Post by krystalepyon on Dec 17, 2007 3:32:10 GMT -5
Remedy
Oshitari thanked Jiroh for the warm teacup that was slipped into his hands. He tensed himself as he sneezed, managing not to spill a drop of the blessedly hot liquid. Gratefully, he took a sip, sighing as its heat spread through his frozen body.
There was no way he was escaping this without a cold.
Meanwhile, Jiroh sat smiling at him and enjoying a plateful of English shortbread, which Oshitari had almost regretfully declined. For the time being, he was content with the hot tea. The owner of the manner wore a crimson robe, his hair tousled as though from sleep – as usual – and his bare foot slowly tapped up and down upon the surface of his currently disengaged fuzzy, crimson slipper.
“Thank you,” Oshitari began, once his teeth stopped chattering. “For responding at such short notice.”
Jiroh’s smile slipped. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you found him.”
Oshitari sighed, staring down into his tea. “He’s not going to be happy.”
Jiroh shrugged. “You did the right thing. He’ll get over it eventually. Besides…” and now Jiroh’s eyes slipped towards the closed door which led into the bedchamber of the enormous suite. “There’s only so much I can do for him.”
“At least he asks for your help,” Oshitari muttered, avoiding Jiroh’s eyes.
The sharp laugh startled him into making eye contact again.
“Ask? Atobe? Since when? Besides, that just means he doesn’t care about me so much that he’s afraid of worrying me. He’s not ashamed for me to take care of him.” As Jiroh spoke, he held Oshitari’s gaze steadily, communicating his point very effectively to the tensai. He was trying to hint that Atobe harbored feelings for Oshitari where he viewed Jiroh only as a friend and trusted ally. “You’re right, though,” he added eventually, his voice suddenly subdued. “He won’t be happy that you know. He won’t be happy at all.”
*
Atobe’s world exploded in pain. He twitched in reaction and it deepened.
His teeth grit, he forced himself to stay very still, trying even to breathe shallowly so as not to disturb whatever demon was wrenching his body open. Once he was free of immediate agony for long enough to think clearly, he tried to figured out what had happened.
He remembered Fumiya-sensei leaving him in the classroom, and, of course, what had transpired before that. He also then remembered someone… Oshitari, dressing him and carrying him to a taxi. After that, he must have blacked out, because he could feel that he was not in a taxi. In fact, he was in a bed. Oshitari’s bed?
No, hadn’t Oshitari said he was taking Atobe to-
“Jiroh, I think he’s awake.”
Ah, good thinking.
Atobe braced himself, for he expected it to hurt when he spoke. “Oshitari…” Oh, yes. Pain. But Atobe was no stranger to that. “How dare you interfere in my private affairs.”
“Do you want anything?” the tensai replied. “Water? Sustenance? …Wine?”
His calm, gentle tone only aggravated Atobe who finally opened his eyes, relieved for the dim light, and glared at Oshitari. “You had no right. I’ll see to it that you never-”
Atobe was forced to cut off mid-sentence as a small sachet of powder was poured into his mouth followed by water. He almost choked, but managed to swallow in time to avoid doing so.
Almost instantly, the pain dimmed somewhat. Atobe blinked in shock and relief. Then, he continued his tirade.
Infuriatingly, the tensai ignored him, neatly opening a packet of chocolate and breaking off one piece. This time, when he made to cut Atobe off, the captain tried to block the attempt by closing his mouth. Oshitari, ruthless as he was, simply pressed down on Atobe’s badly bruised ribs. The direct pressure was still enough to bypass the fast working pain killer and cause Atobe to gasp in pain at which point the chocolate was inserted into his wide open maw.
“To nullify the taste,” Oshitari explained, even as he took a piece of chocolate for himself and then neatly folded the rim of the packet over, placing it on the bedside table.
It was only as the chocolate melted in his mouth that he noticed the awful taste of whatever it was Oshitari had poured down his throat. He was irritatingly grateful for the chocolate, and so kept his mouth shut, simply sucking on the melting piece whilst glaring rebelliously at the tensai.
Since when did Oshitari get to treat him like a patient? Since when did Oshitari have the authority to treat Atobe Himself like a sick child? Since when…?
Since when had the tensai’s odd manner and awkward communication skills seemed so bloody endearing?
Finally, Atobe turned his eyes away, staring at a painting on the far wall for lack of a better scapegoat. He had to admit that he would have been in trouble had Oshitari not come along.
For one thing, he was pretty sure he felt some tearing for the first time in a long while. That explained the agony. He’d never have been able to get himself out of there, and if he was left there until morning then there would have been a world of humiliation, scandal, and god knew what else to deal with.
What Atobe couldn’t understand was what was wrong with Fumiya. Surely, even if he didn’t care at all about Atobe, he would have some self interest. Leaving Atobe like that was dangerous. Fumiya-sensei was the one who risked being charged with rape, pedophilia, and a whole range of other crimes.
Atobe shuddered, the irrational urge to cry seizing up his body for a moment. Why did it hurt him so much? He knew Fumiya didn’t care, it was obvious, so why did it hurt?
“Atobe…”
Oshitari’s voice had finally taken on a hesitant tone as if he was about to breach an uncomfortable topic. However, Atobe was spared by Jiroh’s timely entrance.
“Help me sit him up,” Jiroh instructed the tensai as he placed a tray down on the floor.
Oshitari complied, and Atobe barely resisted as they pulled him upright. Whatever Oshitari had given him was strong. He could barely feel anything anymore.
A very warm teacup was thrust into his hand, along with a couple of pieces of scotch bread on a plate in his lap. Obediently, he drank the tea because it meant he didn’t have to say anything.
“I’ll run practice tomorrow,” Jiroh told him matter-of-factly as he busily straightened up Atobe’s already immaculate sheets and pillows.
Despite himself, Atobe laughed. “I hardly doubt that sleeping through practice can be considered running it,” he scoffed. “Shishido-kun should be up to the task. He’ll make the team work.”
“If you say so,” Oshitari agreed, adjusting his glasses.
Atobe glanced at him, bemused at what he read in that action. Either Oshitari was feigning worry for Atobe’s amusement, or he truly was afraid of what Shishido might do to the team with a little authority on his side. Honestly, Atobe couldn’t decide which it was.
“Ore-sama’s judgments are always correct,” Atobe sniffed, feeling a little more grounded by assuming the captainly role once more. Dealing with subordinates was much simpler than dealing with friends. “In fact, tell Shishido to conduct practice in whatever manner he sees fit. It should create an interesting impression before the regionals.”
“They’re not far now,” Oshitari commented inanely.
“It’s a good thing you won’t need to play in the early rounds,” Jiroh added, bringing them back to the current situation. “You’ll have time to heal…”
The unspoken thought of ‘assuming this doesn’t happen again’ echoed between them, and Oshitari adjusted his glasses again, this time in that dangerous manner of his. Atobe caught the action and wanted to warn the tensai to stay out of it, but doing so would be to acknowledge what hadn’t been said and would probably inspire an argument where one was currently being avoided. Atobe wasn’t up to arguing.
“I’ll be fine. I only need to miss a couple of days of practice,” he replied with far more confidence than he felt. The truth was, he might be out of action for much longer, and Jiroh knew it.
This was the first time Jiroh had dealt with him so directly. Whether it was Oshitari’s influence, or the scope of the damage, Jiroh was actually getting involved, if subtly, rather than simply patching Atobe up and sending him on his way.
“Of course,” Jiroh agreed. “I’ll be sure to tell Fumiya-sensei you said so.”
Atobe went cold, his hands instinctively tightening about the comfortingly warm teacup.
“Don’t,” Atobe whispered. “Tell him the truth.”
He knew he would be punished for lying to his coach/lover about his condition.
“Do you think that’s wise?” Oshitari asked suddenly, and Atobe instantly turned an angry glare on him for butting in. Oshitari simply continued calmly, pointedly holding Atobe’s gaze. “If Jiroh passes on such a message, then Fumiya-sensei will be aware that someone knows of your condition, and, likely, of how it came about.”
Atobe’s glare transformed into an expression of surprise. Damn it, but Oshitari was right. Atobe himself was going to have to call, but not until he was home. If Fumiya insisted on seeing him, he couldn’t be caught at Jiroh’s house.
Growling in frustration, he looked away once more, now glaring at his feet, covered as they were by a velvet, crimson dominated, Indian-themed bedspread. Jiroh really had gaudy taste. In fact, he had probably started dating Gakuto purely for the little acrobat’s hair colour.
“Atobe…”
The captain’s frustration dissipated somewhat at the uncertain tone in Jiroh’s voice. Atobe looked up to see his friend standing there with the tray hanging limply from his hands, staring down at the bedspread.
The captain waited.
“I don’t like it,” Jiroh said at last. “Not that it hasn’t bothered me before now, but… The tournament is so important to you. He’s already hampered your training. What if you can’t play? What if-?”
The moment Jiroh looked directly into Atobe’s eyes, he stopped talking. He must have noticed the somewhat vacant stare Atobe must have been exhibiting as he spun off into his own little word of painful memories and fear.
It wasn’t as though he’d never thought of that himself. He had, time and time again. He was terrified of being kept from playing because he was too injured from the latest torture Fumiya had inflicted upon him. He knew he’d already lost valuable training time to injury. He knew he hadn’t practiced anywhere near as much as he’d have liked to. Tezuka could already be leagues ahead of him.
“That’s it, Atobe. We’re doing this my way,” Oshitari suddenly declared as though he’d reached the limit of his patience. His voice was barely more than a growl. “You’re going to stay with me. As soon as you’re fit to play, we’ll start training. I intend to restore both your physical and mental condition to their prior glory before it is time for you to take place in the tournament.” It was as if the tensai had read Atobe’s thoughts and fears.
Jiroh chirped, “But, Fumiya-sensei-”
“I will deal with him,” Oshitari insisted.
Atone snarled. “What makes you think-”
“Do you trust me?” Oshitari asked, staring directly into Atobe’s eyes.
“I-”
“Do you trust me?” the tensai repeated.
“Yes,” Atobe whispered. He couldn’t lie, but he was afraid. How could Oshitari challenge Fumyia-sensei, even if he was a tensai, even if Atobe did trust him.
“Then believe in me and I’ll fix this.”
With that, Oshitari got up and walked out of the room, leaving Atobe feeling meek and pathetically cowardly. Since when did he let people fight for him?
“Will it really be alright?” Jiroh wondered aloud, not too reassuringly.
*
Oshitari left immediately for his own mansion. He bypassed the maids, his parents, and his waiting violin instructor and went to his computer. He needed to create some fake medical and police records.
Atobe was about to have a debilitating car accident. Oshitari’s father, as an important figure at Tokyo University Hospital, was going to personally tend to the Atobe heir, in the Oshitari family estate, which contained state of the art medical equipment - and, naturally - rehabilitation conditions.
No visitors.
No Fumiya-sensei.
Atobe was going to get some well needed respite and positive reinforcement. Oshitari would see to that. Unfortunately, he’d have to tell his father the truth. However, Oshitari senior was well aware of someone of Atobe’s standard’s social requirements and the delicacy with which his case would need to be handled.
/Remedy
Yay! Finally another chapter. ^.^ Been so busy working on other fics I've neglected this one for a while. I'm glad I got this chapter done, though. I actually had no idea where it was going until I was almost done with it. I was a bit stuck I'm afraid, but I wrote 4/5ths of this chapter today and I'm quite happy with the direction the story's going in.
I know a lot of you are hanging out for Seigaku, but I need to set up the Hyoutei Arc a little more before I get back to threesome land.
[btw I'm suddenly fascinated with the concept of Jiroh/Gakuto. Don't know why, it was just a random idea, but it seems like a good pairing in my head.]
Oshitari thanked Jiroh for the warm teacup that was slipped into his hands. He tensed himself as he sneezed, managing not to spill a drop of the blessedly hot liquid. Gratefully, he took a sip, sighing as its heat spread through his frozen body.
There was no way he was escaping this without a cold.
Meanwhile, Jiroh sat smiling at him and enjoying a plateful of English shortbread, which Oshitari had almost regretfully declined. For the time being, he was content with the hot tea. The owner of the manner wore a crimson robe, his hair tousled as though from sleep – as usual – and his bare foot slowly tapped up and down upon the surface of his currently disengaged fuzzy, crimson slipper.
“Thank you,” Oshitari began, once his teeth stopped chattering. “For responding at such short notice.”
Jiroh’s smile slipped. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you found him.”
Oshitari sighed, staring down into his tea. “He’s not going to be happy.”
Jiroh shrugged. “You did the right thing. He’ll get over it eventually. Besides…” and now Jiroh’s eyes slipped towards the closed door which led into the bedchamber of the enormous suite. “There’s only so much I can do for him.”
“At least he asks for your help,” Oshitari muttered, avoiding Jiroh’s eyes.
The sharp laugh startled him into making eye contact again.
“Ask? Atobe? Since when? Besides, that just means he doesn’t care about me so much that he’s afraid of worrying me. He’s not ashamed for me to take care of him.” As Jiroh spoke, he held Oshitari’s gaze steadily, communicating his point very effectively to the tensai. He was trying to hint that Atobe harbored feelings for Oshitari where he viewed Jiroh only as a friend and trusted ally. “You’re right, though,” he added eventually, his voice suddenly subdued. “He won’t be happy that you know. He won’t be happy at all.”
*
Atobe’s world exploded in pain. He twitched in reaction and it deepened.
His teeth grit, he forced himself to stay very still, trying even to breathe shallowly so as not to disturb whatever demon was wrenching his body open. Once he was free of immediate agony for long enough to think clearly, he tried to figured out what had happened.
He remembered Fumiya-sensei leaving him in the classroom, and, of course, what had transpired before that. He also then remembered someone… Oshitari, dressing him and carrying him to a taxi. After that, he must have blacked out, because he could feel that he was not in a taxi. In fact, he was in a bed. Oshitari’s bed?
No, hadn’t Oshitari said he was taking Atobe to-
“Jiroh, I think he’s awake.”
Ah, good thinking.
Atobe braced himself, for he expected it to hurt when he spoke. “Oshitari…” Oh, yes. Pain. But Atobe was no stranger to that. “How dare you interfere in my private affairs.”
“Do you want anything?” the tensai replied. “Water? Sustenance? …Wine?”
His calm, gentle tone only aggravated Atobe who finally opened his eyes, relieved for the dim light, and glared at Oshitari. “You had no right. I’ll see to it that you never-”
Atobe was forced to cut off mid-sentence as a small sachet of powder was poured into his mouth followed by water. He almost choked, but managed to swallow in time to avoid doing so.
Almost instantly, the pain dimmed somewhat. Atobe blinked in shock and relief. Then, he continued his tirade.
Infuriatingly, the tensai ignored him, neatly opening a packet of chocolate and breaking off one piece. This time, when he made to cut Atobe off, the captain tried to block the attempt by closing his mouth. Oshitari, ruthless as he was, simply pressed down on Atobe’s badly bruised ribs. The direct pressure was still enough to bypass the fast working pain killer and cause Atobe to gasp in pain at which point the chocolate was inserted into his wide open maw.
“To nullify the taste,” Oshitari explained, even as he took a piece of chocolate for himself and then neatly folded the rim of the packet over, placing it on the bedside table.
It was only as the chocolate melted in his mouth that he noticed the awful taste of whatever it was Oshitari had poured down his throat. He was irritatingly grateful for the chocolate, and so kept his mouth shut, simply sucking on the melting piece whilst glaring rebelliously at the tensai.
Since when did Oshitari get to treat him like a patient? Since when did Oshitari have the authority to treat Atobe Himself like a sick child? Since when…?
Since when had the tensai’s odd manner and awkward communication skills seemed so bloody endearing?
Finally, Atobe turned his eyes away, staring at a painting on the far wall for lack of a better scapegoat. He had to admit that he would have been in trouble had Oshitari not come along.
For one thing, he was pretty sure he felt some tearing for the first time in a long while. That explained the agony. He’d never have been able to get himself out of there, and if he was left there until morning then there would have been a world of humiliation, scandal, and god knew what else to deal with.
What Atobe couldn’t understand was what was wrong with Fumiya. Surely, even if he didn’t care at all about Atobe, he would have some self interest. Leaving Atobe like that was dangerous. Fumiya-sensei was the one who risked being charged with rape, pedophilia, and a whole range of other crimes.
Atobe shuddered, the irrational urge to cry seizing up his body for a moment. Why did it hurt him so much? He knew Fumiya didn’t care, it was obvious, so why did it hurt?
“Atobe…”
Oshitari’s voice had finally taken on a hesitant tone as if he was about to breach an uncomfortable topic. However, Atobe was spared by Jiroh’s timely entrance.
“Help me sit him up,” Jiroh instructed the tensai as he placed a tray down on the floor.
Oshitari complied, and Atobe barely resisted as they pulled him upright. Whatever Oshitari had given him was strong. He could barely feel anything anymore.
A very warm teacup was thrust into his hand, along with a couple of pieces of scotch bread on a plate in his lap. Obediently, he drank the tea because it meant he didn’t have to say anything.
“I’ll run practice tomorrow,” Jiroh told him matter-of-factly as he busily straightened up Atobe’s already immaculate sheets and pillows.
Despite himself, Atobe laughed. “I hardly doubt that sleeping through practice can be considered running it,” he scoffed. “Shishido-kun should be up to the task. He’ll make the team work.”
“If you say so,” Oshitari agreed, adjusting his glasses.
Atobe glanced at him, bemused at what he read in that action. Either Oshitari was feigning worry for Atobe’s amusement, or he truly was afraid of what Shishido might do to the team with a little authority on his side. Honestly, Atobe couldn’t decide which it was.
“Ore-sama’s judgments are always correct,” Atobe sniffed, feeling a little more grounded by assuming the captainly role once more. Dealing with subordinates was much simpler than dealing with friends. “In fact, tell Shishido to conduct practice in whatever manner he sees fit. It should create an interesting impression before the regionals.”
“They’re not far now,” Oshitari commented inanely.
“It’s a good thing you won’t need to play in the early rounds,” Jiroh added, bringing them back to the current situation. “You’ll have time to heal…”
The unspoken thought of ‘assuming this doesn’t happen again’ echoed between them, and Oshitari adjusted his glasses again, this time in that dangerous manner of his. Atobe caught the action and wanted to warn the tensai to stay out of it, but doing so would be to acknowledge what hadn’t been said and would probably inspire an argument where one was currently being avoided. Atobe wasn’t up to arguing.
“I’ll be fine. I only need to miss a couple of days of practice,” he replied with far more confidence than he felt. The truth was, he might be out of action for much longer, and Jiroh knew it.
This was the first time Jiroh had dealt with him so directly. Whether it was Oshitari’s influence, or the scope of the damage, Jiroh was actually getting involved, if subtly, rather than simply patching Atobe up and sending him on his way.
“Of course,” Jiroh agreed. “I’ll be sure to tell Fumiya-sensei you said so.”
Atobe went cold, his hands instinctively tightening about the comfortingly warm teacup.
“Don’t,” Atobe whispered. “Tell him the truth.”
He knew he would be punished for lying to his coach/lover about his condition.
“Do you think that’s wise?” Oshitari asked suddenly, and Atobe instantly turned an angry glare on him for butting in. Oshitari simply continued calmly, pointedly holding Atobe’s gaze. “If Jiroh passes on such a message, then Fumiya-sensei will be aware that someone knows of your condition, and, likely, of how it came about.”
Atobe’s glare transformed into an expression of surprise. Damn it, but Oshitari was right. Atobe himself was going to have to call, but not until he was home. If Fumiya insisted on seeing him, he couldn’t be caught at Jiroh’s house.
Growling in frustration, he looked away once more, now glaring at his feet, covered as they were by a velvet, crimson dominated, Indian-themed bedspread. Jiroh really had gaudy taste. In fact, he had probably started dating Gakuto purely for the little acrobat’s hair colour.
“Atobe…”
The captain’s frustration dissipated somewhat at the uncertain tone in Jiroh’s voice. Atobe looked up to see his friend standing there with the tray hanging limply from his hands, staring down at the bedspread.
The captain waited.
“I don’t like it,” Jiroh said at last. “Not that it hasn’t bothered me before now, but… The tournament is so important to you. He’s already hampered your training. What if you can’t play? What if-?”
The moment Jiroh looked directly into Atobe’s eyes, he stopped talking. He must have noticed the somewhat vacant stare Atobe must have been exhibiting as he spun off into his own little word of painful memories and fear.
It wasn’t as though he’d never thought of that himself. He had, time and time again. He was terrified of being kept from playing because he was too injured from the latest torture Fumiya had inflicted upon him. He knew he’d already lost valuable training time to injury. He knew he hadn’t practiced anywhere near as much as he’d have liked to. Tezuka could already be leagues ahead of him.
“That’s it, Atobe. We’re doing this my way,” Oshitari suddenly declared as though he’d reached the limit of his patience. His voice was barely more than a growl. “You’re going to stay with me. As soon as you’re fit to play, we’ll start training. I intend to restore both your physical and mental condition to their prior glory before it is time for you to take place in the tournament.” It was as if the tensai had read Atobe’s thoughts and fears.
Jiroh chirped, “But, Fumiya-sensei-”
“I will deal with him,” Oshitari insisted.
Atone snarled. “What makes you think-”
“Do you trust me?” Oshitari asked, staring directly into Atobe’s eyes.
“I-”
“Do you trust me?” the tensai repeated.
“Yes,” Atobe whispered. He couldn’t lie, but he was afraid. How could Oshitari challenge Fumyia-sensei, even if he was a tensai, even if Atobe did trust him.
“Then believe in me and I’ll fix this.”
With that, Oshitari got up and walked out of the room, leaving Atobe feeling meek and pathetically cowardly. Since when did he let people fight for him?
“Will it really be alright?” Jiroh wondered aloud, not too reassuringly.
*
Oshitari left immediately for his own mansion. He bypassed the maids, his parents, and his waiting violin instructor and went to his computer. He needed to create some fake medical and police records.
Atobe was about to have a debilitating car accident. Oshitari’s father, as an important figure at Tokyo University Hospital, was going to personally tend to the Atobe heir, in the Oshitari family estate, which contained state of the art medical equipment - and, naturally - rehabilitation conditions.
No visitors.
No Fumiya-sensei.
Atobe was going to get some well needed respite and positive reinforcement. Oshitari would see to that. Unfortunately, he’d have to tell his father the truth. However, Oshitari senior was well aware of someone of Atobe’s standard’s social requirements and the delicacy with which his case would need to be handled.
/Remedy
Yay! Finally another chapter. ^.^ Been so busy working on other fics I've neglected this one for a while. I'm glad I got this chapter done, though. I actually had no idea where it was going until I was almost done with it. I was a bit stuck I'm afraid, but I wrote 4/5ths of this chapter today and I'm quite happy with the direction the story's going in.
I know a lot of you are hanging out for Seigaku, but I need to set up the Hyoutei Arc a little more before I get back to threesome land.
[btw I'm suddenly fascinated with the concept of Jiroh/Gakuto. Don't know why, it was just a random idea, but it seems like a good pairing in my head.]
