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31_days2005-08-29 06:17 am
zauberer-sirin.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-08-29 06:17 am
[august 28] [prince of tennis] tricks of the memory
title: tricks of the memory
day/theme: 28 august/"gilgamesh"
fandom: prince of tennis
pairing: atobe/oshitari, future!fic, oshitari is in college
rating: r
notes: okay, i bent the theme a bit, but i remembered how in my second college year they made us study the gilgamesh poem in the "history of written communication" course and so i thought "that´s it, college!fic". and yes, i find hidenobu kiuchi´s voice to be unbearably sexy. title sucks, the whole things suck, it needs more writing but i need some sleep.
"Funny how habits creep up on you like hours, and when you think you've got it all under control, things start slipping."![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
idees_fixes
*
*
tricks of the memory
*
The day is not quite grey but not quit harmless in his threatening to rain, and Oshitari is walking home, maybe because he is used to save the trnasport money or maybe because he really likes the kind of solitude, good solitude, of crossing the city alone. The weather doesn´t look like a prelude to anything, the walkbyers go on with their lives don´t warn you of what´s about to happen.
He finds Atobe inside a shop; a shop of clothes too expensive for him, too expensive for him even to set foot inside. But it just fits so well with Atobe that he blends into the background, his dark blue shirt (the first two buttons undone and fuck, Oshitari remembers, he remembers everything, it all comes back to him like the past four years never existed) seemingly a piece on sale, as if Atobe were a living mannequin.
Looking so long through the window is much like the team days, and he had knows the back of Atobe´s neck so well if only from staring so much.
It´s a bit pathetic (you´re a big boy now) but it also has a nice ring of revisionism, and college students are prone to nostalgia. He feels older than he´ll ever actually be.
*
For a moment he is horribly sure, terribly sure that Atobe is not going to recognize him.
He gasps and opens his mouth and for a moment the word "captain" insinuates on his lips, until he realizes it´s ridiculous and settles for a simple and clean, if rather shaked "hello".
Atobe smiles at him just he had just seen him the day before, with calm and dissinterest.
(with that smile Oshitari feels his old skin slowly sliding back on, the stupid school boy he thought he had forgotten, now he believes he even remembers the right way to hold a racket)
He doesn´t remember Atobe has asked any questions yet he is babbling out the answers now: that he is in second year at the Tokyo university, studying journalism. (Atobe´s glance slanting over him as if saying since when you are into journalism? and Oshitari wouldn´t have an answer right now).
Atobe takes a good, lingering look over him (and is that condescendence in his eyes?) and he tilts his head towards the end of the shop.
"I´ll be back in a minute," he waves to the blonde and slender clerk.
Once inside the changing room Atobe smiles a smile that can only be labelled as drunken, or sleepy, or even drugged. Almost surprised Oshitari lets himself be embraced by strong arms (Oshitari remembers those arms, the muscles, their power, practice time, the sound of a ball smashed hard against concrete, a towel tossed over his shoulder, his wrists, everything, he remembers everything), leaning, a bit, unconciously or so he tells himself to escape guilt, towards the warmth of the other.
Atobe finishes the contact as suddenly and with as much authority as he initianted it. He turns to the huge wall mirror and for the next couple of minutes he acts like Oshitari is not there: he unbuttons his shirt and carefully -gracefully- takes it away and leaves it elegantly folded on the metal chair besides him.
"Hand me that one," he motions to Oshitari. "The burgundy one."
A bit puzzled he does as told, then he thinks Atobe is the kind of person who thinks everybody knows exactly what colour burgundy is. And he is the kind that doesn´t know, even if he does. Atobe looks at the mirror before doing the buttons, admiring how loosely it hangs on his softly carved shoulders. For the first time Oshitari allows himself to steal a glimpse at his bare chest, and the tan looks so natural that Oshitari is sure it´s artificial.
Atobe catches him.
He flashes a smile; a smile he doesn´t know exactly where it came from, a smile that shouldn´t be here.
The first textbooks fall to the ground, a loud thump; and an open page with the poem of Gilgamesh. They are studying it because it was one of the first expressions of written language (on stone, everything first on stone), Oshitari tells him this, bursting the words out syllabes so close that it´s hard to understand, because he is nervous, embarrased. More books fall.
Years in Tokyo haven´t had been able to wipe away, even a bit, that funny, awkward, beautiful, disastrous, horrible, stuoid, sexy accent in Oshitari and it makes Atobe want to bite his lip. And he does.
He kisses Oshitari slowly, with one hand on the back of his neck, he kisses a bit too open-mouthed, and a bit erring the shot (again, like he his drunk), lips on the corner of Oshitari´s mouth and then on his cheek and then along his jaw.
Oshitari just stands there and lets him do, frozen, and suddenly he realizes it´s a very good idea Atobe is grabbing him by the neck, otherwise he´d refused the kiss.
(he doesn´t have time to think how Atobe tastes, he doesn´t want to think about how Atobe tastes, in case he is ever going to miss it)
And for a moment Oshitari think Atobe is going to fuck him just there and then, or then and there because grammar and sense get lost in that hot and hungry and other million cliches mouth, and even that´s too cheap for Atobe, no matter how expensive the shop is, how expensive the shirt is, that would be just too cheap (oh, but come on, don´t tell you haven´t think about it, that he would grab your hair, urgently, digging his nails into your skull pressing until you go down on him; oh, don´t tell me you never dreamed about it, now you remember, that you were alone after practice and he would taste of sweat and victory, like made from the same material as the tennis courts, rough and hard and full of possibilities, don´t tell me you are not picturing it now, uniforms and all, and your cock is telling you you are twenty years old and still in love like a child).
But no. Nothing of that. It would be just too cheap for Atobe, Oshitari repeats, also he is not sure he deserves such a spam of time from his former captain.
He ends the kiss as abruptly and senselessly as he had started it -as Atobe does everything, he never needs justification because somehow you know there must be some, if hidden, because he is he.
"Oh, yes," he says, tearing his eyes, mind and attention from Oshitari and back to the mirror. "This one is much better."
And he goes out, new shirt buttoned (but for the first couple of buttons, remember) and old shirt in the bag. He makes no motion to Oshitari and this only follows because old habits surface when you least expect it.
(and this is what Oshitari remembers: light smeared around the edges of Atobe´s body, he is blocking out the sun, for he might be the sun as well; you bruised easily and the bruises were your pride, scrapped knees not childish but with a side of victory, you worked so hard; the sweet pressure of wrist-weights, how you missed being tried, when the world was on the verge of being conquered every afternoon)
*
They exit the shop together but when they get to the street they, inexorably, gaze into different directions.
Oshitari feels overly conscious, painted in pale colours on a cheap canvas against the fashionable clothes of Atobe, against his tan, his eyes still hungry, the discreet but stylish ring around his finger. He finds it hard to believe their paths ran together for a while. He finds it hard to believe how his skin burn on the back of his neck, where Atobe pressed his fingers to keep him balanced.
(it´s the one thing he doesn´t want to remember, in case he ever misses it)
"It has been good to see you," Atobe says, again sleepy/drunken/stoned tone that doesn´t quite fit the situation; and he sways away and out of sight.
Because Atobe has a expensive car and Oshitari is used to walking home alone, as much because he has a habit of saving the transport money as because he likes this kind of solitude.
The last glimpse he catches of Atobe and he suddenly realizes that he wears his hair a bit longer. That hasn´t caught his attention before. Or maybe he was just remembering.
day/theme: 28 august/"gilgamesh"
fandom: prince of tennis
pairing: atobe/oshitari, future!fic, oshitari is in college
rating: r
notes: okay, i bent the theme a bit, but i remembered how in my second college year they made us study the gilgamesh poem in the "history of written communication" course and so i thought "that´s it, college!fic". and yes, i find hidenobu kiuchi´s voice to be unbearably sexy. title sucks, the whole things suck, it needs more writing but i need some sleep.
"Funny how habits creep up on you like hours, and when you think you've got it all under control, things start slipping."
idees_fixes*
*
tricks of the memory
*
The day is not quite grey but not quit harmless in his threatening to rain, and Oshitari is walking home, maybe because he is used to save the trnasport money or maybe because he really likes the kind of solitude, good solitude, of crossing the city alone. The weather doesn´t look like a prelude to anything, the walkbyers go on with their lives don´t warn you of what´s about to happen.
He finds Atobe inside a shop; a shop of clothes too expensive for him, too expensive for him even to set foot inside. But it just fits so well with Atobe that he blends into the background, his dark blue shirt (the first two buttons undone and fuck, Oshitari remembers, he remembers everything, it all comes back to him like the past four years never existed) seemingly a piece on sale, as if Atobe were a living mannequin.
Looking so long through the window is much like the team days, and he had knows the back of Atobe´s neck so well if only from staring so much.
It´s a bit pathetic (you´re a big boy now) but it also has a nice ring of revisionism, and college students are prone to nostalgia. He feels older than he´ll ever actually be.
*
For a moment he is horribly sure, terribly sure that Atobe is not going to recognize him.
He gasps and opens his mouth and for a moment the word "captain" insinuates on his lips, until he realizes it´s ridiculous and settles for a simple and clean, if rather shaked "hello".
Atobe smiles at him just he had just seen him the day before, with calm and dissinterest.
(with that smile Oshitari feels his old skin slowly sliding back on, the stupid school boy he thought he had forgotten, now he believes he even remembers the right way to hold a racket)
He doesn´t remember Atobe has asked any questions yet he is babbling out the answers now: that he is in second year at the Tokyo university, studying journalism. (Atobe´s glance slanting over him as if saying since when you are into journalism? and Oshitari wouldn´t have an answer right now).
Atobe takes a good, lingering look over him (and is that condescendence in his eyes?) and he tilts his head towards the end of the shop.
"I´ll be back in a minute," he waves to the blonde and slender clerk.
Once inside the changing room Atobe smiles a smile that can only be labelled as drunken, or sleepy, or even drugged. Almost surprised Oshitari lets himself be embraced by strong arms (Oshitari remembers those arms, the muscles, their power, practice time, the sound of a ball smashed hard against concrete, a towel tossed over his shoulder, his wrists, everything, he remembers everything), leaning, a bit, unconciously or so he tells himself to escape guilt, towards the warmth of the other.
Atobe finishes the contact as suddenly and with as much authority as he initianted it. He turns to the huge wall mirror and for the next couple of minutes he acts like Oshitari is not there: he unbuttons his shirt and carefully -gracefully- takes it away and leaves it elegantly folded on the metal chair besides him.
"Hand me that one," he motions to Oshitari. "The burgundy one."
A bit puzzled he does as told, then he thinks Atobe is the kind of person who thinks everybody knows exactly what colour burgundy is. And he is the kind that doesn´t know, even if he does. Atobe looks at the mirror before doing the buttons, admiring how loosely it hangs on his softly carved shoulders. For the first time Oshitari allows himself to steal a glimpse at his bare chest, and the tan looks so natural that Oshitari is sure it´s artificial.
Atobe catches him.
He flashes a smile; a smile he doesn´t know exactly where it came from, a smile that shouldn´t be here.
The first textbooks fall to the ground, a loud thump; and an open page with the poem of Gilgamesh. They are studying it because it was one of the first expressions of written language (on stone, everything first on stone), Oshitari tells him this, bursting the words out syllabes so close that it´s hard to understand, because he is nervous, embarrased. More books fall.
Years in Tokyo haven´t had been able to wipe away, even a bit, that funny, awkward, beautiful, disastrous, horrible, stuoid, sexy accent in Oshitari and it makes Atobe want to bite his lip. And he does.
He kisses Oshitari slowly, with one hand on the back of his neck, he kisses a bit too open-mouthed, and a bit erring the shot (again, like he his drunk), lips on the corner of Oshitari´s mouth and then on his cheek and then along his jaw.
Oshitari just stands there and lets him do, frozen, and suddenly he realizes it´s a very good idea Atobe is grabbing him by the neck, otherwise he´d refused the kiss.
(he doesn´t have time to think how Atobe tastes, he doesn´t want to think about how Atobe tastes, in case he is ever going to miss it)
And for a moment Oshitari think Atobe is going to fuck him just there and then, or then and there because grammar and sense get lost in that hot and hungry and other million cliches mouth, and even that´s too cheap for Atobe, no matter how expensive the shop is, how expensive the shirt is, that would be just too cheap (oh, but come on, don´t tell you haven´t think about it, that he would grab your hair, urgently, digging his nails into your skull pressing until you go down on him; oh, don´t tell me you never dreamed about it, now you remember, that you were alone after practice and he would taste of sweat and victory, like made from the same material as the tennis courts, rough and hard and full of possibilities, don´t tell me you are not picturing it now, uniforms and all, and your cock is telling you you are twenty years old and still in love like a child).
But no. Nothing of that. It would be just too cheap for Atobe, Oshitari repeats, also he is not sure he deserves such a spam of time from his former captain.
He ends the kiss as abruptly and senselessly as he had started it -as Atobe does everything, he never needs justification because somehow you know there must be some, if hidden, because he is he.
"Oh, yes," he says, tearing his eyes, mind and attention from Oshitari and back to the mirror. "This one is much better."
And he goes out, new shirt buttoned (but for the first couple of buttons, remember) and old shirt in the bag. He makes no motion to Oshitari and this only follows because old habits surface when you least expect it.
(and this is what Oshitari remembers: light smeared around the edges of Atobe´s body, he is blocking out the sun, for he might be the sun as well; you bruised easily and the bruises were your pride, scrapped knees not childish but with a side of victory, you worked so hard; the sweet pressure of wrist-weights, how you missed being tried, when the world was on the verge of being conquered every afternoon)
*
They exit the shop together but when they get to the street they, inexorably, gaze into different directions.
Oshitari feels overly conscious, painted in pale colours on a cheap canvas against the fashionable clothes of Atobe, against his tan, his eyes still hungry, the discreet but stylish ring around his finger. He finds it hard to believe their paths ran together for a while. He finds it hard to believe how his skin burn on the back of his neck, where Atobe pressed his fingers to keep him balanced.
(it´s the one thing he doesn´t want to remember, in case he ever misses it)
"It has been good to see you," Atobe says, again sleepy/drunken/stoned tone that doesn´t quite fit the situation; and he sways away and out of sight.
Because Atobe has a expensive car and Oshitari is used to walking home alone, as much because he has a habit of saving the transport money as because he likes this kind of solitude.
The last glimpse he catches of Atobe and he suddenly realizes that he wears his hair a bit longer. That hasn´t caught his attention before. Or maybe he was just remembering.