Title: Canon
Summary: Tezuka lets Echizen go, believing he has done all he can do for him.
Warnings: I haven't seen the last twenty episodes so this may come in conflict with some of them. If it does, just consider this as an alternative ending.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Konomi Takeshi's.
Tezuka believes in many things.
He believes in destiny, and how some people are meant for certain things.
He believes in a higher power that presides order amidst such a chaotic world.
He believes in his team. He believes in the admirable tandem team of Oishi and Kikumaru, and Fuji's calculating subtlety, well concealed behind his serene smile. He believes in Inui's precision and accuracy in his accumulation of data, and Kawamura with his racket-triggered fire for the game. He believes in Momoshiro's remarkable physical strength and carefree attitude. He believes in Kaidoh's unfailing endurance and the dedication he puts in his training.
And he believes in Echizen.
Among these people, many would say that Tezuka believes in Echizen above all else, because he is Tezuka's chosen, the future pillar of Seigaku. Though these people are not at all mistaken, Tezuka believes in Echizen for more reasons.
More than Echizen's unpredictable, ever-evolving, playing style, more than his deadly grace, Tezuka also believes in Echizen for the sheer will and ambition that manifests itself in every move the freshman makes. Echizen has always possessed the will to win. Not just desire to win, for desire isn't necessarily actuated. Will is desire of adequate intensity that it is transformed into action. And nobody shows willpower like Echizen.
Tezuka took it upon himself, as captain, to tap into the boy's potential, and be the person Echizen turns to. Everyone needs someone higher and older to guide him and assure him that what he is doing is going somewhere. And the act of guiding others, Tezuka believes, is also an act of self-evolution, even when the purpose of that act is someone else's growth.
As Yamato guided him, so has Tezuka guided Echizen, and in guiding Echizen, Tezuka has extended beyond himself, reaching out.
And there are fruits to that guidance. He can see that Echizen looks up at him with admiration, respect and trust, which Echizen perhaps, bestows on very few others.
Tezuka feels proud of this trust, and he finds nothing wrong with what he feels.
When it is a long, dark November in his soul, where he speculates too much and perceives too little, he closes his eyes and remembers a boy. A boy two years younger than he is, with oval spectacles, a sullen, expressionless face and morning hair. A boy who had threatened the regular's circle as a freshman, a boy sporadically bullied for his talent. That boy, the younger Tezuka Kunimitsu, was perhaps a tad less stern, but no less serious and quiet, and he had a burning fervor for the game, though only a select few could see it.
More often than not, these thoughts transmute to those of another boy, one with a white cap, children size tennis shoes, a cocky smirk, cat-like golden eyes, someone who actually managed to enter the regular's circle as a freshman. (The fact that rules were broken for this is irrelevant, or so he thinks.) Again, there is this passion, this fervor for tennis, but unlike the previous boy, this passion shows, if only within the tennis courts. But it shows nonetheless, and Tezuka has seen it.
In these memories, he isn't sure where he leaves off and this other boy begins but he finds relief at the intangible connection.
Tonight is Echizen's last night in Japan. Tomorrow, he leaves for the US Open.
Tonight, Tezuka's soul is again lingering in the borders of damp November. He closes his eyes.
And tonight, the memories come in whispers, a voice that can only belong to one person.
"Beat him like you beat me."
"Buchou… see you later..."
"Buchou, I feel happy."
"I want to be a part of the Junior Senbatsu team, Buchou. Please."
"Please…"
"I'm leaving. I'm going back to America for the US Open."
"Buchou…"
He stands up from the porch and walks out, closing the gate behind him.
He walks.
And walks.
The voices are accompanied by images now. In his mind's eye, he sees crystalline gold eyes widening in unmasked surprise. The same eyes then narrow into zealous focus, before finally closing in well-compensated exhaustion. He remembers knees falling to the ground, acknowledging defeat, and a hand (his) slapping sense into another's openly stubborn expression. He remembers the plaintive desperation written large across a cat-like face, concealing a spirit lit by higher ambitions.
And the memories drive him, carry him on powerful wings of denial across town and into the fluorescent-lit tennis courts of Seigaku Junior High.
The dull thwack of a tennis ball against taut nylon assaults his ears and he walks faster.
Tezuka sees Echizen a moment before he actually lays eyes on him. Tezuka watches as Echizen catches the last ball in his right hand before turning around to look at him.
How often do they come to these moments, flashes of tawny gold meeting auburn, gazes stolen across the court. No one speaks for a moment, eyes conveying everything what voice cannot.
Finally, Tezuka breaks the silence. "It's late," he says, his voice carrying across the stillness of the tennis courts. "You should be home preparing for your flight tomorrow."
"A final game before I leave, Buchou," Echizen declares, ignoring Tezuka's reprimand. "Will you grant me that?"
Echizen has expected Tezuka to come to him, that much is obvious. How he knew is beyond Tezuka, and Tezuka dares not classify it as a coincidence. "Why? We both know you've already surpassed me."
Echizen tilts his head to one side. "Should that stop me from playing you again?"
Tezuka's eyebrows rise ever so slightly. "No."
"Then there shouldn't be a problem." Echizen walks over to his things, and pulls another racket from his bag. "It's not a matter of winning or losing anymore, Buchou," he says, striding over toward Tezuka and handing him the racket. "I just want to play."
Tezuka feels a ghost of a smile forming on his face. You've grown so much, Echizen, he thinks, feeling a fleeting touch of fondness for the first year. He takes the racket from Echizen. "Very well."
They play. And Tezuka feels that the world has shrunk and defined itself within the parameters of the court, with his opponent at the center, at the focus.
Echizen.
The game is no longer just a game. It never is, not with them. A test, a parting message, a spattering of multitudinous highs, an unspoken challenge, it is all these things and a lot more. It goes on, both boys giving their all. Every near miss, every score, every split-step, every signature move, they all merge into one whirling globe of life and vigor, the sounds blending into beautiful white noise.
Echizen stretches and dives for the ball. It doesn't bounce.
He slams face down on the court, the ball rolling to a stop inches in front of him.
The game ends. 7 games to 5. Tezuka's win.
Invisible dust scatters around Echizen. His white cap lay three feet away, and the harsh white light reflects off the rivulets of sweat running down the side of his head, like a smattering of pinpricked crystals. His fingers claw against the ground. He doesn't get up.
Tezuka crosses over to the other side and wordlessly reaches out a hand.
Echizen looks up at him. Tezuka notices that there is no desperation in the freshman's expression, no lingering doubts. There is only the light of understanding and the flicker of acceptance. Then Echizen sits and takes the hand that is offered to him.
As Tezuka's hand wraps around Echizen's, Tezuka feels a sudden urge to say something. He wants to remark on the amazing improvement, the excitement his game inspired, the rekindled fire, the fact that the best players don't always win. But of all things going on his mind, there are four words that concretize all of them. "I'm proud of you." He pauses, before letting the name roll from his lips. "Ryoma."
Ryoma smiles. It is an unassuming smile, child-like and not childish, with the barest note of delight writ therein.
Their hands remain clasped around each other's for a few more moments, before Tezuka pulls Echizen up.
"Thank you," Ryoma whispers, his gaze never leaving Tezuka's. Then he lets go.
Tezuka nods and turns his gaze towards the stars. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Echizen do the same.
"Aim for the stars, Ryoma."
"I will."
"There are many strong players out there. Players stronger than I am. Don't be careless."
"I won't."
They stand in silence for a few minutes, watching the stars and allowing the crisp evening air to cool down their bodies. The silence isn't awkward, for silence is natural between them. Somehow, someway, they understand each other without needing to speak.
But they can't stare at the stars for too long. Someone's got to say something. And that someone turns out to be Ryoma.
"Buchou…"
"Yes, Ryoma?"
Ryoma smiles again, but a flicker of pain flits across his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. Tezuka wonders if he imagined it.
"Goodbye."
The word was spoken as if thrown into the wind, to be carried across miles, across worlds, a nigh-on silent yet powerful echo in Tezuka's ears. He nods and his throat feels strangely parched as he answers.
"Goodbye."
Ryoma looks down briefly, before slowly turning to pick up his things. Tezuka watches Ryoma as he stuffs his rackets in his bag. Then he throws one last look at Tezuka. Whether or not it is the last of many, Tezuka is not sure nor does he desire to ponder on it.
Ryoma's gaze never wavers. For a moment, Tezuka imagines Ryoma changing his mind and staying. For the Nationals. For the Seishun Gakuen tennis team.
For him.
Tezuka doesn't know where the last bit came from and he quickly pushes it out of his mind. He focuses on what is happening right now.
The night is still and quiet, the crickets suddenly stopping in their chirping for some reason, creating a silent void. Tezuka hears his heart and wishes he couldn't.
Then Ryoma turns around and leaves, never looking back.
Tezuka's eyes follow Ryoma's disappearing form as it gets smaller and smaller. When he is completely out of sight, Tezuka releases the breath he wasn't aware he was holding. The cold night breeze passes quickly, bringing a wave of coolness on Tezuka's body. But Ryoma's warmth remains in Tezuka's hand, long after the first year had left.
There is a dull ache at the hollow of his chest and he is uncertain of what it suggests. With a barely audible sigh, he starts walking out the courts.
Tezuka believes that he has done what he has to do. He has guided Ryoma, strengthened him, connected with him in a way Tezuka never connected with others. He has watched the freshman prodigy grow, and in the process, has grown himself.
That is all. And that, he believes, is enough.
Enough for Ryoma. Enough for him.
He believes…
And if he is fooling himself, he does not notice.
Half a kilometer away, under the white light of the street lamp, Echizen Ryoma gazes down at a nearby puddle.
It isn't raining tonight, but the murky water ripples, blurring his reflection.
-fin-