Disclaimer: I own no part of Tenisu no Oujisama (Prince of Tennis). This fanfiction was written solely for entertainment purposes.
Rating: T, I guess. For safety.
Warnings: Idiocy, oh, the idiocy! Hints of shounen-ai—though whether it's real shounen-ai or teasing shounen-ai is up to you. Dunno.
Words: 422.
Summary: (ONE SHOT)(Drabbleish)(Shounen-ai-ish)(FujiRyo) It started with a decidedly very cheesy shirt. And then…
Dedication: For my favorite Asian-American boy. I miss that look you give me to shut me up when I'm being terribly corny.
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Hunk
--
It is a decidedly very cheesy shirt.
"…Oyaji…"
"Do you like it, boy?" Echizen Nanjirou asks, rubbing his hands together excitedly. "Hm?"
"…"
It isn't that Ryoma doesn't know what to say. There are about a thousand things he could say, but all of them would only serve to encourage this immature beast of a father that he has.
So Ryoma merely stands, drops the shirt, grabs a coat and his bag, and walks out the door.
"Oi! Oi, boy, get back here—"
"School," Ryoma calls back, and doesn't take another look at his father.
--
It's a week later, and Ryoma has finally been able to get that damn T-shirt off his mind. It's stupid and embarrassing and—fine, so it's not completely off his mind—but he has no idea why Oyaji bought it other than for blackmailing purposes, and—
Ryoma pulls out his tennis racket, so distracted that he doesn't even notice the extra weight that's dragging on the equipment.
—and now that damn t-shirt is exposed for the entire world to see. For the entire tennis club to see. Because it's on the floor. Of the clubroom.
Ryoma just stands there and stares. Wonders how the shirt got into the bag. Wonders—and knows—knows—that the whole thing was orchestrated by Nanjirou for god-knows what reason.
Ryoma just stares. The rest of the club stares, too, squinting and trying to make out the words that made Echizen halt so suddenly.
Fuji-senpai, on the other hand, steps forward and picks up that curious, curious shirt.
"Fu—"
Fuji-senpai's eyebrows rise slowly. And a smile creeps over his pleasant face. And… Echizen Ryoma suddenly wonders what is going to happen next. Wonders what on earth could happen next, with Fuji-senpai's capricious temperament.
"Asian-American Men Are Hunks," Fuji murmurs aloud then, not bothering to translate or transliterate that one—little—damning—sentence into Japanese. He just says it out loud and lets the rest of the club try and figure out what the hell a hunk is (Like that green guy? No, no—that's the Hulk, isn't it? Or—)
Just hands the shirt back to Ryoma, who shoves it into his tennis bag viciously.
And then he says, his teasing voice oh-so-low in Ryoma's ear,
"I'm inclined to agree."
--
That, Ryoma thinks as he and the rest of the Seigaku regulars turn the last lap and collapse into a heap, was so corny.
But when Fuji-senpai catches his eye and smiles, Ryoma is thankful that he can blame his blush on the run.
--
.notes.
…I plead—uh—temporary insanity?
Written because my favorite Asian-American boy snagged one of the posters at school for—what was it? Diversity week?—and carried it around with him the whole day. The original line was "Are Asian-American men hunks?" (In a 70 percent Asian school, as you can imagine, the answer was YES.), so I tweaked it a little.
Many liberties have been taken. I realize that. Please forgive me and review. Please?
--raspberry