prince of tennis | the ends of rainbows (1/?)
Title: The Ends of Rainbows (1/?)
Fandom: Prince of Tennis, baby
Characters: Tezuka/Fuji, Seigaku
Summary: On the Tokyo Stock Exchange and tinny robot noises. Post-series.
Warnings: Plot? What plot?
Notes: For reddwarfer. So belated and not even what you asked for. I am trying to make this one devolve into angst, melodrama, and romance because I've always wanted to try that. *_* I'm sure I'll figure out a plot at some point. I am so unhappy with this it is actually kind of hilarious but since it's just one giant experiment anyway I'll probably get over it. I tried Tezuka point of view and it sucks because I can't wax poetic about ~feelings, so I'll probably switch back to Fuji later on. 1,338 words.
If someone had asked Tezuka in high school what he thought Fuji would grow up to be, the answer most certainly would not have been the head physicist in charge of an (in essence) clandestine government operation involving morally dubious AI programming and lots of Gundams. The project itself is such an egregious departure from earth logic and realism that Tezuka can sort of grasp the idea that someone as capricious as Fuji is in charge, but not completely.
He'd always thought Fuji was a pacifist.
Everyone's initial reaction is that Fuji is pulling their collective leg, because it's just the type of thing Fuji would do at a fifteen-year reunion. Nobody's run any background checks, and they haven't kept in touch. Fuji had disappeared after high school, not to be heard from again until a month back, which was when he sent an e-mail blast to all of the regulars' current and most frequently checked addresses. The e-mail was short and to the point: he was interested in organizing a reunion for the 2005 Seigaku regulars. What did everyone's schedule look like for the next couple of months?
Somehow, they'd scavenged a date out of the wreckage that was Tezuka's Blackberry agenda and Ryoma's tournament schedule, and the date was set for a musky day in June at a friendly Chinese restaurant near Taka's sushi bar.
They'd ordered a round of drinks and then made a round of the table, each launching into a short re-introduction, an update on their lives. Tezuka is a successful investment banker. Ryoma, who is temporarily located in London, has some ridiculous number of Grand Slams to his name and still lives with his cat (says Momo). Inui is an assistant professor of biochemistry at Waseda University (Yanagi had beaten him out for the promotion to associate professor, but Inui is getting back at him in other ways-namely, screwing with his students' heads). Momo, the only other regular to pursue a career in athletics, is a personal trainer at a gym for eco-conscious health freaks. Kaidou's become a doctor, of all things, and Taka's taken over his father's restaurant. Oishi is an accountant and Kikumaru works at Nintendo but won't say what it is he does. And somehow, after about a million segues, a lot of empty platters, and recounting of innumerable inside jokes, Fuji drops the bombshell: he's trying to engineer real life, pilotable Gundams. For money.
Tezuka can usually tell when Fuji is lying through his teeth, and Fuji, stirring what's left of his martini and offering his olive to Taka-san, is the picture of casual nonchalance. But there's a devious hint to his smile, too.
Which means he's telling the truth.
"I'm not allowed to answer questions," Fuji is saying now, blithely and with a look of intense amusement flitting across his eyes. "Sorry, Momo." He offers Tezuka a small conspiratorial smile, which he ignores. Tezuka still reads the daily paper on his daily commute to Nihonbashi, and the picture it paints of Fuji's otaku-inspired scientific clusterfuck is an insult to Tezuka's national pride.
Momo is on the cusp of a disappointed whine when Ryoma cuts in. "Question, Fuji-senpai," he says. He's fresh out of Narita after a 21-hour hop across two ponds from Heathrow, his clothes disheveled and eyes tired from the flight, but the air of total self-confidence that surrounds his person almost cancels out his rumpled appearance. "How did you get my personal e-mail address?" The implication is clear enough. Ryoma is an international tennis star-his personal account is about as well-guarded as the Emperor's underwear drawer.
"With relative ease," Fuji answers. He graces the round table with a smile that Tezuka can't make heads or tails out of.
"I don't want to know," Ryoma says immediately. He ducks behind his cap, an unbroken habit that his legions of screaming fans inexplicably find endearing. Inexplicably, because while it was cute on the twelve-year-old, Ryoma is now twenty-seven.
Momo claps him heavily on the back. "Senpai works in mysterious ways," he says.
"No," Kikumaru cuts in, chewing on a bit of crab rangoon, "he's just weird."
The round of hearty laughs that follows is cut off by Kaidou's gruff, low voice. "Fuji-senpai? Not to be rude, but why now? I was surprised when I got the e-mail. I mean, only Inui-senpai and my family know about that account. And on top of that, it was just so out of the blue." He shakes his head. "It's been ten years since you and the other senpai graduated."
All eyes turn to Fuji, who's idly picking at the remains of his stir-fry. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe I was feeling a little nostalgic?"
"It was a great idea, though," Momo says. "Really great idea. It's so good to see you guys again, all of us in one place."
Nods and affirmations around the table, and then Inui clasps his hands together. "Well, I'd best be going. I'm attending a conference in Boston this weekend and my flight is early tomorrow morning. But first," and here the restaurant lights reflect briefly off those familiar rectangular glasses, "I've prepared a contact sheet. Numbers, addresses, you know the drill. I'll e-mail a spreadsheet once I've computerized the list."
"My information hasn't changed since high school, really," Taka says.
Momo takes one look and scoffs. "Senpai, just friend request me and get all this information off my Facebook or something. I've forgotten how to write half the kanji anyway."
Kikumaru eyes the paper suspiciously. "Oy, Inui, why do you need our relationship statuses?" Oishi, who's looking over his shoulder, chuckles and pats his head, then retracts his hand, mortified. (Nobody notices.)
Inui gives him a shocked expression, as though scandalized to his core. "Research," he says. "And Momoshiro, I don't have a Facebook account, but I will do that."
"Okay," Momo says slowly, "did that confuse anyone else?" He's mostly talking to Ryoma, who shrugs impassively and makes Inui promise not to distribute the location of his Kensington flat to anyone, lest he invoke the wrath of Ryoma's public relations goon squad.
Kaidou mutters something about dumbasses and not needing a Facebook to hack into Facebook.
Tezuka rolls his eyes against impulse, jots down his information, and picks his briefcase up off the ground. "Well, good night," he says, to no one in particular. Behind him, the restaurant disintegrates into a swirl of laughter and goodbyes.
*
"Tezuka!" At the sound of Fuji's voice, Tezuka stops, the fluorescent glare from a nearby convenience store casting a disproportionate amount of glare on his left side.
Fuji takes the moment to catch up. "You left in a hurry."
Tezuka shrugs and motions to his briefcase. "Early meeting tomorrow." He starts walking again, Fuji obligingly doing the same.
"I thought corporations went to bed on Fridays." Fuji pulls a phone from his pocket and lifts silent mode, checking it for messages.
"Paranoia never sleeps," Tezuka replies.
Fuji laughs. "Busy busy."
"I should head home," Tezuka says. He shifts his weight onto his left foot, the briefcase in his right hand curving slightly towards his legs. "Schedule to keep."
"Of course," Fuji says. "I'll give you a call." He smirks halfway. "After Inui's computerized his list."
Tezuka eyes him beadily, then rummages through his briefcase for something. "Here," he says, handing Fuji a business card. "Use this number instead."
Fuji smiles, fingers closing around the card. "Thanks, Tezuka."
Tezuka watches him jog towards an alley ahead and dimly hears a car door slamming shut. Moments later a red compact backs into the street, and Tezuka watches with vague amusement as Fuji drives thirty feet in reverse, completely eschewing any laws of traffic that may have still applied at that hour. He notes with interest the government license plate.
The window rolls down. "Want a ride?"
Tezuka considers it. "All right," he says. He opens the door and climbs in, careful to set his briefcase on the back seat.
Fuji shifts the car out of reverse.
Fandom: Prince of Tennis, baby
Characters: Tezuka/Fuji, Seigaku
Summary: On the Tokyo Stock Exchange and tinny robot noises. Post-series.
Warnings: Plot? What plot?
Notes: For reddwarfer. So belated and not even what you asked for. I am trying to make this one devolve into angst, melodrama, and romance because I've always wanted to try that. *_* I'm sure I'll figure out a plot at some point. I am so unhappy with this it is actually kind of hilarious but since it's just one giant experiment anyway I'll probably get over it. I tried Tezuka point of view and it sucks because I can't wax poetic about ~feelings, so I'll probably switch back to Fuji later on. 1,338 words.
If someone had asked Tezuka in high school what he thought Fuji would grow up to be, the answer most certainly would not have been the head physicist in charge of an (in essence) clandestine government operation involving morally dubious AI programming and lots of Gundams. The project itself is such an egregious departure from earth logic and realism that Tezuka can sort of grasp the idea that someone as capricious as Fuji is in charge, but not completely.
He'd always thought Fuji was a pacifist.
Everyone's initial reaction is that Fuji is pulling their collective leg, because it's just the type of thing Fuji would do at a fifteen-year reunion. Nobody's run any background checks, and they haven't kept in touch. Fuji had disappeared after high school, not to be heard from again until a month back, which was when he sent an e-mail blast to all of the regulars' current and most frequently checked addresses. The e-mail was short and to the point: he was interested in organizing a reunion for the 2005 Seigaku regulars. What did everyone's schedule look like for the next couple of months?
Somehow, they'd scavenged a date out of the wreckage that was Tezuka's Blackberry agenda and Ryoma's tournament schedule, and the date was set for a musky day in June at a friendly Chinese restaurant near Taka's sushi bar.
They'd ordered a round of drinks and then made a round of the table, each launching into a short re-introduction, an update on their lives. Tezuka is a successful investment banker. Ryoma, who is temporarily located in London, has some ridiculous number of Grand Slams to his name and still lives with his cat (says Momo). Inui is an assistant professor of biochemistry at Waseda University (Yanagi had beaten him out for the promotion to associate professor, but Inui is getting back at him in other ways-namely, screwing with his students' heads). Momo, the only other regular to pursue a career in athletics, is a personal trainer at a gym for eco-conscious health freaks. Kaidou's become a doctor, of all things, and Taka's taken over his father's restaurant. Oishi is an accountant and Kikumaru works at Nintendo but won't say what it is he does. And somehow, after about a million segues, a lot of empty platters, and recounting of innumerable inside jokes, Fuji drops the bombshell: he's trying to engineer real life, pilotable Gundams. For money.
Tezuka can usually tell when Fuji is lying through his teeth, and Fuji, stirring what's left of his martini and offering his olive to Taka-san, is the picture of casual nonchalance. But there's a devious hint to his smile, too.
Which means he's telling the truth.
"I'm not allowed to answer questions," Fuji is saying now, blithely and with a look of intense amusement flitting across his eyes. "Sorry, Momo." He offers Tezuka a small conspiratorial smile, which he ignores. Tezuka still reads the daily paper on his daily commute to Nihonbashi, and the picture it paints of Fuji's otaku-inspired scientific clusterfuck is an insult to Tezuka's national pride.
Momo is on the cusp of a disappointed whine when Ryoma cuts in. "Question, Fuji-senpai," he says. He's fresh out of Narita after a 21-hour hop across two ponds from Heathrow, his clothes disheveled and eyes tired from the flight, but the air of total self-confidence that surrounds his person almost cancels out his rumpled appearance. "How did you get my personal e-mail address?" The implication is clear enough. Ryoma is an international tennis star-his personal account is about as well-guarded as the Emperor's underwear drawer.
"With relative ease," Fuji answers. He graces the round table with a smile that Tezuka can't make heads or tails out of.
"I don't want to know," Ryoma says immediately. He ducks behind his cap, an unbroken habit that his legions of screaming fans inexplicably find endearing. Inexplicably, because while it was cute on the twelve-year-old, Ryoma is now twenty-seven.
Momo claps him heavily on the back. "Senpai works in mysterious ways," he says.
"No," Kikumaru cuts in, chewing on a bit of crab rangoon, "he's just weird."
The round of hearty laughs that follows is cut off by Kaidou's gruff, low voice. "Fuji-senpai? Not to be rude, but why now? I was surprised when I got the e-mail. I mean, only Inui-senpai and my family know about that account. And on top of that, it was just so out of the blue." He shakes his head. "It's been ten years since you and the other senpai graduated."
All eyes turn to Fuji, who's idly picking at the remains of his stir-fry. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe I was feeling a little nostalgic?"
"It was a great idea, though," Momo says. "Really great idea. It's so good to see you guys again, all of us in one place."
Nods and affirmations around the table, and then Inui clasps his hands together. "Well, I'd best be going. I'm attending a conference in Boston this weekend and my flight is early tomorrow morning. But first," and here the restaurant lights reflect briefly off those familiar rectangular glasses, "I've prepared a contact sheet. Numbers, addresses, you know the drill. I'll e-mail a spreadsheet once I've computerized the list."
"My information hasn't changed since high school, really," Taka says.
Momo takes one look and scoffs. "Senpai, just friend request me and get all this information off my Facebook or something. I've forgotten how to write half the kanji anyway."
Kikumaru eyes the paper suspiciously. "Oy, Inui, why do you need our relationship statuses?" Oishi, who's looking over his shoulder, chuckles and pats his head, then retracts his hand, mortified. (Nobody notices.)
Inui gives him a shocked expression, as though scandalized to his core. "Research," he says. "And Momoshiro, I don't have a Facebook account, but I will do that."
"Okay," Momo says slowly, "did that confuse anyone else?" He's mostly talking to Ryoma, who shrugs impassively and makes Inui promise not to distribute the location of his Kensington flat to anyone, lest he invoke the wrath of Ryoma's public relations goon squad.
Kaidou mutters something about dumbasses and not needing a Facebook to hack into Facebook.
Tezuka rolls his eyes against impulse, jots down his information, and picks his briefcase up off the ground. "Well, good night," he says, to no one in particular. Behind him, the restaurant disintegrates into a swirl of laughter and goodbyes.
*
"Tezuka!" At the sound of Fuji's voice, Tezuka stops, the fluorescent glare from a nearby convenience store casting a disproportionate amount of glare on his left side.
Fuji takes the moment to catch up. "You left in a hurry."
Tezuka shrugs and motions to his briefcase. "Early meeting tomorrow." He starts walking again, Fuji obligingly doing the same.
"I thought corporations went to bed on Fridays." Fuji pulls a phone from his pocket and lifts silent mode, checking it for messages.
"Paranoia never sleeps," Tezuka replies.
Fuji laughs. "Busy busy."
"I should head home," Tezuka says. He shifts his weight onto his left foot, the briefcase in his right hand curving slightly towards his legs. "Schedule to keep."
"Of course," Fuji says. "I'll give you a call." He smirks halfway. "After Inui's computerized his list."
Tezuka eyes him beadily, then rummages through his briefcase for something. "Here," he says, handing Fuji a business card. "Use this number instead."
Fuji smiles, fingers closing around the card. "Thanks, Tezuka."
Tezuka watches him jog towards an alley ahead and dimly hears a car door slamming shut. Moments later a red compact backs into the street, and Tezuka watches with vague amusement as Fuji drives thirty feet in reverse, completely eschewing any laws of traffic that may have still applied at that hour. He notes with interest the government license plate.
The window rolls down. "Want a ride?"
Tezuka considers it. "All right," he says. He opens the door and climbs in, careful to set his briefcase on the back seat.
Fuji shifts the car out of reverse.