Last chapter, so please read. Thank you!

Yaoi, TezukaFuji, OishiEiji, InuiKaido, and MomoRyoma. Don't own. Thanks to yoshiko-chan, who beta-d and was a humongous help. Thanks!

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Fuji

He wasn't sure where they stood, he wasn't even sure if he was happy. He wouldn't leave, but it felt like he couldn't stay, not with the relationship they had now.

Tezuka had been given an office. He was successful enough, and Fuji was going to visit his workplace. He wasn't invited. He was there to return something, and he wasn't even a deliveryman, he was lower, because he wasn't paid. Tezuka had called him and absently ordered him to bring his briefcase; it was an order, even phrased as a request.

He took a taxi driven by a gruff voiced man, battered and gaudily painted, the outside faintly crusted with the grey film that surrounded everything in the city. His seat was plush, soft velvet that was barely worn and he sat silently, despite the best efforts of the cabbie to engage him in conversation, stroking the seat tiredly with thin hands and watched the brilliantly colored whirl of people and their drab, careless surroundings, and smiled.

The ride stopped too soon, and he saw the building so proudly exclaimed over, a model of efficiency and intimidation, looming over him and throwing everything below it into dark shadow. Fuji thought it looked cold and ridiculous, an imposing silhouette of grey against the warmer red flushed brick buildings beside it, then frowned, his forehead barely creasing, at the silver wash of the deep blue that reminded him of the underneath a heavy harbor, the shadow of a shark barely visible in the depths, then dismissed the notion, tightening the hold on Tezuka's briefcase that he was there to return. He hurried forward, dismissing clay and flesh toned walls under yellow lighting and oddly spaced, thickly glassed covered paintings that appeared to be an afterthought, if a subtle, genteel one. He didn't like it but it wasn't his place to question it, he thought absently.

The farther he rode upwards on the dark, compressing elevator with dim plastic buttons, and wished in vain for the familiarity of the stairs, if only to clear his head, the more opulent and yet curiously alike the offices became, and he didn't really like that either. Maybe he was being picky, he speculated, as his shoes nudged pebbled carpeting and small crumbs from forgotten, hastily eaten sandwiches in slippery waxed paper, and his head hurt. It didn't matter how badly he felt. He finally reached the last floor.

It was tasteful, rich, and business-like, the rich gleam of polished wood contrasting with the neatly painted walls and leather armchairs, the cushions ringed by studs of brass, and yet it was cold, emerald paint and stiff curtains, the room filled with silver nameplates and artificial light. Austere. The light was golden and almost translucent, yet as clear as glass. He felt odd, out of place among his friends who were also viewing the workplace, as if he was the only one that did not belong. He hated it, he decided as Tezuka came out to greet them, taking the briefcase out of his hands. He smiled gently and turned to leave.

Tezuka didn't understand, he thought despairingly. He's pushing me away, and I'm not sure if he knows it. He will understand, he might realize it someday, when it's far too late for us. I knew that. And I won't accept it on any other terms than this. I just didn't think it would hurt so much, having to carve a place in his life for myself every day, and he didn't even notice. But I didn't tell him, and I won't. I can't.

He turned to leave, and to leave their lives with that action.

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The tension in the room that had been belied by Fuji's smile reappeared, a simple exchange between himself and his lover, apparent only to the discerning eye. His friends knew them too well, worried too much, laughed and toiled with them, had helped them and done their best in vain. He didn't belong, and he was leaving. He turned to the door, and reached for the handle that lead to the outside room full of blank faced people who didn't care, and couldn't see the difference. Wait, Tezuka said, almost anxious but he couldn't have been, was, appeared to be, and his lover was left grasping at empty endings of half-forgotten sentences and words in the rich light. Fuji's eves were very blue, but Tezuka couldn't see them. He knew that.

What do you want, he asked to the empty, listening air, faintly perfumed with coffee and expensive cologne, and asked himself the same question. I'm not sure, exactly, replied the other slowly, desperately remembering the crackling of a radio, a silver washed mirror frame, clear glass and a molten sky, and the warmth of another on cotton sheets. Fuji knew. He almost stayed, anyway, but he could never leave. We need to talk, his lover began, but the words hit him like the blow of a tennis ball sinking into the soft flesh just below his ribcage, driving into him, and formed, ghostly and unreal, and hovered in midair, held by an invisible force, taunting him, laughing cruelly at his distress, and he could see red hair and Tezuka's face, pale and taut, but that had to be a lie because even if Tezuka worried, he would never let it appear, could never, and his lover had finally realized the problem, if only part of the problem, and it didn't matter, truly didn't matter anymore, because as long as he was alive, he would change into a living little ghost puppet, a shell of whispers and bone and it wouldn't matter, because Tezuka wouldn't notice, and he would never tell his lover, or leave him because he was a fool and lost, irrevocably lost…

Fuji opened his eyes to white walls. There was a faint orange haze dying the room, and a vague shape bending over him, which solidified into a man with shadows creeping across the bottom of his face, a doctor, and they said it was a combination of emotional stress and insomnia that caused him to collapse, and they gave him some advice and a few prescriptions he threw away once they left, and he walked out to the front desk where his friends were currently scaring the receptionist. Inui's juice tasted better than the medicine, so it didn't really matter, and it was good for you, too.

He watched them distantly, worried and yet solaced by their loved ones, and his eyelids were suddenly heavy and clinging, but it didn't really matter because his mouth was accustomed to arranging itself into a smile and did so without his permission. He didn't want to look at Tezuka so he didn't, and pretended he had left something at Ryoma's apartment. His only response to their fussing was a short sentence, quiet and curt. I'm tired, he said at last, and I don't particularly want to look at you. He saw the wince that was quickly hidden and almost smiled but it hurt too much.

He walked home. It was raining and dim and faintly grey tinged with mist, and there were little shattered pieces of glass underneath his feet like uncut diamonds, mingling and hiding in the new spring green grass, and gravel and asphalt ahead of him, and everything looked far away but as real as the fading paint on somebody's garage. Bits of water fell on his face and hands and he felt tiredly contented and slightly empty, and acutely aware of a slightly scratchy throat, and comfortably warm and chilled. He had forgotten what it meant to be angry.

He let himself quietly in to Ryoma's apartment, the door open as if they were expecting him, but the rooms were empty and surprisingly neat. He paused, and filled a glass of water at the kitchen sink, then put it down on the table, untasted. He walked into the hall, noticing a painting on the ceiling, a well-done copy of a famous Dutch painting called the Girl With the Pearl Earring, a recent addition. He'd seen it before, but hadn't noticed the dark paint around the edges before, or the fact she looked out from the shadows, her skin and headwrap shining with a faint hint of golden luster, more real than any impossible beauty could have been, because the painter knew how to paint imperfections. He touched the brushstrokes and imagined wild brown hair, sharp eyes, clear lenses of glass and wire, and strong hands, and thought, Tezuka…he squashed the wayward thought quickly.

He felt empty, his insides hollowed out with a steel spoon, and yet sure of his actions, like he was actually controlling his own movement, instead of the stilted puppet he had felt like for so long. He was almost unhappy, but he wasn't because he wouldn't allow himself to think of it. Of him. The other….

He left. There was a man standing outside the window, grey and golden, and he couldn't quite bear it, not yet. He stayed in a hotel room for a few days, determined to be busy, somehow, but his cell phone stayed off and whatever calls he received went unanswered. He stared at the wall, instead of the droning TV, it seemed more fascinating and deliberately pathetic, but he couldn't drag his eyes away from the empty expanse of bare wall. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to know, because he couldn't bear that. He waited, instead.

One hot night, when the sheets were too clingy and the mattress too limp and yet hard and lumpy, he pulled up the shutters and admired the jewel bright lights of the city, set in a golden haze and surrounded by darkness the same way the girl in the painting had been. This was darker, though, with cut slashes of velvet shadows lining the alleyways with soft powdery blue light, softening, yet failing to conceal the tinges of night air that touched his face, cold and thrilling.

He went into the bathroom and washed his wrists and temples, the feel of cold white porcelain driving foolish fancies out of his mind. Somehow, though, he felt hotter and stickier than ever, and suffocated, as if every breath he made was grudged to him. He moved to turn the water off and involuntarily dashed a cup to the ground, the sharp edges catching glints of light among the grey shadows that lay along the tiles. He went back to sleep, not caring about the broken glass. Somehow he wasn't restless anymore.

He went back to Ryoma's apartment the next day, and stayed there for the night. They didn't talk, but he didn't want to, anyway. Ryoma went out during the day. Fuji stayed there for a week. It was mid-afternoon on a tired Sunday when Fuji heard a noise.

Someone was knocking softly on the door. Softly yet clearly, no longer authoritively, or impatient, but a simple request. Fuji opened the door and walked out, watching the man who stood leaning on the iron wrought railing. He watched the rumble of traffic, the soft glittering clouds of dust and sand from underneath the tires of sand, and the people passing by. Fuji didn't speak.

I didn't guess, Tezuka said at last. I thought you were happy; I didn't bother to ask why you were sad. No one can live in silence, because I don't know you as well as that, but as well as I can and probably ever will. I guess that's where we went wrong. I missed you, you know. So much. And then we stopped communicating even in that way, and I kept on assuming, but you didn't say anything, so I thought it was okay. I thought it wasn't anything particular, but I've never been particularly good with words. He was babbling, but he couldn't stop himself, he knew he couldn't let this continue any farther.

People change, Tezuka thought fiercely, and I didn't remember that, because I thought I knew him. And I don't any more. But I love him, if the combination is possible for me.

Fuji looked out into the street, a haze of gray and blue shadows and white buildings, and thought. He was as much to blame as Tezuka, more so, because he had waited, noticed, and only wanted Tezuka to notice. He didn't want to save himself, because even if he could help himself, he wasn't exactly sure he wanted to be helped. Because being saved, being emotionally undamaged, doesn't mean you're happy. Salvation doesn't equal happiness.

He reached out and deliberately took Tezuka's glasses from his face, running idle fingers over the silver wire and clear shells. He knew Tezuka was partially blind without them, that the world turned fuzzy and small and he felt off-balance and defensive when they weren't on his face, and waited. You're blind without them, he remarked dryly, almost cruelly. Tezuka looked at him with blank eyes and a tired glass bright gaze. I'm always blind, he whispered hoarsely. Yes, said Fuji suddenly, standing on his toes, his eyes squeezed shut, and Tezuka under his hands, in his arms, against his mouth, always.

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Fuji

He's mine. He'll be mine always, strong and kind, and he won't ever leave me. They all won't.

I'm afraid. It sounds strange, yet it's true, irrevocably and completely true, because there is no fear as great as this one. As great as mine. The original fear.

The Western Bible says that Adam was the first man, but he was distraught, afraid and he called out to God to give him a companion. We only know that story as the beginning of womankind, but I found something infinitely more fascinating when I read it. Adam was curious, yes, but more than that, he was lonely. He didn't want to be alone, but he didn't know what it meant to be lonely.

I think I can sympathize.

It's so easy to break someone's trust, to shatter a relationship. It's a simple matter to manipulate and lie, and break a trust with a single word, or a careless comment. That's what makes human relationships so precious, knowing that the rare gift of trust may be taken back much more quickly than it's given. I've seen that happen. My so-called friends, my family, my own brother, turned on me because of a single word, something I couldn't predict, couldn't control.

Prodigy.

I found new friends, I found odd, quirky people, strange, misfits, bound and following one goal and one action only, and connected by tennis. I had never seen such people before. I loved them. And, in our own way, we loved each other. We were teammates, and such a tie was love, if you chose to call it that. I didn't want us to separate, didn't want them to drift away. I didn't want to be alone, not again. Never again.

I'm not going to be without Tezuka. I don't think my heart could accept being torn apart, I'm not going to lose the friends I've gained either. I manipulate. But I don't, not really. They love me. And the paths that we take together are the paths that they choose. They could turn me down. There could be an unexpected accident, a simple preference that draws you off the obvious path.

Yuuta called me yesterday. His marriage failed, but I could have told him that. My dear baby brother, humans are so unpredictable. They're the most wonderful beings in the world. You won't ever understand it like I do, perhaps that's why we grew so far apart.

Somehow, I think I'm the one being manipulated, but it doesn't matter. If Tezuka left me, if he ran away to a far corner of the world, I would follow him, track him down, and love him. I'm insane, perhaps. But I can't help what I feel. I wonder if Oishi and the others would be alarmed, or perhaps even appalled, but it doesn't really matter.

There are some things that can't be broken. I will not allow this to be broken. I belong to them as much as they are bound to me, and far, far more.

I really love you, Tezuka.

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Alaive; I hope this is clearer!

.: I've stopped equating my problems with the world, because I'm not sure what a world is anymore:.