Prince of Tennis: Tezuka Kunimitsu/Fuji Syusuke, Stages of Physical Intimacy: Brushing
Title: Waiting Game
Author: Reddwarfer
Fandom/Pairing: Prince of Tennis: Tezuka/Fuji
Theme: Stages of Physical Intimacy: Nudging/Petting/brushing
Rating: PG
Word Count: 256
Disclaimer: The owners of PoT own PoT
It always started with a whisper of wind across his back too singular to be from nature. It crawled along his spine, dancing on his skin, and made any other thoughts utterly impossible.
So, Fuji thought to himself, this is what it's like to be a dog to a master.
Fuji still refused to admit defeat, and he forced himself to stillness as long as he could manage, before the desire to see him became more than he could quell.
Pathetic, he chided himself, being so utterly owned.
He turned and saw the retreating form of his Captain heading off to whatever nobler endeavor he seemingly never ceased to have to do. Some part of Fuji wanted to run after him, but that was not an aspect of the game. Not yet.
Tezuka never rewarded hastiness.
Fuji truly hated the waiting, no matter how often he was renowned for his patience.
With Tezuka, all it was was waiting. Waiting and watching and wondering and worrying until Fuji thoroughly despised both Tezuka and alliteration, but both seemed to haunt him anyhow.
Later on that day, it was the merest of brushes against his fingers as they exchanged a book in the hall. Tezuka's eyes burrowed into his, searching for something, some sort of reciprocity, and he could tell Tezuka thought he found it.
Which he did…perhaps.
Fuji refused to admit to anything regarding his Captain, except, maybe, that Tezuka was perfection. That, Fuji mused, could be taken many different ways. And they all happened to be truth.
Author: Reddwarfer
Fandom/Pairing: Prince of Tennis: Tezuka/Fuji
Theme: Stages of Physical Intimacy: Nudging/Petting/brushing
Rating: PG
Word Count: 256
Disclaimer: The owners of PoT own PoT
It always started with a whisper of wind across his back too singular to be from nature. It crawled along his spine, dancing on his skin, and made any other thoughts utterly impossible.
So, Fuji thought to himself, this is what it's like to be a dog to a master.
Fuji still refused to admit defeat, and he forced himself to stillness as long as he could manage, before the desire to see him became more than he could quell.
Pathetic, he chided himself, being so utterly owned.
He turned and saw the retreating form of his Captain heading off to whatever nobler endeavor he seemingly never ceased to have to do. Some part of Fuji wanted to run after him, but that was not an aspect of the game. Not yet.
Tezuka never rewarded hastiness.
Fuji truly hated the waiting, no matter how often he was renowned for his patience.
With Tezuka, all it was was waiting. Waiting and watching and wondering and worrying until Fuji thoroughly despised both Tezuka and alliteration, but both seemed to haunt him anyhow.
Later on that day, it was the merest of brushes against his fingers as they exchanged a book in the hall. Tezuka's eyes burrowed into his, searching for something, some sort of reciprocity, and he could tell Tezuka thought he found it.
Which he did…perhaps.
Fuji refused to admit to anything regarding his Captain, except, maybe, that Tezuka was perfection. That, Fuji mused, could be taken many different ways. And they all happened to be truth.