Hey, Orahiko, here with another fic. ! This one is yaoi, I don't write much else, but mine is very mild. TezukaFuji, Golden pair, RyomaMomo, and future InuiKaidou, and other pairings.

Don't own Tennis no Ohjisama. Promise.

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It was silent, and he had never wished so fervently for noise.

How odd. He really hadn't ever liked noise, looking upon the chattering of others as something to be drowned out and vaguely heard, or consciously ignored, never participating, a unmoving and featureless as a worn rock statue, eventually accepted as merely part of the décor, a fixed landmark, perhaps. He had always gotten by with simply allowing the movement and color and disjointed, unconnected words that were so meaningless to him wash over him like the touch of a lightly woven, coolly transparent scarf filled with images and empty conversations.

He had always been silent, and that had been his downfall. Once. He had allowed someone in, someone who was silent, like him, who worked best in the bleak solitude of shadow that merely reflects the sun. Who he thought understood what it meant to be silent, to listen and ignore and discomfort, yet be simply there.

His mistake, and he had wondered if he would regret it. He should have known.

To be honest, and he had never been truly deliberate in lying to himself, they were killing each other.

The pieces had fallen in place yesterday, Tezuka mused, in silence and the murmur of ordinary words, the soft swish of fabric and the sound of rubber soled shoes, heels leaving the ground in an almost breathless squeak, the glint of amber light against the brass of the worn doorknob, the familiar, practiced smile and pale-skinned face turned upward towards him, and gentle words untouched by the harsh breathing predicted by the other's tired movements had told of his job, a simple words following a well worn path of practice. He had known then, should have known sooner, but it didn't matter. Their relationship had been doomed from the start.

Really, he reflected, as he lifted a cigarette to his lips, the soft paper yielding beneath his fingertips, avoiding the burnt orange edges, another unhealthy habit picked up over the time, he wasn't the only one caught unaware, but certainly the most surprised. He had seen the slight tensing of the slim figure, the forced and lightly discarded mask, his partner knowing he could no more keep up a deception now then when the most vital, innocent one was shattered, heard the words clearly, almost dazed, I see, we had better go sit down now, I can put dinner in the refrigerator, and had known irrevocably neither one of them would want it.

Why, when neither wanted to be in each other's presence? Not that that was totally true, he amended, wry, to himself, they wanted to be with each other, but simply put, it was stiff and stilted at best, both of them on different, equally well worn chairs, leaning slightly back, too far away to be intimate, to close for politeness alone, but neither silent nor unsure, simply searching for the most appropriate phrasing. It wasn't anything that could be comfortably carried on for even a short, precise conversation.

He paused to wonder bleakly if the other had been truly surprised and shifted uneasily, legs crossing and thin brows forming a tense straight line, tossing away his cigarette into the shallow dish that lay beside the windowsill. Yes, he decided, even if his partner had known, this had come upon them too quickly, always seeming to promise in the distant future, and they had chosen to focus on the pleasure of their present time.

Their relationship had started barely after high school, more difficult, perhaps, but it had been worth it, and he remembered long practices and the tang of salt, and sweat and new cut grass, and the coldness of a metal can of soda in someone's hand, and distant storm clouds through clear panes of thin glass, his friend and rival standing before him, looking, not saying, look, I know, you can't just ignore it, and the hard, bright sheen of his open blue eyes, reflecting the storm and Tezuka and himself returning the look with a calmness he hadn't quite felt, and simply nodding to him and moving forward, slow heavy steps that made him feel like he was floating, acutely aware of the grainy white speckled flooring and soft pale grey shadows moving obscurely around him.

How Fuji had neither confronted nor demanded an answer, but simply watched him so sharply he could feel the heavy sharp edge of the other's blue-eyed gaze pressing against his shoulder bones and the drape of his white shirt, and how he, not the other, had waited till practice was over and approached the prodigy, and the slow, heavy, breathless walk to his home, and how he had said, not now, I don't mean not ever, but if you feel the same way I do let's wait, at least until we know what we'll want for a long, long, while, so please, and had fallen silent, his words disappearing somewhere in his dry throat yet running on like an endless line of music in his mind, please, I don't think I could settle for anything less, anything more, that's really all I want, but if you are going to walk away from me now, I can try to forget it, and order you the same number of laps tomorrow, but pretending it never happened, might just break what I have of a heart, I'm fairly sure of that, but I just want, and had stopped abruptly like everything else, the earth below his feet grinding to a ponderous halt, as he tried to coolly measure and appraise the slow nod of agreement and quick glance he had just received.

So they had waited, for a few years, almost interminable, an eternity to others of their age, longer to them, but worth it, every moment, because no matter how much they could hate and storm and care for the other, it was okay, because at the end of the day they had known, this was serious. This was too important to mess up. Too precious.

All for naught, he questioned himself, perversely delighted by the sorrow he felt, the pain that proved to himself what was went to in the surface was untrue. The answer was simple. It wasn't enough. They were agreeable, but a relationship could not be based upon mere baby steps, upon love yet no acknowledgement, giving but not receiving, simplicity and strength, like a fairy godmother's spell, worn thin, riddled with holes of ill-logic, a messy patchwork incapable of sheltering the merest child or hardiest woodman, yet every stitch done with love, the many stains of the ill woven fabric mingled with pricked blood and murmured blessings. How long? How long could they wait for each other to go their separate ways yet hope they would branch and cross again someday? He didn't want that, anymore than Fuji did, to wonder how the other was changing without him, experiencing life everyday, growing and feeling, until they met up again and could not see the one they loved in the familiar stranger facing them, loved but no longer beloved, known but not wanted?

They didn't have a relationship. They didn't even have a friendship, merely a rivalry and companionship worn thin and strong, mended by bruises and rackets and long summer afternoons and intricate puzzles spelled out in the graceful patterns feet whirled in. there was nothing to tie them together, nothing to join them once the ties of lover were broken.

Absolutely nothing.

Tezuka wondered what he wanted, and didn't know. He turned his head to greet his lover, smiling faintly with a hint of worry and a determination he hadn't seen in a while. Fuji held out his hand in a slight gesture, and he caught sight of the dim gleam of tarnished copper.

The other man sat down next to him, crossing jean-covered legs as he plucked a cushion deftly from their couch and fiddled idly with it, a barrier. He felt tired, too tired to challenge even the thin, threadbare object that represented the distance between him and Fuji, and contented himself with watching the other's hands, graceful and pale, the fingernails worn down, used to biting into the metal wrapped handles of tennis rackets, skin paper white, the nails clear and thin, reminding him of bamboo husks.

I'm sorry, the other man whispers, as honest as he can be. He knows, so doesn't acknowledge it. The other tries to speak, tries to comfort, to calm, the stupidest words he has ever heard, so he ignores it, feels the monochrome blankness of the room swirling around him distantly, a part of him listening, agreeing, the other part watching separately from a distance. He knows now what it means to break.

He moves quickly, trapping the other below him, so close he can see the flutter of eyelashes and the grey fuzz of the couch and thin threads, clear skin, and lazily blocks a shift of movement below him, the rough fabric of denim making a soft sound against the other body. He doesn't fight his lover, merely holds him, absorbing the feeling of simple presence, and stares absently out the window, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the room, marked by soft splashes of hazy purple, soft grays, and sweetly yellow white light. His eyes are blank, like glass. Let's get an apartment, he whispers in his love's ear. Please.

They hold each other, distantly, like unknown family, and the other understands. He hopes it will make everything better. He knows it's a foolish wish, but it's worth a try, he decides, exhaling over Tezuka's shoulder, barely shuddering at the thought of what will happen afterwards, if it doesn't work, if nothing works.

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They find an apartment a month later. It's somewhat too big, the brick walls thick, iron barred and the structure somewhat circular, curling into itself. Tezuka likes it, likes the feel of cold tiles and thick carpet, likes the walls with peeling paint, a remnant of a past tenant, pale blue and cream and sunflower yellow, oddly striped in parsley green in incongruous corners, and almost dreary, the windows dusty and shuttered with dark scarred wood. It's perfect, and they buy it, buy the whole floor. He decides they need some new roommates.

There's a number in his pocket, sitting there, a worn, twisted, yellowing bit of waxy paper with a simple scribble of blue coppery ink on it, like a vein, that says, call me, with a number below it. He stops, hesitating, cupping the thick round of glazed pottery in his hand as if it will reassure him, and drinks his coffee quickly. It's black, heavy, from the bottom of the pot, and almost cold, the taste sinking into his tongue. He calls the number.

Oishi hadn't been Eiji's best friend. They had known each other, talked, laughed, eaten together, played together, but not friends. Never friends. He hadn't been sure what Oishi had been to him, but he had had Fuji, and Oishi had had Tezuka, and he thought that was enough for the both of them. It had been, then, it really was. But then he had done some stupid and impulsive things that he hadn't thought about, but really couldn't help, noticing odd things at weird times, like the shape of Oishi's bones and the broad grin on his face when he was happy, or suddenly remembering the feel of him, solid and reassuring behind Eiji, ready to level anybody who wanted to beat them.

And it was weird, because he didn't know what was going on, which wasn't horrible or anything, but he had weird urgings these days, to hug Oishi, and to eat and talk with him more and more often, and these days he didn't like it when Tezuka buchou and Oishi took the bus home together, even though it was perfectly normal, really. Silly Eiji. So he ignored it, and went on with his life, but somehow found himself in the same university as Oishi, and when the girl at the registration desk had asked him if he was once part of the Golden Pair, and he had proudly and enthusiastically informed her he still was, and told long cheerful stories, and somehow they became roommates, and he hadn't understood why when Oishi saw him unsurprised, unpacked terribly responsibly and slowly, and when they played a quick game of tennis he had felt more alive than he had since he graduated, or why he had never been so quick and light on his feet, like he could touch the bright, glowing sky and fiery sun, but he never wanted his feet to leave the court, and Oishi had still won, and why he went to bed remembering the feeling of his friend's warm arm around his shoulders and somehow, in some odd, terribly fierce part of him, he never, ever, ever wanted to win against Oishi.

And Oishi had known, pretty much all this time, and hadn't said anything, but watched, and worried, and that hurt. Because what if Eiji had been waiting for him to say something, and he had just ignored it, or been to late, and that would have been bad, awful, and so terrible Eiji didn't want to contemplate it anymore then he had to. But that was the way he was, and Eiji loved him anyway, so it wasn't too bad, he guessed. They had their happy ending, and if some days Oishi worried too much and came home with that thin line on his forehead and tired eyes, unhappy and somehow lonely, and if Eiji couldn't touch the sky some days anymore, barred by cold lights and hard ceilings, then it was okay, because it would be. Okay. Eventually, and soon, and much better once they could hold each other.

But they needed a place to stay, because Oishi's company, he worked as a manager, worrying about people, had just transferred him, so it seemed to be a godsend when Tezuka called.

Ryoma was a famous tennis player, the young and aspiring. He still drank Ponta, though. But he was famous and great and untouchable, and his cat, somehow, was still alive. That was featured prominently in a big-shot magazine, as a wonder of modern times, and tabloids whispered that was because he had somehow ingested much of Ryoma's drugs that he was secretly taking off on the side, or his steroids, whichever you prefer, and a couple of scientists had even come up to him and asked if they could do tests on Karupin, which, of course, he said no to. So he was happy, kind of, even if every Saturday he came home and lost at tennis, which was okay, because the last game had lasted seven minutes, thirty point six seconds and an extra leap more then the last, so on the whole, his life wasn't bad. But he didn't like the fact that his house was somehow too big, even though it was crowded with litter, despite his housekeeper's best efforts, and even when he came home tired, late and exhausted from long practices, longer matches, and still longer press conferences, and when he should have been to tired to even notice the cold, neatly folded bed, despite his best efforts to keep it rumpled, or the silence, and how when he got out of he shower the tiles were still cold and wet, and the bed was neat and perfect. And non-wrinkled.

Momo-sempai became a reporter, a stupid one, who, when he came to Ryoma's press conferences, spent most of time running around and grinning, this stupid, idiotic, grin at poor long suffering silently tortured Ryoma, who just couldn't stop that involuntary muscle spasm in his jaw that translated itself outside into what quite possibly have appeared to be a hint of a grin but, really, honestly, wasn't. But Momo had always been optimistic and hopelessly simple, he never took the hint and kept coming now and then. Not like Ryoma missed him when he didn't come.

So when he showed up at this one, ordinary night, and Ryoma was too tired to fight and simply yawned, which he took as invitation to come in, and waved an envelope containing a letter from Fuji and a promise for a year's worth of training in exchange for rent, and smiled crookedly and stupidly at him, Ryoma supposed through a mix of sleep haze and annoyance he must have said something indicating agreement. Stupid Momo-sempai and his stupid smile.

So he, they came, and stood in front of the apartment, and it was tall and fat against the autumn storm, a crumbling rich red, and one of the windows was still dirty, pale paper thin leaves clinging to the shutters. They were still wearing sneakers. Tezuka smiled. Fuji opened the door and welcomed them in.

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Okay, I'm fairly new, so please inform me of any spelling, grammatical, or other flaws. If anyone is willing to be, or knows someone who would beta for me that would be awesome beyond words. Part two should be up soon, and some, not much, of the confusing stuff that you can't understand will be explained. I'll probably forget a bit, so if you want a question to be answered, don't expect the answer to be in the next installment. I appreciate any comments on flow, clarity, metaphors, spelling (for which I would be awesomely grateful for), plot, characterization, and so on.

If you can't think of anything, which if what often happens to me, then please say hi. Like I said, I'm new. Really, just got off the boat, fresh from the countryside and still believes that white shoes are acceptable in any form except sneakers for men, and impractical heels for women.

Damn, I can't not write wordy. I think this got less descriptive near the end. How'd that happen?

.: Do not ask so you will not deny :..