#kataoka tesshin
Miyuki pays Kataoka-kantoku a visit.
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Alternative Reading Link: [AO3]
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in the shadow of a dream(er)
Prompt: Miyuki + 7 - shadows
Word Count:1700
Character(s): Miyuki Kazuya, Kataoka Tesshin
Rating:G+
Notes: channeling my inner holden caulfield (with a lot less swearing).
this is a gen fic.
spoiler alert for inajitsu match onwards (i think; not caught up w/the anime). oh - and. kataoka-kantoku is older than 35 here (i didn’t know he was 35! he looks ten years older)
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It is a windy September afternoon – near the summer’s end – when Kazuya receives the off-campus day pass he’d applied for from the school administration office. Practice is over for the day; the field is empty when Kazuya passes through from the dormitories.
From Seidou High, the station nearest the coach’s house is a thirty-minute rail trip away. Kazuya makes it in time to catch the four o’clock train. He is breathing hard as he climbs on, having sprinted the last couple meters to the door.
It is a quarter to five when he arrives at Kataoka-kantoku’s house – an hour and a half to sunset, and the air is beginning to cool, a breeze caressing Kazuya’s face and setting the leaves on the trees lining the road in front of the row of large, suburban houses dancing. The windchimes over the porch tinkle as Kazuya climbs the porchstairs, two at a time. At the top, he stands on the doorstep with his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, nose-tip going red. Several moments after he has rung the doorbell, he hears the sound of a latch being unfastened. A woman’s face appears in the crack – weathered, with crinkles creasing the skin around her eyes and mouth.
“Yes?” she says, appearing in the doorway. Her hair – a dark brown – is littered with gray, and she wipes her hands on her apron, giving Kazuya a nod and a brief, polite smile, “you’re not here to sell anything, are you?”
Kazuya shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I’m actually here to see Kataoka-kantoku, if that’s alright with you, ma’am. I’m one of his students – from Seidou.”
He smiles his best, charming smile, the one he uses to wheedle favors out of his mother. It almost never fails, being specially tailored towards Married Middle-Aged Women. Sure enough, Kataoka-san’s face softens.
“A student, hmm,” she says, “well, come on in, then,” and pulls the door all the way open.
Kazuya says, “thank you,” and pulls his shoes off, sets them by the welcome mat.
“You’re very polite, aren’t you,” Kataoka-san says, letting him in, “don’t you have a name, young man?”
“Oh – Miyuki,” Kazuya says, “Miyuki Kazuya,” and he follows the statement up with another one of his Miyuki GrinsTM.
“Well,” Kataoka-san says, smiling back, “it’s nice to meet you, Miyuki-kun.”
She walks Kazuya down the hall – Kazuya glimpses a staircase, going up to the second floor, past a dining room and a bright, airy kitchen, and into a room at the back of the house. It looks – and feels – like a living room, large and square, with comfortable-looking couches and bookshelves along the walls. The far wall is all windows – they come down from the ceiling to a little ways just above the floor, with white window-sills and partitions, like French windows, and open onto a deck overlooking a garden.
Kazuya thinks the house seems rather big, for only two people – and there doesn’t seem to be anyone but the coach and his wife living in it, judging by how quiet it is.
Kataoka-kantoku is bent over a bonsai plant on one of the sills, a pair of shears in his hand. He is seated on a chair, with a sheet spread underneath, presumably to catch the clippings, and he doesn’t look up as Kazuya enters, absorbed in pruning the bonsai to (his exacting standards of) perfection. Kataoka-san gestures at the couches, and says, “feel free to interrupt him – I will get you something to drink.”
There are a series of pictures set on top of one of the bookshelves, Kazuya sees as he sits down – many of which feature a dark-haired boy who, in later pictures, looks to be about the same age as Kazuya, or maybe a year or so older. Baseball bats feature prominently – in the earlier photographs, especially, not so much later on. Kazuya glances between the coach and the boy, wondering.
“How long,” Kataoka-kantoku says finally, when Kazuya is working out how old he must be to have a son at least as old as Yuki, “were you planning to sit there, unannounced, Miyuki-kun?”
Kazuya jumps. “Sorry, sir,” he says, “you looked busy.”
The coach stands, brushes down the dark, heavy apron he is wearing over a t-shirt and sweatpants. Kazuya feels like a grade-schooler, in awe of the fact that teachers, too, dress down when at home. He can’t quite recall ever seeing Kataoka-kantoku in anything but sharply-pressed trousers and button-downs, but here he is in an old, ratty-looking (there is a hole in one of the sleeves) shirt and pants Kazuya would probably only wear to sleep in.
“So did you,” Kataoka-kantoku says, musingly, “I almost hated to interrupt you,” and Kazuya barely catches the twinkle in his eye before it disappears. “Wondering how old I must be to have a son your age, are you?”
“Quite old, sir,” Kazuya says, grinning, brazen.
Kataoka-kantoku nods, pulls at his apron strings, drapes the apron over the back of the chair he’d been sitting on. Now that Kazuya can see the shirt in its entirety, he can make out the faded words once emblazoned on the front – Seido High School, Class of ’78. Kazuya feels a sudden pang – a spark of hurt-nostalgia – and carefully puts it away.
“You’re right,” Kataoka-kantoku says, “quite old.” He sits down, heavily, opposite Kazuya, on the other side of the coffee table, and rests his hands on his knees. “You’re looking to be in good health,” he comments, “practice treating you well, is it.”
Kazuya’s face hurts with his smile. It’s taking more effort than he’d thought to keep it in place. “Been a while, hasn’t it, sir?”
“Has it?” Kataoka-kantoku raises his eyebrows, “feels like yesterday to me.”
“The team is doing alright,” Kazuya says, “Furuya and Sawamura are still working on getting along, though. It’s taking a while, without the encouragement of your iron fist.”
The smile that crosses Kataoka-kantoku’s face is almost indulgent. “They will get there,” he says, “I have every faith in them.”
Kazuya swallows. His fingers curl, inadvertently, into the fabric of his jeans. “Only them, sir?”
Before Kataoka-kantoku can reply, the door opens, and Kataoka-san appears, balancing a tray of two steaming cups and a platter of biscuits. She sets the tray down on the coffee table, distributes the tea, frowns at Kataoka-kantoku’s request for sugar, and gives a firm shake of her head as she is leaving. “Don’t forget what the doctor said, Tesshin, and be nice to Mikyuki-kun; he’s a guest.”
“I see you’ve won over my wife,” Kataoka-kantoku says when the door has shut behind her. He gives Kazuya a look over his cup of tea. “Have you no scruples, Miyuki-kun?”
Kazuya gapes. “Sir,” he exclaims, before he can quite help himself, “are you teasing me?”
“I do believe I am,” Kataoka-kantoku takes another sip of his tea. “You aren’t my student anymore, you know, Miyuki-kun.”
Kazuya wraps his fingers around the teacup. It is warm to the touch – heats seeps through the ceramic into his hands. “Through no choice of mine, sir,” he says, taking the opportunity to say what he means.
“No,” Kataoka-kantoku says, “I suppose not.”
There are a few moments of silence, during which Kazuya contemplates what he came here to say and how exactly he wants to proceed in saying it, and the coach – presumably – quietly drinks his tea.
Finally – just as Kazuya is about to open his mouth – Kataoka-kantoku puts his cup down. “His name,” he says, nodding at the photographs on the bookshelf, “is Akihito. He is an officer with the JASDF; he made squadron leader this year, in fact.”
He adjusts his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. Kazuya can hear the clatter of dishes and the sound of running water coming from the direction of the kitchen.
“Akihito was the ace on his junior high team,” Kataoka-kantoku continues, “and of course, as his father, I wanted him to continue playing baseball. I was sure he could make the pro league, play on an international level.”
Kazuya bites the inside of his cheek.
“But, as it turned out, Akihito had no interest in professional baseball. He wanted to fly a fighter jet, so that is what he is doing. I was not happy at first, and if you ask, I am not sure I can reply with one hundred percent certainty that I am happy now.”
“Sir – ” Kazuya begins, and stops. The coach is looking at the table, tapping his finger on the surface in what seems to be an absent-minded gesture. He looks up, meets Kazuya’s eyes, and Kazuya, whose throat goes dry, thinks he’d rather not put a name to the expression on his face.
“I should have realized then,” Kataoka-kantoku says, “it is not prudent to live through your children. The shadow of your dreams dampens the brightness of theirs.”
“With – all due respect, sir,” Kazuya says, wetting his lips. He is grateful his voice comes out strong, “it is no longer your dream alone.”
He waits a beat, in case Kataoka-kantoku has something to say, but the coach just gives him a considering look, as if he is really only just seeing Kazuya – really seeing him –
“and – I understand the sentiment, sir,” Kazuya takes a moment to breathe, “but I’m not sure it’s up to you to decide what other people’s dreams should and should not be, wouldn’t you say – sir?” he tacks the ‘sir’ on, quickly, biting the inside of his cheek again, to keep from doing any more damage than he’s already done.
Shit, he thinks, briefly squeezing his eyes shut, I might’ve gone a little overboard there. I sound like Sawamura.
When Kazuya looks up, Kataoka-kantoku is smiling. “I will be in the stands, Miyuki-kun,” he says – and Kazuya takes a moment to process how much pride there is, in his voice, “when you lead Seidou to victory at Nationals.”
There is a lump in his throat, Kazuya finds, that makes it difficult for him to speak. “When, sir?” he says, to say – when, and not if?
“Most definitely when,” Kataoka-kantoku replies, “I have every faith in you.”
end.
