Ooh, fic

I found this in my docs--had completely forgotten that I'd written it, but I like it so I'm posting it. Inspired by the 31_days challenge Perché un di m'hai sorriso (Because one day you smiled at me), which was probably back in December? Whatever, I can't remember.



It was a simple, stupid thing to cause them so much trouble: number one seed Michael Levine had just beaten unseeded Ryohei Kubota in the final round of the U.S. Open, and he happened to catch the eye of a black-haired man sitting in the stands, serene and untouched despite the pandemonium surrounding him. He happened to smile, because the man with the black hair was beautiful. And then he happened to glance away, and thought no more about him until the same man stepped out of the shadows outside the locker room.

"Hello," Mike said, wondering if this was a reporter, though he was badly dressed in the wrong way to be a reporter even if he looked starved enough.

"Hi," said the man. His voice was hungry and sharp.

"Can I, uh, do something for you?"

"Not really." He shrugged, an elegantly bored movement accompanied by a floating wave of one white hand. And then, "You beat my brother."

"Your brother?" Mike asked stupidly, unable to recall ever having seen anyone who looked like this vision before.

"We don't look anything alike," he allowed. "He's always been handsomer."

Mike didn't quite think that was possible. "I'm sorry, I don't remember...?"

"You have a short memory, then." His lips curved, showing perfect white teeth set like pearls behind red lips.

"Oh," he said, frowning. "Do you mean...Ryohei Kubota?"

The man nodded, as gracefully as he'd shrugged.

Recognition suddenly sparked. "That means you're..."

"Ryoutarou."

"The model?"

Ryoutarou Kubota looked mildly surprised. "You've heard of me?"

"I live in New York," Mike said, like that explained everything.

He was answered with a helpless gesture: what can you do.

"I was wondering," Ryoutarou Kubota said after a short pause, "if you might like to take me out to dinner. We can talk." The way he enunciated "talk," like he was taking pleasure in licking over every edge of the word, made the subtextual Or we can skip the dinner and the talking and go straight to the having sex obvious.

Mike rubbed his hair and weighed his options: he read the society pages when he'd finished the comics, the sports, and the world news, and still had time before he left for morning practice. "I'm not sure if that would be the best idea."

"Okay," said Ryoutarou with another shrug, and turned to leave.

"Wait," Mike said, and had grabbed Ryoutarou's wrist before he knew he'd started moving.

Ryoutarou waited. Looked back over his shoulder, regarded Mike with one cool dark eye under a perfectly arched black brow.

"Okay," Mike echoed. "How do you feel about steak?" he asked, feeling like an idiot in the face of such implacable, impenetrable cool.

"Steak," said Ryoutarou's bow-shaped lips, "would be just perfect."