Live a Little

Note: Kink meme request fill. Free! Iwatobi Swim Club (c) Kyo-Ani.

Makoto's debating between a navy dragsuit and a black and blue jammer, wondering if Rei would like either, when it suddenly occurs to him that this is wrong. It's Sunday. He's the captain of the swim club—not the boy Friday. He shouldn't be running errands on his only free day in a sporting goods store.

So what if he has no pressing plans. Surely, there's a better way for someone to waste their only day off?

He sighs and gives up and tosses both suits into his shopping basket. One's for Rei, the other for Haruka. Kou's hastily compiled list didn't specify it but he's sure Haru wouldn't mind the extra suit. He shuffles dutifully onto the next aisle, hunting for the remainder of his list. Some earplugs, chlorine-removing shampoo, suit sealant, and...

He peers down at bubbly orange characters. Cute towels :)

Nagisa. He sighs again.

"Tachibana?"

Makoto's eyes flutter to his left. Deep red hair and golden eyes and skin, made all the more bold by a black tee shirt and black track pants. Seijuurou Mikoshiba. Captain of the Samezuka Academy swim team.

Without invitation, he comes over, shopping cart in tow. It's empty save for a large white box of disposable swim caps. "How's it going?" Unabashed, he peeks down into Makoto's basket. "Stocking up on the weekly supplies, eh?"

"Something like that," Makoto says with a forced grin. He's not too thrilled with the idea of having to do this once a week.

"Is Gou-kun with you?"

"No, she's not. It's just me." Though he'd bet their budget if Kou was here, she'd be putting the stability of the glass fixtures to the test.

A crestfallen look flashes, briefly, over Seijuurou's features and Makoto immediately regrets even saying anything. Thankfully, it's a brief thing, because in the next instant, the redhead's expression shifts to something more relaxed.

"This your first supply run?" he asks.

Curious, Makoto tilts his head, looks back and forth between his basket and Seijuurou's knowing smirk. "How could you tell?"

"Your stuff says it all. For starters, what you really want to get are the big bottles of the shampoo instead of the little ones." He says the shampoo like it's a secret lingo between them—not just swimmers—and Makoto finds himself rubbing at his nape.

Seijuurou doesn't sense his discomfort. Or if he does, he doesn't say anything. He just shrugs and continues, "I mean, you guys are going to go through them like...well, water, so you might as well stock up with as much as you can."

It makes sense. Perfect sense, actually, and Makoto looks over his list, calculates the club's paltry budget and wonders if he can make a sacrifice here or there on the list without incurring his club's wrath. He can't.

Meanwhile, Seijuurou invades more of his personal space and plucks up the bottle and skims the label. "Reflect H2O?"

"It's...the best kind?" Makoto offers, though he's obviously unsure. All he knows is that it's Haru's favorite brand so, naturally, it must be the best.

"Yeah, to burn a hole in your pocket with maybe. Come on."

Nonplussed, Makoto follows him to several aisles near the back of the store. He notices Seijuurou tends to hunch over the cart as he moves along and, when he straightens to look at the top row of a shelf, he's rather tall—taller than Makoto himself—with the lean and long limbs typical of a swimmer. He also notices how Seijuurou's shirt rides up and exposes the defined lines of his tanned back when he bends over to look at the bottom row.

Suddenly it's too warm and the shelf behind them is very interesting.

"Gotcha, you sneaky little bastard."

Busted. Makoto freezes, reddening. "P-Pardon?"

Seijuurou's crouched and half-struggling to pull a large bottle out from the very back of the bottom shelf. "Someone thought it'd be hilarious to hide this behind all the bottles of suit cleaner. Must've been one of those punks from Ishikawa."

Ah, Ishikawa High School. A team better known for their practical jokes and internet trolling than their actual swimming ability. He wouldn't put product displacement past them. Iwatobi's managed to avoid their antics so far but Makoto knows it's only a matter of time before the stink bombs and prank calls start rolling in.

"Here you go." Seijuurou hands him the large and heavy sixty four-ounce container that looks more like industrial floor cleaner than actual shampoo. "When in doubt, go generic. Same results, half the price."

Makoto blanches at the price tag. "That's too much."

A frown makes its way over Seijuurou's face and for a moment there, Makoto thinks he may have offended him. It fades seconds later, though, replaced by an easygoing grin. Huh. "You'll be spending at least three times more than that if you buy the same amount of Reflect. And let's not forget sticky fingers and people losing the bottles. Having it in one big vat makes it easier to control distribution."

Seijuurou dispenses wisdom in an easy, matter-of-fact way that Makoto finds refreshing. He's not very condescending despite being from a prestigious school and rival team. He's also got a point. A very good point. Nagisa alone could put the club in immense debt in a month at the rate he went through shampoo. Still, it's a lot of money.

"I don't know," Makoto says with an apologetic frown, "it still seems kind of pricy."

"Use your discount card."

Embarrassed, Makoto averts his gaze. Why oh why did they make him captain? "I—we...don't have one," he says lamely.

Seijuurou shrugs, digs in his pocket, and hands him a plastic card. "Use mine."

Makoto eyes it in his palm like it might sprout a head and bite him. "A-Are you sure...?"

"From one captain to another, trust me on this. You're gonna need all the help you can get." The redhead playfully jabs at his shoulder. "Go ahead."

Arms flat on his sides, Makoto bends over at the waist with practiced grace, bowing deeply. "Thank you very much!"

It's nothing for him to thank the other captain—in fact, Makoto laments not being able to do anything else for him in return—yet the gesture seems to make every capillary in Seijuurou's face burst. "Hey, hey, n-no need for that. C'mon, I'm not some salary man—!"

Makoto just chuckles.

"Now then," Seijuurou leans back over his cart's handlebar in that same lazy pose from before. His grin towards Makoto is even lazier. "What else do you have to get?"

With Seijuurou's advice and his card, it doesn't take long—barely another twenty minutes—for Makoto to gather up all the things from the list and check out.

"I can't thank you enough for your help, Mikoshiba-buchou." They're standing out by the cart corral in the parking lot when Makoto hands back the discount card. Their fingers brush against each other in the exchange. Makoto blinks and goes warm; Seijuurou busies himself with his own purchases.

"Not a problem," Seijuurou says as he hauls his white box of caps onto one broad shoulder. "What kinda asshole captain would I be if I was unsportsmanlike?"

Point there. Makoto would have done the same. "The captain from Ishikawa, I'd wager," he quips.

Seijuurou lets out a loud barking laugh. A woman loading her SUV jumps up with a start and yelp at it, which only seems to crank up the volume and hilarity. "Ooh, nice one. Two points for you. You'll fit right in with the other captains."

That's the most reassuring thing Makoto's heard in weeks. He actually believes it.

"Where's your ride?" Seijuurou asks.

"I'm taking the train."

"That blows. You want a ride?"

Makoto loops the handles of several bags through one hand while the other hefts the heavy bottle of shampoo. The station's not far on foot. Though it is Sunday and the train heading back home on a reduced schedule leaves much to be desired. He loves his cozy oceanside town as much as the next person but he really, really hates its train system sometimes.

Still, it feels like he's imposing on the other captain's generosity somehow. Seijuurou's already given him plenty of help and advice, all without asking for one wit in return. "I...don't know."

"Come on. Live a little." There's a mischievous twinkle in his eyes when he says it and Makoto can't find it in himself to argue. When Seijuurou begins to walk, Makoto follows. "A nice day like today and you wanna lug all them bags to a station, wait for who knows how long for a long train ride with a shitty AC, only to walk again?"

And, yet again, more wisdom disperses from Fountain Seijuurou.

The bags are a little heavy...

Makoto sighs with a smile. "Sure."

Surprising to absolutely no one, Seijuurou's car is red.

A bold red Toyota Yaris hatchback that smells, faintly, of women's perfume. It looks a lot smaller from the outside with ample room for all their stuff in the trunk but not enough for Makoto's long legs up front. He's practically up on the dash; his knees are almost to his chest, torso and limbs bunched in like an accordion.

Meanwhile, Seijuurou's in the driver's seat, comfortable as can be. His fingers are lingering at the key in the ignition when he spots Makoto's position. "Sorry. I forgot—I don't get passengers as big as me very often. Here..."

Makoto opens his mouth to correct him on how he's actually smaller than Seijuurou is and how it's okay, I'm used to being packed in like a sardine in a compact car, and it's no big deal, I'm thankful for the ride, what kind of mileage do you get on this, anyway? But the words are trapped tight in his throat in the next instant.

Because Seijuurou's face is in his lap.

It takes Makoto a few more seconds to remember to breathe; even longer to look down and realize that Seijuurou isn't going in for the kill, so to speak, and actually has his face turned toward the dash, away from his crotch, with one hand digging beneath the seat...

"Hang on. Gotta find the..."

There's a loud click and Makoto's seat slides back all the way. The oxygen returns to his lungs and brain. His heart stops pounding in his ears.

Seijuurou's sitting up and looking at him with a tipped brow. "There. Better?"

Unable to talk, Makoto just nods several times and shifts around in his seat until he's comfortable—well, as comfortable as he can get after something like that. He makes very sure to fold his hands over his lap just so. Nothing happened and nothing stirred within him yet but an ounce of prevention and all that.

The engine roars to life, as does the radio. At full volume on track three of Girls Generation CD.

Seijuurou, face redder than his own hair, brakes hard in mid-reverse, slams his fingers against the deck, and turns the damn thing off after cursing it to hell and back. "Er. In case you can't tell already...this isn't really my car."

Of course. It was too good to be true. Thinking of police sirens and disapproving frowns and jail cells, Makoto gasps and Seijuurou, seeing what's sure to be a horrified expression, almost sputters. "But don't worry! It's not hot. It's actually my sister's. She works for an airline and lets me borrow it."

Oh.

That explains the CD. Maybe. And the perfumey smell. Makoto idly wonders if that's Seijuurou or his sister's doing. And, if the latter, what Seijuurou himself smells like...

They pull out onto a busy thoroughfare almost too quickly. While trying to merge to the freeway exit, Seijuurou speeds up so close onto a pick-up, Makoto finds himself white-knuckling the armrest and bracing for impact. There's no accident. No tires squealing. No one sailing through the windshield. Nothing. Although Seijuurou does angrily lay on the horn when the pickup driver brake-checks him several feet ahead.

Oh, god, they're going to die. Right there, on the freeway.

Perhaps noticing Makoto hyperventilating beside him, Seijuurou snorts a laugh. "Chill, man. You're in safe hands," he proudly declares, "I've been driving for a while now and haven't once yet got into an accident."

It's hard to see how that's even possible. The brush with the pickup wasn't a fluke because, as it turns out, Seijuurou drives in a way that Makoto can't describe except like a complete and utter maniac. Aside from the fact that he forgets to signal half the time and makes last-minute turns and lane changes the other half, Seijuurou doesn't seem to understand that speed limits are law and not suggestions. Cars, pickups, semis—everyone's game for a tongue-lashing if they cut him off (although it's fair game if he cuts them off). And heaven help anyone ahead of him in the fast lane.

They finally get to a cruising pace on a mostly clear road. Makoto double checks his seatbelt twice, anyway.

Despite all of this hair-raising terror, Seijuurou himself is as cool as a cucumber, one hand on the gear shift and the other on the steering wheel, seemingly oblivious to the other drivers honking and cursing at him. With bright hair against the backdrop of the vibrant sun and ocean beyond his window, he actually looks warm and inviting, in a peaceful sort of way. It's rude, and he knows it, but Makoto can't help but stare at him when he's like that. In awe.

After a while, Seijuurou notices and glances over, making eye contact. A grin quirks up a corner of the redhead's mouth and slightly crinkles his golden eyes in a way that makes something sweet and warm surge in the pit of Makoto's belly. His lips part and there's the barest flash of pearly white teeth and for a fleeing moment, Makoto wonders if they're sharp like Rin's.

And then Seijuurou leadfoots the brake at a red light to avoid hitting the minivan in front of them. The tires don't screech but the lingering stench of burnt rubber and the force which they both slam back into their seats with is enough to remind Makoto this isn't just a peaceful Sunday drive with a gorgeous view and driver.

"You okay?"

Groaning and breathless, Makoto nods, even though he can't see straight. In the aftermath of everything, Makoto realizes his hand had instinctively clutched the nearest thing. Something warm and solid.

Seijuurou's hand on the gear shift.

"Sorry," Makoto mumbles and starts to pulls his hand away. The tan one beneath it shifts and comes over his, offering a reassuring squeeze.

There's a deep flush of color to Seijuurou's face when he looks between their joined hands and his trembling passenger, and Makoto isn't sure if it's because of the near-brush with death or from what was happening before it or now. "It's all right," the redhead says after focusing his gaze back on the road. "You can...keep it there. Um, if you want."

Makoto does, never once moving it for the remainder of their trip.

Save for a few rounds of small talk to ask about directions and an upcoming scrimmage, the ride home is quiet. Seijuurou drops him off down the hill from Haru's place, helps him unload his stuff, and turns that newly familiar shade of red when Makoto bows to him in thanks again.

Makoto waves and waits until the Yaris is down the street and out of his sight before he heads up the stairs leading to Haruka's house. The entire team's in the main room, mulling over something and eating grilled mackerel with rice when he wanders in.

They're surprised at his haul, impressed at how he's managed to get the most quality items while staying within budget. Makoto doesn't say he had a little help. Doesn't even mention the ride home—which makes everything from earlier seem kind of...clandestine and forbidden. He likes it that way, though he's not sure why.

Nagisa asks him how it went and Makoto's honest with him: it went well. Very well.

In fact, he looks forward to doing it again.

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