and He Said
--written by scube
Speeding past...
Ne Tezuka, why did you say that?
Fuji closes his eyes and remembers the warmth of Tezuka's embrace. The warmth, so unlike this person seated next to him right now. Yet, it is the very same one he knows. Fuji steals a glance at Tezuka, eyebrows knitted and a somewhat indescribable quality marring his flawless visage. He absently remembers that he loves Tezuka's exquisitely defined nose and the glasses that rest gently on it. Though, what Tezuka is thinking about as he clutches the steering wheel at this moment, Fuji cannot imagine.
If he listens, he will.
Fuji doesn't want to say anything anymore.
Speed... and Fuji feels like they're almost levitating. The ageing trees -- low-hanging branches perilously swaying -- are almost near enough to touch, just like a Tezuka every time. Just so near, but never quite near enough, like a parody bitterly mocking him. And now, Fuji watches them zoom past with a morbid fascination.
"Fuji, I'm tired of your games."
Ne Tezuka, are we going to die?
Fuji thinks about his brain tucked inside his skull, somewhere higher than his eyes where he can't see, and he wonders briefly how or even why it manages to function the way it does every single day. There, it holds all his knowledge and the memories he treasures, he loves, he lives... Tezuka, he exists within. He exists inside, beside, he exists everywhere. And if now, at this moment, if they simply go -- crash!
Ne Tezuka...?
He imagines his splitting skull and the brain that would cease to function. He imagines plunging into an endless hole, so deep and so dark. Relegated. He can't see Tezuka. He feels his consciousness existing in its own supreme dimension, observing himself from an omnipresent objectivity; but he feels nothing but cold, nothing but dark, nothing but empty. Isn't nothingness as good as death? One day, he'll get tired of this darkness, tired of groping for support, tired of breathing... and Tezuka will simply be no more.
Ne Tezuka, where are you?
"Fuji, are you listening to me?"
The adrenaline, the speed and the scenery that flies them past. Fuji distractedly grips on to his seat, and he is hardly aware of the breath he is holding. Fuji is reminded of the tennis they play -- the adrenaline, the speed and the anti-gravity courts that melt at his feet. Fuji is hopelessly addicted to this sheer excitement and endless fascination. In a pendulum-like motion of serving and receiving -- simple and innocent as before -- the games they play now are more dangerous than ever.
He looks out of the window, sees the skies blue, the meadows green, and he thinks about Tezuka's kisses -- every single one of them. Tezuka pressed against him, Tezuka's tongue caressing his own, Tezuka drawing air out of him and stealing his breath.
Ne Tezuka, are you listening to me?
Fuji vividly remembers the first time Tezuka cornered him in their old club room nine years ago. So long ago, or was it just yesterday? His memories seem yellowed and musty like old decaying paper but Fuji prizes them like vintage wine as firsts always remain special. He hadn't known what to do but Tezuka then was too frightening and beautiful to resist. And when Tezuka's lips descended upon his, Tezuka's kiss was soft, tentative and chaste.
Ne Tezuka, what happened along the way?
Fuji studies Tezuka closely for the first in a long time. Fingers reveal a lot about a person's life; he loves Tezuka's fingers and the stories they tell. But now, his knuckles are white and his veins are thick and blue. Tezuka's lips are pursed, then he shouts something loud and vulgar but it remains inaudible to Fuji's distracted mind.
"Fuji, look at me!"
Ne Tezuka, what are we doing?
"Fuji!"
Ne Tezuka, don't you want me anymore?
Fuji feels Tezuka's hands cupping the back of his head, lips against his own; rough but soft, angry but warm -- oh dear, this is just crazy -- desperate but dominant, the heat and the love, familiar... and satiating.
This is still crazy, crazy, crazy. What happens next? No time to care.
Fuji hadn't known what to say but he now pours his unspoken words into Tezuka.
Ne Tezuka, you hear me, don't you?
The last now is reminiscent of the first, yet different in every other way.
Ne Tezuka, we could simply end here.
-----
Fuji wakes to a throbbing head. The world spins like a top before slowing to a restless stop. He makes a soliloquizing noise, winces, then lifts his fingers and vaguely searches for the offending spot, touching it gingerly as if validating it, himself, his existence -- would there be a scar? -- then righting himself, sharpening his vision, zooming back to a reality that feels too real. The room is white and the billowing curtains are wispy and light.
He pushes himself up from the bed, his feet lands on the floor with a somewhat familiar unfamiliarity and he pads feebly along the corridor. Passing by ward after ward, the doors are clean and white and meaningless until he spots the name which says Tezuka Kunimitsu.
(Together in an instance of near-death, separated in life?)
He opens the door slowly, enters, and is very careful and particular about being quiet. Fuji watches Tezuka as he sleeps and feels a wave of nostalgia. When Tezuka rests, he no longer frowns. Instead, he looks somewhat weary and relieved. The barely visible fine lines that run along Tezuka's face mark his wisdom. Fuji has never really noticed them until now, right now, and he thinks these lines are undeviating evidences of what they had, what they have, and what they will have. Fuji badly wants to touch that hazel brown hair -- even if he knows it is real, he needs to feel the silky softness to confirm the reality of it.
Fuji reaches out and touches Tezuka's hands instead. He has decided.
(Together in an instance of near-death and together in life.)
Ne Tezuka, you hear me, don't you?
Tezuka stirs and Fuji gently traces irregular circles on Tezuka's palm.
Ne Tezuka, I love you.
- end -
[ A/N : This drabble is a somewhat personal piece of writing, so I apologise if it has confused anyone. Some readers have left feedback saying that the organisation of this piece is rather messy and confusing but in all actuality, it was intentionally designed to be this way :) The narrative of this piece is presented in the form of an internal monologue hence the flow is rather disjointed and abrupt at certain points. And no, there is no prequel or sequel to this because it is a one-shot drabble and I felt that drabbles like these do not necessarily need strong plot lines :) The premise has already been succinctly described in the summary. This piece of writing is meant to be vague and any further explanation, elaboration or justification would necessarily erode the intended impact of this drabble. Thank you for reading! Feedback would be greatly appreciated! ]