FIC: Quicken to Silver, Ohtori/Shishido, NC17 (18/41)
Title: Quicken to Silver (18/41)
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: In which time passes and people change and drift, but there is always tennis. Ohtori/Shishido
Ohtori sleeps through his alarm. He wakes from a thump, then a shout, then someone yelling his name and shaking his shoulder roughly. “Get up!” his mother says loudly. He registers the staccato buzz of his alarm in the background, but his mother’s voice cuts through to his sleep-hazed mind faster than anything else.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
His mother boxes him on the ear. “Don’t use language like that!” she snaps. “Get up, or you’ll be late for classes.” She pulls the sheets back from his body. Ohtori shivers and curls his legs up closer to his chest. His warm cocoon is gone in an instant, the cool morning air biting his body.
He showers quickly, brushes his teeth, slaps together what bits of his school uniform he finds on his floor- all rumpled, some clean, some dirty, then runs down the stairs with his school bag on one shoulder and his tennis bag over the other. His mother hands him a brown bag that smells of breakfast, and a juicebox.
The bus is halfway to the school before Ohtori checks his watch. 8:30am. He closes his eyes and sinks into his bus seat. I’ve missed practice, he thinks. We’ll never play in the prefecturals now.
In Art class, Ohtori struggles with his pencil to do any sort of shading on the paper. Each time he moves the pencil, the lead snaps, breaks through the paper. His hand moves in circles, tiny tennis balls all over the paper. He crumples the sheet up in disgust, angry with everything.
Hiyoshi grabs his backpack in the hallway, and yanks him back into a row of lockers. “Where were you this morning?” he hisses. “You looked like an idiot not being at practice. Shishido was so pissed off!”
“Come on, Ohtori!” one of his classmates calls. “You don’t want to be late for math, do you?”
“I’ve got to go,” Ohtori protests, pulling Hiyoshi off his backpack and running to catch up with his classmate. He feels ill inside, knowing that his worst fear has come true and he’s disappointed Shishido-san, all because he was too stupid and slept through his alarm on the most important day for practice he’ll have as a freshman.
Dammit, dammit, dammit! he thinks, scowling to himself.
The teacher calls his name. “Do you have trouble with the homework, Ohtori-san?” he asks. The class snickers. Ohtori’s face is on fire.
He mutters an apologetic no.
Lunch time in the cafeteria. Ohtori stands in the lunchline for a bowl of heaping rice, the only thing he can afford with the yen he fished out of the bottom of his locker. He eats with a group of yearmates, unwilling to bring himself to look for Hiyoshi or Shishido, or any of the tennis club members. A girl with long hair and a big smile sits next to him. She smells of roses, and chemicals from the science labs. She hands Ohtori a ripped off piece of her sandwich. “Do you want some?” she asks.
He shakes his head and says no, instead eating the bagged breakfast from his mother and his rice. The chatter around him is droning, but soothing, a little, and it takes his mind off this morning because of the simple fact he can’t focus on anything more than girlish giggles and loud voices of some of the boys in his class.
“Oi, Ohotori-kun!” a voice cuts through the crowd of students around him. No one else notices, but to Ohtori it’s as clear as the sunny sky outside. He stiffens, before turning around infinitely slowly.
Shishido-san holds his tray and stands casually, but the corners of his mouth are downturned and he taps his foot impatiently. “Get your lunch and come with me,” he says.
Ohtori follows Shishido outside. “We’re not supposed to take cafeteria trays outside,” he says weakly as Shishido sets his tray down under a shady tree.
Shishido’s eyes flick up to Ohtori as he sits down beside the tray and starts to eat a sandwich, peeling the clingfilm back. He chews and says, “Where were you this morning?” He purses his lips, unimpressed.
Ohtori hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I slept through my alarm and-”
“You made me look like an idiot when the captain announces the prefectural roster,” Shishido continues, as though Ohtori has said nothing at all. “You’d better hope that Atobe is feeling nice and lets you play still. There’s a list a mile long wanting to take our spot-”
“We got the spot?” Ohtori asks. He sits down beside Shishido. “Did we really-”
Shishido stops talking and runs a hand through his hair. “Of course,” he says, a crooked smile forming. He looks at Ohtori as he eats some of his rice. “Is that all you’re eating for lunch?” he asks. Shishido rips off a chunk of his sandwich. “Here.”
They sit under the tree eating lunch side by side. Ohtori feels bad about eating part of Shishido’s sandwich, but Shishido waves it off. Birds titter in the trees and groups of girls walk by, careful to adjust their skirts an inch or two higher in the hopes Shishido and Ohtori will notice their legs, their bums, them.
Shishido rolls his eyes. Ohtori looks away, preferring to look at Shishido’s arms. He’s taken off his school blazer and rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, showing off his strong forearms and calloused hands. Ohtori thinks of how much he wants those hands on himself, of how he wants to do the same to Shishido.
Jiroh-senpai sleeps under a nearby tree. Ohtori watches Kabaji walk out from the school doors and look left, then right for him, before hearing Jiroh’s snores. Kabaji grabs him by the collar and lifts him up, carting him back into the school.
“I wonder what Atobe wants with Jiroh?” Shishido murmurs.
Ohtori grunts a non-committal response. There are few students around them now, most are by the back of the school grounds, or inside. There isn’t much time left for lunch, but Ohtori wishes they could stay like this for hours, with Shishido leaning against his side, his face resting on his shoulder.
Practice is brief after classes are finished. Atobe is the only regular scheduled to play in the prefecturals, with Ohtori and Shishido in Doubles 1 and Oshitari and Mukahi in Doubles 2. Two preregular seniors make up the other singles positions and a preregular junior is the alternate- Kabaji.
“You missed practice this morning,” Atobe says loudly as Ohtori walks onto the courts. He looks over to the captain, who nods sharply. “Fifteen extra laps. And if you’re late again, you won’t get a second chance,” he adds.
Ohtori bows and nods and runs off to start the laps. It feels like nothing more than a slap on the wrist, considering he’s heard stories of senior regular members on the team being pulled if they were late to practice. He wonders what Shishido-san might have said to Atobe. Ohtori knows they aren’t friends, exactly, but they have known each other since elementary school and they know each other with a deep-sated mutual understanding.
The captain has the prefecturals team meet as soon as the practice matches are finished. “I want you all to do more weigh training,” he says. Atobe stands beside him, looking ever more the buchou than the actual one. Atobe is taller and holding his head higher.
“Damn Atobe. It must be his idea,” Shishido says under his breath, “wanting us all to do more benchpresses and use the other machines. We don’t need them. It’s pointless now, with the tournament tomorrow.”
Ohtori smiles and says nothing. The machines are in the regulars’ section of the clubhouse and he’s never been there yet. It’s exciting to step across the threshold into that forbidden, reserved area, to touch expensive equipment that looks new. Maybe Atobe’s father paid for it. Even Shishido can’t hide the rise of his eyebrows and the impressed, wide-eyed look.
The machines slide beautifully. The seats are leather, the weights shining iron. Ohtori spots for Shishido, then Shishido spots for Ohtori, fifteen reps, ten sets. Ohtori can feel the burn in his calves and his forearms when they crawl into the changerooms to shower afterward. Shishido-san looks too sore and too tired to complain anymore.
Shishido-san walks him to the school gate and they slow their pace behind the few remaining members of the team who will play tomorrow as well, including Atobe and Kabaji. It is late enough that a hanging crescent moon sits in the sky, pearly white and reflected in the leaves of the trees, the garden walls surrounding the school and the tennis courts that grow ever distant as they move. Shishido-san hits Ohtori in the shoulder with his fist, tapping his uniform jacket with a smile.
“Have a good night,” he says as Ohtori catches his bus. “Have a good sleep,” he adds, quieter this time.
There is tea and toast with condensed milk in the kitchen when Ohtori arrives home. He eats it, yawning between bites, as his mother does dishes at the sink. “You’ll play in the tournament tomorrow?” she asks.
Ohtori nods, and shovels another large bite of toast into his mouth with a chopstick.
“That’s good,” she says. Water runs over a plate as she rinses it and then it clinks in the dishrack. “You seem to be taking your tennis very seriously in high school, Choutarou. Be careful not to forget your other classes, too.”
Ohtori thinks of geography class and failed tests. He sighs and chews the last piece of toast, then guzzles the last bit of tea in his cup. He pushes himself off his chair and leaves his dishes on the table when he goes upstairs. He ought to help his mother wash them, but he feels too tired to make it up the stairs without stumbling on the top step. He needs his sleep.
The best sleeps are those with flitting dreams, fluttering images like butterflies, brief and bright, Shishido-san’s face, smiling at him, his name whispered in his ear, "Choutarou…Choutarou…”, tennis played at dusk- just the two of them across a court streaked with mauve light. Ohtori dreams and Shishido smiles as he runs to catch up, to whatever place they are going. It doesn’t matter, so long as they are together.
His body is sluggish and weighty when his mother shakes him awake just after dawn. He remembers that the prefecturals are today- round three, at any rate. Being a seeded school, Hyoutei hasn’t needed to play the first two rounds. Ohtori has a long, hot shower and wakes up under the spray of water. He wakes up as his hand lingers, soapy and slick, between his legs and he pulls himself, half-hard, until he’s gasping and groaning and biting his lip to keep from saying Shishido’s name aloud when he comes.
The kitchen smells delicious. His grandmother and mother are already awake as Ohtori sits down at the table and eats. The cat rubs up against his bare calves and paws the hem of his shorts, wanting a piece of sausage. He shakes his head, but feels guilty and ends up feeding her under the table when his grandmother gets a glass of water with her medicine.
The bus meets them outside the school gates to take them to the sportspark where the tournament is held. Atobe has rented a BMW bus, complete with leather seats and a built-in DVD system. Kabaji puts a DVD on, a compilation of clips from various earlier matches of rounds one and two from earlier in the month. Atobe clicks the remote. “We play Shin Shiono first and we have to play all five games, regardless of how fast we win the matches,” he drawls. “Their doubles 2 are pitiful,” he fastforwards aways, then pauses again at a second doubles set. “But their doubles 1 are decent.” He sends a pointed glance to Shishido. Ohtori looks away, still embarrassed from missing yesterday morning’s practice.
“We’ll beat them in fifteen minutes,” Shishido-san says.
“And the last time you said that you were slaughtered by Tachibana,” Atobe says.
Pink spots dot Shishido’s cheeks. He mutters something under his breath and ignores what Atobe says next, telling the seniors what to do and what to watch for with the Shin Shiono singles 2 and 3 players.
Ohtori pats the back of Shishido’s hand and smiles a little at him. “We’ll win, Shishido-san,” he says.
Across the aisle, Oshitari-senpai coughs. Ohtori looks up to see him raising an eyebrow and smirking, nodding to where Ohtori’s hand still covers Shishido’s. Mukahi-senpai notices, too, and grins wide and toothy. Ohtori yanks his hand away, burned by their gaze.
The sports park is filled with spectators. Nothing as large as the regional tournaments are, but there are people everywhere. Ohtori runs behind Atobe to keep up with the team, darting through crowds of teenagers, coaches and a few reporters. Stands of ramen and vending machines and crushed ice line the walkways. Ohtori’s stomach starts to grumble at the smells of boiled broth and fried meatbuns, even though he’s just eaten breakfast a little while ago. He pats the sidepocket of his tennisbag just to make sure his yen are still there for later.
“Come on,” Shishido shouts through the crowd. “We’ve got to sign in now!” Ohtori runs faster and ducks under a low-hanging tree branch.
A busload of Hyoutei cheerleaders and preregulars arrive just as they set their tennisbags down on the bleachers on their side of the courts. Ohtori stretches his legs and waves his arms in circles, lunges and a couple jumping jacks for measure. Shishido-san says, “Let’s go for a run around to warm-up now. Singles 3 and doubles 2 will be finished their games fast.”
Shishido grabs his cap from his bag. Ohtori pulls off his training pants and fixes the waistband of his shorts. They race up the bleachers two steps at a time, then start to jog down the pathways of the park. Ohtori can barely hear the slap of his sneakers over the crowds around him, growing thicker as they run closer to another set of courts. Shishido-san glances over his shoulder and nods. “Let’s see who it is,” he says between pants.
They run up to the chain fence and peer down, stopping for a moment to see. Ohtori recognizes the crisp blue and white uniforms on the one side immediately. “It’s Seigaku!” he says.
Shishido cocks his head to the display board nearby. “Let’s see who’s on the roster this year.” He walks over and reads the sheet of paper.
“Anyone good?” Ohtori asks.
Shishido shakes his head. “Not really. Only Tezuka and Tachibana.”
“Tachibana goes to Seigaku?”
“Singles 3 spot. We’ll never play him or Tezuka. They mostly only play singles.” Shishido shrugs. Ohtori can hear the cheers of a crowd somewhere increasing, then the faint, familiar sound of his school’s name being chanted. He smiles to himself. Shishido-san starts to smile, too, and says, “Let’s go back now.”
Singles 3 has ended, 6-3 and Mukahi and Oshitari are up 5-2 by the time they run back down through the stands. Ohtori dodges between a group of pompom-wielding girls who grope his sides. Shishido scowls at them from the lowest level of the stands. He folds his arms across his chest. “What was that about?” he grumbles.
“Aa…” Ohtori flushes. “They just- grabbed me, Shishido-san, I-”
“You’re mine,” Shishido says in a low voice.
Atobe-senpai’s head turns slightly, but stops. Ohtori knows he has heard what Shishido said and it makes his hands sweat and his face flush as he walks up to the boards to stand near the team and watch the game. Shishido doesn’t seem to notice, or care, if he does.
“Are they what we expected?” Shishido asks.
Atobe nods. “We’ll sweep them. Right, Kabaji?”
“Usu,” Kabaji says from Atobe’s other side.
Ohtori doesn’t think the other team is all that bad, they just aren’t even at the level of Mukahi and Oshitari, who fly across the court scoring point after point after point. Mukahi jumps and lunges and laughs and Oshitari hits lazy lobs, enjoying making the other doubles team smash the balls straight into his unreturnable Higuma Otoshis. Even Ohtori starts to smile after a while, and grins as Oshitari-senpai scores the match point, game Hyoutei 6-2.
Singles 2 is a joke, even with a senior preregular playing.
He walks onto the court and shouts that the winner will be Hyoutei, just like Oshitari-senpai often does. Ohtori has barely blinked twice before the game ends, 6-0, with the senior smiling darkly and the other player on his back on the other court, panting and red-faced and furious.
“We’ll make it a sweep,” Shishido-san says as they are announced as doubles one. Ohtori grabs his racket from his bag and nods. They might not need to win this game or the next at all to advance to round four, but it would be all the sweeter if they swept Shin Shiono 5-0.
“Ohtori to serve!”
His heart pounds. They don’t need this game, he knows this, but he wants to win. Ohtori wants to put all his soul into this one ball, because for all he knows, this might be the only official match he and Shishido-san will play this season as preregulars. He throws the ball into the sky above himself and watches the sun become blocked with the ball’s eclipse. He loosens his grip on his racket and slams it down, loving the feel of the ball’s weight, of the power, of the sound of it smashing into the opposite court, even the way the other doubles team stands still in shock of his scud serve.
“Nice serve,” Shishido-san says loudly from the net.
Ohtori grins, and throws up the ball for his second serve. The other team’s defense player makes a run for the net to return the serve, but it’s slamming in front of the baseline before he’s even begun his dash. Ohtori clenches his fist. “Yes!” he says through his teeth, grinning at Shishido. The ref announces, “30-love” and the crowd of Hyoutei tennis team members erupts in cheers.
It takes twenty minutes to defeat the Shin Shiono doubles 1 team. They gain points in the third game, and put up a bit of a struggle in the last game, forcing Shishido to play deep in the centre of the court, away from the net, but in the end, it isn’t difficult to win. Ohtori is glad, but not elated. SThe coach isn’t like Kantoku was in junior high school, telling them they wouldn’t be satisfied with a game like this. Maybe it’s for the best, that now the players themselves have to decide when they are and aren’t satisfied.
They slap hands, a high-five above their heads and walk off the court. “Twenty minutes, Shishido,” Atobe drawls. “I’ll end my match in fifteen.”
“Che,” Shishido mutters, but his curse is lost in the growing clamour of the cheerleaders shouting Atobe’s name, over and over again until he holds his hand up high and snaps his fingers once.
Shishido rolls his eyes. Ohtori smiles and says nothing. A towel hits him in the face, making him back up into the bleacher and fall down on his bum. Shishido clucks his tongue. “Clumsy,” he mutters. He leans his head back against his own towel and wipes the sweat from the back of his neck, then pulls his cap off and ruffles his hair.
“I’m hungry. Do you want to get something? Atobe will win 6-0 anyway,” Shishido says.
Ohtori nods and grabs his tennisbag. He follows Shishido and they stop at the first stand. Shishido buys them ricecakes, which they eat under a large tree, sitting on the twisting roots that peek up from underground. Ohtori flops onto his back, rubbing his stomach. Shishido leans over him, standing up and blocking the sunlight. “I saw a takoyaki stand a while back near the Seigaku matches. Do you want some?”
Ohtori sits up. “I’ll buy,” he offers. They wait in line at the stand behind a group of members from Yamabuki, including a tall boy with dark hair and a green headband who wears the junior high uniform. Ohtori thinks the boy looks familiar, another face of dozens ranked high on the circuit.
The dumplings are greasy and big and drip through the napkin all over Ohtori’s fingers. He savours the taste of the octopus, licking the last bits from his lips before starting on the tips of his fingers.
“Wait!” Shishido-san grabs his hand. They’ve wandered into a secluded part of the sports park in a cool patch of trees and shrubs. Ohtori shivers in the shade. Shishido’s fingers around his wrist are hot and his grip tight.
Ohtori’s eyes flutter shut. Something wet flicks across his fingers. He opens his eyes to see Shishido sucking the end of his index finger, running his tongue slowly, slowly, down in the v between his fingers, then moving to his middle. The touch sends liquid mercury pooling in his belly and a shiver down his spine. Ohtori tries to whisper Shishido’s name, but his throat has gone dry and all he can do is moan at what Shishido-san is doing to him.
Shishido crawls over the tree roots and the weedy grasses, flinging a leg across Ohtori’s thighs and sitting up on his hips. He pushes down. Ohtori thrusts up, gasping and growing hard under Shishido’s weight, under Shishido’s obvious erection, pressed between their bodies. He digs his free fingers into Shishido’s hip to steady him as Shishido leans down for a kiss.
He tastes of grease and ricecakes and the spicy sauce from the dumplings. There is mint gum, sharp and fresh, too, and salty sweat on his top lip. Ohtori kisses back, desperate for Shishido’s tongue to slide against his, to consume him.
They roll on the ground until Ohtori smacks into something hard in the middle of his back and shrieks into their kisses. They break apart long enough for Shishido to back into the tree, Ohtori above him, Ohtori against him, their legs twining like tennis strings, all crossed and meshed.
He kisses Shishido’s jaw, then his neck, grazing his teeth against the smooth skin around the collar of his jersey. Shishido gasps and pants and reaches behind Ohtori, pulling them closer, his hands splayed over Ohtori’s bum. Ohtori chokes against Shishido’s chest as fingers make lazy circles over the fabric. He tries not to moan, but Shishido’s fingers only make his erection harder, so hard he thinks he will loose everything and burst.
Ohtori doesn’t know whose fingers move first. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’s never done this before, but they both scramble with each other’s shorts, grabbing waistbands and pulling down, while straining to be closer at once. Shishido’s lips are on his ear. He steps on something that might be Shishido’s foot. There are hands fluttering across his belly, slipping under his navel. Ohtori sobs, whispering “Shishido…baby…”
Shishido stops moving. It takes Ohtori a moment to do the same, and remove his fingers from Shishido’s shorts waistband, to hear the rustling sound of nylon tennis jackets behind him.
Oshitari stands in a patch of sunlight, smirking widely. “Oh, don’t mind us,” he says, leaning back on his heels, looking casual with his hand in his pocket. “Keep at it, by all means.”
Mukahi-senpai is another story. He’s grinning madly and doubled over with laughter. He looks up, red in the face and wiping tears from his ears as his laughs subside. He flashes Ohtori a thumbs up, then pauses before saying, “By the way, you’re doing it wrong. You should be-”
Oshitari clamps a hand over Mukahi’s mouth and smiles. “Now, Gakuto, don’t be giving away all our secrets. Let the lovebirds figure things out for themselves.” He drags Mukahi-senpai off, but they have barely gone farther than the next clump of trees before Ohtori hears them both burst out into loud laughter and louder words of “That was so disgusting!” and “What does he see in him? They haven’t even sucked each other off!”
Ohtori burns at the words, his face beating with the dull ache and redness like sunburn. Shishido sighs angrily and slumps to the ground. From the glazed look in his eyes, Ohtori knows that Shishido has heard Oshitari and Mukahi, too.
He wants to say I see everything in you, Shishido-san, but the words don’t come. Instead, Ohtori sits beside him and squeezes Shishido’s hand hard, smiling softly when their fingers thread together.
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: In which time passes and people change and drift, but there is always tennis. Ohtori/Shishido
Ohtori sleeps through his alarm. He wakes from a thump, then a shout, then someone yelling his name and shaking his shoulder roughly. “Get up!” his mother says loudly. He registers the staccato buzz of his alarm in the background, but his mother’s voice cuts through to his sleep-hazed mind faster than anything else.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
His mother boxes him on the ear. “Don’t use language like that!” she snaps. “Get up, or you’ll be late for classes.” She pulls the sheets back from his body. Ohtori shivers and curls his legs up closer to his chest. His warm cocoon is gone in an instant, the cool morning air biting his body.
He showers quickly, brushes his teeth, slaps together what bits of his school uniform he finds on his floor- all rumpled, some clean, some dirty, then runs down the stairs with his school bag on one shoulder and his tennis bag over the other. His mother hands him a brown bag that smells of breakfast, and a juicebox.
The bus is halfway to the school before Ohtori checks his watch. 8:30am. He closes his eyes and sinks into his bus seat. I’ve missed practice, he thinks. We’ll never play in the prefecturals now.
In Art class, Ohtori struggles with his pencil to do any sort of shading on the paper. Each time he moves the pencil, the lead snaps, breaks through the paper. His hand moves in circles, tiny tennis balls all over the paper. He crumples the sheet up in disgust, angry with everything.
Hiyoshi grabs his backpack in the hallway, and yanks him back into a row of lockers. “Where were you this morning?” he hisses. “You looked like an idiot not being at practice. Shishido was so pissed off!”
“Come on, Ohtori!” one of his classmates calls. “You don’t want to be late for math, do you?”
“I’ve got to go,” Ohtori protests, pulling Hiyoshi off his backpack and running to catch up with his classmate. He feels ill inside, knowing that his worst fear has come true and he’s disappointed Shishido-san, all because he was too stupid and slept through his alarm on the most important day for practice he’ll have as a freshman.
Dammit, dammit, dammit! he thinks, scowling to himself.
The teacher calls his name. “Do you have trouble with the homework, Ohtori-san?” he asks. The class snickers. Ohtori’s face is on fire.
He mutters an apologetic no.
Lunch time in the cafeteria. Ohtori stands in the lunchline for a bowl of heaping rice, the only thing he can afford with the yen he fished out of the bottom of his locker. He eats with a group of yearmates, unwilling to bring himself to look for Hiyoshi or Shishido, or any of the tennis club members. A girl with long hair and a big smile sits next to him. She smells of roses, and chemicals from the science labs. She hands Ohtori a ripped off piece of her sandwich. “Do you want some?” she asks.
He shakes his head and says no, instead eating the bagged breakfast from his mother and his rice. The chatter around him is droning, but soothing, a little, and it takes his mind off this morning because of the simple fact he can’t focus on anything more than girlish giggles and loud voices of some of the boys in his class.
“Oi, Ohotori-kun!” a voice cuts through the crowd of students around him. No one else notices, but to Ohtori it’s as clear as the sunny sky outside. He stiffens, before turning around infinitely slowly.
Shishido-san holds his tray and stands casually, but the corners of his mouth are downturned and he taps his foot impatiently. “Get your lunch and come with me,” he says.
Ohtori follows Shishido outside. “We’re not supposed to take cafeteria trays outside,” he says weakly as Shishido sets his tray down under a shady tree.
Shishido’s eyes flick up to Ohtori as he sits down beside the tray and starts to eat a sandwich, peeling the clingfilm back. He chews and says, “Where were you this morning?” He purses his lips, unimpressed.
Ohtori hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I slept through my alarm and-”
“You made me look like an idiot when the captain announces the prefectural roster,” Shishido continues, as though Ohtori has said nothing at all. “You’d better hope that Atobe is feeling nice and lets you play still. There’s a list a mile long wanting to take our spot-”
“We got the spot?” Ohtori asks. He sits down beside Shishido. “Did we really-”
Shishido stops talking and runs a hand through his hair. “Of course,” he says, a crooked smile forming. He looks at Ohtori as he eats some of his rice. “Is that all you’re eating for lunch?” he asks. Shishido rips off a chunk of his sandwich. “Here.”
They sit under the tree eating lunch side by side. Ohtori feels bad about eating part of Shishido’s sandwich, but Shishido waves it off. Birds titter in the trees and groups of girls walk by, careful to adjust their skirts an inch or two higher in the hopes Shishido and Ohtori will notice their legs, their bums, them.
Shishido rolls his eyes. Ohtori looks away, preferring to look at Shishido’s arms. He’s taken off his school blazer and rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, showing off his strong forearms and calloused hands. Ohtori thinks of how much he wants those hands on himself, of how he wants to do the same to Shishido.
Jiroh-senpai sleeps under a nearby tree. Ohtori watches Kabaji walk out from the school doors and look left, then right for him, before hearing Jiroh’s snores. Kabaji grabs him by the collar and lifts him up, carting him back into the school.
“I wonder what Atobe wants with Jiroh?” Shishido murmurs.
Ohtori grunts a non-committal response. There are few students around them now, most are by the back of the school grounds, or inside. There isn’t much time left for lunch, but Ohtori wishes they could stay like this for hours, with Shishido leaning against his side, his face resting on his shoulder.
Practice is brief after classes are finished. Atobe is the only regular scheduled to play in the prefecturals, with Ohtori and Shishido in Doubles 1 and Oshitari and Mukahi in Doubles 2. Two preregular seniors make up the other singles positions and a preregular junior is the alternate- Kabaji.
“You missed practice this morning,” Atobe says loudly as Ohtori walks onto the courts. He looks over to the captain, who nods sharply. “Fifteen extra laps. And if you’re late again, you won’t get a second chance,” he adds.
Ohtori bows and nods and runs off to start the laps. It feels like nothing more than a slap on the wrist, considering he’s heard stories of senior regular members on the team being pulled if they were late to practice. He wonders what Shishido-san might have said to Atobe. Ohtori knows they aren’t friends, exactly, but they have known each other since elementary school and they know each other with a deep-sated mutual understanding.
The captain has the prefecturals team meet as soon as the practice matches are finished. “I want you all to do more weigh training,” he says. Atobe stands beside him, looking ever more the buchou than the actual one. Atobe is taller and holding his head higher.
“Damn Atobe. It must be his idea,” Shishido says under his breath, “wanting us all to do more benchpresses and use the other machines. We don’t need them. It’s pointless now, with the tournament tomorrow.”
Ohtori smiles and says nothing. The machines are in the regulars’ section of the clubhouse and he’s never been there yet. It’s exciting to step across the threshold into that forbidden, reserved area, to touch expensive equipment that looks new. Maybe Atobe’s father paid for it. Even Shishido can’t hide the rise of his eyebrows and the impressed, wide-eyed look.
The machines slide beautifully. The seats are leather, the weights shining iron. Ohtori spots for Shishido, then Shishido spots for Ohtori, fifteen reps, ten sets. Ohtori can feel the burn in his calves and his forearms when they crawl into the changerooms to shower afterward. Shishido-san looks too sore and too tired to complain anymore.
Shishido-san walks him to the school gate and they slow their pace behind the few remaining members of the team who will play tomorrow as well, including Atobe and Kabaji. It is late enough that a hanging crescent moon sits in the sky, pearly white and reflected in the leaves of the trees, the garden walls surrounding the school and the tennis courts that grow ever distant as they move. Shishido-san hits Ohtori in the shoulder with his fist, tapping his uniform jacket with a smile.
“Have a good night,” he says as Ohtori catches his bus. “Have a good sleep,” he adds, quieter this time.
There is tea and toast with condensed milk in the kitchen when Ohtori arrives home. He eats it, yawning between bites, as his mother does dishes at the sink. “You’ll play in the tournament tomorrow?” she asks.
Ohtori nods, and shovels another large bite of toast into his mouth with a chopstick.
“That’s good,” she says. Water runs over a plate as she rinses it and then it clinks in the dishrack. “You seem to be taking your tennis very seriously in high school, Choutarou. Be careful not to forget your other classes, too.”
Ohtori thinks of geography class and failed tests. He sighs and chews the last piece of toast, then guzzles the last bit of tea in his cup. He pushes himself off his chair and leaves his dishes on the table when he goes upstairs. He ought to help his mother wash them, but he feels too tired to make it up the stairs without stumbling on the top step. He needs his sleep.
The best sleeps are those with flitting dreams, fluttering images like butterflies, brief and bright, Shishido-san’s face, smiling at him, his name whispered in his ear, "Choutarou…Choutarou…”, tennis played at dusk- just the two of them across a court streaked with mauve light. Ohtori dreams and Shishido smiles as he runs to catch up, to whatever place they are going. It doesn’t matter, so long as they are together.
His body is sluggish and weighty when his mother shakes him awake just after dawn. He remembers that the prefecturals are today- round three, at any rate. Being a seeded school, Hyoutei hasn’t needed to play the first two rounds. Ohtori has a long, hot shower and wakes up under the spray of water. He wakes up as his hand lingers, soapy and slick, between his legs and he pulls himself, half-hard, until he’s gasping and groaning and biting his lip to keep from saying Shishido’s name aloud when he comes.
The kitchen smells delicious. His grandmother and mother are already awake as Ohtori sits down at the table and eats. The cat rubs up against his bare calves and paws the hem of his shorts, wanting a piece of sausage. He shakes his head, but feels guilty and ends up feeding her under the table when his grandmother gets a glass of water with her medicine.
The bus meets them outside the school gates to take them to the sportspark where the tournament is held. Atobe has rented a BMW bus, complete with leather seats and a built-in DVD system. Kabaji puts a DVD on, a compilation of clips from various earlier matches of rounds one and two from earlier in the month. Atobe clicks the remote. “We play Shin Shiono first and we have to play all five games, regardless of how fast we win the matches,” he drawls. “Their doubles 2 are pitiful,” he fastforwards aways, then pauses again at a second doubles set. “But their doubles 1 are decent.” He sends a pointed glance to Shishido. Ohtori looks away, still embarrassed from missing yesterday morning’s practice.
“We’ll beat them in fifteen minutes,” Shishido-san says.
“And the last time you said that you were slaughtered by Tachibana,” Atobe says.
Pink spots dot Shishido’s cheeks. He mutters something under his breath and ignores what Atobe says next, telling the seniors what to do and what to watch for with the Shin Shiono singles 2 and 3 players.
Ohtori pats the back of Shishido’s hand and smiles a little at him. “We’ll win, Shishido-san,” he says.
Across the aisle, Oshitari-senpai coughs. Ohtori looks up to see him raising an eyebrow and smirking, nodding to where Ohtori’s hand still covers Shishido’s. Mukahi-senpai notices, too, and grins wide and toothy. Ohtori yanks his hand away, burned by their gaze.
The sports park is filled with spectators. Nothing as large as the regional tournaments are, but there are people everywhere. Ohtori runs behind Atobe to keep up with the team, darting through crowds of teenagers, coaches and a few reporters. Stands of ramen and vending machines and crushed ice line the walkways. Ohtori’s stomach starts to grumble at the smells of boiled broth and fried meatbuns, even though he’s just eaten breakfast a little while ago. He pats the sidepocket of his tennisbag just to make sure his yen are still there for later.
“Come on,” Shishido shouts through the crowd. “We’ve got to sign in now!” Ohtori runs faster and ducks under a low-hanging tree branch.
A busload of Hyoutei cheerleaders and preregulars arrive just as they set their tennisbags down on the bleachers on their side of the courts. Ohtori stretches his legs and waves his arms in circles, lunges and a couple jumping jacks for measure. Shishido-san says, “Let’s go for a run around to warm-up now. Singles 3 and doubles 2 will be finished their games fast.”
Shishido grabs his cap from his bag. Ohtori pulls off his training pants and fixes the waistband of his shorts. They race up the bleachers two steps at a time, then start to jog down the pathways of the park. Ohtori can barely hear the slap of his sneakers over the crowds around him, growing thicker as they run closer to another set of courts. Shishido-san glances over his shoulder and nods. “Let’s see who it is,” he says between pants.
They run up to the chain fence and peer down, stopping for a moment to see. Ohtori recognizes the crisp blue and white uniforms on the one side immediately. “It’s Seigaku!” he says.
Shishido cocks his head to the display board nearby. “Let’s see who’s on the roster this year.” He walks over and reads the sheet of paper.
“Anyone good?” Ohtori asks.
Shishido shakes his head. “Not really. Only Tezuka and Tachibana.”
“Tachibana goes to Seigaku?”
“Singles 3 spot. We’ll never play him or Tezuka. They mostly only play singles.” Shishido shrugs. Ohtori can hear the cheers of a crowd somewhere increasing, then the faint, familiar sound of his school’s name being chanted. He smiles to himself. Shishido-san starts to smile, too, and says, “Let’s go back now.”
Singles 3 has ended, 6-3 and Mukahi and Oshitari are up 5-2 by the time they run back down through the stands. Ohtori dodges between a group of pompom-wielding girls who grope his sides. Shishido scowls at them from the lowest level of the stands. He folds his arms across his chest. “What was that about?” he grumbles.
“Aa…” Ohtori flushes. “They just- grabbed me, Shishido-san, I-”
“You’re mine,” Shishido says in a low voice.
Atobe-senpai’s head turns slightly, but stops. Ohtori knows he has heard what Shishido said and it makes his hands sweat and his face flush as he walks up to the boards to stand near the team and watch the game. Shishido doesn’t seem to notice, or care, if he does.
“Are they what we expected?” Shishido asks.
Atobe nods. “We’ll sweep them. Right, Kabaji?”
“Usu,” Kabaji says from Atobe’s other side.
Ohtori doesn’t think the other team is all that bad, they just aren’t even at the level of Mukahi and Oshitari, who fly across the court scoring point after point after point. Mukahi jumps and lunges and laughs and Oshitari hits lazy lobs, enjoying making the other doubles team smash the balls straight into his unreturnable Higuma Otoshis. Even Ohtori starts to smile after a while, and grins as Oshitari-senpai scores the match point, game Hyoutei 6-2.
Singles 2 is a joke, even with a senior preregular playing.
He walks onto the court and shouts that the winner will be Hyoutei, just like Oshitari-senpai often does. Ohtori has barely blinked twice before the game ends, 6-0, with the senior smiling darkly and the other player on his back on the other court, panting and red-faced and furious.
“We’ll make it a sweep,” Shishido-san says as they are announced as doubles one. Ohtori grabs his racket from his bag and nods. They might not need to win this game or the next at all to advance to round four, but it would be all the sweeter if they swept Shin Shiono 5-0.
“Ohtori to serve!”
His heart pounds. They don’t need this game, he knows this, but he wants to win. Ohtori wants to put all his soul into this one ball, because for all he knows, this might be the only official match he and Shishido-san will play this season as preregulars. He throws the ball into the sky above himself and watches the sun become blocked with the ball’s eclipse. He loosens his grip on his racket and slams it down, loving the feel of the ball’s weight, of the power, of the sound of it smashing into the opposite court, even the way the other doubles team stands still in shock of his scud serve.
“Nice serve,” Shishido-san says loudly from the net.
Ohtori grins, and throws up the ball for his second serve. The other team’s defense player makes a run for the net to return the serve, but it’s slamming in front of the baseline before he’s even begun his dash. Ohtori clenches his fist. “Yes!” he says through his teeth, grinning at Shishido. The ref announces, “30-love” and the crowd of Hyoutei tennis team members erupts in cheers.
It takes twenty minutes to defeat the Shin Shiono doubles 1 team. They gain points in the third game, and put up a bit of a struggle in the last game, forcing Shishido to play deep in the centre of the court, away from the net, but in the end, it isn’t difficult to win. Ohtori is glad, but not elated. SThe coach isn’t like Kantoku was in junior high school, telling them they wouldn’t be satisfied with a game like this. Maybe it’s for the best, that now the players themselves have to decide when they are and aren’t satisfied.
They slap hands, a high-five above their heads and walk off the court. “Twenty minutes, Shishido,” Atobe drawls. “I’ll end my match in fifteen.”
“Che,” Shishido mutters, but his curse is lost in the growing clamour of the cheerleaders shouting Atobe’s name, over and over again until he holds his hand up high and snaps his fingers once.
Shishido rolls his eyes. Ohtori smiles and says nothing. A towel hits him in the face, making him back up into the bleacher and fall down on his bum. Shishido clucks his tongue. “Clumsy,” he mutters. He leans his head back against his own towel and wipes the sweat from the back of his neck, then pulls his cap off and ruffles his hair.
“I’m hungry. Do you want to get something? Atobe will win 6-0 anyway,” Shishido says.
Ohtori nods and grabs his tennisbag. He follows Shishido and they stop at the first stand. Shishido buys them ricecakes, which they eat under a large tree, sitting on the twisting roots that peek up from underground. Ohtori flops onto his back, rubbing his stomach. Shishido leans over him, standing up and blocking the sunlight. “I saw a takoyaki stand a while back near the Seigaku matches. Do you want some?”
Ohtori sits up. “I’ll buy,” he offers. They wait in line at the stand behind a group of members from Yamabuki, including a tall boy with dark hair and a green headband who wears the junior high uniform. Ohtori thinks the boy looks familiar, another face of dozens ranked high on the circuit.
The dumplings are greasy and big and drip through the napkin all over Ohtori’s fingers. He savours the taste of the octopus, licking the last bits from his lips before starting on the tips of his fingers.
“Wait!” Shishido-san grabs his hand. They’ve wandered into a secluded part of the sports park in a cool patch of trees and shrubs. Ohtori shivers in the shade. Shishido’s fingers around his wrist are hot and his grip tight.
Ohtori’s eyes flutter shut. Something wet flicks across his fingers. He opens his eyes to see Shishido sucking the end of his index finger, running his tongue slowly, slowly, down in the v between his fingers, then moving to his middle. The touch sends liquid mercury pooling in his belly and a shiver down his spine. Ohtori tries to whisper Shishido’s name, but his throat has gone dry and all he can do is moan at what Shishido-san is doing to him.
Shishido crawls over the tree roots and the weedy grasses, flinging a leg across Ohtori’s thighs and sitting up on his hips. He pushes down. Ohtori thrusts up, gasping and growing hard under Shishido’s weight, under Shishido’s obvious erection, pressed between their bodies. He digs his free fingers into Shishido’s hip to steady him as Shishido leans down for a kiss.
He tastes of grease and ricecakes and the spicy sauce from the dumplings. There is mint gum, sharp and fresh, too, and salty sweat on his top lip. Ohtori kisses back, desperate for Shishido’s tongue to slide against his, to consume him.
They roll on the ground until Ohtori smacks into something hard in the middle of his back and shrieks into their kisses. They break apart long enough for Shishido to back into the tree, Ohtori above him, Ohtori against him, their legs twining like tennis strings, all crossed and meshed.
He kisses Shishido’s jaw, then his neck, grazing his teeth against the smooth skin around the collar of his jersey. Shishido gasps and pants and reaches behind Ohtori, pulling them closer, his hands splayed over Ohtori’s bum. Ohtori chokes against Shishido’s chest as fingers make lazy circles over the fabric. He tries not to moan, but Shishido’s fingers only make his erection harder, so hard he thinks he will loose everything and burst.
Ohtori doesn’t know whose fingers move first. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’s never done this before, but they both scramble with each other’s shorts, grabbing waistbands and pulling down, while straining to be closer at once. Shishido’s lips are on his ear. He steps on something that might be Shishido’s foot. There are hands fluttering across his belly, slipping under his navel. Ohtori sobs, whispering “Shishido…baby…”
Shishido stops moving. It takes Ohtori a moment to do the same, and remove his fingers from Shishido’s shorts waistband, to hear the rustling sound of nylon tennis jackets behind him.
Oshitari stands in a patch of sunlight, smirking widely. “Oh, don’t mind us,” he says, leaning back on his heels, looking casual with his hand in his pocket. “Keep at it, by all means.”
Mukahi-senpai is another story. He’s grinning madly and doubled over with laughter. He looks up, red in the face and wiping tears from his ears as his laughs subside. He flashes Ohtori a thumbs up, then pauses before saying, “By the way, you’re doing it wrong. You should be-”
Oshitari clamps a hand over Mukahi’s mouth and smiles. “Now, Gakuto, don’t be giving away all our secrets. Let the lovebirds figure things out for themselves.” He drags Mukahi-senpai off, but they have barely gone farther than the next clump of trees before Ohtori hears them both burst out into loud laughter and louder words of “That was so disgusting!” and “What does he see in him? They haven’t even sucked each other off!”
Ohtori burns at the words, his face beating with the dull ache and redness like sunburn. Shishido sighs angrily and slumps to the ground. From the glazed look in his eyes, Ohtori knows that Shishido has heard Oshitari and Mukahi, too.
He wants to say I see everything in you, Shishido-san, but the words don’t come. Instead, Ohtori sits beside him and squeezes Shishido’s hand hard, smiling softly when their fingers thread together.