Fanfic - Kaleidoscope [The Prince of Tennis: Tezuka/Ryoma]
Part One
Ryoma is used to sleeping with Karupin, and he always reaches out in his sleep when he finds that familiar warmth missing. This is his excuse, he thinks, and he’s sticking to it.
“Echizen,” Tezuka says, his voice muffled. This may be because Ryoma is lying sprawled on top of him.
“Sorry,” Ryoma mutters and pushes himself up awkwardly. He’s taken the blankets with him in his fall and now he gets tangled in them, half-falling back onto Tezuka. His hand ends up planted on Tezuka’s chest as he attempts to get leverage, and Tezuka’s reaching up now to steady him, one hand on his hip and the other on his arm, and their legs are pretty much a tangled mess of bedding. This is the scene which Tezuka’s mother walks in on.
“Oh my,” she says.
“A little help?” he asks, and she loses the stunned look and starts laughing instead. Breakfast is on the table, she explains as she helps extricate them from the bedding. She and Tezuka’s grandfather are leaving now to go into town and Tezuka’s dad has left early for work today. Tezuka is finally able to sit up, rubbing his collarbone where Ryoma had accidentally elbowed him.
“Sorry,” Ryoma repeats.
“Kiss it better,” Tezuka’s mother suggests, and leaves with an impish grin. Ryoma stares after her. He’s a little red when he looks back at Tezuka, but Tezuka politely pretends not to notice.
Well, that’s no fun, Ryoma thinks. On the heels of that thought comes another: what would buchou look like if he were flustered?
Ryoma leans forward and pushes Tezuka’s t-shirt out of the way, unhesitatingly placing a kiss on the taut skin. He can feel the shape of the bone beneath his lips, the minute shift of skin and muscle that precedes Tezuka raising his hands and setting them on Ryoma’s shoulders.
“Echizen,” Tezuka says, and his voice is quiet and somehow different from anything Ryoma’s ever heard. The closest to it, Ryoma thinks as he chances a look at Tezuka’s eyes, is when he’s played particularly well in a game and Tezuka tells him he did a good job.
Tezuka’s eyes are full of that same difference, and then Tezuka’s moving closer and lightly pressing his face into Ryoma’s hair. Ryoma watches him lean in and thinks that Tezuka looks beautiful without his glasses on.
“Breakfast,” Tezuka says, nudging Ryoma away. “Or I’ll be late to class.”
Tezuka finds an extra toothbrush for Ryoma and they’re sitting down to breakfast in record speed. Tezuka manages to find time for a quick shower and then he and Ryoma leave the house. Ryoma walks Tezuka to the station, then heads for home, feeling somehow lighter than he’s been in a long time.
“It’s three in the morning,” Nanjirou growls into the phone.
“Not here it isn’t,” Ryoma says calmly. “Just thought I’d tell you that I played buchou.” Then he hangs up and imagines his dad spluttering into the phone. He doesn’t know how his dad knew - he certainly hasn’t told him - but he’s not going to debase himself by asking. The memory of the minor revenge he’s taken stays with him the whole day and he’s cheery as he goes for a run that evening.
He meets Kaidoh-senpai and Inui-senpai along the way and they show him a better route he can take. It’s got more of an uphill slope to it and it’s quieter, with fewer people and little traffic. He hasn’t had the chance to see buchou in a few days, so they haven’t spoken about what happened at all. Meeting Inui-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai is lucky, Ryoma thinks as they run steadily together.
Very lucky, Ryoma discovers, because Inui mentions without any prompting that Tezuka has recently appeared to be in a good mood. Kaidoh asks how he can tell, and Ryoma’s not sure if he’s serious or not. Tezuka has been letting minor infractions go, Inui explains, and if he had the authority to be assigning laps, he’s sure that fewer laps would have been run by the club in general.
“Maybe he got laid,” Ryoma suggests impudently, and is then treated to a long diatribe from a scarlet Kaidoh on how he should respect his elders. Ryoma huffs and agrees in a tone of voice that suggests he’s doing anything but.
He knows his suggestion isn’t true. Not yet.
“You tell what kind of mood Tezuka’s in by how many laps he assigns?” Ryoma asks Inui, only semi-seriously.
“It’s a good gauge,” Kaidoh agrees thoughtfully. Ryoma shrugs.
“What do you use?” Inui asks, and Ryoma fancies he can see Inui’s fingers itching for his notebook and pen. He considers his response.
“What he says, I guess,” he finally replies, and refuses to elaborate when Inui presses. What he says and what he doesn’t, he thinks. Tezuka doesn’t use words; he speaks through tennis. And even through tennis you can tell more from what he doesn’t say than from what he does. Or from how he says what he does, because Tezuka’s like a kaleidoscope, dizzying and beautiful and never static and always somehow mysterious.
That night, he dreams that he’s playing in the French Open. It’s Tezuka across the net from him. Grand Slam, he thinks, what will it take to win a Grand Slam, and then Tezuka’s serving and just as he returns the serve, just as his racquet connects with the ball, he wakes up.
There’s an email from Tezuka waiting in his inbox when he checks it after breakfast. Come to club practice today, it says. And what have you been saying to Hatori-sensei? He has signed off as Tezuka.
There’s also a message on his phone from a number that he doesn’t recognise at first. Then he remembers that it’s Ryuuzaki-sensei’s. What have you been up to, you brat? I had to entertain Hatori for five hours yesterday! it says, and he smirks when he reads it.
I’m innocent! he texts to Tezuka’s phone, and goes out for a morning run. There’s something very peaceful about jogging at this time of day, he muses, when most of the children are in school and the adults are at work and there’s so little traffic. The sun’s warm but not uncomfortably hot, and the wind is at just the right speeds to be pleasant. He’s calm and centred and relaxed when he gets home. A quick shower to sluice away the sweat and then he digs into the lunch that Nanako’s made up for him, wondering what time he should leave. Tezuka hadn’t specified when he was supposed to show up.
He arrives just before practice starts and spends a few minutes standing by the fence, watching the other club members as they warm up and do practice swings. Some of them show promise, he thinks. He picks out Kachiro and Katsuo, who are practicing their swings together. They look like they’ve improved, but he’d need to see them in a game to know for sure.
“Echizen-san!” Hatori says, and Ryoma turns and nods at the coach, who’s jogged up to him. “Tezuka-san passed on my message then?”
“He told me to come down,” Ryoma says with a shrug. “What else did you want to say?”
Hatori looks suddenly sheepish. “The truth is, I was wondering if you could give me your opinion on something,” he says, and Ryoma thinks that it’s very odd for a grown man to be asking a fifteen-year-old for advice.
“You can ask,” he says, and Hatori acts as if he’s agreed to help.
“You see, the ranking system here is based on a series of matches played at the beginning of each school year,” he explains. “I found out from Ryuuzaki-sensei that the middle school holds them more regularly than that. Do you think that’s good?”
“It forces them to keep their skills sharp,” Ryoma says. “It stops them from getting complacent. And it motivates the non-regulars if they think there’s a chance they’ll get into a regular’s spot.”
“Ah, so it’s true then,” Hatori says. Ryoma looks at him uninterestedly. “I think I might implement the system here,” Hatori goes on eagerly. “Frankly, Seigaku high school doesn’t have the same reputation for tennis that the middle school does.”
Ryoma glances back out over the courts. “You’ve got a long way to go,” he agrees. “But you’ve got some good players this year.”
“Of course,” Hatori says. “Ah, excuse me now. I should go get practice started.”
“Can I join in the practice?” Ryoma asks impulsively. “Just for today.”
“Oh, certainly!” Hatori enthuses, and Ryoma can see the thoughts running through his head - that it’s good publicity, that it’s good motivation, that it’ll make good dinner-time conversation, guess who came to practice with my team today - and he almost decides to retract his request. Then he catches sight of his old team-mates walking out of the clubroom together and he shrugs mentally. Small price to pay.
Come to think of it, it’s like the whole deal with the sponsors, Ryoma thinks as he heads towards his team (always his team, why can’t he stop thinking of them like that?). Doing things you don’t want to and that have nothing to do with tennis. Playing politics. It’s stupid, but you can’t get away from it.
“Ochibi!” Kikumaru squeals and grabs him in a tight hug. Momo’s a second behind him, ruffling Ryoma’s hair roughly. Ryoma thinks that he’ll be lucky to have any hair left by the time he gets out of their grip.
“Senpai!” he complains, trying vainly to get out of their death-grips.
The others crowd round to greet him, and for some reason Horio and Kachiro and Katsuo are there too, and it’s so much like old times that Ryoma’s a little thrown. Pity Kawamura-senpai isn’t here, he thinks, and then spots a familiar cheerful face moving towards them.
“Ah, it’s true!” Kawamura exclaims as he reaches the courts. “I was just leaving when I heard someone say that Echizen came by again today.”
“Echizen is being killed by his supposed team,” Ryoma says, voice muffled by the stranglehold Kikumaru has on him. Kikumaru pouts and lets go of him. Momo slaps him lightly on the head with his racquet.
“Be more respectful,” he says. Ryoma looks at him, then looks at Kaidoh, who’s at the back of the group trying to look like he doesn’t care that Ryoma’s there.
“Well, Kaidoh-senpai’s there, so you’re not him in disguise,” he muses. “Hey, Momo-senpai. How much time have you been spending with Kaidoh-senpai?” Momo turns red and Kaidoh turns redder and Oishi tries and fails to hide a grin.
“Practice is starting,” Tezuka reminds them, staving off possible Death by Momo. Ryoma makes a mental note to do something nice for Tezuka later.
He and Tezuka play another match. Fuji complains that Tezuka’s hogging him, but there’s no heat to the words, so Ryoma ignores him and loses himself in the game. Everything seems to be coming together perfectly today; his shots are exactly on target, he finds himself reading Tezuka so much better than he used to be able to and he’s reaching shots that he knew he wouldn’t have been able to get a few months ago. Ryoma wins the match, if barely, and he’s so exhausted that his legs tremble as he walks up to the net to shake Tezuka’s hand.
“Have you found it again?” Tezuka asks him.
“Yes,” Ryoma replies, and ducks his head so that he’ll be able to get himself under control. Why does it surprise him that though his game hadn’t outwardly faltered over the past year, Tezuka had still realised that something was wrong with him? “Thank you,” he adds belatedly, thinking that they’re inadequate words for everything that Tezuka has done for him, for everything that Tezuka continues to do for him.
“Are you going back to it?” Tezuka asks as they slowly walk off the courts. Inui offers Ryoma a water bottle as Kouno tries to get the astounded club members to go back to their own practice. Tezuka grabs his own bottle and sits down on the bench. Ryoma slumps onto the bench next to him, loosely gripping the bottle. He’s too tired right now to focus on drinking.
“Are you?” he counters.
“Of course,” Tezuka tells him without hesitation.
“Likewise,” Ryoma mutters, and summons up the energy to drink his water. Two seconds later, he’s gagging and throwing the bottle at Inui indignantly.
On Christmas Eve, two birds decide to wake Ryoma up with a duet. Seven o’clock, his alarm clock tells him mockingly, and he throws a pillow at his window, disgruntled. The morning becomes slightly better when he goes down for breakfast to find that Nanako’s made all his favourite foods. She still has to go to work, but she’s going in late today. They laze around the house watching television and making fun of the bad serials on air. Nanako wonders what married life would be like. Fine, as long as he’s not like that idiot, Ryoma says, and Nanako laughs.
She leaves a little later after reminding Ryoma that she’s staying over at her boyfriend’s that night. Ryoma lazes around the house. No practice for today, he thinks as he finds a book to read and makes himself comfortable in the hall. His mother calls at one - exactly twelve there, he thinks, how like her - and he talks to her for a while, feeling a little nostalgic. Not for America, he thinks, but just for her and a house that doesn’t feel so empty despite Nanako’s best efforts. But what will it be like when he returns to America?
He talks to Karupin for a few minutes. His cat deafens him by yowling in his ear.
“He misses you,” his mother tells him. Karupin’s mewling has that pathetic pick-me-up undertone to it that Ryoma recognises.
“He wants to be cuddled. Tell him I’ll be back in a week,” Ryoma says, and pretends the words don’t hurt.
At six o’clock, his team descends on his house in full force. Ryuuzaki-sensei’s there too, and her grand-daughter and that annoying friend of hers, and Horio and Kachiro and Katsuo. Be polite, Ryoma thinks resignedly, and wonders who invited them. But with his team there he’s not forced to interact with them much. He doesn’t have a problem with Ryuuzaki-sensei, he thinks, and even her grand-daughter would be tolerable if not for her completely obvious crush. He hopes that she’s outgrown it, but when she blushes red on seeing him and stammers out his name hesitantly, he knows she hasn’t.
He greets them, then runs to stop Kikumaru from accidentally destroying an innocent potted fern.
Kawamura-senpai is late, but because he’s bringing the food he’s instantly forgiven. There’s plenty of space for all of them to sit and eat together, and though Ryoma pretends to be put out about how Kikumaru keeps calling him “ochibi” still, he really doesn’t care, because this is his team, and they’re all there to see him, and who knows when he’ll next see them. Kawamura-senpai has already stopped playing, Ryoma thinks. How many of them will still be playing when next he meets them?
He notices that Tezuka has brought a bag with him. It’s big enough, Ryoma thinks, for a change of clothes, but not a racquet. Ryoma considers that for a moment, then shrugs.
Fuji’s brought his camera again. Ryoma corners him and demands a picture of the whole team. Fuji relinquishes the camera to Ryuuzaki-sensei, who gets them all in position with that commanding voice she still hasn’t lost. They don’t pose overtly; Fuji still has a wasabi roll in his hand and Momo and Kaidoh look like they’ve been interrupted mid-argument and Inui’s holding a glass of viscous, neon-orange liquid and Kikumaru is once again beside Ryoma, attempting to strangle him in a hug. Tezuka’s presence is warm at his back.
Fuji promises to get the photos developed soon, and to have copies made for all of them. “Before I leave,” Ryoma reminds him, and it’s like there’s a sudden pall falling over the party. Then everyone pretends he didn’t just say that and they go on and while Ryuuzaki-sensei shepherds the younger students away at ten, the rest of the team stay until almost midnight. One by one they leave, each wishing Ryoma well.
“Don’t let him go,” Fuji tells him at the door, and his eyes are serious and clear, even if his lips are still smiling. This, Ryoma thinks, is Fuji-senpai when he’s genuinely happy. It’s a rare sight.
“Of course not,” Ryoma says, not bothering to ask how Fuji knows. It’s a foundational truth of life. Inui-senpai and Fuji-senpai Know Everything.
At last, only Tezuka’s left. The actual foundation of life, Ryoma thinks, and meets Tezuka’s steady gaze with an impertinent, cocksure smile. “Staying the night?” he asks, and it comes as no surprise when Tezuka closes the distance between them and seals their lips together.
They wake up entangled in bedding again. Ryoma thinks that this may be their lot in life. Tezuka untwines the blankets from around them and then gets distracted by Ryoma’s legs and then they’re kissing again and they only actually get up from the bed half an hour later.
There’s something to this making out business, Ryoma thinks in satisfaction as he takes a quick shower. For once his father makes a little sense, even if he’s always waxing eloquent about entirely the wrong type of body.
Tezuka showers after him and Ryoma throws together a hasty breakfast. Tezuka sits at the table, straight-backed and neat, managing to look somehow stern and proper, even in casual clothes. Ryoma pulls his chair right up next to Tezuka’s and very deliberately slides a leg over Tezuka’s thigh.
Tezuka waits until they’ve finished eating before he reacts.
They re-surface from Ryoma’s room for lunch, after which they play a quick, casual match. Ryoma finds it a little harder than usual to concentrate, because whenever Tezuka jumps, his shirt flies up a little and Ryoma catches a glimpse of a darkening bruise just above his hip. But he settles into the game soon enough and the reward at the end is a lot better than it normally is. He could get used to this very easily, he thinks vaguely, and then Tezuka does something with his tongue that renders higher thought functions impossible.
Best Christmas ever, Ryoma thinks later as they lie spooned together. They’ve both grown, and their bodies have changed, but he still fits into the curve of Tezuka’s body. He remembers that one time on the bus when he’d fallen asleep on Tezuka. Different, and yet still the same, and he drifts into a restful half-doze.
Tezuka leaves at nine that night. Ryoma doesn’t want to let go, but eventually they disengage their lips and fingers and Tezuka breathes, “Tomorrow,” against his ear and he finally lets Tezuka go home.
He thinks of Tezuka that night and suddenly, inexplicably, finds his eyes full of tears. He brushes them away angrily and buries his face in his pillow and resolutely refuses to think.
By the time the end of the year rolls around, he’s learned almost everything there is to know about Tezuka’s body. Almost, because Tezuka slaps his hands every time they wander too far below his waist, but even with that restriction he’s still figured out how to make Tezuka lose his composure.
He remembers once wondering what buchou would look like when he was flustered. He now has his answer, but it’s not something he can put into words. He hopes no one else ever sees it. This is one thing he’ll be completely possessive about, and Tezuka doesn’t seem to mind because the look on Ryoma’s face when Tezuka touches him is something he’s possessive about too.
The name “Tezuka” rolls off his tongue a little easier now, and once he has cried out “Kunimitsu!” without thinking. What Tezuka did to him then has him thinking he should never refer to Tezuka by his given name in a public place. But “buchou” is still the word that comes to his mouth most easily when he speaks to Tezuka. Always my captain, Ryoma had purred into Tezuka’s ear on Christmas morning. Such an easy, familiar word, but it’ll never quite have the same connotations for either of them ever again.
December 31st, and while both of them have had invitations from their friends to go see the fireworks, they’ve both declined. Instead, they’re curled up together on Ryoma’s bed, lazily and unhurriedly exploring already-familiar territory. Ryoma thinks that maybe he’s always known what Tezuka would feel like. Maybe that’s why it feels like he’s remembering rather than learning. Maybe that’s why it feels like he’s coming home.
“It’s going to be boring while I wait for you,” he mutters into Tezuka’s shoulder.
“I’m graduating soon,” Tezuka points out.
“University,” Ryoma grumbles.
“It’s not that long,” Tezuka says, and Ryoma takes a deep breath and tries to burrow into Tezuka.
I love you, he mouths against Tezuka’s skin, and though he hasn’t made a sound, Tezuka’s arms tighten around him for a second.
“Wait a while,” Tezuka murmurs. “And grow stronger.” He pauses, and there’s something like a smile in his voice when he says, “You still have a long way to go.”
“You too, buchou,” Ryoma retorts immediately. “Don’t get careless, now.”
The sound of the fireworks echoes in the distance. Ryoma shifts to get a better angle. The first few kisses, he remembers, were a little awkward as they learned how to adjust for their respective heights and sizes. Now they’ve learned and he takes advantage of that knowledge, tilting his head just so in a way that makes Tezuka’s hand automatically come up to cradle his head, because he’s learned that Tezuka loves to play with his hair, and that generally leads to good things. It does this time too.
“Is your alarm set?” Tezuka asks him later. He nods and sleepily wriggles into a comfortable position. Tezuka’s body is wrapped around him snugly and they fall asleep quickly.
The alarm goes off a few hours later. Too early, Ryoma thinks grumpily, but carefully untangles himself from Tezuka and slaps it silent. Tezuka blinks sleepy eyes at him and Ryoma bends to kiss his cheek.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispers. Tezuka’s eyes drift shut slowly, and Ryoma realises that Tezuka hadn’t even woken up properly. A small smile plays around his lips as he slips out for a shower.
By the time he gets back to his room, the sun’s just starting to rise. He’s got some time to spare, so he sits on the futon they didn’t use and watches Tezuka sleep. Later - he’s lost track of how long he’s spent like that - Nanako raps quietly on the door and pokes her head in.
“We’ll have to leave soon,” she reminds him, and he nods without looking at her. Her eyes soften as she takes in the expression on his face. “Half an hour more,” she cautions, and closes the door as quietly as she can.
Ryoma does his best to memorise the sight of Tezuka like this.
Tezuka’s hair is a little more mussed than usual, but it’s a good look on him anyway. Other than that, he appears as composed as ever, even when Fuji shoots him a knowing look at the airport.
“Here,” Fuji says, and gives Ryoma a copy of the photograph he’d taken. It’s already been placed in a simple wooden frame, and all of them have written comments and encouragement on them. Ryoma looks for Tezuka’s message. It’s on the back, the same thing he’d written back when Ryoma had left that first time. Fly.
Ryoma places the photo in his carry-on reverently, then resigns himself to suffering through the hugs and back-slapping his team is determined to inflict on him. “We’ll be watching all your matches, ochibi!” Kikumaru proclaims. “So don’t you go losing anything!”
“Give my regards to aunt and uncle,” Nanako says. “And Karupin. Have a safe flight, Ryoma-kun.”
“Take care of yourself,” Oishi tells him. “Don’t ignore your health!”
“I won’t,” he says, and tries to make his escape.
“Write,” Tezuka tells him, and Ryoma stops short. After a moment, a slow smirk spreads across his face.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Of course I will… buchou.”
Tezuka, Ryoma notes with slight disappointment, has too much self-control to react to the particular inflection Ryoma has placed on the last word. It’s just as well. They don’t want to get thrown out of the airport for indecency, after all. He finds his passport and ticket and breaks away from the group.
“Buchou!” he calls without looking back, and switches to English. “Don’t be too long!”
He’s just turned seventeen when he enters the Australian Open and utterly decimates his competition. Nanjirou signs him up for the rest of the Grand Slam tour and he goes on to give a good showing through the rest of the year. He’s runner-up at the French Open and though he messes up a little at Wimbledon, placing ninth, he eventually wins the U.S. Open.
“Congratulations,” Tezuka tells him over the phone. “Pity about Wimbledon.”
“I was sick,” Ryoma grumbles. “But whatever. There’s next time. When are you going to join the circuit? They’re already surprised enough that I’m from Japan. Imagine what will happen when you join in.”
“Soon,” Tezuka promises.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Ryoma says. “I’m taking a break next year though. Fewer tournaments, and I’m only hitting the U.S. Open.”
“Time for a vacation?” Tezuka asks archly.
“I’ll be in Japan in two months,” Ryoma says, rolling over on his back. The hotel’s got very comfortable beds, he thinks, but he’ll still be glad when he can get home to his own bed. His hand drifts lower and he fingers the elastic band on his track pants.
“Buchou,” he murmurs. There’s a pause.
“Yes?” Tezuka asks cautiously.
“Talk,” Ryoma demands, sliding and shimmying awkwardly to get his clothes off one-handed. “About anything. I want to hear your voice.”
Tezuka hesitates only slightly before he starts to explain some of his coursework at university to Ryoma. Ryoma closes his eyes and listens to his tone, to that deep, slightly rough voice, and barely registers it when Tezuka stops talking about schoolwork and starts telling him where and how to touch himself. The door’s locked and the room’s reasonably sound-proof, so he doesn’t care when his breath first starts to hitch and then the breathy moans come from his throat, the strangled pleas for Tezuka to keep talking, please, Kunimitsu, keep going, don’t stop. It’s barely ten minutes later that he’s coming so hard the phone’s creaking around the force of his grip.
“Ryoma,” Tezuka sighs, and it’s only now that the blood’s stopped pounding in his ears that Ryoma realises Tezuka’s breathing is harsh and irregular too.
“I can’t wait to see you,” he purrs into the phone, and then has to laugh at the choked sound on the other end. They’re continents apart, they’re racking up huge phone bills, they’ve just jerked off to the sound of each other’s voices, and somehow everything’s still perfect as Ryoma says, “We’ll really shake up the tennis world, right?”
“The world in general,” Tezuka corrects. Ryoma thinks of everything that has happened to him since he arrived in Seigaku, since he met Tezuka, since he’s been forced to grow, to evolve, to fly. He thinks of everything that Tezuka is to him, everything that Tezuka is to tennis. Tezuka’s right, of course.
“I love you,” he says in English. It’s the first time either of them have said it out loud, and he repeats himself in Japanese.
“Aa,” Tezuka replies, and there’s something so achingly tender in his voice that Ryoma has to close his eyes.
“Stay on the line,” Ryoma says, and Tezuka makes a sound of acquiescence. They don’t bother speaking any more and Ryoma slowly falls asleep to the sound of Tezuka’s breathing, imagining a time when he’ll have that breathing right next to him.
He doesn’t dream.
~fin
C&C?