Sixteen Scars for measuringlife
For: measuringlife
Title: Sixteen Scars
Pairing: Tezuka/Fuji
Rating: PG-15
Summary: There are sixteen scars on Tezuka's body. Only Fuji's ever seen them all.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from Prince of Tennis.
A/N: measuringlife, I really hope you enjoy this. Thank you, unendingly, to my beta-tachi.
Scars one, two, three, and four happen before Kunimitsu ever steps foot on a tennis court. A stumble in the park, a much-attended bug bite, broken glass, and a rather unfriendly cat.
These are things he can't recall beyond a vague notion that they happened. His mother, all too fondly, fills in the blanks. Often, and usually during dinner parties.
The fifth scar is the first he remembers, and he does so with almost vivid clarity. It had been just him, a racquet, and a ball machine on the highest setting he had ever attempted. Hour after hour, he practiced, hitting and swinging until his hand blistered, literally throbbing in pain. And then he practiced another two hours after that, only stopping when his mother showed up to get him. It was then he finally looked at his hand, red and bleeding. He had never been so proud or exhilarated. He had closed his hand into a fist then, and knew.
Now, all he can see is the thinnest of slivers across his palm. It still makes him smile.
It's through tennis that he meets Fuji, an odd boy his own age, who teases him constantly with a taste, a mere glimpse, of his talent. Kunimitsu can see the ghost of stronger lobs, more precise returns, nearly unbreakable counters. The need to draw the best out of Fuji becomes almost as important as doing the same for himself. Fuji, as ever, remains stubborn.
Six and seven are hardly worth considering. Just two more trophies he gathers as he pushes himself further. A slight nick on his shin and a small dot on his arm from the broken strings on a much-abused racquet. Kunimitsu doesn't care if he has a hundred scars so long as he keeps getting better. His world is split into three categories: Tennis, things less important than tennis, and things more important. There aren't many things on the last list.
"Kunimitsu," his mother always begins. "Don't let it blind you to other good things."
In return, he always promises her that he'll keep his eyes open. It's not strictly a lie, but is hardly the truth either.
It's only when his eyes fall on Fuji's face that those words come rushing back to him. Fuji smiles at him like he has a secret. And Kunimitsu, for once, is curious. Sometimes, just sometimes, the curiosity inches up on his list, teetering between the less and more.
Then again, Fuji and tennis are always intertwined in his mind. It's hardly fair, in his opinion, that two such things should exist concurrently, but that doesn't mean he wants it to change.
If Kunimitsu will never forget his fifth, always think of it with pride, then his eighth is the opposite. Not that he'll ever forget it, though he wants to, but instead it fills him with shame.
There is nothing more embarrassing than knowing he is the cause of his own demise. Kunimitsu finds it impossible to wash from his mind the expression on his senpai's face as he slams the racquet into his elbow, just as Kunimitsu will always have the unrelenting memento imprinted on his skin.
Years later, it's Fuji that traces the line with his fingers, his tongue. He shudders as Fuji's lips press against it and he can see the fierce desire in Fuji's eyes to make it all better somehow.
Fuji also likes to kiss nine, ten, and eleven, too-remnants from this procedure to fix Kunimitsu and that-always lingering as he does. Well, in truth, Fuji likes to kiss all of him. There are very few places on his body that has escaped those fingers and that mouth.
"If it were anyone else," Fuji likes to say with a smile, "I would swear you were blushing."
"I don't blush," he replies, ignoring the heat rolling over his skin. Instead, he focuses on returning the favour. It nearly always works.
Twelve is the first, but not the last, that is Fuji's fault. He had been in the kitchen, slicing a daikon for the miso soup he was making for his sick mother when the telephone rang.
Busy, he allows the answering machine to pick up. Fuji's voice fills the room, then, sounding nervous for the first time in so long, and informs him that Fuji's plane-a one-way trip to somewhere that isn't here-is leaving in ten minutes.
As he runs the water over his now-bleeding finger, he wonders when he'll be able to breathe right again.
The answer is two hundred and forty three days. Not that he's counting.
Fuji's voice nervously calls out to him-in person this time-and he acquires thirteen in much the same way, and in much the same place. The only difference is that this time, he's slicing lemons. The acid most likely stings, but he can't feel anything beyond Fuji's smiling lips-warm body-pressing against his.
Hours pass and with it comes fourteen and fifteen. The sheer force of how much he misses Fuji only magnifies with his return. Kunimitsu thinks nothing of tossing their clothes wherever they land as they kiss and touch their way out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into his room.
He only can think in terms of finally and want you and more and, most importantly, Syusuke.
Fuji doesn't stop holding him, tight and desperate. Fuji's right hand is tangled in his hair, almost cradling his head, and his left is gripping Kunimitsu's back, nails digging into him. Two pierce the skin, but he's too lost in Fuji to mind. Later-much later-Fuji, too, traces Kunimitsu's newest scars with his fingers, his tongue. Only this time, he admires his work with unabashed delight.
"I always did like to make an impression," Fuji quips, amusing himself with his own bad jokes.
Kunimitsu tries to shoot him a glare, but the expression on Fuji's face stops him. Instead, he chooses to kiss him, taste him, encourage him to add a few more permanent marks on his skin. It's not as if Fuji doesn't own part of him anyhow.
It's sixteen that is his favourite, the one he likes to think he'll recall, even when the only thing he'll hold in his hand is a cane. When Fuji finally-finally because Kunimitsu's been asking for years-moves into his flat, he doesn't come alone. He brings his cameras, his books, the ridiculous assortment of curios he's gathered from around the world, his even more ridiculous wardrobe, and his cacti collection.
Fuji stands over him with a large grin and a pair of tweezers. He pinches them together menacingly over Kunimitsu's hand.
"It's going to leave a scar," Fuji says after he manages to extract the spines, but not without difficulty.
Kunimitsu finds the tiniest of smiles turning up his lips. He wonders if Fuji will show this one the same attention as the others. "I know."
Title: Sixteen Scars
Pairing: Tezuka/Fuji
Rating: PG-15
Summary: There are sixteen scars on Tezuka's body. Only Fuji's ever seen them all.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from Prince of Tennis.
A/N: measuringlife, I really hope you enjoy this. Thank you, unendingly, to my beta-tachi.
Scars one, two, three, and four happen before Kunimitsu ever steps foot on a tennis court. A stumble in the park, a much-attended bug bite, broken glass, and a rather unfriendly cat.
These are things he can't recall beyond a vague notion that they happened. His mother, all too fondly, fills in the blanks. Often, and usually during dinner parties.
The fifth scar is the first he remembers, and he does so with almost vivid clarity. It had been just him, a racquet, and a ball machine on the highest setting he had ever attempted. Hour after hour, he practiced, hitting and swinging until his hand blistered, literally throbbing in pain. And then he practiced another two hours after that, only stopping when his mother showed up to get him. It was then he finally looked at his hand, red and bleeding. He had never been so proud or exhilarated. He had closed his hand into a fist then, and knew.
Now, all he can see is the thinnest of slivers across his palm. It still makes him smile.
It's through tennis that he meets Fuji, an odd boy his own age, who teases him constantly with a taste, a mere glimpse, of his talent. Kunimitsu can see the ghost of stronger lobs, more precise returns, nearly unbreakable counters. The need to draw the best out of Fuji becomes almost as important as doing the same for himself. Fuji, as ever, remains stubborn.
Six and seven are hardly worth considering. Just two more trophies he gathers as he pushes himself further. A slight nick on his shin and a small dot on his arm from the broken strings on a much-abused racquet. Kunimitsu doesn't care if he has a hundred scars so long as he keeps getting better. His world is split into three categories: Tennis, things less important than tennis, and things more important. There aren't many things on the last list.
"Kunimitsu," his mother always begins. "Don't let it blind you to other good things."
In return, he always promises her that he'll keep his eyes open. It's not strictly a lie, but is hardly the truth either.
It's only when his eyes fall on Fuji's face that those words come rushing back to him. Fuji smiles at him like he has a secret. And Kunimitsu, for once, is curious. Sometimes, just sometimes, the curiosity inches up on his list, teetering between the less and more.
Then again, Fuji and tennis are always intertwined in his mind. It's hardly fair, in his opinion, that two such things should exist concurrently, but that doesn't mean he wants it to change.
If Kunimitsu will never forget his fifth, always think of it with pride, then his eighth is the opposite. Not that he'll ever forget it, though he wants to, but instead it fills him with shame.
There is nothing more embarrassing than knowing he is the cause of his own demise. Kunimitsu finds it impossible to wash from his mind the expression on his senpai's face as he slams the racquet into his elbow, just as Kunimitsu will always have the unrelenting memento imprinted on his skin.
Years later, it's Fuji that traces the line with his fingers, his tongue. He shudders as Fuji's lips press against it and he can see the fierce desire in Fuji's eyes to make it all better somehow.
Fuji also likes to kiss nine, ten, and eleven, too-remnants from this procedure to fix Kunimitsu and that-always lingering as he does. Well, in truth, Fuji likes to kiss all of him. There are very few places on his body that has escaped those fingers and that mouth.
"If it were anyone else," Fuji likes to say with a smile, "I would swear you were blushing."
"I don't blush," he replies, ignoring the heat rolling over his skin. Instead, he focuses on returning the favour. It nearly always works.
Twelve is the first, but not the last, that is Fuji's fault. He had been in the kitchen, slicing a daikon for the miso soup he was making for his sick mother when the telephone rang.
Busy, he allows the answering machine to pick up. Fuji's voice fills the room, then, sounding nervous for the first time in so long, and informs him that Fuji's plane-a one-way trip to somewhere that isn't here-is leaving in ten minutes.
As he runs the water over his now-bleeding finger, he wonders when he'll be able to breathe right again.
The answer is two hundred and forty three days. Not that he's counting.
Fuji's voice nervously calls out to him-in person this time-and he acquires thirteen in much the same way, and in much the same place. The only difference is that this time, he's slicing lemons. The acid most likely stings, but he can't feel anything beyond Fuji's smiling lips-warm body-pressing against his.
Hours pass and with it comes fourteen and fifteen. The sheer force of how much he misses Fuji only magnifies with his return. Kunimitsu thinks nothing of tossing their clothes wherever they land as they kiss and touch their way out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into his room.
He only can think in terms of finally and want you and more and, most importantly, Syusuke.
Fuji doesn't stop holding him, tight and desperate. Fuji's right hand is tangled in his hair, almost cradling his head, and his left is gripping Kunimitsu's back, nails digging into him. Two pierce the skin, but he's too lost in Fuji to mind. Later-much later-Fuji, too, traces Kunimitsu's newest scars with his fingers, his tongue. Only this time, he admires his work with unabashed delight.
"I always did like to make an impression," Fuji quips, amusing himself with his own bad jokes.
Kunimitsu tries to shoot him a glare, but the expression on Fuji's face stops him. Instead, he chooses to kiss him, taste him, encourage him to add a few more permanent marks on his skin. It's not as if Fuji doesn't own part of him anyhow.
It's sixteen that is his favourite, the one he likes to think he'll recall, even when the only thing he'll hold in his hand is a cane. When Fuji finally-finally because Kunimitsu's been asking for years-moves into his flat, he doesn't come alone. He brings his cameras, his books, the ridiculous assortment of curios he's gathered from around the world, his even more ridiculous wardrobe, and his cacti collection.
Fuji stands over him with a large grin and a pair of tweezers. He pinches them together menacingly over Kunimitsu's hand.
"It's going to leave a scar," Fuji says after he manages to extract the spines, but not without difficulty.
Kunimitsu finds the tiniest of smiles turning up his lips. He wonders if Fuji will show this one the same attention as the others. "I know."