Warnings: Language. Sex details, I suppose.

I can't express to you how it felt to write this.

After.

You start at the beginning with tension that builds up until everything you do is rippling with it. And everyone notices it. You notice it. Then you're kissing in the locker room and it's so good, so unbelievably good.

There are months of touches and flushed skin and conversations that don't ever really end. Again, it's good. You don't see it being any other way.

But they don't tell you what do, what to be, when it's not pleasant. When you have to be mean and cut him open because you want him to hurt just as much he hurt you. Everyone watches it crumble into dust until there are tears and you sweep up the remaining particles so you can make it into something worth it. Something that is not just a before or an in-between.

Maybe its better that they don't warn you about that part.

Bemused.

"What are you doing?" You choke.

Because right in front if your eyes, is Monkey King himself perched on a rug doing Pilates. Atobe's head spins toward your direction and embarrassment flits across his face for a second until the lady in the video (The television hovers awkwardly in the corner) changes her position.

"Exercising. Maybe the brat should try it sometimes." Atobe sniffs but hisses when he falls and trips on the rug. The lady moves into another position. You're not entirely sure you're allowed to laugh. But, fuck it, you do it anyway.

Color.

Sometimes all of his attention is solely on you and you just- you can't explain the black and gold and silver that you just swim in.

Delicious.

"Are you licking me?"

He huffs. The sensation of his hair brushing against your skin makes you shiver. "You taste good."

"I'm all sweaty."

"Maybe." He continues dipping his tongue down your stomach until his mouth hits the X on the map and o-fucking-kay you are just fine with this.

Effervescent.

The antonym of Atobe Keigo.

Frustration.

You. Are. Not. Stupid.

No, you didn't notice that the reason Tezuka kept staring at you was because he was going to confess. No, you didn't remember to pick up the medicine that would have helped your allergies so your eyes wouldn't be swollen in time for your match. Yes, you do know how to make your own meals.

But when he gives you that look that isn't even really a look, but a gesture of let-me-tell-you-how-much-better-then-you-I-am-toda y, you just really, really don't even know why you try.

Game.

"I'm not even doing this with you right now." He turns the other direction. All his teammates are standing behind him with their mouths closed and their eyes wide open. Because they have no problem with you but Atobe is their captain. Courts before tennis racquets and all that.

You resist punching him in the face. "There's not even a problem, Monkey King. You're just making it into to something because you're-"

Atobe narrows his eyes like he knows what your about to say and is totally daring you to say it. But, you're not playing.

"Just fuck you. Have a nice day."

Maybe he calls your name as you go. Maybe you don't care.

Home.

Somewhere in your mind you have him mapped out. Midnight blue eyes that are almost black set in a long, narrow face. The mole on his side that is identical to the one on his face. The sensitive place between his neck.

The truth is you live in him. Your mouth lives on the softness of his lips. Your hand lives between the calluses in his that mirror yours and brush against all the right places. You exhale his heartbeat while he inhales your desperation. You live and die, die, die. Every single time.

If.

(The sky falls. You can't play tennis. His parents don't approve. Jiro actually does want him. You die. He meets a girl. You meet a girl.)

Would he still love you?

Jewelry.

He gives you a necklace on your birthday with a gold ring on the chain. It hangs right above your heart whenever you wear it (which is always) and there are days when you trace the inscription.

Aurum caelo sunt mea.

Kiss.

In the locker room with his mouth attached to your neck, he asks, "First kiss?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Does it matter?"

He doesn't answer.

Lies.

You watch him over the table. He isn't looking at you. You're so close falling together because everything with him always feels like falling apart.

"I didn't lie to you." He says.

He is stupid. Incredibly idiotic. Just because he never told you he didn't love you didn't mean that it wasn't a lie. Letting someone spend years believing something was true, doesn't mean it's fine. In a way, it means you are just as stupid as he is.

"I love you. I really wish I fucking didn't, but I do. And you don't even care."

There's a flicker of pain in the way he sighs. This must be so stressful for his delicate, rich, sensibilities. "I care."

You smile.

"But not enough."

Monday.

"Monkey King."

"Brat."

He is standing in the kitchen drinking some coffee. You are sitting at the table, looking out the window. It's overwhelmingly sunny and everything is quiet. This is a good day. This is a great day.

He won't argue with you and you won't have to pretend that you don't hate him when he says something that might mean nothing coming from someone else, but means everything coming from his mouth.

He doesn't say anything as he leaves the room. Yes. Very good day.

Nefarious.

"Oyaji told me I was going to get hurt."

"Well," His mouth thins. You wonder who's going to come out of this bleeding more. You or him? "My parents told me this was just a phase. I suppose both parties were correct."

You. Definitely, you.

Ocean.

You scrunch your noise at the cold wave that hits your feet, but don't move. Atobe makes a sound that closely resembles a squeal. The water chases him as he moves away.

"How you can deal with that chill is beyond me."

You close your eyes and dig your toes in the sand. Another gush licks you. The smile on your face just might be genuine. "Idiot. It doesn't stay cold forever."

Passion.

"Honestly?" He nods. "I'd rather play tennis then have sex."

"Well." Atobe blinks. Then he's laughing. It's undeniably real and all of his teammates turn around at the sound.

"It's not funny."

"It most assuredly is." He flicks his hair with a smirk. "Though, it's mostly the exact opposite for me."

Quarter.

"Heads we go on a date. Tails we don't."

You roll your eyes. "Can't we just play a game of tennis?"

He fiddles with the change balancing on his fingers and grins. It brightens his eyes so much you smile a little too. "I, at the very least, sought to allow you a small chance at winning."

You roll your eyes again. His entire personality just calls for the action. "Fine. Flip it."

Atobe complies and when it hits the ground you jump on it first.

You smirk. He shrugs, hitching his tennis bag over his shoulders slowly.

"So I will have you for company tomorrow." It's not a question.

"Whatever."

The sun shines down on the golden coin. It's tails.

Rollercoaster.

"No."

You laugh. "Is the magnificent Atobe Keigo afraid of rollercoaster's?"

"I would never lower myself-" He starts. Gives up. Glares. "I'm not afraid."

"Prove it."

When he gets off the ride his fingers are pinching the bridge of his nose. His face is deathly pale. You want to make fun of him but just lean against him and stroke his back. It's awkward (You've never been more uncomfortable) but eventually he opens his eyes.

"I would prefer to never do that again."

"I didn't make you get on."

He stares.

Sardonic.

Fuji is looking between the two of you. His eyes flash. "Is something wrong?"

"The brat is sulking because I told him the truth. All he is, simply, is an immature child who probably won't last five seconds in a match against professionals."

If everyone is just what they are, only ever the person you see, isn't that sad? If that was the case all Atobe is, is a spoiled rotten, egotistical, narcissistic asshole who isn't half as great as he thinks he is.

But you've seen him cry. You've seen him sick. There is another person, another face, underneath that layer of skin. His skeleton is a child; lonely and afraid.

"Ryoma," Fuji says and you realize that Atobe is gone. Most likely, to the restroom. The restaurant is fairly nice. He'd chance it.

"It's fine, Fuji-senpai."

"No, it's not." His hand reaches across the table to rest on yours. There's something so kind about it that you let him. "You deserve better."

Maybe, you think. But, don't you already have the best?

Trust.

When does it get to the point where you know if someone tried to shoot, he'd step in front of you, but if someone insulted you, he'd agree?

Up.

"So this is it?" You swallow. Now he is sipping something. He looks unfairly cool. You hate him so much it's almost funny.

He shrugs. "I suppose so."

"Okay," You rise and this is unreal, unbelievable. And, because it stings, you turn back at the doorway.

"Something you needed?" Atobe narrows his eyes.

You nod and shrug. "Mada mada dane, Monkey King."

You are flying high with this freedom.

Vanish.

You leave.

And you don't get it. You don't understand what tears a relationship apart, what makes it pointless. Why all that work went into an impalpable connection that didn't even last. But this is good. You've been pathetic for too long. It's time to go back to being Ryoma. You. That's you.

He shouldn't have taken that away.

What.

He used to be something less bitter. Cruel. He used to tell you how he really felt. He used to kiss you in the morning before you parted ways for school. He used to try pet names even when you snickered at him for attempting the most horrendous- baby. He used to touch you with two hands. What happened?

Xeransis.

If only you could water your relationship.

Yesterday.

In another universe you are happy. In another universe he proves you wrong. He changes. Or doesn't. In another universe it's worse. So right then, in your own universe, you are okay.

Zany

It's raining. The covers rustle as he climbs into bed. Ryoma is on the other side, breathing in a way that tells Atobe he isn't asleep yet.

"Ryoma."

The reply is a mumble of sleepy sounds barely stringed together correctly. "Go to… sleep, Keigo."

He turns to glance out the window. Tapping drops hit the pane. The sky is a sick blue. The storm will be long and tiring. He presses his mouth against his hand and breathes words.

"Brat. Just because it doesn't stay cold forever doesn't mean it ever gets warm either."

He doesn't sleep.

Fuck me.

Aurum caelo sunt mea: My skies are gold.