Notes:
- Post-Nationals, referencing events in Tenipuri manga up to the final volume.
- The Japanese pro tennis system portrayed here may not be accurate, since I lack authoritative sources on it. Please feel free to feedback. In any case I hope any discrepancy wouldn't distract too much from the plot.
Fugue
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He waited, after the Nationals, long enough for the both of them to recuperate, not too long that the adrenaline rush might have slid completely off its peak.
"Tezuka," he began, while they were observing the practice from the sidelines, the habitual quiet discussion that other Regulars had come to assume they should leave alone. "Would you play a match with me?"
Tezuka turned to him, expression unchanged. After all, the question had been asked and answered before.
Fuji smiled. "Sunday at nine?"
Tezuka nodded. "We can use the backyard at my house."
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A week after, Fuji still shivered in recollection of the power in every hit he received, the elegance of every attack and counter, the electrifying bursts of complex strategies forming in his mind one after another and his body turning them out split-seconds after. He had lost, not terribly, but that wasn't important.
That match with Echizen, he'd shaken off the feeling after a night's sleep. That match had been a casual sparring compared to this.
Echizen's tennis had been blazing flame. Tezuka's was a solid wall of fire.
He'd been looking forward to facing Tezuka on the court, thought that the one match would be the closure he needed before leaving the club upon graduation.
He didn't think so now.
He thought: I am not done with him.
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When a professional coach from JPTA came to Seigaku, everyone assumed it was for Tezuka. It was, but it wasn't all.
"Tezuka, Fuji," Ryuuzaki-sensei called. "Let's talk in my office."
Fuji felt the whole club's eyes on them. Admiration, mostly. Mild envy, from some.
Curiosity, from Eiji. His close friend knew he hadn't intended to turn pro, that he'd wanted to try new things in high school. That was weeks ago.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and walked at Tezuka's side half a step behind.
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"Think of it as a scholarship," the coach explained. "We will sponsor your private coaching up to twenty hours a week. You'll get to play your fellow trainees regularly, as well."
Tezuka didn't look at Fuji much during the discussion. No pressure, no encouragement. This was beyond Seigaku. Here and now Tezuka was not his captain.
But Fuji didn't need to look at him to remember.
The pro coach was the only person in the room not at all surprised when he said yes.
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Graduation came around, and the whole team gathered at Kawamura's after the ceremony was over.
Inui flipped open his notebook and recounted the destination of all the graduated Regulars. Every one of them, with the exception of Tezuka, was going on to the high school division of Seishun Gakuen.
Tezuka had chosen Touryou International, partly because he was keeping his options open about a tennis career in America, but mostly because the school had flexible curriculum that would let him defer classes in favour of training and tournaments.
Fuji hadn't even thought of going out of his way to enroll in a different school, hadn't considered if it might be unfeasible to juggle an intensive tennis schedule with a normal high school life.
"I was surprised you accepted, actually," Eiji said to him, privately and quietly, which was uncharacteristic of him. But even Eiji had matured. "But I guess it was too good an opportunity to pass up."
Fuji glanced at where Tezuka was, talking to Ryuuzaki-sensei at the counter.
"Yeah," he agreed. "It was."
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Yuuta was home that evening, having attended the graduation ceremony with the rest of the family.
He showed up at Fuji's room two hours before dinner, racket in hand. "Aniki, one game?"
Fuji took a look at his face, and aborted the indulgent smile he normally reserved for him.
Here was another naked flame, and something else — something he now recognized and possessed within himself. When one's goal was someone this close, every aspect of the rivalry became personal, every inch of the gap in ability so bitterly felt.
"Sure," he said simply, and retrieved his racket.
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He was separated from Eiji in Seigaku High, but was in the same class as Ooishi.
Kawamura, as he'd informed them before, didn't join the tennis club. With Fuji already attached to an external club, that left Inui and the Golden Pair. They went on to become Regulars by their second semester.
Fuji suspected, however, that Ooishi had continued playing only to partner Eiji. The extra time that Ooishi used to spend on his responsibilities as vice-captain in middle school, Fuji now saw him spending on medical textbooks that were definitely not in the high school curriculum.
Even Inui was matter-of-fact about it. Only top athletes could make a living playing sports, he said. Five percent, at best. With monsters like Tezuka and Sanada and Yukimura around, the optimal course for him would be to compete in amateur tennis while building a career on a more conventional path.
Eiji remarked, once, how it felt lonelier sometimes. At the time, Ooishi was away in the library, and Fuji didn't know what to reply.
Then Eiji grinned, thanked Fuji for the dictionary, and skipped back to his class. He never mentioned it again.
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Within the first few weeks of club practice, everyone had sized up almost everyone else.
Even for Fuji, ever unconcerned about competition, it was hard to miss the handful who were exhibiting Echizen's level of explosive talent. The Tezuka-level mastery was trickier to spot, but most players of this sort had their reputation preceding them by now, making it a simple matter of matching the name to the face.
Atobe had asked to play Tezuka at the earliest opportunity. He, too, had Tezuka as some sort of goal, although Fuji doubted the guy's ambition was as narrowly framed as his.
Where tennis was concerned, Atobe was very similar to Tezuka. He readily eased into the role that had taken both Fuji and Ooishi to fill back in Seigaku: an equal with whom Tezuka could exchange opinions on techniques as well as team strategies.
Fuji had mostly stayed away, keeping a casual observation, preferring instead to practice with those he hadn't played before. The thrill he was after wasn't in the constant exposure to Tezuka's play; it was in uncovering it, layer by exquisite layer, while facing him on the court.
Atobe had asked to play him too, specifically adding, "Get in your battle mode, will you?" He might have heard something from Tezuka.
Some other players, some other time, Fuji would have politely but noncommittally accepted, leaving it to his smile to actually say: Make me.
Not Atobe. Not after the Nationals. He had a target in front of him now, and every game with a worthy opponent was one step forward.
His eyes were open when he smiled. "It'll be my pleasure."
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High school tournament season started, and his friends disappeared from class more and more often. Fuji went to watch when he could.
Eiji bounced over when he saw him, Ooishi close behind.
The first thing Fuji noticed was the Seigaku High emblem on their Regular jackets, and he thought of his own club jersey he was carrying in his bag for practice later.
We wore different uniforms now, he thought, even as he cheerfully wished them both all the best for the game.
The pricking at the corner of his mind was familiar. He had wondered, from time to time, what his mother had done with Yuuta's Seigaku uniform, whether it still hung neatly in that bedroom next to his.
He recalled that one time Eiji said things were getting lonely. He felt like he almost understood. It couldn't not be lonely pursuing a goal that was yours alone.
And along the way you would inevitably make somebody else lonely, too.
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He'd stayed after practice to see the coach, and he was still in his jersey when he saw Tezuka on the way to the locker room.
"Is anything the matter?" Tezuka asked. His gaze landed on the sheet of paper in Fuji's hand.
"Oh, this?" He held it up. "Official letter to the school, to certify that I'll be at the training camp starting next week."
"I see."
Fuji resumed his steps. "Don't you need it too, for missing classes?"
"No, we go by course credits. I can take all my classes in the off-season."
"Ah, right. That's convenient."
As for him, there would be a pile of assignments and make-up tests waiting when he returned from the camp. Fuji didn't really mind that part. What he found troublesome was all these matters of getting permissions, rearranging timetables, talking to this and that teacher — matters that used to be automatically taken care of when he'd been in the school team.
Tezuka was looking at him thoughtfully as he tucked the letter into his bag. Fuji wondered if he was about to suggest transferring schools. Not that Fuji's tennis had been falling behind or anything, but think of how much further he could've achieved if only...
Victory, no matter the cost.
Even here in the same club, he didn't think the way Tezuka did, nor share Tezuka's goal. Tennis was simply a craft he could challenge himself in and derive satisfaction from.
And he realized that while he didn't want to lose to Tezuka, he'd never really thought of wanting to defeat him.
—Therefore, he might never will.
It was a foreign, chilling sensation, to find himself thinking of someplace as being completely out of reach.
They spoke no more until Fuji finished changing, and Tezuka walked with him, out of the sports building.
For once, Tezuka's company was uncomfortable to him, and he kept silent.
"I saw Inui at the Regionals," Tezuka said, breaking the silence — perhaps because he was oblivious, or perhaps because he in fact wasn't. "Popping up everywhere with that notebook of his, as usual."
"Ah, he didn't get to play, since the team already won," Fuji said. "I didn't know you went."
"Just to see how everyone is doing."
Fuji thought of Ooishi's textbooks, Inui's five-percent. "Everyone is doing their best," he said softly.
"Yeah."
Fuji glanced, because Tezuka had sounded like he'd been smiling. "Do you miss them?"
Tezuka coughed.
Fuji chuckled, but it was half-hearted.
"Well, everyone has to go their own way," Tezuka said. "And there are many ways to play tennis."
It made Fuji turn to look, made him wonder if his thoughts had been that obvious. When Tezuka didn't meet his eyes, he took it to mean that those words had been intended to apply to him too.
His goal. His way. His tennis.
This is fine, then? He suppressed the urge to ask. Tezuka wouldn't answer that. He didn't need anyone to answer that.
"Right," he said, and this time there was nothing half-hearted about his smile.
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"Oh, Fuji!" Kawamura smiled brightly as Fuji walked into the shop. "Good timing."
Before Kawamura could elaborate, a loud voice called out, "Fuji-senpai!"
A hand was waving vigorously from one of the tables. "Here, here!"
Momoshiro. Echizen was sitting with him, and even the boy's usually deadpan expression lit up slightly.
Fuji smiled at Kawamura and asked for his usual, before he went to join the two at their table.
"Momo, Echizen. How are things?"
"Going well," Momo said. "We just had a friendly matchup with Rokkaku last week, and we won."
"Overall," Echizen remarked. "You lost yours, Momo-senpai."
"Shut up, Echizen. That Amane's strength was inhuman!"
Echizen snickered, then turned to Fuji, who'd been watching them with amusement. "How about you, Fuji-senpai?"
"It's been great. I met a lot of strong players."
"Oh, speaking of which," Momo said, "have you had that match with Tezuka-buchou yet?"
Fuji took a moment to answer, the memory still capable of sending a tingle down his spine. "I have."
"Who won?" Echizen asked quickly, with rare open curiosity.
"Who do you think?" Fuji asked pleasantly.
Echizen opened his mouth, closed it again, then tugged his cap down. "Never mind."
"No fair, Fuji-senpai," Momo pounced. "You could've had it while Tezuka-buchou was still in Seigaku."
"But we did," Fuji said. Well, come to think of it... "Just not at school."
"As I said, no fair! Why didn't you want us to watch?"
"Hmmm? No particular reason."
It was the truth. Challenging Tezuka was Fuji's own affairs, and it was simply instinctive to do it on their own time, their own terms.
Had anyone wanted to watch, though, he wouldn't have minded. It didn't matter that they would have a chance to observe and defeat every technique he'd had to pull out. It didn't matter that they would see how the game got him so shaken up.
In the face of the roaring intensity that was Tezuka, he wouldn't have any care left for those.
"Not much use just watching, anyway," Echizen said. He looked at Fuji. "We should finish our match, senpai."
Fuji found that he was actually thrilled about it. His smile widened. "Anytime, Echizen."
Echizen stood up with a grin. "Right now, then."
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Fuji hadn't expected to win, but he did. It could've easily ended the other way around if Echizen had had more time to unravel his newest counter.
Not that he would easily allow that. But it had sure felt more like a race than a simple battle of skills.
He'd gotten stronger, but so had Echizen.
"Echizen," he said as they shook hands, "hurry up and graduate."
The pout on Echizen's face morphed into a smirk. "You don't have to tell me that."
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Ryuuzaki-sensei had been strict and demanding, but the middle school standard was still a completely different level than that of the professionals.
Fuji had excelled with a combination of technique, strategy, and speed. His power and stamina had been just enough to get by. Barely enough to survive the training camp.
He folded himself onto a bench after the third matchup that day, painstakingly regulating his breathing. His last opponent had been a power player, and now his over-exerted right arm was trembling out of control.
He looked up. Tezuka's game was still ongoing. Tezuka too seemed exhausted, but not overwhelmed. No sign of the old injury acting up.
Tezuka's opponent hit the ball out of court. They shook hands, then Tezuka joined Fuji on the bench.
After both their breathing ceased to be audible, Fuji spoke up. "Do you remember that time when Inui made us wear those lead plates?"
"Oh, the weight straps," Tezuka said. He leaned back. "I suppose this is a little nostalgic."
"If you can call it that," Fuji said, smiling. "Anyway, I'm wondering if you know where I can get those."
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"Still training?"
Fuji turned from his sit-ups. Tezuka was standing at the side entrance of the inn, silhouetted by the corridor light.
"Just for a bit."
Tezuka walked up to him, squatted down, and held his ankles for him. "What's the count?"
After a pause, Fuji said, "Thirty-seven."
He resumed the exercise, while Tezuka counted aloud.
"...ninety-nine, hundred."
The firm emphasis made Fuji stop, even if he hadn't intended to. Captain or not, Tezuka simply exuded authority.
"Enough," Tezuka said as he released his hold. "You've had a full day of intensive training. Don't overdo it."
Fuji would smile, except that he felt like grinning. "This from you, Tezuka?"
Tezuka stood up. "It's time for bed." He walked back towards the inn.
"Tezuka. Thanks."
Tezuka paused. The light cast a dramatic shadow on his partially turned face, but his voice was amiable.
"I'm looking forward to another match with you, Fuji."
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Soon after the camp, before Fuji was even done copying all Ooishi's notes, the national ranking tournaments started.
This time he simply skipped school. He had enough attendance to pass the year, anyway.
Naturally, he was starting at the bottom of the ranking. He noted that this wasn't necessarily the case for all new recruits — some had taken part in pro tournaments before and earned a number of ranking points even while in school.
Atobe wasn't concerned, because he was "going to shoot past them in no time". And he was.
Tezuka wasn't concerned, because there was "more competition out there than just the names in the list". Regardless, he was going up in the ranking just as fast as Atobe was.
Fuji wasn't concerned at all, but he was accumulating points as fast as those two because the points were awarded with every match he won, and he hadn't had any reason to lose.
The coach reminded them that the rankings formed a major part of the assessment for their sponsorship entitlement, but even he knew that not one player in the club set his goal that low.
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The tournament matches became some sort of gathering events for the former Seigaku Regulars, who rarely missed coming to watch those played on weekends. Inui even went so far as to arrange an outing for the whole Seigaku High tennis club when Tezuka made it to the quarter-finals.
Eiji sent Fuji well-wishing mails whenever he couldn't come. That was how it started. Fuji sent a reply, Eiji sent another, and before long they were exchanging texts more than they were seeing each other at school.
Eiji texted the same way he chattered, saying Eiji-ish things like "Overheating from Maths ~(x_x)~ going to kidnap Ooishi for ice-cream~~" and not-so-Eiji-ish things like "No no, seg fault means you gotta run it through a debugger and trace" followed by "Sorryyy Fujiko-chan, sent that one to you by mistakeee (-_-)|||".
Eiji too had found a world Fuji was no part of, but Fuji was content sharing just this one with him.
"Girlfriend?" Atobe would remark to Tezuka, with a raised eyebrow, whenever he caught Fuji chuckling at his phone.
He did that every time because Fuji never bothered to answer him.
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Fuji had been careful in timing his request the first time. The second time, more than a year after, caught himself by surprise.
Yumiko drove him to the tennis club that Saturday, after he'd accompanied her shopping for a new phone. It was two hours early for practice, so he decided to try out the fitness centre at the basement.
He was on the treadmill when Tezuka entered and got on the machine next to him. He smiled by way of a greeting, and Tezuka nodded slightly.
He hadn't set a time on his machine, and wound down to a stop only when Tezuka's set time ended.
"Do you come here often?" he asked while picking up his towel.
"Three times a week," Tezuka said.
"Ah. I should probably try coming regularly, too."
"I thought you weren't much for these types of exercises."
The observation surprised him a little. It was true he preferred training on the court.
He smiled. "Well, our coach is not making me run as much as you used to."
"Hm," Tezuka said. The way his lips twitched, Fuji almost expected him to shout right then, 'Ten laps, now!'
Instead, Tezuka headed for the bench press.
Fuji watched. He was warmed up, but none of the training equipment in the room interested him.
"Tezuka," he said, the thought surging up in a wave, "How about a match right now?"
Tezuka turned.
Fuji held his gaze.
Tezuka didn't say: Club practice is starting in an hour.
Tezuka said, "Sure."
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They rented a court on another floor, taking the opposite end of the two currently occupied courts at the far right.
There was no need to restate the rules; Tezuka took a ball out of his bag, lobbed it to Fuji, thus deciding the first serve.
They stepped within the lines, and the game began.
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This was how it felt like:
He charged forward, hand slashing out at the last moment. Tezuka parried his attacking arm, gripped it and twisted it behind his back. Tezuka's other arm went around his neck in a headlock, scrunching his throat.
Game.
He ignored the pain and threw his body backwards, unbalancing Tezuka. As they both fell, he dug his free elbow into Tezuka's ribs and broke off the hold.
Game.
He leaped out of the way, simultaneously turning on his heels. Tezuka wasn't where he'd been. Tezuka was right in front of him, fist launched at his abdomen.
Game.
He swept his leg at Tezuka's. Tezuka stepped aside, the attack aborted. Fuji perceived an opening, shot out.
It was a trap. By the time he saw through it, it was too late to reverse.
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Fuji stilled, registering the sound of the ball hitting the court behind him. Game, 4-3: Tezuka.
He felt a savage grin forming despite himself. His hands trembled involuntarily, and it wasn't from exhaustion.
Here we go again.
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They entered tiebreak, and at 8-7, Fuji invented a special move on the spot.
Tezuka got up from the ground, having dived in his attempt to reach the return ball. "What was that?"
"Zero-Shiki Drop Counter," said Fuji, because that was exactly what it was created for, and it wasn't like he'd had time to contemplate Nature for the inspiration.
Tezuka smiled. Visibly, unmistakably.
And proceeded to break Fuji's Disappearing Serve.
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They weren't so different like this, when none of their respective goals mattered at the moment: smiling, enjoying the thrill of having a prized technique nullified, of driving an opponent to the limit of their potential and watching them smash through it.
For the longest time, Fuji had not known how exactly to "go all out". He knew how it was to play seriously, instead of fooling around overtaking his opponent by a deliberate half-inch every step of the way; he had pushed his boundaries on a few occasions, but there was always a specific necessity to it: he played the way it took to defeat the challenge, and only what it took.
This had served the purpose, all along. This had allowed him to remain an enigma, because Fuji loved to surprise just as much as he loved to be surprised, to taste excitement in a world often too docile for his liking. And this had become the only way he knew how to play.
And so when Tezuka had asked, "Where is the real you?" all Fuji had been able to think of was: "But this is me."
Still, it had made him think twice. Look closely at that empty space where his drive for victory should have been. Discover, through the matches he played in the Nationals, that it wasn't empty at all: it was full of yearning for a reason to be more.
And rather than an itch for closure, it was perhaps the need to understand that newfound part of him that had made Fuji ask for that one match with Tezuka, and this one.
—This one, that finally taught him what it meant to go all out, that it never was about chasing victory, but letting go.
Fuji thought: Tezuka— This is me.
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At 19-19, Fuji paused to change his busted racket. It was only then that he noticed the players from the other courts had all stopped to watch them.
This was promptly forgotten as soon as he returned to the court, to Tezuka waiting across the net, standing undistracted in that untouchable sphere of his overpowering presence — his wall of fire.
He realized then that he knew precisely how that felt. When he closed his eyes, he could hear the resounding rush rising around his own feet — a cascading waterfall.
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At 25-26, Tezuka switched to his right hand.
Cold dread washed through Fuji at once, but before he could ask if Tezuka's elbow was alright or propose an end to the game, Tezuka hit Echizen's Twist Serve at him.
Fuji wasn't fooled: Tezuka did not switch back after the serve. But Tezuka was not slowing down either. Along with the switch of his hands, he simply switched his play style from all-rounder to counter-puncher.
Well, that, Fuji had no problem matching.
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At 41-41, they stopped counting the points.
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This was how it felt like:
Tezuka was standing two steps ahead, his back to Fuji. His face was turned to the side, and he was looking at Fuji from the corner of his eyes.
Tezuka's right hand, the one not holding the racket, was lifted towards him, the half-grip waiting.
Fuji walked up to him.
When he reached Tezuka's side, he didn't take Tezuka's hand. He grabbed Tezuka's shoulder, and kissed him.
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They sat on the floor at their respective sides of the court, cooling down. Their small audience had dispersed.
A muffled vibrating noise broke the relative silence.
They turned to look at their bags, where the phones were.
Yours? Tezuka's expression asked, his eyebrows adding, Girlfriend?
"Yours," Fuji said with conviction. "Atobe."
Tezuka glanced at the clock on the wall. "There's still forty-five minutes left if we get there now."
He made no move to get up, however.
"We should find a better timing next time," Fuji said lightly, because he didn't actually care.
"Yes," Tezuka said. There was a pointed emphasis in his tone that made Fuji look up and meet his eyes.
No, it wasn't about the timing.
I'm looking forward to another match with you, Fuji.
Well, yeah, he had been stupidly happy to be told that, to find that the regard wasn't entirely one-sided, but, hey.
"You know," Fuji said, "I'm almost jealous of Echizen. You would challenge him, but you've always waited for me to challenge you."
A beat, as Tezuka apparently took that in. Then he said calmly, "What works on Echizen will not work on you, Fuji."
Fuji looked at him for a long time, long enough to make Tezuka adjust his glasses unnecessarily.
"Ah," Fuji said amiably. "And that has worked splendidly, I gather."
Tezuka had the grace to look mildly abashed. He coughed into his fist.
Then he stood up, walked to the net, and held his hand out across it.
"It won't work a second time," he said. "So I'll ask. Have a match with me, Fuji."
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...