PoT: Before You Repent
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: mild R
Continuity: manga, no specific spoilers
Warnings: angst?
Notes: For pillarchallenge, and also for kessie. Set a good thirteen years post-canon. Title is translated from La Jardinera by Violeta Parra - antes que tú te arrepientas.
Before You Repent
None of this is new. Ryoma straightens as the ball thuds into the corner of the court, stretching out back muscles that are threatening to cramp. Not an easy game, but not difficult either. Even the opponent looks like he'd already known the score. Ryoma supposes that they all do; he's been waiting for a new challenge to come along for years, but it hasn't yet materialised.
That's not what he ought to be thinking about now. Around him, the cheers of the crowd are swelling to a roar; Ryoma tips his head back, looking up at the just-dimming blue of the sky, then pulls off his hat and shakes the sweat out of his hair. The crowd seems to take it as a salute, and the screams grow louder. Ryoma rolls his eyes, a little, and wonders if they'll ever figure out that he couldn't care less about fans or prestige.
The opponent shakes his hand at the net, and babbles something about honour. Ryoma blinks at him, then nods and summons up a smile for the cameras. The officials are already bringing out the podium and trophies; the boring part is coming up. There's more fuss than usual, Ryoma thinks, before remembering that this is his second consecutive calendar Slam. There'll be a celebratory dinner tonight, too. Ryoma barely stops himself from making a face.
That night, Ryoma lies in his not-quite-comfortable hotel bed and stares at the ceiling. He's tired, but more from the interminable dinner thing than from playing. Even when he'd finally managed to escape the speechmaking and toasts, there had been people waiting at the door for autographs. Ryoma'd signed out of habit; Tezuka had been insistent about respecting the fans of tennis.
Ryoma scowls, then grumbles to himself and flops over onto his side. They always put him in fancy suites, and the beds are always too big for one. His father would laugh, he knows, and tell him to fill it up with girls. Tezuka would call it a sign of respect, but if Tezuka were here then Ryoma wouldn't be complaining about empty beds.
"Stupid," he mutters to himself irritably, thumping his pillow with one fist to try and flatten it. It's been a long time, after all. Long enough that the tournament circuit has got repetitive, and the shine has gone out of the number one ranking. There's nowhere else to go, Ryoma thinks, remembering the same words in Tezuka's mouth. He hadn't understood, then; all he'd seen was that Tezuka was leaving him.
He hadn't wanted to understand. Ryoma growls and rolls over onto his stomach, the covers tangling around him into a comfortable nest. It's three years over, and he's never going to get to sleep this way.
He can't quite help thinking that maybe it's his turn, now. He's at the top of his form, there's no one who can come close to defeating him - and there's no one to get stronger for, no higher to climb. Ryoma sighs into the darkness, the sound of his breath lost in the gentle hiss of the air conditioning. The double Grand Slam is far more than his father had ever achieved, but the old man still won't say a word about why he'd quit. Ryoma's been out of his shadow for over a decade.
He stares into space for a few moments more, then struggles his way to the edge of the bed, groping on the night table for his phone.
The press conference is a predictable nightmare. His manager, who had not at all appreciated the half-past-midnight phone call, looks grim and kicks Ryoma under the table every time he starts to reply in monosyllables. The reporters buzz like flies, and when Ryoma makes the announcement an immediate clamour of questions rises.
He suffers through it. Too many of the questions are intrusive, and Ryoma isn't sure he really has answers beyond the obvious. Does anyone really need him to say that there's nothing left for him to win? It makes him think of Atobe, and that makes him scowl, and then his manager is intervening hastily, leaning over to the microphone.
"Ryoma feels that it's time to let the new generation of players take centre stage; he's held onto the limelight for long enough."
Ryoma eyes him sideways, wondering where that had come from; it sounds like something a particularly enthusiastic reporter might come up with. For a moment, Ryoma remembers what-was-his-name from Pro Tennis Monthly, the guy who'd always insisted on asking questions about his dad. The thought of Seigaku makes his mouth twitch in annoyance, because it brings him right back to Tezuka again.
Some woman reporter in too much makeup is waving her hand in the air; when the steward motions to her, she stands up, clutching a notebook to her chest. Ryoma takes a deep breath, and tries not to wince as his manager kicks him again.
"LTA Digest. Mr Echizen, what do you plan on doing next? Is there any possibility that you may return to the game at a later date? In doubles, perhaps?"
"McEnroe," his manager murmurs, and Ryoma nods shortly; he knows what they're getting at.
"I'm going back to Japan. And I don't play doubles." It's enough of a truth to hold them; he can share the court, if he has to, but it's nothing to write home about. There's no one he'd want to play with, anyway.
"Do you see yourself going into coaching?" the woman asks, although the steward is shushing her. Ryoma shudders a little; this is all far too familiar. He feels like he's walking circles around himself, suddenly seeing this through his own eyes. It isn't a comfortable feeling at all.
He's trying to hide it, but he's still a little pissed off. Having to do interviews right after losing is a double pain in the neck, and the only thing that makes it halfway bearable is Tezuka's silent presence by his side. Losing to buchou isn't a failure, Ryoma knows; they've taken enough titles from each other that he's used to it. This is the first year that Tezuka has won all four of the slam titles, though, which makes it different. Ryoma hasn't managed it yet.
Most of him knows that buchou probably wouldn't be standing here talking to reporters about honours and dreams if not for that injury. Watching Tezuka win the Australian Open hadn't made up for missing it himself, and Roland Garros had been a fiasco. Wimbledon had been a good match, and today has been one of the hardest fights they've had, but -
Ryoma blinks, mind snapping hastily back to attention as something Tezuka is saying registers. Buchou is talking about… what?
"…achieved everything that I can, I feel that it's time to consider other areas of my life." Tezuka has his arms folded, fingers resting almost-casually on his left elbow. Ryoma stares, trying to process what he's hearing.
"So you intend to retire immediately?" one of the journalists asks. The press room is buzzing, and people are suddenly hurrying in to stand at the back, peering past the TV cameras.
"Yes." Tezuka inclines his head in what almost looks like a bow. After nearly seven years on the circuit, his English is just as smooth as Ryoma's.
Ryoma swallows, trying to ease the sudden horrified tightness in his chest. A heavy, vicious weight is settling into his gut, and he can't breathe. One look at Tezuka's face tells him that buchou is serious about this. Ryoma clenches his fists to keep from reaching out in public; all he wants to do is grab hold of Tezuka and demand to know what's going on. He doesn't understand, and the longer he stands there helpless and listening, the more the knot in his throat tastes like betrayal.
Coming home to Japan doesn't really feel like coming home at all. Ryoma hunches down in the back of the taxi, staring out of the window as Tokyo alternately crawls and flashes past. It's been nearly ten years since he's spent more than a few weeks here, and the idea of settling seems strange and uncomfortable. His life is going to change without the international tournament schedule, and he almost, almost wishes he'd thought of that sooner.
His mother meets him at the gate with a smile, and hugs him once the taxi has driven away. It's not embarrassing any more, in the way it had been when he'd been growing up, but Ryoma suffers through it anyway. Habit guides every step he takes in this house; even the creaks of the floorboards beneath his feet are familiar.
"Come and sit down," his mother murmurs, heading into the kitchen. Ryoma feels like a child again for a moment as he follows her, leaving his bags in the genkan. Apart from his racquets, he doesn't have much.
There is Ponta in the top compartment of the refrigerator, next to his father's beer. Ryoma doesn't bother to wonder where the old man is; he'll show up soon enough when he gets bored of waiting for Ryoma to come to him. He sits at the kitchen table, watching his mother going through the practised motions of making tea, and sips at the sugar-tang-sweetness of the drink. It's grape, like always; Ryoma hates the new flavours almost as much as the tasteless sugar-free stuff.
"You didn't mention you were thinking of retiring," his mother says quietly, bringing her tea to the table. Ryoma shrugs one shoulder. Tezuka hadn't told him, either, but he isn't going to think about that now.
"It seemed like the right time."
"Oh?" His mother sips at her tea, and smiles across the table at him. Ryoma breathes in the scented steam, flinching a little at the disjointed curl of memories it recalls - home-warmth-sleepiness-belonging-Tezuka.
"It's not like there's anywhere else to go," he mutters, poking absently at the ring-pull on the can.
"Mm, so many easy wins can't be fun." His mother looks down at her tea, and for a moment Ryoma is resignedly certain that she's about to compare him to his father again. They get along better, these days, but the old man is never going to stop being an idiot.
"Have you spoken to Tezuka-kun recently?" she asks instead, and Ryoma feels his eyes go wide; he hadn't been ready for that one at all.
"No," he mutters eventually, shoulders hunching a little with the tension. He hasn't; Tezuka hasn't so much as emailed him since that night, and he… it had all been too much, and he hasn't looked back. He isn't going to look back.
"Maybe you should," his mother tells him, with that deceptively gentle look in her eye that warns him off storming out to sulk. "You miss him."
"It's been three years," Ryoma mutters, looking away. Put like that, it sounds like it should be a lifetime; it feels like yesterday. It hurts like yesterday.
"All the more reason to patch it up then. Even Tezuka-kun might run out of patience eventually." His mother smiles fondly, and Ryoma scowls suspiciously. She'd always liked Tezuka.
"It's already over." He drains the last of his Ponta, barely tasting it, and folds his arms on the table, fingers absently wrapping around his left elbow. His mother just smiles, rising to take her cup to the sink.
"You haven't brought anyone else home, though."
Ryoma slumps in his seat; there's not much he can say to that. "I've been busy."
"Of course, dear." She turns from the sink, watching him in a way that makes Ryoma wary. His father had been undisguisedly gleeful when Tezuka had left, and has talked of nothing but girls ever since. That's bad enough; Ryoma doesn't really want to consider his mother's opinion of his love life. It's not like he has one, anyway.
By the time they get back to the hotel, Ryoma is seething with silence. All the stupid, obvious things to say have been flitting through his mind during the journey, but when he finally turns on Tezuka, shutting the door of the suite firmly behind him, only one word comes out.
"Why?" It tastes bitter on his tongue, like an accusation, like being asked for his opinion on his boyfriend's sudden retirement by a half dozen vacuous reporters who know nothing about either of them.
Tezuka looks down at him for a moment, face a careful mask of calm, then reaches out to touch his shoulder. Ryoma jerks away instinctively, taking several steps back. Half of him just wants to fling himself at Tezuka, touch him take him taste him, mark him as Ryoma's forever. The other half is a bitter mess of confusion and fury and betrayal, and he'd be running by now but he can't because he's staring at Tezuka and waiting to know why, and he needs to hear it. He clenches his fists, trying to crush the need to reach out.
"It was time." Tezuka's face blanks for a moment. There's pain in his eyes, too, but Ryoma ignores it. He moves as if to take a step forward, but Ryoma flinches away and he just sighs, a little. "There's nothing left for me to accomplish in tennis. If it's inevitable, I would rather it be now, after a game like -"
"Don't." Ryoma cuts him off with a vicious gesture; he can't think about that right now. There's no point in playing at all, if Tezuka is going to abandon him. "You won the Slam, but you aren't going to let me take it from you."
Tezuka's eyes widen a little, surprise familiar through pain and unease. Ryoma imagines yanking off his glasses, shoving hands into his hair and pulling him down into a hard kiss. He doesn't move a muscle.
"I would rather retire in my own time," is all Tezuka says, eventually. His voice is strained in a way that Ryoma hasn't heard for almost a year. Not since the doctor had told him it would be months, he remembers. Unconsciously, he shifts his weight off his right ankle, staring at the tight line of Tezuka's mouth as he speaks. His hand is on his elbow again, Ryoma realises with a sense of inevitability.
"Continuing to play at this level is likely to aggravate the should -"
"Your shoulder is fine," Ryoma snarls, cutting him off. Tezuka blinks, visibly regrouping. He hasn't dropped his calm face at all, and Ryoma thinks that just maybe that might be the worst part of this. Does he not expect Ryoma to care? "You don't need to retire! You-"
Suddenly it's all too much. Ryoma backs away, shaking his head and fumbling for the door handle. Tezuka is moving towards him again, worry on his face now as he opens his mouth to speak, but it's too little, too late; Ryoma is out of the door and running full tilt down the corridor to his own, unused hotel room.
He spends the night hunched into the corner of a bed that seems ridiculously vast, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about how he's supposed to play without Tezuka to aim for. When he wakes from ragged scraps of dream, certain that he hears knocking, the room is silent and empty around him. Ryoma waits almost until dawn before falling asleep again, exhaustion catching up with him, but there is no more sound. He oversleeps almost until noon, and by the time he wakes enough to realise the time, he is hopelessly late for his flight. When he asks, grudgingly, at the desk, he is informed that Tezuka has already left.
Ryoma flops back onto his bed and stares at the familiar, even square pattern of the ceiling. Without the prospect of another tournament, another hotel, another flight, he isn't quite sure what to do with himself. He supposes he'll get used to it soon enough; it's not as though he can never play again, after all. His father is likely to burst through the door at any moment, demanding a match. Ryoma can still remember the disappointment and irritation of realising that finally beating the old man hadn't made him any less annoying.
Whatever he's going to do in the future, lying around the house the way Nanjiroh does is definitely off the list. Ryoma makes a face, linking his hands behind his head and blowing hair out of his eyes; it's getting long again, and he should probably have it cut. He's accumulated enough prize money over the years that he can pretty much do what he likes, but he hasn't figured anything out yet. It's not like he doesn't have time, even with his mother poking at him about relationships.
She's right about one thing, though; there hasn't been anyone since Tezuka. Ryoma isn't good at talking to people, and he doesn't like social situations. It's been almost a year since the last time he'd even kissed anyone, and being practically attacked by some girl in one of Momo-senpai's clubs probably doesn't count anyway. Ryoma can't remember her name, or what she'd looked like, but the taste of Tezuka's mouth on his, tea and mint and warmth, is so vivid in his memory that he can feel it when he closes his eyes.
That he misses Tezuka isn't the question, Ryoma thinks. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself as memories wash over him; hands on skin, arms tight around him, the language of eyes and lips and gestures that makes words unnecessary. The past is the past.
"Ehh, young man, what are you smiling about?" his father's suggestive voice enquires from far too close. Ryoma jerks, bolting upright and cracking his forehead against Nanjiroh's chin.
"Ow!" Ryoma scoots backwards hastily, rubbing his head. His father is wobbling about, clutching his face; for a moment Ryoma wishes he'd managed to get him in the nose. "What the hell are you doing, old man? Can't you knock?"
"What, I can't greet my son?" Nanjiroh demands, a little thickly, as he examines his face in Ryoma's mirror. He turns, leering. "Sooo, is it a girl?"
"Is what a girl?" Ryoma leans back against the wall, already bored. The old man looks at him as though he's stupid.
"That you were daydreaming about, of course. Ah, it's about time…"
"Che." Ryoma rolls his eyes. "Not everyone's an idiot like you, old man. I don't have a girlfriend."
"Still?" Nanjiroh looks almost comically disappointed. "What are you waiting for, brat? Want me to find you a nice girl?"
Ryoma glares. "Don't even think about it. And stop calling me that; I'm twenty-five."
"Right! You should be going out on dates, making the most of your youth!" His father gestures dramatically. "It won't be long before the schoolgirls start calling you a pervert too…"
"That's because you are one, idiot." Ryoma heaves a sigh, shoving himself upright. He needs to do something; he's already restless. "Want me to beat you again?"
That gets Nanjiroh's attention. "You wish. Bring it on, brat." It's empty bravado, as always, Ryoma thinks, but even this far into middle age the old man is still a tricky bastard. It takes a few games to pin him down, and by the time Ryoma takes his second set he's sweating and Nanjiroh is gasping for breath.
"Heh, idiot kid," his father manages after a while, tossing his racquet aside as he flops down on the bench below the temple bell. "What the hell did you want to go and retire for? There's no one who can beat you."
There's no one who can beat me, Ryoma thinks. He just shrugs, turning and wandering back down the steps towards the house.
A week before Wimbledon begins, Fuji-senpai turns up unexpectedly at his hotel and drags him out to lunch. Apparently, he's in London for some kind of conference thing, something to do with photography, and 'just happens' to be nearby. Ryoma doesn't believe a minute of it, but professional tennis hasn't dulled his appreciation for free food. Fuji-senpai seems to know his way around here, because he takes Ryoma to a tiny, out-of-the-way café where the waiters all speak Japanese and the food smells comfortingly familiar.
They eat sushi and okonomiyaki, and Fuji talks about Japan and about people they both know while Ryoma pretends to care. Apparently Kaidoh-senpai has broken his leg while running, and Momo-senpai has been thrown out of the hospital for fighting with him while visiting. Ryoma supposes that's kind of funny, but he still wishes Fuji-senpai would get to the point. Maybe they can play a match while he's here, Ryoma thinks; Fuji isn't the type to let himself get rusty. He's about to ask when Fuji tilts his head, smiling at him.
"Maa, so how is Tezuka doing?"
Ryoma goes still, glaring across the table, then forces himself to relax. "You know better than I do."
"Hmm? Yes, I played a few sets with him the other week, up at the university." Fuji's smile makes Ryoma's fingers twitch, but not as much as the mention of Tezuka playing tennis. He tries to breathe deeply.
"Great." He isn't going to ask how Tezuka is, he isn't going to care. The familiar tastes of the food have turned bitter in his mouth; he pushes his plate away, scowling.
"He's doing fairly well," Fuji tells him conversationally, ignoring his expression. "He doesn't smile much, but of course he never did, did he?"
Ryoma squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, pushing away the countless memories of Tezuka's mouth tilting up into tiny, almost-reluctant smiles. "Senpai, stop it."
"Oh?" Fuji regards him across the table, face smoothing into a seriousness that's almost uncanny. "He misses you, Ryoma-kun. He's still waiting for you."
No he isn't, Ryoma thinks grimly, remembering that night. He hadn't even waited for Ryoma to beat him one last time, and it still hurts.
That night, Ryoma dreams that he's standing at the fence, watching an empty court. It looks a little like the practice courts at the National stadium, and he isn't at all surprised when he turns and sees Tezuka standing beside him.
They watch each other in silence for a moment, and then Ryoma turns back to the court. "I understand now, buchou," he mutters, uncertain whether Tezuka can even hear him. "I'm…"
He doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence, because Tezuka's hand is against his mouth, stopping his words. The contact is cold, and Tezuka's face is blank and entirely impersonal as he turns to walk away. Ryoma starts after him, but suddenly the fence is in the way; all he can do is watch Tezuka's retreating back.
He wakes burning hot, and kicks the covers onto the floor, flattening himself to the mattress as he stares at the shadows on the ceiling. It's a long, restless time before he falls back to sleep.
In the end, it only takes two days before he gives in. Maybe coming back to Japan had been a bad idea after all, Ryoma thinks; it seems like all he's able to think about here is Tezuka, and he no longer has tournaments and training to concentrate on. It's rapidly becoming too much to take, and when his father manages to take a set from him Ryoma knows that he has to do something to distract himself. He catches the bus across town, telling himself he'll go to see a movie or visit Momo-senpai or something.
He ends up standing outside Tezuka's apartment, staring at the door. Part of him hopes that Tezuka has moved, or gone on holiday or to school, but all he really feels is resignation, as though this has been inevitable all along. It's early evening on a Friday, too late for even university classes. Ryoma takes a deep breath, stops himself halfway through pulling at the cap he isn't wearing, and pushes the bell.
Almost immediately, his stomach begins to knot with discomfort; the hallway seems too narrow and the urge to run is almost overwhelming. Then the latch clicks, and the door opens, and Ryoma stops breathing.
Tezuka looks… like Tezuka. There's a tiny crease between his brows, as though he has been frowning too much, but otherwise it is as if no time has passed at all. His face is blank, a polite social mask, but his eyes behind the sheen of his glasses are wide and stunned as he stares at Ryoma. He's beautiful.
Ryoma swallows the sudden, jagged lump in his throat, and shoves his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching out. He's intensely, painfully aware that he doesn't have that right any more; it's one more reason for regret.
"Hi," he manages after a while; his voice comes out dull but steady.
Tezuka stares at him for a moment longer, then visibly collects himself. "Ryoma." He opens the door wider, stepping back in silent invitation, and Ryoma realises for the first time that he's wearing a suit and tie. Somehow it doesn't look as weird as he remembers from ATP functions.
"Are you busy?" He steps inside, though, looking around the apartment with a sense of complete unreality. It's as if nothing has changed except the two of them, and Ryoma doesn't know how to feel about that at all. He's not even sure why he's here.
"I have time." Tezuka's face is so carefully blank, now, that Ryoma's stomach clenches. He struggles to find words, achingly aware that three years ago he wouldn't have needed to. Neither of them have ever been particularly good with words. It's not that Tezuka is suddenly a stranger, Ryoma thinks. He's the one who doesn't belong here, now.
"I retired from the circuit," he blurts eventually, regretting it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. It runs right into everything that twists uncomfortably between them, but Tezuka doesn't even flinch, just nods slowly.
"I know." There is a quiet kind of understanding in his eyes, and maybe that's what's worst of all. Ryoma looks down at his feet, cursing himself for an idiot yet again.
"There wasn't anyone left to beat," he mutters reluctantly. Half of him is almost expecting to be given laps, and that above anything tells him just how long it's really been. Some walls probably can't be broken. It had been a bad idea to come here, and he'd known that from the start.
"Your game is exceptional," Tezuka says, and Ryoma wonders whether he's imagining the hint of uncertainty in his otherwise impersonal voice. "The double Slam is a great achievement."
"Aa." Ryoma shrugs, suddenly intensely uncomfortable. It had been easy to pretend that he hadn't needed Tezuka when they'd been apart, but standing so close… He swallows, breathing deeply, but that makes it worse because he can smell Tezuka, soap and tea and skin and everything he's been missing in three years of sterile, empty hotel rooms. He stares helplessly, mind going completely blank.
"Do you have any plans for the future?" Tezuka asks.
Ryoma starts, breaking out of his trance. Tezuka isn't helping here at all, with that frown line that needs smoothing out, and the almost-familiar look in his eyes. He feels his face heat.
"Not yet," he mutters, backing towards the door. "I'm going - you've got business."
"My reservation isn't until seven," Tezuka says entirely calmly - too calmly. Ryoma blinks, flight forgotten as he processes that.
"You have a date?" He doesn't know why he's surprised; it's been so long, after all, and Ryoma had never actually believed Fuji's implications. Tezuka's silent nod, though, sends a wave of disbelief through him.
"Who?" he demands, knowing that his voice is suddenly rough with something perilously close to jealousy.
"The daughter of a family friend," Tezuka answers imperturbably. Ryoma feels a startling, almost irresistible desire to yank him down and wipe that too-careful, too-blank expression off his face. The fact that he can't, because he doesn't have the right any more, is close to physically painful.
"A favour to my mother," Tezuka continues, eyes distant, and Ryoma blinks. He's not stupid, he knows what that means. If buchou's mother has been bothering him for long enough that he's given in - no, the idea of Tezuka married is nothing he wants to think about. A tiny voice in the back of Ryoma's mind whispers, mine. He does his best to ignore it.
"Will you play a match with me, buchou?" he asks before he can think to stop himself. It's almost automatic, being so close. He only realises that he's used the title - once a possessive, intimate nickname - when Tezuka's eyes widen, suddenly defenceless. That's better, Ryoma thinks with satisfaction.
"I'm retired," Tezuka points out in a quiet voice after a short pause; Ryoma can see him trying to collect himself. He grins.
"So am I."
"Aa." Tezuka looks down at him for a moment, then nods slowly. "Tomorrow afternoon - there's a court behind the building." Both of them are aware that Ryoma already knows that.
Tezuka is late. Ryoma sits on the bench at the side of the court, staring up at the sky. He knows Tezuka too well to worry, and he's too busy anticipating this in any case. Part of him worries that Tezuka will have lost his edge, off the circuit, but Ryoma already knows that they will both be giving this game their best. Retirement doesn't mean he can't play whenever he wants - play Tezuka whenever he wants.
He could have done with realising that a lot sooner, really. Ryoma exhales regret, shaking his head and absent-mindedly fishing his cap out of his bag; the clouds are starting to part again, and the sun is bright. It's not like he can change the past, and he knows now; tennis is only what had brought them together. It's not everything - but maybe it can be enough, for now?
The creak of the gate being pushed open distracts him from circular thoughts. Ryoma leans back on the bench, watching Tezuka walk onto the court. He looks a lot more like himself in tennis clothes, and more comfortable too.
"You're late," Ryoma points out neutrally, shoving himself to his feet and stretching his arms out over his head. Tezuka's face is serious, and his hair is even wilder than usual; he must have dressed in a hurry. Ryoma's fingers itch to reach up and straighten it; he distracts them with getting out his racquet.
"A lecture ran over," Tezuka says quietly, setting his bag down and opening it.
"Aa." Ryoma tosses his racquet from hand to hand, bouncing on his toes and letting his muscles begin to loosen. "What's it like?" he asks curiously, already feeling the familiar, heady thrill of being on the court with Tezuka. "University, I mean."
"I'm learning a lot." Tezuka chooses a racquet, glancing at Ryoma from the corner of his eye. Whether it's the court or just habit, Ryoma thinks, they are falling back into old patterns already. "Is that something you're interested in?"
"Maybe." Ryoma shrugs, leaning on the bench to stretch. He hasn't really thought much beyond this. Sports medicine sounds kind of boring, but he supposes the idea of coaching isn't entirely unattractive. "Are you ready, buchou?"
Tezuka just looks at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable. Ryoma is on the verge of squirming when he finally nods, slowly. "Three sets."
"Sure." Ryoma grins in relief, excitement sparking along with the flare of challenge in Tezuka's eyes. "You can serve - let's go."
It's immediately obvious that Tezuka has lost none of his skill or power. Ryoma narrows his eyes as he stretches to return a perfect slice serve, calculating chances and openings, and then Tezuka pivots into a backspin cross shot and he's lost in it. This is the game he has been needing for so long; every ball pushes him back, but he feels as though he can return anything. Just seeing Tezuka on the other side of the net is like breathing deeply - this is where he belongs, Ryoma knows.
He loses the first set in tie-break, grimacing as Tezuka returns his favourite drive volley to the line. They sit together on the bench, passing a bottle of water back and forth, and Ryoma is ridiculously conscious of the bare foot of distance between them.
"You've been watching my games," he accuses as Tezuka rises to return to the court. Tezuka looks at him curiously over his shoulder.
"Of course."
"Che," Ryoma mutters to himself; he's not used to being at a disadvantage, but it has been too long since he has seen Tezuka play at all, and his memories aren't living up to the reality. It's the biggest thrill he's had in years; he grins over the net, bouncing the ball. "You've been training, buchou."
"I've been waiting for you." Tezuka's face relaxes, just a little, into something close to a smile; Ryoma chokes on his breath. His heart is suddenly pounding in his ears, and however much he reminds himself that Tezuka is talking about tennis, he can still hear Fuji-senpai's voice in his head. He misses you, Ryoma-kun. He's still waiting for you. I'm sorry, he thinks. I'm sorry I took so long to understand. He tosses the ball, and serves so hard that the impact reverberates through his whole body.
The second set comes down to tie-break as well. They fight it out for so long that Ryoma remembers other matches, thirteen years gone; he laughs breathlessly as he throws back another Rising counter, eyes locked with Tezuka's. Neither of them are looking at the ball at all any more, and there is no doubt in Ryoma's mind as to what he wants, now. He's taken the world, but Tezuka is everything.
Luck and an unpredictable headwind finally gain him the set and match. Ryoma lets his left arm fall to his side, standing at the intersection of two white lines and staring across the net at Tezuka. He isn't entirely sure he can trust himself to move right now, but it doesn't seem to matter at all because Tezuka's expression is quietly satisfied. Ryoma can't look away; there is so much unspoken in the air between them that he shivers down to his toes.
"Good game," Tezuka says after what feels like forever, in the quiet tone of voice that means he's waiting to see what happens next. Ryoma blinks, trying to get a grip on himself.
"Thanks." His voice comes out cracked, and he stumbles a little as he starts to move. It breaks the paralysis, though, and he reaches out without thinking as they meet at the net, the habit of handshakes far too ingrained to deny.
The contact is electric. Ryoma can feel his heartbeat speeding up, years' worth of need twisting his bones with its ache as he stares up into Tezuka's eyes. They're so close, now, and he can see the motion of Tezuka's throat as he swallows… Ryoma doesn't want to let go; their hands fit together just the same as always, fingers sliding to wrap around each other, and the need to be kissing Tezuka now is more than he can stand. It's the first time they've touched in three years.
"Buchou," he chokes out, fingers tightening spasmodically as Tezuka's face tells him all he needs to know. They have never needed words for this, Ryoma thinks. Then he steps back, gulping for air as Tezuka releases his hand and heads to the bench.
The short walk back to the apartment block is almost entirely silent. Ryoma stares straight ahead, and tries not to think about the way Tezuka's wrist brushes against his forearm as they walk. If there are other people around, he doesn't notice them at all.
The moment the door closes behind them, Ryoma drops his bag and lunges for Tezuka, arms closing tight around his shoulders as he stretches up into a desperate, breathless kiss. Buchou, he thinks; it comes out as a muffled moan and he arches hard against Tezuka, bodies pressing tight together as their mouths open into the kiss. Tezuka is supporting most of their weight, leaning against the wall; his hands slide up Ryoma's back beneath his shirt, calluses rough over sweat-slick skin as he pulls them even closer. It's everything Ryoma has been missing, everything he's been wanting.
He doesn't remember how they make it to the bedroom; the world shrinks to hands and mouths and skin and kisses, touches, need. Clothes become an obstacle; Ryoma struggles with Tezuka's shirt, yanks it away to run his mouth over skin, throat, collarbones, and they are both still covered with sweat but it's familiar, it's them… His fingers clutch at Tezuka's back; he can't get close enough, and there are fragments of words spilling from his mouth, a jumbled mess of buchou and mine and please, and then Tezuka's mouth is on his again, demanding, and there is nothing but skin and breath and movement and everything, everything.
By the time he feels capable of moving again, the sun is setting outside. Ryoma yawns, shifting to drape himself further across Tezuka's chest, pressing his face into his neck. "Kunimitsu," he murmurs, without really thinking about it. They are both filthy with sweat and worse, but Tezuka hasn't moved at all; his arms around Ryoma are tight and warm.
Ryoma heaves a deep breath, almost a sigh. The air smells of sweat and sex and heat, and they should really go and shower, but he knows this is more important. "I'm sorry," he mutters finally, lips grazing Tezuka's skin. "For being stupid." It's not enough, he thinks, not for this, but he has nothing else. They will have to talk sometime, or try to, but for now… "I'm sorry."
Tezuka's arms tighten around him, holding on so hard that Ryoma wonders for a moment whether he will have bruises. He settles for leaving his own mark on Tezuka in return, biting idly at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Tezuka shifts under him, shaking a little, arms possessive bands around his ribs as he murmurs inaudible words into Ryoma's hair. Ryoma shifts a lazy hand, reaching up sightless to trace the familiar contours of Tezuka's face, finally smoothing the crease from his forehead. Maybe it won't ever be quite the same as before, he thinks, but this is enough. Three years is long enough to regret.
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: mild R
Continuity: manga, no specific spoilers
Warnings: angst?
Notes: For pillarchallenge, and also for kessie. Set a good thirteen years post-canon. Title is translated from La Jardinera by Violeta Parra - antes que tú te arrepientas.
Before You Repent
None of this is new. Ryoma straightens as the ball thuds into the corner of the court, stretching out back muscles that are threatening to cramp. Not an easy game, but not difficult either. Even the opponent looks like he'd already known the score. Ryoma supposes that they all do; he's been waiting for a new challenge to come along for years, but it hasn't yet materialised.
That's not what he ought to be thinking about now. Around him, the cheers of the crowd are swelling to a roar; Ryoma tips his head back, looking up at the just-dimming blue of the sky, then pulls off his hat and shakes the sweat out of his hair. The crowd seems to take it as a salute, and the screams grow louder. Ryoma rolls his eyes, a little, and wonders if they'll ever figure out that he couldn't care less about fans or prestige.
The opponent shakes his hand at the net, and babbles something about honour. Ryoma blinks at him, then nods and summons up a smile for the cameras. The officials are already bringing out the podium and trophies; the boring part is coming up. There's more fuss than usual, Ryoma thinks, before remembering that this is his second consecutive calendar Slam. There'll be a celebratory dinner tonight, too. Ryoma barely stops himself from making a face.
That night, Ryoma lies in his not-quite-comfortable hotel bed and stares at the ceiling. He's tired, but more from the interminable dinner thing than from playing. Even when he'd finally managed to escape the speechmaking and toasts, there had been people waiting at the door for autographs. Ryoma'd signed out of habit; Tezuka had been insistent about respecting the fans of tennis.
Ryoma scowls, then grumbles to himself and flops over onto his side. They always put him in fancy suites, and the beds are always too big for one. His father would laugh, he knows, and tell him to fill it up with girls. Tezuka would call it a sign of respect, but if Tezuka were here then Ryoma wouldn't be complaining about empty beds.
"Stupid," he mutters to himself irritably, thumping his pillow with one fist to try and flatten it. It's been a long time, after all. Long enough that the tournament circuit has got repetitive, and the shine has gone out of the number one ranking. There's nowhere else to go, Ryoma thinks, remembering the same words in Tezuka's mouth. He hadn't understood, then; all he'd seen was that Tezuka was leaving him.
He hadn't wanted to understand. Ryoma growls and rolls over onto his stomach, the covers tangling around him into a comfortable nest. It's three years over, and he's never going to get to sleep this way.
He can't quite help thinking that maybe it's his turn, now. He's at the top of his form, there's no one who can come close to defeating him - and there's no one to get stronger for, no higher to climb. Ryoma sighs into the darkness, the sound of his breath lost in the gentle hiss of the air conditioning. The double Grand Slam is far more than his father had ever achieved, but the old man still won't say a word about why he'd quit. Ryoma's been out of his shadow for over a decade.
He stares into space for a few moments more, then struggles his way to the edge of the bed, groping on the night table for his phone.
The press conference is a predictable nightmare. His manager, who had not at all appreciated the half-past-midnight phone call, looks grim and kicks Ryoma under the table every time he starts to reply in monosyllables. The reporters buzz like flies, and when Ryoma makes the announcement an immediate clamour of questions rises.
He suffers through it. Too many of the questions are intrusive, and Ryoma isn't sure he really has answers beyond the obvious. Does anyone really need him to say that there's nothing left for him to win? It makes him think of Atobe, and that makes him scowl, and then his manager is intervening hastily, leaning over to the microphone.
"Ryoma feels that it's time to let the new generation of players take centre stage; he's held onto the limelight for long enough."
Ryoma eyes him sideways, wondering where that had come from; it sounds like something a particularly enthusiastic reporter might come up with. For a moment, Ryoma remembers what-was-his-name from Pro Tennis Monthly, the guy who'd always insisted on asking questions about his dad. The thought of Seigaku makes his mouth twitch in annoyance, because it brings him right back to Tezuka again.
Some woman reporter in too much makeup is waving her hand in the air; when the steward motions to her, she stands up, clutching a notebook to her chest. Ryoma takes a deep breath, and tries not to wince as his manager kicks him again.
"LTA Digest. Mr Echizen, what do you plan on doing next? Is there any possibility that you may return to the game at a later date? In doubles, perhaps?"
"McEnroe," his manager murmurs, and Ryoma nods shortly; he knows what they're getting at.
"I'm going back to Japan. And I don't play doubles." It's enough of a truth to hold them; he can share the court, if he has to, but it's nothing to write home about. There's no one he'd want to play with, anyway.
"Do you see yourself going into coaching?" the woman asks, although the steward is shushing her. Ryoma shudders a little; this is all far too familiar. He feels like he's walking circles around himself, suddenly seeing this through his own eyes. It isn't a comfortable feeling at all.
He's trying to hide it, but he's still a little pissed off. Having to do interviews right after losing is a double pain in the neck, and the only thing that makes it halfway bearable is Tezuka's silent presence by his side. Losing to buchou isn't a failure, Ryoma knows; they've taken enough titles from each other that he's used to it. This is the first year that Tezuka has won all four of the slam titles, though, which makes it different. Ryoma hasn't managed it yet.
Most of him knows that buchou probably wouldn't be standing here talking to reporters about honours and dreams if not for that injury. Watching Tezuka win the Australian Open hadn't made up for missing it himself, and Roland Garros had been a fiasco. Wimbledon had been a good match, and today has been one of the hardest fights they've had, but -
Ryoma blinks, mind snapping hastily back to attention as something Tezuka is saying registers. Buchou is talking about… what?
"…achieved everything that I can, I feel that it's time to consider other areas of my life." Tezuka has his arms folded, fingers resting almost-casually on his left elbow. Ryoma stares, trying to process what he's hearing.
"So you intend to retire immediately?" one of the journalists asks. The press room is buzzing, and people are suddenly hurrying in to stand at the back, peering past the TV cameras.
"Yes." Tezuka inclines his head in what almost looks like a bow. After nearly seven years on the circuit, his English is just as smooth as Ryoma's.
Ryoma swallows, trying to ease the sudden horrified tightness in his chest. A heavy, vicious weight is settling into his gut, and he can't breathe. One look at Tezuka's face tells him that buchou is serious about this. Ryoma clenches his fists to keep from reaching out in public; all he wants to do is grab hold of Tezuka and demand to know what's going on. He doesn't understand, and the longer he stands there helpless and listening, the more the knot in his throat tastes like betrayal.
Coming home to Japan doesn't really feel like coming home at all. Ryoma hunches down in the back of the taxi, staring out of the window as Tokyo alternately crawls and flashes past. It's been nearly ten years since he's spent more than a few weeks here, and the idea of settling seems strange and uncomfortable. His life is going to change without the international tournament schedule, and he almost, almost wishes he'd thought of that sooner.
His mother meets him at the gate with a smile, and hugs him once the taxi has driven away. It's not embarrassing any more, in the way it had been when he'd been growing up, but Ryoma suffers through it anyway. Habit guides every step he takes in this house; even the creaks of the floorboards beneath his feet are familiar.
"Come and sit down," his mother murmurs, heading into the kitchen. Ryoma feels like a child again for a moment as he follows her, leaving his bags in the genkan. Apart from his racquets, he doesn't have much.
There is Ponta in the top compartment of the refrigerator, next to his father's beer. Ryoma doesn't bother to wonder where the old man is; he'll show up soon enough when he gets bored of waiting for Ryoma to come to him. He sits at the kitchen table, watching his mother going through the practised motions of making tea, and sips at the sugar-tang-sweetness of the drink. It's grape, like always; Ryoma hates the new flavours almost as much as the tasteless sugar-free stuff.
"You didn't mention you were thinking of retiring," his mother says quietly, bringing her tea to the table. Ryoma shrugs one shoulder. Tezuka hadn't told him, either, but he isn't going to think about that now.
"It seemed like the right time."
"Oh?" His mother sips at her tea, and smiles across the table at him. Ryoma breathes in the scented steam, flinching a little at the disjointed curl of memories it recalls - home-warmth-sleepiness-belonging-Tezuka.
"It's not like there's anywhere else to go," he mutters, poking absently at the ring-pull on the can.
"Mm, so many easy wins can't be fun." His mother looks down at her tea, and for a moment Ryoma is resignedly certain that she's about to compare him to his father again. They get along better, these days, but the old man is never going to stop being an idiot.
"Have you spoken to Tezuka-kun recently?" she asks instead, and Ryoma feels his eyes go wide; he hadn't been ready for that one at all.
"No," he mutters eventually, shoulders hunching a little with the tension. He hasn't; Tezuka hasn't so much as emailed him since that night, and he… it had all been too much, and he hasn't looked back. He isn't going to look back.
"Maybe you should," his mother tells him, with that deceptively gentle look in her eye that warns him off storming out to sulk. "You miss him."
"It's been three years," Ryoma mutters, looking away. Put like that, it sounds like it should be a lifetime; it feels like yesterday. It hurts like yesterday.
"All the more reason to patch it up then. Even Tezuka-kun might run out of patience eventually." His mother smiles fondly, and Ryoma scowls suspiciously. She'd always liked Tezuka.
"It's already over." He drains the last of his Ponta, barely tasting it, and folds his arms on the table, fingers absently wrapping around his left elbow. His mother just smiles, rising to take her cup to the sink.
"You haven't brought anyone else home, though."
Ryoma slumps in his seat; there's not much he can say to that. "I've been busy."
"Of course, dear." She turns from the sink, watching him in a way that makes Ryoma wary. His father had been undisguisedly gleeful when Tezuka had left, and has talked of nothing but girls ever since. That's bad enough; Ryoma doesn't really want to consider his mother's opinion of his love life. It's not like he has one, anyway.
By the time they get back to the hotel, Ryoma is seething with silence. All the stupid, obvious things to say have been flitting through his mind during the journey, but when he finally turns on Tezuka, shutting the door of the suite firmly behind him, only one word comes out.
"Why?" It tastes bitter on his tongue, like an accusation, like being asked for his opinion on his boyfriend's sudden retirement by a half dozen vacuous reporters who know nothing about either of them.
Tezuka looks down at him for a moment, face a careful mask of calm, then reaches out to touch his shoulder. Ryoma jerks away instinctively, taking several steps back. Half of him just wants to fling himself at Tezuka, touch him take him taste him, mark him as Ryoma's forever. The other half is a bitter mess of confusion and fury and betrayal, and he'd be running by now but he can't because he's staring at Tezuka and waiting to know why, and he needs to hear it. He clenches his fists, trying to crush the need to reach out.
"It was time." Tezuka's face blanks for a moment. There's pain in his eyes, too, but Ryoma ignores it. He moves as if to take a step forward, but Ryoma flinches away and he just sighs, a little. "There's nothing left for me to accomplish in tennis. If it's inevitable, I would rather it be now, after a game like -"
"Don't." Ryoma cuts him off with a vicious gesture; he can't think about that right now. There's no point in playing at all, if Tezuka is going to abandon him. "You won the Slam, but you aren't going to let me take it from you."
Tezuka's eyes widen a little, surprise familiar through pain and unease. Ryoma imagines yanking off his glasses, shoving hands into his hair and pulling him down into a hard kiss. He doesn't move a muscle.
"I would rather retire in my own time," is all Tezuka says, eventually. His voice is strained in a way that Ryoma hasn't heard for almost a year. Not since the doctor had told him it would be months, he remembers. Unconsciously, he shifts his weight off his right ankle, staring at the tight line of Tezuka's mouth as he speaks. His hand is on his elbow again, Ryoma realises with a sense of inevitability.
"Continuing to play at this level is likely to aggravate the should -"
"Your shoulder is fine," Ryoma snarls, cutting him off. Tezuka blinks, visibly regrouping. He hasn't dropped his calm face at all, and Ryoma thinks that just maybe that might be the worst part of this. Does he not expect Ryoma to care? "You don't need to retire! You-"
Suddenly it's all too much. Ryoma backs away, shaking his head and fumbling for the door handle. Tezuka is moving towards him again, worry on his face now as he opens his mouth to speak, but it's too little, too late; Ryoma is out of the door and running full tilt down the corridor to his own, unused hotel room.
He spends the night hunched into the corner of a bed that seems ridiculously vast, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about how he's supposed to play without Tezuka to aim for. When he wakes from ragged scraps of dream, certain that he hears knocking, the room is silent and empty around him. Ryoma waits almost until dawn before falling asleep again, exhaustion catching up with him, but there is no more sound. He oversleeps almost until noon, and by the time he wakes enough to realise the time, he is hopelessly late for his flight. When he asks, grudgingly, at the desk, he is informed that Tezuka has already left.
Ryoma flops back onto his bed and stares at the familiar, even square pattern of the ceiling. Without the prospect of another tournament, another hotel, another flight, he isn't quite sure what to do with himself. He supposes he'll get used to it soon enough; it's not as though he can never play again, after all. His father is likely to burst through the door at any moment, demanding a match. Ryoma can still remember the disappointment and irritation of realising that finally beating the old man hadn't made him any less annoying.
Whatever he's going to do in the future, lying around the house the way Nanjiroh does is definitely off the list. Ryoma makes a face, linking his hands behind his head and blowing hair out of his eyes; it's getting long again, and he should probably have it cut. He's accumulated enough prize money over the years that he can pretty much do what he likes, but he hasn't figured anything out yet. It's not like he doesn't have time, even with his mother poking at him about relationships.
She's right about one thing, though; there hasn't been anyone since Tezuka. Ryoma isn't good at talking to people, and he doesn't like social situations. It's been almost a year since the last time he'd even kissed anyone, and being practically attacked by some girl in one of Momo-senpai's clubs probably doesn't count anyway. Ryoma can't remember her name, or what she'd looked like, but the taste of Tezuka's mouth on his, tea and mint and warmth, is so vivid in his memory that he can feel it when he closes his eyes.
That he misses Tezuka isn't the question, Ryoma thinks. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself as memories wash over him; hands on skin, arms tight around him, the language of eyes and lips and gestures that makes words unnecessary. The past is the past.
"Ehh, young man, what are you smiling about?" his father's suggestive voice enquires from far too close. Ryoma jerks, bolting upright and cracking his forehead against Nanjiroh's chin.
"Ow!" Ryoma scoots backwards hastily, rubbing his head. His father is wobbling about, clutching his face; for a moment Ryoma wishes he'd managed to get him in the nose. "What the hell are you doing, old man? Can't you knock?"
"What, I can't greet my son?" Nanjiroh demands, a little thickly, as he examines his face in Ryoma's mirror. He turns, leering. "Sooo, is it a girl?"
"Is what a girl?" Ryoma leans back against the wall, already bored. The old man looks at him as though he's stupid.
"That you were daydreaming about, of course. Ah, it's about time…"
"Che." Ryoma rolls his eyes. "Not everyone's an idiot like you, old man. I don't have a girlfriend."
"Still?" Nanjiroh looks almost comically disappointed. "What are you waiting for, brat? Want me to find you a nice girl?"
Ryoma glares. "Don't even think about it. And stop calling me that; I'm twenty-five."
"Right! You should be going out on dates, making the most of your youth!" His father gestures dramatically. "It won't be long before the schoolgirls start calling you a pervert too…"
"That's because you are one, idiot." Ryoma heaves a sigh, shoving himself upright. He needs to do something; he's already restless. "Want me to beat you again?"
That gets Nanjiroh's attention. "You wish. Bring it on, brat." It's empty bravado, as always, Ryoma thinks, but even this far into middle age the old man is still a tricky bastard. It takes a few games to pin him down, and by the time Ryoma takes his second set he's sweating and Nanjiroh is gasping for breath.
"Heh, idiot kid," his father manages after a while, tossing his racquet aside as he flops down on the bench below the temple bell. "What the hell did you want to go and retire for? There's no one who can beat you."
There's no one who can beat me, Ryoma thinks. He just shrugs, turning and wandering back down the steps towards the house.
A week before Wimbledon begins, Fuji-senpai turns up unexpectedly at his hotel and drags him out to lunch. Apparently, he's in London for some kind of conference thing, something to do with photography, and 'just happens' to be nearby. Ryoma doesn't believe a minute of it, but professional tennis hasn't dulled his appreciation for free food. Fuji-senpai seems to know his way around here, because he takes Ryoma to a tiny, out-of-the-way café where the waiters all speak Japanese and the food smells comfortingly familiar.
They eat sushi and okonomiyaki, and Fuji talks about Japan and about people they both know while Ryoma pretends to care. Apparently Kaidoh-senpai has broken his leg while running, and Momo-senpai has been thrown out of the hospital for fighting with him while visiting. Ryoma supposes that's kind of funny, but he still wishes Fuji-senpai would get to the point. Maybe they can play a match while he's here, Ryoma thinks; Fuji isn't the type to let himself get rusty. He's about to ask when Fuji tilts his head, smiling at him.
"Maa, so how is Tezuka doing?"
Ryoma goes still, glaring across the table, then forces himself to relax. "You know better than I do."
"Hmm? Yes, I played a few sets with him the other week, up at the university." Fuji's smile makes Ryoma's fingers twitch, but not as much as the mention of Tezuka playing tennis. He tries to breathe deeply.
"Great." He isn't going to ask how Tezuka is, he isn't going to care. The familiar tastes of the food have turned bitter in his mouth; he pushes his plate away, scowling.
"He's doing fairly well," Fuji tells him conversationally, ignoring his expression. "He doesn't smile much, but of course he never did, did he?"
Ryoma squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, pushing away the countless memories of Tezuka's mouth tilting up into tiny, almost-reluctant smiles. "Senpai, stop it."
"Oh?" Fuji regards him across the table, face smoothing into a seriousness that's almost uncanny. "He misses you, Ryoma-kun. He's still waiting for you."
No he isn't, Ryoma thinks grimly, remembering that night. He hadn't even waited for Ryoma to beat him one last time, and it still hurts.
That night, Ryoma dreams that he's standing at the fence, watching an empty court. It looks a little like the practice courts at the National stadium, and he isn't at all surprised when he turns and sees Tezuka standing beside him.
They watch each other in silence for a moment, and then Ryoma turns back to the court. "I understand now, buchou," he mutters, uncertain whether Tezuka can even hear him. "I'm…"
He doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence, because Tezuka's hand is against his mouth, stopping his words. The contact is cold, and Tezuka's face is blank and entirely impersonal as he turns to walk away. Ryoma starts after him, but suddenly the fence is in the way; all he can do is watch Tezuka's retreating back.
He wakes burning hot, and kicks the covers onto the floor, flattening himself to the mattress as he stares at the shadows on the ceiling. It's a long, restless time before he falls back to sleep.
In the end, it only takes two days before he gives in. Maybe coming back to Japan had been a bad idea after all, Ryoma thinks; it seems like all he's able to think about here is Tezuka, and he no longer has tournaments and training to concentrate on. It's rapidly becoming too much to take, and when his father manages to take a set from him Ryoma knows that he has to do something to distract himself. He catches the bus across town, telling himself he'll go to see a movie or visit Momo-senpai or something.
He ends up standing outside Tezuka's apartment, staring at the door. Part of him hopes that Tezuka has moved, or gone on holiday or to school, but all he really feels is resignation, as though this has been inevitable all along. It's early evening on a Friday, too late for even university classes. Ryoma takes a deep breath, stops himself halfway through pulling at the cap he isn't wearing, and pushes the bell.
Almost immediately, his stomach begins to knot with discomfort; the hallway seems too narrow and the urge to run is almost overwhelming. Then the latch clicks, and the door opens, and Ryoma stops breathing.
Tezuka looks… like Tezuka. There's a tiny crease between his brows, as though he has been frowning too much, but otherwise it is as if no time has passed at all. His face is blank, a polite social mask, but his eyes behind the sheen of his glasses are wide and stunned as he stares at Ryoma. He's beautiful.
Ryoma swallows the sudden, jagged lump in his throat, and shoves his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching out. He's intensely, painfully aware that he doesn't have that right any more; it's one more reason for regret.
"Hi," he manages after a while; his voice comes out dull but steady.
Tezuka stares at him for a moment longer, then visibly collects himself. "Ryoma." He opens the door wider, stepping back in silent invitation, and Ryoma realises for the first time that he's wearing a suit and tie. Somehow it doesn't look as weird as he remembers from ATP functions.
"Are you busy?" He steps inside, though, looking around the apartment with a sense of complete unreality. It's as if nothing has changed except the two of them, and Ryoma doesn't know how to feel about that at all. He's not even sure why he's here.
"I have time." Tezuka's face is so carefully blank, now, that Ryoma's stomach clenches. He struggles to find words, achingly aware that three years ago he wouldn't have needed to. Neither of them have ever been particularly good with words. It's not that Tezuka is suddenly a stranger, Ryoma thinks. He's the one who doesn't belong here, now.
"I retired from the circuit," he blurts eventually, regretting it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. It runs right into everything that twists uncomfortably between them, but Tezuka doesn't even flinch, just nods slowly.
"I know." There is a quiet kind of understanding in his eyes, and maybe that's what's worst of all. Ryoma looks down at his feet, cursing himself for an idiot yet again.
"There wasn't anyone left to beat," he mutters reluctantly. Half of him is almost expecting to be given laps, and that above anything tells him just how long it's really been. Some walls probably can't be broken. It had been a bad idea to come here, and he'd known that from the start.
"Your game is exceptional," Tezuka says, and Ryoma wonders whether he's imagining the hint of uncertainty in his otherwise impersonal voice. "The double Slam is a great achievement."
"Aa." Ryoma shrugs, suddenly intensely uncomfortable. It had been easy to pretend that he hadn't needed Tezuka when they'd been apart, but standing so close… He swallows, breathing deeply, but that makes it worse because he can smell Tezuka, soap and tea and skin and everything he's been missing in three years of sterile, empty hotel rooms. He stares helplessly, mind going completely blank.
"Do you have any plans for the future?" Tezuka asks.
Ryoma starts, breaking out of his trance. Tezuka isn't helping here at all, with that frown line that needs smoothing out, and the almost-familiar look in his eyes. He feels his face heat.
"Not yet," he mutters, backing towards the door. "I'm going - you've got business."
"My reservation isn't until seven," Tezuka says entirely calmly - too calmly. Ryoma blinks, flight forgotten as he processes that.
"You have a date?" He doesn't know why he's surprised; it's been so long, after all, and Ryoma had never actually believed Fuji's implications. Tezuka's silent nod, though, sends a wave of disbelief through him.
"Who?" he demands, knowing that his voice is suddenly rough with something perilously close to jealousy.
"The daughter of a family friend," Tezuka answers imperturbably. Ryoma feels a startling, almost irresistible desire to yank him down and wipe that too-careful, too-blank expression off his face. The fact that he can't, because he doesn't have the right any more, is close to physically painful.
"A favour to my mother," Tezuka continues, eyes distant, and Ryoma blinks. He's not stupid, he knows what that means. If buchou's mother has been bothering him for long enough that he's given in - no, the idea of Tezuka married is nothing he wants to think about. A tiny voice in the back of Ryoma's mind whispers, mine. He does his best to ignore it.
"Will you play a match with me, buchou?" he asks before he can think to stop himself. It's almost automatic, being so close. He only realises that he's used the title - once a possessive, intimate nickname - when Tezuka's eyes widen, suddenly defenceless. That's better, Ryoma thinks with satisfaction.
"I'm retired," Tezuka points out in a quiet voice after a short pause; Ryoma can see him trying to collect himself. He grins.
"So am I."
"Aa." Tezuka looks down at him for a moment, then nods slowly. "Tomorrow afternoon - there's a court behind the building." Both of them are aware that Ryoma already knows that.
Tezuka is late. Ryoma sits on the bench at the side of the court, staring up at the sky. He knows Tezuka too well to worry, and he's too busy anticipating this in any case. Part of him worries that Tezuka will have lost his edge, off the circuit, but Ryoma already knows that they will both be giving this game their best. Retirement doesn't mean he can't play whenever he wants - play Tezuka whenever he wants.
He could have done with realising that a lot sooner, really. Ryoma exhales regret, shaking his head and absent-mindedly fishing his cap out of his bag; the clouds are starting to part again, and the sun is bright. It's not like he can change the past, and he knows now; tennis is only what had brought them together. It's not everything - but maybe it can be enough, for now?
The creak of the gate being pushed open distracts him from circular thoughts. Ryoma leans back on the bench, watching Tezuka walk onto the court. He looks a lot more like himself in tennis clothes, and more comfortable too.
"You're late," Ryoma points out neutrally, shoving himself to his feet and stretching his arms out over his head. Tezuka's face is serious, and his hair is even wilder than usual; he must have dressed in a hurry. Ryoma's fingers itch to reach up and straighten it; he distracts them with getting out his racquet.
"A lecture ran over," Tezuka says quietly, setting his bag down and opening it.
"Aa." Ryoma tosses his racquet from hand to hand, bouncing on his toes and letting his muscles begin to loosen. "What's it like?" he asks curiously, already feeling the familiar, heady thrill of being on the court with Tezuka. "University, I mean."
"I'm learning a lot." Tezuka chooses a racquet, glancing at Ryoma from the corner of his eye. Whether it's the court or just habit, Ryoma thinks, they are falling back into old patterns already. "Is that something you're interested in?"
"Maybe." Ryoma shrugs, leaning on the bench to stretch. He hasn't really thought much beyond this. Sports medicine sounds kind of boring, but he supposes the idea of coaching isn't entirely unattractive. "Are you ready, buchou?"
Tezuka just looks at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable. Ryoma is on the verge of squirming when he finally nods, slowly. "Three sets."
"Sure." Ryoma grins in relief, excitement sparking along with the flare of challenge in Tezuka's eyes. "You can serve - let's go."
It's immediately obvious that Tezuka has lost none of his skill or power. Ryoma narrows his eyes as he stretches to return a perfect slice serve, calculating chances and openings, and then Tezuka pivots into a backspin cross shot and he's lost in it. This is the game he has been needing for so long; every ball pushes him back, but he feels as though he can return anything. Just seeing Tezuka on the other side of the net is like breathing deeply - this is where he belongs, Ryoma knows.
He loses the first set in tie-break, grimacing as Tezuka returns his favourite drive volley to the line. They sit together on the bench, passing a bottle of water back and forth, and Ryoma is ridiculously conscious of the bare foot of distance between them.
"You've been watching my games," he accuses as Tezuka rises to return to the court. Tezuka looks at him curiously over his shoulder.
"Of course."
"Che," Ryoma mutters to himself; he's not used to being at a disadvantage, but it has been too long since he has seen Tezuka play at all, and his memories aren't living up to the reality. It's the biggest thrill he's had in years; he grins over the net, bouncing the ball. "You've been training, buchou."
"I've been waiting for you." Tezuka's face relaxes, just a little, into something close to a smile; Ryoma chokes on his breath. His heart is suddenly pounding in his ears, and however much he reminds himself that Tezuka is talking about tennis, he can still hear Fuji-senpai's voice in his head. He misses you, Ryoma-kun. He's still waiting for you. I'm sorry, he thinks. I'm sorry I took so long to understand. He tosses the ball, and serves so hard that the impact reverberates through his whole body.
The second set comes down to tie-break as well. They fight it out for so long that Ryoma remembers other matches, thirteen years gone; he laughs breathlessly as he throws back another Rising counter, eyes locked with Tezuka's. Neither of them are looking at the ball at all any more, and there is no doubt in Ryoma's mind as to what he wants, now. He's taken the world, but Tezuka is everything.
Luck and an unpredictable headwind finally gain him the set and match. Ryoma lets his left arm fall to his side, standing at the intersection of two white lines and staring across the net at Tezuka. He isn't entirely sure he can trust himself to move right now, but it doesn't seem to matter at all because Tezuka's expression is quietly satisfied. Ryoma can't look away; there is so much unspoken in the air between them that he shivers down to his toes.
"Good game," Tezuka says after what feels like forever, in the quiet tone of voice that means he's waiting to see what happens next. Ryoma blinks, trying to get a grip on himself.
"Thanks." His voice comes out cracked, and he stumbles a little as he starts to move. It breaks the paralysis, though, and he reaches out without thinking as they meet at the net, the habit of handshakes far too ingrained to deny.
The contact is electric. Ryoma can feel his heartbeat speeding up, years' worth of need twisting his bones with its ache as he stares up into Tezuka's eyes. They're so close, now, and he can see the motion of Tezuka's throat as he swallows… Ryoma doesn't want to let go; their hands fit together just the same as always, fingers sliding to wrap around each other, and the need to be kissing Tezuka now is more than he can stand. It's the first time they've touched in three years.
"Buchou," he chokes out, fingers tightening spasmodically as Tezuka's face tells him all he needs to know. They have never needed words for this, Ryoma thinks. Then he steps back, gulping for air as Tezuka releases his hand and heads to the bench.
The short walk back to the apartment block is almost entirely silent. Ryoma stares straight ahead, and tries not to think about the way Tezuka's wrist brushes against his forearm as they walk. If there are other people around, he doesn't notice them at all.
The moment the door closes behind them, Ryoma drops his bag and lunges for Tezuka, arms closing tight around his shoulders as he stretches up into a desperate, breathless kiss. Buchou, he thinks; it comes out as a muffled moan and he arches hard against Tezuka, bodies pressing tight together as their mouths open into the kiss. Tezuka is supporting most of their weight, leaning against the wall; his hands slide up Ryoma's back beneath his shirt, calluses rough over sweat-slick skin as he pulls them even closer. It's everything Ryoma has been missing, everything he's been wanting.
He doesn't remember how they make it to the bedroom; the world shrinks to hands and mouths and skin and kisses, touches, need. Clothes become an obstacle; Ryoma struggles with Tezuka's shirt, yanks it away to run his mouth over skin, throat, collarbones, and they are both still covered with sweat but it's familiar, it's them… His fingers clutch at Tezuka's back; he can't get close enough, and there are fragments of words spilling from his mouth, a jumbled mess of buchou and mine and please, and then Tezuka's mouth is on his again, demanding, and there is nothing but skin and breath and movement and everything, everything.
By the time he feels capable of moving again, the sun is setting outside. Ryoma yawns, shifting to drape himself further across Tezuka's chest, pressing his face into his neck. "Kunimitsu," he murmurs, without really thinking about it. They are both filthy with sweat and worse, but Tezuka hasn't moved at all; his arms around Ryoma are tight and warm.
Ryoma heaves a deep breath, almost a sigh. The air smells of sweat and sex and heat, and they should really go and shower, but he knows this is more important. "I'm sorry," he mutters finally, lips grazing Tezuka's skin. "For being stupid." It's not enough, he thinks, not for this, but he has nothing else. They will have to talk sometime, or try to, but for now… "I'm sorry."
Tezuka's arms tighten around him, holding on so hard that Ryoma wonders for a moment whether he will have bruises. He settles for leaving his own mark on Tezuka in return, biting idly at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Tezuka shifts under him, shaking a little, arms possessive bands around his ribs as he murmurs inaudible words into Ryoma's hair. Ryoma shifts a lazy hand, reaching up sightless to trace the familiar contours of Tezuka's face, finally smoothing the crease from his forehead. Maybe it won't ever be quite the same as before, he thinks, but this is enough. Three years is long enough to regret.