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Rou’s first kiss is with a girl in a white and silver tutu, in perfect unscuffed white patent skates. She tips up onto her toe picks to do it, unexpectedly—they haven't even been talking, just standing together in silence outside the kiss-and-cry—and then after a split second of cool, confused surprise, she pulls away. Turns without looking at him and races down the hall giggling, graceful even in her guards, to the friends waiting for her, all of them giddy with pleasure.
Rou doesn’t know her name. He never sees her again.
Around them the adults coo and flutter, saying things about young love, remembering school crushes. Rou keeps smiling, because that is one of the rules of the game.
Mostly he remembers how perfect her skates were, brand new and unblemished by anything.
-
His second kiss is with Masato, in a quiet concrete dressing room under the stands, after hours: Masato is 14, and when Rou leans back from him, from his frozen closed-mouthed stillness, there’s something sad in his doll-pretty eyes. He’s so, so lovely, with his dark hair framing his face and his perfect eyebrows. He looks so grown up, like someone who can do exactly what he wants to.
He'd landed a perfect triple Salchow today, and it hadn't been enough—Rou had won anyway, because that's what Rou does—but it had been so beautiful, so perfectly placed in the routine and so exquisitely executed, that Rou felt like it deserved something. Masato skates with some kind of secret feeling that Rou doesn't have, doesn't understand, not yet; it makes Rou want to press up against him, tell him secrets, hold his long cold fine-boned hand.
“You’re still a kid,” Masato says, now, quiet, under the pale fluorescents, with Rou still leaning against him, hoping desperately. “You don't really know what you want. It’s sweet, but,” as he pats Rou on the knee—not even pushing him away, not even that—“Maybe in a few years, yeah?”
"Maybe," Rou says, knowing it means no, never. His chest feels a little tight; his eyes sting, but he doesn't cry. He's good at staying level. Things only hurt if you let them, that's what mom says.
-
Kisses three through seven are less memorable.
There's a girl in school who asks tearfully if she can, just once, even though he doesn't like her; there's a boy who works the skate rental at the rink where Rou practices, who tastes of canned coffee and spearmint. Mostly Rou doesn't recall the details. Tokyo, Tomakomai; there's a boy with a tongue stud, once, that stands out. The click of it against teeth.
Kissing's fine, Rou thinks. It's nothing special, no different really from a handshake or a hug, except maybe in terms of the chance of getting sick. It means as much as anything means, which is nothing on its own. There are guys he looks at and thinks about, skaters on tv and guys on the street, but that's different: kissing in a daydream is sweet and pretty, filled with feeling, the electricity of wanting and being wanted, the warmth of loving and being loved. In real life it's just mouths, teeth, tongues, nice enough if you do it well. Nothing else.
People ask him; he says yes. He tries to make sure they don't leave too disappointed.
-
Eight happens like this:
Out on the pond, early in the morning with the snow-mist still rising, Little Genma’s eyes keep flicking to his mouth.
They're skating circles around each other, passing lazily from time to time; morning practice starts in an hour and this is just warm-up, just handling. Every time they get close Genma rotates to look at him, eyes narrow, cheeks pink, jaw set firm. Rou knows the signs.
“Do you want to kiss me?” Rou says, not really interested, as he switches backhand-forehand-backhand, loses the handle, picks it back up. Slides the puck over onto Genma's blade. “You can if you want.”
Genma goes stiff. "No!" he says, too loud: he winds up and slams a shot on goal, really leans into it, stick-flex and all. It looks good, but it sails wide; mentally Rou tracks it off the invisible end-boards, into the invisible corner. He's weak-side; he crashes to the front of the net, trying to make it second nature. "What the fuck," Genma says, after a second, still up at the point. It's not clear if he's complaining about the shot or Rou's question.
Rou shrugs and goes after the puck.
There are fewer guys in Tomakomai who want to kiss him, but not none. it’s not like he’s starved for attention. But he wouldn't mind kissing Little Genma, he thinks—it always feels good to win against him, and Rou's pretty sure that if they kiss he'll win.
-
“That thing you said earlier,” Little Genma says.
Walking home, now, after dark; evening practice had been cut a little short and Rou still has some energy, a little spring in his step. It's too dark for the pond, probably; he might just have to run.
“Huh?” says Rou, finishing his milk tea and tucking the empty into the pocket of his bag. “Oh, about passing off the boards?” He'd been asking about icing, deflections, how to spring a man from the box.
Genma is silent beside him, his chin tucked into his scarf. They walk on a few steps; no snowfall, now. Moonlight off the drifts giving everything that weird glow. Genma lifts his face out of his collar. “About kissing you.”
“Oh, yeah,” Rou says. “Do you want to practice? I’m pretty good.” Straight guys want to practice sometimes, it’s a thing.
Genma is quiet, working his jaw. “I don’t,” he says, after a second. “Want to practice. I want to do it for real.”
Rou gives him appraising look. His cheeks are pink from the cold, sharp brows drawn down. His nose is a little unsteady across the bridge from consecutive breaks. There’s a split over his cheekbone, a new bruise around it, and he’s breaking out a little across his forehead, right at the helmet line. He’s tall, and his shoulders are broad, and his thighs are solid in his jeans. Well, whatever.
“Sure, whatever,” Rou says. “Right now?”
Genma starts a little. Glances around as though someone might be watching. That's familiar, too, but it's still a little funny, out here in the middle of nowhere: they haven't seen anybody in twenty minutes, since nii-san went off to dinner with Kai.
“Yeah,” Genma says, with a little bravado. “Right now.” He takes a breath. Adjusts his bag strap on his shoulder. Turns towards Rou.
It’s a good kiss, actually, for a beginner. Genma's hands start to come up but Rou catches them, places them on his own hips as he leans in; Genma makes a little sound of surprise. Contact. His mouth opens. Rou doesn’t go for tongue but he lets Genma’s lip slide against his own, hot; he manages the rhythm, long-short-short like a waltz, what is that in morse code?, while Genma clutches at his beltloops and draws in a crushed, dragging breath like he’s been hit. Rou loosens his grip on the open collar of Genma’s jacket. For a second they breathe together, clouds in the cold air.
“Not bad,” Rou says, into the space between them, and then turns away. There's a weird little fizz under his tongue like a lit sparkler; if he doesn't walk away he might want to try again, and he's pretty sure that's a forfeit.
He gets a few steps down the snowy path before he realizes Genma isn’t following him. When Rou turns back he’s just standing there, shoulders tight.
It's started to snow again.
“Seriously?” Genma says, with the beginnings of that temper flickering up the edges of his voice. A little heat coils somewhere in Rou's stomach. “‘Not bad’?”
Rou shrugs. “Good, then. What do you want me to say?”
Genma’s shoulders loosen. His head dips again.
“Nothing,” he says, muffled into his scarf. “Never mind.” He starts walking again, catches up and then falls into step. His hockey bag bumps into Rou's thigh in the same place it always does.
“I guess it’s as good a first kiss as any,” Genma says, almost under his breath.
Something tumbles and falls inside Rou.
“Wait, first? Was that your first?” It's not that Genma's 16, it's that he's Genma; tall, fierce, spit-and-blood, perfect-shot-block, perfect-hold-at-the-line Genma. Genma with the shoulders and the soft hands and the bruises. He's a jerk, but it feels impossible that nobody's even tried to kiss him yet. Rou almost feels offended: oddly adrift. A little guilty. Something else, too, that he can't put a finger on: some kind of twisting, uncertain thing, a little proud, a little affectionate.
“Shut up,” Genma says, into his scarf, without any edge.
“First with a guy, you mean, right?” That's a thing, too. Sometimes guys are just curious.
"God, shut up," Genma says, and starts walking faster.
Rou catches him by the strap of the bag. "Hey, hey," he says. "Do-over. I'll make it good this time." Genma deserves a good first kiss, he thinks. Maybe they can do it inside, where he can take his gloves off; he'll take his time, make it last, see if he can get that flat pink flush up across Genma's cheekbones, see if he can make his eyes slide shut. Leave him saying good, yeah, refusing to look Rou in the eye the way he always does when Rou wins.
Genma leans away, shoulders high again, not turning. "It was good," he grits out. "Even though you suck."
Rou laughs: can't stop himself. It doesn't feel bad. "That's your problem, you know," says Rou, even though he's not exactly speaking from experience. "You're supposed to kiss people you like."
Genma doesn't say anything, for a minute: they just stand there in the falling snow, Rou facing Genma and Genma facing away. Rou's hand still wrapped around the strap of Genma's bag. "Yeah," Genma says, after a second, and then nothing else. His voice is flat and quiet.
It still takes a second for Rou to understand.
When he does it's like—it's new. He thinks of one of those tea-flowers Haruna likes, blooming open in the warmth; he can feel it, somewhere in his ribcage, unfolding. He thinks of landing a perfect triple. He thinks of tipping a shot, pointing at a linemate while a linemate's pointing at him. He thinks of Genma Keiichi upright on his skates on the pond in the predawn winter light, breath coming in smoke signals, eyes fixed on a goal-line only he can see. A silent whistle blows: Genma takes the puck, picks up speed, skimming out towards an unpainted circle: head-fakes a ghost goalie, then dekes. Top shelf, bar down.
Rou tugs, once, on Genma's strap, without saying anything.
"Hey," Rou says, quiet. Warmer than he means to be. "I want to try again."
Genma turns to him, finally, Rou's hand falling away as he spins through it. His eyes are on the ground, his brows drawn down. He opens his mouth—looks at Rou—
Whatever he sees in Rou's face makes him breathe in, sharp, and then snap his jaw shut. He steps in a little closer.
"Yeah?" he says. He sounds incredulous, a little stupid. That wash of pink is up over his cheekbones again. Rou is pretty sure that means he's winning.
"Yeah," says Rou.