Diversions, by kishmet. Atobe/Ryoma, PG-13, humor/romance. Um. Donya gave me the prompt "Twister" for an AtoRyo fic, and, er, this is it. I'm not sure I can be held responsible for the content of this.
There were people in the dining room, the living room, the music room, the television room, and just about every other room on the first floor of the mansion where the guests were supposed to be. Such large numbers of people were, of course, what came of inviting just about every tennis player on the junior high circuit (except for those too unskilled to be remembered even by the butler) and the entirety of Hyoutei Gakuen’s student population.
Ryoma was hiding in the kitchen in order to evade all the people who might have asked him imbecilic questions or possibly tried to kill him for beating Atobe in tennis. Atobe was in the kitchen in order to coax Ryoma out of it.
“I don’t like parties.”
“Yes, I realize that,” said Atobe, voice practically oozing false patience. “Have you ever considered that you may dislike parties because you stay in the kitchen the entire time?”
“No,” said Ryoma. He was sitting on one of the highly-polished, expensive marble counters, swinging his legs because they didn’t reach the floor. “I like this one all right, and I’ve been in here the whole time.”
“Well then, have you considered that you might possibly have a better time if you socialized a bit and stopped ruining the finish on my cabinetry?”
“I thought not.” Atobe glanced at his watch. He had been in the kitchen for fifteen minutes now, which meant that he was neglecting his duties as the party’s host. “Let’s say I do something to make the party more interesting for you.”
Ryoma glanced up from where he’d purposely been swinging his feet hard enough to dent the cabinets beneath his heels. “You’ll make everyone leave?”
Atobe snorted at that. “Of course not.” He walked over to Ryoma and, before Ryoma could protest, set his hands on either side of Ryoma’s hips and lifted him down from the counter, setting him on his feet.
Ryoma swayed for a moment, surprised, but Atobe steadied him. When Ryoma had his bearings back (which didn’t take long), he glared up at Atobe. “I don’t need to be lifted down.”
“You did if I ever wanted you down from there,” Atobe told him. “Now come out of the kitchen before I have to carry you there.”
“You couldn’t,” said Ryoma. “I’d kick you instead of the cabinets.” Despite what he’d said and his apparent views on the subject, he followed Atobe toward the kitchen door. “What are you going to do to make the party more interesting, anyway?”
Atobe smiled, the smile of his that meant he’d thought of something that would inevitably annoy the living hell out of somebody, most likely Ryoma. “You’ll see.”
When Ryoma discovered that Atobe’s way of making the party more interesting was the suggestion of a rousing game of Twister, he almost went back into the kitchen. Unfortunately, Atobe snagged him by the back of the collar, and Eiji, who was also in the living room, were quick to help.
“Come on, let’s play, Ochibi!” Eiji urged, and shot a dark look at Gakuto, who was clearly his eternal rival at Twister and probably the only other person flexible enough to beat Eiji in a fair, one-on-one game of it. Gakuto pretended to ignore Eiji and went on snogging Oshitari in one of the armchairs. “Twister’s fun!”
“About as fun as the rest of this party’s been,” Ryoma muttered, and refused to look at Atobe, who was undoubtedly smirking.
Soon enough, several of Atobe’s maids brought in a Twister mat and laid it out on the floor. Ryoma eyed it dubiously. “We’re not all going to fit on that thing.”
“It’s part of the challenge,” said Atobe, who probably could have bought an oversized Twister mat if he’d wanted one. “Obviously the rule about multiple persons occupying a single circle is rendered null and void in this case.”
That didn’t make Ryoma much more enthusiastic about the entire affair.
Ryoma was hauled to a spot at the edge of the mat and made to stand between Atobe and Eiji, both of whom were sure to grab him if he made another escape attempt. He squirmed, but everyone was packed in so tightly that he probably couldn’t move anyway, even though he was the skinniest person there.
“Right hand red!” announced Jirou, who was doing the spinning on the grounds that if he fell asleep in the middle of the game, he’d end up taking everyone else down with him. At the moment Jirou wasn’t anywhere near sleep; he was bouncing up and down on his chair because Fuji, Marui, and Atobe were all taking part. “Go, Fuji-kun! You can do it!”
Fuji smiled and placed his right hand on a red circle he’d gotten all to himself because his smile disturbed the people in his vicinity too much for them to be willing to share his space. “Thank you, Jirou-san.”
Atobe, Ryoma, Eiji, and someone from St. Rudolph whose name nobody seemed to remember all ended up wih the same red space. Ryoma jabbed Atobe with a fingernail, and Atobe jabbed back with fingernails that were longer and more well-manicured. “That’s not really-” began the St. Rudolph boy, who hadn’t been able to help noticing that exchange.
Both Ryoma and Atobe fixed him with a stare that indicated exactly how much they cared about his opinion on anything, much less on something that was clearly meant to be settled between the two of them. The St. Rudolph boy gulped and edged over as far as he could go in the opposite direction, running right into Rikkai’s Kirihara, who looked downright murderous.
And the game was on.
Twenty turns later, half of the original players had been knocked out of the game, but Atobe and Ryoma were still in, and still bickering. They were on all fours, Ryoma just slightly behind Atobe, his right foot sharing a blue space with Atobe’s.
“Nice view from back here,” said Ryoma.
“Oh, shut up,” said Atobe. Somewhere off to the side, someone laughed at the exchange, but neither of them were in a position conducive to identifying who it had been.
“Right foot red!”
“You’re going to lose,” said Ryoma in Atobe’s ear, too quietly for anyone else in the room to hear him.
“We’ll see about that,” Atobe replied, turning his head so that if either of them leaned just an inch forward, their lips would be touching.
“Left hand yellow!”
Now Ryoma was virtually straddling Atobe’s left leg, his right knee up so that his foot could remain on his blue space. “You’re going to lose, all right,” he informed Atobe.
“I wouldn’t be so-” Atobe began.
Ryoma shifted so that his thigh rubbed against Atobe’s groin.
Atobe gave a startled gasp, whipping his head around so that he could stare at Ryoma. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.
“Nothing,” said Ryoma innocently, and did it again. Atobe cursed under his breath, his back arching ever-so-slightly. He glanced up and saw that their caller was asleep, with Marui and Gakuto diligently trying to wake him.
No one seemed to notice Atobe’s predicament except for Ryoma (of course, as he was the cause of it) and Fuji, who called from the sidelines, “Are you all right, Atobe-san? It looks like you’ve started sweating.”
“I’m fine,” Atobe ground out, and then snapped at Marui, “Just spin the damn thing yourself if he won’t wake up!”
Marui popped his bubble, shrugged, and then pried the spinner out of Jirou’s hands. “Right foot red.”
“It’s already there,” said Atobe, his patience obviously wearing thin. Ryoma was still moving his leg, slowly enough that no one else would see, and Atobe wasn’t going to be able to stay on his hands and feet in such an awkward position for much longer.
“Oh, right. Right foot green, then.”
That particular move took a lot of manipulation on both of their parts, and in the end, they couldn’t manage it without their limbs being hopelessly tangled. “Now what, brat?” Atobe asked in a whisper. “If I go down, you’ll go down with me.”
“But I’ll be on top,” said Ryoma, and smirked.
One hundred and fourteen turns later, they were still playing.
Somehow during the course of the game, everyone else had been eliminated. Eiji had fallen over during one shift of positions and had taken Oshitari with him, prompting a furious reaction from Gakuto and an immediate attempt from Oshitari to calm them both down. St. Rudolph had gone out early, despite Mizuki’s claim that he held weekly team-building Twister sessions so they were clearly the best and everyone else was probably cheating. Fuji had gotten involved in a friendly game of ‘who can knock the other over first’ with Saeki, and somehow the two of them falling had knocked Yuuta over too. Rikkai had also gone out early, curiously enough, but only because Sanada had attempted to slap any of his team members who were wobbling and had thus knocked himself and them out of the game.
So Twister was now a spectator sport. The Hyoutei regulars had started up an impromptu chant regarding who would be the winner and who would not, and, naturally, the Seigaku regulars had countered that with a chant of their own.
“Listen to that,” said Atobe, smirking and deliberately pinching one of Ryoma’s nipples through his t-shirt, the fourth time he’d done that, in order to reach a yellow circle. “They know what the outcome will be.” The chanting of “The winner will be Atobe” was louder than Seigaku’s chanting of the opposite, simply because there were five times as many Hyoutei students present.
“Che. Just because you hired more fans doesn’t make you better.” Ryoma pressed back so that their hips rubbed roughly together, his back against Atobe’s front.
“You little exhibitionist.”
“What does that make you? A bigger one?” For the next move, Ryoma purposely turned over so they were facing each other.
“I didn’t instigate this.” Atobe leaned over Ryoma to reach a green circle and bit Ryoma’s neck sharply as he did so. “I can’t believe no one’s caught on yet, actually.” Which wasn’t entirely true; Fuji was sitting by Saeki and watching them closely, smiling and evidently drawing Saeki’s attention to what was going on, and Oshitari had raised an eyebrow at least once. But they were geniuses, so obviously they were able to see more than the average human being could.
“They’re idiots.” So saying, Ryoma leaned up and gave Atobe an open-mouthed, hungry kiss.
Abruptly the chanting on both sides broke off.
“Finally,” Atobe commented as they parted for breath. “Getting to the point, are we?”
“Not quite,” said Ryoma, and arched his back as Atobe returned for more where that kiss had come from. Both of them were shaking by this point; a prolonged game of Twister was as bad as or worse than a prolonged tennis match, and a prolonged game of Twister that was really just elaborate foreplay was even worse than that, at least as far as the endurance of two teenage boys went.
The chanting had been replaced by silence and scattered feminine squeals.
“Left foot yellow!” Marui announced, as he was on Rikkai and therefore almost unaffected by what was going on.
“Che.” Ryoma moved his leg more quickly than the normal eye could see and kicked Atobe’s ankles out from under him. Atobe’s eyes widened, and he barely managed to catch himself before he fell. But his knee touched the mat for a split second.
“Out!” shouted Momo, not traumatized enough by the public display of affection (or lust) to have lost his competitive streak.
“Damn you,” muttered Atobe, and then, since he had nothing else to lose, pinned Ryoma to the mat and kissed him absolutely senseless.
Ten minutes later, everyone had left the room (including Jirou, who’d been hauled out by Marui and Gakuto), and Fuji (who would have stayed but had been hauled out by Yuuta and Saeki), which was fortunate given that Atobe and Ryoma’s clothing was in the process of leaving their bodies. Fifteen minutes after that, the clothing was gone, their positions had been reversed so that Ryoma was lying on top of Atobe,and the Twister mat was an absolute mess, for more than one reason.
“You got rid of everyone after all,” said Ryoma.
“That was your fault,” said Atobe, without as much hostility as he might have been inclined to show earlier.
Ryoma shrugged as best he could, nuzzling Atobe’s neck and pressing light, lazy kisses to the skin there. “You suggested the game.”
“Oh, yes, because in and of itself, Twister inevitably leads to displays of shameless exhibitionism. How stupid of me to forget,” said Atobe sarcastically.
“Very.” Ryoma paused for a moment. “Hey.”
“Hm?” Atobe stroked Ryoma’s back as one would stroke a cat.
Ryoma grinned slowly down at him, the type of grin that irritated Atobe because it usually meant Ryoma was about to come up with some brattily brilliant idea that couldn’t possibly be argued against. “Let’s play another round.”