Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm only one of the many technicians for the Crack Cannon—Brain Breakage or Your Money Back!
Warning: Shonen-ai (AtoRyo), vague-vague-vagueness, and enough ambiguity to come shining out of the wazoo. Right, and one minor kissing scene that shouldn't be too traumatic for the little kiddies who stumble across this.
Author's Note: Wrote this in one sitting (omgwtf.) Having previously cranked out a gen Atobe-Ryoma drabble, I needed to get this thing off my brain so I could attempt to concentrate on college applications. Fuji-muse is notably absent, since he's invaded my artist's block instead. Ryoma-muse was strangely cooperative and Atobe-muse..... well, he likes attention, period. You'll notice that this isn't all that funny, nor is it meant to be. The style I used in here is the kind I use for my more serious writing pieces... So I guess you can say that I'm gearing up to write a mother load of personal statements. XD Apologies for the last line, which I believe is the most controversial one of all in this piece. It really does have two meanings.... one that is literal in the emotional sense; the other is written in the "let's see if we can measure how egotistical the Monkey King is by kissing him" sense. Your call to which one you want to end the story with.
Presence Complex, Taste Test
by kasugai gummie
Soft, cotton-like clouds, hang suspended from invisible strings in a vast expanse of startling blue. A cool breeze, pleasantly distractive from the obnoxiously warm sun, lightly smacked the broad spade-shaped leaves overhead before dancing around, about, and away.
The distinct sounds of furred balls against taut patterns of stretched-out gut provided the backdrop to a perfect day. Steady and concise, the "poks" stringed together into a most unconventional lullaby.
Days like this were rare.
Stretched out on an unoccupied bench, a dark-haired boy watched the almost hypnotic rally from under the brim of a pristine white cap through half-lidded eyes. An empty can of grape soda sat next to his languid form, seeming a rather pathetic substitute for a companion. Propped at the other end of the bench was a red racket sporting the faint double circle and triangle insignia of the Yonex brand.
Ryoma slanted a disinterested gaze at the two nameless players occupying the court in front of him. He snuggled closer into the crook of his arm.
Mada mada da ne.
He'd come to these courts on a whim, only to find them occupied by mediocre players from god-knows-where and nothing of particular worth to keep his attention from waning.
His eyes drifted shut against the warm bask of the sun. In a movement that mirrored those of Karupin's nuzzling, he brushed his lips across the soft fabric of his jacket and inhaled the clean, familiar scent of laundry detergent. For reasons unknown to even himself, Ryoma was feeling decidedly placid.
Technically it was pointless to stay here and watch a bunch of amateurs attempt to set some world record at how many consecutive hits they were capable of getting, before smacking the ball into a trajectory that would easily catch the wind and spin off to wonderland. However, his house was also under the scrutiny of his mother and her yearly spring cleaning rituals... and having to choose between the worse of two evils, he decided that braving a catnap near the tennis courts was far more appealing than cleaning his bathroom.
Lulled into a sense of complacency under the warm and wholesome weather, Ryoma continued to ignore the bland presences of the two anonymous players and proceeded to nod off.
It was the almost oppressive presence looming over him, not the familiar drawl, which awoke him first.
"Fancy meeting you here."
A single eye fluttered open to stare impassively at the proud countenance of Atobe Keigo. The other eye also opened when it was noted that the monkey king was uncharacteristically alone.
Ryoma pressed his face closer to his cloth-covered arm. He wanted to tell the other how pathetic his greeting was, but opted to remain silent and drink in the presence that emanated raw power and confidence.
"Still trying to imitate Jiroh, eh?"
The soft snort that traveled the short distance between them spoke volumes. Ryoma ignored the mocking smile and refused to return the poking gibe, opting instead to slowly gather back his limbs so that he could sit half-perch on the edge of the bench.
Strangely enough however, Ryoma had to concede that Atobe had reason (as always.) He didn't intentionally set up the stage this way. Not purposefully at least. In fact, the first time the Hyoutei captain found him in a similar situation was only two months ago. He was bored out of his mind and semi-conscious then, a rather freakish parallel to how he was barely awake now.
The strange pattern that arose from that initial meeting did not blatantly manifest itself at first; yet as Ryoma found himself drawn more to the street courts far more often than was considered normal, the suppressed knowledge as to why he was so persistent also began to break free. It was strange, but somehow, during the most convenient times, he would always be found...
"Are you awake enough to play a game?"Somewhere inside Ryoma, the sleeping predator shook itself awake to face the subtly hinted, yet strangely bared challenge in Atobe's eyes. Under that almost omniscient gaze, the younger boy could feel the faint stirring of anticipation begin to rise and clamor for release. The tightly wound spiral of thrill shot through him as lips, usually set in a disdainful smirk, parted to offer what, at the moment, he wanted most.
"Iisuyo."
Neither moved.
Dark eyes watched him carefully; blank in their assessment if not for the faint shimmer of awareness that pervaded all conscious thought.
"You're staring."
"So are you."
Ryoma leaned forward first.
He reached up, balanced precariously on his knees and barely remained in contact with the rough textured slab beneath. Placing his hands gingerly on the dark blue lapels, he tilted his head to regard the bemused expression, noted the defining mark under one well-defined eye, and closed the distance.
The thin lips didn't resist under his curious experimentations. They did however, after a moment, curve slightly, as if in amusement. The act itself was blatantly unromantic—all lips and no tongue.... except for a single, impulsive, little swipe across the other's bottom lip. It wasn't much of a kiss at all, and perhaps calling it that was a gross mis-statement altogether. He wasn't kissing Atobe—no, more like he was tasting the diva, experiencing him, doing something that he would never even think of trying on his teammates.
If a stranger had been forced to watch the strange little episode, they would've objected in confusion at the obscurity of it all.
Neither had closed their eyes.
Before pulling away entirely, Ryoma breathed a soft sigh across the still half-quirked lips, ignoring how the fading light glimmered strangely over the thin film of moisture on that bottom lip.
"You always perform better when Ore-sama's around, don't you." Atobe murmured thoughtfully, indulgent even.
It wasn't a question. Not with the way he said it.
The scoffing laugh that managed to work its way out into the open air was a light and slightly breathy sound. It hung in the wind precariously before being followed by the same, soft monotone that always colored Ryoma's voice.
"I was just curious."
"About what?"
Ryoma slid off the bench and picked up his racket. Tapping his shoulder softly with said equipment, he half-turned to offer the taller boy an obscured view of his side profile. He made sure that the challenge was broadcasted in every visible line of his body.
"I wanted to know how you felt."
Fin
Completed: 09/21/04
Revised: 09/22/04