Aishuu Offers:
Thirty

Disclaimer: Konomi-sensei Pairings: TezuFuji, OishiEiji, RyoSaku

NOTE: This chapter was mistakenly omited.

An unpleasant ringing woke Tezuka from his slumber. While it wasn't unusual for him to be woken by ringing, the sound wasn't quite right to be his alarm clock. Half-blind without his glasses, he fumbled around as his fuzzed mind processed that yes, it was his phone demanding his attention as the red numbers on his alarm clock starkly proclaimed that it was in fact 3:19 a.m.

If it was a wrong number, he would use his caller ID to give the number to a telemarketer, he vowed as he tossed his warm blankets off and was hit by a blast of cold air. If it was a right number, and someone wasn't dead, he would do the same. Tezuka finally found the phone in the stained pockets of yesterday's pants, and managed to answer it. "Hello."

Atobe's amused drawl met him. "It's 3:30 in the morning, and do you know where your kohai is?"

Tezuka was still too befuddled with sleep to process what Atobe meant. "Atobe..." he said.

Rich laughter bubbled down the line, and Tezuka, fed up, just hung up. He found hanging up on annoying people the most effective method - usually they got the hint. There were the ones like Inui, who seemed to derive perverse pleasure from it, but those were the exception.

The phone rang again, and he debated not answering, but he knew that Atobe would keep calling until he did. Atobe was persistent.

"This is Tezuka."

"Really, Tezuka. You need to work on your phone etiquette," Atobe said condescendingly.

He was not in the mood for putting up with banter. He glanced over at his bed, figuring he could squeeze in another three hours of sleep if he managed to get rid of Atobe. "What do you want?"

"I suggest you check on Ryoma."

Tezuka didn't bother. Atobe sounded way too smug, the slight sing-song indicative of exactly what Tezuka would find.

"He's gone, isn't he?"

"Give the man a cigar," Atobe said.

"How do you know where Echizen Ryoma is at 3:22 in the morning? Shouldn't you be in bed with your wife?" At the moment, all he wanted was to go back to sleep. If Atobe knew where Ryoma was, Tezuka figured the situation would work itself out – preferably at a decent hour.

"Meow. You're getting cranky in our old age, Tezuka," Atobe said. "And as to why I know, it's because I'm the one who bailed him out of jail."

A thousand thoughts ignited in Tezuka's head like a grenade striking the ground, and it took several moments for him to discard the waste the revelation left in its wake. Sorting things through, he realized a few essential facts.

One: Ryoma had been arrested, which meant he had been doing something illegal. Two: Atobe was somehow involved, either as a part of the incident or as a witness. Three: Ryoma was famous so the press would be all over it.

"Have any reporters..."

"I've already paid a few substantial bribes to have the matter erased from the record, and make people develop some convenient cases of amnesia." Atobe paused. "We really shouldn't be discussing this over the phone."

"Where are you?"

"I've sent a driver. Sorry about the new outfit I promised — it's going to have to wait till tomorrow. You understand, I expect you to wear it? Ja." Then he hung up.

He wasn't sure if the German-speaking Atobe was saying "yes" in answer to his own question or abbreviating "ja ne..."

Tezuka just wanted to sort out the whole mess. Hopefully Ryoma hadn't caused any permanent damage. He supposed he would find out shortly.

As he slipped into his clothes, Tezuka wondered if Atobe was going to be bailing his second person out of jail before the day was done. When he got his hands on Ryoma, he was going to strangle him.

Tezuka was deposited in front of one of Atobe's apartment buildings less than forty minutes later. A man had picked him up in a discrete car, one that lacked the flash of the vehicles Atobe usually preferred. The driver said nothing as he navigated the streets with much more care than Atobe would have employed. The building was one that Atobe owned and kept a penthouse in, along with a mistress. Tezuka couldn't remember her name — Atobe switched them about once a year.

The security guard was well trained in what not to notice. A man coming in at 4 a.m. after being dropped off by one of Atobe's employees was on that list. He merely nodded to the express elevator before returning his eyes to the security cameras.

Tezuka felt like he was entering a surreal world, where sounds were all slightly hushed and everything was cloak and dagger. The elevator seemed like a gate to some mysterious place, and he wondered what kind of reality would lay behind it.

There were two penthouse apartments, and he couldn't remember which one was Atobe's. As he stepped off the elevator into the small lobby, he stared back and forth thoughtfully... before ringing the first. Atobe was never second to anyone.

The door was immediately flung open by a platinum blonde wearing a rather racy lingerie outfit. She didn't look Japanese, he thought, since the hair seemed natural. Blue eyes blinked at him for a second before sweeping him in a long, slow appraisal, lingering on his groin. A slight smile sprang to her lips, but before she could speak, Tezuka heard Atobe call out.

"Tezuka, is that you?"

"Yes."

"Marie, let him in."

The blonde stepped away, but not far enough that Tezuka couldn't avoid brushing by her.

"Excuse me?" he asked, but Marie merely smiled at him.

"Yes?"

"You're in my path."

"You can squeeze by."

"There's no reason to."

Tezuka felt like he was dealing with a cat who saw him as a particularly amusing toy. The exchange might have continued, but Atobe's voice cut through like a knife. "Stop giving Tezuka a hard time, Marie. I need to talk to him."

"Spoilsport!" she called, but finally relented, winking at him playfully as she gracefully stepped aside.

The penthouse was much like any of Atobe's other properties in that it was obscenely opulent, but the careful eye could understand what its true intention was. Black leather furniture, a rug thrown by a fake fireplace, a few pieces of art off the wall that could be used as convenient handholds — it was obvious this was someone's love nest.

"They're in the bedroom." She nodded at the door on the left wall, before shifting her robe a bit, though the shift did nothing to make her appearance more modest. He didn't bother to stare at the additional cleavage she had just exposed, instead bowing his head in thanks before turning to Atobe's den.

The room was much like he expected, but he was a bit taken aback by the people inside. The room was deep blue, and as his feet sank into the inch-thick carpet, he saw the four candles which had been lit glowing discreetly off to the side. Tezuka wasn't particularly fond of cinnamon, but it made the air heavy with the kind of sensuality Atobe lived for.

Atobe was sitting on an over-stuffed chaise, his legs crossed as he flipped through the pages of some kind of report. His appearance was as immaculate as it had been when Tezuka had bit him farewell yesterday, though he had changed into a more casual outfit that screamed Ralph Lauren. He cocked an eyebrow, before tilting his head slightly to the bed.

"You really should keep better track of him," Atobe drawled. He dropped his attention back to the papers in his lap, apparently losing interest.

Tezuka didn't want to press at this point. There would be time enough for questions, as soon as he checked on Ryoma. Taking a few quick strides, he knelt down beside the bed.

It was a dichotomy, seeing Ryoma on the bed. He had passed out – probably from alcohol if the smell was any indication – and was sleeping almost peacefully. A strange androgynous character had been granted to him, perhaps by the unbound hair which was pooled on the satin pillow. The lines of cynicism had been smoothed away from his eyes, and for a second Tezuka could imagine that he was the same boy he had met in junior high.

Almost. The bruises on his face told a story that this was a person who had been places. He was tempted to brush the bangs away from Ryoma's face, much in the manner he would deal with a sick child, but Atobe's presence and his own common sense both stopped him. Sentimentality was something he would never embrace, especially not if he wanted to keep Ryoma's respect.

Reassured that Ryoma's breathing was even and that there seemed to be no permanent damage, Tezuka spoke to Atobe without looking away from his protégé. "What happened?"

"Bar fight. How cliché," Atobe's derision was searing.

"Were you involved?"

Atobe sigh was extremely pained. "Really, Tezuka. I had a friend who's on the police force call me. Hiyoshi recognized him and didn't want to have to deal with the stress of the press finding out Echizen Ryoma had been booked on a drunk and disorderly. He called me, and I sorted it out. A problem avoided for everyone involved."

"Why is he here?"

"Reporters know not to follow me here. If they print anything, I'll sue them for invasion of privacy," Atobe explained, and there was a rustling sound as the papers were set aside.

Tezuka turned away from the bed, knowing that Ryoma would probably be sleeping off the alcohol for quite a while. "Atobe, why is he here?" It wasn't like Atobe to be altruistic. There was always a reason for his motives, a pay off to his investments.

Something that might have been fondness glimmered in Atobe's eyes as he glanced over at the bed. "You're not the only one with an interest in him,

Tezuka," said Atobe.

Some might have been tempted to mock, but Tezuka understood. Ryoma had always been something special, something unique. The special charisma that had drawn others to him was parallel to what made Tezuka himself tick – the ability to make people stand still and hold their breath, waiting to see what he would do. When Ryoma was on a court, the world faded to insignificant.

Looking at his battered charge made Tezuka feel a bit ill. "His opening game is today." The Japan Open, a tournament which Ryoma was poised to win simply by showing up.

"I think he's going to have to withdraw," Atobe said, and the mockery that so characterized him was notable by its absence.

Tezuka was glad that Atobe had said it first. "That's going to make them speculate."

Atobe didn't need to ask who the "them" were. He was all to familiar with "them" – those people who carefully watched his every move, waiting for a misstep so it could be splattered across the gossip pages. It was one of the reasons Tezuka was glad he hadn't gone pro. He had never dealt well with people approaching his private life, and was really quite awkward when it came to deflecting them.

The thoughtful expression on Atobe's face made Tezuka glad that the businessman was there. Atobe could be counted on to know the best way to handle it. Ever the showman, he was a master of the slight of hand, distracting people from the truth so he was able to continue to do whatever he wanted.

"Call Oishi. and have him make an excuse for Ryoma. That ankle of his, the one he sprained last year… I bet it's bothering him," he said after a moment.

"Oishi's a surgeon, not a sports medicine expert," Tezuka replied.

"So? He's licensed to practice. Maybe Ryoma was consulting him. Truth, Tezuka, is how you spin it."

"You're never wrong, are you?"

Atobe even managed to snort elegantly. "Of course not. Do you want to wake him up and drag him back?"

"Can you keep an eye on him… or maybe Mari?"

"It's Marie. She's French."

The nice thing about wearing glasses was that it made staring down his nose easier. The look he gave Atobe was enough of a statement.

"Fine, fine. Marie should be free today. You'll need to make sure he'd back to your place by noon – the press will be looking for him by then."

A slight groan from the bed managed to interrupt them. Tezuka and Atobe's heads turned in unison as Ryoma shifted, making noises which didn't translate into any civilized language.

"Should we wake him?" Tezuka asked. The purpling bruise around Ryoma's forehead didn't look that bad, but you could never tell with concussions.

"Might not be a horrible idea." Atobe flipped a few of the papers on his lap. "Don't mind me, I'm just the innocent good Samaritan."

No matter what he did, Tezuka knew that he was screwed. Ryoma would resent being treated like a child, but at this point, Tezuka didn't trust Ryoma as far as he could throw him – and Atobe was deriving far too much amusement out of this situation for Tezuka's liking.

Best wake Ryoma up-

A slight shaking of Ryoma's shoulder elicited several moans, and finally fluttering eyelashes. Tezuka knelt down beside the tennis player so that his face was in Ryoma's line of sight as he awoke.

It was a very, very bad idea.

Ryoma groaned, and as the dimmed light hit his eyes, he demonstrated exactly what his low tolerance of alcohol resulted in.

Atobe had practically laughed himself sick as Tezuka was forced to borrow a set of clothing from him, since Ryoma had managed to vomit all of Tezuka. It had taken a good hour to clean up (with Atobe's maid service quickly coming to the rescue about the bed and carpet), but around six, Tezuka finally managed to leave.

He had paused on the doorstep, remembering what day it was. "Atobe?"

Atobe had still been smirking, a bit amused at the sight of Tezuka in his wardrobe. "What?"

"Happy birthday." Never let it be said that Tezuka wasn't slyly malicious.

There was a second before Atobe responded. "Do you know I had actually forgotten about that for a few hours? Maybe I do have something to thank the brat for."

He almost called in sick, but decided not to let temptation get the better of him. Instead, he decided to use the subway ride a bit more fruitfully, and called someone who could help.

He wasn't a huge fan of public transportation, but he found comfort in the anonymity of the crowd. As he selected the number, he shut his eyes briefly, feeling the thrum of the train under his feet, and listening to the steady buzz of soft conversation of the passengers as they talked on their cells or with each other.

The phone rang a few times before a chipper voice answered it. "Hello! Kikumaru-Oishi residence!"

Tezuka didn't have the energy to be polite to the energetic redhead. "Kikumaru, put Oishi on the phone. I need to talk to him."

"Huh? What?" Confusion raced back over the phone, and Tezuka realized that Kikumaru hadn't recognized his voice. He really needed to call more often.

He heard the sound of a hand covering the phone to muffle the conversation that Kikumaru was probably holding with Oishi, most likely about rude men who wouldn't even give there names. Finally there was another sound, and Oishi picked up.

"This is Oishi."

"Oishi."

"Te-Tezuka!" The voice on the other end of the line was more than a bit taken aback. "I was planning on stopping by this week," Oishi said, his tone that of someone willing to offer apologies.

"Oishi, I need your help."

"You only need to ask," Oishi responded, the sincerity in his voice warming Tezuka's heart. That was the way it was between the two of them. Their friendship might be set aside while they lived their lives, but when they needed the other, things were as they were. The understanding they had for each other transcended anything Tezuka had with anyone else — it was why he considered Oishi his best friend. Oishi was the only person who didn't push Tezuka to change his inherent nature, but instead helped support it.

After all, wasn't a best friend the person who understood and accepted you?

Tezuka explained the situation with Ryoma and the silence that met him told him that Oishi was considering what to do.

"I really can't risk my medical license by writing a false diagnosis, Tezuka."

"Do you take any patients in a general practice?"

"A few. Usually charity cases. Most of what I do is work with the hospital."

It would have been ideal to slide Ryoma into Oishi's care, but Tezuka could see that wasn't practical. "Dammit."

"Have you had him evaluated anywhere?"

"I think he has a physician somewhere. Ryuuzaki Sakuno was the one who kept track of everything, but he just fired her."

"He fired Sakuno-chan?" Shock colored the words as vividly as a scarlet sunrise.

There was a "click" and suddenly a more fuzzy, distant voice responded. "What the hell is ochibi thinking?"

"Am I on speaker phone?" Tezuka asked dryly.

An embarassed chuckle. "I couldn't stop him."

"This our ochibi, Tezuka! Let us help!" Kikumaru's voice was stern, the way it had been the few rare times Tezuka remembered seeing him act seriously. "What is up with Ryoma-kun? Ryoma-kun without Sakuno-chan... it's Clyde without Bonnie!"

"Do you even know what you're talking about?"

"I saw that movie. Um, Batman without Robin. Sailor Moon without Tuxedo Mask..."

"I don't think Echizen would look very good in a sailor fuku..." Oishi put in, his voice growing more distant as he apparently moved away from the phone. He was probably trying to address Kikumaru directly, Tezuka realized, but it made it even harder for him to hear. Especially when two people next to him began to use their cells, speaking in loud voices that didn't care if they were overheard.

"He has nice legs! Remember, he's an athlete," Kikumaru retorted quickly. "He's always wearing those shorts…"

"Yes, but a skirt is a bit different…"

It was unbelievable how quickly the conversation descended into sheer absurdity. He listened to Kikumaru and Oishi debate clothing which got into what Kikumaru was planning on making for dinner, to the exact length noodles needed to be to be slurped properly...

"Ahem," Tezuka said finally, wondering when he'd fallen down Alice's rabbit hole.

The couple seemed to have forgotten their audience.

"Sorry, Tezuka!" Oishi said, and the repentence in his voice was genuine. "We do want to help."

"Is ochibi having a breakdown?" Kikumaru asked. "His position is a lot of stress."

Tezuka couldn't tell them that Sakuno had caused it. It wasn't his place. "I think it's more personal than that. I thought I was handling it well, but he managed to get too injured last night to play in the Japan Open today."

"How badly?" Kikumaru asked. "Remember the time he played with the busted knee? And the eye thing...? What about..."

"He's playing professional tennis. It's not the same thing. He needs to be in top form."

"Looks like it's obvious to me. He should withdraw. There will be other tournaments." Kikumaru sounded matter-of-fact. "The Japan Open isn't a Grand Slam, so it's not going to kill him to give up that title."

"Eiji, the press will be all over it. If he's having a breakdown..."

"Dammit. Okay, he needs an excuse and Oishi can't lie for him. Um... how about Kaba-chan?"

Tezuka didn't get what they were talking about. "Who's Kaba-chan?"

"That's not a bad idea..." Oishi said at the same time, before replying to Tezuka. "He's a guy who went through med-school with me - he went to Hyotei with Atobe, actually. Real big man, but one of the gentlest souls you'll ever meet – and a more tight-mouth man I've yet to meet. I think he actually has another tennis player on his books, so it wouldn't be extraordinary for him to become Ryoma's primary physician."

"Would he be available this morning? Ryoma's match is at one."

"I'll call in a favor," Oishi promised.

"Thank-" Tezuka said, preparing to hang up, but Kikumaru cut him off.

"Tezuka, you can't cure just the symptoms. Ryoma needs to deal with his issues."

"Spoken like the true psych student," Oishi murmured, but the phone managed to pick it up.

Tezuka imagined Kikumaru sticking his tongue out in retaliation quickly. "Is there any way you can work to repair what's wrong with him and Sakuno? She's pretty forgiving, and knows he can be a jerk."

"Trust me when I say we shouldn't get involved."

"Then we need to help him accept what is wrong, and let him know we're there for him." A long pause. "Is Momoshiro still not speaking to you?"

"He never stopped speaking to me, he's just... very uncomfortable."

"He had a very hard time accepting Oishi and I were together — having his buchou say he liked guys as well was just too much."

Tezuka understood where Momoshiro was coming from. Momoshiro had always been the easiest of them all for him to predict – of all of them, Momoshiro had most embodied what the Seigaku spirit was. "Momoshiro will resolve it in his own time."

"It's been two years!" Kikumaru protested.

"Years don't mean the same thing they used to."

Kikumaru grumped a bit, but eventually conceded the point. "I'll call Momoshiro. Ryoma is still pretty close to him."

"I'll talk to him," Tezuka promised. It would just be a bit of icing on the cake.

He was amazed that he'd survived the day. Around 6:30, he finally finished his work. He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose to try to relieve some of the tension he felt from there. Shutting his eyes, he expelled a slight breath – too heavy to be called a sigh, but too light not to deserve a special descriptor. A tension headache threatened, and he knew riding the subway home would merely exacerbate matters.

The door creaked open, and he heard the sound of someone moving – the temp… Nikara. He hadn't realized that he had absorbed her name, he thought tiredly, wondering if he ignored her if she would go away.

A set of hands, suddenly on his shoulders, startled him. He hadn't expected her to be so daring. He was too tired to be anything but blunt, wishing that she would have gotten the hint before it had come to this. "Go away, Nikara-san. I'm gay."

"Glad to hear that," an unexpected voice returned, and then he really was alert, feeling like a deer in the headlights.

Fuji's hands stroked his shoulders, attempting to work the tension out. They were still familiar with Tezuka's body, and knew exactly where the tension built up. Under his shoulder blades and the base of his neck merited special attention, and strong fingers kneaded with business-like efficiency.

Tezuka said nothing, merely shutting his eyes and letting Fuji do as he wished. He was too tired to start another fight, too tired to do anything except let his mind empty and just enjoy the physical pleasure of having another person touch him intimately. It was hard to suppress his instincts that warned him about turning his back on Fuji Syuusuke of all people, but he managed. For just a few minutes, he could be selfish and pretend that Fuji wasn't a viper at his breast, but rather a concerned friend – or lover – who recognized the signs on a man stretched nearly to his limits.

The strokes slowed, and Tezuka sighed a bit as the massage turned into a series of long, tempting caresses. Fabric bunched beneath Fuji's fingers, and Tezuka found himself pushed forward slightly to permit better access to his back. His head on his forearms, with Fuji stepping around to his right, he let himself be tempted by the false comfort. Hands started to stray to his sides, the intention definitely more to seduce than to relax.

"You're so tense, Tezuka," Fuji said softly, and then lips were pressed to the spot where his collar began. "Old age setting in?"

It wasn't his age, he wanted to say. It was Atobe, and Ryoma and Fuji. It was people refusing to act like adults, people who refused to listen to reason, who were causing him to feel the physical effects of stress.

When he didn't say anything aloud, Fuji laughed softly. "You have some serious stress issues, don't you?"

Tezuka cracked his eyes open, turning his head slightly so he could study Fuji. His brown hair was undone, falling past his shoulders in a sleek wave that made Tezuka's fingers itch to wrap through it, especially when the long sides swept forward across Fuji's cheeks. Today he was wearing grey slacks and a matching sweater, garb which would have been sedate if not for the precise cut that molded to his body. Tezuka had to remind himself that in spite of the fact he was currently the recipient of a massage, it would be very undignified to grab Fuji and do exactly what he wanted to.

"Tezuka?" Fuji prompted, leaning forward to trace kisses down Tezuka's neck, but pulling back abruptly, wrinkling his nose in a bit of disgust. "You smell like Atobe," he said.

Tezuka had forgotten about the borrowed suit. "There was an incident this morning that meant I needed to change quickly." Fuji didn't need to know anymore than that. He leaned back, pretending to casually stretched as a way to recover from his previous vulnerability.

"Ryoma," Fuji said, moving around the desk before claiming a corner as a seat, brushing Tezuka's papers aside with absentminded confidence.

"He's managed to reinjure his ankle," Tezuka said coolly.

"Pull the other one. That doesn't explain why you're wearing Atobe's clothes."

"I can't tell you," Tezuka said.

"I'll find out."

"Not through me."

Fuji sighed and looked tired. Tezuka noticed, for the first time, the small lines that were starting to form around Fuji's eyes. "Tezuka, no matter what's between us, I would never hurt anyone I care for. You know that."

Tezuka looked at the messed up pile of papers on his desk. "You mean you don't intend to hurt anyone."

"I'd rather cut out my own throat." The serious look on his face nearly made Tezuka swallow, realizing that there was still more to the man he had once lived with. His throat was dry, and he wondered why he felt like he was drowning.

"Fuji, I can't tell you," Tezuka repeated. It wasn't his story to tell.

Fuji slid off the desk, his smile returning, and the clamped-down expression indicating that Tezuka had just managed to alienate him. "I guess some things don't change." He came around to Tezuka again, leaning forward to give him a kiss – but instead of capturing Tezuka's lips, he chastely deposited the kiss on Tezuka's forehead. "Maybe you should go home. It's late."

"What did you want?"

"I needed to return this." Tezuka felt disoriented as a book was pressed into his hands, and Fuji stepped away quickly. "Hope you don't mind that I read it first, but I think page 75 was particularly interesting."

Tezuka didn't dare turn to that page. All he could do was watch as Fuji left as silently as he came, the cold pressure of the book in his hands the only sign that he hadn't dreamt the whole encounter.