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When Kyouya finishes his meticulous patrol of Namimori and comes to the sports field behind the school, Yamamoto is neither doing kata nor practicing baseball, as Kyouya has expected him to be (he has tried not to think about Yamamoto at all, unsuccessfully; he is not accustomed to losing any of his battles, let alone with himself). Yamamoto isn't doing anything at all: he is stretched out on the grass that has had the dust washed from it but is still the dun of late summer, and he is nearly fully clothed. A worn t-shirt stretches across his chest and shoulders, the same faded blue as the horizon, and he's wearing the jeans Kyouya has seen before, the ones that belong in a ragbag. They still fit him like a second skin, clinging to his thighs and showing fair skin where they've been worn to threads.

He is barefoot; his sneakers lie nearby, sitting together as properly as anyone could wish, white socks rolled up inside them. Exposed like this, Yamamoto's feet look strange, all the delicate bones of them and his ankles plain to see beneath the movement of his skin. He's tucked one hand beneath his head. The other rests on his stomach, idle, and he doesn't move at all, even though he must know that Kyouya is standing there and watching him.

(He has known when Kyouya's eyes have been on him all week long.)

The recent rain is already a memory; the grass crunches beneath Kyouya's feet as he steps closer, and closer still, until his shadow falls across Yamamoto's face. Yamamoto stirs then, tilting his head back. His face is upside down, neither smiling nor frowning, and Kyouya cannot tell what is moving behind his eyes.

This isn't right. Yamamoto isn't supposed to be just—lying there, taking his ease on the grass. This isn't the stillness of a predator on the hunt—this is indolence. Kyouya's fingers find the grips of his tonfa in unthinking response to Yamamoto's repose.

"What are you doing?" The words feel strange in his mouth, like round stones tumbling against each other, nonsensical noises. Kyouya hates that feeling, hates this feeling, this disappointment that Yamamoto is just lying there like—like he's in his own territory and Kyouya is the intruder.

"Thinking, I guess. Watching for clouds." The corners of Yamamoto's eyes crease then. "You're the first one I've seen, though." He rubs his fingers over his stomach. The lazy movement of them catches Kyouya's eyes, back and forth, echoing the way Yamamoto touched himself a week ago in the shower. The memory comes back to Kyouya all unbidden, as it has all week long: the smooth line of Yamamoto's back and the contrast of Yamamoto's tanned fingers against the flushed skin of his cock and the sounds Yamamoto made, all of it haunting Kyouya.

He hisses his frustration between his teeth. "You're breaking the rules."

Yamamoto continues to look at him, upside down, sprawled across the grass, and placid as a sheep. There's a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead; he's been basking long enough to become hot in the sun. He doesn't answer Kyouya's complaint at all. "Did you enjoy the game?"

Kyouya twists his fingers on his tonfa, thinking about how Yamamoto would look with blood streaming from his mouth, his nose, what sheeplike sounds he would make if Kyouya took another step and slammed his feet into his ribs (were they still bruised? The way Yamamoto has moved through the week has made it seem as though there weren't a mark on him, though Kyouya knows there must have been). Yamamoto's sword rests on the grass, sheathed; even he is not so good that he can reach it in time to defend himself.

"I did," Yamamoto adds before Kyouya can act. "Best game I've played in phys ed pretty much ever. Almost like a real game." He lapses into silence again, and though he hasn't turned his eyes from Kyouya, he looks as though he is seeing something else. The game he played a few days ago with his classmates, the game that Kyouya watched without knowing why he watched, except that he couldn't understand how doing so could feel like he was watching Yamamoto during a fight.

Kyouya lifts his tonfa, the weight of them reassuring in his hands, already seeing the fight to come and the way it will quiet his thoughts, make them his own again.

Yamamoto says, "The best games are like fights, you know. You, and your opponent, and the edge, and you can't just surpass him, you have to surpass yourself, too." He falls silent again, so that there is nothing in Kyouya's ears but the drone of the insects in the trees and the things Yamamoto is saying, baffling things (as Yamamoto is baffling) that should not make sense (as Yamamoto does not make sense).

Now Yamamoto no longer looks as though he is seeing something far away. His eyes stay on Kyouya, watching him closely. Then he nods, maybe to himself. "Yeah. You get that. Thought you would." He comes alive between one breath and the next, the ease melting from him as he stretches out his hand, taking up his sword as he rolls to his feet. The sound as he thumbs the saya is soft, but it runs through Kyouya like the wind as Yamamoto tips his head to the side. "You wanna?"

Kyouya sees no point in answering such a ridiculous question. Instead he attacks and lets the swing of his tonfa speak for him. Yamamoto laughs, the sound of it low and clear over the hiss of his blade and the ring of tonfa against steel and the rustle of their feet in the grass as they break and circle each other. There is nothing in him now to show that just moments ago he was lounging on the grass; he moves with the same easy confidence as he had when Kyouya watched him playing with his classmates, herbivores all too stupid to see what was stalking among them.

(How is it that they cannot see what is plain before their eyes? This must be what makes them herbivores.)

Yamamoto drops low and brings his blade around in a flowing sweep; Kyouya launches himself over it, seeking Yamamoto's arm with his tonfa, but Yamamoto isn't there anymore. He's rising like the cresting of a wave. If they were fighting in water, that sweep of his sword would raise a curtain of water to follow it. This is not the terrain that favors Yamamoto's style, not completely.

Kyouya catches the blade on a tonfa, turning it aside, and thinks that he would like to fight Yamamoto on his own ground. Something about the way Yamamoto throws himself into these fights, eyes gleaming as sharply as the edge of his blade, says that he wishes for the same thing.

Yamamoto keeps smiling, even though Kyouya lands the first hit of this fight, a blow that bounces off Yamamoto's shoulder. Kyouya has no reason to suppose that he is taking this lightly—how could he be, when his focus burns in his eyes and he dances through the liquid shapes of his forms, when Kyouya's arms vibrate with the weight of his strikes? When his blade slips through Kyouya's guard, it raises a welt along Kyouya's side, one that experience says will take days to fade. But Yamamoto smiles. Kyouya tastes something in his sword and the air that he sucks into his mouth, something besides the tang of sweat and blood when Yamamoto uses the sweep of his blade to cover a sucker punch (because Yamamoto is a carnivore, knows this for what it is, and knows that there is no such thing as fairness when two carnivores meet).

It tastes like pleasure. Pleasure and something else, something like hunger. Kyouya can't name it, not until the moment he and Yamamoto close with each other, tonfa locked against blade. Kyouya can feel the heat of Yamamoto's body while their harsh breaths mingle in the space between them, and gets hard fast enough to be dizzy with the rush of it. It's desire, or has been all along, and it's in Yamamoto's sword and the way Yamamoto looks at him from across the barrier of tonfa and blade, his eyes dark and color burning high across his cheekbones.

They're in the middle of something already, a fight, a good fight (because Yamamoto is one of the very few people in Namimori it is worth fighting), but Kyouya is hard with the taste of blood on his lips and Yamamoto watching him and the memory of Yamamoto's skin all bare and smooth under his hands and Yamamoto's tongue against his cock. Yamamoto passes his tongue over his lips now, just the tip of it, leaving them shining damply, and Kyouya swallows hard.

"You wanna?" Yamamoto asks. His voice has dropped, turned rough, no laughter in it now.

Kyouya drops one of his tonfa so he can fist his hand in the thin cotton of Yamamoto's shirt (thin, worn to softness, damp with Yamamoto's sweat) and drags Yamamoto closer. He makes a sound, low and surprised, but bends his head eagerly as Kyouya crushes their mouths together. He opens his mouth to Kyouya's, slick-hot, and it tastes of blood and sweat as they kiss. His eyes flutter as Kyouya slides his tongue between Yamamoto's lips; his lashes drop down over his eyes and he lowers his sword, moves it from between them and hooks his off hand around Kyouya's hip. The weight of it pulls Kyouya half a step nearer, brings him chest to chest with Yamamoto, and Yamamoto makes the sound that Kyouya wants to as their hips fit together. He's hard too; Kyouya can feel the shape of his cock through the layers of cloth between them. It makes him impatient. He presses against Yamamoto, who gasps as they rub against each other, and drops the other tonfa so he can take hold of Yamamoto's hips when Yamamoto shudders.

Yamamoto's eyes are closed, his lashes lying dark against the color flushing his cheeks, and his skin gleams with sweat. He clutches at Kyouya's back, grabbing handfuls of Kyouya's shirt and grinding back as Kyouya fits their hips together, seeking more of the friction that sends pleasure screaming along every nerve he possesses. Kyouya pants for breath, sucking in sticky gasps of air that smells of dry grass and Yamamoto and sunlight, watching him and driving their hips together until Yamamoto stiffens and groans, the sound of it hoarse, shaking as the look of tense concentration he wears goes slack and open.

Kyouya can't help the satisfied sound he makes. Yamamoto opens his eyes then, dazed beneath the heaviness of his lashes, and looks at Kyouya in a way that Kyouya can't name at all. It runs through him, sharp as a knife, and just like that he's coming, his hips jerking against Yamamoto's as his cock throbs in his slacks and pleasure stabs up his spine.

Yamamoto's hands are spread against his back when his head clears, fingers fanned wide as Yamamoto watches him. They're hot through Kyouya's shirt, which sticks to his skin, soaked through with his sweat. Kyouya can't decide whether the feel of them is pleasant or not. Yamamoto is still breathing hard, sucking in air through his open mouth, and his lips are smudged with blood.

He doesn't say anything. He's been loquacious from the moment Kyouya's shadow fell across his face, but now he says nothing, and Kyouya knows enough of himself to know that he's not one who can read people easily.

(Yamamoto isn't people; he's another carnivore. A predator.)

He passes his tongue over his lips, pink against red, licking away Kyouya's blood. His hands rest lightly against Kyouya's back. Breaking away from them would be nothing, hardly worth naming as effort. Kyouya supposes that's why he doesn't bother. Yamamoto's mouth shines wetly; Kyouya frowns at that, because it looks naked now.

So he twists his fist in Yamamoto's shirt, the cotton turned a shade darker with sweat, and pulls Yamamoto close again. Yamamoto opens his eyes wider at first, but they soften while Kyouya presses their mouths together, feels the sting of his lip and tastes the metal of blood when he pushes his tongue between Yamamoto's lips. Yamamoto makes a sound, muffled, and does something, changes the pressure of his mouth so that he's sucking on Kyouya's tongue, slow and obscene, while he works his fingers against Kyouya's back delicately, like a cat kneading its paws. But he's not holding Kyouya, no more than he did a week ago, which is strange. (Kyouya thinks, though it's difficult to be sure, for all his observations of the mating behaviors of Namimori's sheep. He cannot say with any certainty what motivates the herbivores, and besides, Yamamoto isn't one of them.)

His lips feel tender, bruised in the places that don't sting, but even so, he keeps kissing Yamamoto, working his mouth against Yamamoto's while Yamamoto watches him from beneath his eyelashes. He makes quiet sounds against Kyouya's mouth, meaningless sounds as he twists their tongues together, sounds like pleasure and wanting that match the way something hums through Kyouya, lazy as the drone of the insects in the trees. Kyouya's chest aches like he can't get enough air, though he's sucking in the humid air by the lungsful, air that is full of the smell of sex rising up between them.

Yamamoto's getting hard again, just like he is, but he moves as little as Kyouya does, bare shifts of his weight that nudge his hardness against Kyouya's, feeding the slow burn firing along Kyouya's nerves. Kyouya's cock throbs, heavy and sticky inside his underwear. It's almost too soon, too fast to be thinking of this again while he's still sensitive, and still he doesn't pull away.

Yamamoto exhales. His breath is damp against Kyouya's lips as he says Kyouya's name, the sound quiet as the breeze passing through grass, and moves one of his hands, passing it up Kyouya's back, following his spine up and hovering just above his shoulder blades before he slides it back down again. It's a light touch, almost tentative, and Yamamoto watches him as he repeats it.

"What," Kyouya begins, but he stops there. He doesn't quite know what he wants to say. Or ask. The way Yamamoto is touching him puts him off balance, a little, more than he likes, and he spares a thought for the tonfa lying at their feet.

Yamamoto stills his hand, leaves it poised between Kyouya's scapula, and for a moment his teeth show white as he presses them against the smeared, swollen red of his lower lip. "Hibari," he says, and "I want," and "please." He stops, driving all the color out of his lip as he sinks his teeth into it again, until the only color in it comes from the crimson of Kyouya's own blood. The color floods back when he releases it and shapes the words, "You are the edge."

It doesn't make sense, but it does, as much as anything filtered through words ever can. Kyouya takes a breath, lets it out, and turns that over while Yamamoto's hands hover against his back and Yamamoto watches and waits.

It is not unacceptable, he decides. Not unacceptable at all.

He steps back, away from Yamamoto's hands and arms and chest. Yamamoto makes no move to stop him (Yamamoto has never tried to restrain him), lets his hands drop to his sides as he watches, face going still in the way it does whenever he wishes to conceal what he is thinking. His shirt is wrinkled, blotched with his sweat, and the front of his jeans are strained tight and wet across the shape of his cock.

Kyouya stoops for his tonfa and looks him over again. "Yes," he decides, and turns, starting for the clubhouse.

He hears the sound of bare feet padding through the grass after him.

Kyouya smiles.