Striking Sparks

PoT - Aite: Surface

Thu, 26 Oct 2006 23:48:39 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Fuji/Tezuka, onesided Atobe/Tezuka
Rating: mild R
Continuity: Anime, full spoilers
Notes: There's a sequel to this which was never finished, but I'm so out of the fandom now that I decided to stop sitting on this. For reference, the story as a whole ends up pre-TezuRyo (it's me, after all), but there's no actual Ryoma in this fic. The word aite means both 'opponent' and 'partner', by the way.
Dedication: This is for bookshop and kessie, for reasons I've forgotten in the months since I finished it. >.> Er. ♥?

相手: Surface

and they always talk about connections
and they always talk about the surface
~Rie Fu

Tezuka doesn't realise what's going on until Fuji backs him against a wall in the clubroom and kisses him. They are first years again, struggling to adjust to ball-fetching duty and being ordered around by senpai. Or Tezuka is struggling; Fuji treats their sudden demotion with his usual smiling equanimity, and Tezuka sometimes wonders whether he notices at all.

It is Tezuka's first kiss, and he hadn't been expecting it. He stands frozen, and after a moment Fuji releases him gently and steps back far enough that Tezuka can breathe again. His expression is the same as ever: amused and knowing.

"Why did you do that?" Tezuka asks, when he can find his voice beneath embarrassment and the sudden, ominous weight in his stomach.

Fuji smiles up at him as though suddenly kissing one's male teammates is a perfectly normal activity. Maybe it is, for Fuji. "I felt like it."

Tezuka looks at him helplessly for several moments, and at last he inclines his head, smile fading into seriousness. "We should play another match, Tezuka."

Tennis, Tezuka thinks, grasping at the familiarity of it like a lifeline. "Aa." Strictly speaking, independent matches are not permitted, but it will not concern their senpai if they play out of school. The court under the overpass is the most secluded, and Tezuka has not played there since Echizen's second departure. "The public park at Nishigata has a court," he says instead, and Fuji nods as though he knows what Tezuka is thinking.

Tezuka is three games up to two before it occurs to him that Fuji might consider this a date. The realisation turns his feet to lead for a crucial instant, and he misses what should have been an easy lob. Fuji doesn't say anything, but his eyes on Tezuka are sharp, and his next serve is softer than it needs to be.

Rivalry, Tezuka thinks; that's all that this is about. He has spent a long time making himself a target and an example, trying to draw out Fuji's full potential. If Fuji wants to catch him…

Tezuka wins seven to five, and Fuji laughs ruefully, shaking his hair out of his eyes as his smile falls back into place. His hand lingers a moment too long when he clasps Tezuka's forearm at the net, and Tezuka feels as though his skin is trying to be too hot and too cold at the same time.

Fuji doesn't mention the game or the kiss again until after the third-years have left the club in the autumn. By that point Tezuka has almost managed to believe that the incident had been another of Fuji's games. If Fuji's hands have been a little too familiar on his shoulders during warm-ups, it is nothing to be concerned about. Tezuka tells himself he is used to Fuji being eccentric.

So it's a surprise to feel gentle fingers trailing across his shoulder and the nape of his neck as he changes after clean-up duty. Tezuka freezes where he sits, one arm half into his shirt, as Fuji steps around him, amusement in the set of his mouth. His hand slides down Tezuka's arm in what is unmistakably a caress, and by the time Tezuka has gathered enough wit to ask what he means by it, he's gone, disappearing out of the door.

Tezuka doesn't sleep well that night. His dreams are vivid and uncomfortable, and he wakes cold and sick-feeling and refuses breakfast. When he walks onto the court with Oishi after classes, Fuji looks at him sharply for a long moment, then turns away to warm up with Kikumaru. Tezuka squares his shoulders and begins practice as usual.

After warm-ups and swing drills, the first years are assigned to play time-limit matches against each other. Oishi laughs when Tezuka beats him by thirteen points within ten minutes, and Inui retires to the bench to scribble. Tezuka stands at the fence and watches Fuji play Kikumaru, absently twisting his racquet in his hand. Fuji isn't playing anywhere near his best, Tezuka thinks with a distant kind of annoyance. All he's doing is testing Kikumaru's limits, playing just hard enough to stay one step ahead. Tezuka doesn't understand why Fuji looks like he's enjoying himself.

Fuji is waiting at the gate when Tezuka leaves the clubhouse. Tezuka pauses for a moment, then decides that it's probably inevitable and walks to meet him.

"They'll be appointing the new captain soon," Fuji says, falling into step beside him.

"Aa." Tezuka already knows that he is a candidate for vice captain again; Amano-sensei has spoken to him about it. It is a simple enough job.

They walk without speaking for a while. Fuji seems to be thinking about something, and Tezuka sees nothing to say. Fuji is easier to be around than Kikumaru or Inui, and less inclined to worry than Oishi, but lately something in his silences preys on Tezuka's nerves.

Their paths diverge near the station, and Fuji halts, turning to look up at Tezuka with wide, unreadable eyes. "You need to work out what it is you want, Tezuka."

"What?" Tezuka frowns at him, not at all sure what he's talking about. Fuji shakes his head, looking away towards the distant glow of sunlight reflecting off tall buildings.

"Yuuta's not coming back to Seigaku next year."

"I'm sorry." Tezuka doesn't follow at all, but he knows the subject means a lot to Fuji.

"It was his choice." Fuji looks up at him again, smiling. "He's too used to his current life, I think. It's been a long time since he left, ne."

"Aa." Tezuka can't shake the feeling that Fuji isn't talking about his brother at all.

"I just hope he doesn't regret it," Fuji murmurs, eyes sharp despite the happy innocence painting his face. "Well, goodbye – my sister will be waiting." He raises a hand, turning to walk away without waiting for Tezuka's reply. Tezuka stares after him for a long moment, then sighs and turns for home.

Fuji's words float back to the top of his mind as he's preparing for bed. Tezuka takes off his glasses, staring into the blurry corners of the room, and tries to think. What is he supposed to want? He has a National medal hanging on the wall, the respect of his teammates and opponents, a talented kouhai who is taking on the world in the junior tournament circuit. He has friends and rivals and tennis.

What does Fuji think he should want?

Tezuka dreams of matches and sunsets and opponents that he can't see. Somewhere towards dawn the images slide into darkness, and voices come to whisper to him, over and over. You need to work out what it is you want. Fuji's amused tones are easy to distinguish, but running beneath them is another voice, one Tezuka knows he should recognise. He tries to grasp for the name, but the dream fades quickly into a morass of sensation and arousal, hands-skin-mouths-bodies-sweat-gasps. Tezuka wakes abruptly, hard and trembling on the edge of orgasm with his hand already half inside his pyjama pants.

Autumn ranking matches come as something of a relief. Tezuka makes the top of his block without losing a game; by now, even the second years are used to it. Fuji comes in second in C-block, losing seven-five to Inui after a run of easy victories. Tezuka, watching, sees Inui's face getting tighter and tighter as the match progresses.

Afterwards, Fuji smiles at Tezuka's carefully blank expression. "Were you really expecting anything else, Tezuka?"

They are sitting in the clubroom, passing around the order form for the new Regular uniforms. Tezuka considers the question while he writes his name and sizes carefully onto the paper. It reminds him of filling out play orders for tournaments.

"Inui has seen you play all out before," he says at last, although he knows that it has been over a year, now.

"Saa." Fuji just smiles, brushing seemingly-absent fingers across Tezuka's shoulder as he rises to leave. Tezuka has to work to hide a flinch; on the other side of the room, Oishi starts to look worried.

Tezuka goes home by way of the indoor courts, spending half an hour and all his spare change hitting against the ball machine. He tries to think his way through the next few weeks: Senbatsu, the Under-Eighteen Singles, and the Junior Open for those who make it to the best four. That night, he dreams that he is being broken down, split apart and reconstructed into something alien and unrecognisable. When he wakes, his shoulders ache as though he has been hunching them all night.

Senbatsu begins inauspiciously, with rain. Despite the weather, three of the third-year participants have challenged Tezuka to matches before training even begins. Others eye him with curiosity or awe; across the room, Fuji is in quiet conversation with Yukimura. Sanada, never more than a few feet from his captain's side, is wearing a stoic expression in the face of Atobe's theatrics.

Uneasy and tired of the posturing, Tezuka goes to find his assigned room and change. Rain is the enemy of tennis, but he can still run.

When he returns, soaked to the skin and still restless, Fuji is sitting cross-legged on his bed, tapping messages into his phone. The quiet beeps set Tezuka's teeth on edge; he gets out a change of clothes and makes his way wordlessly to the bathroom. The water in the shower seems the same temperature as the late-summer rain, and the institutional soap smells sharp and abrasive.

Tezuka stares into the mirror for a long time, his face blurred and pale under the harsh light. His hair, roughly towelled, is a messy halo around his head; when he slides his glasses back on it resolves into wild spikes that take three passes with the comb to neaten.

Fuji is reading a book when he emerges. Tezuka notes that he has changed into the Senbatsu uniform, this year a reassuring greyish blue.

"Atobe came by," Fuji says as Tezuka arranges his possessions on the night table. "You won’t be able to avoid him forever."

Tezuka pauses, fingers twitching for a moment, then carefully straightens the corner of his Japanese textbook until it is properly aligned, exactly where it should be. He is not avoiding Atobe. "The instructors will decide who will play practice matches."

Fuji looks up from his book, eyes opaque. "Of course. You may find that's not all he wants from you, however."

Tezuka sets his jaw, and doesn't reply. This is the second year he has roomed with Fuji, and it is always a trial. Even Oishi's worries seem a better alternative, but doubles pairs are always kept together.

After a moment, Fuji drops his eyes, face settling into the usual smile as he turns a page. He is reading classical Japanese, the print small enough that from this angle Tezuka cannot begin to follow it. He turns away, staring out of the window at the sun breaking through the clouds, and waits for the bell to ring for dinner.

That night, Tezuka sleeps restlessly. The bed is unfamiliar, and the sheets seem to scratch at his skin even through his pyjamas. He slides in and out of dreams; one moment he is running under the summer sun and the next he is standing at the fence, watching a match he cannot see while icy rain beats on his head and makes a river of his glasses. Sometime towards dawn, he realises that Fuji is awake too, eyes fixed on him in the near-darkness. When he wakes again, unrested, to the sound of his alarm, he is facing the wall.

It is two days before they graduate from training exercises to practice games. The instructor assigns pairs at random; Tezuka stands bracketed between Fuji and Atobe, staring straight ahead while he waits his turn. He feels crowded, but there is nowhere to move without being rude.

Tezuka plays five matches in the morning, half court games that require three points in a row to win. He takes two games against second years from Rikkai before Atobe's name is called.

Atobe stalks onto the court as though he is convinced the world is watching him. Behind him, at the fence, Tezuka can see Fuji smirking. He keeps his face carefully blank as Atobe prepares to serve.

It is not a particular surprise when Atobe pulls out his Tannhauser Serve for the first ball. Tezuka inclines his head as it hisses past him, hearing the murmurs from the fence. They are playing by the tie-break rules, alternating serves and courts; it feels too familiar. Atobe will know better than to rely on his serve, Tezuka thinks. He pivots on the baseline, tossing the ball and feeling the stretch through shoulder-hip-thigh as he serves.

"Fast," someone mutters from the fence as Atobe barely manages to scrape a return. Tezuka puts the ball neatly past him, into the backcourt, and Atobe laughs, tossing his head.

"You can do better than that, Tezuka."

That isn't the question, Tezuka thinks, as Atobe serves again – slice this time, but heavy and powerful. The question is whether he will need to. He can feel the strain through his arm as he returns, familiar as the court under his feet. Atobe has always been strong, and Tezuka has always been careful.

It takes almost twenty minutes for Tezuka to find three consecutive openings. Atobe smirks as they walk off the court, nudging Tezuka with an elbow.

"Next time, Tezuka."

Tezuka doesn't dignify that with a reply. Two courts down, Fuji is playing a Rikkai third-year; Sanada and Yukimura are waiting at the fence. Tezuka watches Fuji's serve, realising that he is playing at least semi-seriously. As expected, the Rikkai player is good; it only takes him two balls to learn that he cannot rely on topspin. The air is too hot and still for hakugei; Tezuka can feel sweat pooling between his shoulderblades. He feels itchy and uncomfortable.

"Playing around again, na." Atobe is watching too, Tezuka realises. He is standing just a little too close, but Tezuka cannot bring himself to draw notice to the fact by moving away.

"Fuji plays his own game," is all Tezuka says. Atobe snorts as Fuji finishes the game with another counter, and shifts so that he's facing Tezuka.

"I don't doubt it. Aren't you tired of playing him yet?"

Tezuka's skin prickles, as though he is being watched. "He's a strong player." It's the truth, he thinks. It always takes concentration and effort to beat Fuji, to keep him moving forward.

"Ah?" Atobe touches his arm familiarly, looking faintly satisfied. "If you ever want a real challenge, call me, na?"

Tezuka isn't quite sure how to politely respond to that, so he contents himself with moving his arm away from Atobe's hand, shifting to the side as Fuji rejoins them.

"Interesting, ne." Fuji shakes his hair out of his face, smiling. Tezuka doesn't bother to reply; on the far court, Sanada and Yukimura are beginning a match.

Their tennis, as ever, is near flawless. The way they play together is subtly different; years of watching each other's styles will do that, Tezuka thinks. He wonders whether Sanada is actually smiling, or whether it is a trick of the light.

"They look like they're enjoying themselves." There is something in Atobe's voice that Tezuka can't quite place.

"Hmm?" Fuji looks up and smiles; Tezuka wonders why he is suddenly the centre of attention, when this kind of tennis is being played right in front of them. "Rivalry is interesting, isn't it?"

That night, Tezuka takes off his glasses and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. The walls are thin; he can hear Fuji moving around the room outside, the murmur of his voice on the phone. It makes him uncomfortable enough that he runs the tap as he brushes his teeth, watching the water swirl slowly down the drain.

When he emerges, hair damp on his forehead and leaving wet trails on his glasses, Fuji is standing at the window, looking out into darkness. Tezuka pauses for a moment, wondering what he sees, then goes to set out his clothing for tomorrow.

A hand on his back startles him into stillness. Fuji's touch is familiar and not-quite-casual, and Tezuka can feel the imprints of his fingers red-hot through the thin fabric of his pyjama shirt. It takes an effort to quell the impulse to flinch away; Tezuka holds himself utterly still.

"Oh, Tezuka." Fuji's voice is quiet, amused, and so very close that Tezuka is sure he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stirring. Is this what Fuji thinks he should want? He opens his mouth, ready to take refuge in a captain's mannerisms, but Fuji speaks over the top of him.

"How far can you go, Tezuka?" His hand slides around Tezuka's side to rest on his hip, and there is no doubt now about the intimacy of this, not when Tezuka can feel the heat of Fuji's body against his back. He can't move.

"How far can you let this go?" Fuji's voice murmurs against his ear, and Tezuka hears echoes of earlier words: You need to work out what it is you want. It's all too easy to realise what his body wants, in this proximity, but the rest of him…

Then Fuji is gone, rapid footsteps retreating to the bathroom. Tezuka is left staring blindly at the wall, skin prickling with humiliation and arousal.

The sound of water running carries through the wall. Ordinarily, it would be familiar and soothing; he has been listening to the sound of the garden pool all his life. Tezuka removes his glasses and settles into bed, flicking out the light. At this distance, the thin bluish glow that filters beneath the bathroom door is nothing but a lighter blur; Tezuka stares into the darkness of the ceiling, trying to resolve the day into something that makes sense.

When Fuji gets into his own bed, he is so quiet that Tezuka eventually assumes he must be asleep. His voice, soft but abrupt in the darkness, is enough of a surprise that Tezuka starts.

"You can't move forward if you're standing still, ne?" Tezuka hears the rustle of covers as he shifts. "No one can push you but yourself. How high can you fly, Tezuka?"

Tezuka stares at the ceiling, and doesn't sleep. Fuji's words murmur back and forth in his mind, strangely familiar in ways that always seem just outside his grasp. Fuji never has just one motive for anything he does, but what does touching Tezuka have to do with moving forward, or flying?

Towards dawn, Tezuka slides into an uneasy, broken sleep, cut with dreams of mountains and clouds and a smiling Fuji who pushes him towards a cliff edge. When Atobe beats him in practice the next day, he scowls and walks away from Tezuka without a word.

The end of the Senbatsu week comes as something of a relief. Fuji makes no further attempt to confuse him, but Tezuka feels himself watched on a near-constant basis. Sometimes it is Atobe instead, or Yukimura; Tezuka catches Oishi eyeing him worriedly on a few occasions, and wonders what Fuji has been saying.

The singles tournament begins well, with even the first-round matches complex and demanding. Tezuka has occasionally considered that part of the reason behind the yearly Senbatsu training camp may be to accustom the players to each other's styles, thus adding an edge to the tournament games. Certainly there seem to be enough potential sponsors and coaches among the spectators, even in the early stages.

The demanding match schedule means that Tezuka doesn't get a chance to see anyone else's games, although he hears the news from Oishi as they ride the train home in the evenings. The doubles tournament will not begin until mid-week, and his friend is already visibly nervous. He has a right to be, Tezuka thinks clinically; they are once again some of the youngest players in the tournament.

Tomorrow, Tezuka will play Sanada in the quarter-final; he is already anticipating an intense match. Fuji will be playing Atobe directly afterwards, and Tezuka wonders which of them he will face in the semi-final. Yukimura, Chitose, and Tachibana are on the other side of the draw; Oishi apologises for not knowing the results of their matches.

"It's fine," Tezuka tells him. If he were Inui, he would be putting good odds on Yukimura making the final. It's an interesting prospect; circumstances seem to have contrived to prevent a match between them. It goes without saying that Tezuka, too, intends to take part in the final.

Sanada is a challenging opponent. Tezuka concentrates fiercely on the game, ignoring the hushed mutter of Atobe's numerous supporters who are already collecting at courtside. Here on the court, the sensation of eyes following his movements is expected and familiar; Tezuka finds that it is a relief to be able to relax into the stretch and push of the game. Sanada's tennis reminds him a little of playing Fuji; Tezuka has to be careful not to fall into the traps that he already knows are waiting.

It takes all three sets, but Tezuka is not going to let himself lose here. Sanada, at least, seems to understand this; he only nods politely when they meet at the net. Rikkai, Tezuka remembers, have taken the Nationals again this year. For some reason, Fuji's words come back to him: Rivalry is interesting, isn't it. Sanada plays differently against Yukimura, Tezuka realises, and it is nothing to do with style.

"Oi, Tezuka, are you going to stand there all day?" Atobe snaps fingers in his face, and Tezuka suppresses a start. He generally finds it easier to ignore as much as he can of Atobe's mannerisms; part of him still vaguely hopes that if he doesn't react then Atobe might cease or at least tone down some of the posturing.

"Excuse me." Tezuka bows to the umpire and shoulders his racquet bag; as he exits the court he passes Fuji on his way in. Their eyes meet for a moment before Fuji looks past him, focusing on the court. He isn't smiling at all, and Tezuka can feel the heat coming off his body as they walk past each other. It is the most serious he has seen Fuji in a long time.

Oishi is waiting at the fence, at the edge of a knot of Seigaku senpai who have claimed a spot in the midst of all the Hyoutei jackets. Kikumaru is there too, clutching at the wire mesh as he calls encouragement to Fuji.

"Good game, Tezuka." Oishi grins and claps him on the shoulder as Tezuka joins them. He nods in acknowledgement, suppressing a grimace of distaste; his clothes are stuck to him with sweat, and the air is humid. This match, though, will be crucial.

Atobe wins the toss, and serves out with his usual theatrics. For the moment, Tezuka is more interested in the return; there is something just slightly different about Fuji's tennis today. His movement is sharper, his swings faster, his potential no longer veiled. Fuji is taking this match seriously, Tezuka realises with a strange kind of discomfort.

"He's playing for real, nya," Kikumaru observes quietly, tilting his head back over his shoulder to look at Oishi.

Inui will be sorry to have missed this, Tezuka thinks absently. Atobe is plainly startled by the sudden depths of Fuji's strength, beginning to play defensively in response to the counters. That's a mistake, Tezuka knows; it's hard to regain ground, better to break through than to back away. He also knows that Atobe will counter-attack in short order. If Fuji is playing for real, then this match will be fought down to the line. Tezuka excuses himself to Oishi and heads for the locker room to change.

When he returns, showered clean and feeling the nagging onset of exhaustion in the wake of the morning's match, the spectators at the fence are murmuring in astonishment. Tezuka's eyes go to the scoreboard: first set six-four to Fuji, second four-two in Atobe's favour. Fuji still isn't smiling; Tezuka wonders if that is the only reason behind his unease. He has rarely seen this side of Fuji, and tomorrow will be the semi-final.

Atobe takes the second set, and sits – poses, Tezuka thinks – on the bench as his supporters chant his name. Fuji stands on the other side of the court, sipping water and looking at something out of Tezuka's line of sight. His face is still and calm, and Tezuka is reminded of light glancing off water. There is something almost dangerous beneath the surface here.

The third set runs into tie-break. Atobe's stamina is suffering from the efforts of the second set, and Tezuka watches as Fuji ruthlessly exploits that, twisting the game in his own favour. He's exhausted too, Tezuka realises; this is the hardest he has ever seen Fuji work for anything. When the game is finally called, he turns away, leaving Oishi and Kikumaru to offer towels and congratulations.

Fuji never has just one motive for anything he does, Tezuka thinks as he walks back to the station. Somehow, he doubts that Fuji has much interest in National trophies – at least on his own behalf.

As anticipated, the semi-final turns into a hard fight. Unlike Atobe, Tezuka has the advantage of having faced Fuji's true skills before; he knows what to expect, as far as it is wise to expect anything from Fuji. The fact that Fuji is equally familiar with his own tennis makes Tezuka doubly wary; he starts the match conservatively, trying to test Fuji's approach without letting himself be restricted.

Tezuka knows how to break Fuji's counters, and Fuji knows how to break the Zone. The match is a challenge, but a frustrating one; Tezuka fights for every point as Fuji cuts holes into his game, turning strengths into weaknesses and exploiting them. At any other time, Tezuka might consider this a valuable lesson, but there is no time to learn; all of his mind is caught up in the struggle not to give Fuji any openings.

He sits on the bench during the break – one set all – and concentrates on slowing his breathing. On the other side of the umpire's chair, Fuji is smiling up at the stands. Tezuka wonders who he sees.

The third set seems to drag on forever; every time Tezuka edges ahead Fuji seems to pull out another counter shot to erode his lead. Deuce and advantage begin to feel like weights; at the third break point Tezuka takes a deep breath and adds topspin to a cross shot, already moving up to volley. Fuji doesn't take the bait, but it's enough that Tezuka can feel the angle and spin on the ball as it returns to his racquet. Even the Zone is a struggle, now; Fuji's eyes are sharp enough to catch the patterns, and he does his best to vary them. Half the fight is in trying to out-think him, trying to avoid being broken.

By the time the final ball hits net, Tezuka can feel the ache of exertion in every muscle. He doesn't understand why Fuji smiles as they shake hands over the net.

That night, Tezuka dreams that the walls of the clubroom are closing in around him, shrinking to box him in. Then Fuji is there, smiling serenely as he backs Tezuka into a corner and stretches out a hand.

"What do you want, Tezuka?" Fuji's voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. Tezuka shuts his eyes and lets the walls close around him, hemming him in and restricting his breath. Fuji just stands there and watches, looking sad.

When Tezuka wakes, his shoulders are cramping but he doesn't remember the dream.

Three days after the final, Fuji intercepts Tezuka at the school gates after club and insists on accompanying him to Kawamura Sushi. Tezuka acquiesces with what grace he can muster, and calls his mother on the journey to inform her that he will be eating out. Her voice as she thanks him for the warning seems almost relieved; Tezuka wonders whether it is a bad line.

Tezuka is surprised to find Momoshiro and Kaidoh already waiting at the restaurant, seated prudently on either side of Oishi, Inui, and Kikumaru. A year of forced co-operation does not seem to have mellowed their rivalry if the way they eye each other is any indication. Tezuka sighs as everyone jumps up to congratulate him, and wonders whether he will be doing this again in two weeks, after the Junior Open.

This early in the evening, they are the only customers in the restaurant. Kawamura hurries out from the kitchen with a tray of tea as Tezuka steps out of his shoes.

"Ah, congratulations on your win, Tezuka! Fujiko, I set up the TV for you," he adds with a perplexed grin, indicating the wall-mounted set at the end of the counter.

"Thank you," Tezuka murmurs as Kikumaru and Momoshiro simultaneously demand to know what's going on with the TV. Fuji ignores them, smiling at Kawamura and handing over an envelope.

"Here you go, Taka-san. Maybe we should let everyone eat first, though…"

"Fuji-senpai!" Momoshiro protests as Kawamura laughs. Tezuka sighs and sips his tea, letting the steam fog his glasses for a moment. Next year, he will be partially responsible for this chaos again.

"Ryuuzaki-sensei sent a video," Fuji is explaining as Kawamura fiddles with the television. Tezuka exhales, realising what this must be; he has read every magazine article he can find that deals with the junior division of this year's US Open. He can feel Fuji's eyes on him again, uncomfortably knowing.

"Ochibi!" Kikumaru exclaims as soon as Echizen appears on the screen, leaning closer despite Oishi's attempts to keep him still. Quietly, Tezuka shifts his chair to get a better view. The English letters at the top of the display inform them that this is the final of the Junior Open, between Ryoma Echizen of Japan and a name Tezuka doesn't recognise.

Echizen is strong. Tezuka knows this; every minute of their last match is engraved in his memory. He is expecting to admire the growth and potential of his talented kouhai; he is not expecting to be stunned into stillness by the beauty and power of the tennis Echizen is playing. Part of Tezuka is aware that this match is weeks over, but it ceases to matter as he watches Echizen set a flawless twist smash inches beyond his opponent's reach.

The others are cheering for Echizen as though the match is still in progress. Tezuka sits in silence, fingers clamped white-knuckled around his forgotten cup. Echizen has grown, but not enough to affect his game; his longer limbs seem to make him even more graceful and deadly on the court. Tezuka watches him resolve the opponent's powerful slice into a topspin lob, and wonders whether he is the only one hearing mada mada dane somewhere beneath the applause of the crowd.

Echizen looks like he is enjoying himself, Tezuka realises as the camera angle shifts away during the court change. He is still wearing the same cocky grin, as much a part of him as the ever-present Fila cap, and the sunlight is catching in his eyes like fire. Tezuka remembers that match again, and the breathless power of Echizen's tennis, of playing against him and being pushed to his limits. It has been a year, and he has not played a game that comes close.

Tezuka watches as Echizen serves for match point, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat invading his whole body. His head feels cooler and clearer than it has in a long time. This is the tennis that he loves, the game that can recreate him moment to moment on the court, stronger and faster and more certain with every point. This is what he wants – what he wants to aim for.

Echizen looks like he is flying as he slams the final ball home. Tezuka takes a long breath as the restaurant explodes with cheers and laughter, feeling as drained as though he had fought that match himself instead of watching it. When he looks up, Fuji is smiling at him from the other side of the room.

The junior division of the Japan Open doesn't carry the prestige of the Grand Slams, but there is enough fuss made that Tezuka is thoroughly sick of journalists by the second round. It feels strange to be back at the National stadium so soon, and stranger to realise that he will turn sixteen in only a few days.

Tezuka takes his first match in straight sets; it feels like breathing deeply after too long in a small room, as though he is finally stretching out cramped muscles. For the first time since last year's National victory, Tezuka can see the future laid out before him: Seigaku, and the junior circuit in Japan, and then the pros. This tournament is only the first step, and he doesn't intend to lose.

That afternoon, Tezuka watches Fuji's second round match against an over-confident South American. Fuji puts up enough of a fight that the opponent is left gaping on several occasions, but he is not playing to the best of his ability. As the final ball slides past his racquet, Fuji smiles as though he doesn't care at all. Tezuka turns away, heading back to the stadium to check the court schedule.

His next match will not begin for some time. Tezuka walks along the corridor into the stands and stares out at the crisp white lines of the court, thinking about sunlight and fire and strength. Echizen has already made the leap, and Tezuka knows that his limits are mostly imagined. It's time for him to fly, too.

admin + loveless drabbly thing

Sun, 03 Sep 2006 16:33:59 GMT

久しぶりですね。

Hi. I realise that most people who follow this journal are here for the Prince of Tennis fic, so here's the thing. I'm really not so much in the fandom these days - I'm not writing PoT right now, and I have no plans to do so in the foreseeable future. I'm not ruling it out, mind, because I have at least one WIP that I really do want to finish, but right now all my love and writing is going to other fandoms. Those being Kingdom Hearts and Final Fantasy VII.

So. Since there is unlikely to be any PoT fic here for a Long Time, an informal poll of sorts: Do I crosspost the KH & FF7 fic here? As in, are any of you at all interested in reading it?

And, since I never actually posted it here, a Loveless drabble I wrote for kessie:

What Once You Wanted

He's sitting at the desk when Kio wanders in, legs folded into a perfect seiza as the brush moves like a falling star in his fingers. Kio pauses, watching the way a strand of hair is slipping forward out of his ponytail (sliding against the side of his face), and twirls the candy sucker absently in his fingers. It's cherry, and the colour matches the ink Soubi is drawing with, red trails like blood or fire on air and paper.

His eye catches the kanji on the paper, the photograph pinned into the top corner of the drawing board, and Kio scowls, jerking back into motion and jamming the candy into his mouth as he stomps across the room to his own desk, poking through old bottles of ink in search of something he can think of as exciting. Across the room, Soubi is still again, brush poised over paper as smoke curls into the air from the ashtray beside him. Kio feels the weight of eyes on him, heavy as silence and last night, and when he looks up again it is as though Soubi is seeing right through him, seeing everything that he is.

His tongue catches on hard candy, and he can taste blood, bitter and metallic. The memory of kisses is like a rock in his mind, a filthy weight of joking and desperation and the way Soubi had looked, afterwards, as calm as though he had been nothing. As though he had meant nothing. Kio can still feel the crawling sensation of scar tissue beneath his fingertips, cool and ridged and utterly unfeeling.

The sound of the door slamming in his wake is too final, but by that point it's too late.

icons: PoT & KH2/CoM

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 00:28:14 GMT

Icon dump #1 (cross-posted straight from achiasa, sorry)

20 Prince of Tennis (7 Tezuka, 9 Ryoma, 1 Fuji, 3 TezuRyo; mostly manga, some doujin)
15 Kingdom Hearts (4 Sora, 2 Kairi, 1 Roxas, 1 Axel, 7 Marluxia wtf; mostly manga, some KH2)

Comment and/or credit please?

01	02	03	04	05


06	07	08	09	10


11	12	13	14	15


16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25


26	27	28	29	30


31	32	33	34	35

Brush/texture credits:
Magitek Designs
Lush
Amnesia
NingenGirai

PoT: drabbles

Mon, 19 Jun 2006 03:44:02 GMT

Drabbles for kessie. Pre-Tezuka/Ryoma, manga continuity, spoilers up to Genius 160/Hyoutei arc. All entirely worksafe.

the quiet of a storm approaching

The sound of cheering is almost drowned in the rumble of the plane, low overhead. You look up as it passes, wondering whether it's only your imagination that the clouds are growing and gathering in the summer heat of the sky.

You can't ignore it forever; the sounds from the court are only getting louder, and Momo-senpai is visibly hurrying as he packs away his racquet. There's nothing to be nervous about, no doubt in your mind, because this is buchou and he has told you that he will win. You sprint back anyway, and tell yourself that you're still warming up.

when was it over?

Ryoma thinks maybe it's his first glance at the scoreboard that's the worst part. Six-all, tie-break, when Tezuka-buchou had been leading so effortlessly before… Before. There is hardly any cheering, now; everyone is too busy staring at the court, mouths open as the tie-break goes on and on. Ryoma feels like he can't quite swallow; there's a weight in his stomach and all he can see is the memory of another day, another match entirely.

He watches because he has to, because he can't look away, because even in pain and desperation buchou's form is perfect. Beautiful, Ryoma thinks, as his eyes track the familiar patterns of Tezuka's movements. He feels sick.

marching through my door now

He'd known it was coming, known since those long minutes sitting together on the bench with nothing to say as the umpire had talked about risks and lasting damage. He'd known that buchou wouldn't give up, with the Nationals at stake. It had left a bad taste in his mouth, like endings, because Tezuka's last match should have belonged to him. What point is there in beating someone who can't play at full strength?

It feels weird, now, to go to practice as though nothing has happened, but there are still matches to play, tournaments to win, Nationals to aim for. It's just that the courts seem strangely empty without that silent, watchful figure; he keeps thinking that he is being watched, and turning to find that there is no one there. It's like they're all stepping carefully around an empty space, and he doesn't like it at all. He takes out his annoyance in serving balls at the falling leaves again after practice, but no matter how many hits he makes the sour taste won't leave his mouth.

if the world was on fire no one could save me but you

The look Echizen throws back over his shoulder as he leaves the clubhouse is bright and impatient and just a little smug, as though the scoreboard is a set in his favour. Tezuka feels his breath hitch as the anticipation curls and stretches through his limbs; his mind knows that it has been too long since they have played, but his body reacts to Echizen's presence. He knows himself well enough to tell that there will be sleepless nights ahead, and it is only the spring ranking matches. The thought of a year, another year, with this older and taller and even more stunning Echizen… Tezuka takes a deep breath, clears his mind, and reminds himself to focus on the match at hand. He will not give this up.

AMVs

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 22:54:04 GMT

Tezuka/Ryoma, obviously. Not the best quality, I admit, because they're my first attempts and it's only Movie Maker. I advise watching at half-size.

Have You Got It In You?
30MB
Music: Imogen Heap, Have You Got It In You?
Episodes: 25-6
I was given the song as a drabble prompt and it fits them so well.

Shooting Stars
30MB
Music: Younha, Houkiboshi (Bleach ending theme #3)
Episodes: 25-6/74-5/177-8
Houkiboshi means comet. I love this song. This one was so much fun to make. :DDD

PoT: drabbles

Sun, 04 Jun 2006 23:53:57 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing/s: vaguely implied Fujicest|TezuRyo|pre-TezuRyo (canon level, ie gen)
Rating: PG
Continuity: varied, spoilers for the later parts of the anime
Notes: random drabbles, unconnected

prompt from ego_elite

He likes to be alone. It's easier, without expectations or the weight of eyes on him; he remembers telling Eiji that he likes time to 'be himself.' He can wear the masks he chooses.

There are always masks. Shuusuke does not like to be defenceless, least of all against himself. He likes his cacti for their spines, for the aesthetic pleasure and visible threat, for the way they protect themselves. They barely need him at all, and sometimes he thinks to wish that he could be the same way.

He doesn't like to be alone, when the empty house echoes with the sound of childish voices long gone. Shuusuke closes his fingers around a phantom hand and puts on a bright smile, asking the empty air what he should do tonight. It has been three months since Yuuta has come home at all.

prompt from kallistei

everything/you think you'll ever need/sitting in the seat beside you

Ryoma hates flying. It's boring and cramped, and the air makes his throat feel dry and scratchy. He slouches down in the seat, forcibly relaxing all his muscles and trying not to think about how much longer he has to wait until he can stretch, breathe, run.

Five days until the tournament begins, three weeks until the next plane, twelve until they return to Japan. Ryoma misses Karupin already; he shakes the little plastic cup the flight attendant had poured his Ponta into, rattling the ice. Beside him, Tezuka looks up from his book, one finger marking his place. Ryoma shrugs irritably, then shakes his head.

"Here." Tezuka passes him a bottle of water. When Ryoma twists off the cap, droplets scatter over his hand, cold and trembling with his heartbeat. He scowls and wipes his fingers on his shirt. Tezuka's eyes on him have something of exasperation in them, but there is fondness there as well. Ryoma takes comfort in the familiar.

When Ryoma borrows his shoulder for a pillow, Tezuka sighs but doesn't object.

prompt from takewing

one nerve remaining, waiting on one look/have you got it?/have you got it in you?

Tezuka can see the look on Oishi's face, the way Momoshiro's hands clench white-knuckled on the railing. The air on this side of the court is thin and tense, as though they are all holding each breath for as long as possible.

Echizen's body hits the court, small and childish-looking, the white and blue of his shirt almost transparent with sweat. It is a long moment before he pushes himself upright, and Tezuka can see the trembling in his arms even from this distance. There is a fresh graze on his knee, blood smeared thin and reddish-brown down the side of his calf. At the other end of the court, Yukimura looks fragile and entirely unruffled. It is not a surprise to anyone that the tournament should come down to this.

Echizen looks thin and hunched as he returns to the baseline. Tezuka feels pulled taut, as though they are all waiting for something to snap. He exhales, trying to breathe out tension as Inui mutters behind him. Echizen is carrying all of their hopes, again; Tezuka closes his fingers on nothing, slipping the hand into his jacket pocket. No matter what happens, he will not look away from this match.

post-ep145-

After Echizen leaves, half-smiling with relief and satisfaction, Tezuka sits at his desk and stares at his textbooks. He has missed work still to make up, and summer assignments to complete.

He cannot stop thinking about the way Echizen had looked up at him so very desperately, kneeling there on the floor with his arms held tight to his body. Tezuka wonders whether Echizen has really changed so very much in the few weeks he has been away; the kouhai he remembers would have protested sooner, public place or no public place. The kouhai he remembers would not have smiled that way, leaving.

Tezuka squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. His hand seems to ache with phantom pain, and he knows that he will never forget the sight of Echizen sprawled on the court, staring up at him in disbelief. He wonders how long it will take him to remember how to be Echizen's captain again.

post-ep171-

there and now, I'm looking at tomorrow/I really want to hear your voice tonight

It's late, and dark. Ryoma lies on top of the covers and stares up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the occasional sounds from downstairs as his mother and cousin attempt to put his father to bed. Nanjiroh's drunk again, and if Ryoma didn't know better he might think this actually mattered to the old man.

He can't sleep. It's too hot, Ryoma thinks, pushing Karupin away for the third time as the cat attempts to climb onto his chest. New York will probably be just as bad; Inui-senpai had read out the international weather forecast in the locker room earlier.

He can't sleep, and it's not something stupid like nerves. Ryoma scowls up at the invisible ceiling, clenching his fist around a non-existent racquet grip. Then he flops over onto his side, staring at the dim shape of the phone on the night table. He's not quite sure why he ends up reaching for it, or why it's so easy to remember the number, but Ryoma can feel himself relaxing as he listens to the rings.

He doesn't think to wonder whether he is waking Tezuka, and when Tezuka answers his voice is as calm as if he has been waiting for the call.

PoT: fifteen-love

Wed, 31 May 2006 23:24:37 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: PG
Continuity: probably manga, no spoilers
Notes: for pillarchallenge. 1000 words, no idea why the second person, high school-ish again.

fifteen-love

There are stains on your glasses, from the rain that is still pounding on the roof of the locker room. It's like looking through a film, a faint blurriness in your vision, but you're used to it. Outside, the rain is making mud of the clay court, and the sound of the trains passing overhead is lost in the rumble of thunder. The clouds are thick and black enough that you know they will not be clearing any time soon.

On the other bench, Echizen is slumped against the wall, scowling up at the roof as though he can stop the rain by sheer force of will. He had been two games down to three when the storm had broken, and unwilling to give up play. His shoulders are hunched beneath his damp jacket, and you wonder whether he is cold.

A flash of lightning blinds you for a moment, and bright afterimages dance before your eyes as thunder cracks overhead. The rattle of rain on the roof increases. You sigh a little, pulling off your glasses and beginning to clean them on the sleeve of your school shirt. "It will be too wet to play, even if it stops raining."

"Che." All you can see of Echizen is a pale-dark blur. Without your glasses, you feel strangely exposed; you concentrate on cleaning them, methodically wiping away the smears and water stains.

"Buchou?" Echizen's voice is thoughtful, and so quiet that you can barely hear him over the sound of the rain. When you look up, you cannot see his face at all, but something makes your stomach clench anyway. All this year there has been something different in the way Echizen watches you, something more than tennis and rivalry. Too many times you have had to remind yourself that you are his captain.

"If I want something, I should go after it, right?" Echizen is standing, now, but his face is still a rough blur between the white of his shirt and the black of his hair. Your glasses are dead weight in your hand; something keeps you frozen in place as Echizen comes closer.

"Twist serve," he murmurs, barely audible as he stares down at you, eyes wide. His hand is on your chest, fingers splayed across your shoulder and thumb resting atop your collarbone. You can feel the chill of his skin even through your shirt, and you can't tell whether it's your heartbeat or his that is echoing through your ribs.

"Rising counter." Your voice sounds like someone else's, like it doesn't belong to you. There is only one way to break this paralysis, and you have never been able to refuse him. You reach up, fingers tracing along his jaw and tugging him gently down until you can look directly into his eyes, uncertain and dilated and so close that there's nothing else you can see.

"Drive C." You can feel his breath on your skin as he hesitates, and then he closes the distance decisively.

In the back of your mind you are aware that your vision is blurrier than ever, and that the frames of your glasses are digging into the flesh of your free hand. It means nothing; all sensation seems concentrated in your lips as Echizen's mouth moves tentatively against yours. It crosses your mind that he doesn't seem to have any more idea of what he's doing than you do, but it doesn't matter because you feel like your chest is about to burst. This is the most intense feeling you have ever experienced.

Eventually he pulls away, staring half-dazedly down at you as your fingers slide through the soft hair at his nape. It takes you several moments to blink the haze from your eyes, and longer to be able to speak past the sudden lump of almost-dread in your throat. You are still his captain, and he is still a fifteen-year-old boy with more talent than his small body should contain. No amount of kisses will change that, or your responsibilities.

"Fifteen-love," you whisper eventually; he is still close enough that you are not sure you need to speak at all. When he smiles, somewhere between a grin of triumph and the kind of real happiness that you so rarely see from him, you feel your own mouth twitching up despite yourself. Somehow, that seems to make him look even more pleased with himself; his thumb strokes across your cheekbone to the bridge of your nose, skimming your eyelashes.

"You look different without your glasses, buchou." His voice is throaty and low, and you can feel yourself tremble, a little, as his hand sweeps down, lingering over your mouth. When you speak, your lips brush his fingers; your heartbeat feels louder than the rain on the roof.

"You've seen me take them off before."

"Not this close." He smirks, hand sliding around to the back of your neck. You freeze, startled for a moment, as he climbs onto your lap, settling himself against you with a wordless, contented noise. Your skin is just as cold as his, but it feels warm where you touch. You have never been this close to anyone; until now, touch has seemed an imposition, but Echizen has never paid any heed to boundaries.

You abandon your glasses to slide uncertain arms around his waist, holding him as tentatively as if he might break, or disappear. He always manages to reach what he leaps for, never falls short once he commits himself. You are the one who understands rules and proprieties and restrictions, but you have known for a long time that together you have no limits. It's there in every game you play, every time your eyes meet.

His breath is warm on your neck, making your skin tingle. You close your eyes, then open them again to stare at blurry nothing as his hands move over your back, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt.

"You look more like yourself without them," Echizen murmurs into your hair, hands hot and possessive on your chilled skin. You wonder whether it is only your imagination that the rain is slowing. "Don't take them off for anyone else, buchou."

Bleach: the colour of her eyes at midnight

Wed, 31 May 2006 00:06:14 GMT

Bleach drabbles, Yoruichi/Soi Fong-ish, only vaguely connected. PG and spoiler-free.

the colour of her eyes at midnight

Even in her grief and rage, she never for a moment contemplates permitting a stranger to take Yoruichi-sama's place. The backless uniform hangs in the corner of her room for months, the only indication that someone occupies the space. She spends hours staring at it, as she recovers from the day's training, and sleeps little.

On the day she finally steps into the Commander's robes, Soi Fong realises that she will have to have them taken in. That night, she dreams that Yoruichi-sama is walking away from her all over again, the word failure on her lips.

She wakes in the night, tendrils of a too-familiar power crackling over her senses. She has a hand on Suzumebachi's sheath before she realises what she's doing; a century has set reflex into the bone.

"Soi Fong." Although her window is high, and too small for a human, there is a shadow in front of it. Even her night vision can give her no more than an impression of form, but Yoruichi's eyes catch every scrap of light, glowing golden in the darkness. Despite everything that has happened, Soi Fong is half certain that she is still dreaming. When she reaches out, though, her hand encounters nothing but warm, smooth skin.

Yoruichi's laughter echoes, soft in the dark room. Soi Fong wonders if this is forgiveness.

PoT: Before You Repent

Sat, 20 May 2006 22:35:32 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: mild R
Continuity: manga, no specific spoilers
Warnings: angst?
Notes: For pillarchallenge, and also for kessie. Set a good thirteen years post-canon. Title is translated from La Jardinera by Violeta Parra - antes que tú te arrepientas.

Before You Repent

None of this is new. Ryoma straightens as the ball thuds into the corner of the court, stretching out back muscles that are threatening to cramp. Not an easy game, but not difficult either. Even the opponent looks like he'd already known the score. Ryoma supposes that they all do; he's been waiting for a new challenge to come along for years, but it hasn't yet materialised.

That's not what he ought to be thinking about now. Around him, the cheers of the crowd are swelling to a roar; Ryoma tips his head back, looking up at the just-dimming blue of the sky, then pulls off his hat and shakes the sweat out of his hair. The crowd seems to take it as a salute, and the screams grow louder. Ryoma rolls his eyes, a little, and wonders if they'll ever figure out that he couldn't care less about fans or prestige.

The opponent shakes his hand at the net, and babbles something about honour. Ryoma blinks at him, then nods and summons up a smile for the cameras. The officials are already bringing out the podium and trophies; the boring part is coming up. There's more fuss than usual, Ryoma thinks, before remembering that this is his second consecutive calendar Slam. There'll be a celebratory dinner tonight, too. Ryoma barely stops himself from making a face.

That night, Ryoma lies in his not-quite-comfortable hotel bed and stares at the ceiling. He's tired, but more from the interminable dinner thing than from playing. Even when he'd finally managed to escape the speechmaking and toasts, there had been people waiting at the door for autographs. Ryoma'd signed out of habit; Tezuka had been insistent about respecting the fans of tennis.

Ryoma scowls, then grumbles to himself and flops over onto his side. They always put him in fancy suites, and the beds are always too big for one. His father would laugh, he knows, and tell him to fill it up with girls. Tezuka would call it a sign of respect, but if Tezuka were here then Ryoma wouldn't be complaining about empty beds.

"Stupid," he mutters to himself irritably, thumping his pillow with one fist to try and flatten it. It's been a long time, after all. Long enough that the tournament circuit has got repetitive, and the shine has gone out of the number one ranking. There's nowhere else to go, Ryoma thinks, remembering the same words in Tezuka's mouth. He hadn't understood, then; all he'd seen was that Tezuka was leaving him.

He hadn't wanted to understand. Ryoma growls and rolls over onto his stomach, the covers tangling around him into a comfortable nest. It's three years over, and he's never going to get to sleep this way.

He can't quite help thinking that maybe it's his turn, now. He's at the top of his form, there's no one who can come close to defeating him – and there's no one to get stronger for, no higher to climb. Ryoma sighs into the darkness, the sound of his breath lost in the gentle hiss of the air conditioning. The double Grand Slam is far more than his father had ever achieved, but the old man still won't say a word about why he'd quit. Ryoma's been out of his shadow for over a decade.

He stares into space for a few moments more, then struggles his way to the edge of the bed, groping on the night table for his phone.

The press conference is a predictable nightmare. His manager, who had not at all appreciated the half-past-midnight phone call, looks grim and kicks Ryoma under the table every time he starts to reply in monosyllables. The reporters buzz like flies, and when Ryoma makes the announcement an immediate clamour of questions rises.

He suffers through it. Too many of the questions are intrusive, and Ryoma isn't sure he really has answers beyond the obvious. Does anyone really need him to say that there's nothing left for him to win? It makes him think of Atobe, and that makes him scowl, and then his manager is intervening hastily, leaning over to the microphone.

"Ryoma feels that it's time to let the new generation of players take centre stage; he's held onto the limelight for long enough."

Ryoma eyes him sideways, wondering where that had come from; it sounds like something a particularly enthusiastic reporter might come up with. For a moment, Ryoma remembers what-was-his-name from Pro Tennis Monthly, the guy who'd always insisted on asking questions about his dad. The thought of Seigaku makes his mouth twitch in annoyance, because it brings him right back to Tezuka again.

Some woman reporter in too much makeup is waving her hand in the air; when the steward motions to her, she stands up, clutching a notebook to her chest. Ryoma takes a deep breath, and tries not to wince as his manager kicks him again.

"LTA Digest. Mr Echizen, what do you plan on doing next? Is there any possibility that you may return to the game at a later date? In doubles, perhaps?"

"McEnroe," his manager murmurs, and Ryoma nods shortly; he knows what they're getting at.

"I'm going back to Japan. And I don't play doubles." It's enough of a truth to hold them; he can share the court, if he has to, but it's nothing to write home about. There's no one he'd want to play with, anyway.

"Do you see yourself going into coaching?" the woman asks, although the steward is shushing her. Ryoma shudders a little; this is all far too familiar. He feels like he's walking circles around himself, suddenly seeing this through his own eyes. It isn't a comfortable feeling at all.

He's trying to hide it, but he's still a little pissed off. Having to do interviews right after losing is a double pain in the neck, and the only thing that makes it halfway bearable is Tezuka's silent presence by his side. Losing to buchou isn't a failure, Ryoma knows; they've taken enough titles from each other that he's used to it. This is the first year that Tezuka has won all four of the slam titles, though, which makes it different. Ryoma hasn't managed it yet.

Most of him knows that buchou probably wouldn't be standing here talking to reporters about honours and dreams if not for that injury. Watching Tezuka win the Australian Open hadn't made up for missing it himself, and Roland Garros had been a fiasco. Wimbledon had been a good match, and today has been one of the hardest fights they've had, but –

Ryoma blinks, mind snapping hastily back to attention as something Tezuka is saying registers. Buchou is talking about… what?

"…achieved everything that I can, I feel that it's time to consider other areas of my life." Tezuka has his arms folded, fingers resting almost-casually on his left elbow. Ryoma stares, trying to process what he's hearing.

"So you intend to retire immediately?" one of the journalists asks. The press room is buzzing, and people are suddenly hurrying in to stand at the back, peering past the TV cameras.

"Yes." Tezuka inclines his head in what almost looks like a bow. After nearly seven years on the circuit, his English is just as smooth as Ryoma's.

Ryoma swallows, trying to ease the sudden horrified tightness in his chest. A heavy, vicious weight is settling into his gut, and he can't breathe. One look at Tezuka's face tells him that buchou is serious about this. Ryoma clenches his fists to keep from reaching out in public; all he wants to do is grab hold of Tezuka and demand to know what's going on. He doesn't understand, and the longer he stands there helpless and listening, the more the knot in his throat tastes like betrayal.

Coming home to Japan doesn't really feel like coming home at all. Ryoma hunches down in the back of the taxi, staring out of the window as Tokyo alternately crawls and flashes past. It's been nearly ten years since he's spent more than a few weeks here, and the idea of settling seems strange and uncomfortable. His life is going to change without the international tournament schedule, and he almost, almost wishes he'd thought of that sooner.

His mother meets him at the gate with a smile, and hugs him once the taxi has driven away. It's not embarrassing any more, in the way it had been when he'd been growing up, but Ryoma suffers through it anyway. Habit guides every step he takes in this house; even the creaks of the floorboards beneath his feet are familiar.

"Come and sit down," his mother murmurs, heading into the kitchen. Ryoma feels like a child again for a moment as he follows her, leaving his bags in the genkan. Apart from his racquets, he doesn't have much.

There is Ponta in the top compartment of the refrigerator, next to his father's beer. Ryoma doesn't bother to wonder where the old man is; he'll show up soon enough when he gets bored of waiting for Ryoma to come to him. He sits at the kitchen table, watching his mother going through the practised motions of making tea, and sips at the sugar-tang-sweetness of the drink. It's grape, like always; Ryoma hates the new flavours almost as much as the tasteless sugar-free stuff.

"You didn't mention you were thinking of retiring," his mother says quietly, bringing her tea to the table. Ryoma shrugs one shoulder. Tezuka hadn't told him, either, but he isn't going to think about that now.

"It seemed like the right time."

"Oh?" His mother sips at her tea, and smiles across the table at him. Ryoma breathes in the scented steam, flinching a little at the disjointed curl of memories it recalls – home-warmth-sleepiness-belonging-Tezuka.

"It's not like there's anywhere else to go," he mutters, poking absently at the ring-pull on the can.

"Mm, so many easy wins can't be fun." His mother looks down at her tea, and for a moment Ryoma is resignedly certain that she's about to compare him to his father again. They get along better, these days, but the old man is never going to stop being an idiot.

"Have you spoken to Tezuka-kun recently?" she asks instead, and Ryoma feels his eyes go wide; he hadn't been ready for that one at all.

"No," he mutters eventually, shoulders hunching a little with the tension. He hasn't; Tezuka hasn't so much as emailed him since that night, and he… it had all been too much, and he hasn't looked back. He isn't going to look back.

"Maybe you should," his mother tells him, with that deceptively gentle look in her eye that warns him off storming out to sulk. "You miss him."

"It's been three years," Ryoma mutters, looking away. Put like that, it sounds like it should be a lifetime; it feels like yesterday. It hurts like yesterday.

"All the more reason to patch it up then. Even Tezuka-kun might run out of patience eventually." His mother smiles fondly, and Ryoma scowls suspiciously. She'd always liked Tezuka.

"It's already over." He drains the last of his Ponta, barely tasting it, and folds his arms on the table, fingers absently wrapping around his left elbow. His mother just smiles, rising to take her cup to the sink.

"You haven't brought anyone else home, though."

Ryoma slumps in his seat; there's not much he can say to that. "I've been busy."

"Of course, dear." She turns from the sink, watching him in a way that makes Ryoma wary. His father had been undisguisedly gleeful when Tezuka had left, and has talked of nothing but girls ever since. That's bad enough; Ryoma doesn't really want to consider his mother's opinion of his love life. It's not like he has one, anyway.

By the time they get back to the hotel, Ryoma is seething with silence. All the stupid, obvious things to say have been flitting through his mind during the journey, but when he finally turns on Tezuka, shutting the door of the suite firmly behind him, only one word comes out.

"Why?" It tastes bitter on his tongue, like an accusation, like being asked for his opinion on his boyfriend's sudden retirement by a half dozen vacuous reporters who know nothing about either of them.

Tezuka looks down at him for a moment, face a careful mask of calm, then reaches out to touch his shoulder. Ryoma jerks away instinctively, taking several steps back. Half of him just wants to fling himself at Tezuka, touch him take him taste him, mark him as Ryoma's forever. The other half is a bitter mess of confusion and fury and betrayal, and he'd be running by now but he can't because he's staring at Tezuka and waiting to know why, and he needs to hear it. He clenches his fists, trying to crush the need to reach out.

"It was time." Tezuka's face blanks for a moment. There's pain in his eyes, too, but Ryoma ignores it. He moves as if to take a step forward, but Ryoma flinches away and he just sighs, a little. "There's nothing left for me to accomplish in tennis. If it's inevitable, I would rather it be now, after a game like –"

"Don't." Ryoma cuts him off with a vicious gesture; he can't think about that right now. There's no point in playing at all, if Tezuka is going to abandon him. "You won the Slam, but you aren't going to let me take it from you."

Tezuka's eyes widen a little, surprise familiar through pain and unease. Ryoma imagines yanking off his glasses, shoving hands into his hair and pulling him down into a hard kiss. He doesn't move a muscle.

"I would rather retire in my own time," is all Tezuka says, eventually. His voice is strained in a way that Ryoma hasn't heard for almost a year. Not since the doctor had told him it would be months, he remembers. Unconsciously, he shifts his weight off his right ankle, staring at the tight line of Tezuka's mouth as he speaks. His hand is on his elbow again, Ryoma realises with a sense of inevitability.

"Continuing to play at this level is likely to aggravate the should –"

"Your shoulder is fine," Ryoma snarls, cutting him off. Tezuka blinks, visibly regrouping. He hasn't dropped his calm face at all, and Ryoma thinks that just maybe that might be the worst part of this. Does he not expect Ryoma to care? "You don't need to retire! You-"

Suddenly it's all too much. Ryoma backs away, shaking his head and fumbling for the door handle. Tezuka is moving towards him again, worry on his face now as he opens his mouth to speak, but it's too little, too late; Ryoma is out of the door and running full tilt down the corridor to his own, unused hotel room.

He spends the night hunched into the corner of a bed that seems ridiculously vast, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about how he's supposed to play without Tezuka to aim for. When he wakes from ragged scraps of dream, certain that he hears knocking, the room is silent and empty around him. Ryoma waits almost until dawn before falling asleep again, exhaustion catching up with him, but there is no more sound. He oversleeps almost until noon, and by the time he wakes enough to realise the time, he is hopelessly late for his flight. When he asks, grudgingly, at the desk, he is informed that Tezuka has already left.

Ryoma flops back onto his bed and stares at the familiar, even square pattern of the ceiling. Without the prospect of another tournament, another hotel, another flight, he isn't quite sure what to do with himself. He supposes he'll get used to it soon enough; it's not as though he can never play again, after all. His father is likely to burst through the door at any moment, demanding a match. Ryoma can still remember the disappointment and irritation of realising that finally beating the old man hadn't made him any less annoying.

Whatever he's going to do in the future, lying around the house the way Nanjiroh does is definitely off the list. Ryoma makes a face, linking his hands behind his head and blowing hair out of his eyes; it's getting long again, and he should probably have it cut. He's accumulated enough prize money over the years that he can pretty much do what he likes, but he hasn't figured anything out yet. It's not like he doesn't have time, even with his mother poking at him about relationships.

She's right about one thing, though; there hasn't been anyone since Tezuka. Ryoma isn't good at talking to people, and he doesn't like social situations. It's been almost a year since the last time he'd even kissed anyone, and being practically attacked by some girl in one of Momo-senpai's clubs probably doesn't count anyway. Ryoma can't remember her name, or what she'd looked like, but the taste of Tezuka's mouth on his, tea and mint and warmth, is so vivid in his memory that he can feel it when he closes his eyes.

That he misses Tezuka isn't the question, Ryoma thinks. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself as memories wash over him; hands on skin, arms tight around him, the language of eyes and lips and gestures that makes words unnecessary. The past is the past.

"Ehh, young man, what are you smiling about?" his father's suggestive voice enquires from far too close. Ryoma jerks, bolting upright and cracking his forehead against Nanjiroh's chin.

"Ow!" Ryoma scoots backwards hastily, rubbing his head. His father is wobbling about, clutching his face; for a moment Ryoma wishes he'd managed to get him in the nose. "What the hell are you doing, old man? Can't you knock?"

"What, I can't greet my son?" Nanjiroh demands, a little thickly, as he examines his face in Ryoma's mirror. He turns, leering. "Sooo, is it a girl?"

"Is what a girl?" Ryoma leans back against the wall, already bored. The old man looks at him as though he's stupid.

"That you were daydreaming about, of course. Ah, it's about time…"

"Che." Ryoma rolls his eyes. "Not everyone's an idiot like you, old man. I don't have a girlfriend."

"Still?" Nanjiroh looks almost comically disappointed. "What are you waiting for, brat? Want me to find you a nice girl?"

Ryoma glares. "Don't even think about it. And stop calling me that; I'm twenty-five."

"Right! You should be going out on dates, making the most of your youth!" His father gestures dramatically. "It won't be long before the schoolgirls start calling you a pervert too…"

"That's because you are one, idiot." Ryoma heaves a sigh, shoving himself upright. He needs to do something; he's already restless. "Want me to beat you again?"

That gets Nanjiroh's attention. "You wish. Bring it on, brat." It's empty bravado, as always, Ryoma thinks, but even this far into middle age the old man is still a tricky bastard. It takes a few games to pin him down, and by the time Ryoma takes his second set he's sweating and Nanjiroh is gasping for breath.

"Heh, idiot kid," his father manages after a while, tossing his racquet aside as he flops down on the bench below the temple bell. "What the hell did you want to go and retire for? There's no one who can beat you."

There's no one who can beat me, Ryoma thinks. He just shrugs, turning and wandering back down the steps towards the house.

A week before Wimbledon begins, Fuji-senpai turns up unexpectedly at his hotel and drags him out to lunch. Apparently, he's in London for some kind of conference thing, something to do with photography, and 'just happens' to be nearby. Ryoma doesn't believe a minute of it, but professional tennis hasn't dulled his appreciation for free food. Fuji-senpai seems to know his way around here, because he takes Ryoma to a tiny, out-of-the-way café where the waiters all speak Japanese and the food smells comfortingly familiar.

They eat sushi and okonomiyaki, and Fuji talks about Japan and about people they both know while Ryoma pretends to care. Apparently Kaidoh-senpai has broken his leg while running, and Momo-senpai has been thrown out of the hospital for fighting with him while visiting. Ryoma supposes that's kind of funny, but he still wishes Fuji-senpai would get to the point. Maybe they can play a match while he's here, Ryoma thinks; Fuji isn't the type to let himself get rusty. He's about to ask when Fuji tilts his head, smiling at him.

"Maa, so how is Tezuka doing?"

Ryoma goes still, glaring across the table, then forces himself to relax. "You know better than I do."

"Hmm? Yes, I played a few sets with him the other week, up at the university." Fuji's smile makes Ryoma's fingers twitch, but not as much as the mention of Tezuka playing tennis. He tries to breathe deeply.

"Great." He isn't going to ask how Tezuka is, he isn't going to care. The familiar tastes of the food have turned bitter in his mouth; he pushes his plate away, scowling.

"He's doing fairly well," Fuji tells him conversationally, ignoring his expression. "He doesn't smile much, but of course he never did, did he?"

Ryoma squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, pushing away the countless memories of Tezuka's mouth tilting up into tiny, almost-reluctant smiles. "Senpai, stop it."

"Oh?" Fuji regards him across the table, face smoothing into a seriousness that's almost uncanny. "He misses you, Ryoma-kun. He's still waiting for you."

No he isn't, Ryoma thinks grimly, remembering that night. He hadn't even waited for Ryoma to beat him one last time, and it still hurts.

That night, Ryoma dreams that he's standing at the fence, watching an empty court. It looks a little like the practice courts at the National stadium, and he isn't at all surprised when he turns and sees Tezuka standing beside him.

They watch each other in silence for a moment, and then Ryoma turns back to the court. "I understand now, buchou," he mutters, uncertain whether Tezuka can even hear him. "I'm…"

He doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence, because Tezuka's hand is against his mouth, stopping his words. The contact is cold, and Tezuka's face is blank and entirely impersonal as he turns to walk away. Ryoma starts after him, but suddenly the fence is in the way; all he can do is watch Tezuka's retreating back.

He wakes burning hot, and kicks the covers onto the floor, flattening himself to the mattress as he stares at the shadows on the ceiling. It's a long, restless time before he falls back to sleep.

In the end, it only takes two days before he gives in. Maybe coming back to Japan had been a bad idea after all, Ryoma thinks; it seems like all he's able to think about here is Tezuka, and he no longer has tournaments and training to concentrate on. It's rapidly becoming too much to take, and when his father manages to take a set from him Ryoma knows that he has to do something to distract himself. He catches the bus across town, telling himself he'll go to see a movie or visit Momo-senpai or something.

He ends up standing outside Tezuka's apartment, staring at the door. Part of him hopes that Tezuka has moved, or gone on holiday or to school, but all he really feels is resignation, as though this has been inevitable all along. It's early evening on a Friday, too late for even university classes. Ryoma takes a deep breath, stops himself halfway through pulling at the cap he isn't wearing, and pushes the bell.

Almost immediately, his stomach begins to knot with discomfort; the hallway seems too narrow and the urge to run is almost overwhelming. Then the latch clicks, and the door opens, and Ryoma stops breathing.

Tezuka looks… like Tezuka. There's a tiny crease between his brows, as though he has been frowning too much, but otherwise it is as if no time has passed at all. His face is blank, a polite social mask, but his eyes behind the sheen of his glasses are wide and stunned as he stares at Ryoma. He's beautiful.

Ryoma swallows the sudden, jagged lump in his throat, and shoves his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching out. He's intensely, painfully aware that he doesn't have that right any more; it's one more reason for regret.

"Hi," he manages after a while; his voice comes out dull but steady.

Tezuka stares at him for a moment longer, then visibly collects himself. "Ryoma." He opens the door wider, stepping back in silent invitation, and Ryoma realises for the first time that he's wearing a suit and tie. Somehow it doesn't look as weird as he remembers from ATP functions.

"Are you busy?" He steps inside, though, looking around the apartment with a sense of complete unreality. It's as if nothing has changed except the two of them, and Ryoma doesn't know how to feel about that at all. He's not even sure why he's here.

"I have time." Tezuka's face is so carefully blank, now, that Ryoma's stomach clenches. He struggles to find words, achingly aware that three years ago he wouldn't have needed to. Neither of them have ever been particularly good with words. It's not that Tezuka is suddenly a stranger, Ryoma thinks. He's the one who doesn't belong here, now.

"I retired from the circuit," he blurts eventually, regretting it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. It runs right into everything that twists uncomfortably between them, but Tezuka doesn't even flinch, just nods slowly.

"I know." There is a quiet kind of understanding in his eyes, and maybe that's what's worst of all. Ryoma looks down at his feet, cursing himself for an idiot yet again.

"There wasn't anyone left to beat," he mutters reluctantly. Half of him is almost expecting to be given laps, and that above anything tells him just how long it's really been. Some walls probably can't be broken. It had been a bad idea to come here, and he'd known that from the start.

"Your game is exceptional," Tezuka says, and Ryoma wonders whether he's imagining the hint of uncertainty in his otherwise impersonal voice. "The double Slam is a great achievement."

"Aa." Ryoma shrugs, suddenly intensely uncomfortable. It had been easy to pretend that he hadn't needed Tezuka when they'd been apart, but standing so close… He swallows, breathing deeply, but that makes it worse because he can smell Tezuka, soap and tea and skin and everything he's been missing in three years of sterile, empty hotel rooms. He stares helplessly, mind going completely blank.

"Do you have any plans for the future?" Tezuka asks.

Ryoma starts, breaking out of his trance. Tezuka isn't helping here at all, with that frown line that needs smoothing out, and the almost-familiar look in his eyes. He feels his face heat.

"Not yet," he mutters, backing towards the door. "I'm going – you've got business."

"My reservation isn't until seven," Tezuka says entirely calmly – too calmly. Ryoma blinks, flight forgotten as he processes that.

"You have a date?" He doesn't know why he's surprised; it's been so long, after all, and Ryoma had never actually believed Fuji's implications. Tezuka's silent nod, though, sends a wave of disbelief through him.

"Who?" he demands, knowing that his voice is suddenly rough with something perilously close to jealousy.

"The daughter of a family friend," Tezuka answers imperturbably. Ryoma feels a startling, almost irresistible desire to yank him down and wipe that too-careful, too-blank expression off his face. The fact that he can't, because he doesn't have the right any more, is close to physically painful.

"A favour to my mother," Tezuka continues, eyes distant, and Ryoma blinks. He's not stupid, he knows what that means. If buchou's mother has been bothering him for long enough that he's given in – no, the idea of Tezuka married is nothing he wants to think about. A tiny voice in the back of Ryoma's mind whispers, mine. He does his best to ignore it.

"Will you play a match with me, buchou?" he asks before he can think to stop himself. It's almost automatic, being so close. He only realises that he's used the title – once a possessive, intimate nickname – when Tezuka's eyes widen, suddenly defenceless. That's better, Ryoma thinks with satisfaction.

"I'm retired," Tezuka points out in a quiet voice after a short pause; Ryoma can see him trying to collect himself. He grins.

"So am I."

"Aa." Tezuka looks down at him for a moment, then nods slowly. "Tomorrow afternoon – there's a court behind the building." Both of them are aware that Ryoma already knows that.

Tezuka is late. Ryoma sits on the bench at the side of the court, staring up at the sky. He knows Tezuka too well to worry, and he's too busy anticipating this in any case. Part of him worries that Tezuka will have lost his edge, off the circuit, but Ryoma already knows that they will both be giving this game their best. Retirement doesn't mean he can't play whenever he wants – play Tezuka whenever he wants.

He could have done with realising that a lot sooner, really. Ryoma exhales regret, shaking his head and absent-mindedly fishing his cap out of his bag; the clouds are starting to part again, and the sun is bright. It's not like he can change the past, and he knows now; tennis is only what had brought them together. It's not everything – but maybe it can be enough, for now?

The creak of the gate being pushed open distracts him from circular thoughts. Ryoma leans back on the bench, watching Tezuka walk onto the court. He looks a lot more like himself in tennis clothes, and more comfortable too.

"You're late," Ryoma points out neutrally, shoving himself to his feet and stretching his arms out over his head. Tezuka's face is serious, and his hair is even wilder than usual; he must have dressed in a hurry. Ryoma's fingers itch to reach up and straighten it; he distracts them with getting out his racquet.

"A lecture ran over," Tezuka says quietly, setting his bag down and opening it.

"Aa." Ryoma tosses his racquet from hand to hand, bouncing on his toes and letting his muscles begin to loosen. "What's it like?" he asks curiously, already feeling the familiar, heady thrill of being on the court with Tezuka. "University, I mean."

"I'm learning a lot." Tezuka chooses a racquet, glancing at Ryoma from the corner of his eye. Whether it's the court or just habit, Ryoma thinks, they are falling back into old patterns already. "Is that something you're interested in?"

"Maybe." Ryoma shrugs, leaning on the bench to stretch. He hasn't really thought much beyond this. Sports medicine sounds kind of boring, but he supposes the idea of coaching isn't entirely unattractive. "Are you ready, buchou?"

Tezuka just looks at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable. Ryoma is on the verge of squirming when he finally nods, slowly. "Three sets."

"Sure." Ryoma grins in relief, excitement sparking along with the flare of challenge in Tezuka's eyes. "You can serve – let's go."

It's immediately obvious that Tezuka has lost none of his skill or power. Ryoma narrows his eyes as he stretches to return a perfect slice serve, calculating chances and openings, and then Tezuka pivots into a backspin cross shot and he's lost in it. This is the game he has been needing for so long; every ball pushes him back, but he feels as though he can return anything. Just seeing Tezuka on the other side of the net is like breathing deeply – this is where he belongs, Ryoma knows.

He loses the first set in tie-break, grimacing as Tezuka returns his favourite drive volley to the line. They sit together on the bench, passing a bottle of water back and forth, and Ryoma is ridiculously conscious of the bare foot of distance between them.

"You've been watching my games," he accuses as Tezuka rises to return to the court. Tezuka looks at him curiously over his shoulder.

"Of course."

"Che," Ryoma mutters to himself; he's not used to being at a disadvantage, but it has been too long since he has seen Tezuka play at all, and his memories aren't living up to the reality. It's the biggest thrill he's had in years; he grins over the net, bouncing the ball. "You've been training, buchou."

"I've been waiting for you." Tezuka's face relaxes, just a little, into something close to a smile; Ryoma chokes on his breath. His heart is suddenly pounding in his ears, and however much he reminds himself that Tezuka is talking about tennis, he can still hear Fuji-senpai's voice in his head. He misses you, Ryoma-kun. He's still waiting for you. I'm sorry, he thinks. I'm sorry I took so long to understand. He tosses the ball, and serves so hard that the impact reverberates through his whole body.

The second set comes down to tie-break as well. They fight it out for so long that Ryoma remembers other matches, thirteen years gone; he laughs breathlessly as he throws back another Rising counter, eyes locked with Tezuka's. Neither of them are looking at the ball at all any more, and there is no doubt in Ryoma's mind as to what he wants, now. He's taken the world, but Tezuka is everything.

Luck and an unpredictable headwind finally gain him the set and match. Ryoma lets his left arm fall to his side, standing at the intersection of two white lines and staring across the net at Tezuka. He isn't entirely sure he can trust himself to move right now, but it doesn't seem to matter at all because Tezuka's expression is quietly satisfied. Ryoma can't look away; there is so much unspoken in the air between them that he shivers down to his toes.

"Good game," Tezuka says after what feels like forever, in the quiet tone of voice that means he's waiting to see what happens next. Ryoma blinks, trying to get a grip on himself.

"Thanks." His voice comes out cracked, and he stumbles a little as he starts to move. It breaks the paralysis, though, and he reaches out without thinking as they meet at the net, the habit of handshakes far too ingrained to deny.

The contact is electric. Ryoma can feel his heartbeat speeding up, years' worth of need twisting his bones with its ache as he stares up into Tezuka's eyes. They're so close, now, and he can see the motion of Tezuka's throat as he swallows… Ryoma doesn't want to let go; their hands fit together just the same as always, fingers sliding to wrap around each other, and the need to be kissing Tezuka now is more than he can stand. It's the first time they've touched in three years.

"Buchou," he chokes out, fingers tightening spasmodically as Tezuka's face tells him all he needs to know. They have never needed words for this, Ryoma thinks. Then he steps back, gulping for air as Tezuka releases his hand and heads to the bench.

The short walk back to the apartment block is almost entirely silent. Ryoma stares straight ahead, and tries not to think about the way Tezuka's wrist brushes against his forearm as they walk. If there are other people around, he doesn't notice them at all.

The moment the door closes behind them, Ryoma drops his bag and lunges for Tezuka, arms closing tight around his shoulders as he stretches up into a desperate, breathless kiss. Buchou, he thinks; it comes out as a muffled moan and he arches hard against Tezuka, bodies pressing tight together as their mouths open into the kiss. Tezuka is supporting most of their weight, leaning against the wall; his hands slide up Ryoma's back beneath his shirt, calluses rough over sweat-slick skin as he pulls them even closer. It's everything Ryoma has been missing, everything he's been wanting.

He doesn't remember how they make it to the bedroom; the world shrinks to hands and mouths and skin and kisses, touches, need. Clothes become an obstacle; Ryoma struggles with Tezuka's shirt, yanks it away to run his mouth over skin, throat, collarbones, and they are both still covered with sweat but it's familiar, it's them… His fingers clutch at Tezuka's back; he can't get close enough, and there are fragments of words spilling from his mouth, a jumbled mess of buchou and mine and please, and then Tezuka's mouth is on his again, demanding, and there is nothing but skin and breath and movement and everything, everything.

By the time he feels capable of moving again, the sun is setting outside. Ryoma yawns, shifting to drape himself further across Tezuka's chest, pressing his face into his neck. "Kunimitsu," he murmurs, without really thinking about it. They are both filthy with sweat and worse, but Tezuka hasn't moved at all; his arms around Ryoma are tight and warm.

Ryoma heaves a deep breath, almost a sigh. The air smells of sweat and sex and heat, and they should really go and shower, but he knows this is more important. "I'm sorry," he mutters finally, lips grazing Tezuka's skin. "For being stupid." It's not enough, he thinks, not for this, but he has nothing else. They will have to talk sometime, or try to, but for now… "I'm sorry."

Tezuka's arms tighten around him, holding on so hard that Ryoma wonders for a moment whether he will have bruises. He settles for leaving his own mark on Tezuka in return, biting idly at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Tezuka shifts under him, shaking a little, arms possessive bands around his ribs as he murmurs inaudible words into Ryoma's hair. Ryoma shifts a lazy hand, reaching up sightless to trace the familiar contours of Tezuka's face, finally smoothing the crease from his forehead. Maybe it won't ever be quite the same as before, he thinks, but this is enough. Three years is long enough to regret.

PoT: greater heights

Tue, 09 May 2006 22:26:53 GMT

For pillarchallenge. TezuRyo, high school-ish, PG, 440 words. Title is from the tagline to Genius 272. No spoilers.

greater heights

"Buchou?" Ryoma rolled over onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands and staring at the wall. Tezuka's bedroom was about the same size as his, but the tidiness made it look bigger. Still, the poster dominated the room. "Why do you like climbing mountains?"

"I beg your pardon?" When Ryoma glanced to the side, Tezuka was giving him a puzzled look. It was an improvement on the exasperated expression, at least. Ryoma accepted the fact that Tezuka got more homework than he did, but waiting for him to finish it got boring fast. He was going to have to think up some way of distracting his father so that they could do this at his house; at least that way he could play games or something while he waited for Tezuka to get around to kissing him.

"Climbing mountains." Ryoma returned his attention to the poster, and the way the clouds and snow seemed to merge. It looked cold, and he wasn't sure why anyone would want to make the effort of climbing all the way up just to look at more mountains and clouds and snow. "It's not like you win anything."

"You don't always win anything in tennis, either." Ryoma could hear the soft scratch of pencil as Tezuka returned to his homework. "It's about pushing yourself, testing your limits."

That made sense, sort of. Ryoma could remember pushing his own limits on the court, and the sudden burst of adrenaline and power that came from breaking through them. "So the mountain's the opponent?" That just sounded weird; it wasn't like mountains could challenge you just by sitting there, was it?

"You are your own opponent." Tezuka's pencil paused, and Ryoma could feel eyes on him. "Do you want to come climbing with me?"

Ryoma shrugged awkwardly, and scrambled into a sitting position, looking across the room at Tezuka. He had a faint smudge of ink or pencil or something on the bridge of his nose, where he'd pushed his glasses up. "I'd rather play tennis. There's always someone to beat."

Tezuka sighed, a little, and laid his pencil down. Victory, Ryoma thought with the part of his mind that wasn't occupied with watching Tezuka walk across the room. "You don't want to measure yourself against mountains? What happens when you hit the top and there's no one left to defeat?"

"Hm…" Ryoma stretched up lazily, wiping the smudge off Tezuka's nose and smirking at his startled expression. From this position, it was easy to yank Tezuka down into his arms. "I'll always have you, buchou." Maybe even climbing mountains might be fun, if it was the two of them.

PoT: Reach

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 16:31:40 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma, preslash?
Rating: PG
Continuity: manga, no spoilers
Notes: another for pillarchallenge's Height Difference challenge.

Reach

In first year, buchou is too tall. Ryoma has to stand three paces away to look up at Tezuka without cricking his neck. Two paces, if they've been playing. He wonders if it seems a smaller space to Tezuka, who could step across it easily with his long legs.

Sometimes, Ryoma thinks he might like to stand closer. His favourite distance, though, is seventy-eight feet, because over the net he doesn't need to look upwards at all.

In second year, Momo-senpai is captain. Ryoma doesn't realise that he's grown until Ryuuzaki-sensei comments on it, measuring him against the clubhouse doorpost. Her annoying granddaughter hangs back, blushing and stuttering.

Momo-senpai seems kind of relieved when Ryoma refuses to call him captain. Ryoma supposes it must be weird for him, too, but mostly he wonders whether he comes up to Tezuka-buchou's shoulder yet. Seigaku doesn't feel right without Tezuka standing at the edge of the courts, arms folded and watching.

With the third-years gone, it gets boring quickly. After the third time Ryoma beats him six to love, Momo-senpai snaps and yells at him to just go up to the high school already. Then Kaidoh-senpai yells at him for yelling. Ryoma watches them fight, wondering why he hadn't thought of that.

It turns out that he still has to crane his neck when he meets Tezuka at the net. Ryoma tries not to sulk.

In third year, Ryuuzaki-sensei gives him the option of six months at a tennis school in California. If he stays at Seigaku, he will be the captain. The thought is not appealing; Ryoma goes.

He hates every minute of it. The climate is too dry, and the food is all wrong, and the constant English grates on his ears. The opponents are all strong, and all stupidly tall. Ryoma scowls when they make jokes about his height or his age, and pays them back on the court. Eventually, they stop joking, and Ryoma gets bored again. It's not like Seigaku at all, and he doesn't really understand why.

The week before he returns to Japan, Fuji-senpai sends him an email with no text at all. The junior division of the Japan Open has just finished; Ryoma scrolls through picture after picture of Tezuka, caught in mid-serve, volley, smash. Fuji-senpai is good at this, he thinks. Ryoma has a bunch of back issues of Pro Tennis Monthly, and Tezuka never looks quite like himself in those pictures. He keeps them anyway.

Getting back to Japan is a relief. Momo-senpai drops by the house before Ryoma has even finished unpacking, and drags him out to Kawamura Sushi. Ryoma isn't really surprised to see half his other senpai there, but realising that he has grown tall enough to look Kikumaru-senpai in the eye is definitely a shock.

Tezuka-buchou is sitting at the counter, and Ryoma fights his way free of enthusiastic senpai to take the next chair. Seated, it seems like there are only a few inches between them. Mada mada, Ryoma thinks; maybe he'll grow some more. Tezuka doesn't say anything, but he smiles a little as Ryoma eyes the sushi, and pushes the platter over.

He is six inches shorter than Tezuka when he starts high school. It's not much, Ryoma thinks, it’s not eleven inches any more, but he still has to tip his head back to look at buchou. Two paces between them decreases by increments, until Ryoma realises that it looks a little too much like he's waiting to be kissed. He walks around for the next week with his cap pulled down low, staring at the ground and utterly certain that everyone is laughing at him.

Ryoma plays Fuji in the ranking matches. It's like walking a tightrope, picking his way carefully between Fuji-senpai's counters, but ultimately a foregone conclusion. Afterwards, Ryoma slings his racquet over his shoulder and wanders absently over to the next court to see what's going on. He halts mid-step when he realises that Tezuka is playing, but the uncomfortable sensation of Fuji-senpai's eyes on him makes him stiffen his shoulders. He's not some stupid girl, and he isn't going to run away.

Tezuka-buchou wins. No one is surprised, but there are murmurs of admiration from some of the club members. They start to drift away, anticipating the end of the session; Momo-senpai is trying to pester Kikumaru-senpai into paying for food. Ryoma lingers at the fence, the long clean lines of Tezuka's form still caught in his mind's eye. It's been too long since they've played.

Two days later, after the ranking has ended and the Regulars have been decided, Ryoma's class assistant sends him to fetch a book from the library. He's vaguely annoyed at getting saddled with chores until he slides open the door and sees Tezuka sitting behind a pile of textbooks at a table. Oh, Ryoma thinks, suddenly absurdly pleased.

He wanders over while the librarian is hunting down whatever book he's supposed to fetch. Ryoma never bothers to pay attention in English class.

"Buchou?" It's weird to be standing over Tezuka. Ryoma can see the top of his head and the untidy fall of his hair that isn't quite one way or the other. It makes his fingers itch, and he stuffs them hastily into his pockets.

"Echizen?" Tezuka-buchou looks up at him, sounding surprised. Whatever he's working on looks boring as hell, and Ryoma wonders how it can hold his attention. He fidgets, hearing the tap of the librarian's footsteps coming back.

"Will you play a match with me?" Ryoma blurts at last, ducking his head to stare at his feet. Everything is easier when they are on the courts.

"All right," Tezuka says at last, very quietly. "Next week – after the district preliminaries."

"Yes, buchou!" Ryoma grins in relief, then starts as the librarian calls his name impatiently. Tezuka-buchou turns back to his books, but Ryoma is certain he can feel eyes on him all the way to the door. When he looks back, there is a tiny smile hovering at the corner of Tezuka's mouth as he studies.

A week, Ryoma thinks as he wanders back to class. Seven days, and six inches; it's not much. He isn't some boring girl, and there will be no one to laugh anyway. He's not going to hover around, just waiting to be kissed, when he finally has buchou all to himself.

It isn't until the teacher gives him a strange look that Ryoma realises he's smiling.

Thu, 20 Apr 2006 04:56:23 GMT

Random drabble inspired by Angel!Tezuka from the OVA opening. Takes most of its canon from Genius 270-272, which presumably will show up in the OVAs. Not particularly spoilery, pre-TezuRyo on about the same level as canon.

Ryoma stares. Buchou is tall and stern and utterly commanding, and the annoying opponent - Ryoma has forgotten his name already - looks very taken aback.

"The racquet should not be used to hurt others." Ryoma can see Tezuka clench his own fist tighter around his grip, and then...

He feels his mouth fall open. Buchou - buchou is glowing. Not the golden aura of the Zone, but something entirely new; a pure white that is bright enough to make his eyes water. There are gasps all around the fence, and the opponent looks like he can't believe his eyes.

Buchou is growing wings. Wings of light. He's been reborn, Ryoma thinks with a sudden clarity, watching wide-eyed as Tezuka returns everything the opponent can throw at him. He's like a wall, implacable; Ryoma remembers words in his own mouth - I'm going to go higher. For the first time, he sees how far he still has to go.

No one applauds when buchou wins. The Regulars are gaping almost as much as the other school; Ryoma glances around, then shrugs his shoulders and heads off to find a Ponta machine. The sun is hot on his head, and he stares up at the sky as he wanders back to the court. There are fuzzy white vapour trails criss-crossing the blue, making a pattern that looks a little like a court when he squints his eyes shut against the glare.

Buchou is already gone when he gets back, but Ryoma knows exactly where he will be. It must be cooler in the shade; Tezuka is wearing his jacket, and ignoring whatever Fuji-senpai is talking about. Ryoma hangs back for a second, watching them. Buchou looks like himself again; there is no trace of whatever had happened on the court.

Wings, Ryoma thinks. He nods to himself as Tezuka turns around, looking straight at him.

"What is it, Echizen...?"

"I remember you telling me once... to become Seigaku's pillar of support."

"What about it?"

Ryoma looks up, and grins. There's nothing else for it, now. He's going to have to learn to fly, too.

Sat, 08 Apr 2006 03:40:19 GMT

Height difference drabbles. TezuRyo, high school-ish, no real spoilers, I don't even know how many words because I wrote it them straight into notepad in ten minutes. Apparently now I have to post to pillarchallenge. *dies* Updated with two more, because I. I don't even know.

Echizen has grown again. Not much; it has only been three weeks, after all, but enough that his Seigaku jacket is tight across broader shoulders. It is slow, but he is gaining on Tezuka.

Tezuka stands at the fence with his arms folded, watching as Echizen is mobbed by the other Regulars, who all seem to want to congratulate him at once. Echizen ducks and hunches, trying to scowl off the praise; he's tall enough now that Tezuka can see the blush he attempts to hide beneath his cap brim.

"Enough." It is time to intervene, before this gets completely out of hand. "Regulars, on the courts."

They trail off reluctantly, grumbling. Tezuka eyes them imperviously, then turns his eyes to Echizen. Nationals begin next week; there is no time for carelessness. Nevertheless...

"Congratulations on retaining your title," Tezuka says as formally as though they had not spent hours on the phone after the final. Echizen grins up at him, understanding perfectly. They are closer than they had been even three short weeks ago.

"Thanks, buchou." Echizen glances around, eyes bright, then pounces, latching onto Tezuka for a lightning-fast hug that is over as soon as it has begun. Tezuka is sure he can feel eyes on him, but when he looks around even Fuji and Inui are practicing diligently. Echizen is already disappearing towards the court.

Tezuka takes a deep breath and goes to practice with the warm impression of Ryoma's body still lingering against him, fitting as perfectly as ever despite the extra centimetres.

Ryoma has a dislocated moment of wondering when Tezuka-buchou had got shorter before he belatedly realises that of course he has grown over the past two years. It just doesn't always seem like it, now that even Horio has inches on him.

"Echizen. Welcome back." Tezuka-buchou is wearing that expression that's almost, almost smiling. Ryoma looks up at him, absorbing this new difference. He can stand next to buchou without cricking his neck, now. The thought is curiously warming.

"Buchou." Ryoma grins; he has been anticipating another match with Tezuka since the Under-Eighteen Singles last autumn. He tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "We're going to Nationals again, right?"

"Of course." Tezuka looks down at him evenly, but there is a twitch of a smile in the corner of his mouth. Ryoma is hit with the sudden realisation that he would only have to stretch up a little to kiss it.

He can feel his eyes going wide. Tezuka-buchou looks at him curiously, and Ryoma ducks his head, face heating stupidly. Then he's freezing up, because Tezuka-buchou is reaching for his shoulder.

"Brace yourself," Tezuka warns quietly, and Ryoma doesn't know what's going on in his head but it doesn't matter because Kikumaru-senpai has appeared out of nowhere and is trying to flatten him.

"Ochibi!!"

Ryoma suffers rigidly under the onslaught of overexcited senpai, still staring up at the vague exasperation on Tezuka's face. Probably it's only his imagination that there's a little disappointment there, too.

Echizen always scowls when Kikumaru calls him "ochibi." Once, during a victory celebration at Kawamura Sushi, Tezuka hears him complain that he's five foot six now, senpai, not a little kid. Kikumaru just laughs and ruffles his hair until Echizen is forced to duck away and escape to the seat next to Tezuka. Kikumaru starts to follow him, but then catches Tezuka's eye and detours to pester Oishi instead.

It has been years since Tezuka has thought of Echizen as short. Even during that first year in middle school, Echizen's diminutive height had faded to insignificance against the magnificent colours of his talent, his determination, his potential.

Six inches is not much of a gap, all things considered. Tezuka has grown used to looking down into Echizen's upturned face at practice, in the locker room, across the net. Echizen must abandon the protective shadow of his cap in order to meet Tezuka's eyes, and something in Tezuka has always been quietly satisfied by this.

Echizen is the perfect height to fit snugly into Tezuka's arms, face pressed into the crook of his neck as he breathes shivers across Tezuka's skin. He is compact and warm and utterly smug as he drapes himself across Tezuka's chest, murmuring "buchou" in a soft, possessive voice. Here, as on the courts, they are equal.

Echizen occasionally complains that at seventeen he is unlikely to grow any more. Tezuka smiles into his teacup and doesn't say a word.

PoT: Making The News

Sat, 08 Apr 2006 00:48:38 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: Mild R
Continuity: Manga; MAJOR SPOILERS for Genius 150/ep 68 and Genius 250-272.
Notes: For bookshop. Fits conveniently into pillarchallenge, too - Centre Court.

Making The News

Tezuka sets his racquet bag down and looks around. The room is luxurious but fairly standard as far as hotel rooms go; possibly he has just become too used to this transient lifestyle. The bed looks like it will be too soft, but the time change is enough of a blow that he knows he will sleep like the dead. Outside the window the sun is bright.

The knock on the door manages to be both obtrusive and anticipatory. When Tezuka opens it he is unsurprised to see Ryoma already in tennis clothes.

"Let's go practice before the courts get too busy."

It's ten PM in Japan. Tezuka hesitates, but Ryoma is grinning up at him, looking far too sure of himself.

"Come on, buchou. Unless you want to test the bed…"

Tezuka has a momentary flash of Ryoma spread out and gasping beneath him, arching up into his hands. He turns away to pick up his bag before Ryoma can see it in his face. "It's far too early to sleep."

"Heh." Ryoma closes the door behind himself and leans against it, hands shoved into his pockets as he smirks. Tezuka eyes him for a moment, then sighs and begins unbuttoning his shirt to change.

Three days before the start of the tournament, the practice courts are crowded enough that they have to wait their turn. Ryoma scowls and mutters something about joining a private club for the season, but Tezuka sits patiently on the bench, stretching out his calf muscles. The players on the court are all good; he watches them carefully, knowing that he will be facing some of them over the next two weeks.

A blond-haired man approaches and asks Ryoma for a game. Ryoma looks him up and down with a frown, then glances at Tezuka and declines in lazy American English that sounds just a little out of place. When they are alone again, or as alone as a populated court can get, he leans back against the fence, crossing his arms.

"Che. I wish they wouldn't do that."

"You should play him," Tezuka observes quietly, turning his sweatband on his wrist. "It would be good experience – for both of you."

Ryoma makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, glancing at him sideways. "Why would I want to play him when you're here?"

Tezuka sighs, then gets to his feet as two players walk off the nearest court. Ryoma wanders after him, already tossing his racquet from hand to hand. He always dozes through long flights, curled up in his seat with his head drooping onto Tezuka's shoulder. Tezuka reads books and tennis magazines, and never mentions the jet-lag.

Ryoma bounces on his toes at the service line, grinning across the net. "Best of fifteen points, buchou?" There are people gathering at the fence to watch; the past year has made their faces recognisable.

"Aa." Ryoma has never given up calling him captain, Tezuka thinks. It sounds too intimate for public, but he never says anything.

There are murmurs from the fence as he serves – practice or not, Tezuka has never given Ryoma less than his best. This year they are on opposite sides of the draw; if they meet at all it will be at the final, and there are many strong players standing in the way. Tezuka is looking forward to the challenge, and he knows that Ryoma feels the same. There are high walls to climb before they can face each other, but that is far from new.

SEIGAKU SHAKE-UPS

Seishun Gakuen boys' club is adjusting to the presence of a first year on its Regular team. This month's ranking tournament caused a stir when twelve-year-old Echizen Ryoma fought his way to the top of Block D, beating second and third year Regulars Kaidoh Kaoru and Inui Sadaharu. Kaidoh-kun later beat Inui-kun to the second Regular slot in the block.

Under normal circumstances first years are not included in Seigaku's ranking tournaments. Coach Ryuuzaki Sumire refused to comment on the decision to include Echizen-kun in the ranking blocks, but Pro Tennis Monthly has learned that Echizen Ryoma's father is none other than the legendary former professional player Echizen Nanjiroh. We will all be interested to see whether the Samurai's son lives up to his potential.

Seigaku's boys' team line-up for the coming season is as follows: Captain Tezuka Kunimitsu, third year; vice-captain Oishi Shuuichiroh, third year; Fuji Shuusuke, third year; Kawamura Takashi, third year; Kikumaru Eiji, third year; Momoshiro Takeshi, second year; Kaidoh Kaoru, second year; Echizen Ryoma, first year.

"Buchou?" Ryoma is sprawled on his stomach on the bed, bare feet waving in the air as he idly flips through a tennis magazine. The glossy pages flick and whisper in his fingers; Tezuka looks up for a moment, then returns his attention to his racquet grip. The tape is familiar enough in his hands that he could do this in his sleep, but he takes care anyway, wrapping it precisely.

"What?" he asks eventually, when he is satisfied with the feel of the retaped grip in his hand.

"You've got Federer tomorrow." Ryoma rolls over, propping himself on his side and staring across the room at Tezuka. His eyes are opaque and guarded, his face a picture of careful apathy that hides nothing at all.

"Aa." Tezuka sets the racquet carefully into his bag, zipping it slowly. "I don't intend to lose." He stretches, easing the ache out of muscles cramped by three hours of watching Ryoma's semi-final match, and starts toward the bed.

Ryoma's eyes go wide, suddenly, and Tezuka freezes. It takes a moment for him to realise that his hand has crept to his left elbow, and another moment to connect that with the familiar taste of the words in his mouth. Oh, Tezuka thinks.

Ryoma is looking at him as though one or both of them may shatter. Tezuka drops his hand slowly, fingers tightening into a fist. He is not going to lose before he faces Ryoma in the final. Carefully, he rotates his shoulder, reassuring himself that the range of movement is the same as ever. There is no pain.

Tezuka closes his eyes for a moment, then takes a deep breath and sits down on the bed. Ryoma looks away from him, poking at his magazine. Tezuka recognises the English characters for his own name; he leans closer to look, and Ryoma shoves the magazine out of the way, scrambling to his knees and inching around until he can press himself to Tezuka's back, face buried in his left shoulder.

"I want to play you, buchou." The words are half-muffled, but Tezuka can feel them hot against his skin. Ryoma's hands clutch at his chest with the force of memory. There is no need for this, Tezuka thinks; he is in his best form, and it has been years since that injury has been anything but a ghost. He closes his eyes, and lets Ryoma hold him.

THE MATCH TO END ALL MATCHES

The tennis career of Seigaku's National-level captain Tezuka Kunimitsu may be on the line today after he lost to Hyoutei's Atobe Keigo in the longest tie-break ever seen in the Kantou tournament. Tezuka-kun collapsed with a shoulder injury when serving for his match point at six to five, but subsequently returned to the court to finish the game. With Tezuka hampered by his injury, Atobe took the game and the match went into twelve-point tie-break. Atobe-kun eventually won the match at thirty-seven to thirty-five, but even he appeared stunned by Tezuka's determination.

Both Seigaku and Hyoutei were determined to win this match, as only the victor could progress to the National Tournament next month. Seigaku unexpectedly took Doubles Two with a makeshift combination, but lost Doubles One to Hyoutei's Ohtori and Shishido pair. Singles Three, a power match between Seigaku's Kawamura and Hyoutei's Kabaji, was declared a no-game after both players were injured. Singles Two was won by Seigaku, with Fuji Shuusuke beating Hyoutei's Akutagawa six to one. Tezuka-kun's injury and subsequent loss made the match a tie, and the reserve players were called for.

Both schools turned out to have stunning aces up their sleeves. Hyoutei second year Hiyoshi Wakashi, however, was obviously not expecting to be facing a player of Echizen Ryoma's calibre. After exchanging words with his captain, Echizen-kun proceeded to take control of the match with brutal use of the Twist Serve, his signature Drive B, and the surprise appearance of Tezuka's Zero-Shiki Drop Shot. Hiyoshi-kun's innovative martial-arts-inspired tennis was ultimately unable to compete; Echizen took the set at six games to four, securing the victory for Seigaku.

At this point, it is uncertain whether Tezuka Kunimitsu's shoulder will heal well enough to permit his return to tennis. Ryuuzaki Sumire, Seigaku's coach, told Pro Tennis Monthly that only time would tell, but that Tezuka-kun would not be satisfied with anything less. "Seigaku's team is full of stubborn young men," Ryuuzaki-sensei said. "Everything they did today was about getting into the Nationals; none of them are going to give up."

After the inevitable round of interviews and speculations (yes, of course he is looking forward to the final. Yes, he's well acquainted with Echizen's tennis. Yes, they've known each other for some time. No, they have never faced each other in a major final), Tezuka returns to the hotel and stands under the shower for a long time, thinking about his last official match with Ryoma. When he comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a too-fluffy hotel towel and hair still damp, Ryoma is sitting in the middle of the bed.

"There you are." Ryoma slides off the bed as Tezuka crosses the room, stepping in front of him and splaying a hand across his chest. "I'm going to win, buchou." The smile on his face is pure Echizen, all cocky self-confidence and vicious glee, edging into a smirk at the corners.

"You can try." Tezuka raises an eyebrow, looking down at him impassively. Ryoma moves closer, eyes intense as he slides his hand up Tezuka's chest and around to the nape of his neck, tangling his fingers into damp hair. Tezuka does his best not to shiver, and Ryoma laughs, stretching up to kiss him.

The final is tomorrow, Tezuka thinks, opening his mouth to Ryoma's. He is still feeling the aftermath of an incredibly intense game, and they have not yet had dinner. He takes Ryoma to bed and presses kisses into the insides of his thighs until they are both shaking with need.

THE NATIONAL TOURNAMENT: DAY ONE

Seigaku Captain Tezuka Kunimitsu, who was forced to retire from the team after sustaining a serious shoulder injury in the first round of the Kantou Tournament, has completed a stunning return to form with a 6-4 victory over Higa Chuu's Kite Eishirou. Tezuka, who at first appeared disadvantaged by Kite's violent and unpredictable game, came back from four games down to take the set with a display of skill and precision that left his opponent powerless against him. His victory ensured that Seigaku will proceed to the quarter-finals with a no-loss record.

Seigaku first-year Echizen Ryoma began the match with a tie-break victory, countering Tanishi's Big Bang Serve with the Cool Drive he first employed to beat Rikkai's Sanada in the Kantou finals. Seigaku's Fuji then showed off a new counter shot in Doubles 2 before the great surprise of the day: doubles specialist Kikumaru Eiji taking Seigaku's victory in Singles 2. Seigaku's remaining two matches might almost have seemed anticlimactic, but Tezuka's game put paid to any such thoughts; even his own team-mates could barely believe their eyes.

(Full report page 6)

It doesn't take long for the match to fade into a blur of grass under his feet, sun overhead, the murmurs and applause of the crowd. The world narrows to the boundaries of the court, and Ryoma's grin across the net is the only constant. Later, Tezuka will remember that; now is for the moment, the precise smack of ball on gut that reverberates up his arm. Tezuka no longer finds it remarkable that he plays his best tennis against Ryoma.

They know each other's games as well as their own. Ryoma is the first to find the Zone, and Tezuka can see him laugh as the ball curves back to him, turning a corner smash into an easy shot. It's enough of an advantage to give Ryoma the first set, and the second rapidly descends into a battle for control. Ryoma's grin turns into a scowl and a muttered curse when he reaches the net a fraction too late to pick up the zero-shiki. Tezuka breathed deeply and serves for set point, unsurprised when Ryoma catches what should have been an ace, turning it into a lobbed return. There is an edge to his movements that speaks far louder than words; he glares when Tezuka gives him back one of his own drive volleys, mouth shaping around syllables that make Tezuka momentarily glad that they are not in Japan.

It is a warm day, and Tezuka feels the sweat running down his back as he moves to meet Ryoma's serve. The sensation blends into the familiarity of the day; this is Ryoma's tennis, and Tezuka knows that he cannot let his guard down for a second. He has never felt so exhilarated in his life.

By the end of the fourth set, Ryoma's face is intent, his eyes fixed on Tezuka. The crowd is almost silent now, the umpire's calls creating only faint ripples. Tezuka hears the familiar words but doesn't absorb them; his whole body is caught up in the game, in the stretch and burn of muscle, the arc of the ball as it curves between them, the flex and shift of Ryoma's form across the net. Tezuka feels as though he is moving through a dream; it no longer matters why they are playing this game, only that Ryoma is countering everything he has, pushing him higher with every step and shot. This is their tennis, and if they have ever had limits then Tezuka has forgotten them.

Tezuka doesn't realise he's won until the roar of the crowd strikes him like a physical blow. Ryoma is laughing as he stumbles to the net, magnetic despite sweat and exhaustion. Tezuka can feel his own limbs trembling with fatigue, but it all seems very far away. He extends his hand out of pure habit, and Ryoma's fingers slide over his with a slick shock of contact that sends tremors through his whole body. Then Ryoma's hands are on his shoulders, pulling him forward into a kiss that seems an extension of the game: hard and demanding and filled with the need and life that only exists on the court. Tezuka is responding before he can think or draw breath, and by the time the shocked hush filters into his ears Ryoma is already pulling back, the haze fading from his eyes. Tezuka cannot help but regret it, a little.

GRAND SLAM SCANDAL

The pro tennis world was rocked yesterday by an unprecedented incident at the Wimbledon Men's Singles final. At the conclusion of the match, officials and spectators alike were shocked and baffled when finalists Tezuka Kunimitsu (19) and Echizen Ryoma (17), both Japanese, abandoned the traditional handshake for an undeniably passionate kiss at the net.

"If this is a joke, it's in very poor taste," commented one spectator, who did not wish to be named. The ATP and ITF have made no official statements as yet, but a spokesman for the English Lawn Tennis Association has ruled out any question of impropriety surrounding the match itself, calling it "one of the best games ever seen on Centre Court."

Tezuka overcame a significant first-set disadvantage to take the second and third with narrow margins; Echizen fought back to take the fourth, and the match and tournament went down to a drawn-out final set. Tezuka eventually took the tournament 3-6, 7-5, 7-6 (5), 5-7, 9-7, his first Grand Slam victory since last year's US Open. He has never previously faced Echizen, who currently holds the other two Slam titles, in a major final.

Both players refused to comment on the incident to the press, neither confirming nor denying that they have a relationship beyond the courts. Their rivalry, however, goes back to middle school, where both were members of the National-winning Seigaku team, Tezuka as captain and Echizen as an extraordinarily talented first year. Two years ago, they were reunited at Seigaku High, exchanging Singles One and Two for the season and surprising no one with a reprise of their National victory. Echizen turned professional immediately after his sixteenth birthday, stunning the world by making the final of the Australian Open. Tezuka followed him after graduating high school, and narrowly beat him out of a place in the French Open semi-finals; Echizen retaliated by claiming last year's Wimbledon title after Tezuka lost to Federer in the semi-finals. With the Grand Slams divided between them, the national press has described them more than once as "the pillars of Japanese tennis."

Scandal aside, yesterday's match is unlikely to change this assessment. Both Echizen and Tezuka were on top form, playing a game that dazzled even the top pros in the crowd. The atmosphere was intoxicating and tense, as the players rendered it impossible to predict the course of the match. During the second set break, an official in the ATP booth was heard to remark that he had never seen two players so obviously enjoying a major game.

The conclusion of the match, however, has shocked everyone. Rather than exhibiting shame or disappointment, Echizen laughed out loud when Tezuka scored the final point. Both players seemed almost to be glowing as they met at the net, and the crowd fell utterly silent as their handshake turned into what can only be described as a lingering kiss. Thus far, all requests for interviews concerning the incident have been turned down.

PoT: Becoming One

Thu, 30 Mar 2006 03:14:21 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: PG-ish
Spoilers: anime ending
Notes: I wrote this weeks ago. I wasn't going to post it publically at all, but. Consider this an apology for Ache? Set just over a year after Facing Forward; title is also from Hikari no Saki.

Becoming One

Transferring responsibility for the club to a new captain is a curious feeling. Tezuka sits in the tennis office after practice, filling out the paperwork and trying to look forward rather than back. He should have no regrets, he thinks; not after this year.

The door slides open behind him with a smooth whisper, and Tezuka can hear quiet footsteps on tile. He doesn't need to turn and look.

"Echizen."

"Heh." Tezuka can see Echizen's face in his mind's eye, the amused expression that always accompanies that tone of voice. "That's buchou."

No one else would have stayed this late to wait for him, Tezuka thinks, signing his name in the space on the form. "Are you done with clearing the courts?" He squares up the papers and sets them neatly to the side of the desk, then picks up his bag.

"Aa." When he turns, Echizen is grinning up at him, hands clasped behind his head. "It's going to be Momo-senpai, right?"

Tezuka inclines his head noncommittally, heading for the door without a word. Echizen's eyes on his back are heavy with everything they've been building this past year, and Tezuka has to suppress the urge to reach out as he passes.

"Buchou."

Tezuka halts just outside the door, then turns curiously to find Echizen staring intently at him. "What is it?"

"Do you remember the clay court by Haruno University?" There's a challenge in Echizen's voice that isn't quite familiar. Tezuka frowns.

"Of course." They haven't played there since that last, explosive match three years before; all their matches since Echizen returned to Japan have been at the shrine behind his home. Belatedly, Tezuka thinks to wonder why.

"Good. Three pm tomorrow. I'll bring the balls." The words take Tezuka back to middle school with a flash, and for a moment he sees with dual vision, remembering the overwhelming need to show Echizen just how far he could go. Then Echizen smirks, eyes bright, and Tezuka is back in the present, eyes widening despite himself. "Come alone, buchou."

Tezuka watches him walk away, feeling for a moment as though the world has swayed beneath him. Echizen has come so far from the slight, prickly child he had been – and he has pulled Tezuka with him every step of the way.

Tezuka hasn't regretted a moment of it.

Echizen is waiting on the court, hitting serve after serve into the corners. His eyes light up as Tezuka arrives, transforming his face from the usual faintly sulky disinterest to something bright and compelling. Tezuka reminds himself again not to be careless, but he can't quite keep from smiling in the face of that expression.

Echizen tilts his cap back, looking up across the net. "Do you want the serve?"

Tezuka considers that for a moment. At the level they both play, it matters, but he doesn't yet know what Echizen wants from this match. "You can have it."

"Aa. Three sets, okay, buchou?" Tezuka just nods; Echizen grins at him, then pivots and walks back to the baseline. When he turns to serve, his eyes are intense and focused; Tezuka feels as though he is suddenly standing at the centre of the world. He's moving before Echizen hits the ball, narrowing his own focus down to the court, the game, the explosive skill of the boy across the net.

This is their game, Tezuka thinks with the part of his mind that isn't caught up in calculating spin and impact and balance, the tennis that only they can play. He hears Echizen laugh as he returns a vicious twist smash to the line, soft and breathless and exhilarated; the sound stirs up feelings that there is no time to think about because if he lets his guard down for a moment it will be over. Echizen is relentless, and Tezuka knows he wouldn't have it any other way.

Tezuka takes the first set seven to five, and Echizen smirks across the net before pulling off his cap and shaking his head, hair flying everywhere as he pants. Tezuka passes him a water bottle and watches beads of sweat roll down the line of his throat, disappearing into his open shirt collar as he tilts his head back to swallow.

"Thanks, buchou." Echizen wipes the back of a hand across his mouth and shoulders his racquet, already making his way back to the line. He takes the next set, and when he opens the third with the Twist Serve again Tezuka knows he has a fight on his hands. Yes, he thinks, and smiles.

It is the best match he has ever played – beyond the last time on this court, beyond his first National final, beyond last summer in the States. Tezuka loses himself completely in the game, forcing himself past thought and calculation and ebbing energy into the instinctual space where his body reacts without thought and there is nothing in the world but the court and the net and Echizen. It feels like flying.

When the zero-shiki finally settles into the net like a sigh, Tezuka can no longer tell who hit it and it doesn't matter. There is only Echizen, stumbling to the net to meet him with more need in his eyes than Tezuka has ever seen.

Handshakes are the last thing on Tezuka's mind. Echizen's fingers twist white and bloodless in the front of his shirt, pulling him down, and then their mouths are meeting hot and breathy and urgent.

The kiss is clumsy and desperate. Echizen is making choked-off, throaty sounds, and Tezuka feels as though he is drowning, starving, burning to ashes. Echizen sways against him, gasping for breath, and Tezuka wraps both arms tight around him, tugging him closer and deepening the kiss. Their tongues meet and slide together, and Echizen arches his back, hands sliding possessively across Tezuka's shoulders and making him shudder with more than stretched muscles or exhaustion.

By the time Echizen finally pulls back, eyes dilated and mouth bruised red, Tezuka has lost all track of time. He's faintly surprised to see that the sun has almost set, the court lights bright white and glaring in his peripheral vision, but most of him is caught up in the sensation of Echizen's hands still on his shoulders. Echizen – Ryoma, Tezuka thinks – is looking at him as though he is the only thing in the world.

"Buchou…"

The word cracks in Ryoma's mouth, full of wonder and need, and Tezuka cannot find a reason to stop himself from smiling. He lifts a hand, threading his fingers slowly through Ryoma's damp hair; they are both still sticky with drying sweat, and the air is beginning to chill. Ryoma smiles up at him and leans into his hand.

"Let's go somewhere else, buchou. The net's in the way."

PoT: Ache

Thu, 30 Mar 2006 03:12:55 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairings: Tezuka/Ryoma, background GP
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: vague, anime 68/Genius 151
Warnings: angst, death
Notes: I am so sorry :((((( The soundtrack/background music/whatever for this is The Drugs Don't Work and Hold On, if you like. Set a good twelve years post-canon. I will be hiding in the corner and bawling if anyone wants to kill me.

Ache

The night before the semi-finals, Tezuka is woken at three forty AM by the phone. Still half asleep, he fumbles at the unfamiliar hotel nightstand and almost knocks the lamp over before he locates the buzzing handset and manages to flip it open.

"Yes?" is about all he can manage. There is a very limited number of people who could be calling at this hour.

"Buchou?"

Tezuka sits bolt upright, suddenly very definitely awake. Ryoma's voice is small and choked, and in the darkness Tezuka can picture his face all too easily. It has been years since buchou has been anything but a joke between them, a smile for intimate moments.

"Ryoma?" Tezuka knows he sounds worried; he picks his glasses off the nightstand right-handed and shoves them blindly onto his nose. They don't make much difference in the darkness, but Tezuka feels a little more prepared.

"It's…" Ryoma trails off, and Tezuka can hear him swallow. "Doctor Ishida says it's time."

"Ah." Tezuka doesn't need to ask for the rest; part of him has been fearing this for a while. He shoves back the covers and flips on the light, reaching for his clothing. "When?"

"Tomorrow." Ryoma turns a choke into a cough, and Tezuka feels a weight settle into his stomach. "Japan tomorrow, I mean, buchou."

"I understand." Tezuka fumbles one-handed with shirt buttons before giving up and yanking a tennis shirt over his head. He shoves his feet into his shoes without worrying about socks. "I should be able to catch a plane within a few hours."

"But – the Open?" Ryoma sounds as though it's all too much for him to think about. Tezuka closes his eyes, trying to stave off the ache behind them. Ten thousand miles have never seemed so far; all he wants to do is reach out and pull Ryoma into his arms.

"There will be other tournaments." Grand Slams aren't quite the same without Ryoma across the net, anyway. Tezuka pulls open the hotel wardrobe and begins scooping his clothing back into his bags. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Are you at home?"

"Yeah." Ryoma tries to laugh, but doesn't quite seem able to manage it. "Mom's coming over later."

"Aa." Tezuka pauses to consider. It is the middle of Saturday morning in Japan, and even if he gets a direct flight Ryoma will be alone tonight. "Call Oishi or Momoshiro if you need to. Or go back to your parents' for the night."

"Yes buchou," Ryoma mumbles. Tezuka squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think of practicalities instead of impossibilities.

"I'll call from the airport." There is nothing else he can say; Ryoma needs more than awkward, forced words right now. "I'll be there."

"Thank you –" Ryoma hangs up abruptly, but not before Tezuka can hear the sob in his voice. He stands there listening to the dial tone for a long moment before he can make himself close the phone. Then he zips up his bags and heads down to reception.

The taxi ride to the airport takes an hour or so. Tezuka calls ahead for departures information, and ends up booking a flight via London. The woman on the other end of the phone sounds too cheerful, and he feels a headache coming on. Halfway to Charles De Gaulle, he takes a deep breath and calls his manager.

"This had better be good," Hara-san mumbles in slurred English when he finally answers. Tezuka sets his shoulders.

"This is Tezuka. I apologise for the inconvenience, but I am withdrawing from the Open. Please see to the arrangements."

"What?" Hara-san almost shrieks. Tezuka winces. "But it's the semi-final – where are you?"

"On my way to the airport." Tezuka closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm needed in Japan immediately – a family emergency."

"Damn." Hara-san exhales so harshly that the phone makes a buzzing sound against Tezuka's ear. "Okay, okay. I'll deal with it – get your gear from the locker suite, too. What do you want me to tell the press? They'll be all over this."

"Family reasons." It's enough, Tezuka thinks. It's all that anyone needs to know.

At the check-in desk, he hands over his credit card and passport and sends a text message to Ryoma: Arriving Narita 08.45. I'll meet you at home. Then he calls Oishi, and prevails on his good will and friendship to arrange a lift from the airport.

Tezuka spends both flights trying to sleep, and manages only brief periods of restless half-dream. He feels cramped in the economy seat, knees pressed against the seat in front, and tries not to think about the way Ryoma always laughs at his discomfort.

Instead he thinks about Karupin. Tezuka can remember their first official meeting, Ryoma conducting careful introductions as though the fate of their relationship had hung on the cat's reaction. His face when Karupin had curled up purring in Tezuka's lap had been amusing, half satisfaction and half jealousy.

Tezuka has a wealth of such memories, portraits of Ryoma's face softened with the warmth of true smiles and laughter. He could have loved Karupin for that alone, he thinks, throat tightening as he recalls the familiar sight of Ryoma curled fast asleep on the couch with an armful of white and brown fur. Over the years that they have been living together, Karupin has become far more than just Ryoma's cat. Even the constant shuffling back and forth between their apartment and the Echizen house hadn't affected his cheerful personality. Tezuka rests his hands on his knees, watching them clench slowly into fists and trying not to feel the phantom caress of a furry body winding about his ankles.

By the time the plane touches down at Narita, Tezuka is quietly exhausted and there is a rock of dread lodged in his stomach. He stops off in a concourse bathroom to splash his face with water, and when he looks into the mirror he sees a man far older than twenty-six.

Oishi is waiting at the information post, as promised. As Tezuka walks to meet him he can see his friend's face slide from faux cheer into outright worry.

"Tezuka, you look awful," Oishi blurts, hurrying towards him. "What's happened?"

"Oishi." Tezuka nods, taking a deep breath. "I need to get home as soon as possible."

"Of course – the car's this way." Oishi looks at him a moment longer, then heads off towards the doors, walking fast. "Is it Echizen?" he asks over his shoulder.

"No." Except it is, Tezuka thinks. He can't get the sound of Ryoma's choked, half-broken voice out of his head. "Karupin." It's all he needs to say, and he sees Oishi's shoulders stiffen.

"Oh no…"

"Aa." Tezuka pulls his phone out of his pocket as they exit the building, switching it back on and hitting speed dial. A polite recorded voice tells him that Ryoma's number is busy or out of service. Tezuka calls home, but by the fourth ring he knows that there will be no answer.

"Over here." Oishi ducks between two pillars and unlocks his car. Tezuka settles his bags into the back seat and climbs into the front, fumbling one-handed with the seatbelt as he dials the Echizens' number. There are half a dozen bright plastic cat charms hanging from the passenger door handle, and they rattle and clatter as Oishi starts the engine.

"Hello?" Rinko-san's voice in Tezuka's ear sounds worried and tired. He's used to hearing radio or television or raised voices in the background, but there is nothing.

"It's Tezuka."

"Ah!" There is relief in her voice, now. Tezuka closes his eyes, feeling entirely inadequate. "Ryoma – he's just left, he went to the clinic to wait…" Rinko-san trails off, and Tezuka sets his jaw, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

"I understand. I'll go straight there."

"Thank you." Rinko-san pauses, and Tezuka is about to hang up when she murmurs "He needs you, Tezuka-kun."

Tezuka clenches his fingers around the door handle, almost tightly enough to crush Kikumaru's ornaments. Oishi glances away from the road for a moment, but doesn't speak.

"I know," Tezuka manages at last, wondering how he's supposed to be strong through this. Ryoma needs him, but even sacrificing his arm to Seigaku's hopes of the Nationals hadn't ached like this.

"Aa. I'll see you later." Rinko-san's voice wobbles as she rings off, and Tezuka stares at the road ahead for a long moment before telling Oishi the address of the clinic.

When Tezuka opens the door, the receptionist looks up from her work and smiles sympathetically at him.

"Tezuka-san, good morning. Doctor Ishida is with a patient at the moment, but Echizen-san is in Room Three if you want to go through."

"Thank you." Tezuka inclines his head in a half-bow and ignores the stares of people and pets as he walks through the waiting area. Echizen Nanjiroh is sprawled over a chair in the corridor, ignoring the noise of animals and people. He nods silently in Tezuka's direction, face drawn and sober.

Tezuka opens the door slowly, heart in his throat as he tries to ready himself for this. Ryoma is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his head bent as he murmurs to the blanket-and-fur bundle in his lap. As Tezuka watches, Karupin's tail twitches once, weakly.

Ryoma looks up as Tezuka closes the door, pain and helplessness written all over his face. "Buchou?"

"I'm here." Tezuka crosses the floor and kneels down beside him, reaching out carefully to stroke Karupin's fur. The cat mews a little, barely audible, but doesn't move. Tezuka can feel the shivers under skin and fur, and after a moment he lifts his hand again and touches Ryoma's face, gently. Ryoma leans into the caress, eyes squeezing tight shut for a moment before he bends his head again, murmuring nonsense words to Karupin.

The knock on the door comes far too soon. Tezuka pushes himself to his feet as Doctor Ishida comes in, followed by Ryoma's parents and cousin. Nanako's face is tear-stained, and she clings to Rinko-san's arm.

Doctor Ishida nods to Tezuka, and comes over to check on Karupin. "Are you ready, Echizen-kun?"

Ryoma makes a muffled sound of protest, but after a moment he nods jerkily and gets to his feet, handing over his bundle as though it might shatter. Tezuka reaches out without thought, taking hold of his hand as the vet settles Karupin onto the table. After a moment, Ryoma's fingers close around his, clutching tightly enough to bruise. He doesn't say a word, but Tezuka can feel him trembling.

Karupin shudders once as Doctor Ishida administers the injection, then lies still, breathing already beginning to slow. It hadn't taken much, Tezuka thinks, bowing his head. Ryoma reaches out with his free hand to stroke Karupin's fur, making a tiny noise in his throat that might be an attempt at "Goodbye."

Afterwards, Rinko-san drives them back to their apartment in silence. Ryoma sits with his head bowed, hunched in on himself, and Tezuka keeps his eyes on their joined hands, resting on the seat between them. He thanks Rinko-san quietly when they arrive; Ryoma just looks at the ground, and stumbles up the stairs like a broken puppet.

Oishi has left his bags in the genkan, and there are fresh flowers in a vase on the table. Tezuka ignores it all, kicking out of his shoes and striding across the room to unplug the phone and pull down the blinds. Then, finally, he reaches out to tug Ryoma into his arms.

Ryoma collapses against him with a bitten-off sound, hands coming up to fist in the back of Tezuka's shirt. Tezuka closes his eyes, holding on tightly. Ryoma is shaking like the world is ending, and Tezuka knows there's nothing he can do. Even being there isn't enough, not now.

Eventually, Ryoma's body stills in his arms, his face still buried in Tezuka's shoulder. Tezuka presses a kiss into his hair, then manoeuvres them carefully into the bedroom, stretching out on the bed with Ryoma cradled against him like a child. Neither of them speak a word, and Tezuka stares at the ceiling with blurry eyes as Ryoma's breath heats the skin of his neck.

The day goes on without them. Tezuka doesn't move at all, exhaustion thick in his mind beneath the need to hold onto Ryoma. He watches the thin bars of light from the window slide across the room, and hopes that Ryoma is sleeping. The light is fading into dusk when Ryoma's breathing hitches and he begins to shudder, silent tears soaking into Tezuka's shirt. Tezuka closes his eyes against the ache and holds on tighter.

PoT: Seventeen

Thu, 30 Mar 2006 03:11:11 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairings: pre-TezuRyo, implied background Golden Pair and TakaFuji
Rating: PG
Spoilers: anime ending
Notes: For pillarchallenge: cliches 2 and 3 with an added extra from J-fandom.

Seventeen

Tezuka has long since given up trying to hide his birthday from his team-mates. Even in the busiest years, when everyone else forgets, Fuji is there to remind them that oh, isn't Tezuka's birthday coming up? Shouldn't we do something?

The ideas that they come up with get more extravagant every year. Tezuka has suffered through surprise parties, gaudily decorated tennis courts, and the kind of presents that can only be described as interesting. Last year the former Regulars had clubbed together to get him a ticket to the Japan Open, which Tezuka had appreciated very much. Coming home to find that someone had managed to bury his bed in tennis balls had been somewhat less satisfying. When he'd asked his mother what was going on, she'd taken one look through the door and fallen over laughing.

This year, Tezuka is steeling himself for the worst. Fuji has been smirking for weeks, and Kikumaru has been whispering to Momoshiro in corners. Inui has started a new notebook. During the first week of October, Tezuka feels eyes on his back everywhere he goes.

Oishi's expression has been refreshingly normal, probably because he worries too much to keep secrets. Tezuka assumes that the others haven't told him what they're planning, and is surprised when Oishi approaches him after practice on the sixth.

"Ah, Tezuka…" Oishi trails off, looking embarrassed. "Are you busy tomorrow night? We thought it would be nice to go out to Kawamura Sushi for your birthday."

A public restaurant contains very few opportunities for trouble, Tezuka thinks. Fuji is unlikely to have planned anything that might upset Kawamura. "Aa. That would be fine."

"Oh good." Oishi beams at him proudly. "We ought to celebrate your captaincy, as well – it'll be Nationals next year, ne?"

"Of course." Tezuka allows himself a smile; next year's team will most likely be made up of familiar faces. He won't allow them to aim for anything less than the best. "What time?"

"Ah, we thought seven?" Oishi glances around as if for confirmation, looking momentarily bemused as he remembers that the rest of the team are already changing in the clubhouse. The only people on the courts are the first years, sweeping and collecting balls.

"That's fine." Tezuka directs a sharp eye at Momoshiro, who is leaning on his broom instead of using it. "Please remind the others not to make trouble for Kawamura-san." It's as close as he'll come to a warning, and Oishi goes wide-eyed enough that it's obvious he's not in on any plans.

"Of course, of course."

"Good." Tezuka nods to him and moves away to supervise the clearing.

When Tezuka arrives at the restaurant, Oishi is pacing the pavement outside with his phone to his ear.

"– yes, but I don't understand why – ah, Tezuka's here!" Oishi looks momentarily guilty, then sighs and smiles. "I have to go – yes, see you shortly." He snaps the phone closed and drops it into his pocket. "Happy birthday, Tezuka."

"Thank you." Tezuka nods uncomfortably and raises an eyebrow. "Was that Kikumaru?"

"Eh? Oh no, Eiji's inside." Oishi laughs uncomfortably. "I was talking to Fuji; he'll be a little late is all."

"Ah." Tezuka knows better than to ask questions; he slides the door open and steps into the restaurant, Oishi following.

"Tezuka! Happy birthday!" Kikumaru bounds gleefully over to him, and Kawamura hurries out from behind the counter. Tezuka accepts their congratulations politely, intensely grateful that there appear to be no decorations, karaoke machines, or squealing girls this year.

"Come and sit down…" Kawamura leads the way to the back of the room, where Inui and a small group of other second and first years are sitting. Tezuka is glad to see that someone has thought to keep Momoshiro and Kaidoh separate; they are glaring at each other from opposite ends of the table.

Tezuka is about to sit down when Kikumaru pouts at him, tugging on his arm. "Tezuka, it's your birthday, nya! You have to take the best seat!"

"Ah, Eiji –" Oishi hurries forward to pry his partner off but Tezuka waves him away; letting Kikumaru pull him around to the other side of the table is easier than putting up with his protestations and sulking for the rest of the evening.

Kawamura hurries back over with a tray of cups and a smile. "Tea? Tezuka, you can order whatever you like on the house, since it's your birthday."

"Thank you," Tezuka begins, but Momoshiro interrupts, leaning over the table.

"Hey, hey, Taka-san, what about us?"

"Momo!" Oishi admonishes while Kawamura laughs, rubbing the back of his head.

"You'd eat the whole restaurant, nya," Kikumaru chimes in, bouncing over to smack Momo on the head. On Tezuka's other side, Kaidoh hisses.

"Fssh. Pay for your own food, idiot."

"Hey, you…!"

"Enough, enough!" Oishi jumps in hastily before the disagreement can turn into a fight. Tezuka sips his tea, deciding that it's probably better to ignore the whole thing. Moments later Kawamura hurries back over with a tray of sushi rolls, which is enough to distract Momoshiro entirely.

Tezuka has more or less managed to reconcile himself to the situation when the door slides open with a rattle. On the other side of Oishi, Kikumaru looks up and grins.

"Hoi, Fujiko! You're late!"

"Ah, I'm sorry." Fuji steps through the door with a smile, then pauses and looks over his shoulder. "Oh dear – wait a second…" He disappears outside again, and returns with one hand firmly wrapped around the arm of…

Tezuka cannot help but stare. Fuji is dragging Echizen into the restaurant, a task complicated by the fact that Echizen has dug his heels in and is attempting to remove ribbons from his arms and torso. There is a purple bow around his neck.

Fuji beams, pulling Echizen over to the table. "Happy birthday, Tezuka. I brought your present." Echizen slants a dark glare at him, then ruins it with a yawn.

Eventually, Tezuka manages to find his voice. "…Fuji. That's Echizen."

"Mm." Fuji smiles angelically. "He makes a good present, ne?"

"Senpai," Echizen protests, pulling his arm free and yanking at the ribbons disgustedly. "You said you wanted to surprise buchou, not give me to him." He's taller, Tezuka realises; almost as tall as Fuji, and his voice has deepened. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Echizen flushes and looks away.

"Well, I thought about having you jump out of a cake, but that would have been an awful waste." Fuji smirks as Echizen finally manages to unpick the purple bow.

Echizen mutters something inaudible, scowling at the ground. He starts a little when Momoshiro yanks off his cap and rubs his head, then breaks into a reluctant smile. Tezuka watches as the rest of the team surround their prodigal, grinning and slapping him on the back – or in Kikumaru's case jumping onto his back. He doesn't realise his face has softened out of impassivity until Fuji smirks at him.

"Maa, everyone, it's Tezuka's birthday. He should get to play with his present first, hmm?"

"Fuji!" Oishi protests, scandalised. Tezuka chokes on tea.

"Well, something like that." Fuji smiles, genuinely this time, as Kawamura hurries over.

"Che." Echizen wriggles out of the cluster of Regulars and team members, face bright red, and skirts the table to slump down next to Tezuka. "This wasn't my idea, buchou."

"I'd gathered." Strictly speaking, Tezuka isn't the captain yet, but he can't quite bring himself to protest. "It's a long way to come, just for a birthday," he observes quietly instead.

Echizen looks up at him, and Tezuka realises that his new height puts them far closer than they had been at twelve and fourteen. Echizen's eyes are still the dominant feature of his face, wide and startled. "Fuji-senpai didn't tell you? I'm coming back to Seigaku for high school, buchou."

"Ah." Fuji hadn't told him, Tezuka thinks, but none of the others seem much surprised. Words form instinctively in his throat, twenty laps, but he swallows them; Fuji is at the counter, talking with Kawamura. "It's a little early for that."

Echizen just shrugs, eyeing a plate of sushi. "My parents are coming back next week."

"I see." Tezuka slides the plate along the table, and Echizen helps himself as though he is starving.

"Thanks –" he breaks off into a yawn, eyes squeezing shut. Across the table, Momoshiro laughs.

"Oi, are you jet-lagged?"

"The time difference between New York and Tokyo is fourteen hours," Inui remarks, flipping open his notebook. "Or alternatively, ten."

"Eh?" Momo stares open-mouthed. "How can it be both?"

"Idiot," Kaidoh mutters, scowling down the table. "Depends which way you go."

"But then it's tomorrow…" Momoshiro trails off, shaking his head. Inui opens his mouth to begin what Tezuka already knows will be a long, overly-involved explanation. He tunes it out with the ease of long practice, watching Echizen eat. His eyes are low-lidded and sleepy, and when he drinks tea his throat moves slowly.

"Tezuka?" Fuji's too-amused voice brings him back to the present with a start. Tezuka blinks and tries to pretend that he hadn't just been staring.

"What?"

"You've been holding that piece of sushi in the air for the last five minutes." Fuji smiles, leaning against Kawamura's shoulder. "I see you like your present after all."

Tezuka looks down at the cucumber roll in his fingers, then up at Fuji. Suddenly, his appetite is gone. "Fuji. Twenty laps, tomorrow."

Fuji just laughs. "Tezuka, you're not the captain yet, remember?"

"I'm still the vice captain." Tezuka sets the roll back on the plate, where it's immediately swiped by Momoshiro. Echizen makes a disgruntled noise and looks up at Tezuka sleepily.

"What?"

"Nothing," Tezuka says firmly. Fuji turns his face into Kawamura's arm, shoulders shaking.

"Oh." Echizen shrugs, and rubs at his eyes. For all that he's grown, Tezuka thinks, he is still so very Echizen. When Kikumaru bounces over to ruffle his hair, he just makes a grumpy noise and bats at his senpai's hands half-heartedly. Tezuka isn't at all surprised when his head starts to sag while Oishi is expounding on the prospects for Nationals next year.

"Hoi, Ochibi's falling asleep," Kikumaru remarks in a loud whisper, slinging a careless arm around Oishi to keep his balance as he leans over to look. Inui mutters something about probabilities, and Momoshiro pokes Echizen experimentally in the arm. Echizen shifts and mutters something, and then slumps sideways onto Tezuka's shoulder with a sigh. Tezuka freezes, cup in mid-air, then carefully transfers it to his other hand while everyone is still staring.

"Oh dear." Oishi is the first to break the silence. "He really must have been tired – maybe we shouldn't have…"

"Heh." Momoshiro exchanges wide grins with Kikumaru, punctuated by the scribbling of Inui's pencil. Tezuka closes his eyes, thinks about tennis instead of the warm weight against his side, and drinks the rest of his tea. Then he sets the cup down carefully and scoops Echizen into his arms, getting to his feet. Echizen mutters and stirs but doesn't wake; after a second he turns his face into Tezuka's shirt.

"Fuji, get his shoes," Tezuka orders calmly, trying to give the impression that this is a perfectly normal situation. Echizen is heavy and solid; Tezuka wonders what it will be like to play him, now.

They walk back to the Echizen house in a cloud of whispers, Oishi making hushing noises whenever anyone gets loud or Echizen stirs. Tezuka leaves them at the corner and goes on ahead; Echizen's cousin Nanako giggles when she answers the door.

"Poor Ryoma-san; he must have been tired. Thank you for bringing him back, Tezuka-san."

"It's nothing." Tezuka hitches Echizen carefully in his arms, stepping out of his shoes. "With your permission, I'll take him upstairs."

"Of course." Nanako-san beams at them both, and Tezuka decides that he probably doesn't want to know what she's thinking. "His room is at the top of the stairs."

The stair treads creak under Tezuka's feet, and Echizen's room smells empty and un-lived-in despite the breeze from the open window. There is a single holdall on the floor by the door, and a racquet bag in a corner. Tezuka sets Echizen carefully down onto the bed and moves to close the window. When he turns back, Echizen is lying curled up on his side with both hands clutching his pillow.

Tezuka stands for a moment, watching, then sighs and pulls the blanket up around Echizen's shoulders. His hand moves without conscious thought to tuck Echizen's hair back out of his eyes; it is soft against his fingers, and Echizen's mouth tilts into a tiny smile. Tezuka takes a deep breath, composes his face, and shuts the door gently behind him as he leaves.

PoT: Rituals

Sun, 19 Mar 2006 01:21:52 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Tezuka and Ryoma, pre-slash.
Rating: PG
Notes: Manga continuity, at the end of current canon year. No spoilers. I started writing this for pillarchallenge weeks ago, so definitely missed the boat on that one. -.-;

Rituals

Being thirteen is a lot like being twelve, except that his dad has taken to making jokes about growing up. He's always harder to avoid in the winter; Ryoma scowls and retreats to his room, fingers itching for games he can't play. There's too much snow and slush on the ground.

Three days before the New Year, his mother knocks on his door with a stack of cards. Ryoma eyes them with disfavour; they are white with a design of little animal ornaments. At least it's not too girly, he thinks. Apparently he is supposed to send them to people who have 'helped' him during the past year, which his mother says means senpai and teachers. Ryoma wonders if former opponents count; the idea of thanking the Monkey King for helping him get stronger is tempting.

"Do I have to?" he asks reluctantly. It is sleeting again outside, and the nearest posting box is several streets away.

"Yes." His mother frowns at him. "I've already bought a gift for Ryuuzaki-san." It takes Ryoma a moment to realise that she's talking about the teacher, not the mousy pigtailed granddaughter.

"Che. Whatever." He takes the cards and the pen she gives him, and wonders what he's supposed to write. New Year cards have never been a fixture in his life before; in America his mother had simply required that he sign his name on the Christmas cards before she mailed them out.

"Write neatly," his mother tells him. "And use polite language." Ryoma sighs in resignation and takes the pile of little cards to his desk.

Congratulations on the new year and Thank you for your assistance get boring before he is even done with the teachers. Ryoma draws tennis balls onto the corners of the cards destined for his senpai.

He leaves Tezuka-buchou's card until last, and writes slowly.

Congratulations on the new year. Thank you for everything you have done for me. That sounds like goodbye, Ryoma thinks, but the third years will be graduating in the spring. I will work hard to keep Seigaku strong; the formal language just looks weird. Ryoma stares at his careful hiragana, dissatisfied; it's the kind of thing he's supposed to say, but it doesn't sound like him. Please play a match with me before graduation.

Ryoma signs his name, then props his chin on his folded arms, watching the card as though it might get up and hit a Twist Serve at him. Karupin jumps out of his lap, twining round his feet beneath the desk. Eventually, Ryoma picks up the pen and scrawls a decidedly informal postscript: We're going to Nationals again, buchou.

His mother is writing her own cards at the kitchen table when he comes downstairs. She looks up and smiles as Ryoma wanders to the fridge in search of juice.

"Are you done?"

"Aa." Ryoma pokes through the icebox and frowns. "Mom, there's no Ponta."

"The case is in the storeroom." His mother sets a card aside and starts on another. "It's cold enough in there; you don't need to keep putting it in the fridge."

Ryoma shrugs, and goes to retrieve himself a can. He can hear his father's raucous laughter above the sound of the TV from the living room.

"Mom?" he asks when he returns, eyeing the stack of store bags on the chair beside her. "What do you get someone for New Year?"

"Hmm?" His mother looks up at him curiously. "Usually something like traditional sweets or good sake. Why, do you want to send a present?"

Ryoma concentrates on opening his Ponta. "Not really."

Ryoma stares at the doorbell as though it might bite him. This gift-giving thing is already seeming like a bad idea; that morning his mother had made him take a box of mochi over to Ryuuzaki-sensei's house, and her granddaughter had opened the door. He'd ended up being forced to stay for tea while the girl stammered and blushed and knocked cups over. What if Tezuka-buchou invites him in? Ryoma remembers the way Momo-senpai's mother always fusses over him, and shudders.

His finger is hovering over the buzzer when the gate opens abruptly. Ryoma blinks and drops his hand hastily, feeling like he's been caught feeding Karupin from the table.

"Echizen?" Tezuka-buchou sounds startled, and Ryoma reaches up to pull down his cap before remembering that he isn't wearing it.

"Buchou. Here." He shoves the paper-wrapped box out abruptly, ducking his head and more certain than ever that this is a stupid idea. "Happy new year." It takes Ryoma a moment to realise that he'd said that in English; he looks down at his feet, feeling like an idiot. "I mean, congratulations on the new year."

"Ah." Tezuka-buchou clears his throat, and Ryoma looks up uncertainly as he accepts the gift with a polite bow. "Thank you very much." There's something in his voice that Ryoma can't quite put a finger on, but he's distracted from wondering when Tezuka holds out a paper-and-string store bag.

"Huh?" Ryoma blinks up at him, confused now. Buchou is the senpai here, so why is he giving gifts?

"For your birthday last week," Tezuka-buchou tells him quietly, his breath making clouds that fuzz the edges of his face. "And also, congratulations on the new year."

"Oh." Ryoma looks down at the gift bag, feeling suddenly warmer. "Thanks, buchou," he mutters, now vaguely ashamed of his own present; it's only green tea mochi, with a hastily scribbled note repeating his request for a match before graduation.

"I received your card," is all Tezuka says, but there is a smile behind his eyes as he looks down at Ryoma. "I'll see you at school next week."

"Yes, buchou." Ryoma watches him walk away, poised and certain even on the icy pavement. Then he looks down at the bag in his hands, and wonders whether his father will make the usual assumptions about girls.

The stores and restaurants are all still closed for the holiday. In the end, Ryoma wanders into a local park and finds a bench out of the wind; it's cold, but no one else is around to laugh at him.

Tezuka-buchou's gift is another wrapped box; Ryoma fumbles at the paper with gloved fingers, not quite willing to rip it, and isn't surprised when it turns out to be mochi again. Purple ones, in the shape of little bunches of grapes. Ryoma unties the ribbon and sniffs them gingerly, then blinks when an envelope slithers out of the wrappings to land in the snow at his feet. He scoops it up hastily, staring at the neat symbols of his name. It feels like cardboard.

Ryoma rips open the thick paper and stares at the contents. Tezuka-buchou has written Congratulations on the new year on the back of a postcard showing Sampras and Agassi shaking hands at the net. The only other words are Saturdays, three PM. Court C. Ryoma frowns, confused, and looks at the other card. It's a pass for a tennis club near the high school; Ryoma has never played there, but they have good facilities. His name is printed neatly above the membership number.

Oh, Ryoma thinks, a little stunned. He's been itching for a proper game all winter, but even in the glow of everything that they'd done last summer he'd only played two matches with buchou. It occurs to Ryoma with a strange, happy kind of surprise that maybe Tezuka regrets that too, with graduation coming up.

The idea of getting to play Tezuka-buchou every week is more than enough to make separate schools seem like nothing at all; Ryoma tucks the card safely into his pocket. When he tries one of the mochi, the familiar sweet-sharp taste makes him smile.

PoT: pointless ficbit

Wed, 15 Mar 2006 00:40:11 GMT

Fandom: PoT
Pairings: Tezuka/Ryoma, Golden Pair
Rating: PG this part
Contintuity/spoilers: Manga, none
Notes: Pointless fluff that has been sitting around in bits for ages. Same universe as Pods; expect more at some point. The entire universe is pretty much pointless fluff, and I am mostly writing it to get my hand back in, because I am sucking at everything else on my WIP list right now.

It was still dark out. Ryoma scowled, hunching into his coat. In protest at being dragged out of bed before dawn, Nanjiroh had refused to turn the heater on. The car wasn't much warmer than the frosty air outside, and Ryoma could see his breath.

"Stupid time of year for a holiday," Nanjiroh grumbled, pulling onto the Narita expressway with a blatant disregard for traffic. "Where the hell are you going anyway, brat?"

"Skiing." There was no way Ryoma was going to mention the onsen, or the idiot would invite himself along. And probably get arrested as a peeping tom. "Watch the road, old man."

"Feh." Nanjiroh swerved between two delivery vans and into the fast lane, narrowly missing a fancy-looking sports car. "Where's the fun in that? All the pretty girls in great big coats so you can't even get a good look…"

"Che. Not everyone's a pervert like you." Ryoma winced as the old man cut off another truck. "Watch where you're driving before you get us killed, idiot."

"The sooner I get rid of you, the sooner I can go home. Besides," Nanjiroh grinned evilly, "you can't tell me you're not taking your girlfriend – ah, I remember when I was your age…"

Ryoma scowled. "I don't have a girlfriend, old man."

"Oh, she's shy?" His father leered at him, winking. "I bet she's pretty, too. You should bring her for tea, young man."

"Pervert. I don't have a girlfriend." Ryoma scrubbed condensation off the car window, peering out at the signs that flashed by in the foggy yellow street lights. At least they weren't late; he'd dragged Nanjiroh out early on purpose, and with the way the idiot was driving they'd actually be early if they didn't get arrested. He'd still rather his mother had driven, but she had an important meeting later.

"Riiight, and you're really going skiing with your tennis team in Valentine Week." Nanjiroh snorted, cutting across two lanes of traffic with a swerve that made Ryoma clutch at the edge of his seat.

"So?" Actually, Ryoma quite liked the idea of being able to avoid the fangirls this year. They always made too much noise, squealing and stammering and crying at him as though he was supposed to find their blotchy faces and streaming eyes attractive. The only one who'd complained about missing it had been Momo-senpai, and only because he usually ended up with half of everyone else's chocolate as well.

"Ah, well – if any of your little admirers call at the house I'll just have to console them." Nanjiroh grinned, stroking his chin and staring into space. "Hehehe…"

"Don't even think about it." Ryoma rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to smack the idiot over the head. The old man might deserve to end up in jail for sexual harassment, but not while there was no one else around to keep an eye on Karupin.

Nanjiroh took the corner into the terminal with a squeal of brakes. "All right, where the hell is it?" At such an early hour, there were only a few people pushing baggage carts across the car park. Nanjiroh muttered curses at them, slowing to a crawl as he peered through the windscreen.

"Over there." Ryoma pointed to the spill of light around the main doors, smirking to himself as a tall, solitary figure caught his eye.

"Right!" Nanjiroh slammed on the brakes, throwing Ryoma forward into the dashboard. "Come on, brat, get out of here before I freeze to death."

"Ow." Ryoma rubbed his head, glaring at his father as he unfastened his seatbelt. "It was your stupid idea to leave the heat off."

"Whatever, whatever." Nanjiroh wrenched the handbrake on and flung himself halfway into the back seat as Ryoma stepped out into the foggy morning. "Here!" Ryoma just had time to catch his luggage, and then the door slammed shut and his father sped away.

"…stupid old man." Ryoma scowled, shouldering his bag and watching the car careen around a corner and out of sight. Good thing his mother knew where they were staying, and when to pick him up. "Che."

"Good morning." Tezuka-buchou was standing in the corner made by two frosted glass windows, out of the way of the ragged stream of people going in and out of the terminal doors. The light outlined the bulky coat he was wearing, streaming around him and glinting pale-gold off his hair and glasses.

"Hey." Ryoma grinned, stepping right into buchou's personal space and stretching up to snatch a kiss. Tezuka tasted of mint and tea and familiarity, and Ryoma pressed instinctively closer, trying to burrow through the impersonal, padded chill of their winter clothes. Too insulated, Ryoma decided, but it was way too icy to strip off his coat and any number of senpai could arrive without warning. He had no intention of putting himself in the way of more teasing than he already got. "Did you miss me?"

Tezuka-buchou gave him the usual unimpressed look, but Ryoma could see the smile hiding in the corners of his eyes. "I saw you last night."

"Aa, I remember." Ryoma smiled, reaching out to grab hold of one gloved hand. They'd played at the indoor courts, then sat in the bus shelter kissing until Ryoma had lost all track of time. Three buses had gone past, and Tezuka's glasses had fogged up so badly Ryoma had taken them off him.

"Hoi, are we early?" Kikumaru-senpai bounced up out of nowhere, sodium and floodlights turning his white cat-eared hat dirty grey. Ryoma scowled, feeling Tezuka's start through their joined hands, and let go hastily after one last squeeze. The plane would be small, he reassured himself; maybe no one would notice if he held buchou's hand during the flight. This whole boyfriend thing was still new and weird, but Ryoma had already discovered an increasing dislike for separation. Looking at Tezuka was fun, but touching him was better.

"Ah, good morning!" Oishi-senpai hurried up, grabbing hold of Kikumaru-senpai before he could launch himself at Ryoma. "Eiji, don't jump on Echizen again…"

Ryoma sighed in relief, then dodged just a little too late as Kikumaru-senpai snatched off his cap and ruffled his hair with an enthusiastic hand. "Eh, Ochibi, aren't your ears cold, nya?"

"Not really." Ryoma grabbed for his cap, scowling as Kikumaru-senpai held it up out of his reach. "No fair, senpai. Give it back."

"Here." Tezuka retrieved the cap neatly, handing it over. Ryoma shoved it back onto his head, flashing a quick grin while Oishi-senpai was occupied with scolding his partner.

"Thanks, buchou."

PoT: Facing Forward

Tue, 28 Feb 2006 00:23:29 GMT

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.

Fri, 24 Feb 2006 01:36:26 GMT

Random screencap not-quite-recap of parts of Senbatsu over at real journal. Unlocked for the moment, because there are a bunch of people I need to get around to adding one of these days.

PoT: Gravitation

Mon, 20 Feb 2006 22:12:30 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: TezuRyo
Rating: PG
Notes: Crack. Of the 'what happens when you get two opposing Tezuka Zones' variety. Because askdfgl 301 *_* No specific spoilers, though.

Gravitation

Ryoma was the first to notice, as always. It took another few balls before the murmuring began at the fence, "Is that…?" and "There it is." Maybe it was harder to see when you weren't the one facing it, having your shots pulled back to buchou's racquet when they should have been hitting the corner of the baseline. Senpai-tachi weren't blind.

Ryoma narrowed his eyes, focusing on the spin of the ball. Time to remind buchou – remind everyone – that he could do this too. Besides, he wanted to see if it was possible to take over the control of the Zone rather than just breaking through. It wasn't like he was going to get a better opportunity…

Annoyingly, it was harder than Ryoma had anticipated. It took two games for him to find the right balance between top and backspin, to realise that he was going to have to wrench back control of the ball with every stroke. Tezuka-buchou was good, but the way his eyes widened in interest as the first ball curved back into the sweet spot of Ryoma's racquet was better. Ryoma risked a grin, fixing his eyes on the ball.

"Echizen!" Oishi-senpai's worried voice almost startled him out of his concentration. "Be careful – we don't know what might happen!"

Ryoma scowled. He was going to win was what was going to happen. If he could just break buchou's hold on the game… He took a step forward, readjusting his position.

A loud, distracting argument was going on at the fence. Kikumaru-senpai was scoffing, and Momo-senpai was demanding to know what could possibly go wrong.

"There is no data on the effects of two opposing Zones. The outcome is unknown, but given the power of the technique…" Inui-senpai trailed off into muttering, and Ryoma took another step forward. For some reason Tezuka-buchou seemed a lot closer all of a sudden.

By the time he realised what was happening it was too late. Ryoma's eyes widened as his feet began to move on their own, propelling him towards the net. It was as though something had hold of his body and was pulling him inexorably forward with every ball. Instinctively, Ryoma dug in his heels, trying to resist the tug; he could see Tezuka-buchou doing the same on the other side of the net, but it didn't seem to be working. If this didn't stop soon they were going to smack right into each other, and buchou's face was already…

Oh.

Ryoma blinked, trying to adjust to this new position. He wasn't being pulled any more, but his face was buried in Tezuka-buchou's chest, their bodies pressed so tightly together that the net cord was an uncomfortable presence between them.

This was different. Ryoma tipped his head back, frowning up at Tezuka. "Did you know it was going to do that, buchou?"

Buchou was definitely looking exasperated, but there was something else hovering in the corners of his eyes that Ryoma couldn't read. "No one has tried this before."

"Oh." Ryoma was becoming uncomfortably aware that his arms had wrapped themselves around Tezuka's waist. Buchou's racquet arm was a warm weight across his shoulder-blades. "Can you let go?"

"No." Tezuka squeezed his eyes shut with the same long-suffering sigh that always greeted the weirder events of tennis club, looking as though he was developing a headache. Belatedly, Ryoma realised that senpai-tachi and the non-Regulars were still watching from the fence, a mass of gaping jaws in his peripheral vision. Almost immediately his body seemed to catch up with the situation, his face heating as though he might spontaneously combust. Instinctively, Ryoma tried to duck his head, ending up with his face buried in Tezuka-buchou's shoulder. Momo-senpai was going to laugh at him for weeks, and if his dad ever got hold of the story…

"Oishi." Tezuka sounded like he was about to assign laps to everyone who so much as looked at them. That was something of a comfort; maybe if he glared enough then Ryoma wouldn't have to be subjected to humiliation at the hands of his caring senpai. "Please assist us."

"E-eh?" Oishi-senpai sounded like he'd swallowed a live fish. Ryoma took a deep breath, part of his mind absently pointing out that buchou smelled nice, clean sweat and rain and autumn.

"We're stuck, senpai. Do something."

It took a good ten minutes to pry them apart, and Tezuka's expression got darker and darker with every unhelpful suggestion and smothered laugh. Ryoma scowled; they were close enough that the tension in buchou was making him uncomfortable too. Why did stupid things always have to happen to him?

In the end it was Fuji-senpai's suggestion that did the trick; once their racquets had been prised out of their hands, whatever force had been holding them together seemed to snap out of existence. Ryoma breathed a sigh of relief and took a hasty step back, flexing his arms to ensure that they were back under his control. Tezuka-buchou looked like he needed an aspirin.

"Heeeh." Momo-senpai dropped a heavy hand onto Ryoma's head, ruffling his hair. "That was interesting, huh?"

Inui-senpai was scribbling in his notebook. "It appears that two opposing Zones exert a strong force of attraction, similar to a gravitational pull… or possibly they attempt to merge… results are inconvenient to the players…"

Ryoma scowled, scooping his cap off the ground and cramming it onto his head so that he wouldn't have to look at buchou. Part of him was uncomfortably aware that it might have been a lot more interesting if no one had been watching. "Mada mada dane."

Ryoma kept his eyes fixed on his shoes as they met at the net. A week since what everyone was calling the Zone Incident, and it felt like his eyes were just as drawn to Tezuka-buchou as his body had been. His fingers itched to reach out and…

"Echizen?" Tezuka sounded concerned; Ryoma blinked, wondering if he'd missed something, and looked up hastily.

Every time their eyes met, it felt as though he was being tugged forward again, helpless in the grip of whatever had pulled them together. Ryoma swallowed, mesmerised, part of him aware that he was leaning forward and up…

Tezuka's mouth on his was hot and sweet and not-quite-controlled. Ryoma choked on a ragged sound, pressing urgently forward into the kiss as buchou's arms wrapped tight around him. The rest of the world faded away, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable at all.

"Whoa." Eiji was staring at something past him; Oishi blinked, then turned with a sinking feeling to see Tezuka and Echizen locked together over the net again.

"Oh…"

"That's intense, nya." Eiji was staring in a way that Oishi was sure was rude, but he couldn't quite bring himself to look away either. This was definitely a step up from last week. Sighing in resignation, he set his racquet back onto the bench.

"Come on – we should unstick them, quickly." Before they died of embarrassment, or possibly asphyxiation. Oh, Tezuka was not going to be happy at all; what had possessed Echizen to try the Zone again…?

"But Oishi." Eiji caught hold of his arm, tugging him back when he would have moved forward to deal with this new crisis. "They haven't started playing yet…"

PoT: Revolutions

Fri, 17 Feb 2006 03:02:45 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: hints of Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: PG
Continuity: Manga, no spoilers
Notes: Short and pointless.

Revolutions

This growing up thing is complicated. Ryoma doesn't get it at all; it's like trying to play a match in the middle of an earthquake, or underwater. Everything has changed, is changing constantly, and no one has given him a map. Even his own body betrays him; his voice cracks and jumps pitch, his limbs feel too long and his shirts too tight across the shoulders. Tennis becomes complicated by the need to readjust his stroke to his growing body, and Momo-senpai laughs at him.

His father seems complicit in the whole thing. He laughs, too, when Ryoma stumbles over his own feet or hits out by accident, and talks about girls in an annoyingly suggestive tone of voice. Ryoma feels like smacking a tennis ball into the old man's face, which is a stupid thing to be comfortable about even if it is familiar. When he stomps out of the court in frustration his father smirks and offers to lend him magazines for 'stress relief.'

Ryoma isn't stupid; he knows what Nanjiroh means. His dreams have become increasingly explicit and intense, although he rarely remembers much, and morning embarrassment is now a matter of course. His mother never mentions the extra laundry loads, but his father grins at him over the breakfast table and makes sure to ask whether he slept well.

Girls huddle in the school hallways, giggling and looking at him from the corners of their eyes. Ryoma finds this just as incomprehensible as everything else girls do, and just as easy to ignore. Bewilderingly, the other boys in his class seem to talk of nothing else. It's as though they're all turning into his dad, as though everyone is waiting for him to stop yawning his way out of uninteresting conversations about Keiko-chan in 2-5 and become another miniature Nanjiroh.

It's all too weird for Ryoma. He takes refuge on the tennis court, but even there things are no longer as simple as they used to be. It's too easy, now, to be distracted by the push and jostle of bodies in the locker room, the stretch and flex of muscles in practice and games. Ryoma feels as though he has only half the puzzle, as though he is playing with an invisible ball against an opponent he cannot see. Even his senpai are different now, teasing him about his growth and about the girls who crowd up against the fences at tournaments and shriek when he scores a point.

Saturday afternoon, Ryoma ducks out of practice early and trudges across the residential neighbourhood to loiter outside the high school gates. He tugs his cap down to cover his face, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets and trying to pretend he isn't eager. High school students wander past in noisy groups, chattering and laughing about incomprehensible things. Ryoma shoves his shoulders into the brickwork and stares at his feet, feeling stupidly out of place.

He never has to wait long. Maybe Ryuuzaki-sensei telephones or something, because Tezuka-buchou never seems surprised to find Ryoma waiting for him at the gate. He's not buchou any more, really; Ryoma thinks that maybe he's supposed to call him Tezuka-senpai or something, but it's hard to remember and when he tries it feels wrong. The world could be turned on it's head, and Tezuka-buchou would still be calm and authoritative and reassuring.

They walk down the street to the park courts in silence. Ryoma feels tension seeping out of his shoulders at the proximity; Tezuka-buchou at least is the same as always. Somehow, that makes all the confusing new thoughts less overwhelming, and Ryoma can ignore the clasped hands of the couples they pass by concentrating on the warm feeling of buchou walking beside him. Absently, he wonders what it might feel like to reach out and take hold of Tezuka-buchou's hand. Then he wonders whether he will be able to break the Zone today, and if it will make a difference.

PoT: undone

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 02:06:18 GMT

Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Genderswitch!Fujicest - Fujiko/Yuuko
Rating: PG13ish, R on the very outside
Warning: genderswitch, yuri, incest
Notes: ...I wrote girl!Fujicest. I am likely to write more, because there is not enough girlsmut in this fandom, and Fujiko and Yuuko are strangely hot.

undone

Yuuko eyed the wrapped package suspiciously. "You already gave me a present, aneki. Remember?"

"Aa, but this is your sixteenth birthday, Yuuko. It's special; you're a woman now." The gleam in Fujiko's eyes was most definitely not reassuring. Neither was the way she had bodily dragged Yuuko into her bedroom to give her this 'special' gift.

"Why couldn't you have given it to me earlier, then?" Yuuko demanded, backing away instinctively as her sister pushed the package towards her.

"I wouldn't want you to be embarrassed," Fujiko murmured complacently, smiling the secretive smile that only ever seemed to appear around her sister. "Besides, some things should be just for us, hmm?"

Yuuko swallowed as the backs of her knees hit the edge of Fujiko's bed, leaving her with no escape. Why did aneki always have to tease? The new tennis dress that had been her not-special present had been very nice, so why couldn't Fujiko have left it at that? Certain that she was about to be utterly humiliated, Yuuko slumped down onto the bed with bad grace and accepted the package gingerly. It felt soft, like fabric, and crinkled with layers of tissue paper.

"Why did you have to get it, if it's embarrassing?" she asked, poking nervously at the neat bow of ribbon. Fujiko didn't answer; Yuuko looked up curiously and found her sister's eyes fixed on her chest where the neckline of her slightly-too-small top cut across her breasts.

"Aneki!" Yuuko flushed bright red, tugging the top up as far as she could. She sometimes forgot just how much she'd grown in the last couple of years; all the clothes she kept at home had been bought a couple of bra sizes ago.

"Aa, sorry Yuuko." Aneki smiled unrepentantly and sat down beside her, fingers creeping over to pat Yuuko's thigh. Yuuko twitched. "Aren't you going to open it?"

As dearly as she would have loved to say "no," Yuuko couldn't quite manage it. Taking a deep breath and trying to steel herself for whatever embarrassment aneki had perpetrated this time, she pulled at the ends of the ribbon, unravelling the bow. It slipped free with a hissed whisper, and Yuuko picked unenthusiastically at the tape that secured the tissue paper. Fujiko's fingers were stroking along the outside seam of her jeans, most emphatically not the kind of distraction that Yuuko wanted.

The tissue paper rustled warningly under her fingers. Yuuko pushed the final layer aside, and felt her eyes threaten to fall out of her head – aneki had given her underwear. Not the sensible everyday kind of underwear that their mother sometimes bought for her, or even a sports bra to stop her aching after tennis practice; this was all slippery silk and bronze lace, the kind of underwear that… that…

"Aneki!" Yuuko choked out, scandalised and fingers shaking as she poked at the – lingerie was what it was, there was no other word, and it wasn't the kind of thing you were supposed to give your sister! It was soft, though, and… "Aneki, how do you know my sizes?!" Yuuko all but shrieked, jerking away as Fujiko's fingers crept up across her hip. This was really, really disturbing, and worst of all was the thought that kept coming back: the scraps of silk and lace might be embarrassing but they were really pretty.

"What kind of sister would I be if I didn't know something like that?" Fujiko smiled, and traced a finger across Yuuko's ribs before she could wrench away, following the line of her underwire. And okay, maybe there were more disturbing things than being given sexy underwear by her sister, even if that was a garter belt, because Fujiko's hands had been feeling far too good for months now and Yuuko couldn't quite repress a shiver at the touch.

"A normal one!" Yuuko slapped ineffectually at her sister's wandering hand, then had to clutch at the mess of tissue paper and fabric as it threatened to slide off her lap. It really was very pretty, she grudgingly admitted – smooth gauzy silk and lace in a coppery shade of bronze that Yuuko knew was one of her best colours. There were ribbon bows instead of straps and fastenings, and there was something about that…

"Saa." Fujiko smiled at her in that way again, derailing her train of thought. "Go and try them on for me, Yuuko."

"What?" Yuuko squeaked, suddenly feeling very much like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Fujiko just smiled innocently and squeezed her thigh.

"Well, I need to make sure they fit properly."

"Aneki! You're not – I can't…" Yuuko spluttered to a halt, certain that she must be tomato red all over. The thought of her sister seeing her in this was just interesting enough to be utterly horrifying.

Fujiko cocked her head, smiling as quizzically as though she wasn't suggesting obscene things. Maybe she wasn't, Yuuko thought with a flash of guilt; maybe aneki was being totally innocent and it was all her. And maybe pigs would be flying past the window tomorrow, because Fujiko was smirking as her eyes flickered back down to Yuuko's cleavage.

"I'll show you mine, if you want…" Her hands went to the buttons of her shirt, and the shiver of interest that went through Yuuko at that was the most disturbing thing that had happened all day.

"All right!" Yuuko blurted, squeezing her eyes tight shut as tissue paper crinkled between her fingers. "I'll just go and – I'll just go…" Clutching her special present, she fled to the dubious safety of her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Maybe she could get away with a bathrobe over the top…

The stockings were easy enough to get into, but the garter belt was something else. Yuuko was still trying to work out how to adjust the clasps when Fujiko knocked on the door.

"Yuuko-chan? Are you ready?"

Yuuko scowled. "Don't call me that!" It was easier to get angry about nicknames than to think about the kind of things she might be ready for. Swallowing, she tugged the last ribbon tight and peered dubiously into the mirror. As far as she could see, she didn't look like herself at all. This kind of underwear was for girls like Mizuki-senpai – girls who could pronounce complicated foreign words and eat bitter dark chocolates that came in expensive boxes. Yuuko was a candy and cookie-dough ice cream girl, and sophisticated really wasn't in her vocabulary.

"Yuuko?" Fujiko poked her head around the door without bothering to ask permission.

Yuuko squawked indelicately and snatched the blanket off her bed to try and cover herself. "Aneki! Don't look!"

"Why not?" Fujiko eeled bonelessly around the door, pushing it closed behind her. Yuuko thought she could hear the click of the lock, but more worrying was the fact that aneki was suddenly wearing a yukata. She'd been dressed ten minutes ago!

"You don't need to! It all fits!" Yuuko backed away, clutching her blanket to herself the way she had as a child.

"Of course." Fujiko smiled, and Yuuko remembered that her sister knew her sizes. "Give me the blanket, Yuuko."

There was nowhere to run. Yuuko swallowed – aneki was using that soft, throaty tone of voice again, the one that made her knees wobbly – and let Fujiko tug the scant protection of her blanket out of her hands.

There was silence for so long that Yuuko eventually had to crack an eye open. Fujiko was staring as though she was hungry, eyes wide and blue and lips parted. Yuuko twitched as her sister's gaze travelled from her breasts to her hips and back – slowly.

"Aneki?" she quavered, fumbling for something to do with her hands. If she crossed them in front aneki would laugh at her, and putting them behind her would just make her chest stick out. More.

"Hmm?" Fujiko sounded miles away; she didn't look up.

"My face is up here," Yuuko mumbled, sure she was bright red. To her amazement, aneki blushed too – well, her cheekbones went a little pink, and that probably counted.

"Aa, sorry Yuuko." Fujiko smiled at her, reaching out to touch the loose silk bow at the top of Yuuko's bra cup. Yuuko tried not to flinch as the smile turned into a smirk. "Well, then…" Fujiko began undoing the tie of her yukata, fingers sure and elegant on the knots.

Yuuko gaped. "W-what are you doing?" Belatedly, she remembered that aneki had locked the door; there was nowhere to run to, and as much as she would have liked to crawl into her closet and hide it was even odds that her sister would follow her in.

"I promised, remember?" Fujiko took hold of the edges of her robe, watching Yuuko's face as she toyed with the thin cotton material. For a horrified moment Yuuko wondered whether her sister was contemplating a striptease… then Fujiko shrugged, sliding the yukata off her shoulders to pool at her feet.

Yuuko didn't notice. Aneki was – she was wearing a loose, silvery-grey sort of camisole thing that was so fine that Yuuko could see her… it was almost see-through!

"Yuuko?" Aneki's amused voice seemed to come from very far away. Yuuko swallowed and tried to think pure thoughts. It was difficult, with aneki looking so… so…

"Huh?"

"My face is up here."

Yuuko's head jerked up involuntarily. She was going to spontaneously combust, and it was a good thing because then she wouldn't have to look at the amusement in aneki's eyes. Desperately, she groped for something to say.

"Ah – why are all the fasteners ribbons?" Yuuko fiddled with one of her bows nervously, trying to tighten it. The way aneki was looking at her made her feel as though being naked might actually be a relief, and that was a bad thought!

"Hmm?" Aneki smirked at her again, stepping closer and running one fingertip across Yuuko's shoulder, along the line of her bra strap. Yuuko shivered. "Isn't it obvious?"

It wasn't at all; Yuuko shook her head mutely, wanting to back away. Aneki was so close now that her breath made patches of Yuuko's skin heat and tingle. Any closer and they'd be…

Fujiko smiled up into her eyes, fingers finding the ends of Yuuko's ribbons. "So I can undo them, of course."

PoT: Breaking Orbit

Sat, 28 Jan 2006 23:18:35 GMT

first half of the story

Atobe's Hametsu e no Rondo is much stronger than he remembers. Kunimitsu blocks automatically, twisting the racquet to absorb the force of the smash and returning it to the right corner. With every step he takes across this court, every ball he returns, he can feel memory sliding across his skin, through his bones. The memory of effort and determination and focused desperation, and twining through all of it the memory of pain.

Kunimitsu sets his jaw and takes another point, aware of the familiar intensity of Atobe's eyes on him. He has to force himself to lift his arm and serve, unable to escape the feeling that he is playing on borrowed time. Atobe takes the point, and his face twists into a smirk; they are rapidly approaching break point. Kunimitsu takes a deep breath and thinks very deliberately of Seigaku, surprising even himself with the speed of his return ace. Another memory floats to the forefront of his mind as the umpire calls the score: I'll take it from you. I'll take Seigaku's pillar from your hands. And Echizen's face, resolute with the anticipation and determination that had laced the words.

Kunimitsu tightens his grip on his racquet and stares straight ahead across the net, looking into the past. It has been years since his first match against Atobe; this is the Tokyo final and the pain is only memory. He has long since surpassed those limits. Atobe takes the set with a smirk over the net, but Kunimitsu allows himself to smile as he walks back to the bench.

The rest of the team alternates between worried silence and falsely-cheerful encouragement during the break between sets. Tezuka-buchou doesn't say a word, but the expression on his face is calm and determined. Ryoma sits beside him and stares out at the court while the Hyoutei supporters chant for the Monkey King. They are a pocket of silence amidst all the noise from outside the court, and the air feels heavy with anticipation. Ryoma wants to say something, but all the words in his mind feel stupid and pointless so he just breathes out slowly as Tezuka walks away from him for the second set.

For the first few balls it seems as though Atobe has the upper hand still, riding on the momentum of the first set. He takes the first two points, but his third return seems to curve in a perfect arc back to Tezuka's racquet. Ryoma grins, watching the way buchou pivots neatly, slicing the ball into Atobe's dead corner. It takes another three points before he hears the murmurs begin behind him, and it goes without saying that all three are Tezuka's. Atobe looks sulkily infuriated as the umpire calls the score, and pulls out an ace for his own service game. Tezuka catches the second ball, though, as if he has been anticipating it; it curves thin over the net and hits right on the line. Ryoma sits up, pushing his cap back; that's one he hasn't seen before.

Atobe fights hard, but Tezuka-buchou is picking up momentum. The second set turns into a fight over the Zone, with Atobe trying to vary the spin of the ball enough to break Tezuka's control, and pulling out as many vicious serves as he can to win back points. Tezuka stands like a rock through everything that Atobe can throw at him, eyes fixed on the ball and body flexing and pivoting around a single point as though he is the centre of gravity on-court. Ryoma feels his eyes constantly drawn back to Tezuka-buchou with every graceful arc of muscle and bone, and his breath catches as the zero-shiki rolls back to touch the net and take the second set.

There is no longer anything in this game to recall the last. Ryoma grins in pure relief, listening with half an ear to the cheers of the other Regulars from the fence behind him. Tezuka-buchou passes Atobe on his way to the bench, and Ryoma can hear the lazy drawl of the Monkey King's voice, the words too low to make out. He doesn't understand why he feels so stupidly pleased when Tezuka-buchou's expression doesn't change, but Atobe's scowl is enough to make Ryoma throw a smirk in his direction.

Watching the third set is like finally laying ghosts to rest. Ryoma keeps his eyes on the ball, feeling every impact shuddering through his own bones as Tezuka takes point after point after game. Even when Atobe breaks through the Zone it seems as though there is nothing he can do, no shot he can hit that Tezuka cannot throw back at him. Tezuka is burning, and Ryoma cannot look away. Confused and conflicting feelings knot in his chest, crushing his breath and tangling his fingers into bloodless white-knuckled fists; he wants to run, he wants to fly, he wants things he cannot even name and he wants to be facing Tezuka-buchou on that court right now.

He's so caught up in the game that match point comes as a shock. Ryoma stares at the satisfaction in Tezuka's eyes as he walks back to the bench, and unaccountably finds himself flushing. "Here," he mutters, ducking his head and handing over towel and water bottle. Even without contact he can feel the heat of buchou's skin, and he's relieved when the rest of the team piles into the court in a wave of congratulations. Even still, Ryoma is conscious that Fuji-senpai's eyes are laughing at him again.

"Eiji, is that a new necklace?" Fuji-senpai has a peculiar gleam in his eye that matches his mood of the week, strangely subdued but sparking with vicious amusement beneath the surface.

"Eh?! Ah…" Kikumaru-senpai clutches at his throat, so busy staring at Fuji that he trips over his own feet and has to snatch at Ryoma's shoulder to catch himself. "Sorry, sorry Ochibi!"

"Che." Ryoma ducks his head, reaching forward to stretch first one shoulder and then the other. The ring that Kikumaru-senpai is wearing on a chain around his neck is none of his business; absently he wonders why Fuji-senpai is so interested, anyway.

"Hey Echizen!" Momo-senpai yells from the fence, waving a shopping bag wildly over his head. "Wanna come help me carry stuff?" Ryoma blinks, then grins; doing the club shopping is a good excuse to stop off for burgers, and with the Kantou tournament less than a fortnight away every practice seems longer and more intense than the last. He's surprised when Fuji-senpai steps in front of him.

"Momo, do you mind if I come instead? I need to get some things for Yuuta…"

"Ah… sure!" Momo-senpai grins worriedly, rubbing the back of his head, then shrugs. Fuji gives Ryoma an amused look as he leaves the court, and Ryoma sighs, dumping his racquet onto the bench so that he can begin his leg stretches. Kikumaru-senpai at least looks relieved; he attaches himself to Oishi-senpai like a limpet and seems set to stay that way for the rest of practice.

Ryoma's almost done with his warm-ups when a familiar shadow falls over him.

"Where's Fuji?" Tezuka-buchou is frowning, and Ryoma realises that everyone else is already at the nets for practice matches. Everyone else has warm-up partners, he thinks sourly, or at least partners who haven't abandoned them.

"He went with Momo-senpai." Ryoma rises fluidly to his feet, pushing his arms over his head and feeling the easy stretch of muscle.

"Ah." Tezuka-buchou narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything, and Ryoma wanders off to pick up his racquet, absently bouncing a ball in one hand. When he returns to the court Tezuka is in the middle of stretches and Inui-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai are playing a practice match against the Golden Pair.

Ryoma's eyes are drawn to the sharp, defined curve of Tezuka's back as he bends over his own legs, stretching. Without quite knowing how it happens, he finds himself with his hands on buchou's shoulders, leaning over him to push forward and down.

"Echizen?" Tezuka-buchou sounds startled; Ryoma feels the muscles jump under his fingers and wonders why.

"It's easier with two people," he mutters, glad that Tezuka can't see the way his skin is heating. He can feel buchou's body under his even though they are barely touching, and Ryoma realises in a distant, belated kind of way that this is the first time they have ever been this close. He runs through the rest of the familiar exercises on autopilot, head filled with confused half-thoughts that all add up to one inescapable conclusion: he likes being close to buchou. As Tezuka walks away from him to give orders for practice, Ryoma curls his fingers into fists as though he can hold onto the feel of Tezuka this way, solid and warm and alive in his hands.

When he gets home, much later than usual, Ryoma abandons homework and wanders out to hit balls against the temple wall, trying to lose himself in the repetitive thwack of ball on gut and brick. He's caught up in memories – games and practices and tournaments, and the sensation of Tezuka-buchou's eyes on him that has grown comfortable with familiarity.

"Mrow," Karupin complains from the wall, awakened from his nap by the jarring impact of the ball. Ryoma ignores him, narrowing his focus down to the single stone that he is aiming for, over and over and over. The world blurs around him, light fading slowly as the sun sinks over the temple roof.

"Hey hey, young man, what's eating you?" His father's voice comes as an unpleasant surprise; Ryoma starts and misses the ball as it bounces back to him. Nanjiroh laughs raucously, setting his racquet over his shoulder and tipping his head back.

"Che." Ryoma scowls and scoops up the ball before Karupin can pounce on it; the cat settles for twining around his ankles, purring like a rusty engine. "What do you want, old man?"

"I thought you wanted to play a match." Nanjiroh scratches his head, yawning ostentatiously. "You've been out here long enough – or is something bothering you?"

"None of your business," Ryoma mutters, considering it until he realises that he's hungry – his dinner is probably cooling in the kitchen.

"Ahhhh." His father's expression turns fatuously proud. "So it's a girl, hmm? What's her name? Is she pretty?"

"Eh?" Ryoma stares at him, then sighs and rolls his eyes. "There's no girl, Dad," and even though it's the absolute truth he feels as though Nanjiroh can read the hesitation in him. The strongest of the memories crowd to the surface – buchou's eyes meeting his over the net; the feel of his shoulders under Ryoma's palms…

"Ah, young man, you know you can tell me." His father settles lazy against the wall, grinning. "Is it the old hag's granddaughter? She's not bad…"

"Stupid old man." Ryoma slices the ball in his direction, forcing Nanjiroh to bring his racquet up in a hurry to protect his face. The image of his father drooling over girls in his class is the last thing he needs. "I already told you, there's no girl."

Two nights later, after an awkward practice in which his eyes seem to gravitate to Tezuka like tennis balls in the Zone, Ryoma pulls his birthday presents from the shelf and flops onto his bed. Fuji-senpai's album is heavy with years' worth of pictures; Ryoma pages slowly through the record of his matches from first-year. The photos begin with the celebration after their defeat of Fudoumine and skip straight to the training that had preceded the Tokyo finals against Yamabuki.

Ryoma traces the glossy edge of a photograph, remembering the matches in between, and one in particular. Even now he sometimes hears the sound of trains passing overhead in his dreams. If he forgets every other game he has ever played, Ryoma thinks, he will remember that day – he will want to remember. Down to the way the light caught Tezuka's eyes and outlined his body as he twisted into the zero-shiki, Ryoma will keep this memory in place of pictures and records. Echizen, become the pillar of Seigaku.

He turns a page and is confronted with another familiar image – Tezuka in the midst of his first fight against Atobe, just minutes before his shoulder gave out. Ryoma props his chin on one hand and smiles, remembering last week's rematch and the aching perfection of buchou on court as he rewrote the score. He turns the page, skimming through game after practice after tournament, and the image that jumps out at him most often is of his own eyes, staring after Tezuka.

Setting the album aside, Ryoma runs his fingers over the top of the flag box, tracing Tezuka's precise, delicate handwriting. Genpuku. The implications of that are too bewildering for Ryoma to begin to know what Tezuka meant by the gift; he lifts away the lid and stares down at the folded and refolded fabric. The left-hand corner is uppermost, with buchou's neat writing showing, black ink faded slightly into the cloth. Keep moving forward. Tezuka Kunimitsu. Ryoma traces the kanji with his fingertips until he falls asleep with his head pillowed on the scratchy blue fabric.

Ryoma skims through the first two weeks of Kantou in a blur of team uniforms and vaguely familiar opponents, none of whom offer enough of a challenge to hold his attention. Instead his eyes return again and again to the coach's bench and Tezuka's tall, composed figure. Ryoma feels Tezuka-buchou's gaze during his matches like a physical touch, spreading warmth down the line of his spine. In the evenings he wears himself out playing the usual games with his father, trying to banish dreams of heat and skin and touches that are not impersonal at all.

The semi-finals come as something of a relief, the last hurdle on the road that will take them to Rikkai again, and Nationals. Ryoma takes Singles Two in straight sets to win Seigaku the match, conscious all the time of Tezuka's presence at the side of the court. When Ryoma finally turns to look at him, after he's shaken the opponent's hand and the umpire has declared the date of the final, he feels his muscles turn to lead.

Tezuka-buchou's face is tight, disapproval apparent in his eyes. As Ryoma stumbles towards him, stomach suddenly churning, he rises from the bench and walks out of the court without a word. Ryoma stares after him as the other Regulars jump the fence to pound on his back and rub his head, wondering what he's supposed to think of that – is buchou disappointed that he didn't get to play?

That night is restless; Ryoma dreams in variations on a theme, watching over and over as his graceless hands reach out for Tezuka and are rejected by cold, damning eyes. He sleeps through his alarm and has to sprint all the way to school to make morning practice; buchou gives him laps without even looking at him and Ryoma stares resentfully at the ground as he runs. He doesn't understand what he's done, but the way Tezuka is treating him makes things knot hard and unpleasant under his breastbone. By the time the lunch bell rings all the teachers have assigned him lines for inattention and Horio and Katsuo have given up trying to talk to him.

The lunch his mother has packed doesn't seem appetising at all. Ryoma forces down a few mouthfuls of rice that seem to stick in his throat, then gives up and tosses it into the trash, wandering up through the school to the roof. It's dark enough in the stairwell that the rush of light when he opens the door brings water to his eyes, but before he's taken three uncertain steps Ryoma knows he's not alone.

Light-blinded and blinking he stares up at Tezuka, leaning arms-folded against the fence opposite the door as though he has been waiting. "Buchou?" It comes out somewhere between a croak and a whisper, as though he has been holding his voice back for too long. Ryoma wants to scrub the brightness-tears from his eyes, but he refuses to draw attention to weakness; instead he tilts his head back and looks up at Tezuka stubbornly.

"Echizen." Tezuka-buchou's eyes are calm and still disapproving; Ryoma feels like a defiant child and doesn't like it. "Why did you come back to Seigaku, if you weren't going to play your best?"

The question blindsides him utterly. Ryoma feels his eyes going wide with the uncomfortable knowledge that he has been distracted. It's been weeks since he's been able to lose himself in a game, and while it's technically true that he hasn't needed to… Ryoma knows too well that half his mind has been on Tezuka, even on the court.

Buchou, you hold back all the time! The protest wells up in Ryoma's throat but is strangled into a barely audible sound by the remote ice of Tezuka's eyes.

"Focus on the opponent before you," Tezuka-buchou tells him evenly. "I shouldn't have to tell you twice." The rebuke in that stings; Ryoma ducks his head beneath his cap, hunching his shoulders and feeling more than seeing Tezuka walk past him to the door. All he can seem to remember is the smile in buchou's eyes after the last match they'd played, and the way Tezuka's respect and pride had felt warmer than the sunset around them. More than anything, Ryoma wants that back.

Echizen's eyes do not waver from his back as he walks away. Kunimitsu is uncomfortably aware that he is doing this more and more often, yet at the same time he knows that it is what Echizen needs. He has only a few months more, now, to try to teach Echizen to be more than his father could make of him; only a few more months to be his captain, and yet it is longer than he had thought he would have. For years he has been preparing himself to let Echizen go; Kunimitsu knows better than anyone that part of growing up means outgrowing old attachments.

The crowd are cheering for Rikkai. Ryoma takes a deep breath and doesn't look back as he walks onto the court. Yukimura is waiting for him at the net, still deceptively fragile-looking; Ryoma is distantly surprised to realise that there are only ten centimetres between them now.

"So how much have you grown, Echizen-kun?" Yukimura asks quietly as they shake hands and the umpire announces the start of the match.

Ryoma smirks at him, adjusting his cap. "You'll see."

It's Ryoma's serve; he bounces the ball on the baseline, considering, then shrugs to himself and puts so much spin on the Twist Serve that it bounces straight up and Yukimura has to dash forward to return it. Ryoma is already in position; there is no way that he can take this opponent lightly. Slice to the back-court, and he needs his Split Step to turn Yukimura's lob into a smash that comes right back at him and almost takes his cap off. Ryoma throws himself backwards to catch the ball, twisting mid-air and adding backspin to send it curving out to the line, raising a puff of dust as it impacts and bounces out.

Ryoma already knows that in this game the first point will mean nothing. Yukimura was strong three years ago and is stronger now; it's there in the precise angle of every shot, the way his seemingly-delicate body pivots behind the ball. Ryoma smirks, narrowing his focus until it feels like he is trying to pin down Yukimura with his eyes. There is nothing outside of the court and the fight; even the cries of the spectators seem to fade as Ryoma returns shot after shot, struggling for control of the game.

He takes the first set seven games to five, and the look in Yukimura's eyes foretells a vicious fight to come. Ryoma sits on the end of the bench during the break, absently sipping water as he stares at the court; he's grateful when the umpire calls for resumption after only a few minutes. The second set is harder fought; Yukimura hits him with power shot after power shot and only seems to gain energy. Ryoma grits his teeth and forces him into tie-break with double-handed slice returns and a succession of his favourite drive volleys, holding back the temptation to pull out the first of the set when Yukimura beats him nine points to seven with a double feint and lob. He doesn't like losing at the best of times, and in this time and place it is unthinkable.

The third set is vicious and dizzying; Ryoma forces himself past exhaustion and aching muscles into that place where his body reacts on instinct, fuelled by the memory of every shot he has ever played. He forgets teams, tournaments, friends, trophies; forgets everything but the tingling impact of ball on gut and the white heat of this game as it flows through his bones. Every shot returned, every point scored, feels like flying. Ryoma focuses his world down to Yukimura as though his life depends on this match, and refuses absolutely to give ground.

He knows he's won before the ball even impacts the court; the dull thud of the second bounce falls into a stunned silence that seems to fill the stadium, timeless and familiar. Six games to four, Ryoma thinks, and then the crowd is drowning out the umpire's voice as he announces the victory. Ryoma's victory, but Yukimura's face over the net as they shake hands again, both of them shaking a little with over-exercised muscles, is satisfied as well as resigned.

"As expected of Echizen-kun," he acknowledges in his usual quiet voice. "I'll look forward to the Nationals." He doesn't need to say that Rikkai are planning to win the Nationals; it's there in his eyes as he turns to walk back to his team. Ryoma grins in satisfaction and tugs his cap down as he trudges off the court.

Stepping over the white line sends a curious tugging feeling into the pit of his stomach. Ryoma looks up into Tezuka-buchou's eyes and feels the world drop out from under him.

Since the moment he'd stepped onto the court, Ryoma hadn't allowed himself to think of Tezuka at all; defeating Yukimura had required every bit of focus and concentration he could scrape together. Now, with the match won and exhaustion settling into his bones, he has no defences at all. Tezuka's eyes are bright with pride and satisfaction and something that Ryoma cannot quite recognise, and there's no way he can look away. His entire body aches with wanting, with the need to reach out and feel buchou's skin against his; he stands frozen and helpless with the force of the invisible everything that fills the air between them.

"Good game." Buchou's voice, low and smooth, is enough to sway Ryoma forward onto his toes; it takes him a long, heavy moment to realise that Tezuka is holding out a water bottle. Ryoma takes it automatically, the stares of the other Regulars beginning to filter past the white noise in his mind.

"Aa," he mutters, all the thanks he can manage as he ducks his head and slumps onto the bench. Fuji-senpai is smiling in a way that makes Ryoma's face heat with the certainty that he is utterly transparent to anyone who cares to look. He feels eyes on him all through the presentation ceremony, and the sensation doesn't stop until they all pile into Kawamura Sushi for the victory party. Ryoma finds himself a comfortable corner and a plate of his own, and carefully doesn't look at Tezuka at all for the rest of the evening.

The countryside is quiet at night. Ryoma tilts his head back and stares up at the bright sparks of a million stars that are invisible in Tokyo, stretching out his arms slowly. He can still feel the concentrated ache of a full day's training in his shoulders and back, legacy of a five-set match against Inui-senpai that had pushed him to the ragged edges of his stamina. The real thrill, though, had been watching Fuji-senpai play Tezuka-buchou afterwards – the kind of tennis that should last forever, and Ryoma wishes it could have been him. He will play Fuji tomorrow, but it won't be the same at all.

Even so, this week feels like a gift. Amano-sensei's family must be pretty well off with a place like this; Ryoma steps out onto the veranda, ignoring the noise from inside that promises another pillow fight. The moon is low and half-full in the western sky, almost dipping behind the mountains, and there is enough light for Ryoma to see Tezuka-buchou sitting cross-legged in the corner, a book in his lap. It's enough of a surprise that he freezes for a moment, but he already knows that Tezuka is aware of his presence; he can't run, and senpai are making too much of a racket indoors anyway.

"You'll ruin your eyes, buchou," Ryoma observes quietly, sliding the shoji shut behind him. Tezuka looks up at him, moonlight limning the frames of his glasses as he marks his page with a finger.

"It's too late for that," he says wryly, eyes dark and calm in the strange monochrome dimness. "Did you want something, Echizen?" His voice is quiet and curious; outside the tennis court, here, he doesn't sound quite like a captain.

Ryoma shrugs one shoulder, dropping down onto the edge of the veranda and swinging his legs just because he can. "It's too noisy in there. Your game today was good, buchou." He tips his head back again, staring up at the sky as cicadas hum in the trees and Tezuka turns the pages of his book. "Buchou?"

"Yes?" Tezuka looks up at him again; Ryoma can feel it, and he turns his head to meet his eyes, leaning back on one hand.

"Can I have Singles Two for the Nationals?"

This time, Tezuka doesn't question the request; Ryoma feels obscurely grateful, unsure exactly why he's asking this now. "You've already beaten Yukimura," is all he says, face calm in the moon-shadows. Ryoma brings one leg up, resting his head on his knee without looking away from Tezuka-buchou. "He's one of the strongest you're likely to face."

"He's not as strong as the old man," Ryoma finds himself saying, and it's so like a dream out here in the quiet night that he can't bring himself to care.

"You still want to defeat him." Tezuka's voice is calm and resigned; he shifts, setting his book aside and rising easily to his feet. Ryoma has to crane his neck to look up at him; it feels uncomfortable so he looks away, out at the dark garden and the faint glow of the white lines that border the courts in the distance.

"The idiot's not going to give me any peace until I beat him flat." It's as much for himself as for his father's sake, though; payback for years of mockery and annoyance and getting in the way. Ryoma deliberately and intentionally forgets that if not for Nanjiroh he might never have picked up a racquet; tennis is his, or it should be.

"And what will you do then?" buchou asks quietly, voice low and serious. "What will you do when you have no one left to beat?"

Ryoma stares out into the depths of the sky, unable to think of a single response beyond the words that crowd, unspoken, into his throat: Hold on to you.

The moonlight reflects in Echizen's eyes, glossing their gold with a silver sheen. Kunimitsu cannot keep himself from staring, but to walk away now would be unforgivably rude. All week he has been watching Echizen, absorbing the knowledge that it is different now. The way Echizen looks at him is different, no longer confined to the simple territory of tennis captain and kohai. It opens up a whole new realm of possibilities, things that he has been pushing out of his mind for a long time but can no longer avoid.

Starlight catches in the dark shock of Echizen's hair as he tips his head back, staring wide-eyed at the sky. Kunimitsu remembers another time, the first time he'd been aware that Echizen's eyes on him had changed. A few simple words, I will take Seigaku's pillar from your hands, and suddenly buchou meant more than it ever had and Kunimitsu had been unable to escape the deeply inappropriate certainty that respect was the least of what he wanted from Echizen.

He remembers the recent night-time helplessness of watching Echizen settle himself on the neighbouring futon, and the way his fingers had itched to reach out and tug the covers higher around still-slender shoulders. Subsequent nights have not made the startling proximity any easier; Kunimitsu finds himself waking in the small hours and turning his head to look at Echizen – to watch Ryoma sleeping, huddled into a tight bundle even in the summer warmth. During practice and training he is too aware of Ryoma's presence, of the need to touch and the fact that being the captain makes no difference at all, now, in the face of Ryoma's voice cracking over the title.

Last night he had opened his eyes to find Ryoma staring back at him, serious and a little lost-looking. Kunimitsu had turned over and stared at the blurry shadows the moonlight made on the wall, too aware of being watched to sleep.

The slight grating of the shoji being pulled back is a welcome relief from the too-narrow space between them. Kunimitsu turns away from Ryoma and ignores the knowing smile on Fuji's face as he glances between them.

"Ah, Tezuka, here you are – Oishi asked me to find you, Momo and Kaidoh are fighting again…" It's enough to remind Kunimitsu of duty, that he needs to be the captain now; he doesn’t look back as he strides off to sort out the latest quarrel, but later that night he finds his abandoned book waiting neatly by his pillow.

Nationals arrives with all the usual pointless fuss. After the third time Tezuka glares at him for yawning during the speeches, Ryoma gets the hint and keeps his eyes fixed on buchou's back. The lines of Tezuka's body are clearly visible beneath the blue-and-white club uniform; Ryoma's fingers tingle with the desire to reach out and touch, to run his hands over buchou's skin and feel the warmth of him.

As a seeded team, Seigaku automatically pass the first round; it all seems very familiar and Ryoma feels as though he is walking in the footprints of his younger self. Their first opponents are a team from some school in Hokkaido that Ryoma has never even heard of, but they're strong enough to be a challenge and the Singles Two match runs to second-set tie-break. After that it's Shitenhouji High in the quarter-finals and Tezuka puts Ryoma into Singles One against Chitose. The match is breathtakingly intense; Ryoma remembers watching Tezuka-buchou's game three years ago, trembling with exhaustion and still unable to look away, and wonders if Tezuka watches his tennis in the same way.

Chitose laughs when Ryoma slams the final ball past him, and wishes him luck in his professional career. Afterwards, the annoying Kansai kid dashes up and demands a match, and the fact that he's a good five centimetres taller than Ryoma now is annoying enough that he refuses automatically, shrugging into his jacket as he turns to follow his senpai back to the bus. The satisfaction in Tezuka's eyes as he reminds everyone of the semi-final details is enough to bring a tiny smile to the corner of Ryoma's mouth.

The semis are held in the packed stadium court, which seems to glitter with camera-flashes. Ryoma picks out Rikkai's ugly yellow jackets from the crowd of school uniforms; they will play Hyoutei tomorrow for their place in the finals, which means the Monkey King is probably around somewhere too. The other team, Shokurinchi, are all in black and purple; Ryoma eyes them over the net and wonders why their captain looks so familiar – tall and imperious with slicked-back hair and narrow rectangular glasses. The look on Tezuka's face as the guy glares at him advises against asking, and Ryoma spends Singles Three and Doubles Two watching buchou stare straight ahead at the court.

The answer doesn't occur to him until he's walking onto the court for Singles Two, facing some ridiculously tall guy who smirks down at him as though he thinks he's already won. Shokurinchi's captain is that Kite guy from before, the one whose team had beaten on the old guy from Rokkaku. The one who'd thought he could beat Tezuka-buchou with speed and violence; Ryoma can remember that match as though it was yesterday, but every image in his memory centres on Tezuka's side of the net.

It's obvious that the Kite guy is here for revenge; Ryoma pauses on his way back to the baseline, looking over to Tezuka-buchou. If he wins this game, Seigaku will take the match and buchou will not play at all. Ryoma remembers sunny rooftops and stinging words: Why did you come back to Seigaku, if you weren't going to play your best? It doesn't matter whether buchou wants to play; the path of the match was mapped out the moment Ryoma stepped onto the court. He nods to Tezuka and turns neatly on the baseline to grin at the opponent, then serves with everything he has.

Practice the next day is more intense even than the semi-final matches. After lunch Oishi-senpai and Inui-senpai go off to watch the Rikkai-Hyoutei games, and Kikumaru bounces onto the court to drape himself over Fuji.

"C'mon, Fuji, let's play Momo and Kaidoh!"

"Kikumaru-senpai!" Ryoma protests; he's five games up to three in their practice set and doesn’t appreciate having his opponent stolen from under his nose.

"Ah, it's all right, Echizen." Fuji-senpai extricates himself and smile apologetically at Ryoma. "I need to leave soon anyway – Taka-san's expecting me."

"Fuji, no fair!" Kikumaru-senpai pouts and sets his hands on his hips. "Fine then, Ochibi! Come and play doubles!"

Ryoma backs hastily away before his senpai can catch hold of him. "No way. Go play them by yourself." The only thing worse than doubles is doubles against Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai when they're fighting – and they've been at each other's throats all morning. For once the low-level wrangling is actually a relief; ever since the training camp the two of them have been staying out of each other's way in a suspicious mutual silence, and there's just something vaguely wrong about tennis club without fighting second-years.

Leaving his senpai to work it out for themselves, Ryoma shoulders his racquet and wanders off the courts in search of Ponta. To his annoyance the machine between the science block and the main building is out of grape flavour and he has to settle for the tasteless fizz of orange. He's so absorbed in glaring into the half-empty can that he almost walks right into Tezuka-buchou on the way back and has to catch himself with a hand on the captain's arm. Ponta spills unheeded onto the ground, darkening the path for a moment before the sun fades the moisture.

"Sorry, buchou." Ryoma looks up into Tezuka's face and has to remind himself to remove his hand; he curls his fingers tight around the lingering sensation of buchou's skin under his palm as though he can keep it forever.

"It's nothing." Tezuka looks down at him for a long moment, then turns his attention back to the court where Kikumaru is bouncing from side to side to intercept Momo and Kaidoh's attacks. Ryoma glances over long enough to see him flick back a Boomerang Snake and backflip into an attacking position, then looks back to Tezuka. They are very close, here; close enough that Ryoma imagines he can feel the heat of Tezuka's body permeating his skin.

"Buchou?" he asks, before he quite knows what he's going to say. "Are you happy?" Tezuka looks away from the game, glasses reflecting sunlight into Ryoma's eyes. "That we're in the final, I mean," Ryoma amends, absently twisting his racquet from rough to smooth and back.

Tezuka just looks at him. "We still have a match to play, Echizen; we can't be careless now."

"Aa." Both of them know that Rikkai won't go down easily – but both of them know that they can win this, too. Nationals; it's always been Tezuka's dream for Seigaku. Ryoma wonders if he's ever had a dream like that – somehow he knows that beating his father doesn't count. Besides, he hasn't achieved that one yet. "It's the draw for the Under-Eighteen Singles soon, isn't it?"

"Thursday of next week." Tezuka-buchou looks away, focusing on the activity on-court. Ryoma smirks up at him anyway, leaning against the fence with a rattle of wire links and tucking his racquet under his arm.

"I'm going to win, buchou." At fifteen he is finally old enough to participate, and the team Nationals have already guaranteed him a place in the draw. "I'll take the tournament from you." Tezuka has been the national champion two years running, and Ryoma has already decided that this year will be his turn.

"I won't be playing." Tezuka's voice is cold and remote, and Ryoma feels his breath stop sudden and painful at the words.

"…buchou?" It feels as though the world is crumbling around him, and Tezuka is standing there like a statue, the pillar of Seigaku in form as well as function, looking away from him.

"I won't be participating," Tezuka-buchou repeats as though Ryoma is a child or stupid.

"But – you have to…" Ryoma trails off, clenching his hands into impotent fists. Buchou doesn't have to do anything, and he knows it. But it feels as his life has been wrenched painfully off its track; even more than the team Nationals he has been waiting for this tournament, precisely because he will get to play Tezuka.

Buchou's face is set in stone, and his words settle between them like an unbreachable wall. "The tournament dates clash with the entrance exams for Tokyo University." There's an electronic cheep and Tezuka fishes his phone out of his pocket; Oishi-senpai is calling from the stadium with a match report. Ryoma sets his jaw and turns to walk away without a word, disappointed fury writhing like a living creature in his chest.

Ryoma spends the rest of the week avoiding Tezuka as much as he can, torn between anger and betrayal and the desperate desire to grab hold of buchou and never let go. Momo-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai tease him for sulking and make jokes about growing pains until Ryoma just wishes everyone would shut up and go away; the final on Saturday comes as both an anti-climax and a relief.

Everyone is expecting this match to go all the way to Singles One, and with Sanada and Yanagi in doubles Ryoma already knows that it will. He feels Tezuka-buchou's eyes on his back as he walks onto the court to face Kirihara, but doesn't turn; if this is the last of his matches that buchou is going to see then Ryoma will give him something to watch. A spiteful, childish part of him wants Tezuka to know exactly what he's giving up, and he returns Kirihara's opening serve as though this is a Grand Slam instead of a high school tournament.

Kirihara has grown a lot in the two years since their last match, but all Ryoma can think is that this is not Tezuka. He wants to be playing buchou, and he goes into the match as though he is, pulling out every skill he possesses and still never quite finding what he's looking for. Two six-four sets are not the result he wants, and Ryoma ignores Kirihara's exhausted fury over the net as they shake hands amidst a whirlwind of cheering.

Tezuka-buchou gives him a long, steady look as he trudges head-down back to the bench; Ryoma turns his face away and goes to slump against the boundary fence, absently biting the straw of his water bottle as he watches Oishi and Kikumaru losing to Sanada and Yanagi. It's a narrow enough victory that the rest of the Regulars cheer anyway; Kikumaru-senpai flashes them a grin and leans into Oishi-senpai's arm around him as Tezuka-buchou picks up his racquet to warm up. Ryoma ducks his head and turns away, wandering off in search of juice.

Watching Tezuka-buchou play Yukimura in Singles One hurts. Ryoma scowls and settles himself into a tense huddle on the bench, eyes intent on the court. The crowd is almost silent in the background and his senpai exchange hushed whispers about skill and power; Ryoma ignores everything but the tall, graceful figure of his captain. Even with the weight of anger in his stomach, buchou's tennis can take his breath away.

It takes Yukimura five games to break the Zone, and as his backspin slice curves out beyond Tezuka's racquet it is as though Tezuka comes into focus. The rest of the set is a battle of skill and subtlety and ball control; Ryoma's breath aches in his chest as he watches. The idea that this could be the last time he will ever watch Tezuka-buchou on the court is heavy and abhorrent, and he shivers with the desire to be out there, to face Tezuka over the net one more time. As the set runs into tie-break, Ryoma traces the flowing lines of Tezuka-buchou's body with his eyes and wishes that games could last forever.

Kunimitsu is painfully conscious of Echizen's gaze on him as he steps forward to accept the trophy on behalf of his team. When he turns, lifting the heavy cup to the cheers of the crowd, Ryoma's face is resentful but his eyes are lost and confused. Kunimitsu swallows the useless words that rise in his throat; there is nothing he can say now, and he knows that one day Ryoma will be grateful for this. The time for guidance is over, and now Ryoma must make his own path. Don't look back, Kunimitsu thinks as he leads the team out of the stadium at the head of the procession, fingers white-knuckled around the handles of the cup. He's no longer Ryoma's captain, and he won't hold him back.

The only people who seem surprised by Ryoma's progress through the Under-Eighteen Singles are the reporters. After the semi-finals the sports papers are full of Youngest Finalist Ever! headlines and reissued photos from his years in the Under-Sixteens, which Ryoma ignores. When someone connects the names and runs a retrospective on his stupid father's brief career he considers ripping up the pages but ultimately can't be bothered. The old man isn't worth it, and he'd only take it as a challenge in any case. Nothing could be further from Ryoma's mind; the whole tournament is a bitter disappointment, and he wanders the house so aimlessly on the day before the final that his mother calls Momoshiro out and sends them both down to the street courts.

Playing his senpai is both exhausting and weirdly relaxing. Everyone on the team knows Ryoma's tennis so well that even with the difference in skill he has to work for his points. Ryoma's wrists are still aching from returning Momo-senpai's Dunk Smash when they finally yield the court to a group of elementary-school kids, collapsing onto the concrete steps.

"Eh, you don't go easy on me at all!" Momo-senpai collapses back and grins at the sky; Ryoma leans against the wall and slants his eyes at him.

"I never thought I'd see you using Kaidoh-senpai's Snake, Momo-senpai."

Momo-senpai just laughs. "Stupid Viper isn't here anyway – don't tell him!" he adds hastily, turning to stare beseechingly at Ryoma.

Ryoma smirks. "You just don't want him finding out how much you don’t hate him, senpai."

"Echizen!" Momo-senpai turns tomato-red and glares at the ground as though Kaidoh-senpai is standing on it. Ryoma shrugs and pulls his bag towards him, slotting his racquet neatly away.

"Whatever. Are you going to watch tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it!" Momo cheers up, grinning at him. "That arrogant bastard'll probably have his cheering squad there; everyone's coming along to watch you kick his ass – well, except buchou…" He frowns, and Ryoma pretends he can't see the way Momo's watching him sideways.

"Yeah, I know." He shrugs and pushes himself to his feet, suddenly not liking the way the conversation's going. "Senpai, didn't you say you'd pay for burgers?"

"I did?" Momo-senpai glares at him, but it's enough of a distraction. "You little scrounger – only if you beat me to the restaurant!"

"No fair, senpai!" Ryoma yells as Momoshiro dashes for his bike with an evil laugh, but the bickering is familiar enough that tomorrow fades back into the distant future.

Atobe smirks at him over the net as they shake hands. "Have you beaten Tezuka yet, Echizen? It's a pity he can't be here to defend his title…"

"Che." Ryoma pulls his hand away as soon as Atobe lets go, tipping the brim of his cap back. "You'll have to do instead." The look on Atobe's face at that brightens the day a little; it's always fun to needle the Monkey King. It doesn't ease the sting of it, though; this is not the match Ryoma wants to play. The fact that Atobe very obviously wants to be facing Tezuka as well just makes him more annoying.

Some of the irritation dissolves once Ryoma gets into the match; Atobe is a dangerous opponent with a solid foundation of skill beneath the flashiness. It takes concentration and focus to keep from being distracted by the theatrics, but that has never been a problem for Ryoma. Halfway into the first set, he blocks Atobe's Stupid Name Smash by changing hands and realises that he's stopped playing against Tezuka in his head.

Ryoma takes the first set six games to four, and as they pass at the net during the break Atobe laughs with a toss of his head, as though he's posing for a photo shoot. Absently, Ryoma wonders whether he practices that in the mirror every morning.

"Let's give Tezuka something to watch, hmm?"

"He's not here." Ryoma ducks his head under his cap and wanders back to the bench, ignoring Atobe's reaction.

The second set is harder fought. Atobe pulls out that fancy serve of his in the tie-break; Ryoma can never remember what it's called, but it's annoying enough that he glares at the ball and doesn't waste effort trying to return it. One set all, and Ryoma knows Atobe will fight to the last. He paces behind the bench during the break, stretching out his legs as he works through the muscle memory of all his drive volleys, one after the other.

Ryoma hits the third set like a tidal wave and doesn't give Atobe a chance to breathe. Even a series of aces in his service games can't make an impact, and only seem to exhaust him. Ryoma flicks the final Drive E neatly past him to claim the set six-three, feeling vaguely let down. He has just become the number one junior player in Japan, and the only thought that really occurs as he accepts the trophy is that there is nothing right about this.

As soon as Ryoma sets foot in the door that evening his father appears, as smug-faced as if it had been his victory. Something crystallises in Ryoma's mind; he snatches a racquet out of his bag and shoves his feet back into his shoes. "Come on, old man."

"Eh?" Nanjiroh blinks at him, an unopened beer bottle forgotten in his hand.

"One set match." Ryoma walks out, heading for the court without bothering to check whether the idiot's following him. If he can't play his favourite opponent then he'll play his oldest; the old man isn't much of a father but he's still a challenge.

"Oi oi!" Nanjiroh appears on the other side of the court as he always does, tossing his ancient racquet from hand to hand. "What's this about, young man?"

"Nothing." Ryoma squeezes the ball in his hand, then bounces it perfunctorily and serves. Nanjiroh returns with the ease of long practice and it's easy, then, for Ryoma to lose himself in the familiar tug and stretch of muscle, the glowing arc of the ball against the dimming late-summer sky. He stops thinking, reacting on instinct as he trades points with his father, slice and backspin and drive and smash and everything that is tennis, everything that has always been his life. It's a choking, numbing shock to watch the zero-shiki settle into the net and realise that the set is tied at six games to six.

"Tie-break," his father says after a long pause, and he sounds as though he doesn't believe it either. For the first time in his life, Ryoma realises, he is about to beat his father at tennis, and it means nothing to him. His racquet hits the court with a dull, dusty smack, and Ryoma flees the temple grounds as fast as his legs can carry him.

When Kunimitsu arrives home from the library his mother hurries out of the living room to tell him that his kouhai from the tennis club is here waiting for him. It's not at all a surprise to open his bedroom door and find Echizen Ryoma sitting round-shouldered and uncomfortable in his desk chair. Kunimitsu sighs and sets his books carefully onto his bed, looking down at Ryoma's unhappy expression.

"Echizen." It's harder, here, to be the captain, but Ryoma seems so caught up in whatever is bothering him that they might as well be on the Seigaku courts.

"I – my father. We tied," Ryoma mutters, not looking up. "Six-all." His hands on his knees are white-knuckled; Kunimitsu stamps firmly on the urge to reach out and uncurl them.

"You didn't play the tie-break?" Ryoma is still in his tennis clothes, hair lank with sweat; Kunimitsu wonders if he has run all the way here.

"I couldn't. I – I'd have beaten him, and it wouldn't have mattered." Ryoma looks up at him, finally, eyes full of confusion. "It's not supposed to be this way, buchou!"

That hits home. Kunimitsu closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and reminding himself again of everything that lies between them. "No one can predict the future." The words taste trite and meaningless in his mouth; Ryoma looks down at his knees again.

"Are you quitting tennis, buchou?"

"No." The word slips out without thought, instinct and reflex overriding conscious decision. Kunimitsu sighs and sits down carefully on the edge of his bed, watching the way Ryoma's eyes light, finally, with relief. He doesn't mention that the Olympics will be held in China in three years, or that he expects to go professional after university; the simple reassurance seems to be all that Ryoma needs.

"I'm going pro next year." Ryoma's eyes make Kunimitsu ache with so many things that he cannot say; he swallows the irrational lump that rises in his throat and nods decisively.

"I expected you to. You need to keep moving forward – there are stronger players than your father out there."

"Aa." Ryoma ducks his head but doesn't look away, and Kunimitsu cannot find the words to tell him not to hold back.

It's raining again outside. Ryoma sits and looks at his phone for a long time before flipping it open and dialling the number. It rings twice, and then a familiar voice comes on the line.

"This is Tezuka."

"Buchou." Ryoma straightens his back automatically, even though there is no one to see. "Do you have plans for tomorrow?"

"Echizen?" Tezuka-buchou sounds startled. "Ah, no –"

"Good." Ryoma relaxes a little, satisfied. "I'll come by at one."

"What?" Ryoma can hear voices in the background, and wonders where buchou is.

"You're busy. I'll see you then." He rings off in the middle of Tezuka's demand for an explanation, knowing that buchou is probably more than a little exasperated with him right now and not really caring. Sometimes Ryoma would rather be a pest than be ignored, and it's been too long since he's had more of Tezuka than a brief nod as they pass in the halls. This birthday present is as much about him as it is about buchou, really.

Tezuka answers the door on the second knock, already wearing tennis gear. Ryoma blinks at him, wondering just how transparent he is, then grins. "Happy birthday, buchou."

Tezuka inclines his head in a silent acknowledgement, then frowns at him, glancing out at the grey sky. "Don't you have a coat? It's going to rain."

Ryoma shrugs, shifting impatiently from foot to foot as Tezuka gathers his racquet bag and coat. "I booked the covered court over by the gasworks. We can get the bus."

"Aa." They walk down the street to the bus stop in a comfortable sort of silence that Ryoma doesn't see any need to break. The tiny part of him that isn't already anticipating the game is self-consciously aware that it would only take a small movement to reach out and touch; Ryoma ignores it.

The rain is coming down in round, fat drops by the time they reach the court. It splatters on the thin plastic roof and puddles outside the gate; Ryoma ducks into the locker room quickly before his cap gets soaked through and fumbles for the switch to turn on the court lights. The sudden blaze of illumination makes him blink, fuzzy afterimages invading his vision, and when he turns to see Tezuka getting out his racquet a fierce thrill of happiness runs through him. He's been waiting too long for this.

They meet at the net, shoes scuffing on the freshly-swept clay court. Ryoma reaches over to spin his racquet without looking away from Tezuka's face, knowing that his eyes are wide and bright with anticipation. "Which?"

"Smooth." Tezuka-buchou doesn't turn away. His face is calm and composed as ever, but the floodlights strike sparks from the rims of his glasses that seem to invade his eyes.

The racquet lands rough; Ryoma eyes it in surprise then shrugs, reaching down to pick it up. "You can serve, buchou. Best of three sets."

They start slowly. Ryoma returns Tezuka's serve with a backhand slice, feeling his muscles beginning to loosen as he leaps to catch the next ball. The sound of the rain on the roof is just familiar enough to bring back memories of their first match; Ryoma feels as though he's come full circle as he slides a backspin volley past Tezuka's racquet to take the first game. They trade points, neither of them needing an umpire's voice to keep score as they flow across the court. As the first set continues, all drive and topspin and exquisite ball control, Ryoma feels his face settling into a grin. This is the way it should be, he thinks in satisfaction as he returns a slice with enough extra spin that it bounces free of the Tezuka Zone. This is the way they should be, always.

Kunimitsu stretches to reach Ryoma's Drive B before it hits the top of its arc, smashing it into the backcourt and watching Ryoma all but materialise to catch it with a neat and vicious slice, taking the point. It is his serve again; he moves into the rhythm of the game without thought, eyes fixed as always on the darting form of the boy on the other side of the net. Ryoma is unquestionably the best opponent he has ever had; the tennis they play together is breathtaking enough that he aches with it.

Ryoma returns with a topspin lob that curves out towards the line; Kunimitsu throws himself back to catch it without taking his eyes off the way Ryoma moves into position, all definite grace and determination. There is nothing in the world but this game, this court, the two of them fighting each other with everything they have.

Kunimitsu remembers his words beneath the tracks three years ago, and the way they have echoed in his mind ever since, reminding him of who and what he is supposed to be. This thing between them, this tennis, goes beyond roles and proprieties and what is supposed to be; every time they step onto the court they build something new out of the game. Kunimitsu's muscles slide into the familiar form of the zero-shiki and he watches Ryoma dive for the net to try and volley, body hitting the court with a jarring impact that he doesn’t seem to feel at all. His grin as he pushes himself up for his service game is every bit as enthralling as the way he spins the ball in the air, and Kunimitsu breathes deeply, needlessly reminding himself to focus on the game.

Ryoma's serve is something he has never seen before, a variation on his usual Twist that adds enough backspin to make the ball bounce backwards. Kunimitsu feels his eyes widen, then narrow; he's ready when Ryoma serves again, moving forwards into the serve and returning it as an overslice that doubles the topspin and makes Ryoma dash to catch it, grinning.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kunimitsu knows that this is the best game he has ever played. It's in the subtlety, and the power behind it; in the strength of the way Ryoma faces him. Both of them are playing all-out, flying and burning and pushing each other higher. As Ryoma returns his backspin lob with a twist smash that impacts the clay of the court with a resounding crack, Kunimitsu feels his mind fall utterly silent with the conscious realisation of something that he has known for years: he can't hold Ryoma back.

Every step of these last three years, Ryoma has been there – watching, waiting, challenging him with every word and glance. This tennis, this glorious, soaring game that makes his heart pound in his throat and his body sing with tension – it belongs to both of them. It always has. Kunimitsu feels his mouth curving into a smile as Ryoma puts a neat slice inches beyond his reach, and for once he doesn't bother to suppress it.

Ryoma feels as though he never wants this game to end. For every shot he hits, buchou is there across the net to counter him, deadly and perfect and everything he has ever wanted from tennis. Points and games and sets go by as if in a dream; the world is reduced to the impact of ball on gut and the ache in his muscles and the look in Tezuka-buchou's eyes over the net as neither one of them gives an inch. It's glorious and exhausting and the final tie-break would be disappointing if Ryoma could look away long enough to think.

Twelve points stretches to twenty and thirty and by the time Ryoma's final smash raises chalk dust from the service line he's trembling with the tension of it. He stumbles to meet Tezuka-buchou at the net, the sound of his breath drowning the words that crowd unspoken under his tongue. Tezuka is breathing just as hard, the rise and fall of his chest rhythmic and pronounced as he looks down across the suddenly-narrow gap between them. Ryoma stares up at him, all thoughts of handshakes or thanks lost in the warm brown of Tezuka's eyes, and then he's doubly breathless as Tezuka's hand reaches out over the net. A fleeting, gentle touch to the side of his head that seems as inevitable as the winter's snow and Ryoma leans into it, swaying forward and up without thought as Tezuka leans down to kiss him.

Their mouths are clumsy and unsure, sliding together soft-wet-hot, but there is no uncertainty in Ryoma at all as he wraps his arms around buchou's shoulders and presses into the kiss. Their tongues tangle, lips parted breathy and impatient and everything he has ever wanted in that instant, and all Ryoma can think is that buchou is so very warm against him. The sudden uncomfortable pressure of the net cord against his stomach as he tries to move forward is an unwelcome distraction; Ryoma surfaces blurrily from the kiss, staring into Tezuka's eyes, wide and dark behind the so-close sheen of his glasses as they breathe together.

"We should leave," Tezuka-buchou says after a long moment, and though his voice is matter-of-fact the tone of it is soft and new. "The next players will arrive soon."

"Aa." Ryoma knows he's right, but it takes effort to step back; his hand lingers on Tezuka's neck, fingers falling away regretfully in a slow caress. The way Tezuka shivers makes desire uncoil in the pit of his stomach; Ryoma turns away deliberately and picks up his racquet before heading to the locker room.

The water in the showers is hot enough to soothe the ache from tired muscles. Tezuka takes the first turn, and doesn't look surprised when Ryoma slides into the cubicle to wrap slippery-wet arms around his shoulders and pull him down for a kiss. Without his glasses his eyes are unguarded and hazy; Ryoma smirks up at him, fingers tracing the contours of muscle and bone as he arches into Tezuka's possessive hands on his back. The world spirals down to water and tile and slippery bodies sliding against each other, lips and tongues and teeth and slick, certain hands building a perfection that surpasses anything he has felt on court. Ryoma gasps "Buchou" into the brief, warm spaces between them, and gives himself up to the heady, dizzying wonder of Tezuka's skin and hands and mouth.

Kunimitsu can still feel the tingling heat of Ryoma on his skin as they walk down the street in search of food in the early evening, the reddening sun showing ragged through the patchy cloud on the horizon. There's a new and aching kind of wonder in this that keeps his eyes constantly drawn back to Ryoma, walking by his side with his hair rough-towelled and still glinting with droplets. He should be suspicious of this silence between them, Kunimitsu thinks, but instead it is comfortable and familiar; there are no words he needs to say.

"Look, buchou." Ryoma takes his hand, interlacing their fingers as he points to a ramen stand on the corner past the bus stop. Kunimitsu looks down into his eyes, wide and golden and utterly certain as they smile up at him, and doesn't let go.