Happy Santa_Smex, waxrose!
To: waxrose
From: enderxenocide
Title: leaving the universe
Recipient's name: waxrose
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Tezuka/Oishi
Warning: Manga canon
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by Konomi Takeshi. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Happy holidays, Waxrose! I’ve never written for the pairing and managed to fall in love with them while writing this. I tried to include everything you asked for, and I really hope that you like this.
Sometimes Oishi dreams (eyes closing over trigonometry homework, or eyes open listening to the thud of tennis balls against pavement) that things might have gone differently. He remembers the rattle of the train, the murmur of voices and Tezuka’s reflection on the glass. Oishi reaches forward, breaks through the wall of unspoken words and wraps his fingers around Tezuka’s elbow. As he pulls Tezuka backward, he watches Tezuka’s reflection hesitate, turn and he’s spiraling, spiraling, spiraling towards Tezuka.
But mostly he dreams of empty bowling alleys, the clatter of dropped tennis rackets and thinks I should have known.
Tezuka’s standing in the doorway, the set of his shoulders filling the empty spaces in the locker room. He had called Oishi last night around nine thirty, asking in a soft, calm voice if Oishi would mind meeting after school. To discuss the next line up, he had said before hanging up, and not (as Oishi might have hoped) I’m sorry for not telling you. Oishi gives him a shaky smile, passes him a list with various combinations, and short notes scribbled on the edges. Tezuka leans his bag against the bench, sits down next to him with unfamiliar body language. Since yesterday afternoon, Oishi has been unable to read his awkward angles and downcast eyes. It is usually too easy to trace the faint marks left by the years; he can recognize the first-year’s conceit and the second-year’s caution, and this year’s confidence. The lines have faded since the match with Atobe, not beyond recognition maybe, but he has never seen Tezuka look so young.
I’m a little worried about you leaving, to be honest. Oishi says then, with a (weak) smile and doesn’t say what he means: I am worried about you, but I don’t know how to help. It will be lonely, he knows, without Tezuka but the team will rise above his expectations with Tezuka or without (Oishi will carry around Tezuka’s responsibilities on his shoulders no matter where Tezuka is). But Tezuka will be thousand of kilometers away, fighting no one but himself.
For the first time he can remember, the silence in between them is uncomfortable. Oishi starts to say you should call me sometime, but he’s unsure of long distance charges or if Tezuka’s cell phone plan includes text messaging, and then there’s a firm press of lips against the corner of his mouth and fingers grabbing the front of his jacket. Tezuka starts to pull away, but Oishi catches his elbow with shaking hands. Oishi’s touching his lips with his fingers, and watching Tezuka’s face.
Can I--Oishi starts, reaching for the side of Tezuka’s face, and he is only sort of surprised when Tezuka meets him halfway. He’s unsure of what’s happening, (he feels like someone took the ground out from under his feet and he’s falling, falling) and pressing his palms, warm and sweaty against the side of Tezuka’s face. Tezuka opens his mouth as Oishi presses forward, a brush of tongue against the corner of Tezuka’s lips. Oishi pulls him to his feet, hands in Tezuka’s hair and he leans (shaking) against the locker. Tezuka awkwardly presses a kiss to Oishi’s neck, as Oishi’s hands slide underneath his shirt, thumbnail catching on Tezuka’s shorts. Tezuka pulls them closer, closer then, until Oishi thinks they are touching each other everywhere.
His eyes close tightly as Tezuka’s hand disappears under the waistband of his shorts and presses his hand against the bulge, knuckles brushing against the fabric. Oishi thinks that he’s afraid of what he might see if he opened his eyes, and so he swallows and leaves kisses on Tezuka’s collar instead. He wants to tear Tezuka’s jacket off, and run his fingers over the exposed skin and he puts his hand between their bodies. Tezuka’s panting next to his ear and his breath catches, and he’s gripping Oishi’s shirt so tightly he thinks it will tear. Oishi’s hips jerk forward and he swallows, blinking at the ceiling and clutching Tezuka’s shoulder.
Tezuka’s breathing against Oishi’s neck and there’s a whole sentence he won’t say written on his face (Oishi wishes that he could look up the subtle lines of Tezuka’s face in a dictionary) and he fights the pull, the weight of the gravity threatening to pull them apart.
The silence of the locker room is nearly suffocating and the air’s thick with sweat, but Oishi brushes his thumb over Tezuka’s wrist. Come back soon, he writes with the press of his fingertips against Tezuka’s outstretched palms.
At the airport, he’s sitting across from Tezuka, their feet slightly pressed together. Kikumaru leaning over Kawamura’s shoulders, eyes following the planes leaving. Inui’s arms are crossed over his chest (his notebook is tucked into his bag), and Fuji’s eyes are open. (Oishi thinks Echizen is probably still trying to hit leaves with a tennis racket, Kaidoh’s still running and Momoshiro might have given up knocking over tree stumps with tennis balls by now). He’s sinking into the uncomfortable chair, and his leg has fallen asleep, but he could not stop watching Tezuka’s face if he tried. Tezuka’s eyes are downcast, and he’s staring at his hands (Oishi’s not selfish enough to think that he’s watching their feet). He closes his eyes until a voice (professional and bored) announces the last call for the 3:30 flight to Fukuoka, and he taps his foot against Tezuka’s (an awkward parody of a kiss, he thinks) before standing up. Tezuka murmurs rushed goodbyes, pulls his bag over his shoulder and meets Oishi’s eyes. They cross wrists, barely touching and Oishi turns and lets him go; he has always liked watching Tezuka’s back on the courts but he does not think that he can stand the curve of Tezuka’s shoulders walking away from him.
The light rain from the night before lingers in the air, and the edges of the tennis courts are slightly damp. Oishi’s standing by the fence, half-watching the match between Kawamura-and-Momoshiro against Kaidoh-and-Ryoma adding to the tally of laps that Tezuka owes him. Inui’s scribbling into his notebook, tearing the pages as he tries to take down data from Fuji’s match against Kikumaru.
Fuji laughs then, leans against the fence. He’s tugging absently at his wristband, and watching the clouds (Ah, that one looks like Yuuta, he says and Kikumaru makes a face at him, nose scrunched and lips upturned) and Inui manages to rip a page in half.
Have you heard from Tezuka, Fuji asks then, turning and smiling at him as if he’s asking if Oishi finished his homework.
Not yet, Oishi replies, I’m sure he’s busy.
Fuji just nods, smiles as if he knew the answer already and he probably did. Oishi would rather bite his tongue off than ask the same question to Fuji, but he hates that he still wonders.
Ah, that reminds me, Fuji starts. There was program on last night, about physics. Apparently, the universe is expanding. If the geometry of the universe is negatively curved, scientists say that the universe might expand forever, spreading farther and farther apart. Fuji pauses, taps the fence with his racket twice. Gravity might slow the process, though.
Oishi turns his head, meets Fuji’s open eyes. Kawamura yells something across the courts, followed by a shouting match between Kaidoh and Momoshiro (Oishi notes that Echizen is already heading for the vending machines). Fuji pushes off the fence.
But, gravity is weak, Fuji says, as he walks away.
Two weeks later, Oishi buys two train tickets (Tokyo to Osaka, and Osaka to Fukuoka) with three month’s worth of allowance. He’s waiting at the platform a little past one o’clock, folding his tickets and tapping the side of his canned coffee in time with the click of a woman’s high heels. He’s not sure what he’ll do when he gets to Fukuoka (it’ll be nearly eight o’clock by then, and he doesn’t even know where the health clinic is) and he barely has enough change for a taxi. He’s been farther than Nagoya only once, on a trip to visit his grandparents on his mother’s side just outside of Kyoto (he had been about six years old, and thought that they’d gone to a different country because he could not understand what anyone said). He thinks that this is probably the most selfish thing he has ever done.
When the train arrives at one thirty, he digs his fingernails into his palms with his eyes closed and pretends that he’s waiting for a later train.
By two, the half-circles on his palms have faded and his second can of coffee is nearly empty.
By three, he’s watching a re-run of last week’s baseball game on one of the televisions across the room, but he can’t catch the score. He waits another twenty minutes before he stuffs the tickets in his back pocket and takes the next bus home.
Oishi dreams; he is twelve and Tezuka is two weeks past thirteen and reckless. They’re waiting for the school bus, Oishi swinging his legs against the bench and Tezuka drinking water. Oishi notices that Tezuka still favors his left arm at practice, but he doesn’t say anything about it.
Before, Oishi starts, stops. He’s twelve and there’s a slight hitch in his voice every few sentences. His words are awkward, and he is unsure how to express something this important.
What you said before, I meant. Tezuka looks up, and there is a smudge of dirt against the edge of his glasses and scrapes on his knees. Oishi hesitates, grabs Tezuka’s wrist. He leans over, writes let’s go to Nationals in two years on Tezuka’s palm with his fingertip and their shoulders brush together.
Oishi’s clutching paperwork, stammering (feeling things slip out of his fingers) when Tezuka comes back. He turns his head, eyes wide and there’s a shift of weight, and Oishi settles back into his seat. He recognizes the set of Tezuka’s shoulders (it’s a combination of three years and something else he can’t remember) and wants to cry, laugh and scream at the same time. He wants to say you could have told me, wants to kiss him in front of everyone here.
It’s like watching a match, as Tezuka walks to the front of the room. Before, Oishi had felt that just as Tezuka pulled people towards him, he was pushing them away at the same time. He feels like now Tezuka is barely tugging people towards him at all: people are just leaning towards him.
Tezuka bows, and slips the piece of paper into the box. Oishi crosses his fingers underneath the table and thinks let science try to prove us wrong.
The first time he shakes hands with Tezuka over a net, there are tears falling down his cheeks but he feels like laughing.
Afterwards, he’s sitting on the bench with his eyes closed and he can feel the warmth of Tezuka’s skin where their arms press together. It’s strange, he thinks. I’ve been practicing for weeks, but this is the first time in months that I’ve played tennis. His arm is still shaking slightly, and he can barely hear for the heartbeat in his ears.
Are you sure? Tezuka asks.
It would be easy, he thinks, to lean slightly on his elbows to turn, tilt his head and say “yes” with the press, brush of lips. Instead, he speaks with the press of his fingertips against the back of Tezuka’s hands. He thinks he must have been afraid, before. And it’s terrifying, even now, with his heartbeat in his ears and his fingers tangled in someone else’s. He feels like he’s wearing his thoughts on his face, exposed and obvious, but this is the first time in weeks he hasn’t felt weight pressing down on his shoulders.
Tezuka nods then, and reaches up to take his glasses off, wiping at the sweat collecting on his forehead with his opposite hand. His right thumb’s still brushing against the inside of Oishi’s palm, tracing lines. It’s awkward when Oishi reaches over and snatches the glasses out of Tezuka’s hand, and puts them on. The tennis courts blur out of focus, until the pavement and the tennis balls are just a gray and green smear against blue sky.
You owe me 249 laps, Oishi murmurs, and he’s not sure, but when he turns to smile at Tezuka, the expression on Tezuka’s face is unfamiliar and welcome.
Later, Tezuka will ask Oishi to come camping with him after Nationals (hesitant and hopeful) and they’ll sleep together in a tent with high walls and open windows. It’ll be raining outside, but inside they’ll kiss to drown out the pitter-patter of rain against the tent and waste hours in comfortable silence.