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It took ages for the sun to set, and even then the sky was a fading orange-pink, and a deep blue rising up from the corners of the sky. Ryoma spun the grip of his racquet in his hand, stretching his shoulders, and glancing towards the temple bell. He judged the hour by how much the melting gold at the edge of the horizon made his eyes sting, and, each Not Quite Yet took him back to swinging at the air. He gave the night the chance to fall in one more rally against the yard's wall. At some point, when he scrubbed the sweat from below his fringe and fanned himself with the release of his cap, that old man's silhouette appeared next to the temple bell. Ryoma grumbled to himself and chewed his cheeks, but the old man was being quiet, so he left him to his magazines. It was when the sweat on his arm prickled his hair, with the first hint of cool for the first time in the day, that he noticed low white twinkles just above him, in the greenish coral-pink. There were vivid red clouds, striping on after the sun that had finally vanished. And if there were stars, and if there were stripes, then surely it was time.
Ryoma made sure his trainers crunched the grass of the yard so the old man would know he was under the bell. And, when the old man started giggling to himself loudly about "this one's assets" and letting out a long whistle through pursed lips, Ryoma knew the old man had noticed him. Ryoma rolled his eyes and stared at the floor, and listened to the pages slap as the old man turned them, giving little yelps of approval every time he lingered over one. Ugh.
"Hey, old man," Ryoma said, at last, not willing to waste the whole night to his dad's stupid game, "it's dark," he said.
"Wassat? Dark? I can still see this little firecracker fine! Wanna see!" An image of a woman was thrust in front of his face, and Ryoma pulled his cap down to block the view. "Wow, I mean, if it's dark now, it must be time for sleepy-byes for a little kiddywink like you who's not old enough to wanna get an eyeful of a beautiful woman!" Ryoma could hear the magazine pages rustle as his dad shook it about in front of him, "Ryoma-kuuun, look at meeee~" the old man squealed, in a horrific interpretation of a woman's voice.
"Cut it out!" Ryoma said, gritting his teeth, "It's already dark!"
"Ohh, I know! Well, don't you worry about your dear old dad! I might be old, but my eyesight is fine!" The magazine whooshed back up to the old man's hands. Ryoma peeked up under the brim of his hat, with caution. His dad was holding his magazine up to his face at eye level, "Ah yes, I can still read fine: '10 Hot Trends To Help You Bag Your Man'-- Wait!! What the heck, this is Nanako-chan's!!" Ryoma's shoulders dropped.
"You're not funny."
"Then why are you laughing!!" The old man said, nudging his elbow out towards Ryoma, even if he wasn't close enough to actually touch him.
"I'm not." Ryoma folded his arms and frowned -- and then he realised that his dad couldn't see him frowning because of his hat, so he tilted his head backwards to show his dad the full effect.
The old man clicked his tongue, "You need to learn to have fun, kiddunk." And Ryoma mouthed, kiddunk? But his dad took no notice. He shook out Nanako's fashion magazine and cleared his throat. "Now let me see.. Scorpio… 'You have a secret admirer waiting in the wings!!' -- Holy cow! -- 'Make sure to wear your favourite bra just in case!' Aww, but," He let go of the magazine and pushed a finger up to the side of his mouth, and frowned with concentration, "My favourite, like, totally doesn't, like, match my shoes!" Then he burst out laughing, at his own stupid joke.
"You're not even wearing shoes," Ryoma said, sighing.
"I knowww, but I wanted to match my bra," the old man gestured to where his robes gaped and his bare chest was visible. Then he fell into fits with an irritating, hooting laugh, hands clasped over his stomach and his head leant back so his face pointed upwards.
"Just hurry up and get the fireworks!" Ryoma said, straining to make his voice louder than his dad's. The old man stopped laughing so suddenly, he lost his balance and fell over backwards.
"Fireworks?" The old man tried to right himself, and shake the dust off his robes, and he gave little wheezy coughs between words where he'd inhaled the grime of the temple yard, "but I thought you said you wanted nap time? Huh? Tiny tot?"
Ryoma sighed, "Tell me where they are and I'LL get them," he said.
"Ehhh, I didn't get you any, you little brat! 'sides, you're getting too old for fireworks, aren'tcha?" He leered down from the bell and waited for Ryoma's disappointment.
"Liar. Just now you said I was a tiny tot," he mumbled, and began walking towards the storage shed.
"Hey! Wait!!" The old man hopped down from his favourite spot by the bell and dashed after Ryoma, "Alright, alright," He paused with his hands on his knees, catching his breath, "Maybe we can light a few fireworks… if you beat me in a match!"
Ryoma scowled at him, "It's already late!! We can't set them off after 11pm!"
"Ohhh, look, the kid's scared," the old man said. Something passed the gate out of the corner of Ryoma's eye.
"I am not!! I just want my fireworks!!"
"Pardon the intrusion," said a familiar, reserved voice. Father and son looked around, to the evident delight of the one and the badly-concealed horror of the other. Tezuka, still pristine in his school uniform, tennis bag held firm on his shoulder, stood before them. "I was about to call at the house when I heard voices over here. I don't mean to interrupt."
Ryoma pulled his cap as low as he could get it, and hoped the mellow dark was enough to hide the colouring of his cheeks. His dad patted his head and grinned, "Hear that, Ryoma?? Your tennis club friend heard everything you just said!!" Ryoma said something in a growl, but his dad's laughter drowned it out.
"My apologies. I am Tezuka Kunimitsu, the captain of Seishun Gakuen's tennis club." He extended a polite hand to Ryoma's father, and the old man stared down at it with raised eyebrows. Then, he shot Ryoma a look, as if he'd never shaken a hand in formal greeting in his life, and shook Tezuka's hand. "If it isn't too much trouble, could I perhaps speak with Echizen for a moment? There was something I wanted to tell him."
"Not so fast! That's not the rules of this here temple," the old man said, standing with his legs apart and his chest thrust out, "you step in this yard with a tennis racquet, you step on the court!" Tezuka blinked, his right hand twitching towards his left arm for an instant, only an instant, but suddenly Ryoma's father said, "Aahh, but it's getting kinda late, and we've got fireworks to light -- you like fireworks, don'tcha, kid?" He was grinning at Tezuka, and Tezuka shot Ryoma a look, as if he'd never been called "kid" in his life.
They sat together on the wooden porch, with the screen doors wide open behind them and the insect repellent smouldering at the side. Tezuka sat, with his back straight, and faced the temple yard; Ryoma slouched awkwardly against a seat pad cushion, propping up his upper body with one straight elbow, and sipping a can of juice with a languid flick of his wrist. In the distance, by the far wall, Ryoma's dad and cousin were adjusting the angles of rockets and discussing where to place candles. "Echizen," Tezuka said, but then behind them came the thudding of a door, moving in its frame, and the shuffs of slippers, and the chinking of ice cubes in glasses.
"Here you are!" said Ryoma's mother, as she laid down a little tray of cold barley tea and cookies, "It's nice to have one of Ryoma's friends over," she said, with a smile to Tezuka. She gestured to the tray with a flat, open palm, and Tezuka bowed his head and took one of the glasses, "I bet it makes a change from having to play with his dad all the time," she laughed, but Ryoma groaned at her. She reached down to pet his hair and then excused herself.
There was an interminable period in which the cicadas sang to them both, and the ice in Tezuka's glass rattled as he sipped. And then Tezuka said, "Echizen… about that match," Ryoma glanced up, trying to get a look at Tezuka's face without moving, "About the match against Hyoutei Gakuen…" Ryoma's shoulders tensed, and he braced against the planks and sat up, leaned in to listen. "You see…"
"Oh!" The voice of Ryoma's cousin startled them, and they looked out into the yard. She was holding a flat packet in her hands, and staring down at it while saying something to Ryoma's dad. She pointed to what she was holding, and then she turned her head towards the house. Finding them watching her, she pointed to the packet and dashed over. "Hey, I'm not sure Uncle's figured out how he wants his display to go yet, but you know what he's like--"
"I'm an artist!!" Ryoma's dad yelled at her from the far wall.
"Alright, Uncle, alright! --But in the meantime, why don't we light some of these sparklers together!" She passed a single thin sparkler to Tezuka, and then another to Ryoma. "Just hang on a second while I get a light --" she stepped her shoes off and ducked into the house, all the while calling, "remember to hold them down and away from you, so you don't get burnt!"
Ryoma held his sparkler with the tips of his fingers, and looked at it under his eyelashes. "It's not even lit," he said quietly.
"You can never be too careful," Tezuka said, with a look of severity in the glint of his eyes. Ryoma laughed under his breath.
"Yeah?" He said. Tezuka stared ahead and said nothing, but Ryoma expected that. Three months was more than enough time. The sky had finally fallen into a deep, Seigaku-worthy blue, and dotted through it were one or two distant white-burning stars, even in the city. Ryoma fixed his eyes on one of them, the brightest, and, setting the sparkler down in the grooves of the floorboards, he reached his hand out towards it. But even as he did that, he blocked his own view of it, and when he put his hand down, he couldn't remember which star he had been looking at. He sighed, and, looking back down to the yard, he saw Tezuka watching him. "It's really far away," Ryoma muttered, turning his face away and pretending to look intently at his unlit sparkler.
"Yes," Tezuka said, "but it can still light the way, even from a distance." Ryoma felt it, but that was the only way he knew to understand Tezuka. He stared at Tezuka, sitting forward by enough just to take up his juice again and sip from it, but never looking away; he tried to let his eyes burn an understanding out of Tezuka, and feel what he had meant to say.
But Nanako bustled back out of the house, with an electric firelighter in her hand, "Sorry about the wait! Karupin decided he wanted to ride on my shoulders and I couldn't--"
"Eh, where is he??" Ryoma said, sitting bolt upright, spilling a little bit of grape juice out of his can as he moved.
"He's alright! I shut him in the living room with Auntie!" Nanako gave a self-conscious giggle and flapped her hand to calm Ryoma. He frowned at her and let his shoulders ease a little bit. "I know he doesn't like fireworks, that's why I took so long trying to convince him not to follow me out here!" She knelt down between Ryoma and Tezuka and held up the firelighter. "Okay, shall we get started?"
Ryoma held out the end of his sparkler to her, and with a click or two, the tip burst to life, fizzing searing white patterns into Ryoma's eyes as he watched it, and even when he blinked, the image stayed with him. He sat and dangled it down to the ground, away from himself, glittering its way up the fuse; it was brilliant, but it could only be brilliant for so long, until it burned itself out. And then what? Ryoma turned to look at Tezuka, and the afterimage on his eyes, of the bright white light overlapped and interfered with Ryoma's view. Tezuka was holding the same kind of sparkler, in the same kind of way, and enjoying its progress towards his fingertips. Probably enjoying it. Nanako, sat between them, giggled happily at the speckles of dancing light, and she moved her hand around in patterns to draw out shapes in the air.
"Ryoma-kun, did you see that?" She said, and the made a circle and some triangles with quick flicks of her wrist, "See, I drew Karupin! What about you, are you going to draw something? It's fun!"
"Oh," Ryoma said, but the sparkler was already all but used up. He extinguished it on a moist mound of earth at his feet. Nanako passed him another sparkler, and said, okay! To let him know she was ready to light it. This time, Ryoma got to his feet and moved the sparkler through the air, watching the momentary glow of it slice the deepening blue of the sky. He drew the paths of imaginary tennis balls, cutting up a court somewhere with him on the winning side of it, and across the imaginary net was that old man. …That is, because the net was somewhere between the house and the yard wall, where Ryoma's dad had been busy messing with the fireworks, but now he stood, with a hand scratching his chin, watching Ryoma lead the flow of that light. And behind him, Nanako was saying,
"There you go, Tezuka-kun! Why don't you try drawing something as well?"
"I shouldn't," came the reply. Nanako made a little disappointed noise, and Ryoma turned to see her, pretending to nudge him, but being too polite to actually touch him.
"But I'm sure you'd have more fun by moving it around instead of just letting it fade out!"
"It's important," Tezuka said, "because this is safer. I apologise." The light charged its way up the sparkler fuse, heading up to meet the fingers of Tezuka's left hand. And Tezuka sat calmly, watching it. Tezuka was going to let the sparkler burn itself out.
And the old man's voice cut into Ryoma's thinking, and it brought Tezuka's attention ahead of him, and so for a moment they stared at each other, and Ryoma felt like he'd overheard some terrible secret. It was a weird, sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he knew something that he'd never wanted to know, but all the while he felt that he'd learnt nothing, and his head and stomach whirled with juice and sparkler lights. But Ryoma's dad called again, "Nanako-chan!! Don't ignore me!! I'm ready now, Nanako-chan!! Praise me!!"
She laughed at him in that tired way she inevitably had when speaking to Ryoma's dad. "Alright, Uncle, let me bring you the firelighter!" She stepped off the porch, and when she reached Ryoma she patted the top of his hat, and he growled at her. "Go and sit with your friend! You need to be a good distance away from the fireworks."
"I'm not a little kid," he said, through his teeth, and she giggled at him.
"Not compared to Uncle," she said, and the old man yelled, hey!, and pouted with his hands on his hips, "But that's why you should stay clear anyway." Nanako winked and lowered her voice, "I'm not sure I trust him with fire, do you?"
When she had reached the end of the garden, Ryoma planted himself beside Tezuka on the porch. He leant forward, elbows on his bare knees, and supporting his face with both hands. He spoke while facing the yard, "So, what? About the Hyoutei match?" He said, casually, but all the while his heart was shuddering inside his chest, and it moved him so much he thought his elbows trembled, and maybe Tezuka would see him shaking. But Tezuka straightened his posture, and Ryoma knew, from the corner of his eye, that Tezuka, too, was staring at the figures at the end of the yard.
"I want you to remember what I said to you, about what you mean to the team." Tezuka said this in a voice which offered no further explanation. And that was the end of it, Ryoma knew him well enough to know that, and Ryoma ground his teeth together and hummed. It was a hum that said, so what?, and it said it because Ryoma was furious. He knew well enough that Tezuka could only feed him the clues, and that he had to find the conclusions himself. He knew that, and he was furious not to see what the answer was. Tezuka drew in a breath, as if he might speak. He nodded to himself. "And… I want you to be prepared."
"Prepared for what?" Ryoma said, turning to face Tezuka so fast that it seemed to disarm him, and, startled by the movement, Tezuka looked back at him. His mouth was open, if only a little, and a sound started on Tezuka's tongue, and at the bottom of the yard there was a shriek and a roar, and a little sputtering of gunpowder applause, raining red flashes down from above them. They turned, automatically, and caught it; the fireworks sprouting from the ground and ending their fire petals in the sky, and when Ryoma turned back to Tezuka it was too late. The answer would stay within him, and all Ryoma's attempts to draw it out would be rebuffed, just like the little coloured sparks reflected off his glasses lenses in the dark of the yard.
And the rain bounced off the lenses of Tezuka's glasses, even as he held his clear-plastic umbrella up over his head to protect himself. The rain wasn't cold, but it numbed his hands and legs vaguely where the water had soaked through to the skin; as such the little lit doorway -- lit, not for the hour, though it was gone nine already, but for the thick sea-blue clouds that shadowed everything -- was a welcome sight, and Tezuka stepped under cover and collapsed his umbrella. He stomped his boots against the sodden mat, and keyed in his security code on the dial. The door buzzed, and he leant on it to get the latch to unlock, and he stepped inside after it, bringing his little pooling drips of water in a trail behind him. He crossed the lobby, and, finding his keys in his pocket, threaded them along the metal loop until he found his locker key. The mail slot pulled back to reveal just one solitary postcard: a picture of a Mount Rushmore, and an American stamp.
Tezuka's eyes rushed over the scrawled lettering, lest they savoured it too soon, and he had nothing left of it to enjoy once he was dry and warm, and back in the comfort of his apartment. But, the little cocky signature, in English, the star he drew right after his name that showed he knew himself, that was enough to begin the process of warming up. It warmed through him, from inside; and Tezuka took the stairs, so he wouldn't get caught in the temptation to read the postcard while he waited for the elevator to rise. He gripped his keys in his hand, and the metal pressed pleasantly against his hand and kept him focused. The right key was ready for the lock before he'd cleared the first flight of stairs.
He flicked the switch, and the image of himself, soaked, tennis bag over one shoulder, with the soggy little postcard thrust outward, bounced off the long window opposite the door. For a split second, he met himself, ready to deliver Echizen's message to himself. But not yet; Tezuka placed the card, image up, on the phone table just inside the door. He let his fingers slide off it as he set it down, lingering on it, and he held in a breath to remind himself he was coming back for it, and dealt with his shoes instead. He left his bag by the door, where it could dry -- he expected no visitors, anyway -- and padded his way over the carpet to the bathroom, and got himself a towel for his hair.
Next was the kettle. He set it on to boil, and prepared the tea in his cup, and waited, with one hand rubbing the towel over his hair. Tezuka's chest surged every time he remembered the postcard, that is, he remembered perhaps every two seconds or so, and every two seconds his heart became too impatient for the speed of the kettle. He drummed his fingertips on the counter to occupy himself. This was, in the least, a wonderful exercise in restraint. Echizen had very little belief in resisting his impulses -- and oh, a particular time or two, Tezuka found himself in agreement: Echizen dragging them both past the audience after a match, and catching him in a kiss in the locker room. And that memory said, go and read the postcard! But he pushed the impulse down, and straightened his glasses on his face, and he enjoyed every rumble and hiss of the kettle heading to its zenith.
The way the water filled the cup sounded like a jingle, like fingers spreading themselves over a whole spectrum of piano keys in a flourish, and the steam reached out and fogged Tezuka's glasses. Just as well, because he could, now, go over to the card and read it. His task was completed. But he wanted to lean on the kitchen counter, fingers stinging around the side of the mug, and tasting the temperature of the tea with his teeth. He blew the steam away from the surface, and watched the blue curtain of summer rain just outside his window -- blue, but here and there speckled with the red of car tail lights, and the white shining street lamps and apartment windows. Blue, but glimmering sparkles of red and white, just like that other July night.
And he was on the couch, with the postcard in his hands. Tezuka stared long and hard at the presidents, like he wanted to see every crack in the mountain; and Echizen probably picked it because he'd thought, maybe Tezuka wanted to see a mountain. But he looked at the image without seeing, and he held his breath as he turned the card over. His eyes were drawn to the signature, first, and he placed the tips of two fingers over it, like he was trying to feel something from it. Or like he wanted Echizen's placeholder to take something from him. I will take it off you, Tezuka remembered that, what Echizen's voice was like then. Somehow it only stuck with him in that phrase. I will take it off you, but could he take anything from him now, soggy and steamed up, and in another country altogether. So Tezuka let his eyes read the message, and warned his heart not to be disappointed.
Buchou, there are some tough guys out here. I'm having fun beating them up. Not a bad stomping ground, but there are people much, much higher up back home. Kinda sucks realising that, but I'll be back to challenge you soon. Took a day trip -- you like mountains and stuff, right? It was dull. You'd love it. P.S. Don't forget to feed Karupin. RYOMA
And then that little star. The cocky star he ended his signature with. Tezuka pressed over it with his thumb and felt his face start to warm. And the cat, who must have been curled up in the drawer -- the drawer of Echizen's clothes that Tezuka made sure to pull open every morning before he left -- suddenly pranced out of the bedroom and wailed at Tezuka with affection. Karupin leapt with unparalleled grace onto the couch beside Tezuka, and sniffed the corner of the postcard with his shimmery blue eyes closed.
"Can you smell him?" Tezuka asked, chucking Karupin under the chin, and Karupin meowed and tried to rub his face against the postcard. "Is it dinner time?" and this time Karupin stopped his movements and turned those big, round eyes on Tezuka. He opened his mouth, and a load and powerful, HOARAA, bounced off the windows and the ceiling, and Tezuka found himself chuckling at him. "Okay. Dinner time."
Tezuka got to his feet, and Karupin followed him in getting off the couch. The cat made his high-pitched rumble, and tried his best to trip Tezuka by winding himself around Tezuka's legs. Tezuka's arms jutted out, steadying himself by the points of his two elbows thrust back behind him, and when his obstructed foot landed safely on the tiles of the kitchenette, it had lost its slipper, and he had to take a step backwards to retrieve it. He sighed down at Karupin. Karupin yelled back. "Alright. I'll hurry up," Tezuka said, as if Karupin would understand that.
Then the phone rang. Tezuka turned his face towards the phone. Karupin turned his ear towards it. Then Tezuka and Karupin looked at each other. "Echizen?" Tezuka said, and Karupin meowed at the same time. Tezuka adjusted his slipper on his foot, and pivoted on it, making his way back towards the living area. The handset bleated in Tezuka's hand, and he pressed to accept the call, and put it to his ear. "Hello, Tezuka speaking."
"Oh, good…" said a voice that crackled with sleep, "I thought Karupin had learned to talk and answer phones." There was a yawn down the line.
"Echizen," Tezuka said, in an acknowledgement that was warm in his heart. Warmer, perhaps, than his voice made out. "Is something the matter? It's awfully early for you, isn't it?" Tezuka heard a groan that was at once close and distant.
"Yeah. It's seven." Tezuka frowned and thought about this.
"Seven AM?"
"I'm not… I'm not alive yet, Buchou." And Tezuka always liked the way he still said that, but this time, the distance made it hard. Distance always made it hard, and every time, with the crackling quality of the long distance line, he found a weakening in his chest that puzzled him. And he'd never tried to call from Kyuushuu, back when he really had been Buchou, and so he'd never know if that feeling hung about that word even then, but he shut his eyes and imagined it'd always been so. "Buchou?" Tezuka heard cars rushing, but he couldn't tell if they were Japanese or American.
"I'm here," he said. And then he ached.
"I have a match first thing. It's a pain." There was a distant sound of clanking and hissing, and Tezuka filled it in as breakfast noises -- though surely, Echizen's breakfast was room service? "Did you get my card?"
"Oh. Yes, that. It just arrived today." Echizen grunted to show he was listening. "What were you doing all that way west? More promotion?"
"I got bored, hopped on a plane, ended up there," Echizen yawned to fill the silence, "lucky I didn't end up on a plane home." Lucky for who? But Tezuka knew this was his cue to scold him.
"You must fulfil your obligations. Not to do so would only be to disappoint yourself." He knew he'd spoken in that correct tone of voice, the one that really got to Echizen, that dug at him in just the right way that he'd-- "Ow!" Tezuka looked down at Karupin, who had decided his leg was a scratching post.
"Ow?" Echizen said, not without laughing.
"I promised to get Karupin's dinner. I forgot, but he's reminding me now." Echizen made a noise, an affectionate, awww, noise, and it was definitely not the noise he might make if it was his leg that had suddenly become a pin cushion.
"Can he hear me? Karupin? Karupiiin?" Tezuka obliged him by bending at the knees and holding the phone low to the ground. He could still hear just the faintest echo, "Karupin?" coming out of the speaker. And Karupin's eyes widened and he meowed in that deafening way he had, and Echizen's distant laughter showed that it had carried all the way to America. Tezuka put the phone to his ear. "He's a good kitty," Echizen said.
"He is not so well behaved when he's hungry," Tezuka corrected him.
"Well, I only called for one thing." There was a pause on the line. "Buchou? Would you… Would you say that thing?" That thing. Tezuka laughed, but it was probably more like a short sharp hum. Just a breath.
"Echizen. Don't get careless."
There was a spirited, "YES!" from Echizen, and his enthusiasm fizzed in Tezuka's ear. "I'm ready for the rest of the day now."
"Have a good match." Tezuka hesitated, "Enjoy the fireworks."
"Fireworks?" Tezuka turned and pressed his empty hand against the window pane. The raindrops that trickled down the surface warped the little specks of light and made them dance. "They running a parade in honour of my win, or what?" Tezuka hummed again. "Ah!! Is it the 4th?" There was a sound like Echizen was scrambling for something. He swore under his breath and Tezuka reprimanded him, so he said, "Oops, sorry…"
"We've got nothing but rain tonight. I won't get to see any." Tezuka said. He looked down at Karupin on the floor and watched the huge bushy tail lashing.
"I'm gonna watch some fireworks!!" Echizen had the same sort of spirit in his voice as when he'd yelled, YES!, and Tezuka felt like Echizen would be watching fireworks for his sake, too. Even if Tezuka wasn't American. "But, I'll be back home in time for the summer festival. We can watch some fireworks then. Together I mean."
"I'd like that," Tezuka said, "I can't wait for you to get home."