© 2014 Gold
Title: Beyond: A Tribute – Part 15: Never Easy 2
Author: Gold
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis is created by Konomi Takeshi. This work is a piece of fanfiction and no part of it is attributed to Konomi-san or any other entity holding any legal right associated with and arising out of Prince of Tennis . It was written purely out of fanservice and it is not to be used for profit or any false association with Konomi-san or aforesaid entities.
Notes: It has been a very, very long time, but the other day, when I was reading the end of this story (which I have written, yes) and also New Prince of Tennis, I was strongly reminded of why this story existed in the first place.
Part Fifteen: Never Easy – Part 2
It was never going to be easy.
Once upon a time, not too long ago, Fuji Syusuke met a boy whom he instinctively felt would be a strong and true friend, for life. In that not very distant past, the boy Fuji met did, indeed, become his good friend. More importantly, he also became Fuji's captain, if only for a little while. And for that little while, Fuji had a captain whose fierce intensity, unimpeachable honour and passion sparked into life an answering flare within Fuji. It was a curious thing, really, because Fuji wasn't a born follower; by choice, he preferred to be more of a drifter who paddled along life's streams in his own way, a capable swimmer who treasured the smell of roses along the way. Fuji, in his own way, was a bit of a born philosopher. It was more than Fuji would ever let on – and, perhaps, more than either of them would ever know. So it was Tezuka Kunimitsu, in whose steps Fuji followed, and Tezuka, whose acknowledgement Fuji strove to earn.
And it was Tezuka, who had said to Fuji:
Fuji. Where is the real you?
It took many years before Fuji finally understood the question and its answer, long after Tezuka had likely forgotten that he had ever asked.
No two persons in the world will ever walk the same path. Fuji Syusuke was not Tezuka Kunimitsu, and Fuji had to walk his own path, one that no one else could – one that was not Tezuka's. From out the shadows and into the light, how much of that path would involve tennis, was Fuji's decision alone. And if it was to the consternation (or relief, as the case may be) of many that Fuji appeared to have abandoned the path to worldwide domination via tennis, and if there were those who regretted the loss of Fuji's genius to the world at large – well, Tezuka, at least, did not appear to be amongst them.
Perhaps Tezuka, too, finally understood.
Until a few days ago, Fuji had been secure in the path he had chosen.
When the nightmare had begun all those days ago, emblazoned in headlines everywhere – that Tezuka Kunimitsu, of all people, had tested positive for banned substances at a prestigious, major tennis tournament – well, it wasn't a matter of disbelieving it; it wasn't even a question of impossibility. It was simply that it was just so obviously wrong. Fuji almost felt as if he had been unceremoniously dropped into a half-surreal, half-neurotic existence generally found only in the darkest and most disturbing of film noir (and without a femme fatale, to boot). Fuji had faith that the truth would out itself. This was Tezuka that they were talking about. Somewhere, somehow, the system would not fail. It would prove that there had been a mistake.
But as time trickled away inexorably, Fuji began to see that the nightmare of reality had all but pronounced Tezuka guilty. Tezuka would not have been the first much-loved, much-decorated sportsperson to have betrayed the meaning of sportsmanship; many had opted for that road before, and there was no doubt that there would be many more on that road after. Fuji chafed at the helplessness of it all and for the first time in his life, felt murder stir in his heart. Above all, he was burdened with inexplicable guilt, wondering if he should have persevered and continued on Tezuka's path instead of his own, because he might have been there at Tezuka's side if he hadn't stopped to take a philosophical turn to find his true self (even though that could be said to be partially Tezuka's fault). In his weakest moments, Fuji occasionally thought that perhaps he could have stopped it somehow, countered the nonsense, made things all right—somehow, some way, as long as he had been there, perhaps things could have been different.
But Fuji had not been there, nor did he have the means.
Nor, it seemed, did Tezuka, who remained excruciatingly stubborn and outstandingly imitated a blank concrete wall to such splendid effect that Fuji, mid-way through the most exasperating telephone conversation of his life, hung up on Tezuka in a fury of impotence.
Thus it was that in the wee hours of a Tokyo morning, Fuji (who hadn't been called a tensai for nothing) had quietly picked up his 'phone and racked up mind-blowing international call charges to reach one Atobe Keigo.
Atobe had risen to the occasion magnificently. It had been characteristically overdone (one couldn't reasonably expect any less of Atobe), but still undeniably magnificent. Fuji had to concede that perhaps he, rather than Atobe, had had the better end of the deal. Atobe, of course, held a different opinion – but that, too, had suited Fuji down to the ground. Fuji hadn't any idea, then, that the nightmare would double and swell, taking with it Momoshiro, then Yukimura, and now –
Now this.
This…was personal.
Anger crackled through Fuji.
Easy for Atobe's doctors to say they would leave it to the players to decide what to do. Fuji knew the answer as if it had been written in bold scarlet letters six feet high, propped on a billboard in Vegas with floodlights showing up each word for all the world to see. Fuji knew, and Inui knew, and Yanagi knew, and Tachibana knew, and Oshitari knew. It was an answer that was the elephant in the room, suffocating them all in a wretched silence as they went about their tasks. By silent consensus, they had not said a single word to the rest. While Fuji rarely kept anything from Yuuta, this was different. It was not up to Fuji, nor the others, for that matter, to breathe a word.
But Fuji had never been one to believe in the sacrosanctity of elephants in rooms, let alone invisible ones.
"Tezuka, Yukimura, Sanada. Three years, three of them." Fuji's voice, clear and deceptively mild in tone, cracked the silence like bullets. Then he tilted his head and asked pointedly, "Is that really all?"
To outsiders, Fuji hadn't said anything that wasn't obvious. But to those in the room, well, because it was Fuji who was the speaker, it made them think a lot harder. Those words said a world of things.
Yes, it had indeed been three years since a golden generation of Japanese tennis players had stormed on to the courts of the world and rocked the pro circuits.
Yes, those had been three years of maniacal levels of grit and courage, of blood and sweat, of tears and toil.
But behind those three years, stretching even further back, lay at least another decade and a half that was never spoken of. Those were the years they grew from tiny tots to children, and from children to teenagers. Those were years they spent devoted to their beloved tennis, honing their skills in practices that tested scientific limits of human endurance, and played their hearts out in tennis tournaments at every level – private clubs, school competitions, inter-school championships, national age group championships, All-Japan, regional tournaments, international youth tournaments and so on and so forth.
Those, too, were years spent under the yoke of injury and disease, as they defiantly fought back from injuries and disease that yet hovered in the background like Damocles' sword, after all these years. In these glory days, not many remembered Yukimura's brief, terrible struggle and defiant recovery against all odds over the debilitating Guillain-Barre Syndrome, and how close he had come to the end. Few understood that Sanada's seemingly wild over-reaction to Yukimura's sudden collapse before their Cincinnati Masters encounter was pure, unadulterated instinct, stemming uncontrollably from the psychological scars that had been burnt indelibly into his soul all those years ago – or that Sanada was not the only one with those scars. Fewer still knew that Tezuka's and Sanada's time on the tennis courts of the world would, one day, forever be limited by the injuries to, respectively, Tezuka's left shoulder, arm and elbow, and to Sanada's legs, all those years ago.
Princes of Tennis.
The world saw a miracle, but they knew different.
Tachibana's face was stonier than any of them had ever seen before and his lips were pressed tightly together, strain showing at the corners.
Oshitari deliberately removed his glasses. Behind the façade, his eyes glittered, cool and unyielding as granite.
Yanagi said nothing and his face was as implacable as ever, but beneath the table, the hand that rested on his left knee had curled into a tight fist and the knuckles were white with fury.
Inui, who alone amongst them knew Fuji best and longest, decided to risk a response, even though he knew that the chances of any response being acceptable to Fuji was less than 5.36 percent under the circumstances. But he had to try.
There were usually multiple layers to anything Fuji said. What he didn't say was always very important, just as important as what he did say. Inui, after all their years of friendship, usually got it right about 42.68 percent of the time. (According to Inui's data, he was therefore ranked behind Tezuka Kunimitsu, Echizen Ryoma, Kikumaru Eiji and Saeki Kojirou, in that order, in terms of understanding the language of Fuji Syusuke. The data was incomplete, but interestingly enough, what Inui had indicated that Tezuka left everyone else in the dust and Echizen apparently had an understanding of Fuji that was completely disproportionate to the actual amount of time the two interacted). When Fuji asked Is that all, he wasn't merely thinking of pain and blood and sweat and tears, and the stuff of movies. There was the literal meaning, to be sure, but Fuji was hinting at the potential for a wider, more devastating loss that they had been thinking of – or simply setting off a chain of events. Inui thought there might be a 87.56 percent chance that it was all of the foregoing.
"Fuji," Inui began, his voice lacking the mildly sardonic inflection it usually carried. His voice failed as he met Fuji's eyes and the steeliness in them, and he found himself suddenly unable to say more.
Yanagi cast a cool glance in their direction. Although Yanagi had a fairly good inkling of exactly what Fuji Syusuke was aiming for – namely, the elephant in the room – he was also quite sure that like blind men, each of them was probably only able to sense a portion of that elephant. "Seiichi and Genichirou will know what to do." His voice was measured, deliberate and eerily calm.
"It is not in their characters to remain silent about this," Tachibana agreed heavily. "For the three of them –"
"No," cut in Yanagi. "I believe this is something that may not be contained to Tezuka, Yukimura and Sanada."
Tachibana's lips pressed themselves together tightly as a thought abruptly occurred to him. "I see," he said, an edge to his tone. "It may extend beyond that, to other tournaments, to even those who were not competing in the Cincinnati Masters..."
"Yes." Yanagi's voice was clipped. "Three of them, from the same country and under the same management. It is difficult to see how that can reasonably be viewed as mere coincidence. Even if it is shown that the management or coaches or others were behind this, I estimate a 78.56 percent chance that suspicion may fall on the others, because a pattern of systematic doping - or its potential, at the very least – would have been identified." He added grimly, "There are other Japanese players on the pro circuits, both men and women. Our seniors, our peers, our juniors..."
The silence was palpable.
Once more, it was broken by Fuji, whose voice managed to fill the room and yet still appeared curiously detached. "A doping suspension, forfeiture of prize money, stripping of ranking points, a lifetime ban, rumours destroying careers and the burdening of innocents with shame where there is none and no wrong to begin with."
Inui cleared his throat. "The – the, uh, financial exposure is likely to be limited, quite paltry in comparison to the other – the other possible penalties. Assuming it is with effect from the date of the positive test, or the year in which the test was positive, they have amassed a total of a little over five million US dollars' worth of prize money and sponsorship deals for the first seven months of this year. Naturally, the lion's share comes from the endorsements. It's not much, but they've never gone in for endorsements in a substantial way. Odd, if you think about it," mused Inui. "I suppose there's another story there, for another day… At any rate, we will verify the final amount once we have a closer look at their finances."
Tachibana massaged his forehead with his fingertips. "The range of penalties could be reasonably light, or very severe – I suppose I'm stating the obvious."
Fuji's lips were tight. "Will they even have the chance to begin again, even if the penalty is merely a suspension, coupled with the stripping of the ranking points and prize money?" he demanded, softly. "Even if they do have this chance, will the world let them take this chance? And if the world does not let them, will they find the courage to begin again nevertheless? Or is there a new road for them, somewhere?"
If the penalty was as they feared, or worse – such as a lifetime ban – how could there be any chance to begin again? And how could they silence the scorn, the whispers, the outright insults, the petty but effective snubs that would, over time, strip their skin from their flesh and grind their bones to make bread? Whereat lay the road for them, if the worst was to happen?
"We did not know, then," Tachibana murmured wearily, his thoughts flying back. "We thought that others, more experienced and wiser in the ways of the world, would know better..."
"We were not wrong, not in that respect," Yanagi said tersely. "It was a perfectly reasonable course of action." He hesitated briefly. With difficulty, for it was alien to his nature to reveal more than was absolutely necessary, especially something so deeply personal, Yanagi added bleakly, "If I am to regret anything, it is that I did not keep a closer tab on Seiichi, Genichirou and Akaya… that I was not there then… and that I am not there now. I feel… responsible. Somehow."
"As do we all, Professor," Inui told him gently. "We all want to take responsibility for things bigger than we are, to save the people we love and to have the things we really want. It's part of human nature."
Oshitari's glasses glinted in his hands, reflecting the afternoon sunlight that filtered in through the windows. He looked thoughtful. "That's so. And I do believe that it is exactly what Atobe wants – well, one of his aims at any rate – and why we are here."
Tachibana nodded. "What choices our friends may make may not be within our control. It is something that we may not be able to decide. But we will be there this time, every step of the way, with our friends, whatever may happen. If they choose to walk away, then our doors will be open to them with a new road. If they stay and fight on, and choose to begin again, then we will also be there. Should the worst happen – should the doors shut on them, then we will open new ones." Determination, mixed with regret, flashed across his face. "This time, we will not leave them alone, as we did once. This we must ensure, for our friends and also for our seniors and juniors, for those of them who still play on the circuits and those who will play in future." Tachibana looked solemnly at the others. "Atobe asked us to be part of this. And we agreed, for the sake of our friends and for the tennis that we love. This time, things will be different. We will be there. Let our friends play tennis – we'll take care of the rest."
Outside, beyond the door, Saeki Kojirou and Shiraishi Kuranosuke stood in stasis, their ears plastered to the door. It was not exactly the finest moment of their lives.
Shiraishi recovered first. "Saeki –" he whispered.
"Yeah," Saeki mumbled under his breath.
"It's worse than you thought."
Saeki leaned back against the wall, as if for support. "You don't say!"
Shiraishi took another look at the door. "…did we or didn't we hear anything?"
"We did," Saeki told him grimly, sotto voce.
Shiraishi laid a hand on Saeki's shoulder and put a finger to his lips. Inside the room, Fuji was saying something quietly, too quietly for them to hear. But they had heard enough.
When Shiraishi and Saeki were a safe distance away out of earshot – at the bottom of the staircase – Shiraishi turned to Saeki. "You didn't know all that?"
"Not a thing," Saeki assured him, still troubled.
Shiraishi wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. "This… changes things."
Saeki ran one hand through his hair and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Aa."
"But," continued Shiraishi steadily, "I think that right now, our priority is to do whatever we've been tasked to do." A faint smile lit his face. "I've been given my orders."
Saeki emitted a deep sigh. "So have I. Co-head, web publicity team, at your service." He mock-saluted Shiraishi. "Which reminds me that I should run as my fearless team has been looking for me." Saeki paused, then glanced upwards. "Hey – let them know, it's okay. I know and I'm not gonna tell, but it's going to be okay. Tell them for me, yeah?"
Shiraishi's smile was self-deprecating. "Ah – it's that obvious?"
"That you're part of the core team?" Saeki grinned broadly, not a whit of rancour on his open, expressive face. "I guessed as much." His expression turned serious. "The way things are, it's clearly bigger than most of us really know. Atobe picked those of us whom he knew we'd all trust and listen to. If you add Tezuka, Yukimura and Sanada over there, you've got about ten people altogether, including Atobe himself. That's enough. Can't have forty of us running around trying to lead in everything. It'll be a mess. So it makes perfect sense from an organisational perspective. The rest of us, we'll do our part and whatever else we're needed for. Just know that you guys can rely on us. We know we're not chopped liver, so don't worry about our sensitive egos." He thumped himself on the chest.
"Thanks." Shiraishi was genuinely touched, if more than a little amused.
Saeki waved him off with a lordly hand. "Don't be a stranger," he told Shiraishi. "See you later. Stay in touch!" He bumped fists with Shiraishi, then hurried off.
Shiraishi started up the staircase, heading back to the room that Fuji, Inui, Tachibana, Oshitari and Yanagi were in.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Come in," said Tachibana's voice from within.
Hand on knob, Shiraishi pushed open the door and stepped in. "Yo."