#kurayouexchange

[kikumerio]

[fic] what you have tamed (kuraryou exchange 2018)

to: @swwyz from: @kikumerio notes: dear tsu, i'm sorry i couldn't get my fingers to run with any of your wonderful au prompts, but you did mention futurefic -- so i hope you enjoy this glimpse at kuraryou post-high school ;;; happy kuraryou day!

(read on ao3)

* * *

He can't count the number of times they've found themselves here, the last few weeks as winter comes to a close, lolling on the embankment, shivering in the crisp air. This'll be one of the last, he guesses. There's a faint sting to that, even though he knows it's not really the end. That something like what they've got doesn't just fade away.

"Really?" he's asking Ryou-san. "Nothing at all?"

"I've had other things on my mind." Ryou-san sounds totally disinterested. "For someone to keep my attention... that person would have to be exceptional."

Not the reveal he's – not pushing for, exactly, but half-prepared for. One of these days. But – that person. When Ryou-san says something, it's never an accident. There's a warm feeling in the pit of Youichi's stomach.

"I suppose you've put quite a lot of... thought into it." Bone dry.

Youichi shrugs. Ignores the innuendo. "Eh, you know. There's plenty of time, right? After graduation. College. After that. What's the rush?"

Silence, and then a cool hand covers his forehead. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Peachy," Youichi says. Bats at Ryousuke's hand, as his heartbeat gallops in his ears.

"A fever? Possession? Body swap?"

"This isn't a horror story, Ryou-san."

"Hmm."

Youichi settles back into the grass. "I just think, you know. The right thing is worth waiting for."

"How romantic." Sharp, needling. Ryou-san's way of showing fondness.

Youichi smiles at the sky. "Sure," he says. "If you want to put it that way."

* * *

Youichi didn’t even notice at first, was the thing. At first, right after the third years had graduated – and he’d think of them as "the third years" for a long time, long after he himself moved up to 3-B – he and Ryou-san kept up a pretty steady stream of messages, trading news from the high school baseball circuit and reports on Kominato junior for stories about college life. Sometimes they'd text back and forth about the same big game on TV, kind of like they were watching together, almost.

Around the end of Ryousuke's second term at university, just as Seidou bowed out of the fall tournament and Youichi started to come to grips with the fact that his last high school baseball game had been three months ago, enough of the old team came home for the holidays that they had a meet-up, the first since Spring Koushien. Tetsu-san came by Seidou every so often to keep an eye on Little Yuuki, but Jun-san was back from Osaka, and Fumiya from Hiroshima, and even Chris-senpai was home, patient as ever as he was pelted with questions about California. And then suddenly between one breath and the next there was Ryou-san, smiling tranquilly next to Haruichi, and Youichi thought his face was going to burst from grinning so hard.

It must have begun after that. Youichi went home for New Year’s and squirmed as his mother ruffled his hair extra hard every other minute, her way of saying I can't believe you’re graduating. Haruichi sent him a picture of the Kominato family lined up at their local temple, Ryousuke’s hair short and windblown. Looking at them next to each other it was impossible not to see that Haruichi was a good four centimeters taller. Youichi remembered thinking it was funny that he didn’t hear anything from Ryousuke, but that was Ryou-san for you. He texted him anyway.

hppy new years partner

And after a minute: Happy New Year, Kuramochi.

Then there was the final push for exams, even though they didn’t really matter with a recommendation from Coach and his college offer in hand, then the scramble to do the rounds of goodbye parties and pack up and move into the baseball dorm at Hosei, the grueling first-year hazing-we-mean-training-camp, attending obligatory Spring League games to cheer for his new senpai, dragging himself to lecture whenever he could manage between three-hour sessions of morning and evening practice. And Ryousuke—did he have exams? He must have; it was the end of the term, and he wasn't texting Youichi at all.

In the middle of the summer heat, Seidou made it to Koushien for Sawamura and Furuya and Haruichi's last hurrah. Youichi couldn’t make it all the way to Kobe during game weeks, but he knew hell and high water combined wouldn’t keep Ryousuke away. tell the kids hi for me, he texted.

He never got an answer, which he didn’t realize for a while, because then the Fall League was on them and Youichi woke, slept and dreamed Big Six games for eight brutal weeks. They beat Meiji but lost to Waseda, and then to Rikkyo – embarrassing – coming a respectable second overall. He was so exhausted by the end of the league he barely had the energy to read the congratulatory messages he did receive, much less notice the ones he didn’t. Then a lackluster nod at studying with his freshman teammates, who were all in the same classes, and then it was the holiday break, again, and Youichi went straight from the end-of-season drinking party to his dorm room and slept for eleven hours.

He truly rejoined the world of the living sometime around the day after that. The sun was out, so Youichi wandered outside to bask on the steps outside the dorm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d just... not done anything. He had a date with his PS3, just as soon as he could get himself to move again. He scrolled through his neglected messages instead, squinting against the glare. 31 new notifications. His mother, Haruichi (what a dutiful kid), Shirasu (huh), a text chain started by Sawamura entitled holidays?? that looked like a roll call of who’d be around for New Year's and included a pointed are you reading this Miyuki kazuya???

Youichi snorted. No answer from either Kominato, though presumably the younger would be there. Actually, there was no reason the elder wouldn’t either, even though he hadn't been around lately, not since – And all of a sudden Youichi realized the last time he’d seen Ryou-san face-to-face had been over a year ago.

It threw him, for a minute. But no time like the present. He opened a new message.

hey ryou-san!! long time no see. got some free time? wanna meet up?

It had been almost two weeks since the last time they'd texted, desultory complaints about the snowstorm rolling through Tokyo. Ryousuke would be an upperclassman soon; he’d said something about choosing seminars. Sure enough, when Youichi finally got an answer, late that night, it read, Ah, I’m a bit busy right now. Rain check, please.

np gimme a shout when your free!! hows school?

Ryousuke kept read receipts on. It gave Youichi two days to wonder before he got an answer.

Going. Stay warm out there.

Youichi couldn't put a finger on what exactly made him feely itchy and uncomfortable. So he ignored it. He'd cracked the starting lineup midway through the league and he couldn't let his practice schedule slip if he wanted to stay there, even for a couple days. Plus he had plenty of other shit to catch up on – violent manga to read, games to play. He wasn't going to let this get to him.

thanks ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ btw made the starting string. when are you gonna come to one of our games?

This time, four days went by before he got a single, completely unrelated message: I suppose you've heard about Fumiya's latest.

Even then, it took a couple hours before Youichi got it, until Sawamura—fucking Sawamura—texted him a picture of himself and Furuya and Haruichi and Ryou-san at—they were at Seidou, on the practice grounds, with Yui and Little Yuuki and some vaguely familiar faces that must be their underclassman. oniisan came to visit!!!!!!! the text said, and that was when Youichi realized Ryousuke was doing it on purpose.

* * *

He didn't expect it so he didn't have any defense. Just hurt – dumb, animal hurt, the kind where his body didn't know whether it wanted to lash out or curl into a ball whimpering to protect himself.

He was—supposed to know. Ryou-san wanted him to know. Wanted to hurt him.

Ryou-san hurt people on purpose, sometimes. But he'd never wanted to hurt Youichi.

That was the thing. Ryou-san hurt people, if they did something that made him think they deserved it, but not his people, not Haruichi or Youichi or Jun-senpai or even dumb, lovable Sawamura – not unless something made it unavoidable. Youichi didn't think he'd done anything to deserve it. He hadn't had a chance. So it was unavoidable. For whatever Ryou-san wanted.

Youichi didn't have the right kind of brain for these kind of games, always guessing one step ahead of one step ahead. But he knew Ryou-san. He knew how Ryou-san expected this to go down. Youichi would be hurt, confused (check); he'd pull back, bury himself in baseball. Like he always had before. The distance would grow, the noncommittal texts – We should get dinner soon or Let’s hang out when you’re not so busy – slowing to a trickle, lip service, greetings on birthdays and Haruichi going pro, until the reason for the distance was forgotten and Youichi was left with a mild wistfulness and some fond memories. And in a few years they'd finally meet up for a Seidou reunion and Ryou-san would show up with some boring guy and introduce him as his date and smile, like Youichi was supposed to be surprised, like he didn't know –

He swiped a hand across his face, blinking back furious tears. Fuck that. Fuck Ryousuke. Youichi got to his feet.

"You-san?" Haruichi's voice was fuzzy, like he had a hand over the receiver; there was laughter in the background. "What's wrong?"

Youichi said, "Give me your brother's address."

* * *

He was lingering by the bicycle bay, the sun down and twilight shading the rusty light into grey, when Ryousuke came back to his apartment building.

Turned out it wasn’t that far away; twenty minutes on the Toei Line. For the last year, or more, they'd been twenty minutes apart. Thinking about it made the pressure in Youichi's head increase, something tight squeezing around his temples.

He knew it was Ryousuke the moment he turned on to the street. He hadn't changed in the ways that mattered. Perfectly self-contained, not a movement out of place. Smaller than Youichi remembered. It made his face heat and his throat prickle, anger and confusion warring with dumb canine instinct, Ryou-san, it's Ryou-san.

Ryousuke was working on his thesis proposal – Youichi knew that much, from the little he had been allowed. Something something economics. He was probably coming back from the library; he had a laptop bag over one shoulder and carried a paper bag bulging oddly with book corners. When he reached the bank of mailboxes, Youichi moved out of the shadows.

Ryousuke glanced at him. Then did a real, actual double-take, which would have been satisfying enough to defuse the entire conversation if Youichi weren't still so angry he couldn't see straight. Ryousuke didn't move, arrested two steps from the door, and Youichi could almost see him weighing it—walk right past, go inside, deliver the killing blow right then, or—

"Hello, Kuramochi," said Ryou-san.

No one else said his name like that. Like Ryou-san was rolling it around on his tongue, tasting it before he let it go. Like it was special.

Youichi said, "I guess you think I’m real stupid or something, huh."

Ryousuke's face gave nothing away. "And, I mean, maybe I am. I didn't even get what you were doing until yesterday. How long've you been working on this?"

Ryousuke didn't answer him. He turned away and moved toward the front door. Youichi thought with a sick sort of anger that now Ryousuke was going to try to ignore him, now that he knew Youichi was going to push him for answers and not just whimper for mercy. Then he saw Ryousuke was holding the door open.

Ryousuke said, "If you want to do this outside, by all means."

It was the cool voice that meant if Youichi wanted to drag him into such a mess he’d put a short and bloody end to it. Fine. Fine. He was Kuramochi Youichi and Ryou-san could fucking bring it. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stomped inside.

Ryousuke's apartment was on the second floor. Even in the middle of anger, Youichi couldn't help casing the place, trying to drink in as much as possible, as he always did with the rare insights he was allowed into Ryou-san's privacy. It was a simple studio, five by ten maybe. It couldn't have been much different from Youichi's suite, but it looked bigger, somehow. It was definitely cleaner. The desk was neat, the bed made up and tucked in a corner. A single mug was drying on a rack across the sink. No plastic bags bulging with empty cans leaning against the cupboard, no drying laundry strewn over the fold-out table and chairs.

Ryou-san took a position by the window, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair. Kuramochi leaned against the tiny fridge and folded his arms.

He knew Ryou-san could wait him out, so of course then Ryou-san had to throw him by breaking the silence. "Congratulations."

"On what."

"Making the first string."

Youichi bit the inside of his mouth in an effort not to say I knew you read them, playing into Ryousuke's hand, again. Because of course he already knew that, that was the whole point, and Ryou-san knew he knew, and he knew Ryou-san knew, and – he hated this. He hated it.

With that eerie Ryou-san trick of reading his mind, Ryousuke said, "I don't think you're stupid. You understand perfectly well, don't you?"

And there it was again, the rage flaring behind his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I understand what you're telling me fine. You made sure of that."

"I've always thought it's best to be straightforward."

Youichi snorted, loudly. Sure, Ryou-san was straightforward, sucker punching you in the front to distract you from the knife in the back. But it wasn't worth arguing. Ryousuke didn't look the least bit affected by Youichi's scorn; he still emanated perfect composure, that hint of the smile you knew was there even when you couldn't see it. Youichi said, "You still think I'm – you think I don't know why."

"Why I don't feel like talking to you any more?"

"Why you want me to think that!" Youichi's voice shook just a little, god damn it.

"We're not in high school any more, Kuramochi." How childish, Youichi heard.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ryousuke's voice sharpened. "This is what happens. People grow apart."

"So, what, you should just give them an extra shove?"

"Why waste time?" He knew Ryousuke was doing it on purpose, he knew Ryousuke knew all his weaknesses, and it still hurt. "Things change. Friendships die."

The blaze of anger flashed through Youichi like lightning. "Who said anything about friendship?"

You wouldn't see it, probably, if you hadn't spent years learning Ryou-san's tells, how to communicate when words would have been too slow, attuned to every slight movement that might get the ball in your glove a hundredth of a second faster. Ryousuke's hand was still where it rested on the chair. His whole body was still. The stillness of a predator, or prey.

Ryousuke would deserve it if he weaseled out and went for some bullshit about partnership or brotherhood. But that wouldn't get them anywhere, and Youichi wasn’t here to score points. He didn't know what he was here for, exactly, only that he’d been waiting for it for a long time.

He'd been waiting, and now the pitch was coming. He couldn't fuck up now.

"I don't—you know I'm not good at, at subtle stuff. But I'm not stupid. I always thought—after a while we'd figure it out, you know? Whatever it is. Maybe—maybe not for a few years, maybe not for—I don’t know—but I always thought... I knew, okay? You made sure.” He took a deep, shaky breath. "So don't try and tell me this is, we're, that it's just friends. I know it's not. It never was."

Ryou-san just – looked at him, a look Youichi hadn't seen in a long, long time; like Ryou-san was reassessing everything he'd known about him. That hurt in its own way too.

“What did you think I was going to do, anyway, just—let it happen?” Ryou-san didn't say anything. Youichi's voice dropped, and to his own mortification he heard a helpless, plaintive note in his own voice. "I thought you knew me better than that."

That was the thing—the worst thing. That he’d thought—he’d known Ryou-san didn't see him the way other people did. Ryou-san didn't treat him the way other people did. Ryou-san got what made him tick and what lit him up and exactly how to take him apart. But despite all that, he still didn't get this, this most important piece. He still thought Youichi would let him down.

Ryousuke finally spoke. "I guess neither of us know each other as well as we thought."

The blood pulsed in Youichi's face. "Speak for yourself. I know you just fine."

"Do you?" And there it was, the first flash of the smolder that Youichi knew was there, always, like a forest fire in winter.

Youichi held his ground. "You bet I do."

"People change, Kuramochi."

"Not that much."

"We've barely spoken in months."

"And whose fault is that, huh?" He pushed himself off the fridge and crossed the room, just six steps, fists balled at his sides. Close enough to see Ryou-san's chest rise and fall, perfectly controlled. Close enough to touch. Whether to slug him or—

"Ryou-san," he said, as quietly as he could. "Don't do this to me, come on."

Ryousuke spoke to some point past his ear. "You seem awfully sure this is about you."

"I don't know what you thought I might do but—I wouldn't. I won't. I swear."

Ryousuke finally looked him in the eye. "Is something wrong with your hearing, Kuramochi? I said it has nothing to do with you."

"Bullshit," Youichi started to snarl, then pulled himself up short. Think, Youichi. What had he just told himself? Punch in the front, knife in the back. Right.

"Fine," he said. "'S not about me.' He saw it flash across Ryou-san's face, disappointment that he'd been right all along – like now he got what he'd been pushing for, he'd secretly been wishing he wouldn't.

"What do you think you're gonna do?" Youichi said.

Ryousuke's face froze.

"Cause whatever it is. You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily, Ryou-san."

Ryou-san wasn't moving. This was it—his chance, now or never. He took took two more steps. In arm's reach now.

"You can have anything you want. As much as you want. You know that, right? You’ve gotta have known it."

The good thing about Ryou-san was also the bad thing about Ryou-san, which was that once he got the bit between his teeth he would run with it until he dropped. He was a fighter; it was one of the things Youichi liked so much about him. Only this time Youichi was pretty sure he was fighting something that didn't exist.

"Any time since second year. All you had to do was say the word."

Two more steps.

Ryou-san smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile.

"What makes you think I want you," he said, cool as glacial runoff, the cool of a frosted drink on a hot day, a chill that made Youichi want to submerge his head and never come out.

How did he know? He didn't, he supposed. Other than that Ryou-san wouldn't be doing this if he didn't have something to be scared of.

That was when he saw that Ryousuke's hand, nearly imperceptible, was trembling.

It hit, a current of vindication and rapport and desire and tenderness all together, like something physical, pulling him in ten directions at once. He didn't know if he wanted to punch Ryou-san, or wrap him up or and never let go, or maybe fall to his knees, or maybe all of the above. It was even odds that Ryousuke would physically step on him, though, which he didn’t want–or maybe he kind of did? it was confusing—so he settled for taking the hand in his own, as gently as he knew how.

He knew that hand well. Smaller than his own, finely shaped. The most capable hand he knew. The baseball calluses had faded; a long angry paper cut ran down the index finger. He curled the strong, flexible fingers around his own. Lifted it to his lips and kissed the knuckles, once. Then he waited for Ryou-san to cut him off at the knees with a single word.

It never came. When Youichi looked up, Ryou-san's smile was gone and his jaw was clenched so hard the skin was white. His eyes were open, and looking at Youichi.

"Come on, Ryou-san," Youichi said again. Hoarse. "Give me a chance."

Ryou-san's voice was barely a whisper. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He couldn't help the laugh that bubbled over. Because—hadn't they just been over this? He knew Ryou-san. He knew exactly what he was asking for.

"Ryou-san. I'm here, aren’t I?"

It must have shown in his grin, because Ryou-san's face flashed irritation, before, unwilling, softening at the edges.

He knew that look too. That was the one that meant Even I didn’t know if you'd make that catch. You’ve managed to surpass my expectations this time. It meant, If I were a different person I'd say 'Well done, Kuramochi.' It was his special look.

He was still holding Ryou-san’s hand in his own. He squeezed it, gently. "Come on, partner. What do you say?"

Ryou-san said, "I suppose there are worse ideas."

Ryou-san's head tipped back. Youichi wasn't an idiot.

Ryou-san's lips were dry. One arm wrapped around his neck, one around his shoulders. Tighter, tighter. His arm slid right around Ryou-san’s waist. Perfectly sized to fit together. He'd known that, too, somehow. Ryou-san felt just right. Of course he did.

Ryousuke's mouth was soft—softer than Youichi had thought. And he had thought, deep down. There was a reason he’d never taken the girls in his class up on their hints, a reason he'd never taken anyone home from a group date. Waiting, all this time, for the time to be right. Until all of a sudden waiting wasn't enough.

He didn't know how far he could push, here. Funny, when he'd just pushed as hard as he could. Ryou-san made a dissatisfied noise. One hand clenched on Youichi's shoulder; body poised, held just centimeters from Youichi's, just far enough for tension to crackle in the space between.

Then – it was like an electric current, a shudder passing through Ryou-san's body, and then Ryou-san had one hand digging into the meat of his shoulder and the other wound in his hair and was molding himself to Youichi, going for his mouth like he was starving, like he'd been thinking about this for a long, long time.

Youichi caught him with both hands and hung on. No room to breathe, to think, just to take as much of Ryou-san as he could. To feel the sharp pain of a hand tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck, the fingernails digging into his shoulder, the hungry, urgent mouth.

Again, and again. He didn’t know how long it went on. He was struggling for breath, gasping – "Ryou-san," into his jaw, the side of his neck, the magic words, "Ryou-san—"

He felt Ryou-san's smile against his cheek. "No need for honorifics, Kuramochi."

"Look who's talking," Youichi managed, between deep, panting breaths. "That the best you can do?"

"What was that, Youichi?" Ryou-san murmured in his ear and Youichi thought he was going to melt down right there in the middle of Ryou-san's apartment. Ryou-san knew it, too, he had the most insufferable knowing smile on his face – Youichi was grinning, grinning so hard it hurt, in relief, in sheer happiness.

Youichi kissed him one more time, long and hard. Ryou-san might look unruffled to outside eyes, but Youichi knew better – the heightened color, the deep breaths, the disordered hair where Youichi had run a hand through it, gathering Ryousuke up toward him. Not that he had anything on Youichi himself. He knew he had to look like he'd just gotten run over, and it gave him a deep, satisfied glow. Bring it. He was ready.

Ryou-san was giving him a long, lingering once-over. Reading his mind again. "You’d better be prepared," he said.

"Hell yeah I am," Youichi said, maybe more fervently than necessary, because something in Ryou-san's eyes kindled, assessing. Youichi's cheeks were warm, but he refused to back down. Ryou-san wanted to go there, Ryou-san could take what he got.

"Hm." Ryou-san eased back down onto his feet – Youichi hadn't realized he'd been on his tiptoes – and smoothed his hands over Youichi's shoulders, patting them once, absent and proprietary. It lit up some sort of nerve center down deep in Youichi’s brain. He was ready, all right, eight days a week.

"Hm," Ryousuke repeated, pensive this time. "I suppose there's no way to avoid mentioning this to Haruichi."

Youichi's train of thought, which had been progressing in a decidedly non-little-brotherly-direction, pulled up short. "Huh?"

Ryousuke's lips made a slight twist of distate. "Haruichi had some words. About... Well."

Youichi laughed—cackled, fine. "I bet."

One eyebrow went up sharply. In anyone else that would be a pout. "Don't think you're getting off so easy, You-san. He wasn't terribly impressed with you, either."

Youichi couldn't help it. He ducked his head to steal another kiss, reveling in the way Ryou-san leaned up into it, leaned into him, didn’t hurry to let go. "I can handle junior," Youichi murmured when it was over, blithely ignoring years of evidence to the contrary

Ryousuke's shoulders quivered – with laughter. "Is that so."

Youichi was carried away on a tide of satisfaction, blissfully invincible. Nothing could touch him. "Sure. The Kominato whisperer. That’s what they call me."

"Do they," Ryou-san said, which, oops, maybe that one had been a mistake – no, that invisible smile was there, and –

"He can wait until I'm done with you," said Ryousuke.

"Sure," Youichi said, husky. "All yours, Ryou-san."

And you better not forget it again, he wanted to add, but from the tiny, tiny smile on Ryousuke's face, he kind of thought he didn't have to.

* * *

"About time," Haruichi sniffed, next time he met Youichi for fast food. "Honestly."

"A lot of help you were," Youichi groused, stealing a handful of his fries as punishment.

"If you can't solve your own problems, why should I be expected to fix them for you?" Haruichi pointed out, which was pretty reasonable, actually, except—

"I didn't know there was one! Which was what it was!"

He stopped to review his pronouns. Haruichi blinked at him. "You-san, are you skipping class again?"

"Shut up, junior," Youichi grumbled, and stole another fry.