Notes: I... am not sure what I was thinking when I wrote this, so long ago, but I was plainly rather unhappy... and I still think everyone deserves a happy ending.

Shitsumei (Blind)
by Monnie

"What?! What the fuck? What the Hell do you mean by that?"

"Shishido-san, you…"

It wasn't their first fight—Hell, sure, they'd been going out three years, living together close to three, it would've just been plain unnatural if they hadn't had a spat or two. So they fought over small things, like who'd left the Playstation disks on the windowsill where the rain could get at them. (Well, it'd turned out to be Gakuto.) Sometimes, they fought over bigger things, too, like Shishido not wanting to come stay with Ootori over the spring vacation after he graduated. His family had already been starting to wonder why he talked about his partner all the time, and if anything, that would probably just have made it worse.

It was always okay in the end, honestly.

So, yeah, sometimes the fights were Shishido's fault—he was man enough to admit it when it happened (or, at least after it happened.) Sure, he wasn't always careful with what he was saying, and there just were times when things came out all wrong. Sometimes it wasn't him, 'cause he wasn't one to point fingers at his boyfriend, normally… but when Ootori had a bad day, damn it, he just had to say so, not mope around and look so hurt and broken around the eyes. It made Shishido want to scream when Ootori murmured, too softly, with just a little rasp around the edges of that familiar voice, 'No, Shishido-san, I'm fine.'

Yeah, sure, of course he was 'fine'—right before he broke down and started snapping over some silly little thing. And Shishido knew better than anyone that Ootori Choutarou was the sweetest person alive, normally, with that little smile of his, and those long fingers that loved to touch even when Ootori couldn't always say what he wanted to say—but it was really an unholy bitch to fight with someone who went pure ice-princess when he was in a bad mood.

It wasn't their first fight, so why the Hell did it feel like it?

"You're being unreasonable, Shishido-san."

"Look who's fucking talking! Look, I don't get why you're so pissy about this!"

Gods, he was such an utter idiot.

Shishido looked at the candles that he hadn't yet lit—the white lily he'd run to get at the florist's a dozen blocks down the street. Both he and it had both come home wet with rain, since he never remembered to bring an umbrella unless Ootori pressed it into his hand as he was going. The meal that he'd set on the table two hours ago—well, yeah, duh, it was cold by now. Spaghetti bolognese just didn't sit well, and he grimaced down at the slimy red skim of beef fat that'd floated to the top of the bowl of sauce.

Ootori had smiled at him yesterday and asked if maybe they could have the meat sauce for dinner, it was his favorite… and Shishido'd been pretty sure that not even he could mess up something that simple. He'd said yes. Heck, he'd promised. And grinned, turning to meet that mouth when his Choutarou had bent to give him a kiss on the cheek. Kisses—at least, Choutarou-kisses—belonged on his lips.

Well, cold and lumpy spaghetti sauce, with grease floating to the top, seemed pretty messed up to him, so he'd gotten that wrong, too.

Damn it, where was he? It was eight o'clock—no, it was eight-thirty, and they always had dinner at six thirty, because Choutarou had a heck of an appetite at the end of the day. Who'd have guessed, right? It kind of figured—as tall as Ootori was, and as much running as they did on the courts, plain old daily living had to take a lot of energy. He got hungry early, even if he'd never complained about it. No, that wasn't right—he complained, he just didn't talk about it: his stomach realised that the mouth wasn't going to say anything, and started yelling all on its own. Shishido'd figured that probably one day Ootori would realise— maybe actually saying he wanted a bite to eat would make him blush less than his belly making big old growly noises. He'd mistaken it for a dog the first time he'd heard it.

What the Hell was the idiot going to do for dinner, if he didn't come home? He hadn't brought his billfold with him—just his little leather coin-purse, he'd snatched it up from the coffee table on his way out the door. Damn it, he'd be lucky if there was enough in there for bus fare. If Shishido forgot his umbrella, Ootori always forgot when he needed money—probably because he really didn't need a lot of money most of the time, not when his parents had gotten him one of those newfangled cellphones that did pretty much everything but cook dinner: he could use it like a bank card at ATMs, and like a credit card at most big places in Tokyo; and they had swipe cards to use in the Hyotei cafeteria…

But Ootori's everything-but-the-kitchen-sink cellphone was resting, a nice, deep, liquid blue like the shine of a new car, on the sofa.

Shishido knew, because he'd tried calling it maybe a dozen times and sent maybe two times that many texts before he'd realised what that irritating buzzing noise from the living room was. His roommate had to be the only person in Tokyo who actually put his cellphone on Manner Mode, the way they were all supposed to, when getting into one of the subway trains…

"I'm leaving."

"Yeah? Fine. Go."

It really was getting late. Maybe Choutarou hadn't had enough for return bus fare. He'd taken his umbrella (what kind of idiot took their umbrella and left their wallet?!) but the rain had gotten pretty serious, maybe he'd taken shelter under a doorway or something. Maybe he'd stopped to help some old lady find directions to some obscure place in Yokohama, because Ootori did things like that, and the gods only knew old people loved him silly.

It wasn't hard to love him silly—Shishido would know.

Or maybe, just maybe…

Maybe he wasn't coming home.

No big deal, right? He'd come home when he cooled off—or, well, in Ootori's case, warmed up properly. It wasn't like Shishido wanted to sleep next to a hundred-eighty-centimetre-tall icicle, anyhow, right?

It was nine-thirty when Shishido finally stood up from the table, wanting to squash the stupid lily he'd run all the way to the florist's to get—but he picked it up and pulled off the little plastic water-tube, instead, the water spilling over his fingers, warm as tears. Choutarou always handled the flowers, when they had flowers for some reason or another, but he talked when he was doing it, sometimes—"Just in case I'm not around, so you can do it, too, Shishido-san."

Shishido'd gotten used to murmurs about cutting the stem under running water at an angle. Ootori'd probably learned that from that mom of his. And always cold water, yeah. A pinch of sugar into the water when he was done.

He'd always laughed, before, whenever Ootori lectured him about knowing what to do with the flowers, because… because… "Why the Hell would you not be around?" he'd always reached out to squeeze his roommate's strong, smooth shoulder. "You live here, don't you…?"

But now that he thought about it, just the one white lily looked so lonely in the big glass vase that they used for Valentine's flowers and celebratory bouquets

It was eleven o'clock by the time Shishido stood from the living room sofa, and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth—and caught his reflection in the mirror, with tear-tracks wet on his face, his own eyes so red and swollen that the blue of them looked wrong—desperate enough that he glanced away.

Fuck. Fuck, I screwed up.

He couldn't help the fact that his parents had set him up on some weird… blind date thing, with some girl who was the daughter of his dad's boss. She'd been pretty cute, all things considered—had a blush just like Choutarou's, too, which'd been kind of nice. And yeah, he'd taken the girl out to dinner, then to a game centre arcade so they could have some fun. Yeah, he'd seen her home, 'cause somehow it hadn't seemed right to make her walk alone from the train station. Yeah, he'd even kissed her on the cheek. She'd been standing there, waiting, with her face turned up to his, what the Hell else had he been supposed to do, right…?

Though, right now, he couldn't have remembered her name if he'd had a gun to his head.

Maybe he was rubbing off on his roommate, just a little, because sure as Hell Choutarou'd overreacted—more properly, gone jumping all the way over the line into 'freaking out' when Shishido'd come back after their long weekend.

It'd have been mostly normal if his roommate had gotten upset about the kiss. Normal boyfriends got pretty mad when their boyfriends kissed someone else—even if 'someone else' was a girl, and girls were weird. He wouldn't have blamed his Choutarou if he'd found himself banished to the sofa, even if the bed they slept on was actually, well, his.

But Ootori'd just looked at him, levelly, and then away.

"They… what did you say, when they set you up?"

"Huh? Nothing. I mean, I said I didn't really want to, but they were pretty set on it…"

"Your parents don't know about us, Shishido-san, do they." He'd looked back, then, with the edges of his eyes so disappointed that it'd just about shredded Shishido-san's stomach into little bloody acidic pieces, but that kissable mouth had been calm and cool and dangerous. When Shishido could feel goosebumps crawling up his arms from the cold stare, it was a good indication that he was pretty fucked. "They… I see."

Yeah, he hadn't seen that particular fight coming, even just a little bit.

It hadn't been that he didn't want his parents to know about them. That wasn't it at all. Okay, he wasn't exactly hot on the idea of coming out to his family—who was, right? His dad was cool about some things, but that was pushing a lifetime's worth of luck. His mom… Ootori knew he hadn't exactly had the time to tell his mom much of anything, lately. So what the Hell had the Hyotei-sized guilt trip been about…?

Maybe it'd been a little bit because Shishido hadn't exactly protested too much, by the time his dad and his stepmom started wheedling and teasing and nudging him—considering that his 'rentals knew he didn't have a girlfriend, he was seventeen, he knew what he looked like in a mirror, and he'd never had a girlfriend, well… maybe they were starting to worry.

They'd have worried more if he'd told them that he had a gorgeous boyfriend, he didn't need girls, and that said gorgeous boyfriend was that 'Ryou, why can't you be as sweet and polite as your roommate?' Ootori Choutarou that they loved so much.

Ootori Choutarou, possibly the nicest guy on Earth, who Shishido'd just blasted because he'd lost his head completely when Ootori'd looked at him, and asked, with his mouth too quiet, "Shishido-san… you're… are you ashamed? Of us?"

Which was why it was three in the morning, he was staring up at a ceiling that had glowstars stuck onto it, in constellation patterns because his roommate was a dork like that (and was the only one between the two of them tall enough to reach the ceiling) and feeling his entire body jerk every time there was some sound that could have conceivably been a key in the lock.

It was four by the time he got up and unlocked the front door. Maybe—maybe Ootori had just forgotten his key. He'd call if he were staying somewhere else, right? He never wanted anyone to worry about him, but…

Why didn't he get it? Sure as Hell Choutarou hadn't told his beloved parents about them. Catholic and all that, Shishido understood, he hadn't made a fuss. Sure, he'd wanted Ootori's family to like him, and it looked pretty much like they did like him, but the only one of the Ootori clan whose opinion really mattered to him, at the end of the day… had walked out of the door with his back very, very straight, his umbrella hooked over his elbow, and not a single emotion on that quiet, gorgeous face.

"I'm sure ashamed of the fact that you're acting like a insecure girl, Choutarou. Come on, get a grip. Why the Hell do I have to tell my parents anything?"

But.

But Choutarou wouldn't have said 'yes' if his parents had tried to set him up with someone else. Anyone who mistook Ootori for being a pushover hadn't ever been on the bad end of a week when a certain really dumb someone should have taken out the trash. Sure, Ootori would have blushed, and turned his face away until those soft chocolate eyes were looking anywhere but at the person he was talking to, but that tiny secret smile would have kept curving his lips.

He'd have dipped his head in just that way that made it very damned clear that he was bowing out of respect, not agreement—Shishido'd seen it a thousand times on the tennis courts—and murmured 'no, Mother, Father, I'd really rather not.'

He'd just give them that smile that wasn't such a secret anymore—the one that started where it counted, warming those chocolate eyes before moving down to make those lips so kissable. 'There's someone… special,' he'd say. Or his eyes would say it. It was the look—it turned him to mush, seriously—that Ootori gave him before they both went to sleep with his arms around his roommate's waist, Ootori's over his shoulders.

He might not have been able to predict Ootori just plain going off the deep end—but he could see that much. Yeah.

So why hadn't he said… his Choutarou was special to him, right? Fucking yeah, he was special. Even if he never saw any of the other Regulars ever again—they were his friends, bastards that some of them were sometimes, but he could live with that. He wasn't so sure he could live with Ootori Choutarou walking out of his life—or, maybe worse, just looking at him, slowly, through his lashes—still and cool and bitter as the ice on the streets that you just never saw coming before you hit it, and found yourself on the floor. The way he'd looked at him, over his shoulder, before the door had swung open and shut, and Shishido'd stormed into the kitchen.

No. No, the look wasn't worse than the finality of the door clicking—not slamming—closed.

I'm fucking seventeen years old. I've been going out with the same guy for close on three years now. And… fuck, is this forever? It can't be—I mean, damn it, I'm too young for this to be forever, but… what if it is?

What if it isn't?

What if none of this matters, 'cause Choutarou walked out on me, and I'm staring up at his stupid glowstars, and he's not back?

Thin, cold dawn light was filtering, wet and gray with the rain that hadn't stopped yet, through the blinds by the time Shishido fell asleep.

*_*_*_*

He woke up to the same nasty thin light, and the even nastier sound of his cellphone shrieking its little bell out in the common room. He always forgot to put it on Silent before he went to bed.

Whoever that was—it had better be one Ootori Choutarou, or else he was going to be very, very pissed about being dragged out of bed…

Not Choutarou. Atobe. A good reason to be pissed, all on his own, when his buchou sneered into the phone, "Shishido. Where are you."

Atobe might not have been able to see his snarl, but Shishido made damned sure that his buchou could hear it. "I'm at home. Sleeping, like sane people do." What time was it? In rainy season, some days, the light didn't change, and it got so damned hard to tell if it was six or nine or noon… that was why they always set their alarm clock, but… no, that was why Ootori always set their alarm clock.

Well, if Atobe could hear him snarl, he could practically hear Atobe's smirk. "Only if your classification of 'sane' includes Jirou. It's three in the afternoon."

Three in the—

Well, fuck. Okay, so he hadn't managed to drift off until late, and he hadn't had any tests or papers due today—had he?—so he was probably okay with classes, but…

But as far as he could tell, Ootori still hadn't…

"You're missing practice. Get over here. Now." And that was big, bad, High School Singles One buchou talking, not Atobe-sama the egomaniac. No-one turned down that voice who wanted to stay on the Hyotei team.

No-one turned down that voice, but his own slipped from his too-tight, raspy throat anyway. "Choutarou, he's—"

Yeah, Shishido, be just a little needier.

But he could almost see Atobe cocking his head—in the background, Shishido could hear the soft pop of tennis balls; a couple of kiai yells, a little bit of screeching from the fangirls. Not the voice he needed to hear, but… but Ootori was quiet, pretty much, and even his 'ikkyuu nyuu kon' wasn't all that loud… "Ootori is responsible—unlike a certain roommate of his, apparently. Of course he's here."

Damn it. He just didn't know if that feeling was relief, 'cause nothing had happened to his Choutarou last night, thank the gods for that—or… or something that squeezed all his insides in a really big, and really spiky fist of hurt. Maybe he was the only one of the two of them who hadn't gotten a lot of sleep last night. Or in his case, just a little too much sleep. "He is. Yeah. Um. That's… that's good."

"Yes." Cool as ever, right. "And whatever marital squabbles the two of you might be having—" that voice lilted, just a little, colder yet—funny how Atobe going all cold just made him smile, most of the time, but… "I suggest you fix whatever you've done, Shishido. I am going to take it out of both of your hides if it affects your tennis."

Good old Atobe. Sympathetic to the last. And yeah, of course it was his fault. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be there." Shishido ran one hand through his growing, unruly hair—damn it, he really needed a shower, but somehow, that didn't seem like a really good excuse for stalling. "Give me a sec, okay? I gotta take the bus, remember?"

Click. Right. For all the man's blabbering about proper manners, he could at least say 'goodbye' before he hung up the phone.

It was, Shishido was all-too-sure, going to be a very, very long practice.

Longer, because the moment he got there… Gakuto started clucking at him like a big chicken who thought it was a rooster, and Oshitari was smirking at him out of the corner of his glasses. And even Hiyoshi was giving him the dirty look from Hell, and not even Hiyoshi bothered to do that most of the time anymore. Jirou would let him off the hook, yeah, lucky, 'cause Jirou was flopped asleep on the fangirls up in the bleachers. Kabaji… well, Kabaji was Kabaji, he'd stand there and be big and supportive no matter what happened to anyone, but… but where the Hell was his roommate…?

…he definitely did not want to know what Mari would have to say about this.

He still jumped when Atobe sauntered up behind him, and didn't even bother to warn him before he started out with, "Your partner has apparently not been himself, and managed to knock over a basket of balls behind the clubroom."

Because those legs of his were so long, right, and if he wasn't paying attention, he did knock things over, sometimes. But… but still, it felt way too much like relief—like a small ugly tangle inside him was unravelling, just one string at a time, just a little… "Yeah?" Shishido tried for casual. Still a little too… something, but… but better.

There was the smirk again. "Since we are all aware that you are likely the reason for Ootori's mood," that wasn't fair, damn it, he wasn't always the reason Ootori got clumsy, "And you are a half-hour late for practice," okay, yeah, that was true, but… "it's only fair that you help him pick them up. And then you're both going to be playing a one-set match against Oshitari and Mukahi, so prepare yourselves."

One of these days, watching Atobe turn on one heel and start walking away, he was going to decide whether he wanted to kiss Atobe or kick him. Kick him really, really hard. Right behind the knees, just to see how the bastard liked stumbling, now and again…

But the sight of his roommate—all long legs and silver hair stained darker by the light drizzle that was still falling over the courts, knees tucked up to his chest as he picked up the damp, fuzzy yellow balls with those long, graceful fingers and tossed them into the basket… damned if it didn't snip the knot in his chest right in two, right there, and leave him with nothing but a bunch of ugly black strings. That were dissolving in that silver light, because… because his eyes were good, he didn't need to be any closer to see that his Choutarou's eyes were as red around the edges as his.

Sick, how that made him feel just the tiniest bit better. Sick, sick, sick.

"Choutarou." He'd meant to try for normal, but his voice came out far, far too soft when he bent to pick up a ball that'd rolled out to the level of the bushes. "You… you missed one."

Ootori's head jerked up like someone had slapped him on the back—his shoulder thwapped, hard, against the side of the half-filled basket of balls with the heavy rattle of metal—it rocked on its base, once, twice—

Two long, too-loud thumps of his heart later, Shishido was standing next to his partner, with his hand on the basket to keep it from toppling over right onto Ootori's too-pretty head. It took maybe a heartbeat longer to think that it really was a miracle he hadn't tripped over any balls on his way there

His Choutarou—yes, his, damn it—stared up at him for just one too-long second—before he turned his face back to the ground and started picking up balls again.

But not before he whispered a very, very quiet, "Thank you."

That was a good sign, right? Okay, yeah, Ootori was probably the most polite person he knew, but at the same time, considering the way he went all cold… sure, Shishido was definitely getting freezer burn from standing this close to him, but it wasn't frostbite, at least, that was good, right…?

Aw, what the Hell. He crouched down to start picking up some of the balls himself. "Where were you last night?" Did you have dinner properly? You didn't call—okay, I get that, but was someone taking care of you? Did you get your homework from someone? You know you get all distracted when you're in a mood, Choutarou…

Something choked in Ootori's throat, and he reached over for a far clump of balls—edging just a little further away, and if being that close to him had been cold, well… the new inch of space was colder. "I… I went to stay over at Hiyoshi's."

Hiyoshi's. Well, shit. It definitely explained the fact that no-one had called him—if Ootori'd been staying in Atobe's room, Jirou would have called to put Shishido out of his misery, but Hiyoshi Wakashi… Shishido ground his teeth. No, that wasn't helping. He was not going to get into a jealous snit. He was not going to get into a jealous snit. Hiyoshi'd looked annoyed, not smug. Right. "That's… that's… okay." Shishido breathed. Just once. Deep, yeah, and the thick, wet air sure didn't taste good, but blasting Ootori seemed like a really bad idea, after last night. "Yeah. Okay. They, you know, fed you and all?"

For a second—just a second—he felt the chocolate gaze fall on him, "Yes, Shishido-san," before it drifted away again.

And then there was just the sound of balls hitting metal hitting other balls, and the plop-clank was going to drive him crazy in a few minutes, but… but Choutarou was here, damn it.

"You look awful." Right, not what he'd meant to say, but it was true, too. It wasn't just the eyes—a lot of it was the heavy shadows under them, the way Ootori was moving, so slowly, like something inside him, deep inside, hurt. And his nails… damn it, he was so sure Choutarou'd stopped biting his nails, especially since that left the tips just a little sharp, and when he moved in his sleep sometimes they scratched lines down Shishido's bare arms… he'd have noticed if Choutarou had been biting his nails. Well, the way they were gnawed to the quick, they wouldn't be scratching much of anything, anytime soon. "Damn it, Choutarou, take care of yourself!"

The eyes jerked to him again. And this time, they didn't leave.

This time, he looked up and caught them—the hint of startlement—the hint of, maybe, sorrow, bitter at the center of sweet. But no smile—no smile lingering around the edges of those lips, or in the secret corners of those eyes, and—no, he couldn't deal with that.

No.

The words came too quickly—a rush faster than he could move, faster than he could breathe. "I'll tell them. Damn it, I'll tell my parents about us, if that's makes you happy. Just… just don't do that again, Choutarou! You scared the Hell out of me!"

Too true. Too frickin' true. Come home, Choutarou, gods, please.

The eyes widened further. "But—Shishido-san, why—that's—"

"What d'you mean, 'why?'" he didn't mean to snarl, it just sort of came out that way, but thank the gods, Ootori wasn't pulling back. "I… geez, Choutarou, I—"

I thought you weren't going to be coming back. I thought that this was it, that you'd left me because I was dumb enough to say something that I didn't mean. And Hell, fourteen's just too early to find your One and Only, so maybe this isn't going to last the rest of our lives, but…

But don't you want to find out if maybe, just maybe, it could?

No. Nuh-uh. Oh, no, way too scary and sappy, even on a day like this. He'd… he'd apologise. On his knees, if he had to. He'd been there before, and… well, yeah, being on his knees to Kantoku had been pretty bad, but the fact was, Ootori deserved to have him on his knees. For every time he'd washed the dishes when he didn't have to. Or played the violin in the common room rather than in one of the practice rooms, because he knew Shishido loved to hear him. Or smiled at him through a trickle of shower water, with his cross glowing gray and wet as his hair—or, you know, just plain smiled in that way that made Shishido Ryou realise—hey, yeah, this world was a pretty damned good place to live in.

One deep breath. Just one, even when it sobbed in his throat.

He'd die if he never saw that smile again. Just fucking lie down and die.

"I'm sorry, Shishido-san. I'm so sorry." The murmur came with a soft, soft, broken little voice, before he could come up with enough air to talk—but the trembling voice came with a hand on his cheek. A finger tracing away something wet down his cheek… damn it, was that the rain, or was he crying again?! "I… it wasn't that. It wasn't… I overreacted. It… I know you don't want your parents to find out you're… you know. I… I understand, really."

The breath stopped in his throat, and he opened his eyes. "I know." And he did. He really did. Sure, Ootori'd totally gone flipping into the deep end of the swimming pool, but… "I'm not ashamed of you, Choutarou. Not even a little bit. Damn it… damn it, guys like you just don't happen to guys like me, and… and you are special. Damned special." Why the Hell couldn't he stop talking? But at the same time—but at the same time, Ootori's eyes were softer than he'd ever seen them, and if that was what him running off at the mouth did to his roommate—his boyfriend, well… "I should have said that there was someone who mattered to me, at least. When my parents were trying to set me up." Yeah. Yeah, that was right. That felt right. "That's… that's what you were trying to say, last night, right?"

When Ootori smiled at him—a little watery thing of a smile—and held out his arms…

Hell, maybe this was what salvation felt like. Being wrapped in strong arms, with a cheek buried in his hair, and his own arms squeezing Ootori so tight; sampling the unpleasant rasp of damp Hyotei jerseys, the scent of rain tainting the wet balls around their knees, the way his own hair was an ungodly mess tucked against the line of Ootori's jaw, what the Hell, who cared?

He'd totally meant to say 'So, yeah… I'm sorry, too' by the time they managed to untangle themselves, looking at each other—holding hands, because they could—seriously, that was all he'd meant to say.

It came out "I love you," instead.

Oh. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, I didn't—oh, no, I did.

Yeah, it looked like Ootori hadn't expected that any more than Shishido had. His eyes—his eyes were still red around the edges, but wider than Shishido'd ever seen them—shocked, and his hands squeezed Shishido's just a little too tight. "Shishido-san…"

He looked away—he had to, the shock in those eyes hurt, but at the same time… "I know. I know. Shit, that… that came out all wrong." It totally had. Sort of. If you said 'I love you,' to someone, you were supposed to do it all… romantic, right? Not just kind of blurt it out when you'd so been meaning to say something else…

Ootori deserved romantic.

…except Shishido'd totally meant it when he'd said 'I love you,' and that scared the shit out of him, but after last night… it would've scared him more not to mean it.

But a half-amused sneer—and Shishido wasn't sure which annoyed him more, the sneering, or the amusement—broke the thick air between them, the momentary silence, and they both jumped. "I do hope the two of you are done with your melodrama, because your opponents are waiting for you. I can't believe you haven't finished picking up just one basket of balls."

Shishido turned, and snarled, wordlessly. Fucking Atobe. Two kiss-him-or-kill-him moments in less than an hour—he was definitely racking up the points today.

But his roommate was still looking at him in that way he couldn't quite read—no, not quite, but there was something that moved under the shock, like maybe tears—except Ootori wasn't much of a crybaby—or maybe laughter, or… damn it, he couldn't deal with the way that look was just so soft. "Look." He glanced away—and squeezed Ootori's hands, gently. "Don't… don't say anything, okay? Let's… let's just get out there and kick their asses, for now. We can… I dunno, we can talk about this later, or… something."

Like maybe never, because if Choutarou didn't feel the same way, well…

But he didn't let go of his partner's hand until they actually got onto the courts, or maybe Ootori didn't let go of his, and they beat the Oshitari-Mukahi pair six games to one.

They had reheated spaghetti bolognese for dinner, precisely at six-thirty, with the noodles just a little sticky from being warmed in the microwave, and Ootori, every so often, reaching out to run his fingertips over the lily's firm, pale petals. He really was just such a sap for flowers. And the one flower didn't look quite so lonely with Ootori smiling at it like that, and then past it, over the table.

Before they took their turns heading into the shower, Shishido lectured Ootori about damn it, keeping his cellphone in his pocket, or something, because who knew when someone was going to need to contact him…? What if his mom had called, or something…? What if he'd needed money for food—and Ootori just nodded, and looked chagrined and apologetic and so cute that Shishido just… forgot about the mothering and pounced. Lips under his, the force of his momentum knocking them both down onto the sofa—and then his mouth down the line of his roommate's jaw, into the salt-dip of his collarbone, his hand straying just underneath the edge of Choutarou's sleeping shirt, until Ootori laughed and squirmed and said 'stop…'

Maybe one day Ootori wouldn't say 'no.' But… for whatever reason, Shishido was kind of glad he had, this time around. Kind of glad he stopped him with one callused hand cupped over Shishido's, and a smile on those lips that felt like forgiveness, not refusal.

It was ten o'clock by the time they both tucked into bed, and Choutarou was so warm and languid from his dip into the ofuro—he smelled like the apple bath stuff that his mom had sent them, mmm-mmm—that Shishido sighed and… well… snuggled. He really hadn't been much of the snuggly sort before Choutarou, but… oh, what the Hell, so cuddling was girly, he could live with that.

And… well, he wasn't really quite sure if it was a dream, because he wasn't much coherent in the seconds before he fell asleep, but… he knew the feeling of those long fingers playing just lightly with the strands of hair that fell around his face. He knew the stroke of them against the back of his neck, just where his hair stopped—Ootori's forehead brushing gently against his, and the sweet toothpaste mint of his breath when he sighed, and tucked a little closer.

"Shishido-san?"

"Mm?"

"I love you, too."

"…yeah."

The End

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