[PoT] Abstraction, PG, General, FujiRyo
Dec. 19th, 2005 03:41 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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chineseinkTitle: Abstraction
Fandom: PoT
Pairing: FujiRyo
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
The end of the road for Fuji and Ryoma is not quite as they expected. Fuji's graduation looms and Ryoma chases.
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30_kisses theme: #20 the road home
[Sequel to Refraction.]
Abstraction
by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
meitachi
Two weeks have passed and Ryoma has spent a majority of that time with Fuji. It’s been a whirl of sunshine and sweat and tennis, of labored breathing, adrenaline and exhaustion, cold drinks and warm grass, of afternoon naps and a strange sense of comfort. When they’re not playing tennis, they’re sprawled across a nearby bench or under the shade of a nearby tree, talking or silent, and Ryoma’s surprised that he’s never bothered by which it is.
“Fuji-senpai,” he says one afternoon, arms behind his head as he lies propped up against a tree trunk, “You’re better than buchou.”
Fuji’s eyes are closed, hair drifting over his face as he too leans against the tree. “Don’t underestimate Tezuka,” he replies mildly, lips tilting up in a smile. “He has hidden depth.”
Ryoma’s gaze is unseen in the shadows under his cap. “I’ve already beat him.” To him, that is everything, disappointing and satisfying and enough to tell him he’s reached the end of the road with Tezuka. He looks at Fuji now, as his goal, because they haven’t finished that match in the rain, and these past weeks he’s chased and is still chasing. They’ve finally completed a one-set match and Fuji proves the winner, almost taunting Ryoma at how close it is before pulling ahead easily. Like a spider to the fly, he baits Ryoma, invites him to follow, and bidden, Ryoma does.
It’s one of the things Fuji is fascinated with, that one-track mind, and he can’t help but trifle with it, like a child deliberately playing rough with a toy just to see if it really will break. “Saa,” Fuji says noncommittally. He tugs his shirt away from his skin, feeling the sweat beginning to stick. “I need a shower.”
“Fuji-senpai is graduating in a month,” Ryoma says abruptly.
This is all the time he has to catch up.
“Yes,” replies Fuji and stands up, running a hand through his hair. “We’ll have to make it a good last month, won’t we?” He smiles and Ryoma looks up at him, expression unreadable. He reaches down and tugs on Ryoma’s cap. “Come home with me.” He bends down to pick up his racket bag and straightens, slinging it over his shoulder.
Ryoma watches him. “I get your shower first,” he informs Fuji as he gets to his feet.
Fuji laughs, indulgent. “Anything you say, Ryoma. I’ll even buy you a Ponta on the way.”
“Thank you, senpai,” Ryoma says politely, but his smirk gives him away. There is something in his eyes, however, that doesn’t quite vanish as he falls into step with Fuji. It might be an unsettling feeling at the thought of the other boy’s graduation or it might be nothing more than a trick of the light. In any case, it doesn’t stop Ryoma from attempting to coerce a popsicle out of Fuji as well before Fuji points out that it’s early March and they’re both wearing jackets over their tennis clothes and no business-minded street vendor will be selling popsicles anytime until the end of May at the very earliest.
Ryoma grumbles but he won’t think of May, not yet, because April comes first, and that is when Fuji will be leaving. Ryoma refuses to let things remain unfinished. Something will change.
--
Ryoma is with Fuji in the shopping district when they pass a rack of magazines with familiar faces on the cover. The older boy halts in front of the newsstand bursting full of colorful titles, juggling his armful of bags until he can free a hand to pick up the intended magazine. “Look, Ryoma,” he says, smiling and nudging the boy beside him. “It’s us.”
Ryoma rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, unimpressed. He crosses his arms, a bag dangling from one hand, and resumes his default expression of boredom.
Fuji flips through the magazine until he finds the article written on the Seigaku Jr. High tennis team and their All-Japan aspirations. “Good lighting on the group picture,” he murmurs as he skips the article in favor of critiquing the photography. He turns the page. “Saa, not the most flattering picture of Kaidoh, though.” Ryoma sneaks a look and, indeed, the second-year looks rather constipated—possibly due to the fact that Momoshiro was placed beside him.
“Eiji looks more serious than usual,” Fuji continues commenting, his smile curling into the memories of the photo shoot, “and, oh-!” A hand wraps around Ryoma’s upper arm and tugs him closer. “Look here, Ryoma. Don’t you think this is a good picture?”
Ryoma glances down at the magazine, his own face staring challengingly out from the glossy page. He looks, in his opinion, as he always does. He doesn’t know what makes Fuji think it’s a better picture than average, whatever his standards for “average” are. “Betsuni,” he says as noncommittally as he can, glancing up at the other boy.
He’s surprised at the contemplative look in those blue eyes, directed at the magazine. He almost says Fuji’s name but catches himself, not sure why he hesitates, and Fuji glances at him with those same surveying eyes. The smile is gone, traded in for a certain thoughtfulness that is rare for it is tinged with seriousness.
“I think I’ll buy this,” Fuji announces after the second, moment and a half of eternity, passes. “It’ll be a good memento.” His smile’s returned as he calls to the shopkeeper, setting the magazine on the counter as he fishes for his wallet. Ryoma watches him, unsettled, and wonders if he’s missing something.
He glances down at the numerous bags in Fuji’s hands—graduation presents for his fellow third-years, an uncalled for philanthropy that Ryoma thought was excessive. In his own bag are a package of cat food for Karupin and a bottle of shampoo because he’s been running low. His tennis duffel is still slung over his back since they came by subway straight after practice, and Fuji looks heavily weighed down by his own bags.
Ryoma’s eyes flick from the money exchanging hands to the magazine cover to Fuji’s face and perpetual smile. There are three weeks until the third-years graduate and he’s yet to defeat Fuji. He wonders if there’s enough time.
--
Kikumaru is thrilled about graduation. He’s been bouncing around the courts for days now, the prospect of high school and tennis and new challengers fueling his excitement. That and the decidedly fewer days he has to spend in class as the third-years prepare and rehearse for graduation. Ten days to go, he’s been shouting all practice, turning flips and laughing in exhilaration.
Oishi is far quieter. While he’s looking forward to a new experience, he’s rational in his expectations. There will be hard work awaiting them in high school, both in the classroom and on the courts. They will be first-years again, starting at the bottom of the ladder, and whatever skills they have will be overlooked and challenged by those of their upperclassmen. He is also fairly reluctant at having to leave the team he’s grown to love so much. He worries over who will take care of them now, though his logical side tells him that Tezuka’s left the club in good hands with Kaidoh.
Inui looks forward to high school with a quieter, more focused anticipation than Kikumaru. He wants new subjects for his data, new environments to conduct experiments in. This will be a prime opportunity and he has every notion of taking advantage of it. It doesn’t hurt, he’s been heard to mention, glasses glinting in hard light, that the science labs of the Seigaku high school have been described as stellar.
Kawamura is a bit nervous about leaving junior high. He’s grown comfortable here, with these people, in this club, and he cares for them and knows they care for him as well. He’s aware that there will be opportunities to make friends in high school, of course, and he’s pretty sure he will. It’s just that…well, it’ll be a little awkward and uncomfortable at first. Still, it’s inevitable, and nothing he does will prevent it, so he resolves to do the best he can in facing the future. His greatest sadness lies in knowing he won’t be able to pursue tennis anymore—the shop needs him, and he owes everything to his father. He has no complaints, none he would dare voice, even to himself, because he’s determined to do what he must.
Tezuka does not worry about high school because he’s always known it was coming. That is why Yamato-buchou left them, after all, and why every captain before him and after him will move on. He’s confident that Kaidoh will take good care of the club with Momoshiro as his vice-captain. He knows that despite their differences they will make a good team and the club will benefit from their guidance. Still, even as he looks towards the future, his gaze narrows in on Echizen. A year from now, when Kaidoh and Momo are the ones who will be graduating, he has no doubt that Echizen will be the rising captain. That is, he thinks, narrowing his eyes, if things are left as they are and Echizen can develop at his own exponential rate. Tezuka will make sure that he can.
It is for that reason that he is concerned with Fuji’s constant involvement with the first-year in the past few weeks.
Fuji sidesteps his questions like a professional dancer, smiling reassuringly, and tells stories that abate Tezuka’s fears until he reflects on them and realizes that they are nothing more than empty words. He doesn’t know what to do—but there are only ten days left. He resolves to keep a close watch in those remaining days. There is nothing else, after all, and when graduation is a thing of the past, that will be the end.
What Fuji thinks about leaving for high school is anyone’s guess.
--
“Is this all right?” Ryoma asks dubiously as he drops his overnight bag on the floor beside Fuji’s bed.
“It’s fine,” Fuji assures, crossing the room to adjust his blinds so the afternoon sunlight is directed at the cacti on the windowsill. “Okaasan is really happy to have you. And I know ‘Neesan really wants to meet you. This is a good opportunity.”
Looking around, Ryoma scratches the back of his head. “Nice room,” he says politely. And it is: everything is neat, from the rows of books, alphabetically aligned, on the bookshelf to the cacti marching across the windowsill. The framed photographs—some of landscapes, some of unfamiliar people, both in color and black and white—hanging on the wall are done so with a specific design in mind.
Now that he thinks about it, there are a lot of photographs in Fuji’s room, from the artistic ones on the walls to the family photos on the desk. There are also quite a few photos of the Seigaku regulars scattered around in aesthetic arrangement.
“Ne, Fuji-senpai,” Ryoma says, turning to find Fuji pulling his books from his school bag. “Do you like photography?”
Fuji smiles at him. “Quite a lot.” He stacks his books on the desk and pauses to trace his fingers over a photo of Yuuta. “It’s a hobby of mine,” he replies softly, lashes sweeping down as he gazes at the boy in the picture. Suddenly, it feels to Ryoma, the atmosphere in the room darkens a little, a quiet sort of sadness pervading.
He looks at the slumped curve of Fuji’s shoulders, eyes measuring. After a moment, he comes up behind Fuji and glances at the photograph, silent for a while. The both of them stand by Fuji’s desk, Yuuta glaring at both of them from his disgruntled position in the picture. Then Ryoma speaks. “Senpai, what’s with the brother complex?” he asks tactlessly, bluntly, raising his eyes to meet Fuji’s startled blue gaze.
Fuji’s smile is automatic and blatantly false. “Saa, isn’t an older brother allowed to care for his younger brother?” Voice careless, he lets his hand drop from the frame.
Ryoma raises an eyebrow, letting his skeptical expression speak for itself.
“’Neesan’s always had us to look after. I only had Yuuta,” Fuji says quietly, turning from Ryoma and making his way to his bed. He stands beside it, back to the other boy. “I wanted to do the best job I could.”
Ryoma sees the tenseness lining Fuji’s shoulders and wonders if he isn’t seeing so much else.
“I guess I just drove him away.” Fuji’s laugh is soft and a tinge bitter, flooded with regrets. He glances over his shoulder at Ryoma and his smile this time is swift and fierce, real. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever let anyone hurt him.”
There is a heartbeat that passes between them and then Ryoma shrugs, letting his gaze drop to the floor. “Whatever,” he mutters and he can feel Fuji relaxing, settling back into his teasing senpai mode. He doesn’t complain when a hand wraps around his wrist and gently tugs him out the door towards the stairs.
“Let’s get a snack, ne, Ryoma?”
--
There is a week until Fuji graduates and Ryoma can feel every second passing in the rushing of his blood. How much longer does he have? Not nearly enough time, he thinks, as he wraps his arms around his knees, sitting in the half-dark of almost-dawn and watching Fuji sleep.
The older boy’s chest rises and falls in time to his whispered breaths, so faint that Ryoma finds them hard to catch, and only because they are in tune with his own does he know them. In and out and today and tomorrow—seven days and he’s gotten closer, he thinks, but he’s not quite there yet. Seven days until it’s over and something is lost and something new is born.
Fuji’s features are peaceful in slumber, skin pale in the late March moonlight. From his position on the futon, Ryoma can’t see the definition of the shadows cast on Fuji’s face, but the dark blurs into the light and Ryoma’s reminded of the startling black and white photos on the walls of the room. It would be hard to capture Fuji in a moment’s stillness, a photograph to record his being for posterity—he’s not loud or brash, but his subtleties make him hard to transcribe, the constantly shifting meanings behind his smile and his eyes, in each and every gesture.
He would be hardest to capture in tennis, Ryoma privately thinks, because he is even less honest on the courts than off. Not that he would cheat or infringe on any of the set rules—but the intent hidden behind each move would forever remain a mystery leaving spectators to second-guess themselves until he revealed his next step, gracefully, only to bring about a thousand more secrets.
Perhaps that is why it’s so difficult for Ryoma to defeat him. Ryoma is too straightforward, too blunt—he is good at reading ahead, even predicting the often unpredictable, at least in tennis, but the fickle human nature Fuji infuses his style of play with is beyond Ryoma.
He wonders if he can learn…
His eyelids lower heavily as sleep creeps up on him again.
…In the seven days he has left.
Ryoma’s last imprint is of Fuji’s sleeping face, strangely open in his dreams, almost accessible if he could only reach…far…enough.
--
Finals end on Thursday. The graduation ceremonies will take place Sunday morning, knowledge that’s infused itself in every third-year, and visible to the world through their eyes.
Friday night, the Seigaku regulars have their last get-together, held in honor of the past year in the Kawamura sushi shop. The excitement is high, but on a different wavelength from the celebratory high after winning a match. This excitement is fringed with an electric tension, nervous anticipation, and a hint of nostalgia. The third years are looking back on their three years of junior high and their time on the tennis team.
“Uwaah, three days!” Kikumaru cheers, stealing food off of Momoshiro’s plate unrepentantly. “Aren’t you all excited?” He literally bounces in his seat.
Oishi smiles at him, much more composed. “It’s the culmination of three years of hard work,” he agrees, lifting his glass to his lips. “But more work will await us.”
“Don’t focus on that.” Kikumaru waves his hand dismissively and grins brightly at Momo. “Nyaaa, and you’ll be third-years soon! And vice-captain! Momo! You have to be as good of a vice-captain as Oishi, okay? Don’t let Seigaku down!”
Momoshiro assumes an insulted look. “Eiji-senpai!” he exclaims. “I’m going to be a better vice-captain that Oishi-senpai!”
Kikumaru chortles and elbows his doubles partner in the side. “Did ya hear that, Oishi? Momo-chan is gonna outdo you!”
As the teasing continues, with an occasional jibe at Kaidoh by Momoshiro—“Mamushi won’t be able to live up to Tezuka-buchou at all!”—the night continues in high spirits. Kawamura proudly shows off how his sushi-making skills have vastly improved over the year, much to his father’s delight, and Inui generously shares a few of the more interesting facts from his data notebooks—“Oishi appears to have named quite a few of his fish after the Hyotei regulars.” Fuji consumes his usual frightening amount of wasabi sushi, to the equal appall and awe of the other regulars, and Ryoma occasionally joins in on poking fun at his senpai with a smirk on his face that he isn’t the one being tormented, for once.
Tezuka sits quietly, nursing his tea and eating his sushi with little comment. His mouth twitches to a frown when some of the teasing gets a little out of hand but he has thus far refrained from interfering. His glare keeps Inui’s “interesting data on buchou” at bay and those who know him well enough can see the soft look in his eyes. He too is a bit nostalgic. This is his team as it was no one else’s; leaving them will not be easy.
“Tezuka,” Fuji says softly to him in a moment while all other attention is directed at Momoshiro goading Kikumaru into an eating contest. A slim hand rests on his arm.
He looks at the slender boy sitting beside him.
“Echizen will make a wonderful pillar,” Fuji murmurs, a smile making his blue eyes shine. “He is far stronger than even you think.”
Tezuka regards him, a frown between his brows. “Fuji,” he starts and that is all he can say for a moment. He blinks, sliding a glance over at the first-year in question, before looking back at the boy at his side. “Have you been testing him all this time?”
Fuji’s eyes lower and now the curve to his mouth is a little sly. “What did you think I was doing, Tezuka?” he asks gently. “After he beat you, he was at loose ends, and there was over a month until graduation. I did what I could.”
There is a loud exclamation around them and Tezuka is momentarily distracted by Oishi’s horrified expression as Kikumaru chokes on a roll of sushi, but a glass of water and a firm whack to the back seems to have solved that. His attention returns to Fuji. “I misunderstood,” he says. “I’m sorry.” As Fuji makes as if to brush the apology away, lifting his hand in a dismissive gesture, Tezuka grasps those long fingers in his own hand. “Thank you,” he adds, looking down at the face of someone who’s been with him since their first year.
Fuji stares back at him and there is a sudden flash of an emotion Tezuka doesn’t understand in those endless blue eyes. Then Fuji smiles and pulls away. His gaze hovers on Ryoma the rest of the night.
--
“Saa, Ryoma, what do you think of girls?”
Ryoma yawns and pulls down the brim of his cap. “Whatever,” he replies, uninterested. “They’re kind of annoying. Always screaming or giggling.”
They continue walking towards the street courts, tennis bags slung over respective shoulders, the morning sun filtered pale through the cloudy sky. Fuji hums noncommittally and glances down at the boy at his side. “I guess you’re too young,” he murmurs. “You’ll grow into it. Even Tezuka’s been rumored to have a girlfriend, though I’ve yet to see any evidence…”
Golden eyes cast him a sharp look. “Ch’,” he snorts. “Are you interested in girls, Fuji-senpai?”
Fuji smiles a little. “Of course. I know quite a few very nice girls from the photography club. And there are some very talented ones from the girl’s tennis club.”
Ryoma starts. “There’s a girl’s tennis club?” He looks vaguely disbelieving even as Fuji nods.
“Ryuuzaki-sensei’s granddaughter is in it,” he reminds Ryoma. “Though I don’t think she participates often,” he muses, recalling how she manages to show up for every one of the boys’ matches and a good number of their daily practices.
“Fuji-senpai’s not interested in her,” Ryoma scoffs, though he slides a sideways look at Fuji as if to confirm the statement. His tennis sneakers scuff the sidewalk as they go on their way.
A hand lifts to tug at his cap brim. “Of course not,” Fuji replies easily, smile genuine. “But I’ve been asked out by a few girls, all of whom were very nice. Quite pretty too. But,” he adds, “I turned them all down.” He sighs. “Saa, I guess they just weren’t right for me, ne, Ryoma?”
Ryoma hunches his shoulders, uncomfortable with the uneasy feeling curling in the pit of his stomach. “Whatever,” he responds, reminding himself that this is his last day. He glances at the other boy after Fuji has fallen silent and his eyes sweep over the serene expression and the deceptively small and slender frame bearing the heavy tennis duffel. He thinks about all the things those eyes hide and all the untruths told by that smile and wonders if defeating Fuji will be possible, and if it will be enough.
Fuji catches his eye and gives him a challenging look. Ryoma mentally takes a deep breath. This is it.
Graduation’s tomorrow.
--
Ryoma’s panting hard, breaths making a labored excursion in and out of his chest, sweat dripping off of him and sticking his shirt to his skin. He tugs his cap off to drag the back of his arm across his forehead. “Seven games to five,” he gasps, narrowing his eyes across the court.
Fuji is just as exhausted as he is. Ryoma can see the fatigue in the lines of his shoulders and legs, struggling to keep him upright, tennis racket slack in one hand.
“You win, Ryoma.”
The words are hard-won, the games harder. It’s difficult for Ryoma to even comprehend…this is the end. He’s done it. He’s beat both Tezuka and Fuji and graduation is tomorrow.
“If you let me win,” he says suddenly, fiercely, eyes burning as he glares at the boy who’s been his teammate for a year, his rival for a little over a month, and…and… Ryoma will hate him if he gave up this game because Fuji’s been his closest friend for weeks now, the person most important to him, outshining even Nanjirou in Ryoma’ determination to overcome him.
“Of course I didn’t.” Fuji’s smile is tired. “I played my best, Ryoma, and you defeated me. Congratulations.”
He’s spent more time with Fuji over the past four weeks than anyone else, even his own family. Momoshiro even complained about how he didn’t have time to go out for burgers anymore. But Ryoma had a goal and he had a time limit, and like the conclusion of his match with Fudomine’s Ibu Shinji all those months ago, he put all his mind to it. And won.
Ryoma watches Fuji retire to the side of the court, taking a long drink from his water bottle and wiping himself off with his towel. He frowns.
He’s finally defeated Fuji Syuusuke, Seigaku’s tensai. Stronger than even Tezuka.
He should be, if not happy, at least satisfied.
All he can think, and that uncomfortable feeling’s uncurling in his stomach again, is that Fuji is graduating tomorrow.
Is he leaving me?
--
The speeches are long, the list of names longer, and waiting until the congratulatory crowd around all of the graduates ebbs to just family takes an eternity and a half.
Ryoma runs into Inui and his family first and bows respectfully, thanking him for being a good senpai and wishing him the best of luck in high school. Inui’s parting comment is a recommendation for Ryoma to continue his usual training regimen, which Inui drew up for him about two months ago.
Next, Ryoma runs into Kikumaru and is enthusiastically hugged and forcibly introduced to every one of Eiji’s older sisters. He bows and mutters inane polite things until he can make his escape.
After stumbling into a dozen other graduates and their happy families, he encounters Tezuka, looking solemn in his black uniform with his diploma. Ryoma’s heart thuds when Tezuka looks at him, scrutinizing as only a captain could, and they exchange formalities. Ryoma wonders what it means that Tezuka was out of his mind as soon as he defeated him, yet thoughts of Fuji still flutter actively in his mind—thoughts of those smiles and his care for his brother, of his fleeting touches and his penchant for sneaking photographs of Ryoma, of his tennis and his voice and—
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryoma sees a familiar figure. He bids a hasty goodbye to his former captain and weaves his way through the crowd.
“Mada Mada-kun!” Yumiko is the first to catch sight of him and her smile is warm as she greets him with an affectionate nickname.
Fuji turns and Ryoma can see a smiling Yuuta behind him, along with the parents he met only weeks ago. They all smile in welcome, Yuuta a bit sheepishly, as he approaches but Ryoma’s eyes are for the eldest son alone.
“Fuji-senpai,” he says and stops, the words catching in his throat because he doesn’t know what it is he needs to say.
“Ryoma.”
And the way his name rolls off that tongue, soft and warm, pitched low in that gentle voice that he heard so much of in the past month—it triggers something in him. Still not knowing for sure what he’s doing, Ryoma steps close to Fuji. “Congratulations,” he says, bowing, feeling his hair brush Fuji’s uniform. “Arigatou gozaimashita.”
A hand catches his chin and gently lifts his face until he’s standing upright and gazing at Fuji.
Brazenly, Fuji leans down and brushes a kiss against his mouth, eyes blue and knowing. “You’re welcome,” he replies and, suddenly, Ryoma doesn’t even see Yumiko’s delighted smile or Yuuta’s look of shock, or the parents’ resigned, tolerant expressions. He sees sunshine and sweat and nets and fast-flying tennis balls, and abstract shadows playing on pale skin limned in moonlight.
“Don’t be so bold,” he snaps in false irritation, stepping back, knowing that it’s useless because there’s surely a blush staining his cheeks.
Fuji laughs in confirmation and there is a quiet sort of relief told by the shift of his shoulders. “Saa, Ryoma, don’t be such a tease.” He winks at Ryoma, who ducks his head to hide his smile when Yuuta makes an appalled sound.
Graduation day has come at last.
Ryoma thinks there are better things he can now be counting the days until.
--
Started: 06.30.05
Finished: 09.03.05
Edited: 09.03.05
Notes: I had the first section of this written and ready to post as a sequel. Then yesterday I randomly sat down and wrote the next nine pages. So, yeah. You can see about four different pairings in this if you squint. But you know which one is intended. :b Anyway, reviews appreciated.
Fandom: PoT
Pairing: FujiRyo
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
The end of the road for Fuji and Ryoma is not quite as they expected. Fuji's graduation looms and Ryoma chases.
30_kisses theme: #20 the road home[Sequel to Refraction.]
Abstraction
by
meitachiTwo weeks have passed and Ryoma has spent a majority of that time with Fuji. It’s been a whirl of sunshine and sweat and tennis, of labored breathing, adrenaline and exhaustion, cold drinks and warm grass, of afternoon naps and a strange sense of comfort. When they’re not playing tennis, they’re sprawled across a nearby bench or under the shade of a nearby tree, talking or silent, and Ryoma’s surprised that he’s never bothered by which it is.
“Fuji-senpai,” he says one afternoon, arms behind his head as he lies propped up against a tree trunk, “You’re better than buchou.”
Fuji’s eyes are closed, hair drifting over his face as he too leans against the tree. “Don’t underestimate Tezuka,” he replies mildly, lips tilting up in a smile. “He has hidden depth.”
Ryoma’s gaze is unseen in the shadows under his cap. “I’ve already beat him.” To him, that is everything, disappointing and satisfying and enough to tell him he’s reached the end of the road with Tezuka. He looks at Fuji now, as his goal, because they haven’t finished that match in the rain, and these past weeks he’s chased and is still chasing. They’ve finally completed a one-set match and Fuji proves the winner, almost taunting Ryoma at how close it is before pulling ahead easily. Like a spider to the fly, he baits Ryoma, invites him to follow, and bidden, Ryoma does.
It’s one of the things Fuji is fascinated with, that one-track mind, and he can’t help but trifle with it, like a child deliberately playing rough with a toy just to see if it really will break. “Saa,” Fuji says noncommittally. He tugs his shirt away from his skin, feeling the sweat beginning to stick. “I need a shower.”
“Fuji-senpai is graduating in a month,” Ryoma says abruptly.
This is all the time he has to catch up.
“Yes,” replies Fuji and stands up, running a hand through his hair. “We’ll have to make it a good last month, won’t we?” He smiles and Ryoma looks up at him, expression unreadable. He reaches down and tugs on Ryoma’s cap. “Come home with me.” He bends down to pick up his racket bag and straightens, slinging it over his shoulder.
Ryoma watches him. “I get your shower first,” he informs Fuji as he gets to his feet.
Fuji laughs, indulgent. “Anything you say, Ryoma. I’ll even buy you a Ponta on the way.”
“Thank you, senpai,” Ryoma says politely, but his smirk gives him away. There is something in his eyes, however, that doesn’t quite vanish as he falls into step with Fuji. It might be an unsettling feeling at the thought of the other boy’s graduation or it might be nothing more than a trick of the light. In any case, it doesn’t stop Ryoma from attempting to coerce a popsicle out of Fuji as well before Fuji points out that it’s early March and they’re both wearing jackets over their tennis clothes and no business-minded street vendor will be selling popsicles anytime until the end of May at the very earliest.
Ryoma grumbles but he won’t think of May, not yet, because April comes first, and that is when Fuji will be leaving. Ryoma refuses to let things remain unfinished. Something will change.
--
Ryoma is with Fuji in the shopping district when they pass a rack of magazines with familiar faces on the cover. The older boy halts in front of the newsstand bursting full of colorful titles, juggling his armful of bags until he can free a hand to pick up the intended magazine. “Look, Ryoma,” he says, smiling and nudging the boy beside him. “It’s us.”
Ryoma rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, unimpressed. He crosses his arms, a bag dangling from one hand, and resumes his default expression of boredom.
Fuji flips through the magazine until he finds the article written on the Seigaku Jr. High tennis team and their All-Japan aspirations. “Good lighting on the group picture,” he murmurs as he skips the article in favor of critiquing the photography. He turns the page. “Saa, not the most flattering picture of Kaidoh, though.” Ryoma sneaks a look and, indeed, the second-year looks rather constipated—possibly due to the fact that Momoshiro was placed beside him.
“Eiji looks more serious than usual,” Fuji continues commenting, his smile curling into the memories of the photo shoot, “and, oh-!” A hand wraps around Ryoma’s upper arm and tugs him closer. “Look here, Ryoma. Don’t you think this is a good picture?”
Ryoma glances down at the magazine, his own face staring challengingly out from the glossy page. He looks, in his opinion, as he always does. He doesn’t know what makes Fuji think it’s a better picture than average, whatever his standards for “average” are. “Betsuni,” he says as noncommittally as he can, glancing up at the other boy.
He’s surprised at the contemplative look in those blue eyes, directed at the magazine. He almost says Fuji’s name but catches himself, not sure why he hesitates, and Fuji glances at him with those same surveying eyes. The smile is gone, traded in for a certain thoughtfulness that is rare for it is tinged with seriousness.
“I think I’ll buy this,” Fuji announces after the second, moment and a half of eternity, passes. “It’ll be a good memento.” His smile’s returned as he calls to the shopkeeper, setting the magazine on the counter as he fishes for his wallet. Ryoma watches him, unsettled, and wonders if he’s missing something.
He glances down at the numerous bags in Fuji’s hands—graduation presents for his fellow third-years, an uncalled for philanthropy that Ryoma thought was excessive. In his own bag are a package of cat food for Karupin and a bottle of shampoo because he’s been running low. His tennis duffel is still slung over his back since they came by subway straight after practice, and Fuji looks heavily weighed down by his own bags.
Ryoma’s eyes flick from the money exchanging hands to the magazine cover to Fuji’s face and perpetual smile. There are three weeks until the third-years graduate and he’s yet to defeat Fuji. He wonders if there’s enough time.
--
Kikumaru is thrilled about graduation. He’s been bouncing around the courts for days now, the prospect of high school and tennis and new challengers fueling his excitement. That and the decidedly fewer days he has to spend in class as the third-years prepare and rehearse for graduation. Ten days to go, he’s been shouting all practice, turning flips and laughing in exhilaration.
Oishi is far quieter. While he’s looking forward to a new experience, he’s rational in his expectations. There will be hard work awaiting them in high school, both in the classroom and on the courts. They will be first-years again, starting at the bottom of the ladder, and whatever skills they have will be overlooked and challenged by those of their upperclassmen. He is also fairly reluctant at having to leave the team he’s grown to love so much. He worries over who will take care of them now, though his logical side tells him that Tezuka’s left the club in good hands with Kaidoh.
Inui looks forward to high school with a quieter, more focused anticipation than Kikumaru. He wants new subjects for his data, new environments to conduct experiments in. This will be a prime opportunity and he has every notion of taking advantage of it. It doesn’t hurt, he’s been heard to mention, glasses glinting in hard light, that the science labs of the Seigaku high school have been described as stellar.
Kawamura is a bit nervous about leaving junior high. He’s grown comfortable here, with these people, in this club, and he cares for them and knows they care for him as well. He’s aware that there will be opportunities to make friends in high school, of course, and he’s pretty sure he will. It’s just that…well, it’ll be a little awkward and uncomfortable at first. Still, it’s inevitable, and nothing he does will prevent it, so he resolves to do the best he can in facing the future. His greatest sadness lies in knowing he won’t be able to pursue tennis anymore—the shop needs him, and he owes everything to his father. He has no complaints, none he would dare voice, even to himself, because he’s determined to do what he must.
Tezuka does not worry about high school because he’s always known it was coming. That is why Yamato-buchou left them, after all, and why every captain before him and after him will move on. He’s confident that Kaidoh will take good care of the club with Momoshiro as his vice-captain. He knows that despite their differences they will make a good team and the club will benefit from their guidance. Still, even as he looks towards the future, his gaze narrows in on Echizen. A year from now, when Kaidoh and Momo are the ones who will be graduating, he has no doubt that Echizen will be the rising captain. That is, he thinks, narrowing his eyes, if things are left as they are and Echizen can develop at his own exponential rate. Tezuka will make sure that he can.
It is for that reason that he is concerned with Fuji’s constant involvement with the first-year in the past few weeks.
Fuji sidesteps his questions like a professional dancer, smiling reassuringly, and tells stories that abate Tezuka’s fears until he reflects on them and realizes that they are nothing more than empty words. He doesn’t know what to do—but there are only ten days left. He resolves to keep a close watch in those remaining days. There is nothing else, after all, and when graduation is a thing of the past, that will be the end.
What Fuji thinks about leaving for high school is anyone’s guess.
--
“Is this all right?” Ryoma asks dubiously as he drops his overnight bag on the floor beside Fuji’s bed.
“It’s fine,” Fuji assures, crossing the room to adjust his blinds so the afternoon sunlight is directed at the cacti on the windowsill. “Okaasan is really happy to have you. And I know ‘Neesan really wants to meet you. This is a good opportunity.”
Looking around, Ryoma scratches the back of his head. “Nice room,” he says politely. And it is: everything is neat, from the rows of books, alphabetically aligned, on the bookshelf to the cacti marching across the windowsill. The framed photographs—some of landscapes, some of unfamiliar people, both in color and black and white—hanging on the wall are done so with a specific design in mind.
Now that he thinks about it, there are a lot of photographs in Fuji’s room, from the artistic ones on the walls to the family photos on the desk. There are also quite a few photos of the Seigaku regulars scattered around in aesthetic arrangement.
“Ne, Fuji-senpai,” Ryoma says, turning to find Fuji pulling his books from his school bag. “Do you like photography?”
Fuji smiles at him. “Quite a lot.” He stacks his books on the desk and pauses to trace his fingers over a photo of Yuuta. “It’s a hobby of mine,” he replies softly, lashes sweeping down as he gazes at the boy in the picture. Suddenly, it feels to Ryoma, the atmosphere in the room darkens a little, a quiet sort of sadness pervading.
He looks at the slumped curve of Fuji’s shoulders, eyes measuring. After a moment, he comes up behind Fuji and glances at the photograph, silent for a while. The both of them stand by Fuji’s desk, Yuuta glaring at both of them from his disgruntled position in the picture. Then Ryoma speaks. “Senpai, what’s with the brother complex?” he asks tactlessly, bluntly, raising his eyes to meet Fuji’s startled blue gaze.
Fuji’s smile is automatic and blatantly false. “Saa, isn’t an older brother allowed to care for his younger brother?” Voice careless, he lets his hand drop from the frame.
Ryoma raises an eyebrow, letting his skeptical expression speak for itself.
“’Neesan’s always had us to look after. I only had Yuuta,” Fuji says quietly, turning from Ryoma and making his way to his bed. He stands beside it, back to the other boy. “I wanted to do the best job I could.”
Ryoma sees the tenseness lining Fuji’s shoulders and wonders if he isn’t seeing so much else.
“I guess I just drove him away.” Fuji’s laugh is soft and a tinge bitter, flooded with regrets. He glances over his shoulder at Ryoma and his smile this time is swift and fierce, real. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever let anyone hurt him.”
There is a heartbeat that passes between them and then Ryoma shrugs, letting his gaze drop to the floor. “Whatever,” he mutters and he can feel Fuji relaxing, settling back into his teasing senpai mode. He doesn’t complain when a hand wraps around his wrist and gently tugs him out the door towards the stairs.
“Let’s get a snack, ne, Ryoma?”
--
There is a week until Fuji graduates and Ryoma can feel every second passing in the rushing of his blood. How much longer does he have? Not nearly enough time, he thinks, as he wraps his arms around his knees, sitting in the half-dark of almost-dawn and watching Fuji sleep.
The older boy’s chest rises and falls in time to his whispered breaths, so faint that Ryoma finds them hard to catch, and only because they are in tune with his own does he know them. In and out and today and tomorrow—seven days and he’s gotten closer, he thinks, but he’s not quite there yet. Seven days until it’s over and something is lost and something new is born.
Fuji’s features are peaceful in slumber, skin pale in the late March moonlight. From his position on the futon, Ryoma can’t see the definition of the shadows cast on Fuji’s face, but the dark blurs into the light and Ryoma’s reminded of the startling black and white photos on the walls of the room. It would be hard to capture Fuji in a moment’s stillness, a photograph to record his being for posterity—he’s not loud or brash, but his subtleties make him hard to transcribe, the constantly shifting meanings behind his smile and his eyes, in each and every gesture.
He would be hardest to capture in tennis, Ryoma privately thinks, because he is even less honest on the courts than off. Not that he would cheat or infringe on any of the set rules—but the intent hidden behind each move would forever remain a mystery leaving spectators to second-guess themselves until he revealed his next step, gracefully, only to bring about a thousand more secrets.
Perhaps that is why it’s so difficult for Ryoma to defeat him. Ryoma is too straightforward, too blunt—he is good at reading ahead, even predicting the often unpredictable, at least in tennis, but the fickle human nature Fuji infuses his style of play with is beyond Ryoma.
He wonders if he can learn…
His eyelids lower heavily as sleep creeps up on him again.
…In the seven days he has left.
Ryoma’s last imprint is of Fuji’s sleeping face, strangely open in his dreams, almost accessible if he could only reach…far…enough.
--
Finals end on Thursday. The graduation ceremonies will take place Sunday morning, knowledge that’s infused itself in every third-year, and visible to the world through their eyes.
Friday night, the Seigaku regulars have their last get-together, held in honor of the past year in the Kawamura sushi shop. The excitement is high, but on a different wavelength from the celebratory high after winning a match. This excitement is fringed with an electric tension, nervous anticipation, and a hint of nostalgia. The third years are looking back on their three years of junior high and their time on the tennis team.
“Uwaah, three days!” Kikumaru cheers, stealing food off of Momoshiro’s plate unrepentantly. “Aren’t you all excited?” He literally bounces in his seat.
Oishi smiles at him, much more composed. “It’s the culmination of three years of hard work,” he agrees, lifting his glass to his lips. “But more work will await us.”
“Don’t focus on that.” Kikumaru waves his hand dismissively and grins brightly at Momo. “Nyaaa, and you’ll be third-years soon! And vice-captain! Momo! You have to be as good of a vice-captain as Oishi, okay? Don’t let Seigaku down!”
Momoshiro assumes an insulted look. “Eiji-senpai!” he exclaims. “I’m going to be a better vice-captain that Oishi-senpai!”
Kikumaru chortles and elbows his doubles partner in the side. “Did ya hear that, Oishi? Momo-chan is gonna outdo you!”
As the teasing continues, with an occasional jibe at Kaidoh by Momoshiro—“Mamushi won’t be able to live up to Tezuka-buchou at all!”—the night continues in high spirits. Kawamura proudly shows off how his sushi-making skills have vastly improved over the year, much to his father’s delight, and Inui generously shares a few of the more interesting facts from his data notebooks—“Oishi appears to have named quite a few of his fish after the Hyotei regulars.” Fuji consumes his usual frightening amount of wasabi sushi, to the equal appall and awe of the other regulars, and Ryoma occasionally joins in on poking fun at his senpai with a smirk on his face that he isn’t the one being tormented, for once.
Tezuka sits quietly, nursing his tea and eating his sushi with little comment. His mouth twitches to a frown when some of the teasing gets a little out of hand but he has thus far refrained from interfering. His glare keeps Inui’s “interesting data on buchou” at bay and those who know him well enough can see the soft look in his eyes. He too is a bit nostalgic. This is his team as it was no one else’s; leaving them will not be easy.
“Tezuka,” Fuji says softly to him in a moment while all other attention is directed at Momoshiro goading Kikumaru into an eating contest. A slim hand rests on his arm.
He looks at the slender boy sitting beside him.
“Echizen will make a wonderful pillar,” Fuji murmurs, a smile making his blue eyes shine. “He is far stronger than even you think.”
Tezuka regards him, a frown between his brows. “Fuji,” he starts and that is all he can say for a moment. He blinks, sliding a glance over at the first-year in question, before looking back at the boy at his side. “Have you been testing him all this time?”
Fuji’s eyes lower and now the curve to his mouth is a little sly. “What did you think I was doing, Tezuka?” he asks gently. “After he beat you, he was at loose ends, and there was over a month until graduation. I did what I could.”
There is a loud exclamation around them and Tezuka is momentarily distracted by Oishi’s horrified expression as Kikumaru chokes on a roll of sushi, but a glass of water and a firm whack to the back seems to have solved that. His attention returns to Fuji. “I misunderstood,” he says. “I’m sorry.” As Fuji makes as if to brush the apology away, lifting his hand in a dismissive gesture, Tezuka grasps those long fingers in his own hand. “Thank you,” he adds, looking down at the face of someone who’s been with him since their first year.
Fuji stares back at him and there is a sudden flash of an emotion Tezuka doesn’t understand in those endless blue eyes. Then Fuji smiles and pulls away. His gaze hovers on Ryoma the rest of the night.
--
“Saa, Ryoma, what do you think of girls?”
Ryoma yawns and pulls down the brim of his cap. “Whatever,” he replies, uninterested. “They’re kind of annoying. Always screaming or giggling.”
They continue walking towards the street courts, tennis bags slung over respective shoulders, the morning sun filtered pale through the cloudy sky. Fuji hums noncommittally and glances down at the boy at his side. “I guess you’re too young,” he murmurs. “You’ll grow into it. Even Tezuka’s been rumored to have a girlfriend, though I’ve yet to see any evidence…”
Golden eyes cast him a sharp look. “Ch’,” he snorts. “Are you interested in girls, Fuji-senpai?”
Fuji smiles a little. “Of course. I know quite a few very nice girls from the photography club. And there are some very talented ones from the girl’s tennis club.”
Ryoma starts. “There’s a girl’s tennis club?” He looks vaguely disbelieving even as Fuji nods.
“Ryuuzaki-sensei’s granddaughter is in it,” he reminds Ryoma. “Though I don’t think she participates often,” he muses, recalling how she manages to show up for every one of the boys’ matches and a good number of their daily practices.
“Fuji-senpai’s not interested in her,” Ryoma scoffs, though he slides a sideways look at Fuji as if to confirm the statement. His tennis sneakers scuff the sidewalk as they go on their way.
A hand lifts to tug at his cap brim. “Of course not,” Fuji replies easily, smile genuine. “But I’ve been asked out by a few girls, all of whom were very nice. Quite pretty too. But,” he adds, “I turned them all down.” He sighs. “Saa, I guess they just weren’t right for me, ne, Ryoma?”
Ryoma hunches his shoulders, uncomfortable with the uneasy feeling curling in the pit of his stomach. “Whatever,” he responds, reminding himself that this is his last day. He glances at the other boy after Fuji has fallen silent and his eyes sweep over the serene expression and the deceptively small and slender frame bearing the heavy tennis duffel. He thinks about all the things those eyes hide and all the untruths told by that smile and wonders if defeating Fuji will be possible, and if it will be enough.
Fuji catches his eye and gives him a challenging look. Ryoma mentally takes a deep breath. This is it.
Graduation’s tomorrow.
--
Ryoma’s panting hard, breaths making a labored excursion in and out of his chest, sweat dripping off of him and sticking his shirt to his skin. He tugs his cap off to drag the back of his arm across his forehead. “Seven games to five,” he gasps, narrowing his eyes across the court.
Fuji is just as exhausted as he is. Ryoma can see the fatigue in the lines of his shoulders and legs, struggling to keep him upright, tennis racket slack in one hand.
“You win, Ryoma.”
The words are hard-won, the games harder. It’s difficult for Ryoma to even comprehend…this is the end. He’s done it. He’s beat both Tezuka and Fuji and graduation is tomorrow.
“If you let me win,” he says suddenly, fiercely, eyes burning as he glares at the boy who’s been his teammate for a year, his rival for a little over a month, and…and… Ryoma will hate him if he gave up this game because Fuji’s been his closest friend for weeks now, the person most important to him, outshining even Nanjirou in Ryoma’ determination to overcome him.
“Of course I didn’t.” Fuji’s smile is tired. “I played my best, Ryoma, and you defeated me. Congratulations.”
He’s spent more time with Fuji over the past four weeks than anyone else, even his own family. Momoshiro even complained about how he didn’t have time to go out for burgers anymore. But Ryoma had a goal and he had a time limit, and like the conclusion of his match with Fudomine’s Ibu Shinji all those months ago, he put all his mind to it. And won.
Ryoma watches Fuji retire to the side of the court, taking a long drink from his water bottle and wiping himself off with his towel. He frowns.
He’s finally defeated Fuji Syuusuke, Seigaku’s tensai. Stronger than even Tezuka.
He should be, if not happy, at least satisfied.
All he can think, and that uncomfortable feeling’s uncurling in his stomach again, is that Fuji is graduating tomorrow.
Is he leaving me?
--
The speeches are long, the list of names longer, and waiting until the congratulatory crowd around all of the graduates ebbs to just family takes an eternity and a half.
Ryoma runs into Inui and his family first and bows respectfully, thanking him for being a good senpai and wishing him the best of luck in high school. Inui’s parting comment is a recommendation for Ryoma to continue his usual training regimen, which Inui drew up for him about two months ago.
Next, Ryoma runs into Kikumaru and is enthusiastically hugged and forcibly introduced to every one of Eiji’s older sisters. He bows and mutters inane polite things until he can make his escape.
After stumbling into a dozen other graduates and their happy families, he encounters Tezuka, looking solemn in his black uniform with his diploma. Ryoma’s heart thuds when Tezuka looks at him, scrutinizing as only a captain could, and they exchange formalities. Ryoma wonders what it means that Tezuka was out of his mind as soon as he defeated him, yet thoughts of Fuji still flutter actively in his mind—thoughts of those smiles and his care for his brother, of his fleeting touches and his penchant for sneaking photographs of Ryoma, of his tennis and his voice and—
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryoma sees a familiar figure. He bids a hasty goodbye to his former captain and weaves his way through the crowd.
“Mada Mada-kun!” Yumiko is the first to catch sight of him and her smile is warm as she greets him with an affectionate nickname.
Fuji turns and Ryoma can see a smiling Yuuta behind him, along with the parents he met only weeks ago. They all smile in welcome, Yuuta a bit sheepishly, as he approaches but Ryoma’s eyes are for the eldest son alone.
“Fuji-senpai,” he says and stops, the words catching in his throat because he doesn’t know what it is he needs to say.
“Ryoma.”
And the way his name rolls off that tongue, soft and warm, pitched low in that gentle voice that he heard so much of in the past month—it triggers something in him. Still not knowing for sure what he’s doing, Ryoma steps close to Fuji. “Congratulations,” he says, bowing, feeling his hair brush Fuji’s uniform. “Arigatou gozaimashita.”
A hand catches his chin and gently lifts his face until he’s standing upright and gazing at Fuji.
Brazenly, Fuji leans down and brushes a kiss against his mouth, eyes blue and knowing. “You’re welcome,” he replies and, suddenly, Ryoma doesn’t even see Yumiko’s delighted smile or Yuuta’s look of shock, or the parents’ resigned, tolerant expressions. He sees sunshine and sweat and nets and fast-flying tennis balls, and abstract shadows playing on pale skin limned in moonlight.
“Don’t be so bold,” he snaps in false irritation, stepping back, knowing that it’s useless because there’s surely a blush staining his cheeks.
Fuji laughs in confirmation and there is a quiet sort of relief told by the shift of his shoulders. “Saa, Ryoma, don’t be such a tease.” He winks at Ryoma, who ducks his head to hide his smile when Yuuta makes an appalled sound.
Graduation day has come at last.
Ryoma thinks there are better things he can now be counting the days until.
--
Started: 06.30.05
Finished: 09.03.05
Edited: 09.03.05
Notes: I had the first section of this written and ready to post as a sequel. Then yesterday I randomly sat down and wrote the next nine pages. So, yeah. You can see about four different pairings in this if you squint. But you know which one is intended. :b Anyway, reviews appreciated.
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