Full Circle (TezuRyo)
When Echizen walks out onto Court no.2, the grass is soft and slightly damp from the rainstorm earlier that day, which broke out too suddenly for the court to be covered up in time to avoid the water. The rain has stopped falling now, although from the looks of it, the reprieve might not last longer than an hour.
It’s the second time Echizen sees Roger Federer on the other side of the court in one day, stretching and jogging in place to keep his muscles from cooling off, and it’s definitely not Echizen’s idea of a pleasant day. Either way, he is cool enough for both of them, and he allows himself a smirk when they meet to shake hands at the net. Grass specialist or not, Echizen knows he’s going to beat the Swiss, because losing in the first week of Wimbledon is just plain mada mada dane, and so is Federer as he crouches in receiver’s stance, concentrating like he thinks he’ll be able to make up for the 6-2 loss of the previous set.
As Echizen tests the bounce of the ball from the baseline, he gets a glimpse of Fuji sitting in first row and not even bothering to open his eyes, as if he too knows what the outcome of the match will be. In spite of this (and as much as he hates to say it), Echizen knows that Federer’s record of wins at Wimbledon is one that any pro tennis player would kill to have - but Echizen is not any pro tennis player and doesn’t need to get his hands dirty to climb to the top.
He tosses the ball into the air, so that it would land slightly behind and to the left of his head if he didn’t take a swing at it, but he does, and the moment the umpire calls an ace for Ryoma Echizen, there is no question in his mind that one hour is more than enough.
In the front row, Fuji smiles.
***
Echizen always walks out of the court as discreetly as possible, signing giant tennis balls at record speed just in case there is some small chance of getting away before the press start swarming him. No matter how much he runs, the buzz of flashes and reporters who don’t know what they’re talking about shooting questions at him is always waiting, and Echizen reminds himself to spend every day that he doesn’t have a match practicing his dash.
Annoyed, he takes out his old cap and pulls it low over his eyes. He knocks a microphone or two as he uses his tennis bag to shelter his left side, and Atobe Keigo, now his manager, is there in the blink of an eye to cover his right. He pulls Echizen along forcefully while waving away the mass of bitter reporters who didn’t get a place in the press conference, and leads him straight into the limo.
For some reason, Echizen is not at all surprised to see Fuji already occupying the back. “Good game,” Fuji says, merely out of habit. He moves to allow Echizen some room, and picks up what looks suspiciously like a martini before adding, “And a good thing you took Federer out for me. I wasn’t looking forward to facing him across the net.”
Because Fuji is smiling, and because Echizen knows him perfectly after participating with him in tournament after tournament (and sharing a hotel room with him more often than not), it is clear that the words are just Fuji’s way of saying he feels sorry for the Swiss after the somewhat brutal match. Echizen smirks.
“Liar,” he mutters, adjusting his cap. “Your backhanded top-spin is so much better than his.”
Fuji chuckles and crosses his legs. “Thank you,” he replies, looking through the back window at the thwarted reporters fuming in front of where the limo had been parked. He offers Echizen a sip of his glass (which Echizen refuses in favour of a can of grape Ponta from the limo bar), and checks his watch.
After five minutes, Fuji’s cell rings loudly, and Echizen rolls his eyes as the notes of Kimeru’s Be Shiny echo inside the limo. It was Gackt’s Vanilla the last time Echizen roomed with Fuji (for the French Open), and he’s not entirely sure which one he prefers. He turns to look out of the window and decides to leave Fuji to his own devices, quite literally, until he hears Fuji’s cheerful, “Yo, Tezuka,” next to him.
His heart skips a beat and almost cracks his neck when he turns to look at his roommate. He can hear Phil (his trainer) inside his head, lecturing him about the disadvantages of making brusque movements, but Echizen tunes him out. All he can think about is Tezuka, and the check-up he had today, and is his shoulder okay, and will he be able to make a comeback to the pros -
“Let me talk to him, Fuji,” Echizen demands immediately.
Even Atobe turns his face to listen from his seat in the front, but Fuji appears content with letting them both hold their breaths for a little longer while he chats away. “You called Ryoma-kun’s cell? No, no, he’s here with me, but I think the phone is dead - we used it as alarm this morning and couldn’t find it afterwards, I reckon Ryoma-kun must’ve kicked it out of the window or something -”
“Fuji,” Echizen repeats stubbornly. “I want to talk to him. Give me the phone.”
“- certainly, but you know how much he dislikes J-pop, if I set my own cell as alarm I’ll be the one to pay the consequences -”
“Give him the damn phone, Fuji, or I’ll kick you off the limo,” Atobe growls. “Without stopping first.”
Fuji laughs, which is certainly not what a sane person would do under Atobe and Ryoma’s death glares combined, but none of them ever thought Fuji was sane anyway. “Oh, dear,” he says dramatically. “It’s two on one. I do occasionally wonder what happened to sportsmanship -“
“Buchou,” Ryoma says, snatching the phone away from Fuji in one fluid motion that Phil would be proud of. “How did it go? What did your physician say?”
He gets this all out in a breath, and he can hear Tezuka chuckling on the other end of the line. That’s a good sign, and Ryoma smiles too. “The doctors said I’ve progressed beyond their expectations. They never imagined this kind of results.”
Tezuka is vague and makes no promises he’s not sure he can fulfill, but Ryoma has enough with those words. He knows him perfectly well, well enough to be able to read between the lines without any effort. “You could make a complete recovery if you continue like this,” he says, and he hasn’t grinned so much in a long time.
Atobe sighs in relief and smacks Fuji’s leg, which is as far as he can reach from where he’s sitting (“I really should kick you off for leaving us hanging, you bastard”), and Ryoma talks to Tezuka on Fuji’s phone until they get to the hotel. Fuji’s comments that it is an international call go completely disregarded by Ryoma, and it’s ok because Fuji doesn’t really seem to mind either way.
“I’ve got the tickets for the final,” Tezuka tells him, and in his voice there’s no doubt that Ryoma will be in the final. “Kikumaru says to tell Fuji not to lose before then, otherwise Kikumaru will have to attend the match in a dress and hat with cat ears, and treat us all to dinner afterwards.”
“So they’re betting again?”
Ryoma can practically hear Tezuka’s frown through the line. “Don’t needle me, Ryoma. I’m not even going to comment.”
Ryoma smirks. “But you know you’re dying to, Buchou.”
“What they choose to do is entirely their business,” Tezuka replies curtly. “Either way, I won’t be the one sitting in first row in Centre Court dressed in pink frills.”
Ryoma is grinning all the way to the hotel, and he successfully manages to ignore Fuji’s conversation with Atobe about whether a titanium cell is hard enough to survive Ryoma’s morning moods. When they get to the room, Echizen goes headfirst into the shower, and he’s cheerful enough that he asks Fuji if he wants anything when he picks up the phone to call room service.
**
The lady behind the counter of the Wimbledon souvenir shop looks at them as if she can’t quite believe her eyes. She stares at Ryoma, who’s tapping his feet impatiently, and then at Fuji, who’s trying on a strawberry-patterned apron some feet away. Then she looks at Ryoma again, and her jaw drops.
“We’re buying this,” says Ryoma, slamming a green alarm clock with the Wimbledon crest on top of the counter. The girl jumps in the spot and stutters. “Are you going to give it to me for free or what?”
She shakes her head and Fuji chuckles. “F-five pounds, please,” she manages to get out eventually. Echizen puts a single note in front of her (she doesn’t seem to notice) and turns to leave. “Let’s go,” he tells Fuji.
“As you say, sweetheart,” Fuji replies sweetly, and tips the girl a wink as he jogs up to catch with Ryoma. The girl blushes to the roots of her hair and looks ready to faint. Ryoma rolls his eyes.
Even as they’re walking out of the door, Ryoma is dead sure the girl is still staring at Fuji’s butt.
**
“Please remind me again why I agreed to play doubles with you,” Ryoma asks Fuji, who is waving at the crowd and winking at the female line judges.
Fuji winks at him, too. “Because I let you spend my money to call Tezuka. And because you love me.”
Ryoma rolls his eyes and starts testing the tension of his strings.
**
“Congratulations on your match,” Tezuka tells him when he calls later that night. “You didn’t run into Fuji once. I was impressed.”
Ryoma rolls his eyes. “Ha, ha, ha.” He’s smiling at Tezuka’s unique sense of humour, but he hopes it doesn’t show on his voice too much. “You’re trying to be funny again.”
“Not really,” Tezuka replies, and he’s smiling too. “Kawamura invited us to the restaurant to watch the match, and we all seemed to be thinking along the same lines.”
Ryoma grins. “Then maybe we should celebrate it when you come here.” Fuji makes kissing noises at him and Ryoma rolls his eyes.
“We really should,” Tezuka says.
**
“You played a good match, Ryoma, darling,” Rinko tells him over the phone. “Nanako, your father and I are very proud of you.”
“Thank you, okaa-san,” Ryoma replies. He has to strain to hear her, such is the racket his father is making in the background. It sounds like he’s stepped on Karupin while the cat was asleep - again.
“We’re going to the singles’ final, so be sure to be there, okay? We - oh, hang on, your father wants to -”
More scrambling around on the other end of the line, and after a final angry hiss, Nanjiroh grabs the phone. “Oi, seishounen!” he greets in his usual loud manner, and Ryoma has to put some distance between the phone and his ear. Fuji smiles. “What were you thinking, signing up with that Fuji boy?” (“Uncle!” Nanako exclaims reprovingly.) “I’m not saying he’s not good or anything, you know, but you should have paired up with the Eissenheimer lady when she asked you, she’s such a pretty redhead -” (“Nanjiroh!”). Fuji, who’s hearing the whole conversation, puts a bottle of shampoo back into his bag and nods. “He’s right, you know,” he tells Ryoma with a smile.
Ryoma rolls his eyes at him. “There’s something wrong with your brain,” he tells his father, who’s rambling on about how Ryoma shouldn’t say no when a lady throws herself at him. Ryoma hangs up.Fuji continues to sort through his bag. “I would have approved if you had ditched me for Hannah-san, you know,” he deadpans.
Ryoma dumps Fuji’s cell on his bed and sighs. “Thank god Buchou’s probably making a comeback,” he mutters. “If I had to room with you for the rest of my pro years, I’d die.”
"We could just rent a suite, the three of us together."
"...No."
**
Ryoma looks up from the newest issue of Monthly Pro Tennis (in which his doubles match with Fuji is described as ‘the awe-inspiring battle in which two geniuses joined forces for the sake of victory’ - the article is signed by one Shiba Saori) and stares as someone (not Fuji - he’s draping a towel over his hair) opens the door to their room. He’s about to get up to tell the stranger to go away when Atobe comes in carrying a heavy-looking bag.
Ryoma rolls his eyes. “Oh, it’s you. Who let you in?” He plops back onto the mattress and looks as Atobe dumps the bag on the floor, next to an armchair. Atobe smothers down the front of his suit and smirks. “I asked the lady in the reception and she gave me a copy of the key.”
Ryoma stares. "What, just because you asked?"
"Just because I asked, indeed - she would have married me if I had asked." Atobe sits down on the Ponta-stained armchair as if it were a throne and sighs. "In any case, I'll need to have a word with the hotel manager - it won't do if she lets in anyone who asks nicely enough. Although you can't really blame her for being completely taken in by my beauty and class -"
Ryoma ignores him and goes back to the magazine. Fuji, on the other hand, nods at the bag and asks, “What’s in there?”
Atobe reaches out for the handle of the bag and pushes it to the centre of the room, where all three of them can see it. “From fans,” he says off-handedly. “Letters, chocolate, marriage proposals. The usual, you know.”
Ryoma turns over to the next page. “So throw them away. They’ll be the same as all the others.”
Atobe sniffs. “The least you could do is give them a look, read one or two.” Ryoma raises his eyebrows at him, leaving clear how much he intends to do that. “I’m not saying reply to them, but at least make it look like you care,” Atobe insists. “Your image is important too, you know.”
“I shouldn’t have to worry about my image,” Ryoma points out. “That’s what I pay you for, isn’t it?”
Fuji smiles and Atobe rolls his eyes. “Fine then, do whatever you please, you insufferable brat. I’m going to get a drink.”
Atobe has barely got up from the armchair when Fuji’s cell rings (it’s KAT-TUN’s Real Face this time). “Hi, Nanako-chan,” he smiles. “How are you?” Ryoma holds out his hand, waiting for Fuji to give him the phone, but he doesn’t. “No, no, that’s fine Ryoma-kun, she called to talk to me.”
Ryoma raises his eyebrows at Fuji and almost groans when he hears Nanako-chan giggle. Atobe snorts. “Later,” he says, heading for the door.
Fuji says something that must have been funny, because Nanako-chan is giggling again, and Ryoma gets up from the bed. “Wait, Atobe,” he says, grabbing his wallet. “I’m going with you.”
**
When they get back to the hotel after being eliminated from the doubles competition (a complete loss in 3 sets against the Bryan twins), Fuji sits down on his bed and says, “We’re not going to reach the doubles’ final.”
Ryoma lies down on his mattress and looks at the ceiling. “I know,” he replies.
Fuji looks at him and smiles. There’s a hint of mischief to his voice as he asks, “Do you think that bet will still force Eiji to wear a dress, no matter what final it is that I don’t get into?”
**
Someone knocks on the door to their room the night before the singles’ final. Ryoma gets up brusquely and grunts, “If it’s Atobe again, I’m going to tell him to shove the letters up his…”
He halts in mid-sentence when he sees who it is, and Fuji comes out of the bathroom looking amused. “Don’t stop now, Ryoma-kun, I’m actually rather curious as to where that sentence is going -”
Ryoma opens the door fully and stares. “Buchou,” he mutters, seemingly torn between happiness and shock.
Tezuka arches an eyebrow at him. “I decided to come over a day early,” he tells Ryoma, with the hints of a smile playing at his lips. “So… surprise?”
Fuji laughs and goes back into the bathroom, claiming that he should allow them some privacy. Ryoma couldn’t care less - it’s not like Fuji’s never seen him kiss Tezuka, and even if he hadn’t, it wouldn’t have stopped Ryoma.
He doesn’t have to tell Tezuka that he missed him, and Tezuka doesn’t have to tell him either - they both know. Instead, Ryoma says, “When you’re a pro again, we’ll share a room. If I have to room with Fuji for another year, I’ll give in to the drink.”
Tezuka almost laughs. “You already have, if your bin is any indication.” He points at the plastic bin next to Ryoma’s bed, which is full of empty cans of Ponta. Then he turns to look at Ryoma’s face again (he doesn’t have to bend his neck too much these days) and tells him, “Come have dinner with me.”
From inside the bathroom, Fuji wails something about Ryoma leaving him all alone and breaking his heart. Ryoma rolls his eyes. “Privacy, my ass,” he mutters. Tezuka opens his mouth to say something but Ryoma cuts him off with a smirk and adds, “Let’s go, Buchou.”
**
Tezuka takes him to a classical-style sushi restaurant they discovered during Tezuka’s last time in Wimbledon. They have grape Ponta and give them a table where they don’t have to deal with curious customers, and Ryoma is glad he ditched Fuji for this.
They talk about Wimbledon, Tezuka’s rehabilitation, the old Seigaku crew and Fuji’s new apron, and then Ryoma calls the waiter. “Excuse me,” he says, and if Tezuka were anyone but Tezuka, he would be gaping. “Can you bring us the bill?”
The waiter nods and smiles, and Tezuka dials a number. “Fuji,” he says immediately, looking shocked. “You taught him manners.”
Ryoma kicks him under the table. “Che.”
“I’m not called a genius for nothing, Tezuka,” Fuji laughs.
**
The day of the final, the sky is more or less clear, and there isn’t an empty seat in Centre Court. Atobe is sitting in his usual privileged seat and in first row, a bit to his right, are Ryoma’s family, Fuji’s sister, Yuuta and the old Seigaku crew. Eiji is wearing normal clothes, much to Fuji’s dismay.
“Sorry, but I’m going to win, Fuji,” Ryoma tells him upon taking out his racket. “You won’t have enough stamina to stand by the time I’m done with you.”
Fuji smiles and takes off his jersey. “You can call me Syuusuke, you know,” he replies casually, although his eyes are open. “I understand you don’t want to let me have Wimbledon two years in a row, but I advise you not to underestimate me.”
His eyes are closed again, however, when he turns to wave at the crowd. Ryoma turns toward where Tezuka and the others are sitting, too, and flashes a victory sign at Momo, who’s wearing the old headband he made back in the day, when they were still in junior high. Fuji winks at Nanako-chan, which causes her to giggle and Ryoma’s jaw to drop. When she thinks Ryoma’s not looking, she blows Fuji a kiss, but Ryoma is looking. “You and Nanako-chan,” he says, sounding slightly desperate. “Please tell me it isn’t true.”
Fuji looks at him and asks, “Why not?”
“Oh fuck,” Ryoma groans, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to be your family.”
Fuji actually looks amused as they go to shake hands with the umpire. “Why not? I’ve always thought you’d make a great little brother, Ryoma-kun.”
Ryoma shakes his head in disbelief as he walks to serving position. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters again. He tests the bounce of one of the balls he’s given, discards it and bounces the second. When he catches it, however, his eyes are determined and there’s a smirk on his face. “But, family or not, I’m going to have to beat you.”
He performs his trademark Twist Serve flawlessly, and Fuji breaks his form and returns it just as perfectly. “Then come!” he shouts, dashing to the net.
The fight starts in a manner that will probably be later described by a certain Japanese reporter as ‘the crash between two forces of nature’ - it is fierce and intense, with neither of them backing down. The angle of Ryoma’s serves gets sharper as the match progresses and Fuji manages to get a couple of counters past him, and both of them are deaf to the cheers of the crowd every time a spectacular point is scored. Fuji’s eyes are open, Ryoma is wearing his old cap and both of them rally in a battle that seems to escalate like a vortex of power and ability forcing them to evolve.
Fuji is so much better than he was last time they played, but Ryoma matches him step for step, and both of them nod at Tezuka when they change courts. This match is for his sake, a display of skill to lure him back into the world of the pros, where he belongs.
When Ryoma recovers his rival, there will be more limits to surpass, more of the tennis that only Tezuka can make him play, and many more matches to play.
For the moment, Ryoma gives this match the best he has; this year he intends to take the title from Fuji, just like Fuji took it from Tezuka the year before and, if Tezuka comes back next year, maybe he’ll take it from Ryoma.
And then, the circle will be complete.