Hi, it's me again! This is kinda a follow up on my last mixed-gender team!verse fic. After that I thought, 'Hey, wouldn't it be nice to see our boys (well, boy and girl) on the date that's inevitably going to occur and have it go totally not according to Tezuka's expectations because that's just the way Fuji rolls?' Of course, it took me a while to actually write it…
Warnings: Mentions of stalking, threats, a protective sister, girl!Fuji and girl!Oishi, playing tennis in capri pants, and sorta nervous and awkward but still an emotional brick!Tezuka.
Ratiocination
By Chronomentrophobia
Because, one fine day, my efforts might be appreciated.
"Will you be paying for the meal?" Fuji asks, smiling bright and happy, a sliver of blue gleaming underneath the shadow of her eyelashes.
"Yes," Tezuka says. It has been sixteen months since Fuji stopped calling him Tezuka-kun, and one since Fuji's last clandestine kiss on the cheek. It has also been four months since Oishi – no, Shuuko – and Kikumaru have started rolling their eyes over to Tezuka whenever Fuji leans over his desk in school hours or takes his hand after them. Inui has been creating constant buzz of white noise in the background with his quizzical mutterings for much, much longer, and Tezuka is probably become too used to being stalked.
In other words (including Oishi Shuuko's exasperated huff), it's about time.
"Then it's a date," Fuji touches his hand softly as she rises from his desk and breezes away with a soft hum that tells Tezuka not much at all.
Tezuka catches the fragile lines of her wrist before she drifts out of reach and murmurs in a quick breath, "Wear something nice."
"You too," Fuji says.
Fuji doesn't have to call Tezuka whenever they meet outside of school: she stands out in the subway, the parks, and the streets, a bright, organic splotch of color against the backdrop of Tokyo and its people. If Tezuka were the betting type, he would bet anyone a million yen that he could pick Fuji out from any setting, time, or place. (He (probably) doesn't know that Kikumaru and Momoshiro joke behind his back about Tezuka-buchou's Fuji Sense, which doesn't have any grounding in reality, no, none at all.)
He does not need his (putative) Fuji Sense anyway, as he approaches her home. There's no one else nearby, and he can hardly mistake Fuji for her voluptous sister, whom she is kissing goodbye. Fuji's sister glares at Tezuka, promising to rain fire and havoc down on him, before Fuji shuts the door in her face.
She is not wearing one of those terribly impractical miniskirts that seem to be all the rage in Seigaku's female population, but Fuji does look nice – she has on sneakers and those pants that stop mid-calf, but her blouse is silky and floral, feminine. Her hair does not hang over her face; it is held back by two plain clips, and, for once, is not as shaggy as an untended topiary plant.
Fuji often has to brush back stray chunks of her uncut bangs or blow off wayward strands. Her habit is terribly ineffectual, especially in the heat of a match, and this development is an eminent improvement. Tezuka makes note to inform her of the fact.
"Are you wearing cologne, Tezuka?" Fuji asks the moment he is in range. Her taste buds might be questionable, but her olfactory glands are undoubtedly keen.
Tezuka debates between immediate humiliation and having Fuji interrogate it out of him over the course of their date.
"Yes."
She beams. "For the record, I don't own a blouse like this. Nee-san twisted my arm and promised that I would return this to her unharmed."
This is their relationship: a steady back-and-forth exchange, an egalitarian system unnoticed by most. They do not need to enforce it; it comes so naturally as to be truth, unconditionally accepted.
"No tennis matches, then."
Fuji's smile morphs into something mischievous and awful. "Really, Tezuka, you underestimate me."
"This is a date," the captain replies. He has not dated much save the one girl in grade school, a little slip of a thing who was extremely bossy, loud, and clung to his arm and refused to let go until he escaped into the boys' restroom.
However, he does know that a tennis match is inappropriate for a date, and he is determined to do this right because this is, well, this is Fuji.
"Let's go, then," she says, amiable.
The morning sun is blindingly bright so they walk in the shade of the platform, Fuji and Tezuka. Tezuka usually does not mind the silence and actively encourages it but this is a date. They are supposed to be talking.
"That's unfortunate," Fuji says suddenly, her voice vibrating with deep tones of amusement, eyes wandering toward the tennis court. Tezuka does not respond, but Fuji tilts her head and shares her observations anyways – she has always had a talent for knowing when her input is welcomed. "His posture is wrong; he's bending his knees too much and forgets to lock his wrist during the swing. His waist is too stiff, and he's not holding the racket correctly. It's really unfortunate. He looks like a good runner."
"Then he should run track," Tezuka replies. He does not have time to scout out semi-promising tennis players when he's out on a date with his semi-girlfriend. Really.
Fuji looks at him slyly, her eyes a slice of piercing azure from under her eyelashes. They had been neither that dark nor long yesterday in the tennis courts. Is Fuji wearing mascara? "Let's go check him out, Tezuka."
Well, it is Tezuka's job today not to deny Fuji. Who is he to argue with that?
As it turns out, Fuji is not wearing mascara, which would have bled black down her cheeks from the sweat, but the pants do significantly hinder her ability to move properly for her more acrobatic techniques on the court. Half an hour has ticked by since they had appropriated the tennis rackets from the child (Fuji insists he is only child; he looks old enough to be a middle-schooler in Tezuka's opinion) under the guise of showing the newcomers how it is done.
"Lunch?" Fuji suggests, swiping at her face with the tissue provided to her by one of the shell-shocked spectators. Tezuka concedes, mostly because he does not make a habit out of providing public spectacles for the people to gawk at. As discreetly as he can, Tezuka offers the racket back to the boy, who gapes at him, awestruck.
"Let's go," Tezuka says. Fuji offers him a beaming smile and sets her racket against the net.
"Maybe I shouldn't let you pay," Fuji muses later as the waitress is refilling their teacups, blowing away the hair that has fallen free of the hairclips. It feathers back against her skin comfortably, as if she is not as sweat-soaked as Tezuka; his forehead is still prickling from the strands of hair stuck there.
"Hn," Tezuka mutters to himself, studying the menu.
Fuji tilts her head and smiles. "I'm paying."
.end
I'm thinking of continuing in this verse, but on a less Tezuka/Fuji-centered note, since my initial idea was to figure out how genderbending would change the team. What about you guys? Drop me a line!