hermiones: (pot // hyoutei)
Cat ([personal profile] hermiones) wrote2008-09-29 07:18 pm

PoT Fic: "Prime Of Your Life" (1/3) (Atobe/Shishido/Oshitari)

Title: Prime Of Your Life (1/3)
Pairing: Atobe/Shishido/Oshitari
Rating: R
Summary: Birthdays. The Big Three-Oh. Part 1/3. Parts 2 and 3 to come in October. ;)
Warnings: Rude language, some sexual content.



Most days Atobe is gone before anybody else wakes up. That's if he returns home during the night at all. On the bad days, it makes him feel like wallpaper. Like furniture. Something temporarily uplifting in a room, something people forget about until they trip over it or stub their toe against it. On the really bad days, it makes him feel like leaving altogether. Allowing Shishido and Oshitari to redecorate.

There aren't many of those, thank God. When one comes up, he takes a day off from the rollercoaster of economics. The last week of September is a bad one, so he takes a long weekend. The financial markets are toast whether or not he's there, he tells his secretary. He's been thinking about screwing her. That's how he knows how bad it is.

Saturday is glorious. Turning off the alarm clock on Friday night makes it more so. The sun wakes him at around eight, but he turns over, finds Oshitari's arm and burrows his head underneath it. Sleeps until after ten. Oshitari sleeps as long as Atobe sleeps, that's the beauty of his laziness. As long as somebody else is sleeping, Oshitari will stay in bed.

Shishido gets up early, on weekdays and weekends alike. He wakes everybody else up with his grunting and his shoving of Oshitari's limbs and his leaning on Atobe's hair, but he's soon out and calm descends once more. That Saturday, Atobe sleeps through him kicking his trainers out from under the bed, crashing into the living room, grabbing his iPod and an apple. Sleeps through Dog the dog turning in happy circles by the door, tangled in his lead.

Sleeps through Oshitari's pained goodbye, the way he slumps back onto the pillow and deeper into Atobe's skin.

When he opens his eyes, there's music in the kitchen only it's hard to hear the song over Oshitari's snoring. He nudges Oshitari's arm off his neck and stretches, fumbles for the clock. Nearly eleven. He yawns, huge. Hungry. Climbs out of bed and trips over Shishido's trainers. Growling and pushing his arms through a dressing gown, he yells through to Shishido not to leave his stuff everywhere.




Shishido is feeding Dog bacon. Slyly, under the table, where he thinks Atobe can't see it. Only Dog makes happy snuffling noises and thumps his tail down onto the floor, giving the game away. Shishido cooks breakfast for them all, so Atobe doesn't complain.

He doesn't read the financial papers. Instead, he props his chin on his hand and watches Shishido reading the sports pages, drinking his coffee. Shishido makes good coffee.

“What do you want for your birthday,” he asks.

“World peace,” Shishido says. “And a Ferrari.”

“Okay,” Atobe says, agreeably.

“You're not awake yet,” Shishido says.

“No,” Atobe says. “I'll ask you again at lunchtime.”

“Fine,” Shishido says. “Answer'll be the same. D'ya think Oshitari's ever getting up?”

“Probably not,” Atobe says. “That third piece of cake last night seems to have killed him off.”

“Asked him if he wanted to walk Dog this morning,” Shishido says. “Wasn't keen. I'm gonna get him exercising before he hits thirty.”

“You've got a month,” Atobe shrugs, stealing a look at the world news. Poverty, despair, politics. What a life.

“Yeah,” Shishido says. “If I could get him to stop smoking it'd be enough.”

“Hah,” Atobe says. “Might as well ask him to cut his dick off. You know what he's like.”

“Another winter of having to go outside,” Shishido says. “He'll crack. His hair will frizz in the snow. It'll be vanity versus cravings. Vanity always wins with you two.”

“Oi,” Atobe says, but there's no heart in it. Shishido has dark shadows on his chin and the muscles in his shoulders are gleaming wet. He smells like shampoo, like shower gel, like exercise. Like fresh air. His hair needs cutting. He needs to shave. He needs to do nothing but put his tongue down Atobe's throat.

“Heh,” Shishido says. “Truth. Anyway, what-”

He looks up and goes quiet. Atobe realises that he's staring, that he's giving everything he thinks and feels and bleeds away. Fuckdamnit. Not again.

Shishido hops off the barstool and wraps his fingers around Atobe's wrist. They reach without difficulty and Atobe allows himself to be dragged back into their bedroom.

“This'll wake him up,” Shishido says. “Just watch.”




Atobe doesn't actually notice it when Oshitari wakes up. If he had he'd blame Oshitari, anyway, for not being awake when it was possible to distract him from the ragged line of Shishido's thrusts. He lies back and extends his neck so that Shishido can mouth up it. Shishido gnaws on the side of his jawbone, harder than Atobe likes it from Oshitari, harder than Atobe likes it from anybody. He gnaws and he fucks and Atobe can feel him, almost underneath his skin.

The cries wake Oshitari up. To his credit, he lies very still and with lidded eyes, so nobody notices him at first. When Shishido draws back and gives his rough, desperate chuckle, Atobe opens his eyes. When they meet Oshitari's, a shudder runs through him.

“I see,” Oshitari says, simply. Neutrally.

“Don't you fucking dare,” Shishido interjects. “Don't do your fucking voice and your...fucking you, let me fucking finish. You're thinking about it. Stop it.”

“I am doing no such thing,” Oshitari purrs. “Just lying here, watching. Innocent as a lamb.”

Shishido stops, because he knows it's the one way to get Atobe's attention. Atobe cries out, tries to turn it into a grunt, digging his nails into Shishido's arm. When he drags his eyes away from Oshitari, his gaze is furious. Shishido snarls at him. It'd be like fighting a cat into a box, to interrupt Shishido now. Atobe isn't stupid – he chooses his battles well.

“Should've been up earlier,” he says, turning his head back to Oshitari. Shishido leans down on his elbows, starting to bite Atobe's right shoulder. Atobe knows that he's giving Oshitari a smug look, but as Shishido starts to move again, he can't find it in himself to care.

Oshitari leans out, strokes Atobe's chin and holds it steady so that Shishido can kiss his mouth, the way he does when he's really close, the way he does when he wants to crawl down Atobe's throat and stay there, locked inside him. Atobe wraps his arm around Shishido's back, tightens his legs around his waist. It's like playing chicken. Shishido is huffing breath against his lips. His back is shaking. His hips are working on pure instinct, his brain gave up long ago. He's trying not to come until Atobe does.

Atobe enjoys it when he does that. It's a challenge. One Shishido always loses.

Atobe presses his chest against Shishido's and tightens up, tightens up until Shishido stiffens and hisses cunt against his mouth. And as Oshitari dips his hand down, slides Shishido's hand off Atobe's cock and replaces it with his own-

Atobe loses. By a fraction of a second and with a howl that mixes victory and defeat.




“You are a stirring bastard,” Atobe says, lazily. Oshitari is smoking and Shishido is ignoring it.

“You lost my sympathy when you rejected me,” Oshitari says, simply. “I decided to side with Ryou instead.”

“Stirring bastard,” Atobe says.

“Smug slut,” Oshitari replies.

Atobe reaches over and swats him on the shoulder, so that he nearly drops the cigarette.

“I like that we got to fuck and Oshitari is the one who has to smoke afterwards,” Shishido sniggers. “That's fucking hilarious.”

“No,” Oshitari says. “He's going to suck my cock when he's stopped being Ryouified.”

“Excuse me,” Atobe says. “I am not Ryouified. That isn't even a word.”

“Okay,” Oshitari says, happily.

“And I'm not sucking your fucking cock.”

“That's what you think,” Oshitari says.


Atobe loses that one, too.




Shishido writes, after lunch. He swings around in Oshitari's leather chair in the study, the one he uses only when Oshitari really wants rid of him. The evil henchman chair has quite a hold on Shishido, swinging around and cackling to himself every so often. A better life, pretending to be a failing Bond villain than actually being a failing writer.

He deletes all eight hundred words of his column and starts again.




Atobe lies half on Oshitari, who concedes to feeding him grapes in order to talk to him in private. They're not peeled but Atobe tells himself that he can't have everything.

“What are you getting Ryou for his birthday,” Oshitari asks.

“He wants a Ferrari,” Atobe says.

Oshitari looks alarmed. Atobe can, after all, quite freely buy Shishido a Ferrari.

“I'm not getting him a Ferrari,” Atobe says.

“What was his second choice?”

“World peace.”

“Oh,” Oshitari says. “Are you sure we can't get him a Ferrari.”

“I think we have enough Ferraris,” Atobe says.

“No, you have enough Ferraris,” Oshitari comments. “We need to get him something good. He's going to be thirty. I'm worried he's going to have a meltdown.”

Atobe looks at him. “Now you're projecting.”

“I am not,” Oshitari says. “I'm looking forward to being thirty.”

Atobe narrows his eyes.

“Okay, I'm projecting,” Oshitari says. “Why is everybody else cool about being old.”

“Thirty isn't old,” Atobe says, though he's not sure he believes it himself.

“I'm going to be withered,” Oshitari says. “Gnarled and unlovable.”

“You're going to be thirty,” Atobe says. “Not seventy. Calm down.”

“Will you still love me when I'm grey-haired?” Oshitari pleads.

“Probably,” Atobe says. “Look, this isn't about you and your grey hair. It's about Ryou. What are we going to get Ryou.”

“I take it a stripper is a bit-”

Yuushi.”

“A bit twenty-one, perhaps,” Oshitari continues. “I quite agree.”

“You are very annoying,” Atobe says.

“And terribly sexy,” Oshitari says, feeding Atobe another grape. “Mmn?”

“I suppose so,” Atobe scowls.

Next door, the track changes from something mellow and bluesy to something loud and bright red. So loud, in fact, that the walls gently vibrate.

“We're living with a teenager,” Oshitari says. “It's like we have a teenage son.”

“Stop it,” Atobe says. “Stop being weird. Go back to being sexy.”

“Ah, that just made you scowl,” Oshitari says. “I have to be weird in order to gain your attention, it seems.”

“I won't scowl,” Atobe insists.

“If you promise,” Oshitari purrs, leaning down for a kiss. Atobe tastes of grapes, fresh and slightly sweet. Oshitari tastes like lunch. A little like beef.

“Hm,” Atobe says. “What about a guitar.”

“I can't play,” Oshitari says. “But for you I will try.”

“Not for you,” Atobe says. “For Ryou.”

“He's got one,” Oshitari says. “Why does he need another one.”

Atobe looks at Oshitari. Looks and looks until Oshitari remembers the four cars that they own between the two of them. He smiles, slightly sheepish.

“Okay,” he says. “That's a great idea.”




Oshitari comes home that week with a limited edition Megatron figure he found in a combini.

“You cannot get him that,” Atobe says. “That is hideous. It cost you 2,000Yen. It is a toy. He'll want to put it somewhere.

“He'll love it,” Oshitari says.

Atobe looks at him, weakening. He has a point. Atobe was brought up to believe that the expensive presents are the best ones. Now that he's older it doesn't ring true, any more than his father's other mottos in life.

Still. He wraps it up with the receipt intact. You can never been too sure. And the thought of Megatron sitting in their bedroom is-

“Yuushi,” he says, sellotape stuck to his chin and his tongue sticking out. “It lights up and talks.”

“Oh, really?” Yuushi says, airily. “I'm sure that'll increase its value!”

Yuushi,” Atobe says.

“Priiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime,” says Megatron.




They throw Ryou a party. It's Monday and so Atobe has to twist a few arms (“a party?” Oshitari says, horrified at midday, “I'll have been at work all day!”) but Shishido has always made friends easily and their living room is full of people by seven. Atobe does his bit doling out drinks and keeping Dog out of the kitchen and away from the food. Oshitari mingles, oozing charm over people. Shishido tells jokes, easy humourous ones. His face lights up when people laugh. Atobe watches him and feels, not for the first time, a hard pull of pride.

Oshitari was always going to succeed. Atobe knew that from the moment he met him, with those looks and that strange accent. Oshitari worked to overcome things other students never could, but always made it look as though he wasn't working at all. Things came naturally to him. To Atobe, too. That the two of them found each other at eighteen after five solid years of mild flirtation wasn't that surprising. They were both always going to succeed.

Shishido was always the one who people thought could go one way or the other. He was bull-headed, difficult. Spiky and short-fused and uncomfortable within himself. Atobe remembers Shishido's awkwardness, his way of trying to force everything if it didn't make sense to him, if he couldn't do it right away. Oshitari was oil and glide; Shishido was friction and bleeding knuckles. Shishido's success would be hard-won or not at all.

Atobe doesn't know whether Shishido considers his life a success or not. Whether he ever considers himself just wallpaper, just background noise. He hopes not. As Oshitari comes over to him, sneaks an arm around his waist and a nip of his earlobe – he hopes not. Looking at Shishido, the light in his eyes and the way he rubs the back of his neck, still, Atobe wishes he had the words to say as much.




After everybody goes home, Oshitari finishes the leftovers. The three of them sit in a muddled living room with the fire on and the lights off. Dark and warm. Atobe leans against Oshitari, his feet in Shishido's lap. They're quiet, save for munching and quiet, drunken reflection.

Shishido strums on his old guitar, just messing around. He's too drunk to do it properly and they're too deaf from the night's loud music to hear it well. Atobe lets the chords pour over him as he looks up at Oshitari.

“Play something,” he says to Shishido. “Properly.”

“Requests?” Shishido says.

“Anything,” Atobe says. “I just like hearing you play.”

Shishido chuckles, dirty and long and under his breath and memories flood back from the last three or four years. Shishido's voice in Atobe's ear, his breath on the back of Atobe's neck. Oshitari tells Atobe that he loves him almost daily. Shishido never has. Atobe is confident in both of them, nonetheless. Sometimes, you just know.

Shishido plays, soft and gentle and clumsy, the way he sometimes fucks both Atobe and Oshitari in the middle of the night or in the afternoon. He plays the guitar like he strokes Atobe's thighs and Oshitari's back, as though he doesn't quite control his fingers. As though he doesn't quite know what he's doing. Looking at him now, Atobe thinks of the kid he once was. The kids they all were, back in the day.

He thinks about work the next day. And the next day. And he thinks about wallpaper, about his secretary. All of it seems a lifetime ago.

“I think we should redecorate,” he says.

“Red bedroom,” Shishido says, only it comes out sing-song. “Megatron taking pride of place.”

“Maybe not,” Atobe says.




Shishido sleeps between them. He doesn't do it often; usually Atobe likes to and that's the end of it. He curls into Oshitari and Atobe moves to be close behind him. He and Oshitari look at each other. There are streamers in Oshitari's hair and salsa on his mouth. Atobe smiles.

“See,” he says. “He got to thirty alright.”

“Hmpf,” Oshitari says. “Ryou isn't thirty. He's about fifteen.”

“You're being weird again.”

“You're smiling,” Oshitari says. “That's why I'm weird. Because you like it.”

“No, I don't,” Atobe says. But he does.

“Do you think he enjoyed it?” he says. “Do you think he worries?”

“What about?”

“Everything,” Atobe says, after a pause. “Everything.”

Oshitari thinks. He reaches out beneath Shishido's skull and rubs a finger down Atobe's chin. “Everybody worries,” he says. “But it's going to be alright.”

“What is?” Atobe says. “I haven't said any-”

“Everything,” Oshitari says. “Everything.”




On Being Thirty
Shishido Ryou


The second best thing about being thirty is that you're finally old enough to legitimately own toys and call yourself a collector. And there's not a thing that anybody can do about it.

When you're fifteen and you own toys, you're a freak.

When you're twenty-one and you own toys, you probably live in your parents' basement.

When you're thirty and you own toys? You're a collector.

Me? I just like toys. Always have, always will. It's just that now I'm thirty, it's approved of. It's adult. A hobby. Something interesting about me. Transformers figures? Really? How fascinating! They must be worth something nowadays!

Hell yeah, they're worth something. Worth parading around feeling like the coolest guy ever because I've got the limited edition version of Megatron that-

Okay, okay, sorry.

What's the best thing about being thirty?

Everyone else still being twenty-nine. Don't listen to your girlfriend – being thirty is the best thing that'll ever happen to you (particularly if said girlfriend is only 23). Everybody else I know is still a freak. Some of them use knowing the price of property in every street in the city as a party trick. Some of them pretend to study law. Some of them enjoy fishing.

When they get to thirty, they'll be considered knowledgeable, well-rounded individuals.

Until then, they're just sad.

I mean, seriously. Fishing???



The worst thing about being thirty? Found my first grey hair this morning.

I bet this never happened to Megatron.

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