Chapter Text
🏀⚽♫⚽🏀
Things came to a head the morning Ueki woke up, shivering, to a snuffling in his ear.
Slowly and groggily, he registered that the body lodged against his back, along with the arm flung over his waist, definitely didn't feel (too warm, too hard) or sound (too deep) like the girlfriend who'd broken up with him more than two years ago. It occurred to him, as he freed himself from the arm and effortfully reclaimed his share of mattress space, that she hadn't come close to pushing him out of his double bed in her sleep, either.
Nor had he ever been inclined to casual sex of any variety. Which meant…
When he turned over, awash in a sea of unease, the familiar ruddy head that entered his vision almost stopped his heart.
"Fuck," he said, under his breath.
He wasn't given to cursing. In high school, his stoic mildness and clean-cut ethos had distinguished him from the stereotypical basketballer, and his buddies—particularly the one currently infiltrating his bed—had ribbed him for naturally endearing himself to teachers and moms. But the desire to hurl a string of epithets unfit for polite company assailed him as he studied Itaya's face—still tanned, and disquietingly cherubic in slumber. The man had kicked off the duvet on his side, heedless of the chill. His hair, permanently sun-lightened, was bright against the navy sheets. The sprawl of his bare limbs bore the lightest of fuzz; he'd never needed to worry about unsightly body hair. At one point they'd had a running joke with Uenoyama about a lucrative future advertising shaving products if elite sport stopped working out.
At least said man was decent, even if said clothing consisted of a long-sleeved T-shirt and shorts belonging to him, Ueki Ryou—who was moved to pat his own torso, meeting the reassuring softness of sweatshirt jersey.
Modesty check confirmed, he let his gaze wander over his uninvited bedmate. Whatever this man professed about the cruelty of incipient middle age, or about having abandoned regular training since retiring from the field, he retained the sculpted, compact build of a career athlete; surely that wouldn't change, despite the vertical scars on both his knees—
He froze again, assaulted by the unjustifiable urge to touch those scars, and the lightly corded calves extending below them. Hot on its heels came the inconvenient realization that there was, through the khaki cotton of his shorts Itaya was wearing, an unmistakable ridge of morning wood. It didn't help with his own. It had, instead, the same effect as belatedly clocking that the unfamiliar tinge of musk in his nostrils was coming off Itaya's sleep-warmed skin.
"Fuck." This time it came out with a jolt more feeling, and a tiny bit louder.
He hoisted himself to a seat and mashed the heels of his palms into his gritty eyes, hoping vaguely that this would serve as some kind of mudra for benevolently restoring Itaya to wherever the man had been before getting to this bed, in clothes that he, Ueki, didn't own, and not smelling of the same shampoo he used. As for the erections, he couldn't remember any unacceptable dreams, and men couldn't help the equipment nature had given them, could they? Physiology as an explanation was fine. A hundred percent fine.
When he eventually liberated his face, however, Itaya remained in place, and his lashes were stirring dangerously.
"Don't," he said helplessly. But the lashes raised enough to show Itaya's eyes, sleepy-soft and amber in the sun streaming through the open curtain, and he couldn't look away, even knowing that at least some of his unease was showing.
"Morning," Itaya mumbled, blinking in the light. "Don't what?"
*
Four years of university without Itaya had felt indefinably odd, after three years of high school where having him around had been such a given part of every weekday. Gone was the lithe figure in gakuran, T-shirt, jersey, or soccer jacket, hovering over his seat or slumped comfortably at his side. He'd gotten used to this absence eventually, but the loss continued to lurk right beneath his consciousness, popping up in stray moments of solitude—between classes, say, or heading home after a basketball game. The celebrations for his last graduation had given him the sense of having assembled a jigsaw that appeared to everyone else as a completed picture, whereas he alone kept focusing on the hole left by a single missing piece, which seemed far larger than it had any right to be.
Once, during their freshman year, Uenoyama and Mafuyu had come across him staring out of the windows in the corridor of a lecture hall that overlooked the sports ground, where the university's soccer team was practicing; shouts and the intermittent screeching of a whistle had drifted up to them.
Itaya's not there, you know, Uenoyama had eventually said, nudging him in the ribs. Lunch?
Yeah, he'd said, catching the contemplative glance Mafuyu was casting him. He'd let himself amble off with the two of them as if nothing had happened. He had, in fact, been shaken by the accuracy of that observation.
Itaya wasn't there. Obviously. He was living in another city now; he traveled Japan, and sometimes the world, for his sport.
Itaya wasn't there, but he'd wanted him to be. No matter how amazing the launch of Itaya's professional playing career, and no matter how happy he was for him, there were times when what he wanted, more than anything, was to see the blaze of his grin not through a TV or phone or laptop screen or magazine page but in person, which was the best way to bask in its full light.
Go 'way, you sunshine-eater, a sleepy Uenoyama had once grumbled. What's that mean, Itaya had laughingly inquired, clearly unfussed about a response that wouldn't be coming. Whereas he'd been struck by how apt a descriptor sunshine-eater was, and said, admiringly, I bet you'd write good lyrics, Uecchi.
Uenoyama, about to slump over his desk, had narrowed his eyes. Instantly he'd regretted this remark. It had only been a week or so since the three of them had started hanging out, and it was unlikely these two knew that sarcasm wasn't his style. Maybe he needed to explain—
And then Itaya was thumping Uenoyama on the back.
That's true! Uenoyama, weren't you telling me about that new song you're working on? It sounds really cool. Let us know when your next show is, yeah? I'll be there with this guy.
Here Itaya had tugged at his arm, and he'd nodded, observing the softening of Uenoyama's face to bashfulness and the accompanying yeah, muttered by way of thanks.
Itaya magic: that was how he privately thought of it. Notwithstanding its infrequent excesses, its glow drew in everyone, himself included. Its sunflower beams could cheer people up, stop a fight, brighten a room, even turn a losing match around.
He'd witnessed all these things as part and parcel of being Itaya's best buddy. The one who'd gotten the most hangouts of the sport or music or food or goofing-off kind, and not just because Uenoyama deserted them for naps or guitars half the time, either; the one who'd heard every stray lament and random musing, including the girl-related ones whose plaintiveness had never sounded serious. Despite Itaya's unselfconscious popularity in high school, he, Ueki Ryou, had been secretly confident that no one else, not even Uenoyama, had been closer to him. It seemed, looking back as an adult, that he'd been endeavoring to convince Itaya that things should always remain that way.
*
"Itaya," he said, summoning all the calm he could muster and confirming—never mind if Itaya wouldn't care—that the duvet was shielding his lower body. "Why are you in my bed?"
Itaya scratched his chin, whose stubble was hardly perceptible, with a yawn. "Because it's still cold? Feels like winter doesn't want to leave yet…"
"Oi."
Frowning, Itaya sat up, which thankfully sent the hem of the baggy shirt over his lap. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what?"
"That I came over to hang out yesterday."
"…Right. I don't remember sleeping with you, though."
"Don't say it like that," Itaya protested, not sounding in the least upset. "Look…you got really tired, and I asked if I could stay over because the last train was gone. And you said yes, but when I finished the dishes you'd already passed out on the bed in those sweats. Sorry I had to poke around in your closet"—he tugged on the T-shirt he was wearing—"and you didn't mention having a spare futon, so..."
"Ah," he said, swept by a wave of relief skirting dangerously close to disappointment; this was, at least, applying a flattening effect on his groin. "You're…OK with that?"
"Why not? I slept next to you during that school trip to Kyoto."
"Pretty sure we each had our own futon then."
"Pretty sure I woke up half on yours," Itaya said breezily. "Do you mind? Sorry if I startled you—"
"No," he broke in, slowly. "It's not a problem. I'm just…confused."
"About what?"
Because you're back, you're really back, and I'm still figuring out what to do—
Abruptly he thought of the whiff of cigarettes on Itaya last night. So the man had picked up smoking, and he hadn't known. Yes, it wasn't any of his business. How could he hope to understand what Itaya had really experienced in deciding to quit his playing career, or what Itaya currently felt?
He shook his head.
"Coffee," he mumbled, half to himself. "Let me wash up first, and I'll make breakfast."
"Roger," Itaya said, a note of uncertainty in his voice. "Take your time."
He threw off the coverlet, stood up, and gripped Itaya's head with his fingertips as if it were a basketball, the way he'd regularly done throughout high school. He gave it a light shake, intended to be reassuring; Itaya's hair, free of wax, felt as fluffy as that dog of Uenoyama and Mafuyu's. He left the room without waiting for a response.
*
How had he, a mere college basketball player turned systems engineer, ended up with a bunch of celebrity friends? There were colleagues at his workplace who were fans of either Itaya or Given (or even, now and then, of both). He'd toyed with the notion of letting slip that he was personally acquainted with these people, but it would, ultimately, have been far more trouble than it was worth.
Work treated him well enough despite the long hours. In the company he'd remained at since starting as a fresh grad, he steadily carved out a niche of his own, earning the trust of seniors and a steadily growing cadre of juniors. As the sole member of the SE department who made an effort to run, lift weights, and join company sporting events, he stayed impervious to the comments from his team members, which ranged from admiring to puzzled. He prided himself on remaining fitter than average: it wasn't comparable to what Itaya had to maintain for professional sport, of course, but it was better than nothing.
And he was prouder of his friends than he would ever have known how to say. A tiny rush swept him whenever he came across internet news or videos or magazines profiling them. He collected all the CDs Mafuyu and Uenoyama put out, with their own and other bands.
The highest of his internal highs snuck out onto his face, which could occasion comment. There was the morning he'd spent in the waiting room of his dentist, watching a TV replay of highlights from the Summer Olympics match where Itaya's overtime goal had won Japan's men's soccer team its first silver medal. After the segment had ended, the elderly lady seated next to him had observed, sounding amused: you must be a big soccer fan, young man, you're practically glowing.
Not quite, he'd thought, nodding amiably at her. I'm just reflecting his light.
Nonetheless, there'd been moments—waiting to meet a client, say, or trying to stay awake on the last train home—when the counterfactuals stalked him. What if Itaya had been scouted by a league in Tokyo instead of halfway across the country? But Itaya's brilliance would never have been contained in one place. Or what if he'd made a shot at going pro? His high school coach had tried to sell him on a scholarship to a sports university whose basketball team had raised several players to the top national league. But he'd known far too well that his commitment to the sport was nowhere near what Itaya devoted to soccer. Basketball didn't outweigh his longer-term goals for adult life: he wanted his parents to retire comfortably, and his two younger siblings were also thinking of going to private schools for their higher education. Even if he'd been dedicated enough to make it as a pro athlete, he couldn't afford the risk of injuries and failure on that trajectory.
Nor had he been averse to four more years of studying alongside Uenoyama and Mafuyu. It had been a far cry from high school; they'd all picked different majors, and those two had had most of their extra-curricular time eaten up with their fledgling music careers, while his had been occupied with training, part-time work, and the eventual internship. After the relative easygoingness of freshman year, it grew harder to spot either of them on campus. But there were days when they managed to have lunch together, and once in a while Uenoyama squeezed out a round of hoops with him.
I'm glad you're here, Uenoyama had said. He'd heard this on an evening in late summer, when the two of them were taking a break after a session at the outdoor recreational court. The heat, even absent the sun's glare, had flared as fierce as the friend next to him could be about music. But it had been good to move, and to sweat out a long week in the right company.
He'd raised his brows as he looked over at Uenoyama's uncannily serious face.
It's just, sometimes things get so intense with all the band stuff, and Mafuyu doesn't always help, to be honest, or the other guys I play with…but it's amazing how seeing you around makes me feel better, somehow. Calmer? Like it's going to be OK.
His tongue-tiedness at this torrent of unguarded frankness had rubbed off on Uenoyama, who'd eventually cleared his throat and leapt to his feet, grabbing the ball in his hand.
One more round?
Uecchi, he'd begun, anxious to return at least some of this. Me too, you know. I—I'm really glad you're here. Especially since Itaya—
Yeah, Uenoyama had said, appearing not to notice the catch in his voice, and sounding unusually gentle. I miss that guy, too.
*
Itaya was keeping quiet. Since conversation between them generally relied on him to initiate it, their meal was the same way. Besides the soft crunching of toast, the main sound filling the space between them came from the TV, where an automated voice, eerily feminine and even, was reading out the headlines of the late-morning news. He was listening with half an ear, as he usually did, for the financial market updates and any other items potentially related to his work projects. It didn't escape his notice that Itaya—happily restored to his own clothes—had begun toying with his half-eaten second slice of toast.
"Itaya."
"Mm?"
"More coffee? Or milk?"
"I'm good, thanks."
"You OK?"
"Huh?"
"How're your knees?"
As soon as the question left his mouth, he cursed the impulse that had unleashed it: for a moment Itaya's face had tightened the way it had yesterday, during their first meetup since he'd moved back. Again he sensed the roughness of the last few years on his friend, and the shadow of resignation that no amount of cheerfulness could mask completely.
"They're fine. It's been over a year since the surgery for the right one. Almost two. No pain or anything."
"That's good. But you should still be careful."
"Yeah." Itaya nodded. "I know."
"Are you nervous? About starting as a coach."
"About as much as I'm excited, I guess"—he felt himself perk up at Itaya's first grin of the morning—"but that's what I get for signing up to this, right? Turning down offers that would've paid more, too…"
"You're going to be great as a school coach." He meant it: the sunniness that Itaya deployed concealed a keen eye for sizing people up and figuring out how to deal with them. There was thirsting to win, and there was understanding life stayed bigger than sport. Itaya, he sensed, understood the balance of those priorities.
But this might have sounded grandiose. So he settled for adding, "Your old coach scouted you because he also thinks that, doesn't he?"
"Thanks," Itaya said, rubbing his nose; the sudden shy slant to his grin was ridiculously endearing. "Well…hope the kids go easy on me, though I guess I'm not supposed to go easy on them, am I? Heh. Feels like forever since I was in school."
"Fifteen years, actually."
"Huh?"
"That's how long it's been since you lived in this city."
"Ugh," Itaya said, pulling a face. "Sure, sure, be accurate. Remind us we're old now. What if I get called uncle? Beating 'em up's not allowed anymore, is it—"
"But it did feel like forever," he said softly. "Sometimes."
Itaya stared.
"Um…Ueki?"
He drained the last of his cold coffee and silenced the TV with the remote.
"Did I mention I need to drop by the office? No rush, but I should get going soon."
"It's Sunday," Itaya said in wide-eyed horror. "Wasn't working on Saturday bad enough? Should you look into blowing the whistle on that company of yours?"
"Anything's better than having to spend the night in the office."
"They shouldn't make you do that," Itaya said indignantly.
He cracked a smile. "It's only when something goes wrong or there's a deadline crunch. Today I'm just going to get a file I left on my desk to prep for a client meeting tomorrow morning, that's all. Walk you to the station?"
"Right," Itaya said, the note of uncertainty back in his voice.
He watched his friend cram the remainder of his toast into his mouth and clap his hands together, mumbling thanks for the food as he chewed; despite himself, he couldn't help reaching out to ruffle his hair.
*
When had his feelings started becoming something to manage; when had he been forced to confront their existence? He reckoned it had happened alongside his creeping awareness, in the last months of high school, that Uenoyama and Mafuyu were never not together. He'd noted that Mafuyu was special to Uenoyama since those two had started their guitar sessions, but he hadn't really put the pieces together until an afternoon in their third year, after school had ended, when Mafuyu had dropped by their classroom to find Uenoyama, some kind of sheet music in hand. (Itaya, if he remembered correctly, had been out for a match.)
He'd been sitting near those two, idly flipping through a magazine, and without meaning to, he'd noticed—as Mafuyu had been talking, pointing at the tabs on a page—that his prickly friend was looking at Mafuyu in a way that he instinctively tagged as gooey. Cake batter? Melting ice cream, maybe. All this softness trained onto the slender boy seated opposite, like Mafuyu was the center of the world. He'd raised the magazine to block them from his line of sight, feeling intensely that he'd intruded on a private moment, and didn't look up until Uenoyama called his name.
How long had this been going on? Had Uenoyama confessed? If he had, how did Mafuyu feel?
No concrete answers to any of these questions had emerged until a day in university, when he'd caught those two holding hands under a library table. They hadn't let go on realizing he'd noticed, though Uenoyama had grown obviously antsy.
It's fine, he'd said, unable to think of a better response. I already suspected.
You're not going to ask about anything? Uenoyama had said, warily.
If you want to talk, he'd replied, I'll listen anytime. But I'm happy if you two are. That's all.
Thanks, Uenoyama had said, flashing a rare smile that Mafuyu's face reflected.
Hang on—does Itaya know?
I'm not sure, but feel free to tell him. Uenoyama had glanced at Mafuyu, who'd nodded earnestly.
And that was that. He'd decided not to say anything to Itaya unless the subject came up: those two could tell him themselves, if necessary. The odds were that it wouldn't be.
Getting confirmation about Uenoyama and Mafuyu had been strangely satisfying. The problem was that, from that day on, he'd started thinking about Itaya with a frequency that, even without precise standards, surely surpassed the vicinity of normal. As for the content of what he was imagining…
He'd believed, once, that his interests on that front didn't extend beyond women. It had unnerved him to discover, at least where Itaya was concerned, that that was very much untrue. At one point he'd teetered on the edge of asking Uenoyama, if not so straight-ball a question as are you gay, whether he found other men besides Mafuyu attractive. Fortunately, he'd first come to his senses: the issue of other men was irrelevant, since Mafuyu was who Uenoyama had chosen. Which had to mean that, for him, it didn't matter either.
Yet another shock had come on realizing that he envied Uenoyama and Mafuyu, in a myriad of ways. For sharing private and professional lives. For getting to be in the same city. For feeling the same as the other. And, perhaps most of all, for having grasped that during high school.
As for his own feelings? The solely admissible verdict was that they didn't make sense, not one bit. It had even relieved him not to have a way of acting on them. Best, then, to say nothing. Best to hang on to being Itaya's buddy, even though their lives had taken such separate tracks; perhaps that would be protection enough for their friendship.
It'll pass, he'd told himself. You'll get over it. There isn't even anything to regret. Chances are, he'll settle down overseas. Find someone else. Maybe there'll be wedding invitations. He'll ugly cry as he reads his vows to his bride, the way he does at concerts or games. I'll need to bring an extra handkerchief.
Time was the key; time, he hoped, would neutralize the sour wrenching burn of thoughts in this vein.
It had been obvious, ever since the last year of high school, that he was going to be the only one of their gang with a regular life, notwithstanding the modicum of coverage that college basketball received in domestic media, and the rarity of a fan he'd encountered in public. At least, it was indisputable that his was the most boring life, with the most routine and predictability. Which was exactly what he'd chosen.
Itaya's career, meanwhile, made its way astride the world. The selection for the U-20 national team, the MVP award, and the eventual scouting by European clubs; what the internet saw fit to call sports news made Itaya seem destined for stardom. But he knew, intuitively, the sweat and grit and tears those wins were founded on; he hadn't needed the news of Itaya's first ACL tear and his post-surgery comeback to recognize that fact. The beautiful game was a harsh mistress to serve, and it said a lot about Itaya that he'd never once been sent off with a red card. That kind of success demanded sacrifices on a level that none of them expected Itaya to be forthcoming about. His job, as he saw it, was to rein his own worries in and have Itaya's back. The goal was to help Itaya stay strong, however little use his efforts might be.
There'd been the unavoidable drip of gossip about which cheerleader or female TV announcer Itaya Shougo, who some called Japan's favorite striker, had scored with. He'd steered clear of this muck as much as possible; it helped that he mostly stayed off social media, though he'd had to work extra hard to avoid seeing Itaya in photos with people, women or otherwise. Itaya had held his peace throughout, and neither he nor Uenoyama nor Mafuyu ventured to ascertain whether any of the rumors had any truth.
He'd distracted himself by getting on with his own affairs. It helped, on the dating front, that a few women decided he was worth asking out. He'd liked each of them well enough, though they were all sporty and bubbly in ways unpropitiously reminiscent of those same qualities in Itaya.
Every such attachment was eventually broken off; none caused him too much grief at its conclusion.
There'd been the diversion of Itaya's messages in the group chat they shared with Ue and Mafuyu: photos, mostly, from places in Asia and the Middle East, the Americas and Africa. Some featured Itaya, or the food he was holding. Other snaps showed posters of Given or Syh he'd spotted around Seoul and Taipei and Berlin, or the bands' CDs in music shops. Mafuyu usually replied; Ue and him contented themselves with emoji reactions.
And there'd been the consolation of messages sent by Itaya to him alone, each one a pick-me-up for the day. Links to foreign news coverage about basketball teams and players Itaya knew he liked. Photos of alley cats—did Ue and Mafuyu know Itaya was more of a cat lover?—and stray landscapes with occasional captions. He responded to every such text, wondering each time if it would be better to leave it on Read.
One photo, which came during a long night in the office, showed the painted white lines of a makeshift basketball court, captioned as being in Argentina. It was equipped with a worn basket and rusting backboard, and its grass-speckled dirt floor glowed in the late morning light. The message following it read, perfectly innocuously:
really miss🏀 some days, y'know? (haha) wish we could play again
How grateful he'd been that Itaya had no way of seeing his face as he'd tapped out:
come back to Tokyo for long enough and we will
hang in there with the⚽
It had received an immediate thumbs-up reaction and follow-up:
don't work too late🥱
You don't even know messages like these are dangerous, he'd said aloud to the empty office in which the ticking of the clock on the wall, whose hands were slowly inching toward midnight, sounded oppressively loud. You don't want to give me dreams. The wrong idea. Don't.
*
"Let's go shoot hoops next time," Itaya said, after they'd tapped into the ticket gates of the station near his place.
"There's a court in the park near my place," he replied. Itaya grinned.
"There's one near mine, too. Come over after I've sorted out my boxes, OK?"
"Yeah," he said, keeping his voice even.
"Oh, and—Syh's doing a couple of shows in Tokyo later this spring, aren't they? Let's go see Uenoyama play with them, if you can make either day."
"Sure."
"There's also this other band I first saw in London—"
"Anything's good, as long as I can make it," he broke in, hoping he wasn't sounding too eager. "As long as you want to hang out."
Itaya nodded, tugging the brim of his bucket hat lower as shyness crept back into his grin.
"See you around? Take a bit of the weekend off, seriously. No need to go grey early."
"Get lost," he said, permitting himself a fleeting smile. Itaya shot him a mock salute, and he watched him trot down the stairs to the opposite platform until the top of his head went out of sight.