(no subject)
written at sports fest. hooray for school-wide outdoor events.
prompts all from postcognitive
beethoven
The chords are heavy, the harmony bounces off the walls and it almost enough to make his chair vibrate. The piano music fills him and echoes in his ears. He thinks about the tune, thinks about the way he should be thinking about music, the way he thinks Fuji would be concentrating on the sound waves emanating from the speakers. "It's an imperfect cadence, Tezuka, here, listen!" And he'd try to pay attention to the cadences, the transposition, major minor allegro adagio crescendo decrescendo but Beethoven is never soft, Fuji says, and he buys the CD and Tezuka finds it in his locker the day after.
It was dark outside but he didn't turn on the light, maybe, he thought, just maybe he could hear better that way.
-
wash
It is cold, sharp at first on his skin but he adjusts, rubbing his hands under the tap - it flows down the drain, the pipes, the sewers, the sea.
"Fuji."
He ignores it - there is a spot on his hand, ink from Eiji's pen, from when he got too excited during math.
It is another fifteen minutes before Tezuka leaves, and another five before Fuji turns off the tap, fingers numb and white, the pen mark still stark on the back of his hand.
-
shirt
He thinks he should complement Fuji on his shirt. It is pastel, and blue, and nicely contrasted with his vest - a sweater without sleeves, Fuji had shown him one before - khaki and matching slacks, smile as usual, hand covering Yuuta's fingers, lips on the rim of a wineglass, red liquid swirling as he set it back down on the table. He laughs, and Tezuka imagines he can hear it over the polite tinkling of knife on plate, glass on glass.
"Buchou," and Tezuka realises that he has a piece of salmon still on his fork, a pine nut balancing precariously on it, he is startled and his hands shake - the pine nut falls off, followed by the fish, in bits and flakes. He picks it up again, and savours the faint taste of basil.
"I like your shirt," Echizen says, and Tezuka is distracted by thoughts of salmon sashimi, and wasabi, and vests - sweaters without sleeves that he didn't have a name for.
-
fingernail
Tezuka has his arms crossed and for lack of things to do, Fuji stares at them, observing Tezuka's wrists, knuckles, rounded nails with a pale pink sheen - they dig into his skin, crescent marks on his back, shoulders, thigh and it would only hurt the next day because today they'd be lost - he can see Echizen's reflection in Tezuka's glasses and hates the way that Tezuka concentrates so hard - hickey on his neck, red and raw, teeth scraping on his stomach down down down but it would only hurt tomorrow, when - Echizen performs another Twist Serve and blows his opponent away, and Fuji can see Tezuka nodding his approval out of the corner of his eye so he turns his head and looks at Eiji instead - there is sweat on his back, arms, chin, slick and smooth and hot between them but it would be over in the morning when he'd leave in silence swift - he feels a hand on his shoulder, first contact in months, then lips pressing against his and he thinks he shouldn't be doing this, because it would hurt, later, but he does so anyway.
Game and match, and Echizen loses, 4-6.
END.
part I and part II, because it makes sense that way.