Delayed Reaction - 4/5 - Sanada
Title: Delayed Reaction - Chapter 4
Previous Chapters: [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Author: Cherry-San/Cherry_san
Rating: PG-13/T
Summary: TezxSanxAtoxFujixRyo. Young love never lasts. Hormones and emotions mix and you don't realize that 10 years later you won't remember their name. But years after a breakup, five boys wake up and remember.
Warnings: Spoilers, slight AU for end of series, minor OCs
Notes: Urm. Three years later, I come baring fic? ._. Not like the OT5 craze hasn't all but disappeared. -cough- Onward ho?
[EDIT] Urg. Fuck you, lj cut.
A false calm had descended upon the moods of the foursome. It was an unwritten-unspoken-rule that no one spoke about Keigo’s departure; his things had been quietly packed away and everyone had subtly started filling the void left behind, both figuratively and metaphorically.
Atobe’s share of the closet had been slowly filled in, Fuji and Tezuka shifting their clothes closer and closer each day to hide the glaring gap where Keigo’s flamboyant costumes had once sat. Ryoma had scattered his dozens of tennis shoes across where Keigo’s had previously laid in a neat, color-coordinated row, while Sanada had taken to finishing his work on the diva’s oak desk, often leaving his textbook uncharacteristically sprawled over the wooden surface in a vain attempt to make it look less like Keigo’s and more like it had been his all along. Cans of Ponta and boxes of green tea slowly pushed there way in front of what was left of Keigo’s premium coffee beans, and Sanada had slid Keigo’s favorite brand of grip tape to the back of their tennis supply closet, behind Kunimitsu’s spare wristbands and Shuushuke’s old racket.
The bed had gotten bigger at night, both with and without sex. Despite the already industrial sized bed, no mattress was made large enough to fit five full-grown men. They had gotten used to it being a close fit-and didn’t mind. Keigo would often spoon against Tezuka, his finger intertwined with Shuusuke’s over Ryoma’s hip as Sanada would lightly run his fingers up and down his arm. Now Ryoma would tangle his legs with his old captain’s as he possessively held onto Sanada’s hand, Fuji’s hair too far away to tickle his nose to sleep. Part of them had wanted to sprawl more, to cover the empty spaces at each end of the bed behind Kunimistu and Genichirou while the other part wanted to grasp each other closer, press themselves into each other and pretend that Keigo was still there, brushing his calves against Fuji’s knees and bumping elbows in Tezuka’s stomach.
It was starting to weigh heavy on all of them, and Ryoma knew it was only a matter of time before their relationship cracked. Hell, it had cracked when Keigo left, it was just holding on to the last strands of hope before it shattered.
Ryoma pulled his white cap lower as the ends of his mouth turned down into frown, staring at the innocuous letter that was grasped in his left hand. His back was against the rough, concrete brick wall that framed the outdoor tennis courts . The carefully typed letter, written in English and signed with an elaborate blue signature, mocked him, called him a coward.
They had agreed that Ryoma wouldn’t go pro until he finished college.
And the Australian Open was in five weeks.
Out of the five, only Ryoma and Tezuka still held any aspiration to turn pro, and while both had wanted to bolt the moment they had graduated from high school, both agreed to wait. Tezuka had already promised his family to finish college, though everyone had suspected his parents were still hoping he’d give up on such an absurd dream and settle with a safe desk job. Ryoma had only agreed because those he wanted to play a game with most were no further then a body or two over on Monkey King’s oversized mattress.
Now, however, Ryoma thought, clutching the paper a bit tighter, the edges crinkling audibly under his fist and the text blurring under his eyes. Things had changed since Keigo left. The five of them had fit together, filling in each other’s holes and weaknesses, covering each other in ways that four of them couldn’t.
It was five or nothing, and Ryoma knew that nothing was just hop and a skip away. It was just a matter of time before the others realized that four wasn’t the same as five, and Ryoma was going to be damned it he was going to be the one left in the end.
It was going to end. It was just a question of when.
The Australian Open was in five weeks.
Ryoma leaned his head back, a crumpled invitation in hand, staring at the blue, blue sky and the swirling leaves of pink cherry blossoms in the early spring wind and said his goodbyes.
------------------------------------
Sanada groaned as the shrill alarm rang out, its earsplitting beeps resounding through the small bedroom. He rolled over hurriedly, still half-asleep, quickly slamming down on the Snooze button to stop the angry cacophony. He sat up tiredly, his hair undoubtedly a mess as he rubbed the vestiges of sleep from his eyes with one hand. He pulled up one leg, resting his arm on his knee as he leaned forward, partially unwilling to completely get up from bed. He’d been on call the night before and had rushed into the hospital not long after two that morning after a disastrous car accident that resulted in a four-car pileup, two fatalities, and five high-risk, touch-and-go surgeries.
He returned to his quiet apartment over six hours later. They had lost the driver of the hit car during surgery as they struggled to remove a two-foot pole that had lodged itself straight through her upper abdomen during the crash. The pole had missed her heart by mere inches, as well as both lungs by just centimeters but had cracked several of her ribs. Once they had removed the pole, her organs had shifted dangerously as her rate of blood lost rapidly increased. The one of the cracked ribs had splintered and punctured her lung as she shifted her for surgery. When she was rolled into his operating room, Sanada already knew it was unlikely she would survive; it was a small mercy that she had been unconscious the entire time.
Her husband who had been sitting in the passenger sear had been DOA-Dead On Arrival.
The other three surgeries had stabilized. A pedestrian was now missing his leg from the knee down that had been stuck under one car, a middle-aged salary man would spend several months in physical therapy to walk properly, and the young woman in the third car may never wake from her coma, but they were alive.
Sanada exhaled a deep sigh; sometimes he regretted his choice to become a doctor. He had entered medical school with the full intent of specializing in sports medicine, hoping to cling on to what was left of his tennis career, but under familial pressures to pursue a more traditional medical path, he defaulted to general practice. It was only later that he decided to specialize in cardiovascular diseases and surgeries more out of convenience then actual interest.
He volunteered to be on emergency call primarily because there was no good reason not to. His peers often cited the struggles of reconciling long hours with their marriage, their family, and their friends. Sanada couldn’t say the same. It was either Sanada, a middle-aged bachelor with few obligations outside his work, to be called out in the middle of the night or a weary father of three being pulled away from his wedding anniversary.
Sanada finally arched his back, popping his back with a grotesque crack before sliding his feet onto the cool wooden floor. He remembered to reach over to his alarm clock, where “10:02 AM” blinked in cherry red lights, and switched the alarm off. He was supposed to meet Seichi in an hour and a half. He walked languidly to the bathroom, half consciously turning on the water before adjusting it to a decent temperature. Haphazardly stripping his shirt off, he caught a glance at himself in bathroom mirror.
Dark bags hung under his eyes, which were dark with worry and stress. Strands of grey hair dotted his hair, years too early but a result of stressful years after his residency watching himself fail at saving lives. Bare arms and chest that were once chiseled with almost bulging muscles were now lean with subtle muscles that were beginning to soften from not keeping up with his training after too many late nights at the hospital. And his hands, which were once rough with calluses and dotted with bruises from holding onto a tennis racket and weight training were now lank and thin, covered in thin, paper cut scars from scalpels and bones.
Sanada stared at himself in the mirror for another second and wondered how everything had changed.
Despite reaching his forties, Yukimura Seichi was no less beautiful now then he was twenty years ago. He face had matured, angled, and his voice deepened but he still held an air of delicacy and beauty around him when he move and spoke. His blue hair, that had once hung limply around his face and only accented his feminine looks, was now cropped short, barely brushing the nape of his neck and comb neatly back. He was already sitting at the café when Sanada entered dressed in a pair of khaki slacks and thick woolen coat, a light periwinkle shirt peaking out from the collar.
Seichi waved him over, sipping carefully on his cup of black tea. A dark blue sweater hugged his shoulders, and a discarded black scarf sat next to him on the worn faux leather booth, evident of the chilly January morning. Sanada gave a weak smile in return, draping his coat over the back of the seat across from the former Rikkaidai captain.
Over the years, Yukimura was the only one from middle school and high school that Sanada still saw on a semi-regular basis. Their middle school tennis team had stayed close up until the end of college, where the group had then scattered as graduate schools, entry jobs, and starting family took over. Slowly, their reunion grew further and further apart, until Sanada one day realized that Yanagi’s cell phone number had changed, and he didn’t know how to reach anyone else to get his new one. It was only by accident that he ran into Yukimura a few years later, buying groceries of all things. Since then, they had been keeping their tradition of meeting up every few months when Seichi was in town.
“You look tired, Genichirou,” Seichi finally said, after a waiter had taken Sanada’s order for a cup of black coffee.
Sanada had long stopped being surprised that Seichi could still read his moods even after all these years; though, given that he was tired, it probably didn’t take a lot of guess-work on the other man’s part. “Probably because I am tired,” he replied lightly, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in his voice. “Long night at the hospital.”
Seichi clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You could have called me, you know. We could have met another day, and you could have gotten some more sleep. You need to take better care of yourself. I always did say you’ll work yourself to an early grave this way.”
Sanada waved off his friends concern as he accepted a hot cup of coffee from their server, taking a hasty sip and ignoring the scalding, bitter burn he was rewarded with. He didn’t bother to add any crème and sugar as he once did; years of subsisting on almost solely caffeine had made him immune to the strong, bitter tang of the drink. “You won’t be in town again for a few more months; I think I can last one day with a few hours less sleep.”
Seichi sighed but didn’t fight his old friend’s logic. After college, he had made himself into a rather successful businessman where most of his work meant spending time abroad in international markets. He would meet with Sanada whenever he was back in Japan, but he was scheduled to leave for English in a few weeks. Between his schedule, which was constantly changing with canceled, rescheduled, or new meetings and projects and Sanada’s demanding, and equally unpredictable, schedule at the hospital, they took whatever time they could together.
Their waiter had returned, and they hastily gave their order to the man, not even glancing at the menu. They came here often to meet, and both had the menu practically memorized. Content with their choices, the waiter gave a pleasant, professional smile before leaving the two again.
“How’s your wife?”
Seichi blinked out of his thoughts at the question but smiled. “Ami-chan is fine, thank you. She’ll be visiting her parents for a few weeks before we leave again.” The ends of his lips turned downward slightly. “We’ve…been having some troubles recently.”
Sanada didn’t reply, instead taking another sip of his coffee, which had started to cool, and waited for the other to continue. Most of their meetings were catching up on the other’s lives, which was mundane but comforting. Despite their years apart, they often found themselves confiding with each other. It was a sign of the intimacy and trust that they once had, which had failed to fully carry over in the past twenty years but lingered like an old scar.
Seichi’s lips were pursed together thinly as he chose his next words. “She wants to start a family.”
“And you don’t?” Sanada said, quirking an eyebrow as he cradled his coffee between his hands, letting the heat warm the tips of his fingers.
Seichi returned a small smile laced with just a tinge of sadness. “I do. It’s just…” he trailed off a bit, ghosting his fingers along the rim of his teacup, before restarting. “We both want children. It’s a little late in the game to start thinking about this now, but if we wait too much longer, it might not be a possibility. But, we move around too much right now. Ami-chan has already followed me around the world and back a few times, but I couldn’t force our children to do the same. We’ve considered moving back to Japan permanently, but I don’t know if my job will allow that.”
Sanada grunted in response as he took another sip of his coffee. Seichi smiled at his laconic friend, glad that some things would never change. “But enough about my problems. How’s your wife and kids, Genichirou?”
Sanada scowled, setting his mostly empty cup down. “You mean ex-wife and one kid, don’t you, Seichi?”
Seichi replied with a mischievous smile and twinkle in his eyes.
“And they are both fine, thank you, as if you really care,” Sanada mumbled with only partially feigned grumpiness. “Minami’s doing fine, last time I spoke to her, and Kenta will be starting middle school in a few months.” Sanada grimaced as he considered his ex-wife. Not long after he had turned thirty and partway through his residency, his family had become increasingly worried at his continued bachelor status. Despite Sanada resolute refusal to date to since a suitable wife, he finally agreed to an arranged marriage, if only to appease his mother. After a series of interviews and brief dates, he finally married Nakamura Minami, an average looking woman two years his junior who worked at a moderate-sized law firm as a secretary.
Their marriage, at best and at worst, was mediocre. It was obvious to both soon after the wedding ceremony that neither was particularly interested in the other and had only agreed because there was little other option. They were both content with their mediocrity, however, rarely seeing the other due to Sanada’s overworked hours at the hospital. A year after their marriage, Minami gave birth to their son Kenta and officially quit her job to be a full-time housewife. From there, their marriage quickly deteriorated. Minami, now with nothing to keep her occupied but a screaming, irritated infant, grew increasingly frustrated. Three years after their son’s birth, Sanada was not surprised when she ask him for an official divorce. She cited his chronic absences from long hospital hours and his emotional unavailability to both her and their son.
Sanada knew it was because she fell in love with the young man three doors down the hall who was so in love with Sanada’s wife that only a fool could miss the adoration in his eyes. He agreed to the divorce without question, surprising his soon-to-be ex-wife. On the day they signed the divorce papers, he kissed her on the cheek and wished her luck.
“I’m still surprised you agreed to such terms for your divorce. You could have slaughtered her in court, you know. It wouldn’t have been hard to prove her affair,” Seichi murmured into his teacup as his sandwich arrived, the wheat bun lightly toasted with sprinkled sesame seeds and hints of cheese and lettuce poking out at the sides.
Sanada picked up his spoon and dipped it into the thick cream soup that was set before him. He stirred it a few times to cool it, before taking a small spoonful in his mouth, letting the rich flavor slide against his tongue. “You know why I didn’t. We didn’t care for each other in the beginning; I wasn’t about to fault her for falling in love for someone else.”
Seichi snorted. “You obviously cared enough for each other to pop out a baby or do I need to explain how that works to you again, Genichirou?” Yukimura purred teasingly as he pulled out the ripe slices of red tomatoes from between the slices of bread on his plate.
“That night would have been our fifteen year anniversary,” Sanada admitted gently as he went back to stirring his soup, poking at the softened carrots and potatoes and refusing to meet his old friend’s gaze. He never admitted to it before, partially to himself let alone aloud, but part of him was just too tired to care anymore.
Yukimura’s eyes softened, and he moved to tuck his hair behind his ear out of habit before stopping at the short locks. “Genichirou,” he said softly, reaching over the table to rest his hand on the other’s and give it a comforting squeeze. “You really need to move on. It’s been twenty years. Over twenty years, in fact.”
Sanada turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with that of his oldest friend’s. He didn’t look up; the fiery will that he’d been known for in his younger years had been all but drained out of him after two decades of work and loneliness. “I know. It’s just one of those things that you look back on and wonder about the what-ifs. What if Keigo’s father never found out about us, what if Ryoma hadn’t gone pro, what if Shuu didn’t decide to study abroad. What if I didn’t run away from the only one who was left.” Sanada squeezed Seichi’s hand, reveling in the feel of the other’s hand. He felt Seichi smooth his thumb over the top of his hand in comforting circles, a silent reminder that he wasn’t alone.
“I saw Tezuka-san on the news the other day,” Yukimura said suddenly, perking up slightly. He knew Sanada liked to keep up with the others, even with the heartache it caused. He assumed it made him feel better, knowing that the others were still okay. Genichirou had always been a bit of a mother hen to his friends, despite his worries being hidden beneath his dominating exterior and often apathetic answers. “He got the conviction on the Hiroba murders .”
Sanada managed to force a small smile that couldn’t quite hide the lingering melancholy. “That’s good. I’m glad.” Tezuka, surprisingly, had been the easiest of the four to follow, being one of Tokyo’s best Defense Attorneys tended to thrust him in the spotlight frequently. Keigo, for all his ego and glory, had followed the Atobe tradition of keeping his affairs out of the papers, and Ryoma was notoriously difficult for the press to find, even more so after his retirement. Shuusuke had all but vanished off the map after he graduated, and it was only because of a lucky glimpse in a psychology journal that Sanada even knew that he was still alive.
Seichi gave Sanada’s hand another light squeeze before withdrawing his arm, finally picking up his sandwich to take a bite. He made a lighthearted comment about the weather to bring Sanada out of his musing and pushed them toward lighter conversation.
At the end of the meal, he Yukimura pushed himself up to his toes to gives Sanada a quick kiss on the cheek and a lingering hug. He quietly wished him the best before disappearing off in the crowd, his eyes lined with concern. His friend hadn’t been the same for twenty years, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Sanada looked off into the blue, blue sky, past the towering skyscapers and mess of air pollution from the city, and wondered, wondered, wondered if life really does move on after love. Walking back to his apartment, he stopped in front of a florist, pausing momentarily as a flash green spikes caught his eyes. Five minutes later, he exited the store with a small potted cactus wrapped neatly in a bag.
Because some people never forget and never let go.
“You’re not coming back, are you?”
Explanation: I don’t really have one. So three years later, after I make the mistake of taking a peel back into the Prince of Tennis fandom, I’m caught again in its sticky, sticky web. As a result, Delayed Reaction is not dead. I have every intention of completing this story, thought I don’t guarantee when.
I’m considering writing an Interlude portion of this story that would include random snippets of any of the five boys at various stages of their life in this ‘verse. If you are interested, I’m opening up prompts/requests of what you’d like to see expanded on.
Previous Chapters: [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Author: Cherry-San/Cherry_san
Rating: PG-13/T
Summary: TezxSanxAtoxFujixRyo. Young love never lasts. Hormones and emotions mix and you don't realize that 10 years later you won't remember their name. But years after a breakup, five boys wake up and remember.
Warnings: Spoilers, slight AU for end of series, minor OCs
Notes: Urm. Three years later, I come baring fic? ._. Not like the OT5 craze hasn't all but disappeared. -cough- Onward ho?
[EDIT] Urg. Fuck you, lj cut.
A false calm had descended upon the moods of the foursome. It was an unwritten-unspoken-rule that no one spoke about Keigo’s departure; his things had been quietly packed away and everyone had subtly started filling the void left behind, both figuratively and metaphorically.
Atobe’s share of the closet had been slowly filled in, Fuji and Tezuka shifting their clothes closer and closer each day to hide the glaring gap where Keigo’s flamboyant costumes had once sat. Ryoma had scattered his dozens of tennis shoes across where Keigo’s had previously laid in a neat, color-coordinated row, while Sanada had taken to finishing his work on the diva’s oak desk, often leaving his textbook uncharacteristically sprawled over the wooden surface in a vain attempt to make it look less like Keigo’s and more like it had been his all along. Cans of Ponta and boxes of green tea slowly pushed there way in front of what was left of Keigo’s premium coffee beans, and Sanada had slid Keigo’s favorite brand of grip tape to the back of their tennis supply closet, behind Kunimitsu’s spare wristbands and Shuushuke’s old racket.
The bed had gotten bigger at night, both with and without sex. Despite the already industrial sized bed, no mattress was made large enough to fit five full-grown men. They had gotten used to it being a close fit-and didn’t mind. Keigo would often spoon against Tezuka, his finger intertwined with Shuusuke’s over Ryoma’s hip as Sanada would lightly run his fingers up and down his arm. Now Ryoma would tangle his legs with his old captain’s as he possessively held onto Sanada’s hand, Fuji’s hair too far away to tickle his nose to sleep. Part of them had wanted to sprawl more, to cover the empty spaces at each end of the bed behind Kunimistu and Genichirou while the other part wanted to grasp each other closer, press themselves into each other and pretend that Keigo was still there, brushing his calves against Fuji’s knees and bumping elbows in Tezuka’s stomach.
It was starting to weigh heavy on all of them, and Ryoma knew it was only a matter of time before their relationship cracked. Hell, it had cracked when Keigo left, it was just holding on to the last strands of hope before it shattered.
Ryoma pulled his white cap lower as the ends of his mouth turned down into frown, staring at the innocuous letter that was grasped in his left hand. His back was against the rough, concrete brick wall that framed the outdoor tennis courts . The carefully typed letter, written in English and signed with an elaborate blue signature, mocked him, called him a coward.
They had agreed that Ryoma wouldn’t go pro until he finished college.
And the Australian Open was in five weeks.
Out of the five, only Ryoma and Tezuka still held any aspiration to turn pro, and while both had wanted to bolt the moment they had graduated from high school, both agreed to wait. Tezuka had already promised his family to finish college, though everyone had suspected his parents were still hoping he’d give up on such an absurd dream and settle with a safe desk job. Ryoma had only agreed because those he wanted to play a game with most were no further then a body or two over on Monkey King’s oversized mattress.
Now, however, Ryoma thought, clutching the paper a bit tighter, the edges crinkling audibly under his fist and the text blurring under his eyes. Things had changed since Keigo left. The five of them had fit together, filling in each other’s holes and weaknesses, covering each other in ways that four of them couldn’t.
It was five or nothing, and Ryoma knew that nothing was just hop and a skip away. It was just a matter of time before the others realized that four wasn’t the same as five, and Ryoma was going to be damned it he was going to be the one left in the end.
It was going to end. It was just a question of when.
The Australian Open was in five weeks.
Ryoma leaned his head back, a crumpled invitation in hand, staring at the blue, blue sky and the swirling leaves of pink cherry blossoms in the early spring wind and said his goodbyes.
------------------------------------
Sanada groaned as the shrill alarm rang out, its earsplitting beeps resounding through the small bedroom. He rolled over hurriedly, still half-asleep, quickly slamming down on the Snooze button to stop the angry cacophony. He sat up tiredly, his hair undoubtedly a mess as he rubbed the vestiges of sleep from his eyes with one hand. He pulled up one leg, resting his arm on his knee as he leaned forward, partially unwilling to completely get up from bed. He’d been on call the night before and had rushed into the hospital not long after two that morning after a disastrous car accident that resulted in a four-car pileup, two fatalities, and five high-risk, touch-and-go surgeries.
He returned to his quiet apartment over six hours later. They had lost the driver of the hit car during surgery as they struggled to remove a two-foot pole that had lodged itself straight through her upper abdomen during the crash. The pole had missed her heart by mere inches, as well as both lungs by just centimeters but had cracked several of her ribs. Once they had removed the pole, her organs had shifted dangerously as her rate of blood lost rapidly increased. The one of the cracked ribs had splintered and punctured her lung as she shifted her for surgery. When she was rolled into his operating room, Sanada already knew it was unlikely she would survive; it was a small mercy that she had been unconscious the entire time.
Her husband who had been sitting in the passenger sear had been DOA-Dead On Arrival.
The other three surgeries had stabilized. A pedestrian was now missing his leg from the knee down that had been stuck under one car, a middle-aged salary man would spend several months in physical therapy to walk properly, and the young woman in the third car may never wake from her coma, but they were alive.
Sanada exhaled a deep sigh; sometimes he regretted his choice to become a doctor. He had entered medical school with the full intent of specializing in sports medicine, hoping to cling on to what was left of his tennis career, but under familial pressures to pursue a more traditional medical path, he defaulted to general practice. It was only later that he decided to specialize in cardiovascular diseases and surgeries more out of convenience then actual interest.
He volunteered to be on emergency call primarily because there was no good reason not to. His peers often cited the struggles of reconciling long hours with their marriage, their family, and their friends. Sanada couldn’t say the same. It was either Sanada, a middle-aged bachelor with few obligations outside his work, to be called out in the middle of the night or a weary father of three being pulled away from his wedding anniversary.
Sanada finally arched his back, popping his back with a grotesque crack before sliding his feet onto the cool wooden floor. He remembered to reach over to his alarm clock, where “10:02 AM” blinked in cherry red lights, and switched the alarm off. He was supposed to meet Seichi in an hour and a half. He walked languidly to the bathroom, half consciously turning on the water before adjusting it to a decent temperature. Haphazardly stripping his shirt off, he caught a glance at himself in bathroom mirror.
Dark bags hung under his eyes, which were dark with worry and stress. Strands of grey hair dotted his hair, years too early but a result of stressful years after his residency watching himself fail at saving lives. Bare arms and chest that were once chiseled with almost bulging muscles were now lean with subtle muscles that were beginning to soften from not keeping up with his training after too many late nights at the hospital. And his hands, which were once rough with calluses and dotted with bruises from holding onto a tennis racket and weight training were now lank and thin, covered in thin, paper cut scars from scalpels and bones.
Sanada stared at himself in the mirror for another second and wondered how everything had changed.
Despite reaching his forties, Yukimura Seichi was no less beautiful now then he was twenty years ago. He face had matured, angled, and his voice deepened but he still held an air of delicacy and beauty around him when he move and spoke. His blue hair, that had once hung limply around his face and only accented his feminine looks, was now cropped short, barely brushing the nape of his neck and comb neatly back. He was already sitting at the café when Sanada entered dressed in a pair of khaki slacks and thick woolen coat, a light periwinkle shirt peaking out from the collar.
Seichi waved him over, sipping carefully on his cup of black tea. A dark blue sweater hugged his shoulders, and a discarded black scarf sat next to him on the worn faux leather booth, evident of the chilly January morning. Sanada gave a weak smile in return, draping his coat over the back of the seat across from the former Rikkaidai captain.
Over the years, Yukimura was the only one from middle school and high school that Sanada still saw on a semi-regular basis. Their middle school tennis team had stayed close up until the end of college, where the group had then scattered as graduate schools, entry jobs, and starting family took over. Slowly, their reunion grew further and further apart, until Sanada one day realized that Yanagi’s cell phone number had changed, and he didn’t know how to reach anyone else to get his new one. It was only by accident that he ran into Yukimura a few years later, buying groceries of all things. Since then, they had been keeping their tradition of meeting up every few months when Seichi was in town.
“You look tired, Genichirou,” Seichi finally said, after a waiter had taken Sanada’s order for a cup of black coffee.
Sanada had long stopped being surprised that Seichi could still read his moods even after all these years; though, given that he was tired, it probably didn’t take a lot of guess-work on the other man’s part. “Probably because I am tired,” he replied lightly, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in his voice. “Long night at the hospital.”
Seichi clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You could have called me, you know. We could have met another day, and you could have gotten some more sleep. You need to take better care of yourself. I always did say you’ll work yourself to an early grave this way.”
Sanada waved off his friends concern as he accepted a hot cup of coffee from their server, taking a hasty sip and ignoring the scalding, bitter burn he was rewarded with. He didn’t bother to add any crème and sugar as he once did; years of subsisting on almost solely caffeine had made him immune to the strong, bitter tang of the drink. “You won’t be in town again for a few more months; I think I can last one day with a few hours less sleep.”
Seichi sighed but didn’t fight his old friend’s logic. After college, he had made himself into a rather successful businessman where most of his work meant spending time abroad in international markets. He would meet with Sanada whenever he was back in Japan, but he was scheduled to leave for English in a few weeks. Between his schedule, which was constantly changing with canceled, rescheduled, or new meetings and projects and Sanada’s demanding, and equally unpredictable, schedule at the hospital, they took whatever time they could together.
Their waiter had returned, and they hastily gave their order to the man, not even glancing at the menu. They came here often to meet, and both had the menu practically memorized. Content with their choices, the waiter gave a pleasant, professional smile before leaving the two again.
“How’s your wife?”
Seichi blinked out of his thoughts at the question but smiled. “Ami-chan is fine, thank you. She’ll be visiting her parents for a few weeks before we leave again.” The ends of his lips turned downward slightly. “We’ve…been having some troubles recently.”
Sanada didn’t reply, instead taking another sip of his coffee, which had started to cool, and waited for the other to continue. Most of their meetings were catching up on the other’s lives, which was mundane but comforting. Despite their years apart, they often found themselves confiding with each other. It was a sign of the intimacy and trust that they once had, which had failed to fully carry over in the past twenty years but lingered like an old scar.
Seichi’s lips were pursed together thinly as he chose his next words. “She wants to start a family.”
“And you don’t?” Sanada said, quirking an eyebrow as he cradled his coffee between his hands, letting the heat warm the tips of his fingers.
Seichi returned a small smile laced with just a tinge of sadness. “I do. It’s just…” he trailed off a bit, ghosting his fingers along the rim of his teacup, before restarting. “We both want children. It’s a little late in the game to start thinking about this now, but if we wait too much longer, it might not be a possibility. But, we move around too much right now. Ami-chan has already followed me around the world and back a few times, but I couldn’t force our children to do the same. We’ve considered moving back to Japan permanently, but I don’t know if my job will allow that.”
Sanada grunted in response as he took another sip of his coffee. Seichi smiled at his laconic friend, glad that some things would never change. “But enough about my problems. How’s your wife and kids, Genichirou?”
Sanada scowled, setting his mostly empty cup down. “You mean ex-wife and one kid, don’t you, Seichi?”
Seichi replied with a mischievous smile and twinkle in his eyes.
“And they are both fine, thank you, as if you really care,” Sanada mumbled with only partially feigned grumpiness. “Minami’s doing fine, last time I spoke to her, and Kenta will be starting middle school in a few months.” Sanada grimaced as he considered his ex-wife. Not long after he had turned thirty and partway through his residency, his family had become increasingly worried at his continued bachelor status. Despite Sanada resolute refusal to date to since a suitable wife, he finally agreed to an arranged marriage, if only to appease his mother. After a series of interviews and brief dates, he finally married Nakamura Minami, an average looking woman two years his junior who worked at a moderate-sized law firm as a secretary.
Their marriage, at best and at worst, was mediocre. It was obvious to both soon after the wedding ceremony that neither was particularly interested in the other and had only agreed because there was little other option. They were both content with their mediocrity, however, rarely seeing the other due to Sanada’s overworked hours at the hospital. A year after their marriage, Minami gave birth to their son Kenta and officially quit her job to be a full-time housewife. From there, their marriage quickly deteriorated. Minami, now with nothing to keep her occupied but a screaming, irritated infant, grew increasingly frustrated. Three years after their son’s birth, Sanada was not surprised when she ask him for an official divorce. She cited his chronic absences from long hospital hours and his emotional unavailability to both her and their son.
Sanada knew it was because she fell in love with the young man three doors down the hall who was so in love with Sanada’s wife that only a fool could miss the adoration in his eyes. He agreed to the divorce without question, surprising his soon-to-be ex-wife. On the day they signed the divorce papers, he kissed her on the cheek and wished her luck.
“I’m still surprised you agreed to such terms for your divorce. You could have slaughtered her in court, you know. It wouldn’t have been hard to prove her affair,” Seichi murmured into his teacup as his sandwich arrived, the wheat bun lightly toasted with sprinkled sesame seeds and hints of cheese and lettuce poking out at the sides.
Sanada picked up his spoon and dipped it into the thick cream soup that was set before him. He stirred it a few times to cool it, before taking a small spoonful in his mouth, letting the rich flavor slide against his tongue. “You know why I didn’t. We didn’t care for each other in the beginning; I wasn’t about to fault her for falling in love for someone else.”
Seichi snorted. “You obviously cared enough for each other to pop out a baby or do I need to explain how that works to you again, Genichirou?” Yukimura purred teasingly as he pulled out the ripe slices of red tomatoes from between the slices of bread on his plate.
“That night would have been our fifteen year anniversary,” Sanada admitted gently as he went back to stirring his soup, poking at the softened carrots and potatoes and refusing to meet his old friend’s gaze. He never admitted to it before, partially to himself let alone aloud, but part of him was just too tired to care anymore.
Yukimura’s eyes softened, and he moved to tuck his hair behind his ear out of habit before stopping at the short locks. “Genichirou,” he said softly, reaching over the table to rest his hand on the other’s and give it a comforting squeeze. “You really need to move on. It’s been twenty years. Over twenty years, in fact.”
Sanada turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with that of his oldest friend’s. He didn’t look up; the fiery will that he’d been known for in his younger years had been all but drained out of him after two decades of work and loneliness. “I know. It’s just one of those things that you look back on and wonder about the what-ifs. What if Keigo’s father never found out about us, what if Ryoma hadn’t gone pro, what if Shuu didn’t decide to study abroad. What if I didn’t run away from the only one who was left.” Sanada squeezed Seichi’s hand, reveling in the feel of the other’s hand. He felt Seichi smooth his thumb over the top of his hand in comforting circles, a silent reminder that he wasn’t alone.
“I saw Tezuka-san on the news the other day,” Yukimura said suddenly, perking up slightly. He knew Sanada liked to keep up with the others, even with the heartache it caused. He assumed it made him feel better, knowing that the others were still okay. Genichirou had always been a bit of a mother hen to his friends, despite his worries being hidden beneath his dominating exterior and often apathetic answers. “He got the conviction on the Hiroba murders .”
Sanada managed to force a small smile that couldn’t quite hide the lingering melancholy. “That’s good. I’m glad.” Tezuka, surprisingly, had been the easiest of the four to follow, being one of Tokyo’s best Defense Attorneys tended to thrust him in the spotlight frequently. Keigo, for all his ego and glory, had followed the Atobe tradition of keeping his affairs out of the papers, and Ryoma was notoriously difficult for the press to find, even more so after his retirement. Shuusuke had all but vanished off the map after he graduated, and it was only because of a lucky glimpse in a psychology journal that Sanada even knew that he was still alive.
Seichi gave Sanada’s hand another light squeeze before withdrawing his arm, finally picking up his sandwich to take a bite. He made a lighthearted comment about the weather to bring Sanada out of his musing and pushed them toward lighter conversation.
At the end of the meal, he Yukimura pushed himself up to his toes to gives Sanada a quick kiss on the cheek and a lingering hug. He quietly wished him the best before disappearing off in the crowd, his eyes lined with concern. His friend hadn’t been the same for twenty years, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Sanada looked off into the blue, blue sky, past the towering skyscapers and mess of air pollution from the city, and wondered, wondered, wondered if life really does move on after love. Walking back to his apartment, he stopped in front of a florist, pausing momentarily as a flash green spikes caught his eyes. Five minutes later, he exited the store with a small potted cactus wrapped neatly in a bag.
Because some people never forget and never let go.
“You’re not coming back, are you?”
Explanation: I don’t really have one. So three years later, after I make the mistake of taking a peel back into the Prince of Tennis fandom, I’m caught again in its sticky, sticky web. As a result, Delayed Reaction is not dead. I have every intention of completing this story, thought I don’t guarantee when.
I’m considering writing an Interlude portion of this story that would include random snippets of any of the five boys at various stages of their life in this ‘verse. If you are interested, I’m opening up prompts/requests of what you’d like to see expanded on.