7 o' clock News - Homework

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Author's Notes: Have a valid reason for not updating. Or a couple. First is.. um, forgot that i had this story, and second, was sick.

Disclaimers: If fanfic writers did own PoT, then there'd be a lot more.. explicit stuff in there, right? Hehe..

People to Thank:

ltifal, Kirchara, ariark – let's all see together how this turns out, although am already quite partial to that pairing.

Shinkastar (who reviewed twice) – here is the 'next' and 'continuation'

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Hope you enjoy this next installment!

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The most articulated value in Greek culture is areté. Translated as "virtue," the word actually means something closer to "being the best you can be," or "reaching your highest human potential."

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Chapter 4. This Beautiful Mess

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The Fall of Troy, that infamous event.

It was neither Hector nor Achilles who was at fault. None of them was the enemy. In a war of prides, no one can tell who was wrong; the winner is not necessarily the one in the right, he merely.. won.

If anyone should be at fault, it would undoubtably be Paris, with his out-of-place passions. Stealing away that –

very tempting, seductive beauty.

erm.

- Helen, King Menelaus' wife, was, after all, a moral deficiency. It was also an idiotic thing to do, when their two kingdoms had just recently signed a pact.

Of the three men, only Paris wasn't able to achieve areté. Both Achilles and Hector displayed theirs brilliantly. Hector defended Troy until his last breath, didn't back out even when he knew that Achilles would kill him. His death was imminent, yet he didn't try to escape, unlike his cowardly brother. And Achilles, though proud and overly-self-assured, was the Greek's ideal man. Passionate (in a completely different way from Paris), and chose the path wherein he knew he wouldn't return from, just so he can be remembered.

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Tezuka took his glasses off. 'But for that one rare moment, I had been like that as well, stealing away the.. 'prized possession'. Maybe Paris had completed the areté of love.'

The tennis captain closed his eyes for a while, resting them a bit, before opening them once again, and replacing the aid. Arms crossed over his chest, he gazed out the window and saw a few familiar faces. If he were a normal teenager, he would have already stuck his head out, and boisterously wished them a good morning. Perhaps he would even have waved his arms, to the point of looking like he was flapping imaginary wings.

But no, he was far from the carefree, bubbly individual. Which was why he had been sitting in the empty classroom this early in the morning, completing a history project that was due a good two weeks from today, still.

And yet, as diligent as he may be, and no matter how strict and disciplined he was when it comes to himself, there were those little bits of longing escaping his head. He couldn't concentrate too fully, knowing that something was waiting to be read. The chestnut-haired man had received that lightly-scented envelope this morning, and had safely tucked it in, in one of his books (using most of his will not to look at where he had placed it in so he wouldn't be tempted to read it yet). So naturally, it gnawed at his subconcious like this.

He gave what could be interpreted as a sigh, and turned back to what he had been writing before he decided to let his mind wander. Reaching for his thick history book, he flipped through, searching for those lines he had highlighted, and for the sources he had encircled for his composition.

Instead of the list, what fell out, instead, was the envelope.

Really, everything was conspired to make him normal today.

And since one couldn't deny for so long what the fates were telling him, Tezuka systematically ripped open the flap, and began reading.

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...Do you remember that time when you lost your temper because I was a bit late, and you blamed it on me not having a watch?

Well, finally bought one last week, or rather, my dad bought me one.

I destroyed it in three days. Please don't ask for the gory details on how it got smashed, or how my father reacted to the destruction of that too-expenisve-for-it's-size thing, would rather spare you the worry. You do worry a lot, you know?

But you know what, even if I don't have a watch or any sort of time-telling device (the clock in the cellphone disappears for some weird reason), I'd always know (the time) ---

how?

By the way everything stirs up every minute, every second, every breathing hour. Everyone definitely moves in accord, all corresponding and synchronizing to the world's clock. Right now, as you are reading my letter, I am probably thinking of you –

Even though you're reading at an unusual time, perhaps while you are supposed to be studying for something else? -
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Tezuka adjusted his glasses, 'Really close…"
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- Like that time when we let the day end without fixing our misunderstandings. While I cried myself to sleep, you lay awake that night, sleep forgone, thinking of how I must be weeping my way to sandman.

Maybe we need to reevaluate our relationship a bit, for the both of us has been losing enough precious sleep. And this is not just when we're arguing.

This is the game we play:

We each pretend that an SMS from the other is not so important by not replying immediately. You'd buzz, and though I had it in a flash, and had already typed in a reply in a blink of an eye, I'd wait a while longer before sending it.

You do that as well, don't you?

I guess as dignified people, we try not to sound so desperate. Sleepless nights ensue, for we drag on through the darkness until dawn, fighting off the impatience, and insanity this contest of prides brings.

Of course, it gifts us with cheap thrill, but when we need full rest, nothing but gritted teeth and itching fingers result... I have no desire turning mad.

Oh, maybe this has been too long already, and I really have no intentions of writing a novel. I think it best to end it here.

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Craving for your reply ---

chaste kisses on your lips.

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Was it a blush that the buchou felt on his face right now? 'Chaste kisses on your lips', hah. Folding the bunch of papers carefully and returning them back to their container, he tensed when he felt the prescence of a smiling being.

Indeed, the visitor spoke, "Wow, Tezuka. Such a good writer, your girlfriend is."

Placing the letter in his bag, this time, noting in which cramped space he pushed it in, he said nothing. "Won't you tell me who it is?"

"Fuji…"

"Hai?"

"Add 20 laps to the ones I asked you to do yesterday."

No trace of exasperation, nor annoyance, it was still that same smile that even an almost-impassive guy like Tezuka sometimes found unnerving, "Hai hai. But you shouldn't be so selfish either. Introduce us."

"You'll be late for class. I know of a certain… bubbly person waiting."

"You're right, but next time, you're not escaping me. Oh, and I heard we'll be having a new classmate, do you want me to try and recruit him (if it really was a man) for the tennis club?"

"Do as you please."

With a small wave, Fuji exited the room, leaving Tezuka to reminisce his own Helen.

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tbc…

finally done! whew…

please review about the plot, grammar, spelling or whatevers.

thanks, hope you read the next chapter!