As challenged, HiyoTori (or ToriHiyo, whatever tickles your kink) drabble based on pic located here.


When Fate Smiles
by Yume


Sometimes... He imagines what it might feel like. Wonders, with the kind of distraction that sends you walking into walls, whether the skin under that white shirt is cool, or if it would burn his fingertips. In the heat of the day, when the light catches that pale hair and sets it ablaze, he's convinced it would be like touching the sun, that it would crisp his flesh to dare to touch it. His last, long ecstatic moment, to touch that pale, bared skin.

When the evening shadows fall, and Diana holds dominion, surely, he thinks, to touch him would be cool. Like running his fingertips over smooth, flawless marble. Molded by his will into beauty, awakened with a kiss, bound with a thread of Fate, like spidersilk around them.

He liked that thought, that eventually Fate would do its work and bring them together. That Fate could overcome the frailties of human choice, and draw Ohtori to him. Surely if he wanted it badly enough, it could be.

And God, he wanted it. With every waking moment, so intensely that sometimes it hurt just to be in the same room. It hurt more when the afternoon came, when they could be together, and the eyes he needed to find him, needed to lock with his so he could say the things that froze his tongue... never strayed from someone else.

Damn him. Damn him for catching Ohtori's eye. He hated him, for having everything that Hiyoshi wanted, everything he needed, was given the second chances that no one else at Hyoutei ever got. Damn him for standing next to him.

Fuck him for making Him laugh, for touching him, for calling him by name. His name, that precious thing that the Japanese shared only between lovers. He'd wanted to kill him the first time he'd heard it. Choutarou. Don't you call him that, you bastard!

Even now, they were standing together. So close, too close, talking intimately, sharing things he couldn't fathom. He heard it, the name, and it made him want to scream. Made him look around fruitlessly for something to bash Shishido's skull in with, to shut him up.

Don't you dare say his name!

"Hiyoshi?" He froze, turned to stone by three syllables. He took a breath that his lungs didn't want, swallowed and made his throat ache. Slowly, slowly lifted his head...and looked.

Shishido was gone, leaving Ohtori alone, facing him, watching him with the easy smile he gave to everyone. He tried three times to answer him, and three times was too hoarse to say anything.

Ohtori frowned, and the change in his mood made his heart lurch in sympathy. "Ne, Hiyoshi, are you alright?"

Please don't ask me that. A deep breath, and he grasped for something to say, then regretted ever opening his mouth. "Why do you let Shishido talk to you like that?"

Ohtori blinked, brown eyes confused. "Wh-what do you mean?"

Something about it, some indefinable something about the entire situation, sparked off anger inside him like a light to dry tinder. It made him want to explode, to hurt someone. Even if that someone was Ohtori. "What do I mean?! Are you blind, have you no honor, no self-respect?!"

The confusion from Ohtori began to change, taking on an angry edge. So he was going to defend him? Which meant that there was something between them to defend. His heart seized, and red bled into the edges of his vision. "Hiyoshi, I don't have any idea what you're talking about, but I think you're out of line."

"Out of line!" He was practically shouting now, but he was past the point of caring. "How can you let him talk to you that way?" He stalked forward, fists clenched. "How can you let him call you that? Why do you let him?"

"Hiyoshi, I-"

"No!" He clapped his hands over his ears, shook his head. "I don't want to hear it." Panting, struggling for control, he looked up. Looked up and met his eyes. Soft, brown eyes, still confused... still politely distant. "You disgust me."

"Hiyoshi!" His voice was angry now. Good. Something more than detachment. Something, anything... He didn't want to hate him, but there had to be some outlet for this.

Clenching his jaw, he struck out at him. He was fast, he was skilled, and Ohtori wasn't expecting it. It connected, hard, staggering him back against the wall. Springing forward, he grabbed the front of the taller boy's shirt and hit him again. It felt good, eased some of the desperate pain in his chest. Maybe this was the only way he'd ever be able to touch him.

Instinct took over, and the realization that they were fighting now, that Ohtori was defending himself. But Ohtori wasn't a trained fighter, not like Hiyoshi. While the hits that scored were painful, Hiyoshi did more damage. Somewhere along the line, they hit the ground.

At some point, he realized that Ohtori was staring up at him. He realized he had both fists twisted into the cloth of Ohtori's shirt... and he realized his hands were getting wet. "Why..." It was strangled, choking on an angry sob. "Why won't you ever look at me?"

"Hiyo-"

"No! Shut up!" He shook him, tried to silence him, but his hands were shaking. His shoulders trembled, too, his entire body trying to shake itself apart with emotion.

"Hiyoshi... why are you so sad?" There was sorrow in Ohtori's voice, and it drove a knife into his heart. A hand touched his cheek, and the knife twisted.

"Because..." He swallowed hard, eyes clenched tightly shut. "I can't..." A shake of his head. "It's not something I can tell you."

In the end, his mistake was opening his eyes. Their eyes locked... and helpless, he said silently all the many, terrible things that froze on his tongue. In that still, quiet place inside, he knew that Ohtori understood, and that the little shake of his head, that negation, said everything that there was to say in reply.

He closed his eyes again, and wondered how exactly to go on. Could a shattered heart still beat? And he shivered, as something as soft as butterfly wings touched his cheek, a soft breeze drying the tears on his skin. The softness of Ohtori's lips, kissing away the tears, the whisper of his breath against his skin.

He died in that moment, the air stolen from him as those soft lips brushed across his mouth. He died again as a warm hand slipped beneath his shirt, another cupping the back of his neck. His hands tightened around cool fabric, fingers digging beneath it. Touched skin.

Hot as the sun, drawing him in like a cold and distant planet, gathered close for a kiss by a visiting god.

And wondered... if perhaps Fate had finally done its work, if only for this moment.




The End

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