Happy Santa_Smex, Everyone!
To: Everyone!
From: theprerogative
Title: Bridge
Recipient's name: Everyone!
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Oshitari Yuushi X Atobe Keigo
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by Konomi Takeshi. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: confusing timeline or style? 2,800 words.
Author's Notes: Bridge: Transition passage connecting two sections of a composition. It is also the part of a stringed instrument that holds the strings in place and transmits their vibrations to the resonant body of the instrument. What Atobe is to Oshitari.
Five years ago, Tokyo Narita Airport, 15 years old (and full of hope).
That full moon night, the blue haired boy couldn’t wait any longer, his red eye flight to Vienna was waiting. He hugged loving parents and the kindest mentor he ever had, smiled one last time (for them, for him, because he’s got to be watching) and left.
But he turned back.
Once. He wasn’t there.
Twice. He really wasn’t there.
Get a grip Yuushi. And that was it.
To his dismay, the Kansai boy didn’t get the window seat. But the girl beside him seemed to share the same sentiments, because at the crack of dawn, the window shade slid up.
It was the most beautiful thing he ever saw. The sunrise.
Oshitari heard that distinctive voice in his head. Stupid romantic fool, I hope you choke on Wien cuisine. And that kept him warm for the rest of the flight.
Still grinning, he pried open his violin repair kit and out fluttered a slip of paper.
See the world through their eyes Yuushi. Play them a song of love.
Oshitari Yuushi lifted his gaze to the window and saw blue. Blue eyes blue.
*
5 months ago, Tokyo Narita Airport, 21 years old.
The day he handed over the keys to Hiyoshi, the day before graduation in the locker room with Atobe, the day before he left a weeping mother in proud arms, Oshitari remembered every moment as clear as the last day of summer. The shade of a waking sky, blue eyes blue, sun-kissed clouds and golden boys (just one or maybe two. You, me, both.) It was a step, a leap, the chance of a lifetime - the music scholarship, pride and prestige, Vienna (a million miles away from home, you.) When push came to shove, fight or flight, the Kansai boy chose to leave for a future made of dreams, a future he promised to live twice over (because you couldn’t.) Ever since then, his mental timeline became before Vienna and after Tokyo, his days marked by music scores and violin strings, nights by porch swings and Goethe the cat. He became that somebody Atobe always said he would become, somebody famous. And this rising star had come home.
Oshitari Yuushi, the teen prodigy from Japan, returned at dusk. Déjà vu. In place of loving parents and smiling teacher were screaming fan girls and flashing camera lights. He heard his name ring over and over again. It reminded him of that Nationals match he didn’t play and it wasn’t his name that echoed then. Atobe. Atobe. Atobe.
“Paging for Atobe Keigo and party, the Concorde is ready for boarding at gate 57.”
The violinist stopped dead in his tracks and the crowd with him. White noise. Frantic eyes searched the crowd for golden brown hair and cobalt gaze, taking in every little detail. Steel chairs, metal glinting. Flight stewardess, nameless figures. Shoulders brush by, faceless voices. Bulky luggage, a blur of colors. Men in black, sense of purpose. A leggy brunette, Louis Vuitton. She was a beautiful face, Oshitari thought but a breath got caught in his throat. She was an exquisite vase and she belonged to somebody.
Atobe Keigo.
Their eyes met for a moment. Blue on blue. Split second euphoria, dark with confusion and it was gone. It wasn’t the first time they parted with things unsaid and it was Oshitari who looked back again. Atobe’s gaze pierced through him, past him, like he didn’t exist.
Gate 57. Departed. Tokyo to Paris. The red letters blinked mockingly back at him. It reminded him of a lazy smirk, disturbing, disarming and most of all, distracting.
That night, Oshitari Yuushi broke his cardinal rule. Carmen , his violin did not sing for Tokyo. He was afraid the violin strings would snap and maybe something more.
*
Five weeks later, Tokyo Dome, 21 years old (feeling older than his age).
When he saw her again, he didn’t recognize her. They met at the most unlikely of places, back stage after the opening night of his concert. But Atobe appeared, taking his place beside her and everything fell in place, picture perfect (not.) She was a quiet beauty in a floor length Valentino dress, fire engine red on ivory skin and the largest diamond on her ring finger. Your music broke my heart Oshitari-san. He wasn’t looking at her. Keigo said you’re an old friend so would you like to come for dinner? I’m sure… But Oshitari stopped listening at the word ‘friend’. Blue eyes searched deeper blue, only to hit a steel cobalt wall. The violinist wasn’t sure how he did it but he felt his head nod and his lips stretch, his classic smirk, a look he knew infuriated Atobe but the brunette was silent, defiant and solemn. Excellent. We’ll send someone to pick you up.
A match made in heaven, his personal assistant whispered wistfully after the pair left. It left a bitter taste in Oshitari’s mouth. So he turned away, pretending to pack his violin. Nobody saw long slender fingers shake, or that thoughtful look in slate eyes.
Drama king till the end huh. But you know Keigo? Two can play the same game.
*
Five hours before, Atobe estate’s West wing, 21 years old (and feeling the age.)
When he thought back about it, the touch down at Narita Airport five months ago was when the series of déjà vus started. Meeting Atobe was like a trip down memory lane and that moonless night, Oshitari found himself in a familiar place, one of the smaller estates, a rare display of affection from Atobe senior. Oshitari had spent several summers with the rest of Hyoutei Tennis Club there and he knew it like the calluses on his fingertips. It had a homely feel, different from the main estate, an iron fortress glided in gold. As the butler led the way to the dining hall, the violinist followed without really looking. He used to navigate round here like an old sailor hand but tonight he was a guest.
“So Oshitari-san.” Her soft lilted voice floated across the long mahogany dining table, silver ware clinking. She sounded like a grand lady and he immediately thought of Atobe’s mother. It made sense now, Oshitari mused. A trophy wife fit for an heir.
“Music was your life’s dream?”
From the corner of his eye, Oshitari saw a flash of panic in bluest eyes and it made his lips curl uncharacteristically. Nostalgia which he hid behind the champagne glass.
Because nobody ever asked what’s your dream and you never thought about it.
My future has been decided Yuushi. It won’t change even if I dream.
But you want to dream. You have a dream Keigo.
Dreams are for romantic fools. This isn’t personal Yuushi, this is business.
It’s okay. I’ll dream for both of us then, you’ll see.
“Not really Shizuka-san.” Oshitari bowed his head, not offering further explanation, choosing instead to toy with his salad. Not really. The awkward silence was broken with the arrival of desert. Knowing cerulean eyes were following him, Oshitari winked at the pretty maid. He had never seen Atobe attack a soufflé with that much hate.
Not really. We’re so young then and cars can’t kill us. He thought he could break free and take over the world. He was wrong and now freedom is too foreign for us both.
*
Five hours after dinner, Atobe estate’s rooftop, 21 years old (feeling like 15).
Oshitari chuckled amusedly, making his presence known. Some things never change. Like their exclusive hand sign, a slight tug of the cuffs, we need to talk. Rooftop.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
If not for the sharp tone of Atobe’s words, at first glance, it might look like they were dancing the tango, Argentinean style. Cheek to cheek, fire in sapphire eyes, bodies pressed against one another and their souls were a mess of perpendicular lines. Hidden by the pinpricks of starlight, Atobe backed against the railings, cornered, just as planned. Oshitari closed the distance slowly, purposely. There were no more than five steps between them but it felt like forever, a cavernous space that separated their past and present selves, love lost and new lives, unmovable object and unstoppable force.
The brunette’s eyes were feral as he repeated the question, biting every word off like it hurt. Atobe was a fox, foot in trap, bristled and wary. But Oshitari was a clever hunter. Five years were a long time to plan for a reunion, he grinned, stepping closer.
“What I did five years ago,” Oshitari said, a husk in his voice, answering that smoldering gaze with an easy smile. He watched the brunette part lips, all ready to retort and Oshitari lowered his to capture the prize. Like before, Atobe met him halfway, his compromise.
Some things never change. The way Atobe fit against Oshitari was one.
*
Five years ago, Hyoutei Tennis Club locker room, 15 years old.
The school bell rang and there was a mad rush, curses and dignity all forgotten. Limbs and clothes, browns and whites, Kabaji shouldering Jirou like a potato sack, Shishido chasing after Gakuto, Ohtori locking Shishido’s locker and finally, silence.
The two left behind don’t move for the longest time, Oshitari hunched over the bench and Atobe leaned against Hiyoshi’s locker. They were both waiting it out, a battle of wills and resistance. Oshitari made the mistake of removing his glasses and lifting his gaze. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments and he knew he was going to lose.
Atobe’s lithe frame reminded Oshitari of Gakuto’s as he pushed the other hard against the metal lockers. Even then, the brunette refused to yield, cobalt eyes flashing with defiance, daring him on. So Oshitari leaned deeper into him, eliminating as much distance as he could without touching, till he was impossible to ignore. Atobe smelled of musk, expensive musk, the kind Oshitari associated with Greek mythology and old castles.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Atobe’s voice had the same timbre of a cello.
Oshitari answered by pressing his lazy smile onto Atobe’s lips.
It was their first kiss.
The gentlest kiss. Because Atobe, like his violin, Carmen, had a fragile soul.
*
Five minutes before final curtain call, Tokyo Dome backstage, 21 years old.
They met twice after that night and now, in his personal resting area, five minutes to curtain call, their last. Third time’s the charm right? Oshitari laughed as he pulled the brunette to him roughly, door clicking shut. His final performance and their final moment, strangely apt but neither said anything about the future. They breathed in the silence, words lost. Leaving and meeting had become a ritual, a most familiar stranger, their pace. Because Oshitari was flying again tonight, right after the last note of his encore, so he wasted no time in messing up the perfect look Atobe had painfully sculpted for her. Behind closed doors, he wanted to wrinkle everything, discard everything that separated them till they were bare with nothing but sheen of sweat gleaning on alabaster skin. Like a mad man in the throes of death, the violinist wanted to leave his mark, somewhere, everywhere, something to remind the other that he-- no, they happened.
There was no time for sweet words or gentle caresses, just desperate kisses and nails digging down his back. They fell against each other, a tangle of limbs and tongues, clinging hopelessly. For the longest second, they faced each other, heartaches verbalized by moans and shuddering pants. Oshitari gripped Atobe’s slim hips tight, drawing him impossibly near and the brunette leaned back, eyes glazed, face contorted, a cross between heartbreak and delirium. If he could, he would have dragged Atobe’s head to face him. Oshitari wanted to see him, see himself reflected in those blue eyes one last time but the brunette was mewing. It sounded like a cat in heat and it drove Oshitari over the edge. Atobe’s lips are swollen, like their heavy erections and the violinist fingered him deeper, stretching, stretching and stretching till the other could bear it no more. The brunette dropped his head further, hands fisting air, skin, hair, whatever he could grasp.
They were so close and yet so very far, and that was the way it would stay, they both knew. There was no way society would accept them like this. Atobe would lose everything and Oshitari could not bear to see him broken. This was the only way to win.
His glasses sat on the dresser, the only witness to their union as Oshitari let himself fall into Atobe. Curving his body to meet the other, he thrusted and Atobe dipped. The brunette made a sound with the back of his throat, a cry of pleasure or a hoarse whisper, Oshitari couldn’t tell. The room’s temperature spiked to an unbearable level but they don’t care. Atobe’s nails traced shoulder blades and Oshitari bit the place where neck met shoulder. Cheekbone, jaw line, the curve of his shoulder, the hollow of his neck, collarbone and muscles, all quiet strength and hidden grace. They could want no more.
Only when I’m inside you like this, can I believe you’re mine Keigo.
*
Five years ago, Hyoutei Tennis Club locker room, 15 years old (forbidden love).
A beat and then a step, Oshitari’s vision was obscured as Atobe picked off his glasses. The blue haired boy barely had time to tilt his head or grab something for balance because the brunette was on him faster than expected. It was a heady feeling, hard and needy. All he could do was return kiss after kiss, burning, urgent and mind absorbing.
Oshitari almost laughed at the thought of Atobe as a desperate king. Maybe he remembered what day tomorr… He stopped thinking altogether when Atobe’s lips started a dance down his neck that made his spine dissolve. Not to be one upped, Oshitari tugged the brunette up and crushed him with an open-mouthed kiss. Atobe pulled violently at his collar, as if trying to convey what he couldn’t bring himself to say.
Carmen Fantasie should sound like this, Oshitari decided giddily. An abandonment akin to the last day on Earth, wanton, passionate and downright beautiful. Two bodies melded together, their souls clashing, begging, needing, wanting, the very image of parallel lines forced to collide. They only stop when their brains were high from the lack of oxygen and still they feel the rising discontent.
Atobe didn’t say a word and Oshitari wished he didn’t understand. He could feel fear in Atobe’s pounding heartbeat (fear for a future without the other) but kings would never allow themselves to appear weak. Kings had to lead and subjects followed. But Atobe was tired of leading and Oshitari was never the submissive sort. So they danced to their own rhythm and it was exactly how their relationship, or the lack of it or whatever Atobe decided to call it, played out - a song of fire and ice, dominance and seduction.
They came together again, lips on lips, skin on skin, not caring if it was going to bruise. “This isn’t love,” Atobe whispered, his breathe hot against Oshitari’s ears.
“Of course not,” Oshitari’s hands ghosted down spine and hips. Atobe arced back.
“You’re a bad habit.” And Oshitari murmured his agreement into porcelain neck.
Kings don’t fall in love, they leave that to the princes and I’m just a scribe.
Even between kisses, neither spoke of Oshitari’s impending departure.
*
Five seconds into his performance, Tokyo Dome recital hall, 21 years old (jaded).
The tuxedo stifled, Oshitari mused dryly as he took center stage, Carmen by his side. Trusty friend you won’t leave me like him, would you? He cradled the violin close. All eyes were on him but his were on the beautiful pair seated in relative darkness.
The Kansai man watched them like a wounded hawk circling escaping prey. He watched her watch him and wished he was in her place. It was a cursed cycle. Shizuka watching Atobe and Atobe watching him. Oshitari couldn’t tear his gaze away from them even if he tried, so he closed them, shutting that steely gaze and feather light touches out of his system. Atobe chose his name and Oshitari chose music. Their future had been decided.
A good relationship is when you see your world through his eyes. But it becomes bad when you give up your world for him. Play him a song of love, Yuushi. Play on.
Oshitari saw the light in his eyes and played. Your song Keigo. Carmen Fantasie.
Dying notes. A swan song. Calando. Falling away, becoming slower and quieter.
-END-
Art by Kakushiazi