#honfuru
HonFuru comm
[He presses his thumb into Masamune’s cheek, “I was counting on you to have the experience.”]
***
we are a supernova that won’t burn out
Character(s):Furuya Satoru, Hongou Masamune
Word Count:600
Ratings/Warnings: T(?); warnings for terrible writing, awkward teenagers
Dedication:@b-okutos (please don’t be disappointed, Aiko!!)
Notes: this is an outtake from my earlier (just as terrible) furuhon fic!! i, ah, didn’t intend to post it because a) i am really bad at writing intimacy and b) i am really bad at writing intimacy - however!! i decided to take the plunge because 1) this is a tiny ship and 2) no-one will probably ever see this anyway a h a h aplease understand there is a reason this is an outtake
***
Masamune fixes dark, penetrating eyes on Satoru’s face. Satoru finds he can’t look away, caught like a fly in a spider’s web. Not for the first time, he remembers how cold can burn. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”
[He presses his thumb into Masamune’s cheek, “I was counting on you to have the experience.”]
***
we are a supernova that won’t burn out
Character(s):Furuya Satoru, Hongou Masamune
Word Count:600
Ratings/Warnings: T(?); warnings for terrible writing, awkward teenagers
Dedication:@b-okutos (please don’t be disappointed, Aiko!!)
Notes: this is an outtake from my earlier (just as terrible) furuhon fic!! i, ah, didn’t intend to post it because a) i am really bad at writing intimacy and b) i am really bad at writing intimacy - however!! i decided to take the plunge because 1) this is a tiny ship and 2) no-one will probably ever see this anyway a h a h a
please understand there is a reason this is an outtake
***
Masamune fixes dark, penetrating eyes on Satoru’s face. Satoru finds he can’t look away, caught like a fly in a spider’s web. Not for the first time, he remembers how cold can burn. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”
Satoru is not entirely sure when he’d moved, but he is close enough now that Satoru can feel his breath – hot, damp – against his face, see himself reflected in his eyes, which shutter as his gaze flickers down to Satoru’s mouth. Satoru freezes.
The thought I think he wants to kiss me pops into his mind, strangely amplified, like it was spoken into a microphone. It is followed by what if he wants me to kiss him, which segues into but what if I’m reading him wrong, and it turns out like the time he ignored my hand, and I’ve never kissed anyone before; will he be able to tell–
“Oh, fuck,” Masamune says, derailing Satoru’s train of thought, “I knew waiting for you to make a move was a stupid idea,” and before Satoru can protest he has surged forward the rest of the way – the chains holding up the swings jingle – and crushed his mouth against Satoru’s, hand curving firmly around the back of Satoru’s neck to hold him in place –
Satoru thinks ow, because it hurts. There is no finesse in the gesture – Masamune’s teeth collide with his, and rather than any real sense of pleasure there is a lot of wet – Satoru can’t quite hold back the little hiss of pain that slips out of his mouth – Masamune pulls back, looking rather panicked –
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I hurt you – sorry, not good at this – ” He chews his lip, endearingly red across the cheekbones, so at odds with his customary tough-guy demeanor, and perhaps that is what makes Satoru bring his hands up to cup either side of his face.
Masamune’s cheeks are hot to the touch. “Neither am I,” Satoru says, the warmth in his chest spilling into his voice. He presses his thumb into Masamune’s cheek, “I was counting on you to have the experience.”
“Oh my God,” Masamune says, incredulous, “do I look like the kind of guy who’s been kissed, ever?”
Satoru says, gravely, “anything is possible.”
There is a short, pregnant pause.
“Fuck you,” Masamune says, sullen.
Satoru can’t help it – he laughs. Masamune looks stunned, for several moments, but then he relaxes, and is even able to conjure up a smile, which Satoru considers a great success.
“How have you escaped unscathed, though,” he continues, mock-irritably, “you probably have tons of admirers, you’re so pretty – oh, wait, it must be your fucking personality – ”
“I guess you don’t want to try again, then,” Satoru says, smiling.
“I didn’t say that,” Masamune mutters. He stands, leaving his abandoned seat swinging desolately back and forth, and moves to sit on the ground. He looks up at Satoru from underneath raised eyebrows, leans back on his hands. “Well, come on, Sa-to-ru, are you going to come kiss me or not?”
The kiss is slow, exploratory – punctuated with an occasional accidental knock of teeth or a muffled sound – Satoru’s heart pounding an irregular sort of rhythm against his ribs. The tarmac bites into Satoru’s skin through the fabric of his trousers, but it is easier, sitting on the ground, to fit his mouth over Masamune’s, set his arms over Masamune’s shoulders, splay his fingers over the expanse of Masamune’s back. He sits cross-legged, knees pressing into Masamune’s thighs. Masamune shudders, exhales, breath playing across Satoru’s face
Satoru tentatively slides his tongue along the seam of Masamune’s lips. Masamune groans in response, curls his hands into Satoru’s hair, the sound sending a spark of electricity down Satoru’s spine. His fingernails scrape against Satoru’s scalp.
Masamune’s eyes, when Satoru sneaks a peek, are squeezed shut, eyebrows tightly furrowed. Satoru smiles against his mouth.
the night after their last game of their last year playing high school baseball.
***
it all starts here
Character(s): Furuya Satoru, Hongou Masamune
Word Count:1400
Ratings/Warnings: T (bad writing, brief strong language)
Dedication: all furuya/hongou fans (honfuru? furuhon? !!)
Notes: i’m sorry, this is terrible
***
Warm, muggy nighttime air hits Satoru in the face when he steps out of the hotel doors and onto the sidewalk. He breathes in, and holds, the smell of gasoline and humidity a familiar burn in his nose and throat and lungs. Overhead, the sky is a deep black against the vivid fluorescent lights atop the buildings on either side of the street, billboards blazing with color.
There are no stars. The light from the billboards drowns them out. Satoru ought to be used to this by now, after two-and-a-half-years and nearly nine terms of school in a city like Tokyo. He still misses it though: looking up into a sky curved round the edges, hugging the world: a tapestry set with innumerable white snowflakes, suspended, midflight.
Satoru can feel the moisture in the air, sticky on his face, prickly at the nape of his neck. Nishinomiya: Sultry Summers. It sounds like the title of a cheap romance novel, the kind his roommates have taken to reading, lately.
A car speeds by, the sound of its engine receding from a roar to a faint afterthought, taillights blurring red.
Satoru pauses on the curb, looks both ways before he crosses the road.
***
The park, when Satoru arrives, is deserted, silvery-black in the glare from the streetlights, grass a ghostly green. Not unexpected, considering the lateness of the hour; the onscreen clock on Satoru’s cellphone reads two-thirty, next to the message delivered notification, in the corner of the screen. Satoru still sinks gratefully into an empty swing seat, sneakers scuffing the ground.
It is good to get away from people. It is quiet here: there is no loud, rumbling snoring, no teammates murmuring in their sleep, no (heavy) arms or legs thrown across Satoru’s chest or middle –
– but not so quiet that Satoru can hear his heart beating loud against his skull, and the roar of a crowd getting to its feet, applause pulsing, thunderous, in his bloodstream –
“Want an Ambien?” Haruichi had asked, mouth in a sympathetic line, several hours earlier. The irony of being offered a sleeping pill hadn’t escaped Satoru, whose lack of self-awareness did not extend so far as to be ignorant of his penchant for sleep in all circumstances: anytime, anywhere.
“Good game today,” Haruichi said when Satoru refused, and had turned over and fallen asleep almost immediately, while Satoru lay awake, trying to even out his rapid, irregular breathing.
The metal chain holding up the swing bites into Satoru’s palm. He adjusts his hold, runs the white-tipped toe of his shoe along imaginary line on the tarmac – in a rhythmic back, forth, back, forth, in time to the murmur of the cicadas hidden somewhere in the grass.
It helps, a little.
***
Some time later, long enough that the rush in Satoru’s bloodstream has settled and he does not startle at the sound:
“Hey,” a voice says, and Satoru’s eyes travel past black-laced sneakers, up well-worn blujeans, snug, short-sleeved t-shirt, turned-down mouth, and upturned nose, to narrowed eyes set deep under straight, heavy eyebrows. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
Satoru shakes his head. Masamune nods once, the gesture slow, deliberate. He is backlit in white, skin a washed-out gray.
“Figured,” he says, and claims the empty swing by Satoru’s side, without waiting for an invitation. The seat dips under his weight, metal jingling as he loops his arms around the chain. There are several inches of space between Masamune and Satoru’s shoulder, but Satoru can feel the heat radiating off him, rolling like waves off a marine mammal’s glossy skin.
When he is seated, Masamune does not turn toward Satoru, so Satoru feels no compulsion to look at him, either. He goes back to studying his shoes.
The silence that stretches between them is, in Satoru’s opinion, at least, a comfortable one. He has no way of knowing for sure, but much like Satoru, Masamune has always been a person of few words, and that suits Satoru just fine. Not many people appreciate the value of good silence. A shame, really.
Masamune does not seem to be appreciating the silence, however, because he blurts out, after several moments, with an uncharacteristic sort of abandon, “it’s been good, hasn’t it.” He glances at Satoru out of the corner of his eye as he says this – before averting his gaze, abruptly, as if he hadn’t been looking at all, a bead of sweat glistening at his temple. As Satoru watches, it quivers, slides down his cheekbone, to his jaw.
There is something like hopefulness in the wrinkle between his eyebrows as he glowers, pointedly, at the tarmac at their feet. It is so unlike his usual closed-off crustiness that Satoru – wisely, perhaps – refrains from analyzing the expression farther. Instead, he replies, with a brief smile, voice purposefully blank, “pity you didn’t win more often.”
“Oh yeah, magnanimity from a three-time nationals champion,” Masamune says, belligerently, though the sentiment is somewhat ruined by the twitch of his mouth, a mark of how far they’ve come since that first snubbed handshake a year-and-a-half ago, “maybe we would have, if you hadn’t run the fuck away from Hokkaido.”
He turns his head in Satoru’s direction when he says this, as if to gauge Satoru’s reaction. Satoru catches the expression – searching, irises a thin ring of blue around blown-out pupils – and Masamune looks on, steadily, as if forgetting he’d been pretending to stare at the ground.
The weight of his scrutiny is heavy, palpable, almost, and unlike on the field, where there are eighteen meters between the mound and the batter’s box, here, there is barely any space at all, to lessen its effect. Satoru swallows, against the sudden constriction in his throat.
“And played second fiddle to your ace?” Satoru says, trying for lightheartedness, “no, thank you.”
“Yeah, you would’ve faded into obscurity,” Masamune snorts, which Satoru takes to mean he hadn’t failed entirely at being lighthearted. Then Masamune says, sounding rather careful, all of a sudden, “know what you’re going to do after graduation?”
Satoru pauses, briefly. It isn’t that he hasn’t given his post-graduation plans thought – he just isn’t sure if he is comfortable giving voice to the idea nestled somewhere in his chest, wrapped in layers of gauze, for safekeeping. He settles for, “that’s a ways off, isn’t it?”
Masamune makes an impatient gesture. “Humor me.”
It is Satoru’s turn to stare at his feet. The silence draws out, like a spool of thread being let out. Satoru, balanced at a (precarious) edge, can feel Masamune’s eyes on him, like burning.
“I think,” Satoru begins slowly, “I might play for a college team.”
A beat, and then Masamune lets out a bark of laughter, a short hah that seems thunderously loud, after the quiet. “Following that catcher, huh. College ball would be such a fucking waste of your arm.”
Satoru isn’t, really (following anyone), but he’s still unsure why his ears are warm in the wake of this declaration. He shouldn’t have said anything, after all. “It doesn’t matter where you play,” he murmurs.
“Apparently just who with, right?” Masamune’s voice is still dripping with mirth, but he’s crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders held stiff, gaze directed over at the fence cordoning off the park. “Well, I’m gonna go pro.”
The feeling of there being something caught in Satoru’s throat is back. He sucks a breath in through his nose. “Thank you for pushing me to be better,” he hesitates, then adds, cautiously, “you’ve been a great rival.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the highlighted swell of Masamune’s throat bob. He is quiet so long Satoru thinks he isn’t going to reply at all. Then Masamune says, thickly, “rival. That’s it?”
The shock that goes down Satoru’s spine is, if he is honest, not wholly unexpected. “Was there more?”
Masamune fixes dark, penetrating eyes on Satoru’s face. Satoru finds he can’t look away, caught like a fly in a spider’s web. Not for the first time, he remembers how cold can burn. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”
***
It is a while afterward – when Satoru has caught his breath, lying on the ground, heat from the tarmac seeping through his shirt, Masamune’s shoulder wedged up against his – that it occurs to him to say, “You know I still want to play professionally, at some point, right?”
And Masamune says, eyes still closed, looking more peaceful than Satoru has ever seen him, “well thank fuck for that,” he cracks open an eye, gives Satoru a lazy smile that sends a jolt through Satoru’s chest, “then I’ll wait for you.”
***
end.
