Well…this was sort of inspired by an awful song (that I won't mention) and it was cruelly nagging me in the back of my mind, so I decided to just write it out and see what happened. It's almost sad how much I like this: a ONESHOT that probably isn't even funny, and to top it off—an OC. Ew. I think I should apologize upfront for that, (but on the bright side, she isn't even named, so I don't think it's that bad.)

~ tastes like soap ~

Atobe checked his watch; eleven-thirty, the time he would normally be eating a delicious breakfast someone else had made for him. He checked the sky; dark clouds welling up like that unsanitary bruise Shishido had acquired the day before from Gakuto's "accidental" tennis assault. Atobe cocked his head to the side for a moment, as he remembered Choutarou's confused look as he asked, "It hit you where?"

The distasteful memory was forced out of Atobe's mind when he noticed a shadow dance across his window. Gritting his teeth, he almost stomped his unpleasantly inexpensive shoes into the cobblestone walkway his father had paid way too much for. Almost—because that would have been childish.

The air had grown slightly chilly. This was a day when a person wouldn't want to leave the house without a jacket. Or, in Atobe's case, a ruddy t-shirt only he could make attractive. And—damn—he was attractive. But if that were the answer to solving all his problems, Atobe wouldn't even be outside, in front of his mansion in the first place. No matter how gorgeous the mansion looked, even under the heavy clouds.

He suddenly felt a soft vibration in his pocket: the sole electronic connection to the civilized world…his cell phone. (Well, the one he used for personal calls, like the tennis team, extra curricular activities, etcetera.) Atobe let it hum again, pondering both whether or not to answer it, and how unfair it was that he hadn't been given a chance to brush his teeth yet. Finally, Atobe sighed, and plucked the phone from his pocket, glaring at the caller ID all the while.

"What do you want?"

"I'm liking those pants."

"Thank you, but I've got a call on another line…I need to take this."

"No, you don't—"

Atobe sighed, and hung up, smirking at the thought of cutting off the voice on the other line. He quickly dialed Shishido's number.

"What is it Atobe, I already told you I can't come to—"

"I know, I know." Atobe said slowly, glaring up at his window again. He noticed that the shadow appeared to be flipping him off. "So how are you?"

"Wha-what?" Shishido asked dumbly.

"I said, how are you?" Atobe smiled as the shadow appeared to be redialing.

"I'm in serious physical pain."

"Other than that."

"Choutarou made me cookies."

"How very homosexual of him."

"Atobe—!"

"Hang on, I've got another call. Don't hang up."

Click.

"Still admiring my pants from afar are we?" Atobe asked, running rather perfect fingers through his hair that would have been even more perfect, had he been given the opportunity to brush it.

"You wish." The shadow spat. (Atobe couldn't help but picture the girl's less-perfect-than-his teeth grinding over heavily-glossed lips.)

"You're right. I do. Now, if you could hold on, I have someone else I need to be talk to."

"Hey you—!"

Click.

"Shishido, are you still there?"

"Unfortunately. And you can't just—"

"Good. Now, could you please talk for approximately fourteen seconds while I ponder dazzling comebacks for the degenerate on the other line?"

"What the hell Atobe?"

"Twelve…"

"For someone who proclaims to be the greatest person in existence, you are a real bastard."

"Eight…"

"Seriously, who else would…"

Atobe held the phone away from his ear as he watched an ice cream truck drive down the road, knowing better than to slow down as it passed his mansion.

"Atobe, was that an ice cream truck?"

"No, no it wasn't."

"Are we done here?"

"Yes."

Click.

"You still there?"

There was a sigh on the other end.

"Well," Atobe began, sounding as agitated as possible, "I don't see why you're upset. I'm the one outside, I haven't had breakfast, and, might I add, it's a bit chilly out here. You, on the other hand, are inside, probably surrounded by more food than you should be eating, and most likely warm." (The image of the girl in a large sweater sent a bizarre feeling down Atobe's spine that we wasn't sure he disliked.)

"You can freeze outside for all I care. Ogling over your perfect house from a distance, as I know you won't lower yourself to climbing in a window, or something juvenile like that."

"That's a tad harsh, I must say. And I don't ogle, I stare. Also, Jirou has climbed through my windows on multiple occasions, and from what he said, it wasn't entirely unpleasant."

"When was Jirou in your house!?" The girl shrieked, and Atobe knew the ball was in his court now. He grinned.

"That reminds me, I need to call him back…"

"You di—"

Click.

Atobe never really had to remember Jirou's number, as it was practically engraved into his mind after all the times he dialed and redialed it. But it wasn't as though he intended to actually call the boy.

"Oshitari?"

"Who else would it be?"

"I need you to pretend to be Jirou."

"I'd rather not…wait, is someone hacking your phone line again?"

"That's totally—wait what?"

"Oh. Forget I said anything."

Atobe sighed, he could feel his blood pressure rising, and he had to keep running his fingers over the unused belt loops of his not-dress pants to keep it at a safe level.

"I'm sorry," Oshitari said sarcastically, "it's not my fault your girlfriend's crazy."

"Ex..." Atobe groaned.

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say."

"Oi, are you doing something?"

"Well, Atobe, I can tell you what I'm not doing…or rather who…"

"Ok, ok, shut up now. But stay on the line."

Click.

Atobe frowned for a moment, not really thinking about what he was going to say before he clicked that button.

"So you've been talking to Oshitari?"

"It's still me, Atobe."

"Oh. Well, this is awkward."

"Indeed it is."

Click.

Before Atobe could say anything, the girl's voice rang through his ears in a pitch he didn't remember hearing before. "You didn't really call him…did you?"

Atobe relaxed his shoulders. "No." He could have sworn he heard the girl let out a sigh in the form of some foul word. "You still in my room?"

"No." She lied.

The next second, Atobe had pictured her, without the braces she should have gotten as a child, in a large sweater, sitting on his bed. "I think I'm going to climb in through a window." He said.

At the gasp on the other line, Atobe made a run for the kitchen window.

On the far left side of the mansion, nestled in its own little alcove, was the longest kitchen he as glad to have ever seen: one large table, stretching back and lines with chairs, surrounded by floor-length windows that were—much to Atobe's dismay—shrouded by curtains. But there was one window, above two enormous silver sinks that could easily be reached via unfortunate tree stump. The only reason this window might be open, even a little, was that Atobe's mother was a vegetarian, and thus, the smell of anything meat disgusted her, and required much wafting on the smell of cooking animals' behalf.

Darting around his house (like some groggy commoner) the tree stump came into sight. And with the dew still smeared along his feet, Atobe made a rather extravagant jump…

Only to have the window slammed shut in his face, a very out-of-breath girl smirking at him through very, very clear glass.

What now? she mouthed.

Atobe had been right, she was wearing a sweater. He could have mocked her about the sudden urge to cover herself, and why she had suddenly begun this blasphemy when she had started seeing him, but he didn't. Atobe simply licked his lips and drank in every second of her, fighting a kick of adrenaline.

Her hair that was way too blonde to be natural had been neatly brushed, those wispy bangs brushing gently into her eyes. She had slept in her makeup, which made Atobe smile; it made her eyes look larger with those black smudges underneath them. The way her features seemed so circular and framed gave her such a "sweet" appearance, and Atobe thought he was fortunate to know now untrue a "reflection of the person" that was.

In fact, the only thing revealing about her was the pair of (his) boxers she was wearing. A moment of remembrance for her odd dressing habits, (like how teenagers complain about it being cold outside, yet they refuse to put on a hat or—God forbid—a scarf). Most likely, she had thought that balancing with her knees in a sink would get the reaction she wanted out of him.

Atobe felt himself swallow and the girl grinned. Until, Atobe remembered he still had Oshitari on the phone. Stepping back from the window, he opened up his phone.

"You still there?"

"If you were anyone else, I think I might have to shoot you in the face."

"I can pay people to do that, you know."

Atobe stole a glance at the girl on the other side of the window glaring at him with her mouth hanging open slightly. He smirked.

"Well, next time, I'll ask you to arrange that for me."

"No problem."

"So…" Oshitari sighed, "what are you up to?"

"Nothing important." Atobe said loudly to ensure the girl heard him.

"Really Atobe? Really? Is she in the same room?"

"Not exactly."

"You know that massive amount of money you have? Well I think you should spend it on therapy…in stead of…well, things no normal person would ever need."

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm the most normal person I know. This is odd, because really, I know quite a lot of people."

There was a loud tap on the window and Atobe looked up to see the girl jabbing a finger at him through the class.

"I think I'll have to call you back." Atobe said.

"Please don't."

Click.

I can't hear you, Atobe mouthed at the girl, smirking some more.

In a second, the girl's large lips twitched angrily, and she slammed her fist against the glass. "Ass." She yelled.

Atobe sighed coolly before raising his voice, "Please refrain from shouting indecent things in my house. Someone might hear you."

God forbid, She said, softer this time, and Atobe couldn't help but feel a sense of victory, for the moment, at least.

"Are you ready to let me in?" He asked, raising an eyebrow the way he knew she always wished she could do.

Atobe enjoyed the sour look on the girl's face, and he wondered briefly if she realized just how high she made him feel without even trying. She was practically sitting in his sink after all.

"I'm not sure yet." She called, and pursed her lips in a fake-ponder. "I'll let you know when I start caring…"

"I hope you know how immature you're being."

"Nope, not yet."

"I'll call Jirou."

"I'll shank you."

Atobe slowly raised his cell phone.

The girl slowly reached into the mass expanse of dish rack to her right, and pulled out a fork.

Atobe laughed. "This is pathetic."

The girl lowered her fork for a second, she blinked, lashes clustered together with mascara. "You're right. I need something sharper."

"How long do you think you can keep me outside my own house?" Atobe asked, looking fondly at his nails—which, considering his oh so strenuous tennis workouts, hadn't been terribly damaged. It almost surprised him…although, thanks to his position as the Hyotei tennis captain, not much surprised him anymore.

Except, that is, a phone call from Gakuto.

"Hello?"

"Atobe?"

"This is he." Atobe looked at the stunned girl—more so, the redness of her cheeks.

"I have…I have a question for you."

"Go ahead."

"A strange question."

"Continue."

"Crisco or butter?"

Atobe almost choked. "I think it depends on what your making…"

"Cake…I think."

"That's comforting."

"Well the recipe says Crisco, but I think someone told me once that butter was better."

This was indeed a very interesting conversation, and Atobe wasn't exactly sure how to respond; in his years of (unofficial) cooking experience, he had always used butter, having seldom ever heard the commoner word "Crisco." He looked up at the girl, holding the phone away from him, he asked, "Crisco or butter?"

"Butter." She said, almost instinctively.

"Butter." Atobe said firmly.

"You sure?" Gakuto asked. "Because I think—"

"Gakuto, no one cares. I'm busy."

Click.

"Who was that?" The girl asked loudly.

"Gakuto."

"Is he trying to bake for Yuushi again?"

"I believe so."

There was a rather long silence, in which Atobe checked his watch, and felt rather upset that none of the maids or butlers had noticed his absence. This was both very flustering, and very awkward. After all, Keigo Atobe was almost never ignored.

Speaking of not being ignored, "You remember what you baked me, that one time?" The girl asked.

"I try to block it out. As I remember, it was the quite unsavory experience." Atobe shrugged. It was obviously more convenient for other people to make the food; after all, it was their job.

The girl sighed and tried to untangle herself from the long silver faucet, slipping off the sinks with unintentional grace. "It's the thought that counts."

Atobe watched her storm off, feeling rather put out; like a bright room when the light is suddenly turned off with the flick of a finger. He sighed, remembering there were reasons the two of them hadn't worked out to begin with, and there was really no point in trying again. Staring a the offensive lock on the inside of the window, Atobe decided to get off the tree stump and find another way back into his house.

-

The sky was growing steadily darker, there was no way of getting around that. Atobe wished he could, by simply snapping his fingers, dissipate the clouds and bring forth sun and heat. With a scowl, Atobe leaned against the ornate front door, frustrated by the immense lack of protection from the rain that would most defiantly be falling. The air itself smelled like mowed grass and wet dirt, and Atobe made a mental note to spend more than his usual forty-two minutes in the shower. The worry of getting his clothes wet drifted away when he remembered that the pants he was wearing (that were slightly too large, and thus fit rather awkwardly loose) were probably Oshitari's, and the shirt—if he remembered correctly—was Choutarou's.

It was ironic that after all the training camps away from home, and the obscene amount of money he had, Atobe could still manage to remain comfortable amongst little things that weren't his own. Because "forgetting" to return clothes wasn't weird or anything—not when he could have countless clothes, with the snap of a finger; it was a simple thing any normal person might do.

Trying not to sigh, Atobe pulled out his cell phone, and began pressing the buttons quickly.

"Didn't I just talk to you?"

"Oshitari, I'm wearing your pants."

There was a long silence in which Atobe felt himself unconsciously sucking in breath.

"I honestly have no response to that."

"I'm under the impression you weigh more than I do."

"And?"

"But, I think it would be wise to eat the cake Gakuto is baking you."

Atobe heard Oshitari sigh on the other end of the line, "Another cake?"

"That's what I assumed it was."

"Is there really any point to this call, Atobe? Because I think this 'Gakuto' person will be here any minute, and I might want to be prepared for this 'cake' of which you speak…"

"It seems I might have had an epiphany."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you," Atobe said, not sure whether to smile, or sigh.

"Do you want me to ask you what this epiphany is about?"

"I do."

"Atobe, what have you come to realize, being the lonely, rich, egotistical bastard you are, under circumstances I couldn't care less about?"

"I realized," Atobe began, pausing, "that pastries are almost always a good thing."

"Oh. Umm—"

"Even if the recipient complains obnoxiously—"

"This isn't about me, is it?"

"Or if they say that you should 'take cooking lessons from a homeless person' due to the fact that what you made 'tastes like soap'—"

"Atobe."

It started to rain. Like a large sheet of glass, breaking against the ground with a powerful smash the water eclipsed everything Atobe could see. The dreary air seemed to thicken and fog in the sudden clammy humidity.

"Yes?"

"Use the spare key you keep under that plastic frog that is disturbing on so many levels, get over your ex-girlfriend that isn't really an ex, and get drunk like a normal person."

"Oshitari—"

"Stop calling me."

Click.

Atobe frowned. "Fine," He spat at the cell phone.

He leaned to his right, entering a sort of staring contest with the large, yellow eyes of the worst lawn ornament ever created. Reaching out slowly, Atobe plucked the frog from its resting place—a silver key resting judgmentally in the circle of dryness that the rain hadn't touched. He felt it soaking his (Choutarou's) shirt, and plastering his hair to his face. With the smirk of another magnificently useful idea, Atobe entered the key into the door, turned it, pulled it out, and rang the doorbell.

It was only a matter of seconds before the stomping of bare feet on his expensive wooden floor sounded amongst the jumble of raindrops. Atobe found himself, once again, glaring at the girl through the small glass squares framing the door. He held up the key and smirked, again.

She narrowed her eyes, sighed, and opened up the door.

One of the things Atobe had come to realize, over the years, was that a woman either did, or didn't know what to do when faced with a soaking-wet man. Depending on either situation, a mutually agreeable…outcome, could almost always be reached.

He watched her: the way she kneaded her fingers into her hips, stared dumbly at the moisture gathering around his collar bone, her rapid sniffling, and the way she ground her pained toes into the floor. She was looking at him the way a child does an éclair.

Patiently, Atobe waited for her to start drooling, or stutter, or even yell at him in that I-want-to-throw-you-against-a-wall way. But then she just shrugged, like this was totally normal and the éclair turned out to be disappointing—as someone actually forgot to fill it with cream.

"Let's go make out," She said, like she didn't really care.

"Whatever." He said, knowing she did.