Fandom: Prince of Tennis

Character: Yukimura, Kirihara

Rating: M

Notes: This is very Future AU, bit of confusing maybe, written in four pieces that are parts of larger unity.

More, Yukimura

Passion, blood and pain. And more. Always more. – These are the things you receive from him, the things you grave and yearn for.

He unravels within your arms when you make love, writhing in the heat of the moment and revealing his innermost, sucking you into the velvet darkness that is him. You rock together towards the edge of the endless pleasure, courting the little death that is created from the screaming release.

After, he pushes you away, not wanting to be touched. Sometimes you comply, sometimes you don't. A dark satisfaction coiling within you as he makes you bleed, tears or blood, it doesn't matter, the fact that you feel alive is more important.

You counted once the scars he had gave you, 24 at the time. There's more now.

But none of those scars bear the memory of pain. He hurts you in so many other ways. The shift of his eyes when you tell him you love him. The fear in his gestures when you snarl at him during your fights. The disinterest clearly written on to his face when damage is inflicted to himself, by others or by himself. The pain he shows only to you, to your eyes only…

And always you're left for wanting for more… to touch the mesmerizing flame of his bright passion, the pure innocence of his presence. You are helplessly addicted, dependent of him. Always wanting more

Breathless beginnings , Kirihara

He comes home in the morning. You can taste the bitterness on him when he leans down to kiss you, eyes cold and distant. You want to ask why but can't bring yourself to do so. He dares you, violet eyes following your every move as you prepare tea for the both of you.

By the time when he showers, you see the bruises all over his body, you know. He has seen the letters.

You curse your own carelessness but keep doing what you're used to doing. He doesn't bring it up, only stares at you with those accusing eyes of his. What the fuck does he want you to say? Okay, sweetie, I fucked around with another man? Sounds so perfect, and everything will be so much better afterwards.

He makes a little disgusted noise at your touch when you're getting to sleep. But then fucks you face down to the mattress at the morning when the sun has not yet risen. You wake up his breath in your ear, hand over your hip and pressing against you.

You don't know which you hate more, his hot tears landing on your back as he thrusts inside you with force or the fact that he never says anything when he's like this.

Some days you think of leaving him. Then the next day you can't really understand how you'd keep on living without him. You love and you hate him. His silent aggravation, his gentle violence, the insecurity tearing you apart. You find yourself fucking disgusted with him at times and still, you couldn't leave him.

He rolls away from you when you're done, sweat and semen patterning your skin, the smell of sex lingering in the night air. He walks away, to the bathroom. And even through the solid walls you can hear him crying. And you hate yourself and you hate him for forcing you to do this to him.

Life is never simple he said to you years back in your graduation partly after high school. Not the most romantic words from a person who just kissed you the first time. But so right he was.

Wordless ,Kirihara

You fall asleep listening to him cry, doze off for hour or two and wake up when the alarm goes off. 6:30 the red digital numbers blinking few times before you slam the snooze button first. It hits you when you turn around to nuzzle your nose into your lover's neck and find only his scent on the pillow next to you.

He has left.

Really left, you realize when you kick the blanket off and sit on the edge of the bed to card a shaky hand through your messy hair and listen to your heart beat for a moment. You'd like to scream to the walls, throw random items, maybe even kick the closet. But you realize it's not going to bring him back so you could take it out on him. Instead, you decide to save it.

The morning coffee tastes the same, you dig through sports news with it and smoke a rare cigarette on the kitchen table when he's not around to bitch about it. School's awkward but that's nothing new, you dig through your day wondering if he went to work.

You try to call him before dashing to the shower once you get home. You listen to his answering machine just to hear him talk real words for you and jerk off in the shower thinking how much you hate him. You fucking trusted him to not do this, walk out on you.

Watching videos makes you anxious, you flip through the channels and watch forty minutes of some hospital series and don't recall anything about it later on. You call Marui over and you play one of your countless video games to the dark hours of the night. Third time he asks, you snap you're fine! He leaves you alone after that and you try to sleep.

The next morning you remember dreaming of clubbing, dancing sweaty and intoxicated. You wake up hot and horny and twenty minutes before the alarm will go off. Nothing works today, you feel like you're off beat with your own steps. You snap at your professor, bruise your training partner in tennis club, get yelled for it, drink a beer in the middle of the school day but refuse to leave and get home to mope. Fuck if he gets your life so messed up just by leaving!

The tears come when you drop your rice bowl while making dinner. You cut your hand to the shards when trying to clean up and curl in the bathroom corner to cry with half bandaged palm, bleeding to your jeans, painting them with black blood ripples.

Why hasn't he come home yet?

Renji calls two hours later. You can still sense the scent of chlorite in your nose, you sat there for the better part of the two hours. You hate it, it reminds you of so many unpleasant things you really don't even want to think about it. He talks with you about school, about weather, about tennis but never mentions him. You think it's a little obvious why he called and feel just more tired after the phone call. But it reminds you that you still have a half finished bottle of sleeping pills at the bathroom. You could sleep peacefully at least.

But you haven't touched them in ages. And you go to bed, the bottle in your hand, unopened, the plastic warmed by your skin. You dream of the sun, the dusty scent of lazy summer afternoons. And butterfly wings on your skin, flutters of hot air and sparkles of fire. The touch is so hot it burns your skin and you try to get away, but can't because there's solid hands around you, wrapping around you, keeping you still.

It's suffocating and you scream until he kisses you, chokes you with his tongue and drowns you in his presence. The butterfly wings on your skin change into his kisses, their touch as burning but you do not wish to get away from this fire.

You let him make love to you, sometimes it's like this, gentle, breathless and so good, and you can't resist. Even if you want to kick him out of the bed and demand an apology what will break him. But you can feel the regret in his touch, the tender but wordless forgiveness in his kisses.

Nothing is really worked out, but nothing never is with the two of you. Comes tomorrow and you'll make him suffer for his absence and he'll bite your heals with his jealous insecurity for the next decade or so, but at least he's back home and touching you. That should be enough, right?

Dysfunctional, Kirihara

Like million whispered words, requiem for the broken pieces that you are, the rest of your lives starts with a wordless kiss the next morning. You can hear the wheels turning in his mind, he's guilty of feeling responsible again. You can taste it on his lips, feel it in the brush of eyelashes against your cheek.

You fear to give voice for the thoughts you've been hiding deep within, and yet you make a valiant attempt in opening your mouth as he shifts to the edge of the bed, the lack of his weight on you leaving you feeling hollow. He turns to look at you, warning hidden in the steady gaze and you close your mouth with a simple blush.

In the bath, he wraps his legs around you, his face pressing against the nape of your neck and you can hear some pieces falling into their rightful places. The whine he voices into your ear even cracks a smile from your lips. His heart throbs against your back with steady beat, you find yourself falling into the rhythm, breathing it in, swallowing as a whole until it's all within, seeding, building and some day growing out as a heart of not your own.

He notices the plastic bottle of your pills on the floor when you're toweling yourselves. He counts meticulously the pills, narrows heavy eyes at you and puts the bottle back to the cabinet. Your stomach is on the floor and you walk over it again and again as you try to find a place where he can't reach you with his gaze. Anybody else would have flushed the pills down from the toilet, not him. He'll wait you to do it on your own.

You try to dress up to catch at least the last classes in the afternoon but he yanks you away from the wardrobe by the sash of your short yukata and you spend the afternoon playing one of your X-box fighting games. You kick his ass just as mercilessly as before and his touch begins to feel more casual on you. You feel almost like alive again.

The last round is left unfinished as he seems to be more interested in licking your ear than actually playing the game. With a smile, you give in and let him lay you down on the floor and make love to you again. The yukata is wrinkled at your waist, under his heavy hands, claiming you. You can't breath, toes curling at his back, feet hooked over his shoulder and only your shoulders touching the ground as he's driving into you. Your legs are trembling uncontrollably, fingers fisting in his wavy hair as you hang onto him, face pressed tightly into the blue-black mess of silky strands of hair. You're both growing frantic and yet you can't seem to find the way relax and give into it. He's whining onto the hollow of your neck, desperate and when he calls out your name, needy and naked, you come all over his hand, painful and leaving you to sob for air and more.

The clock on your DVD player rounds into full ten past four am when you wake up from the living room floor. The yukata is wrapped around you, you're clean and sore but so cold without him pressed against your side. Fear wraps around you and for a second before you jump up renders you breathless. Whoever said love is beautiful lied. It's constant hurt, need and fear for you. And you know it for true to be just the same for him.

You find him in the hall, a shimmering light reflecting from the mirror in front of him as he looks back at you over his shoulder, long, thin fingers coming up to brush hair behind his ear. His white and gray yukata is open and he seems suddenly so fragile to you, vulnerable and weak. The smile, so sweet but so untrue makes you frown darkly and step to him to grab him by the slender wrist and nail against the mirror with a hold that means you're not playing around. He looks surprised but doesn't resist as you kiss him, hold him and lick away the tears that you see on his cheeks even if he's not crying. He opens up for you, like you assume he does for no-one else.

Drunk from the trust and rare show of weakness, you make love to him against the mirror, strike into him with fever and finally, everything seems like it should be. It doesn't matter if love is not beautiful, his beauty will make up for that. It doesn't matter if you're scared or hurt, moments like this will still feel just as addicting.

He once counted the scars you've given him, you only have one, but it's wide enough to fit both of you in.