Title: The Way Things Are
Summary: Fuji wants to go to art school. He needs to complete a portfolio. Tezuka helps complete it.
Warnings: Nothing really. Just sex.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: I enjoyed writing this. I hope it still suits, even though I had trouble (at first) with the vague prompt. I couldn't think of a better title, and now I'll stop before I ramble.
Fuji told himself, days after what had happened, that he never really told Tezuka to start taking his clothes off.
In fact, the way things were going then, it just seemed like the natural progression of things.
Or it would've been the natural progression of things, if you took away the fact that Tezuka was a strait-laced college-bound high school student, the wet dream of parents everywhere. Given that Tezuka was a strait-laced college-bound high school student, and the wet dream of parents everywhere, it only served to make the experience more surreal than it already was.
Fuji, with his eyes closed nearly all the time, could easily conjure up the moment where it all began.
They are at the water fountain, and Tezuka removes his towel from his head, absently running a hand through his damp hair. Tezuka pauses, midway through squeezing his towel dry. His fists tighten, reflexively, as he considers Fuji's request.
"I said, if you have free time this week, maybe you could pose for me," Fuji sighs inwardly. This was, at best, futile. "I need it to complete my portfolio."
"Oh," Tezuka looks down at his hands, and shrugs. "Portfolio for what?"
"I'm applying to this art school," Fuji states it very simply, so Tezuka has no hint of his desperation at that moment. "Needless to say, my parents don't approve."
Tezuka says nothing, unable to comment on this, as he has met neither Fuji's mother nor his father. It is one of the things that come up occasionally between them, but remain strictly within the limits of description and theory, and not experience and actuality.
Fuji doesn't expect Tezuka to agree. Sometimes it is a thin line between art and pornography, especially if the subject of your piece is also the object of your obsessions for the past five years.
Just because it is unexpected, it doesn't mean it is unwelcome, and Fuji cannot stop himself from smiling when Tezuka says yes.
"So, you just sit here," Fuji scrunches up his nose, purses his lips, and looks at the contrast of the light and shadow. "No... maybe closer to the window?"
Tezuka endures it all patiently, Fuji's fidgeting to his tight grip on Tezuka's left wrist when he decides that the pose or the place or the position isn't right, it just won't do. A few times, Fuji catches Tezuka looking at him with something that may have been mirth, but it also might have been the shoddy lighting.
Finally he situates Tezuka against a bare white wall, lights casting dramatic shadows behind Tezuka's tense, seated figure on a wooden stool closer to the camera than to the wall.
"Okay," Fuji whispers, feeling as exhilarated as if he had dived down into a pool of icy water. "Let's begin."
He has gone through maybe four rolls of film. He takes a break to take the used roll out, his hands slide in a new one with practiced and easy precision. When he looks up, five of Tezuka's buttons are undone. It takes another roll of film before Tezuka's shirt is abandoned on the floor, and Fuji becomes aware of a growing problem in his pants.
Fuji may be a teenager, and he may be on the verge of becoming a struggling artist, but even he knew that it was bad news to be involved with your model in any capacity. Even if said model was looking at you with eyes that just laid everything bare and had been the object of any teenage fantasies you may have had in bed between the ages of fourteen to seventeen.
He leaves the camera then, abandoning it on its tripod, feeling nothing but a sense of great ease and unrest, simultaneously, of a longing that could almost halve him, and at the same time a contentment that seemed to meld him together until he could no longer discern his separate parts.
Pausing in front of Tezuka, he places both hands securely on the captain's shoulders, anchoring himself to Tezuka's stolid, reliable form, and also serving to keep Tezuka seated. Then he bends down and kisses Tezuka, as gently as any leaf falls from its branch. Tezuka kisses back, and it is with an anxiety and a hunger Fuji has never experienced. It seems to fuse them together, locked lips and sticky limbs and desire.
Fuji finds himself in Tezuka's lap, Tezuka's fingers probing the front of his jeans dexterously. Fuji whimpers against Tezuka's mouth, legs wrapping around Tezuka's waist. His hands fist in Tezuka's hair as Tezuka bites and sucks a path from his neck until his sternum.
Fuji feels the planes of Tezuka's torso. The muscles of his abdomen, his shoulder blades jutting out slightly in his upper back. Tezuka's expression is concentrated as he maps Fuji's body beneath his hands, inwardly recording which touch will make Fuji moan, and others that make him scream. Fuji strokes Tezuka's cock and meets Tezuka's kisses with a veracity that fails to shock them both.
The wooden stool teeters dangerously, and when they fall, Fuji wrenches his mouth from Tezuka, gasping in pain at the sudden impact of the floor against his back, splinters shooting into his bare skin. Or, at least, he does, until Tezuka reaches for Fuji's cock. Fuji buries his face into Tezuka's neck, seeking for more contact, for more friction, for faster speed and a greater intensity than what is already transpiring between them.
Afterwards, Fuji lies on the floor of his room, Tezuka panting beside him, stomachs, hands and cocks sticky with release. Tezuka sits up first, always the leader, and he kisses Fuji once, on the side of his mouth, before he slides on his pants and buttons up his shirt. Fuji lies, sated, spent and naked, eyes languorously moving over every contour, tongue and touch remembering those he can no longer see. And he smiles his good-bye at Tezuka, who nods but does not blush, and who leaves the door unlocked after he leaves.
When Fuji develops the film, he finds that out of the five rolls, of course, none of those innocent shots with Tezuka fully-clothed does it for him. The intensity is all in the fifth roll, and Fuji finds himself biting back moans as he looks at the photos, lying in bed. His hand is too small to be Tezuka's, too gentle and relenting, and he can no better duplicate that day than he could grow purple feathers from his head.
Dimly, he thinks that he never should've asked Tezuka to pose, but there is also some small part of him that keeps on saying that this was what he really wanted to happen, that there was no getting Tezuka out of his mind, and that fears exist to conquered.
The next day, Tezuka and Fuji find themselves alone in the locker room.
Tezuka's voice is soft when he talks, not because he's afraid of being overheard, but because what he's saying is meant just for Fuji.
"Has anyone else posed for you?"
Fuji is slow in answering.
"Well, my brother and my sister..." Fuji scrunches his nose as he thinks.
"No," Tezuka's voice becomes more serious, if that's even possible. "I mean, someone from the team. Someone who isn't related to you."
Fuji suddenly realizes what Tezuka is saying, or at least, what he's trying to say, and he laughs, feeling the sudden urge to lean against something for fear that his legs would give out from underneath him.
"No one else, Tezuka," Fuji finally says, when his mirthful fit passes and leaves him gasping for air. "Just you."