This is a challenge for Rain-san, once again. Also, please note though that though I am posting this, I'm still not very active. I have three or for oneshots and a few chapters sitting on reserve because I forget to post things, so I'm going to just be posting these up sporadically. The challenge and the title were given by Sweet Obsidian Rain. I'm never very good at rendering her challenges, though.

All disclaimers apply. Enjoy!

Kizuna

It was pouring.

Tezuka was caught outside without an umbrella, near the tennis courts. This downpour was not unusual, but Tezuka disliked it. Beneath his feet, the dirt was rapidly turning into slippery mud. He needed to get back to his apartment—he was already soaked to the bone. The rain drilled through his body like nails, but something made him stop. There was something empty, though—something that was missing. Glancing towards the courts, he saw three figures. They blurred back and forth in the rain like shadowed illusions, nothing more than shadows under the darkened sky. His feet found an unfamiliar path, and he took it until he was closer to the courts and he was able to make out every detail, down to the puddles that gathered on the tennis courts.

Turning his head only slightly, he stepped towards the tennis courts until he was able to weave his fingers through the metal fencing and press his nose as close as he could as if in hopes of peering into an ongoing match. Rainwater slipped down his face and glasses, and for a moment, Tezuka shivered. The air was electric, a feeling he only felt when there was an important match—the sensation of tense bonds and high hopes as their feet skidded across the green court. On the sidelines, in a puddle in the red clay, a tree's green leaf fluttered downwards and hit the water in a spiral. The water rippled, and the rain continued.

"Advantage—Atobe." A brave underclassman weathered the storm to call the score over the overpowering downpour. Tezuka lowered his head and stepped near the open door leading on to the tennis courts. His feet were disobedient, and, hesitant about whether or not he should stand at the sidelines, he paused. Atobe. Atobe… He paused only once before leaning closer to the fence, his breath clouding in the cool air. It never drifted past the fencing, in Atobe's direction; the wind only took it away.

What was Atobe doing out in this horrible weather? Arrogant as he was, the diva wasn't an idiot. This game was remarkable, but dangerous—truly dangerous. The rain that slipped past the courts yielded against their feet but made the courts slippery, and self-destruction a viable threat.

These conditions were not favorable at all to tennis, but this wasn't the first time Tezuka watched a daring, heated match in the rain. Even when this was so easily compared to that match years ago—something was different about it. The people changed, the location changed, but there was something deeper that his logic couldn't pinpoint. The rain was growing into puddles around his feet and running down his arms. He didn't care. He watched each precise movement that Atobe showed off with grace. Sometimes, it was difficult to stop his eyes from wandering in such a shameful manner. Somebody was going to get hurt.

Somebody screamed "Tezuka," across the gales of wind that would surely knock any weaker man from his feet, and he turned his head into the onslaught of the storm. Running across the grounds, and equally drenched and breathless Oshitari came towards Tezuka as if he had been running for miles, looking only for him. As soon as he reached the former captain, he slowed, pushed his fogged glasses up on his nose, and recollected his dignity. Oshitari motioned for him to follow, and they stepped inside the tennis courts, lingering on the sidelines. The two combatants were immersed in their war. Atobe Keigo and a man that Tezuka didn't know glided across the court, returning each strike they received with passion. Atobe's eyes were steeled and his knuckles turned pale from the cold.

Like so many years ago, Oshitari was collecting himself and analyzing the amazing game. Tezuka's vision was too hazy—too distant to make any distance. He was miles away from the fiercely determined Atobe, who was so focused on the task at hand that he wasn't even showing off—what Tezuka saw was pure, raw skill generated from the depths of Atobe's heart, and it was heart-stopping. What was Atobe fighting for? He screamed, but he was so far away that Atobe was never going to hear a breath of it, even when Tezuka's lips paled and he fell over, breathless. He never was good at expressing emotion, after all. No, Atobe couldn't fight like this.

He couldn't even reach out and touch the stormy beauty.

"They've been like this for nearly an hour,"

Vaguely, Tezuka nodded.

"Tezuka,"

Tezuka was lost amidst the gales of wind and rain, lost to the enrapturing power that Atobe emitted—it was so long since he saw a match this good, but he couldn't even string a scrap of appreciating from his deadened heart. He was always a man of very few words and even fewer sentiments, but this was outrageous. Answering, he said, "There isn't anything that we can do about this." There were two men hungry for victory? How was Tezuka to step in and steal such a thing away? Tezuka's passion for tennis and his preoccupation with the concept of self preservation—for anybody other than himself, wasn't strong enough to overpower his willingness to let this match take its course, even when he knew the consequences.

He never could step in.

Oshitari strengthened himself, confident of his task. "Make him stop!" Oshitari had to shout over the pouring rain. No matter that Oshitari was right; Tezuka couldn't bring himself to obey these desperate commands. At these words, Tezuka stiffened. The air was bitter. The rain was freezing. His lungs and throat constricted. Little more came from him as a response than silence, and Tezuka lowered his head and shaking shoulders. Was it, perchance, coincidence that Oshitari used such a weapon on such a horrible evening?

"I have no right to interfere,"

Over the course of the school term, Tezuka and Atobe talked more often, but he didn't find that this was anything special. Their friendship was casual, and built because Tezuka and Atobe were slowly beginning to forget their intense rivalry from middle school. For him, it felt like a burden being taken from his shoulders. Fighting so hard—fighting and destroying his arm in the process, was not a simple or easy thing to do, even though it was a noble sacrifice for his team. Even after so many years, it was difficult to forgive Atobe for the match, but he was able to let it go enough to harvest friendly bonds with the other. It was nothing special, though. Even when Atobe distanced himself from everyone except Tezuka, it was nothing special.

"Tezuka!"

Atobe spun onwards, skillfully, but every few seconds, he was able to detect the way how Atobe's feet skidded across the court wrong, and he only just caught himself from his own momentum in time. His heart was screaming again, but Atobe never heard. He never heard. The gales were too loud. The rain was to hard and ice-cold, so cold that Tezuka's glasses never even fogged up, and he drifted eerily along the sidelines like a tall, ancient-minded ghost. The match was beautiful—breathtaking. Tezuka, fascinated with each person's determination and passion, was able to forget that this was dangerous and that Atobe was being hardheaded, as always.

The rain was harder—the air was colder. His breath clouded in front of his face, and Atobe slipped. His face was centimeters from the ground before he caught himself and pushed himself up.

These returns continued forever, with Atobe slowly weakening. What was he fighting and why was he still standing? Atobe continued on like a heroic Greek god, never allowing himself to fail, until his movements grew increasingly exhausted. Until suddenly, Atobe skidded on his knee and winced visibly when blood from his knee mixed with the rainwater.

"Make him stop, Tezuka! He can't go on like this, and you're the only one he will listen to!"

He couldn't ask Atobe to stop.

But it… it hurt.

There was something within his nerves that began pounding, like the crazy adrenaline rush when he knew that he was going to win a set and that he only needed one more point, and then it all collided and splattered until his noble pride fell, and he could no longer control himself. All he was able to think through his frantic, panicked mind was that this couldn't happen to Atobe. Something snapped, and his heartbeat fell into frantic palpitations. Trembling, Tezuka focused his gaze and dared to move, as if on whim of human instinct and pure, insatiable obsession plagued his mind so that he couldn't walk away.

He caught the tennis ball. Without even knowing it, his legs carried him so quickly to the tennis courts that he caught the yellow ball, and Atobe's tennis racquet stopped only one centimeter from Tezuka's trembling cheek. He wasn't trembling from fear or sadness, but pure, unrivaled insanity. He felt like screaming again, and throwing his heart against the clay court. Oshitari was satisfied, and as the roar from Tezuka's sudden, unpredictable actions died, Atobe's gaze steeled. Without thinking, Tezuka threw the tennis ball without looking; it sailed over the fence and landed far away.

"Don't interfere with my games!"

Tezuka's eyes were determined for a minute, but they maybe softened and fell. "I won't let you play," His voice was almost meek, because especially to a man such as Atobe, he couldn't imagine saying it to anybody—anybody other than his old regulars, Kikumaru, Fuji, or Echizen, perhaps?

Like tears, the rainwater seeped down Tezuka face and ran across his cheeks. "Don't tell me what to do!" Atobe shouted over the gales of wind. His yell hurt Tezuka in a way that he didn't imagine was possible, but despite it he quelled his own screaming in order to straighten his back and look Tezuka directly in the eye. God—it hurt. Why was he actually brave enough to call for an end to these foolish machinations? Why did he steal away Atobe's victory?

Why was Atobe ignoring him?

"You cannot continue."

Glancing angrily at his opponent and nearly throwing his tennis racquet to the ground, he roughly pushed Tezuka by the shoulder and went to talk to his opponent on the other side of the net. Rain seeped past Tezuka's face and soaked hair; he only barely caught himself and walked numbly back to Oshitari, straightening his back slightly and wallowing in sudden shame of acting so rashly and stepping in to catch a tennis ball and throw it over the fence. With sore pride, he lowered his head and forgot about trying to make Atobe stop.

"Tezuka, are you really going to let this continue?"

"It's his choice."

Atobe retrieved the tennis ball and went back to speak with his opponent, who looked angry, who was pacing in a storm in such a temperamental manner. The mist was never-ending, unfathomable, and Atobe was so far away… "Atobe," he was sure that he screamed it at least a few times, but it seemed so lost that Atobe wouldn't even hear it; whether or not his judgment was true, he didn't know. He stopped paying attention after screaming once as the words slipped hopelessly past his lips, his heart deadened, and his blood ran cold.

It was pouring. Tezuka opened his mouth and turned away from the scene as Atobe tossed the ball into the air and executed a perfect serve, though the tennis ball sailed in a crooked arch over the gales of wind and barely bounced when it hit the other side. The water was hitting his face harder than before, and it almost hurt, the feeling of ice-cold rain against his cheeks. He should go back to the apartment…

He didn't think that Atobe was going to listen.

Across the courts, Atobe spoke with his opponent, with a lowered head as if surrendering in this horrendous weather was humiliating. Atobe's excess of pride was running dry in place of his shame, and arrogantly, he couldn't stand the thought of losing a match so easily. Instead, he made a simple, haughty excuse, accounted his surrender to Tezuka's mistakes, and demanded a rematch. Tezuka never watched. He only walked away.

Slowly, his feet plunged across the ground. Tezuka tried to make it look like he didn't care, and maybe for a moment he was successful, until he felt something burning his back and turned. Atobe's opponent was off the green court and standing behind Tezuka—his glare was liquid fire. Without saying a word, he gripped his tennis racquet, pushed roughly past Tezuka, and left.

Somebody was angrily shaking him by the shoulders, pulling him back and brushing in upon his inner sorrow, the deep, resounding pain that Tezuka never knew possible. Calmly, he brushed the hands away, but it was difficult to remain stoic when he was aching with so much pain—he didn't even understand why. The weight of his memories was crushing his mind, and being ignored by Atobe was more than upsetting, especially since he knew that if Atobe continued, he'd break a bone—or worse. Taking a step forward away from Atobe, he nearly stumbled.

Tezuka was too annoyed; he didn't want to be around the arrogant man any more, a person he was once rivals with in middle school. Spinning on his feet, he attempted to pull away from Atobe's strengthening grip. The rain in combination was maddening. As the drops of water slid down his face, his movements slowed, and he nearly stumbled when he took a single step back and his foot caught a rock. If Atobe hadn't a firm grip on his shoulders, Tezuka would have collapsed long before he answered, as his mind was assaulted by unpleasant memories and realities. Yet, at Atobe's statement of reality, he couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand being apart from tennis, and he couldn't tolerate watching Atobe risk his limbs for a single match.

"Let go, Atobe."

"No."

Atobe did not enjoy being told what to do, and like an arrogant, selfish child he took Tezuka by the wrist and stormed off the courts with him. Tezuka was reluctant and his heels skidded slightly across the ground as he pulled stubbornly in the opposite direction, but Atobe continued, leaving behind his racquet, the tennis ball, and Oshitari. They disappeared into the never-ending mist, as Atobe pulled him across the grounds and finally pinned him against a wall far, far away. Here he was shielded from the rain, if only a little. Some of the water still clung to his face, trembling under Atobe's scrutiny. "What the hell were you thinking, Tezuka?"

"Never gamble your limbs for a game. Nothing is that important."

"I was fighting for you." Atobe whispered venomously.

If Tezuka planned to say anything before that, every word he tried to speak disappeared hopelessly from his lips and slipped between his fingers until he lost every thought. Tezuka was bleeding, and Atobe's harsh words were not doing anything to soothe his fresh wounds. His words twisted themselves in his mind, and he was no longer able to speak. They were both angry—Atobe was angry simply for having victory stolen away from him in a manner so unexpected. Tezuka was bitter with resentment of Atobe, because he didn't know why his heart tugged so painfully as he watched the man's destruction unfold. To somebody who destroyed his shoulder and shielded him from the world of professional tennis, Tezuka was being awfully sympathetic. Why?

Tezuka couldn't feel hatred, not even for Atobe, he only felt dislike.

"Oh?" Atobe said haughtily, releasing Tezuka's shoulders for a moment to give Tezuka a venomous look full of his characteristic confidence, his egotism. However, the gaze was filled with something else, and Tezuka squirmed at it. Atobe smirked and Tezuka shut his eyes in a poor attempt to will away the pain. "So do you think that I'm an idiot and conduct tennis matches in the rain?" he spat. "Ah, the one time I decide to be generous, the person I am being most kind to defies me. Is that it?"

"I can fight for myself."

"He wanted to destroy you!"

Tezuka didn't laugh, but inside his heart shook with the bitter laughter that Atobe would never hear. What was there left to destroy? More than four years after he left Seigaku, he was a different man on the inside, though still the same on the outside. "And you thought that by destroying yourself, you would save me?"

Atobe laughed this time, cruel and bitter, still holding himself as haughtily as ever—it was as if he never made such an uncharacteristic sacrifice, as if Tezuka was nothing. He never showed that much kindness for people, after all. He was the Great Atobe. He didn't have any sort of reason to. "You vowed never again to play tennis again, and though I cannot see why you made such a stupid decision, I know that you would destroy everything in the process of being forced to accept another match. It's pathetic." The rain was freezing, and despite his relative protection from it, it still pelted their skin as the wind whipped their hair. Tezuka paused, speaking more than he ever did.

"Why do you care?"

He must have hit a nerve. Atobe's grip tightened around his shoulders and he was pressed harder against the wall. His elbow pressed against his shoulder and Tezuka winced. Slowly, the searing pain that spread throughout his nerves was becoming too much to handle, and his knees were buckling under his own weight so that his eyes and slightly foggy glasses were slightly downcast. His cheek nearly touched Atobe's shoulder on its own accord, but it always hovered several centimeters above. "When you came back to Japan for your last year of high school, you were not the same. My insight tells me its because he left."

Fuji…

Tezuka held his head in false pride while the rain slipped down his face like tears, and he remembered his vow after Fuji's departure. When he arrived in Japan again, one of the first things he went to do was visit the old members of the tennis club. Everyone was faring well, save Fuji who, he was unfortunately informed, went to study abroad in America and did not plan on returning to Japan again. He hadn't expected it, and in the sudden onslaught of surprise, he didn't even understand that he had perhaps felt something significant for Fuji. Biting his lip, he shoved Atobe's hands from his shoulders though he didn't move otherwise; he collected himself simply because of the fact Atobe was there—when he mourned Fuji's departure, it never occurred to him that he never once cried, but now that he knew, he couldn't stand the thought of breaking down in front of Atobe after all these years? Why? Fuji was a dear friend, and it was of his accord, almost, that he left Japan for America—without saying anything to Tezuka, of course.

"Ah, I see I'm right," Atobe's voice was filled with self-satisfaction.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Hm, but that isn't what matters is it?" Atobe persisted still, arrogantly. "I was right." He jabbed a finger against Tezuka's shoulders. "And you still persist to wonder why the Great Atobe couldn't see somebody like you be destroyed." Even when Atobe was egotistical, he was still being uncharacteristically selfish. Tezuka tried to move his lips in response, but the words never came out that told Atobe he didn't want to be a burden, and that Atobe should let him go so that they could go their separate ways. His lips only moved a few times, and there were no words. Atobe's self-confident smirk still lingered on his face while Tezuka's barriers fluttered away in the wind. Tezuka nearly threw up a white flag in the midst of it all, feeling rather tired under Atobe's firm grip. He never spoke of Fuji, and he didn't think that he ever would. Atobe wasn't going to understand.

"Why do you have more loyalty to him than me?" he asked, his angry, selfish desperation showing through. "After this, you should be mine! Not his!" That was enough for Tezuka to hear before his sorrow evaporated into sudden anger. Roughly, he pushed Atobe away and turned his head as Atobe stumbled and caught himself. He stepped out into the freezing, pounding rain and the water began running freely down his cheeks again.

"You're foolish, Atobe." His characteristically calm eyes were filled with a hint of malice—true anger that the man was so quick to insult Fuji's memory and Tezuka's relationship with him. His voice was strong, yet weakening, and he was barely aware as Atobe came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Tezuka's torso, pressing his face confidently into Tezuka's back. Tezuka faltered. He nearly spun around and threw the arrogant man from his back—that was, if he hadn't more patience and control than that.

"Let go."

"You need to."

He pulled away from Atobe's grip, but he wasn't nearly as violent as he had been in pushing Atobe off of him at the wall. Then, he turned, the anger evident in his eyes, but his voice still deathly calm. "Atobe, I'm not some toy." He was angry—angry that Atobe expected him to throw all his sorrows away and follow only him. He expected Tezuka to forget about Fuji.

"Are you really in control, Tezuka?" He took a step forward, and in turn, Tezuka took a step back, nearly slipping in the mud. Truthfully, it wasn't that he didn't want to move away from Atobe, only when Atobe threatened Fuji's memory. In the roaring cold, he needed somebody to stand next to so he wouldn't feel such sorrow. With a sigh, he answered.

"No."

"Are you that hardheaded? Do you think you have to forget Fuji?"

Tezuka looked at him.

"Tezuka, you need to move on."

This was a change of pace, being told by Atobe that he needed to let. He walked, stepped, and his feet slid through the mud and he fell, feeling a jolt of pain when he hit his elbow. He winced and turned his head back. He was looking up at the sky, and the rain pelted his face. For a moment, he forgot to move, before Atobe sighed in exasperation and stuck out his hand for Tezuka to grab. "Honestly, you need to let go." Tezuka, a man of rare emotions, found it so difficult to let go. He looked up at the hand above his face and didn't reach out and touch it or try and stand up on his own. He only lay on his back in the mud while rain ran down his face. Slowly, Tezuka got to his feet and nodded, curling his mud-splattered fingers.

Calmly, Atobe pressed his fingers against Tezuka's cheek. Tezuka turned his head away, his face warming a fraction. "Let's go," said Tezuka. It only rained harder in response, but he was able to ignore it when the other nodded and the fingers touching his face left. They walked across school grounds, across to an apartment complex, and paused in the pouring rain before allowing themselves inside, while Tezuka fumbled for his key to his apartment. After opening the door for Atobe, he stepped inside, removed his shoes, and went to retrieve towels for he and Atobe—they were already dripping over the floor.

The whole apartment was cold, and rain drummed against the sides of the buildings like a depressing beat. Tezuka's sorrows dissipated into the fading darkness of his hallway, and pushing himself into his bedroom, he grabbed towels and went back to the other, who was glancing curiously at pictures on his wall. Tezuka, by the time he stepped out of his room, changed out of his shamefully muddy clothes, but Atobe didn't notice. He was perplexed—confused. Maybe he was accustomed to pictures from the most famous photographers adorning his walls, because Tezuka's rather informal photographs seemed foreign to him. One was of the regulars in his third year. Three were family portraits. Some candid shots from middle school, taken in a manner rather uncharacteristic matter of Tezuka, also adorned the walls. These must have been taken by Fuji.

"Your mother looks happy," he said as if it confused him. His family portraits were almost always serious, but this one was taken on an informal, happy day. The day Tezuka was accepted into the university back in Japan—Atobe's university, ironically. His mother beamed. His grandfather smile—only Tezuka and his father had serious expressions.

"Ah," he said. "I should make some tea." He tossed a towel to Atobe and went on his way, rubbing another towel through his own, sopping hair and filling a kettle for tea.

"Don't bother making it from teabags," Atobe called across the house. "I'm very particular about my tea." Tezuka didn't return an answer but went on making his tea. Any guest but Atobe would be grateful for any tea, so he ignored it. Atobe seemed disgusted with his apartment, as if it was filled with some sort of disease. The lack of pictures on the wall and space in the apartment perturbed him. Atobe wasn't accustomed to anything short of the best, and it showed in his picky attitude, as he stared at Tezuka's clean apartment trying to spot a single speck of dust on the table or by the door. Without permission, he entered the kitchen where Tezuka was finishing the tea and preparing a plate of snacks, staring at them in a compulsive manner.

Of course, Tezuka was oblivious to the rudeness of his guest. That, or he chose only to ignore it. When Atobe was handed a cup, he took a sip and shuddered, but made no further comments on the quality of Tezuka's tea. Instead, he went off on a limb and tested Tezuka's patience. "Do you still miss him?" On the wall, there was a picture of the entire tennis club, regulars and non-regulars. Tezuka and Fuji stood next to each other on the side, and Fuji's characteristic smile was pinned to his face, while his head tilted up a little to probably look at the blue sky. If Tezuka had loved Fuji, he admitted only once that Tezuka's attraction was justified. Fuji was a beautiful person.

"Sometimes, yes." Tezuka sipped his own tea and looked at Atobe; to him, there was nothing quite as fine as Atobe, but he never said anything. Atobe's talent was attractive, but his arrogance was enough to make Tezuka think otherwise. Slowly, he motioned for Atobe to come sit at the table—it was rather small, seeing as Tezuka likely never had guests. Tezuka rested his chin in his palm and looked at Atobe from the corner of his eye. Ever so gently, he set his teacup on the table.

"Did you—"

"We never had a relationship. We were friends."

Atobe stopped. In middle school, if they ever expected any sort of famous tennis players to date each other, it probably would be Fuji and Tezuka. They stuck to each other like glue even at tournaments. It was somewhat sad seeing the two separated.

"Atobe, you need to talk."

"Hm," He laid his fingers against the bridge of his nose and smirked. "Tezuka, are you saying that you like my voice." Atobe answered coolly. Tezuka didn't even bother to react to such a remark.

"Don't be foolish," he answered. "Still. I wish to know what caused you to act so rashly."

Atobe laughed.

"I thought you knew that."

"You were lying."

Atobe laughed again, but answered easily. "Partially. Maybe it was an attempt to win over Tezuka." At this, Tezuka glared and instead of stopping when he discovered the warning, he continued. "You're blind to the world, Tezuka, and you certainly need something special to pay attention to anyone. You never did seem quite awed by my prowess."

"Hm?"

"Is this the answer you need?" he took Tezuka's wrist away from his face and leaned into kiss the corner of Tezuka's mouth, and though he was nearly stopped short by the other, he managed his goal, and Tezuka's head lowered a little, as if in shame. In his heart, he knew that an agreement to Atobe's terms would spell the end of tennis matches in the rain—it was what he wanted all along, wasn't it? Tezuka wasn't so rash in his decisions about the heart, though. For one moment, their lips met unevenly; Atobe had to lean up slightly, but he was eager nonetheless. Tezuka, on the other hand, was apathetic.

"Perhaps," Tezuka answered.

"Ah, is Tezuka mine?" After so many years, it sounded almost too odd. They were rivals first and foremost, his brain wanted to tell him. Atobe was still arrogant; he hadn't changed much. It was easy to remember him as the egotistical, self-centered, yet skilled tennis captain that Tezuka battled what seemed like ages ago. He laughed into the cold, moist air, and his hair still dripped, but his face was dry—he was away from the painful, pounding rain. And, for a moment, he nearly nodded in agreement but stopped himself short and sipped his tea instead, calmly. He lifted his fingers up against the light and squinted. They still dripped slightly with water.

"Perhaps,"

They still needed to try foreign waters. It wasn't anything that Tezuka was familiar with at all; he was completely unaccustomed to romantic relationships, of course. He, being the cautious one as usual, could not throw himself into a completely unusual thing.

Atobe's self-confident laugh rang in the air, mixed against the patter of dying rain.

Maybe this was all that Tezuka needed.