Lia: A little background of this story: Clary had been writing a completely separate fiction that I have been yelling at her for, because, like the lazy smartypants that she was, she did not give me anything about where the story is going, and that usually means that said story is going to end up unfinished. I was working on fixing that when she got sucked into an argument about cliches and ingeniously (do note the sarcasm) worked herself into a bet of sorts. So now, she is furiously writing this story because 'her pride and dignity as an author is on the line.' (No, I don't understand it, either.)

Also, I think it's only fair to warn you that she is trying out a different writing style. It is disturbing (but that is probably just me)

But please do enjoy :)

His relationship with Tezuka was not all honey and sunshine.

There were times when they argued, times when either he or Tezuka was too stubborn to give up an argument that would have been otherwise meaningless. He guessed that came from the fact that they were both strong-willed boys. But still, he was okay with it. They fought, but they made up afterwards, every time.

And then there were times when he would be waiting for nothing, when some promises were broken, when some jealousy sparked, but he learned not to mind.

(There were also times when he longed for an 'I love you' that would always remain unsaid, but he stopped minding that, too.)

Because he knew that they loved each other. And somewhere along the way, he had convinced himself that that was enough.

No, his relationship with Tezuka was not all honey and sunshine at all.

After all, they were both boys. And they both knew that society would look down on them if they did show it. Their relationship was kept at the utmost secret, even though he would have wanted nothing more than to tell the world that he belonged to Tezuka, and that Tezuka was his. He hated that he couldn't reject confessions by saying that he was with someone else, because there would be too many questions that he cannot answer. He hated that he couldn't hold Tezuka's hand in public, that he couldn't go on normal dates with Tezuka, that Tezuka couldn't kiss him on his doorstep when he was dropped at his house.

He hated it, but he had to stand it, because he was protecting Tezuka too. Because Tezuka had a reputation to uphold, because Tezuka was the perfect student and the perfect son, because he couldn't ruin and hurt Tezuka like that because of his selfishness. Besides, the times they both did spend together were exquisite and over time, he had taught himself to be happy with it.

It wasn't all honey and sunshine, but the times that it was were the best times in Fuji's life.

Even until now.

He had known, from the very beginning, that it would never last, that they would never last, that his forever with Tezuka was not possible. He had known that dreaming about things like that was only going to hurt him in the end.

But even then, he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop loving Tezuka, couldn't stop longing for him, and wanting him, and couldn't say no to every touch, every kiss, every moment that they shared together.

He told himself that it was okay. It was okay that he was happy now. He could be sad later, but he was happy now, and it was what mattered. He'd keep all these moments in gold-framed memories for later on, and he told himself that they will be the ones that will carry him through life, without Tezuka.

He told himself they were more than enough, and he worked so very hard to get himself to believe it.

It was, after all, the first lie he'd told himself when he came into the relationship.

Though he took comfort in the fact that at least, it wasn't the biggest lie he'd ever made himself believe. He had been young then, after all, and much too naive and drowned to his head with love.

He had always wondered why he was called a genius. He was nothing more than a lovesick, sorry, sad excuse for a fool who believed all sorts of things just because he wanted to believe in them.

He wanted to believe that he could live without Tezuka, for example.

And it was nothing but a stupid lie.

But not the biggest, and the most painful one, no.

Because Tezuka's love had been the biggest lie of them all.

THE MELODY OF TWO HEARTS

Prologue

You are the song playing so softly in my heart

The setting was perfect.

Fuji Syusuke had painstakingly prepared it himself, and had taken great effort to make sure everything was just right, that everything was perfect for her.

He smiled as she sailed through her room to him, her eyes sparkling with obvious delight. They were blue, like his own, but not. They were the color of cornflowers, if he thought about it, and once she had laughed and told him that here, in America, cornflower blue eyes weren't as alien as they were back in Japan (and, in the same breath, added that his eyes were exotic anywhere). Her golden hair was in a bun that looked beautiful, if not new, on her, for most of the time, they were down, in neat (but uncombed) waves.

He chuckled. "Happy birthday, Milly," he told her, reaching around and hugging her back, though with decidedly much less enthusiasm. Sometimes, she reminded him of a certain red-haired acrobat back at home, that was almost as enthusiastic as her when it came to glomping, but he stopped himself from remembering anything more.

He would only hurt himself.

Milly Ashford grinned back at him, straightening her black dress that went a little more revealing than most, but not so much that it was slutty. He had spent so much time with her (ever since he started high school in America, actually) that he didn't mind her dress choice anymore.

"Thanks, love," she said, winking at him before giving him an overly-exaggerated kiss on the cheek.

"Now, now, President," he playfully chided. "There's really no need to keep everyone waiting for long now, is there?"

"Oh, don't worry," she replied, falling in to the playful banter they had developed over the years. "Call it being fashionably late."

"They can't properly celebrate a birthday without the birthday girl, can they?" He loped his arm with hers and began leading her towards the gilded elevators of the hotel.

"I'll tell them I spent the time celebrating with my beloved." She winked at him again and gave him another kiss as they entered the elevator. He pushed four, and kissed her back on her cheek as they waited to get to their designated floor.

"Milly, you're twenty-nine," he told her, mock scowling. "Don't tell me you still have desires for me. That's practically pedophilia."

He was one year younger than her.

"Is it, now? How old might you be, then, I wonder?"

He gave her a wide grin. "Seven," he said before the doors of the elevator opened with a loud ding, drowning out her reply.

They walked in an easy silence to the ballroom that was the location for Milly's party (arranged by him, of course), and when they stood in front of the huge double doors, he let go of her hand and nudged her forward.

"Go on," he told her. "You have a big night ahead of you."

A party and a proposal, it was a big night indeed. He hid a smile.

"You won't go running away now that you've done your job and brought me to my party, would you?" she asked with a maliciously sadistic grin that reminded Fuji, once again, of old times.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

She gave him one last smile and threw the doors open as she sauntered in.

Just as he had expected, the party was already in full throttle once he got in. He'd invited all of Milly's socialite friends, after all, as well as many others in between, and the ballroom was a jumble of bright colors and dancing bodies. After one toast of happy birthday to Milly, she was all into socializing, all smiles and laughs, like a good PR should.

Personally, he thought the job suited her very well. Him... Not so much, but he enjoyed himself, and he was with the friends he had gathered from being in the Student Council with Milly in high school. Really, they were like a family now.

It was a good job.

He waved hello to Lelouch and the others, smiled winningly to Rivalz, and headed for the small stage set up for this very purpose.

He called Milly to the stage and waited until everything, and everyone was in place, before he patted her hand, wished her a happy birthday and took out a ring that had been carefully, meticulously chosen, from its Tiffany box.

He saw her blue eyes widen, and for a moment, he was taken back.

(Tezuka's eyes would widen like that, too, when Fuji did something particularly surprising for him then.)

And when he looked again, he had to blink before Milly's eyes returned to their original color, from the striking hazel that even now, made him feel all shivery inside.

"I love you."

("Ne, Kunimitsu. I love you.")

"I can't imagine anything better than to spend forever with you."

("We'll have forever, do you promise?")

"Will you share the rest of your life with me?"

("Let's stay together from now on, okay? Now, and tomorrow, and every single day of the rest of our lives.")

He didn't hear the collective gasp of the audience, nor did he hear her say yes. He was far too preoccupied with the hazel eyes and the 'I love you' that he knew was fake, but he couldn't help but relish anyway. He was taken back only when she had bounded to him, and engulfed him in a big hug, telling him it was perfect, it was all perfect, she didn't expect it at all, but everything was just right, and she was so happy, she would never have said no.

It was only then that he was made aware of his tears.

And once again, like he had been doing all these years, he tried to convince himself that he was crying because he was happy.

But sadly, because he wasn't naive or foolish anymore, he was only partly successful.

./.

Tezuka Kunimitsu had a perfect, enviable life.

He worked as one of the top executives of the biggest company there had ever been in Japan, with a fully-(whatever European country Atobe happened to favor that week)-furnished office, an expensive signature, a door with his name on it in gold plaque, and his own secretary and assistant. The only other person who had the exact same things (and then some) was Atobe Keigo, and he owned the company.

Atobe had recruited him almost immediately after he had graduated college, saying that ore-sama wanted only the best for his company, and he had worked himself up, slowly but surely to earning more than enough money than he could ever spend in his lifetime every month.

He was one of the most eligible, and probably richest (almost as rich as Atobe, or maybe not, but close) men in Japan. Even at almost-twenty-nine, he had kept his good looks, his impeccable charisma and aura that led people to be drawn to him, females more than any other. They swooned over him more often than not, and Tezuka had to be thankful that Atobe, at least, had the decency to hire him a secretary that wasn't insane or desperate.

He worked out (tennis), occasionally met with a few friends from back then, during junior high. And even though his arm ensured that he could never dream of entering the pro circuit, or winning a Grand Slam title, he was still rather good, and he and Atobe had a running score of sixty-seven wins and sixty-seven losses. Atobe worked out because it made him look good, and there was nothing that revealed 'ore-sama's prowess' more than tennis, but he was competitive when Tezuka needed him to be, and serious on other times. Tezuka more than put up a decent fight, and had been getting onto his sixty-eighth win, but they had been stopped by a rather urgent call for a rather urgent meeting that turned out to be about something frivolous. Tezuka still thought that Atobe had planned it all.

He lived in a decent condo, in the (much) better part of town, with furniture 'generously' chosen by Atobe, who claimed he was hopeless in design (and fashion). Tezuka didn't like half the things Atobe had stuffed into his home, but the other half was tolerable, and he'd learned, early on, to just humor Atobe and his whims because he really didn't like dealing with tantrums. Atobe threw huge, head-splitting tantrums.

Besides, the (very few) people who actually stepped foot into his home had commented on 'his sense of style,' (which was actually Atobe's, really), so he'd learned not to mind. The few items he really couldn't deal with, he'd replaced or just did away with, and he'd actually managed to convince Atobe to keep everything, at the very least, at a tolerably bland black and white. But it was a decent home and that was that.

All in all, it was a perfect, enviable life.

He didn't have a wife, or a girlfriend, because frankly, he just couldn't bring himself to look at women (or anyone else) that way.

(There was only ever one person that he would love. Not that he'd admit it to himself, but the fact that he stayed single, despite all these years, was proof enough.)

It was not his fault, really, he'd tried to see people, more than once, but before the end of the first meeting, he'd find a million and one different things that made his whoever-date-of-the-night intolerable. And he'd give them a small nod when they asked if he'd call them, even though their numbers would probably just end up in the trash and at the end of that night, he wouldn't even be able to remember their names if he tried. He never called them back. Not one.

It was the only stain in his otherwise perfect record. Atobe kept on trying to remedy that, of course. Blind dates, double dates, even a strip club once (though Tezuka had been quite furious and had drawn the line right there) but nothing ever worked, because they were all so wrong. (She had sharp, lusty eyes that weren't quite the right shade of blue. It looked like she was wearing contacts, was she wearing contacts? This other girl had too long a hair, did it have to reach her knees like that? And it looked dyed, he could see dark roots an inch long beneath the faux blond. He liked honey-brown hair, thank you very much, that wasn't dyed. Another woman, who smelled like she had just showered in perfume, had asked him what scent he liked, and though he liked a mellow apple-and-vanilla, he told her she smelled wonderful, even though her scent was murdering his nose. And all the other girls just talked too much.)

Sometimes, Atobe would look at him like that, like he had many years ago when Tezuka still played tennis and had hid his shoulder injury from everyone excepting for those who had found out for themselves.

Like Atobe. (And... well, other genius people. A genius person. A genius person who had held the lapels of his shirt that afternoon back in his first year and had chastised him and shook and flashed angry eyes at the fact that he dare play with an injury. Who had waited for him to come back from Germany, and welcomed him home with open, eager arms and pliant, just-as-eager lips. Who had played that heart-stopping, most brilliant game with him. Who Tezuka used to –still- loved.)

And during his twenty-eighth birthday, instead of another forced blind date, Tezuka only received an album from Atobe, lying innocently on his desk, with a pompous red ribbon and a note that told him to 'enjoy, he could thank ore-sama later.'

He had come this close to tearing it and chucking it out of the office with a quick lecture of minding your own damn business to high and mighty ore-sama.

But he had stared into those blue, blue eyes and found that once again, he couldn't.

But when Atobe had sauntered to his office, he had, of course, told him that he did not appreciate it one bit (lie), what the hell had he been thinking when he gave Tezuka a present like that. Atobe had only smirked and told him "You're welcome," as if Tezuka had gone down on his knees to thank him for his 'generous thought.'

He still had the album, tucked at the very back part of the bottomest drawer of his office table. And at times, when he had nothing to do, his glance would immediately go there, and he would stop the urge to reach out and open it with so much effort. But there were also times, just for sentimental reasons, mind, that he'd open it and he'd run his hands across the glossy pages and sigh. Then, he'd close it back again, tuck it back in the back corner of the bottomest drawer of his office table because he could never get himself to throw it out, and set about drowning himself in work, until he was too exhausted to think about things and how things could have went.

He can't walk down that road again. He'd told himself that many, many times. He'd made his decision and now he lived with it, because that was just the way the world worked.

One lousy (beautiful, beautiful) album was not going to change that.

It wasn't going to change anything.

Not his perfect, enviable life that always seemed to be missing something that he could never seem to have.

(Blue eyes, perhaps, or a gentle smile. And a cheerful "Welcome home!" when he got back from work. And the smell of something spicy cooking in the kitchen. And cacti in his windowsills. And photographs on his walls. And a soft "I love you" before he drifted off to sleep at night.)

Tezuka's life lacked something (someone) important, something (someone) very important, something (someone) that would have made it all perfect, that would have made him happy.

And Tezuka, like the idiotic coward he was and the loverboy he wasn't, liked to pretend he didn't know what (who) it was.

Clary: It IS NOT a new writing style, Lia. I just used a different way to put together scenes in the story, that's all. Sheesh. (This idea came from my friend who writes like this. And I think it's cool, because it's just like those anime that have scenes before the opening song~ Kyaaaaa~ -fangirl scream-) Anyway, hi guys! I hope you like the first installation~~ I worked hard on it, because my pride as an author (not that there was much to begin with, BUT STILL) is on the line here.

Lia: You really should not have made that bet. I still disapprove.

Clary: No, you have to support me because you're my editor! Meanie –sticks out tongue- Anyway, it took me and Lia a very long time to decide what context we're gonna put this story in and it took almost like a week and a half to structure it. Wahahahaha~ I really didn't know writing a story where everything is normal is THAT hard.

Lia: And thus, she has a newfound respect for authors. Yes, yes, and this is the nth time I've heard this particular line of conversation, and it's getting really old.

Clary: WHATEVER, Lia. Anyway, you guys, please do review and tell me whether I have even a hair's breadth of chance that I might win this bet. PLEASE? (Because if I don't, I'll just delete this and go on writing other story with my missing pride)

Lia: I don't believe you.

Clary: Ignore her, guys, she is PMS-ing. But please do leave a note to tell me whatcha guys think, kay?