(no subject)
Drabbly thing that was going to be a proper fic, but stopped co-operating. As I'm sure you can tell from the start, I wanted this to be quite a bit more. It had other ideas.
FujiKai, angsty. Sorry, Kaidoh.
This is how it goes:
Fuji tries to feed Tezuka a bite of cake off his fork.
Tezuka looks at Fuji like he’s grown another head. Then he eats the cake.
Echizen drops his spoon and goes into the kitchen.
Momoshiro puts his glass down so hard he sloshes his drink over his sleeve.
Kaidoh leaves.
He’s not stupid.
Fuji is a photographer. Fuji is drawn to things that are beautiful, brilliant. Driven to capture them at their most beautiful and preserve those moments forever. Tezuka is the most brilliant person either of them knows, and he only burns brighter with the passing of time. Fuji won’t stop watching Tezuka until he starts to fade. Kaidoh knows this. As it turns out, forewarned doesn’t always mean forearmed and he’s starting to find that he can’t stomach it. He wonders, sometimes, why Fuji bothers with him at all. He is pointedly not brilliant, having to work and push and fight to be as good as he is. And he is good, very good, but he is matte black where Fuji is looking for shine. At first, he’d suspected it was out of boredom. Then time passed and Fuji had still been there after he’d learned how to draw reactions, how to shock, after he’d stopped trying to. Now Kaidoh doesn’t know what to think.
It’s several hours before Fuji returns to the apartment they share. Kaidoh is in the living room looking for a textbook and it annoys him that he’s there when Fuji arrives, like he’s been waiting with nothing better to do.
“Hello.” Fuji drawls the word lazily, leaning in the doorway for a moment. He steps over, walks up close, and all Kaidoh’s words are gone and try as he might, he doesn’t get them back before Fuji has him upstairs and spread out. He bites his lip against the moan that threatens with the slow curl of Fuji’s fingers inside him, drawn out and precisely measured to make him writhe. Fuji likes it best when he’s nearly frantic, takes pride in making Kaidoh abandon his own and plead.
He wonders if Fuji would want Tezuka to beg, too.
Fuji presses just there and Kaidoh hisses against clenched teeth, keeps his pleasure for himself.
“Why are you mad?” Fuji presses harder, rubs tight circles that should have Kaidoh arching off the bed and bunching the sheets in his fists. Instead he turns his face, lip whitening under his bite.
“You’re sulking,” Fuji laughs as he swipes his tongue over a nipple. “How cute.” Kaidoh’s cheeks redden like his skin against Fuji’s teeth. It’s half pleasure and half embarrassed anger, but they produce the same reaction. Fuji sounds almost joyful.
“Kaoru,” he croons, “are you jealous?”
“Get out,” Kaidoh says.
Fuji withdraws with a delicate twist of his fingers and Kaidoh can’t help but sigh at the slide of it, and hates knowing that Fuji heard. Fuji is looking up at him with amusement, resting his chin on the curve of his wrist, and Kaidoh resists the urge to cover himself.
“No,” he says, “out.”
“Hn,” Fuji stands, hums in a tone Kaidoh knows. The tone he uses when he thinks someone is an interesting specimen, someone he’ll enjoy prodding at. His lack of reaction sends a sharp spike of anger through Kaidoh, and when he speaks Fuji pauses at the doorway to listen.
“He’s not your fucking Buchou anymore,” he spits. “You don’t have to worship him.”
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at Kaidoh. He doesn’t close the door behind him, leaving Kaidoh feeling raw and exposed and like he’s just lost.
FujiKai, angsty. Sorry, Kaidoh.
This is how it goes:
Fuji tries to feed Tezuka a bite of cake off his fork.
Tezuka looks at Fuji like he’s grown another head. Then he eats the cake.
Echizen drops his spoon and goes into the kitchen.
Momoshiro puts his glass down so hard he sloshes his drink over his sleeve.
Kaidoh leaves.
He’s not stupid.
Fuji is a photographer. Fuji is drawn to things that are beautiful, brilliant. Driven to capture them at their most beautiful and preserve those moments forever. Tezuka is the most brilliant person either of them knows, and he only burns brighter with the passing of time. Fuji won’t stop watching Tezuka until he starts to fade. Kaidoh knows this. As it turns out, forewarned doesn’t always mean forearmed and he’s starting to find that he can’t stomach it. He wonders, sometimes, why Fuji bothers with him at all. He is pointedly not brilliant, having to work and push and fight to be as good as he is. And he is good, very good, but he is matte black where Fuji is looking for shine. At first, he’d suspected it was out of boredom. Then time passed and Fuji had still been there after he’d learned how to draw reactions, how to shock, after he’d stopped trying to. Now Kaidoh doesn’t know what to think.
It’s several hours before Fuji returns to the apartment they share. Kaidoh is in the living room looking for a textbook and it annoys him that he’s there when Fuji arrives, like he’s been waiting with nothing better to do.
“Hello.” Fuji drawls the word lazily, leaning in the doorway for a moment. He steps over, walks up close, and all Kaidoh’s words are gone and try as he might, he doesn’t get them back before Fuji has him upstairs and spread out. He bites his lip against the moan that threatens with the slow curl of Fuji’s fingers inside him, drawn out and precisely measured to make him writhe. Fuji likes it best when he’s nearly frantic, takes pride in making Kaidoh abandon his own and plead.
He wonders if Fuji would want Tezuka to beg, too.
Fuji presses just there and Kaidoh hisses against clenched teeth, keeps his pleasure for himself.
“Why are you mad?” Fuji presses harder, rubs tight circles that should have Kaidoh arching off the bed and bunching the sheets in his fists. Instead he turns his face, lip whitening under his bite.
“You’re sulking,” Fuji laughs as he swipes his tongue over a nipple. “How cute.” Kaidoh’s cheeks redden like his skin against Fuji’s teeth. It’s half pleasure and half embarrassed anger, but they produce the same reaction. Fuji sounds almost joyful.
“Kaoru,” he croons, “are you jealous?”
“Get out,” Kaidoh says.
Fuji withdraws with a delicate twist of his fingers and Kaidoh can’t help but sigh at the slide of it, and hates knowing that Fuji heard. Fuji is looking up at him with amusement, resting his chin on the curve of his wrist, and Kaidoh resists the urge to cover himself.
“No,” he says, “out.”
“Hn,” Fuji stands, hums in a tone Kaidoh knows. The tone he uses when he thinks someone is an interesting specimen, someone he’ll enjoy prodding at. His lack of reaction sends a sharp spike of anger through Kaidoh, and when he speaks Fuji pauses at the doorway to listen.
“He’s not your fucking Buchou anymore,” he spits. “You don’t have to worship him.”
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at Kaidoh. He doesn’t close the door behind him, leaving Kaidoh feeling raw and exposed and like he’s just lost.