[ti]private[/ti]I See You

The biting commentary did not come. Not even so much as a glare.

It rendered him speechless, the look on his face entirely wiped by a simple nod. He’s frozen there, watching Tarou speak with utmost formality, calling him by his full name—what, as if he was in trouble?

Because it felt like it. It felt like Atsushi had just made the wrong fucking move, and compared to all the times his teachers have tried to punish him, this has been the most effective in making him feel like a dick.

“You—hey! Hey! Shit—!” He cursed, getting up so fast that he could feel the muscles in his leg pull. Standing was out of the question. He had wanted the hydropool so badly, and now he was stuck in it.

“Goddamn it—I wasn’t telling you to leave! I was just—” he wiped his hand over his face. “I was just surprised. I’m not going to bite your head off if you want to get in here.”

His eyes slid to the side. “Actually, I’d prefer if you would. The receptionist already thinks I’m enough of an ass, driving away another guest might just be enough reason for her to kick me out.”

Said receptionist and the masseuse that had been chatting quite happily were indeed staring this way. He couldn’t see from this angle, but he wouldn’t be surprised if there was a hand over the phone for security.

It was a relief when Tarou agreed to stay. Again, without any scathing commentary—Atsushi was inclined to doubt again if he was the right man, until he saw the scars.

Atsushi had no shame; he’d been ogling him since they met, though this case went beyond simple admiration. His mouth pressed into a frown. You didn’t obtain scars that extensive in a regular fight. Not ones so deeply-engraved, as if by a deliberate hand. Like he was material to be carved into shape.

His elbows were still hooked over the edge of the pool, a pose that came off lax despite the urge to commit federal offenses against people he’s never met, and likely never will. His fingers dug into the pool’s acrylic shell.

After a moment of relaxation, Tarou introduced himself. It snapped Atsushi out of his thoughts, reminding him of how fucking weird this situation was. His gut instinct was to tell him the truth—Hey, so, I’ve been after you for about a year now and we’ve been dating online for a few months, and I’m your asshole hotel neighbor, good to fucking meet you. The PR hindbrain trained into him said otherwise.

“An honor, huh?” He should feel proud, preen. Instead his guard was up, hating the new treatment. Wishing, fervently, that Tarou would just tell him off and the world would feel normal again.

“You sure about that?” He raised a brow. “It’s been a long time since I was on camera.”

Atsushi’s eyes widened at the instant answer. And it was right, and it was sobering to be reminded that he’s been out of commission since January.

And that Tarou had followed closely enough to hold that number by heart. While Atsushi was proud of his achievements, he was not so delusional to think people would be jumping at the sight of him after a year of radio silence.

So much for Kumagai, huh, he thought, as Tarou thanked him again for—fuck, existing, he supposed. He ran his hand through his hair, wetting the roots, trying to school his expression as the weight of Tarou’s words melded with knowledge he’s not meant to have. He’s met countless fans and none of them have said this. Clobbering a man for a roaring crowd should not be what saves someone, and yet.

“I fight for people’s entertainment. It’s not exactly a noble cause.” Atsushi frowned. “If you got out of something terrible from watching my fights, then it’s because you already wanted to get out, and you did. Give credit where it’s due.”

He sighed, letting himself melt against the corner of the pool now that he was certain Tarou wouldn’t flee.

“If you’re that much of a fan… then answer me something.” With his cheek resting against his knuckles, arm still propped over the side of the pool, he regarded the man with a smile that was almost challenging. “Do you think I’m getting back in?”