Thirty

by aishuu

Disclaimer: Konomi-sensei
Pairings: TezuFuji, OishiEiji, RyoSaku
Notes: Sequel to Dross. Reading Stoic and Hotel California would also help. Everything is on quillofferings on livejournal in the memory section, although the NC-17 are flocked to community members only. This section is for aiwritingfic, because I promised fic for her.

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Part Seven: A Change in My Life

He awoke feeling more comfortable than he had in years. Fuji slept beside him, an arm thrown around Tezuka's waist possessively. Tezuka took a second to enjoy the feel of skin-on-skin, the intimacy of just lying with a lover. He stared down at Fuji's face and wondered why he'd been avoiding this for so long.

Fuji's eyes opened slowly, and Tezuka was struck by how very blue they were. "Happy thirtieth, Tezuka," Fuji murmured as he wrapped an arm around Tezuka's neck for leverage, so he could kiss him. "Would you like an early present?" he asked as he pulled away.

Tezuka's breath quickened at the suggestion, but he had to decline. "I can't stay," he said softly. He had things he needed to take care of; he'd been running from his responsibilities for too long. He hoped Fuji wouldn't take it the wrong way. "I've got to finish sorting out the mess I made with Echizen."

"I know. I can never keep you," Fuji said, using his lashes to protect whatever his eyes were saying. "You always go ahead, leaving me behind."

Tezuka brushed the strands of tangled hair away from his lover's face before placing a kiss against Fuji's forehead. "But I come back, don't I? Oishi and Eiji are planning on treating me to lunch today, about noon at their place. Give Eiji a call and let him know you're coming - you can be my date."

It was a spur of the moment suggestion, but Fuji's reaction told him it was the right one. An emotion that Tezuka might have called wonder flashed through those blue eyes, quickly augmented by lazy amusement. "You do realize what they'll read into that."

Tezuka shrugged, then set about looking for his shirt. "Kikumaru always has an overly active imagination."

"Really." The flat delivery left plenty open to interpretation.

"It's not like I kiss and tell," Tezuka replied. "He can imagine whatever he wants to."

Fuji opened his mouth, but no words came out as he apparently thought the better of it. Instead he shook his head, then leaned forward to kiss Tezuka again. "You need to get going," he said. "I'll see you later."

---

He arrived back at his apartment by eight, and fed a yowling Neko. She gave him a glare, turned her tail toward him, and then sulkily went to eat. It would take days to calm her down. She did the best "poor neglected kitty" act he'd ever seen. Anyone would have thought she'd been starving for weeks.

Stepping into the shower, Tezuka turned the facet to its highest temperature. The water hit his back and he hissed slightly as it stung his skin, finding the places where Fuji's nails had accidentally dug into last night. A smile formed on his face as he reached over to get the soap.

When he stepped out ten minutes later, he caught sight of his reflection in the half-length mirror – and couldn't look away. He'd never been narcissistic, not that way Atobe was, but he'd had a certain justifiable satisfaction in his appearance.

Still toned, he noted with pride, but the defined musculature of his youth had faded. He hadn't found any gray – yet – in his hair, but that was likely because his hair was relatively light. Not like Oishi, who was starting to develop white side-burns.

It was all downhill from here, he knew.

He stepped back into his bedroom to dress for the day, choosing a pair of comfortable pants and a new shirt his mother had sent him as a gift. He was just buttoning his cuffs when he was interrupted.

"Yo, buchou," a voice said from behind him, making Tezuka start. Tezuka manfully restrained the impulse to whirl around hastily, instead snapping the last button into place before turning slowly, not letting Ryoma get the upper hand. He'd forgotten Ryoma had taken the spare key.

Ryoma's eye wasn't swollen shut, Tezuka was relieved to see, but had developed a truly memorable black and blue around it. It made his normally sulky expression look just a bit more serious, a definite don't-you-dare-fuck-with-me-right-now threat on his face.

Reprimanding Ryoma for invading his bedroom would be useless. "What are you doing back here?" he asked instead, hoping he sounded a bit calmer than he felt. "Weren't you going to go stay with Momoshiro?" Tezuka had been planning on cornering Ryoma there, but he'd apparently lost the element of surprise.

"I was... I am..." Ryoma sounded uncharacteristically confused, running a hand over his face. "I just want... buchou, will you play a game with me?"

It definitely hadn't been anything Tezuka expected. "Ryoma, I haven't played seriously in years. Try Momoshiro, he's in better condition."

"I want to play you," he said. "I've beaten Momoshiro dozens of times."

And you still haven't defeated me, Tezuka thought. He had never let the younger man win, either in middle or high school, and now it sounded like it was preying on Ryoma's mind. "It won't satisfy you. You're much better than I am now."

He was surprised when Ryoma bowed low with humility. "Please, buchou."

He didn't know if his shoulder would be up to a full game against Echizen. It had healed years ago, but the injury had been one of the reasons for not seeking professional tennis as a vocation. He didn't regret it, but he didn't think it was wise to test the fates. He still remembered the feel of the court beneath his knees, as he collapsed from the searing pain in his shoulder.

But Ryoma hardly ever asked for anything – he usually took what he wanted. It would be cruel to say no. "I suppose," he said.

"Do you still have a racket?" Ryoma asked, his voice a bit lighter with relief. "You can borrow one of mine, if you don't."

"I keep one in the closet," Tezuka said.

It took him a few minutes to prepare, digging out the supplies that saw less and less use as time marched on. He still enjoyed the sport, but more and more his time was occupied by work. Ryoma waited with uncharacteristic patience, not making sarcastic or goading comments.

And he had to get dressed again, changing into clothes he could exercise in. Tezuka selected the tennis shirt he'd been given as a college graduation gift by his aunt. It was worn in and comfortable, though the violet color was hardly flattering to his complexion. He looked better in earth tones, Atobe had once told him in a fit of annoyance. He didn't care if that was true or not, he liked the shirt anyway.

After he zipped up his duffle bag – making sure to include a fresh bottle of water – he turned to Ryoma. "Shall we?" he asked.

The court was currently unoccupied, which wasn't surprising. They'd hit it at the perfect time – too early for teenagers from school, but late enough to miss the early-morning workout crew. Tezuka was pleased to see they'd have the place to themselves. The last thing he wanted was for a swarm of Echizen's fans to descend.

They set their equipment down on a bench, before stretching slowly to avoid injury. They said nothing until Ryoma dug into his own bag to produce his racket and a container of balls. "I brought the balls this time," Ryoma said, tossing the container to Tezuka. "One set match, I'll give you a three game handicap and serve."

Once, the offer would have been an insult. Now, it was a matter of practicality. Ryoma had far exceeded anything Tezuka had ever done. The challenge was simple: all he had to do was keep Ryoma from breaking his serve.

He knew it was impossible, but Tezuka had never been one to give up before trying. "More than fair," he agreed.

Ryoma shook his head. "If you'd gone pro, you wouldn't need it."

"There's no point in regretting what could have been," Tezuka said. He thought of Atobe, and their conversation a few days ago, and realized it was the truth. Learn from the past, but don't let it linger. The ball bounced once, twice and then Tezuka managed to pull out a creditable serve, satisfyingly close to the edge of the line. It was still far too easy for Ryoma, who returned it cleanly, although without much power. He wasn't playing with his usual fierce edge of competition, and Tezuka wondered if it had been lost or Ryoma was actually being considerate.

Tezuka hadn't forgotten the thrill of a good game, of rising to a challenge. He knew he played well for a casual amateur, but now he was pushing his limits, seeing how far he was from the perfection he'd once chased after blindly.

Ryoma was good, so talented. It was like tennis was a part of him, that he had become the human incarnation of the ideal of the sport. Tezuka didn't manage to take a single game, and it ended in an embarrassing twenty minutes – and that was because Ryoma was being kind.

They walked over to the coach's bench, which was only occupied by their tennis bags. Tezuka dug into his to pull out his second bottle of water, having drained his first between games. Ryoma pulled a towel out, and dried the sweat from his face.

He knew Ryoma was staring at him, but Tezuka remained quiet, deciding to let Ryoma decide what to say first. "Thank you, buchou," Ryoma said after a long moment.

"It wasn't a good game," Tezuka felt compelled to admit.

"It was," Ryoma disagreed. "I haven't had such fun playing in... I don't remember when. Somewhere along the way, it just because work. I'd get up, go to my matches, and do whatever was expected of the top tennis star. I lost myself in the scene, not the game."

Tezuka nodded his head, not disagreeing, but not seeing anything worth saying. Ryoma had a pretty accurate view on things all of the sudden, he thought. He watched as Ryoma pulled out a med kit, before producing a pair of scissors, the kind used to cut medical tape.

Ryoma quirked an eyebrow, before huffing with exasperation from Tezuka's silence. "I suppose I should act like the grown up I am and get out of your hair," he said.

The scissors he held flashed, and Tezuka stared, wordlessly, as the long black hair fell beneath the onslaught. Then Ryoma smiled, really smiled. It held no pride or sarcasm, merely a sense of relief. Then he thrust the butchered locks into Tezuka's hands.

Tezuka held the abandoned ponytail in shock. "What do you expect me to do with this?"

"Keep it, donate it to some wigmaker, sell it on E-bay. I don't care. I don't want it anymore." Ryoma's hand trailed over the back of his head where uneven strands ruthlessly curled up. "My neck feels rubbery."

The shorter hair made Ryoma look older, but for Tezuka, it was like looking into the past. He saw Ryoma's confident yet charming smile again, the one he had always worn when they had first met. Somewhere along the way he'd lost it. "What are you doing?" he asked. The hair was silky and smooth in his palms.

Ryoma tilted his head back, staring up at the sky. He was still smiling. "I guess I'm saying goodbye. You told me, after my father died, that I needed to remember that there were other opponents."

"I did," Tezuka said, though he couldn't really remember the conversation that well. He remembered that trying period, when life had all been about tennis. Things had been simpler then, though he wasn't sure they had been better. The memory of the previous night flashed through his mind. He wouldn't want to go back, he decided. No matter how trying his life had become suddenly, he was satisfied with who he was now.

"We're selfish bastards, both of us," Ryoma said. "We want everything to go our way, and we figure it will, just because we're both special. I don't think I ever really accepted that tennis was what I wanted to do for myself."

"I always knew it was what you lived for," Tezuka replied. "I didn't know why you couldn't see that."

Ryoma snorted. "We always miss what's right in front of our own noses, don't we? For a couple of supposedly smart men, we're fucking stupid sometimes."

Once the use of such filthy language would have prompted Tezuka to frown, or assign a series of laps as punishment. Now he just laughed, realizing the truth in what Ryoma was saying. "Yes, but at least we don't make the same mistake twice," Tezuka agreed. "Now go do ten laps to cool off."

Ryoma gawked at him for a second, before breaking out into laughter. Despite that, he set off at an obedient trot around the court, leaving Tezuka to do his own cool-down stretches.

Looking to the hair in his hands, he considered throwing it away, but decided against it. The hair had been part of Ryoma, and the past shouldn't be forgotten. Besides – Ryoma was right. There was always E-bay... or maybe it would be a suitable thirtieth birthday gift for Ryoma, when the time came. Tezuka's lips quirked as he tried to think of a creative way to hand it back when Ryoma least expected.

---

Even though the day had already seemed quite long, it was barely ten by the time he returned to his apartment. After another shower – which made him feel a bit waterlogged – he glanced at his clock and realized he had an hour and a half to kill before meeting for his birthday lunch.

Ryoma had gone back to Momoshirou's, which left Tezuka alone again. He had missed the quiet, he tried to convince himself as Neko curled into his lap. He tried to enjoy the silence, but felt off-balance. He shouldn't be taking it easy right now, not when so many things were still wrong. He ran his hands over his cat's slightly chunky body. He was just wondering if he should go grab his half-read book when the doorbell rang.

Tezuka kept his expression carefully blank as he saw the woman on the other side of the door. Atobe Mariko, dressed in a casual sun dress, looked at him with a wane smile. "Can I come in, Tezuka-san?"

She was addressing him formally, and he raised an eyebrow. She'd always been overly familiar, a touch too comfortable with him. Now it seemed she had conceded the fight, her usual effervescence restrained into something resembling manners. Tezuka wasn't sure he liked the change; it was an unknown. However he was learning to roll with whatever was thrown at him, and didn't point that out. Instead her asked, "What do you want?"

He didn't offer to let her in. He didn't want to get involved in Atobe's marital woes more than he already was.

Mariko produced a small package from her purse. It was in a box the size of her fist, wrapped in a blue color that reminded him of Fuji's eyes. Around it was wrapped a white bow made of lace, feminine and inappropriate for its intended recipient, but entirely appropriate for the giver. "I told you I'd drop off your birthday gift," she said softly. "I know I probably should have mailed it so you didn't have to see me, but I wanted to talk to you."

"I can't accept it." He didn't want to be seen as taking her side; they had only had a tentative acquaintance through Atobe, and now that their marriage was over, there was nothing that bound them.

She bit her lip unhappily, before nodding to herself and looking him squarely in the eye. "Please. This will be the last time you see me, unless you suddenly decide to become a divorce lawyer. I want you to have this."

He sighed, and stepped back to let her in. It would be rude to make her stand and wait on his doorstep as he unwrapped the gift. "Come in," he said.

"Thank you, Tezuka-san," she said softly, stepping over the threshold. She turned her head around curiously, taking in the comfortable decor. "Your place is nice," she said, her fingers still tight on the package.

"Would you like something to drink?" Now that she was in, he was obligated to be a proper host.

"Just water, please. It's unseasonably warm today, isn't it?" she asked as she removed her shoes before stepping into a pair of guest slippers - the same ones Ryoma had been using.

"Have a seat," he told her, wishing she had been wise enough to refuse. This was turning into a regular social visit. She settled down carefully, barely sitting on the edge of the couch, looking prepared to flee at the slightest misstep on Tezuka's part. He grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator to fill a glass, and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee almost as an afterthought.

When he came back, he took the chair kitty-corner to the couch, angling himself so he could study her face. "Why are you really here?" he asked.

She toyed with the gift, shifting it back and forth in her hands. "I did want you to have this," she said softly, "but I also wanted to beg a favor of you." Her lips tightened in an uncomfortable smile. "I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but I ask you hear me out."

He wondered if she was going to make some request about the divorce, but she surprised Tezuka. "Could you please watch out for him?" she asked. "Yuushi and I, we hurt him so badly, but we still care for him."

He wanted to ask why they had the affair in the first place, but figured it was none of his business. Instead, he settled for a slightly more biting, "It was cruel to do that on his birthday."

"It just happened, I didn't want it to." She took a sip of water, her face pale. "I want to be happy," Mariko said. "I know it's selfish, but I want to be happy."

"You could have worked on your marriage," Tezuka said. "Atobe was fond of you." He hadn't believed it before, but seeing Atobe's pain made Tezuka realize that there had to be some affection on Atobe's part.

She laughed, shaking her head. "I adored him. It's impossible not to be entranced by him. Keigo is so brilliant, like that star you gave him - but just as distant. I used to wonder, sometimes, if he knew anything about me - he had a fantastic memory for things I liked, but he never really wanted to look below the surface. He's a very hard man to love."

Tezuka could understand. Much of what she said was reflected in Atobe's dealings with everyone - his inherent superiority dazzled, but also kept people from believing he was human. He had faults, many of them, but he was so naturally intelligent and charismatic that they tended to be forgotten.

"You knew that before you married him," Tezuka said instead. He valued the strength of a promise, and marriage was one of the most serious promises a person could make.

"Knowing and understanding are two completely different things," she replied. "I thought I could be happy in a life like that, but then I met Yuushi..." her voice faltered again. "Yuushi and I didn't mean..." she trailed off, apparently changing her mind about what to say. "Sometimes you have to be selfish. If there's one thing Keigo taught me, it was that it was okay to be selfish."

He understood. "I'll do what I can for him," he promised.

Her smile was still brittle, but her shoulders relaxed. "I know you will. I just had... had to ask. It's the only thing I can do for him now." She picked up her glass and took another steadying sip. "Thank you, Tezuka-san."

He felt uncomfortable, and wondered if there was a polite way to get her out of his apartment. "You're welcome."

She picked up the package she had set down previously, leaning across the table to place it in his hands. "Unwrap it," she told him.

He didn't want whatever she'd selected for him, but he nodded, peeling the tape away first with his fingernails as always. His mother used to save all wrapping paper for possible reuse, and old habits were hard to break. A square jewelery box just a bit smaller than his palm appeared, and he popped the velvet-green lid open before peering inside. Gingerly he lifted the item, amazed.

His hand held up the two-inch antique pocket watch. It was a handsome piece, made of what seemed to be gold, and he could hear the steady tick of the blue-steel hands as they marked off the time. He knew the gift was too valuable to be giving him, a casual friend.

"Mariko-san..." He tried to work up the polite way to return the gift as too extravagant.

"It was made by Charles Frodsham in London back in the 1870's," she said. "It belonged to my father, and I'd like you to have it."

"Your father? Mariko-san, I-"

She shook her head to correct his assumption. "No, no! He's still alive. He just isn't interested in old things. You're traditional and steady. I though an old-fashioned watch would suit you better."

He wanted it. It was rare for him to feel desire for something material, but she had been unexpectedly perceptive in her choice of gift. "Thank you," he said graciously. "Did you ever give Atobe his Rolex?"

"Of course not. He would have broken it dramatically," she said. "Someday when things are better, maybe."

Tezuka didn't think that day would be coming anytime soon. Some of his doubt must have shown on his face, because Mariko gave another laugh that sounded more like a sob. "I can hope, can't I?"

"There's always hope, Mariko-san," Tezuka said. "But it's best if we accept things as they are, and try to move on." He thought of Ryoma, and how easily a person could become fixated.

She opened her mouth to say more, but a polite knock prevented her.

"Come in, it's unlocked," Tezuka invited.

The door swung open seconds later, and Fuji entered the room. His quick blue eyes took in Mariko's presence, and then looked over at Tezuka. "Am I interrupting something?" Fuji asked.

Mariko glanced back and forth between the two of them, before finally giving into her anguish and bursting into tears. Tezuka cringed inside, but luckily Fuji stepped in to handle matters. Fuji walked over and sat beside her, draping a casual arm over her shoulders.

She turned and buried her face against his chest, sobbing like her heart had been broken. Fuji made soothing noises, stroking her back in a circular movement. She just cried harder, but Tezuka noticed that Fuji offered no reassurances, just his presence. Tezuka felt the the third wheel, and wished there was some excuse he could make to absent himself.

Mariko cried for several minutes before pulling herself back together. "I'm sorry, Fuji-sensei..." she said, before digging her into her purses to pull out a compact. She was a very vain woman, immediately setting on righting the damage her crying jag had done to her make up.

Fuji pulled away, but his open posture still indicated a willingness to serve as a comfort. "It's alright, Mariko-chan," he said. "I know things aren't easy for you right now."

Tezuka didn't understand how this could happen, how both Mariko and Atobe could be hurting so much over the split. In the end, they would be happier apart – and Mariko was the one who wanted to get divorced in the first place. Tezuka, ever practical, didn't think it needed to be a giant production.

She sniffled a bit more, but her hands were steady as she cleaned up the dark smudges under her eyes where her makeup had run. Her hands were deft, and soon she was back to looking like her usual trophy wife self, except for reddened eyes that would quickly fade.

"I should be going," she said as she click her purse close. She smoothed her hands over her skirt after she stood, straightening out the imaginary creases. "Thank you, Tezuka-san, Fuji-sensei."

Tezuka knew he should make some overture of friendship, a promise to remain in touch, but he couldn't lie. "Good luck, Mariko-chan," he murmured instead.

After the door had shut behind her, they remained quiet. Tezuka held the watch she had given him, with the slight sound of ticking filling his ears. Finally he looked up and met Fuji's eyes, which were half-lidded with thought. "Why is this such a mess?" he asked.

"Because both Atobe and Mariko are human," he replied. "I see it every day; messes that are made because of a failure to communicate, a lack of trust, an undeniable incompatibility."

That demanded some kind of response, but Tezuka couldn't think of anything that didn't sound incredibly stupid. Glancing at the clock, he noticed it was almost time to leave for lunch. But this was a conversation that was long overdue. "Like us," Tezuka said. He didn't look at Fuji's face, instead staring down at his hands.

There was a long silence. "Yes, like us. Most of our problems came from a lack of communication."

"I'm not very good at it," Tezuka replied. "Talking, that is. I figure actions speak louder than words."

"Maybe." Something in Fuji's tone voice sounded a bit wistful, and Tezuka looked at him. His hair was down today, framing his face, and he looked young, almost like a teenager again. "Do you remember when we took that day and went hiking? It would have been... oh, our senior year of college?"

Tezuka hadn't forgotten. "The sunset was particularly spectacular." He remembered the feel of the air as it cooled for the night around them, of wrapping his arms around himself as he tried to preserve just a little extra bit of his body heat. He remembered the feel of Fuji's hand on his, as they walked over the uneven terrain. Fuji, for all his grace, had needed help over the irregular path.

"We didn't have any agenda, we just kind of meandered up the hill. It was after tennis season, and you and I had both been accepted into university. You relaxed, like I've never seen you relax.." Fuji paused, picking up his tea and taking another sip. "And I thought... this was happiness. I didn't need anything else but the knowledge you were there with me, and trusted me."

Tezuka hadn't thought on it, but that day had been one that had eroded the barriers between former captain and teammate. Not long after, they'd decided to room together during their graduate studies. "Then what happened?" Tezuka ask. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"You wanted me to confess, like some kind of girl?" Fuji returned. "I didn't know what love was. I didn't know how important you were to me – or maybe I didn't want to admit it. I couldn't control what you think or what you do, and that drove me crazy."

"I wasn't the one who was always dating other people." Tezuka could admit now that had bothered him. More than anything, Fuji's ability to date other people had kept Tezuka away.

"I wanted you to ask me to stop," Fuji replied. "You didn't seem to have any problems with it, though."

"If you were seeking out other people, then you weren't content with me," Tezuka replied. He looked down at his hands again, trying to fight the remembered sting of inadequacy. "We were doomed before we even began."

"Maybe." Another one of those long silences. "Or maybe we just weren't ready. But we've both grown up since then."

Tezuka decided to let his actions speak for him. He rose to take the seat Mariko had recently vacated, reaching out to take Fuji by the shoulders. Fuji tilted his head back and leaned over to kiss Tezuka. His lips were soft and gentle, and Tezuka found himself responding, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss.

It was different than any kiss they'd shared before, reverent and loving. A minute passed, then two, and finally Tezuka pulled away, although he kept his hands in place. "Do you think...?" Tezuka started. "Can this work?"

"Probably not. But we can try, and try again."

Tezuka studied Fuji's face, then steeled his courage before asking the next question. It felt like jumping off a cliff, unsure if he was about to be dashed against jagged rocks. But this was Fuji, and there was no one else in the world he'd rather take a chance on. "Can I call you Syuusuke?"

"Only if I can call you Kunimitsu." Then he smiled, and it was so sweet that Tezuka felt something in his chest clench, something that reminded him why Fuji had always been so important to him. Fuji had been right, years ago, when he'd pointed out that he shook Tezuka out of his comfortable world.

He could live with that. Maybe those meddling matchmakers had a point about the importance of companionship. As he started to undo the buttons on Fuji's shirt, he reflected that this was going to get messy. Love affairs always did – but it would also be worth it. There was more to life than work, after all, and Tezuka was sure that Fuji was about to make his life much more interesting, on a permanent basis.

They were late for lunch.