Star
by Trinity Helix





Atobe is eleven years old.

He is a tennis star and everyone loves him; the talk of his age bracket and a prodigy to boot. His father is a busy man, too busy to come to any of his matches, but he tells Atobe that tennis is a gentleman’s game and that he is proud of him.

Atobe likes to make his father proud.

He swings his racquet a little and winks at some of the girls in the stands. They giggle and wave shyly.

“Glory hound,” mutters Shishido, a boy his own age whom Atobe has just beaten.

Atobe makes a face and is about to say something, but someone bumps into him from behind and distracts him. He spins around, glaring, and comes face to face with a stern-looking boy with fierce eyes.

They look at each other for a long time, and the other boy nods slightly. “Sumimasen,” he says, and walks away.

Atobe blinks and says: “Wait!”

But the other boy doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care, and he continues along down the path. Atobe clenches a fist; nobody ignores Atobe Keigo.

He’s a star.

“I’m going to beat you,” he promises. “I’m going to beat you good.”

But he and the other boy don’t meet in that tournament, though Atobe makes sure he finds out who he is. “Te-zu-ka,” he says to himself, looking for his final ranking.

Atobe had only made it to fifth himself, and there, two places above his name, was one Tezuka Kunimitsu.

“I’m going to beat you good,” he says again. He nods after he says this, satisfied. Once he puts his mind to something, nothing can stop him.

He is, after all, a star.



***


Atobe is fourteen years old.

He is on a tennis court and breathing hard, squared off against the captain of Seigaku. One more point, he thinks, one more god damned point. Sweat blurs his vision and he dives for Tezuka’s last return, misses and hits the ground hard.

“Deuce!”

Atobe’s lip curls into a snarl, heart pounding in his chest. His entire team has fallen silent; not even the lower classmen are cheering.

The quiet is almost deafening.

He meets Tezuka’s eyes across an almost eternal stretch of court, glaring. The other boy simply stares. Atobe decides that he hates him then, desperately and to the exclusion of all else.

He had made a promise to himself all those years ago, hadn’t he?

I’m going to beat you good.

It was a mark on his pride that he’d never managed to go up against the other boy, an eternal reminder that he wasn’t the best yet. He may indeed have been a star, but he wasn’t the brightest one.

Atobe’s lip curls in distaste.

Across the court, Tezuka’s arm drops just a little, his fingers spasming against his grip. Atobe sees it, (of course he sees it), and he feels a little of himself clench, just a little.

Tezuka serves then, Atobe falling into his zone from the first shot on, and he barely manages to return it, much less field it to where it’s supposed to go.

“Drop shot,” his insight tells him, and he realizes that he’s lost.

He stands there for a moment, numb, unable to grasp what’s happening.
He has lost, except he hasn’t, and Hyotei’s screams are deafening.

The drop shot rolls slightly, and Atobe realizes with a start that it’s in Tezuka’s court. The net, he thinks. It hit the net.

He stares at the ball in shock for a full minute, head whipping up to look at Tezuka’s reaction. Atobe isn’t surprised to find that he isn’t even looking at him.

The other boy’s face is turned towards the sun, sweat dripping down the sides of his face and onto the court. He is holding his racket loosely now, eyes closed.

Atobe thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

His stomach clenches again when they shake hands over the net, and he realizes that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t really hate at all. Tezuka’s eyes glint; Atobe raises their clasped hands.

Everyone cheers.

No, Atobe thinks, watching Tezuka as he walks back to his corner.

Perhaps it isn’t hate at all.



***


Atobe is sixteen years old.

He’s standing in the corner of a large and rather opulent ballroom, silently fuming. His father has launched a new company today, and while he usually loves such grandiose celebrations Atobe finds that he’s lost the mood for it.

He glares at the young women who try to approach him, ignoring the other boys who try to make conversation. His father is holding court at the head of the room and normally he would be following suit at the opposite end. Atobe, after all, loves to be the center of attention.

His father catches his eye and frowns slightly, but Atobe pretends not to have seen him. He is sullen today, moody and resentful of the entire world. He spots Oshitari making eyes at a young woman across the room,
Shishido glaring at the people on the dance floor. Most of his friends are here at his request, but they know wisely when to stay away.

Atobe’s favorite shampoo had run out this morning, and his ire had later made him careless. He had accidentally broken his favorite ivory cufflinks as he was getting dressed, and looking for another pair had made him late. Of course, this meant his father had had some choice words to say to him as soon as he’d arrived, and having to sit through yet another lecture had been more than enough to put Atobe in a terrible mood.

He and his father were already not on the best of terms; their differing plans for Atobe’s future always put them at odds. Tennis, Atobe thinks, is more than a game. It’s a lifetsyle.

He sniffs lightly, delicately, hiding a pout behind his wine glass.

“It’s so difficult to be me,” he says, sighing with the air of one with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

A low chuckle wafts towards him, and Atobe raises a brow. Few people would be ill-informed enough to not recognize him, and at his father’s party no less.

He spins around, his customary smirk firmly in place, and promptly takes a step back. “Tezuka!” Atobe exclaims, surprise usurping his arrogance. “What are you doing here?”

And Tezuka shakes his head ruefully. “Atobe, do you even know what company your father just put up?”

Atobe frowns a little, tapping a hand to his cheek. “A research facility,” he says, waving a hand vaguely. “That hardly explains why you’re here-- you're far too young to be one of his scientists.”

“Hn,” Tezuka says. “My father is one of the project coordinators.”

He nods a little to a handsome man deep in conversation with a group of academics. His eyes are stern but very bright, and Atobe smirks. “It’s easy to see who you took after,” he says, because the woman waiting for the elder Tezuka is pliant and sweet, sitting calmly beside him.

“A compliment, I’m sure,” Tezuka says somewhat stiffly. “And you? I’m surprised to see you away from the crowds.”

Atobe sniffs. “I’m perfectly capable of functioning without them,” he replies. “Though I do confess-- I tire of these gatherings, sometimes. As I said, it is difficult to be me.”

Tezuka’s gaze is thoughtful, assessing. “No siblings to share the burden?” he asks.

“No other sons or daughters,” he says. “Not that anyone else can compare to me, of course, but I’m sure you understand my sentiments.”

He looks at his father again, tall and proud in the center of the room. “I want to play tennis,” he says.

And Tezuka nods; Atobe is surprised to find that they’re agreeing on something.

He thinks: He understands me.

The thought, when it occurs to him, pleases him. He looks at Tezuka, cocking his head slightly as he does so, and smiles.

A plan has begun to formulate in his mind and, because he is a star, there is no chance at all that it won’t work.

“Be awed by my prowess,” he says and smiles.



***



Atobe is eighteen years old.

He is sweating even with the air conditioner turned to full, his legs stretched out in front of him. He is sitting on Tezuka’s couch.

“Come here,” he says to the other boy, who is sitting at his desk.

Tezuka is engrossed in his homework and does not answer; his shirt is off and Atobe can see every muscled line on his back. Atobe doesn’t like to be ignored, but today he decides that he can forgive him for that.

He sighs and sits up a little, enough to pull his shirt above his head, tossing it at Tezuka’s head. Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on who you ask), he misses and hits the back of Tezuka’s chair instead.

The other boy doesn’t even blink.

Atobe frowns; this time he is annoyed. He looks down at his lean, muscled chest, looks at the fine lines of his abdomen. He is perfect and he knows it.

He fans a hand against his chest and makes a face; he doesn’t like to sweat. “Your air conditioner,” he informs Tezuka coolly. “Is broken.”

“Hn,” Tezuka replies.

That’s it.

That’s all.

Atobe is on his couch with his shirt off and all Tezuka can offer is ‘Hn’? He gets up somewhat indignantly, stripping his khakis off as he walks to Tezuka’s side.

“I’m perfect,” he says, crossing his arms against his chest. “Look at me.”

And coming from anyone else, standing stark naked in the middle of a tiny student dorm room, this would be ludicrous. Atobe, however, has had practice making the ludicrous sound cool, (and, in some cases, even more than cool. Sensual, even.)

Tezuka drops his pen when he finally glances up, shaking his head.
“…You have no shame,” he says.

“Of course not,” Atobe says. “Shame is for people who are less than perfect. And I--”

“Am a star,” Tezuka finishes along with him. He shakes his head and takes off his glasses, putting them neatly on his desk.

“You’re not going to leave me alone until you get what you want, are you?” he asks, and Atobe only smiles, Cheshire-like.

He kisses Tezuka thoroughly, putting his hands in his hair and his tongue in his mouth. The other boy tries to lead them to the futon, away from his desk and his work, but Atobe only smirks.

“No,” he says, dipping his hands inside the waistband of Tezuka’s jeans. “Here.”

Tezuka is a strong boy, disciplined and stoic and good. He has worked hard to get into this university and is working harder still to maintain the top marks in his class. He would never compromise his work, never do anything to jeopardize his future.

Which is why, five minutes later, even he is surprised that his research notes and all of his books are on the floor. Atobe is fucking him, holding him, pushing him into his desk, and for once Tezuka doesn’t care. There will be hell to pay later, and Tezuka grimly suspects that he knows who’ll be putting his work back together.

But for now, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting the other boy lap at the hollow of his throat. There is a tiny gold cross hanging there and Atobe loves it, loves the tang of metal against his tongue. It is, perhaps, the only reason Tezuka still wears it.

They lose themselves in each other’s flesh, coherence and thought but a distant memory. There is no sound in the room except for their panting breaths, the creak of the desk shaking under Tezuka’s weight, and the hum of the air conditioner that doesn’t work.

They come, one after the other, some minutes later.

Atobe leans forward to rest his forehead against Tezuka’s afterwards, lapping at the side of his mouth like a lazy cat. Tezuka accepts the kiss and returns it, blinking slightly.

“…you broke my glasses,” he says, looking down at the floor.

Atobe chuckles softly. “I’ll buy you a new pair,” he says. “I’ll buy you twenty.”

“I don’t need twenty,” Tezuka says, annoyance creeping into his voice. “And I have to submit that paper tomorrow.”

Atobe backs away from the other boy, making a show of glancing at clock. “Oh, is that the time?” he says. “I think I have to--”

“Keigo.”

And Atobe sighs. “Fine. I’ll help.”

Tezuka pushes away from the desk, wincing slightly as he bends down to pick up his clothes. “You are, you know,” he says.

Atobe is pulling on a pair of Tezuka’s shorts, making a face at the air conditioner. He is distracted.

“What?”

And Tezuka smiles to himself, turning his back to Atobe so he can’t see his face. “A star.”



***



Atobe is twenty-three years old.

He is standing in front of his apartment with red, red roses clenched in his fist. The thorns are digging into the palms of his hands and he almost contemplates bringing them in with him, but then realizes it will just make things worse.

He throws them into the trashcan before he goes into the bedroom, and
Tezuka is sitting there, waiting. Silent, impassive.

Atobe speaks first because he knows Tezuka won’t, and the words he says are: “I need to go home.”

Tezuka hits him. He stands from his chair in one fluid motion and moves to Atobe, pushing him against the wall and hits him, hard across the mouth. Blood wells and Atobe is almost tempted to spit it out, except
he wipes it away with the back of his hand instead.

He stands there and takes it, however, and is willing to take more but
Tezuka drops his hands.

There really isn’t anything to say, not now, because love is love and life is life.

For the first time in his life, Atobe no longer feels like a star.
Without Tezuka, his light has dimmed.

So Atobe says: “I know,” and then he moves forward and kisses his lover goodbye.



***



Atobe is twenty-five years old.

He is sitting in an expensive restaurant with a newspaper laid out in front of him, calmly reading the business section. He is no longer confused about what he wants to do with his life; he has accepted the role his father has left for him.

He sips tea from a cylindrical brown cup, absently blowing away the steam that rises. The heat reddens his cheeks and stains his lips; he hears a distant crash in the kitchen. Atobe has gotten used to it by now; he ignores the disturbance.

“Atobe.”

There’s a voice that is rich and smooth behind him, commanding and yet gentle at the same time. Atobe feels his heart clench, just a little, but he doesn’t turn around.

He thinks it would make it a little bit more real, if he did, this strange waking dream of his. Because it is only in his dreams that he sees Tezuka now, the one person who had made him truly happy.

Tezuka takes a seat opposite him without asking, calmly sliding into the chair. Atobe peers at him over his paper, his sharp violet eyes glittering slightly.

Tezuka, he thinks critically, looks very much the same. He is wearing a white polo shirt and khaki pants; his glasses are gone. Atobe thinks the look suits him very well.

“You’re a pro, now?” he asks, and Tezuka shrugs.

“I’m going to Wimbledon.”

“Aa,” says Atobe, and he is proud that his voice isn’t shaking at all.
“You’ll have to write me sometime. To tell me what it’s like.”

And Tezuka shakes his head. “Come with me,” he says, pauses. “To watch.”

Atobe blinks. There are a million things that clamor for his attention,
a million minute details that he needs to oversee.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All right.”



***



Atobe is twenty-eight years old.

He watches the sunset go down from his condominium, (penthouse, of course), and the view is spectacular. Tezuka is sitting on the couch (their couch), absent-mindedly going over his current protégé’s ranking.

He has retired by now, respectable with two international titles under his belt, and coaches, ironically enough, for Hyotei.

Atobe presses his hand against the sun behind the glass, watches it go down the rest of the way. Sometimes he thinks he might actually be able to catch it, ensconced as he is in the second highest building in Tokyo.

He looks at Tezuka, quietly, silently, over his shoulder. There are faint streaks of red left in the sky; the last vestige of day.

Atobe smiles and moves to stand in front of Tezuka, calmly pushing him back against the couch.

“Keigo?” Tezuka asks quizzically, staring up at Atobe with frank, open eyes.

“Nothing,” Atobe says, leaning down to kiss him. “Nothing at all.”

Perhaps he cannot reach the sun, but the warmth of it, he knows, will never leave him.

He is, after all, just as he has always been, a star.


FIN