[fic] so far away from you lately
Jan. 1st, 2021 09:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rhodochrositeso far away from you lately
fandom: prince of tennis
ship: shiraishi&/yukimura, yukimura/kirihara
rating: general
word count: 1.4k
post-u17 but pre-graduation jasp schedule in which shiraishi visits the rikkai rooftop garden and discusses kirihara with yukimura... i imagine this is the first jasp schedule after the world cup but maybe not the first one overall? the part that involves sending kirihara over to osaka hasn't started yet though
--
“Need some help?”
Crouched down in front of the tulips, Yukimura glances up, shielding his eyes against the light. Shiraishi, in his Shitenhoji school uniform, grins at him from a few paces away. The tips of his hair pick up gold from the deepening sun.
“Shiraishi!” Yukimura exclaims, straightening up to pull Shiraishi into a brief one-armed embrace. As always Shiraishi smells clean and vegetal and familiar, unravelling sense impressions of an airy dorm room, Fuji’s low and quiet laughter, light catching on a gold gauntlet. “I’d appreciate another pair of hands. There's a second pair of secateurs next to the watering can, Fuji left them here last time he visited.”
“The hydrangeas are looking good,” Shiraishi says, kneeling down beside Yukimura with Fuji's secateurs in hand. He brushes a finger over the pale blue globe of a petal cluster.
“Indeed,” Yukimura agrees. “The first-years took care of the garden for me while we were away, I’m very grateful for their hard work. Though they may have been a little overzealous with the watering… No Tooyama-kun today?”
“I dropped Kin-chan off at Seigaku first,” Shiraishi says. “He was just starting a match with Echizen-kun when I left, so they’ll be at it for a while.”
Yukimura chuckles. “Hopefully Seigaku will still have at least one tennis court left intact by the time they’re done,” he says.
“But I’m sure Kin-chan would love another match with you afterwards, if you’re free,” Shiraishi adds, as if anxious to reassure Yukimura that he isn't unwanted. It's a considerate gesture, though Yukimura doesn't begrudge the playing of favourites; he does the same, and everyone has their eyes on Echizen Ryoma, after all.
“I always have time for that boy,” Yukimura says. “Akaya will be glad to see you, too. He misses you constantly. What brings you to this side of the country?”
“Ah, we had a half day at school, so Kin-chan said he wanted to see Echizen-kun, and Kenya said he wanted to see his cousin, and Chitose said he'd tag along even though he's supposedly quit the club, and Zaizen said something about updating his blog, so by that point it was pretty much already a team field trip.” Shiraishi rubs the back of his neck with his bandaged hand, sheepish. “Sorry for not calling ahead, it kinda slipped my mind between, you know. Trying to make sure we all got here mostly in one piece and without too much property damage. But I wanted to drop by to see you!"
“You know you’re always welcome here,” Yukimura says.
For a while they work in companionable silence, punctuated only by the snick of blades and the rustle of leaves, the two of them pruning dead stems and blooms past their prime with brisk snips. Then Shiraishi comments, "Weird seeing you out of a jersey."
“I’m on Beautification Committee duty,” Yukimura says, waving his secateurs. “Besides, Akaya needs some experience leading practice. I don’t remember if I ever thanked you for taking care of him at camp, I've even seen him meditating in the locker room recently. Well, trying to meditate, at least.”
Shiraishi laughs. “It’s no problem at all. He’s a good kid.”
“I think he’s quite different with you than he is with us,” Yukimura says.
“Really? Akaya-kun is always Akaya-kun.”
“I wonder,” Yukimura murmurs. He pushes the heel of his palm into the soft soil.
“Hmm?”
“Akaya is too much like me,” Yukimura says. “It’s why I could make him understand, back then at the World Cup. But if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t have needed to.”
“I think he would have liked to hear it from you anyway,” Shiraishi says.
“Do you think so?” Yukimura sets the secateurs down, scrubs a wristband over his forehead. “Ahh, Yanagi is always better at knowing what to say. So are you.”
Shiraishi flashes him a rueful smile. “Once it took me more than a year to say something important to someone I cared about, so I don’t know if I actually have you beat there."
“I always used to think surely there were things that didn't need to be said to be understood. You and Fuji showed me differently. I only wish that I could have—for the people I care about—" The sun is in his eyes. He grasps for a lexicon that he knows Shiraishi shares. “When I came back from the hospital everything was out of order,” Yukimura says, sweeping a hand over the rows of flowers. “I’m sure my team tried, but—we are the tennis club, after all, and not the gardening club. It took a long time to get it back to how it was before.”
Those first few days after his return. The ugly fury he could barely choke down, such a small thing like a garden but even this, it turned out, he could not entrust to another. He’d doubled the regulars’ training menu, tripled his own, brushed off Yanagi’s apprehensive Seiichi… and obliterated him six games to love on the centre court. And it still hadn’t been enough. He has seen, by now, the end of himself reflected with pristine clarity in three sets of irises scintillating with fearless joy, that insurmountable, terrifying height he already knew that first time with Echizen that he would never be able to scale.
But it always comes back to him. Slowly and bitterly, but unfailingly. What Sanada had given him years and years ago, that surety, that faith. Did he love so lightly, to concede defeat so soon? All those trembling sweating hours in the rehabilitation centre, pain so total it could have cleaved him in half, slicing the weakness, the dead growth out of himself inch by inch, so he could stand on the court again. So he could stand on this rooftop, here with Shiraishi. Sun over their hands, wind in their hair. What an inheritance. What a weight of love.
“Your garden is beautiful, Yukimura-kun,” Shiraishi says gently.
“Plants are easy,” Yukimura says. “You care for them, you watch them grow. When there’s wilt, you water. When there’s rot, you cut it out at the base. But…”
During the semifinals against Nagoya Seitoku Yukimura had been sloshing around in painkillers up to his ears and all he could muster was a distant cottony numbness, watching Kirihara bleed out messily on the court, waiting for the moment Kirihara would prove himself capable of bearing the weight of the entirety of the shared dream. All the tightly-furled potential Yukimura had glimpsed in him the first time Kirihara challenged him to a match exploding out of him at last, as Yukimura had known it would; he’d staked everything on it. He had believed, then, that it was worth it. He still does. That’s what he’s tried to give Kirihara, over and over again, on the Rikkaidai courts in the spring of his second year, at Nationals as Kirihara dragged his mangled body back to its feet, at the World Cup facing Tezuka luminescent with the Pinnacle of Perfection on the other side of the net. I have opened the gates for you. Now all you have to do is step through.
Two years of caring for Kirihara, watching him grow. Yukimura has been careful about cultivating the distance, even as Kirihara’s eyes burned the back of his neck with desperate and badly-concealed longing, to make sure Kirihara will never stop pushing himself, reaching forward. He does not fear the possibility of being overtaken, but he almost wishes he did. He is waiting, as ever, for Kirihara to surprise him.
“It’s difficult to tell,” Yukimura finishes lightly. He prods at a browned petal on a withered daisy with the tip of his finger. “When it comes to—other things. Whether or not you did well.”
Shiraishi picks up the secateurs, lying in the dirt. He holds them out to Yukimura, grip first. Gaze steady, clear, warm. “When they don’t need you anymore,” he says. “That’s how you know you did well.”
fandom: prince of tennis
ship: shiraishi&/yukimura, yukimura/kirihara
rating: general
word count: 1.4k
post-u17 but pre-graduation jasp schedule in which shiraishi visits the rikkai rooftop garden and discusses kirihara with yukimura... i imagine this is the first jasp schedule after the world cup but maybe not the first one overall? the part that involves sending kirihara over to osaka hasn't started yet though
--
“Need some help?”
Crouched down in front of the tulips, Yukimura glances up, shielding his eyes against the light. Shiraishi, in his Shitenhoji school uniform, grins at him from a few paces away. The tips of his hair pick up gold from the deepening sun.
“Shiraishi!” Yukimura exclaims, straightening up to pull Shiraishi into a brief one-armed embrace. As always Shiraishi smells clean and vegetal and familiar, unravelling sense impressions of an airy dorm room, Fuji’s low and quiet laughter, light catching on a gold gauntlet. “I’d appreciate another pair of hands. There's a second pair of secateurs next to the watering can, Fuji left them here last time he visited.”
“The hydrangeas are looking good,” Shiraishi says, kneeling down beside Yukimura with Fuji's secateurs in hand. He brushes a finger over the pale blue globe of a petal cluster.
“Indeed,” Yukimura agrees. “The first-years took care of the garden for me while we were away, I’m very grateful for their hard work. Though they may have been a little overzealous with the watering… No Tooyama-kun today?”
“I dropped Kin-chan off at Seigaku first,” Shiraishi says. “He was just starting a match with Echizen-kun when I left, so they’ll be at it for a while.”
Yukimura chuckles. “Hopefully Seigaku will still have at least one tennis court left intact by the time they’re done,” he says.
“But I’m sure Kin-chan would love another match with you afterwards, if you’re free,” Shiraishi adds, as if anxious to reassure Yukimura that he isn't unwanted. It's a considerate gesture, though Yukimura doesn't begrudge the playing of favourites; he does the same, and everyone has their eyes on Echizen Ryoma, after all.
“I always have time for that boy,” Yukimura says. “Akaya will be glad to see you, too. He misses you constantly. What brings you to this side of the country?”
“Ah, we had a half day at school, so Kin-chan said he wanted to see Echizen-kun, and Kenya said he wanted to see his cousin, and Chitose said he'd tag along even though he's supposedly quit the club, and Zaizen said something about updating his blog, so by that point it was pretty much already a team field trip.” Shiraishi rubs the back of his neck with his bandaged hand, sheepish. “Sorry for not calling ahead, it kinda slipped my mind between, you know. Trying to make sure we all got here mostly in one piece and without too much property damage. But I wanted to drop by to see you!"
“You know you’re always welcome here,” Yukimura says.
For a while they work in companionable silence, punctuated only by the snick of blades and the rustle of leaves, the two of them pruning dead stems and blooms past their prime with brisk snips. Then Shiraishi comments, "Weird seeing you out of a jersey."
“I’m on Beautification Committee duty,” Yukimura says, waving his secateurs. “Besides, Akaya needs some experience leading practice. I don’t remember if I ever thanked you for taking care of him at camp, I've even seen him meditating in the locker room recently. Well, trying to meditate, at least.”
Shiraishi laughs. “It’s no problem at all. He’s a good kid.”
“I think he’s quite different with you than he is with us,” Yukimura says.
“Really? Akaya-kun is always Akaya-kun.”
“I wonder,” Yukimura murmurs. He pushes the heel of his palm into the soft soil.
“Hmm?”
“Akaya is too much like me,” Yukimura says. “It’s why I could make him understand, back then at the World Cup. But if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t have needed to.”
“I think he would have liked to hear it from you anyway,” Shiraishi says.
“Do you think so?” Yukimura sets the secateurs down, scrubs a wristband over his forehead. “Ahh, Yanagi is always better at knowing what to say. So are you.”
Shiraishi flashes him a rueful smile. “Once it took me more than a year to say something important to someone I cared about, so I don’t know if I actually have you beat there."
“I always used to think surely there were things that didn't need to be said to be understood. You and Fuji showed me differently. I only wish that I could have—for the people I care about—" The sun is in his eyes. He grasps for a lexicon that he knows Shiraishi shares. “When I came back from the hospital everything was out of order,” Yukimura says, sweeping a hand over the rows of flowers. “I’m sure my team tried, but—we are the tennis club, after all, and not the gardening club. It took a long time to get it back to how it was before.”
Those first few days after his return. The ugly fury he could barely choke down, such a small thing like a garden but even this, it turned out, he could not entrust to another. He’d doubled the regulars’ training menu, tripled his own, brushed off Yanagi’s apprehensive Seiichi… and obliterated him six games to love on the centre court. And it still hadn’t been enough. He has seen, by now, the end of himself reflected with pristine clarity in three sets of irises scintillating with fearless joy, that insurmountable, terrifying height he already knew that first time with Echizen that he would never be able to scale.
But it always comes back to him. Slowly and bitterly, but unfailingly. What Sanada had given him years and years ago, that surety, that faith. Did he love so lightly, to concede defeat so soon? All those trembling sweating hours in the rehabilitation centre, pain so total it could have cleaved him in half, slicing the weakness, the dead growth out of himself inch by inch, so he could stand on the court again. So he could stand on this rooftop, here with Shiraishi. Sun over their hands, wind in their hair. What an inheritance. What a weight of love.
“Your garden is beautiful, Yukimura-kun,” Shiraishi says gently.
“Plants are easy,” Yukimura says. “You care for them, you watch them grow. When there’s wilt, you water. When there’s rot, you cut it out at the base. But…”
During the semifinals against Nagoya Seitoku Yukimura had been sloshing around in painkillers up to his ears and all he could muster was a distant cottony numbness, watching Kirihara bleed out messily on the court, waiting for the moment Kirihara would prove himself capable of bearing the weight of the entirety of the shared dream. All the tightly-furled potential Yukimura had glimpsed in him the first time Kirihara challenged him to a match exploding out of him at last, as Yukimura had known it would; he’d staked everything on it. He had believed, then, that it was worth it. He still does. That’s what he’s tried to give Kirihara, over and over again, on the Rikkaidai courts in the spring of his second year, at Nationals as Kirihara dragged his mangled body back to its feet, at the World Cup facing Tezuka luminescent with the Pinnacle of Perfection on the other side of the net. I have opened the gates for you. Now all you have to do is step through.
Two years of caring for Kirihara, watching him grow. Yukimura has been careful about cultivating the distance, even as Kirihara’s eyes burned the back of his neck with desperate and badly-concealed longing, to make sure Kirihara will never stop pushing himself, reaching forward. He does not fear the possibility of being overtaken, but he almost wishes he did. He is waiting, as ever, for Kirihara to surprise him.
“It’s difficult to tell,” Yukimura finishes lightly. He prods at a browned petal on a withered daisy with the tip of his finger. “When it comes to—other things. Whether or not you did well.”
Shiraishi picks up the secateurs, lying in the dirt. He holds them out to Yukimura, grip first. Gaze steady, clear, warm. “When they don’t need you anymore,” he says. “That’s how you know you did well.”
