Ship: Fukutomi Juichi/Shinkai Hayato Fandom: Yowamushi Pedal Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED Other Tags: food, pirates Word Count: 569
***
Hayato is lying out on the deck of the ship, stripped of all but his trousers. There’s no need for him, or anyone else on the crew, to keep watch right now; the sea around them is a quiet green-blue.
It’s the middle of the day; if a line could be drawn from the sun down to Hayato’s eyes, it would be as straight as the shaft of an arrow. There are clouds in the distance, but that’s just what they are--distant. Unless he goes below deck, there’s no escaping this heat.
They’re in the middle of the ocean, heading back west with a party of captured emissaries from a foreign land, who have been roughed up enough over the past three days that they mostly keep quiet in the cellar now. This ship, these garments, the kegs of gunpowder down below--everything they possess and then some had been ransacked from the foreigners, save for the old Hakone, flanking the bigger ship. Arakita says he can sell it when they get back home, though Hayato is sure his personality is more suited to a thief than a merchant. But if Juichi trusts him, well.
Hayato rolls a lemon between his palms. He covers his eyes with his abandoned shirt, but the sun still attempts to bore through the white fabric, the insides of his eyelids still illuminated when he closes them.
He’s not sure for how long he’s been napping (the sun’s position suggests for very little, if at all) when he hears the familiar creak of the cabin door opening, steady footsteps coming up to the deck. They approach him, stopping when they are close. Hayato pulls the shirt from his eyes, squinting. Juichi is standing there; Hayato wishes he would lean above him just so, blocking out the sun.
Hayato sits up, and Juichi lowers himself into a crouch. His jaw sets; he’s still wearing the ruffled blouse, though the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.
“You’re on duty. You ought to show some decorum.”
“It’s hot, taichou. Even Toudou isn’t very dressed up in his fashions today.”
Juichi hums, his steely gaze softening a touch in agreement. His hand covers Hayato’s, still cool from below, then takes the lemon from him. He hefts the weight in his palm, drawing a knife from his belt; Hayato watches how the hilt of his sword sparkles in the sunlight. He places the lemon on the grain of the deck, then halves it; he continues to cut one of the halves further, not into chunks but circles of slices, which he offers to Hayato. Hayato takes a bite of the slice, rind and yellow flesh and all; it’s warm from the sun, but the sour juice fills his mouth with an attempt at cooling him.
Juichi sinks to his knees and offers the other half lemon to Hayato, leaning his head over his lap like ritual. Hayato grips the lemon and squeezes, wringing the juice out over Juichi’s sun-bleached hair; it flows over his knuckles, and he combs his fingers over Juichi’s hair when the lemon gives no more, almost drying sticky already. Juichi turns his head just so, his lips catching the flesh of Hayato’s palm.
“Come down and rest,” He tells him, less of a murmur than it is a diluted order. “I need you healthy when we reach shore.”
FILL: Team Himuro Tatsuya/Nijimura Shuuzou, G
Fandom: Yowamushi Pedal
Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Other Tags: food, pirates
Word Count: 569
***
Hayato is lying out on the deck of the ship, stripped of all but his trousers. There’s no need for him, or anyone else on the crew, to keep watch right now; the sea around them is a quiet green-blue.
It’s the middle of the day; if a line could be drawn from the sun down to Hayato’s eyes, it would be as straight as the shaft of an arrow. There are clouds in the distance, but that’s just what they are--distant. Unless he goes below deck, there’s no escaping this heat.
They’re in the middle of the ocean, heading back west with a party of captured emissaries from a foreign land, who have been roughed up enough over the past three days that they mostly keep quiet in the cellar now. This ship, these garments, the kegs of gunpowder down below--everything they possess and then some had been ransacked from the foreigners, save for the old Hakone, flanking the bigger ship. Arakita says he can sell it when they get back home, though Hayato is sure his personality is more suited to a thief than a merchant. But if Juichi trusts him, well.
Hayato rolls a lemon between his palms. He covers his eyes with his abandoned shirt, but the sun still attempts to bore through the white fabric, the insides of his eyelids still illuminated when he closes them.
He’s not sure for how long he’s been napping (the sun’s position suggests for very little, if at all) when he hears the familiar creak of the cabin door opening, steady footsteps coming up to the deck. They approach him, stopping when they are close. Hayato pulls the shirt from his eyes, squinting. Juichi is standing there; Hayato wishes he would lean above him just so, blocking out the sun.
Hayato sits up, and Juichi lowers himself into a crouch. His jaw sets; he’s still wearing the ruffled blouse, though the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.
“You’re on duty. You ought to show some decorum.”
“It’s hot, taichou. Even Toudou isn’t very dressed up in his fashions today.”
Juichi hums, his steely gaze softening a touch in agreement. His hand covers Hayato’s, still cool from below, then takes the lemon from him. He hefts the weight in his palm, drawing a knife from his belt; Hayato watches how the hilt of his sword sparkles in the sunlight. He places the lemon on the grain of the deck, then halves it; he continues to cut one of the halves further, not into chunks but circles of slices, which he offers to Hayato. Hayato takes a bite of the slice, rind and yellow flesh and all; it’s warm from the sun, but the sour juice fills his mouth with an attempt at cooling him.
Juichi sinks to his knees and offers the other half lemon to Hayato, leaning his head over his lap like ritual. Hayato grips the lemon and squeezes, wringing the juice out over Juichi’s sun-bleached hair; it flows over his knuckles, and he combs his fingers over Juichi’s hair when the lemon gives no more, almost drying sticky already. Juichi turns his head just so, his lips catching the flesh of Hayato’s palm.
“Come down and rest,” He tells him, less of a murmur than it is a diluted order. “I need you healthy when we reach shore.”