Disclaimer: I own very little.

A/N: This was my birthday fic for Kabaji. It's kind of sad that even though I RP him without problems, I can't manage a Kabaji PoV even for a birthday fic.

Not entirely written for but somewhat based on the prompt, "AtoKaba, 2,000 words, 'one night to be confused / one night to speed up truth / we had a promise made / four hands and then away.'"

Inevitable

In retrospect, Atobe would think, it was pretty much inevitable. He should have seen it coming ages ago. They were made that way, he supposed, already closer to each other in primary school than many couples ever got. And then it was middle school, Kabaji following him to Japan instead of finishing primary school back in England, Kabaji who was called a lackey and a servant by ignorant fools who couldn't see deeper than the surface.

It didn't matter what the others said, Atobe had always thought. They weren't there when Kabaji sat with him in silence through half of the night, they weren't there when the only thing keeping him sane was the calming large hand on his shoulder, didn't hear the kind of messages Kabaji could fit in one simple, "Usu". All they saw was Kabaji carrying his things, all they heard were the snapping fingers, and they thought, servant.

To Atobe, though, Kabaji had always been so much more. He was a best friend, a confidant, the only person he could always trust not to judge him, not to abandon him, to always be there when he needed someone. If he'd had been forced to make such a choice, he would have doubtlessly picked Kabaji even over his somewhat distant parents.

Kabaji was the one who heard the things he never said aloud, the only one he could ever trust to read his intentions from something as simple as one snap of fingers. Because of this, though he had never actually said it, Kabaji was also well aware that Atobe, the cool and detached Ice Emperor, loved him. For love Atobe did, just as Kabaji loved him, loved more dearly than most people ever loved their wedded spouses.

There was high school, then, the ever so dangerous rollercoaster of teenage emotions accelerating even more, and Atobe found himself questioning things he'd taken for granted, having unshakable trust in other things he'd always been uncertain of. The only thing that stayed the same no matter what, the only stable, constant thing in his suddenly so very messed up life, was Kabaji. Kabaji, his rock in a storm, more and more dear to him every time the rest of the word failed to meet his expectations yet his dearest friend reassured him there were things that didn't change, things that he could always count on no matter what.

All things considered, it was indeed inevitable. Nevertheless, Atobe couldn't help but be somewhat... surprised, in a way, as it finally happened, fumbling hands and hasty whispers and eager touches studying the bodies they'd known for years yet not truly known, not in this sense. They were both confused, he supposed, not knowing what to do about the feelings coursing through them, fully acknowledged for the first time ever. And, more than anything, confused about how they'd ended up in this situation.

It had been simply yet another day, yet another day of the universe not behaving itself, of things not going his way, how dare the things not go Atobe Keigo's way. And as he finally sat on the couch in his room, angry and frustrated out of his mind, Kabaji was there, not saying a word, Kabaji never said a word, just sitting there and keeping him company. Atobe ranted, as he tended to do, hands waving ever so elegantly as he voiced out his frustration at the unfairness of it all, at everything that was Not Right in the world. Kabaji didn't question, didn't comment, never for a single moment hinted that Atobe's anger might not have been entirely justified.

Atobe never thought for a moment that Kabaji might not have been listening to him. Kabaji always listened to everything he said, because that was what Kabaji did, was silent and listened and understood, understood everything. Atobe had never voiced the typical teenager accusation of no one understanding him. Instead, his complaint had always been, "Nobody but Kabaji understands me." Naturally, he never said it aloud, not for anyone else to hear, but Kabaji heard it anyway, Kabaji heard it no matter whether it was hidden in the frustrated sigh or the exasperated glance or the barely audible mutters as he hid his face in his pillow so as not to cry out his outrage in the most disgraceful words possible.

In return, Atobe understood Kabaji.

It was just like usual, that day, Kabaji quietly understanding why and what and in which way Atobe was complaining about, not interrupting him or trying to stop his rant. As he finally ran out of the fuel called frustration, he sagged against his friend, head resting on the broad shoulder, fingers idly fiddling with the sleeve of Kabaji's shirt. He was quiet for a long while, and so was Kabaji, well aware that Atobe didn't need his words but his presence instead.

Somehow, for reasons not clear even to himself, Atobe found his fingers slowly sliding over the back of Kabaji's hand, tracing a light pattern over the tanned skin, light light light he was being a tease. Kabaji didn't react visibly, didn't say or do a thing, but Atobe couldn't help but notice the way his friend tensed, just a little. He continued tracing the hand, so clearly larger than his own, turning it over with no resistance from Kabaji's part.

For a moment Atobe contented himself by tracing Kabaji's hand. He felt the other's gaze on himself but didn't look up, not yet. Then, slowly, he raised it up to his mouth, brushing his lips over his friend's palm.

It wasn't until now that he turned his eyes to meet Kabaji's steady gaze. There was a question in his eyes, and another in Kabaji's, and for the first time in as long as Atobe could remember, neither had answers to the other's inquiry.

Kabaji drew his hand away, then, and Atobe's along with it. Their gazes still locked, Atobe found the back of his hand kissed, softly, like he truly were a royal and the younger boy a mere peasant, though both of them knew that wasn't the case.

It was inevitable. It was like his body was moving on its own, Atobe would later reflect, leaning closer as he guided their still locked hands away from Kabaji's lips only to claim them with his own. And then, the hands moved too, his own at least, while Kabaji obviously hesitated, not sure what to expect or do.

Atobe drew away for a moment, looking Kabaji in the eye. He saw the reservation there, the uncertainty — Kabaji had never been one to act without being instructed, definitely not when Atobe was concerned. While he usually could read unvoiced commands and requests well enough, apparently this was something Kabaji would not trust his own instincts with.

Hesitating only for a second, Atobe snapped his fingers, softly instead of the usual sharp impact, his eyes gentle as he looked at his best friend. His voice, always so assured, was only barely audible as he leant towards Kabaji again and murmured in the other's ear.

"Let go, Kabaji."

And with those words, Kabaji did just that.

Atobe had known Kabaji wasn't as passive as he seemed to be, of course, but even so he found himself slightly surprised at how eager the younger boy was. Atobe was struggling to keep up with him, not that he complained much. He still wasn't sure exactly why he was doing this, why these touches and whispers and the hitched breath, but he also knew he couldn't stop himself, nor did he want Kabaji to stop.

There was skin, bare and vulnerable, and wandering hands and some more kisses and oh so oh that was exactly it. They moved to the bed at some point, he was vaguely aware, clothes spread along their path, but then Kabaji kissed him and a hand wandered just right there please and he abandoned conscious thought.

Atobe woke slowly from his slumber, vaguely aware of everything that had taken place. The memories flooded his mind, drawing a small groan from his throat. Exactly what had he been thinking — or had he been thinking at all?

There was a sound by his side, the kind of a soft murmur some people tend to do upon waking. As he looked there, he saw Kabaji looking up at him, then sitting up, only the sheets pooling in his lap hiding the fact he was just as bare as Atobe himself.

For a moment, there was simply silence, either trying to think of what to say. Finally, just as Atobe was about to open his mouth to say something, anything, just to break the silence, Kabaji spoke.

"...Do you want to forget this?" asked the younger boy, his eyes and tone equally serious, sincere. And Atobe understood.

If he said yes, now, Kabaji would indeed as good as forget all about this night, forget everything that had been said and done, and even though he could not really forget he would act like he did. Never again would Kabaji make any mention of this. Never would he hint that anything such as this had happened, not with half a word, and everything would go back to like it had been the day before and Atobe could live on unaffected.

It was the easy way out, as Atobe well knew, the way that would allow him to pretend nothing had ever happened. But in reality, he would remember, and Kabaji would remember too. Kabaji, always Kabaji, the Kabaji that was always there and never abandoned him and the Kabaji he loved and who loved him.

It was the easy way out. The way any intelligent young man in his position would have taken.

Yet Atobe found himself leaning closer, pressing his lips against Kabaji's, silencing any other suggestions the younger boy might make. He wasn't sure whether he was more afraid of what Kabaji might say or of what he might say in return, but he was sure, so very sure, that even if he told Kabaji to forget the night before it would all happen again, and again, because it was inevitable after all and inevitable things always happen even if you try to prevent them.

"Kabaji," he whispered against the other's lips, then corrected himself, "Munehiro," and although it was all he said he knew Kabaji understood exactly what he meant.

Despite his appearance, Kabaji was no fool. Atobe found himself circled within strong arms, strong enough to hold him like a toy, a doll, yet so gentle he knew he would never be hurt by them, nor by anything they were capable of shielding him from. Atobe knew this would mean outraged relatives and despairing parents and perhaps even an interested tabloid or two, and endless rumours and gossip and tiny morsels of truth circulating anywhere his name was recognized. It would mean disapproval and social shunning, lost business opportunities and low-grade insults, barely veiled threats and so-called friends making themselves scarce. It would also mean a sense of clarity, understanding, an end to the confusion and the emotions he'd been trying to avoid.

It would mean that he wouldn't lose the comfort of these arms, come what may.

In retrospect, Atobe would think, it was pretty much inevitable.