PT: Yes, you may kill me.
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis—well, Konomi Takeshi...er..."D Well, he never took Japanese classes in America, did he?
Jazzy owns it. Totally.
Charmane Yup –nods vigorously- Um...to be sure...who's the lovesick fool? –Shot- xD Thanks for sticking to the story! =D
jassy Yeah, I updated 8) –Shot- At last. After you prodded me like crazy. –Shot again- But it worked, didn't it?—sort of? XD Eunice...um...okay....
ezylrybbit I like your crazy writing –thumbs-up- It really is awesome 8D And the night sky...oh, we depraved city folk xD –Shot- Oh—so that's what happened? xD –shot- That's not asking too much, totally n_n
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"Well, he's got you, doesn't he?"
The words were haunting—they ghosted, a full line of spoken words, through Shishido's mind. He was reminded of little else.
"...he's got you...
"...doesn't he?"
Shishido's mouth formed the words; he was not one to let his emotions take control of him even physically, but—
"...he's got you, doesn't he?"
Doesn't he?
In answer, he took a huge breath—filling his nostrils with oxygen, tensing as he did, before blowing it all out. He mimicked the process several times before his fist relaxed on the desk before him.
He'd better.
--
He saw him brush past him during practice, looking incredibly happy—insanely happy. He seemed aware of little else—when he played tennis with him, the red threads dipped in gold snapped. Silver stars scanned the sky above Choutarou's head, and Shishido watched, appalled and thunderstruck.
Choutarou was so lovesick.
Yet his heart ground against his ribs every time he saw the silver hair.
Days passed.
It was always the same.
Something was at work—something in the middle, cracking the ground, splitting it in half.
It gnawed like a pandemic; it plagued Shishido, and he could only watch in disgust when Choutarou left after school, hand-in-hand with the laughing dandelion; her head thrown back and goldenrod in the sun. Choutarou staring like Romeo to Juliet, Paris to Helen. They were wrapped in some sort of silvery mist, ghostly and wispy; he could try to touch them and the mist would slick his hand in oil.
An oily silver mist.
How fascinating. How disgusting.
Where was he on the plains of Choutarou's silver life?
Shishido was unselfish. Choutarou was all he could ever want—a partner, a friend, a portion of his soul. A lover of light intimacy. Bereaved as he was, he could enjoy the happiness that sickened and pleased him—all to borders.
He thought it all a lie—he should not be jealous.
--
"Stop fussing."
"Pardon?" Shishido shot something of a glare at Oshitari, who only gazed back quietly.
"It's too obvious, Shishido. You're worried; you've been fussing about like a mother hen—like Oishi-kun from Seigaku."
It was too abrupt—but Shishido sometimes preferred frankness above all else; it was just that this bluntness pricked at his pride. Most times it did, but this...offended him above anything else, in a way that lit a blaze inside him. Hotheaded as he was, he was not usually put off so quickly, and by Oshitari-senpai above all.
He snapped, "Will you people just stop talking about this? Kami-sama!" He almost threw his arms up in the air, irritated and worn. Ever since Choutarou had gone out with Kishimoto...he could not describe it...but there had been a sudden shift in their relationship, a sudden snapping of the crimson threads. How long had it been?—merely a week? It seemed longer, it seemed endless. Poison.
Oshitari's gaze did not waver. He stared owlishly; almost stoically—it was unnerving.
Shishido fixed a stare that was almost a glare at him. He itched to release his stress, though it was easy to suppress—stress was sly, and Shishido lacked the craft for it, but he respected his senpai; this was clear. He bowed his head and turned away in disgust. A hand shifted to pull his cap lower over his eyes.
"I need to go home," he muttered, then looked up for Atobe.
His stomach and chest both wanted to implode.
--
Choutarou stared. Stared.
Still staring. Always staring.
"What...," he croaked. What to say, what to say...
Was it the moon that was shattering in martyrdom?—or was he simply killing it with his own stupidity?—so his own heart would stay intact?
Suddenly the world was plunged into apocalypse.
You fool.
--
His feet were acting of their own accord; his mind was a whirl of nothing; all he was conscious of was the pulse of his heart knocking against his chest, his blood rushing beneath his skin. Everything was a blur; there was this and that, and that one...he couldn't care. He couldn't make himself care—so his mind slipped into the abyss; and then there was nothing.
--
Light. Heat.
He blinked.
White. Brown.
He blinked.
Shishido.
"Awake?" It wasn't a real piece of speech; it was a grunt.
"Shishido-san," he managed. His throat was plugged with sawdust. It was an unpleasant feeling. He coughed once. It hardly helped.
"Um..." He blinked again, just to clear the film that was building up in his eyes. His vision cleared. "Can I get...," he croaked; then choked on his own breath and went into a fit of coughs. Shishido waited with some rare display of patience. He only handed a bottle of water to his partner; the latter nodded gratefully and made to open it.
A few good moments ambled by, stealthily, calmly...and still Shishido hardly moved an inch except to put a hand on Choutarou's perspired—(it hadn't time to dry)—back. The rare display of open affection—or concern—did not go unnoticed, however dull the awareness.
When the brunette spoke (his trademark cap hanging at the edge of a chair) his voice was still rough. "Choutarou, what the hell were you doing out there?"
Choutarou didn't answer—he downed the water hastily and was struggling to contain a tide of choking.
Shishido stared impatiently; the moment of tenderness was shattered, blown away in the wind. "Choutarou." The bottle was empty.
The silver-haired teen, despite his best efforts, could not contain a sudden warmth spreading up his face. A flush. Imagining how red he must've looked, he made haste in looking around the room, finally taking in his surroundings.
It didn't take him long to realize his setting—(in fact, it was somewhat obvious; like a worn scene used in countless movies). Shishido's room; he had come here many a time when school was done and put aside.
Ands when Choutarou hastily looked back, remembering his companion's presence, the latter was—mercifully frank. He said, his words blunt, "What happened?"—his chocolate gaze like liquid pools of ice; they were endless, the depths that led to emotions one could never reach. The scowl was traced harshly into the boy's face—the curl of his lips, the folds on his brow. He was grave, he was concerned; and only one who knew him as well as Choutarou could tell.
Choutarou wasn't thinking—but his friend's words were put into his senses; and the events of the dusk were then pouring into his mind, roaring: Her face, looking at him in sorrow... Two of them, pressing each other ad kissing, embracing; savoring the feel of lips and skin... Running, running after freezing where he had stood... Misty night air, the stars in the sky... Blankness...darkness....
Tears tugged at his lids, his orbs; but he was still there, in that room, with that boy; don't cry. He couldn't cry, no matter how much his hurting heart told him to.
But Shishido-san would understand.
"Choutarou." A hand on his shoulder. It was warm, and heavy; it was like a jolt.
The silver-haired boy jumped on the chair he was on, fallen back into reality. "Shishido-san." He looked back at the brown eyes; they softened.
Shishido Ryou—
Choutarou could always trust him. He was his friend, and the best; his partner. Always. But it didn't seem to be enough.
There was adrenaline coursing through his veins—the loss that night had wrung out a longing—of want, of need—of lust.
It couldn't be anything else, and the insanity of it all was enough to kill.
So it was a wonder that Shishido only complied when Choutarou pushed him onto the bed with a desperate frenzy of stripping bare.
--
Ice is nothing without fire.
There is no love without hate.
There is a scale, a Yin-and-Yang, of this law; this melted decree of all that is. And always one loses himself to this balance, for the two are cunning guisers.
Which is which?
Shishido's thoughts were whirling around these very thoughts, though never truly touching them—they were beyond the glass and past the rainbow.
Rainbows. Shishido was too busy to be derisive.
But it was dreamlike, it was too surreal to be the world. He was too young, this was too foreign...how could the one closest to him be so foreign?—he was so unaware, he was wondering where he was as he worked and accepted; the softness twisted around him, moist and unpleasantly hot. Unreal....
Was this a fantasy?—or a figment of a long-gone nightmare? It was hauntingly beautiful and hateful at the same time...how could anyone love like this?
How could pain be so lovely, so like an elixir of life? It was ambrosia.
He grabbed the body, felt the long curves and wet nooks, burying his face somewhere where he inhaled. It was too beautiful.
At some point he fondled sleek lengths of leather, unsure of what it was but always fascinated, always impassioned. It was chaos.
Beautiful.
The deep ocean and the blue sky—wide expanses; endless, endless, always so endless. A weight pressing down, silver misted clouds, silver pressed oceans. There was too little space but who cared? A heavenly corner of the sea was greater than a universe of hell.
The breaths were silver.
At some point it hurt too much—and then his need—he only realized it then what it was—was heightened, and then he was left with a shuddering lump that quickly fell away; something precious was lost. He groped forward, whining—he—and then there was something on his cheek. Hot or cold, it was oily.
"I can't use you like this."
--
Shishido did not see Choutarou the next day. He had awakened to find himself clean and fuzzy-minded, among heavenly sheets.
He almost forgot.
--
The cracked phone was in his hand; the boy with the blue cap was once again pressing the numbers, watching the pixels shift to clone them. "Pick up." Pressed against his ears.
One tone.
Two.
Three times.
Ichi...ni...san...
Cuatro...cinco...seis...
Qi...ba...jiu...
He waited. He waited because there was nothing else to do.
--
Shishido had once told Choutarou, ever the listener, Life is full of mistakes. They were dangling at some high place far away, far above, where they could pretend to be God and touch the skies. If only they could be that perfect; the height threatened the sensation of falling and being mortal.
So many errors. So little justice to compensate for them.
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PT: Guisers...I actually found the word in a book once, so I'll defy Word...actually it was a pretty big thing. Ever read The Seeing Stone? I actually wrote part of this chapter during the summer in Alaska :D I mean, on the ship to Alaska. Yeah, I was just sitting reading in the stateroom, then grabbed my notebook and started writing like hell. Kudos if you get which part. Super kudos if you get it all exactly. Happy late holidays and Western New Year :)