Sasuga Tezuka (1 of 5)
Title: Sasuga Tezuka
Author: Anj (anjenue)
Pairing: Tezuka/Fuji, side Atobe/Oshitari, others implied
Rating: definitely NC-17
Word Count: ~34,600 (!!!) in five parts: 1 2 3 4 omake
Summary: Tezuka is living the life he's sure he's always wanted, and yet for some reason, he's unhappy. When an old friend shows up unexpectedly to take him back to the life he's left behind, Tezuka has to decide if he just needs to grow up or if he has to acknowledge that maybe he was wrong. (Futurefic - the boys are 18+)
A/N: THIS IS THE FIC THAT ATE MY LIFE. Also my hard drive. x_x I've been working on this since JUNE, and five months later, with probably a good 80K words written and more than half of those deleted, it's finally done. A few notes:
1. I took a class on Jung this summer, and so this has a strong psychological bent to it. I am however not a psychologist by trade. Just a writer.
2. anmoku no ryokai basically means a tacit understanding between two parties, something that doesn't have to be spelled out. It's only mentioned once, but it's kind of a theme, so I thought I'd point that out.
3. This is kind of a mix of manga and anime canon - I tried to stick to the manga as much as possible, but a few key facts, most notably Tezuka having been in Germany before, come from the anime.
4. I love Mizuki. Really I do.
5. This was originally meant to be based on a prompt by reddwarfer, but it kind of ballooned on me and probably doesn't really fit that prompt anymore. Still, Leila, ♥.
6. My betas are AMAZING. Thank you to everyone who's listened to me ramble and rant and freak out over the months - mighty_gratira, lelek, longleggedgit, daisy_chan, Nim... and thanks so much to juudenkanryou for the beta. ♥xinfinity!
7. There will be other fic in this verse. One is already attempting to write itself as we speak. *headdesk*
Tezuka tossed his head back, damp tendrils of hair slapping wetly against his neck. The sun beat down on his bared shoulders, sweat evaporating from his skin until his body steamed. His clothing clung to him unpleasantly, and right now he wanted nothing more than to go stand in the shower until the hot water ran out.
'Good game, Kunimitsu.'
Tezuka looked up, the corners of his mouth quirking the slightest bit as he squinted at his opponent through the glare on his glasses. 'Thank you, Henrik-buchou,' he said, bowing to the captain to hide his relief at not having botched the name again. Henrik was smiling, an impressed look filtering through the ever-present amusement at Tezuka's continued formality, and Tezuka found himself smiling back as he took Henrik's outstretched hand, clasping it tightly despite the unpleasant slipperiness of mingled sweat. Though half the school year had already gone by, he still found himself constantly surprised by the lack of contempt and bitterness among his elder classmates. Even he found himself leaving his emotions outside the court, which lent the game the air of professionalism he'd long been searching for.
Henrik finally let go of his hand, switching his racquet back to his right and stepping back to swing it in a smooth, strong arc. 'I'd better watch my back,' Henrik said, giving Tezuka a sly look out of the corner of his eye. 'At this rate, you'll oust me from the captain-ship rather than waiting for me to graduate. You really are something else, you know. I don't think I've ever met anyone who goes after the game the way you do.'
Tezuka blinked, caught a little off-guard. 'Thank you,' he managed after a long moment, bowing again. These rare but genuine compliments, one adult to another, never failed to both gratify him and perplex him. While Henrik had a knack for getting under his skin with the way he spoke about Tezuka's tennis, much like Yamato-buchou had once done, it didn't seem right somehow - he could hear the truth in it, perhaps, but it made him wonder what Henrik's basis for comparison was, since as far as he was concerned, that's what tennis was.
Or what it had been, anyway.
Despite the fact that his glory days at Seigaku had been years ago, he found himself remembering it more and more often these days. While the practical part of his mind knew that fixating on the past would only make it more difficult for him to get on with his future, he couldn't seem to stop thinking about it. About how it had felt to fight to the top, side by side with his teammates and closest friends, using only hard work and determination to get there. About the feel of the Nationals cup, heavy in his hands as he took it from the official and held it up over his head to sparkle in the sunlight. About the dozens of scouts who'd started showing up to practices, and had kept coming back long after the seniors had retired, just in case. About Echizen, now playing pro in America, whose raw talent and passion had inspired them all. About Oishi, who'd kept the team going with his unfailing dedication and love of tennis, and who went on doing so, captaining the team at Tokyo U.
About Fuji.
Tezuka had no idea what Fuji was up to these days, and while he still regretted that, the part of him that kept his walls strong and his mind calm was glad of it. If Henrik was able to unsettle him, Fuji could turn him upside down and shake him until his head spun, and had never passed up an opportunity to do exactly that. Having Fuji as a rival had changed his tennis in a way that having Echizen as a kouhai couldn't quite manage, the shifts in his game materialising as he faced down those sharp blue eyes, but having Fuji as a friend had changed him in ways he couldn't articulate or often even understand. The former was the reason he was here now; the latter was the reason he couldn't afford to look back.
Tezuka stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder and lifting a hand to wave to Henrik, who waved back before resuming his assault on the unfortunate ball machine. Tezuka was already off-balance from the compliment; thinking about Fuji was only going to make it worse. He'd never been much good at dealing with things he couldn't control, and thinking about it pulled forth the poorly-buried confusion and unwelcome longing for something he'd long since convinced himself he was better without. It left him feeling agitated, and the hand gripping his bag tightened on the strap as his feet turned themselves away from the dormitories, leading him toward the gym.
Three hours later, a freshly showered Tezuka flopped onto his bed, closing his eyes and relishing the dull protest of abused muscles. He ached all over, legs still burning from all the running and shoulders tight from weight-lifting, but he was relaxed now, or at least less wound up, and that pleasure far outweighed any pain. Blowing out a breath, he rolled over onto his stomach and reached for the stack of books on his desk, picking one at random and opening it across his pillow. Goethe's Wilhelm Meisters. Tezuka's German was still not quite up to par, but he had mastered the basics the first time he'd been in Germany, and, as he was wont to do, he continued to push himself in order to keep up with his classmates. As a science major, most of his classes were in a relatively universal language, but that wasn't a reason for him to get careless.
He didn't realise he'd dozed off until the insistent chiming of his phone woke him up. Glancing at the clock, he noted that it was about half past one. Nobody in their right mind would be calling him at this hour, university student or no, which is why he knew exactly who it was without even glancing at the screen.
'Atobe.'
Tezuka swore he could hear the smirk. 'You sound terrible, Tezuka. Were you asleep?'
Tezuka sighed, pushing himself upright and pulling off his glasses, which had left a tender imprint in his skin. 'Whyever would you think that?'
A rich laugh. 'Of course -- university students never sleep, do they?'
'Apparently neither do jetsetters.' Tezuka rubbed the bridge of his nose, staring blearily at the far wall and wondering if Atobe had called just to irritate him.
'I prefer "professional traveller", thank you.' Atobe's tone was wounded, but Tezuka'd known him far too long to be fooled, so he kept silent, waiting for Atobe to get to the point.
'Tezuka? I'm hurt, you know. It's terribly rude of you to be so cold to an old friend going out of his way to visit you in the Prussian wilderness.'
'You called me, Atobe. It isn't like you...' Tezuka trailed off, replaying Atobe's words. Clearly the hour and the German were addling his brain; he thought Atobe had just said... 'Visit me?'
'Heh. I would have called you sooner, but the change of plans was quite sudden - there wasn't time before my flight left.'
Well aware that Atobe was in fact the one in charge of his flight schedules and thus the excuse was simply that: an excuse, Tezuka glared at the wall, certain Atobe could hear that as much as he could hear Atobe continuing to smirk. 'Is that so. And...when, exactly, might I expect your illustrious company?'
He really shouldn't've been surprised by the knock on his door.
'You certainly don't miss any opportunity to be difficult, do you?' Tezuka asked in lieu of a greeting as he opened the door just in time to see Atobe snap his phone shut and slip it into his pocket.
'Lovely to see you too, Tezuka dearest,' Atobe said dryly, and then laughed as Tezuka pulled a face and turned his back, walking back to his desk to collect his glasses. He slipped them onto his face, adjusting the arm, which had gotten bent when he'd fallen asleep on it, and then turned back to face Atobe, who was looking at the room in barely disguised horror. '...though not my choice of atmosphere for a glorious reunion. Really, one would think a so-called "top" university would have accommodations to match.'
'This is a great deal nicer than the average dormitory,' Tezuka returned, voice deliberately mild because he knew nothing got to Atobe more than not having an effect on someone.
Atobe shuddered, wrapping the drape of his coat tighter around his body and arching a brow at Tezuka. 'Delightful to hear,' he deadpanned, and then stalked over to Tezuka's wardrobe, pulling it open and beginning to rifle through it. Tezuka didn't like where this was going, and his eyes narrowed as he followed.
'What are you doing?'
Atobe turned, white shirt in one hand and blue in the other, and held them up, considering. 'The blue, I think,' he said after a moment, putting the white back and then beginning to investigate Tezuka's trousers, blithely unconcerned by the scowl darkening Tezuka's face. 'My god, Tezuka, has your fashion sense always been this abysmal? Tomorrow, we shall have to go shopping for a suitable wardrobe before the flight.'
'Atobe.' Tezuka caught Atobe's wrist, squeezing it tighter than he'd intended in a mix of irritation and unrest. Atobe stilled for a moment, then slowly turned his head to look directly into Tezuka's face. That might have been a flash of triumph in his eyes, but then again, Tezuka was very tired.
'I absolutely refuse to stay here,' Atobe said, as if explaining to a small child, 'and everything you own is utterly inappropriate for anything not a university campus. Therefore, I am attempting to choose your least offensive clothing as something to make do until the shops open in...eight hours.'
Tezuka tightened his grip as Atobe attempted to pull away, continuing to stare through him. 'What. Flight.'
Atobe's lips turned up at the corners, though his tone was pure innocence as he replied, 'Our flight to Japan, of course. I'm only here for the night, a stop-over on my way back home, and I thought that since you have the coming week off and more than likely will have no suitable opponents around for you to play with, I would in my infinite generosity provide you with both a vacation and the opportunity to face your greatest opponent again. Which, incidentally, I would have told you had you not been so rude as to hang up on me in the middle of our conversation.'
He took advantage of Tezuka's discombobulation to free his arm, and returned to his perusal of Tezuka's clothing, making tsk-ing sounds every so often, as Tezuka attempted to process just how thoroughly Atobe had thought this all out. Even he had forgotten he was on break the following week, and yet Atobe had come all the way from Morocco, or maybe it was Monaco, to pick him up and take him home for the week, for some reason that was far beyond Tezuka's scope of knowledge. He was too dazed to protest when Atobe shoved a pile of clothes into his arms and went in search of a bag, and even went so far as to fold them as he waited for Atobe to return and take him...wherever he was taking him.
The idea of resisting anymore, even just to be contrary, didn't once cross his mind.
Ten minutes later, Atobe's limousine was pulling away from the campus, and Tezuka had a flute of sparkling pomegranate juice clutched in numb fingers while Atobe went on about exactly why Tezuka's taste in clothing was a disgrace and what they could do to improve upon it. Though he nodded in all the right places, face schooled into a suitably grave expression, now that the initial shock had worn off, his thoughts were quite occupied elsewhere. Though he would never admit it, seeing Atobe again was an agreeable surprise. In spite of or perhaps because of their rivalry, Atobe was one of his closest friends, and seeing him was having an unexpected and perplexingly welcome effect. Despite his earlier protests, he found himself far too pleased to care that Atobe had just waltzed into his life and taken over as he was wont to do. In fact, if Tezuka was being honest with himself, he was almost grateful for it. And that, in and of itself, was beyond odd.
Normally he would have been aggravated beyond belief to be dragged away from his clockwork routine, without his say-so, and subjected to the whims of one of the most attention-needy people he'd ever known in his life. He was a very private person, and didn't respond well to being ordered around, even though he tolerated it more often than not from Atobe because he was also admittedly one of the few people whose company Tezuka actually enjoyed, especially on the courts. But this time, for some reason, he actually felt...happy about it. And not just a general sense of contentment either, but something deeper than that, something that stood in stark contrast to the quiet pleasure that he had begun to equate with happiness.
'Tezuka.' Atobe snapped his fingers in front of Tezuka's face, pulling him out of his thoughts. Tezuka blinked slowly, then met Atobe's gaze.
'Sorry,' he said with genuine regret. 'I was just...'
Atobe muttered something that sounded like 'Worse off than I thought,' and then took Tezuka's forgotten glass from his hand, setting it aside and turning to face Tezuka fully. The look in his eyes was unsettling, and Tezuka's breath stopped in his throat as the casual familiarity dissolved and was replaced by something much less benign. For a long moment, Atobe looked like he was about to say something, something that Tezuka wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear, but the car pulling to a stop distracted him, and he turned his head just as the valet opened the door for him, standing back deferentially to allow Atobe to exit.
Tezuka sat still, spine tense and head tilted as he examined Atobe's face, watching first frustration, then resignation flit across his fine features, but when Atobe turned back to look at him, all he said was, 'Come on, before it gets light out.'
Feeling out of place and out of practice, Tezuka shadowed Atobe through the lobby and into the elevator. A heavy silence was their only companion in the lift at this time of night, Tezuka's bags having been taken by the porter up the service lift, and it followed them as Atobe exited at the penthouse (naturally) and led Tezuka into the massive suite and up to a closed door, which opened for him, revealing one of Atobe's maids.
Tezuka turned to look at Atobe, polite words of gratitude forming automatically on his lips, but stopped at the look on Atobe's face. His eyes burned the way they always did when Tezuka met him on the courts, filled with determination and focus and a dead seriousness that Atobe never displayed anywhere else, now only familiar to Tezuka from fleeting snatches of memory-dreams, but the usual blistering rivalry that he remembered most of all had been replaced by something wholly and frighteningly unfamiliar. Again Atobe looked ready to say something, but he shook his head instead, closing his eyes briefly. 'Get some sleep,' he said, tone brooking no refusals. 'You'll need your energy tomorrow.'
Without another word, he was gone, presumably to the suite's master bedroom, and Tezuka exhaled, chest twisting with confused tension as he entered the room and the maid shut the door behind him with a soft snick.
His bags were already there, and he crossed to them, lifting the duffel and zipping it open before remembering that Atobe hadn't included pajamas among the scant articles of clothing he'd deemed acceptable. Unsurprisingly, though, pajamas were provided for him in the bureau, heavy black silk with a monogrammed T on the breast pocket, and Tezuka shook his head again at Atobe's audacity even as he stripped out of his clothes and picked up the trousers, stepping into them. This was all surreal in a way only Atobe could accomplish, and even after all these years, Tezuka still couldn't figure him out. Moreover, he was acting even more strangely than Tezuka was accustomed to, and Tezuka paused for a moment, casting his gaze back toward the closed door. The urge to confront Atobe and figure out just what the hell was going on was only outweighed by a combination of ingrained manners and, to be honest, fear at what his response might be, but it was a close call, since Tezuka knew he wasn't going to sleep well tonight with this unnerved feeling plaguing him. Maybe he was just overreacting, the suddenness of Atobe's arrival aggravating the feelings already percolating from earlier, but maybe it was more than that. Whatever it was, Tezuka lacked the ability to read Atobe off the courts as well as he could on them, and the events of the night had left him wound up and wary, the gladness of earlier having been drowned out by something much more malignant.
Tezuka walked shirtless into the bathroom and leaned over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. Close up and under the dazzling lights, he looked exhausted, drawn thin from too little sleep and gone pale from too little sunlight. A seeming stranger, gazing back at him with a reproachful look that said what the hell are you doing, Kunimitsu? in a voice far too similar to his grandfather's for comfort. This was ill-advised, illogical, and irresponsible of him - he should be spending his week off catching up on his work, studying, following his regimented routine...anything but traipsing halfway around the world on the whim of an old rival-turned-friend. He'd chosen his path, after all, and it was his responsibility to walk it.
This is my future, he thought, and this time, the voice was Atobe's, and the reflection staring back at him had ocean-blue eyes and a plush mouth turned stern and serious with adulthood. This is what I'm meant to do, Atobe had said to him all those months ago, not the goodbye Tezuka had expected but the words he hadn't known he needed to hear. The good lucks and do your bests were all well and good, but hearing the boy he'd once considered his counterpart speaking in a voice filled with the same resignation Tezuka's world seemed permeated with made Tezuka feel as if he weren't so alone after all. He and Atobe, despite their external differences, were the same inside, and the odd sort of understanding that formed between them as Atobe drew Tezuka into his last match in Japan had stuck with Tezuka ever since. Atobe was the last person he'd seen before leaving, and he'd held the feeling of the final game of his childhood deep within his heart as he watched Tokyo disappear into the distance.
Removing his glasses, Tezuka bent over the sink, splashing his face with cold water. That day seemed like the last of another lifetime, but instead of closure, it had presented an unforeseen bridge into adulthood. The solidarity between them, of graduating from a life of glory and leadership via example to a life of responsibility and filling the place carved out for them long before they were old enough to understand the concept, had allowed for an easier transition, since he knew he wasn't alone. But something about Atobe's presence this time felt off, like the sameness between them had begun to dissolve, leaving something dangerous in its wake. Tezuka could still feel the camaraderie, not only from Atobe but also within himself, as evidenced by the uncontrollable relief he'd felt upon falling back into their old patterns of interaction, but the unsettling intensity in Atobe's eyes as he looked at Tezuka as if taking him apart piece by piece was far too reminiscent of something he'd deliberately left behind. The lack of closure he'd felt with Fuji was flaring up again, Atobe's inexplicable behaviour and the sense of freedom it communicated aggravating the subsumed voice of dissent he'd worked so hard to silence, and it felt like an itch under his skin, a need for a satisfaction he knew would only destroy the person he'd laboured to become.
As long as he continued to compare everything he had now to what he'd had before, as long as he treated the now like an inevitable, unavoidable one-foot-in-front-of-the-other tunnel toward adulthood instead of a world filled with hope where anything was possible, he was never going to grow up properly, and while it was easy enough to ignore that that's what he was actually doing when he was on his own, seeing Atobe again was reminding him of why he continued to make that comparison despite his best attempts to file the feeling away as the fantasies of an ingenuous heart. Even the match from that afternoon demonstrated the fact that his university career wasn't shaping up quite as he'd hoped it would; while it was mentally fulfilling to play tennis like an adult, it lacked that spark he'd loved, the complete immersion in a world that only his teammates and his rivals could understand. Tennis before was an outlet, a passion instead of a career; that was the reason it had consumed him, but it was also the reason he'd known he had to leave it behind if he ever hoped to become a functional member of society, as he was expected to be. He knew that was what he needed to do, but being reminded in such a vivid manner of what he had so deliberately walked away from felt like a step in the absolute wrong direction. With Atobe's unexpected presence, Tezuka felt like he was being pulled across that same bridge of solidarity again but this time in the other direction, and what awaited him had yet to be seen.
Tezuka tipped his head back, water sluicing down the sides of his face and splashing his shoulders. Restlessness made his fingers twitch by his sides, and the muscles of his jaw worked as he clenched his teeth. At this point, he wasn't sure which unnerved him more: the possibility that it would be the same life he'd hoped to leave behind for good, or the possibility that it wouldn't.
+
'That's my game, Tezuka - five games all!'
Tezuka exhaled hard, wiping the sweat from his eyes and rolling his shoulders as he let his arm drop, feet carrying him toward the other side of the court. Though he'd only managed about four hours of (fitful) sleep before he'd been woken with promises of a real Japanese breakfast, he felt more energised than he had in a long time. His movements were sharper, his swings stronger, his pace faster, and he burned with the need to win, rather than just the drive to give his all. It felt like he was a different person than he'd been the day before, and though this had been exactly what he'd been up half the night worrying about, right now, on this court, facing one of the best rivals he'd ever had, none of that mattered anymore. It was funny how everything suddenly seemed so simple; all he had to think about was forehand-forehand-backhand-volley-smash, and with that rhythm, everything else fell away until all that was left was Tezuka.
He looked up as he passed Atobe, electrified by the fire burning in Atobe's eyes, the arrogantly determined curve of his mouth, the way his spine pulled a little straighter as their shoulders just touched. Atobe was good, better than Tezuka remembered; he knew Atobe didn't compete anymore, but he certainly hadn't stopped playing altogether. Tezuka found himself struggling a bit, running around the court, fighting to return Atobe's balls, even pulling out his trump cards early on, though to no avail as Atobe revealed some trump cards of his own. The competition was fierce enough that Tezuka could taste it, sharp and metallic on his tongue, and sweat stung his eyes as he stared across the court, all his attention sharp-focussed on his opponent's waiting form. Here, there was no thought, no design, no carefully planned manoeuvres - his body was reacting, spurred on by a part of his psyche he'd almost forgotten he possessed, and at this moment if he'd been asked what else there was to life, his answer would have been a confident nothing.
'Are you awed by my prowess yet, Tezuka?' Atobe asked from the baseline, giving Tezuka a knowing smirk, and Tezuka narrowed his eyes, focus shifting to Atobe's face as he tossed the ball and delivered a serve to rival Atobe's best Tannhaüser, sending it straight past him before Atobe even had a chance to react.
'Fifteen-love,' Tezuka replied, and allowed the slightest hint of long-buried competitive pleasure to flash in his eyes before serving the next ball.
+
'Nice match, Atobe,' Tezuka said with genuine respect as he shook Atobe's hand, not even noticing the sweat this time, or the way his right hand felt hypersensitive in contrast to his almost-numb left hand. And it had been. They'd been playing nearly three hours, neither of them willing to give up that last set. He was exhausted, sore, and thoroughly exhilarated, and he didn't even care if Atobe knew it as he smiled his appreciation openly, clasping Atobe's hand perhaps a bit longer than was strictly polite.
'I almost had you that time,' Atobe returned, though even his disappointment at having lost didn't dampen the fire flashing in his eyes. Atobe was glorious when he played, like pure raw passion personified, and it had always been a pleasure to play him, even when Tezuka's shoulder hadn't concurred.
'You did,' Tezuka agreed, nodding as he finally released Atobe's hand. 'That last set could have gone to either one of us. It was luck that it went to me.'
Atobe chuckled, accepting the towel his valet held out and draping it over his sweat-drenched hair. 'Perhaps luck will be in my favour next time, eh?'
Tezuka blinked once, and then smiled, acknowledging Atobe's odd method of invitation. 'Perhaps it will. You had better practise though - I play every day, you know.'
Atobe finished rubbing his hair and then let the towel slide down over his shoulders. 'I try to make a habit of it as well, but Yuushi doesn't ever seem to pose much of a challenge, and it's just not interesting. I don't think he takes me seriously. He's become quite a snob in his old age.'
'Become?' Tezuka returned without thinking, and then flushed a bit, opening his mouth to apologise.
The words died on his lips at the look on Atobe's face, surprise and delight and something almost like relief, and he bit them back with a tiny smile of his own as Atobe laughed outright, shaking his head. 'Tezuka, Tezuka, Tezuka,' he said. 'I see university has been good for something. Awakened that dry sense of humour, ahn?'
Tezuka chuckled softly, finally taking his own towel from the valet and wiping his forehead. 'It's not interesting otherwise,' he said mildly, taking Atobe's words and tossing them back at him with casual innocence, which only made Atobe laugh again, even prompting Tezuka to join in. Atobe was a lot of things, but one good thing he had going for him was his infectious personality - whether exuding confidence, determination, competitiveness, or simple amusement, for those around him, it was impossible not to follow. Tezuka usually resisted on principle, because that was the rule of their game, but this time, he didn't even try.
If he was being honest, perhaps some of his own laughter was relief at Atobe's behaviour: the distinct lack of the tension he'd exhibited the previous evening, the offhanded banter tinged with real, passionate rivalry, the familiar careless arrogance. The mention of Oshitari had perhaps helped as well - not so much the name, but the way Atobe had said it, which made it impossible to mistake the nature of the relationship between the two of them. With that single word, he'd managed to all but categorically dispel any lingering doubts about Atobe's intentions on that front. Not that Tezuka knew them any better now, but at least he knew what they were not.
'Coming, Tezuka?' Atobe looked back at him, tennis racquet slung over his shoulder. 'We still have to clothe you before you're allowed on the plane. Unless, of course, you have some pressing desire to go naked...'
The ball lobbed with pinpoint precision at Atobe's head was all the answer Tezuka would deign to give.
+
In retrospect, Tezuka thought as he sat ramrod-straight, arms folded across his chest and an impressive scowl on his face, perhaps nudity would have been the wiser choice in this particular situation. There was no doubt that Atobe had exquisite taste in clothing - the fabric was soft and smooth against his skin, moulding to his body gracefully as only well-fitted clothing could, and Tezuka was quite certain their shopping trip had cost more than a year of his university tuition. It wasn't even that it was purple, because while his taste in colour was not quite as flashy as Atobe, he did admittedly own a great deal of lavender.
The problem, he thought, folding his arms tighter and trying not to look like he wanted to die, was that the clothes fit a trifle too well. Whoever had told him it was what one didn't see that created elegant sex appeal had apparently failed to mention this to Atobe. Or perhaps, he considered, eyeing Atobe with something very like vengefulness, this was just Atobe's way of getting back at him for the earlier match.
'Tezuka,' Atobe said smoothly, taking a sip of his juice as if it were the costliest champagne. 'Do cease glowering at me. It wrinkles your brow most unattractively.'
'I have to do something to compensate,' Tezuka replied dryly, 'or else I'll be beating your coterie off with my racquet.'
Atobe lifted a brow, and then, much to Tezuka's surprise, he snorted.
'Tezuka!' he said, sounding shocked. 'You really have grown a sense of humour. I'm too stunned to even be insulted by the implication that you could ever steal Ore-sama's admirers from him.'
Tezuka's scowl darkened.
'Ah,' Atobe said before Tezuka could retort. 'We're here.'
Tezuka blanched as the limousine pulled smoothly to a stop and a uniformed man opened the door for Atobe, one hand held out to take the glass from him as he slid out of the car and stood. Tezuka's door opened only a moment later, but it took him two full breaths before he could convince himself to uncross his arms and unfold his lanky frame from the cushiony seats. Despite the fact that nobody he knew would be there at this particular moment, and that Atobe's staff was too professional to laugh at him, the thought of walking even the fifty paces across the tarmac to the jet in this outfit was humiliating. But he was Tezuka Kunimitsu, and not even a highly inappropriate cut of clothing could change that.
Head held high, he followed Atobe to the steps leading up to the jet, and was surprised when Atobe stepped aside. 'After you,' he intoned graciously, and Tezuka should have known something was wrong the moment those words left Atobe's mouth. Far too eager to get out of the open and into his seat, though, he took Atobe's proffered privilege, mounting the steps straight-backed and eagle-focussed.
Atobe whistled. 'Your ass does look remarkable in those trousers, Tezuka.'
Tezuka's foot missed the next step.
It was going to be a very, very long flight.
+
Mercifully, Atobe's teasing died off after about the third hour as he began to drift off to sleep, head tilted against the velveted cushioning of his reclining seat. The morning's match combined with the lack of sleep the previous night seemed to be taking its toll at last, and Atobe's eyes slid shut, leaving Tezuka in blissful silence.
Turning his head, he looked out the window, studying the whorls and wisps of cloud trickling past as they sliced through the sapphire of the sky. He hadn't really had time to think since that morning; Atobe loved to hear himself speak, and frankly, self-centred as Atobe was, Tezuka enjoyed listening to him, the fluid confidence in his tone, the biting wit, the snide little comments that oftentimes had Tezuka chewing his lip to keep from laughing outright. There was a lot there that Atobe didn't say - unlike Tezuka, who avoided addressing the less pleasant things in life by just not speaking at all, Atobe spoke a great deal without saying much, his method of distracting others as well as himself - but there was something refreshing about Atobe's approach that gave Tezuka the ability to just be for awhile, without worrying about responsibilities and his future and the fact that he didn't know what he was doing with himself.
That last thought was so unexpected that it hurt. He shouldn't even have had to ask. He was at university doing exactly what he wanted to do: playing tennis against extremely talented players while still preparing himself for a secure, prestigious career in medicine. He enjoyed all his classes, made excellent grades, and still managed to stay on the radar on the university circuit, and even though he hadn't stayed in Japan like his parents had wanted, they were still very proud of him.
And yet...after that morning, it was impossible to ignore that that wasn't enough.
That unsettling feeling crept up on him again, and his brow furrowed as he attempted to sort it out. Feelings were irrational - he'd learnt that in introductory neuro - but he'd also learnt that there was a physical cause for the release of neurochemicals involved in emotion. Sensory input and/or the associated memories acting as triggers, whether pleasurable or painful, leading to physiological changes parsed as "emotion". He liked the fact that there was a biological explanation; his inability to control what he felt had plagued him for years, and this at least gave him some semblance of control over himself, because he knew there was a cause behind it. He liked the precision and meticulousness of the sciences, and the replicability, and most of all, he liked the ability to explain with logic the things that otherwise would have made no sense.
Yet at the same time, as explicable as his emotions might have been, the reasons had begun to feel more and more empty the longer he'd relied on them. Telling himself that professionals do not allow personal rivalry to interfere with their matches had been reason enough, initially, to set his emotions aside and learn a new kind of tennis based solely on the meticulous destruction of his opponent's game, but after his match with Atobe that morning, he found himself questioning the validity of that approach. Perhaps emotion was an interference, but he knew that he'd played better that morning than he had in months, because he'd stopped thinking and instead had just felt, letting his tennis control him rather than the other way around. For a person who craved control and order, it was amazing how good it felt to give it up, to let himself exist in a realm without reason; as much as it scared him to think about in abstract form, when he was actually doing it, it felt right in a way nothing else ever had.
Being here with Atobe, though, was giving up more control than he normally would have felt comfortable with. There was a distinct difference between indulging Atobe's whims and giving himself over to Atobe's control for a week; the former was safe, and oftentimes amusing, while the latter should have been terrifying. But what Tezuka felt, aside from the sense of confusion and unrest, was much more akin to relief. And that, in and of itself, left him feeling more unsettled than ever.
Why am I here? he thought, studying Atobe's sleeping face even though he knew the question was better directed toward himself. After all, he was the one who'd let himself be talked into this, he was the one who'd actually started to feel eager about the trip despite his underlying worries, he was the one who was here now, of his own accord, since Atobe was many things but he certainly wasn't someone capable of kidnapping. There was one explanation that came immediately to mind, but he had no more desire to think about it now than he had six months ago, on the plane to Germany, trying to figure out what had possessed him to go to university so far away.
Escape.
Even the word offended him, because the thought that he would want to run away from anything set his teeth on edge. He'd never backed down from a challenge, even when it had cost him his shoulder, or when it had resulted in his being outed to about half the high school tennis circuit (and he was still glad to this day that his parents had never seen fit to attend his matches), or when it had forced him to face the fact that the professional circuit was not in the cards for him. And yet ignoring the possibility that that's what he was doing would be as good as conceding to it.
But what was he escaping from? Risking it all came as naturally to him as breathing; not doing so was more than he could bear, and inevitably made him feel like he'd lost. Everyone knew that about him; it defined who he was, and contemplating a world in which he craved escape rather than shunning it was like rewriting his entire identity. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe what he was escaping was his identity, cast in stone and held up by teammates and rivals and friends alike, expectations and reputation following him and forcing him into a mould that maybe he no longer fit. He hadn't forgotten the disappointment on his friends' faces when he'd told them he was going to university instead of turning pro, nor had he outgrown the feeling of shame he felt when he lost a game, not at his own loss but at the knowledge that he'd let his team down, because he was Tezuka Kunimitsu, and he was supposed to be above that.
Tezuka Kunimitsu. National Champion. Seigaku's Captain. Most promising Japanese tennis player of his age. Responsible friend, dutiful son, and any number of other epithets that had followed him ever since he was a boy. But were any of them actually him, or were they names by which he'd learnt to recognise himself reflected in the eyes of others?
Whose life are you living, Tezuka?
Tezuka started. The words echoed in his mind, as real as if they'd been spoken aloud, but Atobe was still fast asleep, and the only sound was the soft rhythm of his breathing.
'Are we really anything other than what people see?' he murmured, studying the sleep-lax lines of Atobe's face. He was willing to wager this was an Atobe very few people knew existed, but was it Atobe at all if all Atobe was was the persona he chose to present? After all, if part of yourself only exists within your own head, is it really real?
'It's very rude to stare,' said Atobe suddenly, and Tezuka flinched, hand tightening on the armrest as he dropped his gaze, murmuring an apology. Atobe was smirking though, Tezuka knew it, eyes heavy-lidded from almost-sleep, chin lifted as he studied Tezuka, staring just as much as Tezuka had been, because Atobe was the rule and so he was allowed to do whatever he wanted, etiquette be damned.
Though part of Tezuka felt discomfort at the cool appraisal, especially since Atobe had caught him in the middle of his thoughts, the part of him that had been awoken that morning lifted its head, and then so did Tezuka, meeting Atobe's gaze evenly and arching an impassive brow.
'Why am I here, Atobe?'
Atobe blinked, and then chuckled, shifting in his seat and crossing his legs. 'Because you said yes.'
'I didn't,' Tezuka reminded him, but Atobe's brow went up pointedly and Tezuka decided to try another tact. 'What I mean is...why me? I know you said Oshitari isn't willing to play you properly, but there are plenty of other people who I'm sure are perfectly willing to face you. I hear Hiyoshi is doing very well.'
'He is,' Atobe replied, the faintest hint of pride in his voice, only audible because Tezuka knew where to look for it. But then he leaned forward, the intensity in his eyes deepening, and Tezuka fought the urge to squirm in his seat as Atobe looked at him in that way he had that made Tezuka feel as if he had been flayed to the core.
For a long moment, they sat there in silence, Tezuka keeping his chin up out of pure defiance, Atobe apparently trying to stare him into submission, or else to communicate some wordless statement that Tezuka was unable to catch. When Tezuka made no response to the examination though, Atobe leaned back again, a lazy smirk curling his mouth, though there was nothing lazy in the still-sharp gaze as he held Tezuka there and said, 'It's not the same.'
'Not the same as what?' The fluttery feeling from the previous night was back, and Tezuka's brain dubbed it panic before he had a chance to protest it.
'Knowing there is still more to come.' Atobe rested his fingers against his face, and the familiarity of that pose coupled with the trademark words of his former kouhai made Tezuka feel momentarily dizzy with déjà vú. Atobe's smirk widened as Tezuka was forced to back down from their continued staring contest, but his gaze softened and a hint of sadness tinged his voice as he added, 'That need to better myself, to push my own limits, because there's still someone whose respect and admiration I haven't quite earned.'
Surprised, Tezuka studied the taut lines of Atobe's face. This was a candidness that he hadn't known Atobe possessed, and it felt like looking in a mirror again, only this time, his reflection was two steps ahead of him, saying the words that still sat heavy on Tezuka's tongue. It was beyond unnerving, and part of Tezuka craved levity, wanting to make some offhanded Atobe-like comment about how that was a noble pursuit indeed and maybe someday, if he tried very hard, he might achieve it. But that wasn't his style.
'You have,' he murmured instead after a long silence, words thick and insufficient as they fell from his lips. 'A long time ago.'
Atobe blinked slowly, eyes refocussing on Tezuka's face as if he'd forgotten he was there, then gave him a wan smile threaded through with a cockiness Tezuka would wager Atobe didn't feel. 'Who says I meant you?'
That was more like the Atobe Tezuka knew, and he chuckled in relief, about to reply in kind, until his gaze met Atobe's and he realised Atobe wasn't just being coy.
'One is always hardest on oneself,' Atobe said, looking straight at Tezuka but speaking like he wasn't even there. 'The path to self-improvement is one we must walk alone. But sometimes, it takes the right person to help us find our way.'
By the time Tezuka came up with any sort of response to that, Atobe was fast asleep.
+
Tezuka had never been very good at sleeping on planes. The constant vibrations, rather than being soothing, interrupted his ki and left him feeling unsettled. Add to that the fact that he'd been forced off-balance on several occasions in the past twenty-four hours, and the already-discomfiting nature of his clothing, and it was clear that by the time the plane finally began its descent toward the islands, he was at a significant psychological disadvantage to the well-rested Atobe. Granted, Atobe's contradictory feelings on the subject were made clear when he caught a glimpse of his reflection, made a noise very like a shriek, and darted off to the lavatory, but Tezuka was almost too tired to even protest the idea of going out looking like a hussy, which he still insisted he did, no matter how much Atobe tried to convince him that no, his nipples didn't show.
Atobe returned after several minutes, looking only slightly less distressed, and exhausted though he was, Tezuka couldn't help pointing out that Atobe's attempts to salvage his hair had only made him look like a drowned puppy, which sent him scurrying back into the lavatory with a snarled 'I hate you, Tezuka.'
I hate you too, Tezuka thought, and didn't even try to swallow his smile.
The next time Atobe emerged, he glared at Tezuka as if daring him to say something; in response, Tezuka merely raised his hands in the age-old gesture of surrender. Atobe glowered for a moment more, and then flung himself gracefully into his seat, crossing his legs.
'You still look spectacular in those trousers,' he said after a moment, and now it was Tezuka's turn to glare.
'You can't see my...anymore,' he retorted primly, and Atobe smirked, arching a brow and trailing his gaze pointedly downward, then back up, until Tezuka was fighting not to shift uncomfortably in his seat.
'I know.'
And for the second time that flight, Tezuka found himself with absolutely nothing to say.
The silence, however, did not continue once the plane landed, though Tezuka might as well have been mute for all the attention Atobe paid to his protests. Being on the ground had made him that much more aware of the fact that he now had to go outside, in public, and he argued vehemently when Atobe wouldn't let him at least fetch a jacket to keep him warm in the cool night air. 'That's Helmut Lang you're wearing,' Atobe reminded him with a sniff. 'You aren't allowed to cover that up with anything.'
'My shirt is open to my navel, Atobe,' Tezuka ground out, tugging at the arm Atobe was gripping to keep him from folding it across his chest. 'In what universe is that decent?'
'Mine,' Atobe returned, and ignored any further argument Tezuka made as he dragged him bodily off the plane. Times had changed though, Tezuka thought, finally allowing himself to be pulled when he realised that struggling would only show off more skin, and would be a futile endeavour besides, since Atobe clearly had the advantage here. Being on the ground had only made Atobe more comfortable, but for him.... It had been awhile since he'd been back to Jap-- back home, more than six months now, and he couldn't shake the odd feeling of knowing exactly where they were going, of the bright modernity of the Tokyo lights flying past outside the darkened windows, of the faint hum of Japanese radio just audible from the driver's compartment. Of feeling somehow like a totally new person, and yet right at home again, all at the same time. Funny, how this was what he had wanted, but now that he was faced with it, it felt all wrong.
'What time is it?' Tezuka finally asked, blinking heavy lids as he looked away from the window and back at his companion. His sluggish brain struggled to do the math, but he hadn't had nearly enough sleep for that, and at that particular moment, desire to know was winning out over his pride.
'Five AM,' Atobe returned with that same faint smirk tugging at his lips. That meant the morning in Tokyo had already started, and it was about to get very crowded and very noisy. For the first time, Tezuka was grateful that Atobe's house was extremely out of the way; maybe it would give him a chance to actually sleep, away from the hustle and bustle of Tokyo life.
Atobe's next words shattered his illusion. 'Yuushi leaves for school around ten,' he said smoothly, 'and is usually back just after two, after which we can head up into the mountains, go fishing, and set up camp for the night. There's a meteor shower tonight that will be best seen from higher up.'
Tezuka sighed. He was so tired that the idea of going on a mountain expedition was almost unpleasant, especially after the four hours while Oshitari was gone, during which he was certain Atobe would expect to be entertained, but it was insulting to one's host to beg off a planned activity in order to sleep, and the fresh mountain air did sound appealing.
Oh well, he thought, and managed a smile. He'd just sleep extraordinarily well tonight. Plus which staying up was really the only way to stave off jet lag; if he slept now, he'd be out of whack all week, and that would just be unforgivably rude. 'That sounds lovely,' he said, and meant it.
Maybe he had time for a little nap before breakfast.
part 2
Author: Anj (anjenue)
Pairing: Tezuka/Fuji, side Atobe/Oshitari, others implied
Rating: definitely NC-17
Word Count: ~34,600 (!!!) in five parts: 1 2 3 4 omake
Summary: Tezuka is living the life he's sure he's always wanted, and yet for some reason, he's unhappy. When an old friend shows up unexpectedly to take him back to the life he's left behind, Tezuka has to decide if he just needs to grow up or if he has to acknowledge that maybe he was wrong. (Futurefic - the boys are 18+)
A/N: THIS IS THE FIC THAT ATE MY LIFE. Also my hard drive. x_x I've been working on this since JUNE, and five months later, with probably a good 80K words written and more than half of those deleted, it's finally done. A few notes:
1. I took a class on Jung this summer, and so this has a strong psychological bent to it. I am however not a psychologist by trade. Just a writer.
2. anmoku no ryokai basically means a tacit understanding between two parties, something that doesn't have to be spelled out. It's only mentioned once, but it's kind of a theme, so I thought I'd point that out.
3. This is kind of a mix of manga and anime canon - I tried to stick to the manga as much as possible, but a few key facts, most notably Tezuka having been in Germany before, come from the anime.
4. I love Mizuki. Really I do.
5. This was originally meant to be based on a prompt by reddwarfer, but it kind of ballooned on me and probably doesn't really fit that prompt anymore. Still, Leila, ♥.
6. My betas are AMAZING. Thank you to everyone who's listened to me ramble and rant and freak out over the months - mighty_gratira, lelek, longleggedgit, daisy_chan, Nim... and thanks so much to juudenkanryou for the beta. ♥xinfinity!
7. There will be other fic in this verse. One is already attempting to write itself as we speak. *headdesk*
Tezuka tossed his head back, damp tendrils of hair slapping wetly against his neck. The sun beat down on his bared shoulders, sweat evaporating from his skin until his body steamed. His clothing clung to him unpleasantly, and right now he wanted nothing more than to go stand in the shower until the hot water ran out.
'Good game, Kunimitsu.'
Tezuka looked up, the corners of his mouth quirking the slightest bit as he squinted at his opponent through the glare on his glasses. 'Thank you, Henrik-buchou,' he said, bowing to the captain to hide his relief at not having botched the name again. Henrik was smiling, an impressed look filtering through the ever-present amusement at Tezuka's continued formality, and Tezuka found himself smiling back as he took Henrik's outstretched hand, clasping it tightly despite the unpleasant slipperiness of mingled sweat. Though half the school year had already gone by, he still found himself constantly surprised by the lack of contempt and bitterness among his elder classmates. Even he found himself leaving his emotions outside the court, which lent the game the air of professionalism he'd long been searching for.
Henrik finally let go of his hand, switching his racquet back to his right and stepping back to swing it in a smooth, strong arc. 'I'd better watch my back,' Henrik said, giving Tezuka a sly look out of the corner of his eye. 'At this rate, you'll oust me from the captain-ship rather than waiting for me to graduate. You really are something else, you know. I don't think I've ever met anyone who goes after the game the way you do.'
Tezuka blinked, caught a little off-guard. 'Thank you,' he managed after a long moment, bowing again. These rare but genuine compliments, one adult to another, never failed to both gratify him and perplex him. While Henrik had a knack for getting under his skin with the way he spoke about Tezuka's tennis, much like Yamato-buchou had once done, it didn't seem right somehow - he could hear the truth in it, perhaps, but it made him wonder what Henrik's basis for comparison was, since as far as he was concerned, that's what tennis was.
Or what it had been, anyway.
Despite the fact that his glory days at Seigaku had been years ago, he found himself remembering it more and more often these days. While the practical part of his mind knew that fixating on the past would only make it more difficult for him to get on with his future, he couldn't seem to stop thinking about it. About how it had felt to fight to the top, side by side with his teammates and closest friends, using only hard work and determination to get there. About the feel of the Nationals cup, heavy in his hands as he took it from the official and held it up over his head to sparkle in the sunlight. About the dozens of scouts who'd started showing up to practices, and had kept coming back long after the seniors had retired, just in case. About Echizen, now playing pro in America, whose raw talent and passion had inspired them all. About Oishi, who'd kept the team going with his unfailing dedication and love of tennis, and who went on doing so, captaining the team at Tokyo U.
About Fuji.
Tezuka had no idea what Fuji was up to these days, and while he still regretted that, the part of him that kept his walls strong and his mind calm was glad of it. If Henrik was able to unsettle him, Fuji could turn him upside down and shake him until his head spun, and had never passed up an opportunity to do exactly that. Having Fuji as a rival had changed his tennis in a way that having Echizen as a kouhai couldn't quite manage, the shifts in his game materialising as he faced down those sharp blue eyes, but having Fuji as a friend had changed him in ways he couldn't articulate or often even understand. The former was the reason he was here now; the latter was the reason he couldn't afford to look back.
Tezuka stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder and lifting a hand to wave to Henrik, who waved back before resuming his assault on the unfortunate ball machine. Tezuka was already off-balance from the compliment; thinking about Fuji was only going to make it worse. He'd never been much good at dealing with things he couldn't control, and thinking about it pulled forth the poorly-buried confusion and unwelcome longing for something he'd long since convinced himself he was better without. It left him feeling agitated, and the hand gripping his bag tightened on the strap as his feet turned themselves away from the dormitories, leading him toward the gym.
Three hours later, a freshly showered Tezuka flopped onto his bed, closing his eyes and relishing the dull protest of abused muscles. He ached all over, legs still burning from all the running and shoulders tight from weight-lifting, but he was relaxed now, or at least less wound up, and that pleasure far outweighed any pain. Blowing out a breath, he rolled over onto his stomach and reached for the stack of books on his desk, picking one at random and opening it across his pillow. Goethe's Wilhelm Meisters. Tezuka's German was still not quite up to par, but he had mastered the basics the first time he'd been in Germany, and, as he was wont to do, he continued to push himself in order to keep up with his classmates. As a science major, most of his classes were in a relatively universal language, but that wasn't a reason for him to get careless.
He didn't realise he'd dozed off until the insistent chiming of his phone woke him up. Glancing at the clock, he noted that it was about half past one. Nobody in their right mind would be calling him at this hour, university student or no, which is why he knew exactly who it was without even glancing at the screen.
'Atobe.'
Tezuka swore he could hear the smirk. 'You sound terrible, Tezuka. Were you asleep?'
Tezuka sighed, pushing himself upright and pulling off his glasses, which had left a tender imprint in his skin. 'Whyever would you think that?'
A rich laugh. 'Of course -- university students never sleep, do they?'
'Apparently neither do jetsetters.' Tezuka rubbed the bridge of his nose, staring blearily at the far wall and wondering if Atobe had called just to irritate him.
'I prefer "professional traveller", thank you.' Atobe's tone was wounded, but Tezuka'd known him far too long to be fooled, so he kept silent, waiting for Atobe to get to the point.
'Tezuka? I'm hurt, you know. It's terribly rude of you to be so cold to an old friend going out of his way to visit you in the Prussian wilderness.'
'You called me, Atobe. It isn't like you...' Tezuka trailed off, replaying Atobe's words. Clearly the hour and the German were addling his brain; he thought Atobe had just said... 'Visit me?'
'Heh. I would have called you sooner, but the change of plans was quite sudden - there wasn't time before my flight left.'
Well aware that Atobe was in fact the one in charge of his flight schedules and thus the excuse was simply that: an excuse, Tezuka glared at the wall, certain Atobe could hear that as much as he could hear Atobe continuing to smirk. 'Is that so. And...when, exactly, might I expect your illustrious company?'
He really shouldn't've been surprised by the knock on his door.
'You certainly don't miss any opportunity to be difficult, do you?' Tezuka asked in lieu of a greeting as he opened the door just in time to see Atobe snap his phone shut and slip it into his pocket.
'Lovely to see you too, Tezuka dearest,' Atobe said dryly, and then laughed as Tezuka pulled a face and turned his back, walking back to his desk to collect his glasses. He slipped them onto his face, adjusting the arm, which had gotten bent when he'd fallen asleep on it, and then turned back to face Atobe, who was looking at the room in barely disguised horror. '...though not my choice of atmosphere for a glorious reunion. Really, one would think a so-called "top" university would have accommodations to match.'
'This is a great deal nicer than the average dormitory,' Tezuka returned, voice deliberately mild because he knew nothing got to Atobe more than not having an effect on someone.
Atobe shuddered, wrapping the drape of his coat tighter around his body and arching a brow at Tezuka. 'Delightful to hear,' he deadpanned, and then stalked over to Tezuka's wardrobe, pulling it open and beginning to rifle through it. Tezuka didn't like where this was going, and his eyes narrowed as he followed.
'What are you doing?'
Atobe turned, white shirt in one hand and blue in the other, and held them up, considering. 'The blue, I think,' he said after a moment, putting the white back and then beginning to investigate Tezuka's trousers, blithely unconcerned by the scowl darkening Tezuka's face. 'My god, Tezuka, has your fashion sense always been this abysmal? Tomorrow, we shall have to go shopping for a suitable wardrobe before the flight.'
'Atobe.' Tezuka caught Atobe's wrist, squeezing it tighter than he'd intended in a mix of irritation and unrest. Atobe stilled for a moment, then slowly turned his head to look directly into Tezuka's face. That might have been a flash of triumph in his eyes, but then again, Tezuka was very tired.
'I absolutely refuse to stay here,' Atobe said, as if explaining to a small child, 'and everything you own is utterly inappropriate for anything not a university campus. Therefore, I am attempting to choose your least offensive clothing as something to make do until the shops open in...eight hours.'
Tezuka tightened his grip as Atobe attempted to pull away, continuing to stare through him. 'What. Flight.'
Atobe's lips turned up at the corners, though his tone was pure innocence as he replied, 'Our flight to Japan, of course. I'm only here for the night, a stop-over on my way back home, and I thought that since you have the coming week off and more than likely will have no suitable opponents around for you to play with, I would in my infinite generosity provide you with both a vacation and the opportunity to face your greatest opponent again. Which, incidentally, I would have told you had you not been so rude as to hang up on me in the middle of our conversation.'
He took advantage of Tezuka's discombobulation to free his arm, and returned to his perusal of Tezuka's clothing, making tsk-ing sounds every so often, as Tezuka attempted to process just how thoroughly Atobe had thought this all out. Even he had forgotten he was on break the following week, and yet Atobe had come all the way from Morocco, or maybe it was Monaco, to pick him up and take him home for the week, for some reason that was far beyond Tezuka's scope of knowledge. He was too dazed to protest when Atobe shoved a pile of clothes into his arms and went in search of a bag, and even went so far as to fold them as he waited for Atobe to return and take him...wherever he was taking him.
The idea of resisting anymore, even just to be contrary, didn't once cross his mind.
Ten minutes later, Atobe's limousine was pulling away from the campus, and Tezuka had a flute of sparkling pomegranate juice clutched in numb fingers while Atobe went on about exactly why Tezuka's taste in clothing was a disgrace and what they could do to improve upon it. Though he nodded in all the right places, face schooled into a suitably grave expression, now that the initial shock had worn off, his thoughts were quite occupied elsewhere. Though he would never admit it, seeing Atobe again was an agreeable surprise. In spite of or perhaps because of their rivalry, Atobe was one of his closest friends, and seeing him was having an unexpected and perplexingly welcome effect. Despite his earlier protests, he found himself far too pleased to care that Atobe had just waltzed into his life and taken over as he was wont to do. In fact, if Tezuka was being honest with himself, he was almost grateful for it. And that, in and of itself, was beyond odd.
Normally he would have been aggravated beyond belief to be dragged away from his clockwork routine, without his say-so, and subjected to the whims of one of the most attention-needy people he'd ever known in his life. He was a very private person, and didn't respond well to being ordered around, even though he tolerated it more often than not from Atobe because he was also admittedly one of the few people whose company Tezuka actually enjoyed, especially on the courts. But this time, for some reason, he actually felt...happy about it. And not just a general sense of contentment either, but something deeper than that, something that stood in stark contrast to the quiet pleasure that he had begun to equate with happiness.
'Tezuka.' Atobe snapped his fingers in front of Tezuka's face, pulling him out of his thoughts. Tezuka blinked slowly, then met Atobe's gaze.
'Sorry,' he said with genuine regret. 'I was just...'
Atobe muttered something that sounded like 'Worse off than I thought,' and then took Tezuka's forgotten glass from his hand, setting it aside and turning to face Tezuka fully. The look in his eyes was unsettling, and Tezuka's breath stopped in his throat as the casual familiarity dissolved and was replaced by something much less benign. For a long moment, Atobe looked like he was about to say something, something that Tezuka wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear, but the car pulling to a stop distracted him, and he turned his head just as the valet opened the door for him, standing back deferentially to allow Atobe to exit.
Tezuka sat still, spine tense and head tilted as he examined Atobe's face, watching first frustration, then resignation flit across his fine features, but when Atobe turned back to look at him, all he said was, 'Come on, before it gets light out.'
Feeling out of place and out of practice, Tezuka shadowed Atobe through the lobby and into the elevator. A heavy silence was their only companion in the lift at this time of night, Tezuka's bags having been taken by the porter up the service lift, and it followed them as Atobe exited at the penthouse (naturally) and led Tezuka into the massive suite and up to a closed door, which opened for him, revealing one of Atobe's maids.
Tezuka turned to look at Atobe, polite words of gratitude forming automatically on his lips, but stopped at the look on Atobe's face. His eyes burned the way they always did when Tezuka met him on the courts, filled with determination and focus and a dead seriousness that Atobe never displayed anywhere else, now only familiar to Tezuka from fleeting snatches of memory-dreams, but the usual blistering rivalry that he remembered most of all had been replaced by something wholly and frighteningly unfamiliar. Again Atobe looked ready to say something, but he shook his head instead, closing his eyes briefly. 'Get some sleep,' he said, tone brooking no refusals. 'You'll need your energy tomorrow.'
Without another word, he was gone, presumably to the suite's master bedroom, and Tezuka exhaled, chest twisting with confused tension as he entered the room and the maid shut the door behind him with a soft snick.
His bags were already there, and he crossed to them, lifting the duffel and zipping it open before remembering that Atobe hadn't included pajamas among the scant articles of clothing he'd deemed acceptable. Unsurprisingly, though, pajamas were provided for him in the bureau, heavy black silk with a monogrammed T on the breast pocket, and Tezuka shook his head again at Atobe's audacity even as he stripped out of his clothes and picked up the trousers, stepping into them. This was all surreal in a way only Atobe could accomplish, and even after all these years, Tezuka still couldn't figure him out. Moreover, he was acting even more strangely than Tezuka was accustomed to, and Tezuka paused for a moment, casting his gaze back toward the closed door. The urge to confront Atobe and figure out just what the hell was going on was only outweighed by a combination of ingrained manners and, to be honest, fear at what his response might be, but it was a close call, since Tezuka knew he wasn't going to sleep well tonight with this unnerved feeling plaguing him. Maybe he was just overreacting, the suddenness of Atobe's arrival aggravating the feelings already percolating from earlier, but maybe it was more than that. Whatever it was, Tezuka lacked the ability to read Atobe off the courts as well as he could on them, and the events of the night had left him wound up and wary, the gladness of earlier having been drowned out by something much more malignant.
Tezuka walked shirtless into the bathroom and leaned over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. Close up and under the dazzling lights, he looked exhausted, drawn thin from too little sleep and gone pale from too little sunlight. A seeming stranger, gazing back at him with a reproachful look that said what the hell are you doing, Kunimitsu? in a voice far too similar to his grandfather's for comfort. This was ill-advised, illogical, and irresponsible of him - he should be spending his week off catching up on his work, studying, following his regimented routine...anything but traipsing halfway around the world on the whim of an old rival-turned-friend. He'd chosen his path, after all, and it was his responsibility to walk it.
This is my future, he thought, and this time, the voice was Atobe's, and the reflection staring back at him had ocean-blue eyes and a plush mouth turned stern and serious with adulthood. This is what I'm meant to do, Atobe had said to him all those months ago, not the goodbye Tezuka had expected but the words he hadn't known he needed to hear. The good lucks and do your bests were all well and good, but hearing the boy he'd once considered his counterpart speaking in a voice filled with the same resignation Tezuka's world seemed permeated with made Tezuka feel as if he weren't so alone after all. He and Atobe, despite their external differences, were the same inside, and the odd sort of understanding that formed between them as Atobe drew Tezuka into his last match in Japan had stuck with Tezuka ever since. Atobe was the last person he'd seen before leaving, and he'd held the feeling of the final game of his childhood deep within his heart as he watched Tokyo disappear into the distance.
Removing his glasses, Tezuka bent over the sink, splashing his face with cold water. That day seemed like the last of another lifetime, but instead of closure, it had presented an unforeseen bridge into adulthood. The solidarity between them, of graduating from a life of glory and leadership via example to a life of responsibility and filling the place carved out for them long before they were old enough to understand the concept, had allowed for an easier transition, since he knew he wasn't alone. But something about Atobe's presence this time felt off, like the sameness between them had begun to dissolve, leaving something dangerous in its wake. Tezuka could still feel the camaraderie, not only from Atobe but also within himself, as evidenced by the uncontrollable relief he'd felt upon falling back into their old patterns of interaction, but the unsettling intensity in Atobe's eyes as he looked at Tezuka as if taking him apart piece by piece was far too reminiscent of something he'd deliberately left behind. The lack of closure he'd felt with Fuji was flaring up again, Atobe's inexplicable behaviour and the sense of freedom it communicated aggravating the subsumed voice of dissent he'd worked so hard to silence, and it felt like an itch under his skin, a need for a satisfaction he knew would only destroy the person he'd laboured to become.
As long as he continued to compare everything he had now to what he'd had before, as long as he treated the now like an inevitable, unavoidable one-foot-in-front-of-the-other tunnel toward adulthood instead of a world filled with hope where anything was possible, he was never going to grow up properly, and while it was easy enough to ignore that that's what he was actually doing when he was on his own, seeing Atobe again was reminding him of why he continued to make that comparison despite his best attempts to file the feeling away as the fantasies of an ingenuous heart. Even the match from that afternoon demonstrated the fact that his university career wasn't shaping up quite as he'd hoped it would; while it was mentally fulfilling to play tennis like an adult, it lacked that spark he'd loved, the complete immersion in a world that only his teammates and his rivals could understand. Tennis before was an outlet, a passion instead of a career; that was the reason it had consumed him, but it was also the reason he'd known he had to leave it behind if he ever hoped to become a functional member of society, as he was expected to be. He knew that was what he needed to do, but being reminded in such a vivid manner of what he had so deliberately walked away from felt like a step in the absolute wrong direction. With Atobe's unexpected presence, Tezuka felt like he was being pulled across that same bridge of solidarity again but this time in the other direction, and what awaited him had yet to be seen.
Tezuka tipped his head back, water sluicing down the sides of his face and splashing his shoulders. Restlessness made his fingers twitch by his sides, and the muscles of his jaw worked as he clenched his teeth. At this point, he wasn't sure which unnerved him more: the possibility that it would be the same life he'd hoped to leave behind for good, or the possibility that it wouldn't.
+
'That's my game, Tezuka - five games all!'
Tezuka exhaled hard, wiping the sweat from his eyes and rolling his shoulders as he let his arm drop, feet carrying him toward the other side of the court. Though he'd only managed about four hours of (fitful) sleep before he'd been woken with promises of a real Japanese breakfast, he felt more energised than he had in a long time. His movements were sharper, his swings stronger, his pace faster, and he burned with the need to win, rather than just the drive to give his all. It felt like he was a different person than he'd been the day before, and though this had been exactly what he'd been up half the night worrying about, right now, on this court, facing one of the best rivals he'd ever had, none of that mattered anymore. It was funny how everything suddenly seemed so simple; all he had to think about was forehand-forehand-backhand-volley-smash, and with that rhythm, everything else fell away until all that was left was Tezuka.
He looked up as he passed Atobe, electrified by the fire burning in Atobe's eyes, the arrogantly determined curve of his mouth, the way his spine pulled a little straighter as their shoulders just touched. Atobe was good, better than Tezuka remembered; he knew Atobe didn't compete anymore, but he certainly hadn't stopped playing altogether. Tezuka found himself struggling a bit, running around the court, fighting to return Atobe's balls, even pulling out his trump cards early on, though to no avail as Atobe revealed some trump cards of his own. The competition was fierce enough that Tezuka could taste it, sharp and metallic on his tongue, and sweat stung his eyes as he stared across the court, all his attention sharp-focussed on his opponent's waiting form. Here, there was no thought, no design, no carefully planned manoeuvres - his body was reacting, spurred on by a part of his psyche he'd almost forgotten he possessed, and at this moment if he'd been asked what else there was to life, his answer would have been a confident nothing.
'Are you awed by my prowess yet, Tezuka?' Atobe asked from the baseline, giving Tezuka a knowing smirk, and Tezuka narrowed his eyes, focus shifting to Atobe's face as he tossed the ball and delivered a serve to rival Atobe's best Tannhaüser, sending it straight past him before Atobe even had a chance to react.
'Fifteen-love,' Tezuka replied, and allowed the slightest hint of long-buried competitive pleasure to flash in his eyes before serving the next ball.
+
'Nice match, Atobe,' Tezuka said with genuine respect as he shook Atobe's hand, not even noticing the sweat this time, or the way his right hand felt hypersensitive in contrast to his almost-numb left hand. And it had been. They'd been playing nearly three hours, neither of them willing to give up that last set. He was exhausted, sore, and thoroughly exhilarated, and he didn't even care if Atobe knew it as he smiled his appreciation openly, clasping Atobe's hand perhaps a bit longer than was strictly polite.
'I almost had you that time,' Atobe returned, though even his disappointment at having lost didn't dampen the fire flashing in his eyes. Atobe was glorious when he played, like pure raw passion personified, and it had always been a pleasure to play him, even when Tezuka's shoulder hadn't concurred.
'You did,' Tezuka agreed, nodding as he finally released Atobe's hand. 'That last set could have gone to either one of us. It was luck that it went to me.'
Atobe chuckled, accepting the towel his valet held out and draping it over his sweat-drenched hair. 'Perhaps luck will be in my favour next time, eh?'
Tezuka blinked once, and then smiled, acknowledging Atobe's odd method of invitation. 'Perhaps it will. You had better practise though - I play every day, you know.'
Atobe finished rubbing his hair and then let the towel slide down over his shoulders. 'I try to make a habit of it as well, but Yuushi doesn't ever seem to pose much of a challenge, and it's just not interesting. I don't think he takes me seriously. He's become quite a snob in his old age.'
'Become?' Tezuka returned without thinking, and then flushed a bit, opening his mouth to apologise.
The words died on his lips at the look on Atobe's face, surprise and delight and something almost like relief, and he bit them back with a tiny smile of his own as Atobe laughed outright, shaking his head. 'Tezuka, Tezuka, Tezuka,' he said. 'I see university has been good for something. Awakened that dry sense of humour, ahn?'
Tezuka chuckled softly, finally taking his own towel from the valet and wiping his forehead. 'It's not interesting otherwise,' he said mildly, taking Atobe's words and tossing them back at him with casual innocence, which only made Atobe laugh again, even prompting Tezuka to join in. Atobe was a lot of things, but one good thing he had going for him was his infectious personality - whether exuding confidence, determination, competitiveness, or simple amusement, for those around him, it was impossible not to follow. Tezuka usually resisted on principle, because that was the rule of their game, but this time, he didn't even try.
If he was being honest, perhaps some of his own laughter was relief at Atobe's behaviour: the distinct lack of the tension he'd exhibited the previous evening, the offhanded banter tinged with real, passionate rivalry, the familiar careless arrogance. The mention of Oshitari had perhaps helped as well - not so much the name, but the way Atobe had said it, which made it impossible to mistake the nature of the relationship between the two of them. With that single word, he'd managed to all but categorically dispel any lingering doubts about Atobe's intentions on that front. Not that Tezuka knew them any better now, but at least he knew what they were not.
'Coming, Tezuka?' Atobe looked back at him, tennis racquet slung over his shoulder. 'We still have to clothe you before you're allowed on the plane. Unless, of course, you have some pressing desire to go naked...'
The ball lobbed with pinpoint precision at Atobe's head was all the answer Tezuka would deign to give.
+
In retrospect, Tezuka thought as he sat ramrod-straight, arms folded across his chest and an impressive scowl on his face, perhaps nudity would have been the wiser choice in this particular situation. There was no doubt that Atobe had exquisite taste in clothing - the fabric was soft and smooth against his skin, moulding to his body gracefully as only well-fitted clothing could, and Tezuka was quite certain their shopping trip had cost more than a year of his university tuition. It wasn't even that it was purple, because while his taste in colour was not quite as flashy as Atobe, he did admittedly own a great deal of lavender.
The problem, he thought, folding his arms tighter and trying not to look like he wanted to die, was that the clothes fit a trifle too well. Whoever had told him it was what one didn't see that created elegant sex appeal had apparently failed to mention this to Atobe. Or perhaps, he considered, eyeing Atobe with something very like vengefulness, this was just Atobe's way of getting back at him for the earlier match.
'Tezuka,' Atobe said smoothly, taking a sip of his juice as if it were the costliest champagne. 'Do cease glowering at me. It wrinkles your brow most unattractively.'
'I have to do something to compensate,' Tezuka replied dryly, 'or else I'll be beating your coterie off with my racquet.'
Atobe lifted a brow, and then, much to Tezuka's surprise, he snorted.
'Tezuka!' he said, sounding shocked. 'You really have grown a sense of humour. I'm too stunned to even be insulted by the implication that you could ever steal Ore-sama's admirers from him.'
Tezuka's scowl darkened.
'Ah,' Atobe said before Tezuka could retort. 'We're here.'
Tezuka blanched as the limousine pulled smoothly to a stop and a uniformed man opened the door for Atobe, one hand held out to take the glass from him as he slid out of the car and stood. Tezuka's door opened only a moment later, but it took him two full breaths before he could convince himself to uncross his arms and unfold his lanky frame from the cushiony seats. Despite the fact that nobody he knew would be there at this particular moment, and that Atobe's staff was too professional to laugh at him, the thought of walking even the fifty paces across the tarmac to the jet in this outfit was humiliating. But he was Tezuka Kunimitsu, and not even a highly inappropriate cut of clothing could change that.
Head held high, he followed Atobe to the steps leading up to the jet, and was surprised when Atobe stepped aside. 'After you,' he intoned graciously, and Tezuka should have known something was wrong the moment those words left Atobe's mouth. Far too eager to get out of the open and into his seat, though, he took Atobe's proffered privilege, mounting the steps straight-backed and eagle-focussed.
Atobe whistled. 'Your ass does look remarkable in those trousers, Tezuka.'
Tezuka's foot missed the next step.
It was going to be a very, very long flight.
+
Mercifully, Atobe's teasing died off after about the third hour as he began to drift off to sleep, head tilted against the velveted cushioning of his reclining seat. The morning's match combined with the lack of sleep the previous night seemed to be taking its toll at last, and Atobe's eyes slid shut, leaving Tezuka in blissful silence.
Turning his head, he looked out the window, studying the whorls and wisps of cloud trickling past as they sliced through the sapphire of the sky. He hadn't really had time to think since that morning; Atobe loved to hear himself speak, and frankly, self-centred as Atobe was, Tezuka enjoyed listening to him, the fluid confidence in his tone, the biting wit, the snide little comments that oftentimes had Tezuka chewing his lip to keep from laughing outright. There was a lot there that Atobe didn't say - unlike Tezuka, who avoided addressing the less pleasant things in life by just not speaking at all, Atobe spoke a great deal without saying much, his method of distracting others as well as himself - but there was something refreshing about Atobe's approach that gave Tezuka the ability to just be for awhile, without worrying about responsibilities and his future and the fact that he didn't know what he was doing with himself.
That last thought was so unexpected that it hurt. He shouldn't even have had to ask. He was at university doing exactly what he wanted to do: playing tennis against extremely talented players while still preparing himself for a secure, prestigious career in medicine. He enjoyed all his classes, made excellent grades, and still managed to stay on the radar on the university circuit, and even though he hadn't stayed in Japan like his parents had wanted, they were still very proud of him.
And yet...after that morning, it was impossible to ignore that that wasn't enough.
That unsettling feeling crept up on him again, and his brow furrowed as he attempted to sort it out. Feelings were irrational - he'd learnt that in introductory neuro - but he'd also learnt that there was a physical cause for the release of neurochemicals involved in emotion. Sensory input and/or the associated memories acting as triggers, whether pleasurable or painful, leading to physiological changes parsed as "emotion". He liked the fact that there was a biological explanation; his inability to control what he felt had plagued him for years, and this at least gave him some semblance of control over himself, because he knew there was a cause behind it. He liked the precision and meticulousness of the sciences, and the replicability, and most of all, he liked the ability to explain with logic the things that otherwise would have made no sense.
Yet at the same time, as explicable as his emotions might have been, the reasons had begun to feel more and more empty the longer he'd relied on them. Telling himself that professionals do not allow personal rivalry to interfere with their matches had been reason enough, initially, to set his emotions aside and learn a new kind of tennis based solely on the meticulous destruction of his opponent's game, but after his match with Atobe that morning, he found himself questioning the validity of that approach. Perhaps emotion was an interference, but he knew that he'd played better that morning than he had in months, because he'd stopped thinking and instead had just felt, letting his tennis control him rather than the other way around. For a person who craved control and order, it was amazing how good it felt to give it up, to let himself exist in a realm without reason; as much as it scared him to think about in abstract form, when he was actually doing it, it felt right in a way nothing else ever had.
Being here with Atobe, though, was giving up more control than he normally would have felt comfortable with. There was a distinct difference between indulging Atobe's whims and giving himself over to Atobe's control for a week; the former was safe, and oftentimes amusing, while the latter should have been terrifying. But what Tezuka felt, aside from the sense of confusion and unrest, was much more akin to relief. And that, in and of itself, left him feeling more unsettled than ever.
Why am I here? he thought, studying Atobe's sleeping face even though he knew the question was better directed toward himself. After all, he was the one who'd let himself be talked into this, he was the one who'd actually started to feel eager about the trip despite his underlying worries, he was the one who was here now, of his own accord, since Atobe was many things but he certainly wasn't someone capable of kidnapping. There was one explanation that came immediately to mind, but he had no more desire to think about it now than he had six months ago, on the plane to Germany, trying to figure out what had possessed him to go to university so far away.
Escape.
Even the word offended him, because the thought that he would want to run away from anything set his teeth on edge. He'd never backed down from a challenge, even when it had cost him his shoulder, or when it had resulted in his being outed to about half the high school tennis circuit (and he was still glad to this day that his parents had never seen fit to attend his matches), or when it had forced him to face the fact that the professional circuit was not in the cards for him. And yet ignoring the possibility that that's what he was doing would be as good as conceding to it.
But what was he escaping from? Risking it all came as naturally to him as breathing; not doing so was more than he could bear, and inevitably made him feel like he'd lost. Everyone knew that about him; it defined who he was, and contemplating a world in which he craved escape rather than shunning it was like rewriting his entire identity. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe what he was escaping was his identity, cast in stone and held up by teammates and rivals and friends alike, expectations and reputation following him and forcing him into a mould that maybe he no longer fit. He hadn't forgotten the disappointment on his friends' faces when he'd told them he was going to university instead of turning pro, nor had he outgrown the feeling of shame he felt when he lost a game, not at his own loss but at the knowledge that he'd let his team down, because he was Tezuka Kunimitsu, and he was supposed to be above that.
Tezuka Kunimitsu. National Champion. Seigaku's Captain. Most promising Japanese tennis player of his age. Responsible friend, dutiful son, and any number of other epithets that had followed him ever since he was a boy. But were any of them actually him, or were they names by which he'd learnt to recognise himself reflected in the eyes of others?
Whose life are you living, Tezuka?
Tezuka started. The words echoed in his mind, as real as if they'd been spoken aloud, but Atobe was still fast asleep, and the only sound was the soft rhythm of his breathing.
'Are we really anything other than what people see?' he murmured, studying the sleep-lax lines of Atobe's face. He was willing to wager this was an Atobe very few people knew existed, but was it Atobe at all if all Atobe was was the persona he chose to present? After all, if part of yourself only exists within your own head, is it really real?
'It's very rude to stare,' said Atobe suddenly, and Tezuka flinched, hand tightening on the armrest as he dropped his gaze, murmuring an apology. Atobe was smirking though, Tezuka knew it, eyes heavy-lidded from almost-sleep, chin lifted as he studied Tezuka, staring just as much as Tezuka had been, because Atobe was the rule and so he was allowed to do whatever he wanted, etiquette be damned.
Though part of Tezuka felt discomfort at the cool appraisal, especially since Atobe had caught him in the middle of his thoughts, the part of him that had been awoken that morning lifted its head, and then so did Tezuka, meeting Atobe's gaze evenly and arching an impassive brow.
'Why am I here, Atobe?'
Atobe blinked, and then chuckled, shifting in his seat and crossing his legs. 'Because you said yes.'
'I didn't,' Tezuka reminded him, but Atobe's brow went up pointedly and Tezuka decided to try another tact. 'What I mean is...why me? I know you said Oshitari isn't willing to play you properly, but there are plenty of other people who I'm sure are perfectly willing to face you. I hear Hiyoshi is doing very well.'
'He is,' Atobe replied, the faintest hint of pride in his voice, only audible because Tezuka knew where to look for it. But then he leaned forward, the intensity in his eyes deepening, and Tezuka fought the urge to squirm in his seat as Atobe looked at him in that way he had that made Tezuka feel as if he had been flayed to the core.
For a long moment, they sat there in silence, Tezuka keeping his chin up out of pure defiance, Atobe apparently trying to stare him into submission, or else to communicate some wordless statement that Tezuka was unable to catch. When Tezuka made no response to the examination though, Atobe leaned back again, a lazy smirk curling his mouth, though there was nothing lazy in the still-sharp gaze as he held Tezuka there and said, 'It's not the same.'
'Not the same as what?' The fluttery feeling from the previous night was back, and Tezuka's brain dubbed it panic before he had a chance to protest it.
'Knowing there is still more to come.' Atobe rested his fingers against his face, and the familiarity of that pose coupled with the trademark words of his former kouhai made Tezuka feel momentarily dizzy with déjà vú. Atobe's smirk widened as Tezuka was forced to back down from their continued staring contest, but his gaze softened and a hint of sadness tinged his voice as he added, 'That need to better myself, to push my own limits, because there's still someone whose respect and admiration I haven't quite earned.'
Surprised, Tezuka studied the taut lines of Atobe's face. This was a candidness that he hadn't known Atobe possessed, and it felt like looking in a mirror again, only this time, his reflection was two steps ahead of him, saying the words that still sat heavy on Tezuka's tongue. It was beyond unnerving, and part of Tezuka craved levity, wanting to make some offhanded Atobe-like comment about how that was a noble pursuit indeed and maybe someday, if he tried very hard, he might achieve it. But that wasn't his style.
'You have,' he murmured instead after a long silence, words thick and insufficient as they fell from his lips. 'A long time ago.'
Atobe blinked slowly, eyes refocussing on Tezuka's face as if he'd forgotten he was there, then gave him a wan smile threaded through with a cockiness Tezuka would wager Atobe didn't feel. 'Who says I meant you?'
That was more like the Atobe Tezuka knew, and he chuckled in relief, about to reply in kind, until his gaze met Atobe's and he realised Atobe wasn't just being coy.
'One is always hardest on oneself,' Atobe said, looking straight at Tezuka but speaking like he wasn't even there. 'The path to self-improvement is one we must walk alone. But sometimes, it takes the right person to help us find our way.'
By the time Tezuka came up with any sort of response to that, Atobe was fast asleep.
+
Tezuka had never been very good at sleeping on planes. The constant vibrations, rather than being soothing, interrupted his ki and left him feeling unsettled. Add to that the fact that he'd been forced off-balance on several occasions in the past twenty-four hours, and the already-discomfiting nature of his clothing, and it was clear that by the time the plane finally began its descent toward the islands, he was at a significant psychological disadvantage to the well-rested Atobe. Granted, Atobe's contradictory feelings on the subject were made clear when he caught a glimpse of his reflection, made a noise very like a shriek, and darted off to the lavatory, but Tezuka was almost too tired to even protest the idea of going out looking like a hussy, which he still insisted he did, no matter how much Atobe tried to convince him that no, his nipples didn't show.
Atobe returned after several minutes, looking only slightly less distressed, and exhausted though he was, Tezuka couldn't help pointing out that Atobe's attempts to salvage his hair had only made him look like a drowned puppy, which sent him scurrying back into the lavatory with a snarled 'I hate you, Tezuka.'
I hate you too, Tezuka thought, and didn't even try to swallow his smile.
The next time Atobe emerged, he glared at Tezuka as if daring him to say something; in response, Tezuka merely raised his hands in the age-old gesture of surrender. Atobe glowered for a moment more, and then flung himself gracefully into his seat, crossing his legs.
'You still look spectacular in those trousers,' he said after a moment, and now it was Tezuka's turn to glare.
'You can't see my...anymore,' he retorted primly, and Atobe smirked, arching a brow and trailing his gaze pointedly downward, then back up, until Tezuka was fighting not to shift uncomfortably in his seat.
'I know.'
And for the second time that flight, Tezuka found himself with absolutely nothing to say.
The silence, however, did not continue once the plane landed, though Tezuka might as well have been mute for all the attention Atobe paid to his protests. Being on the ground had made him that much more aware of the fact that he now had to go outside, in public, and he argued vehemently when Atobe wouldn't let him at least fetch a jacket to keep him warm in the cool night air. 'That's Helmut Lang you're wearing,' Atobe reminded him with a sniff. 'You aren't allowed to cover that up with anything.'
'My shirt is open to my navel, Atobe,' Tezuka ground out, tugging at the arm Atobe was gripping to keep him from folding it across his chest. 'In what universe is that decent?'
'Mine,' Atobe returned, and ignored any further argument Tezuka made as he dragged him bodily off the plane. Times had changed though, Tezuka thought, finally allowing himself to be pulled when he realised that struggling would only show off more skin, and would be a futile endeavour besides, since Atobe clearly had the advantage here. Being on the ground had only made Atobe more comfortable, but for him.... It had been awhile since he'd been back to Jap-- back home, more than six months now, and he couldn't shake the odd feeling of knowing exactly where they were going, of the bright modernity of the Tokyo lights flying past outside the darkened windows, of the faint hum of Japanese radio just audible from the driver's compartment. Of feeling somehow like a totally new person, and yet right at home again, all at the same time. Funny, how this was what he had wanted, but now that he was faced with it, it felt all wrong.
'What time is it?' Tezuka finally asked, blinking heavy lids as he looked away from the window and back at his companion. His sluggish brain struggled to do the math, but he hadn't had nearly enough sleep for that, and at that particular moment, desire to know was winning out over his pride.
'Five AM,' Atobe returned with that same faint smirk tugging at his lips. That meant the morning in Tokyo had already started, and it was about to get very crowded and very noisy. For the first time, Tezuka was grateful that Atobe's house was extremely out of the way; maybe it would give him a chance to actually sleep, away from the hustle and bustle of Tokyo life.
Atobe's next words shattered his illusion. 'Yuushi leaves for school around ten,' he said smoothly, 'and is usually back just after two, after which we can head up into the mountains, go fishing, and set up camp for the night. There's a meteor shower tonight that will be best seen from higher up.'
Tezuka sighed. He was so tired that the idea of going on a mountain expedition was almost unpleasant, especially after the four hours while Oshitari was gone, during which he was certain Atobe would expect to be entertained, but it was insulting to one's host to beg off a planned activity in order to sleep, and the fresh mountain air did sound appealing.
Oh well, he thought, and managed a smile. He'd just sleep extraordinarily well tonight. Plus which staying up was really the only way to stave off jet lag; if he slept now, he'd be out of whack all week, and that would just be unforgivably rude. 'That sounds lovely,' he said, and meant it.
Maybe he had time for a little nap before breakfast.
part 2