eyelid at the antics going around the playground, and had very quickly learned to stand very still whenever there seemed to be an activity that involved an inordinate amount of running anywhere in their general vicinity. (General vicinity, especially in Shishido’s case, equating ‘the breadth of a tennis court away.’)
Good help was so very difficult to find, and even the most unshakeable composure could be rather strained by extended contact with the Hyoutei Regulars-well, he would know that better than anyone, wouldn’t he?
Atobe leaned back against the wall, chuckling as Ootori and Shishido were wrested apart by… yes, that was certainly Gakuto. It wouldn’t be very long now, he imagined, until Jirou extracted himself from the chaos by falling asleep-the balls in the ball pit really were rather soft and comfortable, he’d tested them himself… for the sole purposes of ascertaining that they would do no harm to any of the members of his tennis club, of course.
Within minutes, he smiled as Jirou’s flailing form slowed, and finally stilled.
Automatically, he raised a hand to call for Kabaji, before changing his mind, and starting to walk towards the pit himself to fish out his errant roommate. It was such an inconvenience to do such things himself, but it would have been rather be a pity to interrupt the second-year: he seemed in the process of acquiring the all-time high score on the place’s DDR Extreme machine, much to Gakuto’s annoyance. And, truly, any lesson that taught Gakuto that he was not, in fact, the princess of the world, was one worth teaching.
The sleepiness did not extend to Jirou’s entire family, it seemed-not when Atobe reached the pit only to find Jirou’s aniki, with Jirou slung rather carelessly over his shoulder and the little girl adhered to his leg, climbing out of the ball pit with some difficulty.
Apparently, this was something he was accustomed to.
Jirou slipped, a little, and Atobe winced as Akutagawa Seiichirou juggled him back into place-the position did look terribly uncomfortable for anyone who wasn’t in the process of, oh, being rescued from a burning building, but apparently, Jirou wasn’t even twitching…
“Thank you for this, Atobe-kun,” Seiichirou was taller than his little brother-not a fantastic accomplishment-and just about Atobe’s height. Well, actually, it was rather an unfair comparison to make, the fact that no-one could truly be compared to Atobe aside: the boy was all careless legs and elbows and sinew, wirier still than Jirou, with glasses perched askew on his straight nose and, rather startlingly, coppery-red hair falling into his eyes. Despite the glasses. How was that actually possible? “This is a lot of fun-I don’t think Jirou’s ever had a birthday like this before.”
Well, no, of course not. Who else could arrange a birthday like this but Atobe Keigo?
Atobe took his place in the corner of a booth to lay his drink down-and blinked as Jirou’s brother promptly lay Jirou down onto the same padded bench, Jirou’s head lolling rather automatically to Atobe’s lap.
He blinked again when Jirou’s younger sister-Masayo, wasn’t it? She had Jirou’s hair, if paler still, tied at the top of her head in two curly pigtails-squeezed herself into the tiny space between the seat-back and her elder brother’s body to plop her head onto Atobe’s thigh.
Though the hypersomnia did not run in the family, apparently, the habit of acquiring other people’s body parts as pillows did.
If Seiichirou attempted to join his brother and sister on Atobe’s lap, Atobe was most definitely going to protest-
No, he was seating himself across from Atobe, thankfully, on a stool. With his hands propped between his legs rather than on the table, leaning forwards onto them with careless (and wobbly) pleasure-if anything, the resemblance between the siblings, in mannerism if not necessarily in face, was utterly uncanny.
“Thanks for always inviting us, na? I’m so glad we could come, this year,” Akutagawa Seiichirou nodded his thanks at a waiter, taking a glass of orange juice. “‘Kaasan and ‘Tousan send their regards, and they say thank you, but…” the small shrug was fluid, accepting. “Well, They’d have come if they could. Thanks. S’nice to be around my favourite little brother on his birthday. You’re better to him than the little slug deserves, Atobe-kun.”
Atobe merely smiled. “Not at all, Akutagawa.” The utter earnestness of the Akutagawa family never failed to amuse him, really. Certainly, Atobe’s own parents had long since left it to him to decide whether he wished to have a birthday party, or not, so he’d been planning them since he’d turned ten, but they certainly wouldn’t have ever thought of attending. Still, Jirou had obviously been brought up in a very different household from his own. As indicated by the fact that both of Jirou’s parents had work on a Saturday. “It’s nothing. Besides, as he’s your only little brother, I think it’s only natural that he be your favourite.”
“Well, yeah. But I like him all the same. And all these things mean a lot to him.” Still, the gaze behind those thick, gold-edged lenses was surprisingly keen-perhaps he’d gotten too accustomed to seeing sleep, soft and warm as hot chocolate, in Jirou’s eyes, and seeing their counterparts looking out of his brother’s angular, older face was somewhat disconcerting. Perhaps he’d gotten accustomed to Jirou’s face, Jirou’s sleepy smile. He had to say-sadly, Seiichirou was most definitely not as attractive as his sibling. “Don’t have any brothers, do you? No sibs, I bet.”
The very thought of it was amusing. Even imagining his mother wanting to go through what she called ‘the interminable bother of pregnancy,’ more than absolutely necessary to produce an heir to the Atobe name… “No siblings, no,” Atobe shook his head, and took a sip of his cool ginger ale. “Why?”
“Good.” Seiichirou’s toothy grin, however, did resemble his brother’s. To a rather eerie degree. Perhaps it was the exuberance. “So there’s no-one to be mad when you stop calling me Akutagawa. Sei-niichan’s just fine. It’s easier.”
Atobe choked on his sip of ginger ale. It must have been out of a fresh can-there was most certainly too much fizz in it. “I… excuse me? Why? ” That smile wasn’t faltering. “Sei-niichan,” and the syllables sounded so utterly strange on his lips, “is not significantly shorter than Seiichirou. Or, for that matter, Akutagawa.”
A smaller head stirred on his lap, and he found himself looking down into a pair of… where in the world had Jirou’s little sister managed to acquire hazel eyes? The curls were understandable, but… “But it’s easier, Kei-niichan! ”
Atobe twitched. He was very, very, very certain that no-one in his lifetime had dared to call him ‘older brother.’ Much less by butchering his first name. “My name is Atobe, Masayo-chan,” he informed her. With a faint sense of helplessness stirring in the back of his mind, because most days, Atobe counted himself fortunate if he could convince Jirou into any sort of common sense past that night-impenetrable barrier of sleep and cheer-and his siblings were showing themselves to be… rather similar.
Furthermore, there were two of them.
Not that Atobe was not up to the challenge, but…
“I know that,” she informed him happily. “But since you can call me Meimei, I can call you Kei-niichan! And since he’s Sei-niichan, it rhymes!” Her cheerful white smile wrinkled somewhat as her brows crinkled together. “Sort of. Jirou-niichan doesn’t work. S’okay, Jirou-niichan’s weird, anyway.”
No matter how much he agreed with the final sentiment, Atobe was not inclined to agree. “I don’t call you Meimei,” he protested, faintly.
Seiichirou-who-was-most-certainly-not-Sei-niichan shrugged. “But you could, if you wanted to. She likes rhymes.”
The insane logic did run in the family. Really, he dreaded the day he might have to sit down for a meal with Jirou’s parents. Though, admittedly, he wasn’t entirely sure why that particular thought had come up-perhaps simply because he’d finally met Jirou’s siblings.
And of course there wasn’t a chance of appealing for sanity to a certain Singles Two player who had brought his entire family down on Atobe’s head-never mind that it had been Atobe who had invited them, they were still Jirou’s family!-because a) Jirou was asleep, and b) he’d learned better than anyone that Jirou, while aesthetically pleasing and rather amusing, was likely twice as crazy as his own family.
“Time to get the little slug up for cake, Atobe?”
Atobe thought that perhaps he’d never been so glad to hear the voice of his fanclub manager; it truly was Mari’s way to appear at exceedingly opportune moments to work at extracting him from the adoration of fans. Or, in this case, the overintimacy of members of a family that he was fairly sure were not his… not that he couldn’t do it himself, but that was, in fact, what he’d allowed her to become the head of his fanclub for.
Atobe’s head swivelled to face his fanclub head, who honestly did have the most expressive look of amusement in her eyes for a girl who hadn’t so much as cracked a smile. It had always been Atobe’s way to focus on what he was doing-and who he was conversing with-so perhaps it was fairly reasonable that he hadn’t noticed that she had, to all appearances, been standing close enough to realise when he required her services.
And, apparently, near enough to hear Jirou’s brother call him a little slug, from the way she was smiling.
Atobe Keigo acknowledged that he was a great many things, but stupid had never been one of them. One of these days, he was most definitely going to have a talk with his fanclub president about eavesdropping… he understood her overwhelming desire to be near him, but it was inappropriate. For now…
For now, he had a certain little sleepy figure on his lap to wake up…
…ah. Atobe had to smile, just a little, as Masayo’s mouth gaped open in a yawn-one that she rather politely covered with one small hand, before stretching-and wrapping her arm firmly over Jirou’s waist.
Correction, two little sleepy figures…
Atobe blinked as Seiichirou lowered his head to the table, eyes slitted behind his glasses.
Or was it three…?
*_*_*_*
Tsuzuku (To Be Continued)