Alhambra [Prince of Tennis: Tezuka/Fuji, 31_days prompt]
Future setting (not in any particular verse), Tezuka/Fuji living together. 644 Words. Prompt: 31_days, 20 august 2005.
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Alhambra (signifying 'the red' in Arabic ).
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It's blood, blood everywhere spreading across skin like spilt ink, dripping in a casual way blood never should be allowed to, and he can't help but be reminded of that time when Tezuka had pushed himself too hard and too far in his match, even though they were internal injuries and there had been no blood in sight. In his mind all he'd seen at the time was the world stained red.
He gropes aimlessly for a dish cloth, not remembering where he'd left it; the plain white one with stripes of blue woven through it. He is kind of reluctant to swamp it in his own blood, even if he is losing a lot so quickly, because his mother had offered them all to him as a peacemaking. All the same pattern but in a rainbow of colours. Because I don't know which colour would match your kitchen, she had said, but not accusingly. Just regretfully. If she'd only shown an interest, she would have known sooner.
Fuji laughs to himself as his head begins to pound, but it feels lighter at the same time. Here he is up to his arms in his own blood and he's thinking about the colour of the kitchen walls. He tries to think, to concentrate. He knows he can get up off his knees if he tries, can pull the dish cloth from where it overhangs the cupboard, can use his undamaged hand to hold himself up and to reach for the phone. He's definitely going to need medical attention.
"What happened?"
Tezuka's voice is always so calm, even in the most dire of situations, even when it's something happening to himself. Fuji breathes out. The dish cloth is being wrapped tightly around his palm, and though it hurts he refuses to flinch because lacking blood is worse. Tezuka's hand around his is suffocating, just as it needs to be. In his other hand Tezuka already has his mobile, dialling for an ambulance.
"I was just going to make dinner," Fuji sighs out. "Chop up some vegetables."
"The knife slipped?" Tezuka doesn't really have to ask, but the operator on the end of the phone will.
"Deep." Fuji nods and grits his teeth. Tezuka is squeezing his hand again. There is blood drying into his trousers.
"My partner was chopping up some food and the knife slipped. It's a deep cut; there's a lot of blood. Yes, he's still conscious. Yes, he's talking. Hold on. Fuji, are you feeling light-headed, or dizzy?"
"Yes." Fuji whispers. Tezuka rattles off their address and his thumb digs into Fuji's palm. Fuji hisses but knows it's all an attempt to stop the blood escaping. While the paramedics make Fuji sit on the couch as they clean up the wound, Tezuka mops up the floor.
"Efficient." The woman says with a smile.
"He knows he can't be of any help to you." Fuji says softly enough that Tezuka won't hear. "He'd rather do something productive. He doesn't like feeling useless."
The bleeding stays stopped once it is stilled, and they bandage him up, extract a promise to call again if anything happens, and leave on another emergency call.
Tezuka brings tea for them both, and Fuji takes his with his good hand, the warmth finally allowing the shock to sink in.
"It's such a shame," he says carefully, bringing his drink up to his mouth and blowing. "Now that I've ruined the dish cloths my mother is going to have to buy us a better belated house-warming gift."
He sips at his drink and is grateful to it for keeping a smile from his face. Tezuka's look of disbelief is priceless.
"You didn't do this just for..." He can't finish his sentence.
"Oh Tezuka, no, of course not." Fuji assures him quickly. "It was just a happy coincidence, don't you think?"
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