(no subject)
Endlessly long and mostly Fuji missing people, G.
Tezuka's plane takes off the same day Yuuta calls home for the first time since throwing his belongings into a duffle bag and leaving for St. Rudolph without so much as a goodbye. Fuji smiles when he hears his brother's voice through the telephone, leaning against the kitchen counter to settle in for a long conversation that never comes. "Fine," is all Yuuta says in response to Fuji's inquiries about classes and friends and sleeping patterns (Fuji knows better than to mention tennis) before he rushes on in a hurried voice. "Hey, I forgot to pack some clothes I need, they're in the top drawer of my dresser, could you ship them to me sometime today?" and Fuji smiles sadly as he shifts his weight away from the counter. "I could bring them by this afternoon," he suggests hopefully, adding softly, "The bus ride isn't very long you know." There is a hesitant pause before Yuuta answers. "Fine, I'll see you then," followed by an irritated goodbye, and Fuji is left clutching at the receiver, the dial tone echoing in his ears long after Yuuta has hung up.
~
When they were younger, Yuuta would crawl into Fuji's bed at night, giggling as he pressed icy feet against his brother's warm legs. "Read me a story," he'd beg quietly, pulling the covers over their heads before depositing a flashlight and book in Fuji's lap. Straining their ears in an attempt to make sure their parents had gone to bed, they would balance the book across their knees, reaching out now and then to carefully turn the page. "There once was a dragon named Yuuta," Fuji would begin, pointing to the painted dragon storming through a tiny watercolor village. "That's my name!" would come Yuuta's excited gasp, eyes widening in delight, unaware that Fuji knew as little about the words on the page as he did. "Well, then it makes sense that Yuuta was the most powerful dragon in all the land," and so the story would continue until they were both too tired to do anything but lean against each other and fall asleep.
But that was long ago, and when Fuji finds a pack of cigarettes stuffed between two of Yuuta's shirts, he feels like his brother has grown into a different person altogether.
~
"I miss you," Fuji says, absentmindedly playing with the ends of his sleeves as he watches his brother stuff the freshly washed laundry into an already overflowing set of drawers. He feels distinctly uncomfortable sitting in a room he vaguely recognizes, the familiar arrangement of Yuuta's posters unsettling against the backdrop of a foreign wall.
"How can you miss me, I'm right here," comes Yuuta's annoyed response, the muscles in his shoulders tensing slightly. And it's true, he is right there, no more than an arm's length away, and yet the boy Fuji was addressing is nowhere in sight, his existence rapidly dwindling to nothing more than a faded memory Fuji is terrified of forgetting. The truth is, Fuji's Yuuta has been missing for a long time. Or, and perhaps more accurately, Fuji's Yuuta has been missed for a long time.
On the way home, Fuji remembers the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.
~
Tezuka has been gone for three months, but Fuji still finds himself arriving at school when the sun is barely peeking over the horizon, continuously unable to stop himself from searching the tennis courts for that familiar figure. He is surprised to find Ryoma standing on the baseline one morning, all sharp angles and jagged edges against the dawning light. Echizen sees him hovering on the periphery of the court and nods once before tossing a ball into the air, his body swinging upwards to meet it in a single fluid motion. "Tezuka used to practice here every morning," Fuji wants to say when Ryoma looks at him again, but doesn't, because they both already know.
Fuji stands there for what seems like an eternity, slender fingers twining slowly through the chain-linked fence. The longer he watches Ryoma, the more he thinks that there are two ways to live: to do what you love or to love what you do. Ryoma may not love tennis, and Tezuka surely does not love medicine, but they have both thrown themselves onto a cingular path, and the journey is much easier when the destination is already in sight. Fuji sometimes wonders how it feels to be Ryoma, to be Tezuka, to be working tirelessely towards a future moment, to place every ounce of faith in the certainty that some instant in time will suddenly validate a lifelong devotion. Watching Ryoma mechanically serve one ball after another, Fuji lights a cigarette and imagines that it feels like dying.
Ultimately, Fuji's problem is this: he is good at everything, passionate about nothing, and too indifferent about the issue to reach a comfortable equilibrium.
~
The fire alarm goes off during third period, undoubtedly part of a larger senior prank that Fuji will later claim to know nothing about. He finds Ryoma easily: the small figure slouched against a tree isn't hard to pick out amongst the sea of excited first years. "Tezuka comes back on Sunday," Ryoma says before Fuji can mention their morning encounter on the courts. Fuji pauses before sitting down, and they remain silent for a moment longer, each trying to gauge the other's reaction. When he finally opens his mouth to respond, Ryoma is already kissing him, hands insistently tugging at Fuji's collar, mouth warm and wet and soft.
"I was just curious," Ryoma explains once they've pulled apart, not even bothering to look up as he concentrates on flicking a piece of grass from his bony knee. Fuji cocks his head slightly and feels the corners of his mouth turn up in amusement. "And where did ochibi learn how to kiss like that?" he asks as he brings a finger to his lips, feeling slightly robbed when Ryoma doesn't show even the smallest hint of embarrassment. "You really aren't as perceptive as everyone seems to think you are," comes the response as they push themselves off the ground and begin to walk back towards the school. "Well, I have to say I'm impressed," Fuji laughs, and tries to ignore the feeling that Ryoma was referring to something else altogether.
~
Fuji dreams that he is standing in his brother's dorm, only the surroundings are quietly softening, the colors becoming so pale and indistinct that the world starts to resemble an impressionist painting. Even Yuuta's profile seems to be rapidly blurring at the edges, the contours of his face fading into the sterile brightness until he is almost indistinguishable from the white walls behind him. Fuji panics and steps forward to grab his brother's wrist, a last attempt to keep him from slipping into the blinding void, but there is only light. "When are you coming back?" he calls desperately to no one, and the echo sounds more like a litany than a question. In the heartbeat of silence that follows, everything abruptly shifts, the room plunging into a darkness so complete that even Tezuka's voice sounds strangely distant. "Why would I come back?" Fuji hears a second time (now sure that it is Tezuka speaking), the question so devoid of emotion that when Fuji feels hands clutch at his shoulders, he knows they are not meant as an apology, and when soft lips press gently against his own, he is unable to consider them as anything but a farewell.
When he wakes up, it is Sunday.
~
Being a prodigy is easy at twelve, when even the slightest hint of talent is often heralded as genuis. Not that Fuji wasn't a good, or even phenomenal, tennis player when he first joined the team, but he was younger then and an unavoidable side effect of growing up is that people lose interest with each passing year, their initial amazement slowly fading into nothing more than a series of unquestioned expectations. Fuji has never really cared about evolving into a fixture until now, time slowing to a crawl as he watches Tezuka watch Ryoma watch ball after ball after ball arc beautifully over the net.
"You've improved," Fuji overhears Tezuka tell Ryoma as the younger boy wipes his forehead with a towel. He can't help feeling surprised when Ryoma says "Fuji helped me practice," in such a way that Fuji feels Tezuka's eyes on his back for the rest of practice.
~
"When did you start smoking?" Tezuka asks on the walk home, eyes widening in shock when Fuji lights a cigarette with a clearly practiced motion before bringing it to his lips. Fuji notices Tezuka's back straighten while he speaks, as if he is trying to atone for this seemingly strange and unprecedented act of rebellion. Fuji inhales deeply before answering, so that when he does, the words escape his mouth in a cloud of smoke. "When did you start caring?" and even he is surprised by the sudden bitterness that seeps into his voice, the question almost more acrid than the bitterly pungent taste invading his mouth. Tezuka turns to stare at Fuji and they stop, suspended in time as the space between them slowly fills with gently curling whisps of smoke. "Is this about Echizen?" Tezuka finally asks, and Fuji doesn't know how to respond, because it is and it isn't. He doesn't spend much time searching for an answer though, because Tezuka is suddenly bursting through the hazy barrier like water through a dam and, without warning, Fuji finds himself drowning. "You should quit," Tezuka says quietly sometime later, his breath ghosting against Fuji's cheek. "Why?" Fuji asks without opening his eyes, unsure whether the tingling sensation in his lips is a lingering effect of the kiss or the nicotine. "Because I care," and the words hang in the air long after the lazy smoke tendrils have stopped their upward spiral from Fuji's abandoned cigarette.
~
"Do you ever feel homesick?" Momo asks Echizen after practice three weeks later, excitedly shoving a magazine under the smaller boy's nose. "Homesick?" Ryoma repeats, frowning as if it is the dumbest question he has ever heard. "For America, stupid." Momo jabs his finger at a picture of Agassi, the American flag waving brightly in the background. Ryoma doesn't even glance at the magazine as he swings his bag over his shoulder. "America was boring," he shrugs without further explanation, remaining steadfastly immune to the dissatisfied interrogation that follows. Fuji watches the pair walk off toward the bike racks, pausing slightly to wonder if Momo understands that boring is Ryoma's way of saying that America had no Tezuka to defeat, no Kikumaru to ruin any attempts at a hairstyle, and, most of all, no Momo to stuff him full of burgers, to race him to school, to teach him (despite a similar lack of experience) how to kiss behind the storage room. Ryoma was only correct about some subjects when he said Fuji wasn't very perceptive.
"Do you ever feel homesick?" Fuji asks later when he and Tezuka are the only ones left in the locker room, the sinking sun casting long shadows on the linoleum floor. Tezuka pauses slightly, eyebrows knitted in a rare display of confusion as he reaches out to take Fuji's hand. "I am home," he says and it would almost be romantic if Fuji didn't know that Tezuka was referring less to whatever it is they have, and more to the tennis courts, the familiar angles of mountains against the horizon, the way Japan will always be infinitely different than Germany. To be fair, Fuji doesn't doubt that he is an integral part of Tezuka's Japan, but his prescense certainly doesn't constitute a home. And here, Fuji realizes, is ultimately what separates Ryoma from Tezuka from Fuji: Ryoma associates home with people, Tezuka associates home with places, and Fuji associates home with the past. In another context, Ryoma is transcient, Tezuka is stationary, and Fuji is always missing.
~
If he had one wish, Fuji would want to live his life backwards, to watch the weariness in Tezuka's eyes fade until it disappears completely, to laugh as Ryoma misses exponentially more shots with each passing day, to learn what it means to be lonely before understanding what it means to happy, to spend the last precious years of his life huddled under a blanket with his brother, the two of them barely able to stifle their laughter as, far off in a distant kindgom, Yuuta the dragon lays seige on another innocent village.
Tezuka's plane takes off the same day Yuuta calls home for the first time since throwing his belongings into a duffle bag and leaving for St. Rudolph without so much as a goodbye. Fuji smiles when he hears his brother's voice through the telephone, leaning against the kitchen counter to settle in for a long conversation that never comes. "Fine," is all Yuuta says in response to Fuji's inquiries about classes and friends and sleeping patterns (Fuji knows better than to mention tennis) before he rushes on in a hurried voice. "Hey, I forgot to pack some clothes I need, they're in the top drawer of my dresser, could you ship them to me sometime today?" and Fuji smiles sadly as he shifts his weight away from the counter. "I could bring them by this afternoon," he suggests hopefully, adding softly, "The bus ride isn't very long you know." There is a hesitant pause before Yuuta answers. "Fine, I'll see you then," followed by an irritated goodbye, and Fuji is left clutching at the receiver, the dial tone echoing in his ears long after Yuuta has hung up.
~
When they were younger, Yuuta would crawl into Fuji's bed at night, giggling as he pressed icy feet against his brother's warm legs. "Read me a story," he'd beg quietly, pulling the covers over their heads before depositing a flashlight and book in Fuji's lap. Straining their ears in an attempt to make sure their parents had gone to bed, they would balance the book across their knees, reaching out now and then to carefully turn the page. "There once was a dragon named Yuuta," Fuji would begin, pointing to the painted dragon storming through a tiny watercolor village. "That's my name!" would come Yuuta's excited gasp, eyes widening in delight, unaware that Fuji knew as little about the words on the page as he did. "Well, then it makes sense that Yuuta was the most powerful dragon in all the land," and so the story would continue until they were both too tired to do anything but lean against each other and fall asleep.
But that was long ago, and when Fuji finds a pack of cigarettes stuffed between two of Yuuta's shirts, he feels like his brother has grown into a different person altogether.
~
"I miss you," Fuji says, absentmindedly playing with the ends of his sleeves as he watches his brother stuff the freshly washed laundry into an already overflowing set of drawers. He feels distinctly uncomfortable sitting in a room he vaguely recognizes, the familiar arrangement of Yuuta's posters unsettling against the backdrop of a foreign wall.
"How can you miss me, I'm right here," comes Yuuta's annoyed response, the muscles in his shoulders tensing slightly. And it's true, he is right there, no more than an arm's length away, and yet the boy Fuji was addressing is nowhere in sight, his existence rapidly dwindling to nothing more than a faded memory Fuji is terrified of forgetting. The truth is, Fuji's Yuuta has been missing for a long time. Or, and perhaps more accurately, Fuji's Yuuta has been missed for a long time.
On the way home, Fuji remembers the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.
~
Tezuka has been gone for three months, but Fuji still finds himself arriving at school when the sun is barely peeking over the horizon, continuously unable to stop himself from searching the tennis courts for that familiar figure. He is surprised to find Ryoma standing on the baseline one morning, all sharp angles and jagged edges against the dawning light. Echizen sees him hovering on the periphery of the court and nods once before tossing a ball into the air, his body swinging upwards to meet it in a single fluid motion. "Tezuka used to practice here every morning," Fuji wants to say when Ryoma looks at him again, but doesn't, because they both already know.
Fuji stands there for what seems like an eternity, slender fingers twining slowly through the chain-linked fence. The longer he watches Ryoma, the more he thinks that there are two ways to live: to do what you love or to love what you do. Ryoma may not love tennis, and Tezuka surely does not love medicine, but they have both thrown themselves onto a cingular path, and the journey is much easier when the destination is already in sight. Fuji sometimes wonders how it feels to be Ryoma, to be Tezuka, to be working tirelessely towards a future moment, to place every ounce of faith in the certainty that some instant in time will suddenly validate a lifelong devotion. Watching Ryoma mechanically serve one ball after another, Fuji lights a cigarette and imagines that it feels like dying.
Ultimately, Fuji's problem is this: he is good at everything, passionate about nothing, and too indifferent about the issue to reach a comfortable equilibrium.
~
The fire alarm goes off during third period, undoubtedly part of a larger senior prank that Fuji will later claim to know nothing about. He finds Ryoma easily: the small figure slouched against a tree isn't hard to pick out amongst the sea of excited first years. "Tezuka comes back on Sunday," Ryoma says before Fuji can mention their morning encounter on the courts. Fuji pauses before sitting down, and they remain silent for a moment longer, each trying to gauge the other's reaction. When he finally opens his mouth to respond, Ryoma is already kissing him, hands insistently tugging at Fuji's collar, mouth warm and wet and soft.
"I was just curious," Ryoma explains once they've pulled apart, not even bothering to look up as he concentrates on flicking a piece of grass from his bony knee. Fuji cocks his head slightly and feels the corners of his mouth turn up in amusement. "And where did ochibi learn how to kiss like that?" he asks as he brings a finger to his lips, feeling slightly robbed when Ryoma doesn't show even the smallest hint of embarrassment. "You really aren't as perceptive as everyone seems to think you are," comes the response as they push themselves off the ground and begin to walk back towards the school. "Well, I have to say I'm impressed," Fuji laughs, and tries to ignore the feeling that Ryoma was referring to something else altogether.
~
Fuji dreams that he is standing in his brother's dorm, only the surroundings are quietly softening, the colors becoming so pale and indistinct that the world starts to resemble an impressionist painting. Even Yuuta's profile seems to be rapidly blurring at the edges, the contours of his face fading into the sterile brightness until he is almost indistinguishable from the white walls behind him. Fuji panics and steps forward to grab his brother's wrist, a last attempt to keep him from slipping into the blinding void, but there is only light. "When are you coming back?" he calls desperately to no one, and the echo sounds more like a litany than a question. In the heartbeat of silence that follows, everything abruptly shifts, the room plunging into a darkness so complete that even Tezuka's voice sounds strangely distant. "Why would I come back?" Fuji hears a second time (now sure that it is Tezuka speaking), the question so devoid of emotion that when Fuji feels hands clutch at his shoulders, he knows they are not meant as an apology, and when soft lips press gently against his own, he is unable to consider them as anything but a farewell.
When he wakes up, it is Sunday.
~
Being a prodigy is easy at twelve, when even the slightest hint of talent is often heralded as genuis. Not that Fuji wasn't a good, or even phenomenal, tennis player when he first joined the team, but he was younger then and an unavoidable side effect of growing up is that people lose interest with each passing year, their initial amazement slowly fading into nothing more than a series of unquestioned expectations. Fuji has never really cared about evolving into a fixture until now, time slowing to a crawl as he watches Tezuka watch Ryoma watch ball after ball after ball arc beautifully over the net.
"You've improved," Fuji overhears Tezuka tell Ryoma as the younger boy wipes his forehead with a towel. He can't help feeling surprised when Ryoma says "Fuji helped me practice," in such a way that Fuji feels Tezuka's eyes on his back for the rest of practice.
~
"When did you start smoking?" Tezuka asks on the walk home, eyes widening in shock when Fuji lights a cigarette with a clearly practiced motion before bringing it to his lips. Fuji notices Tezuka's back straighten while he speaks, as if he is trying to atone for this seemingly strange and unprecedented act of rebellion. Fuji inhales deeply before answering, so that when he does, the words escape his mouth in a cloud of smoke. "When did you start caring?" and even he is surprised by the sudden bitterness that seeps into his voice, the question almost more acrid than the bitterly pungent taste invading his mouth. Tezuka turns to stare at Fuji and they stop, suspended in time as the space between them slowly fills with gently curling whisps of smoke. "Is this about Echizen?" Tezuka finally asks, and Fuji doesn't know how to respond, because it is and it isn't. He doesn't spend much time searching for an answer though, because Tezuka is suddenly bursting through the hazy barrier like water through a dam and, without warning, Fuji finds himself drowning. "You should quit," Tezuka says quietly sometime later, his breath ghosting against Fuji's cheek. "Why?" Fuji asks without opening his eyes, unsure whether the tingling sensation in his lips is a lingering effect of the kiss or the nicotine. "Because I care," and the words hang in the air long after the lazy smoke tendrils have stopped their upward spiral from Fuji's abandoned cigarette.
~
"Do you ever feel homesick?" Momo asks Echizen after practice three weeks later, excitedly shoving a magazine under the smaller boy's nose. "Homesick?" Ryoma repeats, frowning as if it is the dumbest question he has ever heard. "For America, stupid." Momo jabs his finger at a picture of Agassi, the American flag waving brightly in the background. Ryoma doesn't even glance at the magazine as he swings his bag over his shoulder. "America was boring," he shrugs without further explanation, remaining steadfastly immune to the dissatisfied interrogation that follows. Fuji watches the pair walk off toward the bike racks, pausing slightly to wonder if Momo understands that boring is Ryoma's way of saying that America had no Tezuka to defeat, no Kikumaru to ruin any attempts at a hairstyle, and, most of all, no Momo to stuff him full of burgers, to race him to school, to teach him (despite a similar lack of experience) how to kiss behind the storage room. Ryoma was only correct about some subjects when he said Fuji wasn't very perceptive.
"Do you ever feel homesick?" Fuji asks later when he and Tezuka are the only ones left in the locker room, the sinking sun casting long shadows on the linoleum floor. Tezuka pauses slightly, eyebrows knitted in a rare display of confusion as he reaches out to take Fuji's hand. "I am home," he says and it would almost be romantic if Fuji didn't know that Tezuka was referring less to whatever it is they have, and more to the tennis courts, the familiar angles of mountains against the horizon, the way Japan will always be infinitely different than Germany. To be fair, Fuji doesn't doubt that he is an integral part of Tezuka's Japan, but his prescense certainly doesn't constitute a home. And here, Fuji realizes, is ultimately what separates Ryoma from Tezuka from Fuji: Ryoma associates home with people, Tezuka associates home with places, and Fuji associates home with the past. In another context, Ryoma is transcient, Tezuka is stationary, and Fuji is always missing.
~
If he had one wish, Fuji would want to live his life backwards, to watch the weariness in Tezuka's eyes fade until it disappears completely, to laugh as Ryoma misses exponentially more shots with each passing day, to learn what it means to be lonely before understanding what it means to happy, to spend the last precious years of his life huddled under a blanket with his brother, the two of them barely able to stifle their laughter as, far off in a distant kindgom, Yuuta the dragon lays seige on another innocent village.