Keigo rents a hotel for the night.
Wonderful, he thinks. Beautiful, sublime, idiotic. Who the hell does this bastard think he is anyway?
He follows the older man through the glass doors whirling past the entrance and a perky little valet boy bows to them. It is an artistic bow. When the boy comes up, Ryoma thinks he detects a faint smirk on his face. Their eyes meet, and the boy quickly averts his gaze into another little bow.
Inside, it is clear that they are the youngest ones to enter. There are old, leering men and laughing, gay girls young enough to be daughters or granddaughters. Each couple regards them with cool but polite eyes, and they appraise Keigo's clothes and his eyes and they think: well now, he is one of us. And they give Ryoma a small, knowing smile maybe even an invisible nod. Well, who are we to turn noses here; it is only the commoners we scorn.
His guts twist.
The reception hears Keigo's name and quickly summons champagne (the best in the country, monsieur, they chirp) and with the hotel's compliments, they send it up to the penthouse.
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"Keep still," he says.
Keigo obeys. He hardly listens to him, but today he is strangely docile. He sits down and Ryoma sits down across from him and his eyes meet grey, translucent ones; he holds it, a challenge, but Keigo does not look away. They stay like that and then he reaches out.
He first traces the outlines of Keigo's jaw and follows it along his cheeks. Keigo has cheekbones, a feature not evident of most Japanese blood (Keigo had told him once, and only once, that his mother had a bit of Irish blood in her). He rubs the jutting bone firmly, sweeping it down with his thumb, and proceeds to move upwards, near eyebrows and the nose and eyes. Their eyes do not break. Keigo does not seem to breathe, but that, Ryoma thinks irritably, is just wishful thinking.
He lets out a sigh. He will not touch Keigo's mouth, but his fingers revolt against his mind, wheedling, then stubborn. He sweeps down the forehead almost clumsily, and then down back to the cheeks and jawline, and his forefinger touches upon dry lips.
Outside, the sun is blazing and they are far away from the cold Tokyo spring. They traveled across the world to escape the chills of the weather and an obligation.
It is here Keigo quirks a smile. "We can kiss," he says, "That's what we came here for." And other things, he seems to add.
They can read each other now, hold silent conversations, battle with their minds through their eyes while onlookers think they are bored. A raise of the eyebrow can mean 'don't be an idiot' or it can mean 'I am only refraining from murdering you because I love you, what a pity' and other times it is just a raise of the eyebrow. People don't know that sometimes, and that is what brought them here. In the end, he would like to place the blame on miscommunications with the world, instead of something concrete he would have to name.
"No," he says now, "No. Shut up." And Keigo again, obeys.
It is a face he will never see again, he knows. So remember this face. Remember his eyes.
He will not be sentimental and he will not cry. Even now, he cannot will himself to cry because he had only cried for his cat. His eyes are dry without struggle.
But inside he is hollow. He wonders which is worse.
Keigo finally, finally decides to disregard his wishes and moves. His hand comes up first, and they settle on his own face; he draws closer. His eyes are like foggy seas.
Their lips are inches apart and Keigo's breath smells of mint, he must have brushed his teeth on the way here, he thinks with some humor, sneaky bastard. His own breath must stink, but Keigo lets their lips touch, careful, chaste, as if they did not do this many times, as if they hadn't collided with lust and rage and had always indulged in mere sweetness. It gives way to a relationship that they never had.
So they kiss and part.
"We could do more," Keigo says.
The penthouse is quiet and outside, there will be more old men loitering about in their Bentleys and Ferraris, feeling young with the young girls they picked up. They will drink and forget about their wives and caress breasts and sometimes pants. They will leer and be vulgar and in the end they will not care about the world.
He wonders if Keigo will be disillusioned by his life.
"Do you want to?" he asks.
Keigo regards him. They are never serious, but if things go according to plan, they will never meet again and such moments require solemnity.
Keigo looks at him, quiet. Keigo is a serious boy, not as serious as his captain, but serious enough with ridiculous grand gestures and Quixotic notions of the world. He is also eligible for marriage.
"Do you?" They are exchanging a rally. They are asking and refusing answers. This is a rally that he does not want to win.
There is marriage and then there is him. Keigo must get married but he does not have to give up on his dalliances, Keigo's father had said, disdainful, avoiding Ryoma's eyes. There are ways. You only need an heir and a good name, Keigo.
"I don't know," he says, quiet, drained. A standstill.
With those words Keigo also looks tired. He gives a small smile that is gentle, even for him, and that face is surreal, almost, and Ryoma almost wants a fight.
"Do you want something else then?"
He knows what Keigo is asking and what he can give and what he cannot give. He knows all those things and in the end it will not amount to anything. He thinks of those girls again, young mistresses, and old men, and fake laughter, and fatigue. He thinks, but they will not be like that, Keigo will not be like that, but they have a past and he prefers that to be untainted.
He will be miserable but he will be noble about it. What a farce.
"No," he says. And that answer is what they both knew was coming, and it is even a relief, his answer, but Keigo's eyes still darken for a moment; even his smile does not droop.
His fiancée's name is Louise, a Swiss banker's daughter, a wonderful match, a perfect match that would end in everyone miserable because of his answer, but at least, he thinks, this is more romantic. He, who was so far from the notions of romance.
He holds Keigo's hand tightly.
"Just so you know," he says, and this is important, this is very important, "I have one more thing to clear with you."
Keigo looks at him and tilts his head.
"I was the better tennis player," he says.
Keigo does not deny this, but his smile has an edge, and their second kiss is harder on the mouth.
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The next day he wakes up, and sees Keigo asleep, or, pretending to sleep.
He does not need to dress because he had slept fully clothed. He has not brought anything. He rakes Keigo's hair one last time and says words that are cliché and horrible but ones needed to be said because they have never been said. He had saved those words for the last.
He opens the door and out the hotel and out the lobby and outside, he hails a cab.
His insides shrivel and when he lets out a breath it sounds like a strangled sob.
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A/N: I will be updating my other stories sometime this week, if I happen to write my papers on time for once in my life….