[Prince of Tennis] Seven Days: The Sixth

[shiraume_fic]

Seven Days: The Sixth

661 words. Rated PG. Slice of life with a hint of romance. Originally written 4/11/2007 as a relaxation fic after the completion of Whisper.



Sora

Sky.

Purest blue, with dustings of feathery white near the horizon. Air. Crystal-clear; transparent, like the tinkle of glass bells. Water, a shade darker than the sky, the wave crests wafting gently with the wind. Sand. Palest gold, bleached white in the sun.

Sound. Warm and lazy, drifting through the billowing curtains. The static and skip, as familiar as the repeated tune. And words, a hypnotic murmur shadowing the melody.

He did not look up when a cold hand brushed against his cheek. His attention hadn’t been on the open book in his lap for at least half an hour, but he refused to give up, unwilling to simply idle. Cold fingers curled on his nape, and he resisted the urge to shiver.

“It’s still too cold to leave the windows open.” Tezuka drew the cold fingers away from his neck, lacing their fingers together. His spine still tingled from the chill of the touch, but the sun was warm on his pant leg. “Your hands are cold.”

A soft huff of what might have been a laugh, or exasperated sigh, and a lithe body rounded his chair, leaning on the arm of the wooden chaise longue.

“I finally drag you out for a proper vacation, and you spend the whole time reading books and ignoring me.” The mild voice held a hint of petulance for his benefit, and his mouth quirked.

“I thought you didn’t want to play tennis today,” he pointed out.

Fuji’s free hand snaked under the hem of his shirt, but he caught it a scant inch before it reached its target. Fuji struggled to free his hands, but his heart wasn’t in it. Tezuka adjusted his grip, holding Fuji’s hands more securely. He knew he could best Fuji in a straight arm-wrestling, but Fuji was surprisingly stronger than he looked and knew when to press his advantage. The book, tumbled from his lap, lay on the sand, forgotten.

Tezuka’s grip remained firm, and Fuji, after a short moment of stillness, turned a sudden dead weight on his chest, driving the breath out of him in a surprised whoosh. He nearly lost his grip on Fuji, but stubbornly held on. Both of them knew Fuji had already achieved his true objective, but that didn’t mean Tezuka was planning to fold. At least, not yet.

Sharp chin dug into Tezuka’s collarbone, and Fuji’s lighter but still substantial weight rested fully on top of him. But Tezuka knew it had to be just as uncomfortable for Fuji, with hands held pinned behind his body and legs tangled with Tezuka’s, unable to regain balance or leverage. And Fuji had always disliked being immobilized. Tezuka lowered their joined hands, resting them on the satiny wood of the seat, so Fuji could free himself if he wished.

Instead, Fuji relaxed and nestled against him. Fuji’s cheek lay on Tezuka’s shoulder, soft hair tickling his chin. His breathing evened out and deepened, synchronizing with Tezuka’s. Fuji’s hands crept under the hem of Tezuka’s shirt, seeking out the warmth of bare skin. His fingers were still cool but no longer icy, warmed by Tezuka’s hands and the sun-kissed wood.

“Your hands are still cold,” Tezuka told him, and put his arms around Fuji.

“Mm. And you’re warm.”

Fuji burrowed closer, shifting so they could cuddle without his weight crushing Tezuka. Tezuka let a small smile tug on his lips, tucking Fuji’s head under his chin.

The song crooned softly, then faded away. Tezuka briefly considered picking up the book, but Fuji was warm and pleasant curled up against him. He relaxed, holding Fuji snugly, and waited for the next song to start.

Halfway through the next song, both of them were sound asleep, resting together under the gentle warmth of the spring sun. Sheer white curtains ruffled lazily in the breeze, stilling as the music slowed to a stop. The static and skip gave way to a silence.

Sky. Ocean.

And wind at rest.



Note: Sora means sky, and can also refer to the sky-blue color. It was my favorite color as a child.