Freya: this is actually my first TeFu (ignore Expressions Smile I for the moment) fic, written not-so-legibly at around half-past midnight under the staircase on paper intended for sketching, written for my beloved, the light of my life, written by a deadline-plagued writing machine able to produce very disturbing and/or fluffy things.
Warnings: this is darkly themed, specially about the whole 'masterpieces part'. I know Fuji's said to be a photographer, but I forgot that in the middle of the night. Sorry. 'T' for scenes not so graphic and the things I shamelessly imply. Also, for the rather quirky poem... if you want to read it, PM me, since I can't access my blog at this time. :) It's a disappointingly short and pointless poem...
Disclaimer: I own only the story, the little boy at the end and no more. Tezuka and Fuji belong to the world, and sadly (XD) so does the Bible from where I quoted.
This did not have a title when I wrote it, so forgive the crappiness of it...
Lastly, this is dedicated to my beloved, the light of my life, my inspiration. Aishiteru.
Thy Will Be Done...
Possessed.
There was no other way to describe it. The way that he did gave little in terms of definition, but the question was, would he define it at all? If given the chance, Tezuka was sure he would break the damn pen in half. Or in pieces, whichever. He would break it though, feel the plastic of its case cut against his skin, see the ink splatter over his hands- his face- everything and when only bits of it remained, he would throw them into the raging fire. And watch. Watch. Until the ashes flew in the wind, and nothing was left.
Tezuka would find him, always in his chair by the window, slumped over a sheet of paper (maybe more, maybe less), his pen scribbling on it furiously. It didn't matter the time, Fuji would always be writing. Penmanship and clarity be damned. He wrote in whatever way he pleased. Never in a straight line, always neatly, up and down, right to left, cross your i's and dot your t's.
Frankly, Tezuka was amazed. Now he isn't.
Three five three.
7 12 7.
8 8 8.
Nine thirteen nine.
The verses followed no continuous pattern, and Tezuka was afraid to say that their inconsistency astounded him. He didn't like giving up. Childish, mature, level-headed, insane. The dictionary on the floor did no justice to the words he made up by himself. The cycle was vicious, and when he couldn't find a word he needed, he rewrote everything again and again until he found it.
Nowadays, Tezuka is sickened by the replay button on the remote control. The word repeat is scarcely used in his presence.
Sometimes, Fuji wrote in white ink, on white paper. Those are the times that Tezuka knows- it would be best to stay away.
But he can't bring himself to leave, so instead he watches as the prodigy writes his lais on the white walls of his room, white ink pouring onto his fingertips. And when Fuji asks for his opinion, Tezuka knows it's better to be honest. But he lies, says that this verse didn't do it justice, or this word didn't fit with the rest. Fuji would stop using the white ink then and go to the fireplace (where his last pen died) to coat his fingers with ashes.
He asks Tezuka again and contests his work with coal fingertips.
Tezuka does not look away.
If Fuji was feeling particularly engaged at the world (not Tezuka, never Tezuka- dear, sweet, understanding Tezuka, who gave him so many things to think about), he would use a pencil.
The hand that smudged easily, so that as he wrote, his own hand would run over what he had written. He fills a whole five feet of parchment this way, only some of these words are truly legible. His hands are covered with lead, and he stares in awe as he runs his fingers over his love's face- Tezuka never stopped him. Water could wash it away easily, but Fuji prefers to pretend that his kisses can do it too. The same goes for the ink.
Kisses made everything so much better.
Rarely did drawings accompany the genius' work, and Tezuka wasn't surprised at all when Fuji covered the entirety of their sheets with drawings of hands. This was the occasion that he used his calligraphy brush - dipping it into the black ink pot and letting it mark its territory as it crisscrossed over the pure white linen.
Hands, hands, hands. Hands that had fingers, hands that had none, hands holding each other, hands holding something else entirely. Hands that were clasped together in prayer. Hands held in blasphemy. Hands in a circle, hands all alone.
Tezuka knows the difference between all of them when Fuji's eyes shine. His favorite seemed to be the hand linked with the devil's Fuji's eyes shone when he drew his own.
When he drew Tezuka's hand, he kissed it.
And Tezuka, too. Because he didn't want Tezuka to think he loved his work more than him.
Fuji wrote about many things, but always- always- he wrote about the lives of people he did not know. He never wrote about himself, and Tezuka doubts that he'd ever show anyone if he did. The boy may be insane but he was a master poet, and no one could deny that. Sometimes, Fuji would write about a boy. A little boy, with honey brown hair and azure eyes ("they needed glasses, so that he wouldn't be blinded by the lies that glowed so brightly around him") - he has not yet been given a name. He writes about him, though, and Tezuka thinks that that is reason enough for him to ask about him. It surprises him that Fuji answers, with a look of pleasantness that freezes him on the spot. Smiling, the genius informs him that this was their son.
Fuji was a prisoner of the arts, and Tezuka knows this all too well.
He was forever bound with chains made of words and dutifully watched over by the candlelight of early masks. In one of his disjointed and nonsensical letters, Fuji says that they will never let him go until all their ideas have been put to paper. He does not mention how terrified he is, how scared he has become. Tezuka thinks he never will. His love is locked in an old gold cage, and try as he might, he could never find a key to open the damn thing with.
The best he could do was hold his hand through the bars, and never let go.
In defiance, Fuji throws the pen he is using into the lake and goes off to find Tezuka. The brunette knows that it is pointless, that afterwards he will be struggling against Tezuka's arms, yelling at him to let go, he had to find his pen. But not now. Fuji knocks on his door, asking tentatively if he can come in. And he says yes, even as he transcribes the prodigy's efforts into the computer, so that in the next few months he would have another best seller on the shelf. Fuji tells him not to get up, he'll make himself comfortable.
But Tezuka knows better and knows Fuji so much better, so he saves what he has done and proceeds to turn off the computer. It starts to rain outside and amidst the small sounds of drip-dropping water, Tezuka hears the door clicking.
Fuji has locked it.
The bed in his room is often used, either by one person or by two. At this moment, there are two people there, and vague, just so vaguely, Tezuka wonders if he'd ever sleep here with Fuji again. The tense is hell-bent on his defiant action, and maybe misses Tezuka as well. It is different to see someone in the same house as you are. When Fuji tugs him to the bed and makes him sit at the edge, Tezuka knows that nothing can stop him. He sees it in the very simple action of a pair of soft lips (so used were they to cursing at invisible gods, that he finds it somewhat taxing to do anything else with them - but this was Tezuka, so he doesn't mind) descending on his, as Fuji's hands (calloused smudges, besotted by ink and very warm) fall to his shoulders, urging him to lie down. He does, and the genius straddles him, not once breaking the soft kiss.
Tezuka knows the sequence too well to care.
But surprisingly, he does a lot.
A kiss here, then there, somewhere along the taut skin he played to a fever pitch since before.
Long fingers, smooth fingers, mapping out the other's body not for the first time but why does it feel like it is? Still above him, still below, and this boy wouldn't stop- they tumble, kiss after kiss and now there's nothing between them (physically, always just physically).
There is a variation of patters, sometimes, now, or never. He rides him; moaning and arching his back as his hands hold him steady, kneading against gyrating hips. Lithe hands roam over peaked nipples, heated skin, his neck, his hair- eyes muted by the darkness watch him, and he returns their gaze.
There is never a question of dominance between them- they live between the limbo of who's who and who's not as they climax and clash together like the worst of the comets in the sky without anything to hide. They both do not care. Release is loud and white and sticky and utterly necessary as he collapses on top of him breathing the shallow breaths of a prisoner let out for one night- one lightless night.
Lips against his ear, words he wishes not to hear (hope is this fickle thing he's learned to leave without, besides disappointment- though not a too pleasant presence- was much easier to deal with, as he doesn't need a contest or competition to teach him that), "...Kunimitsu...you won't be alone, not tonight...The voiceless bird has been let out of its cage..."
Hysterically, Tezuka thinks that this is too appropriate- voiceless indeed. They do not notice when the sun starts to rise over the horizon.
Also hysterically, Tezuka thinks it is still very much appropriate-
"You won't be alone, not tonight..."
The taste of his kisses don't linger, the ink from his pen washes the taste away before he could grab it.
It is a sorry, sorry, sorry day when Tezuka's computer loses its back light.
The room is not dark, per say, but the light from the sun eclipses his- no Syuusuke's- words and he cannot see a thing. He grabs the memory stick (he's familiar with that at least) and pulls his laptop from the bottom shelf. Rarely does he use it when they are not traveling (to Italy, Germany, or the discreet white building Fuji has dubbed the Balloon House); far more comfortable with the documents on some hard surface than on his lap, but this was a definite exception.
During the day, Tezuka only knows where Fuji is by the light of the tracking device he has not noticed (perhaps Inui was right when he suggested placing it in his lower molars, the genius tended to pick at his food more often than he ate it), and today it is Tezuka who does not mind.
In a fit of randomnity, Tezuka decides that the design of the house was- if not somewhat creepy- at least very disturbing. He will not acknowledge the fact that he felt as enthralled with it as Fuji first did.
To do so would be too much folly. (Then again, not to do so would be a very bad thing.)
Today's choice of writing implement was a half-empty Bic pen, used mostly for signatures and half-hearted doodles.
Right now, Fuji was composing a short poem. He could feel the energy leaving his fingers one by one, starting from his right hand, and he would try and explain the anxiety he felt- but he doubts he's make any truly profound sense. This poem actually had a definite subject - a dormouse. The genius laughs as he scrawls the words, deciding to go minimalistic but for the silent pleas of Carroll smudging some of them as he does so. Frankly, he doesn't care.
It is a very short poem, so it won't take too much time.
Not like rewiring the computer so that it would lose its backlights.
That had been a bit difficult, with Chesterton waxing on about the glory of darkness in his head. His right hand is completely numb. Just a few more words and he'd be finished. Footsteps crunch the grass falling and lying fallen around the seesaw (broken, battered, and that's why he loves it- it is steady not like any other seesaw), and he doesn't have to be a genius to figure out who it is.
When he puts the period (the glorious sign of the end), his art piece is finished, his hands are both numb. Tezuka is worried as he drops the pen to the ground, letting the paper rest on his lap.
"Fuji?" Tezuka, Tezuka, Tezuka.
"...Syuusuke, are you-" Fuji's hands are immobile as they grab onto Tezuka's, pressing his lips to his knuckles- all hard and bony and with just the barest whiff of cologne.
"Finished it...I-" his breath catches, and he doesn't even know the name of the last poet who leaves his mind, and he does not particularly care.
"I finished it." he manages at last, shaking over his words, so long had it been since he could call them his own. Tezuka is crushing him to his chest now, and Fuji knows it's not raining. Even if it was, rain wasn't as warm as the tears that fell on his cheeks. Tezuka holds him like that, until he is done being an emotional wreck, and then they pack their things and leave.
All throughout the ordeal, Fuji realizes with a growing feeling of giddiness and regret, Tezuka has not once let go of his hand.
He was free, he was free and all Tezuka could do was hold his hand.
He somehow feels stupid. But the intensity with which Syuusuke clutched his hand back was not something he could ignore. He does not care that they will probably cause bruising; his thoughts are far from the physical thing.
"You won't leave me." Fuji says, ever so quietly from the seat beside him. Tezuka parks the car and looks at him, wanting to make his answer crystal clear.
"Never."
When everything began, Tezuka thought that Fuji would never belong to him truly, and that he wouldn't be Fuji's truly as well.
All that- because Fuji was a poet. Chained and tied to write until the last master's work was done, Tezuka could only stand by his side. But now, things were different. The last word had been written, the final masterpiece was done. Fuji still wrote, but it was his work. Ironically, the public received this with more applause.
The waves break and dance next to their house, and the baby boy with Kunimitsu's hair and Syuusuke's eyes reaches out with his hands, trying to catch either wave or sun that welcomes his day. Fuji smiles at his antics and Tezuka's hand links with his and smiles a bit more. The child's name it Mitsukashi, he whispers. It's a fitting name, he replies.
White paper and black ink have never looked so good.
Forget being chained by metal, words had more power than that.
He doesn't care if they don't belong to each other- he will never let go of his hand.
Fin
A dark sequel to a TeFu
Prov. Chapter 23: 29, 33, 34, 35
29Who has woe? Who has sorrow?
Who has contentions? Who has complaining?
Who has wounds without cause?
Who has redness of eyes?
33Your eyes will see strange things
And your mind will utter perverse things.
34And you will be like one who lies down in the middle of the sea,
Or like one who lies down on the top of a mast.
35"They struck me, but I did not become ill;
They beat me, but I did not know it
When shall I awake?
To seek it once more..."