Chapter 8 – The binding strings.
Fuji Syusuke watched as Tezuka continued to frown over the stack of papers that outlined his schedule for the upcoming matches that he was holding in one hand while massaging his head with the other.
"It's time to go home Tezuka."
Tezuka frowned deeper. "I am not going home," he stated with finality. "I am not done yet."
"The match isn't until the next week. Take a break, you know you deserve it." Fuji knew just how difficult it was for Tezuka to remain in control. He could clearly see through the ex-buchou's stoic facade, the emotions, running like the blood in his veins, threatening overwhelmingly that they would break out of Tezuka from the inside, starting with the crack that had appeared the day he died...
"I felt it..." the boy with the teal-black hair breathed out. Every breath caused him physical pain. It hurt even more to cough. His face was twisted, glistening in sweat, as his body racked with spasms. He looked nothing like how he had, two days ago, sleeping, peaceful, and draped in moonlight. Now, he was fighting to breathe, no peace on his features, his golden cat-like eyes, bearing so much resemblance to his brother, haunted by exhaustion that came from beyond his physical limits.
"I felt it..." He licked his cracked lips.
"Please don't say anymore."
He shook his head. "I felt it. The thrill...The thrill of tennis I felt it, Tezuka."
Tears came to Tezuka's eyes, hidden behind rimless glasses as he saw the boy struggle.
"Just a little while more," he pleaded. "The paramedics will be here shortly."
Tezuka sighed. While Fuji had gone home, eyeing him sceptically before he turned around and walked out, the memories were just starting to resurface. He looked over the photograph that sat on his neat desk. Framed in deep mahogany frame, it showed the two of them, shortly after the All Japan Tennis Tournament.
Ryoma had won the tournaments by default, and soon went on win his second Grand Slam, standing 1st in ATP rankings. But his win had not been without price. Minutes after winning, his world came crashing down, as he ran frantically to the hospital. He had lost his family that day.
Tezuka stood to one side, as Ryoma sobbed. As Tezuka looked at the man lying in the coffin with tear-stained eyes, his pain grew even more, turning his heart into knots. He turned away when finally they closed the lid, and Tezuka walked forward to carry the man to his final resting place. At least the dead man had enjoyed a few moments of family and love.
Tezuka was surprised to find wetness on his cheeks when he finally snapped back to reality. Tezuka still had his papers in his hand and he had clutched them while reminiscing in the hrkejfoesghiosgohr
He sighed and smoothed the creases on the papers as best as he could. He wanted to work but his mind wasn't co-operating with him. It would be pointless to continue now that his concentration was so far gone. He got up, took a last look at his desk and exited into cold night of New York City.
It was oddly comforting, the chill against his cheeks, making them appear flushed. Tezuka pressed his hands further into his coat pockets, to keep them from shaking that had nothing to do with the bitter cold. As he walked on the familiar road to home, his mind travelled back to the last day of the All Japan Tennis Tournament. He finally understood what the black-green haired guy had told him.
"I need to choose. To live or to die," Ryoga murmured.
Tezuka had seen him talking to Sakurafubuki after his match against Tachibana. He tried to listen in on their conversation but Ryoga had spotted him, hiding behind a wall, suspicion clearly written over his face. Ryoga had then, with one look, silently pleaded him to go away. These were dangerous waters.
Ryoga had then gone on the tennis courts behind the gym, the very same one where he had gone to on the first day that he had arrived in New York, the very same courts where Tezuka had saved him.
"Ryoga?"
"Tezuka, please leave me alone." Ryoga seemed oddly calm, none of his frustrations showing on the surface.
"Are you working for Sakurafubuki?" Silence mounted between them, reaching its breaking point before Ryoga finally answered.
"Yes."
Tezuka looked at Ryoga for a brief second. Was this the man he had come to admire? The usual poker mask hid his disgust well but not well enough, as Ryoga looked pained. Tezuka turned around to leave.
"You asked me why I play tennis. It's because of Ryoma," Ryoga said in a quiet tone. He explained to Tezuka the circumstances that had led him to this tournament.
"He said I need to win to let Ryoma go free. He has made a similar deal with Ryoma. If he wins, he'd let me go free. And yes, Sakurafubuki is a lot of things but he always honours his words," There were a silent resignation in his eyes as if he had succumbed to his fate. "I need to choose. To live or to die."
In the end, Ryoga had chosen to live; for his ideals, for his principals and for his family. He had promised Rinko after all to try harder to be a part of the Echizen family. So, in the end Ryoga had lived to honour the promise by quietly dying.
Ryoga had also told him about his condition. Cardiac Dysrhythmia.
"It's a cardiac disorder. It results in a heartbeat that is too fast, too slow or too weak to supply the body's needs, this manifests as a lower blood pressure and may cause light-headedness or dizziness, or fainting." Ryoga had conveniently left out that this arrhythmia was also fatal, especially for a tennis player like him.
What a match it had been. One to be honoured by the professional tennis world for years to come. Beautiful display of skill, interwoven with the strong will to win. The match, despite being for one set, had continued for over three hours.
The sunny day soon turned grey with the overcast of black clouds, as water, in swift motions, fell towards the awaiting earth. The two tennis players seemed hardly concerned.
Tezuka could see Ryoga becoming aware of his erratically beating heart, struggling to pump enough blood into his limbs even as the ball grew heavier, soaking in water with each return. At this stage, technique no longer mattered; the match had long become a raw battle of clashing wills to win.
Twist Serve. Rising. Cyclone smash. Tiger Curve Ball. Drive B. Smash. Drive A. Smash. Higuma Otoshi. Lob. Rondo towards Destruction. Tezuka Zone. Zero-Shiki drop-shot. Tsubame Gaeshi. Nitroyu. Tight Rope Walking.
Some of the most brilliant moves had been played. The ball rolled along the net, tilting, and swaying and in the end it fell on the clay court. The stadium was stunned into silence as the Prince was defeated by the Master. The thump of Ryoga's body falling echoed clearly.
Tezuka could still feel the tension that he had felt when he had seen the lithe body fall after the match. The doctors had declared the tennis player to be brought dead when the management team had rushed him to the hospital. Post-mortem reports stated that he had died of acute cardiac arrest. But Tezuka knew it in his bones that Ryoga had left no regrets behind. Shortly before the match between the Echizen brothers, he had received a phone call from Japan.
"Ryoga, ganbatte."
"Arigatou otou-san," Ryoga's voice faltered in the end.
"I have made a lot of mistakes in my life, but I do not consider you one of them.I know it may seem selfish. I also know that I have not been much of a father to you but I do really hope that you can forgive your old man. It has taken me a long time to realise but I can say this to you now, life does not revolve tennis for you and I am ready to accept that. You remind me of your mother, stubborn, caring and selfless. Do what's right. I want my son back. Both my sons." By the end of the short conversation, Ryoga could barely restrain the tears that were threatening to flow. He hardened his resolve.
I am sorry father, but I cannot fulfil this wish of yours.
Nanjiroh never did get the chance to be a father to his first born son after that day.
Tezuka entered the flat that had once belonged to Ryoga Echizen. He had bequeathed it to Ryoma who in turn had rented it out to Tezuka, an emerging pro tennis player whose talent in the sport rivalled that of the current reigning champion, who the media had dubbed as the Prince of Tennis. Tezuka was challenged in his quest by none other than his long-standing rivals, the Ice Emperor, Atobe Keigo, the Tensai Fuji Syusuke and the Child of God, Yukimura Seichi. He shuffled inside, his coat going to the little closet in the hall, depositing his briefcase, keys and his switched -off phone on the kitchen counter before proceeding to his bedroom.
Tezuka had thought of Ryoga quite often in the last few months, but something about him remained an enigma even till now. Just why the hell was Sakurafubuki interested in Ryoga, long after he had quit tennis?
.
.
.
Sakurafubuki sat in his chambers, nursing his drink. The tournaments had been hugely successful and the earnings had propelled him further among the rich elites of the world. But even then, Ryoga had managed to beat him.
Sakurafubuki had always been fascinated by the eleven-year-old he had found on the streets of the Big Apple. The stormy golden eyes that held so much passion were oddly similar to Sakurafubuki's. He knew the price of pursuing his ambitions. When he took Ryoga in, without any knowledge of his heritage, he had seen a certain beast in that boy, a beast that was hungry to prove itself. It often manifested as cruelty on the courts and he couldn't help but be proud of him. On court, the boy seemed to revel in the plight of others, but off court, only his studies concerned him. It was then that he decided to name the Japanese's alter personality on the courts as Ryan, the Master. However his illusions about the boy had been broken on the cruise ship, when he had chosen family over him. It was ironic really, because he hadn't even picked the right family.
The glow from his table lamp cast a soft illumination on the sole photograph resting on the desk. A beautiful woman, no more than in her mid-twenties, stared back at Sakurafubuki with eyes that were brimming with happiness and mischief. Her smile was loop-sided like she had a hard time controlling her laughter. Her long black hair flowed behind her, picked up by the wind while she tried to hold her hat in place on her head with one hand.
Kimiko.
Kimiko.
Kimiko.
Sakurafubuki repeated the name several times like an incantation to seek warmth from the woman in the photograph in his cold room.
Kimiko. The similarities were obvious. He was amazed he had not noticed them before: they had the same curve of lip, the same intense gaze, the same confidence of strut.
She had deserted her family because of the Samurai and in the end she had died without him by her side. He had disowned her, but even then, he couldn't let her go. Their bond as siblings ran way deeper than a silly affair with Nanjiroh to threaten it. He had however been clueless about the son she had given birth to. He had not known of the existence of his nephew until a few days ago when he had accidentally come across certain hospital papers. What shocked him even more was that he had already known his nephew.
The strings of fate sure were tangled.
He couldn't suppress the rage he had felt towards Nanjiroh for taking his family away from him, not once, but twice. The Samurai may have been too old to play tennis but his little brat would suffice.
Sakurafubuki took a long swig from the glass, the ice clinking together. It had all been simple really. But in the end, he had lost and the cursed upstart Nanjiroh had won again, without even knowing the game.
He had called Ryoga to remind him of the fun that they had share together. Sakurafubuki wanted more of it and primarily he had wanted his sister's son to kill his own half-brother. The All Japan Tennis Tournament fulfilled his brief of requirements very well and everything from the start went along as he had planned.
He was so sure the beast within Ryoga would show itself, once faced with his past, but he had been unaware of the complications that would arise due to Ryoga's physical condition. He had chosen to play knowing all too well that he would not walk out of the court unharmed. By dying, he had saved his brother and had thwarted Sakurafubuki's plan.
The old man gave a mirthless laugh. It had grown dark since long. The billionaire held his empty glass in one hand while the other was curled around the cold metal. He sat in the room for the remainder of the night and the next morning the police found his dead body, shot to death at point blank range. He still had his gun in his right hand, but his left hand clutched tightly a crumpled photograph of his ever-smiling sister.
With everything forgotten in time, no one would notice the small curve of her belly, her hand hiding and protecting it with maternal instinct.
~End~
A/n: Thank you everyone who has supported this fic of mine. It has been a pleasure writing it and I hope you have equally enjoyed reading it. Thank you.