Written after a conversation with Hennahito, dear that she is.
The Kinds of Things
He hated seeing the sudden pain and then the freezing of her face when he told her.
Of course, she must have wondered, with the hesitant, chaste kisses to her european-pink cheek, the dates that he always invited someone else along with.
But then, she didn't know any better. He couldn't tell her about the moments of sudden peace when Takaiwa laughed, the leap in his stomach in time with the pulling off of a sweaty shirt, the red-hued rush of skin and muscle that was so very ihim/i.
Not her.
He had given it a chance, of course. He desperately didn't want her to loose someone yet again, such a waste of a wonderful person. He was patiently kind, almost hoping for his eyes to follow her red hair in the way that they did Takaiwa.
But it (that rush that suddenly washed through his veins, turning his skin to prickling heat and hands unable to not-touch) hadn't happened, and that's what left him the way he was now - because not to tell her was even more cruel than the alternative.
He could tell she was crying, and wanted so much to reach out and hug her, to tell her he was sorry, that it wasn't true, that he wasn't leaving her. But again - he couldn't. He couldn't take back the words he had said and pretend that everything was alright. That would be wrong. That would be betraying his real feelings.
And he had passed his moments of indicicion, discomfort and confusion a long time ago. He knew that he was as gay as he was a forward, knew he loved Takaiwa as much as he loved basketball.
This came to the fore that night, after he let her run away down the street, watching with a hesitant pain to make sure she didn't fall in those rediculious shoes (Takaiwa had a strange obsession with shoes and was always lusting after them and buying them and never wearing them. He had been wearing the same pair to basektball for about four years now.) and skin her knee or something.
Takaiwa had gotten his glasses off and dropped them onto a pile of clothes. If Yamazaki hadn't been so used to it by now, he would have winced. Those glasses stood up to a lot of abuse. But without them on, Takaiwa could see the lines of worry in his face, and he always felt naked without them on his face. After all, there were very few things he took them off for.
His eyelids obediantly closed as the smile faded from Takaiwa Satoru's face and his thumbs gently ran over the thin veiling. He could feel Takaiwa's breath on the ultra-sensitive skin of his lips but was held back by the risk of being accidentally jabbed in the eyes by Takaiwa's eternally curious fingers.
He, Yamazaki Yoshiki, had a habit of sitting back and looking at things, solving problems by looking at them, seeing if they'll solve themselves, and then gently steering them into position for the current of time to take them in the right direction. Takaiwa had a need to touch everything, pushing and pulling and massaging the problem into an answer. He was so tactile that sometimes Yamazaki wondered how he manged to keep his hands off him at all.
Tell me what's wrong.
Yoshiki almost felt the words breathed into his lips rather than heard them. Blunt fingers slid over his eyebrows, down his eyelids, following the high line of his cheek bone. He wondered how Takaiwa managed to make him feel so perfect, and wondered if he did the same.
I had to tell Saeki that I'm not interested in her.
His eyelids flickered open like a bird's wings, and he backed away a little as Satoru tried to smile for his opened eyes and failed, hands leaving their perches on his cheeks and reaching behind him to splay in a protective embrace.
Yama...
I didn't want to hurt her, you know? She's a nice girl. She's an excelent manager, even if she doesn't know very much about basketball. She needs some friends. I was the one who reached out to her first, I shouldn't have done it, but we need a manager and...
The weight of his captaincy and the real world fell onto his shoulders, and he sighed, shaking a little under Takaiwa's hands, which had resumed their roaming, pressing against his shoulders and chest and back.
And then there was a little ping of surprise and pain at his forehead.
Hey!
His hand reached up to press the effected area.
Don't be such a dumbass, Yama. You did what you had to do, right?
And somehow that lead to him on his back, hands tangled in Takaiwa's sweaty, faux-blond hair as they kissed, hard and fast, while trying to get as naked as possible in as short amount of time as possible. Somehow, Yamazaki's reasoning broke down at around here. Takaiwa's wide, flat tounge would slide up his neck, leaving a trail of spit and tingling nerves, and his hands would slide down his back, cupping and pulling at Satoru's hips and ass, using the strong muscles and bones as handholds to climb his way up, sliding them together in an intimacy that none surpassed.
Takaiwa would suck an earring into his mouth, sliding his tounge around it untill Yamazaki squirmed and told him he was being an idiot when his tounge could definitely be somewhere else.
Just the idea of the feeling of Takaiwa inside of him made Yamazaki's stomach clench painfully. When it happened, it was that to the power of infinity.
Oh, fuck, oh, Taka-! fuck god oh...
If he had known he could make those kinds of noises before, he would have laughed at himself. But they were all he could do: keening low in his throat, high, undigified whimpers, gasps, moans, random words of nonsense that nevertheless seemed to be understood for their true meanings.
Yama...
Rarely, he managed to open his eyes just enough to see the blurry outline of Takaiwa's body, covered in sweat and arching backwards, mouth open, head thrown back, and Takaiwa didn't need to touch him to make him come. He always went delirious after that, everything melting down to a white fuzz of nothing for a moment of delicious unity.
And then Satoru's arms were shaking as he panted, eyes still closed as he caught his breath, hanging over him, and Yamazaki would reach up and pull him down on top of him, the sudden loss of breath as that heavy weight knocked it out of him, and then the soft laughter as their legs tangled together, toes wriggling playfully against an ankle, too tired to move.
It was a moment where Yamazaki didn't even think of Saeki, pressing his cheek against his longtime rival-friend-classmate-partner-love's cold nose and letting his palm be explored by intrepid fingertips as his eyes closed again, this time to sleep.
He would remember that later, when she ignored him for an entire week despite his best efforts to reconcile things with her. The way that Takaiwa's arm fell comfortably around his waist, and the silent breathing as they fell asleep in a sweaty embrace.