Current mood:	wibbly
Current music:	Future
Entry tags:	pot, tezuryo

PoT: Facing Forward
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: pre-Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Entire anime series.
Notes: Anime continuity, with one small change in that I'm assuming that Ryoma entered the junior US Open. 12 isn't old enough for the adult tournament. Title is from Hikari no Saki: Facing forward and becoming one, wherever we may go.


Facing Forward

Tezuka receives the invitations every year, like clockwork. Since his second year of middle school, Golden Week has been preceded by the heavy thump of glossy brochures sliding into the mailbox in the early mornings. Sometimes Ryuuzaki-sensei receives them as well, as though the foreigners who run these schools do not appreciate the extent to which Tezuka is his own driving force. Ryuuzaki-sensei is only the coach of the team, the obligatory responsible adult.

Tezuka always studies the brochures carefully, because the people who send them have taken the time to watch his matches. He reads the polite letters in their careful, simple Japanese, and the English of the brochures that describes dormitories and classrooms and tennis facilities. The tennis vocabulary is always the easiest, but he doesn't have problems with the language.

Then he writes polite letters in return, in his own careful English. These words come by rote: "regret that I must refuse" and "thank you for your kind offer." He thinks of Seigaku as he writes them, and of his own words to Echizen, two years before. The team needs its strength, its goal, its pillar – and while Fuji is undeniably skilled, he is not the sort of example that anyone should follow. Echizen would be, but he is conquering his own mountains an ocean away; Tezuka reads more of him in the sports papers than in his occasional email. He reminds himself that in any case things would have been no different; Echizen would not yet have graduated from middle school.

This year things are different. The usual run of brochures arrives on schedule; tennis schools in America, England, Australia, France and Germany. The German facilities are familiar; Tezuka can remember visiting the school during his rehabilitation stay, watching through the court fences as others swung racquets and hit shots that were no longer permitted him. He had stood there for hours, hand cradling his elbow and imagination painting his team-mates' faces onto the bodies of strangers.

Tezuka writes his refusal letters and files the brochures away in his desk, returning to his duties as vice-captain as soon as Golden Week is over. This year Seigaku High has a strong team; they are going to make it to Kantou, and likely to Nationals as well if Tezuka has any say in the matter. He knows that the other second years on the team will not accept less.

A week into the Tokyo Tournament, another brochure arrives in the mail. Tezuka wonders whether the international postal system is living up to its reputation again, but when he opens the envelope he realises that this invitation is different. It is not advertising a school, but a programme – four weeks, during the summer break, with training in coaching techniques as well as the game itself.

Nationals, Tezuka thinks, and sets the brochure aside in order to eat his breakfast. He's surprised when his mother picks it up, flipping through the glossy pages.

"This is interesting, ne, Kunimitsu?"

"Aa." Tezuka takes a sip of miso and passes the spice powder to his grandfather. "It clashes with Nationals."

"That's a pity." His mother sets the brochure aside and smiles at him. "Maybe you should keep it in mind, though; it's always wise to keep your options open, and all your kouhai seem to do very well." She doesn't need to mention the fact that he has already had one near miss with serious injury.

"Another of those foreign tennis schools?" his grandfather asks with a scowl just as Tezuka's father wanders in yawning with his tie undone. Tezuka inclines his head politely and doesn't comment; that night he writes out another refusal letter, taking longer over the familiar words than he needs to. After he addresses the envelope, he sets it to the side of his desk for posting and opens his mathematics textbook to begin his homework.

The letter is still there when he returns home after tennis club. Tezuka doesn't give it much thought; his mother is busy with the house and his grandfather's accounts, and doesn't always have time to make the trip to the post office. There is no particular urgency.

Two days later, a fight breaks out in the second-floor corridor between members of the football and basketball teams. One of the bulky football players gets shoved backwards into Fuji, who is passing by on his way to lunch, knocking him into the stairwell. Fuji's reflexes work in his favour, but grabbing at the railing to save himself tears muscles in his right arm and dislocates the shoulder joint. Kawamura phones from the hospital, and Tezuka can feel the Nationals slipping through his grasp again.

"It could have been worse," he says to reassure Kawamura, whose voice is shaky with worry.

"Ah – you're right. If he'd fallen down the stairs… I should have got to him sooner…"

Kawamura had been at the other end of the hallway, on his way to get a teacher to break up the fight. "There was nothing you could have done," Tezuka tells him. After he hangs up, he goes to give the news to Hizashi-buchou, who curses in a way that makes Tezuka set his jaw. It isn't Fuji's fault, but both of them know that without him Nationals are out of the question; they will be lucky to get past the first round of Kantou.

Hizashi-buchou extends the Regulars' practice and works them hard, but everyone is worried. Kikumaru spends more time clinging to Oishi and sending messages on his phone than playing, and Inui breaks three pencils. Tezuka hits mechanically against the ball machine, then goes home and stares at the unsent letter lying on his desktop. After a moment, he pulls the brochure from his drawer and opens it.

The names on the coaching list are familiar; Tezuka recognises more than one from newspaper and magazine articles. The facilities are undeniably top-class; hard and grass courts, physical training facilities, hotel-standard accommodation, other local tennis schools. It's a temptation, now that he knows he will be unable to face the strong opponents offered by Nationals.

Los Angeles, Tezuka thinks, paging slowly through pictures of courts and players. Echizen lives there; Tezuka remembers emails complaining about summer heat and the boredom of school without a proper tennis club. He tells himself not to think much of it; Los Angeles is a big place. Tezuka recognises some of the players in the pictures as junior title holders; one of them is the South American who had won the French Open last year. This year Echizen has taken it, already halfway to his first calendar slam. The training programme falls between Wimbledon and the US Open.

Tezuka is already sixteen; old enough for the pros. He has been acting in a training capacity for years, but he's never had the opportunity to work with a top-level coach or to test himself against an active professional player. He puts the refusal letter into his desk drawer and takes the brochure with him when his mother calls him out to dinner.




Tezuka flies over to the States several days before the start of the programme, in order to minimise the effects of the time change. For the first few days everything is strange and alien; he is disoriented by the peculiarities of American culture, the strange and heavy food, the loudness of everything. Tezuka takes refuge on the tennis court, sweating out the culture shock along with the eleven other students who are taking part; boys and young men from China and India and European countries with strange names. Languages from across the world murmur around the courts as Tezuka takes win after win; they make him work for his points, but only two come close to beating him. By the time coaching begins, on the Monday, there is respect in their eyes when they look at him. It makes Tezuka uncomfortable in a way that Seigaku never has.

Tezuka is assigned to work with a professional coach called Hall, whose face he recognises; the man has trained well-known players, including at least one Grand Slam champion. Tezuka feels as though he spends the day constantly out of breath as his limits are tested over and over again. Exhilarated, he pushes himself to reach further, stretch harder, improve his game. When he offers thanks as the day's training draws to a close, the man laughs and tells Tezuka to hurry up and turn professional.

After dinner, Tezuka is drawn back to the courts by the sound of loud voices and the slamming impact of balls. There are more people here now; boys and even some girls who he doesn't recognise, playing games against each other and some of the students. The way people are crowding around to watch the players reminds Tezuka of visiting the street courts; he stands at the fence and tries to work out who he would put into the doubles and singles slots for a tournament. When he returns to the building to call his mother, one of the administrators explains that the members of local tennis schools usually come by to play the students in the evenings.

The second day is harder than the first; Tezuka spends most of the day on accuracy drills, using spin variation alone to pinpoint targets. The repetitive motion of the swings makes him feel as though his shoulder should be aching, but there is no pain, only the familiar tingling of stretched muscles threatening to cramp. By evening he is hungry enough that the unfamiliar food doesn't bother him, and after reading his messages he heads back out to the courts; a Chinese student asks him for a set and people crowd around the fence to watch.

It feels like playing in a tournament, or an exhibition match. The spectators are eerily silent, and the opponent is giving the match everything he has. It's enough for Tezuka to let go of his restraint, playing without holding back. When he surfaces at six-four, breathing hard, the opponent is bowing and Echizen Ryoma is standing at the side of the court, eyes fixed on Tezuka.

He's grown, Tezuka thinks incongruously, frozen in mid-step. Echizen is taller; longer-legged, broader through the shoulder, coltish with growth. His eyes are the same as ever, and Tezuka cannot look away. The whispers of the watching crowd seem very far away, but Tezuka is sure he can hear Echizen's name.

A blond boy elbows his way to the front, grabbing rudely at Echizen's shoulder. "Oi, Ryoma, what are you –"

Echizen ignores the interruption, still staring at Tezuka. Slowly, his intent expression twists into a familiar grin that lights his eyes. "Tezuka-buchou."

"Echizen." Tezuka inclines his head in a polite half-bow. "It's been a while." Too long, he thinks. Echizen is no longer his kouhai, but a junior player two thirds of the way to the calendar Grand Slam. Tezuka has not yet seen the tape of his Wimbledon games, but Ryuuzaki-sensei has promised to acquire them for him. After the French Open earlier that year, the whole of the former middle school team had gathered at Kawamura Sushi to watch the recordings, Kikumaru and Momoshiro cheering for Echizen as though it had been live.

Echizen laughs under his breath, smiling up at him. "Let's play, buchou. Now."

Tezuka has spent the day in intensive training, and played a one-set match against a serious opponent. The sun is on the horizon, but the air is still baking hot.

He doesn't even need to consider it. "One set."

"Three." Echizen turns, keeping his eyes on Tezuka as he sets his racquet bag on the bench and begins stretching. The blond boy – Kevin Smith, the one who had been part of the American Senbatsu team – has retreated to the fence, scowling. Tezuka gulps from his water bottle, then takes his place across the net, focusing his whole self on Echizen.

It's nothing like their last match. That had been charged, cathartic, a release. This tennis is like nothing Tezuka has ever played; Echizen has grown immeasurably, and Tezuka can now see only occasional hints of familiar styles in his play. At the back of his mind, he can remember telling Echizen to find his own tennis, back under the railway tracks at Haruno University.

Tezuka knows that he has grown, too; he can see it in the way Echizen's eyes widen, then narrow with determination. The game descends into a fight for control of the ball, power and spin and calculation melding into a dreamlike concentration that is beyond thought. The court is so silent that Tezuka can hear Echizen's panting breath echoing his own. It stirs something in him, but he cannot spare the energy to follow the thought further.

Echizen takes the first set seven to five, and grins at him over the net. Tezuka breathes deeply, smiling back without conscious thought, and wins the second seven to three in tie-break just as the floodlights blink on overhead. Echizen laughs.

"Let's save it for another day, buchou."

"Of course." Tezuka cannot help but be relieved; he can feel that his reserves are dangerously low, and he has another full day of training tomorrow. They shake hands over the net, Echizen's palm unfamiliar and slick against his before he shoulders his bag and wanders out of the gate. Smith has vanished somewhere, and the crowd of teenagers are murmuring in groups. After a moment, a pair of girls begin setting up a mixed doubles game; Tezuka sits on the bench and watches without seeing for a long time.




Echizen doesn't turn up again until Friday. Tezuka immerses himself in his training, pushing himself to his limits, and tries not to think about unfinished things. It's a surprise to find Echizen waiting for him at the courts in the late afternoon after the students are released from a lecture on coaching methods and regulations.

They warm up together, the familiar exercises taking Tezuka back to the Seigaku courts with a jolt. Echizen is still wearing the same Fila cap, brim pulled down to shade his eyes from the sun. Momentarily, Tezuka sees blue and red bands on his white shirt.

They play into tie-break again, and don't bother to stop at one set. Rested, Tezuka can push himself far enough to keep Echizen under pressure throughout the match; they trade games and sets, neither giving an inch. It's the most enjoyable tennis Tezuka has played in far too long, and when they finally collapse side-by-side onto the bench three of the coaches are watching from the fence.

The next day at lunch one of the administrators tells a story about coaching Hewitt and Roddick; another counters with the early careers of Sampras and Agassi, and the start of their long rivalry. Tezuka drinks tea and listens, craving something to read but too polite to get out his book. They have the afternoon free, as it is a weekend, and when a wide-eyed student comes in to tell him that Ryoma Echizen is waiting at the door Tezuka excuses himself with a nod.

"Buchou." Echizen looks up at him, then down at his feet. "Are you busy?"

Tezuka had planned to call his mother and email Oishi and Fuji before starting on his summer homework; he has assignments in every subject. "No."

"Good." Echizen shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts, and Tezuka realises that he doesn't have his racquet bag. "Let's go, buchou."

"Go where?" Tezuka falls in beside him, reflex adjusting his stride to Echizen's still-shorter legs. It feels comfortable; he can remember doing this so many times. When Echizen looks up sidelong at him, eyes wide under his cap brim, Tezuka has the momentary sensation that he is walking in the past.

"Up there." Echizen points ahead, to the wooded hills that rise from the suburbs at the edge of the valley. Tezuka can see a few white flashes of houses, and the scrawling line of a minor road. The idea is definitely interesting; even here on the widely-spaced outskirts of the city he has been feeling hemmed in by the strangeness of this place.

"Aa. Where's your friend?" Tezuka asks, realising that he hasn't seen Smith since that first day.

"Huh?" Echizen looks up at him again as they pause for a road, frowning. "Who?"

"Kevin Smith." Tezuka keeps an eye on the traffic, feeling the heat as vehicles go by.

Echizen scowls, looking away and hunching his shoulders. "Che. He's just annoying."

Tezuka feels like sighing. "He's a good player."

"He talks too much. And he hangs on me," Echizen mutters, striding ahead.

Kikumaru and Momoshiro hung on you too, Tezuka thinks. He doesn't say anything.

The woods begin sooner than Tezuka would have thought, but the slope starts out gentle. They climb in a silence that he feels no inclination to break, Echizen pointing out the direction when the path divides. The trees are much the same as he is used to, but the smell is different; Tezuka looks about curiously, missing the familiar, calming scent of cedar.

The final stretch is steep enough that they need to scramble, loose soil and stones sliding beneath their feet. Conscious of the danger of injury, Tezuka watches Echizen grabbing at branches and rocks to steady himself, and uses the same handholds. They emerge onto the flat, rocky crown of the hill after a few moments, and Echizen smiles for the first time all afternoon, just a tiny quirk of his mouth. Tezuka breathes out and turns to look at the view, houses and roads spread out in a ragged grid across the valley and the city itself a tall, smoky blur in the far distance. The sky seems very blue.

"Here, buchou." Echizen is sitting on a wide, smooth stone that overlooks the drop-off, arms resting on drawn-up knees.

"Aa." Tezuka sits down beside him, wondering what Echizen wants him to say. From here it seems as though they are sitting in the sky, utterly disconnected from the world below.

"I heard about Fuji-senpai," Echizen says after a while, looking out over the valley towards the distant green patch of the tennis courts. "That sucks."

"Accidents happen," Tezuka says. The sun is hot on the back of his neck, but it's too late in the day to be dangerous. He leaves unspoken the worry that faced with the prospect of an arduous rehabilitation, Fuji may prefer to quit the game altogether. Next year will be Seigaku's last, best shot at the Nationals.

Echizen is silent for a long time, chin propped on his knees. Tezuka remembers, belatedly, that he is still young, still only fourteen. It's something that ceases to matter in the face of Echizen's tennis, his presence on the court.

"Buchou?" Echizen asks, after so long that Tezuka has turned away to look out at the crawling lines of cars on a distant freeway. When he turns back, Echizen is staring at him intently enough to block out the rest of the world. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming here?"

Tezuka can't quite bring himself to look away. "I assumed you would be busy. The US Open is coming up shortly."

Echizen looks away, tugging his cap down to shade his face. "I like playing you, buchou."

Tezuka doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing. After a moment, Echizen breathes in so hard that his shoulders tremble, and looks back up at him.

"My mother wants you to come to dinner next week – Japanese food," he adds hastily, as though its lack is grounds for refusal.

Tezuka's manners answer for him before he can consider otherwise. "Of course."

"Good," Echizen mutters, looking back towards the view. Tezuka watches him for a moment more, then follows his gaze out to the distant western horizon.




Echizen doesn't put in appearance at all during the next week, though Tezuka hears his name whispered more than once by the other students. At breakfast on Saturday his phone chirps discreetly with a message.

Buchou – I'll meet you at the gate at 5.

Tezuka doesn't recognise the number, but there is no one else who could possibly have his. There is no one else who calls him captain, still. He texts back a quick acknowledgement, and informs one of the administrators that he will be eating dinner with the family of a friend tonight. Then he heads out to the courts and another practice session.

To his surprise, Kevin Smith is waiting at the fence when they break for lunch. Tezuka pauses, realising that there is no one else Smith would be here to see, and the boy looks at him with disfavour.

"You're that captain guy, right?"

"Not any more." Tezuka wonders whether he's about to be challenged to a match. The rest of the students continue on back to the building, one or two looking back curiously.

Smith snorts expressively. "Whatever. You're going to take him back, aren't you." It's not a question.

Tezuka isn't sure what to say. "It isn't up to me. Echizen will do what he needs to in order to evolve." The words come evenly as always, but there is pride somewhere behind them; he had taught Echizen that lesson.

Smith stares at him, then mutters something impolite in English and turns away. "He'll go."

Tezuka watches him walk back towards the gate, wondering why he is so certain. Echizen's future lies here, with the US Open barely weeks away and all the facilities and support he could ever need at his fingertips. Echizen isn't stupid, Tezuka thinks. Then he goes back to his room and makes a start on his Chemistry assignment.

Echizen is leaning against the gatepost when Tezuka walks out of the grounds that evening, hands shoved in his pockets and cap pulled down over his face as though he is sleeping. Tezuka is a little surprised, remembering morning after morning of assigning laps for tardiness, but then he recalls that American schools do not open on Saturdays. It seems a strange and inefficient system.

Tezuka's footsteps are almost silent, but Echizen looks up when he draws close, face relaxing from defensive wariness into a tiny, lopsided smirk. "Hey, buchou."

"Echizen." Tezuka doesn't mention Kevin Smith as they walk down the street towards the bus stop at the corner. A bus pulls up when they are halfway there, and Echizen grabs his arm, breaking into a sprint.

"Come on – the next one's not for ten minutes."

Tezuka would not have minded waiting, but Echizen's hand on his bare forearm is hot and undeniable. They sit at the back of the bus, and Echizen blinks at him for a moment, then mutters an embarrassed apology, looking away. Tezuka watches houses and shops and schools blur past through the bus windows.

The bus ride isn't long. Echizen stands up at the fifth stop, and Tezuka follows him off and down a quiet residential street. The houses here are big and sprawling and set widely enough that they seem secluded.

Echizen stops in front of a gate at the end of the street, turning to look back at Tezuka. "Don't let my dad badger you into playing, buchou." He pauses, looking down at the ground and murmuring in a voice so quiet that Tezuka barely hears him, "Unless you want to."

"Aa." Tezuka has no intention of doing any such thing. There is tennis, strength, a whole world beyond Echizen Nanjiroh, and in opening Echizen's eyes to that possibility Tezuka has become the symbol of it. The son will go beyond the father, and that is enough; Tezuka knows who he would rather play.

Echizen pushes through the gate, holding it open so that Tezuka can walk through. The house is white and low, set in gardens easily big enough for a court, or even two. Echizen's cat is stretched out in a patch of sun on the porch steps; it wakes at the sound of the gate swinging shut and leaps down to twine around its owner's ankles.

Echizen wobbles, and Tezuka puts a hand out to steady him without thinking. Echizen doesn't seem to notice at all, reaching down to scoop up the animal.

"Karupin, do you remember Tezuka-buchou?"

The cat just yawns at him; Tezuka reaches out to scratch its ears, remembering the panic in the locker room when half the club had been certain it was a tanuki. Karupin yawns again, then purrs, rubbing against his hand happily. Tezuka smiles to himself at the satisfied look that crosses Echizen's face.

"Tadaima!" Echizen calls as he opens the door. A woman Tezuka assumes must be his mother pokes her head out of another room, smiling warmly as she sees them.

"Ah, welcome! You must be Tezuka-kun, ne?" She walks out into the hall, clasping her hands and bowing rather than offering to shake hands. "Welcome to our home – I'm Echizen Rinko."

"Echizen-san." Tezuka bows politely. "It's a pleasure to meet you; thank you for inviting me."

"Oh, it's nothing at all." Echizen-san's eyes dance as she glances over to her son. "We've heard so much about you, after all."

"Mom!" Echizen complains instantly, turning his head away and hunching his shoulders. Tezuka thinks of his own mother, and her habit of telling stories of his childhood to anyone who visits him at home.

"Please come through to the kitchen," Echizen-san tells Tezuka, before glancing back to Echizen and adding, "Ryoma, take your hat off in the house."

Echizen Nanjiroh is sitting at the kitchen table, playing with a packet of cigarettes. Echizen-san clears her throat meaningfully and the man jumps, shoving both hands behind his back and beaming innocently. Tezuka hears Echizen snort behind him as his father finally appears to notice the presence of a guest, frowning at Tezuka in puzzlement.

"You're not that annoying kid. Where've I seen you before?" he asks in careless, accented English. Tezuka opens his mouth to introduce himself but Echizen beats him to it.

"It's Tezuka-buchou, idiot."

Tezuka bows again, ignoring that. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Echizen-san smiles at him, then directs a narrow glare at her husband. "Such a polite boy!"

Echizen Nanjiroh blinks at Tezuka for a moment more, then suddenly grins. "Oh, the captain kid who went off to Germany. Want to play a match?"

"Tezuka-buchou came back!"

"Nanjiroh, it's dinner time!"

Echizen and his mother protest at once, preventing Tezuka from having to answer. Echizen-san sighs, then smiles brightly again, taking hold of her son's shoulders and pushing him gently towards the table. "Tezuka-kun, can I offer you tea? Ryoma, pour the tea."

The meal is delicious; Tezuka is surprised by how much he has missed Japanese food in the two weeks he has been here. Echizen-san keeps the conversation on polite topics like school and the tennis club and Echizen's prospects for the junior Open. Echizen eats as though he is starving and doesn't say much, but he looks up sharply when Tezuka mentions that he intends to go pro after high school. Echizen Nanjiroh just rolls his eyes and gives bits of fish to Karupin until his wife scolds him.

After dinner, Echizen-san waves away Tezuka's offer to help with the dishes, piling them into her husband's arms despite his protests. Echizen tugs at Tezuka's sleeve while his father is distracted, leading him out onto the back porch. Tezuka isn't surprised to see a full court marked out on the lawn, the grass short-cut and dry yellow in the summer heat.

They sit on the edge of the porch, looking out at the court. Karupin is batting a miniature tennis ball about in the shade of a glossy potted maple; after a moment Echizen scoops him into his lap, fingers running through white fur.

"Do you like America, buchou?"

Tezuka considers this seriously. "I haven't seen enough to tell. It's different."

"Aa." Echizen looks at him sidelong. "Are the coaches at that place good?"

"I'm learning a lot," Tezuka allows cautiously; he isn't sure what Echizen is getting at. "How are you preparing for the Open?"

Echizen shrugs. "It's fine. I play the old man, and there are a couple of pros who come by the school to train." He scowls as the door swings open behind them with a gust of cool air.

"Hey, kid – not you, brat." Echizen Nanjiroh pokes his son in the back with a toe. Karupin hisses and leaps away. "Want to see if you can beat me?"

"No thank you," Tezuka murmurs, carefully not looking at Echizen.

"Maa, come on. This one says you're good…"

Echizen tilts his head so far back that his spine cracks audibly, glaring at his father. "Che. He's playing me."

It's news to Tezuka, but he doesn't let it show. Echizen Nanjiroh laughs raucously.

"While you're sitting here – sure, sure."

"He is." Echizen jumps to his feet, heading back into the house and emerging moments later with two racquets. "Go away, old man."

Tezuka winces internally at the rudeness, but follows Echizen out to the court anyway. The racquet Echizen tosses him is a little heavier than his own; he swings it thoughtfully, getting used to the weight. Both of them are wearing casual clothes, but it doesn't seem particularly relevant.

They play a single set, hard enough to make the world outside the court fade but without pushing their limits. It's enough, for now, that Tezuka knows they could; enough that he can see Echizen there across the net, meeting every shot with his own fire and determination. It's a new dimension to their game, equality, and it isn't yet quite comfortable. Tezuka remembers looking down on Echizen from above, challenging him to climb higher; he remembers the shock and pride of realising that Echizen had taken him at his word and leapt.

Echizen has been flying free for two years. Tezuka wonders whether he is happy this way.




Five days later, Echizen appears at the door of his room while Tezuka is trying to do homework and refuses to take "no" for an answer. Eventually Tezuka gives in, collecting his racquet and following Echizen out to the courts. Two students abandon their match on court A without a word, retiring to the fence to watch.

When Echizen steps into the lines, Tezuka feels the world crash into heightened focus. Every line of Echizen's posture telegraphs intensity; his eyes are magnetic. Tezuka cannot look away.

They spring into action at the same moment, Echizen's tension uncoiling into a whiplash Twist Serve and Tezuka already moving to meet it. Echizen is holding nothing back; caught in the whirlwind of power and skill that is his tennis, Tezuka begins to realise that one of them is being tested.

The day has been one long round of practice matches and smash drills. Tezuka is already exhausted, his muscles stressed and his energy stretched to its limit. But this is Echizen. From this one kouhai, Tezuka had never held back, because Echizen had always needed him to play his absolute best, every time. Echizen needs that again, now.

Tezuka gives it to him. Narrowing his eyes, he forces himself past exhaustion and aching muscles into that place where there is nothing but the game – his game, his best game.

It takes every last reserve he has to push Echizen into tie-break. As his final shot smashes into the line and bounces out, Tezuka gasps for breath and wills himself not to stagger on his way to the net.

Echizen stares at the ground as they shake hands, his face entirely hidden by his cap. He lets go quickly, walking away without a word. Tezuka can only stand and watch him leave, hoping through the sudden chill of draining adrenaline that Echizen has found what he needs.

When he walks off the court, even the coaches are staring.




The airport is loud with people and the buzz of repeated announcements that echo in the huge space. Tezuka presents his ticket to the woman at the desk and pays careful attention to her questions as she examines and tags his bags. He keeps his racquet bag as carry-on luggage, not quite willing to trust thousands of yen worth of custom-made equipment to the vagaries of international travel.

There is half an hour yet before boarding will begin. Tezuka heads for the security checkpoint slowly, considering stopping off at the concourse bookshop for new reading material. The flight, he knows from experience, will be dull.

"Tezuka-buchou?" Echizen's voice, behind him, cracks uncertainly. Tezuka turns, startled and a little curious and suddenly remembering another airport and another time. Echizen looks up at him, capless, face giving nothing away. After a moment he nods jerkily, looking down at his shoes.

"Good luck for the Nationals next year, buchou."

"Aa. Good luck in the Open." Tezuka waits for a moment, but nothing else seems to be forthcoming. Overhead, a tinny voice announces that the flight before his is ready to board. With an internal sigh, he turns away, starting to walk towards the checkpoint.

"Buchou –" Echizen's voice stops him; Tezuka turns back, one eye on the clock. There is time yet.

"Here." Echizen shoves his hand out abruptly, fingers curled around a tennis ball. Tezuka reaches to take it, but Echizen doesn't let go. The ball is old, Tezuka realises; worn and stained and long since punctured.

Echizen's fingers are warm and solid against his. Tezuka looks down at his bent head.

"I'm coming back," Echizen mutters eventually, the words indistinct and barely audible in the busy terminal. "To Seigaku. Next year."

One weight on Tezuka's heart is replaced by another. He nods as Echizen finally looks up at him. "I'll be waiting." He'd meant to say we, he realises, but Echizen's sudden smile is so compelling that he cannot find the will to correct himself. It is nothing but the truth.

"Mada mada, buchou." Echizen's fingers slide against his as he lets go. Tezuka watches him walk away for a long moment until he is lost in the throng of people, then looks down at the tennis ball in his hand. He recognises the brand; he buys them himself, but he has none as old or worn as this.

Mada mada, Tezuka thinks, turning back to the security checkpoint. Not yet – but soon enough.

He can wait.