The first time he had seen Fuji, he had barely given a thought to the other. He seemed so mild and unassuming in comparison to the others that he had come to know. He didn't have the same determined look that some of the other players wore, the same hunger that belied a consuming passion for tennis. If he had to choose a word to describe Fuji in that instant, he could only say that the other was apathetic. Later, he had seen Fuji exhibit his famous ball control in an unguarded moment, and he had been fascinated despite himself. Afterward, he had watched Fuji's games and learnt that he played tennis in a steady, merciless fashion, decimating of his opponents in straight sets. His talent wasn't unenvied but back then, no one knew enough about the newcomer to provoke him outright.

When he saw Fuji play doubles with Takashi for the first time, he found himself taken aback by the freedom of Fuji's smile, the thrill in his expression, the way he threw his head back and laughed, exulting as they won and Takashi smiling, looking embarrassed but happy beside him. The sunlight had touched his hair, throwing golden highlights against the pale strands, and sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eyes, forcing him to blink. He looked up to watch Tezuka watching him, his blue eyes luminescent against the evening sky, eerily piercing and serious as he had stared at him.

Then he smiled, his eyes sliding shut as he waved cheerily at Tezuka.

It was at that moment when Tezuka realised what he had found so disturbing about the other boy. He was shuttered, closed against the world, holding an impenetrable defence between himself and the outside world. It was a wall which he didn't think anyone realised existed, except for him. The rest of his friends, even Oishi and Inui, hadn't found anything perturbing about the other boy, aside from his obscene talent that had already begun to garner him the nickname of Seigaku's resident genius. They were interested in playing matches with him and testing out their strengths against him, but Tezuka was fascinated, almost obsessed with the idea of finding out more about the other boy, enough to break him and see what lay beyond his mask. There were always people who were willing to be Fuji's friend, and even more who admired him and chased after him as if they had nothing better to do with their time. Couldn't any of them see the arrogance which allowed Fuji appeared warm and gracious to everyone? It was the condescension that allowed him to hold people at a distance and inspect them at his leisure. Tezuka believed that the other was completely incapable of real emotion.

After that day on the courts, Fuji had attempted to be friends with him but he had always held back, holding himself at a distance, just to see how far the tensai would go to become his friend. Although he had always been scrupulously polite and gracious towards the other, he could tell that the tensai was becoming increasingly puzzled and intrigued as to why Tezuka never seemed to reciprocate his friendship. It was a game, a competition, a rivalry that went on inside of Tezuka's mind, as he waited patiently for the day Fuji would cave in and ask him why the distance between them was insurmountable no matter how he tried. Inside, he wondered if Fuji would lose interest in him as a friend if he had accepted such shallow friendship from him, just like everybody else. Every day, he waited and told himself that it would be the day where Fuji would ask him.

The day never arrived.

He had hurt his hand one day, when one of his seniors had slammed his racket against his arm. The pain had blinded him for a moment, before the shame and grief had sparked into a fierce anger. The sport's reputation had been dragged through the mud by degenerates such as these, would invoked physical violence whenever they lost. There was no honour or joy to be found in playing against people who didn't understand that tennis was not invented to injure others. Later, he had forfeited in his short match against Fuji, regretting his rashness in attempting to play with an injured arm. Fuji had been horrified when Tezuka collapsed, but all Tezuka had felt was shame at his own weakness.

He had been on his way home when he looked up and saw the last piece of burnished golden sky. At that moment, he had thought that just like this, he would continue playing tennis, the game would continue and he would carry on fighting until he reached the pinnacle of tennis itself. He couldn't give up simply because his arm was injured when he was still fully capable of playing with his right arm. Thus he walked slowly back to school, fully expecting to practise by himself again, since everyone had probably left by then.

He froze when he heard the locker room's door open. The same seniors, who had picked on him earlier, were walking out of the place, their harsh triumphant laughter tinged with a strange indefinable quality to it. It had taken him some time before he recognised that the feeling he had heard was fear. The door was still ajar and Tezuka walked in as quietly as possible, dreading the worst. Of everything that he had been expecting, he had not calculated that Fuji Syuusuke would be standing in front of the mirror, silently eyeing the bruises that had formed on his body. He had sucked in a breath inaudibly when he'd seen the faint smear of blood at the side of the tensai's lips, and the bruises on his stomach. Fuji's expression never changed even when he was alone, calmly shrugging off his shirt which had been torn and turning it around in his hands to inspect the damage done.

Fuji's head snapped upwards when Tezuka involuntarily took a step forward. Their eyes met in the mirror and Tezuka tensed at the familiar expression on that face, an impassive regard that made his stomach churn. They were lovely, clear blue eyes and Tezuka saw the emptiness in them before Fuji turned away from him again, sliding his arms into the shirt and looking around for his jacket. He had thought that he understood what had happened. He believed that Fuji had been bullied by their seniors. He wanted to put his arm around Fuji and quell the slight shaking of his hands, he wanted to know why Fuji didn't say a single word, he wanted to hear the same, empty assurances that Fuji gave everyone. Yet all he did was to inquire icily as to Fuji's condition. There was no change in Fuji's expression, except the corners of his lips quirking into its familiar smile.

"It's late, Tezuka. Shall we go before they lock the school gates?"

It was exactly like the time when he hadn't taken notice of Fuji, and without his knowledge, had been observed by the other. Fuji had seen him picking up the balls, being assigned the tedious task by the seniors, and he had joined him immediately. In the glow of the evening sunset, Fuji had gently asked him if he was truly left-handed. It was delicately phrased, and put across just as lightly, yet in that moment, Tezuka had felt his heart sink when he recognised that his façade was dangling in the palm of Fuji's hand, dependent upon his moods and favours. He had waited for Fuji to elaborate on his point, to make his demands clear, and somehow all the other boy did was to smile and invite him to walk home together. He had nearly driven himself crazy wondering who the other was, and what he really wanted, but at the end of the day, when even Inui's predictions about the tensai came up short every single time, he was left alone with his wild hopes and confusion.

At the start, he had hoped to draw Fuji out, to witness his true form and to play against him that was the most beautiful, the most deadly, and the strongest in their team. Yet Fuji had never displayed the same eagerness to defeat him by challenging him in a match and winning. It was almost as though he shied away from direct confrontation with Tezuka. It had always been a point of contention with him that Fuji might have been concealed his strength simply because he didn't wish to win their match. He constantly felt as though he was being looked down upon, that he wasn't good enough. It was almost ironic how the Chinese letters of Fuji's name meant an unwillingness to be second and a reluctance to lose.

When had he changed so much?

Later, he had learnt that there were rumours that the senior who injured his elbow was applying for a change of school. Somehow he couldn't help linking this with the dishevelled state that Fuji had been in, and the curious blankness of his face that had almost resembled anger in the space of a single second.

There were other more outrageous rumours that were floating around the school. He didn't pay much attention to them, although his attention had been caught involuntarily by Fuji Syuusuke's name. The tensai was rumoured to have defeated those seniors in straight sets, playing with them a little before he apparently got bored and ended all with all three games in his favour. As the day wore on, he heard variations of the story, as to how Fuji had won 6-0, and how the seniors had dissolved into despair at the hands of an unrelenting genius. Tezuka thought that the truth was probably more sordid and less glamorous than what anyone believed.

3 years had elapsed and it had been an exceedingly warm day as he remembered.

Many of the players had been lethargic, and even the regulars were listless and distracted. He had been relieved when training had ended for the day and everyone was dismissed. Outside, the sky was steadily being submerged into gold, burnt orange and red. Dipping his head beneath the running water, he endured the cool liquid soaking his hair and trickling into his shirt. On that day, Fuji's performance on that day had been stellar as always, silently bearing the heat and the unrelenting humidity as if it was nothing.

In the years that had passed, the game had continued wordlessly. He remembered the shade of the room and the hooded eyes, which were mirror reflections of his own. He remembered the paleness of his shoulders contrasting against the darkness of the room, and the fine shoulder-length hair which dipped slightly below them. He was the only one who had seen the bruises and the faint smear of blood against a split lip.

He wanted Fuji to end the game and come to him as his equal. There was nothing less than that which he would accept. Fuji was too brilliant, too strong, to continue hiding behind his mask. If nothing intrigued him enough to come out of his shell, Tezuka would become the person required in order to wake him. He had become too obsessed with the other to give up now. All these years, it had taken him all of his severe willpower to ignore Fuji who had tried to talk to him in class, as well as during training. He took care to be gracious and polite enough to the other boy, yet he was frigid enough to end most conversations as swiftly as they had begun. He knew Fuji well enough to predict that he wouldn't take it lying down, wouldn't be able to resist thinking and countering his actions, unable to walk away and leave their friendship at such an impasse.

Tezuka had waited until he was reasonably confident that everyone had left the locker room, before heading towards it. This time, it came as less of a shock to find Fuji sitting on a bench inside, silently staring at his hands. When it appeared that Fuji wasn't about to say anything, he started walking towards his bag only to have a soft voice stop him in his tracks.

"What do you want me to do?"

Finally. He didn't want this capitulation, this quiet submission to his whims, when Tezuka knew of the person that lay beneath the mask. He had seen him clearly enough, in the person who singlehandedly drove their senior to leave the school, in the person who had laughed in the exhilaration of a game, in the person whose eyes saw no difference in whether his skin was unscarred or marred, bleeding or intact. He was brilliant and deadly, and Tezuka didn't want him to bow his neck to someone he was not

"What do you mean? Stop looking so forlorn."

"You know what I mean. It's been 3 years. Do you honestly hate me that much, that even after all this time you're still unwilling to be friends with me?"

Tezuka was startled when Fuji stated everything in the open, his sharp blue eyes betraying his anger as he stared up at Tezuka. Something in him snapped; his frustration and anger breaking through the smooth, calm surface of his personality as he reached out to yank Fuji forward, meeting his gaze unblinking.

"Do you think I'd do this if I hated you?" Tezuka bit out.

"You're wrong. I'm doing this because I think about you, I think about what you could be, I think about you and I am tired of the way you remain in my shadow, when you could easily be the best in our team. What is wrong with you? Why doesn't someone as gifted as you, do anything about tennis when you could aspire to be one of the best in the world? Why don't you know how lucky you are?"

"You're angry with me because I don't seem to love tennis enough?" Fuji said at last, sounding bewildered as he looked up at Tezuka.

"Well, I suppose I should try to appreciate the sport more. I'd put in more effort in training if you'd like, Tezuka."

"This has nothing to do with me!" Tezuka nearly shouted in frustration. "It's about you! It's about what you want, and what you really desire!"

"Is it, really?"

Cerulean eyes gazed unflinchingly at him.

He wanted to shout that it was all about him, that it obviously concerned his future and how he shouldn't take everything for granted. It wasn't enough to have talent, when there were people chasing in his shadow and threatening to overtake him. Then he remembered what he had just said. Fuji was right on that count at least. If Fuji chose to waste his life in this fashion, it had nothing to do with him.

It was none of his business and he didn't know why he felt so bitter.

"Do whatever you want," he said at last, turning to leave.

"Tezuka."

It was the way his name was said, a combination of a tone so heartbreaking he couldn't leave it alone, a strange sound that expressed regret more soundly than any words. He heard the way Fuji's voice hitched, and he heard the words behind it that spoke of weariness, and an inability to bear another 3 years of stasis, of looking and wondering and never being able to break past the other's barriers. He didn't want to turn and catch his breath on something as heartbreaking as it was beautiful, and be unable to let go of the image it etched on his mind for the next few years.

His name was repeated in the same soft tones, and he blankly registered Fuji standing and walking towards him. Again. The same infuriatingly beguiling sound and its gentle expression which made him so angry he wanted to punch the wall, wanted to hurt Fuji and watch him cry, wanted to make him shut up and stop saying his name in that heartbreaking manner.

His mind went blank when he turned and saw Fuji in front of him, his expression growing sadder when he saw the expression on Tezuka's face. He didn't know what Fuji was about to say, but he wanted him to shut up and not say anything in that voice that made him hurt and long for something inexpressible. On hindsight, he would have said that he was in love with Fuji, only that he had been too blind to know anything of what that emotion should feel like, and the way it encompassed him and made him feel as though the ground had been pulled out under his feet.

Fuji sounded as though he was about to say his name again, when Tezuka leant in and pressed his lips against his. Tezuka revelled in the strange power that it gave him over Fuji whose eyes had widened in shock. He stayed still, looking almost frightened as Tezuka's fingers brushed lightly against the side of his face and his mouth was placed firmly on his, luxuriating in the feel of Fuji's soft lips on his, his tongue lightly running against his soft bottom lip and seeking entrance into his mouth. Blindly groping for Fuji's wrist, Tezuka's pulled him even closer, breathing in the familiar scent of soap even as he kissed him, one hand tangling in the soft, fine hair. His aggressiveness had broken when Fuji responded eventually, his arms sliding around Tezuka's shoulders as he kissed back sweetly, his tongue sliding into Tezuka's mouth and making him bite back a groan. Tezuka exulted inwardly in the quiet moans that he was able to drag out from him, smiling at the involuntary gasp that escaped Fuji when his hand slipped beneath his shirt and stroked the small of his back. When they parted for air, Fuji leant his forehead against Tezuka's neck, breathing quietly as his fingers curled into Tezuka's shirt and rested there. Tezuka looked down at his exposed neck which was pale and unmarred and was tempted to mark him, but settled for pressing a brief kiss into his hair.

The sun had set by then. In the last dusty remnants of light that settled the room, Tezuka caught sight of his own reflection. He saw the rumpled quality of Fuji's shirt and wondered at its familiarity. Fuji's wrist still bore the marks of his fingers and he winced when he saw the beginnings of a bruise forming there.

The button that had hung on its thread.

The bruises and the faint smear of blood against a split lip.

He recoiled from Fuji in horror, his eyes widening at his sudden realisation. Fuji looked confused, and then understanding dawned on him as Tezuka took another step backwards. Fuji looked as though Tezuka had slapped him in the face. Tezuka wanted to tell him that he had got it wrong, that he wasn't leaving because of him, but he caught sight of the bruises that he left on his arm and words had never seemed so empty. This time it hadn't been them, this time it hadn't been someone else who had caused Fuji's expression to slide into their familiar blankness, the shutters in his eyes sliding shut again. Without another word, Fuji hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and left without looking back.

The door swung shut silently behind him.

END CHAPTER

A/N: This is a belated birthday post for Fuji! If you enjoyed this story, hated it, or you're looking for someone to discuss the weather, big dogs, yellow jumpsuits and great mysteries in life, do review!