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The back of Youichi's neck is tingling.
It's familiar by now, this sensation of being watched. Youichi clenches his hands on the controller, boasts loudly about how hard he's going to crush Nakata, and doesn't turn around to see who's burning holes in his skull.
They're in Miyuki's room an hour past lights out, but dorm rules tend to get more relaxed on the days the team wins, because Coach thinks it's good bonding. There isn't much talking tonight, though; Jun-san and a couple of other third years are having a conversation too quiet for Kuramochi to understand, and mostly the sounds are ambient: the fighting game turned low, mixing with Masuko-san's snoring and, barely audible under it, the soft sound of pages being turned.
It's a rare event, Ryou-san showing up here. Youichi used to put a fair amount of effort into trying to convince him to hang out with the rest of the team more often, until he figured out the secret. It has to come from him, always, because Ryou-san values making his own decisions and refuses to let himself be persuaded into anything. He can be influenced, though, if Youichi suggests it at the appropriate time, right when he's momentarily satisfied with his own efforts at the end of afternoon practice.
The few times that's worked in the past, he abandoned his games early and spent the rest of the evening hanging out with him, listening to things he didn't understand about books he'll never read or discussing the latest Swallows game. It was oddly relaxing, then, only…
Only he hasn't tried, lately, and the reason he's not turning to check who's been staring at him is that he's already pretty sure it's Ryou-san, and that it's not staring so much as glaring.
It's been going on for a while now. A week or so since Youichi got caught in a water fight right outside the dorm, an unsuspecting victim for all of three seconds before he'd dropped his bat, wrestled the hose away from Seki's faction, and become his own formidable side in a messy multilateral conflict with wavering loyalties. Within three minutes he was running around and laughing, soaked to the bone: just a bit of frivolous fun before they all returned to personal practice. The fight died down with no clear winner, and then Youichi was wringing out his shirt and shaking the water out of his hair, probably looking like a wet dog when Ryou-san came out of his room.
And sure, Ryou-san makes no secret of looking down on this kind of juvenile stuff. Sure, they're not friends, exactly. Youichi doesn't know if they'll even talk after the third years retire. But their partnership has been working well lately, and he thought he knew what to expect — some cutting one-liner that'd have him look down and smile sheepishly, and then they'd maybe go swing their bats together for a while, or head to the cafeteria for an early dinner.
He hadn't expected the sneer, the open revulsion on Ryou-san's face before he pivoted sharply and walked away without a word.
That might have been that, a weird incident to shrug off and move on from. Their combination is approaching perfection, they still walk from practice side by side in a pack of their teammates. Ryou-san isn't ignoring him or treating him differently, not in a way that would make anyone else take notice. But there's a weird tension that Youichi can't shake off. And the staring: at practice, in the cafeteria, in the bathroom. Even here, perfectly in time with the page-turning.
It's distracting, but Youichi won't let any of this stop him from winning this battle, and the next one, and the next, until Nakata puts down his controller with a defeated groan.
"Hah!" Youichi crows, pumping his fist. "Anyone else want a piece of the school champion?"
There's a vague chorus of ‘no thanks' and a pillow thrown at his head from behind, followed by a triumphant snort that's probably Jun-san, and then the clap of a book being shut.
"Leaving so soon?" Jun-san asks.
"You people are too noisy," Ryou-san retorts easily, with that taunting edge in his voice that Youichi's still sometimes surprised to find himself enjoying, given how much he hated it just a year ago. "Good night."
The door opens, and Youichi flips the switch on the console before he can think about it, jumps to his feet in what he's pretty sure is a completely obvious fashion. But nobody's really paying attention to the excuses he mumbles as he tries to casually amble his way out of the room at sprinting speed, and before he knows what he's doing he's outside, closing the door behind him, calling his partner's name.
A few steps ahead, Ryou-san stops.
"Something you need?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder. In daylight Youichi might have lost steam, but Ryou-san's face is cast in shadows, and that somehow makes it easier to speak.
Or at least it makes it possible. "Not really, I just… is everything okay?" Are we okay?
A pause. There shouldn't be a pause after a question like that, not if the answer is yes. Youichi hears himself breathing — in, out, in, out, and finally Ryou-san's body angles toward him. "Are you sure you want to know?"
That would already sound vaguely threatening if it was anyone else saying it. Coming from his partner, it makes Youichi shudder, suddenly aware of the cool spring breeze on his skin. "Yeah," he says, and doesn't sound as certain as he wants to. "I mean, if there's something I can do—"
Ryou-san laughs, a short burst of sound with no humor in it as he steps in close enough that he has to tilt his head to look at him. "There could be," he starts, voice so low that Youichi has to lean in to hear. "You see, I really," lower, quieter, "want," he realizes he's holding his breath, "to suck your dick."
Youichi jerks back, eyes widening in shock at the unexpectedly crude words coming from Ryou-san's mouth. The mouth he just said he wanted to use to—
He laughs. He laughs because it has to be some kind of joke, a prank, at the very least Ryou-san's way of telling him to mind his own business. "What," he says, shoulders still shaking, "now?"
"Now," Ryou-san answers, perfectly serious. His fists are clenched tight, which is… weird, when he has the upper hand. Unless someone put him up to this, is waiting behind the door, listening. Jun-san? "Here."
He's a fantastic actor to be able to say something like this, and the worst part is that it's working. Something at the back of Youichi's brain has latched onto suck your dick and is giving its best effort to provide one or a hundred visuals for it, most of them modeled after the porn Youichi used to swap with his buddies in middle school and one or two after dreams he's tried very hard to pretend had faded upon waking. The images are compelling, and while Youichi is mainly trying to compute what's going on he still finds the time to think it's a little strange how well that part of his brain seems to know the shape of Ryou-san's mouth.
He should really not be thinking about this right now. It has to be a prank, even if the low rumble of voices coming through Miyuki's door sounds like normal conversation and not the hushed whispers of a group waiting to yell SURPRISE. "Well," he starts, intelligently. "Um. I mean. That's."
Ryou-san snorts, sharp and cutting. "That's what I thought. Good night, Kuramochi." He spins toward the stairs.
His fists are still clenched, and Youichi moves without thinking, grabbing his wrist before it's of reach. "Wait," he says, slipping out of the customary politeness reserved for his upperclassmen. Prank or not, it's fine: if it'll make things between them normal again, Youichi will take it like a man. "Okay. Now."
The reaction is immediate, Ryou-san's hand ripping out of his grip to push him back against the wall, knocking the breath out of him. Then the pressure is gone and he's going down, one knee on the ground and the other against the wall like a symbolic barrier between Youichi and the door to Miyuki's room, as if that'll help when the guys in there inevitably come out to tease him for falling for this.
This: Ryou-san's fingertips sliding under the waistband of his briefs and pulling down, a little rough, exposing his dick to the cool air of the night. Youichi can at least be grateful that he didn't go to full mast from the mere suggestion of getting a blowjob, but now it's only a matter of seconds, and if someone is going to start laughing it'll be now, when his pants are literally down and he can't run aw—
Ryou-san leans forward, and licks the head of his dick.
"Oh fuck," Youichi gasps, from both the sensation and the shock of it.
It just doesn't make sense. He can feel it: a hand on his hip and long licks up his cock, all delivered at different speeds and angles like so many amazing scientific experiments. He can see it: Ryou-san's head bobbing up and down, glimpses of his face, sometimes the tip of his tongue. And he can hear it: quick breathing and quiet, wet sounds that still seem obscenely loud. But there's a disconnect, his brain looping on wait, what? This— is not what he expected, not what he thought would happen even though Ryou-san said it right out, even though he never bothers with plots and subtle words when he can just bludgeon people with the truth.
Here, now. It's happening, and maybe the question Youichi should have asked is why, and maybe he can still ask it but— not now. He's not sure he'd be able to get a full sentence out, and Ryou-san couldn't answer anyway. Not with his mouth, um, occupied, and Youichi has to sink teeth into his own wrist to keep himself from what would be extremely inappropriate nervous laughter.
But now Ryou-san is wrapping his lips around the head of Youichi's cock, wet and hot and tight and just— too good, wiping his mind blank of every word he's ever learned except fuck, again.
Ryou-san laughs. Youichi feels the vibration of it all the way to his thighs. He reaches out without thinking, threads his fingers in pink hair for some kind of tactile reassurance that he's not having an especially vivid, extremely localized dream. It occurs to him as he does it that this might be a huge mistake, but instead of biting his dick off for the impertinence Ryou-san sucks, and for a moment Youichi thinks that this might be what makes him blow his load.
It might be for the best if he did. Even leaving alone the half-dozen people in Miyuki's room, they're practically out in the open at a time when people still wander about. If any of the doors on this floor opens they'll have maybe half a second to shuffle to a less compromising position, and while Youichi prides himself on having exceptionally fast reflexes, that still wouldn't be enough at the best of times. If a door opens they'll get caught, and then they'll be in trouble, and—
And right now none of that is remotely close to important enough to make him pull up his pants. Instead the urgency is an extra rush on top of everything else, contributes to the tension in his thighs, the shortness of his breath, the stars behind his eyelids before he remembers to keep his eyes open and trained blankly on the door to Coach's office as the pleasure builds up.
Laughter bursts out inside Miyuki's room and suddenly Ryou-san is redoubling his efforts, sucking harder and stroking faster and the orgasm takes Youichi almost by surprise.
It takes Ryou-san completely by surprise, judging by the coughing and the hurried way he pulls back, only to receive a couple of spurts across the face. Youichi has a moment to feel thrilled at the sight before his survival instinct kicks in and makes him recoil, tugging helplessly at his sweatpants, panic overriding post-orgasmic bliss. Still crouching, Ryou-san leans forward, and Youichi's ass presses hard against the wall in a desperate attempt at self-protection. But Ryou-san reaches for his t-shirt and wipes his face in two quick moves before rocking back and up in one smooth move.
Youichi's exhalation sounds awfully loud to his own ears. Ryou-san's hair is mussed up on the left, the only proof of the past five minutes that isn't smeared all over Youichi's t-shirt. His hand tingles with the intention to smooth it over. But his partner's smile is as forbidding as ever, and Youichi understands, implicitly, that the interlude is over and he's invited to keep his hands to himself under pain of dire retribution.
"Well," Ryou-san says, sounding perfectly calm despite a hint of strain in his voice. "Good night." He starts to walk off, but pauses when Youichi, without thinking, calls his name. "What is it?"
It sound light, carefree, and Youichi can't bring himself to ask why. "Good night, Ryou-san," he says. Proper, polite. Defeated. Ryou-san nods, and disappears down the stairs with his secrets.
When morning comes, he's hanging up his now clean t-shirt to dry when Ryou-san ambles past on his way to the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. His hair is messy from sleep; Youichi tries not to compare, and fails. He does manage not to stare, and doesn't feel stared at, either. Not then, not at breakfast or throughout practice. Ryou-san is as harsh as ever when it comes to fielding, but the extra attention is gone.
Youichi is maybe not as relieved as he should be. But routine takes over: they practice and eat and practice and study and practice, and everything returns to normal. After two days he suggests hanging out at Miyuki's after dinner, but doesn't time it quite right: Ryou-san retorts he has private practice planned for the evening and that's the end of that. But he does show up a few days later, half an hour after everyone else, and immediately strikes up a conversation with Masuko-san. Youichi takes the time to win his race before handing over his controller and joining them. After an hour they all leave together, stroll back to their respective rooms as the conversation dies down. Youichi lets Masuko-san in first, glances to the side before he follows him. Ryou-san doesn't look back.
"Hmm?" Masuko-san grunts questioningly when Youichi sighs loudly as he walks in.
"Nothing," Youichi says, waving it off. "Just tired." But he's still awake when Sawamura comes back, when the lights turn off and the snoring starts, and he leaves the room on tiptoes. It's late enough that he doesn't encounter anyone on his way to the bathroom, or in there. Still, he bites his lip as he jerks off, eyes closed as he attempts to summon a sensory approximation of that one inexplicable night. It never really works, the memory slipping a little further each time, and as he washes his hands he tells himself, again, that it's probably better not to dwell on this.
Three weeks later, as he's forcing down the last few mouthfuls of his third bowl of rice, Youichi feels a familiar tingle on the back of his neck.