DISCLAIMER: The usual... unfortunately that includes the 'No sue coz no money' line... Oh yeah... the soup? There really is a soup with that name... you've got to see it.

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SULLEN WONDERS

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Home Economics sucks.

It was a proven fact for one as pompous, pampered, and arrogant a socialite as Atobe Keigo.

He gritted his teeth as he sliced and diced the vegetables needed for the ickiest-looking food he had ever laid eyes upon. It took one good look at the prepared steaming sample made by his professor and he had to excuse himself as politely as he could to the nearest washroom to puke his way to oblivion. Hot and Sour Gazpacho Suspension. Whoever heard of such an unrefined dish? Just the mention of its name gave him the creeps. Hot and sour at the same time? You must be kidding me! He gritted his teeth as he squished softened tomatoes, extracting the orangey juice, wincing as the evil tomato squirted him in the eye.

Damn soup.

He wiped the offending liquid with his bare hands, tears involuntarily dripping from the irritated eye. He had wished before he had begun making the monstrosity, that the world would just open up and swallow his evil instructor (more vile than the killer tomato...) so that he wouldn't have to go through the horrifying procedures.

No such luck.

He set aside the bowl of tomato juice and picked up a freshly washed piece of ginger. He slowly peeled off the rock-hard skin, cursing all the way as he seemed to peel off half of the piece he should be preserving for the recipe. By the time he was done, all that was left was a stump that was not even as large as his thumb.

And he started with a huge piece the size of his middle finger. Oh well. He sighed, shaking head.

Ginger, julienned. Five grams. He read, his mouth hanging open, gazing back at the small piece he was currently fingering. What the fuck? FIVE grams... five FUCKING grams! How many of these do I need to have five grams of julienned ginger? Groaning inwardly, decided it would be best to start with what he had. Taking a shiny knife off the utensil rack given him, he commenced. Damn it, why are there no earthquakes when you really need them? He groused inwardly, whimpering quite a bit when he accidentally cut the pad of his pointer finger. "Ow..." He muttered, dropping the offending blade, trying his best not to cry pathetically in front of the whole class.

He had to remind himself that Atobe Keigo was NOT a crybaby... nor was he afraid of the thin weal of blood issuing forth from the slightly deep nick. Suppressing a scream, he stared at the thick fluid worming its way down the base of his finger intently, as if willing it to disappear.

No. He was not afraid of the sight of blood marring his perfect skin.

Was he?

He cringed. A tiny ache made him wince.

It was no use lying to himself...

His eyes shied away, looking for kitchen towels to wipe the blood on. Unfortunately, they ran off with the janitor this morning, it seemed. Feh. God, this University is sooo terrible! I have to tell my dad to stop sponsoring this! He thought angrily. He was about to give up and just thrust his hands under running tap water from the sink when a hand closed in around his wrist.

Surprised, he looked up, his gaze travelling from the extremely capable fingers, to the strong arms... to the broad shoulders... and to the frightfully familiar face he had known for such a long period of time.

"Tezuka?" He stammered, cheeks dusted slightly crimson as his eyes connected with steel-grey orbs.

"..."

Slowly, the strong grasp loosened, fingers went through actions one could possibly label as a caress, as the twin hand touched the injured finger, turning it every which way to somehow gauge the extent of the damage. Finally, with a sigh of what Atobe thought of as relief, Tezuka promptly let go and slipped a hand in his pocket, taking out a clean embroidered handkerchief of the palest blue.

Atobe's eyes widened considerably, recognition dawning, and he tried to protest. However, he was soon silenced by a warning look from the unusually cloudy eyes. What the heck is he doing? He thought in shock. That's the handkerchief his late mother gave him before she died! Once it touches my skin... it would be ruined! I'm not even -

I'm not even a friend.

A familiar ache stemming from his junior high days wormed its way to his pounding heart.

Atobe Keigo and Tezuka Kunimitsu had never been friends.

The bit about the life of the former Seishun Gakuen captain?

He had overheard his Operations Research classmate Oishi talking to his best friend Kikumaru Eiji about it when he passed by what he thought of as a deserted children's park three months ago.

"Atobe."

He quickly snapped from his earlier musings and stared back at the forbidding figure. "Yes?" He squeaked, mentally socking himself as he cleared his throat, recovering from his momentary loss of composure. "Yes?" He repeated, more dignified this time... more dignified that he actually felt.

"Are you alright?"

Atobe stiffened at the nearly condescending tone. Is he mocking me or something? He thought a bit crossly. "No." He declared haughtily, putting as much sarcasm as he could while waving a bloody pointer finger in the air, not minding the warmth from the other man's fingers... Connected to a hand waving with his just as wildly... He realised, stilling his movements. "I'm injured. My perfect skin is ruined, and I'm in Home Economics of all damned classes. No. I'm not alright!" He hissed irritably.

He was expecting some sort of reaction from the man standing almost dumbfounded in front of him... but he didn't get it. After a few moments of silence, Tezuka went back to tending the bloody wound. Frankly, Atobe wanted to just run away screaming. The tension was thicker than anything he had ever imagined... and he was feeling a bit lightheaded from the soft touch administered with what he perceived of as some sort of tenderness. He hadn't felt anything quite like it before... in his whole life.

And yet, here his rival was, giving him first aid, dabbing a prized possession just to stop his blood from leaking out further... giving him all the warmth Atobe had never known existed in the solemn tennis player.

He isn't even my friend.

If only he had some way of telling him that he...

"I'm done." Tezuka said quietly, tying the steadying knot.

He isn't my friend but... I want him to be that... I had always wanted him to be that...

He did not know what to say.

A sudden lump in his throat dislodged any attempt at coherent speech... his heart was beating rapidly, booming in his ears, threatening to render him deaf...

And more.

All he could do was nod his head and look away.

***

He hated Home Economics.

It was once again a proven fact for one as scientific and mathematic a scholar as Tezuka Kunimitsu.

He pressed his lips together in annoyance as he swirled the sixty millilitre of egg white the recipe needed. It was the worst looking food he had ever laid eyes upon. Of course there was Inui's special juice, which he had accidentally ingested in his junior high days... but he couldn't seem to qualify the drink as food. He wasn't that much a masochist. He wasn't Fuji. And everytime he thought about the glass of sickly green slush, his mind kept saying 'Does not compute'.

Hot and Sour Gazpacho Suspension.

Just the mention of its name gave him the creeps.

Hot and sour at the same time?

He was grossed out by the steaming sample prepared by his professor, but when he really thought about it... the alien soup seemed to look much better than Inui's accursed vegetable juice. And there was a huge probability that it wouldn't taste as vile. After all, hotels serve said monstrosity.

He sighed as he poured his finished product on a provided serving plate, finally relieved that he did not have to taste it. Let his professor suffer. It was one of the things he liked about the university - there was absolutely no taste testing for students in Home Economics class. He was sure that if there were, the clinic placed strategically across the cooking area would be full of students ailed with gastro-intestinal pains... and diarrhea. He picked up the pre-prepared garnishing and tried his best to make the ugly dish presentable. It was a good thing he did not have a weak stomach... or else he would end up making a courtesy call to the washroom like what Atobe undoubtedly did the moment he laid eyes on the sample.

"Ow..."

Atobe.

At the sound of a pained hiss, Tezuka's eyes slid away from his project and settled on the familiar slender figure that had gone completely still. He frowned. What was wrong with him? He cocked his head slightly to the left to see what was the matter... and he couldn't help the sudden jolt in his body when he spied the small amount of blood collecting on the pad of a pale forefinger.

He did not know why, but he was compelled to approach him... wanting to offer comfort.

He shivered.

Eerie.

He moved quietly towards the rival he had been observing for quite a long time now, finally halting his steps to stand beside him, careful not to suffocate him with his closeness, then he reached out and grasped the wrist of the injured hand as gentle as he could.

Obviously surprised, Atobe looked up at him. Cloudy eyes stared in confusion. "Tezuka?"

Tezuka couldn't speak. All he could do was stare back and wonder what the other was thinking behind those smooth lids and soft-looking hair. Carefully, he loosened his hold; his fingers, almost as if they had lives of their own, went through actions he knew one could label as a caress. His other hand involuntarily touched the injured finger, his overloaded brain processing an extra fact that Atobe's skin was perfectly smooth... like he had never touched a tennis racket before, turning it every which way to somehow gauge the extent of the damage. Finally, with a sigh of relief, he promptly let go and reached deep into his pocket, searching for anything he could wipe the blood on. Good thing it isn't very deep. Finally catching hold of a familiar cottony object, he felt his spirits lift some more.

Ah... I have this after all. He mused, taking out his late mother's pale blue handkerchief. His observant eyes registered the look of recognition from Atobe's dark ocean orbs. Ah... he knows? How did he know that? Making a mental note to ask Oishi later, he gave Atobe a warning look, effectively silencing the words of protest from the atypical red lips he had always wanted to know the taste of.

Then there was silence. He smiled inwardly as Atobe looked away from him, focusing on anything but him.

"Atobe."

A squeak...

Then Atobe cleared his throat before answering again. "Yes?"

He didn't want to be a liar and say that he did not enjoy seeing the look of disorientation on the other man's features. In fact, he revelled in it... it made him feel as if he was special... the only one who could penetrate the mask of pure egotism he usually carried everywhere. This was Atobe Keigo.

And he decided that this was the piece of him he liked the most.

"Are you alright?" He asked, treating him as if he was a child, trying to see what the beautiful face would uncover now. Ah... there goes the mask again... crossed... always crossed about something or another. He mused mirthfully. This time, it's I.

He wasn't at all frazzled by the display of pure fire that came next either.

"No." Atobe declared haughtily, putting as much sarcasm as he could while waving a bloody pointer finger in the air, Tezuka's hand going with it. Connected to the hand waving wildly... He suppressed a smile, as realisation sunk in, and the wild movements stilled abruptly. "I'm injured. My perfect skin is ruined, and I'm in Home Economics of all damned classes. No. I'm not alright!" Atobe hissed irritably.

It was quite amusing. Tezuka knew that somehow, he would never tire to see this man doing this kind of thing every single day.

He never did.

Wordlessly, he went back to tending the wound, careful not to press too much to avoid unnecessary pain. He wrapped the whole finger up with his handkerchief and finally knotted the last securing knot before letting go. "I'm done." He said quietly, surveying his handiwork before looking up.

Atobe had turned away again.

Tezuka did not know what to do. He completely froze; hindering any attempt to make a move... his heart was beating rapidly, booming in his ears, threatening to render him deaf... He couldn't do anything but stare at the perfection that dulled the homey kitchen to tasteless grey...

The perfection that was Atobe.

I wonder what he's thinking about...

A small voice in the back of his head countered the wayward thought.

I do hope it's about me.

***

A/N: Hey! ^_^ sorry if the characters seemed a bit OOC, but I was really having a hard time drawing out both Tezuka and Atobe. Hope you liked this fic! ^_^ Reviews people! ^___^