[montreal]
Title: Savor
ID: [montreal]
Word Count: 4,000
Character(s) or pairing(s): Seigaku ensemble
Tezuka feels the coolness of the medal even through his jersey, even though he knows that’s logically impossible. He barely registers the weight of it around his neck; is amazed all over again when he bows to the Rikkai lineup from across the net and his eyes catch the flash of gold - the embossed words - the laurel curliques.
The suppressed pain in Sanada’s face and the way he favors his uninjured leg brings Tezuka’s thoughts back to the ache in his arm, an agony staved off by the triumphant endorphins coursing through his body. It feels a little like he never came out of the Muga no Kyouchi. The world is floating even as his team erupts into shouts of joy and laughter.
We’ve won, we’ve won, Kikumaru is shouting, crying into Oishi’s shoulder. Oishi is patting him on the back and repeating it after his doubles partner, we’ve won, we’ve won. Momoshiro is literally in the air, jumping up and down and whooping with the sheer joy of it, while Kaidoh stands there watching him with an uncharacteristic grin. Inui approaches Kaidoh and says something that Tezuka doesn’t catch, but the net effect is that Kaidoh claps his senpai on the shoulder in an unusual gesture of closeness and hisses something that sounds like we’ve won. Fuji is listening to Kawamura choke out his happy words in between happy tears. (Kawamura’s racket is lying on the bench.)
Fuji’s ocean-eyes are open and his smile is real. It encompasses all of them and it says, we’ve won, we’ve won.
The team he’s struggled so hard to lead and the matches he’s struggled so hard to win - We’ve won, he thinks, almost dazedly. We’ve won.
And Echizen Ryoma, who’s sworn to take his place from him, sworn to be the pillar of Seigaku - Echizen Ryoma, who has just defeated the reigning Yukimura Seiichi - Echizen Ryoma, veteran of the American tournaments - Echizen Ryoma, arrogant prince of the tennis courts -
Echizen Ryoma turns to him and those wide gold eyes are a mix of that indomitable confidence and an innocent wonder and amazement. Echizen turns to him and says, ‘Buchou, we’ve won.’
Tezuka catches the smile that Fuji tosses his way and the corners of his lips curve ever so slightly upwards as well. ‘Yes,’ he answers Echizen, his fingers closing around his medal. ‘We’ve won.’
And then, again, this time to his team, his team with their shining eyes focused on his as the setting sun bathed the courts in glory -
‘We’ve won.’
*
He wakes up on Sunday morning with warmth spread through him, greeted by the gleaming curves of the trophy on his desk. There’ll be a presentation during Monday assembly in front of the school and he’ll hand it over to the principal, who’ll lock it into the school’s trophy cabinet, but for now, and for always, it’s his trophy. Their trophy.
Habit propels him out of bed in search of his morning jog. He brushes his teeth as meticulously as ever and changes into track pants and shirt before setting off, the sun just beginning to rise. He’s careful of his elbow, which twinges resentfully every so often.
As if prompted by an invisible cue, Fuji materializes out of nowhere and asks solicitously, ‘How’s your elbow?’
Tezuka refuses to jump or show any signs of surprise. Fuji enjoys scaring people; Tezuka would never admit it, but in his own roundabout way he enjoys refusing to be scared by Fuji. ‘It does hurt a little. I’ll get it checked.’
‘Preferably today. You should actually have gotten it checked out yesterday, instead of insisting on watching all the remaining matches,’ Fuji admonishes.
Tezuka shrugs and answers, ‘Then I wouldn’t have been able to watch your match against “me”.’
Fuji laughs. ‘Against Niou, you mean. That was never you.’
‘Of course not,’ Tezuka says severely.
‘Ah, do I sense a bit of jealousy?’ Fuji teases.
‘I simply doubt that I can be properly imitated by a swindler, even one as skilled as Rikkai’s Niou,’ Tezuka says serenely, keeping his face straight.
‘I don’t know,’ Fuji banters. ‘I might try someday.’
Tezuka says without missing a beat, ‘In which case we’ll see if Echizen can defeat you. Or I should say, defeat me. Of course, that depends on how good you are.’
Fuji is flummoxed enough to stop jogging for a moment before recovering himself and matching Tezuka’s pace. ‘Inui would kill to data this,’ Fuji says tangentially, laughing delightedly under his breath.
Tezuka makes no reply, and they simply continue jogging for the rest of the route in silence, broken only by the occasional chuckle.
*
Tezuka finishes his school assignments by noon, and his mother makes him an early lunch of miso and grilled chicken breast with brown rice. He’ll have to get the notes on the chapters that he missed in history, but as a whole he’s satisfied that his grades won’t suffer from his recent focus on tennis.
He only wishes he could say the same for some of his teammates. Kikumaru will no doubt plunge into a panic-fuelled revision, helped by Oishi’s worries about passing and hindered by Fuji’s devil-may-care attitude towards work (and life in general, but that’s Fuji). Kaidoh should be alright, but Momoshiro is already failing classical literature, which is another reason to make Kaidoh captain next year, he supposes. After all, failing academic classes is a sure way to suspension from extracurriculars, and besides, a captain is supposed to set the standards. But then again Momoshiro has a better instinct for dealing with people. Tezuka may be proof that one does not have to be outgoing to lead, but Momoshiro’s people skills are certainly a sight better than Kaidoh’s. And while the other person can always be vice-captain, there’s the problem of them fighting all the time to consider.
Perhaps he should simply break with tradition and make Echizen captain, he muses. The boy is a wildcard choice but Tezuka has always known - from the moment he set eyes on that laidback intensity - that Echizen Ryoma is special. And his incredible talent for tennis is undeniable.
In which case, he hopes that Echizen gets his growth spurt fast. The mental image of a chibi handing out orders to people who tower over him simply will not do.
It’s only then that it hits him - next year will be a completely different year. Certainly, he’ll still have Kikumaru and loyal Oishi and the ever-capricious but constant Fuji, but they’ll start next year as high school freshmen in a different club, under a different captain. Kawamura is quitting tennis, and Tezuka knows that Yamato Yuudai no longer plays.
It doesn’t really matter, he tells himself. Tezuka is no longer a scrawny freshman to be picked on and hurt by his seniors. And Yamato Yuudai was the only first in a long series of people Tezuka chased after. Tezuka has come into his own now, a formidable player in a year ridiculously crowded with brilliants. There are many more matches he still wants to play, and then there are the plans to leave for Germany (momentarily shelved but always waiting in the background, the promise of professional tennis).
There are people he wants to play, wants to defeat - Atobe, for a rematch. Yukimura, whose fire remains unquenched despite the debilitating illness and defeat at Echizen’s hands. And of course, he wants to face Fuji again, for their long-awaited match, and Echizen again, because Echizen is a challenge that will have to be met again and again. High school is nothing.
Nonetheless, it is a new and unsettling idea. Next year he’ll be a high school student in a new environment. He already anticipates the urge to go back to the middle-school division, to supervise practices and order laps and swings, to hear them call him ‘buchou’. He will have to grapple with this and make sure that he doesn’t do it. They will have to find their own victories, without him - a lesson well-learnt from Yamato-buchou, he thinks to himself. They will be fine, of course - Tezuka has every confidence in them.
And besides, he thinks to himself as he begins to wash the dishes, all those are next year’s troubles, and yesterday, they won.
*
He closes the door behind him and sets out along the garden path. He’s halfway to the front gate before he notices the baseball cap and the slouch. Echizen is waiting for him.
He lets himself out and turns to look questioningly at the younger boy, who looks up at him with a pseudo-innocent guile that doesn’t fool Tezuka for a second. ‘Fuji-senpai said you were going to get your elbow checked,’ Echizen explains ingenuously.
‘I see,’ Tezuka answers. ‘And how did Fuji know when I was going?’
Echizen tugs his cap over his eyes and smirks. ‘Fuji-senpai is psychic,’ he answers.
Fuji calmly appears at Tezuka’s shoulder. Echizen’s smirk only grows wider. ‘And he can teleport.’
Fuji just smiles.
Tezuka fights the urge to sigh and sets off with the two of them following.
*
On the bus, Tezuka tries to read his Hitomi Kanehara paperback but is thoroughly distracted by Fuji, who is teaching Echizen a variant of rock-paper-scissors that somehow involves all four hands. Snatches of Fuji’s instructions keep drifting Tezuka’s way.
‘- use the paper -’ Fuji cheerfully waggles his fingers - ‘ - as bait, and when your opponent uses the scissors, then your rock will jump on it -’
Apparently, Fuji’s version of a simple childhood game also has a few additions to the orthodox rock, paper and scissors. Apparently, Fuji’s is rock, paper, scissors, wind, dictionary, and kitchen blender.
Tezuka is completely bewildered and so is Echizen, up until Fuji says, ‘Like Sanada’s Fuurinkazan becoming the Fuurinkainzanrai.’
‘Ah,’ Tezuka says, and returns to his paperback. Everything makes more sense when explained in Tennis.
*
On the train, an old couple gets on. All three of them vacate their seats at the same instant.
After a fair amount of wrangling and a few well-placed Fuji-barbs, the two of them manage to maneuver Tezuka into sitting back down, even though it’s his arm that’s injured and not his legs.
All in all, Tezuka feels that some obscure cosmic justice has been fulfilled when a pregnant woman gets on at the next stop and Tezuka gives up the seat to her.
*
On the walk to the hospital, on the sidewalk lined with falling gingko leaves, Fuji whistles a snatch of melody. The wind picks up and swirls the leaves at their feet. Echizen eyes Fuji suspiciously. Tezuka’s eyeballs do a motionless three-sixty and he whistles an answering phrase just as the wind dies down. Echizen transfers the suspicious stare to him, and then mutters, ‘Che. I can’t whistle.’
Fuji dissolves in gales of laughter.
At the hospital, many of the nurses give Fuji’s convulsions worried looks, but it’s only when they’re in the elevator and about to reach their floor that Fuji stops laughing and bends down to whistle a piercing string of notes into Echizen’s ear.
The younger boy yelps and glares at Fuji, who grins, unabashed. Tezuka shakes his head, but he’s a little tempted to bend down and whistle in Echizen’s other ear.
*
By the time Tezuka is done with a ridiculous battery of tests and scans, Fuji and Ryoma have played a hundred games of the complicated version of rock-paper-scissors. They all troop down the hall to the doctor’s office, where the three of them stand behind Tezuka’s chair as the doctor sternly admonishes Tezuka to not touch a racket for the next month if he ever wants to play tennis again. He is to come back again after that and be subjected to another round of tests and perhaps light physiotherapy for that arm after that. It will be months before he gets to play again.
Tezuka acquiesces to the orders this time. Contrary to what the doctor’s exasperated but indulgent glance is implying, he is not a tennis-mad idiot. He would have sacrificed his arm for the sweet thrill of victory, but now that they’ve won there are more matches to win. And he needs a functional arm to continue winning, to do the Zero-Shiki and all the other moves that have already made him a legend on the courts.
Later, he will call Yukimura to check on Sanada, he decides. Though Yukimura has already probably browbeaten Sanada into resting. And besides, even Sanada can’t play tennis on crutches.
In the elevator on the way down, Echizen turns towards Fuji with an impertinent smirk on his face. ‘Well, Fuji-senpai, since buchou can’t play, I guess the two of us will just have to play each other.’
It is not very comfortable to be trapped in an enclosed space with Fuji’s answering smile. ‘Certainly, Echizen. Shall we go?’
*
They arrive at one of the nearby street courts. They have their rackets with them, of course. Tennis players always do, in case of sudden and dramatic confrontations with rival schools.
Tezuka feels like it should be raining, his mind thrown back to that thrilling match between the two of them in the pouring storm. He recalls the clench of excitement coiled inside him as the two of them skidded across the wet ground, the urge to be out there with them, playing against two of the best opponents he’s ever known.
Fuji, who had never met a worthy opponent, who had not known then who he genuinely was.
Echizen, who had so much raw power and potential just demanding to be tapped, to be drawn out by an opponent that he had to work to defeat.
‘Smooth or rough?’ Fuji asks.
‘Smooth,’ Echizen answers.
The racket falls smooth, and Echizen serves. He opens with the Twist Serve, and Fuji returns it easily, smiling. Tezuka has the feeling that Fuji’s smile is directed at him as much as at Echizen, a heady promise that makes the months ahead an interminable stretch of waiting for his arm to heal fully. To have the match they’ve waited for so long.
Fuji’s movement on the courts is all elegance. For once Tezuka watches them play tennis with a simple spectator’s eye, not calculating how to defeat a possible opponent but simply enjoying the slender and strong lines of Fuji’s body, the grace in the Higuma Otoshi as he returns Echizen’s Cyclone Smash.
Echizen is all sheer intensity and instinct as he sprints across the baseline to catch a shot from Fuji. Tezuka remembers that day and the rattle-roar of the running trains as they played each other. The frustration in Echizen’s eyes and yet, the exhilaration of playing a strong opponent.
When Echizen enters the Muga no Kyouichi, Fuji’s smile sharpens. Fuji, Tezuka suspects, will never enter Muga. He doesn’t quite know why. Either it is because Fuji is too in-control and aware, or it is because Fuji has never had a definite sense of self and therefore cannot lose it. Nonetheless, it does not matter. Muga is not a state that defines the peak of tennis skills; Muga is simply a tool that allows one to rely on the body’s instinct rather than thought, and it will not suit some people. Atobe is one of them, of course. The other player’s ego is so big that if Atobe ever let go of it in order to enter Muga, the resulting thud of it hitting the ground would probably trigger a small earthquake.
Echizen, on the other hand, slips into that state without any qualms. Echizen, so deep in his confidence that he can surrender to that sense of disconnect that Muga brings without being afraid of the loss of control, confident that he can win before Muga drains his body beyond its breaking point.
Tezuka is hardly aware that a crowd has gathered around them, the low whispers of ‘Hey, isn’t that Seigaku?’ and ‘Yeah... Echizen Ryoma... defeated Yukimura Seiichi...’ and ‘Look, Tezuka Kunimitsu...’
He ignores them in favor of keeping his eyes pinned on the match in front of him. Most of the time their eyes are fixed on each other, but every so often the two of them each turn and meet his gaze. Echizen’s eyes are golden conquest and gilded with provocation, while Fuji’s are the sky at highest noon and the cobalt of blue coral snakes, dangerous and demanding to be tamed.
They are playing this match for him, Tezuka realizes. As a tribute and as a challenge. His hand itches for a racket’s grip.
‘Not bad, Fuji-senpai,’ Echizen pants, crouched and ready with his racket in his hands. ‘But you won’t win.’
‘Maa, Echizen,’ Fuji says noncommittally. ‘We’ll see.’
Yes, Tezuka thinks to himself. He wants to watch this.
*
They’re at six games all when the floodlights inundate the courts with light. The crowd of spectators has thinned out by now. Fuji calls a halt and walks over to Tezuka with Echizen right behind him. Wordlessly Tezuka hands them both towels and water, and Fuji buries his face in the terrycloth material. Both of them smell of tennis, the heat from their bodies extraordinarily close as they both sit down beside Tezuka.
‘We’ll call it even for today,’ Fuji offers. ‘We should go for dinner.’
Echizen nods, his stomach gurgling. ‘Besides,’ Echizen adds, ‘We’re late.’
‘For?’ Tezuka asks.
Both of them offer him identical grins. ‘For the victory celebration, of course.’ Fuji says sweetly. ‘I even got Yumiko-nee-san to supply us with champagne.’
‘We’re all underage.’
‘I bet Echizen will get drunk first,’ Fuji says cheerfully, completely ignoring Tezuka. ‘Because he’s a chibi.’
Tezuka has a sudden and sinking feeling in his stomach.
*
Tezuka resolutely sips his green tea, only to find that it bubbles in his mouth. Fuji has managed to secrete the tea somewhere and replaced it with alcohol. For lack of anything better to do he takes another sip. Better than watching Momoshiro dance and sing half-naked on top of a nearby table, to the laughter and encouragement of an equally stoned Kikumaru and Kawamura. Inui is waiting his turn. Tezuka most decidedly does not want to see that either.
In the meantime, Oishi has his face buried in his arms and is weeping into a dish of sushi, crying about how moving the entire tournament was and all the wonderful times they’d shared with each other. Kaidoh is nursing his sixth drink and singing a song about cats under his breath and Ryoma is patting Oishi’s back and looking very, very happy for absolutely no reason at all.
Fuji is quietly sipping his own glass of champagne and flipping interestedly through Inui’s notebook. ‘Did you know, Tezuka,’ Fuji says conversationally, ‘That Rikkai’s Yanagi has two moles and a scar on the inside of his left thigh?’
Tezuka does not want to know.
‘And apparently,’ and here Fuji’s voice takes on the reciting tones of Inui, ‘Sanada Gen’ichirou solicitously carried Yukimura Seiichi to the sick bay after a collapse of dubious authenticity between third period math and fourth period physics. Monday, three weeks ago. Would you like to know what Inui thinks of their relationship?’
‘No,’ he answers resolutely, and tosses back the glass of champagne.
Fuji’s smile widens.
‘Fuji-senpai!’ the cry comes from Echizen, who staggers in a zigzag across the room to where Fuji is sitting. ‘Monopolizing buchou is bad!’
So is alcohol, Tezuka thinks. Fuji, on the other hand, clearly doesn’t agree.
‘Ah,’ Fuji says, sounding pleasantly surprised and extremely diabolical. ‘Apparently, Inui has been working on an Inui Sports Massage Gel as a supplement to Inui Juice.’
‘Fuji,’ Tezuka commands, getting to his feet and neatly sidestepping a weaving Echizen. ‘Give me that notebook.’
Fuji raises an eyebrow but hands it over in time to catch Echizen, who flops into Fuji’s lap and smiles beatifically at Tezuka.
Tezuka lets his eyes brush over the plans for the Inui Sports Massage Gel (written in bold at the top of the page) and tries not to wince at the list of potential ingredients. He feels a little guilty for doing it, but he quietly and neatly tears the entire section out of the notebook.
Fuji grins. ‘Would you like me to dispose of those for you, Tezuka?’
Tezuka almost gives them to Fuji before he thinks better of it and checks himself at the last minute. Alcohol is clearly impairing his decision-making capabilities. Yudan sezu ni ikou, Tezuka tells himself sternly, and tucks the papers away in his pocket, giving the notebook back to Fuji instead.
Fuji’s answering smile is just a little too wide. Tezuka thinks for a moment that that might be because Echizen is trying to wash his face in an imitation of his Himalayan, but thinks better of it and asks for the notebook back.
Sure enough, after a large chunk of information about Atobe’s dating habits and an apparently suspicious sighting of the Hyotei captain and Jyousei Shonan’s Kajimoto (at one of Shibuya’s cafes, after which they apparently went shopping for accessories together), Tezuka sees a recipe for Inui Energy Bars.
He takes those out too, and for good measure flips through the rest of the book, only giving it back when he’s ascertained that there are no more strange recipes.
A particularly loud and off-key note from the caterwauling Momoshiro cluster grates on Tezuka’s ear and he takes another sip of champagne to counter it. The tune is only partially recognizable as a pop song, only that they’ve modified the lyrics, because they’re singing something like ‘SEIGAKU~~~~ FIGHT~~~~ VICTORY~~~ YAY~~~’.
Fuji joins in with gusto at their repeat and Echizen even manages a rather wobbly ‘VICTORY~~~ YAY~~~’ before demanding more alcohol from Fuji, who promptly gives Echizen his glass, lets the younger boy have another gulp and deftly rescues his drink as Echizen keels over onto the floor and falls asleep almost instantly.
Tezuka stares at Echizen for a long moment before Fuji raises his glass to Tezuka. ‘To victory,’ he says.
Tezuka eyes his suddenly-full-again glass and wonders how they’re going to tidy up, the wreckage of sushi dishes and wasabi and glasses everywhere. How to get everyone home in one piece. Echizen has one hand wrapped around his ankle. Tezuka eyes Fuji’s happy smile, and eyes his glass again.
‘To victory,’ he agrees, and tosses back the drink.
*
Tezuka wakes in a tangle of limbs.
Well, that’s his question answered, he supposes. None of them made it home yesterday. He can only suppose that Kawamura’s father was indulgent enough to let them sleep here. Either that, or he didn’t want to deal with eight drunk tennis players either.
Tezuka tries to ignore the beginnings of a slight hangover and attempts to move his right arm, only to find it curled around Echizen, who has his head pillowed on Tezuka’s right shoulder, inches from him. The fact that the younger boy isn’t drooling in his sleep is a small mercy that Tezuka is glad for. Kaidoh is curled up with a cushion, like a snake that’s trying to be a cat. Inui and Momoshiro are collapsed on the table in a state of near-indecency. Kikumaru is flopped face-down over both of Tezuka’s legs. Normally restrained Oishi is sprawled out like a starfish. Kawamura is propped up in the corner.
‘Fuji,’ Tezuka says. His arm is falling asleep and Echizen’s dark hair tickles. He can’t feel his legs any more. ‘Fuji, wake up.’
The one responsible for this entire wreckage is pressed up against Tezuka’s left side, protective of Tezuka’s left arm. Fuji is wearing a very self-satisfied look. ‘We’ve won, Tezuka,’ Fuji murmurs, and Tezuka can’t be sure if he’s still sleeping or simply faking it.
From the right, Echizen makes a noise of assent that may or may not have been a coincidence.
Tezuka sighs and stares up at the ceiling. He’ll wait another five or ten minutes before kicking Kikumaru off and giving Fuji three hundred laps in punishment for this. The rest are all going to wake up with screaming headaches. They’ve all missed school. Explanations will have to be given.
But for this moment, Tezuka just lets himself smile and savor it.