#sanatezu

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.