Chapter Text
The problem with Japan is that it's Japan.
Returning in the middle of summer isn't pleasant, and most of the time spent there is boring, besides the whole adjusting thing. Admittedly, the huge house is a pleasantly far cry from the apartment Yukimura is used to in London, but what good is that when there's nothing to do (probably only he would say that about Tokyo) and no one is around? The Japanese school system is weird for starting in April, after all.
At least it's time enough to figure out weird school things.
Going to school in Osaka is a much less appealing idea than it was when Yukimura was in England, excited to know he would have a friend--and a good one, at that--at Shitenhouji High. Now, when he's mostly recovered, and Shiraishi takes a day to show him around (Osaka is hot and that's a big nope, considering how his shirt sticks to his back and makes him itch all over), Yukimura can't help but shy away.
"You'll be our captain," Shiraishi had told him months ago, equal parts relief and excitement coloring his voice. He's not the same as Yukimura remembers him from every summer past, but that's mostly because he doesn't wear glasses anymore, and it's contacts instead. "We made it to Nationals this year, but, ahh…we just need more finesse, I think!"
Yukimura feels bad about changing his mind about those plans, but not so much when the alternative is Rikkai's high school division with a national-winning team.
He's done enough recovering. He doesn't want a team to recover as well, and Shiraishi understands that.
April finally rolls around, complete with obnoxiously stuffy suits that he already gives up wearing around half of the first day. Apparently, loosening his tie and draping his jacket over his shoulders is all that it takes to become Yankee-kun, a misnomer that makes Yukimura twitch on about five levels. It keeps happening all the way to club sign-ups and there's a redhead there that giggles for a good ten minutes about it.
The captain knows who he is--mercy of all mercies--but the rest of the words that come out of his mouth aren't any good at all. "We just don't need another singles player, Yukimura-kun," he says, shrugging. "We had a full training camp over the summer that established most of our regulars already."
Yukimura's teeth set on edge at that. If he had known he was attending Rikkai, he certainly would have been there, instead of trying to find good food in Tokyo. "Most?"
"We could use another doubles pair. Do you play doubles?"
No, hell no, and with that, Yukimura shudders in recollection of the one time he and Atobe attempted to do as much in Wimbledon's Junior tournament. "Yes." A lie through his teeth, and then, "Is there someone else you'd like me to talk to? I don't really know anyone here yet, so…"
"Well--he didn't join the club, but we're trying to get him to…"
And that's why music class is the only one he gets to early the next day, albeit yawning (and receiving glares for it) in the hallways. At least they have Red Bull in Japan, and Yukimura chugs another one down before slinking in, infinitely pleased that it's just himself and Sanada Genichirou for the moment--and definitely, that's Sanada; the captain said he looked kind of like a samurai and nothing could ever be more accurate, but just to make sure--
"Gen--ah, Sanada Genichirou, right?" Maybe if he bats his eyelashes enough, this will be easy. The captain warned him it wouldn't be. A good thing Yukimura thinks it's funny to be underestimated.
There isn’t usually anyone here. That’s what Sanada likes best about the music classroom, along with, well, everything else about it. His things are neatly stacked, swords propped up against the wall for kendo club after school, bookbag centered in its place, and his spot at the piano is comfortably in the center of the bench so he can tap out his reference notes.
He does not want some pretty boy foreigner coming in to mess with his private time. There’s a reason he likes coming to music class early. The room is as quiet as it’s possible to get at such a noisy school, given the cheap soundproofing on the walls. He looks up, eyes narrowed through his bangs. “Yes, I’m Sanada Genichirou.” He doesn’t ask who the stranger is. There are very few foreigners in school, and none other with the frivolous nickname Yankee-kun.
"Perfect! I'm Yukimura Seiichi." Where's his pat on the back for getting the order right without trying too hard? Also, maybe, possibly, if Sanada didn't glare so much, he'd look less constipated and more handsome. Yukimura refrains from saying that and cheerfully plops himself down onto one side of the piano bench instead. "I was told that you play tennis. Why didn't you sign up for the team?"
“I played tennis in middle school.” Sanada moves over to make room, after a long pause and with a glower. “I didn’t have time. I’m busy.”
"It's just the start of high school; middle school wasn't so long ago," Yukimura hums, scooting closer again. "You could pick it back up again in a heartbeat. Did you know they're looking for another solid doubles team? You should play with me."
“Not interested. Like I said, I’m busy.” That’s only half the reason, but it should be enough for this yankee--damn, he needs to stop calling him that, it’s a stupid name.
Yukimura huffs. "Ahh, with what? I heard you were really good, so how can you quit something you're that good at?"
“I’m good at a lot of things.” It’s not bragging if it’s true. Maybe. “I don’t see the need to do them all at once.”
Yukimura pouts, just a little, even though he can't help but snark: "You don't have to sing while you play tennis, or…whatever else it is that you're good at. Come on, just one game with me, and if you hate it, then I'll leave you alone."
“I don’t want to play tennis with you.” That shouldn’t be hard to understand. Logic tells him that’s a pretty easy goddamn concept. “Leave me alone now, Yankee-kun.”
Less pouting, more scowling now. "Do you idiots even know what a yankee is?" Rather than get up, he gives Sanada a flick on the shoulder. "I'm in this class, too, Gen-chan, so get up and let me practice. Also, I'm challenging you to a duel." If he isn't going to be nice about tennis, then maybe Yukimura won't be nice, either.
Sanada’s eyes narrow. He breathes in deeply through his nose, then out through his mouth. His grandfather would be very disappointed in his training if he were to forsake all his meditation in order to slap some idiot across the face. “Name your time and place.”
That worked, at least. "Mmnn, after all club activities, and meet me on the west tennis court. Now get up, you take up a lot of room."
Sanada doubts that this strange person has nearly as many club activities as he has. “Six-thirty, West tennis court. I’ll be there.” He stands, shouldering his bag and his swords, and leaves the room, trying not to curse and kick a wall in sheer irritation.
Yukimura is proud of himself for not making a face at his back like a five year-old.
"Did you manage to recruit him?"
Yukimura isn't so sure why their captain is so damnably excitable when it comes to Sanada. Maybe he really is that good, but until proven otherwise, he's just kind of a boring asshole.
"Not yet," Yukimura hedges at practice. "But I will, just wait. I challenged him to a match after everything today--well, more of a tennis duel than anything."
That giggly redhead from before stops and stares at him warily. "Does he know it's about tennis?"
Yukimura stares back. "What else could it be about?"
As he comes to find out, judging by the swords strapped to Sanada's back when he arrives much later, there are probably many other things. "Um," Yukimura dryly attempts, "this is about tennis. Perhaps I should have clarified."
Sanada stops in his tracks, and lets out a long, slow sigh. It had been a fleeting hope, that this boy might actually be quite interesting, given that Sanada gets challenged to relatively few duels. But no, it’s just more tennis that he doesn’t want to play. “I don’t have a racket,” he says, glaring at everyone on the court as if it’s their fault. Some of his old teammates, especially Marui, look entirely too happy to see him, though he gives them a nod anyway. “I don’t play anymore, so I don’t bring it.” Obviously.
"I've got an extra racket you can borrow," Yukimura helpfully offers, smiling an ounce too sweetly. "I bet you can still play just fine, and I did challenge you. Are you really just going to walk away?"
The look Sanada gives him is withering. “I never said I wouldn’t play. I don’t want to use yours, they’re not my brand.” He can tell that from just the packaging.
"Oh, suck it up." How prissy can one guy be? Yukimura rescinds that thought a second later, because he knows Atobe. He takes out his spare and thrusts it in Sanada's direction. "Just play already."
Sanada’s lip curls. “When you’re good enough,” he mutters, stalking off to his side of the court, “brands matter. You serve.” Not like this match will last long.
Ah. That's an angry little twitch that he hasn't felt courtesy of an opponent in quite some time.
Serving isn't his strongest point, but being fresh off of a lay-off makes nothing his strong point, so Yukimura doesn't care. It's all a level playing field as far as he's concerned, and it's with that mindset that he sends a ball over with enough force in its bounce to slam into the metal fence some feet back and keep spinning. "If you're good enough," Yukimura snidely shoots back, and picks up another ball, "you can play with anything and still win. 15-Love."
Sanada’s eyes narrow, and he tightens his grip on the handle. Ah. This is going to be more interesting than he thought. That’s inconvenient and nothing he feels like dealing with today. “Come on, then.” The next ball will not go past him.
"I'm going to knock that awful hat of yours off," Yukimura mutters underneath his breath, tosses the ball, and slams it back over. Just play doubles with me and get over it, you goddamn repressed wildebeest.
Sanada can feel the hostility in the ball. He drinks it in, lunges, and returns it with all the force he can muster, enough to knock it into the baseline on the other boy’s side so hard he’s pretty sure smoke comes out. “Fifteen all. Is that your best serve? Or your only serve?”
"You're such a ball of sunshine to play against, Gen-chan." It's with irritation that Yukimura remembers how over a year ago, he'd chase a ball that strong and heavy and smack it back over right into someone's toes. Shoving that aside, he grabs up another ball. "Even children know a few different serves--should I give you an underhanded one that's easier to hit?"
It’s not easy to return the boy’s serves, but Sanada manages--barely. The boy is giving him more of a run for his money than he likes, and after a 40-40 difference, Sanada barely squeaks by to win the first game, taking position for a serve with a scowl. “One to Zero. Is this how they play overseas?” he demands.
"Sure, if they're feeling lazy," Yukimura teases, less annoyed and more pleased now that Sanada is actually this good. He perches at the baseline, leaning his weight from foot to foot. "You ever seen a match at Wimbledon in person? Ah, I forgot; tennis isn't really your thing."
Just for that, Sanada breathes deep, and invokes fire, swift and deadly, for his first serve. It shoots over the net, slamming into Yukimura’s side of the court, and he’s slightly surprised that it doesn’t leave a smoking hole. He’ll try harder next time. “No, it isn’t. Challenge me to a real duel sometime.”
He's going to get the next one of those, even if it kills him. Yukimura tosses him a ball and tries not to breathe heavily. "This is real enough to me, thanks."
Invade like fire, yes, but there’s also something to be said for a quiet approach. The next ball barely passes the net, and drops silently onto the other side to stay there on the ground. He breathes deep, and looks right at the other boy’s eyes. “Are you ready for me to serve again?”
"Shut up and play tennis already." Now he's just mad. Eager, but angry about it. That'll do, more or less.
Sanada snatches another ball, and launches into an attack, whole body tense and prepared as he slams the ball over the net, directly to Yukimura’s left corner, making him dive for a backhand. Maybe if he’s lucky, this will end quickly, and the boy will get frustrated and leave him alone.
That'll definitely do.
Even if he has to dive, Yukimura returns it sharp and merciless, uncaring of how his chest heaves from the effort. There's a burn in his legs and that's nice, a reminder that he can actually do this and feel when it hurts.
The ball is a sharp one, and Sanada has to leap for it, landing solidly on his leg when he sends the ball back to bounce at Yukimura’s feet, right up against his body. The boy is good at tennis, better than Sanada had expected, and he hates that he’s (sort of) enjoying himself.
Yukimura has no qualms about making this rally a long one, not when he's certain he can return every single one of these balls.
What's fun is the fact that Sanada seems to be the same way, but Yukimura doesn't mind rushing the net and catching all of those obnoxious drop shots before they can bounce and roll away. He doesn't mind running back to the baseline before Sanada has even hit his return, and he really doesn't care that leaping up to smack a ball back is a bit less than graceful because he's stumbling to catch up because at least he's returned it.
Just play doubles with me. Just fucking do it, so I can be on this team and play.
Sanada keeps his service game--again, barely. The next one, Yukimura’s, he loses, and just barely manages to be a good sport about it. It’s been a long, long time since he’s lost, and he hasn’t gotten any better at it since then. He can see it out of the corner of his eye, on the faces of his former teammates--they’re wondering if he’s going soft, if Yukimura is really that good, and what’s going on. He sort of wants to slap that look off their faces.
“Five games to three, Sanada!” the referee calls, and Sanada wipes sweat from his forehead.
“You’re better than I thought,” he acknowledges, and his blood pounds at the workout he’s getting, all courtesy of this elegant, lithe, young--best not to dwell on that. “But this is the last game.”
Yukimura wishes he was sweating a lot, lot less.
His hands slip a bit when he holds his racket, and he scrubs one off irritably on his shorts. "Overseas, we just fucking play tennis and don't make predictions when we don't know what we're talking about," he bites out breathlessly, angrier than he wants to be and wishing he didn't have sweat dripping off his damned eyelashes. "Shut up and serve already."
“You need to work on your stamina,” Sanada bites out, bouncing the ball hard before wheeling back into a serve. This time, he’ll make Yukimura run. No matter what tricks the boy has up his sleeve--a very talented sleeve, he admits--tennis is a game of endurance.
Sanada wouldn't have been saying that a goddamned year and a half ago.
The thought stings and makes Yukimura angrier still, and he grits his teeth when he dives for that first serve and manages to hit it back, skinning his knee in the process. He's not quite fast enough to hit it back again, but damn if he doesn't try.
"15-Love!"
Can he kill the ref yet?
For every ball he hits back, there's another one he can't quite get to in time. The first miss reminds him that he hates Japan--why couldn't he have just stayed in England? they're called boarding schools for a reason--and the second reminds him that he hates the idea of having to prove himself to be on some high school tennis club just to play one match--
The third reminds him that nothing is quite right or the same anymore, and that no one plays him seriously in tennis since in England, before, so how could he even think to compete with this guy?
"Game and match to Sanada, six games to three!"
"Give me my racket back," is all Yukimura snaps, thrusting out his hand over the net. If there isn't a saying about how good sportsmanship should be for people that are good at sports, then there should be.
Sanada extends the racket, grip first, and watches Yukimura. He’s not handling it well, which turns Sanada’s stomach. “If you can’t handle losing,” he growls, “don’t play games. You ruin the sanctity of the sport for everyone.”
"If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it," Yukimura bites out, snatching his racket back and shoving his sweaty hair from his face. "The hell are you complaining about, anyway? I said I'd fuck off if I lost."
Sanada’s jaw tightens, and he shoulders his blades and his bag. “This is why I don’t bother playing tennis with anyone else,” he mutters. “Even Akaya is more mature.” The last is sort of to his old teammates, a couple of whom snort.
There really aren't enough rude words in Japanese for this conversation. Yukimura settles for turning abruptly on his heel--he's not shaking, he's not--and stalking off to grab his long-abandoned jacket off of the ground. "Great. And now you don't have to play tennis with me ever again."
For just a moment, Sanada regrets it. No one’s given him this much of a run for his money in years; he hasn’t worked this hard since he invited Yanagi and Akaya to both play him at once. It feels good to have a strong opponent, and he almost says something kind about it.
But the boy is sort of hissy and spitty, and so rude Sanada doesn’t even want to deal with it. “Fine. Goodbye.” He stalks off, seeking the quietude of the walk home, and a long practice to follow.
~~
Yukimura doesn't like complaining to anyone, let alone about his failures.
Logic tells him that of course there are going to be strong players at one of the schools most renowned for their tennis program in Japan. Logic tells him that he should be happy he can even play at all, let alone remotely decent.
What logic doesn't account for is the crippling sense of loss (to someone not even on the team), or the fact that he'd rather die than go back to practice with that club after the weekend is over, because now they've all watched him (Yankee-kun) lose to someone they clearly love and respect.
He should have gone to Shitenhouji. Scratch that, he should have been able to convince his parents to let him stay in England.
Rather than say please tell me you're throwing a party this weekend, Yukimura settles on a far less desperate didn't you want to show me around your family's favorite Tokyo villa text, because Atobe responds so, so much better to flattery and maybe he will have some ideas about murdering Sanada and getting away with it.
[But of course. There’s a party this Friday, are you in? There are at least 53 beauties dying to meet my tennis prodigy friend.]
A moment later, a second text.
[Also I have the booze you like that isn’t wine, plebe.]
[Don't want 53 beauties, want to be drowned in your pool.] Yukimura is mostly joking. [How much do I have to beg for a slightly smaller thing that is less party, more getting drunk in a room together?]
If he's lucky, the booze will make him have a reaction and he won't remember this past week.
[It can be arranged. Let me top.] The message even sounds sort of futile and plaintive, as if the sender has given up.
[Will you be satisfied if I say we can flip a coin?] Except it doesn't matter, because Atobe always ends up in his lap when they're drunk, anyway. God, when is the last time he had sex? Yukimura frowns down at his phone as if accusing it of being at fault.
[Good enough. Friday or Saturday? Or tonight?] Never mind that it’s just Wednesday, Atobe knows how Yukimura is.
He's lost control of his life. [Tonight. I need to talk about things. And maybe Saturday? Can I bring a friend then?]That sounds good: getting drunk with the only two people he really knows in Japan. If Shiraishi tries to argue, Yukimura decides he'll just pay for his train ticket and that'll be the end of it.
[My glorious home will be host to one of the most fascinating meetings in Japan, truly. I have what you need. Come by any time.]
Yukimura is slightly less upset about life in general by the time he arrives at Atobe's villa. It's probably the fact he ran most of the way and is too tired to give a shit, but he'll take it all the same. Seeing a familiar face helps, too.
"This place is pretty far out. How do you get to school on time every day? Helicopter?" Yukimura hopes that isn't the answer. It probably is. He blinks sweat out of his eyes. Unsurprisingly, it looks like all of the Atobe family's other mansions, albeit less castle-y. Some of the ones in Europe are extremely castle-y. "I hate this country."
“Fighter jet,” Atobe says cheerfully, and brings him inside, where a waiter offers a soft cloth meant for wiping his face. “Would you like to jump in the pool first? There’s a swim-up bar.”
"Immediately," Yukimura gratefully agrees, somehow relieved that it's by fighter jet and not helicopter. He gingerly wipes at his face, following at Atobe's heels. "I hope your experience at Hyotei has been pleasant enough for the both of us so far." Maybe someone can have a good time here.
“Hyotei is extremely pleasant!” Atobe doesn’t bother with swimming clothes--so tacky. He strips off unconcernedly and executes a neat dive into the South Pool, reveling in the feel of water kept at the perfect temperature. “I told you you should have attended. I can still get you in, if Rikkai isn’t living up to its frightful splendor.”
A noncommittal noise is enough. Yukimura strips off his shirt, and settles for dangling his feet into the water for now. "No singles spots, just doubles," he tiredly reveals, "and they won't even let me play that because I don't have a partner. I hate doubles."
“Apalling.” Atobe flips into a gentle backstroke, lengthening his muscles out with a long sigh. “I find that somewhat surprising, actually. Rikkai’s been famous for doubles for the past few years.”
Yukimura snorts quietly. "Doesn't carry over into the high school division, apparently. There's a guy they wanted me to pair up with really badly because he didn't join the team again, but he's a dick and I gave up."
“Ah, truly the great Seiichi Yukimura is showing his colors. So bravely he attempted once to work with a man! Songs and stories will be told about his greatness for centuries to come.”
The splash of water over and into Atobe's face is less than vicious, if only because it's nice hearing his name said properly. "I tried being nice at first. He flat out said no, though, so I had to challenge him to even get him to give me the time of day and--" Yukimura's lips purse angrily, the sting of that loss still far, far too strong.
Atobe pauses mid-stroke, blinking as his feet sink down to the bottom of the shallow end of the pool. There’s something about the strange tension in Yukimura… “Seiichi...you didn’t lose…?”
"I didn't expect him to be that good. How can you be that good and not want to play?" Yukimura twitches a little, and gives into the urge to just kick his shorts off and slide into the water in one fell swoop. He resurfaces, frowning still (and dripping). "…Most of his old teammates were there and everything." He sounds like a complaining five year old, and can't bring himself to care when it twists like a hot knife in his chest to remember that for once, he honestly wasn't good enough. "Maybe I should just quit the club. The tournament circle can't be that slow in Japan, can it?"
“It’s...pretty slow, compared to what we’re used to,” Atobe hedges. “You could always go back to Europe, of course. You’re still ranked there, even if the rankings don’t cross over to here. Who was it who beat you, by the way?”
"I can't go back to Europe, my parents won't let me. Otherwise I would've never left." That's another sore topic that makes him want to hiss and spit. Yukimura knocks his head back against one of the walls of the pool. "Weird samurai thing…Sanada Genichirou, that's it."
“Ahhhhhh.”
The sound comes out slowly, and Atobe leans back into the water, lacing his fingers together behind his head before kicking gently away from the side. “I know him. My team’s never managed to beat him in doubles. Always wanted to play him in singles, but he never responded to my requests for an unofficial match. Is he really that good?”
Yukimura sulkily slides further down into the water, letting it cover his nose for a few seconds before he inches back up again. "I would've beaten him. You know, before." He chews on his lower lip. "But yes, he's good. And if he weren't remotely handsome, I'd want to smack him in the face with my racket. Thoughts on how to hide his body if I do manage to murder him in revenge?"
Atobe waves a hand. “We don’t speak of such tasteless matters in the pool. I’d been given to understand that you were more or less back to your old fighting shape, didn’t you say? Though I suppose anyone would start to slip after an illness of that length. Not my glorious self, of course, but...ah, you know.”
"…There's still a stamina issue." If he can admit it to anyone, it's Atobe, whose family found him the best doctors and sent him enough flowers to make him sneeze for four hours straight. Yukimura shrugs tiredly. "No matter what I do, it seems like that's just a thing now." Which would be fine, except Sanada had to call him on it in front of everyone.
“For now,” Atobe puts forth. He hates seeing Yukimura so upset, so defeated. “You thought the spasms were just a thing too, and you haven’t had one for months, right?” He hopes that’s right. It had been terrifying, Seiichi in the hospital all the time.
"I haven't been able to run a kilometer without feeling winded in the past nine months, either." It comes off too snappish for his liking, and Yukimura frowns, swallowing down that bitter, angry spike that wells up in his throat again. "Sorry," he mutters. "I'm just frustrated. Ah, do we have to talk about this? Tell me about how Hyotei is better than Rikkai instead. Or about your boyfriend." Anything, really, though Yukimura is certain he has picked two topics that Atobe likes.
Atobe brightens immediately. “It’s a lot better than Rikkai, that’s for certain. For one thing, of course, Rikkai has no king. Honestly, how do you people even function without proper leadership? For another, now that Kunimitsu no longer plays for a school team, we’re certain to be number one. Ah, next year is going to be better, though--half of my best doubles team is still in middle school, isn’t that a tragedy?”
"The biggest tragedy," Yukimura agrees, repressing a yawn as he slowly treads water. "Also, they don't function. They just glare and play like a bunch of singles players, even in doubles, which--well, I don't even care any more. They gave me a nickname already and it's stupid."
“A nickname?” Atobe’s lip curls. “The only appropriate nickname is one you give yourself. How should others know the glory that waits inside you? Ah, you should have listened to me, I told you your talents would be wasted there. I’ll kick someone off singles if you want to come to Hyotei after all.” Jirou would be good in doubles, he’s always thought, and Seiichi will be frankly unbeatable once he gets his stamina back. Plus, there are certain concessions owed to a friend who’s spent years in the hospital.
"At this point, I feel like I should stay just to aggravate them. Yankee-kun, though--do the Japanese even know what a yankee is? Even by their definition, I'm not one." Said as he considers getting drunk enough to fall over. That's kind of a delinquent thing to do, he supposes.
“Of course they don’t.” Atobe’s voice is amused, and not entirely pitying. “You know better, Seiichi. You’re a gaijin, that’s all. Eh, Kabaji!”
“Uss.” From the shadows, Kabaji stands, giving Yukimura a nod.
“Don’t you want to swim? It’s hot.”
Kabaji furrows his brow. In English, he answers, “If you wouldn’t mind. I don’t want to interrupt.”
“Of course not! Right, Seiichi? Oh, talk in Japanese, he made me promise to make him practice.”
"I was born in Japan, I'm not a gaijin. Well…technically." Yukimura heaves a long sigh and turns around, propping his head into his arms on the side of the pool. "If you came back to England with me, my parents would probably be fine with it," he wheedles in English up to Kabaji, blatantly ignoring the request for Japanese practice.
Kabaji strips off, then slides into the pool, looking at Atobe for quick permission before answering in English. “I don’t want to leave Keigo. He’d get into too much trouble without me.”
“Oi, Kabaji! Where is your faith?”
"Can't argue with that. You kind of would fall off a cliff without Hiro around, Keikei," Yukimura teases. "So both of you go back to England with me. You'd be closer to your Tezuka-creature then, too." It's all a whiny pipe dream at best, courtesy of his own parents wanting to keep him within their sights in the event he tries to die again on them. How wonderful that mindset is.
“I’m the only one allowed to call him that,” Atobe mutters, and ducks under the water, letting it cascade down his hair and shoulders. “You’re not helping matters, either of you.”
“Sorry, Atobe-sama.” Probably only Yukimura and Atobe himself can hear the light humor in the name, as usual.
"Why do you get to try and convince me to come to Hyotei, but I can't try and convince you to go back home?" Yukimura's eyes lid before he hauls himself out of the pool, and he accepts a towel from an attendant before huddling up into it and just leaving his feet in the water. "I'll even drink your gross wine, look how accommodating I am."
“I have excellent taste in wine!” Atobe protests. “Which you know to be true! If even Kunimitsu admits it, you know it must be so. Anyway, I have to be back here. Father needs me close by right now.” He doesn’t say much more than that. He’s rarely mentioned his father’s health, or the slow increase of responsibilities in the company he’s been taking on, and he doesn’t exactly want to start now.
Atobe family business is another thing he can't argue with. Yukimura bites back a sigh and kicks slowly in the water. "At least let's go on a weekend or something. No, better--let's go over Golden Week. Neither of you have anything planned, right? And everything's always closed here, anyway, so what's the use in hanging around? Invite Kunimitsu, unless he's coming here for it."
“He does hate fireworks,” Atobe muses. “Good enough for me. Let’s do it. Just back home, or do you want to go off galavanting somewhere? How many forms of transportation should I bring?”
"I'm up for galavanting! Just use common sense." This at least makes up for stuffy, stoic Sanada Genichirou and his stupidly handsome face. "Aren't you glad, Hiro? We get to be the awkward not-couple again, putting up with their kissy faces the whole time."
Kabaji looks less than glad. “If they start having sex in the pool again, you get to bring refreshments this time.”
“Kabaji, how cruel! After all Seiichi has done for you!”
“I’ll lend you my earplugs.”
"Maybe I'll just join in," Yukimura cheerfully replies. "That'll teach them."
Kabaji nods, and says gravely, “Pass.”
“At least one of you has some common sense. Honestly, Seiichi, Kunimitsu would probably have a panic attack,” Atobe says fondly.
"That's the point. Then none of us would have to endure the noises you two make."
“No, you’ll just have to endure me making frightening cooing noises at him while he recovers.” Atobe smiles. “Ask yourself, is that really any better?”
“Trust me,” Kabaji deadpans, “it isn’t.”
Yukimura scrunches up his nose in distaste. "You two lovebirds can have your own hotel room if we go galavanting. And don't forget it's your duty to get me drunk tonight, please."
“I told you there’s an open bar,” Atobe says, amused. “A swim-up one, in fact. Oi, Kabaji, man your station!”
“Uss.”
Kabaji swims into the bar, stepping up into the little enclosure, looking more than ready to pour any drink with at least some accuracy.
"I like being forcibly indulged! Then there's less of a chance I'll get blamed for any ill side effects. Hiro, can you just bring me a glass and a bottle of Keigo's favorite red, I don't want to share."
There have been better ideas, admittedly. Wine is a bad idea on the best of days--this much of it makes him weirdly lightheaded and doesn't make him feel drunk as much as it makes him feel…ah…floaty?
At least his frustration regarding one Sanada Genichirou is less resounding now.
"Keiiiigo." Even if Atobe smells somewhat like chlorine, he also still smells good--and feels good, and solid, and warm, and familiar, not like anything else in his country, and so Yukimura is content to snuggle up next to him and maybe gnaw on his shoulder a bit. "Keigo. Your wine is awful."
Atobe finishes off his own bottle, and tosses it over his shoulder into the pool. “Mm, I don’t see you complaining. Or...yes. You’re complainy. Always complainy, Seiichi, why? Whyyyyy?”
He enjoys the lightness of the water, and wraps his arms and legs around Yukimura, effectively hanging off of him. “Floaty. I’m floating.”
"Heavy," Yukimura grumbles, and sort of scrabbles at the edge of the pool for a moment in a half-hearted attempt to climb out with Atobe still attached to his back. "Keigo, all that wine's gonna make you fat. Mmn, maybe in a good way. Squishy." They're probably going to drown like this, but that's fine as long as he gets to reach back and pinch one of Atobe's thighs.
“I,” Atobe says, trying not to squeak indignantly and failing spectacularly (in the way that any Atobe does anything), “will never be squishy fat! Ah, let me just--let me--nn, Seiichi, don’t pick me up, it’s not dignified.” Then again, he doesn’t exactly let go, either. Seiichi is warm, and he sort of rubs his face on the other boy. Yes, this one is his.
Determinedly, Yukimura heaves his weight upward and rolls them both out of the pool, giggling when the motion dislodges Atobe (for the most part) and Yukimura ends up flopping on top of him. "You're definitely squishy in some places," he sighs, and shoves his face into Atobe's neck, rubbing it there when he gives one thigh another pinch. "Here. Aaand--here." Grabbing Atobe's ass is always a really good idea.
Atobe lets out a noise, but he’s drunk enough to pretend that he hasn’t heard it, and hopefully Seiichi is drunk enough that he actually hadn’t heard it. Seiichi is so lean, compact and elegant, and Atobe can’t help but be reminded of Tezuka’s long, precise fingers and the deliberate, fluttering way he always touches Atobe when they’re alone. He sighs, leaning his head back against the ground, and squirms. “Seeing him next week,” he murmurs, and knows it’s shameless, the way he parts his thighs to draw Seiichi closer. “Don’t leave marks.”
"We can still flip a coin." It's a half-hearted suggestion. "Don't have a coin, though," Yukimura adds, and only briefly sets his teeth to Atobe's throat, just enough to nibble but not actually bruise. His hands close around Atobe's hips, tugging them up as he wriggles between his thighs, and Yukimura sighs out a breath from his nose when he sloppily kisses his way up to that full, soft mouth. "You like it when I fuck you, anyway."
Atobe nibbles on Yukimura’s lips, tasting fine wine that he just knows is being criminally underappreciated, and wraps his legs around the other boy’s waist. “We can flip for it later,” he says, which makes total sense to him at the moment. “Just, uh, you’re good at coins, so you go first.” Or something. Whatever means Yukimura won’t stop grinding down onto him, kissing him, and burning away all the cold loneliness of the Atobe household when his father is watching him constantly.
"Yeah. Good at coins," Yukimura laughs, sucking on Atobe's lower lip before pressing a wet, messy kiss to the side of his mouth. He loves being able to grab and touch and kiss someone again, and Atobe is probably the best one to have his hands full of then, when he's so familiar and so eager. No marks he reminds himself, though scratches are sort of fair game when his hands curve around to grab solid handfuls of Atobe's ass, his cock already dripping and slick as he grinds down.
Ah, shit, Atobe’s needed this.
He lunges up for Yukimura’s mouth, kissing him deep and feeling the sensations course down his spine, making him so hard he can barely stand it. He’s a bit mindless when he grinds up, hips moving in slow, eager circles, up against Yukimura’s cock, back against his wandering, grasping hands. “Seiichi,” he breathes, and laughs a little to himself. “I know I slurred that. I know. I can--I, I can stop if I want. S’just funny.”
"Hard to say when you're drunk." Yukimura's mouth finds the lobe of an ear--bites, pulls, sucks, because at least marks won't be so noticeable there. "Sei-chan's fine. Mnn, your Sei-chan." He rocks backward and hauls Atobe with him, up into his lap, and he sucks in a sharp breath at the hard, slick slide of their bodies against one another, at the way Atobe feels wriggling down into his lap. "Really want you to ride me--ahh, let me finger you first, open up," he breathlessly urges, thumbing Atobe's lower lip.
Atobe’s eyes glaze over as all the blood still left in his brain rushes south. “Mm, my Sei-chan,” he agrees, and parts his lips, leaning forward to mouth over his fingers, sucking them urgently into his mouth, letting his tongue make them slippery slick, imagining them sliding inside him, filling him up instead, and he lets out a groan. He wriggles down against the other boy’s cock, hips canting back and forth, feeling the hard length swell against his ass and knowing how good it’s going to be in a minute.
Atobe's going to complain later.
It always ends up like this, and they never do anything to fix it. Not that Yukimura cares right now when Atobe's mouth is wet and hot around his fingers, and he can't help but groan and twist them against that tongue. His cock aches, twitches with a flick of Atobe's tongue, and he has to force himself to drag his hand away, sliding it down to his hole instead, already a little slick from where his cock has rubbed against it. "Gonna make it really good," Yukimura promises, and his breath hitches hard when he twists his wrist and manages to work one slick finger inside. Atobe is tight and squirmy and wriggly and he wishes he could bruise and mark him up in the process of making him hold still. "Fuck, when's the last time we did this?" It's hot, knowing very well that he's the only one that gets to fuck Atobe like this.
“Three months.” Even gasping and squirming, clinging to Yukimura’s shoulders and sinking into a kind of heady bliss, Atobe remembers. It’s been so long since someone has been determined with him, forceful with him, has cared about what he wanted and determined to give it to him whether he was willing to ask for it or not. Kunimitsu is perfect, but this...yeah, he needs this sometimes.
He bites his tongue, wanting to encourage Yukimura to go faster, knowing full well that even this much is enough, and he’ll hurt for it in the morning. “Nnnff, just--Sei-chan, just—” It’s too big, just two of those fingers, and he has to pant for air.
"So noisy, just wait--" Yukimura's fingers slide in deep, his mouth hot and insistent against Atobe's neck even if he can't bite (really wants to, but no marks, he promised) and Yukimura vents a little bit of that frustration in dragging his other hand up, thumbing a nipple, and pinching. "You're gonna be a good boy, aren't you, Keikei?" The names are stupid (always have been), the idea of rushing this along is stupid, but his dick is hard and Atobe's already squirming on his hand like he's going to die if he doesn't have more and that's encouragement enough for both of them. "You always say it's too much, but you're not going to complain this time, are you?"
Atobe’s breath catches in his throat as a low whine, and he struggles a little, just enough that Yukimura will have to pull. Ah, no, too much, that’s a bit sensitive, and he bites his lip, batting at that hand. “Enough goddamn foreplay,” he groans, arranging his knees on either side of Yukimura’s hips, back bowed over him, and he leans down for a swift kiss. “You’d better have--ah, here’s one,” he mutters, reaching for his discarded swim trunks and pulling out a condom. Convenience is everything, when he knows Yukimura is coming over. He rolls it onto Yukimura’s cock, breath catching and tripping at the feeling of how hot and heavy it is, and his eyes cross just a little. Then he raises up, bringing Yukimura’s hands to his hips. “I’ll be good,” he breathes. “Sei-chan always fucks me right.” If he were sober, it would take the skin being flayed from his bones to make him say something like that, but when he’s drunk it seems to work, somehow.
At least there's enough lube already on the condom that this won't be too difficult--or, well, those would be his thoughts if he were sober at all. "Next time," Yukimura huffs, grabbing at Atobe's hips, "I wanna come inside you. Really inside you--I like it when you whine about how messy it is."
Atobe's already going to be whining later, no doubt, and that's really, really good to think about. Yukimura has to remind himself not to bite, and kisses him instead, hot and hard and messy when he lets his cock drag against that tight hole. It always takes effort to get inside, because Atobe doesn't do this, Atobe is picky, and that makes it that much more satisfying to sink inside, gasping for a full breath and clutching at those lean sides, tugging and pulling and urging Atobe to take more.
Shit, this is why he doesn’t do this.
Atobe’s jaw clenches on a low, pained whine, his abdomen cramping, his forehead breaking out into sweat. He tries to breathe, but his lungs are spasming a little, and only knowing that this is Seiichi, only Seiichi, makes him try and relax. He gulps for air, knowing that this happens every goddamn time, forcing himself to try, try, try, because it feels so fucking good when Seiichi’s buried hilt-deep in his ass. He gasps, a broken whine in his voice, and any thought of words is driven out of his head when he tries moving trembling thighs, grinding himself down on that thick, invasive cock inside him. “F-fuck—”
"Easy--fuck, ah, god, j-just breathe--a little--" Yukimura gasps out, his own voice caught up in his chest. Atobe is tight enough around him to be painful, and there's no real helping it unless he's entirely inside and Atobe can get used to it, he knows that well enough. "Be good for me," Yukimura rasps into his ear, his hands splaying around the curve of Atobe's ass, stroking and kneading, easing him down inch by inch. "F-feel that? Almost all the way in, you're gonna be so full--"
I’m already so full I can’t breathe, Atobe wants to say, but he’s just too full to breathe. His body is straining, spasming, and if it didn’t feel so good, he’d have tried to get away by now. His body is still trying a bit, without his permission, clenching down so tight there’s no chance for it to get great. “Come on, come on,” he mutters to himself, wiping sweat from his forehead (and the corners of his eyes--yes, it’s definitely just sweat). “A-almost there.” If it weren’t Seiichi, if he didn’t know it was going to be great, this would never work.
Yukimura always swears he's going to be patient, but he's never quite good at that.
It's with an easy shove of his weight forward that he lands Atobe onto his back again, and he takes that brief, fleeting moment of surprise that loosens up the other boy's muscles to slide in long and deep and fully. "There," Yukimura pants out, sweat beading along his shoulder blades, dripping down his back when he rolls his hips forward and his eyes cross. "T-there you go, sometimes you just need it like this, don't you?" He grabs at Atobe's thighs, at his hips, bends his head down and bites and pulls at a nipple. "Doesn't matter how we do it, you always look good getting fucked."
The noise Atobe lets out is hoarse and guttural, and he twitches so hard it feels like he can’t control his own body. He bucks down onto Yukimura’s cock, a feral, unhinged noise coming from his mouth. He rakes a hand down through Yukimura’s hair, then sags back onto the floor, mouth gone slack, his cock dripping steadily onto his stomach. His eyes flutter, his thighs parted as far as they’ll go, chest arching into Yukimura’s touch. “F-f-fuck,” he pants, eyes rolling back into his head. “F-fuck me, Sei-chan—” God help him, he does need this sometimes.
It's so much easier when Atobe is like this. Yukimura likes the way his hands scrabble at his back, likes the way he splays himself out like he can't live without a dick inside of him, and so he bites again, tugging at another nipple before kissing Atobe again, rough and sloppy with every thrust that slides in deep and hard. He likes the visual of Atobe riding his cock, but this is just as good when he's sprawled out underneath him, wriggling down like he can't get enough and lending himself to every pull and tug of his hands.
Yukimura leans up and back, just enough to better see the obscene slap of their hips together when his cock disappears into Atobe's body, and he shudders hard, squeezing Atobe's ass when he hauls him down onto his cock again.
Atobe’s mind clicks suddenly, definitively off.
His body undulates, without his permission more than anything, and his voice goes low, husky, pleading. “Seiichi--just there, right--right there, you know, that’s perfect, god, I need it, fuck—”
He has no idea what language he’s speaking, but judging by Yukimura’s reactions, it’s one he speaks as well.
It isn't Japanese, and that's what counts.
English is good with sex, French is better, and Atobe's got the voice for all of it, especially when it cracks when Yukimura shoves in again, nice and deep, feeling the twinge of Atobe's body around him and barely stopping himself from biting into his shoulder. "Look how good you are, taking so much," he groans, a fumbling hand reaching down, fingers dragging along the cleft of Atobe's ass, brushing over where they're connected and how slick and tight and tense it all is. "No one ever gives you what you need."
Trying to be good, be good for you. Atobe’s voice can’t handle that, busy as he is with soft, muttered curses in several languages, dipping to a low growl and up to a breathy, urgent whine again as Yukimura moves inside him. He fumbles weakly at the other boy’s hand, bucking up against him even as he tries to bat that questing hand away. “D-don’t--it’s too much already, Sei-chan—”
It is too much, even though he loves it. It’s too much, no matter how he squirms and writhes and begs for more, cock leaking so much onto his stomach that he can’t tell if he’s coming or not.
"Shut up, you like it when it's too much--" Still, Yukimura's not even sure he could fit more in if he tried, and it's a lot more fun just making Atobe squirm and think about it. Yukimura's breath hitches raggedly when he shoves in as deep as he can, when he's buried so far inside that he swears he can feel the thud of Atobe's own pulse, and he really can't be blamed for biting down and muffling his own voice into Atobe's neck when he comes, not when it feels so damn good, not when he can feel it all the way down to his toes and is left shuddering and shivering long after.
The last thrust is too much, and Atobe loses himself with a whimper, hips slamming down onto Yukimura’s cock. It feels good inside him, better than it should, and he sobs out his release, cock dribbling onto his stomach, fingers scrabbling at his back in an inaccurate, helpless grab. He babbles something inarticulate, sagging back in a shuddering, useless heap. “Fuck,” he breathes, and doesn’t even begin to wipe away the tears.
Yukimura manages a breathy garble of words as he flops down bonelessly, nuzzling his face up Atobe's neck and against his face and so help him, but Atobe's sweat kind of tastes good when he mouths another kiss to the curve of his shoulder. "Yeah," he sighs, "fuck."
Atobe’s eyes want to close, they inform him. Like, immediately. “Mm. You should….come over. More often. No talking, just drinking. And fucking. Let’s….let’s fucking.” Yeah.
"You're gonna whine later." He always does. "But okay," Yukimura sighs, making no real attempt to pull away. They'll wake up in 20 minutes and eventually get to the bedroom for a real sleep. "All the fucking."