devils_solitude | Flipside (Reply)

What's the price of a compliment? Katsuya thinks Seto needs to modulate his ludicrous expectations, while Seto thinks Katsuya doesn't quite understand what the word "standards" mean.

※ This takes place over a decade after the original series when both characters are in a stable relationship, and are in their late twenties/early thirties.

“Dude, sick flip!” Katsuya hollered, fingers tipped in a two-finger salute towards the direction of the skate park.

Unfortunately, Seto was caught between Katsuya and said park, and given Katsuya’s historically terrible aim, ended up being the recipient of a rather unpleasant, and frankly quite startling bellow directly in his ear.

Instinctively clicking his tongue in displeasure, Seto gingerly rubbed behind his ear in attempts to ease the ringing away. He glowered non-too-subtly at the blond beside him, scowl deepening as he realised Katsuya instead had his sights glued on the skate park beyond them, eyes already tracing the next gravity-defying stunt in view.

Biting back his gripe in favour of a disgruntled snort, Seto reduced his pace before rounding behind, and repositioning himself on the other side of Katsuya. He matched his speed with the other man soon after, but not before leaving a deliberate gap between them.

“Man, look at him go!!” There was an almost child-like twinkle in Katsuya’s voice as he cheered the pair of skaters railsiding down a bar, his grin easy and laughter light as the skating duo returned their appreciation with equally enthusiastic waves.

Mere parlour tricks, Seto thought irritably. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Katsuya let fly another roar of delight, enthralled by a new wave of stunts the group was practising.

He widened the distance between him and Katsuya a little more.

Seto snuck a quick glance towards the skate park, flummoxed at why Katsuya was this enraptured by the group’s antics.

The skaters could not be older than sixteen. Brazenly rambunctious, their voices broke the stillness of the late afternoon air, flagrant in their desire for youth and life. They spun; they flipped; they flew; they fell — knees bruised from exertion, lungs sore from exhilaration, they continued accelerating, revelry melding into the uneven quiver of their wheels.

How utterly unproductive.

Supposing this was their idea of honing their craft, it’d take the better part of the millennium before they could reach a level of competence any global organisation would even consider competitive.

Where was their discipline? Their hunger? Unless they drastically overhauled their lackadaisical excuse of a regime, they were better off finding something else they had more proclivity and ability for.

But then again, people these days had a strange predilection for squandering their youth and time away.

Faltering interest long dissipated, Seto picked up the pace in hopes Katsuya would get the hint.

Of course Katsuya didn’t.

If Katsuya noticed Seto’s dour mood, he did a fantastic job of not showing it. While the brunet continued his unvoiced diatribe against the group, Katsuya was more than happy to ignore his surly partner in favour of spectating the skaters’ endeavours.

He moved closer to the fence that separated him from the park — much to the exasperation of Seto — reaching out to lightly run his fingers along the fence’s cool metal weave.

He inhaled the memories loosened by the clockwork rattling of wheels against concrete — feeling upon his face the rush of cool air as a younger him manipulated the momentum of his skateboard, intuitively riding out the uneven ridges and crevices of the carpark complex as he repeated his routine for the hundredth time.

He spun; he flipped; he flew; he fell — knees and ankles weak from repeated strain, bruises and scrapes tender from constant impact, he continued accelerating, the encouragement and support of his friends the axel upon which he dedicated his training.

It felt like freedom.

It didn’t matter how more often than not, these sessions would end with him fatigued, lying on the floor in a pool of sweat, his progress towards nailing a 360 heelflip no more achievable than the week before.

(Katsuya mused it had been over a decade, and he was still no closer to being able to master it.)

But that never really mattered.

He still returned, as did his friends, week after week. Stage lit, curtains drawn; they gave him an unconditional, unwavering limelight. They marvelled even when all he could perform were unremarkable ollies, and celebrated the most unexceptional of his flips — he was their Paul Rodriguez, thrifted skateboard and repatched sneakers be damned.

They gave him the gift of respect and agency when no one else did. Even now, Katsuya was, and still is immensely grateful for that.

After spectating — not eavesdropping — on the group moving into a series of Rock ‘n’ Roll and Rock to Fakie practices, Katsuya reluctantly pulled himself from his reverie, and jogged to catch up with his partner.

“If you’d gawked any longer, I’d have gone back without you.”

Katsuya fell in step next to Seto, and flashed the latter a toothy smile. “Nah, ya wouldn’t.”

Seto raised an immaculate brow in response. “Is that a challenge?”

Preferring not to push his luck further, Katsuya laughed sheepishly.

“Besides, I gotta let a bro know he’s got skills!”

“You call that skills?” Seto snorted. “I’ve seen children perform more complex tricks blindfolded.”

“I thought it was cool,” Katsuya shrugged. “And some people gotta stop bein’ so stingy with their compliments!” Katsuya shot the brunet a pointed look.

Seto folded his arms in defence. “And some people,” he returned the stare, “Need to learn the importance of having standards.”

“Your standards are whack! Ain’t our fault if we weren’t born geniuses!”

“Thank you for recognising my brilliance,” Seto countered, his mirth betrayed by the slight quirk of his lip.

Katsuya chuckled at his partner’s unabashed response, and threw a playful punch at Seto’s arm.

Seto saw it coming, but chose not to dodge.

“Seriously though, bein’ average is hard.” Katsuya sighed, and laced his fingers behind his head. “And that’s why ya gotta compliment people more!”

“So I can encourage further mediocrity?”

“No!” Katsuya peered at Seto incredulously. Katsuya posited if most of Seto’s brain was hardwired to feed the latter’s intelligence and ego, no wonder his partner had the emotional capacity of a duel disk.

“Ya gotta motivate and encourage others! So that they’ll try harder!”

“Like how I bribe you with katsu curry?”

“That’s different,” Katsuya retorted. “Ain’t a bribe, that’s a necessity.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t take much effort ta compliment someone. Ya dunno their story — they could be havin’ a rough time or somethin’. Maybe ya words can make ‘em feel better. Or give ‘em a reason ta continue, ya know?”

Seto could taste the rawness of Katsuya’s words; he saw it in the pull of the blond’s jaw, and felt it threaded between the rigidity of his spine. It was a baring of Katsuya’s lived history, a display of unhealed scars past the obfuscation of his carefree nature.

It was a defence as much as it was a plea.

Seto brushed his fingers against Katsuya’s in wordless understanding.

He wished he could pull the appropriate signifiers to lavish upon his partner, to furl the other in the appreciation and admiration he didn’t know how to express. But until he learnt to temper the edge of his tongue and the sear of his cynicism, he hoped his presence alone would suffice.

When they finally arrived at their waiting ride, Katsuya gave the skate park one last wistful look before tucking himself into the warmth of the limousine.

As the car pulled away, Katsuya turned to Seto with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Just wonderin’… Ya don’t happen ta own a secret skate park, do ya?”

“No.” Seto replied flatly.

“Bummer.”