into the south china sea [prince of tennis, PG, yaoi, fuji/kirihara]
Title: into the south china sea
Author: tongari
Fandom: prince of tennis
Type: yaoi
Pairing: fuji/kirihara
Rating: PG
Summary: some things, some people, require an island to explain.
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis is the property of T. Konomi.
Notes: 'vacation', 45 minutes, mainly spent pruning adjectives.
It was a small island, but five minutes walking could lose you to a narrow strip of white coast peppery with shingle and dead corals. On one side the flat glassy sea was all the same and on the other you couldn’t tell one inch of dark, sweaty jungle from the rest. Kirihara said it was cool, Fuji said it was tantalizing, and they walked a good distance apart, faces drifting outward, sea-breeze licking a thin crust of salt over lips and eyelashes.
Fuji’s sandals, dark with seawater, never dried because he liked to walk at the very edge of the water with the waves rushing up around his ankles. Sometimes Kirihara would prowl up to the waterline, soak his bare feet in the foam, but he didn’t walk on the broken shells for long.
“You should have worn your sandals,” Fuji told him, and he scowled, dug his toes into white sand and looked at the lazy scribble of sea-edge lapping along the beach. His eyebrows were dark and cunning and his skin was a glorious dusky olive from swimming in the sun. Fuji, who spent whole afternoons reading Hemingway beneath palm trees and a wide straw hat, held up his hand and smiled at Kirihara through splayed fingers pale as ghosts and marble.
“You don’t walk on the beach in shoes,” Kirihara said, and then he was in front of Fuji, crouching and pulling at the buckles on the sandals, tapping at Fuji’s legs urgently until Fuji stepped out of them. The sand was so cool, if you buried your feet in it you felt like they had gone somewhere else, far away from the sweltering heat of the island. Kirihara’s fingers tapped on Fuji’s skin for a few beats, then he was gone and Fuji could only float in his wake as he rushed to the sea.
The broken edges of dried corals stung the soles of their feet, but further out it was all soft sand and the occasional sea cucumber and bits of driftwood, lodged deep. Kirihara dived, tried to haul them out but they were stuck too fast so he left them, surfaced with a gasp and grimace. Seawater stung the edges of Fuji’s skin where the sharp, dead things on the beach had cut his feet; he stopped walking, water at mid-thigh, called Kirihara’s name. But Kirihara stayed where he was, looking away, and Fuji saw for the first time how strange and heavy the curve of his skull was, dark hair plastered shine-wet against the bone. Fuji held his hand up again, fingers outstretched, feet shifting upon the sea-floor until the water was swallowing his ribs and he was touching Kirihara’s wet face, Kirihara’s eyes very large and dark, wordless mouth slightly parted. Fuji said, slowly, “You are the colour of this place,” and Kirihara just stared at him, his tan rich and angry against Fuji’s almost translucent fingers, skin as gold and hair as black as the sea was bright, the sky blue.
Author: tongari
Fandom: prince of tennis
Type: yaoi
Pairing: fuji/kirihara
Rating: PG
Summary: some things, some people, require an island to explain.
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis is the property of T. Konomi.
Notes: 'vacation', 45 minutes, mainly spent pruning adjectives.
It was a small island, but five minutes walking could lose you to a narrow strip of white coast peppery with shingle and dead corals. On one side the flat glassy sea was all the same and on the other you couldn’t tell one inch of dark, sweaty jungle from the rest. Kirihara said it was cool, Fuji said it was tantalizing, and they walked a good distance apart, faces drifting outward, sea-breeze licking a thin crust of salt over lips and eyelashes.
Fuji’s sandals, dark with seawater, never dried because he liked to walk at the very edge of the water with the waves rushing up around his ankles. Sometimes Kirihara would prowl up to the waterline, soak his bare feet in the foam, but he didn’t walk on the broken shells for long.
“You should have worn your sandals,” Fuji told him, and he scowled, dug his toes into white sand and looked at the lazy scribble of sea-edge lapping along the beach. His eyebrows were dark and cunning and his skin was a glorious dusky olive from swimming in the sun. Fuji, who spent whole afternoons reading Hemingway beneath palm trees and a wide straw hat, held up his hand and smiled at Kirihara through splayed fingers pale as ghosts and marble.
“You don’t walk on the beach in shoes,” Kirihara said, and then he was in front of Fuji, crouching and pulling at the buckles on the sandals, tapping at Fuji’s legs urgently until Fuji stepped out of them. The sand was so cool, if you buried your feet in it you felt like they had gone somewhere else, far away from the sweltering heat of the island. Kirihara’s fingers tapped on Fuji’s skin for a few beats, then he was gone and Fuji could only float in his wake as he rushed to the sea.
The broken edges of dried corals stung the soles of their feet, but further out it was all soft sand and the occasional sea cucumber and bits of driftwood, lodged deep. Kirihara dived, tried to haul them out but they were stuck too fast so he left them, surfaced with a gasp and grimace. Seawater stung the edges of Fuji’s skin where the sharp, dead things on the beach had cut his feet; he stopped walking, water at mid-thigh, called Kirihara’s name. But Kirihara stayed where he was, looking away, and Fuji saw for the first time how strange and heavy the curve of his skull was, dark hair plastered shine-wet against the bone. Fuji held his hand up again, fingers outstretched, feet shifting upon the sea-floor until the water was swallowing his ribs and he was touching Kirihara’s wet face, Kirihara’s eyes very large and dark, wordless mouth slightly parted. Fuji said, slowly, “You are the colour of this place,” and Kirihara just stared at him, his tan rich and angry against Fuji’s almost translucent fingers, skin as gold and hair as black as the sea was bright, the sky blue.