Disclaimer: I own neither Prince of Tennis nor the characters therein.

The Finer Things in Life

The music is boring. Stupefyingly boring. The dancing is even worse: it reminds Shishido of the time his brother broke his arm and took some vicodin and ended up prouncing around the house in his underwear while singing the national anthem and waving a bright purple scarf over his head. Except that it's not as funny. And it's so gay Atobe probably has season tickets.

Shishido squirms in his seat and tries to stifle a yawn. What a waste of an evening: it's been almost two hours, and the concert's only halfway done, and even wondering what the dancers would like on vicodin doesn't help. The men are holding hands and twirling in circles, and the women are short and flat and built like twigs.

The audience isn't much more interesting. Middle-aged men and women, mostly, dressed to the nines and staring with blank expressions at the stage. Some of them Shishido recognizes from his father's business dinners, while others he knows only to be rich, successful men and that night's arm candy. Every one of them looks even more bored than Shishido feels, and he wonders why they even bother coming.

Choutarou, on the other hand, looks like a little boy who just got a gift card for the lollipop shop. His eyes are big and round and sparkling, his breaths are short, and he hasn't moved since the music started. He hasn't looked this happy since they won the doubles game at nationals. Looking at him calms Shishido for a whole half minute – until a movement from the stage catches his eye.

On stage, the dancers break up into pairs and start swatting each other with strips of cloth in time to the music.

Not for the first time tonight, Shishido whishes he could strangle himself. It couldn't possibly be more painful than this.

One of the female dancers falls to the ground and starts emulating a seizure, and the others flock around her, wave their arms above their heads, and bounce up and down on their right legs. Shishido shifts uncomfortably. Please, he thinks, if there is a God, now would be a really good time to-

"Shi- Ryou-san?"

An arm brushes against his; a hand – larger than his own – covers Shishido's warmly. Calloused fingers curl around his, thumb rubbing thumb so softly a chill runs up and down his spine. Shishido looks up guiltily.

"Ryou-san… are you bored?"

Shishido freezes. If he says yes, his problems will be fixed; Choutarou will never suggest they come here again. If Shishido says no, not only will he be trapped here for the rest of the evening, Choutarou will drag him here who knows how many more times. It will be like Chinese water torture, without the happy threat of death or insanity looming in the future. It seems like such an easy choice. It should be such an easy choice. But.. Choutarou looks guilty. Sorry. The way he does whenever he messes up the scud serve. Lips pouting just a bit, jaw set, not the slightest sparkle in his eyes.

Shishido hesitates.

Choutarou bites his lip and looks down at their hands in contrition. "We can leave, if you want."

And Shishido knows he never had a chance.

"Nah," he whispers in Choutarou's ear. "The dancers look cool."

The grin Choutarou shoots him is more than worth it.

The subsequent "Just wait until the Christmas special!" however, fills Shishido with sheer horror for a split second.

And then Choutarou squeezes his hand and shifts closer until Shishido can smell his cologne, and Shishido smiles and shuts his eyes, leans back, and tries to hear the sound of Choutarou's breathing above the orchestra.

Maybe it's not all that bad.