[One-shot] Melancholy (Prince of Tennis)
Title: Melancholy
Characters: Fuji Shuusuke. Passing mentions of Shiraishi, Tezuka, and Yuuta.
Rating: Gen
Summary: SPOILER, stop now if you have not watched/read Shitenhouji yet. Fuji loses sleep, thinking about the first match he's lost that actually matters.
Notes: Written after reading ms_orien's fic, Aftermath. She probably doesn't know me, but since her fic spawned this bunny, this fic is dedicated to her. Thanks for helping Fuji voice his discomfort.
Perhaps it is reverse psychology, Fuji thinks. What he feels is merely a contrary (and imaginary, he reminds himself) longing for something he cannot have, much like one teases Tezuka and sometimes thinks of him, because Tezuka is Mr. Perfect Student, and Fuji is not. He turns, shifting, acutely sensitive to the heat of his body against the mattress, and wishes for sleep to claim him sooner.
Fuji knows he is trying to rationalize his unsettled state. But he has not been able to sleep properly ever since that match with Shitenhouji. In his dreams, he sees the ball cross the net. He hears the thwack of the ball, landing outside the court.
Tennis isn't a game anymore, and Fuji doesn't like this new state of affairs, but he is helpless against the surprising enduring strength of his hopelessness. He'd tried his best, held nothing back ... and yet he'd failed.
And he doesn't know how to try any harder than he already has.
Fuji turns, shifts on his bed, replaying the match in his mind again. This may be the two-hundredth mental replay. Or the five-hundredth. Fuji doesn't find keeping count of this comforting, and has managed to lose track somewhere around sixty.
Losing to Tezuka is one thing. Fuji acknowledges Tezuka as the better player, and though it would be nice to win, a loss to Tezuka is really not something Fuji will lose sleep over. But he refuses to believe that Shiraishi is the better player. And yet, if Shiraishi isn't the better player, then how does Fuji explain this defeat? Especially when Fuji refuses to blame health or concentration. He knows he was at his peak condition.
Fuji turns again, tosses, shifts, and finally curls on his side, eyes open, staring at his cacti in their pots on the sill. Some tensai. No one has said the words, but Fuji speaks them out now, softly, watching them take form and hang in the air, joining the other phrases--false advertising, show-off, useless, a disappointment, FUJI--in their silent incrimination above his bed.
He has done his best, but his best was not good enough. He doesn't know if he ever wants to do his best again, if this is the result. He likes his sleep, his comfortable, happy-go-lucky pictures and games. He does not like lying on the bed for hours, and the constant replaying again and again and again.
He's noticed Yuuta giving him sympathetic looks, and this is the hardest to bear of all. He is the older brother. By all accounts, comforting a sibling is the older child's duty. There is something unsettling about Yuuta comforting him. It feels as if a parent has buried a child.
Sleep comes, steals across his consciousness, but his rest is restless. And tomorrow the cycle will begin again.
Characters: Fuji Shuusuke. Passing mentions of Shiraishi, Tezuka, and Yuuta.
Rating: Gen
Summary: SPOILER, stop now if you have not watched/read Shitenhouji yet. Fuji loses sleep, thinking about the first match he's lost that actually matters.
Notes: Written after reading ms_orien's fic, Aftermath. She probably doesn't know me, but since her fic spawned this bunny, this fic is dedicated to her. Thanks for helping Fuji voice his discomfort.
Perhaps it is reverse psychology, Fuji thinks. What he feels is merely a contrary (and imaginary, he reminds himself) longing for something he cannot have, much like one teases Tezuka and sometimes thinks of him, because Tezuka is Mr. Perfect Student, and Fuji is not. He turns, shifting, acutely sensitive to the heat of his body against the mattress, and wishes for sleep to claim him sooner.
Fuji knows he is trying to rationalize his unsettled state. But he has not been able to sleep properly ever since that match with Shitenhouji. In his dreams, he sees the ball cross the net. He hears the thwack of the ball, landing outside the court.
Tennis isn't a game anymore, and Fuji doesn't like this new state of affairs, but he is helpless against the surprising enduring strength of his hopelessness. He'd tried his best, held nothing back ... and yet he'd failed.
And he doesn't know how to try any harder than he already has.
Fuji turns, shifts on his bed, replaying the match in his mind again. This may be the two-hundredth mental replay. Or the five-hundredth. Fuji doesn't find keeping count of this comforting, and has managed to lose track somewhere around sixty.
Losing to Tezuka is one thing. Fuji acknowledges Tezuka as the better player, and though it would be nice to win, a loss to Tezuka is really not something Fuji will lose sleep over. But he refuses to believe that Shiraishi is the better player. And yet, if Shiraishi isn't the better player, then how does Fuji explain this defeat? Especially when Fuji refuses to blame health or concentration. He knows he was at his peak condition.
Fuji turns again, tosses, shifts, and finally curls on his side, eyes open, staring at his cacti in their pots on the sill. Some tensai. No one has said the words, but Fuji speaks them out now, softly, watching them take form and hang in the air, joining the other phrases--false advertising, show-off, useless, a disappointment, FUJI--in their silent incrimination above his bed.
He has done his best, but his best was not good enough. He doesn't know if he ever wants to do his best again, if this is the result. He likes his sleep, his comfortable, happy-go-lucky pictures and games. He does not like lying on the bed for hours, and the constant replaying again and again and again.
He's noticed Yuuta giving him sympathetic looks, and this is the hardest to bear of all. He is the older brother. By all accounts, comforting a sibling is the older child's duty. There is something unsettling about Yuuta comforting him. It feels as if a parent has buried a child.
Sleep comes, steals across his consciousness, but his rest is restless. And tomorrow the cycle will begin again.