FIC: Different Kind of Victory, Chitose/Tachibana, PG13ish (Part 2/2)

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Title: Different Kind of Victory
Author: Ociwen
Rating: PG13?
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Um, Tachibana joins a new team and Chitose hovers in the background like a phantom?
Author's Notes: Written for whisper132 on her birthday! Happy Birthday, Whisper-chan! I can only hope you like this more than Konomi likes Chitose...;)



It was painful to have to concede to Yamabuki. It was even more painful to have to tell Kamio off, in front of the whole team, for neglecting to tell him about the car accident.

Kamio hung his head, his lip trembling and his knuckles white and balled at his sides. “We just…” he managed, before his words were obscured but a hitch in his throat, “We just wanted to win, Tachibana-san, and go to the Nationals…”

Tachibana felt something hard and dry in his throat too, and instead of railing off more, he sighed heavily and walked away. That must have been more telling for the team, because come the following Monday, practice was subdued, nothing but six boys furiously working at their drills and laps before Tachibana had so much as even changed into his uniform for practice.

It was even more painful to lose to Rikkai Dai. In the back of his mind, Tachibana must have known they would lose. Rikkai Dai could beat anyone. Shishigaku, Chitose, Atobe, anyone, let alone six juniors and a former Kyuushu champion. Still, seeing his players fall one by one to Rikkai hurt almost as much as it did when Tachibana heard that Chitose was leaving. When he saw what his rage ball had done to his best friend.

To make things worse, Rikkai Dai laughed at them. Doubles two, with the half-Brazilian and the megane with the killer shot, so fast that not even Kamio would have been able to catch up. Ishida tries hard to use his power shots, but nothing gets past that brown Rikkai player.

Tachibana nods, pats them on the back and tells them it will be okay. Ishida looks ready to cry. Tachibana forces himself to smile and tosses a sweat towel at him.

Doubles two, Kamio and Shinji, is usually their strongest combination. Set up in the hopes of winning. But, much to Tachibana’s horror, the emperor Sanada and Yanagi Renji step onto the court, stone-faced and ready to play. Ready to kill, judging by the glimmer in their eyes.

They don’t play as a unit. They shouldn’t be in doubles. But their combination- or lack thereof- is what causes Kamio and Shinji to slip up. They try to play doubles, alternating shots, sharing and stepping back to give the other player a chance. Shinji’s serve, so strong before, looks childish next to Sanada’s. Kamio’s speed has nothing, nothing that Yanagi doesn’t seem to predict, always two, three, four steps ahead.

After, Sanada snorts. Yanagi stands there, staring down his nose with a slight smile on his lips. Tachibana wants to punch their faces in. To smash their rackets. To send them a rage-

No!

Tachibana says, “It’s all right,” and he can’t say anything else. Nothing can comfort their utter failure on the court, except maybe a win from himself.

Kirihara may be the new ace on Rikkai, but he is only a junior. Tachibana is a senior, one year’s more experience in tennis and ten times the life experience. Kirihara whistles as he walks onto the court, some stupid kiddy tune from a videogame Tachibana vaguely remembers hearing once.

Besides, Tachibana has heard Kirihara is violent. From the looks of the kid, smiling sweetly at him and swinging his racket like he doesn’t know how to play, Tachibana would guess otherwise. Still, he knows looks can be deceiving. Seigaku’s Echizen, for one.

Tachibana knows the violent card. He turns around from his team, unable to cheer, except for An. Always An, with the banner and the unbreakable smile, the unbreakable faith in the team. “Go Go Tachibana!” she shouts, but her cries are drowned out by the echo of Tachibana’s footsteps.

“I’ll finish this game in fifteen minutes,” Kirihara says, dropping his smile and narrowing his eyes.

Tachibana withdraws the hand he stuck out to shake Kirihara’s hand. “We’ll see about that.”

We’ll go to the Nationals…

We will, Tachibana thinks. He steps wide, planting his feet for a long, hard game. We will…

Kirihara starts strong, but nothing that Tachibana didn’t expect. He takes a point with some quick volleys and the Fudomine side starts to murmur. Maybe they have a chance after all. Maybe Tachibana will turn things around.

The first game is his. It feels, for an instant, the way it did when he and Chitose were playing together. That utter rush of pleasure and delight from a win. That beat of his heart, thumping doki doki in his chest. The hum of his skin and the song of his racket.

But then, after they change courts and Kirihara steps aside to talk in hushed words with Sanada, things change. The first ball to his head takes Tachibana by surprise. He had lunged for a low shot, but somehow, mid-air, the ball changed it’s spin, or something, and Tachibana felt something just smash into his temple and he staggered backwards as the ball rolled on the court.

Kirihara grinned, wide and toothy. “Better watch it,” he said.

Tachibana’s ears rung. He fought to keep his balance and the booing and jeers from his own team didn’t help. “Foul!” Kamio screamed. “That was a foul!”

The second time, Tachibana could see it in Kirihara’s eyes. Kirihara was up 3-1, leading the match easily. Kirihara’s eyes changed from dark to something more twisted, something that glinted red and bloodshot and he cackled and Tachibana could see him silhouetted against the sun, demon-like as he jumped to smash the ball, another aimed right for Tachibana.

Sprawled across the court, Tachibana wondered if it was like this for Chitose. To have heard the voices of his teammates, yelling and shouting, to have laid there and not know if he could pick up his body or not because his head spun so fast and so hard it hurt to so much as even look up at the sky.

The game was gone after that. Tachibana fought as much as he could, but Kirihara’s precise, calculated and violent shots, to his legs, to his shins, and Tachibana rotated his ankle too much trying to avoid them and deflect the ball. He collapsed to his knees, clenching his teeth against the pain as he got back up, refusing to give up on his team, their dream just yet.

The match point came and went without so much as a flutter on the wind. Tachibana fell, his legs gave way, his ankle throbbed, a constant rush of agony all over his bone, muscle, everything, so much it was all Tachibana could do to not let the hot tears of pain trickle down his face.

And all the while, Kirihara just stood there, pleased with himself and laughing.

It was a wonder An didn’t find him afterwards and push him down a flight of steps in the stands.

***

The doctor tells him to stay off his foot for at least a week. Tachibana nods, accepting his fate, and sends Kamio a text message to take over the practices.

He does what he can at home. Bouncing a ball a hundred, two hundred, five hundred times off the rim of his racket, making sure his aim and concentration are still up to it.

Because somehow Fudomine slipped through to the Nationals. Never the winners, but good enough to play with the big kids. Tachibana can’t help but smile at the thought. Where once they were young and nobodies, now they’re someone. Now Fudomine is one of the teams to beat.

Bittersweet, in a way.

Tachibana’s phone buzzes. The fifth message from Kamio today, all concerning practice. Tachibana-san, should we work on swings today? Tachibana-san, should we work on our forms? Tachibana-san Tachibana-san Tachibana-san…

In some ways, Tachibana’s head aches more than his ankle. But the week has passed now, one week before the Nationals. He’ll show up to practice tomorrow. The sky is getting darker by the hour. It will rain, maybe storm, before tonight. The air is thick with anticipation and the drooping plants thirst for water. Tachibana lounges around in the house, lying back on the tatami floors of the living room and watching the curtains flutter from the humming fan.

They have fulfilled their promised desire to go to the Nationals. Tachibana asks An to buy him a bleach kit from the drugstore the following day after he hears the news. He cut his hair, he stopped dying his hair for Chitose. Penance. And now, a symbol of overcoming that burden, he dyes it again.

His father shakes his head. His mother says “It looks awful dyed like that.”

Chitose used to say his hair looked like a lion’s mane, yellow and bushy. If Tachibana was the lion, then Chitose was the shadow. Darker, even more powerful, but with hair just as bushy.

Shitenhoji will be at the Nationals. Tachibana can feel it inside. It heats up his belly, hotter than the summer pavement, at the thought of seeing Chitose again, albeit in different team colours, albeit playing against him, not with him.

But there. And all right. And playing.

Tachibana sighs into the fan, his breath rattling. The air inside the house melts.

An disappears with a bowl of dog food. She calls out from the kitchen, asking if Tachibana has seen the dog. He shouts back, “Check outside on the porch.”

Footsteps and the creaking door, and then the sound of the doorbell ringing, and the dog giving a pathetic, lethargic bark, and An yelling, “Nii-san! Come to the door! Fuji-san is-”

Tachibana leans into the doorframe, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Seigaku’s Fuji stands there, smiling amicably with his tennis bag strapped over his shoulder.

“Did you come to spy on me Fuji?” Tachibana asks. It’s strange to see a Seigaku player hovering on the porch of his house, but Fuji doesn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable. He crouches down to pat Gokutora on the head, rubbing behind her ears where she likes it best.

“Tachibana,” Fuji says, “would you mind tagging along with me for a bit?”

Tachibana nods. It would take an idiot not to realize Fuji’s intentions. Gokutora whines and An looks at him, her wide eyes pleading No, don’t do it, nii-san.

Tachibana apologizes in his mind, and says nothing as he runs upstairs to change into his uniform and grab his own tennis bag. Fuji waits at the gate. An, anxious, clutches the iron railing. “Nii-san…” she says.

Tachibana shuts the gate. “The injuries I got from Kirihara have all healed,” he says as they start to walk down the street.

Fuji keeps smiling. “Tezuka was worried, too” he says.

Tachibana stops walking. The crosswalk light has gone red. He drums his fingers against the lightpost and Fuji gives him a long sideways glance.

“Let’s cut the crap,” Tachibana says, “Which courts do you want to play at?”

Fuji tells him, smiling the whole walk there.

***

The court is gloriously empty, a rare thing in the middle of summer.

“We’re by a Catholic school,” Fuji says.

Tachibana shakes his head, smiling too. “You want to test how far you’d go against a Nationally-ranked player, don’t you?”

Fuji doesn’t answer him. Instead, he picks out a ball from his pocket and says, “Nice hair, Tachibana.”

As you wish, Fuji…Tachibana thinks. Fuji serves long and hard to the back of the court. His wide, open eyes reflect the grey-blue sky, demanding that Tachibana play like Fuji knows he can. That Tachibana play hard and show him.

Tachibana throws his weight into the ball, rushing into it. His t-shirt flutters up, the ball slams into Fuji’s court, dust- or maybe smoke- rising from its wake.

Fuji uses his Higuma Otoshi.

Tachibana counters with a rising shot, close to the net that he’s barely got enough room to turn around, to manouvre, but the ball slices and Fuji loses another set as the ball zooms past his ankle.

A bit too close to his foot. A bit too much like Kirihara.

But Fuji doesn’t- or won’t- say stop. No, Fuji sends a volley back to Tachibana, too easy that Tachibana yells at him, tells him he won’t survive at the Nationals if that is all he has. Fuji’s face drips with sweat, as though the rain has already started. Tachibana’s t-shirt is soaked through the back as well. His heart pounds hard enough to jump out through his throat.

The rush he felt momentarily with Kirihara returns twice as hard playing against Fuji.

“Have you been overrated?” Fuji calls out.

Tachibana swings. Fuji returns the shot. Another clean top-spin, slightly curved to the back of the court. Tachibana runs, moves to hit it, and then the ball crashes behind his ear, hitting the chain link fence with a deafening, ringing blow.

The air smells like burnt rubber.

“I’ll have no problem taking centre stage at the Nationals,” Fuji announces. “Thank you for the game today.”

“If you’re trying to piss me off to get me to play seriously against you, it won’t work,” Tachibana tells him. Only for Chitose…

Fuji gives Tachibana a half-smile, his lack of words more enigmatic than ever. As abruptly as he showed up at Tachibana’s house, so Fuji leaves the court, picks up his tennis bag and walks off in the direction that must be towards his house.

Tachibana waits a few minutes, to see if Fuji was bluffing, just in case, and then shoves his own racket away. Outside the courts, near the steps down to the street, Kamio and An are panting and red-faced and dripping with sweat.

“Nii-san!” An says.

“Tachibana-san!” Kamio echoes.

Tachibana wipes his brow with the back of his hand, then clamps it down on Kamio’s heaving shoulder. “What do you say…should we win at the Nationals, Kamio?”

***

One last envelope shows up before the Nationals.

The first envelope in more than a month. Tachibana picks up the mail out of the mailbox. He’s just finished at tennis practice. The team is getting more and more pumped each day for Thursday’s Nationals commencement. The parade of champions at the start, then the games themselves. Information has gone around to all of the teams now, where to go, when to go. Tachibana keeps the date firmly etched on his mind. There is no need to write it down.

He sets his tennis bag down on the porch and sits down on the steps beside it. An is nowhere to be seen. She must have stayed later, chatting with Ishida and Sakurai. Tachibana rips the envelope open.

A glossy page falls onto his lap. Curious, he picks it up. It’s not like the black and white newspaper clippings. He turns it over to see a childish scrawl in big, bold letters:

he cant wait to play u

And nothing more.

The envelope, postmarked as always, from Osaka. Where Chitose lives now. Where Chitose plays.

The paper is gone from his hands and Tachibana looks up. An frowns, reading over the words, then turning the page over to see everything. His breath stops for a moment until An says, “You don’t have any secrets from me, nii-san.”

Tachibana is quiet.

An goes on, “I recognize this ad.” She shoves the page in front of Tachibana. A picture of a female sports player drinking neon-coloured Gatorade, with matching blue sweat running down her face. Unnatural and weird. “It’s from the girls’ tennis magazine I buy sometimes. Ace Princess.”

Inside the house, Gokutora barks at something. A pigeon coos down the street and a car passes by, but not a word passes between the two of them until An whispers, “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, nii-san.”

“I won’t,” Tachibana says. And for once, he has no idea what An is talking about. For the moment, he doesn’t think it really matters either.

***

An folds and unfolds the Fudomine banner compulsively on the train. Unlike some teams, with private vans or cars hired, Fudomine takes the train to the stadium. Kamio sits, head bouncing to his mp3, but Tachibana knows it’s as much of a façade as his own calm face. Kamio isn’t bouncing to the rhythm of music, he’s swaying with the motions of the train.

Shinji is quiet. Ishida has stopped his arm curls. Mori clutches his tennis bag for dear life.

Tachibana wants to puke, his stomach is in so many knots. Not at the thought of having to play, or march through the stadium holding the shabby-looking Fudomine black and red banner that An patched up for them, but the thought of seeing Chitose and having Chitose see him.

It’s been almost a year.

Tachibana may have seen pictures. He may have read the tiny school newspaper articles. He may have glared at that teammate touching Chitose, like he owned him. It’s been a long time. It feels like everything has changed. Everything has changed.

Except the colour of Tachibana’s hair.

The train stops close to the sports stadium grounds where the games are held. The team follows the signs into the stadium, where An leaves them to join the massing crowds in the stands. The air smells like the sweat of too many people and the ground below is dirty. Vendors sell everything from shaved ice to greasy hotdogs and programs that list the profiles of the top teams. The teams that have made it to the Nationals.

Fudomine’s entry is standard. The names of the players. The fact Tachibana is the player-coach. Not one word about how hard they worked. Not one word about the coach he beat up. No past, no present, just names.

Even at the Nationals there are levels of anonymity. Two days before, Tachibana had gone to the playing order lottery held at a nearby school. He saw Tezuka show up, in classic Seigaku theatrics, right as his fukubuchou was about to have a panic attack. Tachibana saw Rikkai’s Sanada and Yanagi and he glared at the backs of their heads. And Tachibana had also seen Shitenhoji’s captain and vice-captain. It was their buchou, Shiraishi, who had been pawing at Chitose in the photograph. The memory made Tachibana twitch inside. It made him want to go up to Shiraishi and ask about Chitose, to tell him that he was Chitose’s best friend, he was Chitose’s teammate…

Except, Tachibana wasn’t. He isn’t. Not anymore.

Kamio didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy about to start an argument with a puffed up player from Hyougo who had laughed and cackled about “Fudomine who?” when their team was called to pick.

“Save it for a game,” Tachibana told him.

They might have made it to the Nationals, but they are still unknown. When their name is called to march onto the Astroturf in the stadium, Tachibana takes a deep breath as Kamio waves the banner high above their heads and he leads the team in with his head held high.

They made it.

The cheers rise up, all around, a thousand voice, dinned into one, shouting and clapping and encouraging the players on. It feels nice, but it’s not just for them. Thirty-two teams share the spotlight in this one moment.

The fireworks explode above their heads. Gunpowder and burning colours, dulled against the bluest of skies. Tachibana takes the opportunity to look around. There, Seigaku. Nearby, Rikkai Dai and Hyoutei. And at the far end of the lines of teams, there is the yellow and green of Shitenhoji from Osaka.

For the first time in almost a year, Tachibana sees that dark head of hair, standing tall above the rest of his teammates. His heart pounds so hard Tachibana can’t hear the booms of the fireworks, he can’t hear the crowds, all he can hear is the thumping in his chest, so tight it hurts to breathe.

Chitose is as aloof as ever, not looking ahead, not looking anywhere in particular. His slight smile, his casual stance- for a long, long moment, it feels like the world has stopped and time has erased itself. The image of Chitose lying supine on the court, blood crying from his eyes, his mouthed words to Tachibana, the surprise, the shock, the accompanying guilt that has hung around Tachibana like a noose…

It rises higher than the fireworks, out of the stadium. Tachibana doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry, the sensation is indescribable.

***

“Guess who I saw?” An says.

They are eating dinner. Play starts tomorrow. Their parents have gone out for the evening to see some friends visiting from Kyuushu.

“Who?” Tachibana asks. The fish-cake bento box he bought doesn’t seem as tasty as it did in the supermarket. He regrets not taking up Uchimura’s offer to go out for ramen, but his pocket is slim as it is, especially after the new grip tape Tachibana bought just before the Nationals were to start.

“Chitose Miyuki,” An says. She stirs her own bento box, mixing the rice with curry sauce and frowning.

Tachibana’s hand stills. He sets down his chopsticks.

“You know,” An says, smiling again, “her writing always looked an awful lot like that weird note you got from Osaka, nii-san.”

Tachibana’s chopsticks roll off the table, clattering to the floor. Gokutora brushes up against his legs, hoping to find scraps of food to steal. He pushes back his chair, then gets up from the table, not even bothering to finish his supper or excuse himself.

By his lamplight, Tachibana pores over the small pile of newspaper clippings and grainy printed off pictures of Chitose. It was Miyuki all along. He should have known. She didn’t really like him. She didn’t really talk to Tachibana, in some ways, like how An didn’t talk to Chitose much.

Except it was because she didn’t like him. Tachibana was the bad influence. Tachibana was the violent one. Tachibana was the one who blinded her brother in the one eye.

And yet she sent these envelopes to him.

We’ll go to the Nationals, Chitose said.

he cant wait to play u, Miyuki’s note said.

Tachibana eyes his cellphone. He could call. He could call and hear Chitose say, in his drawl, “Yes?” He could call and hear Chitose’s voice and hang up…except Chitose’s old number won’t work anymore. And Tachibana isn’t that pathetic.

I will see you tomorrow, he thinks, looking down at the picture of Chitose. For a flickering instant, Chitose’s eyes seem to sparkle in the dim lamplight, an invitation for Tachibana of a sort.

When Tachibana sleeps, he doesn’t dream about winning the Nationals. He dreams about dark hair and mountain breezes and the sweet taste of fresh mangos, grainy and juicy in his mouth, the memory of long-ago so palpable that when he wakes, he swears he can hear the sound of Chitose breathing in his ear.

It turns out to be Gokutora, but the dawning sun is too near and Tachibana lies awake until his alarm rings and his cellphone sing-songs, a reminder that the first matches are today.

And Chitose, too.

He hopes.

***

In the morning of the first day of play, Fudomine plays Echigo Hira Daini. It is too easy to take all five games. Tachibana can forget about Chitose in his game. The exercise, the game, the running around and the zoom of neon balls, early in the morning when the temperature is cool and the shadows still hang. Tachibana plays singles one and finishes the game in seventeen minutes.

They eat packed lunches in the stadium cafeteria. A hundred other players are there, too, most with change jingling in their pockets to buy food at the vending machines. Ishida keeps flitting his eyes around and curling around his bento box. Tachibana touches him on the shoulder. Ishida jumps.

“Are you all right?” Tachibana asks.

Ishida swallows, his throat bobbing. “It’s nothing,” he says.

“Not using that shot, I hope,” Tachibana adds.

Ishida shakes his head.

An invites a couple of the Seigaku players over. Momoshiro and Kikumaru. Kaidoh and Echizen follow. They might be rivals, but they might be more than that. Allies of a sort. Shared practices and a long history of mutual acquaintance bring laughter when Momoshiro stuffs his mouth so full of hamburgers that he looks like a squirrel. Even Shinji cracks a rare smile.

It breaks up the growing tension. Winning the first round was nothing, the second round will be harder. Tachibana can feel it. That’s the way it was last year, too. Each progressive round gets harder, gets more intense until the weaker team is pushed out. Shishigaku lasted until the final four. It was a tough battle.

But Fudomine has been through more than Shishigaku ever had.

Makinofuji Gakuin, that team from Hyougo, awaits after lunch. Tachibana waves to his team, who huddle around him for a pep-talk. But he’s never been good at encouraging and he doesn’t know what to say. Sakurai says, “Let’s beat them!”

Kamio adds, “Let’s kick their asses!”

Seven hands pile on top of one another, and then an eighth. An stands with them, carrying a soft coolerbag filled with water bottles and sports drinks. “You can do it!” she says, balling her fists together. “You can do it!”

Tachibana notices the boards and sees the name of Shitenhoji lit up. They’ve made it to round two, too. And if they win, then Fudomine will play them next.

“Let’s WIN!” Tachibana yells. “Let’s show them who we are!”

***

It is dusk before the teams finish leaving the complex. Tachibana hangs around long enough to see his teammates trickle off home, trains and buses to be caught. An stays with him, too, until Kamio leaves. Tachibana nods to her, then to Kamio, who flushes.

Or, it could be the red sun’s glow. It doesn’t really matter.

A heavy, bloody sun hangs low and big in the western sky, peeping around skyscrapers in downtown Tokyo. Tachibana picks up his tennis bag. His body is sore, in a good way, from tennis. Another solid win against Makinofuji, with only one loss to four wins for Fudomine.

Sports officials are sweeping the courts and custodians picking up trash, tidying up before the games tomorrow. Tachibana starts to walk towards the overpass to the train station, slow and steady, his tennis bag swinging as he moves.

“Kippei.”

One word. One word uttered and Tachibana stops dead in his tracks.

It feels like forever before he can move his head, turn around and see what it was. But he would know that voice anywhere, that distinctive Kyuushu accent, so like his own, but much more deliberate, much more relaxed.

Tachibana can’t see, not with the warm glare of the ochre sun in his eyes. He can make out the figure, tall against the shine, glowing a bit, with his dark hair fluttering up in the breeze blowing off the bay. “Let’s play tomorrow,” Chitose says.

He walks off, hands in his pockets, as Tachibana stares at his back, gaping like a fish. The cicadas hum into the night, gathering strength as the sun sets and night takes over, and Tachibana hears that voice, that promise, that desire echoing over and over in his ears.

Let’s play tomorrow. Let’s play…let’s play…

***

The morning dew rises off the damp trees and bushes, steam-like and making the air even thicker than ever, a taste of the temperatures to come. Tachibana leads Fudomine onto the court. The low-lying shrubs around the courts are filled with chirping birds, just waking up themselves.

Tachibana looks at the Shitenhoji captain, eye to eye across the net. The rosters have been filled out and given to the officials. Obviously, the Shitenhoji captain would slot himself into singles one.

Mori’s idea, long-held, Tachibana hopes it works out somehow. Shinji in singles three against another freshman ace. A hard call, but Tachibana can only cross his fingers and hope Shinji’s recent bout of dedicated practicing pays off for Fudomine. Doubles two might be a bit of a gamble with Ishida and Kamio pair, but they’ve played well together in unofficial matches against Seigaku.

Besides, Shitenhoji has a power player. A boy almost as tall as Chitose, built like a tank and just as bald as Ishida stares him down, with a quirk to his lips. Ishida clenches his racket as hard as Tachibana squeezes Shiraishi’s hand.

“Let’s have a good match,” he says with a thick Kansai accent.

Tachibana snorts. He sits down on the bench as Shinji takes to the court amid an outpour of cheering from their side. Other teams have gathered too- the red of Rokkaku, a couple Seigaku players, and one or two boys in Hyoutei school uniforms. Tachibana folds his arms over his chest.

Chitose looks at him.

Tachibana can barely hold his gaze. The lump in his chest swells up, pained as ever. Chitose’s eyes sparkle, but his right eye, oddly, doesn’t seem to move much. Tachibana has to keep looking, because if he doesn’t, if he breaks that gaze, he’ll see the memory of Chitose, injured and fallen from his hand clearer than ever.

He wrote himself down in for singles two.

Because Chitose would play the same position.

Shinji starts off strong. His kick serve is in top form, the spin on the ball faster and harder than ever. Tachibana leans back, focusing on the game and his team, but always keeping Chitose in the corner of his eye. Chitose sitting in the stands. Chitose, in the green and yellow t-shirt, his favourite tunic poking out from underneath. Chitose, sitting near their captain, who leans over every once in a while to whisper something in Chitose’s ear.

Tachibana’s eye twitches.

Chitose looks straight into his eyes, so deep it makes Tachibana shiver.

Shinji takes the game. The freshman ace on the other side of the net stomps all the way to the other side when they change courts. And then, at his serve, he cackles like a hyena and shouts to his coach, “Watch this, Osamu-chan!”

What the kid does next, Tachibana isn’t exactly sure. His serve is lightning-fast, a bolt across the court leaving a yellow streak in the air. Shinji isn’t fast enough to make the shot, which slams to the back of the court behind him. His lips move, cursing himself, and he steadies himself for the next ball.

Tachibana nods. Don’t think about it, Shinji, he thinks. Focus on the game ahead.

The kid is wild, the way he plays. He must be in the State of Self-Actualization, because he uses shots that Tachibana wouldn’t imagine he should be able to do. Sanada’s fuurinkazan and something that works like the Tezuka Zone, sucking in every ball, every lob, every smash that Shinji tries to make.

Tachibana sucks in his breath. He digs his fingers into his knees, willing Shinji to break the flow the freshman ace has created.

Instead, a rogue ball flies into Shinji’s elbow.

Shinji falls to the ground, clutching his arm. It must be An who gasps. Kamio yells and Ishida, too.

Tachibana waits and watches Shinji pick himself up and reach for his racket. The Shitenhoji boy hops from foot to foot, bouncing and shouting that he wants to keep playing so he can play the Koshimae.

Shinji groans, but manages to grab hold of his racket. His strained expression and the drips of sweat sluicing down his face are more than obvious. Tachibana stands up and walks onto the court, not caring if it is the middle of the game or not.

“He forfeits,” Tachibana tells the referee.

When the ref says, “Fudomine Singles Three, Ibu Shinji, forfeit!” Shinji looks up, shaking his head at Tachibana.

In the loudest voice Tachibana has ever heard from him, Shinji yells, “T-Tachibana-san! I can still play! Please let me do it!”

Tachibana grabs Shinji by the hand. Shinji sucks in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut against whatever pain he must be hiding in his arm. “Don’t push yourself, Shinji,” Tachibana says, lowering his voice. Shinji’s face changes from shocked white to a pink flush and, reluctantly, as Kamio-Ishida pair is announced, he slinks back to the sidelines to join the rest of their team.

The Shitenhoji kid and their buchou have disappeared and the game starts. “Fudomine, Ishida-Kamio pair vs Shitenhoji, Ishida-Oshitari pair!” the referee calls out.

Tachibana stands up straight from where he had been leaning against the post of the stands. Ishida…?

He looks at Sakurai, who nods once.

So this is the person Ishida learned his Hadoukyuu from. Brother vs brother. Tachibana rubs his temples. They ache, already, and the game has just begun. It’s awful from the start. Kamio kicks into his rhythm, but Shitenhoji’s Oshitari is even faster. He dodges, so fast that it strains Tachibana’s eyes to follow his movements. Ishida returns the volleys with a power shot, but his brother hits back the shot without so much as blinking an eye, not until the ball hits the back of the court so hard, the ball lodges itself into the chain link fence.

“Who taught you that shot, Tetsu?” Ishida’s brother asks. His voice booms across the court. No one, no one cannot hear his question. And no one cannot see the shame on Ishida’s face. The inferiority as he bows his head and tenses his jaw.

The first noise is from the Shitenhoji side. “Wow,” Chitose says.

Tachibana looks over, pursing his lips. Hearing Chitose say that, such an offhand remark, it makes his insides twist for his team. They’ve tried so hard; they’ve come so far, and here his old best friend says that and sits back down next to the captain, who has returned with their resident freshman in tow.

As though Chitose couldn’t have thought that Tachibana’s team had any skill of their own.

Tachibana kicks under the coach’s bench, making sure his own tennis bag is still there. It’ll be his turn soon enough. Or sooner, judging from the unreturned shots Ishida’s older brother keeps plowing onto the Fudomine side.

Shitenhoji’s stands break into applause, chanting “Don don dodo don, Shitenhoji!” Their speed star starts the serve with a poach, but Ishida has caught on. Tachibana can see Ishida run for the net, determined to make the shot as Shitenhoji’s players make sly comments.

It is Ishida’s backhand.

But seeing Ishida make the shot, backhanded Hadoukyuu, makes the Fudomine side hush. Tachibana bites his tongue, an immense feeling of pride bloom inside because his player has done something that Tachibana has never seen before. Evolving, in a way, right before Tachibana’s eyes.

Kamio, too, pushes himself, making a shot impossible from the baseline, so fast that Oshitari doesn’t make it. A ghost of an old Tachibana laughs inside when he sees Oshitari trip over his feet and Kamio-Ishida pair take their first point.

You guys….since when…

But Tachibana already knows the answer. His players are just as good as any other team here. Just as good as Seigaku. Just as good as Shitenhoji, and more than twice as determined.

He rubs his chin. The sun shines even hotter with each passing moment, with each shot made.

“Not bad,” the Oshitari player calls out.

“You finally hit a decent Hadoukyuu,” Ishida’s brother adds.

Their weights hit the court with two dull thuds. Kamio’s jaw drops. Ishida stands motionless.

Shitenhoji breaks the accompanying silence when one of their players squeals, “Kenya-kuuuuun, you’re sooooo wonderful!” and makes kisses in the air. Chitose whispers something to the freshman ace, who grins even wider.

Tachibana grinds his teeth. He’d never thought Chitose would be so chummy with that team. He saw the pictures, yes, but Chitose had that nonchalant air to him. He was never close to anyone except Tachibana. He never seemed to care about the tightly-knit friendships of other teammates. So why, now, was he making sly glances at the freshman and the captain, too?

Tachibana can hear his knuckles crack. Looking down, he sees his fists so tight that his hands are white and numb at the fingertips.

“Let’s play serious now,” Oshitari drawls.

Tachibana can only imagine what goes on in their minds as Kamio and Ishida both give him a look, pleading something with their eyes and their stony faces. Tachibana nods. He knows their frustrations. He knows their efforts.

Do what you must, he thinks.

Ishida collapses before he has a chance to hit another Hadoukyuu. Stumbling, he catches Kamio in the knee and knocks him down, too.

They gasp on the court, tangled up and sweating tears. Or crying sweat. It doesn’t matter. Kamio pushes himself onto his one knee, dripping blood down his legs. Ishida’s racket has been blown across the court again.

And his brother seems pleased with himself. Oshitari is downright smiling at their play.

Tachibana won’t let it happen again. Shinji makes a grab for his shoulder, but he pushes Shinji away. The crowds are hushed as he stalks onto the court and picks up the two boys, heaving and protesting with words, but their bodies fall onto his lean, leaning their weight into Tachibana’s embrace.

“It’s okay now,” he tells them.

On the sidelines, An is crying when the referee announces their second forfeit in a row.

***

Tachibana doesn’t speak as he unzips his racket cover. His hands shake, cold and clammy as they wrap around his racket. He hasn’t played Chitose since that day. He’s not really seen Chitose since that day either.

Blood rushes to his hear, roaring in his ears louder than the din of cheers and whistles from the stands. Dimly, Tachibana notices that most of the entire Seigaku team has gathered to support them, lead by a smiling Fuji.

He doesn’t smile back when Fuji catches his eye. If anything, Tachibana only purses his lips tighter. He checks his shoelaces one last, compulsive time, then steps onto the court.

His heart pounds.

Chitose walks onto the court, tall and confident, his hair fluttering up even though there isn’t any hint of wind. He wears gaudy, awful yellow pants, and yet he carries his chin as high as ever.

“Long time no see, Kippei,” he says. “I never thought we’d have a match together again.”

Tachibana breathes through his nose until the compulsion to speak is too strong. Chitose demands something, just with his eyes, those dark sparkling knowing eyes that follow his every motion on the court so far.

“Your eye…is it healed?”

Chitose’s eyes go wide, but only his left pupil shows Tachibana’s reflection, shows surprise and life. His right eye is dead and dull, and Tachibana can see it well.

Chitose just smiles. “Yeah.”

And he gets that look to him. That look that Tachibana knows spells out that Chitose is already in his Muga No Kyouchi state, when he practically floats, just standing there, barely holding his racket.

It’s a bit scary seeing Chitose like this. It was something Tachibana could never quite achieve, no matter how hard he tried. It was the reason he started working on that rage ball. Something, anything, to counter what Chitose could do.

The sides of Chitose’s eyes crinkle- maybe from the sun, or maybe from amusement, the glare makes it hard to tell- when he says, “Come at me seriously, Kippei. Don’t hold back!”

Tachibana glares at Chitose. It is everything he has wanted and dreaded all at once. With An’s gasp from the stands, the game begins, no holds barred. Nothing. Tachibana will give it his everything, for his team, who tried so hard but couldn’t cut it. For Chitose most of all.

Their grunts and their footsteps echo across the court. Back, forth, back, forth the ball rallies. Fast and furious and just the way they played best back at Kyuushu, with nothing but the mountain air behind their backs and the sea beyond.

Chitose drops his racket. Tachibana lunges for the ball, which skits along the top of the net. The tightrope ball of Rikkai’s Marui. His arms strain, his legs scream and stretch, but Tachibana makes the play.

Chitose laughs. That beautiful ringing sound filling up Tachibana’s ears. “I thought you’d gotten weak, Kippei,” he says, following through with another shot. “But I didn’t need to worry at all.”

His smile is white-hot from the sun, and Chitose should know it, but when Tachibana side-steps right into the path of the ball, he’s surprised. He stares, shell-shocked and slack-jawed, with his blind eye and that is the last thing Tachibana can see before the tennis ball smashes into his eye.

Tachibana hits the ground with a thud. His right cheek has gone numb and there is blackness blurring his right eye’s vision. “This is my atonement,” he mutters. In front of him, the ball bounces once, twice and falls to a stop.

“Kippei,” Chitose mouths.

His Muga No Kyouchi drops.

Tachibana picks himself up, and, against the silence of his team, he takes the game, driving his body forward, pushing himself into the match, even without the vision in his right eye. He knows where Chitose will hit. His left eye still works. Time and again he hits back, just as fair, just like Chitose hits towards his right side, so Tachibana hits to Chitose’s right.

The side he can see, too.

It might be deliberate on Chitose’s part. It might not be. His balls always had a tendency to swerve right over the net, maybe from his southpaw factor. It doesn’t matter now.

The heavy pressure on Tachibana’s shoulders feels nostalgic, in some ways. This isn’t the games of old, played for competition between the two of them. This isn’t a game for the Nationals.

No, something changes mid-way, maybe when Tachibana stepped in front of that ball to take it direct. Chitose’s aura changes. His expression, so serious after that, starts to soften and his moves pick up along with his pace.

Tachibana responds, urging Chitose on. Give me your all too, he thinks, two-handing the racket to send the ball soaring overhead. The arc of the ball above their heads disappears into the rays of the sun, then drops back down as Chitose jumps up.

“I feel good today,” Chitose calls out.

Tachibana can feel his mouth pull into a smile. “Good,” he yells back.

For an instant, it feels like old. He rushes up to the net. The soles of his sneakers burn the clay court, the stench of burning rubber from them, from the ball he hits. Super Rising Shot, just what the old Chitose would love to see. Something that challenges him. Something that dares him to give his all.

“Here ya go!” Chitose says, bending his body and catching the ball with the tip of his racket.

The ball disappears. There one moment, gone the next.

The sound of it hitting the ground behind Tachibana makes him jump around. Chitose hasn’t changed one bit, not in a year. Not one eye less. He laughs the same when Tachibana looks at him, raising his eyebrows.

Chitose is still just as impressive.

He points at Tachibana and says, “I’ve been researching the Muga No Kyouchi. There are three doors, you know.”

“So,” Tachibana calls back, bouncing the ball before his serve, “which have you stepped” he throws up the ball “through?” he finishes, slamming his racket against the ball and giving Chitose a fast serve. His heart pumps, thump thump, thump thump against his ribs.

In the back of his mouth, there is the sweet taste. Something like mango.

“I’ll step through it,” Chitose starts to say. He takes a deep breath and his chest rises. He jumps, hair blurring into a black halo around his head. He’s on fire against the sun, eclipsing it with his form above as he swings too light to make the shot, but he makes it anyway… “now!”

One, two, three more shots. Tachibana can return those. Four, five, six. “Too slow!” he yells out.

Chitose laughs. The ball soars between them. Time warps, changing, and contracting. Balls that are laser-fast become slow and steady, their curves visible and easy to predict. Chitose shines. Tachibana’s t-shirt sticks to his body, sweaty and panting and unable to stop himself pushing further and further until…

Tachibana twists his wrist. His hand slides down the racket handle. The score might be 6-1, it might be 7-5. Tachibana can’t remember, but the crowd’s eyes, fixed on the two of them, pricking the back of Tachibana’s neck tell him that this is the final point.

Do it, Chitose’s eyes tell him.

Tachibana swings.

Chitose screams his name.

The ball is lost. And then lost again, bouncing clean on the court behind Tachibana. For the first time in a year, Tachibana’s smile feels purely and utterly genuine when he says, “That was splendid.”

In tandem, they walk up to the net. Sweaty, slimy hands clasp, the first touch in forever, too, as the referee announces “Game set! Won by Chitose, 7-5!”

Tachibana’s hand lingers until Chitose pulls back. Cocking his head, he gives Tachibana one last, long smile before going back to join his team in celebrating their win.

The lightness inside feels like Tachibana has won, too. His legs are heavy, but his feet bounce when he walks back to his team, not dejected in the least.

***

Fudomine might have lost, but that doesn’t stop them from staying at the sports complex to watch the semifinals games. Tachibana doesn’t say it, but he wants to see Chitose play Tezuka, something Chitose had wanted for a long time. An doesn’t question him and even Kamio and Shinji, who grumble and complain at Seigaku winning everything, tag along to the stadium.

But first, an tugged on his arm until Tachibana agreed to be led to the nursing station. Only walking there, away from the tennis courts, did he start to feel the throbbing pain in his pain, made worse when his vision started to return, albeit blurred beyond recognition, to the sides of his field of vision.

“Why would you do such a thing?” the nurse asks, clucking her tongue.

Tachibana hisses when she dabs the fluid collecting in the corner of his eye and applies the bandages. The tape over his face itches, but An finally smiles. She chucks him in the arm and says, “Nii-san.”

Kamio shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I heard that Seigaku is at 1-1 with Shitenhoji.”

“If we’re fast, we can catch doubles one,” Ishida says.

“Hurry!” An says.

They run all the way through the complex, pushing through the stadium rows to find free seats. Way up in the nosebleed section, but visible enough to see Chitose standing across the net from Tezuka. Two other plays, one from Seigaku and one from Shitenhoji, stand on the sidelines of the court.

“Doubles…?” Tachibana asks.

“They were supposed to play doubles,” Shinji says. “But then the names changed on the board and then even though it’s doubles, only two players are going to play. That’s not how doubles are supposed to go. That’s not in the rule book. Are they even allowed to do that? Tachibana-san, if players don’t play by the rules, then-”

“Shut up, Shinji!” Kamio snaps.

“His Muga No Kyouchi never worked in doubles,” Tachibana mutters.

Mori and Ishida look at him. “Tachibana-san?”

Tachibana doesn’t want to explain. Not with the game starting. Chitose should be able to win, though against a Tezuka Zone, and a fully healed Tezuka Kunimitsu, he can’t say for sure.

Chitose begins, glowing and confident, with his Muga No Kyouchi, but Tezuka has his own tricks up his sleeve. It’s strange to watch, so far away, Chitose lose point after point to Tezuka, who sucks everything in like a black hole. But at the same time, Chitose doesn’t seem to care. He could play faster, he could play smarter, he could play harder.

Chitose loses, 6-1. Tachibana frowns. The game was off, but it never really took off to start with. Doubles, then singles, Chitose not playing, then playing, according to Shinji and Uchimura.

“I don’t think that Chitose guy really cared,” Kamio says.

Probably not, Tachibana thinks. He hopes that it might have been because of their game, that Chitose couldn’t be bothered afterward, but he doesn’t want to hope too much.

“I heard he quit,” Sakurai says, before his voice disappears in the roar of Seigaku’s supporters, pleased with their advancement to the finals.

Somewhere, too, in the stands, Tachibana sees a small girl wearing a baseball cap looking up at him and giving him an unexpected thumbs-up.

***

Tachibana hangs around the changing rooms. Streams of people push past, oblivious to him just standing in the doorway. He doesn’t care, not even when two Shitenhoji players smirk at him and the one leering, leans a bit too close when his hand grazes Tachibana’s thigh.

“Don’t!” his teammate snaps. “I’ll kill you if you cheat…”

Tachibana doesn’t want to know.

He stands out in his Fudomine black, feeling a bit awkward waiting here as the time ticks by. He had to sneak past Ishida and Kamio, who would probably hound him and insist on going out for snacks, not to celebrate, but maybe to console themselves. Shaved ice and cold tea, at the very least.

The Shitenhoji captain walks out of the changing rooms first. He slows down when he sees Tachibana, smiling darkly and his hair flipped over his eyes. “Are you looking for someone?” he asks Tachibana.

Something rushes between them, a blur of brown and red and then Shiraishi says, “Kin-chan!” and the freshman stops running, mid-step when he sees his captain tug at the end of his bandages.

“Is Chitose still in there?” Shiraishi asks the kid.

The kid shrugs. When Shiraishi turns his head, the kid streaks off again, cackling to himself as though his captain doesn’t notice.

Shiraishi keeps looking at Tachibana, so Tachibana stares back. If it’s a battle between their eyes, Tachibana won’t lose, not even with an itchy patch over his right side. Eventually, Shiraishi shrugs, too, and walks off with his hands in his pockets, but not without pushing the side of his tennis bag into Tachibana’s arm as he leaves.

The clacking sounds first, deep down in the cement walls of the corridor. Tachibana tenses and sucks in a breath, and then the tall, lanky form comes closer and closer until Chitose stands in front of him in the glare of the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Seigaku calls you the Lion Buddha,” he says.

Tachibana scrunches his brow. “What?”

Chitose shrugs his shoulders, smiling as he shakes his head. “That’s what they call you. They must not know you very well, Kippei. You’re no Buddha.” And then, looking sideways, Chitose leans down to say, “Unless you’ve changed.”

Tachibana snorts. The weird press inside his ribs hurts his chest. His tennis bag feels heavier than ever. Chitose starts to walk away, not caring that Tachibana has waited a good half hour for him to show up.

“Wait!”

Chitose takes another step, then his geta stop clacking. His tennis bag shifts on his shoulders.

“Are…you staying in Tokyo?” Tachibana asks. His voice rises, sounding nervous in the tense air between them as the moments tick by and Chitose doesn’t answer. He coughs to clear his throat. With the summer heat, the smog is bad in the city, a yellow-tinted cloud over everything.

“A bunch of the team is staying in a ryokan,” Chitose finally says.

Chitose was never much of a team player. Surely that hasn’t changed. And judging from the wry smile on his face, it hasn’t.

Tachibana doesn’t need to invite Chitose over and Chitose doesn’t need to accept it. They both get on the same train, to the same destination and walk down the same street to Tachibana’s home, with the last light of the afternoon shining like gold on their backs.

***

It isn’t mangos and mochi and cold tea. And it isn’t on a volcano slope overlooking the bay around Kagoshima. No, it’s a tray of melon slices and a bowl of shrimp chips, with leftover bottles of Gatorade from An’s cooler bag that she has towed relentlessly to and from the Nationals for three days straight.

Tachibana cranks his window open the whole way and they climb onto the roof of the house. The shingles are still warm from the day and the lights of the city shine bright in the velvety sky. Chitose stretches his long legs out and sighs.

Sweet juice dribbles through Tachibana’s fingers as he chews on the rind of the melon. They haven’t said much, not since Tachibana’s mother chatted with Chitose (after yelling at Tachibana for getting injured, of course) and asked him about Osaka as An eyed them warily.

“Nii-san,” she whispered, “be careful.”

“About what?” Tachibana mouthed.

Gokutora was thrilled to see Chitose, too, running around in circles and jumping up to Chitose’s shins. Chitose stared at her, smiled, toed at her hind end with his foot.

The roof is cooler than inside, oddly enough. Tachibana sets down his melon rind and grabs another slice, devouring it and sucking the juice out. Chitose leans back on his elbows. Tachibana can hear his stomach rumbling, but Chitose doesn’t make a move for any of the snacks. Tachibana nudges the bowl of chips closer until it touches Chitose’s arm.

Chitose rolls onto his side.

“The air smells different than Osaka,” he finally says.

“Smog,” Tachibana says, maybe a little too fast, a little too eager to break up the quiet between them.

Chitose sighs again.

Tachibana tries again: “I haven’t killed any of my kouhais yet.”

Chitose’s lips move, the city lights illuminating his face enough for Tachibana to see. The stars sparkle in his hair and in his eyes.

“You wouldn’t have anyway,” Chitose says.

“You get on well with your team,” Tachibana goes on. Chitose picks up a chip, then flicks it off his fingertip. It falls to the ground below like a feather on the wind, just as silent in the dark night.

“You too.”

Tachibana smirks. “Fucking hippy,” he mutters.

“Lion Buddha my ass,” Chitose says, his voice just as low.

A pizza delivery cart rattle by, the sign flashing for Domino’s and the air filled with the fleeting scent of cheese and grease. Chitose’s stomach growls even louder, and Tachibana’s joins in a chorus of hunger.

By the time they crawl back inside through the window ledge, forcing long legs through into Tachibana’s bedroom, another tray of food has been left on Tachibana’s desk. Probably by An, he thinks. He picks it up, breathing in deep the smell of ponzu sauce for soba noodles and cold tuna fish and the sharp pickles.

A small stack of papers flutters to the ground. Chitose picks one up and Tachibana realizes just what it is, seeing the back of the newspaper clipping, heads lopped off and words cut apart on the recto.

“Kippei…” Chitose says. He picks up another one of the papers, this time one of the printed-off cellphone shots.

Tachibana exhales. He sets the tray of food down and lunges for the papers, trying to hide the remainder. He can’t think how the cuttings got out of his drawer. No one knows about them. No one except…

An.

Who has never liked Chitose.

Or liked him too much.

Tachibana could never figure it out.

Gokutora whines on the other side of the doorway.

“Someone sent them to me,” Tachibana says. He swallows the lump in his throat, but it only makes his chest hurt more. Standing in the shadows, Chitose’s face is unmoving, but the lights from the street dance across his features as cars rattle by on the streets below. Memories of blood and sweat and fluid dripping down his face are now replaced by changing shadows, but they are just as black and dark.

Chitose crumples up the paper in his hand. “Miyuki,” he says.

“What?”

“She collected the school newspapers,” Chitose says.

Tachibana doesn’t understand. Gokutura continues to whine, scratching at the doorway, but Tachibana ignores her pleas. He can’t do anything except look at Chitose, confused and tense when Chitose steps closer to him. Close enough that the strange smells reach Tachibana’s nose- Chitose’s family’s laundry detergent, the soap he must use in the locker room showers, the pungent aroma that might be weed clinging to his tunic.

He was never the good boy, either.

Chitose touches the side of Tachibana’s eye patch and the motion makes Tachibana wince, out of the fear of pain, not pain itself. “That ball did a number to your eye, Kippei,” he says.

“It was penance,” Tachibana insists.

Chitose laughs under his breath. “You always did things suddenly,” he says. “You never thought about the consequences until later.”

Tachibana doesn’t respond. Chitose’s thumb grazes the side of his nose, then runs down the tip. A cold shiver runs down his back. Chitose’s face comes into full view, blurred at the edges by the lamplight. Tachibana starts to close his eyes, but then Chitose jerks his hand and trips Tachibana behind the ankle with his foot.

They land sprawled across his futon mattress, damp still, despite being aired out all day on the railing. Chitose laughs again, this time louder.

“You didn’t really care about playing Tezuka, did you?” Tachibana presses. He inches back, but Chitose moves closer, his eyes shining.

“After we played, did it matter?” he asks.

Tachibana starts to smile back, but he stops when Chitose’s expression falters again. He’s laying on his left side, with his right eye, the blind one, looking straight into Tachibana. His black hair is messy, floating out over the pillow. Tachibana feels like he is falling forward and he can’t stop himself. Chitose’s hands brush the sides of his eye patch, tugging at the sticky tape plastered to his face. He tugs and pulls the patch off.

Cool air rushes against his eye. Tachibana hisses, but it feels good at the same time, too. The patch lies on the floor, dried blood dark at the edges. Chitose keeps looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes and Tachibana’s stomach keeps shriveling up. His heart pounds, hard and loud and Chitose must be able to hear it.

“I’ll do something sudden now, too,” he says.

His lips are dry. They brush Tachibana’s mouth and every sensation of falling multiplies ten times over when Chitose presses his mouth closer. “A different sort of game, Kippei.”

Tachibana breathes into Chitose’s words. Their bodies are warm and sticky with summer sweat. His chest hurts. Chitose’s hair prickles the side of his face, prickles his aching eye, too.

“A different kind of victory,” Chitose adds. The papers crinkle under their bodies when Tachibana places a scared hand on Chitose’s shoulder and opens his mouth. He has no idea what he’s doing, but the sensation feels like a continuation of their game from today. The weight of memory on their shoulders.

Their mouths move slowly, painfully slowly. Maybe because Tachibana doesn’t know what to do. Maybe because Chitose doesn’t seem to, either. Lips move over lips, dry and closed until someone opens their mouth a fraction and the other follows, close behind and barely trailing. It is strange to feel the first slip of a warm, wet tongue into his mouth.

His mouth tastes like mangos, Tachibana thinks. When Chitose pulls back for a moment, Tachibana manages to mouth, “Why didn’t you tell me, Senri?” Something twists in his stomach, but this time, it isn’t guilt.

Chitose chuckles.

Some things don’t change at all.

I apologize for that lack of pr0n, but you can all imagine now that Chitose and Tachibana have some one-eyed loving on a hot summer night, right? ;)

*collapses*