#susaima

Susa makes a white-edged leaf with milk foam, the stem curling at the end, a sharp point against the warm brown. He lifts the cup with practiced efficiency; the design doesn’t wobble or break as he places it on top of the receipt at the edge of the bar and turns back to the machinery. Clean the foamer, turn the dial, pour the espresso, froth another creamer, repeat, repeat, repeat. It’s boring, but Imayoshi reckons he’s not one to talk if he’s watching it and not doing it--and losing money on the whole thing, what with the price of even a simple drink as high as it is here.

Susa folds his arms and leans over the bar in an exaggerated stoop, emphasizing his height. A young woman seated at a table with one of his lattes glances over and giggles before she glances away. Susa’s nose twitches; he’s noticed. The line has shortened; the person at the register is rattling off a long list of teas.

“Yes?” says Imayoshi.

“Thought you might have something to say,” says Susa. “But I can make the next batch of iced coffee if you don’t.”

Imayoshi looks at him, and Susa huffs before he turns and heads into the back in search of coffee beans. The woman at the table looks slightly disappointed. Imayoshi smudges the ink on his receipt, already damp with tea. The spine of the book on his lap is nearly splintered from use, but it had been the cheapest he could get secondhand. Not terrible, even if Imayoshi has to analyze it for a class, but worth paying more than he did. He turns the page, and it nearly peels away from the binding, distracting him for a moment from the grating screech of the experimental music playing over the speaker.

Susa returns after a few more moments, his back to the bar, more room for Imayoshi to stare at his ass as he stands on his tiptoes to pour the beans into the industrial-size grinder. Susa turns around, his gaze meeting Imayoshi. The roar of the coffee grinder drowns out the music, and if either of them were to speak they’d be too far away from each other to hear or respond. Imayoshi turns back to his book, watching Susa from the corner of his eye. The grind continues, and finally dies down to a whirr. Without turning back to look at it, Susa flips the switch on the grinder.

“Ooh, slick,” says Imayoshi.

Susa actually smiles at that, and Imayoshi counts the point as his.

“Stop keeping score,” says Susa, the smile disappearing. “I’m not playing your game--I don’t even know what it is.”

“You have the gist of it,” says Imayoshi.

Susa rolls his eyes and turns back to the coffee; he’s hiding a smile and that should count for two points, at least. Is that a field goal or a three-pointer? Was the other smile a free throw? Two free throws, maybe--or, no, the first smile is the shot, and Susa fouled Imayoshi, and the second is the and-one. 

*

Imayoshi spends the last hour of Susa’s shift pretending to browse a bookstore, scanning the names of authors in the fiction section and flipping through a few new editions of classics. He doesn’t know them well enough to spot formatting differences, or anything new at all, though he’s not paying close enough attention to tell. The ticking of his watch, lost to the music and the clattering of mugs and dishes in the coffee shop, is loud here, and slow. (That’s a point for Susa, Imayoshi supposes.)

The smell of coffee is apparent before Susa himself is, standing at the end of the row. He looks exhausted, though perhaps it’s the light accentuating the rings under his eyes, or his untidy hair, or his posture in contrast with the coffee grounds beneath his fingernails. His breath is bitter when Imayoshi drags him into a corner and kisses him, one fist in Susa’s sweater.

“You’ll mess it up,” Susa mumbles into his mouth. 

Imayoshi clenches his hand tighter, and Susa bites his lip, pushing him against the window. He kisses like he’s trying to say how goddamn tired he is, languid tongue and teeth duller than intended, stopping for breath sooner than Imayoshi’s used to. Susa steps back, not looking down at Imayoshi’s hand in his sweater. 

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, as if he’s forgotten. Maybe he has.

*

The history classroom is hot, the windows shut and steaming, the radiators whistling. The person next to Imayoshi is doused in strong cologne, and the combined effect makes Imayoshi want to fall into a bed. Next to him, Susa is alert, cramming notes onto his paper as the professor drones on. Imayoshi could do with some of that obnoxious coffee shop music. He pokes his hand with his pen, pinches himself. His eyes flutter. 

Susa kicks his ankle, hard enough to jolt him awake. 

“Ow,” Imayoshi whispers. “What did you do that for?”

“So you don’t beg off me for notes,” Susa replies. “Pay attention.”

“Sweet of you,” says Imayoshi.

Somehow, over his own droning, the professor seems to have heard, and he glares in Imayoshi’s direction, like pinpricks coming out of his eyes. Imayoshi waits for the professor to look away before he elbows Susa, but Susa pretends to ignore him and concentrate on his notebook.

*

Theirs is the last stop on the train. The car empties out after they already have seats, but now Imayoshi has room to place his schoolbag next to him and stick his elbow out when he holds his book. Susa’s fingers tap away on one of his mobile games, the mechanics of which Imayoshi won’t straight-up admit to knowing (but he’s seen Susa play it too often not to know). Susa taps on his mage, dragging her to the left.

“Watch the archer.”

Susa raises an eyebrow, but drags the mage back and places a sword unit to her left. The sword unit has better physical defense; they’ll probably be fine.

Imayoshi yawns. Susa pats his knee.

Imayoshi’s going to remark on how nice Susa’s being now, not kicking him or grinding coffee at him, but it would be too much effort. It would break Susa’s concentration in his mobile game, which would be hilarious, but--he can save it for another time. 

The first time Imayoshi kisses Susa it’s cold and rainy and gross, something that wouldn’t be relevant if Imayoshi didn’t insist on keeping his bedroom windows open all the time because it’s the twenty-first century and heating is a thing that’s existed for a while now. It would be nice if Imayoshi’s feet weren’t so freezing (and he wasn’t kicking Susa’s feet in the first place) or he left his socks on and it would be nice to wear something less than a sweater indoors on the eleventh floor. And it would be even nicer if their mugs of hot chocolate hadn’t gotten cold before they could get halfway through, or if the rain and the sounds of the street didn’t carry so far up and drown out the speakers on Imayoshi’s TV (not that either of them is really paying attention to the Saturday evening cartoons, but the option of pretending isn’t even really there). They’ve been sneaking glances at each other all evening, scooting just a little bit closer on the double bed until Imayoshi just has to flick his foot to kick Susa’s ankle, and it’s starting to feel a little bit dangerous.

Not that Susa hasn’t imagined doing this stuff with Imayoshi before, not that they haven’t gone this far (that’s a terrible way to refer to stuff they mostly haven’t done but Susa’s got nothing better), not that Susa doesn’t enjoy when Imayoshi snakes a hand around his waist or rests his chin on Susa’s shoulder or leans in close enough for Susa to smell the Givenchy cologne dabbed right behind his ears. Not that Susa doesn’t get some kind of thrill traveling up his spine when that happens. It’s just that hinting at it, knowing Imayoshi knows he knows, making remarks in passing, closing the physical distance just a little, is a very different thing than doing something concrete about that. It’s like they’re edging closer to jumping off, but they can still run back, implausibly deny and implicitly accept each other’s lies if they choose to hide it. But once they jump off they can’t climb back up. They can’t retread their footsteps. Susa’s not sure he’s ready for that, and he’s not sure Imayoshi’s ready, either, but they’re both too stubborn and competitive to be the one who pulls them both back.

The obnoxious ending theme begins to play; Susa glances at the clock. His parents probably aren’t expecting him, but he’d like to get home with enough time to eat dinner while it’s warm and maybe call Imayoshi after, play it off like he’d forgotten something over there and ask Imayoshi if he has it and then keep talking until he’s half-asleep and it’s two in the morning.

“Hey,” he says.

The back of his hand is right next to Imayoshi’s; they look like they’re touching. Imayoshi looks up through his glasses.

“I should go.”

Susa swings his legs over the edge but doesn’t move his hand. He glances back over his shoulder; Imayoshi hasn’t moved. And then he does, his hand grabbing Susa’s and lacing their fingers together like netting on a basketball hoop; he tugs, pulling Susa over to him and himself over to Susa, and then they’re close enough for Susa to see Imayoshi’s smile, the mole under his chin, and his eyes are open and then they’re too close to see much of anything because they’re kissing.

Susa’s kissed girls before during spin-the-bottle and seven minutes in heaven, but it’s always been awkward the way his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and it’s never been remotely like this. Imayoshi tastes sweet and sour, his tongue prodding Susa’s teeth, his lips soft and Susa’s halfway trying to memorize this feeling when Imayoshi pulls away.

“Have a good night.”

Susa half-heartedly waves as he exits the bedroom, running mostly on autopilot. It’s hard to feel the freezing rain outside as it soaks his head; he waves off the doorman’s offer to call him a cab because his mouth is still open and he feels so obvious, like if he walks in the door right now his parents are going to know exactly what he’s done. When he reaches the next corner, Susa looks up. The lights in Imayoshi’s bedroom are still on; the windows are now half-shut.

Susa doesn’t call him back that night.

*

Since then, cold rainy days have always reminded Susa of that one. He supposes he’s a bit young to be feeling real nostalgia, but his sister’s always called him an old man in a kid’s body and maybe this is what she means. It’s still embarrassing to be clinging to one moment two years ago, like a cat stuck up a tree, unable to get down and move on or even make any progress. Because Susa hadn’t called Imayoshi and Imayoshi hadn’t brought it up and they’d stopped getting so physically close, and it’s stupid to think of that as their first kiss when it’s been their only kiss.

It’s stupid to remember the hot chocolate on Imayoshi’s lips when they get out of basketball practice late (and it’s a little too close to January for this kind of weather) and Susa stuffs his hands deeper into his Burberry raincoat. The passing cars are slick and loud on the pavement; it’s dark out and Susa’s already sick of the winter and it’s not even that cold yet. He considers fumbling in his pockets for an after-practice cigarette, but he shouldn’t be smoking this far into the season. He’ll be home soon enough.

Imayoshi’s right behind him, and under the harsh lights of the school building he can see him clearly. He’s wearing Susa’s old Ralph Lauren hoodie, the one Susa had lent him a year or so back because he’d been underdressed again, the one he’d pretended was totally insignificant and the one Imayoshi keeps pretending to forget to give back. And maybe they’re right back where they’d started; maybe the rain on the red and brown leaves is making their feet slip right back toward the edge after they’d somehow hung on and climbed back up. Maybe they’d jumped off into an infinite loop, and they have to jump a little farther to escape. Imayoshi lifts the hood over his head, leaving his thin hands on the fabric for a little bit longer than necessary.

The school door slams open; a group of whispering girls in brightly-colored galoshes exits; they don’t even seem to notice Susa and Imayoshi. In the dark and the rain, they quickly disappear. Susa thinks, for a second, about cutting in front of them to hail a cab, but that would just push the issue away again before it pushes them further. He’s sick of this. He’s sick of remembering and playing this kind of game; he takes his hands out of his pockets, reaches one hand up to cup Imayoshi’s face and peel a little bit of that hair of his off his forehead. This is Imayoshi’s out; he’s allowed to take it if he wants, ask what Susa’s doing or evade. He doesn’t.

Susa leans in; his nose brushes Imayoshi’s (God, that’s cold) and then his mouth touches Imayoshi’s mouth. He rests it there, lets Imayoshi return the pressure, He’s not going to overcomplicate it with tongues and teeth and tangled emotions right now.

And it’s enough. He can see Imayoshi’s teeth when he smiles, the whites of his eyes, the quirk of his brows.

Imayoshi always watches him, whether he’s actually observing or just trying to freak Susa out because he knows Susa can feel his eyes against his skin like the harshness of professional-grade laboratory lamps even though they’re always shut. It’s stupid and paradoxical to think about, and Susa never mentions it because what should he say? If he calls out Imayoshi then Imayoshi wins because he gets to tease Susa about thinking about him all day (because of course Imayoshi wasn’t looking, silly Susa—never mind that they’re dating and why shouldn’t Susa be thinking about him) and if he doesn’t then he’ll still have to think about it. He’d rather think about certain other things concerning Imayoshi anyway, although maybe not in the middle of practice when they have to be doing other things and when the sweat is dripping down Imayoshi’s neck, slowly streaking across the contours of skin and it’s hard enough for Susa to look away before he’s caught.

Of course, Susa hadn’t really wanted a distraction (because looking at Imayoshi is quite pleasant because when he opens his mouth it’s rarely Susa who has to go on the defensive, and honestly he’d rather defend Susa in basketball than with words—it’s less exhausting) and he certainly hadn’t wanted one in the form of this damn pain in his back that just won’t go away.

He hasn’t pulled any muscles; he’s working out in the usual way (a way that for two years and change has done nothing but strengthen his back, accentuate muscles he hadn’t known he had in middle school) and he’s not sleeping funny and he still feels a stabbing ache like a blunt knife ripping through his flesh whenever he stands or jumps a certain way. It hasn’t affected his play at least; his shots are as accurate as ever and he blocks with regularity and runs up to speed and maybe he clenches his jaw a little more and rubs his back when they’re taking breaks but they’re picking up speed and hurtling toward the winter cup and everyone’s a little bit sore. And Susa can’t feel Imayoshi’s eyes because he’s still focused on holding his back the right way so it doesn’t seize up.

It hits Susa like a pass so sharp it stings your hands that this is it; their games are numbered and they don’t know how many but how many isn’t the right phrase. It’s how few, how few minutes they have left with the soles of their sneakers slamming against the waxed wood of the courts and losing a little bit of traction each time, how few hours they have in the sweaty locker room silence changing into the familiar black and red that fits so comfortably now (more than Susa had ever expected it to), how few shots and passes and steps there are until the end. And even if they’re painful (even if his back feels like it’s going to tear it in half) he’s going to take those steps because he can’t not. This is his last shot at this kind of glory—they came so fucking close against Rakuzan and it had left him thirsting for more and maybe this kind of deprivation is what’s doing it to his back. Maybe it’s all in his head.

Susa groans and flops against his bed. In his head or no, his back still hurts and against the cheap dorm mattress it’s even more obvious. He rolls over onto his stomach, closing his eyes and stretching forward. It still feels tight, as if someone took his muscles and tied a knot in them and they’re all straining at it to be released. He can’t feel it when he presses his hand to the area; it gives as much as the rest of his back does.

The door swings open; how Imayoshi got an extra key Susa doesn’t want to know (he’s theorized that Imayoshi just stole his and took it to a locksmith to get it copied, but of course that’s far from the only explanation) and he’s glad he already took his hand off his back. The bed sags even under Imayoshi’s weight; he strokes the back of Susa’s neck and Susa shivers and then his hand comes down hard on Susa’s lower back.

“Ow!” Susa yelps, twisting away from Imayoshi and then hissing with the pain from the quick change in position before dropping back limply.

“I thought so,” says Imayoshi.

“Normal people would ask, ‘Oh, Susa, does your back hurt?’ you know,” Susa says, voice muffled by the sheets under his mouth.

Imayoshi laughs, low and soft. “Well. I reckon you might not have owned up to it.”

Susa scowls into the bed. “So?”

“So. You’re playing hurt.”

“I’m not playing badly. I’m still your second-best forward, and half of the time I’m your best. I don’t have a future to jeopardize.”

Imayoshi hums and rubs the area of Susa’s back he just hit; Susa flinches. It still fucking hurts when Imayoshi touches it, probably because Susa doesn’t know where he’s going to poke and prod next, what path his fingers are taking. And he’s poking too hard, like he’s trying to jab a hole in Susa’s skin (and knowing Imayoshi he just might be).

“You’re terrible at massage.”

“Susa, I’m insulted.”

Susa rolls over onto his side in order to properly glare at Imayoshi, who’s still mock-pouting. His back feels a little bit better like this; he can shove the aching deeper into his mind in the hopes that it gets lost like a spare pen in a messy schoolbag. Imayoshi’s pout shifts into a smirk (then again there’s not much difference in those expressions on him) and Susa shuts his eyes. Of course Imayoshi noticed. Of course he’d been watching that closely.