Infatuation

 

People call Syuusuke Fuji a genius, and everyone who knows him would be hard-pressed to disagree. No one would call him stupid, at the very least, because a.) he’s not, and b.) insulting him is never beneficial towards one’s health.

 

Syuusuke Fuji is afraid of very few people (almost no one, really) and even fewer things. (Many people are, however, very afraid of him. With good reason, too.)

 

This would be why he is careful to see tennis as a hobby, and only that. He does not want something to consume him so entirely—it would be so easy, he thinks, for a stray ball to hit at precisely the wrong angle, wrench his shoulder or wrist and make it so that he will never be able to play competitive tennis again.

 

Were this to happen, it would devastate him.

 

Were this to happen and devastation to occur, one would have to assume that Fuji is like Tezuka or Ryoma.

 

He isn’t. Fuji treats tennis as a hobby—infuriating Ryoma—and casts it aside in exchange for something else, like photography, without a moment’s thought. He is careful to have a life outside of tennis, to stop himself from arranging his life around a sport. This way, when his interest wanes or he becomes injured, he will be able to move on.

 

He explains all this to Ryoma, who tugs his cap even lower over his face, says, “Mada mada dane,” and does not understand.

 

- - -

 

People call Syuusuke Fuji a genius, and everyone who knows him would be hard-pressed to disagree.

 

Still. He is human, after all, and he is prone to mistakes. Fits of blindness or stupidity where he does not predict the future as accurately as usual, and so tumbles blindly into the wrong direction.

 

Ryoma amuses him. Ryoma protests to public, exuberant displays of affection (such as singing cards, for instance), public displays of affection (perhaps kissing him on the forehead—platonically, he reminds himself—in front of the entire tennis team wasn’t such a good idea, but anything to ruffle Ryoma’s feathers...and what an odd image that was), and essentially all displays of affection. This, of course, encourages Fuji immensely, who feels that Ryoma enjoys them but refuses to admit it to himself.

 

They sleep together, but only in the most literal of senses. Fuji invites Ryoma over, there is a storm (odd, for that time of year), and he stops Ryoma from walking home in the rain (now, if you catch pneumonia Tezuka will never let me hear the end of it, and no doubt Inui will want you to test some of his juices for “health”).

 

Ryoma is a light sleeper, Fuji discovers. Fuji is lighter, and Ryoma’s warm presence and strands of blackish-green hair tossed over white pillows are more than enough to keep him awake. Morning comes and Fuji’s only slept for a few hours, but it’s a weekend. He’ll live.

 

Instead, he studies the small, dark shadows Ryoma’s eyelashes cast on his face, the piece of hair fallen in front of his face and fluttering out every time he exhales. Ryoma’s skin is soft, lightly tanned, and the giant T-shirt Fuji practically had to force onto him (he had fun, though Ryoma pou—er, sulked through it) reveals a strip of skin a shade paler than the rest. The contrast is subtle, but there, and Fuji admires it for a moment. His fingers are long, the nails blunt and rounded, and his palms have calluses on them. His right hand has a small cut on it—Fuji wonders where that could have come from.

 

Ryoma wakes up. Fuji notices the differences almost immediately: his body flexes like a cat’s, stretching his muscles before opening his eyes, and he yawns. The bed shifts under him. By the time he has completed his ritual, Fuji has left the bed and is on his way to the shower. (This has nothing to with Ryoma, naturally, but he likes to shower every morning.)

 

“...Fuji-sempai?” The confusion is there, on the surface for once. (This is why Fuji likes Ryoma more than Tezuka sometimes, because Ryoma is much more expressive and much easier to tease. Not that Tezuka is entirely cold; but he is made of marble and Fuji of diamond, and they slide off of each other harmlessly.)

 

Fuji smiles. “I’ll be done in a moment,” he says and slips into the bathroom.

 

They eat breakfast together—Ryoma barely touches his food until Fuji humiliates him in front of Yuuta by doing the standard “open up the tunnel, choo-choo” and he snatches the spoon out of Fuji’s hand and eats just to shut him up. Yuuta, he’s sure, is smirking from behind his hand, reveling in the fact that his brother has someone else to torment.

 

Ryoma’s cheeks still burn a dull red as Fuji walks him home.

 

“See you tomorrow,” Fuji says, and turns to go.

 

- - -

 

Something very dangerous has happened and Fuji doesn’t know what.

 

But Echizen preys on his mind constantly, and he finds himself thinking of him on the way to school (Momo would be taking him, as usual, and Fuji wonders how he knows this), in class as he hears the dull thwack of tennis ball against ground (Ryoma would prefer playing tennis than going to school, he knows), and on the way to lunch when he hears two girls talking excitedly (they would remind Ryoma of his fan club, or worse, belong to it, and thus annoy him).

 

If he’s around Ryoma, perhaps this will fade. Fuji recognizes this as a kind of infatuation, obsession, and also knows that all obsessions have their limit. There is only so much you can take of the same person, after all.

 

“Hello, Ryoma.” Fuji waits for him outside his classroom, hearing the whispering break out around them. Ryoma stares at him.

 

“Fuji-sempai? What are you doing here?”

 

Fuji’s smile broadens. Ryoma has a nice voice, soft and assured and...rather young, but he’s only twelve. “Waiting for you,” he answers simply and falls into step beside Ryoma, who blushes slightly. Fuji watches out of the corner of his eye, absorbed in the way the color spreads over his face.

 

Tezuka casts him an odd look. “Don’t hurt him,” he instructs Fuji, pulling him aside. Fuji smiles.

 

“Don’t worry,” is all that Tezuka receives.

 

It shouldn’t surprise Fuji, of course; he and Tezuka have known each other for years. Tezuka is very perceptive when he chooses to be, but doesn’t care enough most of the time to share his observations.

 

“Nya~ you like Ochibi!” Eiji greets him one day. Fuji smiles—it’s his answer for everything, much like Ryoma’s “Mada mada dane”—and does not correct him. There is nothing to correct, anyway.

 

Inui tells him quietly and out of hearing range of everyone else that there is a 45 percent chance of denial on Ryoma’s part (unsurprising), 20 percent chance of reciprocation (interesting, but Fuji is not in love and there is nothing to reciprocate), and 35 percent chance of both sides walking away hurt (unpleasant, but not happening if Fuji has anything to say about it). Anyways, Inui continues, there is a 95 percent chance of Ryoma being unable to identify whatever emotions he might hold for Fuji. Don’t get hurt, Inui adds. Don’t hurt him.

 

Fuji believes in beating the odds, and tells him so.

 

Rumors circulate even faster when Fuji joins Momo and Ryoma in their quest for fast food, and when Fuji gives Ryoma half his burger. (Ryoma immediately inspects for any signs of wasabi, hot sauce, pepper, or anything too...strong for his taste buds, but that’s besides the point.) He mumbles thank you. Momo looks suspicious even as he attempts to steal Ryoma’s French fries, and even more so—or perhaps that is astonishment and a good deal of fear—when Fuji offers to pay.

 

- - -

 

“It appears that you’re the only one who doesn’t know,” Fuji informs Ryoma.

 

“...know what?”

 

Fuji just smiles. “When you’re older,” he says.

 

“...mada mada dane.”

 

- - -

 

Fuji wonders if he’s lying to himself.

 

He can no longer remember when exactly this infatuation grew into something bigger, but it must have happened before two months ago, when he found himself counting Ryoma’s eyelashes. (He got to seventy before Ryoma rolled over.) Maybe the morning after the storm, when Fuji noticed for the first time what Ryoma looked like. Or maybe even before all that, when Ryoma started responding to his teasing in the most adorable of ways (namely death threats).

 

“Would you like to play tennis with me?” he asks. Ryoma’s mouth opens, then closes. Normally, he would jump at the chance, but Fuji’s eyes are fully open for once, and alarm bells are going off in his head.

 

Fuji’s lips curve up into a smile and Ryoma’s eyes follow the movement before he realizes what he’s doing. “Are you afraid of me?” Fuji asks.

 

Ryoma considers his reply. “No,” he says, but he can’t disguise the flicker of unease in his voice, written on his face and stamped into his eyes.

 

“Then there shouldn’t be any problems,” Fuji says.

 

- - -

 

Fuji has quit tennis. “I’m taking up photography,” he tells the team. He tells Ryoma that too, when Ryoma demands to know why. “Tennis was only a hobby, anyways.”

 

Ryoma’s eyes darken.

 

“Mada mada dane,” he snaps. That’s not enough. Not good enough—you’re not good enough. Fuji’s smile almost falters. Instead, it becomes brighter. More meaningless.

 

- - -

 

He misses Ryoma, he discovers, and he cannot explain why. Infatuation taken to the next level—a crush of some kind, he thinks. It’s only natural.

 

But really, should he feel half-complete, clumsy with only one leg, one arm, half a face, half a body? Ryoma’s absence gnaws at him, like some beast he can’t shake off.

 

He takes to lingering around the tennis courts, invisible to the naked eye. He takes photos of everyone, just to convince himself that this isn’t about Ryoma.

 

This is dangerous, he thinks when he finds that every photo has a scowling boy with a white baseball cap in it. I need to stop. I can’t do this.

 

Stop.

 

STOP.

 

...I can’t.

 

- - -

 

“Ne, Ryoma?”

 

Ryoma looks up.

 

Fuji kisses him.

 

He can’t stop himself, and he’s stopped trying.

 

It’s as simple as that.