Valentine's Day
Part I
Atobe got onto the
train, his unaccustomed weight of his bag swinging at his side. He really
wished Kabaji was with him right now. For one thing, Kabaji was one of the best
people to talk to at times like this. For another thing, Atobe wouldn't have to
carry his own bag.
But.
This really wasn't
the kind of event in which you want a third person present.
The reason for this
little excursion – a slim white, be-ribboned package -- sat in his bag and
seemed to weigh heavier every moment. Do I really want to do this? Atobe
asked himself, sighing as he fingered the slight burns on the tips of his
fingers. He'd never know. I could just get off the train right now and throw
it away.
He couldn't believe
he'd actually gone and made chocolate, for crying out loud. It was the first
time Ore-sama had ever stepped into the kitchen.
Of course, it had
seemed really easy at the time – after all, how hard could it be to follow a
few simple instructions? But the book said nothing about needing three pairs of
arms to crush chocolate to bits, to toast almonds, to heat the milk, all at the
same time. And he still had no idea what a bain-marie was.
Bain meant bath, he
knew that much from his French classes. But the only Marie he was familiar with
was the air-headed, incompetent French monarch who'd managed to lose her
kingdom and her head during the French Revolution. Anyway, what has anyone's
bath got to do with cooking? He went ahead to make the chocolate without it. On
hindsight, it may have been a mistake.
Not for the first
time, Atobe pondered the wisdom of taking love advice from his tennis team.
They were just talking in the tennis club room after practice, as they usually
did. But on that day, their topic of discussion had turned to love. Or more accurately,
confessions of love. On Valentine's Day.
Oshitari swore that
it was the best day to tell that special someone that you loved them. He'd said
that the chances of success were higher on that one day of the year, according
to all those romantic movies he watched.
Atobe wondered if
Tezuka liked watching movies.
Ohtori said it was
because it was springtime, and everyone was in a better mood, that's why it was
sure to work.
Atobe brushed the stray raindrops off his coat.
And everyone agreed
that home-made chocolate was the way to go, even Jirou, who woke up for
approximately two minutes to say that he liked chocolate before falling asleep
again.
But Atobe was pretty
certain that chocolate shouldn't have that slightly burnt smell. And the
chocolate he made sure as heck didn't look the way he had planned… He had been
startled by thunder, just as he was about to pour the liquid chocolate into the
mold. He could make another one, but then again, he had already burned three
previous batches and used up nearly all the available pots and pans in the
kitchen and there just wasn't enough time to make it from scratch again.
At least the box and
wrapping were pretty.
Atobe shifted in his
seat to stare at the pouring rain outside the carriage. He resisted the urge to
gnaw on his nails. What if he didn't like it? What if Tezuka didn't feel the
same way? Maybe this is a stupid idea in the first place. But something
glued Atobe in place, despite the jangled nerves and the out-of-control
feeling. He wanted – no, needed – something more from Tezuka.
Of course he could
just quietly stay by his side. And pigs could fly. It just wasn't
enough. Not for him. He needed to know that Tezuka was equally affected by him.
In a rare moment of
self-examination, Atobe admitted to himself that the same destructive impulse
that made him walk onto the courts to destroy the career of a player whose only
fault was to outshine him, was driving him now.
Defeat wasn't enough
for him. The old Atobe had to destroy any challengers who came so close to
threatening his position, his security. Now, in much the same way, a one-sided
love isn't enough. The new Atobe couldn't be content with just the knowledge
that he had feelings for the brown-haired buchou from Seigaku. No. He needed
Tezuka to reciprocate his feelings. He wanted Tezuka's heart, his world, to
revolve around him, Atobe Keigo.
Atobe let his head
drop back against the window. The rain poured down in shining silvery streaks
across the glass. The last time he had given in to the impulse, he had barely
made it. It was so nearly, almost, a disaster. This time, when the stakes are
so much higher…
His heart beat was
accelerating. Pounding what-if he doesn't like you? What-if he says nothing
when you give it to him? What-if he thinks you are a freak? What-if he says he
never wants to see you again? What-if? What-if? What-if?
Atobe suddenly felt
piqued. He had never been nervous before he met Tezuka. Ever. Perfection didn't
need nerves. But here Ore-sama was, on a train, dithering over what should have
been a simple and straightforward dialogue. Ore-sama loved him, and he'd better
love Ore-sama back if he knew what was good for him!
It was all his
fault.
Tezuka Kunimitsu.
With a single set
match, he had blown Atobe's world to pieces. Atobe had gone in expecting to
smash Tezuka's arm, to grind him to the ground. But by that last game, he had
come to realise that he had known nothing about Tezuka and his passion.
Tennis isn't just
about winning or losing. A person could continue to play even with the
all-too-real threat of injury. The mind can overcome pain. Inner strength can
push a body beyond human limits.
Every one of
Tezuka's return serves in that final tie-breaker had stripped Atobe of his
outer protections; the impact of each shot tearing off layers Atobe had thought
were the key aspects of his character. The need to be cheered, for
attention, to be worshipped. His innate belief in his superiority. His
unbeatable insight. The knowledge he was the best. All gone with every
return Tezuka hit, smashed to pieces, leaving behind only the will to play
every shot as best he can, to just hold on.
He'd won only
because he'd lasted just that much longer than Tezuka. But Atobe knew, even as
the ball bounced off the net, that he hadn't really won. But at least he'd
proved that he had just as much passion and heart. He'd meant what he said over
the net. It really was the best match ever. Then he'd gone back to his side, to
his smiling team mates and cheering worshippers, shaken and panting, hoping to
cobble back together some of his confidence, some of his superiority from
whatever broken shards Tezuka had left him.
To some extent, it
had worked. He had barely flinched when Coach Sakaki told him that he'd given
the Seigaku coach some information about the world-class specialist clinic in
Germany for Tezuka to consider. And he didn't try to find out when Tezuka was
leaving for Germany. He couldn't help it if people liked to tell him these
things.
He'd even manage to
go through most days without the words 'Tezuka' or 'Seigaku' crossing his mind.
But there were nights when he would dream of the match again. Sometimes, he
dreamt he played differently, that he had tried his 'Rondo to Destruction'
earlier in the match, rather than later. Or that he managed to break the Tezuka
Zone.
Some nights, he
dreamt he lost.
So when he heard
that Tezuka was finally coming back to Japan, Atobe made up his mind to go look
for him.
It was at that time
when he first discovered what it meant to be nervous. He was positive that
Tezuka did not hate him for what happened in the match, would not mind meeting
him again. He was sure that there was no hate in the Seigaku captain's tennis.
Well, pretty sure. Almost certain, anyway. But he only understood what
butterflies in the stomach meant when he stood at the gates of Seigaku, stomach
churning, trying to muster enough courage to go in. Kabaji had to push him
though the gates.
It was an awkward
meeting, the first ever since their one and only match. He'd calmly asked after
Tezuka's injury, made stilted small talk about Germany, and about the various
therapies available there, jumped with relief into a discussion about the
standard of European players compared to Japanese ones.
It was only at the
end, when Tezuka made these small movements that suggested that he would like
this meeting was to end soon, when Atobe asked the real question that he had
wanted to ask.
"Do you regret it?"
Atobe asked, his heart seemingly suspended over a hidden chasm as he waited for
an answer.
Tezuka was looking
out the window at the time, the late afternoon sun slanted across his profile,
casting a golden halo around his face. Then he turned and looked at him.
"I regretted it the
moment I stepped off the courts…"
Atobe felt his
throat close, and an ache began to make itself known within his chest. But
Tezuka was still speaking.
"…But it was only
for a while. Now, I regret nothing, or rather, there is nothing to regret. We
both played our best."
Tezuka looked
straight into Atobe's eyes and repeated with a light emphasis on the words. "We
played our best."
A silence fell upon
the room. The pain went away. Only the soft breathing of two boys standing
opposite each other in a small, light-filled room can be heard. For a moment,
Atobe could do nothing but soak up his words, this moment, to
store forever. "It… really was the best match I've ever played," he'd managed
to say in the end.
Tezuka had walked
him back to the school gates, where a patient Kabaji waited. They were about to
leave, when Atobe was struck by a sudden impulse. He turned, "Tezuka!" and the
other boy turned back in surprise. "Would you like to come to my house someday?
We could… I mean, I have original copies of all the major Open matches."
Tezuka had looked
faintly surprised at first, but in the end, only said, "Thank you. I would
enjoy that."
And that was the
start of everything. He'd called to arrange the time and date and place. Tezuka
came over to Atobe's house to watch the latest US Open matches on the
wide-screen projector in his house. They talked a bit after watching each
match, although getting Tezuka to volunteer any information was a bit like
pulling teeth. But Atobe had persevered. He discovered that they had other
common interests besides tennis. Like fishing. And foreign literature.
They had gone
fishing together, just once, and Atobe thought with a frisson of smugness that
he'd managed to surprise Tezuka with his dedication to this other sport. He
much preferred fly-fishing, of course, but Atobe had to admit that there was
something soothing about dropping a line into the water and just sitting
silently with Tezuka at his side.
Tezuka introduced
him to his favourite English author, and Atobe got Tezuka addicted to Greek
mythology in return.
And slowly,
gradually, Atobe found himself changing. The more Atobe saw of the Seigaku
captain, the more he wanted him.
At first, he watched
Tezuka, only because, Atobe told himself, he was worried about the state of
Tezuka's injured shoulder. But slowly, he found himself staring at the other
boy for other reasons. Like the stern perfection of his face. Or that
interesting curve of his neck where it met his shoulder. And the strong,
elegant lines of his hands. Atobe found himself wanting to take those glasses
off and just drown in those gorgeous cool eyes.
He found himself
making excuses, anything at all, to stand a little closer to him, or perhaps
casually sling an arm around his broad shoulders in greeting. He pretended not
to fully understand some of the more colloquial terms that Tezuka's favourite
author used in his book, just so he could lean in close over Tezuka's shoulder
and smell the clean soft scent of his hair.
It was sneaky as
hell, but he didn't think Tezuka had noticed. At least, he didn't react
to anything Atobe did.
And then came the
day when Tezuka had smiled at him. They were discussing their respective teams,
Hyoutei and Seigaku. Atobe had, very grudgingly, recognised that, yes, maybe
Seigaku was a pretty strong team after all. And then it happened. Tezuka lowered
his head slightly, eyes crinkled just that little bit at the corners of his
eyes, and his lips tilted upwards.
It was just for a
moment, the smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. But Atobe never forgot
it. The image stayed with him, engraved in his mind, all that night. And that
was when Atobe finally realised the truth. He was in love. With Tezuka.
The knowledge lodged
itself in his chest like a huge boulder. It hurt, loving Tezuka.
He was calm, and
quiet, and honest, and responsible.
He was also
irritatingly stubborn, shockingly anti-social, and had no fashion sense
whatsoever.
Atobe had tried
using his insight on him. He thought their future actually looked quite
hopeful. After all, they have had quite a number of conversations, both on
tennis and non-tennis matters. And Tezuka seemed to enjoy himself when they
were out fishing. Not that he showed it, or said anything, of course. It was
just that… Well, they were still going on, making occasional plans to go out
again, weren't they?
But his insight had
been proven wrong before. He had failed to read Tezuka accurately before. What
if he was wrong again, just like the last time?
Perhaps he was
reading too much into the fact that they had spent time together. Perhaps it
meant nothing to Tezuka.
The train bell rang.
His stop was coming up. Atobe silently pulled together all the remnants of his
pride, his confidence, and disembarked.
He'd gone to the
Seigaku tennis courts first, but only a couple of regulars were there. No
Tezuka. The tall, lanky regular – Inui, wasn't it? – walked up to him. "Looking
for someone?" He asked courteously.
"Ah — I'm looking
for Tezuka-kun."
"I see," the boy
adjusted his glasses, his other hand twitching just a little bit. "I think I
last saw him in our locker room." He pointed in the direction of a small
low-lying building.
"Thanks." Atobe
stalked off in the direction of the building.
He opened the door,
took one step, and promptly stumbled over a large package, sending it's
contents flying all over the floor. Atobe cursed, a quiet vicious streak of
blue scorching the air around him.
"—AAHH! Hyoutei's
buchou!" Two small freshmen cowered together in front of him, scrambling to
pick everything up.
Atobe looked down at
the stupid, obstructing thing that nearly tripped His Magnificence up – It was
a bag, make that several bagfuls, of candy. Heaps of it, pink and white and
blue wrapping, small plush toys, cards, boxes of chocolate… Pretty, pretty,
chocolate.
"What's this?" Atobe
asked, his eyebrow arching up in query as he nudged one particularly striking
red package with his foot.
"Ah, it's, it's
buchou's and the regular-tachi's Valentine's Day presents," stammered the boy
with the bowl-shaped haircut.
The other boy
elaborated, "The regular-tachi's lockers were too small to hold all the
presents, so we helped them carry it over here… those are Tezuka buchou's
presents, and these are Fuji-senpais, and Ryouma-kuns are those over there." He
gestured pointing to the three biggest piles.
Atobe nodded, still
staring at the presents scattered at his feet. "And where is your buchou now,
by the way?"
"Ah, he's in our club room, preparing the ranking blocks for this month. It's
in the main building, room 218."
"Thanks." Giving the
present one last nudge with his foot, Atobe walked away.
He felt like someone
had punched him in the stomach. Of course he would have received presents as
well. But... This many? This almost rivals my own stack this year...
Atobe found a nearby
bench and sat on it. He took out his own gift from his bag. His present
suddenly seemed... less... Just less. He turned the gift around in his
hands, his mind racing. He would bet that those just-as-pretty gifts tasted
wonderful.
His mind threw up an
image. A pretty girl, perhaps with long hair... Yes, Tezuka probably preferred
girls with long hair... Huge shy eyes, rosebud pink mouth, looking up at Tezuka
from below long thick eyelashes... Shyly offering her present to Tezuka...
Tezuka accepting it... Tezuka smiling...
What was I thinking? He thought with a pang.
