(no subject)
*pokes* why isn't anyone posting. am i not supposed to. I KNEW IT I SPEND TOO LITTLE TIME THINKING ABOUT MY FICS, TOO LITTLE TOO LITTLE. anyhoo.
Title: Boundary
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: no, not mine. none of it.
Summary: It's the end of Ryoma's first year at Seigaku, and of Tezuka's last.
Tezuka poured a cup of sake for himself and took a sip. The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve as he set the cup back down.
The new year, Tezuka thought, sake warm in his throat.
* * *
Ryoma was rudely awoken by his father, who was screaming for him to get Karupin off him. He yawned, stretched and got dressed.
"It’s the last few weeks of the school year, aren’t you excited?" Nanako poured him yet another glass of milk.
Ryoma ignored both his cousin and his still-shrieking father, gulped down the rest of his breakfast, then met Momo-senpai at the gate.
* * *
In war, you must be fleet as the wind, still as a forest, ferocious as fire and immovable as a mountain. You must judge whether or not something is advantageous before you act. Only then will victory be yours.
Tezuka flipped the page and took a glance out the window as the bus jerked to stop.
Know Thyself, Know Thine Enemy, the first line read. Well he definitely knew himself, that was for sure. He knew well his strengths and his weakness. He also knew exactly what he wanted.
The question was: did Ryoma want the same thing?
* * *
The book was barely concealed beneath his English textbook, but Ryoma really didn’t care.
A few key knots are all the average fly fisherman needs to know. One of them is the Arbor Knot, which fastens your backing to the reel. Ryoma stared at the complex series of diagrams and was just about to try it out on the piece of string he had nicked from his mother’s sewing box when the teacher called his name. Ryoma sighed, rose, and conjugated the word "love" on the blackboard before returning to his seat.
Lessons were so dull. The only interesting part about school was tennis, but training was cancelled in winter, so Ryoma had nothing to look forward to.
A small voice in his head asked him whether it was the tennis he looked forward to, or the chance to see his buchou.
* * *
"Saa, Tezuka, where are you headed?"
Tezuka pretended not to have heard, silently cursing the owner of the voice, who was half-jogging to catch up with him.
"Are you walking home?" Fuji’s smiling face came into view. "Do you want to walk home together?"
Tezuka's reply was a curt "no", merely a short, muttered syllable as he headed for the bus stop, leaving Fuji standing at the school gate, a still, solitary figure in the masses of students that swarmed around him, swallowing him up.
* * *
"Oi, Echizen!" Momoshiro waved enthusiastically at Ryoma. "Wanna go for burgers? Kikumaru-senpai is treating us. Right, Kikumaru-senpai?"
A vaguely sullen Eiji poked his head out from where he was obscured by Momo, saw Ryoma and broke into a cheery grin.
Ryoma shook his head, feeling strangely tired. "I’m going home."
"Eh?" Both Momo and Eiji looked equally puzzled.
"O-ochibi - "
"See you."
With that, Ryoma walked out the school gates, barely noticing Fuji, who stood, motionless, staring at a departing bus.
* * *
Tezuka bounced the ball in his left hand a few times then served, silently noting the ball’s trajectory.
It still wasn’t right, he thought, comparing it to the image in his head of Ryoma doing his twist serve. He picked up another ball and served again, the thud as it hit the floor on the other side echoing through the deserted room.
An unfamiliar feeling grew inside him as he served over and over. After another twenty minutes of repeatedly trying the same serve, he finally realised what the feeling was: frustration. But what truly irked him was not the fact that he still hadn’t perfected the twist serve - that would take time, he knew. What really got on his nerves was the fact that in another month or so, all he would have left of Ryoma would be mere memories of him playing tennis, nothing more.
* * *
Ryoma had never really liked indoor tennis courts, but he had to get out of the house, away from the man who constantly found new ways to irritate him, the most recent being hinting at Ryoma’s supposed relationship with Sakuno.
Besides, if he didn’t get any practice in, he’d never be able to beat his buchou.
And if he didn’t seek him out, Ryoma thought as he pushed the door to the locker room open, he wouldn’t even get a chance to.
* * *
"Speak of the devil" was a phrase the characters in Ed McBain’s books often employed. If "think" could be used to substitute "speak", and the devil was short, wore a white cap and was rather adorable, then Tezuka supposed the phrase would be very relevant to his situation.
Ryoma was apparently distracted by something, because he didn’t seem to realise that the tall figure in front of him was Tezuka. So Tezuka, hair still damp from his shower, waited.
* * *
Ryoma looked up and was taken aback to find his buchou standing there, just in front of him. He wondered if it would be best if he could find something to say, something meaningful, express how he felt, but he had never been very eloquent, so he settled on "buchou", followed by a polite inclination of his head.
"Echizen," Tezuka intoned, equally polite, seeming almost indifferent.
They both returned to whatever they had been about to do: Tezuka folded his T-shirt and shorts, packing them into his bag, while Ryoma selected a locker, extracting his racket and clothes from his bag before flinging his bag in rather unceremoniously.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tezuka leaving, and he knew he had to do something, had to stop him -
* * *
Tezuka slung his bag onto his shoulder, and wondered if he’d even miss the way Ryoma unpacked his things. He had just turned to leave when Ryoma called out.
"Buchou!" The voice was plaintive, pleading, and Tezuka felt a tiny spark of hope: maybe Ryoma did want the same thing, felt the same way -
* * *
"I was just… practice… but I suppose..." His brain refused to work, his words died in his throat. To his horror, Tezuka looked disappointed, and infinitely sad, if only for a split second, before he said his goodbyes and placed a hand on the door. Then he paused and said, more to the door than to Ryoma:
"Don’t get careless."
* * *
Tezuka tried to convince himself that its was okay, that it was better that Echizen didn’t feel the same way, that it would have made things a lot more complicated if he did.
Besides, it was only a few weeks before he entered high school; he needed a fresh start for the new year, to concentrate on what really mattered, and forget what didn’t, like that ache in his chest that promised to be hard to will away.
* * *
Ryoma didn’t like the finality of that last sentence, nor did he enjoy the hollow feeling that opened up inside him, making it more comfortable for him to sit down, back against the lockers and knees drawn up under his chin, than to stand, gaping at the still-swinging door.
END.
HOORAY.
Title: Boundary
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: no, not mine. none of it.
Summary: It's the end of Ryoma's first year at Seigaku, and of Tezuka's last.
Tezuka poured a cup of sake for himself and took a sip. The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve as he set the cup back down.
The new year, Tezuka thought, sake warm in his throat.
* * *
Ryoma was rudely awoken by his father, who was screaming for him to get Karupin off him. He yawned, stretched and got dressed.
"It’s the last few weeks of the school year, aren’t you excited?" Nanako poured him yet another glass of milk.
Ryoma ignored both his cousin and his still-shrieking father, gulped down the rest of his breakfast, then met Momo-senpai at the gate.
* * *
In war, you must be fleet as the wind, still as a forest, ferocious as fire and immovable as a mountain. You must judge whether or not something is advantageous before you act. Only then will victory be yours.
Tezuka flipped the page and took a glance out the window as the bus jerked to stop.
Know Thyself, Know Thine Enemy, the first line read. Well he definitely knew himself, that was for sure. He knew well his strengths and his weakness. He also knew exactly what he wanted.
The question was: did Ryoma want the same thing?
* * *
The book was barely concealed beneath his English textbook, but Ryoma really didn’t care.
A few key knots are all the average fly fisherman needs to know. One of them is the Arbor Knot, which fastens your backing to the reel. Ryoma stared at the complex series of diagrams and was just about to try it out on the piece of string he had nicked from his mother’s sewing box when the teacher called his name. Ryoma sighed, rose, and conjugated the word "love" on the blackboard before returning to his seat.
Lessons were so dull. The only interesting part about school was tennis, but training was cancelled in winter, so Ryoma had nothing to look forward to.
A small voice in his head asked him whether it was the tennis he looked forward to, or the chance to see his buchou.
* * *
"Saa, Tezuka, where are you headed?"
Tezuka pretended not to have heard, silently cursing the owner of the voice, who was half-jogging to catch up with him.
"Are you walking home?" Fuji’s smiling face came into view. "Do you want to walk home together?"
Tezuka's reply was a curt "no", merely a short, muttered syllable as he headed for the bus stop, leaving Fuji standing at the school gate, a still, solitary figure in the masses of students that swarmed around him, swallowing him up.
* * *
"Oi, Echizen!" Momoshiro waved enthusiastically at Ryoma. "Wanna go for burgers? Kikumaru-senpai is treating us. Right, Kikumaru-senpai?"
A vaguely sullen Eiji poked his head out from where he was obscured by Momo, saw Ryoma and broke into a cheery grin.
Ryoma shook his head, feeling strangely tired. "I’m going home."
"Eh?" Both Momo and Eiji looked equally puzzled.
"O-ochibi - "
"See you."
With that, Ryoma walked out the school gates, barely noticing Fuji, who stood, motionless, staring at a departing bus.
* * *
Tezuka bounced the ball in his left hand a few times then served, silently noting the ball’s trajectory.
It still wasn’t right, he thought, comparing it to the image in his head of Ryoma doing his twist serve. He picked up another ball and served again, the thud as it hit the floor on the other side echoing through the deserted room.
An unfamiliar feeling grew inside him as he served over and over. After another twenty minutes of repeatedly trying the same serve, he finally realised what the feeling was: frustration. But what truly irked him was not the fact that he still hadn’t perfected the twist serve - that would take time, he knew. What really got on his nerves was the fact that in another month or so, all he would have left of Ryoma would be mere memories of him playing tennis, nothing more.
* * *
Ryoma had never really liked indoor tennis courts, but he had to get out of the house, away from the man who constantly found new ways to irritate him, the most recent being hinting at Ryoma’s supposed relationship with Sakuno.
Besides, if he didn’t get any practice in, he’d never be able to beat his buchou.
And if he didn’t seek him out, Ryoma thought as he pushed the door to the locker room open, he wouldn’t even get a chance to.
* * *
"Speak of the devil" was a phrase the characters in Ed McBain’s books often employed. If "think" could be used to substitute "speak", and the devil was short, wore a white cap and was rather adorable, then Tezuka supposed the phrase would be very relevant to his situation.
Ryoma was apparently distracted by something, because he didn’t seem to realise that the tall figure in front of him was Tezuka. So Tezuka, hair still damp from his shower, waited.
* * *
Ryoma looked up and was taken aback to find his buchou standing there, just in front of him. He wondered if it would be best if he could find something to say, something meaningful, express how he felt, but he had never been very eloquent, so he settled on "buchou", followed by a polite inclination of his head.
"Echizen," Tezuka intoned, equally polite, seeming almost indifferent.
They both returned to whatever they had been about to do: Tezuka folded his T-shirt and shorts, packing them into his bag, while Ryoma selected a locker, extracting his racket and clothes from his bag before flinging his bag in rather unceremoniously.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tezuka leaving, and he knew he had to do something, had to stop him -
* * *
Tezuka slung his bag onto his shoulder, and wondered if he’d even miss the way Ryoma unpacked his things. He had just turned to leave when Ryoma called out.
"Buchou!" The voice was plaintive, pleading, and Tezuka felt a tiny spark of hope: maybe Ryoma did want the same thing, felt the same way -
* * *
"I was just… practice… but I suppose..." His brain refused to work, his words died in his throat. To his horror, Tezuka looked disappointed, and infinitely sad, if only for a split second, before he said his goodbyes and placed a hand on the door. Then he paused and said, more to the door than to Ryoma:
"Don’t get careless."
* * *
Tezuka tried to convince himself that its was okay, that it was better that Echizen didn’t feel the same way, that it would have made things a lot more complicated if he did.
Besides, it was only a few weeks before he entered high school; he needed a fresh start for the new year, to concentrate on what really mattered, and forget what didn’t, like that ache in his chest that promised to be hard to will away.
* * *
Ryoma didn’t like the finality of that last sentence, nor did he enjoy the hollow feeling that opened up inside him, making it more comfortable for him to sit down, back against the lockers and knees drawn up under his chin, than to stand, gaping at the still-swinging door.
END.
HOORAY.