Kite/Tezuka ~ fic
Title: Letting the cables sleep
Pairing: Kite/Tezuka - future timeline
Rating: R
Summary: Kite tries to accustom himself to an empty bed after Rin has packed up and gone. A chance meeting with an old rival helps to ease the separation anxiety.
a/n ~ Morning after. Atobe gets a little screen time. Rin goes home. Kite has his eye on the prize.
First bit + second bit + third bit + fourth bit + fifth bit
letting the cables sleep
chapter six
The sheets were cool on the right side of the bed - on that side of the bed that Atobe never touched. His pillow was soft and faintly scented with lavender and his blankets were smooth and still turned down just so. Stretching out on his back, toes reaching toward the end of the bed, Atobe took in the state of his bedsheets to see that his bed barely looked slept in. Rubbing his face with one hand, he realized that his bed looked as though it hadn’t been slept in because he hadn’t really slept.
He opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling. He reminded himself - again - that even when Tezuka still shared his bed, he rarely slept there all night long. Their meetings were desperate, passionate; Atobe had begun to think he would never get enough of Tezuka to ever risk tiring of him. He’d imagined that their interactions were exactly what was necessary to sustain the only sort of relationship he would ever be capable of having with another man. Somewhere along the way, though, they’d grown closer, shared space and emotion and some of the most stimulating conversation Atobe had ever partaken of - with anyone - and Atobe had allowed himself to be trapped. Not by Tezuka or any possible machinations on his part, but by his own desire and his own need and his own heart. It hadn’t been his intention, but he supposed it had been inevitable, nonetheless. Somewhere along the way, he’d grown to love Tezuka - a real, substantial, irrefutable sort of love - and Tezuka had recognized those feelings in him without Atobe ever having to say a word.
Reality intruded, however, as reality always seemed to do and Atobe simply didn’t possess what was required to hold his life together and still keep Tezuka by his side. For all that Atobe knew he would deny it, Tezuka saw the world in varying shades of color - that was the dreamer in him - and could never understand the pressure and the expectation that Atobe had inherited when he’d been given the Atobe name. Atobe had learned the hard way that there were no gray areas. There was black and there was white and Tezuka had once said, though Atobe doubted he would even remember it, that black and white were not true colors.
They’d been alone in the east wing of the house, perusing the Atobe family gallery and Tezuka had made some comment regarding the cold, emotionless feeling so many of Atobe-san’s pieces invoked.
‘He’s always liked the minimalist style,’ Atobe had said. ‘The colors suit him, I think.’
Fixing Atobe with that solemn, appraising expression, Tezuka had frowned. ‘Those aren’t colors at all. They’re just…nothing.’
Shortly thereafter, he’d gone on to visit each and every piece in the gallery, nodding thoughtfully at some and barely pausing before others and Atobe had known, even as his heart ached with pride and desire as he watched Tezuka move about the room, that he didn’t know Tezuka the way he’d imagined that he did. Worse, still, was the realization that Tezuka did not know himself any better. There was color in him - in his mind and in his heart - and he hadn’t yet realized it.
Atobe had loved him then, though he’d refused to admit it, and he loved him now. That he hadn’t been able to give himself to Tezuka the way Tezuka had deserved was the reason they could never truly be together. That would never change, though. The only difference between his longing now and his longing then was that he knew the origin of it. Unfortunately, he also knew how this story went and there was no happy ending for him and for Tezuka. Not together, in any event.
Even knowing this, accepting his future and his obligations as only an Atobe could, he couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to set eyes on him again. To hear his voice and watch him hold himself so perfectly removed and untouchable in the face of Atobe’s lingering attachment to him. It had been months since they’d seen one another and while the pain had finally begun to recede, Atobe’s regret had not. He needed closure, needed to try to make Tezuka understand what he hadn’t bothered to say the night they’d gone their separate ways. The night Tezuka had decided that what Atobe offered was no longer sufficient.
Atobe wondered if what he had to offer would ever be sufficient. For anyone.
Rolling to one side, he sat up at the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his hair. His shoulders ached and he rubbed his temples in an effort to stave off the spectacular headache that he knew would be his, soon.
The clock read 4:45 and though he had the entire day free to do as he liked, he knew that sleep would not be his. He could not rest; he could not relax. It seemed that regret was even more formidable an obstacle than Atobe had ever imagined and when he left his bed - silk bedclothes whispering against his skin when he moved - it was a distraction that he sought.
In the sitting room, Atobe poured himself a brandy in the dark and sat down at his computer, powering up without benefit of light and sipping from his glass with his eyes closed. For a man who lived in a constant spotlight, the occasional darkness was a welcome respite.
He didn’t surf the web - there was nothing of interest there, anymore - and he didn’t open work documents or the file of possible blackmail material he’d amassed over the past year or two and he certainly didn’t open up his personal collection of pictures. Instead, he opened his email and he didn’t bother pretending that he wasn’t hoping for some word from Tezuka. He didn’t want to see his pictures, but he wouldn’t have minded some communication from him. Something to let him know that Tezuka still thought of him, still missed him.
As he drank, though, he reminded himself that Tezuka had not answered his last three emails and rarely responded to his texts. There was an unspoken rule that they would not phone one another and Atobe was proud of his himself for adhering, despite his desire to the contrary.
By the time his inbox opened, his glass was empty and so he rose to fill it again - to the rim, this time - before settling into his desk chair. The leather was cool through his pajamas and he shifted, taking another, long swallow from his glass. His eyes were bleary yet, but he could see reasonably well. After he’d finished his brandy, he would shower and find his eye drops.
Welcome, Keigo. You have (6) unread messages.
He perused the list of senders, smiling faintly to himself even as he fought to ignore his disappointment. Since none of them were from Tezuka, he opened them in the order that they’d been received.
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Kabaji Munehiro
Subject: Next week
Atobe,
The Aston-Martin has been sent out for repairs. I experienced some problems with the brakes yesterday and feel that it would be best to have it checked before you take it out again. Please do not worry; I’m certain the brake line hasn’t been cut. I am merely being cautious. Have Hiroki bring the Daimler around for you if you must go out today. Also, there are cinnamon biscotti in the kitchen. I know how you like those with the African blend.
-Kabaji
_______________________________________________
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Atobe Miyoko
Subject: Tea Ceremony
Keigo,
I’ll be returning from Osaka on the tenth and I am afraid that I am just going to miss Nanami-san’s Ceremony that afternoon. Would you please keep that date open on your calendar (if it is not already full, of course) in the event that I will be unable to attend? It’s imperative that someone attend in the interests of your father’s upcoming transactions with Nanami-san’s husband. Also, if you could arrange to escort Nanami-san’s daughter, I’m certain that such a gesture on your part would only serve to sweeten the arrangement. Shige is a lovely girl - I’m sure you remember from the last party we attended at the family’s weekend home. Please call me this week so that we might discuss this further. Good luck on your final exam!
Love,
Mom
_______________________________________________
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Oshitari Yuushi
Subject: Public hanging
Keigo,
My mother has volunteered me to escort Mayuzumi Hiroe to some ridiculous hen party - has your mother mentioned this to you? I’ve heard that you’ll be escorting Nanami Shige and I felt it necessary to confirm this information before I consented to wasting hours of my life on a date that I am certain will not result in sex in any way, shape, or form. Call me - we need to sync our stories before I come up with a decent enough excuse.
Also, Gakuto and Hiyoshi want a rally. Gakuto’s been restless lately; I feel that I cannot refuse him.
Call me.
_______________________________________________
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Fuji Shuusuke
Subject: Unfortunate Accidents
Hello Keigo. It has been a while, ne?
This is not an easy email to write. Indeed, I feel a bit awkward and presumptuous, but I fear that it simply cannot be helped.
I’ve recently spoken to Tezuka and he seems well. I don’t imagine that you need to be told how I’ve suffered in watching him struggle with his own suffering. Be the better man this time and let him go. It’s difficult for him to let go when you are so determined to remind him of what has been lost. I’m sure you realize that you are at fault and that any heartbreak you have experienced - if, in fact, you experienced any at all - is your own doing.
Let Tezuka move on. I am certain that you are not wanting for bed partners and I don’t wish to make this situation any uglier than it already is.
Oh, and before I forget: I am hosting an engagement party for my sister on the 10th. Kawamura and I would be delighted if you could attend. ^__^
RSVP by the end of next week if you can make it.
Regards,
Shuusuke
_______________________________________________
To: Atobe Keigo
From: aNtHONy bIGcOCK
Subject: Ladies love you huge sausage?
Breezy and nice it is the time that we all love to find big erection in love love skyblue. C1ALIS prescription at fraction of cost is good love for all ladies. You are tired of teeny weenie, we are tired also!
www.prescripforless.com
_______________________________________________
To: Atobe Keigo
From: bamf_ace
Subject: Pathetic
Hey, you punk bitch. :)
I hear you’ve traded in your racket for a pretty pink training bra and kitten heels, is that right?
Keigo, Keigo, Keigo. I am disappointed in you - what have you become? Where’s the Atobe I used to know? Do you miss it? The sun and the sweat and the concrete under your overpriced, designer trainers? Don’t you miss the way all that ambition and drive used to run through your veins when you took a good win? Don’t say no, you fucking liar - I know you better than you ever thought I did.
Success is more than a nice suit and a prissy car and fat bank.
Come and out play, Keigo - you were always the worthiest opponent I ever faced.
Think about it.
And quit drinking; you’re gonna get fat.
_______________________________________________
Atobe sat back, blinking. If he hadn’t been awake before, he certainly was now. Frowning minutely, he reread the last email and experienced a sudden, familiar surge of irritation. He pushed his glass away and stood, shoving the chair away from him. There was nothing Atobe hated more than being taunted where he couldn’t respond. While he reasoned that it could have been a joke, something about the tone of the email was oddly familiar and Atobe knew that none of his own friends would dare to send such a message, whether or not it was written in jest. Someone knew him well enough to push all the right buttons. Someone who knew him but didn’t want to reveal his identity. That was fine, he told himself petulantly. He would respond to his secret admirer. Later. At his leisure.
Raking a hand through his hair, Atobe turned toward the bathroom, already unbuttoning his shirt in quick, distracted motions. He didn’t close out his email, didn’t turn off his computer.
And he didn’t finish his brandy.
+++
The sun had barely risen when Ryoma awoke. Though he hadn’t slept even half as long as Tezuka had, he felt reasonably well rested. Over the years, his capacity for sleep had lessened until he’d found himself rising after only five or six hours a night. He reasoned that it was normal, to go through cycles of sleep when one traversed alternate patterns of athleticism versus sedentary relaxation. It was the off-season and Ryoma was still trying to adjust.
It was just after six-thirty when he shifted, stretching his legs and enjoying the cool smoothness of Tezuka’s sheets against his feet. Though the bed was big enough for the two of them to sleep comfortably, Tezuka’s head was an embarrassingly welcome weight on Ryoma’s pillow and when he turned his head to take in the sight of Tezuka’s face - so pale and beautiful - Ryoma could no more have repressed his smile than he could resist turning toward Tezuka’s warmth.
Surprisingly, Tezuka burrowed closer, sheets tangled around his legs to bare Ryoma’s and when Ryoma slid one arm beneath Tezuka’s head, he was quite unprepared for Tezuka’s immediate reaction. Even as he watched, eyes wide, Tezuka pressed his face against Ryoma’s shoulder and draped one arm over his waist. Ryoma’s heartbeat picked up; he barely dared to breathe for fear of waking Tezuka and making an awkward situation ten times more so.
Tezuka was snuggling him. Snuggling him like a child, like a…
Ryoma swallowed hard. Tezuka had never snuggled to him this way. Not in all the nights they’d spent together - platonic though they’d been - and certainly not that one night whereupon they’d crossed a boundary that Tezuka seemed uninterested in ever venturing beyond again.
Bowing his head, Ryoma let the tips of Tezuka’s hair brush his lips and he smiled to find that Tezuka used the same shampoo that he’d used in middle school. Something of this closeness, this obvious regard - this love - squeezed tight around Ryoma’s heart and he touched Tezuka’s back lightly. Tezuka had been his dream, once. His ideal, his desire, the one thing he’d aspired to even when he was too young to know what such intensity could lead to. Now - older and wiser but no less reckless - he knew that what he felt for Tezuka went far, far beyond what most of his friends would call ‘love’. Tezuka was Ryoma’s idol, his best friend, his first love. He was everything to Ryoma and there was no label he could slap on what they were to one another merely in the interests of validating it.
But Tezuka did not love Ryoma and Ryoma knew that he never would. Not in the way he’d loved Atobe.
Ryoma told himself that it didn’t matter and, when he really took a moment to analyze the depth of his feelings, he knew that he wasn’t lying to himself. Somehow, over the years, the dynamic between himself and Tezuka had grown and changed to become something mutually beneficial. They each brought something to the relationship that the other person needed and that was enough for Ryoma. Truthfully, he knew himself better than most boys his age and he knew that where Atobe had failed, he would fail, also. Tezuka required a commitment, an intense bond and intrinsic connection that Ryoma would never be able to offer him. Such intensity exhausted him. And so it came to be - in the early hours of what had to have been one of hundreds of days they’d shared with one another - that Ryoma came to terms with what they were together. And what they’d never be. That it didn’t hurt as he’d expected and, instead, made him feel as though some weight had been lifted was indicative of how intuitive he’d become. Or had always been, perhaps.
Tezuka hummed in his sleep, then, one long, bare leg brushing Ryoma’s when he nosed against his shoulder.
“…shirou,” he murmured, mouth damp against Ryoma’s t-shirt and Ryoma grew very still, leaning in to better hear him.
He was silent for a moment, a soft sigh escaping him when his fingers slipped beneath the hem of Ryoma’s shirt to brush his side. Very nearly holding his breath in an attempt to stave off any impromptu visits from the erection fairy, Ryoma reasoned that just because he’d reconciled to a platonic relationship with Tezuka didn’t mean that he couldn’t imagine that pretty, pale body of his and immediately be ready to rock and roll.
“Come on, Buchou,” he whispered. “Don’t do this to me now.”
Tezuka murmured again, rubbing his leg against Ryoma’s and shifting just that much closer. “Yes,” he slurred. “…shirou.”
Shirou? Ryoma frowned; who the hell was this Shirou asshole?
He shifted carefully, resting Tezuka’s head on the pillow and easing out of his embrace to slide off the bed. Crouched on the floor, eye level with Tezuka’s face, he watched him for a moment until he rolled to his back, one arm flung overhead to raise his shirt and bare his flat belly. “Mmm,” he hummed, and grew still again.
Rising to his feet, Ryoma stood over the bed, watching, assessing, reasoning that his protective nature was something he couldn’t help and that he was perfectly within his rights to find out who this Shirou guy was.
Tezuka didn’t appear to be cold - he certainly hadn’t felt cold against Ryoma - and so Ryoma didn’t move to cover him. He figured that by the time he’d finished whipping up a magnificent breakfast of coffee and French toast, Tezuka would be just waking up, anyway.
In the kitchen, though, even as he moved toward the refrigerator, his gaze fell on the messenger bag that lay on one of the bar stools. He hesitated - it wouldn’t be right to invade Tezuka’s privacy and risk violating his trust. Even as he thought it, though, he told himself that Tezuka couldn’t be angry with him if he didn’t know that he’d done it.
With one long glance toward the bedroom, satisfied when he heard no sound from within, he leaned over to lift the front flap of the bag and fished around inside until his fingers closed around Tezuka’s phone. He glanced over his shoulder again when he flipped the phone up to access the menu.
Contacts. Phone book.
The very first entry gave him pause and Ryoma stared at it for a few moments, thumb hovering over the name that he didn’t recognize.
A. Eishirou
Frowning, Ryoma perused the rest of the list, looking for something, anything that looked less familiar than A. Eishirou did. Tezuka’s contact list, however, was very similar to Ryoma’s in that they shared many of the same friends. The only two entries that Ryoma could not place were one Professor Ichigawa (rather self-explanatory) and A. Eishirou.
There was nothing for it, though. Try as he might, he could not place anyone by that name and deduced that this had to be the name Tezuka had spoken in his sleep. ‘Shirou. Eishirou. It was oddly familiar but Ryoma could not grasp precisely where he’d heard it before.
Before he could think better of it, he opened the contact information to find that the number was a local one. This A. Eishirou lived in the area and Tezuka was dreaming about him. In fact, Ryoma frowned - already reaching for the notepad and pencil Tezuka kept beside the counter phone - Tezuka was having rather pleasant dreams about him if all those breathy sighs and sweet noises were anything to go by.
He wrote the number down, folded the piece of paper and snapped Tezuka’s phone closed. Ryoma knew that he would be better served in reserving judgment on this very touchy subject. He put the phone away, closed the bag and remembered that he was hungry.
Tezuka was a big boy and could look out for himself. Ryoma would keep the number, though.
Just in case.
+++
The station was bustling with activity, even as early as it was. Rin took his time, meandering along the walkway with his duffle over his shoulder and his phone pressed tightly to his ear. With his hair tied back and his too-big shorts and flip-flops, he knew he looked out of place and he didn’t care. He wasn’t rich, but he wasn’t poor, either. He didn’t care what other people thought and he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he strolled along, waiting for his call to connect.
“Yo.”
“Yuujiroh.”
“Hai? Rinrin? Where are you?”
Rin smiled, where he usually just scowled and demanded that Kai not ever call him that again. Given that he’d been calling Rin that since elementary school, however, it was entirely unlikely that he would be willing to stop now. Truthfully, though he’d never admit it, sometimes he liked it when Kai called him Rinrin. It reminded him that he had a place to return to - people who’d known him longer than Kite and cared more for him, besides.
“I’m at the station in Fukuoka. I’m getting ready to catch the train to Kagoshima.”
There was a pause. “You’re coming home, then? Already?”
Rin laughed - short, sharp, completely without humor - and paused to check the schedule and destinations listed on the other side of the glass vestibule. The air-conditioning was too high - the back of Rin’s neck was cold. “You thought I’d be staying?”
“Well,” Kai began, voice hesitant. “I just thought that…you know, you and Kite…”
“That’s over,” Rin interrupted. There was no trace of bitterness in his tone, despite the anger and frustration he harbored, still. “I knew it was over before I got here, but you know me. I’m st-”
“You’re not stupid,” Kai told him sternly. “Rinrin, do you even know where you’re going?”
“Meh, vaguely. I got here okay, didn’t I?”
“Fine, but call me when you get to Naha and I’ll come and get you, okay?”
Rin nodded and stuck his tongue out at the snooty little college girl who was staring at him like she’d just smelled something bad. She scowled and turned away, skirt brushing the backs of her pretty, tanned legs as she went. Bitch.
“Okay,” he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, Yuujiroh.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I swear it this time.”
The smile evident in Kai’s voice was as clear as Rin’s certainty that he’d forced it. “I guess you don’t need me to talk him down to you, huh?”
Rin smiled. “It’s not all his fault. I should have seen it coming.”
“Well, whatever. You’re gonna be on that ferry forever, you know. Why didn’t you just catch a flight?”
Rin was silent for a moment. He let his eyes drift closed and he cleared his mind - thinking of home and of the beach and the sea and the sun at his back. As much as it saddened him to admit it, he hadn’t left his heart in Fukuoka, after all. Okinawa was still his home.
“I don’t mind the trip, really. I want to be near the water. I need some time.”
Kai grunted, wanting to object but understanding all the same. “Yeah, yeah. Just come home, Rinrin. We’ll be waiting for ya.”
And they would be. They always were.
“I know you will. I’ll call you.”
When he snapped his phone shut, slipping it into his pocket so that all but his Domo-kun phone strap was tucked safely inside, he tugged the band from his hair and shook it out. The air-strip tossed it about his shoulders and he tipped his face up to catch a blast of air. He shivered, but smoothed his hair down and strolled along the walkway, humming some calypso tune that Tanishi’s mother used to sing when she baked sweets for them after practice.
It felt good to go home and know that he wasn’t going to leave again. He had new plans to make. Even if, for the first time in a long time, those plans didn’t include Eishirou.
+++
He’d lain in bed long after he’d awakened - eyes closed, breathing slow and steady even as the sunlight filtered over him and the empty space beside him. The space that Rin had occupied hours before but occupied no longer.
Kite had not been awake when Rin had risen, but he’d known that he was gone even before he’d opened his eyes. Masochist that he was, he couldn’t help asking himself if he would have asked Rin to stay had he been awake to see him go. The right answer, the one that made him less of a bastard, was not the one he could claim. Not if he were going to be honest with himself.
Last night, touching Rin, fucking him, hadn’t felt good like it used to. Some part of Kite had felt too much an observer to lose himself in Rin’s sweet kisses. Last night, his kisses hadn’t been so sweet. Rin had likely known it was over the moment he’d looked into Kite’s eyes and Kite could say this unequivocally as he’d known it, himself. It was typical of them, though, to want to hang on - to want to keep pushing forward. Never say die - never surrender. Never let them see you cry.
That was what they used to be, though; it was how they’d begun. Kite knew it was naive to think that something so uncertain, something formed at such an unstable time in their lives, could last forever. Nostalgia and a lingering emotion was not enough to build a lifetime on. It was a fantasy. Rin was a fantasy - some beautiful, elusive beachboy who would always be important to Kite but still lacked what Kite needed the most in a partner. He felt guilty for not recognizing their incompatibility sooner, but reasoned that he was young, too. He was bound to trip up once in a while - no matter that he felt his self-control and self-knowledge were absolute.
He cared for Rin, loved him in some way, still. But it hadn’t been enough. He didn’t feel as though he should have to bear the burden of guilt for something so completely unintentional.
He could say that Tezuka Kunimitsu had absolutely nothing to do with it, but he’d be lying. The winds of change had come in the form of a one-time rival and Kite had been able to feel the difference when he and Tezuka had parted ways. He’d closed the book on Rin’s chapter, but felt certain that the chapter he was about to begin would focus nearly completely on Tezuka. He reminded himself, when he opened his eyes to glance at the smooth, empty sheets that Rin had lay on, that if he and Rin had been that perfect fit, he would never have felt so strongly about Tezuka in the first place. The first time Kite had touched him - the first time Tezuka had reciprocated - Kite had realized that he’d found something different. Something powerful and right.
He sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. His hair hung in his eyes and he blinked once or twice, tossing his head and sweeping his unruly bangs aside to peer at the mirror across the room. Even before he’d put his glasses on, he could see that Rin’s picture was gone. He’d taken it with him - taken all traces of himself and fled - and the sense of finality that Kite experienced was sobering, staggering.
It was over. His obligation to Rin was no more and he could follow his heart the way he’d never been moved to follow it in the past. Tezuka moved him. Tezuka intrigued him. And Kite knew that what they’d shared had not been enough - would never be enough.
He straightened, reached for his glasses and slid them into place. Rin’s bag was gone and all that remained of him at all was the outline of dust on the mirror where his picture used to be.
Kite bowed his head and let the surge of determination wash over him. He knew, when his heart swelled and his stomach flipflopped, that he wasn’t going to wait for Tezuka to come to him.
There had only been one time in his life that he’d experienced an unexpected loss and he’d vowed - on the plane trip home, with Rin on one side and Kai on the other - that he would never accept so disheartening a defeat again. Not ever.
Since that night, he’d never experienced a determination quite so consuming. But now, he did. He was consumed. Tezuka consumed him.
“Tezuka,” he said aloud and, of course, no one answered. It didn’t seem to matter, though, as he said it again, to himself this time.
It was unintended - Tezuka was unintended - but never before had Kite felt so certain, so strongly about something.
Unintended. But it was only a matter of time.
Random, but Mika thinks he is Freddie Mercury. I'm not sure if I like this or if it bothers me.
Pairing: Kite/Tezuka - future timeline
Rating: R
Summary: Kite tries to accustom himself to an empty bed after Rin has packed up and gone. A chance meeting with an old rival helps to ease the separation anxiety.
a/n ~ Morning after. Atobe gets a little screen time. Rin goes home. Kite has his eye on the prize.
First bit + second bit + third bit + fourth bit + fifth bit
letting the cables sleep
chapter six
The sheets were cool on the right side of the bed - on that side of the bed that Atobe never touched. His pillow was soft and faintly scented with lavender and his blankets were smooth and still turned down just so. Stretching out on his back, toes reaching toward the end of the bed, Atobe took in the state of his bedsheets to see that his bed barely looked slept in. Rubbing his face with one hand, he realized that his bed looked as though it hadn’t been slept in because he hadn’t really slept.
He opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling. He reminded himself - again - that even when Tezuka still shared his bed, he rarely slept there all night long. Their meetings were desperate, passionate; Atobe had begun to think he would never get enough of Tezuka to ever risk tiring of him. He’d imagined that their interactions were exactly what was necessary to sustain the only sort of relationship he would ever be capable of having with another man. Somewhere along the way, though, they’d grown closer, shared space and emotion and some of the most stimulating conversation Atobe had ever partaken of - with anyone - and Atobe had allowed himself to be trapped. Not by Tezuka or any possible machinations on his part, but by his own desire and his own need and his own heart. It hadn’t been his intention, but he supposed it had been inevitable, nonetheless. Somewhere along the way, he’d grown to love Tezuka - a real, substantial, irrefutable sort of love - and Tezuka had recognized those feelings in him without Atobe ever having to say a word.
Reality intruded, however, as reality always seemed to do and Atobe simply didn’t possess what was required to hold his life together and still keep Tezuka by his side. For all that Atobe knew he would deny it, Tezuka saw the world in varying shades of color - that was the dreamer in him - and could never understand the pressure and the expectation that Atobe had inherited when he’d been given the Atobe name. Atobe had learned the hard way that there were no gray areas. There was black and there was white and Tezuka had once said, though Atobe doubted he would even remember it, that black and white were not true colors.
They’d been alone in the east wing of the house, perusing the Atobe family gallery and Tezuka had made some comment regarding the cold, emotionless feeling so many of Atobe-san’s pieces invoked.
‘He’s always liked the minimalist style,’ Atobe had said. ‘The colors suit him, I think.’
Fixing Atobe with that solemn, appraising expression, Tezuka had frowned. ‘Those aren’t colors at all. They’re just…nothing.’
Shortly thereafter, he’d gone on to visit each and every piece in the gallery, nodding thoughtfully at some and barely pausing before others and Atobe had known, even as his heart ached with pride and desire as he watched Tezuka move about the room, that he didn’t know Tezuka the way he’d imagined that he did. Worse, still, was the realization that Tezuka did not know himself any better. There was color in him - in his mind and in his heart - and he hadn’t yet realized it.
Atobe had loved him then, though he’d refused to admit it, and he loved him now. That he hadn’t been able to give himself to Tezuka the way Tezuka had deserved was the reason they could never truly be together. That would never change, though. The only difference between his longing now and his longing then was that he knew the origin of it. Unfortunately, he also knew how this story went and there was no happy ending for him and for Tezuka. Not together, in any event.
Even knowing this, accepting his future and his obligations as only an Atobe could, he couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to set eyes on him again. To hear his voice and watch him hold himself so perfectly removed and untouchable in the face of Atobe’s lingering attachment to him. It had been months since they’d seen one another and while the pain had finally begun to recede, Atobe’s regret had not. He needed closure, needed to try to make Tezuka understand what he hadn’t bothered to say the night they’d gone their separate ways. The night Tezuka had decided that what Atobe offered was no longer sufficient.
Atobe wondered if what he had to offer would ever be sufficient. For anyone.
Rolling to one side, he sat up at the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his hair. His shoulders ached and he rubbed his temples in an effort to stave off the spectacular headache that he knew would be his, soon.
The clock read 4:45 and though he had the entire day free to do as he liked, he knew that sleep would not be his. He could not rest; he could not relax. It seemed that regret was even more formidable an obstacle than Atobe had ever imagined and when he left his bed - silk bedclothes whispering against his skin when he moved - it was a distraction that he sought.
In the sitting room, Atobe poured himself a brandy in the dark and sat down at his computer, powering up without benefit of light and sipping from his glass with his eyes closed. For a man who lived in a constant spotlight, the occasional darkness was a welcome respite.
He didn’t surf the web - there was nothing of interest there, anymore - and he didn’t open work documents or the file of possible blackmail material he’d amassed over the past year or two and he certainly didn’t open up his personal collection of pictures. Instead, he opened his email and he didn’t bother pretending that he wasn’t hoping for some word from Tezuka. He didn’t want to see his pictures, but he wouldn’t have minded some communication from him. Something to let him know that Tezuka still thought of him, still missed him.
As he drank, though, he reminded himself that Tezuka had not answered his last three emails and rarely responded to his texts. There was an unspoken rule that they would not phone one another and Atobe was proud of his himself for adhering, despite his desire to the contrary.
By the time his inbox opened, his glass was empty and so he rose to fill it again - to the rim, this time - before settling into his desk chair. The leather was cool through his pajamas and he shifted, taking another, long swallow from his glass. His eyes were bleary yet, but he could see reasonably well. After he’d finished his brandy, he would shower and find his eye drops.
Welcome, Keigo. You have (6) unread messages.
He perused the list of senders, smiling faintly to himself even as he fought to ignore his disappointment. Since none of them were from Tezuka, he opened them in the order that they’d been received.
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Kabaji Munehiro
Subject: Next week
Atobe,
The Aston-Martin has been sent out for repairs. I experienced some problems with the brakes yesterday and feel that it would be best to have it checked before you take it out again. Please do not worry; I’m certain the brake line hasn’t been cut. I am merely being cautious. Have Hiroki bring the Daimler around for you if you must go out today. Also, there are cinnamon biscotti in the kitchen. I know how you like those with the African blend.
-Kabaji
_______________________________________________
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Atobe Miyoko
Subject: Tea Ceremony
Keigo,
I’ll be returning from Osaka on the tenth and I am afraid that I am just going to miss Nanami-san’s Ceremony that afternoon. Would you please keep that date open on your calendar (if it is not already full, of course) in the event that I will be unable to attend? It’s imperative that someone attend in the interests of your father’s upcoming transactions with Nanami-san’s husband. Also, if you could arrange to escort Nanami-san’s daughter, I’m certain that such a gesture on your part would only serve to sweeten the arrangement. Shige is a lovely girl - I’m sure you remember from the last party we attended at the family’s weekend home. Please call me this week so that we might discuss this further. Good luck on your final exam!
Love,
Mom
_______________________________________________
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Oshitari Yuushi
Subject: Public hanging
Keigo,
My mother has volunteered me to escort Mayuzumi Hiroe to some ridiculous hen party - has your mother mentioned this to you? I’ve heard that you’ll be escorting Nanami Shige and I felt it necessary to confirm this information before I consented to wasting hours of my life on a date that I am certain will not result in sex in any way, shape, or form. Call me - we need to sync our stories before I come up with a decent enough excuse.
Also, Gakuto and Hiyoshi want a rally. Gakuto’s been restless lately; I feel that I cannot refuse him.
Call me.
_______________________________________________
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Fuji Shuusuke
Subject: Unfortunate Accidents
Hello Keigo. It has been a while, ne?
This is not an easy email to write. Indeed, I feel a bit awkward and presumptuous, but I fear that it simply cannot be helped.
I’ve recently spoken to Tezuka and he seems well. I don’t imagine that you need to be told how I’ve suffered in watching him struggle with his own suffering. Be the better man this time and let him go. It’s difficult for him to let go when you are so determined to remind him of what has been lost. I’m sure you realize that you are at fault and that any heartbreak you have experienced - if, in fact, you experienced any at all - is your own doing.
Let Tezuka move on. I am certain that you are not wanting for bed partners and I don’t wish to make this situation any uglier than it already is.
Oh, and before I forget: I am hosting an engagement party for my sister on the 10th. Kawamura and I would be delighted if you could attend. ^__^
RSVP by the end of next week if you can make it.
Regards,
Shuusuke
_______________________________________________
To: Atobe Keigo
From: aNtHONy bIGcOCK
Subject: Ladies love you huge sausage?
Breezy and nice it is the time that we all love to find big erection in love love skyblue. C1ALIS prescription at fraction of cost is good love for all ladies. You are tired of teeny weenie, we are tired also!
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_______________________________________________
To: Atobe Keigo
From: bamf_ace
Subject: Pathetic
Hey, you punk bitch. :)
I hear you’ve traded in your racket for a pretty pink training bra and kitten heels, is that right?
Keigo, Keigo, Keigo. I am disappointed in you - what have you become? Where’s the Atobe I used to know? Do you miss it? The sun and the sweat and the concrete under your overpriced, designer trainers? Don’t you miss the way all that ambition and drive used to run through your veins when you took a good win? Don’t say no, you fucking liar - I know you better than you ever thought I did.
Success is more than a nice suit and a prissy car and fat bank.
Come and out play, Keigo - you were always the worthiest opponent I ever faced.
Think about it.
And quit drinking; you’re gonna get fat.
_______________________________________________
Atobe sat back, blinking. If he hadn’t been awake before, he certainly was now. Frowning minutely, he reread the last email and experienced a sudden, familiar surge of irritation. He pushed his glass away and stood, shoving the chair away from him. There was nothing Atobe hated more than being taunted where he couldn’t respond. While he reasoned that it could have been a joke, something about the tone of the email was oddly familiar and Atobe knew that none of his own friends would dare to send such a message, whether or not it was written in jest. Someone knew him well enough to push all the right buttons. Someone who knew him but didn’t want to reveal his identity. That was fine, he told himself petulantly. He would respond to his secret admirer. Later. At his leisure.
Raking a hand through his hair, Atobe turned toward the bathroom, already unbuttoning his shirt in quick, distracted motions. He didn’t close out his email, didn’t turn off his computer.
And he didn’t finish his brandy.
+++
The sun had barely risen when Ryoma awoke. Though he hadn’t slept even half as long as Tezuka had, he felt reasonably well rested. Over the years, his capacity for sleep had lessened until he’d found himself rising after only five or six hours a night. He reasoned that it was normal, to go through cycles of sleep when one traversed alternate patterns of athleticism versus sedentary relaxation. It was the off-season and Ryoma was still trying to adjust.
It was just after six-thirty when he shifted, stretching his legs and enjoying the cool smoothness of Tezuka’s sheets against his feet. Though the bed was big enough for the two of them to sleep comfortably, Tezuka’s head was an embarrassingly welcome weight on Ryoma’s pillow and when he turned his head to take in the sight of Tezuka’s face - so pale and beautiful - Ryoma could no more have repressed his smile than he could resist turning toward Tezuka’s warmth.
Surprisingly, Tezuka burrowed closer, sheets tangled around his legs to bare Ryoma’s and when Ryoma slid one arm beneath Tezuka’s head, he was quite unprepared for Tezuka’s immediate reaction. Even as he watched, eyes wide, Tezuka pressed his face against Ryoma’s shoulder and draped one arm over his waist. Ryoma’s heartbeat picked up; he barely dared to breathe for fear of waking Tezuka and making an awkward situation ten times more so.
Tezuka was snuggling him. Snuggling him like a child, like a…
Ryoma swallowed hard. Tezuka had never snuggled to him this way. Not in all the nights they’d spent together - platonic though they’d been - and certainly not that one night whereupon they’d crossed a boundary that Tezuka seemed uninterested in ever venturing beyond again.
Bowing his head, Ryoma let the tips of Tezuka’s hair brush his lips and he smiled to find that Tezuka used the same shampoo that he’d used in middle school. Something of this closeness, this obvious regard - this love - squeezed tight around Ryoma’s heart and he touched Tezuka’s back lightly. Tezuka had been his dream, once. His ideal, his desire, the one thing he’d aspired to even when he was too young to know what such intensity could lead to. Now - older and wiser but no less reckless - he knew that what he felt for Tezuka went far, far beyond what most of his friends would call ‘love’. Tezuka was Ryoma’s idol, his best friend, his first love. He was everything to Ryoma and there was no label he could slap on what they were to one another merely in the interests of validating it.
But Tezuka did not love Ryoma and Ryoma knew that he never would. Not in the way he’d loved Atobe.
Ryoma told himself that it didn’t matter and, when he really took a moment to analyze the depth of his feelings, he knew that he wasn’t lying to himself. Somehow, over the years, the dynamic between himself and Tezuka had grown and changed to become something mutually beneficial. They each brought something to the relationship that the other person needed and that was enough for Ryoma. Truthfully, he knew himself better than most boys his age and he knew that where Atobe had failed, he would fail, also. Tezuka required a commitment, an intense bond and intrinsic connection that Ryoma would never be able to offer him. Such intensity exhausted him. And so it came to be - in the early hours of what had to have been one of hundreds of days they’d shared with one another - that Ryoma came to terms with what they were together. And what they’d never be. That it didn’t hurt as he’d expected and, instead, made him feel as though some weight had been lifted was indicative of how intuitive he’d become. Or had always been, perhaps.
Tezuka hummed in his sleep, then, one long, bare leg brushing Ryoma’s when he nosed against his shoulder.
“…shirou,” he murmured, mouth damp against Ryoma’s t-shirt and Ryoma grew very still, leaning in to better hear him.
He was silent for a moment, a soft sigh escaping him when his fingers slipped beneath the hem of Ryoma’s shirt to brush his side. Very nearly holding his breath in an attempt to stave off any impromptu visits from the erection fairy, Ryoma reasoned that just because he’d reconciled to a platonic relationship with Tezuka didn’t mean that he couldn’t imagine that pretty, pale body of his and immediately be ready to rock and roll.
“Come on, Buchou,” he whispered. “Don’t do this to me now.”
Tezuka murmured again, rubbing his leg against Ryoma’s and shifting just that much closer. “Yes,” he slurred. “…shirou.”
Shirou? Ryoma frowned; who the hell was this Shirou asshole?
He shifted carefully, resting Tezuka’s head on the pillow and easing out of his embrace to slide off the bed. Crouched on the floor, eye level with Tezuka’s face, he watched him for a moment until he rolled to his back, one arm flung overhead to raise his shirt and bare his flat belly. “Mmm,” he hummed, and grew still again.
Rising to his feet, Ryoma stood over the bed, watching, assessing, reasoning that his protective nature was something he couldn’t help and that he was perfectly within his rights to find out who this Shirou guy was.
Tezuka didn’t appear to be cold - he certainly hadn’t felt cold against Ryoma - and so Ryoma didn’t move to cover him. He figured that by the time he’d finished whipping up a magnificent breakfast of coffee and French toast, Tezuka would be just waking up, anyway.
In the kitchen, though, even as he moved toward the refrigerator, his gaze fell on the messenger bag that lay on one of the bar stools. He hesitated - it wouldn’t be right to invade Tezuka’s privacy and risk violating his trust. Even as he thought it, though, he told himself that Tezuka couldn’t be angry with him if he didn’t know that he’d done it.
With one long glance toward the bedroom, satisfied when he heard no sound from within, he leaned over to lift the front flap of the bag and fished around inside until his fingers closed around Tezuka’s phone. He glanced over his shoulder again when he flipped the phone up to access the menu.
Contacts. Phone book.
The very first entry gave him pause and Ryoma stared at it for a few moments, thumb hovering over the name that he didn’t recognize.
A. Eishirou
Frowning, Ryoma perused the rest of the list, looking for something, anything that looked less familiar than A. Eishirou did. Tezuka’s contact list, however, was very similar to Ryoma’s in that they shared many of the same friends. The only two entries that Ryoma could not place were one Professor Ichigawa (rather self-explanatory) and A. Eishirou.
There was nothing for it, though. Try as he might, he could not place anyone by that name and deduced that this had to be the name Tezuka had spoken in his sleep. ‘Shirou. Eishirou. It was oddly familiar but Ryoma could not grasp precisely where he’d heard it before.
Before he could think better of it, he opened the contact information to find that the number was a local one. This A. Eishirou lived in the area and Tezuka was dreaming about him. In fact, Ryoma frowned - already reaching for the notepad and pencil Tezuka kept beside the counter phone - Tezuka was having rather pleasant dreams about him if all those breathy sighs and sweet noises were anything to go by.
He wrote the number down, folded the piece of paper and snapped Tezuka’s phone closed. Ryoma knew that he would be better served in reserving judgment on this very touchy subject. He put the phone away, closed the bag and remembered that he was hungry.
Tezuka was a big boy and could look out for himself. Ryoma would keep the number, though.
Just in case.
+++
The station was bustling with activity, even as early as it was. Rin took his time, meandering along the walkway with his duffle over his shoulder and his phone pressed tightly to his ear. With his hair tied back and his too-big shorts and flip-flops, he knew he looked out of place and he didn’t care. He wasn’t rich, but he wasn’t poor, either. He didn’t care what other people thought and he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he strolled along, waiting for his call to connect.
“Yo.”
“Yuujiroh.”
“Hai? Rinrin? Where are you?”
Rin smiled, where he usually just scowled and demanded that Kai not ever call him that again. Given that he’d been calling Rin that since elementary school, however, it was entirely unlikely that he would be willing to stop now. Truthfully, though he’d never admit it, sometimes he liked it when Kai called him Rinrin. It reminded him that he had a place to return to - people who’d known him longer than Kite and cared more for him, besides.
“I’m at the station in Fukuoka. I’m getting ready to catch the train to Kagoshima.”
There was a pause. “You’re coming home, then? Already?”
Rin laughed - short, sharp, completely without humor - and paused to check the schedule and destinations listed on the other side of the glass vestibule. The air-conditioning was too high - the back of Rin’s neck was cold. “You thought I’d be staying?”
“Well,” Kai began, voice hesitant. “I just thought that…you know, you and Kite…”
“That’s over,” Rin interrupted. There was no trace of bitterness in his tone, despite the anger and frustration he harbored, still. “I knew it was over before I got here, but you know me. I’m st-”
“You’re not stupid,” Kai told him sternly. “Rinrin, do you even know where you’re going?”
“Meh, vaguely. I got here okay, didn’t I?”
“Fine, but call me when you get to Naha and I’ll come and get you, okay?”
Rin nodded and stuck his tongue out at the snooty little college girl who was staring at him like she’d just smelled something bad. She scowled and turned away, skirt brushing the backs of her pretty, tanned legs as she went. Bitch.
“Okay,” he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, Yuujiroh.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I swear it this time.”
The smile evident in Kai’s voice was as clear as Rin’s certainty that he’d forced it. “I guess you don’t need me to talk him down to you, huh?”
Rin smiled. “It’s not all his fault. I should have seen it coming.”
“Well, whatever. You’re gonna be on that ferry forever, you know. Why didn’t you just catch a flight?”
Rin was silent for a moment. He let his eyes drift closed and he cleared his mind - thinking of home and of the beach and the sea and the sun at his back. As much as it saddened him to admit it, he hadn’t left his heart in Fukuoka, after all. Okinawa was still his home.
“I don’t mind the trip, really. I want to be near the water. I need some time.”
Kai grunted, wanting to object but understanding all the same. “Yeah, yeah. Just come home, Rinrin. We’ll be waiting for ya.”
And they would be. They always were.
“I know you will. I’ll call you.”
When he snapped his phone shut, slipping it into his pocket so that all but his Domo-kun phone strap was tucked safely inside, he tugged the band from his hair and shook it out. The air-strip tossed it about his shoulders and he tipped his face up to catch a blast of air. He shivered, but smoothed his hair down and strolled along the walkway, humming some calypso tune that Tanishi’s mother used to sing when she baked sweets for them after practice.
It felt good to go home and know that he wasn’t going to leave again. He had new plans to make. Even if, for the first time in a long time, those plans didn’t include Eishirou.
+++
He’d lain in bed long after he’d awakened - eyes closed, breathing slow and steady even as the sunlight filtered over him and the empty space beside him. The space that Rin had occupied hours before but occupied no longer.
Kite had not been awake when Rin had risen, but he’d known that he was gone even before he’d opened his eyes. Masochist that he was, he couldn’t help asking himself if he would have asked Rin to stay had he been awake to see him go. The right answer, the one that made him less of a bastard, was not the one he could claim. Not if he were going to be honest with himself.
Last night, touching Rin, fucking him, hadn’t felt good like it used to. Some part of Kite had felt too much an observer to lose himself in Rin’s sweet kisses. Last night, his kisses hadn’t been so sweet. Rin had likely known it was over the moment he’d looked into Kite’s eyes and Kite could say this unequivocally as he’d known it, himself. It was typical of them, though, to want to hang on - to want to keep pushing forward. Never say die - never surrender. Never let them see you cry.
That was what they used to be, though; it was how they’d begun. Kite knew it was naive to think that something so uncertain, something formed at such an unstable time in their lives, could last forever. Nostalgia and a lingering emotion was not enough to build a lifetime on. It was a fantasy. Rin was a fantasy - some beautiful, elusive beachboy who would always be important to Kite but still lacked what Kite needed the most in a partner. He felt guilty for not recognizing their incompatibility sooner, but reasoned that he was young, too. He was bound to trip up once in a while - no matter that he felt his self-control and self-knowledge were absolute.
He cared for Rin, loved him in some way, still. But it hadn’t been enough. He didn’t feel as though he should have to bear the burden of guilt for something so completely unintentional.
He could say that Tezuka Kunimitsu had absolutely nothing to do with it, but he’d be lying. The winds of change had come in the form of a one-time rival and Kite had been able to feel the difference when he and Tezuka had parted ways. He’d closed the book on Rin’s chapter, but felt certain that the chapter he was about to begin would focus nearly completely on Tezuka. He reminded himself, when he opened his eyes to glance at the smooth, empty sheets that Rin had lay on, that if he and Rin had been that perfect fit, he would never have felt so strongly about Tezuka in the first place. The first time Kite had touched him - the first time Tezuka had reciprocated - Kite had realized that he’d found something different. Something powerful and right.
He sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. His hair hung in his eyes and he blinked once or twice, tossing his head and sweeping his unruly bangs aside to peer at the mirror across the room. Even before he’d put his glasses on, he could see that Rin’s picture was gone. He’d taken it with him - taken all traces of himself and fled - and the sense of finality that Kite experienced was sobering, staggering.
It was over. His obligation to Rin was no more and he could follow his heart the way he’d never been moved to follow it in the past. Tezuka moved him. Tezuka intrigued him. And Kite knew that what they’d shared had not been enough - would never be enough.
He straightened, reached for his glasses and slid them into place. Rin’s bag was gone and all that remained of him at all was the outline of dust on the mirror where his picture used to be.
Kite bowed his head and let the surge of determination wash over him. He knew, when his heart swelled and his stomach flipflopped, that he wasn’t going to wait for Tezuka to come to him.
There had only been one time in his life that he’d experienced an unexpected loss and he’d vowed - on the plane trip home, with Rin on one side and Kai on the other - that he would never accept so disheartening a defeat again. Not ever.
Since that night, he’d never experienced a determination quite so consuming. But now, he did. He was consumed. Tezuka consumed him.
“Tezuka,” he said aloud and, of course, no one answered. It didn’t seem to matter, though, as he said it again, to himself this time.
It was unintended - Tezuka was unintended - but never before had Kite felt so certain, so strongly about something.
Unintended. But it was only a matter of time.
Random, but Mika thinks he is Freddie Mercury. I'm not sure if I like this or if it bothers me.