TITLE: We Three
FANDOM: Prince of Tennis
PAIRINGS: FujiOC. Yes, both Fuji's.
SUMMARY: Hayashi Aya is sixteen when she meets the two great loves of her life: Fuji Yuuta… and Fuji Syuusuke. No one said love is easy.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Prince of Tennis.
.
After their meeting, there isn't a day where Aya and Fuji Yuuta don't talk to each other.
They text each other throughout the day; it had started with Aya texting 'Aren't you proud?' with an accompanying picture of the flashing 'DON'T WALK' sign at a crosswalk.
He'd replied with a simple 'Very.' Aya had read it in that sarcastic tone of his, and her face had broken out into an earsplitting grin.
And it had never stopped.
They text each other throughout the week about, well, everything. She tells him about the miraculously high score on her math test and how her new laundry detergent makes her blankets smell heavenly. He tells her about his excitement about St. Rudolph serving curry for dinner, about his tennis team's antics. They have long conversations about nothing in particular. (Those are her favorites.)
Each text makes her smile.
"God, Aya," her friend Yuuki says, wrinkling her nose in disgust as Aya laughs at the joke Yuuta had made about tandem bicycles. "Do you ever not text him?"
"Yeah," she says defensively.
And it's true.
.
Aya rushes onto the train just before the doors close behind her, and walks over to her new usual spot in the compartment.
"Hey, Stranger," she says, sliding into the seat next to his.
He's smiling, as usual. "You're cutting it close today."
Aya smiles back, because how can she not? "Shush. I had to talk to a teacher after class."
"Whatever you say," he says lightly. "Your hair is messed up, by the way."
Her hands fly up to her head, patting frantically. "Oh no!"
He chuckles and pulls out a simple, elegant hand mirror. "Here."
"Whatever," she says, now that she can see the damage. She smooths out her now-unruly loose curls. "I make it work. I'm just free-spirited."
His smile turns wry. "Of course."
Aya puffs up with mock offense and nudges him with her arm. "Listen, Stranger. Not everyone can be as perfectly poised and as ridiculously good-looking as you."
"You think I'm ridiculously good-looking?" he asks teasingly.
She tilts her head, lips tilting up in a coy smile. "Does it make you that happy?"
He laughs–really laughs–for a second, and Aya stares in fascination. The Stranger's face is lit up in mirth, and she can't help but think that amusement has never looked so beautiful on another human being.
Huh, she thinks. This Stranger is more interesting than she'd thought. This Stranger is someone she'd like to get to know more of.
But as they slip back into conversation for the rest of the train ride, the laughter dissipates from his face, and the only things left are pleasantries.
.
When Aya gets off the train, she notices that she has a text from Fuji Yuuta. It's just a rather disgruntled, 'Curry with apples is the best, you don't know what you're talking about', but it makes her laugh because it's just so him. And then, for some inexplicable reason, she wants to see him so very much.
To: Fuji Yuuta
From: Hayashi Aya
Let's eat curry soon.
To: Hayashi Aya
From: Fuji Yuuta
Okay.
Aya stares at the 'Okay', and the anticipation that washes over her is very similar to the one that she gets when she drinks good champagne: warm and slightly bubbly.
.
They end up making plans to eat curry on Friday, after Yuuta's finished tennis practice.
The warm anticipation she'd gotten from Yuuta's 'Okay' only intensifies, and she can't help but tell her friends at school on Wednesday.
"Oh," she says to herself, remembering something suddenly. "I'll have to tell Stranger I won't be on the train on Friday."
Her friends give her a look she's familiar with; it's the one that says 'What in the world are you talking about you weirdo?' and at this point she's become so fond of it that it makes her laugh.
"There's this guy on my train home everyday, and it's so weird because I didn't get to talk to him until we bumped into each other on a different train. But anyway, we decided to be each other's Strangers on a Train. Isn't it just dreamy?"
Mika and Yuuki exchange a knowing glance.
"Aya," Mika says warningly. "I know you don't want to break any hearts, but you can't keep flirting with two different guys for a long time. It never ends well."
Aya looks at her desk, suddenly feeling very small. "It's not like that."
Her friends look at her disbelievingly.
"No," she says vehemently. "Yuuta and I are just friends right now. Sure, he's cute and fun to flirt with, but it hasn't started going anywhere yet. I don't know if I'll end up liking him or if we're just going to be friends, but why should I give up hanging out with him? I like hanging out with him. He's really fun."
Yuuki fixes her with an impassive stare. "And the Stranger?"
Aya frowns. "He's a stranger. I like talking to him and I'd like to know more about him, but he's so guarded that he's probably the most unattainable person I've ever met."
This seems to satisfy her friends, because anyone who knows Hayashi Aya knows that she'd rather rip up her heart than give it to an unattainable person.
(At least, it does for now.)
.
She's texting Yuuta about her fear of walruses that afternoon when she gets the phone call.
"Dad!" she grins. "Hi."
"Aya, how are you?"
Her stomach drops, because there's something shifty in her father's tone, something she's heard before.
Guilt.
"I'm good," she says, pushing her apprehension aside. "I made a new friend recently. He's great."
"It's a boy?" her father says, and Aya laughs because she can practically see the despair on his face. "Nevermind, tell me about him tomorrow. Listen about this weekend…"
Aya freezes. She'd forgotten that her birthday's coming up on Saturday and that her father is supposed to fly out from Italy to visit.
"You can't make it, can you?"
Her father pauses, and Aya can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tries to think of a good way to phrase his excuse. "I'm sorry. There's a crisis at the Paris office that I have to go fix."
"It's fine," she says, forcing back her sigh. "I understand."
"Are you sure? Because–"
"Yeah. It can't be helped. Listen, I'd love to talk more, but I have to go or I'll miss my train," she manages to say calmly, and hangs up.
She's on the verge of tears by the time she boards the train, and the Stranger notices them before she can swipe them away.
His smile slips off slowly, and he tilts his head in concern. "What's wrong?"
Something about his concern–a stranger's concern–is so incredibly touching that it breaks the dam. Aya's tears stream out freely, and she hiccups.
"It's stupid," she sniffs.
He hands her a handkerchief, and Aya almost laughs, because of course he'd have one; he's the type of person who carries around a hand mirror, after all.
"Try me," he says, smiling ever so gently.
"My dad," Aya starts. "He's… He's a great dad. But he–his job makes him travel a lot, so he's never here, you know? He's always in America, or China, or Europe, and I haven't–" she pauses to wipe away some fresh tears. "I haven't seen him for three years."
The Stranger says nothing, but he's giving Aya his full, undivided attention. His intent gaze never moves from her face, and she hasn't felt this grateful for anything in a while.
"He was supposed to come this weekend, for my birthday, but he called just now to say he can't. And I know he's working, and that it must be hard living in hotel rooms and rented apartments and be away from… from home for three years, but I just got tired of three years of cancelled plans and… and…" she looks down at her feet, hopelessly lost for words.
"Disappointment," the Stranger says softly, and Aya laughs weakly, because if she was grateful for his silence, then what word could even begin to describe her gratitude for that one word just now?
"Yeah." She looks at him again. "That. And I felt guilty, because it's not like he's doing this for fun; it's for work. I shouldn't be so selfish."
They lock eyes for a long moment. Or rather, they would have, had the Stranger's eyes been open.
"What color are your eyes?" Aya asks, because she needs to think about something else for a while.
He smiles his usual smile, and she can't help but feel disappointed, because she'd liked seeing him be real again for once.
"Blue."
"Huh," she says thoughtfully. "My friend's eyes are blue. Maybe you know him?"
He chuckles. "There are a lot more blue-eyed people than you think."
"I know," Aya says defensively, "but this is Japan. No one has blue eyes here."
His chuckle fades away, and his serious expression returns. "But you should know: feeling hurt and disappointed doesn't make you selfish. It's only natural."
She smiles and ducks her gaze down again, because the weight of telling anyone about her innermost feelings makes her feel timid. "Yeah?"
The Stranger nods. "Three years is a long time to wait," he says patiently. "My father has to travel for work, too, but he manages to visit frequently."
There's a lovely quality that takes over the Stranger's face when he talks about its family, but it's the tragic sort of lovely. If it were anyone else's face–say, Yuuta's–Aya would be able to pinpoint exactly why that is. But not with the Stranger's; the only thing she can see is a twinge of longing.
Aya has long since learned to read people, and her inability to read the Stranger suddenly makes her very, very scared.
"Are you and your dad okay?" she asks, because she has to know.
"Yes," he says, and Aya starts, because there's something rueful and raw in his tone. "My father and I have always been fine. But my brother…"
He smiles again, and this lovely moment that they're having is ending.
"That's a story for another day."
"But you can tell a stranger, right?" she asks desperately. If the Stranger doesn't feel comfortable sharing anything after she'd just bared her soul, then it would be the most embarrassing–and possibly the worst–rejection of her life.
He nods, and Aya knows he means it. "Of course."
.
It's only afterwards, when she's back at home–armed with her pajamas and five blankets and hot chocolate–that she realizes it:
Today, the Stranger had been tangible.