AN: I'm sorry for the long time between updates -cry- But I got really sick, and this chapter needed so much work, I swear I wrote this whole story down like in one afternoon, without caring overmuch about things like grammar or continuity, and just.. it was horrible when I finally got to sitting down and fixing it -exasperated sigh-
My major conflict: I had a lot of back and forth on whether I wanted to include Yuuta in this chapter, like I wrote and deleted and wrote and deleted things a million times, because I knew that if Yuuta got into this, he'd completely take over like more than half of it (and he did OTL). But you know, Yuuta is such a very big part of Fuji's life and I felt like I'd be cutting out one very important facet of Fuji if I took Yuuta out completely so there you are. This is my sort-of compromise (but not really) -sheepish-
Warnings (for this fic): It's fantastical and the timeline is seriously screwed in some places, so I ask you guys to please suspend reality for quite a bit while reading this. Be sufficiently warned.
^ I just needed to reiterate that because I've been rewatching Prince of Tennis and I found that there's actually many things I remember differently (I was young and naïve, my apologies).
two.
second year
Summer brings about changes, both welcome and not, and Tezuka stares at his reflection on the mirror in his room, stares at the II that's now pinned to the lapel of his uniform, and contemplates exactly how much is different now.
He's grown, finally, gets that burst of growth that had him shooting up until he's no longer a child, but almost a man grown.
Almost.
And he looks at the name on his palm, the Echizen Ryoma still bold and dark against his skin, the same as it has always been, one of the many things that hasn't changed. Tezuka folds his fingers over it, his chest tight and looks at himself at the mirror again.
He's grown-up, filled out, his mother never fails to comment on it at all times she could and he wonders.
It's the first day of his second year and he wonders what Fuji will think.
.
He sees Fuji before tennis practice, standing by the open school gates, seeing off another boy, one who's already taller than him despite the first year uniform. The boy is scowling, his gaze averted, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else but here. Beside him, Fuji looks so very tiny, although he's grown, too; summer has treated him very well, the graceful lines of his body fluid even in small movements.
Tezuka quickens his pace, but before he even gets too close, the other boy has turned his back on Fuji completely, and has started to walk away.
He watches Fuji for a brief moment, pauses and watches as Fuji stares at the boy's retreating back, and begins to wilt, so forlorn and dejected, standing there alone in the entrance of their school, looking, for all the world, as if he was nursing a broken heart.
Tezuka watches him, and in a moment of complete, unadultered selfishness, he begins to hope, his fingers crushed into his palm, he hopes that the boy Fuji had been speaking to is not Atobe Keigo.
Not yet, not yet, please, not yet.
"Fuji," he greets, stopping beside Fuji's miserable form.
Fuji startles, looks up at him, his eyes still shaking with barely-supressed grief (not yet, not yet, not yet) and in a split second, his mask settles as he composes himself right in front of Tezuka's eyes. "Tezuka," he returns, in a small breathy voice, his lips curling into a teasing smile. "All grown up, I see. Now the outside matches how you are inside, ne?"
Tezuka fixes him a look. "You make it sound like it's a bad thing."
"Oh, not at all," Fuji replies airily. His shuttered eyes crinkle at the corners. "Actually, I think it suits you very well."
"I-" He glances away, tries to fight the blush that's always trying to permanently etch itself into his skin whenever he's around Fuji and he forgets everything else, that there's a whole world outside this small space where he and Fuji are together, no matter what their definition of together is. "You, too."
"Oh," Fuji opens his eyes, and gives him the softest, gentlest look he's ever seen, and his chest throbs, aches with a longing and a want that he shouldn't even have, not in this world, not for this person.
But he does want, he does.
This is real, and he wants, so much.
"Thank you, Tezuka."
.
"Oi, Fujiko," Eiji bounces from behind his soulmate, sailing acroos the clubroom and throwing his arms around Fuji just as he turns to smile at his best friend. Tezuka watches impassively, all the way from his own locker, so used to their antics after one year of having to live through them.
"Isn't Yuuta-chan supposed to start school today? Weren't you supposed to see him off?" Eiji babbles, hanging off of Fuji's neck while Fuji pats him good-naturedly. "You didn't even take him here to say hi, that's so mean!"
"Ah, well, Yuuta was in a hurry," Fuji answers, his smile stiff on his face. "And he knows the way to the clubroom so I think it will be fine."
"Mou, Fujiko!"
It's later, when he and Tezuka are observing the games together by Court A, that Tezuka says, "Yuuta?"
Fuji keeps his smile firmly in place, but he looks down a bit, and it's almost like he's wilting again, like all the colors that made him so unique, and so very precious, all of it is getting washed out little by little by his pain. Even as he tries to hide it, Fuji's pain stands out so clearly, as if he's unconsciously expressing it with every little movement, every little expression, every time Fuji decides to lie and pretend instead of telling the unvarnished truth.
"My brother," Fuji responds finally, his voice filled with a kind of sad fondness that Tezuka would never have used when talking about family. "You might have seen him. He was with me this morning."
Tezuka remembers the boy who had walked away, the boy Fuji now looks like he's mourning over, and selfishly, selfishly, he feels that small part of himself that he hates exhale in relief that the boy wasn't Atobe Keigo, after all, come to take Fuji away too soon, always too soon.
He hates it, hates the feeling, but he feels it anyway, and sometimes Tezuka wishes he isn't so human like that.
"Does he play tennis, too?"
"Ah," Fuji affirms. He doesn't say anything else, but his smile widens just a little. It accentuates his cheekbones, already catching the morning light in all the right ways, his honey hair framing his face like a halo. The smile doesn't look like it's one of those rare ones, the ones where the happiness he's painting for the rest of the world would reach his eyes.
He's beautiful, summer has treated him well, but he looks so very, very tired.
"I didn't see you after practice let out," Fuji grips his chopsticks and smiles down at his bowl of rice, trying to inner-mantra himself into the kind of headspace that would allow him to not be hurt by the strength of Yuuta's glare.
It doesn't work, but it's not like Fuji's not used to it anyway. "I was hoping we could walk home together."
"Because I want to be even more associated with you?" Yuuta asks heatedly from across the table. "Why would I want that?"
They're alone for dinner again, their mother having flown to join their father abroad for a while, and Yumiko still held up at her work. Yuuta always uses that as reason to fall back on the habits he's taken up over the summer, pushing his food around the plate, but not really eating. Fuji watches him, the overwhelming worry like a heavy sinking feeling in his chest, and it feels as if he's trying to break into the surface but doesn't have the strength.
It's all he ever feels in conversations with Yuuta now is drowning. "Eat, Yuuta," he coaxes, as gently as he could.
Yuuta's expression sours even more, and his chopsticks clatter down into the table, the sound loud against the otherwise quiet house. "I don't need you to babysit me, I am not a child."
"Of course not," Fuji responds, almost helplessly. "But you want to be strong for tennis, ne? Didn't you want to join the tennis club?"
"I changed my mind," Yuuta grits out, pushing himself away from the table with such force that the plates are displaced. "Like I'd ever want to play tennis with you."
He stomps up to his room and slams the door behind him, leaving Fuji alone in the dinner table, feeling like he's futilely trying to gasp for air.
.
Summer brings changes in the Fuji household, too, more unwelcome than not, and one night, Yuuta wakes up with the most terrible screams, clutching at his hand like a lifeline. They break into his room to find him curled up on his bed, shuddering with the force of his sobs.
When Yumiko finally pries his hand away from the other's death grip, they'd had to watch as a name appears on Yuuta's palm, angry red against his skin, watch as the color darkens and darkens and then finally, after many hours of Yuuta crying so hard, he could barely breathe, they'd had to watch as the name on Yuuta's palm begins to fade, until nothing is left behind.
They're quiet for a very long while after that, because they all know what that means.
It means that somewhere, somehow, a girl named Kamakura Mai – Yuuta's girl, Yuuta's somebody – has passed away, and left Yuuta with a future of being alone.
Because in this world, you are only ever going to get one chance at complete belongingness, a complete happiness, a complete future. You only ever get one name on your palm and it's either you have that...
Or you have nothing.
Now Yuuta is nameless, has nothing, and his grief over a girl – a girl he doesn't know, has never gotten the chance to meet, a girl he had been destined to love for the rest of his life and now he can't because she's dead – fuels a rage so deep that it's turned Yuuta's whole being into stone.
Yuuta doesn't cry again after that day, and he doesn't wake the house anymore with screams in the middle of the night. He pushes them away and hates, and every day with him feels to Fuji like little deaths, agonizing and slow and completely, utterly unbearable.
At nights, when he's slammed the door to his room and locked it, shut away from the rest of his family, Fuji would creep out of his own bed and sit just right next to the closed door. The floor is cold against his flimsy pajamas, numbs his feet where they are propped against it, but he only hugs his knees tighter, buries his face into his arms deeper, and listens to the hollow, silent sound of heartbreak.
.
Fuji hears the rumors before he's even entered the hallway.
Ne, ne, did you see? Fuji-kun's little brother is in Seigaku, too.
They're not so much rumors as they are comparisons.
He's not joining the tennis club.
He has no idea who started them.
I heard that's because he's not as good at tennis as Fuji-kun is.
He can't pinpoint exactly who's talking about them.
He isn't much like Fuji-kun at all. He doesn't have his genius, or even his looks, such a pity.
He has no idea how they spread so far, so fast, or where all these people even get all these information.
I heard he's nameless.
Fuji's spine stiffens and he turns, glares at the hallway of chattering students. He wants to rip out the throats of every single one of them, because they don't get it, they don't, and they don't get to make fun of Yuuta's pain, they don't have any right.
But the hallway is still full of talk, no one has stopped, and Fuji can't even tell the difference, can't tell which of them is talking about Yuuta, and which of them isn't.
So he turns back around, helpless and drowning, the whispers intensifying in his wake, and hopes so hard, prays to the gods that have only ever laughed at him, hopes in the way that he can't ever remember hoping since Tezuka first came into his life, he hopes that these people at least have enough tact, enough compassion to not say all these things in a place where Yuuta can hear them.
.
They didn't.
There's no tact, no compassion, not even sympathy.
Fuji's never felt more like a mass-murdering sociopath in all his life.
.
He comes home from tennis practice one evening to find Yuuta dressed in another uniform, his bag slung over one shoulder. He's said his goodbyes to the rest of the family, and earlier in the week, he's sent over his other belongings to his new dorm, in a new school, a new place, away from Seigaku, and away from Fuji.
Fuji wants to beg him to stay, even irrationally go as far as quitting the tennis club because this is all his fault, so weak and helpless and such a very big failure that he can't even protect his own little brother from the poison of other people's thoughts.
But he can't, he knows, because staying would only hinder Yuuta's growth and he hates that it happens like this, hates himself just a little bit more because he let it happen. "You're leaving already?"
"Yeah." Yuuta doesn't meet his eyes, only hikes his bag up higher, and moves to the side when Fuji passes by him, like he dislikes the idea of them touching even the slightest bit. Fuji wants to say more, do more, but he keeps quiet, keeps his smile firmly in place until finally, the front door shuts behind Yuuta, and it feels like permanent goodbye.
Fuji stands there in the empty hallway, alone and drowningdrowningdrowning.
Once upon a time in the summer, Yumiko sits Syusuke down and tells him that they've got to take care of Yuuta from now on.
"Nee-san," Syusuke answers, looking at his hands, looking like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders, so sad, too sad for a boy of only thirteen. He's still so very young, both he and Yuuta were still so very young and Yumiko's heart hurts. "Yuuta hates me."
"Syusuke, Yuuta loves you." Yumiko grasps her younger brother's thin shoulders, looking into his eyes and they're swimming with so much guilt, it pains her to see it. She wants to explain that Yuuta admires him, wants to be just like him, but it's hard, sometimes, it's hard to want to be someone and find that you both were so very far away.
That Yuuta loves Syusuke, only he doesn't know how to show it anymore than Syusuke doesn't know how to see it.
She wants to explain, but she doesn't know how, and everything feels like they're all the wrong words. So instead, she folds her younger brother into her embrace and wishes that it were enough to protect him from the rest of the world.
.
It's not.
But it often turns out that way.
The day after Fuji's younger brother leaves for another school, practice is cancelled because of the rain and Tezuka finds Fuji on the school rooftop, nevermind that Fuji's not even supposed to have the key.
For a moment, Tezuka just stands there, doesn't step out, because Fuji is very clearly mourning. These past few months, Tezuka's been watching Fuji slowly lose all his vibrance, lose all the life in his smiles, and Tezuka's wanted to help, to let Fuji know he's around but over the course of the past half-year, Fuji only gets more and more shuttered. It's frustrating and agonizing, because Fuji is slowly dying, losing everything that was once bright about him, dying before Tezuka's eyes and all Tezuka can do is watch.
Tezuka tightens his grip on the umbrella, and decides he can't be a coward anymore.
Fuji's head is tipped back to receive the raindrops, his hair already plastered to his face, his lashes stuck in starlike points, fanned across the pale planes of his face. He's smiling, a little, and Tezuka's not surpised. Fuji has always found peace in the rain.
Tezuka hated the rain, hated how they soaked everything, how they stopped him from doing even the most basic things like getting to a court and playing a warm-up game. But as much as Tezuka hated the rain, he can tolerate it for Fuji.
Because... Because he loves Fuji (and it's love, even if it can't be, it's love), and the rain makes Fuji happy.
"You're not supposed to be here."
Fuji's smile only widens in response, and he tilts his head, opens stormy blue eyes to look at Tezuka, frowning at him disapprovingly from under the shelter of an umbrella. "Saa, no, I suppose not."
His face is streaked with moisture.
Tezuka watches him for a brief moment, watches him smiling at the sky almost bitterly, before he extends the umbrella so Fuji is protected from the rain. It's useless, he knows, Fuji is already so very soaked, and the only thing he achieves is getting himself wet. Fuji watches him steadily, shivering and sad.
"You've been crying," Tezuka tells him and Fuji laughs like he can't help it. He tilts his head, offers Tezuka a place by his side and Tezuka takes it even as Fuji lies.
"It's just the rain, Tezuka." He's not even trying, it's the most obvious lie in the world and he knows it.
But Tezuka allows him that, doesn't call him out on it, only sits beside him until the skies have stopped crying, and still he watches as the rain continues to pour in small crystalline droplets from Fuji's eyes.
.
"I won't give up."
"Hmm?" Fuji tilts his head, still drenched from head to toe, keeping his gaze firmly on the sun setting in the far horizon.
Tezuka doesn't look at him when he speaks, doesn't look at his hands, a reminder that he's wanting all the wrong things. "He's your brother and you love him, don't you?" he asks, watching the sky paint itself in brilliant hues of orange and gold. He knows that if he is to turn to his side, Fuji's hair would reflect the fiery colors, and the dimming light of the sun would be kissing his cheeks, as if nature itself understands just exactly how exquisite he is.
But he doesn't, because he doesn't need anymore reasons to love Fuji, not when there shouldn't be reasons in the first place. "If I was to love someone, I won't give up so easily."
There's a sharp intake of breath, and this time, Tezuka does look at Fuji, at the flames of sunlight bringing color back on his face. He's smiling, gentle and fond and so, so very heartbreaking, his eyes glistening with tears unshed and his countenance so fragile, it could shatter with a single breath.
"What?" Tezuka asks, suddenly self-conscious, and he feels the cool of the incoming night digging its way deep into his bones.
"Nothing," Fuji shakes his head, reaching out to touch Tezuka's hand where it lay between them both. It's a whisper of a touch, a bright spot against the numbness of the rest of Tezuka's skin and he wills himself not to shake. "I just like the way you sound, when you say you love someone."
There's a quiet resignation hidden in the gentleness of his voice, and Tezuka understands. He hesitates for only a moment, before his other hand settles on top of Fuji's own and Fuji's smile widens, gazing down at the space where their hands were entwined.
Tezuka understands, because even though Fuji likes it, likes the way he sounds when he says he loves someone, Fuji's never going to hear it for himself. Because someday he'll have to choose to not love Fuji. Someday he'll have to choose to love someone else without even being able to talk about the many beautiful things that Fuji has brought to his life because this is a love that's not supposed to exist, no matter how much Tezuka wishes.
It's in this moment that Tezuka realizes that one day, perhaps soon, because of Fuji, he will break his heart.
And that he doesn't want to fight it.
He'll break it himself and enjoy it, bask in the feeling for five more minutes of having this, having something that couldn't possibly be love (but it is, it has to be, pleasepleaseplease, and he doesn't even know what he's asking for anymore), but that's beautiful in itself all the same.
.
The world moves on.
Fuji sits behind him in class, despite being only heaven knows how many centimeters shorter. He still lets Fuji steal pieces of his lunch. Tezuka becomes more captain than vice captain, and Fuji always looks ever so smug about that. They play tennis. They still have their thing in the ice cream shop, and Tezuka even lets Fuji order him different flavors sometimes. In return, Fuji would beam at him and order him tame flavors but tries to force feed Tezuka all his weird ones anyway.
They're not dates because they're not a couple, but in the deepest, darkest depths of Tezuka's heart, where he keeps all the desires he knows he's not meant to have, he pretends, pretends that there will be something - a miracle, an answer, a magical fairy godmother - and one day, it will be okay to continue loving Fuji; one day, Fuji will be his to keep and he will be Fuji's.
It's pitiful and pathetic and even so, it's the best of all lies.
It's in the Tokyo Prefectural tournament that it happens, like Fuji's being given a harsh slap of reality to his face, the universe's form of ugly punishment for Fuji living in blissful ignorance for far too long.
It's sudden and unexpected and Fuji freezes midstride, feeling as if there's not enough air to fill his lungs.
The winner will be Hyotei! The winner will be Atobe!
His eyes snap open and he looks around to find a tennis court completely encircled by a crowd of teens attired in a similar uniform, cheering in unison.
The winner will be Atobe! Atobe! Atobe!
His palm prickles, the skin on his face feeling as if it's pulled too tight. His heart hurts, a dull ache as it pumps Atobe Keigo through his body again and again, and everything is so close, so tight, as if he's too big for his own skin and now he's ripping at the seams.
There's no doubt, absolutely no doubt, that the boy those students are cheering for is his Keigo. He feels it in the insistent pull of longing in his soul, feels it in the way that his heart suddenly seems like it doesn't belong to him, not anymore, not when its rightful owner is but a few feet away, and gods, he feels it in his overwhelming desire to move, to close the distance, to see. He's about to find his soulmate, and it's meant to be the most momentous occasion of his life and yet, all Fuji could think of is please no.
Because there is Tezuka, and he is frozen, too, where he is, right beside him.
Fuji looks up to him, at his stony expression as he stares firmly straight ahead. "Tezuka?"
"He's yours, isn't he?"
But Fuji doesn't even have to answer. It's obvious, from Tezuka's blank tone, from the way it sounds more like a statement than a question that Tezuka knows, too, Tezuka knows, and it's the whole entire universe reminding them, in the worst way possible, that it was never going to end any differently.
That it's still Atobe and Echizen, not Tezuka-and-Fuji and they will never be a unit, no matter how much they pretend, how much they want it to be.
Fuji's about to find his soulmate, and all he wants to do is curl up into a ball and cry.
"Go," Tezuka urges, not even glancing at him once, before he starts to walk away. Fuji stands there, watching Tezuka's retreating back, and he can't.
He can't.
"Tezuka!" He rushes forward, grips the edge of Tezuka's jersey's sleeve and doesn't let go. Tezuka looks at him almost blankly, dispassionately and Fuji hates it, all he wants to do is make it stop.
"Tezuka, please."
And Tezuka, understanding without asking like always, takes his hand, pulls him away and later, he holds him as Fuji shakes, gasping out tearless sobs, his soulmate's name still echoing in the air.
.
Fuji is placed on reserve for the Hyotei match, and that's all well and good because he doesn't go.
Tezuka watches him, Atobe Keigo, discreetly for the entire duration of doubles, and well into singles.
He looks good, objectively. He's the heir of the most established business group in Japan. He's richer than sin. He's popular. He's good at tennis. He soundly defeats Tezuka's captain and all the way, what feels like his entire school cheers his name.
He's Fuji's soulmate.
Tezuka resents him, because no one should get to have everything.
.
Irrationally, Tezuka comes to Hyotei to repay the humiliating favor Atobe had bestowed on Seigaku. Atobe watches him, shrewd and calculating, the whole match long. He's watching his captain lose spectacularly and he's smirking, as if it's amusing him so very much.
Tezuka crushes Hyotei's captain, and still, he leaves Hyotei with the distinct feeling that he's been beaten.
.
Fuji is waiting for him when he returns to Seigaku, sitting on the bench of the deserted clubroom. His eyes are half-open, gazing down at where his fingers were tangled together in his lap.
"I've been going back and forth about this all week long," Fuji finally says softly, although he doesn't make any other indication that he knows that Tezuka is there. "And I just... You went to Hyotei, didn't you?" He lifts his head. He's trembling, and there's so much confusion in his eyes that it's a physical pain for Tezuka to hold himself back, not to rush and fold Fuji into his embrace, like he's always, always wanted.
"You met my... You met Keigo." Fuji's breath hitches, and still he keeps his smile, with so much forced cheer, it's killing Tezuka to watch it. "Tell me, what's he like?"
And Tezuka, selfish, terrible Tezuka doesn't want to discuss it, doesn't want to talk about perfect Atobe Keigo, doesn't want to talk about how he's got his entire school on the palm of his hand, and now he's about to get Fuji, too.
Not when Fuji is sitting there, the light of dusk bathing him in the kind of radiance only he could ever belong in, and Tezuka loves him.
Even if Tezuka can't keep him, Tezuka loves him, and he can't, he can't talk about Atobe Keigo, not when he's all too real now, not when he's poised to take away the best dream Tezuka's ever lived in his life.
He pitches forward, slowly, one inch at a time, until they're sitting side by side, Fuji rigid and Tezuka a little less so. He stares at Fuji's lips the entire time, a perfect bow of a mouth, until Fuji's eyes flutter half-closed once again. They're not kissing, not yet, but they're breathing the same air and Tezuka brings his hand up to stroke Fuji's cheekbones, leisurely, unhurriedly, traces Fuji's precious face until he's caressing a perfect jaw, tipping Fuji's face to his.
There are tears now, trailing in uneven lines down Fuji's face and it's a wonder how someone so strong and so fierce could be so, so vulnerable.
Fuji's voice is quiet, when he whispers, "Please mean this," his breath fanning gently across Tezuka's cheeks.
Tezuka brings his other hand to cup Fuji's face, his focus narrowing down, down to the warm, shallow puffs of breath hitting his upper lip, to the smell of apples and cinnamon and something else so distinctly Fuji, to the flutter of Fuji's long lashes, to Fuji's mouth, full bottom lip slack and inviting and so, so close.
And he's so perfect, so unbelievably perfect, Tezuka's heart breaks and mends itself each time Tezuka sees his face, as if it needed to renew itself everytime, be recreated again and again because one lifetime is not enough to love someone like Fuji.
"Fuji, how could I not?"
I love you.
"Fuji, how could I not?"
And for a split second, Fuji can taste them, taste Tezuka's beautiful words on his own tongue, as if Tezuka breathes them right into his mouth, bittersweet but real and it's happening, this is happening, Tezuka is pressing his mouth properly to his and the words disappear between them.
Fuji's breath hitches and he clings to Tezuka, lets himself be pushed backwards into the bench, raising his arms to tangle around Tezuka's neck, a bright solar flare of skin on skin.
The name on his palm burns, and it feels so very, very wrong, but it's so damn beautiful, it's too damn beautiful that it just can't be wrong. Even if there's no connection, no spark, Fuji just melds their bodies together a little bit more, until he can feel his heart beating against Tezuka's own, until all he can feel is Tezuka, Tezuka, Tezuka. He breathes the name on his skin and Tezuka whispers his right back, right before Tezuka's lips find his once again.
He feels like he's drowing once again, but it's a drowning of a different kind, and he never wants it to stop.
.
Later that night, Fuji looks at himself in the mirror, his fingers on his lips. On the upturned palm on his desk, the name Atobe Keigo remains unchanged, still bold and dark against his skin.
He thinks of the many kisses he and Tezuka traded in the clubroom, forbidden kisses, kisses that should never have been. He feels like his heart is teetering at the precipice, just the smallest push away from tumbling into the abyss.
And he knows it will fall, because this kind of love, the best and the worst of all lies, it breaks things.
But that's alright, Fuji thinks, closing his eyes in resigned acceptance, Tezuka still a warm tingle in his veins, still palpable in the buzzing of his skin. For a moment, Fuji remembers the way they've touched and he wishes, fiercely, desperately, for more.
But mostly, he's just happy for what he's had.
It's alright.
Some things were there to be broken.
So the promised epilogue is actually more a third chapter than an epilogue (very creatively and unpredictably named third year) and it's starting out worse than this one did, if you can believe it. So please be patient with me –bow- I'll try really hard, but being a professional sick person is not the most ideal occupation, honestly.
Plus, SOMEONE, I'm not gonna say who –coughLexycough- has gotten me into watching Free! and so I am now swimming in harurin feels (see what I did there? Swimming, ohohohoho). Honestly, I just can't with that anime. It should be illegal, only it shouldn't because then I can't watch it over and over on repeat anymore. The FEELS will kill you, ladies and gentlemen, a warning in advance. Ahhhhhhh XD -hair pulling- Those idiots will be the death of me one day, I swear on all that is good in this world. But until then... –rewatches first season all over again-
Drop by and tell me what you guys think, ne? I need the love~ Lol.
/silverglitters