fic - Injury
Title: Injury
Pairing: Tezuka/Fuji
Rating: PG 13
Wordcount: ~900
Genre: Fluff!!! :D
Summary: Fuji acquires an injury but Tezuka knows that Fuji doesn't like feeling helpless.
Disclaimer: Tezuka's heart has 'Property of Fuji Syusuke' in bold, red letters.
A/N: … … … … Do I still know how to write them? This is a random fic. Anyway, let’s assume that Tezuka can’t play tennis anymore because he’s a total Seigaku-idiot he hurt his arm so much in that match against Sanada. Here, he’s a lawyer.
Injury
Upon hearing the door creak, Fuji shifts on the leather sofa, resting his chin on the edge of the backrest while trying not to put any weight on his left leg. He welcomes Tezuka home with a suspiciously bright smile. “Dinner is ready,” he says cheerfully as Tezuka approaches him in a few purposeful strides.
“You’re three days early,” Tezuka says, bending down to claim Fuji’s lips for a couple of weeks’ worth of missed kisses. Several moans and minutes pass, and the kiss ends in their ruffled hairs, crumpled clothes and puffed lips. “Did everything go well?” Tezuka inquires, trying to straighten up behind the sofa.
Fuji, however, tugs at Tezuka’s black tie in an attempt to get another kiss. “Everything went perfect,” he replies, raising himself to hook an arm around Tezuka’s neck, leaning slightly on his left leg.
Tezuka sees Fuji’s brief wince of pain. His eyes immediately finds what’s wrong and he sighs, suppressing the urge to correct Fuji and say that perfect trips most certainly do not result in sprained ankles. Knowing full well that Fuji is too stubborn to listen anyway, Tezuka gives in and kisses Fuji again till their heads float in the lack of oxygen.
“Should we eat?” Fuji asks, licking his glistening wet lips as he lets Tezuka go. His voice is husky and his eyes are glassy with want of something not quite culinary.
Tezuka shows his assent with a nod. “I’ll just go change,” he says before turning to his heels and walking to their shared room.
In the kitchen, Tezuka finds Fuji limping to set the table. Although he’d much rather do the work himself, Tezuka settles on the chair, grudgingly quiet. He reminds himself that the last time he offered help to an injured Fuji resulted in three days of cold silence. He knows that they are equally proud and neither of them likes sitting around, doing nothing, feeling helpless and being babied in case of an injury.
Over their bowls of rice and servings of steamed fish, Fuji shares his adventures in his Southeast Asian trip. From the amount of time Fuji spends on talking about Thailand’s elephants, Tezuka has made the conclusion that Fuji has been too fascinated taking pictures of a herd of elephants and has probably forgotten that, in the wild, elephants can charge. Tezuka doesn’t ask though. Nor does he reprimand. They have, in their quiet ways and shared thoughts, agreed that if Tezuka can break his arm for Seigaku, Fuji can naturally hurt a limb for photography. It’s a matter of passion and interest. But, of course, Tezuka cannot help but be anxious. Tennis can’t kill. Wild animals can.
After dinner, Tezuka at least takes comfort that washing the dishes is his daily duty or he will have to pretend to fuss over paperwork while he’s actually too concerned about the way Fuji limps around the flat.
Once the last dish has dried, Tezuka walks to their bedroom. His stoic countenance betrays the anticipation he feels. But the sight of a sleeping Fuji causes his face to fall in obvious disappointment. Something in his gut has been stirring since Fuji has left, making him feel dizzy with so much need for Fuji that simply hearing Fuji’s voice over the phone in the past few days has made him want to touch himself. But he is aware that Fuji is tired and is in pain. He thus contents himself with molding his body to Fuji’s curved back, burying his nose in the thick mass of Fuji’s brown hair, sniffing in Fuji’s sweet, sun-exposed smell.
Fuji wakes up next morning to the sounds of shuffling paper and feet. He props himself up comfortably, hugging Tezuka’s pillow, and watches as Tezuka piles matte paper, glossy paper, bond paper on top of Fuji’s desk.
“Is today general cleaning day?” Fuji asks, amusement lacing his voice.
“Yes,” Tezuka responds. He sorts Fuji’s papers with an intent look on his face, as if determined to defeat the clutter on the desk. “Your mess is all over our room.”
Fuji feigns an insulted look. “You usually call that mess my beautiful art,” he reminds cursorily.
“You should then be careful where you place your art,” Tezuka says curtly. This time, he moves on to sort the contents of a box of negatives.
“Let me help then,” Fuji says with a grin.
“No,” Tezuka responds quickly, almost defensively, causing Fuji to raise a brow. “You’ll mix them up again.”
Fuji’s eyebrows remain arched as he gets to his feet. “I suppose I’ll just cook breakfast then.”
“I already did,” Tezuka says. “You put too much wasabi in everything.”
Smirking, Fuji goes, “You never complained before.”
“I don’t feel like eating anything spicy today,” Tezuka responds abruptly, still arranging Fuji’s negatives alphabetically, following the labels.
Ignoring the slight sting on his left ankle, Fuji walks over to Tezuka. “And I suppose you don’t have clients today as well?” he asks, encircling his arms around Tezuka’s waist, hugging Tezuka from the back.
“No, I don’t.” Tezuka gulps down a sour lump in his throat, too keenly aware of Fuji’s proximity.
At that, Fuji laughs, causing goose-bumps at Tezuka’s nape. He presses closer, slightly hiking Tezuka’s shirt up so that his fingertips brush against Tezuka's abdomen. “Fine,” he says, tracing a line of kisses on the shirt over Tezuka’s shoulder blade. “If it pleases you so much, you can spoil me just this once.”
End
ETA: I stand corrected.
sayac3p0 reminded me that tennis can kill... dinosaurs. XD
Pairing: Tezuka/Fuji
Rating: PG 13
Wordcount: ~900
Genre: Fluff!!! :D
Summary: Fuji acquires an injury but Tezuka knows that Fuji doesn't like feeling helpless.
Disclaimer: Tezuka's heart has 'Property of Fuji Syusuke' in bold, red letters.
A/N: … … … … Do I still know how to write them? This is a random fic. Anyway, let’s assume that Tezuka can’t play tennis anymore because he’s a total Seigaku-idiot he hurt his arm so much in that match against Sanada. Here, he’s a lawyer.
Injury
Upon hearing the door creak, Fuji shifts on the leather sofa, resting his chin on the edge of the backrest while trying not to put any weight on his left leg. He welcomes Tezuka home with a suspiciously bright smile. “Dinner is ready,” he says cheerfully as Tezuka approaches him in a few purposeful strides.
“You’re three days early,” Tezuka says, bending down to claim Fuji’s lips for a couple of weeks’ worth of missed kisses. Several moans and minutes pass, and the kiss ends in their ruffled hairs, crumpled clothes and puffed lips. “Did everything go well?” Tezuka inquires, trying to straighten up behind the sofa.
Fuji, however, tugs at Tezuka’s black tie in an attempt to get another kiss. “Everything went perfect,” he replies, raising himself to hook an arm around Tezuka’s neck, leaning slightly on his left leg.
Tezuka sees Fuji’s brief wince of pain. His eyes immediately finds what’s wrong and he sighs, suppressing the urge to correct Fuji and say that perfect trips most certainly do not result in sprained ankles. Knowing full well that Fuji is too stubborn to listen anyway, Tezuka gives in and kisses Fuji again till their heads float in the lack of oxygen.
“Should we eat?” Fuji asks, licking his glistening wet lips as he lets Tezuka go. His voice is husky and his eyes are glassy with want of something not quite culinary.
Tezuka shows his assent with a nod. “I’ll just go change,” he says before turning to his heels and walking to their shared room.
In the kitchen, Tezuka finds Fuji limping to set the table. Although he’d much rather do the work himself, Tezuka settles on the chair, grudgingly quiet. He reminds himself that the last time he offered help to an injured Fuji resulted in three days of cold silence. He knows that they are equally proud and neither of them likes sitting around, doing nothing, feeling helpless and being babied in case of an injury.
Over their bowls of rice and servings of steamed fish, Fuji shares his adventures in his Southeast Asian trip. From the amount of time Fuji spends on talking about Thailand’s elephants, Tezuka has made the conclusion that Fuji has been too fascinated taking pictures of a herd of elephants and has probably forgotten that, in the wild, elephants can charge. Tezuka doesn’t ask though. Nor does he reprimand. They have, in their quiet ways and shared thoughts, agreed that if Tezuka can break his arm for Seigaku, Fuji can naturally hurt a limb for photography. It’s a matter of passion and interest. But, of course, Tezuka cannot help but be anxious. Tennis can’t kill. Wild animals can.
After dinner, Tezuka at least takes comfort that washing the dishes is his daily duty or he will have to pretend to fuss over paperwork while he’s actually too concerned about the way Fuji limps around the flat.
Once the last dish has dried, Tezuka walks to their bedroom. His stoic countenance betrays the anticipation he feels. But the sight of a sleeping Fuji causes his face to fall in obvious disappointment. Something in his gut has been stirring since Fuji has left, making him feel dizzy with so much need for Fuji that simply hearing Fuji’s voice over the phone in the past few days has made him want to touch himself. But he is aware that Fuji is tired and is in pain. He thus contents himself with molding his body to Fuji’s curved back, burying his nose in the thick mass of Fuji’s brown hair, sniffing in Fuji’s sweet, sun-exposed smell.
Fuji wakes up next morning to the sounds of shuffling paper and feet. He props himself up comfortably, hugging Tezuka’s pillow, and watches as Tezuka piles matte paper, glossy paper, bond paper on top of Fuji’s desk.
“Is today general cleaning day?” Fuji asks, amusement lacing his voice.
“Yes,” Tezuka responds. He sorts Fuji’s papers with an intent look on his face, as if determined to defeat the clutter on the desk. “Your mess is all over our room.”
Fuji feigns an insulted look. “You usually call that mess my beautiful art,” he reminds cursorily.
“You should then be careful where you place your art,” Tezuka says curtly. This time, he moves on to sort the contents of a box of negatives.
“Let me help then,” Fuji says with a grin.
“No,” Tezuka responds quickly, almost defensively, causing Fuji to raise a brow. “You’ll mix them up again.”
Fuji’s eyebrows remain arched as he gets to his feet. “I suppose I’ll just cook breakfast then.”
“I already did,” Tezuka says. “You put too much wasabi in everything.”
Smirking, Fuji goes, “You never complained before.”
“I don’t feel like eating anything spicy today,” Tezuka responds abruptly, still arranging Fuji’s negatives alphabetically, following the labels.
Ignoring the slight sting on his left ankle, Fuji walks over to Tezuka. “And I suppose you don’t have clients today as well?” he asks, encircling his arms around Tezuka’s waist, hugging Tezuka from the back.
“No, I don’t.” Tezuka gulps down a sour lump in his throat, too keenly aware of Fuji’s proximity.
At that, Fuji laughs, causing goose-bumps at Tezuka’s nape. He presses closer, slightly hiking Tezuka’s shirt up so that his fingertips brush against Tezuka's abdomen. “Fine,” he says, tracing a line of kisses on the shirt over Tezuka’s shoulder blade. “If it pleases you so much, you can spoil me just this once.”
End
ETA: I stand corrected.
sayac3p0 reminded me that tennis can kill... dinosaurs. XD