two lines that are never meant to cross are nevertheless connected

A/N: Wow, yes, I'm actually attempting a CHAPTER fic. Well, more like this is part one, because I don't have the energy/ability to continue it any further for I am already much, much forcing it. No, this is not my permanent interpretations of the mysteries of the future arc. xD


inverse fear
part one: effort

Gokudera isn't good with goodbyes, or, rather, he has never given a real goodbye in his life. Which is why when Yamamoto and he are sending Ryohei off, all he can do is present him with a wave of his hand and a grunt of acknowledgment - one that roughly translates to "see you soon, lawn head" in his silent words. He doesn't think much about Ryohei's trip, other than what he needs to, but when Gokudera lays his eyes upon the sight that is simply Yamamoto's best farewell smile and its accompanying chuckle, he can't help but look back on it all, explore the 10th's reasons for it all.

"We'll miss you, for sure." Yamamoto speaks the last phrase with the same sentiment as an artist does on their final stroke of a masterpiece.

And it's as if it's just simply that careless, happy-go-lucky, delusionally naive grin upon Yamamoto's face that teases Gokudera again, forcing his mouth to vocalize some syllables, some sense of a goodbye.

Ryohei begins to turn, leave. The former boxing club president has changed dramatically over the years, while still maintaining the exact same traits. Something so stupid seeming, Gokudera thought, that only someone like Ryohei'd be capable of it.

He plans to keep his mouth shut, to maintain his silence like he has all these years, when - as if the moronic jock knew he was grappling with himself - Yamamoto nudges him from the back, causing Gokudera to jump just the slightest.

"What the hell?" He questions, switching his attention between the departing Ryohei and Yamamoto's grinning expression.

Soundless, Yamamoto doesn't open his mouth either - using just his eyes and his smile to communicate more words than Gokudera can possibly even want to have swarming around in his head. He grumbles under his breath, at how even after all these years, why the hell Yamamoto is still standing beside him, for he still fails to understand the reason.

"Oi, lawn head!" Gokudera shouts out, the distance between Ryohei and him now warranting for Gokudera to raise his voice. "You better be back soon to help the 10th, you got it?"

Only partially turning, Ryohei nods back - recognition of his farewell message.

"It'll be a quick trip to the extreme!" He replies back, in equal volume, if not louder, from all the years of toned practice, and waves his hand, then turns towards his terminal.


"It wasn't that hard, was it?" Yamamoto asks after they leave the airport, giving Gokudera another nudge - and, the hell, is that a wink? - as he does so.

"You couldn't have seen Ryohei off by yourself?" Gokudera snaps, pulling out another cigarette now that they were clear of the - heaven and hell forbid! - 'designated non-smoking area.' "I've got some work to get to and you drag me off to say a freakin' pointless goodbye."

"Just thought you needed the break. You looked like you were about to pull out your hair sitting at that desk with all those boxes." Another smile flashes itself at Gokudera, pulling again at that something he can't yet pinpoint.

"I was not, and I'm not going to." Gokudera blows out a puff of smoke, and sighs as they reach the car. "Aren't you supposed to visit your old man today?"

And, as if instanteously, that smile pops itself back up onto Yamamoto's face, completely in disregard of the inhumanly short time that it was gone, and he swings himself into the car. Gokudera does the same, and only until after Yamamoto inserts the car keys into the ignition and the vroom of the engine starting sounds does the conversation continue.

"I am. Thought you'd like to come with me." Yamamoto says the words - no, sneaks the words out, is more of a fitting description, Gokudera thinks - as if he's just revealed a great big shenanigan.

"Hell no!" What is the response Yamamoto expects from him? Gokudera rolls his eyes as he realizes he is pulled once again by some miracle of centripetal force to spend time with the baseball freak. "I'm not in the mood for sushi, anyways."

"Ha, you're ridiculous, you know, Gokudera?" He puts down the window for Gokudera so the smoke can escape through the window, carried away by the breeze blowing itself into the car. "You're always in the mood for sushi. I've taken you to my dad's too many times to not notice that."

Another smile. His attacks just don't end, Gokudera thinks, do they?

"Well I'm not today. Take me back."

"I'm already driving in his direction; don't waste my gas." Yamamoto jokes as he slides one hand off the steering wheel and relocates his arm unto the open window sill. Even now, he still remains that epitome of relaxed, even when behind it all, the Millefiore are gaining power and the dangers, waves as they are, continously increasing, are raising above the predictions, the banks. "Plus, you'll get the afternoon off. Nobody can make you a better offer than what I've got."

"I could use some time away from you. That's a better offer by far." But, Gokudera knows his only choice is to stay in the car. Yamamoto caught him at the sushi, but that isn't any reason for their strife to end.

This is how we strive, Gokudera thinks, leaning his head back against the seat; this is how we've been - year after year after year - and he just can't understand why they don't want to change.

The chuckle born from Yamamoto's cheery voice - the same one Gokudera has gotten used to over all these years, atoned to all these years, and perhaps, even addicted to all these years - reaffirms the situation, as they pull into Nanimori, the sights too similar to not to invoke memories.

They pass by Nanimori Junior High - still same, nothing has blown it to pieces yet; not that both Gokudera and Yamamoto don't know that if anybody even so much as tries to, Hibari would bite him or her in a split second. They pass by Sasagawa Kyoko's house - now empty due to Ryohei's leave, but it still means just as much to Tsuna either way; neither time nor peril is able to sway the 10th's affection towards Kyoko, and both Gokudera and Yamamoto knows that as well. They pass by the graveyard - absolutely the same, at least in their context; Gokudera and Yamamoto haven't associated with the site yet, and they don't want to - they hope with all they have not too.

And, it's then, as Gokudera's still half absorbed in all that is left of what used to be, the car screeches to a halt. The law of a reaction for every force acting itself upon Gokudera's body throws him forward, his head near centimeters away from the windshield.

"Are you a freakin' idiot?" He scolds at Yamamoto, taking only a split second to recognize the foreign look upon Yamamoto's face. "What's so bad you have to - "

He stops there. Because it takes all the effort he has to keep from painting the same expression onto his face as Yamamoto. The memories flash back at him again, but more violently, more painfully then before; Gokudera's stomach curls in within itself, and he doesn't even want to fathom what Yamamoto is feeling - the same symptoms, but worse, perhaps?

At that exact moment, Gokudera realizes how much he misses Yamamoto's condemnable laugh, his practically sinful smile, and can't help but gaze back upon his frozen, astounded face.

They arrive at the restaurant - the sushi store of his dreams, Gokudera is willing to admit it now that it is all too late - and, yet, he doesn't know what to say. What his memories want to see don't correlate with what he is seeing, and, like Yamamoto, Gokudera is wondering if he's also gone into some sort of withdrawal symptom.

Before them, the store lays in practical pieces, fresh smoke still pillowing out from cracks and creases that are not supposed to be chimneys, fresh smells of blood, of battle, carried in by the same breeze that had previously cooled them down, and fresh ruins - a scene of all that is late and too gone to change.

three (3)

You just don't get it, do you? You never do. Not even when I ask you for a match countless times, challenge you to a test of our dignities, our morals, our beliefs, on that court, you never understand. You never say the words I want you to say. "I'll agree to a match, Fuji;" are those words really that hard to say?

You're not normal, not normal at all. They call you captain, but what they should be calling you is an alien. You're no different from me, in truth. Maybe that's why I even bothered in the first place; it's because I've finally found someone similar to me, albeit a little different. A measly difference can be neglected in the large scheme of things, right?

You understand what I'm saying, right, Tezuka? You agree with what I'm saying, right?

1.

"What the hell was that?" I shout, grabbing you by the collar, nearly lifting you into the air. "Rematch. Right now."

With my tennis racket at my feet - both my hands were occupied to prove you a point, of course - and the hot sun shining down both our back, that was how our first match ended. A disappointment. A lie. A passing fancy.

"Rematch." I repeated, voice angry, rough, more demanding then before. Back then, I thought if I drilled it into your head enough times, your stubborn guard may have fallen. Boy, how wrong I was.

"F-Fuji-kun," You mumbled over your words, one hand trying to release my grasp on you, the other hand dangling, holding your tennis racket. "This is ridiculous. Let - let me down."

"No." I firmly resolved. My arm was straining now from the weight, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for you. "Not until you agree to a rematch."

You remained silent; whether you were struck dumb by the truth of my words, or the idiocy of my demand, I couldn't tell. All I could tell was the sweat beading down your face, probably my face as well, the reflection of the sun in your glasses, intensifying your glare at me.

"Let me down." You said once again, this time with more certainty. Perhaps you began to understand the situation when I myself hadn't. "You won fair and square, Fuji-kun. I-I don't see what's wrong."

"Stop lying." My grip on your collar tightened, anger coursing through my veins, anger I thought I'd never have to feel at you. "Rematch."

"Calm down, Fuji-kun." Your hand on my fist was shaking, maybe just a little, but shaking nonetheless. I wanted to point it out to you so bad, prove to you that all your pride really was was nothing. Or, at least in that moment.

"Calm down? You let me win. And with a 6-0. What do you think I am?" I retorted, seeing the answer flash past quickly in your eyes, the answer you would never have the guts to say to me.

"Fuji-kun!" You squirmed a bit, trying to get out of my hold.

"A rematch, Tezuka." I growled, dropping you from where you previously hovered in the air. I bent down and picked up my racket, and pointed the tip of it directly at you. I couldn't believe that at last, there was someone whose wall of inhibitions even I couldn't break. Someone I couldn't even get pass.

"There's no need." You helped yourself off the ground, dusting off your shorts as you stood up.

"Every need. Rematch."

I glared into your eyes; I gave you my look that so many would never see, and, yet, with my eyes open, you still refused my offer. You didn't respond to my last statement - at least, not with words. You looked at me, sized me up with one hard look, allowed your cold, wall-like expression to answer my demand, and turned around.

Simple as it was - simple as you were - you strode off, your right hand cupping your left shoulder. Completely, totally, absolutely ignoring me.

2.

You're the type of person that tended, wanted, to keep your secrets, your pains, your stories all to yourself. I could tell. Ever since that match, I could tell. And even now, in our second year, after a year had passed from that incident, you continued to threaten yourself with such a habit.

"If your arm is hurting, Tezuka, you shouldn't be playing!" I said, trying to control my voice from veering itself to a plead. I understood now why you seemed to play with your right hand more often, why you seemed to be so protective after every fall, every minor injury.

"That's not your business, Fuji." You replied with the answer I expected. You may have thought, at the moment, that it was Inui that knew you the best, calculated your every move, but, in truth, it was me. I had observed you all that year, not in the same sense as Inui, but nevertheless observed you.

"It's as much my business as it is your business and the team's business!" I continued to exclaim, to persuade you to finally show me that face behind your guard, behind those eyes that seemed to completely counter mine at every meeting.

"My arm is fine." You squeezed your left shoulder as you did so, your face changing, cringing, for a split of a second no one should have been able to see.

"You're such a liar, Tezuka." I half joked, half stated, knowing you wouldn't take what I said seriously. When would you take anything I said seriously?

"Go back to practice, Fuji. The first years need your guidance." You didn't motion like Ryuuzaki-sensei, or like Oishi, for me to shoo, to leave the room, but I understood all that you meant from your tone. You had used it on me more times than I liked, more times than I should have been able to endure.

"Why are you always like this?" I hissed out of nowhere; today's events had pushed this one thought, constantly sitting on the edge, off the cliff and into actual speech.

You raised your eyebrows immediately, sensing another upcoming attack from me, another round of questioning of your dignity, your morals, your beliefs. I didn't have to see the new light harshly glinting from your glasses to know that you no longer wanted me here. But, still, I'm persistent. Just like you.

"Tezuka, what is it that you always say to the first years?" I smiled, a fake one, the kind I placed on my face when I wanted something answered my way.

"Don't let your guard down." You grunted this line, aware that I would be messing it up, playing it up in some bizarre way. Your line of sight was directed towards the floor, the ceiling, the window - it didn't matter, you seemed to want to look everywhere that wasn't me.

"Well, it's bad advice." I stepped closer to him, anger controlling my actions now instead of my brain - not that it would've made much of a difference to you. "Because, you see-"

"Fuji, cut it out now." Your voice came out hoarse, deep, nervous. Just like when you had tried to pry my grasp off of you that day of our first match. In a way, I was proud that I had established myself in your seemingly empty head that you now knew exactly when my antics were coming up.

I nearly circled you, slowly, stopping only when I was partially behind you. One of my hands were on the shoulder you had been protecting so intently.

"Because, you see, to make sense, one has to let down their guard sooner or later." I tightened my hand on that shoulder, my grin stretching as I heard the barely audible sound of pain you released.

And, just as quickly, I let go of my hold on your left shoulder, and turned around, arriving at the door before you had any chance to react to what I'd accomplished. With a wave of my hand as goodbye, without any words as an apology, or as an explanation, I opened the door, stepped out, and closed it almost in one simultaneous movement.

The smile still on my face, I sighed - whether in exasperation or accomplishment, I wasn't quite sure - at my new revelation; simple gestures did do the trick, right, Tezuka?

3.

He almost fooled me, almost, with that near flawless impression of you. That trickster of Rikkaidai, Niou Masaharu. He tried to be you, he put his all in it to be you, but he failed. And, all for what? Just so he thought he could beat me as you? That I had some weakness over you?

Niou wasn't half wrong, but he wasn't half right either. But, yet, the trickster's act of the day had brought one thing into the light, one lie revealed, for certain.

You had faked that first match of ours. You had forced yourself to lose. For what reason, I can't even fathom, because just like how no one is able to guess me, I can't possibly even guess you. The way that my grip of my racket loosened, the beat of the game crushed, as Niou changed into you, as all I saw before me wasn't my opponent, but you, made me certain that you had lied that day.

You smiled your faint, constrained, disciplined smile at me, racket pointed at me in much the same way I had done two years earlier. And, all I could do then was look down at the ground. Not at you, no. Not at this fake mirage, illusion, that Niou had created. Nothing was the same as the real you.

"You're not Tezuka," I said to my opponent, closing my eyes to make sure. "You try, but you're letting your guard down." My voice was faint, only audible if Niou himself had really wanted to hear it; however, as Niou's serve - or, maybe yours? - came down at me, I knew he had taken in every word of it.

"I'll give you this one match, Fuji." Niou had even your voice down, shocking me as much as the crowd.

I revealed to Niou - or, you? - my smile at its best, the real smile of mine. With my eyes still closed, I felt the ball, felt your resolve, your morals, your beliefs.

Ironic, that the only way I would truly beat you at a match was when you were the one guiding me, the reason for my every move. As one smash came after another, one rebound, one lob, after the other, I couldn't help but grin to myself, to Niou, for being the Tezuka that you yourself didn't have the courage to be.

I would win again this match, I knew that as soon as he had turned into you. But, I didn't want to admit it to myself. I didn't care about the game anymore. The win. The loss. All I cared about was that it was you, across that net. The thrill you gave, that no one else could provide.

"Game! Fuji! 7-5!" The referee's voice ended my reverie, my dream, that game with you I knew I would have to beg at your feet to experience once again.



You understand now, don't you, Tezuka? I shouldn't even have to ask you, buchou.

Maybe you've always known. Maybe you just wanted to figure me out like I had wanted to figure you out, sending us on an endless circle, retracing the same path back and forth. The same path I would've been happy, overjoyed, to be on, with you. Over. And over. And over again.