Part Two: Erase and Rewind

The news spread quickly, like a grenade had detonated on the grounds of Seigaku. It was probably because Horio still possessed the same glorious inability to keep his mouth shut that had so often landed him in trouble during middle school. By the first thing next morning, everyone had heard of it. Echizen Ryoma had quit tennis.

Tezuka hadn't been told directly, instead learning while listening to two of his classmates gossip during physical education.

"Remember that kid who shook up the tennis club back in middle school?"

"Yeah... wasn't his father the pro?"

"That's the one. Well, apparently he quit."

"Quit what? School?" The voice was dismissive. It wasn't uncommon for students to leave school upon completing middle school.

"No, tennis," the first voice sounded irritated.

Tezuka found his attention abruptly focused on the conversation with an intensity that would have frightened most sane men. His quick mind began to jog through the possibilities, but he listened carefully, wanting to know if they had any more information. Had it been his style, he would have grabbed the first speaker roughly, shaking him until he spilled everything he knew.

"So what?"

"Don't you think it's interesting? I heard he was going pro in America - maybe he found he couldn't cut it." The first speaker was amused, rather than concerned.

"Sucks to be him, then." The second drawled.

The conversation quickly turned to homework, and Tezuka let himself ruminate on what he'd learned. He had a hard time imagining Echizen Ryoma without tennis. The boy lived the sport, embracing it with every fiber of his being. For Ryoma to quit something major must have happened.

He could, of course, ignore the fact Ryoma was back, pretend he had no responsibility or obligation to him. Tezuka still envisioned him as a short middle school first year, too cocky and talented for his own good. It might be good for his development to start acting more responsibly. It could just be a phase. Tezuka couldn't believe that Ryoma has quit for good. In Ryoma, he saw the future of Japanese tennis.

He heard someone call his name. "Tezuka-san, it's your turn!" a boy whose name he never bothered learning said.

Tezuka stared without enthusiasm at the track. Today was sprints, never his strong point. He was an endurance athlete. "Coming," he replied, before taking his place in the blocks. He dismissed the matter of Ryoma until he could have a chance to think on it.

Later, when he was changed back into his uniform and straightening his collar, he hesitated as a new thought occurred to him. He hadn't considered the possibility that Ryoma couldn't play - though Oishi had suggested it in passing. It would explain his reticent attitude and unwillingness to seek out his old comrades. It wouldn't be unreasonable to believe that Ryoma had suffered from a career-ending injury. Tezuka remembered very well the sight of blood dripping across Ryoma's face during their first game against Fudomine, and the stubborn set of his chin when Oishi tried to make him forfeit.

His right hand drifted to his left shoulder, and he gripped it tightly as though to check it was still okay. He still had nightmares about being permanently disabled, permanently unable to play. How would Ryoma act, if such an unthinkable thing had happened? Probably very much like he was. His entire life had been tennis, and the loss could be devastating.

"Tezuka! Do you have your dictionary with you?" someone called from behind him. He turned to see Fuji Syuusuke leaning casually against the locker. He had finished changing already and was looking at Tezuka with curiosity.

Their shared English dictionary was something of a private secret between them. Fuji had the habit of "forgetting" his two days before his exams, and would politely ask to borrow Tezuka's to do his homework. He returned it the next day, full of sticky notes and marked pages.

Tezuka merely accepted it back, a bit relieved each time. With his schedule, finding time to do his homework was difficult, but he didn't want to copy someone's and not learn the information for himself. Fuji solved the problem neatly - he didn't do all the work for Tezuka, but he certainly made the task easier. It was the kind of thing a friend would do.

"Yes, it's in my bag." He nodded, and Fuji dug it out of the meticulously organized bag as Tezuka finished buttoning his shirt.

"Thanks, I'll return it tomorrow," Fuji said. Then he frowned a bit, staring into Tezuka's face. "Is something wrong, Tezuka?"

"Just thinking," he said.

"About Echizen?" There were times he could have sworn that Fuji was mildly telepathic. He gave a slight nod, and Fuji laughed softly. "It's all anyone is talking about. They still remember him."

"Has Momoshirou spoken to him yet?"

"No, but I think Kachirou has plans. I'm sure it won't be long until Eiji and Oishi start trying to corner him, or Inui decides he needs to do a study."

"And you?"

"Me?" The completely innocuous tone didn't fool Tezuka for an instant, and he leveled a searching look on Fuji. Fuji sighed, shook his head, and let the smile fade away from his lips. "I'm going to wait until everyone's done pestering him. He'll confess when he's ready, and not a moment before. I would consider calling Ryuuzaki-sensei, since she's always been close to Echizen's family, but she's currently in the US attending an international conference."

Tezuka didn't bother asking Fuji how he knew that. His information network rivaled Inui's. "If we don't know when she comes back, I'll speak to her." He paused for a second, wondering if his next question was going to be wise, but decided to ask it anyway. "What do you think?"

"I think something happened. The Echizen we knew lived for tennis." His eyes lingered on Tezuka's shoulder. "You can imagine that it would have to be a severe injury for him to stop because of that. I'm wagering it's personal."

Ryoma, though, didn't have a personal life as far as Tezuka knew. He had grown up playing tennis, living and breathing it through his father. Echizen Nanjirou would never let his son quit. A suspicion started to creep into the back of his mind, but he wasn't sure if he could voice it.

Fuji nodded slowly, answering the unspoken question. "Yes, I think it has something to do with his father."


They hadn't been able to get anything else out of Ryoma, and Kachirou felt more frustrated than he ever had before. Since learning Ryoma had returned, a small part of him had been hoping he'd get a chance to play against his friend, to see those legendary skills as an opponent instead of a fan. Ryoma had assumed nearly god-like stature to them, and he needed to know for himself how his current skills compared to the boy who had shattered convention.

He wasn't able to concentrate on class the next day, stealing looks out of the corner of his eye at Ryoma. The other boy seemed oblivious, taking notes as was required but otherwise not paying much mind to what was going on around him.

"Mizuno-kun!" a voice sounded, startling him. "Just what do you find so interesting over there?"

He jumped to his feet, a bright blush staining his cheeks. "Um, nothing..."

"Maybe you should go to hold buckets in the hall, to practice refocusing your attention?"

"Yes, sensei," he said agreeably, kicking himself mentally as the class twittered around him. He should have known better than to be so indiscrete, it was his own fault for getting caught.

The water buckets were heavy and his arms hurt within minutes, but he stood gamely, accepting his punishment. He could hear the sound of muffled speaking from within the classroom, but his mind tuned it out, concentrating on the slight tilt in the surface of the water as he shifted every few moments, trying to keep his muscles from being too strained.

He heard the bell ring, and with a sigh of relief he set the buckets down, rolling his shoulders to keep them from cramping. His sensei shot by him, offering him a glare, and Katsuo bowed his head with proper contrition.

He headed right back to class, and blushed a bit as Tetsuya, a friend of his who served as class representative, applauded. "Congratulations, Katsuo-kun! You have earned the honor of being the first member of 1-3 to be punished!" The others in the class tittered, except for Ryoma, who had his nose buried in notes. "Just so you don't forget, you're on cleaning duty for today with Echizen-kun."

He glanced over at Echizen curiously, hoping for some kind of reaction. He didn't get one - Ryoma had opened his history textbook and wasn't paying any attention. "Fine, fine," he agreed, hoping some time with Ryoma might help sort matters out.

For the rest of the day, Kachirou made sure to focus on the teachers. He couldn't afford to get in trouble, not while he was on the tennis team. There were strict rules of punishment for a player who didn't meet the club code, most involving rejected membership or suspensions.

Finally classes wrapped up, and he gave a relieved sigh after they had been dismissed. He had never been a stellar student - adequate, perhaps - and he wasn't used to focusing so hard on his schooling.

A few of his classmates bid him goodbye, with promises to tell Tezuka he was on duty for the day and would be late. He watched his classmates file out, their cheerful voices echoing back into the increasingly empty room. Finally they were alone, and he turned toward Echizen nervously. "So, Ryoma-kun, do you want to clean together, or you can do the class book while I start-"

Ryoma retrieved the notebook without a word to Kachirou, before opening it and making diligent notations. Kachirou sighed, wishing he dared to demand Ryoma actually acknowledge him verbally, but Ryoma had never been really verbal. Knowing his luck, he'd just earn one of Ryoma's trademark "you really can't be that stupid, can you?" glares.

He went to the chalkboard and starting to erase it, glancing over his shoulder

"So, Ryoma-kun, would you like to maybe get a burger or something sometime?" Kachirou said, hoping he wasn't stammering. He'd spent so much of his first middle school in awe of Echizen Ryoma that he felt awkward trying to treat him normally. He sounded like he was asking the other boy out on a date, he thought with a flush of humiliation.

Ryoma was quiet, and Kachirou resigned himself to being ignored. Then, amazingly, Ryoma spoke. "If you pay and don't invite Horio."

Kachirou caught himself gawking for a second, returned to the unsure first year he'd been in middle school instead of one of the most sought-after guys in his class. Then he caught himself, managing a smile. "Just this once, as a welcome home treat," he said. He remembered that Ryoma had been an expert at wheedling free lunches out of his friends, and didn't want to become a regular victim.

The slow, sly smile that appeared on Ryoma's face was one of the most natural Kachirou had seen his classmate wear since meeting again. "Fine," he agreed. "I'll meet you after your practice."

They finished cleaning together in relative silence, though Kachirou had a thousand things he wanted to say. It was hard for him to keep quiet, but he didn't want to take the chance of offending Ryoma and having him change his mind.

Tennis practice that day was amazingly dull. Most of the practice was devoted to conditioning, which meant multiple laps around the court and other tedious exercises. The regulars were performing endurance exercises, which made Kachirou tired just to watch. Inui was serving as club manager again this year, and his program was nothing short of hellish.

He could feel the minutes dragging by slowly. He usually loved playing tennis – even the stupid drills – but this time he wanted it to be over. His impatience made for a sloppy performance. He felt Tezuka's eyes on him, but his captain said nothing. Fuji noticed as well - he noticed everything - and raised an eyebrow. Kachirou just shrugged, figuring Fuji would draw his own, likely correct, conclusions.

Kachirou managed to sneak off early, since Katsuo agreed to pick up his slack. So instead of sweeping the courts like the rest of the first years, he made a mad dash for the clubroom to change his clothing. The regulars were already there, but no one made any comment. It was only as he was leaving that he thought he heard Fuji murmur, "Good luck."

He wasn't sure if he was surprised to find Ryoma waiting for him by the front gates. A part of him had been convinced Ryoma would back out, but Ryoma had always been as good as his word, although he had a tendency to run late for everything.

They went to a burger joint that had opened up two years before. It was located a block and a half away from the popular street tennis courts, and was frequented by many high school players. He thought he saw a Fudoumine jacket, but didn't try to identify the player.

Ryoma ordered three hamburgers and extra-large fries. Kachirou bought the same for himself, and they found a booth in the middle of the room. Ryoma used the ketchup liberally on his meal along with salt before digging in.

Kachirou tried to find a way to open the conversation. "Why you stop playing?" he asked, deciding to go for broke and shove his foot in his mouth.

Ryoma stared at him for a long moment. "I don't want to," he said.

"Why not? I mean, you were so good, you could have gone pro…"

Ryoma concentrated on his burger, eating it in four bites. His cheeks were puffed out comically wide, and Kachirou hoped he didn't end up choking. Then he proceeded to repeat the process with the other two sandwiches, finishing them off in less than thirty seconds. It was like watching one of those eating contests on television. Kachirou could only watch helplessly as Ryoma polished off his fries, knowing the other boy was trying to get away from him.

"Thanks for the meal," Ryoma said, rising to his feet and collecting his tray. He moved quickly, disposing his garbage and taking the exit.

Kachirou stared at him, then back at his dinner. With a groan, he pushed the meal aside so he could have the masochistic satisfaction of letting his head hit the table. He'd forgotten that Ryoma was such a stubborn jerk.


Tezuka wasn't a busybody by nature, but he couldn't leave things alone this time. He had been fond of Ryoma back in middle school, and Fuji seemed to think he could help. Fuji wouldn't have brought the subject up otherwise. It just wasn't about tennis. It was about responsibility.

Since he had no afternoon practice that Saturday (they'd met at the school at 6 a.m. because their coach had another obligation) Tezuka found Echizen in the library after school, seated at one of the tables located in the back. Ryoma was flipping through a book written in English, and Tezuka didn't speak the language well enough to understand the title. There was a picture of a man wearing old-fashioned Western clothing on the cover, with a gun in his hands. It most likely was a novel, something Echizen had never had time for before.

"Hello, Echizen," Tezuka said, staring at the first year and noting the changes. Ryoma was much taller than he recalled, probably able to look him squarely in the eye if he was standing. The face had lost its baby fat and was even more cat-like than before.

"Tezuka-san," Echizen replied, nodding his head with acknowledgement. The address was off for Tezuka, who only remembered being called "buchou" by the young man.

Tezuka tilted his head to the seat across from Echizen, asking permission to sit. A slight incline of Ryoma's head indicated consent, but not welcome. Theirs was a subtle dance of nonverbal signals, and Tezuka was determined to make it succeed.

He sat quietly across from Echizen for several moments, waiting for the younger boy to make the first move. Ryoma merely looked at him briefly, before picking up his book again. It was a deliberate insult.

Tezuka knew how to play this game. He folded his hands carefully in front of him, keeping his gaze steady and unaffected. Normal people would eventually flinch under his stare; no one liked being looked at for to long. Maybe it was a vestigial instinct, come from a more violent time. No matter why it happened, Tezuka had learned to use the skill to his advantage. He had immense wellsprings of patience and could stare someone down for hours.

Ryoma lasted longer than most, but eventually he cracked. Setting his book aside with a thud of the covers, he folded his hands in front of him. "Well?" he asked, with a mixture of impatience and rudeness. Had he been a member of the club, Tezuka would have given him twenty laps for it.

"I believe my first question is obvious," Tezuka stated.

Ryoma sighed, as though being heavily put-upon. "I don't play tennis anymore, so there's no point in joining a club for it, is there?"

It was like getting sucker punched in the stomach, hearing it directly from Echizen. Tezuka maintained his stoic facade, but inside he felt like something had been turned inside out. He had always known that he wouldn't go professional, not after his arm was injured, but he had pinned his hopes for a legacy on his protégée .

"Why not?" he asked. "Were you injured?" was the second question out of his mouth. He knew about sports injuries, and understood how frustrating they could be. It took a lot of willpower to work through one, but he would have expected Echizen to possess that. Sharp eyes studied Ryoma, trying to detect where a flaw might lie.

"No," Ryoma said, not elaborating. Tezuka waited a long moment, before the first year sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. He was trying to act cool, but his hand was shaking slightly. "There's no need for me to play anymore."

He had thought there was some rational explanation, but an Echizen not playing tennis defied all logic. "No need?" Tezuka echoed. He could think of a hundred things to serve as motivation. "What did your father say?" he asked, pressing. Fuji has thought it might involve Nanjirou somehow, and Fuji's instincts with people bordered on preternatural. If Ryoma and Nanjirou had fallen out, it would explain the

"Nothing. My father died a month ago," Ryoma said. "Brain aneurysm." There was a clinical, detached edge to his words. He wasn't being confrontational about it, merely stating a fact.

It was a hit to Tezuka, who felt like the breath had been let out of him like an exploding balloon. Nanjirou had been a man in his prime, not the kind to die so young. He had admired the man for his skill and determination. The Legendary Samurai Nanjirou had been one of the reasons he had selected Seigaku, all those years ago.

What would his death mean to Ryoma, still so impressionable at fifteen? Despite his attitude, he was only a teenager. Tezuka opened his mouth to murmur the customary condolences, but found the words evaporating before he could bring them to life. He knew how much Ryoma had idolized his father, even though he never showed it. He wouldn't play tennis like he did unless he genuinely felt something for the sport.

The long silence lingered between them, the proverbial elephant in the living room, before Ryoma chuckled weakly. The smile on Ryoma's face was ironic. "I know," he said, answering Tezuka's uncertainty in replying. "I don't know what to say, either."

"Ryoma, are you okay?" Tezuka asked hesitantly. "I mean, is there..." What could he offer? There was no way he could fix this problem, and he didn't like platitudes.

"There's nothing anyone can do. People die, it happens," Ryoma said. He looked down at the book he was reading, staring at the pages without really seeing it. Tezuka realized he hadn't seen Ryoma turn the pages at all. "And we move on."

"Did you only play because of your father?" Tezuka asked. Tezuka remembered that game, back in junior high, when he'd challenged Ryoma and forced him to confront the fact he didn't see tennis

"No," Ryoma said. "I played because I liked it, but I don't anymore."

Tennis and Nanjirou were synonymous to Ryoma; he wouldn't be able to play without thinking of him. Tezuka tried to think of a counter argument, to persuade Ryoma that his father wouldn't want him to quit, that he was dishonoring everything Nanjirou had stood for. The argument froze in his mouth, since he knew it wasn't his place to make it. Ryoma was perfectly in his rights to stop playing.

The sound of a ring tone chiming saved Tezuka from saying anything awkward. Ryoma pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, checking the screen quickly. "I need to go to the store for my mother," he announced as he put it away before cleaning up his books. "Excuse me, buchou."

Tezuka murmured a farewell, but remained behind to think. Once he had sought to inspire Echizen to reach for greater heights than merely defeating his father. He had always believed he'd gotten through, but apparently he failed.

He ran over the conversation in his head, coming to the conclusion that Ryoma had made up his mind. This wasn't a hysterical reaction, and by all rights, Tezuka should drop the subject and let Ryoma go his own way - but he couldn't. He remembered Ryoma's exit, and the ingrained respect he'd shown.

Excuse me, buchou...

He was the captain. He needed to provide leadership for his protégée now, more than ever. He just had no clue what direction to lead.