Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4809959.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Tennis_no_Oujisama_|_Prince_of_Tennis
  Relationship:
      Fuji_Shuusuke/Tezuka_Kunimitsu
  Character:
      Fuji_Shuusuke, Fuji_Yuuta, Fuji_Yumiko, Tezuka_Kunimitsu, Echizen_Ryouma,
      Kikumaru_Eiji, Inui_Sadaharu
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Dark_Fairy_Tale_Elements, Alternate_Universe_-_Dark,
      Crack_Treated_Seriously, Alternate_Universe_-_Obsidian!TezuFuji
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-16 Updated: 2015-10-21 Chapters: 6/10 Words: 31419
****** east of the sun, west of the moon ******
by fables
Summary
     Later Fuji thinks, it wasn't that no one told him. He had been
     warned. But people only ever believed what they wanted, and he's no
     different after all.
Notes
     It started out as a crack idea to turn Tezuka into a stone and
     shatter him to pieces. (Don't ask!) It has turned - into something
     else entirely.
     Because you can never have enough obsidian!au's: sesame_seed's
     obsidian:_(i), and obsidian:_(ii).
     Thanks to marej for the initial beta.
***** once upon a time *****
Once upon a time, there's a boy who turns into stone. The stone cracks, tiny
fissures running through its surface like transparent veins on luminescent
black skin, and it's as if the boy is about to come alive again and not fall
apart.
He breaks with the sound of ice cracking at the end of winter, of a mirror
shattering. Falls on the ground like shadows of leaves, and the wind lifts him,
all his pieces, and like a careless child scatters him to all the corners of
the world.
***** east of the sun *****
i. he raised his head and looked upon
and with a great voice
 
After it happens, Yuuta stands still and frozen. As if he is also stone, as if
he might also break apart at any moment, and Fuji can't allow that. It would be
the absolute limit of things that he can deal with in one day.
"Yuuta," Fuji says. "Yuuta!"
Yuuta's head jerks up, his eyes wide and utterly uncomprehending.
"Take out your racket," Fuji says, and when Yuuta does nothing, "From the bag.
That's sitting there at your feet," and Yuuta's racket clatters to the ground
next to Fuji's.
A small drizzle starts. Rain and leaves fall and cover the racket faces. Yuuta
watches Fuji collect stones, doing a very credible imitation of a statue
himself, and it's customary to follow the example of your sempai, but this is
neither the time or the place for such a thing.
Fuji zips his bag, picks it up and drops it. It makes a satisfyingly loud thud,
and Yuuta startles, eyes snapping to Fuji's.
Fuji says, "Help me. I need all the stones, even the small ones. Pick them up
and put them in your tennis bag," and as if he's a puppet with Fuji tugging the
strings, Yuuta gives a jerky nod and does.
The sky darkens, a wind comes up, clouds cover the stars. The shadows lengthen
and blend into each other, and Fuji closes his eyes and tries to see through
his fingertips, to differentiate between the rough gravel and the sharp, smooth
stones. (Tezuka? Fuji pushes the thought from his mind, but it refuses to
obey.) He stops to rub his hands when they become numb, breathe on his fingers,
because he can't be careless about this.
Sometime later, Yuuta says, "I can't find any more."
His voice is startling in the darkness, and Fuji stops. Realizes that he can't,
either.
The wind is blowing fiercely enough to bend the tree branches. There are still
missing pieces, but the wind has carried them out of Fuji's reach.
 
They leave the school grounds, bags of stones slung over their shoulders, walk
to the train station. The train doors close on the winds outside, but Yuuta
doesn't stop shivering. The shivers are loud and blatant, and Fuji's eyes
narrow in annoyance.
They reach Tezuka's home long after the sun has set. Tezuka's mother opens the
door almost before the first ring. She was worried, Fuji thinks, waiting at the
door for her son to come in. But she sees them instead, her eyes widening at
the poor substitute.
"Fuji-kun! What a nice surprise," she says. "And this is your little brother?
It's good to meet you," and bids them in, and while Fuji is toeing his shoes
off, asks if they would like something to eat or drink, says that dinner is
almost ready and they are more than welcome to stay.
"We're expected home," Fuji replies apologetically. "And it's already late."
In the living room, Fuji kneels, and Yuuta follows suit, his gaze blank and
unfocused, turned inwards. He's managed to stop shivering, at least. Fuji opens
his bag. A few stones fall onto the tatami mat.
"What--" Tezuka's mother says.
"He turned to obsidian and fell apart," Fuji says. "I'm sorry, it was sudden
and rather unexpected. Some pieces are missing."
Her smile wavers, then comes back brighter than before, an actor who has only
momentarily forgotten her lines.
"Then, Fuji-kun," she says, almost cheerfully, "we must find all the pieces and
put him back together again."
Her eyes are focused on the stones in a way that reminds Fuji of Tezuka's
unwavering intensity. It's just as baffling from his mother as it ever was from
him. It's not as if the stones are doing anything. They're just sitting there,
dark and luminous and cold, reflecting parts of Fuji's face in broken-mirror
jigsaws.
"I suppose you have a bit of experience with things like this?" Fuji's mother
says. "I will also learn, so please guide me." And helps Fuji pick them up and
put them back inside his bag.
 
The next day Fuji skips school. Makes a stop at the hospital, where there's no
change in Asai's condition, then travels around Tokyo. Follows the wind until
he reaches the sea, and he should have known, should have expected this. It is,
after all, only a small island, surrounded by oceans stretching the world.
He cups his hands over his mouth and breathes out, his school jacket flapping
around his body, his hair falling into his eyes. Stands still and watches the
winds race toward the horizon and blow the sun down into the water.
That night he works by lamplight, fitting the pieces he has together. Tezuka
has no eyes, and there is a jagged space where his heart should be. He can't
stand because a leg is missing. Fuji runs his fingers over the break edge. The
stone pricks him and he bleeds, the red startling against the black. It would
make a beautiful picture. Fuji gets up and rinses his fingers under the sink,
putting a bandage over the cut cleanly.
 
A few weeks later, Yuuta transfers to a private school. Shuusuke comes home one
night to Yuuta's things stacked haphazardly in the living room. The next night,
the living room is empty of the boxes and Yuuta is gone. There are three people
left in the house, and one broken statue.
Shuusuke buys books on weather patterns, rare stones, travelogues, reads them
after dinner in favor of his homework. His sister sits on the floor in front of
the sofa, lazily shuffling cards between her hands. She hasn't been home much
lately, spending most of her time in the hospital. Asai must be doing better.
"I didn't think you'd let Yuuta go so easily," she says.
Shuusuke's eyes defocus from an illustration of ocean currents over the
Pacific. The deck bends between Yumiko's long fingers, unfurls like peacock
feathers. A cascade of queens and kings, aces and jokers, land on the table.
"Sorry I didn't meet your expectations," he says. Hears his mother in the
kitchen, humming a tune above the clang of dishes, and drops his voice. "Next
time, I'll take my cues from father."
"So optimistic," Yumiko murmurs.
Shuusuke stills.
Yumiko's eyes have shifted from her cards to him. She's smiling a smile he's
intimately familiar with. He's studied it carefully. Practiced in front of a
mirror, until it's also become his own.
"Do you really think so?" Shuusuke asks, carefully.
Yumiko looks away. "No," she says. Her smile's been forgotten; there's a crease
between her brows as she looks down at her cards. And then, "No. This isn't the
end. I won't let it be."
When she looks up, it's with a banked fire in her eyes. Shuusuke's reminded of
just how dangerous a thing her attention is. Something very like hope stirs
again, sleepily inside him.
"There's a person who specializes in finding things," Yumiko says. "Do you
think you can find him?"
 
Tezuka's ambitions have no power without Tezuka standing behind them, and the
next year their team loses the Nationals.
"You would've done better," Ooishi says. They're putting the balls away for the
last time, clearing their lockers.
When it was clear that Tezuka wasn't going to return, Ooishi had been appointed
team captain. It wasn't a title he had wanted, but his sense of responsibility
hadn't allowed him to turn it down.
Fuji, on the other hand, has never had any such qualms.
He picks up his backpack, watches Ooishi take a last look at the clubroom. The
others have already left; they are the last who remain. "You shouldn't blame
yourself," Fuji says. After the cool darkness of the clubroom, the sunlight is
blinding. "I'm not Tezuka either."
He's not joining the tennis club again next year. There's no reason to anymore.
 
The month between his ninth and tenth year, Fuji intends to travel the world.
He climbs the Andes and boats down the Ganges and sees the pyramids in Egypt,
and gains nothing for his efforts but a tendency to fall sick at the slightest
chill, and a mother that drags him back halfway through and hovers at his
shoulder for months like a persistent ghost.
He also returns to finds all his cacti dead.
"Your poor children," Yumiko says. "They never even uttered a word of
complaint."
Fuji bows his head. "I wasn't fit to be a parent," he says.
 
Like a good student, Fuji graduates high school and passes the exams to go to
Todai. He travels the city whenever he has the chance, until one weekend he
finds the store his sister had told him of.
It has no sign in the front. Inside it's something between a library and an
antique dealership, and from behind the counter an old man glances up, his face
wrinkled like crumbled paper.
He looks, Fuji thinks, as if he's just stepped out of a fairy tale. It's
appropriate, and Fuji approves. He steps in, lets the door close behind him.
"I'm looking for some stones like this," he says. He uncurls his fingers, and
they fall on the counter with a clink. They're very ordinary in the store's dim
light, against a backdrop of masks and grimoires and compasses and fantastical
paintings.
"What price can you pay?" the old man asks.
Fuji shrugs his shoulders. "What price do people normally pay?" And then, with
a smile, "Do you give discounts to students?"
"You don't know what you're doing." Children these days, his face seems to say,
eyes utterly unsympathetic.
Fuji says, "That's okay. I'm used to it; I'll figure it out."
 
There's one piece lying in snow at the top of the world. Another half buried in
the sand of the desert, another on the counter of the old man's store, where
Fuji has to curl his fingers to keep from snatching it up.
It never does to show other people your desperation; that's one thing that
Fuji's never had to learn.
At times, the old man tells him where the latest stones came from, and Fuji
goes there and finds others. As expected, he gets better at it as time goes on,
and Tezuka's mother even moreso. She always finds a handful for his each one.
The winter of his last year in the university, his father sets up an interview
for him, a subsidiary company run by a distant uncle. The interview goes badly;
mutual resentment of each other is the only common ground he and his uncle
share. But it's a formality, and Fuji gets the job. He makes no effort to rise
through the ranks, though promotions keep falling in his lap. He's good at what
he does without meaning to be, and his father's son. What do you do, people ask
him, and he says that he works on LBOs. What this means is that he specializes
in pricing companies and taking them apart.
Tezuka has two eyes in his face now, and most of his legs.
 
The pieces of Fuji's life fall in place, unwinding like a Noh drama, most roles
acted competently. He moves out of his mother's home, buys a flat on the edge
of the city. Goes on occasional dates, comes home every New Years, and like a
good son and friend and brother, remembers the birthdays and anniversaries.
The flat has no other buildings blocking his view. When he steps outside, he
can see the sky stretching to the horizon, can see the sun sinking, can see
which direction the winds are blowing on any particular day or night.
"What a huge place," Eiji says when he visits. They go out to the balcony. He
takes a cigarette from Fuji, lights it, his cheeks hollowing as he inhales in.
"And you live here all by yourself. You never get lonely?"
"Why would I?" Fuji asks. Especially since he's not alone.
But Eiji doesn't seem to believe him, setting him up on one blind date after
another (when you get married I expect you to name your first son after me),
relentless in his pursuit to see Fuji happy in the same way that he is.
At times Fuji surprises himself by finding he does like the girl, and her voice
becomes a constant on his phone, the curve of her lips and the skin of her
thighs and the smell of her perfume on his pillow familiar and comfortable.
But the relationships never last. He's too distant, they say, he holds back too
much, disappears too frequently. Fuji agrees, walks away without protest. It
doesn't take any effort, letting them go.
 
Yuuta is two years late graduating. Fuji goes with his mother and sister to the
ceremony, takes picture after picture as Yuuta stands stiff and uncomfortable
in his black gown. And this hasn't changed - the way Yuuta scowls at the
camera, shies from Fuji's touch with narrowed eyes.
After, he helps Yuuta move his things back to their parent's house. "You should
stay for the night," Yumiko says when they're done unpacking. Yuuta's things
are scattered in the room, books and games piled haphazardly on the desk, a
rumpled futon spread out on the floor. As if Yuuta never left, as if nothing in
the intervening time happened. Just one ephemeral, puckishly whimsical moment,
hopscotching over a few years.
Fuji shakes his head, smiles. "I'm sorry, but there are things I need to do at
home."
 
"Tadaima," Fuji says. Closes the door behind him, turns on the lights. Takes
his shoes off and his jacket, picks up a plum from the fridge, goes to Tezuka's
room.
He's spent more time here, over the years, than he has in his own.
"I went to Yuuta's graduation ceremony today," Fuji says. At first glance the
statue seems whole, and Fuji can fool even himself.
"He's moved back home now. He has no money, and no job offers."
Fuji pads closer, discarding his tie and cufflinks. Tezuka's shorter than him
now, eternally fourteen. He'd always been unyielding, as immutable and
implacable as stone, and as the years turn, he's just become moreso. Now, even
time can't touch him.
Fuji unbuttons his shirt. The city is lit up like a scattering of jewels, and
some of that light filters through the blinds, reflects on the obsidian, making
it a flashier outfit than Tezuka would ever have worn.
"He refused my help, and father's."
Fuji's fingers trace Tezuka's face. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, but
that's true of a lot of things.
“It hurts him when I’m there," Fuji says.
It isn't only girls that Fuji has gone out with. He wonders what others would
say if he told them this; no one but Yumiko knows. Imagines his father's face
when the news is revealed, and is as terrified as he is tempted.
"It's my fault, but I can't really help it. Yumiko's better at younger
brothers. It's good there's only Yuuta for me."
Fuji steps closer, one hand straying down. There's a spot where the wind had
lifted Tezuka's shirt up, before his metamorphosis. Some skin revealed where
the obsidian feels warmer than elsewhere.
"Should I stop?" Fuji asks, sliding to his knees. He has a distasteful lack of
morals, he thinks, doing this with someone so young.
"Say something, Tezuka. If you want to stop me."
But Tezuka never complains. His eyes stare straight ahead, face impassive, with
only the slightest hint of disapproval.
 
ii. into the seasonless world
where you shall laugh, but not all of your
and weep, but not
 
Summer becomes fall, then winter, time passing gently. One day Yumiko visits,
brings cookies with her.
"You still haven't developed a sweet tooth? That's too bad," she says when
Shuusuke doesn't eat any.
They talk of the weather, of Yuuta. One of her books is being adapted into a
movie, and she tells him gossip from the film world, names that he's largely
unfamiliar with. He tells her about his latest work project.
"So, father’s planning to corner some commodity markets,” she says. His job had
been a message from their father -- there's only so far you can run, and I can
always draw you back in -- but it's also proven an effective way to keep track
of the family's operations. "Do you think Eguchi-san's takeover strategy will
work?"
"No," Shuusuke says. Takes one of Yumiko's cookies, and breaks it in six
pieces. "The company has self-sufficient subsidiaries. The scandals will bring
down some," he hands Yumiko four of the pieces, which she immediately starts
eating, "but the Russian and American ones may survive, propped by their
partners. And we don't have the capital to continue our financial assault for
long, or to target others."
"Will survive, not may," Yumiko says, finishing her fourth piece. "Ah, I make
really great cookies. Should we eat the entire thing?" Tilts her head at him.
Shuusuke's lips curve, and her smile widens in response.
"Lets see," she says. "The American government won't ask for a large
settlement." A manicured red nail taps the smaller of the two cookie crumbles
left on the table. "They'll get nothing if they do; all funds moved offshore,
the subsidiary declaring bankruptcy before a penny is paid. So the final number
is going to be much lower than Eguchi-san is expecting. It's unlike him to so
severely miscalculate."
"He's becoming overconfident. They're not used to dealing with resistance
anymore. These days they make many mistakes."
"And you make sure they don't realize it," Yumiko murmurs, giving the table a
thoughtful look. "Here." She taps the larger of the two pieces. "This is the
key. They're part of all the partnerships in that region because they're the
only ones who can make the Russians pay. Take that out of the equation, and
contracts worth trillions of yen become worthless."
"But no one's been able to figure out who their contacts are. Eguchi-san's been
trying for months."
"They have held their cards very close to their chest, haven't they?" Yumiko
says, and Shuusuke's eyes light in sudden understanding.
"Of course. If rumors spread about their contacts being compromised, no one
outside the company would know enough to dismiss them." Spread them days before
a payment comes due, and the company would be helpless to counteract them,
bound to secrecy. And while the company's subsidiaries are self-sufficient,
their partners' aren't, and the loss incurred...
It will be like dominoes falling.
Yumiko's always been good at identifying structural weaknesses, but recently
she's become something else, something much more.
"The charade will have to be timed perfectly, and maintained for at least a
couple of weeks. It requires being as silent and elusive, as omnipresent and
persistent, as a ghost." She takes the American piece, and gives him the
Russian with a smile that's turned absolutely wicked. "I trust that won't be a
problem?"
"Of course not," he replies. The cookie is a burst of sticky-sweet on his
tongue. She's a very good teacher.
At the door she turns around. "Shouldn't you stop, after this? We have enough
now to move on to the next stage, and it's only a matter of time until father
takes notice."
"Ah. I still have a bit of time," Shuusuke says. "And we can always use
insurance."
Yumiko looks at him closely for a moment, then nods. "Have it your way. You're
going to Ecuador next, aren't you? Do you think you'll find something
interesting?"
"We'll see," Shuusuke says with a smile. Though he rather doubts it.
 
The heated darkness of equatorial jungles is as thoroughly, impersonally
oppressive as winter nights in the North Pole. Branches tangle overhead, snake
into and between each other, devouring most sunlight before it reaches the
ground.
Fuji's on a luxury riverboat making its ponderous way down the Amazon, on a
stretch where especially ambitious branches twist and arc over them. There are
a handful of tourists posing with deuces while a guide tells stories of tribes
who made (and perhaps still make!) human sacrifices. The more gruesome the
stories, the higher the tip, and they have a very competent guide. But Fuji's
heard all his variations already, and feels increasingly cross and sweaty,
being an all-you-can-eat gourmet buffet for mammoth flies. He vainly sprays
himself again, slumps in his bench, and sleeps, dreaming of the same thing he
wakes to. A night that stretches and stretches, until it's finally ended by a
brightly burning sun, as relentless as what came before it.
It is very tiring.
 
Two weeks after he returns, on a Saturday morning when he's answering emails
and adding footnotes for a pitch, there's a knock on his door. Two sharp
staccatos, followed by the doorbell. Fuji's hand stills over his keyboard. He
has a good doorman, and unexpected visitors are a rare thing. Perhaps he's
sick, and there's a replacement in the lobby? Fuji continues typing, taking
another sip of coffee. Makes a note to add ginseng and herbal teas along with
the next annual tip.
The bell rings again, and again. Fuji closes his laptop and pads to the door.
Echizen stands on the other side of the fishbowl peephole, an expression on his
face that makes Fuji reconsider his strategy of ignoring inconveniences until
they leave. Echizen could teach lessons on single-minded persistence to dogs
with bones.
Fuji opens the door.
"Hello Fuji-sempai," Echizen says.
He's carrying a tennis bag over his shoulder. He's taller than Fuji now, and
Fuji has to look up to meet his eyes.
"Hello," Fuji says with a sunny smile. "How nice to see you again!" Giving way
to let him in.
 
Echizen sits on the sofa, Fuji on the armchair to the right of it. Echizen's
eyes keep straying over the apartment. He takes another sip of coffee, Fuji
asks him if he wants something else to drink, pushes the plate of cookies that
Yumiko had left. After a bit of hesitation, Echizen takes one.
It's all very cozy.
Fuji puts his cup down on the table. Says, "So you were passing by the
neighborhood?"
"I want to play you," Echizen says, and at ten minutes, Fuji halts his mental
timer. This, more than anything, is evidence that things have changed. The
Echizen of old wouldn't have waited ten seconds.
"I don't have a tennis racket," Fuji says.
"You can borrow one of mine."
"I believe it's bad luck to borrow a racket," Fuji says. Smiles. "More coffee?"
Echizen's jaw moves. "No," he says finally.
Fuji hadn't been paying any particular attention, and had still heard about
Echizen's victories, how he'd carved a name for himself by cutting down all the
champions before him, even displacing some blonde vampire to gain a coveted
“WORLD HOTTEST GUY!!” title.
He would've thought that such a person could find better things to do with his
time than this.
"I would recommend shogi," Fuji says. "Or mountain climbing."
"Is that how you spend your time?"
"At times I also drink coffee and talk to tennis stars. Are you sure you don't
want more? Not even the cookies?” Fuji is determined to be solicitousness
incarnated. “They're homemade."
"You're afraid," Echizen says, eyes narrowed and considering.
Fuji smiles. It isn't much different from playing a game after all. Serve,
watch your opponent’s reactions to find out where it has landed, wait to see if
he manages a return.
"Of course," Fuji says. "The tennis champion of the world - it would be
embarrassing to lose." It’s much more efficient too, no sweat or sore muscles,
and it even allows him to finish his coffee.
Another long look. "Maybe not of me" -- said grudgingly, with an unspoken
though you should be -- "but you are."
Fuji pauses, putting his cup back on the table. Sighs. “I feel as if it is my
duty as your sempai to say this. Echizen, you make a terrible therapist. I’m
very glad you have a backup career as a tennis star.”
Echizen puts his cup down with a clatter, giving him a look of eloquent scorn
as he rises. "Whatever," he says, picking up his bag. ”There's no point in
talking to cowards,” putting on his sneakers. Then the door slams behind him,
their game apparently finished.
 
Fuji's responded to three emails, and almost finished his coffee, when the
doorbell rings again. He opens it without looking. “I'm sorry Echizen, but I
still insist on being --" Fuji stops.
It’s not Echizen. It’s Yuuta.
He looks a little taller, now, than he did at graduation, his hair a bit
longer. But he stands the same way, stiff and uncomfortable, as if he would
rather be anywhere else.
Shuusuke doesn't know what to make of this. Yuuta has never visited. Shuusuke’s
surprised he even knew where to find him.
"Hello," Yuuta says.
"Hello," says Shuusuke. "Is this Awkward Reunions Day? Who's next in line after
you?"
Yuuta's brow furrows, somehow making him look even more flustered. Shuusuke
sighs, stepping back.
"Come in. The coffee is cold, but you never liked it anyway. You can sit while
I make some tea."
Yuuta drinks tea (Earl Grey, no sugar), eats Yumiko's cookies (his favorite).
Tells Shuusuke about his new job, his apartment over a combini, that he's
joined his gym tennis league. All things that Shuusuke already knows -- it's
quite easy to keep tabs on his brother, since there is nothing their mother
likes talking about more -- but that still leave him utterly bewildered. It is
Yuuta sitting here, talking to Shuusuke in fits and starts.
"So, yeah," Yuuta says, with another awkward shrug, his eyes darting to his
brother, then away. "The match ended early, and I was in the neighborhood, so.
Decided to stop by and say hi."
"And did it so well too," Shuusuke says, and smiles, the benign older brother.
Yuuta scowls.
"Yumiko said-" Yuuta looks away again, his scowl becoming more intense.
"Said what?" Shuusuke asks softly, lightly, as if the answer is unimportant.
Yuuta shakes his head. "Nothing. Is your bathroom over there? I have to go."
Shuusuke takes the cups to the kitchen, rinses them off. Hears the toilet
flush. Walks back and finds the door to Tezuka's room open.
Yuuta stands a few feet away from Tezuka, his back to the door. He's opened all
the blinds, sunlight flooding the shadows from the room, dust motes floating
lazily in the air. Shuusuke has never seen the obsidian shine so fiercely.
"They said he'd gone to Germany," Yuuta says, but doesn't give any other
acknowledgement that Fuji is there. "I believed them because I wanted to. Even
though I was there and knew." His voice is angry. He takes a step closer and
reaches a hand out, fingers straying on Tezuka's face. Shuusuke's fingers
tighten around the doorknob.
"He looks whole. But he isn't, is he?"
"No," Shuusuke says. "There's one piece, on his left heel. We can’t find it.”
No one else has ever been here. Not even Tezuka’s mother. She hands him the
pieces she’s found, asks what is left, and leaves, all with an efficiency that
machines would envy.
Yuuta finally turns, his hand falling from Tezuka's face. There's something
strange in his expression as he looks at Shuusuke.
”You know, I hated you," Yuuta says. "Hated that everyone compared me to you.
Hated that I was your younger brother."
Shuusuke lets go of the doorknob and comes forward, finally on familiar ground.
"Saa, Yuuta, it's not very nice to say things like this. Don't you think you
should-"
"I'm sorry that I forgot," Yuuta says. "I'm sorry that I didn't help."
Shuusuke stops. Says, carefully and reasonably, "You were busy with school, and
finding the pieces was easy. The last one's been a bit more difficult, but soon
we'll find that too."
Yuuta steps away from Tezuka, towards Shuusuke. "I'm sorry I wasn't there when
you were climbing that mountain, and fell."
Shuusuke's eyes widen. He opens his mouth, but Yuuta's determined to keep
selfishly hoarding the words in the room.
"I'm sorry you were alone when you were sick. I'm sorry I left before you woke
up in the hospital." He comes closer, steady and relentless. "There are
probably a dozen other things I don't know about, because you never say
anything. I'm sorry for those, too. And I'm sorry I wanted to forget. But I
remember now."
Shuusuke stands, straight and still. Wonders if this is what it feels like, the
moment before. If this is what Tezuka had felt like.
The world is impossibly fragile and bright.
"Do you want me to stop?" Yuuta asks.
"Yes," Shuusuke says.
"But. You never did, even after all this time. No matter what. So I don't think
I should, either." They're standing only a few inches apart. Yuuta's jacket is
a patterned monochrome, his shirt open at the collar. Behind him the light is
fading, as if someone was reaching out a hand to mask the sun, the room taking
on gray and blue tones. The statue (Tezuka) no longer shines as brightly.
Yuuta says, "He seemed like someone who never had problems he couldn't solve,
obstacles he couldn't overcome. Someone who got everything they wanted. Even
you gave way to him." Yuuta reaches out, mirroring his movements from a moment
ago, touches Shuusuke's face. "Maybe. I hated you for that too."
"Yuuta -"
"But now I think. We weren't so different." Another step closer, until the room
is hidden behind his shoulders. His grey eyes are shadowed, a half smile on his
face that Shuusuke's never seen before. Shuusuke has always been able to read
him, known better than their mother and even Yumiko, when Yuuta was happy or
sad, scared or lonely. Yuuta feels things deeply and fiercely, and it's always
distressed Shuusuke that he's never learned to hide it. But maybe he finally
has, because Shuusuke can't read him at all.
"Are you happy here, aniki? Like this?" And, when Shuusuke doesn't say
anything, Yuuta leans forward, the last sliver of an inch, and kisses him. A
touch as light as a feather, brief as a spark.
Yuuta steps back, the tips of his ears red. Says, "Because, I think. I want you
to be. It will make me happy, too. Whether it's this, or something else. So
please try harder."
And Yuuta turns to leave, and Shuusuke can just stand there and watch.
The sound of the door closing is like the breaking of a spell. Fuji turns,
looks at Tezuka. Turns again, and walks to the balcony. The air is cold, rain
turning to snow as it drops. His apartment is too small, and if he walks any
further he'll fall. He looks down and doesn't see Yuuta.
The wind whistles past. In the horizon, the sun sinks to the ground.
Fuji touches his lips.
 
iii. together they come, and when one
remember
 
His mother invites him for dinner, and for the first time in years, Shuusuke
goes. There's an empty seat where his father never is, and there's an empty
seat where Yuuta should be.
"Hmm? I'm not sure," Yumiko says. "He's been gone for a couple of days, I
forgot where." Looks at him with a smirk. "Is this the start of another quest,
brother dear?"
“Should I?" Shuusuke murmurs. "But you know, my luck's been very strange
lately, and now you're involving Yuuta in this. You never did tell me what you
—" Breaks off when their mother comes into the room.
She places the pot she's carrying on the table between the rice and side
dishes. "Yumiko, don't tease your brother. You know how worried he can get.
Shuusuke, Yuuta just went skiing with some friends, he'll be back in a week."
She takes the lid off, stirs the noodles with chopsticks, then sits. "I do hope
he's careful. Skiing can be such a dangerous sport. Ah well. He's old enough to
make his own decisions, I suppose, even if they are terribly risky. Shall we
start eating?"
Shuusuke eats.
 
At home, he takes off his shoes, hangs his jacket in the closet. Goes to the
kitchen, takes out a plum from the fridge and, with ritualistic deliberation,
finishes it. Washes his hands in the sink. Leaving the lights off, he pads to
Tezuka's room. Goes to the window, and looks out over the city.
"I don't get worried," he says. "My mother's the one who's always worried, ever
since we left. Afraid that something else will happen to us, when she's not
paying attention."
Do you believe in curses? his sister had asked him. Almost two decades, and
Fuji can still recall the sprawling, shadowed compound in vivid detail.
He draw the blinds down so that there's only a sliver of moonlight filtering
in. Just enough to outline the statue, a black deeper than the shadows
surrounding it.
Fuji can't look at Tezuka without thinking of Yuuta, anymore. Yuuta and their
father.
"He asked me such an irrelevant question. Why would he do that? He's as
stubborn as ever, except this time he might get into a mess that we can't pull
him out of."
He leans down, lights his cigarette, an orange ember flame that briefly brings
the statue in relief. Tezuka stands, as self-contained, as proud and impassive
and unchanging, as he's always been. Fuji's a bit tempted to smash him to
pieces again.
Fuji closes his eyes. Leans against the wall, taking a drag. Breathes it out,
watching the smoke dissipate, then looks at Tezuka again.
"Your eyes are open," he says. "Tezuka. Do you see me?"
 
At work they promote him, give him more responsibilities, more projects to
lead. "You're on track to be our youngest partner ever," Hamamoto-san says,
voice warm and approving.
"It's all due to your hard work and guidance," Fuji replies with a smile.
Yumiko was right, it's almost time for him to end this.
At lunch he takes out his cell. Pauses for a moment, uncharacteristically
indecisive, before hitting the second speed dial.
Yuuta picks up on the third ring. "Yo, aniki," he says.
"How's Nagano?" Fuji asks.
"The snow's great. If mom asks, tell her that I'm sticking to the kid slopes."
"Are you?"
"Course not. Listen, I gotta go in a minute, the lift's coming."
Fuji says, "The other day - what you said. It wasn't necessary. I never
expected you to do those things."
"Of course," Yuuta says, voice brusque, impatient, as if Fuji has just told him
that the sky is blue. "I know that. You never do."
Then why? Fuji's fingers tighten over the phone.
He'd always been able to understand his brother, before.
"When are you coming back?" Fuji asks.
"In four days. Why?"
"Saa. Your confession that day was very moving. I've thought it over, and
decided to accept. I'll meet you at the airport, and we can go on a date."
A beat of silence, then Baka aniki!, followed by the dial tone.
Fuji turns off his cell, drums his fingers on the desk. The city outside looks
bleak and gray, the sky overcast and at any moment threatening snow or rain.
Like Yuuta's eyes. Fuji's smile fades without him realizing.
He gets up, grabs his coat. He's decided to take a half day.
 
At the old man's store, Fuji hears the same thing he's heard for the last few
months. There are no stones and no leads. Is he absolutely sure that there's
still one missing?
Fuji walks with no conscious goal or destination. People brush against him,
brief flurries of snow fall from indents in skyscrapers where they'd
accumulated. Fuji takes a turn. Looks up and finds himself standing in front of
tennis courts.
They're both familiar and strange. A half-remembered dream, a photo left
exposed too long to the light, separated by a wire metal fence.
He steps forward, his fingers curving around its grooves. It's strange, how
quiet and still it is with no one playing. Just the sounds of the wind.
"Do you want me to do a reading for you?" Yumiko had asked, her fingers long
and pale as she shuffled the cards. Her smile with secrets behind it, and he'd
smiled back, eyes lidded. "Your readings are scary, neesan. I don't think I
want to know."
Memories fall like snow. Tennis matches, Yuuta's voice, his father and uncle.
This is our legacy. Yumiko's hand in his, guiding his steps; the empty space at
every family meal. Tezuka looking at him, with the same unwavering intensity he
approached everything.
Fuji thinks, he hadn't wanted to know how it would end.
Fuji thinks, he'd wanted.
It's not Yumiko's cards that terrify him.
 
The house is an hour away by train. When Shuusuke reaches there it's already
night. The lampposts are lit, trees throwing shadows on the path in front of
him.
His sister, when she opens the door, looks as if she'd been expecting him.
He's out of breath. He takes a moment to speak, but she's always been ten steps
ahead. "Would you like me to do a reading for you, Shuusuke?" she asks, for the
first time since Asai's accident, since Yuuta's move. Since Tezuka.
"There's something I've been looking for. Do you know where it is?"
Yumiko tilts her head. "I'd assumed it was hormones at first. And then, later,
that you were off being a teenager in your own special way. But this has lasted
a rather long time for that."
Shuusuke's eyes narrow, and Yumiko smiles. But there's something a bit wistful
about it.
"Can't you let it go?"
And Shuusuke says, carefully, "I didn't know I had a choice. But now I think I
do."
Yumiko's silent, a moment. And then, with a soft sigh, "Yes, you do. Where have
you looked, brother mine?"
"Everywhere."
"Close your eyes."
Behind his eyelids he can't see anything at all. His sister moves closer.
"Here," she says softly, and touches him. Her hair smells of flowers and the
sea. He's taller than her, and it's still utterly disconcerting. The hand on
his chest is warm through his shirt, over the skin under which his heart beats.
It is beating very quickly.
"The one place you never looked. Here." Her fingers tap, once again, over his
heart, and then her hand moves across, down to Shuusuke's pocket. And his heart
feels strangely empty, and in his pocket there is a sudden weight.
"Little brother," she says, such gentleness in her voice that he can hardly
bear it. "Are you sure?" They've always been his downfall, Yumiko and Yuuta, in
their separate ways. Her hand is over his now, their fingers twined together.
Once upon a time, Shuusuke had followed her everywhere, as faithful as a shadow
and as silent. He wanted to be close to her, to see where she went, everything
she did, and it was against the rules for him to be seen. But that night, when
she spotted him, she hadn't narrowed her eyes, disappointed and irritated, a
look that settled sour and heavy in his stomach. She hadn't smiled a brilliant,
mocking smile - better luck next time, Shuusuke - and disappeared, leaving him
alone.
"It's okay, little brother," she'd said instead, blood darkening, matting her
hair. Stepped forward, covering his hand with hers. “It’s over now, and we can
go home.” And Shuusuke doesn't know how long he stands there, before letting
go.
They've always been his downfall, Yumiko and Yuuta. His downfall, and
salvation, and he's never once regretted it. So he puts his hand in his pocket.
The stone breaks at his touch, splinters embedding in his skin. His breath
catches in his throat; he takes the pieces out.
"I've been careless again," Shuusuke says. The pieces fall like black sand from
between his fingers.
"It's going to rain soon. You should gather them before it does," she says.
When Shuusuke kneels on the doorstep, she also kneels to help him.
 
At his apartment, he pours the stone fragments onto the jagged space where
Tezuka's heel should be. They fall to the ground at Tezuka's feet. Fuji bows
his head, runs them through his fingers. One cuts into the skin and the skin
bleeds.
"I won't be able to keep my promise to your mother, Tezuka. I'm sorry. I - I'd
wanted to."
His lips curve into a smile. In the end, it wasn't that hard after all. Just a
release of a consciously held breath.
Hair falls over Fuji's eyes. Raindrops like tears fall on fragments of stone
and blood.
 
Fuji goes to the balcony, taps out a cigarette. Leaves the sliding door open
behind him, curtains billowing like ghosts. There's a faint noise of traffic
drifting up, occasional horns and the murmur of cars and people and feet. Fuji
takes a drag, leans back.
The wind shifts, blowing into his face. His hair is caught in his eyes, and his
body tenses, as if this balcony is the precarious edge of a cliff.
There's a sound behind him, that has nothing to do with traffic.
His fingers are white around the balustrade. The old man had been right. He'd
had no idea what he was doing. It takes him a moment to uncurl his fingers,
turn around.
"Hello, Tezuka," he says.
***** west of the moon *****
Later Fuji thinks, it wasn't that no one told him. He had been warned. But
people only ever believed what they wanted, and he's no different after all.
 
i. that strange and almost endless dream
 
It's a meticulously decorated apartment. The furniture is modern, smooth curved
lines of sofa and dresser and table, steel and leather and chrome, a flat panel
screen that takes up an entire wall, paintings tasteful and unobtrusive.
It reminds Tezuka of a hotel room, carefully planned to give off a certain
impression. He wonders who had suggested that Fuji hire an interior decorator.
Fuji's mother, maybe. Yuuta and Kikumaru have no interest in such things,
Fuji's sister is too much like him to ever suggest it, and Tezuka doubts that
Fuji's father has ever visited. So Fuji's mother must have suggested it, or one
of Fuji's revolving door girlfriends.
Tezuka draws up the list of names in his mind, narrows it down, as meticulously
as Inui had collected his data all those years ago. It's ridiculous that he
can't let such a small question go. But it's something that Fuji never told
him.
 
The drawers are mostly empty. There are dozens of dark suits and white shirts
in the closet, ties hanging on the hooks. There are no pictures anywhere.
The only room that doesn't look like a spread in a home design magazine is the
study. Carpeted floor, windows that have thick blinds but no curtains. The
walls are lined with bookshelves filled with trophies, family pictures, books,
paintings in strokes of conservative colors against an everpresent blue; things
Fuji has neglected, in an uncharacteristic display of sentimentality, to throw
away.
He is another one of those things.
He walks to where he stood, putting his feet in the indentations on the carpet.
For a moment, he forgets how to breathe, and the room becomes even more
familiar.
 
"And you know this room," Fuji says, completing the tour. Later at the kitchen
table, as casually as he asked Tezuka to pass him the lighter, "It's late. You
can spend the night there again, if you want. I've never used it myself."
There's no bed or futon in the room. "Should I sleep standing up?" Tezuka asks.
Fuji's fingers still, his thumb pressed down on the lighter. The flame
flickers.
"Has it become a habit?" Fuji asks. Lights his cigarette, lashes casting half-
moon shadows on his skin, before looking up again.
Tezuka watches Fuji, his gaze unwavering. There's no malice or amusement in
Fuji's eyes, just a quiet, unruffled scrutiny. It turns into something deeper,
darker, until Fuji's eyes shutter and he looks away, crushing his cigarette in
the ashtray.
Fuji finds a bedroll in the closet and lays it out in efficient, graceful
movements. He hesitates for a moment at the doorway, a black silhouette. Then
says "Goodnight, Tezuka," a meaningless smile on his face.
Tezuka lies down but doesn't sleep. Light filters through the blinds and casts
familiar shadows. His chest moves with his breaths. He wills his hand to move
and it does, hovering in front of his face; wills his fingers to bend and they
do. He gets up, walks to the window, opens the blinds. There's something
building inside of him, causing his skin to tighten and his pulse to quicken.
He thinks of Fuji. The night is bright with lights, the sky absolutely still,
the window cold against his palm. He steps back, leaving a fading trace of it.
Fuji goes to work the next day, as if nothing's changed, leaving the apartment
empty and unguarded. Tezuka searches it carefully and thoroughly and finds
nothing.
It wasn't carelessness, Tezuka realizes. There's nothing here that Fuji would
spare a second thought for.
 
ii. and this is how it works
 
In the afternoon light pours in, casting shadows of the windowpanes that warp
over the furniture and fall in straight lines on the floor and the walls.
Tezuka opens the balcony and steps out. He sees people and cars, so far away
they seem like toys.
He comes in from the balcony. Picks up a knapsack that he'd found in one of the
closets, fills it with a water bottle and deodorant and his phone and wallet
and another wallet with 10,000 yen and change that he'd found in a drawer. He
unfolds a map, tracing his route one last time before putting it away. Puts on
shoes, opens the door, steps outside, all without hesitation, as if they're
routine actions requiring no effort, as if he's been doing this every day.
Takes the elevator down, walks to the subway, buys a ticket with Fuji's money.
Rubs shoulders with dozens of people as he boards the train, then stands backed
against a pole by a window. The darkness of tunnels and the reflection of his
face alternates with yellow sunlight, telephone poles as regular as clockwork,
buildings like sleek glass pillars and stacks of cardboard boxes. The train
stops, people enter and leave, enter and leave, his mind counts down. He feels
dizzy, his vision a bit blurred. There's a dull, aching pain in the front of
his head. He changes trains, and fifteen minutes later, gets off. Walks down an
unfamiliar road.
This was my neighborhood, he thinks, and, when he stops, this was where I
lived. He rings the bell. His mother opens the door and stands there, perfectly
still.
Then: "You're home," she says, eyes wide. "You're home, Kunimitsu, you're
home", moving to hug him.
Tezuka steps out of range instinctively.
The silence stretches as they both stare at each other, wide-eyed. This meeting
had been much easier in Tezuka's head.
He forces himself to step forward again. "Hello mother," he says. "I'm sorry
for causing you worry."
 
They sit on cushions in front of a low table filled with enough food to - well,
feed a tennis team. Shoji panels filter the outside light, and at times there
is the trickle of wind chimes, bamboo pipe falling to mark another hour passed.
His mother's hair is streaked with gray now and there are creases around her
eyes. They linger on him for too long, making him even more uncomfortable and
wary.
He had been a good son, Tezuka knows. A good son and a good grandson, a good
student and a good team vice-captain and a good student body president. He
knows he had been these things, but he does not know why. Fuji had been
careless. There are things missing inside him that should not be.
They talk of vacations taken and promotions received, of relatives that have
left the country, returned, graduated and died and married and had children. A
world that has moved on without him, it is nothing more or less than he
expected. At his mother's urging, he says he'll consider studying for
university entrance exams, and he will consider it. Very briefly.
"I can't stay," Tezuka says during a pause. "There will be too many questions
about me. I don't want questions." His mother moves, as if to reach for him
again. When Tezuka tenses - instinctive, uncontrollable, signals scrambled as
they have been since he, what? woke? with a body not quite his own - she
immediately stills.
"We can sell this house and move, someplace no one knows us."
"That won't be necessary," Tezuka says. He carefully relaxes his muscles,
unclenches his fingers. "I'm staying with Fuji. I will come back to visit."
"And call," his mother says, voice soft, though it's a statement, rather than a
question. A demand. "I want to know how you are, and your father will also want
to see you and speak with you. We have the same phone number."
The same phone number and the same house, the same painted scroll hanging in
the alcove, the same tatami mats under his feet, the same furniture but for a
larger TV. Even his room hasn't changed, everything just as he left it thirteen
years ago. As if time has stayed still here, and he's the only thing that's
different.
He looks at his mother and thinks, he must try his absolute best, for the
memory of who he had been.
The afternoon stretches to evening before he finally excuses himself. His
mother hesitates before rising, her gaze lingering on him as he bows and walks
away, lingering with a weight that presses. He can't relax even when there's a
closed door between them.
He takes the train to his grandfather's grave. Still the good son and grandson,
paying his respects to his elders, but he doesn't bring anything with him, no
flowers or incense. The gravestone somehow seems both prominent and
unobtrusive. He kneels on grass and dandelion weeds. Traces his grandfather's
name where it is carved into the marble, then his eyes shift, look beyond to
the sloping hill and the white and black graves that dot it, the curve of the
land to the horizon.
At Fuji's building, the doorman bows and opens the door for him. Tezuka takes
the elevator up, sits next to Fuji's door. He doesn't have a key because Fuji
hadn't offered one. He forces his body to be still and wait.
When the elevator door opens, he doesn't have to look up to know that it's
Fuji. Fuji's shoes are brown Italian leather, his pants still meticulously
creased. He's holding a grocery bag and suitcase in one hand, is jiggling the
keys in the other. A billboard-perfect picture of a salaryman.
There's a spring in Tezuka's chest, that's been winding tighter and tighter
throughout the day, that finally relaxes. It's easier, now, to breathe.
It's infuriating.
Fuji's eyes widen when he sees Tezuka, and he stops. Tezuka watches him
closely. The surprise shades into wariness before Fuji's expression shutters,
and he moves to open the door.
 
"You saw your mother?" Fuji's taken off his suit jacket and tie but hasn't
bothered to wear the apron hanging by his fridge. His collar is unbuttoned,
falling open on his neck, sleeves rolled and shirt untucked. He's in the
kitchen, searching the cupboard for ingredients to whatever it is he's planning
to make.
"Yes," Tezuka says. He's sitting on a stool on the ledge between the kitchen
and the living room, thumbing through the day's Wall Street Journal. Japan is
just coming out of a recession, the bank is considering raising interest rates.
Fuji's company is involved in a takeover of an international oil company.
Commodity prices are rising and there are articles on energy conservation.
There is growing concern over youth violence and isolation, the hikikomori who
never leave their rooms. Tezuka pauses, amusement and anger and claustrophobia
warring inside him, and looks up. Fuji's standing in front of the gas, his back
carelessly turned to Tezuka, humming a tune that Tezuka doesn't recognize.
Tezuka looks back down, flips the page.
"Do you still like unacha?" Fuji asks.
"I don't know," Tezuka says. Thinks for a moment, then says, "It doesn't
matter. I'll eat."
Tezuka waits until dinner is finished and they are clearing the dishes. "Will
you play a tennis game with me?" he asks then.
There's the slightest hesitation in Fuji's movements before he puts the plate
in the dishwasher. "I don't play anymore," Fuji says.
"But I think I do," Tezuka says.
Fuji turns to face him. Brushes hair off his forehead, fingers leaving the
strands slightly wet. Tezuka's gaze never leaves Fuji's face, the planes and
angles that he knows better than his own. The only sound in the apartment is
the running water from the sink.
Fuji smiles. "We'll have to buy tennis rackets first," he says.
 
The next day Fuji comes back with an armload of magazines that he sets next to
Tezuka, takeout containers, and two rackets that he places by the door. Tezuka
flips through the magazines, The Economist and Foreign Affairs and Sports
Illustrated and - Seventeen? "TEN THINGS EVERY BOY WANTS YOU TO KNOW!" The
cover declares. He looks at Fuji with an eyebrow raised, and Fuji looks back
placidly, familiar amusement lurking in his eyes. "I thought you might want to
catch up on what's happening."
Tezuka puts the magazine down and rises. Fuji takes a step back, but their
shoulders still brush as Tezuka walks past him. Tezuka unzips the bag, taking
out a racket.
"That's not what I want to catch up on," Tezuka says, testing the tension of
the strings. And when Fuji says nothing, "Are you tired, then?"
"Yes," Fuji says.
"You're getting old."
"Compared to you, I'm very old."
Tezuka's knuckles go white around the racket.
"I'll change," Fuji says.
 
It feels natural to hold a racket, to step into the court, and for the first
time in days (thirteen years), Tezuka relaxes, almost dizzy with relief.
The game starts. He's slow and weak, his heart beating much too quickly for the
amount of exercise he's done, but that's expected. These are things that can be
fixed with time, and he has that to spare. Nothing important has changed within
the boundaries of the court. Even his headache's receded a bit.
He knows what he's doing here, knows who he is. It's still his.
Fuji doesn't break a sweat, and his game turns out to be another thing that
hasn't changed. Fuji never needed practice to be great. He was born with skills
and a genius that most players never achieved, no matter how hard they worked
for it, and that he put no value on whatsoever. Tezuka can't challenge him yet.
He's only able to score a few points, from balls Fuji seemed to find more
interesting to watch than chase.
"You look tired, Tezuka. Would you like to stop?" Fuji asks during the break.
Thirteen years ago, Tezuka wouldn't have heard the edge in his words. Now, he
almost smiles.
 
It's a few days before Tezuka realizes that Fuji’s takeout tastes familiar.
"She comes by my office each day," Fuji says, confirming his suspicions. "Her
saba shioyaki is really the best."
Tezuka puts his chopsticks down. "Tell my mother that it’s not necessary.” He's
not hungry, anymore.
"It saves time, and makes her happy," Fuji says. And then, voice soft, "Tezuka.
She's not asking for more."
Tezuka's fingers feel cold; it takes him a couple of tries to pick up another
piece. There’s a slick, slightly burned texture against his tongue. He
deliberately chews and swallows. He can do this after all, even if each bite
has become tasteless, a rote obligation to a distant, colorless memory.
 
One week later, when he wakes, blinking up at the perfectly clear ceiling above
him, Tezuka realizes what is causing his headaches.
He no longer needs glasses.
Of course, he thinks. Of course.
He slips his glasses into his pocket and begins his morning routine - bathroom,
brushing his teeth, going to the kitchen for a glass of water. The apartment's
empty. Fuji leaves for work before the sun rises, returns well after the sun
sets. Tezuka doesn't know what to make of this work ethic, if Fuji's really
changed this much in the intervening years, or if it's Tezuka being like this.
Able to press back, now, and make his own demands.
Yet another thing he doesn't know, that Fuji never told him.
Tezuka puts his glasses on the counter. Does push-ups and situps, stretches,
weight training. Drinks more water, puts the empty glass on the counter next to
his lenses.
He'll never need them anymore, will he? So he picks them up and throws them at
the far wall.
The lenses crack. It's not very satisfying.
He's also not thirsty anymore. He takes the now empty glass of water, and
throws that, too, as forcefully as he can. There's not even the slightest
twinge in his shoulder.
It shatters, of course. But that's not very satisfying, either.
He closes his eyes a moment. Then gets the broom and dustpan, gathers his
cracked glasses and all the shattered pieces, and puts them in the garbage.
Continues his morning routine; aerobic exercises are next, followed by a
shower, then a healthy breakfast.
 
It takes two weeks for Fuji to ask the question that Tezuka's mother had asked
in the first ten minutes. It's after dinner, when Tezuka is reading the paper
and Fuji is working again, a regular tap-tap-tap of keys that doesn't slow or
stop when Fuji says, "The doorman thinks that we're lovers. That you're a
prostitute that I've grown too fond of, maybe. Why else would a salaryman keep
a student in his apartment?"
Tezuka doesn't say anything. He doesn’t care what doormans think.
Fuji stops typing. "Have you decided what you're going to do?" he asks.
"I'm planning to sleep in forty-five minutes," Tezuka replies.
"How enterprising of you," Fuji says. "And after that?"
Tezuka looks up. "I'll play tennis."
Fuji nods, as if it's just what he expected. "It's probably a good idea to
start abroad. You leave too much of an impression, and there are many people
here who haven't forgotten, even after thirteen years. The transition will be
easier with a coach, and come with fewer questions. I'll make calls, see if
there are any available discreet enough to -"
"That's not necessary."
Fuji stops, a slight frown on his face.
"I don't want anyone else," Tezuka says. "I want you."
Fuji says, in a voice that's the epitome of mildness, "I'm honored that you'd
consider me, but I don't think I'm suitable. I don't have any experience. I
don't even follow the sport."
"That's too bad," Tezuka says. "You'll have a lot to learn. It might be good to
start as soon as possible."
Fuji looks at Tezuka as a scientist would regard a rare specimen held up for
examination. How much have you figured out? Tezuka wonders. Something flickers
in Fuji's eyes, gone too quickly for Tezuka to identify it. Fuji smiles.
"Saa. I'm afraid I don't do charity work."
Tezuka's gaze traces the apartment, the tailored lines of Fuji's suit, the
earring in one lobe. The gentle, mocking curve of his lips, its humor touching
his eyes. An expression he knows intimately, as well as the whispered secrets
that often followed it. "I can afford you," he says softly.
"Can you?" Fuji murmurs, tilting his head. Then, "No one could've ever accused
you of lacking confidence." Turns backs to his laptop, still smiling. "We'll
find out, I suppose. Ah well. I was thinking of quitting anyway. Which country
will it be?"
 
The only other language Fuji knows is English, and Fuji's father is currently
stationed in Australia, so it's America.
Fuji gives Tezuka papers to sign, and Tezuka signs.
"You should look at papers before signing them," Fuji says. "Otherwise, you
could end up trading your firstborn, or your entire stock of deodorants, for a
pencil."
Tezuka doesn't say anything. He's gotten what he wanted, and Fuji's always been
a sore loser. The details of how that plays out don't really matter.
They fly first class. "The year after you left, I had a kouhai who came from
America," Fuji says on the plane, smiling out the window. "This might be
interesting."
He sleeps through the flight; Tezuka stays awake. When they land in New York, a
limo picks them up at the airport and deposits them in a five star hotel where
they have, apparently, booked a suite, two rooms connected by a living room and
kitchen. The next day, Fuji picks Tezuka up in a Mercedes, takes him to lunch
in a restaurant with black-tuxed waiters and silverware polished to shine -
"perfect spot for a business lunch, isn't it?", Fuji murmurs - and Tezuka stops
tallying their expenses. He's not sure whether to hope that Fuji finds them an
apartment. He can't imagine one being more expensive than the rooms they're in
now, but Fuji has always been unnervingly resourceful, especially when he's
displeased.
"We're going to lay low for a while," Fuji informs Tezuka between the third and
fourth course. His definition of laying low is as peculiar and mercurial as
everything else about him. Within the month he's booked two interviews, a
modeling contract, and entered Tezuka into the qualifyings of a Missouri
futures event.
Tezuka ignores the modeling contract and tells Fuji to cancel the interviews.
He came in America to play tennis, not speak English.
Fuji taps his pen on his lips and says, "So you're the kind of person that
wants your tennis to do the talking, got it," and somehow still manages to lure
two reporters to cover the tournament, one from a local paper and another from
a national tennis magazine.
"You're supposed to be - a comet, or a rocket or something, I forget the
cliched metaphor I used. The point is, anything less than absolute domination
would be a disappointment. So go and do your thing," Fuji says. Smiles, cheeks
dimpling, and for a disconcerting moment, Tezuka’s taken back thirteen years.
"I think I've missed my calling. I should be writing books on effective pep-
talks, not coaching tennis."
Tezuka wins every game in the tournament in straight sets. His opponents play
so badly that he forgoes shaking their hands at the end.
Fuji's waiting outside the courts when the final game is over. "Cheer up,
boss," he says, handing Tezuka the water bottle. "You've made enough these two
weeks to pay for our ticket back to New York."
 
iii. you're young until you're not you love until you don't
 
The days pass in a blur of different hotel rooms and airports and tennis
matches that are nothing like the Seigaku tournaments that Tezuka remembers.
They play in small cities, isolated courts, and quite often the only spectators
are coaches and family members of the players.
Fuji is good at being a manager, dealing with travel arrangements and
tournament schedules, lining up more offers for endorsement and sponsorships
than Tezuka needs. He makes a more questionable coach, with his main
contribution being drinks that remind Tezuka of Inui's creations.
When Tezuka inquires about the ingredients, Fuji looks back, wide-eyed
innocence, and asks, "Don't you trust me?"
"Yes," Tezuka says. He trusts Fuji not to make anything that will harm him -
not permanently, anyway - and also trusts him to make something as unappetizing
as humanly possible. Fuji watches with a widening smile, as if he can read
Tezuka's every thought.
“So suspicious, today’s generation. People your age should have more faith and
respect for your elders." Fuji takes a sip. "No poison, see?" holding the glass
out.
Their fingers brush as Tezuka takes it. He tilts his head up to drink, a
cloying taste of strawberries and wasabi he would've gagged on if he hadn't
been prepared. He finishes and puts the glass down. Wipes his lips with the
back of his hand, sees his reflection do the same, sees Fuji watching. They're
in the hotel gym, early enough that no one else is using it. All the walls are
lined with mirrors.
There are two dreams that Tezuka has. One is of what has happened, of the day
he broke apart and the years after. The other is of what could. The first is an
increasingly unwelcome intruder, robbing him of sleep; the second is something
he craves.
Fuji plays a prominent part in both.
Last night, Tezuka had woken from the first dream, a soundless scream in his
throat. But that moment, looking at Fuji, he remembers the second.
"You can stay," Tezuka says, though he knows that Fuji won't. Fuji gets up with
him, tells him the day's schedule, the playing styles of his upcoming
opponents. Presses energy drinks and nutrient bars at him if he hasn't eaten
breakfast, and then returns to his hotel room, preferring sleep to exercise
("there is a reason you're the player and I'm not").
And just as Tezuka has expected, Fuji shakes his head - "Maybe some other day"
- turning away, and Tezuka lets him leave.
He can wait. He thinks it might be more satisfying that way.
 
iv. you try until you can't
 
It usually takes a player two years to go from the Futures to the Challenger
circuit. Tezuka makes the transition in eight months, and the ease with which
he rises irritates him. It should be more difficult; it should have more
meaning. He asks Fuji to book him more tournaments and drags their practice
games out, finding them more satisfying than his official matches.
"You'll exhaust yourself," Fuji says, but for once does what he's told, fitting
tournaments back to back.
Each tournament Tezuka plays garners him more attention, and sports reporters
start following his career. The next Echizen Ryouma?, one headline reads;
Samurai conquering our courts!, reads another. Fuji's phone constantly rings
with requests for interviews, inspiring him to come up with increasingly
creative excuses ("I'm so sorry, but a year ago Tezuka was told by a fortune-
teller that he must take a vow of silence in order to increase his tennis
skills").
They go overseas for a tournament. When they're on the plane, Fuji says, "So,
we're not in America anymore. Have you recovered your ability to speak
English?"
"Only enough to ask where the bathroom is," Tezuka replies.
Fuji flips through the inflight magazine. Smiles and nods when the steward asks
if he would like more wine. "They want a story," he says, his tone that of a
professor dealing with a recalcitrant student. "If you don't give them one
yourself, they'll make one up."
"Let them."
"One interview, and I can act the translator. You just have to be there and say
something. Count the number of strings on your racket; they won't know the
difference."
Tezuka turns away, watches the trail of white the plane wing leaves behind as
they cut across the sky.
"We'll talk about this later," Fuji says, irritatingly persistent.
The lights inside the plane dim, and a stewardess comes around with pillows and
blankets. As always, it takes Fuji very little time to sleep. He lies on his
side, brown hair covering most of his features. One hand rests next to his
face, its fingers slightly curled.
Tezuka turns to the window, but now there is only his reflection staring back
at him. He looks back at Fuji. Thinks of the heat of deserts, the powdery
coolness of snow that lies on mountains, things that Fuji had described in a
dark room once, long ago.
Tezuka doesn't like nights. The world feels too fragile, too still. He closes
his eyes and can hear Fuji's breaths. It shouldn't be possible over the
rumbling of the plane's engine, but it is, and the sound is not one that
comforts him. Perhaps the only thing less likely to lull him to sleep would be
a heavy metal band playing at full volume.
But as disturbing and distasteful as it is having Fuji carelessly sleeping
beside him, the thought of him anywhere else is even more so.
There are sleeping pills in Tezuka's carry-on that Fuji has given him and that
Tezuka will never take. The sleep they cause is too insistent and inescapable.
 
A few hours later, they land in Germany. There's a limo at the airport that
takes them to their hotel, and Tezuka rests for a few hours before heading to
the courts. Fuji doesn't bring up the subject of interviews again. Looking
back, that should have been warning enough.
The next morning, Fuji says, "Ne, Tezuka, did you notice anything strange about
the courts yesterday?"
"No," Tezuka says, peeling off the cover of his nutrition bar.
"I just got a call from the tournament officials. They said the clay was
breaking, and they've assigned a different location for practice."
Tezuka nods, finishing off his nutrition bar. Doesn't think anything of it
until the tennis courts Fuji leads him to turn out to be a TV studio.
"Surprise," Fuji says, and then, "You can kill me later, I promise. For now,
please cooperate."
 
The interview is vapid and, Tezuka has to admit, rather painless. Fuji had
looked over the list of questions in advance, indicating which were acceptable,
and the reporter had agreed to all his conditions. Tezuka is asked who his role
models are, whether he has a girlfriend, his favorite food and book and movie,
if it's true he went to school with Echizen Ryoma. Tezuka's always looked older
than his age, and Fuji younger; the reporter seems to accept them meeting for
the first time in their school tennis team.
When the interview is over, the cameras turned off, the reporter stands to
shake hands. "Truly a pleasure, I have no doubt you'll accomplish great things
in our sport." And then, peering up, "Your stats show you at 178, but I'd swear
that you're well over 180 centimeters."
The stats were taken in the beginning of the year, and since then Tezuka's
grown.
Fuji says in Japanese, "What makes someone notice something so irrelevant?
Infatuation?" Smiles at the reporter, switching to English. "Well, you see,
Tezuka had a very traditional upbringing."
"Did he?" the reporter says. "How interesting."
“We Japanese feel that it is best to be modest about one's skills and
appearance, so it is always better to, how to put it? Underestimate rather than
overestimate. And as you can see, there is quite a bit to underestimate."
Fuji's tone, as always, is remarkably innocent and sincere.
The reporter blinks a moment, but soon recovers. "Ah, yes, I have heard things
like this before about your countrymen. Such modesty is very admirable."
 
v. flesh and blood ninety-eight points water
 
By his second year as a pro, Tezuka is firmly established in the ATP circuit.
Outside the courts, Tezuka's ranking means that the tennis federation takes
care of his expenses, though Fuji refuses their rooms (claiming to be horrified
at the dinginess of the hotels chosen) and their rental cars ("it's not like
you can't afford your own now") and only grudgingly sits for meals in the
cafeterias. The ranking also means that the general public, thanks in no small
part to Fuji's efforts, has seen Tezuka enough times that they recognize his
face. Fuji's capricious enough to work on making someone a star and bankrupting
them at the same time, and Tezuka's irritation at both probably adds
irresistible icing on that cake. Tezuka has to deal with mobbing fans on his
morning runs, paparazzi in the most unexpected of places, and Fuji's solicitous
advice.
"There are two things you can do," Fuji says, ever-present amusement lighting
his eyes. "Lose matches or wear a bag over your face."
Tezuka drops his morning runs.
They go to Madrid so that Tezuka can play the Masters Series. The tournament
complex holds a dozen courts exclusively reserved for the players to use.
Tezuka's routine is to spend three to four hours practicing with Fuji, followed
by a lunch in the cafeteria, after which they head back to the hotel, where he
watches videos of his opponent's games. Next comes two hours in the gym,
dinner, and sleep. Wake up and repeat, regular as a metronome, aside from game
days, when he takes a break and only plays once.
The first challenge comes two days before the tournament. It's the first break
in their morning practice, and Fuji's sitting with his back against the wall,
following a game on their neighbor court. All around them are the sounds of
balls on rackets and clay, grunts of players, sneakers running across the
court, the exhortation of coaches and the spit-spit-spit of ball machines,
things that have lately become the soundtrack to Tezuka's life.
Tezuka looks a moment at the game that's caught Fuji's attention, but there's
nothing special that he can see. Moves to stand beside Fuji.
"You seem tired," Fuji says without looking up, handing Tezuka a towel, then a
water bottle. "Are you getting enough sleep?"
"I'm fine," Tezuka says. His nightmares have become irritatingly frequent, but
they have nothing to do with this. They're on the courts, in territory where he
has absolute control, sleepless nights or no. Tezuka drinks the water and hands
the bottle back.
"We should take a vacation," Fuji says. He has an absent frown on his face;
perhaps he’s realized how inept the players he’s watching are. "Jameson's coach
was talking about a resort he went to in the Caribbean, how clear the waters
were. You can cancel the tournament after this, take a week off."
"No."
Fuji glances up. "South America, then? You'd like the mountains there. We could
invite your parents. They’d like to see you outside of magazines, and you don't
look like you've been enjoying the tournaments lately. You need a break. All
evidence to the contrary, I suspect that you are still human."
Tezuka tosses his towel down, barely listening anymore. "Lets finish our game.”
But he hasn't walked two steps before Fuji says, "No."
Tezuka doesn't say anything, just turns to look at Fuji.
"It's enough," Fuji says, getting to his feet. "You haven't taken a break since
you started; it's either tournaments or tennis camps. You're overworking your
body."
Tezuka says, mildly, "But it's my body. Isn't it?"
Fuji draws an audible breath. But this time he doesn't give way, and his eyes,
wide and dark, stay locked on Tezuka's.
He'd always been the more impatient one, and that hasn't changed.
"Why did you come here?" Tezuka asks.
"Because you, in a fit of absolute predictability, wanted to practice."
"Two years ago, when you left your job to follow me here.” Tezuka's more than
willing to play this game instead, if that's what Fuji wants.
"What is this?" Fuji asks, eyes narrowed. "All of a sudden you're feeling
nostalgic?"
"Answer the question."
A pause. Fuji's eyes flicker to the side, back. "You wanted me to."
"And you always do what other people want," Tezuka says.
Fuji looks at him for a moment, then turns away. Puts his racket in his bag,
hoists it over his shoulder. Walks past Tezuka to leave the courts. But if he
lets Fuji leave now, Tezuka doesn't know if he will ever return.
"There was a question you asked me once," Tezuka says, and Fuji stops.
Tezuka steps forward and puts a hand on Fuji's shoulder. Fuji's back
immediately stiffens.
"Do you remember?" Tezuka asks, genuinely curious.
Fuji shrugs his hand away, spins to face him. "Remember what?"
They've captured the attention of some others on the courts. Heads turn towards
them in curiosity: is the normally stoic Japanese tennis star having a quarrel
with his childhood friend and coach? Will this affect his game? Tezuka filters
them out, moves closer to Fuji. He's the one who matters.
Fuji's eyes flick down, then up again, tension deliberately draining from his
body, expression wiped carefully blank. Tezuka thinks of the ocean, of waves
breaking against cliffs.
"When you finally put the last chip in place, that night. Should I have thanked
you?"
"So we are having a nostalgia hour," Fuji murmurs, lips quirking. "I didn't
really expect you to."
"You asked once, but never again. Is it because it's the past? You did save me,
after all. Nothing else should matter."
"No," Fuji says. It can mean anything. Fuji is fond of deceptions and
ambiguities, stubborn in his refusal to be pinned. But Tezuka’s determined not
to look away. Not now, even though he has a choice.
"I see you, Fuji," Tezuka says.
And Tezuka sees the exact moment that Fuji understands, his eyes flaring a
brilliant blue.
Your eyes are open. Tezuka. Do you see me?
Things are strangely quiet now. Have all the other players stopped to gawk at
them? No wonder they lose so easily; they have no focus.
"How long?" Fuji's voice is so soft it can barely be heard above the silence.
Fuji's beginning to see now, too, what Tezuka's become. Fuji's beginning to
know. When Tezuka doesn't answer, Fuji says, “Tezuka, please. Tell me,” with
something very like desperation.
There's a thrill rushing through Tezuka, a hallow euphoria like nothing else
he’s ever felt, at the same time that his stomach is twisting like it wants to
throw up absolutely everything.
Perhaps this wasn’t the right time, after all. Perhaps he should have made Fuji
wait longer.
Tezuka glances at his watch, looks up. "Two hours and fifteen minutes left," he
says, prompting a spark of anger in Fuji's eyes. It's not something most people
know about Fuji, just how impatient and impulsive he can be. He usually hides
it so very well, just like he hides everything else. "Take out your racket."
There's a moment where things stand in balance, and then Fuji looks away. Steps
past him to put down his bag again.
Tezuka closes his eyes. Forcing it down; demanding that his body obey only him,
accede only to his wishes.
"There's a story Yumiko told me once," Fuji says, his voice strangely soothing.
Tezuka's heart is calming, and he's no longer as nauseous, on the verge of
vomiting right there on the courts, of all things. Its familiar sounds are
gradually filtering back in. He opens his eyes and watches Fuji take out his
racket, test the tension on its face. "Do you want to hear it? It's about a man
who saved a snake's life. In gratitude the snake followed him for a time,
dancing when ordered. All the man's friends and acquaintances were impressed,
even the ones who'd made fun of him before, belittled and scorned him. And then
one day the snake bit the man and killed him." Fuji looks up, blue eyes hooded.
"It's heartwarming, isn't it? Everyone getting what they wanted."
It is so utterly Fuji. Tezuka is amused despite himself.
"Your serve," Fuji says, walking to stand opposite him across the court.
"No other stories you wish to share?" Tezuka asks. He spares a moment to wonder
which role Fuji's cast him in, the man or the snake. His stomach's settled now,
from the sharp, nauseous thrill of earlier. He's back in his court again.
"No," Fuji says, eyes narrow and distinctly unamused.
Tezuka drops the ball once, twice. The world sharpens, comes into focus. The
game unwinds in his mind, the zone he slips into where thought and action are
inseparable. Where the ball curves, the world bends, and only one outcome is
possible in the end, the one he wants.
Until it comes to the one facing him, who so easily makes things break.
Fuji, how are you going to get out of this? Show me. If you can.
Tezuka raises his racket and serves.
 
Tezuka wins the tournament, as he's won every one before it. At Fuji's urging,
he makes a brief appearance at the afterparty, shaking hands with his sponsors
and the ITA executives. Fuji stays behind when Tezuka leaves. At times, Tezuka
knows, Fuji picks up girls in those parties, brings them back to his hotel room
- if his face and smile aren't enough, the knowledge that he's Tezuka
Kunimitsu's coach surely is. Tezuka never brings anyone back, no matter how
many offers are pressed on him.
That night his sleep is uninterrupted by nightmares, and in the morning he
feels well enough to eat breakfast, bacon and egg and toast, yogurt and bananas
and nutrition bars that Fuji keeps stocked for him in the fridge. He only eats
American meals now, that are nothing at all like what his mother used to set at
the table every morning and evening, pack in his bento during school days. Fuji
walks in a moment later, a newspaper in his hand, blinking the sleep from his
eyes. He leaves the door to his room open, and Tezuka can see the empty, unmade
bed; if Fuji had brought someone over, they've long since left.
Fuji's eyes flick to Tezuka. "No energy drinks today, I see," he says. He turns
the coffee machine on, pours himself a glass of milk, and sits opposite Tezuka,
tossing the paper on the table. Tezuka's eyes are immediately drawn to the
headline, the photo of himself on the court. He stops eating. "Did a secret
love keep this rising Japanese tennis star away from the sport for ten years?"
the article asks. "More details on page 4!" A familiar flare of anger and
nausea twists inside Tezuka, even as he lets out a breathless laugh. His wires
have gotten crossed, the nerves and pathways in his head utterly distorted.
Fuji finishes his drink, moves to get up; Tezuka grabs his wrist before he can.
"Why?" he asks.
"I don't know. Why do I do anything?" He makes no move to free himself of
Tezuka's grip. His pulse is racing under Tezuka's fingers. Just flesh and blood
after all; terribly human.
Are you afraid, Fuji? Tezuka wonders. But we've only just begun.
"Tell me," Fuji says. "How long were you in -” Cuts himself off.
Tezuka takes a breath. Shuffles through the memories in his head - Yuuta's
confrontation, Fuji's decision to work for his father's firm, the revolving
door of girlfriends and a handful of boyfriends whose names Tezuka suspects he
remembers better than Fuji - seeking for the earliest. He's curious about the
answer to this question too.
"It was before you moved into your apartment," Tezuka finally says. The kitchen
smells of coffee now. Fuji’s skin is warm under his fingers, over his still
racing pulse. Fuji touching him, Fuji whispering in his ears, smearing plum on
his lips. Fuji softly laughing, Fuji's body pressing against his, steadily
suffocating him, Fuji. His warm skin, his now-racing pulse, his wrist in
Tezuka's hand. Tezuka's fingers tighten over it.
His hair isn’t just brown, but highlighted with a mix of colors in the
sunlight, gold to auburn. It falls over his forehead now, partly obscuring his
face. “Your hair was shorter, a crew cut. You were just about to break up with
someone called Watanabe. You wondered why girls were always eager to get
married." Was that where it began? There's nothing but a vast, comforting
stretch of blankness, before it, and before that, memories that don't quite
feel like his own. He's hijacked the real Tezuka's life, set it on a collision
course.
"Four years," Fuji murmurs. "You were there for four years."
Was that it? It had felt a lifetime longer.
Tezuka watches for a moment as Fuji processes it, then lets Fuji's wrist go.
"What's the schedule for today?" he asks.
Fuji's eyes focus again, and after a moment Fuji tells him, voice calm. Thumb
unconsciously brushing the skin of his wrist, the marks that Tezuka's fingers
have left.
 
vi. gonna put it to the test
 
Tezuka sleeps poorly the night before the tournament. Wakes sweaty and
distressed, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth. It's a moment before he can
make himself move, acute relief when his muscles obey his commands. He gets up,
goes to the kitchen to get a drink. Halfway there, Fuji's voice carries from
his room, his closed door, low and worried.
"I'll have the police and security stop and arrest him, claiming he’s a
dangerous stalker. So it would be better if you convinced him not to come at
all." A pause. Tezuka crosses to the fridge. Takes out a water bottle, and goes
back to Fuji's door, softly, softly. There's no light at the bottom. "Neesan,
it's not what you're thinking. Just, these tournaments are important, and we
need to keep the same routine so there is..." His voice gradually fading to
nothing.
Tezuka stands there, hand on the doorknob. Is Fuji pacing right now? He wants
to open the door, wants to see the expression that goes with that voice. He
forces his hand still, forces himself to step back, to let go, the silence
deafening, his ears straining against it.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there before going back to bed, trying in
vain to sleep a dreamless sleep.
 
The day dawns hot and humid. Tezuka watches the sun rise from the balcony. Fuji
wakes at his normal time, midway through Tezuka’s breakfast. "Good morning," he
says, opening the door to pick the morning paper. Hair sloppily tied back, eyes
half lidded, but nothing to indicate that he was worried, or upset; that he was
up at 2 AM, threatening his beloved brother with arrest if Yuuta dared to
visit. "I hope you slept well; you have an important match today."
Sweat starts beading on Tezuka's forehead the moment they step outside the
hotel. The courts are a twenty-minute drive; they reach them two hours before
the match and find the entrance already thronged with fans.
"Here we go again," Fuji says. He takes off the band around his wrist and puts
it over his hair. Picks up his tennis bag from the floor and uncoils out the
car. "Don't forget to sign a few autographs," he says over his shoulder, still
convinced that a coach's main job is to give as many unnecessary instructions
as possible.
Tezuka signs autographs until the security comes to guide him inside. He warms
up with Fuji, an easy rally. Watches from the bench as his opponent does the
same with his coach. Fuji throws him a salute before heading to the bleachers,
and the game begins.
His opponent - isn't very good.
 
"That was spectacularly boring," Fuji says once they're back in the car, and
Tezuka's tempted to agree.
Fuji fiddles with the controls, turning the air conditioner up, changing the
radio station channels, before slumping back into his seat, as if those actions
have exhausted him. Cuts his eyes to Tezuka. "You always win so easily," he
complains mildly.
Tezuka turns to the window, watching the city pass by until they reach their
hotel. There are no fans waiting outside, for which Tezuka is grateful. Lately,
he's had a higher likelihood of spraining his wrist by signing autographs than
by playing tennis.
The chauffeur holds the door open and Tezuka gets off. Fuji falls into step
beside him, hoisting the bag over his shoulder. "Maybe you should try losing
sometimes, just for novelty's sake," he suggests helpfully.
"I don't think I can afford to."
"True," Fuji says with a grin. "But does this mean you can be bribed? How much
for a match - one year of my salary? Two? I'm so bored I'd even --"
"Fuji-sempai," a voice says from behind them, clear and carrying, and Fuji
comes to a stop. His smile drops a moment before coming back even brighter and
colder.
The one who called out is standing fifteen feet away, wearing shorts and a
baseball cap and a t-shirt with a Nike logo. Tezuka recognizes the face from
matches he's watched on TV. Echizen Ryoma, supposed to be in a rehabilitation
resort recovering from a leg injury. The reigning king of the game, his every
move followed and gossiped about and endlessly deliberated on. The year that
Tezuka had first gone pro, playing in courts where most of the spectators were
tumbleweeds, Echizen Ryoma had won all four of the Grand Slams to deafening
applause. The next year he had repeated the feat.
"Echizen-kun," Fuji says. "You do have a talent for turning up where you're
least expected. The rumors said that you were in America."
"The rumors also said that you were here, though I didn't believe them until
now. You said you'd lost interest in this game."
"I have," Fuji assures him.
"This is a weird career to have chosen then, Fuji-sempai."
"I've often thought so myself," Fuji says, for once fervently sincere.
Echizen's eyes shift to Tezuka, raking him from head to toe, as if Tezuka is an
expensive toy that he might deign to purchase if impressed enough. "I've heard
many things about you," he says finally. "I look forward to seeing you play."
Tezuka tilts his head in response.
Echizen's eyes flick to Fuji, and then he continues past them to the elevators.
"You've captured his interest," Fuji says, voice thoughtful. Watches Echizen
walk away.
"It doesn't seem a difficult thing to do," Tezuka replies.
 
That night Tezuka wakes from another nightmare, sheets clinging to his body. He
absently brushes them away. Sits for a moment, his head in his hands, wishing
he could banish his memories so easily, banish the fear that eats away at him.
They fade on the courts; retreat to shadows some days even outside it. But the
rules and regulations that govern the days don't hold at times like this. They
no longer yield to the schedules that Tezuka imposes; stretch over every
boundary Tezuka sets. And in these porous nights, a vast, impersonal darkness
presses in.
There are, he thinks, things living in that darkness. There are things he can't
- doesn't want to? - remember. But at times it is like he has been scoured,
there is such terrifying emptiness inside him.
Tezuka changes into pants and a shirt he doesn't bother to button. Gets a
bottle of water from the fridge, and can't help himself from stopping in front
of Fuji's door. Stands there for far too long, before returning to his room.
He opens the sliding door and steps onto the balcony. The lights seem very far
away. He tries to remember which city this is supposed to be and can't. Fuji
would know. It doesn't matter; it's all the same in the end.
There's a question that Tezuka keeps circling back to. Those thirteen years
that Fuji had put him back piece by piece, those last four years when he was
almost complete, standing in Fuji's room, a cross between a 3D jigsaw puzzle
and a, what? Sex doll for masochists? In all those years. Was there ever a part
of Fuji which suspected that Tezuka was aware?
It doesn't matter in the long run, makes absolutely no difference. But Tezuka
can't let it go.
A slight wind picks up, cooling the sweat on his chest, and Tezuka leans back
against the wall. Closes his eyes and hears Fuji's voice against his ear.
Should I stop? Say something, Tezuka. If you want to stop me.
Feels Fuji's touch, ghost fingers skimming across skin.
He has Fuji's secrets, things Fuji never meant to give him; has his voice, his
touch, the smothering press of his body that Tezuka was utterly helpless to
resist. Nausea coils in his belly, halfway to throwing up just thinking about
it. Because even then, he had craved it; even hating every single second of it.
It was when he was alone, that the darkness and emptiness pressed in. When he
stands very still he can still feel it, crawling under his skin.
He had come undone so completely.
But it's different now. Even with nights like this, it's different. If he waits
long enough, he knows he'll see the sun rise, heralding the return of his
meticulously scheduled life. And until then, he can dream, eyes wide awake;
until then, he can plan.
There were things Fuji had never spoken of, in that shadowed room; things he
had always spoken around. But Tezuka had heard, and now, it's like a loose
tooth that he can’t help worrying, a hypnotizing puzzle. A craving that
consumes the emptiness inside him.
There's something there in Fuji's past. Something he shies from thinking about,
but that has branded and molded him. Fuji’s defenses and deceptions are
irritating and impeccable and captivating, but those four years he let down his
guard, and Tezuka heard. And in this vast and shadowed universe, all it takes
is the smallest bit of strategic pressure, before things shatter and crumble to
bits.
 
vii. it's not a matter of if as much as when
 
Fuji comes to his room with a pile of video tapes. They're all recordings of
matches that Echizen Ryoma has played. Tezuka lifts a brow. "He's not my
opponent for the next match," he says.
Fuji shrugs. "No, but you're going to win that game as easily as you've won
every other. He's the one you should be worrying about."
The day after, there's a folder full of Echizen's news clippings lying on the
table. Tezuka lifts it and finds that it weighs as much as a history book. He
wonders when Fuji had time to make it. Maybe their practices should be
extended.
"You seem quite taken with him," Tezuka says when Fuji joins him for breakfast.
Fuji smiles. "I'm thinking of joining his fan club. He apparently has a serve
that passes the net at a hundred miles an hour, lands on his opponent's feet
and shoots straight up to the face. There's been call for the tennis officials
to ban it."
Tezuka pauses eating. It's not like Fuji to be so obvious. Fuji continues
talking, describing a move in which Echizen skids the ball across the court,
when Tezuka finally cuts in.
"Why do you think I care?"
Something shifts in Fuji's eyes.
"I see," Fuji says. And then, after a moment, "But that's how I caught your
attention, isn’t it? In the beginning.” Voice soft, blue eyes steady on
Tezuka's face.
A summer day, a half-bare sakura tree, soft yellow light of evening. Stop,
Tezuka demands, and they do, a movie turned off in its beginning frames.
Tezuka finishes his yogurt; Fuji's gaze shifts to the window. Tezuka rises to
put his dishes in the sink, and Fuji looks up at the sound of Tezuka's chair
moving, tearing his gaze from whatever was so fascinating outside.
"So," Fuji says. "Wonderful weather we've been having lately, isn't it?"
"No," Tezuka says, because it really isn't.
 
The party after the tournament is held in the penthouse suite of a USTA
executive, red carpet and gold chandelier, a rock band playing in the
background as black-tux waiters move through the crowd, each expertly carrying
multiple trays of champagne and hors d'ouevres.
"So this is what your annual dues are paying for," Fuji murmurs, eyeing the
suite speculatively, and Tezuka is dreadfully certain that he'll find himself
in one the next city they stop in.
The rooms are hot and crowded with people who want to congratulate Tezuka,
shake his hand and take pictures and other rather more intimate proposals that
Tezuka firmly turns down. He escapes to the balcony as soon as he's able.
Outside the air is refreshingly cool, the night cloudy, not a star in sight.
The balcony overlooks a swimming pool in the shape of a kidney bean, a clear
blue against the white fluorescent lights around it.
He hears footsteps behind him and knows that it's Fuji. He turns; he doesn't
like having Fuji at his back.
"There you are," Fuji says. He's standing in front of curtains translucent
enough that Tezuka can see silhouettes of people through them, the party like a
shadow puppet-show. "Everyone's wondering where the guest of honor is. Keep
this up, and you’ll be as well known for your disappearing acts as for your
tennis."
He holds two champagne glasses in his hands, and offers Tezuka one. When Tezuka
shakes his head, he finishes it himself in one drink, the diffuse light
catching the hollow of his neck, his pale skin. Wipes his lips with the back on
his hand, the stem held loosely between two fingers.
"It's good champagne," Fuji says. "A good party. Interesting people - there's a
couple I met starting a campaign to green Mount Everest. I'm still not certain
what that would involve, or what part half a dozen film crews would play in it,
but you should go find out. They asked me for your autograph." A pause. “And
propositioned me for a threesome. I think; I’m not quite sure.”
"Are you drunk?" Tezuka asks, curious.
Fuji cocks his head, considering. "No, not yet," he finally says, making his
way to stand beside Tezuka. “Perhaps halfway.” He puts his champagne glasses,
one empty and one full, on a post anchor. Takes out a cigarette and lights it,
arm brushing against Tezuka’s jacket. His collar is undone, the first two
buttons of his shirt open, his jacket missing. He smells of smoke and cologne,
a scent Tezuka would recognize anywhere.
"You should try and relax, have fun once in a while," he says, once again
graciously dispensing unasked-for advice. "It might help your game, or at least
make it more interesting, if you go to a match with a hangover."
"I'd prefer not to," Tezuka says. He steps away from the railing, hands in his
pockets. Studies the party, calculating his chances of making it to the door
and out without anyone noticing. The curtain billows with the breeze, brushing
against his legs.
The odds aren't very good.
Fuji smiles, following his gaze. “Your disappearing act not quite up to that
task?” His face in profile is angles and hollows and shadowed eye. "All work
and no play, that's our Tezuka. You could have anyone in the room without
lifting a finger, and instead you come here alone to stare at a swimming pool
and plot escape.”
"Not alone anymore," Tezuka points out.
"Oh, but I don't count," Fuji says. Turns, elbows on the railing, cigarette
hanging between his fingers. "Except as a courier, or an ill-informed dating
service. Girls keep giving me letters and phone numbers for you, asking me
questions whose answers I don't know. What is your type anyway? Blond,
brunette? Asian?"
Tezuka pauses. Turns around again, looking more closely. Fuji is much more than
halfway drunk. “I can’t tell if you’re being facetious, or deliberately
stupid,” Tezuka says.
Fuji's hand stills, midway to his face, cigarette glowing red. Drops. His eyes
flick over Tezuka’s shoulder.
“Should I answer that question?" Tezuka asks.
Fuji's eyes shutter. "No." He has, Tezuka thinks, always been clever, and so
very quick on the uptake. “It’s not necessary. If you'll excuse me."
He pushes off the railing with an easy, graceful motion, champagne glasses
apparently forgotten. Tezuka's standing between him and the open balcony doors,
and Fuji moves to step around him.
Tezuka reaches out for Fuji's arm. Fuji stops, muscles tensing under Tezuka’s
hand.
“But I think, I want to,” Tezuka says, voice low.
It’s easier than it should be, pinning Fuji against the wall. Fuji resists for
only a moment, what Tezuka recognizes as trained instinct automatically
deflecting the backward motion (and who had trained him? when?). Just a split
second, before his body becomes inexplicably compliant and yielding.
Except for his eyes, which are brilliant and glittering and furious.
Then they close, and Fuji draws an audible breath.
Tezuka moves his hand down to Fuji's wrist, thumb against a pressure point.
Feels the bones flex under his fingers. They’re standing very close, only a
sliver of air between them, and Tezuka is stronger than Fuji now, has worked
hard to be. It would be difficult for Fuji to leave until Tezuka allows it.
Fuji opens his eyes, but doesn't look up. "What do you want?" he asks. His
voice calm, his breath once again an even rise and fall of his chest. The sound
of the party filters onto the balcony, music and voices and tinkling glass, a
pounding bass underneath. The curtain billows out again, brushing against their
arms, the side of Fuji’s face. The pulse beneath Tezuka's thumb is racing, as
if Fuji's been playing tennis for hours.
There was another night like this. Perhaps there was no need to wait this long;
perhaps he could've done this from the beginning.
Tezuka raises his other hand, fingers straying on Fuji's face. Fuji's skin is
soft, and he stills even further.
But would it have felt this satisfying if he had?
"I won another major tournament. Shouldn't we celebrate?"
"Tezuka," Fuji says.
“You already know that you shouldn’t move,” Tezuka says.
His hand skims down, lingering over Fuji's neck before dropping to his side. He
lifts Fuji's shirt and slides his hand beneath. Fuji's muscles shift under the
skin, tightening against his touch.
"Fine. Fine." Looking at Tezuka with narrowed eyes. "We can do this, but not
here. Anyone could -"
“You shouldn’t speak, either,” Tezuka says.
Fuji's breath hitches, a soft cut-off sound; his face paling further. His eyes
grow darker, unfocused. He obeys. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, an immobile
statue, a body to which Tezuka can do anything he pleases.
Tezuka smiles.
 
viii. you always wanted to believe
 
Fuji's cigarette has burned his skin, leaving small red bruises on the inside
of his first and second finger. Tezuka takes the stub from slack fingers,
flicks it off the balcony. Places two fingers under Fuji's chin and tilts
Fuji's face up so that their eyes meet.
"You spent years looking," Tezuka says. "Did you never think that one day you
would find me?"
"No," Fuji says. Looks down, eyes shuttering. The musky, slightly acrid smell
of sex lingers on his skin now, mixed with smoke and cologne and sweat. He
brushes fingers through his hair, a reflexive grooming gesture, the kind he
never makes. "I didn't think you could be. But you're always doing things I
don't expect."
There's a crash behind them, a tray of champagne glasses falling, followed by a
moment of almost complete silence.
And then the party starts again. The band once again playing a heavy, pounding
beat, people talking and laughing and dancing.
"I can't leave if you don't let go," Fuji says.
Tezuka doesn't say anything, doesn't move.
Fuji smiles humorlessly. "What do you want me to say? Please?"
"Yes," Tezuka says softly.
One beat, another, then -- "Please" -- and Tezuka releases Fuji's wrist, steps
back.
 
ix. yet you already know how this will end
 
They go to Tokyo for the Japan Open, and Tezuka stays at his parents' house.
Wakes up in his old room, a picture of the Matterhorn on the wall, shelves
lined with middle-school textbooks. It's stranger than any of the increasingly
pompous hotel suites Fuji's booked them in.
He goes for a walk after breakfast, and his feet naturally steer him to the
closest tennis courts. They're empty at this time of the morning. The fence
opens with a rattle, and he steps inside. The last time he'd been here was
sixteen years ago, with Fuji. The memory doesn't feel like his own. It feels
like a ghost haunting these courts, and he'll lose it as soon as he leaves.
But in that moment, standing where he is, Tezuka can touch who he had been, who
he would have been, without flinching.
A doctor, maybe, or a lawyer. He'd been considering both, but leaning to law,
because he liked the precision and logic of it. He'd be married, but it's too
soon for children. He'd have drifted away from Fuji in college, or perhaps
sooner if Fuji had quit the team. They'd both been so very young when it
started. And maybe one day they'd run into each other again, at a subway
station or sidewalk or grocery store, Fuji with his longer hair and earring and
Italian suits and ties, but still the same blue eyes, still the same smile.
"Hello, Tezuka," Fuji would say, and for a moment the world would still. But
the moment would pass, and they'd resume their separate lives.
But that's not what happened.
Tezuka stands on the sidelines, hands in his pocket, and watches two ghosts
play a game. He wonders what it feels like to have happiness be such a simple,
present thing. Hitting the ball across the net, and having it returned.
Touching someone, the feel of their fingers as they touch you. Their muffled
laugh on your shoulder; their lips on your slightly chilled skin; your fingers
carding through their hair.
There are footsteps behind him, and something twists roughly in his chest as
every nerve comes suddenly, blazingly, painfully aware. Signs that always
herald Fuji's presence, now. The fence rattles, squeaks open.
"Your mother told me I'd find you here," Fuji says, coming to stand beside him.
This Fuji is taller, his skin paler, the angles of his face sharper. He smiles
as much as he used to, but rarely ever laughs.
Would that be different, in another world?
"It's been so long, hasn't it?" Fuji says, voice soft. Then shakes his head, as
if dislodging memories. "We should go. You're on Court B in two hours."
And Tezuka says, "You should stay here. I can go myself."
He doesn't know why he says it. For a moment, he is not who he is.
"Yes, I know," Fuji agrees easily. "But I have a car, and it would be faster if
we took it."
He always has made being irritating into an art form.
“That's not what I meant," Tezuka says, turning fully around. He is so tired of
this, he cannot even work up the energy to be angry. "I know you don't want to
be here. If you'd stop playing your games for once, you'd see that I'm giving
you a -"
And stills, caught by Fuji's eyes, his steady gaze back.
Of course Fuji knows what Tezuka means.
Fuji smiles. "Did you think it would be that easy?" There's something wistful
in his voice, something Tezuka has never heard there before. Tezuka wonders if
he's the one who put it there.
“I know you hate me,” Fuji says quietly. “I know you can’t forget. You were in
such control of yourself, of everything around you. I'd like to give your life
back to you, but I can't figure out how."
Silence, for a moment, even with the rustling trees, the sounds of cars and
buses; the world turned oddly hushed and expectant.
"So. If you want revenge. I’ll stay, and you can have that instead. But
Tezuka,” Fuji's eyes grow darker, his voice lower. “I won't break. You can't
break me, no matter what you do."
"No?" Tezuka asks, stepping closer. It's there again in Fuji's eyes, in his
words, his silences.
Tezuka's not tired anymore.
"No, I'm afraid not. You are welcome to try. But no." His gaze is defocused,
his lips still upturned, the remnants of a smile resting forgotten in their
curve. Tezuka's thumb brushes across them, and Fuji startles. Focuses. The wind
picks up, strands of hair falling into his eyes.
”And if something happens and I can't stop it” - Fuji's fingers on Tezuka's
face, just a moment, a touch as soft as the wind's - "This time, Tezuka, I
promise I'll let you go. You'll never have to go through that again."
Tezuka's skin prickles. It is the first time that Fuji has voluntarily touched
him in three years. He says softly, "I gave you a choice -"
"It was very noble of you," Fuji says reassuringly.
"I won't again.”
“I know,” Fuji says.
There's a tension easing inside Tezuka's chest, even as a familiar craving
wakes under his skin. Fuji has promised. The promise was given unasked, and
perhaps that means he may even keep it. And he's standing there, eyes dark and
half-lost in memories, and it is like all the Christmases in the world come
early.
”Tell me what you're thinking about,” Tezuka says.
"Nothing important," Fuji says.
"Tell me anyway."
"A place I used to live, old and drafty and with the thinnest walls. Yuuta had
a perpetual cold, I could always hear him sniffling." Fuji stops. For a moment,
he looks utterly perplexed. And then his lashes dip, a slow blink. "You'd have
loved it, with your terrible personality. Now that’s settled. Should we kiss?”
As if a switch has been turned on, darkness hidden under a smile that dimples
his cheeks. “Though it's a bit of a pain in the neck, since you’re so
irritatingly tall. I know I just promised, but was the whole statue thing
really that bad? Now that I have practice, I could do a much better job of it,
making you more proportional.”
And this flicker of amusement, overlaid by rage; this terror and obsession and
want. It is all very familiar, feelings that Fuji regularly provokes.
“You're almost thirty. How have you survived for so long?” Even Fuji's
impeccable instincts could've only gotten him so far.
“I’ve been told I’m charming. And difficult to catch. Usually.” Fuji's smile
dims, then returns, like a candle flickering. “Though if your revenge involves
telling my sister any of this, I might undo over a decade of hard work and kill
you myself.”
"Not today," Tezuka says. Fuji’s hair is soft under his fingers. When he steps
forward, Fuji doesn't give way, tilting his head to keep Tezuka's gaze. He
wants to taste Fuji’s infuriating smile, reach across the distance between them
and touch what's hidden behind it. So it won’t be today.
"I'll return the favor," Tezuka says simply. "Whatever happened to you, that
you refuse to talk about. If it happens again" - and I will make it happen
again - "and you break. I'll let you go."
A promise in return, the wind and their memories as witness. Fuji's eyes
shutter; there's a slight shiver in his body. Tezuka bends his head, and seals
the promise with a gentle kiss.
***** the summer (i) *****
In the month that Shuusuke has been in Seigaku, he’s drifted through the shogi,
drama, and music clubs. His latest is origami, which he plans to stick with
longer. You need to string together a thousand paper cranes for a wish. He’s
trying to convince Yumiko to help him – Yumiko’s wishes have always been more
potent – when Yuuta comes barging home, with a “Sorry I’m late! What’s for
dinner?” Takes off his shoes, drops his tennis bag, heads to his room to wash
up. But there’s something different about him today.
“Today I played a game with the fukubuchou”, they learn at the dinner table,
fukubuchou said in a way that makes Shuusuke wonder whether Yuuta’s joined a
cult rather than an after-school sports club.
“He has this backspin drop shot that rolls back when it lands”, when Shuusuke
is finishing his soup. “Everyone says he’s going to be captain next year” and
“He’s on the student council, and top student in his class”, as the main dishes
are being cleared away. “He picked me to play a match with,” in wondering
tones, while Shuusuke is finishing off the last bite of his apple pie.
Yuuta continues talking, expounding his fukubuchou’s endless virtues, their
mother making encouraging, approving replies. Shuusuke’s eyes meet Yumiko’s
with perfect understanding.
“So you’re going for it?” Shuusuke cuts in, smiling.
Yuuta looks at Shuusuke with a slight frown, before nodding firmly. “Yes. I’ll
practice until I’m a player that can meet him on equal ground.” His eyes are
afire with determination.
“You shouldn’t rush into these things,” Shuusuke murmurs, once their mother has
returned to the kitchen. Yumiko closes her eyes with a sigh, the way another
would throw their hands in the air, but his big brother responsibilities are
one of the few things that Shuusuke takes seriously. “If your fukubuchou’s that
remarkable a person, he’d be willing to wait. Becoming a player at your age.
Have your teachers even covered safe sex?”
Yuuta blinks, before the realization hits. ”Baka aniki!” Shuusuke can almost
see the steam coming out of his red ears when he leaps to his feet. His brother
can be such a drama queen. “I, I. Hate you so much.” Turning on his heels. A
few seconds later, a slamming door echoes through the house. Yuuta's speed has
improved.
“That went very well,” Yumiko says.
 
Yuuta’s fukubuchou is Tezuka Kunimitsu, and he has a tall shadow that always
clings to his side, its head perpetually buried in a notebook.
Fuji turns his gaze away from Tezuka and plus one’s table, two stories below
them. "Is he always like that?"

"Inui? Yeah. You should see him when Tezuka's playing - there was one time when
I saw him fill two notebooks on just one practice game.”
They're sitting facing each other on the windowsill of their classroom. The
windows aren't supposed to open, but Fuji likes the fresh air and breeze, and
so they always do, even when their homeroom teacher calls in someone to update
the latches, or install replacement windows. Eiji's munching on an onigiri that
had been in Fuji’s bento a moment ago. It’s one of the inevitable consequences
of being distracted while eating lunch with him.
"Wouldn't it be interesting to see what data he collects?" Fuji asks.

Eiji puts down the leftover plastic and stares at Fuji. "I think I know what
you're thinking," he says in a sing-song voice.

“I wonder. How quick is the quickest guy in all of Seigaku?”

Eiji grins. "Make sure you don’t blink."
He puts his empty bento on top of Fuji's. Crouches on the window sill. Then he
is airborne, hands out. He flips in the air, then tucks in. Lands on the ground
with a forward roll, and comes back up in a runner's crouch, hair falling over
his eyes. Fuji can see the side of his face, lip tilted up in a smirk. At times
he reminds Fuji a lot of Yumiko.
A few meters away, on a picnic table under the shade of a sakura tree, Inui
writes in his notebook. A girl one year ahead of them - Akimoto-sempai,
president of the student council - has joined Tezuka, placing a stack of
folders between them. They're passing papers back and forth.
Without looking up, Eiji raises his right arm, with three fingers out,
beginning the countdown. And he is right; if Fuji had blinked, he would have
missed something very interesting.
 
It doesn’t take Shuusuke long to figure out that Seigaku is full of unusual
people. There is even one that goes into berserker mode when he is angry, or
irritated, or a number of other things that Shuusuke is trying to pin down.
The first time Shuusuke sets him off is by accident; the second because hitting
the volleyball over the net has become very boring. Much more interesting to
see if he can hit the bent brown head a dozen meters away. Kawamura Takashi has
tied one of his laces, and is working on the other.
It turns out that Shuusuke has impeccable aim. Kawamura jerks up with a booming
“WHO DID THIS?” and it seems like there are actual flames around his body.
Shuusuke watches from where he’s strategically relocated himself behind a tree,
as Kawamura barges through the net, taking it with him.
Shuusuke’s team rushes away panicked, but for a red-haired boy who lightly
cartwheels to the side, not far from where Shuusuke is standing. His hand
covering his mouth, giggling helplessly as the rest of their classmates stream
past like a startled school of fish, followed by Kawamura BURRRNNNNINNNNGGGGG!,
the edges of the net fluttering behind him.
When the show’s over, he comes closer to Shuusuke, moving like a cat. “That was
fun, new guy”, he says, eyes still full of mirth. “I’m Kikumaru Eiji. Lets do
that in geography tomorrow. The teacher’s so mean; she once made me copy down
the names and capitals of all the countries in the world. I think there were
even a few she made up! Who’d name their country righteous white ears?”
Shuusuke grins back, utterly captivated. “Fuji,” he says, the name still
strange on his tongue, even though it has been years. “Fuji Shuusuke. Please
take care of me.”
It is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
 
Tezuka, Fuji finds out, wakes up each morning at 5:30, eats breakfast at 6.
He's always 10 minutes early for 7 o'clock practice. He likes to warm up by
running first, then by stretching his arms and legs, before picking up his
racket. On Thursdays he has student council; on Wednesday evenings, he goes to
his grandfather's dojo for a practice match. He is an all-rounder, his reaction
times never waver, he consistently plays one level above his opponent. He has
never lost a match.
Inui’s notebook is filled with this and hundreds of other facts about Tezuka,
which is the most revealing thing of all. What kind of person inspires such
obsession?
Fuji puts aside the notebook, picking up another origami paper. He hasn’t even
reached a hundred cranes yet. This Tezuka person already has a lot to answer
for.
 
The tennis courts are surprisingly picturesque, surrounded by a grove of sakura
trees. They would make a good picture; perhaps Fuji should join the photography
club after this.
Eiji, standing at the edge of the courts with a solemn-looking boy, is the
first to spot him. “Fuji!” he says, scampering over after handing the black-
haired boy his water bottle. “I didn’t know the tennis club was the next in
your itinerary!”
“I wanted to surprise you,” Fuji says.
Eiji puts a hand over his shoulders. “You give me the best surprises,” pulling
Fuji with him to the far sidelines. “Stay for a bit, nyah? I’ll be sad if you
leave after only one week!”
They pass the courts where Yuuta is playing, and Yuuta’s head whips back.
“Aniki, what are you doing here?” His voice scandalized, as if Shuusuke had
appeared there naked. And, really, it should be obvious what Fuji’s doing
there, shouldn’t it? Sometimes Fuji despairs.
He hears a ball sail past Yuuta, and catches it automatically. Rolls it back
with a “Yuuta, your game might improve if you were facing the net.” And then
they’ve come to a stop in front of Yuuta’s paragon of virtue and some other
person, whose name Yuuta has never mentioned and who Fuji assumes is the
captain. Tezuka stands as straight and expressionless as a pillar, glasses
gleaming in the light; the captain looks at Fuji thoughtfully.
“Hello,” Fuji says. “I’m here to join the tennis team.” He’s even gone so far
to buy the appropriate props for it, a tennis racket slung over his shoulder.
“You can’t,” Yuuta says, coming up to them with a mutinous expression on his
face. “This is supposed to be my thing. Go back to folding colored paper! I
don’t —”
Tezuka’s gaze shifts from Fuji-the-elder to younger. Yuuta cuts off, blanching.
“You left in the middle of your game. You should return to it.”
Yuuta’s cheeks turn a flaming red. “Sorry fukubuchou,” he mutters, and obeys,
the way he never has with Shuusuke.
Fuji stares after him, completely flabbergasted. He is also, he realizes,
somewhat irritated.
The other boy, Captain something something, Fuji’s missed his introduction, is
talking about Fuji having missed the Regulars tryouts. Fuji looks at them with
a beaming smile.
“Oh, that won’t be a problem. I’m very good at picking up tennis balls and
putting them in baskets.”
 
Yuuta gives him the silent treatment for weeks. But when Shuusuke doesn’t tease
him unduly, or bring up too many embarrassing stories or, most of all, steal
the spotlight, sliding into the routine of the club as easily as stone in
water, leaving no ripples in his wake, Yuuta accepts the new status quo with a
scowling — “how much longer till you quit already?”
Tezuka in person, without the reflection of Inui's obsession, is more boring
than Tezuka in Inui’s notebook. He plays mechanically, consistently one step
above every opponent he faces. Follows the same routine every day, with the
same expressionless face, whether it’s studying or playing tennis or
courteously turning down an increasing flurry of love confessions. That fixed
expression doesn’t budge even when the war with the track club becomes
especially heated, resulting in the Regulars’ uniforms replaced with those
saying “Tennis sucks! Track is best!” right before an upcoming meet. He
stoically wears his, winning in the same fashion that he always wins.
It takes a physical effort to keep watching Tezuka sometimes. Others might see
something admirable in Tezuka's consistency, but really, it is his creators who
should be complimented. Fuji had never known that robots could be so lifelike.
It is too bad that they couldn’t figure out how to incorporate human
expressions in his design. It would make him more believable if he ever smiled,
though laughing is probably an unreachable goal.
And then one day it all changes, suddenly and bewilderingly.
 
Fuji's playing against Eiji, as he's done half a dozen times already. Eiji has
the most interesting moves, and whenever they're given a choice, as they have
been this afternoon, they pick each other.
Eiji's executing a return that involves a diving volley and flip when Fuji
feels it. A prickling against his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck
standing on end. Someone is watching him with intent.
He lets another ball past, with a “Congratulations, Eiji, it seems you have
perfected your new technique.” Yuuta’s two courts away, with Inui and Yamato-
buchou, listening gravely as Inui points to something in his notebook. The
exit's ten feet behind him. Fuji fixes a smile on his face as he turns for the
ball, the direction the gaze is coming from.
It is not his father standing on the sidelines, or another of his family
members. It is Tezuka, watching with that same stoic, robotic face, sun
glinting off his glasses.
He stays for another set. Fuji doesn’t have to turn around to know; he feels
the exact moment the gaze leaves him to focus on something else.
 
These last couple of months, Fuji’s taken pains to appear as normal as
possible, competent but not in any way exceptional, and Tezuka can’t know that
he and Eiji are the instigators of the prank wars the club is embroiled in on
several fronts. Tezuka already has many demands for his attention; someone like
Fuji shouldn't even register on his radar. And for weeks, Fuji hadn't.
What has changed now? Why is Tezuka suddenly looking at him like he wants
something from Fuji?
Walking home, Fuji thinks: perhaps Tezuka wasn’t staring him, but thinking very
intently while staring at his general direction. About the changing of seasons,
composing a haiku about the wind and falling sakura blossoms. Discards the
thought immediately; Tezuka’s much too dour and unimaginative. The end of their
outdoor tennis practices, then. Tezuka does take tennis very seriously.
In second period the next day, during jazz appreciation, fingers tapping to the
wandering melody: perhaps Tezuka’s prescription has changed, and the intent
stare was to compensate for it. Poor Tezuka; only fourteen and blind as a bat
already.
But according to Inui's latest notebook, his stats are still the same.
During lunch, a thought distracts him long enough for Eiji to steal half his
bento. Does Tezuka like him?
It would explain his rejection of all those love confessions, if he liked boys
instead, and Fuji is attractive. They’re all going through puberty, Tezuka a
bit faster than most. It’s a time when hormones are supposed to be raging,
isn’t it? Perhaps not even Tezuka is completely immune.
Fuji discreetly eyes Tezuka in the clubroom. Tezuka’s taller, muscles more
developed than most, even the third years. His back ripples smoothly when he
takes off his shirt. Fuji doesn’t feel an uncontrollable urge to jump his
bones, though he can admit that Tezuka’s aesthetically pleasing, even with his
robot face. Would it change during orgasm, or would Tezuka regard that as yet
another thing to endure impassively?
And what would it feel like, to touch the flat planes of that chest? Is his
skin warm? There's the slightest trail of hair there; would it feel like fur
under Fuji's fingers? And what would sex feel like, when it is his choice?
Tezuka’s lips hovering over his, then pressing, his tongue in Fuji’s mouth, his
hands roaming down and under Fuji’s shirt. Fuji’s hands on those already broad
shoulders as he presses back just as firmly —
But Tezuka is such a stick in the mud. He wouldn’t know what to do. His hands
remaining decorously above Fuji’s waist, his tongue flopping around in Fuji’s
mouth like a slobbering, dead fish.
Fuji shudders. Shuts his locker door with finality.
 
Tezuka continues to look at Fuji, though never as blatantly as the first time.
Fuji feels his gaze when he’s picking up the balls after practice; losing
against Yamato a few days after; cheering Eiji during his doubles match.
If it is a crush, why can’t Tezuka hurry up and get over it? He has no shortage
of admirers willing to console whatever tender feelings he might be hiding
under his stoic shell.
Hiding very, very well. Aside from those prickling glances, nothing at all has
changed.
Fuji’s taking a break from practice, watching his brother’s game with
Momoshiro, when he feels Tezuka’s gaze again. There, then gone again, shifted
to Yuuta’s game, though Tezuka does come to stand beside him.
“Lets play a game tomorrow,” Tezuka says.
Not quite the first words that Tezuka has spoken to him — Fuji has also been
told to run laps, and clean up, and pass the salt during a team meal, and, as
the year goes on and Yamato-buchou turns over more and more responsibility, who
his partner for the day’s practice is going to be — and there’s nothing
surprising about them. He’s the only one in the club Tezuka hasn’t played
against.
“In the morning before practice?” Fuji asks. There won't be time during
practice, which has been scheduled to the minute in preparation for the
upcoming Tokyo District tournament.
It’s Yuuta’s serve again. Yuuta drops the ball once, twice, then uncoils,
gracefully executing movements that Fuji had taught him years ago. Almost
perfect, except he’d released the ball a bit too early, causing him to lean
back further than he should.
“After practice. If you think you’ll have the energy for it,” Tezuka says.
Fuji blinks. That hasn’t been a problem for years. His sister is very careful,
and these days he never even gets a cold.
Yuuta runs to the net, returning the ball in time, his footwork solid. But he
takes a moment too long to scramble back.
“It must get tiring,” Tezuka continues, as Momoshiro slams the ball past Yuuta,
scoring a point. “Pretending all the time, the way you do.”
Fuji’s head whips up.
Tezuka’s gaze has also shifted from the game. He’s watching Fuji now, his eyes
darkly judging.
What has Tezuka noticed?
Fuji’s skin is tight. He remembers Yuuta blanching, that first day, slinking
away like a kicked puppy.
He'd completely missed this.
“No. I’ll be fine. Though it is a bit intimidating, facing the best player in
the school.” Fuji’s eyes shutter, his smile growing sharper, colder. “Please
take it easy on me.”
 
By silent, mutual agreement, they wait until everyone else has trickled off to
the clubroom, leaving the courts empty. It's strange, now, being here with only
one person; Fuji has gotten used to dozens, along with all their respective
fanclubs, and whichever hanger-ons have wandered in. A breeze ruffles through
the half-bare branches of sakura trees. They've been having unusual weather,
this year; the sakuras bloomed very late, then lingered and lingered.
It's Fuji's serve first, the sound of his ball hitting the clay strangely
resonant.
He wins the first point with just his serve, the next few with barely a volley
passed between them. Perhaps he should go a bit easier on Tezuka? He’s not as
good as Fuji was led to believe.
The second game takes a bit more effort to win, and it’s not until the third
that Fuji realizes what’s happening. He’s out of breath, chasing Tezuka’s
balls. But Tezuka has barely moved from where he started.
Fuji’s eyes widen, meet Tezuka’s over the net. An expression, of all the
unexpected things, actually crosses Tezuka’s face.
“Are you ready to play seriously?”
Fuji’s eyes narrow, and he aims the next serve squarely at Tezuka’s stupid
robot face. Yuuta would hate him, but he’s young, and would eventually get over
it.
Most unfortunately, the ball doesn’t connect.
 
Before this game, Fuji had a plan. He’d see what Yuuta’s fukubuchou was made
of. Then he would leave, and depending on what he found, might also drag Yuuta
with him, grip firm so that it's not dislodged by Yuuta's kicking and
screaming. Yuuta never makes things easy. After, he would perhaps return to the
origami club. He’s still only at four hundred cranes, even with Yumiko helping
him. It's quite annoying, how much time tennis practices take.
But Tezuka forces him to play seriously, to give it his all, to exceed his
limits and all that other gibberish that Yuuta can’t shut up about anymore.
And Fuji does all these things, and loses.
After, when they’ve both had time to catch their breaths, and Fuji’s putting
away his racket, Tezuka even has the gall to say, “We should do this again.”
“I am late to dinner,” Fuji says with a smile. Viciously zips his bag, and
leaves without going back to the clubroom to change.
 
Perhaps it is a disease, and Tezuka’s managed to temporarily infect even him.
Fuji rallies his defenses. Makes an extra effort, the next few days, not to
give anything he does his all. He might perhaps be overdoing things, because a
week later Yamato-buchou pulls him aside. Asks if there are any problems Fuji’s
having that he can help with.
The problem is standing expressionless as always at his buchou’s side, though
Fuji swears there’s a kernel of amusement in those dark, knowing eyes.
Nothing’s really changed, after their game, except now Fuji can’t help but
notice Tezuka, too. Another notch on Tezuka's post, another pair of eyes
inevitably drifting his direction, along with the fangirls shouting “Tezuka-
samaaa!” when Tezuka returns a particularly difficult serve, or takes a drink
of water, or does something as exceptional as breathing; Inui and over half the
tennis club; even Yamato-buchou, carefully doling out more and more
responsibilities, and watching proudly as Tezuka effortlessly shoulders them.
And above all there is Yuuta, impressed on Tezuka like a baby chick with its
mother, hanging on Tezuka’s every action and word.
“Please don't worry about me, Yamato-buchou,” Fuji says with a smile. “I was
having some problems with a project, but I’ve figured out what to do now. I’m
sorry for causing such concern.”
He’s already laid down the groundwork. Everyone has a weakness, and Tezuka’s is
rather glaring; his absurd sense of responsibility.
 
The results are pleasing. In the next week, the Student Council’s funding
numbers get inexplicably scrambled, with politically powerful clubs such as
Kendo and Track receiving drastic cuts and the Origami Club seeing a threefold
increase. The only large club to escape unscathed is the Tennis Club. An
inquiry is launched, rumors about Tezuka’s possible role in things already
circulating.
At the same time, more personal rumors circulate about Tezuka’s involvement
with an outside girl — though they can never agree on which school exactly,
whether it is Hyoutei or Rikkai or Shitenhoji — but can you believe that she
dumped him on his birthday? No wonder Tezuka has been off his game recently,
with the mess in Student Council; even a person as exemplary as him would have
trouble concentrating while nursing a broken heart. Half the female population
in Seigaku stands determined in their efforts to be the one who heals him.
Quite inexplicably, they also get a hold of Tezuka’s personal number.
This means that Tezuka is one of the last to hear about the exclusive, luxury
training camp that the second year Regulars, and mostly only the second year
Regulars, have been invited to participate in. The damage control that requires
is more extensive than even Fuji expected.
Tezuka’s favorite place to think is the school roof, conscientiously kept
locked by the janitor, a lock to which only Tezuka seems to have the key. But
locks have never been enough to keep Fuji out, and the roof soon becomes a
place where Eiji and Fuji, and then a scattering of other Regulars, come to
spend their breaks and eat their lunches. They even get a system going - a
school tie wrapped around the handle - to tell each other when they're doing
things there that they'd rather not be disturbed doing. It won't be long until
it's more popular than the school's soundproofed music practice rooms.
When Tezuka sees them, he seems to stand even straighter than usual, his face
somehow managing to be a degree more expressionless.
Fuji sits alone on that very same roof that afternoon, in the break between
school and practice. His history homework's spread in front of him, and he's
absently filling in the answers. Phase A is going so smoothly that he’s
considering moving his timeline up. There’s also Phases B through D to execute,
before he can extract Yuuta from the Cult of the Fukubuchou.
Speaking of the devil, the door behind Fuji creaks open. Fuji frowns — there
were some tests that went inexplicably missing earlier that day, and he’d
thought Tezuka would still be busy managing that situation, especially with
Akimoto-sempai having so recently and inexplicably quit from the Student
Council.
Tezuka walks towards him, and Fuji smooths his face, then pastes an absent-
minded smile on it. Looks down at his homework, pen tapping his lips, the very
picture of studiousness.
A shadow falls over him; a pair of Mizuno sneakers, white with sweeping red and
black highlights on the side and top, comes into view.
“Don’t you think you should stop this?” Tezuka says mildly.
Fuji’s pen stops tapping. He peers up, looking closely, and sees the flicker of
irritation in Tezuka’s dark eyes. Fuji’s smile morphs into something real.
“Forgive me, Tezuka, I don’t think so,” Fuji says, looking back at his
homework.
“No?”
“Saa. Not all of us can effortlessly get perfect grades like you, you know? And
history is my very worst subject.” Pen tapping against his lips again,
determined to ignore Tezuka until he leaves.
The next question asks for the date of the Shimabara Rebellion, when a bunch of
peasants thought it would be a good idea to pit their hoes and pitchforks
against hundreds of thousands of samurai with gleaming guns. Such a waste; if
they'd utilized guerrilla tactics they might've stood a chance. The date is
December 17, 1637, and Fuji carefully fills it in, wondering how long he should
wait before answering the next. How much time would that take a regular person?
Tezuka’s still standing there, looking down at him very intently. He'd probably
come here expecting Fuji to be like everyone else, grateful for Tezuka's
attention, obedient like a panting, worshipful dog to his wishes. The weight of
his gaze presses down on Fuji's neck; Fuji resolves to start Phase B that very
evening.
Then Tezuka’s crouching in front of him. “Should I help you?” he asks.
Fuji blinks.
Tezuka has the same expression on his face now, that he did across the net.
“You want to help me,” Fuji says carefully. “With history.”
“Yes,” Tezuka says. “It is an important subject to get right.” His lashes dip,
his gaze shifting to Fuji’s pen.
He takes it from Fuji’s fingers, and puts it to the side. Gathers Fuji’s
history homework, and puts that to the side too. Reaches for Fuji next. And
Fuji stares, increasingly flabbergasted, as Tezuka wraps a steady hand behind
Fuji’s head, fingers sinking into his hair, and surges forwards for a kiss.
 
The first and second are the slightest brush of lips. The third time, Fuji’s
mouth parts open, and Tezuka lingers a moment, lips firm and warm, slightly
chapped. Fuji’s lips tingle when Tezuka pulls away. Changes angles slightly,
mouth hovering over Fuji's, before bending back in. Another gentle brush,
barely there pressure, and the warmth is spreading down from Fuji’s lips to his
chest and fingertips.
“Stop teasing,” Fuji whispers, one hand curling around Tezuka’s shirt, the
other arm wrapping around Tezuka’s shoulders, firmly pulling him in.
 
Tezuka’s the one who draws back first, eyes considering and heavy-lidded.
"My birthday," he says. "Isn't for another two months."
"Ah. How unreliable rumors are," Fuji says. His lips are still tingling. He
touches them with the back of his hand, and something dark flickers through
Tezuka’s gaze. Did Fuji really think him expressionless once?
“We should do this again,” Tezuka says, and Fuji can’t help his soft laughter.
“Yes.” Sparks running through his nerves, just from Tezuka looking at him so
steadily; warmth in his chest, desire thrumming through his body, from such
simple kisses. What else can Tezuka make him feel? “I’m afraid I need a lot of
help with history.”
At one corner, Tezuka’s lips tug up the slightest bit. Fuji stares, entranced.
There are still fifteen minutes until practice.
“I'm a terrible student, though,” Fuji says apologetically.
Tezuka lifts a brow.
“I'm very slow sometimes,” Fuji continues seriously. “And names and dates are
an absolute jumble in my head. So you'd have to explain the same thing several
times. And much more thoroughly than you just did.”
"And if I do. You'll stop this."
Fuji blinks. Stares at Tezuka, then starts giggling helplessly. "You, oh. Yes,
Tezuka," hand over his mouth, but they still escape. "Yes, you have seduced me
into obedience and compliance. What would Yamato-buchou think of your..." words
trailing into laughter again. "You."
Tezuka draws Fuji's hand away, and firmly covers Fuji's laughing mouth with his
own.
 
That evening, Shuusuke sits on the right corner of Yumiko’s dresser. “He’s not
one of father’s people, or grandmother’s. I’m sure of it,” he says. Yumiko's
getting ready for a date. He's folding a paper crane with quick, efficient
movements.
Yumiko brushes blush over her cheekbones, puts lipstick on. “Normal, then?”
Shuusuke smiles. The thought of Tezuka being normal is utterly absurd. “Not at
all. He has an unerring way of always making people do what he wants. But he
doesn’t belong to anyone but himself. Even father wouldn't be able to control
him.” Which is more, Shuusuke thinks ruefully, than he can say for himself.
Yumiko's the one who shields him.
Yumiko takes out two necklaces, laying them side by side.
“The left one,” Shuusuke says. He's on the wings now, his favorite part.
"Anyone can be controlled," Yumiko says, putting on the necklace. She's always
been beautiful, but now it's something that takes Shuusuke's breath away. "We
all have habits, desires, weaknesses that can be exploited."
"But does the same apply to sentient robots?" Shuusuke murmurs.
Yumiko breathes out a laugh. Shuusuke's smile widens in response.
"Is that something you're planning to investigate?" Yumiko asks.
"Perhaps. But don't worry; I'll finish the other thing first. This is Yuuta's
last week as a member of the tennis club.” There are alternatives to the
scorched earth strategy he was employing earlier. One that only requires a bit
of embarrassment, and Yuuta will get over it. Eventually.
Shuusuke steals another glance at his sister. "You're seeing Asai-san again
tonight, aren't you? Tell him hello from me."
“And will you be quitting the club, too?”
“Will I?” Shuusuke murmurs. Yumiko's gaze slides to his face. One more fold,
and the crane is finished. “For luck,” Shuusuke says, giving it to her.
She puts it in her purse, then gets up. “Should I guess what your sentient
robot wants from you, little brother?”
Shuusuke gives her a beaming grin. Yumiko shakes her head with a sigh, though
there's a slight smile tugging at her lips.
"Do try to be careful," she says. Kisses his forehead before leaving.
 
When Shuusuke wakes up, he finds a packet of condoms on his desk. He’s pleased;
it saves him a trip to the store.
It takes two days, a public match, and some strategically shared childhood
reminiscences for Yuuta to storm out the courts, vowing never to return until
he can beat Shuusuke to the ground.
***** the summer (ii) *****
Perhaps it's because everything else they've done, from handjobs to oral sex,
has been so effortlessly pleasurable; that Tezuka's utterly unprepared for the
disaster that's their first attempt at penetrative sex, or for Fuji being bound
and determined to make it even more of a debacle.
Fuji's familiar, immaculately clean room is now mucous and heavy with their
panting breaths, the acrid smells of sweat and sex. Instead of repulsing
Tezuka, it's yet another thing eroding his control. Fuji’s cock is soft between
them; Tezuka's so turned on that his whole body aches with it, one raw, exposed
nerve.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit too preoccupied to write an engraved invitation asking
you to come in further,” Fuji says. Voice light and pleasant, as if his hands
aren’t fisted into the sheets, knuckles white, as if he isn't clenched like a
vise around the head of Tezuka's cock, so infernally hot inside.
Tezuka’s blood is also boiling, a hunger unlike any he's ever felt rushing
through his veins.
Fuji says something again, but Tezuka can barely hear him anymore over the
pounding in his ears. Something about Tezuka moving already, and it’s just like
Fuji to get stubborn at a time like this, when it’s all Tezuka can do to not
just ram through resistance, force a place for himself inside Fuji.
"We should stop," Tezuka says. Closes his eyes, gathering himself to pull back
and end this. But Fuji's body tenses even further, the head of Tezuka's cock
squeezed so tight it's actually started to hurt.
"No," Fuji says, wrapping his legs around Tezuka's hips, keeping him in place.
Why does Fuji want to keep doing this? Why would anyone? "It'll be fine if
you'd stop dithering like a blindfolded chicken," and Tezuka stares. For all of
Fuji's many irritating faults, he'd never thought him stupid before.
There’s a light beading of sweat on Fuji’s pale skin. He's not panting anymore,
breaths deliberately even. His face is turned to the side, hair falling over
closed eyes, lips turned down in a thoroughly disgruntled expression. They are
pink and shiny and a bit kiss-swollen. Tezuka has to close his eyes again,
fortify himself to withstand another tide of desire. He'd think Fuji a
masochist, if it wasn't so abundantly clear that the desire was completely one-
sided.
"I'm fine," Fuji says again, as if repetition could make it true. "So move," in
a voice that's turned almost as disgruntled as his expression. And then, after
an irritated sigh, as if Tezuka's the one being bafflingly, stupidly stubborn,
"Trust me. It gets better if you keep going," which takes a place of honor
among the worst ideas that Tezuka's ever heard. But this day has been full of
them, from Fuji's invitation to come over - Yuuta has lessons, and Yumiko has a
date. It's a perfect time for an intense study session, with the dimpled smile
that reached his eyes - to this.
Tezuka should've been better prepared; should've taken a cue from Inui and done
more research. He’d pirated an anatomy book and gay porn films a few weeks ago,
but taking up the responsibilities of a Student Council President and getting
the team ready for the Prefecturals left only enough time to watch one. And
what had seemed fairly straightforward — insert Tab A into Slot B, condom over
the first and lube for both — and a bit distasteful in the grainy, badly-acted
film, is the exact opposite here.
Fuji has a gift for complicating things. A game of tennis turned into one of
deceptions and hide-and-seek; a smile like barely-veiled challenge; and Tezuka
can't even be irritated, anymore, without also wanting. To force Fuji to play
seriously, and win against him; to kiss him, and touch him, so why not this,
too? And Fuji had always been there, before. Behind his pretenses, Fuji had
also wanted.
But now Fuji isn't. Even though they've never been physically closer; even
though Fuji started this, and keeps instigating more. Fuji doesn't want to be
here, is doing his best to distance himself while insisting that nothing is
wrong and they should continue. Leaving Tezuka alone to grapple with desire
that's never felt so monstrous, with lust that's sunk like a fog over his mind,
clogging his thoughts. He can't even figure out just how this went so wrong.
Fuji had been honestly enthusiastic when they'd taken off their shirts. Had
shivered when Tezuka kissed the spot behind his ear, fingers tightening in
Tezuka's hair, before his hands drifted down to open Tezuka's fly, one sliding
under Tezuka's underwear to wrap around his erection. Fuji's only ever so
straightforward and blunt during sex. But most of the rest is a scattering of
tumbled, disjointed images and sensations in a haze of too hot and intense and
an unrelenting craving for more.
Tezuka starts to shift further up on his elbows. There's a slight burn in his
muscles, a twinge of pain in his left arm. His skin is sticky with sweat and
precome, briefly clinging to Fuji's. Somehow, even that gluey, unsanitary mess
is another turn-on.
Beneath him, Fuji's lips part, and Tezuka immediately stills.
Moves again, slowly and carefully, shifting up, eyes intent on Fuji's face.
Fuji's lashes flutter. His muscles relax a bit, enough that Tezuka no longer
feels like he's trying to have sex with a stiff, unyielding board.
Tezuka slips deeper inside. Shifts again. Moves his right hand to the back of
Fuji's turned head, fingers sinking into his hair. Breathes on the skin behind
Fuji's ear; kisses it softly.
Fuji shivers beneath him, leaving Tezuka almost dizzy with the ensuing
combination of desire and relief.
Fuji's body is more accommodating now. Tezuka's more than halfway in, and he
thinks he's figured it out, how to do this without hurting Fuji. The angle's
still a bit awkward for a handjob, but whenever he shifts and pushes just so -
Fuji gasps, head snapping back, eyes flaring open. "Tezuka."
"Hello," Tezuka says. Brushes away the strands of hair matted to Fuji's
forehead.
Fuji looks at him, eyes wide and astonished. Tezuka coaxes one of Fuji's hands
up and next to his head, threading their fingers together.
He's sunk in to the hilt now, inside Fuji, suctioning heat wrapped tight around
him. He shifts again, pressing against the spot that yields the most
interesting reactions, the same feeling of savage satisfaction coursing through
him as when he's been pushed to his limits, about to win a match against a
formidable opponent. Fuji gasps, his cock firming, body shuddering against
and around Tezuka.
Tezuka huffs out a laugh, fingers tightening over Fuji's, gaze locked on his.
"If you don't stop teasing and fuck me properly, I will make you regret it,"
Fuji says. Voice a bit breathless, now, a bit uneven; a delicate flush on his
cheeks; eyes so dilated they're almost entirely black.
"Will you?" Tezuka murmurs, lips curving. "How? I want to know."
Bends his head to lick Fuji's neck, salty-sweet, then kiss the spot above
Fuji's collarbone that Fuji's exquisitely sensitive to. Sucks there until
Fuji's gasping, tremors running through his body, until Tezuka's sure he's left
a mark. How strange, that Fuji can be so armored against pain, when pleasure
undoes him like this. He smiles against Fuji's neck, reveling in the feel of
every clench and twist, the sound of Fuji's panting breaths as every
frustrated, aborted thrust of Fuji's hips goes straight through his cock.
"Tezuka, please move, please," Fuji finally begs, and this wasn't such a bad
idea, after all.
Tezuka gathers himself, moves like Fuji's urging him to. And this time Fuji's
there to meet him, and he can finally, finally stop forcing it all back, and
let go.
 
Tezuka knows what his future lover, and eventual wife, will be like.
Intelligent and elegant and beautiful, of course, but also dignified and
studious. She'll take her responsibilities seriously, and always give what
she's doing her all, whether it's studying or helping her family or leading her
club - perhaps shogi, or calligraphy, or yearbook, or perhaps none at all;
someone so responsible would also be perfect for the student council. His
grandfather and father will approve of her, and his mother dote on her, the way
Tezuka no longer allows her to dote on him. She'll be trustworthy and reliable
enough to raise Tezuka's children, and carry his family name.
In many ways, Fuji is the exact opposite of this, of what Tezuka seeks out in
other people and admires. Tezuka's still a bit shocked that he wants someone
like him. But while Fuji plays no part in Tezuka's future plans, after that day
on the roof, neither does he hinder them, slipping as easily into Tezuka's life
as he did into the tennis club. He doesn't make unreasonable demands on
Tezuka's time, or ask for special favors; makes no confessions of love or seem
to expect any in return. The only difference is that one of them follows the
other home, once, perhaps twice a week, but never more - I'm a recent transfer,
and Tezuka is very kind to spend so much time catching me up, Fuji tells
Tezuka's mother with the most innocent of smiles - and what happens behind
locked doors.
And apparently, also times like this, when their game lasts longer than the
others, leaving them alone with the first years who were on cleaning duty. The
first years are grouped in the far corner lockers of the clubhouse, and a shout
- Oi Snake, what the hell - makes Tezuka look up.
Fuji's in his line of sight, slipping a shirt over pale, unblemished skin, but
for a mark over his collarbone, soon hidden by the shirt collar. He bends his
head, slender fingers buttoning his shirt. Behind him, one of the first years -
Kaidoh Kaoru, his hair for some reason a brilliant red - slams Momoshiro
Takeshi into a locker. Fuji's fingers still, with a murmured "Tezuka, your kids
are getting unusually frisky today."
Tezuka steps around him. It's unforgivable, holding grudges because of a game
and trying to hurt each other, and they've compounded it by willful negligence
and carelessness that's damaged school property. Momoshiro might be too hard-
headed to be affected, but the locker behind him bears a dent.
The first years - and Tezuka takes careful note of the ones encouraging the
fight, and those trying to diffuse it - go silent when they notice him. Kaidoh
and Momoshiro are staring at each other, gazes locked, as intense as if
contemplating mutual homicide. The silence stretches.
"Kaidoh," Hayashi finally says, and when Kaidoh transfers his glare on him,
points at Tezuka.
Kaidoh's face whips around, his eyes widening. A blush steals across his face
as he stumbles back, letting Momoshiro go.
"Ah, fukubuchou," Momoshiro says, hand rubbing the back of his neck, which is
just as red as Kaidoh's face. "Sorry, we were just playing around, ha ha, and
it got a little..." He trails off under Tezuka's stare.
"Cleaning duty by yourselves for two weeks," Tezuka says. "And if this happens
again" - looking at Momoshiro and Kaidoh, making sure both of them understand
how serious he is - "I'll make sure you're kicked off the team. I want a
hundred laps. Now."
And perhaps they're not as stupid as their previous actions made them appear,
because they immediately jump to obey.
"You're a bit scary, Tezuka, when you're angry," Fuji says when Tezuka returns.
His lips are quirked, and the lazy, lingering amusement in his voice gives lie
to his words.
Tezuka can't imagine anything frightening Fuji, who is now placidly putting
tennis clothes back into his bag, zipping the bag, placing it in his locker.
It's a good thing for everyone that he doesn't seem to care overmuch for hiking
or nature. He's the kind of person that purposely pokes a bear, then jumps out
of its way, leaving less agile companions to deal with consequences. Fuji's
shirt is still half unbuttoned, though the bruise on his neck is hidden. Not
for the first time, Tezuka wonders at the strange alchemy by which irritation
and anger transform into desire.
Tezuka wants to brush Fuji's collar back until he can see the bruise, touch it.
Wants to step forward and worry it, until it is once again Kaidoh's new hair
color, vivid and startling against Fuji's pale skin, until Fuji is trembling.
And he wants to take his time, and do much, much more.
Fuji turns his head, and their gazes lock. Fuji's eyes darken. Tezuka's never
known anyone as perceptive. Behind them, there's the clang of lockers being
shut, the remaining first years eager to escape the scene of the crime. Fuji's
lashes dip, eyes shuttering.
"You'll catch a cold if you leave your shirt unbuttoned," Tezuka says,
returning his gaze to his locker.
"What would we do without your firm guidance and wise advice?" Fuji murmurs,
his everpresent smile in his voice.
 
It's not until third period, when Tezuka finishes his math assignment fifteen
minutes ahead of schedule, that he has time to reflect on what happened.
He shouldn't be too surprised, he supposes. They shared an intense sexual
encounter, and it's natural to recollect things when given such a vivid
reminder. Fuji had remained circumspect throughout, more circumspect than
Tezuka, even. And though Fuji isn't who he would have normally chosen, and
though the intensity of Tezuka's attraction disturbs him, on the whole, having
such a convenient sexual outlet has made Tezuka more focused, despite
occasional distractions. He's doing well in all his classes, is aptly
fulfilling his obligations, playing better tennis than he ever has, and even
managed to take his grandfather down in last Wednesday's practice spar. His
grandfather had regarded Tezuka with a proud, satisfied expression all through
dinner.
So there's no reason to call it off. It is much too early for Tezuka to be
looking for a serious relationship; Fuji's a temporary indulgence that Tezuka
can afford.
But does Fuji feel the same way?
It seems impossible that anything could truly move Fuji, and Tezuka knows that
Fuji's more experienced than he is.
But there are some things - such as the way that Fuji had looked at him last
night, blue eyes flaring wide and vulnerable, his sheer astonishment - that
make Tezuka think that he might not be so experienced, after all. That perhaps,
just perhaps, he's not as unaffected as he usually appears.
Tezuka leaves his next class early, claiming student council business, so Inui
can't follow. Is at the door of Fuji's classroom when the lunch break begins.
Fuji looks at him in surprise. Turns to say something to a yellow-haired boy
that Tezuka's often seen orbiting Fuji and Kikumaru, name something Tezuka's
never bothered to remember, before following Tezuka out.
"Is something the matter?" Fuji asks, once they've reached a deserted hallway.
Leaning against the wall, hands in his pocket, and surely he wouldn't be so
casual in the presence of someone he'd fallen for?
"I'm planning to get married," Tezuka says, and stops. It had sounded much less
abrupt in his head.
Fuji blinks, and for a second Tezuka's concerned. And then he smiles, the
dimpled smile that indicates real amusement, and Tezuka's too relieved to care
that it's probably at his expense. "Congratulations are in order then. You're a
bit young, but you do have a reputation of precociousness to uphold. Who's the
future Mrs. Tezuka?"
"You know that's not what I meant," Tezuka says, relief rapidly turning into
irritation. "I want to make sure you're aware that what we have is temporary.
You're a teammate I value and a friend, but you're not what I'm looking for in
a long-term committed relationship."
"I'm not -" Fuji says, and then turns, covering his mouth, body trembling. "Oh
Tezuka," he says, leaving Tezuka once again whiplashing between relief and
irritation before finally deciding to settle on both, because Fuji's standing
there giggling helplessly. "Do I really seem that innocent to you?"
"Sometimes," Tezuka says bluntly.
Fuji turns, eyes still bright with laughter. "You would be worried, wouldn't
you? Is it more concern, or ego? Would it help if we laid out ground rules? No
holding hands, I suppose, or other public displays of affection?"
"Fuji - "
"We won't go on dates, or involve ourselves in each other's personal affairs,
and of course gifts commemorating our eternal love are out of the question."
Fuji's eyes have a light in them that immediately makes Tezuka wary. "But
what's your stance on terms of endearment, cuddle cakes?" And even though he's
braced himself, Tezuka can't hide his answering shudder of sheer revulsion.
"No? Tiger? Stud muffin? Sweet-"
"Stop," Tezuka demands, hand covering Fuji's mouth. Seriously reconsidering his
decision to continue this - whatever it is. Feels Fuji smiling under his palm,
and snatches his hand away. He should've known how this would end; this is
Fuji. "I'll see you in practice," he says, cutting his losses, turning on his
heel.
But he's only walked three steps before he stops. Sighs, before turning back,
eyes narrowed. Wholly irritated with himself, now.
"Oh, there's also something else," Fuji says. Face mock-somber, voice and eyes
absolutely delighted.
"You didn't play well this morning," Tezuka says. Fuji tilts his head in a
silent question. "Was it because of what we did?"
Fuji's eyes widen, and his irrepressible grin returns. "I am so tempted. But
no, you would probably swear off ever having sex again, and then where would we
be?" Walks forward, closing the gap between them. "You want to know why I
didn't play seriously?" he asks. And before Tezuka can answer, leans in, hand
on the back of Tezuka's head, lips hovering over Tezuka's ear. Every muscle in
Tezuka's body locks tight.
Fuji breathes out. Tezuka stills even further. His cock is erect and rock hard.
"Because I didn't feel like it," Fuji whispers into Tezuka's ear. Everpresent
smile in his voice. "Honeybuns."
Casually lets Tezuka go. Walks past him, back to his classroom.
 
The following couple of weeks are a nightmare. There is smoochie poo, and
muffin, doll face and dearheart and pussycat, and once, after Fuji has orgasmed
and Tezuka is on the verge of it, "oh, yes, big daddy, just like that, give it
to me," immediately killing Tezuka's erection.
"If you ever do that again," Tezuka bites out, hands clamped around Fuji's
wrists.
"You'll punish me? Gag me? Teach me my place?" Fuji sounds much too curious and
interested, and Tezuka wonders, not for the first time, just what he's gotten
himself into.
He considers, for a moment. "I'll tell Yamato-buchou that I think you might be
a better player than I am. Just lacking in experience, and very lacking in
drive. But given the right push and responsibilities, I'm sure you could
accomplish great things."
Fuji's smile fades. "It bothers you that much," he says softly, eyes searching
Tezuka's face.
They're not just talking about Fuji's increasingly horrible pet names anymore.
"Yes," Tezuka says.
"Oh Tezuka," Fuji says, lips curving. "First seduction, then blackmail. You do
have unexpected depths. I'll stop with the endearments, I promise." And then,
smile turned absolutely wicked, wrists flexing in Tezuka's grip, "Let me make
it up to you?"
Tezuka frees his hands, and Fuji does.
 
Tezuka meets Asai a few weeks before Regionals. They've started going to
Tezuka's place after practice. Yuuta's stares have become a shade too curious,
Yumiko's too sharp. But with Yumiko leaving soon for a tutoring session, Yuuta
already at his private tennis lessons, and Fuji's mother working late, as
always, the day seems ideal to return to Fuji's.
It just takes entering the door to find out that it isn't.
“Tadaima,” Fuji says, toeing his shoes off, and Tezuka's surprised to see a man
coming out the kitchen. “Neesan, Tezuka is helping me with my history — Asai-
san." And there's something in the stillness of Fuji's body, the tone of his
voice, that makes Tezuka give the innocuous looking man another glance. "How
nice to see you again. Where’s my sister?”
“Hello Shuusuke-kun. I hope you had a nice day at school today. She got delayed
at school, so I said I would check in. It will be a good opportunity for us to
get to know each other better.” Asai is tall and classically handsome and
speaks with a genuine warmth and sincerity that is jarring to hear in Fuji's
living room.
“I did, thank you, Asai-san," Fuji says, strolling in. "Yumiko is lucky to have
such a considerate boyfriend, and I look forward to it,” in a tone of voice
that often ends with other people being assigned laps.
They never reach Fuji's room. Asai is cooking curry for dinner — “Your mother
must be tired after working so late, and I wanted to do her a favor, Shuusuke-
kun” — but Fuji’s stomach is too unsettled for curry. Tezuka gets himself
settled on the dining table, curious and more than a bit annoyed. Pulls out his
homework. Asai agreeably starts making kayu, Fuji insists on helping, and half
the porridge ends up decorating Asai’s shirt — “I’m so sorry, Asai-san, but
I’ve been feeling a bit dizzy too, I think from too much tennis practice. I
hope it wasn’t too hot? Yumiko wouldn't mind letting you borrow one of her
tops. She has a green one that would go well with your eyes.” Asai decides to
return home for a change of clothes.
By the time Tezuka's finished math and is working through his English, the
farce is winding down. Asai apologizes for causing trouble, his voice still as
warm and sincere as it was in the beginning. Tezuka looks up to find that
Asai's expression is the same, too, though there's something a bit rueful in
his smile now. He ruffles Fuji's hair on his way out the door with a - "Some
other day, ne, Shuusuke-kun? I'll look forward to it." - leaving Fuji standing
still and incredulous, expression like that of a disgruntled cat. Tezuka bites
back a smile, returning to his homework.
The door closes. Tezuka hears Fuji rounding the table and slumping into a
chair. A moment later - "He is completely unacceptable."
Tezuka raises a brow without looking up. Perhaps he'll be able to finish this
homework too, before returning home, for once not lying to his parents about
studying at a friend's house.
"You know. You're sitting in my father's seat," Fuji says.
"Should I move?"
"No, that's fine. He's never here, anyway." And then, after a pause, "I have to
do something."
Tezuka's almost reached the end, now. The last exercise asks him to write a
skit between two neighbors, the first someone who hates dogs, the second
someone that's just won a trip to South Korea and is trying to leave their dog
with the first. Who comes up with these questions?
“Yumiko only knows how to make cookies," Fuji continues, "and Asai-san’s
obviously incompetent in the kitchen. If she stays with him she will starve.”
Tezuka does look up then.
There's an uncharacteristic frown on Fuji's face, his fingers restlessly
tapping against the table. "What?" Fuji asks, voice deceptively mild.
They'd agreed not to involve themselves in the other's personal affairs. But
Fuji's the one who'd decided that the - whatever it was - was more imperative
than sex, even though it's been a week, and is now considering Asai the most
riveting topic in the world.
"Perhaps you should help him learn," Tezuka says.
"Help him learn."
"How to cook." Asai seems like a genuinely nice person. There isn't a false
note in him. He should know the full extent of what he's getting into as soon
as possible.
"Yes," Fuji says, considering. And then, with conviction, "Yes. I've never
cooked, but people do it all the time, so it won't be difficult to learn
Yumiko's favorite dishes." As if Fuji's ever had difficulty learning anything.
"And then I'll teach him, and it will be so much fun," infusing each word with
grim determination.
And if Asai is as smart as he appears, it won't take long for him to cut his
losses and run the other way, and Fuji can stop obsessing.
 
Tezuka is having a terrible day, and Asai is not as smart as he appears.
His shoulder aches when he gets up; his umbrella breaks during his walk to
school; there's yet another funding crisis in the student council; and during
practice, Yamata-buchou slips and falls, sustaining an injury severe enough to
keep him out of Regionals, just a handful of days away. At Fuji's, Yumiko is,
as always, impeccably polite, while eyeing Tezuka as if he's chewed-out gum
that she'd dearly like to scrape off her high-heeled shoes. This is why Tezuka
prefers his home. But lately, Fuji's been insistent about returning here, even
when other disapproving Fujis are present.
Things get a bit better when they're making out in Fuji's bed, Fuji straddling
his lap, until Fuji leans forward, pressing against Tezuka's left shoulder.
Tezuka hides his wince, but of course Fuji still notices.
"It's that bad then?" Fuji asks, shifting back.
"Just a bit stiff."
Fuji looks momentarily perplexed, a small furrow appearing between his
eyebrows. Tezuka runs his thumb across it, and Fuji startles, peering through
his lashes. "It wasn't something I planned," he says abruptly. And, at Tezuka's
raised eyebrow, "what happened to Yamato-buchou."
"Of course not," Tezuka says, confused about why Fuji feels it necessary to
state this. Fuji's capricious and provoking and insatiably curious when it
comes to others, but Tezuka knows that he's never deliberately cruel.
"Oh," Fuji says, looking away. "His injury's serious, though, isn't it? He
won't be playing at Regionals."
"No."
"So I'll be in third singles, and you'll be in first."
"Yes," Tezuka says, wondering where this interest in Regionals is coming from.
Up to now, Fuji's never exhibited curiosity about any of their previous or
upcoming tournaments. If he's assigned a slot, he shows up and plays, as
cordially and competently as Tezuka's sure he carries out all his time-pass
hobbies, origami cranes and billiards and cacti, but without even a fraction of
the ambition and hunger that drives Tezuka to compete.
But here he is inquiring after the Regionals team roster, when any other day,
they'd already have their clothes off and bodies pressed against each other,
having sprinted through several bases and rounding for home; or, if Fuji's in
an especially patient mood, Fuji's hand groping under the fabric of Tezuka's
pants, grip firm around Tezuka's erection, urging him to do the same and keep
up Tezuka, when will you stop beingsuch a turtle?
Fuji's been a bit strange all day. Should Tezuka be worried?
Fuji's hands are light, now, on Tezuka's shoulders, his right thumb tracing
distracting circles on Tezuka's skin. He lowers his head, trailing kisses down
Tezuka's neck. Tezuka's eyes flutter closed, fingers tangling in Fuji's hair,
strands soft and silky. Tezuka doesn't mind this slow, leisurely build at all,
the way it leaves his entire body languid and humming with anticipation, but
really, what is this?
"Put me in first singles," Fuji murmurs into his neck.
Tezuka blinks, tugging Fuji's head back.
"It's what you want, isn't it?" Fuji asks. "For me to care, and take more
responsibility. So I'll give it to you, for this tournament." Fuji eyes are
steady on Tezuka's own.
"Will you?" Fuji willingly taking responsibility is as likely as Tezuka
deciding to become a ballerina.
Fuji's lashes dip. "Congratulations. You and Yamato-buchou have finally
inspired me. I'm ready to reach my full potential, so you should let me."
"And reaching your full potential requires playing in the Regionals against
Yukimura Seiichi." The most brilliant, focused, and driven player that Tezuka
knows.
Fuji's lips curve, his eyes dark when he looks at Tezuka again. He is serious,
Tezuka realizes with a jolt. If Tezuka doesn't agree, he'll go over Tezuka's
head to Yamato-buchou, or find another way to ensure it happens. Fuji isn't
asking a favor from his lover, but rather extending a courtesy to him, giving
him the pretense of control, though the outcome is fixed either way. A thrill
races through Tezuka's veins, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck
standing on end. What is this?
"I'll do more than win, Tezuka," Fuji promises. "I'll show you something you've
never seen."
One tournament, Fuji said. Whatever Fuji's reasons, Tezuka does want to see
this.
"So show me," Tezuka says softly, tugging him closer again.
But of course, the day being what it is, it doesn't last.
He's halfway there, and knows that Fuji's close from his cut-off moans, from
the way he presses so close that Tezuka can feel the tremors running under his
skin as well as their vibrations around his erection, nails scratching down
Tezuka's back hard enough to break skin. They hurt, and he'll have to be
careful in the clubroom tomorrow, but the pain somehow only increases the
pleasure. And the knowledge that Fuji's this far gone - he's not like Tezuka,
who deliberately leaves marks - that Fuji's lost this much self control, is
intoxicating. Tezuka thrusts harder, drowning even more in Fuji's taste and
smell and searing, suctioning heat.
Until Fuji suddenly, inexplicably stills. "Get off, get off, get off," hands
pushing at Tezuka's chest until Tezuka slips out of him and falls back on the
bed, bewildered.
"Is something wrong?" Tezuka asks, blinking at the ceiling, trying to gather
his scattered thoughts. The air is shockingly cold against his skin, which
prickles in goosebumps. "Are you -" just to be met by Fuji's palm against his
mouth.
"Do you hear it?"
Tezuka strains, but can't hear anything over his pounding heart, their softly
panting breaths. Is there a burglar in the house? Has someone hit their head,
or tripped and fallen down the stairs?
"He's here," Fuji whispers, taking his hand away, flopping back. "Sneaking into
her room, when it's not even dark."
A pulse starts pounding in Tezuka's temple, he is so utterly infuriated. He
takes a deep breath, deliberately lets it out. Says, in his most reasonable
voice, "If this is about Asai-san -"
"I thought he'd have learned his lesson, after what happened the last time,"
and Tezuka does not want to know, "but of course he's too stupid. What does
Yumiko even see in him?"
"Does it matter?" Tezuka can't believe he's having this conversation with Fuji,
of all people, and now. The pounding has become a bona fide headache. Tezuka
can't recall the last time he was this offended, his patience and forbearance
are fast running thin, and he's still hard. "They're consenting adults.
Whatever they're doing -"
"They're not doing anything." Tezuka gets on his elbow and stares, because Fuji
can't be serious. "Okay, maybe they are." Tezuka bitterly hopes so, because
then at least someone in the house would be getting off. "But they shouldn't
be. Yuuta could be right down the hall."
"Yes, he could be," Tezuka says. Looks at Fuji steadily until Fuji blushes, of
all things. Tezuka didn't even know he was capable of it.
"It's just," Fuji says, looking away. Stops, then starts again. "I'm not naive.
But she's never been serious, before." And then, turning to Tezuka, "Never
mind, forget I said anything. Where were we?" Looking as eager as the other
Regulars are to drink Inui's concoctions. Ready to take one for the team.
Tezuka closes his eyes a moment, drawing another deliberate breath. Opens them,
letting it out, looking at Fuji. Fingers Fuji's lower lip, the corner that
Fuji's worrying with his teeth. "Go do what you think you have to." Asai's made
his choice, and is old enough to take care of himself. Besides, the mood
couldn't be more dead if it had been run over by the shinkansen.
Fuji blinks, then smiles at him, slowly and brilliantly. The smile that's not
Fuji trying to hide, or deliberately charm, but Fuji as he is. Licks Tezuka's
finger, sucks on it in a filthy, utterly unfair promise, before rolling off.
Comes back to the bed when he's dressed, kissing Tezuka with a "Don't move,
I'll be back before you know it", when no, he really won't.
 
Tezuka's showered and dressed by the time Fuji returns, slinging his bag over
his shoulder.
"You're leaving," Fuji says. Pausing at the door, then padding in without
bothering to close it.
"It's late."
"You could stay for dinner." He leans against the wall, pulling his phone from
his pocket. "Mother says it'll be ready in less than an hour."
"I have work to do." And he's had quite enough of coming in second to Fuji's
sister's boyfriend, of all people.
"Of course," Fuji murmurs, smiling a smile that could be painted on. "Sorry
about today; I'll make it up to you next time." As if it's a purely physical
transaction, and the columns have to be balanced. He's already looking down,
scrolling through what appears to be his contact list. He's never seemed so
artificial, fabricated.
He is, Tezuka realizes, profoundly off-balance and unhappy.
Fuji's a social creature. Unlike Tezuka, who's always preferred solitude, and
especially so when he's troubled, right now what Fuji's craving is company.
Kikumaru, perhaps, or someone from the ever-expanding circle of Regulars and
hanger-ons that revolves around them. Yuuta must not be here after all. And
even though Fuji asked, he didn't really expect Tezuka to stay, and would never
insist on Tezuka doing so. For all the delight he takes in provoking Tezuka,
this boundary Fuji seems to consider sacrosanct.
Which does nothing at all to explain why, when Tezuka pulls out his own phone,
it's not to tell his mother that he'll be home soon, but that his English
project's taking longer than expected, and they shouldn't expect him for
dinner.
Tezuka puts the phone back in his bag, lets the bag slip to the floor. Glances
up to see Fuji watching him as if he's grown two heads.
"You're staying," Fuji says. There's a strangely uncertain look in his eyes.
"You wanted me to," Tezuka says.
And then, with a smile that's just tugging the edges of his lips, Fuji says,
"You're right. It is going to take longer than expected." Puts his phone on the
dresser. Shuts his door and locks it. "So we shouldn't waste any more time, and
get started right away," pressing Tezuka firmly back against the wall.
And murmured in Tezuka's ear, breath ghosting over Tezuka's skin, raising
goosebumps, "Tezuka, tell me. How do you want me?"
They still have an hour, and Fuji's offering.
"Like this," Tezuka says, and Fuji's the one pressed against the wall. He takes
a sharp inhale, eyes wide and dark, a delicate flush already stealing over his
cheeks. His arms wrap around Tezuka's neck, but he doesn't do anything else,
for once letting Tezuka take full control.
An hour, Tezuka thinks, fingers sinking in Fuji's whisper-soft hair. Kisses
him, smiling against his lips when Fuji lets him set the pace for that, too.
It's more than enough time to make him beg.
The day turns out not to be so terrible, after all, despite everything.
 
When Regionals are finished, and with Nationals still months away, their
schedules become less frenetic. Tezuka spends the time preparing. Reads ahead
for all his classes, goes over the videos for all their upcoming opponents,
spends extra training time with his grandfather, carefully works out a schedule
with Yamato-buchou and Ryuzaki-sensei and Inui for the Nationals, and what each
of the chosen Regulars will focus on during their training. They must be
thorough. It's the first time their school has gone so far in over a decade,
and both Tezuka and Yamato-buchou intend to take them all the way.
Fuji apparently uses the time to take a hundred pictures.
A hundred and one, Tezuka amends, as he hears another click behind him.
"I'm going to call this one, The King Observing His Kingdom," Fuji says. "It
has a nice ring, doesn't it?"
They're on the rooftop again, in the break between school and practice.
Tezuka's looking down on the school grounds, at the clusters of people
scattered around it, most eating snacks or talking, a mixed group of girls and
boys playing basketball, another working on dance moves for the upcoming
Cultural Festival, a few flying kites, trying to cut one another. Some girls
unfurl banners next to the tennis courts, and a few Regulars and other club
members, Kaidoh's hair still a vivid red, are already stretching and warming
up.
Behind Tezuka, Fuji is engaging in his new favorite hobby.
"It's such a nice day," Fuji says, camera clicking again.
"One of the last ones we'll have," Tezuka says.
The sakura that had lingered for months past their expiration date - perplexing
botanists and arborists and delighting others, though probably none as much as
Fuji and Kikumaru, having diversified from pranks to bookmaking, creating a
burgeoning black market economy in Seigaku by taking bets on when they would
fall - have finally fallen, joining the multicolored leaves that litter the
school grounds. It will soon be cold enough that they're confined to indoor
practices; not something that Tezuka is looking forward to.
"You didn't put Sugiyama-sempai on the roster for Nationals," Fuji says.
"No, I didn't."
Fuji's not there, either. He'd only promised one tournament, which he'd
delivered gift-wrapped. Tezuka knows him well enough by now to recognize when
he's dug his feet in, refusing to budge. The knowledge does nothing to ease the
irritation that Tezuka feels, every time he thinks about it, but the opposite.
And Tezuka thinks about it much too frequently; can't get that match out of his
head.
Fuji's never played played against Tezuka the way he played with Yukimura.
"That's too bad," Fuji says. "It's his last year. He really wanted to help the
team win the Nationals."
Tezuka doesn't say anything. Unlike Fuji, a lot of people want to compete in
this; not all have proved themselves competent enough to.
"Ne, Tezuka," Fuji says, and there's a note in his voice now that makes Tezuka
turn.
Fuji's sitting a few meters away, his back against one of the rooftop air
handler units. Eyes down, looking at his camera with a considering expression.
Tezuka wonders which picture has captured his interest, whether it's
responsible for his strange mood.
"You always want to win, don't you?" Fuji asks.
"More than anything," Tezuka says. And they have a good chance this year of
winning everything. His shoulder's healed somewhat - there's barely a twinge
now - so he'll be able to play with both hands if necessary, and Yamato-buchou
will also have recovered by then.
"No matter the cost," Fuji murmurs. Then, looking at Tezuka, "If something
happens. Something unexpected, or whatever. If I'm something that's holding you
back, or getting in the way of your plans. You should let me go."
"Of course," Tezuka says. Was that ever in question?
An expression flickers through Fuji's face that Tezuka can't read. And then
Fuji's smiling sunnily at him, previous mood forgotten.
"So. Should we do it?" Fuji asks. Uncrossing his legs, putting his camera on
the ground beside him. Tugging loose his tie.
They haven't done anything here, since that day months ago, when Tezuka first
kissed him. Fuji's tie is undone now, and he's sliding it off his neck, loosely
wrapping it around his right hand. And Tezuka thinks of all the times, before
and since, that he's wanted to come here, craving solitude, just to be stopped
on the stairs by an infernal tie slung around the door handle.
"No," Tezuka says firmly.
Really, what was wrong with the music practice rooms?
"But I really want to."
And why should that matter?
And then a familiar light enters Fuji's eyes. He opens his mouth, but Tezuka's
there, crouched between Fuji's spread feet, hand covering it. Preventing Fuji
from saying yet one more thing that will leave Tezuka scarred for life.
"Don't," Tezuka orders. "Not another word."
And of course Fuji smiles, and of course Fuji licks Tezuka's palm, because when
have orders ever worked on him? Convince me, Fuji's amused, brilliantly blue
eyes say.
Tezuka gives in and does.
 
They're sitting cross-legged in Yumiko's room, facing each other. Each surface
covered with paper cranes, eight hundred and seventy three in all now. Both of
them are folding another, Shuusuke while trying not to think about all the
other things that Yumiko and Asai might also have done on this very bed.
"I was called into my advisor's office today," Yumiko says, a slight frown on
her face. "Kurosawa-san was also there."
Shuusuke's fingers still. Kurosawa is one of their father's lackeys. As
distractions go, it is very effective. The world's become terrifyingly
suffocating, and Shuusuke has to struggle to remember that there's anything
else.
"I thought something was going on," he finally says. "At school, the season is
changing." But he had hoped.
"He offered me a lucrative commission, which my advisor was very excited about.
Unheard of for someone who hasn't even graduated, what an honor and all that."
Yumiko's voice is deliberately light and even. "I refused, of course." She sets
down a sky-blue crane. Picks up another piece of paper, purple this time, and
starts folding it. "But I'm no longer sure if that was a wise decision? Or what
Father is planning next. So you should be even more on your guard, and make
sure your shields are always up."
"They are," Shuusuke says.
He tries not to think of the grotesquerie of sculptures in their family's
garden; the corridor lined with paintings. He'd never needed someone to tell
him that the people depicted, in the midst of agonizing transformations, man
and beast or tree or insect, were once real. His family's enemies, none of
which had accomplished half the destruction he had, poisoning their beloved
heir against them.
When their family moves, it's not Yumiko that will bear the brunt of it. She'll
shield him, but that can only go so far, being so against their respective
natures. So he's always on guard; he doesn't know any other way to live.
Shuusuke says, "It's fine. This is what we've been preparing for." Though he
doesn't feel very prepared. But at least he's no longer prey, frozen in the
headlights of a speeding car. "By then, we'll probably also be finished with
these." Makes his fingers move again, fold and press.
"I still don't think they're going to do anything. Its a folk tale that none of
my books have referenced."
Shuusuke tilts his head, considering. "That's fine, though, isn't it?" he
finally says. "We'll just open the windows, and set them all free."
He finishes folding his latest, a pale green, one of his favorite colors.
Brings it up to his face. How to do this?
Closes his eyes, stilling his mind. Floating up and up and away, above
everything that terrifies him. Breathes out, letting the air flow over the
crane.
When he opens his eyes again, the tiny pale green crane is spreading its wings.
It flaps them experimentally, once, twice. And then it's flying, circling over
their heads, and then it's banking near Yumiko.
Yumiko turns her right hand, palm up. It lands there and settles, neck curved
back, nestling its beak between its wings. "Ah, it's tired now," Yumiko says,
smiling as she looks down on its gently fluttering wings. Lifts it to eye
level, peering curiously.
"Like this, is it?" she asks, and breathes out like Shuusuke had.
And with her breath it stills, transforms again. Once again a folded paper
crane, but now sleeping.
Yumiko looks up, smile still lingering on her face, in her eyes.
"Yes," Shuusuke says, smiling back.
They're free, and will do whatever is necessary, and will continue to be.
***** the summer (final) *****
Fuji doesn't realize how mistaken he is. How much he and Yumiko still
underestimate their family; or just how careless they've been, guarding all the
wrong things.
Not until Asai moves. Not away with Yumiko, as Fuji had been dreading, living
out the tiresome cliche of college sweethearts getting married, but to the
emergency room. Days of being wheeled in and out of surgery, complications on
complications until We're very sorry, we've done all we can; it's only a matter
of time. Asai hasn't opened his eyes once, but even lying silent and still with
multiple tubes snaking in and out of his body he manages to be utterly
infuriating, doing the exact opposite of what he should be.
And not until Tezuka's chosen as Fuji's proxy. Tezuka, of all people. He can
just imagine Tezuka's reaction to this. How many laps will Fuji have to run,
for wasting Tezuka's time, forcing him to endure such an appalling, ridiculous
indignity - and Fuji really has outdone himself this time - with Nationals in
just a week?
Tezuka can't tell him anymore, of course.
It shouldn't have been possible. Their family's other sacrifices are all dead.
But their family routinely accomplishes impossible things, and how satisfied
their father must now feel, to have so effectively hammered this lesson in. If
you don't obey, there will be consequences. How pleased Uncle Hachiro would be,
if he was alive to see. And their grandmother's hand is all over this. Her
endless patience, her whimsy and utter delight in the absurd - the sheer
ridiculousness of what has happened, Fuji doesn't know what he wants to do
more, laugh or scream, and what's next? Turning Yuuta into a teacup that she
uses to drink her scaldingly hot tea every morning? Eiji and the other Regulars
into blades of grass on the grounds around the courts, mowed with such precise
regularity each evening? - not to mention her most favored tactic. Strike so
quickly that you destroy your enemies, before they even realize they're
standing on a battlefield.
As for their other relatives and their hanger-ons? The ones trying to dethrone
their father are possibly the slightest bit unhappy, but they aren't stupid
enough to expect him to cut his own head off, have it mounted and express
delivered to them. This is just another unremarkable task he's completed
successfully, one of the many routine, tiresome maintenance jobs that ensure
the wheels remain greased and the potholes filled, so that there are no
inconvenient breakdowns in their family's journey to ever-greater heights,
ever-loftier climes, and children, sometimes they are so rebellious and so
stubborn, and must be brought to heel.
Fuji hadn't even known, there was this to lose.
We won't go on dates, or involve ourselves in each other's personal affairs,
he'd said once, laughing.
And the wind lifts Tezuka, all his remaining pieces, and scatters him to all
the corners of the world.
 
But there is still the wish.
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