You're still the one

After that year in middle school when he was the mentor and Echizen the protégé, that very first year after winning the Nationals, they have lost track of each other, scattered, one in Japan and the other in America, both connected by the undeniable passion for tennis. Again their roads divided as each persuaded their ambition, or in Tezuka's case his father's, of graduating from Tokyo University. Ryoma took the world by surprise, and attained two Grand Slams at the age of 15 years old.

Albeit subsiding to his father's wish, Tezuka kept an eye on the ATP, on the youngest star of the tennis pro's, and felt more proud than of his own achievements, which were not to be easily discarded. Soon enough he was nominated student of the year, president of the Student Council and head of the History Department.

While graduating he was extolled and received good recommendation, thus being advertised for a job at the Institute of Contemporaneous History in New York. Fuji winked at him, as though that was Tezuka's plan all along. He coughed, still not knowing how to respond to that, or to the news. Looking back now he will probably admit that he felt a ripple of anticipation wash over him, a surge of energy flourish in the middle of his heart, spreading throughout his body, down his spine to his soles, and despite the fact he stopped playing tennis at university, his muscles were taunt with impatience.

There was no doubt in Tezuka's eyes as he accepted the offer. His close friends could guess the ulterior motive of his acceptance. Oishi confronted him about it, tried to talk some sense into him, to convince him that he has lost his form that he will only disappoint himself. Despite his best efforts, Tezuka's mind was set on his leaving the country as soon as possible, much like he had continued his match with Atobe, even at the cost of his arm.

He closed his eyes, as the plane took off. Tezuka knew himself better than anyone, and as he replayed his later actions though mind, he could tell that he had seriously considered the possibility of turning pro; however, he deceived himself into following the path decided by his father in his name. Now that the reigns had loosened he was determined to detach himself from what others expected from him and make his own mistakes. He was positive he gained yet another victory this time not against a visible opponent, but himself.

America appeared artificial at first glance, bristle and brisk, the rush of people in contrast with the calmness of Japanese people. Tezuka soon found himself dragged in the animated life of New Yorkers, accepting invitations to dinner out of courtesy, spending his evenings in human company, more than he had in his entire life. He still was a poor conservationist, to the point when the flow would be easily disrupted by a phrase he uttered. Despite this drawback, people sought his presence; the motif baffled him, for he knew close to nothing about the main topics discussed during these outings.

First thing in the morning after booking a room in the nearest hotel to the airport, he convinced himself that he needs to find Echizen first and foremost. A tennis court was the only place he hoped he would came across the other man. At 22 years old Tezuka still had much more to accomplish, like marriage and career, yet none of those were the reason why he embarked on the first flight to another continent. Deep down inside of him something had been nourishing, a seed planted in the spring of his life, when everything was raw, and conditions for it to blossom had been nonexistent. Of course, he had been aware of it, resented it, and buried it in the darkest corners of his mind, because it had been wrong.

Slowly he learned to face it and recognize it for what it was, though he never called its name. He was unprepared to immerse himself in wishful thinking, without knowing that what he felt was more than a crush. He needed to see Echizen one more time.

./.

Wandering aimlessly through the city, paying no heed to the world around him, he seemed no different from any other teenager. Except he had been always mistaken for an adult as soon as the responsibilities had shaped his personality, gaining the respect of his peers, and at the same time had drawn a line between himself and his teammates. The irony of his search, of his discovery, made his heart flutter with renewed youth.

He took his tennis racket with him just in case, the chances were slim for him to be asked to a match by anyone, only a person knew he had played tennis, and it seemed enough. He didn't represent a challenge, not for a pro, so what does he want to gain from playing again? Humiliation, acceptance, disappointment, encouragement…After a few steps, he found himself in front of a tennis court, and someone was apparently training, hitting balls deep in the corners, testing their precision. The light fell on black-green locks that loosely dropped outside the cap, and Tezuka held his breath, even though the player was turned around, the line of this form seemed the most familiar to him.

Tezuka realized that his feet were moving against his will, and the next moment he found himself circumvent the corner of the wire fence, to have a better angle, to absorb all the changes of Echizen's maturation. He seemed taller, slender, with muscles flexing at every move, stronger, and somehow Tezuka fathomed he couldn't take his eyes off him, even if he was caught in the act.

"Buchou?"

After all those years this appellative was still bringing back so many memories, the way that was uttered between them as a challenge, always as a promise. And maybe those unspoken promises he came to fulfill. He nodded in acknowledgement, unable to utter a name, a response.

"Buchou what are you doing here?" Ryoma curiously had an unreadable expression on his face, he was neither happy nor taken aback by Tezuka's presence there, more likely he had been waiting for him to come at some point or another. Kunimitsu sensed how his circumstances had betrayed him, how a thread had led him up until this moment, and he had been blindly guided towards his future.

"Echizen, you did well at Wimbledon."

"Che, you didn't answer my question." Ryoma's head reached to his nose and his cap didn't do a good job in hiding his eyes .A flicker of hope crossed through them, as though everything depended on his answer. If Tezuka was to draw his talent from the number of words he said in a day, he wouldn't even throw the ball past the net. Tezuka considered his next words carefully.

"I had been offered a job here." Ryoma gave him a sidelong glance as if expecting something entirely different. "That's all?" His inquiry proved Tezuka he had guessed right. No. To turn pro so I can play against you. Obviously he didn't say those words. They stared at each other for the first time in years, their eyes locked.

The spell was soon splintered by Ryoma, as he looked away at the court, a new thought emerging from his mind. "Buchou lets play a set!" He sighed, his all being screamed he should promptly refuse, his conscience whispering he had no chance whatsoever. But he knew otherwise, he had never been able to refuse a match from his kohai, he would still play even he was certain of Ryoma's victory, for he hungered to see his tennis once again.

He nodded.

His racket felt light in his arm, unusual, like a sword given to a novice in the middle of a war. His mind wandered to similar matches played between them. He had played Ryoma right after he had left to States, and he had lost, yet, he wished for nothing less, it had proved Echizen was ready to surpass him and evolve into a better player due to that.

He soon noticed his footwork couldn't keep up with the one-footed split step, and even Twist Serve turned out to be out of his reach. His body was forced to remember things he had long buried in his mind, and still appeared to be too stiff; his knowledge of what he could have done, dissatisfied him, Ryoma didn't even have to take him seriously. The frown was clearly telling Tezuka that he was not pleased with that.

Their roles reversed, this time Tezuka being the one utterly beaten, his volleys fell like words on deaf ears, his sloppy form made him look ridiculous, and most depressing was that his Zone was a pale shadow in comparison to Echizen's, plus he had lost the ability to perform his triumph card, The Zero-shiki drop shot. He was being pushed back, forced to defend himself against the force with which Ryoma came at him, all out.

The game ended 6-1 for Echizen, a total let down for he who had taught Ryoma the love for tennis, and subsequently being the one to turn his back to the passion and his purpose in life. Then, it was too late for regrets; he thought, until he saw averting his eyes, as if Ryoma was the one to have lost, and not him. Tezuka's heart sank, what was the reason for this match to take place so soon between them? He should have waited, should have let at least some months for his form to gain its outline, and not show Echizen this disgrace. But it was necessary.

The usual ritual was not forgotten; they went to the net and shook hands, Ryoma holding his hand longer while pinning him with a glare that sent chills down his spine, supposedly he could feel something in his advanced state of tiredness. "Buchou, what's this all about?" The tone of his voice bitter and indifferent, petrifying Tezuka in place. "Echizen…" Ignoring his enquiries would only get on his nerves, and Tezuka suspected as much, this trace of Ryoma could not have changed.

"What happened to you?" The waver lingered in his eyes being unsettling and assuring at the same time. Ryoma had not given up on him yet. "I …I hadn't played tennis since high school." He was gratified with disbelief, and then something shifted in the light of green hazel eyes, pity was not what he received, but a bored look, and this hurt like a slap. "So it seems, see you, Tezuka-san." Finally he let go of his hand and left, without a backward glance. Tezuka was wordless, entranced, not willing to move a step out of that court, he had foreseen all of it, though the feeling weighed like a forced intake of air, pressing tight against his chest, constricting his breath.

./.

For weeks Tezuka had to cope with both work and training sessions. He resumed pushing himself past his limits, running laps for all those years he thought he was doing the right thing not playing tennis, attaining therefore a portion of what he had been. Nevertheless, his perception on what was to be done sharpened, his hesitation waning gradually with his focus on the initial purpose of coming this far.

Within two months he was ready to face Echizen again and not embarrass himself. However, during this term he hadn't chased to play Ryoma week after week, and get beaten swiftly, just like in their first match together. Ryoma gave him each time a questioning look, an eyebrow raised, curious to know if Tezuka had it in him to regain his former self. After every match, he lingered longer on the bench, stealing glances at him, or just reclining his head on his arms and looking at the sky.

During one of these matches, Tezuka managed to do a decent zero-shiki serve, which earned him an open grin from Ryoma, and the mirrored technique, though belonging to him first, took his breath away. Being pro, shouldn't Ryoma play games with stronger opponents, that will make him improve, evolve? This was a nagging thought which haunted him during white nights, when sleep was a foreign companion. He enjoyed spending time in the compassionate silence that followed most of their encounters. Sharing a bottle of water, or stretching together, equaled a thousand of words for them.

Once, they were caught in a grueling rally, Tezuka slanted the ball with such power that it went blazing past Ryoma, and thus slamming into the wire fence. His surprised expression as he watched the ball hit the fence, took the weight from Tezuka's shoulders. With a crocked finger he commanded Kunimitsu to come to him. As they met at the net, he leaned closer to buchou and said:

"You still have a long way to go."

"Echizen, stop being careless!"

"Oh, are you really that good?"

"Now I am."

./.

Naturally, the seconds to their final confrontation drew closer with every sip of water they took, with every footstep meant to shriek the space between them. Everything had changed in the lapse of 2 months and Tezuka didn't even realize that not just his zone sucked people in, hardly, even a wrist could mesmerize him, overlooking of course the beads of sweat dripping slow past eyebrows and sliding tentatively into the crook of the neck. Not to mention eyes affectionate and sometimes intent, looking him square in the face, their intensity, almost palpable, nearly digging into his insides and wrecking everything out of order.

Only Ryoma had this effect on him.

On the 2nd of March they met again for their weekly match. Neither suspected this would be the beginning of everything. Ryoma slanted his racket over his shoulder, his glance challenging. The sight of him reminded Tezuka of early in the morning practices, laps, and hitting the balls on the wall till exhaustion, of not being careless on the eve of a tournament, of his shoulder and an unwanted flight to Germany in the middle of the Kantou Tournament. He couldn't detach the image of the young 12 year-old boy from the one of 20 year-old, not when the semblance was so uncanny.

"Buchou, will you beat me anytime soon?" asked Ryoma while they shook hands across the net.

"I will."

Ryoma eyed him from underneath his Fila cap, his black jersey fluttering in the wind, as he took his position at the baseline, a flickering smile gracing his undoubtedly mocking attitude."You can serve." A gift? Tezuka doubted it, more likely a test to prove himself worthy.

He scrupulously bounced the ball a few times, before blasted it swift enough, yet Ryoma intercepted it and sent it back searing with gravity, almost tearing the strings in Tezuka's racket. They rallied back and forth, though the ball represented only an excuse. Ryoma was spontaneous and deliberate in every move, with every smash gripping hold of games in a rather rapacious way that knew no way of confinement, once being set loose. Kunimitsu gritted his teeth, seizing the handle of his racket tighter as a Cyclone Smash was fired at him, as prepared as he was the ball was still heavier than he remembered, only by contacting his forearm, he succeeded in returning it with fervor, gaining an appreciative "Hmm" from Ryoma.

They were panting heavily half way through the first set, near collapsing from the extreme pressure they put on their bodies. Nonetheless, neither even glanced at the benches from the left corner of the court. Their eyes were focused on a sole person, their opponent, and the rest of the world chased to exist outside that court, aside from their mutual stubbornness of finishing what they started. They nodded at each other, resuming their play.

Relentless and vicious, Tezuka abandoned every likeness of carefulness, recurring to what he had been, letting his control slip on his moves, materializing even before the ball was hit, visualizing with exact clarity the path of the ball from the shift of the wrist, or the clatter of sneakers on the concrete. Ryoma had to give him credit for being the first to reach "The Pinnacle of Hard Work." Yet, even without his pinnacle, Ryoma still fought him on equal ground, losing several games, before regaining his composure, then throwing himself like a hawk, merciless, rapidly taking back what he lost.

Reaching deuce more often than grasping a game, they slowly headed into tie break, which never happened since Tezuka had arrived to America. For a second, Tezuka felt that they had been playing for years, and not hours, and in this light he knew he could play Echizen over and over again and not regret it one bit. The match was over to soon, a deceiving encounter that of course was not enough to satiate their longing for the other's game. Tezuka was for the first time in weeks the winner, which was not as important, as the sincere smile on Ryoma's face as he came to congratulate him.

"Good game, buchou."

"Yours too."

"Buchou, will you turn pro?" Tezuka considered for a moment his response, before nodding.

"Took you long enough", Ryoma said with mirth and Tezuka couldn't help but subtly smile in turn.

Fierce, emphatic, their best match yet, compensation for so many moments lost in miles of kilometers apart .Everything Tezuka had ever wanted was to extend a hand over the net and entwine their fingers together, never letting go.

./.

Tennis eagerly welcomed Tezuka, and he didn't disappoint them. He qualified to the semi-finals of U.S .Open; besting Spanish too full of himself, in time to face Ryoma in the finals. When it happened, Ryoma's opponent, in an act of rage, thought he could take advantage and injures the young pro. The ball came blazing towards Ryoma as he was sipping from his Ponta. In an instant Ryoma was lying on the ground lifeless, before Tezuka could even react. All hell came loose. Tezuka himself would have wanted to scream: A racket and a ball should never be used to injure anyone, regardless! But opted to check Ryoma's state and then to make sure the offender will be clearly disqualified for this.

An hour later he was on his way to the closest hospital.

What did Ryoma mean to him? Tezuka let his forehead rest on the boy's waist, holding that petite hand against his lips. Everything. Yet he hadn't confessed; he waited for the right time, for infinite signs that Ryoma felt the same way. Waiting is wasting opportunities; waiting is being on the other side of the net and trying to gauge your own loss.

He sighed with vague detached appreciation when he felt a warm hand caressing his hair. Ryoma opened his eyes.

"Tezuka?" His own name brought with it a sense of intimacy, Tezuka wanted to smile, he felt relived. He lifted his head slowly, setting his glasses in place. Ryoma…

"I am here." The tone of his voice betrayed nothing of his inner struggle.

"Gave you a scare there, haven't I?" Ryoma asked grinning, taking every doubt from Tezuka mind like lifting the sky from his shoulders.

"You have." Tezuka was half-reprimanding and half-glad to have him back. "Don't do it again, though." He states sternly. Be more careful, he wanted to reply, although, unnecessarily.

"Che, as if it were my entire fault!" Ryoma pouted. And he was right, of course, though the offender would not get away with it. Tezuka would make sure of it.

"That is true. However, it could have been avoided.'

'Whatever. This does not mean I'm going to lose to you.' Tezuka would have laughed out loud at that, though he resumed at just smiling in his own way.

'That also. The doctor advised you to rest until the final, therefore, Echizen, don't let your guard down.'

'He can't be serious. Does he realize who my opponent is? I won't do it.' Ryoma objected, always exasperated when he had to subdue to anyone.

'Echizen, overexerting yourself now will do you no good,' Tezuka quirked a brow, making his point.

'But…' Echizen sure was obstinate. Tezuka sighed. Neither this trait had changed, it seemed. Did the years pass in a whirlwind, altering little, or as an iceberg leaving the landscape unrecognizable? There is so much about Echizen that had changed. (The way his hair brushed his forehead, the added centimeters that added up naturally in a gradual layer, the color of his racket: white, whilst Tezuka's is red, his new acquired self-awareness.') . And there are the things that had become part of Echizen, to which details Tezuka held up though all these years. (His choice of beverage: Ponta, his white cap, his petulant attitude, his determination and his love for tennis.)

'Neither of us will be playing until the final, understood?' Tezuka expected to be listened to, despite him lacking the authority he once had.

'Heeh, does that mean you will keep me company?' Ryoma teased. Tezuka was well aware of it, being used to that kind of behavior by then.

'I might. Are you up to comply with everything the doctor prescribes you to do?' demanded Tezuka.

'Che. You always have to put it that way.' Ryoma replies as peeved as ever. 'It's so like you.'

'We're not talking about me here. Besides, I still have to hear your answer.'

'This is rare. You always are so perceptive. Hmm, could it be you're getting rusty?'

'Echizen.'

'Buchou.'

Tezuka sighed. 'I will come to visit you tomorrow. Until then, take care of yourself.'

'Thanks.' Ryoma said under his breath, nevertheless loud enough for Tezuka to hear. The honesty of it all made Tezuka turn slightly in the direction of the younger man.

'What is it?' asked Ryoma lowering his voice close to a whisper. Tezuka was rooted to the spot, like his soles had been glued to the ground with some powerful adhesive.

'Buchou?' Ryoma almost lifted his hand to startle Tezuka out of his daze. However, when he met the captain's eyes he himself froze in mid motion. If eyes had a voice of their own they would have said the following: Echizen, please forgive me for allowing this to happen, but I dared to care about you more than I should have. There was no way Ryoma couldn't decipher the meaning of that look. It sent a shiver through him, and everything was over in an instant.

Tezuka slid the door to the ward closed. 'Wait!' He could hear behind him. He had been careless to the point he almost admitted he was in love with Ryoma.