Fanfic - Kaleidoscope [The Prince of Tennis: Tezuka/Ryoma]

[soera]

Fandom: The Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: Light R
Notes: Post-series. Anime continuity, with the slight alteration of Ryoma not winning the U.S. Open straightaway. In this fic he works his way up a little slower.
Totally bullshitting my way through the tennis stuff. Feel free to call me out on blatant errors.

Cross-posted to zuka_ryo, tezukaryouma and tenipuri_yaoi.

Thanks to atleastintheory for the beta. ♥

Kaleidoscope

It’s not fair, he thinks to himself, and hates himself for sounding like a whiny little kid. But it really isn’t. He’d only been in Japan a year - less than that, really - but he’s missing it more than he’d missed America when he first arrived in Japan. America, Japan, America. The place he grew up in versus the place he grew up in.

He bounces a tennis ball off the wall of his room, catching it in his hand and tossing it back, again and again.

The rhythmic sound reminds him of being on a tennis court. It grounds him, lets him think in a way he’d never be able to manage otherwise. First, he thinks, there’s growing up in the sense of growing older. Then there’s growing up in the sense of growing wiser. America and Japan. Which is a little unfair, as far as comparisons go. He’d like to think that he’s grown a little wiser since he returned to America as well. He’d won some matches and lost others and in the end he’d made a name for himself as someone to be watched. He’d blazed through the junior tournaments. Nanjirou had entered him into a couple of Futures tournaments and he’d walked away from each ten thousand dollars richer. After that, the Challenger tournaments and then the attempt at the ATP International tour, which was where he’d finally been brought up short by some eighteen-year-old ass whose name he couldn’t remember. That was last year, and this year he’d wrestled the title away at the same tournament and Nanjirou was talking about the Masters Series and Grand Slams. Fifteen years old, people would whisper behind his back. What will he be like when he’s older?

Taller, he wants to reply. Hopefully, anyway. He’s grown a little. Five feet five inches now, and he likes rolling the words around on his tongue. They taste like age and old books; they make him feel like he’s got less to prove. Or that there are fewer people he needs to prove himself to. He likes converting the numbers too - one, six, five, and that arrangement makes him think of lazy kisses and cuddling on the sofa. Not, he thinks, that he’s had much experience with either of those.

Susannah had kissed him in the backyard one day. She’d come up to him, taken the racquet out of his hand, pulled him close, and touched her lips to his. He remembers how he’d stared at her, how she’d shrugged and given him back his racquet and moved to the back door again to watch him practice. He hadn’t said anything, but his mother had never offered to let her stay over again when her parents were away. He wonders where she is now. He wonders why he hadn’t enjoyed the kiss. He wonders who he’d enjoy kissing.

As far as cuddling had gone, there hadn’t been any of that. He’d fallen asleep on Momo-senpai’s shoulder (still can’t stop using those suffixes, he thinks) a few times on the bus. Once, when they’d been on the way back from a tournament, he’d fallen asleep against Tezuka’s side and woken up curled neatly into the curve between Tezuka’s hip and shoulder. It was probably the closest to cuddling that he’d gotten.

Fifteen years old, and where is he now?

Tennis is his life, has always been his life, that’s what he’s always thought. But now that it really is (tournaments, matches, sponsors, he’s got a manager and a personal trainer, he’ll never get used to that, never stop wishing for grey eyes and brown hair) he’s not sure he likes it.

He sits up straight in his bed at the traitorous thought. The ball rebounds from the wall and hits him in the face.

His father can’t stop laughing at his black eye, which makes dinner an even more arduous affair than it usually is. His mother tries to play peacemaker, but it’s his statement that really shuts up his father.

“I want to go back to school,” he declares, and puts a spoonful of rice in his mouth so that he won’t be forced to elaborate. Across the table from him, Nanjirou goes suddenly quiet, a strange look on his face that Ryoma can’t quite decipher.

“Oh,” Rinko says, only marginally more comfortable with the topic than her husband is. “We’ll find a good school here for you then.”

“One without a tennis club,” Ryoma insists, and Nanjirou spits his water all over Ryoma.

There’s a school nearby that fits the bill, and the principal offers extra tutoring from some of his teachers to get Ryoma caught up on everything he’s missed out on. It takes a lot of hard work, and sometimes he misses practicing tennis, but eventually he’s caught up and keeping up well with his class (none of whom know him from the circuit, and he’s never been more thankful for that). There’s more time for tennis then, which is good because his father keeps bugging him for games. He takes him up on them whenever he can, of course, except when his father wants to play in the morning because the one time he accepted, he arrived at school three hours late.

He’s sent an email to Fuji-senpai, asking him to let everyone else know that he’s taking a short break from the circuit. He knows his old team still keep tabs on his career, and he doesn’t want them to worry about the rumours circulating - that he’s been injured, that he’s mysteriously retiring like his father before him. After that the emails and letters from the rest of his team come more regularly, and if his replies are short, at least he writes them back.

Most of them.

Buchou, he writes at the top of the email, and then deletes it.

Tezuka-san, he tries, and deletes that too. He remembers that Tezuka’s English was more than passably good, which is a relief because his computer here doesn’t have Japanese font capability. At least he can be assured that Tezuka will be able to read what he’s writing here. He wouldn’t be so sure if it was Momo-senpai; there’s a reason most of the other regulars get infrequent, hand-written letters instead of faster, more regular emails.

Kunimitsu, he writes, just for the hell of it, and then stares at the neat letters on his screen. A few minutes later, he deletes that too, and logs out of his email account.

Pathetic, he thinks, three years and no communication with buchou. So that he doesn’t have to think, he goes out to play some tennis. Even that doesn’t help because he keeps seeing drop shots that don’t bounce in the back of his eyes, and eventually he gives up on playing and flops onto his back in the middle of the court. Most of their neighbours have pools in their backyards, he thinks, and is absurdly grateful that Nanjirou chose to have a tennis court put in instead. As if he’d do otherwise.

Karupin comes mewling for attention, crawling insistently onto Ryoma’s chest. He automatically starts petting him; Karupin has him well trained. Ryoma can still remember when he was just a kitten, and compares the mental image to the lazily purring cat sitting on him. “You’re getting old,” Ryoma tells him, and Karupin mews indignantly and bats at Ryoma’s nose.

“So am I,” Ryoma agrees, then picks Karupin up and goes back inside. He’s barely been playing half an hour, but he can’t seem to focus today. There’s no point in continuing when he’s like this, really.

Kawamura-senpai, Ryoma writes. Fuji-senpai sent me some photos of the new shop. Congratulations. If I come back to Japan, I’ll get some free sushi, right? It’s only fair since the others got to eat for free at the opening.

He stops, deletes the word “if” and replaces it with “when.” Then he deletes “when” and rewrites “if.” Before he can think too much more, he goes on.

Fuji-senpai said you’ve improved a lot too. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Guess you’ll be taking over the shop after all then? Your dad must be proud.

Ryoma pauses, resolutely does not think about his own father or about sons following in their father’s footsteps, and continues.

I’ll want to try some when - Ryoma sighs and hits delete a little more viciously than is needed. If I come there again.

How’s Tezuka-buchou doing?

He stares at the last line for a long second, then hastily deletes it. How’s the old team doing? he writes instead, then signs off and sends the email before he can make the mistake of thinking again.

Kawamura-senpai is safe to write to, he thinks as he gets up to prepare Karupin’s meal. It’s not like writing to Fuji-senpai, when you know the reply you get will be full of double entendres and verbal pitfalls. It’s not like writing to Momo-senpai or Kikumaru-senpai, when anything you tell them will be across town by nightfall. Oishi-senpai still hasn’t lost his knack for worrying too much (and about all the wrong things). Kaidoh-senpai isn’t bad to write to, but his letters are like Ryoma’s; rarely informative. Inui-senpai… no. Ryoma thinks that perhaps he harbours a grudge for all the times Inui-senpai has forced his disgusting juices down his throat.

“It’s your birthday in a few months,” Rinko reminds him as he mixes some fresh meat in with dry cat food. He adds a supplement and sets the bowl on the floor. Karupin comes running at the tell-tale clank and dives in happily. Rinko’s making the meals for the human denizens of the house. “Is there anything you want?”

To go back to Japan, is at the tip of Ryoma’s tongue, along with To see everyone again. and To enjoy tennis. Instead, he says, “Not really,” and leaves his mother staring after him worriedly.

Later that night, he tries to write to Tezuka again. He gets as far as Buchou before he’s logging out of his email account and shutting down his computer. He stares at his ceiling for a long time.

“Buchou,” he eventually tries, and the word’s still familiar to him. He’s ridiculously relieved. “Buchou.”

He plays Nanjirou the next day. A full match, the bastard’s actually taking him seriously for some reason. Ryoma doesn’t know why, but he’s not going to complain. Three sets later, Nanjirou’s won. 5-7, 6-1, 7-6. Ryoma rolls the numbers around his mouth. They’re bitter. Funny, he thinks, that he likes those same numbers when they’re in a different order. One, six, five. Somehow that’s more pleasing.

He wonders if his father threw a game or two. He’s still wondering as he collects the balls strewn around the court, ignoring his father’s idiotic, cheerful dancing. There are insults to his capability strewn in amongst the victorious exclamations. Ryoma lobs a ball at the back of his father’s head. Nanjirou had to have heard it coming, but it connects, and Ryoma’s lips are quirking as he heads back inside for a shower.

“Have you revised for your test tomorrow?” Rinko asks him, and he bites back the urge to curse. He hasn’t, of course, and how his mother can keep track of his test schedules better than he can is something he will never understand. He skips dinner in favour of revising trigonometry. Rinko brings up a tray of food that sits undisturbed until morning, when she returns to clear it after Ryoma’s left for school.

Ryoma thinks that maybe he’s screwed up the one test, but it shouldn’t affect his overall grade too much. Nanjirou wouldn’t care anyway, so all Ryoma’s wary of is the way his mother has of peering at him over the edge of the paper, her eyes turned down in a sad little frown. She never says anything. She never has to. She’s too good at the mom-guilt, and Ryoma has to grudgingly admire her for this, even if he knows he’s being played.

Being played on all sides, he thinks, and wonders if he should care. He decides it takes too much energy and buys lunch. He thinks longingly of Nanako’s bentos, of onigiri, of melon pan, of going up to the roof to eat. He remembers the one time he encountered Tezuka up there and they’d had lunch together. Momo-senpai hadn’t believed him when he’d mentioned it. “But what did you talk about?” he’d asked incredulously, and it was only then that Ryoma realised neither of them had said a word.

The roofs here are barred from student access, and an alarm goes off if someone tries to access them. It isn’t worth the bother, but Ryoma still wishes he at least had a Japanese lunch.

He eats the mystery meat without tasting it (after Inui Juice, his taste-buds have been desensitised to the horrors of high school cafeteria food) and heads back up to homeroom. He decides on the way up that he’ll try writing a pen-and-paper letter instead. Maybe that will help.

There are three giggling girls in the corner of the classroom, and a boy snoozing in the last row. Ryoma ignores them and takes his usual seat by the window.

Buchou, he writes in Japanese, then crosses the hiragana out immediately.

Tezuka-buchousan, and then he scribbles over the whole thing in frustration. What the hell is he supposed to call him?

Hi, he writes in English, and then continues in Japanese. I’d like to have a match with you. I know you left the pro scene after a few months, but you still play, don’t you? It doesn’t even have to be a serious game.

Of course, I’d have to come back to Japan first. Unless you’re in New York. If you did come here, I hope you’d tell me.

There’s something missing in tennis these days. I need to get it back before I can think about Grand Slams. I need to play you, buchou.

He stares at the last word. It’s slipped out by accident, like something you don’t mean to say but you do and then it’s too late, you can’t take it back. Echizen Ryoma, he prints neatly, then crumples up the paper and tosses it into his bag.

After school, after playing Nanjirou, after dinner, he takes the squashed ball of paper out of his bag and looks at it for a long time. Carefully, he smoothes it out and puts it into the only lockable drawer he has. The only other thing in the drawer is a worn green wristband which Ryoma takes out and puts on. He goes to sleep with it pressed up against his nose, imagining he can still smell Tezuka on it.

“I’m obsessed,” Ryoma tells Karupin seriously the next evening. Karupin mews back.

“I’m like a stalker,” Ryoma explains. “Only, you know, not actually there.” Karupin tilts his head to the right. Ryoma tilts his head to the left. Karupin mews plaintively.

“All you care about are your treats,” Ryoma says accusingly, but fetches the little snacks that Karupin loves. Karupin eats the few treats Ryoma allows him, then mews for more. When he realises he isn’t getting anything else, he turns on his tail and heads for the closed door, scratching at it.

“Traitor,” Ryoma snorts, but opens the door and lets Karupin out before closing it again. He locks it for good measure and throws himself into bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about entering the U.S. Open. Again. Stronger this time, and what will happen then?

But he isn’t thinking about that when his hand drifts across his stomach. What he’s thinking about is this: the curve of Tezuka’s body and the way Ryoma fit into it. Tezuka’s sharp cheekbones. The small indentation above Tezuka’s right elbow. Ryoma pictures sinking a finger into it, sinking all his fingers into a tight grip on Tezuka’s arm and never letting go. He thinks about the smooth plane of Tezuka’s back, the glimpses of pale skin he’s caught in the clubroom. Tezuka has always been unashamed of changing in front of Ryoma. Ryoma was always generally polite enough not to look, but now he wonders what all that skin looks like, that skin he hasn’t seen except in accidental snatches.

He abruptly realises that he’s hard and stroking himself lightly through his clothes and he snatches his hand back so quickly he thinks he might have strained a muscle. I’m a pervert, he thinks, rolling over and burying his face in his pillow, resolutely ignoring the nearly-painful erection, oh god, I’m turning into dad.

He tries to sleep and discovers that near-suffocation isn’t conducive to resting. He turns from the pillow so he can breathe and lies awake for what seems like the entire night.

When he doesn’t come down for breakfast the next morning, Rinko goes up and discovers that her son is ill. He’s wrapped in his blankets and curling away from her and generally being discontent and surly in that way he gets only when he’s thoroughly miserable. He’s flushed and sweaty and she tells him to get some sleep, he doesn’t have to go to school today, she’ll bring something light up for him that he can have for lunch later. Ryoma mumbles something indistinct and turns away. He hears her leave, then return with the food. He doesn’t respond when she asks him how he feels. When he hears the front door close, he relaxes a little. He knows that Nanjirou is dropping Rinko off at work today and then going out for a while.

He has the house to himself. Theoretically, he could do anything he wanted to, but he’s busy feeling like a complete bastard. He indulges in some uncharacteristic self-pity, then drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He turns the shower on full-blast, cold as he could get it, pulls off his clothes and steps in.

The chill’s a shock to his system, but it serves the dual purpose of waking him up properly and making him stop whinging even in the privacy of his own mind. You hate it when people treat you like a kid, he tells himself firmly, so stop acting like one.

He dries himself off and changes into casual clothes. Karupin has been fed and he mentally thanks his mother. He goes upstairs and boots up the computer, tapping his fingers idly while waiting. When it’s finally running, he immediately logs into his email account.

There’s an email from Kawamura-senpai. He’s pleased to hear from Echizen again. He’s heard Echizen’s taking a break from pro tennis. He hopes it isn’t an injury, and that Echizen will return soon to it. Echizen is welcome to visit at any time, and he’ll certainly treat Echizen to some sushi. Echizen must definitely let him know when he comes to Japan.

Ryoma notes the use of the word “when” and half-smiles to himself.

Fujiko-chan has been doing some freelance photography and is seriously considering making that his chosen field when he finishes his studies. Oishi, Eiji, Fujiko and he are all studying hard for their exams. Momoshiro and Kaidoh are still arguing all the time. The last time they came for sushi, another customer got so angry at how loud they were that he tried to bodily throw Momoshiro out. Kaidoh looked like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or stand up for Momoshiro. The latter impulse won out, and the one who looked the most surprised with that decision was Kaidoh. Tezuka has already been offered a place at university, an accelerated program on a scholarship and has mentioned going back into pro tennis after finishing -

Ryoma hits “Compose New Mail” and types quickly, fumbling over the keys. Buchou. I need to see you. When’s a good time? He’s sent it before he realises that they’re on different continents.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, and then jumps when his inbox pings.

When are you coming back? says the email, and Ryoma stares at it for so long his vision starts to blur.

Ryoma gets his birthday present a month early. He looks at his mother, at the round-trip ticket, and back at his mother, who’s smiling at him. Nanjirou’s sulking like someone’s taking away his favourite toy.

He hugs his mother and goes upstairs to pack. The ticket’s for tomorrow. Only a month, he thinks, but better than nothing. There are certain things he needs to say to certain people. He wonders if he should practice. But that’s a stupid thought and besides, whatever he wants to say, he knows what he’ll end up saying.

He’ll be able to spend his birthday in Japan, he thinks as he unlocks his drawer and puts both letter and wristband into his carry-on bag.

The next morning, before he leaves, he sends an email. Buchou. Tomorrow, 3.25 pm. Narita. NH9.

Why, he wonders, does it seem so easy now?

The flight is tiring. There’s a delay because of engine problems and they leave the Kennedy Airport an hour after they were supposed to. It takes a little over fourteen hours and there’s turbulence and Ryoma can’t sleep. The food sits heavily in his stomach and at one point he goes to the cramped airplane bathroom and throws up. He wonders if he’s coming down with something.

Nanako has work and cannot be there to pick him up. He’s packed lightly, and he was sure he could manage the trains by himself. By the time he lands, he is exhausted and wishing for a ride. Maybe, he thinks as he pulls his luggage behind him, he should splurge on a cab. He’s trying to figure out how much it would cost when he walks into Tezuka.

“Echizen,” Tezuka says quietly, and reaches out to take a bag from him.

“Buchou,” he acknowledges, and then they’re falling into step beside each other like he’d never left. Like Ryoma had personally kept in touch with him all this time instead of always asking other people how Tezuka was doing. Ryoma wonders what Tezuka thinks of him now. If Tezuka’s proud of him.

They make the trip back to Ryoma’s old house in silence. Along the way, Ryoma falls asleep. Since he’s standing up on a somewhat-crowded train, this is a remarkable feat. He wakes up a few stops before his to find himself propped up against the corner of the carriage, Tezuka’s arm around him to support him. His face is pressed against Tezuka’s chest. He’s grown taller, but so has Tezuka, he thinks.

“Sorry,” he yawns, and they alight at his stop without saying anything else. That makes three words, Ryoma thinks suddenly, three words between them since he’s arrived. Momo-senpai was right. They don’t talk much, either of them. He doesn’t care, though, not when he’s noticing that Tezuka still remembers the way to his house without being prompted.

At the door, Tezuka offers a few more words. “Inui found out you’re back,” he says. “He’s organising a get-together.”

“Let me know when,” Ryoma agrees. Tezuka helps him bring his bags into the house, nods politely and leaves. Ryoma goes upstairs to his room, which is blessedly dust-free. Thanks, Nanako, he thinks fuzzily, and falls asleep.

Ryoma has done his fair share of travelling, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the jet lag. He knows he should force himself to stay awake so he can acclimatise faster, but his body always has other plans. He sleeps until nine and wakes up only when Nanako calls him down for dinner. She’s made a simple, traditional meal and apologises for not making anything fancier. She’s been busy all day, she explains, but he doesn’t really care because as much as his mother tries, her cooking isn’t a patch on Nanako’s and he’s too busy eating to care about how “fancy” the dishes are.

Nanako tells him about her job and her new boyfriend and the possibility of getting a new apartment closer to work. He tells her, without being prompted, about life in America and how he’s doing in school. She looks suitably gratified at how forthcoming he is. Nanako, he thinks distractedly during a lull in the conversation, is someone he’d never really appreciated before. He’d liked her for her cooking abilities. He’d thought that sometimes she mothered him as much as Rinko did. Beyond that, he’d never really gotten to know her. Too sweet, too innocent, he’d thought at the time, though he’d once considered revising his opinion after catching her blackmailing his dad with the threat of the destruction of his porn collection. Maybe, he thinks, he’ll use this month to get to know her better.

He finds it hard to sleep that night and he’s tired when he gets up in the morning. Nanako’s already left for work, but she’s left behind breakfast. Ryoma dives into the food with relish. Later, he thinks, he’ll go to the street courts and see if he can find someone to play. He’ll wear himself out and see if he sleeps better tonight.

Inui-senpai calls as he’s about to leave. They’re to meet that evening at Kawamura Sushi. The new shop, Inui tells him, and gives him directions. Don’t be late.

Ryoma puts his bag back down and goes out to hit some balls in the backyard. He wonders if anyone rings the temple bell now that his dad isn’t here. He practices the zero-shiki drop shot, simply because he can’t think of anything else. Over and over the ball falls and doesn’t bounce. He likes watching the deceptive spin at the moment of impact, the way the ball curves back towards the net, scraping along the ground.

The court isn’t in very good shape. Nanako does a good job of sweeping up the fallen leaves, but she doesn’t know how to make sure the court itself is in good condition. After a few hours, he stops practicing, finds a broom, and starts cleaning.

At six, he heads back inside for a shower. The water sluices away the sweat as he stands there, eyes closed. He thinks of Tezuka and bites his lip.

He spreads out his clothes and eyes them for fifteen minutes. He finally decides that he’s turning into a girl, closes his eyes and picks out an outfit at random. The jeans are a little tighter than he’s used to. Either he’s grown or this - he checks - yes, it’s the pair that Rinko had insisted on getting him. She claims it fits him better than the baggier type of clothes he favours. He thinks that these jeans restrict his movements somewhat, and that they would make sideways movements on the court a little troublesome. But he’s not going to play tennis now and so he pulls them on, along with a slightly oversized white shirt. It’s thick and warm and comfortable and has sleeves long enough to hide the old, green wristband he puts on after some deliberation.

At seven, he writes a note for Nanako, checks that he has money, and leaves for the station. It doesn’t take him long to get to the new shop. He’s actually early, he realises with some discomfort. That’s new. Tezuka is already there and greets him with a nod. “Hi,” he replies, and they wait together in silence.

Oishi and Kikumaru show up together and Ryoma’s immediately pounced by the latter. There goes the silence, he thinks resignedly as Oishi and Tezuka exchange greetings. Oishi looks happy to see Ryoma, and asks after his family’s health while his partner exclaims about how Ryoma’s grown. Ryoma bears the indignation of having his hair mussed up, but ducks away once Momo shows up. One’s bad enough; he’s not going to deal with two. Kaidoh has turned up with Momo, oddly enough. Ryoma wonders how the two of them are getting along now. They’ve always had the strangest relationship.

Fuji arrives with a camera. Inui arrives with a bottle of suspiciously fizzy, purple liquid. Ryoma winces inwardly.

For the occasion, the shop has been closed down and they’ve got the place to themselves. Kawamura’s father has left the main branch to his new chef and come over to serve them all personally. He greets them with the cheerful exuberance Ryoma remembers from all the times they’d celebrated wins at Kawamura Sushi. The new shop’s layout is similar to the main one, even if it’s a little smaller. The sushi’s as good as it always was.

“It’s free, right?” he says and steals a piece of anago sushi from under Kikumaru’s nose. Actually, it is, Kawamura explains cheerfully, but only for him, as a treat for missing the opening. That prompts complaints of how unfair he is from both Momo and Kikumaru, the latter of whom is trying to rob Kaidoh of his sushi even as he whines. Inui’s trying to substitute Tezuka’s green tea with that weird purple juice without being spotted. Oishi’s trying to calm his partner and Momo down, and Fuji’s sitting there eating wasabi sushi that no one else is going near.

It’s exactly like before, Ryoma thinks, and hopes no one notices how his eyes are suddenly moist. It lasts only a few seconds and then he’s got himself under control, but then Tezuka’s hand brushes his under the table and he looks up in time to catch an indefinable look in Tezuka’s eyes and he has to duck his head again.

“Echizen! I’m taking your sushi since it’s free!” Momo yells, and Ryoma jerks to attention, diving into the melee to rescue his food. Kikumaru and Momo gang up on him and rob him of his tamago sushi, so he scowls and steals a cucumber roll from Tezuka’s plate. Tezuka reaches out and swaps his cup for Momo’s without anyone but Ryoma noticing, and they’re rewarded a minute later with a scream of agony.

Inui hums thoughtfully under his breath and Ryoma smirks and thinks, This is what was missing.

He’s barely been there an hour when his phone rings and the number flashing on the screen tells him it’s his father, calling from America. “Be right back,” he mutters, though it doesn’t seem like anyone’s listening, and clambers outside to take the call in relative quiet.

“What?” he says into the phone.

“Play against him,” his father says. Ryoma has no clue what his father is trying to say, but he does know that his father sounds uncharacteristically serious. I’m making a point, his voice tells Ryoma. Figure it out. And then he’s hung up and Ryoma’s left staring at his phone in bewilderment.

He goes back inside and catches sight of Tezuka, who’s calmly sipping at a fresh cup of green tea. Tezuka looks up as he enters and nods briefly and he feels a flash of warmth curling somewhere below his stomach. He sits back down beside Tezuka and rescues his drink from Inui’s sneaky attempts at sabotage.

“Tomorrow,” Tezuka tells him quietly, and he nods.

“Four,” he offers. “My place.” Tezuka makes a sound of acquiescence. A slightly green Momo comes over to ask Ryoma what school in America is like, and that’s the last time Ryoma speaks to Tezuka that night.

“Three sets,” Tezuka suggests as they hit the ball back and forth lightly to warm up.

“Sure,” Ryoma agrees, slamming the ball precisely into the corner. Tezuka returns it neatly, not bothering to put his strength into it. They keep the rally going as long as they can, until Ryoma finally fields the ball instead of returning it. He meets Tezuka at the net and lightly balances his racquet on the ground.

“Smooth,” Tezuka says without prompting, and Ryoma spins the racquet. It’s rough.

“You can serve,” Ryoma says, and they take up their positions.

Tezuka’s first serve blazes by so quickly Ryoma barely has time to react. He lunges and manages to catch it, but the ball hits the net and the point goes to Tezuka, who’s already bouncing the next ball on the ground. Ryoma grins, and if the smile’s a little too wide, a little too crazed, no one’s there to call him on it, no one’s there with cameras and flashing lights and screaming encouragement, there are no fans or sponsors or officials. This is them - just them - and this is perfect and then Ryoma isn’t thinking anymore as he returns the serve and stops seeing anything but the ball and his opponent.

Tezuka takes the first set. 7-5, and it’s funny how the numbers don’t make Ryoma think of anything. He’s too busy watching the clean, smooth line of Tezuka’s forearm, and then he’s too busy wondering how Tezuka puts that much spin on his serve and then he’s too busy playing, feeling his muscles burn pleasantly as he stretches himself further than he’s ever gone before.

He wins the second set with six games to Tezuka’s three, and the third set is their most furious yet. Nothing exists for Ryoma anymore, nothing but the game and the sheer thrill of playing his best against (in his biased opinion) the best. They push into tie-break and Ryoma finally surprises Tezuka with his own zero-shiki and suddenly the game’s over and he’s left feeling like something in his heart has wiggled back into place. Funny, he hadn’t known there was something wrong to begin with.

“Good game,” Tezuka says as they shake over the net, and Ryoma nods. He lingers on Tezuka’s touch a little, then pulls away and heads for the side of the court. Tezuka follows, and Ryoma listens to the laboured breathing behind him, committing it to memory.

“I’ve been watching your games,” Tezuka says, and Ryoma starts because he wasn’t expecting further conversation. The match had fulfilled all their conversational needs, hadn’t it? He’s not quite sure how to respond, so he makes a sound he hopes is neutral and opens the door to the house.

He offers Tezuka a glass of cold water and they’re both sitting at the table before Tezuka continues. “You appeared distracted in your last few matches.”

Ryoma shrugs. “I won them.”

Tezuka fixes him with a steady, disapproving look. Ryoma fights the urge to blush.

“Don’t be careless,” Tezuka tells him, and the familiar refrain is enough to make Ryoma want to - to - something, cry or laugh or scream, and it all knots up into something tight and uncomfortable that makes it impossible to even make a sound.

Tezuka thanks him for the water, for the game and for his time. He touches Ryoma’s wrist and leaves.

No, Ryoma realises belatedly, once Tezuka’s figure has been completely swallowed up by the darkness. He touched the wristband, not his wrist.

Flushing, he takes the wristband off and tucks it into a drawer. Then he takes a shower, staying under the spray until he hears Nanako come home. He resolutely refuses to think about the fact that he has just jerked off to the memory of Tezuka’s hot, sweat-streaked hand in his, the memory of the Tezuka’s muscles flexing as he reached for shots, the memory of Tezuka’s rough, uneven breathing. Instead, he makes small talk with Nanako, whose boyfriend has been hinting at marriage. She’s flustered enough that he manages to forget Tezuka for a little while.

He calls his mother later and she puts Karupin on the phone. “Hello, Karupin,” he says affectionately. “Miss me?” At the sound of his voice Karupin goes into full-fledged yowling, and Rinko takes back the phone to report that Karupin’s trotting around as if looking for Ryoma.

“Is there any way I can graduate high school but still play?” he asks her, and she says she’ll figure out how much tutors would cost and what it would take. He hangs up, feeling relieved, says goodnight to Nanako, and decides to go to sleep.

He dreams that he’s twelve again and that he’s just stepped on to Seigaku’s tennis courts for the first time. He remembers playing Momoshiro, who morphs into Kaidoh, who morphs into Inui, who morphs into Fuji. For some reason, Fuji sends a zero-shiki drop shot over the net and he’s left gaping in surprise. “What?” Fuji asks mockingly. “Did you think you were the only one who could evolve?” And then Fuji has become Tezuka who says, “Don’t be careless, Echizen,” and Ryoma wakes up and rolls over and has forgotten the dream by morning.

Come by and see the courts, Oishi has invited him. Before it gets too cold for practice. Ryoma re-reads the message twice before remembering that his old team-mates still have school. It’s only the beginning of December. How had he forgotten that?

In the afternoon, he texts back to Oishi. Do I get to play, senpai?

Oishi’s response comes four hours later. Ryoma wonders if he’d received the message in class. We’ll have to ask the captain, but some of the members would probably be motivated by watching you. Ryoma is suddenly reminded that Ryuuzaki-sensei had made Oishi vice-captain for a reason, and it wasn’t solely because he cared so much about everyone in the club. He can read the undertone of some people are too complacent and you’ll shake them up in the message, and he smirks as he packs his racquets into his tennis bag and sets off.

The courts at the high school are even nicer than those that he remembers from middle school. “There are indoor courts too,” Fuji-senpai says from behind him, and Ryoma jumps a little. Fuji smiles at him innocently.

“Fuji-senpai,” Ryoma says, tipping the brim of his cap with an insolent air. Fuji’s smile broadens.

“You’re still the same, Echizen,” Fuji replies. “I’m not your senpai now, you know.”

Ryoma shrugs and turns his attention back to the courts. He immediately notices the most interesting doubles match-up he’s ever seen: Inui and Kikumaru versus Oishi and Kaidoh.

“Who…?” he murmurs in disbelief as he watches shot after shot go haywire on both sides. The members who are watching are very obviously trying not to laugh at the sudden ineptitude their regulars are demonstrating. Ryoma pulls a tennis ball out of his pocket and absently rolls it in his palm.

“Hatori-sensei,” Fuji explains. “He thinks it’s good for us to practice playing with people we wouldn’t normally be paired up with.” Fuji’s voice communicates exactly what he thinks of that idea to Ryoma.

“Stupid,” he comments, and winces as Inui tries to return Kaidoh’s Snake shot and ends up braining Kikumaru, who’s just back-flipped into position.

Ryoma wrenches his eyes from the painful sight and glances over the other courts. He spots Momoshiro playing against - is that - he rubs his eyes, and yes, it’s Horio, who’s getting trounced, but whose form looks a lot better than he ever remembers it being.

“It’s a pity Kawamura-senpai didn’t join,” he says without looking at Fuji.

“He wanted to concentrate on his dad’s business,” Fuji says simply, but there’s a wealth of meaning and regret behind the words. Ryoma makes a vague sound of discontent, bouncing the tennis ball once before hefting it a few times and rolling it around again.

“The other regular?” he asks, as if it’s inconceivable that any of his old team-mates could have been ousted from the regulars’ spots.

“The captain, of course,” Fuji replies, and Ryoma drops the tennis ball. Fuji’s face is suddenly, inexplicably soft as he looks at Ryoma. “You didn’t know? Tezuka’s the vice-captain. The captain is Kouno-san.”

“Is he good?” Ryoma demands, and Fuji shrugs.

“He’s not bad,” Fuji acknowledges. “Tezuka’s beaten him before in practice, but Kouno-san was vice-captain last year.”

Ryoma harrumphs indignantly under his breath and Fuji chuckles. “Well, most of us look to Tezuka as captain still,” he assures Ryoma, but that doesn’t make Ryoma feel any better, because buchou is buchou, and this is favouritism because the best person to lead any tennis club is Tezuka, of course, and he wants to say that and wants to complain that this is nothing like middle school tennis and it seems like those days were a lot better than what he’s seeing here.

“Want to play a match, Fuji-senpai?” he says instead.

“I’d love to,” Fuji says with a smile. “But it looks like we’re being called back. Maybe later.” And he’s jogging back onto the courts as Ryoma watches from the other side of the fence. The club members are assembling in front of Tezuka and some random guy. Kouno, Ryoma guesses, and examines his face intently. He’s giving instructions - regulars on A court to practice their accuracy, the other members to organise a round robin on the B, C and D courts. Ryoma dismisses him after the first minute. He remembers people both in and out of the club commenting on how Tezuka never showed any emotion, but no one could deny that he was a charismatic leader. This Kouno has nothing of Tezuka’s leadership ability.

Even if, Ryoma acknowledges ruefully, he’s being particularly unkind in his assessment. He turns his attention to the middle-aged man beside Kouno. What was the name Fuji had given? Hatori?

As the other club members scatter, Fuji says something to the regulars. Kikumaru turns and waves frantically, both arms wind-milling. Momoshiro salutes him with his racquet and a huge grin, and Ryoma tips his cap to them as he smirks. Kouno steps up and says something to the other regulars, and then gets a comically surprised look on his face. Oishi says something and Kouno nods, then starts jogging towards Ryoma.

“Echizen Ryoma?” he asks. “It’s an honour! Would you like to come in and watch the practice?”

“Why not?” Ryoma says with studied indifference. He hoists his bag onto his shoulder a little more comfortably and enters the courts.

Kouno offers to play a match against him but Ryoma declines. “I’d like to watch a doubles match,” he says thoughtfully. Hatori glances the regulars over but before he can suggest a line-up, Ryoma continues, “Oishi-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai versus Inui-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai?” he asks ingenuously, and Hatori and Kouno exchange looks and shrug.

Kikumaru gleefully grabs him in a headlock. “Thanks,” he whispers. “Oishi and I haven’t played together in practice in weeks!” And then he’s gone, bouncing towards A court with a bemused Oishi trailing in his wake. Ryoma looks up and sees Fuji’s eyes on him, sharp and blue and amused. Ryoma smirks and shrugs.

Kouno decides that he’ll be umpire, and every time he opens his mouth, Ryoma thinks that the guy sounds more and more officious. The game is 2-1 in the Golden Pair’s favour when Ryoma snaps his fingers and comments quietly, “Horio. He’s like an older Horio with a little more skill.”

Fuji chuckles. Momoshiro snorts in an obvious attempt not to burst out laughing.

“Echizen,” Tezuka admonishes calmly, but he doesn’t contradict Ryoma and Momoshiro has to turn to hide the grin on his face.

Kikumaru and Oishi win six games to three, but the last two in particular were fiercely fought. “Inui-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai work pretty well together,” Ryoma comments as the four exhausted players meet at the net to shake hands.

“We’ve been putting them in doubles more,” Fuji confirms. “Inui helped Kaidoh with his training regiment, and they’ve gotten used to working together.”

“It shows,” Ryoma says, and then the four players are there beside them and Momo congratulates them on a great game.

“You played well,” Hatori says when he comes over, and Ryoma bites back the impulse to say if you’d put them together more they would play even better. Then he notices the jealous looks some of the older club members are giving Kaidoh and Momoshiro, and suddenly realises that that’s the point. Seniority apparently counted for more than skill. He thinks the middle school system worked a lot better. He glances at Fuji, who nods at him seriously; he’s right. They must have done some fast talking to get Kaidoh-senpai and Momo-senpai their spots at all.

“It was impressive,” he comments blandly instead, and then, shooting a sly glance at Tezuka. “But you can’t get careless.”

The team breaks into laughter and Hatori and Kouno both look vaguely puzzled. Tezuka touches Ryoma’s bare wrist, and there’s a question in his eyes. Ryoma shrugs lightly and grins impudently.

“Match?” he offers, and Tezuka nods before either Hatori or Kouno can say anything.

“Are we playing seriously?” Tezuka asks as they walk onto the court. Behind them, he can hear Kikumaru squealing and Momo yelling encouragement. It isn’t entirely clear who he’s cheering for.

“Can we do otherwise?” Ryoma quips, holding his racquet poised. “One set. Which?”

“Rough,” Tezuka says, and the racquet lands rough. He gives the serve to Ryoma, who leads off with a left-handed Twist Serve that Tezuka barely manages to return.

They don’t wait for Kouno to call each point. They know when a ball is in, when it’s out, when Tezuka won’t reach a ball in time or a shot is too fast for Ryoma. They play, fast and hard and with as much strength as they can put behind each shot, until Ryoma can feel his racquet vibrating with every hit, can feel his wrist straining so much that sometimes he has to return the shot two-handed. It’s fierce and it’s beautiful and it’s alive and Ryoma doesn’t realise he’s grinning like a maniac until he sees the answering grin in Tezuka’s eyes as Tezuka races to the net and executes a perfect jumping smash that sails right by Ryoma before he can so much as twitch.

Six to five, and then Tezuka takes one more match and they’re tied. Six all, Ryoma thinks, we’re moving into tie-break, and he bounces the ball a few times. He tosses it into the air and Tezuka straightens from his ready stance, his grip on his racquet loosening. Ryoma serves directly into the ball basket and saunters up to the net to grip Tezuka’s hand firmly.

“Good match,” they say in unison, and Ryoma can’t stop the exhilarated grin for anything. The best part, he thinks as he’s mobbed by a shrieking Kikumaru and Momoshiro, is that he knows Tezuka feels exactly the same way as he does.

He sticks around for the rest of the practice and watches his old team-mates as they go through Inui’s version of target practice. They’ve all improved, Ryoma notes with satisfaction, they’ve all grown. And Oishi had said earlier, hadn’t he, that Ryoma’s career inspired them to keep practicing and getting better. Kikumaru had jumped in to clarify that they couldn’t possibly let themselves be overtaken by their ochibi-chan, but the implications still made Ryoma disgustingly happy. Still their pillar of support, he thinks contentedly, even from another continent.

“If it’s not too much of an intrusion,” Hatori says, and Ryoma glances up from where he’s sitting. Hatori smiles. “I was wondering why you haven’t entered any tournaments recently.”

Ryoma shrugs. “I want to graduate high school,” he says, and it’s true, but a lie at the same time. “I had to get caught up.”

Hatori looks relieved. “There were rumours you’d suffered an injury,” he says, and Ryoma snorts.

“Not true,” he says firmly.

“Ah.” Hatori shifts uncomfortably, his gaze darting from Ryoma to the practicing regulars and back again. Ryoma doesn’t say anything. This is the person, he thinks, who might be sabotaging the efforts of some of the younger players. He can damn well work at the conversation.

“You’re fairly young to have gone pro,” Hatori finally says, and Ryoma thinks, bingo.

“Age isn’t a factor in determining talent,” he replies, pointedly not looking at Hatori. The coach shifts again. “Momo-senpai, for instance,” he continues, relishing the feel of subtly scolding a teacher. He’d never thought his pro ranking would come in useful for this. “His Dunk Smash is strong enough now that most players would have trouble returning it. And Kaidoh-senpai has more stamina than most players, even those older than him. He’s good enough to outlast them.”

“Indeed,” Hatori says.

“Limiting your players by age only reduces your chances of winning,” Ryoma says, and then turns a winning smile on Hatori. “It’s a good thing that you don’t judge by age… sensei.”

“Of course not,” Hatori answers, and hastily excuses himself. Ryoma settles back comfortably on the bench, thinking that maybe Fuji-senpai’s influenced him more than he’d previously thought.

It’s Tezuka’s turn at target practice, and he watches every movement of that tall, lithe body, burning it into his memory.

Momo offers to take him out for burgers after practice ends, and while Ryoma seriously considers it for a moment, he eventually declines. Momo has had the chance to get cleaned up in the club showers. Though he has a change of clothes in his bag, Ryoma’s not technically allowed to use the club showers, so he’ll have to wait till he gets home. He feels far too hot and sticky to want to make a detour for food. Momo and Kikumaru go off together instead, dragging a reluctant Kaidoh in their wake. Ryoma watches their choice of victim in some bemusement.

There have been changes, he thinks as he walks towards the gates of a school that’s completely unfamiliar to him. But they’re not necessarily bad.

Tezuka’s at the gate. Ryoma wonders if he’d been waiting for him. Then he shakes off the hesitation. There could be no other reason. He knows this.

“Echizen,” Tezuka says politely.

“Buchou,” Ryoma replies. Tezuka’s left eyebrow arches faintly.

“You could call me Tezuka,” he suggests, falling into step beside Ryoma.

“Buchou is buchou,” Ryoma says firmly, and Tezuka lets the topic drop. Ryoma decides to pretend that the gleam in Tezuka’s eyes is amusement.

“Want to play a match?” he asks.

“You’ll wear me out,” Tezuka says, and Ryoma’s sure that this time he’s not imagining the amusement in that voice. He’s also very sorry that he grew up in America and has spent so much time around perverts (his dad) and closet perverts (his personal trainer) and has had so many lewd comments made to him that he now sees double entendres in everything.

“Then come over for dinner,” Ryoma suggests.

Ryoma winds up at Tezuka’s house for dinner instead. Tezuka’s father isn’t home when they get there, but his mother and grandfather both welcome Ryoma warmly. Almost too warmly, Ryoma thinks, and glances suspiciously over at Tezuka. What has Tezuka been saying to his family about Ryoma, exactly?

Not much, as it turns out, but dear Kunimitsu hasn’t brought any friends home in so long. It’s so nice to see that he’s not isolating himself. Did you really grow up in America? My, how interesting, it must be so different there. Was it a huge shock coming here? But your English must be really good! Can you say something in English? Mine’s terrible, I’m afraid, but I like listening to Kunimitsu when he reads to me in English.

Kunimitsu has long since made his escape, ostensibly to put his bag in his room and get changed, and Ryoma sends all manner of uncharitable thoughts his way as he struggles to find the right, polite words to answer Tezuka’s mother. She’s enthusiastic and sweet, and Ryoma wonders how in hell Tezuka ever got to be the way he is.

Then Tezuka’s grandfather joins in on the inquisition and Ryoma gets his answer.

Tezuka finally deigns to show his face and rescue him from the onslaught, bringing him to his room. “Dinner will be ready soon!” Tezuka’s mother calls after them cheerfully. Ryoma closes the door and slumps against it, wide-eyed.

“They only do that to people they like,” Tezuka says blandly as he sets his homework out on the table.

“That’s exactly what I tell my dad when Karupin claws him in the face. Again,” Ryoma says, and peers over Tezuka’s shoulder. “I thought you’d already been accepted to university?”

If Tezuka’s surprised at Ryoma’s knowledge, he doesn’t show it. “That doesn’t mean I can turn in substandard work,” he says reprovingly. Ryoma shrugs.

“Could I wash up?” he asks, and Tezuka nods, showing him where the bathroom is and finding some toiletries and towels for him. He’s quick about the shower and returns to Tezuka’s room, patting his hair dry. Tezuka’s working on his homework and rather than disturb him, Ryoma glances through Tezuka’s bookshelf. He quickly spots a likely candidate, pulls it out and throws himself onto Tezuka’s bed to read it. Tezuka doesn’t comment as Ryoma makes himself comfortable, scratching away industriously at his worksheets instead. Ryoma checks the time - eight o’clock - and tries calling home. Nanako still hasn’t returned; he leaves a message and goes back to the book.

“Dinner’s ready!” Tezuka’s mother calls a little later, and Tezuka stops working to stretch lightly at his desk. He plucks the book out of a protesting Ryoma’s hands and brings him to the dining room, where Ryoma gets to meet the last member of the family. Tezuka’s dad, Ryoma thinks, is the most normal of the lot, and that’s just weird when he’s so used to his father being the stupid one.

“Why don’t you stay the night, Echizen-kun?” Tezuka’s mother suggests. “It’s getting late.” Ryoma’s eyes flicker to Tezuka, who nods minutely.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he agrees politely. “I’ll let Nanako know, then.” That, as it turns out, isn’t a very smart thing to say because then he has to explain who Nanako is and how they’re related, which leads to an inquisition on what the rest of his family is like, which leads to commentary on how brave he is coming here all by himself and wasn’t the plane trip very hard on him and what’s it like in America and what do his parents think of him coming here?

Tezuka casually mentions that Ryoma is juggling pro tennis and a high school education, which sparks even more questions.

Tezuka, Ryoma decides, is a bastard.

With all the talking, dinner takes well over two hours. Tezuka says he’ll bring in the spare futon from the hall and tells Ryoma to go on to his room first. Tezuka’s grandfather is so stern, Ryoma thinks as he trundles tiredly to Tezuka’s room and flops onto his bed. But sort of like Kaidoh, in a way, in that he looks and acts a little scary but really is kind of a softie under that. And that’s just weird, comparing Tezuka’s grandfather to Kaidoh-senpai, and then Ryoma falls asleep and doesn’t budge when Tezuka opens the door, or when Tezuka spreads out the futon, or when Tezuka lifts Ryoma bodily, arranges him more comfortably on the bed, and pulls the covers up around him.

Part Two