Admitting Defeat
BY: MYLiFE'SBOAT
Dun own Prince of Tennis.
o o o o o
Tezuka Kunumitsu had nothing in particular that captured the interest of Atobe Keigo, no matter what anybody says. He does not notice every single thing about him that make his eyes linger for a second more. He won't admit, ever, that he thought it cool, the way Tezuka would flick his hair (or bangs) and raise his flute politely to acknowledge his conversation with some unattractive girl. Or adorable, the way Tezuka would smile and every gold fleck on his eyes flicker handsomely under the dim light.
No, Atobe Keigo is never interested to anything about Tezuka Kunumitsu.
And it isn't his fault they were in their current situation. He finds no reason to explain himself, or make an excuse when Tezuka's head hit the wall and missed a wall scone for only a few inches beside his ear.
They breaths mingled; their movements frantic.
He didn't moan. Not a single sound. Or perhaps once, but it was barely audible and he doubted Tezuka's ear even registered anything with the way he labored his own breathing and the way he groaned onto his mouth.
Fingers fiddled buttons until clothes somewhat found their way to the floor.
He had no intentions of bringing him here. Absolutely negative. It was probably just the wine. Or the scallops. And the oysters, mind you.
Sure their little arguments excited him. And Atobe denies how cute the way Tezuka flushes in anger and walks out on him in rage. Or the way he ignores his calls because of his Atobe-started-it-all facade until his lover barges in his office and Tezuka complains about his insensitivity one moment to ravishing each other's mouth the other.
But it was not his fault they met there by chance. It was absolutely by coincidence they were both there. Tezuka sees him and turns back. But with Atobe's charm ("Sorry. I know it's my fault."), he won over and he was able convince him to make their little escapade together on the hallway and that was when Tezuka was pinned up against the wall.
Tongues battled as Atobe fumbled for the keys of the hotel room. Not a word from them when his lover pulled away for a moment and Tezuka captured his breath. Atobe's mouth found his neck and nips. Keys clanked and the door was pushed wide open.
Okay, maybe he liked the way the brown-haired man writhed underneath him and he slightly, just a little, admits that Tezuka looked enchanting with his hair tousled and his pants undone as he lay fazed on the sheets. And he somewhat, just a tiny bit, mind you, thinks he always liked being on top, seeing Tezuka's eyes cloud with lust and passion as he trails his way down his striking built with his mouth.
No, he will never tell a soul that it was his plan all along for Tezuka, when he saw him at the party downstairs, to win this suite for the night.
Sure, maybe a part of him where all the things illogical rest dangerously, shivers when Tezuka touches him, the tips of his long fingers barely making contact to his skin.
Chests heaved faster than necessary.
"A--Atobe!"
Atobe dipped his head and bit Tezuka's shoulder to keep his voice muffled. No, he will never be stirred by this guy underneath him. Never.
So what if the air was filled with the scent of Atobe's cigarette smoke and sex afterwards? Atobe--despite knowing the former Seigaku's captain for years--never thought Tezuka could snore. Their dangerous exploits on five-star hotels to Atobe's condo to Tezuka's apartment had made way to snuggling and sleeping together and old habits always come up. And as Tezuka cuddled to one pillow, the silver-head will not admit it looked cute.
He took a long drag from his smoke and pumped it back on the air. He donned the butt on the ashtray and pulled the sheets up. Too tired to put on some clothes. They were too caught up a few moments ago; they've forgotten to lock the door. Or clean the hallway from evidences like scattered bowties and coats and dress shirts and Tezuka's glasses Atobe had thrown in haste. Ah, he didn't care at all.
And no, he does not like to cuddle. Just that, his pillows were knocked on the floor and he's too tired to get them back. Whatever Tezuka might say afterwards, he needed warmth. And he was surprisingly soft, despite his heavily-toned muscles from tennis and jogging, he'd make a good pillow.
Okay, so he might like the way Tezuka tucked one pillow under their head and pressed up against him, his head on the other's chest to allow him to inhale his scent.
It didn't matter if he smelled like oranges and chocolate. His hair was soft enough he could fall asleep on it.
And Tezuka pretends not to notice when Atobe mumbles, 'I love you,' every single moment they were together like this (no matter how much the silver-head denies it.)
Instead, he would hold him closer as Atobe would hold him back, and let his lover kiss him softly. Atobe always complies, no matter how much he denies it—he never does that—and hover above him a few seconds longer, afraid to break the spell.
Because really, Atobe Keigo is never, in any way, interested about Tezuka Kunumitsu.
END
o o o o o
A/N: .GOD. *falls to the floor* I can't believe I just made that. Oh, well. . . I've been influenced with too much yaoicouchyaoicoughyaoi fanfictions of the Atobe-Tezuka pair. And Tezuka, being the uke. Wah! I'm gonna die. *thud* This, children, is the cause of too much frustration. I was planning to write a fantasy/romance for a contest and this came up. On second thoughts, I gave up on the fantasy and realized it's not my genre (and because hey, deadline's in two days and I still have no plot). I had trouble working with pixies and happily-ever-after's of some sort. So, behold the fruit of it all. Reviews are loved. Oh yeah, is there such things as wall scone?