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the usual morning madness // Kominato Ryousuke, 22 years old
Most days, Ryousuke’s morning routine is as follows: at exactly a quarter past five in the morning his alarm will go off, taking with it both the hazy veneer of sleep and the deceptive clarity of dreams involving Seidou’s Field A, second base, and a decided lack of baseballs in the immediate vicinity. Swearing lightly, Ryousuke will first smack Snooze before smacking the infernal alarm off his bedside table entirely. However, unable to reclaim even half the immersion or plausibility of his dreams, he’ll get up and shower anyway, only to grudgingly return a few minutes later to properly shut off his alarm, back and blaring with a vengeance, twice as loud and triply infuriating.
Today is not like most days.
And so, it is with surprise and no small measure of disbelief that Ryousuke wakes up on a Saturday just before five in the morning, the beginning traces of dawn eagerly slanting through the blinds in vertical lines, pillow gone but something (someone) else taking its place, dipping and rising in time with Ryousuke’s own breathing. Ryousuke blinks, not frowning exactly, but mouth caught in that peculiar, precarious tightrope between smiling at unexpected blessings and frowning at being caught off-guard in the first place.
A faint snore rumbles beneath Ryousuke’s head, a fleeting three-beat tremor from the chest, the sleepy equivalent of a waking high-pitched laugh.
Something inside Ryousuke gives in at the sound, a closely coiled together chamber in his chest (his heart) letting loose, unfurling warm in his ribs, Ryousuke’s face settling into an expression not quite as temperate, but somewhere in between, open eyes taking in his surroundings, alert but bright, and fond; lips tugging downwards into a flat line, weighed down by carrying everything his otherwise lighthearted expression would suggest.
(The specifics of what Ryousuke does not say aloud can be measured by the following: three words, felt ocean-deep if recalled in tones whisper-soft, shortened but by no means diminished into three simple syllables— )
“— Youichi.”
Ryousuke stays where he is for a few minutes longer, reluctant to admit he should probably get up, even more reluctant to confess he really, truly doesn’t want to. Five more minutes, then, he reasons, repeating the thought once five minutes pass, and then again, before eventually he blinks, deliberately, twice in quick succession, rationalising that it’s not selfishness driving him to stay if his alarm will make him leave eventually, and —
Anyway, he wouldn’t want to wake Kuramochi up, seeing as Ryousuke didn’t even hear him come in, let alone position himself as Ryousuke’s pillow sometime between midnight and now.
While he’s processing this, Kuramochi doesn’t move but nevertheless Ryousuke pinpoints the exact moment he wakes up because Kuramochi goes still in a way that makes Ryousuke think he isn’t just stuck in slumber, dead to the world, but wilfully motionless, mindful not to disturb Ryousuke whether or not the latter’s still asleep.
(He isn’t, and Ryousuke suspects Kuramochi knows this, too, but Ryousuke also knows that Kuramochi is kind, in a way that doesn’t need to be pointed out; in a way that means doing things without being told because he knows Ryousuke hates being coddled; in a way that means softening his rough edges to fit better against even Ryousuke’s most jagged, raw ones.)
It’s a touching thought, a charming gesture, but Kuramochi isn’t all-knowing, and Ryousuke’s not looking for sweetness. Right now, anyway.
Very softly, he says again — “Youichi.”
And then, just as softly (Onii-san’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Harucchi! Is this the Kominato family secret?? Sawamura Eijun whispered once, fearful and awestruck, when he thought Ryousuke couldn’t hear), “What are you doing in my bed?”
He doesn’t mean it in a bad way, has absolutely no intention of kicking Kuramochi out, but. Ryousuke’s a little mean, so when Kuramochi’s eyes jolt awake, body unable to follow suit because Ryousuke’s still mostly curled across him, Ryousuke does absolutely nothing at all to clarify.
It’s impossible to forget how fun it is stirring Kuramochi up, but a reminder’s always welcome. Ryousuke smiles.
Kuramochi groans.
“Ryou-san,” he tries. “C’mon, it’s. Too early for this.”
Ryousuke raises an eyebrow.
“…It’s your day off today, too,” Kuramochi says, weakly.
Ryousuke makes no move to get out of bed; on the contrary, he wraps himself even tighter around Kuramochi, carefully ignoring the thought of how he found himself on top of Kuramochi in the first place, revelling instead against Kuramochi’s chest, his solid heat.
Almost as if on reflex, Kuramochi’s hand comes up, hovering briefly over Ryousuke’s head before resting at the back of his neck, fingers flirting absent-mindedly with the ends of Ryousuke’s hair. Ryousuke hums, and Kuramochi closes his eyes — a peace offering, probably, but also maybe an excuse, a Get-Out-of-Jail/Ryousuke’s questioning-for-free card.
It is at this moment Ryousuke’s alarm clock chooses to make its re-appearance.
Simultaneously, both Ryousuke and Kuramochi swear, Ryousuke ducking between Kuramochi’s neck and shoulder, Kuramochi’s arm flaying out in search of the offending object.
“I’m not moving,” Ryousuke says, resolute.
Kuramochi laughs.
“Go to morning practice already,” Ryousuke huffs in response.
“Nah,” says Kuramochi. “Day off.”
That makes Ryousuke pause. He tilts his head back up, considering. Out loud, though, all he says is, “I thought your day off’s Thursday.”
“Changed it.”
“Why,” Ryousuke asks — accuses, really. “And for how long?”
Kuramochi blinks his eyes back open, the hand at Ryousuke’s neck trailing down to the small of his back.
“Just because. And just for today, unless. Um.”
Ryousuke sticks a hand under the hem of Kuramochi’s shirt.
“….unless, um, Saturday keeps being your day off. My schedule, is. Flexible.”
“I see,” Ryousuke hums, hand tickling up Kuramochi’s sides. Kuramochi sighs, gives Ryousuke a Look, but doesn’t try to move his hand away.
“Also.” Kuramochi’s brought his other hand up to scratch his cheek, “Next Saturday — it’s your birthday, yeah?”
Ryousuke’s hand stills.
“I see,” he says, pulling his hand from under Kuramochi’s shirt before shifting up to slide himself over Kuramochi properly, one leg on each side of Kuramochi’s hips, Kuramochi’s hands moving quicker than his mouth, touch steadying at Ryousuke’s waist.
“…So.”
Ryousuke splays his hands across Kuramochi’s chest, leans down. Kuramochi grins, leans up. Ryousuke grins back.
“I’m gonna take a guess,” Kuramochi breathes against Ryousuke’s mouth, “that we’re not gonna go back to sleep.”
“You can sleep later,” Ryousuke agrees. “I want an advance on my birthday present now.”
under the sun: on the field, off the field // Kuramochi Youichi, 16 years old
Contrary to popular belief — not that Youichi’s keeping track of casual conversation topics amongst the Seidou baseball team — Youichi’s partnership with one Kominato Ryousuke is not, in fact, restricted to the baseball field alone. If only, Youichi would think, if he wasn’t still trying to puzzle out the debatable issue of said Kominato Ryousuke’s potential mind-reading abilities.
Really, if he’s being honest with himself, Youichi’d rather not have anyone seeing into his mind, Ryousuke especially, because not even Youichi himself is entirely willing to own up to the stuff he gets up to in there.
“…Is that all you’ve got?”
In literally any other context, Youichi’s heard this phrase so many times he could mimic the exact intonation of it in his sleep, probably. Just. Not right at this moment, when the current context/intonation is: Youichi, pressed against the back of the dugout, Ryousuke’s palms cool and kinda sweaty against his flushed cheeks/hissed through clenched teeth in an admirable attempt to stem down other — vocal output, yes.
Having no such modicum of self-restraint himself, Youichi moans, Ryousuke promptly swallowing the sound with his mouth which, rather than halting only serves to incense Youichi further. His own hands slotted against Ryousuke’s hips, Youichi slips one hand into Ryousuke’s hair, some half-thought out attempt to either push him away or closer, harder and then Ryousuke’s licking into the seam of his mouth and oh, damn, that is. Not what Youichi intended.
He’s also fairly sure he should be protesting more than this.
In any case his only response to the sudden presence of someone else’s tongue in his mouth is to shove his own back at them, which — is easier said than done, as he’s quickly learning. Ryousuke makes a small noise at the back of his throat, which Youichi likes to think of as pleased but is really closer to amused, god damn.
And it’s not like Youichi’s trying to win Ryousuke over, he wouldn’t classify himself as the eager-to-please underclassman, per se (and what kind of power dynamic is supposed to be happening here, anyway?), but more than anything else Youichi definitely has something to prove, on the field or off it.
Well, technically speaking, they haven’t actually left the field yet. Also on the topic of technique, there is a very extraordinary goings-on happening between Ryousuke’s mouth and the angular curve of Youichi’s jaw and the slant of his neck, and when did his mouth get there? Shit, Youichi needs to get this together.
Whatever this is.
Tugging Ryousuke back up where his lips can reach, Youichi realises, distantly, that he’s stronger than he thought, essentially pulling the entirety of Ryousuke flush against himself from chest to knee. It is less uncomfortable than Youichi would have expected.
“Ryou-san,” he really hopes speaking directly against Ryousuke’s mouth isn’t going to be a habit, Youichi’s still got some shred of dignity left to maintain, “Ryou-san.”
Ryousuke says something back, also directly mouth-to-mouth, which might have sounded like a breathless you called? but mostly just feels like heat pressed straight down Youichi’s throat, falling in a slow and satisfying rush to his lungs, his chest, his belly.
But Ryousuke pulls back, not far, but the very presence of space between them at all is jarring, and unwanted, and Youichi mumbles, unintelligible, trying to chase after Ryousuke before realising it’s futile.
So he knocks his forehead against Ryousuke’s shoulder, not quite daring enough to look Ryousuke in the eyes, not yet, as he says, “One more,” before tacking on after for good measure, “I’m not done yet.”
Ducking down, Ryousuke blinks once, twice, thrice, and Youichi can feel it against his temple. Looking up, he drinks Ryousuke in, the sight of eyes so rarely shown to anyone, focused and heady and burrowed into the folds of Youichi’s memory for, later.
“Good. Well, then…”
Ryousuke sounds ragged, hollow, and Youichi wonders if this is why barely anyone gets to see his eyes, they steal all the depth from the rest of him till there’s nothing else left to give. Youichi swallows, swears in this moment he could feel Ryousuke closer than anyone else, completely overcome with a feeling he could spend the next years of his life untangling without ever coming close. And Ryousuke looks at him, looks and looks and looks, mouth twitching at the edges like he knows.
“…let’s see what else you can do.”
endless evenings // Kominato Ryousuke, 19 years old
In this moment the roar is all Ryousuke knows, windows down engines singing, city lights far behind, half-remembered blurs against the forward free-fall of speed. Youichi’s beside him, mouth split into a grin, howling something about traffic signs and speed limits — so are you going to report me, Youichi? — while his hands sing something else entirely, fingers drumming on the dashboard, his pant leg, tapping out a rhythm from his end of the car to Ryousuke’s, hovering a breath away from Ryousuke’s own, close enough to touch, too far away to feel.
There was a reason for this at some point, left stranded behind miles and miles of adrenaline and asphalt but Ryousuke doesn’t stop long enough to look back and see. Youichi’s left hand moves up to brace against the back of Ryousuke’s seat, but his eyes never drift from the road ahead, keep going, no stopping now.
The pull of inertia is alluring and endless, makes Ryousuke want more, move faster, feel stronger. His want sits heavy at the bottom of his stomach, offset by his pulse hammering hummingbird quick in his chest, his throat; hands on the steering wheel and feet on the gas, pushing farther and farther, carrying him wherever he can go.
“Left Tokyo two exits ago, I think,” Kuramochi laughs, delighted. “Might actually make it to Chiba at this rate.”
“No thank you,” Ryousuke cheerfully declines. “Tolls are for losers.”
“Yeah?”
For no other reason than to prove his point, Ryousuke makes a sudden swerve right, avoiding said toll in lieu of — well. He’s not really sure, but he’ll find out. If Kuramochi notices the split-second slackening on the steering wheel — not hesitation exactly, but something close; a distant relative, twice removed — he doesn’t mention it, pointing instead somewhere past the dashboard.
Sliding across his seat, Kuramochi pushes right up against Ryousuke’s side, pressing white-hot lines trailing from shoulder to elbow where their bodies touch, jacketed shoulder against bare elbow. Kuramochi’s breathing is harsh but not unwelcome next to Ryousuke’s ear.
Kuramochi says, “There’s a bay somewhere around here, I think.”
“Swimming in the middle of fall? Don’t you have better things to do, Youichi?”
Neither of them point out the fact they’re out driving at closer to sunrise than sunset in the middle of the week, finals on the horizon for Ryousuke, entrance exams for Kuramochi. Instead Kuramochi reaches forward to switch on the radio, almost as if he’s trying to fade out what he’s about to say next.
“Like what — study? My ticket to college’s baseball or nothing, Ryou-san.”
“How promising.” Ryousuke’s sure he was smiling before, but on the off chance he wasn’t he certainly is now — he can feel it, crinkling the corners of his eyelids. When Kuramochi smiles he feels it against his jaw even though his lips don’t actually touch. It’s enough and it isn’t, and maybe Ryousuke doesn’t need Kuramochi to go any closer than this but he wants it anyway, and maybe just wanting it is enough if Kuramochi understands, leans in as close as he can get and then some, Ryousuke stripped down to his hands and heart and heat, connected together by the places he and Kuramochi touch.
There’s a song buzzing through the speakers, unfamiliar but somehow it’s nostalgic anyway, a soundtrack for long drives and longer nights, the backbone of its melody crooning staticky but Ryousuke hears it anyway, thinks it sounds something likes this: Youichi, Youichi, Youichi…