Fanfic Post :: PoT :: Night Vision
Yes, I do, on occasion, finish something I've been writing. What? It's been known to happen! I'm pretty sure I had a finished fic. ...A year or two ago.
Summary: A long day for Yuuta leads Mizuki to offer a hand, and a revelation.
Pairing: Mizuki/Yuuta
Genre: pointless smut Drama/Romance
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Word Count: too damn long 4,453 words
Disclaimer: Konomi Takeshi owns the crack. I just smoke it.
Thanks, huggles, and brownies to ravenwoodiii, for beta reading, summary, and being an overall kickass person!
The sun has set forty minutes ago. The shadows lengthen, then blend into one. The tennis courts of Saint Rudolph High School are now only lit by the flickering streetlamps, and the headlights of the passing cars. On his own side of the court, Fuji Yuuta mops the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and gets ready to serve.
He can barely make out the silhouette of his opponent, Mizuki Hajime, as the other waits, poised. It’s too dark to make out any details, but years of experience help Yuuta fill in the blanks. In his mind’s eye, Yuuta can see the tight smile on Mizuki’s face, as he leans his entire weight onto his heels, coiled and ready to spring into action. Yuuta draws back his arm, and sends the ball flying, full strength. This may be only a practice match, but he’s never been the type to hold back.
Mizuki counters easily, sending the ball soaring above their heads.
Yuuta bounds upward, hoping to end the match with a smash that lands bare millimeters from the net on Mizuki’s side. For a moment, it looks as though his gamble is a success.
Yuuta’s ears pick up the faint twang of the ball hitting a racket’s sweet spot before he has the chance to see what has happened. And then, the ball whizzes past him, brushing close enough to his face to make him flinch.
“40-40” Mizuki’s been tracking their points from the start of the game. His usually precise voice now turns light and casual, almost flippant. It is times like this, when Mizuki’s wins seem effortless, and his eyes glint with a hint of mischievous superiority, that the other boy reminds Yuuta of his brother. Rationally, he knows that his personal battle with Aniki had ended more than a year ago. He’d let go of it. It had become pointless once his brother had made it painfully clear that his tennis career would go no further than high school, turning away offers and scouts with a polite, unreadable smile. And it’s horribly unfair to displace the anger onto Mizuki-san... But he can feel his left hand clench over the handle of his racket, hard enough to leave imprints on the fresh grip tape.
Mizuki’s turn to serve. Yuuta allows the moment to seep into him; lets his reflexes take over as his mind takes a step back to observe the unfolding action. He’s learned long ago that you can’t fight fire with fire. If Mizuki is going to use his analytical skills to win the match, the best way to counter such a ploy is with pure will and instinct. Factors that are beyond Mizuki’s rigid control. Unpredictability is his best and only weapon.
Trouble is, there’s not much that Mizuki ever finds unpredictable. Somehow, even the most chaotic of Yuuta’s gambles line up neatly with the former team manager’s shrewd calculations. Occasions where he’s successful in defying those calculations are a rare treat.
The ball flies toward him, and he lobs it back into Mizuki’s court. Back and forth, the battle continues, as minute after minute rolls by. Neither opponent is willing to give an inch. By the end, Yuuta is willing to believe in miracles, as Mizuki’s shot collides with the net, and rolls away harmlessly.
“Good game.” Mizuki’s words are followed closely by a rueful chuckle. Yuuta can’t help but light up at the compliment, however spare. Mizuki-san’s praise to him is infrequent, but always genuine.
He scoops up his water bottle from the bench and drinks greedily. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuta can see Mizuki pour some of his own water into a delicately cupped hand and splash it onto his face.
“We should get going, Yuuta-kun. I’m afraid it’s getting rather dark.” Mizuki’s words sound as though he had just come to notice the darkness of the streets around them. Trusting the honesty of such a presentation is something you do at your own peril, Yuuta knows.
“Yeah”, Yuuta responds, “Let’s go home.”
***
It’s strange to think of how fast the impersonal high school dorms have become ‘home’ to the both of them. Until two years ago, there wasn't even a St. Rudolph High School. It’s only thanks to a generous donation from an alumnus that this building now stands, where there was once a run-down supermarket. At this hour, the hallways are deserted, where they usually would be bottleneck-crowded, and echoing with the din of multiple simultaneous conversations, each trying to out shout the other.
Yuuta stops by his room to drop off his racket, then heads toward the showers. At the moment, there’s nobody in there, save Mizuki-san and himself. Honestly, Yuuta can’t say that he minds. Even if the poor bathroom does smell like the time he accidentally dumped Yumiko’s perfume all over his clothes, thanks to Mizuki’s questionable taste in shampoo. He can hear Mizuki’s off-key humming, from the next stall over. For some reason, he finds the sound soothing.
If he ever notices a hot, unflinching gaze brush abruptly across his naked skin, Yuuta doesn’t comment on it. Not even to himself.
Once back in his room, Yuuta crashes onto his bed. He can see his pajamas lying in plain sight on top of the dresser, but the night is warm enough, and he feels lazy enough not to bother with reaching for them. The boxers he threw on back in the bathroom would do just fine, for now. Having come to that conclusion, Yuuta closes his eyes, trying to shut out the thread of light coming from the cracked doorway, and slips into a half-aware doze.
A few minutes go by - more or less - he can’t tell for sure. Sometime in the interim, Mizuki pads into the room, and settles down to sleep, after fussing with his covers. Yuuta knows he’s on the brink of true sleep, but every time he begins to slide under, something manages to jolt him awake. It’s small things, at first: his blanket sliding partially off; an itch between his shoulder blades; a disruptive thought regarding whether or not he left his water bottle at the tennis courts. The feeling intensifies, until he is unwillingly wide awake. Every breath of night air and every light noise serves as a maddening distraction.
Although his thoughts are scattered, at best, Yuuta easily recognizes the situation. Usually, the day’s events tire him out just enough to make his sleep like the dead. On a few occasions, though, he’s managed to exert himself to the point where he’s unable to calm the rushing adrenaline; where he’s so tired that he’s unable to rest. More and more, this is looking like one of those times. From the looks of it, it’s going to be a long night. Yuuta can barely keep himself from banging his head against the wall in sheer frustration.
“Quit shuffling,” Mizuki grumbles from the other side of the room, shifting to face Yuuta. “What’s the matter?” he asks, not a trace of sleep in his voice. When Yuuta offers no answer, Mizuki is quiet for a second, running the odds and probabilities through his head, until he reaches a conclusion.
“You can’t sleep, can you, Yuuta-kun?” Another brief pause. “Tired out from practice? That’s a shame. Exhausting you was hardly my intention.” The last part of the sentence comes out as more of a purr than anything else, sending an uncomfortable jolt up Yuuta’s spine.
Well, if Mizuki can be snide at this hour, than so can he. “Yeah, right. The day you have any goal in mind, other than exhausting the hell out of me, is the day the sky turns mauve, and I take up crocheting.”
“Wouldn’t that be a sight to see.” Mizuki’s eyes are half-closed, catlike. Then, they open again, stern and reprimanding. “Besides, you of all people should well know the value of a challenging workout. You wouldn’t have the skills you possess today, if it weren’t for the strict exercise regimen you’ve kept up.”
“Didn’t you also say, at one point or another, that I needed to learn the value of a good night’s sleep?” Of course, at the time, that may have had more to do with the noise Yuuta’s video games were making, than it did with physical training, but that doesn’t mean that Yuuta isn’t going to use it to suit his logic.
Yuuta expects Mizuki to parry with his own argument. “Very well. I suppose I did.” This seeming surrender throws Yuuta for a loop, and he tenses up, waiting for an unexpected verbal undercut. When it doesn’t come, he lets out a small sigh, and faces Mizuki, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.
Even in the disarray of the night, Mizuki makes a striking picture, as he leans over his nightstand, propped up on his elbows, wavy hair falling into half-closed eyes. There is a word for what Mizuki looks like at the moment. Several, in fact, but Yuuta’s mind refuses to go there just yet.
Then, a smile brushes across Mizuki’s lips. “Why don’t you come here,” he offers. His voice is barely raised above a whisper, and there is not a trace of the usual authoritarian orders in his tone. Despite this, or, rather, because of it, Yuuta is drawn to raise himself out of bed, and follow where the voice leads.
One step, two, and he’s standing next to Mizuki’s bed, close enough to touch. Close enough for Mizuki to reach out and pull him down to sit. Yuuta wants to say something. To move away. To move closer. Just move; just do something. Anything. Instead, he finds himself paralyzed in the moment, thoughts racing, even as time stands still.
And Mizuki’s hands are on his shoulders. The press of the other boy’s long fingers is gentle at first, almost light enough to tickle. Yuuta allows himself to relax a little, and the pressure grows firmer, digging into his sore muscles, until muffled sounds of not-quite-pain are forced from Yuuta’s mouth. Somehow, though, once the initial jolt subsides, the pain and tension in his limbs drain away altogether. Mizuki lets out a satisfied “hmm”, and moves his hands down Yuuta’s back, kneading the muscles there. With every breath, every movement, Yuuta finds himself more and more relaxed, until he is leaning back, content, against Mizuki’s light support. Mizuki’s touch becomes familiar on his skin, its warmth welcome and oddly comforting.
Without realizing it, Yuuta begins to drift. His mind wanders aimlessly over random thoughts, while his body grows ever more limp under Mizuki’s ministrations. Only gradually does he notice when the touch shifts from massage, to circling pensively on the back of his neck, to carding through his hair. It is this touch, its slow, liquid movement so easy to mistake for tenderness, that causes Yuuta’s eyes to open again. When he does, he finds Mizuki looking straight back at him, the sharp eyes empty of their usual cynical slant, and filled with something of another sort, altogether...
There’s something about this look that strips Yuuta of all his defenses. As his eyes adjust to seeing more of Mizuki’s face, in the darkness, reaching upward and pressing his lips to Mizuki’s feels like the most natural reaction in this chain of events. The remaining shreds of Yuuta’s common sense must have run for the hills, right about the time he first decided to get out of his own bed. They don’t even bother to make a half-hearted protest.
In all his life, Yuuta has never been as hyper aware of a moment, as he is right now. Mizuki’s skin feels unrealistically soft against his own chapped lips. Although he knows that he brushed his teeth less than an hour or two ago, a corner of Yuuta’s mind fixates on the fact that he must have bad breath - because that would be just his luck! His hands aren’t shaking, but he knows that they will start, any second now.
When the kiss is returned, it’s clear that, where Yuuta’s personal experience is somewhat spotty, Mizuki’s more than makes up for it. But while his mouth is hot and demanding on Yuuta’s, it’s never too fast, never too haphazard, and always, always painstakingly deliberate. Mizuki’s goal may be to drown Yuuta in the passion of the moment, but it is clear that he is nowhere near lost, himself. Behind the impulsive embrace, Mizuki is still formulating. Still planning.
Not if I can help it, Yuuta thinks, parting his lips to deepen the kiss. Whatever you may believe, this isn’t going to be a game for one.
He can feel Mizuki’s smile, somewhere between a grin and a smirk, right before the older boy pulls him in closer, and kisses him for real. Then, just as Yuuta’s head begins to spin, Mizuki pulls away.
“Are you sure you know what you are getting yourself into, Yuuta?” The way Mizuki says his name, it’s more of a question than the question itself. The honorific, too, is gone. Does it mean that Mizuki-san means business, this time? But Mizuki is looking at him through his eyelashes, as though trying to conceal a hidden meaning within his eyes. And the question itself. Does Mizuki think he’s dumb?
“No,” Yuuta spits out, “I have no clue of what I’m getting myself into. Because, of course, I’m such an innocent. Because not a thing has changed since we first met. Because I really thought you were about to challenge me to a nice game of tennis!”
His outburst only causes Mizuki to arch a single, expressive eyebrow. “Tennis, hmm? Is that what you’d like to call it, then?”
The anger rushes through Yuuta, like water from a leaky faucet, and vanishes once vented. He is left breathless, and not entirely sure whether he really does know what he’s doing.
Mizuki’s face visibly softens, and he reaches out one arm to pull Yuuta closer, using the other to switch on the bedside lamp. He remains silent and still, waiting for Yuuta’s anger and confusion to subside. In time, they do, as he fights momentary blindness. It helps, Yuuta thinks, that the light and the other boy’s closeness make the situation feel more real, more immediate. He may have been vaguely aware, for instance, of the fact that neither of them is wearing all that much, but nothing drives the point home like the rise and fall of Mizuki’s chest, underneath his cheek, and the rhythm of Mizuki’s hands returning to his back.
Even when Mizuki is entirely satisfied with Yuuta’s restored composure, he doesn’t quite pull away, for which Yuuta is immensely grateful. Mizuki’s lips playfully graze the top of his left ear, making Yuuta sigh, and stifle a giddy laugh, all at once.
When Mizuki speaks again, his voice is barely raised above a husky whisper. “Yuuta, believe me when I say that I mean you no disrespect in this, but there’s something that I must know.” A pause, as he waits for Yuuta to interject, which Yuuta chooses not to do. “Do you trust me?” It’s obvious that Mizuki is trying to make the question sound casual, but Yuuta catches an almost perfectly hidden undertone in the words. The flippancy is no more real, here, than Mizuki’s dramatics on the court, or his own stubborn insistence that he hates his brother.
There’s a part of Yuuta that remains stalwart in maintaining that the answer is ‘no’. There’s no reason for him to trust Mizuki’s intentions, and plenty of reasons not to. Hadn’t the other boy betrayed his trust before?
But Yuuta had let go of that a long time ago. What had once felt like the ultimate betrayal now seems almost inconsequential. Well - not entirely, but the sting has faded, over time. And more importantly, he has proof now that Mizuki is hardly superhuman. He can plot, and manipulate, and hold grudges till hell freezes over, but it doesn’t make him any less capable of caring. Or, at least - Yuuta amends - of meaning well.
Besides, he’d already made his decision, when he had leaned in to kiss Mizuki for the first time.
“Yes,” Yuuta answers. Here, I trust you.
He can feel something in Mizuki relax. Funny how he hadn’t recognized the initial tenseness in the other boy’s posture, until it was gone. Then, he can’t observe anymore, as Mizuki kisses him again, wild, and slightly desperate. Yuuta responds, matching passion with untrained enthusiasm. He buries his hands in Mizuki’s hair, now wonderfully messy from shower, sleep, and activity.
Sadly, kissing, no matter how great, cannot last indefinitely. The awareness of his own arousal makes Yuuta blush madly, and pull back. This gives Mizuki the opportunity to trace a single finger over Yuuta’s lips, before moving his hands lower.
In the next few minutes, Yuuta discovers just how sensitive the most unassuming parts of him are. The barest whisper of Mizuki’s lips over his collarbone makes him inhale sharply, nearly causing a coughing fit over the startling sensation. Fingertips pressed against the inside of his elbow send his pulse rushing, until there’s a light drumbeat echoing from every point on his body. A playful swipe of Mizuki’s tongue across his stomach leaves his hands clutching the bedsheets.
Then, Mizuki is moving to slide his boxers down and off. Yuuta lifts his hips, trying to help, as best he can. He can feel Mizuki’s breath on his skin driving him mad, as the other’s mouth comes closer, and closer, and... Holy...! Where the hell did Mizuki-san learn to do that? Never mind - he didn’t want to... “Ahh!”
And Mizuki pulls away. Yuuta slumps back down on the bed, his teeth clenched in frustration. “What’s the big idea? Quit toying with me!”
“Have some patience.” Mizuki looks decidedly pleased with the world in general, and the situation in particular. “Now, how far, exactly, do you want this to go?”
Yuuta shrugs. “Why don’t you pick. You’ve already set your mind on something, am I right?”
“And if I choose to take the more complicated path?”
“I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” He can, too. In theory, anyway. Were this any other situation, Yuuta would hesitate longer, but now, his body is screaming for attention, and, frankly, he’s sick of Mizuki’s machinations prolonging everything. “Just get on with it,” and if it sounds like he’s whining, well, Yuuta can’t exactly take the words back now.
Mizuki shakes his head, trying hard not to laugh. “Your wish is my command.” There’s no irony in his words, oh, no. None whatsoever. Typical Mizuki. For some reason, this makes Yuuta relax again.
“Just give me a second, all right,” and Mizuki bends over to rummage through a nearby drawer, mumbling lightly to himself. The mumbling turns to muffled cursing, as finding whatever-it-is takes more patience than Mizuki is willing to exert, right at that moment. Finally, he pulls out a nondescript tube, placing it within easy reach.
Yuuta’s pretty sure he knows what the tube is for. This is going to be a bit weird, he thinks. But maybe, it’s the kind of weird he’s wanted all along.
He lies back, and watches Mizuki remove his own clothing, slightly impressed by just how careful and deliberate the process is, despite Mizuki’s obvious impatience.
Once finished, Mizuki motions to him. “Turn over. Like that, on your side.” Yuuta is reluctant to turn his face away from the other boy. His eyes drink in the pale skin and wiry muscle of Mizuki’s exposed body, dimly aware that his blush is now threatening to become a full-body experience. Somehow, he manages to shake himself out of it, and turn, as requested.
Immediately, Mizuki presses up to him, from behind, kissing his shoulder blades, and the back of his neck. These much-appreciated caresses make Yuuta want to hum with pleasure, but his voice is caught and sealed in his throat by the hot, languid, impossibly intimate sensation of skin against skin. Nothing he ever imagined could possibly feel like this.
When Mizuki lifts one of Yuuta’s legs to rest over his own hip, and carefully pushes a slick finger inward, Yuuta’s assumptions are proven right. It does feel weird. A little painful, though not terribly so. Mostly, Yuuta’s surprised to find, the lubricant itself feels stranger than the stretching. He breathes in, forcing his body to relax, grateful for the control afforded to him by his training. Surely, Mizuki didn’t have this in mind when designing his exercise regimen. Then again, with Mizuki, you never know.
Somewhere along the line, another finger joins the first, then another. Still weird, but growing less so. Meanwhile, Mizuki’s other hand ghosts over Yuuta’s thigh to lightly grasp his erection, and stroke. The touch is tentative, in a deliberate way; meant to bring pleasure, all the while withholding resolution.
Then, just as the stretching sensation of fingers inside him goes from weird to kind of, well... good, they are removed. Yuuta shivers, wishing, not for the first time, that he could see what Mizuki was doing. The position they are currently in is relatively comfortable, but it leaves him in a more passive state than he would have liked. Awkwardly, he twists his arm backward, trying to make as much contact with Mizuki’s skin as he can. This time, he can feel Mizuki laughing, as the older boy leans over to face him.
“Looking for something, Yuuta-kun? Just as well - there’s something I could use your help with.”
The next thing he knows, he’s been flipped onto his back, and Mizuki is grasping one of his hands, palm-up. With Mizuki’s small stature, it’s so easy to forget just how strong the other boy actually is. He knows that this is something Mizuki both resents, and takes shameless advantage of, using it to catch his opponents off-guard. But who’s the opponent here? Yuuta sincerely hopes it’s not himself.
He is cut off mid-thought, when something cool and slightly sticky sloshes onto his hand, and he sees that Mizuki has taken this opportunity to - well - hand him the tube’s remaining contents. If making him blink in confusion was Mizuki’s intention, the plan could be judged a success.
Later, Yuuta would wonder if looking into Mizuki’s eyes at that moment had been a mistake. They are wide open and dark, the cool blue burning with an inward fire. When Mizuki pulls down Yuuta’s hand, and closes it around his own erection, Yuuta’s breath is not the only one to waver and hitch. The slight moan that tears its way out of Mizuki’s throat is no illusion, either. Small wisps of breath ruffle Yuuta’s hair, as he barely hears the other boy whisper “You have no idea... you have no clue how... what you do to me.”
‘No idea’ is right! Yuuta’s just about ready to give himself a lecture on imagining things. But he hasn’t imagined Mizuki’s words even if the implication is next to impossible to process, right at the moment. Unbidden, his own heartbeat picks up, and he is at a loss for words.
He bites down on the tip of his tongue, to prevent himself from blushing any more, or saying something stupid. His stroking is arrhythmic, but it gets less and less hesitant, especially when he sees the appreciation etched on Mizuki’s face. Yuuta kisses Mizuki again, tongue darting out to lap at his lower lip, engraving the unique taste into his memory, while he wipes excess lubricant from his hand on the probably-very-expensive sheets. Oh well. It’s not like they’re going anywhere but the wash after this, anyway.
“Ready?”
Yuuta thinks so. As ready as he’ll ever be, anyway.
Their legs tangle and shift around, as they try to find a more comfortable position for this. It could be comical, if it weren’t so damn intimate. When Mizuki presses in, at last, it is almost torturously slow. The resulting sensation is nothing like what Yuuta would expect it to be. Instead of being straightforward pain or pleasure, it makes everything else feel more. The sheets against his back; the hot, hard stretch; his own jagged breathing. Yuuta’s thoughts fragment, breaking down into their simplest components, like a handful of dried earth. Every touch against every nerve blurs together, shooting toward a single point, until there is nothing left but rough movement, the frantic knocking of his heart, and the sea of black behind his eyelids.
***
Eventually, Yuuta finds his breath again, and a few seconds later, he can even formulate basic thoughts beyond ‘Oh, wow!’. Somewhere along the line, his body has turned to jelly - not that he minds. “You know, we could market this as a great solution for muscle stress,” he muses to no one in particular.
Beside him, Mizuki shifts, stretching. “I’m sure that somebody, somewhere, has already thought of that. So, I take it you’re feeling better?”
“Definitely!” ‘Better’ would probably be an understatement.
“That’s good to hear.” And with that, Mizuki proceeds to drape himself against Yuuta’s chest.
Yuuta doesn’t bother stopping him. He can deal with being Mizuki’s pillow, as long as the other boy doesn’t put his complete weight on him. Especially considering that he was half-afraid they’d simply get up and never speak of this again. Or worse, that it would make everything all awkward. If that had happened, he knows that he would have found a way to blame it on himself.
And maybe things will be weird, for a while, in the light of day. But they don’t have to be, right?
“If Aniki ever finds out about any of this, he’s going to kill us both. In a creatively messy way.”
“I wouldn’t think so.” Mizuki responds. “Fuji Syuusuke... he wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, whatever else I may think of him. And hopefully, that includes not harming anything you’re particularly fond of. Dare I hope that you’re at least a little fond of me, Yuuta-kun?”
“You can ‘dare’ anything you want, Mizuki-san.” But Yuuta’s hands are in Mizuki’s hair again, playing absentmindedly with the damp curls, so he knows his teasing won’t be taken seriously.
Fond? Maybe that was the word for it... For now, Yuuta sinks into the pillow, and yawns. In a few hours, the sun would begin to rise. They’d have to go to class, and perhaps the people next door would glare at them, for making too much noise. Maybe they’d even receive some sort of reprimand from the faculty. Hopefully not, though - that would redefine embarrassing!
And if Yuuta wasn’t feeling so sleepy and content, he’d actually care.
*Hides in a corner, and blushes to death*
Summary: A long day for Yuuta leads Mizuki to offer a hand, and a revelation.
Pairing: Mizuki/Yuuta
Genre: pointless smut Drama/Romance
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Word Count: too damn long 4,453 words
Disclaimer: Konomi Takeshi owns the crack. I just smoke it.
Thanks, huggles, and brownies to ravenwoodiii, for beta reading, summary, and being an overall kickass person!
The sun has set forty minutes ago. The shadows lengthen, then blend into one. The tennis courts of Saint Rudolph High School are now only lit by the flickering streetlamps, and the headlights of the passing cars. On his own side of the court, Fuji Yuuta mops the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and gets ready to serve.
He can barely make out the silhouette of his opponent, Mizuki Hajime, as the other waits, poised. It’s too dark to make out any details, but years of experience help Yuuta fill in the blanks. In his mind’s eye, Yuuta can see the tight smile on Mizuki’s face, as he leans his entire weight onto his heels, coiled and ready to spring into action. Yuuta draws back his arm, and sends the ball flying, full strength. This may be only a practice match, but he’s never been the type to hold back.
Mizuki counters easily, sending the ball soaring above their heads.
Yuuta bounds upward, hoping to end the match with a smash that lands bare millimeters from the net on Mizuki’s side. For a moment, it looks as though his gamble is a success.
Yuuta’s ears pick up the faint twang of the ball hitting a racket’s sweet spot before he has the chance to see what has happened. And then, the ball whizzes past him, brushing close enough to his face to make him flinch.
“40-40” Mizuki’s been tracking their points from the start of the game. His usually precise voice now turns light and casual, almost flippant. It is times like this, when Mizuki’s wins seem effortless, and his eyes glint with a hint of mischievous superiority, that the other boy reminds Yuuta of his brother. Rationally, he knows that his personal battle with Aniki had ended more than a year ago. He’d let go of it. It had become pointless once his brother had made it painfully clear that his tennis career would go no further than high school, turning away offers and scouts with a polite, unreadable smile. And it’s horribly unfair to displace the anger onto Mizuki-san... But he can feel his left hand clench over the handle of his racket, hard enough to leave imprints on the fresh grip tape.
Mizuki’s turn to serve. Yuuta allows the moment to seep into him; lets his reflexes take over as his mind takes a step back to observe the unfolding action. He’s learned long ago that you can’t fight fire with fire. If Mizuki is going to use his analytical skills to win the match, the best way to counter such a ploy is with pure will and instinct. Factors that are beyond Mizuki’s rigid control. Unpredictability is his best and only weapon.
Trouble is, there’s not much that Mizuki ever finds unpredictable. Somehow, even the most chaotic of Yuuta’s gambles line up neatly with the former team manager’s shrewd calculations. Occasions where he’s successful in defying those calculations are a rare treat.
The ball flies toward him, and he lobs it back into Mizuki’s court. Back and forth, the battle continues, as minute after minute rolls by. Neither opponent is willing to give an inch. By the end, Yuuta is willing to believe in miracles, as Mizuki’s shot collides with the net, and rolls away harmlessly.
“Good game.” Mizuki’s words are followed closely by a rueful chuckle. Yuuta can’t help but light up at the compliment, however spare. Mizuki-san’s praise to him is infrequent, but always genuine.
He scoops up his water bottle from the bench and drinks greedily. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuta can see Mizuki pour some of his own water into a delicately cupped hand and splash it onto his face.
“We should get going, Yuuta-kun. I’m afraid it’s getting rather dark.” Mizuki’s words sound as though he had just come to notice the darkness of the streets around them. Trusting the honesty of such a presentation is something you do at your own peril, Yuuta knows.
“Yeah”, Yuuta responds, “Let’s go home.”
***
It’s strange to think of how fast the impersonal high school dorms have become ‘home’ to the both of them. Until two years ago, there wasn't even a St. Rudolph High School. It’s only thanks to a generous donation from an alumnus that this building now stands, where there was once a run-down supermarket. At this hour, the hallways are deserted, where they usually would be bottleneck-crowded, and echoing with the din of multiple simultaneous conversations, each trying to out shout the other.
Yuuta stops by his room to drop off his racket, then heads toward the showers. At the moment, there’s nobody in there, save Mizuki-san and himself. Honestly, Yuuta can’t say that he minds. Even if the poor bathroom does smell like the time he accidentally dumped Yumiko’s perfume all over his clothes, thanks to Mizuki’s questionable taste in shampoo. He can hear Mizuki’s off-key humming, from the next stall over. For some reason, he finds the sound soothing.
If he ever notices a hot, unflinching gaze brush abruptly across his naked skin, Yuuta doesn’t comment on it. Not even to himself.
Once back in his room, Yuuta crashes onto his bed. He can see his pajamas lying in plain sight on top of the dresser, but the night is warm enough, and he feels lazy enough not to bother with reaching for them. The boxers he threw on back in the bathroom would do just fine, for now. Having come to that conclusion, Yuuta closes his eyes, trying to shut out the thread of light coming from the cracked doorway, and slips into a half-aware doze.
A few minutes go by - more or less - he can’t tell for sure. Sometime in the interim, Mizuki pads into the room, and settles down to sleep, after fussing with his covers. Yuuta knows he’s on the brink of true sleep, but every time he begins to slide under, something manages to jolt him awake. It’s small things, at first: his blanket sliding partially off; an itch between his shoulder blades; a disruptive thought regarding whether or not he left his water bottle at the tennis courts. The feeling intensifies, until he is unwillingly wide awake. Every breath of night air and every light noise serves as a maddening distraction.
Although his thoughts are scattered, at best, Yuuta easily recognizes the situation. Usually, the day’s events tire him out just enough to make his sleep like the dead. On a few occasions, though, he’s managed to exert himself to the point where he’s unable to calm the rushing adrenaline; where he’s so tired that he’s unable to rest. More and more, this is looking like one of those times. From the looks of it, it’s going to be a long night. Yuuta can barely keep himself from banging his head against the wall in sheer frustration.
“Quit shuffling,” Mizuki grumbles from the other side of the room, shifting to face Yuuta. “What’s the matter?” he asks, not a trace of sleep in his voice. When Yuuta offers no answer, Mizuki is quiet for a second, running the odds and probabilities through his head, until he reaches a conclusion.
“You can’t sleep, can you, Yuuta-kun?” Another brief pause. “Tired out from practice? That’s a shame. Exhausting you was hardly my intention.” The last part of the sentence comes out as more of a purr than anything else, sending an uncomfortable jolt up Yuuta’s spine.
Well, if Mizuki can be snide at this hour, than so can he. “Yeah, right. The day you have any goal in mind, other than exhausting the hell out of me, is the day the sky turns mauve, and I take up crocheting.”
“Wouldn’t that be a sight to see.” Mizuki’s eyes are half-closed, catlike. Then, they open again, stern and reprimanding. “Besides, you of all people should well know the value of a challenging workout. You wouldn’t have the skills you possess today, if it weren’t for the strict exercise regimen you’ve kept up.”
“Didn’t you also say, at one point or another, that I needed to learn the value of a good night’s sleep?” Of course, at the time, that may have had more to do with the noise Yuuta’s video games were making, than it did with physical training, but that doesn’t mean that Yuuta isn’t going to use it to suit his logic.
Yuuta expects Mizuki to parry with his own argument. “Very well. I suppose I did.” This seeming surrender throws Yuuta for a loop, and he tenses up, waiting for an unexpected verbal undercut. When it doesn’t come, he lets out a small sigh, and faces Mizuki, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.
Even in the disarray of the night, Mizuki makes a striking picture, as he leans over his nightstand, propped up on his elbows, wavy hair falling into half-closed eyes. There is a word for what Mizuki looks like at the moment. Several, in fact, but Yuuta’s mind refuses to go there just yet.
Then, a smile brushes across Mizuki’s lips. “Why don’t you come here,” he offers. His voice is barely raised above a whisper, and there is not a trace of the usual authoritarian orders in his tone. Despite this, or, rather, because of it, Yuuta is drawn to raise himself out of bed, and follow where the voice leads.
One step, two, and he’s standing next to Mizuki’s bed, close enough to touch. Close enough for Mizuki to reach out and pull him down to sit. Yuuta wants to say something. To move away. To move closer. Just move; just do something. Anything. Instead, he finds himself paralyzed in the moment, thoughts racing, even as time stands still.
And Mizuki’s hands are on his shoulders. The press of the other boy’s long fingers is gentle at first, almost light enough to tickle. Yuuta allows himself to relax a little, and the pressure grows firmer, digging into his sore muscles, until muffled sounds of not-quite-pain are forced from Yuuta’s mouth. Somehow, though, once the initial jolt subsides, the pain and tension in his limbs drain away altogether. Mizuki lets out a satisfied “hmm”, and moves his hands down Yuuta’s back, kneading the muscles there. With every breath, every movement, Yuuta finds himself more and more relaxed, until he is leaning back, content, against Mizuki’s light support. Mizuki’s touch becomes familiar on his skin, its warmth welcome and oddly comforting.
Without realizing it, Yuuta begins to drift. His mind wanders aimlessly over random thoughts, while his body grows ever more limp under Mizuki’s ministrations. Only gradually does he notice when the touch shifts from massage, to circling pensively on the back of his neck, to carding through his hair. It is this touch, its slow, liquid movement so easy to mistake for tenderness, that causes Yuuta’s eyes to open again. When he does, he finds Mizuki looking straight back at him, the sharp eyes empty of their usual cynical slant, and filled with something of another sort, altogether...
There’s something about this look that strips Yuuta of all his defenses. As his eyes adjust to seeing more of Mizuki’s face, in the darkness, reaching upward and pressing his lips to Mizuki’s feels like the most natural reaction in this chain of events. The remaining shreds of Yuuta’s common sense must have run for the hills, right about the time he first decided to get out of his own bed. They don’t even bother to make a half-hearted protest.
In all his life, Yuuta has never been as hyper aware of a moment, as he is right now. Mizuki’s skin feels unrealistically soft against his own chapped lips. Although he knows that he brushed his teeth less than an hour or two ago, a corner of Yuuta’s mind fixates on the fact that he must have bad breath - because that would be just his luck! His hands aren’t shaking, but he knows that they will start, any second now.
When the kiss is returned, it’s clear that, where Yuuta’s personal experience is somewhat spotty, Mizuki’s more than makes up for it. But while his mouth is hot and demanding on Yuuta’s, it’s never too fast, never too haphazard, and always, always painstakingly deliberate. Mizuki’s goal may be to drown Yuuta in the passion of the moment, but it is clear that he is nowhere near lost, himself. Behind the impulsive embrace, Mizuki is still formulating. Still planning.
Not if I can help it, Yuuta thinks, parting his lips to deepen the kiss. Whatever you may believe, this isn’t going to be a game for one.
He can feel Mizuki’s smile, somewhere between a grin and a smirk, right before the older boy pulls him in closer, and kisses him for real. Then, just as Yuuta’s head begins to spin, Mizuki pulls away.
“Are you sure you know what you are getting yourself into, Yuuta?” The way Mizuki says his name, it’s more of a question than the question itself. The honorific, too, is gone. Does it mean that Mizuki-san means business, this time? But Mizuki is looking at him through his eyelashes, as though trying to conceal a hidden meaning within his eyes. And the question itself. Does Mizuki think he’s dumb?
“No,” Yuuta spits out, “I have no clue of what I’m getting myself into. Because, of course, I’m such an innocent. Because not a thing has changed since we first met. Because I really thought you were about to challenge me to a nice game of tennis!”
His outburst only causes Mizuki to arch a single, expressive eyebrow. “Tennis, hmm? Is that what you’d like to call it, then?”
The anger rushes through Yuuta, like water from a leaky faucet, and vanishes once vented. He is left breathless, and not entirely sure whether he really does know what he’s doing.
Mizuki’s face visibly softens, and he reaches out one arm to pull Yuuta closer, using the other to switch on the bedside lamp. He remains silent and still, waiting for Yuuta’s anger and confusion to subside. In time, they do, as he fights momentary blindness. It helps, Yuuta thinks, that the light and the other boy’s closeness make the situation feel more real, more immediate. He may have been vaguely aware, for instance, of the fact that neither of them is wearing all that much, but nothing drives the point home like the rise and fall of Mizuki’s chest, underneath his cheek, and the rhythm of Mizuki’s hands returning to his back.
Even when Mizuki is entirely satisfied with Yuuta’s restored composure, he doesn’t quite pull away, for which Yuuta is immensely grateful. Mizuki’s lips playfully graze the top of his left ear, making Yuuta sigh, and stifle a giddy laugh, all at once.
When Mizuki speaks again, his voice is barely raised above a husky whisper. “Yuuta, believe me when I say that I mean you no disrespect in this, but there’s something that I must know.” A pause, as he waits for Yuuta to interject, which Yuuta chooses not to do. “Do you trust me?” It’s obvious that Mizuki is trying to make the question sound casual, but Yuuta catches an almost perfectly hidden undertone in the words. The flippancy is no more real, here, than Mizuki’s dramatics on the court, or his own stubborn insistence that he hates his brother.
There’s a part of Yuuta that remains stalwart in maintaining that the answer is ‘no’. There’s no reason for him to trust Mizuki’s intentions, and plenty of reasons not to. Hadn’t the other boy betrayed his trust before?
But Yuuta had let go of that a long time ago. What had once felt like the ultimate betrayal now seems almost inconsequential. Well - not entirely, but the sting has faded, over time. And more importantly, he has proof now that Mizuki is hardly superhuman. He can plot, and manipulate, and hold grudges till hell freezes over, but it doesn’t make him any less capable of caring. Or, at least - Yuuta amends - of meaning well.
Besides, he’d already made his decision, when he had leaned in to kiss Mizuki for the first time.
“Yes,” Yuuta answers. Here, I trust you.
He can feel something in Mizuki relax. Funny how he hadn’t recognized the initial tenseness in the other boy’s posture, until it was gone. Then, he can’t observe anymore, as Mizuki kisses him again, wild, and slightly desperate. Yuuta responds, matching passion with untrained enthusiasm. He buries his hands in Mizuki’s hair, now wonderfully messy from shower, sleep, and activity.
Sadly, kissing, no matter how great, cannot last indefinitely. The awareness of his own arousal makes Yuuta blush madly, and pull back. This gives Mizuki the opportunity to trace a single finger over Yuuta’s lips, before moving his hands lower.
In the next few minutes, Yuuta discovers just how sensitive the most unassuming parts of him are. The barest whisper of Mizuki’s lips over his collarbone makes him inhale sharply, nearly causing a coughing fit over the startling sensation. Fingertips pressed against the inside of his elbow send his pulse rushing, until there’s a light drumbeat echoing from every point on his body. A playful swipe of Mizuki’s tongue across his stomach leaves his hands clutching the bedsheets.
Then, Mizuki is moving to slide his boxers down and off. Yuuta lifts his hips, trying to help, as best he can. He can feel Mizuki’s breath on his skin driving him mad, as the other’s mouth comes closer, and closer, and... Holy...! Where the hell did Mizuki-san learn to do that? Never mind - he didn’t want to... “Ahh!”
And Mizuki pulls away. Yuuta slumps back down on the bed, his teeth clenched in frustration. “What’s the big idea? Quit toying with me!”
“Have some patience.” Mizuki looks decidedly pleased with the world in general, and the situation in particular. “Now, how far, exactly, do you want this to go?”
Yuuta shrugs. “Why don’t you pick. You’ve already set your mind on something, am I right?”
“And if I choose to take the more complicated path?”
“I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” He can, too. In theory, anyway. Were this any other situation, Yuuta would hesitate longer, but now, his body is screaming for attention, and, frankly, he’s sick of Mizuki’s machinations prolonging everything. “Just get on with it,” and if it sounds like he’s whining, well, Yuuta can’t exactly take the words back now.
Mizuki shakes his head, trying hard not to laugh. “Your wish is my command.” There’s no irony in his words, oh, no. None whatsoever. Typical Mizuki. For some reason, this makes Yuuta relax again.
“Just give me a second, all right,” and Mizuki bends over to rummage through a nearby drawer, mumbling lightly to himself. The mumbling turns to muffled cursing, as finding whatever-it-is takes more patience than Mizuki is willing to exert, right at that moment. Finally, he pulls out a nondescript tube, placing it within easy reach.
Yuuta’s pretty sure he knows what the tube is for. This is going to be a bit weird, he thinks. But maybe, it’s the kind of weird he’s wanted all along.
He lies back, and watches Mizuki remove his own clothing, slightly impressed by just how careful and deliberate the process is, despite Mizuki’s obvious impatience.
Once finished, Mizuki motions to him. “Turn over. Like that, on your side.” Yuuta is reluctant to turn his face away from the other boy. His eyes drink in the pale skin and wiry muscle of Mizuki’s exposed body, dimly aware that his blush is now threatening to become a full-body experience. Somehow, he manages to shake himself out of it, and turn, as requested.
Immediately, Mizuki presses up to him, from behind, kissing his shoulder blades, and the back of his neck. These much-appreciated caresses make Yuuta want to hum with pleasure, but his voice is caught and sealed in his throat by the hot, languid, impossibly intimate sensation of skin against skin. Nothing he ever imagined could possibly feel like this.
When Mizuki lifts one of Yuuta’s legs to rest over his own hip, and carefully pushes a slick finger inward, Yuuta’s assumptions are proven right. It does feel weird. A little painful, though not terribly so. Mostly, Yuuta’s surprised to find, the lubricant itself feels stranger than the stretching. He breathes in, forcing his body to relax, grateful for the control afforded to him by his training. Surely, Mizuki didn’t have this in mind when designing his exercise regimen. Then again, with Mizuki, you never know.
Somewhere along the line, another finger joins the first, then another. Still weird, but growing less so. Meanwhile, Mizuki’s other hand ghosts over Yuuta’s thigh to lightly grasp his erection, and stroke. The touch is tentative, in a deliberate way; meant to bring pleasure, all the while withholding resolution.
Then, just as the stretching sensation of fingers inside him goes from weird to kind of, well... good, they are removed. Yuuta shivers, wishing, not for the first time, that he could see what Mizuki was doing. The position they are currently in is relatively comfortable, but it leaves him in a more passive state than he would have liked. Awkwardly, he twists his arm backward, trying to make as much contact with Mizuki’s skin as he can. This time, he can feel Mizuki laughing, as the older boy leans over to face him.
“Looking for something, Yuuta-kun? Just as well - there’s something I could use your help with.”
The next thing he knows, he’s been flipped onto his back, and Mizuki is grasping one of his hands, palm-up. With Mizuki’s small stature, it’s so easy to forget just how strong the other boy actually is. He knows that this is something Mizuki both resents, and takes shameless advantage of, using it to catch his opponents off-guard. But who’s the opponent here? Yuuta sincerely hopes it’s not himself.
He is cut off mid-thought, when something cool and slightly sticky sloshes onto his hand, and he sees that Mizuki has taken this opportunity to - well - hand him the tube’s remaining contents. If making him blink in confusion was Mizuki’s intention, the plan could be judged a success.
Later, Yuuta would wonder if looking into Mizuki’s eyes at that moment had been a mistake. They are wide open and dark, the cool blue burning with an inward fire. When Mizuki pulls down Yuuta’s hand, and closes it around his own erection, Yuuta’s breath is not the only one to waver and hitch. The slight moan that tears its way out of Mizuki’s throat is no illusion, either. Small wisps of breath ruffle Yuuta’s hair, as he barely hears the other boy whisper “You have no idea... you have no clue how... what you do to me.”
‘No idea’ is right! Yuuta’s just about ready to give himself a lecture on imagining things. But he hasn’t imagined Mizuki’s words even if the implication is next to impossible to process, right at the moment. Unbidden, his own heartbeat picks up, and he is at a loss for words.
He bites down on the tip of his tongue, to prevent himself from blushing any more, or saying something stupid. His stroking is arrhythmic, but it gets less and less hesitant, especially when he sees the appreciation etched on Mizuki’s face. Yuuta kisses Mizuki again, tongue darting out to lap at his lower lip, engraving the unique taste into his memory, while he wipes excess lubricant from his hand on the probably-very-expensive sheets. Oh well. It’s not like they’re going anywhere but the wash after this, anyway.
“Ready?”
Yuuta thinks so. As ready as he’ll ever be, anyway.
Their legs tangle and shift around, as they try to find a more comfortable position for this. It could be comical, if it weren’t so damn intimate. When Mizuki presses in, at last, it is almost torturously slow. The resulting sensation is nothing like what Yuuta would expect it to be. Instead of being straightforward pain or pleasure, it makes everything else feel more. The sheets against his back; the hot, hard stretch; his own jagged breathing. Yuuta’s thoughts fragment, breaking down into their simplest components, like a handful of dried earth. Every touch against every nerve blurs together, shooting toward a single point, until there is nothing left but rough movement, the frantic knocking of his heart, and the sea of black behind his eyelids.
***
Eventually, Yuuta finds his breath again, and a few seconds later, he can even formulate basic thoughts beyond ‘Oh, wow!’. Somewhere along the line, his body has turned to jelly - not that he minds. “You know, we could market this as a great solution for muscle stress,” he muses to no one in particular.
Beside him, Mizuki shifts, stretching. “I’m sure that somebody, somewhere, has already thought of that. So, I take it you’re feeling better?”
“Definitely!” ‘Better’ would probably be an understatement.
“That’s good to hear.” And with that, Mizuki proceeds to drape himself against Yuuta’s chest.
Yuuta doesn’t bother stopping him. He can deal with being Mizuki’s pillow, as long as the other boy doesn’t put his complete weight on him. Especially considering that he was half-afraid they’d simply get up and never speak of this again. Or worse, that it would make everything all awkward. If that had happened, he knows that he would have found a way to blame it on himself.
And maybe things will be weird, for a while, in the light of day. But they don’t have to be, right?
“If Aniki ever finds out about any of this, he’s going to kill us both. In a creatively messy way.”
“I wouldn’t think so.” Mizuki responds. “Fuji Syuusuke... he wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, whatever else I may think of him. And hopefully, that includes not harming anything you’re particularly fond of. Dare I hope that you’re at least a little fond of me, Yuuta-kun?”
“You can ‘dare’ anything you want, Mizuki-san.” But Yuuta’s hands are in Mizuki’s hair again, playing absentmindedly with the damp curls, so he knows his teasing won’t be taken seriously.
Fond? Maybe that was the word for it... For now, Yuuta sinks into the pillow, and yawns. In a few hours, the sun would begin to rise. They’d have to go to class, and perhaps the people next door would glare at them, for making too much noise. Maybe they’d even receive some sort of reprimand from the faculty. Hopefully not, though - that would redefine embarrassing!
And if Yuuta wasn’t feeling so sleepy and content, he’d actually care.
*Hides in a corner, and blushes to death*