methinks

The heirloom’s presence usually meant that its owner was nearby, but now its very existence marked the gaping absence that sat heavy like a bottomless pit. On second thought, that wasn’t quite right. A pit would imply the pull of gravity, the rush of wind and movement if one were falling through it. All Tezuka felt when he looked at the rock sitting atop the nondescript dresser was...stillness. Like a mountain with no breeze rustling the leaves, no birdsong, no fish, no rushing water. Even if a black hole were to suddenly open up before him, its pull would have no effect.

Tezuka remembered holding Genichirou’s hand in his last days, not in a hospital, but in their bedroom. He was not as strong as he once was—neither of them were, and it would have been foolish for them to expect otherwise—but he was not frail by any means. He never had been. Including in their seniority, Genichirou had always retained the advantage his physical build had over his husband. Even with their aged fingers lightly linked together in the shadow of the dimming dusk light, Tezuka could feel a comfortable firmness returning his touch. It was a far cry from the nervous stiffness that locked around his hands the night Genichirou bit his tongue trying to ask Kunimitsu if he would marry him.

One of the things that did remain the same all these years, though, was the roughness of Genichirou’s palms. Tezuka felt it every time they held hands in the candlelight of an anniversary dinner or the starlight of one of their many camping trips, and even as his heart was leaping out of his chest as Genichirou slid the silver band onto his left ring finger. He liked those hands and every one of its callouses, and the slight scar that never faded between the left thumb and forefinger, etched by the younger and more inexperienced swordsman that once was. They were signs of hard work, and what could be more admirable and beautiful than dedication and devotion?

Tezuka held that firmness with all its marks and bumps in his hands until the day where all that was left was the roughness. It can’t have been too long since. He remembered it like it was yesterday, but the thin film of dust that had gathered on the rock told a different story—the story of Kunimitsu asking the rest of the Sanada family if the rock should be passed down to Sasuke, everyone agreeing that no, he should keep it, and it not having moved from the dresser since.

Tezuka didn’t feel quite right having it in their—his home. Heirlooms needed heirs, and here, there were none.

“Maybe we could adopt a little boy... Or a little girl, doesn’t matter,” Genichirou suggested one faraway night, twirling an empty sake bottle in one hand and stroking his husband’s hair with the other.

“Doesn’t matter,” Kunimitsu agreed with a sleepy murmur as he reached across for the empty bottle, giving up halfway and instead letting his arm flop across Genichirou’s chest.

Maybe things would be different if they had thought to interrogate the question again, once the alcohol had worn off. Then, there might have been a more suitable successor, perhaps even two generations of them. The question did cross Tezuka’s mind a few times after that, but it never did pass his lips. What was the rush? They could think about it later. They had so many other things to do, and they were so young. Even when the wrinkles started to emerge in the corners of their eyes, even when it stopped mattering how worn the grip tape on Tezuka’s racket was or how taut the strings were, it was still: what was the rush?

One day, when he looked in the mirror, he realized that it was probably not fit for him to tell himself that anymore. Rather than feeling confronted by a stark, dreadful truth, however, Tezuka was at peace with it. It was simply how things were. Back then, as he stood above the sink and combed through the memories he and Genichirou had built together, he still felt as if he had all the time in the world to create even more, the way the imagination wanders for a sequel after a particularly good book.

Maybe it would have been wise to consider children earlier, but you could be excused for making unwise decisions when you were young, couldn’t you? And every moment he spent with Genichirou, he felt so young, like they could do anything, go anywhere together under the sky in its infinite blue. Tezuka had, at the very least, enjoyed contemplating the possibilities—if they had a child, or children, what would they be like? Would they have a penchant for all things adorable, like Genichirou? Would they enjoy fishing, like Kunimitsu? Would they be interested in tennis like both fathers, or would they have their own new interests that they could teach to their parents?

Kunimitsu had never been one to daydream or fantasize, but to him, this was more like planning, mapping out the endless chain of paths that their lives could take. The world was so big, and even as small as they were, they had enough love to fill all its four corners, so it was only sensible to chart their routes. If anyone said it was daydreaming, well...things seldom stayed the same in the world, just as how things were wont to do in love.

But where would these transformations be without their constants? Storms made way for rainbows. Butterflies emerged from chrysalides. Waves would always nip at your feet, no matter how determined you were to jump over every one of them. When he was younger, Kunimitsu always believed that whatever the future held in store for them, he and Genichirou would face them from each beside each other. Looking back, he was right. Genichirou had always been his constant, even when his age meant that tennis couldn’t be that for him anymore.

Even if, in some other kind of life, he were a mountaineering photographer, a competitive fisherman, author, maybe even a regular office worker like his father was, he knew in his heart that Genichirou would be there with him, setting up camp, cutting newspaper clippings of competitions, reading over drafts, or just heating up a microwave meal for him. And if by some chance Genichirou had become a kendo instructor, shogi player, calligrapher, or police chief, Kunimitsu would have been equally happy to help close up the dojo, save magazines with his interviews, attend his exhibitions, and help him prepare for his press conferences.

Kunimitsu didn’t know what was waiting for him when it, too, was his time to go. Although he didn’t subscribe to any particular religious belief, who was he to deny the possibility of being met with pearly gates? The prospect of rebirth? Maybe Genichirou would be waiting for him in the heavens. Maybe Kunimitsu would have to try and find his way back to his partner in a new life. Or maybe there was nothing. For all he knew, there could be no trace of Genichirou left in the stars. But if they only had one life each to spend, Tezuka was glad he had the chance to give it to Sanada.

Fujima Kenji had never been one to care particularly much for his looks, but today, he found himself staring more deeply into the mirror than he ever had. He rubbed a strand of his chestnut hair between his fingers as if inspecting it for some fault, though of course there were none to be found. It was silky soft as ever, and it fell neatly across his immaculate brows that rose and dipped in perfect arches. His eyelashes were possibly even longer than he remembered them being, and his eyes…felt a little puffy today, but who was going to notice?

He heaved a sigh as he washed his hands and splashed cold water onto his face, then dried it with a small towel he had set aside. He didn't need to inspect his skin to know that it was perfectly smooth and even, like it had always been. But unconsciously, he went back to staring at it anyway. He recalled the conversations he had overheard at school about the countless products the students would put on their faces every day in pursuit of that flawless texture. He'd never had to use any of that stuff, but… If he did, could it make him reach another level of just…being better than he was now, somehow?

Fujima prodded his cheek and watched it depress and bounce back with every poke. Even when he was in middle school, people would comment on how perfect and handsome he was, but there had to be something missing. Sure, his facial features were all in the right places and the right proportions to make him one of the most popular students at school, and he was a good basketball player and coach, and people naturally flocked to him and showered him with compliments and gifts and endless cheers… But it just wasn't enough. And every time the thought flashed across his mind, a pang of guilt would follow.

There were many who would kill to be in his position, but perfection wasn't what he needed. What good were the adoring gazes of hundreds when the one he truly wanted wouldn't even look at him the way they did? He'd throw it all aside if it meant that Hasegawa Kazushi would finally look at him the way he looked at Mitsui Hisashi.

"What do you even see in that guy, Kazushi?" Fujima grumbled, the words escaping from his mouth like a poor impulse. "What does he have that I don't? I'm smart, I'm good-looking…and I care about you."

He sighed.

Hasegawa deserved someone who cared, and that someone was certainly not Mitsui. Where had Mitsui been all these years? Was he the one who coached Hasegawa out of his clumsy defense? Was he the one that stayed behind to do all those one-on-one drills in the school gym long after everyone else had left? And did he watch Hasegawa grow from one of the meekest players on the team to the starter he is today? No, of course not. That was all Fujima. While Mitsui was off doing god-knows-what after his MVP win, Fujima was the one who had devoted countless hours to helping his friend. And through those days and weeks and months, he had come to appreciate just how strong-willed and hardworking Hasegawa was, and before he realized what was happening to him, his coaching had become more than just helping a friend out.

He started to wish their nights at the school gym were longer – and sometimes he'd make them so. Yes, maybe he did sneak in a few more drills than Hasegawa had asked for on occasion (okay, maybe more than that). And yes, he did feel a bit bad for letting himself get so carried away when he was meant to be calm and collected as the one doing the coaching. But Hasegawa never complained and began to commit himself to the sport even more, and that only made Fujima fall harder for him.

Even the smartest coach in the world would be nothing without the blood, sweat, and tears their players were willing to invest, and it was also up to the coach to inspire that confidence and commitment. And Hasegawa always put in a thousand percent when they were working together. Fujima felt the best in him being drawn out too, both as a coach and player, and his passion for the game would spark into a burning inferno. And he believed that he could bring out the best in Hasegawa, too. Their teammates often commented on how quickly he was improving, and match after match, Fujima noticed that the crowds were also starting to chant Hasegawa's name more and more. It made him feel proud of all the training regimens he had crafted and all the days he had spent mulling over what advice to give, but more than that, it made his heart swell to know that the world was finally getting to see how brightly Hasegawa could shine.

When Hasegawa didn't need as many drills anymore, Fujima started to pack more theory into their sessions. Hasegawa didn't pick it up as quickly as the practical stuff, but he didn't need to know it that intimately anyway. And besides…Fujima wasn't about to complain about the extra time they now had huddled over the tactics board on the gym floor. Without the usual dribbling and sneaker-squeaking echoing through the court, the entire gym was dead silent, save for their quiet discussions and the occasional evening breeze rustling the trees outside. Something about the two of them being the only people in this wide space made time stand still, and although their voices were more hushed than usual, Fujima could hear Hasegawa's voice more clearly than any other time. It felt like they were in a world of their own, and it made Fujima feel warm and flushed even without their usual exercise.

Soon, their talk of basketball tactics made way for chats about nothing and everything – just the two of them lying on the wooden floor together, staring up at the unreachable ceiling above. In the vastness of the empty gym, Fujima felt extremely small, but in an exciting way, like how one might feel on their first trip overseas. There was so much more out there to explore and discover for himself, it made him feel giddy.

"Can I call you Kazushi?" He'd blurted out one day. He didn't know why he did it, but it just felt right somehow.

Hasegawa said nothing for a moment, only looked over at his friend in surprise. "Sure," he answered. Fujima allowed himself a small smile, oblivious to the fact that Hasegawa hadn't asked if he could call him Kenji.

Other times, they'd leave earlier than usual to go to the nearby convenience store. Fujima would offer to buy drinks for them, Hasegawa would insist on paying, and Fujima would firmly decline, saying it was a well-deserved reward for all his hard work at practice. And it was, but it was also a great excuse for scoping out what drinks and snacks Hasegawa liked (chilled red bean yokan and hot green tea, after Fujima had discovered after much trial and error and a bit of vague prodding. Chilling the yokan was a bit difficult, but if he buried one in the ice cream freezers and wandered around the shop for a bit, it could be achieved).

But of course, Hasegawa wasn't going to stand for having his things paid for all the time, and so he would retaliate with his own purchases. One night, as Fujima was still deciding what to buy for himself, he was surprised by the sudden sensation of something warm touching his cheek and let out a small yelp, only to whirl around and find that it was Hasegawa with a steaming paper cup of corn soup in his hand.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he apologized.

Agh. So the yelp didn't go by unnoticed. But it probably would've been more awkward for him to have not said anything.

"It's okay," Fujima said, trying to hide his embarrassment. At least Hasegawa didn't seem to have picked up on that.

"I thought you might need something a bit more…substantial after today," Hasegawa continued. "I bought some croutons so you can put them in as well. Thought you'd like that."

Fujima looked at the small bag of croutons, at the corn soup, and beamed.

"Yeah… I would like that."

-

The night was dark and the stars above were veiled by thick, grey clouds, but they serendipitously held off on the rain so Fujima and Hasegawa could pause outside the store with their purchases. Fujima crunched away happily on the croutons in his soup as he watched Hasegawa uncap his bottle of tea, enjoying their shared silence.

Hasegawa didn't have the most distinctive face and certainly didn't garner as much attention as the other more handsome members of the Shoyo Basketball Team, but there was a certain quality to his unassuming nature that Fujima found quite endearing. And now that he was starting to verbally hit back at their opponents more, his usual quiet self only served to highlight just how much more confident he had grown. The first time Hasegawa shouted at his mark, "See if you can block this, you hack!" Fujima burst into laughter right then and there from the benches.

He continued to watch Hasegawa, who was now struggling with the wrapper of his yokan. He pulled at the plastic fruitlessly, his brows slowly furrowing.

Fujima chuckled. "Here, I'll get that for you," he said, and took the small block of jelly from his friend's hand. Hasegawa muttered a soft "Thanks" and followed his snack with what Fujima could only describe as lost puppy-dog eyes.

Geez, he's too good at being cute when he's not even trying, Fujima thought to himself as he took a pair of scissors from his bag and cut the wrapper in one swift snip.

"Sorry you always end up doing that for me," Hasegawa said.

"You can always just ask me for help, you know. It'll go warm if you hold it for too long," Fujima replied, returning to his soup.

"I know, but I always think that I'll get it open myself this time, you know?"

Fujima chuckled again. "You're so stubborn. But that's what's so good about you." He smiled. "That's what's made you improve so much in basketball."

Hasegawa said nothing and bit into his yokan.

"Or is it because I'm just such a good coach?" Fujima teased as casually as he could, trying to act nonchalant about it.

"Well…" Hasegawa started.

Fujima paused, his soup raised halfway.

"Yeah. You are a good coach. A really good one."

Fujima bit his lip and kicked at the concrete below with his sole, trying to hold his smile back. If he didn't, he feared he wouldn't be able to stop grinning forever. I'm a good coach! Me! He thought. Of course, he already knew that, and the younger members of the team would often talk about how they wished they had his guidance during middle school… But to hear those specific words, especially from Kazushi himself, was quite different. Elated wouldn't even begin to describe how he felt.

"Well, I'm only half of it," he said. "You deserve credit for being such a diligent and keen player."

"Oh… Thanks," Hasegawa said and started to fiddle with his bottle of tea.

And stopped. And looked right at Fujima.

"I'm really lucky to have someone like you supporting me," he began. "I really would not have come this far without you."

Fujima's eyes widened, and his breath skidded to a halt. Was this really happening? Stay calm, Kenji. Just stay calm! But his mind was racing a hundred miles a minute. He'd never been prepared for this kind of thing! Was this how all of his fans felt before they approached him?! A newfound sense of sympathy and appreciation for them dawned on him and he tried to relax his clenched jaw before it set that way forever.

"I, um… I'm just glad I could help," he managed to coax out. He had to say something. He couldn't bear to just wait for what was next in silence.

Hasegawa turned back to his tea, scratching the ridges of the cap absentmindedly. "You know, back when I was in middle school, there was this one guy I couldn't get past no matter how hard I tried. And I…I hated that. I hated feeling so powerless. But he was a really good player. The best I'd ever seen."

He sighed. "I couldn't stop thinking about that game, even weeks after it had ended. As much as I hated losing, I really had to hand it to him. It made me think, maybe one day I could be as good as him. Or even better. I swore that the next time we faced off against each other in high school, I'd settle the score and beat him. And now, because of you, I don't feel so powerless anymore. So…thanks," he smiled.

Fujima's heart lurched. Something about being thanked like this made his world spin into a sickening vertigo, and he wanted nothing more than to stand up and leave. No, if he took even one step away, he would probably crumble to a thousand pieces. Any other time, he'd be overjoyed to see Hasegawa smiling so genuinely at him, but now, it was like a bullet through the heart. He couldn't bear to hear Hasegawa talk about some other guy with so much passion simmering beneath the surface. Some guy that he'd only met once and yet hung onto all these years, at that. How had he never mentioned this opponent before? Fujima couldn't make even an ounce of sense from it. Hasegawa's gratitude was his spider's thread being lowered into his Hell, just past the reaches of his fingertips. But Fujima knew that even if he could grab on, he'd immediately want to declare it his and go tumbling back down into the abyss anyway.

Surely this was just a good, old-fashioned rivalry? Right? He prayed.

"But I…think he quit basketball or something. But he'll be back, right? No way someone who was that invested could just leave forever. He'd better be back." Hasegawa's voice was hopeful, almost pleading.

And suddenly, those eyes didn't seem so lost anymore. There was a fire that Fujima had never seen before, and he felt like he was being burnt alive by it. He tried to desperately convince himself that he was just overthinking things, but there was no way he could deny to himself the intensity he was seeing. As the seconds ticked by, it sank in deeper that there was a lot more going on than just competition. No, it was clear to him that whatever had happened during that game in middle school, Hasegawa felt his potential being thrust out onto the court – it was the very same feeling that coursed through Fujima whenever they had their solo sessions, so he knew that was what it had to be.

Quickly, he started to feel stupid for ever thinking that Hasegawa was able to push himself so hard because he felt anything for Fujima, that their chemistry could have been part of what drove such tenacity. He gritted his teeth. How could this…this guy just come out of nowhere like this? And who even was he? Fujima opened his mouth to ask, but shut it quickly. There was no way he could bring himself to ask for this stranger's name, because he knew that deep down, he wouldn't have a chance against him anyway. And he never did. He'd already lost the game, long before it began, and there was no coaching his way out of this.

"Um… Sorry," Hasegawa said. "That just…sort of came out."

"No, it's…fine. You're good," Fujima said, though the lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

When the test period hit, they put their one-on-one sessions on hold, but after it ended, their get-togethers just…never went back to the way they were before. And, well, Hasegawa was now at a level where he didn't need so many solo practice sessions, and with the Inter-High looming in the distance, Fujima had to start holding longer group practices. He enjoyed everyone's company immensely as they were all good friends, and he thought having them all together could serve as a good distraction.

And for a while, it worked. But just as Fujima was ready to dismiss his feelings as a fleeting crush, news of Mitsui Hisashi resurfacing as a member of the Shohoku Basketball Team made the jealousy he thought he had long buried swell like a spew of lava. They were all in the gym when the news hit – one of the first-years had heard from a friend of a friend that Mitsui was back, and while everyone was excitedly discussing what the middle school MVP's reappearance could mean for the Inter-High tournament, Fujima turned to speak with his fellow third-years.

It was then that he caught sight of Hasegawa's face – the fire he had seen that one night was back.

His heart crashed. Seeing it light up again after all this time hurt more than it did the first time, doubly so now that he had a name to put to the blank figure in his mind. There was no doubt about it – the player that had bested Hasegawa was Mitsui Hisashi, back when he was in Takeishi. And Hasegawa had held onto him all this time. Even when Fujima was right there for him.

He felt the lava inside of him spilling over, burning any calm he had left to ashes. Of course, he couldn't let it show on the outside, but later, he could tell that his teammates sensed that something wasn't right. He went home alone that day immediately after practice without so much as a final word to anyone.

He resented Mitsui. But most of all, in his darkest depths, he resented Hasegawa. Did all their time together mean nothing to him? What of all those moments they had spent alone in the gym, at the store, on the way home at night? How could he just…let all of it go to waste for some…some middle school memory of a guy who probably doesn't even remember him?

As soon as those thoughts had come pouring out, Fujima stopped. He wasn't being fair. But why did he have to be fair? He didn't want to be fair. Not when he had been shattered like this. But even with his bitterness spiraling like a thick bramble growing out of control, he couldn't help but return to what had drawn him to Hasegawa in the first place. The can-do mentality that pulled him through times when many others would have given up. The courage to put all his shortcomings on display if it meant that he could improve. The way he listened intently and made Fujima feel like he was the most important person in the world, and the gentle consideration he showed when Fujima was feeling haggard from running such a big team. And the brash attitude that would emerge when their opponent deserved a bit of shit-talking. When Fujima thought about these things, his resentment dissolved like smoke in the breeze. Maybe Hasegawa wasa stupid idiot, but…he was also the most wonderful person Fujima had the honour of knowing. And he couldn't bear to let himself let go of his…his…

He sighed. It was such a heavy word, and it stung to think about now, but it was how he really and truly felt.

His love.

"Kenji? Are you okay in there?" A voice called. It was his mother, and he was immediately pulled out of his thoughts. He'd been staring so deeply into the mirror that he'd started to forget where he was or what he was doing.

That's right. It was the morning of another school day. Another normal day of going to class and seeing everyone on the team.

And Kazushi.

"Yeah, Ma, I'm fine," he called back. "Just…thinking about stuff."

"All right, but don't take too long or your breakfast's going to go cold," she said.

He leaned away from the sink and straightened his tie. You know what? Fine. If you won't look at me with the same kind of fire you give to Mitsui, then I'm just going to have to make you.

He gave his jacket a final brush and stepped out of the bathroom.

It's on. - im not really expecting anyone but like one person to read this but thank you if you made it this far no matter where you are in time. btw if you didnt know this is what yokan is its thicker than regular jelly in consistency and its basically a sweet gelatinous block that can come in different flavours but mostly comes in red bean or matcha. its good try it if you get the chance