PoT: all the appropriate places
all the appropriate places
nanjirou/ryoma, tezuka. 3000+ words. the father, the son, and the inability to move on.
RATHER EXPLICIT INCEST. You have been warned and are now reading by your own volition.
The first time is in the shower. Nanjirou's stubble is strong and harsh and scrapes against Ryoma's skin harder than his thrusts. Ryoma is pushing against the tiled wall, Nanjirou's weight and strength, Nanjirou's hands. He is losing the battle against all three, or he is winning, he is not really sure which is better at the moment. Nanjirou has his palm crushed against Ryoma's mouth, whispering desperately, "Shhh, goddamnit, don't--" and Ryoma isn't sure what sounds he is making. They are violent, instinctive noises, probably, and utterly unreflective of what he is feeling. Everything is rushed. He isn't prepared at all when he comes, Nanjirou a few seconds behind him, the rough grip still on his cock, how they both collapse afterwards, panting. Karupin's curious face peeking in later, as if to wonder how much longer they are going to be.
In Ryoma's head, there are no questions about yes or no. It is not a matter of consent. It is a matter of degree, meaning, expression. It is a matter of what, and why.
*
The second time, Ryoma starts it in the living room. It's just after tennis practice. Even though he's showered, there's still the stink of sweat and exercising boy to him. He can only smell the heat. The air conditioning is on, but Nanjirou has the windows open, sprawled out on the well-worn couch, his hands behind his head, snoring loudly. Ryoma pauses for a few minutes just inside the front door, still holding onto his dirty sneakers. There are slippers by the door. With just his socks on, Ryoma pads softly over to his father on the polished hardware floors, breathing almost not at all.
When Nanjirou wakes up, Ryoma is straddled on his lap, concentrating very hard on trying to put two twisted pieces of Kleenex up Nanjirou's nose without waking him. Nanjirou, sputtering, swats at Ryoma's hand and tries to jerk the Kleenex out at the same time, and Ryoma is laughing so hard he almost can't breathe. Then Nanjirou discovers the creases Ryoma has made with his knees accidentally sitting on the soft porn magazine, so there's a shouting match that shifts into juvenile half-wrestling, half-tickling bout, and that somehow ends in Ryoma wearing only his shirt, hissing at Nanjirou to not move as he fucks himself leisurely on Nanjirou's cock. Nanjirou is straining, to shove, to push, to force Ryoma to move faster, his hands splayed on Ryoma's bare hips, but Ryoma is all athletic weight and determination. He'll stop sometimes too, back arched like it hurt and it probably did, Nanjirou pushed deep inside of him, his face in an awful grimace that Nanjirou wants to peel off to expose some relative of pleasure and then Ryoma is moving again, rising up just barely enough to slam back down and Nanjirou is coming, shocked by his own growling, head thrust into the arm rest so hard he can feel the wood, maybe hard enough for a concussion.
It's only when he manages to notice Ryoma's hand moving, trying to quickly and furtively bring himself off, does Nanjirou come back to what's happening. "Shit," he says between his teeth, "shit, shit," and slides Ryoma off, moves Ryoma's hand away from his cock, sucks carefully on that soft hidden place between the hip and the leg. Ryoma makes moaning noises almost like mewing, like this might be scaring him, but Nanjirou tries so hard not to think about that as he wraps his large hand around Ryoma's cock, doing his best to drive Ryoma slowly, gently to orgasm. Ryoma's throat is white like a reflection. Nanjirou has to keep from instinctively kissing it, leaving teeth and tongue marks. They smell like sweat and sex, the both of them, and Nanjirou keeps mouthing the line of skin under Ryoma's hips, stroking Ryoma's twisting body, trying to calm them both down.
Afterwards Ryoma wriggles out from under Nanjirou's grasp, stretches himself, still with only his t-shirt on, looking like he only woke up from a nap and hadn't been fucking Nanjirou to within an inch of his life earlier. Nanjirou asks him how he is, and Ryoma looks back at him with narrowed eyes. "It hurts," he says, simply, not even turning red. "I need a bath."
"Sure," Nanjirou says, and stares at the hickey he left on Ryoma's skin, where it can just be covered by the elastic band of Ryoma's underwear, the first dark angry mark Nanjirou's ever seen on Ryoma. He sits back on the couch, watching Ryoma pick up various pieces of his clothing, dress, walk out the room towards the bathroom. Nanjirou needs to clean the couch. He needs to take a shower. He needs to pull his head out of his ass. He needs to apologize, to stop this, to crawl on his knees, beg for forgiveness, to say never again.
He wants to touch Ryoma's spine and he wants to stroke the small of Ryoma's back, that tiny curve where sweat will collect. He wants to kiss him all over and not be careful. He wants to take it all back. He wants something so wrong it scares him.
*
Nanjirou starts having dreams where he's stabbing out his eyes with a ceremonial seppuku sword. They're ridiculous dreams, gruesome and badly filmed like he's watching an amateur horror movie, but he still wakes up in the middle of the night screaming. Rinko tells him needs to see a psychiatrist, and he says no, no, it's just that I need to relax. He wants to tell her that actually, he needs elephant tranquilizers and alcohol and professional help and to have never given birth to a son who is all lines and tension and fuck-you smiles. He doesn't.
But in the meantime, there are afternoons when Ryoma spreads his legs and lets Nanjirou watch him jerk off, gnawing his lip as his hand pumps furiously, both of them silent and guilty and so unbelievably aroused. There are evenings when they come out of the shower and Nanjirou lies and tells Rinko that Karupin made the scratches on his back. There are nights when Nanjirou lets himself into Ryoma's dark bedroom, sneaks his hand under the bedcovers, finds Ryoma pretending to be asleep on his bed, shoving his fist in his mouth so that he doesn't make any noise when Nanjirou touches him, whispering, "Here, kitty," into the curved recesses of Ryoma's ear.
These are awful things, and Nanjirou knows it, but Ryoma is 15 and has never been french-kissed, or at least Nanjirou thinks, and Nanjirou was 22 when Rinko was pregnant, 23 when Ryoma was born, and 27 when he retired to be a full-time stay-at-home dad. He is still not 40, and he and Ryoma have never talked much, and most strangers ask if they are uncle and nephew, siblings, cousins, and the last time Rinko told Nanjirou to ask Ryoma about his grades, they ended up playing sudden death in the tennis court, both of them serving up ace after ace. These are not excuses either, but sometimes Nanjirou thinks they could be reasons.
*
Ryoma's friends from the tennis team are worried about him. "You just go straight home from practice," Dennis says, shrugging his sports bag on his shoulder, glancing sideways at Ryoma who is stripping his tennis jersey for a t-shirt. Ryoma's body is clean and lithe in the artificial light of the locker room. He only has three marks on him: the finger bruises on his hip, the almost vicious bite mark on the back of his neck hidden by his hair, the hickey on the back of his leg that, whenever anyone asks, he says he got accidentally falling into something. No one asks, usually.
"Come to McDonalds with us," Tom says, grinning. "Let's ruin our diets." He slams his locker shut and Ryoma smiles back at him from under the bill of his cap. It's been more than two years since Seigaku, and sometimes Ryoma doesn’t even remember what the people looked like anymore. Sometimes he doesn’t even miss it. And no one ever treats here.
Over greasy cheeseburgers and fries that leave salt on their fingers, they talk about girls and video games and how Coach Henderson can just shove it. Then the conversation goes back to girls-- who they wish they had, who they've already had, which ones would never give them the time of their day, but everyone, Tom insists, likes Ryoma, so it's all good anyway-- before taking a left turn into parents. "Sometimes my dad is such a piece of shit," Dennis says vehemently. Tom nods in sympathy. "I just don't understand his problem."
"No, I know." Tom slurps his Coke, almost chokes, then says, "Mine acts me like I'm not old enough to take a crap by myself."
Then it's Tom and Dennis waiting expectantly for Ryoma to say something, and Ryoma just grunts, mutters, "Yeah," and Dennis muses, "Maybe Ryoma's dad is cooler, being an ex-tennis pro and everything." Ryoma wants to tell them no, it's nothing like that, it's not-- but he doesn't have words for the tennis court in their back yard, Nanjirou's endless supply of Japanese soft porn magazines, what they do with the doors locked, curtains closed.
"We play tennis a lot, that's it," Ryoma cuts in. He's thinking of yesterday, when Nanjirou hitched him against the wall, spread his legs like he was planning on fucking him suspended in mid-air, and when Ryoma said do it, Nanjirou told him no, told him this is-- shit-- and ground into him, their cocks rubbing against each other almost too hard to be comfortable.
Dennis asks him if it's like having a coach instead. Ryoma doesn’t answer, drinks his orange soda until it's just the sound of his ice cubes clinking against each other. He feels sick, but that's only because he drank too much cold soda after eating. Or because he's wondering how many long they have before his mother comes home, and whether that means if they won't, for today.
*
The next local meet, Dennis is finishing the third singles match, and Ryoma looks up at the stands to see his parents sitting next to Billy's mom and Billy's mom's boyfriend. Rinko has on a visor and keeps fanning herself with half of a newspaper, smiling all the while. Nanjirou is in a white and red striped polo and khaki slacks. He still hasn't shaved and he looks like he's maybe just graduated from college. Tom turns to him, sees him staring, and when he too spots Nanjirou, he mouths, "Is that your dad?" It's Tom's incredulity more than anything that pisses Ryoma off, and he crushes the second singles player with more vehemence than necessary. "As expected of Ryoma Echizen," his opponent says ruefully as they shake hands, and Ryoma ducks his head. He thinks he can feel his father watching him.
During the first single's match, Ryoma excuses himself to go to the bathroom. Nanjirou finds him there a few minutes later, and they are locked in a bathroom stall quicker than Nanjirou can shove up Ryoma's shirt, slip his hands past Ryoma's shorts, his underwear, to his ass, moving too fast for caressing. "How did I play?" Ryoma asks him, grinning, and Nanjirou turns Ryoma around so that Ryoma's face is pressed against the cold metal door of the bathroom stall.
"Don't have a damn clue," Nanjirou growls softly, smoothing his palm down Ryoma's shoulder blades, pausing at the small of his back. His thumbs are bigger than Ryoma's, and they keep stroking that patch of skin like Nanjirou's fascinated. "I just kept imaging fucking you against the net." A rough kiss on the shoulder. "Against the stands. Against the lockers." On the hip, the untouched area under the armpit, the sides of the body, and Ryoma laughs when Nanjirou bangs the back of his foot against the toilet by accident.
Then they're just fucking, the brutal, tender feel of Nanjirou thrusting in and out, interrupted in a breathless moment when someone comes into the bathroom. Nanjirou's buried deep in Ryoma's ass, trembling with laughter and lust while Ryoma sucks on his heavy adult fingers to keep from making noise, and all the while the stranger is pissing at the urinal, unaware. After they hear the door shut, Ryoma can't help but shout a little when Nanjirou draws out, then waits with his cock pressed against the entrance, teasing. Ryoma has plenty of ways to get back at him, though, and when Nanjirou is about to come, Ryoma chuckles, manages to choke out, "I forgot-- my friends want to meet you later, dad," and Nanjirou groans, "Fuck." Comes all over Ryoma, and afterwards sneaking back into the stall with handfuls of wet paper towel so they can wipe themselves off before returning to the tennis courts separately.
*
It's unhealthy, Nanjirou wants to say, because they spend more time trying to make sure Ryoma doesn’t scream himself hoarse than talking, about anything really, tennis or how school went or do you really know what the fuck we're doing, this is wrong. He keeps telling himself that, and he keeps telling himself that he'll sit down with Ryoma one day, tell him this isn't how growing up is supposed to happen, you don't explore sexually with-- but then Ryoma slicks out of his shorts, no expression on his face, stands with his hands behind his head as if to say, Well?
Rinko is sitting up in bed one night, frowning, and Nanjirou is afraid he is going to vomit because he's sure that she knows and she's disgusted, but she just curls her hand around his arm when he crawls into bed. "Dear," she sighs, "don't you think Ryoma looks a little wan lately?" Nanjirou wonders, but he's seeing Ryoma's tongue, sleek and wet, how he lets go of his breath in a single burst of sound as he returns a serve. "I think you should talk to him," she says firmly, and pats his arm. "It'll be good for the two of you to improve your relationship."
The next day Ryoma is reaching for the orange soda in the refrigerator after taking a shower. He has just gotten back from tennis practice, and it's so warm outside Nanjirou doesn't know if the flush on his face is from the water or the weather. "Look," he says, "I think--" and Karupin wanders over, flicks its tail across Ryoma's bare legs, and Nanjirou gets a pang in his stomach, too close to arousal for his comfort. "I think we should stop," he manages. Ryoma doesn't say anything, keeps petting Karupin's head, brushing the fur into one solid flat of beige hair. "Your mother is worried about you," Nanjirou croaks. Ryoma is crouched on the floor, the can of soda beside him. The refrigerator door is still open. Nanjirou can hear it humming.
Ryoma nods, whispers, "Okay."
After that, there is only that one time Nanjirou pads to the bathroom, needing to pee at midnight. He finds Ryoma sitting on the toilet, hand working feverishly between his legs, head thrown back, putting his spine into an almost impossible curve. Nanjirou's mouth goes dry, but he doesn't leave, just closes the door behind him softly, and then walks over to Ryoma so that their foreheads can touch. Ryoma's breathing heavily, but they don't kiss, Ryoma only grabs onto Nanjirou's hand so that they're both holding Ryoma's cock, moving at a frantic pace, bringing Ryoma closer and closer. When Ryoma finally comes, Nanjirou places his other hand on Ryoma's cheek, lets Ryoma suck on his thumb as he almost sobs with his release, looking more like the 15 year old he is than Nanjirou remembers ever seeing him.
And after that, there is nothing-- no talking, no touching, only tennis matches in the backyard, the perfunctory conversation when Ryoma comes home in the afternoon, handing Ryoma a cold soda over dinner, neither of them saying goodnight.
*
With the summer comes napping outside, mosquitoes, watermelon, summer training for the tennis team, and Tezuka who's visiting before college. "To improve my English," he says to Ryoma over the phone in his serious buchou voice, and Ryoma's happiness is clumsy, so juvenile and silly, and he wants to hit himself hard, except he says, "You're coming," like he has doubt, and Tezuka says, "Thank you for your hospitality."
When Tezuka arrives at their front door, Ryoma's already been waiting outside for over an hour. His skin is tingling. They don't know how to greet each other. Tezuka looks like he's maybe thinking of offering his hand, and Ryoma was never the bowing type, so they stare at each other, and then Ryoma goes for the luggage-- light, labeled too correctly-- and tsks at Karupin when it accidentally catches its tail in the wheels.
Nanjirou drags Tezuka out for a game after dinner. Ryoma lasts for about five minutes before he goes out there with drinks and oranges sliced by Rinko, sits on the sidelines and makes nasty comments to himself about his father's form. Nanjirou's cut his hair, though, and shaved recently, and he's not wearing those monk robes anymore; he looks like he could be Tezuka's personal coach. He looks like he could be a real opponent.
Tezuka is gracious, but doesn't play to lose. Nanjirou wins anyway, though no one is keeping score. Ryoma doesn't know if this is a thing to be proud of or not. He settles for being insolent and grouchy and pretending like Nanjirou isn't there, and Tezuka is giving him the bemused and anxious buchou face, so Ryoma asks him for a game. He's been starving for one since the moment he left.
Tezuka has never told Ryoma no. He doesn't start now.
There are a million apologies in Ryoma's head, for not staying in Japan, for not loving America, for having made Tezuka into a concept more than a person. He listens to Tezuka deliver news hesitantly-- Momo being the captain, Oishi's girlfriend, Seigaku's success-- and confesses to none of them. They play until there's no more light, and then keep playing for three more sets. Ryoma's exhausted and sore and he's going to hate himself, there's no time to warm up or cool down. Tezuka looks him up and down finally, puts down the racket and wipes his forehead. "You've improved a lot," he says appraisingly, and something in Ryoma flares up, glows. Dies a little when Tezuka walks back into the house, his body held so that he would never accidentally touch Ryoma.
*
Tezuka wakes up briefly at around 2 in the morning. He's sleeping in the guest room even though Ryoma said he could sleep on the floor of his bedroom, but Rinko gave him a scandalized look as if Tezuka were too important to leave wanting for anything. Tezuka is a little too old for sleepover, maybe, but it'd be like spreading a futon, maybe even talking with Ryoma a bit before they go to sleep, he'd might like that. Now he has to play a grownup.
There's shouting coming from somewhere, Tezuka thinks blearily, and-- the bathroom next to Ryoma's room, he realizes after a bit, with the door shut. Tezuka wonders if there's some domestic disagreement between Ryoma's father and mother, but in between trying to fall asleep and trying to listen, he recognizes Ryoma's voice. It's rude and sarcastic, but mostly it's angry, and Tezuka knows English to at least understand when Ryoma spits out, "That's not what I wanted--" Nanjirou roars back, "What do you want from me? Is this all you wanted from me? Is it enough just to--" and Tezuka is surprised no one else is roused when Ryoma finally snarls in the simplest Japanese, "You made me like this. This is your fault-- you did it all."
The staccato of Ryoma storming back to his room, then Tezuka ventures out of his guest bedroom. Nanjirou is in loose pajama bottoms, his foot scratching the back of the other leg, standing all alone in the dark hallway, something both abandoned and torn. He has his eyes trained to the door to Ryoma's bedroom. They both watch Ryoma turn off the bedside lamp, killing the little wedge of yellow light that spills almost onto Nanjirou's toes. After a while, Nanjirou turns to Tezuka. His face is older than it was in the light, or maybe that's just the voice as he asks, "Can't sleep?"
"I thought I heard talking," Tezuka says, hoping for gracious. Hoping Nanjirou doesn’t know that Tezuka heard.
"Ah, yeah," Nanjirou answers. He rubs his face, flashes Tezuka a classic shit-eating grin before walking past Tezuka to go down the stairs, back to his own bedroom, or maybe to sit in the kitchen with an empty cup until the morning. "A bit, yeah, there was." He doesn't even bother to turn his face towards Tezuka, just keeps walking, and Tezuka looks back at Ryoma's silent, immobile bedroom door. Wonders if there is anyone listening on the other side.
Ryoma wakes him up at eight. There's a chatty, nervous silence over cereal and fruit, and then it's off to the local tennis courts, or at least Tezuka suspects that's where they're going, except neither of them brought rackets or balls or are even dressed for it. Ryoma walks slouched, with his hands in his pockets, and Tezuka has something to say about that, something a bit nagging and a lot like a father. He keeps his mouth shut.
When they get to the courts, they stand outside the fence, gazing in. No one is playing, but a few stray tennis balls, almost moldy with dirt, linger on the painted surface. After a few minutes of staring, Ryoma starts pointing to things, naming them in slow, perfectly articulated English. Tezuka repeats after him, even though he knows the words. Ball, Ryoma says. Court, net, fault line, racket, umpire chair. Then Tezuka asks, advantage? And Ryoma answers, set, game, match, foot fault, let service. Game point. Tiebreaker.
Before they slip back into silence, Ryoma points to Tezuka, says, "Captain." Tezuka opens his mouth, closes it. Knows there's no English equivalent for kouhai, not sure if that's what Ryoma would want him to say anyway, and just nods. "Buchou," Ryoma says, and that's familiar, though he hasn't heard it in so long it sounds like he's just imagining it, pretending they're back in Japan and Ryoma is still playing for Seigaku.
Tezuka hazards, "Echizen," and there's a pause before Ryoma reaches out to touch Tezuka's hand. It's like Tezuka is watching someone else in his place react, like this is a movie about him and Ryoma he's watching from some place so far away, except he doesn't remember filming it, doesn't remember being here. Ryoma's fingers brush against the back of Tezuka's hand, light, slightly warm, a little sweaty. Holds his hand there, not enough pressure, almost like tickling. Tezuka doesn't know what to do. Says softly, "Echizen, what is it?"
Ryoma doesn't say anything in return. Maybe shakes his head a little before he draws his hand away quickly. Doesn't meet Tezuka's eyes as he makes his way over to the door into the tennis courts. When he realizes it's locked, Ryoma starts climbing. Tezuka watches from a distance, holding his breath, willing Ryoma not to fall. Wondering if he knows this person who looks so much like Ryoma, sounds like Ryoma, acts in a way Tezuka finds incomprehensible. Ryoma's hands, gripping the fence so hard. Ryoma's hair, sticking to his forehead with sweat. Ryoma's tiny body, ascending one unsteady foothold at a time.
I know I've been a liar and I know I've been a fool
I hope we didn't break yet, but I'm glad we broke the rules
My cave is deep now, yet your light is shining through
I cover my eyes, still all I see is you
-- Damien Rice, "Animals Were Gone"
A/N: I was telling Erin that while writing this story, I kind of felt like a Japanese djka, just making a scenario and expecting people to go along with it, like "Yuuta is a girl and Mizuki is a famous enka singer. Okay. Let's play." This is actually the second draft of another story which was, uh, more of an exploratory, typical Cathy story, and not just sections after sections of scandalous vague sex. But that story totally wasn't working for me, so I just started a new MS Word document with the first sentence of uh, "The first time is in the shower", and this, unfortunately, came out. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me? Uh, I hope you aren't mentally scarred? :x
Two songs that are referenced in various fashions in this post:
Voxtrot - Kid Gloves
Damien Rice - Animals Were Gone
nanjirou/ryoma, tezuka. 3000+ words. the father, the son, and the inability to move on.
RATHER EXPLICIT INCEST. You have been warned and are now reading by your own volition.
The first time is in the shower. Nanjirou's stubble is strong and harsh and scrapes against Ryoma's skin harder than his thrusts. Ryoma is pushing against the tiled wall, Nanjirou's weight and strength, Nanjirou's hands. He is losing the battle against all three, or he is winning, he is not really sure which is better at the moment. Nanjirou has his palm crushed against Ryoma's mouth, whispering desperately, "Shhh, goddamnit, don't--" and Ryoma isn't sure what sounds he is making. They are violent, instinctive noises, probably, and utterly unreflective of what he is feeling. Everything is rushed. He isn't prepared at all when he comes, Nanjirou a few seconds behind him, the rough grip still on his cock, how they both collapse afterwards, panting. Karupin's curious face peeking in later, as if to wonder how much longer they are going to be.
In Ryoma's head, there are no questions about yes or no. It is not a matter of consent. It is a matter of degree, meaning, expression. It is a matter of what, and why.
*
The second time, Ryoma starts it in the living room. It's just after tennis practice. Even though he's showered, there's still the stink of sweat and exercising boy to him. He can only smell the heat. The air conditioning is on, but Nanjirou has the windows open, sprawled out on the well-worn couch, his hands behind his head, snoring loudly. Ryoma pauses for a few minutes just inside the front door, still holding onto his dirty sneakers. There are slippers by the door. With just his socks on, Ryoma pads softly over to his father on the polished hardware floors, breathing almost not at all.
When Nanjirou wakes up, Ryoma is straddled on his lap, concentrating very hard on trying to put two twisted pieces of Kleenex up Nanjirou's nose without waking him. Nanjirou, sputtering, swats at Ryoma's hand and tries to jerk the Kleenex out at the same time, and Ryoma is laughing so hard he almost can't breathe. Then Nanjirou discovers the creases Ryoma has made with his knees accidentally sitting on the soft porn magazine, so there's a shouting match that shifts into juvenile half-wrestling, half-tickling bout, and that somehow ends in Ryoma wearing only his shirt, hissing at Nanjirou to not move as he fucks himself leisurely on Nanjirou's cock. Nanjirou is straining, to shove, to push, to force Ryoma to move faster, his hands splayed on Ryoma's bare hips, but Ryoma is all athletic weight and determination. He'll stop sometimes too, back arched like it hurt and it probably did, Nanjirou pushed deep inside of him, his face in an awful grimace that Nanjirou wants to peel off to expose some relative of pleasure and then Ryoma is moving again, rising up just barely enough to slam back down and Nanjirou is coming, shocked by his own growling, head thrust into the arm rest so hard he can feel the wood, maybe hard enough for a concussion.
It's only when he manages to notice Ryoma's hand moving, trying to quickly and furtively bring himself off, does Nanjirou come back to what's happening. "Shit," he says between his teeth, "shit, shit," and slides Ryoma off, moves Ryoma's hand away from his cock, sucks carefully on that soft hidden place between the hip and the leg. Ryoma makes moaning noises almost like mewing, like this might be scaring him, but Nanjirou tries so hard not to think about that as he wraps his large hand around Ryoma's cock, doing his best to drive Ryoma slowly, gently to orgasm. Ryoma's throat is white like a reflection. Nanjirou has to keep from instinctively kissing it, leaving teeth and tongue marks. They smell like sweat and sex, the both of them, and Nanjirou keeps mouthing the line of skin under Ryoma's hips, stroking Ryoma's twisting body, trying to calm them both down.
Afterwards Ryoma wriggles out from under Nanjirou's grasp, stretches himself, still with only his t-shirt on, looking like he only woke up from a nap and hadn't been fucking Nanjirou to within an inch of his life earlier. Nanjirou asks him how he is, and Ryoma looks back at him with narrowed eyes. "It hurts," he says, simply, not even turning red. "I need a bath."
"Sure," Nanjirou says, and stares at the hickey he left on Ryoma's skin, where it can just be covered by the elastic band of Ryoma's underwear, the first dark angry mark Nanjirou's ever seen on Ryoma. He sits back on the couch, watching Ryoma pick up various pieces of his clothing, dress, walk out the room towards the bathroom. Nanjirou needs to clean the couch. He needs to take a shower. He needs to pull his head out of his ass. He needs to apologize, to stop this, to crawl on his knees, beg for forgiveness, to say never again.
He wants to touch Ryoma's spine and he wants to stroke the small of Ryoma's back, that tiny curve where sweat will collect. He wants to kiss him all over and not be careful. He wants to take it all back. He wants something so wrong it scares him.
*
Nanjirou starts having dreams where he's stabbing out his eyes with a ceremonial seppuku sword. They're ridiculous dreams, gruesome and badly filmed like he's watching an amateur horror movie, but he still wakes up in the middle of the night screaming. Rinko tells him needs to see a psychiatrist, and he says no, no, it's just that I need to relax. He wants to tell her that actually, he needs elephant tranquilizers and alcohol and professional help and to have never given birth to a son who is all lines and tension and fuck-you smiles. He doesn't.
But in the meantime, there are afternoons when Ryoma spreads his legs and lets Nanjirou watch him jerk off, gnawing his lip as his hand pumps furiously, both of them silent and guilty and so unbelievably aroused. There are evenings when they come out of the shower and Nanjirou lies and tells Rinko that Karupin made the scratches on his back. There are nights when Nanjirou lets himself into Ryoma's dark bedroom, sneaks his hand under the bedcovers, finds Ryoma pretending to be asleep on his bed, shoving his fist in his mouth so that he doesn't make any noise when Nanjirou touches him, whispering, "Here, kitty," into the curved recesses of Ryoma's ear.
These are awful things, and Nanjirou knows it, but Ryoma is 15 and has never been french-kissed, or at least Nanjirou thinks, and Nanjirou was 22 when Rinko was pregnant, 23 when Ryoma was born, and 27 when he retired to be a full-time stay-at-home dad. He is still not 40, and he and Ryoma have never talked much, and most strangers ask if they are uncle and nephew, siblings, cousins, and the last time Rinko told Nanjirou to ask Ryoma about his grades, they ended up playing sudden death in the tennis court, both of them serving up ace after ace. These are not excuses either, but sometimes Nanjirou thinks they could be reasons.
*
Ryoma's friends from the tennis team are worried about him. "You just go straight home from practice," Dennis says, shrugging his sports bag on his shoulder, glancing sideways at Ryoma who is stripping his tennis jersey for a t-shirt. Ryoma's body is clean and lithe in the artificial light of the locker room. He only has three marks on him: the finger bruises on his hip, the almost vicious bite mark on the back of his neck hidden by his hair, the hickey on the back of his leg that, whenever anyone asks, he says he got accidentally falling into something. No one asks, usually.
"Come to McDonalds with us," Tom says, grinning. "Let's ruin our diets." He slams his locker shut and Ryoma smiles back at him from under the bill of his cap. It's been more than two years since Seigaku, and sometimes Ryoma doesn’t even remember what the people looked like anymore. Sometimes he doesn’t even miss it. And no one ever treats here.
Over greasy cheeseburgers and fries that leave salt on their fingers, they talk about girls and video games and how Coach Henderson can just shove it. Then the conversation goes back to girls-- who they wish they had, who they've already had, which ones would never give them the time of their day, but everyone, Tom insists, likes Ryoma, so it's all good anyway-- before taking a left turn into parents. "Sometimes my dad is such a piece of shit," Dennis says vehemently. Tom nods in sympathy. "I just don't understand his problem."
"No, I know." Tom slurps his Coke, almost chokes, then says, "Mine acts me like I'm not old enough to take a crap by myself."
Then it's Tom and Dennis waiting expectantly for Ryoma to say something, and Ryoma just grunts, mutters, "Yeah," and Dennis muses, "Maybe Ryoma's dad is cooler, being an ex-tennis pro and everything." Ryoma wants to tell them no, it's nothing like that, it's not-- but he doesn't have words for the tennis court in their back yard, Nanjirou's endless supply of Japanese soft porn magazines, what they do with the doors locked, curtains closed.
"We play tennis a lot, that's it," Ryoma cuts in. He's thinking of yesterday, when Nanjirou hitched him against the wall, spread his legs like he was planning on fucking him suspended in mid-air, and when Ryoma said do it, Nanjirou told him no, told him this is-- shit-- and ground into him, their cocks rubbing against each other almost too hard to be comfortable.
Dennis asks him if it's like having a coach instead. Ryoma doesn’t answer, drinks his orange soda until it's just the sound of his ice cubes clinking against each other. He feels sick, but that's only because he drank too much cold soda after eating. Or because he's wondering how many long they have before his mother comes home, and whether that means if they won't, for today.
*
The next local meet, Dennis is finishing the third singles match, and Ryoma looks up at the stands to see his parents sitting next to Billy's mom and Billy's mom's boyfriend. Rinko has on a visor and keeps fanning herself with half of a newspaper, smiling all the while. Nanjirou is in a white and red striped polo and khaki slacks. He still hasn't shaved and he looks like he's maybe just graduated from college. Tom turns to him, sees him staring, and when he too spots Nanjirou, he mouths, "Is that your dad?" It's Tom's incredulity more than anything that pisses Ryoma off, and he crushes the second singles player with more vehemence than necessary. "As expected of Ryoma Echizen," his opponent says ruefully as they shake hands, and Ryoma ducks his head. He thinks he can feel his father watching him.
During the first single's match, Ryoma excuses himself to go to the bathroom. Nanjirou finds him there a few minutes later, and they are locked in a bathroom stall quicker than Nanjirou can shove up Ryoma's shirt, slip his hands past Ryoma's shorts, his underwear, to his ass, moving too fast for caressing. "How did I play?" Ryoma asks him, grinning, and Nanjirou turns Ryoma around so that Ryoma's face is pressed against the cold metal door of the bathroom stall.
"Don't have a damn clue," Nanjirou growls softly, smoothing his palm down Ryoma's shoulder blades, pausing at the small of his back. His thumbs are bigger than Ryoma's, and they keep stroking that patch of skin like Nanjirou's fascinated. "I just kept imaging fucking you against the net." A rough kiss on the shoulder. "Against the stands. Against the lockers." On the hip, the untouched area under the armpit, the sides of the body, and Ryoma laughs when Nanjirou bangs the back of his foot against the toilet by accident.
Then they're just fucking, the brutal, tender feel of Nanjirou thrusting in and out, interrupted in a breathless moment when someone comes into the bathroom. Nanjirou's buried deep in Ryoma's ass, trembling with laughter and lust while Ryoma sucks on his heavy adult fingers to keep from making noise, and all the while the stranger is pissing at the urinal, unaware. After they hear the door shut, Ryoma can't help but shout a little when Nanjirou draws out, then waits with his cock pressed against the entrance, teasing. Ryoma has plenty of ways to get back at him, though, and when Nanjirou is about to come, Ryoma chuckles, manages to choke out, "I forgot-- my friends want to meet you later, dad," and Nanjirou groans, "Fuck." Comes all over Ryoma, and afterwards sneaking back into the stall with handfuls of wet paper towel so they can wipe themselves off before returning to the tennis courts separately.
*
It's unhealthy, Nanjirou wants to say, because they spend more time trying to make sure Ryoma doesn’t scream himself hoarse than talking, about anything really, tennis or how school went or do you really know what the fuck we're doing, this is wrong. He keeps telling himself that, and he keeps telling himself that he'll sit down with Ryoma one day, tell him this isn't how growing up is supposed to happen, you don't explore sexually with-- but then Ryoma slicks out of his shorts, no expression on his face, stands with his hands behind his head as if to say, Well?
Rinko is sitting up in bed one night, frowning, and Nanjirou is afraid he is going to vomit because he's sure that she knows and she's disgusted, but she just curls her hand around his arm when he crawls into bed. "Dear," she sighs, "don't you think Ryoma looks a little wan lately?" Nanjirou wonders, but he's seeing Ryoma's tongue, sleek and wet, how he lets go of his breath in a single burst of sound as he returns a serve. "I think you should talk to him," she says firmly, and pats his arm. "It'll be good for the two of you to improve your relationship."
The next day Ryoma is reaching for the orange soda in the refrigerator after taking a shower. He has just gotten back from tennis practice, and it's so warm outside Nanjirou doesn't know if the flush on his face is from the water or the weather. "Look," he says, "I think--" and Karupin wanders over, flicks its tail across Ryoma's bare legs, and Nanjirou gets a pang in his stomach, too close to arousal for his comfort. "I think we should stop," he manages. Ryoma doesn't say anything, keeps petting Karupin's head, brushing the fur into one solid flat of beige hair. "Your mother is worried about you," Nanjirou croaks. Ryoma is crouched on the floor, the can of soda beside him. The refrigerator door is still open. Nanjirou can hear it humming.
Ryoma nods, whispers, "Okay."
After that, there is only that one time Nanjirou pads to the bathroom, needing to pee at midnight. He finds Ryoma sitting on the toilet, hand working feverishly between his legs, head thrown back, putting his spine into an almost impossible curve. Nanjirou's mouth goes dry, but he doesn't leave, just closes the door behind him softly, and then walks over to Ryoma so that their foreheads can touch. Ryoma's breathing heavily, but they don't kiss, Ryoma only grabs onto Nanjirou's hand so that they're both holding Ryoma's cock, moving at a frantic pace, bringing Ryoma closer and closer. When Ryoma finally comes, Nanjirou places his other hand on Ryoma's cheek, lets Ryoma suck on his thumb as he almost sobs with his release, looking more like the 15 year old he is than Nanjirou remembers ever seeing him.
And after that, there is nothing-- no talking, no touching, only tennis matches in the backyard, the perfunctory conversation when Ryoma comes home in the afternoon, handing Ryoma a cold soda over dinner, neither of them saying goodnight.
*
With the summer comes napping outside, mosquitoes, watermelon, summer training for the tennis team, and Tezuka who's visiting before college. "To improve my English," he says to Ryoma over the phone in his serious buchou voice, and Ryoma's happiness is clumsy, so juvenile and silly, and he wants to hit himself hard, except he says, "You're coming," like he has doubt, and Tezuka says, "Thank you for your hospitality."
When Tezuka arrives at their front door, Ryoma's already been waiting outside for over an hour. His skin is tingling. They don't know how to greet each other. Tezuka looks like he's maybe thinking of offering his hand, and Ryoma was never the bowing type, so they stare at each other, and then Ryoma goes for the luggage-- light, labeled too correctly-- and tsks at Karupin when it accidentally catches its tail in the wheels.
Nanjirou drags Tezuka out for a game after dinner. Ryoma lasts for about five minutes before he goes out there with drinks and oranges sliced by Rinko, sits on the sidelines and makes nasty comments to himself about his father's form. Nanjirou's cut his hair, though, and shaved recently, and he's not wearing those monk robes anymore; he looks like he could be Tezuka's personal coach. He looks like he could be a real opponent.
Tezuka is gracious, but doesn't play to lose. Nanjirou wins anyway, though no one is keeping score. Ryoma doesn't know if this is a thing to be proud of or not. He settles for being insolent and grouchy and pretending like Nanjirou isn't there, and Tezuka is giving him the bemused and anxious buchou face, so Ryoma asks him for a game. He's been starving for one since the moment he left.
Tezuka has never told Ryoma no. He doesn't start now.
There are a million apologies in Ryoma's head, for not staying in Japan, for not loving America, for having made Tezuka into a concept more than a person. He listens to Tezuka deliver news hesitantly-- Momo being the captain, Oishi's girlfriend, Seigaku's success-- and confesses to none of them. They play until there's no more light, and then keep playing for three more sets. Ryoma's exhausted and sore and he's going to hate himself, there's no time to warm up or cool down. Tezuka looks him up and down finally, puts down the racket and wipes his forehead. "You've improved a lot," he says appraisingly, and something in Ryoma flares up, glows. Dies a little when Tezuka walks back into the house, his body held so that he would never accidentally touch Ryoma.
*
Tezuka wakes up briefly at around 2 in the morning. He's sleeping in the guest room even though Ryoma said he could sleep on the floor of his bedroom, but Rinko gave him a scandalized look as if Tezuka were too important to leave wanting for anything. Tezuka is a little too old for sleepover, maybe, but it'd be like spreading a futon, maybe even talking with Ryoma a bit before they go to sleep, he'd might like that. Now he has to play a grownup.
There's shouting coming from somewhere, Tezuka thinks blearily, and-- the bathroom next to Ryoma's room, he realizes after a bit, with the door shut. Tezuka wonders if there's some domestic disagreement between Ryoma's father and mother, but in between trying to fall asleep and trying to listen, he recognizes Ryoma's voice. It's rude and sarcastic, but mostly it's angry, and Tezuka knows English to at least understand when Ryoma spits out, "That's not what I wanted--" Nanjirou roars back, "What do you want from me? Is this all you wanted from me? Is it enough just to--" and Tezuka is surprised no one else is roused when Ryoma finally snarls in the simplest Japanese, "You made me like this. This is your fault-- you did it all."
The staccato of Ryoma storming back to his room, then Tezuka ventures out of his guest bedroom. Nanjirou is in loose pajama bottoms, his foot scratching the back of the other leg, standing all alone in the dark hallway, something both abandoned and torn. He has his eyes trained to the door to Ryoma's bedroom. They both watch Ryoma turn off the bedside lamp, killing the little wedge of yellow light that spills almost onto Nanjirou's toes. After a while, Nanjirou turns to Tezuka. His face is older than it was in the light, or maybe that's just the voice as he asks, "Can't sleep?"
"I thought I heard talking," Tezuka says, hoping for gracious. Hoping Nanjirou doesn’t know that Tezuka heard.
"Ah, yeah," Nanjirou answers. He rubs his face, flashes Tezuka a classic shit-eating grin before walking past Tezuka to go down the stairs, back to his own bedroom, or maybe to sit in the kitchen with an empty cup until the morning. "A bit, yeah, there was." He doesn't even bother to turn his face towards Tezuka, just keeps walking, and Tezuka looks back at Ryoma's silent, immobile bedroom door. Wonders if there is anyone listening on the other side.
Ryoma wakes him up at eight. There's a chatty, nervous silence over cereal and fruit, and then it's off to the local tennis courts, or at least Tezuka suspects that's where they're going, except neither of them brought rackets or balls or are even dressed for it. Ryoma walks slouched, with his hands in his pockets, and Tezuka has something to say about that, something a bit nagging and a lot like a father. He keeps his mouth shut.
When they get to the courts, they stand outside the fence, gazing in. No one is playing, but a few stray tennis balls, almost moldy with dirt, linger on the painted surface. After a few minutes of staring, Ryoma starts pointing to things, naming them in slow, perfectly articulated English. Tezuka repeats after him, even though he knows the words. Ball, Ryoma says. Court, net, fault line, racket, umpire chair. Then Tezuka asks, advantage? And Ryoma answers, set, game, match, foot fault, let service. Game point. Tiebreaker.
Before they slip back into silence, Ryoma points to Tezuka, says, "Captain." Tezuka opens his mouth, closes it. Knows there's no English equivalent for kouhai, not sure if that's what Ryoma would want him to say anyway, and just nods. "Buchou," Ryoma says, and that's familiar, though he hasn't heard it in so long it sounds like he's just imagining it, pretending they're back in Japan and Ryoma is still playing for Seigaku.
Tezuka hazards, "Echizen," and there's a pause before Ryoma reaches out to touch Tezuka's hand. It's like Tezuka is watching someone else in his place react, like this is a movie about him and Ryoma he's watching from some place so far away, except he doesn't remember filming it, doesn't remember being here. Ryoma's fingers brush against the back of Tezuka's hand, light, slightly warm, a little sweaty. Holds his hand there, not enough pressure, almost like tickling. Tezuka doesn't know what to do. Says softly, "Echizen, what is it?"
Ryoma doesn't say anything in return. Maybe shakes his head a little before he draws his hand away quickly. Doesn't meet Tezuka's eyes as he makes his way over to the door into the tennis courts. When he realizes it's locked, Ryoma starts climbing. Tezuka watches from a distance, holding his breath, willing Ryoma not to fall. Wondering if he knows this person who looks so much like Ryoma, sounds like Ryoma, acts in a way Tezuka finds incomprehensible. Ryoma's hands, gripping the fence so hard. Ryoma's hair, sticking to his forehead with sweat. Ryoma's tiny body, ascending one unsteady foothold at a time.
I know I've been a liar and I know I've been a fool
I hope we didn't break yet, but I'm glad we broke the rules
My cave is deep now, yet your light is shining through
I cover my eyes, still all I see is you
-- Damien Rice, "Animals Were Gone"
A/N: I was telling Erin that while writing this story, I kind of felt like a Japanese djka, just making a scenario and expecting people to go along with it, like "Yuuta is a girl and Mizuki is a famous enka singer. Okay. Let's play." This is actually the second draft of another story which was, uh, more of an exploratory, typical Cathy story, and not just sections after sections of scandalous vague sex. But that story totally wasn't working for me, so I just started a new MS Word document with the first sentence of uh, "The first time is in the shower", and this, unfortunately, came out. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me? Uh, I hope you aren't mentally scarred? :x
Two songs that are referenced in various fashions in this post:
Voxtrot - Kid Gloves
Damien Rice - Animals Were Gone