A/N: This story was fucking NAGGING ME to write it down. Lmfao. During Religion class, too. Which strengthens my theory that everything I do eventually leads to sin, even the slightest action. I hate life.
WARNING/S: Shounen-ai/yaoi/slash. Geroff if you don't like the concept. Possible OOC-ness and all that shit.
DISCLAIMER: Prince of Tennis is totally not mine. Also, randomly, I worship at Atobe's and Shishido's shrines. Don't tell one about the other though.
LIPS LIKE SUGAR
By ThroughTheMonsoon
He sipped his warm potpourri and washed down a few clumps of cookie remains in his mouth. Lightly putting down the seventeenth-century teacup onto its saucer, he lounged in his gazebo and watched orange leaves float down unto the meadow.
Outside the iron gates and fences was the road. Atobe Keigo leisurely watched scooters, bikes, the rare car and people pass by his castle-mansion.
It was odd that he chose to settle at the gazebo on the west wing rather than the hammock at the south which he ever-so-favored since he was three. He was not used to not seeing his lake while he mused on his surroundings. He kept his eyes trained past the wrought iron spikes of his fence, waiting for something, anything, that can amuse him.
And a flash of orange dashed past the fence.
Atobe blinked. Was his eyesight failing him, or was that just an autumn leaf that flew past in a whirl of a breeze? The lavender-haired boy sat up, swearing to himself that it had been shaped like a head.
Just his luck, that flash of orange dashed back.
And shouted at him.
"Oi, Atobe! Fancy seeing you here! Lucky, isn't it?" Sengoku Kiyosumi yelled past the gate, bearing that mischievous grin of his.
Caught off-guard the Hyoutei captain was. He blinked before recovering into that arrogant smirk of his.
"Sengoku Kiyosumi of Yamabuki Daiichi? In England? How did you notice ore-sama sitting a court away, ahn?"
The Yamabuki regular shrugged and tapped the side of his left eye. "I was here for boxing training. And seeing you a court away? Luck, I guess," he joked.
Atobe strut to the fence-wall that separated his castle from the busy-ish streets of Leicester. He noticed that the orange-haired regular wore a pair of boxing shorts, hi-cut shoes and a white, sweat-drenched t-shirt. The curled coif in Sengoku's hair was still perfectly curved over the rest of his hair, which were plastered across his forehead.
"Jogging?" The King raised an eyebrow.
"Yep," Sengoku replied with a smile.
Without meaning to, the latter let out an involuntary shudder as a breeze fluttered by. Autumn in England sure was colder than Japan's.
A smug smirk played on Atobe's lips. "Come inside and tell ore-sama about your interesting mediocre life."
The Yamabuki huffed, half-insulted, but complied. He headed to the gate and got his retinal, fingerprint and DNA scan ("Whoa, cool security!").
Walking towards the gazebo, Sengoku wolf-whistled as he looked around the castle and woodland with his hands behind his head. "This place is huge."
"It's ore-sama's grandfather's. It is a bit smaller than the one we have in Prague, and infinitely more than the one in Switzerland."
Sengoku complained a bit loudly to himself. "Rich kids and their prides."
Atobe pretended not to have heard that.
They sat at opposing armchairs inside the gazebo, which had slide doors all around, and a heater. Sengoku sat there albeit awkwardly, glancing at Atobe every once in a while.
The silence was chilling. Finally, the Yamabuki regular have had enough of it.
"What's up with the tux?"
Atobe fluffed his hair up with a hand. "Ore-sama had a meeting with the knights."
"…knights?"
"Yes." The young heir cocked his head to the side, where a man in real shining armor stood guard with a sword on his right side and a pistol on the left.
"O-kay," Sengoku twitched and sat back.
A young woman in a maid's uniform walked into the gazebo and set a silver tray on the table. The tray was loaded with a platter of cookies, a pile of donuts, a fragile teapot of black tea, an additional tea cup, a bowl of sugar cubes and a pot of milk. She smiled and moved her pretty black hair behind her as she bowed.
"Afternoon tea for you and your guest, Keigo-bochama," the woman said in a pleasant voice, fluent in Japanese though she seemed European.
"Thank you, Alice. You are dismissed," Atobe said.
Sengoku grinned. "Lucky."
Alice turned. "Pardon?"
She spoke English in an accent Sengoku could only identify as French. The girl's polite smile was still upon her lips.
"Your smile."
"What about it, monsieur?"
"I wouldn't need sugar in my tea if I see that smile of yours all the time." Sengoku winked at her.
The woman blushed and clutched her hands in front of her dress.
Atobe's eyes widened, three reasons at fault. Firstly, at how Alice "disobeyed" his dismissal (out of courtesy, of course; Sengoku spoke, and it would be rude not to reply if he was speaking to her). Secondly, at Sengoku's open flirtation with a maid and right in front of Atobe himself. Lastly, the pick-up line the other boy used was just old and overused. Ick.
"Ore-sama said you are dismissed, Alice," the Hyoutei regular bit out with a venomously sweet voice.
Alice stuttered out a quick "oui!" and fled out of the gazebo.
Sengoku looked at Atobe, annoyed. "What was that for?"
"What was what for?" Atobe replied as he examined a Belgian chocolate-covered biscuit, finally biting into it. He felt an extreme craving for sweets that afternoon.
"You sent her away! I was, if you hadn't noticed, talking to her," Sengoku frowned.
"You were flirting with ore-sama's servant. That is unallowable," the boy in the tuxedo stated as he dropped five cubes of sugar into his tea.
"Unallowable? Hn. Unfair. Who would I talk to now?"
"Ore-sama is right here, peasant."
The Yamabuki regular put three cubes of sugar into his teacup and poured tea and milk in it. Mixing slowly, he teased, "Why? Would the Great Atobe prefer me to flirt with him instead?"
For some reason, this made the young heir blush. He cleared his throat and tugged his bowtie loose, until it lay limp and untied around his collar. He tugged at this, too.
"Of-Of course not! Ore-sama has these things called standards! Ore-sama wouldn't dream of it!"
The orange-haired teen rolled his eyes. "Jeez, Atobe. I was kidding. Take a joke."
Silence crept upon the two, the glass sliding doors shut and the heater buzzing quietly in the corner.
Sengoku reached for a still-warm honey-glazed donut and bit into it. "Mm," he moaned, breaking the silence once more. "Dish ish gweat… Abshowutwey dewishush."
Atobe glared at Sengoku, disgusted. "Manners, peasant."
The only sounds which resumed were the incessant chewing of honey-glazed donuts and the constant groaning, all courtesy of Sengoku, until he finished the pile on the platter.
Atobe finished the small plate of cookies and biscuits on his own. Wiping his fingers off the table napkin, he stared at the silver tray as if willing it to bear more sweets, as it now contained none.
He looked up and saw the other boy picking up sugar cubes and popping them past his honey-smeared lips and into his mouth, a few grains of sugar sticking to his glossy, sticky lips.
The lavender-haired boy frowned and tugged at his collar once more. Was the heater a bit too warm, or was it just him?
His sweets craving hasn't abated. Resigning into submission, he put a hand into the sugar bowl, only to find it wiped empty. He sent an icy glare Sengoku's way. The latter looked up, glanced at where Atobe's hand was in and grinned sheepishly.
"Sorry," he shrugged apologetically.
He was not pleased. Not pleased at all. Atobe needed sugar and he needed it now. He was Atobe fucking Keigo, god damn it. He always gets what he wants. Always. Sometimes, it just needed to be shoved. Hard.
Sengoku licked his fingers clean. He leaned back luxuriously, his lips still covered with honey and sugar.
The heat. The craving. The snugness of the tux. It was all too much.
Maybe that was why Atobe couldn't explain why he shoved the small table away.
And maybe it was to blame for him gripping Sengoku's still sweat-drenched shirt and pulling him in a not-so-gentle fashion.
That which probably also drove him to sit down on the other's lap and, hands twisted into the white t-shirt, pull him in harsh and ravage those honey-and-sugar-smothered lips, licking and biting and tasting them.
Sengoku was surprised, and that was an understatement. He's never thought of kissing a boy before, much less kissing Atobe. But those soft lips tasted of Belgian chocolate and were sprinkled with cookie crumbs that it didn't even matter at all. He felt Atobe sliding his tongue back and forth his bottom lip, clearing it of honey and sugar granules. The Yamabuki felt his own heat, and his hands slowly planted themselves on either side of Atobe's hips. The latter tugged him closer, and he gasped within the kiss, letting Atobe's tongue wander in.
The moment their tongues met was inexplicable. The only thing they both felt, aside from heat, were fireworks. Explosions and stars and collisions and the loss of breath and heat.
After what seemed to be infinity, the two parted and found themselves on the cold floor. The temperature of the ground opposed how they both felt, inside and out. Meanwhile, the hardness of the marble seemed to second that of which was in one's pair of pants and the other's shorts.
A trail of saliva dripped down Sengoku's chin, his shirt crumpled and lifted and half-taken off. Atobe's hair was matted with sweat, his coat thrown away and presently nowhere to be found and his own white shirt unbuttoned. Their faces were flushed and they could tell they wanted the other's lips on his own once more, and probably even get past that stage.
"Wow," was the only thing Sengoku could get out. His lips were swollen red, and he was biting on it.
"Y-Yes," Atobe replied. "Wow indeed."
Silence.
"Ore-sama apologizes for his rude behavior," the heir continued.
"Don't mind," Sengoku said. And it was true.
More silence filled the gazebo, and even though a while has subsided, the bulge in each of their bottom wear has not. On the contrary, each second seemed to make them want more.
"Do you want to see Grandfather's sword collection at the basement?" Atobe offered after one more agonizing minute. "The red carpet gives the room a classic effect. The wooden door has a nice medieval lock to add up to the ambiance."
Without even waiting for a second, Sengoku immediately replied, "Yes."
The two stood up and walked briskly to the direction of the stairs leading into the basement, barely containing the urge to throw themselves upon the other.
END.
This is also a super-belated friendsary gift to one of my dearest pals, Denise. And a consolation fic for all of you waiting for me to update and whatnots. :D Review, please?