(no subject)
water babies
Their school always held swimming classes in the summer. Boys snickered and shouted as they raced to push each other into the water, while the girls stayed close to each other, whispering and giggling into each other's ears.
Tezuka did not like to swim. The chlorine in the water irritated his eyes. The school swimming trunks was a very small step away from obscene. And he always had to use extra Gatsby spray to get his hair to fall just the way he liked it after a swimming class.
If he could, he would skip swimming completely. But he was the Student President. But he was the Class Representative. But he had a reputation to protect, an image to uphold. And so, he swam.
Grimly, he stroked, one S-pull, two S-pull, breath -- across the pool, his breath gushing out in a stream of imperfect bubbles -- S-pull, breath -- over his mouth and chin. His hands looked a ghostly, deathly blue under sunlight refracted through the chlorinated blue of the pool water.
His legs scissored through the water mechanically, driving him further along the length. Two more laps.
Swimming was nothing like tennis.
Tennis was a play between two people. Tennis was the heft of the racquet, the impact of the ball, the opponent's eyes from behind the net.
Swimming was... boring. The swimmer. The water. And the clock.
Tezuka held the second-fastest time in Freestyle in his class. The fastest time belong to a darkly tanned boy with close shaven hair, and light circles around his eyes and a shockingly white grin plastered over his face.
He came up to him one day while they were changing back into their uniforms and said in a completely serious voice that was at odds with his grin. "You should really consider giving up tennis and joining the swimming club. I'll bet we'll sweep the Nationals in all the men's events if you did."
Tezuka looked at him in silence for a moment. "We can't afford to get careless at this point."
"I'm guessing that would be a 'no'," the boy joked wryly.
"We will be late," said Tezuka, and he put on his glasses and walked by the boy, taking more care than usual not to touch the other boy in any way.
Tezuka reached the wall, and flipped, a simple tuck of the head, twist of body, strong kickoff, and his body surged smoothly through the waters again. One more lap.
There was no one else in the pool today. No watchful attendent, no overly-anxious physiotherapist to watch over him and pull him up -- No, Kunimitsu, you must be careful not to over-do it at this point -- except that there was no more point to this at all.
Swimming was supposed to be good for recovering athletes. It maintains muscle tone, and exercised the body while putting minimal stress and impact on it.
It was, according to all his doctors, all the specialists, with their guttural german-accented English, the best they could do. He will, given proper care and supervision, regain full use of his shoulder again.
Of course, it was a pity, he would no longer be able to play professionally. He was an excellent player by all accounts. But still, he was young. And he will heal and gain sufficient prowess in his shoulder again. Perfectly adequate for a normal, active, useful life.
Tezuka reached the deepest part of the pool, the part where you can dive right down and could not reach the floor. He could tell by the sudden increase in drag as he pulled, breathed, and by the distinct drop in the water's temperature against his bare skin.
The water here was a deeper blue. Almost the blue of the autumn sky over the Seigaku tennis courts. The lines of the tiles were blurred, he could hardly see them, even with the aid of his googles. If he squinted, he could pretend that he was not swimming, that he was back on the courts, the brisk autumn wind cool on his face.
His shoulder twinged, a warning sign.
Half a lap to go.