(no subject)
Title: One Truth and Two Lies (1/3)
Rating: G
Words: 683
Summary: Two ways Shishido and Atobe didn't meet, and one way they did.
Notes: Happy holidays, Stef! Fail #1: Basically, I am awful with following prompts. :| The "Shishido/Ryoma, puppets" prompt you left me turned into "Atobe/Shishido, puppets." And then I took some liberties and turned it into "Atobe/Shishido, DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT." So. Fail #2: I'd intended to finish all three drabbles and post them at once but because of certain distractions that impeded my progress IT'S ALL JE'S FAULT *points fingers* I only have the first one completely finished and polished. D: In conclusion, I am very, very, very sorry.
1. if strangers meet
life begins-
not poor not rich
(only aware)
"if strangers met", e.e. cummings
The coffee is over-brewed. Atobe sends back for a new cup. The expression on the waiter's face is priceless, the classic example of the deer-in-the-headlights look. Atobe layers his legs at the knees, leaning back into the couch cushions. He spies someone peering over his laptop at him from a three o'clock angle, a stool away. Atobe follows the gaze and levels a similar gaze, from behind sunglasses.
The laptop guy frowns. "Was there something wrong?"
"You were staring."
"I'd never seen anyone demand a new cup around here before," he says. "But I meant your drink - something wrong with it?"
"Obviously. Why else would I send it back?"
He shrugs. "Same reason you'd wear sunglasses in a dimly-lit café, I guess."
Atobe raises an eyebrow. "For all you know, I could be trying not to scare the children. I could be missing an eye."
"But you aren't," the man points out.
"You never know," Atobe says. The waiter is back with his new cup of coffee. He takes a sip. It is still bitter, but this time with bite. It's more acceptable this way. "I could be famous, a tennis star, a rock star, staking out at this dump for a change in environment. My glasses are to conceal my identity."
"Convincing." The man snorts. "But you've got the attitude down pat, I'll give you that much," he says.
"For someone I just met two minutes ago, you sound like you've known me for ages," Atobe says. His voice is neutrality with a kick. Vanilla gone sour. White tainted grey. For his lifetime of assumptions, he had hoped to find strangers in this place, people who don't have enough scope on him to hypothesize and suppose. But it seems that strangers make assumptions all the same; they just make more incorrect ones than friends do.
"Sorry," the man says, voice deep and grumbly, a little like a grizzly. "But you just act like a cliché, a little. You know...like, the poor rich boy. Sorry if you're offended or something, I'm just telling just truth."
"And I suppose that isn't crime," Atobe says.
"Only in Russia," the man responds. He grins, wide and boyish at Atobe. His eyes are blue and brilliant in the dark groves of his eyes. Real treasures are always waiting in darkness, to make people search for them. This is the way they become precious.
Atobe doesn't realise that he has been staring until the man waves a hand before his eyes. He starts.
"Look, I gotta go," the man says. "I have this thing I have to be at. For my column."
"You're a journalist?" Atobe asks.
"Freelance. I'm looking into this Japan Open article. The semi-finals are today," the man says. He tries to be nonchalant about it, but satisfaction bubbles beneath the surface of his voice.
This is probably the same way Atobe talks about what he does, too. There was a time, so long ago the memories have faded into inorganic blurs, when he couldn't imagine himself telling others about what he did without a frown or the tensing of his shoulders. Maybe it isn't time that has eroded those memories, but the fact that they aren't all so important, now that Atobe has the whole world - his whole world anyway - between his palms.
"That's great," Atobe says and means it.
Set three. Tie-break. 4-6. The sunlight beating from overhead squeezes the life from him. Sweat beads along his brow. The texture of the tennis ball is familiar against his palm, but he takes no comfort from this. He scans the crowd - full house. People crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, looking from a distance like ants. The sun shifts in the sky, stretching its back and casting a beam of light on a pair of matching dark blue jewels. Atobe feels like he has found riches.
He tosses the ball high in the air until the white lines surpass the sun, and he sends it across the net. It licks a path of flames, red and proud.
Rating: G
Words: 683
Summary: Two ways Shishido and Atobe didn't meet, and one way they did.
Notes: Happy holidays, Stef! Fail #1: Basically, I am awful with following prompts. :| The "Shishido/Ryoma, puppets" prompt you left me turned into "Atobe/Shishido, puppets." And then I took some liberties and turned it into "Atobe/Shishido, DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT." So. Fail #2: I'd intended to finish all three drabbles and post them at once but because of certain distractions that impeded my progress IT'S ALL JE'S FAULT *points fingers* I only have the first one completely finished and polished. D: In conclusion, I am very, very, very sorry.
1. if strangers meet
life begins-
not poor not rich
(only aware)
"if strangers met", e.e. cummings
The coffee is over-brewed. Atobe sends back for a new cup. The expression on the waiter's face is priceless, the classic example of the deer-in-the-headlights look. Atobe layers his legs at the knees, leaning back into the couch cushions. He spies someone peering over his laptop at him from a three o'clock angle, a stool away. Atobe follows the gaze and levels a similar gaze, from behind sunglasses.
The laptop guy frowns. "Was there something wrong?"
"You were staring."
"I'd never seen anyone demand a new cup around here before," he says. "But I meant your drink - something wrong with it?"
"Obviously. Why else would I send it back?"
He shrugs. "Same reason you'd wear sunglasses in a dimly-lit café, I guess."
Atobe raises an eyebrow. "For all you know, I could be trying not to scare the children. I could be missing an eye."
"But you aren't," the man points out.
"You never know," Atobe says. The waiter is back with his new cup of coffee. He takes a sip. It is still bitter, but this time with bite. It's more acceptable this way. "I could be famous, a tennis star, a rock star, staking out at this dump for a change in environment. My glasses are to conceal my identity."
"Convincing." The man snorts. "But you've got the attitude down pat, I'll give you that much," he says.
"For someone I just met two minutes ago, you sound like you've known me for ages," Atobe says. His voice is neutrality with a kick. Vanilla gone sour. White tainted grey. For his lifetime of assumptions, he had hoped to find strangers in this place, people who don't have enough scope on him to hypothesize and suppose. But it seems that strangers make assumptions all the same; they just make more incorrect ones than friends do.
"Sorry," the man says, voice deep and grumbly, a little like a grizzly. "But you just act like a cliché, a little. You know...like, the poor rich boy. Sorry if you're offended or something, I'm just telling just truth."
"And I suppose that isn't crime," Atobe says.
"Only in Russia," the man responds. He grins, wide and boyish at Atobe. His eyes are blue and brilliant in the dark groves of his eyes. Real treasures are always waiting in darkness, to make people search for them. This is the way they become precious.
Atobe doesn't realise that he has been staring until the man waves a hand before his eyes. He starts.
"Look, I gotta go," the man says. "I have this thing I have to be at. For my column."
"You're a journalist?" Atobe asks.
"Freelance. I'm looking into this Japan Open article. The semi-finals are today," the man says. He tries to be nonchalant about it, but satisfaction bubbles beneath the surface of his voice.
This is probably the same way Atobe talks about what he does, too. There was a time, so long ago the memories have faded into inorganic blurs, when he couldn't imagine himself telling others about what he did without a frown or the tensing of his shoulders. Maybe it isn't time that has eroded those memories, but the fact that they aren't all so important, now that Atobe has the whole world - his whole world anyway - between his palms.
"That's great," Atobe says and means it.
Set three. Tie-break. 4-6. The sunlight beating from overhead squeezes the life from him. Sweat beads along his brow. The texture of the tennis ball is familiar against his palm, but he takes no comfort from this. He scans the crowd - full house. People crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, looking from a distance like ants. The sun shifts in the sky, stretching its back and casting a beam of light on a pair of matching dark blue jewels. Atobe feels like he has found riches.
He tosses the ball high in the air until the white lines surpass the sun, and he sends it across the net. It licks a path of flames, red and proud.