Notes:
I do proofread, but considering that I wrote this almost completely at three in the morning, there may be little mistakes in there. Please tell me if they are. This will be a chaptered story (Even though I'm starting at a bad time--I have a week long summer camp that I'm leaving for tomorrow.)It may seem a tad OOC, but everything will be explained later. (I swear, this is not masochim!)
Oh... and this doesn't really take place in Japan. At least, for now it won't.
Disclaimer: All of the characters in here that are cannon to Prince of Tennis have their creation credited to the manga-ka Konomi Takeshi. Thank you, Konomi Takeshi!
Warnings: Yaoi-ish. There's innuendo in here, and there may be more mature themes in later chapters. So yes, people; think before you read. I don't write smut. Nothing in here will be absolutely tasteless. Please don't read this unless you're sure you either don't care about reading homosexually-orientated writing, or if you like yaoi, then that's fine, too.
Prologue
-Fuji-
The Present
Where can I go?
What can I do?
Every night, when he chose to look at the sunset he would stop for a minute and pause. Then it was routine. He would think; he would marvel it. The colors ended up mixing to create a deep navy, brightened by rose and orange, he waited, waited patiently. What else could he do than that, to wait for the person he loved to meet him?
He used to love the rain. Tragically beautiful, one might say. Just like the object of his innermost obsession.
Tragically beautiful like you...
Like you…
Beautiful, astoundingly breathtakingly beautiful…
"I brought you some tea." His skin was mildly chilled, but he didn't tremble. The flesh was cooler to the touch, but he didn't move. His eyes were not affixed on the horizon now, but on a book in his lap, worn, its pages fading. Slim fingers slid across the yellowing page, stopped at a single word, and then resumed.
The knowledge of that fact that a sibling really did care was nice, but he didn't seem to have interest that said sibling had come such a ways.
"Ah," He took the cup, but did not give thanks. Rather, he pushed open the screen door and stepped outside to greet the smell of saltwater. Here, it windy. The door slammed behind him, making the neighborhood cat, sleeping on a nearby path, suddenly shoots up in a sudden fit of surprise and scurry of under a bush somewhere. Though he was usually the one to come up and give the creature a scratch behind the ears, he showed no concern for scaring it off like he had.
Blue blended into a light orange, tracing a person's eyes across the horizon to touch a sudden pink, then an invasion of scarlet, which morphed into a peaceful azure.
They said life was too short not to appreciate these small details.
His senses would heighten, to pick up the gentle sound of rustling in the trees. A few leaves scattered across the path, mixed with a few flower petals. Stepping across the concrete, observing a lovely shade of lavender in the sky, he raised the cup he has holding to trembling lips. He didn't drink.
Life was not like a movie, or any sort of book.
Life could never be captured in an autobiography, simply because the human personality was not something that could be captured in a bottle like a monarch butterfly on a warm summer day. It was not something that could live imprisoned in a little glass jar with air holes at the top and only a few leaves and flowers to keep it company.
People could try, and they did a lovely job at it.
It would never be enough, though.
The value of life could not be estimated; it could not be bought.
The value of a human life could not be sold in the form of written pages as an internationally acclaimed bestseller.
None of the emotions, not happiness, sadness, anger, joy, ecstasy, affection, remorse, or fury could be captured. Love wasn't something that could be put on display in a museum to see. It's mementos were left behind, affectionate notes, tiny trinkets, and perhaps a photo. The love, though, like a rainbow, could not be fully captured. One could take a picture of it, but as soon as that person reached out their fingers to grasp the rainbow, they would find that it was gone, and the only thing slipping between their fingers was air. If one tried to put it in a jar, it would vanish.
This, to learn, took decades, a lifetime. Some never learned it.
Always, though, it helped to have somebody to pull off that blindfold.
He would always feel those fingers touching his face, light and ghostly. They were gentle, yet it was expected that they would leave bruises, invisible to the human eye, tarnishing skin and ruining a perfect innocence.
He had never cared, really.
The other had pretended to, in guilt of tainting such sweet innocence.
In the end, he never cared about that, though.
Also, he would never be able to forget that gentle kiss, one right on his forehead, gentle like the touch of grass beneath one's feet on a warm summer day.
Nowadays, he wore long sleeves and a winter scarf at all times, hiding things from the eyes of others as one might have with a barrier. This gentle act, this barrier of fabric, hiding skin wasn't going to save him.
Only in the presence of one other, or himself would he pull that scarf off, though.
His eyes were finally adjusted to the darkness. He followed his ears to an abandoned part of the beach that tourists didn't come to. It was a cove, rocky and bad to swim in. The water was dark, and it was only shallow enough for one to touch bottom for so long before the ground formed a rocky slope. The place was infamous for riptide and undertow, making it an unsafe place to swim.
Yet here, things were so utterly wild that he couldn't resist. The cool night air would touch one's face. The view with one's eyes was beautiful. The cove was dotted with many trees and the water, though dark happened to be free of pollution. This single, untouched place was a sanctuary. It was an artists dream, not being touched by people at all. A small mouse scuttled on the rocks covered by mouse, avoiding the advancing tide; he stepped ankle deep in the water and let sea tug at him. Unforgiving as it was, here he was safe.
Unless he dared to venture farther, into forbidden water, he would be safe from the wrath of the sea, and the utter, unforgiving punishment he would be dealt with by lashes of waves, the threat of sharks, and the current. Death, there was eminent, and he rested at the fringe, admiring it's beauty, longing to reach out and touch it without getting bitten.
This used to be "their" place. Now he waited. Waited for something that probably wouldn't come.
Would he die this way? Would he be there for all eternity, growing stiff in his old age while he still refused to allow himself to life without the other?
His breath was released into the salt-saturated air. A wave rushed to his feet, tugging at him to come play. Years ago, maybe he would have answered such a challenge, but today he adjusted his scarf, dried his feet, and headed in the direction of home after precisely an hour full of aimless wandering.
He searched for something, anything that he could reach out and touch.
The phone rang when he got home, and he answered it with a straight face. "Anna?" There was a feminine voice that answered his, though it sounded younger than his. The man was tired and weary. Beauty was still evident on his features, but he had long since let his smiling expression sag into a constant frown, as he waited for his love like the Irish maiden.
"It's late. Why aren't you in bed?"
The receiver was cradled to his ear, like a precious treasure. He exhaled verbally on the phone. She sounded weary, full of fatigue. It made him shake his head. The girl answered back in a tired tone.
"I wanted to talk to you. I had a nightmare."
He remained unresponsive for a moment, before providing potential solutions. She trusted him, so he humored her by conversing for a half an hour, then making the excuse that she was risking her health with the lack of sleep. After hearing her bid good-bye, he hung up.
The house was empty.
The bed was empty. So, he took the only inviting place. It was the couch amid a clean, orderly living room. He switched on the television set, and it revealed two lovers together, racing across the deck of a boat, laughing innocently and pressing close when they kissed.
The movie itself was a fairly good embodiment of what love was.
"Fairly good," was the only thing he'd give it, though.
However, it could not make a person feel it.
It, in his opinion, would never capture it truly. It was a sad movie, though, and he watched it out of the corner of his eye, as he lay on the couch, not bothering to retrieve a blanket for himself.
Flash one, and he stood next to a shadow, a shadow that seemed very much alive.
Flash two, he leaned in, taking initiative, and they were kissing passionately.
Flash three, and then there was blood.
Flash four, and he was gone completely.
Do you feel it now?
His eyebrows raised and kitted together. Fingers skimming the floor; he picked up the cold cup of tea and raised it to his mouth to drink. His throat was swollen, and it was hard to swallow. Part of the portion, he coughed up, making the idea of a drink less desirable. He pushed the cup away.
He was rendered weak and blinking at the realization there was blood, that his fingernails had pierced his palm. Long since he'd seen the first of his blood though, he'd gained apathy for it. Crimson dripped onto the carpet to join another bloodstain.
Do you feel it now?
That voice was asking him a question, and he was bid to answer with his dry, constricted throat. "Yes… Yes, I do." The statement was breathless, and pleading. Make me feel more. Make me bleed. Make me scream in pain. He turned over on his back. The thin shirt he was wearing rode up on his stomach, and he shivered, almost wishing to feel a gentle touch there, tickling him with warmth.
I won't make you scream in pain. I won't make you bleed.
"But-"
You are no masochist.
"Please… please…"
They said that he was crazy. They thought him insane.
He knew better, though.
They just didn't see.
I was blind back then.
That smiling fool was not I.
This is who I am.
Waiting for you, dying for you.
He brushed his cheek with his own hand, leaving a fine trail of blood there. His eyes, dilated and cloudy, closed; his heavy breathing and slow rise and fall of his chest were the only things that showed a single sign of life.
He had lost that blindfold.
He could see clearly.
Later, his hands would run across an old book, thick and also yellowing at the pages. This, though, was work that was his, and nobody else's. Documenting his love when he had been so naïve, it was written in his native script, and few where he lived would be able to read it.
He would be able to, though, and that was all that mattered.
The script grew smaller as the pages were flipped. On some were small drawings of hearts accompanied by the neat, well-written characters. On others, there were tearstains. On only one other was a small spot of dried blood. There was a letter wedged between the fifty-sixth and fifty-seventh pages. It hadn't been opened in years. On another, there was a piece of hair taped there, with a small note labeling it underneath. Squashed into the journal, taped to the last page was a promise ring affixed to a silver chain. On the very back cover, there was a picture of a man taped to the back cover. The photo was black and white, so old that it was fading.
His fingers touched the pages.
He swore he wasn't trying to catch this love in his journal.
He swore he wasn't catching the delicate butterfly in a jar, attempting to keep it as a pet. Everyone knew that if one kept a butterfly like that, beautiful and delicate, that it would die. Even with proper care, it was hard to contain something. It was far better pinned down in an insect display case, labeled and preserved. That way, it would never die, at least not figuratively.
It would be eternal.
It would never be forgotten, immunized by legend.
It would be never-ending, and he would never forget.
It would be ever lasting.
In the background the television played sad music. The man switched it to the CD player, and it played a slow melody that was a mix of his familiar Asian language, and English dialogue floating among the gentle, yet saddening words. The piano played a soft melody, chorusing with a lone flue, hitting low, mellow notes. Unconsciously, he reached out to touch the small fleck of blood dancing across his cheek.
Sometimes he would take his scarf off at night to touch his neck. Something a few years ago never would have seemed so private, so forbidden. His fingers, tracing light circles across the throat made his breathing hitch; it was his own doing.
Flash one, he was innocently collecting some of his potted plants in torrential downpour so they would not be drowned. It had been raining for a week straight.
Flash two, he found a letter folded in the one dry place, under a ceramic bowl protected by the shelter of the roof.
Flash three, and he was pinned to a bed, with a pair of lips kissing everywhere, raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck. A pair of hands pulled him closer so that they were staring into the depths of each other's eyes.
Flash four, he was lying on a couch alone, tracing his throat wistfully as if he wished a pair of hands would come and squeeze the life from him. He wished to be pinned again, like the lovely butterfly in the insect collection. He wished again to feel the chilly breath touch his neck.
He wished to be owned again, to be needed like he had once been, before.
Tossing and turning, he pushed himself up with a desire to go back to that where it had all originated. He brought the thick journal filled with recollections with him.
The bus ride was fifty minutes long, but considering that he was just on the outskirts of the city, it was easy to find a ride up there. He watched the scenery pass. The calm outskirts changed to bustling city.
This city never really slept.
We kissed today. He tasted like blood, but he tasted good. I think I love him even more.
His thin fingers flipped through the entries until he found another one, and he read only an excerpt of it.
He showed me the other side of the city tonight, but we ended up in the park. He told me later that he liked it there. All the while we sat a ways away; he was on one swing and I was sitting on the other.
I've never felt more excitement when he pulled me off the swings by the hands, keeping me close.
I never thought that he was a passionate person.
The bus let him off, and he made his way into a park. This was a children's park. The pavilion was friendly and inviting, good for picnics some mothers liked to take their children on during the summer months. The swings were motionless, where they had sat in proximity so many years ago. A few pale-looking teenagers laughed in their group together, and turned to face him when he passed hands shoved deep in his pockets.
Their laughter stopped, and their cool, dark eyes gave him their silent regards. They received nothing but apathy, even when an angrier, more impulsive one looked as if he was ready to strangle the apparent stranger. It was quite strange, to see somebody who could be considered an adult at this park, much less so late at night. It might have suggested things, but nobody really cared, did they? When he went ignored, he traveled over to the swings and sat down, pushing himself back with his heels. The set creaked slightly under the weight, but he wasn't too heavy. The chains were rustier, which created the majority of the noise.
His hands clenched tightly around those chains until they were digging into his skin, until he had once again made himself bleed with his own fingernails. The others noticed immediately. The hungry look of one went ignored; he seemed to draw back a little from the ravenous hunger, as if some previous order held him back. Pulling the scarf more tightly around his neck, he set the book of memories on the ground. It opened to another entry.
I think that he is the most amazing person that I have ever met. People say he is cold, but each moment I am with him I grow fonder of that. I grow fonder of his lips, teeth, eyes, everything.
He never tells me that he loves me, but I know he feels it deep down, just as I do.
All of the sudden, he slammed it shut, laying his head next to the journal after he pushed himself off the swing set. It began to rain. The deep drum hurt his head, but rather than getting out of the storm, he only protecting the diary, a tribute to his love, one of those things that would never explain love, but was a memento to it.
A car passed. It kicked up a puddle of water, and Fuji watched vaguely until the red taillights vanished into the night. The boys chatting a ways away hadn't been scared of just yet by the rain, and one attracted by the scent of his still-bleeding palm; getting up the courage to lick at the flesh, he was surprised to find no reaction. No reaction would have discouraged him by now, except perhaps…
Thinking it was safe; his fingers moved away thick, layered hair. Next was he scarf; he never untied it, but slid the material lightly down his neck.
There was no reaction—until fingertips contacted the skin and the lips were a centimeter away.
His eyes were open fully, revealing a cool, yet stunning azure. They burned a strange emotion, as if to challenge the world, as if to show everyone that now, he was no longer going to be easy-going about things. He was serious.
The reaction was instantaneous. The man's palm flew upwards at an astounding speed, landing sideways across the bridge of the nose. Blinded by momentary pain and a gush of blood, the pale-faced teenager fell fully to the ground, on his back. The other man delivered the teenage boy a firm and fast kick to the stomach. The way he walked was not furious, but rather calm, almost holding an aura of satisfaction. The man caught a bus back to the stop near his home in the suburbs immediately and never gave the boy who had touched him a backwards glance.
That was the danger of the delicate little flower, or something so obviously cute that somebody had to touch it.
This man, though haunted by his memories was in no sense of the word, weak. He would defend himself violently. Nobody, Nobody touched his neck nowadays and got away with it without some sort of bloodshed. If the boy hadn't been as he was, he would have had a severely broken nose, considering the force that he had used to strike upwards.
The journal was thrown upon the table when he reached home. The promise ring affixed to the last page came loose and fell to the ground with a light clink. The man retrieved it and gave the ring a light kiss.
Fuji Shuusuke had not always been like this.
No, he had been much different, a smiling, confident man who was able to find a way around everything, who seemed to be a prodigy naturally. When had this all changed? He wasn't sure. All he knew now was that when he was once apt to do something constructive, he was now more expected to wander the streets filled with melancholy thoughts.
These were his memories.
All of it started with a man he had come to be permitted to call "Kunimitsu."
Done. It's rather short for my liking… so yes… Vampire!Tezuka…
I really couldn't resist. I've been dying to write one of these for years. (This is not cliché. It WILL have a twist, I swear.)