Take Me to the Carnival for Kestralsan!
Title: Take Me to the Carnival
Author: daphnerunning
Recipient: Kestrelsan
Pairing/Characters: Atobe Keigo / Echizen Ryoma, Tezuka Kunimitsu
Rating: PG
Warnings: dumb boys
Disclaimer: I’m playing in Konomi-sensei’s mad mad mad mad world
Summary: Echizen always asks for what he wants. Atobe isn’t used to being unable to say no.
Notes: Hope you enjoy! The original prompt wound up being a much smaller part of the story than anticipated…hehe I got a little carried away!
“Hey, Monkey King. I want to eat a funnel cake. Take me to the carnival.”
Atobe supposed he couldn’t say that it started simply. Rather, the fact that it started at all, the odd pseudo-friendship between him and Tezuka’s Special Project, was too strange to comprehend.
It had begun a few months earlier. After a glorious supper (roast root vegetables with rare filet and goat cheese) and a glass of non-alcoholic champagne, he’d felt an itch in his feet and headed out for a local tennis court. Echizen, predictably enough, had been there, hitting balls at the wall.
“I thought you had a court at home,” Atobe had drawled, spinning his racquet casually in one hand. Echizen had grown a little since the U-17 training camp, putting on a few more inches, though the brat was still lanky and slender.
Echizen had scowled, adjusted his cap, and muttered, “It’s busy. You gonna play me or what?”
Demanding. Atobe had quipped something about Echizen being lucky he was in an obliging mood, then taken his spot on the opposing singles court. Nearly an hour later, dripping in sweat, Echizen had leaned over the net and said casually, “Hey, Monkey King. Take me to get pizza.”
Atobe had narrowed his eyes. “Is this a trick? There’s no good pizza in Japan.”
Echizen had shrugged, tugging at the brim of his cap. “I got nowhere to be. But if you can’t do it…”
Two hours later they’d been on a plane to Naples, Echizen ignoring him to take a nap in the passenger’s seat of his Falcon. When Atobe poked him awake, he’d yawned, then complained about the texture of the seats.
“I’m doing you a favor,” Atobe had said, slightly miffed, though not to the point of complaining like a commoner. “The least you could do is be delightful, distracting, or interesting.”
“Che.” Ryoma had scowled at him for a moment, then reached into his back pocket, emerging with a small clear file of papers. “Fine. Look.”
“It’s…photographs of a cat?”
“That’s my cat. Karupin.”
Atobe had blinked. “You’re showing me pictures of your cat?”
“Yeah. He’s good.”
Damn it all, the boy is sort of…cute. Atobe can see why Tezuka wants him as a little brother, and gets fiercely protective of him. “Well, then,” he says smoothly, pulling out one of his many cameraphones, “let me show you the King of Dogs. He’s a wolfhound, his name is Beat-“
Ryoma had tugged his cap back over his face. “We’re not showing pet photos, Atobe-sempai. I was showing you pictures of Karupin. It’s different.”
“You’re a terrible brat.”
Echizen had flashed a peace sign, and promptly gone back to sleep.
Somewhere halfway through the first slice, Echizen switched to English to explain something, and Atobe had followed. Echizen had paused, looking up at him through vaguely distrustful eyelashes, and taken a huge bite of pizza. “Your accent is weird.”
“It’s proper English,” Atobe had said, miffed.
Ryoma grunted around tomatoes, basil and cheese. On the way back to the plane, he thudded his shoulder against Atobe’s side, just a little, and muttered, “I didn’t say it was bad-weird.”
The Pizza Excursion was their first meeting alone outside of school, but not the last. Each one always started in a similar fashion, always after a game of tennis. Atobe rarely ventured out to a street court, not now that high school was so demanding, but sometimes, Echizen would find his way onto his private courts. He never asked for permission, and Atobe never confessed that he’d had Echizen’s name added to the list of approved visitors after their trip to Italy.
The next time, Echizen was craving Chinese. “Not Chinese from China,” he said hurriedly. “Gross Chinese from L.A.”
So they went to L.A.
In the back of Atobe’s mind, sometimes he wonders if Echizen is only showing up to get free travel and free food. Echizen always sleeps on the flights, resents being asked to make conversation, and only arrives to play tennis and demand to be taken somewhere.
Atobe takes him anyway, even if he’s no fun.
Atobe had mentioned it to Tezuka, once. “Kunimitsu, is Echizen the sort to associate with people for perks?”
“No perks are worth associating with you,” Tezuka had answered, tone flat.
Atobe only wishes that were true, but he’s gotten better, over the years, at telling whether people are hanging out with him because he’s entertaining, or because they want a free ride somewhere. It’s only Echizen that confounds his MoneyDar. “He wouldn’t play tennis with me just for a trip, would he?”
Tezuka is quiet for a moment, and Atobe can almost hear the frown. “Echizen doesn’t need to be bribed to play tennis. If anything, it’s hard to get him to stop.”
“But-“
“And his family is hardly on scholarships.” There’s another pause, then, “Don’t be thick, Atobe. He’s like a cat. He’s only around when he wants to be.”
“Ahn, do you think he’d rub on my leg to be petted, or-Kunimitsu?”
The line is dead.
“Hey, Monkey King. I’m hungry for hot dogs.”
“There are hot dogs in Japan.”
“New York hot dogs.”
“You don’t think I’m busy?”
Echizen’s eyes are large and dark in his face, and not for the first time, Atobe wonders if he knows exactly how weaponized his stare is. It’s the gap moe, he decides. It’s the unrelenting fierceness of the way the boy plays on the courts, contrasted with the sulky, unrepentant demands he makes. That’s what Tezuka has admired, Atobe knows. And the way Echizen sometimes tugs on his sleeve when they’re out somewhere…Atobe just won’t mention that part to Tezuka. Said protectiveness would be a little too much for him to handle.
“I think you’re gonna take me wherever I wanna go because you’re bored,” Echizen says, and Atobe barely resists the urge to swat his head.
“Arrogant brat.”
“Che. Takes one to know one, Monkey King.”
“Do you know a hot dog place, or are you just going to pick a vendor off the street?”
“I know a place.”
The place Echizen knows is closed, and they wind up eating hot dogs from a street vendor, sitting on the hood of Atobe’s rented limo as his bodyguard fields frantic phone calls from his butler.
Atobe’s father is less than pleased, whenever someone reports his trans-continental jaunts. “You’re getting too old for these antics,” he reprimands on one of their infrequent phone calls. “Limit yourself. You’ll be taking over at the Directorate before you know it.”
“Then should I not have fun now? Get it out of the way to be miserable for the rest of my life?” Atobe asks, hoping he doesn’t sound petulant. Talking to his father always makes him feel like he’s back in primary school, still disappointing his teachers in England, unable to be or say or do what they want, not even knowing what they want from him. His father hadn’t understood then, and his solution had been to buy his son a school, encourage his most flamboyant attributes, foster supreme self-confidence in hopes that that arrogance would carry him to wild success in the world.
His father sighs. “Perhaps. At least take the opportunity for photo ops on your jaunts. Are you going with models?”
“A tennis player.”
“Fine. Sponsor him, I’ll draw up the paperwork.”
“Hey, Monkey King. I want to eat gyros. Take me to Athens.”
“Shouldn’t you be calling me Sir? I am your sponsor, after all. Dress up if we’re going to go.”
Echizen scowls. “Last time there were journalists. I hate journalists.”
Atobe knows. Damn, he hates them, too, especially when he’s just trying to have a hamburger with a friend. But complaining isn’t very noble, so he just shrugs. “The price of associating with royalty, you know. So, I know a great place in Athens-“
Echizen catches his sleeve before he can walk off the tennis court, face hidden by the brim of his cap. He kicks at the ground a little, clearly frustrated, before he says (sounding bored, he always sounds bored), “Maybe I just want sushi. Or like…a sandwich.”
The words don’t click right away, and Atobe frowns. “Sandwich? You want to go to, what, England?”
“Forget it.”
“Eh?”
Echizen leaves, and Atobe makes a sandwich in his own kitchen. He doesn't do it right, and swears the servants are laughing at him.
It was four months before Echizen showed up at Atobe Manor’s courts again. He’d been playing in America, the rumors went, and winning tournament after tournament yet again. Atobe enjoyed following his exploits along with those of Yukimura and Tezuka, along with those of his old group who’d gone pro and been less successful. He watches all of their matches, he rationalizes, as a way to keep up to date. If he saves the newspaper clippings of Ryoma’s games and simply watches the others on TV, well, that doesn’t mean anything.
The Australian Open rankles in Atobe’s mind, and he heads to his own courts the next day, queuing up his Playmate SMASH with his specialized program, taking to the other side of the court to hit the balls as hard as he can, one after the other, until sweat starts to bead on his brow. His footwork is suffering, and there’s more tension than he’d anticipated in his back and arms.
Echizen hadn’t been playing properly. He’d left himself open, allowing a technical opponent to find and exploit his blind spots, only eking out the most narrow of victories. It was as if he’d seen a power player on the other end of the court instead of his real opponent, and it’s maddening to Atobe that he knows exactly how he’d have returned each ball.
The Playmate spits out another ball, and Atobe lunges-but the ball never connects with his racquet. Another blocks it, and Echizen Ryoma slowly lowers his arm with a wink. “Cheers, Atobe-sempai. I hope Lobster-san didn’t tire you out.”
Atobe throws his head back and laughs, the earlier tension bleeding away. Horrifically, Echizen is almost as tall as he is now, and Atobe is reasonably sure that he hasn’t grown in the last year or so, since he hit seventeen. Echizen, on the other hand, still displays the too-large feet, knees, and hands of a boy still on his way up. Damn him. “You know me,” he calls back in English, picking up one of the balls from the court and bouncing it a couple of times. “I’m never truly tired out. And don’t insult my Playmate by calling it a Lobster.”
The tips of Echizen’s ears flush, and he adjusts his hat, muttering, “Don't talk in that weird accent. You serve.”
They play to a tiebreak, then call it off at 50-50, both panting and sweating, stumbling towards the net. “You should have played better yesterday,” Atobe says, voicing the thing that’s been weighing on his mind.
Echizen grimaces, then nods shortly. It’s as much confirmation as Atobe needs that he’d been distracted, but what Echizen says instead is, “Hey, Monkey King. I want to eat a funnel cake. Take me to the carnival.”
And it’s January, so where better is there to go than Tenerife?
“I don't see any funnel cakes,” Echizen complains, as a corps of clowns with green hair marches past, whirling and beating their drums. They’re followed by floating teacups and sugarplum fairies, and Echizen looks rebellious at best. “Atobe-sempai, you don’t know what a carnival is.”
“Carneval? Of course! What better Carneval than-“
“No, dumb Monkey King. Take me to Coney Island.”
“Why do we always wind up going to New York?”
“Because you like spoiling me.”
Echizen says it so casually that Atobe almost doesn’t notice the tips of his ears turn red. Soon, Echizen will be taller than him, and he won’t be able to see that telltale sign anymore. He wouldn’t be able to now if the boy didn’t insist on wearing that silly hat all the time.
Atobe puts an arm around Echizen’s shoulders, steering him away from a float full of chanting men dressed as hula apes, and murmurs into one pink ear, “Maybe I do.”
Coney Island is tacky, fluorescent, drab, empty, cold, and colorless. Echizen seems thrilled. Atobe opens his mouth to protest, but Echizen grabs his hand, tugging him towards a carnie with a cart. “All the food you want me to eat is from carts,” Atobe says, but it doesn’t come out as upset as he wants it to. “And your hand is freezing.”
“It’s basically always like that. Yours is too warm.” He does not, however, let go.
“Here we are, sir, one funnel cake for the both of you! Will that be to share?”
“Yeah,” Echizen answers, pulling a five out of his skinny jeans and handing it to the vendor.
Atobe frowns at him as Echizen leads him to a bench, plopping the enormous creation between the two of them. They’ve never shared food before. Hell, Echizen had insisted on ordering his own pizza when they’d gone to Italy, and had eaten the whole thing, too. Following his lead, Atobe plucks a sugar-covered bit of dough from the top and pops it into his mouth. It’s appalling, but he doesn’t bother saying that out loud. There’s a sort of…rustic charm to it, he supposes, if one can call bland dough fried in cheap oil and dusted with Dixie Brand powdered sugar charming.
After his third bite, he decides not to ask why Echizen had brought him here of all places. He’d done it because, as with everything else, he’d wanted to. Truly, like a cat. That reminds him, and he asks, “How is Karupin?”
Echizen blinks, brow furrowing as he takes another hurried bite. “He’s good. Clawed up Dad’s leg last week when Dad ate a can of tuna in front of him.”
“If your father is eating tunafish out of a can, I daresay he deserves worse.” Atobe tends to speak Japanese when they’re in America, and Echizen follows suit, sticking to English when they’re in Japan. Whether it’s childhood memories of being mocked for his bad accent or simply wanting to prove that they know more than everyone else, Atobe figures they have similar motives in this as well.
“Yeah. Dad’s bad.” It’s said with no artifice or regret, something Atobe admires. How freeing would that be, to admit that he hardly knows his father, has only met him a handful of times?
Despite wanting to share, Echizen eats a good three-quarters of the funnel cake, licks his fingers clean (Atobe pointedly does not avert his gaze, Echizen ignores him), and tosses the trash in a wastebin. “That was good. Let’s go home.”
Before heading back, Atobe catches Echizen’s shoulder, tugging him down a side lane. He isn’t even sure what he’s doing-looking for a private place for a kiss? Searching out more awful street food?-until he sees a row of games. His mind misfires, and his face lights up in a grin. “Ahn, shall we test our skill?”
“Che. I’m gonna beat you so bad, Monkey King.”
The words barely have any vitriol at this point, more of a reflex out of Echizen’s mouth than anything. Atobe feeds a bill into the token machine, only to have it spit out again. “Eh? It doesn’t want my money? How rude.”
“That machine only takes tens, Atobe-sempai.”
Atobe stares at him for a moment. “They make bills that small?”
Echizen rolls his eyes, pulling out a few crumpled bills from his pockets. “Gimme yours to make up for it,” he orders, and Atobe complies as Echizen feeds in tens, giving him a handful of tokens. “I can get more after I kick your ass at this one, if you want to regain your honor.”
The carnie spots them, and his eyes light up. “Step rrright up, test your coordination against the AMAZING Ball Toss! Any ball in wins a prize, keep the streak going for the big pink elephant!”
Atobe has seen many American movies. All he has to do is win the pink elephant, give it to Echizen, and that makes them A Couple. Beside him Echizen cracks his knuckles, a look of deadly seriousness on his face. They both hand over a few tokens, and Echizen receives a stack of yellow balls, Atobe a stack of green. “That pink elephant is mine.”
“Then we’ll both be leaving with one, brat.”
“That’s my last pink elephant, gentlemen! Whoever’s balls go in first-“
As if that’s a cue, Atobe and Echizen start throwing balls as if there’s no tomorrow, sacrificing aiming for speed, both confident in their ability to do this much, at least. The balls aren’t too different in size from tennis balls, but the weight of them is distractingly different. Atobe’s first five balls go wide, and Echizen isn’t faring much better.
A bell rings, and the carnie laughs, emptying out the bucket-one dismal yellow ball rolls out, accompanied by one lonely green. “Well, you both get a prize! Can I get you the purple giraffe keychain, or-“
Two identical piles of tokens slide across the counter, and are quickly replaced with more yellow and green balls.
Ten minutes and two more goals later, the carnie is starting to sweat. “Look, gentlemen, there’s lots of other games, maybe you’ll have more luck-“
“No!” Atobe and Echizen say in unison, both deadly focused on the hoop. It’s rigged, a trick, it has to be, and Atobe glares at it, trying to force the stupid light balls (do they have holes in them to mess with the air resistance? Would that make a difference at this range?) to go in through the tilted, wobbling hoop.
After Echizen’s ninth trip to the change machine, cursing and kicking, the carnie leans in to talk to Atobe. “Fifty bucks. I’ll say you made it when he was away, give you the damn elephant.”
Atobe sighs, then hands over a hundred, grabbing the elephant by its useless tusk. It’s overstuffed, and he can see from close up that the filling is starting to poke out around the seams.
He comes up behind Echizen at the change machine and drapes the enormous beast over the kid’s shoulders. “He wanted to close up shop,” he lies, unable to tell the lie the carnie had expected. “Apparently we already spent enough to make it worthwhile.”
At least the carnie appears to have overheard him, and is currently drawing the shutters across his booth. Echizen makes a face and clicks his tongue, then shoves the elephant back towards Atobe. “You keep it, then.”
“Nonsense, I insist.”
Echizen glowers up at him. “I was just gonna give it to you if I won anyway.”
Atobe starts to argue then stops, suddenly charmed by that abrupt honesty. When’s the last time someone wanted to win him something, not just give it to him? “Joint custody,” he says, nodding firmly. “You’ll have full visitation rights when he’s at my house, of course.”
“She.”
“What, just because it’s pink? How backwards of you.”
Wordlessly, Echizen turns over the tag attached to the elephant’s arm, reading, “Hi! I’m Lisa!”
“That could mean anything. Lisa is a fine unisex name.”
“Whatever, Monkey King.”
On the plane ride back, Echizen wakes up, which is uncharacteristic of him. He blinks sleepily at Atobe for a moment (who wasn’t staring, just happened to be looking that way), and murmurs, “Lisa should live at your house. I’ll just come over and see her more often.”
Atobe gives in to temptation, and ruffles the brat’s hair. “You’d better. I’m too young to be a single parent.”
“Your accent is still weird.”
“But you like it.”
“Che.” Echizen doesn’t argue, and Atobe knows by now that it’s because he doesn’t want to.
Author: daphnerunning
Recipient: Kestrelsan
Pairing/Characters: Atobe Keigo / Echizen Ryoma, Tezuka Kunimitsu
Rating: PG
Warnings: dumb boys
Disclaimer: I’m playing in Konomi-sensei’s mad mad mad mad world
Summary: Echizen always asks for what he wants. Atobe isn’t used to being unable to say no.
Notes: Hope you enjoy! The original prompt wound up being a much smaller part of the story than anticipated…hehe I got a little carried away!
“Hey, Monkey King. I want to eat a funnel cake. Take me to the carnival.”
Atobe supposed he couldn’t say that it started simply. Rather, the fact that it started at all, the odd pseudo-friendship between him and Tezuka’s Special Project, was too strange to comprehend.
It had begun a few months earlier. After a glorious supper (roast root vegetables with rare filet and goat cheese) and a glass of non-alcoholic champagne, he’d felt an itch in his feet and headed out for a local tennis court. Echizen, predictably enough, had been there, hitting balls at the wall.
“I thought you had a court at home,” Atobe had drawled, spinning his racquet casually in one hand. Echizen had grown a little since the U-17 training camp, putting on a few more inches, though the brat was still lanky and slender.
Echizen had scowled, adjusted his cap, and muttered, “It’s busy. You gonna play me or what?”
Demanding. Atobe had quipped something about Echizen being lucky he was in an obliging mood, then taken his spot on the opposing singles court. Nearly an hour later, dripping in sweat, Echizen had leaned over the net and said casually, “Hey, Monkey King. Take me to get pizza.”
Atobe had narrowed his eyes. “Is this a trick? There’s no good pizza in Japan.”
Echizen had shrugged, tugging at the brim of his cap. “I got nowhere to be. But if you can’t do it…”
Two hours later they’d been on a plane to Naples, Echizen ignoring him to take a nap in the passenger’s seat of his Falcon. When Atobe poked him awake, he’d yawned, then complained about the texture of the seats.
“I’m doing you a favor,” Atobe had said, slightly miffed, though not to the point of complaining like a commoner. “The least you could do is be delightful, distracting, or interesting.”
“Che.” Ryoma had scowled at him for a moment, then reached into his back pocket, emerging with a small clear file of papers. “Fine. Look.”
“It’s…photographs of a cat?”
“That’s my cat. Karupin.”
Atobe had blinked. “You’re showing me pictures of your cat?”
“Yeah. He’s good.”
Damn it all, the boy is sort of…cute. Atobe can see why Tezuka wants him as a little brother, and gets fiercely protective of him. “Well, then,” he says smoothly, pulling out one of his many cameraphones, “let me show you the King of Dogs. He’s a wolfhound, his name is Beat-“
Ryoma had tugged his cap back over his face. “We’re not showing pet photos, Atobe-sempai. I was showing you pictures of Karupin. It’s different.”
“You’re a terrible brat.”
Echizen had flashed a peace sign, and promptly gone back to sleep.
Somewhere halfway through the first slice, Echizen switched to English to explain something, and Atobe had followed. Echizen had paused, looking up at him through vaguely distrustful eyelashes, and taken a huge bite of pizza. “Your accent is weird.”
“It’s proper English,” Atobe had said, miffed.
Ryoma grunted around tomatoes, basil and cheese. On the way back to the plane, he thudded his shoulder against Atobe’s side, just a little, and muttered, “I didn’t say it was bad-weird.”
The Pizza Excursion was their first meeting alone outside of school, but not the last. Each one always started in a similar fashion, always after a game of tennis. Atobe rarely ventured out to a street court, not now that high school was so demanding, but sometimes, Echizen would find his way onto his private courts. He never asked for permission, and Atobe never confessed that he’d had Echizen’s name added to the list of approved visitors after their trip to Italy.
The next time, Echizen was craving Chinese. “Not Chinese from China,” he said hurriedly. “Gross Chinese from L.A.”
So they went to L.A.
In the back of Atobe’s mind, sometimes he wonders if Echizen is only showing up to get free travel and free food. Echizen always sleeps on the flights, resents being asked to make conversation, and only arrives to play tennis and demand to be taken somewhere.
Atobe takes him anyway, even if he’s no fun.
Atobe had mentioned it to Tezuka, once. “Kunimitsu, is Echizen the sort to associate with people for perks?”
“No perks are worth associating with you,” Tezuka had answered, tone flat.
Atobe only wishes that were true, but he’s gotten better, over the years, at telling whether people are hanging out with him because he’s entertaining, or because they want a free ride somewhere. It’s only Echizen that confounds his MoneyDar. “He wouldn’t play tennis with me just for a trip, would he?”
Tezuka is quiet for a moment, and Atobe can almost hear the frown. “Echizen doesn’t need to be bribed to play tennis. If anything, it’s hard to get him to stop.”
“But-“
“And his family is hardly on scholarships.” There’s another pause, then, “Don’t be thick, Atobe. He’s like a cat. He’s only around when he wants to be.”
“Ahn, do you think he’d rub on my leg to be petted, or-Kunimitsu?”
The line is dead.
“Hey, Monkey King. I’m hungry for hot dogs.”
“There are hot dogs in Japan.”
“New York hot dogs.”
“You don’t think I’m busy?”
Echizen’s eyes are large and dark in his face, and not for the first time, Atobe wonders if he knows exactly how weaponized his stare is. It’s the gap moe, he decides. It’s the unrelenting fierceness of the way the boy plays on the courts, contrasted with the sulky, unrepentant demands he makes. That’s what Tezuka has admired, Atobe knows. And the way Echizen sometimes tugs on his sleeve when they’re out somewhere…Atobe just won’t mention that part to Tezuka. Said protectiveness would be a little too much for him to handle.
“I think you’re gonna take me wherever I wanna go because you’re bored,” Echizen says, and Atobe barely resists the urge to swat his head.
“Arrogant brat.”
“Che. Takes one to know one, Monkey King.”
“Do you know a hot dog place, or are you just going to pick a vendor off the street?”
“I know a place.”
The place Echizen knows is closed, and they wind up eating hot dogs from a street vendor, sitting on the hood of Atobe’s rented limo as his bodyguard fields frantic phone calls from his butler.
Atobe’s father is less than pleased, whenever someone reports his trans-continental jaunts. “You’re getting too old for these antics,” he reprimands on one of their infrequent phone calls. “Limit yourself. You’ll be taking over at the Directorate before you know it.”
“Then should I not have fun now? Get it out of the way to be miserable for the rest of my life?” Atobe asks, hoping he doesn’t sound petulant. Talking to his father always makes him feel like he’s back in primary school, still disappointing his teachers in England, unable to be or say or do what they want, not even knowing what they want from him. His father hadn’t understood then, and his solution had been to buy his son a school, encourage his most flamboyant attributes, foster supreme self-confidence in hopes that that arrogance would carry him to wild success in the world.
His father sighs. “Perhaps. At least take the opportunity for photo ops on your jaunts. Are you going with models?”
“A tennis player.”
“Fine. Sponsor him, I’ll draw up the paperwork.”
“Hey, Monkey King. I want to eat gyros. Take me to Athens.”
“Shouldn’t you be calling me Sir? I am your sponsor, after all. Dress up if we’re going to go.”
Echizen scowls. “Last time there were journalists. I hate journalists.”
Atobe knows. Damn, he hates them, too, especially when he’s just trying to have a hamburger with a friend. But complaining isn’t very noble, so he just shrugs. “The price of associating with royalty, you know. So, I know a great place in Athens-“
Echizen catches his sleeve before he can walk off the tennis court, face hidden by the brim of his cap. He kicks at the ground a little, clearly frustrated, before he says (sounding bored, he always sounds bored), “Maybe I just want sushi. Or like…a sandwich.”
The words don’t click right away, and Atobe frowns. “Sandwich? You want to go to, what, England?”
“Forget it.”
“Eh?”
Echizen leaves, and Atobe makes a sandwich in his own kitchen. He doesn't do it right, and swears the servants are laughing at him.
It was four months before Echizen showed up at Atobe Manor’s courts again. He’d been playing in America, the rumors went, and winning tournament after tournament yet again. Atobe enjoyed following his exploits along with those of Yukimura and Tezuka, along with those of his old group who’d gone pro and been less successful. He watches all of their matches, he rationalizes, as a way to keep up to date. If he saves the newspaper clippings of Ryoma’s games and simply watches the others on TV, well, that doesn’t mean anything.
The Australian Open rankles in Atobe’s mind, and he heads to his own courts the next day, queuing up his Playmate SMASH with his specialized program, taking to the other side of the court to hit the balls as hard as he can, one after the other, until sweat starts to bead on his brow. His footwork is suffering, and there’s more tension than he’d anticipated in his back and arms.
Echizen hadn’t been playing properly. He’d left himself open, allowing a technical opponent to find and exploit his blind spots, only eking out the most narrow of victories. It was as if he’d seen a power player on the other end of the court instead of his real opponent, and it’s maddening to Atobe that he knows exactly how he’d have returned each ball.
The Playmate spits out another ball, and Atobe lunges-but the ball never connects with his racquet. Another blocks it, and Echizen Ryoma slowly lowers his arm with a wink. “Cheers, Atobe-sempai. I hope Lobster-san didn’t tire you out.”
Atobe throws his head back and laughs, the earlier tension bleeding away. Horrifically, Echizen is almost as tall as he is now, and Atobe is reasonably sure that he hasn’t grown in the last year or so, since he hit seventeen. Echizen, on the other hand, still displays the too-large feet, knees, and hands of a boy still on his way up. Damn him. “You know me,” he calls back in English, picking up one of the balls from the court and bouncing it a couple of times. “I’m never truly tired out. And don’t insult my Playmate by calling it a Lobster.”
The tips of Echizen’s ears flush, and he adjusts his hat, muttering, “Don't talk in that weird accent. You serve.”
They play to a tiebreak, then call it off at 50-50, both panting and sweating, stumbling towards the net. “You should have played better yesterday,” Atobe says, voicing the thing that’s been weighing on his mind.
Echizen grimaces, then nods shortly. It’s as much confirmation as Atobe needs that he’d been distracted, but what Echizen says instead is, “Hey, Monkey King. I want to eat a funnel cake. Take me to the carnival.”
And it’s January, so where better is there to go than Tenerife?
“I don't see any funnel cakes,” Echizen complains, as a corps of clowns with green hair marches past, whirling and beating their drums. They’re followed by floating teacups and sugarplum fairies, and Echizen looks rebellious at best. “Atobe-sempai, you don’t know what a carnival is.”
“Carneval? Of course! What better Carneval than-“
“No, dumb Monkey King. Take me to Coney Island.”
“Why do we always wind up going to New York?”
“Because you like spoiling me.”
Echizen says it so casually that Atobe almost doesn’t notice the tips of his ears turn red. Soon, Echizen will be taller than him, and he won’t be able to see that telltale sign anymore. He wouldn’t be able to now if the boy didn’t insist on wearing that silly hat all the time.
Atobe puts an arm around Echizen’s shoulders, steering him away from a float full of chanting men dressed as hula apes, and murmurs into one pink ear, “Maybe I do.”
Coney Island is tacky, fluorescent, drab, empty, cold, and colorless. Echizen seems thrilled. Atobe opens his mouth to protest, but Echizen grabs his hand, tugging him towards a carnie with a cart. “All the food you want me to eat is from carts,” Atobe says, but it doesn’t come out as upset as he wants it to. “And your hand is freezing.”
“It’s basically always like that. Yours is too warm.” He does not, however, let go.
“Here we are, sir, one funnel cake for the both of you! Will that be to share?”
“Yeah,” Echizen answers, pulling a five out of his skinny jeans and handing it to the vendor.
Atobe frowns at him as Echizen leads him to a bench, plopping the enormous creation between the two of them. They’ve never shared food before. Hell, Echizen had insisted on ordering his own pizza when they’d gone to Italy, and had eaten the whole thing, too. Following his lead, Atobe plucks a sugar-covered bit of dough from the top and pops it into his mouth. It’s appalling, but he doesn’t bother saying that out loud. There’s a sort of…rustic charm to it, he supposes, if one can call bland dough fried in cheap oil and dusted with Dixie Brand powdered sugar charming.
After his third bite, he decides not to ask why Echizen had brought him here of all places. He’d done it because, as with everything else, he’d wanted to. Truly, like a cat. That reminds him, and he asks, “How is Karupin?”
Echizen blinks, brow furrowing as he takes another hurried bite. “He’s good. Clawed up Dad’s leg last week when Dad ate a can of tuna in front of him.”
“If your father is eating tunafish out of a can, I daresay he deserves worse.” Atobe tends to speak Japanese when they’re in America, and Echizen follows suit, sticking to English when they’re in Japan. Whether it’s childhood memories of being mocked for his bad accent or simply wanting to prove that they know more than everyone else, Atobe figures they have similar motives in this as well.
“Yeah. Dad’s bad.” It’s said with no artifice or regret, something Atobe admires. How freeing would that be, to admit that he hardly knows his father, has only met him a handful of times?
Despite wanting to share, Echizen eats a good three-quarters of the funnel cake, licks his fingers clean (Atobe pointedly does not avert his gaze, Echizen ignores him), and tosses the trash in a wastebin. “That was good. Let’s go home.”
Before heading back, Atobe catches Echizen’s shoulder, tugging him down a side lane. He isn’t even sure what he’s doing-looking for a private place for a kiss? Searching out more awful street food?-until he sees a row of games. His mind misfires, and his face lights up in a grin. “Ahn, shall we test our skill?”
“Che. I’m gonna beat you so bad, Monkey King.”
The words barely have any vitriol at this point, more of a reflex out of Echizen’s mouth than anything. Atobe feeds a bill into the token machine, only to have it spit out again. “Eh? It doesn’t want my money? How rude.”
“That machine only takes tens, Atobe-sempai.”
Atobe stares at him for a moment. “They make bills that small?”
Echizen rolls his eyes, pulling out a few crumpled bills from his pockets. “Gimme yours to make up for it,” he orders, and Atobe complies as Echizen feeds in tens, giving him a handful of tokens. “I can get more after I kick your ass at this one, if you want to regain your honor.”
The carnie spots them, and his eyes light up. “Step rrright up, test your coordination against the AMAZING Ball Toss! Any ball in wins a prize, keep the streak going for the big pink elephant!”
Atobe has seen many American movies. All he has to do is win the pink elephant, give it to Echizen, and that makes them A Couple. Beside him Echizen cracks his knuckles, a look of deadly seriousness on his face. They both hand over a few tokens, and Echizen receives a stack of yellow balls, Atobe a stack of green. “That pink elephant is mine.”
“Then we’ll both be leaving with one, brat.”
“That’s my last pink elephant, gentlemen! Whoever’s balls go in first-“
As if that’s a cue, Atobe and Echizen start throwing balls as if there’s no tomorrow, sacrificing aiming for speed, both confident in their ability to do this much, at least. The balls aren’t too different in size from tennis balls, but the weight of them is distractingly different. Atobe’s first five balls go wide, and Echizen isn’t faring much better.
A bell rings, and the carnie laughs, emptying out the bucket-one dismal yellow ball rolls out, accompanied by one lonely green. “Well, you both get a prize! Can I get you the purple giraffe keychain, or-“
Two identical piles of tokens slide across the counter, and are quickly replaced with more yellow and green balls.
Ten minutes and two more goals later, the carnie is starting to sweat. “Look, gentlemen, there’s lots of other games, maybe you’ll have more luck-“
“No!” Atobe and Echizen say in unison, both deadly focused on the hoop. It’s rigged, a trick, it has to be, and Atobe glares at it, trying to force the stupid light balls (do they have holes in them to mess with the air resistance? Would that make a difference at this range?) to go in through the tilted, wobbling hoop.
After Echizen’s ninth trip to the change machine, cursing and kicking, the carnie leans in to talk to Atobe. “Fifty bucks. I’ll say you made it when he was away, give you the damn elephant.”
Atobe sighs, then hands over a hundred, grabbing the elephant by its useless tusk. It’s overstuffed, and he can see from close up that the filling is starting to poke out around the seams.
He comes up behind Echizen at the change machine and drapes the enormous beast over the kid’s shoulders. “He wanted to close up shop,” he lies, unable to tell the lie the carnie had expected. “Apparently we already spent enough to make it worthwhile.”
At least the carnie appears to have overheard him, and is currently drawing the shutters across his booth. Echizen makes a face and clicks his tongue, then shoves the elephant back towards Atobe. “You keep it, then.”
“Nonsense, I insist.”
Echizen glowers up at him. “I was just gonna give it to you if I won anyway.”
Atobe starts to argue then stops, suddenly charmed by that abrupt honesty. When’s the last time someone wanted to win him something, not just give it to him? “Joint custody,” he says, nodding firmly. “You’ll have full visitation rights when he’s at my house, of course.”
“She.”
“What, just because it’s pink? How backwards of you.”
Wordlessly, Echizen turns over the tag attached to the elephant’s arm, reading, “Hi! I’m Lisa!”
“That could mean anything. Lisa is a fine unisex name.”
“Whatever, Monkey King.”
On the plane ride back, Echizen wakes up, which is uncharacteristic of him. He blinks sleepily at Atobe for a moment (who wasn’t staring, just happened to be looking that way), and murmurs, “Lisa should live at your house. I’ll just come over and see her more often.”
Atobe gives in to temptation, and ruffles the brat’s hair. “You’d better. I’m too young to be a single parent.”
“Your accent is still weird.”
“But you like it.”
“Che.” Echizen doesn’t argue, and Atobe knows by now that it’s because he doesn’t want to.