Through one JAL flight from Tokyo to Fukuoka, two trains, one subway, and now a bus, Tezuka Kunimitsu occasionally glances at the teammate seated beside him and wonders, 'Why?' to the universe and whatever god happens to be listening. He receives no answer, which says that perhaps the universe itself has no explanation suitable for Fuji Syuusuke.
This does not surprise Tezuka, for every time he has asked this very question since their journey was but a neuron of thought, the most he has received from Fuji is a smile. That smile, the one filled with riddles and mysteries the cosmos has yet to conceptualize, let alone decode. The roundabout way of getting to Kyuushuu (and returning via the Sanyou Shinkansen) had been meant to discourage Fuji's presence; instead, it seems to have intrigued him, for there is nothing Fuji likes more than a challenge wrapped in adventure.
Without breath or sound, Tezuka sighs; this is not how he planned things. The addition of Fuji to his obligation has complicated it, though he reminds himself it could be worse. Fuji, after all, did agree to leave Izumi, his precious Canon SLR, at home ("You will look like a tourist," Tezuka said; "I don't mind," Fuji replied.) and opt instead for the pocket-sized and discreet Sony Cybershot, Makoto. Coffee in one hand and camera in the other, he nonetheless looks like a tourist-albeit one who can walk, photograph, and inhale caffeine all at the same time.
Except, Tezuka realizes the tourist has stopped and is looking at him in the form of a question. "I'm sorry," Tezuka says, inviting Fuji to repeat what he has just said.
"Is it heavy?" He points to Tezuka's bag, stowing Makoto for the moment. "If you like, I can carry it. It's not only yours, you know." The last is said with amusement and, Tezuka is pleased to note, a tiny hint of pride.
"It is," Tezuka admits, shifting his burden, "but I am fine. Thank you." Fuji shrugs in acknowledgment, not pressing the matter as they resume pace, side by side but never close enough to touch. Autumn seems determined to come early this year even in southern Japan, with the trees trotting out fiery finery to wear for a scant few weeks. It is almost like a second hanami, Tezuka thinks: brighter, more vivid, yet strangely desperate and empty as autumn gives way to winter's death. There is a celebration in the West called Mardi Gras, the last hurrah of the Catholic faithful before the forty days of Lenten sacrifice leading up to Easter. It reminds him a little of that, or at least of the Mardi Gras parades he has seen on television...not counting that 'Girls Gone Wild - New Orleans' video clip Inui once showed him as an experiment. ("Based on physical reaction, time video was left on the screen, and previously collected data, there is a 82% chance you are heterosexual, Tezuka.")
The familiar, round thwock of ball against sweet spot of racquet makes both of them stop, listening with ears perked. Whoever is hitting, he or she is more than just a casual player; the shots always sound different when that is the case. "I think we're here," Fuji remarks, gesturing towards the practice backboard and a small, tanned figure. "Is that her?"
Tezuka nods, swallowing around a sharp, unfamiliar pang of nostalgia. The last time he was here, fear had paralyzed his tennis, locking it away inside him. Had he not seen her confront her fear for his sake...he might still be in Kyuushuu, waiting for that phantom pain to ebb. His shoulder aches today, but only from carrying his bag and its precious cargo; the rehabilitation is complete. One goal - winning the Nationals - lies accomplished, and more await him in the world of professional tennis, but first...first he must deliver a humble, heartfelt apology for his abrupt departure.
He steps closer, noticing how much her form has improved in the month or so since he returned to Seigaku. Fuji shadows him, but Fuji is not part of his obligation, Tezuka knows (and a brief, fluttering moment of 'why?' returns to him concerning Fuji's presence). He alone must atone, must ask her forgiveness for his rude behavior, and he must stand on his own to do so. "Miyuki."
She freezes in mid-swing, as once she might have from anxiety, the yellow ball dribbling from her racquet and rolling towards the backboard. "Dorobo-niichan?" Miyuki's boyish voice has a twinge of uncertainty in it when she turns around and faces him, as if she cannot quite reconcile the current him to the summer's racquet-thief, or perhaps it is the presence of Fuji at his side that prompts her confusion. "What are you doing in Kyuushuu?" she demands, hurrying to cover over her surprise. "You went back to Tokyo."
Tezuka's shoulders square, and he bows to her, low and formal with apology. "Please forgive my sudden departure. It was careless to leave without saying goodbye, especially after you helped me so greatly. I have no excuse, except my haste to rejoin my team and a promise I made to them."
The little tomboy blinks, tucking her racquet under her right arm and rubbing her palms on her shorts. His formality isn't unexpected, it just feels awkward. "It's all right. I stopped being mad at you a while back." Pause. "You can stand up now."
Behind Tezuka, Fuji tries not to laugh and minimally succeeds, choking on a small snort. He has, of course, documented the moment with Makoto, sliding the camera out of sight before Tezuka straightens. "You must be Miyuki-chan," he begins.
"Yeah. And who are you, Smiley?"
"Just a teammate of Tezuka's. My name is Fuji Syuusuke. It's nice to meet you." Fuji gives her the slight introduction bow, acknowledging her with the proper respect.
"I think Smiley suits you better than Fuji," Miyuki says, and it is Tezuka's turn to laugh, although for him laughter is internal. "Did...did you make it in time?" she asks, tanned forehead scrunched up with concern.
"I did, thanks to you." Tezuka places his heavy bag on the ground and unzips it, drawing out the Nationals trophy Seigaku worked and bled to earn. He holds it for her inspection, feeling a renewed sense of pride at their accomplishment; here, tangible and in his hands, it's possible that it makes a better apology than his words.
She looks up at him and smiles, reaching down inside her grubby practice shirt. "So did I." Beaming, she extracts a medal, tennis racquets crossed on its surface and laurel leaves curved in honor. "Just like you, I won. I won the Championship." She extends it with both hands for him, and Tezuka knows that lugging the heavy trophy from Tokyo was the right decision.
Tezuka reaches a finger to the medal, tracing the racquets and laurel crown, and a faint shadow of a smile curves his mouth. "Well done, Miyuki. Well done."
Championship stories take a while to exchange, and Miyuki insists upon having a DVD of the matches (which Fuji had the foresight to include in Tezuka's bag). She hugs it to her chest the way most girls her age would a cute plushie, thrilled to have a series of legendary matches at her fingertips. Fuji smiles, finding her enthusiasm quite infectious. "Tezuka...it's not polite to let a lady go on talking for so long without refreshment. Would you bring us all some tea?" He nods towards the vending machine on the other side of the court complex. "Of course, since it's my idea, it's my treat." Fuji digs in his pocket for some coins, passing them to Tezuka. With a curt nod, Tezuka stands and leaves with long strides.
Fuji watches him go, then turns back to Miyuki, less of a smile on his face. It has been his intention to get her alone for a few moments, for this is not something which should be said in front of Tezuka. "For what you did for him...for us, our team...I thank you." Fuji bows his head to her and Miyuki fidgets, a bit uncomfortable with all the formal attention from Smiley. She wonders if he really has eyes or if he just likes them closed. "You gave him back his self, his identity; that you would risk yourself to help him allowed him to move forward. He's rather an immovable object most of the time."
"You can say that again." Still, she blushes, not quite sure what to think. Had she wanted to help him? Of course. But...Dorobo-niichan had to help himself, just as she did. Yips (once Dorobo-niichan gave her a name for what it was, Miyuki had read as much as she could find on the subject) could be hard to overcome, because the enemy is one's own mind and perceptions, acting on the body to inhibit it. "But it wasn't just me helping him. He helped me, too. I always thought it was just me when I froze up. I never knew it could happen to anyone else."
"Fear can hinder even the strongest person, and it does not have to be fear of a great, terrifying thing. Sometimes it can be as simple as fearing failure, or fearing rejection, or fearing being misunderstood..." Fuji's voice trails off for a moment, then his face blooms into a mischievous smile. "Or it can be a fear of something big, like...scary movies? Or so a Lion has told me."
Miyuki glares at Fuji, folding her arms across her chest with an indignant huff. "Kippei-niichan is a big fat liar," she declares, so sternly that Fuji cannot help but laugh.
"Sorry, sorry..." he manages to gasp out, pulling his mirth under control. Tachibana didn't warn him that his best friend's sister was quite so amusing. "Here, let me make it up to you." This time Fuji reaches into his own bag, a small thing which normally holds a camera, and pulls out a neat little gift bag. "This is for you," he says, holding it out. "I promise, it's not a scary movie."
Miyuki snatches it from him with something that might be a 'thank you' and reaches inside it. He is right, it's not a movie: what she pulls out is soft, for one, bundled in what feels like fabric. It looks very traditional, the wrapping around it as much a present as what is inside. For all that she does not look or act the part, Miyuki knows quite a lot about customs and propriety. The square tied around the gift is old, probably part of a kimono at one point, and she handles it with care. She undoes it, pulling out a pink skirt. A tennis skirt.
"Smiley...niichan?" Her face and the hesitant honorific tell the tale; she doesn't understand it.
Fuji's face is gentle, almost hypnotic. "A lady should always compete in something appropriate."
"Compete? You mean tennis?" True, once she reaches junior high, there are mandatory dress requirements for tournaments and that means tennis dresses or skirts. But she's not sure that this is what he means. "Or...competing in gift-giving? My allowance isn't really enough to keep up with you for long..." she admits.
Fuji smiles, shakes his head. "There's no obligation to this gift, Miyuki-chan, no cultural need for you to return it in kind or with an increasing value. In fact, you could say it's not so much a gift but a challenge. You're nine-"
"Ten."
"...ten...and Tezuka is almost fifteen. So I think five years is best. I'll give you five years to catch up to me...and then we'll see what happens."
"Five years?" In five years she will be fifteen. What's so special about being fifteen? "What am I catching up to?"
"You'll figure it out. Ah, here's Tezuka with the tea."
Tea passes far too quickly and soon Miyuki watches them go, clutching the package that Smiley brought her. Frenzy seizes her once they are out of sight and she dashes to the bathroom at the edge of the practice facility. She glances under the stalls to make sure they are all empty, then shucks her shorts. The tennis skirt is a perfect fit - not a surprise, Smiley doesn't seem the sort to make mistakes - even in its unfamiliar soft fabric. She doesn't like it. It's strange, it's pink, it leaves her feeling very exposed, and what if she dives for a ball? Everyone would see her underpants! Irritated, she gives the gift bag a kick, knocking it on its side.
A small pair of bloomers slide out onto the floor, with a note pinned to them:
That's why you wear these, silly...
Miyuki cannot help it; she laughs, and the sound echoes off the walls of the bathroom. If his tennis is anything like his sense of humor, no wonder he is on Dorobo-niichan's team...and no wonder he is Dorobo-niichan's friend; he's so serious that he needs someone else to balance him out. Undoing the note, she slips the bloomers on. They fit snugly, but he's right: with these, no one will see her panties.
She looks over at the mirror, not quite recognizing herself in the pink skirt. Boyish tennis shirt aside, skirts make a girl stand differently, without her legs apart and with weight more on one hip than the other. Almost as an afterthought, she takes off her hat, undoes the short pigtails holding up her hair and runs her fingers through them. Usually her hair is only fully down when she's getting in or out of the shower, but it feels right, like it goes with her skirt.
Five years. It may not be enough time, but she is determined to work hard, looking into that mirror at the lady she will become. Strong, fast, maybe even pretty someday. She has a long way to go, especially if she's going to catch Smiley in the way she thinks he means. After all, he did come all the way from Tokyo with Dorobo-niichan...
"You have a head start, Smiley, but I'm not giving up," Miyuki tells her reflection. "Five years...then we'll see who will win."
Tezuka's goal accomplished, they walk back towards Hakata Station, steps in perfect synch despite their height difference. (Over time, Fuji has learned to walk slightly faster and Tezuka to walk slightly slower when they are together; neither speaks of it, it simply is and both accept it without question.) "She was very proud of you," Fuji remarks as they pass by yet another store selling idol photosets. "For achieving your championship and facing your fears."
If Tezuka thinks he has been complimented, he gives no acknowledgment of such. "She's only in fourth grade, you might be overestimating the maturity of her perspective. I think she was most glad that I could actually play and wasn't a thief." Pause. "Not that it has stopped her from calling me one."
Fuji murmurs something, about Miyuki-chan's perception being accurate, Tezuka thinks, but he is not sure. When Fuji does not wish to be heard, he seems able to turn his voice to white noise. Then, Fuji laughs, stepping just enough to his left where Tezuka loses pace for a split second lest they collide. "But you're the expert on being too mature for one's age. You're not really fourteen, are you?" he teases.
Tezuka frowns, an inelegant snort escaping him at the familiar jab at his age. "I will be fifteen next week," he says, quietly defensive.
"I know..." That makes Tezuka's frown deepen, but not in annoyance. Fuji remembers? Half the time, Tezuka does not remember his own birthday until someone invades his personal space on October 7 to clap his shoulder and wish him well.
Their feet stop together, almost an accord between them, and they turn to face each other. Autumn's hanami is raining, bits of yellow and orange and red twinkling in the air as they fall. There is a moment, caught like an indrawn breath, where everything slows to a crawl. Neither of them speak, for words will shatter a moment such as this. Moving with neither thought nor permission, Fuji's fingers reach towards Tezuka, brushing his russet hair with butterfly wings - scarcely enough to be called a touch, but a touch nonetheless. "Ah...I'm sorry." Fuji's voice is little more than breath. "You had a leaf..."
Somewhere, time starts again. A drop of water falls into a pond, and the ripples begin.
The orange leaf in Fuji's fingers is not what Tezuka notices, nor is it the lilt of breeze that wafts Fuji's bangs in a slow swish across his forehead. It is a moment of clarity, unlike any he has ever had before. Hanami, be it in spring or autumn, is a reminder of things that come and are fleeting; should they be missed, the moment is forever gone.
Fuji's eyes...pale brown, serious, beautiful...are open.
And Tezuka finally understands 'why'.
The shinkansen slides out of the station, the genesis of a five-hour journey back to Tokyo. Fuji has stowed Makoto in his pocket once more, the train moving too fast for him to get the best pictures, and sips on a can of coffee. True to form, they have not spoken of things epiphany, nor of measures beyond epiphany. He does not worry, though; the path to Nationals has laid much understanding between them, and the rest will surely fall into place. Things usually do when Fuji is at the center of them.
He settles back into his seat, taking notice of the proximity of their shoulders together. It is the first time in the entire trip - through plane, bus, train, and subway earlier - that they are touching. Etiquette says that he should move, but Tezuka ignores it, for he cannot find it in himself to mind.
After all, he has but five hours to plan stealing a second kiss.
A/N:
'Hanami' (花見) is the traditional springtime viewing of the cherry blossoms.
'Dorobo-niichan' is what Miyuki called Tezuka when she first met him. It's literally 'thief-big brother', though 'niichan' is a common term a younger person will use to refer to someone close in age to them but older. It's respectful and fills in for the Japanese tendency to call people by relationship rather than by name.