Black Coffee
Standard Disclaimers Apply.
A/N: Written hell of a long time ago, probably about a year, on some airplane trip. The ending note reads: "Believe it or not, this whole thing was spawned because I drank part of my sister's mocha Frappucino and on the way to the restroom, the last line popped in ym head. The rest was thought through in the restroom, but then I forgot it so I just used the skeleton of the idea." So this is my first official Thrill Pair fic and I hope you enjoy it. I was partially curious on how it would be like if Fuji disliked Echizen at first, and I remember that being part of my inspiration. It's sort of vague, but I like it a lot.
The prodigy, the protégé, the "something new" that is supposed to draw up spirit.
He laughs quietly, inwardly, paper-thin. A boy.
Nothing special, nothing new. Just another rough gem. He is small, young—he knows nothing.
The corner of a mouth quirks up, knowing gaze masked by black bangs and the brim of a white cap. The wind whispers and the racket screams in his hand.
There is nothing to be seen here. Those weak, arrogant shoulders can carry nothing but a future of failures. He will not be sucked in like the others; he is worthless.
"Fuji." senpai.
Echizen "Ryoma."
Soft-spoken, razor sharp. An insult, a glance.
Dull, dull eyes. A boring brown. Not determined like Tezuka's. Nothing like Tezuka. What does he see?
Not brown, fiery gold. Not determined, but torched, burnished, living in an inferno within an inferno, melting, scorching. It's not determination, it's a guaranteed 'I will'.
What makes that fire?
A match. Red-hot running through his body, his heart beats b-bmp b-bmp b-bmp and distantly, behind his singular instinct to dominate, he thinks it's like sex without the intercourse. Rain washes it all away.
An exchange of intense feeling. The caress of a smash, the fluttering sensation of a lob, the fall of drop shots—love love love you I love you "A-ahn!"—and they play. The rain is the bedsheet, covering, concealing, from prying eyes and they engage on the hard, green, bed uinder their feet, bodies strung taut above it. Straining, panting, overwhelming, euphoric and empowering, they are at their peak. It's an aphrodisiac, this thrill.
Color: black, tan pale brown. Drab, vivid shades painting pretty pictures in unintelligible smudges—the swipe of the mouth here, the wisp of the eyes there—he is Pandora's box. What is inside could be dangerous, but could also be rewarding.
"Don't smile so much, Fuji-senpai. It's unbecoming."
"…..You don't say."
He wants to know. Tensai, genius, he has a thirst for that knowledge. That unending indifference, the arrogance, the casual anti-social trait that he is famous for.
Another side. Spice, coy smiles, quick, smoldering glances. The licking of lips, slow, langorous and seductive. Quick as a flash, with a flip of his eyes and the brim of a cap, it is gone.
Temptation.
Fuji can't help but become hard.
He takes Ryoma out. Just once.
It is the first time Fuji has heard that laugh. It's surprisingly carefree, breathless and husky. It sends shivers up Fuji's back. They are in a café—table for two please—and they talk, not of tennis, not of school, but of personal things.
Sugar, spice and everything nice. That's what delusions are made of. Ryoma, spicy hot, burning and tearing at his skin in a tease. Follow me, catch me, take me, claim me. Will his lips be sweet like the Ponta he drinks?
Ryoma orders a slice of raspberry mousse cake, following Fuji's example, but unexpectedly orders a coffee, black. He drinks it like water, and the richness of the bean floats to Fuji's nose, immersed in its own aromatic communications with Fuji's ginger, wasabi and tamarind latte. Raspberry melts in both their mouths, a shared sensation.
Fuji walks Ryoma home, shadows stretching up the wall. Their hands do not touch.
Ryoma stops before his gate, eyes golden, and he smiles, blinding, reaches up and captures him. Fuji is being consumed through his mouth, burning, wanting, and he clutches and scrabbles at Ryoma's waist uselessly.
It's that feeling again, the one on their special bed, their special form of completion.
The tongue tangling with his, little licks of flame, twining, blending seamlessly, and Fuji's mouth is full of fire and helplessly, helplessly, he is drawn in. Ryoma laughs and kisses him again, breathlessly. It is gentle, chaste, exploring.
They separate. Ryoma takes Fuji's hand in his own, placing it on his cheek and nuzzling into it, smiling, soft and coy.
"Show me Syuusuke, Fuji-senapai. I want to know."
He still tastes coffee on his tongue.