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chineseinkComing of Age by Mei
Prince of Tennis, FujiRyo, PG, 1495 words
What does it mean to become an adult? Ryoma doesn't want to lose Fuji.
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30_kisses theme: #13 excessive chain
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among_the_lost, who is the best roomie ever, and because I love her and I can. We are carbon-bonded that way.
Coming of Age
bymeitachi
Fuji slid his fingers through Ryoma’s, touch light, only fingertips brushing, and the look suspended in his blue eyes made it hard for Ryoma to swallow. Perfect day that it was, warm and sunny and cloudless, he could only feel the fatalistic beat of his heart and the cool brush of skin against skin. Fuji stood beside him, slight and graceful, still as trim as he ever was, the fall of his slacks impeccably neat, creased down the middle, and his white dress shirt buttoned up and tucked in with only the pale skin of his throat bared and a flash of the inside of his wrists through the sleeves. He looked, Ryoma thought, unbearably adult. Professional. Out of reach.
How long had it been?
He would have to let go soon, step away from this tenuous, soft touch, and move forward, shoulders encased in a tailored suit jacket that matched his slacks, deep blue silk tie around his neck that brought out his eyes, and gift diamond tiepin that sparkled when the light hit it right. He would step forward and leave Ryoma behind as he joined the others, the other adults crowding toward the front with their gray and black and dark blue silks and cotton and polyester suits, their gaily colored red, purple, gold, orange kimonos that sang of new opportunities and bright futures.
Adulthood, thought Ryoma, and hitched up his shoulders slightly, dipping his head as he fought a scowl. He shouldn’t feel so petulant, so childish.
It had been five years. Junior high and senior high and one more year until his graduation; the years passed so fast and Fuji was already leaving him.
The world awaits you, they’d been told, and welcomes you. You are our future, the driving force of Japan. Your talent and your brilliance will lead the generation to new heights—do your peers proud, do your parents proud, do your country proud. You will act as beacons of hope in this new world, working hard, toiling for your society, and you will be the breath and life force of the greatest nation in the world. Do your best!
Don’t leave me, Ryoma wanted to say instead, winding his fingers more tightly through Fuji’s. Look at me. Remember me.
He held his breath and kept his distance, fingers still touching and only just, bare contact in a sea of newly-turned adults, eager and nervous and beyond Ryoma’s grasp. His world was still composed of cotton jerseys and science homework, of guarding his bento from Horio’s thieving ways, of English tests too easy for him and giggling girls and afternoon naps at his discretion. His world was still Karupin and tennis, sweat and labored breathing, still adrenaline and thrill of challenge—his world was that of a child’s, playtime in full.
Fuji stroked his index finger along Ryoma’s and smiled when golden eyes turned up to his. His hair fell—soft, feathery, golden brown—across his face, and Ryoma itched to brush it back so he turned away instead. Swallowing was still difficult because he wanted to close his fingers around not, for once, a tennis racket, its weight firm and sure in his hands, but Fuji’s hand instead. He wanted to ask, to hold his breath and have his questions answered before he could voice them, to be reassured, to be told that he was still necessary, that tennis would always be there, that becoming an adult wouldn’t change all the important things in life.
Five years and each year turning into the link of an unending chain, looping the six centimeters between Ryoma and Fuji.
I don’t want to grow up, Ryoma thought, because he was a child and because he could, because he had three years left and Fuji didn’t. He had the luxury of putting off homework for video games, for relaxing in a bath with new lavender bath salts, for hour upon endless hour of training, eyes closed and feeling the rhythm of the ball, of the swing, of his sneakers against the concrete as he let the familiarity lull him into what passed as an almost hypnotic state.
Fuji liked to watch him and they would never say a word during those times; silence pervaded then and only the thwack of the ball, the swish of the racket, patterned the air.
Ryoma would practice relentlessly, into the early morning hours, and Fuji would let him. On those rare nights, when Fuji didn’t stop him briefly, press a kiss to his mouth, and murmur something about homework and sleep before leaving him to the unyielding night and chain-link fence, Ryoma would hit balls against the wall, three centimeters from the machine spitting at him, until he was exhausted. Then he would slowly cool down, shrugging back his shoulders and letting his muscles relax, and there would be fingers digging gently into his back as Fuji pulled him close for a massage.
A suspension of time between young and old, then and now, between night and morning—Ryoma would nearly fall asleep in Fuji’s lap and Fuji’s arms would wrap around him, keeping away cold and time and reality.
Five years and a scattering of endless morning-nights of perfection, and they all led up to this, this marker of the end of time. One era ended and another began.
The shining future called, so let the sea of hope flood across the island country in its swath of gray-blue with splashes of golden-red and bright smiles.
Five years, from twelve and fifteen to seventeen and twenty. The years added up in his head and Ryoma discarded them, little interested in numbers, more interested in memories. Five years since he’d first broken Fuji’s Tsubame Gaeshi in the rain; three years since the first kiss, soft and gentle, startling; two years since Fuji had quit tennis and Ryoma had, in anger, challenged him to a game every afternoon on the street courts for two weeks and had been half-pleased when Fuji never backed down; nine months since Fuji’s graduation from his first year at Tokyo University, journalism and international relations double major; and less than a month since Ryoma’s birthday and the “I love you” kisses and snowfall, blue eyes open and honest and laughing at the complaint that snow inhibited tennis play.
Fuji’s family stood behind them now, mother, ever-absent father, older sister, and younger brother. They were tearful, proud, knowing and pleased in the case of Yumiko, sheepish but fiercely supportive in the case of Yuuta, who was grown older now, almost an adult himself. They were here as family, and they stood behind Fuji, allowing Ryoma beside this boy now man, fingers just brushing, eyes turned straight ahead, chin dipped, mouth tight. They allowed for the way Ryoma’s throat was tight and his shoulders tense, because his eyes were burning and he still wanted to tug on Fuji’s hand and ask, demand, that they leave and find a court where Ryoma could be himself, be a child, and not have to deal with this new world where Fuji was not beside him, but stepping away.
They allowed it and they smiled, gently, warmly, because Fuji never smiled at anyone else quite like that—amused, interested, challenged, surprised, teasing, and always tinged with an edge of indefinable softness. He didn’t hold a prolonged touch with anyone else, didn’t trail his fingers upward and stroke lightly against a slightly trembling wrist, all without a single blue-eyed glance. It’d been five years and they knew how to communicate without eye contact, one shying away grumpily, muttering about idiotic social norms, and the other too deceptive in his contact with the world to want to be frank.
Sight was overrated when there was touch, when there was the sound of panting breaths, and the surge of self-satisfaction that nearly overwhelmed Ryoma when he knew he was the only one who could still get Fuji to play tennis and play seriously.
It’d been five years and Ryoma realized that he was afraid because Fuji had become chained to him, too irreplaceable to consider losing to this new world of bright future and opportunities.
The time had come and his heart ran wild, trepidation abounded, and Ryoma fought a scowl because it would too easily become a terrified frown and he shouldn’t be this childish—but he was a child, wasn’t he?—and instead let Fuji go. Fuji, in his tailored suit and winking tiepin, hair soft and brushed, eyes blue and warm and trained on Ryoma.
Ryoma exhaled as Fuji pulled his hand away, featherlight touch and connection gone, and breathed in again when those blue eyes lit on him, warm and full of promise that told him that maybe sight was something, after all, something that made his heart jerk and recall those promises of tennis and sex.
Fuji was an adult now and Ryoma thought that, perhaps, he deserved to be one after five years.
--
Started/Finished: 02.06.06.
--
Notes: Japan's "Seijin no Hi" day is the official "Coming of Age" national holiday, when all 20-year-olds are reconized as adults and have a formal ceremony where they are welcomed to the work force, pretty much. Always the second Monday in January (though up until 2000, it had always been Jan 15).
Prince of Tennis, FujiRyo, PG, 1495 words
What does it mean to become an adult? Ryoma doesn't want to lose Fuji.
30_kisses theme: #13 excessive chainFor
among_the_lost, who is the best roomie ever, and because I love her and I can. We are carbon-bonded that way.Coming of Age
by
meitachiFuji slid his fingers through Ryoma’s, touch light, only fingertips brushing, and the look suspended in his blue eyes made it hard for Ryoma to swallow. Perfect day that it was, warm and sunny and cloudless, he could only feel the fatalistic beat of his heart and the cool brush of skin against skin. Fuji stood beside him, slight and graceful, still as trim as he ever was, the fall of his slacks impeccably neat, creased down the middle, and his white dress shirt buttoned up and tucked in with only the pale skin of his throat bared and a flash of the inside of his wrists through the sleeves. He looked, Ryoma thought, unbearably adult. Professional. Out of reach.
How long had it been?
He would have to let go soon, step away from this tenuous, soft touch, and move forward, shoulders encased in a tailored suit jacket that matched his slacks, deep blue silk tie around his neck that brought out his eyes, and gift diamond tiepin that sparkled when the light hit it right. He would step forward and leave Ryoma behind as he joined the others, the other adults crowding toward the front with their gray and black and dark blue silks and cotton and polyester suits, their gaily colored red, purple, gold, orange kimonos that sang of new opportunities and bright futures.
Adulthood, thought Ryoma, and hitched up his shoulders slightly, dipping his head as he fought a scowl. He shouldn’t feel so petulant, so childish.
It had been five years. Junior high and senior high and one more year until his graduation; the years passed so fast and Fuji was already leaving him.
The world awaits you, they’d been told, and welcomes you. You are our future, the driving force of Japan. Your talent and your brilliance will lead the generation to new heights—do your peers proud, do your parents proud, do your country proud. You will act as beacons of hope in this new world, working hard, toiling for your society, and you will be the breath and life force of the greatest nation in the world. Do your best!
Don’t leave me, Ryoma wanted to say instead, winding his fingers more tightly through Fuji’s. Look at me. Remember me.
He held his breath and kept his distance, fingers still touching and only just, bare contact in a sea of newly-turned adults, eager and nervous and beyond Ryoma’s grasp. His world was still composed of cotton jerseys and science homework, of guarding his bento from Horio’s thieving ways, of English tests too easy for him and giggling girls and afternoon naps at his discretion. His world was still Karupin and tennis, sweat and labored breathing, still adrenaline and thrill of challenge—his world was that of a child’s, playtime in full.
Fuji stroked his index finger along Ryoma’s and smiled when golden eyes turned up to his. His hair fell—soft, feathery, golden brown—across his face, and Ryoma itched to brush it back so he turned away instead. Swallowing was still difficult because he wanted to close his fingers around not, for once, a tennis racket, its weight firm and sure in his hands, but Fuji’s hand instead. He wanted to ask, to hold his breath and have his questions answered before he could voice them, to be reassured, to be told that he was still necessary, that tennis would always be there, that becoming an adult wouldn’t change all the important things in life.
Five years and each year turning into the link of an unending chain, looping the six centimeters between Ryoma and Fuji.
I don’t want to grow up, Ryoma thought, because he was a child and because he could, because he had three years left and Fuji didn’t. He had the luxury of putting off homework for video games, for relaxing in a bath with new lavender bath salts, for hour upon endless hour of training, eyes closed and feeling the rhythm of the ball, of the swing, of his sneakers against the concrete as he let the familiarity lull him into what passed as an almost hypnotic state.
Fuji liked to watch him and they would never say a word during those times; silence pervaded then and only the thwack of the ball, the swish of the racket, patterned the air.
Ryoma would practice relentlessly, into the early morning hours, and Fuji would let him. On those rare nights, when Fuji didn’t stop him briefly, press a kiss to his mouth, and murmur something about homework and sleep before leaving him to the unyielding night and chain-link fence, Ryoma would hit balls against the wall, three centimeters from the machine spitting at him, until he was exhausted. Then he would slowly cool down, shrugging back his shoulders and letting his muscles relax, and there would be fingers digging gently into his back as Fuji pulled him close for a massage.
A suspension of time between young and old, then and now, between night and morning—Ryoma would nearly fall asleep in Fuji’s lap and Fuji’s arms would wrap around him, keeping away cold and time and reality.
Five years and a scattering of endless morning-nights of perfection, and they all led up to this, this marker of the end of time. One era ended and another began.
The shining future called, so let the sea of hope flood across the island country in its swath of gray-blue with splashes of golden-red and bright smiles.
Five years, from twelve and fifteen to seventeen and twenty. The years added up in his head and Ryoma discarded them, little interested in numbers, more interested in memories. Five years since he’d first broken Fuji’s Tsubame Gaeshi in the rain; three years since the first kiss, soft and gentle, startling; two years since Fuji had quit tennis and Ryoma had, in anger, challenged him to a game every afternoon on the street courts for two weeks and had been half-pleased when Fuji never backed down; nine months since Fuji’s graduation from his first year at Tokyo University, journalism and international relations double major; and less than a month since Ryoma’s birthday and the “I love you” kisses and snowfall, blue eyes open and honest and laughing at the complaint that snow inhibited tennis play.
Fuji’s family stood behind them now, mother, ever-absent father, older sister, and younger brother. They were tearful, proud, knowing and pleased in the case of Yumiko, sheepish but fiercely supportive in the case of Yuuta, who was grown older now, almost an adult himself. They were here as family, and they stood behind Fuji, allowing Ryoma beside this boy now man, fingers just brushing, eyes turned straight ahead, chin dipped, mouth tight. They allowed for the way Ryoma’s throat was tight and his shoulders tense, because his eyes were burning and he still wanted to tug on Fuji’s hand and ask, demand, that they leave and find a court where Ryoma could be himself, be a child, and not have to deal with this new world where Fuji was not beside him, but stepping away.
They allowed it and they smiled, gently, warmly, because Fuji never smiled at anyone else quite like that—amused, interested, challenged, surprised, teasing, and always tinged with an edge of indefinable softness. He didn’t hold a prolonged touch with anyone else, didn’t trail his fingers upward and stroke lightly against a slightly trembling wrist, all without a single blue-eyed glance. It’d been five years and they knew how to communicate without eye contact, one shying away grumpily, muttering about idiotic social norms, and the other too deceptive in his contact with the world to want to be frank.
Sight was overrated when there was touch, when there was the sound of panting breaths, and the surge of self-satisfaction that nearly overwhelmed Ryoma when he knew he was the only one who could still get Fuji to play tennis and play seriously.
It’d been five years and Ryoma realized that he was afraid because Fuji had become chained to him, too irreplaceable to consider losing to this new world of bright future and opportunities.
The time had come and his heart ran wild, trepidation abounded, and Ryoma fought a scowl because it would too easily become a terrified frown and he shouldn’t be this childish—but he was a child, wasn’t he?—and instead let Fuji go. Fuji, in his tailored suit and winking tiepin, hair soft and brushed, eyes blue and warm and trained on Ryoma.
Ryoma exhaled as Fuji pulled his hand away, featherlight touch and connection gone, and breathed in again when those blue eyes lit on him, warm and full of promise that told him that maybe sight was something, after all, something that made his heart jerk and recall those promises of tennis and sex.
Fuji was an adult now and Ryoma thought that, perhaps, he deserved to be one after five years.
--
Started/Finished: 02.06.06.
--
Notes: Japan's "Seijin no Hi" day is the official "Coming of Age" national holiday, when all 20-year-olds are reconized as adults and have a formal ceremony where they are welcomed to the work force, pretty much. Always the second Monday in January (though up until 2000, it had always been Jan 15).
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