A/N: Funnest. Thing. Ever.

Disclaimer: Konomi-sensei's.

The Best Seat in the House

Sanada is dozing, snoring softly, when he hears Yukimura's pained groan. His head shoots up, hand flying immediately to cover his former captain's.

Yukimura doesn't wake, just makes another discontented noise and settles back in to sleep. Sanada sighs in relief. He's not gotten his bearings here yet; when he was fourteen, the first time Yukimura's illness took hold, he wasn't allowed to sit at his captain's bedside, watch every furrow of his brow and downward curve of his lips, feel ice-cold terror rush through his veins. Whether or not this is worse than sitting in a waiting room waiting for news, he can't decide.

It's been six years. Yukimura's been healthy, all these years, playing tennis professionally, practicing every day, flying around the world for tournaments, so why—why now, in the middle of a Grand Slam of all things, why is Yukimura lying in this hospital bed? Why was Sanada told that he'd relapsed?

The door pushes open. Sanada looks up, hoping to see a doctor. Instead he is greeted with a far more familiar face, swiping drooping purple hair out of narrowed eyes.

"This Australian humidity," Atobe complains, "is ruining my hair. It's wilting."

"Will you shut up," Sanada snaps. "There are sick people trying to sleep."

"Oh, calm down. As if your robot of a captain actually sleeps. Probably just shuts down when his battery gets too low."

Sanada feels an irrational wave of irritation in his chest. "Did you come in here for a reason?"

"You'd think there would be something fun to do here, but I'm terrifically bored, and they've put the whole Open on hold because of Yukimura's incident, so I can't even watch tennis."

"That must be tragic for you," Sanada snaps. "Someone's life-threatening illness has forced you to find something else to watch on television. You clearly are the worse off here."

"You," Atobe says, "are in quite a tiff. Honestly, Genichirou, he'll be fine. He survived when he was fourteen, and he'll survive now. He's got the best doctors in the world taking care of him."

"That doesn't mean anything," Sanada says, voice rough. "He almost died last time. Every doctor in the world could be here and it wouldn't do any good if it's—if it's worse."

Long fingers remove Sanada's cap, then brush through his hair. "Stand up."

"I'm not leaving," he protests, but Atobe shakes his head.

"We're not going anywhere, besides over to that bed." Atobe nods across the room. The room isn't private, but the hospital isn't so busy that every bed is full, and the other bed in Yukimura's room empty.

"What."

Atobe takes both of Sanada's hands in his own and pulls him to his feet. "You are distressed, and you're taking it out on me, despite the fact that I was so kind as to fly you all the way to this godforsaken country so you could wallow at the bedside of your former beau—"

"He was never—"

"Your borderline obsession with him says otherwise, and—now listen, I'm only telling you this because I'm jet-lagged and my judgment is impaired—I'm quite jealous of him and I always have been, a bit, so. I think it's appropriate that I'm—given some sort of reward." He pushes his fingers his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair nervously, which is something Sanada's pretty sure he's never seen before. Atobe doesn't get nervous, and he certainly doesn't get jealous. What does he have to be jealous of? Yukimura is his closest friend, sure, and Sanada will always feel for him the loyalty of a player for his captain, but... well, in some ways, Atobe is right in calling Yukimura a robot. Sanada's quite sure that his capacity for romantic emotion was removed during infancy, lest it interfere with his tennis.

Nor has Sanada ever felt anything for Yukimura. It's always been Atobe, since middle school.

"Why—"

"This is not the time. Come, I am going to provide you with sexual healing in the hopes that you will stop acting like a brute."

"What if he wakes up?"

"Perhaps the shock will be so great it will put him right back into a coma," Atobe grumbles, then ducks as Sanada's fist tries to land on top of his head.

"It was a joke, Genichirou. Honestly."

"We don't have anything," Sanada points out as Atobe pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the chair by the bed. "Lube or—"

"Don't be silly, I always have lube." Atobe reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a small tube of clear fluid. "On the bed, go on. Take off your shirt—jeans on, though, they fit you so nicely

"This is a terrible idea," Sanada says, but he climbs on to the bed anyway, sitting cross-legged as he slowly unbuttons his own shirt. He's only now realizing that it's nearly soaked through with sweat and clinging to his skin. He tosses the shirt on top of Atobe's and stretches his legs out on the bed, leaning back on his elbows. When he looks up, Atobe is standing completely nude before him, the tube of lube in one hand and his tight black underwear in the other. Sanada coughs.

"Right," Atobe says, businesslike. He crawls onto the bed like a panther, his lithe body all sleek lines and wiry muscle. He stops when his face is directly above Sanada's and leans down, pressing a short kiss to his lips. "I'm offering you a rare luxury today. Just lay there, and I'll do the work."

"Rare luxury indeed," Sanada murmurs. Atobe's told him on at least one occasion that one of his favorite things about their sex life is Sanada's willingness to pamper him in bed.

Atobe flips open the cap on the lube, then, and Sanada watches attentively as Atobe reaches behind himself. The fingers of the hand on Sanada's chest curl in, nails digging into his skin, and Sanada can guess that Atobe's finger has pushed inside him. The thought stirs the arousal that has already begun low in his abdomen, his length straining uncomfortably in his jeans.

Atobe's head is ducked, purple hair falling into his eyes, but Sanada can see the way his chest is rising and falling rapidly, the way he pushes back on his own fingers. His own hand reaches of its own accord up to tweak a dark nipple, eliciting a strangled cry from Atobe.

"Quiet down," Sanada hisses, pulling his hand away. "A nurse might come in or—" He stops. Suddenly, he realizes that it is entirely possible a doctor will come in regardless of how much noise they make. "Keigo. Draw the curtains."

Atobe doesn't appear to hear him, too busy preparing himself, his head falling back now, teeth worrying his lower lip.

"Keigo."

"What?"

"Draw. The curtains."

Atobe blinks at him for a moment, then grins mischievously. "No."

"Keigo—"

Hands unbutton and unzip his jeans, shimmy them and his boxers down his legs a few inches. He groans at the sensation of cool air on the erection now bobbing near his navel. Atobe's hand, still covered in lubricant, wraps around the length, stroking languidly. "You were saying?"

Sanada doesn't reply, focuses on not making enough noise to attract the whole hospital. Atobe shoots him a wicked grin and lifts himself so he's positioned over Sanada's length, then slowly sits until Sanada feels his cock hitting Atobe's entrance.

"Nngh—" Atobe doesn't pause, just lowers himself quickly, only stopping for a breath when his ass meets Sanada's thighs.

Sanada tangles his fingers with Atobe's. "Pain?" he chokes, barely within the realm of coherency.

"I'm fine," Atobe breathes. Then, he begins to rock forward, his free hand fisting the sheets on Sanada's right side for leverage. Sanada curls his fingers around Atobe's cock and pumps in time with the movement of Atobe's hips.

Atobe feels somehow tighter than usual, the heat of him wrapped around Sanada's length squeezing, the friction incredible. Atobe's getting close, Sanada can tell by the way his thrusts are becoming more erratic, the way the erection in his hand has grown painfully hard. He grinds his ass desperately against Sanada's groin, cries out, and Sanada feels warm fluid on the hand grasping Atobe's member.

Maneuvering carefully, he flips Atobe over onto his back and thrusts a few more times into the spent figure under him, groaning as a wave of too-intense pleasure courses through him.

He gently pulls out, then all but collapses on top of Atobe, pressing a kiss to his neck just below his ear.

"Are you feeling better?" Atobe asks breathlessly. Sanada gives a short chuckle.

"More relaxed, at least," he answers. "…Thank you. I don't think your intentions were as pure as you made them out to be, but it worked anyway."

"Pure, no, not exactly." Atobe tilts his head to kiss him, then pushes him gently aside and sits up. "Enjoy the show, Seiichi?"

"Oh, very much," comes Yukimura's voice, tired but lit with amusement. "I had the best seat in the house."