A/N: This was originally written for 24 hour themes, 1AM Focus is on wholeness of self and the banishing of any shadows, which I've dropped. I wanted to try writing in second person POV.
Second person is Fuji's POV and third person is Tezuka.
Disclaimer: I do not own Tennis no Oujisama, Tezuka Kunimitsu, nor Fuji Syuusuke. No copyright infringement intended.
Turn Off the Last Light
It's a little after half past one, and you're surprised the lights are still on when you walk in the door. The photo show ran late (but they always run late, you know they do), and you barely catch the last train home for the day. The last thing you expect is for him to wait up for you.
He didn't (and you're almost a little disappointed).
He's hunched over his desk, quietly asleep over his various textbooks, notebooks, and papers, and the table light casts a dim shadow of his grand figure over his surprisingly organized mess. Even though you're halfway across the room, you can tell he's tired, and suddenly you feel guilty about being disappointed.
You drop your book bag by the door and quietly walk up to his desk. His face is turned to the left, propped up by his right arm, and his glasses are a little crooked from being shoved against his textbook. You carefully look at his features, and up close, you can see the fatigue in his visage and the tenseness in his shoulders even in his sleep.
He looks different, you think, and you suddenly feel further from him than you ever have. It feels like you haven't seen each other in forever (this isn't true, you saw him in Calculus today, but he was out the door before you'd even woken up this morning) and you wonder if this is the same person you had fallen in love with or just a perfect stranger.
It'd be much easier, you realize, if he were with someone else, someone not as whimsical as you are but rather as steady as he is. You know he'd choose this path (and you know he hasn't quite forgiven you for quitting tennis yet) but instead of being his support, you go off to chase your own dreams. You two are terrible for each other, two people who stand on a rocky foundation, fighting desperately against the world and clinging solely to their aspirations and each other.
Somehow, you couldn't care any less.
You run your fingers through his hair gently (it's still as soft as you remember) and debate whether or not to wake him up. He shifts slightly, awakening, and lifts his head to meet your eyes. His hair is a bit mussed, flatted on his left side, and you take a moment to appreciate his disheveled state.
"Hi." You smile warmly at him.
"You're back," he responds, his voice slightly raspy from sleep.
He looks at you quietly for a moment, and you take his hand in yours and wrap your fingers through his. He stares at them, your fingers intertwined, before pressing a light kiss against yours.
"It's late," you say, glancing towards the digital clock, and he nods quietly, getting up. He doesn't ask question--he never asks questions, and you're glad, because there hasn't been the need for them between the two of you. He turns off his lamplight and motions towards the door, still holding your hand, and you follow quietly behind him.
"We're out of milk," he says quietly, his voice no longer dry now that he is awake. "And rice. It's been a while since we've gone shopping."
"We can go tomorrow," you reply, and step forward a little so you can lean against his side. It feels so right, you think, and he leans back a little as well.
He opens the door to your bedroom, and you shut off the light behind you.