Happy Birthday Fuji! (All disclaimers apply)

Credits: Credits go to Awin-chan (summary) and Dudly (Title) I'm sorry I couldn't make better use of it! I wish I could!

This is unsatisfying and angsty... what a horrid combination.

Fountain of Wishes

For a moment, Fuji thought that mixed among dark rain clouds, he saw a flash of beautiful gold glittering across the sky like sunlight. However, with an unseasonable storm brewing, it was impossible. Something must have deceived his eyes. After that, no matter how hard he searched for the beautiful light, he couldn't trace it. His eyes remained focused towards the clouds until a raindrop broke his focus, running across his pale face like a tear.

Fuji opened his mouth, as if he wanted to make a wish, but there was no shooting star to guide his lips, and an untold amount of desires that held him back from choosing one. Out of loneliness, instead of speaking his wishes, Fuji held them close to his heart; they were his last treasures.

An hour ago, Fuji decided to retreat outside, to the far edge of the city in a remote park to taste the cool breeze. He realized how unseasonably cold it was; while winter still hung thickly in the air, he expected it to be warmer. He shivered under his jacket, his teeth chattering oddly. His breath curled up into the air like a cloud of smoke before disappearing. All he was able to hear was the tense echo of silence; he didn't even detect the footsteps as a man approached him and laid a strong, elegant hand on his left shoulder.

He shuddered. Sometimes, he wished that he could forget the feeling of the familiar hand on his shoulder.

"Happy birthday,"

The seductive, charming voice broke the silence suddenly and if Fuji were not a calmer person, he might have jumped at the sound. For Fuji, his ears were not accustomed to hearing it, spoken so softly and sweetly. Twenty-four-year old Fuji only was able to truly celebrate his birthday once every four years, and today was the sixth time in his relatively short life. Each year, he celebrated quietly, but even as a child, he was able to tell the difference. The man who held his should was Atobe Keigo, who smiled at him in an expectant manner as if he knew that Fuji would thank him for remembering. As he breathed, his breath turned into a cloud of mist in the chilly air.

Today wasn't only his birthday, but the first true anniversary of Tezuka Kunimitsu's death.

"Hey, Atobe." After a minute or so, Atobe's impatient gaze compelled him to follow the man back to his limousine, which was waiting just outside the park.

"We'll go to your home."

Usually, Atobe never acquiesced to the idea of going to Fuji's house. Instead, he preferred dragging Fuji to his mansion and offering him the best of food and entertainment. However, Fuji never enjoyed it and he was vaguely able to sense the discontent. With the little kindness that he possessed, he granted Fuji a birthday gift; they would spend the remainder of the day at Fuji's apartment instead, without the masses of chefs and butlers waiting on them hand and foot. It was enough to keep the smile on Fuji's face, even when, surprised, at the limousine, Atobe snapped his fingers and his driver brought Fuji a beautiful bouquet of roses and opened the door for them. The limousine was warmer, and on the seat Atobe had a box which contained birthday cake, no doubt made by his best chef earlier that day. Even then, the car was enveloped in tense silence, even when Fuji's smile was so kind and benevolent. It was as if any desire to speak left him as soon as Atobe handed him the roses. Instead, he stared out the limousine's tinted windows, searching for the shining gold that caught his eye earlier as rain began to run against the glass.

"Master Atobe, we've arrived." Preoccupied by the overwhelming amount of silence, neither noticed that the limousine came to a slow stop nearly ten minutes ago and his driver had been standing there for a while, waiting for them to realize that he'd opened the door and cold was now flooding into the limousine. After watching Fuji uneasily, he took the cake box and motioned for Fuji to follow. His driver handed them a large umbrella in the torrential downpour. They were outside Fuji's apartment complex, and as they stood under the umbrella together, Atobe was unaware of the memories that flooded the boy's thoughts; he could only witness the vague pain that traveled across Fuji's slackening face as a raindrop slid languidly across his cheek. It was too painful of a reminder of his moments with Tezuka that brought sadness into his heart, especially on this day, when the scenery could easily be changed to something from his joy-strewn past as he shared an umbrella with Tezuka while it snowed.

Fuji, tearing himself from his memories, pulled his apartment door open. Even though he'd walked past the doorway many times and slipped off his shoes in the relatively small space, Atobe always gave the apartment a small scoff. After living in a mansion his entire life, he wasn't well adjusted to setting foot in such a small home. For almost two years now, he called at least once a month, commented about how hideous this apartment was, and nearly ordered Fuji to come with him in his mansion. Of course, the tennis prodigy always declined; he was ordered around easily as it was. There was something about this small, cramped space that he liked. Perhaps it was something silly, like the two futons that he kept in a closet in the hall that he laid on the floor each night even though he only needed one. Maybe it was the fact that his walls were unusually covered with photographers that Fuji took and developed himself or that there was a small coffee stain on the edge of the kitchen table; maybe it was the fact that the wooden floors were old and worn. Atobe didn't know how the man could appreciate so much imperfection.

The apartment was still as hideous as Atobe remembered it and it took all of his effort not to sneer at it and remind himself that he needed to convince Fuji to move out and join him at his mansion. Fuji seemed to admire this home too much and Atobe had to hide a glare as gently, longingly, Fuji glanced at one of the only pictures of he and the captain of his middle school tennis club, Tezuka Kunimitsu, together. In the picture, Tezuka didn't even spare a rare smile and it was a very ugly picture, but for some reason, Fuji was oddly fond of it.

"I brought cake."

Atobe indicate the box of cake that he held, and Fuji raised an eyebrow at it for only a moment. As Atobe only tolerated "the best" this was likely something custom made, and not something that Fuji would like. After searching for a vase for the red roses, he watched as Atobe set the cake on the table, opened the box, and went to find plates, forks, and a knife. He looked over his shoulder. It was strawberry shortcake, and a pleasant surprise as it was one of the only cakes that he liked. He hadn't eaten it in four years. His smile was even brighter now and he inclined his head slightly and then glanced at the ceiling.

"Thank you," He allowed a courteous gesture, and Atobe looked proud at Fuji's satisfaction. His smile was bright, but it faded a little when he glanced to the side and spotted a photograph of Tezuka. He was equally as grim when Atobe handed him a slice of the shortcake. Forcibly glancing away from the photograph, he went to sit down at the table. When he tasted the cake, he couldn't help but brighten up at least slightly. Despite his dislike of the numerous amounts of gourmet dishes that Atobe's chefs concocted in hopes of pleasing Fuji's taste buds, they never quite succeeded. However, the cake was wonderful. He'd never tasted anything quite so delicious. Atobe was so proud that he forgot to even touch his own slice as he watched Fuji eat.

"You haven't made a birthday wish," he mentioned when Fuji finally finished. An elegant, handsome smile curled across his lips and Fuji set his plate on the table. The sound was soft, but to Fuji it sounded loud enough to break his eardrums; to him, it sounded like shattering glass. There was an uncharacteristic, bitter frown on his lips; Atobe rarely saw such an expression. He saw a flash of pristine blue, and complemented by the frown, it reminded Atobe stunningly of the rare moments during his middle school tennis matches that Fuji was serious; it reminded him too much of the distant, unreachable man that stood across the net surrounded by a swirling, powerful aura.

"I don't need to,"

Fuji wanted to pause and let life take its course, perhaps, away from the difficulty of making decisions for himself. It wasn't the powerful person that Atobe remembered, but it was somewhat suiting given his present condition. He looked vague, and blank, like the time they went to the coast and Fuji stood at the waters edge listening to the echo of the ocean as if he was listening to the whisper, and then following the shore for a ways as if he was trying to follow a voice in his heart before he lost track and stopped in his tracks, with Atobe only a few steps behind.

He was tired of following non-existent wishes; tired of listening to the never-ending echo of the sea. The emotions glittered across his face like the light of a reflection, as if he was staring at a crystal clear stream and deciding what wish to make next, or trying to decide if Atobe would understand why he couldn't.

Four years ago on February 29, Tezuka Kunimitsu died in a car accident.

Five years ago, he held Tezuka's hand and looked him in the eyes quietly, shamefully admitting that their relationship was over. Fuji liked somebody else, he said, and if it was proper, he would love to continue their friendship and remain roommates, though ever since Tezuka came back to Japan when he was nineteen to continue his professional tennis career, they lived together as lovers. Fuji always thought they would be together. On Tanabata, they stood together under the stars and Fuji looked up at the sky as the paper hanging from the trees rustled in the wind and murmured a silent wish.

Only a little more than six months later, four years ago on Fuji's birthday, he received a call late at night that sent him rushing out the door.

He never wished harm upon Tezuka; he only wished for the freedom from the guilt of living with Tezuka while he liked somebody else, even though they were still close friends and Fuji helped support their life just as much as Tezuka did with his job. That was all. He never wished that Tezuka would be hurt, yet as his heart throbbed as he sped towards the hospital at nearly midnight, his hair disheveled and his coat only halfway on his shoulders, still in his pajamas he realized that his heart pounded with a new guilt, that this, this was the reason Tezuka was hurt. He also realized too late that a part of him always loved Tezuka, and, as he sobbed and prayed for him while Tezuka lay unconscious, his prayers came to late.

Within two hours, he died, taking half of Fuji's heart with him.

"Does this have to do with him?" he asked acutely while Fuji reminisced.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Fuji nodded.

His wishes weren't meant to hurt people, and afterwards, while he prayed that something would soothe his aching heart, he realized that no more than a week later, Atobe came to dispel Fuji's current state and that, no more than two years later, they would become lovers. His wishes were harmful; Fuji didn't wish anymore. Atobe couldn't understand it, the feeling of being responsible for Tezuka's death because only a week before the man's death, six months after his first wish, he wished again that he wouldn't have to endure the guilt of living with Tezuka.

Life was equivalent exchange. It gave and took. It stole Tezuka away from him.

He didn't wish anymore, even when he went shopping in the mall and saw a huge wishing fountain where children threw their coins and offered their deepest wishes. He only looked at the glittering pool for a moment before. So lonely, he turned his face down, until Atobe caught his chin and said rather haughtily, "He wanted you to be happy."

Slowly, quietly, Fuji acquiesced.

However, his glance towards Tezuka's picture didn't waver, especially when he sighed and nodded when Atobe drew him into an embrace, feeling self-confident that he understood Fuji's situation well.

Life gave and took.

When the tears ran down his cheeks, Atobe could only remind him that birthdays were happy, and he needed to smile and enjoy the cake.

Sometimes, it never felt like that.