Thanks to all my reviewers; who are awesome and dispersed much needed advice, criticism, and encouragement! This is yaoi, TezukaFuji OishiEiji RyomaMomo, and later InuiKaidoh, and yes, I do firmly believe in happy endings and especially in the pairings. Yoshiko-chan is truly amazing, and she kindly beta-d this for me, so hopefully it will be good. Thank you!

Don't own. Really.

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There are no happy endings. There have never been, merely people seeking illusionary worlds, making the story as they choose it to be, the way they wish their own story ended. Those people are afraid, but they are not cowards. They are real, ordinary people that dream the dreams they choose, even if they will never be truly happy.

They don't understand happiness. They don't understand love, but the only love they have ever experienced. If you were offered a chance at something you can hardly believe exists, if you are unable to recognize it when it is there, why would you recognize it once the chance is gone? Why would you even want to, if it might merely make you unhappy? In order to dream, you must recognize the dream when it is proffered, and cling tightly to it, never looking back after you have evaluated your choices, chosen your path. If you take your eyes off it for even a second, it may disappear, and then you will regret what could have been, because you know. You have tasted what was unreachable, and you will remember it forever.

Tezuka.

Tezuka wanted things. He wanted to play tennis. He wanted to get a good night's sleep, and to eat healthy food. He wanted to read the book he heard about through the crackling static of the radio, and to live a through methodical life. He always knew what he wanted. He wanted to be with Fuji. He wanted to wake up in the grey mornings with him and discuss news with him and eat spicy food with him and see him smile with his blue eyes open and have his clothes smell like him because they were washed together and Fuji borrowed them, and touch him and taste him, simply to make sure he was truly there.

He wanted to buy a house in Tokyo with him, someplace surrounded by bustling absent people but untouched by noise, a structure with bones of silvered blue grey steel and beautiful windows, small but high on the ground, almost suspended by other buildings in mid-air. He wanted them to be able to leave each other for days; weeks even, and come home to have the other greet them with the gentleness of love and security. He wanted to get a marmalade furred cat, one who would shed furiously and make him complain and would ooze of their now ragged couch to rub against Fuji's feet, and glow golden in the rich sunlight. He wanted to live with him forever, and he wanted Fuji to understand some of what he hoped would eventually happen to them, to agree and mock and argue and help him choose the right words that burst forth and lay coiled in the frustration in his arms and along the line of his body. Because words were important, especially the right ones.

That's what he wanted, that was his doubt and reassurance. That's why he was here.

Ryoma

You like tennis. It's awesome and incredible and everything beginners hope it would be and pro's remember in their past glories. There's the wind beneath your feet and the adrenaline pumping in your body, and the familiar burn of muscles and you remember why you love this, choose to play it cause you loved it, and you feel something pulling at the corners of your mouth, and you think you could jump so high, so much higher than anybody else below you and reach out and pluck the moon from the sky. But you have, and it's there in your hand and strung in the metal wires of your racket, and you toss it deftly and make it arch over the shadow that's frantically chasing around the court, but you want to laugh at the slow little flapping flesh colored paper doll that tries so hard to keep up, and it's up so far you almost can't see it but then it's stuck along a band that circles the universe and lands directly on top of the painted white line.

You think you might love this more than anything, because there's the familiar soft weight in your palm and going thwack thwack against the soft flooring and rubber beneath your sneakers and you know you won't ever be this way outside the barbwire fence and painted walls, you won't ever be as strong as superman or as quick as a swallow, or see the whole world like it's so much slower than you or be so fiercely aware of your surroundings, cause the guy in the corner just sighed and you can count the freckles on his nose in half that time, but someone's yelling and the world snaps back into place, and the sunlight's so bright it almost blinds you but you never noticed it before.

You didn't ever notice the crowd yelling before, or didn't care cause they're both the same thing, but suddenly you're acutely aware of sweat running down in a rivulet behind your collar and a pair of purple eyes watching you from the crowd, and he slides out of it like it's the most natural thing in the world and steps beside you, still swinging in rhythm. You think you might still feel that way when he grins at you and his smile's so cocky that your heart skips a beat. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and offers to buy you burgers and juice, and you know he'll always, always tease you about your height and keep you on your toes and in shape. He'll probably never leave you unless you want him to and you won't ever want that.

You mutter something at him and pull your cap over your face, because you feel suddenly very hot and you don't want him to notice.

You're blushing.

You want to shrink into your clothes, but you can't let him notice.

He notices. But he's still grinning at you with something that looks like hope.

You've always felt that way when you saw him, but it's different somehow and you're just beginning to figure that out.

Oishi

He watches, and he worries. Anyone passing by will tell that he's that kind of guy, what he's almost famous for but not completely. Its funny how they don't ask why he's worried, just take it as a given. So he worries. He's good at that.

He worries when Kawamura scrapes his elbow; he worries about the math assignment the teacher's talking about that he doesn't really understand. Tennis used to be a solace, but now it's not as comforting as it used to be and he wonders why. He moves to flank his friend but the steps of the dance have been changed and nobody informed him. He misses his best friend, but he's too busy watching Tezuka, being with him to feel truly lonesome.

He's definitely worried, though. He sees the quick glances, the brief conversations, the way they hold themselves in each other's presence and wonder which one is more sunk in love and denial, Fuji or Tezuka and who will be the first to understand what's going on. He wonders if Tezuka will stop denying himself what he wants, what he needs, or when Fuji will finally see as he moves to checkmate Tezuka, if he'll notice the trap he so unknowingly crafted for himself under his feet.

He realizes the rest of the team is under the same spell as those two, and the tennis court is shaded with unrecognized feelings and hazy with anticipation. He wants something now that his best friend is gone and it might be red and bright blue colored, slender and quick, but he really isn't sure. He doesn't know what to say because he hasn't even guessed what he's feeling and isn't sure about what he thought he was sure about and hopes that someday it will be clear. Someday it will be time but someday is coming too fast and he can't see it. His friends have shone so they're disappearing on the distant horizon in puffs of twining smoke, and the bright days rush by. He looks for a handhold to steady himself with, one his callused fingertips will fit into but can't find it. He doesn't want to believe that it's over so he doesn't and pretends that nothing's wrong. He knows he's right. He's sure, somehow. So when his tennis partner comes into his new room at the prestigious university he so carefully picked and bounces on his new coverlet excitedly he tries hard to feel surprised and resigned but there isn't anything feigned in his smile.

But he's still worried, and he doesn't know exactly what to say quite yet. Maybe it's for the best if he doesn't say anything at all. He's young and it seems like he has forever ahead of him even though he know that isn't true, so he thinks he can afford to solve this in a little while, but that'll be hard because he doesn't really understand what's going on and he hopes the train won't leave without him in a flurry of bright steam and painted metal and crowding people, but he'd run after this train. Always.

It's hazy October, five years later, and he's still worried. There are birds shattering the crisp air and feathers clouding his eyes and his companion's, and he thinks of his old friends, knows he'll see them, in an hour or a million years, so it's a reunion of sorts and he thinks he should have baked something but he doesn't have an oven.

His best friend watches him with clear eyes and a shadowed face but the words that he never had, never was brave enough to speak shrivel up in his throat and float downward silently. He tears them to pieces but they don't disturb the dark water that forms his soul as they land in spirals on the surface. He still worries, but he's watching now and that's another thing he's good at. He wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to know, but instead he smiles and smoothes his face into a porcelain mask, eyes empty. It's so much easier to hide behind a smile, he thinks, and nobody notices because they all expect that to be there and don't look for anything else. When he's alone he cocoons himself in blankets, falling on the floor, and laughs till he can't breathe. Uncertainty would hurt like hell but knowing something's there and untouchable is worse.

These days he wants to run. He feels the walls closing in, and he's filled with an uncontrollable spurt of wild energy, and he smiles at the sound of his shoes leaving the thick edge of marble that marks the end of the sidewalk, and it's Saturday so he can go where ever he wants because he's never cut class in his life and probably never will and that's sad, really, but he feels invincible and anxious and thirsty. He heads down to the park and it's not too bad, really, with the dead autumn leaves swirling around his feet and catching in his socks, and he feels like something huge is going to happen, something earthshattering. There are children waling by him, intent upon fun they're too young to appreciate and to jaded to care about, and he smiles at a cute little girl with red hair and wide dark eyes.

There are birds in the fountain. Oishi is too breathless to care.

But he's been followed and now he's there, the cause of his heartache, and watching him, uncharacteristically silent. He's wearing white and blue and a red scarf, and not a smile, and when he speaks it's almost strangled. I get it now, he says softly, and clears his throat, tries again. I'm sorry, I'm here now, you've been waiting for a while, haven't you? I guess I'm pretty clueless, he says, and keeps apologizing, serious and exhilarated. I like you, he whispers and Oishi's heart stops beating for a few minutes. He turns away slightly, not wanting to make this into a confrontation, keeping the image like a photograph in his memory, the spring green of the grass and the thin, spidery brown fibers of the leaf caught on Eiji's coat, the bright sparks that seem to surround the pale gleaming water, and the soft white flurry of feathers from the birds. I'm sorry, he says at last. The cold air dries out his lungs. He bends and brushes his lips against his friend's.

He waited perhaps too long, but it doesn't matter right now.

Tezuka.

He misses him. Fuji is right there and near and touchable, and all it would take if the most absent of gestures to reach him but it still isn't right somehow, and he misses him. Very much. He didn't think he would, he didn't know when he'd realized this but the house is empty, dark and tall when they're in it and purple grey shadows cling to the windowsills, and the conversations are the same as always, calm and through but somehow lack personality. As if they had given up long ago the right to claim individuality and emotion and even a place where they were welcome, but remain, drifting like soulless wanderers. He doesn't know quite what to think or even what to say, so he dismisses it, and sets out for a walk, closing the door gently behind him. His keys are on the low antique table in the center of the small cream painted hall, it's empty but for a small skylight set with a single pane of clear slanted glass. The sky outside appears stormy, colored pale blue mixed with deep swirls of gray and from the window the feathery green edges of a maple tree tickle the sky. The hall is simple and bare.

Tezuka reaches for his keys, remembering the picture that once stood there. It had been one of Fuji's first pictures that he had taken when they were a couple, one that he had brought home, a simple, deliberately old fashioned black and white that depicted them standing side by side, Tezuka looking slightly off to the side where Fuji was smiling, against a background of soft pines. He had smiled at him, glowing and indifferent, his voice teasing yet polite, saying, Tezuka, this might go well in the entrance, isn't it nice, but had stopped, almost waiting for approval like a child holding an awkward handful of flowers for her mother's inspection her mother. He had almost been caught off balance by this, and amended the relapse by picking the glass frame up and turning it around in his hands, somberly watching his reflection and the glints of light that washed off the silvered glass frame. Yes, he had said at last, but it's too fragile, and did not add the words that continued in his head, because that was his way and a blind man could see he found the glass and especially the picture beautiful.

Fuji had merely smiled in the old way he was so accustomed to doing, and placed the picture on the dark-grained table, but had set it at an oblique angle, not directly facing the door but angled toward the kitchen, and he had wondered why but not commented because it was, after all, Fuji's gift, and Fuji had remarked how prettily it reflected the amber light of the kitchen lamp, and the sage green paint of the door, and he had thought that the end of the matter. He thought Fuji understood how he felt, and he did, but he had felt guilty on realizing later that Fuji had been honest, so honest he hadn't recognized it, merely tried to defend himself against something that wasn't there, but he had bought him a leather bound album, with simple lines, as a silent apology.

A few months later, the frame broke, and the broken glass had speared the picture, and Fuji hadn't commented, but merely swept the pieces up and thrown the ruined picture away. Saa, Tezuka, that's too bad I guess, he had commented mildly, but the entrance had remained bare of decoration and had seemed lonelier.

Tezuka stood on the doorstep and felt the rain scented air touch his skin, and noticed the silvery drops of water clinging to the outside of the dark glassed windows fall on to the broad leaves of the magnolia bushes slightly below the house. The neighbor had planted them, but had grown bored when magnolia blossoms were no longer in fashion and had willingly given them over to Fuji, who was fond of plants. The smell of wet earth was strong as water ran down the street and pavement, and trickled into the swelling gutters that threatened to overflow. He hesitated, and went back inside, wiping his feet carefully.

To the reviewers of Reunion;

Akari-hayashi: Thank you! I guess the front part is kinda confusing, sorry about that. I'm glad you like my style of writing. Thank you so much for being my first reviewer!

Fallen Fantasist; I'm incredibly grateful to you for noticing that, though I do like signed reviews, I also like unsigned, and I'm a newbie, so I didn't really notice that those reviews were being blocked. I'm also really happy for your feedback because it shows me someone got the message I was trying to project, instead of unrealistic, uncomplicated feelings, which wouldn't happen to anyone, especially not people as complex as those two. Please keep reviewing.

Ilanala; I'm really sorry it came across to you that I was deliberately concealing Tezuka's significant other. In the summary I thought that was really clear, and it was listed on the page as well. ; Please don't keep that from you reading, however.

Tezuka eiri; Thank you for your honest comments. The truth is, I did write what came into my mind, which is to me an essential part of writing. It does have a plot and a direction, and I don't want to reveal too much, but if this was simply a long break up fic I wouldn't even bother writing this fic. I'm extremely sorry if you are depressed, but the angst is an essential part of the plot. In order to love, people don't necessarily have to be soul mates because the process is extremely complicated and if that were true there would be a whole lot less couples out there. They are, in my mind nonetheless, soul mates. Without a doubt. Thank you for promising to read the next chapter, it really cheered me up. You reviewed truthfully, and for that, I'm extremely grateful. Please continue.

I have no comments for Yoshiko-chan, who helped me so much, because she rocks beyond words.

.: I wonder………:.