Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Title: Time
Author/Artist: MoonlitAffairs (Kyoka)
Theme(s): #1 Regret (There may be other themes in here, but I chose to include only one each.)
Characters: Tezuka Kunimitsu, Fuji Shuusuke
Rating: T
Warnings: Character death, blood, angst
Disclaimer/claimer: Prince of Tennis belongs to the manga-ka, Konomi Takeshi. All characters are otherwise disclaimed. This fiction is written for purely entertainment. It will not be used in any other way. Thank you, Konomi Takeshi!
Summary: Tezuka didn't know why he felt this despair, this regret. He could only watch as his friend bled to death, and the hands on the clock slowed to a stop. Written for 30 Deathfics on livejournal
Time
What was this unending pain that he felt rise in his chest?
Tezuka Kunimitsu, third year in Seishun Gakuen, never thought that he'd see this, or feel this; it was an incredible, heart-rending pain. He was supposed to be too serious for that. After all, he was captain; he was the unmovable stone, and foremost the pillar of support of the Seigaku tennis club. People would even go as far as calling him a rock. Nothing could make him upset, it seemed.
Yet here he was, looking more distraught than he ever had in his life.
This pain wasn't something that he was supposed to experience. It clouded his senses until he choked. He was alone, but he wasn't able to cry even then. He took of his glasses slowly and closed his eyes, yet he still wasn't able to cry. Even as a youngster, Tezuka rarely cried. Thus, he found it hard to do so even now.
The clock ticked onwards, but the second hand fell slower and slower, until all time ceased to move. Seconds turned into several minutes, and minutes turned into several hours. Tezuka wasn't used to such things. .
He had regrets; they were regrets were the only things that made him feel beyond guilty. The feeling stuck in his chest, and he was choking again, falling in a vast sea. He was drowning in it. He wanted to throw up; he wanted to be sick from it. His throat wouldn't allow it, though. His esophagus clenched, restricting his oxygen intake, and thus stealing his breath.
In his hands was clasped a steaming cup of tea, but it remained untouched. His mother had left it to him with a gentle smile, and he'd given her proper acknowledgment, though his throat felt weak in doing so. This was what he was supposed to do, anyways. He wasn't supposed to show that he was hurting. After all, he acted years beyond his own age. He was too mature for this.
Hesitantly, he brought the cup up to his lips. The liquid… it burned. The tea scalded his mouth and made a burning path down his throat. It was enough to make him tense. The choking sensation was back, and Tezuka coughed violently. Droplets of hot tea singed his pants, but he didn't pay attention to that. Even in a normal situation, he wouldn't have minded so much as changing into a clean pair of pants. Now he didn't. Now he just sat there while the minute hand on the clock slowed to a stop, following his weak heartbeat.
It had been last night that he walked with him. They had only been coming home from practice, both tired from a good two hours of drills. Inui had been directing the practice again, today, or at least the training section of it. Tezuka had good endurance, and was perfectly fit. One would think that his ordering of laps would be more tiring than actual practice itself. However, practice had gone a little late, and Inui had put strong emphasis on stamina and physical endurance. Everyone was tired, and after studying, Tezuka probably would be falling asleep early.
"It's quiet here. There's almost nobody on the street." Fuji pointed it out only to break the silence between them.
Tezuka made no move to acknowledge him, but allowed the accompanying silence to give the school's resident genius a proper answer. Fuji nodded and seemed to understand.
"Are you doing anything after practice tomorrow, Tezuka?" The voice of Fuji was ever sweet, and always gentle outside of the tennis courts. "If not, maybe we can study together. I do need some help on my history. What do you think of that?"
"That's fine." Tezuka was always so curt. It only earned a wider smile from Fuji.
"We'll have fun," he added sweetly. Tezuka's eyes caught a silhouette in the distance, stumbling.
The man had been drunk, at least that's what the police report said. He'd been stumbling along like that for a while now, his scent thick with that of alcohol. It wasn't sake either; no, it was something foreign-smelling. It also listed that he'd been diagnosed as clinically insane a few years back, and had just been released from a mental rehabilitation facility. Tezuka didn't know why.
He'd broken into a store and stolen an old katana that had been on display, and then proceeded to walk a rather deserted street with it unsheathed.
The first person that he met, or rather persons, were Tezuka Kunimitsu and Fuji Shuusuke. With a snarl he launched himself at Fuji, with the sword raised in the boy's direction.
Tezuka swore that he would've done something if he could…. He really did. With sickening desperation he told himself that every time that he was reminded of it. But… it had all been so quick. One minute, he saw Fuji backing away, dodging the first clumsy slash with success. His fists had tightened, and he looked ready to try and fight back, but by then it was already too late.
The second hadn't been so clumsy.
Tezuka was reminded with nauseating detail about the true proficiency of Japanese weapons, however old they may have been.
The hands on the clock slowed to a stop. Fuji Shuusuke fell. Blood was everywhere; it was on Tezuka, and it was on the sidewalk; it was on the maniac with the weapon. The maniac was smiling in a cruel manner, in contempt. Fuji was only the pavement, wide-eyed and unmoving. He didn't seem to breathe, until Tezuka heard him take a short and shallow gasp. The breathing came slightly more regular after that, but it was labored and weak. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of Fuji's mouth.
The wound was gravely serious, and even though it wasn't instantly fatal, Fuji was still losing blood fast. There was a man who had been driving down the street at the time who had called the police; the man with the katana ran off. Tezuka would never really know why he hadn't also been a victim. All he could remember was the vivid, bloody picture of Fuji clenching his hand so hard that he would break it. There was a clear look of pain in his expression. His lips moved, tried to speak Tezuka's name, but it didn't seem as if he was able to find the strength to have a voice.
Tezuka had been forced to allow Fuji to squeeze his hand while Tezuka watched practically helpless as the person who had come to be both a friend and a rival bled to death. There wasn't much he could do; he knew medical techniques of stopping the flow of blood, but none seemed to work.
Fuji Shuusuke was dead before the ambulance got there. Tezuka sat on the pavement as the paramedics wheeled Fuji's dead body on a stretcher into an ambulance.
He coped with the police questionings. They caught the murderer. By the time they had, though, six people were dead, and three seriously injured. Fuji had been his first victim. He was given the death penalty.
Yet, somehow, Tezuka couldn't help but feel regret. There was immense regret that he hadn't done something to help. For heaven's sake, he knew the basics of judo. He could have done something to defend Fuji, at the very least.
In his remembrances, the cup he was holding fell to the ground and shattered. The tea stained his pants legs, burned his skin, but he didn't feel it, even when it turned once fair skin pink and scalded.
All he could feel was the immense, cutting pain of regret. His friend had died right before his eyes.
Even after all this, he couldn't cry, no matter what.
All he could do was mourn the death of Fuji Shuusuke until the clock hands slowed to a stop.