FIC: Rewind Forward (D1) 13/63
Title: Rewind Forward (13/63)
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17 (eventual)
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Niou, meet Yagyuu.
Author's Notes: Spoilers for everything.
On Sunday, Niou’s cellphone rings at the breakfast table. His entire family stares him down- how dare his phone interrupt their meal! They glare over their wire-framed lenses, his father over the newspaper, his brother and sister over bowls of cereal and salad.
“Who on earth would be calling you at this hour?” his mother asks. She sets down a plate of toast into the middle of the table.
Niou gets up from the table. He doesn’t recognize the phone number highlighted on the screen. In the depths of the quiet living room, where no one else (hopefully) is listening, he says, “Hello?”
“Niou-kun?” Niou’s heart skips a beat. His hand tightens, clammy and warm, on his cell. Yagyuu says, “This is Yagyuu Hiroshi, from tennis club, calling about-”
“Yeah, I know who you are,” Niou says. “What are you calling for?”
Even at this hour, Yagyuu’s voice is as smooth and polite as ever. Niou’s retains its morning scratchiness, rising and falling and cracking as he yawns into the phone.
“Kirihara-kun invited us both to the arcade on Fifth Street. I spoke with him last night on email and we agreed to meet at the train station by the mall at noon. Are you planning on coming with us?”
Yes! “I guess,” Niou grunts.
“Ah, we’ll see you there, then,” Yagyuu says.
Niou ends the call.
His sister leers in the doorway, smirking at him. “Who was that on the phone?” she asks.
“No one,” Niou says. He flips his cell closed and pockets it. “None of your business.”
“Then why are you blushing?” she asks, her smirk even wider.
Niou’s eyes go wide. He pushes past her, elbowing her in the side as he stomps up the stairs. He slams his doorway closed, then looks in the mirror.
His face is pink.
Stupid Yagyuu, he thinks. Stupid fucking megane Yagyuu.
***
In theory, Niou assumes that what Yukimura doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
His wrists ache. They have for weeks after being dumped with those weights. The skin underneath them, Niou knows, is pasty from lack of sun compared to the rest of his slightly-brown skin from being out in the sun so much at practice.
Today’s practice, however, took the cake. Kirihara’s ball knocking his racket away just because he didn’t have the strength to return it?
It’s time these suckers come off! Niou thinks.
He’s pissed at his family. He refuses to come downstairs to eat yogurt for dessert or to raid the cupboard for some chocolate before bed. His stupid megane family mocking him about a phonecall. It doesn’t make sense that his stomach still twists up. It doesn’t make sense that his face still burns.
This whole Yagyuu situation is distressing enough, jerking off at night thinking about him and his laser beam. His family doesn’t need to even know hints about this.
Although the fact his mother constantly washes his sheets reminds Niou that maybe she knows more than she lets on. Once again, he sits down on his futon to the slight crunch of fresh laundry under his blanket. He flops back, but his pillows are as musty as ever, smelling of dried saliva and a bit of hairgel, sweat and the shrimp chips he ate in his room last week.
Niou rubs his eyes, yawning. His fingers tingle, numb at the tips like Yukimura always seems to have now. Probably the damn weights. Niou touches them, the black neoprene rubbery and sucking up the light much the way tennis seems to be sucking up more and more of his life.
Carefully, almost reverently, Niou pulls at the Velcro. The sound is loud, the silence of his room palpable.
And his wrists are as white as Marui’s pasty ass. Clammy and wrinkled, as though he has just pulled a giant bandaide off his skin.
They smell, too. Sweat has seeped into the weights, discolouring the inside underneath. Niou whispers, “Puri”, then throws the weights across his floor, where they land and sit under his deskchair, symbols of Yukimura being a complete ass, symbols of working too hard for a goal that is still almost a year away.
He and Yagyuu are crap at doubles. They have no chemistry, not like the way Marui and Jackal seem to grow close during practices. They laugh together, they talk, they visit hotel buffets and probably play at streetcourts and get fed snacks from Brazil at Jackal’s house. They play on the school courts with a growing familiarity. Jackal is skilled at defense, with hard strong return shots his specialty, always backing up Marui’s ridiculous volleys and show off lobs.
He and Yagyuu….they can barely figure out where to move on the court, let alone read each other’s movements. Now, lying on his bed, staring at nothing, his mind running, Niou wonders if maybe he’s spending too much time wishing to see a laser beam, watching Yagyuu’s legs flex, his shoulders, sometimes even thinking about his cock and his glasses and if Yagyuu masturbates the same way he does- Niou thinks about all of that more than he does focusing on the ball, on where Yagyuu wants to hit shots.
It wasn’t so hard with other players on the team. It wasn’t so hard with his senpais. Why is it so hard with Yagyuu?
Niou rubs his wrists, massaging the feeling back into his hands. The skin feels foreign, not his own.
Maybe he doesn’t want Yagyuu. Maybe he just wants to be Yagyuu instead- the friendships with people, the laser beam, the fucking megane frames.
Niou shudders at the thought. That can’t be it-
His tennisbag buzzes. Niou squeezes his eyes shut. He’s at home- who could be calling? Not his parents. He doesn’t really have friends, just tennis club acquaintances and Jackal probably had enough of him today to call to ask for a round or two at a street court.
Groaning, Niou rolls out of bed. He unzips his bag, fishes around, then flips his phone on. “Hello?” he asks.
“How was practice?” Yukimura’s voice asks.
Inside, Niou groans again. “Fine,” he says. He flops back down on his bed and twirls the edge of his sheets with his fingers.
“Doubles formation with Yagyuu?” Yukimura asks, his voice getting louder. “Jackal says that you have poor coordination with each other.”
Niou grunts. “Well, not everyone can be paired with a genius.”
Yukimura laughs. It makes Niou smile.
“I’ll make sure to give you both some time with me. I have some ideas from the Senbatsu for how to improve our formations and our overall teamwork.”
Niou hums. “Super. So you won your games, did you?” He ties the end of his sheets into a knot, then undoes it.
“Of course,” Yukimura says. “The American team was all beefy and brawny things. No substance to their tennis. Typical.”
“That’s nice,” Niou says. He rolls onto his stomach. His hair is messed up from lying on his back, so he pulls his elastic out and lets it fall over his face. He checks his digital clock. The silence is awkward.
He rubs his wrists. Niou smiles to himself. He’s on the phone with Yukimura without his wristweights on. It feels deliciously devious. He chuckles to himself under his breath.
“Niou,” Yukimura’s voice rises an octave, all sweet and fake like the smiles he will give the coach sometimes. “How are your weights going for you?”
Niou stops chuckling. “Uh, they’re fine,” he says. They’re right under my desk, just fine.
He sighs, his face feeling warm, and crawls off his bed to retrieve the weights. He secures them back onto his wrists. The neoprene is still warm, his skin once more disappearing under them.
“Don’t ever take them off again until I say to,” Yukimura says. “Or you’ll be off the regulars and picking up balls for the rest of junior high school.”
Even though Yukimura can’t see, Niou nods. “Yes, Yukimura,” he says.
Yukimura is the new law of Rikkai Dai. As much as Niou wants to bend the rules, he can’t quite bring himself to shake them enough. He won’t push Yukimura.
Niou’s wrists don’t hurt, but the neoprene around his skin is tighter than before, reminding him of the presence, reminding him of tennis every moment of his life.
***
Meeting at noon at the train station by the mall means to Yagyuu that Niou should be there by noon, not strolling up the cement walkway at five past. Yagyuu looks at his watch, then frowns. Niou shrugs a greeting toward Kirihara and Yagyuu, keeping his head down for fear of blushing again. It was bad enough he did it this morning, he doesn’t want to be caught again.
Kirihara has a backpack with himself, crammed with whatever Niou has no desire to know. The sides have the distinct rounded shape of a tennis racket concealed within. And he can hear the jingle of bags and bags of change, too.
“Going on a trip?” he asks Kirihara.
Kirihara laughs. “No, Niou-senpai. I cracked my piggybank open last night and I have a ton of change.” He scratches his hair, then rubs his chin. “I kinda lost a lot of yen at the last arcade, so I might need a lot today too.”
They buy train tickets for a stop on the line halfway across town. It might be faster to take the bus, but Niou enjoys standing on the train, crammed into a tiny space between the doors and a bar and a plexiglass divider. Yagyuu is squished against his left side, his best side. Kirihara is across the train, a group of university students in between them.
From here, this close, Niou can smell Yagyuu’s shampoo- fresh and sea-like, not citrusy like the shampoo he uses at home himself or the flowery pearlescent kind Sanada has in his tennis locker. Yagyuu’s hair is glossy and clean, not at all like the brittle mess Niou has on his head, all split ends and fried from the constant bleaching, the sometimes gel, the frequent itching of his scalp.
“So,” Niou says. He licks the front of his teeth, “do you play darts often?”
Yagyuu stiffens against him, his shoulders tense. “No,” he says. There isn’t enough room for him to fix his glasses. The train shakes and Niou takes the opportunity to push himself closer into Yagyuu, feigning that he loses his balance. “I play pachinko sometimes. There is a parlour right beside Kirihara’s arcade.”
Typical, Niou thinks. A past time that everyone does. So common, so boring, so bland. “I thought you were good at darts,” he says, clicking his tongue once.
“Are you good at darts?” Yagyuu says. His voice rises. He’s getting irritated. He doesn’t look Niou in the eyes and instead tries to stare out the windows at the passing factories and cheap housing. The train rattles again and Niou shifts to stand in Yagyuu’s way of the view.
Niou laughs right in Yagyuu’s ear. He can feel Yagyuu shudder against him and it makes him shiver inside. It’s not the sense of power, of teasing, but the closeness between the two of them that makes his heart pound.
“I could take you on,” he says.
The faintest of smiles that flits across Yagyuu’s face is gone just as quickly as the train lurches into the next station, sending Niou’s feet off balance and people scrambling with their totes and bags off the train, new people cramming on.
Niou squishes closer to Yagyuu. His hand is sweaty on the metal railing. He can’t move, not with the couple behind him, the man breathing into his neck. Not with the old man on his side, crammed between a bar and more people. It is smelly and packed.
And perfect for touching Yagyuu. He doesn’t bristle so much as frown, no more than the next person on the train. Average, predictable. Niou is the one who bristles. Each passing stop with the change of passengers shifts them closer, then apart, then closer as people jostle for space on the train. Niou is the one whose heart flutters in his chest, whose jeans feel too tight between the legs. He’s crammed against the window, so at least Yagyuu doesn’t know.
That would be mortifying.
Niou stares out the window. He can’t look Yagyuu in the eye with the erection in his pants. But he can more than willingly brush his bare arm against Yagyuu’s, feeling his warm dry skin as the train rattles on across the city.
“Senpais, this is our stop!” Kirihara yells over the rush of the crowd. They push through a group of university girls in oversized sweaters and tights, bad hair and bubblegum. Kirihara waves on the platform. Niou follows him through the station- he’s never been to this stop before, but Kirihara seems to know his way around well enough.
On the streets, they can breathe free. Two blocks right, then three more to the north along a sloped hill, a blinking sign for a large arcade towers over them.
Kirihara makes a beeline in the arcade for the war games. By the time Niou manages to catch up to him, the wonderchibi has crammed half his change into a slot and has started selecting his character to play.
“Game of darts then?” Niou asks Yagyuu.
Yagyuu nods once. “They’re over there,” he says, pointing beyond the flash of electric blue lights on the Pokemon packman game.
Yagyuu might be good at darts, but Niou owns the game. He’s played since before he can remember. Pictures of his family, studded with marks from darts he bought at the 100 yen store. Pictures of Sanada, too, and imaginary faces of Marui. Even the standard bullseyes, the red centres pricked with hundreds of marks from hundreds of frustrated throws.
For a Sunday, the arcade isn’t as busy as the other one was. And there are no groups of girls to cheer Yagyuu on. He concentrates on the board, mentally gauging the distance and scuffing his shoes on the linoleum before leaning back with a dart.
“Good play,” Niou says, clapping mid-throw.
Yagyuu, though, isn’t put off. Annoyed, maybe, but not distracted. His aim is good, but he lands his darts on the next-to-centre rings when Niou lands bullseyes, perfect shots all in a row.
“Niou-kun,” Yagyuu says after Niou takes a second game, “do you think we should take Yukimura’s idea and work on our teamwork?”
Niou stops fiddling with the dart end. The dart stabs his finger, pricking the skin. Blood dribbles down his finger. Ow! He doesn’t want to sound too eager. He shrugs. “I guess so, if he’s dumping us in doubles the entire season.”
“Niou-senpai! Yagyuu-senpai!” Kirihara yells at them. “Come and see this game, senpais, it’s so cool! I just shot down this American chopper with my Kamikaze pilot super power missile rocket. Wanna see me do it again? The graphics on this are fucking awesome!”
Niou looks at Yagyuu. Yagyuu blinks. “I’m out of change.”
Niou checks his pocket. He pulls out an old Kleenex, half a folded-up math test and some neon yellow lint that may or may not be from a tennis ball. “Me too,” he says.
“Senpais!” Kirihara insists. “Come and see my- oh, man, you fucker, I’m gonna kill you!” Kirihara’s eyes are plastered to the machine screen. Sounds of explosions and bangs and flashing, seizure-inducing bombs of light flare up in front of his face.
Niou shrugs. He might as well humour the wonderchibi for a while. For the first time, perhaps, Yagyuu seems to think the same as he gives Niou a long, hard look and an amused quirk to his lips.
It feels nice to be on the same page, even about something so insignificant as this.
***
Considering how much Yukimura prefers to spend practice either yelling at younger team members or playing with Sanada and Yanagi and correcting their form, Niou is surprised when Yukimura drags him and Yagyuu off each and every practice for two weeks straight.
The gym echoes their sneakers. Autumn rains patter down on the ceiling, dulling the sounds of the rest of the team outside.
Niou hides his expressions behind a continuous smirk. But, he is glad for the help since neither he nor Yagyuu can figure out how to play doubles. Yagyuu especially. Niou still doesn’t even understand why Yukimura wants them to play doubles- Kirihara and Yanagi are just as good as they could ever be. Even Sanada and Yanagi work together all right, not as a unit, but they get the job done and win.
“Yagyuu,” Yukimura says, “hold your arm out a bit more- yes, like that.” He arranges Yagyuu’s arm, bending the elbow. “Now, loosen up your grip. It’s too tight. You’ll have better control like this. That’s better.” He nods, then walks over to Niou.
“Stand more at the net,” Yukimura says. Niou steps up to the net. He can’t be more than a foot away. Yukimura frowns at him, hair falling over his eyes. He pushes his headband up. Niou can see the edges stained yellow from sweat.
“Step back a half-foot, good.” Yukimura continues to frown. “From what I’ve seen, Niou should set the pace. We’ll keep him at the net and Yagyuu at the baseline. You’ll have more space for that shot, ne Yagyuu?”
Yagyuu nods. Not that he could do anything else. Yukimura doesn’t ask questions, he tells them both the answers.
“When I serve,” Yukimura says, “I don’t want you to watch the ball-”
Niou snorts. “Even though you said never ever take our eyes off it?”
Yukimura glares. “Shut up, Niou. Anyway, I don’t want you to watch the ball, I want you, Yagyuu, to watch Niou who will watch the ball. Watch his hands. Niou- don’t make hand signals. That’s too distracting. I want Yagyuu to know when and where you’ll be moving. You like poaches and drop shots a lot. Take those. Give Yagyuu the volleys and smashes.”
Yukimura sends them serves. For any other player, they’d be excellent shots, straight and strong, barreling through the air towards the middle of the court. It’s obvious to Niou why Yukimura is doing that- no shots specifically directed to either one of them, Yukimura wants them to work together.
“Get it!” Niou shouts.
Yagyuu hits it back. Niou nods, ready for the next shot as Yukimura takes a swing. Lob. Excellent.
Niou rushes to the side, straight into Yagyuu. Their rackets clatter, left and right sides meeting and the ball slams onto the gym floor behind Niou.
Yagyuu picks his racket up first. “Excuse me,” he says, the way he leans over, it’s almost a bow to Niou, angled polite and low enough to say I’m sorry.
Niou shrugs. He squats down for his own racket. “I’m left-handed,” he says, wiggling his left hand.
“Yagyuu!” Yukimura yells as he bounces a ball. “Keep on Niou’s right side. And Niou, keep on Yagyuu’s left. You’ll cover more ground that way.”
Niou has always played with right-handers before, so why is it so hard now? He’s at the net. He can’t stare at Yagyuu from here. But his thoughts keep wandering, wondering what Yagyuu is doing. Does he lean down with bent knees at the base line? Does he sway from side to side like he does sometimes, and Sanada too? Does he lick his lips like Kirihara?
No, probably not that. Still, it would be interesting to know.
Two weeks in the gym with Yukimura as the autumn leaves change colours outside. The maples turn scarlet and burnt orange, fluttering on the breeze. The campus plum trees shake their leave off and the hibiscus bushes stop blooming, shriveling up into themselves as the days cool. Only the pine trees remain unchanged, ever green and alive.
Niou and Yagyuu change. “Play together!” Yukimura yells, constantly, his voice shrill and grating Niou’s ears.
“Watch Niou!” Yukimura shouts at Yagyuu. He stomps over the gym and swings his racket back, smacking Yagyuu in the leg. Yagyuu flinches, but mutters a “Yes, Yukimura-kun”.
“Talk through your game!” Yukimura screams at Niou. His eyes are black and blazing. Niou stares at his feet. He wants to yell back that he is trying, he is. Synchronized doubles don’t just happen. Maybe Yukimura should take a page from his book and try out doubles for himself.
But things get better. Yagyuu reads his motions. He reads Yagyuu’s motions. Yagyuu always adjusts his glasses before a serve and after a smash, when he can squeeze in a precious moment. Niou knows that he will use the split step during a rally to break up the pace and Yagyuu gets it after a week because his own footwork starts to improve. He’s not stumbling and scuffing his shoes as much. His feet are fluid on the gym floor, no longer rubber screeching on linoleum.
And his play gets better, too. His serves aren’t Kirihara’s, they aren’t Yukimura’s, but they are good enough that Niou raises his eyebrows. Sleek and fast, a bit like his laser beam. Yukimura nods, finally pleased with something for once.
“You two should stick together off the court, too,” Yukimura says after one practice. He has a sweat towel around his neck and his shirt off, ready for the shower. Out of the corner of his eye, Niou catches sight of Yagyuu’s shirt riding up but he can’t look now, much to his dismay.
“Pardon?” Yagyuu asks. In the showers, Marui makes loud obnoxious noises and Kirihara shrieks as they start another wet towel fight. Niou rolls his eyes.
“As in, stick together and learn how the other person works. Shitenhoji’s done it,” Yukimura says.
“Those two fags?” Niou asks.
A palpable, but small cringe passes over Yukimura’s face. “Yeah, those two. They played well, though.”
“Are you asking us doubles to be gay?” Jackal asks, poking his head in from the hallway. “Because…uh…I like girls. Like Gisele Bundchen.” He smiles, his eyes glazing over.
“Who?” Yukimura asks. “Not that I care- and no, not gay, but stick together and learn mannerisms, behaviors. You and Marui do a good job, but these two suck. It’s like they’re pulling a cable in two different directions and getting nowhere.”
Yanagi laughs and slams his locker shut. “That was a poor metaphor, Yukimura,” he says. “Basho is much better.”
Yukimura ignores Yanagi and stalks off to the shower, yelling something at Sanada for tomorrow’s morning practice. Niou looks at Yagyuu, who looks at him. They are both topless and it takes every ounce of effort Niou has not to blush and stare at Yagyuu’s chest.
“Are you busy tomorrow night, Niou-kun?” Yagyuu asks.
As if Niou would rather do anything else.
***
The team makes a habit of going out on Friday nights.
And Niou and Yagyuu make a habit of going out on Saturday nights.
The restaurant is a bit of a noodle-bar, a bit of a sushi-bar and entirely a hole in the wall place just off the main road by the train station, a five minute walk from the mall across a highway and a tiny park studded with naked sakura trees.
Niou always orders the katsudon and spends a half hour picking the fried egg off the top of his pork. Yagyuu orders the domburi with boiled beef and shovels the rice into his mouth.
They don’t talk about much. Niou doesn’t know what to say- he’s never had friends and he wouldn’t know what Yagyuu liked to talk about anyway. Yagyuu dabs the sides of his mouth with his napkin, finishing up as soon as Niou starts.
And then Yagyuu always orders a bowl of tokotoren jelly. He slathers everything in vinegar, making small noises in the back of his throat as he eats. On the surface, Niou would have assumed that Yagyuu was a silent eater. He doesn’t make noise at their weekly team buffets, besides a polite slurp of noodles or the very occasional gulp of green tea. But he dives into dishes of jelly and practically moans as he eats the gelatinous white blob.
“Is that good?” Niou asks, half-sarcastic, half-serious.
Yagyuu stops chewing. He swallows, then licks his lips. “I like tokotoren jelly,” he says.
Well, I figured that much. Niou nods.
The restaurant is always filled with seniors and students. They are always the two youngest there and the quietest. No gossip about neighbours, no chatting about boyfriends or makeup. The silences are awkward at first. Niou digs his fingernails into the table from underneath. He wants to ask questions. He wants to be chummy. But he doesn’t know how and Yagyuu doesn’t help. If Niou asks a question, Yagyuu will kill the conversation dead with a terse and succinct answer.
“The weather is nice,” Niou says.
“Yes, the weather is pleasant,” Yagyuu says.
“Sanada was an ass at practice today, don’t you think?” Niou asks.
Yagyuu frowns. “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”
Niou wants to smack his head on the table. Yagyuu plays with a chopstick in his dish of ponzu, stirring the sauce around.
But neither of them asks for the bill to leave.
Only tennis can break the ice.
“Your serve is looking better,” Niou says. “Yukimura isn’t bitching as much about your form.”
Yagyuu looks up from fiddling with his chopsticks. “Really?” he asks. In the moment, his eyes go wide and a smile flickers across his face, genuine and proud of himself. Niou nods.
“Yeah, maybe it’s more power from your legs, but it was good.”
It is slow and tentative, the way they open up about tennis. Niou says less, nodding and humming in agreement as Yagyuu tells him one week about how he played as a little boy, but stopped because he started golf after a pro tournament came to Yokohama.
“It’s too bad the big tennis opens never come to Japan,” Yagyuu says. He sighs.
“Australia isn’t that far,” Niou says. He stabs a leftover piece of sushi, poking the pink flesh of the fish straight through.
“My parents would never let me go,” Yagyuu tells him.
Megane dork family, over-protective and boring, Niou thinks.
“But the ABC Open might come to Tokyo next August,” Yagyuu goes on. “If it does, I’ll get a ticket.”
“Might be during Nationals,” Niou says. “Yukimura would kill you if you missed a game.”
Yagyuu smiles.
Given a chance, Yagyuu will talk. Not a lot, but more than Niou. He asks Niou about how to follow through his shots and what are the best sneakers to wear. He talks about the courts and playing with Kirihara during practices. One Saturday, he even asks Niou about what it’s like to be a southpaw.
Niou blinks. No one has ever asked him that before. Kirihara has taken advantage of it during rallies and practice matches- why that kid wants to play a leftie so bad, Niou doesn’t know.
“I…dunno,” he says. “I don’t think about it much.”
“Not ever?” Yagyuu presses. He leans on the table, making the legs creak underneath.
“Well,” Niou cocks his head and scratches behind his ear, “I guess for things like the twist serve you need to modify it, and doubles, yeah, but do you ever think about what it’s like to play with your right-hand?”
Yagyuu’s brow furrows. “I…am right-handed, Niou-kun,” he says.
“Exactly.”
“But I can write with both hands,” Yagyuu says.
Niou can feel the flies gathering in his mouth. A beat passes, filled with the sounds of the chatter of waitresses and clanking dishes in the kitchen. They sit towards the back of the restaurant, near the tiny bar where a middle-aged woman rings an order up on an old-fashioned cash register.
“What?” he manages.
Yagyuu shrugs, as though it’s nothing. “I taught myself when I was five.”
“You’re ambidextrous?” Niou asks. He gapes. He knows he’s gaping, but he can’t stop. This boring megane dork is supposed to like pocket protectors and building computers, not darts and being ambidextrous! Nothing about Yagyuu makes sense. Why does no one know these things about him?
Why doesn’t Niou?
“Can you play tennis with both hands?” he asks.
Yagyuu smiles. The look on his face sends a shiver down Niou’s spine, the way his teeth flash ever so slightly in the gaudy fluorescent lighting. “Do you want to find out, Niou-kun?”
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17 (eventual)
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Niou, meet Yagyuu.
Author's Notes: Spoilers for everything.
On Sunday, Niou’s cellphone rings at the breakfast table. His entire family stares him down- how dare his phone interrupt their meal! They glare over their wire-framed lenses, his father over the newspaper, his brother and sister over bowls of cereal and salad.
“Who on earth would be calling you at this hour?” his mother asks. She sets down a plate of toast into the middle of the table.
Niou gets up from the table. He doesn’t recognize the phone number highlighted on the screen. In the depths of the quiet living room, where no one else (hopefully) is listening, he says, “Hello?”
“Niou-kun?” Niou’s heart skips a beat. His hand tightens, clammy and warm, on his cell. Yagyuu says, “This is Yagyuu Hiroshi, from tennis club, calling about-”
“Yeah, I know who you are,” Niou says. “What are you calling for?”
Even at this hour, Yagyuu’s voice is as smooth and polite as ever. Niou’s retains its morning scratchiness, rising and falling and cracking as he yawns into the phone.
“Kirihara-kun invited us both to the arcade on Fifth Street. I spoke with him last night on email and we agreed to meet at the train station by the mall at noon. Are you planning on coming with us?”
Yes! “I guess,” Niou grunts.
“Ah, we’ll see you there, then,” Yagyuu says.
Niou ends the call.
His sister leers in the doorway, smirking at him. “Who was that on the phone?” she asks.
“No one,” Niou says. He flips his cell closed and pockets it. “None of your business.”
“Then why are you blushing?” she asks, her smirk even wider.
Niou’s eyes go wide. He pushes past her, elbowing her in the side as he stomps up the stairs. He slams his doorway closed, then looks in the mirror.
His face is pink.
Stupid Yagyuu, he thinks. Stupid fucking megane Yagyuu.
***
In theory, Niou assumes that what Yukimura doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
His wrists ache. They have for weeks after being dumped with those weights. The skin underneath them, Niou knows, is pasty from lack of sun compared to the rest of his slightly-brown skin from being out in the sun so much at practice.
Today’s practice, however, took the cake. Kirihara’s ball knocking his racket away just because he didn’t have the strength to return it?
It’s time these suckers come off! Niou thinks.
He’s pissed at his family. He refuses to come downstairs to eat yogurt for dessert or to raid the cupboard for some chocolate before bed. His stupid megane family mocking him about a phonecall. It doesn’t make sense that his stomach still twists up. It doesn’t make sense that his face still burns.
This whole Yagyuu situation is distressing enough, jerking off at night thinking about him and his laser beam. His family doesn’t need to even know hints about this.
Although the fact his mother constantly washes his sheets reminds Niou that maybe she knows more than she lets on. Once again, he sits down on his futon to the slight crunch of fresh laundry under his blanket. He flops back, but his pillows are as musty as ever, smelling of dried saliva and a bit of hairgel, sweat and the shrimp chips he ate in his room last week.
Niou rubs his eyes, yawning. His fingers tingle, numb at the tips like Yukimura always seems to have now. Probably the damn weights. Niou touches them, the black neoprene rubbery and sucking up the light much the way tennis seems to be sucking up more and more of his life.
Carefully, almost reverently, Niou pulls at the Velcro. The sound is loud, the silence of his room palpable.
And his wrists are as white as Marui’s pasty ass. Clammy and wrinkled, as though he has just pulled a giant bandaide off his skin.
They smell, too. Sweat has seeped into the weights, discolouring the inside underneath. Niou whispers, “Puri”, then throws the weights across his floor, where they land and sit under his deskchair, symbols of Yukimura being a complete ass, symbols of working too hard for a goal that is still almost a year away.
He and Yagyuu are crap at doubles. They have no chemistry, not like the way Marui and Jackal seem to grow close during practices. They laugh together, they talk, they visit hotel buffets and probably play at streetcourts and get fed snacks from Brazil at Jackal’s house. They play on the school courts with a growing familiarity. Jackal is skilled at defense, with hard strong return shots his specialty, always backing up Marui’s ridiculous volleys and show off lobs.
He and Yagyuu….they can barely figure out where to move on the court, let alone read each other’s movements. Now, lying on his bed, staring at nothing, his mind running, Niou wonders if maybe he’s spending too much time wishing to see a laser beam, watching Yagyuu’s legs flex, his shoulders, sometimes even thinking about his cock and his glasses and if Yagyuu masturbates the same way he does- Niou thinks about all of that more than he does focusing on the ball, on where Yagyuu wants to hit shots.
It wasn’t so hard with other players on the team. It wasn’t so hard with his senpais. Why is it so hard with Yagyuu?
Niou rubs his wrists, massaging the feeling back into his hands. The skin feels foreign, not his own.
Maybe he doesn’t want Yagyuu. Maybe he just wants to be Yagyuu instead- the friendships with people, the laser beam, the fucking megane frames.
Niou shudders at the thought. That can’t be it-
His tennisbag buzzes. Niou squeezes his eyes shut. He’s at home- who could be calling? Not his parents. He doesn’t really have friends, just tennis club acquaintances and Jackal probably had enough of him today to call to ask for a round or two at a street court.
Groaning, Niou rolls out of bed. He unzips his bag, fishes around, then flips his phone on. “Hello?” he asks.
“How was practice?” Yukimura’s voice asks.
Inside, Niou groans again. “Fine,” he says. He flops back down on his bed and twirls the edge of his sheets with his fingers.
“Doubles formation with Yagyuu?” Yukimura asks, his voice getting louder. “Jackal says that you have poor coordination with each other.”
Niou grunts. “Well, not everyone can be paired with a genius.”
Yukimura laughs. It makes Niou smile.
“I’ll make sure to give you both some time with me. I have some ideas from the Senbatsu for how to improve our formations and our overall teamwork.”
Niou hums. “Super. So you won your games, did you?” He ties the end of his sheets into a knot, then undoes it.
“Of course,” Yukimura says. “The American team was all beefy and brawny things. No substance to their tennis. Typical.”
“That’s nice,” Niou says. He rolls onto his stomach. His hair is messed up from lying on his back, so he pulls his elastic out and lets it fall over his face. He checks his digital clock. The silence is awkward.
He rubs his wrists. Niou smiles to himself. He’s on the phone with Yukimura without his wristweights on. It feels deliciously devious. He chuckles to himself under his breath.
“Niou,” Yukimura’s voice rises an octave, all sweet and fake like the smiles he will give the coach sometimes. “How are your weights going for you?”
Niou stops chuckling. “Uh, they’re fine,” he says. They’re right under my desk, just fine.
He sighs, his face feeling warm, and crawls off his bed to retrieve the weights. He secures them back onto his wrists. The neoprene is still warm, his skin once more disappearing under them.
“Don’t ever take them off again until I say to,” Yukimura says. “Or you’ll be off the regulars and picking up balls for the rest of junior high school.”
Even though Yukimura can’t see, Niou nods. “Yes, Yukimura,” he says.
Yukimura is the new law of Rikkai Dai. As much as Niou wants to bend the rules, he can’t quite bring himself to shake them enough. He won’t push Yukimura.
Niou’s wrists don’t hurt, but the neoprene around his skin is tighter than before, reminding him of the presence, reminding him of tennis every moment of his life.
***
Meeting at noon at the train station by the mall means to Yagyuu that Niou should be there by noon, not strolling up the cement walkway at five past. Yagyuu looks at his watch, then frowns. Niou shrugs a greeting toward Kirihara and Yagyuu, keeping his head down for fear of blushing again. It was bad enough he did it this morning, he doesn’t want to be caught again.
Kirihara has a backpack with himself, crammed with whatever Niou has no desire to know. The sides have the distinct rounded shape of a tennis racket concealed within. And he can hear the jingle of bags and bags of change, too.
“Going on a trip?” he asks Kirihara.
Kirihara laughs. “No, Niou-senpai. I cracked my piggybank open last night and I have a ton of change.” He scratches his hair, then rubs his chin. “I kinda lost a lot of yen at the last arcade, so I might need a lot today too.”
They buy train tickets for a stop on the line halfway across town. It might be faster to take the bus, but Niou enjoys standing on the train, crammed into a tiny space between the doors and a bar and a plexiglass divider. Yagyuu is squished against his left side, his best side. Kirihara is across the train, a group of university students in between them.
From here, this close, Niou can smell Yagyuu’s shampoo- fresh and sea-like, not citrusy like the shampoo he uses at home himself or the flowery pearlescent kind Sanada has in his tennis locker. Yagyuu’s hair is glossy and clean, not at all like the brittle mess Niou has on his head, all split ends and fried from the constant bleaching, the sometimes gel, the frequent itching of his scalp.
“So,” Niou says. He licks the front of his teeth, “do you play darts often?”
Yagyuu stiffens against him, his shoulders tense. “No,” he says. There isn’t enough room for him to fix his glasses. The train shakes and Niou takes the opportunity to push himself closer into Yagyuu, feigning that he loses his balance. “I play pachinko sometimes. There is a parlour right beside Kirihara’s arcade.”
Typical, Niou thinks. A past time that everyone does. So common, so boring, so bland. “I thought you were good at darts,” he says, clicking his tongue once.
“Are you good at darts?” Yagyuu says. His voice rises. He’s getting irritated. He doesn’t look Niou in the eyes and instead tries to stare out the windows at the passing factories and cheap housing. The train rattles again and Niou shifts to stand in Yagyuu’s way of the view.
Niou laughs right in Yagyuu’s ear. He can feel Yagyuu shudder against him and it makes him shiver inside. It’s not the sense of power, of teasing, but the closeness between the two of them that makes his heart pound.
“I could take you on,” he says.
The faintest of smiles that flits across Yagyuu’s face is gone just as quickly as the train lurches into the next station, sending Niou’s feet off balance and people scrambling with their totes and bags off the train, new people cramming on.
Niou squishes closer to Yagyuu. His hand is sweaty on the metal railing. He can’t move, not with the couple behind him, the man breathing into his neck. Not with the old man on his side, crammed between a bar and more people. It is smelly and packed.
And perfect for touching Yagyuu. He doesn’t bristle so much as frown, no more than the next person on the train. Average, predictable. Niou is the one who bristles. Each passing stop with the change of passengers shifts them closer, then apart, then closer as people jostle for space on the train. Niou is the one whose heart flutters in his chest, whose jeans feel too tight between the legs. He’s crammed against the window, so at least Yagyuu doesn’t know.
That would be mortifying.
Niou stares out the window. He can’t look Yagyuu in the eye with the erection in his pants. But he can more than willingly brush his bare arm against Yagyuu’s, feeling his warm dry skin as the train rattles on across the city.
“Senpais, this is our stop!” Kirihara yells over the rush of the crowd. They push through a group of university girls in oversized sweaters and tights, bad hair and bubblegum. Kirihara waves on the platform. Niou follows him through the station- he’s never been to this stop before, but Kirihara seems to know his way around well enough.
On the streets, they can breathe free. Two blocks right, then three more to the north along a sloped hill, a blinking sign for a large arcade towers over them.
Kirihara makes a beeline in the arcade for the war games. By the time Niou manages to catch up to him, the wonderchibi has crammed half his change into a slot and has started selecting his character to play.
“Game of darts then?” Niou asks Yagyuu.
Yagyuu nods once. “They’re over there,” he says, pointing beyond the flash of electric blue lights on the Pokemon packman game.
Yagyuu might be good at darts, but Niou owns the game. He’s played since before he can remember. Pictures of his family, studded with marks from darts he bought at the 100 yen store. Pictures of Sanada, too, and imaginary faces of Marui. Even the standard bullseyes, the red centres pricked with hundreds of marks from hundreds of frustrated throws.
For a Sunday, the arcade isn’t as busy as the other one was. And there are no groups of girls to cheer Yagyuu on. He concentrates on the board, mentally gauging the distance and scuffing his shoes on the linoleum before leaning back with a dart.
“Good play,” Niou says, clapping mid-throw.
Yagyuu, though, isn’t put off. Annoyed, maybe, but not distracted. His aim is good, but he lands his darts on the next-to-centre rings when Niou lands bullseyes, perfect shots all in a row.
“Niou-kun,” Yagyuu says after Niou takes a second game, “do you think we should take Yukimura’s idea and work on our teamwork?”
Niou stops fiddling with the dart end. The dart stabs his finger, pricking the skin. Blood dribbles down his finger. Ow! He doesn’t want to sound too eager. He shrugs. “I guess so, if he’s dumping us in doubles the entire season.”
“Niou-senpai! Yagyuu-senpai!” Kirihara yells at them. “Come and see this game, senpais, it’s so cool! I just shot down this American chopper with my Kamikaze pilot super power missile rocket. Wanna see me do it again? The graphics on this are fucking awesome!”
Niou looks at Yagyuu. Yagyuu blinks. “I’m out of change.”
Niou checks his pocket. He pulls out an old Kleenex, half a folded-up math test and some neon yellow lint that may or may not be from a tennis ball. “Me too,” he says.
“Senpais!” Kirihara insists. “Come and see my- oh, man, you fucker, I’m gonna kill you!” Kirihara’s eyes are plastered to the machine screen. Sounds of explosions and bangs and flashing, seizure-inducing bombs of light flare up in front of his face.
Niou shrugs. He might as well humour the wonderchibi for a while. For the first time, perhaps, Yagyuu seems to think the same as he gives Niou a long, hard look and an amused quirk to his lips.
It feels nice to be on the same page, even about something so insignificant as this.
***
Considering how much Yukimura prefers to spend practice either yelling at younger team members or playing with Sanada and Yanagi and correcting their form, Niou is surprised when Yukimura drags him and Yagyuu off each and every practice for two weeks straight.
The gym echoes their sneakers. Autumn rains patter down on the ceiling, dulling the sounds of the rest of the team outside.
Niou hides his expressions behind a continuous smirk. But, he is glad for the help since neither he nor Yagyuu can figure out how to play doubles. Yagyuu especially. Niou still doesn’t even understand why Yukimura wants them to play doubles- Kirihara and Yanagi are just as good as they could ever be. Even Sanada and Yanagi work together all right, not as a unit, but they get the job done and win.
“Yagyuu,” Yukimura says, “hold your arm out a bit more- yes, like that.” He arranges Yagyuu’s arm, bending the elbow. “Now, loosen up your grip. It’s too tight. You’ll have better control like this. That’s better.” He nods, then walks over to Niou.
“Stand more at the net,” Yukimura says. Niou steps up to the net. He can’t be more than a foot away. Yukimura frowns at him, hair falling over his eyes. He pushes his headband up. Niou can see the edges stained yellow from sweat.
“Step back a half-foot, good.” Yukimura continues to frown. “From what I’ve seen, Niou should set the pace. We’ll keep him at the net and Yagyuu at the baseline. You’ll have more space for that shot, ne Yagyuu?”
Yagyuu nods. Not that he could do anything else. Yukimura doesn’t ask questions, he tells them both the answers.
“When I serve,” Yukimura says, “I don’t want you to watch the ball-”
Niou snorts. “Even though you said never ever take our eyes off it?”
Yukimura glares. “Shut up, Niou. Anyway, I don’t want you to watch the ball, I want you, Yagyuu, to watch Niou who will watch the ball. Watch his hands. Niou- don’t make hand signals. That’s too distracting. I want Yagyuu to know when and where you’ll be moving. You like poaches and drop shots a lot. Take those. Give Yagyuu the volleys and smashes.”
Yukimura sends them serves. For any other player, they’d be excellent shots, straight and strong, barreling through the air towards the middle of the court. It’s obvious to Niou why Yukimura is doing that- no shots specifically directed to either one of them, Yukimura wants them to work together.
“Get it!” Niou shouts.
Yagyuu hits it back. Niou nods, ready for the next shot as Yukimura takes a swing. Lob. Excellent.
Niou rushes to the side, straight into Yagyuu. Their rackets clatter, left and right sides meeting and the ball slams onto the gym floor behind Niou.
Yagyuu picks his racket up first. “Excuse me,” he says, the way he leans over, it’s almost a bow to Niou, angled polite and low enough to say I’m sorry.
Niou shrugs. He squats down for his own racket. “I’m left-handed,” he says, wiggling his left hand.
“Yagyuu!” Yukimura yells as he bounces a ball. “Keep on Niou’s right side. And Niou, keep on Yagyuu’s left. You’ll cover more ground that way.”
Niou has always played with right-handers before, so why is it so hard now? He’s at the net. He can’t stare at Yagyuu from here. But his thoughts keep wandering, wondering what Yagyuu is doing. Does he lean down with bent knees at the base line? Does he sway from side to side like he does sometimes, and Sanada too? Does he lick his lips like Kirihara?
No, probably not that. Still, it would be interesting to know.
Two weeks in the gym with Yukimura as the autumn leaves change colours outside. The maples turn scarlet and burnt orange, fluttering on the breeze. The campus plum trees shake their leave off and the hibiscus bushes stop blooming, shriveling up into themselves as the days cool. Only the pine trees remain unchanged, ever green and alive.
Niou and Yagyuu change. “Play together!” Yukimura yells, constantly, his voice shrill and grating Niou’s ears.
“Watch Niou!” Yukimura shouts at Yagyuu. He stomps over the gym and swings his racket back, smacking Yagyuu in the leg. Yagyuu flinches, but mutters a “Yes, Yukimura-kun”.
“Talk through your game!” Yukimura screams at Niou. His eyes are black and blazing. Niou stares at his feet. He wants to yell back that he is trying, he is. Synchronized doubles don’t just happen. Maybe Yukimura should take a page from his book and try out doubles for himself.
But things get better. Yagyuu reads his motions. He reads Yagyuu’s motions. Yagyuu always adjusts his glasses before a serve and after a smash, when he can squeeze in a precious moment. Niou knows that he will use the split step during a rally to break up the pace and Yagyuu gets it after a week because his own footwork starts to improve. He’s not stumbling and scuffing his shoes as much. His feet are fluid on the gym floor, no longer rubber screeching on linoleum.
And his play gets better, too. His serves aren’t Kirihara’s, they aren’t Yukimura’s, but they are good enough that Niou raises his eyebrows. Sleek and fast, a bit like his laser beam. Yukimura nods, finally pleased with something for once.
“You two should stick together off the court, too,” Yukimura says after one practice. He has a sweat towel around his neck and his shirt off, ready for the shower. Out of the corner of his eye, Niou catches sight of Yagyuu’s shirt riding up but he can’t look now, much to his dismay.
“Pardon?” Yagyuu asks. In the showers, Marui makes loud obnoxious noises and Kirihara shrieks as they start another wet towel fight. Niou rolls his eyes.
“As in, stick together and learn how the other person works. Shitenhoji’s done it,” Yukimura says.
“Those two fags?” Niou asks.
A palpable, but small cringe passes over Yukimura’s face. “Yeah, those two. They played well, though.”
“Are you asking us doubles to be gay?” Jackal asks, poking his head in from the hallway. “Because…uh…I like girls. Like Gisele Bundchen.” He smiles, his eyes glazing over.
“Who?” Yukimura asks. “Not that I care- and no, not gay, but stick together and learn mannerisms, behaviors. You and Marui do a good job, but these two suck. It’s like they’re pulling a cable in two different directions and getting nowhere.”
Yanagi laughs and slams his locker shut. “That was a poor metaphor, Yukimura,” he says. “Basho is much better.”
Yukimura ignores Yanagi and stalks off to the shower, yelling something at Sanada for tomorrow’s morning practice. Niou looks at Yagyuu, who looks at him. They are both topless and it takes every ounce of effort Niou has not to blush and stare at Yagyuu’s chest.
“Are you busy tomorrow night, Niou-kun?” Yagyuu asks.
As if Niou would rather do anything else.
***
The team makes a habit of going out on Friday nights.
And Niou and Yagyuu make a habit of going out on Saturday nights.
The restaurant is a bit of a noodle-bar, a bit of a sushi-bar and entirely a hole in the wall place just off the main road by the train station, a five minute walk from the mall across a highway and a tiny park studded with naked sakura trees.
Niou always orders the katsudon and spends a half hour picking the fried egg off the top of his pork. Yagyuu orders the domburi with boiled beef and shovels the rice into his mouth.
They don’t talk about much. Niou doesn’t know what to say- he’s never had friends and he wouldn’t know what Yagyuu liked to talk about anyway. Yagyuu dabs the sides of his mouth with his napkin, finishing up as soon as Niou starts.
And then Yagyuu always orders a bowl of tokotoren jelly. He slathers everything in vinegar, making small noises in the back of his throat as he eats. On the surface, Niou would have assumed that Yagyuu was a silent eater. He doesn’t make noise at their weekly team buffets, besides a polite slurp of noodles or the very occasional gulp of green tea. But he dives into dishes of jelly and practically moans as he eats the gelatinous white blob.
“Is that good?” Niou asks, half-sarcastic, half-serious.
Yagyuu stops chewing. He swallows, then licks his lips. “I like tokotoren jelly,” he says.
Well, I figured that much. Niou nods.
The restaurant is always filled with seniors and students. They are always the two youngest there and the quietest. No gossip about neighbours, no chatting about boyfriends or makeup. The silences are awkward at first. Niou digs his fingernails into the table from underneath. He wants to ask questions. He wants to be chummy. But he doesn’t know how and Yagyuu doesn’t help. If Niou asks a question, Yagyuu will kill the conversation dead with a terse and succinct answer.
“The weather is nice,” Niou says.
“Yes, the weather is pleasant,” Yagyuu says.
“Sanada was an ass at practice today, don’t you think?” Niou asks.
Yagyuu frowns. “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”
Niou wants to smack his head on the table. Yagyuu plays with a chopstick in his dish of ponzu, stirring the sauce around.
But neither of them asks for the bill to leave.
Only tennis can break the ice.
“Your serve is looking better,” Niou says. “Yukimura isn’t bitching as much about your form.”
Yagyuu looks up from fiddling with his chopsticks. “Really?” he asks. In the moment, his eyes go wide and a smile flickers across his face, genuine and proud of himself. Niou nods.
“Yeah, maybe it’s more power from your legs, but it was good.”
It is slow and tentative, the way they open up about tennis. Niou says less, nodding and humming in agreement as Yagyuu tells him one week about how he played as a little boy, but stopped because he started golf after a pro tournament came to Yokohama.
“It’s too bad the big tennis opens never come to Japan,” Yagyuu says. He sighs.
“Australia isn’t that far,” Niou says. He stabs a leftover piece of sushi, poking the pink flesh of the fish straight through.
“My parents would never let me go,” Yagyuu tells him.
Megane dork family, over-protective and boring, Niou thinks.
“But the ABC Open might come to Tokyo next August,” Yagyuu goes on. “If it does, I’ll get a ticket.”
“Might be during Nationals,” Niou says. “Yukimura would kill you if you missed a game.”
Yagyuu smiles.
Given a chance, Yagyuu will talk. Not a lot, but more than Niou. He asks Niou about how to follow through his shots and what are the best sneakers to wear. He talks about the courts and playing with Kirihara during practices. One Saturday, he even asks Niou about what it’s like to be a southpaw.
Niou blinks. No one has ever asked him that before. Kirihara has taken advantage of it during rallies and practice matches- why that kid wants to play a leftie so bad, Niou doesn’t know.
“I…dunno,” he says. “I don’t think about it much.”
“Not ever?” Yagyuu presses. He leans on the table, making the legs creak underneath.
“Well,” Niou cocks his head and scratches behind his ear, “I guess for things like the twist serve you need to modify it, and doubles, yeah, but do you ever think about what it’s like to play with your right-hand?”
Yagyuu’s brow furrows. “I…am right-handed, Niou-kun,” he says.
“Exactly.”
“But I can write with both hands,” Yagyuu says.
Niou can feel the flies gathering in his mouth. A beat passes, filled with the sounds of the chatter of waitresses and clanking dishes in the kitchen. They sit towards the back of the restaurant, near the tiny bar where a middle-aged woman rings an order up on an old-fashioned cash register.
“What?” he manages.
Yagyuu shrugs, as though it’s nothing. “I taught myself when I was five.”
“You’re ambidextrous?” Niou asks. He gapes. He knows he’s gaping, but he can’t stop. This boring megane dork is supposed to like pocket protectors and building computers, not darts and being ambidextrous! Nothing about Yagyuu makes sense. Why does no one know these things about him?
Why doesn’t Niou?
“Can you play tennis with both hands?” he asks.
Yagyuu smiles. The look on his face sends a shiver down Niou’s spine, the way his teeth flash ever so slightly in the gaudy fluorescent lighting. “Do you want to find out, Niou-kun?”