[Fic] Tezuka/Fuji; Getting Closure
Summary: Tezuka comes back after three years. He never tells them that, maybe, it’s too late for regrets. But he tries, he tries.
Getting closure
There is no door plate with a name next to the bell, no sign of welcome, leaving the door plain and unfamiliar and cold.
Admittedly, Tezuka doesn’t feel as relaxed and casual as his voice has emitted during the short phone call half an hour ago. Such as when he has typed the well-known numbers, he tries not to think, only concentrating on the upcoming visit. Strangely enough, he wishes he didn’t only have to go to the second floor in the high-rise building to meet him.
“May I come over?” Tezuka doesn’t introduce himself, starting the conversation as if they have already talked for hours; as if there wasn’t a distance of three endless years.
An awkward pause on the other side of the line. For a moment, he wonders if he will be hung up on, considering the circumstances.
“Fine,” Fuji says eventually.
Much to his relief, the door is opened after a few moments. At nearly the same time their eyes meet; clearing his throat, Tezuka waits to be invited, and Fuji steps aside. Immediately, Tezuka takes off his shoes, noticing the polished wooden floor. His eyes are strictly focused on his shoes. If this is going to be a quick visit, he wants to remember as little as possible. (Years ago, he would have scolded himself for this ridiculous thought, but at some point, even he has learned that feelings can scarcely be controlled.)
The way Fuji walks is different, he perceives with a frown, though. For some reason, the steps don’t seem to be as light - in lack of a better expression - anymore, Tezuka thinks, but then again, time has passed. And even if he doubts the guess, he might have forgotten details.
“Take a seat,” Fuji says, finally smiling, his soft brown hair - it has grown longer in the course of time - hiding his eyes. “Black tea? Coffee? I fear there’s nothing else I can offer.”
“Nothing, thank you,” is his formal answer. It feels uncomfortable, sitting in that nearly empty living room that he has imagined much more creative and vibrant.
“I want our future apartment to be alive,” Fuji tells him, chuckling. “You’ll allow me to design it for us, right?”
Tezuka doesn’t reply, knowing too well that the other man likes to tease him. However, Fuji keeps smiling and talking about distant future plans, and Tezuka is almost tempted to smile, too. Their fingers are linked together, in a gesture of familiar intimacy.
The silence is awkward - Tezuka can almost listen to the sweep hand’s ticking of his watch. Fuji beholds his hands that are folded tightly on his lap, refusing to look at his visitor again after the quick glance in the beginning.
“How have you been doing?,” Tezuka finally asks, in a distant tone. It comes to his mind that he has indeed forgotten so much; previously, years ago, he has learned to express affection and concern, at times. Time has passed.
Again, Fuji smiles. “Let’s not talk about me,” he says, “let’s talk about you. You must have been successful. You always were.”
His voice sounds entirely neutral, and still Tezuka wonders if it’s admiration or criticism resonating in the statement.
“I don’t feel like working any more today,” Fuji says, leaning back on the sofa, closing his eyes. His book rests on his stomach, on the verge of sliding down; if the page Fuji has been working on is lost, he won’t care, Tezuka knows.
“You should keep studying,” Tezuka tells him with a frown.
Fuji laughs at his response, warm fingers touching his arm. “One kiss and I might consider it.”
“Fuji,” he insists, fully aware that his impatience has always been a pet peeve of Fuji who likes to play along, teasingly, in a twisted way.
Tezuka bends slightly forward, unintentionally; the small table creates an obstructive distance between them, though. With Tezuka’s movement, Fuji leans back, his back pressing on the chair he is sitting on.
Unpleasant silence once again hangs heavily in the air. A strange kind of tension makes Tezuka tense his muscles, although there is no reason whatsoever for it; Fuji still refuses to glance up.
Warm breath tickles his ear. Nevertheless Tezuka doesn’t open his eyes, preferring to pretend he’s still sleeping, knowing at the same time that Fuji can’t be fooled.
“Don’t leave.” The soft whisper makes him shiver. The argument is still not over.
“I will,” he replies, and even though he wants to add some sort of “I’m sorry”, no more words escape his dry throat. Remorse is nagging at him for never telling him the true reasons behind his decision, apart from the common ones such as ‘career’ and ‘prospects’,
For the entire night, Fuji doesn’t turn around. In the morning, he is gone.
It is a rare occasion to see Fuji like this; visibly withdrawn, silent, every part of his body conveying rejection. Everything Tezuka has associated him with - pride, a sharp and curious mind - seems to be strangely muted, barely noticeable. The suspicion is obvious, judging from the past, from Fuji’s already vulnerable -
Instead of observing him any further, Tezuka tries to focus on other things, forgetting about his earlier resolution.
The living room is indeed almost entirely empty, apart from a tiny sofa, the table and an old-fashioned closet that seems to be so out of place that it almost suits Fuji, despite the dull vacuousness. There is one picture hanging above the closet, a bright blue frame emphasizing it nearly painfully. Tezuka remembers that the colour has always been Yumiko’s favourite one, and his guess is affirmed when taking a closer look.
“How is Yumiko?,” he asks then, still gazing at the picture of the three siblings; their smile is so similar that it is impossible to consider them anything else than close family members. After a moment, Fuji replies.
“How are you?,” Tezuka types and deletes the message right after the words have appeared on the screen. Again, he closes the browser, preparing for his return to the auditorium. It’s been two months, two long months in which there has been no contact between him and his boyfriend - previous boyfriend, he corrects himself.
On his way through the corridors, he convinces himself again that this is the best solution, after all.
“She’s busy,” and this time there is no smile on his lips, “of course, living in Australia proves to be difficult. I haven’t heard from her for a while, but I’m positive she’s doing great nonetheless.”
Nodding in return, Tezuka cannot help but wonder.
“And Yuuta? Is he still in Tokyo?”
Fuji laughs, and for the first time Tezuka feels that the man in front of him bears something dreadfully heavy inside of him, more overwhelming than at any other time he has seen him like this, or held him like this.
“He hasn’t spoken to me ever since...” Strangely enough, the wide smile seems to deform Fuji’s face. ”For two years now.”
Instead of asking for the cause, Tezuka keeps still for a while. His thoughts centre on the pieces of information he has gathered now; on the occurrences throughout the past years, almost all of their old friends moving far away, then the family; and on the fact that Fuji, despite being strong and invulnerable on the outside, has never been able to handle loneliness.
“I’m sorry,” Tezuka tries to say, but he doesn’t manage to speak out, like countless times before.
Tezuka avoids going back to Japan for three whole years, intensely working on his field of study abroad. When he reads a book about ambition and its consequences on pressured people; he thinks of Fuji who has always had to deal with extremely high expectations, and his lack of ambition himself.
When he walks home, there is a shop selling cacti, and he thinks of Fuji who has always loved to take care of the unobvious beauty.
When he is alone in his apartment, he thinks of Fuji who has sometimes surprised him by making a visit late at night. Due to his devotion and concentration, though, Tezuka is able to study efficiently, still thinking of the past, making a guess or two about the present. In the evening, he deletes every e-mail he has started writing.
Sometimes, he tries to stop thinking at all.
“What have you been doing, Fuji?,” Tezuka asks again. What made you break down like that?
A careless shrug is the only answer. The fingers grab each other tightly.
The public’s importunate interest does bother him, but Tezuka can’t avoid interviews once in a while. One of those interviews deals with his teenage years in which he has been in the successful position of the Seigaku tennis team’s captain; winning the national tournament has made him fairly famous in the first place, after all.
“Echizen Ryoma was part of your team, am I right?”
“Exactly. His potential was obvious from the first day, and I’m glad the Seigaku tennis team has turned out to be a helpful step to him.” The pride in his voice is impossible to miss.
“What about Fuji Shuusuke? He is said to have abandoned tennis after high school, which is a pity considering his outstanding talent.”
After a few instants, Tezuka replies, “his choice must be accepted.” He never tells them that he has been one of those people to put pressure on him, expecting nothing less than perfection. He never tells them that, maybe, it’s too late for regrets. But he tries, he tries.
“Why have you come back?,” Fuji asks instead, going back to strictly staring at his own hands, his voice indifferent. “You didn’t want to talk to me for three years. Why now?”
Bitterness, Tezuka can tell, and a painful feeling in his chest is pulling at him, his skin prickling like innumerable needles try to go through.
And even though he knows it’s not the time to talk about the departure, instead of his return -
“I hoped you’d be better, then.” You’ve never been free.
And -
“I thought it was me.” That’s why I left.
For a split second, Fuji looks up. The hair still hides his gaze, but the features can be clearly seen; he opens his mouth, closing it after a second. Then he answers at last.
“You used to be my support.”
As soon as the studies are finished - needless to say, with excellent results - the return to Japan is highly recommended, and Tezuka gives in. His intention, however, has never been to see Fuji again; after all, he has left for a reason.
Nevertheless, Tezuka has changed, and so has his weakened sense of discipline.
The only reason to visit him is to check if he is all right. Nothing more, he tells himself.
Words are stuck in his throat; Tezuka keeps quiet for a while. The window in his field of vision tells him that the sun will be setting in no time. The darker the room gets, the less Tezuka can read the other one’s expression.
Only more questions have come up, while the most bothering one is what he can or what he is supposed to do now. The fact that he knows Fuji so well doesn’t help him at all; he can’t get rid of all those obstacles hindering him from reaching out, still.
“If you hadn’t left,” Fuji says slowly, “maybe things could have been different. Maybe.”
Fuji looks like he is about to shrug for a second time, smiling. And Tezuka feels that, although he thought the related irritation has disappeared for a long time already, he hates this meaningless smile.
“It’s no use blaming you or me or anybody else, though.”
“You want to continue like this then?” Tezuka wants to touch him, just to make sure he is alive, although he is aware of the silliness of that thought. The sound of Fuji’s chuckle adds to the urge.
“Sometimes it’s not about choices,” Fuji says.
A professor Tezuka highly respects motions him aside one day and tells him that “several unsent messages are saved on the public computers” in the media room of the university, asking him whether deleting them was all right as Tezuka would be leaving soon anyway.
“It is,” he confirms.
“Who is that person you are writing to?,” the older man asks him out of curiosity, and for once, because it’s him, Tezuka doesn’t mind.
“We used to be close,” his explanation is utterly neutral. Incoherently, he adds, “He bears a heavy burden.”
Whatever Tezuka could say now, it all sounds wrong to him. Much to his surprise, there are soft fingers on his cheek all of a sudden, ever so lightly, it almost doesn’t feel like a caress. Tezuka leans into the touch.
“Please leave,” Fuji says.
Covering the fingers with his own hand, Tezuka closes his eyes for an instant; bitterness and regrets and misconception don’t make sense in this mess anymore, to him.
“Let me stay,” Tezuka responds.
For the last time, Fuji smiles. Eventually meeting his glance, his blue eyes pierce right through him, replacing every thought in Tezuka’s mind with his silent request.
“Sometimes,” Fuji says, “it’s not about choices.”
A/N: I do know that interpretation of Fuji is not too common; however, I love the idea of a... vulnerable Fuji, the genius who can’t and doesn’t want to deal with pressure, who merely seeks to live in harmony and freedom. Things are rarely the way one wants them to be, though, and that’s why it doesn’t work for him in my story.
Comments & criticism are more than appreciated :) I’d love to hear what you think about this side of Fuji’s personality.
Getting closure
There is no door plate with a name next to the bell, no sign of welcome, leaving the door plain and unfamiliar and cold.
Admittedly, Tezuka doesn’t feel as relaxed and casual as his voice has emitted during the short phone call half an hour ago. Such as when he has typed the well-known numbers, he tries not to think, only concentrating on the upcoming visit. Strangely enough, he wishes he didn’t only have to go to the second floor in the high-rise building to meet him.
“May I come over?” Tezuka doesn’t introduce himself, starting the conversation as if they have already talked for hours; as if there wasn’t a distance of three endless years.
An awkward pause on the other side of the line. For a moment, he wonders if he will be hung up on, considering the circumstances.
“Fine,” Fuji says eventually.
Much to his relief, the door is opened after a few moments. At nearly the same time their eyes meet; clearing his throat, Tezuka waits to be invited, and Fuji steps aside. Immediately, Tezuka takes off his shoes, noticing the polished wooden floor. His eyes are strictly focused on his shoes. If this is going to be a quick visit, he wants to remember as little as possible. (Years ago, he would have scolded himself for this ridiculous thought, but at some point, even he has learned that feelings can scarcely be controlled.)
The way Fuji walks is different, he perceives with a frown, though. For some reason, the steps don’t seem to be as light - in lack of a better expression - anymore, Tezuka thinks, but then again, time has passed. And even if he doubts the guess, he might have forgotten details.
“Take a seat,” Fuji says, finally smiling, his soft brown hair - it has grown longer in the course of time - hiding his eyes. “Black tea? Coffee? I fear there’s nothing else I can offer.”
“Nothing, thank you,” is his formal answer. It feels uncomfortable, sitting in that nearly empty living room that he has imagined much more creative and vibrant.
“I want our future apartment to be alive,” Fuji tells him, chuckling. “You’ll allow me to design it for us, right?”
Tezuka doesn’t reply, knowing too well that the other man likes to tease him. However, Fuji keeps smiling and talking about distant future plans, and Tezuka is almost tempted to smile, too. Their fingers are linked together, in a gesture of familiar intimacy.
The silence is awkward - Tezuka can almost listen to the sweep hand’s ticking of his watch. Fuji beholds his hands that are folded tightly on his lap, refusing to look at his visitor again after the quick glance in the beginning.
“How have you been doing?,” Tezuka finally asks, in a distant tone. It comes to his mind that he has indeed forgotten so much; previously, years ago, he has learned to express affection and concern, at times. Time has passed.
Again, Fuji smiles. “Let’s not talk about me,” he says, “let’s talk about you. You must have been successful. You always were.”
His voice sounds entirely neutral, and still Tezuka wonders if it’s admiration or criticism resonating in the statement.
“I don’t feel like working any more today,” Fuji says, leaning back on the sofa, closing his eyes. His book rests on his stomach, on the verge of sliding down; if the page Fuji has been working on is lost, he won’t care, Tezuka knows.
“You should keep studying,” Tezuka tells him with a frown.
Fuji laughs at his response, warm fingers touching his arm. “One kiss and I might consider it.”
“Fuji,” he insists, fully aware that his impatience has always been a pet peeve of Fuji who likes to play along, teasingly, in a twisted way.
Tezuka bends slightly forward, unintentionally; the small table creates an obstructive distance between them, though. With Tezuka’s movement, Fuji leans back, his back pressing on the chair he is sitting on.
Unpleasant silence once again hangs heavily in the air. A strange kind of tension makes Tezuka tense his muscles, although there is no reason whatsoever for it; Fuji still refuses to glance up.
Warm breath tickles his ear. Nevertheless Tezuka doesn’t open his eyes, preferring to pretend he’s still sleeping, knowing at the same time that Fuji can’t be fooled.
“Don’t leave.” The soft whisper makes him shiver. The argument is still not over.
“I will,” he replies, and even though he wants to add some sort of “I’m sorry”, no more words escape his dry throat. Remorse is nagging at him for never telling him the true reasons behind his decision, apart from the common ones such as ‘career’ and ‘prospects’,
For the entire night, Fuji doesn’t turn around. In the morning, he is gone.
It is a rare occasion to see Fuji like this; visibly withdrawn, silent, every part of his body conveying rejection. Everything Tezuka has associated him with - pride, a sharp and curious mind - seems to be strangely muted, barely noticeable. The suspicion is obvious, judging from the past, from Fuji’s already vulnerable -
Instead of observing him any further, Tezuka tries to focus on other things, forgetting about his earlier resolution.
The living room is indeed almost entirely empty, apart from a tiny sofa, the table and an old-fashioned closet that seems to be so out of place that it almost suits Fuji, despite the dull vacuousness. There is one picture hanging above the closet, a bright blue frame emphasizing it nearly painfully. Tezuka remembers that the colour has always been Yumiko’s favourite one, and his guess is affirmed when taking a closer look.
“How is Yumiko?,” he asks then, still gazing at the picture of the three siblings; their smile is so similar that it is impossible to consider them anything else than close family members. After a moment, Fuji replies.
“How are you?,” Tezuka types and deletes the message right after the words have appeared on the screen. Again, he closes the browser, preparing for his return to the auditorium. It’s been two months, two long months in which there has been no contact between him and his boyfriend - previous boyfriend, he corrects himself.
On his way through the corridors, he convinces himself again that this is the best solution, after all.
“She’s busy,” and this time there is no smile on his lips, “of course, living in Australia proves to be difficult. I haven’t heard from her for a while, but I’m positive she’s doing great nonetheless.”
Nodding in return, Tezuka cannot help but wonder.
“And Yuuta? Is he still in Tokyo?”
Fuji laughs, and for the first time Tezuka feels that the man in front of him bears something dreadfully heavy inside of him, more overwhelming than at any other time he has seen him like this, or held him like this.
“He hasn’t spoken to me ever since...” Strangely enough, the wide smile seems to deform Fuji’s face. ”For two years now.”
Instead of asking for the cause, Tezuka keeps still for a while. His thoughts centre on the pieces of information he has gathered now; on the occurrences throughout the past years, almost all of their old friends moving far away, then the family; and on the fact that Fuji, despite being strong and invulnerable on the outside, has never been able to handle loneliness.
“I’m sorry,” Tezuka tries to say, but he doesn’t manage to speak out, like countless times before.
Tezuka avoids going back to Japan for three whole years, intensely working on his field of study abroad. When he reads a book about ambition and its consequences on pressured people; he thinks of Fuji who has always had to deal with extremely high expectations, and his lack of ambition himself.
When he walks home, there is a shop selling cacti, and he thinks of Fuji who has always loved to take care of the unobvious beauty.
When he is alone in his apartment, he thinks of Fuji who has sometimes surprised him by making a visit late at night. Due to his devotion and concentration, though, Tezuka is able to study efficiently, still thinking of the past, making a guess or two about the present. In the evening, he deletes every e-mail he has started writing.
Sometimes, he tries to stop thinking at all.
“What have you been doing, Fuji?,” Tezuka asks again. What made you break down like that?
A careless shrug is the only answer. The fingers grab each other tightly.
The public’s importunate interest does bother him, but Tezuka can’t avoid interviews once in a while. One of those interviews deals with his teenage years in which he has been in the successful position of the Seigaku tennis team’s captain; winning the national tournament has made him fairly famous in the first place, after all.
“Echizen Ryoma was part of your team, am I right?”
“Exactly. His potential was obvious from the first day, and I’m glad the Seigaku tennis team has turned out to be a helpful step to him.” The pride in his voice is impossible to miss.
“What about Fuji Shuusuke? He is said to have abandoned tennis after high school, which is a pity considering his outstanding talent.”
After a few instants, Tezuka replies, “his choice must be accepted.” He never tells them that he has been one of those people to put pressure on him, expecting nothing less than perfection. He never tells them that, maybe, it’s too late for regrets. But he tries, he tries.
“Why have you come back?,” Fuji asks instead, going back to strictly staring at his own hands, his voice indifferent. “You didn’t want to talk to me for three years. Why now?”
Bitterness, Tezuka can tell, and a painful feeling in his chest is pulling at him, his skin prickling like innumerable needles try to go through.
And even though he knows it’s not the time to talk about the departure, instead of his return -
“I hoped you’d be better, then.” You’ve never been free.
And -
“I thought it was me.” That’s why I left.
For a split second, Fuji looks up. The hair still hides his gaze, but the features can be clearly seen; he opens his mouth, closing it after a second. Then he answers at last.
“You used to be my support.”
As soon as the studies are finished - needless to say, with excellent results - the return to Japan is highly recommended, and Tezuka gives in. His intention, however, has never been to see Fuji again; after all, he has left for a reason.
Nevertheless, Tezuka has changed, and so has his weakened sense of discipline.
The only reason to visit him is to check if he is all right. Nothing more, he tells himself.
Words are stuck in his throat; Tezuka keeps quiet for a while. The window in his field of vision tells him that the sun will be setting in no time. The darker the room gets, the less Tezuka can read the other one’s expression.
Only more questions have come up, while the most bothering one is what he can or what he is supposed to do now. The fact that he knows Fuji so well doesn’t help him at all; he can’t get rid of all those obstacles hindering him from reaching out, still.
“If you hadn’t left,” Fuji says slowly, “maybe things could have been different. Maybe.”
Fuji looks like he is about to shrug for a second time, smiling. And Tezuka feels that, although he thought the related irritation has disappeared for a long time already, he hates this meaningless smile.
“It’s no use blaming you or me or anybody else, though.”
“You want to continue like this then?” Tezuka wants to touch him, just to make sure he is alive, although he is aware of the silliness of that thought. The sound of Fuji’s chuckle adds to the urge.
“Sometimes it’s not about choices,” Fuji says.
A professor Tezuka highly respects motions him aside one day and tells him that “several unsent messages are saved on the public computers” in the media room of the university, asking him whether deleting them was all right as Tezuka would be leaving soon anyway.
“It is,” he confirms.
“Who is that person you are writing to?,” the older man asks him out of curiosity, and for once, because it’s him, Tezuka doesn’t mind.
“We used to be close,” his explanation is utterly neutral. Incoherently, he adds, “He bears a heavy burden.”
Whatever Tezuka could say now, it all sounds wrong to him. Much to his surprise, there are soft fingers on his cheek all of a sudden, ever so lightly, it almost doesn’t feel like a caress. Tezuka leans into the touch.
“Please leave,” Fuji says.
Covering the fingers with his own hand, Tezuka closes his eyes for an instant; bitterness and regrets and misconception don’t make sense in this mess anymore, to him.
“Let me stay,” Tezuka responds.
For the last time, Fuji smiles. Eventually meeting his glance, his blue eyes pierce right through him, replacing every thought in Tezuka’s mind with his silent request.
“Sometimes,” Fuji says, “it’s not about choices.”
A/N: I do know that interpretation of Fuji is not too common; however, I love the idea of a... vulnerable Fuji, the genius who can’t and doesn’t want to deal with pressure, who merely seeks to live in harmony and freedom. Things are rarely the way one wants them to be, though, and that’s why it doesn’t work for him in my story.
Comments & criticism are more than appreciated :) I’d love to hear what you think about this side of Fuji’s personality.