A Piece of the Past
by Hoshi

Shishido goggled.

It wasn't the question of how, when, why, or anything else for that matter but hell, he had questions he couldn't even begin to form as he let his bag thump onto the floor. What made him drop his jaw and indulge in more boggling of the mind was the grin on Choutarou's face. Was there nothing wrong here?!

The strong curve of his jaw worked furiously.

He opened his mouth -- caught another glance of the artefact in the middle of the room -- and shut it again.

Ok, he wasn't meaning to be crude and brusque and... stuff here, but --

"What the hell?"

The thought of actually closing the door before pointing at the lump on the floor and double-taking crossed his mind briefly, but he blamed the shock of coming home to a newly-acquired centerpiece. A very large one at that.

"You don't recognise it?" The silver-haired boy blinked from the sofa, looking up from his magazine.

"I do! I mean -- Yes, I recognise it, but what is it doing here?!"

"Hiyoshi helped to carry it over?"

"Noooo, what I meant was why is it here?! A -- and you coerced Hiyoshi into it too?"

Shishido could feel the slight unhappiness seeping into the younger boy's voice. "I didn't coerce," He frowned, and Shishido felt a slight twinge of guilt. "I just gave him a call."


There was silence for a long while, as Shishido smoothed back long hair which had long since grown out from his previous haircut. He moved to close the door lightly and flopped down beside Ohtori onto the sofa -- the right side, his usual corner -- with a soft grumble.

"... Hey," He ventured, glancing sideways at the taller of the two. "I know what you mean... But isn't the apartment a little too small for this?" Shishido gestured towards the new addition to their furniture collection, his feet already propped up on it.

"They were going to tear it down, and I thought I wanted something to remember things by before it's all gone." Ohtori admitted, and then returned to his magazine once more. Like he was even reading, Shishido observed, mentally smacking himself. He understood though.

Well, they needed a coffee table anyway.

... Or a footrest. Even if the concrete felt a little too lumpy against his bare feet.

He stared a little at a [relatively] small piece of their past, at the crack a little to the left of his current footstool, where Choutarou's Scud Serve first went through, the ragged remnants of what was once a wall, coarse concrete solid against his hand as he leapt over it, fatigue overtaken by pride for his junior.

Mahogany eyes shuttered close as he rested his head onto warm, broad shoulders.

Hell, they could paint it pink and pass it off as a sculpture by a random obscure artist if Choutarou wanted..

But he guessed it looked pretty alright on its own.

The End

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