PoT Fic: Choice (2/2) [Tezuka/Ryoma] [PG-13]
Choice
continued
What came previous.
Tezuka silently held the door open for Ryoma as he staggered in. "If that's what I think it is, I'm not eating it," Tezuka said.
Ryoma snorted. "I figured as much, but I decided I had nothing to lose in bringing you some - I'll eat it all anyway."
Tezuka frowned. "It's not healthy for you, especially with your new training program," he pointed out, following Ryoma into the kitchen and watching him spread the paper bags onto the table, wincing.
"They taste good," Ryoma replied, unwrapping a hamburger and biting into it with an expression of bliss. Tezuka glanced at the others and wondered if it was all right to be mildly jealous of meat.
He made himself tea, which Ryoma declined in favour of his coke, and didn't realise he was absently stealing fries until Ryoma nudged over a bag to him. Tezuka immediately froze, blinked, and refused to touch another one until Ryoma decided on drastic cajoling methods involving getting onto Tezuka's lap and force-feeding him the fries, much to Tezuka's amusement -
- until he looked up to find his father standing at the kitchen door, watching them with an unreadable expression on his face.
Ryoma immediately tensed, his eyes narrowing, and Tezuka placed a hand on his back - stay calm, don't lose your temper, please - but it was his father who spoke first.
"Ah, Echizen-san… I didn't realise you were back."
Ryoma looked at him, his eyes still narrowed, and replied, "I came back as soon as I heard." They were both lying, of course, having crossed each other in the hospital corridors numerous times, but Tezuka wasn't going to call them out on it.
Tezuka's father glanced at the fast food wrappers and frowned. "Kunimitsu, I hope you're not eating any of that. You know how unhealthy it is for you, especially in your present condition."
Tezuka closed his eyes and sighed, but before he'd even opened his mouth, Ryoma had spoken. "A once-off won't kill him." Ryoma's challenging tone made Tezuka wince and wish that he'd gone to Ryoma's house, after all.
His father stared down at Ryoma, his eyes boring into his, his frown deepening as a flicker of dislike flashed across his face. "Ah, but a once-off is how bad habits begin," he said, turning. "I'll be in my study if you need me."
Ryoma hissed, his arms tensing, but Tezuka wrapped his arms around Ryoma's waist and pressed his face against his neck, pressing his lips against the warm skin as he thought, It doesn't matter, you're here now. I can deal with anything, so long as I don't separate us again.
"I'm sorry I didn't believe when you said we were better off doing this together," he whispered; Ryoma kissed him in reply.
...so, we’re all thinking of getting everyone together to celebrate Kawamura’s engagement and Tezuka’s continuing recovery. Will you be able to bring Tezuka because he won’t come otherwise for some strange reason, and it won’t be the same without him…
- excerpt of an email from Oishi Syuuichiro to Echizen Ryoma
The minute Tezuka walked through the door and realised what was going on, he faltered for the briefest moment and hissed in a low voice, “I hate you.”
Ryoma grinned, nudging him. “Play nice, now, Pillar of Seigaku,” he murmured pointedly. “Everyone wanted to see you again so badly that I had to oblige Oishi.” Tezuka immediately looked straight at Oishi, who laughed, scratched the back of his neck, and promptly moved closer to Fuji.
It was odd, being back with the team again; he expected Kawamura’s father to suddenly appear with mountains of sushi, mistaking him for an adult instead of a boy the same age as his son, congratulating them on another victory. He hadn’t realised how much he had enjoyed those celebrations until now, when he was looking back on them with the realisation that they were gone forever.
Tezuka blinked, and the images of everyone’s teenage self disappeared, replaced by the reality of them in their twenties, grown-up and beginning to be shouldered with adult responsibility and duty. Tezuka hadn’t realise until now that he had been comparatively lucky, being able to go pro with Ryoma and not having to worry about a nine-to-five job or a future marriage. All that he’d had to be concerned with was tennis and Ryoma.
And now he didn’t even have that.
He blinked as Ryoma pushed a plate of sushi over to him. “You should eat,” Ryoma said quietly, before yelping as Kikumaru bounced over to him, eyes trained on his plate. “Oi, get your own!”
As the two argued, Ryoma more cheerfully than Tezuka remembered, Oishi came over and sat down beside Tezuka, smiling over at Ryoma and Kikumaru. “Eiji,” he chided gently, sighing as he was ignored. He paused, fiddled with his chopsticks, and then turned to Tezuka. “I hope you’re not angry with me for asking Ryoma to bring you here,” he said, an expression of genuine apology crossing his face. Some things, it seemed, never changed throughout the years, and Oishi was one of them.
Tezuka sighed. “No, I’m not. You know me too well, after all. I... I’m glad that I came, to be honest. It’s - comforting to see everyone again. I never realised how much I had taken junior high and high school for granted until now.”
Oishi smiled. “You and Echizen seem to be close again,” he said, his eyes lighting up.
Tezuka glanced over to where Kikumaru and Ryoma were currently engaged in a chopstick duel for the last piece of sushi. “We’re working on it. And you and Kikumaru?”
Oishi blushed. “We’re going well… we still haven’t told our families yet. We want to wait until our careers have stabilised, though we probably should have told them years ago, like you and Echizen.”
Tezuka shrugged. “That wasn’t necessarily the wisest choice,” he said, and he and Oishi lapsed into a silence laced with sudden tension.
Nearby, Kawamura, who had drank more than he probably should, was telling anyone who would listen about his fiancée, a lady who had thankfully been spared the potential embarrassment of meeting everyone when there was an unlimited amount of sake flowing. Tezuka and Oishi listened for a while, Oishi laughing and Tezuka thinking about the hangover Kawamura was going to be faced with the following morning.
Oishi finally asked, casually, “Have you played tennis with Echizen lately?”
Oishi had vastly improved on his subtlety tactics, but not enough for someone who had worked alongside him like Tezuka had. Tezuka glanced at him quickly and then said, “No. The doctors recommend that I leave tennis for as long as I need to.”
Oishi stared at him, his sushi forgotten. “And you’re actually listening to them?” he asked, obviously remembering the amount of trouble he’d had in ensuring that Tezuka didn’t go too far during his injury recuperation in junior high.
Tezuka shrugged. “It was a serious injury. And advice always seems more sensible in hindsight.”
Oishi continued to stare at him, beginning to look worried. “You haven’t touched a tennis racquet in months?” he whispered in hushed horror.
“No,” Tezuka said, refusing to look at him.
When Oishi had stared down at his plate, possibly to conceal either his shock or his embarrassment, or perhaps even both, Tezuka looked up to find Echizen staring straight at him, his eyes narrowed and his sushi forgotten (Kikumaru seizing the opportunity to devour it). Tezuka glanced away from him, only to find Fuji looking at him in a similar, displeased fashion.
IT WAS A DATE?!
- response of Echizen Nanjiroh to the reply left by Echizen Ryoma on his memo
“You told me you were beginning to practise a little,” Ryoma said the moment Tezuka opened the front door.
Tezuka blinked, wondered if Ryoma would go away if he simply slammed the door shut and refused to open it again, and then decided he wouldn’t. He paused, sighed, and then said, “You should come in.”
Ryoma stomped in, his racquet narrowly missing Tezuka’s nose as he stormed by. Tezuka closed his eyes and tried to keep breathing.
“Tea?” he asked when he followed Ryoma, whose answer was to narrow his eyes and look ready to smash a ball straight into Tezuka’s glasses. Tezuka went to the sink and filled the kettle, setting it on to boil, taking longer than was necessary. It didn’t matter; he could feel Ryoma’s gaze boring into his back, regardless.
“Why haven’t you been swinging, at least, keeping up with the basics?” Ryoma demanded, and Tezuka sighed. So this was the way it was to go.
“The doctors -” he began.
“I went to your doctors. Your injury was never that serious to begin with; everyone panicked and blew it out of proportion, and you just went along with it. Why? Was it because of your father? Did you do this because of him?”
Tezuka stiffened and turned at that. “No, of course not,” he snapped, glaring before he could help it, while inwardly thinking, What?
Ryoma snorted. “Hmph. Your career was never going to be over. Put on hold for a year or two, certainly, but you would have come back. You’re good enough to make a comeback regardless. People cried when they first went pro and realised you were their opponent. People would have wanted you to make a comeback; they would have supported you.”
Oishi, the first time they had gotten drunk after high school, had told Tezuka that he’d never understood how Tezuka, having no social skills whatsoever, could still be followed, admired and supported by so many. Oishi had never remembered saying that, and Tezuka hadn’t told him, but he’d never forgotten it.
“Perhaps I’m tired of this,” Tezuka said.
Ryoma crossed his arms. “Of tennis? Never.”
“Perhaps I’m tired of you,” Tezuka said.
Ryoma shrugged. “Fine. But if you were, you wouldn’t have kissed me. Remember who you’re talking to, Buchou.”
Tezuka pressed his lips together. “I’m tired,” he whispered, curling his hands into fists when Ryoma moved closer to him. He turned his face away from Ryoma, so the kiss landed on his cheek instead of his mouth, and sighed when Ryoma hugged him around the waist.
“No,” Ryoma murmured, laying his face against Tezuka’s chest. “You’re just lost. Play tennis with me?”
And then they jumped apart when they heard the door open, and Tezuka’s father announce his arrival home.
…the injuries, though initially appearing severe and a threat to the continuation of Tezuka’s career, appear to be healing more significantly than I thought possible, no doubt due to Tezuka’s determination and the progress of his physical therapy. Currently, it appears likely that Tezuka will be able to resume basic tennis play and warm-up techniques within less than a year; within another year or two, he will be able to return to his career, provided he does not hurry or overdo his therapy and initial return to tennis.
- extract from the report of Tezuka Kunimitsu’s doctor
Memories seemed stronger, these days, in solid form, not when his thoughts slipped and stumbled in his mind and he couldn't remember what was real, what was imagined, and what had never happened even in his dreams. When he was alone in the house, his grandfather at the temple and his mother doing the shopping, he found himself taking out one of the photo albums Oishi and Eiji had gifted them with years before and flicking through, his fingertips pressed against the clear plastic as he turned page after page.
They hadn't changed much in appearance, if he was truthful. Ryoma had become taller and little lankier, but years of tennis meant that his stocky frame would never become graceful except while on the court. Tezuka still did not smile enough in photographs, but only Eiji complained about that.
Tezuka turned another page, his gaze falling on a photo of him and Ryoma with the other old Seigaku Regulars after Tezuka's first professional match. Ryoma had kissed him just before the others had found them, he remembered, his lips cracked, dry and hungry. He could still remember the swooping feeling in his stomach at this new development and the realisation that perhaps he had been waiting for this all the time, perhaps even since their first match.
He remembered the first time he and Ryoma had made love, on a bed smelling of crisp linen and lavender-scented fabric softener. He remembered the window being open and a breeze cooling the sweat on his skin as Ryoma moved over him, inside him, lips nuzzling his neck as Tezuka dug his fingers into Ryoma’s shoulder blades. When Tezuka came, eyes squeezed shut as his head slammed against the pillow, he realised it had been the first time he’d truly lost control in years.
Visiting the Echizen household had been nothing like visiting his own family. Nanjiroh had kept making sly comments about their living together and then proudly showing Ryoma the cat they’d bought to make up for Karupin’s absence (except for when they took care of Karupin when both Ryoma and Tezuka were competing overseas), squawking when the cat immediately took to Ryoma. Tezuka remembered sliding into a role almost made for him: repeatedly refusing offers of a match from Nanjiroh; helping Rinko prepare food and tea, chatting easily with her. It had all been such a far cry from his family life that Tezuka had allowed himself to hope that if the two families met, then perhaps things would improve.
What on earth had made him think that his father meeting Nanjiroh would improve things?
There was one photo in the album that was out of place with the others, one that Tezuka knew Eiji had no access to and neither he nor Ryoma would put in. He stared at himself in the photograph, solemn, grim and tense, Ryoma beside him even though their clasped hands were hidden from view. Ryoma was to the edge of the photo, Tezuka's family grouped around him on the other side. Only Tezuka's mother seemed to be smiling; his father's expression was dark while his grandfather's was carefully neutral.
It had never been easy, this relationship, but it was Ryoma: this was worth it, no matter what his father had thought. But to see his mother under visible strain, trying to keep the peace as his father and Ryoma endlessly sniped at each other whenever they were in the same room together, and for his father to walk out of the room whenever Tezuka entered it… this could not go on.
It had been Tezuka, now utterly at a loss, who had first broached the idea of the two of them temporarily separating while Tezuka attempted to talk his father around; Ryoma had not been pleased. His argument that they would have a much better chance of convincing Tezuka's father together than apart had fallen on deaf ears, Tezuka insisting that he had to do it on his own - it wasn't like they were currently having much success, anyway. Ryoma had frowned, continued to protest, but Tezuka had been convinced that this was the right thing to do, and Ryoma had reluctantly agreed.
“Fine,” he had said one morning in bed, hours before either of them had to get up. “I’ll move back home, maybe travel and do a few overseas tournaments for a few months. Take as long as you need to get your father to come ’round. But I’ll come back: don't think otherwise, and don't take too long." He had rolled over, dislodging an indignant Karupin in the process, and kissed Tezuka, hard and demanding.
When they broke apart, Tezuka had said, “I’ll be waiting,” and Ryoma had grinned, straddling him with a devilish gleam in his eyes.
Don't take too long, Ryoma had said that morning, but Tezuka's father had not been the most easily persuasive of men, and it hadn't taken too long for Tezuka to realise he was fighting a losing battle. But pride (and, he had realised, a stubbornness against believing the worst of his father) had made him continue to try, even when it got to the point where he seriously contemplated asking Fuji for help.
It had been on a bleak Tuesday morning, when he sat staring at the rain splattering against the window with a cup of cold tea in his hand, that he had realised Ryoma was right: together, they would have eventually brought his father around.
He was rising to phone Ryoma and ask him to come home when his father entered the room.
"Is the Echizen boy this important to you?" his father had demanded, sitting down near him with his hands tightly clasped.
"Yes," Tezuka had replied slowly, "he is."
His father had raised an eyebrow. "He is even more important to you than tennis?"
Tezuka had stiffened, looking at his father in what he hoped was a thoughtful expression and not a fleeting look of panic. After a moment's careful deliberation, he said slowly, "They are both linked to the other… one cannot exist without the other."
His father had frowned. "That is not favourable," he said at last.
"I see," Tezuka had replied, still looking at him. "And why do you believe that?"
"Relationships are fleeting things," his father had said, and Tezuka had struggled not to raise an eyebrow - his grandparents and his mother were proof against that belief, but then, this wasn't marriage his father was talking about. "To have Echizen so closely related to your tennis is putting your play at risk, and tennis players sometimes have precariously short careers, after all."
Tezuka had stiffened, but said nothing.
His father had stood up, his expression cold and hard; Tezuka had never seen his father express such intense emotion except for when Ryoma was being referred to. "Think carefully," his father had said, "is this boy really worth all of the years you have put into tennis? Is tennis worthwhile enough to support this relationship - you cannot exist on tennis alone."
Tezuka had stared up at him and wished very strongly that Ryoma was with him.
…Father is starting to talk to me now, except for when you come up in the conversation (rather a lot, if the topic concerns tennis) - he leaves the room when your name comes up. Mother is helping, however, and even Grandfather is starting to come around, a little; he told me the other day that I didn’t seem as happy without you there, which threw me a little. He laughed and told me to close my mouth before something flew into it.
I miss you. This could take longer than we thought.
- excerpt of an email from Tezuka Kunimitsu to Echizen Ryoma (sent)
“I was coming back to you,” Ryoma said into the silence after Tezuka’s father had left, shutting the door after him.
“I know,” Tezuka replied.
“Then why are you punishing me?” Ryoma asked, bewilderment washing over his face. He took a step towards Tezuka, reached out a hand to touch his face and then stopped, letting it fall back to his side.
“I’m not punishing you,” Tezuka replied, thinking, I’m punishing myself.
Ryoma did move forward, then, cupping Tezuka’s face in his hands and kissing him softly, gently, the barest brushing of lips. “Play tennis with me,” he breathed when they broke apart. “Even bounce a ball with me, I don’t care. It’s been nine months, and you haven’t touched your racquet; your mother told me. Your doctors are stumped by your recovery - they told me you can do basic play now.”
Tezuka’s shoulders stiffened and he stared at Ryoma, their eyes almost level - Ryoma would always be that much shorter than him - and whispered, “I can’t.” His father had said so - the doctors had said so.
“Yes, you can,” Ryoma hissed. “You are not your father. He is not you, and I don’t want to hear his words coming from your mouth anymore.” He turned and walked back into the hallway, leaving Tezuka staring at the doorway blankly, until he realised that the whistling he could hear in the background had been the kettle screaming for the past five minutes. He took it off and stared at the steam glancing off his lenses, the thought of tea suddenly repulsing him.
What was wrong with him?
Ryoma returned into the kitchen and silently held out Tezuka’s racquet to him. After the briefest hesitation, Tezuka took it, hefting it in his hand, startled to realise that the grip no longer felt natural and his arm strained under the strange weight in a way that had nothing to do with an injury and everything to do with lack of practise.
He blinked when he realised that he had missed this, and suddenly the aching weight that had been lingering on his shoulders disappeared, and he was able to stand up straight, letting out his breath in a long rush.
Ryoma grinned at him. “Let’s go?”
Tezuka took in another breath, let it out, and nodded. “Let’s go.”
Travelling is getting annoying - too many airports, too many air hostesses telling me how cute I am and how my accent is so attractive. (The best way to deal with this, I've found, is to glare at them until they go away to immediately start talking Japanese. My accent isn't so attractive when they can't understand a word I'm saying.)
The U.S. is the same as always - too hot, the food is too overcooked, and chopsticks are this big deal to be used when eating. The players are all the same, too, no one's good enough; no one measures up to you. We're playing a match when I come home - no excuses.
Is Karupin doing okay? I know the old man tried to make him and the new cat enemies, but I think it obviously backfired when they ganged up on him. I hope he isn't missing me too much - tell him I miss him, and I'd have brought him with me if I could. I suppose Fuji is coming over every day to annoy you keep you company. I think he feeds Karupin things he shouldn't, so watch out for that.
I'll be home soon. I miss you.
Ryoma
The idea of Tezuka writing first came up while he was in Germany. He remembered the doctor mentioning it, in an offhand way, while remarking that Tezuka seemed very intelligent and could probably express himself better through words than actual conversation. Then he’d stopped, laughed, and told Tezuka not to tell anyone he’d said that, since he wasn’t supposed to actually encourage anyone in communication methods used as an alternation to speaking.
Tezuka had stared at him, inwardly thinking that he didn’t need any more mental activity - he wanted to play tennis, not try to put words on paper creatively - and had told the doctor that he would consider it.
It was when he was starting to play tennis again, dashing his father’s hopes of a possible return to university, that he remembered the doctor’s comment and the idea suddenly seemed more attractive; at the very least, it would help him sort out his thoughts and what had happened. Anything would be better than lying in bed at night, wide-awake as his thoughts whirling in his head as he struggled to make sense of what he wasn’t even sure was real.
He moved back in with Ryoma after another month, and he began to write. He wrote about junior high, meeting Ryoma, the Nationals. He wrote about tennis, from the very first time he saw it on television to his first attempts at learning the basics and about how holding a racquet in his hand felt so natural.
He wrote about entering high school, Ryoma’s return, becoming Buchou again. He wrote about becoming pro, about falling for Ryoma, about his father’s wrath. He wrote even when his mind refused to remember, forcing the images to appear in his mind’s eye. He held Karupin when it became an almost physical struggle, his arm throbbing, the pain soothed away by Karupin’s warmth and purr. He closed his eyes and smelled Sakura in the air as sunlight filtered in through the window.
He wrote about Ryoma going away for a year and how they had kept contact through email and phone, Ryoma patiently waiting for Tezuka to come to a decision. He wrote about the arguments that followed throughout the year when his father had thought Ryoma was gone for good and then had realised he wasn’t. He wrote until exhaustion overtook him and he had to sleep, until Ryoma came home and they went to keep up Tezuka’s practise.
And then, finally, he wrote about the accident and Ryoma's return, of his father's lies, and his own rejection of tennis. He wrote as much as he could remember of what his father had said about tennis and Ryoma, and then he wrote about the game, about his body keeping to normal habits while his mind was in tatters, and how it all went wrong.
The injuries were never as serious as everyone claimed they were, he wrote, staring at the screen as if hypnotised. However, it was easier for my family and for myself to believe them to be serious, and so I did, almost destroying myself in the process. My grandfather told me once that the greatest liar a person faces is the one they have inside themselves, and he is right. I told myself that my career was over, and so it was.
I am not my father. I will never be my father. And now, I think I can actually believe it.
I am Tezuka Kunimitsu. I am a professional tennis player, and I love tennis and I love Echizen Ryoma.
When Ryoma came home, Tezuka pulled him into their bedroom and made love to him until night fell, and all they could do was lie entangled in each other’s arms, dozing in the darkening room.
Tezuka knew Ryoma was still awake when he said, “I’m ready now.”
Ryoma laughed, and squeezed his hand. “Then I’m ready, too.”
I tried to turn you away from tennis because I felt it was for the best. Tennis had overwhelmed you to a degree that, should anything happen to your career, there would be nothing left for you. I knew this; I could not let your love for tennis, and thus your love for that boy, destroy you.
I accept your decision to remain with Echizen and to resume training again, and that you are aware that your professional career may never return, or that your career will ever reach its former glory. I accept this; I do not agree with it, but I know now that we will always disagree on this.
I tried my best for you. I encouraged the doctors to be more pessimistic than they ought to be be, but I knew you would accept that there was never any definite assertion that you would make a complete recovery. I believe this was for your benefit.
I wish you well in your recovery and when you resume professional play. Always
Your father
Tezuka was cleaning when he came across the poems that Fuji had given him while he had been in hospital. He frowned, realising that he had forgotten to look at the second poem, and shifted through the sheets until he came to the second one.
“Porphyria’s Lover” by Robert Browning; he’d never read it before. Tezuka frowned, glancing through the poem, his eyes widening as he read through the pages. He stared down at it when he was finished, blinked, and then read it once more.
“When glided in Porphyria; straight/ She shut the cold out and the storm,/ And kneeled and made the cheerless grate/ Blaze up, and all the cottage warm,” he read aloud slowly, skimming through the rest in a murmur, until he finally reached the passage that had made his eyes widen:
“At last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her.”
Tezuka sat and continued to stare at the paper, unable to go on. However, this did not prevent his eyes from travelling to the very end of the page, where Fuji had written in his impeccably neat handwriting: Strangulation should only ever be used as a last resort.
Tezuka wondered if he was supposed to laugh or be very worried. He supposed it was a good thing that Fuji’s sense of humour hadn’t worsened over the years. On the other hand, perhaps he had simply known Fuji for far too long.
Tezuka folded away the pages neatly, vowing never to show them to Ryoma. Some things, he knew, just couldn’t be explained very easily. Perhaps he should ask Fuji for that epic three-thousand line poem, after all.
Have you heard about Tezuka?
- message from Oishi Syuuichiro to Fuji Syuusuke
Tezuka tilted back his head and blinked up at the sky, letting the breeze linger over his face. He shifted his feet slightly, the court familiar and firm underneath his feet. He tightened his grip on his racquet and automatically moved into the correct tennis posture, glancing down to gaze across at his opponent (Ryoma had told him gleefully that he had broken down, apparently not having been told of Tezuka’s return). He breathed in, tossed the ball into the air and began to bounce it, slowly and rhythmically.
He was distantly aware of the commentator’s babble and the excited chatter of the crowd. He knew that, somewhere, Ryoma was with his mother, along with all of the other old Regulars, who had taken the day off from their jobs to watch his match. Perhaps even his father was somewhere in the crowd; Tezuka’s mother had told him the time and place.
He stopped bouncing the ball and moved into serving position. The crowd cheered, celebrating the return of Tezuka Kunimitsu to tennis after almost three years.
No, not yet, he thought, flinging the ball into the air.
He jumped up to meet it, remembering his first match with Ryoma, remembering how he struggled and encouraged, had made Ryoma break out from his father’s shadow and embrace his own tennis.
Ryoma had been reborn, rising from the ashes in a glorious dawn.
Now, Tezuka knew, it was his turn. He gasped when his racquet met the ball and he slammed it forward, and for a moment he was everything and nothing, he was Tezuka, he was tennis, he was in love. The ball was soaring through the air, and everything was right.
When the match was over, he caught sight of Ryoma in the crowd, beside his beaming and clapping mother, and Ryoma’s grin assured Tezuka that he had, at last, made the right choice.
Don’t get careless.
Keep improving.
Never stop loving tennis.
- excerpt of a letter from Tezuka Kunimitsu to Echizen Ryoma during his recuperation in Germany (unsent)
END
The Soundtrack
Throughout writing this, I noticed that I was listening to certain songs over and over again, so I eventually put them together into their own playlist which I listened to while betaing this with Aja and rewriting it.
The Songs
Gankutsuou OST - Prologue
Yoko Kanno - The End of All You'll Know [Ghost in the Shell 3 OST]
Depeche Mode - Shake the Disease
The Tea Party - Heaven Coming Down
Yoko Kanno - Christmas in the Silent Forest [Ghost in the Shell 3 OST]
The Tea Party - A Slight Attack
Yoko Kanno - Dear John [Ghost in the Shell 3 OST]
The Tea Party - Mantra
Yoko Kanno - Torchia [Ghost in the Shell 3 OST] (This was actually the song I had on repeat when finishing the first draft, so I have a soft spot for it. *g*)
The Complete Soundtrack
The Choice Soundtrack
continued
What came previous.
Tezuka silently held the door open for Ryoma as he staggered in. "If that's what I think it is, I'm not eating it," Tezuka said.
Ryoma snorted. "I figured as much, but I decided I had nothing to lose in bringing you some - I'll eat it all anyway."
Tezuka frowned. "It's not healthy for you, especially with your new training program," he pointed out, following Ryoma into the kitchen and watching him spread the paper bags onto the table, wincing.
"They taste good," Ryoma replied, unwrapping a hamburger and biting into it with an expression of bliss. Tezuka glanced at the others and wondered if it was all right to be mildly jealous of meat.
He made himself tea, which Ryoma declined in favour of his coke, and didn't realise he was absently stealing fries until Ryoma nudged over a bag to him. Tezuka immediately froze, blinked, and refused to touch another one until Ryoma decided on drastic cajoling methods involving getting onto Tezuka's lap and force-feeding him the fries, much to Tezuka's amusement -
- until he looked up to find his father standing at the kitchen door, watching them with an unreadable expression on his face.
Ryoma immediately tensed, his eyes narrowing, and Tezuka placed a hand on his back - stay calm, don't lose your temper, please - but it was his father who spoke first.
"Ah, Echizen-san… I didn't realise you were back."
Ryoma looked at him, his eyes still narrowed, and replied, "I came back as soon as I heard." They were both lying, of course, having crossed each other in the hospital corridors numerous times, but Tezuka wasn't going to call them out on it.
Tezuka's father glanced at the fast food wrappers and frowned. "Kunimitsu, I hope you're not eating any of that. You know how unhealthy it is for you, especially in your present condition."
Tezuka closed his eyes and sighed, but before he'd even opened his mouth, Ryoma had spoken. "A once-off won't kill him." Ryoma's challenging tone made Tezuka wince and wish that he'd gone to Ryoma's house, after all.
His father stared down at Ryoma, his eyes boring into his, his frown deepening as a flicker of dislike flashed across his face. "Ah, but a once-off is how bad habits begin," he said, turning. "I'll be in my study if you need me."
Ryoma hissed, his arms tensing, but Tezuka wrapped his arms around Ryoma's waist and pressed his face against his neck, pressing his lips against the warm skin as he thought, It doesn't matter, you're here now. I can deal with anything, so long as I don't separate us again.
"I'm sorry I didn't believe when you said we were better off doing this together," he whispered; Ryoma kissed him in reply.
...so, we’re all thinking of getting everyone together to celebrate Kawamura’s engagement and Tezuka’s continuing recovery. Will you be able to bring Tezuka because he won’t come otherwise for some strange reason, and it won’t be the same without him…
- excerpt of an email from Oishi Syuuichiro to Echizen Ryoma
The minute Tezuka walked through the door and realised what was going on, he faltered for the briefest moment and hissed in a low voice, “I hate you.”
Ryoma grinned, nudging him. “Play nice, now, Pillar of Seigaku,” he murmured pointedly. “Everyone wanted to see you again so badly that I had to oblige Oishi.” Tezuka immediately looked straight at Oishi, who laughed, scratched the back of his neck, and promptly moved closer to Fuji.
It was odd, being back with the team again; he expected Kawamura’s father to suddenly appear with mountains of sushi, mistaking him for an adult instead of a boy the same age as his son, congratulating them on another victory. He hadn’t realised how much he had enjoyed those celebrations until now, when he was looking back on them with the realisation that they were gone forever.
Tezuka blinked, and the images of everyone’s teenage self disappeared, replaced by the reality of them in their twenties, grown-up and beginning to be shouldered with adult responsibility and duty. Tezuka hadn’t realise until now that he had been comparatively lucky, being able to go pro with Ryoma and not having to worry about a nine-to-five job or a future marriage. All that he’d had to be concerned with was tennis and Ryoma.
And now he didn’t even have that.
He blinked as Ryoma pushed a plate of sushi over to him. “You should eat,” Ryoma said quietly, before yelping as Kikumaru bounced over to him, eyes trained on his plate. “Oi, get your own!”
As the two argued, Ryoma more cheerfully than Tezuka remembered, Oishi came over and sat down beside Tezuka, smiling over at Ryoma and Kikumaru. “Eiji,” he chided gently, sighing as he was ignored. He paused, fiddled with his chopsticks, and then turned to Tezuka. “I hope you’re not angry with me for asking Ryoma to bring you here,” he said, an expression of genuine apology crossing his face. Some things, it seemed, never changed throughout the years, and Oishi was one of them.
Tezuka sighed. “No, I’m not. You know me too well, after all. I... I’m glad that I came, to be honest. It’s - comforting to see everyone again. I never realised how much I had taken junior high and high school for granted until now.”
Oishi smiled. “You and Echizen seem to be close again,” he said, his eyes lighting up.
Tezuka glanced over to where Kikumaru and Ryoma were currently engaged in a chopstick duel for the last piece of sushi. “We’re working on it. And you and Kikumaru?”
Oishi blushed. “We’re going well… we still haven’t told our families yet. We want to wait until our careers have stabilised, though we probably should have told them years ago, like you and Echizen.”
Tezuka shrugged. “That wasn’t necessarily the wisest choice,” he said, and he and Oishi lapsed into a silence laced with sudden tension.
Nearby, Kawamura, who had drank more than he probably should, was telling anyone who would listen about his fiancée, a lady who had thankfully been spared the potential embarrassment of meeting everyone when there was an unlimited amount of sake flowing. Tezuka and Oishi listened for a while, Oishi laughing and Tezuka thinking about the hangover Kawamura was going to be faced with the following morning.
Oishi finally asked, casually, “Have you played tennis with Echizen lately?”
Oishi had vastly improved on his subtlety tactics, but not enough for someone who had worked alongside him like Tezuka had. Tezuka glanced at him quickly and then said, “No. The doctors recommend that I leave tennis for as long as I need to.”
Oishi stared at him, his sushi forgotten. “And you’re actually listening to them?” he asked, obviously remembering the amount of trouble he’d had in ensuring that Tezuka didn’t go too far during his injury recuperation in junior high.
Tezuka shrugged. “It was a serious injury. And advice always seems more sensible in hindsight.”
Oishi continued to stare at him, beginning to look worried. “You haven’t touched a tennis racquet in months?” he whispered in hushed horror.
“No,” Tezuka said, refusing to look at him.
When Oishi had stared down at his plate, possibly to conceal either his shock or his embarrassment, or perhaps even both, Tezuka looked up to find Echizen staring straight at him, his eyes narrowed and his sushi forgotten (Kikumaru seizing the opportunity to devour it). Tezuka glanced away from him, only to find Fuji looking at him in a similar, displeased fashion.
IT WAS A DATE?!
- response of Echizen Nanjiroh to the reply left by Echizen Ryoma on his memo
“You told me you were beginning to practise a little,” Ryoma said the moment Tezuka opened the front door.
Tezuka blinked, wondered if Ryoma would go away if he simply slammed the door shut and refused to open it again, and then decided he wouldn’t. He paused, sighed, and then said, “You should come in.”
Ryoma stomped in, his racquet narrowly missing Tezuka’s nose as he stormed by. Tezuka closed his eyes and tried to keep breathing.
“Tea?” he asked when he followed Ryoma, whose answer was to narrow his eyes and look ready to smash a ball straight into Tezuka’s glasses. Tezuka went to the sink and filled the kettle, setting it on to boil, taking longer than was necessary. It didn’t matter; he could feel Ryoma’s gaze boring into his back, regardless.
“Why haven’t you been swinging, at least, keeping up with the basics?” Ryoma demanded, and Tezuka sighed. So this was the way it was to go.
“The doctors -” he began.
“I went to your doctors. Your injury was never that serious to begin with; everyone panicked and blew it out of proportion, and you just went along with it. Why? Was it because of your father? Did you do this because of him?”
Tezuka stiffened and turned at that. “No, of course not,” he snapped, glaring before he could help it, while inwardly thinking, What?
Ryoma snorted. “Hmph. Your career was never going to be over. Put on hold for a year or two, certainly, but you would have come back. You’re good enough to make a comeback regardless. People cried when they first went pro and realised you were their opponent. People would have wanted you to make a comeback; they would have supported you.”
Oishi, the first time they had gotten drunk after high school, had told Tezuka that he’d never understood how Tezuka, having no social skills whatsoever, could still be followed, admired and supported by so many. Oishi had never remembered saying that, and Tezuka hadn’t told him, but he’d never forgotten it.
“Perhaps I’m tired of this,” Tezuka said.
Ryoma crossed his arms. “Of tennis? Never.”
“Perhaps I’m tired of you,” Tezuka said.
Ryoma shrugged. “Fine. But if you were, you wouldn’t have kissed me. Remember who you’re talking to, Buchou.”
Tezuka pressed his lips together. “I’m tired,” he whispered, curling his hands into fists when Ryoma moved closer to him. He turned his face away from Ryoma, so the kiss landed on his cheek instead of his mouth, and sighed when Ryoma hugged him around the waist.
“No,” Ryoma murmured, laying his face against Tezuka’s chest. “You’re just lost. Play tennis with me?”
And then they jumped apart when they heard the door open, and Tezuka’s father announce his arrival home.
…the injuries, though initially appearing severe and a threat to the continuation of Tezuka’s career, appear to be healing more significantly than I thought possible, no doubt due to Tezuka’s determination and the progress of his physical therapy. Currently, it appears likely that Tezuka will be able to resume basic tennis play and warm-up techniques within less than a year; within another year or two, he will be able to return to his career, provided he does not hurry or overdo his therapy and initial return to tennis.
- extract from the report of Tezuka Kunimitsu’s doctor
Memories seemed stronger, these days, in solid form, not when his thoughts slipped and stumbled in his mind and he couldn't remember what was real, what was imagined, and what had never happened even in his dreams. When he was alone in the house, his grandfather at the temple and his mother doing the shopping, he found himself taking out one of the photo albums Oishi and Eiji had gifted them with years before and flicking through, his fingertips pressed against the clear plastic as he turned page after page.
They hadn't changed much in appearance, if he was truthful. Ryoma had become taller and little lankier, but years of tennis meant that his stocky frame would never become graceful except while on the court. Tezuka still did not smile enough in photographs, but only Eiji complained about that.
Tezuka turned another page, his gaze falling on a photo of him and Ryoma with the other old Seigaku Regulars after Tezuka's first professional match. Ryoma had kissed him just before the others had found them, he remembered, his lips cracked, dry and hungry. He could still remember the swooping feeling in his stomach at this new development and the realisation that perhaps he had been waiting for this all the time, perhaps even since their first match.
He remembered the first time he and Ryoma had made love, on a bed smelling of crisp linen and lavender-scented fabric softener. He remembered the window being open and a breeze cooling the sweat on his skin as Ryoma moved over him, inside him, lips nuzzling his neck as Tezuka dug his fingers into Ryoma’s shoulder blades. When Tezuka came, eyes squeezed shut as his head slammed against the pillow, he realised it had been the first time he’d truly lost control in years.
Visiting the Echizen household had been nothing like visiting his own family. Nanjiroh had kept making sly comments about their living together and then proudly showing Ryoma the cat they’d bought to make up for Karupin’s absence (except for when they took care of Karupin when both Ryoma and Tezuka were competing overseas), squawking when the cat immediately took to Ryoma. Tezuka remembered sliding into a role almost made for him: repeatedly refusing offers of a match from Nanjiroh; helping Rinko prepare food and tea, chatting easily with her. It had all been such a far cry from his family life that Tezuka had allowed himself to hope that if the two families met, then perhaps things would improve.
What on earth had made him think that his father meeting Nanjiroh would improve things?
There was one photo in the album that was out of place with the others, one that Tezuka knew Eiji had no access to and neither he nor Ryoma would put in. He stared at himself in the photograph, solemn, grim and tense, Ryoma beside him even though their clasped hands were hidden from view. Ryoma was to the edge of the photo, Tezuka's family grouped around him on the other side. Only Tezuka's mother seemed to be smiling; his father's expression was dark while his grandfather's was carefully neutral.
It had never been easy, this relationship, but it was Ryoma: this was worth it, no matter what his father had thought. But to see his mother under visible strain, trying to keep the peace as his father and Ryoma endlessly sniped at each other whenever they were in the same room together, and for his father to walk out of the room whenever Tezuka entered it… this could not go on.
It had been Tezuka, now utterly at a loss, who had first broached the idea of the two of them temporarily separating while Tezuka attempted to talk his father around; Ryoma had not been pleased. His argument that they would have a much better chance of convincing Tezuka's father together than apart had fallen on deaf ears, Tezuka insisting that he had to do it on his own - it wasn't like they were currently having much success, anyway. Ryoma had frowned, continued to protest, but Tezuka had been convinced that this was the right thing to do, and Ryoma had reluctantly agreed.
“Fine,” he had said one morning in bed, hours before either of them had to get up. “I’ll move back home, maybe travel and do a few overseas tournaments for a few months. Take as long as you need to get your father to come ’round. But I’ll come back: don't think otherwise, and don't take too long." He had rolled over, dislodging an indignant Karupin in the process, and kissed Tezuka, hard and demanding.
When they broke apart, Tezuka had said, “I’ll be waiting,” and Ryoma had grinned, straddling him with a devilish gleam in his eyes.
Don't take too long, Ryoma had said that morning, but Tezuka's father had not been the most easily persuasive of men, and it hadn't taken too long for Tezuka to realise he was fighting a losing battle. But pride (and, he had realised, a stubbornness against believing the worst of his father) had made him continue to try, even when it got to the point where he seriously contemplated asking Fuji for help.
It had been on a bleak Tuesday morning, when he sat staring at the rain splattering against the window with a cup of cold tea in his hand, that he had realised Ryoma was right: together, they would have eventually brought his father around.
He was rising to phone Ryoma and ask him to come home when his father entered the room.
"Is the Echizen boy this important to you?" his father had demanded, sitting down near him with his hands tightly clasped.
"Yes," Tezuka had replied slowly, "he is."
His father had raised an eyebrow. "He is even more important to you than tennis?"
Tezuka had stiffened, looking at his father in what he hoped was a thoughtful expression and not a fleeting look of panic. After a moment's careful deliberation, he said slowly, "They are both linked to the other… one cannot exist without the other."
His father had frowned. "That is not favourable," he said at last.
"I see," Tezuka had replied, still looking at him. "And why do you believe that?"
"Relationships are fleeting things," his father had said, and Tezuka had struggled not to raise an eyebrow - his grandparents and his mother were proof against that belief, but then, this wasn't marriage his father was talking about. "To have Echizen so closely related to your tennis is putting your play at risk, and tennis players sometimes have precariously short careers, after all."
Tezuka had stiffened, but said nothing.
His father had stood up, his expression cold and hard; Tezuka had never seen his father express such intense emotion except for when Ryoma was being referred to. "Think carefully," his father had said, "is this boy really worth all of the years you have put into tennis? Is tennis worthwhile enough to support this relationship - you cannot exist on tennis alone."
Tezuka had stared up at him and wished very strongly that Ryoma was with him.
…Father is starting to talk to me now, except for when you come up in the conversation (rather a lot, if the topic concerns tennis) - he leaves the room when your name comes up. Mother is helping, however, and even Grandfather is starting to come around, a little; he told me the other day that I didn’t seem as happy without you there, which threw me a little. He laughed and told me to close my mouth before something flew into it.
I miss you. This could take longer than we thought.
- excerpt of an email from Tezuka Kunimitsu to Echizen Ryoma (sent)
“I was coming back to you,” Ryoma said into the silence after Tezuka’s father had left, shutting the door after him.
“I know,” Tezuka replied.
“Then why are you punishing me?” Ryoma asked, bewilderment washing over his face. He took a step towards Tezuka, reached out a hand to touch his face and then stopped, letting it fall back to his side.
“I’m not punishing you,” Tezuka replied, thinking, I’m punishing myself.
Ryoma did move forward, then, cupping Tezuka’s face in his hands and kissing him softly, gently, the barest brushing of lips. “Play tennis with me,” he breathed when they broke apart. “Even bounce a ball with me, I don’t care. It’s been nine months, and you haven’t touched your racquet; your mother told me. Your doctors are stumped by your recovery - they told me you can do basic play now.”
Tezuka’s shoulders stiffened and he stared at Ryoma, their eyes almost level - Ryoma would always be that much shorter than him - and whispered, “I can’t.” His father had said so - the doctors had said so.
“Yes, you can,” Ryoma hissed. “You are not your father. He is not you, and I don’t want to hear his words coming from your mouth anymore.” He turned and walked back into the hallway, leaving Tezuka staring at the doorway blankly, until he realised that the whistling he could hear in the background had been the kettle screaming for the past five minutes. He took it off and stared at the steam glancing off his lenses, the thought of tea suddenly repulsing him.
What was wrong with him?
Ryoma returned into the kitchen and silently held out Tezuka’s racquet to him. After the briefest hesitation, Tezuka took it, hefting it in his hand, startled to realise that the grip no longer felt natural and his arm strained under the strange weight in a way that had nothing to do with an injury and everything to do with lack of practise.
He blinked when he realised that he had missed this, and suddenly the aching weight that had been lingering on his shoulders disappeared, and he was able to stand up straight, letting out his breath in a long rush.
Ryoma grinned at him. “Let’s go?”
Tezuka took in another breath, let it out, and nodded. “Let’s go.”
Travelling is getting annoying - too many airports, too many air hostesses telling me how cute I am and how my accent is so attractive. (The best way to deal with this, I've found, is to glare at them until they go away to immediately start talking Japanese. My accent isn't so attractive when they can't understand a word I'm saying.)
The U.S. is the same as always - too hot, the food is too overcooked, and chopsticks are this big deal to be used when eating. The players are all the same, too, no one's good enough; no one measures up to you. We're playing a match when I come home - no excuses.
Is Karupin doing okay? I know the old man tried to make him and the new cat enemies, but I think it obviously backfired when they ganged up on him. I hope he isn't missing me too much - tell him I miss him, and I'd have brought him with me if I could. I suppose Fuji is coming over every day to annoy you keep you company. I think he feeds Karupin things he shouldn't, so watch out for that.
I'll be home soon. I miss you.
Ryoma
The idea of Tezuka writing first came up while he was in Germany. He remembered the doctor mentioning it, in an offhand way, while remarking that Tezuka seemed very intelligent and could probably express himself better through words than actual conversation. Then he’d stopped, laughed, and told Tezuka not to tell anyone he’d said that, since he wasn’t supposed to actually encourage anyone in communication methods used as an alternation to speaking.
Tezuka had stared at him, inwardly thinking that he didn’t need any more mental activity - he wanted to play tennis, not try to put words on paper creatively - and had told the doctor that he would consider it.
It was when he was starting to play tennis again, dashing his father’s hopes of a possible return to university, that he remembered the doctor’s comment and the idea suddenly seemed more attractive; at the very least, it would help him sort out his thoughts and what had happened. Anything would be better than lying in bed at night, wide-awake as his thoughts whirling in his head as he struggled to make sense of what he wasn’t even sure was real.
He moved back in with Ryoma after another month, and he began to write. He wrote about junior high, meeting Ryoma, the Nationals. He wrote about tennis, from the very first time he saw it on television to his first attempts at learning the basics and about how holding a racquet in his hand felt so natural.
He wrote about entering high school, Ryoma’s return, becoming Buchou again. He wrote about becoming pro, about falling for Ryoma, about his father’s wrath. He wrote even when his mind refused to remember, forcing the images to appear in his mind’s eye. He held Karupin when it became an almost physical struggle, his arm throbbing, the pain soothed away by Karupin’s warmth and purr. He closed his eyes and smelled Sakura in the air as sunlight filtered in through the window.
He wrote about Ryoma going away for a year and how they had kept contact through email and phone, Ryoma patiently waiting for Tezuka to come to a decision. He wrote about the arguments that followed throughout the year when his father had thought Ryoma was gone for good and then had realised he wasn’t. He wrote until exhaustion overtook him and he had to sleep, until Ryoma came home and they went to keep up Tezuka’s practise.
And then, finally, he wrote about the accident and Ryoma's return, of his father's lies, and his own rejection of tennis. He wrote as much as he could remember of what his father had said about tennis and Ryoma, and then he wrote about the game, about his body keeping to normal habits while his mind was in tatters, and how it all went wrong.
The injuries were never as serious as everyone claimed they were, he wrote, staring at the screen as if hypnotised. However, it was easier for my family and for myself to believe them to be serious, and so I did, almost destroying myself in the process. My grandfather told me once that the greatest liar a person faces is the one they have inside themselves, and he is right. I told myself that my career was over, and so it was.
I am not my father. I will never be my father. And now, I think I can actually believe it.
I am Tezuka Kunimitsu. I am a professional tennis player, and I love tennis and I love Echizen Ryoma.
When Ryoma came home, Tezuka pulled him into their bedroom and made love to him until night fell, and all they could do was lie entangled in each other’s arms, dozing in the darkening room.
Tezuka knew Ryoma was still awake when he said, “I’m ready now.”
Ryoma laughed, and squeezed his hand. “Then I’m ready, too.”
I tried to turn you away from tennis because I felt it was for the best. Tennis had overwhelmed you to a degree that, should anything happen to your career, there would be nothing left for you. I knew this; I could not let your love for tennis, and thus your love for that boy, destroy you.
I accept your decision to remain with Echizen and to resume training again, and that you are aware that your professional career may never return, or that your career will ever reach its former glory. I accept this; I do not agree with it, but I know now that we will always disagree on this.
I tried my best for you. I encouraged the doctors to be more pessimistic than they ought to be be, but I knew you would accept that there was never any definite assertion that you would make a complete recovery. I believe this was for your benefit.
I wish you well in your recovery and when you resume professional play. Always
Your father
Tezuka was cleaning when he came across the poems that Fuji had given him while he had been in hospital. He frowned, realising that he had forgotten to look at the second poem, and shifted through the sheets until he came to the second one.
“Porphyria’s Lover” by Robert Browning; he’d never read it before. Tezuka frowned, glancing through the poem, his eyes widening as he read through the pages. He stared down at it when he was finished, blinked, and then read it once more.
“When glided in Porphyria; straight/ She shut the cold out and the storm,/ And kneeled and made the cheerless grate/ Blaze up, and all the cottage warm,” he read aloud slowly, skimming through the rest in a murmur, until he finally reached the passage that had made his eyes widen:
“At last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her.”
Tezuka sat and continued to stare at the paper, unable to go on. However, this did not prevent his eyes from travelling to the very end of the page, where Fuji had written in his impeccably neat handwriting: Strangulation should only ever be used as a last resort.
Tezuka wondered if he was supposed to laugh or be very worried. He supposed it was a good thing that Fuji’s sense of humour hadn’t worsened over the years. On the other hand, perhaps he had simply known Fuji for far too long.
Tezuka folded away the pages neatly, vowing never to show them to Ryoma. Some things, he knew, just couldn’t be explained very easily. Perhaps he should ask Fuji for that epic three-thousand line poem, after all.
Have you heard about Tezuka?
- message from Oishi Syuuichiro to Fuji Syuusuke
Tezuka tilted back his head and blinked up at the sky, letting the breeze linger over his face. He shifted his feet slightly, the court familiar and firm underneath his feet. He tightened his grip on his racquet and automatically moved into the correct tennis posture, glancing down to gaze across at his opponent (Ryoma had told him gleefully that he had broken down, apparently not having been told of Tezuka’s return). He breathed in, tossed the ball into the air and began to bounce it, slowly and rhythmically.
He was distantly aware of the commentator’s babble and the excited chatter of the crowd. He knew that, somewhere, Ryoma was with his mother, along with all of the other old Regulars, who had taken the day off from their jobs to watch his match. Perhaps even his father was somewhere in the crowd; Tezuka’s mother had told him the time and place.
He stopped bouncing the ball and moved into serving position. The crowd cheered, celebrating the return of Tezuka Kunimitsu to tennis after almost three years.
No, not yet, he thought, flinging the ball into the air.
He jumped up to meet it, remembering his first match with Ryoma, remembering how he struggled and encouraged, had made Ryoma break out from his father’s shadow and embrace his own tennis.
Ryoma had been reborn, rising from the ashes in a glorious dawn.
Now, Tezuka knew, it was his turn. He gasped when his racquet met the ball and he slammed it forward, and for a moment he was everything and nothing, he was Tezuka, he was tennis, he was in love. The ball was soaring through the air, and everything was right.
When the match was over, he caught sight of Ryoma in the crowd, beside his beaming and clapping mother, and Ryoma’s grin assured Tezuka that he had, at last, made the right choice.
Don’t get careless.
Keep improving.
Never stop loving tennis.
- excerpt of a letter from Tezuka Kunimitsu to Echizen Ryoma during his recuperation in Germany (unsent)
END
The Soundtrack
Throughout writing this, I noticed that I was listening to certain songs over and over again, so I eventually put them together into their own playlist which I listened to while betaing this with Aja and rewriting it.
The Songs
Gankutsuou OST - Prologue
Yoko Kanno - The End of All You'll Know [Ghost in the Shell 3 OST]
Depeche Mode - Shake the Disease
The Tea Party - Heaven Coming Down
Yoko Kanno - Christmas in the Silent Forest [Ghost in the Shell 3 OST]
The Tea Party - A Slight Attack
Yoko Kanno - Dear John [Ghost in the Shell 3 OST]
The Tea Party - Mantra
Yoko Kanno - Torchia [Ghost in the Shell 3 OST] (This was actually the song I had on repeat when finishing the first draft, so I have a soft spot for it. *g*)
The Complete Soundtrack
The Choice Soundtrack