Disclaimer: The original manga Tennis no Oujisama is the work of Konomi Takeshi. Characters, settings, and events have been adapted without authorization or approval.



Since Last Goodbye

Chapter Seven

Fuji paused, caught rather off-guard.

Had Tezuka actually said, 'You still need to eat'?

He'd heard lines like that before, always from would-be admirers who were full of a kind of desperation that never had much appeal. He'd smile and say, 'Sorry, got to run,' and leave them standing mid-plea. Of course, those people had never been Tezuka.

It meant something when Tezuka had that kind of look in his eyes.

His old friend brushed away the hair the wind blew into his face. The same breeze, when it reached him, carried the faintest hint of Tezuka's shampoo. It was just a trace, almost nonexistent, but enough to catch. It reminded him of whispered studies in the school library as six-inch voices turned into three-inch voices, faces close while they shared a book and the adrenalin of a touch made his pulse race; of subway trains at rush hour, when Tezuka would make sure Fuji had a place close to the pole and the crowds would push them into an awkward embrace; of rainy days when he'd been caught without an umbrella, and his captain would walk him home under the spare Tezuka kept in his locker. Fuji fought back the tears he could feel starting to well up in his eyes. He was done with feeling this way, long past done.

But the wind smelled like memories.

Damn it.

And damn Tezuka's eyes, too. The very idea of still being in love with the ghost of Tezuka past was senseless and baseless and weak. He knew that. Time and again, Eiji, his sister, his mother, and so many others had told him that he had to let go. He'd seen it for himself during his first year of high school when sometimes he couldn't even look in the mirror -- but the part of him that couldn't forget the sunlit afternoons they'd often stolen after practice had never wanted to listen.

He almost felt as though he could make out Tezuka's thoughts, echoing like voices in his head.

'Please, don't walk away from me again,' he heard his captain thinking.

No, not 'heard', he reminded himself. 'Imagined'. Like he had imagined that he'd 'known' the man had cared for him in middle school. What reason had there ever been to think he'd been special, the way his captain had been special to him? They'd been friends, like everyone on the team, up until the moment he'd tried to ask for more and ended up with less. He'd combed through his memories a thousand times for any hint that he'd been different from any other friend, and there was nothing to make him sure. What had Tezuka ever given him but a rare gentle look, or an occasional smile?

Memories from his days at Seigaku left a bitter aftertaste in his throat. Passing off those moments as just a look, just a smile was ridiculous. Tezuka had never once looked at anyone else that way, whether it had been love or friendship. If they'd been 'only friends' back then, it had been a friendship worth keeping. It had been real -- but not something that could mend a strained elbow or shoulder. Nothing would have changed the fact that Tezuka had needed to leave Japan. Probably the only thing he could have done would have been to wish his friend well, and he hadn't even done that.

And after three years trying to convince himself that Tezuka hadn't cared, all it had taken was one phone call to remind him how untrue that was. He hadn't forgotten the way he'd broken apart then, the way he hadn't been able to ignore the fact that Tezuka had been thinking of him. If ten years had passed, or even twenty, he'd probably still remember. And the disquiet he felt now was the same as when he'd heard Ooishi answer his phone and realized who was on the other end.

It had never occurred to him that it could hurt to remember Tezuka's smile.

Fuji tried to pull his thoughts to a halt. He'd overreacted two years ago, gone crazy with wondering if he had made a mistake, given in too easily, pushed when he should have pulled...

He couldn't do that again today.

At least this time, he could face the thought that Tezuka might have cared without falling apart.

It was hard to swallow with his throat choked up this way, but he could still stand up -- without storming away like he had that night in Yoshi-san's dorm room, when his boyfriend had found the nerve to imply what no one else had been willing to say. And even after Fuji had slammed the door in his face, Yoshi-san had still come to find him. Not that it had taken long. He'd barely gotten four feet before he'd collapsed against a wall in the hallway, pathetically grateful for the embrace he'd gotten used to and the voice whispering 'I love you' in his ear. The stupid fool had stayed with him the whole night -- through all of the memories, and through all of the panic.

That stupid, sweet fool. For all that he'd planned on Tezuka being the love of his life, it had never been Tezuka's shoulder that he'd cried on, nor Tezuka's arms that brought him back to his senses. What did it matter if he couldn't be certain now whether Tezuka had loved him once or not? He knew better than anyone how feelings changed. Five years ago, nothing had made him happier than thinking his captain had cared about him. Right now, those eyes staring at him were like an oppressive weight he couldn't shrug off however hard he tried.

It wasn't fair having to see him like this -- the person he'd given up on, desperate for a chance to talk. Nothing else had turned out the way he'd planned when he was fourteen. Tezuka hadn't stayed in Japan, miraculously better without the need for doctors or trainers. They hadn't gone pro together and stood on top of the world, side by side and hand in hand. He hadn't even managed to stay upset and heartbroken and suffering for as long as three years with Tezuka gone, let alone for his whole life. Some days, he hadn't even remembered that he'd meant to.

If he could go back, he'd tell himself at fourteen that he would regret making Tezuka choose. Or perhaps that five years wasn't too long to wait, or that it wasn't so hard to call someone and say 'I miss you'.

Fuji breathed in slowly and told his heart to stop hammering against his chest. It didn't help. The words echoing in his head were drowning out everything he was thinking or feeling.

I've missed you so much.

Please, don't walk away from me again.

Fuji wasn't even sure whose words he thought they were anymore.

What he did know, Fuji reminded himself as the silence drew out, was that Tezuka had asked him a question, and he still hadn't answered it.

Would you come with me to dinner?

Because he had to eat.

He breathed in deep and made himself answer at last. "I was just going to grab something quick on the way to the studio," he said, toying with the words, 'Sorry, maybe some other time.'

If he wants to have dinner with me that badly, why not let him? What does it matter? Running away isn't any better than wishing things could be like they were. It won't change anything.

He left the decision to his captain in the end. "I don't mind the company if you want to come along, but I'll be eating while I walk."

Tezuka's answer was a quick step and a nod, and Fuji bit his lip to suppress an involuntary grin that was entirely inappropriate. Somehow, walking together, his head didn't feel like it was connected to his feet, and his legs were moving lightly of their own volition. It was thrilling, just for that moment, like the years had vanished suddenly and his memories of being fourteen were coming back to life.

Then Tezuka hesitated outside the locker room door.

Fuji let out his breath, and his fanciful excitement faded away. All he had left were nerves and what felt like a rock settling in the bottom of his stomach.

I might not be able to eat anyway, he thought.

"Changing won't take me five minutes," Tezuka said, pushing the door open a crack.

"I know how fast you can change." Part of him wanted to run off and scream, but he couldn't move away.

"Please wait," he said in that firm, confident tone Fuji remembered so well, which was somewhat at odds with the nervous twist to his old captain's lips. "I won't be long."

A shiver ran through his skin as the present and the past kept flickering in and out of focus. "I..." he began, trailing off as he realized he had no idea what to say.

Of all the times to remember that kiss, it would come back to him now. They were stopped by the locker room, with Tezuka half in and half out of the door, their eyes locked and their faces so close that Fuji could feel Tezuka's breath stir his hair. Maybe it wasn't so strange to recall, nor so strange to feel the sensation of a phantom touch on his lips. Tezuka was only a few inches away, less than a step. He could nearly taste it. He could feel the warmth and the pressure of Tezuka's arms, and he never thought he'd have that chance again.

There was no one in view right now. If he did try to steal those years back, who would know?

Fuji put his hand on the wall and pressed the heel of it hard against the cinderblocks.

No. Absolutely not.

This wasn't love. Whatever he was feeling and whatever mysterious logic was making Tezuka beg for a meal, it wasn't the simple-hearted affection they'd both left behind. Time didn't work that way. One meeting wasn't going to erase everything that had happened, even if one kiss could break his heart.

The weight of Tezuka's questioning stare wasn't going to disappear until he'd finished his sentence. Any sentence. He focused on the feel of skin against hard cement, keeping his eyes on the white patterns the pressure made on the edges of his hand. "I'm not interested in an apology," he said at last. "We were kids." He turned to face Tezuka again, trying to form the words 'It didn't mean anything' in his mouth. He'd never been good at telling falsehoods to his captain's face. So he smiled like there was nothing wrong and said, "That's all in the past," as lightly as he could. Tezuka seemed at a loss for words, standing frozen with his mouth set tight and his hand clenched tighter, gripping the strap of his racket bag.

Fuji turned his eyes to the ground, growing more uncomfortable the longer Tezuka looked at him that way. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement near the trees by the path. Probably other players, staying out of what had to be obviously a personal conversation, and here the two of them were standing in the doorway like fools where anyone could see.

"There, now. Hurry up," he said, brushing the hair out of his eyes. If he were lucky, it'd look casual, not nervous. He put on his brightest smile and hoped that helped. "I haven't got all day, you know."

With a silent nod, Tezuka stepped inside the locker room. Fuji stood, biting his lip and watching the door swing and slow to a stop.

Then one of the people standing by the tree called out. "Well, well," said a voice he knew slightly too well to ever forget. "If it isn't Fuji Syuusuke. What an unexpected pleasure."

Atobe.

Why did it have to be Atobe? He'd heard quite enough unsolicited opinions from Hyoutei's king in high school, and now here he was -- at the worst possible moment.

Naturally, he saw Kabaji on the peacock's left when he turned to face the approaching party. A young woman he'd never seen before was following on the other side. Atobe was wearing a suit and his lackey was't carrying a tennis bag, so he couldn't claim to have been playing a match. Of course, he wasn't in the local bracket, and he'd never have stood for being in the preliminaries at any tournament. Not him.

"You must be looking for Tezuka," Fuji called out as the group drew closer. He waited for the former captain of Hyoutei to come close enough that Fuji could see his smug expression and speak without raising his voice. "What a pity you didn't come a few minutes earlier. He just made other plans."

"I'm sure he did," Atobe replied, one corner of his mouth turning up into a smirk that Fuji could have done without. "I shall have no choice but to cede your prior claim."

Fuji gave him a brief smile. A reply didn't seem particularly called for.

In the silence, he could hear a shower running and the jangle of rings on the shower curtain. The last thing I need right now is to picture Tezuka naked, he thought, casting around for a distraction before locker room memories could take hold. Not that he wanted to focus on Atobe, of course, and Kabaji was about as interesting as the wall he was leaning on.

He glanced at the stranger instead, who was checking something in the leather planner in her hands. Secretary, most likely. The newspapers had stopped referring to Atobe Keigo as the eldest son of the Atobe directorate some time back and started calling him a vice president of some family business or other. It wouldn't be surprising for him to have a personal assistant -- though this girl could have given most of the models he'd photographed some competition for their contracts.

Girl? Woman? Fuji wasn't sure which he'd use.

It was hard to tell exactly how old she was from her looks. If she was working as an assistant to a vice-president, then probably she was older than they were, but he'd say within a decade. She still had the 'young' look of a model in her prime, before she had to move on to being an actress. Long, dark black hair, a complexion somewhat on the fair side... He'd probably put her in something more vibrant than the grey sheath dress she was wearing now. Red, maybe, or bright blue. Of course, muted tones were probably better for allowing Atobe to be the center of attention, which was no doubt part of her job.

"If my memory serves," Atobe mused pointedly, breaking Fuji's focus on his chosen distraction, "you shouldn't have a match until next week, during the tournament proper. Cheering on an old teammate, are we?"

"Investigating the competition," he replied. "I'd hate to be complacent, after all."

Any other day, he would have walked away. They weren't in a league together anymore, and he wasn't on Hyoutei's campus with Atobe thinking he had any right to tell Fuji to leave. He didn't have to listen to the megalomaniacal ramblings of a spoiled society brat who thought he owned the world and everyone in it.

But today was different. Fuji had promised to wait, and he wasn't going to leave because of someone like him.

~//~

Tezuka stepped into the middle of the shower and turned on the spray full blast, suppressing a shiver when the icy water poured over his skin. He didn't think about the cold -- just closed his eyes and opened the shampoo. After taking approximately two seconds to work it through his hair, he went straight to the soap and washcloth he'd set down on his left. There wasn't any time to waste.

It wasn't a problem that he had to keep his eyes closed in case the lather dripped onto his face while the running water rinsed it out of his hair. With his glasses off, he couldn't see far enough for that to matter.

The water was cold, but the rough feel of terrycloth on his skin was pleasant. He might have even called the combination refreshing. The chill helped cut through the confused fever in his brain, calming down all the nonsense that had been racing through his head while he'd been grasping for anything he could do or say to stop Fuji from leaving. And he'd done it, somehow. Fuji would be waiting outside the door when he left.

It worked, he thought with a tiny smile.

Even if it wasn't perfect. It's all in the past, he'd said. Fuji couldn't possibly have believed that. It was clear enough from the expression on Fuji's face when he'd said it that there was a situation still lingering into the present. Of course, the last thing he himself would want would be for everything between them to be over, done, and gone.

But even more than the words, Tezuka couldn't get the tone of Fuji's voice and the tilt of his smile out of his mind. He'd said those words the same way he had told classmates at Seigaku that he didn't mind his brother transferring to St. Rudolph. His expression had always been the same: a smile that was so clearly false that he didn't know why anyone was fooled. Perhaps it had been easier for him to spot, since he'd memorized all the ways Fuji smiled when he was happy, and had seen his facades fade away when everyone else's backs were turned.

But today, Fuji had been lying -- hiding from him behind that same empty smile. The truth wasn't his privilege anymore.

He ran a hand through his hair to make sure all the lather had worked its way out, turning off the spray just as it was starting to warm up. There was no time to pity himself for ending up in this situation. If Fuji was still the person he remembered, after leaving the way he did and hurting him the way he had done, he would be the least likely person to hear the truth about it. To the best of his knowledge, Fuji had never once told Yuuta-kun how much he'd missed seeing him at school or at home. He'd said, when Tezuka had quietly wondered, that he didn't want to give his brother a reason to be sorry he'd left.

Tezuka hesitated for a moment before pulling open the shower curtain.

'I'm not interested in an apology.'

He'd said that, too, hadn't he?

And if Fuji didn't want to hear an apology, he'd be wasting whatever chance he had today if he tried. Maybe the day would come when he could ask forgiveness for being blind and clumsy. Until then, trying to ask for more than his friend could give would only make Fuji push him further away. He would have to make do with the consolation that, for whatever reason, Fuji had decided to be kind today.

Just that thought made him feel more sure of himself than he remembered feeling since he left Japan.

Tezuka gathered his things, wrung the water out of his washcloth, and took his towel from the hook on the wall as he started towards his bag. He could barely feel the tile under his feet, and the hum of new energy throughout his body made it hard to avoid rushing himself. Putting all the focus he could manage into making deliberate steps, he walked out of the showers and into the locker area. Time was limited; he had to be efficient.

When he walked into the rows of lockers, drying off his hair and shoulders, a voice outside the door that he recognized immediately as Atobe startled him. "Girlfriend? What on earth do you mean? I don't have a..." Tezuka thought he heard Fuji chuckle softly in the pause when Atobe's words trailed off. "Oh. I'll thank you not to make jokes, Fuji," Atobe began again. "She's my assistant. I assure you, if Hino-san ever had such aspirations, she was quickly relieved of them."

"Me, date him?" a girl's voice said with a laugh, slightly more muffled with distance than his friends' voices. "Not a chance."

He rubbed his hair roughly with the towel one last time, declared his head dry enough and took care of his arms and legs.

"Though I suppose introductions are in order," Atobe said in the background. Tezuka, trying not to eavesdrop despite the clear echoes in the room, pulled his street clothes out of his bag, packed the towel in with his match wear, counted through his times tables silently to help himself focus, and tried to decide what would be the right thing to say to Fuji if not an apology. Unfortunately, he had no more answers now than he'd had yesterday, and the blank space in his head couldn't drown out the conversation by the door. "Fuji, this is Hino-san. She manages my schedule, facilitates arrangements, and acts as liason to my office when I'm overseas."

Six times eight is forty-eight, six times nine is fifty-four...

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Fuji said from just outside the door.

"And you as well."

Seven times two is fourteen, seven times three is twenty-one...

The familiar chant helped a little to keep his focus off the words drifting into the locker room and on the task at hand, but as hard as he was trying to be calm and efficient, Tezuka still tripped getting a leg into his pants. He wasn't accustomed to this kind of nervous energy. While he'd been talking to Fuji, it had been easier. There hadn't been time to worry.

"Hino-san," Atobe continued. "I believe I would have mentioned Fuji Syuusuke. He and Echizen played with the same team in middle school and high school."

"Of course, at Seishun. You're the Fuji who beat him once in high school, aren't you?"

Seven times ten is seventy. Eight times one is eight...

"Did I?" Fuji mused. The easy lilt to his voice drove away any pretense of not hearing the exchange, and Tezuka chuckled while he fastened the button on his pants. It was like hearing the old Fuji suddenly, listening to him feign ignorance that way. Somehow, that familiar sound made his mood lighter. "That must have been the Tokyo Finals second year. I'm sure I went against Kabaji-kun when we were seniors."

"Don't pretend you don't remember, Fuji."

Tezuka pulled on his undershirt and tucked it in roughly with one hand, grabbing his outer shirt with the other. Of all the days to have worn a button-down...

"But Fuji-san, if you were on Echizen-san's team, you must know His Highness has a boyfriend."

He winced at the girl's comment, fumbling at a button. It was his preference to ignore Atobe's effusive declarations and to believe that Echizen was being sarcastic, but up to this point he'd never had to hear an objective third-party opinion.

Eight times two is sixteen, eight times three is twenty-four, eight times four is thirty-two...

Outside, Fuji laughed lightly.

"I beg your pardon. My Highness does not have a boyfriend. My Highness has a soulmate. Honestly."

"Oh, goodness," Fuji replied. "Is he still putting up with you?"

Socks, socks, socks... Tezuka thought, running through the end of the eights in his head while he searched his locker. He pulled his shoes off of the top shelf. His socks weren't there, nor were they in the pile on the bench, but they had to be somewhere. Had he forgotten to take them out of his tennis bag?

"Just as I could never conceive of another so fit as he to my very being," Atobe was rambling in the background, "my peerless laurel blossom could in turn only be satisfied by myself and none other."

And nine times two is eighteen, nine times three is twenty-seven, nine times four is thirty-six...

"Though broad seas stand between us, our fates are as one."

"Must be nice to have a jet."

The words from the conversation outside echoed strangely off the walls and lockers inside the otherwise empty building, like he was listening to a far off recording that someone was playing from every corner of the room -- clearly audible and impossible to fully ignore, as hard as he was trying to do so. A discussion at full volume outside a public facility wasn't exactly private, so perhaps he shouldn't have been so ill at ease, but they didn't necessarily know he could hear them, either.

At least this situation wouldn't last much longer. Socks in hand, Tezuka sat on the bench to pull them on and lace up his shoes. Now, he'd just comb his hair, and that should be it.

Nine times seven is sixty-three, nine times eight is seventy-two, nine times nine is--

"Transportation is hardly the issue," Atobe's ringing oratory continued, increasing in volume as if he were intentionally trying to drown out Tezuka's attempts to concentrate. "What we have that too many lack is full and total commitment. Bards could sing our example to young lovers eternally, and I only wish the sands of time could return and send the song back through all of history." Luckily, dismissing Atobe's long speeches had gotten to be second nature over the years, especially when he chose this particular topic. The trick was to imagine Echizen rolling his eyes and walking away. "As ever, I and my delicate flower are the very model of glorious perfection to which all who seek lasting happiness should aspire."

Tezuka stepped away from the mirror, where he'd somehow managed to part his hair properly despite the continuing tremors in his hands, and cast a dubious look at the door.

Delicate flower?

Not that he had any leisure for that to concern him. He was ready, and Fuji was waiting. Tezuka lifted his bag to his shoulder, slipped his comb into an outside pocket, and started for the door.

"Hmm. How charming," Fuji mused, his voice sounding less like a recording and more alive as Tezuka stepped away from the echoes, closer to the person himself. "Though even if your bards could find a way to make time return, I don't know that a song would have mattered when circumstances couldn't be helped."

"Really," he heard Atobe say as he placed his hand on the door. "Yes, I aggravated Tezuka's injury. It was a lapse in judgment for which I have felt remorse deeper than I expect you will believe."

Tezuka pulled his hand off the door and moved back a step.

What was that?

"But take a good look at your circumstances now, Fuji: Tezuka is back," Atobe continued. "This grudge against me is now meaningless. He's in perfect condition, and he's not on the tour. He's here. Why is that, I wonder?"

"It may have escaped you, but this is a tennis tournament," Fuji replied.

Tezuka stared hard at the door. Even though he knew it was stupid, he was unable to stop himself imagining that the door itself had been the one speaking rather than the person on the other side of it, and that -- if he looked at it sternly enough -- it might explain itself. Certainly Fuji would have said something more like, 'What on earth are you talking about?' rather than replying like Atobe's comments had followed in any way from what they'd been discussing. They couldn't have, could they? Had he misheard something? He'd been trying not to listen, after all.

He must have misheard something.

"He came back for you, and you'd be a fool not to see it," said the voice that seemed to come from the wall, although he knew it had to be Atobe. Walls couldn't talk, let alone get into arguments with doors over his reasons for coming home.

Tezuka tried to refocus and reassign the voices to images of their proper owners, fighting for his presence of mind against the bright sound of laughter coming from the voice behind the door.

He was... laughing.

Maybe I don't want to picture this, Tezuka thought, retreating to contemplation of the door handle.

"The Tezuka I remember wouldn't do anything so pointless," said a cheerful voice. "Did he tell you otherwise? Or is that just your judgment?"

"What else do you think could compel a man who waited so long, now, to seek out the very person who had broken his spirit to begin with? And make no mistake -- if you do so a second time, I swear you will regret it even more than you already do."

Tezuka tried to open up his lungs, hoping to make enough air go through his throat that he could voice some objection, but the attempt was more difficult than he had expected. Before he could even manage to breathe properly, the woman cut off the words he hadn't managed to form. "Atobe-sama. Just--"

"Oh, no," the voice from the door replied, jumping into the middle of her sentence. "Don't worry about it, Hino-san, please. Atobe is well aware how much I value his honest opinion. Aren't you, Atobe?"

After a scoff that was barely audible through the wall, the party waiting outside fell into an awkward silence. Tezuka tried to breathe normally, slowly in and slowly out, resisting the way his lungs wanted to stop as if paralyzed. Hesitating, he squeezed a fist tightly for a moment, then reached out his hand for the door again.

"Speaking of Tezuka," Atobe's voice cut in suddenly, making his hand spasm next to the door handle as if the metal had sparked and shocked him violently. The adrenalin pumping through his system was making his heart hammer so hard on his chest that he was surprised it hadn't broken through his ribs.

Don't back away, he told himself. You can't stand behind this door forever.

But what kind of atmosphere would he be walking into?

While Tezuka stood, frozen, Atobe went on in a careful tone. "Have you and he had a chance to discuss the rumors?"

"Which rumors?" Fuji asked.

The conversation ran through Tezuka's mind and right out again, words getting lost without leaving a lasting impression while he tried not to panic. Just the sound kept him from moving, each syllable sounding like the refrain, 'pointless', like a drum playing in his head.

"You know which rumors. Every amateur tennis player in Japan is whispering about what the selection committee is saying behind closed doors."

"Oh, those rumors." The airy tone of dismissal turned suspicious after a moment. "It hasn't come up. Why?"

"Oh, no reason. Waiting is probably best. He'd have no interest in idle supposition, after all."

"I suppose not," was Fuji's only reply before silence fell again.

Tezuka took a deep breath -- pausing briefly to be sure the voices wouldn't start again before pushing on the handle -- and stepped out mechanically, eyes unfocused. He had to go. The point wasn't negotiable.

As Atobe noticed him, the former Hyoutei player's face shifted to a bright smile. "Ah, Tezuka! You join us at last."

The first thing Tezuka saw when he turned to look at Fuji was a pleasantly smiling mask that probably wasn't meant to appear friendly. He tried to open his mouth to say something, but the words wouldn't come. There was a slow change in his friend's face starting when their eyes met. His smile grew less broad, and his eyes opened wider. Little by little, his cheeks went pale.

He didn't know I could hear.

Fuji turned his head away, looking down the road that led to the park entrance. His ears had turned slightly red, as if sunburned. "Well, isn't this inconvenient," he said, then turned back with his face composed again into a pleasant expression. "Atobe showed up looking for you just after you went in to change. I imagine you two will want some time to catch up."

"I..." he started, but still couldn't think of a word to say. Even if he'd had a word, as soon as he looked at Fuji, his throat was choked and his mouth stiff. He watched the man look down, then back over his shoulder toward the gates.

Tezuka turned towards Atobe, hoping that somehow his friend could make clear what the hell he thought he was doing. Fuji's lying smile pushing him away when he'd left to go inside had hurt, certainly. It's cut had been sharp and it's haunting image had been bitter and strange; but it hadn't been anything like this. What could he hope for, hearing something like that? And while even Fuji was showing signs of being mortified that Tezuka had heard them fighting, Atobe was as calm as he'd ever seen. No, more than calm. He was intent.

You meant to provoke him, Tezuka thought. His fist clenched tight next to his leg, arm and shoulder and back locking up tight. You knew. But why? There was nothing Atobe could possibly gain or want to gain by making him hear something like that. Even if it was the truth, still...

His hand went loose at his side.

Is that how he really feels? That I could think this would be pointless? That it is pointless?

He didn't even know where to begin proving that it wasn't true.

Is this what I'm up against?

Atobe turned to meet his eyes while he was thinking. Tezuka couldn't remember ever having seen an expression quite so joyless on his friend's face as he did now. That was more the Atobe he knew. He might not understand the reason, but he could recognize Atobe's moods. For what it was worth, there had to have been a reason.

Tezuka managed a deep breath at last. "Atobe. Will you be around later?"

Fuji whipped his head back toward the conversation. He didn't look, but he could feel it. But he'd let the one person he'd cared for run away once without trying to stop him. Even if Fuji did think it was pointless, this was why he was here. He had to try, as rude as it was to turn away a friend who'd come to find him.

"You'll have to excuse us," Tezuka went on. "We're in a bit of a hurry."

A hint of a smile started to show on Atobe's face. "Not to worry. It was made it clear upon my arrival that you were spoken for. I have the whole evening if you think you'll be free afterwards."

"Actually," Fuji interjected. "Oh, gosh. Would you look at that?"

He turned slowly into the silence that followed to see Fuji examining the watch set in the wide strap on his wrist. The expression on his face when he turned his eyes up was strained.

"Nearly five-thirty already. If I don't get there by six..." Fuji bit his lip, shifting the watch strap with his other hand before dropping his hands in loose fists to his side. "You know, why don't you two just go ahead? I really don't think I'll have time to stop anywhere."

"But..." Tezuka said, hoping he could keep his chance from slipping away. Still, he couldn't force any more words through his throat.

Fuji smiled a smile that he could tell was forced and touched a hand briefly to Tezuka's elbow. "Look, it was great running into you like this, but it's not like I'll have any time to talk -- and Atobe did come all this way just to see you."

Watching his friend move back -- one slow step, then two, then bringing his feet together to stand still -- that was when he noticed: He'd assumed that Fuji happened to have stayed after a match, seeing him on the schedule or maybe on the court. But he wasn't carrying a tennis bag.

He wasn't in the preliminaries. He'd said as much.

Did he have some kind of business with tournament administration? Or...

Tezuka clenched his mouth tighter, just in case the words that had finally managed to find their way into his thoughts could find his voice as well. 'Did you come here to see me?' wasn't a question Fuji would want to answer. Not in general, least of all when he was playing false like he was right now and was embarrassed over what he'd said. Certainly not when he was trying so hard to leave by himself that he'd give Atobe an inch, let alone give away the company of someone he'd come purposefully to see.

And that was if the answer were 'Yes'. It might not even be the case. There could be another reason. But from where he was standing, watching sunlight reflect off Fuji's hair, he felt certain. Whatever grandstanding Fuji might have done in front of Atobe, this was anything but pointless.

"I promised you dinner," Tezuka replied. "Can I meet you after?"

He could tell he was pushing too hard from the way Fuji bit his lip again.

"Tonight?" His friend pushed a piece of hair behind his ear, hooking the thumb of his other hand into the pocket on his jeans. "No, I'll be working late I think." With a laugh that almost sounded natural, he added, "But I promise to order in a bentou."

The lingering warmth of the touch on Tezuka's arm made his body remember the feel of the scared, desperate Fuji that he'd let slip away.

You don't think this is pointless, either. I know you don't.

His chest tightened as that lying smile stayed on. "If you still want to see me, I'm sure we'll run into each other again, so..." Fuji's voice trailed off and the smile faltered. "Some other time."

I know because you're standing here in front of me.

Tezuka swallowed, then forced himself to breathe. The sight of Fuji's back when he turned to leave was too familiar a sight. He remembered what it felt like to stay quiet and entrust their next meeting to chance.

"When?" he called out, hoping the question sounded calm.

Fuji stopped mid-step, standing a moment before he turned back. Never once, as long as they had known each other, had Tezuka thought his friend was weak; but the clear eyes turning to face him layered in his mind on top of images from the past of the same eyes filled with tears, and the contrast made him pause. Even more than that, he couldn't help being amazed at the contrast to his own tongue-tied awkwardness. On the hill before and right at this moment, when he was desperately trying to say anything at all with no idea of what was wrong or right, Fuji could stand and think and set aside with a pleasant smile whatever concerns had been making him run away.

It was stunning.

If he hasn't known better, he would have said Fuji wasn't embarrassed or anxious at all when his face brightened and he asked, "Are you free Saturday evening?"