Prince of Tennis
FujiRyo
PG
Not mine
30kisses themes: #1 look over here, #2 news; letter, #3 jolt, #4 our distance and that person, #5 ano sa…
Blind Leading Blind
by Ryuuza
1. look over here
The first time Fuji receives Ryoma's full attention is when he presses the younger boy up against the locker room wall and kisses him. Before that, Ryoma has always been distracted by something else, always had further goals to pursue, other opponents to defeat. Even when they played that match in the rain, Ryoma was thinking of Tezuka, of his father—people he would defeat after he conquered Fuji.
But now that Fuji has narrowed Ryoma's world down to just the two of them, he knows there is no one else in the thoughts flashing behind those golden eyes.
Now every time Fuji smiles and holds up a camera and says, "Look over here, Ryoma," Ryoma does and it is with his full attention.
When Fuji says it again, five years later, it is with the same result.
2. news; letter
Ryoma hears the name "Fuji Syuusuke" for the first time in five years and almost knocks over his drink except he's too graceful for that. He is tense, though, as he turns his head to eavesdrop on the conversation of the group behind him.
It is a nice, organized evening, an almost formal dinner that makes Ryoma tug irritably at his tie, for the players and coaches and managers before the U.S. Open. The three men behind Ryoma are from Australia, New Jersey, and France, respectively. They each speak in a different English accent as they discuss the photographer who is reportedly covering the event for a major sports magazine.
Ryoma hears the rumors of Fuji's prowess exchanged, stories of friends of friends who'd encountered the prodigy before, but he can only think that he hasn't seen Fuji in five years, after an awkward severing of their not-quite-relationship.
Ryoma's never been afraid of a challenge, but he hates awkward confrontations. He's not so foolish that he would seek Fuji out.
Should Fuji stumble upon him, though, if their paths just happen to cross…
Well, Ryoma will think of that when it happens. He has never been one to dwell on social etiquette. He'll make it up as he goes. Adaptation is an invaluable skill on the court.
3. jolt!
When Fuji calls his name, Ryoma jerks involuntarily, his eyes swinging across the courts to meet a familiar, smiling face. For a moment, he forgets to breathe, drinking in the similarities and differences five years have left on someone he used to think he loved. Then his heart returns to normal and he remembers not to stare; Fuji has always been eerily good at reading the emotions in his eyes. But he doesn't scowl either, because five years have helped him grow up and he isn't quite sure why he was angry in the first place.
4. our distance and that person
They have dinner together that night, almost reluctantly on Ryoma's part, because for all that he doesn't remember the distinct reason why he and Fuji broke up, he is aware that it was something that has kept them apart for five years. Still, the clink of forks and plates and glasses fill his head around the soft words Fuji murmurs with a smile, and he is left with little room to think.
They are civil, almost friendly, as they discuss the different directions their lives have progressed along in the past five years. Ryoma watches the dim lighting of the restaurant cast a soft glow off of Fuji's hair and remembers the way he used to clench his hands in it.
Fuji chuckles at his blush and their conversation takes a dangerous turn towards their love lives. Ryoma mutters, fiercely, that he hasn't been interested in anyone, there was no time anyway, and Fuji nods understandingly. Traveling the circuits is a hectic life.
But when Ryoma inquires—only out of politeness, since Fuji asked him and he ought to do the same—whether or not Fuji has anyone in his life, Fuji's smile fades.
"Tezuka and I separated two years ago," he says quietly.
Then Ryoma remembers why he and Fuji's so-called relationship ended.
5. ano sa…
He can't believe he forgot. Staring at the man seated across from him, Ryoma is tempted to walk out. There is a flood of memories now, of bitterness and hurt and rejection, none of which were alleviated by Fuji's helpless looks and contrived explanations, and Ryoma almost does it, almost gets up and leaves.
It is Fuji's eyes that pin him to his seat, open and blue and regretful. He sees pain in them, mirroring his own.
Ryoma looks down at his plate. He can't make himself say he's sorry and doesn't try, because he's not. He's never quite forgiven his former buchou for taking Fuji from him and never quite forgiven Fuji for falling in love with someone else. Someone Ryoma ended up defeating anyway.
He takes his satisfaction in that, knowing that of all the former Seigaku tennis club members, he is the best. Of the few who still play tennis, he has defeated them all. He might not have Fuji, but he doesn't need him, because, in the end, tennis is more important and he has defeated the rest of them.
It is a somewhat cold victory, but Ryoma takes what he can get. It is his, at the very least, that triumph.
"Ryoma," Fuji whispers. He has been calling him "Echizen" all night.
Ryoma looks up, eyes hard. "Thank you for dinner," he says, his voice just a little bit brittle. He's not trying to be polite because he doesn't care enough about social norms to do that, especially not now, but he's upset and he wants to avoid the topic. Mundane subjects are a good escape. "Fuji-senpai."
Fuji's shoulders sag, just a fraction. "You're welcome, Echizen." His voice is distant again and a part of Ryoma longs to hear the sweetness and vulnerability that used to fall on his ears like gentle rain. Things like that used to be his alone. But not anymore. Fuji smiles at him and it is the smile of a stranger, polite but aloof. "It was nice catching up with you."
No, it wasn't. Ryoma nods curtly and removes his linen napkin from his lap. He hates this pretense, this formality. He wants instead the familiarity of a racket in his hands, is desperate for the rhythmic thwack of a ball against the ground. Some things will always be right, no matter what else changes.
As he stands to leave, Fuji murmurs, "Ano sa, Ryoma…"
He looks down at those blue eyes, poised to walk away.
Fuji smiles. "Mada mada dane."
Ryoma blinks as the photographer rises gracefully to his feet and brushes a light kiss across Ryoma's mouth. Then he is gone, leaving behind him a pile of bills, two half-eaten dinners, and a speechless tennis pro.
Why does he always have to have the upper hand? Ryoma wonders irritably. But he knows: Fuji Syuusuke is Fuji Syuusuke, no matter how many years have gone by. Like tennis, some things never change. Then he remembers the warmth in the smiles Fuji used to give him before a kiss, and then the coldness, the confusion, as Fuji tried to explain why he loved Tezuka more, and then the brittle goodbye, and just now, a challenge sparking those eyes.
Maybe Fuji does change. But what does it mean to Ryoma?
As he leaves the restaurant, Ryoma finds his hand involuntarily traveling back to his lips, the fleeting touch triggering memories he thought were long suppressed.
Is this supposed to happen? he wonders.
A pool of cool air washes over him as he steps out into the night, heading back to the hotel. He doesn't think he's in love with Fuji, not anymore. Five years have changed them both. He may never forgive the older man for leaving him. Then again, he thinks, hands in his pockets as he walks down the busy street, he didn't think he'd ever see Fuji again, much less be kissed by him.
This is not closure; it is only the beginning.
Fuji has always wanted Ryoma to look only at him. He's had that for a long time now. But now it is Ryoma who wants Fuji's sole attention.
Look at me.
Please review!