Disclaimer: Somehow I doubt that I need to do this again.
Notes: It only took me five months. Quiet.
apt#(two)
missing
On their sixth week, Fuji discovers a Chinese supermarket, and by the seventh, he has somehow wheedled Tezuka into shopping there instead, even though it's four miles away and the cashiers speak minimal English (Japanese in Chinese supermarkets, Tezuka finds the first time, is not only nonexistent but a subject of great consternation with the butchers).
Fuji pokes through the groceries at home and notices the lack of meat immediately. "Oh," he says cheerfully, "have you decided to become a vegetarian?"
Tezuka remembers when he once fell off the ladder while changing a lightbulb in their tiny living room. (He still maintains that it was entirely Fuji's fault. No one else, he insists, is insane enough to plant plastic spiders inside the lightbulb case in order to scare the living daylights out of any potential handymen.)
The first thing Fuji had done when he heard the crash was peer curiously into the doorway.
The second thing Fuji had done was hold up four fingers and say, very slowly, "How many, Tezuka?"
"Seven," Tezuka had growled, and when Fuji laughed and sauntered over to pretend to help him up, Tezuka yanked him down and emotionlessly sprinkled plastic spiders on his head.
Fuji won't tell you that Tezuka has a personality. He'll tell you, very seriously, that Tezuka never sleeps, speaks nine languages, has only one expression, and doesn't care about anything but tennis.
Oishi is probably the only other person in their age demographic who would disagree, but Oishi isn't the ridiculously shy high school girl next door, who develops a massive crush on Tezuka but can never quite muster the courage to tell him. (When Fuji finally clues him in, he sends her a two-page letter apologizing for his inability to return her feelings at the moment.)
In actuality, Fuji knows that Tezuka's sleep is dreamless and sound, that he frequents a Japanese-English dictionary he keeps neatly parallel to a lamp by his bed, the face he makes whenever Fuji manages to slip horseradish into his soup, and that Tezuka can be the world's most fantastic worrywart, given the right circumstances (Fuji would fake being sick more often, if he didn't know that doing it too much would make Tezuka's head explode).
Tezuka's favorite part of living with Fuji is a measured "No comment," and the abrupt click of the telephone as he hangs up.
Inui writes this down, then faxes the question again, but Fuji gets the message instead, writes "He's warm and fuzzy :)" in Tezuka's handwriting, and sends it back.
When he gets the reply, Inui drops his water bottle on his toes.
Tezuka doesn't think he will ever get used to the sound of Fuji doing his homework.
Where Tezuka is quiet and studious, Fuji is fluttery and distracted; Tezuka writes in neat, straight lines, Fuji weaves intricate and ornate lines of cursive with only marginal regard for the thin blue lines on the notebook paper; Tezuka breathes, but Fuji hums contentedly, occasionally reaching over to steal Tezuka's eraser ("Fuji," Tezuka asks, exasperated, "where did you put the erasers I bought last week?").
They don't buy a computer - "It'll throw off the dynamics of the house," Fuji explains, drawing boxes in the air, "and my cacti don't appreciate being used as radiation eaters." - and Tezuka decides on the ninth day of having to walk to the public library that he hates feng shui.
Fuji's favorite part of living with Tezuka is "None of your business - oh look, Tezuka's home now," and another abrupt click.
Inui gives up.
The first thing that comes to mind when someone mentions Fuji is "indescribable." Tezuka will always associate Fuji with his tennis -- strangely beautiful, almost lyrical, unclassifiable, devastating, maddening.
Tezuka would like to be able to label Fuji as simply a counter-puncher: defensive, logical, cool, calculating, but Fuji defies all standards, and Tezuka never bothers himself with trivialities.
Every time Fuji remembers how mediocre a doctor Tezuka is, he can't help but smile.
"You could've taken me to a licensed medical professional," Fuji had suggested. "He could've told you that that fever wasn't life-threatening."
Tezuka had given him a Look, then returned to his breakfast. "It was a Sunday."
"You were frantic," Fuji had said smugly.
"I was worried," Tezuka had corrected.
"You could've left me there to die," Fuji had said, musing. "It was an option."
"Take better care of yourself," Tezuka had snapped. "So it doesn't become an option." He refocused his attention on his cereal, movements every bit as measured as they were to begin with.
Fuji had peered at him out of startled eyes for a few seconds, then looked away. "Mm."
Tezuka doesn't have any luck the second time he visits the supermarket, either.
The butchers remember him ("You're hard to forget, Tezuka," Fuji says with a smile), so now he and Fuji go shopping together, and outside of having to triple-check the cart before going to the checkout line, Tezuka finds that he likes it better this way.
Comments and criticism are both highly appreciated!
Written: March 13, 2006