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[erevus]

Title: I Miss Missing You

Rating: Mature (so read on (AO3)) | Length: ~3,500 words

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen / JJK

Pairing: SuguSato

Summary:

And that smile is enough. It’s all Satoru came here to see today.

Every bit of Suguru’s soul is fluttering before him, still clinging on and remembering, muscle memory manipulating its vessel like a dragonfly with its head cut off.

This is Suguru’s existence now. There was no use mulling over it.

---

(Ch 222 spoilers) After the events of the Culling Game and the Final Battle against Sukuna, Suguru Geto is finally free from Kenjaku's control. Still recovering, he's confined to a secret Jujutsu sanatorium in Tokyo. Satoru Gojo visits Suguru on his day off.

[erevus]

Birthday Party

Characters: Ango, Dazai, and Odasaku

Summary: Four years later, Ango receives an invitation written on a napkin. He schedules a meeting with Odasaku.

For @buraihaweek 2016, Day Seven: Odasaku

~1500 words. Angst/Grief, Set after “Dazai Osamu and the Dark Era” and after the encounter with the Guild.

AO3 link

On a cliff overlooking the sea, a cemetery stands alone. The white faces of the tombstones fade into a deep red orange as the sunset descends, burning every grave.

Below, warm hues of sunlight overtake a port city as buildings and streetlights flicker to life. Bar Lupin lies buried further inland, within the streets of Tokyo. Inside, the bartender cleans a wine glass, a few drunk patrons lie slack in the booths, and one man sits at the bar.

Sakaguchi Ango places a glass of whiskey on the counter. The single, circular ice cube in it clinks. Ango studies the bartender -- he is not the same man as before, but he works as if he has been here a while, fast, and greeting customers with a casual tone.

The government agent looks around. Aside from the bartender, not much has changed. Even he, is sitting in this seat once again.

Ango lowers his head, spreading out documents from his briefcase before him.

It’s been four years now.

He scans each paper, touching them with his fingers, lifting them as if he were measuring the weight of each page.

One document, filled out in his own neat handwriting, began:

Armed Detective Agency member.

Dazai Osamu. Age 22. Birthday: June 19.

This page is the cover piece for the stack of hefty, stapled-together files, firm in his grip.

Bloodtype: AB. Height: 181 cm. Weight: 67 kg.

He takes a sip of his drink and sighs. He realizes, Dazai is now taller than him.

Paperclipped to the corner is a passport-sized, 45X35mm photo of a beaming Dazai Osamu. The man is handsome, but no matter how one looked at his photo, one could see multiple things were wrong.

Non-combatant. Ability: Ningen Shikkaku.

Strange, gauze bandages wrung themselves about his neck.

Notes: Nullification ability. Highly dangerous.

His smile is too wide -- as if fishing hooks lodged themselves at the corners of his mouth and pulled, tight. He is hardly smiling at all.

How nice for you, Dazai-kun. Ango takes another sip of his whiskey. A normal portrait, peaceful ability, a place at this lawful agency.

Above all, Dazai’s eyes are empty. Not a single flicker of light exists in the photograph.

Ango rests his finger on his now empty glass. He thought that if he kept coming here, it would be a sufficient replacement. There was no other place to honor someone like that man, really. And tomorrow was the day.

“Odasaku-san would want us to relax like this, on his day,” he mutters, adjusting his glasses and pressing the file back onto the bar counter.

A torn piece of a napkin, no bigger than Dazai’s passport photo, peeks out from the stack. Ango had stuffed it here, buried in this file.

His fingers tremble as they draw it out from the pile. For a moment, Ango stares at his hand. And then, focusing his attention on the scrawled text held in it, he reads each number, the street -- an address, to himself in a low voice, as if reciting a prayer.

He places the napkin piece down.

“Odasaku. Please excuse me, once again.” Ango removes his glasses and hangs his head, cradling it against his left palm. “But I cannot right now.”

The next day, at 5 sharp on a Wednesday evening, Dazai Osamu enters Bar Lupin with his tan coat tossed over his shoulder, hands in his pockets, while humming a popular tune he heard on the radio that week.

The bartender welcomes him and Dazai takes his seat and usual double of whiskey.

“You’re early.” The bartender nods.

“I’m celebrating today,” Dazai says.

Dazai scans the warmly lit bar: he is the first and only customer right now.

“A toast!” Dazai exclaims. His bandaged hand thrusts the glass high. “And then, I plan to drink the whole night.”

The bartender busies himself with cleaning more glasses, preparing them for the after-work rush. “You’re always smiling about something, aren’t you? What’s it today? Get a raise at work?”

“No, no. It’s my friend’s birthday today.” Dazai laughs. He pushes the glass of whiskey higher in the air, admiring the way the light hits the glass.

“You should be drinking with your friend, then.” The bartender offers. He places another wine glass down.

“I spent time with him earlier today.” Dazai presses his drink to his lips.

A few customers filter in, seating themselves at the other end of the bar. Dazai glances at his new companions as they pass by.

“By the way, that glasses-wearing man came by last night,” the bartender says.

Dazai leans back on his bar stool, downs the drinks in his hand, and then slides the glass across the bar. “His hair pushed back, like this?” Dazai sweeps his bangs back and holds them in place. His forehead exposed, he then gives the bartender a tired, half-lidded expression. “And his face like this?”

“Yeah. He sat right there.”

Dazai can only hold his imitation for a few more seconds. He bursts out laughing.

“Get me another double.”

Ango walks along the alleyway outside Bar Lupin at 10:15 P.M. In the darkness illuminanted by dim LED lights, a tall, spectral figure wearing a tan coat waits for him at the entrance. It’s exactly who he expects, but he feels his own body stiffen nevertheless.

Dazai Osamu is standing there, smoking. Ango adjusts his glasses, his eyes flicker across Dazai’s.

“Good evening, Dazai-kun.”

Dazai smiles and tosses his cigarette. “I heard you still drop by sometimes too! The rumor was right.”

“You are 22 years old now, Dazai-kun.”

“So, how was Odasaku?” Dazai’s voice is cheerful as usual.

“Adults know how to greet each other properly. You are an adult now, aren’t you?”

“Oh, well good evening then!” Dazai beams wide. “So how was Odasaku?”

“You would know better than I.” Ango says.

“Why’s that?” Dazai frowns, before suddenly smiling again.

“I am not here to play games, Dazai-kun,” Ango says. He feels his shoulders grow tense. “Especially not today.”

Dazai takes a few steps forward. “Ah, you remembered. As expected of Ango, the information broker. It was an invitation you know.”

“Dazai-kun.”

The air between them is still and Ango can smell the alcohol on Dazai despite the distance that separates them. from this distance.

“If you would please.”

Ango strides forward, gripping his suitcase against his body. The top cover of his suitcase is bulletproof. He’s ready to turn it into a shield if he needs, as he walks past this man in the narrow Bar Lupin alleyway.

“So you haven’t gone yet.”

Dazai doesn’t even turn to face him.

“Go see him.”

At a cemetery, overlooking the sea, a solitary grave stands among many others. The sunset had burned more brightly than usual that day, heating the land and the sea, illuminating the weathered photograph attached to the single grave. But, as midnight settled into the sky, the moon’s reflection casts over the photo instead, and a wind that travels from the sea cools the earth.

Ango Sakaguchi stands before the grave. He crouches down, inspecting the photo and the bouquet of white lilies laid before it as if verifying their authenticity.

He stands clears his throat.

“It’s been some time, Odasaku-san. I'm sorry I have come so late. I was held up doing paperwork at the office.”

He places a bouquet of white lilies at the grave beside the other.

“I see Dazai-kun already visited...”

He looks at the photo as he speaks. He, Odasaku, and Dazai from four years ago look back at him. Ango opens his mouth to speak, and the words come out so quickly.

“Well, I have known you were resting here the last few years. After all, Dazai was sighted at this location, right before his disappearance from the mafia.”

His gaze is focused on Odasaku’s, but for a moment, he glances at Dazai’s half-bandaged face.

Ango loosens his tie. “Dazai-kun and I, we both failed, after all. If I had not been captured that time… Well, if you did not come to my rescue… The fact is, I have thought about--”

He grasps his voice, evening it.

“Where are my manners? Happy birthday, Odasaku-san.”

He decides to sit, sets down his briefcase, unbuttons his coat.

“This is our first opportunity to finally talk after everything… I was not sure where to start.”

The night air is cool, and a light breeze picks up the salty scent of the ocean, pricking Ango’s nose.

The salt stings.

“Dazai invited me, actually… This might be difficult for you to believe, but Dazai-kun gave me the address. He left it on a napkin at the usual place.” There’s a hitch in his breath. “I’m not deluded enough to entertain that he has forgiven me. I do not expect you to, either.”

Ango’s voice is dry, as if he were sitting back at Bar Lupin, topping off his words with whiskey that burns his throat.

“Probably because he no longer has someone like you to spoil him…” Ango’s voice drifts off.

The wind picks up, rattling the white lilies resting on the grave.

“He has really grown up.”

End Notes

Happy birthday, Odasaku.

When Ango says he and Dazai “failed,” I imagine him to use the same Japanese phrase "shuppai," to fail. This is the same phrase Dazai uses for the Buraiha trio, "shuppai nakama," and the same one when Odasaku says when he fails to retrieve Ango.

If you love the Buraiha, please let me know if you enjoyed this!

Thank you Maru for proofreading.

[erevus]

I’m so touched, thank you Roger! This art style is so cool. For my fic, "Loser Says I Love You"

Made fanart for arisatounox’s fanfic!!! I can’t put a link right now, but it’s really really good!!! Vhsjsbskv

[erevus]

Curiosity Killed the Cat [Ashikuro fic present for princemaru]

(art by archtypic)

Pairing: Ashikiba Takuto/Kuroda Yukinari

~2200 words, general

**SPOILERS** Interhigh results. Mt. Minegayama race results. Hakone Academy 2.0 team.

Kuroda Yukinari was on-track to become Hakone Academy’s #6. One afternoon he met Ashikiba Takuto, who bumped into his bike.

Kuroda didn’t get the regular position. Through a series of questions, the curious Ashikiba taught Kuroda something Arakita never could.

ao3 link

Kuroda Yukinari only worried about a few things: which winter sport to compete in while cycling was off-season, whether the roots of his silver hair showed, and how he looked in front of Arakita-san--but he never expected his new ace to top that list.

Especially not after one summer afternoon, after all the seniors had picked up their uniforms and bikes and water bottles, leaving behind an empty clubroom and the opportunity for Kuroda Yukinari to walk in an Ashikiba Takuto, sprawled out, face-up, flat on the floor.

“Yukinari Kuroda-san…?” He mumbled, as if he were speaking to the bike hooked to the ceiling right above him. “I walked into that bike.”

“Were you just gonna lie there until someone came in!?”

“Is that your bike?”

Kuroda stomped, one foot in front of the other, planting each down firmly so the floor beneath might shake, might move the giant on the floor in some way until he stood above the other, blocking the hanging bike from view.

“Did you scratch it!?”

Ashikiba shook his head side to side.

Kuroda swallowed. He looked up at the white Kuota frame, scanning it quickly for marks.

“Wait. How’d you know it’s mi--”

“You’re the only one not riding today.”

Kuroda, hands on his hips, looked down at the boy on the floor.

Ashikiba’s orange hair splayed out beneath his head, surrounding his face like a lion’s mane. Under his left eye was a purple-blue bruise, probably from his collision with the hanging bike, but his expression reflected no physical pain, unchanging and somber, with thick eyebrows pressed together and lacking the same pride that Fukutomi’s thick eyebrows gave his face. Kuroda didn’t like looking at his face.

“You’re not riding today,” Ashikiba repeated.

Kuroda frowned. “Heard you the first time.” He crossed his arms.

“Don’t you usually?” Ashikiba paused. “Ride, I mean.”

“You’re aren’t either, idiot.”

“I’m just the laundry clerk, not an athlete.”

Kuroda knew many things about Ashikiba Takuto, tall, reserved, air-headed. Arakita-san never spoke well of “Hakogaku’s giant laundry boy.” Izumida mentioned him a couple times off-handedly as someone who rode like they were bouncing.

But Ashikiba looked through Kuroda as if he were a part of the ceiling, as if he were something worse than Arakita not speaking well of him or being a conversation piece on Izumida’s mind, and something about looking into that face long enough...Maybe it was so he didn’t have to look at it any longer, combined with those thoughts, that compelled Kuroda to sit down beside the tall boy.

Ashikiba sat up and murmured, “Aren’t you a regular?” like Kuroda couldn’t hear it.

His height at a seated level stunned Kuroda, but the white-haired boy sat stiff, trying not to show that he’d noticed.

“They’re on the rollers right now. It’s important to train right before the Summer Interhigh,” Ashikiba continued, turning to look at Kuroda. “Fukutomi-san said.”

Kuroda looked up, the purple-blue bruise forming on Ashikiba’s cheekbone catching his eye. He stared a few seconds too long.

Ashikiba blinked. “It’s a birthmark.”

“That bruise!?” Kuroda jumped back, leaning back on one arm.

“Huh?” Ashikiba’s hands cupped his own cheeks. “Huh!? Wher--”

“That!” Kuroda pressed two fingers to the bruise.

“Ow!” Ashikiba pulled away. “Ow! Oh… No, that’s no--”

“What the hell!” Kuroda stood. Within a second, he was out the door and down the hallway, huffing and angry.

#

“So you met Ashikiba.” Arakita popped a couple yen into the vending machine.

“One minute this guy speaks plainly, the next he’s obviously the idiot that walked right into my Kuota.”

“Don’t know what Fuku-chan sees in him.” Arakita crouched down, grabbing two dispensed Bepsi bottles. “Guess he’s good at doing laundry.”

“Oh, that’s right. That’s him, huh?”

“Don’t mind guys like him.” Arakita stood, passing one Bepsi to his junior. “He’s not on track like you.”

A few seconds passed before Arakita added, “Next year’s your last chance. Got it?”

Kuroda accepted the bottle without looking up. He felt the weight of the can in his hand, the coldness of the bottle seeping into his palm.

“Got it.”

#

“Uh, Kuroda Yukinari-san.”

“You don’t have to say my full name.”

“Kuroda-san...I’m...sorry about your bike the other day.” Ashikiba trailed behind the other, carrying a basket of fresh towels.

“You didn’t scratch it, and that was almost a week ago.”

“O-Oh. Well, I noticed you weren’t cycling…so I thought maybe your bike--”

Kuroda whipped around, his arms gripped at his side, and his foot planted in place of Ashikiba’s next step.

“I said, you didn’t break my bike or anything.” His brows came together as he clenched his teeth.

Ashikiba took a step back, marveling at the the smaller boy’s grinding teeth. “Oh, uh…that’s good…”

Kuroda’s glare didn’t waver.

“Uh...I heard you do other sports, off-season…? Is that why you’re not cycling? Fukutomi-san and Shinkai-san mention--”

“And why are you so damn interested!?”

Ashikiba raised the laundry basket a little higher and close to his body, to create some blockade between. “I-I wanted to see...what a regular-in-the-making was like.” But Kuroda’s expression didn’t soften. “We’re the same year, so I thought--”

“Are you really some fucking idiot or something!?”

“Huh?”

Kuroda’s right hand snapped forward, grabbing for Ashikiba but then slamming the basket of towels from the other’s hands instead. Ashikiba let go immediately, and the towels flew, scattering across the hallway, clumping in random piles.

“I didn’t make the team!” Kuroda seized Ashikiba by the shirt, fisting his clenched palms tight and reeling the taller boy down and right in front of his eyes. “I’m not a regular! I didn’t make #6!” The grip drained the blood from Kuroda’s hands and his wrists tightened until they were shaking.

Ashikiba stood hunched, swaying one way or the other from the pull, below him a sea of white towels, a toppled-over white basket, a white haired-boy with his fists full of Ashikiba’s white shirt, wrinkling it. He watched the smaller boy stiffen, all of the erratic movements slowing together into soft shudders of the boy’s shoulders. And then he watched the next movements with more care: the way the shoulders came together, squeezed tight for a second--and then Kuroda unclenched Ashikiba’s shirt, clenched it, and buried his face into it and sobbed.

Perhaps that was all it took.

#

It started when a few days after the summer Inter High, in Hakone’s locker room. Both he and the other climber had finished a couple hours on the rollers. The taller of the two identified Kuroda’s white hair, lumbered over, limbs heavy, and collapsed beside the equally exhausted Kuroda.

“Kuroda-san!”

“Just Kuroda is fine.”

“Kuroda… Good work!”

Kuroda shifted, moving his thigh away from Ashikiba’s, but the other climber noticed, and closed the gap between them. “You were on the rollers longer than me.”

Kuroda leaned down, grabbing his water bottle from under the bench and shaking it. “Empty.”

Ashikiba leaned his elbows on his knees to reach Kuroda’s new eye-level. “So...what do you do off season?”

“Basketball and baseball.”

Ashikiba waited a moment, collecting his thoughts before replying, “Ah, cool.”

A moment of silence passed. Kuroda stood, stretching out his limbs.

“It’s hard to choose sometimes. Both teams need me every season.”

“Th-That’s really cool.”

Kuroda nodded. Some more silence passed as the white-haired climber finished his stretches.

“That’s it?”

“Hm?”

“That’s all!? You came over just to ask about the sports I played?”

The taller boy thought for a moment. “Um...yes.”

#

The summer days passed by like that.

“Kuroda, Do you bleach your hair white a lot?”

“Not usually.”

“Ah, cool.”

A day on the rollers, a question in the locker room.

“What do you like about Arakita-san?”

“He’s tough.”

“Ah, I see.”

“If you could be any animal, what would you be?”

“A cat.”

“Oh!”

Without fail. And increasingly ridiculous.

“Did you dye your hair white because of the kanji for ‘snow’ in your name, Kuroda?”

“No.”

“Ah, cool!”

Silence.

“Are you going to dye your roots soon?”

“What?”

“Since I’m taller, I can see the top of your head…” Ashikiba began, but he trailed off, hoping Kuroda might forget.

“What the fuck did you say!?”

That was the last straw, Kuroda decided, in between bleaching and toning and burning the roots of his hair with chemicals in the evening.

Far too many and far too mixed in between their practices on the mountain routes surrounding Kanagawa, for Kuroda to actually recollect the small shreds of himself he parsed to the curious climber each day.

#

“Touichirou, it’s too much, he’s too much.”

His best friend laughed, tossing Kuroda a towel. “I think he just wants to get close to you.”

“What?”

“Well…it’s a little embarrassing.” Izumida paused in front of the locker room mirror, wiping his naked waist, Andy, Frank, and arms down with his own towel. “I kind of did the same thing to Shinkai-san.”

“But that’s because you look up to Shinkai. That idiot couldn’t possibly…” Lost in thought, Kuroda leaned back, laying the towel over his face. “Maybe… Maybe he’s one of those guys trying to get close to get a shot at the ace numbers.”

Izumida hung his towel and shut his locker. He shook his head. “I wouldn’tbe surprised, Yuki. You’re going to be our #2 for sure.”

“Yeah.”

“But, you quickly underestimate him.” Izumida lifted the towel from Kuroda’s face and smiled. “According to Shinkai-san, he’s got talent. He’s Fukutomi-san’s favorite.”

“What!?” Kuroda sat up, his eyebrows pinching in and pressing down on his heavy lids. “You’re kidding. You can’t mean that…”  

Izumida tossed the dirty towel into the laundry basket. He laughed. “He’s not an ordinary laundry clerk anymore, he’s the only climber Fukutomi-san is sending to the Mt. Minegayama race.”

#

The day after Ashikiba returned from the Mt. Minegayama Race, ribbon in hand, and brimming with unexplainable pride, Kuroda followed the taller boy into the locker room after practice.

“Oi, Takuto.” Kuroda walked in, a smile cracking his face. “So. Second place?”

“T-Takuto!?” Ashikiba, who was seated, turned around with wild eyes and a smile to return Kuroda’s. “Yes! You should enter a race too, Yuki-chan.” He patted the empty space beside him, which Kuroda took. “It was a lot of fun!”

“Fukutomi-san didn’t enter me like he did you.” Kuroda smoothed a palm against Ashikiba’s back. “You know what that means?” His smile widened.

“You don’t like climbs?”

A perfect, idiotic question. The smile faded from the white-haired boy’s face and he let a full, silent minute pass. He watched Ashikiba’s left leg steadily begin to thrum, up and down, in some form and rhythm that had purpose.

“Fukutomi-san… thinks you don’t like climbs?”

Kuroda dropped his hand. Ashikiba looked at it. Leg up, down, pause for two seconds, up.

“Well, I guess you’re more of an all-rounder,” Ashikiba continued.

It wasn’t mere leg-shaking-syndrome, but Kuroda noted its melody in its up-down-stop-up-down.

And then Ashikiba added, “Am I right, Yuki-chan?”

Melody. Rythmn. An climber-ace for the next Interhigh.

Perhaps it was this small moment of distraction that gave Ashikiba bravery.

Ashikiba scooted forward, pressing their thighs together and bringing their faces closer. Kuroda remained still, until Ashikiba closed the gap between them and pressed lips to Kuroda Yukinari’s for fifteen seconds that felt like sixty, then pulled away.

That combined with the warmth of Ashikiba’s sweaty thigh pressed against his own made Kuroda wince.He felt the heat of their touching thighs sink into his skin and rise into his face. His resting hands clenched into fists, and he considered whether Ashikiba’s neck could fit between them, but instead, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

He leaned away, his eyes stuck following Ashikiba’s leg because he wasn’t sure what else to do. He remained like that and counted the seconds. Another full minute.

So Ashikiba grew braver.

“What did you think about the Interhigh, Yuki-chan?” Ashikiba said.

That was it. “Oi!” Kuroda stood. “Don’t just do that, and then call me Yuki-chan, and then expect--”

“But you called me Takuto.”

Kuroda’s sat down, covering his red face with his palms. “The Interhigh… That’s what you really wanted to talk about, huh?”

“Huh!?”

“You’re asking me stuff every day. And then today, asking and doing whatever the hell you feel like! And then doing that!”

Ashikiba’s foot stopped. Kuroda’s eyes darted to it, then he looked into the shocked face of the other climber.

The striking lavender shade of Ashikiba’s eyes locked onto Kuroda’s. Kuroda didn’t like looking at his face even more now.

“What!?”

“Really, what do you think?”

Kuroda sighed. He drew himself up. “I’m shocked.”

Ashikiba nodded.

“It’s embarrassing.” He wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the Interhigh anymore.

“Uh-huh.”

Kuroda bit his lip, and turned away. “What about you?”

“Hmm.” Ashikiba tilted his head. “Well, I lost at Mt. Minegayama.”

Kuroda nodded, composed now.

“And Hakogaku lost the Interhigh,” Ashikiba leaned forward, catching Kuroda’s eyes with his, the even tone of his voice drawing Kuroda’s attention.

“But, I think, losing once to an opponent is even more reason to ensure that we will never lose again.”

And then Kuroda’s eyes couldn’t leave Ashikiba’s and the redness was back in his face.

“That’s the duty of Hakogaku’s new ace.”

He felt himself staring for too long again.

“In a race, an ace doesn’t pass the finish line without the help of his assist.” Ashikiba continued with a smile. “So I wanted to get to know you better, Yuki-chan!”

“Th-That’s--”

“And I’m glad I did.”

The past few months spread out into a thousand thoughts in Kuroda’s head. What would Arakita think? What would he hhink if he found out that Kuroda Yukinari was biting his lip, flushed, embarrassed, and impressed? In front of him was a boy who questioned the sports Kuroda played off-season or monitored the growth of his roots, who asked too many questions, but also let Kuroda cry into his shirt. In front of him was Hakogaku’s new ace.

All at once he snatched Ashikiba by the collar, and, hands around the taller boy’s neck, kissed him back. Kuroda let go.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

Birthday present for princemaru, who cosplays the Yuki-chan to my Ashikiba. I love you! Hope you like it! ; ^;

Extra special thank you to daphneontherun for taking the time and being my beta! And thank you to archtypic for putting my work together with art in a booklet for Maru ┐(♥￣ヮ￣ )♪♪

Thank you for reading~ If you liked it, I'd love to know, so please leave a comment!

[erevus]

Loser Says "I Love You"

Pairing: Machimiya/Arakita

~2300 words, Explicit

**SPOILERS First Interhigh results and graduation.** Alcohol, explicit sex, rimming, blood warning. Includes Bepsi date.

Results are results. In a race, there are winners and losers.

The first time Machimiya and Arakita hook up, Arakita blurts out “I love you.” And Arakita discovers that Bepsi and bruises aren’t the only things Machimiya and he have in common.

AO3 Link

You’re a loser.

After the Interhigh, Arakita repeated these words to himself everyday. He felt the familiar twinge of faint pain in his elbow with each cinderblock-tied-to-his-feet footstep he took after the end of that race.

And standing at the awards ceremony, with head bowed down as the announcer reads the results, helmet held at his side, gloves off, Arakita takes in a deep breath. He turns his head to the sky. The sweat and blood dripping down into his mouth tastes like salt.

“We lost.”

———

They stumble into Arakita’s apartment at midnight, passing alcohol-breath kisses and guiding hands over each other’s bodies in the darkness. Arakita’s pinned to the nearest wall and, pants undone and underwear at his feet, he begins biting at Machimiya’s cheek when the other refuses to kiss him more.

The fighting dog winces at Arakita’s teeth on his face. He fends off teeth by replacing cheeks with fingers and shoulders and whatever Arakita cares to bite, which, as far as Arakita is concerned, is any inch of Machimiya’s body.

With Arakita gnawing at a finger or two, Machimiya slides down, sucking at inner thigh skin.

“Ahh,” Arakita’s breath escapes as fast as he feels his legs shake under Machimiya’s mouth. He spits out Machimiya’s fingers and sinks sharp nails into Machimiya’s back.

Machimiya suddenly stands, moving his mouth over Arakita’s.

Arakita pushes the other boy away only for Machimiya to shove his fingers back into the assists’ mouth.

“Wet them.” Machimiya clenches his teeth.

But Arakita immediately bites down, drawing blood.

“Not like that!”

Arakita only coughs beneath the taste of metallic copper, taking the moment to return a glare.

“Agh! Fuck you!” He yanks his fingers out, wiping the blood onto his pant leg. “Isn’t this how you do it!?”

“What?”

“Fuck!” Machimiya presses Arakita to the wall. He begins searching with his hand, for his own pants, the zipper on it, one hand on his belt while the other hand digs nails into Arakita’s shoulder.

Arakita watches the other boy fuss with his own clothing. “You’re wasted.”

Machimiya presses Arakita hard into the wall. He unclaspes his own belt and draws it from his jeans, slapping the leather against the side of his partner’s naked thigh.

“Ow!” Arakita instinctively raises his leg against the pain, a red mark fades from his pale skin. He snatches the belt as Machimiya raises a hand for another strike and throws it aside. “Just fuck me already!”

“I’m getting there!” Machimiya’s smile stretches the fresh scratches across his face. He leans into the ace assist. He hovers for a moment, his alcohol breath stinging Arakita’s nose.

Arakita closes his eyes.

In the next moment, Machimiya slams his lips into Arakita’s and between the grunts and twisting and turning, Machimiya’s denim jeans and boxers fall to his ankles. His hard cock rubs against Arakita’s thigh until it’s clumsily slamming into Arakita’s already exposed cock.

“Ah!” He breaks his lips from the other boy. He feels for his cock and guides it over Arakita’s. “Ahh.”

Arakita twitches when the heads of their cocks slide over each other. He feels Machimiya sigh against his neck, and then a warm tongue as Machimiya grazes his teeth over skin in an attempt to busy his mouth while rubbing their cocks together until Arakita bucks with every contact.

The assist clutches the back of Machimiya’s head as the blood rushes into his member. Arakita leans into the wall behind him.

#

In a summer heat just a few months ago, he first met Machimiya.

They were covered in bandages and soaked in their own sweat when Arakita approached the sprinter sitting in Hiroshima Kureminami’s tent and held out a bottle of Bepsi.

“As promised, Machimiya.”

Machimiya flinched at his name. He let Arakita take a seat, elbows on his knees and gloves off and helmet at his side. But Machimiya couldn’t even look at the bottle in hand, he wasn’t sure how it got there, he didn’t even remember taking it from Arakita.

Hakogaku’s assist sipped his own Bepsi bottle, capped it, dangling between two fingers cinched at the top of the bottle. “What? Don’t like Bepsi!?”

The sprinter saw how Arakita’s legs had shaken with every step toward him, how each word he said was accompanied by a quivering lip. Machimiya felt himself drinking in every bit of Arakita’s image. It was different seeing the other boy up close, not racing at so many miles per hour, not just as #2 of Hakone Academy, but as the man who beat him in the Interhigh, sitting beside him in the same exhaustion, sitting beside him in the same defeat.

The sprinter turned the bottle of Bepsi over in his hand.

“Eh, you’re not missing out on much.” Arakita bit his lip and his eyes met Machimiya’s for the first time since he sat down. “For some reason, it doesn’t taste the same today…”

It hit Machimiya in one gaze.

“Probably shitty Bepsi in these vending machines.” Arakita swallows. “They’re promoting that Pocari stuff.”

This wasn’t Arakita in front of him.

“Tch, it’s starting to hurt now. How annoying.” Arakita presses the gauze pad taped to the side of his forehead. “See what you did, Machimiya?”

“Sorry,” Machimiya smiles.

Arakita hung his head. “It’s hurting real bad.”

#

Arakita’s knees buckle. He slaps the other boy with a swift palm.

“Ow!” Machimiya pulls back.

“What the fuck are you doing!?”

“I-Isn—” Machimiya’s face reddens and Arakita guesses it’s the impact of his hand or the alcohol. “Like this, right?”

“You dumb fuck!” Arakita shoves Machimiya. “You ever jack off before!?”

Before Machimiya takes his next breath, Arakita’s hands sink into the fighting dog’s collarbones and they’re rolling onto the hardwood floor. Arakita straddles him, locking Machimiya’s waist with his strong thighs.

“Like this, fucking idiot.” He spits into his own palm and slides his hand over Machimiya’s cock. He works it up and down.

The ecstasy fills Machimiya. He closes his eyes, and tilts his head back and slides his hands over Arakita’s ass.

The next moment that Machimiya looks up, Arakita’s holding both their cocks, pumping them in rhythm together. For a moment in the darkness, Arakita sees Machimiya’s face flush red.

The sprinter shakes his head and sits up.

“Ahh, that’s good.” Machimiya locks arms around Arakita’s waist. He connects his forehead with Arakita’s. “Good. Good.”

“Ha?” Arakita breathes into a smiling face. “Just lie down an—”

Machimiya slams Arakita onto his back and into the hardwood floor beneath them.

In between Arakita’s legs, Machimiya slides his hand down down the ace assist’s thigh until his forefinger presses Arakita’s entrance and he lowers his tongue to it.

“Ahh!” Arakita sprawls his limbs out. “M-Machi—” The sprinter eases a finger in. “Ah! Fuck!”

Machimiya sits up, pressing Arakita’s legs apart further as he jams another finger in.

Arakita scowls at the boy between his legs. “Ah, ah, fuck you!”

The sprinter smiles with his tongue out. A little more probing, and Machimiya presses his hard cock to Arakita’s sensitive skin.

In a few minutes, Arakita’s rocking with Machimiya in between his legs, calves locked over his back, crashing his head back and forth into the wall behind him, the drawer behind him, the bedpost behind him. It’s a lot of sweat and saliva to take in, Arakita thinks, his nails can only dig so deep until the skin beneath it begins to give.

He holds on tighter, a sigh from Machimiya comes out like a moan as the boy continues to thrust into Arakita. In and out, the pain and ecstasy comes in surges into Arakita’s body and builds into the assist’s pulsating cock.

Arakita sinks nails deeper into Machimiya’s back, he feels the blood wet his fingers in the next second. His moans soften as his breathing picks up. He gets close into Machimiya Eikichi’s ear as the other boy holds him close.

In the next few breathes he feels it.

It’s post-interhigh summer heat. It’s cinder-blocks-tied-to-his-legs pounding into his stomach with each syllable. It’s gloves off, helmet held at one’s side, and a deep breath. It’s sweat and saliva mixing that tastes like salt in his mouth.

“I love you,” Arakita coughs.

Arakita wants to scream. But Machimiya is thrusting himself in and out to climax, so Arakita holds on tight instead, bloodied fingers twisting themselves his partner’s red hair. The blood rushes to the assist’s head. He hopes Machimiya forgets it. He hopes Machimiya never heard it.

Because Arakita Yaustomo, Hakone Academy’s #2, never thought about how in a green and white tent a few miles away, Machimiya Eikichi rests his forehead on his hands.

How Machimiya, every day after the Inter High also felt that, “This bottle of bepsi doesn’t taste the same as before.”

About how that same evening, the ace sprinter hangs up a Hiroshima Kureminami cycling uniform for the last time, and sits, elbows on his knees and gloves off and helmet at his side and breathes, “I lost to him.”

Machimiya cums inside Arakita and relaxes limp over the other boy, his hands wrapping around Arakita’s back and his palms cradling the other’s head.

He buries his face into Arakita’s collarbones. “I love you. I love you. I’ve loved you.”

###

The sunlight of the next morning filters in through the bedroom window blinds. They pattern the sharp edge of Machimiya’s jaw, his naked torso, and the bruises on his chest with bars of light. Arakita leans over the sleeping boy, examining the scratches on his body.

He scans the chaos of the room around them; college textbooks in piles on the floor and next to it an overturned desk lamp, an assortment of their clothing from last night heaped in a pathway to the bedside.

Arakita makes a motion to leave the bed, when a hand shoots up and locks the boy into Machimiya’s arms.

The assist yelps, wrapping arms around Machimiya’s. “Get the fuck off!” He shifts his weight to one side, and then tosses it to another side.

Machimiya laughs, he presses his face into Arakita’s bed hair for second, and then lets go.

“You know,” Machimiya sits with legs folded and raises his hands above his head in a stretch. “I expected you to be a screamer.”

“Well… Usually, I am.”

“You didn’t even say a word!”

“I was drunk.”

“Oh…” Machimiya drops his arms. He moves to turn away, but a sharp prickling in his side stops him. He looks down. Three thin red lines follow the curve of his rib cage, while smaller scabs scatter the surface of purpled skin. “Y-yeah, you really were.”

“You were, too.” Arakita pulls a pillow from behind him and rests his forearms in it, allowing himself to sink into it.

Machimiya drops his gaze to Arakita’s nails. The stinging of those ten fingers locked into his back comes back in sudden waves of pain, dotting several areas of his upper back and down his spine. The pressure of sharp teeth works its way across his neck, his chest, his shoulders, all in time with the tightness of slender fingers twisted in red hair.

Machimiya snatches Arakita by the shoulders. His nails dig into Arakita’s shirt. “Then what was that!”

“Ow.” Arakita furrows his brow. “Wh-What?”

Machimiya lets go, he gathers his hands into his lap and takes a deep breath. “Fucking hell, I’ve never touched another guy’s cock before—”

“I could tell.” Arakita smirks, rubbing his own left shoulder.

“Shut it!” Machimiya’s face reddens. He begins playing with the sheets, running nails along the seams of the comforter. “You think I can understand what the fuck you meant!?”

“Huh?”

“I was serious, I mean.” The redhead looks up, he grits his teeth. “I love you, Ara.”

Machimiya hangs his head, concentrating on fussing with the sheets. Arakita sighs. He picks at the dried blood under his nails.

Suddenly, Machimiya closes the space between them, and touches their foreheads together.

“So were you serious—” Machimiya continues, breathing into Arakita’s face.

“You fucking idiot.” Arakita drops his head into the crook Machimiya’s shoulder. His hands fold themselves into his partner’s. “It was the heat of the moment, I don’t know.”

He feels Machimiya breath stop.

He squeezes Machimiya’s hands, the same way the first time the two ever held each other, their fists clenched together at the finish line of a regional university race.

#

On the podium, Arakita slammed a fist in the air in unison with his new partner. And sitting in their tent, laughing and hitting each other with towels, and stripping green and yellow jerseys off of sweaty bodies, Machimiya uncapped a bottle of Bepsi and offered it to Arakita.

Machimiya smiles. “Good work out there!”

“I said, that was my treat.” Arakita shoves Machimiya’s hand away.

“Aw, come on A-ra-ki-ta!” Machimiya digs the bottle into his teammate’s shoulder. “Winners don’t take Bepsi, huh?”

He bends down to reach Arakita’s eye level. “It tastes great, come on.” Machimiya smiles wide. “I owe you.”

Arakita grabs the bottle. For the first time since the Inter High, the Bepsi tastes the same.

#

Arakita shudders, he wraps his arms around Machimiya’s waist and embraces his partner. “Of course I meant it.”

Thank you for reading.

I hope you liked it, if you did, I’d be happy to hear about it here!

Writing this was frustrating. Only because I had always envisioned myself writing the “Machiara bepsi date” in a glorious oneshot piece, and suddenly I found it here (in between rough fucking), but that’s probably where it belongs for these two.

I feel like, the Machimiya that Arakita understood first, is now willing to understand Arakita following Hakogaku’s defeat (this interhigh is in Hakone, whereas the one Machimiya lost was in Hiroshima). And that mixture of admiration and understanding is really why Machimiya loves Arakita first, but he’s still very “Machimiya” about expressing that.

Thank you Maru for betaing!

[erevus]

The wonderful demondelaplace did a Mandarin Chinese translation with my permission, check it out here: http://paralleluniverses.lofter.com/post/10f21f_4ff5a77

Fruitcake Coffee [Yowapeda Secret Santa Gift for Kei]

To: byuldeureul

Message: Happy Holidays Kei! I have two gifts for you: this fic and cosplay photos we did to go along with it.Thank you for the detailed prompt—I’ve never written/cosplayed an AU before and this was the perfect opportunity to try it. I had a lot of fun and I hope you like them!

From: arisatounox / erevus

————————————————————————————————

Imaizumi: arisatounox | Naruko: archtypic | photo by faiell

Pairing: Imaizumi/ Naruko

~1500 words, PG, Coffeshop AU!

Imaizumi Shunsuke never looked forward to Christmas. This year, the most irritating thing of all was a redhead who liked fruitcake.

Read More

[erevus]

Fruitcake Coffee [Yowapeda Secret Santa Gift for Kei]

To: byuldeureul

Message: Happy Holidays Kei! I have two gifts for you: this fic and cosplay photos we did to go along with it.Thank you for the detailed prompt—I’ve never written/cosplayed an AU before and this was the perfect opportunity to try it. I had a lot of fun and I hope you like them!

From: arisatounox / erevus

————————————————————————————————

Imaizumi: arisatounox | Naruko: archtypic | photo by faiell

Pairing: Imaizumi/ Naruko

~1500 words, PG, Coffeshop AU!

Imaizumi Shunsuke never looked forward to Christmas. This year, the most irritating thing of all was a redhead who liked fruitcake.

Imaizumi Shunsuke never looked forward to Christmas.

The temperature dropped dramatically in Chiba—which meant overcoats and fevers, which painted eternal pink cheeks on the teenager, which meant his blushing countenance made him even cuter to the multitude of girls, lining up to bombard him with their love confessions at the local coffee shop he worked in.

After stalkers and all kinds of strange love confessions that Christmas time encouraged, he never looked forward to working during the holidays. Imaizumi had grown so irritated with working at the coffeeshop, he almost quit.

But this year was the worst. This year there was something more annoying than his seasonal illness and more annoying than the crying girls that left the coffee shop when he didn’t prepare their coffees with heart-shaped cream decorations.

This year, the most irritating thing of all was him.

#

The first time he met the boy who layered a red puffy jacket over a red button-up, all wrapped with a checkered black and red scarf, Imaizumi was irritated most by one thing: the way his redhead blended into the red-maroon walls of the coffee shop.

It was six-thirty in the morning, just two minutes past opening, and the coffee shop was still empty. Imaizumi sat at the counter, wiping down coffee cups in rhythm with the holiday jazz music filling the room when the redhead walked in.

The stranger looked around at the quaint interior while Imaizumi examined the boy’s apparel.

“Oy, nice place. Love the paint job.” The redhead took off his red earmuffs and motioned them to the coffee shop walls, “Whoever picked that color’s got some taste.”

The boy’s accent confirmed Imaizumi’s suspicions if his fashion hadn’t already. No one in Chiba would even think of dressing like that. The flashy red was either a new fashion movement from Shibuya or this guy was going to be more annoying than he expected.

“I chose it.”

A wide smile drew across the redhead’s face.

Imaizumi started the coffee machine. “If you’re going to order something to drink, It’ll take a few minutes for the machine to turn on.”

“Ah, then, I’ll have something to drink.” The redhead took a seat at the counter, smile still intact.

“And what would you like?” Imaizumi continued as he stacked the clean porcelain cups into a cupboard.

The stranger leaned forward, turning his head a little to the left and then to the right, following Imaizumi’s movements. It took a few cycles of this before the barista realized what his guest was doing.

Imaizumi stood up tall and straight before him.

“Imaizumi Shunsuke!” The stranger read his nametag aloud. “What’s good to drink?”

“I can make anything on the menu, or if something you want isn’t on there, I can—”

“Oh? You’re a barista!”

“…Of course.” Imaizumi set down his towel.

“Sorry.” His guest laughed. “When I walked in and saw you, I thought this was a host cafe or something.”

If Imaizumi hadn’t heard this before he’d be confused.

He wanted to argue that he wasn’t just all looks—Imaizumi took pride in his barista training; he formed perfect hearts in coffee cups filled to the rim with, for the holidays, hazelnut, peppermint, or their famous fruitcake coffee.

He gripped his side of the counter and gritted a small smile through his teeth. “Unfortunately, I’m one of the shop’s only good baristas. If you wanted a host cafe, there’s one down the street I can point you to.”

“Woah, I didn’t mean anything like that! You’re just…pretty good-looking, you know?”

Imaizumi sighed.

“I’m Naruko Shoukichi, by the way.” Naruko loosened the red scarf around his neck as his own face reddened. “Can I have something to-go?”

“For you, a fruitcake coffee.” Imaizumi picked out a paper cup and placed it on the counter.

“Huh?”

“I’m recommending a fruitcake coffee for you, Naruko.”

“Woah man, woah—”

“You just called another man good-looking.” Imaizumi worked quick, whipping one concoction of fruitcake flavoring with actual bits of cake before topping it with hot coffee.

“Cut me some slack! It’s early.” Naruko laughed.

Imaizumi shook his head, he poured the cream with a steady hand, forming a heart in the cup.

Naruko leaned across the counter for a better look. He let out a loud cackle.

“Who’s the fruitcake!?” Naruko crossed his arms. “You’re making a coffee with a heart in it for a dude!”

“Standard procedure.” Imaizumi smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The barista set the cup before Naruko.

The smell of fruit and cake combined with sugary cream hit the redhead in the face, steaming his cheeks red.  “How about you don’t flatter yourself!?”

Imaizumi stifled a laugh.

Naruko’s eyebrows pinched together and the boy crossed his arms once more. “What’s so funny?”

The barista hid his smile with the back of his hand. “You’re getting so worked up, that your face is turning red.”

Naruko looked down at the heart in the cup of coffee in front of him, then at the barista. He wrapped a fist around the cup, dropped a few yen on the counter before him and stormed out of the coffee house.

#

When Naruko left, fruitcake coffee in hand, Imaizumi propped his elbows onto the counter with a sigh.

“It’s been a while since you’ve put a heart in anyone’s cup like that, Imaizumi.” Teshima laughed as he emerged from the back kitchen.

Imaizumi scoffed, he picked up the wet towel and swiped it across the side of the counter where Naruko had been sitting.

#

The next time Naruko walked in was another just-after-opening six in the morning with a “Hey, Fruitcake!”

“Another fruitcake to-go?” Imaizumi asked as he turned on the coffee machine.

“Huh? Nah, that’s my nickname for you,” Naruko smiled. “You remember me?”

Imaizumi winced. Fruitcake. He looked Naruko in a red parka and red boots up and down, “Of course.” He started the coffee machine and cleared his throat. “So, where are you from?”

Naruko sat down at the counter. “Osaka.” He removed his gloves and the red scarf, placing them on the seat beside him. “Visiting family here for the holidays.”

Imaizumi replied with an “I see” before turning to see Teshima peeking out at him from behind the back kitchen curtains. He narrowed his eyes at his coworker’s thumbs-up gesture that followed. “So you’re only here until New Year’s?”

“Yeah.” Naruko watched Imaizumi move from one cup to another, swirling the mix and steaming it, then reaching for the milk in the mini fridge below the counter. “Oh, Fruitcake.”

“Hm? Yeah, I’m making the fruitcake coffee…” Imaizumi looked over his shoulder.

“Yeah, mind making that for here?” Naruko smiled.

Imaizumi felt his heart stop. He returned to his work suddenly and as he looked down at the cup, he caught sight of the smile that crossed his face in the reflection of the coffee.

From behind the curtains, he heard Teshima giggle.

He bit his lip, and wiped his reflection away with the heart-cream pattern he poured into it.

#

It had been days since Imaizumi last saw Naruko; the two kept in touch via texts or Facebook chats, but whenever a customer walked in, ordered a fruitcake coffee, or took a seat at the counter, Imaizumi wished it was the redhead.

The next time Naruko walked in was the afternoon after New Year’s. The coffee shop was mostly empty at eight in the morning, so Imaizumi busied himself under the counter by sorting out teabags.

It took Naruko a while to find the hidden barista. “Hey Fruitcake, can I have a table for two?” Naruko beamed over the counter.

Hearing the scratchy Osaka accent stopped Imaizumi’s heart. He jumped up without thinking slammed his forehead into the countertop—a sudden, aching moan and Imaizumi sank back down onto the floor, defeated.

“I-Imaizumi, are you okay!?” Naruko jumped over the counter and in the next second he was by Imaizumi’s side. He wrapped his arms around Imaizumi, who in his pain, leaned all of his weight into the other.

Imaizumi let himself lean for two more seconds before sitting up on his own. “Table for two…?” The bump on his forehead throbbed, and he felt his heart sink. “Y-Yeah, you two can take a seat wherever is open.”

Naruko leaned in.

“Geez, that was pretty flashy!” Naruko smiled. “You really know how to get someone’s attention, huh, Fruitcake?”

“E-Excuse me!?”

“That table for two was for me and you.” Naruko laughed, put an arm under Imaizumi’s and helped the other boy up. “Don’t you think you could use a short break?”

The other boy felt his knees go weak, he was suddenly glad Naruko was holding him up.

 ——-

Posted on AO3 in case you want to write to me.

Click here for more photos from our set!

[erevus]

The Star of Hakone Academy

Pairing/Chara: Machimiya/Arakita, Ibitani, Higashimura

~1500 words, PG

Team Hiroshima Kureminami set their sights on one cyclist, one team. However, Ibitani discovers that after the Interhigh, Machimiya has his sights set elsewhere.

The first time Machimiya heard about him, they called him the Wolf of Hakone Academy.

After school in an empty classroom 2- A, Ibitani and Machimiya went through folders of information regarding various teams. They did this for a few minutes before practice every day, and then based on who they thought were threats, curved their training regimen to combat them.

There was only one cyclist the redheaded sprinter ever actually looked at. Ibitani knew, but he still handed his ace the profiles of noteworthy cyclists and teams.

“The Wolf of Hakone Academy. He and that wolf guy,” Ibitani says as he leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together and stretching them high above his head. “They haven’t lost a race together, Miya.”

Machimiya catches the back of his friend’s chair before he leans too far back. Pushing forward with his own weight, he swings Ibitani’s chair back on its four legs

“Hakone Academy’s number two.” Ibitani selects a manila folder from the stack.

He flips to the first page and a pair of sharp eyes glares at him from a school ID photo.

“Arakita Yasutomo.” Machimiya squints back at the squinty eyes. He snatches the photo from his partner’s hand, flipping through the few pages inside of it. “Yokohama, eh? Probably a Baystars fan.*”

Machimiya paces the room with the folder in hand. “Played baseball in middle school. Least the guy’s got some taste.”

Ibitani pulls out a few more Hakone Academy files, comparing the thickness of the stacks. “He only became a regular in his third year, after all. But we can’t forget how he works with his ace.”

“With no strong history of cycling like the rest of his team, I’d say he’s the weakest.”

Ibitani sighs. He looks up at the clock with its shorter hand nearing five. “Enough about baseball, Miya. It’s almost time for practice.

“I can’t look at his ugly mug anymore, it’s almost worse than Fukutomi.” Machimiya slides Arakita’s files back into its stack.

“Probably why they work well together.”

Machimiya slaps the back of Ibitani’s chair. “So, flats today. As if we’re going for the goal.”

“‘Flats today.’ Flats everyday, Miya. Did you forget?” Ibitani tucks his bangs behind his ear. “This year’s in Ha-ko-ne.”

This time Machimiya’s hand latches onto Ibitani’s chair, drawing it back. He leans into Ibitani’s ear. “You think I’d forget? It’s perfect!”

The classroom door slides open, startling the two sprinters. They lift their heads up to find Higashimura at the door way. “It’s me, Eikichi-senpai, Ibitani-san.” Higashimura steps in with a slight bow.

Ibitani cracks a U-shaped smile along with a raised hand. “Yo.”

“You two weren’t at the clubroom, so I was sent here.”

Ibitani lowers his hand, he looks at the sprinter beside him. “Miya and I were just finishing up.”

“Pardon, I heard you two as I was coming in.” The underclassman scans the empty classroom, the sunlight filtering through the open windows casts his senior’s shadows upon him.  “How are mountains perfect for a team of three sprinters, Eikichi-senpai?”

Machimiya stands tall and a smile curves into his face.

“Not the mountains, Higashimura! You’re thinking too small!” He laughs. “It’s Ha-ko-ne. His home court.”

“Get it? Mountains are too small,” Ibitani chuckles. “You’re so funny, Miya.”

Higashimura blinks.

The grin leaves Machimiya’s face.

Ibitani shakes his head and the smile off his own face. He mouths the next words that come out of Machimiya’s mouth perfectly:

“I’ll embarrass him the way he embarrassed me.”

A shiver runs up Higashimura’s back. There’s an air in the room he’s never felt before. “E-Eikichi-senpai…?”

Machimiya places a hand over his neck and cracks it.

Ibitani stands, gathering the files. “Hey, let’s prepare Higashimura and the underclassman instead.” He taps Machimiya’s elbow with a folder. “You know, if you ever have to use that, worst-case scenario.”

“But Bani, this is a best-case scenario.” Like a flip of a switch, Machimiya is back to laughing. “What kind of ‘worst-case scenario,’ eh?”

“Something like,” Ibitani aligns the papers with one swift tap. “A strong ace’s assist.”

  #

  Ibitani leans against a vending machine, pulling out a hair band from his jersey pocket. “We need to train for climbs, Miya.”

“We can after.” The ace sprinter squeezes the last bits of water from his water bottle onto his tongue.

“You’re already training after school. Weekends.” He pulls his hair back from his sweaty face into a small ponytail.

Still resting on his bike, Machimiya spits on the ground. “I need to be stronger.”

“Where are you gonna find more time?” Ibitani wipes the sweat of his forehead with the back of his gloved hand.

“Let’s do another 150 kilometers.”

Ibitani continues, “You have to watch how you eat and sleep for the next few months, so you can’t give up that time either.”

“Put your helmet back on.” Machimiya looks down at the speedometer on his bike.

“And then don’t forget, there’s Kana--”

“I said, put your helmet on.”

Before Ibitani raises his own helmet over his head, Machimiya kicks off into a sprint.

  #

  The Wolf of Hakone Academy stood between Fukutomi and Machimiya. He stabs daggers for eyes through Machimiya’s face, fearless.

When the pack swallows a number two Hakone jersey, Machimiya’s face lights up.

When the ace sprinter loses it, Ibitani draws his arm across Machimiya’s back and composes him. This is the worst case scenario they’ve prepared for. This is why Machimiya made the extra time.

They race head to head. Meter after meter.

And when a number two Hakone jersey disappears into the distance, Machimiya is the first to take his helmet off.

  #

  After school, Ibitani stands outside of classroom 2-A. He grips his school bag.

“I’ve already said goodbye to Miya and the others,” he says under his breath. “Once more, for old time’s sake.”

The door slides open by a slight push of his hand. An orange red sunlight fills the room and hits his face. He squints against the light.

Inside, someone is resting his head on Ibitani’s desk.

“Miya...” Ibitani steps inside. “It’s me.” He moves as close as he can to the other sprinter before he notices the slow up and down breathing accompanied by soft snoring.

Ibitani places his hand on Machimiya’s back.

“Miya, I’m sorry.” His hand follows the boy’s breathing.

He remembers a number of things--how this same back shivered in pain after the crash on day one; how it beat with fury on the second day when Hakone took first; and how, in disbelief, Machimiya’s breathing was stopped by a single boy on day three.

“We spent so much time here,” Ibitani removes his hand. “You spent so much time with us.”

He squints as his vision begins to blur. He grits his teeth but it feels like they’re shaking in his mouth.

“It’s all...wasted.” His hands cover his face and soak up globs of tears with his palms. “M-Miya, I’m so s-sorry. Y-You worked so hard.”

His whole body trembles as if he were cold. He kneels down in an attempt to control his shivering.

It’s a shaking that can’t stop until, a hand lands on his head. It moves back and forth in a pattern familiar to Ibitani. And then the shivering stops.

“Hey Bani, I said no more crying.” Machimiya leans over, bringing himself at face level with his best friend. He draws his hand back with a smirk. “You look like a girl I just broke up with.”

“B-But, Miya…” Ibitani starts wiping his wet palms on his pants.

“Eh? You were supposed to laugh.” Machimiya leans back in his chair.

“Miya, sorry.”

“We’re graduating tomorrow, Bani. No crying. Or I’ll mess up your hair.”

Ibitani stands, wiping his own wet hands onto his uniform slacks until they’re dry.

“No regrets.” Machimiya smiles.

Still pouting, Ibitani sits on the desk closest to him. “Like number two said, huh?”

“Hm? U-uh, yeah.” His smile doesn’t go away. “Besides, if you wanna look at the past...we should’ve prepared more for that ‘worst-case scenario.’”

“You’ve been doing nothing but quoting him since.” Ibitani crosses his arms.

Machimiya leans further back until he tilts his chair. He turns to the window and the sunset outside colors his cheekbones red.

“His words really meant something, you know?”

Ibitani nods even though Machimiya isn’t looking. “Yeah, and now you’ve come to some sort of realization about yourself--”

“I was all tangled up.” Machimiya kicks forward so his chair is back on its four legs. “I was too obsessed with Fukutomi-kun to realize.”

The sun dips further until it’s coated Machimiya and the classroom into a warm red.

“He’s like one giant star in the sky.”

With his back facing Ibitani, Machimiya is a silhouette against the sunset. It’s a back Ibitani’s followed for the last three years. He knows it well. He knows when its breathing skips a beat like it does now.

“Arakita Yasutomo. He’s a star.”

--

A/N:

Thank you for reading. Don't let Ibitani's tears go to waste, please shoot me a review!

This ended up being Ibitani-centric, and somewhere along the way he ended up crying...

*The Yokohama Baystars is a major baseball team in Japan and Yokohama’s hometeam. Arakita is from Yokohama. Machimiya is a fan of Hiroshima’s hometeam, the Hiroshima Toyo Carp.

[erevus]

Machimiya Eikichi Is a Pervert

Pairing: Machimiya/Arakita

~850 words, M

Machimiya Eikichi is notorious for the way he’s treated women in the past. Arakita can’t get these rumors out of his head.

“Machimiya Eikichi is a pervert.”

Both out of breath from kissing, Arakita pushes the other boy onto his bed.

They lock lips again, but Arakita’s fingers hook the belt loops of Machimiya’s pants, bringing the boy to the bed’s edge.

“He’s always saying inappropriate things, I can’t stand him!”

With a relaxed palm on Machimiya’s thigh, Arakita draws himself down to eye-level with  the other boy’s crotch.

“What kind of guy calls a girl ugly to her face?”

He draws down the zipper.

“Eikichi-san’s the type of guy that would break up with his girl just because he found someone prettier.”

Arakita presses his fingers against the boy’s soft cock through his briefs.  He traces its length with one finger.

Machimiya tenses in his legs. The redhead tries to draw up one leg instinctively, but remembers that Arakita is in between them, and drops it.

“I’ve seen how he treats his girl—hell, he’s kissing other girls right in front of her!”

Arakita slips his fingers into the briefs, sliding his fingers around Machimiya’s cock and drawing it out. He presses his lips to the head and looks up.

Machimiya’s reddening face, accompanied by hands splayed out behind him to steady himself—the entire scene forces Arakita to hug a smile against Machimiya’s member.

“Miya once broke up with a girl because she wasn’t wearing make-up, hahaha!”

Arakita takes all of Machimiya cock into his mouth at once.

He slides his mouth down the shaft, then without warning, begins pumping up and down. The blood rushes into the member, stiffening it in Arakita’s mouth.

Machimiya yelps, and grasps at the back of Arakita’s head. His fingers tangling into black hair, gripping at it in motion with Arakita’s mouth.

“F-fuck. Ahh.”

Machimiya begins thrusting in time with Arakita’s sucking.

Each time Machimiya’s cock grows, Arakita challenges himself, taking the full length into his mouth. Soon, the cock reaches the back of Arakita’s throat, gagging him.

“Ahh…yeah…” Machimiya’s grip tightens. He slips his other hand down, and thumbs Arakita’s left cheek. “B-babe, that’s perfect.”

“Machimiya doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

Arakita winces. Every muscle in his face tenses against Machimiya’s thumb and suddenly Arakita’s zipping up and down Machimiya’s member.

“Ah! Fuck!” Machimiya scrambles to steady himself, he pulls his hands back, curling his fingers into the blankets. “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come.”

To Machimiya’s surprise, Arakita pulls back, teasing the tip with his tongue and working his hand up and down the cock instead.

“Wait, Ara, your—”

Arakita steadies the other boy’s cock and pulls back the bangs from his face.

Machimiya explodes a white mess onto Arakita’s face, coating layers of semen from Arakita’s forehead to his lips.

“Ahh…ahh…” Machimiya breathes.

Arakita licks the cum off his lips. And then squeezes the last bit of semen from Machimiya’s cock into his mouth.

“Hah, you’re too easy.” Arakita frowns at the slack member in his hand.

“Ah, Ara,” Machimiya leans forward, placing his hands under the other’s jawline, tilting Arakita’s head left and right. He squints a smile. “Messy, huh?”

“Pfft, no duh.” Arakita moves to stand. “I’ll take ca—”

Machimiya draws the back of his hand up, and wipes the cum off of Arakita’s left cheek in one motion.

Arakita freezes.

“Machimiya is the worst. You can’t trust him. It’s all about him, him, him.”

Machimiya wipes the other cheek with a small laugh.

“There’s your cute face, huh?” He wipes his hands on the bedsheet to Arakita’s dismay.

But Arakita can’t think about that now. His knees are glued to the apartment floorboards beneath them.

“Oh, I forgot.” He cups Arakita’s face, leaning forward and closing the gap between them.

#

The hot steam from the open bathroom door wades through the room.

Legs folded and sitting on the floor, hunched over a laptop, Arakita scrolls through messages on Facebook.

“I feel sorry for you.”

The scent of Axe mixed with red-hair dye wafts through the air.  Using his fingers, he brushes his own hair back to see the monitor. He needs a haircut. They fall back into place and the smell of sex still drips from his bangs.

“He’s a con artist. He’ll reveal his true side to you soon.”

He can hear Machimiya humming a radio song.

Drumming fingers on the keyboard, Arakita sighs, “Annoying.”

He shuts down his laptop.

#

Arakita pulls the blanket over them, kicking his feet underneath to spread it out while Machimiya’s hands search for Arakita’s body.

The redhead hugs Arakita close and Arakita stops moving altogether.

“Hey,” he says in a low voice, “Relax, okay?” He holds Arakita’s hands in his. “You’ve been all fidgety.”

Arakita draws his legs up to his chest. “Whoever you were yesterday…”

“Huh?”

“Can go fuck off!”

Arakita leans into the redhead, pocketing his head into the crook of Machimiya’s shoulder. “You’re still gonna be my boyfriend in the morning.”

“Err, yeah. Why would that—”

“Then fine! Nothing else matters.”

—

Thank you for reading, please shoot me a review! I’m working on a few more Machiara fics—they are my life. I dream of writing until I get bored of them but I don’t think that’s possible.

[erevus]

Rose or Amaranth

Pairing: Machimiya/Arakita

871 words, PG

Even after Interhigh, there are some things Machimiya Eikichi is learning to let go. Luckily, on a hot summer day in a coffee shop, Arakita is still there to help him. 

The reason you step into the Starbucks is for a cup of ice water. About the cheapest thing--free actually--that anyone could walk out of a Starbucks holding. You’ve even got your name on it, “Machimiya.” On a hot summer day like this, hydration was always important to you.

So when the kid with the scratchy voice behind you orders a hot Venti, spice pumpkin latte, soy milk, two pumps of vanilla, and easy on the pumpkin (is that possible?), you have to turn around and give him a sneer that stretches ear to ear.

“You fuckin’ hipster,” you say, while the Starbucks barista tries to figure out “easy on the pumpkin.”

Arakita Yasutomo glares at you. You drop your smile because his eyes are so sharp that you feel those eyelashes prick your face. He looks past you like you’re a part of the coffee bean display stand as he slides a silver credit card across the counter. “Also, three of those vanilla bean scones,” he says.

You grab a seat in the corner. Across from you, a couple sits together in a booth.

In a few moments, Arakita sits across from you. It’s only for a second. He stands, slinging the bag of scones onto the table. They slide and stop at the edge of your side.

“All you’re gonna get is water? Eat.”

He leaves the table without waiting for your response.

The couple sits on the same side, her knee-high socks sliding up and down as she rubs her leg against his.

His crotch is probably growing tight. It’s disgusting.

They’re sharing a comic book, hunched over it, elbows squeezed against one another.

You stare at the scones. You don’t even like vanilla. Or scones.  

You look back up at the couple. High school, judging from the uniforms. In the middle of her reading, she brushes some long blonde bangs from her face to dip down to his ear and smile a secret, and he laughs.

They look stupid.

A sinking feeling overcomes you; like a wound in your stomach that grows out, eating everything around it to expand, until you drop in yourself.

Arakita comes over with his hipster latte, looks to you, then to the couple.

“She’s not that cute.” He sits. “You haven’t touched the scones.”

“I don’t like vanilla,” you say as you drink your water.

Arakita is watching you, how the ice hugs your lips as you tilt the cup to snatch the last drops out. You can see it from the corner of your eyes--the tension building up in his eyes, so you draw out the last sips in long gulps to bide time.

“As if I care if you fucking like it or not--”

You know better than this, but that sinking feeling in your stomach says, “Thanks, though.” You put the cup down. The ice in it rattles.

Arakita grips the sides of the table--stands to make a spectacle out of it; the people sitting close look up from their newspapers and crunchy caramel frappuccinos, and lo and behold, the sinking feeling snatches forth and snaps your hand around his wrist and drags him down, back into his seat.

As if you flipped a switch, the spectators resume their mundanity.

“Wh-what the hell!” Arakita screams and this time the spectators choose not to get involved. He means to lunge forward and twist your crewneck in his fist and draw your face close to his. But he’s caught off guard. You’ve got one of his hands and there’s enough hesitation in his other that you catch his hand before it reaches your neckline. With both fists on his, you pull him close instead.

There’s a brief pause. And his deep breaths--you could count the seconds with those breaths--come in sudden huffs and fall onto your cheeks.

About four seconds in, you feel Arakita’s hands relax in yours. The humid puffs of air warm up his face, staining his cheeks into the shade of red below rose--you learned in it a woodshop class once because it was a color she didn’t like, amaranth, or something.

But you wouldn’t describe the scowl stretching Arakita’s face as rose or amaranth. You laugh. Rose or amaranth, he might hate to hear that.

Arakita’s sharp eyes dot your face but he can’t find any meaning. He takes in a breath.

“Laughing now, huh?” He bites his lip. It’s a habit to calm the nerves.

A habit to calm your nerves, you lean closer. Between you and him on a hot summer’s day it’s become too warm but you decide to slip your leg around his leg. The muscles of his calves are hard; they’re nothing at all like hers.

He looks down, as if he could see through the wood and glare at your dirty adidas shoes.

“Something’s wrong, Machimiya?” he says to the table.

He’s not looking, it’s the perfect opportunity, so you plant your forehead firm against his.

“No, I’m fine.” You smile because no matter how fucking stupid it looks, twisted up with Arakita--heads together, hands together, legs together--with his stupid amaranth-blushing face that won’t even look up at you; the sinking feeling is gone.

  A/N: Thanks for reading. If you liked it, please send me a quick review!

I love MachiAra a lot so this ended up happening at some random 8 in the morning.

[erevus]

Everyone thinks they can drive, write, and fuck.

BTK

[erevus]

Following the annihilation of Castle Oblivion, Demyx learns a broken heart cannot compare to a broken soul. Oneshot Zemyx. Demyx pov.

[erevus]

Luther Lansfeld runs Sphere 211 smoothly, like clockwork. However, one day that rhythm is disrupted. Oneshot.