~Fic written for the Pointless but Original Talking Forum Secret Santa Fic Exchange~
Request Number: 12
Requested Pairing/Groups: Royal (AtoRyo), semi-Drama (AtoShishi), others involving Echizen Ryoga and Nanjiroh which were not included
Added Pairing: Solitaire (NiouShishido)
Rating: T/PG-13
Warnings: Some daring sexual implications and swearing. Angst, maybe? But nothing extreme, because that would be unfaithful towards the request. Eheh.
Beta: ochibi/wise_stupidity(at)LJ. My favorite CA.
Message to receiver: I did not add Nanjiroh and Ryoga into the fic because I am unable to characterize them without killing the story. Dudly-chama can shoot me. But I wrote Royal, see?
And from all of us down here at Owl Land, we wish you a Merry Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Secular-Holiday!
AND ONWARDS.
The side of his head was flat against the wooden surface.
Two voices, hushed and controlled, in the study. One old, the other much more youthful and arrogant. The boy crouched at the doorframe strained his ears to hear what was going on inside, lightly pushing against the door but holding still so it wouldn't creak too much. He was pretty sure he should've stayed in Keigo's room, but it was too tempting and he had gotten bored, anyway.
"You're going to head the Atobe Group in America. It's the least you could do after graduating."
"Yes, father."
"You will not take along any unnecessary people. It is my wish that you detain Echizen-san from accompanying you. About time to find a proper marriage opportunity, in any case."
There was a sharp intake of breath.
"Father, I don't think that it's possible if I leave—"
"You will," the growly voice was firm, "And I will not accept further excuses. Please go, now."
There was the sound of the wooden legs of a high-backed chair that scraped against the hardwood floor and the rustling of a shirt as the owner bowed forward.
The boy listening at the door backed away, and for no well-explored reason, his heart started to beat rather erratically.
They say that curiosity killed the cat. He wondered if he'd been too curious.
--
Atobe Keigo was holding a fête. Not a measly little commoner's party, mind you, but a real fête, the kind of banquet in the presence of classy wine and actual lighting without those ostentatious disco balls –or whatever they keep in swanky clubs these days– and where the girls wore elegant black dresses and high heels instead of scuffed sneakers and thigh-high miniskirts, spending a minimum of six hours at the salon on makeup and hair.
He had invited all the schools whose occupants he had made some amount of camaraderie, or even casual acquaintance with. Naturally, all the rival tennis teams from his high school tennis history were included. Seishun High, Rikkai High, Rokkaku and Jyosei Shonan…even Fudomine was on the attendance list, though the thought of Ibu Shinji still gave Atobe indigestion and odd-smelling gas.
It had been Ryoma's request. And, like everything else his boyfriend wanted, Atobe would argue and complain and mutter crossly about how unfair it was, but would never refuse in the end.
They were all eighteen now (except for the ones that weren't) and Ryoma -of course- sixteen. It was week before the end of July. A week before they were all going to graduate from high school.
Atobe had spent seven weeks making it semi-worthy of his glorious presence. All the regular florists and designers were sent for, and he had made sure not to call the game machine company he ordered from last time and instead, tried out a new one that housed more sophisticated contraptions. (The dating machine had been a disaster, and he wasn't about to go for another falling-metal-banneragain.) Lace tablecloths and champagne glasses were purchased, and actual alcohol was deemed appropriate—the authorities somehow overlooking that minor detail. The lighting was reinstalled and the building-turning-into-limbo-spacecraft idea was recycled and in turn it became an indoor aquatic park.
Ore-sama's Great Pool Fete, Atobe called it, glaring at whoever dared to laugh at the title.
And then planning had gotten out of hand, because Fuji Syuusuke had suddenly professed an interest in helping with designing the main hall, and for some mysterious reason, Ryoma had wanted Fuji to help, so the tensai had been reluctantly accepted. In any case, Fuji had great taste in flowers, so Atobe had let him stay, but he kept careful tabs and went as far as to hire two men from a detective agency to hunt for sabotage after anything the smiling boy had touched.
And finally, after nearly two months' work of arguing over crème vs. lace, waterslide vs. tennis cage, finding an efficient energy production system, and relocating the company that had painted the Atobe face on the airplane to do the front door and ceiling, they were done.
So now, the party –er, fête– had begun.
Atobe went incognito, winding a scarf around his hair and donning a pair of giant, JPop-style sunglasses and fake mustache. No one had the heart to tell him that they knew it was Atobe prancing around, and that he looked ridiculous in the turban, because it was an end-of-year party and everyone is entitled to their crazy moments, even if Atobe had had more than his fair share and looked strangely Arabic.
Besides, the laser-beam eyes of the fangirls were murderous, as ever.
Ryuzaki Sakuno had on a light green top with a jaune skirt, which made her look like a small yellow-colored eggplant, Atobe pronouncing it as gaudy. Her loud-mouthed friend –the one that had challenged him, Atobe remembered with a frown– Osakada Tomoka, had appeared much more reasonably-dressed in light-blue summer dress and a sturdy swimsuit that didn't scream slut! She had even held a straight face when faced with Atobe and his ridiculous-outfit, not giving away any details as to how she had managed to wrangle an invitation.
"D'you know if Ryoma-sama is around here?" she demanded, tugging at her friend's wrist while shuffling towards the party host-in-disguise, "and who are you pretending to be?"
Atobe had given her a miffed stare, "No, ore-sama does not know where he is," and then promptly stashed a disgruntled Ryoma into the nearest boot closet.
The boy's glare was flat, and he ordered Monkey King to take off the stupid scarf and then started to grumble about being dragged into the even stupider party ("Fête, Echizen, a fête!"). The speakers blasted way too loud, the drinks decidedly bitter, too. And everything was so boring.
Tachibana's attire was very scary. No…very, very scary. In efforts of finding a decent outfit, he had come clad in one of those filmy, American-tourist-type shirts with the Hawaiian hibiscus print, the cyan clashing violently with his blond hair. He tried to match it up with a pair of khaki dress pants, and the otherworldly-appearance gave Amane Hikaru such a laugh that Kurobane was forced to cart him off to the men's room, screaming something obscure about surfer dudes.
And even scarier, Niou Masaharu's hair was straightened. Just yesterday, Atobe had sworn that the trickster's white spikes were still jovially stuck-up and rude-looking, but today…the tips were gone, smoothed-down by what looked-like two jars of mousse and hairspray, stretched and molded-flat all the way down to his shoulders. He also wore a creepy smile that made him bear an uncanny resemblance towards the Joker in the Batman movies. So while Atobe wandered around with a sulking raven-haired boy by his side, they met Niou trying to seduce another guy. (Yagyuu was accepted early into his European college, and had left a month ago, so he was free to flirt.)
As it turned out, Niou's target was none other than Ootori Choutarou's doubles partner. Atobe could tell that the capped-boy had already had one too-many to drink. And even though he would rather not have wanted to admit it, he was a little worried.
"Wait 'til all the strippers come out," Shishido whispered, winking at the sullen-faced Ryoma, "and then the real party starts."
The petenshi scoffed, "You don't know a thing about strippers, virgin-boy."
"Hey, shut up! Who the hell are you calling a virgin?!"
"It was implied," Niou grinned, and that somehow added to the crazy effect of his straightened-hair another ten-fold, "That we were going to do it. And then somebody chickened-out. Isn't that right, Ryo-chan?" His hands reached for Shishido's cap, and promptly tugged it off, smoothing his hair down while the other boy's cheeks turned vermilion, "Atobe, where're the fucking rooms?"
"Excuse me?" Atobe sputtered on his champagne, "What sort of ruffian do you take me for?"
"I thought you said that whatever was said in that room would stay there," Shishido muttered, crossing his arms against the lapels of his light blue tux.
"The perverted kind of ruffian, obviously," Niou smirked, which just caused Shishido's blush to deepen and Atobe's frown to widen, "So where are they?"
"Ore-sama would never house such…for God's sake, this isn't a love hotel!"
"Forgive me. I'm not trying to be nasty…" Niou trailed off on another obscure innuendo, wrapping his other arm around Ryo's shoulder, "But Ryo-chan and I are very bored. Just make one of your manservants hand over a set of keys or something. Or do I have to pay for them?"
"Shishido, as I have been your tennis captain for all of five years, I hope you will respect my last command to you, and stay away from him."
Niou stuck out his tongue.
"And what, pray tell, is wrong with you?" Atobe's words were now piercing as he glared at Niou, "Do you honestly believe that ore-sama would ever supply you with that, even if he did happen to own something like that?" He couldn't bear to voice the words himself.
"Ah, so you do own a whorehouse," Niou sniffed, and then his arm slipped-off Shishido's shoulder, in what was probably meant to be casual movement but turned out sensual anyway, "I thought as much."
The diva stalked off before he could make a bigger fool of himself, deciding to go and bug Tezuka about Fuji Syuusuke avoiding him for the entire night.
It was midnight by the time everyone had left, a bit tipsier than usual and probably about to crash at the nearest hotel. Soon, it was just Atobe and Ryoma in the silent ballroom.
"I think I'll go home."
"Oh, no, you're not," Atobe grunted, already leading his boyfriend towards his private chambers with a firm grip on Ryoma's wrist.
"Let go of me!" the boy protested, trying to throw off Atobe's arm, but the older man just clasped him harder and pushed open the door to his bedroom.
"Now, you'll explain to me why you've been so weird all night," the diva had already seated himself in the chair, crossing his arms, "and why you've been trying to make ore-sama so uncomfortable. Honestly, I felt like I was carrying a five-hundred-pound weight around the room."
Ryoma didn't reply; merely frowned and sat himself on Atobe's silk bed sheets.
"What did ore-sama ever do to you?"
There was a dreadful silence.
Now feeling rather terrible, Atobe leaned forward off the chair and climbed onto the bed next to Ryoma, but the shorter boy pushed his face away when he got too close.
"Stupid Monkey King," Ryoma looked strangely adorable under the dim light, and Atobe found that he was feeling even worse, "you're leaving, aren't you? That's the only excuse you have for doing this."
"Doing what, trying to kiss you? Ore-sama doesn't have time to play word games tonight."
"Throwing the party, of course."
"Well, what about you, brat? You volunteered Fuji into the planning just to ruin things, didn't you?" Atobe growled, "And for the last time, "it's a fête. Not a goddamn party, a fête."
"No difference," the younger boy shrugged, "and I still know you're leaving."
The diva raised a brow, "Ore-sama is leaving? I have no idea what you're talking about. I have no intention of—"
"I overheard your conversation with your dad," Ryoma's voice was shrill.
His boyfriend grew silent.
"That…that's just…a possibility. It's still undecided, Ryoma," he murmured.
"Bullshit! It's never undecided. You've been acting weird for a whole year!" the younger boy retorted, his face reddening, "and don't think I'm oblivious to whatever the fuck you're trying to pull."
"I have not! Ore-sama has just been very tired and annoyed at various components of the company, and would like to survey—"
"Shut up! Just SHUT UP!" Ryoma roared, and then his voice softened, suddenly, and Atobe saw a weird light growing in his amber eyes.
"I…I don't want you to leave."
"I don't plan to," he whispered, "really."
Ryoma grumbled, and then Atobe's fingers had curled around the waistband of his jeans, and he forgot how to speak.
--
He woke up disoriented and a bit dizzy. The room wobbled, the violet bedsheets twisted around his sides.
And then he realized that Keigo wasn't there.
When the boy had retrieved his boxers and undershirt and padded across the entire mansion, he stillcouldn't find him anywhere.
It bothered him.
He crawled back into bed. And then he found the note. It was in French.
Souviens-toi de moi, it read, and there followed a forward signature that he'd be a fool if he didn't recognize.
So Atobe Keigo had left him behind, anyway.
Souviens-toi de moi, French for Remember me. I'm terrible for forgetting to mention that. We were studying reflexive imperatives in French class. Eheh.