Title: Ten Months
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Atobe/Tezuka
Word count: 2,317
Summary: Atobe finds his way home.
Author's note: Written for starianprincess.

Tezuka seats himself on the couch, teacup before him on the table. After reaching Atobe’s voicemail more times than he has actually reached Atobe himself, Tezuka no longer feels disappointed over being placed under all three hundred of Atobe’s business associates on Atobe’s People with whom to Talk list. The practice of conversing through voicemail messages has all but been made routine. It is merely one of many adjustments two people need to make in order for a relationship to work from opposite side of the globe.

“You have reached the voicemail box of Atobe Keigo. I am currently unavailable.” Tezuka finds it endlessly amusing how much Atobe holds back from adding an obviously to this last statement, as since his high school days, Atobe has stopped carrying around separate phones for family, friends, and business and therefore needs a voicemail message appropriate for all three groups of contacts. “Leave a message after the tone, and I will get back to you as soon as possible.” As soon as possible, Tezuka knows, basically translates to if I feel like it. Though Atobe has always called him back, Tezuka has overheard Atobe’s former teammates complain about having called Atobe for dim sum or some other outing and never receiving an answer.

“Atobe, it’s Tezuka.” He pauses to pick up his tea and take a sip. “I hope you’re doing well in London. It should be more to your liking than the Greek village you stayed at last week was. You are probably staying at the best hotel in a fifty-mile radius and sleeping on the three thousand thread count sheets you always talk about whenever you stay at my apartment, to make up for all the ‘suffering’ you endured last week, correct?” Tezuka knows Atobe well enough to not need affirmation from Atobe to know that his guesses are correct. Taking off his glasses, Tezuka sets them on the table and smiles fondly. He finds Atobe’s refusal to settle for anything less than what he is accustomed to absurd, but Atobe would not be Atobe without his quirks. “Enjoy your stay, and rest well. Work hard.” So you can come home goes unsaid. “Call me when you get the chance. Bye.”

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It is after eleven at night when Atobe is done with his work for the day and has the time to check his voicemail after a long, warm shower under a spray that is too harsh on his skin. Lying with his back on the soft mattress and face toward the ceiling, Atobe studies the list of people who have left him messages. There are eight (8) messages total, three fourths of which are from people he will meet tomorrow, one from the old Greek woman he stayed with two days ago, informing him that he has forgotten one of his handkerchiefs at her home – Atobe does not deign her with a response because he does not wish to be reminded of his stay in Greece ever again – and one from Tezuka.

After listening to the six messages regarding tomorrow’s meetings and jotting down notes on index cards, Atobe plays Tezuka’s message. In the same way school tennis tournaments save Singles One, the most interesting match, for last, Atobe saves Tezuka’s message for last.

Being reminded of the Greek village again tugs down at the corners of Atobe’s lips, but hearing Tezuka so accurately describe his hotel accommodations brings a small smile to his eyes as he scribbles notes on his PDA for the next day.

“Tezuka, it’s me. It’s not difficult to predict the hotel I would stay in; you don’t need to sound so smug.” With a tap of his stylus, Atobe begins scheduling appointments for the weekend. “London, naturally, is my type of place. The people here have class.” Atobe knows that Tezuka will hear for a change tacked on to the end and censure him for it in his next call, and he chuckles. “However, it’s still the same old, same old. I think I have more meeting to attend here in London than anywhere else, which is fine. It isn’t anything I can’t handle. To prove to my father that I am above competent as an heir, there are measures I must take.”

Running a hand through his hair, Atobe fixes his eye on a peculiar, almost dove-like shape on the ceiling. Tezuka isn’t interested in hearing him ramble about business. “Anyhow, I have a couple more cities to visit, and then I should be done. If all goes well, I should be home on New Year’s Eve.” But, of course, there are many should happens in the world and far less did happens. “Don’t kill the Keigo plant while I’m away. Call me back tomorrow.”

As he ends the call, he closes his eyes. Being able to visit the biggest cities in the world is exciting to some degree; visiting the biggest cities in the world for all the wrong reasons is not. Cracking open an eye, he tilts his head back and studies the dove that has wings but cannot fly.

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Tezuka arrives home later than usual the next Thursday. It is seven in Tokyo, and noon in Paris. Today, he does not call Atobe right as he arrives home, as he is tired and in dire need of a source of brain power. Forty-five minutes and a burnt loaf of bread later, Tezuka is fed and ready to deal with the message he knows Atobe has left on his phone the night before. The prospect of hearing what Atobe has to say makes him smile and feel wary at the same time.

“Tezuka, it’s me,” Atobe starts. Tezuka finds it amusing that Atobe never states his name, but expects Tezuka to know who me is; however, Tezuka supposes that there is no one who speaks quite as Atobe does. “I’m exhausted right now. Today, I had to accompany six Very Important People and their wives to browse the stores of Paris. Paris’s nickname as the fashion capitol of the world has never made so much sense.” There is a low, muffled sound on the other end, and Tezuka knows that Atobe is fighting a losing battle with sleep. “On the plus side, I did get some nice trousers. Not, of course, that one pair of pants makes up for a whole eight hours of my life wasted. I also got something for you, too. You’ll see what it is when I get back.” Atobe yawns again. This time, he does not try to suppress it. “Hmm. It’s late. I’m going to catch some sleep before I have to get up and do this all over again. Call me later. Love you.”

Pressing the play button again, Tezuka listens to the message a second time. He takes careful note of the utter, unmistakable fatigue in Atobe’s voice, a distinctive sign of overwork. With another tap of the little red button on the phone, Tezuka stops the message and frowns. It is such classic Atobe to pretend that all the work he does is nothing more than a stroll in the park.
Tezuka shakes his head.

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“Atobe. This is Tezuka. I don’t precisely understand why you still feel the need to play the same games you play with your ‘Very Important People’” – the sarcasm drips from Tezuka’s words – “with me. I think we both know better than that. If it’s hard, say so. I’m not going to judge you because travelling around, speaking to people you don’t want to speak to, and doing things you don’t give a damn about doing is difficult. It’s the truth. There isn’t any reason that you would need to tell me otherwise, and there isn’t any reason that you cannot take it easy for a day or two. Work hard, but not too hard. I want you in a state of mental stability when you come home. That is all. Take care.”

It is midnight when Atobe receives this message, and he winces at the bluntness with which Tezuka speaks. He didn’t have to preach, Atobe thinks, despite that he knows that everything Tezuka has preached about is the truth, and apparently Tezuka wants Atobe to extend the same courtesy of telling the truth.

Atobe perches on the windowsill, and looks out at the nightlights illuminating the skyline of Paris. From his window, Atobe can see the Eiffel Tower, standing tall and proud in its iron glory. As he dials Tezuka’s number to reply to his message, Atobe thinks of the bonsai tree that he named the Keigo plant in his own honor he presented Tezuka with last New Year. The Keigo plant has always been weighed down by its own branches, its body forever bent over as a result of the pressure. Atobe briefly wonders if it will ever be able to stand as the iconic tower of Paris does.

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The week before New Year, Tezuka’s boss tells everyone that he’ll see them in two weeks, leaving Tezuka with nothing to do aside from reading and taking care of his plants, as it is way beyond fishing season in Tokyo. Despite that he now has the liberty to call Atobe at a time that Atobe should be done with meetings, dinners, and luncheons, Tezuka still only reaches Atobe’s voicemail. Similarly, despite that Atobe is now calling at a time when Tezuka is home, he always happens to call whenever Tezuka is in the shower or out for groceries and consequently also is deferred to voicemail.

As Tezuka flops down on the couch at ten after five after a long afternoon with his mother at the mall, where she had insisted they finish all their New Year’s shopping – Tezuka now understands Atobe’s pain when he had complained about shopping in Paris with boring, old businessmen and their wives – he presses the flashing red button on the phone on the coffee table. Resting his head against the back of the couch, Tezuka feels a shadow of a smile find its way to his lips as Atobe’s voice confidently fills the room.

“I’ve been on the road for about ten months,” Atobe’s voice says, and the static makes it sound deeper but more distance than it sounds in person. “You’ve missed me.” He says this without hesitation. “In the past ten months, I’ve been to Stockholm, Paris, San Francisco, Beijing, New York, London, and tons of other cities I can no longer name. I’d be lying if I said that it’s been all dull and business. But…” Atobe sighs, and all the weariness that has built up on him floods into that sigh. “But, honestly, you were right – it really hasn’t been easy. So I was thinking by the time you get this message…”

“…I’m going to be home with you,” Atobe finishes, breath warm against the shell of Tezuka’s ear. Tezuka jumps, swirling his head around fast enough to almost cause whiplash. Their heads collide in a dull thunk.

After releasing a soft curse, Atobe rubs his forehead and demands, “You really don’t know how to let a nice moment live. Ahn, Tezuka? You’ve no clue how difficult it was to convince your doorman to let me into your apartment, and it took you forever to get home, so I had to sit behind your couch for an hour an a half. Now there are lines on my pants. ”

Taking a beat to look at Atobe, Tezuka inwardly lets out a laugh of relief. Atobe is still Atobe. “Atobe, shut up,” Tezuka says before he hefts Atobe over the back of the couch. Atobe has grown much thinner, Tezuka notes as he closes the space between their bodies and shows Atobe how well he can live in the moment.

As their bodies lie flush with each other’s and the air surrounding them is a big blend of hotmoistsuffocating and hands and legs wander everywhere, grasping too much and not enough and there is such raw, living desperation in their every moment that they don’t even have the time to breathe, it suddenly strikes Atobe how the dove can fly and how the Keigo plant can stand as straight and tall as the Eiffel Tower.

A soul. When given a soul, a spirit, a something to live for, the dove can fly and the Keigo plant can stand with its back perpendicular to the ground.

Tezuka’s hands drift lower on Atobe’s body, brushing past the waist of grey, custom tailored pants, and Atobe throws his head against the couch, back snapping toward Tezuka. This. Atobe’s eyes squeeze shut, and he bites down on his lip.

Game.

A light caress down the torso. Love-fifteen.

A heated, unmasked passion behind dark, blue eyes. Fifteen-fifteen.

A series of butterfly kisses and rabbit nibbles down a long, elegant neck. Thirty-fifteen.

A flicker of a pink, wet tongue, teasing and gentle. Forty-fifteen.

Match point, Tezuka, Atobe thinks.

Then, Tezuka leans up and puts his mouth next to Atobe’s ear, just as Atobe had done not minutes before. “Welcome home. I missed you,” he whispers in a voice that has Atobe growling and turning the tables.

In an explosion of notes that don't quite make sense as a chord, there is a key change, a crescendo, and a sforzando that knocks the breath out of them both, taking them by complete surprise.

Game, set, match.