Title: Kiss Me Purple
Author: Kentra Shinataku
Pairings: Tezuka/Fuji
Warnings: angst, abuse
Prologue
Neither of them ever won. Neither one would ever give in and show defeat, not out of pride, really, but because neither of them had any desire to beat the other. It had been that way from the beginning, ever since they had started playing together.
"Done for the day, Kunimitsu-kun?" Nobody else called him that, not even his parents.
"Ah." The brusque reply would never hurt Fuji; he expected no more. Fuji just liked to watch the sweat bleeding down Tezuka's forehead after hours of strenuous practice. It was nice to play against someone who could make him work, even if his partner's reason for doing so was completely selfish. At least, he assumed it was completely selfish.
It wasn't so much that he didn't like to walk-- after all, it was imperative that his body remained in top condition-- but he hated walking home after practicing with Fuji. He hated walking home. When he was with Fuji, he didn't think about home, he didn't anticipate the inevitable return to the inside of those dreaded walls. Leaving Fuji was a slap in the face to throw him back at reality.
Sometimes, especially if it was getting late, he took the bus.
For some reason, the air conditioner was on. It always seemed to be too cold, but he would never touch the thermostat. He'd rather freeze. It was common knowledge not to mess with things that weren't, obviously, within his control. For a long time now, it hadn't been so hard to block out the cold; if he couldn't feel the cold, he didn't have to feel anything else.
It was the only thing in his room that was out of order. The books lining the shelves were alphabetical, and there wasn't a trace of dust to be found. Everything was neat, organized, always in it's proper place. Not the phone, lying on the floor. No, it didn't belong there. The cord had been ripped clean from the wall, and it fell, hunched on the floor, dead. Listening to the furious voices drifting beneath his door from downstairs, he offered a silent apology to whoever could hear his thoughts.
Calling Fuji had been a bad idea. Calling anybody would be a bad idea.
Thursday morning was just like any other day. The alarm rang too early, as it always did, because he had to iron his uniform. He had to figure out what to leave his parents for breakfast. He had to get out of there before they woke up. Morning practice was the same as always; he didn't bother waiting for the freshman to set up the nets. Fuji came soon after him to help and to warm up, and it felt as if they were the only two beings to occupy the earth, the dew bouncing in beads off the courts each time the ball landed with that satisfying smack.
Sometimes, it was worth it to wake up in the morning-- as long as it wasn't the weekend.
Author: Kentra Shinataku
Pairings: Tezuka/Fuji
Warnings: angst, abuse
Prologue
Neither of them ever won. Neither one would ever give in and show defeat, not out of pride, really, but because neither of them had any desire to beat the other. It had been that way from the beginning, ever since they had started playing together.
"Done for the day, Kunimitsu-kun?" Nobody else called him that, not even his parents.
"Ah." The brusque reply would never hurt Fuji; he expected no more. Fuji just liked to watch the sweat bleeding down Tezuka's forehead after hours of strenuous practice. It was nice to play against someone who could make him work, even if his partner's reason for doing so was completely selfish. At least, he assumed it was completely selfish.
It wasn't so much that he didn't like to walk-- after all, it was imperative that his body remained in top condition-- but he hated walking home after practicing with Fuji. He hated walking home. When he was with Fuji, he didn't think about home, he didn't anticipate the inevitable return to the inside of those dreaded walls. Leaving Fuji was a slap in the face to throw him back at reality.
Sometimes, especially if it was getting late, he took the bus.
For some reason, the air conditioner was on. It always seemed to be too cold, but he would never touch the thermostat. He'd rather freeze. It was common knowledge not to mess with things that weren't, obviously, within his control. For a long time now, it hadn't been so hard to block out the cold; if he couldn't feel the cold, he didn't have to feel anything else.
It was the only thing in his room that was out of order. The books lining the shelves were alphabetical, and there wasn't a trace of dust to be found. Everything was neat, organized, always in it's proper place. Not the phone, lying on the floor. No, it didn't belong there. The cord had been ripped clean from the wall, and it fell, hunched on the floor, dead. Listening to the furious voices drifting beneath his door from downstairs, he offered a silent apology to whoever could hear his thoughts.
Calling Fuji had been a bad idea. Calling anybody would be a bad idea.
Thursday morning was just like any other day. The alarm rang too early, as it always did, because he had to iron his uniform. He had to figure out what to leave his parents for breakfast. He had to get out of there before they woke up. Morning practice was the same as always; he didn't bother waiting for the freshman to set up the nets. Fuji came soon after him to help and to warm up, and it felt as if they were the only two beings to occupy the earth, the dew bouncing in beads off the courts each time the ball landed with that satisfying smack.
Sometimes, it was worth it to wake up in the morning-- as long as it wasn't the weekend.