Title: My Last Resort
Author: Vanilla Fox
Disclaimer: If you think Prince of Tennis belongs to me, come a little closer so that I can smack you.
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst
Summary: His last resort, after this, he will let whatever happens, happen. He'll wait for any reply, if there is any... Story Type: One-shot self-challenge. (To write at around a thousand or less.) Pre-Story Notes: My word processor spellcheck died on me, so I had to editing manually. Sorry for any typos or grammatical mistakes!
Electric blue eyes stared at the blank piece of paper lying flat on his desk. He was holding a pen in his right hand, which he uncapped, and tapped against the table in readiness for the fourth time in the last half hour.
/What am I supposed to write again?/
Fuji Shuusuke, Seishun Gakuen's prodigy, was just sitting there, completely illiterate, and clueless, for the first time. He tried to recall what he was doing here in the first place; sitting in the deserted classroom all by himself, while everyone else was outside enjoying themselves on that bright Friday afternoon. He even skipped tennis and asked Eiji to let him be. He looked out of the window, down at the tennis courts where the club was assembled, playing as per normal.
But he knew that it was not per normal.
It was already the end of the road, or rather, it was already the intersection, where their path branched out toward different directions. There was Seishun High, there was Sports School. There was proffesionalism, and for him, for him only, there was a scholarship to college.
He sat there, chin resting on the windowsill, thikning, pondering, reflecting. There was an abundance of things he wanted to say, about how he felt, what was the truth, still he had to ask himself, what he wanted to really write. "Everything." The annoying voice in his head replied nonchalantly, as if there was no emotional crisis looming around the corner.
He wanted to write about the moment they met a couple of years ago, (It seemed just like yesterday!) how he was entranced by his presence; how he was taken aback by the raw emotion that would trickle through his supposedly dispassionate self every time those brown eyes locked on him, how a mere word emerging from his mouth could affect him so much, how...
How he loved, yet right now, loathed Tezuka.
Fuji grasped the pen angrily. But settling down practically and overriding his emotions, he placed the pen back on the table and tried to recall the purpose of the letter for the uncountable time —he wanted to come clean. He did not know how to do it face-to-face, so he considered putting it in writing instead. He finally decided to let out the thoughts and feelings he had been concealing all these years. After all, the pain with sting, but it he would not need to face the damned captain the next day, since he would be gone anyway.
This was a tough decision to make since he did not know what the outcome would be. Sure, there were a few reactions that he could think of, but none of them was positive. The captain could just read his letter, and dispose of it, or he could come after Fuji and tell him to stop joking. Tezuka could merely write back and tell him he was not gay, and what the hell was Fuji thinking, or maybe, just maybe, he could call Fuji and tell him politely, and distantly, that he did not feel the same way, and he was together with Atobe. Fuji chuckled wryly at that particular thought, his personal favourite.
He rested his forehead on the edge of the wooden desk. He was breathing hard, frustrated...—defeated.
How could he let himself get so worked up? How could he let his feelings for Tezuka swallow him whole? He was supposed to be unattached, untouchable He was Fuji Shuusuke; prodigy, a talent...
Fuji lifted his head from the surface of the desk. He rose from the chair that he had been sitting on for over an hour to get a new piece of pad paper in his bag nearby. He obtained it, sat back on the chair, laid the paper flat on the table, uncapped his pen, tapping it on the table a few times, and started writing.
His hand moved swiftly and squiggles of blue ink were taking form on the paper. What was being written he had no idea; it was as though his hand was moving at its own will. He kept writing, until there was only a small space left at the bottom of the paper, he had exhausted all the lines on both sides. Finally, with his heart heavy, he wrote;
Yours Faithfully, Fuji Shuusuke
Blue eyes looked at all the characters, written in his cursive penmanship, catching a few words. Sighing to himself, he picked it up and folded it neatly, before putting in into a prepared blank envelope, on which he wrote the recipient's name. Fuji narrowed his eyes in frustration and fought the urge to tear it to bits and pieces right there and then. He picked the envelope up and slipped it in his left back pocket, deciding that he was going to yes, shred it at home and then burn it, just in case.
"You're quite late for practice, aren't you?"
Fuji felt his shoulders stiffen at the cool voice, and instead, plastered on his trademark smile, before turning around and looking at the slightly sweating captain in his tennis club jersey. They had finished their laps- Fuji sighed mentally at the thought. No more relaxing group jogs for him. He stopped himself from saying that he would never be coming for practice again.
Instead, he shook his head from side to side, not meeting Tezuka's inquiring, and piercing gaze. "I had to fill up some forms for the office." He did not need to know what forms, Fuji was not telling, and he would not know, because he would not give the letter. "I have to go home early today, I shouldn't have brought my bag." He sighed, and collected his things, feeling something behind him shift as he shouldered both his school, and tennis bag on his left.
With that, he bowed his goodbye, probably for the last time, and walked out of the room, accidentally bumping his tennis bag against the wall. "Sorry." He murmured, as an apology for his absence, and walked down the hallway quickly.
"Fuji-"Tezuka began to call for the boy as he disappeared around the corner, but cut himself off as he saw the name on the otherwise spotless envelope.
"Tezuka Kunimitsu"
=Owari!=
Postscript: Hah! Let a lot of angst out today... Not really angst, just frustration, I suppose. Kept this just around a thousand words. More of course, but I'm trying to school myself into writing less padded stories. sigh you should know what I'd want for this oneshot right?
Should I write a sequel?
Ja ne, Vanilla Fox
lj-cut text="your text here" Text cut. /lj-cut
Disclaimer: If you think Prince of Tennis belongs to me, come a little closer so that I can smack you.
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst
Summary: His last resort, after this, he will let whatever happens, happen. He'll wait for any reply, if there is any... Story Type: One-shot self-challenge. (To write at around a thousand or less.) Pre-Story Notes: My word processor spellcheck died on me, so I had to editing manually. Sorry for any typos or grammatical mistakes!
Electric blue eyes stared at the blank piece of paper lying flat on his desk. He was holding a pen in his right hand, which he uncapped, and tapped against the table in readiness for the fourth time in the last half hour.
/What am I supposed to write again?/
Fuji Shuusuke, Seishun Gakuen's prodigy, was just sitting there, completely illiterate, and clueless, for the first time. He tried to recall what he was doing here in the first place; sitting in the deserted classroom all by himself, while everyone else was outside enjoying themselves on that bright Friday afternoon. He even skipped tennis and asked Eiji to let him be. He looked out of the window, down at the tennis courts where the club was assembled, playing as per normal.
But he knew that it was not per normal.
It was already the end of the road, or rather, it was already the intersection, where their path branched out toward different directions. There was Seishun High, there was Sports School. There was proffesionalism, and for him, for him only, there was a scholarship to college.
He sat there, chin resting on the windowsill, thikning, pondering, reflecting. There was an abundance of things he wanted to say, about how he felt, what was the truth, still he had to ask himself, what he wanted to really write. "Everything." The annoying voice in his head replied nonchalantly, as if there was no emotional crisis looming around the corner.
He wanted to write about the moment they met a couple of years ago, (It seemed just like yesterday!) how he was entranced by his presence; how he was taken aback by the raw emotion that would trickle through his supposedly dispassionate self every time those brown eyes locked on him, how a mere word emerging from his mouth could affect him so much, how...
How he loved, yet right now, loathed Tezuka.
Fuji grasped the pen angrily. But settling down practically and overriding his emotions, he placed the pen back on the table and tried to recall the purpose of the letter for the uncountable time —he wanted to come clean. He did not know how to do it face-to-face, so he considered putting it in writing instead. He finally decided to let out the thoughts and feelings he had been concealing all these years. After all, the pain with sting, but it he would not need to face the damned captain the next day, since he would be gone anyway.
This was a tough decision to make since he did not know what the outcome would be. Sure, there were a few reactions that he could think of, but none of them was positive. The captain could just read his letter, and dispose of it, or he could come after Fuji and tell him to stop joking. Tezuka could merely write back and tell him he was not gay, and what the hell was Fuji thinking, or maybe, just maybe, he could call Fuji and tell him politely, and distantly, that he did not feel the same way, and he was together with Atobe. Fuji chuckled wryly at that particular thought, his personal favourite.
He rested his forehead on the edge of the wooden desk. He was breathing hard, frustrated...—defeated.
How could he let himself get so worked up? How could he let his feelings for Tezuka swallow him whole? He was supposed to be unattached, untouchable He was Fuji Shuusuke; prodigy, a talent...
Fuji lifted his head from the surface of the desk. He rose from the chair that he had been sitting on for over an hour to get a new piece of pad paper in his bag nearby. He obtained it, sat back on the chair, laid the paper flat on the table, uncapped his pen, tapping it on the table a few times, and started writing.
His hand moved swiftly and squiggles of blue ink were taking form on the paper. What was being written he had no idea; it was as though his hand was moving at its own will. He kept writing, until there was only a small space left at the bottom of the paper, he had exhausted all the lines on both sides. Finally, with his heart heavy, he wrote;
Yours Faithfully, Fuji Shuusuke
Blue eyes looked at all the characters, written in his cursive penmanship, catching a few words. Sighing to himself, he picked it up and folded it neatly, before putting in into a prepared blank envelope, on which he wrote the recipient's name. Fuji narrowed his eyes in frustration and fought the urge to tear it to bits and pieces right there and then. He picked the envelope up and slipped it in his left back pocket, deciding that he was going to yes, shred it at home and then burn it, just in case.
"You're quite late for practice, aren't you?"
Fuji felt his shoulders stiffen at the cool voice, and instead, plastered on his trademark smile, before turning around and looking at the slightly sweating captain in his tennis club jersey. They had finished their laps- Fuji sighed mentally at the thought. No more relaxing group jogs for him. He stopped himself from saying that he would never be coming for practice again.
Instead, he shook his head from side to side, not meeting Tezuka's inquiring, and piercing gaze. "I had to fill up some forms for the office." He did not need to know what forms, Fuji was not telling, and he would not know, because he would not give the letter. "I have to go home early today, I shouldn't have brought my bag." He sighed, and collected his things, feeling something behind him shift as he shouldered both his school, and tennis bag on his left.
With that, he bowed his goodbye, probably for the last time, and walked out of the room, accidentally bumping his tennis bag against the wall. "Sorry." He murmured, as an apology for his absence, and walked down the hallway quickly.
"Fuji-"Tezuka began to call for the boy as he disappeared around the corner, but cut himself off as he saw the name on the otherwise spotless envelope.
"Tezuka Kunimitsu"
=Owari!=
Postscript: Hah! Let a lot of angst out today... Not really angst, just frustration, I suppose. Kept this just around a thousand words. More of course, but I'm trying to school myself into writing less padded stories. sigh you should know what I'd want for this oneshot right?
Should I write a sequel?
Ja ne, Vanilla Fox
lj-cut text="your text here" Text cut. /lj-cut