Well, wasn’t this just a fine thing?

When Atobe Keigo wanted to get away from the duties and expectations of his game, his team, his opponents, he had a particular place to go. An isolated little bite out of the lakeshore where none of those things would follow. And now he saw all of them reflected at him in Tezuka Kunimitsu’s eyes. If the fishing paraphernalia spread out comfortably around this slightly overgrown grove was any indication, his best rival already had the place staked out for a long day. He had excellent taste, if execrable timing. Keigo took a few deep breaths; he would not, he told himself strenuously, scream with frustration. No matter how cathartic it might be just now. He had an image to maintain, even if Tezuka didn’t usually believe it.

Tezuka’s startled gaze fell on Keigo’s equipment and sharpened. He tipped his head to one side.

“Do you come here to fish, too?”

Keigo raised a brow. Too? Come to think of it, he had seen plenty of signs that someone else liked to fish at this place. He hadn’t thought much about it, except to be pleased that their schedules never seemed to overlap. He certainly hadn’t imagined that his unofficial timeshare partner might be Tezuka.

“Yes,” he answered at last, gathering himself to go look for another spot as graciously as possible. It took a fair degree of gathering, and Tezuka beat him to the punch.

“There’s room for both of us, if you don’t mind,” he offered, quietly.

Keigo accepted, stifling his surprise. It occurred to him, as Tezuka gathered his things to one side, that he’d definitely been out-gracious-ed, but he let it slide in the interest of peaceful fishing. Tezuka didn’t seem like the sort to practice competitive graciousness, in any case.

In fact, the edge of competition was completely lacking in Tezuka’s manner today. The absence was a bit jarring, Keigo mused as he laid out his things. He and Tezuka rarely encountered each other except on the court, and their personal competition was everything, there. Keigo loved it. Tennis was almost always entertaining, of course, but with Tezuka… Tezuka’s intensity washed away all the extraneous bits that usually occupied Keigo’s attention. The crowd, the future, the presentation, they all faded, and nothing mattered but the moment and the ball drawing lines in the air between them.

They’d learned, over the last few years, to bring seconds along, even for their unofficial matches. Once they were absorbed in the game only exceptional intervention, such as, say, a car crashing into the court, would induce either one to back down before the final score was decided. It wasn’t uncommon for them to leave so exhausted neither of them could walk a straight line without help.

This present still calm was , ironically, not helping his peace of mind, Keigo reflected as he cast his line out.

And how was Tezuka taking it? A sidelong glance showed him focused on the water as if it were a meditation garden. Keigo decided to take the opportunity to indulge his curiosity, and looked closer.

Tezuka’s stillness was nothing new. The quality of stillness wrapped around him even in the middle of a hard game; it was one of the things that often intimidated his opponents. It was a good tactic, and Keigo smirked every time he saw it used on someone else. There was something, though. Something in the line of his shoulders, and the set of his hands.

After a long moment it finally came to Keigo. Tezuka was relaxed.

Not the waiting whipsnap that fatally deceived so many on the court, but really relaxed. Keigo was not much given to introspection, at least not when he could help it, but one particular conclusion hit him hard enough to knock his breath out.

Keigo came here to find a little stability, a restful, solid time when he didn’t have to worry about balancing the needs and quirks of his team against the ruthless demands of their coach. Here, he didn’t have to deal with the annoyance of some uppity little hotshot after his position. He didn’t have to listen to his father casually mentioning the statistics on how many youthful tennis stars completely failed as professionals, and thank God for Grandfather, that was all Keigo had to say. He didn’t have to be arrogant enough to prop up the egos of two hundred odd mediocre players. He could be quiet. He could be lackadaisical. He could be abrasive or not, as he pleased. He could, in short, relax.

Tezuka clearly came here for pretty much all the reasons that Keigo himself did. It was an insight he really felt he could have done without. Not least because it immediately presented the question of whether the flash of understanding was mutual.

“There’s no audience here, Atobe, you don’t have to stay in character just to play to me.” Tezuka’s voice held a hint of impatience, as he glanced over, and Keigo realized abruptly how much he’d focused on Tezuka for the past few minutes. Of course he’d noticed.

And, Keigo supposed, that answered that question. He turned his attention to his line. He wasn’t sure today would be a relaxed day for him, but at least he was distracted from his regular problems.

Five minutes later he was studying Tezuka again. Fish were less demanding, but they weren’t as interesting.

He had known already that Tezuka used his reserve to conceal his intensity. It now appeared that he also concealed a certain… softness? tolerance? Keigo sighed to himself, because now his curiosity was engaged. And, after his pride, curiosity was probably his second strongest driving force. Well, if he was going to indulge it, he might was well do so with flair. What would be a good approach to stir up some revelations? Hm…

“Do you ever wish you had chosen a different front?” he asked. Tezuka eyed him, and he decided to prod a little harder. “Not that it isn’t an effective one, the stone silence does emphasize your command presence nicely, but don’t you ever get tired of it? Face get stiff?”

One of these days, Keigo told himself as Tezuka’s brows rose, it would probably be a good idea to restrain his sense of humor. It had gotten him in trouble before. In fact, it was the source of most of his bad reputation, including the part that held he couldn’t possibly have a sense of humor because one person couldn’t fit that and his ego too.

Tezuka was not, however, looking offended. He looked, insofar as Keigo could decipher his typically minimalist expression, thoughtful.

“Do you?” he bounced the question back. Keigo read a certain censure in the sharpness of his voice, and snorted.

“If you had as many people to deal with as I do, you would have chosen a front that afforded you some amusement into the bargain, too,” he declared.

“It amuses you to annoy people?” Tezuka inferred.

Keigo smiled. “Infinitely.”

“It amuses you to toy with people?”

“Provided they’re worth toying with,” Keigo specified, leaning back on his elbows. Tezuka reeled his line back in.

“If you want an honest answer to your question, Atobe, give me an honest answer to mine.”

“That was honest, Tezuka. I enjoy frustrating people who don’t realize that I am toying with them. If that fact itself also amuses me, that doesn’t make it any less true.” He tipped his head back to look up through the leaves. “You must know what it’s like. To be the best without a regular challenge. What’s worthwhile then?” Tezuka was silent for a minute before he spoke, in a meditative tone.

“There are times you remind me of Fuji.”

Keigo sat up rather quickly at that.

“I beg your pardon! I remind you of that little blond sociopath of yours? I have never been that unstable!” He glared at his companion.

“Indeed,” Tezuka noted, a bit too neutrally for Keigo’s taste, as he made a new cast.

Keigo slouched back and made a mental note that a relaxed Tezuka, while not significantly more emotive, was a good deal more outspoken.

“I am content with my own choice,” Tezuka stated after a few minutes of silence. It took Keigo a moment to remember the question that this was an answer to. But, then, it was only what he would expect out of Tezuka’s particular inflexible integrity, that he would keep his end of even a forgotten agreement.

“Always?” Keigo wanted to know. Contemplative silence reigned again for a while before Tezuka replied.

“Like your choice, mine has results that please me. Those I don’t wish to deal with don’t bother me. My team obeys me.” Keigo smirked over that last, while Tezuka paused again. “Like you, I don’t like the pressures that originally made me learn these habits. But, like you, I chose something that would let me stand against those pressures. Those expectations. Those denials.”

Keigo had to fight a sudden urge to back away, quickly, from that deep, even voice saying such unexpected, personal, accurate things. A corner of his mind observed that it was no wonder his opponents on the court looked so alarmed when he did this kind of thing himself.

“I don’t recall saying any of that,” he observed in his best languid drawl. The look Tezuka turned on him was not at all relaxed; it reminded him, with unpleasant abruptness, of how Tezuka looked when he played.

“Why do you come here, Atobe?” Tezuka asked. The change in direction gave Keigo a moment of mental whiplash, but he understood what Tezuka was asking. And he was ruefully aware that he’d been asking for this when he decided to prod Tezuka. The real question, now, was whether he wanted to afford his rival, of all people, the kind of frankness that he had previously reserved for such undemanding recipients as the fish.

On the other hand, hadn’t he done that already? What else were their matches, if not utterly brutal honesty written out in every movement? Brutality, in fact, had been their point of contact from the beginning. It was pleasant to have a couple constants in one’s life. And, reputation to the contrary, Keigo had never been one to hand out anything he couldn’t take.

“I come here to trap slippery creatures, reel them in, and then decide whether I want to kill them or not,” he said, making another cast.

A sharp glint of appreciation lit Tezuka’s eye for a moment.

“And you,” Keigo suggested, “come here because the fish understand your sense of humor better than your friends.”

Tezuka picked up one of the sharp, barbed hooks from his tackle box and held it up so that it glinted in the sun.

“Perhaps.”

Several casts later, Keigo remembered something he’d been wanting to ask since he got here. “Why are you here today, Tezuka? You’ve never come on Thursdays before.”

“That’s how my schedule worked out, this spring,” Tezuka shrugged slightly and tilted a brow. “Yours?”

“Likewise.” They both contemplated this fact in silence. “Ah, well. It will add a touch of interest to the conclusion of high school.”

“To say the least,” Tezuka murmured, and set his hook in a hapless fish with a flick of his wrist.

TBC

A/N: I do know that fly-fishing, which is what Tezuka’s hobby, at least, is listed as, is not a sitting still on the shore sort of affair. Since I wanted to boys to talk, though, I took a bit of artistic license.

Kunimitsu had started approaching his favorite fishing spot a little warily since his schedule and Atobe’s had fallen into synch this spring. Today, however, his caution appeared unnecessary. Atobe was not waiting, with his usual edgy words and mocking smile only slightly blunted by the peace of water and silence.

Instead, he was sprawled out with one arm thrown over his eyes, looking rather rumpled. He hadn’t even set his line yet.

At the rustle of Kunimitsu setting up, he raised his arm for a moment and muttered something that might have been a greeting. Kunimitsu considered his companion as he sorted through his hooks. Atobe was a showman, even when he was relaxing. If he was showing exhaustion, he probably wanted to be asked about it.

“Are the fish particularly tiring today?”

“The fish are the very souls of courtesy,” Atobe informed him. “They’re waiting for me to recover before taking up negotiations.”

“Ah.” Kunimitsu waited, curious to see whether Atobe’s obvious desire to talk about it would win over his habit of misdirection.

“I think some of my team may fail to graduate this year,” Atobe mused. “I’m going to kill them first. Mukahi decided today was the perfect day to provoke Shishido, and told him it was a good thing he was so persistent, as it almost made up for his lack of talent. To which, predictably, Shishido replied that that was better than having a useless talent and no staying power, and becoming a drag on his partner. Which, of course, made Mukahi angry enough to resort to fists over words. You’ve never seen such a catfight.” Atobe ran a hand through his hair. “And that got their partners into it, and thank God both Oshitari and Ohtori have level heads and managed to pull those two apart. Except I’m reconsidering whether Oshitari can really be said to have a level head any more, because he decided the best way to shut Mukahi up would be to kiss him. Not that those two are anything but an open secret, but there’s such a thing as style, not to mention discretion, and I’m just thankful Hiyoshi had the good sense to chase off most of their audience before that.” Atobe sat up at last and reached for his water.

Kunimitsu found himself having to stifle a chuckle at the indignant tirade. The expressive flex and swoop of Atobe’s voice, when he was in full swing, was as good as anyone else’s extravagant gesticulation.

“Did you ever consider theatre as a hobby?” he inquired. Atobe shot him a sidelong look for the apparent non sequitur.

“Not really.”

“You would have been quite good at it, I think,” Kunimitsu told him, blandly. “Aristophanes would suit you. The Thesmophoriazusae, perhaps.”

Atobe choked, and snorted water out his nose.

If Kunimitsu were honest about it he would have to admit that Atobe wasn’t the only one who liked provoking people now and then. It was merely that Kunimitsu restrained himself, while Atobe made an art of flamboyant unrestraint. This place was where they relaxed, though, and perhaps they met in the middle, Atobe less artful and Kunimitsu less restrained.

“Your timing is as good as your humor is terrible,” Atobe rasped, recovering. Kunimitsu let a faint smile show. He didn’t think he had to say out loud that Atobe had no room to complain.

“Your team has stayed remarkably cohesive over the years,” he observed instead. Atobe waved a dismissive hand.

“It’s the doubles pairs that have been stable. Neither of them could be pried apart with a crowbar. Shishido wasn’t a Regular again until Ohtori caught up. Though I doubt Oshitari and Mukahi will continue with tennis after this year. They’re the second rank doubles team, again, and I doubt they can improve much more. At least,” he added, lip curling, “not unless Mukahi gets it though his head that contempt for his opponents won’t automatically let him win.”

“A very bad habit,” Kunimitsu agreed.

Atobe glared at him. He was very easily provoked today, Kunimitsu noted. And, apparently, more out of sorts than was immediately evident, because he declined to rise to the bait.

“In any case, I could say the same of your team. You have that mouthy little brat of yours back again, don’t you?”

“Of course.” And Arai had been deeply irate to be ousted from the Regulars by Echizen’s arrival, despite, or possibly because of, everyone else’s sure knowledge that it would happen. Tezuka shook his head. “Though you could say he never really left. He’s been practicing with us right along.”

Atobe slanted a look at him. “Ah? I wouldn’t have thought you’d bend the rules like that. Some favoritism creeping in, Tezuka?”

“It was in everyone’s free time,” Kunimitsu returned, serenely. Atobe really was off his stride today.

It wasn’t until Atobe jerked his line too hard and lost a fish that Kunimitsu thought it might be something serious. Lack of control was not normally one of Atobe’s problems, even when he was angry. Now, though, he saw a very fine trembling in Atobe’s hands, the kind that might translate into a series of bruising smashes if he had held a racquet instead of a fishing pole. He waited, patiently, for whatever was wrong to emerge.

“What are you planning to do when you graduate?” Atobe asked, at last.

“To play professionally.” Caution made Kunimitsu’s voice expressionless. Where was this going?

“Ah. Has anyone ever told you the odds of good junior players succeeding professionally?” Atobe’s voice was almost as even as his own, but the expression that accompanied it was a subtle snarl.

“No,” Kunimitsu answered quietly. The snarl was becoming less subtle, and Kunimitsu found himself a little concerned what might happen if Atobe gave his rage free rein outside of the court. He considered the problem.

He had observed Atobe interacting with his coach a few times. It was clear they respected each other, and he had thought at the time that Atobe must not be very familiar with support if he responded so warmly to such a cold trainer. He had an increasingly firm idea that someone in Atobe’s family was the source of the frustration and anger that seemed to drive Atobe’s game.

So…

“There’s supposed to be something more important. Something of higher worth,” he stated, cool and certain. Atobe stilled. “But it isn’t the same, and it isn’t enough.”

“Business,” Atobe nearly spit the word.

“Kendo,” Kunimitsu offered in return.

“They don’t understand what it’s like,” Atobe said, low and soft, staring over the water.

Kunimitsu thought about his brat , as Atobe named Echizen. He remembered the morning Momoshiro had come to practice, after finally prying the initial source of Echizen’s tennis obsession out of the boy, and proceeded to hit balls through the fence until Ryuuzaki-sensei had yelled at him.

“That may be for the best, in the end,” he pointed out. Atobe looked at him as if Kunimitsu had suggested he dye his hair orange, and he couldn’t decide which scathing retort he wanted to use first. That was more normal, and Kunimitsu relaxed again.

“That’s better,” he said, turning back to his line. Atobe arched a brow at him.

“What’s better?”

“Your temper. Not that it’s anything to boast of at the best of times, of course.”

Atobe scowled at him before turning away to fiddle with his line. At length he muttered a thank you almost as indecipherable as his earlier greeting had been. Kunimitsu smiled, amused.

“Really, you’re the highest maintenance rival I’ve ever had,” he told Atobe, deadpan.

After one blank moment Atobe laughed low in his throat and lounged back by his rod.

“As it should be,” he declaimed.

TBC

A/N: The Thesmophoriazusae is a play by the Greek comedic playwright Aristophanes; it’s full of low humor and crossdressing and sexual innuendo.

Spring was starting to warm into summer, and the fish were getting smarter.

Or, at any rate, pickier about what they’d bite. Thursday afternoons had acquired a slower pace. Keigo basked in the mild sun, storing up pleasure in anticipation of the crushing heat to come later in the year. Practices would become downright grueling, then, he knew.

“A little hard to believe this is the last year we’ll be training with our teams,” he murmured, eyes closed.

“Mm.”

Keigo opened his eyes. He was becoming increasingly fluent in Tezuka-speak, which was a very tonal language. That particular tone was more terse than he would have thought the comment warranted. He examined Tezuka’s hands on his pole. He was definitely thinking of something besides the fish. It looked like today would be another challenge to get something out of his companion; that was always good for an entertaining hour or two.

“Too bad the competition will be so poor for the Nationals this year,” he suggested. “With Rikkai still in such disarray after losing a doubles pair and Sanada, both, the only real challenge, besides you, is Fudoumine.”

Tezuka’s mouth tightened for a moment. Ah, getting warmer, then. Something about one of the other teams, perhaps?

“I never expected Sanada to drop out of tennis unless Yukimura did.” Keigo drew a breath to continue, and then let it out silently as Tezuka’s eyebrows dove down. He smiled with great smugness. Got it in one. Now, then, something about Sanada himself, or about his captain?

Of course, judging by the edge to Tezuka’s expression, if Keigo pushed this he might just start returning, and that could get… uncomfortable. Tezuka saw him far more clearly than Keigo was used to. But that had never stopped him before.

“I hear Sanada’s studying the sword, instead,” he mentioned casually.

“Yes. I’ve been told.” Tezuka’s voice was hard and cold, and Keigo sat up to look at him. There were harmonics in that statement that he would have recognized at five hundred meters. The frustration, especially.

Pieces fell together.

“You’re related to that Tezuka family, then?” he asked.

“Through my grandfather,” Tezuka answered flatly. He didn’t mention his father, Keigo noticed, as though his father didn’t enter into the matter. Maybe he didn’t. Too bad they couldn’t trade, he thought, a bit sourly. He might pay money to watch his own father blunt his bluff attitude on Tezuka.

He didn’t suggest that there must be other cousins and such to take up the tradition; in cases of family tradition, especially as famous a tradition as the Tezuka school of kendo, that didn’t usually make a difference. Tezuka stirred.

“I doubt my team will suffer such confusion when the seniors leave,” he said. “Yours, on the other hand…”

Keigo chuckled, accepting the change of topic. Entertainment was one thing, but if he did press Tezuka further on this subject the return was likely to go beyond painful and into deadly. He didn’t want to push Tezuka that far. Not here.

“Unlike your merry band, Hyoutei is used to reforming dramatically each year. Hiyoshi has the experience to hold the new players together.” Keigo pursed his lips thoughtfully. “He might even follow on professionally.”

“I doubt any from my years except Echizen will become professionals,” Tezuka noted, unusually forthcoming with what Keigo rather thought was relief.

“Not even that bouncy power-player of yours?” he asked, a little surprised. “What was his name… Momoshiro. An annoying loudmouth, but he has the talent.” Tezuka gave him a distinct People who live in glass houses sort of look before replying. Keigo smiled.

“For a few years, perhaps, but I doubt he wants to bother with something that cutthroat in the long term. Momoshiro is invested in his team. I won’t be surprised if he becomes the Seigaku coach when Ryuuzaki-sensei retires.”

“What about your socially maladjusted data specialist?” Keigo prodded. “Hiyoshi has been quietly enamored of his determination for years; surely you aren’t telling me he lacks the focus.”

Usually Keigo’s insulting epithets for Tezuka’s team garnered at least a sharp look, promising retribution, but this time Tezuka’s face was a bit distant as he watched the water.

“There was a time I thought he would,” Tezuka spoke at length, tone as distant as his expression. “But I’m not so sure any longer.” He seemed to return to himself and finished, more briskly. “He may choose to become a trainer; he certainly has a knack for it.”

“Hm. I suppose Jirou might take that path, too,” Keigo mused, reeling in his line for another cast. Tezuka quirked a brow, and Keigo was in an good enough mood not to make him ask out loud.

“Shishido and Ohtori will probably go on, too, as doubles specialists,” he speculated. “Oshitari and Mukahi will probably go settle down somewhere and be scandalous.” He shuddered, delicately. He would never admit it, but he envied Tezuka his star doubles pair. They seemed so… calm and undramatic. Hyoutei only needed one dramatic personality, and that was him. “I don’t think I’m going to miss it that much,” he concluded.

Tezuka was still for a moment. “You won’t miss the attention? Being the center of that circus?” he asked, mildly. A crack of black laughter escaped Keigo.

“What a good comparison. Not really, no.” He had become a little… attached to this particular team, but that was no ones business but his. And, perforce, Sakaki-sensei’s. “Being the focus of two hundred little minds with less talent? Being their talisman, so they’ll all focus on one goal?” He bared his teeth. “The annoyance value of acting like an idol is pleasant, but it would have limited utility, professionally. I think I’ll choose something else after this year. Hell, I’ll act like anything that’s called for, including humble, if the sponsors can just break me loose from…” He bit off the end of the sentence. Damn Tezuka’s silence, that invited him to talk without thinking. Relaxation or no, he’d gotten too careless here.

“From your family?” Tezuka finished for him, and Keigo quashed a wince. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one with the marvelous insight? Not, he supposed, that it was such a large leap from some of the other things they’d said in this place.

He thought about that for a minute.

“You… were planning in that direction, too?” he hazarded, not looking at Tezuka. If Tezuka felt trapped by the question he’d never answer it.

“Somewhat.” The deep voice was barely audible, and when Keigo glanced over Tezuka was looking down at his own hands folded on his knees. It looked like a harder thought for Tezuka than it was for him.

On impulse, Keigo leaned over and laid his fingers on Tezuka’s wrist. Tezuka’s head turned toward him, sharply.

“Great minds think alike,” Keigo offered, in English, with a lazy smile.

A corner of Tezuka’s mouth actually twitched, and the bittersweet-brown eyes lightened.

“Ah. In that case I shall look forward to Tachibana’s company as I go about choosing a sponsor,” he said, smoothly.

Keigo gave in at last, and fell back, laughing freely.

TBC

A/N: The idea of Momo becoming the Seigaku coach came from Familiarity by Monnie. It stuck in my head and wouldn’t leave.

I ran across an actual Tezuka school of kendo while out browsing the web. The coincidence of names was too good to pass up, despite the fact that, canonically, Tezuka’s grandfather teaches Judo.

Atobe seemed to have something on his mind this week. He kept glancing over at Kunimitsu and then away. After the fourth time he did it, Kunimitsu sighed.

“You might as well say whatever it is.”

Atobe really must have been distracted, because he immediately recoiled to his default response of mockery.

“What,” he drawled, “you think you can figure it out if I don’t? Let us witness your great deductive abilities, then.”

Kunimitsu eyed him. Atobe didn’t often fall back on that sort of thing any more. He shrugged one shoulder. “I think that if I wait quietly you’ll say in any case. You might was well say it now as later.” Atobe blinked, and slouched back, grumbling under his breath.

“Just because I know how to use my tongue…”

Kunimitsu smiled. It was too perfect. He couldn’t resist.

“Do you, now?” he murmured.

Atobe’s eyes widened, and he stared at Kunimitsu for several beats before he burst out laughing. There, that was better. Atobe’s mocking humor was a serrated thing, both sleek and ugly, subtle and vicious. Kunimitsu preferred it when Atobe relaxed enough to laugh, instead.

“Innuendo from Tezuka Kunimitsu,” Atobe managed at last, “be still my heart! The world must be ending.” He sighed and looked out over the lake. “I was wondering why you invited me to stay. That first day we were both here.”

The question surprised Kunimitsu. Most of the understanding between he and Atobe was unspoken. He had not expected Atobe to want to change that. Well, how to explain, then?

“The things you say here,” he began, at length, “could you say them anywhere else?” Atobe’s eyes flickered. Kunimitsu turned one hand palm up. “Neither could I. But you aren’t a member of my team, that I have to maintain my authority with. You aren’t a classmate I have to get along with. I have no family duty to you. And there are things you understand.”

Atobe considered this for a while.

“You were so sure of all that at the time?” he asked, finally, not quite mocking but clearly on edge. Kunimitsu’s mouth tightened; he wasn’t sure Atobe would accept the answer, but he had asked for it. And while Atobe might not have noticed it, yet, Kunimitsu told him the things he asked directly. Always.

“We’ve been playing each other for years, now,” he pointed out. “You are very honest when you play full out. And given that key, you aren’t difficult to read at other times, either.”

Tension threaded through Atobe.

“Besides,” Kunimitsu added, after a moment, returning to the original question, “sometimes you quote German poets with a very bad accent. It’s an amusing way to pass the afternoon.” The tension leaked away as Atobe drew himself up.

“A bad accent?” he repeated, in a deeply offended tone. The gleam in his eye undercut his supposed indignation.

“Horrible,” Kunimitsu confirmed, evenly. “You mangle the gutturals.” Atobe snorted.

“Well, if it’s a good accent you want…” He tilted his head, consideringly, and started to recite in what Kunimitsu recognized, after a few sentences, as Greek. He thought the language suited Atobe. The sound of it was sharp, but it had a rolling rhythm, like an avalanche of broken stone seen from far enough away to make it fluid. When Atobe finished, Kunimitsu quirked a brow at him. Atobe’s smile was a bit distant as he translated.

“Imagine the condition of men living in a sort of cavernous chamber underground. Here they have been from childhood, chained by the leg and also by the neck, so that they cannot move and can only see what is in front of them. At some distance higher up is the light of a fire burning behind them.” He paused. “The prisoners so confined would have seen nothing of themselves or of one another, except the shadows thrown by the firelight on the wall of the Cave facing them, would they?”

“Plato,” Kunimitsu identified it. Atobe nodded. It had to be from The Republic, as that was the only thing by Plato that Kunimitsu had ever read. He remembered being irked by the man’s complacence, while appreciating the idea of ability being allowed to lead. On reflection he wasn’t at all surprised that Atobe knew it well enough to quote.

Though what he had chosen to quote today indicated that he focused more on the bleak picture of human understanding than on the bright, brittle vision of a perfected society. That didn’t entirely surprise Kunimitsu either.

“I think I prefer the German poets,” he said quietly. A particular passage from one of his favorites came to mind, and he quoted it in turn. “You know how much more remarkable I always find the people walking about in front of paintings than the paintings themselves. It’s no different here, except for the Cézanne room. Here, all of reality is on his side: in this dense quilted blue of his, in his red and his shadowless green and the reddish black of his wine bottles. And the humbleness of his objects: the apples are all cooking apples and the wine bottles belong in the roundly bulging pockets of an old coat.“

Atobe looked at him inquiringly. “That’s not poetry.”

“It’s a poet’s letter about a painter’s work,” Kunimitsu explained. “Rilke writing about Cézanne.”

“You like Rilke enough to memorize his letters?” Atobe asked on a chuckle.

“The philosophy of artists appeals to me,” Kunimitsu told him softly. Atobe was silent, with the rare depth in his eyes that only showed when he was thinking seriously about a challenging idea. Kunimitsu kept his gaze as light as he could. Atobe was… compelling like this. But he didn’t think it would be wise to let his companion know that.

It wasn’t as though his ego needed the assistance.

“Cooking apples, hm?” Atobe murmured. “That’s certainly different from the ideal Form of Apple-ness.”

“Quite,” Kunimitsu agreed, dryly. Atobe leaned toward him.

“But isn’t perfection what we’re looking for? Especially on the court?”

“Yes,” Kunimitsu allowed, “but perfection differs from one player to another. There wouldn’t be a game if it didn’t.”

“You don’t think the final winner would be the one who found the real perfection?” Atobe challenged, dark eyes almost glowing.

“If that were true you and I should be converging toward a similar style.” Kunimitsu noted. “We’re not.” Atobe leaned back with a delighted smile.

“Good point.” Then he gave Kunimitsu a narrow look. “Why haven’t you ever argued philosophy with me before, Tezuka? You’ve been holding back on me.”

Kunimitsu couldn’t hold back a quiet laugh. It was so like Atobe to be irate over something like that. He was just a bit surprised that Atobe also seemed to feel that they had passed from rivals good enough to talk to friends good enough to argue. But perhaps Atobe hadn’t thought it out quite that far. Kunimitsu had rarely observed him applying his quite incisive intelligence to his own feelings.

“I won’t any longer, if you like,” he offered.

“I should hope not,” Atobe admonished him. “So, are you familiar with Theses on the Philosophy of History?”

Neither of them really seemed to mind that they didn’t catch any fish at all that day.

End

A/N: The passages of Plato and Rilke in this story are quoted, with a few artistic inaccuracies, from The Republic of Plato, Oxford Press edition, translated by Francis Cornford and Letters on Cézanne, North Point Press edition, translated by Joel Agee.

For those who may be curious, Theses on the Philosophy of History is a thoroughly cracked-out essay by the German philosopher Walter Benjamin. I highly recommend it. That it appears as subject matter in one of Laurie Anderson’s songs should tell you something about how wonderfully bizarre it is.