[FIC] Inexpressible
Title: Inexpressible
Author:
darkmeira
Rating: K+/PG
Category: Romance/Angst/Whatever
Parts: 1-4/?
Summary: Because there isn't always a word for everything. (A collection of unrelated drabbles/one-shots)
Warnings: Various pairings, or none at all.
- Inexpressible Victory -
"Game! Kikumaru-Oishi pair, 7 games to 5!" the referee called out. Fuji Syusuke walked up to the net, and extended his hand to his opponents, his eyes in its usual position of being seemingly closed from lightly smiling. His doubles partner, Kawamura Takashi did the same.
"It was a good game, Eiji," Fuji said. "Really, we never seem to be able to defeat you two in doubles."
"No worries, Fuji!" Kawamura shouted, waving his racket around. "We can play them again and defeat them-" He stopped short when Fuji pulled the racket out of his hand. "I mean... it was a good game. You two are really strong." Even though they had experienced Kawamura's split personality for three years now, it was all Kikumaru and Oishi could do not to burst out laughing.
Losing was something that Fuji was far from used to. Even if it was against his own teammates and friends, he still did not like to lose. He played for the thrill of it all - the feeling of his racket hitting the ball, the adrenaline rushes that surged throughout him, the bliss of victory. No matter how many adrenaline rushes he had through the game, no matter how fast his heart pounded from excitement, the bliss of victory would be nonexistent if he lost. All that was there would be... nothing.
"Well?" a voice sounded behind him. Everyone on the court turned to face their captain, Tezuka Kunimitsu, who was standing by the door that led to the tennis courts. "Losers of this game run 50 laps around the courts."
Fuji and Kawamura sighed in defeat, while Kikumaru and Oishi stared at their retreating backs. It was not unusual for Tezuka to make his teammates run laps during practice, though 50 laps were pretty extreme.
Kawamura reached the door first, and began running his laps. Fuji paused when he reached Tezuka, who in turn looked at the prodigy.
"Must you always be so cruel, Tezuka?" Fuji asked. "Fifty laps is a lot now, don't you think?"
Tezuka blinked. "As much as you like to see other people suffer, Fuji, when you lose, it's your turn. And no," he added, glancing at his friend. "Looking cute won't save you this time from running."
With that, Tezuka walked off to observe another match, leaving a bewildered prodigy standing at the door. Several moments passed before Fuji's lips curled up into a smile, racing out to complete his laps.
For it wasn't the emptiness of defeat that he felt, nor was it the aching of his muscles. Instead, though barely there, it was the sensation of victory.
- Inexpressible Aftertaste -
Quite possibly the only thing that Echizen Ryoma feared about practice was the constant drink attacks from his teammate, Inui. Inui's gruesome health drinks could be seen either as a reward (if you were Fuji) or the worst punishment possible.
Especially today when Inui presented a new drink of a yellow-greenish color. A mix between sunshine yellow and puke green. It was foaming ever so slightly. Supposed to "eliminate limits and help increase stamina", was what Inui had said.
Training sessions began, with what would be dubbed as "some of the stupidest stamina sessions of all". They had to pair up, and literally give their partner a piggy-back ride for twenty laps around the courts. Echizen wouldn't have too much trouble with that, until he got paired with Tezuka.
Tezuka was the only person on the team that he did not want to be paired with. Just the thought of being carried around on the captain's back made him shudder with disgust. Even worse would be the probability that he had to carry Tezuka on his back too. Even though he was strong, he wasn't sure if he could handle both the significant height and weight difference. Not that it really mattered - he was considerably shorter than any of his teammates.
Just as expected, Tezuka had no trouble carrying Echizen around the courts. But when they were told to switch, all Echizen could do was gulp and hope that it was going to go well. Nonetheless, it still looked awkward with a 5'10" Tezuka attempting to stay on the back of a 5'0" Echizen.
Even at the sound of Go, Echizen had a hard time keeping up with the rest of his teammates. Tezuka's feet were dragging on the ground, and Echizen's grip on his captain's legs was slipping. It was only a matter of time before Echizen collapsed - 19 laps to be precise. At the start of his twentieth lap, he took one step forward, before doing something very un-Echizen like; tripping on air.
Inui, of course, was out there immediately to hand Echizen his dose of juice, only to be left standing alone moments later by a gagging freshman. Even long afterwards, the taste of the juice still lingered and haunted his mouth. He mused to himself several times throught the rest of the time that he would do anything to get that taste away.
Tezuka held him back after practice. After everyone had gone into the locker room, he leaned down swiftly, pressing his lips against the younger boy's own. Then without another word, he swiftly walked away, leaving a bewildered and blushing freshman.
But then again, the flush on his face was nothing, even if his friends saw him blushing. The aftertaste of the juice that he had so desperately wished to get rid of was replaced by the aftertaste of something... much sweeter.
- Inexpressible Reflection -
I have so often passed by a mirror, that I sometimes forget what I look like. I know the basics of how I look, but even hours of primping in front of the mirror can make me forget. I remember the faces of so many people, but I so rarely remember my own.
When I look in the mirror, I see a really very pretty girl, with shoulder-length reddish brown hair. Though I often pull my hair up in what's deemed as "childish" pigtails, it never really bothers me. I still think I look pretty nice. I love my life, and it seems to show in the way I look - lit up eyes and a sweet smile. I have amazing friends, especially my best friend Sakuno, who stays by my side no matter what, as I do for her. The boys' tennis team never minds either when we go to watch and cheer for them, and their star freshman, Ryoma, seems to tolerate Sakuno and I more than the rest of the freshman class.
Though it's strange. I've always heard criticism about my hair, but I never cared. But earlier today I heard something about my personality. They say that I'm too loud, too outgoing. They say that they'll never like me, because I'm horrible and annoying. For the first time ever, something someone said stung.
I looked at my reflection in the bathroom minutes later, and I saw a normal girl. There was nothing special about her, nothing special at all.
The first time you hear something, you can shrug it off easily, with a simple "I don't care." but when you hear it time and time again, it really starts to hurt. If it's from a single person, it's quite all right, because then you can think that they're just plain stupid. But even if it's teasing, and it happens so often, you begin to believe that it's true. But I'll never cry over something so trivial.
If only it were.
Maybe this is what it's like to have your heart hurt. Maybe this is what it's like to not want to lift your head and face the world. Maybe this is what it's like to feel unloved.
Maybe this is what it's like to look in the mirror, and see the reflection of someone hideous.
- Inexpressible Memory -
Dear Tezuka,
It's been quite a long time since I've talked to you at all. I don't know why I'm doing this right now, to tell you the truth. I found this old pen that had yet to run dry and a few sheets of paper the other day. I thought I might preserve them or sell them to the antiques store a few miles away for some good money, but somehow, I ended up writing to you.
Your first reaction might be that I have yet to refer to myself as "Oresama". Such childish things are trivial now, don't you think? It's been far too long to even consider ruling the world, let alone being putting myself as high up as I used to. But that is beside the point.
How long ago has it been since Junior High? I'm not quite sure, but it must be at least seventy years now. I still remember those days so clearly - the endless hours of tennis practice and conditioning, slaving over our bodies to keep them in perfect condition so that we might win the next game, the next match, the next tournament. Refining our techniques to the point of mastering them, as well as developing new ones that might prove useful in the future. The seemingly endless supply of tennis balls that we slipped into our pockets, only to remove them moments later, in order to have an excuse to use those rackets that we loved so much.
Tell you the truth, I thought you were a strange one. Aside from the normal endless ours of tennis and going out with our teams, you seemed to like to read too much. You loved it too much. Others from our teams seemed to have more character than you did. Fuji with his sadistic streak and genius-level techniques, Gakuto with his acrobatics, Yuushi with his unbelievably dumb and stupid movies, Kikumaru and Oishi with their... doubles, I suppose. Jiroh might have been more interesting than you, had he not been asleep so often.
You liked to read too much.
Nowadays, in the world we live in today, high in technology and endless machines, it seems as if everybody has forgotten. My grandchildren are watching the television in the room next door, projecting from a portable projector that they can bring anywhere and adjust to any size. I can hear them dictating their laptops to write that new program they've been working on, or to write their next essay for school. Someone's cell phone is ringing - you know, one of those embedded chips in your skin so you can dial from anywhere, have service anywhere, and never lose. So much more convenient than pulling your cell from out of your pocket to dial a number, don't you think?
Nothing is on paper anymore. Everything is digital now. We can teleport something somewhere in the blink of an eye, read about business and how the economy is in old archives online, speak to our friends' faces when we are only on the phone. Tennis courts no longer exist, only those virtual ones that mimic the original. You put some strange thing over your eyes, and it seems like you're playing tennis. It's an awful, messed up version though. It's impossible to use tennis techniques like we used to against the computer or our friends, though sometimes I wonder what would have happened if you'd used your Zero-Shiki against it. I doubt the computer on the hardest level could have stood up against it, if it were possible to use it in the game. We no longer listen to Beethoven and Mozart, no longer read William Shakespeare and Charlotte Bronte. Weeping over MacBeth and rejoicing with Pride and Prejudice has become a thing of such a distant past that we hardly remember it anymore.
When the rest of our generation is gone, who will be there to remember the tears of joy from musicals and concerts, the adrenaline highs from facing a difficult opponent on the court, the heart-gripping action of those books that you loved almost as much as tennis? Music, tennis, reading... in exchange for a high-tech world of live-action and fast-paced lives, it's a wonder we still survive at all.
I remember talking to my youngest grandchild last week. He was looking up an assignment online. He asked me what life was like when I was young, about fifteen or so. I remember thinking for quite a while, before I finally told him, "There were things that existed ago, things that we listened to, called music. Something that we used to play, called tennis. Things that we used to read called books."
Now old, arthritic, and not all completely there, I'd forgotten about them.
Now as my pen runs dry and I run out of paper, I'm going to seal this letter in an envelope, teleport across three miles to the nearest antique store that still sells matches. It's going to cost me a fortune, but I'm going to take those matches to you. I'm going to walk three miles from that store to meet you, no matter how long it takes.
I'm going to burn this letter in front of you, hoping that my words will someday reach you.
And I hope to play you again someday, on the courts that we loved so much.
Much love,
Atobe
Author:
darkmeira
Rating: K+/PG
Category: Romance/Angst/Whatever
Parts: 1-4/?
Summary: Because there isn't always a word for everything. (A collection of unrelated drabbles/one-shots)
Warnings: Various pairings, or none at all.
- Inexpressible Victory -
"Game! Kikumaru-Oishi pair, 7 games to 5!" the referee called out. Fuji Syusuke walked up to the net, and extended his hand to his opponents, his eyes in its usual position of being seemingly closed from lightly smiling. His doubles partner, Kawamura Takashi did the same.
"It was a good game, Eiji," Fuji said. "Really, we never seem to be able to defeat you two in doubles."
"No worries, Fuji!" Kawamura shouted, waving his racket around. "We can play them again and defeat them-" He stopped short when Fuji pulled the racket out of his hand. "I mean... it was a good game. You two are really strong." Even though they had experienced Kawamura's split personality for three years now, it was all Kikumaru and Oishi could do not to burst out laughing.
Losing was something that Fuji was far from used to. Even if it was against his own teammates and friends, he still did not like to lose. He played for the thrill of it all - the feeling of his racket hitting the ball, the adrenaline rushes that surged throughout him, the bliss of victory. No matter how many adrenaline rushes he had through the game, no matter how fast his heart pounded from excitement, the bliss of victory would be nonexistent if he lost. All that was there would be... nothing.
"Well?" a voice sounded behind him. Everyone on the court turned to face their captain, Tezuka Kunimitsu, who was standing by the door that led to the tennis courts. "Losers of this game run 50 laps around the courts."
Fuji and Kawamura sighed in defeat, while Kikumaru and Oishi stared at their retreating backs. It was not unusual for Tezuka to make his teammates run laps during practice, though 50 laps were pretty extreme.
Kawamura reached the door first, and began running his laps. Fuji paused when he reached Tezuka, who in turn looked at the prodigy.
"Must you always be so cruel, Tezuka?" Fuji asked. "Fifty laps is a lot now, don't you think?"
Tezuka blinked. "As much as you like to see other people suffer, Fuji, when you lose, it's your turn. And no," he added, glancing at his friend. "Looking cute won't save you this time from running."
With that, Tezuka walked off to observe another match, leaving a bewildered prodigy standing at the door. Several moments passed before Fuji's lips curled up into a smile, racing out to complete his laps.
For it wasn't the emptiness of defeat that he felt, nor was it the aching of his muscles. Instead, though barely there, it was the sensation of victory.
- Inexpressible Aftertaste -
Quite possibly the only thing that Echizen Ryoma feared about practice was the constant drink attacks from his teammate, Inui. Inui's gruesome health drinks could be seen either as a reward (if you were Fuji) or the worst punishment possible.
Especially today when Inui presented a new drink of a yellow-greenish color. A mix between sunshine yellow and puke green. It was foaming ever so slightly. Supposed to "eliminate limits and help increase stamina", was what Inui had said.
Training sessions began, with what would be dubbed as "some of the stupidest stamina sessions of all". They had to pair up, and literally give their partner a piggy-back ride for twenty laps around the courts. Echizen wouldn't have too much trouble with that, until he got paired with Tezuka.
Tezuka was the only person on the team that he did not want to be paired with. Just the thought of being carried around on the captain's back made him shudder with disgust. Even worse would be the probability that he had to carry Tezuka on his back too. Even though he was strong, he wasn't sure if he could handle both the significant height and weight difference. Not that it really mattered - he was considerably shorter than any of his teammates.
Just as expected, Tezuka had no trouble carrying Echizen around the courts. But when they were told to switch, all Echizen could do was gulp and hope that it was going to go well. Nonetheless, it still looked awkward with a 5'10" Tezuka attempting to stay on the back of a 5'0" Echizen.
Even at the sound of Go, Echizen had a hard time keeping up with the rest of his teammates. Tezuka's feet were dragging on the ground, and Echizen's grip on his captain's legs was slipping. It was only a matter of time before Echizen collapsed - 19 laps to be precise. At the start of his twentieth lap, he took one step forward, before doing something very un-Echizen like; tripping on air.
Inui, of course, was out there immediately to hand Echizen his dose of juice, only to be left standing alone moments later by a gagging freshman. Even long afterwards, the taste of the juice still lingered and haunted his mouth. He mused to himself several times throught the rest of the time that he would do anything to get that taste away.
Tezuka held him back after practice. After everyone had gone into the locker room, he leaned down swiftly, pressing his lips against the younger boy's own. Then without another word, he swiftly walked away, leaving a bewildered and blushing freshman.
But then again, the flush on his face was nothing, even if his friends saw him blushing. The aftertaste of the juice that he had so desperately wished to get rid of was replaced by the aftertaste of something... much sweeter.
- Inexpressible Reflection -
I have so often passed by a mirror, that I sometimes forget what I look like. I know the basics of how I look, but even hours of primping in front of the mirror can make me forget. I remember the faces of so many people, but I so rarely remember my own.
When I look in the mirror, I see a really very pretty girl, with shoulder-length reddish brown hair. Though I often pull my hair up in what's deemed as "childish" pigtails, it never really bothers me. I still think I look pretty nice. I love my life, and it seems to show in the way I look - lit up eyes and a sweet smile. I have amazing friends, especially my best friend Sakuno, who stays by my side no matter what, as I do for her. The boys' tennis team never minds either when we go to watch and cheer for them, and their star freshman, Ryoma, seems to tolerate Sakuno and I more than the rest of the freshman class.
Though it's strange. I've always heard criticism about my hair, but I never cared. But earlier today I heard something about my personality. They say that I'm too loud, too outgoing. They say that they'll never like me, because I'm horrible and annoying. For the first time ever, something someone said stung.
I looked at my reflection in the bathroom minutes later, and I saw a normal girl. There was nothing special about her, nothing special at all.
The first time you hear something, you can shrug it off easily, with a simple "I don't care." but when you hear it time and time again, it really starts to hurt. If it's from a single person, it's quite all right, because then you can think that they're just plain stupid. But even if it's teasing, and it happens so often, you begin to believe that it's true. But I'll never cry over something so trivial.
If only it were.
Maybe this is what it's like to have your heart hurt. Maybe this is what it's like to not want to lift your head and face the world. Maybe this is what it's like to feel unloved.
Maybe this is what it's like to look in the mirror, and see the reflection of someone hideous.
- Inexpressible Memory -
Dear Tezuka,
It's been quite a long time since I've talked to you at all. I don't know why I'm doing this right now, to tell you the truth. I found this old pen that had yet to run dry and a few sheets of paper the other day. I thought I might preserve them or sell them to the antiques store a few miles away for some good money, but somehow, I ended up writing to you.
Your first reaction might be that I have yet to refer to myself as "Oresama". Such childish things are trivial now, don't you think? It's been far too long to even consider ruling the world, let alone being putting myself as high up as I used to. But that is beside the point.
How long ago has it been since Junior High? I'm not quite sure, but it must be at least seventy years now. I still remember those days so clearly - the endless hours of tennis practice and conditioning, slaving over our bodies to keep them in perfect condition so that we might win the next game, the next match, the next tournament. Refining our techniques to the point of mastering them, as well as developing new ones that might prove useful in the future. The seemingly endless supply of tennis balls that we slipped into our pockets, only to remove them moments later, in order to have an excuse to use those rackets that we loved so much.
Tell you the truth, I thought you were a strange one. Aside from the normal endless ours of tennis and going out with our teams, you seemed to like to read too much. You loved it too much. Others from our teams seemed to have more character than you did. Fuji with his sadistic streak and genius-level techniques, Gakuto with his acrobatics, Yuushi with his unbelievably dumb and stupid movies, Kikumaru and Oishi with their... doubles, I suppose. Jiroh might have been more interesting than you, had he not been asleep so often.
You liked to read too much.
Nowadays, in the world we live in today, high in technology and endless machines, it seems as if everybody has forgotten. My grandchildren are watching the television in the room next door, projecting from a portable projector that they can bring anywhere and adjust to any size. I can hear them dictating their laptops to write that new program they've been working on, or to write their next essay for school. Someone's cell phone is ringing - you know, one of those embedded chips in your skin so you can dial from anywhere, have service anywhere, and never lose. So much more convenient than pulling your cell from out of your pocket to dial a number, don't you think?
Nothing is on paper anymore. Everything is digital now. We can teleport something somewhere in the blink of an eye, read about business and how the economy is in old archives online, speak to our friends' faces when we are only on the phone. Tennis courts no longer exist, only those virtual ones that mimic the original. You put some strange thing over your eyes, and it seems like you're playing tennis. It's an awful, messed up version though. It's impossible to use tennis techniques like we used to against the computer or our friends, though sometimes I wonder what would have happened if you'd used your Zero-Shiki against it. I doubt the computer on the hardest level could have stood up against it, if it were possible to use it in the game. We no longer listen to Beethoven and Mozart, no longer read William Shakespeare and Charlotte Bronte. Weeping over MacBeth and rejoicing with Pride and Prejudice has become a thing of such a distant past that we hardly remember it anymore.
When the rest of our generation is gone, who will be there to remember the tears of joy from musicals and concerts, the adrenaline highs from facing a difficult opponent on the court, the heart-gripping action of those books that you loved almost as much as tennis? Music, tennis, reading... in exchange for a high-tech world of live-action and fast-paced lives, it's a wonder we still survive at all.
I remember talking to my youngest grandchild last week. He was looking up an assignment online. He asked me what life was like when I was young, about fifteen or so. I remember thinking for quite a while, before I finally told him, "There were things that existed ago, things that we listened to, called music. Something that we used to play, called tennis. Things that we used to read called books."
Now old, arthritic, and not all completely there, I'd forgotten about them.
Now as my pen runs dry and I run out of paper, I'm going to seal this letter in an envelope, teleport across three miles to the nearest antique store that still sells matches. It's going to cost me a fortune, but I'm going to take those matches to you. I'm going to walk three miles from that store to meet you, no matter how long it takes.
I'm going to burn this letter in front of you, hoping that my words will someday reach you.
And I hope to play you again someday, on the courts that we loved so much.
Much love,
Atobe