Kyuushuu is not that far away from home. It is still Japan, if far removed to the south. Despite its abruptness, the dialect can be understood more easily than Osaka-ben. It is still Japan. Even though this time of year it is relentlessly humid and rainy. It is still Japan.
The first two nights in Kyuushuu, it is pain that keeps Tezuka awake. The next three, it is the restless sound of the sea outside and the smell of salt rather than city wafting in through the thin sheers.
The sixth...it is the view from his window, the way the moonlight slants in just so and washes an argent glow across a strange, uneasy revelation in the dark.
Kyuushuu is not that far away from home, but it is not home.
It is a small feeling, but persistent, inching its way into a psyche temporarily bereft of its usual defenses. For chief in these defenses is Tennis (and with Tezuka, Tennis is always capitalized, for it is not merely a game, but friend, lover, religion and more; these are not the sorts of things that can be expressed with less honor and respect than a proper name), and Tennis, currently, is forbidden to him. She is sequestered and out of reach, touchable in his thoughts alone until his shoulder begins to heal.
He blames no one else for his exile in Kyuushuu, his lack of sleep, or the rotator cuff that finally failed him. It was his choice and no one else's to play, and to play in such an extended match. Any other night but this one, he would insist he has no regrets and is wholly focused on looking forward to rejoining his team for Nationals.
Tonight, the moonlight says otherwise, garbed in a gown of unfamiliar stars.
It is not home, and in this one moment he wants home badly.
He tosses and turns, hitting restless sleep only in the moments before dawn. It is more than he has managed the initial week, and the next day's physical therapy passes in a blur, the world around him surreal and heavy. Afternoon is hot and humid and he beats the rain back to his dormitory by mere seconds.
"Oh, Tezuka-kun?" The dorm receptionist's voice greets him as he places his umbrella in the caddy by the door. "Some mail has arrived for you."
He blinks, half in exhaustion and half in surprise. To his knowledge, the only people with the address in Kyuushuu are his family, and it is too soon even for his mother to begin sending him things. "Aa. Sorry for the trouble."
She hands him a small slip to sign and gestures for him to come into the small office. "Who would send you such a thing?" she says, indicating the package.
Who, indeed. It is easily over a meter tall and almost as wide, flat and very thin. The packaging is heavy, though, and stiff, as if it is holding inert something very volatile and reactive. Considering the possible senders, this is not an outrageous mental image. Tezuka thanks her again and carries it up to his room.
Sleep beckons hard, but curiosity beckons harder, and the package is laid out on his bed while Tezuka makes short work of the sealing tape with his Swiss army knife, the one that has been his constant companion since his first camping trip. Without hesitation, he pries up the thick fiberboard, flipping it open.
A familiar skyline stares back at him, serene. Or, rather, a large photograph of one.
"Fuji." He exhales the word, reaching towards the photo. His fingers halt just before they would touch it, a gust of damp breeze from the window tickling the back of his neck. He knows, from overhearing Fuji patiently explaining (as much as Fuji ever explains anything) to someone, why one shouldn't directly touch the surface of a photograph. It leaves fingerprints, and over time the oil from human fingers will cause the photographic print to degrade.
These are things Tezuka knows, but the urge to touch it is still strong because it looks so real.
He does not want to think, precisely, how or when or even why Fuji took this picture, a perfect reproduction of the view from Tezuka's bedroom window back in Tokyo. To his knowledge, Fuji has never been in his bedroom, but this picture says otherwise.
A tiny piece of paper flutters out from the package, stirred by the breeze in the room. It is not signed, but the handwriting he well knows.
I thought you could use some familiar scenery.
Tezuka feels slightly foolish, somewhere in the back of his mind, but pride and tradition prevent him from rejecting what is clearly a gift. He measures the image with his eyes, still struck by it, and then...then he understands.
The picture, along with the supporting board, is meant to go not on the wall but in his window. To help make Kyuushuu home, temporarily.
It is more than a gift, for gifts should not contain quite so much personal insight. It is a kindness, and yet it is a challenge, an invitation to play a game with him. Fuji inviting him into Fuji's game.
It is not Tennis, for Fuji's game transcends Tennis. Tennis is but one medium for the game and not the game itself. However, Tennis is denied to Tezuka now...but Fuji's game is not.
He fixes the poster-sized photograph into his window, careful to close the pane so the persistent rain does not damage it. It does not surprise him when it fits as if made for it; after all, surely it is. When Fuji plays his game, nothing less than eccentric perfection can be expected.
Tezuka turns on a fan, for with the window closed the air no longer circulates, and sits on his bed, studying the familiar sight. He relaxes, gradually, not quite recognizing the week's worth of fatigue until it has taken him captive. His last conscious thought awards one point to Fuji.
Six weeks pass, and with each a new picture arrives, and with the arrival of each Tezuka looks forward to the next, to the next round in their game. The view from the tennis clubhouse, the window in the Tezuka house that overlooks the koi pond, a river that he recognizes as the Kurobe-gawa, the main Shibuya crossing at its busiest, a sunset facing Mt Fuji (he nearly smiles at the cheeky pun, for the mountain and the genius are written with different kanji), and the last...which Tezuka cannot identify. It is another photograph taken from a window, but it looks out on a space completely unfamiliar to Tezuka.
Three days tick by before Fuji's phone rings. It is the first call Tezuka has placed since his exile in Kyuushuu, for his parents call him and a terse mail or two to Oishi is not a call. "Hello?"
There is silence for a moment, as Tezuka closes his eyes and absorbs the sound of Tokyo on someone else's tongue. It is another thing he has not realized he misses as much as he does. "Fuji."
"You're more stubborn than I thought, Tezuka. Or have you been given clearance to play some tennis?"
Tezuka doesn't answer, because Fuji is right in both respects. He has not forgotten their game, of course, but Tennis is now here and Fuji is not. And, it takes time before Tezuka will admit an impasse. He, after all, is very proud. "The latest picture."
"Oh, that." Fuji's voice is calm, airy. "It's the view from my room."
Tezuka pauses; he knows the move is his, and if he fails now the game will likely be over. It has become a constant with him; he doesn't want it to end. "...I have not been inside your room before, Fuji."
The line gives a slight hum of interisland static, or perhaps that low sound Tezuka hears is Fuji, amused at him. Tezuka is not sure, but after a moment he decides it feels comfortable and pays it no more thought. "No, you haven't." This time Fuji laughs, and it sounds to Tezuka the way wind does through the forest's canopy, when there is nothing around but you and nature. "But I know you like to go into things prepared. 'Don't be careless,' isn't it?"
Tezuka is not so far removed from the field of competition to miss a challenge, and the edges of his mouth briefly curve, just a little. He is learning this game of Fuji's, and now it is time for Tezuka to play it as well. When he can make Fuji be serious, about anything, it becomes a battle worth fighting. "Aa. It is indeed." He hangs up without prelude; he has finished what he wishes to say, and prolonging the conversation is habit for neither of them.
That, and it scores him his first point in their game. He does not often play from behind, but catching up to Fuji will be...intriguing.