title: in Writing
fandom: Prince of Tennis
characters/pairings: Tezuka/Fuji
rating: Teen
warnings: vague suggestions of sexual behavior
summary: Fuji gets letters.
notes: Bryan's fault.

It fell out of his locker, so that he nearly didn't see it, except that he had exceptionally good vision for things in motion. He picked it up, a neatly folded square of fine white paper. Not knowing that it was the first rather than the only, he handled it carefully. The neat kanji were printed with such precise clarity, and in such tidy lines, it could easily have been a printout from a computer, and he didn't even recognize the handwriting.

Tezuka had chosen to use some difficult kanji in places, and his diction was so quaintly Japanese, the meaning behind the words were obscured, as if viewed beneath colored water. Indeed, the flowing blue ink seemed to suggest the movement of a river.

Fuji was intrigued.





He did not expect a telephone call while Tezuka was recuperating, nor emails. Tezuka liked to see the work of his hands before him. Everyday, after school, Fuji went through the neat stack of letters Yumiko had left on the table in the entryway, and checked the postmarks.

Letters from Tezuka were written out by hand in flowing, beautiful symbols, sometimes resembling calligraphy, depending on the depth of the passion that Tezuka was attempting to express. Fuji had learned the language of Tezuka's body, and he could see the shadow of it in these letters.

This one was written out in purple ink, on plain notepaper, crumpled a bit at the edges, where Tezuka had clung to it as he furiously wrote. Fuji lifted it to his nose, and imagined the scent of Tezuka's sweat. He lay back down on his bed, and opened his pants.





He sat down, and dipped his head back, looking up at the clear blue sky. There was a sense of anxiety that fueled him these days. His father's disapproval meant nothing compared to Tezuka's silence.

He knew better than to hope for a phone call, though he craved Tezuka's voice like a man on the brink of death from dehydration, salivating at the hope of even a drop of water on the tip of his tongue. It wasn't Tezuka's way, and that was all there was to it. He had left Tezuka an address, though. He had no idea, unfortunately, where Tezuka was, or how long it would take mail to get to where he was. The production company promised that all letters would get through, but they kept moving. Cambodia, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, Madagascar... Fuji wasn't even sure where he was, today.

Maybe Tezuka, like his father, would think he had been rash. Dropping out of high school to intern with a relief agency, taking photographs to help raise awareness. It was rash, damn it, but calculus was boring, and totally useless to him.

The sky here was as blue as it was anywhere.

The letter was placed in his hand that night, after sundown, when the only light was the bonfire. Fuji stood outside the circle of people, just barely able to make out the kanji on the paper. This time, it was blue, lined paper, and a red felt pen. Tezuka's lifestyle was showing; there were mixed English words scattered here and there. Still, Tezuka's basic message was clear.

Fuji could rejoin the group, a truer smile on his lips. Wherever they were going, he had a destination in his heart, still.





He walked barefoot across the wooden boards, across the tatami mats. They had fifteen in this room. His mother loved to boast about that. Tezuka was just outside, on the sand with his 'nephew,' Yumiko watching carefully, but not interfering.

It wasn't unexpected for there to be a small piece of paper, tucked in under the cactus' pot. This was just a scrap of paper, and it was written in quick, imprecise lettering, a mixture of kanji and hiragana. Just a quick note, words that Tezuka wasn't good at saying, a sentiment that he was excellent at showing.

Fuji stood in the opening of the sliding door, watching his lover play with his sister's baby, and he slipped the note into his pocket when he was sure that Tezuka was looking over his shoulder at him.





As much as he tried, there was no more room. Vexed, he huffed.

Tezuka, unpacking both of their bags, looked up with a raised eyebrow.

Fuji half-shrugged, and smiled. "I've run out of room in my letter box."

"Letter box?" Tezuka queried, stepping closer to look. Of course, he must have seen this box, but this was the only one that Fuji had that had a lock on it, since it was the same one that had been hidden under his bed in middle school, primarily to keep his sister out. Tezuka looked over the contents, his eyes widening, a slight blush staining the top of his cheeks.

He always showed Fuji these faces when Fuji's camera was nowhere to be found.

"You've saved them? All?"

"Of course," Fuji laughed, touching Tezuka's face gently. "Precious words from the one I love. I'm lucky; most people don't get to keep these words for posterity." This box had kept Fuji secure during many long tournaments during the heyday of Tezuka's career.

As always, words failed Tezuka, but he put his fingers in Fuji's hair, tangling up the strands that were being experimentally grown out, and he dipped back Fuji's head, expressing himself with his lips on Fuji's neck.

Fuji laughed, and let himself fall back, succumbing to Tezuka's physical poetry.








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