Yay, another chapter! Thanks to my reviewers, I'm so grateful! Yaoi, OishiEiji, TezukaFuji, InuiKaido, and MomoRyoma. And thanks to my beta, yoshiko-chan, who is an enormous help.
I don't own.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
Inui
It was simple. A simple calculation, a simple answer, and a simple conclusion. He hadn't meant for it to be complicated, hadn't been able to predict the staggering amount of trouble and complications humans were able to factor into equations or the dizzying feeling of the unpredictable, the seduction of something unknown.
When Inui was ten, he knew he wanted to be a scientist. He didn't have the ordinary ambitions of a ten year-old, wanting to win the science fair and be a superhero, he wanted to be a scientist and go to Tokyo University, get his degrees, and then pro-offer his resume at the unassuming yet promising company he had his eye on, one that offered success and stability, yet was young enough for him to carve a firm hold in it. He decided to play tennis as a recreational sport, one to simulate his mind, expose him to other people and help hone the rudimentary people skills that would be necessary for his job, for existing in such a socially conscious world. He hadn't meant for it to consume him, hadn't meant to become this attached to the other people that also played. Hadn't known that once the lure of the empty page, the space between the delicate, precise lines of the paper had been filled until he couldn't look away did not compare with the shock of being with others, feeling sweat and skin and adrenaline bubbling up under his skin, filling his veins with energy like a shocking gasp of water and feeling hair prickling his skin with the stubbly ends, his hair, or the satisfaction of hearing the sound of the ball connect solidly with the deceivingly delicate appearance of the racket, or even the sudden pleasure of laughing with others.
He wanted a life with someone who would leave him alone, someone that he could understand and settle comfortably into routine with. He wanted someone who would provide stability and balance, and simplicity, a housekeeper, perhaps, or he would live alone, but he didn't think he could do that. He wonders why he fell in love with Kaoru Kaido.
He thought it was just a fling, a high school relationship that wouldn't last, but somehow it did. Somehow he found himself waiting to meet the other tennis player on his free time, even thinking about the next meeting, but it didn't mean anything deep or serious. It couldn't. After all, Kaoru was the eldest son of a traditional family, and he had his career. And it happened the way he thought it would, his lover's father arranging a marriage for him with a close friend of the family's daughter. The other hadn't understood why Inui choose not to discuss it, wanted to pretend it didn't exist. He wasn't really sure himself, and his eyes were watering from staring too closely at his data. And Kaido argued and Inui didn't, so he moved out. He moved in with Inui a day later.
It wasn't easy, hearing the angry, pain filled, unhappy, and weeping messages left on their answering machine. It wasn't even remotely pleasant for days, and they played tennis for hours, burning off the anger and sorrow through sweat and numbing it with exhaustion. It hurt to go against the traditional respect, the guilty feelings, and the pain of losing beloved parents, not in death, which may be muted over time, but in life, which is far, far, worse. It took them a month to even start touching each other again, light, casual almost impersonal touches that still brought with them a spark of all to familiar guilt, but reminded them of something else. The reason why they chose the hurt over comfort.
And he was a scientist, and Kaoru worked in a company, and they didn't do anything particularly extraordinary because it wasn't terribly important to do so, and in the meanwhile, they were okay. He was with someone he couldn't predict, couldn't manipulate, and didn't even want to, and he had never been happier.
Momo
He looks like he's flying out there. He looks, … not happy, but sure of himself, confident of his abilities, his body acrobatic and eyes measuring his opponent. There's sweaty hair in his eyes, and you can almost taste the sweat and salt in the corners of his mouth because you've been in that position so many times before. Not like this, though. You weren't cut out for this, never have been, but standing on the sidelines, blending in with bunches of restless, anticipating people is comfortable. The line between you and other faceless strangers is disappearing, and somewhere in between them and the crackling tension that causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up, you lose yourself. You blur. And the others blur with you, watching him.
They can't help it, not really. It's like the advanced, grown up version of fan girls, the squealing and soft smiles and tentative, upfront gifts, but these are older people, adults with jobs that come to watch him and someone else under the wide blue sky and in the small rectangle of green rubber that makes up this world. They can't help it, so you don't blame them. How could you? You're just the same, even though you have better, more sensible excuses that run on and on, like how you train him, and have to notice his weaknesses, and regiment his training, and how it's simply good to watch an old friend play. Yeah… sure. You can't help it any more than they can, the magnetic force of talent and almost unobtrusive charisma, and action. Lot's of action, like how he moves and the way his arm stretches back to whip the ball far, far too fast for the other player to reach, just on the line…
He's really giving the other guy a beating, you think, slugging back your soda. It's not Ponta. You wish it were.
If it was, you would've saved it, even though you're thirsty, you'd give it to him, after the game. You're stupid like that. You wish you didn't love him, wish you hadn't stayed by his side, but the thought of not being there, not watching him and making him eat even when he says he isn't hungry, taking him home when he falls asleep in the exercise room and washing his face with a facecloth in that cold marble shell of a palace he calls his home, but you were just too stupid to offer him the opportunity to be flat mates so it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter at all…It hurts. It hurts so much you can't breathe, and you can only watch. You love him. He doesn't know. And it hurts.
He's young. He's always been young, and hell, when he was sixteen, he didn't even know what a girlfriend was. He found out though, it would be hard not to with all his adoring fans propositioning him, and Coach's niece confessing her love to him, but maybe you were fine with it the way it was before. Things have to change, but you're definitely here for good.
He'll always be good-looking, too sharp chinned and skinny for pretty, too fine boned to be handsome, but his hair is the color of ink and still clinging to the nape of his neck and covering what might be a wide forehead on a well shaped head, and his eyes are slanted and pale yellow. He's very thin, his chin a sharp point and his expression slightly pouting and bored, and you told him once he had the expression of both Tezuka and Atobe, and he tried to brain you with a pillow, and you almost choked from laughter. You miss that, but it hasn't gone away.
He won the game, and his eyes are clearing, and that's your cue to approach, away from clingy fans and desperate reporters in red Jeeps, because that time… it belongs to you. And you won't give that up. And maybe, someday he might look at you and see you properly, from a different perspective, still his best friend, but possibly something more. And you'll wait. You're both young, maybe, and somebody once said to you, You've got all the time in the world. They have no idea how right they are.
There's a tree outside, and he leans against it, waiting for you under the pretense of resting, but you aren't fooled, but it seems a shame to waste the sunlight, and he's wearing white, even in the dappled shade, and there's a rain of golden leaves mixing with the translucent green ones, and the rough bark is dark and somehow rich looking. You like to think that the sound of the steps you take together go forward, farther than you two have ever gone, and precede the grey-paved road in purple twilight. It's easy to imagine the untraceable sounds fall; small and smoky clear, in the soft dirt at the side of the road, among small shoots and dead leaves. You slow your steps while approaching him, and he glances up at you along the edge of the brim of his cap. You almost stop, astonished, but this is too familiar to break the rhythm of both your steps, and stopping might wake you up. You don't wake up, though.
He's blushing, truly blushing, and you take a second, more desperate and hopeful glance, and he's still blushing. You grin at him, and send a thank-you prayer to a deity somewhere who really, really, likes you.
Oishi
He was always too far away to reach. Too distant, too cold, too golden, his skin like marble, a cold chill wrapped around that white face. I followed him from a distance, too wise to come as close as the fools who walked in his shadow, eagerly grasping at his arms and pulling on his clothing. If he had let go he would have been pulled under, broken into a thousand little pieces and greedily sucked up through their desire, but I wasn't that foolish. I knew he would submit to their eager questions but stay, somehow out of their reach, in their arms and yet not within breathing distance, so I walked along behind him, waiting.
They followed his shadow but found themselves lost, and didn't understand that was because he didn't have one, and bumped blindly in the dark into each other, chins, shoulders, and long arms twining. They didn't understand because I was his shadow, a position delegated to me before I knew him, and he knew me.
I cared for him as much as he would let me, more, I think. We didn't fit but we knew that, and waited. There was someone as silver as a frosted mirror in an empty room in his dreams, and one as warm and petulant as a fire-furred cat in mine, and we didn't even know it. We guessed, though, that's why we got along so well. We were good friends.
I wanted to be his best friend, so I was, because he didn't have many friends he could trust. I'm glad of that now, because he's famous and everything's still the same as ever. They never seemed to realize that nothing has changed, that at the end of the day they'll still be in the dark, looking for his shadow. He doesn't really have one anymore, and I don't mind. The position was one that I had reserved for myself, a bit selfishly.
I was vacuuming the kitchen when the annoying phone vibrated, and moved to answer it, leaving the coils of cord lying behind me in a crumpled, abandoned heap on the cool tiled flooring. The phone rang, and I wedged it behind my ear, attempting to wrestle the vacuum cleaner upright, and answered. Hello, buchou. You've been gone for a while.
I told Eiji the offer over dinner, and he agreed. My company had just promoted me, after all, to that very sector in which he lived. He agreed thoughtfully, but I misjudged him. He touched my hand after dinner, and I noticed his eyes were clear and dark. I'm worried, he said.
I didn't realize until we got there how bad things were. Tezuka's face was as taut and grey as the clouds that surround the steel-loving city, and there were shadows in Fuji's blue eyes and face that he hid through his smile, but his demeanor was as composed as ever, his manner as welcoming. If it weren't for his glance I might never have guessed at the problem, his posture was stiff, his expression almost forbidding. I'm not his best friend for nothing, though.
I can't help him with his problems; I can't save him from his hell. I'm no god or prophet, able to save or condemn, and for all the years our friendship has lain fallow I no longer can condone his actions, but I'll stay. Fuji understands, and I think he's making a mistake as well, in allowing the wound to fester before cauterizing it, but I understand. It's the same thing I'd do, almost the same as I did, but the unhappiness on his face is plain to see. I wish them the best of luck but they don't need it, because it wouldn't do them any good.
I saw them one school morning, the sky was blue and creamy-yellow with clouds the color of parchment, and the leaves were dark green and thick. They were talking on a bench outside the lockers, the grass wet and short around them with rainbow sheen, and I could see someone waiting on the beige cement roof of the nearest school building. He had his head bent slightly, and the furious wind plucked at his hair, dark in the early light. I couldn't see anything past the shadow he seemed to cast on the sky and the liquid curve of Fuji's posture, but they were serious, intent, and almost wistful. They loved each other, that much was plain, but I feared for the ending of such a relationship, and for their selves.
They were both strong, and Tezuka did not wish to be manipulated, nor Fuji made to obey, so I couldn't help comparing them to oil and water. I was afraid, worried for my best friend, and my partner's best friend, worried for the damage they might do to each other, for the violent end of such violent delights, for the fact that they simply weren't capable of keeping an ordinary relationship simple. I would have told him as much, but I thought he already knew that, and would take care of Fuji, and Fuji of him. I knew at least Fuji understood, but they equally valued what was at stake here, even if they weren't sure the other did.
The apartment was forlornly beautiful, but my mind was on other things, and I couldn't help but worry about the two of them. I was his best friend, I would always be his best friend, and I would help him as much as I could, even if it hurt me. Even if this fell apart and hurt all of us, the same way broken glass can injure ten people from a chanced bit of sharp-edged gravel, the effect might be the same.
They needed us. They needed smiles from uncomprehending people; help with an unwieldy package, and simple offerings of snacks. They needed outside cynicism from Ryoma and understanding comfort from me, and cheerfulness from Eiji, even if they thought they were fine without these things. You can't love just one person without conditions; you can't bury yourself and exchange conversations with the same companion over and over again, it might just drive you insane. We're their friends, there when they needed us and mostly when they didn't, and we understand that there are some words that can't be spoken.
I think what he didn't understand is that there are words that have to be spoken, no matter how much you refuse to speak and surround yourself with ones who understand you when you don't. I hope he understands soon, I hope he figures it out before the time comes and there's a farewell, but I've learned not to predict things. I am his best friend, and I worry about him, even if that place isn't totally mine anymore.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
Thanks to all my fabulous reviewers, who really are truly fabulous. I love praise, comments, greetings, and flames. If you don't know what to say, which happens to me a lot, just say hi, please.
Fallen Fantasist; thank you, I missed those errors. I'm so grateful! And yes, it's vague, but that's the way I write, and I've been trying to make it clearer lately. I really appreciate your comments.
Alaive; yes, I hear there's a lot of that going around now, . I'll do my best.
Ki-ku-maru- BEAM; no, I haven't. And yes, though the story isn't being told that way, it kind of is, sorry for not making much sense, but my writing's never been compared to a movie before! I'm glad you think she rocks. Cause she does.
Alena Flame Dragonstar; yes, that's what I'm kinda going for. I hope this chapter meets your expectations, though.
