Ryoma knows all the different meanings of rose colors.
Yellow roses given to someone indicate platonic friendship; white roses, of course, mean purity of intent. Deep pink roses say a wordless “thank you,” and coral roses indicate desire on the part of the giver.
Ryoma stares at the bouquet in his hand. Are the flowers pink, or are they coral? It’s impossible to tell, the two colors are so similar. “Fuji-senpai, what are these supposed to mean?”
Fuji’s smile widens. “What do you think they’re supposed to mean?”
Ryoma suddenly wishes he didn’t know quite so much about roses.
Fuji’s long, graceful fingers caress the air above the piano keys. His hands dance to an unheard melody, never once touching the keyboard.
“Why don’t you play anymore?” Tezuka asks quietly, beside Fuji on the bench. “It suits you.”
Fuji’s blue eyes flick open and he meets Tezuka’s gaze, then laughs softly. “Because I found something better,” he replies. “Tennis.” You, his eyes say, although his lips don’t speak the word. Tezuka knows what he means, nevertheless.
Fuji’s hands move over the keys again, playing the soundless tune, the sweetest silence Tezuka has ever been privileged to hear.