By Sutlers

He caught them making out, once.

In the basement of the Go institute, a couple of hours after one of those horrendous morning open-shidougo sessions that Kuwabara insisted would inspire a new wave of interest in the Art of the Game, the senile old cocksucker. If Ogata had to sit across from one more fat, tittering, middle-aged woman, well. It wouldn't be pretty.

Which begged the question of why he was still there, really, and he honestly couldn't say. He'd seen Akira and the Shindou kid he was living with now practically bolt out the door as soon as noon rolled around, an odd kind of desperation written across their features, but he didn't think too much of it. Even Ashiwara started to get the crazy-eye an hour and a half in. After stretching his legs, Ogata had found himself just sort of chain-smoking in the little T.V. room, unable to muster the motivation to go anywhere. It would be crass to get drunk this early, anyway.

So eventually he'd wandered down to the old archives, with the vague intention of maybe taking a look at some of Shuusaku's old kifu (still niggled, even now, years later) and that was, of course, when he'd come across them. Nearly walked right into them, actually; saved that particular faux pas only because he'd noticed the loose kifu scattered all over the floor. Then,

"Fuck," in what he could have sworn was Touya Akira's voice, except he'd never associated that breathy, strangled quality with anything that had come out of Akira's mouth before. A low laugh that he hadn't recognized, and then he'd poked his head around the corner discreetly.

"Come on, Akira," said Shindou, mouthing at Akira's neck. Akira groaned and slid his hands up Shindou's bare thighs to cup his ass under his t-shirt, Shindou's pants hooked on one of the file cabinets across from them. Ogata was pretty sure that was the moment when all the blood rushed backwards through his body, making him exhale and step back, but not so far that he couldn't see what was going on.

"Please," Shindou wheedled. He trailed his mouth along the line of Akira's jaw, up to press kisses to Akira's lips, his palms flat on Akira's chest.

"No," Akira said, between kisses, tongue flickering out to meet Shindou's. "No," more firmly that time, fingers pushing back at Shindou's hips to keep them from rocking forward. "We've already gone twice, you giant pervert, and I want to go home."

Ogata’s eyes widened and he shifted his stance, adjusting his pants.

"You're not the one who's had shelves sticking into his back all this time, jerk," Akira continued, with a bit more of his regular asperity.

Shindou snorted then and pressed their mouths together, open against each other in a way that Ogata was sure probably involved actual tonsils. "Bitch, bitch, bitch," he murmured, pulling back, but swung off Akira's lap anyway, making a beeline for the file cabinet where his pants were. Akira stood after, zipping his pants up and buttoning his shirt while Shindou tugged his boxers on. Shindou straightened and bumped into Akira affectionately, shoulder to shoulder, smoothed his hand down Akira's back and around his hip. Clothes in more or less in order, they walked out with their fingers laced together.

Well, Ogata thought as the door fell shut behind them. Then he ran a hand through his hair and smiled slowly. Perhaps he should catch up and offer them a ride home.

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