My grandpa’s staying with us right now. That’s probably where some of the old age references came from. ^^; Sorry, grandpa. Inspired by meitachi’s Sight.

 

This is also the first part of yet another two part mini-series focusing on Fuji x Ryoma. ::sweatdrop:: I wasn’t kidding when I said the PoT bug had bitten.

 

Snapshot

 

Very few things in life last forever. This might be because no one has lived forever, and forever has not come yet; but this might also be because everyone has died before forever ends.

 

In any case, Fuji has no illusions about himself. He wants to remember his life, all the good and the bad and everything in between. Tennis won’t give him that; tennis will stay with him when he’s young and desert him when he’s old. His breath will catch in his lungs and he’ll lose it when he serves, and one lap around the court will have his legs trembling, wobbling with old age.

 

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to watch himself decay, losing everything precious to him.

 

Instead, he chooses photography. Even old men can point a camera and take a picture.

 

He learns that there’s more to photography than he thought there was, and he learns it well. Lighting fascinates him for a few weeks; the sun shines down upon a single leaf and when he takes a picture of it, the dew drops have turned golden and translucent.

 

Such a fragile thing, he thinks, surprised by the beauty of such a common, everyday thing. He examines the picture carefully before adding it to his portfolio.

 

Gold and green, he thinks. It reminds him of a certain kohai, and he smiles at the thought.

 

- - -

 

Of course, Ryoma’s hair is really black. Still, it shines green in the sunlight, and Fuji smiles just before he points a camera at Ryoma and says, “Cheese.”

 

He develops the picture and admires Ryoma’s startled face for a few minutes. He puts the photo in his personal collection.

 

So far, it’s all about Ryoma.

 

- - -

 

It’s as if he’s preserving life, Fuji decides randomly, attempting to capture tiny moments on film.

 

I’d have better luck if I turned obsessive and used a video camera, he thinks a moment later, and the thought amuses him enough for a startled laugh to break free.

 

Ryoma looks at him in surprise. “Fuji-sempai?” he asks, popcorn in hand. “What’s so funny?”

 

Fuji smiles. “Nothing,” he says and gestures for Ryoma to sit down beside him, and the movie begins.

 

- - -

 

Afterward, he can’t remember what the movie was about. Instead, his memories are littered with snapshots of Ryoma’s fingers around yellowy kernels of popcorn, Ryoma’s mouth, Ryoma’s eyes when concentrating on something other than tennis, Ryoma’s voice saying something dismissive and sarcastic about the movie, and Ryoma’s scent in his nose and the brush of Ryoma’s skin against his arm. And then it stops being Ryoma’s and starts being Ryoma.

 

Ryoma, Ryoma, Ryoma.

 

- - -

 

Whatever they have—if they even have anything—won’t last forever. Fuji is fairly certain of this.

 

He won’t always have the memory of Ryoma’s skin, nor his warmth. He won’t always have Ryoma’s voice in his ears, and he won’t always have Ryoma’s presence by his side.

 

It’s as if I’m trying to preserve memories of Ryoma with a simple camera, he thinks, and then, maybe I am.