hermiones: (pot // hyoutei)
Cat ([personal profile] hermiones) wrote2008-10-15 03:47 pm

PoT Fic: "Punchline" (3/3) (Atobe/Shishido/Oshitari)

Title: Punchline (3/3)
Pairing: Atobe/Shishido/Oshitari
Rating: R
Summary: Birthdays. The Big Three-Oh. Part 3/3. Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here.
Warnings: Rude language, some sexual content.




Oshitari sleeps for an hour less each night approaching his birthday. Shishido notices it because Shishido wakes up early to find Oshitari watching the news and drinking hot chocolate with an alarming number of marshmallows.

“You alright?” he says, each morning.

“Yep,” Oshitari says, clipped and tight. Not like Oshitari at all.

Shishido doesn't know what it is about Oshitari and birthdays. He was like this at twenty-five, too. To some extent, Atobe worries about aging but for Oshitari, it's a source of panic and despair. Shishido has never been bothered about age – he's as old as he feels. Oshitari seems to be as old as other people think he is.

Oshitari stops ringing Atobe at work. Atobe supposes that he could actually be doing for job, for once, but the lack of contact puzzles him. There isn't even a sniff of a rude e-mail, Oshitari's favourite work pastime. When he gets home, Oshitari has been home for a while – the only man in Tokyo not working his ass off.

He goes quiet. Shuts down. Switches off. Neither Shishido nor Atobe have a clue why.




“It started when we were away,” Shishido says. He's sitting on the bench and Oshitari is sitting on the floor. Atobe is the only person sitting at the kitchen table. There is chocolate cake baking, the only reason Oshitari is still in the flat having the conversation.

“Yes,” Atobe says. “It started just before we came back.”

“I see,” Oshitari says. “My little detectives.”

“Yuushi,” Atobe says. “We're just concerned. You're not yourself.”

“My life is darkening,” Oshitari says. “All the lights of my twenties are vanishing, one by one. It is a sad life. But we shall pull through.”

“He's being stupid,” Shishido scowls. “Stop being stupid.”

“He's not,” Atobe says. “He really feels it, he's just saying it stupidly in the hope we'll think it's a joke. It's not working.”

“I am still in the room,” Oshitari says.

“Being thirty is no different from being twenty-nine,” Atobe says.

“It's better,” Shishido says. “You get a big party and you get to eat until you wanna die. That's gotta be worth something, right?”

Oshitari looks in the oven. “The cake is nearly done,” he says.

“I give up,” Atobe says.

“Look,” Oshitari says. “It's my issue, okay. We're all allowed an issue. There's no need to pet my issue or take it for a walk. Or poke it. Just leave the issue to sleep. The issue is very tired.”

“It's taking up space,” Atobe complains. “I keep falling over it.”

“I shall move it to the cupboard under the stairs,” Oshitari says.

“I've become confused with all the fucking metaphors,” Shishido says. “You could come running with me. That might clear your head.”

Against all reason and logic, Oshitari agrees.

“Now I know you're ill,” Atobe says. “You do realise that exercise is terribly dangerous?”




The run turns into a walk, sort of. Shishido had been expecting that and he doesn't comment. The air is clean and fresh and he allows silence, for Oshitari to think. When he feels down, he runs. Inhales different air. His eyes feel refreshed after looking at the scenery. It makes him feel worn out and better.

“I should do this more often,” Oshitari says.

“I think it helps,” Shishido agrees.

“No, I mean,” Oshitari says. “I'm out of practice. Look at this. I used to be – when we were kids, I could do anything. Remember being able to do anything?”

“Yeah,” Shishido says. “That doesn't go anywhere. You still have that in you.”

“It feels like I'm old,” Oshitari says. “That's why I don't want to do this. Why I want to go backwards. I feel fucking old.”

“You're not old,” Shishido reasons. “If you want to get back in shape, let me help you. It won't take you long.”

Oshitari stops, turns, to look at the view. Shishido jogs a bit and then joins him. They lean on the railings at the side of the road, looking out into the greenery, the cars, people with worries written on their foreheads.

“Keigo is always thinking about the past,” Oshitari says. “I don't want to worry him with this. He does it enough as it is.”

Shishido considers that. “You're not the worrying type, Yuushi,” he says. “It's weird that you're so caught up in this.”

“Tell me about it,” Oshitari says.

“Keigo knows there's something wrong,” Shishido says. “You're scaring him by not telling him what it is. You know he hates secrets.”

“I know,” Oshitari says, his voice deep. “I know. I just – I can't. I can't.”

“Talk to me,” Shishido says. “Just talk it out.”

“My father didn't want to be thirty,” Oshitari says, slowly. “Nor did my mother. They both hit it in the same year and my mother...I remember her crying. I was only four or five. They had an argument about it. He wanted to have a party and she didn't want to.”

Shishido nods. “Okay,” he says.

“I didn't get what the problem was,” Oshitari says. “She looked the same to me. Now I'm in that position I see where she was coming from. You think you look older. You think everything is going to change.”

“Nothing is going to change unless you want it to,” Shishido says. “It's like going to the dentist. You dread going but when you get there, it's alright. Over fast. And then you're pissed that you spent all that time worrying about it.”

“Did you feel different?” Oshitari says, turning his eyes to Shishido's face. Shishido can see the past in them – the fear of rejection, the fear of change, a hungry need to settle down and find ultimate acceptance.

“No,” Shishido says, truthfully. “Not for a moment. You think you will, but you don't.”

“In your head, you're fifteen,” Oshitari says.

“Twenty or so,” Shishido grins. “I've never grown up. None of us have.”

“I am perfectly adult,” Oshitari says.

“No,” Shishido says. “You're absolutely not. You eat fairy cakes for breakfast.”

“An Osakan tradition,” Oshitari says.

“You still get drunk after half a bottle of wine.”

“An Osakan tradition.”

“You have to get Atobe to do your tax returns.”

“An Osakan tradition.”

“Fuck, no wonder Atobe's so busy.”

“Yeah, poor thing,” Oshitari smiles. “His life is troublesome.”

“Let him throw you a party,” Shishido says. “I know your mother didn't want one. But you're not your mother and it makes him happy. He let you take him away from work. Maybe it's not what you want right now but when you're there and he's happy, it'll start to feel it.”

“People will get me balloons with 30 on them,” Oshitari pleads. “You can't make me.”

“I will scribble on them to say 20,” Shishido says.

“You are a good boyfriend,” Oshitari says, pleased.

“I am,” Shishido says. “Look, let's go home. If we get back in less than 20 minutes, I'll let you pick the first slice of cake.”

“Oh, you,” Oshitari says. “Everything is sport.”

“And you,” Shishido says. “If I can't eat it, it isn't important.”

“Perhaps when I'm thirty I'll become an adult and give up gluttony,” Oshitari muses.

Shishido stands, staring at him. As if he's just said he'll give up having a head.

“Yeah,” Oshitari says. “I can't believe I said that, either.”




Shishido remembers first meeting Oshitari. Atobe remembers it differently, he knows, but then Atobe's view of the world is so often different to other people's. Atobe thinks that when he first met Oshitari, he could smell the success as cleanly as Oshitari's then-terrible aftershave. Shishido remembers meeting Oshitari, a very nervous and timid younger boy. Taller but so much younger. Sometimes, he thinks Oshitari hasn't changed that much.

When Oshitari first arrived in Hyoutei, he didn't look the part. He didn't look as though his parents had even tried. He was tall and good-looking, his only guards against total rejection, but it was obvious he hadn't been brought up with money or status. From the lilt of his accent to the way he used his hands when he talked, everybody found Oshitari hopelessly comic. Hyoutei was a school of dolls and those who talked the least, sat with their hands neatly folded, those who could demonstrate a world of feeling with just a jut of their chin – those people were at the top. People like Atobe. Not people like Oshitari.

Oshitari was too thin and too eccentric to even be considered in the middle-ground. Almost as soon as he arrived, he was forgotten. Even Atobe paid him little attention, to begin with.

“Country people,” he had said, in his lofty adolescent accent, as if being from a place other than Atobe's mansion meant a doomed social existence.

Shishido had hated Atobe back then. Hated him with a passion. He stuck in with him only because of the tennis team, but any chance he got to piss Atobe off was one he took. He stopped sitting with Atobe at lunch and sloped down beside Oshitari, instead.

Shishido knew a thing or two about rejection, by that point. It had taken him some time to convince his peers that he was worth bothering with – this boy with his vanity and his apparent lack of academic talents. His clumsy hands and his way of looking down on people, copied from Atobe without much success. People felt Shishido was a caricature and Oshitari a clown. They had time for neither of them.

He became Shishido's first, proper friend.




Oshitari sits down with an enormous helping of cake.

Atobe comes out of the shower, rubbing his head with a towel.

“Oh,” he says. “Yuushi, that's the entire cake.”

“I have exercised,” Oshitari says, lightly. “I am withering. Allow me nourishment.”

Atobe looks at Shishido. Oshitari seems to have lightened up – brightened up. He'd put that down to the exercise but he knows Shishido and his ability to get to the root of a problem. He's glad to see Oshitari smiling.

“Oh, alright,” he says, sinking down into the sofa. “Give me a bit.”

Oshitari feeds Atobe with his fingers and Shishido leans down, his head on Oshitari's shoulder. They sit for a while, content, Oshitari munching, Shishido dozing and Atobe's hand around Oshitari's thigh.

“We should have a party,” Oshitari says.

“I thought you might have a trauma,” Atobe says.

Oshitari sighs, deeply and affected. “I shall struggle through it,” he says. “Ryou says he'll change all the balloons to 20.”

“I'm sure you could carry it off,” Atobe says.

“His face hasn't slid off yet,” Shishido mumbles. “I think you look older, actually.”

“I do not,” Atobe says. “I look very youthful.”

“You have wrinkles,” Shishido says.

Atobe is silent. “There are no wrinkles,” he says. “Are there, Yuushi.”

“None, my lovely,” Oshitari says, mouth covered in chocolate sauce. “You will always be sprightly to me.”

“He sounds like Sakaki-sensei,” Shishido sniggers. “Sprightly. Fucking hell.”

“I am not speaking to you,” Atobe says.

“I've waited years for this moment,” Shishido says. “Oh, thank you, merciful God.”

“He isn't coming to the party,” Atobe says.

“Anything you say, my sweet,” Oshitari says.

“I'll hide Megatron somewhere and tape down his button so that all you hear, all night, will be 'Priiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime',” Shishido says, gleefully.

“When you are working,” Atobe says. “Do you simply think up ways to torment me?”

“Mostly,” Shishido says.




The night before Oshitari's birthday, Atobe comes home early. Shishido is cooking. There are ingredients all over the kitchen and he keeps staring at the recipe with his tongue sticking out. Atobe doesn't ask.

“The party is organized,” Atobe says. “Very low-key. No balloons. Only friends. I've managed to get a guy in who's going to sing Osakan songs. And loads of alcohol in case of trauma.”

“Sounds good,” Shishido says. “No stripper?”

“He wanted to get you one,” Atobe says. “I said 'no'.”

“Damn,” Shishido says.

Atobe looks at him.

“I mean, yay,” Shishido says. “My moral integrity, intact for another year.”

“You have got him a present?” Atobe says.

“Yeah,” Shishido says. “'Course I have. What've you got him?”

“I considered buying him his own supermarket,” Atobe says.

“That would've cut down our bills,” Shishido says.

“Mm,” Atobe says. “He wanted a suit. I've bought him a suit.”

“He has a hundred suits,” Shishido says.

“This one has a better cut,” Atobe says. “He'll like it.”

“Okay,” Shishido says. The food smells good. Nobody expected Shishido to be able to cook (or, indeed, to be competent at much) but Atobe's mouth waters. Sometimes he worries Oshitari's only there for the food.

“What have you bought him?” Atobe says.

“Secret,” Shishido says.




When Oshitari comes home, he's delighted. Food and beer and Atobe's eyes all happy and proud. And Shishido, his dirty laugh and his big, dog heart. He feeds Dog under the table, the way he always does – the way Shishido always looks out for the underdog.

Oshitari remembers having no friends in Junior High bar Shishido, whose grubby friendship he didn't really understand. Shishido was statuesque to him – all long, gorgeous hair and dark eyes and tough exterior. Oshitari didn't get Shishido's hard, fast way or talking or his caustic descriptions of his peers. He loved it but he didn't understand it.

It was only when they both joined the tennis team that things began to make sense. Oshitari remembers Atobe as an ice-cold ambitious rich brat. Parts of his opinion have changed. Oshitari remembers Shishido as an ice-cold ambitious less-rich brat. His opinion, again, part-changed.

They are all still ambitious, rich brats. Only when Atobe reaches across the table and strokes his thumb along Oshitari's hand, it's all warmth. And when Shishido laughs in a way that's only for Oshitari, it's all heat.

They end up in the bedroom, of course. Nothing ice-cold about that.




“Part of my present,” Shishido says, leading Oshitari by the hand.

Shishido knows that Oshitari is trusting. Perhaps more than he ever should have been – open heart, open mind. He loves on a scale Shishido doesn't truly understand. He tries. Tries very hard to understand. Oshitari lies down on the bed with an expression of glee, like Dog when he's being spoiled. Shishido unloops his soft, silk tie and uses it to tie his hands to the headboard.

Atobe laughs as he slides off his jeans, coming over and letting Oshitari do the shirt. Shishido lies beside, watching, because the way Oshitari touches Atobe is so different from the way Oshitari touches him. With Atobe, his touch is reverent and cautious. With Shishido, his hands are confident and warm. Atobe closes his eyes at the command of Oshitari's fingertips and Oshitari's eyes lid.

Shishido leans over, using Oshitari's leg as a ballast, kisses his neck. He feels, instantly, Oshitari's hand on his back. Steady and affectionate, all at once. He moves it down and cups Shishido's ass and his chuckle is dirty beneath Ryou's teeth.

“Pervert,” Atobe says. “Pair of perverts.”

Oshitari ghosts one of Atobe's nipples and he shudders, displeased. Shishido drags his trousers off and Oshitari looks at him, hard and horny. Shishido loves that look. Oshitari is rarely competitive but when he is, he is. It's Tsubame Gaeshi, all over again.

“How are you doing this,” Atobe says, to Shishido. With a sly look at Oshitari, Shishido leans over and catches Atobe's waist. He guides Atobe gingerly onto the bed and Atobe, quick to learn, catches on. He leans down, slides his thin fingers around Oshitari's underwear and smoothly takes it off.

“You all have too many clothes on,” Oshitari says, but it isn't really a complaint.

“I agree,” Shishido says. He pushes Atobe down, hard, against Oshitari. Atobe is torn between glaring at Shishido and kissing Oshitari, so he kisses fury into Oshitari's mouth. Oshitari reciprocates, running his hands up Atobe's back. Behind him, Shishido makes quick work of Atobe's underwear, tapping each leg so that he can remove them.

“He treats me like an animal,” Atobe complains, against Oshitari's neck.

“You love it,” Oshitari says. He's looking over Atobe's shoulder at Shishido, who is still in his suit trousers and nothing else. He's holding lube and condoms, which makes Oshitari smirk. Shishido, having cooked dinner, is serving up dessert.

“Oh, princess,” Oshitari says, and Atobe just has time to look over his shoulder before Shishido's hand wraps around his cock. It's so sudden and surprising that he grunts, hard, and presses down into it.

“Take over,” Shishido says, gruffly, although Oshitari barely needs the instruction.

“I am not a toy,” Atobe retorts.

“Alright,” Shishido says, letting him go. Atobe squeezes his eyes shut, furious. When he opens them, Oshitari looks cockily amused.

“You want it,” he says.

“Yes,” Atobe hisses, so Oshitari begins to stroke him. Oshitari's hands are different – smooth, seductive. Shishido is harder, more complete. Going from one to the other is a complete tease and both of them know it. Oshitari's hand is sweet and slow as Shishido leans over Atobe, kissing the back of his neck as his fingers wet and sticky wriggle inside.

“Oh God fuck,” Atobe whimpers. He's starting to jerk his hips between them both – Shishido's fingers and Oshitari's hand, his head spinning.

“Have you noticed,” Shishido says, slyly. “That this is your present and Keigo seems to be unwrapping it?”

“I had,” Oshitari says. “Make him wait for it. That'll teach him to be so impudent.”

“No,” Atobe begs. “No waiting. Only touching. Oh, fuck, that's so good. That's so fucking good.”

“Impudent,” Oshitari says. “And I'm supposed to be a glutton.”

“He's not a glutton,” Shishido says. “Just a big slut.”

“Oi,” Atobe grunts.

“Don't argue,” Oshitari says. “Or I'll stop.”

Atobe closes his mouth.

“In fact,” Oshitari says. “I think you should admit it.”

When Atobe's eyes lift up to Oshitari's face, they look like pewter but are hard as iron. “Fuck. Off.”

Oshitari chuckles, looking at Shishido. “Oh, we could do this all night, couldn't we.”

“Yep,” Shishido says. “I think we can make him come before he admits it, if we want. It's a shame, as he really wants to be fucked. You can tell.”

“I am leaving you both,” Atobe hisses. “Imminently.”

“Just admit it, Keigo,” Oshitari says, delightedly. “You are a slutty little rich bitch.”

Even Shishido's eyes go wide. Atobe looks like he's weighing up the morality of slapping somebody during their birthday present. Then, he whines, hard and long and loud. Shishido can see Oshitari's hand slowing.

“Say it,” Oshitari says. His tone is cordial and light but his eyes are not.

“Fuck off,” Atobe says. “Fuck you, you stupid you. You stupid. Ryou, stop doing that with your fucking fingers, I can't – this was supposed to not be this. Why am I always the fucking present. I am going to kill you-”

“Shut up, Keigo,” Oshitari says, and Atobe does. “Now say it. Or we'll all go to bed with no dessert.”

“Suits me fine,” Atobe says, but it's a blatant lie.

“Or maybe I'll fuck Ryou,” Oshitari muses. “If you're not interested.”

“Alright,” Atobe barks. “I'm a fucking slutty rich bitch, alright, just do it, just fuck me. I can't take it any more.”

Shishido lowers Atobe's hips down, his hands firm.

“I can do it myself,” Atobe spits.

“You're the present,” Shishido retorts. “Presents come in a pretty bow and they don't talk. Shut the fuck up.”

“Your present talked,” Atobe says, smugly.

“He has a point,” Oshitari says, agreeably. He's stroking Atobe's face. The tie has long given up trying to hold him back.

Shishido moves Atobe's hips down, gentle but sudden, so that Atobe cries out and Oshitari's hand tightens around his cock.

Fuck,” Oshitari whimpers.

“Yeah,” Shishido says. “You can both shut up, thanks.”




It's exactly what Oshitari would have wanted. Atobe rocks back and forward in his lap, lost in the sensation. There's a smile on his face that could reach Osaka and he leans into Oshitari's hand on his chin. Shishido is behind him, his arms wrapped around, his hand slowly getting him off. Oshitari looks down the bed and at his boys and the world feels perfect.

“He is humping my fucking leg,” Atobe complains.

Perfect.

“Shut up, Keigo,” Oshitari says, amicably.

It ends with Atobe lying against his chest, so thrummed out on sensation that he can only barely lift himself. Shishido is leaning over him, moving his hips for him, gnawing the back of his neck. His hand is moving so fast Oshitari can feel his watch against his own stomach. Atobe's cries are so needy he's forgotten himself. That's why it's perfect. When it's like this, none of them can think. Only kiss and fuck and lose themselves in each other.

When Oshitari doesn't know who he is, he looks at Shishido and at Atobe and there are his answers, his pieces of himself. When they fuck like this they give them back, if only for a moment.

“Oh God, I can't,” Atobe whispers, in Oshitari's ear. “I can't, I have to, Yuushi-”

Oshitari looks over his shoulder at Shishido, who has one hand on Atobe and one on himself. They exchange moments, pieces of themselves. Oshitari runs his hand across Atobe's jaw as Shishido's hand speeds up, as Atobe's hips speed up, as a pure line of pleasure runs through Atobe's eyes and mouth and chin and Oshitari feels it speeding to his fingertips.





“Best present ever,” Oshitari says, later. Smoking. Finishing off the chocolate cake.

“Hah,” Shishido says. “Wait until tomorrow.”

“Yep,” Atobe says, lazily. “You just wait.”




In the living room, beneath three yards of wrapping paper, are three separate rings.

Keigo. Ryou. Yuushi., the gift tag reads.

The 3-Oh Trio.

Here's to forty and beyond. I love you both, always.

Ryou.

Post a comment in response:

From:
Anonymous( )Anonymous This account has disabled anonymous posting.
OpenID( )OpenID You can comment on this post while signed in with an account from many other sites, once you have confirmed your email address. Sign in using OpenID.
User
Account name:
Password:
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
Subject:
HTML doesn't work in the subject.

Message:

 
Notice: This account is set to log the IP addresses of everyone who comments.
Links will be displayed as unclickable URLs to help prevent spam.