FIC: Match Point (TeniPuri)
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Rather a while ago in the Prince of Tennis timeline, a simple TezuFuji one-shot. Concrit appreciated, though of course if you just want to heap on the praises, that's fine too... :D Enjoy...
Match Point
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Author: Syranthil
Genre: One-Shot, Shounen-Ai
Pairing: Tezuka/Fuji
Rating: PG
Summary: After episode 36 (when Fuji torches Mizuki), Tezuka accosts Fuji and asks for a match that Fuji doesn’t want to give.
“Fuji.”
One word was enough, this time, to stop Fuji in his tracks across the court. He thought it might be fitting if a gust of wind should come to ruffle his hair, and give him a reason not to turn and answer the call, delivered in the usual rich depth of Tezuka’s voice.
It didn’t. So Fuji kept the bland smile on his face and turned around. “Tezuka,” he said, quietly.
Arms crossed, perhaps from force of habit, Tezuka just looked at him. What he could learn from that distance, Fuji didn’t know. For a moment, neither of them broke the still silence of the now-deserted Seigaku tennis courts.
Fuji waited. Soon enough, Tezuka stepped forward.
“A match, Fuji.”
The tensai’s smile widened, and he shoved his hands idly into his pockets, looking up at the sky. A clear day…
“Your arm, Tezuka-buchou,” he murmured, grounding himself in the feel of the court’s surface under his feet and the empty air hovering about his ears, wondering if the captain would accept such a timeworn and useless excuse. “I don’t-”
“Fuji.”
This time the name was backed with iron, and as they faced each other over the net Fuji knew that things were about to get difficult.
He could accept, and play seriously for a while before it reached a point when the tensai could (almost) credibly throw the match, and watch as realisation dawned on Tezuka while they clasped hands over the net. Tezuka would be angry, because he didn’t understand that Fuji didn’t care who was stronger, and wouldn’t really fight because he didn’t want to know.
Or he could say no, and make Tezuka angry now without the risk of changing what they had.
“No,” Fuji said. It was an easy decision.
Tezuka’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses, but Fuji was already walking away.
“You’ll play seriously against Mizuki, but not me?” Tezuka challenged, less a question than an almost bitter accusation.
Fuji’s eyes snapped open, and he froze.
“Seven games,” Tezuka pressed on, flatly, unreadable. “Twenty-eight straight points.” Fuji heard footsteps behind him; Tezuka’s voice was much closer than when they’d started. “What will it take?”
Tezuka hadn’t finished that question, Fuji thought. What would it take… for Fuji to try that hard against him.
“I was angry,” Fuji answered, staring at a point out past the chain-link fence in front of them. If Tezuka chose to take that as a warning, too-then that was his mistake.
There was a single soft footfall behind him, the familiar sound of Tezuka’s steps on the empty courts, and Fuji had to stop himself from turning around to look. “Tell me why you won’t-”
“You’re talking a lot today,” Fuji broke in, as his fingers tightened into fists inside his jacket pockets. The words almost caught in his throat; he didn’t want to do this.
“Fuji-”
Fuji whirled to face a Tezuka who was suddenly much, much closer, the tensai’s usual smile completely gone. “I don’t get angry at you,” he cried out, and he wasn’t quite fast enough turning away to miss the glint in Tezuka’s eyes that looked suspiciously like surprise, and realisation.
Tezuka’s hand on Fuji’s arm stopped him this time. The tensai reminded himself to breathe, and plastered the blithe smile back on his face. Things did not usually matter to Fuji Syuusuke.
Tezuka did.
If they ever did play a real match something would change, no matter who won or lost, and Fuji didn’t want to let go of being able to stand outside a court and watch in silence without needing something to say, or playing just enough to entertain, to get by, without being judged against a standard he’d never even wanted to let Tezuka see.
Blue eyes locked resolutely onto the blur of the baseline at his feet. Fuji kept his silence, and closed his eyes. Nothing would change. He wouldn’t let it.
“Syuusuke.”
Fuji’s breath caught in his throat. The sound that followed could rightly be called a sob; what right did Tezuka have to torment him with something he had wanted for so long…
“Buchou,” Fuji managed, scrabbling at nothing, trying to remind Tezuka of what they were-what their friendship had been for so long, what Fuji did not want to lose.
Tezuka pulled gently on Fuji’s arm, the warmth and shape of his hand perfectly clear through the fabric of Fuji’s jacket. Reluctantly, Fuji obeyed the command and turned to meet Tezuka’s eyes.
He expected the other boy to say something, anything, he didn’t know what. But Tezuka didn’t. And he didn’t move.
They stood, Fuji’s arms hanging limply at his sides as he watched Tezuka with open eyes, waiting. He couldn’t read Tezuka. For once, he… had no idea what the Seigaku tennis captain was thinking.
In the space of a few heartbeats that felt like forever, it was Fuji who cracked under the strain. As Tezuka must have known he would. “I don’t want this to change,” he said, quietly, almost pleading, as his fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Tezuka, I-”
He stopped short at the touch of Tezuka’s hand against his cheek, gentle but not hesitant, not in the least. “Are you sure, Syuusuke?” he asked. He was serious, always serious, and that question, in his careful deep voice…
Fuji swallowed. He knew. Tezuka knew, and he wasn’t saying no. Are you sure, Syuusuke?
“No,” Fuji breathed. He saw the understanding in the lines of Tezuka’s face, and knew that his admission had not gone to waste.
He still couldn’t stop the slight sound of surprise that escaped him when Tezuka pulled him close and enfolded him in strong and confident arms. He didn’t want to stop the wave of perfect warmth that spread through every inch of his body, and the reaction he didn’t have to suppress, as he reached to return the embrace.
“I understand,” Tezuka said softly, unusually gentle, a tone of voice Fuji had heard only a few times before.
And only Fuji had heard it, he realised, as he rested his head against Tezuka’s shoulder. He took in a steady breath, knowing, without needing to ask, that his next move would be welcome. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Kunimitsu.”
Tezuka’s arms tightened a fraction around Fuji; this time, a gust of wind did ruffle its way gently through Fuji’s hair. The Seigaku tensai only smiled. He had been foolish-but he was allowed the space for that, every once in a while.
They didn’t need words. They never had. They simply stood, together, on the familiar courts they called home.
It was a different kind of tennis game. And neither of them would win this, either.
Rather a while ago in the Prince of Tennis timeline, a simple TezuFuji one-shot. Concrit appreciated, though of course if you just want to heap on the praises, that's fine too... :D Enjoy...
Match Point
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Author: Syranthil
Genre: One-Shot, Shounen-Ai
Pairing: Tezuka/Fuji
Rating: PG
Summary: After episode 36 (when Fuji torches Mizuki), Tezuka accosts Fuji and asks for a match that Fuji doesn’t want to give.
“Fuji.”
One word was enough, this time, to stop Fuji in his tracks across the court. He thought it might be fitting if a gust of wind should come to ruffle his hair, and give him a reason not to turn and answer the call, delivered in the usual rich depth of Tezuka’s voice.
It didn’t. So Fuji kept the bland smile on his face and turned around. “Tezuka,” he said, quietly.
Arms crossed, perhaps from force of habit, Tezuka just looked at him. What he could learn from that distance, Fuji didn’t know. For a moment, neither of them broke the still silence of the now-deserted Seigaku tennis courts.
Fuji waited. Soon enough, Tezuka stepped forward.
“A match, Fuji.”
The tensai’s smile widened, and he shoved his hands idly into his pockets, looking up at the sky. A clear day…
“Your arm, Tezuka-buchou,” he murmured, grounding himself in the feel of the court’s surface under his feet and the empty air hovering about his ears, wondering if the captain would accept such a timeworn and useless excuse. “I don’t-”
“Fuji.”
This time the name was backed with iron, and as they faced each other over the net Fuji knew that things were about to get difficult.
He could accept, and play seriously for a while before it reached a point when the tensai could (almost) credibly throw the match, and watch as realisation dawned on Tezuka while they clasped hands over the net. Tezuka would be angry, because he didn’t understand that Fuji didn’t care who was stronger, and wouldn’t really fight because he didn’t want to know.
Or he could say no, and make Tezuka angry now without the risk of changing what they had.
“No,” Fuji said. It was an easy decision.
Tezuka’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses, but Fuji was already walking away.
“You’ll play seriously against Mizuki, but not me?” Tezuka challenged, less a question than an almost bitter accusation.
Fuji’s eyes snapped open, and he froze.
“Seven games,” Tezuka pressed on, flatly, unreadable. “Twenty-eight straight points.” Fuji heard footsteps behind him; Tezuka’s voice was much closer than when they’d started. “What will it take?”
Tezuka hadn’t finished that question, Fuji thought. What would it take… for Fuji to try that hard against him.
“I was angry,” Fuji answered, staring at a point out past the chain-link fence in front of them. If Tezuka chose to take that as a warning, too-then that was his mistake.
There was a single soft footfall behind him, the familiar sound of Tezuka’s steps on the empty courts, and Fuji had to stop himself from turning around to look. “Tell me why you won’t-”
“You’re talking a lot today,” Fuji broke in, as his fingers tightened into fists inside his jacket pockets. The words almost caught in his throat; he didn’t want to do this.
“Fuji-”
Fuji whirled to face a Tezuka who was suddenly much, much closer, the tensai’s usual smile completely gone. “I don’t get angry at you,” he cried out, and he wasn’t quite fast enough turning away to miss the glint in Tezuka’s eyes that looked suspiciously like surprise, and realisation.
Tezuka’s hand on Fuji’s arm stopped him this time. The tensai reminded himself to breathe, and plastered the blithe smile back on his face. Things did not usually matter to Fuji Syuusuke.
Tezuka did.
If they ever did play a real match something would change, no matter who won or lost, and Fuji didn’t want to let go of being able to stand outside a court and watch in silence without needing something to say, or playing just enough to entertain, to get by, without being judged against a standard he’d never even wanted to let Tezuka see.
Blue eyes locked resolutely onto the blur of the baseline at his feet. Fuji kept his silence, and closed his eyes. Nothing would change. He wouldn’t let it.
“Syuusuke.”
Fuji’s breath caught in his throat. The sound that followed could rightly be called a sob; what right did Tezuka have to torment him with something he had wanted for so long…
“Buchou,” Fuji managed, scrabbling at nothing, trying to remind Tezuka of what they were-what their friendship had been for so long, what Fuji did not want to lose.
Tezuka pulled gently on Fuji’s arm, the warmth and shape of his hand perfectly clear through the fabric of Fuji’s jacket. Reluctantly, Fuji obeyed the command and turned to meet Tezuka’s eyes.
He expected the other boy to say something, anything, he didn’t know what. But Tezuka didn’t. And he didn’t move.
They stood, Fuji’s arms hanging limply at his sides as he watched Tezuka with open eyes, waiting. He couldn’t read Tezuka. For once, he… had no idea what the Seigaku tennis captain was thinking.
In the space of a few heartbeats that felt like forever, it was Fuji who cracked under the strain. As Tezuka must have known he would. “I don’t want this to change,” he said, quietly, almost pleading, as his fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Tezuka, I-”
He stopped short at the touch of Tezuka’s hand against his cheek, gentle but not hesitant, not in the least. “Are you sure, Syuusuke?” he asked. He was serious, always serious, and that question, in his careful deep voice…
Fuji swallowed. He knew. Tezuka knew, and he wasn’t saying no. Are you sure, Syuusuke?
“No,” Fuji breathed. He saw the understanding in the lines of Tezuka’s face, and knew that his admission had not gone to waste.
He still couldn’t stop the slight sound of surprise that escaped him when Tezuka pulled him close and enfolded him in strong and confident arms. He didn’t want to stop the wave of perfect warmth that spread through every inch of his body, and the reaction he didn’t have to suppress, as he reached to return the embrace.
“I understand,” Tezuka said softly, unusually gentle, a tone of voice Fuji had heard only a few times before.
And only Fuji had heard it, he realised, as he rested his head against Tezuka’s shoulder. He took in a steady breath, knowing, without needing to ask, that his next move would be welcome. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Kunimitsu.”
Tezuka’s arms tightened a fraction around Fuji; this time, a gust of wind did ruffle its way gently through Fuji’s hair. The Seigaku tensai only smiled. He had been foolish-but he was allowed the space for that, every once in a while.
They didn’t need words. They never had. They simply stood, together, on the familiar courts they called home.
It was a different kind of tennis game. And neither of them would win this, either.