Confession time: I hadn't caught up on Shin Tennis no Oujisama when I was writing this. So the story isn't very canon-compliant when it comes to events in ShinPuri. Sorry if it causes any confusion.


[Released Friday, February 5, 2016]

Chapter 4. Friday

Friday morning is bright and sunny. A crisp autumn day with surprisingly clear sky for Tokyo. Fuji's mood is positive and remains positive through breakfast with Tezuka.

After breakfast they sit together at the table at Fuji's insistence, since Tezuka has figured out how to sit on chairs now. On Tezuka's side of the table steams a fragrant cup of green tea. Tezuka's lips curl up briefly in amusement when Fuji sets down a cup before him, but raises his hands to cradle the ceramic mug anyway. Fuji has a cup of coffee in his hand, and it's the special grind he favors, an imported one from the Dominican Republic. Thanks to his world-traveling parents and sister, he has developed a taste for wide variety of coffee and tea. The Dominican coffee in particular has a smooth, gentle taste which makes it a choice comfort drink for mornings when he needs quiet in his own thoughts.

"You know," Fuji says halfway through his coffee. "The problem is, I really cannot imagine what you might be seeking here. Like I said, it's been ten years since we've even met in person. The person I knew then isn't the same person you are today. I don't have the faintest clue what the twenty-five-year-old Tezuka Kunimitsu would want."

"It's probably not something my twenty-five-year-old self wants," Tezuka says easily. "Or I would have gone elsewhere. If I came to you, I'm guessing it's something that dates back ten years ago."

"That's what puzzles me, then." Fuji takes a few more sips from his cup. "You see, you left ten years ago because you'd achieved everything you wanted to do here, in Japan."

"What did I want then?" Tezuka sounds curious, but in a detached way. Like discussing someone else. Fuji supposes that is more or less the case here.

"Winning the national title," Fuji says immediately. "That was the dream you'd had since our first year in junior high school. At Seishun Gakuen tennis club. We called it Seigaku for short."

There is no flicker of recognition in Tezuka's eyes. "It feels familiar," Tezuka allows. "But I don't think that's it. Can you tell me more?"

"Seigaku was a school known for its strong tennis club, but it had stalled for years by then. When you and I entered, Seigaku tennis club hadn't even made it past the prefectural tournament in years. But in our second year, when you and I were Regular members along with some of our friends, we made it into the regional tournament." Fuji doesn't mention Tezuka's injury in the first year, or how it worsened in the second year. Maybe it's high-handed of him, wanting to spare Tezuka from the more painful memories. But for now, he sticks to the barebones of their history. "In our third year, we had a special addition to the club: Echizen Ryoma, son of an alumnus who is arguably one of the best tennis players in history. Echizen was rather special himself. He became one of our Regulars that very year." Fuji's lips curve at the memory. "Together, our team made it to the prefectural, the regional, and then the national tournament."

"Which was my dream." Tezuka repeats. He doesn't sound disbelieving, but doesn't sound like any of this sparks real recognition, either. "Why was it my dream?"

"Well, I think you always liked tennis. But when you were a first year, Captain Yamato – that person was our captain then – he and you made a promise. You promised to become Seigaku's support pillar, and lead us to the national. In our third year, you became our captain and kept that promise."

"So I left after that."

Fuji feels a frown creasing his brows. "Not quite. We all went to a junior selection camp that year. It's usually limited to high school students. But that year, there were so many exceptional junior high school students, some of us were invited to the selection camp." A memory tugs at him, and he adds, impulsively, "Actually, you were invited to join the year before that, too. You didn't go—"

Tezuka waits him out patiently. Fuji sighs. He hadn't wanted to discuss Tezuka's injury if he could help it, but his slip has made it necessary, after all.

"Because of an injury. That you had since your first year at Seigaku. In the second year, it became exacerbated. You didn't tell us." Which was a sore point. Fuji had found out anyway, but that wasn't the issue. Fuji forces his thoughts back to the present. "It was the reason you missed the selection camp in your second year. You recovered in time for the tournament season in third year, but you sustained another injury during the regional. You managed a comeback before the national tournament began." When he thinks about it, that part is actually the most miraculous part of the whole tale. Fuji pauses to collect his thoughts, then begins again.

"The selection camp during our third year, it was..." The fierce competitions among the courts, then with the numbered players. Tezuka's departure after his match against their former captain, Yamato Yuudai. Their own match. "We had a meaningful time there. But you realized you'd achieved everything you needed to, that your promise was fulfilled in every sense. There was no reason for you to stay anymore. You could play tennis for your own sake. So you left for Germany."

"So we never saw each other after the selection camp."

"Ah, no. I visited you in Germany during the following spring break." His throat feels strangely dry all of a sudden. Fuji takes another sip. "That was the last time we saw each other." In a long swallow, he finishes his coffee. "And that's all I know."

Tezuka sits in silence, hands wrapped around the cup which is still steaming faintly. "You came to visit me in Germany."

"Yes."

"That's a long way for one visit."

Fuji's jaw clenches, and it takes him a moment to relax. "All of us were close back then."

"But only you came to see me."

"You owed me a rematch," Fuji replies in what he hopes is a playful tone. Tezuka does not look convinced, but doesn't call him on it.

"When was our last match before that?"

"Just before you left the selection camp." Fuji knows his answer is short, coming out almost clipped. He had anticipate all this would come up when they talk about their past. That is why he didn't want to talk to Tezuka in the beginning. Only, he hadn't realized how much it would bother him to remember. Time has dulled the sharp edges of his memories, lulled him into a sense of forgetfulness. He holds back a curse. Like or not, there is no going back. And he really does need Tezuka to move on, to leave. All this – talking and sharing daily routines and saying good mornings and good nights – it's becoming too familiar. He doesn't want any of this to become a part of his life. He had a life before. He wants it back, he thinks viciously. That's all he wants.

"I won," Tezuka guesses. Not entirely accurate, but effectively true, so Fuji says nothing. "Since you said I owed you a rematch. Were those the only times we ever played? You said we were teammates."

"There was one more time, in our first year. But you were injured then."

"So I lost," Tezuka finishes. "During the selection camp, our third year, that was our first real match."

That isn't quite right. Fuji manages to bite back the words this time before they escape. National final against Rikkai. Niou. Illusion.

Tezuka.

"First real match," Fuji echoes. "Yes."

"Fuji." Tezuka's voice is quiet, but precise as a razor blade. "I don't know if I can leave unless I find whatever it is I'm missing." Then, more kindly, he continues. "I understand you don't want to tell me any of this. If the past was something you wanted to revisit, you would have kept in touch." Of course Tezuka would have realized that. Even without his memories, Tezuka had accurately guessed that not keeping in touch wasn't his decision. Tezuka's voice is all the more devastating for its gentleness. "I'm sorry. I can't think of any other way."

"I fought your shadow during the national tournament, through another opponent," Fuji says in a rush. "That was all. It's not... I'd won then. For some reason, even though we were in the same club for three years, you and I never played against each other. During the national, what I defeated was merely a shadow. An illusion. But it made me want to face you for real. And we did, during that selection camp." Started to, anyway, but he doesn't know how to explain this, any of this.

"And again, in Germany, when you came to visit me in spring," Tezuka adds. His voice is still very gentle. "And you won, then."

Fuji knows he hasn't mentioned that. Actually he'd never mentioned that to anyone. That match was a personal score, something private between them. "How did you figure that out?"

Tezuka slants him a look, halfway between knowing and challenging. "I think you would have tried until you won. If that was the last time we ever played, then you must have."

"You are distressingly your usual self, memory or no memory," Fuji informs him archly. Tezuka rewards him with another quirk of mouth, a quicker, smaller version of his rare smiles.

"Memory or no memory, I think I would have had one question." Tezuka stops, a slight frown on his face. After a moment of silence, he looks up at Fuji, more neutral expression in place. "I gather from all you've said that I really love tennis."

"More than anything, I would have said," Fuji agrees.

"And I am a professional tennis player."

"One of the best in the world. You won Wimbledon this year for a career grand slam. Actually, if you hadn't dropped out of French Open, you might have had a fair shot at a calendar-year grand slam."

"Why did I drop out?"

Fuji hesitates. Tezuka has a right to know, but... "Death in the family," Fuji says softly. "I heard your grandfather had passed away." On that occasion Fuji had, albeit second-handed through Oishi, sent an expression of condolence to the Tezuka family in an unprecedented breach of his decade-long silence.

"Ah."

The soft syllable is too quiet to read any emotion from it. Not that Tezuka tends to be expressive even during a normal conversation. "It was unexpected," Fuji explains. "Your grandfather was in excellent health. It was right after the main draw started. You were..." Tezuka was never in the habit of speaking about himself, or his family life. But from what little Tezuka had said over the three years of their acquaintance, Fuji had gleaned Tezuka held a great deal of respect and affection for his grandfather. He inhales carefully, and sidesteps, just a little. "You were the favorite to win. You were excellently placed in your draw as well. Echizen was in your block, but you usually have an edge over him on clay."

He'd stopped all private communication with Tezuka after that spring visit ten years ago, but it doesn't mean Fuji lost all interest in Tezuka's progress. He has followed Tezuka and Echizen's careers with attention, if in strict silence and privacy. It is also how he heard about Tezuka's accident, although he'd purposely neglected to find out the specifics of it.

Fuji still hasn't looked up details of the accident even after finding Tezuka in his kitchen. He didn't want to know then and especially doesn't now. Possibly, it is just as well that Tezuka himself doesn't remember.

If Tezuka thinks it strange that Fuji, for all that they've been out of touch for a decade, has apparently kept up with his tennis career, he doesn't let on. "Perhaps my goal was to achieve a calendar-year grand slam. Or to be ranked number one in the world."

Maybe. But Fuji doubts it. "I wouldn't know."

"What do you think?"

"Are you asking for my opinion?"

Tezuka doesn't even blink. "Yes."

"I don't think so."

"But my goal ten years ago was to win the national tournament."

This is harder than Fuji expected. More so because now that he is trying to explain, he isn't so sure if he knows any of this with certainty. "I think you genuinely wanted us to be strong, to succeed. And a good part of that was because of your promise to Captain Yamato." Tezuka nods. "I think you saw it as your responsibility to push us. To pull us along. To stand together in that place. To win. But, above all else, I think you just loved tennis."

Which is so strange to think now. Given Tezuka once picked an argument with him for his unwillingness to go all out for the win. But now, ten years older if not necessarily wiser, Fuji thinks maybe it wasn't so much his unwillingness to push for victory as his unwillingness to push himself. The drive to win is an excellent motivator to excel, to become better, to overcome limits. Back then, in that match in the rain against Echizen, he would have found it interesting, maybe even satisfying to see Echizen break his Triple Counters. But having his favorite techniques broken wouldn't have pushed him to develop something even more amazing in return, to become stronger. Not then. It took his defeat at Shiraishi's hands to get there.

"You scolded me once, you know. For not going all out for a win. Said that all you could think of at that time was victory for Seigaku. And you did sacrifice a great deal for that. You even risked your future career as a tennis player." Fuji is at a strange mental place. The memories still hurt, but there is a strange, greater calm underneath, something that keeps him afloat in their midst. "But I think, at the heart of it all, you were frustrated with me for not taking tennis seriously. Winning isn't everything, and I think you always knew that. But the desire to win, the competitive drive – it's a great way to push ourselves to reach beyond our limits. I think you wanted me to understand that."

"But you didn't stay."

Once, he'd expected those words would be like a stab of a knife. Now, it feels more like a jab from a stick. Still a tender spot, but not precisely a wound. "As a tennis player, no. I wanted other things out of my life."

Tezuka is silent for a long moment. When Fuji sneaks a look at his face, Tezuka looks as impassive as ever. After the silence begins to feel uncomfortable, Tezuka looks up, meets his eyes, and inclines his head briefly.

"Thank you, Fuji. I think I have enough to consider for the moment."

"You're welcome," Fuji replies cautiously. It's still morning. He has all of today and the next two days to help Tezuka. He hadn't actually expected Tezuka to be the one to put the brakes on this. What he had expected was for Tezuka to ask him incessant questions about everything and drive him quietly insane. At least it would have been more natural. Still, the mixture of subtle annoyance and respect is a familiar company in Tezuka's vicinity. The thought makes him smile. "I was thinking about how to do our research. On how we might send you on."

"Library?" Tezuka hazards a guess.

Fuji laughs. "Internet first. We can sort out which information is available only in print, then hit the library after." Tezuka doesn't quite make a face, but comes close enough that Fuji laughs again. "It's more efficient. Even at my work I'm considered old-fashioned because I still like building physical models. Most of it can be done with a computer program these days, so most of my colleagues do almost everything by computer."

Tezuka looks intrigued. "What do you do?"

"I'm an architect." This is one thing that he has always thought would surprise even Tezuka. It has surprised everyone else in his life.

Tezuka merely quirks a brow. "You were good at everything, weren't you? When we were in school together."

"Not everything. Science was always my weakness."

This time, Tezuka's lips distinctly take on a curvature of a smug smile. Almost a smirk really. Oishi might faint, Fuji thinks with mild exasperation. "Only if it involved memorizing endless formulas you couldn't see the point of. Physics, maybe. You were probably fine with biology."

Fuji had won prizes for his paper on cacti. He gives Tezuka a half-hearted glare. "You know, in the ten years I haven't seen you, you've gotten more annoying."

"Have I?" The question is half genuine. And half amused. Fuji shakes his head.

"Or, in your everyday absence, rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia may have softened my memories of you," Fuji says loftily.

"Perhaps."

Oishi would definitely faint. Maybe Inui, too. Probably Eiji as well. Fuji is amused despite himself at the thought. Besides, it's...nice, bantering with Tezuka like this. When they were young Tezuka wasn't the joking sort, always too serious for his own good. But when Fuji teased him, usually good-naturedly, Tezuka never backed down, either. Pushed right back. There was a reason Fuji liked teasing Tezuka the best. Most people he has met never push back as much as Tezuka does.

The memory of their duel during the athletic festival in second year makes him smile. It was just a silly kibasen match. Yet long after theirs were the last two teams standing, the two of them had continued with their evenly-matched fight to snatch each other's colored cap until the teachers were forced to step in and call the match a draw. Their poor classmates who had played the role of their "horses" had been utterly exhausted.

Tezuka is watching him, but doesn't ask. Instead, when Fuji lifts an inquiring eyebrow at him, Tezuka changes the topic. "Can you show me? Your work."

The question genuinely surprises him. "Sure," Fuji answers, pleasure an unexpectedly bright flare in his mind. "Hold on. Let me grab my laptop. My desktop is in my study, but you can't go there. I'll be right back."


By the time they take a break for lunch, Fuji is irritated to realize they haven't done any actual research pertaining to Tezuka's predicament. But then again, he hadn't expected Tezuka to show so much interest in his work. Since Tezuka doesn't remember anything about himself, perhaps his curiosity is naturally bent toward things he can find out more easily. Still, Fuji isn't sure what to make of the fact all of Tezuka's favorites are his own favorite projects as well.

"Why architecture?" Tezuka asks when Fuji finishes eating. Tezuka's attention is still mostly on the looped slideshow Fuji made as an impromptu portfolio of his projects, both the ones he'd managed and the ones he'd worked on under someone else's leadership. He hadn't tried putting together a portfolio since getting the current position three and a half years ago. Back then, his portfolio had been much smaller, consisting of half a dozen student projects, a couple winning entries for contests, and four and a half projects he'd been involved in on his first job. He finds himself surprised by the sheer volume of material he has accumulated since then.

"Since I was little, I liked taking pictures. Mostly nature and landscapes at first, but then I branched out to people and architecture." It feels strange to be explaining this to Tezuka. This is the kind of answer he's given for job interviews and the media. And occasionally, even to friends and family. At its finest, architecture is a creative work with an endless possibility of innovation. Art, in its most viscerally utilitarian incarnation. He enjoys the work immensely. "I guess at some point I wanted to become more actively involved in the creation of the subjects I'm recording, rather than simply taking pictures of them."

"You enjoy incorporating nature into your work."

"When I can," Fuji agrees. "Unfortunately it's not often." Most people envision fantasy houses and grand monuments and famous landmarks when the word architecture is mentioned. However, the truth is most of his works consist of mundane details like shops and offices, and not even necessarily new constructions at that. Many of the times, his job is to renovate pre-existing structures, or just change the interior of a select space without ever touching the rest of the building. Getting to design a nature-based space, even a small garden, often feels like a gift.

"Tennis. Photography. Architecture." Tezuka is still looking at the slideshow, although by now he must have seen all the pictures at least five times. "I didn't know about the last one."

That is a question. "Probably not." He may have won some prizes, and garnered moderate media attention, but most of that has been in Japan. Plus Fuji, like most young architects launching their career under someone else's company, cannot claim full credit for his projects or the recognition that independent architects take for granted. He doubts Tezuka would have found out any of this even if he were actively searching. "It's not something you would have been interested in."

"Architecture? Or that you chose it?"

"Both, I think." Once, Fuji thought both to be absolutely true. But after the morning he had, he's no longer sure if the first is true.

The second still is, he's certain of it. The moment he decided tennis wasn't something he wanted to pour his life into, he would have ceased to matter in Tezuka's world.

His exhalation is very careful. And quiet.

"We should really get a start on researching about your current situation," Fuji says. "We've probably spent too much time talking about my work. We may have to put off the library visit until tomorrow." Belatedly Fuji recalls Tezuka can't come with him anyway. "Hopefully we'll find something soon. I don't think my boss will be very happy if I ask for any more days off, at least for a while. This was really on short notice even for me."

Tezuka's eyes follow him while he closes the files and refreshes the browsers. Fuji can feel their path almost like a physical touch. He ignores the shivery, prickling feeling along his skin, and pulls up a new browser to begin their search.


Hours after dinner, even with all his professional experience staring at a computer screen, Fuji is beginning to get a headache. To be fair, he's actually been at it longer even than his normal work hours. Nowhere close to his record during one of the company's rush projects (19 hours and 42 minutes on an unbroken stretch, with even meals and breaks taken at his desk), but getting tiresome regardless.

"You should rest," Tezuka says quietly. Fuji isn't sure if specters can get tired also, but he is keenly aware that Tezuka cannot actually perform the search by himself even if Fuji leaves the laptop out in the kitchen or living room overnight. Still, the ache in his neck spreading down his back tells him his body is probably nearing its limit.

"We should have done this in my study," Fuji says, rotating his neck to work out the worst of the cricks. "I have a much better chair there. More ergonomic." He then recalls why they didn't, and sighs. "Sorry. I keep forgetting."

"Because you're getting tired," Tezuka points out patiently. "Rest, Fuji. We can start again in the morning. I have enough information to go over while you rest."

That is an annoyingly reasonable suggestion. "Sleep is a fallacy," Fuji decides, interrupted by a yawn he dismisses irritably. "But I suppose yes, the rest of us mortals must succumb." Suppressing another yawn, he stands and stretches. "Alright, I'm off to bed. Try and see if you can make it to my study for tomorrow. It'd make my life easier."

"I will. Good night, Fuji."

"Good night, Tezuka," he replies automatically. Then pauses, and leaves quickly.

Right. There is a reason he wanted to help Tezuka move on. And a lot of it has to do with how readily and disturbingly he is becoming accustomed to Tezuka's presence. Maybe Yuuta was onto something when he remarked Fuji is too weird for his own good. Most normal, sane people probably don't become used to having a ghost around. Hell, the normal, sane response is probably to scream and run the other way.

Memories of the past were bad enough. He doesn't need a ghost to make it worse. He is going to help Tezuka move on, and then he can move on with his own life. Life goes on, no matter what. That, he is quite familiar with. Fuji lies on the bed, defiantly counting sheep even as sleep fails to descend. In stubbornness alone Tezuka has probably met his match in Fuji. And if Fuji wants to lie in his bed wide awake as if sheer willpower would make sleep possible, then he damned well will.


NOTE: "Kibasen" – "cavalry battle" – is a common event for athletic festivals in Japan. Three people make up the "horse" and carry the fourth member of the team, who try to knock off other competitors from their "horse" or snatch their bandanna (or cap), either of which would meant defeat. The mention of Tezuka vs Fuji kibasen (outcome undecided) is found in the fanbook Pair Puri vol 10 Fuji x Shishido COUNTER.