Your eyes open and he's there, standing in the door way. Oshitari Yuushi with a purple ribbon tied in a new bow around his neck and a look of part sadness and part intense wistfulness. But maybe you're just projecting.

He glides to you and your heart beats erratically in your chest.

"Happy birthday, Keigo." He quirks his lips and his eyes are darker than usual, filled with a sort of hunger. For you.

You manage to tear your eyes away, seeking Jiroh. You find him, your eyes meeting his. He mouths, Happy birthday, buchou. He's grinning and you try not to see how fragile he looks, like he might collapse at any moment.

Though you love the spot light, you're not usually into public displays of affection. Tonight, however, you'll make an exception. You step forward until you're invading his personal space.

You hear Jiroh ushering everyone out of the room, feel the weight of his stare and pretend it doesn't bother you.

"I thought you weren't going to show," you accuse in a whisper, tilting your head ever so slightly to the side.

"I almost didn't. But Jiroh said I owed him." Oshitari's voice is strong and melodic.

Your eyes fall to half mast. "Oh?"

"Yes. He's the one who got us together if you'll recall. He told me there was an amazingly talented, gorgeous tennis player that I had to meet." He pauses and you wait for him to continue, knowing he will. "But then I pointed out that we broke up and you know what he said? He said, 'It's not my fault you fucked up with buchou. Just suck up your pride and go apologize.' And he's right. It's my fault. I should've asked what was wrong. I thought it was because you knew I'd learned Tezuka's zero shiki drop shot. That you were mad and refused to play me because of it. I took it personally; I thought it somehow meant you still loved him, that you couldn't bear to see anyone use his move other than him. That you still loved him."

"And now?" you prompt.

"I assume I was wrong," Oshitari says but there's a hint of confusion in his voice.

An idea hits you. "You still don't know why I forfeited."

He shakes his head.

"Well, you are right in a way. It is because of Tezuka's drop shot. I knew about it and didn't want you to use it."

"How did you find out?"

You fight down the urge to blush. "I could see it when we were having sex, the way your shoulder wouldn't work properly. I knew you couldn't be talked out of using it and I knew you would use it during our match. But I couldn't have that. Tezuka suffered so much because of what I'd done. He's my rival and we share a bond, it's true. But that's neither here nor there. The point is I didn't trust myself. I can't hold back when I play you. If I had played that day, I would've gone at you with everything I had and done irreversible damage."

Oshitari's eyes are closed, deep in thought. Remembering, most likely, that fateful day when a friendship bordering on love ended and a bitterness made itself known. You were about to leave the locker room when the other door banged open.

"You didn't believe I could do it. You still don't believe it." Cold, harsh words flung in your direction, cutting like glass shards.

You say nothing. He thinks he needs to say this, and who are you to disillusion him?

"You're just jealous- you don't want anyone to steal his move. Is that it? I'm right, I know I am."

Each word embeds itself into your memory. You wince as though you've taken a physical blow.

"Is that it? Is that where we went wrong?" his tone is pleading, begging for an answer that has long eluded the both of you. But now things are starting to make sense.

You shake your head. "No. The final straw came that weekend day."

"Ah."

Your mind brings you back to that day.

Oshitari finds you holding Tezuka's arm out extended in front of him, examining his shoulder. You are mid-caress, the look on your face one of utmost concentration, when Oshitari barks out a cruel laugh.

"I was coming to see if you were all right," he drawls. "But I see you're fine. It was careless of me. Take care of him, Tezuka."

He bows slightly before standing straight again. He spins, walking briskly out the door. You know there's heartbreak written across his face, because you can feel from Tezuka's pitying stare that it's written on yours too.