Hmm. So I spend several days reading Shishido/Ohtori and Atobe/Jirou fics, and
my brain spawns an Atobe/Shishido. Yeah, that makes sense. . . .
Summary: After Shishido makes it back onto the regulars, he asks Atobe why.
Warnings: spoilers for ep 67 (at least I think it's ep 67), 2nd person Shishido POV, very mild language, OOC? Not sure on that one. (I hope not, but still. . . .)
Pairings: Atobe/Shishido
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis belongs to Takeshi Konomi, not me. I'm just borrowing Atobe and Shishido for a bit. ^_^
Perfection
by Anria
You follow Atobe back to the courts in a daze. Somewhere along the way you realise Ohtori isn't with you, but that's okay – you can yell at him later for being such a bloody idiot as to offer his place for yours.
And then, maybe, you can thank him for being such a good friend.
You sit on the coach's bench at the side of the court and listen as Atobe tells whichever poor schmuck Kantoku chose that he's not going to be measured up for a regular's jacket any time soon. You can feel the stares you draw, shorn hair and newly elevated status drawing whispers from the club members, and you wonder if there isn't just the slightest bit of smugness in Atobe's voice.
You hear footsteps approaching, but don't look up. "Shishido," Atobe says. "Come with me."
You get up, and follow your Buchou through the ranks of tennis club members. Some look at you with awe, that someone dropped from the regulars could work his way back up through the system so quickly, but some – most – look at you with hatred. You stole their chances, after all. You failed, but you're back on the team.
You realise that Atobe is leading you to the regular's clubhouse. You sigh, just a little, as the door clicks shut behind you – you'd missed this place.
Atobe tosses a first aid kit to you, and you catch it without thinking. If you can catch Ohtori's Scud serves, a small box bears no comparison. "Get those cuts cleaned up," he says. "I don't want one of my regulars getting an infection and being unable to play."
You look down at the kit, then back up at Atobe. He stares at you, one eyebrow raised, as if to say, "Well?"
"Atobe. . . ." you hear yourself say. "Why?"
He blinks at you, as though it should be obvious. "I've seen your training sessions with Ohtori. And I've seen your matches against the rest of the club. The team will be stronger with you on it."
It warms something in your chest, just a little, to have praise from your Buchou where before there was only scorn. But you shake your head a little (mourning the lack of your weight of hair that makes your head feel too light) and say, "But why?"
Atobe frowns a little, puzzling out the meaning of your words. You're not sure of them yourself. Eventually, he says, "More attention should have been focused on our opponents, especially when one of them was Tachibana Kippei. That is a mistake that must be rectified."
You know it's as close as Atobe will ever come to saying he made a mistake. Your perfect Buchou doesn't make mistakes, after all.
But you find you're still shaking your head. "Why?" you say, dropping the first aid kit to the side and approaching the taller boy. It only takes two steps before you're in front of him, looking up. "Why would you personally ask Kantoku to let me back on the regulars? I would have made it eventually on my own," you say fiercely, and know it to be true. If it took you the rest of your time at Hyotei, it would be true. "So why?"
For a brief moment, he simply stands there. And then. . . .
. . . you're not expecting him to kiss you.
It's not how you expected your Buchou – the perfect Atobe – to kiss, either. (And when did you think about how Atobe would kiss, anyway?) Your noses bump together, and you can feel a fine trembling in the lips on yours, in the tongue that slips into your mouth. Atobe kisses you gently, far more gently than you would ever have expected him to, and it might not be perfect but you think you wouldn't want it to be anyway.
You're not sure how long you kiss for, but your legs are shaky when Atobe pulls away. You're both breathing deeply, not panting, but not calm either. Atobe meets your eyes for a fleeting moment before he looks away, stepping back and smoothing his hand through his hair as though nothing has happened. But his cheeks are flushed and his lips glisten wetly in the clubhouse lights, and suddenly you want to kiss him again.
But before you get a chance to speak, to move, to ask him what the hell that was and if there was a chance of it happening again, Atobe says, "I'll expect you and Ohtori to continue training together, as a doubles pair this time. The regional tournament is coming up, and I want you to have perfected your game by then."
He strides towards the clubhouse door, and you grab his arm out of reflex as he passes you. Atobe pauses, and looks down at you, as imperturbable and perfect as ever. But now you know he isn't, and with that knowledge you see the barest hint of wariness in his eyes.
You could strike him now, you know. Hurt him. Pay him back for the scorn in his voice when he told Kantoku of your failure. You could do it, now you have the weapon to hurt him with.
But . . . you don't want to. You have a feeling you'll never want to, no matter how much his diva behaviour gets on your nerves.
You feel your lips curve into a smile, and say, "Thank you."
For the briefest of moments, he returns your smile, the barest curve of his soft lips. And now you know how soft, your eyes are drawn to them, wondering if he'll ever let you find out again, ever let you that close again. It's a break in his perfect façade, after all, to care for someone.
And then he is freeing his arm from your grip and he takes the last few steps to the door, replying, "Thank me by winning."
Abruptly, you're alone.
You bend down to pick up the first aid kit and move through into the training room. Dropping the kit onto the nearest piece of equipment, you study yourself in the mirror. One hand lifts to touch your hair, the ends spiky yet soft against your palm.
You stare at yourself. It's nothing like the long, chestnut silk you had for hair before. It's nowhere near perfect. . . .
You begin to smile.
. . . but that's its own kind of perfection.
[Owari]
Yah. That made no sense. O.o
Summary: After Shishido makes it back onto the regulars, he asks Atobe why.
Warnings: spoilers for ep 67 (at least I think it's ep 67), 2nd person Shishido POV, very mild language, OOC? Not sure on that one. (I hope not, but still. . . .)
Pairings: Atobe/Shishido
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis belongs to Takeshi Konomi, not me. I'm just borrowing Atobe and Shishido for a bit. ^_^
by Anria
You follow Atobe back to the courts in a daze. Somewhere along the way you realise Ohtori isn't with you, but that's okay – you can yell at him later for being such a bloody idiot as to offer his place for yours.
And then, maybe, you can thank him for being such a good friend.
You sit on the coach's bench at the side of the court and listen as Atobe tells whichever poor schmuck Kantoku chose that he's not going to be measured up for a regular's jacket any time soon. You can feel the stares you draw, shorn hair and newly elevated status drawing whispers from the club members, and you wonder if there isn't just the slightest bit of smugness in Atobe's voice.
You hear footsteps approaching, but don't look up. "Shishido," Atobe says. "Come with me."
You get up, and follow your Buchou through the ranks of tennis club members. Some look at you with awe, that someone dropped from the regulars could work his way back up through the system so quickly, but some – most – look at you with hatred. You stole their chances, after all. You failed, but you're back on the team.
You realise that Atobe is leading you to the regular's clubhouse. You sigh, just a little, as the door clicks shut behind you – you'd missed this place.
Atobe tosses a first aid kit to you, and you catch it without thinking. If you can catch Ohtori's Scud serves, a small box bears no comparison. "Get those cuts cleaned up," he says. "I don't want one of my regulars getting an infection and being unable to play."
You look down at the kit, then back up at Atobe. He stares at you, one eyebrow raised, as if to say, "Well?"
"Atobe. . . ." you hear yourself say. "Why?"
He blinks at you, as though it should be obvious. "I've seen your training sessions with Ohtori. And I've seen your matches against the rest of the club. The team will be stronger with you on it."
It warms something in your chest, just a little, to have praise from your Buchou where before there was only scorn. But you shake your head a little (mourning the lack of your weight of hair that makes your head feel too light) and say, "But why?"
Atobe frowns a little, puzzling out the meaning of your words. You're not sure of them yourself. Eventually, he says, "More attention should have been focused on our opponents, especially when one of them was Tachibana Kippei. That is a mistake that must be rectified."
You know it's as close as Atobe will ever come to saying he made a mistake. Your perfect Buchou doesn't make mistakes, after all.
But you find you're still shaking your head. "Why?" you say, dropping the first aid kit to the side and approaching the taller boy. It only takes two steps before you're in front of him, looking up. "Why would you personally ask Kantoku to let me back on the regulars? I would have made it eventually on my own," you say fiercely, and know it to be true. If it took you the rest of your time at Hyotei, it would be true. "So why?"
For a brief moment, he simply stands there. And then. . . .
. . . you're not expecting him to kiss you.
It's not how you expected your Buchou – the perfect Atobe – to kiss, either. (And when did you think about how Atobe would kiss, anyway?) Your noses bump together, and you can feel a fine trembling in the lips on yours, in the tongue that slips into your mouth. Atobe kisses you gently, far more gently than you would ever have expected him to, and it might not be perfect but you think you wouldn't want it to be anyway.
You're not sure how long you kiss for, but your legs are shaky when Atobe pulls away. You're both breathing deeply, not panting, but not calm either. Atobe meets your eyes for a fleeting moment before he looks away, stepping back and smoothing his hand through his hair as though nothing has happened. But his cheeks are flushed and his lips glisten wetly in the clubhouse lights, and suddenly you want to kiss him again.
But before you get a chance to speak, to move, to ask him what the hell that was and if there was a chance of it happening again, Atobe says, "I'll expect you and Ohtori to continue training together, as a doubles pair this time. The regional tournament is coming up, and I want you to have perfected your game by then."
He strides towards the clubhouse door, and you grab his arm out of reflex as he passes you. Atobe pauses, and looks down at you, as imperturbable and perfect as ever. But now you know he isn't, and with that knowledge you see the barest hint of wariness in his eyes.
You could strike him now, you know. Hurt him. Pay him back for the scorn in his voice when he told Kantoku of your failure. You could do it, now you have the weapon to hurt him with.
But . . . you don't want to. You have a feeling you'll never want to, no matter how much his diva behaviour gets on your nerves.
You feel your lips curve into a smile, and say, "Thank you."
For the briefest of moments, he returns your smile, the barest curve of his soft lips. And now you know how soft, your eyes are drawn to them, wondering if he'll ever let you find out again, ever let you that close again. It's a break in his perfect façade, after all, to care for someone.
And then he is freeing his arm from your grip and he takes the last few steps to the door, replying, "Thank me by winning."
Abruptly, you're alone.
You bend down to pick up the first aid kit and move through into the training room. Dropping the kit onto the nearest piece of equipment, you study yourself in the mirror. One hand lifts to touch your hair, the ends spiky yet soft against your palm.
You stare at yourself. It's nothing like the long, chestnut silk you had for hair before. It's nowhere near perfect. . . .
You begin to smile.
. . . but that's its own kind of perfection.
[Owari]
Yah. That made no sense. O.o