Prince of Tennis: Fic: "Playing Grown Ups" 2/2
Continued from Part One.
Tezuka is first to get on the bus the day they go home. He sits in the first row like always and stares straight ahead as the others take seats at two or three row intervals. Echizen is the last to board and he stands in the aisle by Tezuka.
“Can I sit here?” Echizen says. Tezuka looks at him for a long moment, and then slides across to let Echizen take the seat at his side.
When they get back to school it’s already getting dark and somehow Tezuka ends up following Echizen to a noodle bar not far from both their houses. As they walk Tezuka’s duffel bag is heavy on his shoulder and fighting for balance with his racquets. Echizen’s bags seem almost larger than his body.
They eat noodles at the counter on stools, and Tezuka notices that Echizen’s body is slightly turned toward his the whole time. The lighting in the place is dull and orange and there’s a radio in back somewhere playing old American music, Elvis and Billie Holiday. The restaurant isn’t all that clean and the food isn’t all that good, but they each eat two helpings. Ryoma tells him about the food in New York. Before New York, apparently, he lived in California. He hated California because his tennis club was full of rich kids with their own courts but no talent for the game.
“Like Atobe,” Ryoma adds with twisted lips.
Tezuka pays the bill because Echizen seems to expect him to. As they walk out the door, it occurs to Tezuka that this might have been their first date. His first date. He thinks they should probably have gone some place nicer.
When they reach Echizen’s corner Tezuka allows them a kiss goodnight, long and slow against his neighbour’s fence.
“You could come inside,” Ryoma murmurs, clutching at Tezuka’s shoulders. It’s obvious what he means from the press of his hips against Tezuka’s own.
Tezuka imagines sneaking past Echizen’s parents and up the stairs, locking them inside his childhood room. He imagines the single bed and stripping Ryoma of his t-shirt, pressing him back against the sheets. Being quiet so his parents won’t hear.
“No,” he says at length, and strokes one hand down the side of Ryoma’s face. “You’re already getting careless.”
“You’re careful enough for both of us,” Echizen replies, and kisses him once more before he leaves.
--
Tezuka had worried that he would neglect his training in favour of spending time with Echizen, but Ryoma seems to think that most dates should involve tennis of some kind, and usually calls him out to have a match at the clay courts or to the ball machine in the park. Some mornings Echizen joins Tezuka for his morning jog, but usually he can’t be bothered getting out of bed. The mornings that Tezuka finds Echizen standing outside his house in shorts and a t-shirt are rare, but Tezuka appreciates them.
The first time they play a real match since Echizen’s return to Japan, Echizen wins three sets to two and the match lasts for hours. In two days they will play Hyotei in the grand final. Echizen’s form is beautiful and strong in a way that it wasn’t a week ago. During the match Tezuka feels something inside himself break and has to put it together game by game until he’s stronger than before. He barely loses the last set.
Seigaku come first place in the Kantou tournament. Tezuka plays first singles against Atobe, feeling immense satisfaction in the new strength of his shoulder. Every time Tezuka plays Atobe he remembers to feel grateful for the second chance he has been given. His joy improves his game.
After the ceremony, when the medal hangs heavy and satisfying around Tezuka’s neck, Ryoma corners him in the bathroom and kisses him in secret. They’re both covered thick with sweat. Tezuka’s muscles ache, and they feel like they’ll snap when Ryoma presses his strong fingers into them.
“Monkey King has gone home to cry,” Ryoma says as they leave the bathroom. There’s glee in his eyes, and Tezuka is reminded of the twelve year old that couldn’t seem to go anywhere without challenging somebody to a tennis duel. Apparently Tezuka’s victory is as good as his own.
Tezuka looks ahead. Echizen’s bratty behaviour sometimes amuses him, but he never wants him to know that. “You are a noble and gracious winner.”
“Hn,” Ryoma frowns. “He can’t have you.”
“Atobe’s attention,” Tezuka says carefully, “is of no concern to you.”
Echizen hides his smile beneath the brim of his hat.
--
“Have you decided about university?” Tezuka’s father asks. This is the first time Tezuka has seen him for any length of time in a week. He’s been out late studying or training every night. On Tuesday night he helped Echizen with his Japanese History paper. He’d written a similar paper two years earlier.
“I’ve been thinking about going pro,” Tezuka says, without meaning to. “With tennis,” he clarifies.
“Oh,” his father says, touching one hand to his glasses. “I didn’t think that you wanted to.”
“I might.”
His father doesn’t seem to mind very much, he just reminds Tezuka that he doesn’t have all that long to make up his mind - but also warns him not to be hasty. It’s kind of terrifying, knowing that the decision is all up to Tezuka. He has no excuses now. He’s been working his entire life for this, now he just has to actually do it.
Echizen calls him that night and tries to drag him out for a match. For the first time in his life, Tezuka doesn’t feel like playing tennis. He takes Ryoma to a movie instead.
--
Tezuka starts to think about sex more than he would like. He sometimes finds himself daydreaming about the way Echizen’s skin feels beneath his t-shirt, warm and buttery over his firm stomach muscles. Tezuka has never daydreamed before in his life. When Fuji catches him in a stare one afternoon in the locker room he just smiles reassuringly and says, “Don’t worry Tezuka, you’ve finally reached puberty.”
This thing has been happening with Echizen for three and a half weeks. Tezuka dreams about him at night, every night, waking up hard and lonely and having to satisfy himself more frequently than he has since he was thirteen. Despite Fuji’s barbs to the contrary, Tezuka reached puberty at the same time as everyone else.
He’s just never wanted so badly before.
--
Echizen meets Tezuka’s mother one evening at the supermarket. Tezuka is holding her basket with its round green apples and cartons of milk. Ryoma is on his own, clutching a heavy-looking bag of cat food to his chest. He puts it by his feet when they stop to talk. Echizen is suspiciously polite, bowing and wishing them a good evening.
“He seemed like a nice boy,” his mother says when Echizen walks away, his body swinging slightly with the weight of his cat food. He’s not wearing his cap and his clothes are neat. His skin looks fresh and clean.
Tezuka blinks. “Not really.”
“Hm, you seem to like him well enough,” she continues. She is smiling slightly. Tezuka stares at the shelves, pretending that he is struggling to choose a brand of shampoo. He always uses the kind his mother uses. It comes in a purple bottle and has a fake French name. They have used it since Tezuka was twelve.
“I suppose,” he says, non-committal. He wishes his mother found him as mysterious as everybody else seems to. He wishes he could make her run laps and divert this line of questioning. “He plays well.”
Her smile grows. “You must be proud of him.”
Tezuka takes the purple bottle from the shelf and places it in the basket. It is on sale this week. They will save eighty yen. “I am proud of all my players.”
“Of course,” she says, but it sounds like she is humouring him. She winds one arm around his own and squeezes his elbow. She is much shorter than him. From this angle, if he looks down all he can see is the top of her head. “I am very proud of you, Kunimitsu. You’re a good boy.” She clutches his arm more tightly for a moment and then releases him. “A good man.”
Tezuka’s chest feels tight and broken, but he manages to say, “Thankyou, mother.”
--
Atobe throws another party, this time to celebrate the end of the Kantou tournament. Tezuka has known Atobe long enough now to know that Atobe will throw a party to celebrate just about anything, and he’ll invite the Seigaku regulars whenever he feels he can get away with it. Some nights he is attentive to Tezuka’s every need, and these are the nights Tezuka leaves early. Other times he is aware of him always at the edge of Tezuka’s field of vision, hovering in Tezuka’s orbit. At his birthday party last year Atobe had been so drunk that Tezuka was forced to put him to bed, bearing his weight as they stumbled up the stairs, taking off his shoes and tucking him beneath the covers. He suspects he should not mention that to Echizen.
Tezuka attends a family function and arrives late to Atobe’s. At the door the butler greets him by name and informs him that he believes Master Atobe is out by the pool. Tezuka heads in that direction, weaving through the bodies that mill throughout the mansion. He passes Yamabuki’s Sengoku, who is leaning against a wall flirting with a group of American girls. They nod to one another, and Tezuka is about to walk into the backyard when he catches sight of Echizen in the drawing room to his left. He pauses, torn between greeting his host and greeting his - kohai.
Hearing Fuji’s low, quiet voice and the resulting tug of ugly jealousy propel him into the drawing room, and he immediately feels foolish. Fuji is there, sitting close beside Ryoma on the couch, but so is Kikumaru, leaning between their shoulders to look at the photo album stretched across their laps. They all look up at once at the sound of Tezuka’s voice as he greets them.
“Come look at Atobe,” Echizen says without saying hello. “He was even more gay when he was a little kid.”
A nice boy, Tezuka remembers.
“Ryoma,” he reprimands. It is the first time he has ever slipped and called Echizen by his given name aloud; Kikumaru and Echizen don’t seem to notice, but Fuji looks at him in amusement. That is the only way Fuji ever looks at him lately. He would worry that his authority as captain has been damaged, but his relationship with Fuji has never been that simple.
“What?” Ryoma says. “He does.” He holds the album up for Tezuka to see, five year old Atobe’s floral art smock, six year old Atobe smiling and posing with a fluffy lavender teddy bear. Ryoma stares at Tezuka, daring him to protest. Fuji tugs the album back to their laps and turns the page, releasing Tezuka from Echizen’s wide gold eyes.
Tezuka moves to the back of the couch to look over their shoulders. Six years in Kikumaru’s acquaintance has taught him not to flinch when he leans an elbow on Tezuka’s shoulder.
“Look at Kabaji!” Kikumaru snickers, jabbing one long finger at the photo in the corner. It is Atobe with what is clearly a young Kabaji; the straight lines and blank calm of his face stand out clearly even though he is shorter and skinnier than his friend. “He’s so tiny!”
“Hey, look at that,” Echizen says, looking at the other page. “It’s you.”
Tezuka looks. “Aa.”
He is just in the background of a tournament photo. Atobe is posing with his racquet lovingly resting in his arms, familiar smirk on his young face. Tezuka is in the background talking to an official, dressed in dark shorts and a white tshirt. He is ten years old and has a skinned knee.
“Nya, you were so cute!” Kikumaru squawks. “I don’t remember you being that cute when we met!”
Tezuka grimaces. Ryoma cranes his head backwards to look up at him. “Your glasses were different.”
“Yes,” Tezuka says.
Ryoma looks back down at the album, fingers touching Tezuka’s skinned knee. He makes a noise that Tezuka can’t decipher, low and deep in his throat. He transfers the album to Fuji’s lap and stands, saying, “I’m thirsty.”
He walks out. Tezuka waits a few minutes before following. He finds him leaning by the stairs drinking a can of Ponta.
“I got you this,” he says, and hands Tezuka a glass of iced tea.
“Thankyou.”
“Are there bedrooms up there?” Ryoma asks. Tezuka’s internal organs grind together nervously.
“Why?”
Echizen rolls his eyes and turns to go upstairs, but Atobe’s voice stops him. He turns around on the first stair. Standing on that level, he’s a little taller than Tezuka.
“Tezuka,” Atobe drawls. He already has his hand on Tezuka’s shoulder. He smells a little like women’s perfume, and Tezuka wonders if he’s been with one of the girls that habitually follow him around. “You finally came.”
“Good evening, Atobe,” Tezuka greets.
Echizen touches the brim of his cap and hunches into his shoulders the way he does when he’s annoyed. “Atobe,” he grumbles. If they were in a more suitable locale he’d probably challenge him to a match.
“Hey there, Squirt.” Atobe reaches up to ruffle Echizen’s hair. Tezuka has a sudden headache, a premonition of doom that only intensifies when Echizen knocks Atobe’s hand away and Atobe lets it fall to Tezuka’s elbow. He leans in to speak low in Tezuka’s ear. “They’re so cute at this age.”
“Che,” Ryoma says, and there’s a look in his eyes that makes Tezuka’s internal organs stop grinding and start grating. “We were just going to go check out the bedrooms.”
Tezuka leaves them both standing there and goes home. He lies awake all night listening to his phone vibrating on his desk and thinking, I need to be more careful.
In the morning, Tezuka doesn’t go jogging. Echizen is waiting on his corner in shorts and a t-shirt. Tezuka sees him from his bedroom window, so he stays inside and does sit ups on the floor instead. He calls Fuji and cancels their regular Sunday afternoon match. He doesn’t go outside all day.
--
It is dark by the time Tezuka collects himself enough to check his phone. He sits on his bed in his pyjamas and scrolls through the listings; a series of missed calls from Echizen, Fuji and Atobe; one from Oishi that is probably unrelated. An email from Atobe that just says Ore-Sama can keep a secret. Two from Fuji that he can’t make himself read - he suspects they will be lectures, in that painful teasing way he has.
One from Echizen, sent not long ago, and it takes Tezuka a long time to press the read button. It’s just a photo, his face in the dim light. He wonders if this is an apology.
Tezuka turns off the phone and tries to sleep. He lies awake for an hour before he turns it back on. There is another message from Ryoma. Buchou, it says, and nothing more.
It’s late, Tezuka sends back. Go to sleep.
Tezuka lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. He’s slept in this room his whole life, beneath these ceiling tiles and lighting fixtures. He remembers the year he had his first big growth spurt it suddenly seemed much too small, like his elbows and feet would knock on the ceiling and the walls.
I can’t, Ryoma writes.
Tezuka can’t reply. Echizen terrifies him sometimes, the way everything seems smaller when he’s around, taking up the space. The way he makes Tezuka feel bigger himself, like he’s stuffed into the tight corners of his old life.
His phone buzzes on his chest.
I miss you, it says. Tezuka stares at it until the little black letters look like they’re jumping like insects off the screen.
Sweet doesn’t suit you, he lies.
I don’t like it when you’re mad at me. I almost lost a match today.
This room feels too small.
Go to sleep, Ryoma, he sends back finally. We have practice in the morning.
--
Morning practice is slow. When Tezuka finally read Fuji’s message this morning it was just a series of symbols he didn’t understand,
in oversized letters. He almost wishes Fuji had given him advice instead.
At afternoon practice Echizen is still quiet and respectful, which makes Tezuka feel sick. He makes the whole club run laps around the court in preparation for Nationals, and Ryoma pushes himself faster and harder than anyone else. He finishes first and then collapses on the ground beneath a tree, leaning against the trunk and staring at Tezuka solemnly. When Tezuka leaves the clubhouse Ryoma is waiting for him. He walks at Tezuka’s side with his head down, cap pulled low over his face. They go to the noodle bar.
“Sorry,” Ryoma mutters after they have ordered. The word sounds strange from his lips, like Tezuka’s suddenly talking to a different person.
Tezuka considers his words. “I want to be able to trust you not to be -“
“Careless?” Ryoma finishes for him. “I can’t help it. I’m not ashamed.”
Guilt makes Tezuka’s hands tight around his napkin. “I’m not ashamed of you,” he says. The miserable flush to Ryoma’s cheeks makes his heart pound. He wishes things were different; maybe if they were older, or lived some place else. Maybe if he weren’t Ryoma’s captain.
“This is stupid,” Ryoma says. “It’s just Atobe. He’s a dick, but he’s not an asshole. He won’t tell anybody.”
Tezuka knows that. All this drama is new to him, though, these smouldering glares and obnoxious challenges. Standing at the bottom of those stairs he’d felt ridiculous, like the heroine in an old English novel. He never wanted to get caught up in all of this.
If it could be just him and Ryoma and maybe a tennis court, it’d all be so much simpler. He doesn’t want all these other people in their business. Their attention makes him self-conscious.
“My privacy is important to me, Ryoma.” He holds Ryoma’s gaze. “It isn’t stupid to me.”
Ryoma’s eyes drop to the table and he fiddles with his napkin. “I’m sorry,” he says in English. His ankle taps Tezuka’s beneath the table.
Their food arrives and he watches as Ryoma sprinkles seasoning into his bowl, as he prepares his chopsticks. He regrets the dark scowl on Ryoma’s face. “All this isn’t easy for me.”
Ryoma stops with his chopsticks poised halfway to his mouth and gazes seriously at Tezuka. The determined set of his jaw seems to age him a few years, and Tezuka can see him at twenty, at twenty five. How beautiful he will be. “So you need me to be your pillar again, Buchou?”
Tezuka smiles faintly. “Yes.”
“Okay,” Ryoma says, “but can you try not to look so worried every time I kiss you?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Aa.”
“And stay away from Monkey King.”
“But we have a date all lined up,” Tezuka says. “It would be rude to cancel now.”
Ryoma scowls into his noodles.
--
The problem with being young and gay (and Tezuka supposes he is) and closeted is that it’s hard to find places to be alone. Tezuka’s grandparents are always home and Ryoma refuses to let him anywhere near his father, so in the next few weeks they spend a lot of time in parks and cinemas and pressed up against the lockers at school.
“If we were in America you’d be allowed to drive already and we could go parking in your car,” Ryoma grumbles when they leave the cinema on Thursday night. Tezuka’s lips ache and his skin burns in the places where Ryoma has clawed at it. It feels like he’s been hard for hours. “I don’t want to go home.”
“I have to,” Tezuka says. “I have a test tomorrow.”
“English?” Ryoma asks hopefully. He’d coached Tezuka for an English quiz a few weeks earlier, openly revelling in the opportunity to be the one tutoring Tezuka for a change. Tezuka actually finds English pretty easy, but he’d let Ryoma have his fun.
“Physics,” he replies.
Ryoma looks disgusted. “Che,” he says. “You’re on your own.”
“Somehow,” Tezuka says, his arm bumping against Ryoma’s. He wants to wrap it across Ryoma’s shoulder and squeeze, but there are too many people around. “I will survive.”
“Ha,” Ryoma says. “Barely.”
That night before he goes to bed Tezuka receives a message from Ryoma. Mechanical energy is the sum of the potential and kinetic energy, it says. Good luck.
--
After the first round of the Nationals, a man in a nice black suit hands Tezuka a business card and asks if he’s planning to go professional when he’s done with school. His company, he says, are interested in sponsoring him.
Ryoma looks at the card as they walk back to the bus and says, “Their racquets suck. You should hold out for something better.”
--
On Friday afternoon Tezuka goes with Ryoma to buy new shoes. He sits on the bench threading laces into the trainers Ryoma has yet to try on. Ryoma seems thoroughly disgusted with the entire process, discarding the rejects in haphazard piles when they don’t fit. The shopkeeper must know Ryoma because he seems wary, shelving tubes of tennis balls at the other end of the store and glancing at them occasionally. When Tezuka questions Ryoma he just says, “I come in here sometimes with Momo-senpai.”
Ryoma dumps another pair of white trainers, low cut Nikes with the victory sign splashed in silver along the side. “I’ve gone up a size,” he says.
He’s gotten taller, too. Today during practice Tezuka had noticed that Echizen had grown as tall as Oishi. He wonders if one day Ryoma will be taller than he is.
They leave the store with a pair of Fila trainers with blue and red accents. Ryoma buys Tezuka a lilac towelling wrist band with two white stripes and a pink star. Tezuka suspects he is being mocked.
“My parents are going out of town tomorrow,” Ryoma says, feigning casual. When Tezuka looks at him he’s pretending to be absorbed in a window display advertising stuffed toys in bright colours.
“I see,” Tezuka says.
That night, he stands alone before a ball machine and slams the missiles back full force. By the time the final ball slams into the centre of his racquet he has gathered the frayed ends of his concentration and tied them into a neat ball, small and hard enough for tennis. It’s this ball that he imagines striking his racquet strings, arcing over the net. Rolling to a stop, defeated by his zero-shiki drop shot.
He is prepared.
--
After school on Saturday, Tezuka waits for Echizen outside the school gates. He’d left practice half an hour early on school council business, but he’d promised Ryoma he would wait for him. That they would walk back to his place together.
Ryoma comes around the corner with most of the Seigaku regulars. Kikumaru has his arms looped around his shoulders, forcing Ryoma to stoop a little as he walks. The group is chattering and happy. Only Inui is missing. Tezuka knows he tutors a group of freshmen on Saturday afternoons. The scowl on Ryoma’s face indicates that whatever this is, it probably was not his idea.
“Tezuka-buchou!” Momoshiro calls. Beside him, Kaidoh closes his eyes and turns his face away in disgust.
“Ah, Tezuka!” Oishi breaks away from the group a little, coming to stand by Tezuka’s side. “You’re finished already!”
“Yes,” Tezuka affirms unnecessarily.
The group passes them and Oishi starts walking, seemingly expecting Tezuka to come along. “We’re going to Kawamura’s. Taka-san has invited us to try his new specialty.”
Ahead of them, Ryoma wrenches away from Kikumaru, who crosses his arms and whines, “Nya, Ochibi, I liked you better when you were little.” He turns around and calls back, “Oishi will walk with me, won’t he.”
Oishi smiles apologetically at Tezuka and jogs to catch up with Kikumaru.
“Whipped,” Fuji says as he falls into step beside Tezuka. They walk in silence for some time, watching the group ahead. Kikumaru and Momoshiro seem to be going out of their way to irritate Ryoma, probably because he is suddenly such an easy target.
Kikumaru steals Ryoma’s hat and perches it backwards on his head. “Hoi,” he says, slinging an arm across Ryoma’s shoulder. “I’m Echizen Ryoma. Mada mada dane.”
Momoshiro breaks into peals of laughter. Ryoma says flatly, “I would never say ‘hoi’.”
“No mind,” Kikumaru says. “I think I captured your essence.”
Ryoma huffs and tries to shrug out of his senpai’s hold.
“Ryoma-kun is in quite a mood,” Fuji comments. “It’s funny, he was in such high spirits earlier.”
Tezuka searches himself for patience.
--
By the time they leave Kawamura’s it is almost five pm. Echizen is quiet as they walk. He leads Tezuka through shortcuts, along back alleys and through parks. Tezuka watches him and tries to remember every detail of the way Ryoma looks today - the grace of his neck beneath his cap, the black blazer sitting firm along his shoulders, his hands still slightly red from practice.
Ryoma relaxes visibly when they walk through his front gate. He unlocks the door to the sound of mournful yowling and bends to pick up the cat immediately, murmuring and scratching its fur.
“Karupin, this is Buchou,” Ryoma says. Tezuka takes off his shoes and closes the door behind him. Karupin mewls and rubs his face against Ryoma’s knuckle. Ryoma is staring at Tezuka expectantly, as if he’s about to fail whatever test he has in front of him.
“Hello, Karupin,” Tezuka says awkwardly. The cat looks at him blankly. He has never been particularly good with animals. When he was a very small child he would play with his aunt’s small white dog. It died when he was seven and he’s had little contact with animals since.
Ryoma is still watching, so he strokes Karupin’s fur very tentatively. He’s warm and soft and rumbles when Tezuka scratches behind his ear. Ryoma smiles and lets Karupin jump out of his arms. The cat weaves between his feet as he walks away.
Ryoma’s house is quiet and neat. There is a framed photo of an incredibly young Ryoma with his father and a tennis racquet. Even at that age he looked disgusted with Echizen Nanjiroh. Tezuka touches the top of the frame and goes to find Ryoma.
He’s in the kitchen, still wearing his sneakers and spooning cat food into a dish that he sets on the floor. Ryoma is tidying what are obviously his breakfast dishes into the sink when Tezuka approaches, standing close behind with both hands on Ryoma’s shoulders. While Ryoma rinses his plate in warm water, Tezuka gently removes the cap from his head and places it on the bench beside them.
“Ryoma,” Tezuka says, resting his face in Ryoma’s hair. He kisses his temple, the skin just near his ear.
“That’s awfully forward of you, Buchou,” Ryoma says as he settles the dishes aside to dry. He turns to face him, smiling a little. “Someone might get the wrong idea about us.”
Tezuka reaches out to take Ryoma’s wrist. “I worry more about them getting the right one.”
“There’s no-one else here,” Ryoma says, and kisses him. Later, he takes Tezuka upstairs and locks them inside his bedroom. This is the most alone they have ever been, and it makes it safe to slowly unbutton Ryoma’s crisp white shirt, safe to let his lips linger on Ryoma’s collarbone.
Ryoma has an American style single bed that is soft and small as they sprawl across it. They are too large to share this space until Ryoma twists their legs together and wraps his arms tight around Tezuka’s neck. Tezuka feels fuzzy and desperate with no space between their bodies, with Ryoma’s weight suddenly settling on top of him, too warm and too heavy.
They kiss for what seems like hours until Ryoma looks at him with eyes that sparkle with the excitement of a new challenge. Tezuka is reminded of the first match they ever played, the way Ryoma had come back to the next practice with eyes just like that. He touches his cheek and almost says I love you, but Ryoma interrupts.
“Buchou,” he says, supporting his upper body on strong, lean arms, grinning at Tezuka like he’s issuing a dare. “I’m gonna make you smile.”
--
After (and that is the most explicit term by which Tezuka can think of it so far, just after and a hundred images of the skin and hands and his own fumbling that preceeded it), they crawl under the covers, warm cotton trapping their heat together. It had not taken Ryoma long to make him smile, to make him laugh a little. Everything in his body feels different now, stretched and exhausted in a way that even tennis can’t match. Ryoma hugs him tightly, invading his space with hands tangled in his hair. His first time. He tries not to think about how it’s not Ryoma’s.
“I’m going pro next year,” Ryoma says, shifting slightly to trap Tezuka between his body and the wall. Tezuka’s surprised by how heavy Ryoma is, all those muscles settling against his body like lead weights. His body feels sleepy and numb in the places where Ryoma’s covers it.
Tezuka makes a sound in his throat. He doesn’t want Ryoma to question him about his own plans. He’s still coming up with strategies, questioning the timing, the execution. He doesn’t want to have to ask if Ryoma is going back to play the American circuits.
Ryoma’s phone rings and he leans over the side of the bed to pick it up. Tezuka admires the lazy, loping beauty, the smooth skin on his back. He touches the indentation at the base of Ryoma’s spine.
He answers the phone with a disgruntled, “What?” and Tezuka knows it must be his father. He’s never heard anybody speak to their parents the way Ryoma does.
“You left food all over the kitchen,” Ryoma complains, reclining horizontally against Tezuka’s body. “I had to bring a guest into that pigsty.” Tezuka closes his eyes, listening to the erratic pauses in Ryoma’s speech that indicate that Echizen Nanjiroh is speaking on the other end of the line. If he listens to Ryoma’s even breathing he does not have to think that he just defiled somebody’s son in their very own house.
“Buchou,” Ryoma says. “No… No. You’re a pervert.” Ryoma scowls as he listens, giving one word replies or grunts of assent. His hand is tracing the line of Tezuka’s forearm slowly back and forth. “I’m hanging up now,” he says finally, and throws the phone onto the pile of clothes he left in the middle of the floor. He rolls over and kisses Tezuka’s chest, the ridges of his stomach. He lifts his head to meet Tezuka’s eye. “You’re thinking about your responsibilities again, I can tell.”
Tezuka touches his hair and lets Ryoma kiss him. They must have been in bed for hours now, evening stretching into night. He told his mother he was staying with friends to study. It is the first time he has ever directly lied to her.
Ryoma straddles Tezuka’s hips, kneeling and staring down at Tezuka for long moments. He’s all tousled, shining hair and flushed skin. He reaches out to remove Tezuka’s glasses and slides them onto his own face. For Tezuka, the world becomes an impressionist landscape, Ryoma’s face like Monet’s Waterlilies a foot in front of him.
“You’re blurry, Buchou,” Ryoma says, reaching out a hand to touch Tezuka’s face. He misjudges the distance badly and his fingers knock awkwardly into Tezuka’s nose. He adjusts the pressure and presses gently around the curve of his cheekbone. “I didn’t realise you were this blind.”
“I can’t see you at all,” Tezuka admits. He wonders what Ryoma really looks like in his glasses; he can only make out a thin streak of silver that’s probably the frames.
Ryoma pulls them off with one hand and guides them back onto Tezuka’s face. “They’re making me dizzy.”
It’s a relief to see his face again and Tezuka slides his hands up Ryoma’s thigh. As they lean in to kiss, Ryoma says, “I’m going to ask you about going pro eventually.” His breath is warm on Tezuka’s face. “You should be ready when I do.”
--
In the morning Ryoma drags him out of bed to have a match but they end up kissing over the net and only finish five games. “We can play any time,” Ryoma says, an odd sentiment to hear from his lips. Tezuka’s rarely seen him pass up a match for anything.
When Ryoma presses against him in the shower, Tezuka understands. Ryoma’s parents will be home at six. Each minute that passes their time alone together is running out.
--
The morning of the final round of the National tournament, he plays with Ryoma on the practice courts at the grounds. It’s just supposed to be a quick warm up, a routine exchange of serves and volleys, but somehow tennis never ends up that way with Ryoma. They’re careful to preserve their physical energy, but apart from that it’s no holds barred, and the warm up ends with Tezuka’s zero-shiki drop shot.
Swept up in the excitement of winning Nationals for the second time, Tezuka won’t remember until later the blond man in a tailored suit that watches them practice from behind the chainlink fence.
--
When the thrill of winning Nationals has faded, the seniors have to retire from tennis club in order to prepare for their entrance exams. On the last night of practice they all go to Kawamura’s together. Kawamura’s father gives them each a cup of sake to celebrate. When Tezuka drinks it his head and his heart feel heavy. Oishi’s eyes are glossy with threatening tears. The mood is sombre. This might be the last time they are all together for a very long time.
They talk about old matches, old rivals. Tezuka hears about things nobody ever told him about before, random dares and practical jokes that they didn’t think he would particularly appreciate.
“You can’t assign laps now,” Kikumaru laughs, but the moment it’s out of his mouth he looks sad again, and a little worried. He’s been studying hard all year in the hopes of getting into the same university as Oishi. “Maybe you could give me laps if you think I really need them.”
“You’ll be fine,” Tezuka says.
“I’m not coming back either,” Ryoma announces awkwardly when Kawamura brings out their food. The silence that follows doesn’t seem particularly shocked. Kikumaru makes a sound of distress even though he won’t be returning either.
Momoshiro is sitting across from Tezuka and he sees his shoulders rise high and stiff around his neck. “When did you decide that?” he asks. He’s trying to be casual but his voice doesn’t quite hit pitch, stumbling and breaking halfway through. Momoshiro has always been simple to read.
At Tezuka’s side, Ryoma fiddles with the tab on his Ponta can. “A while ago.”
“Congratulations,” Fuji says, as if he hadn’t already known. “What about you, Tezuka? Do you plan to turn pro?”
Ryoma is stiff with anticipation at Tezuka’s side, hand still on his Ponta. Tezuka doesn’t look at him.
“Yes,” he says.
When the rest of the regulars toast to their good luck, Ryoma’s hand settles on Tezuka’s knee and squeezes, beneath the table where nobody can see.
They leave the restaurant hours after it should have closed, parting with hugs and long, wobbling faces. They all seem compelled to fuss over Echizen as the baby of the team. Oishi puts his hands on Ryoma’s shoulders and rambles something about being safe and looking after himself, about making sure to stay healthy. Inui tells Echizen to call him if he ever needs data on any of his opponents. Kikumaru wraps his arms tight around Ryoma’s shoulders and cries.
“I’ll see you at school on Monday, senpai,” Ryoma complains, his voice muffled into Kikumaru’s jersey.
Everybody leaves in twos and threes until it is just Tezuka and Ryoma standing on a street corner with Fuji. Unexpectedly, Fuji hugs Tezuka, maybe just to set him off balance. Maybe Tezuka will be missed. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that he will miss Fuji. They know one another so well.
When Fuji says goodbye to Ryoma, he has to stretch up on his toes to kiss his forehead and touch his hair. Then he looks at Ryoma seriously and says, “You would have made a very good brother.”
Sometimes, Fuji is kind of disturbing.
Tezuka walks Ryoma home in silence, his arm thrown rather daringly over Ryoma’s shoulder. He can still taste the sake in the back of his throat, beneath the layers of salmon and soy sauce. Ryoma clutches Tezuka’s wrist where it hangs over his chest. He feels warm and solid beneath Tezuka’s arm.
“Are we going to go to America?” Ryoma asks. Tezuka doesn’t know yet, so he kisses Ryoma’s cheek and touches his neck to distract him from wanting a reply.
--
Tezuka barely sees Ryoma for the next two months. He seems to have endless homework, a study schedule that barely allows him to sleep. Sometimes Ryoma will come to the library and sit across the desk from him while he goes over his notes, while he calculates equations in long, boring rows in his text book. Occasionally he calls Ryoma right before he goes to bed. These conversations are mostly pointless and Tezuka is reminded of the days when Ryoma was still living in America and calling him to talk about his new opponent or the new technique he just perfected. It feels like they’re living on different continents now.
When the letter arrives, he doesn’t even have to worry about hiding it from Ryoma. He’s barely around to see the indecision written on his face.
--
The problem with being invited to the Australian Open at eighteen is that no matter how badly you want to go, you’ve still got to think about your academic career. Tezuka spends hours staring at the letter instead of studying, imagining the stadium, the crowds, his racquet in his hand. Roger Federer or Andy Roddick across the net.
His entrance exam is scheduled to begin just five days into the Open. He doesn’t finish school until a month after that. If it had been held two weeks earlier, he thinks, or two months later. If it had been a Japanese event.
He’s going to have to make a choice.
--
Ryoma appears on his doorstep with his own letter tucked into his back pocket, trying to fight the smile on his lips. Tezuka’s family are out, shopping or at work, so Ryoma can put his hands on Tezuka’s hips and press their lips together. Tezuka hasn’t kissed him in a week and a half. He’s missed him. Lately he’s been dreaming about them flying in a plane together, squashed into economy class seats, knocking knees and elbows.
When Ryoma tells Tezuka about his invitation to the Open, Tezuka almost doesn’t mention his own. He still hasn’t made a decision. Maybe next year, he thinks. He never intended to start his career at this scale anyway. Another year, another two, won’t hurt him.
Knowing Ryoma might be there without him, that hurts him.
“You haven’t said yes?” Ryoma asks. “Why?”
“I still have school,” Tezuka says.
Ryoma stares at him blankly. “So?”
Tezuka goes to the kitchen to make tea. Ryoma follows, looking vaguely disgusted with him. “I didn’t know you needed a diploma to play tennis.”
“I am considering it.” Two fine white cups, side by side on the counter. He waits for the water to boil. Ryoma is still standing in the doorway, his mouth turned down at the corners. When he arrived, he’d been so happy.
“I want you to come with me,” Ryoma says. “What’s the point in taking a Grand Slam if the best of your opponents stays at home?”
“I’m sure amongst the world’s top ten you’ll find somebody to occupy you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Ryoma leans on the counter beside him. The challenge in those eyes. “I’ll always know you were supposed to be there.”
He closes his eyes and presses his face into Ryoma’s neck. He can see their names written on the backs of his eyelids, 7-6 7-6 7-6. The crowd in the stands and Ryoma’s twist serve smashing into Lleyton Hewitt’s face. He can see the pure, perfect arc of the ball through the air. “We won’t need a safety net, Buchou,” Ryoma promises.
He has to make a choice.
--
Ryoma sleeps through most of the flight to Melbourne, leaving Tezuka alone to read his book and watch the series of poorly written films that are supposed to make the flight seem somehow shorter. Every now and again Ryoma mutters and clutches Tezuka’s arm. The flight seems interminable.
From the minute they step out of the airport into the dry mid-January heat, Tezuka feels something building inside him. All over the city are banners and billboards advertising the Open, hanging from streetlights and rolling by on trams. Their driver tells them in his broad Australian accent that he’d picked up Roger Federer from the airport just that morning.
“His drop volley sucks,” Ryoma tells him. “You should see Tezuka’s.”
A liaison from Tennis Australia meets them at their hotel and leads them to adjoining rooms, gushing a little over Ryoma. The papers are already talking about the return of the twelve year old that crushed Lleyton Hewitt at the US Open three years ago. When she finally gives up her attempts to engender more than monosyllabic responses from Ryoma, she turns her attention to Tezuka. She looks at him a little blankly, like she’s not quite sure who he is.
Ryoma shuts her out of his room with a “Well, thanks.”
Tezuka intends to suggest that they go out and look around the city but when he turns around Ryoma is sitting on the bed, already pulling off his shoes, his t-shirt. They haven’t been together since the first time. Every piece of Ryoma’s exposed flesh seems new and mysterious. He’s sixteen now, arms and legs lengthened probably to their limit. The rising tension in Tezuka’s body blooms and swells against his ribs. Tomorrow, they’ll play the preliminary qualifiers. After that, who knows. He sees it all in brief flashes of skin and muscle, hands wrapped tight around racquets.
He presses Ryoma back into the mattress and kisses out their future on the dips and curves in his skin.
--
The first morning, the first day, they shower and Tezuka shaves. They brush their teeth side by side at the mirror. Ryoma’s hair hangs in his eyes, wet and dripping. Tezuka brushes it aside when he kisses Ryoma’s forehead and goes to get dressed.
He speaks to Oishi on the phone after breakfast. For the others, the university entrance exams will start the next day. Tezuka can hear the nervous tension in Oishi’s voice as he tells Tezuka he’s proud of him, as he wishes them good luck.
Ryoma spends the morning returning text messages.
They take a taxi to the Tennis Centre. Ryoma sits close at his side with his hands in his lap. Tezuka’s excitement soars as the Rod Laver Area comes into view. He’s not going home without playing there, at least once.
He wins his first qualifying match. Ryoma does too. They sit together in the waiting room, watching the other hopefuls stretch and prepare. They all know Ryoma’s name. By the end of the day, they’ll know Tezuka’s too.
When Ryoma’s next match is called he touches his cap and says, “See you on Centre Court, Buchou.”
Tezuka closes his eyes and sees their names written in the headlines, and Ryoma’s face across the net.
Tezuka is first to get on the bus the day they go home. He sits in the first row like always and stares straight ahead as the others take seats at two or three row intervals. Echizen is the last to board and he stands in the aisle by Tezuka.
“Can I sit here?” Echizen says. Tezuka looks at him for a long moment, and then slides across to let Echizen take the seat at his side.
When they get back to school it’s already getting dark and somehow Tezuka ends up following Echizen to a noodle bar not far from both their houses. As they walk Tezuka’s duffel bag is heavy on his shoulder and fighting for balance with his racquets. Echizen’s bags seem almost larger than his body.
They eat noodles at the counter on stools, and Tezuka notices that Echizen’s body is slightly turned toward his the whole time. The lighting in the place is dull and orange and there’s a radio in back somewhere playing old American music, Elvis and Billie Holiday. The restaurant isn’t all that clean and the food isn’t all that good, but they each eat two helpings. Ryoma tells him about the food in New York. Before New York, apparently, he lived in California. He hated California because his tennis club was full of rich kids with their own courts but no talent for the game.
“Like Atobe,” Ryoma adds with twisted lips.
Tezuka pays the bill because Echizen seems to expect him to. As they walk out the door, it occurs to Tezuka that this might have been their first date. His first date. He thinks they should probably have gone some place nicer.
When they reach Echizen’s corner Tezuka allows them a kiss goodnight, long and slow against his neighbour’s fence.
“You could come inside,” Ryoma murmurs, clutching at Tezuka’s shoulders. It’s obvious what he means from the press of his hips against Tezuka’s own.
Tezuka imagines sneaking past Echizen’s parents and up the stairs, locking them inside his childhood room. He imagines the single bed and stripping Ryoma of his t-shirt, pressing him back against the sheets. Being quiet so his parents won’t hear.
“No,” he says at length, and strokes one hand down the side of Ryoma’s face. “You’re already getting careless.”
“You’re careful enough for both of us,” Echizen replies, and kisses him once more before he leaves.
--
Tezuka had worried that he would neglect his training in favour of spending time with Echizen, but Ryoma seems to think that most dates should involve tennis of some kind, and usually calls him out to have a match at the clay courts or to the ball machine in the park. Some mornings Echizen joins Tezuka for his morning jog, but usually he can’t be bothered getting out of bed. The mornings that Tezuka finds Echizen standing outside his house in shorts and a t-shirt are rare, but Tezuka appreciates them.
The first time they play a real match since Echizen’s return to Japan, Echizen wins three sets to two and the match lasts for hours. In two days they will play Hyotei in the grand final. Echizen’s form is beautiful and strong in a way that it wasn’t a week ago. During the match Tezuka feels something inside himself break and has to put it together game by game until he’s stronger than before. He barely loses the last set.
Seigaku come first place in the Kantou tournament. Tezuka plays first singles against Atobe, feeling immense satisfaction in the new strength of his shoulder. Every time Tezuka plays Atobe he remembers to feel grateful for the second chance he has been given. His joy improves his game.
After the ceremony, when the medal hangs heavy and satisfying around Tezuka’s neck, Ryoma corners him in the bathroom and kisses him in secret. They’re both covered thick with sweat. Tezuka’s muscles ache, and they feel like they’ll snap when Ryoma presses his strong fingers into them.
“Monkey King has gone home to cry,” Ryoma says as they leave the bathroom. There’s glee in his eyes, and Tezuka is reminded of the twelve year old that couldn’t seem to go anywhere without challenging somebody to a tennis duel. Apparently Tezuka’s victory is as good as his own.
Tezuka looks ahead. Echizen’s bratty behaviour sometimes amuses him, but he never wants him to know that. “You are a noble and gracious winner.”
“Hn,” Ryoma frowns. “He can’t have you.”
“Atobe’s attention,” Tezuka says carefully, “is of no concern to you.”
Echizen hides his smile beneath the brim of his hat.
--
“Have you decided about university?” Tezuka’s father asks. This is the first time Tezuka has seen him for any length of time in a week. He’s been out late studying or training every night. On Tuesday night he helped Echizen with his Japanese History paper. He’d written a similar paper two years earlier.
“I’ve been thinking about going pro,” Tezuka says, without meaning to. “With tennis,” he clarifies.
“Oh,” his father says, touching one hand to his glasses. “I didn’t think that you wanted to.”
“I might.”
His father doesn’t seem to mind very much, he just reminds Tezuka that he doesn’t have all that long to make up his mind - but also warns him not to be hasty. It’s kind of terrifying, knowing that the decision is all up to Tezuka. He has no excuses now. He’s been working his entire life for this, now he just has to actually do it.
Echizen calls him that night and tries to drag him out for a match. For the first time in his life, Tezuka doesn’t feel like playing tennis. He takes Ryoma to a movie instead.
--
Tezuka starts to think about sex more than he would like. He sometimes finds himself daydreaming about the way Echizen’s skin feels beneath his t-shirt, warm and buttery over his firm stomach muscles. Tezuka has never daydreamed before in his life. When Fuji catches him in a stare one afternoon in the locker room he just smiles reassuringly and says, “Don’t worry Tezuka, you’ve finally reached puberty.”
This thing has been happening with Echizen for three and a half weeks. Tezuka dreams about him at night, every night, waking up hard and lonely and having to satisfy himself more frequently than he has since he was thirteen. Despite Fuji’s barbs to the contrary, Tezuka reached puberty at the same time as everyone else.
He’s just never wanted so badly before.
--
Echizen meets Tezuka’s mother one evening at the supermarket. Tezuka is holding her basket with its round green apples and cartons of milk. Ryoma is on his own, clutching a heavy-looking bag of cat food to his chest. He puts it by his feet when they stop to talk. Echizen is suspiciously polite, bowing and wishing them a good evening.
“He seemed like a nice boy,” his mother says when Echizen walks away, his body swinging slightly with the weight of his cat food. He’s not wearing his cap and his clothes are neat. His skin looks fresh and clean.
Tezuka blinks. “Not really.”
“Hm, you seem to like him well enough,” she continues. She is smiling slightly. Tezuka stares at the shelves, pretending that he is struggling to choose a brand of shampoo. He always uses the kind his mother uses. It comes in a purple bottle and has a fake French name. They have used it since Tezuka was twelve.
“I suppose,” he says, non-committal. He wishes his mother found him as mysterious as everybody else seems to. He wishes he could make her run laps and divert this line of questioning. “He plays well.”
Her smile grows. “You must be proud of him.”
Tezuka takes the purple bottle from the shelf and places it in the basket. It is on sale this week. They will save eighty yen. “I am proud of all my players.”
“Of course,” she says, but it sounds like she is humouring him. She winds one arm around his own and squeezes his elbow. She is much shorter than him. From this angle, if he looks down all he can see is the top of her head. “I am very proud of you, Kunimitsu. You’re a good boy.” She clutches his arm more tightly for a moment and then releases him. “A good man.”
Tezuka’s chest feels tight and broken, but he manages to say, “Thankyou, mother.”
--
Atobe throws another party, this time to celebrate the end of the Kantou tournament. Tezuka has known Atobe long enough now to know that Atobe will throw a party to celebrate just about anything, and he’ll invite the Seigaku regulars whenever he feels he can get away with it. Some nights he is attentive to Tezuka’s every need, and these are the nights Tezuka leaves early. Other times he is aware of him always at the edge of Tezuka’s field of vision, hovering in Tezuka’s orbit. At his birthday party last year Atobe had been so drunk that Tezuka was forced to put him to bed, bearing his weight as they stumbled up the stairs, taking off his shoes and tucking him beneath the covers. He suspects he should not mention that to Echizen.
Tezuka attends a family function and arrives late to Atobe’s. At the door the butler greets him by name and informs him that he believes Master Atobe is out by the pool. Tezuka heads in that direction, weaving through the bodies that mill throughout the mansion. He passes Yamabuki’s Sengoku, who is leaning against a wall flirting with a group of American girls. They nod to one another, and Tezuka is about to walk into the backyard when he catches sight of Echizen in the drawing room to his left. He pauses, torn between greeting his host and greeting his - kohai.
Hearing Fuji’s low, quiet voice and the resulting tug of ugly jealousy propel him into the drawing room, and he immediately feels foolish. Fuji is there, sitting close beside Ryoma on the couch, but so is Kikumaru, leaning between their shoulders to look at the photo album stretched across their laps. They all look up at once at the sound of Tezuka’s voice as he greets them.
“Come look at Atobe,” Echizen says without saying hello. “He was even more gay when he was a little kid.”
A nice boy, Tezuka remembers.
“Ryoma,” he reprimands. It is the first time he has ever slipped and called Echizen by his given name aloud; Kikumaru and Echizen don’t seem to notice, but Fuji looks at him in amusement. That is the only way Fuji ever looks at him lately. He would worry that his authority as captain has been damaged, but his relationship with Fuji has never been that simple.
“What?” Ryoma says. “He does.” He holds the album up for Tezuka to see, five year old Atobe’s floral art smock, six year old Atobe smiling and posing with a fluffy lavender teddy bear. Ryoma stares at Tezuka, daring him to protest. Fuji tugs the album back to their laps and turns the page, releasing Tezuka from Echizen’s wide gold eyes.
Tezuka moves to the back of the couch to look over their shoulders. Six years in Kikumaru’s acquaintance has taught him not to flinch when he leans an elbow on Tezuka’s shoulder.
“Look at Kabaji!” Kikumaru snickers, jabbing one long finger at the photo in the corner. It is Atobe with what is clearly a young Kabaji; the straight lines and blank calm of his face stand out clearly even though he is shorter and skinnier than his friend. “He’s so tiny!”
“Hey, look at that,” Echizen says, looking at the other page. “It’s you.”
Tezuka looks. “Aa.”
He is just in the background of a tournament photo. Atobe is posing with his racquet lovingly resting in his arms, familiar smirk on his young face. Tezuka is in the background talking to an official, dressed in dark shorts and a white tshirt. He is ten years old and has a skinned knee.
“Nya, you were so cute!” Kikumaru squawks. “I don’t remember you being that cute when we met!”
Tezuka grimaces. Ryoma cranes his head backwards to look up at him. “Your glasses were different.”
“Yes,” Tezuka says.
Ryoma looks back down at the album, fingers touching Tezuka’s skinned knee. He makes a noise that Tezuka can’t decipher, low and deep in his throat. He transfers the album to Fuji’s lap and stands, saying, “I’m thirsty.”
He walks out. Tezuka waits a few minutes before following. He finds him leaning by the stairs drinking a can of Ponta.
“I got you this,” he says, and hands Tezuka a glass of iced tea.
“Thankyou.”
“Are there bedrooms up there?” Ryoma asks. Tezuka’s internal organs grind together nervously.
“Why?”
Echizen rolls his eyes and turns to go upstairs, but Atobe’s voice stops him. He turns around on the first stair. Standing on that level, he’s a little taller than Tezuka.
“Tezuka,” Atobe drawls. He already has his hand on Tezuka’s shoulder. He smells a little like women’s perfume, and Tezuka wonders if he’s been with one of the girls that habitually follow him around. “You finally came.”
“Good evening, Atobe,” Tezuka greets.
Echizen touches the brim of his cap and hunches into his shoulders the way he does when he’s annoyed. “Atobe,” he grumbles. If they were in a more suitable locale he’d probably challenge him to a match.
“Hey there, Squirt.” Atobe reaches up to ruffle Echizen’s hair. Tezuka has a sudden headache, a premonition of doom that only intensifies when Echizen knocks Atobe’s hand away and Atobe lets it fall to Tezuka’s elbow. He leans in to speak low in Tezuka’s ear. “They’re so cute at this age.”
“Che,” Ryoma says, and there’s a look in his eyes that makes Tezuka’s internal organs stop grinding and start grating. “We were just going to go check out the bedrooms.”
Tezuka leaves them both standing there and goes home. He lies awake all night listening to his phone vibrating on his desk and thinking, I need to be more careful.
In the morning, Tezuka doesn’t go jogging. Echizen is waiting on his corner in shorts and a t-shirt. Tezuka sees him from his bedroom window, so he stays inside and does sit ups on the floor instead. He calls Fuji and cancels their regular Sunday afternoon match. He doesn’t go outside all day.
--
It is dark by the time Tezuka collects himself enough to check his phone. He sits on his bed in his pyjamas and scrolls through the listings; a series of missed calls from Echizen, Fuji and Atobe; one from Oishi that is probably unrelated. An email from Atobe that just says Ore-Sama can keep a secret. Two from Fuji that he can’t make himself read - he suspects they will be lectures, in that painful teasing way he has.
One from Echizen, sent not long ago, and it takes Tezuka a long time to press the read button. It’s just a photo, his face in the dim light. He wonders if this is an apology.
Tezuka turns off the phone and tries to sleep. He lies awake for an hour before he turns it back on. There is another message from Ryoma. Buchou, it says, and nothing more.
It’s late, Tezuka sends back. Go to sleep.
Tezuka lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. He’s slept in this room his whole life, beneath these ceiling tiles and lighting fixtures. He remembers the year he had his first big growth spurt it suddenly seemed much too small, like his elbows and feet would knock on the ceiling and the walls.
I can’t, Ryoma writes.
Tezuka can’t reply. Echizen terrifies him sometimes, the way everything seems smaller when he’s around, taking up the space. The way he makes Tezuka feel bigger himself, like he’s stuffed into the tight corners of his old life.
His phone buzzes on his chest.
I miss you, it says. Tezuka stares at it until the little black letters look like they’re jumping like insects off the screen.
Sweet doesn’t suit you, he lies.
I don’t like it when you’re mad at me. I almost lost a match today.
This room feels too small.
Go to sleep, Ryoma, he sends back finally. We have practice in the morning.
--
Morning practice is slow. When Tezuka finally read Fuji’s message this morning it was just a series of symbols he didn’t understand,
in oversized letters. He almost wishes Fuji had given him advice instead.
At afternoon practice Echizen is still quiet and respectful, which makes Tezuka feel sick. He makes the whole club run laps around the court in preparation for Nationals, and Ryoma pushes himself faster and harder than anyone else. He finishes first and then collapses on the ground beneath a tree, leaning against the trunk and staring at Tezuka solemnly. When Tezuka leaves the clubhouse Ryoma is waiting for him. He walks at Tezuka’s side with his head down, cap pulled low over his face. They go to the noodle bar.
“Sorry,” Ryoma mutters after they have ordered. The word sounds strange from his lips, like Tezuka’s suddenly talking to a different person.
Tezuka considers his words. “I want to be able to trust you not to be -“
“Careless?” Ryoma finishes for him. “I can’t help it. I’m not ashamed.”
Guilt makes Tezuka’s hands tight around his napkin. “I’m not ashamed of you,” he says. The miserable flush to Ryoma’s cheeks makes his heart pound. He wishes things were different; maybe if they were older, or lived some place else. Maybe if he weren’t Ryoma’s captain.
“This is stupid,” Ryoma says. “It’s just Atobe. He’s a dick, but he’s not an asshole. He won’t tell anybody.”
Tezuka knows that. All this drama is new to him, though, these smouldering glares and obnoxious challenges. Standing at the bottom of those stairs he’d felt ridiculous, like the heroine in an old English novel. He never wanted to get caught up in all of this.
If it could be just him and Ryoma and maybe a tennis court, it’d all be so much simpler. He doesn’t want all these other people in their business. Their attention makes him self-conscious.
“My privacy is important to me, Ryoma.” He holds Ryoma’s gaze. “It isn’t stupid to me.”
Ryoma’s eyes drop to the table and he fiddles with his napkin. “I’m sorry,” he says in English. His ankle taps Tezuka’s beneath the table.
Their food arrives and he watches as Ryoma sprinkles seasoning into his bowl, as he prepares his chopsticks. He regrets the dark scowl on Ryoma’s face. “All this isn’t easy for me.”
Ryoma stops with his chopsticks poised halfway to his mouth and gazes seriously at Tezuka. The determined set of his jaw seems to age him a few years, and Tezuka can see him at twenty, at twenty five. How beautiful he will be. “So you need me to be your pillar again, Buchou?”
Tezuka smiles faintly. “Yes.”
“Okay,” Ryoma says, “but can you try not to look so worried every time I kiss you?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Aa.”
“And stay away from Monkey King.”
“But we have a date all lined up,” Tezuka says. “It would be rude to cancel now.”
Ryoma scowls into his noodles.
--
The problem with being young and gay (and Tezuka supposes he is) and closeted is that it’s hard to find places to be alone. Tezuka’s grandparents are always home and Ryoma refuses to let him anywhere near his father, so in the next few weeks they spend a lot of time in parks and cinemas and pressed up against the lockers at school.
“If we were in America you’d be allowed to drive already and we could go parking in your car,” Ryoma grumbles when they leave the cinema on Thursday night. Tezuka’s lips ache and his skin burns in the places where Ryoma has clawed at it. It feels like he’s been hard for hours. “I don’t want to go home.”
“I have to,” Tezuka says. “I have a test tomorrow.”
“English?” Ryoma asks hopefully. He’d coached Tezuka for an English quiz a few weeks earlier, openly revelling in the opportunity to be the one tutoring Tezuka for a change. Tezuka actually finds English pretty easy, but he’d let Ryoma have his fun.
“Physics,” he replies.
Ryoma looks disgusted. “Che,” he says. “You’re on your own.”
“Somehow,” Tezuka says, his arm bumping against Ryoma’s. He wants to wrap it across Ryoma’s shoulder and squeeze, but there are too many people around. “I will survive.”
“Ha,” Ryoma says. “Barely.”
That night before he goes to bed Tezuka receives a message from Ryoma. Mechanical energy is the sum of the potential and kinetic energy, it says. Good luck.
--
After the first round of the Nationals, a man in a nice black suit hands Tezuka a business card and asks if he’s planning to go professional when he’s done with school. His company, he says, are interested in sponsoring him.
Ryoma looks at the card as they walk back to the bus and says, “Their racquets suck. You should hold out for something better.”
--
On Friday afternoon Tezuka goes with Ryoma to buy new shoes. He sits on the bench threading laces into the trainers Ryoma has yet to try on. Ryoma seems thoroughly disgusted with the entire process, discarding the rejects in haphazard piles when they don’t fit. The shopkeeper must know Ryoma because he seems wary, shelving tubes of tennis balls at the other end of the store and glancing at them occasionally. When Tezuka questions Ryoma he just says, “I come in here sometimes with Momo-senpai.”
Ryoma dumps another pair of white trainers, low cut Nikes with the victory sign splashed in silver along the side. “I’ve gone up a size,” he says.
He’s gotten taller, too. Today during practice Tezuka had noticed that Echizen had grown as tall as Oishi. He wonders if one day Ryoma will be taller than he is.
They leave the store with a pair of Fila trainers with blue and red accents. Ryoma buys Tezuka a lilac towelling wrist band with two white stripes and a pink star. Tezuka suspects he is being mocked.
“My parents are going out of town tomorrow,” Ryoma says, feigning casual. When Tezuka looks at him he’s pretending to be absorbed in a window display advertising stuffed toys in bright colours.
“I see,” Tezuka says.
That night, he stands alone before a ball machine and slams the missiles back full force. By the time the final ball slams into the centre of his racquet he has gathered the frayed ends of his concentration and tied them into a neat ball, small and hard enough for tennis. It’s this ball that he imagines striking his racquet strings, arcing over the net. Rolling to a stop, defeated by his zero-shiki drop shot.
He is prepared.
--
After school on Saturday, Tezuka waits for Echizen outside the school gates. He’d left practice half an hour early on school council business, but he’d promised Ryoma he would wait for him. That they would walk back to his place together.
Ryoma comes around the corner with most of the Seigaku regulars. Kikumaru has his arms looped around his shoulders, forcing Ryoma to stoop a little as he walks. The group is chattering and happy. Only Inui is missing. Tezuka knows he tutors a group of freshmen on Saturday afternoons. The scowl on Ryoma’s face indicates that whatever this is, it probably was not his idea.
“Tezuka-buchou!” Momoshiro calls. Beside him, Kaidoh closes his eyes and turns his face away in disgust.
“Ah, Tezuka!” Oishi breaks away from the group a little, coming to stand by Tezuka’s side. “You’re finished already!”
“Yes,” Tezuka affirms unnecessarily.
The group passes them and Oishi starts walking, seemingly expecting Tezuka to come along. “We’re going to Kawamura’s. Taka-san has invited us to try his new specialty.”
Ahead of them, Ryoma wrenches away from Kikumaru, who crosses his arms and whines, “Nya, Ochibi, I liked you better when you were little.” He turns around and calls back, “Oishi will walk with me, won’t he.”
Oishi smiles apologetically at Tezuka and jogs to catch up with Kikumaru.
“Whipped,” Fuji says as he falls into step beside Tezuka. They walk in silence for some time, watching the group ahead. Kikumaru and Momoshiro seem to be going out of their way to irritate Ryoma, probably because he is suddenly such an easy target.
Kikumaru steals Ryoma’s hat and perches it backwards on his head. “Hoi,” he says, slinging an arm across Ryoma’s shoulder. “I’m Echizen Ryoma. Mada mada dane.”
Momoshiro breaks into peals of laughter. Ryoma says flatly, “I would never say ‘hoi’.”
“No mind,” Kikumaru says. “I think I captured your essence.”
Ryoma huffs and tries to shrug out of his senpai’s hold.
“Ryoma-kun is in quite a mood,” Fuji comments. “It’s funny, he was in such high spirits earlier.”
Tezuka searches himself for patience.
--
By the time they leave Kawamura’s it is almost five pm. Echizen is quiet as they walk. He leads Tezuka through shortcuts, along back alleys and through parks. Tezuka watches him and tries to remember every detail of the way Ryoma looks today - the grace of his neck beneath his cap, the black blazer sitting firm along his shoulders, his hands still slightly red from practice.
Ryoma relaxes visibly when they walk through his front gate. He unlocks the door to the sound of mournful yowling and bends to pick up the cat immediately, murmuring and scratching its fur.
“Karupin, this is Buchou,” Ryoma says. Tezuka takes off his shoes and closes the door behind him. Karupin mewls and rubs his face against Ryoma’s knuckle. Ryoma is staring at Tezuka expectantly, as if he’s about to fail whatever test he has in front of him.
“Hello, Karupin,” Tezuka says awkwardly. The cat looks at him blankly. He has never been particularly good with animals. When he was a very small child he would play with his aunt’s small white dog. It died when he was seven and he’s had little contact with animals since.
Ryoma is still watching, so he strokes Karupin’s fur very tentatively. He’s warm and soft and rumbles when Tezuka scratches behind his ear. Ryoma smiles and lets Karupin jump out of his arms. The cat weaves between his feet as he walks away.
Ryoma’s house is quiet and neat. There is a framed photo of an incredibly young Ryoma with his father and a tennis racquet. Even at that age he looked disgusted with Echizen Nanjiroh. Tezuka touches the top of the frame and goes to find Ryoma.
He’s in the kitchen, still wearing his sneakers and spooning cat food into a dish that he sets on the floor. Ryoma is tidying what are obviously his breakfast dishes into the sink when Tezuka approaches, standing close behind with both hands on Ryoma’s shoulders. While Ryoma rinses his plate in warm water, Tezuka gently removes the cap from his head and places it on the bench beside them.
“Ryoma,” Tezuka says, resting his face in Ryoma’s hair. He kisses his temple, the skin just near his ear.
“That’s awfully forward of you, Buchou,” Ryoma says as he settles the dishes aside to dry. He turns to face him, smiling a little. “Someone might get the wrong idea about us.”
Tezuka reaches out to take Ryoma’s wrist. “I worry more about them getting the right one.”
“There’s no-one else here,” Ryoma says, and kisses him. Later, he takes Tezuka upstairs and locks them inside his bedroom. This is the most alone they have ever been, and it makes it safe to slowly unbutton Ryoma’s crisp white shirt, safe to let his lips linger on Ryoma’s collarbone.
Ryoma has an American style single bed that is soft and small as they sprawl across it. They are too large to share this space until Ryoma twists their legs together and wraps his arms tight around Tezuka’s neck. Tezuka feels fuzzy and desperate with no space between their bodies, with Ryoma’s weight suddenly settling on top of him, too warm and too heavy.
They kiss for what seems like hours until Ryoma looks at him with eyes that sparkle with the excitement of a new challenge. Tezuka is reminded of the first match they ever played, the way Ryoma had come back to the next practice with eyes just like that. He touches his cheek and almost says I love you, but Ryoma interrupts.
“Buchou,” he says, supporting his upper body on strong, lean arms, grinning at Tezuka like he’s issuing a dare. “I’m gonna make you smile.”
--
After (and that is the most explicit term by which Tezuka can think of it so far, just after and a hundred images of the skin and hands and his own fumbling that preceeded it), they crawl under the covers, warm cotton trapping their heat together. It had not taken Ryoma long to make him smile, to make him laugh a little. Everything in his body feels different now, stretched and exhausted in a way that even tennis can’t match. Ryoma hugs him tightly, invading his space with hands tangled in his hair. His first time. He tries not to think about how it’s not Ryoma’s.
“I’m going pro next year,” Ryoma says, shifting slightly to trap Tezuka between his body and the wall. Tezuka’s surprised by how heavy Ryoma is, all those muscles settling against his body like lead weights. His body feels sleepy and numb in the places where Ryoma’s covers it.
Tezuka makes a sound in his throat. He doesn’t want Ryoma to question him about his own plans. He’s still coming up with strategies, questioning the timing, the execution. He doesn’t want to have to ask if Ryoma is going back to play the American circuits.
Ryoma’s phone rings and he leans over the side of the bed to pick it up. Tezuka admires the lazy, loping beauty, the smooth skin on his back. He touches the indentation at the base of Ryoma’s spine.
He answers the phone with a disgruntled, “What?” and Tezuka knows it must be his father. He’s never heard anybody speak to their parents the way Ryoma does.
“You left food all over the kitchen,” Ryoma complains, reclining horizontally against Tezuka’s body. “I had to bring a guest into that pigsty.” Tezuka closes his eyes, listening to the erratic pauses in Ryoma’s speech that indicate that Echizen Nanjiroh is speaking on the other end of the line. If he listens to Ryoma’s even breathing he does not have to think that he just defiled somebody’s son in their very own house.
“Buchou,” Ryoma says. “No… No. You’re a pervert.” Ryoma scowls as he listens, giving one word replies or grunts of assent. His hand is tracing the line of Tezuka’s forearm slowly back and forth. “I’m hanging up now,” he says finally, and throws the phone onto the pile of clothes he left in the middle of the floor. He rolls over and kisses Tezuka’s chest, the ridges of his stomach. He lifts his head to meet Tezuka’s eye. “You’re thinking about your responsibilities again, I can tell.”
Tezuka touches his hair and lets Ryoma kiss him. They must have been in bed for hours now, evening stretching into night. He told his mother he was staying with friends to study. It is the first time he has ever directly lied to her.
Ryoma straddles Tezuka’s hips, kneeling and staring down at Tezuka for long moments. He’s all tousled, shining hair and flushed skin. He reaches out to remove Tezuka’s glasses and slides them onto his own face. For Tezuka, the world becomes an impressionist landscape, Ryoma’s face like Monet’s Waterlilies a foot in front of him.
“You’re blurry, Buchou,” Ryoma says, reaching out a hand to touch Tezuka’s face. He misjudges the distance badly and his fingers knock awkwardly into Tezuka’s nose. He adjusts the pressure and presses gently around the curve of his cheekbone. “I didn’t realise you were this blind.”
“I can’t see you at all,” Tezuka admits. He wonders what Ryoma really looks like in his glasses; he can only make out a thin streak of silver that’s probably the frames.
Ryoma pulls them off with one hand and guides them back onto Tezuka’s face. “They’re making me dizzy.”
It’s a relief to see his face again and Tezuka slides his hands up Ryoma’s thigh. As they lean in to kiss, Ryoma says, “I’m going to ask you about going pro eventually.” His breath is warm on Tezuka’s face. “You should be ready when I do.”
--
In the morning Ryoma drags him out of bed to have a match but they end up kissing over the net and only finish five games. “We can play any time,” Ryoma says, an odd sentiment to hear from his lips. Tezuka’s rarely seen him pass up a match for anything.
When Ryoma presses against him in the shower, Tezuka understands. Ryoma’s parents will be home at six. Each minute that passes their time alone together is running out.
--
The morning of the final round of the National tournament, he plays with Ryoma on the practice courts at the grounds. It’s just supposed to be a quick warm up, a routine exchange of serves and volleys, but somehow tennis never ends up that way with Ryoma. They’re careful to preserve their physical energy, but apart from that it’s no holds barred, and the warm up ends with Tezuka’s zero-shiki drop shot.
Swept up in the excitement of winning Nationals for the second time, Tezuka won’t remember until later the blond man in a tailored suit that watches them practice from behind the chainlink fence.
--
When the thrill of winning Nationals has faded, the seniors have to retire from tennis club in order to prepare for their entrance exams. On the last night of practice they all go to Kawamura’s together. Kawamura’s father gives them each a cup of sake to celebrate. When Tezuka drinks it his head and his heart feel heavy. Oishi’s eyes are glossy with threatening tears. The mood is sombre. This might be the last time they are all together for a very long time.
They talk about old matches, old rivals. Tezuka hears about things nobody ever told him about before, random dares and practical jokes that they didn’t think he would particularly appreciate.
“You can’t assign laps now,” Kikumaru laughs, but the moment it’s out of his mouth he looks sad again, and a little worried. He’s been studying hard all year in the hopes of getting into the same university as Oishi. “Maybe you could give me laps if you think I really need them.”
“You’ll be fine,” Tezuka says.
“I’m not coming back either,” Ryoma announces awkwardly when Kawamura brings out their food. The silence that follows doesn’t seem particularly shocked. Kikumaru makes a sound of distress even though he won’t be returning either.
Momoshiro is sitting across from Tezuka and he sees his shoulders rise high and stiff around his neck. “When did you decide that?” he asks. He’s trying to be casual but his voice doesn’t quite hit pitch, stumbling and breaking halfway through. Momoshiro has always been simple to read.
At Tezuka’s side, Ryoma fiddles with the tab on his Ponta can. “A while ago.”
“Congratulations,” Fuji says, as if he hadn’t already known. “What about you, Tezuka? Do you plan to turn pro?”
Ryoma is stiff with anticipation at Tezuka’s side, hand still on his Ponta. Tezuka doesn’t look at him.
“Yes,” he says.
When the rest of the regulars toast to their good luck, Ryoma’s hand settles on Tezuka’s knee and squeezes, beneath the table where nobody can see.
They leave the restaurant hours after it should have closed, parting with hugs and long, wobbling faces. They all seem compelled to fuss over Echizen as the baby of the team. Oishi puts his hands on Ryoma’s shoulders and rambles something about being safe and looking after himself, about making sure to stay healthy. Inui tells Echizen to call him if he ever needs data on any of his opponents. Kikumaru wraps his arms tight around Ryoma’s shoulders and cries.
“I’ll see you at school on Monday, senpai,” Ryoma complains, his voice muffled into Kikumaru’s jersey.
Everybody leaves in twos and threes until it is just Tezuka and Ryoma standing on a street corner with Fuji. Unexpectedly, Fuji hugs Tezuka, maybe just to set him off balance. Maybe Tezuka will be missed. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that he will miss Fuji. They know one another so well.
When Fuji says goodbye to Ryoma, he has to stretch up on his toes to kiss his forehead and touch his hair. Then he looks at Ryoma seriously and says, “You would have made a very good brother.”
Sometimes, Fuji is kind of disturbing.
Tezuka walks Ryoma home in silence, his arm thrown rather daringly over Ryoma’s shoulder. He can still taste the sake in the back of his throat, beneath the layers of salmon and soy sauce. Ryoma clutches Tezuka’s wrist where it hangs over his chest. He feels warm and solid beneath Tezuka’s arm.
“Are we going to go to America?” Ryoma asks. Tezuka doesn’t know yet, so he kisses Ryoma’s cheek and touches his neck to distract him from wanting a reply.
--
Tezuka barely sees Ryoma for the next two months. He seems to have endless homework, a study schedule that barely allows him to sleep. Sometimes Ryoma will come to the library and sit across the desk from him while he goes over his notes, while he calculates equations in long, boring rows in his text book. Occasionally he calls Ryoma right before he goes to bed. These conversations are mostly pointless and Tezuka is reminded of the days when Ryoma was still living in America and calling him to talk about his new opponent or the new technique he just perfected. It feels like they’re living on different continents now.
When the letter arrives, he doesn’t even have to worry about hiding it from Ryoma. He’s barely around to see the indecision written on his face.
--
The problem with being invited to the Australian Open at eighteen is that no matter how badly you want to go, you’ve still got to think about your academic career. Tezuka spends hours staring at the letter instead of studying, imagining the stadium, the crowds, his racquet in his hand. Roger Federer or Andy Roddick across the net.
His entrance exam is scheduled to begin just five days into the Open. He doesn’t finish school until a month after that. If it had been held two weeks earlier, he thinks, or two months later. If it had been a Japanese event.
He’s going to have to make a choice.
--
Ryoma appears on his doorstep with his own letter tucked into his back pocket, trying to fight the smile on his lips. Tezuka’s family are out, shopping or at work, so Ryoma can put his hands on Tezuka’s hips and press their lips together. Tezuka hasn’t kissed him in a week and a half. He’s missed him. Lately he’s been dreaming about them flying in a plane together, squashed into economy class seats, knocking knees and elbows.
When Ryoma tells Tezuka about his invitation to the Open, Tezuka almost doesn’t mention his own. He still hasn’t made a decision. Maybe next year, he thinks. He never intended to start his career at this scale anyway. Another year, another two, won’t hurt him.
Knowing Ryoma might be there without him, that hurts him.
“You haven’t said yes?” Ryoma asks. “Why?”
“I still have school,” Tezuka says.
Ryoma stares at him blankly. “So?”
Tezuka goes to the kitchen to make tea. Ryoma follows, looking vaguely disgusted with him. “I didn’t know you needed a diploma to play tennis.”
“I am considering it.” Two fine white cups, side by side on the counter. He waits for the water to boil. Ryoma is still standing in the doorway, his mouth turned down at the corners. When he arrived, he’d been so happy.
“I want you to come with me,” Ryoma says. “What’s the point in taking a Grand Slam if the best of your opponents stays at home?”
“I’m sure amongst the world’s top ten you’ll find somebody to occupy you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Ryoma leans on the counter beside him. The challenge in those eyes. “I’ll always know you were supposed to be there.”
He closes his eyes and presses his face into Ryoma’s neck. He can see their names written on the backs of his eyelids, 7-6 7-6 7-6. The crowd in the stands and Ryoma’s twist serve smashing into Lleyton Hewitt’s face. He can see the pure, perfect arc of the ball through the air. “We won’t need a safety net, Buchou,” Ryoma promises.
He has to make a choice.
--
Ryoma sleeps through most of the flight to Melbourne, leaving Tezuka alone to read his book and watch the series of poorly written films that are supposed to make the flight seem somehow shorter. Every now and again Ryoma mutters and clutches Tezuka’s arm. The flight seems interminable.
From the minute they step out of the airport into the dry mid-January heat, Tezuka feels something building inside him. All over the city are banners and billboards advertising the Open, hanging from streetlights and rolling by on trams. Their driver tells them in his broad Australian accent that he’d picked up Roger Federer from the airport just that morning.
“His drop volley sucks,” Ryoma tells him. “You should see Tezuka’s.”
A liaison from Tennis Australia meets them at their hotel and leads them to adjoining rooms, gushing a little over Ryoma. The papers are already talking about the return of the twelve year old that crushed Lleyton Hewitt at the US Open three years ago. When she finally gives up her attempts to engender more than monosyllabic responses from Ryoma, she turns her attention to Tezuka. She looks at him a little blankly, like she’s not quite sure who he is.
Ryoma shuts her out of his room with a “Well, thanks.”
Tezuka intends to suggest that they go out and look around the city but when he turns around Ryoma is sitting on the bed, already pulling off his shoes, his t-shirt. They haven’t been together since the first time. Every piece of Ryoma’s exposed flesh seems new and mysterious. He’s sixteen now, arms and legs lengthened probably to their limit. The rising tension in Tezuka’s body blooms and swells against his ribs. Tomorrow, they’ll play the preliminary qualifiers. After that, who knows. He sees it all in brief flashes of skin and muscle, hands wrapped tight around racquets.
He presses Ryoma back into the mattress and kisses out their future on the dips and curves in his skin.
--
The first morning, the first day, they shower and Tezuka shaves. They brush their teeth side by side at the mirror. Ryoma’s hair hangs in his eyes, wet and dripping. Tezuka brushes it aside when he kisses Ryoma’s forehead and goes to get dressed.
He speaks to Oishi on the phone after breakfast. For the others, the university entrance exams will start the next day. Tezuka can hear the nervous tension in Oishi’s voice as he tells Tezuka he’s proud of him, as he wishes them good luck.
Ryoma spends the morning returning text messages.
They take a taxi to the Tennis Centre. Ryoma sits close at his side with his hands in his lap. Tezuka’s excitement soars as the Rod Laver Area comes into view. He’s not going home without playing there, at least once.
He wins his first qualifying match. Ryoma does too. They sit together in the waiting room, watching the other hopefuls stretch and prepare. They all know Ryoma’s name. By the end of the day, they’ll know Tezuka’s too.
When Ryoma’s next match is called he touches his cap and says, “See you on Centre Court, Buchou.”
Tezuka closes his eyes and sees their names written in the headlines, and Ryoma’s face across the net.