Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairings: TezuFuji, what a surprise :).
Word Count: 973
Genre: Plotless fluff.
The wheels on the train went clickity-clackety, clickity-clackety, clickity-clackety, clickity-clackety, and
He looked so soft without his glasses on, eyes closed lightly, hair falling haphazardly across his forehead. His cheeks were flushed from being out in the sun too long, hot to the touch, and his nose was already starting to peel. His hand felt soft on
The air was hot outside, and humid, and the sickly-sweet scent from the flowering vines made it hard to breath.
There were bees soaring in and out among the flowers and on the rim of Ryoma’s ponta, just drones that wouldn’t sting. Their buzzing was low, interrupted by the occasional cawing of a bird as it flapped overhead or a ‘Nya, Oishi!’ from the acrobat climbing a tree. Inui walked by, dragging a pleased-looking Kaidoh and muttering something about finding a sample to study back home, ii data, and as his determined stomping faded in the distance the sounds in the forest quieted, until there was only the humming of the bees and the scritch-scratching of a pen on paper.
Tezuka’s head was bowed as he wrote in his journal, his glasses slipping slowly down the bridge of his nose. He sat cross-legged on the path in front of a plant with small leaves and dozens of smaller fuchsia buds blooming on it. There was sweat dribbling down his forehead and mud on his legs and an ant climbing up the side of his water bottle, but Tezuka was intent on his writing.
The journal was leather but had a small scotch-taped paper reading Mexico-Colombia-Venezuela on it; when they got back home it would be filed on the shelf over Tezuka’s computer desk, sixth journal from the left, in between Canada-Alaska-Hawaii and Ecuador-Peru-Brazil. Very neat and organized, and it would bother Tezuka to no end that the spine of this journal was stained darker than the others from the coffee Eiji had spilled on it the day before, despite Tezuka’s assertions that it was perfectly fine and Eiji shouldn’t worry about it at all. But that was just how Tezuka was.
His lips were moving, mumbling silently the words he was writing on the crisp, clean, acid-free paper, a medley of words without sound. Fuchsia, he would maybe write, a bright array of colors without end, glory upon glory of sight as far as your eye can see, hot damp tourists bumbling sleepily from vine to vine, breathing in the stagnant air and grinning widely so their teeth show for the camera.
Maybe it would be something like that. Or maybe it would be something beautiful that
His head was still bowed over his journal when
Tezuka’s grip was strong, trusting, his weight a comforting tug as he unfolded his limbs and stood awkwardly, shaking his legs to get the blood back in them, stomping them one at a time on the spongy path. He loomed over
The grass and the twigs at the side of the path nicked their ankles as they walked, and Tezuka’s hand in
The sound of violins and trumpets and sharp metal cymbals from Inui’s headphones drifted over the back of the seat and wrapped around