© 2016 Gold

Title: Beyond: A Tribute – Part Twenty: This Is Murder

Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis and New Prince of Tennis are created by Konomi Takeshi-san. This work is a piece of fanfiction and no part of it is attributed to Konomi-san or any other entity holding any rights associated with and arising out of Prince of Tennis or New Prince of Tennis. This 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.

Author's Notes:

1. If you're still following this story after all these years, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I'm very touched and I don't know what to say. I know it shouldn't have taken so long. I can't explain it, but I guess I had to keep on writing this. I am not sure whether you'll be disappointed by the ending or not. I wrote the ending years ago and I'm kind of writing the chapters backwards from that ending, and then forwards toward that ending, simultaneously. Some chapters in draft mode are actually entitled "Epilogue-less-two", because I can no longer predict when I'll actually reach that chapter. Sometimes the characters take over the story and run away with the chapter.

2. If you're new to this story, welcome and I hope you have fun!

3. In my dreams, I imagine that Momoshiro and Kaidoh became co-captains of Seigaku, and Echizen, for a little while, came back and became vice-captain. 'cause Seigaku always did things differently and I wouldn't expect any less of Ryuzaki-sensei.

4. At the time this story was written and set, Kei Nishikori (now the best known of Japanese tennis players) had not quite risen to the fore.

5. A while back, I read in the newspaper a quote from someone who seemed to indicate a dismissiveness that sometimes movies are about "let's all have a group hug" resolutions when in real life, there is much ambiguity and moral choices are complex. Well, here is what I have learned: that there are no group hug resolutions in real life, but that you need group hugs to get through life. Groupthink is not the way to go. But Grouphugs should be.

ETA: At the time this story was set, the lines quoted at the end of this chapter were attributed to Camus. That was what I was told more than 10 years ago. I understand it's been debunked by an article in Huffington Post in 2014. But this book is set in 2010 and "written" by Osakada Tomoka (who represents the fangirl in me) in 2011. So I have retained the quote as being attributed to Camus, for "historical" accuracy (or so I believe).

Part Twenty: This Is Murder

Yukimura Seiichi wasn't quite sure if he was in the right place. Lunch lay uneasily in his stomach, which fluttered in the manner that most unwilling heroes and heroines of zombie slasher flicks would empathise with. He hesitated on the threshold, one foot short of stepping into the beyond. A glance up to the right told him that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. A glance over his shoulder met with the impassive gaze of one Tezuka Kunimitsu, standing behind Yukimura on the flight of plain grey steps that led downwards.

Yukimura stifled a sigh and faced forward again.

Yes, he had read it correctly – the sign on the door stated clearly that if he pushed it open, he would be able to step on to the hospital rooftop. According to the message he had received on his mobile phone, this was supposed to be the meeting place. But there were scents in the air, wafting in from the door beyond – strange scents that spoke, not of chloroform and disinfectant, but of summer and sunshine, and all attendant loveliness.

It was daytime.

Wherefore, all unmannerly things that belonged to the night and the supernatural were less likely to occur (but it was true that Tezuka would be a very good zombie-killing partner, if ever he should need one).

Yukimura tucked his imagination back into its drawer and pushed open the door – and he caught his breath, his eyes wide with amazement. For a fleeting moment, he was certain that he was dreaming.

This was the hospital rooftop.

To be precise, this was supposed to be the hospital rooftop.

Yet somehow, some way, someone had contrived to turn it into what could charitably be called a rooftop garden of sorts. Where once had been drab grey cement tiles lay a carpet of artificial grass, pinned securely in place by the largest and sturdiest potted palms that Yukimura had ever seen. Almost every visible square foot of space had been populated with green plants of all kinds and flowers in riotous bloom every which way he looked. Yukimura could have sworn that he spotted larkspur, of all flowers, amidst the flowering populace. Even the standard plant and machinery, hitherto default occupants of rooftops, had been camouflaged under bolts upon bolts of what appeared to be crêpe fabric, in a dazzling array of colours that probably spanned the entire rainbow spectrum – and then some. But the crowning glory was truly the gazebo that had sprung out of nowhere, replete with all the trimmings: gauzy drapes, plushly-upholstered garden furniture with plump cushions, a pathway lined by miniature water-walls and even a small rock-garden that featured a bamboo dipper with an exquisitely tiny waterfall.

Yukimura held his breath for a precious moment. Up here, in the blazing sunshine and beneath the blue canopy of the sky, surrounded by the whispers of flowers and plants, he was in a different world. He was alive, unburdened, healthy…

He wandered quietly, stopping now and then to touch and to re-arrange some of the plants. The artificial grass made a pleasant and barely audible smushing sound underfoot in the wake of his footsteps. He would have to do something about that… Yukimura's thoughts briefly flitted towards a cherished dream that one day, when he had retired from professional tennis, he would coach or open his own tennis school with award-winning landscaped gardens. He would get both his best friends –

Yukimura paused before a row of potted white spider lilies interspersed with their more colourful cousins, the tiger lilies.

Well. There was that.

... Renji was very cross with him and Sanada.

Yanagi Renji prized ration above passion. It was hard to describe just how he had felt when he found out that Yukimura had fallen back into his old, bad habits of pushing himself despite increasing indications that his physical condition was considerably below adequate match fitness. He would have understood if Yukimura had met the adequate match fitness standards but had not been in top form; as it was, the fact that Yukimura had gone ahead with the match despite his abysmal physical condition was sheer suicide, in Yanagi's opinion, even though he had baldly asserted to the rest that Yukimura Seiichi would not die for tennis. It truly was not in Yukimura's character to do so and Yanagi could not comprehend it. This was not a match where the pride of their nation was at stake. It was just Sanada Genichirou, for Kami-sama's sake. There had to be another reason.

It was no exaggeration to say that Yanagi had fallen immediately into a state of near-terrified panic when he saw Yukimura collapse even before the match could begin. Inui Sadaharu could testify that it was only with tremendous difficulty that he had managed to restore Yanagi to a decent level of sanity. Perhaps, underneath it all, Yanagi had felt the first inklings of dread that distance was taking its toll on his much-treasured friendship with Yukimura and Sanada. If only either or both Sanada and Yukimura had seen fit to seek his advice before making the disastrous choice to go forth with the match with Sanada! This was the way it had always been; this was the way it was supposed to be – until now.

The conversation just that morning between Yukimura and Yanagi had gone appallingly, for two people who were supposed to have unbreakable bonds of brotherhood. Renji had oscillated between genuine concern and clinical detachment, laced with a distinct frigidity that Yukimura had read (with partial accuracy) as a sort of simmering fury. But Yukimura had missed the underlying fear and pain in Yanagi's voice – perhaps, indeed, distance had taken its toll. An underhanded attempt to divert that simmering fury elsewhere by (literally) bringing Sanada Genichirou into the conversation had failed in spectacular fashion; Yukimura's poor solace was that Sanada had fared far, far worse than him.

You should have known. You should both have known, Renji had said, in a tone so dry and chilly that it bordered dangerously on Arctic winds.

Yukimura had said as soothingly and meekly as he could, Renji, I… didn't really think it would be so bad. I really didn't.

Renji's silence had effectively communicated waves of intense displeasure – or was it disbelief? (distrust, whispered a little voice that Yukimura squashed and shoved into the darkest corners of his mind) – across.

Renji? I'm so sorry. Sanada had been abjectly, almost humiliatingly apologetic as soon as he got on the line. I'm so sorry, Renji. I'm very sorry. I'm so sorry –

Renji had been blankly, bewilderingly silent.

And Sanada had gone on interminably in that vein, and Yukimura had had to stop him, because the conversation would really have gone nowhere.

They'd managed to talk about other things, after.

But Renji was still upset.

Yukimura glanced across at the stern, stoic profile of Tezuka Kunimitsu, who was eyeing the rock-garden measuringly. He wondered if Tezuka had ever faced such issues with his motley crew – certainly not Oishi, anyway. Fuji Syuusuke, perhaps.

"Tezuka."

Tezuka politely broke from his reverie and glanced up. "Yukimura."

Yukimura took a deep breath. "Ne, Tezuka, what does tennis mean, to you?"

Tezuka looked somewhat taken aback – or at least about as taken aback as Yukimura could tell, given that Tezuka's face gave away nothing. It was possible, Yukimura conceded privately, that he was merely imputing emotions on to Tezuka's blank face. But he wanted to start a conversation, and so start a conversation he would, even if he would be the only one speaking – he'd learned from years of best-friendship with Sanada that he didn't need another person to reply in order to have a conversation. All he needed was someone who would listen – and maybe just give an occasional reply so that he could be sure he wasn't just talking to a wall.

"I," said Yukimura slowly and emphatically, "live for tennis."

The planes of Tezuka's face seemed to soften a little, as if in comprehension.

"I would not die for it, because I know what it means to live for it. But I live on borrowed time, Tezuka. So for me, there will always, always be a voice in me that says I can hold on a little longer, push on a little farther no matter what. Because all I have is now."

Tezuka waited, silent and grave.

Yukimura chose the next several of his words carefully. He was leading up to something and both he and Tezuka knew it, for such had been the nature of nearly every conversation they had ever had. It was perhaps inevitable that they were rivals and friends, in equal proportions. Most importantly, where the world saw tennis champions and international stars – Yukimura and Tezuka saw in each other none of all that. For all their lives, long after their glory years had slipped by them and new bright young things took their place on the world stage, long after they had passed their autumn and were well into their last few winters, Yukimura and Tezuka would only ever see in each other, always, the schoolboys and tennis captains they had been. They would always have that.

"But I'm beginning to wonder if I even have a now." Yukimura dropped his eyes briefly, then raised them again, squinting a little in the bright sunlight. "It is easy to take the high road, to say that it isn't morally right to hide what has happened, to hide the fact that Sanada and I – that we – that JTX showed up in our test results. But I wonder, too, if it's better to stay silent and just wait it out. But not for my own sake, Tezuka."

A shadow seemed to pass over Tezuka's face, accentuating the hollows in his cheeks and deepening the smudges under his eyes.

Yukimura lightly touched a cactus. "Renji thinks that not saying anything could probably make things even more wrong than they already are. Nothing stays secret forever. But if Sanada and I talk about our test results now, our timing could not be worse. Our boys and girls are still in tournaments on the circuit. They could be pulled out, suspended – I don't know. There are going to be a lot of people who will think the worst of us all. It's not just our careers and our lives that we hold in our hands. It's all of our seniors, all of our juniors, our families – everyone who's part of us on this circuit." Yukimura's voice was soft and bleak. "They'll think that there's something wrong with all of us Japanese players… they'll think that we use, when we don't. They'll think there's a pattern somewhere, when there isn't." Bitterness and despair seeped into Yukimura's tone, try as he might to keep them out.

Tezuka's mouth tightened.

"Tezuka, you would never have stooped to such a filthy habit. Nor would I, nor any one of us. " Yukimura's voice rose, a sharp crescendo. His hand bore down on the cactus before Tezuka could stop him. "That someone would do this to us, deliberately, because this is in no way an accident – that is more than I can bear. This is destroying everything that we have worked for, everything we have lived for, everything that we ever shed blood for –"

"Yukimura –" started Tezuka.

"This is nothing less than murder, Tezuka," Yukimura said fiercely. "There will be an ultimate price for us to pay, if we don't find out the truth fast enough. I don't know if there will be anything left of me after I have paid the price." Yukimura clenched his teeth. "How long will it take to clear our names? Where do we go from here? Yes, one day, the truth will out. I've told myself that, over and over. But I don't know when that will happen. It may not be today or tomorrow, maybe not even a year from now. We may have to wait years. Until that day comes, where do we go from here?"

Where, indeed?

"And what if we never clear our names, Tezuka? What if that happens - what do we do?"

There was a long silence while Yukimura held Tezuka's gaze challengingly.

"I cannot answer your question, Yukimura," said Tezuka finally, heavily. "At least, not in the way you want me to."

"I suppose," Yukimura said a little wearily, "that perhaps my now is coming to an end."

Tezuka shook his head firmly. His gaze was clear and grave. "No, Yukimura, I do not think so. Our paths have always been clear to us. You and I, Sanada and Echizen, all of us – for these few years, since we turned pro, we have walked the same path. But I believe that things are different now." Tezuka's eyes clouded over. "The path, for me, has twisted elsewhere – and I must walk it alone. I don't know what lies before me, and I must find my own way now, one step at a time. This path is mine alone to walk, Yukimura, and one that I would not wish on anyone. And I hope that when I am through, nobody – will – ever – have to walk this path again."

It was Yukimura's turn to fall silent. At length, he murmured, "Tezuka?"

"Hm?"

"I…" Yukimura hesitated.

He had not talked to Tezuka much, in recent years, about anything other than tennis. As schoolboys, they had managed to see each other outside tennis (admittedly with their tennis team-mates usually in tow), shared meals at the same sushi and ramen joints, been compelled to attend (and have fun!) at Atobe's Annual Summer Festival, Gala and Fête, and they had talked about their hobbies outside of tennis, commiserated with each other over the duties of handing their respective clubs over to the next generation, exchanged views over the most mundane of things such as the best spots for fly-fishing for Yamame trout and the best plants for gardens in winter… Once upon a time, Tezuka and Yukimura had known each other as more than just fellow tennis players. Something deep inside, likely that schoolboy bond of old, spurred Yukimura on. "Tezuka, how have you been…? Are you all right?"

Surprise, then understanding, flashed across Tezuka's face. His eyes softened and the set of his finely-cut mouth relaxed a little. "I am all right. Thank you, Yukimura."

Yukimura coloured slightly. "I… have not helped. When first this happened…" His voice trailed off. He had been sick. He'd struggled to even stay lucid and awake. He had not noticed, far too wrapped up in self-denial. He'd been incredibly, unbelievably remiss. No wonder, Yukimura suddenly realised, that Renji had been so angry. Renji must have thought – must have thought that – but Yukimura really hadn't thought that it would come to this –

"It is all right, Yukimura." Tezuka's voice was gentle.

But Yukimura felt fury surge again, within him. "No, it's not all right, Tezuka," Yukimura heard himself say. "Not for you, not for any one of us. Does it not bother you that we have come so far and all this way, that we have paid such a heavy price, only for this to happen?" He held up his hands. They were strong, muscular hands, but terrible to look at: hard and rough all over with callouses and bruising, covered with scars and plasters where blisters had had a field day. "If this were a competition, if a better player out there won this match, as has happened so many times to us all, at least it was won fairly and squarely. But this is different. There's malice here. I think you recognise, as I do, the difference between malice and madness. It is what it is, and we're meant to be in the dark with no way of knowing how to get out."

Tezuka said, simply, "It does not affect what I ought to do."

... and it was almost word for word, just what Sanada had said that morning, to Yukimura and Yanagi.

Yukimura couldn't help it; he laughed a little, and the sound of it was rich and genuine, with more than a note of resignation in it. "The two of you really are alike."

"But not identical," returned Tezuka drily, knowing perfectly well as to who Yukimura was busy drawing comparisons with.

"No," conceded Yukimura. If he had a hundred yen for every time someone commented on the similarities between Tezuka and Sanada, his wealth would probably leave Atobe Keigo way behind in the dust. "No, you are both also very different. Ah, Tezuka."

"?"

Yukimura stretched his arms, up and out, as if in embrace of the skies. "Perhaps I have to choose my now, as you have chosen yours." He let out a sigh. "You won't walk alone, Tezuka. I'll walk your path, with you –"

"Yukimura–" The look on Yukimura's face stopped Tezuka.

"We have come this far together, Tezuka. I won't let you walk alone."

The afternoon sunshine was bright and heady, but it was nothing compared to the warmth of Yukimura's smile and the answering brilliance that flared in Tezuka's eyes.

Don't walk in front of me – I may not follow.

Don't walk behind me – I may not lead.

Just walk beside me – and be my friend.

– Attributed to Camus