Title: Like Nothing Else
Author: Charlotte (Atra)
Disclaimer: See, if the Lost Generation were mine, I'd coddle them and steal their writing skillz. And if the Tenipuri boys were mine, well... trust me, some things would be more canon than others. Beginning with Zukafuji.
Summary and Notes: The Great Gatsby meets Tennis no Oujisama and anything but crossover happens. Realistically, it shouldn't even be called a Gatsby AU, but is based so heavily in Fitzgerald's modernist and jazz New York that it would be wrong not to mention Gatsby somewhere. This fic does not follow any sort of order. You can take it as a collection of one-shots that all happen to take place in this era, or you can take it as one whole story. I myself have not decided yet, so, for the moment, assume that each installment takes place all at the same party (unless otherwise stated). Pairings, so far as I can tell, include Tezuka/Fuji, Ryoma/Sakuno, Yagyuu/Niou, and Fuji/Ryoma, though all but the first don't appear until later on.
A short explanation of modernism, escapism, and Gatsby themes is probably in order. I'll be brief, as revealing more than necessary would spoil the book for you (if you haven't read it, do so immediately!) and bore you to death. Essentially, the 1920's were a period of complete confusion and disarray. The American people were deeply affected by the First World War, and, generally among the younger generation that had just come of age, there was a lot of disquiet and a sense of loss.
The period saw an incredible amount of money. The economic boom just preceding the Great Depression created a whole new social class of the newly rich: people who had fought their way to riches by bootlegging or simply by being very lucky with the stock market. The clash between the newly rich and the so-called "old rich" is one of the catalysts for the ultimate downfall of a character in The Great Gatsby, and is very prevalent in the novel.
The most important part of modernism, and the one most touched on in this fic, is the concept of escapism. The generation hated reality: reality was thousands of people dying for no apparent cause in trenches, reality was working with no comfortable end in sight. There was so much distrust running everywhere that people no longer believed in God - God in Gatsby is T.J. Eckleburg's eyes on an advertisement. And the people of the generation, particularly the old and new rich, chose to hide from their troubles and hide from reality by going to ridiculously lavish parties, usually hosted by one of the "new rich." There, they revelled in alcohol and sex: the women were shallow, the men anything but chivalrous, and everyone essentially drank and had sex all over the place. Though that isn't the point. Really. The point is that everything is very material.
Anyway, I talk altogether too much: I won't do this anymore, but somehow I don't think everyone hanging around the Pit of Voles is familiar with modernism.
(side: tezuka & fuji)
The party is a riot.
When he walks into the house he sees the colors and the shapes and the curves of couples and floors; he moves towards the curtains to catch a glimpse of the moon and instead finds curtains, so many curtains, that he hadn't known were there. They are white instead of his periwinkle blue and billow like so many dresses in the cheap night air.
He presses his finger against a vase and it crashes against the ground.
There is a certainty in his step that makes people turn their eyes, and there is a certainty in the finger-pressing that makes people turn their heads and saunter over and ask his name.
"Kunimitsu," he says, "Kunimitsu Tezuka."
The flighty woman to his right smiles keenly at his gold-rimmed glasses and his well-cut suit and touches a finger to her glittering red lips. "Rebecca," she says, as if it is of prime importance, and she does not leave her last name.
He nods almost inperceptibly; they talk of the alcohol and the nice crystal lights and the fabric of the curtains before she concedes and they leave the party to the back of Tezuka's car.
His voice is condescending and harsh, and he says things not befitting for a gentleman, but she presses into him anyway, though an hour later he is back by the shattered vase and she is out in the gardens, laughing and pushing her breasts into someone else's hands.
-
The curtains are mesmerizing, he finds, because they never look the same twice. Someone has opened the windows completely and the curtains are thrashing wildly in the Atlantic wind. Tezuka likes the unearthly howl that screeches in from beside the glass and the way it tingles against his ears like something tangible, and is on the verge of reaching out and grabbing at the vibrations when he hears a low chuckle several feet to his left.
He turns and sees a young man standing in the center of a small pool of young women, each smiling, each laughing, but none with such a smile as the young man himself. He has soft brown hair and soft brown eyes and soft white skin and his voice is strange and sandy and comfortable against the shrieks of the wind and the high-pitched giggles of the women and clinking of glasses and the hearty guffaws of drunk men.
And he finds himself bowing pleasantly to the petite stranger and saying "Hello, my name is and I work at in the city."
The stranger tilts his head to the side, laughing mildly, and says, in that lilting voice, "Shusuke Fuji."
Tezuka raises his eyebrows, because this is new and different - "Japanese?"
When Fuji nods, not nearly as inperceptible as Tezuka, some women gasp and slip slowly away, and Tezuka takes the moment to take Fuji aside and offer him wine. He politely declines but continues staring into Tezuka's hazel eyes and murmuring things with his mouth that make the hairs on the back of Tezuka's neck stand on end.
He is not sure who initiates it anymore, but somehow they find themselves in this stranger's maid's broom closet, with Tezuka's hands on Fuji's waist, Fuji's foot flailing haphazardly against a wall, Fuji's fingers and nails on the blades of Tezuka's shoulder and the curve of his back and the top of his spine, Tezuka's mouth gasping into the soft wind blowing through the slightly open door, Fuji's words muffled into Tezuka's collarbone and interspersed between frenzied slashes of tongue against warming, sweaty skin.
Tezuka doesn't know where he is or why he's there, or why the body writhing in his arms is small and lithe and male, but he knows, as the curtains fling open, that it doesn't matter.
He can see the moon.