(no subject)
Title: Publicity Stunts
Fandom: Prince of Tennis.
Featuring: AtoJi.
Genre: Fluff. *Groan.* Blame Jirou.
Words: ~ 840.
Rating: G.
Warnings: Heavy on the fluff.
Notes: See, whenever "Sweet C" comes on, I smile. No matter what kind of mood I'm in. So it came on earlier, and I smiled. I just sat and listened to Jirou for a bit -- I don't know why, I feel like I should find his voice annoying, but I really love it -- and this piece started up. I obliged and wrote it, and it kind of took its own path. And, funnily enough, it wound up reminding me more of "Waitin' For Your Love" than "Sweet C."
By the by, if anyone has translations to either of those songs, I'd love them. ♥
Sighing lightly, Atobe pressed thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, making a conscious effort to keep from furrowing his brow. It was important, he knew, to keep his expression serene and unperturbed, so as to prevent wrinkles, or that horrible crease in his brow that Shishido had from scowling all the time. But oh, how trying it could be.
The girls who had somehow manifested themselves around the open end of the booth were all giggling, beaming at him as if they'd done something he should praise them for. Personally, Atobe saw nothing. Their clothes were atrocious; he'd seen Ganguro girls with better makeup, and whatever prepossessing effect they thought their hairstyles were having on him, they weren't. Nonetheless, it would be unbecoming to be outright rude to them, so he settled on waving a dismissive hand and deliberately not smiling. They didn't bat an eyelash at his disinterest.
"Ne..." one of them began, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. Atobe felt his brow twitch. "Why's your friend sleeping?" She asked it in that way that made Atobe think she sincerely just wanted to hear him speak. Ordinarily, the idea might have made him smirk, but he was beginning to get a headache from their constant hounding, as well as whatever revolting combination of perfume the four of them were wearing.
The reason he'd come to Hakodate to begin with was to alleviate a little of the pressure that came along with Tokyo. He was known in Tokyo; his name was known, and in Tokyo, Jirou was only his friend. But here in Hokkaido, people wouldn't be likely to recognize him on sight, and if he didn't give his name, then for all the world cared, he and Jirou were just a pair of teenage boys in love.
But now that she'd brought it up, and now that the words were pressing at the back of Atobe's throat, he wasn't quite so assured. Certainly, it wasn't likely that these girls knew him, and there was only a very marginal chance that anyone would find out through some bizarre grapevine that he was dating Jirou, but who knew? Maybe, by some twist of fate meant specially for Atobe, one of these girls' mothers had a friend whose sister's doctor worked for Oshitari's father.
"I'm not his friend."
The girls all looked down, startled by the idea that the mop of honey-coloured curls on the seat across from Atobe might actually speak for himself. He was sitting up now, raking a hand through his hair and aiming lazy eyes their way.
Atobe saw them tense, their expressions brighten, just three more words from extolling Jirou's virtues. He was absolutely adorable, after all, even with the imprint of his jacket sleeve on his face and sleep still weighting his eyelids. And he'd filled out since juniour high, Atobe knew without looking, so stripping his jacket off was most likely a bonus for the giddy brats. But Jirou was smiling, a lazy, knowing smile that Atobe recognized to be sinister, above all else. At that, even Atobe's heart leapt a bit in anticipation. (How he adored the effect Jirou had on him at the most obscure times.)
Jirou discarded his jacket beside him on the seat, lips still curved idyllically. Atobe made note to kiss him after this; whatever Jirou was about to say or do was sure to deserve it.
"I'm his boyfriend," the brown-eyed boy continued, stretching languidly and then slumping over the table. "And the patchouli you're wearing is suffocating me."
Swiftly, Atobe took a drink of his ice water, hiding his smile behind the rim of his glass. He looked on as the girls' faces went through a cycle: bewilderment, comprehension, disbelief, shock, and finally, offense. They quickly flitted away, clinging to each other's arms with loud whispers ("Can you believe that?" - "They don't seem gay.") and nervous glances back.
After their departure, Jirou was motionless, still draped over the table. He blinked slowly at his boyfriend, who was standing now, moving around the table to slide in beside Jirou. One arm stretched along the back of the booth, sitting sideways to face him, Atobe pulled him upright, cupping his jaw in one hand, and he kissed him.
There was a rush to it; they were in public, and the restaurant patrons were turning out expressions of alarm. Jirou's lips were warm and soft, his kiss unhurried, and now everyone in the restaurant knew - they belonged together. Atobe wrapped both arms around the older boy, even as their lips parted from one another's and they hovered, unwilling to pull away. After a glance into Jirou's bright, alert eyes, he breathed, "I love you," his tone bordering on reverent. It was amazing, the difference between secrecy and public affection.
Jirou smiled, sincere and saccharine-sweet, and sat back, breaking the circle of Atobe's arms.
"I know," he said, picking up the menu from the table. "I was waiting for you."
Fandom: Prince of Tennis.
Featuring: AtoJi.
Genre: Fluff. *Groan.* Blame Jirou.
Words: ~ 840.
Rating: G.
Warnings: Heavy on the fluff.
Notes: See, whenever "Sweet C" comes on, I smile. No matter what kind of mood I'm in. So it came on earlier, and I smiled. I just sat and listened to Jirou for a bit -- I don't know why, I feel like I should find his voice annoying, but I really love it -- and this piece started up. I obliged and wrote it, and it kind of took its own path. And, funnily enough, it wound up reminding me more of "Waitin' For Your Love" than "Sweet C."
By the by, if anyone has translations to either of those songs, I'd love them. ♥
Sighing lightly, Atobe pressed thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, making a conscious effort to keep from furrowing his brow. It was important, he knew, to keep his expression serene and unperturbed, so as to prevent wrinkles, or that horrible crease in his brow that Shishido had from scowling all the time. But oh, how trying it could be.
The girls who had somehow manifested themselves around the open end of the booth were all giggling, beaming at him as if they'd done something he should praise them for. Personally, Atobe saw nothing. Their clothes were atrocious; he'd seen Ganguro girls with better makeup, and whatever prepossessing effect they thought their hairstyles were having on him, they weren't. Nonetheless, it would be unbecoming to be outright rude to them, so he settled on waving a dismissive hand and deliberately not smiling. They didn't bat an eyelash at his disinterest.
"Ne..." one of them began, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. Atobe felt his brow twitch. "Why's your friend sleeping?" She asked it in that way that made Atobe think she sincerely just wanted to hear him speak. Ordinarily, the idea might have made him smirk, but he was beginning to get a headache from their constant hounding, as well as whatever revolting combination of perfume the four of them were wearing.
The reason he'd come to Hakodate to begin with was to alleviate a little of the pressure that came along with Tokyo. He was known in Tokyo; his name was known, and in Tokyo, Jirou was only his friend. But here in Hokkaido, people wouldn't be likely to recognize him on sight, and if he didn't give his name, then for all the world cared, he and Jirou were just a pair of teenage boys in love.
But now that she'd brought it up, and now that the words were pressing at the back of Atobe's throat, he wasn't quite so assured. Certainly, it wasn't likely that these girls knew him, and there was only a very marginal chance that anyone would find out through some bizarre grapevine that he was dating Jirou, but who knew? Maybe, by some twist of fate meant specially for Atobe, one of these girls' mothers had a friend whose sister's doctor worked for Oshitari's father.
"I'm not his friend."
The girls all looked down, startled by the idea that the mop of honey-coloured curls on the seat across from Atobe might actually speak for himself. He was sitting up now, raking a hand through his hair and aiming lazy eyes their way.
Atobe saw them tense, their expressions brighten, just three more words from extolling Jirou's virtues. He was absolutely adorable, after all, even with the imprint of his jacket sleeve on his face and sleep still weighting his eyelids. And he'd filled out since juniour high, Atobe knew without looking, so stripping his jacket off was most likely a bonus for the giddy brats. But Jirou was smiling, a lazy, knowing smile that Atobe recognized to be sinister, above all else. At that, even Atobe's heart leapt a bit in anticipation. (How he adored the effect Jirou had on him at the most obscure times.)
Jirou discarded his jacket beside him on the seat, lips still curved idyllically. Atobe made note to kiss him after this; whatever Jirou was about to say or do was sure to deserve it.
"I'm his boyfriend," the brown-eyed boy continued, stretching languidly and then slumping over the table. "And the patchouli you're wearing is suffocating me."
Swiftly, Atobe took a drink of his ice water, hiding his smile behind the rim of his glass. He looked on as the girls' faces went through a cycle: bewilderment, comprehension, disbelief, shock, and finally, offense. They quickly flitted away, clinging to each other's arms with loud whispers ("Can you believe that?" - "They don't seem gay.") and nervous glances back.
After their departure, Jirou was motionless, still draped over the table. He blinked slowly at his boyfriend, who was standing now, moving around the table to slide in beside Jirou. One arm stretched along the back of the booth, sitting sideways to face him, Atobe pulled him upright, cupping his jaw in one hand, and he kissed him.
There was a rush to it; they were in public, and the restaurant patrons were turning out expressions of alarm. Jirou's lips were warm and soft, his kiss unhurried, and now everyone in the restaurant knew - they belonged together. Atobe wrapped both arms around the older boy, even as their lips parted from one another's and they hovered, unwilling to pull away. After a glance into Jirou's bright, alert eyes, he breathed, "I love you," his tone bordering on reverent. It was amazing, the difference between secrecy and public affection.
Jirou smiled, sincere and saccharine-sweet, and sat back, breaking the circle of Atobe's arms.
"I know," he said, picking up the menu from the table. "I was waiting for you."