Ryoma grabbed his bag, yanked the brim of his cap down to shield his eyes from view, and then strode towards the stairs that led away from the tennis court. He wanted to go home, and he wanted to sulk. Today had started out boring, progressed to tedious, and was now ending off as plain miserable.
"Hey, where are you going?"
He didn't bother turning around or stopping. Not that he had to. He recognized that voice. It was, second to Fuji, the last person he wanted to speak to. A large hand grabbed his arm.
"Let go of me!" He exclaimed, wrenching his arm away.
"I was talking to you. It's kind of rude, don't you think, to ignore somebody and just walk away?" Momoshiro touched Ryoma's arm again, but gently, this time.
"Look, I just want to go home, okay?"
Momoshiro heard the almost plaintive note in his voice, and his heart ached. "Fuji shouldn't have done that."
"I don't want to talk about it. I'm going home."
Momoshiro moved to stand in front of him. "I'm afraid you can't do that."
Ryoma glared at him. "So now it's kidnapping? I'm not going anywhere with any of you. I'm going home." He almost ran down the stairs in an attempt to flee, but found Momoshiro at the bottom of the flight of stairs. He spun around, thinking about using the other exit at the other end of the tennis court, but saw the rest of Momoshiro's friends waiting for him.
Fuji made his way casually to the front of the pack at the top of the stairs. "Surely you're a man of your word, Ryoma-kun. The bet was to win, or join us. And you lost."
Momoshiro looked up at Fuji, his eyes pleading with the older man to let him handle Ryoma. Fuji stood there for a moment, staring back down. After a long, pregnant silence, he took a step back towards the court. "We'll be waiting for you at the bleachers, Momo."
"It's just to relax, get a drink, dance a bit," Momoshiro told him. "I'll walk you home after that if it's too late."
"I've got school tomorrow."
"Then we'll leave earlier." Momoshiro sighed. "Don't make things so difficult, Ryoma. Don't piss Fuji off. Really, don't."
Ryoma snorted in derision. "Or what, he'll kill me and bury my body in an unmarked grave?"
"Something like that."
"Oh, get real." Ryoma brushed past Momoshiro, but was jerked back. He lost his footing and landed hard against Momoshiro. A pair of strong arms held him still, and he look up, scowling.
"Don't piss him off, Ryoma. I'd rather not have to see him punish you." He took Ryoma's hand in his strong grip and tugged Ryoma back up the stairs. "Come on, it'll be fun. If you really want to leave after we arrive, I'll walk you home immediately. I promise."
"I don't see why I have to go, then. I want to go home."
"You'll have fun there." Momoshiro didn't pause. He waved to his friends as they reached the top of the flight of stairs. "You'll see."
It turned out that Tezuka had a car. But it was a stylish convertible, and certainly couldn't fit nine people. And then Ryoma saw the sleek motorcycles. There were four of them, all different models and varying in colour and decals. Ryoma watched as Kawamura rode off on the one with bright yellow and orange flame decals running along the sides of the body. The one Inui straddled while waiting for Kaidoh to dig out his helmet was plain, simple black. But the simplicity of it seemed to suit both of them, Ryoma thought.
"Nya, Ochibi! We'll see you there!" Eiji called, and climbed on behind Oishi. Their bike was decorated with airbrushed smoke streams and electric blue lightning bolts. Eiji waved bye to Ryoma and Momoshiro as he clung on to Oishi with his other hand. When he turned to look at Momoshiro, he was already pulling out his bike helmet. He tossed his spare to Ryoma, who caught it and was blinking owlishly at the motorcycle.
"What?"
"You guys don't deal in drugs or something like that, do you?"
Momoshiro rolled his eyes heavenward, asking kami-sama for patience. "No, we're perfectly law-abiding citizens. Well, most of the time, anyway. It's just how we get around. Tezuka's car isn't big enough for us, and there was no way he was trading his convertible in for a mom car. Not that he'd chauffer us around even if his car was big enough."
"Hn," was all Ryoma said.
"Come on, put that brain bucket on. Much as you've tried to prove it, I seriously doubt that your head is harder than the road." Momoshiro fumbled in his pocket for his key.
Ryoma stared at the tiger's-eye gold object in his hands, turning it this way and that.
"What are you waiting for?" Momoshiro sighed. "We'll be late, and I'll never hear the end of it from them."
"I told you I didn't want to go," Ryoma retorted, not wanting to admit that he'd never ridden on a motorcycle before.
Momoshiro kicked the bike stand down and strode over to Ryoma. He took the helmet from Ryoma and looked the younger boy in the eyes. "If you've never ridden on one before, you could just say so, you know."
Ryoma scowled and looked away. "It's nothing like that!"
"Oh, so you have ridden on one before?" He heard nothing and saw the grim line that was Ryoma's mouth. "Didn't think so." He snatched the cap off Ryoma's head, enjoying the fleeting look of pure surprise on Ryoma's face, before the anger shielded it. He quickly tucked the white cap in his pocket and eased the helmet over Ryoma's head.
"Hey!"
Momoshiro tightened the straps to fit Ryoma's head. "If you're going to stand there like a doll, then you should expect to be treated like one." He slapped the back of Ryoma's protected head cheerfully and walked back to his bike. "Hop on."
Ryoma eyed the vehicle with great suspicion and scepticism of its transportational ability. The thing looked like it could topple over at any moment, and despite its vague resemblance to a bicycle, this hunk of metal was far heavier.
"There is no way I'm getting on that death trap."
"It's perfectly safe!" Momoshiro glanced down at his watch. He turned back to Ryoma with a faintly snide look on his face. "Or are you such a coward that even a little thing like a motorcycle ride scares you?"
Ryoma stiffened and gritted his teeth. Hell would sooner cease to exist before he'd admit to that supercilious biker-boy that he was afraid of motorcycles. The near accident he'd almost had with one as a child certainly didn't help at all.
"It's just not safe, that's all," Ryoma snarled. "Like I'd be afraid of some modified tin can."
"Then hop on? We're already going to arrive last." Momoshiro started up his bike. He revved the engine a few times, waiting for Ryoma to get past his hesitation. "Stop being so stubborn!"
"I'm not!"
Momoshiro stilled for a moment, then turned the engine off. He strode over to Ryoma and tilted the boy's head up. "Ryoma?" He could see a faint glimmer of gold behind the visor, but it was too faint for him to read anything from them. He slid the helmet visor up, but Ryoma refused to look at him.
"Hey," he said gently. "Look at me when I'm talking to you." Annoyed golden eyes glared at him. "Good." Momoshiro gazed deeply into the flat gold of Ryoma's eyes. At first, they revealed nothing, but then slowly, something drifted free from the hidden restraints, and Momoshiro knew. He released this grip on the helmet and smiled gently.
"You could have just told me, you know." He tugged the younger boy closer to his bike. "There, have a closer look at it. It's really not that scary. You won't fall off as long as you hold on tight. And I'm a very good motorcyclist. You won't get hurt, I promise."
He took Ryoma's hand and ran it down the gleaming paintwork, fingers brushing along the polished chrome. And then he released Ryoma and swung a leg over the vehicle once more. "Hold on tight and I won't let you fall."
The joy in his heart hurt slightly—unaccustomed to it as he was—when Ryoma gingerly seated himself behind Momoshiro. He clenched his fingers tightly in the fringes of Momoshiro's shirt.
"Promise?" Ryoma asked in a small voice.
"Definitely." Momoshiro started up the engine again and felt fingers tugging in panic at his shirt. "Not like that, Ryoma. Put your arms around my waist. You can hold on better that way."
He felt the barely noticeable tremor in those lanky arms as they came around his waist and patted on hand lightly. "Hey, relax a bit, okay? I'll show you that a motorcycle ride doesn't have to scare the hell out of you."
They started to move, and Ryoma's arms tightened around Momoshiro's waist as he clung on for dear life. As they rode away, Ryoma wondered curiously why being around Momoshiro felt like he was in the safest place in the world.
They arrived at a club of sorts, and Momoshiro parked his bike beside the others. Ryoma glanced at the people waiting in line and their stylish, trendy clothes, and then back at himself, dressed in his rumpled school uniform. School uniform. Did they seriously expect him to be admitted into such a place in his school uniform?
"Oi, Ryoma, don't just sit there. Get off." Momoshiro kept the spare helmet that Ryoma was wearing and prodded him to get him off the parked motorcycle. When Ryoma refused to budge, Momoshiro sighed and massaged his temples. He could already feel an ache building up behind the bone. "What is it this time?"
"There's no way I'm getting in dressed like this." He studied the simple jeans and T-shirt that Momoshiro was wearing. "No way you're getting in either."
"That's what's bothering you?" Momoshiro laughed. "We'll get in, trust me." When Ryoma still didn't move from his perch on the motorcycle, Momoshiro raised his eyes heavenward and simply lifter Ryoma off the bike, snorting when Ryoma flailed his limbs, protesting vehemently.
"Put me down!"
"Well, you were just sitting there. Remember what I said about acting like a doll?" Momoshiro set him back down on the ground and prodded him forward by means of a hand on the shorter boy's shoulder. "Come on, I promise you that you won't be embarrassed, okay?" He said softly.
"I- Since when did I say I was embarrassed!" Ryoma replied hotly. His eyes were shimmering, like molten gold. And Momoshiro knew he'd hit the proverbial nail on its proverbial head.
With a grin, he nudged the scowling boy forward again. "Then I don't see a reason for your hesitation."
"I want my cap back first."
Knowing that the cap afforded Ryoma some sort of shield against the world, Momoshiro plucked the cap from his pocket, dusted it off and shook it back into shape, and then perched it jauntily on Ryoma's head.
Ryoma made a small sound of protest, but didn't really glare at him so much as give him a firm look, before readjusting the cap.
"Thanks," he muttered, angling the brim of his cap further down when he noticed the looks from a few of the people nearer them.
They walked towards the velvet-covered ropes that cordoned off the doorway, Momoshiro oblivious to the disbelieving stares aimed their way and Ryoma wishing he could melt into a non-existent puddle so that they would stop staring and muttering. He hated it when other people gossiped about others, when the person of topic was right there. It was rude and insensitive, and Ryoma felt his temper rise. And then Momoshiro laid a calming hand on his shoulder, the gesture somehow soothing, comforting.
"Hey," Momoshiro murmured, looking down slightly at Ryoma. "Relax. It'll be okay. I promised, remember?"
Ryoma sent him a belligerent scowl, simply for appearances sake. The thing was—unsettling as it was—that the gentle sound of Momoshiro's voice, the light touch on his shoulder…he felt the tension slowly seep away, drained from his body, and he felt lighter. Hidden behind the shadows that his cap produced, he blinked, fascinated by what had happened. It was…odd. And of all people, it just had to be the violet-eyed chunk of testosterone standing beside him that made him feel that strange sense of safety.
Well, maybe it's because he's so tall and strong that really, who could go up against him and win? Yeah, it's got to be that. Around him, I'm definitely physically safe from all the 'terrors of the night' that gives kaa-san all her wrinkles.
He found it even odder when the bouncer of that club greeted Momoshiro with a smile and a wave.
"Takeshi, hey, the others are already inside. They said you'd have a friend along with you. This him?" He asked, gesturing at Ryoma.
"Yeah." Momoshiro tugged gently on Ryoma's arm. "Hey, come forward a bit. He won't bite." He grinned. "At least, not you."
Ryoma stumbled forward, not expecting the tug. He found himself staggering into the velvet ropes, but a strong hand jerked him backwards. Momoshiro tilted his chin up and lifted the cap slightly to peer down at Ryoma.
"Hey, are you okay?"
Ryoma wrenched himself away and tugged his cap down again with a vicious yank, his cheek burning. "I'm fine," he snarled through gritted teeth. He heard Momoshiro snort in disbelief, and then exchange words with the bouncer. And then he found an arm around his shoulders, and Momoshiro was sweeping him through the doorway.
He had expected the interior of the club to be dim and smoky, walls vibrating with deafening music, but although it was somewhat dimly lit, the interior was luxuriously decorated with plush furniture and thick carpets. The dance floor was a lake of gleaming obsidian, and the music, piped in at a discreet volume, was soothing strings and lilting pipes that lent an airy, ethereal atmosphere to the strange club. There were people at the bar, drinking, socializing, occasionally hitting on each other, just like any ordinary club, but somehow, Ryoma felt that it wasn't.
He allowed Momoshiro to lead him past a heavy-curtained arched doorway and into a deeper section of the club. There was a main area that looked more like an elaborate , circular western-style sitting room, than anything else. And then there were the numerous doors. Momoshiro walked to one, knocked, and then entered. Ryoma, not wanting to be left alone in the quiet, empty room, followed behind him.
The inside was even stranger.
"Momo, took you long enough," Eiji complained with a teasing smile. "Delayed?"
Ryoma wondered at the faint blush that immediately covered Momoshiro's face, and the embarrassed-angry look that flashed in his eyes. "It was nothing like that! There was some trouble, that's all."
Shit, he's going to tell them what a coward I am!
"That chibi's head wouldn't fit right in the spare helmet I had, so I had to make sure it didn't fall off halfway."
What? Ryoma blinked in surprise. He didn't…tell? My head fit perfectly into that thing…like it was made for me… He looked away.
Blue topaz, a deep, crystalline blue that colours the sky, the colour of the ocean's tears… With a muttered curse, he forced himself to look away from the captivating eyes. Fuji was weird. No normal person could possibly have eyes like that.
"Saa, Ryoma-kun. Have a seat," Fuji said in that lethal voice, patting the space beside him on the well-cushioned divan. That voice was—if spiders could speak—what a fly would hear, as it flew by that beautiful, silken web. It was soft, gently beckoning,…deadly. Ryoma gulped, emotions warring inside him, On one hand, all his instincts were screaming at him not to sit beside Fuji. But on the other hand, Momoshiro had told him not to anger Fuji, and Ryoma could already see how intimidating Fuji could be when he wasn't trying to scare. Or was he?
He was suddenly pulled off balance, and with a short yelp, he landed sprawled across Momoshiro's lap.
"Gomen ne, Fuji, but I'd rather have Ryoma beside me." The words were spoken seemingly carelessly, casually, but Ryoma could sense a formal undertone to it, as if Momoshiro was requesting something of Fuji.
There was a moment where everything went silent, and Ryoma couldn't help but be reminded of the calm before a disastrous storm. But then Fuji laughed lightly.
"Very well, then." He leaned closer to Tezuka. "More space for me and Tezuka, then." Tezuka rolled his eyes heavenward, but Ryoma noticed that he didn't protest when Fuji nuzzled his neck with a barely-audible purr.
And then Ryoma realised that he was still seat on Momoshiro's lap, and he tried to get off. Tried being the operative word. Momoshiro refused to let him off.
"Hey, let me go!"
"Ryoma, there is no space for you to go on to." Momoshiro smirked. He gestured to the room, and Ryoma realised that every single seat had been taken up. "Unless you really want to sit beside Fuji…"
Ryoma scowled and muttered something under his breath.
"Hey, I resent that remark!" Momoshiro retorted, deliberately jostling Ryoma, who nearly fell off his lap.
"Shit-" Ryoma reached out wildly and clung on to the nearest firmly fixed surface. He realised only after he'd stopped sliding off, that he'd flung his arms around Momoshiro's neck, and now the two of them were face to face. His eyes widened.
Momoshiro reached for Ryoma as the younger boy started sliding off his lap. He smothered a curse with a mildly less offensive one, reaching for Ryoma before he hit the floor. He was stunned when Ryoma wrapped his arms around his neck, effectively anchoring himself to Momoshiro. He looked deeply into those shielded champagne eyes, wondering what he'd find behind the mask of flat gold.
He saw wonderment, astonishment. He saw a fleeting flash of fear, the growing embarrassment. He pushed past the remaining barriers and saw a hint of…attraction? Momoshiro wasn't sure. He wasn't as good at this as the others were. And then, he slid the cap off Ryoma's head and shielded the side facing Fuji with it. And then he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Ryoma's gently parted lips.
And with that soft touch, he was lost.
The hand not holding the cap slid up Ryoma's spine slowly, teasingly, and then Momoshiro sank his fingers into the dark, wavy locks of hair, the heel of his palm resting on the nape of Ryoma's neck.
Ryoma gasped in surprise and he took advantage of his open mouth to deepen the kiss. He saw only one thing in his mind, as he kissed Ryoma into submission. He saw only a deep, gold, exuding a gentle warmth like the sun's ray on a clear day. He felt that warmth spread closer to his soul, until he was almost sure that… And then Ryoma pulled away, breath coming in slight pants. His face was flushed a bright pink, and his golden eyes were bright with embarrassment. Only later, when Momoshiro was pondering over the events of the day, did he realise that hidden behind that furious mortification was a smidgen of arousal.
"Don't worry, none of them saw us," Momoshiro assured him. He didn't say it, but he was sure that they saw, but when he directed Ryoma to look, they were all engrossed in one thing or another.
Thank you, kami-sama.
Ryoma quickly looked—first—to Fuji, but the fawn-haired tennis player was busy murmuring and teasing Tezuka, a sly smile on his face. Inui was…showing Kaidoh a book?
"It's Inui's book of data—very, very precious. He only lets a select few view its contents. Even I haven't seen what's in it," Momoshiro explained, somehow sensing his confusion.
And Eiji was happily chattering to Oishi about…toothpaste? He looked to Momoshiro for an explanation to that.
"Eiji has this thing about brushing teeth. I don't even bother to pretend to understand it. I think the only people who do are Oishi, Fuji, and Eiji himself." Momoshiro grinned and shrugged.
Kawamura… Hey, where was Kawamura?
"Kawamura's not here." Ryoma frowned. "I bet he saw us and freaked out and left. Momoshiro, I'll kill you!" Ryoma hissed.
"Hey, he didn't see anything," Momoshiro protested. "Ask Eiji." When Ryoma stayed silent, not wanting to draw attention to himself, Momoshiro simply called out, "Oi, Eiji, what happened to Taka-san?"
Immediately, all eyes were on them, and Ryoma squirmed uncomfortably.
"Taka-san?" Eiji laughed. "Oh, he went to get a new round of drinks. You two were so slow that we were almost done with the first round by the time you arrived. In fact, he left just as Ochibi found a place to sit."
Momoshiro was extremely grateful that Eiji was able to say the last part without grinning insanely and laughing. Sometimes Eiji could be really helpful.
"I need the toilet," Ryoma muttered, getting to his feet. But then Momoshiro stood up as well, and he fisted his hands by his sides. "Good grief, it's just the toilet!"
"You don't understand Ryoma," Oishi said gently. "This is no place for you to be roaming unescorted."
"The worst that will happen is that I'll get kicked out!" Ryoma snarled. "And it's not like I asked to come here either!"
"No, that's not the worst that could happen—rather, it's the best-case scenario." Oishi put his near-empty glass on the polished table. "Let Momoshiro go with you, Ryoma. It's safer that way."
"It's okay, Oishi, let the boy have his freedom," Fuji chided gently. "Go on, Ryoma. Momoshiro does have to play bodyguard since it's just to the toilet." Fuji waved his hand in the classic 'shoo' gesture, smiling.
"Geez, I'm going, I'm going…" He stormed out of the room angrily, slamming the door shut behind him. But once out in the cold, empty chamber, he stared at the multitude of doors. Perfect. He had no idea where the toilet was. Well, it had to be somewhere, right? He tried the closest door on his left, but it was locked. Never mind, he tried the one after that one. Also locked.
"What's the point of having doors around if they're all locked?" He tried the one to the left of that, and found it unlocked, but when he peered inside, all he saw was darkness. Creeped out, he shut the door and half-ran to the next door. All of them seemed to be locked, until he came to the door directly opposite from the one the strange street-tennis gang was in. He tried the knob.
It turned.
He looked inside, as he had with the pitch black room. Oh, but this one was lit up. It was beautiful, like something out of a fairytale. Ryoma wasn't one to believe much in such kiddy nonsense, but the fantasy-like quality of the room seemed to draw him in. The furniture in the room was all either wooden or stone, beautifully crafted. Decorating the walls were framed paintings of seascapes, forests, lonely deserts, and ghostly plains. Hanging from the eaves were what looked like creeping vines, and when Ryoma touched them, he was astonished to find that they were real plants. But there was no sunlight in this room, and yet they looked like they were thriving…
He ran a hand over the smooth, but simple cotton cushion covers. They were embroidered with farm scenes and rolling hills and wide, open fields. There was also what seemed like a mix between a single bed and a very wide divan. It was large enough to sleep comfortably on, yet it didn't really look too much like a bed. Ryoma touched the flawlessly smooth cover. It was raw silk.
The room spoke of freedom and dreams of flight. It gave off a comforting feel, like being held in a mother's tender embrace. Ryoma was loathe to leave it, but he wanted to find the toilet, and soon, so that he could return and prove to them that he didn't need their coddling and their treating him like a child.
Child my foot! I'm going to be seventeen…soon! He scuffed his shoe on the edge of the hand-woven carpet, and then regretfully saw that his rash actions had left a smear of dirt on the pastel rug. He decided he'd better leave, before he ruined anything else in that room of dreams.
He shut the door carefully behind him, as if afraid that the slightest bit of force would shatter the contents of the room. He tried the door after that one, and also found it unlocked. Hoping it was another room like the previous one, he stepped inside.
It was also decorated with a sort of…theme. But this one was a little more desolate. For starters, the colour scheme seemed limited to…greyscale. There was nothing there that wasn't white, black, or a shade of grey. Not a speck of colour. The furnishings were rather severe, either in wrought-iron, or carved granite, although they were padded with cushions for comfort. The walls were bare, save for wispy sheets of fabric that hung over the walls and from the ceiling, like fog.
But at the same time, it wasn't completely depressing. Ryoma could get a vague sense of lethe in the room, like for a moment, time had stopped, and he could stop thinking, stop remembering. He sat down on a cushioned wrought-iron park bench and just let his mind drift for a moment. It felt…nice.
And then he decided to explore the remaining rooms. Hopefully, they'd be as nice as these two that he'd already been in. He shut the door gently, and tried the next room. As he'd hoped, it was unlocked. He grinned and wondered what surprise would be next.
He was absolutely floored.
It was…amazing.
Somehow, whoever built this room, or designed it, had included a small, flowing stream. It was only a little wider than one foot across, but it was running, water, not the stagnant wading pool kind. And occasionally, through the small gap in either end of the wall, a dried leaf would slip in, or slip out. In one corner, there was a small water feature, just a pile of rounded stones, sitting on a bed of small rust and sand coloured pebbles, with water pumped from a source to trickle over the top of the large stones. Nearby was a potted plant, the fronds seeming to lean down gently to swish against the wet stone.
There were hand-crafted frames hanging on the walls, each individually decorated. Each contained a small bit of nature, preserved forever. In one, there were pressed leaves, preserved such that only the tougher veins were left, set against a back ground of a simple, slight crumpled brown paper bag. In another, there were dried flowers, framed against pale silk, or satin. And another had sand-art on textured paper.
Like the previous two, there was a non-bed, but this one seemed more like a mattress on a raised platform. Ryoma could imagine taking a nap on that bed, drifting to sleep to the sounds of running water, the dreams of birds chirping and leaves rustling, the scent of flowers lingering in the air…
Out of the three rooms he'd seen so far, this one was his favourite.
He had just stepped out of the room, tenderly shutting the door, fingers unconsciously caressing the knob like a lover's hand, when he decided that surely the people at the bar area would know where the toilet was.
He walked to the arched doorway and swept aside the heavy velvet curtain and found himself back in the plush lounge area. As he walked up to the bar, he noticed all eyes on him. Unconsciously, he tilted the brim of his cap further down to conceal more of his face. Once at the bar, he tried to get the bartender's attention, but the man seemed to busy mixing up drinks to notice him. Finally, out of sheer desperation, he tried asking one of the people sipping cocktails.
"Could you tell me where the toilet is?" He asked one woman perched on the edge of the barstool. She looked harmless enough.
"Little boy, why did you stray from your companions?" She asked, as if she hadn't heard him. "You're not safe on your own."
He rolled his eyes, feeling the annoyance building up again. "I don't need a damn keeper, okay? I'm old enough to go where I want! Where is the damn toilet?"
"You still speak like a child, behave like one. Go back to them, where it's safe." She tried to shoo him off in the direction of the archway.
"If you didn't want to help me, you could've just said so!" Ryoma stalked off in search of someone who might actually lead him to the toilet, instead of spouting some sort of weird mumbo-jumbo.
He tried another woman—women, he'd decided, were the safer choice, since he looked too young to be hitting on them, and they weren't as aggressive as men—this one was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, baring one slender thigh and lots of skin.
"Excuse me, but could you point me in the direction of the toilet?"
She stared at him like he'd grown a second head, and maybe horns and a forked tail. And then she smiled, and it was not a nice smile. "Shouldn't have strayed from your keepers, little boy. You'll get eaten up alive, if you wander around some more."
She leaned down, and Ryoma staunchly avoided looking at the ample cleavage she was 'accidentally' displaying. "Come a little closer, child, and I'll show you what I mean."
Eyes wide, he backed away. "Uh, I think I'll pass on that." Nympho.
She whipped around and glared at him. "What did you call me?"
"What? I didn't call you anything! I just said I'll be going along." He took another step back, deciding that perhaps women weren't as safe a choice as he had previously thought. Too caught up in watching the movements of the woman he had enraged, he failed to notice others in the large chamber also rising, and slowly moving towards them.
"I heard loud and clear what you called me!" She shrieked. "Little brat!" She snarled. "Want to know what I do to little brats who don't know their place?"
Now, Ryoma wasn't a coward. He may have fears for things like motorcycles (although that was understandable, since he'd been involved in an accident with one), and extremely deep, murky water where he couldn't see how deep it was, and even venomous animals (but then again, who didn't). But he certainly wasn't afraid of women. Neither did he believe in mistreating them. Under normal circumstances, he would have just walked away in a huff, but this woman…she had scary eyes.
He could see in them that she was planning on doing him serious damage. So he took a step back, and another, until he backed into something that was too hard to be a chair or sofa, but too soft to be a wall. He turned around to take a quick glance, and found himself staring at a gigantic hunk of male.
He extricated himself from the man, but was grabbed back roughly.
"Stay awhile," he said in a deep, rumbling voice. "Play with us for a little bit."
"No," Ryoma replied. "Not happening." He tried to wrench his arm back, but the man's grip tightened, painfully so. "Damn it, you're hurting me! Let me go!"
He was pulled back once more, and when he struggled, trying to get away, he felt a huge hand at his neck, urging his head up.
"You're feisty. I like it." He smiled, the twist of his lips an evil, mocking parody of a smile. Then he turned to the crowd around them. "Let's have some fun, shall we? He has abandoned his keepers, and wandered right into our midst. I say we enjoy this little stray sheep." There were murmurs of assent and when Ryoma looked into the crowd for help, all he saw were toothsome smiles and gleaming eyes.
No, no! It wasn't supposed to happen this way! He was supposed to have found the stupid toilet and returned with some measure of pride and independence. He wasn't supposed to end up surrounded by a crowd of insane people, getting groped by some guy on steroids!
"Fuck you all! Let me go!" He twisted this way and that, trying to get out of the hold, but those arms were like bands of steel, and he was only a sixteen-going-on-seventeen-year-old boy whose sole form of exercise was tennis. Now, he certainly wasn't scrawny, but there were only so much muscles that you could get from playing tennis, and tennis alone.
"He's mine first," the large man called out.
"He's mine!" The dagger-eyes woman protested.
"I claim first rights!" The other woman declared. "He came to me first!"
"But you rejected him, so that gives me the right to claim him!"
Ryoma wondered, somewhat distantly, if it was going to escalate into some sort of freak bitch-fight, complete with biting, clawing, and clothes-tearing. And then the man restraining him spoke.
"He walked right into my arms, so I get him." There was a look on his face that dared them to challenge his claim. No one did. "Good." He stroked one finger down the column of Ryoma's throat, fingernail scraping lightly at the skin. And then he reached the collar of Ryoma's school uniform. "Ah, I just love a kid in uniform," he growled.
He undid the top button of Ryoma's uniform shirt, and Ryoma decided that he'd had enough. He jabbed his elbow hard into the tall man's gut, and then tried to wrestle his way out of that immobile hold. All he got was a cuff to the side of his head. Dazed, he went limp for a brief moment. When he was able to think straight once more, he found himself flat on a wide diva, cushions scattered all about the floor. Half the buttons on his uniform shirt were undone.
"Damn, you've got skin like a girl's." He felt a large finger brush his carotid pulse and turned away from it as much as he could. But one large hand cupped his cheek roughly and made him look straight into jet-black eyes. Those eyes were cold, unfeeling, like gleaming lumps of coal, like chips from the obsidian-coloured dance floor he had been admiring earlier.
"Got, really pretty eyes, too." And ryoma realised that his cap had fallen off, in all the ruckus. Again those sausage-sized fingers made another pass along his rapid pulse. "I think I'll mark you right…here." And those fingers stopped just over his throbbing pulse.
His face grew closer and Ryoma squeezed his eyes shut, wondering why he'd been so stubborn as to insist he wander off on his own. The ones who had brought him here, surely they would know better than him what would happen if he went off on his own. And he'd known that being around Momoshiro was safe. He might not have been as built as the guy straddling him, but he certainly looked like he could hold his own. And even if he couldn't, there was Kawamura. There was another guy who looked as immoveable as a mountain.
Momoshiro, you promised that I'd have fun here, that I wouldn't get embarrassed. And on the bike, you promised that I wouldn't get hurt. He clenched his fists, feeling his nails bite into his palms, when he felt hot breath on his skin.
You promised…so where are you now?
And just when he thought he felt wet lips on his skin, the sensation was gone. His eyes flew open, and he was staring into furious amethyst eyes that were glowing with an unholy light. The man who had been on top of him was lying on the floor, as he slid from the dented plaster of the wall to the gleaming tiled floor.
A/N:
I couldn't leave it as a non-con cliff-hanger, so I did a little bit of extra typing and got to the point where Momoshiro burst in. didn't feel like typing any Ochibi-rape (I only type rape fics when I'm 1. extremely pissed off—and you get rape that is more violent, than anything else 2. extremely depressed—where you get rape that is generally full of angst and hurt) so I got Momoshiro to go play tarzan/prince charming/uber-kakkoi tennis player in shining armour/loincloth/sweaty tennis clothes.
And I decided to have him hurl miscellaneous pervy guy into the wall.
As is well, and Momoshiro saves Ochibi-uke.
And now, I go on to type chapter 3. have fun reading, and don't forget to review. After all, I really do get motivated to type when I read the reviews left behind. General comments are welcome, as are suggestions/observations (especially for inconsistencies, since I'm typing this at -glances at clock- O.M.G. IT'S PAST 6 IN THE FUCKING MORNING! O.O!)… flames will be ignored. Criticisms… well if I read them and decide that they're constructive, I'll keep them in mind, or else it'll go into the blender, where Inui will make his new batch of SUPER DEADLY TRASHED-FLAME JUICE.
Yes, I have gone mad. I've always been insane, but now I've just crossed the border into mad. It's frickin' 6 a.m. wouldn't you?