Prince Of Tennis Fan Fiction ❯ Obsessive Compulsive ❯ Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Prince of Tennis in any way, shape, or form.

 

I beg of you, please don't kill me for starting another story before finishing both Ice and Memories Lost. Inspiration likes to hit me at the most unannounced times.

 

Oh, and guess what disorder Tezuka has.

 

Note: Fuji, in the anime, seems to say: “Maa...” or “Ne,” a lot (at least to me, it seems that way. Anyone else?). I'm going to be replacing those with “Well...” or “Hey,”

 

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It was a cold autumn morning, just like every other to the bespectacled man standing on the subway. Every morning, like clockwork, Tezuka would wake up at precisely 6:19 and shower for four minutes and seventeen seconds before toweling off for one minute and fifty-two seconds and taking the short eleven second walk to his dresser. From there, he would pick out his clothes for the day in one minute and six seconds before dressing in two minutes and thirty-six seconds.

 

He would walk downstairs in eleven seconds, make coffee and toast in two minutes and four seconds, and eat in five minutes and forty-two seconds exactly. It took him another minute and sixteen seconds to pack his suitcase and exactly one second less to put on his shoes, walk out the door, and lock the door. A four minute and seven second walk to the subway before waiting for approximately three minutes and five seconds before it arrived. It was then a ten minute and thirty-two second ride before his stop and another four minute and forty-three second walk to his office.

 

He would walk up seven flights of stairs in five minutes and thirty-seven seconds before taking the fifty-six second walk to his office in there. His secretary would have another thermos of coffee exactly three-quarters full waiting for him, and he would take it into his office, sipping it only once at three minute intervals throughout the morning.

 

Then he would take exactly fourteen minutes and fifty-two seconds to eat his lunch and then another two minutes and seven seconds to refill his thermos of coffee. Then he would work until 5:03 and take the fifteen minute and thirty-nine second subway ride back home. From there, he would work a bit more at his kitchen table for thirty minutes and twenty-seven seconds before cooking dinner. He would take seventeen minutes and forty-two seconds to eat and then, he would turn on the TV and watch a tennis match until 8:42.

 

After that, he would soak in the tub for sixteen minutes and four seconds, making sure to only fill the tub with water that was 103 degrees Fahrenheit, and filled with two and a half tablespoons of vanilla spice bath salts. He would then towel off for one minute and seventeen seconds before dressing in boxers and his black bathrobe and reading the newspaper for fourteen minutes and twenty-nine seconds. He would then take the forty-seven second walk back upstairs and pull on a T-shirt in twelve seconds. Crawling into bed took seven seconds, and he would fall asleep in fourteen minutes and three seconds.

 

Life was better when it was exact anyway.

 

The day went on as usual, and that day, he received a call from his girlfriend.

 

“Hi, sweetie,” She crooned over the phone. “Want to go to the street fair with me tomorrow?”

 

Tezuka briefly ran over his schedule for Saturdays. There was, as always, a space that said: `Date with Keiko or tennis at street courts.' “Sure.”

 

“I know, I know, 9:30 to 2:00 like always. Well then, bye Kunimitsu! I love you.” Tezuka heard the dial tone and briefly imagined his girlfriend grinning from ear to ear and rushing off to tell her book club or something.

 

In truth, Tezuka found Mikuri Keiko a bit annoying and clingy; and had often thought about breaking up with her during his baths. He had weighed the pros and cons of it, and had come up with more pros to stay with her. He figured he stayed with her for as long as he had before having doubts because she played tennis and didn't seem to mind his condition. Tezuka sighed before leaning back in his chair and taking another sip of coffee.

 

---Saturday Morning: 9:30---

 

Tezuka met Keiko at the entrance of the street fair that morning. She had bought tickets and latched onto his arm as soon as he arrived, making several girls glare. She smirked at them before beaming at Tezuka and leading him into the crowd of people. As they weaved through the horde of people, Keiko led him over to different carnival game booths. He won a small stuffed bear holding a tennis racket for her from a dart game. She hugged it protectively before slipping it into her canvas bag and pulled him towards the art displays.

 

There were many artists, from amateurs hoping to earn some extra pocket money by selling caricatures to real artists who were painting right there on the street. Keiko went towards one of the caricaturists—a handsome one, Tezuka mentally noted—to get a portrait of herself done. She called that she would be done in a little bit, and for him to look at the art.

 

Tezuka mentally rolled his eyes and began walking along the street. He glanced at watercolors and stopped once to gaze at an oil painting of a garden. He frowned; something was amiss. The garden seemed too serene, too quiet. In fact, when Tezuka glanced at most of the art, everything was like the garden: perfectly beautiful. He shook his head and continued his stroll through the street. He nearly passed by one display, but something on it caught his attention. He turned to look at it and met a familiar looking pair of deep blue eyes.

 

“Tezuka? Is that you?” The voice was soft and soothing, but at the same time deep, rich, and velvety with a large dose of femininity. “Well, I guess it is,” The eyes were now closed, and the voice receded back into the thin mouth set in a smile.

 

Tezuka recognized the voice at once. “Fuji?” He paused to straighten out his expression and take a closer look at the man that was now standing. “It's been a while.”

 

The honey-brunet's smile grew even wider and the voice was heard again. “Still the same, Tezuka? Funny, seven years without seeing you in person has passed, and you still look the same.” Fuji closed his mouth and Tezuka suddenly felt a longing to hear that voice again. It had truly been far too long since the two had met. “And act as usual.” Fuji returned to his abandoned stool and picked up a paintbrush. “What makes the almighty tennis star and business man come visit this humble street fair?”

 

“I-” He was cut off by a shrill voice.

 

“Kunimitsu! I'm finished with my caricature!” Keiko ran up to the two, holding up her portrait with pride. “What do you think?”

 

Tezuka scanned the picture with distaste. The artist had made Keiko look perfect, with hair that didn't have any fly-away strands and a perfectly flat stomach.

 

“Was that done by Kimika Sora over there?” Fuji spoke in Tezuka's place, making Keiko jump.

 

“Why yes, it was. Isn't it beautiful?” Keiko had turned towards Fuji in vain and ran a hand through her long brown hair. “Don't you just love it? I bet you could tell by the masterful artwork and perfection.”

 

“Well...” Fuji smiled almost devilishly. “I could tell by his lack of masterful artwork and perfection, if that's what you mean. I could do a more realistic one right now, in oil paint.”

 

Keiko tossed her hair over her shoulder arrogantly. “You're asking me to model for you? I see that no one can resist my beauty and charm,” She strutted over to another stool and smiled widely, showing all of her perfect teeth. “Go ahead.”

 

Fuji picked up a smaller canvas and pulled out a charcoal pencil. Instead of starting to draw, he seemed to stare at Keiko through closed eyes. Tezuka took a glance at his watch. Keiko was going to be impatient in a few seconds.

 

“Well? Aren't you going to start?” She snapped at Fuji. Fuji smiled, unaffected by Keiko's shrillness.

 

“I was just about to.” Fuji moved his pencil over the canvas in careful sketching movements. Tezuka timed him. It took Fuji two minutes and thirteen seconds to lay out the picture before he picked up his paints. Fuji painted for twenty minutes and thirty-seven seconds before picking up a fan and moving it over the painting. Tezuka thought he saw a smirk on Fuji's face when the artist turned the easel around. “So what do you think?”

 

The look on Keiko's face was priceless when she examined the painting.

 

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Math Lovers: Next chapter is dedicated to whomever figures out when Tezuka gets to work during the day. And yes, I want it to the second. Have fun~!

 

Oh, who am I kidding? I really doubt anyone's going to do that.

 

Please review!

 

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