ENTITLED: Fairy Dust
FANDOM: Prince of Tennis
PAIRING: friendship!FujiOC
SUMMARY: He's an angel, and she's nothing but a wannabe fairy. Of graffiti, emotions, and maybe even of growing up. Maybe.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Prince of Tennis.
NOTE: It's been forever and a half, I know. This will be finished–just very sporadically. And badly.

.

Amaya hated All Things Sports, but there was something about tennis that seemed to bring her back to New York.

It was probably because Daddy would take her to the US Open every once in a while, if his paintings had been selling well. He'd wake her up early, and they'd take the subway down to Flushing. She remembered being cranky the first time they'd gone, but then Daddy had pulled her up in her lap and told her about how Mama had been a star tennis player back in high school.

"She was amazing, baby."

"Did you see her play?"

"No. But your mom was always amazing at everything she did."

So when they started tennis in phys. ed., Amaya found herself not minding as much.

The class sucked at it, though. She'd seen the greats: Henin, Sharapova, Federer, Nadal, the Williams Sisters. There was no way she'd be impressed by what these people could do.

Amaya herself wasn't too shabby. She knew the basic forms that the teacher was explaining–she'd sketched the pros when she'd seen them play, and she knew where to place her fingers and how high her follow-through had to be.

But the racket was heavier than it looked, and it hurt her joints to have to hit the ball with it, especially her wrists.

She was in the middle of a comfortable, slow-paced rally when the angel boy caught her eye.

He was playing against the boy with cool red hair.

They both moved so differently than the rest of the class. Even some of the more athletic boys fumbled a bit with their tennis rackets, but they moved with a sort of grace and confidence that seemed to tell the world, we know what we're doing.

The boy with the cool red hair hit the ball to the left corner.

The angel boy sliced it into the right side of the court.

And then the redhead flipped in the air and hit it–where, Amaya didn't know, because the girl she was playing against had hit the ball in her direction again.

But she wished she could draw this.

.

"So you play tennis, huh?"

Fuji looked at the girl behind him in surprise. The entire school seemed to know about the tennis team now that it had gotten so far in the tournament.

But the girl behind him looked at him impatiently, so he ignored her ignorance.

"Yes, I do."

"Hmph," was her response, but the way she was looking at him was calculating rather than disapproving.

She'd looked the same way when she'd asked to draw him earlier.

Ah, so that was it.

His trademark smile widened. "Would you like to draw us sometime?"

Amaya wanted to say yes, but something was clogging up the back of her throat and weighing down her tongue.

It was pride, a stupid pride, and she knew it, and he knew it, but it was suffocating her.

"I don't know. We'll see."

.

She was called into the principal's office that day.

The principal was a man nearing his sixties. His face was covered in laugh lines, and there were some friendly-looking crows feet protruding from the corners of his eyes.

"Hello, Smith-kun. Take a seat."

She managed to remember to bow–a clumsy, awkward little bend of her back–before she did. The chair was a stiff little thing, and it was cold.

The principal smiled at her. It was genuine, which she liked. His eyes were warm.

"Students in Japan normally are expected to work on academics on their own, so I normally don't take interest in these cases, but I remember your mother very well–"

"My mother went here?"

This was new.

"Huh," she said, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "No wonder Daddy wanted me to come here."

Amaya had said "Daddy" in English, but the principal raised no eyebrow.

"Is everything alright?" he asked. "I normally tell homeroom teachers to deal with situations like this, but you are a special case. I was your mother's homeroom teacher."

Any ounce of respect she had for the man sapped away. "Fine," she snapped. "Just peachy."

His smile was still warm. Amaya wondered why.

"I can only imagine how hard your situation must be."

She wanted to rip his smile off his face.

"Perhaps a hobby would help you adjust."

She shrugged.

The principal leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. "What do you like to do, Smith-kun?"

Amaya looked down–and noticed that she'd drawn a bird on her leg.

"Smith-kun?"

She looked up, feeling the frown curl down the corners of her face when–

'Shit.'

His eyes were so raw that they melted back into the little girl toddling after her father in the streets of New York.

Her eyes smoothed over. The left side of her mouth tilted up. She could feel her shoulders curling into herself, and her chin drooping towards her collarbone.

Amaya wanted to curse him, because she wasn't a damn flower bud.

"Smith-kun?"

"Art," she found herself saying.

He hummed thoughtfully. "If the drawing of that butterfly on your hand is any indication, it seems you're quite talented."

She could picture her cheeks being painted red.

"It's just a doodle from class."

The warm eyes twinkled. "What if I offered you a deal, Smith-kun?"

Amaya straightened her shoulders and sharpened her eyes. "Hit."

"The boys' tennis team is doing remarkably well this year. We normally take photographs of the teams at the end of each season, but I think an exception can be made in this case."

He looked at her again, and Amaya scrunched her face together in confusion.

"Judging from your scores, you can pass each class if you get an eighty percent on your next assignments. If you continue to maintain a passing average, I will allow you to draw a portrait of each member."

The words themselves were enough, but the knowing smile and the eager warmth he seemed to radiate did it.

"Okay."

She was in.