Title: twenty-two miles per hour
Characters/Pairings: TezuFuji – although there is appearance of an OC.
Rating: T.
Warnings: mentions of sex.
Length: ~4,200
Summary: Fuji is an expert in crash-landing, but there are things Tezuka has yet to do – to dance under the rain, for one; to fall, for another.
twenty-two miles per hour
.
A memory of Fuji and Echizen in the rain looms somewhere in Tezuka's mind; it chooses to resurface now as he watches tendrils of water form on the tennis court behind the television screen, one moment before it flows down the drain. He remembers, more than Drive B or Higuma Otoshi, the clap of thunder and the smiles on their faces as the soles of their shoes slide along wet ground, and he cannot help wondering whether he can do the same.
"Do you think he'll play against me if I asked?" Fuji sinks against his old couch, limbs loose and arranged in a portrait of nonchalance, flicking through channels with the remote in his hand.
Tezuka shrugs, "Try and ask."
They spend their weekends like this, nothing to do and nowhere to go, but Tezuka notices the lipstick marks on Fuji's collar and the smell of women's cologne; he takes care not to question while Fuji stares at him with a curious expression, upper teeth a soft pressure against lips, before he lifts his tennis bag and walks outside, a silhouette in the middle of bright sunlight before it swallows him completely. He leaves the door open behind him, and Tezuka knows to follow suit.
.
The shots Fuji gives him are fluid, sharp and accurate in their trajectory; it is fair that he returns every ball with the same precision. Tennis is a language Tezuka is familiar with, no words needed but the twist and spin of the ball - they play, like this, for hours it seems, until Tezuka's glasses are fogged from the condensation of his sweat.
Tezuka tallies the score in his head - four-all, Fuji's serve; it burns in his mind even after the sky turns grey with clouds and one raindrop lands on his lens, a small dot through which the world is refracted, distorted.
His arms itch for another return, but he calls off the match for the same reason why Fuji never asks him to dance with him under the pouring skies - he is not Echizen, his vision is obscured by the rain.
"Maybe you should get contacts, Tezuka," Fuji provides practical solutions to his problems and creates more of them.
"I like my spectacles just fine," he replies, terse while Fuji smiles at him unreadable, the display of honesty on the courts rolling away like the water ribbons on his skin. Tezuka stands under the roof of the sidelines and lets Fuji smile up at the grey of the sky; he allows an extra thirty seconds before he decides, enough is enough, and walks towards him with a towel and an umbrella. "You'll catch a cold," he murmurs, a low rumble from his throat.
Fuji spares him a sideways glance, and a funny smile blossoms on his face. "I play under the rain all the time, and never once have I caught a cold."
Tezuka does not know, never really knows what to say; so he presses the umbrella to Fuji's palm and watches as his finger curl one by one around the cold metal handle, watches the sky pour along the boundary between umbrella and free sky, the line separating here and outside.
It's Friday and rain is playing like the static of the radio no one cares enough to notice, an impatient pitter-patter against rooftops with neither rhyme nor rhythm but the endless repeating drizzle. The sound pounds against his ears, a million at once all leading back to the ocean; the water cycle is tireless and tiresome, a process ongoing from the moment water begins to exist.
Tezuka wakes to two knocks on his door, the sharp rapping of bony knuckles on cheap pine; underneath soft warmth and the sound of raindrops he is reluctant to rise, but the light of dusk slants against his windowsill, casting a flare on the border of his periphery. So he wakes, and the cold under his feet - the numb cold that shocks and spreads, shooting up the spine from the tips of the toes - jars him to alertness.
Fuji - drenched and wet and without an umbrella in sight, the fall of his hair following the trail of raindrops on his face; by now it is a custom that Tezuka's eyes follow the trickle of water down - he no longer questions it, Fuji is always wilfully ignorant.
"Did I wake you?" Fuji smiles, intercepting the path of one spherical drop down his cheek. A flash of pink tongue darts and captures the lost raindrop, before he continues, "I was in the area, so I decided to visit." The curve of his body as he leans against the door frame is liquid, melding seamlessly to the rain around him.
Tezuka shakes his head, slow. "No," he says, "I was about to prepare dinner," and takes a step backwards to let Fuji in. His nostrils catch a whiff of tobacco as Fuji passes, a faint packet-something of stale perfumed air behind the lingering aroma of traffic exhaust and Tokyo rain. Their ten-second conversation ends without a word of truth exchanged between them.
.
Even with a task as mundane as slicing cabbage Fuji exudes elegance in his movements; Tezuka stands by the sink, observing the glint of silver as the knife appears and reappears from between perfect half-a-centimetre slices of vegetable, meticulous and rigid the way Fuji isn't. It's with the same fluidity Fuji reaches for a bowl, scrapes the vegetable of the chopping board with the edge of his blade; the sound grates at Tezuka's ears, and he takes the board from Fuji's hands, prying his fingers loose – he tells himself that Fuji's skin does not burn against his when they touch.
As Tezuka cleans the chopping board he watches Fuji pour water into a stainless steel pot – the splash of water against the base is unlike rain – and as he watches the water form a perfectly circular miniature whirlpool as Fuji stirs, a curious thought occurs at the back of his mind.
In some other time, in some other world, Fuji would make a decent housewife; he tells Fuji this, and Fuji laughs like it's the funniest thing, and reminds him, "You're not one for fantasy, Tezuka."
He kisses Fuji then, an unnamed, unidentifiable edge of desperation behind the twist of his tongue as he traces the tips of Fuji's teeth, tasting tobacco, trying not to taste the hint of lipstick on his lips. The faucet is dripping water, a steady heartbeat rhythm against the bottom of the sink – this sound continues even when they are in bed, when all Tezuka can hear is Fuji's gasps and river-like murmurs against his skin.
.
Fuji smokes after sex, the spirals of cigarette fumes etching patterns in the air, one moment of existence before dissipation. He grins, a sly upward curve of his lips as Tezuka frowns and opens the window, glass panes dripping with the remnants of rain. Rolling the cigarette between his forefinger and middle finger, Fuji fixes his gaze on the starless night and asks, "How do you feel about the rain, Tezuka?"
"It's comfortable, I suppose," Tezuka answers, leaning against the back of his leather desk chair.
The covers rustle as Fuji moves, a ghost of gentle footsteps as he glides towards the desk, and Tezuka does not need vision to feel Fuji's heat at his nape. "Don't you love the rain?"
"Not particularly," he answers, wary; it is in his moments of whimsy that Fuji is the most mercurial, most unpredictable, most dangerous. Tezuka finds it best in these moments to follow along, let himself wash away with the current of Fuji's intentions - a survival instinct, the best way to avoid Fuji being to give him what he wants.
"Good," Fuji says, the curve of his voice something deep and sharp, and Tezuka waits for the impending wave, "Because if you do you'd be lying."
.
Fuji comes and goes with the rain and like the rain, no prior warning except the turning latch of the door; the click rings in Tezuka's ears, hazy and half-obscured by the noise of water from the showerhead, rolling against the marks on his skin. The ceramic tile is cool under his fingertips, almost as smooth as Fuji's skin and without the lingering scent of tobacco.
He increases the heat until the water almost scalds, scrubs his arms until they are red and raw and waits for the steam to build up on the shower door - obscuring the world, obscuring everything except for that one hand-print where he chooses to push against the door.
That weekend Tezuka takes a five-minute walk to an old library. There, eyes meet halfway across shelf Fiction J-K, a clash of the same shade of brown; Tezuka holds the gaze for three and a half seconds longer than usual, and she regards him with an inquisitive rise of a perfectly-shaped brow and a demure smile before she ducks and breaks the transfixion. It's a buzzing thought in the back of his mind, a mental compartmentalization of his family's wishes and his own expectations – a need of common sense that forms the invisible hand behind his back as he approaches her.
In the following weeks of purposeful accidental meetings in the library, he finds out that her name is Kiyomizu Hikari and they share the same kanji in their first names. She is of a respectable family with traditional Japanese upbringing, talented in the art of ikebana and tea ceremonies, and currently majoring in Education; her dream is to be a teacher in a kindergarten near her home, whose owner she is familiar with. She wishes to start a family by the time she is thirty, with two children named after spring flowers, and eventually settle down in a small town by the mountainside. Her life is aligned and proper before her.
His grandfather would definitely approve; this thought is the final bridge between the gap before he invites her for dinner.
"Only if we split the bill," she murmurs, and Tezuka knows that this is not a rejection; rather, an ingrained sense of decorum. She softly taps her chin with a pale unpolished nail, her tilt of her head conveying amusement, mingling with appreciative joy and subtle curiosity. It is refreshing, to be able to tell this much.
.
Again, downpour and two sharp raps on the door. Fuji enters his house with all the complacency of a house-owner, familiar with the number of steps to the living room and the height of the coffee table – everywhere, he knows where to go. His shoes will leave watermarks on the hardwood floor, Tezuka notices, but does not comment.
Fuji runs his fingers through his wet hair, and shakes his head, water droplets spraying and falling to the floor. He walks, softly, to the curtains – he draws it back and undoes the window latch, saying, "Have you ever thought about a change in scenery?"
Tezuka replies, "No," and Fuji's gaze on him is an incomprehensible mosaic: whether sad or relieved or expectant or disappointed he can't tell.
"Ah, well," Fuji says as he strides to where Tezuka is; he leans forwards and places a hand on Tezuka's collar to pull him in, but Tezuka thinks of his grandfather and a library and a proper life he wants to lead and pushes a hand against Fuji's lips. Fuji's only reaction is a slight widening of eyes, before his eyelashes drop and rise again and the corner of his lips curl upwards.
"We can't keep doing this," Tezuka says by way of explanation, Fuji's knuckles cold and wet with rain against his collarbone.
Fuji's answer, as much as Tezuka expects him to answer anybody, is a curious raise of eyebrow. "You can't, or won't?"
"Both," Tezuka says without thinking, without needing to think; just as quickly, Fuji nods and backs away, releasing his collar.
"Tell me about her, would you?" he pipes, purposefully blithe with nothing but cheer in his voice, before he leaves, shutting the door softly behind him. The only reminders that he was ever here are the wet marks his fingers leave against Tezuka's collar and the water on the floor.
It would be better, Tezuka deems, if Fuji had been angry – if he had slammed the door or messed the coffee table, if he had left behind a memory of sentiment.
He does not admit the dent Fuji leaves in more places than his bed – it is a wintry clench under his ribs, the scab festering in his heart he refuses to pick – in an ideal world, Fuji needs stability, the ground and a grounding presence that chains his feet to land, everything Tezuka is able to give him. In this one he wants chaos and crash-landing and flight in the middle of the sea; he wants more than Tezuka could ever provide.
.
The sound of a closing door is not finality. Tezuka is not surprised when Fuji appears again at his doorstep three days later; the clouds are rolling dark and the weather report claims light drizzle. But when Tezuka steps aside to let Fuji in he does not enter; instead, he rummages for something from his bag. "I've been looking for a chance to give you this," Fuji murmurs as he retrieves a pocket umbrella.
It's green, and there are cartoons of smiling wildflowers and equally smiling butterflies scattered across what Tezuka determines to be a grassy field, slightly obscured by the folds; he raises his eyebrows at the childish design. Fuji is patient as he explains, as much as he ever explains anything, "You can't see it yourself, but if a helicopter or an airplane passes by it'll look as if you're holding up the ground when you walk."
He picks up Tezuka's limp, uncertain hand and presses the umbrella into it. "Congratulations," Fuji says, "Now you can have the whole world in your hands," and his smile is like letting go. Tezuka sees his own fingers move a split second too late, the difference between first and second place, and what he grasps is cold empty air.
They remain friends at best – their regular weekend tennis matches are still ongoing with equal fierceness and tenacity, neither side willing to budge; it's still Fuji against Tezuka, no matter that 'Fuji and Tezuka' no longer exists and in Tezuka's mind it never did. The only difference is Hikari, cross-legged in a pale sundress two shades lighter than the bench she's sitting on, smiling at them as her eyes attentively follow the ball as it streaks across the sky.
Her smile is wholly supportive – Tezuka's mind retrieves an old Japanese scroll, a painting his grandfather used to display above the genkan, depicting a fisherman's wife with a baby in her arms and her husband approaching her with a rattan basket full of fish in hand. The fisherman, his grandfather used to say, would bring home fish, tirelessly day after day after day, while his wife takes care of the baby who will eventually grow into a fine young man, to be sent to the city to study. Tezuka remembers thinking the painting as nothing spectacular, merely a painting about everyday life; at the same time it portrays an ideal, a life every proper Japanese man would like to attain.
Tezuka's recollection is broken when a ball zooms past his ear. He hears its thump against the turf before it rattles against the chain-link fence, a solid reminder that he should pay attention.
"Am I boring you, Tezuka?" Fuji asks from across the net, knuckles knocking against the strings of his racket. "Why, you injure my self-esteem." There is a hint of laughter in his voice, and even across the court the blue of his eyes sparkle.
Tezuka shakes his head and fights the urge to roll his eyes. He readies himself for an incoming serve as Fuji bounces the ball; just then, he feels a drop of cold wetness trickling down the ridge of his ear. Three seconds later, that drop is joined by a million more – water starts staining the courts, forming dark puddles on the grass.
"Hmm," Fuji's fingers grasp the ball mid-bounce. He chuckles, "Perhaps we're no longer fated to finish a game."
Hikari walks towards them, offering them both towels before she opens and raises one umbrella above Tezuka and gives Fuji another. Fuji gently pushes the umbrella back, closing Hikari's fingers over it while shaking his head with a light smile, before turning away. Brief confusion passes across Hikari's face before she speaks, "What if you catch a cold, Fuji-san?"
Fuji looks over his shoulder with a labyrinth smile, "I don't catch colds." He is gone with a wave of his hand.
.
Tezuka is silent for a long time after Fuji leaves, even after the outline of his back disappears behind the cloak of rain. When he arrives at the porch of his home, after sending Hikari home, he outstretches an arm beyond his umbrella, watches as the rain forms watery constellations on his palm.
The muscles in his arms still burn, even after Fuji is nowhere near. If he closes his eyes, he can hear, as easily as day, the sound of balls whizzing past swaying nets; he can feel the solidity of the racket handle in his palms, he can remember breathing. He lets his thought wander – how can I live, how do I want to live, what do I want and can this life give me what I want – and by the time he notices it is far too late to stop the flurry in his mind.
Tezuka dreams of himself as a fisherman that night, except the picture he dreams about is not about bringing home fish to a loving wife and son, but him in the middle of the sea with a dark blue storm swirling around him – his flimsy wooden boat shakes and shudders with the wave yet still does not sink. When in his dream he stands in the middle of the vessel casting a net into the open ocean below, lightning illuminating the waves and his whole body drenched with rain, he has never remembered being so alive.
The telephone by the sofa in Tezuka's apartment is rarely used; it rings barely once a month, and each time it is his mother on the other end of the line, fussing about his health and his bachelor status. He picks it up, this time – it's not dusty, because even if it is unused Tezuka prefers to defy the bachelor stereotype – and dials a number he never admitted he knows by heart. He does not use his mobile simply because Hikari's name is first in his call history.
"Hello?" Fuji's voice cuts through the third dial-tone, slightly crackled and with an unidentifiable difference, the kind of difference attributed to the voice being carried for miles over the telephone cable – but Fuji lives not even a mile away, Tezuka remembers. He's never visited Fuji's apartment before; now he wonders why.
"Fuji," he says, more of a habit than necessity, "Why would I be lying if I said I loved rain?"
"Saa," Fuji replies. "You'd be lying if you said so now."
This conversation with Fuji is strange; he neither knows the purpose nor the aim, he does not know what he wants to say – this is not what he is used to. At the same time he is certain, without any identifiable reason whatsoever, that he will not put down the phone. "Fuji," he says, again, as if to ascertain the presence behind the phone, "How can I love the rain?"
"Saa," Fuji replies, again, "I'm not sure. Maybe you should stop using umbrellas." Tezuka is familiar with the way Fuji's voice takes on a subtle quiver when he is uneasy. About what, Tezuka cannot be completely certain, but the stowaway hope at the end of Fuji's sentence means that perhaps he can start to figure out.
He opens his mouth to reply when Fuji continues, "Speaking of which, you've never used the one I gave you, have you?" There are some things he has yet to learn.
.
The umbrella Fuji gave him sits in an umbrella stand outside, by the door, a lone flash of colour in the middle of drab black and brown. He opens it, now, the green umbrella with the smiling flowers and looks up the underside – overhead is a picture of clouds against a dark blue sky, and Tezuka almost smiles when he realizes that underneath the umbrella is a picture of rain. Ah, he thinks.
In his mind's eye he perceives two paths: one, leading to stability, a family with brown-eyed children his mother always envisioned, a prosperous and happy life with everything he could ever want, husband and wife together until they turn old and grey; the other, breaking every piece of expectation his family, friend and life built around him for that one single chance to dance in the rain.
A poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning, a saying from a time not very long ago. Fuji is not a poet – not in strictest definition of the word, for he does not possess the affinity with ink and paper, but there is and always have been a certain kind of poetry in him; it flickers, elusive, revealing itself only in the barest of moments: that match with Echizen, that match with him, when he stands without cover under thunder.
Perhaps – just maybe, a little flower blooming under snow, maybe, as his heart thuds underneath his palm, downpour of grey and a thousand colours of refracted light around him, falling, falling and washing him away – perhaps he understands Fuji a little, now.
.
Understanding is not easy. Hikari's expression is unrevealing as Tezuka explains his situation; she is always silent and nodding at appropriate intervals – a proper lady, down to the moments she is not on higher ground. When he finishes talking she lowers her eyelids and inhales, and Tezuka detects a slight tremor in the wisp of air; however, when she opens her eyes they are clear.
"I understand," the first sentence she utters. Tezuka's eyes widen fractionally before she shakes her head, her hair bouncing gently against her shoulder blades, and continues, "Or, perhaps, not really. I have never understood, Tezuka-kun," and she raises her head to meet his gaze, "How a person could defy all the laws imposed on them for a fleeting moment of uncertainty."
Tezuka opens his mouth to speak – he is stopped by her raising a hand. "Truth be told," she smiles a rueful smile, "I would like to understand."
It's a statement that requires no reply, but Tezuka stands and bows deeply for a long second. "Thank you for everything, Kiyomizu-san. I truly hope you find the person you're looking for."
She smiles at him, her gaze soft. "Always so formal, Tezuka-kun. You have given other men a difficult threshold to top, I think," she brings her fingers to her lips to cover a small giggle, "But I hope the same for you – although it would be more appropriate to say 'I hope he stays with you,' wouldn't it?"
In her brown eyes Tezuka glimpses a vision of the future he could have had – of which he has effectively thrown away: peace, understanding that lasts for years to come – there is no turning back now, but his steps are decisive when he heads out the door into the pouring rain.
Three sharp raps on a door that's not his own is the beginning to this particular part of his story. It's an unremarkable Thursday, salaryman with black briefcases boarding the Shinkansen, high school students chatting in their cafe-of-the-week, and Tezuka is standing outside Fuji's apartment when Fuji opens the door.
It is on an ordinary Thursday afternoon, grey and busy and drab, that Tezuka has the satisfaction of seeing Fuji's eyes widen, lips parting and bearing an expression other than an obscure smile. "I'll get you a towel," he says, later, and this is when Tezuka realizes that it was raining, and the green umbrella is dry and unused in his fingers. He grabs Fuji's elbow before Fuji can turn away, and Fuji's gaze when he turns to him, instead, is expectant.
"I think," Tezuka swallows, a mixture of saliva and the droplets that collect on the ridge of his lips, "I think I can learn – to love rain."
Fuji reaches forward and presses two fingers against the umbrella in his palm. "Next time," he smiles, and there is a world of words in that one curve of lips, scatters of an emotion he dares not name – yet, "Use the umbrella." One point to normal, Tezuka's mind supplies; except there's a part in him tired of normal, and he guesses that this is why he chooses to kiss Fuji then, in that moment of muted chaos in slow time. His lips taste of rain.
.
end.
Writing this confuses the hell out of me. Thank you for reading, and CCs are wholly appreciated; it's unbeta-ed ;_; so I'm very sorry for all mistakes. Please do tell me if you find any mistakes.