no tags (little bit sexually suggestive) Word Count: 939
"Go take a bath," Miyuki says to Furuya, "and then come to my room."
Furuya catches him by the arm before he gets halfway through turning away. His expression is perfectly serious; his grip on Miyuki's wrist is a little too tight. Any thoughts Miyuki might have been harboring about brushing him off die before he so much as shrugs his shoulders.
"You've said that to me before," Furuya tells him. "Are you going to be in your room this time? When I come back?"
For a moment they both stand there, Furuya with his aura flaring up around him, intense and focused, Miyuki with his usual shit-eating grin spread casually across his face. He can feel it cracking, eggshell fractures that spider out around the edges, but those are doubtlessly too subtle for Furuya to catch. It's fine.
"Yeah," Miyuki says. "I'll even be the only one there, how's that sound?"
Furuya lets go of his arm, straightening up. "I'll be back soon. Wait for me."
It takes some doing, shooing his roommate out of their bedroom for even as long as an hour, but Miyuki is a persuasive guy. (Plus he knows that everyone has their price, and makes a habit of having on hand the sorts of things that might work as an incentive — or as a bribe.) By the time Furuya's knock comes at the door, it's only Miyuki waiting for him, reclined on the bed with his arms behind his head, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
He isn't too quick about hopping up to answer the door. Wouldn't want Furuya to think this entire request of Miyuki's is about him.
(But it is, of course it is, Furuya has been so tense lately every time they practice pitching, strung taut to such a degree that even mixing it up, even putting Furuya out of his comfort zone, even setting him up to fail specifically to give him a shock, isn't enough to loosen his tension. Which is fine. Miyuki has other means at his disposal.)
"Lie down on the bed," Miyuki says, when he opens the door. "And take off your shirt."
"Miyuki-senpai..." Furuya says, proving that even he isn't beyond a little healthy skepticism.
Miyuki rolls his eyes, in what really is a good-natured gesture. Everyone always expects the worst of him. But he knows how to work with that. "We're going to do something about all those knotted up muscles," Miyuki says, only then taking the time to explain. "So c'mon, c'mon, we don't have all night. Get on with it."
Once he understands, Furuya is a lot more tractable. He steps into the room, giving the most cursory of glances around at the layout of the beds, the places where belongings have gotten thrown — it isn't as if he hasn't seen Miyuki's dorm room before — and moves after a moment over to the bed. He sits down on it, not quite what Miyuki had asked of him, and when nothing else happens, proceeds to pull his shirt off over his head.
His skin is soft and pink underneath, warm from the bath and almost glowing (though Miyuki wonders exactly how long Furuya must have soaked for, considering his weakness to any exposure to heat). He makes a little gesture with his hand, spinning one finger around and around until even Furuya gets the message — lie down on the bed, like I told you — and stretches out as Miyuki has asked.
Miyuki swings his leg across Furuya's hips, hovering over his back with knees spread. It isn't so dissimilar a pose from a catcher's crouch, the stance familiar as he leans forward to press his palms against Furuya's shoulders. Even just resting them there, fingers gently testing, Furuya feels more relaxed than he had at their last practice. Maybe it's the different situation — the expectations placed upon him in Miyuki's empty bedroom are entirely different than those he must be thinking about on the baseball field. Maybe these expectations are of no consequence.
(It's not really insulting, Miyuki assesses for himself. If anything, it most likely means that Furuya trusts him.)
He has a lot of practice at giving massage. It wasn't through any personal design, of course. But after enough of his senpais made demands of his services, he couldn't help but improve at the art. Past a point, digging his thumbs into Isashiki's smelly feet or kneading at the knotted backs of Yuuki's shoulders, Miyuki had come to take pride in what he did, on the basis that practice made perfect and he was becoming good.
He puts that skill to work for Furuya, though he's glad for the hot soak that has loosened Furuya's muscles. His fingers work away at the back of Furuya's neck, his shoulders, follow down the line of his spine, picking out spots of tension and worrying them loose until Furuya is limp and pliant beneath him. It's only when he gets to Furuya's lower back, down near the base of his spine working out the last little bits of tension, that it occurs to Miyuki, oh hell, Furuya must have fallen asleep.
"You not knocking out on me, are you?" he asks, not really expecting a response.
But he does get one. "No, Miyuki-senpai," Furuya murmurs, his voice coming out low, slow, the words drawn out beyond even Furuya's usual ponderous way of speaking. "I was relaxing."
"That's kinda the idea here, yeah," Miyuki says. And though there's some sarcasm to it, he can't help but deem the entire plan and its execution a complete success.
FILL: TEAM MIYUKI KAZUYA/MIYUKI KAZUYA, T
Word Count: 939
"Go take a bath," Miyuki says to Furuya, "and then come to my room."
Furuya catches him by the arm before he gets halfway through turning away. His expression is perfectly serious; his grip on Miyuki's wrist is a little too tight. Any thoughts Miyuki might have been harboring about brushing him off die before he so much as shrugs his shoulders.
"You've said that to me before," Furuya tells him. "Are you going to be in your room this time? When I come back?"
For a moment they both stand there, Furuya with his aura flaring up around him, intense and focused, Miyuki with his usual shit-eating grin spread casually across his face. He can feel it cracking, eggshell fractures that spider out around the edges, but those are doubtlessly too subtle for Furuya to catch. It's fine.
"Yeah," Miyuki says. "I'll even be the only one there, how's that sound?"
Furuya lets go of his arm, straightening up. "I'll be back soon. Wait for me."
It takes some doing, shooing his roommate out of their bedroom for even as long as an hour, but Miyuki is a persuasive guy. (Plus he knows that everyone has their price, and makes a habit of having on hand the sorts of things that might work as an incentive — or as a bribe.) By the time Furuya's knock comes at the door, it's only Miyuki waiting for him, reclined on the bed with his arms behind his head, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
He isn't too quick about hopping up to answer the door. Wouldn't want Furuya to think this entire request of Miyuki's is about him.
(But it is, of course it is, Furuya has been so tense lately every time they practice pitching, strung taut to such a degree that even mixing it up, even putting Furuya out of his comfort zone, even setting him up to fail specifically to give him a shock, isn't enough to loosen his tension. Which is fine. Miyuki has other means at his disposal.)
"Lie down on the bed," Miyuki says, when he opens the door. "And take off your shirt."
"Miyuki-senpai..." Furuya says, proving that even he isn't beyond a little healthy skepticism.
Miyuki rolls his eyes, in what really is a good-natured gesture. Everyone always expects the worst of him. But he knows how to work with that. "We're going to do something about all those knotted up muscles," Miyuki says, only then taking the time to explain. "So c'mon, c'mon, we don't have all night. Get on with it."
Once he understands, Furuya is a lot more tractable. He steps into the room, giving the most cursory of glances around at the layout of the beds, the places where belongings have gotten thrown — it isn't as if he hasn't seen Miyuki's dorm room before — and moves after a moment over to the bed. He sits down on it, not quite what Miyuki had asked of him, and when nothing else happens, proceeds to pull his shirt off over his head.
His skin is soft and pink underneath, warm from the bath and almost glowing (though Miyuki wonders exactly how long Furuya must have soaked for, considering his weakness to any exposure to heat). He makes a little gesture with his hand, spinning one finger around and around until even Furuya gets the message — lie down on the bed, like I told you — and stretches out as Miyuki has asked.
Miyuki swings his leg across Furuya's hips, hovering over his back with knees spread. It isn't so dissimilar a pose from a catcher's crouch, the stance familiar as he leans forward to press his palms against Furuya's shoulders. Even just resting them there, fingers gently testing, Furuya feels more relaxed than he had at their last practice. Maybe it's the different situation — the expectations placed upon him in Miyuki's empty bedroom are entirely different than those he must be thinking about on the baseball field. Maybe these expectations are of no consequence.
(It's not really insulting, Miyuki assesses for himself. If anything, it most likely means that Furuya trusts him.)
He has a lot of practice at giving massage. It wasn't through any personal design, of course. But after enough of his senpais made demands of his services, he couldn't help but improve at the art. Past a point, digging his thumbs into Isashiki's smelly feet or kneading at the knotted backs of Yuuki's shoulders, Miyuki had come to take pride in what he did, on the basis that practice made perfect and he was becoming good.
He puts that skill to work for Furuya, though he's glad for the hot soak that has loosened Furuya's muscles. His fingers work away at the back of Furuya's neck, his shoulders, follow down the line of his spine, picking out spots of tension and worrying them loose until Furuya is limp and pliant beneath him. It's only when he gets to Furuya's lower back, down near the base of his spine working out the last little bits of tension, that it occurs to Miyuki, oh hell, Furuya must have fallen asleep.
"You not knocking out on me, are you?" he asks, not really expecting a response.
But he does get one. "No, Miyuki-senpai," Furuya murmurs, his voice coming out low, slow, the words drawn out beyond even Furuya's usual ponderous way of speaking. "I was relaxing."
"That's kinda the idea here, yeah," Miyuki says. And though there's some sarcasm to it, he can't help but deem the entire plan and its execution a complete success.