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Clear

Chapter 3

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"Oyaji," Ryoma said under his breath. "Why are we letting him stay?"

Nanjiroh shushed him. "Because he seems interesting. And he plays tennis!"

"I hate him…"

"Well, too bad, kid!"

Fuji smiled to himself as he heard the hushed conversation from the porch. He couldn't find himself being offended by Ryoma's I hate him, and was oddly pleased by the words. He was able to stay in a nice, warm home for a few nights, and had found a backyard that accommodated one of his passions. If he was lucky, they'd let him stay until he found a job and an apartment.

Ryoma kicked off his shoes loudly, and stormed past. "I can't believe we're letting a stranger stay in our house," he muttered.

Fuji laughed as Ryoma padded up the stairwell and holed up in his bedroom. This was all quite amusing.

Nanjiroh shuffled in after him. "Sorry about that." He scratched the back of his neck, then grinned. "Like I said, he's a pain in the ass."

"Oh, don't worry," Fuji said airily. "I've dealt with people like him."

This brought out a chuckle from Nanjiroh as he plonked down a suitcase. "Heh. I like you, Fuji-san." He tipped his head to the hallway. "The bathroom's down the hall, and there's a guest bedroom next to Ryoma's room upstairs." His eyes crinkled at the edges as he patted Fuji on the back. "Go make yourself at home."

I definitely will, Fuji thought to himself. His lips curled into a smile at the prospect of living in an actual house with an actual family, albeit not his own.

"Oh, Echizen-san?"

Nanjiroh, in the middle of dragging bags to the kitchen, looked over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Fuji smirked. "Anything in particular that scares your son a rather lot?"

Nanjiroh blinked, then grinned. "There's a pet store with venomous snakes across the street. Go knock yourself out."

Fuji beamed and said he would.

This would be all too much fun.

…

The guest bedroom was plain and ordinary, but it had a big nice window that gave the view of their large backyard. Fuji leaned up on the sill, cheek resting on the side of the glass pane. He could see the beautiful court beckoning him to go downstairs and play – to absorb himself into the fierce sport of tennis – but he didn't know if he'd be allowed.

Nanjiroh had been really nice to him so far, but he didn't want to push his luck.

He stared at the wide net and stack of yellow balls piled in a bucket. He really itched to grab a tennis racquet and rally…

But…

"Can you help me find my cat?"

Fuji turned around to see Ryoma standing by the doorway, scowling.

"What?" Fuji asked.

"My cat." Ryoma shifted uncomfortably. "He's not in my room…and…"

He can't see, Fuji thought incredulously, So how the hell would he find his cat, anyway? Fuji supposed he could hear him, or maybe smell him, but still. He wondered how Ryoma got around in life.

"If you don't want to, at least tell me," Ryoma snapped.

Fuji realized he was still waiting for a response, and cleared his throat. "Of course." His tongue felt thick in his mouth. "Do you have any idea where he could be?"

Ryoma shrugged. "Sometimes he likes to hide out in the basement."

Fuji nodded in agreement, then realized Ryoma couldn't see the nod. Quickly, he cleared his throat. "Sure, let's go."

Ryoma's mouth curved upwards into a half-smile, and Fuji heard a bare whisper of a thanks before he was padding off to the stairwell. Fuji followed him, and watched in amazement as he started down the gigantic staircase. Each step was confident and sharp, like he knew exactly where to land his foot even though he couldn't see – and Fuji supposed Ryoma had gotten used to it by now, but nevertheless, it was amazing to watch.

Still, he hovered behind Ryoma, in case he fell.

"What's your cat look like?" Fuji asked.

Ryoma shrugged. "Himalayan. White stripes, black fur."

Briefly, Fuji wondered if Ryoma had actually seen the cat, then realized he'd probably got his father to tell him. The pit of his stomach started to go queasy again because he just couldn't imagine living without his vision, and seeing Ryoma struggle through it made his gut burn with a sympathy he couldn't quite understand.

As he thought about this, Ryoma's foot slipped on the end of the stairwell. He yelped, but before he could fall, Fuji instinctively wrapped his arms around him for security. He could hear Ryoma's breathing, a bit harsh, against his chest. And even though balancing him took only seconds, he felt the unpredictable urge to just keep holding him.

"Thanks," Ryoma said quietly. He tried to wriggle out, but Fuji put a hand on the soft curve of his cheek. He was so endearing.

"Fuji-san?" Ryoma had stopped squirming. "What are you doing?"

Fuji tenderly stroked his cheek. "You must feel empty knowing you'll never be able to see."

Fire flamed Ryoma's eyes. "No. I'm perfectly fine. Let go."

Ryoma tried to pull away, but Fuji had built strength over the years, and his grip on the thin wrist stayed tight. "How does it feel?" Fuji asked, because he suddenly desperately had to know. "How does it feel to be blind? Does it upset you?" the words were coming out on impulse, and he knew Ryoma didn't like them. And yet he couldn't stop himself. "Do you wish every day that you could see?"

"Shut the fuck up." Ryoma's voice was hard as steel. "Just shut the fuck up."

Fuji was surprised by the language, especially since he was thirteen. But then, he'd probably riled him up real bad. "I'm sorry," Fuji said. "But I'd like to know how you feel."

Ryoma was shaking, that's how angry he was in Fuji's hold. "Since when do you have the right to know how I feel?"

Fuji stared at him. "Please?" he tried.

A look passed over Ryoma's eyes, hard and unforgiving. "I said no. Let go."

Maybe if Fuji knew when to quit, he would have let go. Maybe if Fuji wasn't so blindly unaware (and at the same time, so distinctly aware) of what he was doing, he would have let go. Maybe if Fuji wasn't so curious about how Ryoma felt, he would have let go. But because he was all those things, he just leaned forward, and said:

"Don't you want to see your cat? Or your father's face?"

He knew he was being kind of cruel, but if he could just get Ryoma going…

"I hate you," Ryoma hissed, in a thin voice. "You have no right – "

"I think being honest is a good thing," Fuji said, but the moment he said them, he felt his stomach suddenly twist up. He hadn't been honest at all, so far. He'd pretended he was into travelling, and photography, when really, up until now, his life had been chaos. He'd stole and he'd fought and he'd been poor and homeless…

What if Ryoma had been asking him about that? Telling him he had no option but to comply? What if it was Ryoma who was stronger, holding him by the wrist and demanding he explain how he felt to be a part of all of that?

As if Ryoma's wrist had lit on fire, Fuji ripped his hand away.

"I'm sorry," he spoke rapidly. "I don't know what overcame me."

Ryoma just stared at him, eyes wide and wavering. He looked like he was debating whether to sock Fuji in the gut or punch him in the eye. After a moment, though, he did neither, and only turned away to walk down the last steps of the stairwell. Fuji watched him go with guilt lying heavy on his mind.

"Oi, Seishounen, anything in particular you want for dinner?" Nanjiroh popped his head in through the kitchen.

In response, Ryoma only stormed past him to the basement.

Nanjiroh arched a brow, and his eyes shot over to Fuji, who flinched noticeably.

"What'd you tell tim?"

Fuji shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing, really."

For a moment, Nanjiroh just stared at him, eyes narrow and gold and so much like Ryoma's. Then, in a voice that was more serious than Fuji could ever imagine, he said: "Look, Fuji-san. I like you and all, and I may not seem like the best parent in the world, but if you hurt that boy in any way, you're getting thrown out of here." His eyes were focused with the promise that he would follow through on the actions. "Are we clear, here?"

"Yes." Fuji swallowed, and felt the guilt wrench notches higher. "Yes, we're clear."

….

Fuji didn't know whether or not Ryoma still wanted help finding his cat (although he greatly presumed he didn't) but he was heading down to the basement anyway. As he ventured down the dark, creaky staircase, he couldn't help but shiver at the thought of Ryoma falling down the basement stairs, collapsing on the cold, grey-painted floor, and never opening his eyes again.

It certainly looked like the kind of basement where creepy things happened.

"Hey, Karu." He heard Ryoma's voice, softer than he'd ever heard before. Fuji froze, and poked his head through the end of the stairwell. There was a dim, bare light in the basement, and it shed over Ryoma's figure as he bent over a curled cat and stroked the fur. His eyes were soft, and shimmering with warmth – and Fuji couldn't help the sharp tug in his gut.

That kind of warm look, that seemed to be reserved for Ryoma's cat – could it ever possibly be reserved for him?

Fuji thought back to the previous conversation, where's Ryoma eyes had been so cold and harsh and hurt. Probably not. Probably never after the way he'd pressured him for answers. But maybe he could smooth things over?

He was usually pretty good at that.

"Found your cat." Fuji pointed out the obvious.

Ryoma didn't flinch. "Clearly," he said.

"He's…big," Fuji said, for a lack of better words.

Ryoma glared at him. "He's normal," he snapped, standing up and holding his cat close to his chest. Chin in the air, he stalked off past Fuji and headed up his stairs. There wasn't a hint of subtly in what he wanted to say: don't speak to me, don't go near me, don't touch me. But Fuji couldn't help but feel nervous about him going up the dark, flimsy basement stairs all by himself.

Padding up behind him, he said, "So, Ryoma, tell me about yourself."

"Is this a job interview?" Ryoma huffed. "If anything, I should be asking you."

"You already know." Fuji put on a prim smile as he closed the basement door shut behind them. Light flooded his eyes. "I enjoy travelling, photography, and play tennis in my free-time."

The chin jutted farther up, if that was possible. "Okay. But what about before that. Like when you were a kid."

Right in the sore spot, Fuji thought grimly. But Ryoma had no clue about what he did, or what he was a part of, so he could play this safe. "It's not exactly a great childhood," he admitted. At least that part was the truth. "My parents weren't really…." They were dead. "…around much. And I wasn't much into socializing." Unless swearing and then kneeing people in the gut counted as getting to know the person.

Ryoma paused, eyes flickered vaguely in Fuji's direction. "Oh." He shifted. "I'm not much into socializing either."

I can tell – that was what Fuji didn't say. Instead, he replied cheerfully, "Really? You seem so friendly!"

Ryoma snorted. "Whatever, Fuji-san."

Fuji grinned, and followed him into the kitchen. He felt the guilt briefly disappear, because Ryoma seemed to have gotten over his anger pretty quickly. Maybe he felt sorry for Fuji after hearing his sob story, even if that wasn't even a quarter of the truth. Or maybe he was just a forgiving person. Either way, Fuji wasn't going to question his luck.

The guilt came rushing back a second later when they stepped into the dining room.

Nanjiroh was looking at him with a very tense, suspicious eye. "I made Mac and cheese."

"Again?" Ryoma groaned. He flopped down on the chair with a frown.

"Oi." Nanjiroh tapped Ryoma's head with the big spoon in his hand. "Be grateful!"

"No," Ryoma said glumly.

Fuji chuckled, and slid into the seat next to Ryoma. Nanjiroh was still looking at him – all threatening and daring. Hoping to clear up his past misconception, Fuji beamed at Ryoma, and said: "I'd be interested in seeing your tennis skills after we eat. Mind a game?"

At this, Nanjiroh smirked a little.

Good, good, Fuji nodded.

"Yes," Ryoma said. Fuji waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing more.

"So you'll play?" Fuji asked.

"Yes." Ryoma arched a brow – and then snickered. "I can't wait to see you lose."

"We'll see about that," Fuji said, just as crisply. He couldn't help but feel a swell of cockiness that he wished desperately to suppress. It was just that…he knew how good he was. Even with people tougher, taller, and more experienced than him, Fuji had always won easily, without breaking a sweat.

Tennis was not just his hobby – it was his God-given talent, and even without practice, he was exceptionally good.

And then there was Ryoma – twelve, kind of skinny, and, well…blind.

Fuji hatedhimself for thinking it would be easier because Ryoma was blind, but he couldn't help himself. How could Ryoma win the game against him if he couldn't even see the ball? Of course, he could hear the ball, and feel it instinctively, but only exceptionally talented players could win in such a state…

Fuji felt Nanjiroh's eyes on him. They were light, with the kind of air that spoke: Better not underestimate him.

Maybe there was something about Ryoma and tennis that he didn't know.

Maybe it wasn't just a game for Ryoma.

Maybe it was…

"I'm nothing without tennis," Ryoma whispered to him, quiet, and sad, and hushed.

Fuji's chest squeezed, and he wanted to say that it wasn't true. Nobody was nothing without something. Nobody.

He was living proof, wasn't he? He'd thought he was nothing without his old life, but he'd gotten himself out of the rut. He'd proven that he was real and whole. He'd proven that he had the right to be happy.

But he couldn't tell Ryoma that. So instead, he just smiled and sat up a little straighter and hoped Ryoma could see it in his eyes.