If I owned Prince of Tennis, Fuji would have a phobia of wireless keyboards.

VALENTINE
x.lithiumx.lithiumx.lithium;

Sometimes, Fuji's humour is like paint rusted sailboats and black and white photographs, the broken keyboards of pianos and kites that fly far, far, too far away. Today, his humour is black coffee and fluorescent coloured balloons, fraying out at the corners like the blue tint that fades into grey at the edges of his irises.

He feels like pain today and when Tezuka brushes his teammate's hand as they walk he is burning, burning, burning.

Tezuka can taste Fuji's frustration. It seeps into his skin with the sun and slinks into the crevices of his mouth like the sparkly candy pieces on the donut that he eats. Fuji chews, swallows, glances at Tezuka. It's a dance his body remembers instinctively, strangles him until he can't breathe. And Tezuka doesn't really want it to ever end.

Fuji's mouth opens and-

"I hate you, Aniki! Why can't you just-!"

-closes.

Tezuka quietly admires Fuji, silently adores him and vows never to let him know. The truth spills out between every step he takes and when he opens his curtains in the morning Tezuka fancies that maybe today Fuji will see. He never does, though. He is blindfolded by things like Yuuta, and that girl that hurt Eiji, and a million other things that makes Tezuka feel like he is an easy person to forget.

It aches and rips and burns within Tezuka, especially when Fuji archs his back like that when he stretches, twirls his pencil around his finger and chews on the bottom of his lips (the right side when he's thinking and the left when he's just bored).

Sometimes, Fuji smiles so brilliantly that Tezuka could swear he loves him back, but then the weight of Fuji's world crushes down on the slender shoulders that Tezuka loves, and Fuji crawls back to the place that Tezuka cannot reach.

On the worst days Tezuka buries Fuji beneath tennis and responsibilities and tests, pretends that those things matter to him even half as much as nohecan'tadmitittohimself does. Just long enough to return to the safety of his bedroom, where he lets FujiFujiFujiFuji reign control over his mind for longer than a couple hours.

Once, Fuji had asked him out of pure boredom, Tezuka, will you be my Valentine? Looking back, Tezuka wishes he could have done something romantic or swept Fuji off his feet, or at least managed to choke out the you make it hard to breathe that had ravaged his mind at the time. But Fuji had looked away and giggled. Tezuka knew he had lost the moment but didn't know whether the flash of disappointment he had seen in Fuji's blue eyes had been a creation of his endless pining or not.

When Fuji walks away at the end of the day, Tezuka stands for a moment, watches the way Fuji thinks about killing himself and wonders whether he could be the one to save Fuji.

And fancies that maybe tomorrow he'll be able to tell Fuji that he loves him.