Prince of Tennis (Tezuka/Fuji) [week 3 - prompt 1] Title: Our Lives Author:ketchupblood Rating: PG Warnings: Slash, boys getting old Word Count: 1,400 Summary: Tezuka and Fuji get old together. Almost exactly like Habitual, and completely on accident too... Author's Notes: Fluff! YES! I'm getting better at this!
3-1. they said our love would fade, but it gets stronger every day / they say that beauty fades, well, you're more beautiful than ever
The day Fuji promised Tezuka to stay with him until death—not in marriage, since neither of them had either the time or the need to go out of Japan just to tell everyone what they already knew—Yuuta had given his blessings with a gruff "Just wait until you're old and can't stand the sight of each other, Aniki" which Fuji took to mean "I'm glad you're happy now." Tezuka had been sure that it meant something more along the lines of "Idiot. Why do something useless like that?" but he didn't tell that to Fuji, since some things were better kept to himself.
He reconsidered that line of thought two years later when he got home early to find Fuji unconscious on the kitchen floor, a cutting board and vegetables half cut on the counter and the knife lying dangerously close to his almost lifeless form. Tezuka had gone numb and put the knife back on the counter before trying to shake Fuji awake. It took the whole of thirty seconds for it to sink in; Fuji was unconscious and his breathing so shallow that Tezuka could barely feel it, even with his hand right in front of Fuji's face. Then he called the emergency room and waited for them to rush his Fuji to the hospital.
He spent the rest of the night sitting in the waiting room, because he wasn't family and Fuji's family members weren't picking up the phone—they tended to ignore anyone who called after twelve or so. Only in the morning, when Yuuta rushed over after having heard Tezuka's desperate voicemails, did he run in and only then did the doctor tell them that there was nothing physically wrong with Fuji and there was little that they could do, but that he was stable.
Tezuka sat next to Fuji and would refuse to move for the next two weeks, except to go to work and do necessary bodily functions. He would talk to Fuji, speaking more at once than he had since the graduation speech he'd delivered to his university class nearly seven years ago. When the doctors decided that he was stable enough to unhook him from a few of the machines, Tezuka leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Fuji's forehead. "Wake up soon, Syuusuke." He said. "We still have to celebrate your birthday this year, remember? You wanted to go to France, right? You'd wanted to see if your father was still living there. I'm sorry I hadn't thought it was reasonable. We'll definitely go, alright?"
Yuuta stood outside the door then, wondering how his brother made this man, who had the perfect emotionless façade, break down so thoroughly. He waited until Tezuka stopped talking—to take a breath or because he'd run out of things to say, Yuuta didn't know—to walk in and to force Tezuka out. He had to get some sleep, Yuuta said. And something to eat, not the fast food meals he'd been eating lately, real food. It would do no one any good if Tezuka got sick too.
Tezuka had looked at him, eyes so blank that it scared Yuuta, and obediently stood up. Yuuta was right, of course. He'd better go home. "Tell me if he wakes."
Yuuta nodded and, when Tezuka had gone out, took the seat that Tezuka had been sitting in.
When Fuji woke up, four hours later, he was first confused by the setting then, once he'd realized where he was, he was worried that Tezuka wasn't there. He yanked out a handful of needles that had been delivering something vital, he was sure, from his arm and reached over to Yuuta, shaking him awake. "Where's Tezuka?"
Yuuta's shocked face didn't help his fear.
"Is he okay?"
Yuuta had nodded and explained. Fuji had frowned, because Tezuka must have been tired by it all, and then he had gotten up and demanded that the nurses let him leave right then, because he had to get back to Tezuka. They had refused, but Tezuka came running in only an hour later, shirt buttons not quite buttoned through the right holes and hair a complete mess. "Fuji."
Fuji, who had been forcibly put back into bed and had the needles in his arm again, started to get up, but Yuuta held him down. Tezuka moved next to him and then he was holding him.
He explained it later. It was only a bit too much stress from doubts that were flying at him. Apparently even artists were not allowed freedom to do as they wished anymore and someone had said something and it had spread until a whole (ridiculous) conspiracy had been born surrounding Fuji. Tezuka had told him he was an idiot—he needed to tell Tezuka when those things happened. Fuji had nodded and pulled Tezuka closer.
He didn't have another attack like that again. He just left the art world—it wasn't worth it, he thought. Tezuka had been worried when he'd announced that, five years after those days in the hospital, but Fuji had assured him he wasn't going to miss it that much and, since the rumors hadn't stopped yet, even after so long, Tezuka hadn't said another word. Instead, Fuji took an office job and spent his days alternately bored and amused by something his coworkers did. He asked Tezuka once if it were normal to feel like that; Tezuka had told him that he was lucky. Most people just felt bored.
It made Fuji wonder if Tezuka felt like that too.
Later that week, Tezuka came home to find their apartment, which had been painted neutral tones of whites and tans and a light blue in the bathroom, bright greens and yellows and reds and oranges. He had blinked, walked back out, checked the apartment number, and then back in. Fuji greeted him, running out of the kitchen with the apron that Tezuka's mother had given them a year ago after dropping by and finding Tezuka cooking in dress pants and a sweater, covered in pasta sauce. It had only been a one time thing, of course, and not Tezuka's fault at all that Fuji had thought it would be interesting to see how much the (already cooled) sauce would splash.
Still, it was a very nice apron and Fuji had apparently decided to wear it, though it wasn't covered in sauces but in paint and that gave Tezuka a pretty good idea just how their house had transformed so dramatically. He had to admire Fuji's skill, though, since painting ten rooms in a day was impressive enough on its own, but Fuji had apparently also redecorated. And when Fuji asked what he thought of it, Tezuka looked around again and said, "It looks very nice," meaning every word of it because Tezuka always meant everything he said, and Fuji had beamed at him.
Of course, neither Tezuka Ayano or Fuji Yoshiko would appreciate their sons' senses of color, and the walls would be repainted and the rooms redecorated in a month, but for a while, they enjoyed living in the brightly colored rooms that were for some reason more calming than the whites and tans ever were.
Sometimes, years later, Tezuka wished for those bright walls again, but he didn't have the time to repaint. Fuji might have; he wasn't sure. They tended not to talk about work in the precious few hours they had alone together. They had all day to work, after all, and only an hour or two for each other and there were better ways for Tezuka to spend the time than telling Fuji about the merger that they had arranged or listening to Fuji detail the stock market's current situation. Instead, Fuji would talk about the little red bird he'd seen that day and how he would show Tezuka the picture later and Tezuka would talk about meeting with Oishi that day for lunch and reminiscing about Seigaku, more than thirty years ago.
Fuji actually started, when Tezuka mentioned Seigaku. It really has been a long time, hasn't it? He had asked and Tezuka had thought for a while and nodded.
I'm glad you came back. Fuji said, talking about Germany, Tezuka thinks.
Tezuka answered, thinking about everything, I'm glad you didn't leave.