Fanfiction: Like Vines
Fanfiction: Like Vines (we intertwined)
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Synopsis: The attempts (and failures) of a relationship between Tezuka and Fuji when life is a little too busy for them during the week.
Genre: ZukaFuji
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Present tense for the first time, long one-shot, "access denied" like five times
Dedication: Celebration for a new journal? Er... I think I gave myself the prompt 'lock' once? I dunno.
The room has that 'we just did it' look because there are an assortment of items littering the floor that shouldn't be there. Fuji's well aware that those books were once on the nightstand, that the pillow decorating the floor should be on the bed, and he remembers exactly how Tezuka
pushed him into the nightstand. The sound of pages flutter in the air as does the sound of Tezuka's buttons popping and Fuji tears his shirt open. Three buttons fall to the hard wood floor in the amount of time it takes for Fuji's legs to wrap around Tezuka's waist and "There..." he hisses as skin touches fevered skin. Fuji's tongue is already tracing the hollow of his throat and he
was the cause.
Fuji leans out of bed and reaches for a button just passed his fingertips and gives up two seconds later when Tezuka's arm finds its way back around his waist. Kisses that aren't really kisses brush against his shoulders and back, tempting him back under the covers. For a second, he holds out. It doesn't last long. Tezuka's mouth becomes more demanding and the kisses become bites that force Fuji to quell a shudder.
He turns and snickers a "Good morning."
"Mmm..." Is the response. The words never quite make it out of Tezuka's mouth, but that's just fine. Fuji's lips are pressed against his before he's able to anyway. The first one is for the morning, just a light touch of a kiss to wake him up. The next two are reminders of last night and the what-ifs of tomorrow.
The one thing that didn't fall off the nightstand (and in retrospect Fuji really wishes it did) was Tezuka's cellphone. In a cacophony of sound, it rings a Jpop tune that Tezuka knows he didn't put there and Fuji knows he's not going to admit that he did. So it stays because both parties are too stubborn to confess.
Tezuka's fingers itch in a way that Fuji knows he won't get his Sunday treat of sleeping in unless he thinks fast because Tezuka's hand is moving to the phone and
if he lays his fingers just right against Tezuka's sex-raw skin (palm up, nails flat on his tummy for a slow drag southward), his breath will hitch, his stomach will tighten. And Fuji gets the pleasure of watching his lover's eyes cloud and darken. He does it again just for good measure, this time slower than before, taking care to trace the fine line of hair and circle the dip of muscle before his navel until Tezuka's itchy fingers are clutching the sheets.
Their week restarts itself as soon as Tezuka flips Fuji onto his back again and the cellphone chimes forgotten.
But this only happens on Sundays.
Monday is new territory. Monday is the real beginning of the week.
Between Tezuka's phone calls from his agent and Fuji's calls from his boss, there is little interaction between them the entire day.
Cooking breakfast at 7:30 and Fuji's already out by dawn with his camera in tow. By the time he returns, it's already noon and Tezuka's at the courts, the match is 4-3 in Tezuka's court but Fuji's in the make-shift darkroom closet developing through dinner. Tezuka relaxes on the couch and Fuji joins him hours later when he's torn between zoning out while watching the news or dozing off with a ramen noodle cup in his hand.
Fuji slips the cup out of his hand before it splashes to the floor. "Hello, you."
Tezuka answers by lifting his head and shoulders just enough for Fuji to squeeze his hips under them. For a while, they're just a silent as their conversations have been all day. When Fuji looks down, the television light splashes on Tezuka's face and glasses. Lazily, his hand finds his hair and brushes back the stray ends. Tezuka's meets it without looking and they entwine.
And the phone rings.
Tezuka pinches the bridge of his nose when he realizes it's for him. Again.
On Tuesday, Fuji's name interrupts the steady flow of business calls. "Free for lunch?"
Not today is already on his lips before he hears his coach yell "Break!"
"I heard that." Tezuka can practically hear Fuji's smile on the other end of the line.
The cafe Fuji chooses is a tiny shop on the corner near the photography agency Fuji works for. He jogs in and sits, fine with just a green tea for now. It's likely Fuji's been held up at the agency, so he bides his time with crosswords on a forgotten newspaper.
Twenty minutes later, Fuji strolls in and Tezuka's already ordered a new spicy apple tea that makes Fuji's mouth quirk upwards. Tezuka also has put his cellphone on the table.
"Apodyopsis." Fuji whispers the answer to Down, number eight.
Tezuka doesn't point out that it doesn't fit. But he does smile.
They get ten minutes before being interrupted by the high-pitched chirp of Jpop.
Fuji grabs the cell before Tezuka can reach for it, tennis reflexes still sharp. He expects to see the name of his boss or the title 'manager' flashing across the screen, but not
"Atobe?"
"It can wait."
Fuji stares at the name for a few minutes longer until the ringing stops. And when it does, he twirls it between his fingers instead of putting it back on the table.
"Fuji?"
"Shh..." He holds the mobile for three more seconds before it rings again. A wry smile crosses his lips. "I think I've developed my sister's powers."
But when the names start interchanging between Atobe and Tezuka's manager...
Tezuka closes his eyes and Fuji can see the gears working between his ears. Exhaling, he hands the phone back to Tezuka who whispers a thanks and offers a compensation kiss. A few minutes later he's out the door again and Fuji's left with two cups of lukewarm tea and half a biscuit.
Fuji's asleep by the time Tezuka returns to the apartment. And when Tezuka wakes there's a you owe me scrawled on a post-it stamp in the kitchen. Tezuka chuckles to himself and keeps it in his pocket for the rest of the week.
The living room is lined with a single thread that starts from the door, winds around the kitchen and up into the recesses of the apartment. And attached are millions and millions of pictures. Tezuka knows that Fuji has more than enough space to develop all of these at the agency. But the intimacy of his own darkroom hadn't lost its effect, even after four years of existence.
(Tezuka also knows that if there are this many pictures, Fuji's actually going for a deadline instead of listening to his editor beg for his pictures to the point of tears.)
He touches the edge of the first picture, careful not to smudge it as it dries, and scans the photograph of the little boy looking into the pond at his own reflection. Narcissus. Fuji never point-and-clicked his camera but at the same time he didn't pre-determine a story. And yet he couldn't help wanting to make one about the little boy in the first picture and string it to all the other pictures on the line somehow.
He walks past each picture as if their apartment had become a museum for one. Which, in a sense, it had.
So when Fuji was not at the other end, not stringing up more photographs, he tried to swallow his disappointment. If Fuji really is going for a deadline, he is probably still out, scouting the nightlife and letting his photographer's eye travel. He could be gone for an hour up to days at a time. This time it's just two, or so the post-it note says at the end of the line.
Tezuka's hand reaches to the earlier post-it note crumpled in his pocket and pulls out his cellphone seconds before it rings.
It's Friday, says the calendar.
Tezuka is standing next to his manager late in the evening when his pants start to play 'Love Shack'. And he isn't the least bit embarrassed.
"I thought it fit." Fuji practically hums when he answers.
"I'll be home in twenty."
He snickers. "Yes, Captain." And Tezuka balls his hand into a fist as he makes his way out. He should have told him ten.
The takeout Fuji ordered goes unnoticed as Tezuka's pinned the door he just walked through. His keys, his coat, his tennis bag all fall to the floor in one heap as Fuji undresses him while nibbling on his ear.
"Today's backwards day." Fuji's voice is husky and tingly and low. A playful tug on his belt loops to bring them closer as he bites his lower lip.
"Is it?" And Tezuka can see (or rather feel) why. Fuji's hands were already unbuckling his pants before taking his shirt off. He leans and greets the air.
Fuji doesn't say anything more save for a chuckle as he sinks slowly to his knees, eyes refusing to leave Tezuka's as he does so.
"Fu-"
"Shh....." His hiss echoes his finger tracing the line of his zipper, up and down. Hot breath meets the fabric of his jeans and he closes his eyes for a second as a wave of desire hits him. His fingers thread through Fuji's hair as Fuji teases the waistband of his boxers with a single finger. It was dangerous to look down, he knows, but he does anyway and he's met with dark brown eyes and full lips and fingers peeling off his
When the phone rang, Fuji's lips purses and glares at the (other) bulge in Tezuka's pants only to find that it wasn't ringing. He follows Tezuka's gaze to the lights coming from his own pocket.
"Saeki?" Fuji blinks and stands up, leaving Tezuka to melt to the floor.
He wasn't surprised to find another post-it on the refrigerator the next morning, this one saying I owe you .
It's after dark by the time Fuji gets home on Saturday. All of his photographs were sent out, the printers have them, the agency has them, and most importantly, his editor has them. His keys jangle in the lock, turning them the wrong way twice before it unlocks and gives way to home.
Tezuka hadn't made it past the living room. The television is on but his eyes are closed and his head is leaning back against the couch. A pleasant surprise of Fuji on his lap was enough to keep him awake as his hands roamed under his shirt, tugging it off.
Tezuka's lips grazes Fuji's earlobe and Fuji snaps his hips until
Atobe's name flashes in the darkness like a beacon and Fuji's insides curl.
Tezuka looks between the mobile and Fuji and in the few seconds before Fuji can react, he pitches the phone across the room. It bounces against the wall and flips open, both halves yawning wide and light spilling from its touch tone buttons and bright screen. In midair, Atobe's name flashes in their direction for a final time before it crashes to the floor and shatters in two.
Fuji smiles, dipping his mouth against Tezuka's neck until he hears the satisfying groan of a job well done. Much better... He never did like routine much anyway.
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Synopsis: The attempts (and failures) of a relationship between Tezuka and Fuji when life is a little too busy for them during the week.
Genre: ZukaFuji
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Present tense for the first time, long one-shot, "access denied" like five times
Dedication: Celebration for a new journal? Er... I think I gave myself the prompt 'lock' once? I dunno.
The room has that 'we just did it' look because there are an assortment of items littering the floor that shouldn't be there. Fuji's well aware that those books were once on the nightstand, that the pillow decorating the floor should be on the bed, and he remembers exactly how Tezuka
pushed him into the nightstand. The sound of pages flutter in the air as does the sound of Tezuka's buttons popping and Fuji tears his shirt open. Three buttons fall to the hard wood floor in the amount of time it takes for Fuji's legs to wrap around Tezuka's waist and "There..." he hisses as skin touches fevered skin. Fuji's tongue is already tracing the hollow of his throat and he
was the cause.
Fuji leans out of bed and reaches for a button just passed his fingertips and gives up two seconds later when Tezuka's arm finds its way back around his waist. Kisses that aren't really kisses brush against his shoulders and back, tempting him back under the covers. For a second, he holds out. It doesn't last long. Tezuka's mouth becomes more demanding and the kisses become bites that force Fuji to quell a shudder.
He turns and snickers a "Good morning."
"Mmm..." Is the response. The words never quite make it out of Tezuka's mouth, but that's just fine. Fuji's lips are pressed against his before he's able to anyway. The first one is for the morning, just a light touch of a kiss to wake him up. The next two are reminders of last night and the what-ifs of tomorrow.
The one thing that didn't fall off the nightstand (and in retrospect Fuji really wishes it did) was Tezuka's cellphone. In a cacophony of sound, it rings a Jpop tune that Tezuka knows he didn't put there and Fuji knows he's not going to admit that he did. So it stays because both parties are too stubborn to confess.
Tezuka's fingers itch in a way that Fuji knows he won't get his Sunday treat of sleeping in unless he thinks fast because Tezuka's hand is moving to the phone and
if he lays his fingers just right against Tezuka's sex-raw skin (palm up, nails flat on his tummy for a slow drag southward), his breath will hitch, his stomach will tighten. And Fuji gets the pleasure of watching his lover's eyes cloud and darken. He does it again just for good measure, this time slower than before, taking care to trace the fine line of hair and circle the dip of muscle before his navel until Tezuka's itchy fingers are clutching the sheets.
Their week restarts itself as soon as Tezuka flips Fuji onto his back again and the cellphone chimes forgotten.
But this only happens on Sundays.
Monday is new territory. Monday is the real beginning of the week.
Between Tezuka's phone calls from his agent and Fuji's calls from his boss, there is little interaction between them the entire day.
Cooking breakfast at 7:30 and Fuji's already out by dawn with his camera in tow. By the time he returns, it's already noon and Tezuka's at the courts, the match is 4-3 in Tezuka's court but Fuji's in the make-shift darkroom closet developing through dinner. Tezuka relaxes on the couch and Fuji joins him hours later when he's torn between zoning out while watching the news or dozing off with a ramen noodle cup in his hand.
Fuji slips the cup out of his hand before it splashes to the floor. "Hello, you."
Tezuka answers by lifting his head and shoulders just enough for Fuji to squeeze his hips under them. For a while, they're just a silent as their conversations have been all day. When Fuji looks down, the television light splashes on Tezuka's face and glasses. Lazily, his hand finds his hair and brushes back the stray ends. Tezuka's meets it without looking and they entwine.
And the phone rings.
Tezuka pinches the bridge of his nose when he realizes it's for him. Again.
On Tuesday, Fuji's name interrupts the steady flow of business calls. "Free for lunch?"
Not today is already on his lips before he hears his coach yell "Break!"
"I heard that." Tezuka can practically hear Fuji's smile on the other end of the line.
The cafe Fuji chooses is a tiny shop on the corner near the photography agency Fuji works for. He jogs in and sits, fine with just a green tea for now. It's likely Fuji's been held up at the agency, so he bides his time with crosswords on a forgotten newspaper.
Twenty minutes later, Fuji strolls in and Tezuka's already ordered a new spicy apple tea that makes Fuji's mouth quirk upwards. Tezuka also has put his cellphone on the table.
"Apodyopsis." Fuji whispers the answer to Down, number eight.
Tezuka doesn't point out that it doesn't fit. But he does smile.
They get ten minutes before being interrupted by the high-pitched chirp of Jpop.
Fuji grabs the cell before Tezuka can reach for it, tennis reflexes still sharp. He expects to see the name of his boss or the title 'manager' flashing across the screen, but not
"Atobe?"
"It can wait."
Fuji stares at the name for a few minutes longer until the ringing stops. And when it does, he twirls it between his fingers instead of putting it back on the table.
"Fuji?"
"Shh..." He holds the mobile for three more seconds before it rings again. A wry smile crosses his lips. "I think I've developed my sister's powers."
But when the names start interchanging between Atobe and Tezuka's manager...
Tezuka closes his eyes and Fuji can see the gears working between his ears. Exhaling, he hands the phone back to Tezuka who whispers a thanks and offers a compensation kiss. A few minutes later he's out the door again and Fuji's left with two cups of lukewarm tea and half a biscuit.
Fuji's asleep by the time Tezuka returns to the apartment. And when Tezuka wakes there's a you owe me scrawled on a post-it stamp in the kitchen. Tezuka chuckles to himself and keeps it in his pocket for the rest of the week.
The living room is lined with a single thread that starts from the door, winds around the kitchen and up into the recesses of the apartment. And attached are millions and millions of pictures. Tezuka knows that Fuji has more than enough space to develop all of these at the agency. But the intimacy of his own darkroom hadn't lost its effect, even after four years of existence.
(Tezuka also knows that if there are this many pictures, Fuji's actually going for a deadline instead of listening to his editor beg for his pictures to the point of tears.)
He touches the edge of the first picture, careful not to smudge it as it dries, and scans the photograph of the little boy looking into the pond at his own reflection. Narcissus. Fuji never point-and-clicked his camera but at the same time he didn't pre-determine a story. And yet he couldn't help wanting to make one about the little boy in the first picture and string it to all the other pictures on the line somehow.
He walks past each picture as if their apartment had become a museum for one. Which, in a sense, it had.
So when Fuji was not at the other end, not stringing up more photographs, he tried to swallow his disappointment. If Fuji really is going for a deadline, he is probably still out, scouting the nightlife and letting his photographer's eye travel. He could be gone for an hour up to days at a time. This time it's just two, or so the post-it note says at the end of the line.
Tezuka's hand reaches to the earlier post-it note crumpled in his pocket and pulls out his cellphone seconds before it rings.
It's Friday, says the calendar.
Tezuka is standing next to his manager late in the evening when his pants start to play 'Love Shack'. And he isn't the least bit embarrassed.
"I thought it fit." Fuji practically hums when he answers.
"I'll be home in twenty."
He snickers. "Yes, Captain." And Tezuka balls his hand into a fist as he makes his way out. He should have told him ten.
The takeout Fuji ordered goes unnoticed as Tezuka's pinned the door he just walked through. His keys, his coat, his tennis bag all fall to the floor in one heap as Fuji undresses him while nibbling on his ear.
"Today's backwards day." Fuji's voice is husky and tingly and low. A playful tug on his belt loops to bring them closer as he bites his lower lip.
"Is it?" And Tezuka can see (or rather feel) why. Fuji's hands were already unbuckling his pants before taking his shirt off. He leans and greets the air.
Fuji doesn't say anything more save for a chuckle as he sinks slowly to his knees, eyes refusing to leave Tezuka's as he does so.
"Fu-"
"Shh....." His hiss echoes his finger tracing the line of his zipper, up and down. Hot breath meets the fabric of his jeans and he closes his eyes for a second as a wave of desire hits him. His fingers thread through Fuji's hair as Fuji teases the waistband of his boxers with a single finger. It was dangerous to look down, he knows, but he does anyway and he's met with dark brown eyes and full lips and fingers peeling off his
When the phone rang, Fuji's lips purses and glares at the (other) bulge in Tezuka's pants only to find that it wasn't ringing. He follows Tezuka's gaze to the lights coming from his own pocket.
"Saeki?" Fuji blinks and stands up, leaving Tezuka to melt to the floor.
He wasn't surprised to find another post-it on the refrigerator the next morning, this one saying I owe you .
It's after dark by the time Fuji gets home on Saturday. All of his photographs were sent out, the printers have them, the agency has them, and most importantly, his editor has them. His keys jangle in the lock, turning them the wrong way twice before it unlocks and gives way to home.
Tezuka hadn't made it past the living room. The television is on but his eyes are closed and his head is leaning back against the couch. A pleasant surprise of Fuji on his lap was enough to keep him awake as his hands roamed under his shirt, tugging it off.
Tezuka's lips grazes Fuji's earlobe and Fuji snaps his hips until
Atobe's name flashes in the darkness like a beacon and Fuji's insides curl.
Tezuka looks between the mobile and Fuji and in the few seconds before Fuji can react, he pitches the phone across the room. It bounces against the wall and flips open, both halves yawning wide and light spilling from its touch tone buttons and bright screen. In midair, Atobe's name flashes in their direction for a final time before it crashes to the floor and shatters in two.
Fuji smiles, dipping his mouth against Tezuka's neck until he hears the satisfying groan of a job well done. Much better... He never did like routine much anyway.