On a scale of one to asshole, Atobe Keigo ranked high. It wasn't that he particularly meant to be so rude - at least Sengoku hoped that was the case – but he had a way of talking that the average individual might misinterpret.
"That old man was staring at my ass." For example, when presented with the opportunity to accompany Sengoku to the public bath, Atobe readily accepted, assuming the populace would make way for him and all unattractive patrons would immediately run away in shame at the sight of his majesty. The bath was, instead, filled with aging salarymen out for a nice evening of cheap socializing. Save Atobe and Sengoku, there was no one in the complex under fifty.
"He's probably reliving his glory days through you, remembering when his ass didn't sag." Sengoku refrained from mentioning that Atobe's rear was the most exciting thing in the baths and that a lot of the old men were wishing they had Atobe's skin and posterior curvature.
"It was obscene." Atobe clung to a handhold as their train pulled up to Shibuya station. Riding the train instead of taking a chauffeured car was another of Atobe's concessions on their date. "And that man over there's reading a hentai manga. There are children on this train."
Sengoku bet that, given the opportunity, Atobe would bitch every moment of every day, just to hear himself talk. "What're you reading over people's shoulders for? I've got a good book in my bag if you're bored." It was a mystery novel, full of international espionage and adultery, just the sort of book Atobe hated.
"What else am I supposed to do? They make cars so the fortunate don't have to deal with this sort of thing." Atobe gave another look to hentai manga man before turning up his nose and staring at a DoCoMo ad. "Are we there yet?"
"Two more stops." Sengoku patted Atobe's shoulder and a five year old stared and picked his nose. Luckily Keigo as too busy being disgusted by an ad featuring a member of SMAP in bikini briefs to notice or care about the snotty kid. "We can take a taxi to your place if you want."
Atobe cringed at the mention of the taxi but didn't complain. "I'll phone ahead and have desert prepared. And the guest room."
The guest rooms in the Atobe estate were all done in white lace. Every time Sengoku stayed over, he was afraid to touch anything for fear that he'd stain the bedspread r break the porcelain figurines Atobe's mother placed on the corners of every surface, right where Sengoku's elbow wanted to go. The first few times he stayed over, Sengoku slept on the floor, thinking that his proximity to Atobe and an overactive imagination would spell disaster for the linens. Now he just skipped out in the middle of the night and crashed in Keigo's room.
"Get out." Some days, Atobe put up a fight; if he didn't, he couldn't properly look his mother in the eye the next day.
All Sengoku had to do to lighten Keigo up was rub his fingers into a spot at the back of Atobe's neck, right at his hairline, and whisper things in a low voice. "But it's more comfortable here," Sengoku said, skimming his fingers over the spot and watching as Atobe shifted under the covers. "I'll go back in the morning, before your mom gets up."
"You never leave before she gets up." Atobe scooted across the king size bed to get away, and Sengoku seized the opportunity to slide under the blankets. Keigo groaned then stole all the pillows. "If you kick me in your sleep again, I'm never going with you to that filthy restaurant again."
Sengoku moved closer and draped his arm over Atobe's hip, tugging himself closer to his living pillow. "It wasn't filthy, it was Greek."
Atobe made a noise somewhere between annoyance and a cat with a hernia. "No respectable Grecian would eat that. We'll o to Athens this weekend and fix your misconceptions."
"Sure. Sounds great." Sengoku didn't argue, even though he hated airplanes, because it was Atobe's turn to choose their date location, and next month Sengoku was taking them to Osaka to drink in some Southern culture. Oshitari-kun said he'd make a map of places to go as a favor for getting Atobe out of town. On the itinerary was a series of love hotels – they were cheaper than regular hotels – and clothing stores. Sengoku swore he wouldn't let Atobe buy anything in lilac, and Oshitari promised his cousin and his boyfriend would be gone when Sengoku and Atobe returned.
If Sengoku had to pick one word to describe Keigo's mother, it would be Queen. She was absolute ruler of the Atobe manor and punished all transgressions. For his refusal to sleep in the perfectly suitable bed she prepared for him and, instead, groping her son when the servants came to wake him, Sengoku was carrying shopping bags – heavy shopping bags.
"Keep up, Sengoku-kun; we still have to stop by the Gucci store and Mac." She snapper her fingers and Sengoku's pace quickened, his legs moving of their own volition.
Now he understood how that Kabaji kid felt. "maybe it would be better to ship them to the house," he said, waiting for his tired arms to revolt and disconnect from his torso.
Keigo slid up beside him, all smiles and arched eyebrows. "Perhaps you'd like a massage later, ah?"
There were times being a healthy fifteen year old put Sengoku at a disadvantage. Normal guys didn't get aroused while carrying shopping bags for their boyfriend's mother. Normal guys didn't hear a single syllable and curse their choice of the tighter, more fashionable jeans instead of the comfy, erection friendly jeans. "I'm good," Sengoku lied, moving the bags to a better location. "To Gucci!"
Keigo's mother patted Sengoku on the head and took one of the heavier bags away. "Here Keigo, be useful."
"If I wanted to look like a cheap whore, I'd buy cheap products. What is all this nonsense?" Keigo's mother had the Mac consultant by the smock and was shaking an ad in her face. The ad proclaimed, in bubblegum pink, the wonders of the new Barbie Mac line. "I have a fifteen year old son. I'm a mature woman of class. I'll not have my product of choice sullied by this infantile propaganda!"
If Sengoku weren't weak-armed and starving, he would've felt bad for the retail drone. As it was, he was just glad he could put the bags down and that makeup was lighter than teacups.
"We need to discuss your skin," Keigo said, approaching with a blue stained cotton puff.
"My skin's good." Sengoku raised shopping bags to create a barrier. "We should get your mom and go; the chauffeur's been waiting." The chauffeur was probably being blown by some poor young hooker in a back alley while waiting for his summons. Sengoku kind of hated him.
"Excellent idea, Keigo." Somewhere between aching arms and hating the chauffeur, Atobe-san abandoned the sales drone and joined her son. "Some foundation would even him out, too." She snapped her fingers and the retail drone appeared. "Fix him," she said.
Sengoku's world dissolved into the scent of powder and rubbing alcohol.
"You're wearing makeup." Akutsu narrowed his eyes and swiped a finger across Sengoku's cheek. "You're wearing makeup like a girl." He rolled his eyes and strode away, hands in pockets.
Sengoku made a mad dash for the bathroom.
For inconsiderate, lower-class trash, Sengoku Kiyosumi wasn't overly vile. He was still vile – he chewed with his mouth open and his feet smelled – but a level of vile to which Atobe had become accustomed after a considerable amount of patience. The smelly feet were still an enormous turn-off but, after consulting a physician, AKeigo was assured Kiyosumi's problem would vanish with puberty.
"How about now?"
Sengoku's other defects were slightly more difficult to remedy. "Absolutely not. We're in the car. Behave." Atobe swatted Sengoku's hand off his knee. If his mother heard that Sengoku was manhandling him in the Mercedes – and she always heard about everything, even when they did it across town, in a shed, in the dark, under covers – Atobe would be taken to school in the old BMW for a week and might be laughed out of school.
"He doesn't care," Sengoku argued. "And your mom already said to 'do whatever' so long as nobody saw." Sengoku's hand wandered behind Atobe's shoulders. "Just a little on to tide me over." He puckered up.
If Atobe gave in now, Sengoku wouldn't stop with a light kiss; his puberty perverted brain would wiggle its way into Atobe's pants and make a mess of the Mercedes.
The chauffeur closed the privacy window.
Before the idiot could say Lucky, Atobe was on his back, disgracing his family lineage and dooming himself to the shame of the BMW.