Summary: Fuji sees Tezuka out.
Disclaimer: Konomi Takeshi created Prince of Tennis. Don't own it, am not profiting from it.
Notes: 25 minutes, with editing. I swear, it is about UST. This characterisation of Fuji... is experimental. (: wonder if it worked? Done for tm challenge: UST.
Room For Rent
Packing. And the animosity between us grows and tumbles like messy piles of books and photographs (little things I like to collect, and keep undusted, unloved for too long). I'm sorting myself into little boxes, labelling, classifying, dividing—what I should keep and what I should not, what I can't bear to leave behind.
Four hours and twenty three minutes. Between antagonising Inui and snapping at Eiji my newest pastime is making biting comments about you.
Some trinkets bear no date and have no more usefulness but I don't pack them, don't throw them, don't even donate them, these remnants of time and once-love; they are not fit to belong to anyone else, these carelessly discarded for no one but myself to pick up.
The sky is burnt umber, an ashen colour that translates well to bitterness on film. Amongst the piles of objects (there is no other word to encompass the myriad of masks that I have amassed over the years), there is almost no room to breathe. Heavy, dusty, and claustrophobic. Every drawer holds something new, dredged up from some depths by my relentless yet reluctant soul-searching—your not-quite-love and vague unwilling hate.
Photographs don't fade in the harsh light of reality and I wonder why my memories do.
No doubt, I think, your room must be the same—full of corners loaded with little jack-in-the-boxes, wound tight to spring out when they've been disturbed. Perhaps you've long thrown them, or you've put locks on their lids, not wishing to be surprised at their antics ever again. Perhaps you've forgotten me. Now, imagine my laughing at you and wagging my finger playfully, how could you ever forget me, Tezuka?
You gave me kisses and you don't even take these back as you leave. I hope you won't be hurt when I tell you that I've cauterised all the arteries that lead to my heart, these highways that you tore down, trampled upon.
Six hours and ten minutes since you left and it is hot tea that warms me tonight. Long after you've packed up and left someone else will come in to stay.
It is, after all, a room for rent.
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