Current mood:

anxious

I think it's been about a million years (give or take several thousand) since I last wrote anything ^^;; And of course the first thing I do finally type out when I sit down is fanfic XD

Title: Science Apart
Author: Cael
Fandom: Tennis no Ohjisama/Prince of Tennis.
Rating: PG-13 (for innuendo)
Pairing: Tezuka/Fuji
Synopsis: Tezuka and Fuji's relationship after high school.

It's been way too long since I've done this and I feel completely rusty ~_~

At the end of high school they began to drift apart. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, no one was to blame, they just had different paths to walk, different goals. That’s what they told each other and themselves and sometimes they even believed it.

Tezuka began to study medicine, liking the seriousness of the profession, the challenge that faced him every time he walked through the swinging metal doors of the hospital. Fuji teased him that he would scare all of his patients if he didn’t learn to smile once in a while, but he just shrugged it off. He would do what was necessary.

When Fuji left Japan for the first time to study photography Tezuka was there to see him off. He’d stood behind the glass wall of the airport, watching the slender back disappear down the terminal, the dark bag swinging heavily from his friend’s narrow shoulder where Fuji’s camera was safely stowed away. His lips were still swollen from the kiss Fuji had given him just before he went through security and his bed sheets were still rumpled from that morning. Fuji never turned around to wave good-bye and he wasn’t surprised.

Their paths crossed again three years later. Tezuka was comfortably settled in one of the more prestigious hospitals in Japan and was respected by his collegues even if more than one was wary of him. Fuji had completed his first whirlwind tour of the world, having visited more than a hundred different countries within that time period. According to Inui, he was making quite the name for himself in the art world even though he’d dropped out of school after only eight months of study. Tezuka had responded to this news with a brief, philosophical sigh. Fuji was still Fuji.

When the honey-haired young man finally found him, he was just getting off a rotation and Tezuka wondered whether he’d somehow manage to plan it. The narrow, vaguely suspicious look he’d shot Fuji had been enough to have the other laughing as he stood watching Tezuka shrug out of his lab coat, hands tucked snugly into the pockets of his jeans.

Hungry, Fuji had suggested sushi and Tezuka had led the way to a small shop within walking distance of the hospital. He had enjoyed watching Fuji convince the owner to make wasabi sushi for him, perhaps even more so than he would admit, but he was able to hide his smile with a steaming mug of tea. It seemed as though the years rolled off him as he leaned back in his chair.

Fuji draped himself over his own seat with a negligent grace and pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes as he chattered about South America. His hair was too long although it suited him somehow, dancing along his shoulders like a gold waterfall, and Tezuka could easily see the fatigue that shadowed his friend’s startling blue eyes, but there was still a sort of energy rippling in the air. Tanned and happy, Fuji practically glowed in the warm light from the lamp in their corner of the store.

Afterwards, Tezuka had hailed a cab and he and Fuji climbed in, heading back to his apartment. It was an unspoken agreement, the entire conversation consisting of a slight tilt of one head, the nearly imperceptible answering nod of the other. Neither asked the other about people they might have met, might have slept with, as they tumbled into bed together. Hands reached out, shirts and pants hit the floor with the brief whisper of cloth, the staccato click of buttons against the smooth wood. Tezuka forgot about the long hours of work, Fuji forgot about the whir of an airplane’s engines as they found one another again.

In the morning Tezuka let his fingers slide through Fuji’s hair knowing that it would be gone by evening. He vaguely remembered agreeing to being photographed before Fuji had him gasping for breath and his mind was wiped blank. At least he knew that Fuji developed all of his own pictures, which soothed him somewhat.

They stayed in bed all that day, teasing, tasting, reminding themselves what it could have been like although both knew that it never would have worked in the long run. Tezuka let Fuji pose him against the sheets, sitting at a table, in the shower. They’d both wound up wet and panting after that last set, but neither minded.

When Fuji left the second time he promised to write, but they both knew it was a lie. There weren’t strings attached any more if there had ever been any to begin with. They were free to go their own ways, see other people, live their own lives. They told themselves it was better that way and sometimes they even believed it.

Tezuka kept the photo Fuji sent of him a couple weeks later, although he buried it safely in one of his desk drawers, locked away against peeping eyes. It was one of the ones from their afternoon together, a picture of him naked, dripping with water that poured from the showerhead, his head turned towards the camera. There was no note included in the envelope and only a postmark from somewhere in France to let him know where Fuji was, but he got the message. In his eyes he had seen what he rarely admitted to himself, to anyone. There had been lust there of course, desire, desperation, but beneath them all was a sort of love that he’d felt for no one other than Fuji and it had shown through, captured forever. Fuji acknowledged the emotion and sent it back to him. Tezuka refused to read too deeply into the photograph, into the myriad of possible thoughts that might have gone through Fuji’s mind as he licked the envelope closed. He told himself that it was better that way and, sometimes, he even believed it.