Mending Broken wings

Atobe and Sanada stood aside as the ex-Seigaku members chattered and speculated among themselves. All except one, that is. The psychologist took notes of their remarks and remembrances of Tezuka. She goggled at the box full of green notebooks with "Tezuka Kunimitsu" labeled neatly on the spine. She flipped through one labeled "Tezuka Kunimitsu: Personal data, volume 01 (2000)".

Alone, staring into the one-way mirror, Ooishi watched Tezuka bent over a thick physics textbook, the long fingers of his right hand held a pencil, delicately and carefully took notes on a small notebook. Ooishi's heart wrung at the sight. Tezuka, writting with his right hand, slow and painstaking, trying to be neat as possible. No matter how careful, his characters were not quite straight and steady. The long strokes a little shaky.

The psychologist had forbidden them from interfering, in the brief minute when Tezuka had broken down and cried. Ooishi had never felt so helpless, watching his friend in pain, prevented from going to him, from offering comfort. Even when in his heart of hearts he knew Tezuka would not welcome such gestures. Even when he knew Tezuka would stop and pull the implacable mask over himself once more.

So, he tried to tell himself to be relieved when Tezuka rubbed the tears away with his sleeves and went back to his books. That was the Tezuka he remembered. Strong and resilient. He would not give up so easily. He would not give in, not even to his own weakness, not to his own grief, not to his own guilt, not to his own pain. Implacable, irrefutable, resolute and unyielding. Ooishi had never met anyone as strong and determined as Tezuka. Tezuka's tennis, like everything that Tezuka does, was without hesitation, unwavering and absolute. So, Ooishi cried for Tezuka, when Tezuka could not cry for himself. Would not. For Tezuka's tears would dissolve the tenuous hold Tezuka had on his sanity, on the tiny remnant he had left of his dignity and self-esteem. So, Ooishi could only watch and cry on his friend's behalf. And so, the others left Ooishi alone, because they know, Ooishi cared more than all of them put together for Tezuka, for his best friend, for his role model, for his captain.

Ooishi wiped away his tears. He was 23 now. It was time he learned to be more like Tezuka. To be strong and resolute. He should not be crying, even though those tears blurred his view of the unknowing Tezuka in the other room, blurred his perception of Tezuka's struggle for even a little progress, a small step forward; where once, he had flown with grace and ease.

And so, he was the only who saw it first. How Tezuka struggled with a difficult passage. How his fingers riffled the pages and his eyes ghosted over the dictionary and reference books, looking for enlightenment. The moment he picked up the penknife to sharpen the wooden pencil that he had broken in his clumsiness. When the blade's steady stroke on wood suddenly missed and the return stroke brought the tip in a straight red line from wrist to elbow, biting deeper and deeper into the flesh. Another stroke deepened the wound and opened an artery. Blood that seeped now streamed, staining his shirt, dying his pants; forming, drip by drip, a pool on the floor.

"Stop it! Stop it, Tezuka!" Ooishi cried into the deaf glass that stood between them. There was no expression on Tezuka's face. No indication that he felt pain or remorse. He looked as intently at his bloody handiwork as he had on his textbooks. "Tezuka!"

The note of anguish in Ooishi's voice finally roused the psychologist, amidst the noisy babble of his ex-schoolmates. Her gaze moved from Ooishi to Tezuka beyond the glass. Noted Tezuka's bloodied state. She stood in alarm and rushed to the other room. Ooishi, roused by her sudden move, evaded both Atobe and Sanada, followed her. Gentle Ooishi was not gentle when he pushed and shoved the wardens that blocked the door, bursting in behind the psychologist. He pushed her aside, in his haste to stem the wound, even if he could not do anything for inner wound that refused to close and heal.

"Tezuka!" Ooishi's fist closed tightly over the hand that held the penknife. His other hand clamped tightly over the gaping wound.

Tezuka, like one newly awakened, groggily lifted his head. Slowly, disbelieving, his eyes glazed and refocused on the dark round face, the wild unconventional hairstyle, and the familiar dark brown eyes. "Ooishi." Tezuka said in his deep soft voice.

"Yes, Tezuka. It's Ooishi." Ooishi felt like crying, but he forced a smile through, for Tezuka that remembered him. For Tezuka that recognised him.

"You changed your hairstyle again. Is it a new year all ready?" Tezuka said mildly.

Everyone in both rooms froze speechless at Tezuka's first sentence. The first time both Atobe and Sanada heard Tezuka spoke without steel, bitterness, guilt or suppressed pain in his voice.

"Tezuka!" Ooishi tried to force normality into his voice. He felt like he was walking on eggshells. The illusion could shatter any moment. "Do you like it? Is it too weird?" Words Ooishi said every new year, after a visit to the barber.

Tezuka did not smile. His confused and furrowed brows smoothed over as he shook his head lightly. "No. It's fine."

Ooishi smiled. Instincts from long association with Tezuka came forth and renewed themselves. He did not fuss. He did not nag. He did not state the obvious, even though he could feel the raw edges of Tezuka's skin on his palm and the warm blood seeping between his fingers.

"Ooishi. What are you doing here?" It was the same Tezuka who used the same words and the same tone when he found Ooishi hiding in the library. Ooishi did not know how Tezuka knew where Ooishi was hiding, but he unerringly found Ooishi time and again after Ooishi heard vicious gossips about himself circulating among the other first years.

Ooishi berated himself for not returning the favour to Tezuka, when Tezuka was all alone and forgotten. That's what made it so hard to accept. That they could all forget Tezuka so easily and let the years slipped by without ever wondering why.

"If anyone can reach him, Ooishi can," Fuji said softly to himself.

"Fuji?" Inui turned a quizzical eye to Fuji.

"Tezuka, no matter how I tried to get close to him, always kept me at a distance. Like there was a wall around him. Only Ooishi was ever allowed into the wall. Maybe, Ooishi could pass the wall again..."

"Tezuka, let's study together, ne? Entrance exams are really tough. It'll be like old times. When we used to study in the library together." Ooishi did not say that he was in his fourth year medical school. That all of them had moved on with their lives while Tezuka remained locked and frozen in time. The irony that the 14-year-old Tezuka had been mistaken for an adult, and the 23-year-old Tezuka still thought himself only 16.

"Aa."

"Tezuka, what course are you going to apply for? Are you going for Physics?" Ooishi turned desperately on the textbook Tezuka was reading. His head swam just looking at the formulas and symbols.

"I don't know yet. Maybe."

"That ... that's really hard subject, Tezuka."

"Aa. Some of the concepts are difficult to understand."

"Let's work hard together, ne. Top of the class, Tezuka, let's aim for that."

"Aa." With that, Tezuka closed his eyes and fainted. His head slumped against Ooishi's chest. Ooishi held him close, his newly freed tears mingled with Tezuka's blood.

The workers pulled Tezuka away from Ooishi's grasp. In a few heartbeats, they had taken him away to be treated, leaving Ooishi alone, in a room full of books and sticky with blood.

Note: This is an ending to an unwritten story. The background story involves Tezuka who everyone had thought had left for Germany after graduating from Junior High. Everyone had lost touch with him, and eventually, forgotten him. Eight years later, Atobe accidentally ran into Tezuka in a high powered party in Tokyo. He wasn't sure it was Tezuka, because it couldn't be Tezuka, with that waist-long hair and studded collar.