Fic for tokyostory, part 1/3
Title: On the Condition of Anonymity, and Other Fallacies
Recipient:tokyostory
Pairing/Characters: Oshitari/Atobe
Rating: R, for language.
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue.
Summary: Hyoutei discovers the joy of anonymous note-leaving. Little joy ensues.
Notes: tokyostory, I really, really hope you enjoy this. It was a labour of something -- perhaps not always of love -- to write. <3 (Apologies for the three parts; the fic just would not break up neatly and economically.)
“This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.”
Walt Whitman
It doesn’t begin like an utter disaster. There is nothing ominous about the first note when it appears the Monday after Golden Week ends; the sky is clear, the temperature warmish, and the written contents displayed for all to see are entirely innocuous.
“Bit early in the term for love confessions, don’t you think,” muses Oshitari, using his height to peer over the small crowd at the note. It’s a girlish effort, typed on pale purple stationery and stuck to the wall directly across from the cloakroom. “Oh, him. Isn’t he in our English class?”
“Who,” Atobe says, distractedly. The first bell is about to ring, and he’s rummaging through his planner, brow furrowed.
“He’s the one with the -- oh, give me that,” Oshitari sighs, tugging the planner from Atobe’s unsuspecting grip. Atobe makes a singular attempt at retrieving it and gives up promptly when Oshitari turns away in a neat dodge. Atobe makes a noise of displeasure. “Don’t have a tantrum, I’ll give it back shortly. What are you looking for?”
“A piece of paper,” Atobe hisses, standing firm against the students now jostling about him, impatient to see the note attached to the wall and doubtlessly irritated at the roadblock that is Atobe and Oshitari. “A piece of paper with words on it that I would very much like to reference, if you please.”
“Is it the revised practice schedule,” Oshitari asks keenly, and Atobe is half a second too slow with his denial. Oshitari gives Atobe a pitying look. “I really can’t give this back until I’ve reviewed it myself, you know.”
“You absolutely don’t need to do that, actually --”
Oshitari has found the page. “Oh god, why so many mornings? Keigo, do you hate us? Tell the truth, I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Yes, I hate all of you passionately,” Atobe agrees, in a bright tone that earns more than a few questioning stares, but Oshitari is ignoring him.
“I am really not going to show up for half of these practices,” he laments, passing the planner back to Atobe in a slow movement. “I’m not even going to try.”
“You never try,” hisses Atobe, snatching it back viciously. “And I don’t care how many people I have to hate, so long as they all follow the damn schedule like I tell them to.”
“I thought you were going to make it better,” Oshitari groans. Atobe prods him in the side with the more textbook-heavy section of his bag until Oshitari starts slumping down the corridor. “I thought, in my foolish, youthful innocence, that when you said, ‘I’m going to revise the schedule after Golden Week’, and that when we all said, ‘Please, Keigo, we are a meek people, we cannot do seven in the morning’, that things would change. That there would be improvement.”
“Things have changed,” Atobe grins, viciously, “We are now doing six-thirty in the mornings so that we can have Mondays off. Or do we not like days off now?"
“Everyone is going to die,” pronounces Oshitari, authoritatively. “I do hope you’re happy.”
“I’ll be happier when we decimate the competition next month,” says Atobe, contemplatively. He gives Oshitari’s back a hard shove when Oshitari makes to turn around and argue the point. “You can talk while walking, Yuushi.”
“Tell me when I’m to breathe next, yes?” Oshitari simpers, darting into his homeroom class before Atobe’s second shove can land. “Save me an aisle seat in history, I refuse to be sat between you and Ryou for another month.”
“I’m the one who just wants to be left alone to take notes and pay attention,” Atobe scoffs, as Oshitari lingers at the doorway. “If you want the aisles seat, you’ll have to beat me to it.”
Oshitari’s smile when Atobe enters their history classroom to see the empty space between Oshitari and a half-eaten apple that is ostensibly serving to represent Shishido is nothing short of beatific.
“What in the hell,” Mukahi says, trudging in behind Atobe and poking the apple with a cautious finger. He sits down one seat over and glares at Oshitari pointedly. Atobe edges his own chair closer to Oshitari’s and farther away from the apple, and rolls his eyes.
“Ryou needs more fruit in his diet,” Oshitari offers kindly. Mukahi snorts.
“That’ll go over like a lead balloon with Mister Protein Bar,” he remarks, just as the mister in question makes an appearance, prompting Atobe to shuffle his seat even closer to Oshitari, so there can be no mistake as to which seat Shishido is intended to occupy. “Gonna talk at us about amino acids again?”
“The fuck is this,” Shishido says, scowling at the apple and then at Atobe. “Oh hell, you’re sitting next to me again? Fucking awesome, totally rag me about my penmanship more, will you?”
“The gift of nutrition,” supplies Oshitari, cheerily. Shishido makes a swiping motion towards the apple, which makes Atobe flinch and Mukahi roar with laughter, and then punts it onto the floor. “And now you’re destined for scurvy.”
“You’re thinking of oranges,” notes Atobe, as Shishido proceeds to spread his entire schoolbag on his tablespace as well as Mukahi and Atobe’s. “Mukahi, just because I have reflexes --”
“You’re such a fag sometimes,” Shishido grins, and at Atobe’s expression, “Woah now, save it for the courts, big shot.”
“Yes, save it for tomorrow morning at ungodly o'clock,” hisses Oshitari mutinously. Mukahi stops laughing.
“It’s not that early,” Atobe says quickly, over the squawks of outrage and demands for elaboration. “It’s after six! Mondays off!”
“You’re a shit salesman, and I’m going to find that apple and shove it through your eye socket,” Shishido proclaims, unfortunately cut off from his search by Tako-sensei’s entrance. He makes a silent but effective gesture at Atobe to compensate.
“Good morning and welcome back,” Tako-sensei begins. “I suppose you’ll all be wanting to know the details about your test next Thursday.”
Oshitari taps his pen against his textbook five times in quick succession, and Atobe gets a kick in the shin from Shishido.
* * *
“I am done justifying this,” Atobe explodes, finally, after nearly half of the lunch period has passed and the topic of conversation remains unchanged. “Six-thirty, and I’ll be more than pleased to dole out laps to whoever would like to disagree further!”
“Aw,” whines Mukahi, mouth half full with the granola bar he’s stolen from Jiroh’s tray. “Stop being a bitch, Atobe!”
“As if he can,” Shishido snorts, kicking Atobe’s shin from underneath and across the table.
“Kick me one more time, Shishido,” Atobe invites, wearing a smile that can only be described as gruesome. “I dare you.”
“Right, pleasant start to the month,” Oshitari beams, clapping his hands together in fake delight. “None of us are getting sleep ever again, our tireless leader hates us, and oh yes, Ryou is going to be the very first amputee player in Hyoutei’s illustrious history.”
“Wouldn’t be an essential bit,” supplies Atobe with a horrible sort of cheerfulness. Shishido goes conspicuously pale. Oshitari flings a companionable arm over Atobe’s shoulders, which earns Atobe a spilled drink and Oshitari a snarled, “For god’s sake, Yuushi --”
“Oh, Kei-chan,” Oshitari declares, emphatically, “you are my most favourite person.”
“Well, that does it; I’m won over! No morning practices after all, I take it all back, I’m a changed man,” Atobe replies sardonically, attempting to pluck Oshitari’s arm off his person and succeeding for all of five seconds. “Honestly, why do you even --”
“Piyo!” Jiroh yelps, with no preamble or warning whatsoever. They all swivel their heads in the direction of Jiroh’s enthused flailing, and Atobe has to push Oshitari’s head out of his way to properly take in Hiyoshi’s peeved expression. “Come over here! Hi!”
“Hello,” greets Hiyoshi, very measuredly. He comes over to hover by the table, well out of reach of any sudden grabs for his person. “I thought we were having a short meeting after school.”
“Don’t be an antisocial snotrag,” Mukahi grins, and shoves Shishido over hard, nearly toppling him over. “Sit down and talk with your senpai.”
“No,” says Hiyoshi, flatly. He backs up a little when Shishido starts to throw punches in retaliation for Mukahi’s previous violence. “Shishido-senpai, I’ll tell Ohtori that you said hi.”
“Yeah, also tell him we need to work out our weekend schedule again,” yells Shishido, over the increasing volume of Mukahi’s shrieks. Hiyoshi frowns at all of them like a displeased lord, and makes no motion to leave.
“Did you want a written farewell, Piyo?” asks Oshitari. Atobe grins, and takes an elegant sip of what’s left of his spilled milk carton, which is somewhat undermined as a majestic act due to the continued restricting presence of Oshitari’s arm. Hiyoshi’s scowl intensifies. “We could post it on the wall later, if you like.”
“Oh shit,” Mukahi exclaims. “There’s two more up, did you guys see?”
“This is going to be the lamest fad ever,” Shishido decries, rolling his eyes. “So, are you going to tell us? What did they say?”
“Lame things, clearly,” says Atobe. Oshitari shushes him, and waves his free hand at Hiyoshi, who has begun to slink away, in fond farewell.
“Lame for some people,” Mukahi beams. “Apparently Himiko in third year --”
“Oh man, her tits,” Shishido sighs, to no one’s surprise. “What about her, does she like younger men? Does she put out?”
“Like you’d have a chance,” scoffs Mukahi, and there is another brief episode of violence that ends only when Oshitari treks over the other side of the table and physically separates the offending parties.
“Yeah, so, about her tits,” Mukahi reattempts, glaring at Shishido. “Apparently they’re all flash and no substance, if you know what I mean.” He pauses dramatically, waggling his eyebrows. “And I think that you do.”
“Fuck,” Shishido bellows, like someone has disembowelled his dog in front of him. “Fuck!”
“The more you know,” says Oshitari, with a philosophical shrug. Shishido drops his head onto the table with a dull thud, and begins to wax melancholic on the topic of life’s many lies and deceptions. “What was the other one?”
“It was a performance critique,” Mukahi answers, watching Shishido’s head rhythmically hit the table. “Apparently it really is the size of the wave, and not the motion of the ocean. Unfortunately for Shishido.”
Shishido emits a guttural noise, and the table shudders with the force of his head slamming it.
“How have we gone from love confessions to this in the space of three hours,” Atobe complains. “No one wants to hear about this sort of thing!”
Shishido ceases his self-harm in order to stare, and even Jiroh’s expression is incredulous. A muscle in Atobe’s left temple jumps.
“Well, I’ve always known I was the only one with class and substance, but this is a new low,” he scowls.
“Sounds about right,” agrees Shishido, standing up and gathering his backpack somewhat woozily. “Who wants to come with and have a look?”
Mukahi scrambles to his feet, stuffing the remnants of his sandwich into his mouth hurriedly. Jiroh yawns, and curls up on the space Mukahi vacates.
Oshitari makes a show of stretching, and hums indecisively, rising slowly. Atobe gives him a look. Shishido and Mukahi are already out of the building.
“Calm down,” Oshitari tells Atobe, quirking a brow. “I’m going to the little boy’s room, if that’s morally acceptable to you.”
“Like hell you are,” Atobe mutters, and finishes his lunch to the dulcet tones of Jiroh’s contented snoring.
* * *
“Excuse me,” Atobe grits out, shouldering past what seems like the entire student body, clustered in front of the wall in front of the cloakroom. He glances at the thick of it: the morning’s solitary note has mutated into a veritable colony, like fungi multiplying overnight.
He changes into his street shoes as quickly as possible, and escapes into the warm May afternoon.
Kabaji is the only one waiting for him at the entrance of the clubhouse. Atobe tugs his sleeve up in order to glare at his wristwatch.
“Three minutes, so help me,” is all he says. Kabaji nods mutely. Atobe stalks back and forth, a short three metre track, and stops only when Hiyoshi appears.
“I’m on time,” Hiyoshi mutters defensively, at Atobe’s scowl.
“Am I supposed to be grateful? To thank you for doing the bare minimum of showing up on time?”
“Someone had a bad last class,” Oshitari murmurs, about two centimetres away from Atobe’s left ear. Atobe suppresses his initial reaction to jump six feet in the air, with visible effort. “I am also on time, and would like a proper thank you for it.”
“Where’s the rest of the stupid brigade,” Atobe demands, crossing his arms and staring Oshitari down, which he manages even with Oshitari’s few inches of superior height. Oshitari remains in Atobe’s personal space, hands in pockets and wearing an expression of vague contentment. “If they’re looking at the damn wall --”
“Damn, I knew I’d forgotten to do something,” exclaims Oshitari, hands flying up in brief irritation and whapping Atobe’s ribcage. “So sorry, my sweet.”
“I don’t get it,” Hiyoshi frowns, while Atobe flails at Oshitari and succeeds in regaining his personal space.
“Good,” says Atobe, testily. He looks at his watch again. “Officially late.”
It is another five minutes before Shishido and Mukahi turn up, lugging a half-asleep Jiroh between them and cackling about the now-public misfortunes and deficiencies of their classmates.
“Stop scowling like that,” whispers Oshitari to Atobe, who clamps a hand over the ear Oshitari has all but just breathed in. “You’ll get gruesome frownlines.”
“Yuushi, shut up,” Atobe sighs. “Where’s Ohtori? Shishido?”
“I’m not his keeper,” snarks Shishido.
“More like the reverse,” agrees Mukahi.
“Oh, I’m sorry, was that a member of doubles two that just spoke to me?” Shishido grins, putting his hands on his hips in remonstrance. “Was your opinion supposed to matter or something?”
“Die in a fire,” Mukahi snarls, holding up a choice finger. “You’re not doubles anything if Ohtori never shows, dickface.”
“Speak of the devil,” Oshitari interrupts smoothly, nodding his head at a very flustered-looking Ohtori, who is rushing towards them with his bag half-open, three books under one arm and a violin case under the other.
“I’m so sorry,” he bursts out, skidding to a stop next to Shishido, who claps him on the arm affectionately. Two of the books fall to the ground, and Shishido bends to pick them up, sheepish. “I was in the music room, I really need to practice, I lost track of time, I’m sorry, I didn’t --”
“All right,” Atobe intercedes quickly, when the danger of endless loop becomes apparent. “This won’t take five minutes: we have a new practice schedule that I wanted to formalize, and no, editorial comments are not allowed,” he says, stonily. “So, once more --”
“With feeling,” Oshitari adds cheerily, and Atobe rolls his eyes before carrying on.
* * *
Tuesday morning dawns pale and bedraggled-looking, a scattering of thin clouds visible in the sky when Atobe’s limo drops him off at five to six.
Atobe lets out a loud yawn on his way to the clubhouse, and nearly jumps out of his skin when Miho from his Greek class skitters by, giggling under her hand as she greets him.
“Good morning,” he manages, though she’s already up to the school steps and pulling open the main doors. He hurries on to the clubhouse, keys at the ready, a little disconcerted.
The clubhouse is empty. Atobe exhales, sets his things in his personal locker, and methodically changes into his running wear. He’s adjusting his wristbands when the door opens like an explosion, and Shishido comes parading in.
“Morning, Atobe! How goes?”
Atobe just stares. Shishido fidgets, his huge grin wavering but not falling, and Atobe eventually gets out, “What in the hell are you doing here? What was Miho doing here? Does no one know what time it is anymore?”
“You bloody hypocrite,” Shishido laughs, good-humouredly. He takes off his cap in order to rake both hands through his hair, putting it in further disarray. “Probably looking at the wall. Girls are all over that shit.”
“Are you serious,” Atobe gapes, staring. Shishido shrugs, rocking back and forth on his heels. “You’re serious!”
“The wall is awesome,” Shishido says, decidedly. “Ask me why.”
“No,” Atobe says, and leaves to begin his customary lap running.
He loops around the courts long enough and quickly enough to work up a decent sweat. Students call out to him from outside the courts like they routinely arrive for school two hours early. “Seriously?” Atobe asks himself again, under his breath.
“Seriously!” Shishido crows, emerging from the clubhouse alongside the rest of the regulars. Atobe jogs over with supreme trepidation and unrest: it’s barely twenty after six. “Why would I lie about this?”
“You lie all the fucking time,” Mukahi exclaimed, “don’t be retarded!”
“I’m not retarded, I’m an object of lust,” Shishido asserts, puffing his chest out. Mukahi makes a tortured sound.
“I don’t believe it and I don’t want to think about it,” he says, wincing at Atobe. “Make him run laps, yeah?”
Atobe pinches the bridge of his nose.
“So no one will come early for the sake of our team’s success,” he enunciates, “but for some stupid anonymous notes, half the school shows up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”
“A girl,” Shishido says, didactically and in a tone similar to one use with small, misbehaving children, “wants to sex me up. Fuck yes, I’m showing up for that!”
“Maybe Atobe should offer to sex people up,” Mukahi muses. “That’d draw crowds.”
“What the fuck?” Shishido and Atobe say, in perfect tandem. Atobe crosses his arms, looking furious. Shishido snorts. “That’s gay, tardface.”
“When’re we starting practice,” Hiyoshi mutters, shifting his racket from hand to hand restlessly.
“When we’re done talking about my totally-going-to-happen sexy prospects,” Shishido tells him.
“She wrote that she likes you, not necessarily that she --”
“Whatever, Choutarou, same damn thing.” Shishido puts his hands behind his head and beams out at the world. They all gaze at him, expressions funereal.
“Where is Yuushi,” Atobe sighs. “We’ll start at six-thirty; in five minutes.”
“I’ll go check the wall,” Mukahi offers excitedly. “He might be there!”
“Twenty warm-up laps,” Atobe says, loudly. “Now, thank you!”
The laps don’t take more than three minutes to start to look more like a moving conversation group than anything athletically productive, and Atobe opens his mouth to scream some select words.
“You look displeased,” Oshitari comments, from next to Atobe. “What have I told you about frown lines, Kei-chan.”
“What are you doing,” Atobe sputters, gesturing at the newspaper tucked under Oshitari’s arm and the oversized mug of coffee he’s sipping from. “Do you know what time it is!”
“It sucks to be a salaryman,” Oshitari shrugs, ambling over to the clubhouse and waving at Mukahi and Jiroh with the newspaper. “Follow, Keigo.”
“This is not funny,” Atobe snarls, storming towards Oshitari and the door being held open for him. “And if you were looking at the wall, so help me --”
“Look,” Oshitari says, plucking a brightly-coloured brochure from the depths of his bag and dangling it in front of Atobe’s face. “Isn’t this nice?”
“Paper, yes, great, now explain to me why you’re,” Atobe trails off. “Greek sculpture?”
“Thank you, I’ve always considered my physique to be marble-like, personally,” grins Oshitari. He lets go of the brochure when Atobe reaches to take it. “A modern Adonis, chiselled from the quarries in Carrara --”
“Stop talking,” Atobe tells him, bemused. He reads through the short description, and then looks up at Oshitari, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I hope you’re not attempting to make nice with regards to your tardiness, Yuushi.”
“That would be sneaky and wrong,” Oshitari recites, angelically. “I will pay your museum entrance fee this coming Sunday if you don’t give me laps.”
“Your machinations become stupider with every passing year,” says Atobe. He rolls up the brochure, smacking Oshitari’s forehead with it lightly. “I’m thinking of a number between one and fifty-one.”
“It’s not one, is it?” Oshitari rubs his forehead woefully. Atobe’s expression does not shift in the slightest. “Fifty it is. You must really hate me.”
“No crying about it on court,” Atobe instructs, following Oshitari back out. The subregulars are beginning to trickle in for their later start-time, and Atobe turns his attentions to them.
Practice flies by, but Shishido’s obnoxious jubilation and Oshitari’s melodramatic sulk do not end with it. Atobe locks up the clubhouse to the symphonic tones of Mukahi’s repeated threats of punching Shishido in the balls (“Kinky,” Shishido smirks. “Maybe she’ll be into that sort of thing: hot.”), coupled with Oshitari’s never-ended iteration of Atobe’s many faults as a friend and human being. The coda to it all comes when Hiyoshi, irate and at the end of patience, says,
“Shut up now,” with simple finality to Shishido. There is a pause. “Shishido-senpai.”
“You uppity --”
“You know what’s interesting?” Atobe cuts in, fed up. “The wall. Think of the bounty of notes that may await you while you all dally here!”
Predictably, the squabbling comes to a quick halt, and Atobe is allowed to continue on to his first class in unchallenged tranquility.
This peace lasts until the class before lunch, which he unfortunately shares with Oshitari.
Atobe has taken two-thirds of a page down on Plato, and there are no less than seven folded missives sitting on his desk. No amount of glaring and hissed cease-and-desist orders have helped.
Number eight lands with a docile bump against Atobe’s wrist. Atobe squeezes his eyes shut. pressing his thumb against his temple, which apparently is as worthy a target as any for note number nine.
Atobe unfolds it ferociously.
Don’t you want to knooooow, is all it reads. Atobe looks up at Oshitari, balefully. Oshitari mimes writing, and gestures at Atobe.
Atobe writes back, My level of uncaring cannot be mathematically expressed at this point in scientific history. The note hits Oshitari’s nose with unexpected force, and Oshitari’s squawk draws enough attention from their teacher to dissuade any further attempts at communication.
“There’s one accusing Gakuto of dyeing his hair,” Oshitari tells him, as they’re leaving class. “And another about him having a Napoleon complex, that one’s my favourite so far --”
“You have favourites now?” says Atobe, chagrinned. “And doesn’t Mukahi dye his hair?”
“Let the lady have her secrets, please, Keigo,” Oshitari beseeches him, holding his hands up in supplication. Atobe laughs, shaking his head. “Honestly, I can’t make this stuff up, it’s magical.”
“I suppose when you start to get love confessions like Shishido, you’ll be even more insufferable,” Atobe sighs, shuffling through his notes as they walk.
“Start to get love confessions?” Oshitari asks, nudging Atobe’s elbow. “Shishido just has selective vision, is all.”
“Then I’m positive there are some for me,” guesses Atobe, redoubling his sighs. Oshitari turns around, planting his hands on Atobe’s chest and causing a minor pile-up in the corridor.
“How do you live with it,” he cries. “Oh Keigo, truly, yours is a martyred life --”
“Shut up --”
“People liking you! What’s next, people giving you things? Admiration? God forbid --”
Atobe presses on down the corridor, but only manages to escape the sound of Oshitari’s voice when he reaches the wall before the cloakroom. It’s like a funnel of noise and humanity, and Atobe takes it in for a good few seconds before turning on his heel and hustling to Greek class.
Lunch period is largely derivative of the day prior, to Atobe’s visible irritation.
“I know who it was,” Shishido is telling them. “It’s that girl in our chemistry class, the one who always curls her hair.”
“Yeah, she looks like she’d settle,” Mukahi says, mouth full. Atobe looks at him, disgusted. “What?”
“Are you going to confess back?” Oshitari asks Shishido. Shishido’s slow grin is all the answer anyone needs. “Ah, true romance.”
“Whatever,” dismisses Shishido. “Mukahi, are you going to go check it again?”
“I could,” says Mukahi, slowly, “or I could finish eating --”
“No, fuck that, go look,” Shishido cries. “There could be love and tits waiting for you, too!”
“Love and tits,” Oshitari echoes to Atobe quietly, and they share an eyeroll. Mukahi staggers out of his seat and elbows Shishido in the back of the head as he leaves; Shishido’s resulting bellow is enough to wake Jiroh.
“What’s happened,” he yawns, and Shishido and Oshitari proceed to fill him in on what must be the contents of dozens upon dozens of notes, while Atobe stares at them in morbid fascination.
“Fuck,” Mukahi announces, throwing himself back at their table. He pushes the tray that Jiroh and Shishido have been picking at in his absence towards the centre of the table, setting his crossed arms there. “Who wrote it?”
“Who wrote what,” Oshitari asks, reasonably.
“Not you,” scowls Mukahi. He turns to Shishido. “It’s on the wall, and I’m not fucking happy about it!”
“Stop prancing around and tell us what it is,” insists Shishido, reaching for Mukahi’s abdicated lunch tray.
“Urgh,” whines Mukahi. “That time in fifth grade?”
“HA,” is all Shishido says, nearly choking on the rice snack he’s stolen. Jiroh pounds his back helpfully.
“This is not interesting,” sighs Oshitari.
“The actual picture? The actual picture is there on the wall?” Shishido chokes out, as he attempts to hack up the rice snack. “Like, the picture of you with your pants around your --”
“Oh my god shut up you fuckhead,” cries Mukahi, all in a rush. He’s gone spectacularly red. Shishido explodes into laughter, sliding down underneath the table.
“Wasn’t us,” Jiroh says, laughingly. “I’d forgotten!”
“Not so fun anymore, is it,” Atobe points out to Mukahi, smugly. Mukahi gives him the finger, and Oshitari gasps with exaggerated shock.
“Atobe-buchou,” says Hiyoshi’s voice, and Atobe turns around to see him. “Can I borrow the club keys until tomorrow?”
“You actually have no manners at all,” frowns Atobe. “And no, you may not.”
“Why not?” Hiyoshi complains, as Shishido starts to snap his fingers at Hiyoshi, drawing his attention. “Yeah, Shishido-senpai?”
“Didn’t you pass on my message to Choutarou?”
“Of course I did,” says Hiyoshi, affronted. “He’s busy, you know.”
“I know that, shithead,” growls Shishido. “Now go away and stop bothering Atobe, he’s already got his panties in a twist --”
“I beg your pardon,” Atobe gapes, and gets no further in his rebuttal than that before Oshitari interrupts.
“Be more sympathetic, Ryou-kun,” Oshitari implores. “Kei-chan just doesn’t want you to find true love before he does, it’s really --”
“I will get you your very own, personal copy of the keys if you kill him for me,” Atobe tells Hiyoshi, levelly. Hiyoshi blinks.
“Oh god, don’t contemplate it,” Oshitari howls, after Hiyoshi’s answer is delayed by the ringing of the school bell.
* * *
Ohtori pulls Atobe aside halfway through practice on Wednesday morning, looking disconsolate.
“I’m sorry,” he prefaces, and Atobe stares at him blankly until he continues. “I can’t make practice tomorrow morning, I’m scheduled for a violin lesson --”
“Well,” Atobe begins, but Ohtori keeps talking.
“I know the time is weird, I don’t usually do mornings, but it’s important and --”
“All right,” Atobe cuts in. “Unfortunately I have a student council meeting afterschool that day, so we can’t reschedule --”
“Reschedule what,” Shishido asks, approaching them and trailed by Hiyoshi, who’s carrying five ball containers and looking livid about it.
“Oh, because of my violin thing,” says Ohtori, brows pinched. “I really am sorry.”
“So we’re missing practice,” Hiyoshi says, starkly. Atobe looks at him.
“We’re a team,” he says. “We can’t really be a team if someone is missing, and what the hell will Shishido do, play singles?”
“Fuck off,” Shishido says, but he rolls his eyes good-naturedly after a moment. Hiyoshi continues to scowl. “Hey, it’s not Choutarou’s fault! Back off!”
“Fine,” says Hiyoshi, tightly. He shoves the ball containers at Shishido’s chest. “I’m not carrying these anymore, Shishido-senpai.”
Shishido manages to hold on to two of them while the rest clatter to the ground. He throws both at Hiyoshi, who dashes off unscathed.
“Nice aim.”
“Shut up, Atobe.”
* * *
“Shut up, Yuushi,” Atobe says, later on in the day as they head to philosophy. “I do not want an abridged version, I do not want any version --”
“They are so entertaining,” Oshitari wails, trailing behind Atobe. “If you would just open up your mind --”
“New topic, please,” Atobe scowls. They walk in silence for a few steps.
“The museum exhibit?” Oshitari attempts. Atobe looks ceiling-ward in relief.
“Yes, thank you, let’s talk about that,” he agrees, pleased. “I definitely want to go on Sunday.”
“It’s a date, then,” Oshitari says beamingly, coming up to walk next to Atobe. Atobe jostles his shoulder lightly.
“Get a girlfriend, Yuushi,” he grins. Oshitari’s face lights up.
“Speaking of girlfriends, you know that bleach blonde in our maths class --”
“Oh god,” Atobe whines, and hurries ahead to class, trying unsuccessfully to escape Oshitari’s debriefing.
This tactic, however, does not work at lunch time.
“It sure was windy this morning,” Atobe says, a propos nothing. Oshitari looks at him oddly, and Shishido flaps his hand at Atobe and whines at Mukahi to repeat himself.
“Yeah, so apparently they’re breaking up, or they’re going to break up, or maybe she’s just going to slap him afterschool or something,” Mukahi tells his captive audience. “But the real kicker is that Jiroh overheard him talking in the hall -- tell them what you heard, Jiroh!”
“He didn’t even write it,” adds Jiroh, in an excited whisper. “One of his friends did, because --”
“Because he’d told them about it,” Mukahi interrupts, unable to restrain himself. Oshitari clucks his tongue with disapproval, and Shishido pounds the table excitedly. Mukahi drops his voice to a near-inaudible murmur, adding, “Either that or he’s experienced it firsthand.”
“Holy fuck,” Shishido crows, mouth agape. He makes a levelling motion with his hand. “This. The bar has been set.”
“I had a bit of trouble with my chemistry homework last night,” says Atobe. Oshitari turns to face him.
“In what universe was that a relevant comment, Keigo?” he asks, amusedly. Atobe colours.
“I am trying to steer the conversation towards something that is -- not this,” hisses Atobe. Oshitari’s eyeroll is cinematic in scale, and only dwarfed by Shishido’s.
“Are you seriously going to be like this?” Oshitari asks. “You’re going to play moral high-roller until, when exactly --”
“Until this goes out of vogue, is when,” Atobe huffs. “It’s of no import to me, but I do grow weary of the monotony of these conversation topics.”
“D’you think,” Mukahi says, keenly, “no one’s writing things about you?”
Atobe tilts up his chin. “I am quite sure that anything anyone has to say to me, they’d say it in person.”
There is a moment of disbelieving silence.
“You are the fucking stupidest person I know,” announces Shishido, with great personal conviction. He points at Atobe damningly. “Reality: learn you some.”
“What the fuck does that mean,” Atobe challenges, red in the face. Oshitari raises his hand, as though waiting to be called on in class. “What, Yuushi.”
“Don’t take this the wrong --” Oshitari gets a good look at Atobe’s face, and clears his throat. “Well, don’t shoot the messenger, but you’re probably the last person in the entire school to whom people would be comfortable telling deep dark secrets.”
“You tell me deep dark secrets all the time,” Atobe scoffs, mutinously. “Like that summer with whatserface; I don’t even want to know half the garbage you tell me --”
“So you’re saying that the average student, who has never hung out with you in a friendly capacity, never had any interaction with you that wasn’t mediated by either your role in the student council or in the tennis club, would be totally at ease to tell you, what,” Oshitari prompts, turning to the rest of them. Mukahi jumps in.
“That your glasses are really unflattering,” he blurts out. Oshitari looks at him. “If Atobe wore glasses. If --”
“Oops,” laughs Jiroh.
“That note hurt me deeply, Gakkun,” Oshitari intones. “It was also boring because I can, in fact, recognize Jiroh’s handwriting.”
“Well, they are,” Mukahi says, sulkily. “Get less ugly ones.”
“Or get rid of them entirely,” Atobe proposes. Oshitari raises his eyebrow. Atobe fidgets and declines to elaborate.
“Well,” Oshitari resumes slowly, “the point is that while Gakuto, in his unfiltered glory, can say that to my face, most people would appreciate the anonymity when it comes to you.”
“Then they aren’t worth my time,” says Atobe, decisively. “I refuse to give credence to any of it.”
“What if it were something that pissed you off,” Shishido grins. “What if we posted embarrassing pictures from New Years --”
“Yes, I would never figure out who those came from,” Atobe snorts. He folds his hands atop the table, and stares seriously at them each in turn. “I also trust certain people with my personal secrets.”
“Guilt-tripping is not on,” Shishido moans. “You’re ruining it!”
“I do what I can,” Atobe says, grinning like the cat who ate the canary.
* * *
Atobe wakes up on Thursday morning at exactly the same time he would’ve if he hadn’t cancelled the practice. This is not intentional; his mobile phone will not stop ringing, and no one is leaving any messages.
The calls continue, as Atobe goes through his morning routine and assembles the night’s homework neatly in his school bag. He has to speak over the ringing in order to greet his chauffeur; at this point, not answer has become a thing of principle.
Shishido all but barges into Atobe’s limo in his haste to seize Atobe’s arm and haul him towards the school. “What the fuck,” Atobe chokes out, before ripping his arm free from Shishido’s grasp.
“You’ve got a confession,” Shishido says ferally, an evil sort of smile forming on his face. “From a boy.”
“What are you talking about,” Atobe asks, genuinely confused. “A confession of what?”
Shishido doesn’t elaborate, and his evil look only intensifies.
The cloakroom explodes into noise when they enter.
“Is it true,” the student council secretary asks Atobe, mouth agape.
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re referring to,” frowns Atobe, attempting to take off his shoes amid the crowd that’s formed around him.
“I think it’s romantic,” a first-year girl cries out, and a flurry of giggles erupts. Atobe all but throws his shoes into his locker in his hurry to escape.
“I should like to get to class,” he announces, and the crowd parts a little, reluctant but respectfully. “Thank you so much.”
Oshitari all but ambushes him fifteen seconds later, pulling them both into the nearest bathroom. It’s empty, and Atobe’s voice echoes strangely when he asks, “D’you want to fill me in on what the fuck this is all about?”
“There appeared a note,” says Oshitari, ominously. “A love confession for you.”
“Ooh aah,” Atobe deadpans, unmoved. Oshitari shakes his head, peering at Atobe carefully, his expression unreadable.
“From a,” Oshitari stops himself. He clears his throat. Atobe makes an ‘I’m waiting’ gesture with his arms. “The note read, ‘I am gay and in love with Atobe Keigo’. Just that.”
Atobe stands stock-still. Oshitari scuffs his feet against the tile.
“Are you --”
“I’m sure,” Oshitari says, seriously. “I kind of wouldn’t want to misinterpret that.”
“I’m not gay,” Atobe blurts out, panic suffusing his voice. “I’m not, I --”
“Okay,” says Oshitari. “Whether you are or aren’t --”
“I’m not!”
“Doesn’t change the truth of that note,” Oshitari finishes.
They stand in silence.
“Could be worse,” Oshitari offers. Atobe looks up, face pale and anxiety-ridden.
“No, it couldn’t,” he answers, and that’s the end of that.
* * *
They go outside to eat lunch. Atobe looks less miserable, but only marginally.
“I’m just saying,” Mukahi is saying, “that no one would post a note like that without having some inkling --”
“It was anonymous,” Atobe hisses, for the umpteenth time. “Meaning that anyone can say anything without it having to be even remotely grounded in reality, and I still personally feel that it is a joke, and --”
“You also had that mancrush on Tezuka,” Mukahi interrupts, in a thoughtful tone. All the blood rushes to Atobe’s face, unflatteringly. “Are we still calling it that?”
“It is not, and never has been --”
“It is simply a mutual understanding and acknowledgement between us that two like-minded people often share, and also Tezuka symbolizes the next step in my tennis, and it is not a mancrush,” recites Mukahi. The ankle he’s crossed over his knee waggles lazily. “Did I miss anything?”
“Oh my god, are we talking about Atobe’s mancrush,” Shishido’s voice says, and Shishido himself comes trotting towards them in gleeful haste. “Did he start wailing about Tezuka’s ‘tennis’ again?”
“Oh, boys. My friends,” Oshitari begins, waving the arm he hasn’t just draped over Atobe’s shoulders in a slow, expansive arc. “Romans, countrymen. We are neglecting Keigo’s feelings.”
Atobe squirms to get out from Oshitari’s arm, unsuccessfully.
“You see, when we use words like ‘mancrush’, or ‘hilariously obsessive fixation’, or even, ‘those perverted horrible thoughts Keigo likely thinks about Tezuka every time the two of them play’ --”
“That’s a phrase, not --” interjects Atobe, and then shuts up promptly.
“We are demeaning the true depth of his feelings, is what we are doing. We should really be titling it, ‘the great romantic affair of Atobe Keigo’s young life’, or perhaps, ‘the fragile burgeoning of true love --”
“Fucking hell, I hate you,” Atobe yelps, while Mukahi and Shishido laugh themselves sick. “I am not gay!”
“Shit, I figured the wrong girl for that confession,” Shishido laughs, “but at least I didn’t pick the wrong gender, oh my god.”
“So that’s what your little fit this morning was about,” says Atobe, quickly seizing the shift in topic. “She leave you a note detailing her dissatisfaction with your seduction method?”
“Yeah, but I pretty much don’t care, because someone has a mancrush on you,” Shishido peals out, dissolving into spasms of laughter once more.
Atobe bites on the inside of his cheek. Oshitari gives Atobe’s shoulders a friendly squeeze, and Atobe’s only answer is a sigh.
* * *
“So should we set a time for the museum on Sunday,” Oshitari asks Atobe as their last class ends. Atobe frowns.
“Aren’t you worried about,” Atobe begins, before he can stop himself. “You know. What if someone thinks it’s you?”
“Yes, I can see how that would be a valid reason to leave in constant paranoia and unhappiness,” Oshitari chirps, before boring his eyes through Atobe’s. “Do not be stupid.”
“I have to go to my meeting,” says Atobe, hastily gathering his things. “I’ll talk to you about it later.”
“See you later, Kei-chan,” Oshitari calls. Atobe freezes for a moment, and then continues on to the classroom where their student council meeting is being held.
“I just really think,” Atobe stresses, some minutes into the meeting, “that we should be proactive about this, it’s obviously an issue, and --”
“I’ve talked to the faculty about it,” the president says, watching Atobe curiously. “They’re intended to let it fizzle out on its own.”
“Laissez-faire never works,” scoffs Atobe, “I would do something about this immediately, before it gets out of hand.”
“Yes, you would,” says the president. He adjusts his tie slightly. “But you’re a class representative, and you’re in the minority.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” Atobe protests, face growing hot.
“Might mean you’re biased,” notes the treasurer, her eyes clever behind her fashionable glasses. “You’ve got reason to want to stomp this thing down, don’t you?”
Atobe stiffens. “I’ve said my piece, and I think I’m correct,” he manages, and sits down to a low buzz of conversation that he can’t quite ignore.
* * *
“So there’s a few blank spaces on the wall this morning,” Mukahi says, trying to carry on a conversation while putting on his tennis shirt. “Can anyone guess what they were?”
“If you say confessions to Atobe,” Shishido grins, “you will have made my morning, and maybe my entire life.”
“I do love to make you happy,” replies Mukahi, and they share a sadistic cackle.
Atobe resolutely plucks the strings of his racket into place. Quietly, he says, “I’m sure if I were an anonymous coward, that would be my course of action, as well.”
“Oh god,” Shishido groans, banging his head against his locker briefly. “Make him stop.”
“If we’re lucky, he might tell us he’s not gay,” Mukahi tells him, in a comforting tone. Shishido looks a bit cheered. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“It’s a change from all the fucking martyrdom,” Shishido agrees. “So yeah, nice.”
“For certain values of nice,” Oshitari interjects. He’s sitting on the other side of the bench Atobe is on, doing nothing in particular. “Why are you both so resolute on getting a rise out of Keigo? He’s only going to tantrum and assign laps.”
“I’m not going to tantrum, thank you,” snaps Atobe, glaring at Oshitari, who holds up his hands peaceable, expression confused. “You’ve been so anxious to have me react to this, don’t turn around and --”
“Sorry I’m late,” Ohtori cries, rushing through the door and scrambling to open his locker. “I overslept, I was up late --”
“Are you going to yawn all the way through maths again,” Hiyoshi scowls at him. Shishido makes a combative noise.
“Hey, Choutarou doesn’t need to know trig to kick ass at tennis,” he says. “So you can shut up!”
“Do you even know what trigonometry involves,” Hiyoshi mutters, and Atobe cracks a grin that doesn’t last through the end of practice, and doesn’t return until lunch.
“I can’t fucking believe that bitch,” Shishido is snarling. His food is untouched on his tray, and Mukahi’s put-on sympathetic expression is undermined by the constant pillaging he’s doing on it. “It was an honest mistake, who the fuck goes and --”
“Maybe it was in the way you brought it up,” Oshitari suggests. “I wouldn’t think she’d be insulted, even if she wasn’t the one who confessed to you anonymously.”
Shishido goes silent. Mukahi crunches on his apple loudly.
“Oh god,” Oshitari sighs. “Did you mention her -- unmentionables?”
Shishido looks away. Atobe stares at him.
“How the hell do you manage to work things of that nature into a simple reciprocating confession,” he boggles. “That takes talent, Shishido.”
“Yeah, well, the next time you confess back to someone, you let me know how she takes it, fuckface,” Shishido hisses, embarrassed.
“How he takes it, don’t forget,” Mukahi adds, evilly. Shishido’s embarrassment evaporates like an ice cube on the surface of the sun.
“I’m sure Keigo’s not idiotic enough to pursue that line of seduction,” Oshitari says, forcefully. “I want it verbatim what you said, actually, as a memory that will light up my darker times --”
“No, fuck that, I want to know how Atobe’d confess to whoever --”
“And I,” Oshitari insists, “really want to learn more about the fine art of fucking up a really straightforward process.”
“Nothing straight about Atobe’s process,” Mukahi quips, and he and Shishido high-five each other.
“That’s really enough,” says Oshitari, frowning.
“Thank you, Yuushi, when I next need a knight in shining armour, you’ll be the first I call,” Atobe snarls, picking up his tray and storming off.
He dawdles ridiculously in his last class, spending a good twenty minutes highlighting his notes and filling in his planner. The cloakroom is quite empty by the time he ventures into it.
Atobe has packed up all this things and is seated on the bench, busying himself with trying to look busy, when Oshitari finally enters.
“Were you waiting?” Oshitari asks. “I had a quiz last period, it ran over.”
Atobe doesn’t supply an answer, and Oshitari gives him a weird look.
“Tell me something,” Atobe says, after a while, and mostly to the neat arrangement of books in his schoolbag. “And don’t be a dick about it.”
“I would never,” claims Oshitari, attempting to stuff his binder, planner and three novels into his own bag. He makes a short sound of capitulation, and then shakes the entire affair rather violently until all the items slot into place. “What? It’s a system.”
“I’m sure,” Atobe says, stiltedly. Oshitari shuffles over to Atobe’s bench, seating himself in a slow sprawl.
“So,” says Oshitari, leaning back to peer at Atobe. “I’m to tell you something, am I?”
“Did you write that note,” Atobe blurts out. He meets Oshitari’s eyes. Oshitari cocks his head.
“There’s more than one, Keigo, some specificity might help,” he points out, reasonably. Atobe smiles, tightly.
“Yesterday’s note. The one with --” Atobe swallows at the way Oshitari’s face shifts. He makes an aborted gesture. “Yes, that.”
“Why -- sorry,” Oshitari says, like he’s speaking just to create a stopgap. “What are you --”
“Did you write it, yes or no, Yuushi,” Atobe interrupts. It’s the same tone he uses when assigning laps.
“No,” Oshitari says, slowly and firmly. “But Keigo --”
“All right, well, someone else’s ridiculous joke, then,” says Atobe. His voice has gone brittle, too light. “You’d probably have been cleverer about it anyways, I should’ve figured. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Oshitari stands up with his bag. “Is it bothering you?”
“Fuck,” Atobe exclaims, surprising both of them with the profanity, “What do you think? That I enjoy having my -- whatever, I presume my damn sexuality -- bandied about the school gossip mill?”
“The note doesn’t accuse you of anything like that,” says Oshitari quietly. “I thought you read it.”
“Yes, but -- it’s insinuated,” Atobe says, “It’s implied. Shishido and Mukahi are implying it like it’s going out of style.”
Oshitari doesn’t reply. Atobe picks up his own bag and adjusts it over his shoulder methodically.
“Did you need a ride home?” Atobe asks, tentatively. Oshitari shakes his head.
“Thank you, no.”
“So you’ll walk,” Atobe states, staring at Oshitari. He raises his voice. “You’ll walk for an hour, Yuushi --”
“Maybe then you’ll excuse me from our endless lap-running at practice next week, yeah?” Oshitari gazes at him, not without fondness. Atobe laughs awkwardly.
“Well, now I’ll assign them as penance for your cheek,” he offers, at length. Oshitari rakes a hand through his hair and gazes off somewhere right left of Atobe’s face. “So, ride. Do you want one?”
“Nah,” Oshitari waves a hand dismissively. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Atobe frowns. “Don’t make this awkward, Yuushi.”
“Don’t even give me that,” retorts Oshitari. “This is your -- this is your own brand of insanity. You don’t get to make demands,” he finishes. “I’ll be pissed if you turn this into a complex of some sort.”
“I won’t!”
“No awkwardness?”
“No, I won’t. It won’t,” Atobe frowns, then rolls his eyes. “Whichever.”
“Keigo, you have just broken my heart into a thousand pieces, don’t make light,” Oshitari instructs, and breezes past Atobe and out the school doors without a backwards glance.
Keigo yells, “Too soon, you ass,” but if Oshitari hears him, he makes no reply.
Part Two
Recipient:tokyostory
Pairing/Characters: Oshitari/Atobe
Rating: R, for language.
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue.
Summary: Hyoutei discovers the joy of anonymous note-leaving. Little joy ensues.
Notes: tokyostory, I really, really hope you enjoy this. It was a labour of something -- perhaps not always of love -- to write. <3 (Apologies for the three parts; the fic just would not break up neatly and economically.)
“This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.”
Walt Whitman
It doesn’t begin like an utter disaster. There is nothing ominous about the first note when it appears the Monday after Golden Week ends; the sky is clear, the temperature warmish, and the written contents displayed for all to see are entirely innocuous.
“Bit early in the term for love confessions, don’t you think,” muses Oshitari, using his height to peer over the small crowd at the note. It’s a girlish effort, typed on pale purple stationery and stuck to the wall directly across from the cloakroom. “Oh, him. Isn’t he in our English class?”
“Who,” Atobe says, distractedly. The first bell is about to ring, and he’s rummaging through his planner, brow furrowed.
“He’s the one with the -- oh, give me that,” Oshitari sighs, tugging the planner from Atobe’s unsuspecting grip. Atobe makes a singular attempt at retrieving it and gives up promptly when Oshitari turns away in a neat dodge. Atobe makes a noise of displeasure. “Don’t have a tantrum, I’ll give it back shortly. What are you looking for?”
“A piece of paper,” Atobe hisses, standing firm against the students now jostling about him, impatient to see the note attached to the wall and doubtlessly irritated at the roadblock that is Atobe and Oshitari. “A piece of paper with words on it that I would very much like to reference, if you please.”
“Is it the revised practice schedule,” Oshitari asks keenly, and Atobe is half a second too slow with his denial. Oshitari gives Atobe a pitying look. “I really can’t give this back until I’ve reviewed it myself, you know.”
“You absolutely don’t need to do that, actually --”
Oshitari has found the page. “Oh god, why so many mornings? Keigo, do you hate us? Tell the truth, I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Yes, I hate all of you passionately,” Atobe agrees, in a bright tone that earns more than a few questioning stares, but Oshitari is ignoring him.
“I am really not going to show up for half of these practices,” he laments, passing the planner back to Atobe in a slow movement. “I’m not even going to try.”
“You never try,” hisses Atobe, snatching it back viciously. “And I don’t care how many people I have to hate, so long as they all follow the damn schedule like I tell them to.”
“I thought you were going to make it better,” Oshitari groans. Atobe prods him in the side with the more textbook-heavy section of his bag until Oshitari starts slumping down the corridor. “I thought, in my foolish, youthful innocence, that when you said, ‘I’m going to revise the schedule after Golden Week’, and that when we all said, ‘Please, Keigo, we are a meek people, we cannot do seven in the morning’, that things would change. That there would be improvement.”
“Things have changed,” Atobe grins, viciously, “We are now doing six-thirty in the mornings so that we can have Mondays off. Or do we not like days off now?"
“Everyone is going to die,” pronounces Oshitari, authoritatively. “I do hope you’re happy.”
“I’ll be happier when we decimate the competition next month,” says Atobe, contemplatively. He gives Oshitari’s back a hard shove when Oshitari makes to turn around and argue the point. “You can talk while walking, Yuushi.”
“Tell me when I’m to breathe next, yes?” Oshitari simpers, darting into his homeroom class before Atobe’s second shove can land. “Save me an aisle seat in history, I refuse to be sat between you and Ryou for another month.”
“I’m the one who just wants to be left alone to take notes and pay attention,” Atobe scoffs, as Oshitari lingers at the doorway. “If you want the aisles seat, you’ll have to beat me to it.”
Oshitari’s smile when Atobe enters their history classroom to see the empty space between Oshitari and a half-eaten apple that is ostensibly serving to represent Shishido is nothing short of beatific.
“What in the hell,” Mukahi says, trudging in behind Atobe and poking the apple with a cautious finger. He sits down one seat over and glares at Oshitari pointedly. Atobe edges his own chair closer to Oshitari’s and farther away from the apple, and rolls his eyes.
“Ryou needs more fruit in his diet,” Oshitari offers kindly. Mukahi snorts.
“That’ll go over like a lead balloon with Mister Protein Bar,” he remarks, just as the mister in question makes an appearance, prompting Atobe to shuffle his seat even closer to Oshitari, so there can be no mistake as to which seat Shishido is intended to occupy. “Gonna talk at us about amino acids again?”
“The fuck is this,” Shishido says, scowling at the apple and then at Atobe. “Oh hell, you’re sitting next to me again? Fucking awesome, totally rag me about my penmanship more, will you?”
“The gift of nutrition,” supplies Oshitari, cheerily. Shishido makes a swiping motion towards the apple, which makes Atobe flinch and Mukahi roar with laughter, and then punts it onto the floor. “And now you’re destined for scurvy.”
“You’re thinking of oranges,” notes Atobe, as Shishido proceeds to spread his entire schoolbag on his tablespace as well as Mukahi and Atobe’s. “Mukahi, just because I have reflexes --”
“You’re such a fag sometimes,” Shishido grins, and at Atobe’s expression, “Woah now, save it for the courts, big shot.”
“Yes, save it for tomorrow morning at ungodly o'clock,” hisses Oshitari mutinously. Mukahi stops laughing.
“It’s not that early,” Atobe says quickly, over the squawks of outrage and demands for elaboration. “It’s after six! Mondays off!”
“You’re a shit salesman, and I’m going to find that apple and shove it through your eye socket,” Shishido proclaims, unfortunately cut off from his search by Tako-sensei’s entrance. He makes a silent but effective gesture at Atobe to compensate.
“Good morning and welcome back,” Tako-sensei begins. “I suppose you’ll all be wanting to know the details about your test next Thursday.”
Oshitari taps his pen against his textbook five times in quick succession, and Atobe gets a kick in the shin from Shishido.
* * *
“I am done justifying this,” Atobe explodes, finally, after nearly half of the lunch period has passed and the topic of conversation remains unchanged. “Six-thirty, and I’ll be more than pleased to dole out laps to whoever would like to disagree further!”
“Aw,” whines Mukahi, mouth half full with the granola bar he’s stolen from Jiroh’s tray. “Stop being a bitch, Atobe!”
“As if he can,” Shishido snorts, kicking Atobe’s shin from underneath and across the table.
“Kick me one more time, Shishido,” Atobe invites, wearing a smile that can only be described as gruesome. “I dare you.”
“Right, pleasant start to the month,” Oshitari beams, clapping his hands together in fake delight. “None of us are getting sleep ever again, our tireless leader hates us, and oh yes, Ryou is going to be the very first amputee player in Hyoutei’s illustrious history.”
“Wouldn’t be an essential bit,” supplies Atobe with a horrible sort of cheerfulness. Shishido goes conspicuously pale. Oshitari flings a companionable arm over Atobe’s shoulders, which earns Atobe a spilled drink and Oshitari a snarled, “For god’s sake, Yuushi --”
“Oh, Kei-chan,” Oshitari declares, emphatically, “you are my most favourite person.”
“Well, that does it; I’m won over! No morning practices after all, I take it all back, I’m a changed man,” Atobe replies sardonically, attempting to pluck Oshitari’s arm off his person and succeeding for all of five seconds. “Honestly, why do you even --”
“Piyo!” Jiroh yelps, with no preamble or warning whatsoever. They all swivel their heads in the direction of Jiroh’s enthused flailing, and Atobe has to push Oshitari’s head out of his way to properly take in Hiyoshi’s peeved expression. “Come over here! Hi!”
“Hello,” greets Hiyoshi, very measuredly. He comes over to hover by the table, well out of reach of any sudden grabs for his person. “I thought we were having a short meeting after school.”
“Don’t be an antisocial snotrag,” Mukahi grins, and shoves Shishido over hard, nearly toppling him over. “Sit down and talk with your senpai.”
“No,” says Hiyoshi, flatly. He backs up a little when Shishido starts to throw punches in retaliation for Mukahi’s previous violence. “Shishido-senpai, I’ll tell Ohtori that you said hi.”
“Yeah, also tell him we need to work out our weekend schedule again,” yells Shishido, over the increasing volume of Mukahi’s shrieks. Hiyoshi frowns at all of them like a displeased lord, and makes no motion to leave.
“Did you want a written farewell, Piyo?” asks Oshitari. Atobe grins, and takes an elegant sip of what’s left of his spilled milk carton, which is somewhat undermined as a majestic act due to the continued restricting presence of Oshitari’s arm. Hiyoshi’s scowl intensifies. “We could post it on the wall later, if you like.”
“Oh shit,” Mukahi exclaims. “There’s two more up, did you guys see?”
“This is going to be the lamest fad ever,” Shishido decries, rolling his eyes. “So, are you going to tell us? What did they say?”
“Lame things, clearly,” says Atobe. Oshitari shushes him, and waves his free hand at Hiyoshi, who has begun to slink away, in fond farewell.
“Lame for some people,” Mukahi beams. “Apparently Himiko in third year --”
“Oh man, her tits,” Shishido sighs, to no one’s surprise. “What about her, does she like younger men? Does she put out?”
“Like you’d have a chance,” scoffs Mukahi, and there is another brief episode of violence that ends only when Oshitari treks over the other side of the table and physically separates the offending parties.
“Yeah, so, about her tits,” Mukahi reattempts, glaring at Shishido. “Apparently they’re all flash and no substance, if you know what I mean.” He pauses dramatically, waggling his eyebrows. “And I think that you do.”
“Fuck,” Shishido bellows, like someone has disembowelled his dog in front of him. “Fuck!”
“The more you know,” says Oshitari, with a philosophical shrug. Shishido drops his head onto the table with a dull thud, and begins to wax melancholic on the topic of life’s many lies and deceptions. “What was the other one?”
“It was a performance critique,” Mukahi answers, watching Shishido’s head rhythmically hit the table. “Apparently it really is the size of the wave, and not the motion of the ocean. Unfortunately for Shishido.”
Shishido emits a guttural noise, and the table shudders with the force of his head slamming it.
“How have we gone from love confessions to this in the space of three hours,” Atobe complains. “No one wants to hear about this sort of thing!”
Shishido ceases his self-harm in order to stare, and even Jiroh’s expression is incredulous. A muscle in Atobe’s left temple jumps.
“Well, I’ve always known I was the only one with class and substance, but this is a new low,” he scowls.
“Sounds about right,” agrees Shishido, standing up and gathering his backpack somewhat woozily. “Who wants to come with and have a look?”
Mukahi scrambles to his feet, stuffing the remnants of his sandwich into his mouth hurriedly. Jiroh yawns, and curls up on the space Mukahi vacates.
Oshitari makes a show of stretching, and hums indecisively, rising slowly. Atobe gives him a look. Shishido and Mukahi are already out of the building.
“Calm down,” Oshitari tells Atobe, quirking a brow. “I’m going to the little boy’s room, if that’s morally acceptable to you.”
“Like hell you are,” Atobe mutters, and finishes his lunch to the dulcet tones of Jiroh’s contented snoring.
* * *
“Excuse me,” Atobe grits out, shouldering past what seems like the entire student body, clustered in front of the wall in front of the cloakroom. He glances at the thick of it: the morning’s solitary note has mutated into a veritable colony, like fungi multiplying overnight.
He changes into his street shoes as quickly as possible, and escapes into the warm May afternoon.
Kabaji is the only one waiting for him at the entrance of the clubhouse. Atobe tugs his sleeve up in order to glare at his wristwatch.
“Three minutes, so help me,” is all he says. Kabaji nods mutely. Atobe stalks back and forth, a short three metre track, and stops only when Hiyoshi appears.
“I’m on time,” Hiyoshi mutters defensively, at Atobe’s scowl.
“Am I supposed to be grateful? To thank you for doing the bare minimum of showing up on time?”
“Someone had a bad last class,” Oshitari murmurs, about two centimetres away from Atobe’s left ear. Atobe suppresses his initial reaction to jump six feet in the air, with visible effort. “I am also on time, and would like a proper thank you for it.”
“Where’s the rest of the stupid brigade,” Atobe demands, crossing his arms and staring Oshitari down, which he manages even with Oshitari’s few inches of superior height. Oshitari remains in Atobe’s personal space, hands in pockets and wearing an expression of vague contentment. “If they’re looking at the damn wall --”
“Damn, I knew I’d forgotten to do something,” exclaims Oshitari, hands flying up in brief irritation and whapping Atobe’s ribcage. “So sorry, my sweet.”
“I don’t get it,” Hiyoshi frowns, while Atobe flails at Oshitari and succeeds in regaining his personal space.
“Good,” says Atobe, testily. He looks at his watch again. “Officially late.”
It is another five minutes before Shishido and Mukahi turn up, lugging a half-asleep Jiroh between them and cackling about the now-public misfortunes and deficiencies of their classmates.
“Stop scowling like that,” whispers Oshitari to Atobe, who clamps a hand over the ear Oshitari has all but just breathed in. “You’ll get gruesome frownlines.”
“Yuushi, shut up,” Atobe sighs. “Where’s Ohtori? Shishido?”
“I’m not his keeper,” snarks Shishido.
“More like the reverse,” agrees Mukahi.
“Oh, I’m sorry, was that a member of doubles two that just spoke to me?” Shishido grins, putting his hands on his hips in remonstrance. “Was your opinion supposed to matter or something?”
“Die in a fire,” Mukahi snarls, holding up a choice finger. “You’re not doubles anything if Ohtori never shows, dickface.”
“Speak of the devil,” Oshitari interrupts smoothly, nodding his head at a very flustered-looking Ohtori, who is rushing towards them with his bag half-open, three books under one arm and a violin case under the other.
“I’m so sorry,” he bursts out, skidding to a stop next to Shishido, who claps him on the arm affectionately. Two of the books fall to the ground, and Shishido bends to pick them up, sheepish. “I was in the music room, I really need to practice, I lost track of time, I’m sorry, I didn’t --”
“All right,” Atobe intercedes quickly, when the danger of endless loop becomes apparent. “This won’t take five minutes: we have a new practice schedule that I wanted to formalize, and no, editorial comments are not allowed,” he says, stonily. “So, once more --”
“With feeling,” Oshitari adds cheerily, and Atobe rolls his eyes before carrying on.
* * *
Tuesday morning dawns pale and bedraggled-looking, a scattering of thin clouds visible in the sky when Atobe’s limo drops him off at five to six.
Atobe lets out a loud yawn on his way to the clubhouse, and nearly jumps out of his skin when Miho from his Greek class skitters by, giggling under her hand as she greets him.
“Good morning,” he manages, though she’s already up to the school steps and pulling open the main doors. He hurries on to the clubhouse, keys at the ready, a little disconcerted.
The clubhouse is empty. Atobe exhales, sets his things in his personal locker, and methodically changes into his running wear. He’s adjusting his wristbands when the door opens like an explosion, and Shishido comes parading in.
“Morning, Atobe! How goes?”
Atobe just stares. Shishido fidgets, his huge grin wavering but not falling, and Atobe eventually gets out, “What in the hell are you doing here? What was Miho doing here? Does no one know what time it is anymore?”
“You bloody hypocrite,” Shishido laughs, good-humouredly. He takes off his cap in order to rake both hands through his hair, putting it in further disarray. “Probably looking at the wall. Girls are all over that shit.”
“Are you serious,” Atobe gapes, staring. Shishido shrugs, rocking back and forth on his heels. “You’re serious!”
“The wall is awesome,” Shishido says, decidedly. “Ask me why.”
“No,” Atobe says, and leaves to begin his customary lap running.
He loops around the courts long enough and quickly enough to work up a decent sweat. Students call out to him from outside the courts like they routinely arrive for school two hours early. “Seriously?” Atobe asks himself again, under his breath.
“Seriously!” Shishido crows, emerging from the clubhouse alongside the rest of the regulars. Atobe jogs over with supreme trepidation and unrest: it’s barely twenty after six. “Why would I lie about this?”
“You lie all the fucking time,” Mukahi exclaimed, “don’t be retarded!”
“I’m not retarded, I’m an object of lust,” Shishido asserts, puffing his chest out. Mukahi makes a tortured sound.
“I don’t believe it and I don’t want to think about it,” he says, wincing at Atobe. “Make him run laps, yeah?”
Atobe pinches the bridge of his nose.
“So no one will come early for the sake of our team’s success,” he enunciates, “but for some stupid anonymous notes, half the school shows up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”
“A girl,” Shishido says, didactically and in a tone similar to one use with small, misbehaving children, “wants to sex me up. Fuck yes, I’m showing up for that!”
“Maybe Atobe should offer to sex people up,” Mukahi muses. “That’d draw crowds.”
“What the fuck?” Shishido and Atobe say, in perfect tandem. Atobe crosses his arms, looking furious. Shishido snorts. “That’s gay, tardface.”
“When’re we starting practice,” Hiyoshi mutters, shifting his racket from hand to hand restlessly.
“When we’re done talking about my totally-going-to-happen sexy prospects,” Shishido tells him.
“She wrote that she likes you, not necessarily that she --”
“Whatever, Choutarou, same damn thing.” Shishido puts his hands behind his head and beams out at the world. They all gaze at him, expressions funereal.
“Where is Yuushi,” Atobe sighs. “We’ll start at six-thirty; in five minutes.”
“I’ll go check the wall,” Mukahi offers excitedly. “He might be there!”
“Twenty warm-up laps,” Atobe says, loudly. “Now, thank you!”
The laps don’t take more than three minutes to start to look more like a moving conversation group than anything athletically productive, and Atobe opens his mouth to scream some select words.
“You look displeased,” Oshitari comments, from next to Atobe. “What have I told you about frown lines, Kei-chan.”
“What are you doing,” Atobe sputters, gesturing at the newspaper tucked under Oshitari’s arm and the oversized mug of coffee he’s sipping from. “Do you know what time it is!”
“It sucks to be a salaryman,” Oshitari shrugs, ambling over to the clubhouse and waving at Mukahi and Jiroh with the newspaper. “Follow, Keigo.”
“This is not funny,” Atobe snarls, storming towards Oshitari and the door being held open for him. “And if you were looking at the wall, so help me --”
“Look,” Oshitari says, plucking a brightly-coloured brochure from the depths of his bag and dangling it in front of Atobe’s face. “Isn’t this nice?”
“Paper, yes, great, now explain to me why you’re,” Atobe trails off. “Greek sculpture?”
“Thank you, I’ve always considered my physique to be marble-like, personally,” grins Oshitari. He lets go of the brochure when Atobe reaches to take it. “A modern Adonis, chiselled from the quarries in Carrara --”
“Stop talking,” Atobe tells him, bemused. He reads through the short description, and then looks up at Oshitari, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I hope you’re not attempting to make nice with regards to your tardiness, Yuushi.”
“That would be sneaky and wrong,” Oshitari recites, angelically. “I will pay your museum entrance fee this coming Sunday if you don’t give me laps.”
“Your machinations become stupider with every passing year,” says Atobe. He rolls up the brochure, smacking Oshitari’s forehead with it lightly. “I’m thinking of a number between one and fifty-one.”
“It’s not one, is it?” Oshitari rubs his forehead woefully. Atobe’s expression does not shift in the slightest. “Fifty it is. You must really hate me.”
“No crying about it on court,” Atobe instructs, following Oshitari back out. The subregulars are beginning to trickle in for their later start-time, and Atobe turns his attentions to them.
Practice flies by, but Shishido’s obnoxious jubilation and Oshitari’s melodramatic sulk do not end with it. Atobe locks up the clubhouse to the symphonic tones of Mukahi’s repeated threats of punching Shishido in the balls (“Kinky,” Shishido smirks. “Maybe she’ll be into that sort of thing: hot.”), coupled with Oshitari’s never-ended iteration of Atobe’s many faults as a friend and human being. The coda to it all comes when Hiyoshi, irate and at the end of patience, says,
“Shut up now,” with simple finality to Shishido. There is a pause. “Shishido-senpai.”
“You uppity --”
“You know what’s interesting?” Atobe cuts in, fed up. “The wall. Think of the bounty of notes that may await you while you all dally here!”
Predictably, the squabbling comes to a quick halt, and Atobe is allowed to continue on to his first class in unchallenged tranquility.
This peace lasts until the class before lunch, which he unfortunately shares with Oshitari.
Atobe has taken two-thirds of a page down on Plato, and there are no less than seven folded missives sitting on his desk. No amount of glaring and hissed cease-and-desist orders have helped.
Number eight lands with a docile bump against Atobe’s wrist. Atobe squeezes his eyes shut. pressing his thumb against his temple, which apparently is as worthy a target as any for note number nine.
Atobe unfolds it ferociously.
Don’t you want to knooooow, is all it reads. Atobe looks up at Oshitari, balefully. Oshitari mimes writing, and gestures at Atobe.
Atobe writes back, My level of uncaring cannot be mathematically expressed at this point in scientific history. The note hits Oshitari’s nose with unexpected force, and Oshitari’s squawk draws enough attention from their teacher to dissuade any further attempts at communication.
“There’s one accusing Gakuto of dyeing his hair,” Oshitari tells him, as they’re leaving class. “And another about him having a Napoleon complex, that one’s my favourite so far --”
“You have favourites now?” says Atobe, chagrinned. “And doesn’t Mukahi dye his hair?”
“Let the lady have her secrets, please, Keigo,” Oshitari beseeches him, holding his hands up in supplication. Atobe laughs, shaking his head. “Honestly, I can’t make this stuff up, it’s magical.”
“I suppose when you start to get love confessions like Shishido, you’ll be even more insufferable,” Atobe sighs, shuffling through his notes as they walk.
“Start to get love confessions?” Oshitari asks, nudging Atobe’s elbow. “Shishido just has selective vision, is all.”
“Then I’m positive there are some for me,” guesses Atobe, redoubling his sighs. Oshitari turns around, planting his hands on Atobe’s chest and causing a minor pile-up in the corridor.
“How do you live with it,” he cries. “Oh Keigo, truly, yours is a martyred life --”
“Shut up --”
“People liking you! What’s next, people giving you things? Admiration? God forbid --”
Atobe presses on down the corridor, but only manages to escape the sound of Oshitari’s voice when he reaches the wall before the cloakroom. It’s like a funnel of noise and humanity, and Atobe takes it in for a good few seconds before turning on his heel and hustling to Greek class.
Lunch period is largely derivative of the day prior, to Atobe’s visible irritation.
“I know who it was,” Shishido is telling them. “It’s that girl in our chemistry class, the one who always curls her hair.”
“Yeah, she looks like she’d settle,” Mukahi says, mouth full. Atobe looks at him, disgusted. “What?”
“Are you going to confess back?” Oshitari asks Shishido. Shishido’s slow grin is all the answer anyone needs. “Ah, true romance.”
“Whatever,” dismisses Shishido. “Mukahi, are you going to go check it again?”
“I could,” says Mukahi, slowly, “or I could finish eating --”
“No, fuck that, go look,” Shishido cries. “There could be love and tits waiting for you, too!”
“Love and tits,” Oshitari echoes to Atobe quietly, and they share an eyeroll. Mukahi staggers out of his seat and elbows Shishido in the back of the head as he leaves; Shishido’s resulting bellow is enough to wake Jiroh.
“What’s happened,” he yawns, and Shishido and Oshitari proceed to fill him in on what must be the contents of dozens upon dozens of notes, while Atobe stares at them in morbid fascination.
“Fuck,” Mukahi announces, throwing himself back at their table. He pushes the tray that Jiroh and Shishido have been picking at in his absence towards the centre of the table, setting his crossed arms there. “Who wrote it?”
“Who wrote what,” Oshitari asks, reasonably.
“Not you,” scowls Mukahi. He turns to Shishido. “It’s on the wall, and I’m not fucking happy about it!”
“Stop prancing around and tell us what it is,” insists Shishido, reaching for Mukahi’s abdicated lunch tray.
“Urgh,” whines Mukahi. “That time in fifth grade?”
“HA,” is all Shishido says, nearly choking on the rice snack he’s stolen. Jiroh pounds his back helpfully.
“This is not interesting,” sighs Oshitari.
“The actual picture? The actual picture is there on the wall?” Shishido chokes out, as he attempts to hack up the rice snack. “Like, the picture of you with your pants around your --”
“Oh my god shut up you fuckhead,” cries Mukahi, all in a rush. He’s gone spectacularly red. Shishido explodes into laughter, sliding down underneath the table.
“Wasn’t us,” Jiroh says, laughingly. “I’d forgotten!”
“Not so fun anymore, is it,” Atobe points out to Mukahi, smugly. Mukahi gives him the finger, and Oshitari gasps with exaggerated shock.
“Atobe-buchou,” says Hiyoshi’s voice, and Atobe turns around to see him. “Can I borrow the club keys until tomorrow?”
“You actually have no manners at all,” frowns Atobe. “And no, you may not.”
“Why not?” Hiyoshi complains, as Shishido starts to snap his fingers at Hiyoshi, drawing his attention. “Yeah, Shishido-senpai?”
“Didn’t you pass on my message to Choutarou?”
“Of course I did,” says Hiyoshi, affronted. “He’s busy, you know.”
“I know that, shithead,” growls Shishido. “Now go away and stop bothering Atobe, he’s already got his panties in a twist --”
“I beg your pardon,” Atobe gapes, and gets no further in his rebuttal than that before Oshitari interrupts.
“Be more sympathetic, Ryou-kun,” Oshitari implores. “Kei-chan just doesn’t want you to find true love before he does, it’s really --”
“I will get you your very own, personal copy of the keys if you kill him for me,” Atobe tells Hiyoshi, levelly. Hiyoshi blinks.
“Oh god, don’t contemplate it,” Oshitari howls, after Hiyoshi’s answer is delayed by the ringing of the school bell.
* * *
Ohtori pulls Atobe aside halfway through practice on Wednesday morning, looking disconsolate.
“I’m sorry,” he prefaces, and Atobe stares at him blankly until he continues. “I can’t make practice tomorrow morning, I’m scheduled for a violin lesson --”
“Well,” Atobe begins, but Ohtori keeps talking.
“I know the time is weird, I don’t usually do mornings, but it’s important and --”
“All right,” Atobe cuts in. “Unfortunately I have a student council meeting afterschool that day, so we can’t reschedule --”
“Reschedule what,” Shishido asks, approaching them and trailed by Hiyoshi, who’s carrying five ball containers and looking livid about it.
“Oh, because of my violin thing,” says Ohtori, brows pinched. “I really am sorry.”
“So we’re missing practice,” Hiyoshi says, starkly. Atobe looks at him.
“We’re a team,” he says. “We can’t really be a team if someone is missing, and what the hell will Shishido do, play singles?”
“Fuck off,” Shishido says, but he rolls his eyes good-naturedly after a moment. Hiyoshi continues to scowl. “Hey, it’s not Choutarou’s fault! Back off!”
“Fine,” says Hiyoshi, tightly. He shoves the ball containers at Shishido’s chest. “I’m not carrying these anymore, Shishido-senpai.”
Shishido manages to hold on to two of them while the rest clatter to the ground. He throws both at Hiyoshi, who dashes off unscathed.
“Nice aim.”
“Shut up, Atobe.”
* * *
“Shut up, Yuushi,” Atobe says, later on in the day as they head to philosophy. “I do not want an abridged version, I do not want any version --”
“They are so entertaining,” Oshitari wails, trailing behind Atobe. “If you would just open up your mind --”
“New topic, please,” Atobe scowls. They walk in silence for a few steps.
“The museum exhibit?” Oshitari attempts. Atobe looks ceiling-ward in relief.
“Yes, thank you, let’s talk about that,” he agrees, pleased. “I definitely want to go on Sunday.”
“It’s a date, then,” Oshitari says beamingly, coming up to walk next to Atobe. Atobe jostles his shoulder lightly.
“Get a girlfriend, Yuushi,” he grins. Oshitari’s face lights up.
“Speaking of girlfriends, you know that bleach blonde in our maths class --”
“Oh god,” Atobe whines, and hurries ahead to class, trying unsuccessfully to escape Oshitari’s debriefing.
This tactic, however, does not work at lunch time.
“It sure was windy this morning,” Atobe says, a propos nothing. Oshitari looks at him oddly, and Shishido flaps his hand at Atobe and whines at Mukahi to repeat himself.
“Yeah, so apparently they’re breaking up, or they’re going to break up, or maybe she’s just going to slap him afterschool or something,” Mukahi tells his captive audience. “But the real kicker is that Jiroh overheard him talking in the hall -- tell them what you heard, Jiroh!”
“He didn’t even write it,” adds Jiroh, in an excited whisper. “One of his friends did, because --”
“Because he’d told them about it,” Mukahi interrupts, unable to restrain himself. Oshitari clucks his tongue with disapproval, and Shishido pounds the table excitedly. Mukahi drops his voice to a near-inaudible murmur, adding, “Either that or he’s experienced it firsthand.”
“Holy fuck,” Shishido crows, mouth agape. He makes a levelling motion with his hand. “This. The bar has been set.”
“I had a bit of trouble with my chemistry homework last night,” says Atobe. Oshitari turns to face him.
“In what universe was that a relevant comment, Keigo?” he asks, amusedly. Atobe colours.
“I am trying to steer the conversation towards something that is -- not this,” hisses Atobe. Oshitari’s eyeroll is cinematic in scale, and only dwarfed by Shishido’s.
“Are you seriously going to be like this?” Oshitari asks. “You’re going to play moral high-roller until, when exactly --”
“Until this goes out of vogue, is when,” Atobe huffs. “It’s of no import to me, but I do grow weary of the monotony of these conversation topics.”
“D’you think,” Mukahi says, keenly, “no one’s writing things about you?”
Atobe tilts up his chin. “I am quite sure that anything anyone has to say to me, they’d say it in person.”
There is a moment of disbelieving silence.
“You are the fucking stupidest person I know,” announces Shishido, with great personal conviction. He points at Atobe damningly. “Reality: learn you some.”
“What the fuck does that mean,” Atobe challenges, red in the face. Oshitari raises his hand, as though waiting to be called on in class. “What, Yuushi.”
“Don’t take this the wrong --” Oshitari gets a good look at Atobe’s face, and clears his throat. “Well, don’t shoot the messenger, but you’re probably the last person in the entire school to whom people would be comfortable telling deep dark secrets.”
“You tell me deep dark secrets all the time,” Atobe scoffs, mutinously. “Like that summer with whatserface; I don’t even want to know half the garbage you tell me --”
“So you’re saying that the average student, who has never hung out with you in a friendly capacity, never had any interaction with you that wasn’t mediated by either your role in the student council or in the tennis club, would be totally at ease to tell you, what,” Oshitari prompts, turning to the rest of them. Mukahi jumps in.
“That your glasses are really unflattering,” he blurts out. Oshitari looks at him. “If Atobe wore glasses. If --”
“Oops,” laughs Jiroh.
“That note hurt me deeply, Gakkun,” Oshitari intones. “It was also boring because I can, in fact, recognize Jiroh’s handwriting.”
“Well, they are,” Mukahi says, sulkily. “Get less ugly ones.”
“Or get rid of them entirely,” Atobe proposes. Oshitari raises his eyebrow. Atobe fidgets and declines to elaborate.
“Well,” Oshitari resumes slowly, “the point is that while Gakuto, in his unfiltered glory, can say that to my face, most people would appreciate the anonymity when it comes to you.”
“Then they aren’t worth my time,” says Atobe, decisively. “I refuse to give credence to any of it.”
“What if it were something that pissed you off,” Shishido grins. “What if we posted embarrassing pictures from New Years --”
“Yes, I would never figure out who those came from,” Atobe snorts. He folds his hands atop the table, and stares seriously at them each in turn. “I also trust certain people with my personal secrets.”
“Guilt-tripping is not on,” Shishido moans. “You’re ruining it!”
“I do what I can,” Atobe says, grinning like the cat who ate the canary.
* * *
Atobe wakes up on Thursday morning at exactly the same time he would’ve if he hadn’t cancelled the practice. This is not intentional; his mobile phone will not stop ringing, and no one is leaving any messages.
The calls continue, as Atobe goes through his morning routine and assembles the night’s homework neatly in his school bag. He has to speak over the ringing in order to greet his chauffeur; at this point, not answer has become a thing of principle.
Shishido all but barges into Atobe’s limo in his haste to seize Atobe’s arm and haul him towards the school. “What the fuck,” Atobe chokes out, before ripping his arm free from Shishido’s grasp.
“You’ve got a confession,” Shishido says ferally, an evil sort of smile forming on his face. “From a boy.”
“What are you talking about,” Atobe asks, genuinely confused. “A confession of what?”
Shishido doesn’t elaborate, and his evil look only intensifies.
The cloakroom explodes into noise when they enter.
“Is it true,” the student council secretary asks Atobe, mouth agape.
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re referring to,” frowns Atobe, attempting to take off his shoes amid the crowd that’s formed around him.
“I think it’s romantic,” a first-year girl cries out, and a flurry of giggles erupts. Atobe all but throws his shoes into his locker in his hurry to escape.
“I should like to get to class,” he announces, and the crowd parts a little, reluctant but respectfully. “Thank you so much.”
Oshitari all but ambushes him fifteen seconds later, pulling them both into the nearest bathroom. It’s empty, and Atobe’s voice echoes strangely when he asks, “D’you want to fill me in on what the fuck this is all about?”
“There appeared a note,” says Oshitari, ominously. “A love confession for you.”
“Ooh aah,” Atobe deadpans, unmoved. Oshitari shakes his head, peering at Atobe carefully, his expression unreadable.
“From a,” Oshitari stops himself. He clears his throat. Atobe makes an ‘I’m waiting’ gesture with his arms. “The note read, ‘I am gay and in love with Atobe Keigo’. Just that.”
Atobe stands stock-still. Oshitari scuffs his feet against the tile.
“Are you --”
“I’m sure,” Oshitari says, seriously. “I kind of wouldn’t want to misinterpret that.”
“I’m not gay,” Atobe blurts out, panic suffusing his voice. “I’m not, I --”
“Okay,” says Oshitari. “Whether you are or aren’t --”
“I’m not!”
“Doesn’t change the truth of that note,” Oshitari finishes.
They stand in silence.
“Could be worse,” Oshitari offers. Atobe looks up, face pale and anxiety-ridden.
“No, it couldn’t,” he answers, and that’s the end of that.
* * *
They go outside to eat lunch. Atobe looks less miserable, but only marginally.
“I’m just saying,” Mukahi is saying, “that no one would post a note like that without having some inkling --”
“It was anonymous,” Atobe hisses, for the umpteenth time. “Meaning that anyone can say anything without it having to be even remotely grounded in reality, and I still personally feel that it is a joke, and --”
“You also had that mancrush on Tezuka,” Mukahi interrupts, in a thoughtful tone. All the blood rushes to Atobe’s face, unflatteringly. “Are we still calling it that?”
“It is not, and never has been --”
“It is simply a mutual understanding and acknowledgement between us that two like-minded people often share, and also Tezuka symbolizes the next step in my tennis, and it is not a mancrush,” recites Mukahi. The ankle he’s crossed over his knee waggles lazily. “Did I miss anything?”
“Oh my god, are we talking about Atobe’s mancrush,” Shishido’s voice says, and Shishido himself comes trotting towards them in gleeful haste. “Did he start wailing about Tezuka’s ‘tennis’ again?”
“Oh, boys. My friends,” Oshitari begins, waving the arm he hasn’t just draped over Atobe’s shoulders in a slow, expansive arc. “Romans, countrymen. We are neglecting Keigo’s feelings.”
Atobe squirms to get out from Oshitari’s arm, unsuccessfully.
“You see, when we use words like ‘mancrush’, or ‘hilariously obsessive fixation’, or even, ‘those perverted horrible thoughts Keigo likely thinks about Tezuka every time the two of them play’ --”
“That’s a phrase, not --” interjects Atobe, and then shuts up promptly.
“We are demeaning the true depth of his feelings, is what we are doing. We should really be titling it, ‘the great romantic affair of Atobe Keigo’s young life’, or perhaps, ‘the fragile burgeoning of true love --”
“Fucking hell, I hate you,” Atobe yelps, while Mukahi and Shishido laugh themselves sick. “I am not gay!”
“Shit, I figured the wrong girl for that confession,” Shishido laughs, “but at least I didn’t pick the wrong gender, oh my god.”
“So that’s what your little fit this morning was about,” says Atobe, quickly seizing the shift in topic. “She leave you a note detailing her dissatisfaction with your seduction method?”
“Yeah, but I pretty much don’t care, because someone has a mancrush on you,” Shishido peals out, dissolving into spasms of laughter once more.
Atobe bites on the inside of his cheek. Oshitari gives Atobe’s shoulders a friendly squeeze, and Atobe’s only answer is a sigh.
* * *
“So should we set a time for the museum on Sunday,” Oshitari asks Atobe as their last class ends. Atobe frowns.
“Aren’t you worried about,” Atobe begins, before he can stop himself. “You know. What if someone thinks it’s you?”
“Yes, I can see how that would be a valid reason to leave in constant paranoia and unhappiness,” Oshitari chirps, before boring his eyes through Atobe’s. “Do not be stupid.”
“I have to go to my meeting,” says Atobe, hastily gathering his things. “I’ll talk to you about it later.”
“See you later, Kei-chan,” Oshitari calls. Atobe freezes for a moment, and then continues on to the classroom where their student council meeting is being held.
“I just really think,” Atobe stresses, some minutes into the meeting, “that we should be proactive about this, it’s obviously an issue, and --”
“I’ve talked to the faculty about it,” the president says, watching Atobe curiously. “They’re intended to let it fizzle out on its own.”
“Laissez-faire never works,” scoffs Atobe, “I would do something about this immediately, before it gets out of hand.”
“Yes, you would,” says the president. He adjusts his tie slightly. “But you’re a class representative, and you’re in the minority.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” Atobe protests, face growing hot.
“Might mean you’re biased,” notes the treasurer, her eyes clever behind her fashionable glasses. “You’ve got reason to want to stomp this thing down, don’t you?”
Atobe stiffens. “I’ve said my piece, and I think I’m correct,” he manages, and sits down to a low buzz of conversation that he can’t quite ignore.
* * *
“So there’s a few blank spaces on the wall this morning,” Mukahi says, trying to carry on a conversation while putting on his tennis shirt. “Can anyone guess what they were?”
“If you say confessions to Atobe,” Shishido grins, “you will have made my morning, and maybe my entire life.”
“I do love to make you happy,” replies Mukahi, and they share a sadistic cackle.
Atobe resolutely plucks the strings of his racket into place. Quietly, he says, “I’m sure if I were an anonymous coward, that would be my course of action, as well.”
“Oh god,” Shishido groans, banging his head against his locker briefly. “Make him stop.”
“If we’re lucky, he might tell us he’s not gay,” Mukahi tells him, in a comforting tone. Shishido looks a bit cheered. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“It’s a change from all the fucking martyrdom,” Shishido agrees. “So yeah, nice.”
“For certain values of nice,” Oshitari interjects. He’s sitting on the other side of the bench Atobe is on, doing nothing in particular. “Why are you both so resolute on getting a rise out of Keigo? He’s only going to tantrum and assign laps.”
“I’m not going to tantrum, thank you,” snaps Atobe, glaring at Oshitari, who holds up his hands peaceable, expression confused. “You’ve been so anxious to have me react to this, don’t turn around and --”
“Sorry I’m late,” Ohtori cries, rushing through the door and scrambling to open his locker. “I overslept, I was up late --”
“Are you going to yawn all the way through maths again,” Hiyoshi scowls at him. Shishido makes a combative noise.
“Hey, Choutarou doesn’t need to know trig to kick ass at tennis,” he says. “So you can shut up!”
“Do you even know what trigonometry involves,” Hiyoshi mutters, and Atobe cracks a grin that doesn’t last through the end of practice, and doesn’t return until lunch.
“I can’t fucking believe that bitch,” Shishido is snarling. His food is untouched on his tray, and Mukahi’s put-on sympathetic expression is undermined by the constant pillaging he’s doing on it. “It was an honest mistake, who the fuck goes and --”
“Maybe it was in the way you brought it up,” Oshitari suggests. “I wouldn’t think she’d be insulted, even if she wasn’t the one who confessed to you anonymously.”
Shishido goes silent. Mukahi crunches on his apple loudly.
“Oh god,” Oshitari sighs. “Did you mention her -- unmentionables?”
Shishido looks away. Atobe stares at him.
“How the hell do you manage to work things of that nature into a simple reciprocating confession,” he boggles. “That takes talent, Shishido.”
“Yeah, well, the next time you confess back to someone, you let me know how she takes it, fuckface,” Shishido hisses, embarrassed.
“How he takes it, don’t forget,” Mukahi adds, evilly. Shishido’s embarrassment evaporates like an ice cube on the surface of the sun.
“I’m sure Keigo’s not idiotic enough to pursue that line of seduction,” Oshitari says, forcefully. “I want it verbatim what you said, actually, as a memory that will light up my darker times --”
“No, fuck that, I want to know how Atobe’d confess to whoever --”
“And I,” Oshitari insists, “really want to learn more about the fine art of fucking up a really straightforward process.”
“Nothing straight about Atobe’s process,” Mukahi quips, and he and Shishido high-five each other.
“That’s really enough,” says Oshitari, frowning.
“Thank you, Yuushi, when I next need a knight in shining armour, you’ll be the first I call,” Atobe snarls, picking up his tray and storming off.
He dawdles ridiculously in his last class, spending a good twenty minutes highlighting his notes and filling in his planner. The cloakroom is quite empty by the time he ventures into it.
Atobe has packed up all this things and is seated on the bench, busying himself with trying to look busy, when Oshitari finally enters.
“Were you waiting?” Oshitari asks. “I had a quiz last period, it ran over.”
Atobe doesn’t supply an answer, and Oshitari gives him a weird look.
“Tell me something,” Atobe says, after a while, and mostly to the neat arrangement of books in his schoolbag. “And don’t be a dick about it.”
“I would never,” claims Oshitari, attempting to stuff his binder, planner and three novels into his own bag. He makes a short sound of capitulation, and then shakes the entire affair rather violently until all the items slot into place. “What? It’s a system.”
“I’m sure,” Atobe says, stiltedly. Oshitari shuffles over to Atobe’s bench, seating himself in a slow sprawl.
“So,” says Oshitari, leaning back to peer at Atobe. “I’m to tell you something, am I?”
“Did you write that note,” Atobe blurts out. He meets Oshitari’s eyes. Oshitari cocks his head.
“There’s more than one, Keigo, some specificity might help,” he points out, reasonably. Atobe smiles, tightly.
“Yesterday’s note. The one with --” Atobe swallows at the way Oshitari’s face shifts. He makes an aborted gesture. “Yes, that.”
“Why -- sorry,” Oshitari says, like he’s speaking just to create a stopgap. “What are you --”
“Did you write it, yes or no, Yuushi,” Atobe interrupts. It’s the same tone he uses when assigning laps.
“No,” Oshitari says, slowly and firmly. “But Keigo --”
“All right, well, someone else’s ridiculous joke, then,” says Atobe. His voice has gone brittle, too light. “You’d probably have been cleverer about it anyways, I should’ve figured. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Oshitari stands up with his bag. “Is it bothering you?”
“Fuck,” Atobe exclaims, surprising both of them with the profanity, “What do you think? That I enjoy having my -- whatever, I presume my damn sexuality -- bandied about the school gossip mill?”
“The note doesn’t accuse you of anything like that,” says Oshitari quietly. “I thought you read it.”
“Yes, but -- it’s insinuated,” Atobe says, “It’s implied. Shishido and Mukahi are implying it like it’s going out of style.”
Oshitari doesn’t reply. Atobe picks up his own bag and adjusts it over his shoulder methodically.
“Did you need a ride home?” Atobe asks, tentatively. Oshitari shakes his head.
“Thank you, no.”
“So you’ll walk,” Atobe states, staring at Oshitari. He raises his voice. “You’ll walk for an hour, Yuushi --”
“Maybe then you’ll excuse me from our endless lap-running at practice next week, yeah?” Oshitari gazes at him, not without fondness. Atobe laughs awkwardly.
“Well, now I’ll assign them as penance for your cheek,” he offers, at length. Oshitari rakes a hand through his hair and gazes off somewhere right left of Atobe’s face. “So, ride. Do you want one?”
“Nah,” Oshitari waves a hand dismissively. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Atobe frowns. “Don’t make this awkward, Yuushi.”
“Don’t even give me that,” retorts Oshitari. “This is your -- this is your own brand of insanity. You don’t get to make demands,” he finishes. “I’ll be pissed if you turn this into a complex of some sort.”
“I won’t!”
“No awkwardness?”
“No, I won’t. It won’t,” Atobe frowns, then rolls his eyes. “Whichever.”
“Keigo, you have just broken my heart into a thousand pieces, don’t make light,” Oshitari instructs, and breezes past Atobe and out the school doors without a backwards glance.
Keigo yells, “Too soon, you ass,” but if Oshitari hears him, he makes no reply.
Part Two