A Farewell By Murasakisuishou He had been warned against playing with his left arm in ruin, but on that, his last night in Japan, Tezuka found he couldn't bring himself to leave Seigaku's grounds. He stood behind the right base line of the center court, racket in hand, bathed in bright light from the lamps at the corners. The ball fell from his hand to the spongy green surface he stood upon, echoing hollowly with every bounce. On the next catch, he threw it upwards, the yellow-green of it smart against the greying sky. It was the moment Tezuka relished, the anticipation leading up to that one crashing chance at perfection. Or it would have been perfect, if the pain he felt as he swung the racket wasn't so tremendous as to rob him of his breath. Still, the ball sped over the net, and slammed hard into the fence; it quaked with an almighty, metallic groan. "You might have won with that serve." Tezuka found Fuji standing at the court's entrance, his usual smile gone. He, too, apparently had not gone home, for he was still clad in his school uniform, book bag in hand. "Fuji..." he murmured. "How long have you been here?" Treading onto the court, Fuji shrugged. "Oh, for a while. Long enough." Tezuka dropped his gaze to his racket, fumbling for a moment with the taut nylon strings, before moving off to set it in its pouch on the side of his bag. "As if you haven't seen me play before." "I never get tired of watching you, Tezuka," Fuji replied, scuffling his soles over the green as he ambled towards him. "The team won't do as well, I don't think, without you." "It will," he said resolutely, shouldering his bag. "The team is strong. And you'll be here." Fuji shook his head. "I won't be captain." At that, Tezuka frowned. "Why?" "Because it won't be the same, Tezuka," said Fuji, coming to a halt before him. "Not without you."