Hi, people of Since Reunion ended, I decided to write another Prince of Tennis. Guess I couldn't stay away. Side note, this is a different timeline than Reunion.
Yaoi, Tezuka/Fuji.
No, darling bunnies, I do not own.
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He's never truly minded the rain, but he hates it now. Well, not really. More of a passing dislike, due to his current circumstances.
It's his and Fuji's anniversary, their ninth since first dating, their tenth since falling in love. And meeting each other, of course, adds Tezuka mentally, always scrupulously fair. He leans an elbow on his dashboard wearily, no longer caring if it's bad manners, and blows at a lock of hair stuck in his face, frizzed by the warm, humid air that seems almost tangible. And he's late. Stuck in traffic, to be precise, and only a few yards closer to home than he was half an hour ago.
He hasn't had a proper dinner with Fuji for two weeks, both of them busy, him with an out of town conference, and his lover with a family emergency. Now that they were finally back together, he had wanted to catch up, to spend time with Fuji, but hadn't been able to due to hectic work.
He glared around the dark, bare inside of the sedan with bleary eyes, tired of squinting over through the droplets sliding over the windshield and over the myriad of blazing lights that each represented another obstacle until his eyes stung and burned, his back sore from his limited position in the driver's seat. He fiddled with his seatbelt with anxious fingertips, tired mentally and full of pent up frustration. Maybe he should get something to hang over his front mirror. A car freshener, perhaps?
Damn. Apparently the universe was against him. How exactly that came about really wasn't terribly clear at the moment, but he was sure of it. Somehow. After all, he had read in a newspaper once that good karma had a way of coming back but when it did, you assumed that was 'luck', and when bad karma came around, you simply had your hands full and couldn't be bothered to notice what it was, much less speculate, which is why not many people nowadays believe in karma, though they do tend to elaborate on it at bar mitzvahs, especially after they've had a glass or two of wine. Tezuka had thought the article pure American trash when he had read it, but the thought lingered, even if he wasn't inclined to change his opinion. Still…
The scent of rain was thick and heavy in his nostrils, combined with traces of rubber and young greens and trash. He pushed the CD player's button lazily, listening to the familiar chords of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The cd had been a gift from Oishi, and he appreciated the thought. How many years ago had it been? He couldn't quite remember. It had been a Christmas gift, though, perhaps after Inui had had his promotion. Maybe. His mind was wandering again. He leant forward and pushed the horn again, out of boredom.
Ten years since meeting. Nine since going out. That made that Christmas the fifth for the Seigaku Regulars. That's right, the fifth. He smiled, absently. Pleasant memories of Kaidoh running from what appeared to be a plushy costumed glass of …something, and equally fond recollections of Momo repeatedly getting thwacked in the face by tennis balls, via a somewhat drunk yet stubbornly adamant Ryoma, who persisted in claiming they were all out to get him. He was somewhat right, with the exceptions of Tezuka, Kaido, and Kawamura. Tezuka wasn't inclined to interfere, Kaido was somewhat occupied at the moment, and Kawamura was happily drunk. Thank goodness for quiet drunks. There had been tinsel, he remembered, long green and red strands, and some suspicious cookies, and it had been fun. Oddly, absurdly, and ridiculously fun. And he was becoming nostalgic, thanks to the traffic.
He had gotten a book for Fuji, not the most romantic of gifts, perhaps, but one he would probably appreciate. Oishi had recommended it, and he had followed through on his advice, after reading it. He trusted Oishi's advice. That was how it all started, anyway.
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He liked sitting on the roof, only a few people came up there, and rarely, so he was left to contemplate silence and whatever he wished in peace, staring at a marble white and blue sky. He sat, not slouching, with his back at a ninety-degree angle to the concrete rooftop. He didn't pay much attention to his book, preferring to indirectly focus on it as a means of diverting his thoughts. He didn't really like was he was thinking about, and this was an excellent way of screening them.
There was a hand. And the hand appeared. He stared at it, and the hand…was there. Then another appeared. They curled into what appeared to be vaguely threatening shapes, but the illusion dissipated when he realized they were gripping the wrought iron ridges of the ladder. He glared absently at them. They retreated, and a Fuji appeared. Tezuka blinked. The Fuji smiled. He glared, at peace with this familiar ground.
"Nice", Fuji commented absently, apparently referring to either the empty, windswept rooftop, or Tezuka's recent staring match that he couldn't possibly had known about. The glare disappeared, but Tezuka would have bet a hundred to one it referred to both. Fuji, of course, would have inherently denied it. Tezuka stood up. Then sat down. He turned to Fuji, on the defensive.
"What is it?" he asked impatiently. Fuji looked at him, blue eyes narrowing, and smiled. "I was wondering where Oishi was."
"He went home with Kuno."
"The Terror of class B? I wasn't aware they were friends."
"They aren't. But Oishi's like that."
"He is, isn't he," agreed Fuji.
Tezuka did not reply. Fuji knew this, of course, but he wasn't asking Tezuka for information alone. He wanted to know his reaction. His reaction to being considered in the same way as a bully, and a drug dealer, as well as to the suggestion he had been chosen the same way didn't sit well with him. Fuji was toying with him, and this was not an area he wanted to toy in.
He didn't have any illusions about his friendship with Oishi, and perhaps that was the area with the most doubts. He knew that his friend would never intentionally hurt him, knew that they were going to stay beside each other if only for the team, and the championship, and Oishi had wanted more from it than companionship, but friendship. He had the team's loyalty, and he had their respect, and their trust, and if they choose to befriend him he didn't understand it, but accepted that generally it helped the team to become more united. To work together. For tennis. And he thought that Fuji knew it too.
Which is why he was toying with Tezuka. Testing the loyalty of the trust he commanded and gave in return. He didn't need this, not now, but if he didn't deal with it, respond, Fuji would pick at the weakness, make the sore fester, and smile as he twisted the knife. And he didn't blame Fuji, not a single bit. But the knowledge only served to make him more irritated.
What exactly had he done to make Fuji go after him directly? It wasn't like him to do something like this in private, without the shame of public humiliation. Then again, perhaps this was Fuji's idea of tennis. Respect, to a degree. Faith in the current captain; and of course, nothing so obvious as a direct attack. So… that was it? Pick. Pry. Eventually, everybody falls, but there's nothing as harsh as knowing you're responsible for your own downfall, unless it's knowing someone did this to you, tore apart your belief and comfort in the things and people dear to you, nothing worse than letting someone get to you, because that was hatred that couldn't be revealed and self-loathing, both eating at you at the same time. He hated that. He really, really hated that. And maybe, just maybe, if he had known Oishi was down there, reassuringly kind and unchanging, he could have stood this today, listened and let go. But his best friend wasn't there.
He didn't think, he just moved, angry, halfway crouched and halfway kneeling, he lunged for Fuji. He caught the other boy's narrow wrist in a crushing grip, his fingers biting into the soft skin, digging between bones for satisfaction, and noted with absent pride the bruises that had already begun to blossom on his skin. Fuji could lie, manipulate, and wield words like a slender steel knife that clove metaphorical flesh from unseen bones as easily as he handled a tennis racket, but his blood didn't lie. His blood was red, like any weak human's. He bled, and murmured like a young boy, and his eyes were bright and blank and unsmiling. Tezuka let go, sickened, and felt his anger fade.
"I'm sorry, " he said at last. Fuji smiled, and Tezuka was reassured by the sarcasm he saw there. Silence wrapped around them, comfortable and worn, and he looked down, fidgeting with his sleeve. He sat down again, and Fuji sat too, with his back to the railing. Tezuka watched him. Fingertips plucked at the railing, then wrapped around the iron bars, pressing his forehead against the empty space between two bars.
Tezuka watched him, and he thought to himself as he watched.
A few minutes later practice started, and Tezuka told Fuji to go to the nurse. He didn't come back.
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He saw Fuji at practice the next day, and found out his wrist was doing better. He shouldn't swing a racket for a couple of weeks, though, so Tezuka offered to let him skip practice, feeling that Fuji could quite easily do normal exercises on his own. Fuji had smilingly refused, though, and said, with a funny, almost wistful look on his face, that he would be fine, and Tezuka would have questioned him more, but his expression shifted to unreadable blankness then, so he had turned away. It shouldn't have hurt, and that nagged Tezuka all through practice, but he ignored it. It didn't matter what face Fuji chose to present to him anyway.
The next time he saw Fuji was at the movie theatre, when Oishi dragged him to see some popular new action movie while meeting Eiji at the food counter. Fuji was there instead, paying for a remarkable amount of sweets. They filed as unobtrusively as they could into the theatre, Eiji managing to break a few lights upon the way, and leaving Oishi to comfort the few people whose seats they took while the strangers who occupied them seemed to suffer perfectly timed nervous breakdowns, or find suddenly fell an inexplicable urge to move. He noticed Fuji no longer wore the cast.
On Monday Fuji was practicing with them again, and he felt something odd and tight in his chest loosen at the sight of the familiar figure teasing Eiji from the chain-link fence. He felt like smiling but ordered laps instead. That practice went surprisingly quickly.
By next week he was back to normal. He hadn't seen Fuji anywhere except for practice and was happy about it. He anticipated their upcoming chances to Nationals, and studied hard. Oishi called and asked him if he wanted to go to another movie, but he declined, mentioning the upcoming test as his excuse, even if he didn't really need one. Afterward he contemplated visiting the bookstore across the theatre, but after debating it, decided he didn't really need to. To his embarrassment, he discovered he was missing a book he had hoped to get that covered an aspect of the subject the test was on, and was forced to go out and buy it. When coming out of the bookstore he encountered Eiji and Fuji going into a movie, but didn't stop to exchange more than pleasantries.
He liked to eat lunch outside in the summer, preferring the warmth and relative silence to the overcrowded noisy cafeteria. His favorite spot was on the back steps of the gym, where he overlooked the backfield and the building's windows behind him reflected blue and shifting shadows. Fuji decided to join him there one day, setting down his bag and food silently, and he didn't turn around, but shifted to give the other more space. They talked a little, but not much. Silence was a practice for Tezuka, and Fuji seemed more comfortable then the few times he exerted himself to make small conversation, but they chatted sometimes about tennis and homework and even a few books they both liked, but hadn't known the other liked. Time passed quickly then, and the buzz that marked the end of lunchtime seemed to come in a surprisingly short time, forcing them away from the sun-warmed steps and the sweet smell of newly mowed grass. Blue sky drifted above their heads and the start of summer seemed to stretch onward.
Everything continued as normal. Fuji and Tezuka ate lunch together at infrequent times, without expectations, and nothing seemed to have changed, particularly, but if so it was not remarkable, or worth remarking on.
Practice was abruptly cancelled for a week, much to his indignation, owing for the fact that the drama club needed the tennis courts for practice, due to the clutter that had mysteriously accumulated in the auditorium thanks to the entire school. Tezuka devoted his efforts to helping them and ignoring, or at least trying to ignore the chattering thanks of the students.
He adjusted the balance of the overflowing cardboard box and wondered what possible reason anyone would have for using a pink, flowery toolbox.
"I see you're helping out as well, Tezuka," commented Fuji's voice from somewhere in front of him, his vision blocked by the mound of junk in front of his face. He stopped moving forward, not wanting to bump into anybody while he staggered down a hallway with his precarious load.
He lowered the box to rest on one knee, and looked up at Fuji's smile. "The sooner the auditorium is clear, the sooner we can have the tennis courts back."
Fuji's smile turned wry, and if possible, widened. "I see. However, we are incurring the gratitude of the drama club now, so it might be wise to take advantage of that fact."
Tezuka waited. "Yes?"
Fuji shrugged. "It seems the drama club finds itself in our debt. Despite the fact we did this without the intentions of garnering such thanks, we could still use such an opportunity to, say, graciously not ask for any favors in return."
Tezuka thought about this, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. The drama club could certainly help them in many ways, like assisting with extra people when the time came to raise extra funding, or something of that sort, but what Fuji appeared to be saying was that they should pretend it was purposeful of the tennis club to help, yet not calculating. Which, in essence, would be exactly the opposite. But that wasn't what he's meant to do at all.
"People tend to think of me as with a constant plan," commented Fuji softly, gesturing vaguely down the hall to a busy figure behind one of the half-open doors. "I prefer that they misconstrue my motives quickly to be not entirely honest, decidedly not open, and yet doing someone a bit of good while I do so instead of skulking about, suspecting me of dark deeds. Like the Vice-President of the Drama Club, that charming fellow that seems to be so curious."
Tezuka stared at him, brown eyes blank, a hard knot beginning to form in his stomach. Of course, he thought dazedly. Fuji always has a way of using things to his advantage, or taking the initiative in passing opportunities. It doesn't matter who he speaks to, what he does; everything eventually turns to his preferences. And I suppose I appear so very obvious to him, so easily manipulated.
Fuji looked at him, his expression worried. "Tezuka, what's wrong?"
Tezuka could have punched him again, hurt him again but remembered the blood and the white blankness of the bandaged cast, and hated himself for it. He wanted to say anything, whatever would make what he was feeling clear to Fuji, but that just might provide another opportunity for him.
Tezuka frowned, eyes glinting. "Fuji, please get out of the way. I need to go put this away."
Fuji blinked, surprised. "Tezuka, what did I say? Why…"
"Excuse me," he said, bluntly. "This box is heavy."
Fuji looked skeptical. He stepped forward, fingertips lightly brushing the underside of Tezuka's sleeve. "You're angry. At me. Tezuka, you know me. What did I do…"
Someone down the hall called, and Tezuka ignored the question. He moved forward, stepping past Fuji. "I don't want to know you," he murmured, leaving Fuji behind him.
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He didn't talk to Fuji for the rest of the week, and avoided encountering him whenever possible, telling himself he was imagining the confusion on the other's face. He didn't like being anybody's pawn. At least, he wouldn't be willingly.
He ate lunch in the cafeteria, but mostly in the schoolroom, whenever possible, trying to avoid the stifling heat and attributing his bad mood to that alone. Several people commented on his snappishness, but assumed it was merely due to stress about upcoming matches, and left him alone.
He tried to figure this out at home one night, attempting to understand his irrational anger and, oddly enough, hurt, and analyze it. It hurt. It shouldn't have hurt. Fuji was acting like Fuji, that's all. He turned encounters to his advantage, and the fact that the student had been skulking around because of him made sense, and yet Tezuka was still upset. Did Fuji think he couldn't have figured out that there was a reason behind his conversation, or was he merely trying to make the purpose of the meeting clear, that there was no friendship behind it? Why did he act so hurt, as if Tezuka had, had… hurt him. Fuji didn't act that way. Fuji wasn't a person who allowed himself to be vulnerable, so any other explanation that suggested this wasn't purposefully meant to incite him didn't make sense.
Strangely enough, though, this didn't comfort him.
Oishi stopped by the next day, returning a book, and firmly enquired what was wrong with him. He denied it, wondering when he could convince himself.
Oishi didn't buy it. He wondered how he made such good friends.
So he told Oishi the whole story. How he hurt Fuji and Fuji hurt him in turn, physical wounds clashing against psychological, then hadn't felt more sorry than confused and blindsided, how he and Fuji had talked and met and spent a little time together, very little but enough to make him feel betrayed when Fuji discounted their conversation. And that he was confused, very confused.
Oishi listened, silently, without judgment, and, at the end, stared off into space silently, barely breathing. He stood up frantically, waving frustrated hands in the air, tried to speak, failed, and made a choked noise in the back of his throat. He pinned Tezuka with a glare that rivaled a yakuza's, and said very softly and very gently, "Fuji didn't have to tell you. He probably didn't want to, but maybe he didn't want not to have."
Tezuka stared at him. Hard. "I know that he didn't have to."
Oishi's face shuttered, his eyes fixed on Tezuka's face. "Did you ever consider that perhaps he wasn't deliberately trying to be oblique?"
Oblique. Unclear, indirect, known to be disingenuous, yet not in any way defined. Fuji wasn't honest, but he had been. Tezuka was blunt, but he hadn't expected others to be. At least not this one. He swallowed, his throat dry.
He was still confused, but he had half of the confusion right here, and he needed to know. And he needed to figure out what he was doing; now he knew something of what was going on. And he needed to trust Fuji, because he hadn't, and that had only led him in deeper.
And it was all his fault. His fault for over analyzing. His fault for being so stubborn and determinately blind that he had reacted wrong; had done stupid, angry things because he thought he had been betrayed and dismissed. Been used.
And he still didn't know what to do.
He thought about Fuji.
He thought that Fuji was the one person who had deliberately mislead Inui, who had defied calculations and data and habits and measurements, because even if he wanted to he couldn't be neatly put in the blank space between ruler-marked lines of blue ink in a notebook, bound and closed and opened to be inspected whenever somebody chose, simply because he existed and breathed and lived, and nobody around him noticed. They didn't exist in the same plane as him. Fuji was a genius and a tennis player and a good student, he smiled a lot and had a sister and a brother, and he preferred odd foods, often spicy, but that wasn't him no matter how much it was true, wasn't him at all. He was a genius, yes, but what does that mean? He lived in a world unknown to textbooks and teachers, a world where the earth revolved around the sun and the sun revolved around the places he loved most and would rise and shine according to his wishes, and he thought and thought but the walls of silence and understanding, which crumpled like paper when he thought hard enough at them stood steadfast when he looked at his brother, and wondered why he couldn't understand. Why he didn't love him anymore.
That was Fuji's problem, Tezuka realized, he knew people and their behaviors and reactions and he took them apart like clocks to see them tick and was called cruel for that, and the more he understood the more people backed away from him. He knew how to manipulate, but not how to live with them comfortably. How could an outsider possibly understand what it meant to be part of some other culture, not understanding the rules and the laws and the reasons behind every word and deed? He wasn't someone you could live well with, Tezuka thought, but he was somebody you could love, and hope that it might be enough incentive to stay with him.
And outsider couldn't understand what it meant to be part of a society, but that didn't mean they couldn't look in and be lonely. But you weren't meant to love people like that. They didn't understand you and you didn't understand them, but that doesn't mean you couldn't love them, even if you weren't the same. But that still didn't make it healthy, or practical, or even a particularly good thing to have in your life. Not at all. What kind of person would willingly submit to such a thing? No one reasonable, for sure.
He read a story once, about a pair of young lovers who were forbidden to meet because their people were at war with each other. The lovers refused to be separated, despite being forbidden to meet, and they ran away together and were caught and eventually killed. The thing was, both of the separate clans had a different, particular language that wasn't known to either clan. So, neither clan was able to understand what the other was saying, which was part of the mess to begin with. The lovers hadn't known the separate languages either. They had heard each other speak…but hadn't been able to understand what it meant and yet they had fallen in love anyway. It hadn't made sense to him, but he had read it anyway. He wondered how love like that could exist, and how much trouble and confusion it would have been. And still, he wondered. What would it take to be in love with somebody you didn't understand?
But that was very good, but it still wasn't the answer, merely part of the question. He couldn't help it. He didn't understand. At all. What was the question, then? That you weren't meant to love that kind of people, no matter how lonely they were?
What would it take to be in love with somebody you didn't understand? Nothing. It wouldn't take anything, anything at all.
You didn't have to submit to it, you didn't have to suppress it. It was part of you, same as muscles and bones and marrow. As natural as breathing and eating and sleeping, and not noticing it didn't mean it wasn't there. And resisting, would be like trying to stop breathing. Living underwater. It wasn't reasonable, but he was. But he didn't have to be, not in this.
It was simple, really. Yes or no? He wondered why he wanted to know so badly, and simply asked himself what he wanted.
He wanted Fuji. He wanted the pale hair and unnerving crystalline eyes, he wanted impossibly spicy things and apples, sweet and tart and crisp, he wanted slender hands and skinny, narrow wrists and a mocking, artificial, saccharine smile, he wanted fine gold brown dust and the hint of smoke that Fuji always seemed to bring with him, which lead Tezuka to take obnoxious people seriously when they tended to proclaim him a devil, but that wasn't quite right, he would be Lucifer, cold and smug and brilliant and merciless, but then he wouldn't be Fuji, but somehow he suspected that was totally mixed up. He still wanted, though. He wanted the kind of dusty cactuses with heavy red pottery dishes that Fuji loved, even the green ones, small with a haze of thread fine spikes, and he wanted one of those silly black cameras that were so old fashioned yet took the best pictures, and he wanted Fuji, most of all.
He wanted him, and the things he wanted, and most importantly, he didn't want them only for Syuusuke. He wanted this for himself, because loving someone because they were lonely was a stupid thing to do, but if you loved them for yourself and for them you just might have a shot.
Tezuka looked up at the anxious face of Oishi, and nodded, because he'd got it. He also felt he had been surprisingly stupid not to have noticed what was going on before. But now he had to tell Fuji, and that was slightly more complicated.
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It was raining, and Tezuka was uncertain. But there were some things he couldn't stand, and uncertainty was not something he allowed himself to indulge in.
So he climbed onto the roof. It was raining. The building lights burned in the darkness and made crackling noises as insects flew frantically around them, and Fuji tasted bitter and mild and deeply needy but not quite satisfying, like loneliness. He apologized and explained and apologized again. Fuji laughed and forgave him and kept laughing.
He reluctantly let go, and felt his lips curve into a smile. Fuji's face was wet. So was his. Really, it didn't matter.
He felt fragile and giddy, and welcomed the sensation.
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The rain trails silvery tracks down the glass door, and Fuji waits behind it, his hands gripping the brass doorknob and his head leaning against the dark grain of the doorframe. He smiles, just a little, like a contented cat, because he doesn't have to smile for anybody now. He likes the rain, but he likes Tezuka better, and he waits for Tezuka because he's the reason he likes the rain.
There's absolutely nothing complicated about it.
.: Think too hard and the world will never make sense… :.