Author: Mosh Title: Two Halves Note: You may not archive, re-post, or alter any of my stories without my permission. Please contact me first. Thanks! |
It's 1am and the room is starting to get sultry—sticky—even though the windows are thrown wide open. The heat presses in and down, draping over the bed until it's just too heavy and thick for Sanada to simply ignore. If he could squirm out of his skin for a while it'd be okay, but he holds still. Everyone knows Sanada Genichirou doesn't squirm. Sanada used to watch for the arches and shifts and sways of Yukimura's body, used to track every flex and tense and pull of his muscles, used to get distracted by the glitter of sweat falling from his chin and the tips of his hair. But now Sanada finds himself looking out for any wobble or shake, any change in the colour of Yukimura's face as he settles into the game. It's like seeing a different player, and yet it's so achingly familiar at the same time. Yukimura's movements are like the sea, fluid and graceful but powerful and with an underlying kiss of danger, though there's some caution to his play, too, like he's gradually and meticulously working oil into unused joints. Still, he holds the match in his hands, currently 2-0. That doesn't mean Niou isn't running him around; no, Niou is up to his tricks, grinning like a lunatic across the net and thrashing wildly across the court. The ball streaks green-yellow, hits deep and goes bouncing up to the fence. Sanada sees it spin up the chainlinks a little way, the force of the shot propelling it up and up... and... u... p, before it falls back down and bounces away—but he's only aware of it in his periphery. His focus is on Yukimura. “Niou-kun, your swing is stronger.” The approval is clear, but so is the harsh pant of Yukimura's breath. Niou shrugs, a nonchalant, walk-in-the-park shrug. “Eh, yeah, well, I've gotta give Yagyuu something new to learn from me when we switch.” Hooking a new ball out of his shorts' pocket, he bounces once, twice. “He makes it look too damn easy.” Laughing, Yukimura prepares himself for Niou's serve, and Sanada is forced to swallow the curse that tears up his throat when Niou sends a shot hurtling. But Yukimura catches it, returns it, wins the next game. Then the next. Then the next. The wins aren't without a price, though, and Sanada can't tear his eyes from the accelerated rise and fall of Yukimura's chest beneath his old Rikkai shirt, can't ignore the sweat creating a film all over Yukimura's face. Wait, was that—when Yukimura sprinted left, were his legs shaking? Sanada narrows his eyes and clenches his fists, his blunt fingernails digging into the skin of his palm so hard there'll probably be little red half-moons there for days, but he doesn't care, doesn't feel the sting except distantly. Yukimura bends, launches himself from the court, takes a wide, vicious swing at the ball and the sun and the sky and everything beyond. Seems to crumple in mid-air. Sanada's on the court before he's even aware of moving. Yukimura drives the shot home, the ball and racquet meeting with the sound of a thunderclap. Niou swears and then half-laughs, half-chokes. “Yukimura!” Yukimura rises from his crouch as Sanada reaches him, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around. His breath is coming in quick and heavy bursts, just like Yukimura's, as if he is the one playing instead of Niou. At the back of his mind, he knows something's wrong here, knows there's been a gross miscalculation of the situation, but it takes a moment to catch up with him. Takes a while for him to realise the miscalculation is his own. “Sanada,” Yukimura puffs, his eyes glittering with battle adrenaline and thrill, hard and dark. “Why are you on court during a game?” “Not much of a game any more,” Niou puts in from somewhere nearby. “You kicked my ass, ex-buchou. Nice feint there, by the way. You totally got me.” “Shut up,” Sanada growls, not sure if it's to Niou or Yukimura, or maybe to himself. The surge of panic is dwindling now, giving way to something slower and pricklier; a churning mix of embarrassment and irritation needles his gut. “Was that not enough for you?” Yukimura's lips barely move, and beneath Sanada's hand his shoulder muscles are drawn up hard like granite. Solid. Immovable. Oh, fuck. Niou saunters over, flicking his plait over his shoulder and twirling his racquet in his other hand. “Guess I'll go... do that other thing I was gonna do.” Yet he lurks around them for too long, and Sanada lets his eyes slide from the serious set of Yukimura's mouth, makes it clear with one well-aimed glare that Niou should scamper now. “Catch ya later.” Sanada tells himself he's imagining the muttered, “Well, whichever one of you survives,” under Niou's breath. Only when the court is empty does Yukimura pull away from his grip. “You seem displeased with my performance.” “I don't know what you were playing at.” “Tennis, Sanada. It's called tennis.” “I know that!” No, keep calm. Rational. Yukimura will keep his cool like he always does, so there's no reason to start shouting. Sanada blows out a silent breath through his nose. “That feint. Was it for my benefit?” “It was to win.” Yukimura slides his racquet beneath his arm and holds it there. Sweat glitters on his face in the sunlight. “Anything to win, or have you forgotten?” “Winning at the sake of your health? Just think about this for a second. Not three weeks ago you could barely stand straight.” No matter how much he tells himself to stay calm, the anger is flaring again, building and building in a crescendo Sanada knows can't end well. Yukimura stares at him as if he's talking double-Dutch, like he can't comprehend the risks he just took, and that only pisses Sanada off even more. “You're in denial.” “No, Genichirou.” The first name comes out, a weapon Yukimura only uses on special occasions—those occasions when he's pissed off, too. They've known each other as Sanada and Yukimura since they were kids, and they've never felt any need to change something that wasn't broken in the first place. This time, the use of Sanada's first name is a warning, hissed out between Yukimura's lips. It drives a nail of ice directly down the path of Sanada's spine, burning him from the inside. “I'm not the one in denial. I just refuse to spend the rest of my life wondering when the next bad patch will hit. If I do that, I'll never feel well. I'll never feel alive.” “That doesn't mean you should go pushing yourself too hard and too fast!” Sanada steps up, taking the height advantage even though he feels much smaller than he by rights should. “I'm not.” Yukimura shoves him in the chest, a seldom-seen moment of physical frustration. “I feinted on purpose. You seem to think I'm close to collapsing. Frankly I'm surprised you underestimate me this much. Have you forgotten who I am?” “We're not kids any more, Seiichi,” Sanada counters, saying his name as if he's spitting out a bullet. “Simply believing everything will be okay doesn't make it so!” “You're wrong about that.” Yukimura pins him with his unwavering eyes. “Haven't you got it yet? I am fine, but only when you believe in me. If you treat me like an invalid, I'm afraid I'll start to believe it. Or is that what you'd prefer?” “God, no.” “Well, then. Quit worrying about me all the time. I want to play tennis again. I want to play tennis with people who are strong and who believe I'm strong. I want to play tennis with you. You're the only one I ever enjoyed playing.” Sanada drops his gaze to the court, ashamed, but he can't leave it there; his heart's still hammering against his chest. “That feint. For a moment, I thought it was real.” “I know. It was to win, that's all.” Yukimura's new tennis shoes are pristine white, glaring in the sun, not a mark on them. Sanada knows that until now, he hasn't had the chance to wear them. “Anything to win, or have you forgotten that, too?” “You were winning anyway.” “I was, wasn't I?” Just like that, the bomb has been defused; the speeding heat and tension swirls away, easing up the pressure across the back of Sanada's neck and shoulders. When he's able to look up again, Yukimura's mouth is hooked up in a half-smile, and Sanada wants to kiss him, wants to eat him alive. Only fifteen minutes ago he felt like he was looking at a different person, a different player, but this—this is all Yukimura; they could be fifteen again. Sanada forces himself to stand still and let Yukimura speak, tamps down the whirlwind of relief that spins his mind. “Sometimes my feints won't be feints, but it'll be all right. If you're here to watch me play, everything will be all right. I have to keep going. Always Rikkai.” Yukimura lands a light knuckle punch to Sanada's chest and leaves his fist resting there. “We're not at school now, but it's still inside me. I'm going to get stronger and stronger. It's what I've always done and what I'll continue to do. I won't be beaten.” Sanada's not sure if he can trust his voice. There's a curl of something reckless and hot deep in his gut, something he hasn't felt for a long time—it reminds him of being a kid again. Maybe it's wishful thinking; maybe he wants to desperately believe what Yukimura is saying. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But Sanada feels the shift, as tangible as a hand plunged into him, as clarifying as a bottle of ice water over the head; he feels it like he felt Yukimura's muscles tensing and hardening under his fingertips, feels it like he felt that surge of power just moments ago. Back when he wasn't ready to believe. “Stubborn as always,” he finally says, rough, nearly a growl. “That's part of why you like me,” Yukimura says, matter-of-fact, no hint of a joke or sarcasm. He's right, too. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” The sudden feeling of weightlessness jerks him so hard, Sanada thinks he's about to go lifting off the ground and careering into the clouds. A helpless laugh bursts up his throat and he can't keep it back. Yukimura blinks at him, then his face crumbles and he's laughing too, and he's stepping forward and sliding his arm around Sanada and tilting his face up to kiss him. Sanada tastes fresh sweat and feels the thrum of lingering energy on Yukimura's mouth, wants to drink it in and forget everything else, but Yukimura pulls back. “Play tennis with me.” Sanada swallows and licks his lips, thinks about it, realises he really, really wants to—he's missed this. “Of course.” Though there's something else he wants more. “But later.” Instead of heading to the opposite side of the court, he takes Yukimura's wrist and tugs him toward the exit. Sanada's against the back of the door before the wood has fully wedged into the frame with a bang, and Yukimura's fingers are at his belt buckle. The metal makes a little clink and the buckle comes apart in Yukimura's hands, the parted ends slipping to hang at Sanada's hip and knock against the tops of his thighs. Sanada can hardly breathe after that walk back to their flat, when they were surrounded by wrenching tension and all the unspoken promises of what was to come, translated with dark looks and the occasional electrifying brush of Yukimura's hand against his wrist. Right now he's so hard he thinks even the slightest touch will make him come. Yukimura no doubt knows this, too. “Sanada.” Rumbling against Sanada's neck, and only Yukimura can make his family name sound obscene like that. Yukimura presses in, still damp from his game, his fingers spidering along the strip of skin just above the elastic of Sanada's boxers. A thrill of shivers flutter through Sanada's body. “It's been ages since we've played.” Sanada knows he's not just talking about tennis; there's this game, too: the one where they work to drive each other crazy. It doesn't usually take very long. “Yeah,” he half-groans, but it doesn't really matter if it's been over a week since they had sex or close to four weeks since they've met across a net. From the feel of it and all the evidence currently surging up against him, Sanada knows Yukimura can handle himself, both on court and off. The knowledge should make him feel stupid and even more ashamed—since when has his faith in Yukimura's resilience wavered so much?—but when Yukimura bites his jaw, then licks the sore spot with one smooth, firm drag, he finds himself incapable of hanging on to the remorse. Curling his forearm around the back of Yukimura's neck, Sanada swoops in for a kiss and holds on tightly, settling his lips over Yukimura's, humming when Yukimura starts sucking on his tongue. The bedroom might as well be a thousand miles away. Hell, Sanada doubts they'd make it half way along the hall at this rate. The door is too straight and uncomfortable against his back, and anyone could wander past and hear them through that thin layer of wood, grunting and groaning into each other's mouths like wild things, but somehow that just makes Sanada even harder, makes his groin wind up taut like a racquet string. He sends back every thrust Yukimura serves at him with deep rolls of his lower body, until they're both incoherent from it and both shuddering. At any moment, Sanada could go breaking apart—higher and higher he spins, tighter and tighter that fist of arousal squeezes him, and it hurts, and it's the best thing he can think of, and he drags his fingers through Yukimura's sweaty hair and pulls the soft, black mass, and he eats into Yukimura's kisses like a man starving. Shameless, but he doesn't care. Roll, push, thump; their hips connect and lightning strikes, but there's enough pressure in all the right places to eclipse the pain. Yukimura's teeth scrape the corner of Sanada's mouth, and a breathy laugh escapes in soft warmth over Sanada's cheek. Then Yukimura trembles fiercely, choking out a little moan that rises in pitch at the end. That's when the snap comes, sudden and welcome; it wracks Sanada's frame and for a moment he can't move, all his muscles and joints seizing in one hot, drawn-out surge. “Ah-AH!” The tsunami crashes over him and Sanada's knees buckle under the force of it, slick heat jetting into his underwear, his entire lower half fizzing and burning with shivers that just keep coming, and coming, and coming. The door and Yukimura's panting weight provide enough support, and he doesn't go tumbling to the floor. Yukimura mumbles something against his throat, but he doesn't catch the words. Sweet, mellow fire sweeps through his body, like the drift after a good match, the float of a golden sunrise first thing in the morning. “I demand a re-match,” Yukimura says, his smile shaping against Sanada's skin. “Maybe later.” “Mph,” Sanada says, then clears his throat. “Fine. I accept.” “Ah, good, then you're finally willing to admit I'm back to full strength.” Sanada allows a slow smile. “After that, yes,” he whispers. “Yes.” Yukimura kisses up his neck, lazy, wet kisses, trailing to his ear. “Glad that's settled, then.” A bite to the lobe, not too hard, but not exactly soft either. Sanada's eyelids flutter and he swims in the sensation. “There's no point doing things by halves.” It's a few moments later when Sanada realises Yukimura is talking about them—that together, they're strong. And that, he finally understands, is how it's always been, and how it will always be. ~Fin~ |
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