Handcuffed
Disclaimer: don't own
Notes: Day 13 of the 30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge by ghiraher on tumblr: handcuffed together (so i cheated a little bit ok)
Mochida has always been tidy and organized and responsible but even he cannot avoid unfinished business forever; even he has left messy trails behind him that lit on fire—although considering Shige's case, it's more like it blew up in both of their faces and they remained attached anyway. Their entire relationship was messy (he blamed it on Shige, that tornado of a boy who rushed in and grabbed his hand and screwed up everything in a semi-benevolent sort of way), a blur of basketball practices and study sessions and quick experimental kisses in the back staircase that turned into sloppy make out sessions by the time they got to third year and jokes and bantering and conversations that seemed to finish when they hung up the phone in the evening but picked up in the morning on the way to school. And then that day, that game happened and Shige left, whisked off to who-knew-where by his parents, leaving nothing behind but a wristband and some textbooks and an empty feeling in Shige's chest that still hasn't begun to disappear.
It's like they were handcuffed together and the key got thrown away, or maybe it rusted out or forgotten but they can't detach themselves from each other and Shige's force is too strong for him to resist; he looks down sometimes expecting to see dents and bruises on his wrist from all this pulling and is surprised to find his arm bare and pale. It's like he hears Shige's voice in the hallway sometimes and he turns around, expecting to see him in that slouching walk of his with crumpled pages of loose leaf sticking out of his bag, waving cheerfully—but it's just the empty wind and other students who might as well be faceless to him at this point.
It takes a bit of fiddling around with the school computer system (some might call it hacking; Mochida doesn't—good kids like him aren't hackers anyway) to find out where Shige's records were transferred, some school out in Chiba prefecture that he's never heard of. It's a small school local to the new district where he resides, and he reads everything he can find about that tiny town that night when he's supposed to be studying. Most of the students in the middle school attend the local high school, which is known as the best in the prefecture for kendo and well-ranked academically. They do not have a basketball team, but some sacrifices have to be made. As long as there's a ball and a court they can play anyway.
His parents don't pretend to understand his decision but they've never tried to understand him and as long as he's kept out of trouble and gotten good grades they're satisfied; truthfully they seem okay with not having him around as much and they're more than a bit proud that he got such a good scholarship. They drop him off at the dorms and remind him that Chiba really isn't that far from home and he's always welcome back on the weekends. He thanks them and watches his mother's car disappear down the road and it sinks in that he's really here and can't go back now—come hell or high water or the worst kind of regret he's here to stay for the next three years. He unzips his suitcase and takes out his basketball, spins it on a finger, staring at the orange blur—Shige might not even be here. He might still not be ready; he might have changed so much in less than a year that he's barely recognizable. There are millions of things he could resent Mochida for; instead of letting it fading away he could have held that resentment and let it gather and grow like mold on his memories.
But Shige wouldn't do that; the Shige Mochida remembers, the one who had pushed him to improve his game and broaden his focus, the one who greeted everything with enthusiasm and optimism, the one who was smart and brave and was his friend and his something else ("boyfriend" isn't quite the right word), would not burn it all down; he could let it go but would look upon it fondly if he did. Perhaps Mochida's thoughts are too tinged with longing, but even so he is certain.
He waits at the gate to the dojo; it's easy enough to find in such a small town and by the time he walks there the afternoon classes are just being let out. Small children still clad in karate uniforms with belts trailing on the ground trickle out accompanied by parents; older ones come out dressed normally and gossiping eagerly in groups. He's beginning to wonder if Shige skipped town and eluded him again when he sees him, surrounded by a group of boys of similar age, coming down the path. Mochida shifts his weight and brushes the hair back from his eyes; suddenly his heart is in his throat and he rubs his wrist again even though he knows there's no cuff there. When he looks up Shige is standing in front of him, face frozen in a smile that's just beginning to crack.
"It took you long enough," he says.
His voice has gotten deeper and his hair a bit longer; his jaw has filled out and he's grown taller and broader; in such a short time Mochida has missed so much and the ache around his wrist throbs. And then Shige throws his arms around him in a crushing hug; he smells crisper, like the same mix of sweat and lilac soap but with some new and highly toxic undercurrent that makes Mochida desperate to inhale. But is that appropriate? What is the right thing to do now? What are they; what can he assume? It feels so damn good to be back in Shige's arms that he ends up letting the questions fall the way Shige lets fall trails of food crumbs behind him, without care.
"I'll see you next time," Shige says, waving to the group of boys.
As Mochida gathers himself he tries to ignore their curious glances and all the questions bubble to the surface again and he can't even sift through them fast enough.
"You're coming over for dinner, right?" says Shige.
He still makes too many assumptions; the gestures as he talks are still the same. Mochida smiles.
"Of course."
"Great," Shige says.
He turns the conversation toward unimportant things as they walk, like Mochida's dog and professional baseball teams and the weather in Tokyo and changes in their old neighborhood; both of them tread carefully around the most sensitive subjects. It really is a lovely town in the spring, although it's warm for early April so this might not be the best sample. Mochida says the same aloud and Shige laughs and they speak of winter—Mochida does not say how lonely it was when snowballs whizzed by his face and he had no one to peg him intentionally in the back of the head and to get back by stuffing snow down his jacket, when he'd had no one to breathe on his hands in the stairwell other than himself, when there had been nothing to look forward to at school except more tests.
They sit on his back porch, bigger than his old one back in Tokyo; he even has a proper backyard with a fish pond and everything where big-eyed goldfish open their mouths at the sides, waiting for food.
"Sorry, guys," Shige says. "I don't have anything for you."
Mochida wonders how sappy his smile has; Shige really is the same—the same as he used to be, before that day, before his face seemed to crack in half. They sit on the grass in front of the pond, and Shige sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
"How are you?" Mochida says, just to break the silence.
It's the worst question he could ask, really the most vague, the one with the answer he may not like, but he holds back from wincing.
"I'm doing pretty well, actually," Shige says. "It was hard for a while but, you know, eventually I figured out that it was just a game. I mean, it was important to me, to us, at the time, but you know? I don't have to let it affect the rest of my life; I don't have to wake up every morning and think about it and regret events beyond my control."
It's remarkably level-headed; Mochida blinks. Shige grins at him and continues; his words undulate over Mochida like a welcome breeze in the humidity of late summer; he's missed the voice and the tone and the way Shige infers things and gets excited when he talks and gestures wildly. They fall back into conversation like those months didn't happen; the little bits of anger at Shige that Mochida has been storing have evaporated already and he's hopeless; he can't stay mad at Shige at all.
"But I really missed you, Mocchi," Shige says, covering Mochida's hand with his.
Their kiss is more sure, more sustained than it ever was back then; their hands glide into each other and they are connected and it's like the handcuffs have finally popped open; there's no ache in his chest or his wrist or his throat or anywhere and he feels absolutely free. But he will stay here, handcuffs or no, for as long as Shige will have him.