FIC: Falter (Atobe + Tezuka not-quite-gen, Gish)

[reposte]

Title: Falter
Author: Ociwen
Wordcount: 3000
Rating: Gish
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all, but the musicals exploit it.
Summary: Tezuka's going to go pro. Atobe's left behind.
Author's Notes: Not quite sure what this is. Post-Nationals. Dai-chan!Tezuka and Inoue!Atobe rock my tennis socks.



He's been playing for hours now. Balls slap on the pavement. Rain falls harder. He swings his racket and grunts. His t-shirt is glued to his back. Water makes the fabric translucent.

Atobe checks his watch. His feet ache. He's been here for hours, too. Rain drips down the sides of his umbrella. Fat droplets splatter on his naked calves. Everything is hot and sticky, including him.

Tezuka keeps playing. Rain keeps falling. Atobe keeps watching.

Tezuka slams a ball into the cement retaining wall. Water splashes around his sneakers. Atobe stands under a street lamp. The light flickered ages ago, then went out. The world seems that much bigger and blacker without light. No one else is around. Tezuka has not looked up once.

The season is over, Atobe thinks. He frowns. The toes of his sneakers are wet. He moves to the side, but the puddle has spread. His heel is wet, too. Atobe purses his lips. He opens his mouth, but he hesitates. Tezuka tosses the ball. He snaps back and smashes it.

At the first peel of thunder, Tezuka finally pockets the ball. His glasses are covered in rain. His hair, his clothes are glued to his body. Atobe stands up straight under his umbrella. Tezuka raises his head.

Atobe can't see his expression. It's too dark out.

"So you're finally finished," he says. Atobe forces himself to smirk. When Tezuka walks past him, it falls. Atobe rushes up behind Tezuka. Flashes of light cut through the clouds overhead. Thunder deafens every other sound before the rushing rain follows. It splatters hard on Atobe's umbrella.

Tezuka turns at the crosswalk. No cars are out. It's a residential neighbourhood, derelict of people at this hour, in this weather. He cuts between the apartment blocks and shops. Nothing is open. It's a Sunday night.

Atobe walks down the middle of the road. Tezuka has slowed his pace, but he doesn't say anything.

"The season is over," Atobe says.

Tezuka's pace falters. Duh.

Atobe clenches his jaw. The wind picks up and pushes him. He tightens his hand around the umbrella handle. The plastic is slippery.

And then, the umbrella puffs up. Rain pounds harder than before. Atobe struggles with his umbrella. Thunder and lightning crash together in one blinding cacophony. His umbrella pops back. In one instant, it's gone.

Atobe blinks. Water showers his face. He looks up and the plastic of his umbrella has disappeared. Nothing is left except the cheap metal frame.

He turns around. The plastic billows and floats down the street, rushing away with a flood of a burst drain.

His shoulders sink. Atobe's chin trembles. His chest shudders. Stupid cheap umbrella! he thinks.

Tezuka is at the top of the street. He walks away at the crest of the hill. Atobe runs to keep up with him. "Wait!" he yells. Tezuka keeps walking. Under his breath, Atobe hisses, "Tezuka, you ass…"

Atobe hugs the sides of the apartment blocks as best he can. None have underground parks with canopies with cars. The sidewalk pavement is slippery and uphill. Atobe grinds his teeth. He dashes, then minces his steps. Tezuka doesn't wait. Atobe refuses to yell a second time.

But Tezuka is a good boy. He waits at cross walks and he doesn't jay walk. Atobe catches up. He sucks in a deep breath. Hair covers his eyes. Atobe glances down. His shirt is ruined. He touches his pocket, but his cellphone is probably ruined too. His stomach sinks.

"What do you want?" Tezuka asks. From his tone, the world has ended.

Atobe narrows his eyes. He lifts his chin to flip his hair back. It doesn't flip. Atobe tries to hide his grimace. The light changes to green. Tezuka steps off the curb, but he keeps his head up.

Atobe doesn't have a good answer. His throat feels thick. He's been a bit of an idiot. Now, he's as wet as Tezuka with no way to call home and have the chauffeur pick him up.

"Stop following me," Tezuka says.

Atobe's throat feels tighter than before. There's nothing else I can do! he thinks. Tezuka does not need to know this.

"So, you're going pro," he says.

Tezuka grunts.

There is a large park to the left. The trees shake and shiver with the rain. The lightning has let up, but distant thunder rumbles. Rain rolls in waves, pelting Atobe's arms and face. He shivers, but he's not cold. His skin is sticky and itchy from the warm water. He makes a face. This is gross.

Tezuka's expression never changes. He's wet. His glasses are wet. His shoes have to be at least as wet as Atobe's. He's got a heavy tennis bag strapped to his right shoulder. He keeps walking.

Atobe runs up to him. Tezuka has longer legs. Atobe's shoes squelch with the effort to keep up. "Where are you going?" he asks.

Tezuka's eyes shift to the side. "Home," he says. Duh.

A lone taxi drives past. Atobe looks at it for a moment. It disappears into the lights of Tokyo. Rain blurs the cityscape and makes the neon signs and glow of conbinis and trains drip into the oily puddles on the streets.

He has no idea where they are. Lost in Hanzomon. Or Sendagaya. Atobe can feel himself shrinking. His eyes sting.

"Hey!" he shouts.

Tezuka pauses. Atobe runs up. "Don't you have an umbrella?"

Tezuka's lips thin. "I forgot it," he says. His voice is mumbled. The rain nearly drowns it out. "Where's yours?"

Atobe steps back. His face feels hot. His eyes sting more. There's no one else around, so he says, "It didn't work. It was too cheap."

It blew away and failed…

Tezuka seems intent on being a conversation killer. Atobe looks around. There are no recognizable landmarks. There isn't even a convenience store to ask directions. He stays close to Tezuka. Tezuka turns at an alleyway that leads out onto a larger street. Down hill maybe a block or two, Atobe can see the blue and white metro sign of the Tokyo subway.

Ah.

Tezuka is fast with the ticket machines. Atobe stares at the map. Colours bisect colours. The subway lines are a mess of scribble. Atobe's jaw drops a little.

He doesn't know which subway stop is his. The chauffeur always drove him. Or Kabaji bought the tickets. Atobe's money is soggy. It sticks at the bill slot, which refuses to accept it. Atobe sucks in a breath through his nose.

"Here," Tezuka says. He pulls a couple coins from his pocket. He presses one of the buttons. He hands Atobe the ticket and takes the change.

The subway car is empty. Atobe's hair drips onto his shoulders. Atobe's shoulders stick to the window and the seat. He hands Tezuka the soggy bill. "Don't think I can't pay for myself," he says.

Tezuka gives him a long, hard look. He takes the money. Then he wipes his glasses on the hem of his t-shirt. It does nothing. Tezuka opens his tennis bag. He wipes his glasses with a folded towel.

How uncouth, Atobe thinks. He scrunches his face up. Tezuka's glasses have smears on them, probably from the towel, which was probably dirty.

The subway platforms are forlorn. Fluorescent lighting bounces off cement walls. Atobe squints. A chill creeps over his arms and legs. The A/C of the subway carriage is cold, broken only by the intervals at the stations when a blast of hot, humid air will push Atobe back. They pass by five, maybe six stations without a single word. Tezuka stares out the window at the passing black nothing. Atobe stares at Tezuka.
Tezuka's subway stop is empty. The street the exits open up onto are empty. Rain falls. It drips off the humming neon signs of stores closed hours ago. Atobe drips with sweat. Water rolls off the ends of his hair. Tezuka never offers to share his umbrella, but he doesn't tell Atobe to go away either.

This part of Tokyo is foreign. These rows of houses, tightly packed behind cement walls, look alien. Their humdrum gardens and panties, swimming in pools forming in their pots, makes Atobe turn up his nose. He runs behind Tezuka to keep up. Puddles splash up his legs. Atobe winces at the water sliding down his legs. It's warm and filthy.

At one of the houses, Tezuka stops. Atobe looks up. A street light flickers. Water pours. Tezuka leans over a gate latch-it creeps open and he enters. Atobe hangs back. His shoulders sag as Tezuka disappears into the blurring lights flooding out from the windows.

"Aren't you coming?" Tezuka asks. He doesn't even turn around.

Any response is choked off by the rush of rain. Atobe rushes up behind Tezuka.

His house is nothing special. The closest resemblance Atobe can think of is Shishido. Thankfully, no slobbering mutt comes running down the stairs to paw at Atobe's legs or hump his shoes. It smells like incense and tatami, mixed with something soapy, like laundry detergent, and fried chicken. There are scattered shoes by the doorway. Tezuka lines his sneakers up. Atobe drips on the floor.

And Tezuka's mom comes out.

Atobe stares.

She smiles and offers him a towel. "Kunimitsu, you should have called and said your friend was coming!"

The ends of Tezuka's hair curl. He wipes his glasses with a Kleenex and blinks. His eyes are huge.

Atobe opens his mouth to say, "I'm not his friend!" The words never come. Tezuka says nothing to the contrary. He shuffles into a pair of slippers and mumbles something about supper.

Through the window at the far side of the room, Atobe can see a courtyard. At any other time, it might be peaceful. Hydrangeas sag with water and rain rushes down bamboo pipes. It pours into a fountain with a fury. Light flashes and reflects across a pond for a split-second. Atobe counts. One, two, three…

Five seconds later, thunder cracks. Then it rumbles. Tezuka's mom closes the curtains. She's wearing a cocktail dress. Atobe doesn't move from the spot. He wrings the towel in his hands.

He should go home.

"No one should be out driving in this weather," Tezuka's mom says. "Is it a late tsunami, honey?"

"Huh…what?!?" A voice answers from deeper in the house. He's a frazzled version of Tezuka. Atobe looks at Tezuka. Tezuka has no expression.

His mom laughs. "Your dad is so silly," she tells Tezuka.

Atobe keeps looking at Tezuka.

They go to Tezuka's room. His clothes fit bigger than Atobe's. There are worn spots at the elbows and knees. Atobe feels beyond awkward in Tezuka's pajamas. It's an invasion of Tezuka's space. It's an invasion of Atobe's standards. But he says nothing when Tezuka's mom offers them except a mumbled, "Thanks."

The smell of rain is thick, and the chemical taste of lightning lingers on Atobe's lips. Tezuka's room is dim. He hunches over his desk with a novel. Atobe pads over. He reads the title. "Gravitation?" He laughs. Pink spots flush over Tezuka's cheeks.

"Aa," he says.

"Hn," Atobe says.

Tezuka isn't in the mood to talk. He never is.

Atobe flips his cellphone open. It's his favourite purple one and the only phone he brought with him. The LCD screen comes on. Then it sparks and fades and dies. Atobe frowns.

Tezuka keeps his back to Atobe, but in the small mirror, Atobe can see Tezuka's eyes moving to the sides of his lenses. Tezuka looks back down at his book. The light flickers. Thunder growls. Water rushes down the drain pipes and plink plonks off the roof tiles. Tezuka's window is open a tiny crack. Rain mists in and coats Atobe's arms in a film.

He says, "I have to call home, Tezuka."

My mom might be worried. The Afghans might be howling. Kabaji might have sent an important email…

Then everything goes black.

"You're more than welcome to try," Tezuka says, after a pause.

"I hate you," Atobe says. Tezuka almost laughs.

At least Tezuka can't read in the dark.

Atobe stands there. He shifts his weight. The world is black outside. The street lights are dead. There is nothing but a single car driving in the distance with headlights bleeding into the rain. The air conditioning is cold enough to make Atobe shiver. He feels his way across Tezuka's bed, then he sits down.

A drawer opens with a creek. And then there is light.

Atobe rolls his eyes. Tezuka has a book light. Gravitation stays closed.

In the near-darkness, sound is magnified. Tezuka's shuffling is loud. Atobe is conscious of his own breathing and the sound of his swallowing. The floorboards creek and the mattress groans.

Tezuka's mom yells his name. Atobe winces. His mole twitches and he can hear his eyelashes fluttering. He closes his eyes for a moment. Tezuka pauses in his doorway. He looks back at Atobe. The book light makes his face glow orange and his eyes black.

They eat cold pickles and eel and pre-packaged bean rice. Tezuka's grandfather tells his mom, "You got careless with the cooking."

Tezuka's mom laughs it off. The azuki beans stick to the roof of Atobe's mouth. He's fine with one Tezuka, but there are too many here. Tezuka's father looks like a frazzled, salaryman version of Tezuka. He talks too fast and he scratches his head too much. Atobe slinks away from him into Tezuka's grandfather. He looks like Tezuka will, in eighty years, complete with disapproving frown for everything.

This is the last place Atobe wants to spend the night.

"The dryer's down, Atobe-kun, I'm sorry," Tezuka's mom says. Her smile makes it difficult to believe she doesn't want him to stay the night.

Tezuka's pajamas start to itch. Atobe wants to crawl out of them and call Kabaji. Tezuka's cellphone has no battery left. His grandfather has no cellphone. His father lost his cellphone and his mom's cellphone broke last week when it fell into the koi pond.

"Foolish woman!" Tezuka's grandfather mutters.

"Grandpa's just having a bad day," Tezuka's mom says. Her eyes sparkle in the candle light. With the A/C off, too, the room is heating up quickly. Atobe sweats at his collar. He feels like a plebian as the sweat collects on his back and drips down to his waistband.

Atobe's not having a great night either.

There's no champagne with his bath-not even sparkling cider.

There's no king-sized bed-just a damp-smelling futon on Tezuka's bedroom floor.

There's no built-in sound system pumping Chopin. Tezuka breathes heavily.

Atobe sighs and rolls over. It could be worse. He could be at Sanada's samurai cave in the middle of Kanagawa. Instead, he's in the middle of suburban Tokyo. Atobe pants. He flings the futon cover off himself. The pillow is lumpy. His back aches. It's too hot to sleep.

Outside, the trees rustle. The thunder has died down. The rain has softened to a pour.

"Ne, Tezuka?"

Silence.

Atobe shifts his eyes. Tezuka's breathing is too regular. Anyone with insight can tell that Tezuka's still awake. His pupils shine in the dimness of the room. The clouds are shifting, but the moon will be hidden all night.

"The season's over," Atobe says. "It doesn't matter if you practice now." Atobe waits. He drums his fingers on the futon cover. "Hn?"

Tezuka can't resist. "I won't get careless."

Atobe laughs under his breath. "Sasuga, Tezuka…" Louder, he says, "It still doesn't matter. You were there for four hours."

Sheets rustle. The mattress groans. Tezuka fumbles for his glasses, but he doesn't put them on. Atobe twirls them around his fingers. Tezuka can't see. Atobe can't see either, but he can hear Tezuka's frown.

"You watched me the whole time?"

Atobe rolls his eyes. "You aren't worth that much of my time."

"If you say so," Tezuka says. He snorts and the sound is soft, just above the din of the rain. Atobe bristles. His neck is sweaty and his chest is too hot. He tries to fan himself with his hand. It's useless.

They lay in the darkness and neither one of them says a word. Atobe melts in the stifling black of Tezuka's room. The walls seem to get closer the longer time passes. A digital watch ticks-it must be Tezuka's.

"I'm going to go pro," Tezuka says.

Atobe purses his lips. "I knew that," he lies.

"I'm going to Germany," Tezuka adds.

Atobe's throat feels thick. He tries to swallow, but it only makes him cough. He muffles the sound under the futon cover. Tezuka is close enough that it won't matter. So your rivals here aren't good enough? he thinks.

"So you think you're good enough for the pro circuit?" Atobe asks. He curls his lip up. He rolls his eyes. His stomach feels hotter than before. The sweat beading the sides of his face builds, but it is cold and clammy and gross.

In one flashing, cacophonous moment, all of the lights burst on. All of the electronic equipment beeps and buzzes and the air conditioning rattles on with a heave and groan as it kick-starts once again. Atobe squeezes his eyes shut. The lights hurt. The sounds scrape his ears. The first blast of A/C is hot and humid and dusty.

As his ears adjust to the faint noises of civilization, Atobe notices something: the rain has stopped. He sits up. Tezuka looks at him. Without his glasses, his eyes are big and round. His mouth is small and his face looks rounder and softer. His hair is a mess of soft strands-but Atobe would never touch it. Atobe would never admit that. He runs a hand through his hair. It's short and bristly. He lifts his chin and sniffs.

Tezuka smiles at him. The expression is so odd, that Atobe blinks.

He misses it. Tezuka pulls the cord and fluorescent is cut out as quickly as it reappeared.

Tezuka says, "I thought you knew German, Atobe."

Duh.